ebenezer wopp sat at the head of the table. beaming from behind a promising array of cups and saucers, his portly wife presented a countenance of aggressive hospitality. in height and girth mrs. wopp had much the advantage of her husband.
“arsk a blessin’, ebenezer.”
all heads bowed as the compliant master of the house, with thin nervous hands outspread and in a voice quavering with piety, responded to this request. moses of the freckled face and pale blue eyes, kept one eye open as grace was being said, in order to scan the bounteous display on the table. furtively he chose the largest bun on the plate that was placed close to betty, his little foster-sister. to annex the most corpulent pickle would require some slight manœuvring, but he felt sure it could be managed.
“amen!”
suddenly, all heads were raised and a sigh of satisfaction escaped mrs. wopp’s lips.
“we do be glad to hev the new schoolmarm,” she announced, “you might of mentioned her, in yer blessin’, ebenezer.”
“i’ll make a note of that, lize.”
the dutiful husband drew from his pocket a long slip of paper and a small stubby pencil. having a poor memory, he had formed the habit of making a note of everything his wife suggested, so that he could fulfill her wishes in future. the notes were plentiful, but they failed in some unaccountable way to prod his memory.
“never mind yer notes, ebenezer, jist you sarve the pork.”
it had been mrs. wopp’s aim, to have the names for all the members of the household sanctified by biblical authority. she claimed to have had unnumbered admirers in her youth and had singled out her husband for his scriptural appellation. a store of names had been secretly acquired for use in the event of her marriage, but as in the course of years only one boy had come to add freckles and rotundity to the family circle, she was thankful that she had used at least three of the collection on the fortunate youth. moses habakuk ezra wopp, the exact counterpart of his mother, sat next to his father and eyed the plate of betty, who was seated beside him, mentally calculating the amount of each succulent morsel she consumed. since he was twice her size, he was entitled, he thought, to at least twice her share. on his own plate a lonely pickled onion floated in gravy.
“mar,” he demanded hastily, “more marshed turnips, please.”
“we shorely are glad to hev a teacher at larst,” re-asserted the bustling lady of the house, as she passed a cup of creamy tea to her new boarder. “did you hear what happened to our larst teacher, miss gordon?” here the good lady heaved a deep sigh. “the pore man hed a tryin’ time with some big boys named bullock who started in to school larst fall arter workin’ all summer. the teacher used to spend his evenin’s to bullock’s bunkhouse, playin’ black-jack with ole man bullock.”
“and could he beat the old gentleman?” inquired nell gordon, vastly entertained.
“miss gordon, with all his book larnin’ he knowed no more ’bout black-jack than i know ’bout divin’ fer pearls, and the bullock boys thort he was no good anyhow, ef he couldn’t beat their par at cards. so one mornin’ they met him as he was goin’ to school, an’ they give him a good beatin’ up, then flung him in rodd’s creek to cool him, bein’ winter. he crawled outer the creek, miss gordon, an’ never went to the school no more. it shorely was a jedgement on him fer playin’ those wicked card games. moses, parse the ketchup.”
this account of the abruptly ended career of her predecessor was somewhat disturbing to nell.
“you must ’scuse me not goin’ to meet you, miss gordon,” apologized mr. wopp, as he held suspended a knife full of mashed potato, destined for his mouth. “but i hev a sick cow i couldn’t git away from, so i ast howard here to drive in fer you.”
“it was quite all right,” answered nell, anxiously watching for the reappearance of mr. wopp’s knife, “mr. eliot gave me a glorious drive over the prairie behind his team of greys, but,” with a sly look towards the young rancher, “i don’t believe he likes to meet trains.”
“la now! an’ why do you say that, my dear?” inquired mrs. wopp. “set up straight, moses, yer back looks like you was packin’ a sack of pertaters.”
“i might as well tell you all about it, mrs. wopp,” confessed howard. “when i got to town and found the train was almost due, i felt frightfully shy. so i got ken judson to put on his boiled shirt and sunday suit and go to the station. he looked the part, i assure you, much better than i would. he brought miss gordon to ‘the golden west’ where i had recovered sufficiently to speak to her.”
“to think you let that good-fer-nothin’ ken judson, meet our schoolmarm,” wailed mrs. wopp. “why he is the most ungodly feller in town. his folks in england send him a lot of money so’s he will keep away from them, an’ he spends it all in drinkin’ an’ gamblin’.”
“never mind, mrs. wopp,” said nell pleasantly, “he is a perfect gentleman in manners and he wasn’t drinking or gambling when i saw him. may i have a little more of your beautifully cooked meat?”
mr. wopp looked up in approval and brandished a formidable looking piece of fat meat, precariously poised on one prong of his fork and in his efforts to lose none of its dripping flavor, described an uncertain spiral in the air.
his fork having safely landed its cargo, mr. wopp laid it carefully down and remarking, “i must make a note of that,” he began to inscribe nell’s diplomatic request. as he leaned over the paper, his head shone like a round china lamp-shade, its shining expanse relieved here and there, by long wisps of grey hair.
at this point moses looked up from his plate and complained, “mar, this piece o’ meat i got, is so tough it hurts yer eyes to look at it.”
“moses, yer manners is shockin’, did you expect to be sarved the best piece when company’s here?”
by this time, nell was struggling with a dish of hard underdone crab-apples. she chased a refractory apple round and round in its small dish. finally, with a feeling of triumph, she brought the apple to a halt. alas! it did not yield to the prodding of the spoon, but bounced up and with an accuracy worthy of a better cause, landed on the eye of howard eliot. betty, all this time feasting her eyes on the new-comer, and enjoying the unusual opulence of the table, burst into hearty laughter.
“biff on the eye!” she cried.
“gee! did you hear it splash?” screamed moses.
the cheerful clatter of knives and forks against mrs. wopp’s best blue willow plates was a gentle accompaniment to the ripple of laughing apology that nell offered to the victim. any constraint that might have been felt hitherto among the circle, decreased perceptibly as the rancher wiped the sweet syrupy drops from his face.
by the time the deep apple-pie was brought in, raised in the centre by a cup, he had become facetious, and turning a mirthful countenance to nell, he whispered audibly, “isn’t it just like fuji yama?” before nell could answer, betty broke in.
“what is fuji mamas?”
“a new kind of hen,” retorted moses.
“oh miss gordon,” cried betty suddenly roused to fresh interest, “you must see my pet turkey after supper. he has only one eye an’ he walks corner ways an’ his name is job an’ i jist love him.” betty’s breath was all used up and she sat back exhausted.
“huh!” grunted moses, “your ole turkey aint worth an eyestrain.”
by this time moses’ plate was piled high with a steaming and odoriferous portion of fuji yama and he was content to postpone all discussions of geography and fowls to an indefinite future. in a very few minutes, the entire mound had disappeared and moses was polishing his plate with a piece of bread.
“moses, ef you hev finished yer supper, change yer good clothes an’ go git the cows,” directed his mother. “betty run an’ fasten up the hens, else the coyotes’ll git them.”
“i suppose you have a large farm, mr. wopp,” said nell gordon.
“we hev a homestead an’ pre-emption, miss gordon, but only work a hundred acres or thereabout. we run stock on the rest of it, aint that the how of it lize?” mr. wopp looked to his help-meet for corroboration.
at this moment a wild whoop was heard, and through the open door moses could be seen dashing out of the corral gate on his cow-pony.
as mrs. wopp was preparing for bed that night, she recalled the sensation the sight of her reckless offspring had given her.
“when i see moses was still wearin’ his best sunday coat an’ pants an’ tearin’ along on that cayuse like john gilping, i come all out in goose-flesh, ebenezer, till you’d think the merkery had fell clean down to zero.”
