Shavings | Page 3

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This etext was prepared by Donald Lainson, [email protected].

"SHAVINGS"
by Joseph C. Lincoln

CHAPTER I
Mr. Gabriel Bearse was happy. The prominence given to this statement
is not meant to imply that Gabriel was, as a general rule, unhappy.
Quite the contrary; Mr. Bearse's disposition was a cheerful one and the
cares of this world had not rounded his plump shoulders. But Captain
Sam Hunniwell had once said, and Orham public opinion agreed with
him, that Gabe Bearse was never happy unless he was talking. Now
here was Gabriel, not talking, but walking briskly along the Orham
main road, and yet so distinctly happy that the happiness showed in his
gait, his manner and in the excited glitter of his watery eye. Truly an
astonishing condition of things and tending, one would say, to prove
that Captain Sam's didactic remark, so long locally accepted and quoted
as gospel truth, had a flaw in its wisdom somewhere.
And yet the flaw was but a small one and the explanation simple.
Gabriel was not talking at that moment, it is true, but he was expecting
to talk very soon, to talk a great deal. He had just come into possession
of an item of news which would furnish his vocal machine gun with

ammunition sufficient for wordy volley after volley. Gabriel was
joyfully contemplating peppering all Orham with that bit of gossip. No
wonder he was happy; no wonder he hurried along the main road like a
battery galloping eagerly into action.
He was on his way to the post office, always the gossip- sharpshooters'
first line trench, when, turning the corner where Nickerson's Lane
enters the main road, he saw something which caused him to pause,
alter his battle-mad walk to a slower one, then to a saunter, and finally
to a halt altogether. This something was a toy windmill fastened to a
white picket fence and clattering cheerfully as its arms spun in the brisk,
pleasant summer breeze.
The little windmill was one of a dozen, all fastened to the top rail of
that fence and all whirling. Behind the fence, on posts, were other and
larger windmills; behind these, others larger still. Interspersed among
the mills were little wooden sailors swinging paddles; weather vanes in
the shapes of wooden whales, swordfish, ducks, crows, seagulls; circles
of little wooden profile sailboats, made to chase each other 'round and
'round a central post. All of these were painted in gay colors, or in
black and white, and all were in motion. The mills spun, the boats
sailed 'round and 'round, the sailors did vigorous Indian club exercises
with their paddles. The grass in the little yard and the tall hollyhocks in
the beds at its sides swayed and bowed and nodded. Beyond, seen over
the edge of the bluff and stretching to the horizon, the blue and white
waves leaped and danced and sparkled. As a picture of movement and
color and joyful bustle the scene was inspiring; children, viewing it for
the first time, almost invariably danced and waved their arms in
sympathy. Summer visitors, loitering idly by, suddenly became fired
with the desire to set about doing something, something energetic.
Gabriel Bearse was not a summer visitor, but a "native," that is, an
all-the-year-round resident of Orham, and, as his fellow natives would
have cheerfully testified, it took much more than windmills to arouse
HIS energy. He had not halted to look at the mills. He had stopped
because the sight of them recalled to his mind the fact that the maker of
these mills was a friend of one of the men most concerned in his brand

new news item. It was possible, barely possible, that here was an
opportunity to learn just a little more, to obtain an additional clip of
cartridges before opening fire on the crowd at the post office. Certainly
it might be worth trying, particularly as the afternoon mail would not
be ready for another hour, even if the train was on time.
At the rear of the little yard, and situated perhaps fifty feet from the
edge of the high sand bluff leading down precipitously to the beach,