Teeftallow/Chapter 1

MR. JAMES SANDAGE, overseer of the county poor farm, jolted monotonously against his steering wheel, against the standards of his car top, against the youth in the seat beside him as he ground along in low gear over the stony rut-lined trail which represented a public road in Lane County, Tennessee, in summer weather. Now while Mr. Sandage’s thoughts were not actually occupied with this road, still as he jolted onward he held a subconscious sense of easy travel and vehicular comfort. He could not help feeling how much better the roads were in high summer than in the spring or winter. The whole countryside agreed that the roads were “always good this time o’ the year” and that a man "could git over ’em”; an hypothesis dubiously demonstrated by Mr. Sandage’s roaring plunging forward movement.

But all this was merely in the fringe of Mr. Sandage’s mind. In reality he was thinking neither of his car nor the exceptionally fine condition of the thoroughfare. His actual ponderings flowed in two entirely separate streams, and his attention whipsawed from one to the other and back again, over and over, without the overseer being conscious of these restless shifts.

One of Mr. Sandage’s mental alternatives concerned the survey of a railroad which was about to be built through Lane County. This cocked up Mr. Sandage’s spirits mightily. He thought to himself, “Just another stride forward in our county’s progress. Ever’thing’s getting better. That ​railroad will give an outlet for our products; bring trade and travel our way. Old Lane’s comin’ to the front shore!”

He knew the man back of this big heartsome new enterprise; a particular friend of his; in fact, more than a friend, a kind of political guide and philosopher who had engineered Mr. Sandage into the office of poor-farm overseer, and now Mr. Sandage hoped and believed that his friend Railroad Jones would engineer him out of his present predicament into another and a higher office. . . .

At this point the change had been made. Mr. Sandage’s antiphonal theme now filled him with anxiety. He glanced around dubiously at the boy who jounced in the seat beside him. This boy, in a way, was a kind of son of his … raised him from a shaver until he was now blamed near as big as he was … now to get into trouble over a kind act, a charitable act. . . .

“Abner,” inquired Mr. Sandage out of these anxieties, “jest exactly what did that fool Professor Overall say to you and B’atrice Belle, anyway?”

The youth, Abner, a large black-haired, brown-eyed boy, came out of some reverie of his own, and stated the situation lucidly enough but in drawling hill accent,

“Soon as he found out you was a-runnin’ for county trustee, too, he said he’d shore bill you for not sendin’ me to school none.”

Mr. Sandage shook his head, “I—be—derned”—he spaced his ejaculation with renewed scorn of such baseness. “Makin’ political capital out of a thing like that! You know, Abner, if he wasn’t running for the same office, he never would have mentioned my breakin’ the compulsory edjercation law!”

“Why, of course not!”

“But that won’t be no excuse now that he’s mentioned it.”'

“Ort to be.”

“'Twon’t be, though. What ort to be an’ what will be ain’t on speakin’ terms before a court of law, Abner.”

The two hillmen sat silent, filled with the chronic hill dis​trust in all legal proceedings whatsoever. Mr. Sandage continued pondering in an undertone, searching for some more feasible, if less candid, defence.

“I could say nobody was direckly responsible for ye—daddy dead these years; mammy went crazy and died in the poorhouse—nobody left to send you to school—you’re the last of the Teeftallers. . . ."

At this point Mr. Sandage’s whole attention became occupied by a dangerous descent in the trail. It fell away from the high bleak ridge down a steep stony hill into a blue undulating valley where lay the hamlet of Lanesburg, county seat of Lane County. Mr. Sandage clamped on both his brakes and shifted to low gear. He stared fixedly ahead as he ground and bounced down the breakneck descent. The ramshackle motor hooted through an outlying fringe of dilapidated Negro shacks, roared across three wooden culverts where a brook crossed and recrossed the trail; it honked desperately at one or two farm wagons which were rattling more leisurely into the village; cut out of the road, missed the wagons by a palm’s breadth, cut in again; and presently clashed into Court House Square, which was the centre of Lanesburg and the political heart of the county.

Mr. Sandage shook off his anxieties as he drove into the crowded square and began shouting at this and that man with tremendous gusto. He parked his machine along with scores of other ramshackle automobiles in the hot sunshine to the south of the courthouse yard. He climbed out and went about shaking hands with everybody with a politician’s ubiquity. He used both hands, extending right and left to anybody in his reach, as he had seen the greater political lights do—such as state representatives or an occasional candidate for Congress.

“Hey oh, Bill! Hey oh, Milo! How je leave yo folks, Sam?” Here Mr. Sandage became portentously serious. “Boys,” he would begin his set electioneering speech, “I’m sailin’ out ag’in on the sea of the people’s favour. On election day I want to come home a conqueror. I don’t want to ​git conquered, boys. Remember me on election day. I'm runnin’ for the trustee’s office.”

The men were impressed by these serious and slightly oratorical phrases. “We're fer ye, Jim; we put you to overseein’ the pore farm, didn't we? We're all true-blue Republicans, Jim.”

Mr. Sandage’s gravity dropped from him like a cloak. He slapped the nearest backs. “Much obliged, boys. I won't fergit the favour. By the way, have you seen Railroad Jones anywhere around here to-day?”

“He's nursin’ that bond issue in the County Court,” said one of the hillmen.

“I saw him goin’ acrost to his office a little while ago,” directed another. “I think he’s gittin’ ready fer a suit in the Circuit Court.”

“Well, I got to look him up. What's the Gran’ Jury doin’?”

“That Shelton murder case is comin’ up ag'in. They're gittin’ a lot of pistol-totin’ bills; an’ gamblin’. I understan’ they’ve billed Tim Fraley an’ Zed Parrum.”

“That so? Somebody ort to tell the boys an’ let ‘em skip out before the sheriff gits 'em.”

“That’s a fact.”

“Well, come uhlong, Abner, we got to be movin’.”

The youth moved forward mechanically and the two started across the sun-smitten square toward a small yellow office on the west side. On the way over, the poorhouse overseer paused to electioneer half-a-dozen groups, repeated his brief speech a number of times, and some hour later reached the little yellow building on the side of the hill.

The back part of Railroad Jones's office was fitted into an excavation in the earth while the front part was underpinned with timbers. To enter, the two callers were forced to climb a flight of stairs, and as Sandage went up, he stamped his feet and cleared his throat because he was not quite certain what were the formalities of entering an office; whether one shouted hello from the front, as if it were a residence, or simply entered without warning, as if it were a store. Not ​knowing, Mr. Sandage always compromised on a certain amount of stamping and hawking, and in this he was abetted by Abner Teeftallow, who also had a feeling for the proprieties.

The doors and windows of Mr. Jones's office were open, and when the eyes of the two companions rose above the top steps, they could see the railroad builder bending over a large box, groping in it with his arms.

"Lost somethin’, Mr. Jones?” called Sandage.

At the first sound the fat man lifted his head quickly and stared at his visitors over the rim of the box. He had a vast head topped with a black mane and set with small puffy black eyes. At this moment his face was duskily red from stooping. Against this complexion a purple birthmark showed just in front of Railroad Jones's left ear and ran halfway down his heavy jowl. The birthmark had a narrow yellowish margin, and this cleared for a stubble of black beard which swung under the sag of his chin and up the other side of his face.

Abner had seen Jones a few times in his life, and this birthmark always made a strong and somehow a favourable impression on the boy. It seemed the sort of marking a wealthy man would possess.

Mr. Jones stared at his two visitors, said, “Damn the thing, I can’t find it,” then broke off to bob down into the box again and continue pawing among his papers. From this uncomfortable position he wheezed.

“I put a contrack—in this box—on yaller blue-lined paper—a page tore out of a ole cash book.” He swung his arms amid the jumble of papers with the desperation of a fat man already overheated.

“When ju put it in there, Mr. Jones?” asked Jim.

“Bout ten year’ ago.”

The poorhouse keeper was thunderstruck. “Ten year’ ago! Think o’ that, Abner!”

“Yeh,” panted Mr. Jones, “and now the damn comp’ny’s suin' me on it!”

​“They is always some comp’ny or somethin’ suin’ you, ain’t they?” asked Sandage cheerfully, coming up and peering down into the box. The receptacle was a large dry-goods carton lined with tin to make it mouse proof. It was three quarters full of a most hopeless jumble of papers.

“Yeh, fellers sue me because they ain’t got no reason about ‘em. They sue me because I out-trade ’em and they git riled. A man who sues because he’s mad is jest a plain fool— Well, thank Gawd!”

He heaved himself up with a single leaf of some old book, and continued his philosophy of lawsuits:

“You've got to have justice and the law on yore side—more specially the law.”

“What’s you got there?” asked Jim, who was not a philosopher.

“The contrack Buckin’ham Sharp wanted to see, I reckon it’s that. . . .” Mr. Jones opened the paper and perused it all over, the back as intently as the front; finally he handed it to Mr. Sandage. “Don’t that say somethin’ about stoves, Jim?” he asked.

Sandage took the paper with a certain air of importance, cleared his throat, and began reading in the long whine which the hill folk reserve for such tasks. Some of the words he spelled in a whisper before attempting to pronounce.

“The Cin, c-i-n cin, n-a-t nat,t-i, Cincinnati Stove Comp’ny h-e-r-e-b-y hereby agrees. . .”

“That’s it,” interrupted the fat man, taking the paper from his companion. Mr. Jones required only four words to identify an instrument he had dropped into the box ten years before. He folded the contract and put it into his pocket.

“Now, what can I do for you, Jim?” inquired the magnate in his affable buzz.

Sandage scratched his head. “Is Perfessor Overall in town to-day?”

“Believe I seen him at the courthouse. I understan’ he’s ​going to make a speech up there this evenin'” (meaning “this afternoon”).

“I bet he is,” agreed Sandage gloomily. “It’s about this boy here.”

Jones looked at Abner.

“I don’t guess you know him,” said Sandage, “but you did know his daddy. It’s Abner Teeftaller, Linsey Teeftaller’s boy.”

Mr. Jones appraised the well-set-up lad. “Yes, I ricollect Linsey; I—er—got him out of a little trouble oncet or twicet. In fact, he sent the sheriff to me to bail him out the last time he was in jail, and I’ve allus felt kinder bad fer not doin’ it. If I’d uh knowed he was as sick as he was, I'd uh seen to it.”

Here the big man aroused himself from his memories to say briskly, “Well, I’m not surprised that his boy is in trouble—the Gran’ Jury’s settin’ now—what’s he done?”

“Tain’t so much him as me,” admitted Sandage ruefully.

“You! A politician, Jim, I’m surprised!”

“That’s the reason,” explained Sandage. “Lem Overall is a-goin’ to prosecute me under the compulsory edjercation law fer not sendin’ this boy to school. Of course, it’s because me an’ him air runnin’ fer the same office.”

Railroad Jones waxed sarcastic. “Lem Overall prosecutin’ a boy fer not goin’ to school when edjercation has made a complete fool out of him! Why, Jim, you done exactly right. Don’t you never teach that boy to read nor write. Readin’ an writin’ ’ll ruin anybody’s ricollection. Why, it jest makes a plum blank out of a man!”

“That’s the truth,” agreed Sandage earnestly.

The magnate was mounted on his hobby now. “When I see these edjercated fellows goin’ aroun’ puttin’ things they want to ricolleck down in a little book, I think, ‘You pore addle-headed fools, when you lose yore little book, what'll you do? Why don’t you put it up here where you kain’t lose it?’” He lifted his arm with a massive gesture and ​tapped his great head. "An' yet," he added justly, "if I'd ever a-learnt to read an' write I might be jest as bad as them."

"I reckon everybody'll agree you've got the beatenest ricollection in this whole county," acknowledged Sandage.

"Well, don't you worry no more about it," advised Jones. "I'll come down to the county court an' fix it up for ye." He waved a pudgy hand at the overseer. "Jest you lay low."

"I'll be much obliged," said Sandage, greatly relieved.

The three men walked out of the office and climbed down the steps into the intense sunshine again. As they moved toward the courthouse a dribble of hillmen came up to the magnate to ask directions about his farms, about his saw mills, about his cattle. Mr. Jones gave precise directions to one and all. He knew instantly the whole situation and the solution necessary. He was like one of those expert chess players who sit blindfolded and play a half-dozen games simultaneously. And as he performed this mental feat he waddled along as if he really had his mind on something else. Finally he asked:

"Teeftaller—Teeftaller— Didn't Linsey Teeftaller marry a Coltrane, Jim?"

"Yeh," nodded the politician, surprised at this turn.

"An' didn't she die crazy on the pore farm, or something of the sort?"

"Yeh."

"Uh-huh. . ." Mr. Jones nodded his massive head and played with a small gold nugget, a watch charm on a gold chain which swung around his abdomen. "Yeh, ol' Judge Coltrane's daughter, she married when she was jest a gal, didn't she—run away and married and then went crazy?"

"I reckon you ricolleck ever'thing!"

"Oh"—the fat man spread his hands—"I jest happened to. . ." He pulled thoughtfully at his chin and glanced out of the corner of his black eyes at Abner.

At that moment the raucous voice of the bailiff boomed ​from the second-story window of the court building: "Oh yes, David Jones come into court! Oh yes, David Jones come into court! Oh yes!"

The fat man nodded. "They're callin’ up my case. . . ." He felt in his pocket to assure himself that the contract was still there, then could not resist giving the youth a parting shaft of advice, "Young man, I ricolleck when yore grandfather, Jefferson Coltrane, uster be circuit jedge here. Ole Jefferson Coltrane would uh had a great head on him if he hadn't been spiled by edjercation. I hope you do take after him one way and don't t'other. Well, see you later, Jim," and the great man took himself up the gravelled path and into the courthouse.

Abner stood looking after him shadowed by the vague melancholy which any mention of his unfortunate mother always aroused in his heart.