 CHAPTER I Mr. Peasley looked more complacent than ever. It was Saturday noon, and Solomon had just returned from his usual morning sojourn up street. He had taken off his coat and was washing his face at the sink while his wife was dishing up the midday meal. There was salt cod fish, soaked fresh, and stewed in milk. Picked up, as the phrase goes. There were baked potatoes and a thin, pale-looking pie. Mrs. Peasley did not believe in pampering the flesh, and she did believe in saving every possible scent. Well, said Mr. Peasley as they sat down to this feast, I guess I've got news for Yee. His wife gazed at him with interest. Are Yee drawled? She asked. Got the notice from Whitcomb right in my pocket. Grand juror, September term, paint more than a week off. The staccato utterance was caused by the big mouthfuls of cod fish and potato, which, between phrases, Mr. Peasley conveyed to his mouth. It was plain to see that he was greatly pleased with his new dignity. What did they give Yee for it? Asked his wife. Solomon should accept no office, which did not bring profit. Two dollars a day, and mileage, said Mr. Peasley, with the emphasis of one who knows he will make a sensation. Mileage, what's that? Traveling expenses. State allows Yee so much a mile. I get eight cents for going to the courthouse. Yee get eight cents every day, asked his wife, her eyes snapping. She was vague about the duties of a grand juror. Maybe he had to earn his two dollars, but she had exact ideas about the trouble of walking up street. To get eight cents for that was being paid for doing nothing at all, and she was much astonished at the idea. Likely now, ain't it? Said Mr. Peasley with masculine scorn. State don't waste money that way. Mileage is to get ye there and take ye home again when term's over. You're supposed to stay round, tween wiles. Huh, said his wife, disappointed, they give ye two dollars a day. She hazarded the shot, just for setting round talking, don't they? Walkens considerable more of an effort for most folks. Setting round talking, exclaimed Mr. Peasley, so indignant that he stopped eating for a moment, knife and fork upright in his rigid, scandalized hands, while he gazed at his thin, energetic, truish little wife. Setting round and talking, it's mighty important work now, I tell ye. I guess there wouldn't be much law and order if it went for the grand jury. They don't take none, but men owe judgment. Takes gumption, I tell ye. You have to pay money to get that kind. Well, said his wife, with the air of one who concedes an unimportant point. Anyhow, it's good pay for a man whose time ain't worth anything. Ain't worth anything, exclaimed Mr. Peasley and her tones. Now, syrup tea, ye know better than that. I don't know how they'll get along without me up to the bank. They've got a pretty good idea of my judgment about mortgages. They don't pass any without my say so. Mrs. Peasley sniffed. I've seen ye in the bank window, setting round with Jim Bartlett and C. Spooner and the rest of them reading the paper. That's all I ever see ye doing. Must be wearing on ye. Guess you never heard what was said, did ye? Can't hear him thinking, I guess. They're mighty shrewd up to the bank, mighty shrewd. They had finished their codfish and potato, and Mrs. Peasley, without giving much attention to her husband's testimony, to the business acumen of his banking friends, and incidentally of himself, pulled the pale, thin pie toward her and cut it up. Pass up your plate, said she. When his plate was again in place before him, Mr. Peasley inserted the edge of his knife under the upper crust and raised it so he could get a better view of its contents. He had his suspicions of that pie. What he saw confirmed them. Between the crusts was a thin, soft layer of some brown stuff, interspersed with spots of red. Them's the currents we had for supper the night before last, and that's the dried apple sauce we had for supper last night, he announced accurately, and ye know how I like a proper pie. I ain't gonna waste good vituals, said the wife with decision. There was silence for a moment. Solomon did not dare make any further protest. I suppose, his wife said, picking up again the threads of her thought, ye'll have to wear your go-to-meatin' suit all the time to the grand jury. I expect they'll be all wore out at the end. They'll take off something. You be careful now, settin' rounds awful wearin' on pants. You get a chair with a cushion. And don't ye go treatin' cigars. And don't ye go to the hotel for your vituals. I ain't gonna have ye spending your money when ye can just as well come home. Where ye goin' now? Mr. Peasley was putting on his coat. Well, he said, I kinda thought I'd step over to Eddards. I thought maybe he'd be interested. Goin' to brag, are ye? Was his wife's remorseless comment. Much good it'll do ye, talkin' to that hatchet face. He ain't so pious as he looks, if all stories are true. But Mr. Peasley was already outside the door. She raised her voice shrilly. You be back now, then the chicken's got to be fed. Mr. Peasley sought a more sympathetic audience. Being drawn for the grand jury had greatly flattered his vanity, for it encouraged a secret ambition which he had long held to get into public life. Service on the grand jury might lead to his becoming selectman, perhaps Justice of the Peace, perhaps Town Representative from Elmington. Who knew what else? He looked down a pleasant vista of increasing office, at the end of which stood the state capital. He could be senator, perhaps. And he began planning his behavior as juror, the dignified bearing, the well-matured utterances, the shrewd cross-questioning. At the end of his service, his neighbors would know him for a man of solid judgment, a safe man to be entrusted with weighty affairs. Mr. Peasley was fifty-three years old. He had a comfortable figure, a clean shaven, round face, and blue eyes, much exaggerated for the spectator by the strong lenses of a pair of great spectacles. These, with his gray hair, gave him a benevolence of aspect which somewhat misrepresented him. As a matter of fact, although good-humored and not without a still surviving capacity for generous impulse, he was only less near than his wife. Childishly vain, he bore himself with an air of self-satisfaction, not without its charm for humorous neighbors. They said that they guessed he thought himself some punkins. Some punkins most people admitted him to be, although how much of his money and how much of his shrewdness was really his wife was a matter of debate among those who knew him best. At any rate, the Peasleys had made money. A few years before, they had sold their fat farm downriver advantageously and had bought the dignified white house in Elmington, in which they had just been eating a dinner, which looks as if they were house-poor. That they were not. They had thirty-thousand dollars in the local bank, partly invested in its stock. In Elmington, Mrs. Peasley was less lonely, and, through Mr. Peasley, was an unsuspected director in the bank and a shrewd user of the chances for profitable investment which her husband's association with the bank crowd opened to her. As for Mr. Peasley, he did not know that he himself was not the business head of the house, and his garden, his chickens, and his pleasant loafing in the bank window kept him contently occupied. For in spite of her shrewish tongue, Mrs. Peasley had taxed enough to let her husband have the credit for her business acumen. I ain't gonna let on, she said to herself, that he ain't just as good as the rest of them. She had her pride. As Mr. Peasley stepped along the straight walk which divided his neat lawn and opened the neat gate in his neat white fence, he met Sam Barton, the broad-shouldered, good-humored giant who was constable of Elmington. Sam gave him a smiling, how are you, squire, as he passed. Guess he's heard, said Mr. Peasley to himself, much pleased. Yet, as a matter of fact, the greeting was not different from that which Sam had given him daily for the past three years. Once on the sidewalk, Mr. Peasley turned to the right toward the house of his neighbor, Mr. Edwards. Edwards was a younger man than Peasley, perhaps forty-seven. His business was speculating in lumber and cattle, and in the interest of this, he was constantly passing and repassing the Canadian border, which was not far from Elmington. In the intervals between his trips, he was much at home. He was a stern, silent, secretive man, and simply because he was so close-mouthed, there was much guessing and gossip, not wholly kind, about his affairs. Mr. Peasley found the front door of the Edwards house, standing open in the trustable village fashion, and, with neighborly freedom, walked in without ringing. He turned first into the sitting room, where he found no one, and then into a rear room opening from it. This obviously was a boy's den. On the table in the center were a checkerboard, some loose string, a handful of spruce gum, some scattered marbles, a broken jackknife, a cap, a shot pouch, an old bird's nest, a powder flask, a dog-eared copy of Caesar's Commentaries, open, and a Latin dictionary, also open. In a corner stood a fishing rod, in its cotton case. Along the walls were ranged bait boxes, a fishing basket, a pair of rubber boots, and a huge wasp's nest. Leaning against the sill of the open window was a double-barreled shotgun, and on the sill itself were some black, greasy rags and a small bottle of oil. Various truths might be inferred from the disarray. One was that Mr. Edwards was generous to his son, Jim, and another was that there was no Mrs. Edwards. Further, it might easily be enough guessed that Jim had been lured from the study of Latin in which pretty Miss Ware, who was his teacher at the Union School, was trying to interest him by the attractive idea of oiling his gun barrels, and that something still more attractive, perhaps a boy with crossed fingers, for it was not too late for swimming, had lured him from that. At any rate, Jim was not there. Mr. Peasley, still bent on finding Mr. Edwards, moved toward the open window. But he could see no signs of life anywhere. None of the household was, however, far away. Jim was in the loft of the barn, where he was carefully examining a barrel of early apples with a view to filling his pockets with the best. The housekeeper had merely stepped across the street to borrow some yeast, and Mr. Edwards, who had a headache, was lying down in the chamber immediately above Jim's den. Mr. Peasley stood and gazed. He eyed and turned the kitchen l, the shed, and the barn, and then gazed out over the posy garden, where still bloomed a few late flowers of which he recognized only the shiny asters. Peasley looked toward what he himself would have called the sars garden, with its cabbages, turnips, rustling corn stalks, and drying tomato vines. Seeing no one there, he sent his gaze to the distant rows of apple trees, right with ripening fruit. Disappointed, he was about to turn away, but he could not resist taking a complacent, sweeping view of his own adjoining possessions. There, on the right, ran the long line of his own dwelling, continued by the five-foot board fence separating his garden from Mr. Edwards's. This stood up gauntly white until near the orchard, where it was completely hidden by the high, feathery stalks of the asparagus bed, by a row of great sunflowers, now heavy and bent with their disc-like seed pods, and by a clump of lilac bushes. As his eye traveled along the white expanse, he gave a quick start, and his face clouded with vexation. There in the sun, prone upon the top of the fence, dozed the bane of his life, the calico cat. Her coat was made up of patches of yellow and white, veered with a black stocking on her right hind leg, and a large, round black spot about her right eye, which gave her a peculiarly predatory and disreputable appearance. Solomon had disliked her at sight. Ever since he had bought the house in Elmington, he had been trying to drive her from the premises, but stay away she would not. Not all the missiles in existence could convince her that his house was not a desirable place of abode, and she was a constant vexation and annoyance. She jumped from the fence, plump into the middle of newly planted flower beds. She filled the haymow with kittens. She asked all her friends to the barn, where she gave elaborate musical parties at hours more fashionably late than were tolerated in Elmington. Whenever she had indigestion, she ate off the tops of the choicest green things that grew in the garden, but when her appetite was good, she called and devoured his young chickens. Moreover, when at bay, she frightened him. Once he had cornered the spitting creature in a stall. Claws out, tail big, fur all on end, she had leaked straight at his head, which he ducked, and, landing squarely upon it, had steadied herself there for a moment with sharp, protruding claws. Thence she had jumped to a feed box, thence to a beam, thence to the female. From the dusky recesses of which she had glared at him with those big, green, menacing eyes. Not since that experience, which, in spite of his soft cap, had left certain marks upon his scalp, had he ever attempted to catch her. Instead, he had borrowed a gun, and a dozen times had fired at her. But although he counted himself a fair shot, he had never made even a scant bit a fur fly from her disreputable back. And now, he knew she laughed at him. Yes, laughed at him, for she had more than human intelligence. There was something demoniac in her cleverness, her immunity from harm, her prodigious energy, her malevolent mischief, her railery. Actually, he had grown morbid about the beast. He had a superstitious feeling that in the end, she would bring him bad luck. How he hated her. There she lay, with eyes shut, unsuspecting, comfortable, and basked in the warm September sunshine. Here at his hand was a double-barreled shotgun. The chance was too good. This vagrant, this outlaw, this trespasser, this thief. He cataloged her misdeeds in his mind, as he clanged the ramrod down the barrels to see if the piece was loaded. It was not, but ammunition was at hand. He put in a generous charge from Jim's powder flask, and rammed it home with a paper wad. He grabbed up the shot pouch, and released that proper charge into his hand. He was disappointed. It was a bird shot. Scattering as it would scatter. It could do that cat no harm. Nevertheless, he poured the pellets into the barrel. As he rammed home the paper wad on top of these, his eyes caught the marbles lying on the table. He took one that fitted, and rammed that home also, for luck. He placed a cap, lifted the gun to his shoulder, and fired. With a leap which sent her six feet into the air, the Calico cat landed four square in Mr. Peasley's chicken yard, almost on the back of the dignified rooster, which fled with a startled squawk. She dodged like lightning across the chicken yard, between cackling and clattering hens, went up the wire netting walls, leaped to the roof, paused, considered, began to reflect that she had been shot at before, and to wonder at her own fright. The cat, and sitting down on the ridge pole, looked inquiringly in Mr. Peasley's direction. She was, of course, entirely unharmed. But other matters were claiming Mr. Peasley's attention. Out from behind the screen formed by the asparagus blooms, the current bushes, the sunflowers, and the lilacs, all of which grew not so far from the spot on the fence, where the Calico cat had been sitting, fell a man. Solomon had a mere glimpse. Standing behind taller bushes, the stranger had fallen behind lower ones, and only while his falling figure was describing the narrow segment of a circle had he been visible. But the glimpse was enough. Mr. Peasley's jaw dropped, his face turned white. But the next moment he gave a great sigh of relief. He saw the man rise and slip into cover of the bushes, and so disappear through the orchard. He had not, then, killed the fellow. Relieved of that fear, he thought of himself. What would people say were he charged with firing at a man, he, a respectable citizen, a director in the bank, a grand juror? They must not know. He silently laid the gun back against the window seal, turned with infinite care, and tiptoed quickly back into the sitting room, into the hall, into the street. Not a soul was visible. Nevertheless, such was Mr. Peasley's agitation. So strongly did he feel the need of silence, that placing a shaking hand upon the fence to steady himself, he tiptoed along the sidewalk, all the way to his own house. Here the fear of his wife struck him. He was in no condition to meet that sharp-eyed, quick-tongued lady. He softly entered the front door and penetrated to the dark parlor, where, as no one would ever enter it except a funeral or wedding, he felt safe from intrusion. There he sank down upon the slippery, horse-hair lounge and steering helplessly at the severe portrait of Mrs. Peasley, done by a legubrious artist in crayon, wiped the sweat from his forehead and tried to collect his scattered faculties. Woo! He breathed. Woo! And of chapter one, chapter two of the Calico Cat. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Calico Cat by Charles Minor Thompson. CHAPTER II Meanwhile, at the Edwards House, life had grown suddenly interesting. When the report of the gun reached Jim, he had stopped pawing over the apple barrel and was sitting on the upper step of the staircase at the extreme end of the loft, slowly munching an apple and thinking. Jim was a healthy, active boy, with no more sense than naturally belongs to a boy of fifteen and with a lively imagination, which had been most unfortunately overstimulated. Without a mother and with a father who paid him scant attention, he read whatever he liked, and as a result, his head was full of romantic road agents, delightfully kind to little crippled daughters at home, fierce pirates who supported aged and respectable mothers, and considerate bandits who restored valuable watches when told that they were prized on account of tender associations. His imagination had been still further fed by certain local legends and happenings, highly colored enough to excite the keenest interest. Elmington is, as has been said, near the Canadian border, the place abounds in tales of smuggling and the popular gossip, as gossip everywhere has a pleasing way of doing, associates the name of the most respectable and unlikely people with disreputable ventures of the smugglers. Of course, a story of contraband trade is the more striking if the narrator can hint that the judge of probate, or the most stern of village deacons, might tell a good deal if he were disposed, and there are always persons ready to give this sort of interest to their yarns. In Elmington lived Jake Farnham, an ex-deputy marshal and an incorrigible liar about whom gathered the boys, Jim among them, to hear exciting stories of chase and detection, exactly as boys in a seaport town gather about an old sailor to hear tales of pirates and buccaneers, and Jake loved to hint darkly that the best people shared in the illicit traffic. With it all, Jim's sense of right and wrong was in a fair way to become hopelessly mixed, exactly as all boys at the seashore are prone to believe that a pirate is, on the whole, an admirable character, so these border boys, and especially Jim, had come to feel only with more excuse because of the generally indulgent view of the community that smuggling is an occupation in which anyone may engage with credit, and which is much more interesting than most. Now it is not likely that Jim's father, a stern, secretive, obviously prosperous man with an intermittent business which took him back and forth across the border, could, in all this gossip, escape a touch of suspicion. No one, of course, denied that he really did deal in lumber and cattle. The fact was obvious, but there were hints and whispers, shrewd shakings of the head, and more than one guessed that all Edward's prophets didn't come from cattle, no, nor lumber, neither. Laterally, these whispers had become more definite. Pete LaMaurie, a French Canadian who Mr. Edwards had hired as a drover and, abruptly discharged, was spreading stories about his former employer which made Blackbeard the pirate seem like a babe in comparison. Pete was not a very credible witness, but still, building upon a suspicion that already existed, he succeeded in adding something to its substantiality. These stories had come to Jim's ears, and Jim was delighted. The consideration that, were the stories true, his father was a criminal, did not occur to him at all. Like the foolish, romantic boy he was, he was simply pleased to think of his father as a man of iron determination, cool wit, unshakable courage, whom no deputy sheriff could overmatch, and who was leading a life full of excitement and danger, the smuggler king. The only thing that Jim regretted was that his father did not let him share in these exploits. He knew he could be useful, but his father's manner was habitually so forbidding that Jim did not dare hint a knowledge of these probable undertakings, much less any desire to share them. Poor Mr. Edwards, he loved his boy, but he did not in the least know how to show it. Silent with a sternness of demeanor which he was unable wholly to lay aside, even in his friendliest moments, much away from home, and unable to meet the boy on his own level when he was there, deprived of the wife who might have been his interpreter, he had no way of becoming acquainted with his son. Anxious in some way to share in Jim's life, he took the clumsy and mistaken method of letting him have too much pocket money. Yet if Jim, thus unguided and overindulged, had gone astray in his conduct, Mr. Edwards was not the man to know his mistake and take the blame. He had in him a rigidity of moral judgment, a dryness of mind which made it certain that if Jim did do what he disapproved, he would visit upon him a punishment at once severe and unsympathetic. The man's air of cold strength excited in the sun fear as well as admiration. His reserve kept his naturally affectionate boy at more than arm's length. Poor Mr. Edwards, poor Jim, misunderstanding between them was as sure to occur as the rise of tomorrow's son. At on Jim's speculation about his father's stirring deeds, the gun shot came echoing through the silent barn. Jim ran to the loft door and looked out. He saw smoke curling up from the window of his den and knew that it was his own gun that had been fired. Back in the room, a vague, masculine figure moved hastily out of the door. Jim looked toward the orchard and caught sight of another man disappearing in the trees. He was wild with excitement. As he knew that his father was the only person in the house, he was sure his father had fired the shot. The tales that he had heard, his belief in his father's life of adventure made him conclude that here was some smuggler's quarrel. So vividly did the notion take possession of his inflamed imagination that nothing henceforth could shake it. He simply knew what had happened. And his father had fled, leaving all the evidences of his shot behind him. Jim's loyal heart bounded. Here he could help. He turned, raced across the loft, clattered down the steep, cobwebby stairs, slipped through the shed passage, through the kitchen, and on into its own room. He knew what to do. Nothing must show that the gun had ever been used. He set feverishly to work. He swabbed out the weapon and hung it on its rack over the mantle. He tossed the rags into the fireplace and covered them with ashes. He put the shot pouch and the powder flask into their proper drawer. Then he pulled a chair to the table and set himself to a pretended study of Caesar. If anyone should come, it would look as if he had been quietly studying all the morning. All this had cost considerable self-denial for, of course, he boiled with curiosity about the man in the orchard. He did not dare to go out there. But now, stealthily glancing out of the window, he saw his father returning from the garden with long strides. Jim understood. His father, going out the front door, had slipped round to the side of the house so that it would look as if he had come from the street. He was not surprised that his father looked stern and angry. That fellow must have done something mighty mean, he thought, to make his father shoot. And he admired at once the magnanimity and the skill which had merely winged the man, as he supposed by way, presumably, of teaching him a lesson. Then, struck by the boldness and openness of his father's return to the house, Jim suddenly felt that he had been foolish, that the cleaning of the gun had not been needed. What man would dare, after such a lesson, to complain against his father? Mr. Edwards walked straight into Jim's room. Aroused from his nap by the shot, he had leaped to the window and seen the man fall. He had then turned and run downstairs so quickly that he had not seen the fellow half-rise and crawl into the bushes. And having reached the spot, he was much relieved, if somewhat staggered, to find nobody. He did find tracks, for this was a plowed ground, but they told him nothing of the wounded man, except that he had left in a hurry on a pair of rather large feet. He looked about for a while and then started toward the house, determined to have an explanation with Jim. He knew Jim's gun by the sound of its report and felt no doubt that the boy had fired the shot. What sort of culpable accident had happened? Suffering still with the splitting headache which he had been trying to sleep off, angry with Jim for his carelessness, concerned lest the man were really injured, Mr. Edwards was in his least compromising mood. How did it happen? He asked, without preface. His tones were harsh, and he fixed Jim with stern eyes. How did it happen? Repeated Jim in pure surprise. Certainly his father knew much better than he how it had happened. Speak out, said Mr. Edwards impatiently. How did you come to shoot that man? I want to know about it. Me, cried Jim in complete bewilderment, I haven't shot any man, father. You know I haven't. Mr. Edwards, never a man of nice observation, and now bewildered with anger and headache, took his son's genuine astonishment for mere pretense and subterfuge. Were not the facts plain? I don't want any nonsense about this. He said incisively, I heard your gun. I saw the man fall. No one else but you could possibly have fired it. It's useless to lie, and I won't stand it. Tell me at once what happened. I didn't shoot him, father. You know I didn't. Reiterated Jim more and more dumbfounded. I don't know how it happened. Honest engine, I don't, father. Mr. Edwards' mouth shut tight. He swept the room with his eyes until they rested upon the gun and the rack over the mantelpiece. He stepped forward, took it down, and examined it. Holding it in his hands, he gazed about the floor. A rag, which the ashes in the fireplace had not wholly covered, caught his attention. You cleaned the gun and put it away, he said grimly. Then you tried to hide the rag with which you cleaned it. And he touched the bit of cloth sticking from the ashes contemptuously with his foot. What do you expect me to think from that? Jim was silent. The boy was unlike his father in many ways, but they were alike in this. They both were proud. Each would meet an unjust accusation in silence. And Jim was beginning to show another of his father's characteristics. A still anger was beginning to burn in him against this man who accused him of a deed which he himself had done. And he felt rising within him a stubborn will to endure, not to surrender. If his father was going to act like that, why let him? Where is your shot pouch? Asked Mr. Edwards. Jim motioned toward the drawer. Is your powder flask there too? Yes. Mr. Edward was silent. After all, he was a just man. He was trying as well as his headache would let him to see things straight. It's plain what happened, he said at last. You had an accident and got frightened. You cleaned your gun. You hid the rags. You put away your ammunition. You got your books and pretended to study. You are afraid to tell the truth now. Jim's face flushed hotly, but he kept silent. Such assurance, such cruelty, he had never imagined. If this was what smugglers were like, if this was a sample of their tricks, I'll give you one more chance to tell the truth, said Mr. Edwards. Did you do it? No, I didn't, said Jim, and his jaw snapped closed like his father's. Very well, said Mr. Edwards. I'll leave you until you change your mind. You will stay here. Sarah will bring you bread and milk at supper time. If you're willing to talk to me then, you may tell her that you'd like to see me. He turned to go, then paused. It's a serious matter and all the facts are against you. It would go hard with you in court. It will go harder if you stick to your stubborn and foolish lie. One thing more, if you don't choose to tell the truth, you will have to reckon with the law as well as with me. Mr. Edwards, upon this, shut the door and departed. His was a stern figure, but the hurt within was very sore. This then, he reflected bitterly, was the kind of boy he had. He suffered deeply at the discovery, which for him was unquestionable. Jim felt outraged. He had done his loyal best to save his father from the consequences of his rash act. And now, with incredible ingenuity and cool injustice, his father was using his son's acts of helpfulness to make it appear that he had done the deed. Without a scruple, his father had made him a scapegoat. Jim told himself that he would gladly had taken the blame, had his father, as chief of the band, demanded the sacrifice of this, his devoted follower. Nay, more, he would have endured the ordeal without a murmur, had his father, deeming it unsafe to enter into formal explanations, only hinted to him that this was a farce which they too must play together. If his father had only winked at him, surely he might have done that with safety, but not to be admitted to the secret, not to be allowed to play the heroic part, to be used as an ignoble tool by a father who neither loved him nor knew his courage, that was too much. He would not betray his father, no, a thousand times, no, but the day would come. The afternoon dragged on. Jim sat there in his room, looking out into the pleasant sunshine, conscious that the boys were playing three old cat in the field not far away, as rebellious and magnanimous, as hot and angry, as heroic and morally muddled a boy as one could wish to see. And looking at the affair from his point of view, not many people will blame him. It is delightful, of course, to have a pirate chief for a father, but what if he makes you walk the plank? It is amusing to think of Mr. Peasley and Jim each shut up in his respective room. But if Mr. Peasley, in his gloomy parlor, faced by the crayon portrait of his masterful wife, a vase of wax flowers under a glass dome, the family Bible on a marble topped table and three stiff horsehair covered chairs had the advantage of being able to leave at any moment, he was even more perturbed in mind. Terrible awkward mess. He kept repeating to himself as he mocked his damp forehead with his handkerchief. Terrible awkward. And indeed, it would be awkward for a respectable citizen with political aspirations to be accused before a grand jury of which he is a member of assault with a dangerous weapon upon an inoffensive man. Mr. Peasley's reflections rose in a strophe of hope and fell in an anti-strophe of despair. Taint likely it hurt him any, just a bird shot, said Hope. Bird shots mighty irritating, especially to a ratty fella, said despair. In alternating thus, his thoughts ran on. Bird shot'll show I didn't have any serious intent, but maybe a piece of the marble struck him. He went off mighty lively, don't seem as if he'd been hurt much, more scared hurt likely, but he might've been hurt bad, arm or something maybe. Marble, taint anything but baked clay, split all the pieces probably, but you can't tell. I've heard you can sheep a taller candle through an inch plank, and that's considerable softer than a marble and that pesky catch just as frisky as ever. Had anyone seen him? There certainly had not been anyone in the street, but where had been Mr. Edwards? Jim, the housekeeper, where had his own wife been? There were windows from which she might have seen him returning, some from which she might even have seen him fire the fatal shot, but shaw, there now. Probably no one had seen him at all, not even his wife, not even his victim, probably no one would ever find out. Must've been some worthless feller, stealing apples maybe, who won't dare make a fuss. Taint likely I'll ever hear anything of it. Taint no use saying anything till something happens. What folks don't know, hurt him none. The structure of comfort, which he thus built himself was shaky indeed, but it had to serve. He nerved himself to meet his wife. He must not excite her suspicion by too long an absence. She was doubtless full of curiosity, for of course she had heard the shot and would expect him to know what it meant. It would not do to seem to enter the house by the front door, sacred to formal occasions. So sneaking outdoors again, he slipped round to the side of the house and with much trepidation went into the kitchen. His wife began the moment she saw him. Well, of all the crazy carryings on, she cried. What's the Eddard's boy firing off guns for? Right under peaceable folks' windows, I'm gonna speak to Mr. Eddard's right off. Now don't she, Serapti, don't she? Said Mr. Peasley in alarm. Relieved as he was to find himself unsuspected, he did not like the idea of having his wife pick a quarrel with Mr. Edwards for what he himself had done. The less said about that shot, the better he would be pleased. For the land's sake, why not? I should like to know. Well, now, Serapti, I wouldn't. That Eddard's boy ain't more of a boy than most boys, I guess. Always seemed a real peaceable little feller and Eddard's is kinder touchy, I guess. It might make hard feeling. This wouldn't look well for us to speak, be a newcomer or so. I wouldn't, Serapti, I wouldn't. Maybe sometime I'll slide in a wood. Just slide it in a kinder easy if he does it again. And Mr. Peasley looked appealingly at his wife through his big spectacles, his eyes looking very large and pathetic through the strong lenses. Said his wife, unmoved. I ain't afraid of Eddard's if you be. Nor could she be moved from her determination. Mr. Peasley was vastly disturbed, but presently he forgot this small annoyance in greater ones. That evening after tea, when he went up to the post office, he heard that Pete LaMaurie had been shot by Jim Edwards and was now in bed with his wounds. Jim's arrest was predicted. Young Farnsworth, who kept the crockery store, told him the news. And presently, Jake Hibbard, the worst shyster in the village, shuffled in. Noticeable anywhere for his suit of rusty black, his empty sleeve pinned to his coat, the green patch over his eye, and his tobacco stained lips. He confirmed the report. Pete's hurt bad, he said, shaking his head. Hurt bad, I've taken his case. Young Edwards is going to see trouble. The speech frightened poor Mr. Peasley, and he was hardly reassured by the skeptical smile of Squire Tucker, and his remark that he would believe that LaMaurie was hurt when he saw him. The Squire had small faith in either LaMaurie or Hibbard. He knew them both. But Mr. Peasley returned home with dragging feet. Silent and preoccupied all the evening, he went to bed early, but not to sleep. Long he lay awake and tossed, while the calico cat wailed on the rear fence, exultant, triumphant, insulting. And when he finally did get to sleep, he dreamed that he was being prosecuted in court by, was it Jake Hibbard with the green patch over his eye, or the calico cat with the black patch over hers? He could not tell, study the fantastic, ominous figure of his prosecutor as he would. End of chapter two. Chapter three of the calico cat. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Calico Cat by Charles Minor Thompson. Chapter three. Immediately after breakfast on Monday morning, Mr. Peasley, in a mood of desperate self-sacrifice, started up town to buy a knife for Jim. All day long on Sunday, when he had nothing to do but think, he had struggled between his fear of exposure and his sorrow for the boy. The upshot was a determination to make it up to him by giving him a knife. He had in his mind's eye a marvel, stag horn handle, four blades, saw, owl, all, file, hoof hook, corkscrew. Such a knife as that, he felt, would console any boy for being arrested. Most likely it will end right there, he said to himself. I guess I'd better go to Farley's, he thought as he walked along. Farley owes money to the bank. He won't dare stick it on like the rest. But when he entered the store and looked about, his face fell, Mr. Farley was not there. Willie Potter, Farley's clerk, a young man peculiarly distasteful to Solomon, lounged forward with a toothpick in his mouth. Mr. Peasley had half a mind to go, but the thought of poor Jim held him back. What will you have today, Mr. Peasley? Enquired Willie affably. He winked at young Danny Snow, who sat grinning on a keg of nails, as much as to say, watch me have some fun with the old man. I thought maybe I'd look at some jackknives, said Solomon, eyeing Willie distrustfully. Yes, sir, I guess you want the best, regardless of expense, said Willie impudently. He well understood his customer's dislike for spending a penny. Stepping behind the counter, he drew from the showcase and held up admiringly the most costly knife in the store. Here now, what do you say to this? Very superior article, best horn, 10 blades, best razor steel, 350 and cheap at the price. Can't be beat this side of Boston. Just the article for you, sir. And he winked again at Danny Snow, who was pink with suppressed merriment. Well now, well now, said Solomon, taking the knife in his hand and pretending to examine it closely. That's a pretty knife to be sure, to be sure, real showy, ain't it? It looks as if it made to sell, all outside and no money in the bank, like some young fellers you see. Danny Snow giggling outright, Mr. Peasley turned and gazed at him in mild inquiry. Young Potter turned a dull red. He was addicted to radiant cravits and gallsy silk handkerchiefs. And from his salary of $8 a week, he did not save much. But just the same, Mr. Peasley had been staggered at the price. Pretending still to examine the knife, which Willie had given him, he squinted past it at the contents of the glass showcase on which his elbows rested. There, all sorts of knives confronted him, each in its little box, in which was stuck a card stating the price. A dollar 50, a dollar 25, 90 cents, 45 cents. The cheapest one would eat up the proceeds of three dozen eggs at 15 cents a dozen, a good price for eggs. He had forgotten that knives cost so much. A good knife ain't any use to a boy, he reflected. Break it in a day, lose it in a week. It wouldn't be any real kindness to him, just wasting money. He pointed finally to a stubby wooden handled knife with one big blade, marks 25 cents. There now, said he, that's what I call a knife, good and strong and no folderal. Guarantee the steel, don't ye? He opened the blade and drew it speculatively across this calloused old thumb, while with his mild blue eyes, which his spectacles enormously exaggerated, he fixed the humbled Willie. That's a good knife for the money, said the young man, hand forged. Show now, ye don't say so, said Mr. Peasley. I guess ye give a discount, don't ye? Farley always allows me a little something. You can have it for 21 cents, said Willie, much irritated. Charge it? Guess I better pay cash, Mr. Peasley answered hastily. If it were charged, his wife would question the item. Producing an enormous wallet, very worn and very flat, from his cavernous pocket, he deliberately searched until he found a Canadian 10 cent piece, and adding to it enough to make up the price, handed it to Potter and left the store. Mr. Peasley, who remembered no gift from his father, other than a very occasional big copper cent, thought himself pretty generous. Had he not spent pretty nearly the price of two dozen eggs? But now a question occurred to him, which he had not thought of before. How was he to get the knife to Jim? A gift from him would excite surprise, perhaps suspicion. It must not be known who had sent it. Ah, there was the post office. Going in, he pushed the little box through the barred window. Say, Cyrus, he said to the postmaster, kinder way up this consignment for me, will ye? The postmaster weighed the box. That will cost you six cents, he said. Thank ye, returned Mr. Peasley, dropping the box into his deep pocket, departed. Half a dozen eggs more to get it to his next door neighbor. Taint right, he muttered, taint right. Uncertain what to do with his gift, but feeling on the whole pretty virtuous, Mr. Peasley now started home. He thought that Jim would not be going to school, but would wait at home for the threatened coming of the constable. But still, he was not sure, and he wanted to keep the boy under his eye. Suddenly, he straightened. There was Judge Amos walking up the street, valise in hand, just from the early morning train. He had come a few days before the opening of court. Mr. Peasley knew him slightly, and stood much in awe of him. He was greatly pleased when the judge stopped and shook hands with him. I'm glad to hear, Mr. Peasley, said the judge in his precise, lawyer-like utterance, that you are to be on the grand jury. We need men like you there. Thank ye, thank ye, Judge, said Mr. Peasley, overcome. And he walked on home, quite convinced, that a person of his importance in the community should not be sacrificed to the comfort of any small boy. And I've done right, by the little feller, I've done right. He assured himself, feeling for the knife. As he turned into his own yard, he cast an anxious eye over to the Edwards' house. There sat Jim, elbows on knees, chin on hands, steering into space. Jim was thinking that his father, had he been a pirate chief, would not have wiped a filial tear from his eye whenever he thought of his mother. And the boy's face showed it. The spectacle greatly depressed Mr. Peasley. The smallest, faintest question entered his mind, whether a 25-cent knife would console such melancholy. To give himself accountants while he watched events, Solomon got a rake and began gathering together the few autumn leaves which had fluttered down in his front yard. It was not useless labor, for they would come in handy later in banking up the house. And so, presently, he saw Sam Barton, the constable, his big shoulders rolling as he walked, advancing down the street. Mr. Peasley expected him. Nevertheless, his appearance gave him a disagreeable shock. Suppose the constable had been coming for him. Ain't arrestin' anybody down this way, be ye? He called with a feeble attempt at jocularity. Perhaps, after all, looks like it, said Barton succinctly. Mr. Peasley stepped to the fence. Tain't likely they'll do much to a little feller like that, I guess, he said, searching the constable's face. Dunno, said Barton, passing on. Solomon, much concerned, leaned on his rake and watched him enter the Edward's house. Jim had disappeared. There was some delay. Mrs. Peasley came to the door. Arrestin' that eddards boy, be ye, Solomon? She said, well, serve him right. I say, shootin' guns off so. Like father like son. I dunno as twas the son. I'd soon believe it of the father. Everybody knows Lemory and he's been mixed up together. Some of his smuggling tricks, probably. Mrs. Peasley had taken a violent dislike to her taciturn neighbor and she did not care who knew it. Her shrill voice seemed to her husband painfully loud and indeed it was beginning to attract the attention of the group of children who had gathered about the Edward's gate. Shh, hissed Solomon. Eddards might hear ye. It would hood us if he should take his account out of the bank. Hmm, exclaimed Mrs. Peasley. Well, she added, you go to the hearing. Justice is something, I guess. But she said no more and with her husband and the children awaited events. A silent group in the silent street before the silent house. The children's eyes grew bigger and bigger with excitement was not Jimmy Edwards going to be arrested for murder. The horrid whisper ran. One small boy beginning to whimper asked if Jimmy was going to be hung. The occasion was solemn, even to the older eyes of Mr. Peasley. Supposing it was me, he said to himself. Presently, Mr. Edwards, Jim and the constable emerged from the house. Jim looked white and frightened but was bravely trying to bear himself like a man. Mr. Edwards, his long, shaven upper lip, stiff as a board, looked stern and uncompromising. Barton was as big and good-humored as ever. He turned upon the little boys and girls and waving his arm, cried, scat. They fell back, about 10 feet. Thus the procession formed. Barton and Jim, then Mr. Edwards and, at a barely respectful distance, the crowd of youngsters. Mr. Peasley, much moved but trying hard not to show it, thrust his rake under the veranda with a great show of care and joined Mr. Edwards, much to that gentleman's surprise. Solomon's heart was throbbing with a great resolution. I always aimed to be neighborly, said he, nervously lowering his voice, for he was conscious of his wife, still standing on the veranda. Thought I'd just step along, too. I collate maybe you'd like some company on his bail bond. And he jerked his thumb toward Jim. It was out, he was committed, and Solomon heaved a great sigh. He knew not whether of relief or dismay. There was not, indeed, any risk in signing with Edwards, who was good for any bail that the justice was likely to require. But what would Mrs. Peasley say if she knew? He glanced apprehensively toward the house. His wife had gone in, but evil omen there, sitting on the fence post, was the calico cat. She was placidly washing her face, and as her paw twinkled past the big black spot around her right eye, she appeared at that distance to be greeting him with a derasive wink. Mr. Edwards, although his mouth shut tighter than ever at the mention of bail, was surprised and touched. Thank you, he said. It's kind of you to think of it. In the village, Sam ushered them into the musty office of Squire Tucker, justice of the peace. The Squire was a large, fat man, clothed then rusty black with a carelessly knotted string tie pendant beneath a rumpled turned-down collar. He had a smooth, shaven, fat face, lighted by shrewd and kindly eyes, which gleamed at you now through, now over, his glasses. When the party entered, he was writing and merely looked up under his big eyebrows, long enough to wave them all to chairs. Jim sat down with the constable behind him and his father at his left and studied the man in whose hands he thought that his fate rested. He watched the Squire's pen go from paper to ink, ink to paper, and listened to it scratch, scratch, scratch, and to the buzz of a big fly against the dirty window pane. Ashamed to look at anyone, he looked at the lawyer's big inkwell, a great circular affair of mottled brown wood. It had several openings, each one with its own little cork attached with a short string to the side of the sand. He had never seen one like it before. Then someone entered the room. Jim, looking sidewise, recognized Jake Hibbard and began covertly to study his face. He knew that this flabby-faced, dirty man with the little screwed-up eyes and the big screwed-up mouth stained brown at the corners with tobacco was Pete LaMaurie's lawyer. Familiar for many years to his contemptuous young eyes, Jake now looked sinister and dangerous. What were these men going to do to him? Amid his fluttering emotions and rushing thoughts, one thing only stood fixed and clear. He would not tell on his father. Some day, when all trouble was passed, he would let his father know that he knew all the time. Then he guessed his father would be sorry and ashamed. Now, since his father would not take him into his confidence, he would pretend he did the shooting. That would be his only revenge. Finally, Squire Tucker, pushing his writing aside, ran his fingers through the great mass of his tumbled gray hair and looked quizzically at Jim over his glasses. So this, he said, is the hardened ruffian of whom our esteemed fellow citizen, Mr. LaMaurie, complains? And indeed, Jim, although stubborn, did not seem very dangerous. The Squire looked about the room. Is he represented by counsel? He asked. No, I represent him, said Mr. Edwards. The charge against him is assault with intent to kill, I believe. And he looked with demure inquiry at Jake Hibbard, who nodded with a wrath-clouded face. Tucker was not taking the case seriously. Well, young man, said the justice to Jim, what's your explanation of this? We'll waive examination, said Mr. Edwards briefly. The Squire leaned back in his chair. I suppose, he said with evident reluctance, I shall have to hold him for the grand jury. But I guess the safety of the community won't be greatly threatened if I let him out on bail. I should think a couple of hundred would do. I suppose there'll be no difficulty about the bond. The tone of the proceedings suited Mr. Peasley well. In his nervousness and abstraction, he had backed up to the rusty, empty iron stove at the end of the room and stood there with spread coattails, listening intently. On hearing the amount of bail, he gave a sigh of relief. His unconscious offer had brought him no dangerous risk. Mr. Edwards, however, did not answer. Instead, consulting the justice with a look, he turned and beckoned Jim to follow him into the hall. James, he said, this is the last chance I shall give you. If you confess to me, I will see that you have proper bail. If you do not, I shall let the law take its course. You may choose. Jim was exasperated. If his father wished to be mean, let him be mean. At least he might drop this farce, this irritating pretense. He lost his temper. I don't care what you do, he said fiercely. Send me to jail if you want to. I guess I can stand it. Is that all you have to say? Jim replied with a rebellious glance. Very well, said his father. Then we will go back. Once in the room, he stepped to the squire's desk and talked with him in low tones. Then the justice turned to Jim again, a new gravity in his jolly face. Your father, he said, refuses to go on your bond. Have you any sureties of your own to offer? No, sir, said Jim. Mr. Peasley was outraged. What kind of father was this? He half started forward to offer to be one of the two sureties which the law required. But no, he dare not. The second surety might prove to be any sort of worthless fellow. But Jim in jail? He had not for a moment dreamed of that. He was very indignant with Mr. Edwards. Meanwhile, Jay Kibbard was studying Mr. Edwards' face with puzzled attention. He had supposed that the lumber dealer, whom he knew to be well to do, would have paid anything, signed any bond, to protect his boy from jail. He was disconcerted. He drew his one hand across his mouth nervously. Well, Mr. Barton, said the squire-tucker, I don't see but what you'll have to take this young man over to Hotel Calkins. Hotel Calkins was the name which local wit gave to the county jail. The words sent a cold shiver down Mr. Peasley's back. They stunk him into generosity. As Barton and his prisoner, followed by Mr. Edwards and Jake, brushed by him on their way to the door, he slipped the knife into Jim's hand. When the boy, trying to keep back the tears, looked up inquiringly, he murmured in agitation, don't ye care, sonny, now don't ye care. He was greatly stirred. Or he would not have been so unconscious as to make his present in person and in public. End of chapter three. Chapter four of The Calico Cat. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Calico Cat by Charles Minor Thompson. Chapter four. When Nancy Ware, Jim's pretty teacher, heard that Mr. Edwards had let Jim go to jail, she was hotly indignant. She liked Jim and laughed a little over him, for she knew he adored her. In her view, he was a clumsy, nice boy, awkward and shy to be sure, but rewarding her friendliness now and then with a really entrancing grin. She liked his imagination. She liked his loyalty and she liked his dogged resolution. She heard the news at the noon hour on Monday and after her dinner, she hurried at once to the store of Fred Farnsworth. To him, she roundly declared that Mr. Edwards was a brute, a view of the man which struck Fred as a bit highly colored. Fred was 31 or 32 years old, a sensible, humorous fellow with considerable personal force. He was very proud of the handsome shop over which hung the sign Frederick W. Farnsworth, fine crockery and glassware and still prouder of his engagement to Ms. Ware. He was the second grand juryman from Elmington. Oh, said he, Edwards isn't a bad sort of man. He isn't very sociable. I guess he wouldn't take much impudence even from that boy of his. They say Jim wouldn't own up and the old man won't do anything for him till he does. If Jimmy Edwards says he didn't fire that gun, he didn't, said Nancy positively. Jimmy isn't the lying kind. I know Mr. Edwards. I ought not to call him a brute, I suppose, but he's one of those obstinate men who will do anything once they've made their minds up to do it, even if you prove to them that they're wrong, even if it hurts them more than it does anyone else. He just got it into his head that Jimmy ought to confess and he'd let him go to the gallows before he backed down. Nancy spoke with animation. Her color rose and her eyes grew bright and Fred looked and listened admiringly. He was skeptical about Jim, but he was struck with the accuracy of the portrait of Edwards. I guess that's about so, he said. And when I think of that poor boy, he shut up in that awful jail locked into a sale when he ought to be out of doors playing ball and having a good time. It makes my blood boil, continued Miss Ware. Now, Fred, she concluded with pretty decision, you must stop it. Fred laughed, isn't that a pretty large order? He asked. Squire Tucker put him in there. I guess it's legal. You can do something, said his betroth. Go see Jimmy, see if you can find out what's the matter. Jimmy likes you, perhaps he'll tell. I didn't know Jim had any particular partiality for me, said Fred, but he felt kindlier toward the boy in spite of himself. If you can only find out what really happened, I know we can get him out. Avert Miss Ware. Why don't you go yourself, said Farnsworth. I can't, not till five o'clock. Of course, I'm going then. It's about four hours off, said Farnsworth. But I want something done now, exclaimed Nancy. Oh, said Fred humorously. Will you go? Of course, I'll start it once. Fred dropped his banter. I'll tell you what, Nancy, I may not be able to do much right off, but I promise you that he has a fair chance before the grand jury. Farnsworth started at once for the jail. It was a poor place for a boy, he reflected, as he rang the jailer's private bell. Colkins himself was not there, and his wife came to the door. She knew Farnsworth, and when he asked if he might see Jim, she laughed a little and told him to step right in. Hotel Colkins was a brick building which looked pleasantly like a private dwelling, as, in fact, a good half of it was. In this front half dwelt the jailer. In the rear half, separated from the living quarters by a thick wall and heavy doors, was the jail proper. There, Farnsworth expected to be led. There, Farnsworth expected to be led. But not at all. Mrs. Colkins ushered him into her own kitchen, where a wash tub showed what she was doing. Where the afternoon, sun, and sweet September air poured in at the open windows, and where a canary in its cage was singing cheerily. Here, Farnsworth was much surprised to see Jim curled up in Mrs. Colkins' own rocking chair, eating a large, red-cheeked apple, which he was dividing with a brand new knife. Squire Tucker told Mark, said Mrs. Colkins, enjoying the joke, that he guessed James would like our society full as well as that of the prisoners. As for Jim, he grinned affably and took another slice of his apple. The awful picture, which Ms. Ware had drawn of Jim's dreadful isolation and misery in her own indignant sympathy, rushed upon Farnsworth's mind, and were so comically out of relation with the facts that he sank weakly into the nearest chair and roared, this is the way you go to jail, is it? He gasped. Mrs. Colkins smiled in sympathy, and Jim, half suspecting that he ought to be offended at this frank mirth, looked sheepishly at the floor. Farnsworth recovered himself. A mighty good friend of yours, he said, sent me over here. Ms. Ware asked Jim much pleased. Yes, she's coming herself right after school, loaded down with things to console your desolate prison life, I believe. And Farnsworth had to stop to laugh again. But she wanted me to start right in and help you out of this, and that's what I'm here for. Thank you, said Jim, embarrassed but polite. But it struck Farnsworth, as he said afterward, that the boy shied a little. Ms. Ware says, he went on, that she doesn't believe you fired that shot, and she wants you to tell me exactly what did happen. Now, if we can show that you didn't shoot, I can get you out of here quick. What are they going to do to me? Said Jim. That depends. It makes a difference how much LaMaurie's hurt. The penalty might be severe if he's got a bad wound. But even then, if we could show that you didn't know he was there, or that the gun went off by accident, or that you were firing at something else, it would make a big difference. And if you can show that you weren't there at all, why, out you go, scot-free. But Jim, you can see yourself, that if you don't tell what you know, everybody will think that you shot and meant to hurt LaMaurie. And then it might go pretty hard with you. Now come, tell me what happened. You better tell Jimmy, said Mrs. Calkins, straightening up from her wash tub. You won't find any better friends than Mr. Farnsworth and Ms. Ware. The young man, as he talked, watched the boy curiously. Jim flushed and squirmed and looked now at the floor and now out at the window with a marked uneasiness and embarrassment that greatly puzzled his friend. And when he stopped and the boy had to answer, his distress became really pitiable. Can't you tell me, Jim? Mr. Farnsworth hazarded, after a little, putting a kindly hand on the boy's arm while Mrs. Calkins stood quiet by her tub in friendly expectation. But Jim remained dumb. After waiting a little, Farnsworth, seeing the boy so miserable, took pity on him. Well, nevermind, Jim, he said. You needn't tell if you don't want to. He would have to let Nancy coax it out of him. But he was puzzled, impressed with a sense of mystery and with a growing conviction that the boy was shielding someone else. He began to talk cheerfully of other things, hoping that Jim might perhaps drop a useful hint, or at least that the boy would gain confidence in him as a friend. By chance, he asked, where'd you get the knife, Jim? Mr. Peasley gave it to me. Peasley, exclaimed Farnsworth. He well knew the closeness of his fellow juror. It isn't much of a knife, said Jim, apologetic but pleased. Jim's views of the world were changing. His father, although a bandit chief, had let him go to jail while this stingy old man with no halo of adventure about him gave him a knife. And here were Ms. Ware and Mr. Farnsworth and Mrs. Calkins and the jailer, none of them smugglers who were very kind. Farnsworth rose to go. Then Jim, summoning all his courage, asked the question which had long been trembling on his lips. What did they do to smugglers, Mr. Farnsworth? Find him or put him in jail or both. Why? Nothing much, said Jim, but obviously he was cast down. Farnsworth walked thoughtfully toward his store. By George, he thought suddenly, I wonder. The gossip about the senior Edwards had occurred to him and at about the same time, he remembered the quarrel with LaMaurie. But what nonsense, he thought. If Edwards wanted to shoot anyone, he wouldn't do it in his own backyard and he wouldn't treat his own little boy that way either. Still, the idea clung to him and then he thought of Nancy and chuckled. If she comes to the store before she goes to the jail, I won't tell her what she'll find there, he promised himself. Meanwhile, Mr. Peasley felt a growing discomfort. He ate his dinner and answered the brisk questions of his wife with increasing preoccupation. Like Ms. Ware, he was picturing Jim, solitary and suffering in his lonely cell. With the utmost sincerity and ingenuousness, he condemned Mr. Edwards. Ain't he got any feeling for his own flesh and blood? He asked himself. Taint right, somebody ought to deal with him. As he potted about his yard after dinner, he finally worked himself up to the point of speaking to Edwards himself. Even his righteous indignation would not have led him to this undertaking had he known Mr. Edwards better or realized the father's present mood. Hurt exceedingly by Jim's lying and contempt of his wishes, hurt even more through his disappointed desire to help his boy, Mr. Edwards was sore and sensitive, discontented both with Jim and with himself. He did not want Jim in jail, he told himself. And the neighbors who were so uniformly assuming that he did might better give their thoughts to matters that concern them more. He would get the boy out of jail quick enough if the boy would only let him. As he stepped out of the house to do an errand at the barn, Mr. Peasley hailed him over the dividing fence. Somewhat put out, Mr. Edwards, nevertheless turned and walked toward his neighbor. Mr. Peasley, leaning over the fence, began edits, he said, reaching out an anxious, deprecatory hand. Don't you think you chased a little might hot on that boy of your, he got no further. Edwards gave him a look that made him shiver and cut the conversation short by turning on his heel and marching toward the barn. Dreadful house man, dreadful hush. Mr. Peasley muttered to himself, nice like the boy as ever was. If I had a boy like that, I swan I wouldn't treat him so consarned mean. He turned away much shocked and saw the Calico cat watching him ironically from the chicken house. Dread that cat, said he, I ain't going to stay round here, not with that beast grinning at me. He got his hat and started uptown, not knowing in the least what he intended to do there. He stopped however at every shop window and studied baseballs, bats, tivoli boards, accordions. He was beginning to wonder if a 25 cent knife was enough to console Jim for his unmerited incarceration. He was gazing for lornally in at the window of Upham's drug store where some half dozen harmonicas were displayed and wondering if Jim would be allowed to play one in his dungeon cell when Hibbard spoke to him. He drew the lawyer aside and peering closely into his face with anxious eyes, exaggerated by his spectacles, said insinuatingly, just wicks you and me kind or confidential. Pete ain't hurt bad, is he? You don't mind saying, do ye? Jake drew himself up, surprised and suspicious. Did the old fool think him as innocent as all that? He's hurt bad, Mr. Peasley, bad, he said with dignity. Of course it isn't fatal unless it should mortify. He waved his hand deprecatingly. I can't imagine what that Edwards boy used in his gun. Mr. Peasley knew the marble. He trembled. Still, he knew Jake's reputation. A shrewd thought visited his troubled mind. What doctors see in him, he asked. Doctor, exclaimed Hibbard, irritated. Doctor, you know these French Canadians. They're worse scared of a doctor than of the evil one himself. Pete's using some old woman's stuff on his wounds. Bears grease, rattlesnake oil, catnip tea. What do I know? I can't make him see a doctor. Some doctor will have to testify in court, won't they? Persisted Mr. Peasley. Oh, I'll look out for that, don't you fear? The lawyer said easily. But nevertheless, he made a pretext for leaving the old man. Perhaps Mr. Peasley's fears had not been so keen. He would have taken some comfort from this conversation. But as it was, he felt that the lawyer was dangerous. He feared that Pete really was badly hurt. It would go hard then with Jim. It would, by the same token, go hard with himself should he confess. Suddenly, he turned and rushed into Upham's store. Upham said he, I want that. And he pointed straight at a big harmonica with a strange and wonderful harp attachment. Bright colored and have amazing possibilities. Upham, a neat little gentleman with nicely trimmed side whiskers who was always fluttered by the unexpected, hesitated, half opened his mouth and then forgot either to shut it or to speak. Why Mr. Peasley? He stammered at last. It's real expensive. You, it's $2.75. Don't care nothing what it costs, said Mr. Peasley, who was in a hurry for fear lest he should think twice. When he came out of the store with the harmonica in his hands, he almost stumbled into Miss Weyer. She was on her way to Jim. And, of course, her mind was full of his affairs. Here was Mr. Edwards' next neighbor. She impulsively stopped to ask if the misguided father still held to his resolution about Jim. Mr. Peasley had reason to know that he did and said so. I tell you, Miss Weyer, said he with much emotion. He belongs to a stony-hearted generation, and that's a fact. He ain't got any compassion in him, seems, though. It's a shame, a perfect shame, exclaimed Nancy. Taint Right, said Mr. Peasley with a warmth which surprised the young woman and made her warm to this old man whom she had always thought so selfish. Taint Right, your own flesh and blood, so. Well, said Miss Weyer, I'm going to the jail now. I wanna see Jimmy. It must be awful there. Well, now, that's real kind of you, responded Mr. Peasley. I wonder now if you'd mind taking along this to him. And he offered her the paper parcel. It's a harmonica, I guess they call it. It's real handsome. It cost considerable, pretty considerable sum. I feel kind of sorry for the little feller, and I don't grudge it a mite. And he kept repeating in a tone which suggested whistling to keep your courage up. Not a mite, not a mite. Miss Weyer smothered her laugh on hearing what the present was. She must not hurt the feelings of this kind old man. Oh, said the little hypocrite. That's nice. Jimmy'll be so pleased. But perhaps the harmonica pleased Jim as much as the school books, which the school teacher with a solicitous eye on her pupil standing in his studies was taking him. Saying goodbye to Mr. Peasley. Miss Weyer, books and harmonica in hand went on her way to visit the afflicted boy in his dungeon. Meanwhile, Jim, turning the ringer for Mrs. Calkins and listening to her stories of Mark's prowess with all sorts of malefactors, was having an excellent time. He had decided to be a sheriff when he grew up. End of chapter four. Chapter five of The Calico Cat. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Calico Cat by Charles Minor Thompson. Chapter five. The day of the assembling of the grand jury for the September term of the Adams County Court finally dawned how Mr. Peasley had looked forward to that day, how often he had pictured the scene, the bustle about the courthouse, the agreeable crowd of black-coated lawyers with their clever talk, their good stories, the grave judge and the still graver side judges, the greetings and handshakeings amid much joking and laughter. The county gossip among the grand jurors in the informal moments before they filed into the courtroom to be sworn and to receive the judge's charge. Himself, finally, in his best black coat and cherished beaver hat, there in the midst of it, important, weighty, respected, a public man. He had cherished the vision of himself, walking up the village street on that first morning, a dignitary returning the cordial and admiring salutes of his village friends. He had seen himself later in the jury room, shrewdly leading the reluctant witness, delivering weighty opinions on the bearing of testimony and making all respect to him as a marvel of conservatism, dignity and wisdom. This was to be one of the most important and pleasurable days of his life, the rung and a ladder of preferment which had reached as high as the statehouse dome. And when that day came, it rained, steadily, gloomily, fiercely rained. Solomon was not allowed to wear his best clothes. When peering out of the window, he hopefully said he guessed maybe it was gonna clear. His wife invited him tartly to wait till it did. She insisted that he put on his everyday clothes and thus arrayed, and without meeting a single villager to realize the importance of his errand, he waited up to the courthouse, the pelting rain rattling on his old umbrella, the fierce wind almost wrenching it inside out. There was, of course, no parade on the courthouse steps for the benefit of a wandering village as there would have been had the day been fine. Instead, the men, steaming with wet, stood about uncomfortably in the corridors, muddy with the mud from their feet, wet with the drip from their umbrellas. The air in the courthouse was close and everyone felt uncomfortable and depressed. Mr. Peasley, having greeted three or four men whom he knew, found himself jammed into a corner behind four or five jurors who were strangers to him, but he was too disheartened to try to scrape acquaintances with them. He felt lonely and helpless. He looked enviously over to the other end of the corridor where Fred Barnesworth, Ebbon Sampson, and Albion Small were standing together. In contrast with the others, these men were laughing. Albion was considerable of a joker. Mr. Peasley reflected gloomily. Then, old Abija Keith stormed in. His high, shrill voice began immediately to utter his unfavorable opinion of everything and everybody. Well, if he ain't here again, exclaimed in disgust, Hiram Hopkins, one of the men in front of Solomon, can tankerist old Lummicks in the whole state just lots on upsetting things? Abija, he snorted, can't Abija, I call him. Mr. Peasley shrank back into his corner nervously. He knew this old tyrant and dreaded him. Not much was done that first day. The clerks wore them, the judge charged them, and appointed the sensible, steady Sampson foreman. Then they retired to the jury room, a big, desolate place, wherein was a long, ink-spattered table surrounded by wooden armchairs and spatoons. The grand jurors seated themselves and were solemnly silent while John Page, the state's attorney, began the dull task of presenting cases. Mr. Peasley found that he had nothing brilliant to say. As a matter of fact, his own troubles were making him see everything yellow. The jurymen did not seem to him as agreeable a lot as he had expected, and as for Page, he irritated Solomon beyond measure. Page was an able young man and a good lawyer, and was entitled to the position which he had attained so young. But the son of a man of rather exceptional means, he had been educated at a city college and had a sophistication which Solomon viewed with deep suspicion. Moreover, he discarded the garb which Mr. Peasley regarded as sacred. He was not in black. Instead, he wore a light gray business suit. His collar was very no-wing and cut, and his cravat of dark blue was caught with a gold pen. City-fied, smart aleck, was Mr. Peasley's characterization. To tell the truth, he mistrusted the man's ability and was afraid of him. If that fellow knew, Mr. Peasley felt that it would go hard with him. Generally, Page was popular. Solomon had, of course, been painfully awake to every hint and intimidation in regard to Jim's case. He had seen Jake Hibbard, that carry-on crow of the law, loathing about the corridors, and the sight had made him shiver. He had next heard that Jim's case would be quickly called, probably on the next day, news producing a complex emotion, the elements of which he could not distinguish. Furthermore, a remark or so which he overheard indicated that the out-of-town men were inclined to take a harsh view of the matter, and reflecting on all those things, he paddled home through the depressing wet. And the next day it rained. More and more perturbed as the climax approached, Mr. Peasley took his place in the jury room and sat there with unhearing ears. He sat and thought and delivered battle with his conscience, which was growing painfully vigorous and aggressive. But after all, perhaps they would not find a true bill and then Jim would go free and he could breathe again. Mr. Peasley clung to the hope and hugged it. It was the one thing which gave him courage. Gentleman of the grand jury, suddenly he heard Page saying, the next case for you to consider is that of James Edward, age 15 of Elmington, charged with assault with intense to kill upon one Peter LaMaurie, also of Elmington. And as he proceeded to read the complaint, which in spite of the monotonous rapidity with which he rattled it off, scared Mr. Peasley badly with its solemn sounding legal phraseology. Gentlemen, said Page, laying down the paper, there was no eyewitness to the actual assault and only three people have any personal knowledge of the event. Mr. Edwards, the defendant's father, the accused himself and the complainant. Mr. LaMaurie, his counsel tells me, is in no condition to appear. But I have here, lifting a paper, his affidavit properly executed, giving his version of the matter. The boy's father, however, is at hand. Probably the jury would like to question him. It seems to me, said Mr. Sampson, that Mr. Edwards would be pretty apt to know the rights of it if he's willing to talk. I guess we'd better hear him. The state's attorney stepped to the door. This way, please, he called and Mr. Edwards entered the room. Farnsworth and Peasley both studied the man's face closely, although for very different reasons, and both found it sternly uncompromising. Please take a chair, Mr. Edwards, said Page, and in a swift glance rapidly estimated the man. Here's someone who won't lie, he thought, impressed. Now, he resumed, will you kindly tell the members of the grand jury what you know of the case? Mr. Edwards cleared his throat painfully. Determined as he was to let his rebellious boy take whatever punishment his mistaken course might bring, he now began to wish that the punishment would be light. His confidence that Jim needed only to be pushed a little to confess was somewhat shaken and the charge was really serious. He felt a desire to explain, to palliate, to minimize. Gentlemen, he said, my boy's always been a good boy. I can't believe that he meant to hurt LaMaurie or anyone else. It must have been some accident. Fax, please, said Page crisply. Mr. Peasley called his breath indignantly. He had been entirely in sympathy with Mr. Edwards' soft mode of approaching his story. Page seemed to him unfeeling. I will answer any questions, said Mr. Edwards, stiffening. Did you hear any shot fired? Begin page. Yes. Where were you? I was asleep in the room above the gyms. Was Jim in his room? I suppose so. You suppose so. Don't you know? No, I don't know. But to the best of your knowledge and belief, he was there. Yes. And the shot waked you? Yes. What did you do on hearing the shot? I jumped to the window. Tell us what you saw, please. I saw a man fall in the orchard and hurried out to see if he was hurt, but he was gone when I got there. Then what? I went to speak to Jim. He was in his room then, immediately after the shot? Yes. Ha, and when you spoke to him, did he admit firing the shot? No. Did he deny it? Yes. Where was his gun? In the rack over the mantle. In the rack over the mantle, repeated page, slowly glancing at the jurors. Did you examine it? Yes. What was its condition? Did it show that it had been fired? No, it was clean. It was clean, repeated page. I understand that it was a double-bierrelled, muzzle-loading shotgun. Were there any rags about? Yes. Where were they? One was in the ashes of the fireplace. Look as if someone had tried to hide it. Yes, reluctantly. If it was that sort of gun, there must have been a shot pouch and powder flask. Where were they? In the drawer where Jim keeps them. Everything looked then as if no shot had been fired? Yes. Was there anyone besides yourself and your son in the house? No. Your housekeeper. She had stepped out. To the best of your knowledge then, there was no one about to fire the shot, except your son? No. That will do, said Page, with an accent of finality. That is, he added, with the air of one who observes a courteous form, unless some of the grandeurers wish to ask a question. There were various things which were new to Mr. Peasley and his testimony. He had supposed that Jim had been picked as the guilty person by a process of mere exclusion. He had had no idea that the case against him was so strong. How had the boy got to the room so soon after he himself had left? And why had he gone there? And why, why had he cleaned the shotgun? The grand jury must believe in his guilt. And when the case came to trial, what could Jim say to clear himself? It was going to be hard, hard with the boy. Mr. Peasley's mouth grew dry, his palms moist. He moved uneasily in his chair. Once or twice, he felt sure that the next instant he would find himself on his feet, but the minutes passed and he was still seated. And Farnsworth, anxious for the sake of his betroth, miswear, to help Jim was nonplussed. There were two possible explanations of Jim's cleaning the gun, if he did clean it. The first, that Jim was protecting himself. The second, that he was shielding someone else. But the second theory seemed quite untenable. Farnsworth had made some cautious, but well-directed inquiries about Mr. Edwards and had satisfied himself that the rumors about his smuggling were nothing but malicious gossip. There was not a man of greater honesty in the state. The boy must have done the shooting. Miss Ware would have to give up. Still, he would hazard a question. Mr. Edwards, he said, LaMaurie worked for you once, didn't he? Yes. You quarreled, didn't you? I discharged him for intemperance. There was no bad blood. LaMaurie was angry, I believe. Farnsworth stopped. There was nothing to be gained by this course of questioning in the way of clearing Jim. Of course, later, the point that LaMaurie had a grudge against the family might have importance, although he could not see just how. Someone else surely heard that gunshot. It was incredible that the neighborhood should be so deserted if only there were another witness. The other jurors had no questions. They were, to tell the truth, a little impatient. It was near the dinner hour, and they were hungry. The case seemed perfectly plain to them. It was not likely, they argued, that the boy's father could be mistaken. You may go, said Page to Mr. Edwards. I don't see, he began, when the witness had left the room, any need for our going further into this case. Whatever we may think of the animus of the complainant, I take it that was what you wished to bring out, Mr. Farnsworth. There seems to be no question, but that the boy fired the shot. The presumption seemed strong, also that he intended to hit. Were there any accident or good excuse, the boy could, of course, have no motive not to tell it. I suggest that a true bill be found at once, and that we proceed to more important matters. I want to remind you, that we have a great deal of work before us. Well, gentlemen, said Samson, I guess we're pretty much of a mind about this. If no one has any objections, I guess we'll call it a vote. He looked round. As we're all agreed, he began. Just a moment, Samson, suddenly exclaimed Farnsworth. It had just then flashed over him, that Mr. Peasley, the kind Mr. Peasley, who gave Jim knives and harmonicas, was next door neighbor to the Edwards'. If he had been at home when the shot was fired, he must have heard it, and he might have seen some significant thing which questioning might bring out. Of course, if Peasley had seen anything, he would have spoken, but he might have overlooked the importance of some fact or another. Just a moment, Samson, he said, and put up his hand. Then he swung sharply in his chair and put the question, Peasley, where were you when that shot was fired? End of chapter five.