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Jack-Knife Man

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<h2> X. A VIOLENT INCIDENT </h2> BOOGE waited until he knew Peter was well on his way. Then he took Buddy on his knee. “Where is your ma, Buddy?” he asked. “Mama went away,” said Buddy vaguely. “Did she go away from this boat?” “Yes. Let's make a wagon, Uncle Booge,” but Booge was not ready. He considered his next question carefully. “We'll make that wagon right soon,” he said. “Was Uncle Peter your pa before your ma went away?” “I don't know,” said Buddy indefinitely. “You'd ought to know whether he was or not,” said Booge. “Didn't you call Uncle Peter 'pa,' or 'papa' or 'daddy' or something like that?” “No,” said Buddy. “You said you'd make a wagon, Uncle Booge.” “Right away!” said Booge. “What did you call Uncle Peter before your ma went away, Buddy?” The child looked at Booge in surprise. “Why, 'course I didn't call him at all,” he said as if Booge should have known as much. “He wasn't my Uncle Peter, then.” “Your ma just sort of stayed around the boat, did she?” “No, my mama comed to the boat, and I comed to the boat, and my mama went away. But Uncle Peter and Buddy didn't not go away. I want to make a wagon, Uncle Booge.” “Just one minute and we'll make that wagon, Buddy,” said Booge. “I just want to get this all straight first. What did your ma do when she came to the boat?” “Mama cried,” said Buddy. “I bet you!” said Booge. “And what did your ma do then, Buddy?” “Mama hit Uncle Peter,” said Buddy, “and Mama went away, and Uncle Peter floated the boat, and I floated the boat. And I steered the boat.” “And your ma left you with Uncle Peter when she went away,” said Booge. “What was your ma's name, Buddy. Was it Lane?” “It was Mama,” said Buddy. “But what was your name?” insisted Booge. “What did you say your name was when anybody said, 'What's your name, little boy?'” “Buddy,” said the boy. “Buddy what?” urged Booge. “Mama's Buddy.” Booge drew a deep breath. For five minutes more he questioned the boy, while Buddy grew more and more impatient to be at the wagon-making. Of Buddy's past Peter had, of course, never told Booge a word, but the tramp had his own idea of it. He felt that Peter was no ordinary shanty-boat man, and he imputed Peter's silence regarding the boy's past and parentage to a desire on Peter's part to shake himself free from that past. Why was Peter continually telling that he had begun a more respectable life? Peter's wife might have been one of the low shanty-boat women, a shiftless mother and a worse than shiftless wife, running away from Peter only to bring back the boy when he became a burden, taking what money Peter had and going away again. Possibly Peter had never been married to the woman. In digging into Buddy's memories Booge hoped to find some thread that would give him a hold on Peter, however slight. Booge liked the comfortable boat, but deeper than his love of idleness had grown an affection for the cheerful boy and for simple-minded Peter. If Peter had chosen this out-of-the-way slough for his winter harbor—when shanty-boat people usually came nearer the towns—in order that he might keep himself in hiding from the troublesome wife, veiling himself and the boy from discovery by giving out that he and Buddy were uncle and nephew, it was no more than Booge would have done. “I suppose, when your ma come to the boat, she slept in the bunk, didn't she?” asked Booge. “Yes, Uncle Booge,” said Buddy. “I want you to make a wagon.” “All right, bo!” said Booge gleefully. “Come ahead and make a wagon. And when Uncle Peter comes back we'll have a nice surprise for him. We'll shout out at him, when he comes in, 'Hello, Papa!' and just see what he says. That'll be fun, won't it?” Booge worked on the wagon all morning. Toward noon he made a meal for himself and Buddy, and set to work on the wagon again. He had found a canned-corn box that did well enough for the body, and he chopped out wheels as well as he could with the ax. He wished, by the time he had completed one wheel, that he had told Buddy it was to be a sled rather than a wagon, but he could not persuade the boy that a sled would be better, and he had to keep on. He worked on the clean ice before the shanty-boat and he was deep in his work when Buddy asked a question. “Who is that man, Uncle Booge?” he asked. Booge glanced up quickly. Across the ice, from the direction of the road a man was coming. He was well wrapped in overcoat and cap and he advanced steadily, without haste. Booge leaned on his ax and waited. When the man was quite near Booge said, “Hello!” “Good afternoon,” said the stranger. “Are you Peter Lane?” Booge's little eyes studied the stranger sharply. The man, for all the bulk given him by his ulster and cap, had a small, sharp face, and his eyes were shrewd and shifty. “Mebby I am,” rumbled Booge, crossing his legs and putting one hand on his hip and one on his forehead, “and mebby I ain't. Let me recall! Now, if I was Peter Lane, what might you want of me?” The stranger smiled ingratiatingly and cleared his throat. “My—my name,” he said slowly, “is Briggles—Reverend Rasmer Briggles, of Derlingport. My duty here is, I may say, one that, if you are Peter Lane, should give you cause only for satisfaction. Extreme satisfaction. Yes!” Booge was watching the Reverend Mr. Briggles closely. “I bet that's so!” he said. “I sort of recall now that I am Peter Lane. And I don't know when I've had any extreme satisfaction. I'll be glad to have some.” “Yes,” said Mr. Briggles rather doubtfully. “Yes! I am the President of the Child Rescue Society, an organization incorporated to rescue ill-cared-for children, placing them in good homes—” “Buddy,” said Booge roughly, “you go into that boat And you stay there. Understand?” The child did as he was told. Booge's tone was one he had never heard the tramp use, and it frightened him. “It has come to my attention,” said Mr. Briggles, “that there is a child here. You will admit this is no place for a tender little child. You may do your best for him but the influence of a good home must be sadly lacking in such a place. In fact, I have an order from the court—” He began unbuttoning his ulster. “I bet you have!” said Booge genially. “So, if you want to, you can sit right down on that bank there and read it. And if it's in po'try you can sing it. And if you can't sing, and you hang 'round here for half an hour, I'll come out and sing it for you. Just now I've got to go in and sing my scales.” He boosted himself to the deck of the shanty-boat and went inside, closing and locking the door. In a moment Mr. Briggles, out in the cold, heard Booge burst into song: Go tell the little baby, the baby, the baby, Go tell the little baby he can't go out to-day; Go tell the little baby, the baby, the baby, Go tell the little baby old Briggles needn't stay. Mr. Briggles stood holding the court order in his hand. Armed with the law, he had every advantage on his side. He clambered up the bank and stepped to the deck of the shanty-boat. He rapped sharply on the door. “Mr. Lane, open this door!” he ordered. The door opened with unexpected suddenness and Booge threw his arms around Mr. Briggles and lifted him from his feet. He drew him forward as if to hug him, and then, with a mighty out-thrust of his arms, cast him bodily off the deck. Mr. Briggles fell full on the newly constructed wagon, and there was a crash of breaking wood. Booge came to the edge of the deck and looked down at him. The man was wedged into the rough wagon box, his feet and legs hanging over. He was bleeding at the nose, and his face was rather scratched. He was white with fear or anger. Booge laughed. “I owed you that,” he rumbled. “I owed you that since the day you married me. And now I'll give you what I owe you for coming after this boy.” He jumped down from the deck, and Mr. Briggles struggled to release himself from the wagon-box. He was caught fast. He kicked violently, and Booge grinned. If he had intended punishing the interloper further, he changed his mind. The lake lay wide and smooth, with only a pile of snow here and there, and Booge grasped the damaged wagon and pushed it. Like a sled it slid along on its broken wheels, and Booge ran, gathering speed as he ran, until, with a last push, he sent the wagon and Mr. Briggles skimming alone over the glassy surface of the lake toward the road. Then he went into the shanty-boat and closed and locked the door. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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