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"Walked," replied Mr. Gammon, dejectedly. "My hoss is bewitched, too. Can't get him out of the stable." "We'll take you along with us," was Hiram's kindly proffer. "Him and that gander?" protested the Cap'n. "I can set in behind with the garnder under my arm," urged Mr. Gammon, meekly. The Cap'n came around the table and angrily twitched the rope off Mr. Gammon's neck.
At one shop where he was instructed to call he found a little trap waiting, and as he entered there came out a man whom he knew by sight, evidently a traveller, who mounted the trap and drove off. The shopkeeper was in a very disagreeable mood and returned Gammon's greeting roughly. "Something wrong?" asked Gammon with his wonted cheeriness. "Saw that chap in the white 'at?
Cheeseman, down below, choked audibly. "Will you answer that question or not? Very good; I give you till I've counted fifty, slow. When I say fifty, bang goes the bloomin' door." Amid an awful silence, enveloped, as it were, by the dull rumbling of vehicles without, Mr. Gammon's voice began counting. He expected to hear Polly's key turn in the lock, so did Mrs. Bubb and Mrs. Clover.
But the idea of leaving her in the middle of the street, as one might say! Did one ever! And just after he'd got what he wanted. "All right, old fellow! Wait till you want to see me again, that's all." To have his word disbelieved was the one thing fatal to Gammon's temper.
"But Gammon's got the wisdom to keep himself safe, Robert; there's no one to blame for his wrinkles." "Gammon's a sheepskin old Time writes his nothings on," said Robert. "He's safe safe enough. An old hulk doesn't very easily manage to founder in the mud, and Gammon's been lying on the mud all his life."
The manifest evasion and mute declaration that dumpling said "mum" on that head, gave the farmer a quiet glow. "When you are ready to tell me all about my darlin', sir," Mrs. Sumfit suggested, coaxingly. "After dinner, mother after dinner," said the farmer. "And we're waitin', are we, till them dumplings is finished?" she exclaimed, piteously, with a glance at Master Gammon's plate.
There was an expression on Mr. Gammon's face that no one had ever seen there before. His eyes were narrowed. His pointed tongue licked his lips. His thin hair bristled. "What are you goin' to do to him?" "Lick him!" replied Mr. Gammon. It was laconic, but it sounded like a rat-tail file on steel. "You can do it!" said Hiram, cheerfully.
Gammon's knowledge really was; but she had given her confidence beyond recall, and, though with many vicissitudes of feeling, she still wished to keep Gammon sole ally in this strange affair.
"Mas' Gammon's a rare old man," said the farmer, emphatically. "So I say. Else, how would you see so many farms flourishing!" "Come, Robert: you hit th' old man hard; you should learn to forgive." "So I do, and a telling blow's a man's best road to charity. I'd forgive the squire and many another, if I had them within two feet of my fist." "Do you forgive my girl Rhoda for putting of you off?"
These were his last words, for upon reaching the side lines he lapsed into unconsciousness and died at two o'clock the next morning. Gammon's death ended the football season that year at the University. It also came very near ending football in the State of Georgia, as the Legislature was in session, and immediately passed a bill prohibiting the playing of the game in the State. However, Mrs.
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