Chapter 7: The Carriage-Lamps

It was the fault of a small nickel-plated revolver, a most incompetent weapon, which, wherever one aimed, would fling the bullet as the devil willed, and no man, when about to use it, could tell exactly what was in store for the surrounding country. This treasure had been acquired by Jimmie Trescott after arduous bargaining with another small boy. Jimmie wended homeward, patting his hip pocket at every three paces.

Peter Washington, working in the carriage-house, looked out upon him with a shrewd eye. “Oh, Jim,” he called, “wut you got in yer hind pocket?”

“Nothin’,” said Jimmie, feeling carefully under his jacket to make sure that the revolver wouldn’t fall out.

Peter chuckled. “S’more foolishness, I raikon. You gwine be hung one day, Jim, you keep up all dish yer nonsense.”

Jimmie made no reply, but went into the back garden, where he hid the revolver in a box under a lilac-bush. Then he returned to the vicinity of Peter, and began to cruise to and fro in the offing, showing all the signals of one wishing to open treaty. “Pete,” he said, “how much does a box of cartridges cost?”

Peter raised himself violently, holding in one hand a piece of harness, and in the other an old rag. “Ca’tridgers! Ca’tridgers! Lan’sake! wut the kid want with ca’tridgers? Knew it! Knew it! Come home er-holdin’ on to his hind pocket like he got money in it. An’ now he want ca’tridgers.”

Jimmie, after viewing with dismay the excitement caused by his question, began to move warily out of the reach of a possible hostile movement.

“Ca’tridgers!” continued Peter, in scorn and horror. “Kid like you! No bigger’n er minute! Look yah, Jim, you done been swappin’ round, an’ you done got hol’ of er pistol!” The charge was dramatic.

The wind was almost knocked out of Jimmie by this display of Peter’s terrible miraculous power, and as he backed away his feeble denials were more convincing than a confession.

“I’ll tell yer pop!” cried Peter, in virtuous grandeur. “I’ll tell yer pop!”

In the distance Jimmie stood appalled. He knew not what to do. The dread adult wisdom of Peter Washington had laid bare the sin, and disgrace stared at Jimmie.

There was a whirl of wheels, and a high, lean trotting-mare spun Doctor Trescott’s buggy towards Peter, who ran forward busily. As the doctor climbed out, Peter, holding the mare’s head, began his denunciation:

“Docteh, I gwine tell on Jim. He come home er-holdin’ on to his hind pocket, an’ proud like he won a tuhkey-raffle, an’ I sure know what he been up to, an’ I done challenge him, an’ he nev’ say he didn’t.”

“Why, what do you mean?” said the doctor. “What’s this, Jimmie?”

The boy came forward, glaring wrathfully at Peter. In fact, he suddenly was so filled with rage at Peter that he forgot all precautions. “It’s about a pistol,” he said, bluntly. “I’ve got a pistol. I swapped for it.”

“I done tol’ ‘im his pop wouldn’ stand no fiah-awms, an’ him a kid like he is. I done tol’ ‘im. Lan’ sake! he strut like he was a soldier! Come in yere proud, an’ er-holdin’ on to his hind pocket. He think he was Jesse James, I raikon. But I done tol’ ‘im his pop stan’ no sech foolishness. First thing—blam—he shoot his haid off. No, seh, he too tinety t’ come in yere er-struttin’ like he jest bought Main Street. I tol’ ‘im. I done tol’ ‘im—shawp. I don’ wanter be loafin’ round dis yer stable if Jim he gwine go shootin’ round an’ shootin’ round—blim—blam—blim—blam! No, seh. I retiahs. I retiahs. It’s all right if er grown man got er gun, but ain’t no kids come foolishin’ round me with fiah-awms. No, seh. I retiahs.”

“Oh, be quiet, Peter!” said the doctor. “Where is this thing, Jimmie?”

The boy went sulkily to the box under the lilac-bush and returned with the revolver. “Here ‘tis,” he said, with a glare over his shoulder at Peter. The doctor looked at the silly weapon in critical contempt.

“It’s not much of a thing, Jimmie, but I don’t think you are quite old enough for it yet. I’ll keep it for you in one of the drawers of my desk.”

Peter Washington burst out proudly: “I done tol’ ‘im th’ docteh wouldn’ stan’ no traffickin’ round yere with fiah-awms. I done tol’ ‘im.”

Jimmie and his father went together into the house, and as Peter unharnessed the mare he continued his comments on the boy and the revolver. He was not cast down by the absence of hearers. In fact, he usually talked better when there was no one to listen save the horses. But now his observations bore small resemblance to his earlier and public statements. Admiration and the keen family pride of a Southern negro who has been long in one place were now in his tone.

“That boy! He’s er devil! When he get to be er man—wow! He’ll jes take an’ make things whirl round yere. Raikon we’ll all take er back seat when he come erlong er-raisin’ Cain.”

He had unharnessed the mare, and with his back bent was pushing the buggy into the carriage-house.

“Er pistol! An’ him no bigger than er minute!”

A small stone whizzed past Peter’s head and clattered on the stable. He hastily dropped all occupation and struck a curious attitude. His right knee was almost up to his chin, and his arms were wreathed protectingly about his head. He had not looked in the direction from which the stone had come, but he had begun immediately to yell:

“You Jim! Quit! Quit, I tell yer, Jim! Watch out! You gwine break somethin’, Jim!”

“Yah!” taunted the boy, as with the speed and ease of a light-cavalryman he manœuvred in the distance. “Yah! Told on me, did you! Told on me, hey! There! How do you like that?” The missiles resounded against the stable.