In a year she was a totally different creature. My enthusiasm makes me fear the attempt to describe her, for I myself have not reached the age of senility and for three years I held certain hopes with regard to Janet Hawkins which finally proved vain. Though the change in her appearance was startling and complete, it took place so gradually that it would be hard to say when it began or what it consisted of. Her complexion became all milk and roses, her eyes alive with the fire and happiness of youth, her figure supple and incredibly quick and graceful in movement; but there was something deeper than any of these, a rebirth of her spirit that made her laughter thrill you from head to foot and her glance pierce you with joy. She was wonderful. I know.
It was not long, of course, before she was the object of a mad pursuit; as pretty a race as you would care to see. Two or three young farmers were the first entries, besides old Jerry Pratt, who owns some fifteen hundred acres in the southern part of the county; soon they were joined, one by one, by a dozen of us from the town. Dal Willett was among the number; during one whole summer he drove out to the Hawkins farm every evening, but he spent little time with Janet. He was too reserved in the matter; the others rushed him off his feet, and I believe he never really entertained any hope. He used to sit out on the back porch with old Hawkins, talking horses and crops, and in that way the two men became intimate. About nine o’clock Janet would come out with a pitcher of lemonade, having first served those in front — there was always somebody — and a little later we would all leave together. Many a time I’ve seen two or three buggies and as many automobiles file out one after another through the Hawkins gate.
When we learned that Walter Rogers had entered the race the rest of us were about ready to give up. Rogers, a man about thirty, was president of the local bank and by far the wealthiest citizen of the country. He was a good, hard-working fellow, too, and well liked. Most of us admitted bitterly that he was just the man for Janet Hawkins, and feeling that our chances were gone we soon capitulated. We should have known that Janet was not the kind of girl to be attracted by an eight-cylinder motor and three servants; but at that we were right in a way. Our chances were gone.
Late in September she was married to Roy Nelson, a struggling young farmer who lived five miles away and who had walked that distance and home again twice a week to see her, because he had been working his horses all day and thought they needed rest more than he did.
So Janet became Mrs. Nelson, and at the end of autumn her husband sold out his small interest in his forty acres and the newly married couple came to live with old man Hawkins. Nelson soon proved that Janet had made no mistake. During the following two years he nearly doubled the crops, and yet found time to make his wife happy. I got to know him pretty well, and discovered that he was an admirable fellow in every way. He worshiped Janet, and she thought him perfect. It was a mighty happy family. Nelson wouldn’t let John Hawkins do anything except look after the poultry, but the old man did that with such success that at the end of the second year he had a profit of four figures and half a dozen blue ribbons to show for it. I remember the naive pride with which he showed me his photograph one day, published in the Utah Poultry Bulletin.
After this explanation, of our acquaintance and friendship with the Hawkins family, you will understand the curiosity that Dal Willett and I felt that afternoon when the stranger Gruber appeared to request a rig and the way to the Hawkins farm. As Dal had observed, the fellow had the appearance of a backdoor politician. We speculated at length on the possible nature of his errand, as two gossiping males will, but of course fruitlessly. The mere sight of Gruber was enough to make a decent man apprehensive, and it was perhaps that fact, rather than any particular premonition of trouble, that caused me to walk back down to the livery stable that night after supper. It was after ten o’clock when Gruber drove in, left the rig and paid for it, and went off with his shuffling gait toward Main Street.
When I got to my office the following morning I found John Hawkins there waiting for me.
The old man was standing in the hallway in front of the locked door; it was rather dark there and I didn’t recognize him at once. He didn’t speak as I approached, but merely moved to one side so I could get at the keyhole; as he turned I saw his face, and an ejaculation of amazement escaped me at sight of it.
“Why, it’s John Hawkins,” I exclaimed.
He nodded and mumbled, “Yes, I want to see you on some business.”
I opened the door and we entered. In the light from the windows I gazed at him in astonishment; in the week since I had seen him last the man had apparently aged twenty years. He trembled as he walked over to a chair and sank down in it, and though the old grimness had not entirely departed from his face it was almost obliterated by a new look of despair and unmistakable fear. That was my most vivid impression, that he was terribly in fear of something. After I had unlocked my desk and pulled up a chair I asked him what the trouble was.
His eyes blinked rapidly and he opened his lips two or three times before he could get any words out. I barely caught his stammering reply:
“I want to get some money.”
I glanced at him sharply.
“How much?”
“Eight thousand dollars.”
That rather stunned me. Eight thousand dollars! In Holton County that’s a pretty good-sized sum.
“Eight thousand,” I repeated stupidly.
The old man leaned forward in his chair. “Yes, I’ve got to have it,” he said. His voice suddenly became firmer and more distinct. “You can see I’m in trouble, Harry, but don’t ask me any questions, because I can’t answer them. I’ve got to have eight thousand dollars right away. There oughtn’t to be much trouble about it. I only paid six thousand for the farm, but it’s worth easy twice that much now and there ain’t a cent owing on it. If I have to I’ll give a mortgage on the stock, too, and my chickens. They’re worth a lot of money. I thought maybe you could see Mr. Rogers and fix it up today. That’s why I came in so early.”
I looked at him awhile in silence. Twenty questions were on the tip of my tongue, and of course the stranger Gruber was in my mind. But all I said was:
“You’re sure that you’ve got to have this money?”
There was a flash from his eyes. “Would I be asking for it if I didn’t?” he exclaimed with a touch of angry exasperation. Then also instantly he stretched a trembling hand out to me. “I didn’t mean anything, Harry. But I’ve got to have it.”
“It’s not so easy as it sounds,” I replied slowly. “You know when anybody makes a loan, especially one of that size, they want to know what it’s to be used for. You’d have to explain why you want it. The farmers around here have been getting a little reckless, buying automobiles, and so on, and Rogers has shut down on them.”
Again the old man’s eyes flashed. “I’m an honest man,” he said. “And the farm’s worth it. I didn’t think there’d be any trouble.”
“There probably won’t be,” I agreed, “if you’ll explain what you want it for.”
There was a little silence, while the farmer regarded me with a growing expression of despair, and then suddenly a look of shrewdness came into his face.
“It’s a debt I owe,” he declared almost triumphantly. “To a man—” he hesitated a second, then went on — “a man named Gruber. I’ve owed it over five years now, before I came here.”
I nodded. “I saw Gruber yesterday. I was at Dal Willett’s when he came there to hire a rig to go out to your place. Funny-looking man, that Gruber. I may be only a country lawyer, Mr. Hawkins, but one look at his face is enough. And besides, you’re not a man to be ashamed of any honest debt. There’s only one thing you could want to give money to this Gruber for, and that’s blackmail.”