Mr. Opp
Copyright© 2024 by Alice Caldwell Hegan Rice
Chapter 3
Jimmy Fallows, being the boastful possessor of the fleetest horse in town, was the first to return from the funeral. Extricating himself with some difficulty from the narrow-seated buggy, he held out his hand to Mrs. Fallows. But that imposing lady, evidently offended with her jovial lord, refused his proffered aid, and clambered out over the wheel on the other side.
Mrs. Fallows, whose architectural effects were strictly perpendicular, cast a perpetual shadow of disapproval over the life partner whom it had pleased Providence to bestow upon her. Jimmy was a born satirist; he knew things are not what they seem, and he wickedly rejoiced thereat. To his literal, pious-minded wife he at times seemed the incarnation of wickedness.
Sweeping with dignity beneath the arching sign of Your Hotel, she took her seat upon the porch, and, disposing her sable robes about her, folded her mitted hands, and waited to see the people return from the funeral.
Jimmy, with the uncertain expression of one who is ready to apologize, but cannot remember the offense, hovered about uneasily, casting tempting bits of conversational bait into the silence, but failing to attract so much as a nibble of attention.
“Miss Jemima Fenny was over to the funeral from Birdtown. Miss Jim is one of ‘em, ain’t she?”
There was no response.
“Had her brother Nick with her. He’s just gettin’ over typhoid fever; looks about the size and color of a slate pencil. I bet, in spite of Miss Jim’s fine clothes, they ain’t had a square meal for a month. That’s because she kept him at school so long when he orter been at work. He did git a job in a newspaper office over at Coreyville not long ‘fore he was took sick. They tell me he’s as slick as a onion about newspaper work.”
Continued silence; but Jimmy boldly cast another fly:
“Last funeral we had was Mrs. Tucker’s, wasn’t it? Old man Tucker was there to-day. Crape band on his hat is climbin’ up; it’ll be at high mast ag’in soon.”
Dense, nerve-racking silence; but Jimmy made one more effort:
“The Opps are coming back here tonight to talk things over before Ben goes on to Missouri. He counts on ketchin’ the night boat. It won’t give him much time, will it?”
But Mrs. Fallows, unrelaxed, stared fixedly before her; she had taken refuge in that most trying of all rejoinders, silence, and the fallible Jimmy, who waxed strong and prospered upon abuse, drooped and languished under this new and cruel form of punishment.
It was not until a buggy stopped at the door, and the Opp brothers descended, that the tension was in any way relieved.
Jimmy greeted them with the joy of an Arctic explorer welcoming a relief party.
“Come right on in here, in the office,” he cried hospitably; “your talkin’ won’t bother me a speck.”
But Ben abruptly expressed his desire for more private quarters, and led the way up-stairs.
The low-ceiled room into which he ushered D. Webster was of such a depressing drab that even the green and red bed-quilt failed to disperse the gloom. The sole decoration, classic in its severity, was a large advertisement for a business college, whereon an elk’s head grew out of a bow of ribbon, the horns branching and rebranching into a forest of curves and flourishes.
The elder Opp took his seat by the window, and drummed with impatient fingers on the sill. He was small, like his brother, but of a compact, sturdy build. His chin, instead of dwindling to a point, was square and stubborn, and his eyes looked straight ahead at the thing he wanted, and neither saw nor cared for what lay outside. He had been trying ever since leaving the cemetery to bring the conversation down to practical matters, but D. Webster, seizing the first opportunity of impressing himself upon his next of kin, had persisted in indulging in airy and time-destroying flights of fancy.
The truth is that our Mr. Opp was not happy. In his secret heart he felt a bit apologetic before the material success of his elder brother. Hence it was necessary to talk a great deal and to set forth in detail the very important business enterprises upon which he was about to embark.
Presently Ben Opp looked at his watch.
“See here,” he interrupted, “that boat may be along at any time. We’d better come to some decision about the estate.”
D. Webster ran his fingers through his hair, which stood in valiant defense of the small bald spot behind it.
“Yes, yes,” he said; “business is business. I’ll have to be off myself the very first thing in the morning. This funeral couldn’t have come at a more unfortunate time for me. You see, my special territory—”
But Ben saw the danger of another bolt, and checked him:
“How much do you think the old house is worth?”
D. Webster drew forth his shiny note-book and pencil and made elaborate calculations.
“I should say,” he said, as one financier to another, “that including of the house and land and contents of same, it would amount to the whole sum total of about two thousand dollars.”
“That is about what I figured,” said Ben; “now, how much money is in the bank?”
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