The Meanest Man about the Place.

Many decades ago, in the quiet village of Hammond there was a quaint cottage on the outskirts of town. It had a grey stone chimney and a beautiful rose garden full of sweet perfumes in front of the house. In that little cottage lived the meanest man about the place. Now, you don’t have to take my word for it that old Jim Widgett was the meanest man about Hammond. Ask any of the boys and girls in Hammond. They would tell you that all they needed to do, to prove he was the meanest old man, was to ride past his old cottage making a racket with a couple of barking dogs yapping behind them, and they’d get real fireworks from old Jim.

He would rush out in a kind of staggery way through the big iron gate that looked far too large to be in front of a little cabin, and waving his crooked old gnarled right hand, he would yell, “get out of here you young rascals! Move on I tell you, or I will call the police! Stay away from my cabin with all your noise. Do you hear me?”

The first time that happened to anyone, Rex Ermiston and Linda and Bob Shay got the full brunt of old Jim Widgett’s fireworks, and they were really scared. Their bikes went licketty-split in a cloud of light-brown dust along the winding dirt road that led down the hill from the cottage to the village. They were not sure just what all the fuss was about, for they felt they had not made any more noise than was normal for boys and girls in good spirits.

News spread quickly about the mean old man with the sandpaper voice who had just moved into the Merriden’s cottage. Soon all the children in Hammond knew about the episode.

               “Don’t go near his place,” Linda said. “I believe he would beat a person almost to death with that bumpy old cane of his, he’s so mean!”

The news about old Jim Widgett spread and little groups of boys and girls would ride up there to experience his behaviour for themselves. Some even installed sirens and horns on their bikes. Whenever, they made a din it brought quick results. Jim would shoot out in his staggery old way yelling, “Get out of here, you young varmints. All of you, do you hear? I’ll get the police after you!”

This would always bring loud laughter. Going to the cottage became a regular summer pastime for the Hammond children. In fact, it became the number one pastime. Had their parents known they were upsetting Jim Widget they would have put a stop to it, but they kept it a secret, not wanting parents to spoil their fun. The rumor even got started that Jim Widgett was hiding in the cottage because he was an ex-convict staying away from the law with a box full of cash.

The summer holidays came to an end and there wasn’t much time to go to Jim Widgett’s to heckle him anymore, but one afternoon when the first gold leaves fluttered down from the trees, Linda and Bob Shay could stay away no longer. They jumped on their bicycles and headed out of the village. As they rode past the quiet cottage Bob yelled until he thought his lungs would burst. Linda tooted her bike horn. They drove back and forth several times by the iron gate, but Jim Widgett did not come out to wave his cane and chase them away.

Strange! Linda and Bob waited for him to come, then they hopped of their bikes and looked at each other with big questions in their eyes. “He must have gone to town,” Bob whispered, and then wondered why he was whispering.

“Linda said, “I’m sure he can’t be home. Why don’t we go in and peek at the inside of the cottage? I’ve always wanted to see how he keeps house. Now is our chance. I’ll bet it is a real mess inside.”  

They threw done their bikes behind a clump of bushes and opened the big Iron gate. In the yard they moved quietly until they reached the back porch. They crept to the window and peered inside. What they saw filled them both with astonishment – clean bright curtains at the windows, a crisp tablecloth on the table. Chairs brightly cushioned, and two rocking chairs by the fireplace. Late Roses in a pink bowl on the table and braided rugs on a clean scrubbed floor. There were pretty pictures on the walls.

Bob whistled low. Linda whispered, “Isn’t it the cutest, homiest place you ever saw? How could a mean old man have such a pretty place to live?”

               “Let’s look through the other window,” Bob suggested.

The other window was open, and even before they reached it they heard a sound that chilled them through and through. It was a low, moaning sound, full of pain. It grew louder.

               “Let’s run!” Linda whispered. “Maybe old Jim tried to murder someone!” They stood looking at each other, not willing to stay and not able to run away.

The moaning stopped. They heard an old woman’s-tired voice say, “Please, God, help Jim bring the doctor in a hurry!”

Bob gulped back a lump in his throat and stepped closer to the window. He pulled back the lace curtain that stirred in the autumn breeze. There, in the coziest looking bed he had ever seen was a thin, frail woman, her eyes closed. Little moans escaped her pale lips every time she breathed. Pale and trembling, Linda joined him at the window. “What shall we do?” she whispered hoarsely.

               “Is someone there?” asked the woman in the bed. She tried to raise herself up from the pillow, but she quickly fell back again.

               “Yes, ma’am,” Bob said. “There is someone here. Linda, my sister; and I am Bob Shay. You must be sick. Can we do anything for you?”

Before she could answer, the sound of a motor was heard in the driveway. Old Jim Widgett, his face drawn and beads of perspiration glistening from his leathery cheeks, stumbled into the cottage, Dr. Amundsen close on his heels.

Linda and Bob stood at the window not knowing what to do. When they saw the doctor coming toward the bed they tip-toed away. As they passed old Jim Widgett, who leaned heavily against the doorpost, Bob said, “Can we do anything to help you, Mr. Widgett? Just anything?”

               “Nothing, thank you, lad,” he answered, patting Bob’s shoulder. My poor wife has been sick and bedridden a long time. The doctor is the only one who can really give her any help.”

Linda and Bob left the homiest of little homes they had ever seen. As they rode away, Linda tried to hide the tears that kept wanting to pop out on her cheeks. “The meanest man about the place!” she exploded, trying to hold back a sniffle. “What stupid, horrible kids we have been to that goodman!”