Classic Audiobook Collection - The Calico Cat by Charles Miner Thompson ~ Full Audiobook [comedy]

Episode Date: July 4, 2023

The Calico Cat by Charles Miner Thompson audiobook. Genre: comedy In a quiet village where reputation is everything, Solomon Peaslee is determined to be taken seriously. He has his eye on public respectability, and he is especially pleased with the prospect of serving on the grand jury, a role that feels like proof he has finally arrived. But the one thing that reliably unmans him is a bold, trespassing calico cat that treats his property as its personal kingdom. One impulsive night, Solomon decides to end the nuisance for good, raising his shotgun at the cat on the fence. The blast misses its target and strikes something far more dangerous: a man lurking in the dark. In the stunned aftermath, Solomon scrambles to protect his standing, dodge suspicion, and keep the village from turning its sharp attention on him. As gossip spreads and half-truths multiply, the incident ripples outward, pulling neighbors and family into a tightening knot of fear, blame, and misplaced certainty. When a boy becomes entangled in the fallout, Solomon must face a conflict that no civic title can solve: whether preserving his image is worth the cost of his conscience. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 1 (00:22:10) Chapter 2 (00:46:26) Chapter 3 (01:07:14) Chapter 4 (01:26:14) Chapter 5 (01:43:02) Chapter 6 (02:04:40) Chapter 7 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Calico Cat by Charles Minor Thompson. Chapter 1. The Calico Cat Mr. Peasley looked more complacent than ever. It was Saturday noon, and Solomon had just returned from his usual morning sojourn up street. He had taken off his coat and was washing his face at the sink, while his wife was dishing up the midday meal. There was salt codfish, soaked fresh, and stewed in milk. Picked up, as the phrase goes. There were baked potatoes and a thin, pale-looking pie. Mrs. Peasley did not believe in pampering the flesh, and she did believe in saving every

possible scent. Well, said Mr. Peasley as they sat down to this feast, I guess I've got news for ye. his wife gazed at him with interest are ye drawled she asked got the notice from whitcomb right in my pocket grand juror september term ain't more than a week off the staccato utterance was caused by the big mouthfuls of codfish and potato which between phrases mr peaslee conveyed to his mouth it was plain to see that he was greatly pleased with his own his new dignity. What do they give ye for it? asked his wife. Solomon should accept no office which did not bring profit. Two dollars a day and mileage, said Mr. Peasley with the emphasis of one who knows he will make a sensation. Malage, what's that? Traveling expenses. State allows ye so much a mile. I get eight cents for going to the courthouse. You get eight cents every day?

Asked his wife, her eyes snapping. She was vague about the duties of a grand juror. Maybe he had to earn his two dollars, but she had exact ideas about the trouble of walking up street. To get eight cents for that was being paid for doing nothing at all, and she was much astonished at the idea. Likely now, ain't it? said Mr. Peasley with masculine scorn. State don't waste money that way.

My knowledge is to get you there and take you home again when terms over. You're supposed to stay round, tween wiles. Huh, said his wife, disappointed. They give ye $2 a day. She hazarded the shot. Just for setting round talking, don't they? Walkin's considerable more of an effort for most folks. Settin' around talking, exclaimed Mr. Peasley.

so indignant that he stopped eating for a moment, knife and fork upright in his rigid, scandalized hands, while he gazed at his thin, energetic, shrewish little wife. Setting round and talking, it's mighty important work, now I tell ye. I guess there wouldn't be much law and order if it went for the grand jury. They don't take none but men owe judgment.

Takes gumption, I tell ye. You have to pay money to get that kind. Well, said his wife with the air of one who concedes an unimportant point. Anyhow, it's good pay for a man whose time ain't worth anything. Ain't worth anything, exclaimed Mr. Peasley in hurt tones. Now, Serapty, you know better than that. I don't know how they'll get along without me up to the bank. They've got a pretty good idea of my judgment about mortgages.

pass any without my say-so. Mrs. Peasley sniffed, I've seen ye in the bank window sitting round with Jim Bartlett and C-Spooner and the rest of them reading the paper. That's all I ever see ye doing. Must be wearing on ye. Guess you never heard what was said, did ye?

Can't hear them thinking, I guess. They're mighty shrewd up to the bank, mighty shrewd. They had finished their codfish and, potato, and Mrs. Peasley, without giving much attention to her husband's testimony to the business acumen of his banking friends, and incidentally of himself, pulled the pale, thin pie toward her and cut it up. Pass up your plate, said she. When his plate was again in place before him, Mr. Peasley inserted the edge of his knife under the upper crust and raised it so he could get a better view of its contents. He had his suspicions of that pie. What he saw confirmed them. Between the crusts

was a thin, soft layer of some brown stuff, interspersed with spots of red. Them's the currents we had for supper the night before last, and that's the dried apple sauce we had for supper last night, he announced accurately, and you know how I like a proper pie. I ain't going to waste good victuals, said the wife with decision. There was silence for a moment. Solomon did not dare make any further protest. I suppose, his wife said, picking up again the threads of her thought, you'll have to wear your go-to-meet and suit all the time to the grand jury. I expect they'll be all war out at the end. That'll take off something. You be careful now, setting round's awful wearing on pants, you get a chair with a cushion, and don't ye go treating cigars, and don't ye go to the

hotel for your victuals. I ain't going to have ye spending your money when ye can just as well come home. Where are you going now? Mr. Peasley was putting on his coat. Well, he said, I kind of thought I'd step over to Eddard's. I thought maybe he'd be interested. Going to brag, are you? was his wife's remorseless comment. Much good it'll do ye, talking to that hatchet face. He ain't so pious as he looks, if all stories are true. But Mr. Peasley was already outside the door. She raised her voice shrilly.

You'll be back now. Then chickens got to be fed. Mr. Peasley sought a more sympathetic audience. Being drawn for the grand jury had greatly flattered. his vanity, for it encouraged a secret ambition which he had long held to get into public life. Service on the grand jury might lead to his becoming selectmen, perhaps Justice of the Peace, perhaps town representative from Elmington, who knew what else? He looked down a pleasant vista of increasing office, at the end of which stood the state capital. He could be senator, perhaps,

and he began planning his behavior as juror, the dignified bearing, the well-matured utterances, the shrewd cross-questioning. At the end of his service, his neighbors would know him for a man of solid judgment, a safe man, to be entrusted with weighty affairs. Mr. Peasley was 53 years old. He had a comfortable figure, a clean-shaven, round face, and blue eyes, much exaggerated for the spectator by the strong lenses of a pair of great spectacles. These, with his gray hair, gave him a benevolence of aspect which

somewhat misrepresented him. As a matter of fact, although good-humored and not without a still surviving capacity for generous impulse, he was only less near than his wife. Childishly vain, he bore himself with an air of

self-satisfaction, not without its charm for humorous neighbors. They said that they guessed he thought himself some pumpkins. Some pumpkins, most people admitted him to be, although how much of his money and how much of his shrewdness was really his wife's was a matter of debate among those who knew him best. At any rate, the Peasleys had made money. A few years before, they had sold their fat farm downriver advantageously and had bought the dignified White House in Elmington, in which they they have just been eating a dinner, which looks as if they were house poor.

That they were not. They had $30,000 in the local bank, partly invested in its stock. In Elmington, Mrs. Peasley was less lonely, and through Mr. Peasley was an unsuspected director in the bank and a shrewd user of the chances for profitable investment which her husband's association with the bank crowd opened to her. As for Mr. Peasley, he did not know that he himself was not the business head of the house. And his garden, his chickens, and his pleasant loafing in the bank window, kept him contently occupied.

For in spite of her shrewish tongue, Mrs. Peasley had taxed enough to let her husband have the credit for her business acumen. I ain't going to let on, she said to herself, that he ain't just as good as the rest of, of him. She had her pride. As Mr. Peasley stepped along the straight walk which divided his neat lawn and opened the neat gate in his neat white fence, he met Sam Barton, the broad-shouldered, good-humored giant, who was constable of Elmington. Sam gave him a smiling, How are you, squire? As he passed. Guess he's heard, said Mr. Peasley to himself. pleased yet as a matter of fact the greeting was not different from that which Sam had given him daily for the past three years once on the sidewalk mr. Peasley turned to the

right toward the house of his neighbor mr. Edwards Edwards was a younger man than Peasley perhaps 47 his business was speculating in lumber and cattle and in the interest of this he was constantly passing and repassing the Canadian border which was not far from Elmington. In the intervals between his trips, he was much at home. He was a stern, silent, secretive man, and simply because he was so closed mouth, there was much guessing and gossip, not wholly kind, about his affairs. Mr. Peasley found the front door of the Edwards' house, standing open in the trustful village fashion, and, with neighborly freedom, walked in without ringing. He turned first into the sitting room where he found no one, and then into a rear room opening from it.

This obviously was a boy's den. On the table in the center were a checkerboard, some loose string, a handful of spruce gum, some scattered marbles, a broken jackknife, a cap, a shot pouch, an old bird's nest, a powder flask, a dog-eared copy of Caesar's commentaries, open, and a Latin. dictionary also open. In a corner stood a fishing rod in its cotton case. Along the walls were ranged bait boxes, a fishing basket, a pair of rubber boots, and a huge wasps nest. Leaning against the sill of the open window was a double-barreled shotgun and on the sill itself were some black, greasy rags and a small bottle of oil. Various truths might be inferred from the disarray. One

One was that Mr. Edwards was generous to his son Jim, and another was that there was no Mrs. Edwards. Further, it might easily be enough guessed that Jim had been lured from the study of Latin, in which pretty Miss Weyer, who was his teacher at the Union School, was trying to interest him, by the attractive idea of oiling his gun barrels, and that something still more attractive, perhaps a boy with crossed fingers, for it was not too late for swimming, had lured him from that, at any rate Jim was not there. Mr. Peasley still bent on finding Mr. Edwards moved toward the open window, but he could see no signs of life anywhere.

None of the household was, however, far away. Jim was in the loft of the barn where he was carefully examining a barrel of early apples with a view to filling his pockets with the best. The housekeeper had merely stepped across the street to borrow some yeast, And Mr. Edwards, who had a headache, was lying down in the chamber immediately above Jim's den. Mr. Peasley stood and gazed. He eyed and turned the kitchen, L, the shed, and the barn, and then gazed out over the Posi garden, where still bloomed a few lake flowers, of which he recognized only the shiny asters. He looked toward what he himself would have called the Sars Garden,

with its cabbages, turnips, rustling corn stalks, and drying tomato vines. Seeing no one there, he sent his gaze to the distant rows of apple trees, bright with ripening fruit. Disappointed, he was about to turn away, but he could not resist taking a complacent, sweeping view of his own adjoining possessions. There, on the right, ran the long line of his own dwelling, continued by the five foot, board fence separating his garden from Mr. Edwards's. This stood up gauntly white until near the orchard, where it was completely hidden by the high feathery stalks of the asparagus bed, by a row of great sunflowers, now heavy and bent, with their disc-like seed pods, and by a clump of lilac

bushes. As his eye traveled along the white expanse, he gave a quick start, and his face clouded with vexation. There in the sun, prone upon the top of the fence, dozed the bane of his life, the calico cat. Her coat was made up of patches of yellow and white, varied with a black stocking on her right hind leg and a large, round, black spot about her right eye, which gave her peculiarly predatory and disreputable appearance. Solomon had disliked her at sight. Solomon had disliked her at sight. Ever since he had bought the house in Elmington, he had been trying to drive her from the premises, but stay away she would not. Not all the missiles in existence could convince her that his house was not a desirable place of abode, and she was a constant vexation and

annoyance. She jumped from the fence, plump into the middle of newly planted flower beds. She filled the hay-mow with kittens. She asked all her friends to the barn, where she gave elaborate musical parties at hours more fashionably late than were tolerated in Elmington. Whenever she had indigestion, she ate off the tops of the choicest green things that grew in the garden. But when her appetite was good, she caught and devoured his young chickens. Moreover, when at bay, she frightened him. Once he had cornered the spitting creature in a stall, claws out tail big fur all on end she had leaped straight at his head which he ducked and landing squarely upon it had steadied herself there for a moment with sharp protruding claws thence she had jumped to a feed box thence to a beam thence to the mow from the dusky recesses of which she had glared at him with those big green menacing eyes not since that experience which

in spite of his soft hat, had left certain marks upon his scalp, had he ever attempted to catch her. Instead, he had borrowed a gun, and a dozen times had fired at her. But although he counted himself a fair shot, he had never made even a scant bit of fur fly from her disreputable back. And now he knew she laughed at him. Yes, laughed at him, for she had more than human intelligence. There was something demoniac in her cleverness, her immunity from harm, her prodigious energy, her malevolent mischief, her raillery. Actually, he had grown morbid about the beast. He had a superstitious feeling that in the end she would bring him bad luck, how he hated her. There she lay with eyes shut, unsuspecting, comfortable, and basked in the warm September sunshed

here at his hand was a double-barreled shotgun. The chance was too good. This vagrant, this outlaw, this trespasser, this thief. He cataloged her misdeeds in his mind as he clanged the ramrod down the barrels to see if the piece was loaded. It was not, but ammunition was at hand. He put in a generous charge from Jim's powder flask and rammed it home with a paper wad. He grabbed up the shot pouch and released that proper charge into his hand. He was disappointed. It was a bird shot. Scattering as it would scatter. It could do that cat no harm. Nevertheless, he poured the pellets into the barrel. As he rammed home the paper wad on top of these, his eyes caught the marbles lying on the table. He took one that fitted and rammed that home also, for luck. He placed a cap, lifted the gun,

to his shoulder and fired. With a leap which sent her six feet into the air, the calico cat landed four square in Mr. Peasley's chicken yard, almost on the back of the dignified rooster, which fled with a startled squawk. She dodged like lightning across the chicken yard, between cackling and clattering hens, went up the wire netting walls,

leaped to the roof, paused, considered, began to reflect that she had been shot at before, and to wonder at her own fright, stopped, and sitting down on the ridgepole, looked inquiringly in Mr. Peasley's direction. She was, of course, entirely unharmed, but other matters were claiming Mr. Peasley's attention. Out from behind the screen formed by the asparagus plumes, the current bushes, the sunflowers, and the lilacs, all of which grew not so far from the spot on the fence where the calico cat had been sitting, fell a man. Solomon had a mere glimpse. Standing behind taller bushes, the stranger had fallen behind lower ones, and only while his falling figure was describing the narrow segment of a circle had he been visible.

But the glimpse was enough. Mr. Peasley's jaw dropped. his face turned white, but the next moment he gave a great sigh of relief. He saw the man rise and slip into cover of the bushes and so disappear through the orchard. He had not, then, killed the fellow. Relieved of that fear, he thought of himself. What would people say were he charged with firing at a man?

He, a respectable citizen, a director in the bank, a grand juror, they must not know. He silently laid the gun back against the window seal, turned with infinite care, and tiptoed quickly back into the sitting room, into the hall, into the street. Not a soul was visible.

Nevertheless, such was Mr. Peasley's agitation, so strongly did he feel the need of silence, that placing a shaking hand upon the fence to steady himself, he tiptoed along the sidewalk all the way, way to his own house. There, the fear of his wife struck him. He was in no condition to meet that sharp-eyed, quick-tonged lady. He softly entered the front door and penetrated to the dark parlor, where, as no one would ever enter it except a funeral or wedding, he felt safe from intrusion. There he sank down upon the slippery horsehair lounge and staring helplessly at the severe portrait of

Mrs. Peasley, done by a lugubrious artist in crayon, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and tried to collect his scattered faculties. Woo! He breathed. Woo! And of Chapter 1. Chapter 2 of the Calico Cat. This is a Libravox recording.

All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Calico Cat by Charles Minor Thompson. Chapter 2 Meanwhile, at the Edwards house, life had grown suddenly interesting. When the report of the gun reached Jim, he had stopped pawing over the apple barrel and was sitting on the upper step of the staircase at the extreme end of the loft,

slowly munching an apple and thinking. Jim was a healthy, active boy, with no more sense than naturally belongs to a boy of 15, and with a lively imagination, which had been most unfortunately overstimulated. Without a mother, and with a father who paid him scant attention, he read whatever he liked, and as a result his head was full of romantic road agents, delightfully kind to little crippled daughters at home, fierce pirates who supported aged and respectable mothers and considerate bandits who restored valuable watches when told that they were prized on account of tender associations. His imagination had been still further fed by certain local legends and happenings, highly colored enough

to excite the keenest interest. Elmington is, as has been said, near the Canadian border. The place abounds in tales of smuggling and the popular gossip. As gossip everywhere has a pleasing way of doing, associate the name of the most respectable and unlikely people with disreputable ventures of the smugglers. Of course, a story of contraband trade is the more striking if the narrator can hint that the judge of probate, or the most stern of village deacons, might tell a good deal if he were disposed. and there are always persons ready to give this sort of interest to their yarns. In Elmington lived Jake Farnham, an ex-deputy Marshal, and an incorrigible liar, about whom gathered the boys, Jim among them, to hear exciting stories of chase and detection,

exactly as boys in a seaport town gather about an old sailor to hear tales of pirates and buccaneers. and Jake loved to hint darkly that the best people shared in the illicit traffic. With it all, Jim's sense of right and wrong was in a fair way to become hopelessly mixed. Exactly as all boys at the seashore are prone to believe that a pirate is, on the whole, an admirable character, so these border boys, and especially Jim, had come to feel only with more excuse because of the generally indulgent view of the community, that smuggling is an occupation in which anyone may engage with credit, and which is much more interesting than most. Now, it is not likely that Jim's father, a stern, secretive, obviously prosperous man,

with an intermittent business, which took him back and forth across the border, could, in all this gossip, escape a touch of suspicion. No one, of course, denied that he really did deal in most. lumber and cattle. The fact was obvious, but there were hints and whispers, shrewd shakings of the head, and more than one guess that all Edwards' profits didn't come from cattle, no, nor lumber, neither. Laterally, these whispers had become more definite. Pete Lemore, a French-Canadian, whom Mr. Edwards had hired as a drover, and abruptly discharged, was spreading stories about his former employer, which made Blackbeard the pirate seem like a babe in comparison. Pete was not a

very credible witness, but still, building upon a suspicion that already existed, he succeeded in adding something to its substantiality. These stories had come to Jim's ears, and Jim was delighted. The consideration that, were the stories true, his father was a criminal, did not occur to him at all. Like the foolish romantic boy he was, he was simply pleased to think of his father as a man of iron determination, cool wit, unshakable courage, whom no deputy sheriff could overmatch, and who was leading a life full of excitement and danger, the smuggler king. The only thing that Jim regretted was that his father did not let him share in these exploits. He knew he could be useful, but his father's manner was habitually so forbidding that Jim did not dare, hint a knowledge of these probable undertakings, much less any desire to share them.

Poor Mr. Edwards, he loved his boy, but he did not in the least know how to show it. Silent, with a sternness of demeanor, which he was unable wholly to lay aside, even in his friendliest moments, much away from home, and unable to, to meet the boy on his own level when he was there, deprived of the wife, who might have been his interpreter, he had no way of becoming acquainted with his son. Anxious in some way to share in Jim's life, he took the clumsy and mistaken method of letting him have too much pocket money. Yet if Jim, thus unguided and over-indulged,

had gone astray in his conduct, Mr. Edwards was not the man to know his mistake and take the way. the blame. He had in him a rigidity of moral judgment, a dryness of mind, which made it certain that if Jim did do what he disapproved, he would visit upon him a punishment at once, severe and unsympathetic. The man's air of cold strength excited in the sun fear as well as admiration. His reserve kept his naturally affectionate boy at more than arm's length. Poor Mr. Edwards, Poor Jim! Misunderstanding between them was as sure to occur as the rise of tomorrow's son. Pat on, Jim's speculation about his father's stirring deeds, the gunshot came echoing through the silent barn.

Jim ran to the loft door and looked out. He saw smoke curling up from the window of his den and knew that it was his own gun that had been fired. Back in the room, a vague, masculine figure moved hastily out of the door. Jim looked toward the orchard and caught sight of another man disappearing in the trees. He was wild with excitement. As he knew that his father was the only person in the house, he was sure his father had fired the shot. The tales that he had heard, his belief in his father's life of adventure,

made him conclude that here was some smuggler's quarrel so vividly did the notion take possession of his inflamed imagination that nothing henceforth could shake it. He simply knew what had happened. And his father had fled, leaving all the evidences of his shot behind him. Jim's loyal heart bounded. Here he could help. He turned, raced across the loft, clattered down the steep, cobwebby stairs, slipped through the shed passage, through the kitchen,

and on into its own room. He knew what to do. Nothing must show that the gun had ever been used. He set feverishly to work. He swabbed out the weapon and hung it on its rack over the mantle. He tossed the rags into the fireplace and covered them with ashes. He put the shot pouch and the powder flask into their proper drawer. Then he pulled a chair to the table and set himself to a pretended study of Caesar.

If anyone should come, it would look as if he had been quietly studying all the morning. All this had cost considerable self-denial, for of course he boiled with curiosity about the man in the orchard. He did not dare to go out there, but now, stealthily glancing out of the window, he saw his father returning from the garden with long strides. Jim understood His father, going out the front door, had slipped round to the side of the house so that it would look as if he had come from the street. He was not surprised that his father looked stern and angry.

That fellow must have done something mighty mean, he thought, to make his father shoot. And he admired at once the magnanimity and the skill which had merely winged the man, as he supposed by way, presumably, of teaching him a lesson. Then, struck by the boldness and openness of his father's return to the house, Jim suddenly felt that he had been foolish, that the cleaning of the gun had not been needed. What man would dare, after such a lesson, to complain against his father?

Mr. Edwards walked straight into Jim's room, aroused from his nap by the shot, he had leaped to the window and seen the man fall. He had then turned and run downstairs so quickly that he had not seen the fellow half-rise and crawl into the bushes. And having reached the spot, he was much relieved, if somewhat staggered, to find nobody. He did find tracks, for this was a plowed ground, but they told him nothing of the wounded man, except that he had left in a hurry on a pair of rather large feet. He looked about for a while and then started toward the house. determined to have an explanation with Jim. He knew Jim's gun by the sound of its report and felt no doubt that the boy had fired the shot. What sort of culpable accident had happened? Suffering still with the splitting headache which he had been trying to sleep off, angry with Jim for his carelessness, concerned lest the man were really injured, Mr. Edwards was in his least compromising mood.

how did it happen? He asked, without preface. His tones were harsh, and he fixed Jim with stern eyes. How did it happen? Repeated Jim in pure surprise. Certainly his father knew much better than he how it had happened. Speak out, said Mr. Edwards impatiently. How did you come to shoot that man?

I want to know about it. Me, cried Jim and completely, bewilderment. I haven't shot any man, father. You know I haven't. Mr. Edwards, never a man of nice observation, and now bewildered with anger and headache, took his son's genuine astonishment for mere pretense and subterfuge. Were not the facts plain? I don't want any nonsense about this, he said incisively, I heard your gun. I saw the man fall. No one else but you could possibly have fired it. It's useless to lie and I won't stand it. Tell me at once what happened. I didn't shoot him, father. You know I didn't. Reiterated Jim, more and more dumbfounded.

I don't know how it happened. Honest engine. I don't, father. Mr. Edward's mouth shut tight. He swept the room with his eyes until they rested upon the gun in the rack. over the mantelpiece. He stepped forward, took it down, and examined it. Holding it in his hands, he gazed about the floor. A rag, which the ashes in the fireplace had not wholly covered, caught his attention. You cleaned the gun and put it away, he said grimly. Then you tried to hide the rag with which you cleaned it. And he touched the bit of cloth sticking from the ashes contemptuously with his foot. What do you expect me to think from that?

Jim was silent. The boy was unlike his father in many ways, but they were alike in this. They both were proud. Each would meet an unjust accusation in silence. And Jim was beginning to show another of his father's characteristics. A still anger was beginning to burn in him against this man who accused him of a deed which he himself had done,

and he felt rising within him a stubborn will to endure, not to surrender. If his father was going to act like that, why let him? Where is your shot pouch? asked Mr. Edwards. Jim motioned toward the drawer. Is your powder flask there too? Yes. Mr. Edward was silent.

After all, he was a gentleman. just man. He was trying as well as his headache would let him to see things straight. It's plain what happened, he said at last. You had an accident and got frightened. You cleaned your gun. You hid the rags. You put away your ammunition. You got your books and pretended to study. You were afraid to tell the truth now. Jim's face flushed hotly, but he kept silent. Such assurance, such cruelty he had never imagined. If this was what smugglers were like, if this was a sample of their tricks,

I'll give you one more chance to tell the truth, said Mr. Edwards. Did you do it? No, I didn't, said Jim, and his jaw snapped closed like his fathers. Very well, said Mr. Edwards. I'll leave you until you change your mind. you will stay here. Sarah will bring you bread and milk at suppertime. If you're willing to talk to me

then, you may tell her that you'd like to see me. He turned to go, Ben paused. It's a serious matter, and all the facts are against you. It would go hard with you in court. It will go harder if you stick to your stubborn and foolish lie. One thing more, if you don't choose to tell the truth, you will have to reckon with the law as well as with me. Mr. Edwards, upon this, shut the door and departed. His was a stern figure, but the hurt within was very sore. This then, he reflected bitterly, was the kind of boy he had. He suffered deeply at the discovery, which for him was unquestionable.

Jim felt outraged. He had done his loyal best to save his. his father from the consequences of his rash act, and now, with incredible ingenuity and cool injustice, his father was using his son's acts of helpfulness to make it appear that he had done the deed. Without a scruple, his father had made him a scapegoat. Jim told himself that he would gladly had taken the blame, had his father, as chief of the band, demanded the sacrifice of this, his devoted follower. Nay, more,

he would have endured the ordeal without a murmur, had his father, deeming it unsafe to enter into formal explanations, only hinted to him that this was a farce, which they too must play together. If his father had only winked at

him, surely he might have done that with safety, but not to be admitted to the secret, not to be allowed to play the heroic part, to be used as an ignoble tool by a father who neither loved him nor knew his courage, that was too much. He would not betray his father. No, a thousand times no. But the day would come. The afternoon dragged on. Jim sat there in his room, looking out into the pleasant sunshine,

conscious that the boys were playing three old cat in the field not far away. as rebellious and magnanimous, as hot and angry, as heroic and morally muddled a boy as one could wish to see. And looking at the affair from his point of view, not many people will blame him. It is delightful, of course, to have a pirate chief forefather, but what if he makes you walk the plank? It is amusing to think of Mr. Peasley and Jim each shut up in his respective room. But if Mr. Peasley, in his gloomy parlor, faced by the crayon portrait of his masterful wife, a vase of wax flowers under a glass dome, the family Bible on a marble-topped table, and three stiff horsehair-covered chairs, had the advantage of being able to leave at any moment.

He was even more perturbed in mind. Terrible awkward mess! He kept repeating to himself as he mopped his damp forehead with his handkerchief. terrible awkward. And indeed, it would be awkward for a respectable citizen with political aspirations to be accused before a grand jury of which he is a member of assault with a dangerous weapon upon an inoffensive man. Mr. Peasley's reflections rose in a strophe of hope and fell in an antistrophe of despair. "'Tain't likely it hurt him any. Just a bird shot.' said hope. Bird shots mighty irritating, especially to a ratty fella, said despair.

And alternating thus, his thoughts ran on. Bird shot will show I didn't have any serious intent, but maybe a piece of the marble struck him. He went off mighty lively. Don't seem as if he'd been hurt much, more scared hurt, likely, but he might have been hurt bad, arm or something, maybe. Marble. Taint anything but baked clay. Split all the pieces probably, but you can't tell. I've heard ye can sheep a taller candle through an inch plank, and that's considerable softer than a marble, and that pesky catch just as frisky as ever. Had anyone seen him? There certainly had not been anyone in the street, but where had been Mr. Edwards? Jim. The house of housekeeper. Where had his own wife been? There were windows from which she might have seen him

returning, some from which she might even have seen him fire the fatal shot. But pshaw, there now, probably no one had seen him at all. Not even his wife, not even his victim. Probably no one would ever find out. Must have been some worthless feller stealing apples, maybe, who won't dare make a fuss. tain't likely i'll ever hear anything of it tain't no use saying anything till something happens what folks don't know hurt em none the structure of comfort which he thus built himself was shaky indeed but it had to serve he nerved himself to meet his wife he must not excite her suspicion by too long an absence she was doubtless full of curiosity for of course she had heard the shot and would expect him to know what it meant. It would not do to seem to enter the house by the front door, sacred to formal occasions,

so sneaking outdoors again, he slipped round to the side of the house, and with much trepidation went into the kitchen. His wife began the moment she saw him. Well, of all the crazy carryings on, she cried. What's the Eddard's boy firing off guns for, right under peaceable folks windows, I'm going to speak to Mr. Edd's right off.

Now don't she, Sarah Pee, don't she? Said Mr. Peasley in alarm. Relieved as he was to find himself unsuspected, he did not like the idea of having his wife pick a quarrel with Mr. Edwards for what he himself had done. The less said about that shot, the better he would be pleased. For the land's sake,

why not I should like to know? Well, now, Serapity, I wouldn't. That Eddard's boy ain't more of a boy than most boys, I guess. Always seemed a real peaceable little feller. And Eddard's is kinder touchy, I guess. It might make hard feeling. Twouldn't look well for us to speak, being newcomers, so. I wouldn't, Sarah Pity, I wouldn't.

Maybe sometime I'll slide in a word. Just slide it in a kind of easy. if he does it again. And Mr. Peasley looked appealingly at his wife through his big spectacles, his eyes looking very large and pathetic through the strong lenses. Huh, said his wife, unmoved. I ain't afraid of Eddard's if you be. Nor could she be moved from her determination.

Mr. Peasley was vastly disturbed, but presently he forgot this small annoyance in greater one. That evening after tea, when he went up to the post office, he heard that Pete LeMoury had been shot by Jim Edwards and was now in bed with his wounds. Jim's arrest was predicted. Young Farnsworth, who kept the crockery store, told him the news. And presently, Jake Hibbard, the worst shyster in the village, shuffled in, noticeable anywhere for his suit of rusty black, his empty sleeve pinned to his coat, the green patch over his eye and his tobacco-stained lips.

He confirmed the report. Pete's hurt bad, he said, shaking his head. Hurt bad, I've taken his case. Young Edwards is going to see trouble. The speech frightened poor Mr. Peasley, and he was hardly reassured by the skeptical smile of Squire Tucker, and his remark that he would believe that Lamori was hurt when he saw him. the squire had small faith in either lemory or hibbard he knew them both but mr peaslee returned home with dragging feet silent and preoccupied all the evening he went to bed early but not to sleep

long he lay awake and tossed while the calico cat wailed on the rear fence exultant triumphant insulting and when he finally did get to sleep he dreamed that he wased that he was a little bit of his own was being prosecuted in court by was it Jake Hibbard with the green patch over his eye or the calico cat with the black patch over hers he could not tell study the fantastic ominous

figure of his prosecutor as he would end of chapter two chapter three of the calico cat this is a librivox recording all Libravox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer

here, please visit Libravox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Calico Cat by Charles Minor Thompson. Chapter 3 Immediately after breakfast on Monday morning, Mr. Peasley, in a mood of desperate self-sacrifice, started uptown to buy a knife for Jim. All day long on Sunday,

when he had nothing to do but think, he had struggled between his fear of exposure and his sorrow for the boy. The upshot was a determination to make it up to him by giving him a knife. He had in his mind's eye a marvel, staghorn handle, four blades, saw, owl, owl, all, file, hoof hook, corkscrew, such a knife as that, he felt, would console any boy for being arrested. Most likely it will end right there, he said to himself. i guess i'd better go to farley's he thought as he walked along farley owes money to the bank he won't dare stick it on like the rest but when he entered the store and looked about his face fell mr farley was not there willie potter farley's clerk a young man peculiarly distasteful to solomon lounged forward with a toothpick in his mouth

mr peaslee had half a mind to go but the thought of poor jim held him back what will you have to-day mr peaslee inquired willie affably he winked at young danny snow who sat down grinning on a keg of nails as much as to say watch me have some fun with the old man I thought maybe I'd look at some jack knives said Solomon eyeing Willie distrustfully yes sir I guess you won't the best regardless of expense said Willie impudently he well understood his customers dislike for spending a penny stepping behind the counter he drew from the showcase and held up admiringly the most costly knife in the store here now what do you say to this very superior article best horn ten blades best razor steel three fifty and cheap at the price can't be beat this side of Boston just the

article for you sir and he winked again at Danny Snow who was pink with suppressed merriment well now well now said Solomon taking the knife in his hand and pretending to examine it closely. That's a pretty knife to be sure, to be sure, real showy, ain't it? It looks as if it made to sell. All outside and no money in the bank, like some young fellers, you see. Danny Snow, giggling outright, Mr. Peasley turned and gazed at him in mild inquiry. Young Potter turned a dull red. He was addicted to radiant, cravets and gauzy silk handkerchiefs, and from his salary of $8 a week, he did not save much. But just the same, Mr. Peasley had been staggered at the price.

Pretending still to examine the knife, which Willie had given him, he squinted past it at the contents of the glass showcase on which his elbows rested. There, all sorts of knives confronted him, each in its little box, in which was stuck a car. stating the price, $1.50, $1.25, $0.95. The cheapest one would eat up the proceeds of three dozen eggs at $0.15 a dozen, a good price for eggs. He had forgotten that knives cost so much. A good knife ain't any use to a boy, he reflected, break it in a day, lose it in a week. T'n't be any real kindness to him, just wasting money. he pointed finally to a stubby wooden-handled knife with one big blade marks twenty-five cents there now said he that's what i call a knife good and strong and no fold the roll guarantee the steel don't he he opened the blade and drew it speculatively across his calloused old thumb while with his mild blue eyes which his spectacles enormously exaggerated he fixed the humbled willie

that's a good knife for the money said the young man hand forged show now ye don't say so said mr peaslee i guess ye give a discount don't ye farley always allows me a little somethin you can have it for twenty-one cents said willie much irritated charge it guess i'd better pay cash mr peaslee answered hastily if it were charged his wistly his wisered his wisered his wisered wife would question the item. Producing an enormous wallet, very worn and very flat, from his cavernous pocket, he deliberately searched until he found a Canadian ten-cent piece, and adding to it enough to make up the price, handed it to Potter and left the store. Mr. Peasley, who remembered no gift from his father, other than a very occasional big copper sent, thought himself pretty generous. Had he not spent pretty nearly the price of two dozen eggs?

But now a question occurred to him, which he had not thought of before. How was he to get the knife to Jim? A gift from him would excite surprise, perhaps suspicion. It must not be known who had sent it. Ah, there was the post office. Going in, he pushed the little box through the bar, window. Say Cyrus, he said to the postmaster, kinder weigh up this consignment for me, will ye? The postmaster weighed the box. That will cost you six cents, he said. Thank you, returned Mr. Peasley, dropping the box into his deep pocket, departed. Half a dozen eggs more to get it to his next door neighbor. Tain't right, he muttered. Taint right. uncertain what to do with his gift but feeling on the whole pretty virtuous mr peaslee now started home he thought that jim would not be going to school but would wait at home for the threatened coming of the constable but still he was not sure and he wanted to keep the boy under his eye

suddenly he straightened there was judge amos walking up the street valise in hand just from the early morning train he had come a few days before the opening of court mr peaslee knew him slightly and stood much in awe of him he was greatly pleased when the judge stopped and shook hands with him i'm glad to hear mr peaslee said the judge in his precise lawyer-like utterance that you are to be on the grand jury. We need men like you there. Thank you, Judge, said Mr. Peasley, overcome. And he walked on home, quite convinced that a person of his importance in the community should not be sacrificed to the comfort of any small boy. And I've done right by the little feller, I've done right, he assured himself, feeling for the knife.

As he turned into his own yard, he cast an anxious. anxious eye over to the Edwards house. There sat Jim, elbows on knees, chin on hands, staring into space. Jim was thinking that his father, had he been a pirate chief, would not have wiped a filial tear from his eye whenever he thought of his mother, and the boy's face showed it. The spectacle greatly depressed, Mr. Peasley. The smallest, faintest question entered his mind whether a 25-cent knife would console such melancholy. To give himself a countenance while he watched events, Solomon got a rake and began gathering together the few autumn leaves

which had fluttered down in his front yard. It was not useless labor, for they would come in handy later in banking up the house. And so, presently, he saw Sam Barton, the constable, his big shoulders ruling as he walked, advancing down the street, greet. Mr. Peasley expected him. Nevertheless, his appearance gave him a disagreeable shock. Suppose the constable had been coming for him. Ain't arresting anybody down this way, be ye? He called with a feeble attempt at jocularity. Perhaps, after all, looks like it, said Barton succinctly.

Mr. Peasley stepped to the fence. "'Tain't likely they'll do much to a little feller like that, I guess,' he said, searching the constable's face. "'Dun no,' said Barton, passing on. Solomon, much concerned, leaned on his rake and watched him enter the Edwards' house. Jim had disappeared. There was some delay. Mrs. Peasley came to the door. "'Arresting that Eddard's boy be they Solomon?' she said.

"'Well, serve him right, I say.' shooting guns off so like father like son i dunno as twas the son i'd soon believe it of the father everybody knows lemore and he's been mixed up together some of his smuggling tricks probably mrs peaslee had taken a violent dislike to her taciturn neighbor and she did not care who knew it her shrill voice seemed to her husband painfully loud and indeed it was beginning to attract the attention of the group of children who had gathered about the Edwards gate. Shh, hissed Solomon. Edards might hear ye. T'would hurt us if he should take his account out of the bank. H-h! exclaimed Mrs. Peasley. Well, she added, you go to the hearing, just as is something, I guess.

But she said no more, and with her husband and the children awaited events. A silent group in the silent street before the silent house. The children's eyes grew bigger and bigger with excitement. Was not Jimmy Edwards going to be arrested for murder? The horrid whisper ran. One small boy, beginning to whimper, asked if Jimmy was going to be hung. The occasion was solemn, even to the older eyes of Mr. Peasley. Supposing it was me, he said to himself.

presently mr edwards jim and the constable emerged from the house jim looked white and frightened but was bravely trying to bear himself like a man mr edwards his long shaven upper lips stiff as a board looked stern and uncompromising barton was as big and good-humored as ever he turned upon the little boys and girls and waving his arm cried scat they fell back about ten feet Thus the procession formed, Barton and Jim, then Mr. Edwards, and, at a barely respectful distance, the crowd of youngsters. Mr. Peasley, much moved, but trying hard not to show it, thrust his rake under the veranda with a great show of care, and joined Mr. Edwards, much to that gentleman's surprise. Solomon's heart was throbbing with a great resolution. I always aim to be neighborly, said he, nervously lowering his voice, for he was conscious of his wife, still standing on the veranda. Thought I'd just step along, too. I collate maybe you'd like some company on his bail bond. And he jerked his thumb toward Jim. It was out. He was committed, and Solomon heaved a great sigh. He knew not whether of relief or dismay.

There was not indeed any risk in signing with Edwards, who was good for any bell that the justice was likely to require, but what would Mrs. Peasley say if she knew? He glanced apprehensively toward the house. His wife had gone in, but evil omen there, sitting on the fence post, was the calico cat. She was placidly washing her face, and as her paw twinkled past the big black spot round her right eye, she appeared, at that distance, to be greeting him with a derisive wink. Mr. Edwards, although his mouth shut tighter than ever at the mention of bail, was surprised and touched. Thank you, he said.

It's kind of you to think of it. In the village, Sam ushered them into the musty office of Squire Tucker, Justice of the Peace. The squire was a large, fat man, clothed in rusty black, with a carelessly nodded string tie pendant beneath a rumpled turned-down collar. He had a smooth, shaven, fat face, lighted by shrewd and kindly eyes, which gleamed at you now through, now over, his glasses. When the party entered he was riding, and merely looked up under his big eyebrows, long enough to wave them all to chairs. Jim sat down with the constable behind him, and his father at his left, and studied the man in whose hands he thought that his fate rested.

He watched the squire's pen go from paper to ink, ink to paper, and listened to it scratch, scratch, scratch, and to the buzz of a big fly against the dirty window pane. Ashamed to look at anyone, he looked at the lawyer's big ink well, a great circular affair of mottled brown wood. It had several openings, each one with its own little cork attached with a short string to the side of the stand. He had never seen one like it before. Then someone entered the room. Jim, looking sideways, recognized Jake Hibbard and began covertly to study his face.

He knew that this flabby-faced, dirty man, with the little screwed-up eyes and the big screwed-up mouth, stained brown at the corners with tobacco, was Pete Lamourri's lawyer. Familiar for many years to his contemptuous young eyes, Jake now looked sinister and dangerous. What were these men going to do to him? Amid his fluttering emotions and rushing thoughts, one thing only stood fixed and clear. He would not tell on his father. Someday, when all trouble was passed, he would let his father know that he knew all the time. Then he guessed his father would be sorry and ashamed. Now, since his father would not take him into his confidence, he would pretend he did the shooting. That would be his only revenge.

Finally, Squire Tucker, pushing his writing aside, ran his fingers through the great mass of his tumbled gray hair and looked quizzically at Jim over his glasses. So this, he said, is the hardened ruffian of whom our esteemed fellow citizen, Mr. Lamori, complains? and indeed Jim, although stubborn, did not seem very dangerous. The squire looked about the room. Is he represented by counsel? he asked. No, I represent him, said Mr. Edwards.

The charge against him is assault with intent to kill, I believe. And he looked with demure inquiry at Jake Hibbard, who nodded with a wrath-clouded face. Tucker was not taking the case seriously. Well, young man, said the justice to Jim. What's your explanation of this? We'll waive examination, said Mr. Edwards briefly. The squire leaned back in his chair. I suppose, he said, with evident reluctance,

I shall have to hold him for the grand jury, but I guess the safety of the community won't be greatly threatened if I'd let him out on bail. I should think a couple of hundred would do. I suppose there'll be no difficulty about the bond. The tone of the proceedings suited Mr. Peasley well. In his nervousness and abstraction, he had backed up to the rusty, empty iron stove at the end of the room

and stood there with spread coattails, listening intently. On hearing the amount of bail, he gave a sigh of relief. His incautious offer had brought him no dangerous, Risk. Mr. Edwards, however, did not answer. Instead, consulting the justice with a look, he turned and beckoned Jim to follow him into the hall. James, he said, This is the last chance I shall give you. If you confess to me, I will see that you have proper bail. If you do not, I shall let the law take its course. You may choose. Jim was exasperated. If his father wished to be mean, let him be mean.

at least he might drop this farce, this irritating pretense. He lost his temper. I don't care what you do, he said fiercely. Send me to jail if you want to. I guess I can stand it. Is that all you have to say? Jim replied with a rebellious glance. Very well, said his father. Then we will go back. Once in the room he stepped to the squire's desk and talked with him and talked with him, in low tones. Then the justice turned to Jim again, a new gravity in his jolly face. Your father, he said, refuses to go on your bond. Have you any sureties of your own to offer? No, sir, said Jim. Mr. Peasley was outraged. What kind of father was this? He half started forward to offer to be one of the two sureties which the law required,

but no he dare not the second surety might prove to be any sort of worthless fellow but jim in jail he had not for a moment dreamed of that he was very indignant with mr edwards meanwhile jay kibbard was studying mr edwards's face with puzzled attention he had supposed that the lumber dealer whom he knew to be well to do would have paid anything signed any bond to protect his boy from jail. He was disconcerted. He drew his one hand across his mouth nervously. Well, Mr. Barton, said the squire Tucker. I don't see but what you'll have to take this young man over to Hotel of Calkins. Hotel Culkins was the name which local wit gave to the county jail.

The words sent a cold shiver down Mr. Peasley's back. They stunk him into generosity. As Barton and his prisoner, followed by Mr. Edwards and Jake, brushed by him on their way to the door, he slipped the knife into Jim's hand. When the boy, trying to keep back the tears, looked up inquiringly, he murmured in agitation, Don't ye care, Sonny, now don't ye care. He was greatly stirred, or he would not have been so incautious

as to make his present in person and in public. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of the Calico Cat This is a Libravox recording All Libravox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit Libravox.org

This reading by Alison Hester Of Athens, Georgia The Calico Cat by Charles Minor Thompson Chapter 4 When Nancy Ware Jim's pretty teacher heard that Mr. Edwards had let Jim go to jail, she was hotly indignant. She liked Jim and laughed a little

over him, for she knew he adored her. In her view, he was a clumsy, nice boy, awkward and shy to be sure, but rewarding her friendliness now and then with a really entrancing grin. She liked his imagination, she liked his loyalty, and she liked his dogged resolution. She heard the news at the noon hour on Monday, day and after her dinner she hurried at once to the store of fred farnsworth to him she roundly declared that mr edwards was a brute a view of the man which struck fred as a bit highly colored fred was thirty-one or thirty-two years old a sensible humorous fellow with considerable personal force he was very proud of the handsome shop over which hung the sign frederick w farnsworth fine crockery and glassware and still prouder of his engagement to Miss Ware. He was the second grand juryman from Elmington. Oh, said he, Edwards isn't a bad sort of man. He isn't very sociable.

I guess he wouldn't take much impudence, even from that boy of his. They say Jim wouldn't own up, and the old man won't do anything for him till he does. If Jimmy Edwards says he didn't fire that gun, he didn't, said Nancy positively. Jimmy isn't the lying kind. I know Mr. Edwards. I ought not to call him a brute, I suppose, but he's one of those obstinate men who will do anything once they've made their minds up to do it, even if you prove to them that they're wrong, even if it hurts them more than it does anyone else. He just got it into his head that Jimmy ought to confess, and he'd let him go to the gallows before he'd back down. Nancy spoke with animation. Her color rose.

and her eyes grew bright, and Fred looked and listened admiringly. He was skeptical about Jim, but he was struck with the accuracy of the portrait of Edwards. I guess that's about so, he said. And when I think of that poor boy shut up in that awful jail locked into a cell, when he ought to be out of doors playing ball and having a good time, it makes my blood boil, continued Miss Ware. Now Fred, she concluded, with pretty decision. You must stop it. Fred laughed. Isn't that a pretty large order?

He asked. Squire Tucker put him in there. I guess it's legal. You can do something, said his betroth. Go see Jimmy. See if you can find out what's the matter. Jimmy likes you. Perhaps he'll tell. I didn't know Jim had any particular partiality for me, said Fred, but he felt kindlier toward the boy in spite of himself. If you can only find out what really happened, I know we can get him out, a verdmiss wearer. Why don't you go yourself? said Farnsworth. I can't. Not till five o'clock. Of course I'm going then.

That's about four hours off, said Farnsworth. But I want something done now, exclaimed Nancy. Oh, said Fred humorously. Will you go? Of course, I'll start at once. Fred dropped his banter. I'll tell you what, Nancy, I may not be able to do much right off, but I promise you that he has a fair chance before the grand jury. Farnsworth started at once for the jail. It was a poor place for a boy, he reflected, as he rang the jailer's private bell. Calkins himself was not there, and his wife came to the door. She knew Farnsworth, and when he asked if he might see Jim, she laughed a little and told him to step right in.

Hotel Colkins was a brick building which looked pleasantly like a private dwelling, as, in fact, a good half of it was. In this front half dwelt the jailer. In the rear half, separated from the living quarters by a thick wall and heavy doors, was the jail proper. There, Farnsworth expected to be led. There, Farnsworth expected to be led. But not at all.

Mrs. Calkins ushered him into her own kitchen, where a washtub showed what she was doing, where the afternoon, sun, and sweet September air poured in at the open windows, and where a canary in its cage was singing cheerily. Here, Farnsworth was much surprised to see Jim, curled up in Mrs. Calkin's own rocking chair, eating a large, red-cheeked apple,

which he was dividing with a brand-new knife. Squire Tucker told Mark, said Mrs. Calkins, enjoying the joke, that he guessed James would like our society full as well as that of the prisoners. As for Jim, he grinned affably and took another slice of his apple. The awful picture which Miss Weyer had drawn of Jim's dreadful isolation and misery and her own indignant sympathy rushed upon Farnsworth's mind and were so comically out of relation with the facts that he sank weakly into the nearest chair and roared. This is the way you go to jail, is it? He gasped. Mrs. Calkins smiled in sympathy, and Jim, half suspecting that he ought to be offended at this Frank mirth, looked sheepishly

at the floor. Farnsworth recovered himself. A mighty good friend of yours, he said, sent me over here. Miss Weyer, asked Jim, much pleased. Yes, She's coming herself right after school, loaded down with things to console your desolate prison life, I believe. And Farnsworth had to stop to laugh again. But she wanted me to start right in and help you out of this, and that's what I'm here for. Thank you, said Jim, embarrassed but polite. But it struck Farnsworth, as he said afterward, that the boy shied a little. Miss Ware says, he went on, that she doesn't believe you fired that shot, and she wants you to tell me exactly what did happen. Now, if we can show that you didn't shoot, I can get you out of here quick.

What are they going to do to me? said Jim. That depends. It makes a difference how much Lomori's hurt. The penalty might be severe if he's got a bad wound. But even then, if we could show that you didn't know he was there or that the gun went off. by accident or that you were firing at something else, it would make a big difference. And if you can show that you weren't there at all, why, out you go, scot-free. But Jim, you can see yourself that if you don't tell what you know, everybody will think that you shot and meant to hurt Lamori, and then it might go pretty hard with you. Now come, tell me what happened. You'd better tell, Jimmy, said Mrs. Calkins, straightening up. up from her wash tub. You won't find any better friends than Mr. Farnsworth and Miss Weyer.

The young man, as he talked, watched the boy curiously. Jim flushed and squirmed and looked now at the floor and now out at the window with a marked uneasiness and embarrassment that greatly puzzled his friend. And when he stopped and the boy had to answer, his distress became really pitiable. Can't you tell me, Jim? Mr. Farnsworth hazarded, after a little, putting a kindly hand on the boy's arm, while Mrs. Calkins stood quiet by her tub in friendly expectation. But Jim remained dumb. After waiting a little, Farnsworth, seeing the boy so miserable, took pity on him.

Well, never mind, Jim, he said, you needn't tell if you don't want to. He would have to let Nancy coax it out of him, but he was puzzled, impressed with a sense of mystery and with a growing conviction that the boy was shielding someone else. He began to talk cheerfully of other things, hoping that Jim might perhaps drop a useful hint, or at least that the boy would gain confidence in him as a friend. By chance, he asked, where'd you get the knife, Jim? Mr. Peasley gave it to me. Peasley, exclaimed Farnsworth.

He well knew the closeness of his fellow juror. it isn't much of a knife said jim apologetic but pleased jim's views of the world were changing his father although a bandit chief had let him go to jail while this stingy old man with no halo of adventure about him gave him a knife and here were miss ware and mr farnsworth and mrs calkins and the jailer none of them smugglers who were very kind farnsworth rose to go then jim summoning all his courage asked the question which had long been trembling on his lips what did they do to smugglers mr farnsworth find em or put em in jail or both why nothing much said jim but obviously he was cast down farnsworth walked thoughtfully toward his store by george he thought suddenly i wonder The gossip about the senior Edwards had occurred to him, and at about the same time, he remembered the quarrel with Lomori. But what nonsense, he thought. If Edwards wanted to shoot anyone, he wouldn't do it in his own backyard, and he wouldn't treat

his own little boy that way either. Still, the idea clung to him, and then he thought of Nancy and chuckled. If she comes to the store, before she goes to the jail, I won't tell her what she fine mayor, he promised himself. Meanwhile, Mr. Peasley felt a growing discomfort. He ate his dinner and answered the brisk questions of his wife with increasing preoccupation. Like Miss Ware, he was picturing Jim, solitary and suffering in his lonely cell. With the utmost sincerity and ingenuousness, he condemned Mr. Edwards. Ain't he got any feeling for his own flesh and blood, he asked himself. tain't right somebody'd all to deal with him as he pottered about his yard after dinner he finally worked himself up to the point of speaking to edwards himself

even his righteous indignation would not have led him to this undertaking had he known mr edwards better or realized the father's present mood hurt exceedingly by jim's lying and contempt of his wishes hurt even more through his disappointed desire to help his boy Mr. Edwards was sore and sensitive, discontented both with Jim and with himself. He did not want Jim in jail, he told himself, and the neighbors, who were so uniformly assuming that he did, might better give their thoughts to matters that concerned them more. He would get the boy out of jail quick enough if the boy would only let him. As he stepped out of the house to do an errand at the barn, Mr. Peasley hailed him over the dividing fence.

somewhat put out Mr. Edwards nevertheless turned and walked toward his neighbor. Mr. Peasley, leaning over the fence, began. Edditz, he said, reaching out an anxious deprecatory hand. Don't ye think you jaced a little mite hard on that boy of yarn? He got no further. Edwards gave him a look that made him shiver and cut the conversation short by turning on his heel and marching toward the barn. dreadful hoarse man dreadful hosh mr peaslee muttered to himself nice like le boy as ever was if i had a boy like that i swan i wouldn't treat him so consarned mean he turned away much shocked and saw the calico cat watching him ironically from the chicken house drat that cat said he i ain't going to stay round here not with that beat

grinning at me. He got his hat and started uptown, not knowing in the least what he intended to do there. He stopped, however, at every shop window and studied baseballs, bats, tivoli boards, accordions. He was beginning to wonder if a 25-cent knife was enough to console Jim for his unmerited incarceration. He was gazing forlornly in at the window of Upham's drugstore where some half-dozen harmonicas were displayed and wondering if Jim would be allowed to play one in his dungeon cell when Hibbard spoke to him. He drew the lawyer aside and peering closely into his face with anxious eyes, exaggerated by his spectacles, said insinuatingly, "'Just wicks you and me kind are confidential. Pete ain't hurt bad, is he? You don't mind saying, do ye?' Jake drew himself up, surprised, answered. suspicious. Did the old fool think him as innocent as all that? He's hurt bad, Mr. Peasley.

Bad, he said with dignity. Of course, it isn't fatal unless it should mortify. He waved his hand, deprecatingly. I can't imagine what that Edwards boy used in his gun. Mr. Peasley knew the marble. He trembled. Still, he knew Jake's reputation. A shrewd thought visited his troubled mind. What doctor's seeing him? he asked. Doctor, exclaimed Hibbard, irritated. Doctor, you know these French Canadians. They're worse scared of a doctor than of the evil one himself. Pete's using some old woman's stuff on his wounds. Bears grease, rattlesnake oil, catnip tea. What do I know? I can't make him see a doctor. Some doctor will have to testify in court, won't they? persisted Mr. Peasley. Oh, I'll look out for that, don't you fear. The lawyer said

easily. But nevertheless, he made a pretext for leaving the old man. Perhaps Mr. Peasley's fears had not been so keen. He would have taken some comfort from this conversation, but as it was, he felt that the lawyer was dangerous. He feared that Pete really was badly hurt. It would go hard then with Jim. It would by the same token go hard with himself should he confess suddenly he turned and rushed into upham's store upham said he i won't bat and he pointed straight at a big harmonica with a strange and wonderful harp attachment bright colored and of amazing possibilities upham a neat little gentleman with nicely trimmed side whiskers who was always fluttered by the unexpected hesitated half open to the mouth and then forgot either to shut it or to speak.

Why, Mr. Peasley, he stammered at last. It's real expensive. You, it's $2.75. Don't care nothing what it costs, said Mr. Peasley, who was in a hurry for fear lest he should think twice. When he came out of the store with the harmonica in his hands, he almost stumbled into Miss Weyer. She was on her way to Jim.

and, of course, her mind was full of his affairs. Here was Mr. Edwards' next neighbor. She impulsively stopped to ask if the misguided father still held to his resolution about Jim. Mr. Peasley had reason to know that he did and said so. I tell you, Miss Weyer, said he with much emotion. He belongs to a stony-hearted generation, and that's a fact. He ain't got any compassion in him, seems, though. It's a shame.

A perfect shame, exclaimed Nancy. "'Taint right,' said Mr. Peasley with a warmth which surprised the young woman and made her warm to this old man whom she had always thought so selfish. "'Taint right, your own flesh and blood so.' "'Well,' said Miss Ware, "'I'm going to the jail now. "'I want to see Jimmy. It must be awful there.' "'Well, now, that's real kind of you,' responded Mr. Peasie. easily. I wonder now if you'd mind taking along this to him, and he offered her the paper parcel.

It's a harmonica, I guess they call it. It's real handsome. It cost considerable, pretty considerable sum. I feel kind of sorry for the little feller, and I don't grudge it a mite. And he kept repeating, in a tone which suggested whistling to keep your courage up. Not a mite, not a mite. Miss Ware smothered a laugh on hearing what the present was. She must not hurt the feelings of this kind old man. Oh, said the little hypocrite, That's nice. Jimmy'll be so pleased.

But perhaps the harmonica pleased Jim as much as the school books, which the schoolteacher, with a solicitous eye on her pupil standing in his studies, was taking him, saying goodbye to Mr. Peasley. Miss Weyer, books and harmonica in hand, went on her way to visit the afflicted boy in his dungeon. Meanwhile, Jim, turning the ringer from Mrs. Calkins and listening to her stories of Mark's prowess with all sorts of malefactors, was having an excellent time. He had decided to be a sheriff when he grew up. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of the Calico Cat.

This is a Libre Vox recording. recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit leverbox.org this reading by Allison Hester of Athens Georgia the calico cat by Charles Minor Thompson chapter 5 the day of the assembling of the grand jury for the September term of the Adams County Court finally dawned how mr. peaslee had looked forward to that day how often he had pictured the scene the bustle about the courthouse, the agreeable crowd of black-coated lawyers with their clever talk, their good stories, the grave judge, and the still graver side judges, the greetings and handshakings amid much

joking and laughter. The county gossip among the grand jurors in the informal moments before they filed into the courtroom to be sworn and to receive the judge's charge, himself, finally, in his best black coat and cherished beaver hat. There, in the midst of it. Important. Wadey, respected, a public man. He had cherished the vision of himself, walking up the village street on that first morning, a dignitary, returning the cordial and admiring salutes of his village friends. He had seen himself later in the jury room, shrewdly leading the reluctant witness, delivering weighty opinions on the bearing of testimony, and making all respect him as a marvel of conservatism, dignity and wisdom.

him. This was to be one of the most important and pleasurable days of his life, the rung in a ladder of preferment which had reached as high as the state house dome. And when that day came, it rained, steadily, gloomily, fiercely rained. Solomon was not allowed to wear his best clothes. When peering out of the window, he hopefully said he guessed mebitt was going to clear. His wife invited him tartly to wait till it did. She insisted that he put on his everyday clothes, and thus arrayed, and without meeting a single villager to realize the importance of his errand, he waited up to the courthouse, the pelting rain rattling on his old umbrella, the fierce wind almost wrenching it inside out. There was, of course, no parade on the courthouse steps for the benefit of a wondering

village, as there would have been had the day been fine. Instead, the men, steaming with wet, stood about uncomfortably in the corridors, muddy with the mud from their feet, wet with the drip from their umbrellas. The air in the courthouse was close, and everyone felt uncomfortable and depressed. Mr. Peasley, having greeted three or four men whom he knew, found himself jammed into a corner behind four or five jurors who were strangers to him, but he was too disheartened to try to scrape acquaintances with them. He felt lonely, helpless. He looked enviously over to the other end of the corridor where Fred Barnesworth, Eben-Sampson, and Albion Small were standing together. In contrast with

the others, these men were laughing. Al-Bion was considerable of a joker. Mr. Peasley reflected gloomily. Then old Abijah Keith stormed in. His high, shrill voice began immediately to utter his unfavorable opinion of everything and everybody. Well, if he ain't here again, exclaimed and disgust, Hiram Hopkins, one of the men in front of Solomon, cantankerous old lummocks in the whole state, just lots on upsetting things. Abijah, he snorted. Can't Abijah, I call him. Mr. Peasley shrank back into his corner nervously. He knew this old tyrant and dreaded him. Not much was done that first day.

The clerks swore them, the judge charged them, and appointed the sensible, steady Samson foreman. Then they retired to the jury room, a big, desolate place, wherein was a long, inksbattered table surrounded by wooden armchairs and spittoons. The grand jurors seated themselves and were solemnly silent, while John Page, the state's attorney, began the dull task of presenting cases. Mr. Peasley found that he had nothing brilliant to say. As a matter of fact, his own troubles were making him see everything yellow. The jurymen did not seem to him as agreeable a lot as he had expected, and as for Page, he irritated Solomon beyond measure. Page was an able young man and a good lawyer,

and was entitled to the position which he had attained so young, But the son of a man of rather exceptional means, he had been educated at a city college and had a sophistication which Solomon viewed with deep suspicion. Moreover, he discarded the garb which Mr. Peasley regarded as sacred. He was not in black. Instead, he wore a light gray business suit. His collar was very knowing and cut, and his cravat of dark blue was caught with a gold pen. City-fied, smart aleck was Mr. Peasley's characterization. To tell the truth, he mistrusted the man's

ability and was afraid of him. If that fellow knew, Mr. Peasley felt that it would go hard with him. Generally, Page was popular. Solomon had, of course, been painfully awake to every hint and intimidation in regard to Jim's case. He had seen Jake Hibbard, that carry-on crow of the law, loafing about the corridors, and the sight had made him shiver. He had next heard that Jim's case would be quickly called, probably on the next day, news producing a complex emotion, the elements of which he could not distinguish. Furthermore, a remark or so which he overheard indicated that the out-of-town men were inclined to take a harsh view of the matter, and reflecting on all those things, he paddled home through the depressing wet. And the next day,

It rained. More and more perturbed as the climax approached, Mr. Peasley took his place in the jury room and sat there with unhearing ears. He sat and thought and delivered battle with his conscience, which was growing painfully vigorous and aggressive. But after all, perhaps they would not find a true bill, and then Jim would go free, and he could breathe again. Mr. Peasley clung to the hope and hugged it. It was the one thing which gave him courage. Gentlemen of the grand jury, suddenly he heard Page saying, the next case for you to consider is that of James Edward, age 15, of Elmington, charged with assault, with intent to kill upon one Peter Lemore, also of Elmington. And as he proceeded to read the complaint, which,

in spite of the monotonous rapidity with which he rattled it off, scared. Mr. Peasley badly with its solemn-sounding legal phraseology. Gentlemen, said Page, laying down the paper, there was no eyewitness to the actual assault, and only three people have any personal knowledge of the event. Mr. Edwards, the defendant's father, the accused himself, and the complainant. Mr. Lemore, his counsel tells me, is in no condition to appear. But I have here, lifting a paper, his affidavit,

properly executed, giving his version of the matter. The boy's father, however, is at hand. Probably the jury would like to question him. It seems to me, said Mr. Sampson, that Mr. Edwards would be pretty apt to know the rights of it, if he's willing to talk. I guess we'd better hear him. The state's attorney stepped to the door.

This way, please, he called, and Mr. Edwards entered the room. Farnsworth and Piesley both studied the man's face closely, although for very different reasons, and both found it sternly uncompromising. Please take a chair, Mr. Edwards, said Page, and in a swift glance rapidly estimated the man. Here's someone who won't lie, he thought, impressed. Now, he resumed, will you kindly tell the members of the grand jury what you know of the case? Mr. Edwards cleared his throat painfully.

Determined as he was to let his rebellious boy take whatever punishment his mistaken course might bring, he now began to wish that the punishment would be light. His confidence that Jim needed only to be pushed a little to confess was somewhat shaken, and the charge was really serious. He felt a desire to explain, to palliate, to minimize. gentlemen he said my boy's always been a good boy i can't believe that he meant to hurt lemory or anyone else it must have been some accident facts please said page crisply mr peaslee caught his breath indignantly he had been entirely in sympathy with mr edward's soft mode of approaching his story page seemed to him unfeeling i will answer any questions, said Mr. Edwards, stiffening. Did you hear any shot fired?

began Paige. Yes. Where were you? I was asleep in the room above the gyms. Was Jim in his room? I suppose so. You suppose so. Don't you know?

No, I don't know. But to the best of your knowledge and belief, he was there? Yes. And the shot waked you? Yes. What did you do on hearing the shot? I jumped to the window. Tell us what you saw, please. I saw a man fall in the orchard and hurried out to see if he was hurt, but he was gone when I got there. Then what? I went to speak to Jim. He was in his room then, immediately after the shot? Yes. Ha, and when you spoke to him, did he admit firing the shot?

No. Did he deny it? Yes. Where was his gun? In the rack over the mantle? In the rack over the mantle, repeated page, slowly glancing at the jurors. Did you examine it? Yes. What was its condition? Did it show that it had been fired? No, it was clean. It was clean. repeated page, I understand that it was a double-bearled muzzle-loading shotgun. Were there any rags about? Yes. Where were they? One was in the ashes of the fireplace. Look as if someone had tried to hide it? Yes, reluctantly.

If it was that sort of gun, there must have been a shot pouch and powder flask. where were they? In the drawer where Jim keeps them. Everything looked then as if no shot had been fired? Yes. Was there anyone besides yourself and your son in the house? No. Your housekeeper.

She had stepped out. To the best of your knowledge then, there was no one about to fire the shot except your son? No. That will do, said Paige with an accent of financial. that is he added with the air of one who observes a courteous form unless some of the grand jurors wished to ask a question there were various things which were new to mr peaslee in this testimony he had supposed that jim had been picked as the guilty person by a process of mere exclusion he had had no idea that the case against him was so strong how had the boy got to the room so soon after he himself had left and why had he gone there? And why, why had he cleaned the shotgun? The grand jury must believe in his guilt, and when the case came to trial, what could Jim say to clear himself? It was going to be hard,

hard with the boy. Mr. Peasley's mouth grew dry, his palms moist. He moved uneasily in his chair. Once or twice he felt sure that the next instant he would find himself on his feet, but the minutes passed, and he was still seated. And Farnsworth, anxious for the sake of his betrothed, Miss Weyer, to help Jim, was nonplussed. There were two possible explanations of Jim's cleaning the gun, if he did clean it. The first that Jim was protecting himself, the second that he was shielding someone else. But the second theory seemed quite untenable. Farnsworth had made some cautious but well-directed inquiries about Mr. Edwards,

and had satisfied himself that the rumor about his smuggling were nothing but malicious gossip. There was not a man of greater honesty in the state. The boy must have done the shooting. Miss Ware would have to give up. Still, he would hazard a question. Mr. Edwards, he said. Lamori worked for you once, didn't he? Yes. You quarreled, didn't you? I discharged him for intemperance. There was no bad blood. Lamori was angry, I believe. Farnsworth stopped. There was nothing to be gained by this course of questioning in the way of clearing Jim. Of course later, the point that Lomori had a grudge against the family might have importance, although he could not see just how. Someone else surely heard that gunshot. It was incredible that the neighborhood should be so deserted.

If only there were another witness. The other jurors had no questions. They were, to tell the truth, a little impatient. It was near the dinner hour, and they were hungry. The case seemed perfectly plain to them. It was not likely, they argued, that the boy's father could be mistaken. You may go, said Page to Mr. Edwards. I don't see, he began when the witness had left the room, any need for our going further into this case. Whatever we may think of the animus of the complainant,

I take it that was what you wish to bring out, Mr. Farnsworth. there seems to be no question but that the boy fired the shot the presumption seemed strong also that he intended to hit were there any accident or good excuse the boy could of course have no motive not to tell it i suggest that a true bill be found at once and that we proceed to more important matters i want to remind you that we have a great deal of work before us well gentlemen said sampson i guess we're pretty much of a month about this. If no one has any objections, I guess we'll call it a vote. He looked round. As we're all agreed, he began. Just a moment, Samson, suddenly exclaimed Farnsworth. It had just then flashed over him that Mr. Peasley, the kind Mr. Peasley, who gave Jim knives and harmonicas, was next-door neighbor to the Edwards'es. If he had been at home when the shot was fired, he must have heard him. and he might have seen some significant thing which questioning might bring out. Of course,

if Peasley had seen anything, he would have spoken, but he might have overlooked the importance of some fact or another. Just a moment, Samson, he said and put up his hand. Then he swung sharply in his chair and put the question, Peasley, where were you when that shot was fired? End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of the Calico Cat This is a Libravox recording All Libravox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer

Please visit Libravox.org This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia The Calico Cat by Charles Minor Thompson Chapter 6 Paisley Where were you when that shot was fired? asked Farnsworth, and as he spoke, he turned and looked toward Solomon, whose seat was some three or four places to his left, and on the same side of the table. Had the question not been uttered, it would have died upon his lips, so much surprised was he at what he saw.

Mr. Piesley, white and trembling with some strong emotion, had his hands upon the table and was raising himself slowly and painfully to his feet, he rolled his eyes which looked bigger and more pathetic than ever behind his glasses toward farnsworth at the sound of his voice but the young man knew instinctively that solomon moved by some strong idea of his own had not grasped the question gentlemen mr peaslee began in shaky tones i guess i got a word to say afore ye find a true bill agint that little feller he's as peaceable a boy as i ever saw and i guess i can't let him stay all bolted and barred into no jail when it don't need anything but my say so to get him out. You see, gentlemen, Solomon paused, moistened his dry mouth, and cast a timorous look over the puzzled faces of the jurymen. You see, t'was me that shot L'amori. Not a sound came from the grand jury.

The members sat and stared at him in blank wonder, hardly able to credit their ears. Page, the state's attorney, who was making some notes at the time, held his pen for a good half-minute partway between his paper and the inkstand while he gazed in astonishment at Peasley. To have a grand juror, a sober, respectable man, rise in the jury room and confess that he is the real offender in a case under consideration is not usual. The surprise was absolute. For Farnsworth, it was more than a surprise. it was a relief. Then his betrothed had been right. Jim had not fired the shot. He felt a glow of admiration for Nancy's sure intuition and loyalty to her pupil. He rejoiced that Jim was cleared for her sake and for the boys. Insensibly, he had grown more and more interested in Jim and attached

to him. Now, everything was explained. Everything? No, Jim's strange activity. in concealing the evidences of the shot, his queer reserve when questioned as to what he knew, these seemed more perplexing than ever. Barnesworth, hoping for light upon these points, settled back in his chair to listen. Mr. Peasley had more to say. It kinder goes against the grain, Solomon resumed, with a weary, depreciatory smile. To own up, you've been acting like a fool, but I guess I got to do it. This was the way on it. I stepped over to Eddard's just to talk over matters and things.

Well, I couldn't seem to raise anybody to the front of the house, so I kinder slid into the boy's room to see if there wasn't somebody out back. There wasn't. There didn't seem to be anybody home. Now, gentlemen, seems as though you'd see how twas when I tell ye. There's an old white and yaller-cats. with a kinder sassy patch over her eye. Mr. Peasley's meek voice here took on a trace of heat.

That's been a pester in the life out of me going on a year. I guess you know how tis. One of them pesky yowling, chicken stealing, rusty old nuisances that ain't any sociability to him anyhow. Well, there she was a setting, comfortable as a hot pumpkin pie and looking as if she owned a play. and there was the boy's gun right there handy. The cat riled me so I just loaded her up.

It twasn't human nature not to, now was it? Twatn't nothing but a bird shot, so I sort her stuck in a marble. I couldn't do no harm, and it might kinder help a little, and I just fired her off. I didn't expect to hit any French-Canadian. I didn't know there was any of the critters right. Then when I see a fell or fall out of the bushes, I was scared now, I tell ye. Here I was, member of the grand jury and everything, and it didn't somehow seem right and

fitting for no member of the grand jury to be filling up a feller human being with birdshot and marbles. I guess I didn't think much what I was a-doing of know-how. To any rate, I just sneaked off home and then I just let me. things slip along and slide along till here I be. I guess if a true beyl's got to be found again anyone, it's got to be found again in me. And Mr. Peasley sank huddled and hopeless into his chair. His fellow members were for a moment silent, but soon this tale of a cat, birdshot, and an unexpected Canadian, began to disclose a comic aspect. The plight of the poor,

respectable Mr. Peasley and all the fresh honors of his jurorship began to show a ludicrous side. Their own position as grave men seeing what they thought a serious offense change, as by magic into a farcical accident bit by bit revealed its humor. Samson, the foreman, glanced at Page, the state's attorney. The young man's face wore an odd expression. Their eyes met and Samson's mouth began to twitch. albion small who was quote considerable of a joker in quote suddenly choked farnsworth having revealed to him in a flash the significance of the harmonica with harp attachment gave way and laughed outright smiles appeared on faces all round the table and as the comicality of the whole affair more and more struck upon their astonished minds the smiles became a general laugh The laugh, a roar, and this mirth had so good humor to note that Solomon, taking heart, looked about the table with a sheepish grin.

But his heart sank, and his grin vanished when all eyes fell upon. Abijah Keith, for Abijah did not smile. He sat grim as fate, stern disapproval of all this levity expressed in every deep fold of his wrinkled old countenance. A formidable person was Abijah. He had a great brush of white hair, which stood up fiercely from his narrow forehead, a high, arched nose like the beak of a hawk, on which rested a pair of huge round spectacles, a mouth like a straight line, enclosed between a great parentheses of leathery wrinkles. Up from under his old-fashioned stop, round a chin like a paving stone, curled an aggressive, white, wiry beard, and his blue eyes, still bright and hard. Can't see what you cackling so foe, he exclaimed. His shrill accents, full of contempt.

Acting like a passel of hens. There's a man shot, ain't they? Somebody shot him, didn't they? He... And Abisha pointed a knotted, skinny, hard old finger at the shrinking Solomon. He shot a bit, and he, sir as business, call it. Guess the grand jury's got something to say to it. ain't they? Cat? Cat's foot say. Like the story, lackless story. Don't believe word,

Aunt. Solomon dared to steal a look and was not reassured to see in the juryman's faces, doubt replacing mirth. Then Hiram Hopkins' hearty voice, ringing with opposition, struck upon his delighted ear. He remembered Hiram's dislike for the cantankerous Keith. Here perhaps was a defender. Oh, come, Mr. Keith, oh come now, he heard Hopkins exclaimed. What's the use of raising a rumpus? It wasn't nothing but a bird shot. Folks don't go murdering folks with a bird shot. Don't care if it was a birdshot, came Abijah's snapping tones.

Don't care if it was pinheads, principles the same. It is, it is, admitted Solomon in his soul. Well, said Hiram with a common sense in which Mr. Peasley took comfort, the practical effect is mighty different. Gentlemen, he added to the jurors, I can't see that we've got any call to go further with this. Peasley was just shooting out a cap. I don't see the sense of taking up the time of the court

and making expense for any such foolishness. I say we'd better dismiss young Edwards' case, and Peasley's along with it. It's such fool-doings. I think we'd better, if only the same. to keep folks from laughing at the grand jury. Solomon's heart was in his mouth. Would the others take this view or keeps?

Olly talk, dreadful oil-a-talk, came Abijah's fierce pipe. Don't take any stock in it. Shot him, didn't he? Grand juror, what difference does that make? If they ain't fit, weed them out, weed them out. Fit, said Hiram. It took some spunk to get. get up there and tell just what a fool he'd been, didn't.

Huh! Ibeja interrupted with a snort. Had to, didn't he? Farnsworth asked him where he was, didn't he? Had to squirm out somehow, didn't he? Got about as much spine as a taller candle with the wick drawed out, according to his own showing. Better weed him out.

Better weed him out. Huh! Poor Mr. Peasley sank still lower in his chair. his head fell still lower on his chest. They were taking away from him even the credit of a voluntary confession. Why had Farnsworth asked that question? In casting doubt upon his one brave deed, fate seemed to him to have done its worth.

He'd got up before I put the question, said Farnsworth. He wished to be just, but he was indignant with Paisley. After his first laughter, his thoughts had dwelt upon the trouble that Solomon had brought upon the innocent gym, just to save his own hide, the old skeez-ix, he exclaimed himself. After all, what did he know about Peasley? If the man had merely shot at a cat, why under the sun should he not have said so at once and saved all this bother? The more he thought, the more indignant he grew, and the more doubtful. He did not notice at all the look of timid gratitude, which Mr. Peasley cast in his direction.

Of course he was up before you spoke. Solomon was further gratified to hear Hopkins declare in his big hearty voice. And I think a man who owns up fair and square just when it's hardest to has got spying enough to hold him together anyhow. Up before you asked him? Abijah turned on Farnsworth. Up for what? Tell me that, will you? and Solomon, listening anxiously for Farnsworth's answer, was depressed to hear him give merely a good-humored laugh at Uncle Abbeja's thrust.

Mr. Peasley, asked Sampson so unexpectedly that Solomon jumped, didn't you say something about a marble? Yes, said Mr. Peasley, gloomily. Fit the board, did it? continued the foreman. Slick. answered Mr. Peasley with the brevity of despair. If that marble fitted the boar, said Albion Small, while Sampson nodded assent, it's my opinion it might do considerable damage. His opinion had weight, for Small was a hunter of repute.

Recovered from their amusement, the grand jurors had become gradually impressed with the idea that Mr. Peasley's confession still left some awkward questions unanswered. if the matter were so simple as he said why had he kept silent so long the jurymen came from all over the rather large county and although they had some knowledge of the principal men of elmington and although such of them as had dealings at its bank had met mr peaslee none of them knew him well he was a newcomer at the village and when at his farm had not had a wide acquaintance They looked to Farnsworth as his fellow townsmen to speak for him, but Farnsworth said nothing and seemed preoccupied and doubtful. The inference was that he shared their perplexity. They felt that Keith, for all his cantankerousness, might be right. Solomon could draw no comfort from their faces.

All this while, Page had been playing with his watch chain and watching Abijah, whose character he appreciated, with the, discreet amusement, but he found himself an essential agreement with the peppery old fellow. Ask the state attorney, why don't ye? Put in Keith impatiently. He'll tell ye I've got the rights on it. Ain't afraid, be ye? Samson smiled. Mr. State's attorney, he said, turning to Page, I guess perhaps you'd better give us the law of this. Well, gentlemen, said Page. As a matter of of law, Mr. Keith would seem to be right, and at the word, Solomon Spirit sank to new depths. Didn't I tell ye? said Abijah triumphantly. Had the state's attorney said that he was wrong,

the old man would have called him a popenjay to his face. Abijah's exclamation was not deference to legal knowledge. It was merely quick seizure of a tactical point. Lamori was shot, Paige went on, with a little smile at Keith's interruption, and by his own statement, Mr. Peasley shot him. On his own admission, his gun was dangerously loaded. Although a boy, a neighbor's son, was charged through his act, with a serious offense against the laws,

he made no confession, and when at last he did speak, it is at least open to debate whether he did it of his own volition, or because he was forced to do so by the embarrassing question put to him by one of your number i don't impugn his veracity but i am bound to remark that he is an interested witness all this is a question of fact for you to consider i think you should know a little more to determine if there was any motive you need to know if there was any bad blood between mr peaslee and lemorey to find an indictment to fit the case you need to know how badly lemorey is how badly lemorey is hurt. I think you should have Lamori here, cross-questioning him, and perhaps Mr. Peasley. Solomon shivered, should establish whether the shot was accidental, as the accused says, or intentional, as Lamori contends. I'll have the complainant here tomorrow, if it's a possible thing, as there's no formal charge as yet against Mr. Peasley.

I think you may properly postpone until then the question of entering a complaint or making an arrest. if necessary. Solomon shivered again, and of his proper holding for appearance before the court. Meanwhile, I suggest that you dispose of the case against young Edwards, and then adjourn. Mr. Peasley, he added significantly, will of course be present tomorrow morning. Sarton, sarton, answered poor Solomon tremulously. It was already late, and when the grand jury had formally dismissed the complaint against Jim, The hour was so advanced that adjournment was taken for the day. When Mr. Peasley left the courthouse, no one spoke to him, and he walked slowly home,

full of the worst forebodings. Why had he put in that marble? Relieved of his burden of anxiety and remorse in regard to Jim, he began to think more definitely than he had done heretofore of the possibility of serious harm to Lamoury, it was dreadful to think that he might have badly wounded an inoffensive man. Was Lomori much hurt? What would happen to a marble and a shotgun anyhow? Would he be arrested?

Would his case get to trial? Could he, without a single witness, prove that it was an accident? The sinister figure of Jake Hibbard rose before him and made him feel helpless and frightened. The future looked bleak. But I'd done right. He tried to console himself by saying, I done right.

Better late than never, to be sure, but if genuine comfort in a good deed is sought, it is best to act at once. Mr. Peasley could feel but small satisfaction in his tardy confession. Moreover, he must now face his wife. As he turned with reluctant feet into his own yard, he fairly shrank in anticipation

under the sharp hail of her biting words. To postpone a little the inevitable, to gather strength somewhat to meet the shock, he passed the kitchen porch and went on toward the barn, seating himself upon an upturned pale, he stayed there a long while, still as a statue, while he chewed the cud of bitter reflection. After a while, at the barn door,

there was a familiar flash of white and yellow. Looking wearily up, he saw the great, great green eyes of the calico cat fastened upon him in fierce distrust. She had one foot uplifted, as if she did not know whether it was safe to put it down, and in her mouth, pendant, was a calico kitten. Mr. Peasley, silent and immovable, watched her with apathetic eyes. Finally, as if assured he was not dangerous, she put down her foot and disappeared with soft and cushioned tread into the dim recesses of the barn. Yet, a little while, and she again appeared in the doorway, with a second duplicate of herself. Again an interval, and she brought a third. Well, said Solomon to himself, his spirit

quite crushed. I guess she ain't bringing no more than belong to me by rights. Nevertheless, he could not endure to see any others. He went desperately into the house, where he found his wife fuming over his delay. I guess I may as well tell ye, first as last, he said in a sort of stubborn despair. T'was me that shot Lomori. You, exclaimed his wife, dropping her knife and fork and looking at him as though he had taken leave of his senses. I guess I'm the feller. He averred with queer, pathetic humor. And, turning a patient, rounded back to his wife's expected indignation, he told his story while he nervously washed at the sink,

and fumblingly dried his face and hands in the coarse roller towel. He made these operations last as long as his confession. Then, at the end of his resources, he turned to face the storm. Mrs. Peasley simply looked at him. She struggled to speak, but she found herself in the predicament of one who has used up all ammunition on the skirmish line and comes helpless to the battle. She simply could think of nothing adequate to say. She stared at her husband while he stared out of the window. Then she gave it up.

Draw up your chair, she said sharply. I guess ye got to eat. Whatever ye be. End of chapter six. Chapter 7 of the Calico Cat This is a Libravox recording All Libravox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer

Please visit Libravox.org This reading by Alison Hester of Athens, Georgia The Calico Cat by Charles Minor Thompson Chapter 7 When the grand jury dispersed after Mr. Peasley's confession Farnsworth First, speaking a few words to Page, the state's attorney, hurried toward the union school. As he expected, he met Miss Ware coming from it on her way to her boarding house.

He waved his hat and called, Jim's Free! As he reached her side, he added, He didn't fire the shot at all. Of course he didn't, cried Nancy triumphantly. Didn't I tell you? But who did? And how did you find out? Peasley, said Farnsworth, he owned up. Mr. Peasley, then that awful harmonica, why the wretch?

Sh, mourned Farnsworth, not so loud. These are jury room secrets, which I'm not supposed to tell. But he told them, nevertheless. As the two walked along together, he gave her an account of all that had happened. But what I don't understand, he concluded, is what made Jim behavior. so. What did he clean his gun for? Why did he hide the rags and put away the ammunition? He acted just as if he were trying to shield someone. We know he wasn't trying to shield himself, and I don't see why he should shield Peasley. Fred, said Nancy, stopping and facing him. Jim knew that his father was the only person

in the house, didn't he? Yes, said Farnsworth. Then he thought his father did it. "'Oh, pshaw!' exclaimed Farnsworth. "'He couldn't.' "'Don't be rude, Fred,' admonished Nancy. "'Was it I right before? "'Well, I'm right now. "'How could he have thought anything else? "'I'm going straight to the jail and find out.

"'And can we get him away from that jail?' "'Yes,' said Farnsworth. "'I spoke to Page. "'He said he'd bring the boy in "'and have him discharged this afternoon. "'He has to appear before the judge, you know, before he can be let go. That's nice, said Nancy.

Now, Fred, you go straight to Mr. Edwards and bring him up there, too. I don't suppose anyone's thought to tell him. But I haven't had any dinner, objected Farnsworth. Dinner, exclaimed Miss Ware in deep scorn. And Farnsworth laughed and surrendered. They separated then. Miss Ware took the side street to the jail, while Farnsworth hurried along toward,

Edwards' house. Mr. Edwards, he said when that gentleman appeared at the door, Miss Weir wants you right away at the jail. And as he spoke, he was struck with the strain which showed in the man's face. He must have felt it a good deal. He reflected with surprise. A sudden fear showed in Mr. Edward's eyes. Jim isn't sick, is he? he asked. Oh, no, replied Farnsworth hastily. He's cleared that. He's cleared that. That's all. We'll have him out of jail this afternoon. Cleared? repeated Mr. Edwards, distrustfully. Was Farnsworth joking?

Nothing was more certain in the father's mind than that Jim had fired the shot. No other supposition was possible. His face grew severe at the thought that Farnsworth was trifling with him. Yes, cleared, said the young man, somewhat nettled. We have absolute certain proof that it. Jim hadn't anything to do with it. I should like to hear it, said Mr. Edwards coldly. Well, we have the real offender's own confession, said Farnsworth, irritated at the incredulity

of the man. What was the fellow made of? Mr. Edwards said nothing. He turned and got his hat and walked with Farnsworth up the street the half-mile to the jail. His face was impassive, but his movements had a new alertness, and Farnsworth noted that he had to walk painfully fast to keep up with this much older man. Edwards, in spite of his cold exterior, was a man of strong feeling, and there was, in fact, a deep joy and a deep regret at his heart.

He knew with thankfulness that he had a truthful and courageous son. He saw with passionate self-reproach that he had done the boy a great injustice, But why had Jim cleaned the gun? Farnsworth, little guessing the turmoil in the heart of the grave man by his side, was wondering if, after all, Miss Ware could be right in thinking that Jim had sacrificed himself for this unfeeling parent. If she is right, he reflected thinking how harsh had been the father's treatment of the boy, what a little brick Jim is. He had a very human desire to present this view and prick this automaton into some show of life.

Mr. Edwards, he said suddenly, Jim knew, didn't he, that you were the only person besides himself at home? I suppose so. Does it occur to you that he may have thought you did the shooting? That can't be so, said Mr. Edwards, but there was a note of shocked concern of dismay in his tone, which satisfied Farnsworth, and again he thought more kindly of his companion. And Mr. Edwards was stirred by the unexpected question. After all, he thought, since Jim was not trying to shield himself, whom else could he wish to shield? And a sudden, deep enthusiasm filled him for this son who was not only courageous and truthful, but who, in spite of his unjust treatment was loyal, who, he thrilled at the word, loved him. But no, it was not possible.

How could his son have thought that he could accuse his boy of what he had done himself? And upon this doubt, he found himself with a quickened pulse at the door of the jail. Farnsworth rang the bell. Soon they stood in Mrs. Calkin's sitting room, facing Jim and Nancy, and then Miss Weyer caught Farnsworth by the arm and drew him quickly into the hall and shut the door behind her. I'm certain, she whispered breathlessly. When I told Jim first, he wasn't glad at all, until I managed to let him know his father wasn't arrested. Oh, Fred, that boy's a little trump. Meanwhile, in Mrs. Calkin's sitting room, father and son faced each other, and it would be hard to say which of the two was the more embarrassed. But certain questions burned on Mr. Edwards's lips. Jim, he said with anxious emotion, did you think that I shot Lemore? Yes, sir, said Jim. But why, my boy? Why should I want to shoot him?

LaMory had been telling, said Jim, highly embarrassed. Telling, said his father, in perplexity. Yes, sir, said Jim, you know, about you were being a smuggler. Much astonished, Mr. Edwards pushed his questions and soon came to know the depth and breadth of his boy's misconception. Then, he said finally, when I accused you of having fired the shot, you thought I had to do so to avoid an arrest which would be serious for me. Is that it? Yes, sir? Mr. Edwards could not speak for a moment for emotion. Then he drew the boy to him.

My son, my son, he said, you and I must know each other better. And by the same token, Jim realized that his father was proud of him and loved him. It was new and sweet. He felt a little foolish, but very happy. Jim, his father said huskily, would you like a new breach loader? And then Jim was happier still. Those were reluctant feet, which dragged Mr. Peasley the next morning to the jury room.

The council of the night had brought no comfort, and when he came among his fellows, their constraint and silence were far from reassuring. Nor, when the sitting had begun, did he like the enigmatic smile with which the well-dressed page stood and swung his watch chain, how he distrusted and feared this smug, self-complacent young man. Yet the state's attorney's first words brought him unexpected comfort. Mr. Lamori, he said, still with that puzzling smile, has consented, in spite of his serious physical condition, to appear before you. Lamori could not be so badly hurt if he could come to the courthouse, but what was this?

While the state's attorney held wide at the door, Jake Hibbard solemnly pushed into the room a great-willed chair in which sat the small, wiry, furtive-eyed lemory. Mr. Piesley's heart sank as he saw the wheeled chair and noted the great bandages about the Frenchman's head and arm. He listened apprehensively to the loud complaint of cruelty to his client which Hibbard continued to make until Paige, pulling the chair into the room,

blandly shut the door in his face. Mr. Peasley heaved a great sigh of mingled contrition and fear. This wreck was his work. He would be punished for it. Mr. Lemore, Paige began courteously. We so wished to get your version of this painful affair that, though we are sorry to cause you any discomfort, we have felt obliged to bring you here.

Will you kindly tell the gentleman of the grand jury what happened? Yes, say me. I'll tell him, said Lamori eagerly. Confident that no one knew anything about what had happened, except Jim Edwards and himself, he intended to make his narrative striking. Yes, sir, all told the truth. Well, sir, I'll be going true Monsieur Edwards' orchard.

walking true same as any man's then i look i see that little boy into windy a shouting and a cussin like he gone crazy in his head i told you i feel bad for hear that little boy cussin that was too shame and lemore paused to let this beautiful sentiment impress itself upon the jurors mr peaslee listened with profound astonishment. Then he holler something. Ah, ain't here, only, Kinnuck Han, Ah, begins, forget my mad's up. Ah, ain't do him no harm.

Then he fire his gun, Poom, and more as 20. Probably ten shot buck, Heat me on the head of it. Buck shot? Them's the most. Marble, thought Mr. Peasley, but there wasn't but one. Ha, told you, they sting like bumblebees.

Ha, tink me, that weekend little boy, going for some shoot more, as once probably, maybe two, tree tam. Ha, drop quick in the grass, and I run, run quick. And when I get home, I find two, tree, tree, five, maybe four hole in my arm, more big as my thumb. Pete stopped dramatically. His little sparkling black eyes traveled quickly from one face to another to note the effect he had made. Mr. Peasley's spirits were rising.

The grand jury could not believe such a passle of lies, only was one of those holes big as my tongue made perchance by a marble? that's a mighty moving narrative commented sampson dryly did i understand you to say that you were hit in the head or the arm both of it averred pete without winking i didn't shoot any bag of marbles whispered mr peaslee to his neighbor who nodded that he had the courage to address a remark to anyone shows how his spirits were rising you said you were going along the shortcut through mr edwards's orchard didn't you the state's attorney now asked yes sir said pete page steps to a big blackboard which he had set up at the end of the room and rapidly sketched a plan of the edwards's lot with the aid of a memorandum of measurements which he had secured a line across the upper left-hand corner represented the path commonly used by the neighbors and going through the Edwards' orchard. Now, Mr. Lomory, resumed Paige,

I don't quite understand how. If you were on the path there, you could have seen young Edwards, or he, you. The barn seems to be in the way until just at the right hand in. And when you get to that, you'd have to look through about ten rows of apple trees.

Now, weren't you a little off the line? Damn, exclaimed Pete, ingenuously. all was got for be since i was shoot ain't it i can't remember mr edwards told us continued page while solomon's heart warmed to him that he saw you fall out of some bushes now these are the only bushes there are and he rapidly indicated on the board the rows of current bushes the asparagus the sunflowers and the lilacs which lined the garden on its right-hand corner that's a good way from the path i'll be there me cried pete an indignant alarm no se monsieur edwards say that respectable man like monsieur edwards it was a shame for lye-so no se i'll say I'll go home true to hord. Maybe I'll go little ways off the path of it. Maybe for peek-up apple off in the ground,

what no one ain't want for right of it. I don't remember, but I ain't go for hiding the bush. I'll be honest, man's me. I'll go for a walk where all mans can see, ain't it? What, I'll go hide for me. Page drew a square on Mr. Pug. Peasley's side of the fence directly opposite the bushes. That, said he, is Mr. Peasley's henhouse, and he brushed the chalk from his fingers with an air of

indifference. So, cried Pete, with an air of pleas surprise, Monsieur Peasley, he'll got Hen Rouse? First time, all was heard of it, me. Fine tang for have Henrouse, fine tang for Monsureen, Monsureen. I'll think him for be lucky, Monsieur Paisley, but I ain't know it. I'll ain't seen nothing of it, no, sir. And Pete smiled innocently round at the enigmatic faces of the juryman. Mr. Lomore, said Page with a very casual air. Behind those bushes is a broken board. So, said Pete, anyone who was there had an excellent chance,

to study the fastenings of Mr. Peasley's henhouse door. Moss, I always told you I'll not be dear me, cried Pete, alarmed and excited. That, said Mr. Page calmly, is the only place where you could be and get shot from the boy's window. Either you were there, or you weren't shot. Besides, Mr. Edwards found your footprints. Pete shrunk his head and to his shoulders and glared, questioningly at the state's attorney. The examination was not going to his liking. What I'll care for that? he said at last. Oh, nothing, said Paige. Nothing at all. Let us talk of something else. Let me ask why Mr.

Edwards discharged you from his employee last spring. Nothing, nothing. I'll be work for him more good as never was. If he treated you as unjustly as that, said Paige with sympathy, you cannot have a very high opinion of Mr. Edwards. I'll tell you he was bad man's. He'll discharge me more as sixty mile off. I'll have for walk me. I'll tell you dat was mean treat for play on pullman's. And Pete sought sympathy from the faces around him.

That was too bad, certainly, said Paige. Now about those wounds of yours. I have Dr. Brigham here ready to make an examination. I'll call him now. And the state's attorney started toward the door of the witness room. Pete jumped. Hey, he exclaimed. You don't object to having an excellent doctor like Dr. Brigham look at your wounds, do you? asked Paige. Nellamory had no wounds to show. The smiling, well-dressed page, standing there and look at at him with amused comprehension was more than he could bear. Pete suddenly lost his temper,

never too secure. Out of his wheelchair he jumped and shaking his fist and Page's face, he shouted, Tink you be smart, very smart minds. Well, I'll tell you, you ain't. I'll tell you, you be great big pig. How told you, Dad Edwards boy, he shoot at me. I see. I said, you. I said, you, you, you're a little. I'll tell you, you, you're a great big pig. I'll tell you, he's, he's see him. Take my fault of it if he not hit me, huh? You be pig. You all be pigs, everyone. And Pete, making a wide, inclusive gesture, shouted, I cannot mow as one seat for the whole keet and caboodle of it. Peag, pig, pig. And turning on his hill, the wrathful Frenchman left the room. He left also a convulsed jury and a wheeled chair for the hire of which Hibbard found himself later obliged to pay.

Mr. Peasley, the thermometer of whose spirits had been rising steadily, joined in the laughter which followed the exit of the discomfited peat. Terrible smart feller, Paige, manie, said he to Albion Small, did him up real slick, didn't he? The delighted Solomon had quite forgotten his dislike for the city-fied page. Of course, the grand jury promptly abandoned the inquiry. The fact was now obvious that the vengeful Lomori, aided by the unscrupulous Hibbard, had merely hoped to be bought off by Mr. Edwards and had been disappointed. The case, said Page, would never have come to trial. If Edwards had persisted and let his

boy go to court, they'd have had to stop. They must have been a good deal disappointed when he refused the bail. They probably thought he'd never let the boy pass a night in Hotel Culkins. Mr. Peasley walked home, sobered but relieved. The loss of public esteem, which had come to him through his foolish adventure, the serious wrong which he had inflicted upon Jim Edwards, the disgust of his wife were all things to chasten a man's spirit. But on the other hand, Jim was now out of jail, the more he had not been hurt in the least, and he, himself, had not been complained of or arrested. If he should have to endure some chafing from Jim Bartlett and C. Spooner, his cronies at the bank, he guessed he could stand it. On the whole, he was moderately

happy. The sun was low in the west, and the trees were casting long shadows across his yard, brightly spattered with the red and yellow of autumn leaves. His house, white and neat and comfortable, seemed basking like some still, somnolent animal in the warm sunshine. Solomon turned and cast his eye down the road and over the random river, flowing smooth and peaceful through its great oxbow. He recognized Danny Snow, scuffling through the dust with his bare feet as he drove home his father's great, placid, full-uttered cow. The comfort of the scene, the cozy pleasantness of the place among the close-coming.

hills, struck him in his relieved mood as it had never done before. Even though disappointed in political ambition, a man might live there in some content. After all, he had $30,000, and it had been calmly drawing interest through all his tribulations. Consoled by this reflection, he walked to the rear of his house and began pottering about the chicken yard. Then in the Edward's garden appeared Jim. Solomon gave a slight start and took a hesitating step or two, as if minding to flee, but restrained by shame. He watched the boy come to the fence and climb upon it.

He said nothing. He could think of nothing to say. That harmonica was fine, said Jim, grinning amiably. Mr. Peasley was immensely relieved. If there was a momentary twinge at the thought of the money it had cost him, it was quickly gone glad ye enjoyed it seems though i wanted to give ye a little something considering i hope you and your father ain't ones to lay it up agit me that's all right said jim grandly i had a bully time at the jail mrs calkins is a splendid woman you just ought to eat one of her doughnuts didn't know they fed you up much to the jail commented solomon puzzled oh i wasn't locked up, said Jim, and explained.

Well, well, I'm beat. That was clever on him, wasn't it now? Said Mr. Peasley, much pleased. And father ain't holding any grudge either, said Jim. He says he's much obliged to you. A remark, which the reader will understand better than Mr. Peasley ever did. You listen when you're eating your supper, cried Jim, as he climbed down from the fence and ran toward the house.

I'm going to play on that harmonica. And Solomon rejoiced. Poor man, he did not know how the popularity of his gift was destined to endure. He did not know that he had let loose upon the circumambient air sounds worse than any ever emitted by the calico cat. Filled with the pleasant sense of having made it up with the boy, whom he thought he had so greatly injured, Solomon started along the path toward the kitchen door.

He began to realize he had an appetite, something now long unfamiliar to him. As he drew near, an appetizing odor smote his nostrils. Ister's asswanny, he ejaculated. It was unheard of. There was nothing which Solomon, who had a keen relish for good things to eat, and would have even been extravagant in this one particular, had his firm-willed wife permitted, enjoyed more than an oyster stew,

or which he had a chance to taste less often. Oysters could be had in town for 60 cents a quart, a son that seems not large, but in Mrs. Peasley's mind, they were associated with the elegance and luxury of church sociables, and with the dissipation of supper after country dances. They were extravagant food. Solomon could not believe his nose.

He entered the door, and there upon the table stood the big Turin, with two soup plates at Mrs. Peasley's place. There was nothing else but the stew, of course, but it lent a gala air to the whole kitchen. Why, serapty, serapty, he said to his wife. You ain't going to be arrested? asked Mrs. Peasley sharply. She wanted no sentiment over her unwanted generosity, but truth to tell, when she had seen some, Solomon depart that morning and realized he might be going to arrest, possibly to trial, perhaps to conviction in jail, she had felt a sudden fright, a sudden sympathy for her husband, and she had bought half a pint of oysters for this stew in spite of the expense.

No, I ain't going to be arrested, said Solomon with satisfaction. The grand jury found there wasn't anything to it, but, but Serapti. He paused helplessly, unable to express his complex feelings about the stew and the attitude on the part of his wife, which it revealed. Oh, well, said his wife, After all, taint's if you'd gone and lost money. And after supper, Mr. Peasley carefully poured some skimmed milk into a saucer and went out to the barn.

Kitty, kitty, he called. Kitty, come, kitty. the calico cat did not respond but in the morning the saucer was empty end of chapter seven and end of the calico cat Thank you.