At the store where
I usually trade the merchant talked about it, and the postmaster when I
went in for my mail, and the clerk at the drug store, and the
harness-maker. I had known a good deal about Carlstrom in the past, for
one learns much of his neighbours in ten years, but it seemed to me that
day as though his history stood out as something separate and new and
impressive.
When he first came here forty years ago I suppose Carlstrom was not
unlike most of the foreigners who immigrate to our shores, fired with
faith in a free country. He was poor--as poor as a man could possibly
be. For several years he worked on a farm--hard work, for which, owing to
his frail physique, he was not well fitted. But he saved money
constantly, and after a time he was able to come to town and open a
little shop. He made nearly all of his tools with his own hands, he
built his own chimney and forge, he even whittled out the wooden gun
which stands for a sign over the door of his shop. He had learned his
trade in the careful old-country way. Not only could he mend a gun, but
he could make one outright, even to the barrel and the wooden stock. In
all the years I have known him he has always had on hand some such
work--once I remember, a pistol--which he was turning out at odd times
for the very satisfaction it gave him.
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