november—the magic moon
when black frost comes to the lowlands, he sometimes loiters for many nights along the river meadows, and sometimes climbs swiftly into the hill country, wabeno the magician always following in his wake cloaked in the golden haze of dreams called indian summer.
through the long nights the magic moon lights the little beasts to their hunting, but ice fingers lock the shallow pools before day dawn, and, in spite of alluring sunny noons, both man and beast seek shelter, one by the fireside, where the singing logs repeat the songs they once learned from the rain on the leaves in the forest, the other in ground hole, rock lair, or, if sociably inclined, in house chinks, and crannies. in this particular november, however, the village of oaklands was undergoing a new and strange experience born of the sudden preference of a nimble, four-footed rodent for houses with warm cellars and well-stocked larders, over the more remote barns and granaries. in short, the north end of the village, and some of the outlying houses as well, were suffering from a raid of rats that would have competed in numbers with the army lured to cover by the pied piper.
all country dwellers expect to house a few of the wood folk in the hard season, whether they will or no. the bats hang themselves up in the attic behind the chimney, and the squirrels use a loose shingle as a storehouse door; the wood rats burrow under the stable floor, and the pretty, white-footed mouse with pelt and eyes like a deer will often venture to the hearth corner, and not only remain unharmed, but even make himself a welcome guest by his strange singing.
rats, however,—the great relentless rats of city docks and sewers, that carry both destruction and disease in their march,—are a wholly different matter.
the plague had its beginning in what was considered a necessary improvement for the health of the village as well as its morals, the demolition of an old tavern that for a century had stood at the crossways opposite the railway station at the side of the road where, a few hundred rods higher up, was martin cortright’s cottage. the tavern, a relic of stage-coach days, and flanked by great barns and pastures of many acres that reached uphill quite to the cortrights’ boundaries, had gradually fallen, until it became a road-house of the worst type, with its barns crumbling, filthy with the litter of years, and the land used for the rooting-ground of a breed of black swill-fed pigs. its malodour had so offended the nose of public spirit as embodied in the anglican catholic, the severely protestant, mrs. jenks-smith, martin cortright, and father, as health officer, that a public subscription had been secured, the place bought, the buildings, including the pig-pens, razed, and the land ploughed up to sweeten, preparatory to turning the plot into a sort of park to be a playground for the school children. all this had taken place in the early spring, and by fall every trace and odour of the nuisance that had existed was gone; but the committee, when they had paid off all scores, had not reckoned with the rats that for generations had been housed upon the premises. during the summer, these rats evidently turned tramps, and, using the wide-chinked stone fences for runways, by which they travelled from farm to farm, lived in luxury, unobserved, though everywhere came complaint of the loss of young chickens and eggs, this being laid to cats, hawks, and weasels. but no sooner did black frost show himself than the winter homing instinct that comes upon man, as well as the lesser animals, seized the rats, and from all sides they began to travel back to their old haunts; these lacking, they sought the nearest shelter.
the cortrights were away in early autumn, and late the first night after their return, lavinia, candle in hand, going down the front stairs of her well-ordered and supposedly mouse-proof house, encountered a gray-whiskered rat coming up with so fixed a purpose, that even her shrieks and martin’s coming only drove him to the hall below where, according to the testimony of martin and lavinia, he backed into a corner and put up a successful fight against martin, armed with an umbrella, the wall paper receiving the whole of the damage. the maid, intrenched in the hall above, whispered a different version of the encounter, which was that the master, being short-sighted, and lacking his glasses, had charged at the corner where the rat was not, much to the rat’s advantage.
be this as it may, the postmaster, after having a ham cleaned to the bone and some valuable mail gnawed, tried traps in vain and resorted to poison, with the dire result that, in a week, after the stove fires were started, his family were obliged to go to his wife’s mother’s, while the movable part of the business took refuge in a corner of the town house. soon the one absorbing topic in oaklands, that eclipsed even the town and presidential elections, both of which fell due that november, taking precedence of the local tax rate, new roads, tariff, tainted money, or trusts, was—“what shall we do with the rats?”
the village pharmacy, as the chief shop of the place is called, has many attributes of a department store and club-room as well, in the cold months. here the men meet, who do not care to stay at home, or go to read in the library, foregather in the saloon, or play poker by a lantern in a corner of the windowless blacksmith’s shop. among these, the rats came as a new subject, that was welcome, if its cause was not.
better still, the pharmacy coterie had a recent recruit and one that added not a little to the spice of its life, one tom scott, who owned a queen anne villa (no, it wasn’t a house or a cottage; if you know the modern english suburban home of this type, you will understand), together with all the proper outside ornaments, and ten acres of land halfway up the east road to the bluffs. the place was close to what evan, in the earlier and snobbish days of the bluff colony, used to call “the dead line,” because in the beginning there had been social war to the knife between the big landowners who lived above the line, and the small owners of the commuting tribe who lived below.
mr. scott had lived in oaklands for eight years, during which time his two golden-haired daughters had turned from apple-cheeked schoolgirls to young women with the regular profiles and peculiar modulation of voice that tell of english origin. their mother had the same features, voice, and colouring, but slimness had developed into the turtlesque figure of a staunch type of british matron in her early fifties, who has no american prototype. fat women we have galore, but they usually carry their weight gaily, not ponderously, and seldom outlive their capability for wearing shirtwaists.
mr. scott was unmistakably english, tall, broad-shouldered, rosy, clean-shaven, and sixty, his closely cut, crisp gray hair showing no thinness at the crown and his deep-set eyes alert and keen to everything that went on about him, although he was not a man of many words and seldom entered into conversation of his own free will. in short, he was the type of the old country farmer, who, clad in cords and gaiters, spends half his time riding about his place on a deep-chested hunter, and is an ardent follower of the hounds when the chase does not interfere with market day. his speech, though usually correct, broadened with certain words; his s took the sound of z, and sometimes, when excited, he reversed his vowels.
that he was a man of some means, was evinced by the fact that he owned his home, paid as he went, contributed freely to local charities, had three or four good horses, kept and bred dogs, farmed his land for pleasure rather than profit, and displayed a love of sport by his interest in the county and local fairs and horse shows. at the same time he had evidently retired from active business life, as he only went to the city one day in the week, as any man of leisure might, who, though loving an out-of-door life, did not wish to cut entirely loose from old associations.
for the rest, though he was referred to familiarly as tom scott by all the men of his own age, and a good many of the younger ones, and considered by all a square fellow, not one, if they had been questioned about the matter, could have told from whence he came, or that his previous occupation had in any way been mentioned.
when a new family comes to oaklands, the natives have three tests by which the strangers are graded and accorded citizenship in one of several degrees, the first being financial, the second, moral, and the third, social. have they paid for their house in full, or is it held on mortgage? will they take a church pew, and if so, in which one of the four churches? does the man of the family wear a collar, tie, and coat when at rest in the bosom of his family?—appearing in shirtsleeves upon the front porch, even of a hot summer evening, no longer being permitted by the rising generation of daughters trained at the bridgeton high school.
the scotts had passed the tests in a manner satisfactory to all, immediately taking a pew, neither aggressively toward the front, nor yet economically in the rear, in our equivalent of the established church, of which, it seemed, they were all members. thus the only questioning murmurs that had ever arisen about the head of the family came from a few discontented people who had considered tom scott an inexperienced city man of money, and therefore had tried, but tried in vain, to sell him either an unsound horse, badly cured hay, or other farm produce of poor quality, but at a price above the market rates. to these scott quickly showed so much horse lore, and such a shrewd and experienced side to his character in general, that they voiced the opinion between themselves that he wasn’t, in their judgment, what he seemed to be, and that if it were known how and where he made his money—“well, gambling and horse-racing had made many a fortune, and the ’piscopals should go slow before they committed themselves to his iniquities and asked him to pass the plate.”
few guests from outside ever went to the queen anne villa, and though mrs. scott and her daughters joined in the milder social diversions of the village, it was suddenly announced, the fall after they graduated from the high school and something in the nature of a party was expected of them, that mother and daughters were going to the old country to spend christmas, but that tom scott himself would stay behind and keep bachelor’s hall. then again the murmurers said: “why doesn’t he go with them? has he done anything that prevents his going home?”
it was a little after this time that scott, an inveterate home lover, and now lonely and hungering for companionship, appeared at the pharmacy, his mantle of reserve replaced by an almost garrulous familiarity. his first act was to buy a box of really fine cigars, which he passed about freely among his fellows, only frowning at the one outsider, a drummer, who, pushing his way into the group, prepared to take a fistful at once. “slow, young man, go slow,” scott said deliberately, measuring the fellow with a single sweep of the eye; “when you ask a gentleman to drink, he doesn’t fill five glasses before he empties the first, does he?”
the drummer slunk back with an exclamation half impertinent, half apologetic, and at that moment the door was flung open, and martin cortright entered, agitation written on every feature of his usually calm student face; going directly to the proprietor, who was leaning over the soda-water counter, he called in a voice very unlike his usual quiet tones:—
“give me some rough-on-rats, and any other poison you have; if they die in the house, and we have to leave, so be it. my patience is exhausted. to-day, while we were out driving, the rats, or a rat, actually got into my little book room, though it has a hardwood floor and high wainscot, and gnawed the corner off the antique leather binding of my ‘denton’s history of new york’; if this continues, imagine the condition of my library!”
“why don’t you cover all the food in the house and try traps, mr. cortright?” asked tom scott, turning abruptly from the group who were discussing the merits of a litter of bull pups that were asleep in a box behind the candy counter.
“traps!” ejaculated martin. “we have tried five different kinds, and rats managed to take the bait from four, without snapping the springs, and the fifth, the wire-cage variety, they must have rolled about the kitchen like a toy, for we found it in a corner standing on end. my belief is, mr. scott, that intelligence in rats varies, as it does in human beings, and that these particular specimens are what might be called intellectual, and are only to be circumvented and trapped, if at all, by some one who understands their own methods. how do they get into the house? the foundations are solid, the cellar plastered, and with a cement floor that shows no holes, and yet in the space of a month there is hardly a door in the house that does not show the marks of their teeth.”
“you are perfectly right,” said scott, with the utmost seriousness, interest sparkling in his eyes; “they must be understood and met on their own ground, for they have surely some runway by which they enter and leave, and no two tribes of rats work in exactly the same way, any more than any two gangs of housebreakers handle their tools alike.” then, as he saw that all eyes were fixed on him inquiringly, he added, in the most casual way possible, “i’ve always been keen on watching animals to learn their ways, and as a young chap i had some queer experiences with rats.”
“why don’t you take up the reward offered, and clear the town of the rats?” asked the drummer, sneeringly; “a gent who’s so well acquainted with their ways ought to find it a cinch.”
the sneer passed unnoticed. “have the selectmen offered a reward in the matter?” scott asked.
“yes, posted this afternoon,” said the druggist; “there is one of the bills on the tree opposite. one hundred dollars’ reward for any one who will either do the job or suggest a remedy.”
for a full minute tom scott stood with his hands in his pockets looking into the show window and whistling softly to himself as if he were alone; then squaring about he almost called, so loud was his voice, “i’ve time on my hands now, and i’m going to take up that challenge, boys: if i make the rats go in my traps, i’ll give the hundred to the bridgeton hospital; if they don’t, i’ll add a hundred to the sum to make it bigger bait for a smarter fellow.”
“i wish you could start to-night and begin at my house, but of course that is asking too much; my wife and the maids are completely upset,” martin cortright said beseechingly, as though scott were some sort of priest whose incantations would bring immediate relief to the nerves of the feminine part of the household, and safety to his own beloved books.
“no, i was going to suggest that myself; i must get the lay of the land a bit before i can plan my game, and night’s the only time for that. i must go to my house first for a few things that may come handy. has any one a team outside?”
“i have,” said father, who had opened the door as the conversation began, only entering far enough to hand some prescriptions to the druggist, with a few words of directions concerning their filling. “i must wait about for an hour at least, so that i can drive you up and back again as well as not. what, you are going to try and rid us of this plague? surely, then, as health officer, it is my duty to give you a lift.”
“thank you, dr. russell,” said scott, still in a sort of dream, as the two went out together.
“i wonder where tom scott got acquainted with rats,” said the first selectman, who had all this time been playing chess imperturbably with the town clerk upon the top of a barrel of pop-corn balls.
“in jail, most likely; that’s a thriving place for ’em, and there’s plenty of time to watch ’em,” sneered the drummer, who had just reached into the cigar box that scott had left upon the counter, only to find that its owner had pocketed the remaining contents.
“you speak as if you’d had personal experience. i see you list rat-traps in your hardware side line,” said the town clerk, tartly. he liked scott, and also as a native he resented such remarks from a stranger.
“mated!” cried the first selectman, and the coterie began to break up.
tom scott and father drove along for a few moments in silence, and then father asked him some questions about mrs. hobbs, the friend of martha saunders, who was scott’s housekeeper during the absence of his wife.
“she’s a good woman and a fine cook, but, dr. russell, she’s too stiff for comfort; she serves my meals as if i was a gentleman, which i’m not, and never pretended, and won’t sit down at table with me.”
father was somewhat surprised at this remark, for he only realized scott as intelligent and a straightforward man of his word, and, further than this, social classification never entered his head.
the house reached, scott deftly fastened and blanketed the horses, opened the door with a latch-key, and, leading the way through several dimly lit rooms, said, “perhaps you’ll kindly wait in here in my sitting-room while i hunt about for what i need; there’s always a bit of fire in here, sir, and it’s less lonely than the empty big rooms.”
as soon as father accustomed himself to the light, he saw he was in what is commonly known as a den. a low book-case filled one side, above which hung some good sporting prints in colour, pictures of famous horses, all winners of the derby, mingled with a few really fine engravings of english rural scenes by birket foster, and others of his school. in the bay window was a combination table and writing-desk, upon which papers were littered, a tray of pipes acting as a paper-weight, while three framed photographs and a work-basket of ample proportions spoke of the absent wife and daughters. comfortable easy-chairs filled the other window recesses; one showing more signs of wear than the rest was drawn up before the hearth, within the arms of which dozed a large, but exceedingly amiable, bulldog, an old friend of father’s, that doubtless would have wagged a welcome had he the wherewithal; this lacking, he grinned broadly, and reading in father’s face that he wished to sit in the chair, rolled sleepily to the rug, where, resting against father’s knees, he threw back his head, extending his chin and throat to be scratched.
as the dog finally dropped his head to the rug in absolute content, father stretched his feet toward the fire, noticing for the first time that it was not of logs but a glowing mass of liverpool coal, a rarity in a new england village. then, as idleness bred of a capacity for dwelling upon the details of what surrounds one, seized him, his eyes travelled upward to the mantel-shelf, which had odd, narrow cupboards on either side that reached quite to the ceiling; between these, set panel-wise in a heavy frame of black oak, was an oil painting. this was of such an unusual quality and subject for the surroundings, that father first rubbed his eyes and then pushed the chair back to see the better. the background was painted broadly, or, rather, merely suggested a dark-walled room with the corner of a table littered with the remains of a recent feast; upon a crimson leather chair close by the table was perched a young woman, a-tiptoe, in her stocking feet; her copper-brown hair and some white, loose-flowing wrap drooped from her shoulders, while with both hands she held her skirts about her knees and stared in wide-eyed terror at a couple of rats that scurried across the floor toward her. the abrupt lighting of the figure came entirely from a bull’s-eye lantern that was held in front of the man who crouched in the shadow directly opposite the woman.
so striking and realistic was the canvas that after an examination at close range, which revealed the name of the painter, an artist of repute who had made a name some twenty years before for his daring and original portraits and figure compositions, father placed the easy-chair in the best possible position, reseated himself, and for the moment forgot his errand and surroundings in his blended admiration and curiosity concerning the painting.
“i suppose you are wondering how a five-hundred-guinea picture like that came here, sir,” said tom scott’s voice, so close behind the chair that father started, only to give a second and more emphatic jump and ejaculate, “bless me! for a moment i took you for a burglar,” as the man came forward and stood leaning against the mantel, upon which he set a small bull’s-eye lantern. usually so carefully dressed and precise, even when working as he often did about his stable and garden, scott had undergone a complete transformation. a close-fitting cap pulled down about his ears touched the collar of a dull gray sweater, below which were tightly fitting knee breeches, long stockings, and flexible, heelless shoes; a stout bag that he brought in he dropped on the floor, and it gave out a clank, suggestive of handcuffs and chains.
for a moment after father spoke, scott coloured deeply, even allowing for the firelight, and then he repeated the question concerning the picture.
“yes, i must confess that i am curious to know something of the history of that painting,” replied father, speaking slowly and peering from half-closed lids, “for though it is evidently what is called a fancy piece, there is something about it that makes me feel that it was a real happening and the woman real flesh and blood.”
it was tom scott’s turn to start and scan father’s face narrowly. whatever he read there evidently satisfied him, for he said quickly, as if determined to speak before he changed his mind, “she was real flesh and blood, and she is still, please god. the woman in the picture is my wife!”
“your wife? not the mrs. scott that i know and have tended?”
“yes, there’s never been but one for me. of course i’ll not say that she’s as slim and girlish as she was twenty-five years ago, but she’s just as game and true as she was that night. if you’ll listen, i’ll tell you the story of it all, and not make it long. moreover, it will be a kindness to me. for some time back i’ve felt that i must share those days with some man that i could trust, and now, to-night, with all this rat talk, and the missus who knows being gone, i must speak it out to some one or lose my grip. no, don’t look troubled, sir, it’s no crime, only something i’ve held back for the good of my girls, as i thought, and if i do right or wrong, it’s for you to help me judge, dr. russell.
“some people hereabout, as well as in other places, have wondered where and how i got my start, and if the money i have was rightly come by. yes, sir, i see by your face that you’ve heard this, and i’ll not attempt to deny that, since leaving my trade, i’ve taken enough trouble to hide it to make people suspect more than there is to tell.”
opening one of the cupboards with a key fastened to his pocket by a chain, he took out a small double leather case; one side contained a photograph of an old lady in a black gown and a white puffed widow’s cap; from the opposite opening, he drew a thick card, yellow from its rest in the dark, and handed it to father. printed on it in heavy letters were these words: “successor to the original harry leverings—rat-catcher. at the old stand—2100 west 42d st.—contracts made for clearing hotels and public buildings.—no poisons used, traps and strictly reliable men only employed.” across the bottom in silhouette were a string of steel traps and a bevy of scurrying rats.
taking the card from father, whose face certainly expressed all the interest necessary to encourage the narrator, scott placed it on the mantel-shelf as a sort of prompter, and straightway plunged into the story:—
“there were only two boys of us who lived to grow up at home, john and me. of course, when my father died, john, being the elder, had the land holdings, a goodish bit of a farm that had given a fair living when well managed, while i had very little, but leave to get out. my mother loved me best, i knew, but john was the heir, and that was the beginning and the end of it. to keep me by her, she would have been willing to see me knuckle down to be little more than a field hand to my brother, but i would not. i had no trade except if knowing a good horse and how to ride him could be called one, but i could shoot straight, and through friendship with a game-keeper, i knew the ways of every beastie of the woods and fallows of a great estate on the edge of which our land lay. many a night i’ve lain out in the fern with him, and miles did i tramp after him when he went about setting and tending his traps for things that killed the game. poor mctaggert, i remember him well; he only died last year.
“what i meant to do more than get away, i never knew when i took my fortune, less than a hundred pounds, and left for america, for john was hard and had an underhand way of working between me and my mother that made every day i stayed a battle. then, too, he made trouble with my boyish sweetheart, annie fenton, a neighbour’s daughter, that in my eyes always acted as if she feared and disliked him, yet dared not tell him so. for a couple of months i drifted about here and there, but never locating. one night when i had been thinking that my money would likely run low before i had made my start, i was stopping at a cheap commercial hotel in new york, when i heard them talking of the rats that overran the kitchen, and about one harry leverings, who, with a gang of men under him, made a handsome living at rat-catching. this man, moreover, was coming there that night.
“then my old days with mctaggert and my work of trap-setting came to me, and getting leave to go below stairs, i chanced to fall in with leverings himself, who proved to be a fellow-countryman. one thing led to another; i told him of a kind of trap mctaggert made, and sent for one; soon i was working for him, improved the trap, took out a patent on it, and five years later, when he was ready to drop out and go home, i succeeded to his business, as the card says, and sometimes employed upwards of twenty men who travelled all about the country, though for some reason i can’t explain, my own name never appeared as head of the business.
“meanwhile, things had gone badly at home; soon after i left, annie fenton’s father, thinking a bird in the hand the best bargain, tried to force her to marry my brother, but she slipped away to an aunt somewhere in america, leaving no trace of herself.
“john mismanaged the land, and, being caught in sharp practice, fell into debt, leased out what he could of the place without thought of mother, and went, some said, to australia, though others said he had followed annie. next, my mother fell into straits, and as i knew she couldn’t be happy here, at least until i had a settled home, i sent her money every month, through old mctaggert, lest it should be caught in any way to pay my brother’s debts.
“it was close upon christmas of the sixth year after i left home when i had about made up my mind to go back for the holidays, that one of my best customers, the owner of several large buildings for which i cared, asked me if i would go out to his country house for a week or so and see if i could do something about the rats, that, since cold weather, had come into the cellar in a drove and were working up through the house, destroying the woodwork and furnishings. he was to have house parties there all through the holidays, and he wished, if possible, to have the rats kept down, if nothing more, lest they annoy his guests.
“by this time i had given up personal jobs, preferring to look over the ground and arrange the plans for my men, but mr. —— rather insisted that i should go to his place alone, promising to put me up at the lodge, and so i went. talk about seeing life, dr. russell, no one sees more of it behind the scenes, as it were, than a rat-catcher. to do his work properly on a large scale, he must be trusted to go everywhere, at all hours. those years had educated me, and at the same time made me old at thirty. i saw into all their ways, how houses were furnished, the pictures and books people bought, what food they ate, and what wine they drank, and—beg pardon, sir, i’m getting off my story.
“this country house had sliding doors, draped by curtains all through, and i saw at once that it was through these doors the rat runways lay. not wishing to make talk of the matter, mr. —— explained my errand only to the butler and told him to give me freedom of all below the bedroom floors at night, so that i could remove both traps and rats, if any were caught before daylight. the second night of my stay there was a long dinner that lasted well into the night, with music and a play, for among the guests that had come were some singers and a famous artist, who rigged up a stage in the drawing-room and trimmed it up with draperies and the like.
“i saw a good deal of the doings from behind a curtain where the first of my trap line was set, and after everybody had gone to bed, and the extra waiters had left for their quarters outside, i took my dark lantern that i always kept lighted and went about the dining-room to see if any fruit or sweets that would distract the rats had been left upon the sideboard. at that moment i heard a rustling in a cage-trap, a kind i seldom use, on the opposite side of the room; going to it i found that three young rats had crowded into it together. not wishing to go out, i dropped trap and all into the bag that a rat-catcher always carries. then i continued across the room carefully, for the chairs were all in confusion, the men having been tired and left in a hurry. i was about to open the slide in the lantern front, when i saw, reflected in one of the long mirrors, a woman’s figure coming down the stairs, shading the candle that she carried in one hand.
“the figure came on through the open door straight into the dining room, where i stood half in the corner with the curtain held before me. the woman was slender and rather tall; her hair was hanging loosely and looked black in the dim light. she wore a white wrapper of some sort, and by the muffled sound of her steps, i knew that she was in stocking feet.
“what did she want—a glass of water, to meet a sweetheart, or was she looking for some lost article? for all of these things had i seen happen. it was the last, for, setting the candle upon the table, she began to grope underneath it, and, giving a soft exclamation of pleasure, held to the light a glittering diamond collar with a wide clasp of coloured gems. but it was not the sight of these that made me turn so cold that the lantern nearly fell from my stiff fingers; it was when the light of the candle flashed full on the girl’s face and reddish hair, and showed me annie fenton!
“before i could pull myself together, i heard steps coming from the butler’s pantry just behind me, and a man’s figure, with a clean-shaven face and wearing the dress suit of a waiter, stepped into the light. facing annie, he laid his hand on her shoulder. she started and cringed, but not a sound left her lips.
“?‘why didn’t you come to meet me as i bade you?’ his voice whispered harshly. ‘did you think now that i’ve found you, i would let you slip through my fingers again?’ then, as his eyes fell on the collar, he closed his hand on it, saying, ‘that will be very useful to me just now; my plans aren’t working well. forget that you found this, my girl, and if you are wise, don’t scream.’ then ten words oozed from annie’s lips, ‘john scott, let go! i said i’d never meet you.’
“it was my brother,—at best, a would-be thief,—dogging my sweetheart. he was bearded when i left home, and so i did not know him. for a second my right hand was on the pistol that i always carry when at work; then i suddenly realized what it would mean to the two women i best loved if i shot my brother. if annie would only scream, some of the gentlemen who slept in a chamber beyond the billiard room could hardly be asleep, and they would come. but how to make her?
“dr. russell, there’s something works in us besides ourselves at times. yes, i see you know it, too. scarce knowing what i did, i turned my bull’s-eye straight and full on annie; with one hand reaching for the trap, i shook those fool rats loose, and they, half blinded, ran down the light streak toward her. next thing i knew, she was up on a chair, and shriek upon shriek rang through the house. before i could scarce move, the room was full of the gentlemen, mr. —— and the artist being in the lead. the man, bewildered by the suddenness of it all, loosed his hold on the jewels, and vanished through the pantry, as if he dived into water, but quick as he went, they both knew that i had seen.
“before either of us could offer a word of explanation, my employer took in the whole matter at a glance, as he thought, recognized annie as the maid of one of his guests, and, laying the uproar only to the rats and me, laughed at it as a great joke, while the artist fellow, seeing annie, who kept on screaming and was too frightened to get down from the chair, called,—‘by jove! what a picture! stay there just for a minute while i make a memory sketch,’—at least, i think that’s what he called it.
“well, sir, we were married new year’s eve, and neither of us have since ever put in words what we saw and heard that night, just before i loosed the rats.
“a year after, i was overlooking some work in a picture gallery, when i came face to face with the picture as it’s there now, and i knew i’d have to buy it first or last, sir, even if it bit a hole in my savings, for even a rat-catcher, as i was then, if he had a good mother of his own, doesn’t want his wife, with no shoes and her petticoats up to her knees, to be seen outside his own home.
“oh, yes, of course, that was twenty-five years ago. the rat money went into well-advised real estate; we are settled here, and the missus and the girls have gone to bring my mother, past seventy, to live with us. no, i didn’t go; i couldn’t. my brother is back on the place, and married to a girl with some property. made money himself in australia, they say,—god knows how.
“when you know that the things you remember aren’t there, and other things are, it’s best not to go back. now, dr. russell, tell me, should i tell my girls, and the men that will want to marry them some day, the story that i’ve told you? what do you think?”
“i think,” said father, standing up so that they stood face to face, “that you are a gentleman; that being said is all, and there is my hand upon it. nine o’clock already; we must be going.”
tom scott picked up his ratting bag that held some of his famous traps, and, taking the old card from the shelf, was about to throw it into the fire, then hesitated, and put it back in the case facing his mother’s picture, saying with a smile, half sad, half humorous, “i’m afraid, sir, there’s that about the old business that would make me lonely if i forgot.”
a month later a paragraph appeared in the local papers that read as follows: “mr. thomas scott of our town has made good his promise of ending the scourge of rats, and has turned over the sum of two hundred dollars, he having doubled the amount of the reward offered, to the bridgeton hospital.
“there is a pretty little incident connected with this work. mr. scott, who has made a fortune in real estate, got his first start by inventing and patenting a particularly clever rat-trap, and it was with some of these traps, put by and almost forgotten, that he has been of so much use to his fellow-townsmen, for which they now take this way of expressing their thanks.”
