The Rise of Roscoe Paine

old Dorinda, taking my cap from th

to one side and reaching for the dust-

e walk," I answe

observe

the Cape, too, except when Dorinda said it; then it might mean almost anything. When Mother asked her to lower the window shade in the bed-room she said "Um-hm" and lowered it. And, five minutes later, when Lute came in, loaded to the guards with explanations as to w

s somewhere along the no

morning for a

nda, crossing over to

trast and made me forget, for the moment, the glacier at my back. Come to think of

u going to d

rling the dust cloth. "It's a

is vale of tears. She was a good Methodist and there was no doubt in her mind that Providence was responsible. When she rose to testify in prayer-meeting she always mentioned her "cross" and everybody knew that the cross was Luther. She carried him, but it is no more than fair

eeping, with the sunshine illuminating his open mouth, "for all the world like a lamp in a potato cellar," as his wife had said the last time she caught him in this posi

The "potato cellar" closed with a snap and

' whether I'd better begin here or over by the barn. Oh, it's you, Rosc

e village

to the post-o

I don'

when I got into the argument 'twas different. 'What's goin' to become of the laborin' men of this country if you have free trade?' I says. Dean had to give in that he didn't know. 'Might have to let their wives support 'em,' he says, pompous as ever. 'That would be a calamity, wouldn't it, Lute

ow he leaned over, picked it u

"unless," hopefully, "you want me to run up

adn't an

s there was somethin' else you'd ruther I'd do

to rake then. However, judging by Dorinda's temper this

Dorind

ting the di

day afore. Do you know-" Lute sat down again on t

Do

I mean. She don't think of nothin' else. Now take the dustin', for instance. Dustin's all right; I be

eem like it,

st fall, and straws and sticks and pieces of seaweed and such that have blowed in durin' the winter. And what blowed 'em in? Why, the wind, sartin! And whose wind was it? The Almighty's, that's whose! Now then! if the Almighty di

t it ever did, ex

to illustrate his point. "That finger there, we'll say, is me, rakin' and rakin' hard as ever I can. And that fist there is the Almighty, not meanin' anything irreverent. I rake, same as I'm doin' this mornin'. The yard's all cleaned up. Then-zi

s it was," I agreed, with some sarcasm. Lute

rs above order everything. If that's so, then ain't it sacrilegious to be all the time flyin'

should neither rake nor dust. Wouldn't that make o

you understand. I like it. And I ain't thinkin' of myself, you know, but about Dorindy. It worries me to see her wearin' herself out wit

et for a pipe. Finding it, he reached into a

that she's flying in the fa

about you? Dorindy hove my plug away yesterday. I left it back o

m, filled his pipe and absent

on my mind for a long spell. I didn't know but you might say somethin' to her along

ion to my ideas on such subjects, I'm afraid," I a

l see the light some day. But, just the same," he added, "it's a good argument. I tried it on the gang up to the post-office last night. I says to

ke me?" I interrup

you do. 'Take Ros,' says I. 'He might be to work. He was in a bank up to the city once and he knows the bankin' trade. He might be at it now, but what w

shining example of the do-nothing class to the crowd of hangers-on in a country post-office. What did I care for

r a moment, "what di

d Cap'n Jed he hove out somethin' about birds of a feather stickin' up for each

e. "Ain't goin', be you?" asked Lute. "Hadn't you

with that tobacco pouch of mine, I'll take it

with his head tipped back against the shingles. I opened the gate and strolled slowly along the path by the edge of the bluff. I had gone perhaps a hundred yard

bay, now beginning to ebb. Across the bay the lighthouse at Crow Point glistened with new paint and I could see a moving black speck, which I knew was Ben Small, the keeper, busy whitewashing the fence beside it. Down on the beach Zeb Kendrick was overhauling his dory. In the distance, beyond the grove, I could hear the carpenters' hammers on the roof of the big Atwater mansion, which was now the property of James Colton, the New York millionaire, whose rumored coming to Denboro to live had

peculiar kind of philosophy. Circumstances had doomed me to be a good-for-nothing, a gentleman loafer without the usual excuse-money-and, as it was my doom, I forced myself to accept it, if not with pleasure, at least with resignation. And I determined to get whatever pleasure there might be in it. So, when I saw the major

rks of Captain Jedediah Dean had stirred it to rebellion. A man may know, in his heart, that he is no good and still resent having others say that he is, particularly when they say that he and Luther Rogers are bir

the beach, was used as a public road merely because mother and I permitted it to be. It had been so used, by sufferance of the former owner, for years, and when we came into possession of the property we did not interfere with the custom. Land along the shore was worth precious little at that time and, besides, it was pleasant, rather than disagreeable, to hear the fish carts going out to the weirs, and

Atwater mansion, now the property of the great and only Colton, "Big Jim" Colton, whose deals and corners in Wall Street supplied so many and such varied sensations for the fina

rt villa in Denboro! Why on earth any one should deliberately choose Denboro as a place to live in I couldn't understand; but why a millionaire, with all creation to select from, should build a Newport villa on the bluff overlooking Denboro Bay was beyond comprehension. The reason given in the Cape Cod Item was that Mrs. Colton was "in debilitated health," whatever that is, and had been commanded by her doctors to

ace looked to be inhabited. The windows were open-fifty or so of them-smoke was issuing from one of the six chimneys; a maid in a white cap and apron was standing by the servants' e

ons being expected, or having arrived, and that he seemed much excited over it. He would have said more, but Dorinda had pounced on him and sent him out to shut up the chickens, which gave him the excuse to play truant and take his ev

d imagine a yellow dog ought to feel, I mean, for, as a matter of fact, most yellow dogs of my acquaintance seem to be as happy as their brown or white or black relatives. I walked up the Lane, turned into the Lower Road, and headed for the village.

den bridge. It was there that I first heard the horn and, turning, saw the automobile coming from behind me. It was approaching at a speed of, I should say, thirty miles an hour, and I jump

beside me. A big car; an aristocratic car; a machine of pomp and price and polish, such as Denboro saw but seldom. It contained three persons-a capped and goggled chauffeur on t

leaned across the upholstery beside h

the quickest way

eciated the joke and given him the information without comment. But this morning I didn't feel like joking. My dissatis

d picked about as quick a

to grasp the true inward

ered. "Say, what-loo

He was a very young man, with blond hair and a silky mustache, and

he ordered. Then, t

an, we want to

e irritated me more. I didn't like him, his looks, his clothes, and, particularly, his manner.

d, impatiently. "Are you deaf?

ly read came to my mind. "Very well

t to excuse it. In fact, I was sorry as soon as I had said it. It

rist, I do believe! Mabel, we've discovered a genuine, ru

a glance; but what I was most conscious of at the time was the look in the dark eyes as they surveyed me from head to foot. Indifference was there, and contemptuous amusement; she didn't even condescend to smile, much less speak. Under t

n-pardon me, your name is Reuben, isn't it?-now that you've had your little joke, would you condescend to tel

this. "Victor," she sai

ng man. I wanted very much to remove him from that car by what Lute would call the scruff of the ne

ght, second to the le

an. "Here's hoping that your vegetables are

was a loose board projecting from the bridge just under my feet. As a member-though an inactive one-of the

er of my march was a silent one,