The Mare and the Motor
by Joseph C. Lincoln
Them Todds had got on my nerves. 'Twas Peter's ad that brought 'em
down. You see, 'twas 'long toward the end of the season at the Old
Home, and Brown had been advertising in the New York and Boston
papers to "bag the leftovers," as he called it. Besides the reg'lar
hogwash about the "breath of old ocean" and the "simple, cleanly
living of the bygone days we dream about," there was some new froth
concerning hunting and fishing. You'd think the wild geese roosted on
the flagpole nights, and the bluefish clogged up the bay so's you
could walk on their back fins without wetting your feet—that is, if
you wore rubbers and trod light.
"There!" says Peter T., waving the advertisement and crowing
gladsome; "they'll take to that like your temp'rance aunt to brandy
cough-drops. We'll have to put up barbed wire to keep 'em off."
"Humph!" grunts Cap'n Jonadab. "Anybody but a born fool'll know
there ain't any shooting down here this time of year."
Peter looked at him sorrowful. "Pop," says he, "did you ever hear
that Solomon answered a summer hotel ad? This ain't a Chautauqua,
this is the Old Home House, and its motto is: 'There's a new victim
born every minute, and there's twenty-four hours in a day.' You set
back and count the clock ticks."
Well, that's 'bout all we had to do. We got boarders enough from
that ridiculous advertisement to fill every spare room we had,
including Jonadab's and mine. Me and the cap'n had to bunk in the
barn loft; but there was some satisfaction in that—it give us an
excuse to get away from the "sports" in the smoking room.
The Todds was part of the haul. He was a little, dried-up man,
single, and a minister. Nigh's I could find out, he'd given up
preaching by the request of the doctor and his last congregation. He
had a notion that he was a mighty hunter afore the Lord, like Nimrod
in the Bible, and he'd come to the Old Home to bag a few gross of
geese and ducks.
His sister was an old maid, and slim, neither of which failings was
from choice, I cal'late. She wore eye-glasses and a veil to
"preserve her complexion," and her idee seemed to be that native Cape
Codders lived in trees and ate cocoanuts. She called 'em "barbarians,
utter barbarians." Whenever she piped "James" her brother had to drop
everything and report on deck. She was skipper of the Todd craft.
Them Todds was what Peter T. called "the limit, and a chip or two
over." The other would-be gunners and fishermen were satisfied to
slam shot after sandpeeps, or hook a stray sculpin or a hake. But
t'wa'n't so with brother James Todd and sister Clarissa. "Ducks" it
was in the advertising, and nothing BUT ducks they wanted. Clarissa,
she commenced to hint middling p'inted concerning fraud.
Finally we lost patience, and Peter T., he said they'd got to be
quieted somehow, or he'd do some shooting on his own hook; said too
much Toddy was going to his head. Then I suggested taking 'em down
the beach somewheres on the chance of seeing a stray coot or loon or
something—ANYTHING that could be shot at. Jonadab and Peter agreed
'twas a good plan, and we matched to see who'd be guide. And I got
stuck, of course; my luck again.
So the next morning we started, me and the Reverend James and
Clarissa in the Greased Lightning, Peter's new motor launch. First
part of the trip that Todd man done nothing but ask questions about
the launch; I had to show him how to start it and steer it, and the
land knows what all. Clarissa set around doing the heavy
contemptuous and turning up her nose at creation generally. It must
have its drawbacks, this roosting so fur above the common flock; seems
to me I'd be thinking all the time of the bump that was due me if I
got shoved off the perch.
Well, by and by Lonesome Huckleberries' shanty hove in sight, and I
was glad to see it, although I had to answer a million questions
about Lonesome and his history.
I told the Todds that, so fur as nationality was concerned he was a
little of everything, like a picked-up dinner; principally Eyetalian
and Portugee, I cal'late, with a streak of Gay Head Injun. His real
name's long enough to touch bottom in the ship channel at high tide,
so folks got to calling him "Huckleberries" because he peddles them
kind of fruit in summer. Then he mopes around so with nary a smile on
his face, that it seemed right to tack on the "Lonesome." So
"Lonesome Huckleberries" he's been for ten years. He lives in the
patchwork shanty on the beach down there, he is deaf and dumb, drives
a liver-colored, balky mare that no one but himself and his daughter
Becky can handle, and he has a love for bad rum and a temper that's
landed him in the Wellmouth lock-up more than once or twice. He's one
of the best gunners alongshore and at this time he owned a flock of
live decoys that he'd refused as high as fifteen dollars apiece for.
I told all this and a lot more.
When we struck the beach, Clarissa, she took her paint box and
umbrella and mosquito 'intment, and the rest of her cargo, and went
off by herself to "sketch." She was great on "sketching," and the
way she'd use up good paint and spile nice clean paper was a sinful
waste. Afore she went, she give me three fathom of sailing orders
concerning taking care of "James." You'd think he was about four
year old; made me feel like a hired nurse.
James and me went perusing up and down that beach in the blazing
sun looking for something to shoot. We went 'way beyond Lonesome's
shanty, but there wa'n't nobody to home. Lonesome himself, it turned
out afterward, was up to the village with his horse and wagon, and his
daughter Becky was over in the wood on the mainland berrying. Todd
was a cheerful talker, but limited. His favorite remark was: "Oh, I
say, my deah man." That's what he kept calling me, "my deah man."
Now, my name ain't exactly a Claude de Montmorency for prettiness,
but "Barzilla" 'll fetch ME alongside a good deal quicker'n "my deah
man," I'll tell you that.
We frogged it up and down all the forenoon, but didn't git a shot
at nothing but one stray "squawk" that had come over from the Cedar
Swamp. I told James 'twas a canvasback, and he blazed away at it,
but missed it by three fathom, as might have been expected.
Finally, my game leg—rheumatiz, you understand—begun to give out.
So I flops down in the shade of a sand bank to rest, and the reverend
goes poking off by himself.
I cal'late I must have fell asleep, for when I looked at my watch
it was close to one o'clock, and time for us to be getting back to
port. I got up and stretched and took an observation, but further'n
Clarissa's umbrella on the skyline, I didn't see anything stirring.
Brother James wa'n't visible, but I jedged he was within hailing
distance. You can't see very fur on that point, there's too many sand
hills and hummocks.
I started over toward the Greased Lightning. I'd gone only a
little ways, and was down in a gully between two big hummocks, when
"Bang! bang!" goes both barrels of a shotgun, and that Todd critter
busts out hollering like all possessed.
"Hooray!" he squeals, in that squeaky voice of his. "Hooray! I've
got 'em! I've got 'em!"
Thinks I, "What in the nation does the lunatic cal'late he's shot?"
And I left my own gun laying where 'twas and piled up over the edge
of that sand bank like a cat over a fence. And then I see a sight.
There was James, hopping up and down in the beach grass, squealing
like a Guinea hen with a sore throat, and waving his gun with one
wing—arm, I mean—and there in front of him, in the foam at the edge
of the surf, was two ducks as dead as Nebuchadnezzar—two of Lonesome
Huckleberries' best decoy ducks—ducks he'd tamed and trained, and
thought more of than anything else in this world— except rum,
maybe—and the rest of the flock was digging up the beach for home as
if they'd been telegraped for, and squawking "Fire!" and "Murder!"
Well, my mind was in a kind of various state, as you might say, for
a minute. 'Course, I'd known about Lonesome's owning them decoys—
told Todd about 'em, too—but I hadn't seen 'em nowhere alongshore,
and I sort of cal'lated they was locked up in Lonesome's hen house,
that being his usual way when he went to town. I s'pose likely
they'd been feeding among the beach grass somewheres out of sight,
but I don't know for sartin to this day. And I didn't stop to reason
it out then, neither. As Scriptur' or George Washin'ton or somebody
says, "'twas a condition, not a theory," I was afoul of.
"I've got 'em!" hollers Todd, grinning till I thought he'd swaller
his own ears. "I shot 'em all myself!"
"You everlasting—" I begun, but I didn't get any further. There
was a rattling noise behind me, and I turned, to see Lonesome
Huckleberries himself, setting on the seat of his old truck wagon and
glaring over the hammer head of that balky mare of his straight at
brother Todd and the dead decoys.
For a minute there was a kind of tableau, like them they have at
church fairs—all four of us, including the mare, keeping still, like
we was frozen. But 'twas only for a minute. Then it turned into the
liveliest moving picture that ever _I_ see. Lonesome couldn't
swear—being a dummy—but if ever a man got profane with his eyes, he
did right then. Next thing I knew he tossed both hands into the air,
clawed two handfuls out of the atmosphere, reached down into the cart,
grabbed a pitch-fork and piled out of that wagon and after Todd.
There was murder coming and I could see it.
"Run, you loon!" I hollers, desperate.
James didn't wait for any advice. He didn't know what he'd done, I
cal'late, but he jedged 'twas his move. He dropped his gun and put
down the shore like a wild man, with Lonesome after him. I tried to
foller, but my rheumatiz was too big a handicap; all I could do was
You never'd have picked out Todd for a sprinter—not to look at
him, you wouldn't—but if he didn't beat the record for his class
just then I'll eat my sou'wester. He fairly flew, but Lonesome split
tacks with him every time, and kept to wind'ard, into the bargain.
When they went out of sight amongst the sand hills 'twas anybody's
I was scart. I knew what Lonesome's temper was, 'specially when it
had been iled with some Wellmouth Port no-license liquor. He'd been
took up once for half killing some boys that tormented him, and I
figgered if he got within pitchfork distance of the Todd critter he'd
make him the leakiest divine that ever picked a text. I commenced to
hobble back after my gun. It looked bad to me.
But I'd forgot sister Clarissa. 'Fore I'd limped fur I heard her
calling to me.
"Mr. Wingate," says she, "get in here at once."
There she was, setting on the seat of Lonesome's wagon, holdin' the
reins and as cool as a white frost in October.
"Get in at once," says she. I jedged 'twas good advice, and took
"Proceed," says she to the mare. "Git dap!" says I, and we
started. When we rounded the sand hill we see the race in the
distance. Lonesome had gained a p'int or two, and Todd wa'n't more'n
four pitchforks in the lead.
"Make for the launch!" I whooped, between my hands.
The parson heard me and come about and broke for the shore. The
Greased Lightning had swung out about the length of her anchor rope,
and the water wa'n't deep. Todd splashed in to his waist and climbed
aboard. He cut the roding just as Lonesome reached tide mark. James,
he sees it's a close call, and he shins back to the engine, reaching
it exactly at the time when the gent with the pitchfork laid hands on
the rail. Then the parson throws over the switch—I'd shown him how,
you remember—and gives the starting wheel a full turn.
Well, you know the Greased Lightning? She don't linger to say
farewell, not any to speak of, she don't. And this time she jumped
like the cat that lit on the hot stove. Lonesome, being balanced
with his knees on the rail, pitches headfust into the cockpit. Todd,
jumping out of his way, falls overboard backward. Next thing anybody
knew, the launch was scooting for blue water like a streak of what she
was named for, and the hunting chaplain was churning up foam like a
I yelled more orders than second mate on a coaster. Todd bubbled
and bellered. Lonesome hung on to the rail of the cockpit and let
his hair stand up to grow. Nobody was cool but Clarissa, and she was
an iceberg. She had her good p'ints, that old maid did, drat her!
"James," she calls, "get out of that water this minute and come
here! This instant, mind!"
James minded. He paddled ashore and hopped, dripping like a
dishcloth, alongside the truck wagon.
"Get in!" orders Skipper Clarissa. He done it. "Now," says the
lady, passing the reins over to me, "drive us home, Mr. Wingate,
before that intoxicated lunatic can catch us."
It seemed about the only thing to do. I knew 'twas no use
explaining to Lonesome for an hour or more yet, even if you can talk
finger signs, which part of my college training has been neglected.
'Twas murder he wanted at the present time. I had some sort of a
foggy notion that I'd drive along, pick up the guns and then get the
Todds over to the hotel, afterward coming back to get the launch and
pay damages to Huckleberries. I cal'lated he'd be more reasonable by
But the mare had made other arrangements. When I slapped her with
the end of the reins she took the bit in her teeth and commenced to
gallop. I hollered "Whoa!" and "Heave to!" and "Belay!" and
everything else I could think of, but she never took in a reef. We
bumped over hummocks and ridges, and every time we done it we spilled
something out of that wagon. First 'twas a lot of huckleberry pails,
then a basket of groceries and such, then a tin pan with some potatoes
in it, then a jug done up in a blanket. We was heaving cargo
overboard like a leaky ship in a typhoon. Out of the tail of my eye I
see Lonesome, well out to sea, heading the Greased Lightning for the
Clarissa put in the time soothing James, who had a serious case of
the scart-to-deaths, and calling me an "utter barbarian" for driving
so fast. Lucky for all hands, she had to hold on tight to keep from
being jounced out, 'long with the rest of movables, so she couldn't
take the reins. As for me, I wa'n't paying much attention to
her—'twas the Cut-Through that was disturbing MY mind.
When you drive down to Lonesome P'int you have to ford the "Cut-
Through." It's a strip of water between the bay and the ocean, and
'tain't very wide nor deep at low tide. But the tide was coming in
now, and, more'n that, the mare wa'n't headed for the ford. She was
cuttin' cross-lots on her own hook, and wouldn't answer the helm.
We struck that Cut-Through about a hundred yards east of the ford,
and in two shakes we was hub deep in salt water. 'Fore the Todds
could do anything but holler the wagon was afloat and the mare was
all but swimming. But she kept right on. Bless her, you COULDN'T
We crossed the first channel and come out on a flat where 'twasn't
more'n two foot deep then. I commenced to feel better. There was
another channel ahead of us, but I figured we'd navigate that same as
we had the first one. And then the most outrageous thing happened.
If you'll b'lieve it, that pesky mare balked and wouldn't stir
And there we was! I punched and kicked and hollered, but all that
stubborn horse would do was lay her ears back flat, and snarl up her
lip, and look round at us, much as to say: "Now, then, you land
sharks, I've got you between wind and water!" And I swan to man if it
didn't look as if she had!
"Drive on!" says Clarissa, pretty average vinegary. "Haven't you
made trouble enough for us already, you dreadful man? Drive on!"
Hadn't _I_ made trouble enough! What do you think of that?
"You want to drown us!" says Miss Todd, continuing her chatty
remarks. "I see it all! It's a plot between you and that murderer.
I give you warning; if we reach the hotel, my brother and I will
commence suit for damages."
My temper's fairly long-suffering, but 'twas raveling some by this
"Commence suit!" I says. "I don't care WHAT you commence, if
you'll commence to keep quiet now!" And then I give her a few p'ints
as to what her brother had done, heaving in some personal flatteries
every once in a while for good measure.
I'd about got to thirdly when James give a screech and p'inted.
And, if there wa'n't Lonesome in the launch, headed right for us, and
coming a-b'iling! He'd run her along abreast of the beach and turned
in at the upper end of the Cut-Through.
You never in your life heard such a row as there was in that wagon.
Clarissa and me yelling to Lonesome to keep off—forgitting that he
was stone deef and dumb—and James vowing that he was going to be
slaughtered in cold blood. And the Greased Lightning p'inted just so
she'd split that cart amidships, and coming—well, you know how she
She never budged until she was within ten foot of the flat, and
then she sheered off and went past in a wide curve, with Lonesome
steering with one hand and shaking his pitchfork at Todd with
t'other. And SUCH faces as he made-up! They'd have got him hung in
any court in the world.
He run up the Cut-Through a little ways, and then come about, and
back he comes again, never slacking speed a mite, and running close
to the shoal as he could shave, and all the time going through the
bloodiest kind of pantomimes. And past he goes, to wheel 'round and
commence all over again.
Thinks I, "Why don't he ease up and lay us aboard? He's got all
the weapons there is. Is he scart?"
And then it come to me—the reason why. HE DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO STOP
HER. He could steer first rate, being used to sailboats, but an
electric auto launch was a new ideal for him, and he didn't
understand her works. And he dastn't run her aground at the speed
she was making; 'twould have finished her and, more'n likely, him,
I don't s'pose there ever was another mess just like it afore or
sence. Here was us, stranded with a horse we couldn't make go, being
chased by a feller who was run away with in a boat he couldn't stop!
Just as I'd about give up hope, I heard somebody calling from the
beach behind us. I turned, and there was Becky Huckleberries,
Lonesome's daughter. She had the dead decoys by the legs in one
"Hi!" says she.
"Hi!" says I. "How do you get this giraffe of yours under way?"
She held up the decoys.
"Who kill-a dem ducks?" says she.
I p'inted to the reverend. "He did," says I. And then I cal'late
I must have had one of them things they call an inspiration. "And
he's willing to pay for 'em," I says.
"Pay thirty-five dolla?" says she.
"You bet!" says I.
But I'd forgot Clarissa. She rose up in that waterlogged cart like
a Statue of Liberty. "Never!" says she. "We will never submit to
such extortion. We'll drown first!"
Becky heard her. She didn't look disapp'inted nor nothing. Just
turned and begun to walk up the beach. "ALL right," says she;
The Todds stood it for a jiffy. Then James give in. "I'll pay
it!" he hollers. "I'll pay it!"
Even then Becky didn't smile. She just come about again and walked
back to the shore. Then she took up that tin pan and one of the
potaters we'd jounced out of the cart.
"Hi, Rosa!" she hollers. That mare turned her head and looked.
And, for the first time sence she hove anchor on that flat, the
critter unfurled her ears and histed 'em to the masthead.
"Hi, Rosa!" says Becky again, and begun to pound the pan with the
potater. And I give you my word that that mare started up, turned
the wagon around nice as could be, and begun to swim ashore. When we
got where the critter's legs touched bottom, Becky remarks: "Whoa!"
"Here!" I yells, "what did you do that for?"
"Pay thirty-five dolla NOW," says she. She was bus'ness, that
Todd got his wallet from under hatches and counted out the thirty-
five, keeping one eye on Lonesome, who was swooping up and down in
the launch looking as if he wanted to cut in, but dasn't. I tied the
bills to my jack-knife, to give 'em weight, and tossed the whole thing
ashore. Becky, she counted the cash and stowed it away in her apron
"ALL right," says she. "Hi, Rosa!" The potater and pan
performance begun again, and Rosa picked up her hoofs and dragged us
to dry land. And it sartinly felt good to the feet.
"Say," I says, "Becky, it's none of my affairs, as I know of, but
is that the way you usually start that horse of yours?"
She said it was. And Rosa ate the potater.
Becky asked me how to stop the launch, and I told her. She made a
lot of finger signs to Lonesome, and inside of five minutes the
Greased Lightning was anchored in front of us. Old man Huckleberries
was still hankering to interview Todd with the pitchfork, but Becky
settled that all right. She jumped in front of him, and her eyes
snapped and her feet stamped and her fingers flew. And 'twould have
done you good to see her dad shrivel up and get humble. I always had
thought that a woman wasn't much good as a boss of the roost unless
she could use her tongue, but Becky showed me my mistake. Well, it's
live and l'arn.
Then Miss Huckleberries turned to us and smiled.
"ALL right," says she; "GOO'-by."
Them Todds took the train for the city next morning. I drove 'em
to the depot. James was kind of glum, but Clarissa talked for two.
Her opinion of the Cape and Capers, 'specially me, was decided. The
final blast was just as she was climbing the car steps.
"Of all the barbarians," says she; "utter, uncouth, murdering
She stopped, thinking for a word, I s'pose. I didn't feel that I
could improve on Becky Huckleberries conversation much, so I says:
"ALL right! GOO'-by!"