To Palmyra the Latham philippic was a declaration of war and boycott. In fact, it had concluded with a demand upon “all good and lawful citizens” to abjure the attendance and shun the “companionship and activities of this miscreant.” The smithy debated it at length, recalling dire instances of the weight of Genter Latham’s past disfavors. The general opinion was that Horace Amlie could not hope to stand out against the autocrat.
“He’s a used-up man in this village,” declared Bezabeel Fornum.
“I’ve got nothing against Doc,” said George W. Woodcock. “But I’ve got my trade to think of.”
“A man oughta consider his family first,” said Jim Cronkhite.
“The Lathams are my best customers,” stated T. Lay.
“They’re everybody’s best customers, mostly,” added Billy Dorch.
“The bank holds my note,” said Fornum.
“It holds a lot of notes.”
“And Genter Latham is the bank.”
“What’s your view, Silas?” asked Woodcock.
“I tend my forge,” answered the Quaker peacefully.
“You fellas put me in mind of young mead-larks in spring,” remarked Sneed.
“How’s that, Carly?”
“Yellowbellies,” snickered the wit. The sally won no laughter.
“There’s no yellow on my belly,” averred O. Daggett, glaring sourly around the circle. “I stand by my friends.”
Tom Daw piped up. “What’s it costin’ you?”
“You know too much,” grumbled the sign-painter, discountenanced.
“Newspapers have to know everything,” boasted the hunchback. “The bank’s took an’ h’isted his interest from twelve percentum to eighteen,” he imparted to the gathering.
“Without so much as by-your-leave,” confirmed the victim of this fiat finance.
“They say the devil gathers news with his tail,” observed the humorist in not too subtle reference to Daw’s humble position as press-devil.
The little fellow swelled pleasurably over the attention he was enjoying. “What about Mr. Latham’s bespoken boots, Decker?” he asked.
“Canceled,” grunted the cobbler.
“And with the leather already cut to measure, I hear.”
“I ought to have the law of him.”
“Who ever lawed against Genter Latham without getting the tar-end of the stick?” asked Jed Parris.
“That’s what you must expect for being a friend to Doc Amlie,” Woodcock warned the cobbler. “It’ll cost you many a good dollar before all’s said and done.”
The gossip-freighter was not discharged of all his cargo yet. “They say Doc Amlie’s mare slipped and fell with him yesterday.”
“Will you blame that to Genter Latham?” came T. Lay’s sardonic query.
“She needs re-shoeing,” opined Billy Dorch.
“Will you do the job, Silas?” asked Parris.
“Why not?” said the smith serenely.
“Genter Latham might catch you at it,” suggested Cronkhite.
“Up, Jenk!” called Silas.
The patient dog climbed to the treadmill. The forge glowed afresh.
Some days later Fleetfoot was left at the smithy while her owner made his calls afoot. The watchful Daw went scampering up the street, and shortly after, Genter Latham sauntered down, fragrant smoke from his segar benefiting the nostrils of the passers-by who gave him obsequious greeting. He paused at the smithy where Fleetfoot was waiting her turn while Silas Bewar tinkered with an oxbow. The great man removed his segar from his mouth and entered. The smithy was empty except for the proprietor and his dog.
“Good morning to you, Silas Bewar,” said the caller affably.
“Good morning, Friend Latham.”
“Is that Horace Amlie’s mare?”
“It is, friend.”
Latham walked around her, inspecting. “She’s wearing down,” said he disparagingly. “I’ve an ailing stallion at home,” he added. “I’d like you to take a look at him.”
The Quaker enjoyed something of a reputation as a veterinary consultant, but had voluntarily relinquished this practice to the more scientific M.D., who frequently found it more profitable than his human calls. Horses do not run up bills nor expect charity attendance.
“Thee had better call upon Horace Amlie,” said the smith.
“I’ll have no dealings with that scoundrel, and well you know it, Silas Bewar.”
The smith continued his work.
“How long will you be?” asked the magnate impatiently.
“I’ve a nest of kettles to run over, and then to shoe the mare.”
“Let the mare wait.”
“First come, first served, friend.”
The great man glowered. “I’m not accustomed to being put off.”
The smith placidly tapped an iron band into place, surveyed his workmanship with care, and lifted the weighty apparatus aside. Genter Latham’s veins swelled in his forehead.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard thee, Friend Latham.”
“Then why in hell and damnation don’t you answer?”
“I’ll have no profane swearing in my smithy, friend.”
“You’ll have no smithy this time next year, by God!” shouted Latham, now beside himself. “I’ll drive you out of business. I’ll break you.”
The smith said, without altering his pacific tone, “The wrath of the ungodly wasteth as a vain wind. Peace be with thee, friend.”
Genter Latham repaired to the Eagle to cool his fury in a jorum of iced, minted rum. His ailing stallion was largely a figment; there was nothing wrong with the animal worse than a swollen hock which he had used as a pretext to serve notice on the smith as to the disadvantages of continuing to do business with Horace Amlie. He had another errand for the morning in which he counted upon being more successful.
When the leading member of the congregation called, the Reverend Theron Strang was in his study, writing his sermon and taking care of the three youngest children while his wife was downtown trying to convert part of last week’s contributions into cash. The magnate came to the point at once.
“Young Amlie’s pew-lease is up at the month’s end. I shall not renew it.”
“He is a disgrace to the church.”
“That is a grave accusation. With what do you charge him?”
“Immoral practices. Foul and slanderous speech. Irreligious conduct.”
“I know nothing of this. Do you intend to prefer formal charges to the presbytery?”
“No.” Genter Latham had no mind to air his grievances before a tribunal.
“By what right, then, would you deprive him of his place of worship?”
“Look you, Dominie; I’ve got the pew leaseholds for the church, haven’t I?”
“This is the House of God,” said the minister firmly. “Do you presume to dictate who shall worship here?”
“I’ve got the law back of me.”
“The law of man. There is a law of God that is higher. If you turn a parishioner of mine out of his pew, I will seat him in the pulpit.”
“So do, so do,” growled the autocrat. “I won’t be there to see it.”
“Is this a threat?”
Genter Latham rose ponderously. “Take it as you choose. Good day to you.”
He left the house. With him went one-fifth of the pastoral salary of $500 per annum, as the sturdy incumbent well knew.
It was worse than that. On Sunday morning not only the Latham sitting was vacant, but there was not a Levering nor an Evernghim to be seen in the congregation. Rumors were already circulating that a movement was afoot to vote the parson out at the close of the church year and supplant him with Exhorter Sickel. Elder Strang possessed many Christian virtues, but meekness under aggression was not one of them. That very evening the church rafters rang to a defiance based upon the text, “Thy money perish with thee.” Dr. and Mrs. Horace Amlie were among the few edified listeners who appreciated the full meaning of the discourse.
Dinty now began to feel the hand of the oppressor heavy upon her barter operations. Prices withered before her. Several stores declined to deal with her on any terms, alleging that they were overstocked. T. Lay, after a shamefully low offer, put it frankly.
“That’s my price. Take it or leave it. I’m running a risk in trading with you at all.”
Unable to clear out her stockroom of its accumulation of fees in kind, Dinty borrowed her husband’s wagon and mare, drove all the way to Macedon Village beyond the radius of the Latham power, and there made her sales. It was but a makeshift. Winter was close at hand. When the roads were clogged with snow, that market would be unavailable. She felt daunted.
Christmas was a meager festival for the Amlies. Dinty put a brave face upon it and set forth to the best effect such socks, mittens and tippets as her busy fingers had found time to knit secretly. Horace gave her a bangle from the whitesmith’s which, he stoutly maintained, he was well able to afford. Of tasty food there was no lack; the stockroom was always good for that. The housewife graced the feast with a bottle of plum brandy which had been ripening in a charred keg. They dined alone. She had invited her parents, but they declined, Mrs. Jerrold tartly, the Squire with eyes averted and a timorous and miserable expression. Dinty surmised that there was truth in the rumor of his increasing involvement at the bank.
At dead of night, Horace Amlie awoke with the impression that something was wrong.
“Dinty!”
“What?”
“You’re crying.”
“I’m not.”
He gathered her into his arms, feeling her whole slender body shake against his. “What is it, Puss?”
“Oh, Doc! I’m frightened.”
“What about?”
“Here it is, past Christmas,” she burst out, “and there’s nothing. Nothing! I saw Wealthia yesterday. You said it would be in December. What are you going to do?”
“Have you lost faith in me, Dinty?”
“Doctors have been wrong before. I don’t know what to believe,” she answered distractedly.
“I’m not wrong,” said he with passionate conviction. “Nothing on earth can persuade me that I am wrong. Something has happened. I don’t know what. Something. I’ll find out if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
“Another thing, Doc. We’re living up every cent you make.”
“Then we must cut down. Let Unk Zeb go. I can do the rough work.”
“Unk Zeb won’t go. He says he’d rather work for you, free gratis, than take a wage from anybody else.”
“There must be other economies.”
“Of course there are,” said Dinty, rallying. “I can make do. We’re always sure of our food and firing. Doc, have you got any bills out?”
“No. Well, maybe a few. The tailor. And the harness-maker. One or two others. Nothing much.”
“Oh, Doc!” she wailed. “Haven’t I told you we must always pay cash? Debt scares me so! It’s my own fault for wanting you to look fine and pompous.”
Upon her insistence, Horace withdrew from the Eagle post-board his announcement of free inoculation for immigrants and indigents, but he stubbornly refused to give over the practice. Vainly his wife proved by irrefutable arithmetic that he was losing not only time but money by this and other charities; he replied that when he had to turn away a patient for lack of cash, he would quit medicine and become a banker.
To her dying day Dinty could not recall without a shudder the first formal dun. It was in the form of a small dodger from the job press; a tasty bit of print in the best style of Burr Butler, poet and tailor, designed to jog the torpid consciences of his slow-paying clientele. It fluttered in, together with a whirl of snow, at the front door when Dinty opened it upon a blustery January morning. The legend read:
We ask for our pay.
Now make no delay,
Or sue you we will
And add costs to your bill.
Below was written in a stylish hand: “Aug. the 15; To one Brocade Waistcoat—$4.00.”
Dinty quivered with mortification. Horace cursed.
“I’d forgotten all about the damned thing.”
“How can we pay it?”
“We can’t just now.”
“Then you’ll be sued and we can never hold up our heads again.”
“I’ll jostle up some of my overdue accounts.”
“I made the rounds last week,” said his wife. “Three shillings, cash. The rest, promises and excuses.”
Unk Zeb set down the coffee pot which was steaming forth a dubious aroma of roasted Evans root, Dinty’s home-made substitute for chocolate.
“I got fo’ dollah,” he said. “I got six dollah.”
“Why, Unk Zeb! Where did you get all that money?”
“Neely’s Lucky Office.” This was the low-priced lottery which dealt in fractional chances down to one-fiftieth. “Lucky for Ol’ Unk Zeb,” he chuckled.
Husband and wife looked at one another. The exchange was a mutual negative, but Dinty could not repress a sigh of renunciation as she said,
“We can’t take your money, Unk Zeb.”
“Whuffoh you cain’t?”
Both explained more volubly than satisfactorily to the old man, who retired to his woodshed, grumbling to himself.
Failing to elude Burr Butler in the street, a few days later, Horace was the astonished recipient of the tailor’s thanks and apologies, together with a receipted bill. From the effusive explanation offered, it was not quite plain whether Horace was expected to regard the poetic dun as an error or a joke. What was clear enough (to Mr. Butler) was that Horace, like an honorable gentleman, had immediately sent around his “nigger” with cash for the bill. The poet-tailor solicited the honor of Dr. Amlie’s further patronage.
There was nothing to be done about it. To spare Dinty further humiliation, Horace decided to keep the transaction secret.
A worse thing befell, which permitted no concealment. On the fourth day of February, Dr. Horace Amlie received a curt, official notification from the Board of Censors of the State Medical Society citing him for malpractice, unprofessional behavior, detrimental ignorance, and conduct prejudicial to the honor of his high calling.