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Jack-Knife Man

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<h2> XIX. PETER GOES TO TOWN </h2> ONE DAY, if we saw a woman gowned as Mrs. Montgomery was gowned when she visited Riverbank, we would laugh her to ridicule, but the toys Peter Lane whittled that winter are still admired for their design and execution. There is a collection of them in the rooms of the Riverbank Historical Society. We laugh, too, when we see photographs of Main Street as it was when Peter came to town after his winter on Big Tree Lake, with the mud almost hub deep. That was before the new banks were built or the brick-paving laid, and Main Street was a ragged, ill-kept thoroughfare, with none of the city airs it has since donned. But as Peter stepped out of the First National Bank, and stood for a minute on the steps in the warm spring sunshine, the street looked like an old friend, and this was the more odd because it had never looked like a friend before. Jim Vandyne had just cashed the checks and money orders Peter had accumulated during the winter. They were for small amounts—a few dollars each—and not until the cashier had pushed the pile of crisp bills under the wicket, mentioning the amount, did happy-go-lucky Peter realize how much his winter earnings had amounted to. “Quite a lot of money,” Jim had said. “How would you like to open an account?” and Peter had opened his first bank account. The warm, leather-bound bank-book now reposed in his pocket. Peter could feel it pressing against him, and he could feel the extra bulge the check-book made in his hip pocket. He felt like a serf raised to knighthood, with armor protecting him against harm. As he stood there, Mr. Howard, the bank's president, came briskly down the street. He was a short, chubby man, and he had always nodded cheerfully to Peter, but now he stopped and extended his hand. “How do you do!” he said cheerfully. “Jim Vandyne has been telling me what you have been doing this winter. Glad to know you are making a go of it.” It was not much. The bank president was not a great bank president, and the bank was not much of a bank—as great banks go—and he had not, after all, said much, but it made Peter's brown cheeks glow. Bank presidents do not often stop to shake hands with shanty-boatmen, nor do they pause to congratulate them, although the bank president may be an infernal rascal and the shanty-boatman a moral king. But Peter did not philosophize. He knew that if enough bank presidents shake the hand of an ex-shanty-boatman the world will consider the shanty-boatman respectable enough to raise one freckle-faced, kinky-headed little waif of a boy. Peter raised his head higher than ever, and he had always held it high. He was a man, like other men, now. He could, if he wished, build another shanty-boat. He could hire it built. He could rent a house and put a carpet on the parlor floor. He could say he was going to Florida and people would believe him. He could—buy a suit of clothes! A whole, complete, entire suit, vest and all! It had been years and years since he could do that, and when he had been able to do it he had always spent the money otherwise. Now he crossed the street and entered the Riverbank Clothing Emporium. It gave him a warming feeling of respectability to be buying clothes, but he did not plunge recklessly. He bought everything he needed, from socks and shoes to tie and hat, but the shoes were stout and cheap, and the shirt a woolen one, and the hat a soft felt that would stand wind and weather. Mr. Rosenheim himself came and stood by Peter when he was trying on the shoes. “My wife was showing me the piece about you in the magazine,” he said. “I guess you are the first man in Riverbank to get into magazines. We should be proud of you, Lane.” “Who, me in a magazine? I guess not.” “Oh, sure! I read some of it. Some such Art and Crafts magazine, with photo cuts from them toys you make. Ain't you seen it?” “Nope! Let me try on a seven and a half B,” he said calmly, but his pulse quickened. “Well, I suppose you are used to being puffed up already,” said Mr. Rosenheim. “I wish I could get such free advertising.” When Peter looked at himself in the store mirror he was well satisfied. Mr. Rosenheim nodded his approval. “That suit looks like it was made for you, Mr. Lane,” he said, and he did not know what a great truth he was uttering, for Peter, so long in rags, and the simple, quiet suit seemed well fitted for each other's company. Peter went out upon the street, and at the first corner he met—Booge! He was the same old, frowsy, hairy Booge, and he greeted Peter in the same deep bass. “Did you get the papers, to rescue the cheeild?” he asked melodramatically. “I hid them under the stone at the corner of the lane. Meet me at midnight! Hush! A stranger approaches!” There were several strangers approaching, for they were standing on the corner of the two principal streets. Peter grinned. “George Rapp brought it down to me,” he said. “I thought you were in for six months.” “Sheriff discharged me,” said Booge. “I ate too much. He couldn't figure a profit, so he kicked me out.” “You don't mean it!” “No, teacher excused me at noon so I could go to dancing class,” said Booge. “How did you get out?” Peter insisted. “There wasn't room for me and Briggles in the same jail,” said Booge. “We was always singin' out of harmony.” “Was Briggles in jail?” “They caught the old kazoozer, kazoozer, kazoozer, They caught the old kazoozer and took him to the jail,” hummed Booge, “and I got excused so I could go and hunt up Susie: I was her responsible guardian. Ain't that a joke?” “What are you going to do now?” asked Peter. “I dunno!” said Booge thoughtfully. “I ain't made up my mind whether to run for mayor or buy the op'ry house, but if anybody was to give me a nickel I'd give up whisky and buy beer. If not, I'll stand around here 'til I do get arrested. The town cop has promised and promised to do it, but he ain't reliable. I've got so I don't depend on his word no more.” Peter took a silver dollar from his pocket and handed it to the tramp, and Booge started across the street to the nearest saloon without farewell. Peter took a step after him and then turned back. “I guess it's what he likes,” he said, “and I couldn't stop him if I wanted to.” Peter turned into the Star Restaurant and took a seat at one of the red-covered tables. “Bob,” he said, “can you get me up one of them oyster stews of yours? One of them milk stews, with plenty of oysters and a hunk of butter thawing out on top. Fix me one. And then I want a chicken—a nice, fresh, young chicken, killed about day before yesterday—split open and br'iled right on top of the coals, so the burned smell will come sifting in before the chicken is ready, and I want it on a hot plate—a plate so hot I'll holler when I grab it. And I want some of your fried potatoes in a side dish—hashed browned potatoes, browned almost crisp in the dish, with bacon chopped up in them. And I want a big cup of coffee with real cream, even if you have to send out for it. And then, Bob, I want a whole lemon meringue pie. A whole one, three inches thick and fourteen inches across. I've been wanting to eat a whole lemon meringue pie ever since I was fourteen years old, and now I'm going to. I'm going to have one full, fine, first-class meal and then—” “Then what?” asked Bob. “Then I'm going to go and get an alarm-clock that belongs to me.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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