Thrifty Stock, and Other StoriesWilliams, Ben Ames
General
Thrifty Stock, and Other Stories
Williams, Ben Ames
American fiction -- 20th century; Short stories, American
When the squall had passed he returned to his car and took the blanket
off the hood and threw it into the dark cavern of the tonneau, then
cranked the engine and turned around and started home. His lights, run
from the magneto, were dim and uncertain; his attention was all upon the
road. The car skidded and slid and slued and bumped; but it came to no
disaster. He drove into his own barn toward seven o’clock in the
evening, and left his purchases untouched while he went into the house
to change into overalls, so that he might do his chores.
When he came back into the barn he saw someone standing motionless
beside the machine. He lifted the lantern which he carried, so that its
light flooded the still figure, and perceived that the person who stood
there, facing him, was a woman.
II
This woman, in these surroundings, was an amazing apparition. Against
the background of his old hayrick, still half full of hay, Jeff saw her
outlined. She wore a sailor’s oilskin coat, buttoned about her throat;
and beneath the skirts of the draggled coat he glimpsed slim silk-clad
ankles and badly soiled white satin pumps. She wore no hat; her hair
was wet and all awry; and there was a thin streak of blood from a
scratch upon her temple that had trickled down across the bridge of her
nose in a slanting direction. Yet in spite of these difficulties he
perceived that she was very beautiful.
At sight of her Jeff had stopped in his tracks and still stood
motionless with surprise, the lantern in his lifted hand. The woman’s
white fingers fumbled nervously at the fastenings of the oilskin coat
she wore; she waited for a moment in silence; but when he did not speak
she nodded in an uneasy little way and stammeringly said to him, “Good
evening!” Her voice was full and throaty and pleasantly modulated.
Jeff replied, “Howdo!”
She began to speak very rapidly.
“You’re probably wondering how I came here. I was in your car. On the
floor of the back seat. Almost crushed. That big bag fell off the seat
on top of me when you hit that terrible bump. It banged my head down on
a piece of iron. I’m afraid it has bled a little. I was almost
smothered. The road was so rough.”
She was panting as though she had run a race; and Jeff watched her
steadfastly for a moment, and then, for sheer relief from his
astonishment, gripped the commonplace with both hands.
“You better come in the house and wash up,” he told her slowly, “and get
warm. I guess you’re kind of wet.”
She nodded. “Yes. I’d like that. I’d like to do that.”
He perceived that she was fighting for self-control, putting down the
revolt of jangling nerves.
“Come through here, ma’am,” he bade her, and led the way through the
woodshed and into the kitchen. There he set his lantern on the table and
brought fresh water from the pump. “I’ve been away since morning,” he
explained. “The water in the tank is cold. You want to wait till I heat
some up?”
She shook her head. “This will do finely.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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