Bumblepuppy

Bumblepuppy is a nickname for the game of whist played without regard to certain time-honored rules. My brother Ajax used to say, with good reason, that Johnnie Kapus, the nephew of our neighbor, old man Kapus, played the game of life in such a clumsy, blundering way that it was a marvel his uncle gave him shelter. It was Ajax who nicknamed Johnnie "Bumblepuppy."

Once we hired Johnnie to work for us at the rate of half a dollar a day. A heavy rainstorm had just passed, and my brother insisted that Johnnie was the right man to fill the washouts around the corrals. He was strong, big, and as docile as a cow, and he lived within a few hundred yards of the ranch house.

Johnnie was given a spade and a wheelbarrow, and led to a gaping hole beneath the barn. I explained that the rain had washed away the soil and made the hole, which must be filled before more rain fell.

"Where shall I get the dirt from?" Johnnie demanded.

"From the most convenient place," said I. Ajax and I returned to the barn an hour later. The hole was filled; but another hole, from which Johnnie had taken the dirt, as large as the first, seriously threatened the underpinning of the building.

Ajax swore. Johnnie looked at me, as he drawled out: "The boss told me to get the dirt where it was most handy."

Ajax grinned. "I see. It was the boss's fault, not yours. Now then, Johnnie, the work must be done all over again."

"If you say so, boys, I'll do it."

As we moved away, Ajax pointed out the wisdom of giving explicit directions. At dinner time we came back to the barn.

Johnnie had taken the earth out of the first hole and put it back again into the second!

"You star-spangled fool!" said Ajax.

"You told me," replied Johnnie, "that the work must be done all over again—and I done it."

"Directions," I remarked, "may be made too explicit."

After this incident, we always spoke of Johnnie as Bumblepuppy.

Some six months later, Alethea-Belle told us that Johnnie Kapus was doing chores for the widow Janssen—milking her cow, taking care of the garden, and drawing water. Upon inquiry, however, we learned that the cow was drying up, the well had caved in, and the garden produced no weeds—that is true—and no vegetables!

"Why doesn't the widow sack him?" Ajax asked.

"Mrs. Janssen is kind of sorry for Johnnie," replied the schoolmistress; then she added irrelevantly, "There's no denying that Johnnie Kapus has the loveliest curly hair."

About a fortnight after this, when the July sun was at its zenith and the starch was out of everything animate and inanimate, old man Kapus came up to the ranch house. Johnnie, he said, disappeared during the previous night.

"And he's been kidnapped, too," the uncle added.

"Kidnapped?"

"Yes, boys—hauled out of the window! A man weighing close on two hundred pounds would naturally prefer to walk out of the door, but the widow hauled Johnnie out of the window."

"The widow?"

"Mrs. Janssen. There were buggy tracks at the foot of the melon patch, and the widow's missing. She's set her mind on marrying my Johnnie. I suspected something, but I counted on Johnnie. I said to myself: 'Others might be tempted by a plump, good-looking widow, but not Johnnie.' You see, boys, Johnnie ain't quite the same as you and me."

"Not quite," said Ajax.

"Maybe you've wondered why I set such store by Johnnie. Well—I'll tell you. Johnnie's pa and me were brothers and partners before the war. And after Bull Run, John said to me: 'Abram,' he said, 'we mustn't let Old Glory trail in the dust.' That's what he said. 'John,' I answered, 'what can we do to prevent it?' 'Enlist,' said he. And we done it. But before we get within smelling distance of the rebs, yes, boys, before we saw 'em, a bullet comes slam-bang into John's head."

The old man paused, overcome. We turned our eyes from his wrinkled, troubled face, as Ajax entreated him to say no more.

"He died in defense of his flag," I muttered.

"Ah!" exclaimed Johnnie's uncle, "I thought you'd say that. No, boys, John didn't die. A Kapus takes a heap of killing. John lived—and married! He married my girl, too, Susie Bunker. Susie felt awful sorry for him, for that rebel bullet had kind of made scrambled eggs with poor John's brains. I let Susie marry John, because I knew that he needed a good woman's care. And then Johnnie was born: a whopping baby, but with a little something missing in his pretty head. Then John died, and soon enough Susie got peaked and lost her relish for food. She took a notion that John needed her t'other side. Just before she sent in her checks, she gave me Johnnie, and she asked my pardon for marrying John instead of me. I told her she done right. And I promised to look after Johnnie. Up to date, boys, I have. But now that darned widow woman has unexpectedly kidnapped him. What can I do?"

"The widow will look after both of you," I suggested.

"What! Share my Johnnie with her?

Not much. She stole that boy from me by force. By Jing! I'll take him from her without lifting a finger. You see, Johnnie is mighty apt to disappoint the widow. Sometimes—more often than not—Johnnie—is—disappointing! I always judge the poor boy by contrairies. Most men when they marry are apt to forget them as raised 'em, but Johnnie'll pine for me. I know it. Bless his heart, he can't get along nohow without me."

Listening to this simple talk, watching the old man's rough, honest face, my own heart grew chill with apprehension. The widow had a small income and many charms. It was certain that Johnnie's curly hair, bright blue eyes, and stalwart figure had captivated her fancy. Pity had bloomed into love. The pair must have driven—as fast as the widow's steed could travel—into San Lorenzo. By this time, high noon, the license, doubtless, had been issued and the marriage solemnized by parson or justice of the peace. Once married, no man—not even old man Kapus—would be justified in tearing Bumblepuppy from the fond arms of his bride.

We asked Johnnie's uncle to dine with us. He thanked us warmly.

"Boys, you surmise that I'm feeling lonesome. And I am. But I won't be lonesome long. The widow can't let that cow of hers go without two milkings, and her pigs and chickens must be fed. She'll be back in the village about four or five; and tonight, tonight, boys, my Johnnie'll be home to supper."

Ajax discreetly descanted upon the widow's fine complexion, but old man Kapus lent him but an indifferent ear.

"She's fat and slick," he admitted, "but Johnnie's fat and slick, too. And who made him so? Why—his uncle Abram. Do you think now that I've fed him up and got him into such fine shape that he'll leave me? No, sir. You might act that way, but not my Johnnie."

After dinner, we accompanied Uncle Abram as far as the creek which flows between the village and our domain. Here stand some fine cottonwood trees and half a dozen lordly white oaks. The spot is famous as a picnicking ground, and in the heat of summer is as cool a place as may be found in the county.

And here, paddling in the brook like an urchin, we found Bumblepuppy. His eyes sparkled as they fell upon the face of his uncle.

"You've got back, Johnnie," said the old man.

"Yes. 'Twas hotter than a red-hot stove on the road."

"You drove in with the widow woman?"

"Yes. I drove in with her; but I walked back. Guess I run the most of the way, too."

"And Mrs. Janssen—where is she?"

"I dunno, Uncle Abram."

"Is she still a widow woman, Johnnie?"

"She was when I left her," said Bumblepuppy.

He had ascended the bank. Sitting down, he began to put on his socks. I noted the admirable symmetry of calf and ankle; I thought of the lungs and muscles which had sustained the superb body during a twenty-six-mile run between blazing earth and sky.

"What in thunder did you go to town for?" asked the old man. "Speak up, Johnnie. Give us the cold facts."

Then Bumblepuppy made the speech of his life.

"Uncle Abram, you told me to obey Mrs. Janssen, and do what she said."

"That's so, Johnnie."

"Yesterday, she told me to fix up and be ready to go to San Lorenzy with her. She said we'd travel by night 'cause of the heat. And she said I was not to disturb you. She said she'd come to the window and tap. Then I'd crawl out without disturbing you. Well—she came around about two, just as the roosters were crowing for the second time. I slipped out of the window in my stockings. I hope I didn't disturb you?"

"You didn't. Go on."

"In town, Mrs. Janssen said she'd fixed it up to marry me. She said I needed a loving wife, and that she and I'd have a Fourth of July time together. I said nothing, 'cause you'd told me never to interrupt a lady when she was a-talkin'. She kept on a-talkin' till we got to the Courthouse, where Mrs. Janssen bought a license. Then we hunted a minister. Bimeby, he asked me if I was willing to take Sairy Anne Janssen to be my wife—"

"And you said NO, my own Johnnie?"

"That's what I done, Uncle Abram. And then she says, kind of wheedling: 'But you will marry your Sairy Anne, Johnnie, won't you?' And then, getting scared, I kind of forgot my manners, for I said: 'No—I'm damned if I will!'

And I disremember what she said next, but I found myself in the road, a-runnin' like a mad steer. Jee! that road was hotter than a red-hot stove!"

During the recital of this adventure, Bumblepuppy's face had deepened in tint till it glowed like an iron disc in the heart of a fire. As he finished speaking, he knelt down and dipped his head into the cool, bubbling creek. Lifting up his ruddy face, a ray of sunshine, filtering through the tremulous leaves of the cottonwoods, fell full upon his chestnut curls, and each drop of water on his hair became of a sudden a gem of prismatic color and most brilliant luster.

"Phew-w-w!" said Bumblepuppy. "I hope Mrs. Janssen ain't feeling as warm as I am."