Bunker Bean | Page 7

He knew well enough that one piece of pie is the
heaven-allotted portion; that no one, even partly a Bunker, should crave
beyond it; yet this fatuous old pair seemed to invite just that
licentiousness, and they watched him with doting eyes while he
swaggered through his second helping.
If more had been needed to show the Beanish lowness, it would have
come after the first supper, for Gramper and Grammer sat out on a little
vine-covered porch and smoked cob-pipes which they refilled at
intervals from a sack of tobacco passed companionably back and forth.
His own father was supposed to smoke but once a week, on Sunday,
and then a cigar such as even a male Bunker might reputably burn. But
a _pipe_, and between the lips of Grammer! She managed it with
deftness and exhaled clouds of smoke into the still air of evening with a
relish most painful to her amazed descendant. Yet she inspired him
with an unholy ambition.
Asked the next day about the habit of smoking, Gramper said it was a
bad habit; that it stunted people and shortened their days. Both he and
Grammer were victims and warnings. Grammer had lumbago
sometimes so you wouldn't hardly believe any one could suffer that
way and live. As for Gramper himself, he had a cough brought on by
tobacco that would carry him off dead one of these days; yes, sir, just
like that! And then, to point his warning, Gramper coughed falsely.
Even to the unpractised ear of his grandson the cough did not ring true.
It lacked poignance.
Late that afternoon, when both the old ones slept, he abstracted a pipe,
stuffed it with the rich black flakes and fled with matches to a nook of
charming secrecy in the midst of the lilac clump. Thence arose
presently clouds of smoke from the strongest tobacco money could
buy.
At last he had dared something that didn't hurt him. He puffed valiantly,
blowing out the smoke even as Grammer had done. Up to a certain
moment his exaltation was intense, his scared soul expanding to greater
deeds.
Then he coughed rather alarmingly. But that was to be expected. He
drew in another breath of the stuff and coughed again. It was an honest

cough; no doubt about that. Perhaps Gramper's cough had been honest.
Perhaps the pipe he had selected was Gramper's own pipe, the one that
made coughs. He became conscious of something more than throaty
discomfort. Tiny beads of sweat bejewelled his brow, the lilac bush
began to revolve swiftly about him. He must have taken Grammer's
pipe after all--the one that led to lumbago. From revolving with a mere
horizontal motion the lilacs now began also to whirl vertically. He had
eaten a great deal at dinner....
A pallid remnant of himself declined supper that night. Never could he
sit at table again to eat of food. Gramper and Grammer were at first
alarmed and there was talk of sending for a veterinary, the nearest to a
professional man of medicine within miles and miles. But this talk died
out after Gramper had made a cursory examination of the big yard, with
especial attention to the lilac clump, where a pipe and other evidence
was noticed. After that they not only became strangely reassured, but
during their evening smoke on the little porch they often chuckled as if
relishing in secret some rare jest. It did not occur to Bean that they
laughed at him. He did not suspect that any one could laugh at a little
boy who had nearly died of lumbago. And he sat far away that night.
The sight of the fuming pipes made him dizzy. His lesson had told. He
was never to become an accomplished smoker.
His new spirit of adventure being thus blunted, he spent much of the
next day indoors. Grammer opened the "front room" for him, no small
concession, for this room was never put to vulgar use; rarely entered,
indeed, save once a month for dusting. Here he found an atmosphere in
keeping with his own chastened gloom, a musty air of mortality and
twilight.
Such poor elegance as could be achieved by Beans alone, unaided by
any Bunker, was here concentrated; a melodeon that groaned to his
touch, with the startling effect of a voice from a long-closed tomb; a
centre-table, luminous with varnish; gilded chairs in formal array;
portraits in gilded frames; and best of all, a "whatnot," a thing to fit a
corner, having many shelves and each shelf loaded with fascinating
objects that maddened one because they must not be touched.
Varnished pine-cones, flint arrow-heads, statuettes set on worsted mats,
tiny strange boxes rarely ornamented--you mustn't even shake them to
see if they contained anything--a small stuffed