Priest’s most painful duty to sentence Press Harper to serve two years at hard labour in the state prison. To be sure, circumstances, which have been detailed elsewhere, interfered to keep Press Harper from serving all or any part of his punishment; nevertheless, it was the judge who had sentenced him. Now, catching the judge’s eye, old Press waved his arm at him in a proud and fond greeting.
Father Minor beamingly faced Squire Futrell, whose Southern Methodism was of the most rigid and unbendable type. Professor Reese, principal of the graded school, touched elbows with Jake Smedley, colour bearer of the Camp, who just could make out to write his own name. Peter J. Galloway, the lame blacksmith, who most emphatically was Irish, had a caressing arm over the stooped shoulder of Mr. Herman Felsburg, who most emphatically was not. Doctor Lake, his own pet crony in a town where everybody, big and little, was his crony in some degree, sat one seat removed from the judge, with the empty chair of the bedfast Chickasaw Reeves in between them and so it went.
Even in the matter of the waiters an ancient and a hallowed sentiment ruled. Behind Judge Priest, and swollen as with a dropsy by pomp of pride and vanity, stood Uncle Zach Mathews, a rosewood-coloured person, whose affection for the Cause that was lost had never been questioned – even though Uncle Zach, after confusing military experiences, emerged from the latter end of the conflict as cook for a mess of Union officers and now drew his regular quarterly pension from a generous Federal Government.
Flanking Uncle Zach, both with napkins draped over their arms, both awaiting the word from him to bring on the first course, were posted – on the right, Tobe Emery, General Grider’s one-time body servant; on the left, Uncle Ike Copeland, a fragile, venerable exhuman chattel, who might almost claim to have seen actual service for the Confederacy. No ordinary darkies might come to serve when Company B foregathered at the feast.
Uncle Zach, with large authority, had given the opening order, and at the side tables a pleasing clatter of china had arisen, when Squire Futrell put down his glass and rose, with a startled look on his face.
“Looky here, boys!” he exclaimed. “This won’t never do! Did you fellers know there wus thirteen at the table?”
Sure enough, there were!
It has been claimed – perhaps not without colour of plausibility – that Southerners are more superstitious than Northerners. Assuredly the Southerners of a generation that is almost gone now uniformly nursed their private beliefs in charms, omens, spells, hoodoos and portents. As babies many of them were nursed, as boys all of them were played with, by members of the most superstitious race – next to actors – on the face of creation. An actor of Ethiopian descent should by rights be the most superstitious creature that breathes the air of this planet, and doubtlessly is.
No one laughed at Squire Futrell’s alarm over his discovery. Possibly excusing Father Minor, it is probable that all present shared it with him. As for Uncle Zach Mathews and his two assistants, they froze with horror where they had halted, their loaded trays poised on their arms. But they did not freeze absolutely solid – they quivered slightly.
“Law-zee!” gasped Uncle Zach, with his eyeballs rolling. “Dinner can’t go no fur’der twell we gits somebody else in or meks somebody leave and go ‘way – dat’s sartain shore! Whee! We kin all thank Our Maker dat dey ain’t been nary bite et yit.”
“Amen to dat, Brer Zach!” muttered Ike shakily; and dumbly Tobe Emery nodded, stricken beyond power of speech by the nearness of a barely averted catastrophe fraught with disaster, if not with death itself.
Involuntarily Judge Priest had shoved his chair back; most of the others had done the same thing. He got on his feet with alacrity.
“Boys,” he said, “the squire is right – there’s thirteen of us. Now whut d’ye reckin we’re goin’ to do ‘bout that?”
The natural suggestion would be that they send at once for another person. Three or four offered it together, their voices rising in a babble. Names of individuals who would make congenial table mates were heard. Among others, Sergeant Jimmy Bagby was spoken of; likewise Colonel Cope and Captain Woodward. But Judge Priest shook his head.
“I can’t agree with you-all,” he set forth. “By the time we sent clean uptown and rousted one of them boys out, the vittles would all be cold.”
“Well, Billy,” demanded Doctor Lake, “what are you going to do, then? We can’t go ahead this way, can we? Of course I don’t believe in all this foolishness about signs myself; but” – he added – “but I must admit to a little personal prejudice against thirteen at the table.”
“Listen here, you boys!” said Judge Priest. “Ef we’re jest, obliged and compelled to break a long-standin’ rule of this command – and it looks to me like that’s whut we’ve got to do – let’s foller after a precedent that was laid down a mighty long time ago. You-all remember – don’t you – how the Good Book tells about the Rich Man that give a feast oncet? And at the last minute the guests he’d invited didn’t show up at all – none of ‘em. So then he sent out into the highways and byways and scraped together some hongry strangers; and by all accounts they had a purty successful time of it there. When in doubt I hold it’s a fairly safe plan to jest take a leaf out of them old Gospels and go by it. Let’s send out right here in the neighbourhood and find somebody – no matter who ‘tis, so long as he’s free, white and twenty-one – that looks like he could appreciate a meal of vittles, and present the compliments of Company B to him, and ast him will he come on in and jine with us.”
Maybe it was the old judge’s way of putting it, but the idea took unanimously. The manager of the Richland House, having been sent for, appeared in person almost immediately. To him the situation was outlined and the remedy for it that had been favoured.
“By gum, gentlemen,” said their host, instantly inspired, “I believe I know where I can put my hand on the very candidate you’re looking for. There’s a kind of seedy-looking, lonely old fellow downstairs, from somewhere the other side of the Ohio River. He’s been registered since yes’day morning; seems like to me his name is Watts – something like that, anyhow. He don’t seem to have any friends or no business in particular; he’s just kind of hanging round. And he knows about this dinner too. He was talking to me about it a while ago, just before supper – said he’d read about it in a newspaper up in his country. He even asked me what the names of some of you gentlemen were. If you think he’ll do to fill in I’ll go right down and get him. He was sitting by himself in a corner of the lobby not two minutes ago. I judge he’s about the right age, too, if age is a consideration. He looks to be about the same age as most of you.”
There was no need for Judge Priest to put the question to a vote. It carried, so to speak, by acclamation. Bearing a verbal commission heartily to speak for the entire assemblage, Manager Ritter hurried out and in less than no time was back again, escorting the person he had described. Judge Priest met them at the door and was there introduced to the stranger, whose rather reluctant hand he warmly shook.
“He didn’t want to come at first,” explained Mr. Ritter; “said he didn’t belong up here with you-all; but when I told him the fix you was in he gave in and consented, and here he is.”
“You’re mighty welcome, suh,” said Judge Priest, still holding the other man’s hand. “And we’re turribly obliged to you fur comin’, and to Mr. Ritter fur astin’ you to come.”
With that, he drew their dragooned guest into the room and, standing beside him, made formal presentation to the expectant company.
“Gentlemen of Company B, allow me to make you acquainted with Mr. Watts, of the State of Illinoy, who has done us the great honour of agreein’ to make fourteen at the table, and to eat a bite with us
