Plant Early, Two Feet Apart

I

ONCE upon a time there was an old lady named Harriet Pretty who lived in a square white house on a hill. She was the last of the old Connecticut Prettys. The rising tide of commercialism or industrialism or something had submerged the once important family until nothing was now visible but this hill with Miss Pretty on it. And a terrible mortgage on it too. It makes me kind of sad to think about it.

But Miss Pretty was n’t sad. She had a lot of old documents and portraits and a view of Long Island Sound that was the envy of the rich Mr. Blomberg whose estate marched with hers down to the shore on the east, and of Miss Laura Dinsmore, née Glotz, whose fashionable girls’ school adjoined on the west. Both of these parties had made offers for the hill, but although Miss Pretty could now afford only one square meal a day she ignored these offers as if they were the mosquitoes that occasionally supped inadequately on her spare frame when she walked in her garden in the cool of the evening. She would not admit that there were mosquitoes on Pretty Hill any more than she would admit that there were Blombergs and Glotzes in Connecticut. For she was terribly proud. She was so proud of her family that she never mentioned it. Just the same, when two more bonds went bad Miss Pretty was on a spot. Life is often like that in the antique belt.

Well, one day Clarence Prince, the third selectman, came to see Miss Pretty. ‘Miss Hattie,’ he said, ‘I guess you’re in trouble.’ And he breathed hard and looked at her. ‘Well, Clarence, out with it,’ said Miss Pretty, and Mr. Prince said, ‘Well, you know that bargain you made with the town about 1920?’

Of course Miss Pretty knew it. The town had agreed to let her live on Pretty Hill tax-free until her death. In exchange she had agreed to will her property to the town so that the house could be used as a museum and the place as a park and much-needed bathing beach.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Prince, ‘there was a clause in that agreement that permits the town to cancel it and charge you all back taxes. At town meeting yesterday George brought the matter up. He said we needed back taxes now more than a beach twenty years from now. I voted against it, of course — for it ain’t right, Miss Hattie. That clause was just a fool lawyer’s word-slinging and never intended to be invoked. But George and Nathan outvoted me.’

‘Who’s back of it?’ said Miss Pretty. ‘That Blomberg man?’ ‘Right the first crack out of the box,’ said Mr. Prince. ‘He’s got both George and Nathan in his pocket. On their notes at the bank. But my Lord, it’s a dirty shame.’ ‘Well, thank you, Clarence, for voting for me,’ said Miss Pretty, getting up. ‘Now I must think what I can do.’

But of course she could n’t think of anything. The mortgage interest she might manage, but seventeen years’ back taxes! So, as weeding always quieted her nerves, she went out in the garden and weeded.

Pretty soon she noticed some pale inch-high shoots coming up behind the pinks. ‘Good gracious,’ she said, ‘those funny seeds that Sister Lucy got in Greece are coming up. My, after all these years in the attic! I’m glad I found them. It’ll be interesting to see what they are. Dragon’s blood — dragon’s teeth — what did she call them?’ And she bent and touched one and then pulled her finger back. ‘Goodness,’ she said, ‘it cut me. Why, it’s as sharp as a knife!’

It was late and she was tired from weeding, so she went in and made a cup of tea. As it was the end of the month there was nothing in the pantry but a can of tomatoes, so she had that for supper. Then she went out on the porch.

She sat and rocked the sun down and the moon up and wondered and wondered what she could do. By and by as the moon got higher something gleamed in the garden and she looked and saw that the queer spear-like shoots from the Greek seeds had grown nearly two feet, and as she got up and went to look more closely the dirt between them stirred and rustled and something that glittered like brass pushed up beside each spear. Miss Pretty squeaked faintly for the first time in her life and retreated to the front parlor. There she looked out of the window.

Heads had appeared between the spears now, men’s heads in brass helmets, and, as she stared with clenched hands, shoulders and arms carrying shields broke through the soil and the men climbed out and stood there in a row — fifteen of them — brushing the dirt from their tunics and sword belts.

Miss Pretty squeaked again and covered her eyes. Then she stuck out her chin and walked straight out on to the porch.

When the men saw her they gave a shout and clattered their spears against their shields. ‘Stop that noise!’ said Miss Pretty severely. ‘Good gracious, who are you?’ The men dropped their arms and stood stiffly at attention and one of them said something respectfully. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Miss Pretty and then she said suddenly, ‘Merciful heavens! Greeks! Dragon’s teeth!’ and ran into the house.

But Miss Pretty was not running away. Her father had been a great classical scholar and one of the useless things he had taught her was Greek. She came out presently with her Greek lexicon and called the head man over and went to work. To her surprise she found she could understand him fairly well. He told her that he was the captain and his name was Argon and he and his men were there to serve her to the death.

Miss Pretty thumbed the lexicon and said that she was grateful, but she could n’t possibly feed fifteen men and they’d better go back where they came from. ‘We can’t go back,’ said Argon. ‘And never mind about food, for my men understand living off the country. If you can just give us a place to sleep.’ ‘ You can sleep in the barn,’ said Miss Pretty, ‘but in the morning—’ Then she stopped. ‘ We will talk further in the morning,’ she said. For she suddenly thought, ‘Maybe I can use them after all.’

II

So Miss Pretty went to bed and slept peacefully all night. When she came down into the kitchen next morning she said, ‘Good gracious, where did these come from?’ For on the table were two loaves of homemade bread and a basket of eggs and a dressed chicken. ‘Well, we must put a stop to that,’ she said as she broke an egg into the skillet.

But she did n’t say anything about it to Argon when she went down to the barn a little later. She just told him to keep his men out of sight in the barn until she decided what to do. ‘In the meantime,’ she said, ‘I think they should learn some English.’ So she got up in an old buggy and the soldiers grouped themselves around her and she gave them a lesson. Probably because they could n’t read they learned very quickly.

At noon Mr. Prince came up again to tell her some more bad news. Mr. Blomberg had bought the mortgage from the bank, which was glad enough under the circumstances to get rid of it. And he brought her some legal-looking papers from the town, but she did n’t look at them. Before he left he told her a tale of henhouses robbed and ice boxes raided — a crime wave that was put down to tramps, though Seth Hammond claimed to have been chased by a naked man with a spear on his way home from the tavern. But when pinned down Seth admitted the last five beers might have had something to do with it. Miss Pretty said nothing.

Well, things went on like this for a while. The soldiers stayed in the barn all day and had their English lessons and diced and slept — and what they did at night nobody inquired. They never raided near home. Local chickens snored the night away in security and local ice boxes were as full in the morning as the night before. If Miss Pretty saw any connection between fresh hams and cutlets on the kitchen table and advertisements for lost pigs and calves from farther north she said nothing about it. She took things as they came.

Then one evening Miss Pretty heard someone sobbing in the barn and she went out and found the soldiers sitting around a box with a candle on it throwing dice for a girl who lay bound hand and foot beside them. ‘You can’t do this sort of thing, Argon,’ said Miss Pretty. ‘You’ll get us into terrible trouble.’ ‘So?’ said Argon, reaching for a spear. ‘Then I will kill her and bury her under the barn and nobody will know.’ ‘No, no!’ said the horrified Miss Pretty. ‘We must let her go. That is — good gracious, we can’t do that, either!’

Well, the girl had heard Miss Pretty’s voice and she began to struggle and moan, ‘Help! Where am I?’ and Miss Pretty bent over her and said, ‘Don’t you know where you are?’ ‘No,’ said the girl. ‘I was hit on the head and that is all I remember.’ ‘Aha!’ said Miss Pretty, and then she had Argon blindfold the girl and two of the soldiers picked her up and carried her back to where she had been captured and let her go.

‘Well,’ said Miss Pretty, ‘I guess these boys have n’t enough to occupy their minds.’ So next time Mr. Prince came up with some bad news she had a talk with him and later he brought up some baseballs and bats, though he thought she had gone crazy. But nobody ever questioned Miss Pretty. And she read up baseball in an old book she had and explained it to the soldiers and they played out in the back pasture behind the woods where nobody could see them. They thought it was a swell game.

Well, at last, after due process of law which Miss Pretty did n’t understand and I don’t either, Pretty Hill was put up for sale and Mr. Blomberg, who held the mortgage anyway, bought it in for the unpaid taxes. And even Miss Dinsmore, who had ten more girls coming next fall and would have liked to add it to her place, did n’t dare bid against him, for he was the richest man in the town of Weedham. So Mr. Blomberg came to see Miss Pretty.

Well, he talked standing at the foot of the steps, for she did n’t invite him in, and he said, ‘I do not wish to be hard on you and I will give you three months to find another place.’ ‘I shall not find another place,’ said Miss Pretty. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to, ma’am,’ said Mr. Blomberg, ‘for I plan to tear down this old shack and build me a new house here where I can entertain my friends. And perhaps you will drop in sometime. You will always be welcome.’ ‘I shall always be here,’ said Miss Pretty, ‘and now will you kindly remove yourself from my property?’ ‘I guess you don’t understand, ma’am,’ said Mr. Blomberg. ‘It is my property now.’ But Miss Pretty looked at him as if he were something that ought to be buried, and called Argon. And the captain came running.

‘Put this man outside the gate,’ said Miss Pretty. So Argon grabbed Mr. Blomberg by the seat of the pants and frog-walked him to the gate and threw him out. Mr. Blomberg got up and waved his short arms and gobbled threats, but a spear zipped past his ear and went tunk! into a tree and so he did n’t say any more. His chauffeur, who was a prudent man, drove quite a distance after him before he caught up with him.

III

Well, Miss Pretty had started something. But Mr. Blomberg was no fool and he had no intention of swearing out a warrant against an ancient Greek. Two days later he came up with the sheriff and some deputies and a truck to dispossess Miss Pretty. And things went about as before. The deputies got bumped heads and the sheriff had his pants torn and four cigars in his breast pocket broken and Mr. Blomberg was captured and dragged into the barn, where the soldiers stood around him and laughed and booted him a little. Then Miss Pretty came in and Mr. Blomberg fell on his knees and wept and promised everything she wanted. ‘All right,’ said Miss Pretty, ‘I expect I’ll have to let you go, although the boys were going to torture you a little and it seems a pity to deprive them of their fun.’

Well, maybe she should have let them torture him, for he did n’t keep his promise. He went up and appealed to the Governor in Hartford, but the Governor, whose grandfather had been a law partner of Miss Pretty’s father, just did n’t believe his story. ‘No, no, Mr. Blomberg,’ he said. ‘Harriet Pretty is n’t the head of any band of pirates.

You’ll just have to take care of this yourself.’

So Mr. Blomberg went home again. He realized now the difference between himself and Miss Pretty. For if she told people she was maintaining a small army of spearmen they would believe her. But if he told it they would n’t believe him. So they both had the same reason for concealing the truth. So he went to New York and hired a dozen tough strikebreakers to raid the Greek camp. All Miss Pretty knew of it was some shouting and thumping down by the barn late one night. The thugs never came back to report to Mr. Blomberg.

Well, after that there was a sort of truce. Mr. Blomberg did n’t dare to dispossess Miss Pretty by force of arms, for sentiment had swung around to her side since the defeat of the sheriff. People liked the spirit of an old lady who would go out and do battle in a brass helmet for what she thought was right — for that was the way the story went around. The office of Mr. Blomberg’s lawyers foamed with writs and subpœnas and attachments, but no local man could be found to serve papers on Miss Pretty and when once or twice outside process servers were hired they vanished. Argon had got the hang of things by this time and did n’t bother Miss Pretty with unimportant matters. He buried his own dead. And Mr. Blomberg knew that a charge of murder against Miss Pretty would only be laughed at.

But as fall came on and the girls came back to the Laura Dinsmore school and their chatter could be heard over the wall Miss Pretty began to feel that she could n’t hold out much longer. Her bank account was tied up and Mr. Blomberg’s spies were watching her constantly. So one night a soldier named Atta flitted into the town with a note for Mr. Prince and the next morning Mr. Prince’s car chugged up Pretty Hill.

‘Clarence,’ said Miss Pretty, ‘if the first and second selectmen were George Wilks and Philo Powel instead of George Wilks and Nathan Dodge, could we get the old arrangement about my property put back in force?‘ ‘Sure,’said Mr. Prince. ‘ You was n’t aiming to do some electioneering, was you, Miss Hattie?5 ‘No,’said Miss Pretty, ‘but I remember your saying Nathan ran behind his ticket last election and only had eighteen votes more than you did.’ ‘He had thirty more than Philo,’ said Mr. Prince. ‘You see, Miss Hattie, you vote for two selectmen and the one that has next highest — that was me last time— is third selectman,’‘Yes, I know,’ said Miss Pretty, ‘both you and Philo would have to run ahead of Nathan. But suppose we could find fifteen new votes?‘

Mr. Prince hitched up his chair and said, ‘Miss Hattie, there’s been a lot of talk in town about how you’re maintaining a small army up here. Most of us don’t take much stock in it because —well, excuse me, Miss Hattie, but you ain’t got the means to support even one hired hand. But—‘ ‘Just a minute,’said Miss Pretty. ‘I’m going to trust you, Clarence,’And she blew on a little whistle and the soldiers came tumbling out of the barn and lined up before the porch and shook their spears in salute.

‘Good God of Israel,’exclaimed Mr. Prince. ‘What you got here — a circus?5 ‘These are the men you have heard about,’said Miss Pretty. ‘Furriners?5 asked Mr. Prince and Miss Pretty said, ‘No, they were born right here in Connecticut.’ ‘Well, well,’said Mr. Prince.

So then Mr. Prince and Miss Pretty went into a huddle, with the result that three days later a CCC truck containing fifteen pairs of overalls came grumbling up Pretty Hill and when it grumbled down again the overalls contained fifteen Greeks. Nobody paid any attention to a truckful of CCC boys that drew up in front of the town clerk’s office, and nobody paid any attention to Mr. Prince’s old car either when it stopped and Mr. Prince and a little old lady dashed into the building. The business was over quickly, for the town clerk was Mr. Prince’s brother, who said that Miss Pretty’s word was good enough for him if she said these boys had been born in Connecticut. ‘Though it’s funny,’ he said, looking over the application papers, ‘that none of ’em knows their exact age.’ ‘Well, you only have to look at ’em,’ said Mr. Prince. ‘Oh, sure,’said the clerk. ‘Daggone it, where’s my copy of the Constitution? We got to give ’em their reading lesson. Well, here’s an almanac. I guess that’ll do.’ ‘No, no,’ said Aliss Pretty, ‘we must n’t have anything irregular about this. You always do give them the Constitution to read, don’t you?5 ‘Well, yes,’ said the clerk, ‘ but — oh, here it is. Here, you — George Smith — read this paragraph.’ And he pointed to the one he always did point to.

So the first soldier gabbled off the paragraph, which he had learned by heart, and all the others followed him. ‘All in order,’ said the clerk. ‘All regular,’said Mr. Prince, ‘except for George and Nathan not being here.’ ‘It ain’t strickly necessary,’ said the clerk, ‘and I sent ’em notice,’‘Funny they’re both sick this morning,’said Mr. Prince. ‘I had ’em both up to supper last night and they felt all right then. Well, let’s get going.’

IV

Well, of course after that there was no use trying to conceal the soldiers any more. But even when they were all driven down to register Mr. Blomberg did n’t move against them. It was better to starve Miss Pretty out quietly than to have any fuss. The soldiers played baseball all day long in the back pasture with some of the local boys who came out to make up two full teams. Argon was a little worried about their passion for this new game, feeling that it might become for them a substitute for war. But Miss Pretty said that would n’t do any harm. She always came out to watch them and had indeed learned most of the finer points of the game. For the Greeks, trained for quickness and accuracy as slingers and spear throwers and handto-hand fighters, were fine athletes and the best of baseball material.

But at last, when Mr. Blomberg learned from George Wilks that the growing pro-Pretty feeling in town was going to make her fifteen votes dangerous, he took Mr. Wilks’s advice and came out to see her. He came under a flag of truce tied to the radiator and she met him at the gate. ‘I want to ask you just one question, ma’am,’ he said respectfully. ‘You’re known as a truthful woman and I’m told you would n’t lie to get an advantage even if you were in the right. Are these boys of yours really eligible to vote?’ Miss Pretty looked at him hard for a long time. Then she said, ‘No.’ ‘Aha!’ said Mr. Blomberg. ‘So they are aliens!’ ‘No,’ said Miss Pretty, ‘they are not.’ ‘Ha?’ said Mr. Blomberg, startled. But he was too good a business man to inquire too closely when he had gained his point. ‘ Well,’ he said, ‘ you say they ’re ineligible and yet you ’re going to bring ’em down to the polls Monday?’ ‘You’re taking advantage of my honesty,’ said Miss Pretty. ‘I admit it,’ said Mr. Blomberg, ‘but that is not the point.’ ‘No,’ said Miss Pretty, ‘it’s not. Though I don’t know how you know it.’ Then she said, ‘I will not bring them down to vote,’ and turned and walked into the house.

So a little later Mr. Prince came and he was pretty upset. ‘They’re saying downtown,’ he said, ‘that you’re not going to let your boys vote because they’re not eligible.’ ‘They’re not,’ said Miss Pretty. ‘But you give us your word they were born in Connecticut,’ said Mr. Prince, ‘and now Blomberg’s going around saying — ’ ‘I’m not interested in Mr. Blomberg,’ said Miss Pretty. ‘Well!’ said Mr. Prince, staring, and then he said, ‘Well, well!’ thoughtfully and started to make conversation. ‘Everybody’s pretty blue to-day,’ he said, ‘account of the ball game Sunday.

Weedham plays Northbrook — but excuse me, Miss Hattie, you ain’t interested in baseball.’ ‘But I am,’ said Miss Pretty. ‘Go on.’

So Mr. Prince did. And he told of the teeth-gnashing of the Weedhamites, who through excess of civic pride had placed their bets on a home team that had not won a single game during the season. ‘Some folks think it’s a disgrace to the town,’ he said. ‘I don’t go as far as that, but I guess Weedham’ll have to drop out of our league next year. If we only had a real team — Ouch!’ said Mr. Prince suddenly, for Miss Pretty had seized his arm. ‘Come down to the back pasture,’ she said.

Well, what Mr. Prince saw in the back pasture sent him back to town with a plume of white steam flying from his radiator. And on Sunday, when, with Miss Pretty beside him and the plume again flying, he drove into the baseball field followed by three cars full of Greek soldiers with ‘Weedham’ lettered on their tunics, — for they had refused to play in baseball suits, — they were received with what no one failed to recognize as an ovation.

Feeling had run high, for this was the final game of the season. Northbrook was triumphant and offering five to one. Weedham was sore and taking considerably more than it could handle if the Greeks let the town down. But the Greeks did n’t. They refused to warm up. They disdained masks, gloves, and the ordinary protective paraphernalia of the game. In the first inning they were a little overenthusiastic and the visitors marked three runs. In the second they held Northbrook, in the third they got two runs, and in the fourth they hit their stride. They pounded two Northbrook pitchers out of the box, broke two bats, and Argon knocked the cover off a new ball. One soldier named Mystax cracked off three home runs. At the end of the seventh, with the score at 38-3, Northbrook conceded defeat.

But the Northbrook fans, who had come in force, conceded nothing. They rose and milled about and, after yelling for a while to get up their courage, ran out into the field. But Miss Pretty, who was sitting on the home bench with her team finishing her fifth bottle of pop, nodded to Argon. The soldiers had refused to leave their arms at home and had concealed them in the cars. They ran for them and in a few seconds the small phalanx of brass-helmeted Greeks, with locked shields and spears lowered, charged the rioters.

Northbrook shrieked, broke, and ran. And Weedham ran after them, for there were bets to collect. All over the field you could see creditors sitting on debtors and collecting. With spears to back them, the loss to Weedham on collections was later estimated at less than one per cent. And then the satisfied creditors crowded about Miss Pretty with congratulations and promises of electoral support.

That evening Mr. Prince and Miss Pretty were sitting in the garden on Pretty Hill. From beyond the wall which separated them from the Dinsmore School came the subdued laughter and talk of the girls. ‘Well, your house is safe, Miss Hattie,’ said Mr. Prince. ‘After to-day people in this town’ll vote as you tell ’em to vote. Not that you need to worry anyway, with fifteen ball players like these boys under your management.’ ‘Yes,’ said Miss Pretty, ‘I thought I’d send a telegram to-morrow to that — Colonel Ruppert, is n’t it? I’d like to do something for them. And do you know, Clarence, I’m very glad that we did n’t win the election with their votes. For of course they were really not eligible.’ ‘ Why, they were born here, were n’t they?’ said Mr. Prince. ‘Free, white, and twenty-one, ain’t they?’ ‘No,’ said Miss Pretty, ‘they’re not twenty-one.’

Well, of course then Miss Pretty had to explain and she told Mr. Prince the whole story. And then they sat on for a long time talking about Miss Pretty’s plans, and the lights in the Laura Dinsmore School went out one by one. And at last Mr. Prince got up to go.

And then he stopped suddenly and whispered, ‘Good land, Miss Hattie, do you see what I see?’ For through the darkness a long line of men came silently up to the wall and climbed it and disappeared into the grounds of the Laura Dinsmore School.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Pretty, ‘I have seen it before. After all, Clarence, Miss Dinsmore only has girls from the very nicest families. I just hope they won’t teach the boys to smoke those nasty cigarettes.’