“we’re goin’ to take you up the river to the turkey club tomorrer,” announced “rat” hyatt, as we left posey’s store one night. “there’s goin’ to be some doin’s there that you’ll like, an’ you’ll meet a lot o’ people you never seen before, an’ prob’ly some you won’t never want to see ag’in.”
we had spent the evening with the usual group that clustered around the smoky stove when the weather rendered the platform outside uncomfortable. it was late in the fall and thanksgiving was only a few days away, but indian summer still lingered, with its purple days and frosty nights, and i was loth to leave the river country while it lasted.
the council around the stove often varied in composition, but not in character. it was always picturesque, not only in its light and shade and color, but in the primitive philosophy, spontaneous wit, original profanity and ornate narrative that issued from it.
on this occasion “pop” wilkins had told, with much circumstantial detail, a long story about his old plug hat. he said it “was minted about thirty 166years ago some’rs down east,” and was bought for him by subscription by the congregation over which he at that time presided. the hat was in the allegheny river a couple of days during its journey to his address, but when it finally got to him the congregation had it all fixed up so that everybody said it was just as good as new. since then he had only had to have it repaired twice. he had a great affection for it, on account of its old associations, and hoped that it would be buried with him when he died—a hope that was shared by all present. the old plug was an echo of years long departed and a never-failing butt of merry jest. the tickets of all the raffles that had ever been held in that part of the country, that anybody could remember, had been shaken up in pop’s hat.
the old man’s story had reminded his listeners of others, and it was quite late when posey remarked that he was going upstairs to bed, and “to keep things from bein’ carried off” he was “goin’ to lock up.”
at ten the next morning five of us started up stream in three of the small boats that were usually attached to stakes under the bridge. hyatt and i were in his duck canoe, which he skilfully propelled with his long paddle. posey and pop wilkins followed, in a leaky green craft with squeaky oars. far in the rear bill stiles stemmed the gentle current in his “push boat,” which he declared was never intended for anybody but him. this idea had been generally accepted along the river, for bill’s boat was the only one for many miles up and down stream that had never been borrowed or stolen. the fact that it was so “tippy” that nobody but bill seemed to be able to sit in it without being spilled into the river accounted for its immunity.
“bill” stiles
167“some day,” remarked bill, “a cold wet stranger’ll come to the store to git warm, an’ tell some kind of a story about fallin’ offen the bridge into the river, but ev’rybody’ll know what’s happened. nobody that’s acquainted ’round ’ere’ll ever try to navigate with my push boat.”
he called the craft “the flapjack.” the roughly lettered name appeared in yellow paint on each side of the bow, and to his subtle mind, it was a sufficient warning to the unwary. he said that the name was also lettered along the bottom of the boat underneath, “an’ anybody that wants to c’n take e’r out’n the river an’ read it. she won’t keep ’im wait’n more’n a few minutes.”
the river was low and we scraped gently over a few sand bars on the way up. after proceeding about two miles we came to a wobbly and much patched bridge, on which were several figures. a fringe of cane fish poles drooped idly from its sides. the figures were motionless and would remain so until the turkey club activities began.
“here’s where we git off,” said hyatt, as we turned in near the bridge. we waited for the rest of the flotilla to come up. when our party had all arrived we climbed a zig-zag path and walked along the road to the little gray church a few hundred feet 168away. it was here that the reverend daniel butters—“the javelin of the lord”—was wont to expound the gospels, formulate dreary doctrines, and to depict the frightfulness of damnation to his superannuated and docile flock.
so far as human faith and opinion could influence the destinies of any of these aged and serene believers, their spiritual safety had been assured for many years. they went regularly to church, principally because they wanted to be seen there, and because they had nothing else particularly to do or think about sundays. alas, how the ranks of worldly worshipers would dwindle were it not for these things!
like that of many preachers, the voice of butters was of one crying in a desert to passing airs and unheeding sands. there were none to succor or uplift, and none to be beckoned to the fold. they were all in, and further effort was painting the lily and adding perfume to the rose. the strife was won, but yet he battled on. the great tide of human error flowed far beyond his ken, and he could drag no spiritual spoil from its turbid waters.
in fancy his religious establishment might be likened to a cocoon, into which none might enter, and from which none might emerge, except in a new and glorified state.
some mournful lombardy poplars stood in front of the unpainted structure, and on one side was the little cemetery, with its serried mounds and conventional epitaphs. a weeping willow wept near the 169center of the plot, some rabbits hopped about near the broken fence at the farther side of the enclosure, and a stray cow fed peacefully among the leaning slabs.
“there’s a lot o’ people represented in that flock o’ tombstones,” observed hyatt, as we turned in from the road, “an’ they’s a lot o’ cussedness out there that it’s a good thing to have covered up.”
both physically and spiritually the old church was a dismal remnant, but it was the regional social center. the building was utilized in many profane ways that saddened the pious heart of the reverend butters, but to him, its crowning desecration was the turkey club.
the membership of this unique organization comprised practically all of the male population within eight or ten miles up and down the river—and sophy perkins, of whom more hereafter. most of the small politicians of the county were affiliated with the club, and used it for such propaganda as from time to time befitted their objects and petty ambitions. originally its purpose was to foster and finance the annual “turkey shoot.” this popular event usually just preceded thanksgiving, and was the occasion of a general holiday.
during the forty odd years of the club’s existence it had gradually broadened the scope of its early activities until it became more or less identified with pretty much everything of a local public character. its only rival as a social focus was posey’s store.
under its auspices the fourth of july, golden 170weddings, and other anniversaries, were celebrated. dances, amateur theatricals, old settlers’ picnics, tax protest meetings, lectures, political “rallies,” “grand raffles,” dog and chicken fights, greased pig contests, quilting bees, ministerial showers and other affairs were “pulled off” during the year. the ministerial showers were about the only functions that the reverend butters did not consider unholy.
there were special meetings for discussion of diverse subjects, including the mistakes of congress, advice to the president, the tariff, the oppressions of capital, the tyranny of labor, prohibition, the negro question, restriction of immigration, shakespeare criticism, the wrongs of ireland, and a host of other things that generated heat and lasting acrimony. the meetings sometimes approached turbulency when some over-zealous orator gave vent to unpopular ideas, or made statements that seemed to justify somebody in the audience in calling him a liar. few participants ever left convinced of anything in particular, except the correctness of the opinions they had brought with them.
we found a gathering of about a hundred club members and numerous small boys in the grove back of the church. we strolled about through the crowd and i was introduced by my companions to a number of their old friends.
bill was the official head of the club and deservedly popular. to the small boys he was a deified personage. his constitutional title was “chief gobbler,” and he bore it with easy grace and a quiet air of 171noblesse oblige. his opinion prevailed on club matters, except when sophy perkins was in contact with the situation, and this was most of the time.
sophy was the secretary, treasurer, general manager, board of directors, and, to her mind, constituted the greater part of the membership, although her duties were supposed to be merely clerical. all her life she had yearned for something besides her husband to regulate and superintend, and the turkey club had been a godsend.
she was a somewhat attenuated female, on the regretful side of fifty. her physiognomy was repelling and expressed characteristics of an alley cat. there was a predatory gleam in her narrowly placed greenish eyes. they bespoke malignant jealousy and relentless cupidity. she seemed enveloped by an atmosphere—vague and indefinable—that prompted cautious and immediate retirement from her vicinity. in private conversation she was commonly referred to as “the stinger,” and the soubriquet seemed to have been justly earned by a badly speckled record of secret intrigue and underhanded methods. anonymous letters, petty trickery and duplicity in manifold forms were included in the misdeeds that had been tacitly laid at sophy’s door.
she was of that female type that demands all male privileges, in addition to those of her own sex, and she often took advantage of the fact that she was a woman to do and say things that she would probably have been knocked down for if she had been 172a man—one of the most contemptible forms of cowardice.
her shortcomings were legion, but nobody else was available who was willing to carry the burden of the clerical duties of the club, and she was allowed to run things to her heart’s content. her main reward was the occasional mention of her name in the county paper, in connection with the activities of the club. she treasured the carefully garnered clippings and gloated over them through the dreary years. to her they were precious incense, and, while they gratified, but never satisfied her vanity and hunger for notoriety, they were the compensation of her narrow and disappointed life, and the food of her impoverished and selfish spirit.
she was without the consolations of religion, the resources of culture, or the sweet recompense of children’s voices, to soften the asperities of her fruitless existence. the gray hairs had come and there was no love around sophy, for she had sent forth none during the period of life in which temples of the soul must be builded, if kindly light beams from their windows, and there be fit sanctuary for the weary spirit in the after years.
successive official heads of the club, who seemed to be attracting more public attention than sophy, were submarined, made officially sick, and retired gracefully. the supply of these official heads finally became restricted, and for the past few years bill’s incumbency had been undisturbed, although he frequently threatened to “throw up the job.”
173j. montgomery perkins was a subdued helpmate. he was an inoffensive little man, who was always alluded to as “sophy’s husband,” and when this happened somebody would usually exclaim sympathetically, “poor perk!”
of late years the club had suffered from “too much sophy perkins.” interest had begun to lag and apathy was creeping over the membership.
“you want to look out fer sophy,” confided hyatt, before i had met her. “she’s got a lot o’ wires loose in the upper story, but she knows where the ends of all of ’em are when they’s anything in it fer her.”
promptly at 2 p.m. bill pounded with a big stick on a board that was sustained at the ends by the heads of two resonant barrels. the confused hum of voices ceased and the eyes of the scattered groups were upon him. sophy whispered to him that he was now to announce the opening of the shoot. it was bill’s intention to do this anyway, but sophy thought it better that she should take part in what was going on. substantially his remarks were as follows:
“gentlemen and one lady: this ain’t no time fer a long speech. the annual turkey shoot o’ this club’s now on, an’ anybody that’s paid ’is dues an’ ’is entrance fee c’n git in on the game. ten fat an’ husky birds are in them boxes, an’ the boxes are fifty yards from the rope that’s stretched between them two trees, an’ that’s the shoot’n stand. the chair has made the meas’erments. the birds’ll 174keep their heads poked up out o’ the holes in the tops o’ the boxes to rubber at the scenery, an’ they gotta be killed by a bullet in the head er neck. hit’n ’em through the boxes don’t go this year like it did last. them stone piles is to protect ’em up to the tops. any eggs found in the boxes after the shoot’n belongs to the winners. ev’ry shooter’ll have ten shots for ’is dollar, an’ ’e must stand an’ shoot without rest’n ’is rifle on anything but ’imself. no bullet bigger’n yer thumb’s allowed. if you bust the bird’s head, er break ’is neck, it’s yours, an’ if you don’t hit nuth’n in the first ten shots you c’n buy more chances as long as the turkeys an’ yer money last. the money from the shoot’n’ll go to pay fer the fowls, an’ if they’s any live ones left after the show, they’ll be auctioned off to the highest bidders, if they don’t git insulted by the low bids an’ fly off with the boxes.
“i guess i’ve told all they is to say, but if they’s anything anybody don’t understand, er if anybody’s got any kick comin’, speak up. oh, yes, i fergot to say there’ll be a booby prize of a little tin horn with a purple ribbon on it, fer them that can’t shoot should be allowed to toot. if they ain’t no objection the shoot’n’ll now commence.”
with another loud bang on the board the address closed and the crowd drifted toward the taut rope.
“hold on there!” yelled sophy perkins, frantically waving a small book. “nobody’s paid a cent yet!”
“you fellers’ll have to ante up before any blood 175runs!” shouted bill as he again pounded the board.
nineteen contestants qualified at the barrel behind which sophy presided. her fishy orbs lighted up at the sight of the money, which she deftly deposited in her stocking after modestly turning her back to the crowd.
“she’ll chaperone that cash to the day o’ the resurrection if somebody don’t kep tab on it,” said hyatt in an undertone as the proceeds disappeared among the mysteries of sophy’s apparel. “we’re goin’ to put rollers under that old girl some day, but we can’t do it till we c’n git somebody else willin’ to do the work.”
posey and hyatt were provided with firearms, and pop wilkins had brought an old-fashioned muzzle loading rifle with a long barrel, which he handled with much tenderness.
“i used to shoot lady-bugs offen the edges o’ the leaves on the tops o’ high trees with this old iron when i was young an’ spry, an’ mebbe i’ll hit sump’n with it today,” he declared, as he ambled over toward the shooting stand.
“i didn’t bring no gun, an’ i won’t do no shoot’n,” remarked bill. “it wouldn’t be dignified fer me as head of the club, an’ it wouldn’t be fair fer the rest fer me to shoot. it ’ud be like swip’n candy from little boys.”
as bill had not been known to kill anything with a gun for over twenty years, his explanation was accepted without comment.
mr. joshua t. varney appeared at this stage of 176the proceedings, and offered to take two dollars’ worth of chances and pay three dollars premium if he could have the first trial and twenty successive shots. as it usually took a great many shots to hit a turkey’s head at fifty yards, his proposition was accepted after some discussion.
“josh” varney was a traveling salesman, who for several years had periodically visited posey’s store, on his rounds through the county, and sold supplies adapted to the general country trade.
he was a smooth faced man of about forty, with keen gray eyes, a good story teller, and from him radiated the assurance and suavity of his kind. he had always been a “good mixer,” and was considered an all around good fellow. he had joined the club two years before, but had never attended a “shoot.”
he went to his buggy, that stood near the roadside among numerous other vehicles, and returned with a small repeating rifle. he then stepped over to the rope and began shooting at the bobbing heads above the boxes. in this way hundreds of venerable gobblers and dignified hen turkeys had lost their lives in past years through innocent curiosity as to the doings of the outside world.
the birds were all dead when mr. varney had fired fourteen times. quiet but well chosen profanity troubled the air when the tenth bird succumbed and the performance was ended.
bill again belabored the board and announced the end of the contest.
177“gentlemen, you prob’ly notice that the shoot’n’s all over! sump’n has been done unto us, an’ somebody has had an elegant pastime. this ain’t been no turkey shoot, it’s been a horr’ble massacre, an’ after this all deadwood dicks’ll be barred, unless they git a mile away when they shoot at anything ’round ’ere. we better kill our turkeys with axes after this, an’ only sell the chance o’ one whopp. we ain’t got but one booby prize, an’ i guess you all better take turns blowin’ on it. this ain’t been no kind of a day, an’ it’s come to a sad end. the club’ll now perceed to its annual business, an’ as the day is nice an’ warm we might as well do it out doors ’stid o’ goin’ in an’ muss’n up the church. sophy, what you got on the fire that ’as to be ’tended to?”
“they ain’t no business that i can’t ’tend to myself,” replied sophy grimly. “the treasurer’s report’s been left home by accident, an’ they ain’t nuth’n else to come up, ’less somebody wants to pay dues, or you want to ’lect some new members.”
with this she favored me with a stealthy sidelong glance and i was thereupon proposed for membership by rat hyatt, who added that i seemed to be the “only outsider present from a distance that hadn’t hornswoggled the club durin’ the past hour.”
sophy’s talon-like fingers closed quickly on the two-dollar bill that i handed her as the first year’s dues, after my election and the formal adjournment of the meeting.
while i was entirely out of sympathy with the 178turkey shoots, i was glad for several reasons to become a member.
after most of the crowd had dispersed i was solemnly conducted into the church and informed that, in order to become a full-fledged member, certain things must be imparted to me to complete my initiation. i was then told that all “turkeys” knew each other by certain grips and cabalistic words. the “grip” consisted of shaking hands with three fingers only, representing the three front toes of a turkey. the “countersign” was “pop-pop!” signifying rifle firing at the annual shoot. the countersign, loudly uttered, with three fingers held aloft, constituted “the grand high sign,” and i was told that i must always relieve any brother turkey who hungered or thirsted, and made such a sign. with my promise to remember all this, the ceremony, which my instructors, bill and rat, considered very humorous, was ended.
the reverend butters had been a sorrowful spectator of the proceedings of the afternoon, but his furrowed face brightened when josh varney gracefully presented him with one of the big dripping birds that he was carrying to his buggy. in prayer before his congregation on the following sunday he expressed humble gratitude with the words, “out of the iniquities of the world, o lord, has sustenance come to the body of thy servant, and beneath a cloak of sin have thy blessings been transmitted unto thine anointed one.”
the relations between the old preacher and rat 179hyatt had been slightly embarrassing since rat’s conversion and sudden backsliding of the year before, and they had little to say to each other when they met. rat was now regarded as a hopeless loss and a minute part of hell’s future fuel supply. he considered his former spiritual comforter “a busted wind bag,” so there seemed little left to say on either side.
on the way back to the boats i reflected on the degrading entertainment of the afternoon. outside of what pop wilkins called “the horning in of that turkey pirate,” the day was considered a success. the well aimed bullets had thrilled the spectators with savage joy, for somewhere in the heart of nearly every average human abides the primitive lust for blood. the marksmanship might just as well have been exhibited on inanimate and unsuffering targets. the helpless turkeys in the boxes gratified the baser instincts to the extent of their limitations, and when they were all dead the crowd went home as happy as if it had been to a bull fight, a prize ring, or to any other brutal spectacle disguised by pretended admiration of scientific ability. on the way back down the river, our boats kept close together and there was much discussion over the day’s events.
pop wilkins delivered a long tirade against varney, and wound up by modestly admitting that probably he would have beheaded all of the birds with his squirrel rifle if he had had the opportunity, so 180after all it was merely a question as to who shot first.
“that feller c’d prob’ly thread needles with that damn rifle,” observed bill. “i’ve read o’ fellers that had telescope eyes an’ a sixth sense that somehow couldn’t miss nuth’n they ever shot at. they c’d plunk holes wherever they wanted to, like they was use’n a gimlet. i wonder what ’e wasted them four extry catritches fer? prob’ly so’s to make a nice sociable feel’n all ’round an’ make ’em think it wasn’t quite so raw. he prob’ly goes to shoots all over the country an’ sells the plunder in the market.”
the chill winds of a desolate winter had swept through the naked woods along the river, and a balmy may had come, with its tender unfolding leaves of hope and perfumed blossoms, when josh varney again appeared on the scene.
“well! well! how’s everybody?” he shouted genially as he drove up in front of posey’s store one forenoon with a roan horse and a smart new buggy.
“we’re slowly git’n well. say, perfessor, you ain’t got no gun with you, have you?” queried bill, as the pair shook hands. “’cause if you have they’s a lot of us that’s goin’ to hide some poultry.”
“now, look ’ere bill, you don’t want to be sore ’bout that little shoot’n last fall. i gave all them turkeys to some poor people, an’ they done a lot o’ good. i just happened to hit ’em, an’ i couldn’t repeat that performance in a hundred years.”
“you bet you couldn’t ’round ’ere if we seen you 181first,” replied bill. “i’d hate to furnish turkeys fer you to shoot at fer a hundred years, an i’d hate to be the poor people wait’n fer you to feed the birds to ’em. say, what you got up yer sleeve this trip? sump’n still funnier, i s’pose.”
posey was busy with a customer, and varney remained with us on the platform. he produced some murky and doubtful cigars that bill declared looked like genuine “el hempos” and we smoked and talked for some time. pop wilkins joined us, and sophy perkins arrived at the store to purchase some calico. she bestowed a reserved nod and a feline glance on varney, and greeted the rest of the party with scant politeness. she stood just inside, near the entrance, and utilized the time posey was spending with his other customer in listening to our conversation. she soon became so absorbed in it that she forgot all about her calico and remained riveted to her point of vantage. posey respected her preoccupation and busied himself with other things after his first visitor had left through the side door.
the chairs outside were tipped against the long window sill, and the party was making itself comfortable in the spring sunshine. varney was relating a wondrous tale, and was fully aware of the acute eavesdropping within. many of the romantic touches in his discourse were apparently for sophy’s benefit.
“i got a long letter from a friend of mine,” said josh, as he felt through his inside pockets, “an’ i wish i had it with me, but i guess i’ve left it somewhere. 182he’s making a trip ’round the world an’ ’e writes me that in india he ran across a marvellous breed of turkeys. you know turkeys originated in india, an’ they come from there first about five hundred years ago. these strange birds he writes about live away up in the himalaya mountains and are pure white. they’re much larger than ordinary turkeys, an’ their color adapts ’em to the snowy peaks, an’ protects ’em from the natives when they pursue ’em out o’ the valleys, where they go to eat frogs along the water courses. they live almost entirely on frogs when they c’n git ’em. when they’re disturbed they wing back to the frozen heights, an’ sometimes don’t come down for a year. when they’re hunted up there they fly from crag to crag an’ they’re almost invisible, an’ its a funny thing, but their meat’s all white, too. they ain’t no dark meat on ’em like there is on common turkeys.
“they lay enormous eggs an’ the eggs generally have two yolks. sometimes twins hatch out of ’em. the double yolks give an extra amount of vitality to the young turks, which is necessary up among the cold rocks where they’re hatched.
“the eggs have a delicious spicy flavor that comes from the spearmint and other pungent plants that the frogs nibble along the streams. the eggs are highly prized by epicures, an’ there’s a frenchman livin’ in bombay that pays two rupees apiece for all ’e c’n git of ’em. he makes what ’e calls ‘omelets de frog secondaire,’ or something like that, 183with ’em, an’ ’e says there’s nothing like ’em. with him its hen eggs no more.
“there’s a sacred caste in india called the brahmins, and they believe that these white turkeys are what they call reincarnations of a supernatural race of beings that ruled the earth before man existed.
“somebody ought to import some o’ them turkeys an’ breed ’em in this country. along a river like this they’d find plenty to eat an’ they wouldn’t be no expense at all. my friend writes that ’e hopes to bring two or three back with him when ’e comes home, an’ i’m anxious to see ’em. oh, yes, come to think of it, i put a photograph in my pocket book that was in the letter.”
varney thereupon produced a kodak print of a stately white bird. some figures in oriental costume, somewhat out of focus and indistinct, were grouped back of it in the picture. varney explained that these were brahmins and native hunters.
sophy peeked over the pile of straw hats in the window and had a good look at the photograph as varney deftly held it so that it could be seen from that direction without appearing to do so.
we were greatly entertained by the story.
“say, perfessor,” asked bill, “what do them fowls an’ their young ones feed on when they don’t git offen the snow an’ go down fer frogs? do they have to have the frogs fer their complexions?”
“that’s the strange part of it,” replied varney. “you see they sort o’ lead double lives. nature is 184wonderful in all her works. in the himalayas there’s a small red mosquito that has never been found except away above the timber line. they have ’em out west in this country, too. they sometimes cover the snow so thick that it looks like blood, an’ the little turks patter ’round on the drifts an’ eat ’em with voracity, an’ the big ones do, too.”
“‘voracity,’ what’s that—sump’n their mixed with?” asked bill.
“no, it means their awful appetite.”
“i’d s’pose them skeets ’ud make the turkey meat taste kin’ o’ nippy an’ prickly, sort o’ red-pepper like,” observed bill, winking solemnly in our direction. “it oughta be hot stuff.”
“the insects make the finest kind o’ food for ’em,” continued varney, ignoring bill’s gentle raillery, and the incredulous smiles of the rest of us. “when the mosquito crop’s extra good they get so fat they can’t fly or run very far, and are easily caught. when they’re lean they c’n run like a race horse. the bird that’s in the picture weighed nearly seventy pounds when ’e was captured. he couldn’t fly, an’ ’e was chased into a cleft in a big rock and a net was slipped over ’im. the man that caught ’im was named bungush swamee, an ’e was a famous hunter. you see everybody has funny names in india.”
“what was that bungush feller doin’ up there with a net?” asked pop wilkins. “did ’e s’pect to find fish?”
“no, he took it up there for that very purpose. 185he wanted to catch ’is birds alive, without injury, so ’e c’d sell ’em to the museums an’ menageries. one year he caught seven an’ shipped ’em to the zoo in bombay, an’ that’s how that frenchman i just spoke of happened to try the eggs. they laid ’em in the zoo and the keeper o’ the zoo was a friend o’ his.
“you askin’ about expecting to find fish up there reminds me that my friend said in ’is letter that another way they had o’ catching the birds was to lay out set lines over the snow with big fish hooks on ’em. they fastened ’em to the jagged rocks an’ left ’em out three or four days. they baited the hooks with frogs they’d brought up from down below. the frogs, of course, froze, but the turkeys would swallow ’em, an’ when the frogs thawed out inside their crops they’d be stuck with the hooks. my friend wrote that one man got three on one line once an’ had a terrible time pullin’ ’em in over the rough ice and snow. they have some awful snow storms up in them mountains. sometimes it snows for years without let’n up, an’ the snow gits to be half a mile deep, so you see there’s lots of uncertainties.”
at this point bill removed his tattered hat and bowed reverently to varney.
pop wilkins remarked that he had often caught turkeys on fish lines, but his custom had been to troll for them through the open fields with spoon hooks, or use a pole and line with a casting bait when the birds were in the trees. although he had 186never tried set lines on snow, he had no doubt it would work.
the subject was changed, and sophy, after making her purchase, departed without looking in our direction.
“that feller’s the oiliest liar i ever heard,” declared bill, after varney had transacted his business and gone, “an’ e’ tells int’restin’ lies, too. it beats me how ’e does ’em. it’s a sort o’ natural gift, like singin’ an’ drawin’ pitchers, an’ i love to hear ’im throw it. most liars ’ud stop when they seen it wasn’t soakin’ in an’ people was git’n weak, but the perfessor keeps right on ’till the goose flesh comes. say, pop, you an’ me’ll have to ferment sump’n to drown ’im with when ’e blows ’round ’ere ag’in. let’s tell ’im one that’ll put ’im out o’ business for six months.”
“all right, bill, you be thinkin’ of it. you’re sump’n of a past master yourself. i’m goin’ home to rest. i got enough for one day.”
varney chuckled quietly to himself as he crossed the bridge, for with his story he had woven a web of many meshes, and to it he hoped time would bring valuable spoil. he knew that he could rely on sophy’s cupidity and insatiable curiosity to “start something,” and when he came again it was his intention to amplify and strengthen the ground work he had laid.
a week later the firm by whom josh was employed received a mysterious letter asking all about him. it came from the county seat, and was afterwards 187ascertained to have been written by one of sophy’s acquaintances, undoubtedly at her instigation. this was a characteristic and favorite form of strategy with sophy, and was quite recognizable to josh when the letter was shown to him. the reply that he suggested was sent by his obliging employers. it contained the assurance that mr. varney was a gentleman of high repute. he had sold their goods for several years, and they considered his honesty and ability above question.
in due course of time sophy began to agitate the idea of getting “some of those wonderful white foreign turkeys” that she had “accidentally heard about” into the neighborhood. she thought that the club ought to take the matter up.
bill assured her that “the perfessor was handin’ out bunk the day that things was bein’ accident’ly overheard inside, an’ anything from ’im ’ud be ’bout like what ’e put over at the thanksgivin’ shoot.”
this spirit of opposition only stimulated sophy, and the subtle josh had calculated on it to a nicety. he knew that the seed was now in fertile soil and he calmly awaited the harvest.
in a month he came again, and incidentally mentioned that his friend who wrote him about the himalayan white turkeys had arrived in new york. he had started home with three birds, but two of them had been sickened by the roll of the ship on the way over, and had died just before getting into port. the one that survived the voyage was the 188remarkable gobbler that was in the picture he had shown on his last trip to the store.
“this bird’ll cause a lot of excitement in this country,” he declared. “they call ’im hyder ali, an’ ’e’s named after a famous mohametan general that fought in asia a good many years ago. this man hyder ali pretty nearly cleaned the english out of india once an’ they had a hot time getting ’im canned. there’s been ships an’ perfumery an’ race horses an’ brands o’ cigars an’ lots of other things named after ’im. he was one of the most famous men that ever lived in that part of the world.”
by degrees the imaginative and romantic josh succeeded in creating an atmosphere of avid interest in everything relating to hyder ali, the marvellous fowl from beyond the briny seas, and he intended to intensify this atmosphere to the point of precipitation at the proper time.
a couple of weeks later varney told posey that he had bought the himalayan gobbler from his friend, but did not know what to do with him for a week or ten days, as the man that was going to take care of it for him was away. it was arranged that the gobbler was to be brought to the store and temporarily installed in the chicken yard near the barn.
on the following saturday afternoon, when josh well knew that there would be a full attendance at posey’s, that gay and debonair gentleman came in a light spring wagon. he was accompanied by a young man with a thick “o’merican” accent, who drove the rig, and whom he introduced as mr. flaherty. 189interest immediately centered on the big box, perforated with many auger holes, that stood in the wagon back of the seat.
the vehicle was followed by the agitated and curious crowd, as it was driven back to the chicken yard. the box was tenderly removed and placed inside the wire netting enclosure by varney and flaherty.
the appearance of hyder ali had been skilfully timed. the composite effect of varney’s discourses on the subject of this wondrous bird had been to produce psychologic conditions that he considered quite perfect for his dark purposes. he knew that the halo of prestige and romance, that had been patiently made to glow around hyder ali, would become still brighter when that peerless bird burst dramatically upon the rustic stage.
out of the opened door of the box there came, with delicate mincing steps and regal mien, what, to that crowd, was almost a celestial vision. he was an enormous bird. with the exception of his eyes, he was pure white, even to his carunculated neck wattle and comb. the eyes were of a deep pink, and gleamed like iridescent opals in their snowy setting. the slender comb dangled and hung jauntily on one side, like the tassle on a turkish fez, and it imparted a rakish oriental air. the head was crowned with a dainty little wisp of airy feathers that would have fluttered the heart of the most obdurate of hen turkeys. the shifting light revealed pearly half-tones in the snowy raiment. he 190was immaculate and would hardly have seemed out of place on a pedestal. many strange and queer things have stood on pedestals in this world, both in fact and fancy, and hyder ali would have ranked very far from the lower end of the scale.
he paused on being released from what to him must have been a humiliating confinement, looked disdainfully at his surroundings, and nonchalantly acquired a fat green tomato worm that decorated a nearby leaf.
he walked slowly, and with lordly dignity, about the enclosure, apparently conscious of the wonder and admiration he was attracting. he seemed like some rare exotic—entirely foreign to the strange environment into which an indiscriminate fate had thrust him.
“let joy be unconfined! we’ve got hyder ali!” shouted bill, half sarcastically, as he joined the awe stricken crowd. he had arrived too late to witness the unloading, but he was impressed with the fact that varney had, at least in some measure, “made good.” however, the demon of distrust still lingered in his heart. he had never seen or heard of anything that looked like hyder ali before, but was disposed to restrain his enthusiasm and await further developments.
sophy perkins came late in the afternoon and was in a highly flustered state. she spent a long time at the chicken yard with her wistful eyes riveted on the distinguished guest. to own that bird would crown her futile and disappointed life with bliss. 191she longed for its possession as one who beseeches fate for the unattainable.
seemingly in response to her fervent gaze, hyder ali spread his tail feathers into vast fan-like forms over his downy back. his pink eyes glistened with alluring and changing beams from amid the fluffy white array of distended plumage, as he turned slowly round and round, posed, and strutted, quite human like, before sophy’s bewildered vision.
his prolonged gobbles, as he majestically patrolled the chicken pen, had for her an ineffable musical charm.
she had once read a syndicated story in a newspaper magazine supplement, in which reincarnation and transmigration of souls figured in a supernatural and flesh creepy plot. after she had heard josh varney’s allusion to reincarnation in his first talk with us at the store, she had hunted it up and reread it carefully. in the woful and sobby tale a beautiful princess and her affinity discovered that they had once loved as shell-fish, and through countless ages had periodically met in other strange forms, which did not happen to be identical until the time of the story, when they met in a phosphorescent light in the dusty tomb of a manchu ancestor.
during her second day’s visit to hyder ali a mysterious and indefinable thrill had crept into sophy’s sterile heart. she pondered much over the resistless fascination that the bird exercised over her, and suddenly became obsessed with the idea 192that this was possibly the reincarnation of a soul mate that she might have had in some far off previous existence, somewhere in the star swept ?ons that were gone, that had drifted through the ages in various forms, until predestination had again brought them face to face. she had a hazy idea of the theory of reincarnation, but she had an instinctive feeling that, if there was anything of that sort, this was probably it, and a long lost affinity was before her.
the “loose wires in her upper story” that rat hyatt had mentioned at the turkey shoot began to rattle hopelessly on the subject of the white gobbler.
into her mind there came a desperate resolve to acquire that bird, by fair means or foul. all of her persistence, and every form of artifice and cunning of which she was capable would thenceforth be devoted to that end.
after hyder ali had sojourned a week in posey’s pen, attended with adoration, and fed with selected worms, corn meal mush, and other dainties by the faithful sophy, mr. flaherty came with his little spring wagon and took him away. he said that the man who was to keep him for mr. varney had returned home, but he did not say where he lived.
thus was hyder ali dangled temptingly before the turkey club, and tantalizingly whisked from sight. varney was eagerly questioned when he came again, but his manner was very reserved. he seemed willing to talk volubly on any subject but the gobbler, the only thing anybody wanted to hear 193about. he finally said that he had paid three hundred dollars for the bird and intended to exhibit him at the county fairs in various parts of the state during the fall, charging a small admission fee to make it profitable.
sophy was anxious to know if he would sell the bird, and, after talking it all over with her, the reluctant josh consented to a “grand raffle” for the turkey, provided three hundred chances could be sold at one dollar each. he felt that exhibiting the bird around the country might be a good deal of a job, although he regarded it as a fine thing from a financial point of view. if he was to part with hyder ali he would rather that he would remain with his friends along the river, as he was very fond of all of them, and they might talk over the county fair idea later.
it was agreed that when all of the chances were sold the drawing should be held under the auspices of the turkey club in the yard back of posey’s store, where hyder ali was to be brought.
numbered tickets, corresponding to the names in sophy’s sales book were to be deposited in a hat. josh varney, as the owner of the turkey, was to hold the hat. sophy was to be blindfolded, and to draw forth the tickets one by one, until the contents of the hat were exhausted. they were to be handed to somebody else who would call off the numbers and cancel them in the book. the last ticket in the hat was to win hyder ali.
the chances were all sold within a week, some 194purchasers taking as many as a dozen. just before the supply was gone josh and his friend flaherty each took ten and the book was declared closed.
sophy was only able to buy seven, but she hoped that they would be sufficient for her purpose.
every able bodied person, and some who were not, who lived within ten miles and could by any means get to the store, was there on the day of the drawing.
hyder ali arrived in his perforated box and was reinstalled in the chicken yard, where he walked about in lonely majesty, while his destiny was in the balance—the cynosure of many anxious and covetous eyes.
a platform had been improvised with four big drygoods boxes in the yard, high enough for everybody to see what was going on. mr. varney stood on it and announced the conditions. he acknowledged the receipt of the proceeds of the raffle, and stated that the bird now belonged to the winner.
the three hundred numbered tickets were then produced by sophy. she handed them to varney to deposit in the ancient plug hat that pop wilkins had obligingly loaned for the occasion, in accordance with time honored custom. pop, with the sun reflecting from his bald head, stood on the platform, adjusted his brass rimmed spectacles, and made ready to call off the cancellations.
varney ran through the tickets several times and counted them to see if they were all there. his numbers were from 281 to 290. he mixed the tickets 195over thoroughly inside the hat with his hand, and the blindfolded sophy began drawing. she had carefully bent all of her own tickets in such a way as to enable her to identify them by touch, and had no doubt that she would own hyder ali within the next twenty minutes. there was excited buying and selling, at big premiums, of numbers remaining in the hat as the contest narrowed down, and there were frequent delays in the drawing to accommodate the speculators. six of sophy’s tickets had come out. none of them were bent and cold chills raced up and down her spine. her agile and nervous fingers had carefully avoided a well bent ticket near one side of the grimy interior of the hat. when she drew out a flat ticket next to it, she learned to her horror that it was her last number. with a faint heart she reached for the other, hoping that there had been some error in her count, but the last ticket was number 294, and it belonged to mr. flaherty.
it was evident to her that the wily josh had discovered the bent tickets, and while he was handling them over inside the hat he had managed to straighten them all and bend flaherty’s. whatever other artifice josh might have had in reserve had he not discovered the bunch of bent tickets will always be a mystery, but he certainly had no intention of leaving hyder ali in the river country.
sophy removed the handkerchief, under which she had found no difficulty in peeking during the drawing, and looked upon josh.
human eyes have seldom glittered with the venomous 196and deadly glow that he now saw in sophy’s orbs. such eyes might have blazed through a labyrinth in a jungle upon one who had seized a tiger cub. backed by courage the look would have portended murder.
sophy at once realized the hopelessness of her position, for no specious protest was possible. she had encountered an adept in an art in which she was but a tyro. it was all over and she was compelled to smother her impotent wrath.
to the crowd, ignorant of the little drama on the platform, everything had seemed entirely regular. none of them had ever had a ghost of a chance of getting the turkey, but they were good natured losers. pop wilkins carefully restored the old stovepipe hat to his shining dome. while regretting that he had not won hyder ali and that that remarkable bird from foreign lands was not to remain in the community, he declared that there was now nothing to do but congratulate the winner.
“that’s what we done at the turkey shoot last year,” remarked bill in an undertone, as we watched the perforated box being loaded on to flaherty’s spring wagon.
varney tactfully refrained from assisting in the loading. “i hate to part with that bird,” he declared, “but business is business an’ there ’e goes!”
sophy continued to look upon him with a steely and viperous glare, but he did not appear to notice her. they each knew that the other thoroughly 197understood the situation, and there were no ethics that were debatable. sophy knew that flaherty was a man of straw, and that she had been skilfully robbed of the fruits of her chicanery. varney regarded her discomfiture with the generous benevolence of a victor.
sophy believed that all moral logic, and every other kind of logic, entitled her to hyder ali. she considered that in addition to the loss of the bird, she had been swindled out of the seven dollars she had paid for her worthless chances.
she justified her own dishonesty to herself by the conviction that she had worked hard enough for the club to have the turkey anyway, and as long as some ticket had to be left until the last, it might just as well be her’s as anybody’s. it was all a matter of chance anyway, and, as it turned out it would have been much better for everybody if hyder ali could have been kept in the neighborhood with her instead of being taken away. she considered that she had suffered a great injustice, and that a defenseless woman should be thus robbed and maltreated was to her the acme of outrage.
varney had his own rig with him and left for the county seat soon after flaherty and his spring wagon had departed in an opposite direction. the precious pair was gone—with hyder ali, and two hundred and eighty dollars of tangible profits.
a melodious gobble was faintly heard far away on the road while flaherty was still in sight. it might have been a wail of sorrow and farewell.
198“i s’pose,” remarked bill, “that hyder ali’s yellin’ fer help. he’s prob’ly ’fraid them two jay birds’ll send ’im back to them brummins an’ that bungspout swammy fish net man in india, where ’e’ll git ’is crop chilled with them frozen frogs, but ’e needn’t worry. i didn’t buy no chances fer i didn’t think there’d be any show for a white man with josh an’ sophy up on them boxes, an’ they wasn’t. i thought they was goin’ to be sump’n doin’ when i seen sophy eyein’ josh. she looked like she wanted to squirt some lye at ’im. sophy’s got a bad eye. she c’n sour a pan o’ milk that’s twenty feet off by jest lookin’ at it in a cert’n way.
“them kewpies ’ave finished the cookin’ this time an’ we’re done good an’ brown. i don’t think they’ll be ’round any more ’less josh comes to sell us a striped elephant next year, an’ if ’e does i ’spose we’ll buy it. i don’t think we wanted that misquito fatted bird anyway. he didn’t look to me like ’e was healthy.”
sophy was ill for a couple of weeks and visited the store but rarely during the rest of the summer.
“she looks like she’d been licked,” observed rat hyatt. “she don’t seem to have no pep any more. i met ’er on the bridge the other day, an’ when i spoke to ’er she answered as nice an’ polite as anybody, instead o’ lookin’ at me like i was a skunk, an’ pass’n on the way she used to do.”
during the latter part of august sophy chanced to see a copy of a weekly paper that was published in a small town about fifty miles away. in it was 199an announcement of a “grand raffle,” to be held the following week, “for a wonderful white turkey imported from siberia at great expense, the like of which has never been seen or heard of in this country.”
the article went on to say that “this is a great event that is about to take place in our midst, and ye editor blushingly owns to the soft impeachment of having taken ten chances with his hard earned pelf. we hope to win the splendid prize, but if we fail we respectfully ask anybody who is in arrears on their subscription to please call at our holy editorial sanctum with some mazuma, for though ye ed. toys with the trailing skirts of fickle fortune, yet must he eat.”
sophy kept her own counsel and prevailed on pop wilkins to lend her his horse and two seated buggy for a few days to enable her to visit a sick relative who lived some distance away. she was gone a week, and when she returned hyder ali was in the buggy. his beautiful head protruded inquiringly from the top of a gunny sack in which he was carefully secured. sophy drove home with her prize, returned the rig to the obliging pop, and walked loftily into the store, on her way back, to make some purchases.
she was a changed woman, and victory was on her brow. she greeted the loiterers about the store, but, as posey expressed it, “she spoke from above.”
naturally the neighborhood was in a ferment of curiosity.
200“how’d you git ’im?” asked bill pleasantly.
“i caught ’im on a fish line,” she replied grimly.
beyond this she refused any explanations and her attitude was regarded as the height of cruelty. she said it was nobody’s business but her own, and no further light was thrown on the subject.
early in the fall a band of gipsies came and camped on a grassy glade in the woods not far from where sophy lived. they remained several weeks. the men traded horses with the nearby farmers, and the women went about the neighborhood in their picturesque costumes, begged small articles, and told fortunes.
one morning sophy was horrified to find that hyder ali was gone. she at once suspected the gipsies, and rushed to their camp, but the romany folk had departed. she found a long white feather on the ground that undoubtedly had come from her cherished bird. she at once enlisted all the help she could get. the assistance of the sheriff was invoked and the trail of the gipsies was taken by a large party. they were located about fifteen miles away. thorough search revealed no trace of the missing property. the gipsies were confronted with the tell-tale feather, but denied all knowledge of it. there seemed to be nothing further to do and the matter was dropped by the sheriff.
in november, just before the annual turkey shoot, mr. roscoe plunkett, of the firm of plunkett & mott, whose goods varney had sold for several years, came to posey’s store to check up their account. he 201said that his firm had suffered considerable losses through the shady and sinuous methods of varney, and that he was no longer with them. they had delved deep into his history before he came to them and found that he had a rancid past. it was checkered with a couple of jail confinements, but he had managed in each case to obtain his freedom after trial. he had been a champion rifle shot, and had given exhibitions of trick shooting in a wild west show for a year or two. of late he had been mixed up with a man named flaherty. they had found a farmer in the southern part of the state who had an albino turkey—one of those rare freaks of nature, due to deficient pigmentation. it was a beautiful gobbler of abnormal size. they bought the bird for twenty-five dollars, and, since that time they had been going about the country raffling it off. one of them had always won it.
during the previous week a friend of plunkett’s, who was a commercial traveler, had written him that he had met varney in michigan, and that flaherty and the white turkey were with him.
this new light on the general cussedness and dark ways of josh varney came too late to be of any benefit to sophy. she had gone to live with some relatives in a small town in iowa, taking her illusions and her bitter hatreds with her. her henpecked husband had mercifully been relieved of his earthly troubles, but this had not seemed to disturb her as much as her other afflictions. she had become completely disgusted with her surroundings, and had 202sought new fields for her restless propensities.
“it’s too bad josh don’t know she’s a widow,” remarked bill, “fer them two might git married now, if they wanted to.”
bill labored long in lettering out the notice of the next annual turkey shoot, which he tacked up in the store.
there was a full attendance when the day came. the weather was again pleasant, the blood letting was satisfactory, and no untoward incident marred the joy of the occasion.
when the shooting was over bill pounded officially on a barrel top and called the business meeting to order.
“the first thing to be done at this meet’n is to ’lect a new chief gobbler, fer this one has now resigned. this chair has quit, an’ now pays its parting respects to all the members. i say now that this chair has been blasphemed an’ jumped on fer five years. nothin’ has ever been done right. ev’rybody has cussed the chair right an’ left, an’ the chair has never peeped or said a word back. in quit’n this hon’able office this chair now makes answer to all them sore heads that’s been criticize’n it fer all these years, an’ that answer is bah!!!!
“now we’ll perceed to nominations fer the chair’s successor.”
a voice:—“i nom’nate mr. bill stiles fer the ensuin’ year, an’ i move it be made unimous.”
the chair:—“is there no other nominations?”
203another voice:—“i nom’nate mr. josh varney, an’ i move it be made unimous.” (chorus of cat calls.)
a voice from the rear:—“i move that the chair stops smokin’ when it’s presidin’ an’ i move we adjourn!”
the chair:—“if that feller back there thinks ’e c’n run this meet’n better’n it’s bein’ done, let ’im come up in front. this chair’s goin’ to do its smokin’ while it’s alive instid o’ wait’n ’till afterwards like some people. we gotta have some dignity about this thing, an’ you fellers keep quiet! now who makes any more nominations?”
after some further parliamentary bickering, the reluctant bill was duly re?lected, as usual.
“now,” he continued, “havin’ got this turr’ble weight offen our chests, the next business’ll be the ’lection of a new boss, fer sophy perkins has left us. she’s gone way off some’rs where the winds are blowin’ an’ she’ll never come back. mr. posey has been suggested fer new secretary an’ treasurer. does anybody nominate ’im?”
“he’d be a good man to take in the money, but he’d make a hell of a secretary!” shouted somebody in the crowd.
“never mind, does somebody nominate ’im?” continued bill.
“how d’ye know sophy’ll never come back?” demanded another voice from the rear.
“how do i know? how do i know anything? shut up!” replied the chair with asperity.
204mr. posey modestly declined his impending honors, but was elected.
“the next business,” announced bill, “is the report o’ the chair on the case o’ mr. josh varney. some o’ you’ll prob’ly faintly recollect of ’is havin’ been among us some time ago.”
he then related the story of plunkett, revealed the sins of varney in all their sable hues and commented caustically on the soft headedness of the victims of that artful tactician.
“all you fellers has been just as easy marks fer josh as them ten turkeys in them boxes was a year ago. some day we may ketch the perfessor, but knowin’ ’im as i do, i don’t b’lieve we will. he bruised a lot o’ gold shekels out o’ this bunch with that pale fowl, an’ besides ’e made us feel bad.”
mr. rat hyatt was now recognized by the chair.
“fer years,” said rat, “all of us has called sophy perkins ‘the stinger,’ an’ she was a stinger, but i now move you, mr. chairman, that that title be hereby shifted offen ’er an’ put on that pink eyed turkey man.”
the motion was unanimously carried and ordered spread upon the records that sophy had left at the store.
the meeting then adjourned.
as we left i casually mentioned the fine weather we were having.
“yes, it’s been a phenonomous year,” replied bill, thoughtfully.
