Ellis Butler: The Jack-Knife Man

“That’s my good foot,” said the boy, as Peter pulled off one stocking.

“Well, it looks like a mighty good one to me, too,” said Peter. “So far as I can see, it is just as good as anybody’d want.”

“Yes. It’s my hop-on-foot,” explained the boy. “The other foot is the lame one. It ain’t such a good foot. It’s Mama’s honey-foot.”

“Pshaw, now!” said Peter gently. “Well, I’ll be real careful and not hurt it a bit.” He began removing the shoe and stocking from the lame foot with delicate care, and the boy laughed delightedly.

“Ho! You don’t have to be careful with it,” he laughed, giving a little kick. “You thought it was a sore foot, didn’t you? It ain’t sore, it’s only lame.”

Peter put the barefoot boy on the edge of the bunk and hung the wet stockings over his woodpile. The boy asked for the jack-knife again, and Peter handed it to him.

“You just set there,” he told the boy, “and wiggle your toes at the stove, like they was ten little kittens, and I’ll see if your ma wants a drink of nice, hot coffee.”

He poured the coffee into his tin cup and went to the woman, raised her head, and held the hot coffee to her lips. At the first touch of the hot liquid she opened her eyes and laughed; a harsh, mirthless laugh, which made her strangle on the coffee, but when her eyes met Peter’s eyes, the oath that was on her lips died unspoken. No woman, and but few men, could look into Peter’s eyes and curse, and her eyes were not those of a drunkard, as Peter had supposed they would be.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I must have keeled over, didn’t I? Where’s Buddy?”

“He’s right over there warming his little feet, as nice as can be,” said Peter. “And he was real concerned about you.”

“I wouldn’t have come in, but for him,” said the woman, trying to straighten her hat. “I thought maybe he could get a bite to eat. It don’t matter much what, he ain’t eat since noon. A piece of bread would do him ‘til we get to town.” She leaned back wearily against the pile of nets in the corner.

“I want butter on it. Bread, and butter on it,” said Buddy promptly.

“There, now!” said Peter accusingly. “I might have knowed it was foolish to let myself run so low on food. A man can’t tell when food is going to come in handiest, and here I went and let myself run clean out of it. But don’t you worry, ma’am,” he hastened to add, “I’ll get some in no time. Just you let me help you over on to my bunk. I ain’t got a chair or I’d offer it to you whilst I run up to one of my neighbors and get you a bite to eat. I’ve got good neighbors. That’s one thing!”

The woman caught Peter by the arm and drew herself up, laughing weakly at her weakness. She tottered, but Peter led her to the bunk with all the courtesy of a Raleigh escorting an Elizabeth, and she dropped on the edge of the bunk and sat there warming her hands and staring at the stove. She seemed still near exhaustion.

“If you’ll excuse me, now, ma’am,” said Peter, when he had made sure she was not going to faint again, “I’ll just step across to my neighbor’s and get something for the boy to eat. I won’t probably be gone more than a minute, and whilst I’m gone I’ll arrange for a place for me to sleep to-night. You hadn’t ought to make that boy walk no further to-night. It’s a real bad night outside.”

“That’s all right. I don’t want to chase you out,” said the woman.

“Not at all,” said Peter politely. “I frequently sleep elsewheres. It’ll be no trouble at all to make arrangements.”

He put more wood in the stove, opened the dampers, and lighted his lantern. Then he pinned his coat close about his neck with a blanket pin, and, as he passed the clock shelf, slipped the alarm swiftly from its place and hid it beneath his coat.

“I’ll be right back, as soon as I can,” he said, and, drawing his worn felt hat down over his eyes, he stepped out hastily and slammed the door behind him.

“Why did the man take the clock?” asked the boy as the door closed.

“I guess he thought I’d steal it,” said the woman languidly.

“ Would you steal it?” asked the boy.

“I guess so,” the woman answered, and closed her eyes,

AS Peter crossed the icy plank that led from his boat to the railway embankment he tried to whistle, but the wind was too strong and sharp, and he drew his head between his shoulders and closed his mouth tightly. He had understated the distance to Widow Potter’s when he had said it was “just across.” In fair weather and daylight he often cut across the corn-field, but on such a night as this the trip meant a long plod up the railway track until he came to the crossing, and then a longer tramp back the slushy road, a good half mile in all. When he turned in at Widow Potter’s open gate a great yellow dog came rushing at him, barking, but a word from Peter silenced him and the dog fell behind obediently but watchfully, and followed Peter to where the light shone through the widow’s kitchen window. Peter rapped on the door.

“Who’s out there?” Mrs. Potter called sharply. “I got a gun in here, and I ain’t afraid to use it If you ‘re a tramp, you’d better git!”

“It’s Peter Lane,” Peter called, loud enough to be heard above the wind. “I want to buy a couple of eggs off you, Mrs. Potter.”

The door opened the merest crack and Mrs. Potter peered out. She did not have a gun, but she held a stove poker. When she saw Peter she opened the door wide. It was a brusk welcome.

“Of all the shiftlessness I ever heard of, Peter Lane,” she said angrily, “you beat all! Cormin’ for eggs this time of night when your boat’s been in the cove nobody knows how long. I suppose it never come into your head to get eggs until you got hungry for them, did it?”

Peter closed the door and stood with his back to it. At all times he feared Mrs. Potter, but especially when he gave her some cause for reproof.

“I had some company drop in on me unexpected, Mrs. Potter,” he said apologetically. “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have bothered you. I hate it worse’n you do.”

“Tramps, I dare say,” said the widow. “You ‘re that shiftless you’d give the shoes off your feet and the food out of your mouth to feed any good-for-nothing that come camping on you. You don’t get my good eggs to feed such trash, Peter Lane! Winter eggs are worth money.”

“I thought to pay for them,” said Peter meekly. “I wouldn’t ask them of you any other way, Mrs. Potter.”

“Well, if you ‘ve got the money I suppose I’ve got to let you have them,” said the widow grudgingly. “Eggs is worth three cents apiece, and I hate to have ‘em fed to tramps. How many do you want to buy?” Peter shifted from one foot to another uncomfortably. “Well, now, I’m what you might call a little short of ready money tonight,” he said. “I thought maybe I might come over and saw some wood for you tomorrow – ”

“And so you can,” said Mrs. Potter promptly, “and when the wood is sawed they will be paid for, in eggs or money, and not until it is sawed. I’m not going to encourage you to run into debt. You ‘re shiftless enough now, goodness knows.”

Peter tried to smile and ignored the accusation.

“There couldn’t be anything fairer than that,” he said. “Nobody ought to object to that sort of arrangement at all. That’s real business-like. Only, there’s a small boy amongst the company that dropped in on me and he’s only about so high – ” Peter showed a height that would have been small for an infant dwarf. “He’s a real nice little fellow, and if you was ever a boy that high, and crying because you wanted something to eat – ”