M23 
American Agriculturist, August 23, 1924 
The 
(i Concluded from last week) 
T he summer moved along pleasantly 
enough. Bill kept the key of the cave 
and nobody was allowed in it without Bill 
in attendance, and nobody ever guessed 
the echo was dead, least of all Abundant. 
Two things worried me, however. One 
was that fat turtle of a Ranee Tither- 
weight, who kept pestering Abundant, 
and the other was the knowledge that in 
the fall Bill Saggerty would be going back 
to New York to put on his act. 
About the midle of August I slipped 
up to New York again, claiming I had 
to see my doctor, and hunted around to 
find another ventriloquist to take Bill’s 
place when he left, and I found an old 
man named Simeon Dearborn who was 
willing. He said he would come on the 
first of September, which was the day I 
I understood Bill had set for leaving. 
When I reached our station in Carter 
County I picked up my grip and walked 
out to the farm. I cut across lots and 
went in the back way, and as I neared the 
house I saw Abundant on the side porch, 
her hands clasped on her breast and her 
eyes raised to a tree there. My, but she 
was a pretty picture! But that was not 
what stopped me short. A little bird—a 
sparrow, I guess—was hopping round on 
a branch of the tree, and every time it 
hopped it cocked its head on one side and 
looked at Abundant and said “Sweet 
heart! Sweetheart!” which is something 
a sparrow don’t say. I wasn’t fooled. I 
looked round the end of the kitchen and 
there was Bill Saggerty with a moon-calf 
look on his face. 
“Enough! None of that! ” I whispered, 
and I motioned him out to the barn to 
talk it out and have an understanding. 
“Well, what? ” he asked me, defiantlike. 
“I can’t help what the little birds say, 
can I? If they think she is so sweet and 
lovely they just have to peep up and say 
so, how can I help that, Sam?” 
“You’ll help it,” I said sternly. 
“Abundant isn’t for the likes of me or 
lyou. She’s a real girl. You get your pay 
[this evening and you leave Carter County, 
[Bill. That’s the ultimatum with the bark 
Ion it.” 
“Why, no, Sam,” he said. “No, itaint. 
because I don’t go. Because I stay right 
|here. My act aint ready yet and I don’t 
care if it never is ready. I may settle 
down here for good and all, with a farm 
and a cave and a wife—a wife, Sam—• 
amongst the cows and the chickens and 
the little dickybirds that say what they 
nighty well please without any blue-gilled 
back-number sleight-of-hand inan butting 
|in. You get the idea?” 
‘CO that’s how it is. is it?” I asked, 
N) getting red in the face. 
"Just like that,” a chicken answered, 
[sneering-like, fx-om where it was pecking 
peed on the barn floor. “Just like that, 
ain’t it, Bill?” 
“Seems so, chicken,” Bill answered. 
"Oh, well, if you’ve got all the livestock 
alking for you!” I said scornfully, and I 
[turned away. “Only,” I said, “I’ve hired 
man to take your place down here, and 
you’ll kiixdly hand me the cave key and 
up and pack your trunk.” 
“Give him the key; what do you care?” 
[punted a pig, and Bill tossed me the key. 
caught it on the fly and went on up to 
|be house. Abuixdant was still there, 
looking at the little bird, and when she 
paw me she started and blushed. 
“Why, Sam!” she said. “I didn’t ex- 
pect you!” 
“I walked,” I said. 
bill did not go. When I thought it over 
saw he was right in one way, he had 
Pcver said he meant to go befox-e the-first 
r[ September and I had no right to send 
P lm away; that was Abundant’s business. 
y ( l Simeon showed up on the first of 
Nptember and I gave him the key to the 
|ave and explained the points of interest 
pad tried him out on the echo. He did 
r e d enough. He was an old-styler and 
M a moustache to hide his lips, but he 
Echoed as well as need be and I was glad 
Cave Men- S - 
Ellis Parker Butler 
(Author of “Pigs Is Pigs”) 
to see that professional jealousy made him 
sort of offish to Bill. They didn’t mix. 
“I thought Mr. Saggerty was going,” 
Simeon said to me. 
“Well, he said he was,” I answered. 
“Then he had better go,” Simeon said 
dryly. “ If he don’t he will give this whole 
business away. Miss Abundant is likely 
to come on him any time. Just now he is 
out there making the ducks and the geese 
tell each other what they think of you and 
Ranee Titherweight, and what a lovely 
person Miss Abundant is.” 
“Drat him!” I said. “He’s in love; 
that’s what is the matter with him.” 
You can imagine I was surprised when 
Bill came to me. not half an hour later, 
and held out his hand. 
“Good-bye, Sam,” he said. “I’m go¬ 
ing. It is all off. I’m on my way. I 
asked her to marry me. Well, such is 
life!” 
“No!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean 
you had nerve enough to ask her to tie 
up to a thing like you!” 
“She thought the way you do, I guess,” 
Bill said, with a sick grin. “ She was sorry 
and all that, but it couldn’t be. It’s 
Ranee Titherweight, Bill—no doubt of 
that.” 
“No!” I exclaimed again. “Not that 
fat slug! Did she say so right out?” 
“More or less,” Bill admitted. “I 
put it up to her and she would not 
deny it.” 
“Well, you just wait here,” I said, 
“and don’t you move until I come back. 
I’ll settle this Ranee Titherweight bus¬ 
iness. I know a thing or two about 
Ranee Titherweight-” 
I was off in a rush and I found Abun¬ 
dant without any trouble. I asked her 
“Don’t worry,” I said sarcastically. 
“That’s Bill. I’m going to tell you every¬ 
thing. And. first of all, I want to tell you 
that Bill is not half as bad as you may 
think he is.” 
“I don’t,” said Abundant. “I don’t 
think he is bad at all.” 
“All right, then,” I said. “First I want 
to confess that when that Bishop’s Pulpit 
fell and killed your father it spoiled the 
seven echoes in your cave. It killed all 
seven of them; not an echo was left. x\nd 
you know what that meant to the cave. 
It ruined it.” 
HE simply stared at me. 
“Yes,” I said, “I know what you are 
thinking. The cave has kept right on 
echoing. That’s right enough, but I’m 
to blame for that. I was a coward and 
Held back the truth from you, and I went 
up to New York and hired Bill for you, 
and Bill is a ventriloquist.” 
“He is a-?” she asked. 
“Ventriloquist,” I said. “A voice 
thi'ovver. And old Simeon is another. I 
thought I could keep the dead echoes 
from your knowledge and let Bill take the 
tourists through and do the echoes for 
them.” 
“But why?” she asked. 
“On account of Ranee Titherweight,” 
I said, “and on account of you being 
alone in the world and unable to support 
yourself and all. I don’t expect you to 
forgive me, but that don’t matter. I 
thought I was doing right.” 
“But why should you do it for me?” 
she asked. 
“Because,” I said, right out flat, “this 
cave without the echo is not worth the 
powder to blow it up, and Ranee Tither- 
“Verywell! Very well!” said the white hen. “Don’t get excited” 
if she could spare a couple of minutes and 
we went out on the side porch and I made 
her take a seat. I hesitated awhile, trying 
to get things straight in my mind, so I 
could say them in the proper way. 
“It’s like this. Miss Abundant,” I said 
finally, “I’ve been cheating you. I’ve 
been fooling you and playing a trick on 
you. I’m ashamed of it and I confess it, 
but I did think I was doing the right thing 
and that is my excuse.” 
J UST then a chicken came along, peck¬ 
ing at the grass out in front of us. It 
was a white chicken, a hen, and along 
behind it came half a dozen chicks, a late 
seasoxx hatching of them. The hen started 
to come up on the porch. 
“Shoo!” said Abundant. 
“ Very well! Very well! ” said the white 
hen. “Don’t get excited.” 
“My gracious!” Abundant cried. “Am 
I mad?” and she looked up at the tree 
where the little bird had said “Sweet¬ 
heart!” the day I came back from New 
York. 
weight was making eyes at you. Suppose 
you married him—he would find out the 
cave was worthless and he would treat 
you mean.” 
“Treat me mean?” she asked. “Don’t 
you think he cares for me for myself, then, 
at all?” 
I did not answer that; I did not like to. 
But the white hen did. 
“Not a bit, the fat serpent!” the white 
hen seemed to say. “He don’t care a 
dam for you.” 
“Excuse me a minute,” I said to Abun- 
daixt, “I’m going to find Bill and knock 
his head off. I won’t have him butting 
in on this conversation.” 
Abundant put out her hand. 
“No, don’t!” she said. “What does 
it matter^ ^ 
“Very well,” I said. “I’ll go on with 
my story. I thought, if Ranee married 
you you would be unhappy, and to marry 
him seemed the only thing you could do. 
If you did not he would foreclose the 
mortgage and throw you out, and then 
he would discover the echo was dead and 
he would make all kinds of trouble for 
you. So I had Bill come and it all worked 
well. And it will continue to work well. 
Simeon is not as good as Bill at voice¬ 
throwing, but lie makes a good enough 
echo. So why don’t you just let things 
go on as they are?” 
“Am I not going to?” she asked. 
“ Well, no! ” I said. “ I don’t think you 
are, and that’s the trouble. You’re going 
to marry Ranee.” 
“Who said that?” 
“Bill did. He practically said you said 
so.” 
She did not deny it. She looked at the 
white hen and at the late-hatch chickens 
and said nothing. 
“All right then,” I said, taking a new 
grip in my courage, “I ask you not to 
marry that Ranee fellow. He’s a crook 
and a slimy character and you’ll be un¬ 
happy every day of your life. Take Bill 
instead. I know Bill and I know he is 
better than most fellows. Give him a 
chance. Don’t turn him down the first 
shake out of the box. Let him have a 
chance to show you what a real man he 
is.” 
A BUNDANT looked out across the 
grass patch. She let her hands rest in 
her lap. It almost broke my heart, she 
was so sweet and pretty and innocent. I 
could hardly bear to look at her pretty 
mouth with her lips just parted like two 
rose petals. And then that fool hen had 
to speak up again. 
“Bill has no chance,” the hen said. 
“She don’t care for Bill at all. If I were 
a man-” 
“Drat you!” I cried, and I raised up 
and felt for something to throw. I had 
nothing but my hat, and I threw that. 
The hen squawked and scuttered away. 
“I’ll go round and paste Bill one in the 
jaw in a minute,” I said. 
Up in the tree a sparrow fluttered from 
one twig to another. 
“Sweetheart! Sweetheart!” it chirped 
in real words. 
I looked out and down the road, too far 
to throw his voice to us, was Bill—going 
to the station to buy a ticket, I suppose. 
Over in the cave lot, almost as far away, 
was old Simeon. I looked at Abundant 
again, and she was just as before, looking 
out across the lot, with her lips just 
parted. Theix the old white hen came 
back a step or two and looked up at me 
doubtfully, not knowing whether I would 
throw another hat or ixot. 
“Excuse me,” said the white hen as 
meek as Moses, “I just came back to say 
that if I were a man and cared any¬ 
thing for a lady I would speak for my¬ 
self.'’ 
I swear I was trembling all over. I 
turned to Abundant and put out my 
hand. 
“Could you!” I stammered. “Could 
you love me, Abundant?” 
She gave a sort of sob and put both her 
hands in mine. 
“Oh, Sam? You are such a fool!” she 
said, and then we laughed and everything 
was all right forever. 
“And how was I to know you had the 
voice-throwing trick yourself!” I asked 
her some time later, when things had 
loosened up so that I had only one arm 
round her. 
“As if father would figure to leave me a 
cave as a legacy without preparing me to 
keep the echo going?” she cried. 
That’s all. Jed had beexx a voice- 
thrower himself. There never had been 
any real echo in Seven Echoes Cave. It 
is simple enough when you know the 
trick; Abundant taught me in less than a 
week. Since she has the children to look 
after I show the visitors through the cave 
myself. We are prospering nicely and 
next year when I get the last of the 
mortgage paid off. I’m thinking of putting 
in an extra echo. I won’t change the 
name of the cave but I believe in giving 
full measure and running over, my own 
blessings, so to speak, having been 
Abundant. 
i 
