Democratic Sentinel, Volume 15, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 July 1891 — DOW DIM JOE; OR The Poorhouse Waifs. [ARTICLE]

DOW DIM JOE; OR The Poorhouse Waifs.

BY DAVID LOWRY.

CHAPTER IV. A HEAVEN ON EARTH. Job Wonder looked down at Joe with a curious twinkle in his eye She was such a “little mite,” he said to himself. “I reckon now you don't know much. Like as not you can’t cook a tater” “I can learn. You —you put tollin’ water round ’em, don’t you?” Job laughed outright. Joe felt more at home with him after she heard his jolly laugh. “I won tax any more questions. Case why? If I do, and you tell me how awful green you be—you see, why, I can’t have any excuse for taking you to my wife.” Joe somehow began to think Job’s wife was an awe-inspiring woman. “How o d be you?” “I don’ no ” “Sho! so you said before. Well, I never could tell women's ages My wife says so—and she knows.” Joe laughed now. “I’m more at home judgin' horseflesh. Say—kin you play that thing there?” “Yes—easy. “Well, I reckon we'll get on fust rate then. ” “I’m sure we will,” Joe answered. It seemed true, too. Job Wonder possessed the indefinable charm that drew children and dumb animals to him. Dogs that snapped at the heels of other men and snarled let Job range free. Joe looked at him furtively. As he remembered it afterward, he recallod with a feeling of pity the pathetic little figure beside him on the wagon-seat. She looked neither to the right nor left, but straight ahead. “Haven’t you any relatives?” “Me?” The query startled her. “No—nobody that ever I heard of.” “All —all alone by yourself?” Joe was silent. “That’s kind o’ hard. Kin you play a good tune on that thing there?” ‘‘Not very. I can play on the ’cordon. ” “The what?” “The ’cordion,” said Joe, demurely. “The accordion. Where is it?” “Got it in this bundle.” Joe nursed the bundle as if it contained a baby. “There! Thought you had clothes there. ” “So I have —got my other apron here. ” “Apron!” Job looked down at Joe open-mouthed. “Yes. Did you think I'd a whole suit here? ’Tain’tbig enough to fill a wardrobe, is it?” Job shook his head. Joe’s queries were too much for his gravity. He burst out laughing; he laughed until tears ran down his cheeks, and Joe was greatly offended and looked glum “So you can play the accordion? Well, we’il have music to the farm, anyhow, o’ nights, when you get there. We will get along fust rate, I reckon. If you're a good girl I'll stand by you. mind — mind what I’m saying. Job Wonder’s never said one thing and did another. If my women folks don’t like you, they’ll come ’round by an’ by to like you, and you’ve got a friend in me. mind. But you’ll find plenty to do—plenty. You won’t have no time to play with dolls at my hbuse. ” “Dolls! What's dolls?”\ Job turned square looked at her. “Dolls —why, just dolls, of course. Every girl knows what dolls are. I never seed a girl didn’t have a doll.” “I never had one—never seen a doll.” “Never seed a doll!” The idea was too much for Job. He looked at her, shook his head, and muttered to himself, “Never seed a doll!” unconsciously. “I say,” he added, suddenly, “what else have you got in that small parsel?” “Patches an’ thiugs—things all tangled up, colored yarns and old buttons.” “Buttons? You mean ribbons—purty ribbons, don't ye?” “Never had no purty ribbons. Yarns to darn my stockings. See!” She showed her stockings to him. “Earned ’em all myself. ” But Job Wonder did not look at them. He was thinking—wondering what sort of childhood it was that was ignorant of dolls and ribbons. When he reined up before his farmhouse (there was not a snugger or more inviting farmhouse in Acorn County than Wonder’s, or one that was kept in better order), and helped Joe out of the wagon, his movements were sharply scrutinized by two pairs of keen eyes. The eyes belouged to Mrs. Job Wonder and Job’s sister Samantha. - The women's eyes took in at a glance, first, “the belongings” of the girl The second glance revealed her disposition, Age and nationality. She was full of fire, apparently fourteen, and an American. Before Job was well out of the wagon with Joe, Samantha Wonder beckoned her sister-in-law. “Where in all the world did Job pick ' that crittur up?” Samantha's tone indicated disgust. “One would think he cou dn't find her i like in Acorn County,” Mrs. Wonder re- j plied. Then the women advanced to the door. “I’ve brought you more help.” said Job, as he entered the house. “Here’s the makin’ of a good woman, I’ll be bound. ” Mrs. Wonder made no response. Samantha sniffed her disapproval. Job quietly took Joe’s hand, and saying: “Come —I’ll show you where t,o put your things, Joe,” led the way to an in-! ner room. When he re-entered the i kitchen his sister said sharply: “You always was a master hand. What did you bring that girl here for? Where , did 6he come from—where did you pick ! her up?” “Yes,” chimed in his wife, “that's 1 what I want to know. Such a sight as she is. She hasn’t anything fit to wear. ” “That’s just why I brought her.” “Job Wonder! Whatever do you . mean?” “You’ve been tellin’ me you had too much work—l brought her to help you.” “Help! That girl a help!” Samantha turned up her nose in derision. “Yes —for to help. I brought her from Barnesville l oorhouse,”^ “Job Wonder! Have you gone crazy 9” “I guess not. But I’m goin’ to have my own way. She’s here —an’ to stay, ;

mind. To stay as long as she wants to. If she don’t suit me—l’ll stand it, I reckon. You women folks needn’t make any row about it!” “0,1 very well!” exclaimed Samantha, with another toss of the head. “Very well,” said his wife. “We ain’t barbarians. We sha’n’t put her out. But if I went to the poorhouse and brought a boy or girl here I’d not hear the last of it. You’ll be the talk of the township, Job ” “That for the whole county,” said Job, snapping his fingers Then he stepped out to see how his farm hands had taken care of his horses, and to discuss his farm affairs with his oldest farm-hand. When he returned to the house he found Joe in the yard, looking at the peacocks with great eves. There were i more chickens than she thought was in I the whole world—ducks, geese and tur- | keys strutting about. The fowl made j a great noise as they ran to the feed the men threw them The peacocks and | peahens were new to her—indeed nearly all that was there was new to poor Joe. “What's them?” she asked, pointing to the peacocks. “Peacocks. Purty, ain’t they?” “And them thing# without tails?” “Them's guinea hens.” “I never heard of them. All yours, Mr. Wonder?” “All mine. Now, you come in with i me and see if the folks hain’t got somei thing for us to eat. ” I She followed him in shyly. There : were five or six men—farm hands —looking at her. For the first time in her life poor Joe was disconcerted. The farm hands followed Mr. Wonder into the dining-room and seated themselves i at a long table. Such a table Joe never saw in her dreams. Her eyes sparkled as she looked over it. There was a pile of bread—beautiful white bread—at ea-h end of the table; such big slices, too. There were two heaped dishes —covered out of sight with brown biscuit. There was a largo, a very large, plate with ham on it. and another with cold chicken. There were so many things Joe couldn't remember them all. Plates of butter, and honey, and fried eggs, and preserves, and pitchers of milk. And such coffee! Joe never tasted

anything like it in all her life. Job Wonder was a man who grew the best of everything, got the best prices for his products, and enjoyed the very best at his own table. “There can’t be nothin’ too good for us as grows it,” Job was in the habit of telling his friends, whom he entsrtained with lavish hospitality, and husband and wife were in accord, for Mrs. Job Wonder delighted in the reputation she had acquired of being the most bountiful of housewives. “Here, now,” said Job, heaping upon poor Joe’s plate everything within reach —a greater quantity than she had been accustomed to receiving in two days—“you just make yourself to home. Nobody’s mindin’ you—they’ve as much as they can ’tend to helpin’ ov themselves. You must be mighty hungry after that long ride.” At first Joe only nibbled at her dainties. Then, seeing that no one observed her, she ate timidly; and then the odor of the viands —their toothsomeness and sweetness conquered all reserve, and she ate to repletion: ate until she felt ashamed of herself as she lookod at her plate. What seemed sufficient for three meals had disappeared. “Now, as soon as you’re a mind to, you can go to bed. We’re early risers hero, all on us. Mebbe you're not used to it.” “O, yes, 1 am. I a lus got up at five to the” —she was going to say Poorhouse, but she checked herself in time. “You dou't say! Well that’s as airly as we’ll want you, I reckon. Mrs. Wonder will tell you anything you want to know,’’said the farmer kindly as he lit his pipe and sat down on the back porch overlooking his broad acres. Joe looked out in the yard, at the chickens rustling among the trees, at the farm hands laughing and joking, then siiyiy asked the farmer’s wife if she would please tell her where she was to sleep. “Come right here,” said Mrs. Wonder, leading the way to an upper room. “If you want a candle, you can have it tonight I’ll leave this ” Then Joe was left alone in the clean white room. “My!” she exclaimed, “this must be like heaven!” She undressed s owly, very slowly, looking at the pictures on the wall. Then she looked at the bed in dismay. “Good gracious! How am I to got in there. It’s almost as high as my head.” She tried to climb in. and rolled back laughing to herself. Then she moved a chair alongside of the bed, turned the clothes down, ana hopped in. As she did so, she gave a littlp cry that was like a squeal. The feathery mountain rose ail around her. She was almost buried in the soft bed. “My goodness! There can't be nothing nicer than this in heaven!” She lay there laughing softly to herself, like a baby crowing or crooning in its waking morning hours. Then she became very, very drowsy, aud then Joe suddenly be -ame objivious to all the world. . She was sound asleep.

CHAPTER V. A NARROW ESCAPE. When Zeke Caper regained consciousness. he put a hand up and felt a lump on his head, and swore soft'y to himself. Then ho sat up and looked about him in a dazed way. He looked at the blood on the ground and the stains of blood on his shirt-bosom, and his expression once more was that of a murderer. “I II kill him if I ever get him in my power ” The Superintendent of Barnesville Poorhouse fairly gritted his teeth. “I’ll kill him—but 111 do it in my own time and way. I m not the man to risk the penitentiary or the gal ows. ” “Curse him—curse him through all eternity!” a favorite oath; “but I’u make him pay up for this.” He looked down the road. Was that somebody coining up? Yes. He could see them plainly—a group of men. He advanced to meet them They proved to be some farm hands and laborers on the public highway returning home. When they reached Zeke Caper, they stopped to speak to him. “Yes —no wonder you look at me. The 1 wonder is I’m here to look at. See 1 there. ” He bared his head. They looked at the lump on his head, at the bloody face. He presented a sickening spectacle He was really only a trifle the worse of the hurt, but he looked like a man whose head had been pounded to a jelly. Then the way Zeke Caper groaned and moaned! It was enough to move anyone “Who did it? Did they roll you?” “I dou't know. I haven’t looked. It was a boy—a boy who ran away from the poorhouse. I was trying to take him bock, and he took me unawares and I

thought he had murdered me. It was long ago. I laid on the road a long time. ” “What a devilish creature he must be." “An awful bad boy did that. ” “Ought to be hung." “He will be some day.” “Yes, he’s bound to hang. ” These were the comments Zeke’s tale elicited. “So you belong to the poorhouse?" “I’m Zeke Caper, the Superintendent. ” “What! the Superintendent! This is a mighty serious business, ” said one laboring man. His fellows nodded. “Which way did the boy go?” “I don't know. To Barnesville, I suppose.” “He’ll be caught—he’ll come to grief, ” said one. j “If we got our hands on him, you’ll ! get him back soon.” “I’ll let ihe law deal with him,” said j Caper. “I’m a law-abiding man ” “That’s more than most of us would say with that head. ” There was a chorus of sympathy now for the poor Superintendent. At that moment a farm hand espied a boy’s head peering at them above a fence rail. The boy was lying on the ground. The farm hand pretended to walk along without observing the boy, but all at once he shouted: “Here he is!” Instantly the remainder of the group ran in the direction he pointed. The boy ran as fast as he could. The pursuers sprang, clambered over, and crawled through the fence. They separated, and were not long in heading the boy off. The man who espied him first caught the boy roughly and flung him down. He would have done him bodily injury in his wrath, but a fellow checked his arm. “Look out. Don’t you kill h im. Leave that to the law. ” They took him back to the road. There, with Caper glaring at him, surrounded by men who regarded him as a murderer, Dick’s heart sank. For, as the reader has inferred, it was poor Dick. He felt like a murderer. He could not leave the scene of his crime, as he thought, and had stolen back to look at the Superintendent, when he was surprised, first upon beholding Caper sit up, then curiosity impelled him to remain and witness the meeting with the workmen. And this was the result. He would be put' in the penitentiary or returned to the poorhouse. Anything was preferable —death was preferable to Barnesville poorhouse. “What have you to say for yourself?” demanded Caper, grasping Dick's arm. “Nothing to you. ” Then, addressing the men near him, “Takb me to prison. I am ready to go anywhere but to the poorhouse. lam willing to let hind tell his storv, and if the judge will only listen to mine, whatever they do will be right. That man swore he would kill me. He tried to murder me, and I saved my life by hitting him with a stone.” “What a liar! Oh, what a liar that boy is,” said Zeke Caper, groaning. “Yes, you can tell that by looking at him,”,said one. “See here, mates,” said one who had hitherto been silent, “I’m not so sure about that How'd any of you like to live at the Poorhouse? Was you ever in a Poorhouse?” “No, I never was. ” Another and another said the same. “Well, I have been. I’ve been in BarnesvillePoorhouse,and I don’t like it. ” “Nobody does,” growled Caper. “I guess I made you work, and it didn’t suit you.” “No, you’re out there, Mr. Superintendent I was there helpin’ the plumbers—l worked there throe weeks, and the way you treat folks don’t suit me, nohow. You’ve got your own sweet will of them —and you wallop ’em right and left. I'm in favor of giving the boy a fair trial. If he calls me as a witness —why. I’ll go right willing, and tell all I know.”

“And what do you know?” demanded Caper, beginning to bluster. “Who are you that talks to me in this way?” “There! There! You see! You hear him,” retorted the man of spirit. “That's not a patching to the lordly airs I’ve seen him put on. I’ve seen him strike old men—yes I have, and women. Yes—l saw this man lick a little girl—they called her Joe ” “He was always abusing her until I took his mind off her, and then he’s been down on me ever since,” said Dick, with fire in his eyes. Caper discovered when too late that he had revealed his real disposition. He proteuded his head hurt him, but no one pitied him now. “Tell you what I believe, mates,” said the speaker, who manifested an independent spirit “If he’ll wash himself I’ve an idea he won't look much the worse. Smear me with blood and I’d ■ look awful, too.” Caper cursod him beneath his breath. “Look you, boy,” said the man who befriended him. “Do you want to go back with him?” “I’d sooner die!” exclaimed Dick. “Well, will we take you to Barnesville and put you in jail?” “I don’t care what becomes of me,” said Dick, desperately. The workman talked apart with his fellows. Caper meanwhile waked homeward. The man turned to Dick again. “You take my advice, now. Cut your hookey. Run for your life. If that fellow gets you in his clutches he’ll pay you off —he’ll do for you. If you’re caught near here, they’ll put you In jail; maybe send you to the penitentiary. I know what it is to have no friends. You get as far away as you can before morning, and keep moving—mind whatl say, keep moving. I was only blowing. They wouldn’t mind what I’d say In court He’d have it all his own way.” Dick looked alert. He was impressed, too, with the advice given him. “We'll keep quiet. Nobody'll hoar anything from us. He may tell. He s likely to get his clutch >s on you.” “I’m very much obliged to you,” said Dick. “You'll walk a little ways with us, so as to deceive him —then cut your stick.” This was the plan Dick pursued. W’hen he was a quarter of a mile on the road, he darted from the laborers, fled across a field, and once more disappeared in the fringe of timber land that he bad sought shelter in earlier in the day. (TO BE CONTINUED. |

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