The Greatest Works of Arthur Cheney Train (Illustrated Edition) - Arthur Cheney Train

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constat that she wasn’t referring to any one of the many well-known dangers following upon matrimony.”

      “But how about the next sentence?” demanded Mason. “‘Of course, I know that in refusing to approve my marriage, you are actuated only by the basest motives.’”

      “Do you concede your client’s motives to have been base?” inquired his tormentor.

      “No, of course not! Merely that she claimed they were, because he’d get her property.”

      “Well, then, what were they?” persisted His Honor.

      “Why—why, perhaps he didn’t approve of her marryin’ so young!” stammered the Squire. “Or, mebbe, he thought the doctor couldn’t support her properly.”

      “Perhaps! Maybe!” mused the justice, with a meaning look at the unhappy lawyer.

      Mr. Tutt cleared his throat.

      “In Shackleford versus Hall, Chief Justice Caton, while holding the marriage limitation legally proper in its terms, declared it to be ineffective, since there was no proof that the plaintiff had knowledge of it. To quote his exact words: ‘One who has an estate or title real independent of the deed or instrument containing a condition of forfeiture, shall not be presumed to have notice of the condition, and he shall not be held to have incurred the forfeiture unless he committed the breach with knowledge of the condition and the consequences.’ This court cannot, without proof, presume that my client had knowledge of the condition in her mother’s will.”

      The P. J. nodded thoughtfully.

      “There is certainly no proof of it in the record. If it ever were conceded—as to which I, naturally, can have no knowledge—whoever assented to this stipulation omitted that essential fact either inadvertently or through ignorance of the law. Shackleford versus Hall, and Merriam versus Wolcott seem directly in point. The doctrine, while unfamiliar—perhaps, even unique—is sound. In the absence of affirmative evidence to the contrary, we must presume that Mrs. Kellogg had no knowledge of the condition or the intent of her stepfather to claim a forfeiture if she broke it.... Have you anything further to say, Mr. Mason?”

      It was clear that the Squire had nothing to say, for he was teetering back and forth on the balls of his feet, his jaws agape, apparently on the verge of apoplexy.

      The five old bozos put their heads together, conferred, nodded; then each took up his pen, dipped it and scribbled something across the cover of “Gamage versus Kellogg.”

      “The judgment of the court below is unanimously reversed,” announced the P. J. “There is no need of an opinion. Judgment is hereby directed to be entered for the defendant. Call the next case.”

      Mr. Tutt turned from Dorothy Kellogg’s joyous smile to the other side of the courtroom, where Judge Gamage had melted into a grotesque and deflated huddle.

      “Your Honors,” he said, addressing all five old bozos, but the youngest one in particular, “may I make an announcement that is strictly off the record?”

      “You may,” acquiesced the P. J., with a look at Mr. Tutt that was almost affectionate, for a judge.

      “It is merely that, even if you had confirmed the respondent in his claim to the Tarleton homestead, he could not personally have enjoyed the occupancy of it. An officer with a warrant of extradition is waiting in the corridor to take him back to Iowa. ‘Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein.’”

      Black Salmon

       Table of Contents

      DURBAN NEW BRUNSWICK CANADA

      SALMON RUN DOWNSTREAM JUST STARTING IN NIPSICODIAC STOP BETTER HUMP IT

      ANGUS OGILVY

      Mr. Tutt handed the telegram to Minerva Wiggin.

      “I’m off!”

      “But this is only April,” she protested. “Besides, salmon run upstream in spring, not down.”

      “Not always. In some rivers they get trapped by the ice and can’t get back to the ocean. When it breaks up the following spring, they bolt for the sea—‘black salmon’ they call ’em.”

      “There’s something queer about the whole business,” remarked the chief clerk. “Doesn’t the Canadian law prohibit salmon fishing until June?”

      “In most rivers, but not in the Nipsi. For some reason—political, I fancy—it’s an exception. Not many fishermen know about it, luckily.”

      “You’ll freeze to death in the woods this time of year,” she warned him.

      “My dear Minerva,” he answered patiently, “I never went on a fishing trip yet that I didn’t have a good time. So be a good girl and wire Angus to engage a cook and meet the Halifax Express tomorrow afternoon. Don’t worry. I’ll catch something.”

      She made a face at him. “Pneumonia, probably.”

      The spring had been well advanced in New York, but Mr. Tutt stepped out of the sleeper at Durban, New Brunswick, into the depth of the Canadian winter.

      “We had quite a warm spell last fortnight,” said Angus, greeting him on the station platform. “Enough to start the ice in the Nipsi, but it looks now as if we were in for more cold weather.”

      “Did you hire a cook?”

      “Yes, but I had a tough time locatin’ one. Most of the men are off in the lumber camps or loggin’ it on the river. But I found a feller finally, and paid him something in advance. Maybe that was a mistake. Anyhow, he’s promised to meet us at the train tomorrow morning. You better buy yourself some warm clothes.”

      “I certainly had!” agreed Mr. Tutt, who was already half frozen. “If you’ll carry those things to the George, I’ll go over to the store and re-outfit myself.”

      Mr. Tutt, having purchased a heavy mackinaw and sweater, thick woolen cap and high-laced boots, walked back to the little hotel. Lugging his rod case, he followed the clerk to the sagging corridor above the office.

      “Here, Martha!” called the clerk into the darkness beneath the stairs. “Hot water for Number Nine!”

      The lawyer stacked his luggage, lit a stogie and looked about him. The room was clean, but the rug was full of holes, the wallpaper discolored and hanging in strips, the ceiling mapped with islands, coast lines and inland seas. Thank heaven he’d only have to stay there one night!

      There was a step in the hall outside, a light tap, and an elderly woman in spotless calico entered, carrying a steaming pitcher.

      “I’ve brought you some hot water,” she smiled. Mr. Tutt withdrew his hand from his trousers pocket, where he had automatically thrust it. One couldn’t offer a dime to a woman like that. She seemed to be so glad that she could bring him his hot water.

      “Thank you! I need it.”

      “Mr. McCrea planned last summer to put runnin’ water in all the rooms,” she apologized, placing the pitcher beside the washstand. “But he says now the trade don’t warrant it.”

      Her voice was deep-throated, soft and clear, with a faint Scotch burr; her face, of an unusual dignity, was made almost beautiful by her smile.

      “Is there anything you want?”

      She was like a considerate and interested hostess. She did not once call him “Sir.”

      “Let me see!” deliberated Mr. Tutt, wishing that there was. “Do you suppose I could find anyone to sew on this button?”

      “Yes, indeed! Let me have it, please.”

      “I’ll have to sit here until it comes back.”

      “It

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