27. Knock-Out Champion
Before a pair of tents near the entrance to "Carnival Pasture," Cotton Eye; Lee was beseeching all wayfarers to step up and regale themselves on soft drink and sandwiches at a price per "regale" which he quoted temptingly. But Rex Currie and the slabsided son of gloom who accompanied him did not pay the black the courtesy of a moment's hesitation. They strode under a canvas flap into the rear tent, where they found Sandyred Metcalf, proprietor. After certain assurances had been made by the hillbilly, Bide Shortoff got his drink and was sent his way to find Sally - lest Sally find him.
Currie then broached the subject which had brought him to the tent. He laid before the young Impressionable the arguments which, in view of Old Tom's drastic dismissal of himself a few nights before, he had felt would be necessary and had prepared.
Why couldn't they, who had been friends so many years, remain friends, no matter what the "old man" thought? If Sandy knew what was good for him and safe for the family, he would find out who were for them and who against. For instance, there was that foreigner who was setting up to Vernaluska - he, Rex had cooled down somewhat since the other night, but was Sandy going to take a chance unless he knew whether or not the fellow was a revenuer?
Why not put the dude In puttees to the acid test of daring hhn to take a drink? If he up and swallowed like a man, they both would be satisfied, Rex would apologize, and all would be well. If he wouldn't drink there was still time to get right busy. Rex would place the stuff handy just inside. All he wanted. Heaven knew, was that the truth be brought out for the sake of the girl who had been denied him, but whose welfare he always would have at heart. That Sandyred was open to conviction, he proved by finally being convinced. He did not intend to fall short In his relationship to Verney.
The properties of the test were ready when, a few moments later, Parker, at Pope's suggestion, turned into the pasture lot for a preview of the scene of festivities.
The youngest of the Metcalfs, his mood of the morning rather emphasized than otherwise, returned the Northerner's greeting outside his refreshment booth and showed no disinclination toward the Introduction to Pope.
"Be you the Spencer Pope that's deputy to the gover'ment?" drawled the young outlaw, with bravado.
"Yes, he Is," Parker answered, "and I've Intended he should meet you In a semi-official capacity. He is going to oblige me with a statement regarding myself. Will you tell Metcalf, Spence, exactly who and what I am?"
Pope obliged, according to his part of continuing to appear "best friend." "Calvin Parker Is an artist by profession and In no way connected with the revenue service. He came to North Carolina at my suggestion because I knew the State to be dry. His sole object was to get control of his thirst."
"So we-all have hearn tell." There was a jibe in Sandy's agreement.
"I give you my word, Metcalf, that the name of Parker has never been on our pay-rolls. The records will show It."
"Them records - they ain't here, are they? As for words, why shoot any more at us-all? Mr. Parker is right free with them himself." Sandy waved a calming hand. "For sure. It don't concern me none whether he's looking for bootleggers up yon In the hills or not, we-all being plain farmers, grubbing for enough to do on. But here it Is, just on general principles - he Is an officer or he ain't. Something more than words would be needed to hit the bull's-eye."
"What, for Instance?" asked Parker. "Pope, here, and Mrs. Brainard, who came with him will both vouch that the letter which read so strangely to you up on the Fork was a strictly personal matter."
Sandyred's credulity seemed to be growing less and less. "Another passel of words - written words. Now looky here, out-Norther; Pm reasonable, and there's been things occurred since the other night that point my grudge away from you. You say you're a hard-hitter that's come down here to cure your thirst. Suppose "
He paused and turned. At the moment the entrance to the tent had become occupied. Pope gripped Parker's arm.
"Isn't that the Rex Currie we were speaking of at lunch?" His voice was a low aside, his manner that of half-recognition after years.
"Spencer Pope, by grace !" The bootlegger strode forward.
"Delighted and surprised, Currlel Have you met my friend Parker?"
In view of the issue, the artist thought best temporarily to retire his standing quarrel with the new entrant. Standing off and prepared for "tricks," he acknowledged acquaintance with a nod.
"Sure weVe met, and there ain't no love lost between us, but if he's a friend of yours, Pope, that's different," said Currle with a large manner.
"Did you hear what we-all were chinning over?" Sandy cut in. "I've just been thinking, now, that It might back up Parker's argument if he'd take a swallow or two of good liquor with us-all. If he's a revenuer, he won't drink; if he ain't, he likely will. I've got a few bumbllngs stowed Inside for a little cheer-you-up between festivities. If this strikes you as more fair than foul, Parker, step inside. I'll pass a free wetness."
Currie sent a suspicious look toward the visiting deputy.
"Oh, you needn't be afraid of me, Rex," that official reassured him. "I'm on vacation to-day."
Still addressing Parker directly, young Metcalf further urged: "You made a fine-sounding proposition the other night of becoming our particeps criminis. This here's a short-cut to the same end. Leave us hear you clink to it before your friend."
All eyes turned upon the artist. Pope proclaimed Ills approval with a shoulder slap and the suggestion that if he really wished to be convincing an agreeable means offered.
The suspect seemed to have made up his mind. Without any of the words which young Metcalf depreciated, he preceded the three men into the back tent. It was Rex Currie who, while Sandyred was letting down the flap to shut off the small ceremony from public view, assorted the flasks found, ready filled, upon the table. The liquid within three was colorless - the pure corn whisky of regional disrepute. Only one of the quartette noted with satisfaction that Parker's had an amber cast, knew that Its alive look was given by mixture with buckeye juice, that well-known, knock-out champion.
Parker's mind was distracted by regret over the form of this means to an end upon which he had determined. Before uncorking his flask, he unpinned and slipped into his waist-coat pocket a small amethyst brooch which had adorned his cravat.
"To Mr. Particeps Criminis!"
Sandyred named the toast. All lifted their individual containers and tossed off in good form. Realizing that he was under Inspection, Parker drank deep, then shuddered as the fiery draft lapped downward. There was a peculiar taste to it - one that he had not noticed in the brush whisky he had drunk before.
Strangely enough, he felt cheered mentally by his physical distaste. It gave the test which the young mountaineer had proposed a grateful sideissue In proving that his newly stimulated ideals had conquered his gluttony. There was no attraction In the bottle itself - that he realized with unspeakable relief. Even while sniffing Its fumes he knew that he never would return to liquor. Whether Verne cared or whether she did not, he had come to care too much for his own self-respect to outrage it.
"A revenue slick might take one swiggle and not prove anything," he heard Currie offer, then the toast which, from him, was a reinforced challenge: "Here's to what we want and are going to have I"
A few swallows more or less did not matter to Parker, since he had found that they must be forced. The toast was one he could honor with a will. His eyes flared back into the hillbilly's, while the four flasks were again upraised. He knew that Currie was pledging the same hope as he - the hope of Verne.
"I'll be off, Cal, and stop here for you on my way back. I'm late now. Guess you can win this liquid debate as to your identity without any further help from me."
Parker nodded toward the man he believed his friend who was stooping to exit under the tentflap. He was preoccupied with a question born of the exultation surging through him. What was it the gas-man had said when sent for to fix the logs In his studio fire-place last winter? The best results came from a blue flame, not red. He must not turn the gas on full force; he must regulate it. Real heat, good cheer, great power came, then, through control. He had found control of the red flames that were wasting him. His love for Verne - that was a blue flame burning steadily, cheerily, heartwarmingly within him. The true love of Verne was what he wanted - what, please God, he was going to have.
Automatically he made replies to the waxing joviality of Currie and young Metcalf. A third, a fourth - even a fifth of the toasts proposed he afterward remembered responding to in good part.
His attention was once recalled by a jocular question of Currle's anent the new location of the still. Anxiety held him lest Sandyred should be won sufficiently by Currle's protests of friendship to reveal the new hiding-place, but held him only momentarily. His own thoughts were more absorbing.
Odd that he should be making this application about blue flames when they were the subject upon which Tom Metcalf was considered to be obsessed! The old fox was not half as mad as he wished to appear - Parker had thought that ever since he had been held prisoner in the jarred window frame of the shack upon the ledge. Wasn't the justification of this instinctive theory part of the reason he had bought the mountain? . . . Clear, strong flames were all about - mountain daylight - a man's self-respect - his heart's deep love for Verne. . . . Strange place to imprison them, In a lard-pail behind the chimney of a mountain shack! One should be careful running them through the fingers not to lose them - the blue flames of self-control and love and loyalty. . . . That pail - he ought to find it. He ought to make sure the lid was tight.
Yet It didn't belong to him. Probably old Tom had removed It immediately after his, Cal's, discovery. . . . Even If It still were there, a Parker would not dig up another man's secret, like an ordinary pry or a night thief. He had flames of his own to attend, lest his soul be seared to ash by the fires of fawn-green eyes and copper hair. . . .
They had burned away the dross of his one-time appetite. . . . His heart was now ablaze, but with the controlled flames of the gas logs at home, steady, intense - and blue!