Windy McPhersons Son | Page 2

them with an air, and
never allowed Caxton to see him shabbily or indifferently dressed,
laughingly declaring that it was his mission in life to give tone to the
town.
John Telfer had a small income left him by his father, once a banker in
the town, and in his youth he had gone to New York to study art, and
later to Paris; but lacking ability or industry to get on had come back to
Caxton where he had married Eleanor Millis, a prosperous milliner.
They were the most successful married pair in Caxton, and after years
of life together they were still in love; were never indifferent to each
other, and never quarrelled; Telfer treated his wife with as much
consideration and respect as though she were a sweetheart, or a guest in
his house, and she, unlike most of the wives in Caxton, never ventured
to question his goings and comings, but left him free to live his own
life in his own way while she attended to the millinery business.
At the age of forty-five John Telfer was a tall, slender, fine looking
man, with black hair and a little black pointed beard, and with
something lazy and care-free in his every movement and impulse.
Dressed in white flannels, with white shoes, a jaunty cap upon his head,
eyeglasses hanging from a gold chain, and a cane lightly swinging from
his hand, he made a figure that might have passed unnoticed on the

promenade before some fashionable summer hotel, but that seemed a
breach of the laws of nature when seen on the streets of a corn-shipping
town in Iowa. And Telfer was aware of the extraordinary figure he cut;
it was a part of his programme of life. Now as Sam approached he laid
a hand on Freedom Smith's shoulder to check the song, and, with his
eyes twinkling with good-humour, began thrusting with his cane at the
boy's feet.
"He will never be ruler of the queen's navee," he declared, laughing and
following the dancing boy about in a wide circle. "He is a little mole
that works underground intent upon worms. The trick he has of tilting
up his nose is only his way of smelling out stray pennies. I have it from
Banker Walker that he brings a basket of them into the bank every day.
One of these days he will buy the town and put it into his vest pocket."
Circling about on the stone sidewalk and dancing to escape the flying
cane, Sam dodged under the arm of Valmore, a huge old blacksmith
with shaggy clumps of hair on the back of his hands, and sought refuge
between him and Freedom Smith. The blacksmith's hand stole out and
lay upon the boy's shoulder. Telfer, his legs spread apart and the cane
hooked upon his arm, began rolling a cigarette; Geiger, a yellow
skinned man with fat cheeks and with hands clasped over his round
paunch, smoked a black cigar, and as he sent each puff into the air,
grunted forth his satisfaction with life. He was wishing that Telfer,
Freedom Smith, and Valmore, instead of moving on to their nightly
nest at the back of Wildman's grocery, would come into his place for
the evening. He thought he would like to have the three of them there
night after night discussing the doings of the world.
Quiet once more settled down upon the sleepy street. Over Sam's
shoulder, Valmore and Freedom Smith talked of the coming corn crop
and the growth and prosperity of the country.
"Times are getting better about here, but the wild things are almost
gone," said Freedom, who in the winter bought hides and pelts.
The men sitting on the stone beneath the window watched with idle
interest Telfer's labours with paper and tobacco. "Young Henry Kerns

has got married," observed one of them, striving to make talk. "He has
married a girl from over Parkertown way. She gives lessons in
painting--china painting--kind of an artist, you know."
An ejaculation of disgust broke from Telfer: his fingers trembled and
the tobacco that was to have been the foundation of his evening smoke
rained on the sidewalk.
"An artist!" he exclaimed, his voice tense with excitement. "Who said
artist? Who called her that?" He glared fiercely about. "Let us have an
end to this blatant misuse of fine old words. To say of one that he is an
artist is to touch the peak of praise."
Throwing his cigarette paper after the scattered tobacco he thrust one
hand into his trouser pocket. With the other he held the cane,
emphasising his points by ringing taps upon the pavement. Geiger,
taking the cigar between his fingers, listened with open mouth to the
outburst that followed. Valmore and Freedom Smith