Cy Whittaker's Place — Background and Themes

ins town pump, also his gift, stood before the townhall. The Atkins portrait in the Bayport Ladies' Library was much admired; and the size of the Atkins fortune was the principal subject of conversation at sewing circle, at the table of “the perfect boarding house,” around the stove in Simmons's store, or wherever Bayporters were used to gather. We never exactly worshipped Heman Atkins, perhaps, but we figuratively doffed our hats when his name was mentioned.

The “Cy Whittaker place” faced the Atkins estate from the opposite side of the main road, but it was the general opinion that it ought to be ashamed to face it. Almost everybody called it “the Cy Whittaker place,” although some of the younger set spoke of it as the “Sea Sight House.” It was a big, old-fashioned dwelling, gambrel-roofed and brown and dilapidated. Originally it had enjoyed the dignified seclusion afforded by a white picket fence with square gateposts, and the path to its seldom-used front door had been guarded by rigid lines of box hedge. This, however, was years ago, before the second Captain Cy Whittaker died, and before the Howes family turned it into the “Sea Sight House,” a hotel for summer boarders.

The Howeses “improved” the house and grounds. They tore down the picket fence, uprooted the box hedges, hung a sign over the sacred front door, and built a wide veranda under the parlor windows.

They took boarders for five consecutive summers; then they gave up the unprofitable undertaking, returned to Concord, New Hampshire, their native city, and left the Cy Whittaker place to bear the ravages of Bayport winters and Bayport small boys as best it might.

For years it stood empty. The weeds grew high about its foundations; the sparrows built nests behind such of its shutters as had not been ripped from their hinges by February no'theasters; its roof grew bald in spots as the shingles loosened and were blown away; the swallows flew in and out of its stone-broken windowpanes. Year by year it became more of a disgrace in the eyes of Bayport's neat and thrifty inhabitants--for neat and thrifty we are, if we do say it. The selectmen would have liked to tear it down, but they could not, because it was private property, having been purchased from the Howes heirs by the third Cy Whittaker, Captain Cy's only son, who ran away to sea when he was sixteen years old, and was disinherited and cast off by the proud old skipper in consequence. Each March, Asaph Tidditt, in his official capacity as town clerk, had been accustomed to receive an envelope with a South American postmark, and in that envelope was a draft on a Boston banking house for the sum due as taxes on the “Cy Whittaker place.” The drafts were signed “Cyrus M. Whittaker.”

But this particular year--the year in which this chronicle begins--no draft had been received. Asaph waited a few weeks and then wrote to the address indicated by the postmark. His letter was unanswered. The taxes were due in March and it was now May. Mr. Tidditt wrote again; then he laid the case before the board of selectmen, and Captain Eben Salters, chairman of that august body, also wrote. But even Captain Eben's authoritative demand was ignored. Next to the harbor appropriation, the question of what should be done about the “Cy Whittaker place” filled Bayport's thoughts that spring. No one, however, had supposed that the Honorable Heman might wish to buy it. Bailey Bangs's surprise was excusable.

“What in the world,” repeated Bailey, “does Heman want of a shebang like that? Ain't he got enough already?”

His friend shook his head.

“'Pears not,” he said. “I judge it's this way, Bailey: Heman, he's a proud man--”

“Well, ain't he got a right to be proud?” broke in Mr. Bangs, hastening to resent any criticism of the popular idol. “Cal'late you and me'd be proud if we was able to carry as much sail as he does, wouldn't we?”

“Yes, I guess like we would. But you needn't get red in the face and strain your biler just because I said that. I ain't finding fault with Heman; I'm only tellin' you. He's proud, as I said, and his wife--”

“She's dead this four year. What are you resurrectin' her for?”

“Land! you're peppery as a West Injy omelet this mornin'. Let me alone till I've finished. His wife, when she was alive, she was proud, too. And his daughter, Alicia, she's eight year old now, and by and by she'll be grown up into a high-toned young woman. Well, Heman is fur-sighted, and I s'pose likely he's thinkin' of the days when there'll be young rich fellers--senators and--and--well, counts and lords, maybe--cruisin' down here courtin' her. By that time the Whittaker place'll be a worse disgrace than 'tis now. I presume he don't want those swells to sit on his front piazza and see the crows buildin' nests in the ruins acrost the road. So--”

“Crows! Did you ever see a crow build a nest in a house? I never did!”

“Oh, belay! Crows or canary birds, what difference does it make? SOMETHIN' 'll nest there, if it's only A'nt Sophrony Hallett's hens. So Heman he writes to the board, askin' if the taxes is paid, if we've heard any reason why they ain't paid, and what we're goin' to do about it. If there's a sale for taxes he wants to be fust bidder. Then, when the place is his, he can tear down or rebuild, just as he sees fit. See?”

“Yes, I see. Well, I feel about that the way Joe Dimick felt when he heard the doctor had told Elviry Pepper she must stop singin' in the choir or lose her voice altogether. 'Whichever happens 'll be an improvement,' says Cap'n Joe; and whatever Heman does 'll help the Whittaker place. What did you decide at the meetin'?”

“Nothin'. We can't decide yet. We ain't sure about the law and we want to wait a spell, anyhow. But I know how 'twill end: Atkins 'll get the place. He always gets what he wants, Heman does.”

Bailey turned and looked back at the old house, forlorn amidst its huddle of blackberry briers and weeds, and with the ubiquitous “silver-leaf” saplings springing up in clusters everywhere about it and closing in on its defenseless walls like squads of victorious soldiery making the final charge upon a conquered fort.

“Well,” sighed Mr. Bangs, “so that 'll be the end of the old Whittaker place, hey? Sho! things change in a feller's lifetime, don't they? You and me can remember, Ase, when Cap'n Cy Whittaker was one of the biggest men we had in this town. So was his dad afore him, the Cap'n Cy that built the house. I wonder the looks of things here now don't bring them two up out of their graves. Do you remember young Cy--'Whit' we used to call him--or 'Reddy Whit,' 'count of his red hair? I don't know's you do, though; guess you'd gone to sea when he run away from home.”

Mr. Tidditt shook his head.

“No, no!” he said. “I was to home that year. Remember 'Whit'? Well, I should say I did. He was a holy terror--yes, sir! Wan't no monkey shines or didos cut up in this town that young Cy wan't into. Fur's that goes, you and me was in 'em, too, Bailey. We was all holy terrors then. Young ones nowadays ain't got the spunk we used to have.”

“That's so,” he declared. “That's so. Whit was a good-hearted boy, too, but full of the Old Scratch and as sot in his ways as his dad, and if Cap'n Cy wan't sot, then there ain't no sotness. 'You'll go to college and be a parson,' says the Cap'n. 'I'll go to sea and be a sailor, same as you done,' says Whit. And he did, too; run away one night, took the packet to Boston, and shipped aboard an Australian clipper. Cap'n Cy didn't go after him to fetch him home. No, sir--ee! not a fetch. Sent him a letter plumb to Melbourne and, says he: 'You've made your bed; now lay in it. Don't you never dast to come back to me or your ma,' he says. And Whit didn't, he wan't that kind.”

“Pretty nigh killed the old lady--Whit's ma--that did,” mused Asaph. “She died a little spell afterwards. And the old man pined away, too, but he never give in or asked the boy to come back. Stubborn as all get-out to the end, he was, and willed the place, all he had left, to them Howes folks. And a nice mess THEY made of it. Young Cy, he--”

“Young Cy!” interrupted Bailey. “We're always callin' him 'young Cy,' and yet, when you come to think of it, he must be pretty nigh fifty-five now; 'most as old as you and I be. Wonder if he'll ever come back here.”

“You bet he won't!” was the oracular reply. “You bet he won't! From what I hear he got to be a sea cap'n himself and settled down there in Buenos Ayres. He's made all kinds of money, they say, out of hides and such. What he ever bought his dad's old place for, _I_ can't see. He'll never come back to these common, one-horse latitudes, now you mark my word on that!”

It was a prophecy Mr. Tidditt was accustomed to make each year to the crowd at the post office, when the receipt for the draft for taxes caused him to wax reminiscent. The younger generation here in Bayport regard their town clerk as something of an oracle, and this regard has made Asaph a trifle vain and positive.

Bailey chuckled again.

“We WAS a spunky, dare-devil lot in the old days, wan't we, Ase?” he said. “Spunk was kind of born in us, as you might say. And even now we're--”

The Atkins tower clock boomed once--a solemn, dignified stroke. Mr. Tidditt and his companion started and looked at each other.

“Godfrey scissors!” gasped Asaph. “Is that half past twelve?”

Mr. Bangs pulled a big worn silver watch from his pocket and glanced at the dial.

“It is!” he moaned. “As sure's you're born, it is! We've kept Ketury's dinner waitin' twenty minutes. You and me are in for it now, Ase Tidditt! Twenty minutes late! She'll skin us alive.”

Mr. Tidditt did not pause to answer, but plunged headlong down the hill at a race-horse gait, Bailey pounding at his heels. For “born dare-devils,” self-confessed, they were a nervous and apprehensive pair.

The “perfect boarding house” is situated a quarter of a mile beyond “Whittaker's Hill,” nearly opposite the Salters homestead. The sign, hung on the pole by the front gate, reads, “Bayport Hotel. Bailey Bangs, Proprietor,” but no one except the stranger in Bayport accepts that sign seriously. When, owing to an unexpected change in the administration at Washington, Mr. Bangs was obliged to relinquish his position as our village postmaster, his wife came to the rescue with the proposal that they open a boarding house. “'Whatsoe'er you find to do,' quoted Keturah at sewing-circle meeting, 'do it then with all your might!' That's a good Sabbath-school hymn tune and it's good sense besides. I intend to make it my life work to run just as complete a--a eatin' and lodgin' establishment as I can. If, when I'm laid to rest, they can put onto my gravestone, 'She run the perfect boardin' house,' I'LL be satisfied.”

This remark, and subsequent similar declarations, were widely quoted, and, therefore, though casual visitors may refer to the “Bayport Hotel,” to us natives the Bangs residence is always “Keturah's perfect boarding house.” As for the sign's affirmation of Mr. Bangs proprietorship, that is considered the cream of the joke. The idea of meek, bald-headed little Bailey posing as proprietor of anything while his wife is on deck, tickles Bayport's sense of humor.

The perspiring delinquents panted into the yard of the perfect boarding house and tremblingly opened the door leading to the dining room. Dinner was well under way, and Mrs. Bangs, enthroned at the end of the long table, behind the silver-plated teapot, was waiting to receive them. The silence was appalling.

“Sorry to be a little behindhand, Ketury,” stammered Asaph hurriedly. “Town affairs are important, of course, and can't be neglected. I--”

“Yes, yes; that's so, Ketury,” cut in Mr. Bangs.

“Hum! Yes, I see.” Keturah's tone was several degrees below freezing. “Hum! I s'pose 'twas town affairs kept you, too, hey?”

“Well, well--er--not exactly, as you might say, but--” Bailey squeezed himself into the armchair at the end of the table opposite his wife, the end which, with sarcasm not the less keen for being unintentional, was called the “head.” “Not exactly town affairs, 'twan't that kept me, Ketury, but--My! don't them cod cheeks smell good? You always could cook cod cheeks, if I do say it.”

The compliment was wasted. Mrs. Bangs had a sermon to deliver, and its text was not “cod cheeks.”

“Bailey Bangs,” she began, “when I was brought to realize that my husband, although apparently an able-bodied man, couldn't support me as I'd been used to be supported, and when I was forced to support HIM by keepin' boarders, I says, 'If there's one thing that my house shall stand for it's punctual promptness at meal times. I say nothing,' I says, 'about the inconvenience of gettin' on with only one hired help when we ought to have three. If Providence, in its unscrutable wisdom,' I says, 'has seen fit to lay this burden onto me, the burden of a household of boarders and a husband whom--'”

And just then the power referred to by Mrs. Bangs intervened to spare her husband the remainder of the preachment. From the driveway of the yard, beside the dining-room windows, came the rattle of wheels and the tramp of a horse's feet. Mrs. Matilda Tripp, who sat nearest the windows, on that side, rose and peered out.

“It's the depot wagon, Ketury,” she said. “There's somebody inside it. I wonder if they're comin' here.”

“Transients” were almost unknown quantities at the Bayport Hotel in May. Consequently, all the boarders and the landlady herself crowded to the windows. The “depot wagon” had drawn up by the steps, and Gabe Lumley, the driver, had descended from his seat and was doing his best to open the door of the ancient vehicle. It stuck, of course; the doors of all depot wagons stick.

“Hold on a shake!” commanded some one inside the carriage. “Wait till I get a purchase on her. Now, then! All hands to the ropes! Heave--ho! THERE she comes!”

The door flew back with a bang. A man sprang out upon the lower step of the porch. The eye of every inmate of the perfect boarding house was on him. Even the “hired help” peered from the kitchen door.

“He's a stranger,” whispered Mrs. Tripp. “I never see him before, did you, Mr. Tidditt?”

The town clerk did not answer. He was staring at the depot wagon's passenger, staring with a face the interested expression of which was changing to that of surprise and amazed incredulity. Mrs. Tripp turned to Mr. Bangs; he also was staring, open-mouthed.

“Godfrey scissors!” gasped Asaph, under his breath. “Godfrey--SCISSORS! Bailey, I--I believe--I swan to man, I believe--”

“Ase Tidditt!” exclaimed Mr. Bangs, “am I goin' looney, or is that--is that--”

Neither finished his sentence. There are times when language seems so pitifully inadequate.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN

Here in Bayport, nowadays, the collecting of “antiques” is a favorite amusement of our summer visitors. Those of us who were fortunate enough to possess a set of nicked blue dishes, a warming pan, or a tall clock with wooden wheels, have long ago parted with these treasures for considerable sums. Oddly enough Sylvanus Cahoon has profited most by this craze. Sylvanus used to be judged the unluckiest man in town; of late this judgment has been revised.

It was Sylvanus who, confined to the house by an illness brought on by eating too much “sugar cake” at a free sociable given by the Methodist Society, arose in the night and drank copiously of what he supposed to be the medicine left by the doctor. It happened to be water-bug poison, and Sylvanus was nearly killed by the dose. He is reported as having admitted that he “didn't mind dyin' so much, but hated to die such a dum mean death.”

While convalescent he took to smoking in bed and was burned out of house and home in consequence. Then it was that his kind-hearted fellow citizens donated, for the furnishing of his new residence, all the cast-off bits of furniture and odds and ends from their garrets. “Charity,” observed Captain Josiah Dimick at the time, “begins at home with us Bayporters, and it generally begins up attic, that bein' nighest to heaven.”

Later Sylvanus sold most of the donations as “antiques” and made money enough therefrom to buy a new plush parlor set. Miss Angeline Phinney never called on the Cahoons after that without making her appearance at the front door. “I'll get some good out of that plush sofy I helped to pay for,” declared Angeline, “if it's only to wear it out by settin' on it.”

There are two “antiques” in Bayport which have not yet been sold or even bid for. One is Gabe Lumley's “depot wagon,” and the other is “Dan'l Webster,” the horse which draws it. Both are very ancient, sadly in need of upholstery, and jerky of locomotion.

Gabe was, as usual, waiting at the station when the down train arrived, on the Tuesday--or Wednesday--of the selectmen's meeting. The train was due, according to the time-table, at eleven forty-five. This time-table, and the signboard of the “Bayport Hotel” are the only bits of humorous literature peculiar to our village, unless we add the political editorials of the Bayport Breeze.

So, at eleven forty-five, Mr. Lumley was serenely dozing on the baggage truck, which he had wheeled to the sunny side of the platform. At five minutes past twelve, he yawned, stretched, and looked at his watch. Then, rolling off the truck, he strolled to the edge of the platform and spoke authoritatively to “Dan'l Webster.”

“Hi there! stand still!” commanded Mr. Lumley.

Standing still being Dan'l's long suit, the order was obeyed. Gabe then loafed to the door of the station and accosted the depot master, who was nodding in his chair beside the telegraph instrument.

“Where is she now, Ed?” asked Mr. Lumley, referring to the train.

“Just left South Harniss. Be here pretty soon. What's your hurry? Expectin' anybody?”

“Naw; nobody that I know of, special. Sophrony Hallett's gone to Ostable, but she won't be back till to-morrow I cal'late. Hello! there she whistles now.”

Needless to say it was the train, not the widow Hallett, that had whistled. The depot master rose from his chair. A yellow dog, his property, scrambled from beneath it, and rushing out of the door and to the farther end of the platform, barked furiously. Cephas Baker, who lives across the road from the depot, slouched down to his front gate. His wife opened the door of her kitchen and stood there, her wet arms wrapped in her apron. The five Baker children tore round the corner of the house, over the back fence, and lined up, whooping joyously, on the platform. A cloud of white smoke billowed above the clump of cedars at the bend of the track. Then the locomotive rounded the curve and bore down upon the station.

“Stand still, I tell you!” shouted Gabe, addressing the horse.

Dan'l Webster opened one eye, closed it and relapsed into slumber.

The train, a combination baggage car and smoker, two freight cars and a passenger coach, rolled ponderously alongside the platform. From the open door of the baggage car were tossed the mail sack and two express packages. The conductor stepped from the passenger coach. Following him came briskly a short, thickset man with a reddish-gray beard and grayish-red hair.

“Goin' down to the village, Mister?” inquired Mr. Lumley. “Carriage right here.”

The stranger inspected the driver of the depot wagon, inspected him deliberately from top to toe. Then he said:

“Down to the village? Why, yes, I wouldn't wonder. Say! you're a Lumley, ain't you?”

“Why! why--yes, I be! How'd you know that? Ain't ever seen you afore, have I?”

“Guess not,” with a quiet chuckle. “I've never seen you, either, but I've seen your nose. I'd know a Lumley nose if I run across it in China.”