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Updated: May 2, 2025
Then all hands would set up and look interested, and Bill would wink acrost at his chum and drawl: "'That's the way to get over the country! Why, a horse isn't one two three with that! Cap'n Wixon, I'm surprised that a sportin' man like you hasn't bought one of those things long afore this. "For the next twenty minutes there wouldn't be any dullness. Jonadab would take care of that.
I b'lieve 'twas what they call a "coat-of-arms," but it looked more like a patchwork comforter than it did like any coat ever I see. The envelope was addressed to "Captain Jonadab Wixon, Orham, Mass." I took my turn at twisting the thing around, and then I hands it back to Jonadab. "I pass," I says. "Where'd you get it?" "'Twas in my box," says he. "Must have come in to-night's mail."
'Twas purty quiet for a few minutes after Jonadab had unloaded this yarn. Everybody was busy trying to swaller his share of the statements in it, I cal'late. Peter T. looked at the Cap'n, admiring but reproachful. "Wixon," says he. "I didn't know 'twas in you. Why didn't you tell me?" "Oh," says Jonadab, "I ain't responsible. 'Twas Jule Sparrow that told it to me." "Humph!" says Peter.
"Known him all my life. He lives over to Orham. Makes windmills and whirlagigs and such for young-ones to play with. HE ain't any spy. His name's Jed Winslow, but we always call him 'Shavin's, 'count of his whittlin' up so much good wood, you understand. Ain't that so, Shavin's? Haw, haw!" Jed regarded Mr. Wixon mournfully. "Um-hm," he admitted. "I guess likely you're right, Squealer."
A yellow cur, of nondescript breed, taken since the fire, in payment of a debt from "Squealer" Wixon, who had described it as a "fust-class watchdog," rose from its bed behind the cigar counter, yawned, stretched, and came slinking over to greet its master. "Web" forcibly hoisted it out of the door on the toe of his boot.
Whittaker and Frances were shaking hands. Others were crowding forward to do so. And the table was set and there were flowers everywhere and, in the background, was Susanna Wixon, grinning from ear to ear, with the cat our cat who seemed the least happy of the party, in her arms. Hephzy had written Mrs.
There's prob'ly more sportin' blood in the paupers of this town than in the citizens. Bring 'em in, and let's have talkin' done with." In a suspiciously short time Wixon led in his charges five hobbling old men, all chewing tobacco and looking wondrously interested. "There!" said Hiram, an appreciative glint in his eyes. "Nothin' like havin' an audience, even if they did come in on passes.
Joel Wixon felt that it was a good, sad, mad world, and that he had been very close to Shakespeare so close that he heard things nobody had ever found the phrases for things that cannot be said but only felt, and transmitted rather by experience than by expression from one proud worm in the mud to another. Copyright, 1921, by Rupert Hughes. #By# GRACE SARTWELL MASON From Scribner's Magazine
"Why, it begun at the Golconda House, the hotel where Sim and I was stayin'. We " "Did YOU put up at the Golconda?" interrupted Barzilla. "Why, Cap'n Jonadab and me stayed there when we went to New York." "I know you did. Jonadab recommended it to Sim, and Sim took the recommendation. That Golconda House is the only grudge I've got against Jonadab Wixon. It sartin is a tough old tavern."
"Hello, Phil!" he yells, rounding his flat-iron into the wind abreast of ours and bobbing his night-cap. "I hoped you might be out. Are you game for a race?" "Archie," answers our skipper, solemn as a setting hen, "permit me to introduce to you Cap'n Jonadab Wixon and Admiral Barzilla Wingate, of Orham, on the Cape."
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