Free The Waters of Kronos by Conrad Richter Page B

doorbell rang and running to answer it they found Mr. Krammes, the Evangelical minister. He told them solemnly that Mr. Burlap, their next-door neighbor, had just died, and there the three of them stood helpless, not daring to speak or answer a word for fear of releasing a chorus of resounding belches.
    Couldn’t he ever smile any more, John Donner asked himself,not even at Chippy Luckenbill? Here was his Union Hotel across from the new tannery. The same Mr. Krammes preached against liquor and Chippy told his wife, who went to the Evangelical church, that if she ever got Krammes to preach his funeral sermon, he’d rise up in the coffin and curse him. In due process of time Chippy Luckenbill died and Krammes was to preach the sermon. Chippy’s cronies and customers came to the funeral to see what would happen.
    “Well,” the church people taunted them afterward, “did Chippy rise up in his coffin?”
    “No,” his cronies said regretfully, “but he got mighty red in the face.”
    There must be something the matter with him, John Donner told himself, that even Chippy Luckenbill left him unmoved. He remembered he had had no supper. He turned downtown toward the DeWitt House, nearly as old as the town itself, with white verandas upstairs and down and a rich scent throughout of well-aged kegs and bottles such as survives in no bar or cocktail lounge today.
    Inside the swinging slatted door the room was dim and cool. A few men sat at the far end with Jake DeWitt, last of the DeWitt line.
    “Good evening,” John Donner said courteously and stood at the bar.
    One or two of the men mumbled but Jake did not get up. He had usually refused to do that for a single customer. The talk in the dialect went on and John Donner waited until in time another customer entered and Jake came reluctantly from his corner.
    “I wonder,” the old stranger said, “if I could get a sandwich and a glass of beer.”
    “Supper’s over,” Jake told him. “Dining room closes at six thirty.”
    “I know,” John Donner said, remembering that meals were early in Unionville, dinner often at eleven and supper at four or five. “But I’ve walked pretty far and am a little shaky.”
    Jake’s eyes still refused him, harder now, disapproving of the resort to pity. The other went on.
    “Mrs. DeWitt was always a friend to me. Will you ask her if she’ll feed a hungry man?”
    Jake was examining him minutely now.
    “What’s the name?” he wanted to know.
    “Donner.”
    “You related to Harry?”
    The stranger nodded and Jake moved to the second customer, setting out for him a glass and the schnapps bottle without asking what he wanted. Then he turned, went into the hall and John Donner thought he heard him on the stairs. He came back without saying anything. It was a good sign, John Donner judged, and in time came a light rapping on the hall door. Jake was again sitting in his corner, but he got up at once and went to the door. The old man at the bar saw a pair of eyes scrutinize him intently from the crack. In a moment they vanished but Jake brought back a plate laden with a huge slice of homemade bread cut in half and stuffed with baked country ham. Then Jake drew him a heavy glass schooner of beer and picked up the dollar bill he laid down.
    “We use good money here,” he said, giving it back.
    “What’s the matter with it?” John Donner protested.
    Jake took another bill from the till, laid it grimly on the bar, and the stranger remembered he was in the chasm. Beside the other bill, his own looked small and inadequate.
    “It’s good,” he insisted. “It’s just the new size.”
    “Too new for me,” Jake grunted. “You can tell whoever made it he should use more paper.”
    “How much do I owe you?”
    “A dime for the sandwich and a nickel for the beer.”
    John Donner reached in his pocket, relieved to find the solid hardness of coins. At least silver had kept its shape. He wished he had more of it. Laying a quarter on the