Don’t shout at me! I’m not deaf … . The funeral? Why, it was Mister Freddie’s funeral. Don’t you know what happened to him? It was on the front page of theCounty Gazette. Everybody worshipped Mister Freddie. He was handsome as all get-out. Little moustache—wavy hair—blue eyes. He was justFreddie when he was growing up in Gattville. Then he got to be manager of the bank—with a private office and a clerk and a stenographer and all. So then folks started to call himMister Freddie. Out of respect, you see. He wasn’t old. He was only forty when he died … . Are you still there?
Yes, ma’am. You’re a good storyteller.
The farmers would come into town to ask for a loan to buy seed, and Mister Freddie would make them feel real good, like they were doing the bank a big favor. The women were always taking him a batch of cookies or a jar of homemade jelly. He liked gooseberry. The young girls would go to the bank and get change for a nickel, just so Mister Freddie would smile at them.
He was married, but he wasn’t happy. When he was away at college he married a widow. She was older. Folks in Gattville didn’t see much of her except on Sundays. She was sickly.
Mister Freddie didn’t go to church, but everybody said he was a blessing from heaven. After the granary explosion he organized the volunteer fire brigade. And he got the town to get rid of the wooden sidewalks and put in brick ones. And he got them to put indoor plumbing in the school. When they tore down the old Cousin Johns in the schoolyard, Uncle Bill said they should call the new ones Cousin Freddies. Uncle Bill was a regular cutup.
Listen to that old lady across the hall! She’s always hollering. Why do old folks make so much fuss? … What was I talking about?
The funeral, ma’am.
The funeral? … Oh, yes. Mister Freddie. He was a hard worker—worked six or seven days a week except when he went to Chicago. He had to work late every night because folks pestered him during banking hours. They’d walk into his private office and unload all their troubles. Gattville didn’t have a lawyer, but Mister Freddie knew about things like that, and he’d give them advice. Or maybe they were having trouble at home. Or maybe they couldn’t sleep nights. Mister Freddie would listen—so sympathetic, he was—and they’d walk out of the bank feeling a heap better. Folks said Mister Freddie did more good than the preacher and the doctor rolled into one. Nobody could understand it when he hanged himself.
Listen! The nurse is coming. I can hear her shoes. They go squinch-squinch-squinch on the floor.My shoes never did that.
Time for your pill, you sweet old thing! Hold out your hand … . Now pop it in your mouth. Here’s a glass of water … . I’ll be back when it’s time for your nap. Be a good girl. Don’t flirt with this nice young man.
Hmmph! Did you hear what she called me? I’m not sweet and I’m not old. The silly madame! Squinch-squinch-squinch! I always had nice shoes. I had a pair of white kid with eighteen buttons and embroidery all the way up the side. They were for summer.
Excuse me, ma’am. Did you say Mister Freddie took his own life?
What? Yes, Matt was the one that found him. Matt was the clerk. Mister Freddie always got to the bank early and opened up, but when Matt got there on Saturday morning, the door was locked. That was odd, because it was going to be a busy day—payday at the mills. So Matt went around to the barn in back, to see if Mister Freddie’s horse and buggy had come in. And that’s when he found him—hanging there! It was terrible!
Matt ran down the middle of Main Street hollering,“Help! Murder!” He ran right to the blacksmith’s shop. The smith was the constable, you see. They telegraphed the county courthouse, and the coroner came galloping into town on horseback. He had one of those new automobiles, but he said he didn’t trust it. The silly thing was always breaking down.
The telephone operator rang up all the subscribers—there were nineteen telephones in Gattville—and everybody rushed out into the street. Folks couldn’t believe Mister Freddie would do such a thing. Nobody did a lick of work all day, seemed like. Except the saloon-keeper. Uncle Bill said the saloon was jam-packed.
Old Joshua stayed up all night making a coffin; he was the carpenter. And Miss Tillie—she was the dressmaker—lined it with velvet. Poor Mister Freddie! They laid him out in the bank lobby. They couldn’t lay him out at home because of the circumstances.
What were the circumstances?
What? … Why, his wife went clean out of her head when they told her what happened. She was always sickly … . I want a drink of water. There’s a jug on the table … . What was I saying?
About the funeral …
The stationmaster took orders for flowers and telegraphed Chicago. You never saw so many flowers! The whole town went to the funeral. Except Mister Freddie’s wife, of course, and the nurse that had to sit with her. The stationmaster couldn’t go because of the telegraph and the trains, but everybody else was there—even the men who hung around the saloon and the fat girl from the shack near the railroad tracks. All the women cried. The men got out their handkerchiefs, and there was so much nose blowing, nobody could hear the preacher. Miss Tillie fainted dead away.
Then the men carried the coffin up the hill to the cemetery. I had to walk through deep mud in my new shoes and hold up my skirts all the way. The blue jays were squawking in a big oak tree, scolding something down on the ground. That’s when I saw Conscience, the bank cat, walking along with the procession. She was picking her way through the weeds on the side of the road, trying to keep her white feet clean, I guess.
Where are my cough drops? Look on the table. My mouth gets dry when I talk. I talk to my cat mostly. Nobody comes to see me. My mother used to come and bring me chocolates, but she doesn’t come anymore.
Did they find out why Mister Freddie committed suicide?
What? Speak up! Don’t mumble! … The day after the funeral the bank opened again. Matt was dandied up in his Sunday best, looking like a high-muckety-muck. He thought he was going to be manager. I never liked Matt. He wore his hair flat on top. He thought he was such a swell!
They sent a new manager from the main bank. He wore those pinch-nose eyeglasses like the president’s, and he had a painful look on his face as if they were hurting him all the time. The customers knew the bank would never be the same. No smiles! No joshing! A black cloud settled over the town, seemed like. Worse than the grasshoppers. And then old Pinch-nose started finding out things.
I’m getting old. Where’s my shawl? Is it winter? I used to like winter, but it’s different now. I never hear sleigh bells anymore.
Excuse me, ma’am. You were talking about the new bank manager. What did he discover?
What? … Oh, there was a big hullabaloo! Some of the customers complained they were being charged for services. Mister Freddie had never charged them. Pinch-nose told them onlybig accounts get free services. Well! That started an awful row! They were the biggest accounts in town—the hotel, sawmills, granary, and all like that. Uncle Bill said he knew something was bunco. He did the bookkeeping for the hotel, and they had a big sum on deposit. Pinch-nose said the balance was only half that amount!
Then all kinds of strangers came to town and stayed at the hotel—examiners, inspectors, and I don’t know what-all. They found a heap of money missing. First it was $10,000, then $50,000, then $80,000. They said Mister Freddie kept two sets of books. They said the entries were in his handwriting.
Matt told the inspectors he knew Mister Freddie was stealing, and he warned him. But Mister Freddie said:“Never you mind. It will all come out right in the end.” Matt was afraid to say any more because Mister Freddie would fire him. That’s what he told the inspectors.
Eighty thousand dollars! Uncle Bill said it would take a man a whole lifetime to earn that much.
What had Mister Freddie done with the money?