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Title: The Best American Humorous Short Stories
Author: Curtis, George William, 1824-1892 [Contributor], Hale, Edward Everett, 1822-1909 [Contributor], Leslie, Eliza, 1787-1858 [Contributor], Henry, O., 1862-1910 [Contributor], Poe, Edgar Allan, 1809-1849 [Contributor], Chester, George Randolph, 1869-1924 [Contributor], Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 1809-1894 [Contributor], Cooke, Grace MacGowan, 1863-1944 [Contributor], Twain, Mark, 1835-1910 [Contributor], Hastings, Wells, 1879-1923 [Contributor], Stockton, Frank Richard, 1834-1902 [Contributor], Lampton, William James, 1859-1917 [Contributor], Harte, Bret, 1836-1902 [Contributor], Bunner, H. C. (Henry Cuyler), 1855-1896 [Contributor], Johnston, Richard Malcolm, 1822-1898 [Contributor], Edwards, Harry Stillwell, 1855-1938 [Contributor], Kirkland, Caroline M. (Caroline Matilda), 1801-1864 [Contributor], Morris, George Pope, 1802-1864 [Contributor]
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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THE BEST AMERICAN HUMOROUS SHORT STORIES


_Edited by_ ALEXANDER JESSUP, _Editor of "Representative American
Short Stories," "The Book of the Short Story," the "Little French
Masterpieces" Series, etc._


INTRODUCTION

This volume does not aim to contain all "the best American humorous
short stories"; there are many other stories equally as good, I
suppose, in much the same vein, scattered through the range of
American literature. I have tried to keep a certain unity of aim and
impression in selecting these stories. In the first place I determined
that the pieces of brief fiction which I included must first of all be
not merely good stories, but good short stories. I put myself in the
position of one who was about to select the best short stories in the
whole range of American literature,[1] but who, just before he started
to do this, was notified that he must refrain from selecting any of
the best American short stories that did not contain the element of
humor to a marked degree. But I have kept in mind the wide boundaries
of the term humor, and also the fact that the humorous standard should
be kept second--although a close second--to the short story standard.

In view of the necessary limitations as to the volume's size, I could
not hope to represent all periods of American literature adequately,
nor was this necessary in order to give examples of the best that has
been done in the short story in a humorous vein in American
literature. Probably all types of the short story of humor are
included here, at any rate. Not only copyright restrictions but in a
measure my own opinion have combined to exclude anything by Joel
Chandler Harris--_Uncle Remus_--from the collection. Harris is
primarily--in his best work--a humorist, and only secondarily a short
story writer. As a humorist he is of the first rank; as a writer of
short stories his place is hardly so high. His humor is not mere
funniness and diversion; he is a humorist in the fundamental and large
sense, as are Cervantes, Rabelais, and Mark Twain.

No book is duller than a book of jokes, for what is refreshing in
small doses becomes nauseating when perused in large assignments.
Humor in literature is at its best not when served merely by itself
but when presented along with other ingredients of literary force in
order to give a wide representation of life. Therefore "professional
literary humorists," as they may be called, have not been much
considered in making up this collection. In the history of American
humor there are three names which stand out more prominently than all
others before Mark Twain, who, however, also belongs to a wider
classification: "Josh Billings" (Henry Wheeler Shaw, 1815-1885),
"Petroleum V. Nasby" (David Ross Locke, 1833-1888), and "Artemus Ward"
(Charles Farrar Browne, 1834-1867). In the history of American humor
these names rank high; in the field of American literature and the
American short story they do not rank so high. I have found nothing of
theirs that was first-class both as humor and as short story. Perhaps
just below these three should be mentioned George Horatio Derby
(1823-1861), author of _Phoenixiana_ (1855) and the _Squibob Papers_
(1859), who wrote under the name "John Phoenix." As has been justly
said, "Derby, Shaw, Locke and Browne carried to an extreme numerous
tricks already invented by earlier American humorists, particularly
the tricks of gigantic exaggeration and calm-faced mendacity, but they
are plainly in the main channel of American humor, which had its
origin in the first comments of settlers upon the conditions of the
frontier, long drew its principal inspiration from the differences
between that frontier and the more settled and compact regions of the
country, and reached its highest development in Mark Twain, in his
youth a child of the American frontier, admirer and imitator of Derby
and Browne, and eventually a man of the world and one of its greatest
humorists."[2] Nor have such later writers who were essentially
humorists as "Bill Nye" (Edgar Wilson Nye, 1850-1896) been considered,
because their work does not attain the literary standard and the short
story standard as creditably as it does the humorous one. When we come
to the close of the nineteenth century the work of such men as "Mr.
Dooley" (Finley Peter Dunne, 1867- ) and George Ade (1866- ) stands
out. But while these two writers successfully conform to the exacting
critical requirements of good humor and--especially the former--of
good literature, neither--though Ade more so--attains to the greatest
excellence of the short story. Mr. Dooley of the Archey Road is
essentially a wholesome and wide-poised humorous philosopher, and the
author of _Fables in Slang_ is chiefly a satirist, whether in fable,
play or what not.

This volume might well have started with something by Washington
Irving, I suppose many critics would say. It does not seem to me,
however, that Irving's best short stories, such as _The Legend of
Sleepy Hollow_ and _Rip Van Winkle_, are essentially humorous stories,
although they are o'erspread with the genial light of reminiscence. It
is the armchair geniality of the eighteenth century essayists, a
constituent of the author rather than of his material and product.
Irving's best humorous creations, indeed, are scarcely short stories
at all, but rather essaylike sketches, or sketchlike essays. James
Lawson (1799-1880) in his _Tales and Sketches: by a Cosmopolite_
(1830), notably in _The Dapper Gentleman's Story_, is also plainly a
follower of Irving. We come to a different vein in the work of such
writers as William Tappan Thompson (1812-1882), author of the amusing
stories in letter form, _Major Jones's Courtship_ (1840); Johnson
Jones Hooper (1815-1862), author of _Widow Rugby's Husband, and Other
Tales of Alabama_ (1851); Joseph G. Baldwin (1815-1864), who wrote
_The Flush Times of Alabama and Mississippi_ (1853); and Augustus
Baldwin Longstreet (1790-1870), whose _Georgia Scenes_ (1835) are as
important in "local color" as they are racy in humor. Yet none of
these writers yield the excellent short story which is also a good
piece of humorous literature. But they opened the way for the work of
later writers who did attain these combined excellences.

The sentimental vein of the midcentury is seen in the work of Seba
Smith (1792-1868), Eliza Leslie (1787-1858), Frances Miriam Whitcher
("Widow Bedott," 1811-1852), Mary W. Janvrin (1830-1870), and Alice
Bradley Haven Neal (1828-1863). The well-known work of Joseph Clay
Neal (1807-1847) is so all pervaded with caricature and humor that it
belongs with the work of the professional humorist school rather than
with the short story writers. To mention his _Charcoal Sketches, or
Scenes in a Metropolis_ (1837-1849) must suffice. The work of Seba
Smith is sufficiently expressed in his title, _Way Down East, or
Portraitures of Yankee Life_ (1854), although his _Letters of Major
Jack Downing_ (1833) is better known. Of his single stories may be
mentioned _The General Court and Jane Andrews' Firkin of Butter_
(October, 1847, _Graham's Magazine_). The work of Frances Miriam
Whitcher ("Widow Bedott") is of somewhat finer grain, both as humor
and in other literary qualities. Her stories or sketches, such as
_Aunt Magwire's Account of Parson Scrantum's Donation Party_ (March,
1848, _Godey's Lady's Book_) and _Aunt Magwire's Account of the
Mission to Muffletegawmy_ (July, 1859, _Godey's_), were afterwards
collected in _The Widow Bedott Papers_ (1855-56-80). The scope of the
work of Mary B. Haven is sufficiently suggested by her story, _Mrs.
Bowen's Parlor and Spare Bedroom_ (February, 1860, _Godey's_), while
the best stories of Mary W. Janvrin include _The Foreign Count; or,
High Art in Tattletown_ (October, 1860, _Godey's_) and _City
Relations; or, the Newmans' Summer at Clovernook_ (November, 1861,
_Godey's_). The work of Alice Bradley Haven Neal is of somewhat
similar texture. Her book, _The Gossips of Rivertown, with Sketches in
Prose and Verse_ (1850) indicates her field, as does the single title,
_The Third-Class Hotel_ (December, 1861, _Godey's_). Perhaps the most
representative figure of this school is Eliza Leslie (1787-1858), who
as "Miss Leslie" was one of the most frequent contributors to the
magazines of the 1830's, 1840's and 1850's. One of her best stories is
_The Watkinson Evening_ (December, 1846, _Godey's Lady's Book_),
included in the present volume; others are _The Batson Cottage_
(November, 1846, _Godey's Lady's Book_) and _Juliet Irwin; or, the
Carriage People_ (June, 1847, _Godey's Lady's Book_). One of her chief
collections of stories is _Pencil Sketches_ (1833-1837). "Miss
Leslie," wrote Edgar Allan Poe, "is celebrated for the homely
naturalness of her stories and for the broad satire of her comic
style." She was the editor of _The Gift_ one of the best annuals of
the time, and in that position perhaps exerted her chief influence on
American literature When one has read three or four representative
stories by these seven authors one can grasp them all. Their titles as
a rule strike the keynote. These writers, except "the Widow Bedott,"
are perhaps sentimentalists rather than humorists in intention, but
read in the light of later days their apparent serious delineations of
the frolics and foibles of their time take on a highly humorous
aspect.

George Pope Morris (1802-1864) was one of the founders of _The New
York Mirror_, and for a time its editor. He is best known as the
author of the poem, _Woodman, Spare That Tree_, and other poems and
songs. _The Little Frenchman and His Water Lots_ (1839), the first
story in the present volume, is selected not because Morris was
especially prominent in the field of the short story or humorous prose
but because of this single story's representative character. Edgar
Allan Poe (1809-1849) follows with _The Angel of the Odd_ (October,
1844, _Columbian Magazine_), perhaps the best of his humorous stories.
_The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether_ (November, 1845, _Graham's
Magazine_) may be rated higher, but it is not essentially a humorous
story. Rather it is incisive satire, with too biting an undercurrent
to pass muster in the company of the genial in literature. Poe's
humorous stories as a whole have tended to belittle rather than
increase his fame, many of them verging on the inane. There are some,
however, which are at least excellent fooling; few more than that.

Probably this is hardly the place for an extended discussion of Poe,
since the present volume covers neither American literature as a whole
nor the American short story in general, and Poe is not a humorist in
his more notable productions. Let it be said that Poe invented or
perfected--more exactly, perfected his own invention of--the modern
short story; that is his general and supreme achievement. He also
stands superlative for the quality of three varieties of short
stories, those of terror, beauty and ratiocination. In the first class
belong _A Descent into the Maelstrom_ (1841), _The Pit and the
Pendulum_ (1842), _The Black Cat_ (1843), and _The Cask of
Amontillado_ (1846). In the realm of beauty his notable productions
are _The Assignation_ (1834), _Shadow: a Parable_ (1835), _Ligeia_
(1838), _The Fall of the House of Usher_ (1839), _Eleonora_ (1841),
and _The Masque of the Red Death_ (1842). The tales of
ratiocination--what are now generally termed detective
stories--include _The Murders in the Rue Morgue_ (1841) and its
sequel, _The Mystery of Marie Rogêt_ (1842-1843), _The Gold-Bug_
(1843), _The Oblong Box_ (1844), _"Thou Art the Man"_ (1844), and _The
Purloined Letter_ (1844).

Then, too, Poe was a master of style, one of the greatest in English
prose, possibly the greatest since De Quincey, and quite the most
remarkable among American authors. Poe's influence on the short story
form has been tremendous. Although the _effects_ of structure may be
astounding in their power or unexpectedness, yet the _means_ by which
these effects are brought about are purely mechanical. Any student of
fiction can comprehend them, almost any practitioner of fiction with a
bent toward form can fairly master them. The merit of any short story
production depends on many other elements as well--the value of the
structural element to the production as a whole depends first on the
selection of the particular sort of structural scheme best suited to
the story in hand, and secondly, on the way in which this is
_combined_ with the piece of writing to form a well-balanced whole.
Style is more difficult to imitate than structure, but on the other
hand _the origin of structural influence_ is more difficult to trace
than that of style. So while, in a general way, we feel that Poe's
influence on structure in the short story has been great, it is
difficult rather than obvious to trace particular instances. It is
felt in the advance of the general level of short story art. There is
nothing personal about structure--there is everything personal about
style. Poe's style is both too much his own and too superlatively good
to be successfully imitated--whom have we had who, even if he were a
master of structural effects, could be a second Poe? Looking at the
matter in another way, Poe's style is not his own at all. There is
nothing "personal" about it in the petty sense of that term. Rather we
feel that, in the case of this author, universality has been attained.
It was Poe's good fortune to be himself in style, as often in content,
on a plane of universal appeal. But in some general characteristics of
his style his work can be, not perhaps imitated, but emulated. Greater
vividness, deft impressionism, brevity that strikes instantly to a
telling effect--all these an author may have without imitating any
one's style but rather imitating excellence. Poe's "imitators" who
have amounted to anything have not tried to imitate him but to vie
with him. They are striving after perfectionism. Of course the sort of
good style in which Poe indulged is not the kind of style--or the
varieties of style--suited for all purposes, but for the purposes to
which it is adapted it may well be called supreme.

Then as a poet his work is almost or quite as excellent in a somewhat
more restricted range. In verse he is probably the best artist in
American letters. Here his sole pursuit was beauty, both of form and
thought; he is vivid and apt, intensely lyrical but without much range
of thought. He has deep intuitions but no comprehensive grasp of life.

His criticism is, on the whole, the least important part of his work.
He had a few good and brilliant ideas which came at just the right
time to make a stir in the world, and these his logical mind and
telling style enabled him to present to the best advantage. As a
critic he is neither broad-minded, learned, nor comprehensive. Nor is
he, except in the few ideas referred to, deep. He is, however,
limitedly original--perhaps intensely original within his narrow
scope. But the excellences and limitations of Poe in any one part of
his work were his limitations and excellences in all.

As Poe's best short stories may be mentioned: _Metzengerstein_ (Jan.
14, 1832, Philadelphia _Saturday Courier_), _Ms. Found in a Bottle_
(October 19, 1833, _Baltimore Saturday Visiter_), _The Assignation_
(January, 1834, _Godey's Lady's Book_), _Berenice_ (March, 1835,
_Southern Literary Messenger_), _Morella_ (April, 1835, _Southern
Literary Messenger_), _The Unparalleled Adventure of One Hans Pfaall_
(June, 1835, _Southern Literary Messenger_), _King Pest: a Tale
Containing an Allegory_ (September, 1835, _Southern Literary
Messenger_), _Shadow: a Parable_ (September, 1835, _Southern Literary
Messenger_), _Ligeia_ (September, 1838, _American Museum_), _The Fall
of the House of Usher_ (September, 1839, _Burton's Gentleman's
Magazine_), _William Wilson_ (1839: _Gift for_ 1840), _The
Conversation of Eiros and Charmion_ (December, 1839, _Burton's
Gentleman's Magazine_), _The Murders in the Rue Morgue_ (April, 1841,
_Graham's Magazine_), _A Descent into the Maelstrom_ (May, 1841,
_Graham's Magazine_), _Eleonora_ (1841: _Gift_ for 1842), _The Masque
of the Red Death_ (May, 1842, _Graham's Magazine_), _The Pit and the
Pendulum_ (1842: _Gift for 1843_), _The Tell-Tale Heart_ (January,
1843, _Pioneer_), _The Gold-Bug_ (June 21 and 28, 1843, _Dollar
Newspaper_), _The Black Cat_ (August 19, 1843, _United States Saturday
Post_), _The Oblong Box_ (September, 1844, _Godey's Lady's Book_),
_The Angel of the Odd_ (October, 1844, _Columbian Magazine_), _"Thou
Art the Man"_ (November, 1844, _Godey's Lady's Book_), _The Purloined
Letter_ (1844: _Gift_ for 1845), _The Imp of the Perverse_ (July,
1845, _Graham's Magazine_), _The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether_
(November, 1845, _Graham's Magazine_), _The Facts in the Case of M.
Valdemar_ (December, 1845, _American Whig Review_), _The Cask of
Amontillado_ (November, 1846, _Godey's Lady's Book_), and _Lander's
Cottage_ (June 9, 1849, _Flag of Our Union_). Poe's chief collections
are: _Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque_ (1840), _Tales_ (1845),
and _The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe_ (1850-56). These titles
have been dropped from recent editions of his works, however, and the
stories brought together under the title _Tales_, or under
subdivisions furnished by his editors, such as _Tales of
Ratiocination_, etc.

Caroline Matilda Stansbury Kirkland (1801-1864) wrote of the frontier
life of the Middle West in the mid-nineteenth century. Her principal
collection of short stories is _Western Clearings_ (1845), from which
_The Schoolmaster's Progress_, first published in _The Gift_ for 1845
(out in 1844), is taken. Other stories republished in that collection
are _The Ball at Thram's Huddle_ (April, 1840, _Knickerbocker
Magazine_), _Recollections of the Land-Fever_ (September, 1840,
_Knickerbocker Magazine_), and _The Bee-Tree_ (_The Gift_ for 1842;
out in 1841). Her description of the country schoolmaster, "a puppet
cut out of shingle and jerked by a string," and the local color in
general of this and other stories give her a leading place among the
writers of her period who combined fidelity in delineating frontier
life with sufficient fictional interest to make a pleasing whole of
permanent value.

George William Curtis (1824-1892) gained his chief fame as an
essayist, and probably became best known from the department which he
conducted, from 1853, as _The Editor's Easy Chair_ for _Harper's
Magazine_ for many years. His volume, _Prue and I_ (1856), contains
many fictional elements, and a story from it, _Titbottom's
Spectacles_, which first appeared in Putnam's Monthly for December,
1854, is given in this volume because it is a good humorous short
story rather than because of its author's general eminence in this
field. Other stories of his worth noting are _The Shrouded Portrait_
(in _The Knickerbocker Gallery_, 1855) and _The Millenial Club_
(November, 1858, _Knickerbocker Magazine_).

Edward Everett Hale (1822-1909) is chiefly known as the author of the
short story, _The Man Without a Country_ (December, 1863, _Atlantic
Monthly_), but his venture in the comic vein, _My Double; and How He
Undid Me_ (September, 1859, _Atlantic Monthly_), is equally worthy of
appreciation. It was his first published story of importance. Other
noteworthy stories of his are: _The Brick Moon_ (October, November and
December, 1869, _Atlantic Monthly_), _Life in the Brick Moon_
(February, 1870, _Atlantic Monthly_), and _Susan's Escort_ (May, 1890,
_Harper's Magazine_). His chief volumes of short stories are: _The Man
Without a Country, and Other Tales_ (1868); _The Brick Moon, and Other
Stories_ (1873); _Crusoe in New York, and Other Tales_ (1880); and
_Susan's Escort, and Others_ (1897). The stories by Hale which have
made his fame all show ability of no mean order; but they are
characterized by invention and ingenuity rather than by suffusing
imagination. There is not much homogeneity about Hale's work. Almost
any two stories of his read as if they might have been written by
different authors. For the time being perhaps this is an
advantage--his stories charm by their novelty and individuality. In
the long run, however, this proves rather a handicap. True
individuality, in literature as in the other arts, consists not in
"being different" on different occasions--in different works--so much
as in being _samely_ different from other writers; in being
_consistently_ one's self, rather than diffusedly various selves. This
does not lessen the value of particular stories, of course. It merely
injures Hale's fame as a whole. Perhaps some will chiefly feel not so
much that his stories are different among themselves, but that they
are not strongly anything--anybody's--in particular, that they lack
strong personality. The pathway to fame is strewn with stray
exhibitions of talent. Apart from his purely literary productions,
Hale was one of the large moral forces of his time, through "uplift"
both in speech and the written word.

Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894), one of the leading wits of American
literature, is not at all well known as a short story writer, nor did
he write many brief pieces of fiction. His fame rests chiefly on his
poems and on the _Breakfast-Table_ books (1858-1860-1872-1890). _Old
Ironsides_, _The Last Leaf_, _The Chambered Nautilus_ and _Homesick in
Heaven_ are secure of places in the anthologies of the future, while
his lighter verse has made him one of the leading American writers of
"familiar verse." Frederick Locker-Lampson in the preface to the first
edition of his _Lyra Elegantiarum_ (1867) declared that Holmes was
"perhaps the best living writer of this species of verse." His
trenchant attack on _Homeopathy and Its Kindred Delusions_ (1842)
makes us wonder what would have been his attitude toward some of the
beliefs of our own day; Christian Science, for example. He might have
"exposed" it under some such title as _The Religio-Medical
Masquerade_, or brought the batteries of his humor to bear on it in
the manner of Robert Louis Stevenson's fable, _Something In It_:
"Perhaps there is not much in it, as I supposed; but there is
something in it after all. Let me be thankful for that." In Holmes'
long works of fiction, Elsie Venner (1861), _The Guardian Angel_
(1867) and _A Mortal Antipathy_ (1885), the method is still somewhat
that of the essayist. I have found a short piece of fiction by him in
the March, 1832, number of _The New England Magazine_, called _The
Début_, signed O.W.H. _The Story of Iris_ in _The Professor at the
Breakfast Table_, which ran in _The Atlantic_ throughout 1859, and _A
Visit to the Asylum for Aged and Decayed Punsters_ (January, 1861,
_Atlantic_) are his only other brief fictions of which I am aware. The
last named has been given place in the present selection because it is
characteristic of a certain type and period of American humor,
although its short story qualities are not particularly strong.

Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835-1910), who achieved fame as "Mark
Twain," is only incidentally a short story writer, although he wrote
many short pieces of fiction. His humorous quality, I mean, is so
preponderant, that one hardly thinks of the form. Indeed, he is never
very strong in fictional construction, and of the modern short story
art he evidently knew or cared little. He is a humorist in the large
sense, as are Rabelais and Cervantes, although he is also a humorist
in various restricted applications of the word that are wholly
American. _The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County_ was his
first publication of importance, and it saw the light in the Nov. 18,
1865, number of _The Saturday Press_. It was republished in the
collection, _The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, and
Other Sketches_, in 1867. Others of his best pieces of short fiction
are: _The Canvasser's Tale_ (December, 1876, _Atlantic Monthly_), _The
£1,000,000 Bank Note_ (January, 1893, _Century Magazine_), _The
Esquimau Maiden's Romance_ (November, 1893, _Cosmopolitan_),
_Traveling with a Reformer_ (December, 1893, _Cosmopolitan_), _The Man
That Corrupted Hadleyburg_ (December, 1899, _Harper's_), _A
Double-Barrelled Detective Story_ (January and February, 1902,
_Harper's_) _A Dog's Tale_ (December, 1903, _Harper's_), and _Eve's
Diary_ (December, 1905, _Harper's_). Among Twain's chief collections
of short stories are: _The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras
County, and Other Sketches_ (1867); _The Stolen White Elephant_
(1882), _The £1,000,000 Bank Note_ (1893), and _The Man That Corrupted
Hadleyburg, and Other Stories and Sketches_ (1900).

Harry Stillwell Edwards (1855- ), a native of Georgia, together with
Sarah Barnwell Elliott (? - ) and Will N. Harben (1858-1919) have
continued in the vein of that earlier writer, Augustus Baldwin
Longstreet (1790-1870), author of _Georgia Scenes_ (1835). Edwards'
best work is to be found in his short stories of black and white life
after the manner of Richard Malcolm Johnston. He has written several
novels, but he is essentially a writer of human-nature sketches. "He
is humorous and picturesque," says Fred Lewis Pattee, "and often he is
for a moment the master of pathos, but he has added nothing new and
nothing commandingly distinctive."[3] An exception to this might be
made in favor of _Elder Brown's Backslide_ (August, 1885, _Harper's_),
a story in which all the elements are so nicely balanced that the
result may well be called a masterpiece of objective humor and pathos.
Others of his short stories especially worthy of mention are: _Two
Runaways_ (July, 1886, _Century_), _Sister Todhunter's Heart_ (July,
1887, _Century_), _"De Valley an' de Shadder"_ (January, 1888,
_Century_), _An Idyl of "Sinkin' Mount'in"_ (October, 1888,
_Century_), _The Rival Souls_ (March, 1889, _Century_), _The Woodhaven
Goat_ (March, 1899, _Century_), and _The Shadow_ (December, 1906,
_Century_). His chief collections are _Two Runaways, and Other
Stories_ (1889) and _His Defense, and Other Stories_ (1898).

The most notable, however, of the group of short story writers of
Georgia life is perhaps Richard Malcolm Johnston (1822-1898). He
stands between Longstreet and the younger writers of Georgia life. His
first book was _Georgia Sketches, by an Old Man (1864). _The Goose
Pond School_, a short story, had been written in 1857; it was not
published, however, till it appeared in the November and December,
1869, numbers of a Southern magazine, _The New Eclectic_, over the
pseudonym "Philemon Perch." His famous _Dukesborough Tales_
(1871-1874) was largely a republication of the earlier book. Other
noteworthy collections of his are: _Mr. Absalom Billingslea and Other
Georgia Folk_ (1888), _Mr. Fortner's Marital Claims, and Other
Stories_ (1892), and _Old Times in Middle Georgia_ (1897). Among
individual stories stand out: _The Organ-Grinder_ (July, 1870, _New
Eclectic_), _Mr. Neelus Peeler's Conditions_ (June, 1879, _Scribner's
Monthly_), _The Brief Embarrassment of Mr. Iverson Blount_ (September,
1884, _Century_); _The Hotel Experience of Mr. Pink Fluker_ (June,
1886, _Century_), republished in the present collection; _The Wimpy
Adoptions_ (February, 1887, _Century_), _The Experiments of Miss Sally
Cash_ (September, 1888, _Century_), and _Our Witch_ (March, 1897,
_Century_). Johnston must be ranked almost with Bret Harte as a
pioneer in "local color" work, although his work had little
recognition until his _Dukesborough Tales_ were republished by Harper
& Brothers in 1883.

Bret Harte (1839-1902) is mentioned here owing to the late date of his
story included in this volume, _Colonel Starbottle for the Plaintiff_
(March, 1901, _Harper's_), although his work as a whole of course
belongs to an earlier period of our literature. It is now well-thumbed
literary history that _The Luck of Roaring Camp_ (August, 1868,
_Overland_) and _The Outcasts of Poker Flat_ (January, 1869,
_Overland_) brought him a popularity that, in its suddenness and
extent, had no precedent in American literature save in the case of
Mrs. Stowe and _Uncle Tom's Cabin_. According to Harte's own
statement, made in the retrospect of later years, he set out
deliberately to add a new province to American literature. Although
his work has been belittled because he has chosen exceptional and
theatric happenings, yet his real strength came from his contact with
Western life.

Irving and Dickens and other models served only to teach him his art.
"Finally," says Prof. Pattee, "Harte was the parent of the modern form
of the short story. It was he who started Kipling and Cable and Thomas
Nelson Page. Few indeed have surpassed him in the mechanics of this
most difficult of arts. According to his own belief, the form is an
American product ... Harte has described the genesis of his own art.
It sprang from the Western humor and was developed by the
circumstances that surrounded him. Many of his short stories are
models. They contain not a superfluous word, they handle a single
incident with grapic power, they close without moral or comment. The
form came as a natural evolution from his limitations and powers. With
him the story must of necessity be brief.... Bret Harte was the artist
of impulse, the painter of single burning moments, the flashlight
photographer who caught in lurid detail one dramatic episode in the
life of a man or a community and left the rest in darkness."[4]

Harte's humor is mostly "Western humor" There is not always uproarious
merriment, but there is a constant background of humor. I know of no
more amusing scene in American literature than that in the courtroom
when the Colonel gives his version of the deacon's method of signaling
to the widow in Harte's story included in the present volume, _Colonel
Starbottle for the Plaintiff_. Here is part of it:

"True to the instructions she had received from him, her lips part in
the musical utterance (the Colonel lowered his voice in a faint
falsetto, presumably in fond imitation of his fair client) ‘Kerree!'
Instantly the night becomes resonant with the impassioned reply (the
Colonel here lifted his voice in stentorian tones), ‘Kerrow!' Again,
as he passes, rises the soft ‘Kerree!'; again, as his form is lost in
the distance, comes back the deep ‘Kerrow!'"

While Harte's stories all have in them a certain element or background
of humor, yet perhaps the majority of them are chiefly romantic or
dramatic even more than they are humorous.

Among the best of his short stories may be mentioned: _The Luck of
Roaring Camp_ (August, 1868, _Overland_), _The Outcasts of Poker Flat_
(January, 1869, _Overland_), _Tennessee's Partner_ (October, 1869,
_Overland_), _Brown of Calaveras_ (March, 1870, _Overland_), _Flip: a
California Romance_ (in _Flip, and Other Stories_, 1882), _Left Out on
Lone Star Mountain_ (January, 1884, _Longman's_), _An Ingenue of the
Sierras_ (July, 1894, _McClure's_), _The Bell-Ringer of Angel's_ (in
_The Bell-Ringer of Angel's, and Other Stories_, 1894), _Chu Chu_ (in
_The Bell-Ringer of Angel's, and Other Stories_, 1894), _The Man and
the Mountain_ (in _The Ancestors of Peter Atherly, and Other Tales_,
1897), _Salomy Jane's Kiss_ (in _Stories in Light and Shadow_, 1898),
_The Youngest Miss Piper_ (February, 1900, _Leslie's Monthly_),
_Colonel Starbottle for the Plaintiff_ (March, 1901, _Harper's_), _A
Mercury of the Foothills_ (July, 1901, _Cosmopolitan_), _Lanty
Foster's Mistake_ (December, 1901, _New England_), _An Ali Baba of the
Sierras_ (January 4, 1902, _Saturday Evening Post_), and _Dick Boyle's
Business Card_ (in _Trent's Trust, and Other Stories_, 1903). Among
his notable collections of stories are: _The Luck of Roaring Camp, and
Other Sketches_ (1870), _Flip, and Other Stories_ (1882), _On the
Frontier_ (1884), _Colonel Starbottle's Client, and Some Other People_
(1892), _A Protégé of Jack Hamlin's, and Other Stories_ (1894), _The
Bell-Ringer of Angel's, and Other Stories_ (1894), _The Ancestors of
Peter Atherly, and Other Tales_ (1897), _Openings in the Old Trail_
(1902), and _Trent's Trust, and Other Stories_ (1903). The titles and
makeup of several of his collections were changed when they came to be
arranged in the complete edition of his works.[5]

Henry Cuyler Bunner (1855-1896) is one of the humorous geniuses of
American literature. He is equally at home in clever verse or the
brief short story. Prof. Fred Lewis Pattee has summed up his
achievement as follows: "Another [than Stockton] who did much to
advance the short story toward the mechanical perfection it had
attained to at the close of the century was Henry Cuyler Bunner,
editor of _Puck_ and creator of some of the most exquisite _vers de
société_ of the period. The title of one of his collections, _Made in
France: French Tales Retold with a U.S. Twist_ (1893), forms an
introduction to his fiction. Not that he was an imitator; few have
been more original or have put more of their own personality into
their work. His genius was Gallic. Like Aldrich, he approached the
short story from the fastidious standpoint of the lyric poet. With
him, as with Aldrich, art was a matter of exquisite touches, of
infinite compression, of almost imperceptible shadings. The lurid
splashes and the heavy emphasis of the local colorists offended his
sensitive taste: he would work with suggestion, with microscopic
focussings, and always with dignity and elegance. He was more American
than Henry James, more even than Aldrich. He chose always
distinctively American subjects--New York City was his favorite
theme--and his work had more depth of soul than Stockton's or
Aldrich's. The story may be trivial, a mere expanded anecdote, yet it
is sure to be so vitally treated that, like Maupassant's work, it
grips and remains, and, what is more, it lifts and chastens or
explains. It may be said with assurance that _Short Sixes_ marks one
of the high places which have been attained by the American short
story."[6]

Among Bunner's best stories are: _Love in Old Cloathes_ (September,
1883, _Century), A Successful Failure_ (July, 1887, _Puck_), _The
Love-Letters of Smith_ (July 23, 1890, _Puck_) _The Nice People_ (July
30, 1890, _Puck_), _The Nine Cent-Girls_ (August 13, 1890, _Puck_),
_The Two Churches of 'Quawket_ (August 27, 1890, _Puck_), _A Round-Up_
(September 10, 1890, _Puck_), _A Sisterly Scheme_ (September 24, 1890,
_Puck_), _Our Aromatic Uncle_ (August, 1895, _Scribner's_), _The
Time-Table Test_ (in _The Suburban Sage_, 1896). He collaborated with
Prof. Brander Matthews in several stories, notably in _The Documents
in the Case_ (Sept., 1879, _Scribner's Monthly_). His best collections
are: _Short Sixes: _Stories to be Read While the Candle Burns_ (1891),
_More Short Sixes _(1894), and _Love in Old Cloathes, and Other
Stories_ (1896).

After Poe and Hawthorne almost the first author in America to make a
vertiginous impression by his short stories was Bret Harte. The wide
and sudden popularity he attained by the publication of his two short
stories, _The Luck of Roaring Camp_ (1868) and _The Outcasts of Poker
Flat_ (1869), has already been noted.[7] But one story just before
Harte that astonished the fiction audience with its power and art was
Harriet Prescott Spofford's (1835- ) _The Amber Gods_ (January and
February, 1860, Atlantic), with its startling ending, "I must have
died at ten minutes past one." After Harte the next story to make a
great sensation was Thomas Bailey Aldrich's _Marjorie Daw_ (April,
1873, _Atlantic_), a story with a surprise at the end, as had been his
_A Struggle for Life_ (July, 1867, _Atlantic_), although it was only
_Marjorie Daw_ that attracted much attention at the time. Then came
George Washington Cable's (1844- ) _"Posson Jone',"_ (April 1, 1876,
_Appleton's Journal_) and a little later Charles Egbert Craddock's
(1850- ) _The Dancin' Party at Harrison's Cove_ (May, 1878,
_Atlantic_) and _The Star in the Valley_ (November, 1878, _Atlantic_).
But the work of Cable and Craddock, though of sterling worth, won its
way gradually. Even Edward Everett Hale's (1822-1909) _My Double; and
How He Undid Me_ (September, 1859, _Atlantic_) and _The Man Without a
Country_ (December, 1863, _Atlantic_) had fallen comparatively
still-born. The truly astounding short story successes, after Poe and
Hawthorne, then, were Spofford, Bret Harte and Aldrich. Next came
Frank Richard Stockton (1834-1902). "The interest created by the
appearance of _Marjorie Daw_," says Prof. Pattee, "was mild compared
with that accorded to Frank R. Stockton's _The Lady or the Tiger?_
(1884). Stockton had not the technique of Aldrich nor his naturalness
and ease. Certainly he had not his atmosphere of the _beau monde_ and
his grace of style, but in whimsicality and unexpectedness and in that
subtle art that makes the obviously impossible seem perfectly
plausible and commonplace he surpassed not only him but Edward Everett
Hale and all others. After Stockton and _The Lady or the Tiger?_ it
was realized even by the uncritical that short story writing had
become a subtle art and that the master of its subtleties had his
reader at his mercy."[8] The publication of Stockton's short stories
covers a period of over forty years, from _Mahala's Drive_ (November,
1868, _Lippincott's_) to _The Trouble She Caused When She Kissed_
(December, 1911, _Ladies' Home Journal_), published nine years after
his death. Among the more notable of his stories may be mentioned:
_The Transferred Ghost_ (May, 1882, _Century_), _The Lady or the
Tiger?_ (November, 1882, _Century_), _The Reversible Landscape_ (July,
1884, _Century_), _The Remarkable Wreck of the "Thomas Hyke"_ (August,
1884, _Century_), _"His Wife's Deceased Sister"_ (January, 1884,
_Century_), _A Tale of Negative Gravity_ (December, 1884, _Century_),
_The Christmas Wreck_ (in _The Christmas Wreck, and Other Stories_,
1886), _Amos Kilbright_ (in _Amos Kilbright, His Adscititious
Experiences, with Other Stories_, 1888), _Asaph_ (May, 1892,
_Cosmopolitan_), _My Terminal Moraine_ (April 26, 1892, Collier's
_Once a Week Library_), _The Magic Egg_ (June, 1894, _Century_), _The
Buller-Podington Compact_ (August, 1897, _Scribner's_), and _The
Widow's Cruise_ (in _A Story-Teller's Pack_, 1897). Most of his best
work was gathered into the collections: _The Lady or the Tiger?, and
Other Stories_ (1884), _The Bee-Man of Orn, and Other Fanciful Tales_
(1887), _Amos Kilbright, His Adscititious Experiences, with Other
Stories_ (1888), _The Clocks of Rondaine, and Other Stories_ (1892),
_A Chosen Few_ (1895), _A Story-Teller's Pack_ (1897), and _The
Queen's Museum, and Other Fanciful Tales_ (1906).

After Stockton and Bunner come O. Henry (1862-1910) and Jack London
(1876-1916), apostles of the burly and vigorous in fiction. Beside or
above them stand Henry James (1843-1916)--although he belongs to an
earlier period as well--Edith Wharton (1862- ), Alice Brown (1857- ),
Margaret Wade Deland (1857- ), and Katharine Fullerton Gerould
(1879- ), practitioners in all that O. Henry and London are not, of
the finer fields, the more subtle nuances of modern life. With O.
Henry and London, though perhaps less noteworthy, are to be grouped
George Randolph Chester (1869- ) and Irvin Shrewsbury Cobb (1876- ).
Then, standing rather each by himself, are Melville Davisson Post
(1871- ), a master of psychological mystery stories, and Wilbur Daniel
Steele (1886- ), whose work it is hard to classify. These ten names
represent much that is best in American short story production since
the beginning of the twentieth century (1900). Not all are notable for
humor; but inasmuch as any consideration of the American humorous
short story cannot be wholly dissociated from a consideration of the
American short story in general, it has seemed not amiss to mention
these authors here. Although Sarah Orne Jewett (1849-1909) lived on
into the twentieth century and Mary E. Wilkins Freeman (1862- ) is
still with us, the best and most typical work of these two writers
belongs in the last two decades of the previous century. To an earlier
period also belong Charles Egbert Craddock (1850- ), George Washington
Cable (1844- ), Thomas Nelson Page (1853- ), Constance Fenimore
Woolson (1848-1894), Harriet Prescott Spofford (1835- ), Hamlin
Garland (1860- ), Ambrose Bierce (1842-?), Rose Terry Cooke
(1827-1892), and Kate Chopin (1851-1904).

"O. Henry" was the pen name adopted by William Sydney Porter. He began
his short story career by contributing _Whistling Dick's Christmas
Stocking_ to _McClure's Magazine_ in 1899. He followed it with many
stories dealing with Western and South- and Central-American life, and
later came most of his stories of the life of New York City, in which
field lies most of his best work. He contributed more stories to the
_New York World_ than to any other one publication--as if the stories
of the author who later came to be hailed as "the American Maupassant"
were not good enough for the "leading" magazines but fit only for the
sensation-loving public of the Sunday papers! His first published
story that showed distinct strength was perhaps _A Blackjack
Bargainer_ (August, 1901, _Munsey's_). He followed this with such
masterly stories as: _The Duplicity of Hargraves_ (February, 1902,
_Junior Munsey_), _The Marionettes_ (April, 1902, _Black Cat_), _A
Retrieved Reformation_ (April, 1903, _Cosmopolitan_), _The Guardian of
the Accolade_ (May, 1903, _Cosmopolitan_), _The Enchanted Kiss_
(February, 1904, _Metropolitan_), _The Furnished Room_ (August 14,
1904, _New York World_), _An Unfinished Story_ (August, 1905,
_McClure's_), _The Count and the Wedding Guest_ (October 8, 1905, _New
York World_), _The Gift of the Magi_ (December 10, 1905, _New York
World_), _The Trimmed Lamp_ (August, 1906, _McClure's_), _Phoebe_
(November, 1907, _Everybody's_), _The Hiding of Black Bill_ (October,
1908, _Everybody's_), _No Story_ (June, 1909, _Metropolitan_), _A
Municipal Report_ (November, 1909, _Hampton's_), _A Service of Love_
(in _The Four Million_, 1909), _The Pendulum_ (in _The Trimmed Lamp_,
1910), _Brickdust Row_ (in _The Trimmed Lamp_, 1910), and _The
Assessor of Success_ (in _The Trimmed Lamp_, 1910). Among O. Henry's
best volumes of short stories are: _The Four Million_ (1909),
_Options_ (1909), _Roads of Destiny_ (1909), _The Trimmed Lamp_
(1910), _Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million_ (1910),
_Whirligigs_ (1910), and _Sixes and Sevens_ (1911).

"Nowhere is there anything just like them. In his best work--and his
tales of the great metropolis are his best--he is unique. The soul of
his art is unexpectedness. Humor at every turn there is, and sentiment
and philosophy and surprise. One never may be sure of himself. The end
is always a sensation. No foresight may predict it, and the sensation
always is genuine. Whatever else O. Henry was, he was an artist, a
master of plot and diction, a genuine humorist, and a philosopher. His
weakness lay in the very nature of his art. He was an entertainer bent
only on amusing and surprising his reader. Everywhere brilliancy, but
too often it is joined to cheapness; art, yet art merging swiftly into
caricature. Like Harte, he cannot be trusted. Both writers on the
whole may be said to have lowered the standards of American
literature, since both worked in the surface of life with theatric
intent and always without moral background, O. Henry moves, but he
never lifts. All is fortissimo; he slaps the reader on the back and
laughs loudly as if he were in a bar-room. His characters, with few
exceptions, are extremes, caricatures. Even his shop girls, in the
limning of whom he did his best work, are not really individuals;
rather are they types, symbols. His work was literary vaudeville,
brilliant, highly amusing, and yet vaudeville."[9] _The Duplicity of
Hargraves_, the story by O. Henry given in this volume, is free from
most of his defects. It has a blend of humor and pathos that puts it
on a plane of universal appeal.

George Randolph Chester (1869- ) gained distinction by creating the
genial modern business man of American literature who is not content
to "get rich quick" through the ordinary channels. Need I say that I
refer to that amazing compound of likeableness and sharp practices,
Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford? The story of his included in this volume,
_Bargain Day at Tutt House_ (June, 1905, _McClure's_), was nearly his
first story; only two others, which came out in _The Saturday Evening
Post_ in 1903 and 1904, preceded it. Its breathless dramatic action is
well balanced by humor. Other stories of his deserving of special
mention are: _A Corner in Farmers_ (February, 29, 1908, _Saturday
Evening Post_), _A Fortune in Smoke_ (March 14, 1908, _Saturday
Evening Post_), _Easy Money_ (November 14, 1908, _Saturday Evening
Post_), _The Triple Cross_ (December 5, 1908, _Saturday Evening
Post_), _Spoiling the Egyptians_ (December 26, 1908, _Saturday Evening
Post_), _Whipsawed!_ (January 16, 1909, _Saturday Evening Post_), _The
Bubble Bank_ (January 30 and February 6, 1909, _Saturday Evening
Post_), _Straight Business_ (February 27, 1909, _Saturday Evening
Post_), _Sam Turner: a Business Man's Love Story_ (March 26, April 2
and 9, 1910, _Saturday Evening Post_), _Fundamental Justice_ (July 25,
1914, _Saturday Evening Post_), _A Scropper Patcher_ (October, 1916,
_Everybody's_), and _Jolly Bachelors_ (February, 1918,
_Cosmopolitan_). His best collections are: _Get-Rich-Quick
Wallingford_ (1908), _Young Wallingford_ (1910), _Wallingford in His
Prime_ (1913), and _Wallingford and Blackie Daw_ (1913). It is often
difficult to find in his books short stories that one may be looking
for, for the reason that the titles of the individual stories have
been removed in order to make the books look like novels subdivided
into chapters.

Grace MacGowan Cooke (1863- ) is a writer all of whose work has
interest and perdurable stuff in it, but few are the authors whose
achievements in the American short story stand out as a whole. In _A
Call_ (August, 1906, _Harper's_) she surpasses herself and is not
perhaps herself surpassed by any of the humorous short stories that
have come to the fore so far in America in the twentieth century. The
story is no less delightful in its fidelity to fact and understanding
of young human nature than in its relish of humor. Some of her stories
deserving of special mention are: _The Capture of Andy Proudfoot_
(June, 1904, _Harper's_), _In the Strength of the Hills_ (December,
1905, _Metropolitan_), _The Machinations of Ocoee Gallantine_ (April,
1906, _Century_), _A Call_ (August, 1906, _Harper's_), _Scott
Bohannon's Bond _(May 4, 1907, _Collier's_), and _A Clean Shave_
(November, 1912, _Century_). Her best short stories do not seem to
have been collected in volumes as yet, although she has had several
notable long works of fiction published, such as _The Power and the
Glory_ (1910), and several good juveniles.

William James Lampton (?-1917), who was known to many of his admirers
as Will Lampton or as W.J.L. merely, was one of the most unique and
interesting characters of literary and Bohemian New York from about
1895 to his death in 1917. I remember walking up Fifth Avenue with him
one Sunday afternoon just after he had shown me a letter from the man
who was then Comptroller of the Currency. The letter was signed so
illegibly that my companion was in doubts as to the sender, so he
suggested that we stop at a well-known hotel at the corner of 59th
Street, and ask the manager who the Comptroller of the Currency then
was, so that he might know whom the letter was from. He said that the
manager of a big hotel like that, where many prominent people stayed,
would be sure to know. When this problem had been solved to our
satisfaction, John Skelton Williams proving to be the man, Lampton
said, "Now you've told me who he is, I'll show you who I am." So he
asked for a copy of _The American Magazine_ at a newsstand in the
hotel corridor, opened it, and showed the manager a full-page picture
of himself clad in a costume suggestive of the time of Christopher
Columbus, with high ruffs around his neck, that happened to appear in
the magazine the current month. I mention this incident to illustrate
the lack of conventionality and whimsical originality of the man, that
stood out no less forcibly in his writings than in his daily life. He
had little use for "doing the usual thing in the usual sort of way."
He first gained prominence by his book of verse, _Yawps_ (1900). His
poems were free from convention in technique as well as in spirit,
although their chief innovation was simply that as a rule there was no
regular number of syllables in a line; he let the lines be any length
they wanted to be, to fit the sense or the length of what he had to
say. He once said to me that if anything of his was remembered he
thought it would be his poem,_Lo, the Summer Girl_. His muse often
took the direction of satire, but it was always good-natured even when
it hit the hardest. He had in his makeup much of the detached
philosopher, like Cervantes and Mark Twain.

There was something cosmic about his attitude to life, and this showed
in much that he did. He was the only American writer of humorous verse
of his day whom I always cared to read, or whose lines I could
remember more than a few weeks. This was perhaps because his work was
never _merely_ humorous, but always had a big sweep of background to
it, like the ruggedness of the Kentucky mountains from which he came.
It was Colonel George Harvey, then editor of _Harper's Weekly_, who
had started the boom to make Woodrow Wilson President. Wilson
afterwards, at least seemingly, repudiated his sponsor, probably
because of Harvey's identification with various moneyed interests.
Lampton's poem on the subject, with its refrain, "Never again, said
Colonel George," I remember as one of the most notable of his poems on
current topics. But what always seemed to me the best of his poems
dealing with matters of the hour was one that I suggested he write,
which dealt with gift-giving to the public, at about the time that
Andrew Carnegie was making a big stir with his gifts for libraries,
beginning:

  Dunno, perhaps
  One of the yaps
  Like me would make
  A holy break
  Doing his turn
  With money to burn.
    Anyhow, I
    Wouldn't shy
    Making a try!

and containing, among many effective touches, the pathetic lines,

  ... I'd help
  The poor who try to help themselves,
  Who have to work so hard for bread
  They can't get very far ahead.

When James Lane Allen's novel, _The Reign of Law_, came out (1900), a
little quatrain by Lampton that appeared in _The Bookman_ (September,
1900) swept like wildfire across the country, and was read by a
hundred times as many people as the book itself:

  "The Reign of Law"?
    Well, Allen, you're lucky;
  It's the first time it ever
    Rained law in Kentucky!

The reader need not be reminded that at that period Kentucky family
feuds were well to the fore. As Lampton had started as a poet, the
editors were bound to keep him pigeon-holed as far as they could, and
his ambition to write short stories was not at first much encouraged
by them. His predicament was something like that of the chief
character of Frank R. Stockton's story, "_His Wife's Deceased Sister_"
(January, 1884, _Century_), who had written a story so good that
whenever he brought the editors another story they invariably answered
in substance, "We're afraid it won't do. Can't you give us something
like '_His Wife's Deceased Sister_'?" This was merely Stockton's
turning to account his own somewhat similar experience with the
editors after his story, _The Lady or the Tiger_? (November, 1882,
_Century_) appeared. Likewise the editors didn't want Lampton's short
stories for a while because they liked his poems so well.

Do I hear some critics exclaiming that there is nothing remarkable
about _How the Widow Won the Deacon_, the story by Lampton included in
this volume? It handles an amusing situation lightly and with grace.
It is one of those things that read easily and are often difficult to
achieve. Among his best stories are: _The People's Number of the
Worthyville Watchman_ (May 12, 1900, _Saturday Evening Post_), _Love's
Strange Spell_ (April 27, 1901, _Saturday Evening Post_), _Abimelech
Higgins' Way_ (August 24, 1001, _Saturday Evening Post_), _A Cup of
Tea_ (March, 1902, _Metropolitan_), _Winning His Spurs_ (May, 1904,
_Cosmopolitan_), _The Perfidy of Major Pulsifer_ (November, 1909,
_Cosmopolitan_), _How the Widow Won the Deacon_ (April, 1911,
_Harper's Bazaar_), and _A Brown Study_ (December, 1913,
_Lippincott's_). There is no collection as yet of his short stories.
Although familiarly known as "Colonel" Lampton, and although of
Kentucky, he was not merely a "Kentucky Colonel," for he was actually
appointed Colonel on the staff of the governor of Kentucky. At the
time of his death he was about to be made a brigadier-general and was
planning to raise a brigade of Kentucky mountaineers for service in
the Great War. As he had just struck his stride in short story
writing, the loss to literature was even greater than the patriotic
loss.

_Gideon_ (April, 1914, _Century_), by Wells Hastings (1878- ), the
story with which this volume closes, calls to mind the large number of
notable short stories in American literature by writers who have made
no large name for themselves as short story writers, or even otherwise
in letters. American literature has always been strong in its "stray"
short stories of note. In Mr. Hastings' case, however, I feel that the
fame is sure to come. He graduated from Yale in 1902, collaborated
with Brian Hooker (1880- ) in a novel, _The Professor's Mystery_
(1911) and alone wrote another novel, _The Man in the Brown Derby_
(1911). His short stories include: _The New Little Boy_ (July, 1911,
_American_), _That Day_ (September, 1911, _American_), _The Pick-Up_
(December, 1911, _Everybody's_), and _Gideon_ (April, 1914,
_Century_). The last story stands out. It can be compared without
disadvantage to the best work, or all but the very best work, of
Thomas Nelson Page, it seems to me. And from the reader's standpoint
it has the advantage--is this not also an author's advantage?--of a
more modern setting and treatment. Mr. Hastings is, I have been told,
a director in over a dozen large corporations. Let us hope that his
business activities will not keep him too much away from the
production of literature--for to rank as a piece of literature,
something of permanent literary value, _Gideon_ is surely entitled.

ALEXANDER JESSUP.



CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION
_Alexander Jessup_

THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN AND HIS WATER LOTS (1839)
_George Pope Morris_

THE ANGEL OF THE ODD (1844)
_Edgar Allan Poe_

THE SCHOOLMASTER'S PROGRESS (1844)
_Caroline M.S. Kirkland_

THE WATKINSON EVENING (1846)
_Eliza Leslie_

TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES (1854)
_George William Curtis_

MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME (1859)
_Edward Everett Hale_

A VISIT TO THE ASYLUM FOR AGED AND DECAYED PUNSTERS (1861)
_Oliver Wendell Holmes_

THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY (1865)
_Mark Twain_

ELDER BROWN'S BACKSLIDE (1885)
_Harry Stillwell Edwards_

THE HOTEL EXPERIENCE OF MR. PINK FLUKER (1886)
_Richard Malcolm Johnston_

THE NICE PEOPLE (1890)
_Henry Cuyler Bunner_

THE BULLER-PODINGTON COMPACT (1897)
_Frank Richard Stockton_

COLONEL STARBOTTLE FOR THE PLAINTIFF (1901)
_Bret Harte_

THE DUPLICITY OF HARGRAVES (1902)
_O. Henry_

BARGAIN DAY AT TUTT HOUSE (1905)
  _George Randolph Chester_

A CALL (1906)
  _Grace MacGowan Cooke_

HOW THE WIDOW WON THE DEACON (1911)
  _William James Lampton_

GIDEON (1914)
  _Wells Hastings_



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

_The Nice People_, by Henry Cuyler Bunner, is republished from his
volume, _Short Sixes_, by permission of its publishers, Charles
Scribner's Sons. _The Buller-Podington Compact_, by Frank Richard
Stockton, is from his volume, _Afield and Afloat_, and is republished
by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons. _Colonel Starbottle for the
Plaintiff_, by Bret Harte, is from the collection of his stories
entitled _Openings in the Old Trail_, and is republished by permission
of the Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of Bret
Harte's complete works. _The Duplicity of Hargraves_, by O. Henry, is
from his volume, _Sixes and Sevens_, and is republished by permission
of its publishers, Doubleday, Page & Co. These stories are fully
protected by copyright, and should not be republished except by
permission of the publishers mentioned. Thanks are due Mrs. Grace
MacGowan Cooke for permission to use her story, _A Call_, republished
here from _Harper's Magazine_; Wells Hastings, for permission to
reprint his story, _Gideon_, from _The Century Magazine_; and George
Randolph Chester, for permission to include _Bargain Day at Tutt
House_, from _McClure's Magazine_. I would also thank the heirs of the
late lamented Colonel William J. Lampton for permission to use his
story, _How the Widow Won the Deacon_, from _Harper's Bazaar_. These
stories are all copyrighted, and cannot be republished except by
authorization of their authors or heirs. The editor regrets that their
publishers have seen fit to refuse him permission to include George W.
Cable's story, "_Posson Jone'_," and Irvin S. Cobb's story, _The Smart
Aleck_. He also regrets he was unable to obtain a copy of Joseph C.
Duport's story, _The Wedding at Timber Hollow_, in time for inclusion,
to which its merits--as he remembers them--certainly entitle it. Mr.
Duport, in addition to his literary activities, has started an
interesting "back to Nature" experiment at Westfield, Massachusetts.

[Footnote 1: This I have attempted in _Representative American Short
Stories_ (Allyn & Bacon: Boston, 1922).]

[Footnote 2: Will D. Howe, in _The Cambridge History of American
Literature_, Vol. II, pp. 158-159 (G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1918).]

[Footnote 3: _A History of American Literature Since 1870_, p. 317
(The Century Co.: 1915).]

[Footnote 4: _A History of American Literature Since 1870_, pp 79-81.]

[Footnote 5: "The Works of Bret Harte," twenty volumes. The Houghton
Mifflin Company, Boston.]

[Footnote 6: _The Cambridge History of American Literature_, Vol. II,
p. 386.]

[Footnote 7: See this Introduction.]

[Footnote 8: _The Cambridge History of American Literature_, Vol. II,
p. 385.]

[Footnote 9: Fred Lewis Pattee, in The Cambridge History of American
Literature, Vol. II, p. 394.]

       *        *        *       *       *


To: CHARLES GOODRICH WHITING, Critic, Poet, Friend

       *        *        *       *       *



THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN AND HIS WATER LOTS

BY GEORGE POPE MORRIS (1802-1864)

[From _The Little Frenchman and His Water Lots, with Other Sketches of
the Times_ (1839), by George Pope Morris.]

  Look into those they call unfortunate,
  And, closer view'd, you'll find they are unwise.--_Young._

  Let wealth come in by comely thrift,
  And not by any foolish shift:
        ‘Tis haste
        Makes waste:
  Who gripes too hard the dry and slippery sand
  Holds none at all, or little, in his hand.--_Herrick_.

            Let well alone.--_Proverb_.

How much real comfort every one might enjoy if he would be contented
with the lot in which heaven has cast him, and how much trouble would
be avoided if people would only "let well alone." A moderate
independence, quietly and honestly procured, is certainly every way
preferable even to immense possessions achieved by the wear and tear
of mind and body so necessary to procure them. Yet there are very few
individuals, let them be doing ever so well in the world, who are not
always straining every nerve to do better; and this is one of the many
causes why failures in business so frequently occur among us. The
present generation seem unwilling to "realize" by slow and sure
degrees; but choose rather to set their whole hopes upon a single
cast, which either makes or mars them forever!

Gentle reader, do you remember Monsieur Poopoo? He used to keep a
small toy-store in Chatham, near the corner of Pearl Street. You must
recollect him, of course. He lived there for many years, and was one
of the most polite and accommodating of shopkeepers. When a juvenile,
you have bought tops and marbles of him a thousand times. To be sure
you have; and seen his vinegar-visage lighted up with a smile as you
flung him the coppers; and you have laughed at his little straight
queue and his dimity breeches, and all the other oddities that made up
the every-day apparel of my little Frenchman. Ah, I perceive you
recollect him now.

Well, then, there lived Monsieur Poopoo ever since he came from "dear,
delightful Paris," as he was wont to call the city of his
nativity--there he took in the pennies for his kickshaws--there he
laid aside five thousand dollars against a rainy day--there he was as
happy as a lark--and there, in all human probability, he would have
been to this very day, a respected and substantial citizen, had he
been willing to "let well alone." But Monsieur Poopoo had heard
strange stories about the prodigious rise in real estate; and, having
understood that most of his neighbors had become suddenly rich by
speculating in lots, he instantly grew dissatisfied with his own lot,
forthwith determined to shut up shop, turn everything into cash, and
set about making money in right-down earnest. No sooner said than
done; and our quondam storekeeper a few days afterward attended an
extensive sale of real estate, at the Merchants' Exchange.

There was the auctioneer, with his beautiful and inviting lithographic
maps--all the lots as smooth and square and enticingly laid out as
possible--and there were the speculators--and there, in the midst of
them, stood Monsieur Poopoo.

"Here they are, gentlemen," said he of the hammer, "the most valuable
lots ever offered for sale. Give me a bid for them!"

"One hundred each," said a bystander.

"One hundred!" said the auctioneer, "scarcely enough to pay for the
maps. One hundred--going--and fifty--gone! Mr. H., they are yours. A
noble purchase. You'll sell those same lots in less than a fortnight
for fifty thousand dollars profit!"

Monsieur Poopoo pricked up his ears at this, and was lost in
astonishment. This was a much easier way certainly of accumulating
riches than selling toys in Chatham Street, and he determined to buy
and mend his fortune without delay.

The auctioneer proceeded in his sale. Other parcels were offered and
disposed of, and all the purchasers were promised immense advantages
for their enterprise. At last came a more valuable parcel than all the
rest. The company pressed around the stand, and Monsieur Poopoo did
the same.

"I now offer you, gentlemen, these magnificent lots, delightfully
situated on Long Island, with valuable water privileges. Property in
fee--title indisputable--terms of sale, cash--deeds ready for delivery
immediately after the sale. How much for them? Give them a start at
something. How much?" The auctioneer looked around; there were no
bidders. At last he caught the eye of Monsieur Poopoo. "Did you say
one hundred, sir? Beautiful lots--valuable water privileges--shall I
say one hundred for you?"

"_Oui, monsieur_; I will give you von hundred dollar apiece, for de
lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege; _c'est ça_."

"Only one hundred apiece for these sixty valuable lots--only one
hundred--going--going--going--gone!"

Monsieur Poopoo was the fortunate possessor. The auctioneer
congratulated him--the sale closed--and the company dispersed.

"_Pardonnez-moi, monsieur_," said Poopoo, as the auctioneer descended
his pedestal, "you shall _excusez-moi_, if I shall go to _votre
bureau_, your counting-house, ver quick to make every ting sure wid
respec to de lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege. Von leetle bird in
de hand he vorth two in de tree, _c'est vrai_--eh?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Vell den, _allons_."

And the gentlemen repaired to the counting-house, where the six
thousand dollars were paid, and the deeds of the property delivered.
Monsieur Poopoo put these carefully in his pocket, and as he was about
taking his leave, the auctioneer made him a present of the
lithographic outline of the lots, which was a very liberal thing on
his part, considering the map was a beautiful specimen of that
glorious art. Poopoo could not admire it sufficiently. There were his
sixty lots, as uniform as possible, and his little gray eyes sparkled
like diamonds as they wandered from one end of the spacious sheet to
the other.

Poopoo's heart was as light as a feather, and he snapped his fingers
in the very wantonness of joy as he repaired to Delmonico's, and
ordered the first good French dinner that had gladdened his palate
since his arrival in America.

After having discussed his repast, and washed it down with a bottle of
choice old claret, he resolved upon a visit to Long Island to view his
purchase. He consequently immediately hired a horse and gig, crossed
the Brooklyn ferry, and drove along the margin of the river to the
Wallabout, the location in question.

Our friend, however, was not a little perplexed to find his property.
Everything on the map was as fair and even as possible, while all the
grounds about him were as undulated as they could well be imagined,
and there was an elbow of the East River thrusting itself quite into
the ribs of the land, which seemed to have no business there. This
puzzled the Frenchman exceedingly; and, being a stranger in those
parts, he called to a farmer in an adjacent field.

"_Mon ami_, are you acquaint vid dis part of de country--eh?"

"Yes, I was born here, and know every inch of it."

"Ah, _c'est bien_, dat vill do," and the Frenchman got out of the gig,
tied the horse, and produced his lithographic map.

"Den maybe you vill have de kindness to show me de sixty lot vich I
have bought, vid de valuarble vatare privalege?"

The farmer glanced his eye over the paper.

"Yes, sir, with pleasure; if you will be good enough to _get into my
boat, I will row you out to them_!"

"Vat dat you say, sure?"

"My friend," said the farmer, "this section of Long Island has
recently been bought up by the speculators of New York, and laid out
for a great city; but the principal street is only visible _at low
tide_. When this part of the East River is filled up, it will be just
there. Your lots, as you will perceive, are beyond it; _and are now
all under water_."

At first the Frenchman was incredulous. He could not believe his
senses. As the facts, however, gradually broke upon him, he shut one
eye, squinted obliquely at the heavens---the river--the farmer--and
then he turned away and squinted at them all over again! There was his
purchase sure enough; but then it could not be perceived for there was
a river flowing over it! He drew a box from his waistcoat pocket,
opened it, with an emphatic knock upon the lid, took a pinch of snuff
and restored it to his waistcoat pocket as before. Poopoo was
evidently in trouble, having "thoughts which often lie too deep for
tears"; and, as his grief was also too big for words, he untied his
horse, jumped into his gig, and returned to the auctioneer in hot
haste.

It was near night when he arrived at the auction-room--his horse in a
foam and himself in a fury. The auctioneer was leaning back in his
chair, with his legs stuck out of a low window, quietly smoking a
cigar after the labors of the day, and humming the music from the last
new opera.

"Monsieur, I have much plaisir to fin' you, _chez vous_, at home."

"Ah, Poopoo! glad to see you. Take a seat, old boy."

"But I shall not take de seat, sare."

"No--why, what's the matter?"

"Oh, _beaucoup_ de matter. I have been to see de gran lot vot you sell
me to-day."

"Well, sir, I hope you like your purchase?"

"No, monsieur, I no like him."

"I'm sorry for it; but there is no ground for your complaint."

"No, sare; dare is no _ground_ at all--de ground is all vatare!"

"You joke!"

"I no joke. I nevare joke; _je n'entends pas la raillerie_, Sare,
_voulez-vous_ have de kindness to give me back de money vot I pay!"

"Certainly not."

"Den vill you be so good as to take de East River off de top of my
lot?"

"That's your business, sir, not mine."

"Den I make von _mauvaise affaire_--von gran mistake!"

"I hope not. I don't think you have thrown your money away in the
_land_."

"No, sare; but I tro it avay in de _vatare!_"

"That's not my fault."

"Yes, sare, but it is your fault. You're von ver gran rascal to
swindle me out of _de l'argent_."

"Hello, old Poopoo, you grow personal; and if you can't keep a civil
tongue in your head, you must go out of my counting-room."

"Vare shall I go to, eh?"

"To the devil, for aught I care, you foolish old Frenchman!" said the
auctioneer, waxing warm.

"But, sare, I vill not go to de devil to oblige you!" replied the
Frenchman, waxing warmer. "You sheat me out of all de dollar vot I
make in Shatham Street; but I vill not go to de devil for all dat. I
vish you may go to de devil yourself you dem yankee-doo-dell, and I
vill go and drown myself, _tout de suite_, right avay."

"You couldn't make a better use of your water privileges, old boy!"

"Ah, _miséricorde!_ Ah, _mon dieu, je suis abîmé_. I am ruin! I am
done up! I am break all into ten sousan leetle pieces! I am von lame
duck, and I shall vaddle across de gran ocean for Paris, vish is de
only valuarble vatare privalege dat is left me _à present!_"

Poor Poopoo was as good as his word. He sailed in the next packet, and
arrived in Paris almost as penniless as the day he left it.

Should any one feel disposed to doubt the veritable circumstances here
recorded, let him cross the East River to the Wallabout, and farmer
J---- will _row him out_ to the very place where the poor Frenchman's
lots still remain _under water_.



THE ANGEL OF THE ODD

[From _The Columbian Magazine_, October, 1844.]

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849)

It was a chilly November afternoon. I had just consummated an
unusually hearty dinner, of which the dyspeptic _truffe_ formed not
the least important item, and was sitting alone in the dining-room
with my feet upon the fender and at my elbow a small table which I had
rolled up to the fire, and upon which were some apologies for dessert,
with some miscellaneous bottles of wine, spirit, and _liqueur_. In the
morning I had been reading Glover's _Leonidas_, Wilkie's _Epigoniad_,
Lamartine's _Pilgrimage_, Barlow's _Columbiad_, Tuckerman's _Sicily_,
and Griswold's _Curiosities_, I am willing to confess, therefore, that
I now felt a little stupid. I made effort to arouse myself by frequent
aid of Lafitte, and all failing, I betook myself to a stray newspaper
in despair. Having carefully perused the column of "Houses to let,"
and the column of "Dogs lost," and then the columns of "Wives and
apprentices runaway," I attacked with great resolution the editorial
matter, and reading it from beginning to end without understanding a
syllable, conceived the possibility of its being Chinese, and so
re-read it from the end to the beginning, but with no more
satisfactory result. I was about throwing away in disgust

  This folio of four pages, happy work
  Which not even critics criticise,

when I felt my attention somewhat aroused by the paragraph which
follows:

"The avenues to death are numerous and strange. A London paper
mentions the decease of a person from a singular cause. He was playing
at 'puff the dart,' which is played with a long needle inserted in
some worsted, and blown at a target through a tin tube. He placed the
needle at the wrong end of the tube, and drawing his breath strongly
to puff the dart forward with force, drew the needle into his throat.
It entered the lungs, and in a few days killed him."

Upon seeing this I fell into a great rage, without exactly knowing
why. "This thing," I exclaimed, "is a contemptible falsehood--a poor
hoax--the lees of the invention of some pitiable penny-a-liner, of
some wretched concocter of accidents in Cocaigne. These fellows
knowing the extravagant gullibility of the age set their wits to work
in the imagination of improbable possibilities, of odd accidents as
they term them, but to a reflecting intellect (like mine, I added, in
parenthesis, putting my forefinger unconsciously to the side of my
nose), to a contemplative understanding such as I myself possess, it
seems evident at once that the marvelous increase of late in these
'odd accidents' is by far the oddest accident of all. For my own part,
I intend to believe nothing henceforward that has anything of the
'singular' about it."

"Mein Gott, den, vat a vool you bees for dat!" replied one of the most
remarkable voices I ever heard. At first I took it for a rumbling in
my ears--such as a man sometimes experiences when getting very
drunk--but upon second thought, I considered the sound as more nearly
resembling that which proceeds from an empty barrel beaten with a big
stick; and, in fact, this I should have concluded it to be, but for
the articulation of the syllables and words. I am by no means
naturally nervous, and the very few glasses of Lafitte which I had
sipped served to embolden me a little, so that I felt nothing of
trepidation, but merely uplifted my eyes with a leisurely movement and
looked carefully around the room for the intruder. I could not,
however, perceive any one at all.

"Humph!" resumed the voice as I continued my survey, "you mus pe so
dronk as de pig den for not zee me as I zit here at your zide."

Hereupon I bethought me of looking immediately before my nose, and
there, sure enough, confronting me at the table sat a personage
nondescript, although not altogether indescribable. His body was a
wine-pipe or a rum puncheon, or something of that character, and had a
truly Falstaffian air. In its nether extremity were inserted two kegs,
which seemed to answer all the purposes of legs. For arms there
dangled from the upper portion of the carcass two tolerably long
bottles with the necks outward for hands. All the head that I saw the
monster possessed of was one of those Hessian canteens which resemble
a large snuff-box with a hole in the middle of the lid. This canteen
(with a funnel on its top like a cavalier cap slouched over the eyes)
was set on edge upon the puncheon, with the hole toward myself; and
through this hole, which seemed puckered up like the mouth of a very
precise old maid, the creature was emitting certain rumbling and
grumbling noises which he evidently intended for intelligible talk.

"I zay," said he, "you mos pe dronk as de pig, vor zit dare and not
zee me zit ere; and I zay, doo, you mos pe pigger vool as de goose,
vor to dispelief vat iz print in de print. 'Tiz de troof--dat it
iz--ebery vord ob it."

"Who are you, pray?" said I with much dignity, although somewhat
puzzled; "how did you get here? and what is it you are talking about?"

"As vor ow I com'd ere," replied the figure, "dat iz none of your
pizziness; and as vor vat I be talking apout, I be talk apout vat I
tink proper; and as vor who I be, vy dat is de very ting I com'd here
for to let you zee for yourself."

"You are a drunken vagabond," said I, "and I shall ring the bell and
order my footman to kick you into the street."

"He! he! he!" said the fellow, "hu! hu! hu! dat you can't do."

"Can't do!" said I, "what do you mean? I can't do what?"

"Ring de pell," he replied, attempting a grin with his little
villainous mouth.

Upon this I made an effort to get up in order to put my threat into
execution, but the ruffian just reached across the table very
deliberately, and hitting me a tap on the forehead with the neck of
one of the long bottles, knocked me back into the armchair from which
I had half arisen. I was utterly astounded, and for a moment was quite
at a loss what to do. In the meantime he continued his talk.

"You zee," said he, "it iz te bess vor zit still; and now you shall
know who I pe. Look at me! zee! I am te _Angel ov te Odd_."

"And odd enough, too," I ventured to reply; "but I was always under
the impression that an angel had wings."

"Te wing!" he cried, highly incensed, "vat I pe do mit te wing? Mein
Gott! do you take me for a shicken?"

"No--oh, no!" I replied, much alarmed; "you are no chicken--certainly
not."

"Well, den, zit still and pehabe yourself, or I'll rap you again mid
me vist. It iz te shicken ab te wing, und te owl ab te wing, und te
imp ab te wing, und te head-teuffel ab te wing. Te angel ab _not_ te
wing, and I am te _Angel ov te Odd_."

"And your business with me at present is--is----"

"My pizziness!" ejaculated the thing, "vy vat a low-bred puppy you mos
pe vor to ask a gentleman und an angel apout his pizziness!"

This language was rather more than I could bear, even from an angel;
so, plucking up courage, I seized a salt-cellar which lay within
reach, and hurled it at the head of the intruder. Either he dodged,
however, or my aim was inaccurate; for all I accomplished was the
demolition of the crystal which protected the dial of the clock upon
the mantelpiece. As for the Angel, he evinced his sense of my assault
by giving me two or three hard, consecutive raps upon the forehead as
before. These reduced me at once to submission, and I am almost
ashamed to confess that, either through pain or vexation, there came a
few tears into my eyes.

"Mein Gott!" said the Angel of the Odd, apparently much softened at my
distress; "mein Gott, te man is eder ferry dronk or ferry zorry. You
mos not trink it so strong--you mos put te water in te wine. Here,
trink dis, like a good veller, and don't gry now--don't!"

Hereupon the Angel of the Odd replenished my goblet (which was about a
third full of port) with a colorless fluid that he poured from one of
his hand-bottles. I observed that these bottles had labels about their
necks, and that these labels were inscribed "Kirschenwässer."

The considerate kindness of the Angel mollified me in no little
measure; and, aided by the water with which he diluted my port more
than once, I at length regained sufficient temper to listen to his
very extraordinary discourse. I cannot pretend to recount all that he
told me, but I gleaned from what he said that he was a genius who
presided over the _contretemps_ of mankind, and whose business it was
to bring about the _odd accidents_ which are continually astonishing
the skeptic. Once or twice, upon my venturing to express my total
incredulity in respect to his pretensions, he grew very angry indeed,
so that at length I considered it the wiser policy to say nothing at
all, and let him have his own way. He talked on, therefore, at great
length, while I merely leaned back in my chair with my eyes shut, and
amused myself with munching raisins and filiping the stems about the
room. But, by and by, the Angel suddenly construed this behavior of
mine into contempt. He arose in a terrible passion, slouched his
funnel down over his eyes, swore a vast oath, uttered a threat of some
character, which I did not precisely comprehend, and finally made me a
low bow and departed, wishing me, in the language of the archbishop in
"Gil Bias," _beaucoup de bonheur et un peu plus de bon sens_.

His departure afforded me relief. The _very_ few glasses of Lafitte
that I had sipped had the effect of rendering me drowsy, and I felt
inclined to take a nap of some fifteen or twenty minutes, as is my
custom after dinner. At six I had an appointment of consequence, which
it was quite indispensable that I should keep. The policy of insurance
for my dwelling-house had expired the day before; and some dispute
having arisen it was agreed that, at six, I should meet the board of
directors of the company and settle the terms of a renewal. Glancing
upward at the clock on the mantelpiece (for I felt too drowsy to take
out my watch), I had the pleasure to find that I had still twenty-five
minutes to spare. It was half-past five; I could easily walk to the
insurance office in five minutes; and my usual siestas had never been
known to exceed five-and-twenty. I felt sufficiently safe, therefore,
and composed myself to my slumbers forthwith.

Having completed them to my satisfaction, I again looked toward the
timepiece, and was half inclined to believe in the possibility of odd
accidents when I found that, instead of my ordinary fifteen or twenty
minutes, I had been dozing only three; for it still wanted
seven-and-twenty of the appointed hour. I betook myself again to my
nap, and at length a second time awoke, when, to my utter amazement,
it still wanted twenty-seven minutes of six. I jumped up to examine
the clock, and found that it had ceased running. My watch informed me
that it was half-past seven; and, of course, having slept two hours, I
was too late for my appointment. "It will make no difference," I said:
"I can call at the office in the morning and apologize; in the
meantime what can be the matter with the clock?" Upon examining it I
discovered that one of the raisin stems which I had been filiping
about the room during the discourse of the Angel of the Odd had flown
through the fractured crystal, and lodging, singularly enough, in the
keyhole, with an end projecting outward, had thus arrested the
revolution of the minute hand.

"Ah!" said I, "I see how it is. This thing speaks for itself. A
natural accident, such as will happen now and then!"

I gave the matter no further consideration, and at my usual hour
retired to bed. Here, having placed a candle upon a reading stand at
the bed head, and having made an attempt to peruse some pages of the
_Omnipresence of the Deity_, I unfortunately fell asleep in less than
twenty seconds, leaving the light burning as it was.

My dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the Angel of the
Odd. Methought he stood at the foot of the couch, drew aside the
curtains, and in the hollow, detestable tones of a rum puncheon,
menaced me with the bitterest vengeance for the contempt with which I
had treated him. He concluded a long harangue by taking off his
funnel-cap, inserting the tube into my gullet, and thus deluging me
with an ocean of Kirschenwässer, which he poured in a continuous
flood, from one of the long-necked bottles that stood him instead of
an arm. My agony was at length insufferable, and I awoke just in time
to perceive that a rat had run off with the lighted candle from the
stand, but _not_ in season to prevent his making his escape with it
through the hole, Very soon a strong, suffocating odor assailed my
nostrils; the house, I clearly perceived, was on fire. In a few
minutes the blaze broke forth with violence, and in an incredibly
brief period the entire building was wrapped in flames. All egress
from my chamber, except through a window, was cut off. The crowd,
however, quickly procured and raised a long ladder. By means of this I
was descending rapidly, and in apparent safety, when a huge hog, about
whose rotund stomach, and indeed about whose whole air and
physiognomy, there was something which reminded me of the Angel of the
Odd--when this hog, I say, which hitherto had been quietly slumbering
in the mud, took it suddenly into his head that his left shoulder
needed scratching, and could find no more convenient rubbing-post than
that afforded by the foot of the ladder. In an instant I was
precipitated, and had the misfortune to fracture my arm.

This accident, with the loss of my insurance, and with the more
serious loss of my hair, the whole of which had been singed off by the
fire, predisposed me to serious impressions, so that finally I made up
my mind to take a wife. There was a rich widow disconsolate for the
loss of her seventh husband, and to her wounded spirit I offered the
balm of my vows. She yielded a reluctant consent to my prayers. I
knelt at her feet in gratitude and adoration. She blushed and bowed
her luxuriant tresses into close contact with those supplied me
temporarily by Grandjean. I know not how the entanglement took place
but so it was. I arose with a shining pate, wigless; she in disdain
and wrath, half-buried in alien hair. Thus ended my hopes of the widow
by an accident which could not have been anticipated, to be sure, but
which the natural sequence of events had brought about.

Without despairing, however, I undertook the siege of a less
implacable heart. The fates were again propitious for a brief period,
but again a trivial incident interfered. Meeting my betrothed in an
avenue thronged with the elite of the city, I was hastening to greet
her with one of my best considered bows, when a small particle of some
foreign matter lodging in the corner of my eye rendered me for the
moment completely blind. Before I could recover my sight, the lady of
my love had disappeared--irreparably affronted at what she chose to
consider my premeditated rudeness in passing her by ungreeted. While I
stood bewildered at the suddenness of this accident (which might have
happened, nevertheless, to any one under the sun), and while I still
continued incapable of sight, I was accosted by the Angel of the Odd,
who proffered me his aid with a civility which I had no reason to
expect. He examined my disordered eye with much gentleness and skill,
informed me that I had a drop in it, and (whatever a "drop" was) took
it out, and afforded me relief.

I now considered it high time to die (since fortune had so determined
to persecute me), and accordingly made my way to the nearest river.
Here, divesting myself of my clothes (for there is no reason why we
cannot die as we were born), I threw myself headlong into the current;
the sole witness of my fate being a solitary crow that had been
seduced into the eating of brandy-saturated corn, and so had staggered
away from his fellows. No sooner had I entered the water than this
bird took it into his head to fly away with the most indispensable
portion of my apparel. Postponing, therefore, for the present, my
suicidal design, I just slipped my nether extremities into the sleeves
of my coat, and betook myself to a pursuit of the felon with all the
nimbleness which the case required and its circumstances would admit.
But my evil destiny attended me still. As I ran at full speed, with my
nose up in the atmosphere, and intent only upon the purloiner of my
property, I suddenly perceived that my feet rested no longer upon
_terra firma_; the fact is, I had thrown myself over a precipice, and
should inevitably have been dashed to pieces but for my good fortune
in grasping the end of a long guide-rope, which depended from a
passing balloon.

As soon as I sufficiently recovered my senses to comprehend the
terrific predicament in which I stood, or rather hung, I exerted all
the power of my lungs to make that predicament known to the aeronaut
overhead. But for a long time I exerted myself in vain. Either the
fool could not, or the villain would not perceive me. Meanwhile the
machine rapidly soared, while my strength even more rapidly failed. I
was soon upon the point of resigning myself to my fate, and dropping
quietly into the sea, when my spirits were suddenly revived by hearing
a hollow voice from above, which seemed to be lazily humming an opera
air. Looking up, I perceived the Angel of the Odd. He was leaning,
with his arms folded, over the rim of the car; and with a pipe in his
mouth, at which he puffed leisurely, seemed to be upon excellent terms
with himself and the universe. I was too much exhausted to speak, so I
merely regarded him with an imploring air.

For several minutes, although he looked me full in the face, he said
nothing. At length, removing carefully his meerschaum from the right
to the left corner of his mouth, he condescended to speak.

"Who pe you," he asked, "und what der teuffel you pe do dare?"

To this piece of impudence, cruelty, and affectation, I could reply
only by ejaculating the monosyllable "Help!"

"Elp!" echoed the ruffian, "not I. Dare iz te pottle--elp yourself,
und pe tam'd!"

With these words he let fall a heavy bottle of Kirschenwässer, which,
dropping precisely upon the crown of my head, caused me to imagine
that my brains were entirely knocked out. Impressed with this idea I
was about to relinquish my hold and give up the ghost with a good
grace, when I was arrested by the cry of the Angel, who bade me hold
on.

"'Old on!" he said: "don't pe in te 'urry--don't. Will you pe take de
odder pottle, or 'ave you pe got zober yet, and come to your zenzes?"

I made haste, hereupon, to nod my head twice--once in the negative,
meaning thereby that I would prefer not taking the other bottle at
present; and once in the affirmative, intending thus to imply that I
_was_ sober and _had_ positively come to my senses. By these means I
somewhat softened the Angel.

"Und you pelief, ten," he inquired, "at te last? You pelief, ten, in
te possibility of te odd?"

I again nodded my head in assent.

"Und you ave pelief in _me_, te Angel of te Odd?"

I nodded again.

"Und you acknowledge tat you pe te blind dronk und te vool?"

I nodded once more.

"Put your right hand into your left preeches pocket, ten, in token ov
your vull zubmizzion unto te Angel ov te Odd."

This thing, for very obvious reasons, I found it quite impossible to
do. In the first place, my left arm had been broken in my fall from
the ladder, and therefore, had I let go my hold with the right hand I
must have let go altogether. In the second place, I could have no
breeches until I came across the crow. I was therefore obliged, much
to my regret, to shake my head in the negative, intending thus to give
the Angel to understand that I found it inconvenient, just at that
moment, to comply with his very reasonable demand! No sooner, however,
had I ceased shaking my head than--

"Go to der teuffel, ten!" roared the Angel of the Odd.

In pronouncing these words he drew a sharp knife across the guide-rope
by which I was suspended, and as we then happened to be precisely over
my own house (which, during my peregrinations, had been handsomely
rebuilt), it so occurred that I tumbled headlong down the ample
chimney and alit upon the dining-room hearth.

Upon coming to my senses (for the fall had very thoroughly stunned me)
I found it about four o'clock in the morning. I lay outstretched where
I had fallen from the balloon. My head groveled in the ashes of an
extinguished fire, while my feet reposed upon the wreck of a small
table, overthrown, and amid the fragments of a miscellaneous dessert,
intermingled with a newspaper, some broken glasses and shattered
bottles, and an empty jug of the Schiedam Kirschenwässer. Thus
revenged himself the Angel of the Odd.



THE SCHOOLMASTER'S PROGRESS

By Caroline M.S. Kirkland (1801-1864)

[From _The Gift_ for 1845, published late in 1844. Republished in the
volume, _Western Clearings_ (1845), by Caroline M.S. Kirkland.]

Master William Horner came to our village to school when he was about
eighteen years old: tall, lank, straight-sided, and straight-haired,
with a mouth of the most puckered and solemn kind. His figure and
movements were those of a puppet cut out of shingle and jerked by a
string; and his address corresponded very well with his appearance.
Never did that prim mouth give way before a laugh. A faint and misty
smile was the widest departure from its propriety, and this
unaccustomed disturbance made wrinkles in the flat, skinny cheeks like
those in the surface of a lake, after the intrusion of a stone. Master
Horner knew well what belonged to the pedagogical character, and that
facial solemnity stood high on the list of indispensable
qualifications. He had made up his mind before he left his father's
house how he would look during the term. He had not planned any smiles
(knowing that he must "board round"), and it was not for ordinary
occurrences to alter his arrangements; so that when he was betrayed
into a relaxation of the muscles, it was "in such a sort" as if he was
putting his bread and butter in jeopardy.

Truly he had a grave time that first winter. The rod of power was new
to him, and he felt it his "duty" to use it more frequently than might
have been thought necessary by those upon whose sense the privilege
had palled. Tears and sulky faces, and impotent fists doubled fiercely
when his back was turned, were the rewards of his conscientiousness;
and the boys--and girls too--were glad when working time came round
again, and the master went home to help his father on the farm.

But with the autumn came Master Horner again, dropping among us as
quietly as the faded leaves, and awakening at least as much serious
reflection. Would he be as self-sacrificing as before, postponing his
own ease and comfort to the public good, or would he have become more
sedentary, and less fond of circumambulating the school-room with a
switch over his shoulder? Many were fain to hope he might have learned
to smoke during the summer, an accomplishment which would probably
have moderated his energy not a little, and disposed him rather to
reverie than to action. But here he was, and all the broader-chested
and stouter-armed for his labors in the harvest-field.

Let it not be supposed that Master Horner was of a cruel and ogrish
nature--a babe-eater--a Herod--one who delighted in torturing the
helpless. Such souls there may be, among those endowed with the awful
control of the ferule, but they are rare in the fresh and natural
regions we describe. It is, we believe, where young gentlemen are to
be crammed for college, that the process of hardening heart and skin
together goes on most vigorously. Yet among the uneducated there is so
high a respect for bodily strength, that it is necessary for the
schoolmaster to show, first of all, that he possesses this
inadmissible requisite for his place. The rest is more readily taken
for granted. Brains he _may_ have--a strong arm he _must_ have: so he
proves the more important claim first. We must therefore make all due
allowance for Master Horner, who could not be expected to overtop his
position so far as to discern at once the philosophy of teaching.

He was sadly brow-beaten during his first term of service by a great
broad-shouldered lout of some eighteen years or so, who thought he
needed a little more "schooling," but at the same time felt quite
competent to direct the manner and measure of his attempts.

"You'd ought to begin with large-hand, Joshuay," said Master Horner to
this youth.

"What should I want coarse-hand for?" said the disciple, with great
contempt; "coarse-hand won't never do me no good. I want a fine-hand
copy."

The master looked at the infant giant, and did as he wished, but we
say not with what secret resolutions.

At another time, Master Horner, having had a hint from some one more
knowing than himself, proposed to his elder scholars to write after
dictation, expatiating at the same time quite floridly (the ideas
having been supplied by the knowing friend), upon the advantages
likely to arise from this practice, and saying, among other things,

"It will help you, when you write letters, to spell the words good."

"Pooh!" said Joshua, "spellin' ain't nothin'; let them that finds the
mistakes correct 'em. I'm for every one's havin' a way of their own."

"How dared you be so saucy to the master?" asked one of the little
boys, after school.

"Because I could lick him, easy," said the hopeful Joshua, who knew
very well why the master did not undertake him on the spot.

Can we wonder that Master Horner determined to make his empire good as
far as it went?

A new examination was required on the entrance into a second term,
and, with whatever secret trepidation, the master was obliged to
submit. Our law prescribes examinations, but forgets to provide for
the competency of the examiners; so that few better farces offer than
the course of question and answer on these occasions. We know not
precisely what were Master Horner's trials; but we have heard of a
sharp dispute between the inspectors whether a-n-g-e-l spelt _angle_
or _angel_. _Angle_ had it, and the school maintained that
pronunciation ever after. Master Horner passed, and he was requested
to draw up the certificate for the inspectors to sign, as one had left
his spectacles at home, and the other had a bad cold, so that it was
not convenient for either to write more than his name. Master Homer's
exhibition of learning on this occasion did not reach us, but we know
that it must have been considerable, since he stood the ordeal.

"What is orthography?" said an inspector once, in our presence.

The candidate writhed a good deal, studied the beams overhead and the
chickens out of the window, and then replied,

"It is so long since I learnt the first part of the spelling-book,
that I can't justly answer that question. But if I could just look it
over, I guess I could."

Our schoolmaster entered upon his second term with new courage and
invigorated authority. Twice certified, who should dare doubt his
competency? Even Joshua was civil, and lesser louts of course
obsequious; though the girls took more liberties, for they feel even
at that early age, that influence is stronger than strength.

Could a young schoolmaster think of feruling a girl with her hair in
ringlets and a gold ring on her finger? Impossible--and the immunity
extended to all the little sisters and cousins; and there were enough
large girls to protect all the feminine part of the school. With the
boys Master Horner still had many a battle, and whether with a view to
this, or as an economical ruse, he never wore his coat in school,
saying it was too warm. Perhaps it was an astute attention to the
prejudices of his employers, who love no man that does not earn his
living by the sweat of his brow. The shirt-sleeves gave the idea of a
manual-labor school in one sense at least. It was evident that the
master worked, and that afforded a probability that the scholars
worked too.

Master Horner's success was most triumphant that winter. A year's
growth had improved his outward man exceedingly, filling out the limbs
so that they did not remind you so forcibly of a young colt's, and
supplying the cheeks with the flesh and blood so necessary where
mustaches were not worn. Experience had given him a degree of
confidence, and confidence gave him power. In short, people said the
master had waked up; and so he had. He actually set about reading for
improvement; and although at the end of the term he could not quite
make out from his historical studies which side Hannibal was on, yet
this is readily explained by the fact that he boarded round, and was
obliged to read generally by firelight, surrounded by ungoverned
children.

After this, Master Horner made his own bargain. When schooltime came
round with the following autumn, and the teacher presented himself for
a third examination, such a test was pronounced no longer necessary;
and the district consented to engage him at the astounding rate of
sixteen dollars a month, with the understanding that he was to have a
fixed home, provided he was willing to allow a dollar a week for it.
Master Horner bethought him of the successive "killing-times," and
consequent doughnuts of the twenty families in which he had sojourned
the years before, and consented to the exaction.

Behold our friend now as high as district teacher can ever hope to
be--his scholarship established, his home stationary and not
revolving, and the good behavior of the community insured by the fact
that he, being of age, had now a farm to retire upon in case of any
disgust.

Master Horner was at once the preëminent beau of the neighborhood,
spite of the prejudice against learning. He brushed his hair straight
up in front, and wore a sky-blue ribbon for a guard to his silver
watch, and walked as if the tall heels of his blunt boots were
egg-shells and not leather. Yet he was far from neglecting the duties
of his place. He was beau only on Sundays and holidays; very
schoolmaster the rest of the time.

It was at a "spelling-school" that Master Horner first met the
educated eyes of Miss Harriet Bangle, a young lady visiting the
Engleharts in our neighborhood. She was from one of the towns in
Western New York, and had brought with her a variety of city airs and
graces somewhat caricatured, set off with year-old French fashions
much travestied. Whether she had been sent out to the new country to
try, somewhat late, a rustic chance for an establishment, or whether
her company had been found rather trying at home, we cannot say. The
view which she was at some pains to make understood was, that her
friends had contrived this method of keeping her out of the way of a
desperate lover whose addresses were not acceptable to them.

If it should seem surprising that so high-bred a visitor should be
sojourning in the wild woods, it must be remembered that more than one
celebrated Englishman and not a few distinguished Americans have
farmer brothers in the western country, no whit less rustic in their
exterior and manner of life than the plainest of their neighbors. When
these are visited by their refined kinsfolk, we of the woods catch
glimpses of the gay world, or think we do.

  That great medicine hath
  With its tinct gilded--

many a vulgarism to the satisfaction of wiser heads than ours.

Miss Bangle's manner bespoke for her that high consideration which she
felt to be her due. Yet she condescended to be amused by the rustics
and their awkward attempts at gaiety and elegance; and, to say truth,
few of the village merry-makings escaped her, though she wore always
the air of great superiority.

The spelling-school is one of the ordinary winter amusements in the
country. It occurs once in a fortnight, or so, and has power to draw
out all the young people for miles round, arrayed in their best
clothes and their holiday behavior. When all is ready, umpires are
elected, and after these have taken the distinguished place usually
occupied by the teacher, the young people of the school choose the two
best scholars to head the opposing classes. These leaders choose their
followers from the mass, each calling a name in turn, until all the
spellers are ranked on one side or the other, lining the sides of the
room, and all standing. The schoolmaster, standing too, takes his
spelling-book, and gives a placid yet awe-inspiring look along the
ranks, remarking that he intends to be very impartial, and that he
shall give out nothing _that is not in the spelling-book_. For the
first half hour or so he chooses common and easy words, that the
spirit of the evening may not be damped by the too early thinning of
the classes. When a word is missed, the blunderer has to sit down, and
be a spectator only for the rest of the evening. At certain intervals,
some of the best speakers mount the platform, and "speak a piece,"
which is generally as declamatory as possible.

The excitement of this scene is equal to that afforded by any city
spectacle whatever; and towards the close of the evening, when
difficult and unusual words are chosen to confound the small number
who still keep the floor, it becomes scarcely less than painful. When
perhaps only one or two remain to be puzzled, the master, weary at
last of his task, though a favorite one, tries by tricks to put down
those whom he cannot overcome in fair fight. If among all the curious,
useless, unheard-of words which may be picked out of the
spelling-book, he cannot find one which the scholars have not noticed,
he gets the last head down by some quip or catch. "Bay" will perhaps
be the sound; one scholar spells it "bey," another, "bay," while the
master all the time means "ba," which comes within the rule, being _in
the spelling-book_.

It was on one of these occasions, as we have said, that Miss Bangle,
having come to the spelling-school to get materials for a letter to a
female friend, first shone upon Mr. Horner. She was excessively amused
by his solemn air and puckered mouth, and set him down at once as fair
game. Yet she could not help becoming somewhat interested in the
spelling-school, and after it was over found she had not stored up
half as many of the schoolmaster's points as she intended, for the
benefit of her correspondent.

In the evening's contest a young girl from some few miles' distance,
Ellen Kingsbury, the only child of a substantial farmer, had been the
very last to sit down, after a prolonged effort on the part of Mr.
Horner to puzzle her, for the credit of his own school. She blushed,
and smiled, and blushed again, but spelt on, until Mr. Horner's cheeks
were crimson with excitement and some touch of shame that he should be
baffled at his own weapons. At length, either by accident or design,
Ellen missed a word, and sinking into her seat was numbered with the
slain.

In the laugh and talk which followed (for with the conclusion of the
spelling, all form of a public assembly vanishes), our schoolmaster
said so many gallant things to his fair enemy, and appeared so much
animated by the excitement of the contest, that Miss Bangle began to
look upon him with rather more respect, and to feel somewhat indignant
that a little rustic like Ellen should absorb the entire attention of
the only beau. She put on, therefore, her most gracious aspect, and
mingled in the circle; caused the schoolmaster to be presented to her,
and did her best to fascinate him by certain airs and graces which she
had found successful elsewhere. What game is too small for the
close-woven net of a coquette?

Mr. Horner quitted not the fair Ellen until he had handed her into her
father's sleigh; and he then wended his way homewards, never thinking
that he ought to have escorted Miss Bangle to her uncle's, though she
certainly waited a little while for his return.

We must not follow into particulars the subsequent intercourse of our
schoolmaster with the civilized young lady. All that concerns us is
the result of Miss Bangle's benevolent designs upon his heart. She
tried most sincerely to find its vulnerable spot, meaning no doubt to
put Mr. Homer on his guard for the future; and she was unfeignedly
surprised to discover that her best efforts were of no avail. She
concluded he must have taken a counter-poison, and she was not slow in
guessing its source. She had observed the peculiar fire which lighted
up his eyes in the presence of Ellen Kingsbury, and she bethought her
of a plan which would ensure her some amusement at the expense of
these impertinent rustics, though in a manner different somewhat from
her original more natural idea of simple coquetry.

A letter was written to Master Horner, purporting to come from Ellen
Kingsbury, worded so artfully that the schoolmaster understood at once
that it was intended to be a secret communication, though its
ostensible object was an inquiry about some ordinary affair. This was
laid in Mr. Horner's desk before he came to school, with an intimation
that he might leave an answer in a certain spot on the following
morning. The bait took at once, for Mr. Horner, honest and true
himself, and much smitten with the fair Ellen, was too happy to be
circumspect. The answer was duly placed, and as duly carried to Miss
Bangle by her accomplice, Joe Englehart, an unlucky pickle who "was
always for ill, never for good," and who found no difficulty in
obtaining the letter unwatched, since the master was obliged to be in
school at nine, and Joe could always linger a few minutes later. This
answer being opened and laughed at, Miss Bangle had only to contrive a
rejoinder, which being rather more particular in its tone than the
original communication, led on yet again the happy schoolmaster, who
branched out into sentiment, "taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,"
talked of hills and dales and rivulets, and the pleasures of
friendship, and concluded by entreating a continuance of the
correspondence.

Another letter and another, every one more flattering and encouraging
than the last, almost turned the sober head of our poor master, and
warmed up his heart so effectually that he could scarcely attend to
his business. The spelling-schools were remembered, however, and Ellen
Kingsbury made one of the merry company; but the latest letter had not
forgotten to caution Mr. Horner not to betray the intimacy; so that he
was in honor bound to restrict himself to the language of the eyes
hard as it was to forbear the single whisper for which he would have
given his very dictionary. So, their meeting passed off without the
explanation which Miss Bangle began to fear would cut short her
benevolent amusement.

The correspondence was resumed with renewed spirit, and carried on
until Miss Bangle, though not overburdened with sensitiveness, began
to be a little alarmed for the consequences of her malicious
pleasantry. She perceived that she herself had turned schoolmistress,
and that Master Horner, instead of being merely her dupe, had become
her pupil too; for the style of his replies had been constantly
improving and the earnest and manly tone which he assumed promised any
thing but the quiet, sheepish pocketing of injury and insult, upon
which she had counted. In truth, there was something deeper than
vanity in the feelings with which he regarded Ellen Kingsbury. The
encouragement which he supposed himself to have received, threw down
the barrier which his extreme bashfulness would have interposed
between himself and any one who possessed charms enough to attract
him; and we must excuse him if, in such a case, he did not criticise
the mode of encouragement, but rather grasped eagerly the proffered
good without a scruple, or one which he would own to himself, as to
the propriety with which it was tendered. He was as much in love as a
man can be, and the seriousness of real attachment gave both grace and
dignity to his once awkward diction.

The evident determination of Mr. Horner to come to the point of asking
papa brought Miss Bangle to a very awkward pass. She had expected to
return home before matters had proceeded so far, but being obliged to
remain some time longer, she was equally afraid to go on and to leave
off, a _dénouement_ being almost certain to ensue in either case.
Things stood thus when it was time to prepare for the grand exhibition
which was to close the winter's term.

This is an affair of too much magnitude to be fully described in the
small space yet remaining in which to bring out our veracious history.
It must be "slubber'd o'er in haste"--its important preliminaries left
to the cold imagination of the reader--its fine spirit perhaps
evaporating for want of being embodied in words. We can only say that
our master, whose school-life was to close with the term, labored as
man never before labored in such a cause, resolute to trail a cloud of
glory after him when he left us. Not a candlestick nor a curtain that
was attainable, either by coaxing or bribery, was left in the village;
even the only piano, that frail treasure, was wiled away and placed in
one corner of the rickety stage. The most splendid of all the pieces
in the _Columbian Orator_, the _American Speaker_, the----but we must
not enumerate--in a word, the most astounding and pathetic specimens
of eloquence within ken of either teacher or scholars, had been
selected for the occasion; and several young ladies and gentlemen,
whose academical course had been happily concluded at an earlier
period, either at our own institution or at some other, had consented
to lend themselves to the parts, and their choicest decorations for
the properties, of the dramatic portion of the entertainment.

Among these last was pretty Ellen Kingsbury, who had agreed to
personate the Queen of Scots, in the garden scene from Schiller's
tragedy of _Mary Stuart_; and this circumstance accidentally afforded
Master Horner the opportunity he had so long desired, of seeing his
fascinating correspondent without the presence of peering eyes. A
dress-rehearsal occupied the afternoon before the day of days, and the
pathetic expostulations of the lovely Mary--

  Mine all doth hang--my life--my destiny--
  Upon my words--upon the force of tears!--

aided by the long veil, and the emotion which sympathy brought into
Ellen's countenance, proved too much for the enforced prudence of
Master Horner. When the rehearsal was over, and the heroes and
heroines were to return home, it was found that, by a stroke of witty
invention not new in the country, the harness of Mr. Kingsbury's
horses had been cut in several places, his whip hidden, his
buffalo-skins spread on the ground, and the sleigh turned bottom
upwards on them. This afforded an excuse for the master's borrowing a
horse and sleigh of somebody, and claiming the privilege of taking
Miss Ellen home, while her father returned with only Aunt Sally and a
great bag of bran from the mill--companions about equally interesting.

Here, then, was the golden opportunity so long wished for! Here was
the power of ascertaining at once what is never quite certain until we
have heard it from warm, living lips, whose testimony is strengthened
by glances in which the whole soul speaks or--seems to speak. The time
was short, for the sleighing was but too fine; and Father Kingsbury,
having tied up his harness, and collected his scattered equipment, was
driving so close behind that there was no possibility of lingering for
a moment. Yet many moments were lost before Mr. Horner, very much in
earnest, and all unhackneyed in matters of this sort, could find a
word in which to clothe his new-found feelings. The horse seemed to
fly--the distance was half past--and at length, in absolute despair of
anything better, he blurted out at once what he had determined to
avoid--a direct reference to the correspondence.

A game at cross-purposes ensued; exclamations and explanations, and
denials and apologies filled up the time which was to have made Master
Horner so blest. The light from Mr. Kingsbury's windows shone upon the
path, and the whole result of this conference so longed for, was a
burst of tears from the perplexed and mortified Ellen, who sprang from
Mr. Horner's attempts to detain her, rushed into the house without
vouchsafing him a word of adieu, and left him standing, no bad
personification of Orpheus, after the last hopeless flitting of his
Eurydice.

"Won't you 'light, Master?" said Mr. Kingsbury.

"Yes--no--thank you--good evening," stammered poor Master Horner, so
stupefied that even Aunt Sally called him "a dummy."

The horse took the sleigh against the fence, going home, and threw out
the master, who scarcely recollected the accident; while to Ellen the
issue of this unfortunate drive was a sleepless night and so high a
fever in the morning that our village doctor was called to Mr.
Kingsbury's before breakfast.

Poor Master Horner's distress may hardly be imagined. Disappointed,
bewildered, cut to the quick, yet as much in love as ever, he could
only in bitter silence turn over in his thoughts the issue of his
cherished dream; now persuading himself that Ellen's denial was the
effect of a sudden bashfulness, now inveighing against the fickleness
of the sex, as all men do when they are angry with any one woman in
particular. But his exhibition must go on in spite of wretchedness;
and he went about mechanically, talking of curtains and candles, and
music, and attitudes, and pauses, and emphasis, looking like a
somnambulist whose "eyes are open but their sense is shut," and often
surprising those concerned by the utter unfitness of his answers.

It was almost evening when Mr. Kingsbury, having discovered, through
the intervention of the Doctor and Aunt Sally the cause of Ellen's
distress, made his appearance before the unhappy eyes of Master
Horner, angry, solemn and determined; taking the schoolmaster apart,
and requiring, an explanation of his treatment of his daughter. In
vain did the perplexed lover ask for time to clear himself, declare
his respect for Miss Ellen and his willingness to give every
explanation which she might require; the father was not to be put off;
and though excessively reluctant, Mr. Horner had no resource but to
show the letters which alone could account for his strange discourse
to Ellen. He unlocked his desk, slowly and unwillingly, while the old
man's impatience was such that he could scarcely forbear thrusting in
his own hand to snatch at the papers which were to explain this
vexatious mystery. What could equal the utter confusion of Master
Horner and the contemptuous anger of the father, when no letters were
to be found! Mr. Kingsbury was too passionate to listen to reason, or
to reflect for one moment upon the irreproachable good name of the
schoolmaster. He went away in inexorable wrath; threatening every
practicable visitation of public and private justice upon the head of
the offender, whom he accused of having attempted to trick his
daughter into an entanglement which should result in his favor.

A doleful exhibition was this last one of our thrice approved and most
worthy teacher! Stern necessity and the power of habit enabled him to
go through with most of his part, but where was the proud fire which
had lighted up his eye on similar occasions before? He sat as one of
three judges before whom the unfortunate Robert Emmet was dragged in
his shirt-sleeves, by two fierce-looking officials; but the chief
judge looked far more like a criminal than did the proper
representative. He ought to have personated Othello, but was obliged
to excuse himself from raving for "the handkerchief! the
handkerchief!" on the rather anomalous plea of a bad cold. _Mary
Stuart_ being "i' the bond," was anxiously expected by the impatient
crowd, and it was with distress amounting to agony that the master was
obliged to announce, in person, the necessity of omitting that part of
the representation, on account of the illness of one of the young
ladies.

Scarcely had the words been uttered, and the speaker hidden his
burning face behind the curtain, when Mr. Kingsbury started up in his
place amid the throng, to give a public recital of his grievance--no
uncommon resort in the new country. He dashed at once to the point;
and before some friends who saw the utter impropriety of his
proceeding could persuade him to defer his vengeance, he had laid
before the assembly--some three hundred people, perhaps--his own
statement of the case. He was got out at last, half coaxed, half
hustled; and the gentle public only half understanding what had been
set forth thus unexpectedly, made quite a pretty row of it. Some
clamored loudly for the conclusion of the exercises; others gave
utterances in no particularly choice terms to a variety of opinions as
to the schoolmaster's proceedings, varying the note occasionally by
shouting, "The letters! the letters! why don't you bring out the
letters?"

At length, by means of much rapping on the desk by the president of
the evening, who was fortunately a "popular" character, order was
partially restored; and the favorite scene from Miss More's dialogue
of David and Goliath was announced as the closing piece. The sight of
little David in a white tunic edged with red tape, with a calico scrip
and a very primitive-looking sling; and a huge Goliath decorated with
a militia belt and sword, and a spear like a weaver's beam indeed,
enchained everybody's attention. Even the peccant schoolmaster and his
pretended letters were forgotten, while the sapient Goliath, every
time that he raised the spear, in the energy of his declamation, to
thump upon the stage, picked away fragments of the low ceiling, which
fell conspicuously on his great shock of black hair. At last, with the
crowning threat, up went the spear for an astounding thump, and down
came a large piece of the ceiling, and with it--a shower of letters.

The confusion that ensued beggars all description. A general scramble
took place, and in another moment twenty pairs of eyes, at least, were
feasting on the choice phrases lavished upon Mr. Horner. Miss Bangle
had sat through the whole previous scene, trembling for herself,
although she had, as she supposed, guarded cunningly against exposure.
She had needed no prophet to tell her what must be the result of a
tête-à-tête between Mr. Horner and Ellen; and the moment she saw them
drive off together, she induced her imp to seize the opportunity of
abstracting the whole parcel of letters from Mr. Horner's desk; which
he did by means of a sort of skill which comes by nature to such
goblins; picking the lock by the aid of a crooked nail, as neatly as
if he had been born within the shadow of the Tombs.

But magicians sometimes suffer severely from the malice with which
they have themselves inspired their familiars. Joe Englehart having
been a convenient tool thus far thought it quite time to torment Miss
Bangle a little; so, having stolen the letters at her bidding, he hid
them on his own account, and no persuasions of hers could induce him
to reveal this important secret, which he chose to reserve as a rod in
case she refused him some intercession with his father, or some other
accommodation, rendered necessary by his mischievous habits.

He had concealed the precious parcels in the unfloored loft above the
school-room, a place accessible only by means of a small trap-door
without staircase or ladder; and here he meant to have kept them while
it suited his purposes, but for the untimely intrusion of the weaver's
beam.

Miss Bangle had sat through all, as we have said, thinking the letters
safe, yet vowing vengeance against her confederate for not allowing
her to secure them by a satisfactory conflagration; and it was not
until she heard her own name whispered through the crowd, that she was
awakened to her true situation. The sagacity of the low creatures whom
she had despised showed them at once that the letters must be hers,
since her character had been pretty shrewdly guessed, and the
handwriting wore a more practised air than is usual among females in
the country. This was first taken for granted, and then spoken of as
an acknowledged fact.

The assembly moved like the heavings of a troubled sea. Everybody felt
that this was everybody's business. "Put her out!" was heard from more
than one rough voice near the door, and this was responded to by loud
and angry murmurs from within.

Mr. Englehart, not waiting to inquire into the merits of the case in
this scene of confusion, hastened to get his family out as quietly and
as quickly as possible, but groans and hisses followed his niece as
she hung half-fainting on his arm, quailing completely beneath the
instinctive indignation of the rustic public. As she passed out, a
yell resounded among the rude boys about the door, and she was lifted
into a sleigh, insensible from terror. She disappeared from that
evening, and no one knew the time of her final departure for "the
east."

Mr. Kingsbury, who is a just man when he is not in a passion, made all
the reparation in his power for his harsh and ill-considered attack
upon the master; and we believe that functionary did not show any
traits of implacability of character. At least he was seen, not many
days after, sitting peaceably at tea with Mr. Kingsbury, Aunt Sally,
and Miss Ellen; and he has since gone home to build a house upon his
farm. And people _do_ say, that after a few months more, Ellen will
not need Miss Bangle's intervention if she should see fit to
correspond with the schoolmaster.



THE WATKINSON EVENING

[From _Godey's Lady's Book_, December, 1846.]

By Eliza Leslie (1787-1858)

Mrs. Morland, a polished and accomplished woman, was the widow of a
distinguished senator from one of the western states, of which, also,
her husband had twice filled the office of governor. Her daughter
having completed her education at the best boarding-school in
Philadelphia, and her son being about to graduate at Princeton, the
mother had planned with her children a tour to Niagara and the lakes,
returning by way of Boston. On leaving Philadelphia, Mrs. Morland and
the delighted Caroline stopped at Princeton to be present at the
annual commencement, and had the happiness of seeing their beloved
Edward receive his diploma as bachelor of arts; after hearing him
deliver, with great applause, an oration on the beauties of the
American character. College youths are very prone to treat on subjects
that imply great experience of the world. But Edward Morland was full
of kind feeling for everything and everybody; and his views of life
had hitherto been tinted with a perpetual rose-color.

Mrs. Morland, not depending altogether upon the celebrity of her late
husband, and wishing that her children should see specimens of the
best society in the northern cities, had left home with numerous
letters of introduction. But when they arrived at New York, she found
to her great regret, that having unpacked and taken out her small
traveling desk, during her short stay in Philadelphia, she had
strangely left it behind in the closet of her room at the hotel. In
this desk were deposited all her letters, except two which had been
offered to her by friends in Philadelphia. The young people, impatient
to see the wonders of Niagara, had entreated her to stay but a day or
two in the city of New York, and thought these two letters would be
quite sufficient for the present. In the meantime she wrote back to
the hotel, requesting that the missing desk should be forwarded to New
York as soon as possible.

On the morning after their arrival at the great commercial metropolis
of America, the Morland family took a carriage to ride round through
the principal parts of the city, and to deliver their two letters at
the houses to which they were addressed, and which were both situated
in the region that lies between the upper part of Broadway and the
North River. In one of the most fashionable streets they found the
elegant mansion of Mrs. St. Leonard; but on stopping at the door, were
informed that its mistress was not at home. They then left the
introductory letter (which they had prepared for this mischance, by
enclosing it in an envelope with a card), and proceeding to another
street considerably farther up, they arrived at the dwelling of the
Watkinson family, to the mistress of which the other Philadelphia
letter was directed. It was one of a large block of houses all exactly
alike, and all shut up from top to bottom, according to a custom more
prevalent in New York than in any other city.

Here they were also unsuccessful; the servant who came to the door
telling them that the ladies were particularly engaged and could see
no company. So they left their second letter and card and drove off,
continuing their ride till they reached the Croton water works, which
they quitted the carriage to see and admire. On returning to the
hotel, with the intention after an hour or two of rest to go out
again, and walk till near dinner-time, they found waiting them a note
from Mrs. Watkinson, expressing her regret that she had not been able
to see them when they called; and explaining that her family duties
always obliged her to deny herself the pleasure of receiving morning
visitors, and that her servants had general orders to that effect. But
she requested their company for that evening (naming nine o'clock as
the hour), and particularly desired an immediate answer.

"I suppose," said Mrs. Morland, "she intends asking some of her
friends to meet us, in case we accept the invitation; and therefore is
naturally desirous of a reply as soon as possible. Of course we will
not keep her in suspense. Mrs. Denham, who volunteered the letter,
assured me that Mrs. Watkinson was one of the most estimable women in
New York, and a pattern to the circle in which she moved. It seems
that Mr. Denham and Mr. Watkinson are connected in business. Shall we
go?"

The young people assented, saying they had no doubt of passing a
pleasant evening.

The billet of acceptance having been written, it was sent off
immediately, entrusted to one of the errand-goers belonging to the
hotel, that it might be received in advance of the next hour for the
dispatch-post--and Edward Morland desired the man to get into an
omnibus with the note that no time might be lost in delivering it. "It
is but right"--said he to his mother--"that we should give Mrs.
Watkinson an ample opportunity of making her preparations, and sending
round to invite her friends."

"How considerate you are, dear Edward"--said Caroline--"always so
thoughtful of every one's convenience. Your college friends must have
idolized you."

"No"--said Edward--"they called me a prig." Just then a remarkably
handsome carriage drove up to the private door of the hotel. From it
alighted a very elegant woman, who in a few moments was ushered into
the drawing-room by the head waiter, and on his designating Mrs.
Morland's family, she advanced and gracefully announced herself as
Mrs. St. Leonard. This was the lady at whose house they had left the
first letter of introduction. She expressed regret at not having been
at home when they called; but said that on finding their letter, she
had immediately come down to see them, and to engage them for the
evening. "Tonight"--said Mrs. St. Leonard--"I expect as many friends
as I can collect for a summer party. The occasion is the recent
marriage of my niece, who with her husband has just returned from
their bridal excursion, and they will be soon on their way to their
residence in Baltimore. I think I can promise you an agreeable
evening, as I expect some very delightful people, with whom I shall be
most happy to make you acquainted."

Edward and Caroline exchanged glances, and could not refrain from
looking wistfully at their mother, on whose countenance a shade of
regret was very apparent. After a short pause she replied to Mrs. St.
Leonard--"I am truly sorry to say that we have just answered in the
affirmative a previous invitation for this very evening."

"I am indeed disappointed"--said Mrs. St. Leonard, who had been
looking approvingly at the prepossessing appearance of the two young
people. "Is there no way in which you can revoke your compliance with
this unfortunate first invitation--at least, I am sure, it is
unfortunate for me. What a vexatious _contretemps_ that I should have
chanced to be out when you called; thus missing the pleasure of seeing
you at once, and securing that of your society for this evening? The
truth is, I was disappointed in some of the preparations that had been
sent home this morning, and I had to go myself and have the things
rectified, and was detained away longer than I expected. May I ask to
whom you are engaged this evening? Perhaps I know the lady--if so, I
should be very much tempted to go and beg you from her."

"The lady is Mrs. John Watkinson"--replied Mrs. Morland--"most
probably she will invite some of her friends to meet us."

"That of course"--answered Mrs. St. Leonard--"I am really very
sorry--and I regret to say that I do not know her at all."

"We shall have to abide by our first decision," said Mrs. Morland. "By
Mrs. Watkinson, mentioning in her note the hour of nine, it is to be
presumed she intends asking some other company. I cannot possibly
disappoint her. I can speak feelingly as to the annoyance (for I have
known it by my own experience) when after inviting a number of my
friends to meet some strangers, the strangers have sent an excuse
almost at the eleventh hour. I think no inducements, however strong,
could tempt me to do so myself."

"I confess that you are perfectly right," said Mrs. St. Leonard. "I
see you must go to Mrs. Watkinson. But can you not divide the evening,
by passing a part of it with her and then finishing with me?"

At this suggestion the eyes of the young people sparkled, for they had
become delighted with Mrs. St. Leonard, and imagined that a party at
her house must be every way charming. Also, parties were novelties to
both of them.

"If possible we will do so," answered Mrs. Morland, "and with what
pleasure I need not assure you. We leave New York to-morrow, but we
shall return this way in September, and will then be exceedingly happy
to see more of Mrs. St. Leonard."

After a little more conversation Mrs. St. Leonard took her leave,
repeating her hope of still seeing her new friends at her house that
night; and enjoining them to let her know as soon as they returned to
New York on their way home.

Edward Morland handed her to her carriage, and then joined his mother
and sister in their commendations of Mrs. St. Leonard, with whose
exceeding beauty were united a countenance beaming with intelligence,
and a manner that put every one at their ease immediately.

"She is an evidence," said Edward, "how superior our women of fashion
are to those of Europe."

"Wait, my dear son," said Mrs. Morland, "till you have been in Europe,
and had an opportunity of forming an opinion on that point (as on many
others) from actual observation. For my part, I believe that in all
civilized countries the upper classes of people are very much alike,
at least in their leading characteristics."

"Ah! here comes the man that was sent to Mrs. Watkinson," said
Caroline Morland. "I hope he could not find the house and has brought
the note back with him. We shall then be able to go at first to Mrs.
St. Leonard's, and pass the whole evening there."

The man reported that he _had_ found the house, and had delivered the
note into Mrs. Watkinson's own hands, as she chanced to be crossing
the entry when the door was opened; and that she read it immediately,
and said "Very well."

"Are you certain that you made no mistake in the house," said Edward,
"and that you really _did_ give it to Mrs. Watkinson?"

"And it's quite sure I am, sir," replied the man, "when I first came
over from the ould country I lived with them awhile, and though when
she saw me to-day, she did not let on that she remembered my doing
that same, she could not help calling me James. Yes, the rale words
she said when I handed her the billy-dux was, 'Very well, James.'"

"Come, come," said Edward, when they found themselves alone, "let us
look on the bright side. If we do not find a large party at Mrs.
Watkinson's, we may in all probability meet some very agreeable people
there, and enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul. We may find
the Watkinson house so pleasant as to leave it with regret even for
Mrs. St. Leonard's."

"I do not believe Mrs. Watkinson is in fashionable society," said
Caroline, "or Mrs. St. Leonard would have known her. I heard some of
the ladies here talking last evening of Mrs. St. Leonard, and I found
from what they said that she is among the _élite_ of the _lite_."

"Even if she is," observed Mrs. Morland, "are polish of manners and
cultivation of mind confined exclusively to persons of that class?"

"Certainly not," said Edward, "the most talented and refined youth at
our college, and he in whose society I found the greatest pleasure,
was the son of a bricklayer."

In the ladies' drawing-room, after dinner, the Morlands heard a
conversation between several of the female guests, who all seemed to
know Mrs. St. Leonard very well by reputation, and they talked of her
party that was to "come off" on this evening.

"I hear," said one lady, "that Mrs. St. Leonard is to have an unusual
number of lions."

She then proceeded to name a gallant general, with his elegant wife
and accomplished daughter; a celebrated commander in the navy; two
highly distinguished members of Congress, and even an ex-president.
Also several of the most eminent among the American literati, and two
first-rate artists.

Edward Morland felt as if he could say, "Had I three ears I'd hear
thee."

"Such a woman as Mrs. St. Leonard can always command the best lions
that are to be found," observed another lady.

"And then," said a third, "I have been told that she has such
exquisite taste in lighting and embellishing her always elegant rooms.
And her supper table, whether for summer or winter parties, is so
beautifully arranged; all the viands are so delicious, and the
attendance of the servants so perfect--and Mrs. St. Leonard does the
honors with so much ease and tact."

"Some friends of mine that visit her," said a fourth lady, "describe
her parties as absolute perfection. She always manages to bring
together those persons that are best fitted to enjoy each other's
conversation. Still no one is overlooked or neglected. Then everything
at her reunions is so well proportioned--she has just enough of music,
and just enough of whatever amusement may add to the pleasure of her
guests; and still there is no appearance of design or management on
her part."

"And better than all," said the lady who had spoken firsts "Mrs. St.
Leonard is one of the kindest, most generous, and most benevolent of
women--she does good in every possible way."

"I can listen no longer," said Caroline to Edward, rising to change
her seat. "If I hear any more I shall absolutely hate the Watkinsons.
How provoking that they should have sent us the first invitation. If
we had only thought of waiting till we could hear from Mrs. St.
Leonard!"

"For shame, Caroline," said her brother, "how can you talk so of
persons you have never seen, and to whom you ought to feel grateful
for the kindness of their invitation; even if it has interfered with
another party, that I must confess seems to offer unusual attractions.
Now I have a presentiment that we shall find the Watkinson part of the
evening very enjoyable."

As soon as tea was over, Mrs. Morland and her daughter repaired to
their toilettes. Fortunately, fashion as well as good taste, has
decided that, at a summer party, the costume of the ladies should
never go beyond an elegant simplicity. Therefore our two ladies in
preparing for their intended appearance at Mrs. St. Leonard's, were
enabled to attire themselves in a manner that would not seem out of
place in the smaller company they expected to meet at the Watkinsons.
Over an under-dress of lawn, Caroline Morland put on a white organdy
trimmed with lace, and decorated with bows of pink ribbon. At the back
of her head was a wreath of fresh and beautiful pink flowers, tied
with a similar ribbon. Mrs. Morland wore a black grenadine over a
satin, and a lace cap trimmed with white.

It was but a quarter past nine o'clock when their carriage stopped at
the Watkinson door. The front of the house looked very dark. Not a ray
gleamed through the Venetian shutters, and the glimmer beyond the
fan-light over the door was almost imperceptible. After the coachman
had rung several times, an Irish girl opened the door, cautiously (as
Irish girls always do), and admitted them into the entry, where one
light only was burning in a branch lamp. "Shall we go upstairs?" said
Mrs. Morland. "And what for would ye go upstairs?" said the girl in a
pert tone. "It's all dark there, and there's no preparations. Ye can
lave your things here a-hanging on the rack. It is a party ye're
expecting? Blessed are them what expects nothing."

The sanguine Edward Morland looked rather blank at this intelligence,
and his sister whispered to him, "We'll get off to Mrs. St. Leonard's
as soon as we possibly can. When did you tell the coachman to come for
us?"

"At half past ten," was the brother's reply.

"Oh! Edward, Edward!" she exclaimed, "And I dare say he will not be
punctual. He may keep us here till eleven."

"_Courage, mes enfants_," said their mother, "_et parlez plus
doucement_."

The girl then ushered them into the back parlor, saying, "Here's the
company."

The room was large and gloomy. A checquered mat covered the floor, and
all the furniture was encased in striped calico covers, and the lamps,
mirrors, etc. concealed under green gauze. The front parlor was
entirely dark, and in the back apartment was no other light than a
shaded lamp on a large centre table, round which was assembled a
circle of children of all sizes and ages. On a backless, cushionless
sofa sat Mrs. Watkinson, and a young lady, whom she introduced as her
daughter Jane. And Mrs. Morland in return presented Edward and
Caroline.

"Will you take the rocking-chair, ma'am?" inquired Mrs. Watkinson.

Mrs. Morland declining the offer, the hostess took it herself, and
see-sawed on it nearly the whole time. It was a very awkward,
high-legged, crouch-backed rocking-chair, and shamefully unprovided
with anything in the form of a footstool.

"My husband is away, at Boston, on business," said Mrs. Watkinson. "I
thought at first, ma'am, I should not be able to ask you here this
evening, for it is not our way to have company in his absence; but my
daughter Jane over-persuaded me to send for you."

"What a pity," thought Caroline.

"You must take us as you find us, ma'am," continued Mrs. Watkinson.
"We use no ceremony with anybody; and our rule is never to put
ourselves out of the way. We do not give parties [looking at the
dresses of the ladies]. Our first duty is to our children, and we
cannot waste our substance on fashion and folly. They'll have cause to
thank us for it when we die."

Something like a sob was heard from the centre table, at which the
children were sitting, and a boy was seen to hold his handkerchief to
his face.

"Joseph, my child," said his mother, "do not cry. You have no idea,
ma'am, what an extraordinary boy that is. You see how the bare mention
of such a thing as our deaths has overcome him."

There was another sob behind the handkerchief, and the Morlands
thought it now sounded very much like a smothered laugh.

"As I was saying, ma'am," continued Mrs. Watkinson, "we never give
parties. We leave all sinful things to the vain and foolish. My
daughter Jane has been telling me, that she heard this morning of a
party that is going on tonight at the widow St. Leonard's. It is only
fifteen years since her husband died. He was carried off with a three
days' illness, but two months after they were married. I have had a
domestic that lived with them at the time, so I know all about it. And
there she is now, living in an elegant house, and riding in her
carriage, and dressing and dashing, and giving parties, and enjoying
life, as she calls it. Poor creature, how I pity her! Thank heaven,
nobody that I know goes to her parties. If they did I would never wish
to see them again in my house. It is an encouragement to folly and
nonsense--and folly and nonsense are sinful. Do not you think so,
ma'am?"

"If carried too far they may certainly become so," replied Mrs.
Morland.

"We have heard," said Edward, "that Mrs. St. Leonard, though one of
the ornaments of the gay world, has a kind heart, a beneficent spirit
and a liberal hand."

"I know very little about her," replied Mrs. Watkinson, drawing up her
head, "and I have not the least desire to know any more. It is well
she has no children; they'd be lost sheep if brought up in her fold.
For my part, ma'am," she continued, turning to Mrs. Morland, "I am
quite satisfied with the quiet joys of a happy home. And no mother has
the least business with any other pleasures. My innocent babes know
nothing about plays, and balls, and parties; and they never shall. Do
they look as if they had been accustomed to a life of pleasure?"

They certainly did not! for when the Morlands took a glance at them,
they thought they had never seen youthful faces that were less gay,
and indeed less prepossessing.

There was not a good feature or a pleasant expression among them all.
Edward Morland recollected his having often read "that childhood is
always lovely." But he saw that the juvenile Watkinsons were an
exception to the rule.

"The first duty of a mother is to her children," repeated Mrs.
Watkinson. "Till nine o'clock, my daughter Jane and myself are
occupied every evening in hearing the lessons that they have learned
for to-morrow's school. Before that hour we can receive no visitors,
and we never have company to tea, as that would interfere too much
with our duties. We had just finished hearing these lessons when you
arrived. Afterwards the children are permitted to indulge themselves
in rational play, for I permit no amusement that is not also
instructive. My children are so well trained, that even when alone
their sports are always serious."

Two of the boys glanced slyly at each other, with what Edward Morland
comprehended as an expression of pitch-penny and marbles.

"They are now engaged at their game of astronomy," continued Mrs.
Watkinson. "They have also a sort of geography cards, and a set of
mathematical cards. It is a blessed discovery, the invention of these
educationary games; so that even the play-time of children can be
turned to account. And you have no idea, ma'am, how they enjoy them."

Just then the boy Joseph rose from the table, and stalking up to Mrs.
Watkinson, said to her, "Mamma, please to whip me."

At this unusual request the visitors looked much amazed, and Mrs.
Watkinson replied to him, "Whip you, my best Joseph--for what cause? I
have not seen you do anything wrong this evening, and you know my
anxiety induces me to watch my children all the time."

"You could not see me," answered Joseph, "for I have not _done_
anything very wrong. But I have had a bad thought, and you know Mr.
Ironrule says that a fault imagined is just as wicked as a fault
committed."

"You see, ma'am, what a good memory he has," said Mrs. Watkinson aside
to Mrs. Morland. "But my best Joseph, you make your mother tremble.
What fault have you imagined? What was your bad thought?"

"Ay," said another boy, "what's your thought like?"

"My thought," said Joseph, "was 'Confound all astronomy, and I could
see the man hanged that made this game.'"

"Oh! my child," exclaimed the mother, stopping her ears, "I am indeed
shocked. I am glad you repented so immediately."

"Yes," returned Joseph, "but I am afraid my repentance won't last. If
I am not whipped, I may have these bad thoughts whenever I play at
astronomy, and worse still at the geography game. Whip me, ma, and
punish me as I deserve. There's the rattan in the corner: I'll bring
it to you myself."

"Excellent boy!" said his mother. "You know I always pardon my
children when they are so candid as to confess their faults."

"So you do," said Joseph, "but a whipping will cure me better."

"I cannot resolve to punish so conscientious a child," said Mrs.
Watkinson.

"Shall I take the trouble off your hands?" inquired Edward, losing all
patience in his disgust at the sanctimonious hypocrisy of this young
Blifil. "It is such a rarity for a boy to request a whipping, that so
remarkable a desire ought by all means to be gratified."

Joseph turned round and made a face at him.

"Give me the rattan," said Edward, half laughing, and offering to take
it out of his hand. "I'll use it to your full satisfaction."

The boy thought it most prudent to stride off and return to the table,
and ensconce himself among his brothers and sisters; some of whom were
staring with stupid surprise; others were whispering and giggling in
the hope of seeing Joseph get a real flogging.

Mrs. Watkinson having bestowed a bitter look on Edward, hastened to
turn the attention of his mother to something else. "Mrs. Morland,"
said she, "allow me to introduce you to my youngest hope." She pointed
to a sleepy boy about five years old, who with head thrown back and
mouth wide open, was slumbering in his chair.

Mrs. Watkinson's children were of that uncomfortable species who never
go to bed; at least never without all manner of resistance. All her
boasted authority was inadequate to compel them; they never would
confess themselves sleepy; always wanted to "sit up," and there was a
nightly scene of scolding, coaxing, threatening and manoeuvring to get
them off.

"I declare," said Mrs. Watkinson, "dear Benny is almost asleep. Shake
him up, Christopher. I want him to speak a speech. His school-mistress
takes great pains in teaching her little pupils to speak, and stands
up herself and shows them how."

The child having been shaken up hard (two or three others helping
Christopher), rubbed his eyes and began to whine. His mother went to
him, took him on her lap, hushed him up, and began to coax him. This
done, she stood him on his feet before Mrs. Morland, and desired him
to speak a speech for the company. The child put his thumb into his
mouth, and remained silent.

"Ma," said Jane Watkinson, "you had better tell him what speech to
speak."

"Speak Cato or Plato," said his mother. "Which do you call it? Come
now, Benny--how does it begin? 'You are quite right and reasonable,
Plato.' That's it."

"Speak Lucius," said his sister Jane. "Come now, Benny--say 'your
thoughts are turned on peace.'"

The little boy looked very much as if they were _not_, and as if
meditating an outbreak.

"No, no!" exclaimed Christopher, "let him say Hamlet. Come now,
Benny--'To be or not to be.'"

"It ain't to be at all," cried Benny, "and I won't speak the least bit
of it for any of you. I hate that speech!"

"Only see his obstinacy," said the solemn Joseph. "And is he to be
given up to?"

"Speak anything, Benny," said Mrs. Watkinson, "anything so that it is
only a speech."

All the Watkinson voices now began to clamor violently at the
obstinate child--"Speak a speech! speak a speech! speak a speech!" But
they had no more effect than the reiterated exhortations with which
nurses confuse the poor heads of babies, when they require them to
"shake a day-day--shake a day-day!"

Mrs. Morland now interfered, and begged that the sleepy little boy
might be excused; on which he screamed out that "he wasn't sleepy at
all, and would not go to bed ever."

"I never knew any of my children behave so before," said Mrs.
Watkinson. "They are always models of obedience, ma'am. A look is
sufficient for them. And I must say that they have in every way
profited by the education we are giving them. It is not our way,
ma'am, to waste our money in parties and fooleries, and fine furniture
and fine clothes, and rich food, and all such abominations. Our first
duty is to our children, and to make them learn everything that is
taught in the schools. If they go wrong, it will not be for want of
education. Hester, my dear, come and talk to Miss Morland in French."

Hester (unlike her little brother that would not speak a speech)
stepped boldly forward, and addressed Caroline Morland with:
"_Parlez-vous Français, mademoiselle? Comment se va madame votre mère?
Aimez-vous la musique? Aimez-vous la danse? Bon jour--bon soir--bon
repos. Comprenez-vous?_"

To this tirade, uttered with great volubility, Miss Morland made no
other reply than, "_Oui--je comprens._"

"Very well, Hester--very well indeed," said Mrs. Watkinson. "You see,
ma'am," turning to Mrs. Morland, "how very fluent she is in French;
and she has only been learning eleven quarters."

After considerable whispering between Jane and her mother, the former
withdrew, and sent in by the Irish girl a waiter with a basket of soda
biscuit, a pitcher of water, and some glasses. Mrs. Watkinson invited
her guests to consider themselves at home and help themselves freely,
saying: "We never let cakes, sweetmeats, confectionery, or any such
things enter the house, as they would be very unwholesome for the
children, and it would be sinful to put temptation in their way. I am
sure, ma'am, you will agree with me that the plainest food is the best
for everybody. People that want nice things may go to parties for
them; but they will never get any with me."

When the collation was over, and every child provided with a biscuit,
Mrs. Watkinson said to Mrs. Morland: "Now, ma'am, you shall have some
music from my daughter Jane, who is one of Mr. Bangwhanger's best
scholars."

Jane Watkinson sat down to the piano and commenced a powerful piece of
six mortal pages, which she played out of time and out of tune; but
with tremendous force of hands; notwithstanding which, it had,
however, the good effect of putting most of the children to sleep.

To the Morlands the evening had seemed already five hours long. Still
it was only half past ten when Jane was in the midst of her piece. The
guests had all tacitly determined that it would be best not to let
Mrs. Watkinson know their intention to go directly from her house to
Mrs. St. Leonard's party; and the arrival of their carriage would have
been the signal of departure, even if Jane's piece had not reached its
termination. They stole glances at the clock on the mantel. It wanted
but a quarter of eleven, when Jane rose from the piano, and was
congratulated by her mother on the excellence of her music. Still no
carriage was heard to stop; no doorbell was heard to ring. Mrs.
Morland expressed her fears that the coachman had forgotten to come
for them.

"Has he been paid for bringing you here?" asked Mrs. Watkinson.

"I paid him when we came to the door," said Edward. "I thought perhaps
he might want the money for some purpose before he came for us."

"That was very kind in you, sir," said Mrs. Watkinson, "but not very
wise. There's no dependence on any coachman; and perhaps as he may be
sure of business enough this rainy night he may never come at
all--being already paid for bringing you here."

Now, the truth was that the coachman _had_ come at the appointed time,
but the noise of Jane's piano had prevented his arrival being heard in
the back parlor. The Irish girl had gone to the door when he rang the
bell, and recognized in him what she called "an ould friend." Just
then a lady and gentleman who had been caught in the rain came running
along, and seeing a carriage drawing up at a door, the gentleman
inquired of the driver if he could not take them to Rutgers Place. The
driver replied that he had just come for two ladies and a gentleman
whom he had brought from the Astor House.

"Indeed and Patrick," said the girl who stood at the door, "if I was
you I'd be after making another penny to-night. Miss Jane is pounding
away at one of her long music pieces, and it won't be over before you
have time to get to Rutgers and back again. And if you do make them
wait awhile, where's the harm? They've a dry roof over their heads,
and I warrant it's not the first waiting they've ever had in their
lives; and it won't be the last neither."

"Exactly so," said the gentleman; and regardless of the propriety of
first sending to consult the persons who had engaged the carriage, he
told his wife to step in, and following her instantly himself, they
drove away to Rutgers Place.

Reader, if you were ever detained in a strange house by the
non-arrival of your carriage, you will easily understand the excessive
annoyance of finding that you are keeping a family out of their beds
beyond their usual hour. And in this case, there was a double
grievance; the guests being all impatience to get off to a better
place. The children, all crying when wakened from their sleep, were
finally taken to bed by two servant maids, and Jane Watkinson, who
never came back again. None were left but Hester, the great French
scholar, who, being one of those young imps that seem to have the
faculty of living without sleep, sat bolt upright with her eyes wide
open, watching the uncomfortable visitors.

The Morlands felt as if they could bear it no longer, and Edward
proposed sending for another carriage to the nearest livery stable.

"We don't keep a man now," said Mrs. Watkinson, who sat nodding in the
rocking-chair, attempting now and then a snatch of conversation, and
saying "ma'am" still more frequently than usual. "Men servants are
dreadful trials, ma'am, and we gave them up three years ago. And I
don't know how Mary or Katy are to go out this stormy night in search
of a livery stable."

"On no consideration could I allow the women to do so," replied
Edward. "If you will oblige me by the loan of an umbrella, I will go
myself."

Accordingly he set out on this business, but was unsuccessful at two
livery stables, the carriages being all out. At last he found one, and
was driven in it to Mr. Watkinson's house, where his mother and sister
were awaiting him, all quite ready, with their calashes and shawls on.
They gladly took their leave; Mrs. Watkinson rousing herself to hope
they had spent a pleasant evening, and that they would come and pass
another with her on their return to New York. In such cases how
difficult it is to reply even with what are called "words of course."

A kitchen lamp was brought to light them to the door, the entry lamp
having long since been extinguished. Fortunately the rain had ceased;
the stars began to reappear, and the Morlands, when they found
themselves in the carriage and on their way to Mrs. St. Leonard's,
felt as if they could breathe again. As may be supposed, they freely
discussed the annoyances of the evening; but now those troubles were
over they felt rather inclined to be merry about them.

"Dear mother," said Edward, "how I pitied you for having to endure
Mrs. Watkinson's perpetual 'ma'aming' and 'ma'aming'; for I know you
dislike the word."

"I wish," said Caroline, "I was not so prone to be taken with
ridiculous recollections. But really to-night I could not get that old
foolish child's play out of my head--

  Here come three knights out of Spain
  A-courting of your daughter Jane."

"_I_ shall certainly never be one of those Spanish knights," said
Edward. "Her daughter Jane is in no danger of being ruled by any
'flattering tongue' of mine. But what a shame for us to be talking of
them in this manner."

They drove to Mrs. St. Leonard's, hoping to be yet in time to pass
half an hour there; though it was now near twelve o'clock and summer
parties never continue to a very late hour. But as they came into the
street in which she lived they were met by a number of coaches on
their way home, and on reaching the door of her brilliantly lighted
mansion, they saw the last of the guests driving off in the last of
the carriages, and several musicians coming down the steps with their
instruments in their hands.

"So there _has_ been a dance, then!" sighed Caroline. "Oh, what we
have missed! It is really too provoking."

"So it is," said Edward; "but remember that to-morrow morning we set
off for Niagara."

"I will leave a note for Mrs. St. Leonard," said his mother,
"explaining that we were detained at Mrs. Watkinson's by our coachman
disappointing us. Let us console ourselves with the hope of seeing
more of this lady on our return. And now, dear Caroline, you must draw
a moral from the untoward events of to-day. When you are mistress of a
house, and wish to show civility to strangers, let the invitation be
always accompanied with a frank disclosure of what they are to expect.
And if you cannot conveniently invite company to meet them, tell them
at once that you will not insist on their keeping their engagement
with _you_ if anything offers afterwards that they think they would
prefer; provided only that they apprize you in time of the change in
their plan."

"Oh, mamma," replied Caroline, "you may be sure I shall always take
care not to betray my visitors into an engagement which they may have
cause to regret, particularly if they are strangers whose time is
limited. I shall certainly, as you say, tell them not to consider
themselves bound to me if they afterwards receive an invitation which
promises them more enjoyment. It will be a long while before I forget,
the Watkinson evening."



TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES

BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS (1824-1892)

[From _Putnam's Monthly_, December, 1854. Republished in the volume,
_Prue and I_ (1856), by George William Curtis (Harper & Brothers).]

In my mind's eye, Horatio.

Prue and I do not entertain much; our means forbid it. In truth, other
people entertain for us. We enjoy that hospitality of which no account
is made. We see the show, and hear the music, and smell the flowers of
great festivities, tasting as it were the drippings from rich dishes.
Our own dinner service is remarkably plain, our dinners, even on state
occasions, are strictly in keeping, and almost our only guest is
Titbottom. I buy a handful of roses as I come up from the office,
perhaps, and Prue arranges them so prettily in a glass dish for the
centre of the table that even when I have hurried out to see Aurelia
step into her carriage to go out to dine, I have thought that the
bouquet she carried was not more beautiful because it was more costly.
I grant that it was more harmonious with her superb beauty and her
rich attire. And I have no doubt that if Aurelia knew the old man,
whom she must have seen so often watching her, and his wife, who
ornaments her sex with as much sweetness, although with less splendor,
than Aurelia herself, she would also acknowledge that the nosegay of
roses was as fine and fit upon their table as her own sumptuous
bouquet is for herself. I have that faith in the perception of that
lovely lady. It is at least my habit--I hope I may say, my nature, to
believe the best of people, rather than the worst. If I thought that
all this sparkling setting of beauty--this fine fashion--these blazing
jewels and lustrous silks and airy gauzes, embellished with
gold-threaded embroidery and wrought in a thousand exquisite
elaborations, so that I cannot see one of those lovely girls pass me
by without thanking God for the vision--if I thought that this was
all, and that underneath her lace flounces and diamond bracelets
Aurelia was a sullen, selfish woman, then I should turn sadly
homewards, for I should see that her jewels were flashing scorn upon
the object they adorned, and that her laces were of a more exquisite
loveliness than the woman whom they merely touched with a superficial
grace. It would be like a gaily decorated mausoleum--bright to see,
but silent and dark within.

"Great excellences, my dear Prue," I sometimes allow myself to say,
"lie concealed in the depths of character, like pearls at the bottom
of the sea. Under the laughing, glancing surface, how little they are
suspected! Perhaps love is nothing else than the sight of them by one
person. Hence every man's mistress is apt to be an enigma to everybody
else. I have no doubt that when Aurelia is engaged, people will say
that she is a most admirable girl, certainly; but they cannot
understand why any man should be in love with her. As if it were at
all necessary that they should! And her lover, like a boy who finds a
pearl in the public street, and wonders as much that others did not
see it as that he did, will tremble until he knows his passion is
returned; feeling, of course, that the whole world must be in love
with this paragon who cannot possibly smile upon anything so unworthy
as he."

"I hope, therefore, my dear Mrs. Prue," I continue to say to my wife,
who looks up from her work regarding me with pleased pride, as if I
were such an irresistible humorist, "you will allow me to believe that
the depth may be calm although the surface is dancing. If you tell me
that Aurelia is but a giddy girl, I shall believe that you think so.
But I shall know, all the while, what profound dignity, and sweetness,
and peace lie at the foundation of her character."

I say such things to Titbottom during the dull season at the office.
And I have known him sometimes to reply with a kind of dry, sad humor,
not as if he enjoyed the joke, but as if the joke must be made, that
he saw no reason why I should be dull because the season was so.

"And what do I know of Aurelia or any other girl?" he says to me with
that abstracted air. "I, whose Aurelias were of another century and
another zone."

Then he falls into a silence which it seems quite profane to
interrupt. But as we sit upon our high stools at the desk opposite
each other, I leaning upon my elbows and looking at him; he, with
sidelong face, glancing out of the window, as if it commanded a
boundless landscape, instead of a dim, dingy office court, I cannot
refrain from saying:

"Well!"

He turns slowly, and I go chatting on--a little too loquacious,
perhaps, about those young girls. But I know that Titbottom regards
such an excess as venial, for his sadness is so sweet that you could
believe it the reflection of a smile from long, long years ago.

One day, after I had been talking for a long time, and we had put up
our books, and were preparing to leave, he stood for some time by the
window, gazing with a drooping intentness, as if he really saw
something more than the dark court, and said slowly:

"Perhaps you would have different impressions of things if you saw
them through my spectacles."

There was no change in his expression. He still looked from the
window, and I said:

"Titbottom, I did not know that you used glasses. I have never seen
you wearing spectacles."

"No, I don't often wear them. I am not very fond of looking through
them. But sometimes an irresistible necessity compels me to put them
on, and I cannot help seeing." Titbottom sighed.

"Is it so grievous a fate, to see?" inquired I.

"Yes; through my spectacles," he said, turning slowly and looking at
me with wan solemnity.

It grew dark as we stood in the office talking, and taking our hats we
went out together. The narrow street of business was deserted. The
heavy iron shutters were gloomily closed over the windows. From one or
two offices struggled the dim gleam of an early candle, by whose light
some perplexed accountant sat belated, and hunting for his error. A
careless clerk passed, whistling. But the great tide of life had
ebbed. We heard its roar far away, and the sound stole into that
silent street like the murmur of the ocean into an inland dell.

"You will come and dine with us, Titbottom?"

He assented by continuing to walk with me, and I think we were both
glad when we reached the house, and Prue came to meet us, saying:

"Do you know I hoped you would bring Mr. Titbottom to dine?"

Titbottom smiled gently, and answered:

"He might have brought his spectacles with him, and I have been a
happier man for it."

Prue looked a little puzzled.

"My dear," I said, "you must know that our friend, Mr. Titbottom, is
the happy possessor of a pair of wonderful spectacles. I have never
seen them, indeed; and, from what he says, I should be rather afraid
of being seen by them. Most short-sighted persons are very glad to
have the help of glasses; but Mr. Titbottom seems to find very little
pleasure in his."

"It is because they make him too far-sighted, perhaps," interrupted
Prue quietly, as she took the silver soup-ladle from the sideboard.

We sipped our wine after dinner, and Prue took her work. Can a man be
too far-sighted? I did not ask the question aloud. The very tone in
which Prue had spoken convinced me that he might.

"At least," I said, "Mr. Titbottom will not refuse to tell us the
history of his mysterious spectacles. I have known plenty of magic in
eyes"--and I glanced at the tender blue eyes of Prue--"but I have not
heard of any enchanted glasses."

"Yet you must have seen the glass in which your wife looks every
morning, and I take it that glass must be daily enchanted." said
Titbottom, with a bow of quaint respect to my wife.

I do not think I have seen such a blush upon Prue's cheek since--well,
since a great many years ago.

"I will gladly tell you the history of my spectacles," began
Titbottom. "It is very simple; and I am not at all sure that a great
many other people have not a pair of the same kind. I have never,
indeed, heard of them by the gross, like those of our young friend,
Moses, the son of the Vicar of Wakefield. In fact, I think a gross
would be quite enough to supply the world. It is a kind of article for
which the demand does not increase with use. If we should all wear
spectacles like mine, we should never smile any more. Oh--I am not
quite sure--we should all be very happy."

"A very important difference," said Prue, counting her stitches.

"You know my grandfather Titbottom was a West Indian. A large
proprietor, and an easy man, he basked in the tropical sun, leading
his quiet, luxurious life. He lived much alone, and was what people
call eccentric, by which I understand that he was very much himself,
and, refusing the influence of other people, they had their little
revenges, and called him names. It is a habit not exclusively
tropical. I think I have seen the same thing even in this city. But he
was greatly beloved--my bland and bountiful grandfather. He was so
large-hearted and open-handed. He was so friendly, and thoughtful, and
genial, that even his jokes had the air of graceful benedictions. He
did not seem to grow old, and he was one of those who never appear to
have been very young. He flourished in a perennial maturity, an
immortal middle-age.

"My grandfather lived upon one of the small islands, St. Kit's,
perhaps, and his domain extended to the sea. His house, a rambling
West Indian mansion, was surrounded with deep, spacious piazzas,
covered with luxurious lounges, among which one capacious chair was
his peculiar seat. They tell me he used sometimes to sit there for the
whole day, his great, soft, brown eyes fastened upon the sea, watching
the specks of sails that flashed upon the horizon, while the
evanescent expressions chased each other over his placid face, as if
it reflected the calm and changing sea before him. His morning costume
was an ample dressing-gown of gorgeously flowered silk, and his
morning was very apt to last all day.

"He rarely read, but he would pace the great piazza for hours, with
his hands sunken in the pockets of his dressing-gown, and an air of
sweet reverie, which any author might be very happy to produce.

"Society, of course, he saw little. There was some slight apprehension
that if he were bidden to social entertainments he might forget his
coat, or arrive without some other essential part of his dress; and
there is a sly tradition in the Titbottom family that, having been
invited to a ball in honor of the new governor of the island, my
grandfather Titbottom sauntered into the hall towards midnight,
wrapped in the gorgeous flowers of his dressing-gown, and with his
hands buried in the pockets, as usual. There was great excitement, and
immense deprecation of gubernatorial ire. But it happened that the
governor and my grandfather were old friends, and there was no
offense. But as they were conversing together, one of the distressed
managers cast indignant glances at the brilliant costume of my
grandfather, who summoned him, and asked courteously:

"'Did you invite me or my coat?'

"'You, in a proper coat,' replied the manager.

"The governor smiled approvingly, and looked at my grandfather.

"'My friend," said he to the manager, 'I beg your pardon, I forgot.'

"The next day my grandfather was seen promenading in full ball dress
along the streets of the little town.

"'They ought to know,' said he, 'that I have a proper coat, and that
not contempt nor poverty, but forgetfulness, sent me to a ball in my
dressing-gown.'

"He did not much frequent social festivals after this failure, but he
always told the story with satisfaction and a quiet smile.

"To a stranger, life upon those little islands is uniform even to
weariness. But the old native dons like my grandfather ripen in the
prolonged sunshine, like the turtle upon the Bahama banks, nor know of
existence more desirable. Life in the tropics I take to be a placid
torpidity. During the long, warm mornings of nearly half a century, my
grandfather Titbottom had sat in his dressing-gown and gazed at the
sea. But one calm June day, as he slowly paced the piazza after
breakfast, his dreamy glance was arrested by a little vessel,
evidently nearing the shore. He called for his spyglass, and surveying
the craft, saw that she came from the neighboring island. She glided
smoothly, slowly, over the summer sea. The warm morning air was sweet
with perfumes, and silent with heat. The sea sparkled languidly, and
the brilliant blue hung cloudlessly over. Scores of little island
vessels had my grandfather seen come over the horizon, and cast anchor
in the port. Hundreds of summer mornings had the white sails flashed
and faded, like vague faces through forgotten dreams. But this time he
laid down the spyglass, and leaned against a column of the piazza, and
watched the vessel with an intentness that he could not explain. She
came nearer and nearer, a graceful spectre in the dazzling morning.

"'Decidedly I must step down and see about that vessel,' said my
grandfather Titbottom.

"He gathered his ample dressing-gown about him, and stepped from the
piazza with no other protection from the sun than the little smoking
cap upon his head. His face wore a calm, beaming smile, as if he
approved of all the world. He was not an old man, but there was almost
a patriarchal pathos in his expression as he sauntered along in the
sunshine towards the shore. A group of idle gazers was collected to
watch the arrival. The little vessel furled her sails and drifted
slowly landward, and as she was of very light draft, she came close to
the shelving shore. A long plank was put out from her side, and the
debarkation commenced. My grandfather Titbottom stood looking on to
see the passengers descend. There were but a few of them, and mostly
traders from the neighboring island. But suddenly the face of a young
girl appeared over the side of the vessel, and she stepped upon the
plank to descend. My grandfather Titbottom instantly advanced, and
moving briskly reached the top of the plank at the same moment, and
with the old tassel of his cap flashing in the sun, and one hand in
the pocket of his dressing gown, with the other he handed the young
lady carefully down the plank. That young lady was afterwards my
grandmother Titbottom.

"And so, over the gleaming sea which he had watched so long, and which
seemed thus to reward his patient gaze, came his bride that sunny
morning.

"'Of course we are happy,' he used to say: 'For you are the gift of
the sun I have loved so long and so well.' And my grandfather
Titbottom would lay his hand so tenderly upon the golden hair of his
young bride, that you could fancy him a devout Parsee caressing
sunbeams.

"There were endless festivities upon occasion of the marriage; and my
grandfather did not go to one of them in his dressing-gown. The gentle
sweetness of his wife melted every heart into love and sympathy. He
was much older than she, without doubt. But age, as he used to say
with a smile of immortal youth, is a matter of feeling, not of years.
And if, sometimes, as she sat by his side upon the piazza, her fancy
looked through her eyes upon that summer sea and saw a younger lover,
perhaps some one of those graceful and glowing heroes who occupy the
foreground of all young maidens' visions by the sea, yet she could not
find one more generous and gracious, nor fancy one more worthy and
loving than my grandfather Titbottom. And if in the moonlit midnight,
while he lay calmly sleeping, she leaned out of the window and sank
into vague reveries of sweet possibility, and watched the gleaming
path of the moonlight upon the water, until the dawn glided over
it--it was only that mood of nameless regret and longing, which
underlies all human happiness,--or it was the vision of that life of
society, which she had never seen, but of which she had often read,
and which looked very fair and alluring across the sea to a girlish
imagination which knew that it should never know that reality.

"These West Indian years were the great days of the family," said
Titbottom, with an air of majestic and regal regret, pausing and
musing in our little parlor, like a late Stuart in exile, remembering
England. Prue raised her eyes from her work, and looked at him with a
subdued admiration; for I have observed that, like the rest of her
sex, she has a singular sympathy with the representative of a reduced
family. Perhaps it is their finer perception which leads these
tender-hearted women to recognize the divine right of social
superiority so much more readily than we; and yet, much as Titbottom
was enhanced in my wife's admiration by the discovery that his dusky
sadness of nature and expression was, as it were, the expiring gleam
and late twilight of ancestral splendors, I doubt if Mr. Bourne would
have preferred him for bookkeeper a moment sooner upon that account.
In truth, I have observed, down town, that the fact of your ancestors
doing nothing is not considered good proof that you can do anything.
But Prue and her sex regard sentiment more than action, and I
understand easily enough why she is never tired of hearing me read of
Prince Charlie. If Titbottom had been only a little younger, a little
handsomer, a little more gallantly dressed--in fact, a little more of
the Prince Charlie, I am sure her eyes would not have fallen again
upon her work so tranquilly, as he resumed his story.

"I can remember my grandfather Titbottom, although I was a very young
child, and he was a very old man. My young mother and my young
grandmother are very distinct figures in my memory, ministering to the
old gentleman, wrapped in his dressing-gown, and seated upon the
piazza. I remember his white hair and his calm smile, and how, not
long before he died, he called me to him, and laying his hand upon my
head, said to me:

"My child, the world is not this great sunny piazza, nor life the
fairy stories which the women tell you here as you sit in their laps.
I shall soon be gone, but I want to leave with you some memento of my
love for you, and I know nothing more valuable than these spectacles,
which your grandmother brought from her native island, when she
arrived here one fine summer morning, long ago. I cannot quite tell
whether, when you grow older, you will regard it as a gift of the
greatest value or as something that you had been happier never to have
possessed.'

"'But grandpapa, I am not short-sighted.'

"'My son, are you not human?' said the old gentleman; and how shall I
ever forget the thoughtful sadness with which, at the same time he
handed me the spectacles.

"Instinctively I put them on, and looked at my grandfather. But I saw
no grandfather, no piazza, no flowered dressing-gown: I saw only a
luxuriant palm-tree, waving broadly over a tranquil landscape.
Pleasant homes clustered around it. Gardens teeming with fruit and
flowers; flocks quietly feeding; birds wheeling and chirping. I heard
children's voices, and the low lullaby of happy mothers. The sound of
cheerful singing came wafted from distant fields upon the light
breeze. Golden harvests glistened out of sight, and I caught their
rustling whisper of prosperity. A warm, mellow atmosphere bathed the
whole. I have seen copies of the landscapes of the Italian painter
Claude which seemed to me faint reminiscences of that calm and happy
vision. But all this peace and prosperity seemed to flow from the
spreading palm as from a fountain.

"I do not know how long I looked, but I had, apparently, no power, as
I had no will, to remove the spectacles. What a wonderful island must
Nevis be, thought I, if people carry such pictures in their pockets,
only by buying a pair of spectacles! What wonder that my dear
grandmother Titbottom has lived such a placid life, and has blessed us
all with her sunny temper, when she has lived surrounded by such
images of peace.

"My grandfather died. But still, in the warm morning sunshine upon the
piazza, I felt his placid presence, and as I crawled into his great
chair, and drifted on in reverie through the still, tropical day, it
was as if his soft, dreamy eye had passed into my soul. My grandmother
cherished his memory with tender regret. A violent passion of grief
for his loss was no more possible than for the pensive decay of the
year. We have no portrait of him, but I see always, when I remember
him, that peaceful and luxuriant palm. And I think that to have known
one good old man--one man who, through the chances and rubs of a long
life, has carried his heart in his hand, like a palm branch, waving
all discords into peace, helps our faith in God, in ourselves, and in
each other, more than many sermons. I hardly know whether to be
grateful to my grandfather for the spectacles; and yet when I remember
that it is to them I owe the pleasant image of him which I cherish, I
seem to myself sadly ungrateful.

"Madam," said Titbottom to Prue, solemnly, "my memory is a long and
gloomy gallery, and only remotely, at its further end, do I see the
glimmer of soft sunshine, and only there are the pleasant pictures
hung. They seem to me very happy along whose gallery the sunlight
streams to their very feet, striking all the pictured walls into
unfading splendor."

Prue had laid her work in her lap, and as Titbottom paused a moment,
and I turned towards her, I found her mild eyes fastened upon my face,
and glistening with happy tears.

"Misfortunes of many kinds came heavily upon the family after the head
was gone. The great house was relinquished. My parents were both dead,
and my grandmother had entire charge of me. But from the moment that I
received the gift of the spectacles, I could not resist their
fascination, and I withdrew into myself, and became a solitary boy.
There were not many companions for me of my own age, and they
gradually left me, or, at least, had not a hearty sympathy with me;
for if they teased me I pulled out my spectacles and surveyed them so
seriously that they acquired a kind of awe of me, and evidently
regarded my grandfather's gift as a concealed magical weapon which
might be dangerously drawn upon them at any moment. Whenever, in our
games, there were quarrels and high words, and I began to feel about
my dress and to wear a grave look, they all took the alarm, and
shouted, 'Look out for Titbottom's spectacles,' and scattered like a
flock of scared sheep.

"Nor could I wonder at it. For, at first, before they took the alarm,
I saw strange sights when I looked at them through the glasses. If two
were quarrelling about a marble or a ball, I had only to go behind a
tree where I was concealed and look at them leisurely. Then the scene
changed, and no longer a green meadow with boys playing, but a spot
which I did not recognize, and forms that made me shudder or smile. It
was not a big boy bullying a little one, but a young wolf with
glistening teeth and a lamb cowering before him; or, it was a dog
faithful and famishing--or a star going slowly into eclipse--or a
rainbow fading--or a flower blooming--or a sun rising--or a waning
moon. The revelations of the spectacles determined my feeling for the
boys, and for all whom I saw through them. No shyness, nor
awkwardness, nor silence, could separate me from those who looked
lovely as lilies to my illuminated eyes. If I felt myself warmly drawn
to any one I struggled with the fierce desire of seeing him through
the spectacles. I longed to enjoy the luxury of ignorant feeling, to
love without knowing, to float like a leaf upon the eddies of life,
drifted now to a sunny point, now to a solemn shade--now over
glittering ripples, now over gleaming calms,--and not to determined
ports, a trim vessel with an inexorable rudder.

"But, sometimes, mastered after long struggles, I seized my spectacles
and sauntered into the little town. Putting them to my eyes I peered
into the houses and at the people who passed me. Here sat a family at
breakfast, and I stood at the window looking in. O motley meal!
fantastic vision! The good mother saw her lord sitting opposite, a
grave, respectable being, eating muffins. But I saw only a bank-bill,
more or less crumpled and tattered, marked with a larger or lesser
figure. If a sharp wind blew suddenly, I saw it tremble and flutter;
it was thin, flat, impalpable. I removed my glasses, and looked with
my eyes at the wife. I could have smiled to see the humid tenderness
with which she regarded her strange _vis-à-vis_. Is life only a game
of blind-man's-buff? of droll cross-purposes?

"Or I put them on again, and looked at the wife. How many stout trees
I saw,--how many tender flowers,--how many placid pools; yes, and how
many little streams winding out of sight, shrinking before the large,
hard, round eyes opposite, and slipping off into solitude and shade,
with a low, inner song for their own solace. And in many houses I
thought to see angels, nymphs, or at least, women, and could only find
broomsticks, mops, or kettles, hurrying about, rattling, tinkling, in
a state of shrill activity. I made calls upon elegant ladies, and
after I had enjoyed the gloss of silk and the delicacy of lace, and
the flash of jewels, I slipped on my spectacles, and saw a peacock's
feather, flounced and furbelowed and fluttering; or an iron rod, thin,
sharp, and hard; nor could I possibly mistake the movement of the
drapery for any flexibility of the thing draped,--or, mysteriously
chilled, I saw a statue of perfect form, or flowing movement, it might
be alabaster, or bronze, or marble,--but sadly often it was ice; and I
knew that after it had shone a little, and frozen a few eyes with its
despairing perfection, it could not be put away in the niches of
palaces for ornament and proud family tradition, like the alabaster,
or bronze, or marble statues, but would melt, and shrink, and fall
coldly away in colorless and useless water, be absorbed in the earth
and utterly forgotten.

"But the true sadness was rather in seeing those who, not having the
spectacles, thought that the iron rod was flexible, and the ice statue
warm. I saw many a gallant heart, which seemed to me brave and loyal
as the crusaders sent by genuine and noble faith to Syria and the
sepulchre, pursuing, through days and nights, and a long life of
devotion, the hope of lighting at least a smile in the cold eyes, if
not a fire in the icy heart. I watched the earnest, enthusiastic
sacrifice. I saw the pure resolve, the generous faith, the fine scorn
of doubt, the impatience of suspicion. I watched the grace, the ardor,
the glory of devotion. Through those strange spectacles how often I
saw the noblest heart renouncing all other hope, all other ambition,
all other life, than the possible love of some one of those statues.
Ah! me, it was terrible, but they had not the love to give. The Parian
face was so polished and smooth, because there was no sorrow upon the
heart,--and, drearily often, no heart to be touched. I could not
wonder that the noble heart of devotion was broken, for it had dashed
itself against a stone. I wept, until my spectacles were dimmed for
that hopeless sorrow; but there was a pang beyond tears for those icy
statues.

"Still a boy, I was thus too much a man in knowledge,--I did not
comprehend the sights I was compelled to see. I used to tear my
glasses away from my eyes, and, frightened at myself, run to escape my
own consciousness. Reaching the small house where we then lived, I
plunged into my grandmother's room and, throwing myself upon the
floor, buried my face in her lap; and sobbed myself to sleep with
premature grief. But when I awakened, and felt her cool hand upon my
hot forehead, and heard the low, sweet song, or the gentle story, or
the tenderly told parable from the Bible, with which she tried to
soothe me, I could not resist the mystic fascination that lured me, as
I lay in her lap, to steal a glance at her through the spectacles.

"Pictures of the Madonna have not her rare and pensive beauty. Upon
the tranquil little islands her life had been eventless, and all the
fine possibilities of her nature were like flowers that never bloomed.
Placid were all her years; yet I have read of no heroine, of no woman
great in sudden crises, that it did not seem to me she might have
been. The wife and widow of a man who loved his own home better than
the homes of others, I have yet heard of no queen, no belle, no
imperial beauty, whom in grace, and brilliancy, and persuasive
courtesy, she might not have surpassed.

"Madam," said Titbottom to my wife, whose heart hung upon his story;
"your husband's young friend, Aurelia, wears sometimes a camelia in
her hair, and no diamond in the ball-room seems so costly as that
perfect flower, which women envy, and for whose least and withered
petal men sigh; yet, in the tropical solitudes of Brazil, how many a
camelia bud drops from a bush that no eye has ever seen, which, had it
flowered and been noticed, would have gilded all hearts with its
memory.

"When I stole these furtive glances at my grandmother, half fearing
that they were wrong, I saw only a calm lake, whose shores were low,
and over which the sky hung unbroken, so that the least star was
clearly reflected. It had an atmosphere of solemn twilight
tranquillity, and so completely did its unruffled surface blend with
the cloudless, star-studded sky, that, when I looked through my
spectacles at my grandmother, the vision seemed to me all heaven and
stars. Yet, as I gazed and gazed, I felt what stately cities might
well have been built upon those shores, and have flashed prosperity
over the calm, like coruscations of pearls.

"I dreamed of gorgeous fleets, silken sailed and blown by perfumed
winds, drifting over those depthless waters and through those spacious
skies. I gazed upon the twilight, the inscrutable silence, like a
God-fearing discoverer upon a new, and vast, and dim sea, bursting
upon him through forest glooms, and in the fervor of whose impassioned
gaze, a millennial and poetic world arises, and man need no longer die
to be happy.

"My companions naturally deserted me, for I had grown wearily grave
and abstracted: and, unable to resist the allurement of my spectacles,
I was constantly lost in a world, of which those companions were part,
yet of which they knew nothing. I grew cold and hard, almost morose;
people seemed to me blind and unreasonable. They did the wrong thing.
They called green, yellow; and black, white. Young men said of a girl,
'What a lovely, simple creature!' I looked, and there was only a
glistening wisp of straw, dry and hollow. Or they said, 'What a cold,
proud beauty!' I looked, and lo! a Madonna, whose heart held the
world. Or they said, 'What a wild, giddy girl!' and I saw a glancing,
dancing mountain stream, pure as the virgin snows whence it flowed,
singing through sun and shade, over pearls and gold dust, slipping
along unstained by weed, or rain, or heavy foot of cattle, touching
the flowers with a dewy kiss,--a beam of grace, a happy song, a line
of light, in the dim and troubled landscape.

"My grandmother sent me to school, but I looked at the master, and saw
that he was a smooth, round ferule--or an improper noun--or a vulgar
fraction, and refused to obey him. Or he was a piece of string, a rag,
a willow-wand, and I had a contemptuous pity. But one was a well of
cool, deep water, and looking suddenly in, one day, I saw the stars.
He gave me all my schooling. With him I used to walk by the sea, and,
as we strolled and the waves plunged in long legions before us, I
looked at him through the spectacles, and as his eye dilated with the
boundless view, and his chest heaved with an impossible desire, I saw
Xerxes and his army tossing and glittering, rank upon rank, multitude
upon multitude, out of sight, but ever regularly advancing and with
the confused roar of ceaseless music, prostrating themselves in abject
homage. Or, as with arms outstretched and hair streaming on the wind,
he chanted full lines of the resounding Iliad, I saw Homer pacing the
AEgean sands in the Greek sunsets of forgotten times.

"My grandmother died, and I was thrown into the world without
resources, and with no capital but my spectacles. I tried to find
employment, but men were shy of me. There was a vague suspicion that I
was either a little crazed, or a good deal in league with the Prince
of Darkness. My companions who would persist in calling a piece of
painted muslin a fair and fragrant flower had no difficulty; success
waited for them around every corner, and arrived in every ship. I
tried to teach, for I loved children. But if anything excited my
suspicion, and, putting on my spectacles, I saw that I was fondling a
snake, or smelling at a bud with a worm in it, I sprang up in horror
and ran away; or, if it seemed to me through the glasses that a cherub
smiled upon me, or a rose was blooming in my buttonhole, then I felt
myself imperfect and impure, not fit to be leading and training what
was so essentially superior in quality to myself, and I kissed the
children and left them weeping and wondering.

"In despair I went to a great merchant on the island, and asked him to
employ me.

"'My young friend,' said he, 'I understand that you have some singular
secret, some charm, or spell, or gift, or something, I don't know
what, of which people are afraid. Now, you know, my dear,' said the
merchant, swelling up, and apparently prouder of his great stomach
than of his large fortune, 'I am not of that kind. I am not easily
frightened. You may spare yourself the pain of trying to impose upon
me. People who propose to come to time before I arrive, are accustomed
to arise very early in the morning,' said he, thrusting his thumbs in
the armholes of his waistcoat, and spreading the fingers, like two
fans, upon his bosom. 'I think I have heard something of your secret.
You have a pair of spectacles, I believe, that you value very much,
because your grandmother brought them as a marriage portion to your
grandfather. Now, if you think fit to sell me those spectacles, I will
pay you the largest market price for glasses. What do you say?'

"I told him that I had not the slightest idea of selling my
spectacles.

"'My young friend means to eat them, I suppose,' said he with a
contemptuous smile.

"I made no reply, but was turning to leave the office, when the
merchant called after me--

"'My young friend, poor people should never suffer themselves to get
into pets. Anger is an expensive luxury, in which only men of a
certain income can indulge. A pair of spectacles and a hot temper are
not the most promising capital for success in life, Master Titbottom.'

"I said nothing, but put my hand upon the door to go out, when the
merchant said more respectfully,--

"'Well, you foolish boy, if you will not sell your spectacles, perhaps
you will agree to sell the use of them to me. That is, you shall only
put them on when I direct you, and for my purposes. Hallo! you little
fool!' cried he impatiently, as he saw that I intended to make no
reply.

"But I had pulled out my spectacles, and put them on for my own
purpose, and against his direction and desire. I looked at him, and
saw a huge bald-headed wild boar, with gross chops and a leering
eye--only the more ridiculous for the high-arched, gold-bowed
spectacles, that straddled his nose. One of his fore hoofs was thrust
into the safe, where his bills payable were hived, and the other into
his pocket, among the loose change and bills there. His ears were
pricked forward with a brisk, sensitive smartness. In a world where
prize pork was the best excellence, he would have carried off all the
premiums.

"I stepped into the next office in the street, and a mild-faced,
genial man, also a large and opulent merchant, asked me my business in
such a tone, that I instantly looked through my spectacles, and saw a
land flowing with milk and honey. There I pitched my tent, and stayed
till the good man died, and his business was discontinued.

"But while there," said Titbottom, and his voice trembled away into a
sigh, "I first saw Preciosa. Spite of the spectacles, I saw Preciosa.
For days, for weeks, for months, I did not take my spectacles with me.
I ran away from them, I threw them up on high shelves, I tried to make
up my mind to throw them into the sea, or down the well. I could not,
I would not, I dared not look at Preciosa through the spectacles. It
was not possible for me deliberately to destroy them; but I awoke in
the night, and could almost have cursed my dear old grandfather for
his gift. I escaped from the office, and sat for whole days with
Preciosa. I told her the strange things I had seen with my mystic
glasses. The hours were not enough for the wild romances which I raved
in her ear. She listened, astonished and appalled. Her blue eyes
turned upon me with a sweet deprecation. She clung to me, and then
withdrew, and fled fearfully from the room. But she could not stay
away. She could not resist my voice, in whose tones burned all the
love that filled my heart and brain. The very effort to resist the
desire of seeing her as I saw everybody else, gave a frenzy and an
unnatural tension to my feeling and my manner. I sat by her side,
looking into her eyes, smoothing her hair, folding her to my heart,
which was sunken and deep--why not forever?--in that dream of peace. I
ran from her presence, and shouted, and leaped with joy, and sat the
whole night through, thrilled into happiness by the thought of her
love and loveliness, like a wind-harp, tightly strung, and answering
the airiest sigh of the breeze with music. Then came calmer days--the
conviction of deep love settled upon our lives--as after the hurrying,
heaving days of spring, comes the bland and benignant summer.

"'It is no dream, then, after all, and we are happy,' I said to her,
one day; and there came no answer, for happiness is speechless.

"We are happy then," I said to myself, "there is no excitement now.
How glad I am that I can now look at her through my spectacles."

"I feared lest some instinct should warn me to beware.
I escaped from her arms, and ran home and seized the glasses and
bounded back again to Preciosa. As I entered the room I was heated, my
head was swimming with confused apprehension, my eyes must have
glared. Preciosa was frightened, and rising from her seat, stood with
an inquiring glance of surprise in her eyes. But I was bent with
frenzy upon my purpose. I was merely aware that she was in the room. I
saw nothing else. I heard nothing. I cared for nothing, but to see her
through that magic glass, and feel at once, all the fulness of
blissful perfection which that would reveal. Preciosa stood before the
mirror, but alarmed at my wild and eager movements, unable to
distinguish what I had in my hands, and seeing me raise them suddenly
to my face, she shrieked with terror, and fell fainting upon the
floor, at the very moment that I placed the glasses before my eyes,
and beheld--myself, reflected in the mirror, before which she had been
standing.

"Dear madam," cried Titbottom, to my wife, springing up and falling
back again in his chair, pale and trembling, while Prue ran to him and
took his hand, and I poured out a glass of water--"I saw myself."

There was silence for many minutes. Prue laid her hand gently upon the
head of our guest, whose eyes were closed, and who breathed softly,
like an infant in sleeping. Perhaps, in all the long years of anguish
since that hour, no tender hand had touched his brow, nor wiped away
the damps of a bitter sorrow. Perhaps the tender, maternal fingers of
my wife soothed his weary head with the conviction that he felt the
hand of his mother playing with the long hair of her boy in the soft
West Indian morning. Perhaps it was only the natural relief of
expressing a pent-up sorrow. When he spoke again, it was with the old,
subdued tone, and the air of quaint solemnity.

"These things were matters of long, long ago, and I came to this
country soon after. I brought with me, premature age, a past of
melancholy memories, and the magic spectacles. I had become their
slave. I had nothing more to fear. Having seen myself, I was compelled
to see others, properly to understand my relations to them. The lights
that cheer the future of other men had gone out for me. My eyes were
those of an exile turned backwards upon the receding shore, and not
forwards with hope upon the ocean. I mingled with men, but with little
pleasure. There are but many varieties of a few types. I did not find
those I came to clearer sighted than those I had left behind. I heard
men called shrewd and wise, and report said they were highly
intelligent and successful. But when I looked at them through my
glasses, I found no halo of real manliness. My finest sense detected
no aroma of purity and principle; but I saw only a fungus that had
fattened and spread in a night. They all went to the theater to see
actors upon the stage. I went to see actors in the boxes, so
consummately cunning, that the others did not know they were acting,
and they did not suspect it themselves.

"Perhaps you wonder it did not make me misanthropical. My dear
friends, do not forget that I had seen myself. It made me
compassionate, not cynical. Of course I could not value highly the
ordinary standards of success and excellence. When I went to church
and saw a thin, blue, artificial flower, or a great sleepy cushion
expounding the beauty of holiness to pews full of eagles, half-eagles,
and threepences, however adroitly concealed in broadcloth and boots:
or saw an onion in an Easter bonnet weeping over the sins of Magdalen,
I did not feel as they felt who saw in all this, not only propriety,
but piety. Or when at public meetings an eel stood up on end, and
wriggled and squirmed lithely in every direction, and declared that,
for his part, he went in for rainbows and hot water--how could I help
seeing that he was still black and loved a slimy pool?

"I could not grow misanthropical when I saw in the eyes of so many who
were called old, the gushing fountains of eternal youth, and the light
of an immortal dawn, or when I saw those who were esteemed
unsuccessful and aimless, ruling a fair realm of peace and plenty,
either in themselves, or more perfectly in another--a realm and
princely possession for which they had well renounced a hopeless
search and a belated triumph. I knew one man who had been for years a
by-word for having sought the philosopher's stone. But I looked at him
through the spectacles and saw a satisfaction in concentrated
energies, and a tenacity arising from devotion to a noble dream, which
was not apparent in the youths who pitied him in the aimless
effeminacy of clubs, nor in the clever gentlemen who cracked their
thin jokes upon him over a gossiping dinner.

"And there was your neighbor over the way, who passes for a woman who
has failed in her career, because she is an old maid. People wag
solemn heads of pity, and say that she made so great a mistake in not
marrying the brilliant and famous man who was for long years her
suitor. It is clear that no orange flower will ever bloom for her. The
young people make tender romances about her as they watch her, and
think of her solitary hours of bitter regret, and wasting longing,
never to be satisfied. When I first came to town I shared this
sympathy, and pleased my imagination with fancying her hard struggle
with the conviction that she had lost all that made life beautiful. I
supposed that if I looked at her through my spectacles, I should see
that it was only her radiant temper which so illuminated her dress,
that we did not see it to be heavy sables. But when, one day, I did
raise my glasses and glanced at her, I did not see the old maid whom
we all pitied for a secret sorrow, but a woman whose nature was a
tropic, in which the sun shone, and birds sang, and flowers bloomed
forever. There were no regrets, no doubts and half wishes, but a calm
sweetness, a transparent peace. I saw her blush when that old lover
passed by, or paused to speak to her, but it was only the sign of
delicate feminine consciousness. She knew his love, and honored it,
although she could not understand it nor return it. I looked closely
at her, and I saw that although all the world had exclaimed at her
indifference to such homage, and had declared it was astonishing she
should lose so fine a match, she would only say simply and quietly--

"'If Shakespeare loved me and I did not love him, how could I marry
him?'

"Could I be misanthropical when I saw such fidelity, and dignity, and
simplicity?

"You may believe that I was especially curious to look at that old
lover of hers, through my glasses. He was no longer young, you know,
when I came, and his fame and fortune were secure. Certainly I have
heard of few men more beloved, and of none more worthy to be loved. He
had the easy manner of a man of the world, the sensitive grace of a
poet, and the charitable judgment of a wide traveller. He was
accounted the most successful and most unspoiled of men. Handsome,
brilliant, wise, tender, graceful, accomplished, rich, and famous, I
looked at him, without the spectacles, in surprise, and admiration,
and wondered how your neighbor over the way had been so entirely
untouched by his homage. I watched their intercourse in society, I saw
her gay smile, her cordial greeting; I marked his frank address, his
lofty courtesy. Their manner told no tales. The eager world was
balked, and I pulled out my spectacles.

"I had seen her, already, and now I saw him. He lived only in memory,
and his memory was a spacious and stately palace. But he did not
oftenest frequent the banqueting hall, where were endless hospitality
and feasting--nor did he loiter much in reception rooms, where a
throng of new visitors was forever swarming--nor did he feed his
vanity by haunting the apartment in which were stored the trophies of
his varied triumphs--nor dream much in the great gallery hung with
pictures of his travels. But from all these lofty halls of memory he
constantly escaped to a remote and solitary chamber, into which no one
had ever penetrated. But my fatal eyes, behind the glasses, followed
and entered with him, and saw that the chamber was a chapel. It was
dim, and silent, and sweet with perpetual incense that burned upon an
altar before a picture forever veiled. There, whenever I chanced to
look, I saw him kneel and pray; and there, by day and by night, a
funeral hymn was chanted.

"I do not believe you will be surprised that I have been content to
remain deputy bookkeeper. My spectacles regulated my ambition, and I
early learned that there were better gods than Plutus. The glasses
have lost much of their fascination now, and I do not often use them.
Sometimes the desire is irresistible. Whenever I am greatly
interested, I am compelled to take them out and see what it is that I
admire.

"And yet--and yet," said Titbottom, after a pause, "I am not sure that
I thank my grandfather."

Prue had long since laid away her work, and had heard every word of
the story. I saw that the dear woman had yet one question to ask, and
had been earnestly hoping to hear something that would spare her the
necessity of asking. But Titbottom had resumed his usual tone, after
the momentary excitement, and made no further allusion to himself. We
all sat silently; Titbottom's eyes fastened musingly upon the carpet:
Prue looking wistfully at him, and I regarding both.

It was past midnight, and our guest arose to go. He shook hands
quietly, made his grave Spanish bow to Prue, and taking his hat, went
towards the front door. Prue and I accompanied him. I saw in her eyes
that she would ask her question. And as Titbottom opened the door, I
heard the low words:

"And Preciosa?"

Titbottom paused. He had just opened the door and the moonlight
streamed over him as he stood, turning back to us.

"I have seen her but once since. It was in church, and she was
kneeling with her eyes closed, so that she did not see me. But I
rubbed the glasses well, and looked at her, and saw a white lily,
whose stem was broken, but which was fresh; and luminous, and
fragrant, still."

"That was a miracle," interrupted Prue.

"Madam, it was a miracle," replied Titbottom, "and for that one sight
I am devoutly grateful for my grandfather's gift. I saw, that although
a flower may have lost its hold upon earthly moisture, it may still
bloom as sweetly, fed by the dews of heaven."

The door closed, and he was gone. But as Prue put her arm in mine and
we went upstairs together, she whispered in my ear:

"How glad I am that you don't wear spectacles."



MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME

By Edward Everett Hale (1822-1909)

[From _The Atlantic Monthly_, September, 1859. Republished in the
volume, _The Man Without a Country, and Other Tales_ (1868), by Edward
Everett Hale (Little, Brown & Co.).]

It is not often that I trouble the readers of _The Atlantic Monthly_.
I should not trouble them now, but for the importunities of my wife,
who "feels to insist" that a duty to society is unfulfilled, till I
have told why I had to have a double, and how he undid me. She is
sure, she says, that intelligent persons cannot understand that
pressure upon public servants which alone drives any man into the
employment of a double. And while I fear she thinks, at the bottom of
her heart, that my fortunes will never be re-made, she has a faint
hope, that, as another Rasselas, I may teach a lesson to future
publics, from which they may profit, though we die. Owing to the
behavior of my double, or, if you please, to that public pressure
which compelled me to employ him, I have plenty of leisure to write
this communication.

I am, or rather was, a minister, of the Sandemanian connection. I was
settled in the active, wide-awake town of Naguadavick, on one of the
finest water-powers in Maine. We used to call it a Western town in the
heart of the civilization of New England. A charming place it was and
is. A spirited, brave young parish had I; and it seemed as if we might
have all "the joy of eventful living" to our hearts' content.

Alas! how little we knew on the day of my ordination, and in those
halcyon moments of our first housekeeping! To be the confidential
friend in a hundred families in the town--cutting the social trifle,
as my friend Haliburton says, "from the top of the whipped-syllabub to
the bottom of the sponge-cake, which is the foundation"--to keep
abreast of the thought of the age in one's study, and to do one's best
on Sunday to interweave that thought with the active life of an active
town, and to inspirit both and make both infinite by glimpses of the
Eternal Glory, seemed such an exquisite forelook into one's life!
Enough to do, and all so real and so grand! If this vision could only
have lasted.

The truth is, that this vision was not in itself a delusion, nor,
indeed, half bright enough. If one could only have been left to do his
own business, the vision would have accomplished itself and brought
out new paraheliacal visions, each as bright as the original. The
misery was and is, as we found out, I and Polly, before long, that,
besides the vision, and besides the usual human and finite failures in
life (such as breaking the old pitcher that came over in the
Mayflower, and putting into the fire the alpenstock with which her
father climbed Mont Blanc)--besides, these, I say (imitating the style
of Robinson Crusoe), there were pitchforked in on us a great
rowen-heap of humbugs, handed down from some unknown seed-time, in
which we were expected, and I chiefly, to fulfil certain public
functions before the community, of the character of those fulfilled by
the third row of supernumeraries who stand behind the Sepoys in the
spectacle of the _Cataract of the Ganges_. They were the duties, in a
word, which one performs as member of one or another social class or
subdivision, wholly distinct from what one does as A. by himself A.
What invisible power put these functions on me, it would be very hard
to tell. But such power there was and is. And I had not been at work a
year before I found I was living two lives, one real and one merely
functional--for two sets of people, one my parish, whom I loved, and
the other a vague public, for whom I did not care two straws. All this
was in a vague notion, which everybody had and has, that this second
life would eventually bring out some great results, unknown at
present, to somebody somewhere.

Crazed by this duality of life, I first read Dr. Wigan on the _Duality
of the Brain_, hoping that I could train one side of my head to do
these outside jobs, and the other to do my intimate and real duties.
For Richard Greenough once told me that, in studying for the statue of
Franklin, he found that the left side of the great man's face was
philosophic and reflective, and the right side funny and smiling. If
you will go and look at the bronze statue, you will find he has
repeated this observation there for posterity. The eastern profile is
the portrait of the statesman Franklin, the western of Poor Richard.
But Dr. Wigan does not go into these niceties of this subject, and I
failed. It was then that, on my wife's suggestion, I resolved to look
out for a Double.

I was, at first, singularly successful. We happened to be recreating
at Stafford Springs that summer. We rode out one day, for one of the
relaxations of that watering-place, to the great Monsonpon House. We
were passing through one of the large halls, when my destiny was
fulfilled! I saw my man!

He was not shaven. He had on no spectacles. He was dressed in a green
baize roundabout and faded blue overalls, worn sadly at the knee. But
I saw at once that he was of my height, five feet four and a half. He
had black hair, worn off by his hat. So have and have not I. He
stooped in walking. So do I. His hands were large, and mine.
And--choicest gift of Fate in all--he had, not "a strawberry-mark on
his left arm," but a cut from a juvenile brickbat over his right eye,
slightly affecting the play of that eyebrow. Reader, so have I!--My
fate was sealed!

A word with Mr. Holley, one of the inspectors, settled the whole
thing. It proved that this Dennis Shea was a harmless, amiable fellow,
of the class known as shiftless, who had sealed his fate by marrying a
dumb wife, who was at that moment ironing in the laundry. Before I
left Stafford, I had hired both for five years. We had applied to
Judge Pynchon, then the probate judge at Springfield, to change the
name of Dennis Shea to Frederic Ingham. We had explained to the Judge,
what was the precise truth, that an eccentric gentleman wished to
adopt Dennis under this new name into his family. It never occurred to
him that Dennis might be more than fourteen years old. And thus, to
shorten this preface, when we returned at night to my parsonage at
Naguadavick, there entered Mrs. Ingham, her new dumb laundress,
myself, who am Mr. Frederic Ingham, and my double, who was Mr.
Frederic Ingham by as good right as I.

Oh, the fun we had the next morning in shaving his beard to my
pattern, cutting his hair to match mine, and teaching him how to wear
and how to take off gold-bowed spectacles! Really, they were
electroplate, and the glass was plain (for the poor fellow's eyes were
excellent). Then in four successive afternoons I taught him four
speeches. I had found these would be quite enough for the
supernumerary-Sepoy line of life, and it was well for me they were.
For though he was good-natured, he was very shiftless, and it was, as
our national proverb says, "like pulling teeth" to teach him. But at
the end of the next week he could say, with quite my easy and frisky
air:

1. "Very well, thank you. And you?" This for an answer to casual
salutations.

2. "I am very glad you liked it."

3. "There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that
I will not occupy the time."

4. "I agree, in general, with my friend on the other side of the
room."

At first I had a feeling that I was going to be at great cost for
clothing him. But it proved, of course, at once, that, whenever he was
out, I should be at home. And I went, during the bright period of his
success, to so few of those awful pageants which require a black
dress-coat and what the ungodly call, after Mr. Dickens, a white
choker, that in the happy retreat of my own dressing-gowns and jackets
my days went by as happily and cheaply as those of another Thalaba.
And Polly declares there was never a year when the tailoring cost so
little. He lived (Dennis, not Thalaba) in his wife's room over the
kitchen. He had orders never to show himself at that window. When he
appeared in the front of the house, I retired to my sanctissimum and
my dressing-gown. In short, the Dutchman and, his wife, in the old
weather-box, had not less to do with, each other than he and I. He
made the furnace-fire and split the wood before daylight; then he went
to sleep again, and slept late; then came for orders, with a red silk
bandanna tied round his head, with his overalls on, and his dress-coat
and spectacles off. If we happened to be interrupted, no one guessed
that he was Frederic Ingham as well as I; and, in the neighborhood,
there grew up an impression that the minister's Irishman worked
day-times in the factory village at New Coventry. After I had given
him his orders, I never saw him till the next day.

I launched him by sending him to a meeting of the Enlightenment Board.
The Enlightenment Board consists of seventy-four members, of whom
sixty-seven are necessary to form a quorum. One becomes a member under
the regulations laid down in old Judge Dudley's will. I became one by
being ordained pastor of a church in Naguadavick. You see you cannot
help yourself, if you would. At this particular time we had had four
successive meetings, averaging four hours each--wholly occupied in
whipping in a quorum. At the first only eleven men were present; at
the next, by force of three circulars, twenty-seven; at the third,
thanks to two days' canvassing by Auchmuty and myself, begging men to
come, we had sixty. Half the others were in Europe. But without a
quorum we could do nothing. All the rest of us waited grimly for our
four hours, and adjourned without any action. At the fourth meeting we
had flagged, and only got fifty-nine together. But on the first
appearance of my double--whom I sent on this fatal Monday to the fifth
meeting--he was the _sixty-seventh_ man who entered the room. He was
greeted with a storm of applause! The poor fellow had missed his
way--read the street signs ill through his spectacles (very ill, in
fact, without them)--and had not dared to inquire. He entered the
room--finding the president and secretary holding to their chairs two
judges of the Supreme Court, who were also members _ex officio_, and
were begging leave to go away. On his entrance all was changed.
_Presto_, the by-laws were amended, and the Western property was given
away. Nobody stopped to converse with him. He voted, as I had charged
him to do, in every instance, with the minority. I won new laurels as
a man of sense, though a little unpunctual--and Dennis, _alias_
Ingham, returned to the parsonage, astonished to see with how little
wisdom the world is governed. He cut a few of my parishioners in the
street; but he had his glasses off, and I am known to be nearsighted.
Eventually he recognized them more readily than I.

I "set him again" at the exhibition of the New Coventry Academy; and
here he undertook a "speaking part"--as, in my boyish, worldly days, I
remember the bills used to say of Mlle. Celeste. We are all trustees
of the New Coventry Academy; and there has lately been "a good deal of
feeling" because the Sandemanian trustees did not regularly attend the
exhibitions. It has been intimated, indeed, that the Sandemanians are
leaning towards Free-Will, and that we have, therefore, neglected
these semi-annual exhibitions, while there is no doubt that Auchmuty
last year went to Commencement at Waterville. Now the head master at
New Coventry is a real good fellow, who knows a Sanskrit root when he
sees it, and often cracks etymologies with me--so that, in strictness,
I ought to go to their exhibitions. But think, reader, of sitting
through three long July days in that Academy chapel, following the
program from

  Tuesday Morning. English Composition. Sunshine. Miss Jones,

round to

  Trio on Three Pianos. Duel from opera of Midshipman Easy. Marryatt.

coming in at nine, Thursday evening! Think of this, reader, for men
who know the world is trying to go backward, and who would give their
lives if they could help it on! Well! The double had succeeded so well
at the Board, that I sent him to the Academy. (Shade of Plato,
pardon!) He arrived early on Tuesday, when, indeed, few but mothers
and clergymen are generally expected, and returned in the evening to
us, covered with honors. He had dined at the right hand of the
chairman, and he spoke in high terms of the repast. The chairman had
expressed his interest in the French conversation. "I am very glad you
liked it," said Dennis; and the poor chairman, abashed, supposed the
accent had been wrong. At the end of the day, the gentlemen present
had been called upon for speeches--the Rev. Frederic Ingham first, as
it happened; upon which Dennis had risen, and had said, "There has
been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not
occupy the time." The girls were delighted, because Dr. Dabney, the
year before, had given them at this occasion a scolding on impropriety
of behavior at lyceum lectures. They all declared Mr. Ingham was a
love--and _so_ handsome! (Dennis is good-looking.) Three of them, with
arms behind the others' waists, followed him up to the wagon he rode
home in; and a little girl with a blue sash had been sent to give him
a rosebud. After this debut in speaking, he went to the exhibition for
two days more, to the mutual satisfaction of all concerned. Indeed,
Polly reported that he had pronounced the trustees' dinners of a
higher grade than those of the parsonage. When the next term began, I
found six of the Academy girls had obtained permission to come across
the river and attend our church. But this arrangement did not long
continue.

After this he went to several Commencements for me, and ate the
dinners provided; he sat through three of our Quarterly Conventions
for me--always voting judiciously, by the simple rule mentioned above,
of siding with the minority. And I, meanwhile, who had before been
losing caste among my friends, as holding myself aloof from the
associations of the body, began to rise in everybody's favor.
"Ingham's a good fellow--always on hand"; "never talks much--but does
the right thing at the right time"; "is not as unpunctual as he used
to be--he comes early, and sits through to the end." "He has got over
his old talkative habit, too. I spoke to a friend of his about it
once; and I think Ingham took it kindly," etc., etc.

This voting power of Dennis was particularly valuable at the quarterly
meetings of the Proprietors of the Naguadavick Ferry. My wife
inherited from her father some shares in that enterprise, which is not
yet fully developed, though it doubtless will become a very valuable
property. The law of Maine then forbade stockholders to appear by
proxy at such meetings. Polly disliked to go, not being, in fact, a
"hens'-rights hen," and transferred her stock to me. I, after going
once, disliked it more than she. But Dennis went to the next meeting,
and liked it very much. He said the armchairs were good, the collation
good, and the free rides to stockholders pleasant. He was a little
frightened when they first took him upon one of the ferry-boats, but
after two or three quarterly meetings he became quite brave.

Thus far I never had any difficulty with him. Indeed, being of that
type which is called shiftless, he was only too happy to be told daily
what to do, and to be charged not to be forthputting or in any way
original in his discharge of that duty. He learned, however, to
discriminate between the lines of his life, and very much preferred
these stockholders' meetings and trustees' dinners and commencement
collations to another set of occasions, from which he used to beg off
most piteously. Our excellent brother, Dr. Fillmore, had taken a
notion at this time that our Sandemanian churches needed more
expression of mutual sympathy. He insisted upon it that we were
remiss. He said, that, if the Bishop came to preach at Naguadavick,
all the Episcopal clergy of the neighborhood were present; if Dr. Pond
came, all the Congregational clergymen turned out to hear him; if Dr.
Nichols, all the Unitarians; and he thought we owed it to each other
that, whenever there was an occasional service at a Sandemanian
church, the other brethren should all, if possible, attend. "It looked
well," if nothing more. Now this really meant that I had not been to
hear one of Dr. Fillmore's lectures on the Ethnology of Religion. He
forgot that he did not hear one of my course on the Sandemanianism of
Anselm. But I felt badly when he said it; and afterwards I always made
Dennis go to hear all the brethren preach, when I was not preaching
myself. This was what he took exceptions to--the only thing, as I
said, which he ever did except to. Now came the advantage of his long
morning-nap, and of the green tea with which Polly supplied the
kitchen. But he would plead, so humbly, to be let off, only from one
or two! I never excepted him, however. I knew the lectures were of
value, and I thought it best he should be able to keep the connection.

Polly is more rash than I am, as the reader has observed in the outset
of this memoir. She risked Dennis one night under the eyes of her own
sex. Governor Gorges had always been very kind to us; and when he gave
his great annual party to the town, asked us. I confess I hated to go.
I was deep in the new volume of Pfeiffer's _Mystics_, which Haliburton
had just sent me from Boston. "But how rude," said Polly, "not to
return the Governor's civility and Mrs. Gorges's, when they will be
sure to ask why you are away!" Still I demurred, and at last she, with
the wit of Eve and of Semiramis conjoined, let me off by saying that,
if I would go in with her, and sustain the initial conversations with
the Governor and the ladies staying there, she would risk Dennis for
the rest of the evening. And that was just what we did. She took
Dennis in training all that afternoon, instructed him in fashionable
conversation, cautioned him against the temptations of the
supper-table--and at nine in the evening he drove us all down in the
carryall. I made the grand star-entrée with Polly and the pretty
Walton girls, who were staying with us. We had put Dennis into a great
rough top-coat, without his glasses--and the girls never dreamed, in
the darkness, of looking at him. He sat in the carriage, at the door,
while we entered. I did the agreeable to Mrs. Gorges, was introduced
to her niece. Miss Fernanda--I complimented Judge Jeffries on his
decision in the great case of D'Aulnay _vs._ Laconia Mining Co.--I
stepped into the dressing-room for a moment--stepped out for
another--walked home, after a nod with Dennis, and tying the horse to
a pump--and while I walked home, Mr. Frederic Ingham, my double,
stepped in through the library into the Gorges's grand saloon.

Oh! Polly died of laughing as she told me of it at midnight! And even
here, where I have to teach my hands to hew the beech for stakes to
fence our cave, she dies of laughing as she recalls it--and says that
single occasion was worth all we have paid for it. Gallant Eve that
she is! She joined Dennis at the library door, and in an instant
presented him to Dr. Ochterlong, from Baltimore, who was on a visit in
town, and was talking with her, as Dennis came in. "Mr. Ingham would
like to hear what you were telling us about your success among the
German population." And Dennis bowed and said, in spite of a scowl
from Polly, "I'm very glad you liked it." But Dr. Ochterlong did not
observe, and plunged into the tide of explanation, Dennis listening
like a prime-minister, and bowing like a mandarin--which is, I
suppose, the same thing. Polly declared it was just like Haliburton's
Latin conversation with the Hungarian minister, of which he is very
fond of telling. "_Quoene sit historia Reformationis in Ungariâ?_"
quoth Haliburton, after some thought. And his _confrère_ replied
gallantly, "_In seculo decimo tertio,_" etc., etc., etc.; and from
_decimo tertio_ [Which means, "In the thirteenth century," my dear
little bell-and-coral reader. You have rightly guessed that the
question means, "What is the history of the Reformation in Hungary?"]
to the nineteenth century and a half lasted till the oysters came. So
was it that before Dr. Ochterlong came to the "success," or near it,
Governor Gorges came to Dennis and asked him to hand Mrs. Jeffries
down to supper, a request which he heard with great joy.

Polly was skipping round the room, I guess, gay as a lark. Auchmuty
came to her "in pity for poor Ingham," who was so bored by the stupid
pundit--and Auchmuty could not understand why I stood it so long. But
when Dennis took Mrs. Jeffries down, Polly could not resist standing
near them. He was a little flustered, till the sight of the eatables
and drinkables gave him the same Mercian courage which it gave
Diggory. A little excited then, he attempted one or two of his
speeches to the Judge's lady. But little he knew how hard it was to
get in even a _promptu_ there edgewise. "Very well, I thank you," said
he, after the eating elements were adjusted; "and you?" And then did
not he have to hear about the mumps, and the measles, and arnica, and
belladonna, and chamomile-flower, and dodecathem, till she changed
oysters for salad--and then about the old practice and the new, and
what her sister said, and what her sister's friend said, and what the
physician to her sister's friend said, and then what was said by the
brother of the sister of the physician of the friend of her sister,
exactly as if it had been in Ollendorff? There was a moment's pause,
as she declined champagne. "I am very glad you liked it," said Dennis
again, which he never should have said, but to one who complimented a
sermon. "Oh! you are so sharp, Mr. Ingham! No! I never drink any wine
at all--except sometimes in summer a little currant spirits--from our
own currants, you know. My own mother--that is, I call her my own
mother, because, you know, I do not remember," etc., etc., etc.; till
they came to the candied orange at the end of the feast--when Dennis,
rather confused, thought he must say something, and tried No. 4--"I
agree, in general, with my friend the other side of the room"--which
he never should have said but at a public meeting. But Mrs. Jeffries,
who never listens expecting to understand, caught him up instantly
with, "Well, I'm sure my husband returns the compliment; he always
agrees with you--though we do worship with the Methodists--but you
know, Mr. Ingham," etc., etc., etc., till the move was made upstairs;
and as Dennis led her through the hall, he was scarcely understood by
any but Polly, as he said, "There has been so much said, and, on the
whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the time."

His great resource the rest of the evening was standing in the
library, carrying on animated conversations with one and another in
much the same way. Polly had initiated him in the mysteries of a
discovery of mine, that it is not necessary to finish your sentence in
a crowd, but by a sort of mumble, omitting sibilants and dentals.
This, indeed, if your words fail you, answers even in public extempore
speech--but better where other talking is going on. Thus: "We missed
you at the Natural History Society, Ingham." Ingham replies: "I am
very gligloglum, that is, that you were m-m-m-m-m." By gradually
dropping the voice, the interlocutor is compelled to supply the
answer. "Mrs. Ingham, I hope your friend Augusta is better." Augusta
has not been ill. Polly cannot think of explaining, however, and
answers: "Thank you, ma'am; she is very rearason wewahwewob," in lower
and lower tones. And Mrs. Throckmorton, who forgot the subject of
which she spoke, as soon as she asked the question, is quite
satisfied. Dennis could see into the card-room, and came to Polly to
ask if he might not go and play all-fours. But, of course, she sternly
refused. At midnight they came home delightedly: Polly, as I said,
wild to tell me the story of victory; only both the pretty Walton
girls said: "Cousin Frederic, you did not come near me all the
evening."

We always called him Dennis at home, for convenience, though his real
name was Frederic Ingham, as I have explained. When the election day
came round, however, I found that by some accident there was only one
Frederic Ingham's name on the voting-list; and, as I was quite busy
that day in writing some foreign letters to Halle, I thought I would
forego my privilege of suffrage, and stay quietly at home, telling
Dennis that he might use the record on the voting-list and vote. I
gave him a ticket, which I told him he might use, if he liked to. That
was that very sharp election in Maine which the readers of _The
Atlantic_ so well remember, and it had been intimated in public that
the ministers would do well not to appear at the polls. Of course,
after that, we had to appear by self or proxy. Still, Naguadavick was
not then a city, and this standing in a double queue at townmeeting
several hours to vote was a bore of the first water; and so, when I
found that there was but one Frederic Ingham on the list, and that one
of us must give up, I stayed at home and finished the letters (which,
indeed, procured for Fothergill his coveted appointment of Professor
of Astronomy at Leavenworth), and I gave Dennis, as we called him, the
chance. Something in the matter gave a good deal of popularity to the
Frederic Ingham name; and at the adjourned election, next week,
Frederic Ingham was chosen to the legislature. Whether this was I or
Dennis, I never really knew. My friends seemed to think it was I; but
I felt, that, as Dennis had done the popular thing, he was entitled to
the honor; so I sent him to Augusta when the time came, and he took
the oaths. And a very valuable member he made. They appointed him on
the Committee on Parishes; but I wrote a letter for him, resigning, on
the ground that he took an interest in our claim to the stumpage in
the minister's sixteenths of Gore A, next No. 7, in the 10th Range. He
never made any speeches, and always voted with the minority, which was
what he was sent to do. He made me and himself a great many good
friends, some of whom I did not afterwards recognize as quickly as
Dennis did my parishioners. On one or two occasions, when there was
wood to saw at home, I kept him at home; but I took those occasions to
go to Augusta myself. Finding myself often in his vacant seat at these
times, I watched the proceedings with a good deal of care; and once
was so much excited that I delivered my somewhat celebrated speech on
the Central School District question, a speech of which the State of
Maine printed some extra copies. I believe there is no formal rule
permitting strangers to speak; but no one objected.

Dennis himself, as I said, never spoke at all. But our experience this
session led me to think, that if, by some such "general understanding"
as the reports speak of in legislation daily, every member of Congress
might leave a double to sit through those deadly sessions and answer
to roll-calls and do the legitimate party-voting, which appears
stereotyped in the regular list of Ashe, Bocock, Black, etc., we
should gain decidedly in working power. As things stand, the saddest
state prison I ever visit is that Representatives' Chamber in
Washington. If a man leaves for an hour, twenty "correspondents" may
be howling, "Where was Mr. Prendergast when the Oregon bill passed?"
And if poor Prendergast stays there! Certainly, the worst use you can
make of a man is to put him in prison!

I know, indeed, that public men of the highest rank have resorted to
this expedient long ago. Dumas's novel of _The Iron Mask_ turns on the
brutal imprisonment of Louis the Fourteenth's double. There seems
little doubt, in our own history, that it was the real General Pierce
who shed tears when the delegate from Lawrence explained to him the
sufferings of the people there--and only General Pierce's double who
had given the orders for the assault on that town, which was invaded
the next day. My charming friend, George Withers, has, I am almost
sure, a double, who preaches his afternoon sermons for him. This is
the reason that the theology often varies so from that of the
forenoon. But that double is almost as charming as the original. Some
of the most well-defined men, who stand out most prominently on the
background of history, are in this way stereoscopic men; who owe their
distinct relief to the slight differences between the doubles. All
this I know. My present suggestion is simply the great extension of
the system, so that all public machine-work may be done by it.

But I see I loiter on my story, which is rushing to the plunge. Let me
stop an instant more, however, to recall, were it only to myself, that
charming year while all was yet well. After the double had become a
matter of course, for nearly twelve months before he undid me, what a
year it was! Full of active life, full of happy love, of the hardest
work, of the sweetest sleep, and the fulfilment of so many of the
fresh aspirations and dreams of boyhood! Dennis went to every
school-committee meeting, and sat through all those late wranglings
which used to keep me up till midnight and awake till morning. He
attended all the lectures to which foreign exiles sent me tickets
begging me to come for the love of Heaven and of Bohemia. He accepted
and used all the tickets for charity concerts which were sent to me.
He appeared everywhere where it was specially desirable that "our
denomination," or "our party," or "our class," or "our family," or
"our street," or "our town," or "our country," or "our state," should
be fully represented. And I fell back to that charming life which in
boyhood one dreams of, when he supposes he shall do his own duty and
make his own sacrifices, without being tied up with those of other
people. My rusty Sanskrit, Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, Latin, French,
Italian, Spanish, German and English began to take polish. Heavens!
how little I had done with them while I attended to my _public_
duties! My calls on my parishioners became the friendly, frequent,
homelike sociabilities they were meant to be, instead of the hard work
of a man goaded to desperation by the sight of his lists of arrears.
And preaching! what a luxury preaching was when I had on Sunday the
whole result of an individual, personal week, from which to speak to a
people whom all that week I had been meeting as hand-to-hand friend! I
never tired on Sunday, and was in condition to leave the sermon at
home, if I chose, and preach it extempore, as all men should do
always. Indeed, I wonder, when I think that a sensible people like
ours--really more attached to their clergy than they were in the lost
days, when the Mathers and Nortons were noblemen--should choose to
neutralize so much of their ministers' lives, and destroy so much of
their early training, by this undefined passion for seeing them in
public. It springs from our balancing of sects. If a spirited
Episcopalian takes an interest in the almshouse, and is put on the
Poor Board, every other denomination must have a minister there, lest
the poorhouse be changed into St. Paul's Cathedral. If a Sandemanian
is chosen president of the Young Men's Library, there must be a
Methodist vice-president and a Baptist secretary. And if a
Universalist Sunday-School Convention collects five hundred delegates,
the next Congregationalist Sabbath-School Conference must be as large,
"lest 'they'--whoever _they_ may be--should think 'we'--whoever _we_
may be--are going down."

Freed from these necessities, that happy year, I began to know my wife
by sight. We saw each other sometimes. In those long mornings, when
Dennis was in the study explaining to map-peddlers that I had eleven
maps of Jerusalem already, and to school-book agents that I would see
them hanged before I would be bribed to introduce their textbooks into
the schools--she and I were at work together, as in those old dreamy
days--and in these of our log-cabin again. But all this could not
last--and at length poor Dennis, my double, overtasked in turn, undid
me.

It was thus it happened. There is an excellent fellow--once a
minister--I will call him Isaacs--who deserves well of the world till
he dies, and after--because he once, in a real exigency, did the right
thing, in the right way, at the right time, as no other man could do
it. In the world's great football match, the ball by chance found him
loitering on the outside of the field; he closed with it, "camped" it,
charged, it home--yes, right through the other side--not disturbed,
not frightened by his own success--and breathless found himself a
great man--as the Great Delta rang applause. But he did not find
himself a rich man; and the football has never come in his way again.
From that moment to this moment he has been of no use, that one can
see, at all. Still, for that great act we speak of Isaacs gratefully
and remember him kindly; and he forges on, hoping to meet the football
somewhere again. In that vague hope, he had arranged a "movement" for
a general organization of the human family into Debating Clubs, County
Societies, State Unions, etc., etc., with a view of inducing all
children to take hold of the handles of their knives and forks,
instead of the metal. Children have bad habits in that way. The
movement, of course, was absurd; but we all did our best to forward,
not it, but him. It came time for the annual county-meeting on this
subject to be held at Naguadavick. Isaacs came round, good fellow! to
arrange for it--got the townhall, got the Governor to preside (the
saint!--he ought to have triplet doubles provided him by law), and
then came to get me to speak. "No," I said, "I would not speak, if ten
Governors presided. I do not believe in the enterprise. If I spoke, it
should be to say children should take hold of the prongs of the forks
and the blades of the knives. I would subscribe ten dollars, but I
would not speak a mill." So poor Isaacs went his way, sadly, to coax
Auchmuty to speak, and Delafield. I went out. Not long after, he came
back, and told Polly that they had promised to speak--the Governor
would speak--and he himself would close with the quarterly report, and
some interesting anecdotes regarding. Miss Biffin's way of handling
her knife and Mr. Nellis's way of footing his fork. "Now if Mr. Ingham
will only come and sit on the platform, he need not say one word; but
it will show well in the paper--it will show that the Sandemanians
take as much interest in the movement as the Armenians or the
Mesopotamians, and will be a great favor to me." Polly, good soul! was
tempted, and she promised. She knew Mrs. Isaacs was starving, and the
babies--she knew Dennis was at home--and she promised! Night came, and
I returned. I heard her story. I was sorry. I doubted. But Polly had
promised to beg me, and I dared all! I told Dennis to hold his peace,
under all circumstances, and sent him down.

It was not half an hour more before he returned, wild with
excitement--in a perfect Irish fury--which it was long before I
understood. But I knew at once that he had undone me!

What happened was this: The audience got together, attracted by
Governor Gorges's name. There were a thousand people. Poor Gorges was
late from Augusta. They became impatient. He came in direct from the
train at last, really ignorant of the object of the meeting. He opened
it in the fewest possible words, and said other gentlemen were present
who would entertain them better than he. The audience were
disappointed, but waited. The Governor, prompted by Isaacs, said, "The
Honorable Mr. Delafield will address you." Delafield had forgotten the
knives and forks, and was playing the Ruy Lopez opening at the chess
club. "The Rev. Mr. Auchmuty will address you." Auchmuty had promised
to speak late, and was at the school committee. "I see Dr. Stearns in
the hall; perhaps he will say a word." Dr. Stearns said he had come to
listen and not to speak. The Governor and Isaacs whispered. The
Governor looked at Dennis, who was resplendent on the platform; but
Isaacs, to give him his due, shook his head. But the look was enough.
A miserable lad, ill-bred, who had once been in Boston, thought it
would sound well to call for me, and peeped out, "Ingham!" A few more
wretches cried, "Ingham! Ingham!" Still Isaacs was firm; but the
Governor, anxious, indeed, to prevent a row, knew I would say
something, and said, "Our friend Mr. Ingham is always prepared--and
though we had not relied upon him, he will say a word, perhaps."
Applause followed, which turned Dennis's head. He rose, flattered, and
tried No. 3: "There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well
said, that I will not longer occupy the time!" and sat down, looking
for his hat; for things seemed squally. But the people cried, "Go on!
go on!" and some applauded. Dennis, still confused, but flattered by
the applause, to which neither he nor I are used, rose again, and this
time tried No. 2: "I am very glad you liked it!" in a sonorous, clear
delivery. My best friends stared. All the people who did not know me
personally yelled with delight at the aspect of the evening; the
Governor was beside himself, and poor Isaacs thought he was undone!
Alas, it was I! A boy in the gallery cried in a loud tone, "It's all
an infernal humbug," just as Dennis, waving his hand, commanded
silence, and tried No. 4: "I agree, in general, with my friend the
other side of the room." The poor Governor doubted his senses, and
crossed to stop him--not in time, however. The same gallery-boy
shouted, "How's your mother?"--and Dennis, now completely lost, tried,
as his last shot, No. 1, vainly: "Very well, thank you; and you?"

I think I must have been undone already. But Dennis, like another
Lockhard chose "to make sicker." The audience rose in a whirl of
amazement, rage, and sorrow. Some other impertinence, aimed at Dennis,
broke all restraint, and, in pure Irish, he delivered himself of an
address to the gallery, inviting any person who wished to fight to
come down and do so--stating, that they were all dogs and
cowards--that he would take any five of them single-handed, "Shure, I
have said all his Riverence and the Misthress bade me say," cried he,
in defiance; and, seizing the Governor's cane from his hand,
brandished it, quarter-staff fashion, above his head. He was, indeed,
got from the hall only with the greatest difficulty by the Governor,
the City Marshal, who had been called in, and the Superintendent of my
Sunday School.

The universal impression, of course, was, that the Rev. Frederic
Ingham had lost all command of himself in some of those haunts of
intoxication which for fifteen years I have been laboring to destroy.
Till this moment, indeed, that is the impression in Naguadavick. This
number of _The Atlantic_ will relieve from it a hundred friends of
mine who have been sadly wounded by that notion now for years--but I
shall not be likely ever to show my head there again.

No! My double has undone me.

We left town at seven the next morning. I came to No. 9, in the Third
Range, and settled on the Minister's Lot, In the new towns in Maine,
the first settled minister has a gift of a hundred acres of land. I am
the first settled minister in No. 9. My wife and little Paulina are my
parish. We raise corn enough to live on in summer. We kill bear's meat
enough to carbonize it in winter. I work on steadily on my _Traces of
Sandemanianism in the Sixth and Seventh Centuries_, which I hope to
persuade Phillips, Sampson & Co. to publish next year. We are very
happy, but the world thinks we are undone.



A VISIT TO THE ASYLUM FOR AGED AND DECAYED PUNSTERS

By Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)

[From _The Atlantic Monthly_, January, 1861. Republished in _Soundings
from the Atlantic_ (1864), by Oliver Wendell Holmes, whose authorized
publishers are the Houghton Mifflin Company.]

Having just returned from a visit to this admirable Institution in
company with a friend who is one of the Directors, we propose giving a
short account of what we saw and heard. The great success of the
Asylum for Idiots and Feeble-minded Youth, several of the scholars
from which have reached considerable distinction, one of them being
connected with a leading Daily Paper in this city, and others having
served in the State and National Legislatures, was the motive which
led to the foundation of this excellent charity. Our late
distinguished townsman, Noah Dow, Esquire, as is well known,
bequeathed a large portion of his fortune to this establishment--
"being thereto moved," as his will expressed it, "by the desire of
_N. Dowing_ some public Institution for the benefit of Mankind."
Being consulted as to the Rules of the Institution and the selection
of a Superintendent, he replied, that "all Boards must construct
their own Platforms of operation. Let them select _anyhow_ and he
should be pleased." N.E. Howe, Esq., was chosen in compliance with
this delicate suggestion.

The Charter provides for the support of "One hundred aged and decayed
Gentlemen-Punsters." On inquiry if there way no provision for
_females_, my friend called my attention to this remarkable
psychological fact, namely:

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A FEMALE PUNSTER.

This remark struck me forcibly, and on reflection I found that _I
never knew nor heard of one_, though I have once or twice heard a
woman make a _single detached_ pun, as I have known a hen to crow.

On arriving at the south gate of the Asylum grounds, I was about to
ring, but my friend held my arm and begged me to rap with my stick,
which I did. An old man with a very comical face presently opened the
gate and put out his head.

"So you prefer _Cane_ to _A bell_, do you?" he said--and began
chuckling and coughing at a great rate.

My friend winked at me.

"You're here still, Old Joe, I see," he said to the old man.

"Yes, yes--and it's very odd, considering how often I've _bolted_,
nights."

He then threw open the double gates for us to ride through.

"Now," said the old man, as he pulled the gates after us, "you've had
a long journey."

"Why, how is that, Old Joe?" said my friend.

"Don't you see?" he answered; "there's the _East hinges_ on the one
side of the gate, and there's the _West hinges_ on t'other side--haw!
haw! haw!"

We had no sooner got into the yard than a feeble little gentleman,
with a remarkably bright eye, came up to us, looking very serious, as
if something had happened.

"The town has entered a complaint against the Asylum as a gambling
establishment," he said to my friend, the Director.

"What do you mean?" said my friend.

"Why, they complain that there's a _lot o' rye_ on the premises," he
answered, pointing to a field of that grain--and hobbled away, his
shoulders shaking with laughter, as he went.

On entering the main building, we saw the Rules and Regulations for
the Asylum conspicuously posted up. I made a few extracts which may be
interesting:

SECT. I. OF VERBAL EXERCISES.

5. Each Inmate shall be permitted to make Puns freely from eight in
the morning until ten at night, except during Service in the Chapel
and Grace before Meals.

6. At ten o'clock the gas will be turned off, and no further Puns,
Conundrums, or other play on words will be allowed to be uttered, or
to be uttered aloud.

9. Inmates who have lost their faculties and cannot any longer make
Puns shall be permitted to repeat such as may be selected for them by
the Chaplain out of the work of _Mr. Joseph Miller_.

10. Violent and unmanageable Punsters, who interrupt others when
engaged in conversation, with Puns or attempts at the same, shall be
deprived of their _Joseph Millers_, and, if necessary, placed in
solitary confinement.

SECT. III. OF DEPORTMENT AT MEALS.

4. No Inmate shall make any Pun, or attempt at the same, until the
Blessing has been asked and the company are decently seated.

7. Certain Puns having been placed on the _Index Expurgatorius_ of the
Institution, no Inmate shall be allowed to utter them, on pain of
being debarred the perusal of _Punch_ and _Vanity Fair_, and, if
repeated, deprived of his _Joseph Miller_.

Among these are the following:

Allusions to _Attic salt_, when asked to pass the salt-cellar.

Remarks on the Inmates being _mustered_, etc., etc.

Associating baked beans with the _bene_-factors of the Institution.

Saying that beef-eating is _befitting_, etc., etc.

The following are also prohibited, excepting to such Inmates as may
have lost their faculties and cannot any longer make Puns of their
own:

"----your own _hair_ or a wig"; "it will be _long enough_," etc.,
etc.; "little of its age," etc., etc.; also, playing upon the
following words: _hos_pital; _mayor_; _pun_; _pitied_; _bread_;
_sauce_, etc., etc., etc. _See_ INDEX EXPURGATORIUS, _printed for use
of Inmates_.

The subjoined Conundrum is not allowed: Why is Hasty Pudding like the
Prince? Because it comes attended by its _sweet_; nor this variation
to it, _to wit_: Because the _'lasses runs after it_.

The Superintendent, who went round with us, had been a noted punster
in his time, and well known in the business world, but lost his
customers by making too free with their names--as in the famous story
he set afloat in '29 _of four Jerries_ attaching to the names of a
noted Judge, an eminent Lawyer, the Secretary of the Board of Foreign
Missions, and the well-known Landlord at Springfield. One of the _four
Jerries_, he added, was of gigantic magnitude. The play on words was
brought out by an accidental remark of Solomons, the well-known
Banker. "_Capital punishment_!" the Jew was overheard saying, with
reference to the guilty parties. He was understood, as saying, _A
capital pun is meant_, which led to an investigation and the relief of
the greatly excited public mind.

The Superintendent showed some of his old tendencies, as he went round
with us.

"Do you know"--he broke out all at once--"why they don't take steppes
in Tartary for establishing Insane Hospitals?"

We both confessed ignorance.

"Because there are _nomad_ people to be found there," he said, with a
dignified smile.

He proceeded to introduce us to different Inmates. The first was a
middle-aged, scholarly man, who was seated at a table with a
_Webster's Dictionary_ and a sheet of paper before him.

"Well, what luck to-day, Mr. Mowzer?" said the Superintendent.

"Three or four only," said Mr. Mowzer. "Will you hear 'em now--now I'm
here?"

We all nodded.

"Don't you see Webster _ers_ in the words cent_er_ and theat_er_?

"If he spells leather _lether_, and feather _fether_, isn't there
danger that he'll give us a _bad spell of weather_?

"Besides, Webster is a resurrectionist; he does not allow _u_ to rest
quietly in the _mould_.

"And again, because Mr. Worcester inserts an illustration in his text,
is that any reason why Mr. Webster's publishers should hitch one on in
their appendix? It's what I call a _Connect-a-cut_ trick.

"Why is his way of spelling like the floor of an oven? Because it is
_under bread_."

"Mowzer!" said the Superintendent, "that word is on the Index!"

"I forgot," said Mr. Mowzer; "please don't deprive me of _Vanity Fair_
this one time, sir."

"These are all, this morning. Good day, gentlemen." Then to the
Superintendent: "Add you, sir!"

The next Inmate was a semi-idiotic-looking old man. He had a heap of
block-letters before him, and, as we came up, he pointed, without
saying a word, to the arrangements he had made with them on the table.
They were evidently anagrams, and had the merit of transposing the
letters of the words employed without addition or subtraction. Here
are a few of them:

    TIMES.          SMITE!
    POST.           STOP!

    TRIBUNE.        TRUE NIB.
    WORLD.          DR. OWL.

    ADVERTISER.  {  RES VERI DAT.
                 {  IS TRUE. READ!

    ALLOPATHY.      ALL O' TH' PAY.
    HOMOEOPATHY.    O, THE ----! O! O, MY! PAH!

The mention of several New York papers led to two or three questions.
Thus: Whether the Editor of _The Tribune_ was _H.G. really_? If the
complexion of his politics were not accounted for by his being _an
eager_ person himself? Whether Wendell _Fillips_ were not a reduced
copy of John _Knocks_? Whether a New York _Feuilletoniste_ is not the
same thing as a _Fellow down East_?

At this time a plausible-looking, bald-headed man joined us, evidently
waiting to take a part in the conversation.

"Good morning, Mr. Riggles," said the Superintendent, "Anything fresh
this morning? Any Conundrum?"

"I haven't looked at the cattle," he answered, dryly.

"Cattle? Why cattle?"

"Why, to see if there's any _corn under 'em_!" he said; and
immediately asked, "Why is Douglas like the earth?"

We tried, but couldn't guess.

"Because he was _flattened out at the polls_!" said Mr. Riggles.

"A famous politician, formerly," said the Superintendent. "His
grandfather was a _seize-Hessian-ist_ in the Revolutionary War. By the
way, I hear the _freeze-oil_ doctrines don't go down at New Bedford."

The next Inmate looked as if he might have been a sailor formerly.

"Ask him what his calling was," said the Superintendent.

"Followed the sea," he replied to the question put by one of us. "Went
as mate in a fishing-schooner."

"Why did you give it up?"

"Because I didn't like working for _two mast-ers_," he replied.

Presently we came upon a group of elderly persons, gathered about a
venerable gentleman with flowing locks, who was propounding questions
to a row of Inmates.

"Can any Inmate give me a motto for M. Berger?" he said.

Nobody responded for two or three minutes. At last one old man, whom I
at once recognized as a Graduate of our University (Anno 1800) held up
his hand.

"Rem _a cue_ tetigit."

"Go to the head of the class, Josselyn," said the venerable patriarch.

The successful Inmate did as he was told, but in a very rough way,
pushing against two or three of the Class.

"How is this?" said the Patriarch.

"You told me to go up _jostlin'_," he replied.

The old gentlemen who had been shoved about enjoyed the pun too much
to be angry.

Presently the Patriarch asked again:

"Why was M. Berger authorized to go to the dances given to the
Prince?"

The Class had to give up this, and he answered it himself:

"Because every one of his carroms was a _tick-it_ to the ball."

"Who collects the money to defray the expenses of the last campaign in
Italy?" asked the Patriarch.

Here again the Class failed.

"The war-cloud's rolling _Dun_," he answered.

"And what is mulled wine made with?"

Three or four voices exclaimed at once:

"_Sizzle-y_ Madeira!"

Here a servant entered, and said, "Luncheon-time." The old gentlemen,
who have excellent appetites, dispersed at once, one of them politely
asking us if we would not stop and have a bit of bread and a little
mite of cheese.

"There is one thing I have forgotten to show you," said the
Superintendent, "the cell for the confinement of violent and
unmanageable Punsters."

We were very curious to see it, particularly with reference to the
alleged absence of every object upon which a play of words could
possibly be made.

The Superintendent led us up some dark stairs to a corridor, then
along a narrow passage, then down a broad flight of steps into another
passageway, and opened a large door which looked out on the main
entrance.

"We have not seen the cell for the confinement of 'violent and
unmanageable' Punsters," we both exclaimed.

"This is the _sell_!" he exclaimed, pointing to the outside prospect.

My friend, the Director, looked me in the face so good-naturedly that
I had to laugh.

"We like to humor the Inmates," he said. "It has a bad effect, we
find, on their health and spirits to disappoint them of their little
pleasantries. Some of the jests to which we have listened are not new
to me, though I dare say you may not have heard them often before. The
same thing happens in general society, with this additional
disadvantage, that there is no punishment provided for 'violent and
unmanageable' Punsters, as in our Institution."

We made our bow to the Superintendent and walked to the place where
our carriage was waiting for us. On our way, an exceedingly decrepit
old man moved slowly toward us, with a perfectly blank look on his
face, but still appearing as if he wished to speak.

"Look!" said the Director--"that is our Centenarian."

The ancient man crawled toward us, cocked one eye, with which he
seemed to see a little, up at us, and said:

"Sarvant, young Gentlemen. Why is a--a--a--like a--a--a--? Give it up?
Because it's a--a--a--a--."

He smiled a pleasant smile, as if it were all plain enough.

"One hundred and seven last Christmas," said the Director. "Of late
years he puts his whole Conundrums in blank--but they please him just
as well."

We took our departure, much gratified and instructed by our visit,
hoping to have some future opportunity of inspecting the Records of
this excellent Charity and making extracts for the benefit of our
Readers.



THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY

By Mark Twain (1835-1910)

[From _The Saturday Press_, Nov. 18, 1865. Republished in _The
Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, and Other Sketches_
(1867), by Mark Twain, all of whose works are published by Harper &
Brothers.]

In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from
the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and
inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to
do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that
_Leonidas W_. Smiley is a myth; and that my friend never knew such a
personage; and that he only conjectured that if I asked old Wheeler
about him, it would remind him of his infamous _Jim Smiley_, and he
would go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating
reminiscence of him as long and as tedious as it should be useless to
me. If that was the design, it succeeded.

I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the barroom stove of the
dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp of Angel's, and I
noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of
winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He
roused up, and gave me good-day. I told him a friend had commissioned
me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood
named _Leonidas W_. Smiley--_Rev. Leonidas W._ Smiley, a young
minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of
Angel's Camp. I added that if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about
this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to
him.

Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his
chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which
follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never
changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned his
initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of
enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a
vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly
that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or
funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter,
and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in _finesse_.
I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once.

"Rev. Leonidas W. H'm, Reverend Le--well, there was a feller here once
by the name of _Jim_ Smiley, in the winter of '49--or may be it was
the spring of '50--I don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what
makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big
flume warn't finished when he first came to the camp; but any way, he
was the curiousest man about always betting on anything that turned up
you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if
he couldn't he'd change sides. Any way that suited the other man would
suit _him_--any way just so's he got a bet, _he_ was satisfied. But
still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. He
was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn't be no
solit'ry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on it, and
take any side you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a
horse-race, you'd find him flush or you'd find him busted at the end
of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a
cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on
it; why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you
which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be
there reg'lar to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best
exhorter about here, and he was, too, and a good man. If he even see a
straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would
take him to get to--to wherever he _was_ going to, and if you took him
up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would find
out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of
the boys here has seen that Smiley and can tell you about him. Why, it
never made no difference to _him_--he'd bet on _any_ thing--the
dangest feller. Parson Walker's wife laid very sick once, for a good
while, and it seemed as if they warn't going to save her; but one
morning he come in, and Smiley up and asked him how she was, and he
said she was considerable better--thank the Lord for his inf'nit'
mercy--and coming on so smart that with the blessing of Prov'dence
she'd get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says, ‘Well, I'll
risk two-and-a-half she don't anyway.'"

Thish-yer Smiley had a mare--the boys called her the fifteen-minute
nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was
faster than that--and he used to win money on that horse, for all she
was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the
consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or
three hundred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at
the fag-end of the race she'd get excited and desperate-like, and come
cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber,
sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the
fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust and raising m-o-r-e racket with
her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose--and always fetch up at
the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it
down.

And he had a little small bull-pup, that to look at him you'd think he
warn't worth a cent but to set around and look ornery and lay for a
chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him he was a
different dog; his under-jaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'-castle
of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover and shine like the
furnaces. And a dog might tackle him and bully-rag him, and bite him,
and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew
Jackson--which was the name of the pup--Andrew Jackson would never let
on but what _he_ was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else--and
the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time,
till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that
other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze to it--not
chaw, you understand, but only just grip and hang on till they throwed
up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that
pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn't have no hind legs,
because they'd been sawed off in a circular saw, and when the thing
had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to
make a snatch for his pet holt, he see in a minute how he'd been
imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak,
and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like,
and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out
bad. He gave Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and
it was _his_ fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for
him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and
then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup,
was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if
he'd lived, for the stuff was in him and he had genius--I know it,
because he hadn't no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to
reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them
circumstances if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry
when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.

Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and
tom-cats and all of them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and
you couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He
ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal'lated to
educate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in
his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he _did_
learn him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next
minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut--see
him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good start,
and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so
in the matter of ketching flies, and kep' him in practice so constant,
that he'd nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him. Smiley
said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do 'most
anything--and I believe him. Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster down
here on this floor--Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog--and sing
out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies!" and quicker'n you could wink he'd spring
straight up and snake a fly off'n the counter there, and flop down on
the floor ag'in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the
side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no
idea he'd been doin' any more'n any frog might do. You never see a
frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so
gifted. And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level,
he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his
breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you
understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on
him as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog,
and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been
everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever _they_ see.

Well, Smiley kep' the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to
fetch him downtown sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller--a
stranger in the camp, he was--come acrost him with his box, and says:

"What might be that you've got in the box?"

And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, "It might be a parrot, or it
might be a canary, maybe, but it ain't--it's only just a frog."

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round
this way and that, and says, "H'm--so 'tis. Well, what's _he_ good
for?"

"Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, "he's good enough for _one_
thing, I should judge--he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county."

The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look,
and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, "Well," he
says, "I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any
other frog."

"Maybe you don't," Smiley says. "Maybe you understand frogs and maybe
you don't understand 'em; maybe you've had experience, and maybe you
ain't only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I've got _my_ opinion and
I'll risk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras
County."

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like,
"Well, I'm only a stranger here, and I ain't got no frog; but if I had
a frog, I'd bet you."

And then Smiley says, "That's all right--that's all right--if you'll
hold my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog." And so the feller
took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley's, and
set down to wait.

So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to his-self, and
then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon
and filled him full of quail shot--filled! him pretty near up to his
chin--and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and
slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a
frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says:

"Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his forepaws
just even with Dan'l's, and I'll give the word." Then he says,
"One--two--three--_git_!" and him and the feller touched up the frogs
from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan'l give a
heave, and hysted up his shoulders--so--like a Frenchman, but it
warn't no use--he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as a church,
and he couldn't no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a
good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no
idea what the matter was, of course.

The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out
at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder--so--at
Dan'l, and says again, very deliberate, "Well," he says, "_I_ don't
see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog."

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a long
time, and at last says, "I do wonder what in the nation that frog
throwed off for--I wonder if there ain't something the matter with
him--he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow." And he ketched Dan'l up
by the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, "Why blame my cats
if he don't weigh five pounds!" and turned him upside down and he
belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and
he was the maddest man--he set the frog down and took out after that
feller, but he never ketched him. And----

(Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got
up to see what was wanted.) And turning to me as he moved away, he
said: "Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy--I ain't going
to be gone a second."

But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the history
of the enterprising vagabond _Jim_ Smiley would be likely to afford me
much information concerning the Rev. _Leonidas W._ Smiley, and so I
started away.

At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he buttonholed
me and recommenced:

"Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller, one-eyed cow that didn't have no
tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, and----"

However, lacking both time and inclination, I did not wait to hear
about the afflicted cow, but took my leave.



ELDER BROWN'S BACKSLIDE

By Harry Stillwell Edwards (1855- )

[From _Harper's Magazine_, August, 1885; copyright, 1885, by Harper &
Bros.; republished in the volume, _Two Runaways, and Other Stories_
(1889), by Harry Stillwell Edwards (The Century Co.).]

Elder Brown told his wife good-by at the farmhouse door as
mechanically as though his proposed trip to Macon, ten miles away, was
an everyday affair, while, as a matter of fact, many years had elapsed
since unaccompanied he set foot in the city. He did not kiss her. Many
very good men never kiss their wives. But small blame attaches to the
elder for his omission on this occasion, since his wife had long ago
discouraged all amorous demonstrations on the part of her liege lord,
and at this particular moment was filling the parting moments with a
rattling list of directions concerning thread, buttons, hooks,
needles, and all the many etceteras of an industrious housewife's
basket. The elder was laboriously assorting these postscript
commissions in his memory, well knowing that to return with any one of
them neglected would cause trouble in the family circle.

Elder Brown mounted his patient steed that stood sleepily motionless
in the warm sunlight, with his great pointed ears displayed to the
right and left, as though their owner had grown tired of the life
burden their weight inflicted upon him, and was, old soldier fashion,
ready to forego the once rigid alertness of early training for the
pleasures of frequent rest on arms.

"And, elder, don't you forgit them caliker scraps, or you'll be
wantin' kiver soon an' no kiver will be a-comin'."

Elder Brown did not turn his head, but merely let the whip hand, which
had been checked in its backward motion, fall as he answered
mechanically. The beast he bestrode responded with a rapid whisking of
its tail and a great show of effort, as it ambled off down the sandy
road, the rider's long legs seeming now and then to touch the ground.

But as the zigzag panels of the rail fence crept behind him, and he
felt the freedom of the morning beginning to act upon his well-trained
blood, the mechanical manner of the old man's mind gave place to a
mild exuberance. A weight seemed to be lifting from it ounce by ounce
as the fence panels, the weedy corners, the persimmon sprouts and
sassafras bushes crept away behind him, so that by the time a mile lay
between him and the life partner of his joys and sorrows he was in a
reasonably contented frame of mind, and still improving.

It was a queer figure that crept along the road that cheery May
morning. It was tall and gaunt, and had been for thirty years or more.
The long head, bald on top, covered behind with iron-gray hair, and in
front with a short tangled growth that curled and kinked in every
direction, was surmounted by an old-fashioned stove-pipe hat, worn and
stained, but eminently impressive. An old-fashioned Henry Clay cloth
coat, stained and threadbare, divided itself impartially over the
donkey's back and dangled on his sides. This was all that remained of
the elder's wedding suit of forty years ago. Only constant care, and
use of late years limited to extra occasions, had preserved it so
long. The trousers had soon parted company with their friends. The
substitutes were red jeans, which, while they did not well match his
court costume, were better able to withstand the old man's abuse, for
if, in addition to his frequent religious excursions astride his
beast, there ever was a man who was fond of sitting down with his feet
higher than his head, it was this selfsame Elder Brown.

The morning expanded, and the old man expanded with it; for while a
vigorous leader in his church, the elder at home was, it must be
admitted, an uncomplaining slave. To the intense astonishment of the
beast he rode, there came new vigor into the whacks which fell upon
his flanks; and the beast allowed astonishment to surprise him into
real life and decided motion. Somewhere in the elder's expanding soul
a tune had begun to ring. Possibly he took up the far, faint tune that
came from the straggling gang of negroes away off in the field, as
they slowly chopped amid the threadlike rows of cotton plants which
lined the level ground, for the melody he hummed softly and then sang
strongly, in the quavering, catchy tones of a good old country
churchman, was "I'm glad salvation's free."

It was during the singing of this hymn that Elder Brown's regular
motion-inspiring strokes were for the first time varied. He began to
hold his hickory up at certain pauses in the melody, and beat the
changes upon the sides of his astonished steed. The chorus under this
arrangement was:

  I'm _glad_ salvation's _free_,
  I'm _glad_ salvation's _free_,
  I'm _glad_ salvation's _free_ for _all_,
  I'm _glad_ salvation's _free_.

Wherever there is an italic, the hickory descended. It fell about as
regularly and after the fashion of the stick beating upon the bass
drum during a funeral march. But the beast, although convinced that
something serious was impending, did not consider a funeral march
appropriate for the occasion. He protested, at first, with vigorous
whiskings of his tail and a rapid shifting of his ears. Finding these
demonstrations unavailing, and convinced that some urgent cause for
hurry had suddenly invaded the elder's serenity, as it had his own, he
began to cover the ground with frantic leaps that would have surprised
his owner could he have realized what was going on. But Elder Brown's
eyes were half closed, and he was singing at the top of his voice.
Lost in a trance of divine exaltation, for he felt the effects of the
invigorating motion, bent only on making the air ring with the lines
which he dimly imagined were drawing upon him the eyes of the whole
female congregation, he was supremely unconscious that his beast was
hurrying.

And thus the excursion proceeded, until suddenly a shote, surprised in
his calm search for roots in a fence corner, darted into the road, and
stood for an instant gazing upon the newcomers with that idiotic stare
which only a pig can imitate. The sudden appearance of this
unlooked-for apparition acted strongly upon the donkey. With one
supreme effort he collected himself into a motionless mass of matter,
bracing his front legs wide apart; that is to say, he stopped short.
There he stood, returning the pig's idiotic stare with an interest
which must have led to the presumption that never before in all his
varied life had he seen such a singular little creature. End over end
went the man of prayer, finally bringing up full length in the sand,
striking just as he should have shouted "free" for the fourth time in
his glorious chorus.

Fully convinced that his alarm had been well founded, the shote sped
out from under the gigantic missile hurled at him by the donkey, and
scampered down the road, turning first one ear and then the other to
detect any sounds of pursuit. The donkey, also convinced that the
object before which he had halted was supernatural, started back
violently upon seeing it apparently turn to a man. But seeing that it
had turned to nothing but a man, he wandered up into the deserted
fence corner, and began to nibble refreshment from a scrub oak.

For a moment the elder gazed up into the sky, half impressed with the
idea that the camp-meeting platform had given way. But the truth
forced its way to the front in his disordered understanding at last,
and with painful dignity he staggered into an upright position, and
regained his beaver. He was shocked again. Never before in all the
long years it had served him had he seen it in such shape. The truth
is, Elder Brown had never before tried to stand on his head in it. As
calmly as possible he began to straighten it out, caring but little
for the dust upon his garments. The beaver was his special crown of
dignity. To lose it was to be reduced to a level with the common
woolhat herd. He did his best, pulling, pressing, and pushing, but the
hat did not look natural when he had finished. It seemed to have been
laid off into counties, sections, and town lots. Like a well-cut
jewel, it had a face for him, view it from whatever point he chose, a
quality which so impressed him that a lump gathered in his throat, and
his eyes winked vigorously.

Elder Brown was not, however, a man for tears. He was a man of action.
The sudden vision which met his wandering gaze, the donkey calmly
chewing scrub buds, with the green juice already oozing from the
corners of his frothy mouth, acted upon him like magic. He was, after
all, only human, and when he got hands upon a piece of brush he
thrashed the poor beast until it seemed as though even its already
half-tanned hide would be eternally ruined. Thoroughly exhausted at
last, he wearily straddled his saddle, and with his chin upon his
breast resumed the early morning tenor of his way.


II


"Good-mornin', sir."

Elder Brown leaned over the little pine picket which divided the
bookkeepers' department of a Macon warehouse from the room in general,
and surveyed the well-dressed back of a gentleman who was busily
figuring at a desk within. The apartment was carpetless, and the dust
of a decade lay deep on the old books, shelves, and the familiar
advertisements of guano and fertilizers which decorated the room. An
old stove, rusty with the nicotine contributed by farmers during the
previous season while waiting by its glowing sides for their cotton to
be sold, stood straight up in a bed of sand, and festoons of cobwebs
clung to the upper sashes of the murky windows. The lower sash of one
window had been raised, and in the yard without, nearly an acre in
extent, lay a few bales of cotton, with jagged holes in their ends,
just as the sampler had left them. Elder Brown had time to notice all
these familiar points, for the figure at the desk kept serenely at its
task, and deigned no reply.

"Good-mornin', sir," said Elder Brown again, in his most dignified
tones. "Is Mr. Thomas in?"

"Good-morning, sir," said the figure. "I'll wait on you in a minute."
The minute passed, and four more joined it. Then the desk man turned.

"Well, sir, what can I do for you?"

The elder was not in the best of humor when he arrived, and his state
of mind had not improved. He waited full a minute as he surveyed the
man of business.

"I thought I mout be able to make some arrangements with you to git
some money, but I reckon I was mistaken." The warehouse man came
nearer.

"This is Mr. Brown, I believe. I did not recognize you at once. You
are not in often to see us."

"No; my wife usually 'tends to the town bizness, while I run the
church and farm. Got a fall from my donkey this morning," he said,
noticing a quizzical, interrogating look upon the face before him,
"and fell squar' on the hat." He made a pretense of smoothing it. The
man of business had already lost interest.

"How much money will you want, Mr. Brown?"

"Well, about seven hundred dollars," said the elder, replacing his
hat, and turning a furtive look upon the warehouse man. The other was
tapping with his pencil upon the little shelf lying across the rail.

"I can get you five hundred."

"But I oughter have seven."

"Can't arrange for that amount. Wait till later in the season, and
come again. Money is very tight now. How much cotton will you raise?"

"Well, I count on a hundr'd bales. An' you can't git the sev'n hundr'd
dollars?"

"Like to oblige you, but can't right now; will fix it for you later
on."

"Well," said the elder, slowly, "fix up the papers for five, an' I'll
make it go as far as possible."

The papers were drawn. A note was made out for $552.50, for the
interest was at one and a half per cent. for seven months, and a
mortgage on ten mules belonging to the elder was drawn and signed. The
elder then promised to send his cotton to the warehouse to be sold in
the fall, and with a curt "Anything else?" and a "Thankee, that's
all," the two parted.

Elder Brown now made an effort to recall the supplemental commissions
shouted to him upon his departure, intending to execute them first,
and then take his written list item by item. His mental resolves had
just reached this point when a new thought made itself known.
Passersby were puzzled to see the old man suddenly snatch his
headpiece off and peer with an intent and awestruck air into its
irregular caverns. Some of them were shocked when he suddenly and
vigorously ejaculated:

"Hannah-Maria-Jemimy! goldarn an' blue blazes!"

He had suddenly remembered having placed his memoranda in that hat,
and as he studied its empty depths his mind pictured the important
scrap fluttering along the sandy scene of his early-morning tumble. It
was this that caused him to graze an oath with less margin that he had
allowed himself in twenty years. What would the old lady say?

Alas! Elder Brown knew too well. What she would not say was what
puzzled him. But as he stood bareheaded in the sunlight a sense of
utter desolation came and dwelt with him. His eye rested upon sleeping
Balaam anchored to a post in the street, and so as he recalled the
treachery that lay at the base of all his affliction, gloom was added
to the desolation.

To turn back and search for the lost paper would have been worse than
useless. Only one course was open to him, and at it went the leader of
his people. He called at the grocery; he invaded the recesses of the
dry-goods establishments; he ransacked the hardware stores; and
wherever he went he made life a burden for the clerks, overhauling
show-cases and pulling down whole shelves of stock. Occasionally an
item of his memoranda would come to light, and thrusting his hand into
his capacious pocket, where lay the proceeds of his check, he would
pay for it upon the spot, and insist upon having it rolled up. To the
suggestion of the slave whom he had in charge for the time being that
the articles be laid aside until he had finished, he would not listen.

"Now you look here, sonny," he said, in the dry-goods store, "I'm
conducting this revival, an' I don't need no help in my line. Just you
tie them stockin's up an' lemme have 'em. Then I _know_ I've _got_
'em." As each purchase was promptly paid for, and change had to be
secured, the clerk earned his salary for that day at least.

So it was when, near the heat of the day, the good man arrived at the
drugstore, the last and only unvisited division of trade, he made his
appearance equipped with half a hundred packages, which nestled in his
arms and bulged out about the sections of his clothing that boasted of
pockets. As he deposited his deck-load upon the counter, great drops
of perspiration rolled down his face and over his waterlogged collar
to the floor.

There was something exquisitely refreshing in the great glasses of
foaming soda that a spruce young man was drawing from a marble
fountain, above which half a dozen polar bears in an ambitious print
were disporting themselves. There came a break in the run of
customers, and the spruce young man, having swept the foam from the
marble, dexterously lifted a glass from the revolving rack which had
rinsed it with a fierce little stream of water, and asked
mechanically, as he caught the intense look of the perspiring elder,
"What syrup, sir?"

Now it had not occurred to the elder to drink soda, but the
suggestion, coming as it did in his exhausted state, was overpowering.
He drew near awkwardly, put on his glasses, and examined the list of
syrups with great care. The young man, being for the moment at
leisure, surveyed critically the gaunt figure, the faded bandanna, the
antique clawhammer coat, and the battered stove-pipe hat, with a
gradually relaxing countenance. He even called the prescription
clerk's attention by a cough and a quick jerk of the thumb. The
prescription clerk smiled freely, and continued his assaults upon a
piece of blue mass.

"I reckon," said the elder, resting his hands upon his knees and
bending down to the list, "you may gimme sassprilla an' a little
strawberry. Sassprilla's good for the blood this time er year, an'
strawberry's good any time."

The spruce young man let the syrup stream into the glass as he smiled
affably. Thinking, perhaps, to draw out the odd character, he ventured
upon a jest himself, repeating a pun invented by the man who made the
first soda fountain. With a sweep of his arm he cleared away the swarm
of insects as he remarked, "People who like a fly in theirs are easily
accommodated."

It was from sheer good-nature only that Elder Brown replied, with his
usual broad, social smile, "Well, a fly now an' then don't hurt
nobody."

Now if there is anybody in the world who prides himself on knowing a
thing or two, it is the spruce young man who presides over a soda
fountain. This particular young gentleman did not even deem a reply
necessary. He vanished an instant, and when he returned a close
observer might have seen that the mixture in the glass he bore had
slightly changed color and increased in quantity. But the elder saw
only the whizzing stream of water dart into its center, and the rosy
foam rise and tremble on the glass's rim. The next instant he was
holding his breath and sipping the cooling drink.

As Elder Brown paid his small score he was at peace with the world. I
firmly believe that when he had finished his trading, and the little
blue-stringed packages had been stored away, could the poor donkey
have made his appearance at the door, and gazed with his meek,
fawnlike eyes into his master's, he would have obtained full and free
forgiveness.

Elder Brown paused at the door as he was about to leave. A
rosy-cheeked school-girl was just lifting a creamy mixture to her lips
before the fountain. It was a pretty picture, and he turned back,
resolved to indulge in one more glass of the delightful beverage
before beginning his long ride homeward.

"Fix it up again, sonny," he said, renewing his broad, confiding
smile, as the spruce young man poised a glass inquiringly. The living
automaton went through the same motions as before, and again Elder
Brown quaffed the fatal mixture.

What a singular power is habit! Up to this time Elder Brown had been
entirely innocent of transgression, but with the old alcoholic fire in
his veins, twenty years dropped from his shoulders, and a feeling came
over him familiar to every man who has been "in his cups." As a matter
of fact, the elder would have been a confirmed drunkard twenty years
before had his wife been less strong-minded. She took the reins into
her own hands when she found that his business and strong drink did
not mix well, worked him into the church, sustained his resolutions by
making it difficult and dangerous for him to get to his toddy. She
became the business head of the family, and he the spiritual. Only at
rare intervals did he ever "backslide" during the twenty years of the
new era, and Mrs. Brown herself used to say that the "sugar in his'n
turned to gall before the backslide ended." People who knew her never
doubted it.

But Elder Brown's sin during the remainder of the day contained an
element of responsibility. As he moved majestically down toward where
Balaam slept in the sunlight, he felt no fatigue. There was a glow
upon his cheek-bones, and a faint tinge upon his prominent nose. He
nodded familiarly to people as he met them, and saw not the look of
amusement which succeeded astonishment upon the various faces. When he
reached the neighborhood of Balaam it suddenly occurred to him that he
might have forgotten some one of his numerous commissions, and he
paused to think. Then a brilliant idea rose in his mind. He would
forestall blame and disarm anger with kindness--he would purchase
Hannah a bonnet.

What woman's heart ever failed to soften at sight of a new bonnet?

As I have stated, the elder was a man of action. He entered a store
near at hand.

"Good-morning," said an affable gentleman with a Hebrew countenance,
approaching.

"Good-mornin', good-mornin'," said the elder, piling his bundles on
the counter. "I hope you are well?" Elder Brown extended his hand
fervidly.

"Quite well, I thank you. What--"

"And the little wife?" said Elder Brown, affectionately retaining the
Jew's hand.

"Quite well, sir."

"And the little ones--quite well, I hope, too?"

"Yes, sir; all well, thank you. Something I can do for you?"

The affable merchant was trying to recall his customer's name.

"Not now, not now, thankee. If you please to let my bundles stay
untell I come back--"

"Can't I show you something? Hat, coat--"

"Not now. Be back bimeby."

Was it chance or fate that brought Elder Brown in front of a bar? The
glasses shone bright upon the shelves as the swinging door flapped
back to let out a coatless clerk, who passed him with a rush, chewing
upon a farewell mouthful of brown bread and bologna. Elder Brown
beheld for an instant the familiar scene within. The screws of his
resolution had been loosened. At sight of the glistening bar the whole
moral structure of twenty years came tumbling down. Mechanically he
entered the saloon, and laid a silver quarter upon the bar as he said:

"A little whiskey an' sugar." The arms of the bartender worked like a
faker's in a side show as he set out the glass with its little quota
of "short sweetening" and a cut-glass decanter, and sent a
half-tumbler of water spinning along from the upper end of the bar
with a dime in change.

"Whiskey is higher'n used to be," said Elder Brown; but the bartender
was taking another order, and did not hear him. Elder Brown stirred
away the sugar, and let a steady stream of red liquid flow into the
glass. He swallowed the drink as unconcernedly as though his morning
tod had never been suspended, and pocketed the change. "But it ain't
any better than it was," he concluded, as he passed out. He did not
even seem to realize that he had done anything extraordinary.

There was a millinery store up the street, and thither with uncertain
step he wended his way, feeling a little more elate, and altogether
sociable. A pretty, black-eyed girl, struggling to keep down her
mirth, came forward and faced him behind the counter. Elder Brown
lifted his faded hat with the politeness, if not the grace, of a
Castilian, and made a sweeping bow. Again he was in his element. But
he did not speak. A shower of odds and ends, small packages, thread,
needles, and buttons, released from their prison, rattled down about
him.

The girl laughed. She could not help it. And the elder, leaning his
hand on the counter, laughed, too, until several other girls came
half-way to the front. Then they, hiding behind counters and suspended
cloaks, laughed and snickered until they reconvulsed the elder's
vis-à-vis, who had been making desperate efforts to resume her demure
appearance.

"Let me help you, sir," she said, coming from behind the counter, upon
seeing Elder Brown beginning to adjust his spectacles for a search. He
waved her back majestically. "No, my dear, no; can't allow it. You
mout sile them purty fingers. No, ma'am. No gen'l'man'll 'low er lady
to do such a thing." The elder was gently forcing the girl back to her
place. "Leave it to me. I've picked up bigger things 'n them. Picked
myself up this mornin'. Balaam--you don't know Balaam; he's my
donkey--he tumbled me over his head in the sand this mornin'." And
Elder Brown had to resume an upright position until his paroxysm of
laughter had passed. "You see this old hat?" extending it, half full
of packages; "I fell clear inter it; jes' as clean inter it as them
things thar fell out'n it." He laughed again, and so did the girls.
"But, my dear, I whaled half the hide off'n him for it."

"Oh, sir! how could you? Indeed, sir. I think you did wrong. The poor
brute did not know what he was doing, I dare say, and probably he has
been a faithful friend." The girl cast her mischievous eyes towards
her companions, who snickered again. The old man was not conscious of
the sarcasm. He only saw reproach. His face straightened, and he
regarded the girl soberly.

"Mebbe you're right, my dear; mebbe I oughtn't."

"I am sure of it," said the girl. "But now don't you want to buy a
bonnet or a cloak to carry home to your wife?"

"Well, you're whistlin' now, birdie; that's my intention; set 'em all
out." Again the elder's face shone with delight. "An' I don't want no
one-hoss bonnet neither."

"Of course not. Now here is one; pink silk, with delicate pale blue
feathers. Just the thing for the season. We have nothing more elegant
in stock." Elder Brown held it out, upside down, at arm's-length.

"Well, now, that's suthin' like. Will it soot a sorter redheaded
'ooman?"

A perfectly sober man would have said the girl's corsets must have
undergone a terrible strain, but the elder did not notice her dumb
convulsion. She answered, heroically:

"Perfectly, sir. It is an exquisite match."

"I think you're whistlin' again. Nancy's head's red, red as a
woodpeck's. Sorrel's only half-way to the color of her top-knot, an'
it do seem like red oughter to soot red. Nancy's red an' the hat's
red; like goes with like, an' birds of a feather flock together." The
old man laughed until his cheeks were wet.

The girl, beginning to feel a little uneasy, and seeing a customer
entering, rapidly fixed up the bonnet, took fifteen dollars out of a
twenty-dollar bill, and calmly asked the elder if he wanted anything
else. He thrust his change somewhere into his clothes, and beat a
retreat. It had occurred to him that he was nearly drunk.

Elder Brown's step began to lose its buoyancy. He found himself
utterly unable to walk straight. There was an uncertain straddle in
his gait that carried him from one side of the walk to the other, and
caused people whom he met to cheerfully yield him plenty of room.

Balaam saw him coming. Poor Balaam. He had made an early start that
day, and for hours he stood in the sun awaiting relief. When he opened
his sleepy eyes and raised his expressive ears to a position of
attention, the old familiar coat and battered hat of the elder were
before him. He lifted up his honest voice and cried aloud for joy.

The effect was electrical for one instant. Elder Brown surveyed the
beast with horror, but again in his understanding there rang out the
trumpet words.

"Drunk, drunk, drunk, drer-unc, -er-unc, -unc, -unc."

He stooped instinctively for a missile with which to smite his
accuser, but brought up suddenly with a jerk and a handful of sand.
Straightening himself up with a majestic dignity, he extended his
right hand impressively.

"You're a goldarn liar, Balaam, and, blast your old buttons, you kin
walk home by yourself, for I'm danged if you sh'll ride me er step."

Surely Coriolanus never turned his back upon Rome with a grander
dignity than sat upon the old man's form as he faced about and left
the brute to survey with anxious eyes the new departure of his master.

He saw the elder zigzag along the street, and beheld him about to turn
a friendly corner. Once more he lifted up his mighty voice:

"Drunk, drunk, drunk, drer-unc, drer-unc, -erunc, -unc, -unc."

Once more the elder turned with lifted hand and shouted back:

"You're a liar, Balaam, goldarn you! You're er iffamous liar." Then he
passed from view.


III

Mrs. Brown stood upon the steps anxiously awaiting the return of her
liege lord. She knew he had with him a large sum of money, or should
have, and she knew also that he was a man without business methods.
She had long since repented of the decision which sent him to town.
When the old battered hat and flour-covered coat loomed up in the
gloaming and confronted her, she stared with terror. The next instant
she had seized him.

"For the Lord sakes, Elder Brown, what ails you? As I live, if the man
ain't drunk! Elder Brown! Elder Brown! for the life of me can't I make
you hear? You crazy old hypocrite! you desavin' old sinner! you
black-hearted wretch! where have you ben?"

The elder made an effort to wave her off.

"Woman," he said, with grand dignity, "you forgit yus-sef; shu know
ware I've ben 'swell's I do. Ben to town, wife, an' see yer wat I've
brought--the fines' hat, ole woman, I could git. Look't the color.
Like goes 'ith like; it's red an' you're red, an' it's a dead match.
What yer mean? Hey! hole on! ole woman!--you! Hannah!--you." She
literally shook him into silence.

"You miserable wretch! you low-down drunken sot! what do you mean by
coming home and insulting your wife?" Hannah ceased shaking him from
pure exhaustion.

"Where is it, I say? where is it?"

By this time she was turning his pockets wrong side out. From one she
got pills, from another change, from another packages.

"The Lord be praised, and this is better luck than I hoped! Oh, elder!
elder! elder! what did you do it for? Why, man, where is Balaam?"

Thought of the beast choked off the threatened hysterics.

"Balaam? Balaam?" said the elder, groggily. "He's in town. The
infernal ole fool 'sulted me, an' I lef' him to walk home."

His wife surveyed him. Really at that moment she did think his mind
was gone; but the leer upon the old man's face enraged her beyond
endurance.

"You did, did you? Well, now, I reckon you'll laugh for some cause,
you will. Back you go, sir--straight back; an' don't you come home
'thout that donkey, or you'll rue it, sure as my name is Hannah Brown.
Aleck!--you Aleck-k-k!"

A black boy darted round the corner, from behind which, with several
others, he had beheld the brief but stirring scene.

"Put a saddle on er mule. The elder's gwine back to town. And don't
you be long about it neither."

"Yessum." Aleck's ivories gleamed in the darkness as he disappeared.

Elder Brown was soberer at that moment than he had been for hours.

"Hannah, you don't mean it?"

"Yes, sir, I do. Back you go to town as sure as my name is Hannah
Brown."

The elder was silent. He had never known his wife to relent on any
occasion after she had affirmed her intention, supplemented with "as
sure as my name is Hannah Brown." It was her way of swearing. No
affidavit would have had half the claim upon her as that simple
enunciation.

So back to town went Elder Brown, not in the order of the early morn,
but silently, moodily, despairingly, surrounded by mental and actual
gloom.

The old man had turned a last appealing glance upon the angry woman,
as he mounted with Aleck's assistance, and sat in the light that
streamed from out the kitchen window. She met the glance without a
waver.

"She means it, as sure as my name is Elder Brown," he said, thickly.
Then he rode on.

IV

To say that Elder Brown suffered on this long journey back to Macon
would only mildly outline his experience. His early morning's fall had
begun to make itself felt. He was sore and uncomfortable. Besides, his
stomach was empty, and called for two meals it had missed for the
first time in years.

When, sore and weary, the elder entered the city, the electric lights
shone above it like jewels in a crown. The city slept; that is, the
better portion of it did. Here and there, however, the lower lights
flashed out into the night. Moodily the elder pursued his journey, and
as he rode, far off in the night there rose and quivered a plaintive
cry. Elder Brown smiled wearily: it was Balaam's appeal, and he
recognized it. The animal he rode also recognized it, and replied,
until the silence of the city was destroyed. The odd clamor and
confusion drew from a saloon near by a group of noisy youngsters, who
had been making a night of it. They surrounded Elder Brown as he began
to transfer himself to the hungry beast to whose motion he was more
accustomed, and in the "hail fellow well met" style of the day began
to bandy jests upon his appearance. Now Elder Brown was not in a
jesting humor. Positively he was in the worst humor possible. The
result was that before many minutes passed the old man was swinging
several of the crowd by their collars, and breaking the peace of the
city. A policeman approached, and but for the good-humored party, upon
whom the elder's pluck had made a favorable impression, would have run
the old man into the barracks. The crowd, however, drew him laughingly
into the saloon and to the bar. The reaction was too much for his
half-rallied senses. He yielded again. The reviving liquor passed his
lips. Gloom vanished. He became one of the boys.

The company into which Elder Brown had fallen was what is known as
"first-class." To such nothing is so captivating as an adventure out
of the common run of accidents. The gaunt countryman, with his
battered hat and claw-hammer coat, was a prize of an extraordinary
nature. They drew him into a rear room, whose gilded frames and
polished tables betrayed the character and purpose of the place, and
plied him with wine until ten thousand lights danced about him. The
fun increased. One youngster made a political speech from the top of
the table; another impersonated Hamlet; and finally Elder Brown was
lifted into a chair, and sang a camp-meeting song. This was rendered
by him with startling effect. He stood upright, with his hat jauntily
knocked to one side, and his coat tails ornamented with a couple of
show-bills, kindly pinned on by his admirers. In his left hand he
waved the stub of a cigar, and on his back was an admirable
representation of Balaam's head, executed by some artist with billiard
chalk.

As the elder sang his favorite hymn, "I'm glad salvation's free," his
stentorian voice awoke the echoes. Most of the company rolled upon the
floor in convulsions of laughter.

The exhibition came to a close by the chair overturning. Again Elder
Brown fell into his beloved hat. He arose and shouted: "Whoa, Balaam!"
Again he seized the nearest weapon, and sought satisfaction. The young
gentleman with political sentiments was knocked under the table, and
Hamlet only escaped injury by beating the infuriated elder into the
street.

What next? Well, I hardly know. How the elder found Balaam is a
mystery yet: not that Balaam was hard to find, but that the old man
was in no condition to find anything. Still he did, and climbing
laboriously into the saddle, he held on stupidly while the hungry
beast struck out for home.

V

Hannah Brown did not sleep that night. Sleep would not come. Hour
after hour passed, and her wrath refused to be quelled. She tried
every conceivable method, but time hung heavily. It was not quite peep
of day, however, when she laid her well-worn family Bible aside. It
had been her mother's, and amid all the anxieties and tribulations
incident to the life of a woman who had free negroes and a miserable
husband to manage, it had been her mainstay and comfort. She had
frequently read it in anger, page after page, without knowing what was
contained in the lines. But eventually the words became intelligible
and took meaning. She wrested consolation from it by mere force of
will.

And so on this occasion when she closed the book the fierce anger was
gone.

She was not a hard woman naturally. Fate had brought her conditions
which covered up the woman heart within her, but though it lay deep,
it was there still. As she sat with folded hands her eyes fell
upon--what?

The pink bonnet with the blue plume!

It may appear strange to those who do not understand such natures, but
to me her next action was perfectly natural. She burst into a
convulsive laugh; then, seizing the queer object, bent her face upon
it and sobbed hysterically. When the storm was over, very tenderly she
laid the gift aside, and bare-headed passed out into the night.

For a half-hour she stood at the end of the lane, and then hungry
Balaam and his master hove in sight. Reaching out her hand, she
checked the beast.

"William," said she, very gently, "where is the mule?"

The elder had been asleep. He woke and gazed upon her blankly.

"What mule, Hannah?"

"The mule you rode to town."

For one full minute the elder studied her face. Then it burst from his
lips:

"Well, bless me! if I didn't bring Balaam and forgit the mule!"

The woman laughed till her eyes ran water.

"William," said she, "you're drunk."

"Hannah," said he, meekly, "I know it. The truth is, Hannah, I--"

"Never mind, now, William," she said, gently. "You are tired and
hungry. Come into the house, husband."

Leading Balaam, she disappeared down the lane; and when, a few minutes
later, Hannah Brown and her husband entered through the light that
streamed out of the open door her arms were around him, and her face
upturned to his.



THE HOTEL EXPERIENCE OF MR. PINK FLUKER

BY RICHARD MALCOLM JOHNSTON (1822-1898)

[From _The Century Magazine_, June, 1886; copyright, 1886, by The
Century Co.; republished in the volume, _Mr. Absalom Billingslea, and
Other Georgia Folk_ (1888), by Richard Malcolm Johnston (Harper &
Brothers).]

I

Mr. Peterson Fluker, generally called Pink, for his fondness for as
stylish dressing as he could afford, was one of that sort of men who
habitually seem busy and efficient when they are not. He had the
bustling activity often noticeable in men of his size, and in one way
and another had made up, as he believed, for being so much smaller
than most of his adult acquaintance of the male sex. Prominent among
his achievements on that line was getting married to a woman who,
among other excellent gifts, had that of being twice as big as her
husband.

"Fool who?" on the day after his marriage he had asked, with a look at
those who had often said that he was too little to have a wife.

They had a little property to begin with, a couple of hundreds of
acres, and two or three negroes apiece. Yet, except in the natural
increase of the latter, the accretions of worldly estate had been
inconsiderable till now, when their oldest child, Marann, was some
fifteen years old. These accretions had been saved and taken care of
by Mrs. Fluker, who was as staid and silent as he was mobile and
voluble.

Mr. Fluker often said that it puzzled him how it was that he made
smaller crops than most of his neighbors, when, if not always
convincing, he could generally put every one of them to silence in
discussions upon agricultural topics. This puzzle had led him to not
unfrequent ruminations in his mind as to whether or not his vocation
might lie in something higher than the mere tilling of the ground.
These ruminations had lately taken a definite direction, and it was
after several conversations which he had held with his friend Matt
Pike.

Mr. Matt Pike was a bachelor of some thirty summers, a foretime clerk
consecutively in each of the two stores of the village, but latterly a
trader on a limited scale in horses, wagons, cows, and similar objects
of commerce, and at all times a politician. His hopes of holding
office had been continually disappointed until Mr. John Sanks became
sheriff, and rewarded with a deputyship some important special service
rendered by him in the late very close canvass. Now was a chance to
rise, Mr. Pike thought. All he wanted, he had often said, was a start.
Politics, I would remark, however, had been regarded by Mr. Pike as a
means rather than an end. It is doubtful if he hoped to become
governor of the state, at least before an advanced period in his
career. His main object now was to get money, and he believed that
official position would promote him in the line of his ambition faster
than was possible to any private station, by leading him into more
extensive acquaintance with mankind, their needs, their desires, and
their caprices. A deputy sheriff, provided that lawyers were not too
indulgent in allowing acknowledgment of service of court processes, in
postponing levies and sales, and in settlement of litigated cases,
might pick up three hundred dollars, a good sum for those times, a
fact which Mr. Pike had known and pondered long.

It happened just about then that the arrears of rent for the village
hotel had so accumulated on Mr. Spouter, the last occupant, that the
owner, an indulgent man, finally had said, what he had been expected
for years and years to say, that he could not wait on Mr. Spouter
forever and eternally. It was at this very nick, so to speak, that Mr.
Pike made to Mr. Fluker the suggestion to quit a business so far
beneath his powers, sell out, or rent out, or tenant out, or do
something else with his farm, march into town, plant himself upon the
ruins of Jacob Spouter, and begin his upward soar.

Now Mr. Fluker had many and many a time acknowledged that he had
ambition; so one night he said to his wife:

"You see how it is here, Nervy. Farmin' somehow don't suit my talons.
I need to be flung more 'mong people to fetch out what's in me. Then
thar's Marann, which is gittin' to be nigh on to a growd-up woman; an'
the child need the s'iety which you 'bleeged to acknowledge is sca'ce
about here, six mile from town. Your brer Sam can stay here an' raise
butter, chickens, eggs, pigs, an'--an'--an' so forth. Matt Pike say he
jes' know they's money in it, an' special with a housekeeper keerful
an' equinomical like you."

It is always curious the extent of influence that some men have upon
wives who are their superiors. Mrs. Fluker, in spite of accidents, had
ever set upon her husband a value that was not recognized outside of
his family. In this respect there seems a surprising compensation in
human life. But this remark I make only in passing. Mrs. Fluker,
admitting in her heart that farming was not her husband's forte,
hoped, like a true wife, that it might be found in the new field to
which he aspired. Besides, she did not forget that her brother Sam had
said to her several times privately that if his brer Pink wouldn't
have so many notions and would let him alone in his management, they
would all do better. She reflected for a day or two, and then said:

"Maybe it's best, Mr. Fluker. I'm willin' to try it for a year,
anyhow. We can't lose much by that. As for Matt Pike, I hain't the
confidence in him you has. Still, he bein' a boarder and deputy
sheriff, he might accidentally do us some good. I'll try it for a year
providin' you'll fetch me the money as it's paid in, for you know I
know how to manage that better'n you do, and you know I'll try to
manage it and all the rest of the business for the best."

To this provision Mr. Fluker gave consent, qualified by the claim that
he was to retain a small margin for indispensable personal exigencies.
For he contended, perhaps with justice, that no man in the responsible
position he was about to take ought to be expected to go about, or sit
about, or even lounge about, without even a continental red in his
pocket.

The new house--I say _new_ because tongue could not tell the amount of
scouring, scalding, and whitewashing that that excellent housekeeper
had done before a single stick of her furniture went into it--the new
house, I repeat, opened with six eating boarders at ten dollars a
month apiece, and two eating and sleeping at eleven, besides Mr. Pike,
who made a special contract. Transient custom was hoped to hold its
own, and that of the county people under the deputy's patronage and
influence to be considerably enlarged.

In words and other encouragement Mr. Pike was pronounced. He could
commend honestly, and he did so cordially.

"The thing to do, Pink, is to have your prices reg'lar, and make
people pay up reg'lar. Ten dollars for eatin', jes' so; eleb'n for
eatin' _an_' sleepin'; half a dollar for dinner, jes' so; quarter
apiece for breakfast, supper, and bed, is what I call reason'ble bo'd.
As for me, I sca'cely know how to rig'late, because, you know, I'm a'
officer now, an' in course I natchel _has_ to be away sometimes an' on
expenses at 'tother places, an' it seem like some 'lowance ought by
good rights to be made for that; don't you think so?"

"Why, matter o' course, Matt; what you think? I ain't so powerful good
at figgers. Nervy is. S'posen you speak to her 'bout it."

"Oh, that's perfec' unuseless, Pink. I'm a' officer o' the law, Pink,
an' the law consider women--well, I may say the law, _she_ deal 'ith
_men_, not women, an' she expect her officers to understan' figgers,
an' if I hadn't o' understood figgers Mr. Sanks wouldn't or darsnt' to
'p'int me his dep'ty. Me 'n' you can fix them terms. Now see here,
reg'lar bo'd--eatin' bo'd, I mean--is ten dollars, an' sleepin' and
singuil meals is 'cordin' to the figgers you've sot for 'em. Ain't
that so? Jes' so. Now, Pink, you an' me'll keep a runnin' account, you
a-chargin' for reg'lar bo'd, an' I a'lowin' to myself credics for my
absentees, accordin' to transion customers an' singuil mealers an'
sleepers. Is that fa'r, er is it not fa'r?"

Mr. Fluker turned his head, and after making or thinking he had made a
calculation, answered:

"That's--that seem fa'r, Matt."

"Cert'nly 'tis, Pink; I knowed you'd say so, an' you know I'd never
wish to be nothin' but fa'r 'ith people I like, like I do you an' your
wife. Let that be the understandin', then, betwix' us. An' Pink, let
the understandin' be jes' betwix' _us_, for I've saw enough o' this
world to find out that a man never makes nothin' by makin' a blowin'
horn o' his business. You make the t'others pay up spuntial, monthly.
You 'n' me can settle whensomever it's convenant, say three months
from to-day. In course I shall talk up for the house whensomever and
wharsomever I go or stay. You know that. An' as for my bed," said Mr.
Pike finally, "whensomever I ain't here by bed-time, you welcome to
put any transion person in it, an' also an' likewise, when transion
custom is pressin', and you cramped for beddin', I'm willin' to give
it up for the time bein'; an' rather'n you should be cramped too bad,
I'll take my chances somewhars else, even if I has to take a pallet at
the head o' the sta'r-steps."

"Nervy," said Mr. Fluker to his wife afterwards, "Matt Pike's a
sensibler an' a friendlier an' a 'commodatiner feller'n I thought."

Then, without giving details of the contract, he mentioned merely the
willingness of their boarder to resign his bed on occasions of
pressing emergency.

"He's talked mighty fine to me and Marann," answered Mrs. Fluker.
"We'll see how he holds out. One thing I do not like of his doin', an'
that's the talkin' 'bout Sim Marchman to Marann, an' makin' game o'
his country ways, as he call 'em. Sech as that ain't right."

It may be as well to explain just here that Simeon Marchman, the
person just named by Mrs. Fluker, a stout, industrious young farmer,
residing with his parents in the country near by where the Flukers had
dwelt before removing to town, had been eying Marann for a year or
two, and waiting upon her fast-ripening womanhood with intentions
that, he believed to be hidden in his own breast, though he had taken
less pains to conceal them from Marann than from the rest of his
acquaintance. Not that he had ever told her of them in so many words,
but--Oh, I need not stop here in the midst of this narration to
explain how such intentions become known, or at least strongly
suspected by girls, even those less bright than Marann Fluker. Simeon
had not cordially indorsed the movement into town, though, of course,
knowing it was none of his business, he had never so much as hinted
opposition. I would not be surprised, also, if he reflected that there
might be some selfishness in his hostility, or at least that it was
heightened by apprehensions personal to himself.

Considering the want of experience in the new tenants, matters went on
remarkably well. Mrs. Fluker, accustomed to rise from her couch long
before the lark, managed to the satisfaction of all,--regular
boarders, single-meal takers, and transient people. Marann went to the
village school, her mother dressing her, though with prudent economy,
as neatly and almost as tastefully as any of her schoolmates; while,
as to study, deportment, and general progress, there was not a girl in
the whole school to beat her, I don't care who she was.



II

During a not inconsiderable period Mr. Fluker indulged the honorable
conviction that at last he had found the vein in which his best
talents lay, and he was happy in foresight of the prosperity and
felicity which that discovery promised to himself and his family. His
native activity found many more objects for its exertion than before.
He rode out to the farm, not often, but sometimes, as a matter of
duty, and was forced to acknowledge that Sam was managing better than
could have been expected in the absence of his own continuous
guidance. In town he walked about the hotel, entertained the guests,
carved at the meals, hovered about the stores, the doctors' offices,
the wagon and blacksmith shops, discussed mercantile, medical,
mechanical questions with specialists in all these departments,
throwing into them all more and more of politics as the intimacy
between him and his patron and chief boarder increased.

Now as to that patron and chief boarder. The need of extending his
acquaintance seemed to press upon Mr. Pike with ever-increasing
weight. He was here and there, all over the county; at the
county-seat, at the county villages, at justices' courts, at
executors' and administrators' sales, at quarterly and protracted
religious meetings, at barbecues of every dimension, on hunting
excursions and fishing frolics, at social parties in all
neighborhoods. It got to be said of Mr. Pike that a freer acceptor of
hospitable invitations, or a better appreciator of hospitable
intentions, was not and needed not to be found possibly in the whole
state. Nor was this admirable deportment confined to the county in
which he held so high official position. He attended, among other
occasions less public, the spring sessions of the supreme and county
courts in the four adjoining counties: the guest of acquaintance old
and new over there. When starting upon such travels, he would
sometimes breakfast with his traveling companion in the village, and,
if somewhat belated in the return, sup with him also.

Yet, when at Flukers', no man could have been a more cheerful and
otherwise satisfactory boarder than Mr. Matt Pike. He praised every
dish set before him, bragged to their very faces of his host and
hostess, and in spite of his absences was the oftenest to sit and chat
with Marann when her mother would let her go into the parlor. Here and
everywhere about the house, in the dining-room, in the passage, at the
foot of the stairs, he would joke with Marann about her country beau,
as he styled poor Sim Marchman, and he would talk as though he was
rather ashamed of Sim, and wanted Marann to string her bow for higher
game.

Brer Sam did manage well, not only the fields, but the yard. Every
Saturday of the world he sent in something or other to his sister. I
don't know whether I ought to tell it or not, but for the sake of what
is due to pure veracity I will. On as many as three different
occasions Sim Marchman, as if he had lost all self-respect, or had not
a particle of tact, brought in himself, instead of sending by a negro,
a bucket of butter and a coop of spring chickens as a free gift to
Mrs. Fluker. I do think, on my soul, that Mr. Matt Pike was much
amused by such degradation--however, he must say that they were all
first-rate. As for Marann, she was very sorry for Sim, and wished he
had not brought these good things at all.

Nobody knew how it came about; but when the Flukers had been in town
somewhere between two and three months, Sim Marchman, who (to use his
own words) had never bothered her a great deal with his visits, began
to suspect that what few he made were received by Marann lately with
less cordiality than before; and so one day, knowing no better, in his
awkward, straightforward country manners, he wanted to know the reason
why. Then Marann grew distant, and asked Sim the following question:

"You know where Mr. Pike's gone, Mr. Marchman?"

Now the fact was, and she knew it, that Marann Fluker had never
before, not since she was born, addressed that boy as _Mister_.

The visitor's face reddened and reddened.

"No," he faltered in answer; "no--no--_ma'am_, I should say. I--I
don't know where Mr. Pike's gone."

Then he looked around for his hat, discovered it in time, took it into
his hands, turned it around two or three times, then, bidding good-bye
without shaking hands, took himself off.

Mrs. Fluker liked all the Marchmans, and she was troubled somewhat
when she heard of the quickness and manner of Sim's departure; for he
had been fully expected by her to stay to dinner.

"Say he didn't even shake hands, Marann? What for? What you do to
him?"

"Not one blessed thing, ma; only he wanted to know why I wasn't
gladder to see him." Then Marann looked indignant.

"Say them words, Marann?"

"No, but he hinted 'em."

"What did you say then?"

"I just asked, a-meaning nothing in the wide world, ma--I asked him if
he knew where Mr. Pike had gone."

"And that were answer enough to hurt his feelin's. What you want to
know where Matt Pike's gone for, Marann?"

"I didn't care about knowing, ma, but I didn't like the way Sim
talked."

"Look here, Marann. Look straight at me. You'll be mighty fur off your
feet if you let Matt Pike put things in your head that hain't no
business a-bein' there, and special if you find yourself a-wantin' to
know where he's a-perambulatin' in his everlastin' meanderin's. Not a
cent has he paid for his board, and which your pa say he have a'
understandin' with him about allowin' for his absentees, which is all
right enough, but which it's now goin' on to three mont's, and what is
comin' to us I need and I want. He ought, your pa ought to let me
bargain with Matt Pike, because he know he don't understan' figgers
like Matt Pike. He don't know exactly what the bargain were; for I've
asked him, and he always begins with a multiplyin' of words and never
answers me."

On his next return from his travels Mr. Pike noticed a coldness in
Mrs. Fluker's manner, and this enhanced his praise of the house. The
last week of the third month came. Mr. Pike was often noticed, before
and after meals, standing at the desk in the hotel office (called in
those times the bar-room) engaged in making calculations. The day
before the contract expired Mrs. Fluker, who had not indulged herself
with a single holiday since they had been in town, left Marann in
charge of the house, and rode forth, spending part of the day with
Mrs. Marchman, Sim's mother. All were glad to see her, of course, and
she returned smartly, freshened by the visit. That night she had a
talk with Marann, and oh, how Marann did cry!

The very last day came. Like insurance policies, the contract was to
expire at a certain hour. Sim Marchman came just before dinner, to
which he was sent for by Mrs. Fluker, who had seen him as he rode into
town.

"Hello, Sim," said Mr. Pike as he took his seat opposite him. "You
here? What's the news in the country? How's your health? How's crops?"

"Jest mod'rate, Mr. Pike. Got little business with you after dinner,
ef you can spare time."

"All right. Got a little matter with Pink here first. 'Twon't take
long. See you arfter amejiant, Sim."

Never had the deputy been more gracious and witty. He talked and
talked, outtalking even Mr. Fluker; he was the only man in town who
could do that. He winked at Marann as he put questions to Sim, some of
the words employed in which Sim had never heard before. Yet Sim held
up as well as he could, and after dinner followed Marann with some
little dignity into the parlor. They had not been there more than ten
minutes when Mrs. Fluker was heard to walk rapidly along the passage
leading from the dining-room, to enter her own chamber for only a
moment, then to come out and rush to the parlor door with the gig-whip
in her hand. Such uncommon conduct in a woman like Mrs. Pink Fluker of
course needs explanation.

When all the other boarders had left the house, the deputy and Mr.
Fluker having repaired to the bar-room, the former said:

"Now, Pink, for our settlement, as you say your wife think we better
have one. I'd 'a' been willin' to let accounts keep on a-runnin',
knowin' what a straightforrards sort o' man you was. Your count, ef I
ain't mistakened, is jes' thirty-three dollars, even money. Is that
so, or is it not?"

"That's it, to a dollar, Matt. Three times eleben make thirty-three,
don't it?"

"It do, Pink, or eleben times three, jes' which you please. Now here's
my count, on which you'll see, Pink, that not nary cent have I charged
for infloonce. I has infloonced a consider'ble custom to this house,
as you know, bo'din' and transion. But I done that out o' my respects
of you an' Missis Fluker, an' your keepin' of a fa'r--I'll say, as
I've said freckwent, a _very_ fa'r house. I let them infloonces go to
friendship, ef you'll take it so. Will you, Pink Fluker?"

"Cert'nly, Matt, an' I'm a thousand times obleeged to you, an'--"

"Say no more, Pink, on that p'int o' view. Ef I like a man, I know how
to treat him. Now as to the p'ints o' absentees, my business as dep'ty
sheriff has took me away from this inconsider'ble town freckwent,
hain't it?"

"It have, Matt, er somethin' else, more'n I were a expectin', an'--"

"Jes' so. But a public officer, Pink, when jooty call on him to go, he
got to go; in fack he got to _goth_, as the Scripture say, ain't that
so?"

"I s'pose so, Matt, by good rights, a--a official speakin'."

Mr. Fluker felt that he was becoming a little confused.

"Jes' so. Now, Pink, I were to have credics for my absentees 'cordin'
to transion an' single-meal bo'ders an' sleepers; ain't that so?"

"I--I--somethin' o' that sort, Matt," he answered vaguely.

"Jes' so. Now look here," drawing from his pocket a paper. "Itom one.
Twenty-eight dinners at half a dollar makes fourteen dollars, don't
it? Jes' so. Twenty-five breakfasts at a quarter makes six an' a
quarter, which make dinners an' breakfasts twenty an' a quarter.
Foller me up, as I go up, Pink. Twenty-five suppers at a quarter makes
six an' a quarter, an' which them added to the twenty an' a quarter
makes them twenty-six an' a half. Foller, Pink, an' if you ketch me in
any mistakes in the kyarin' an' addin', p'int it out. Twenty-two an' a
half beds--an' I say _half_, Pink, because you 'member one night when
them A'gusty lawyers got here 'bout midnight on their way to co't,
rather'n have you too bad cramped, I ris to make way for two of 'em;
yit as I had one good nap, I didn't think I ought to put that down but
for half. Them makes five dollars half an' seb'n pence, an' which
kyar'd on to the t'other twenty-six an' a half, fetches the whole
cabool to jes' thirty-two dollars an' seb'n pence. But I made up my
mind I'd fling out that seb'n pence, an' jes' call it a dollar even
money, an' which here's the solid silver."

In spite of the rapidity with which this enumeration of
counter-charges was made, Mr. Fluker commenced perspiring at the first
item, and when the balance was announced his face was covered with
huge drops.

It was at this juncture that Mrs. Fluker, who, well knowing her
husband's unfamiliarity with complicated accounts, had felt her duty
to be listening near the bar-room door, left, and quickly afterwards
appeared before Marann and Sim as I have represented.

"You think Matt Pike ain't tryin' to settle with your pa with a
dollar? I'm goin' to make him keep his dollar, an' I'm goin' to give
him somethin' to go 'long with it."

"The good Lord have mercy upon us!" exclaimed Marann, springing up and
catching hold of her mother's skirts, as she began her advance towards
the bar-room. "Oh, ma! for the Lord's sake!--Sim, Sim, Sim, if you
care _any_thing for me in this wide world, don't let ma go into that
room!"

"Missis Fluker," said Sim, rising instantly, "wait jest two minutes
till I see Mr. Pike on some pressin' business; I won't keep you over
two minutes a-waitin'."

He took her, set her down in a chair trembling, looked at her a moment
as she began to weep, then, going out and closing the door, strode
rapidly to the bar-room.

"Let me help you settle your board-bill, Mr. Pike, by payin' you a
little one I owe you."

Doubling his fist, he struck out with a blow that felled the deputy to
the floor. Then catching him by his heels, he dragged him out of the
house into the street. Lifting his foot above his face, he said:

"You stir till I tell you, an' I'll stomp your nose down even with the
balance of your mean face. 'Tain't exactly my business how you cheated
Mr. Fluker, though, 'pon my soul, I never knowed a trifliner,
lowdowner trick. But _I_ owed you myself for your talkin' 'bout and
your lyin' 'bout me, and now I've paid you; an' ef you only knowed it,
I've saved you from a gig-whippin'. Now you may git up."

"Here's his dollar, Sim," said Mr. Fluker, throwing it out of the
window. "Nervy say make him take it."

The vanquished, not daring to refuse, pocketed the coin, and slunk
away amid the jeers of a score of villagers who had been drawn to the
scene.

In all human probability the late omission of the shaking of Sim's and
Marann's hands was compensated at their parting that afternoon. I am
more confident on this point because at the end of the year those
hands were joined inseparably by the preacher. But this was when they
had all gone back to their old home; for if Mr. Fluker did not become
fully convinced that his mathematical education was not advanced quite
enough for all the exigencies of hotel-keeping, his wife declared that
she had had enough of it, and that she and Marann were going home. Mr.
Fluker may be said, therefore, to have followed, rather than led, his
family on the return.

As for the deputy, finding that if he did not leave it voluntarily he
would be drummed out of the village, he departed, whither I do not
remember if anybody ever knew.



THE NICE PEOPLE

By Henry Cuyler Bunner (1855-1896)

[From _Puck_, July 30, 1890. Republished in the volume, _Short Sixes:
Stories to Be Read While the Candle Burns_ (1891), by Henry Cuyler
Bunner; copyright, 1890, by Alice Larned Bunner; reprinted by
permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner'a Sons.]

"They certainly are nice people," I assented to my wife's observation,
using the colloquial phrase with a consciousness that it was anything
but "nice" English, "and I'll bet that their three children are better
brought up than most of----"

"_Two_ children," corrected my wife.

"Three, he told me."

"My dear, she said there were _two_."

"He said three."

"You've simply forgotten. I'm _sure_ she told me they had only two--a
boy and a girl."

"Well, I didn't enter into particulars."

"No, dear, and you couldn't have understood him. Two children."

"All right," I said; but I did not think it was all right. As a
near-sighted man learns by enforced observation to recognize persons
at a distance when the face is not visible to the normal eye, so the
man with a bad memory learns, almost unconsciously, to listen
carefully and report accurately. My memory is bad; but I had not had
time to forget that Mr. Brewster Brede had told me that afternoon that
he had three children, at present left in the care of his
mother-in-law, while he and Mrs. Brede took their summer vacation.

"Two children," repeated my wife; "and they are staying with his aunt
Jenny."

"He told me with his mother-in-law," I put in. My wife looked at me
with a serious expression. Men may not remember much of what they are
told about children; but any man knows the difference between an aunt
and a mother-in-law.

"But don't you think they're nice people?" asked my wife.

"Oh, certainly," I replied. "Only they seem to be a little mixed up
about their children."

"That isn't a nice thing to say," returned my wife. I could not deny
it.

       *       *       *       *       *

And yet, the next morning, when the Bredes came down and seated
themselves opposite us at table, beaming and smiling in their natural,
pleasant, well-bred fashion, I knew, to a social certainty, that they
were "nice" people. He was a fine-looking fellow in his neat
tennis-flannels, slim, graceful, twenty-eight or thirty years old,
with a Frenchy pointed beard. She was "nice" in all her pretty
clothes, and she herself was pretty with that type of prettiness which
outwears most other types--the prettiness that lies in a rounded
figure, a dusky skin, plump, rosy cheeks, white teeth and black eyes.
She might have been twenty-five; you guessed that she was prettier
than she was at twenty, and that she would be prettier still at forty.

And nice people were all we wanted to make us happy in Mr. Jacobus's
summer boarding-house on top of Orange Mountain. For a week we had
come down to breakfast each morning, wondering why we wasted the
precious days of idleness with the company gathered around the Jacobus
board. What joy of human companionship was to be had out of Mrs. Tabb
and Miss Hoogencamp, the two middle-aged gossips from Scranton,
Pa.--out of Mr. and Mrs. Biggle, an indurated head-bookkeeper and his
prim and censorious wife--out of old Major Halkit, a retired business
man, who, having once sold a few shares on commission, wrote for
circulars of every stock company that was started, and tried to induce
every one to invest who would listen to him? We looked around at those
dull faces, the truthful indices of mean and barren minds, and decided
that we would leave that morning. Then we ate Mrs. Jacobus's biscuit,
light as Aurora's cloudlets, drank her honest coffee, inhaled the
perfume of the late azaleas with which she decked her table, and
decided to postpone our departure one more day. And then we wandered
out to take our morning glance at what we called "our view"; and it
seemed to us as if Tabb and Hoogencamp and Halkit and the Biggleses
could not drive us away in a year.

I was not surprised when, after breakfast, my wife invited the Bredes
to walk with us to "our view." The Hoogencamp-Biggle-Tabb-Halkit
contingent never stirred off Jacobus's veranda; but we both felt that
the Bredes would not profane that sacred scene. We strolled slowly
across the fields, passed through the little belt of woods and, as I
heard Mrs. Brede's little cry of startled rapture, I motioned to Brede
to look up.

"By Jove!" he cried, "heavenly!"

We looked off from the brow of the mountain over fifteen miles of
billowing green, to where, far across a far stretch of pale blue lay a
dim purple line that we knew was Staten Island. Towns and villages lay
before us and under us; there were ridges and hills, uplands and
lowlands, woods and plains, all massed and mingled in that great
silent sea of sunlit green. For silent it was to us, standing in the
silence of a high place--silent with a Sunday stillness that made us
listen, without taking thought, for the sound of bells coming up from
the spires that rose above the tree-tops--the tree-tops that lay as
far beneath us as the light clouds were above us that dropped great
shadows upon our heads and faint specks of shade upon the broad sweep
of land at the mountain's foot.

"And so that is _your_ view?" asked Mrs. Brede, after a moment; "you
are very generous to make it ours, too."

Then we lay down on the grass, and Brede began to talk, in a gentle
voice, as if he felt the influence of the place. He had paddled a
canoe, in his earlier days, he said, and he knew every river and creek
in that vast stretch of landscape. He found his landmarks, and pointed
out to us where the Passaic and the Hackensack flowed, invisible to
us, hidden behind great ridges that in our sight were but combings of
the green waves upon which we looked down. And yet, on the further
side of those broad ridges and rises were scores of villages--a little
world of country life, lying unseen under our eyes.

"A good deal like looking at humanity," he said; "there is such a
thing as getting so far above our fellow men that we see only one side
of them."

Ah, how much better was this sort of talk than the chatter and gossip
of the Tabb and the Hoogencamp--than the Major's dissertations upon
his everlasting circulars! My wife and I exchanged glances.

"Now, when I went up the Matterhorn" Mr. Brede began.

"Why, dear," interrupted his wife, "I didn't know you ever went up the
Matterhorn."

"It--it was five years ago," said Mr. Brede, hurriedly. "I--I didn't
tell you--when I was on the other side, you know--it was rather
dangerous--well, as I was saying--it looked--oh, it didn't look at all
like this."

A cloud floated overhead, throwing its great shadow over the field
where we lay. The shadow passed over the mountain's brow and
reappeared far below, a rapidly decreasing blot, flying eastward over
the golden green. My wife and I exchanged glances once more.

Somehow, the shadow lingered over us all. As we went home, the Bredes
went side by side along the narrow path, and my wife and I walked
together.

"_Should you think_," she asked me, "that a man would climb the
Matterhorn the very first year he was married?"

"I don't know, my dear," I answered, evasively; "this isn't the first
year I have been married, not by a good many, and I wouldn't climb
it--for a farm."

"You know what I mean," she said.

I did.

       *        *        *        *        *

When we reached the boarding-house, Mr. Jacobus took me aside.

"You know," he began his discourse, "my wife she uset to live in N'
York!"

I didn't know, but I said "Yes."

"She says the numbers on the streets runs criss-cross-like.
Thirty-four's on one side o' the street an' thirty-five on t'other.
How's that?"

"That is the invariable rule, I believe."

"Then--I say--these here new folk that you 'n' your wife seem so
mighty taken up with--d'ye know anything about 'em?"

"I know nothing about the character of your boarders, Mr. Jacobus," I
replied, conscious of some irritability. "If I choose to associate
with any of them----"

"Jess so--jess so!" broke in Jacobus. "I hain't nothin' to say ag'inst
yer sosherbil'ty. But do ye _know_ them?"

"Why, certainly not," I replied.

"Well--that was all I wuz askin' ye. Ye see, when _he_ come here to
take the rooms--you wasn't here then--he told my wife that he lived at
number thirty-four in his street. An' yistiddy _she_ told her that
they lived at number thirty-five. He said he lived in an
apartment-house. Now there can't be no apartment-house on two sides of
the same street, kin they?"

"What street was it?" I inquired, wearily.

"Hundred 'n' twenty-first street."

"May be," I replied, still more wearily. "That's Harlem. Nobody knows
what people will do in Harlem."

I went up to my wife's room.

"Don't you think it's queer?" she asked me.

"I think I'll have a talk with that young man to-night," I said, "and
see if he can give some account of himself."

"But, my dear," my wife said, gravely, "_she_ doesn't know whether
they've had the measles or not."

"Why, Great Scott!" I exclaimed, "they must have had them when they
were children."

"Please don't be stupid," said my wife. "I meant _their_ children."

After dinner that night--or rather, after supper, for we had dinner in
the middle of the day at Jacobus's--I walked down the long verandah to
ask Brede, who was placidly smoking at the other end, to accompany me
on a twilight stroll. Half way down I met Major Halkit.

"That friend of yours," he said, indicating the unconscious figure at
the further end of the house, "seems to be a queer sort of a Dick. He
told me that he was out of business, and just looking round for a
chance to invest his capital. And I've been telling him what an
everlasting big show he had to take stock in the Capitoline Trust
Company--starts next month--four million capital--I told you all about
it. 'Oh, well,' he says, 'let's wait and think about it.' 'Wait!' says
I, 'the Capitoline Trust Company won't wait for _you_, my boy. This is
letting you in on the ground floor,' says I, 'and it's now or never.'
'Oh, let it wait,' says he. I don't know what's in-_to_ the man."

"I don't know how well he knows his own business, Major," I said as I
started again for Brede's end of the veranda. But I was troubled none
the less. The Major could not have influenced the sale of one share of
stock in the Capitoline Company. But that stock was a great
investment; a rare chance for a purchaser with a few thousand dollars.
Perhaps it was no more remarkable that Brede should not invest than
that I should not--and yet, it seemed to add one circumstance more to
the other suspicious circumstances.

       *       *       *       *       *

When I went upstairs that evening, I found my wife putting her hair to
bed--I don't know how I can better describe an operation familiar to
every married man. I waited until the last tress was coiled up, and
then I spoke:

"I've talked with Brede," I said, "and I didn't have to catechize him.
He seemed to feel that some sort of explanation was looked for, and he
was very outspoken. You were right about the children--that is, I must
have misunderstood him. There are only two. But the Matterhorn episode
was simple enough. He didn't realize how dangerous it was until he had
got so far into it that he couldn't back out; and he didn't tell her,
because he'd left her here, you see, and under the circumstances----"

"Left her here!" cried my wife. "I've been sitting with her the whole
afternoon, sewing, and she told me that he left her at Geneva, and
came back and took her to Basle, and the baby was born there--now I'm
sure, dear, because I asked her."

"Perhaps I was mistaken when I thought he said she was on this side of
the water," I suggested, with bitter, biting irony.

"You poor dear, did I abuse you?" said my wife. "But, do you know,
Mrs. Tabb said that _she_ didn't know how many lumps of sugar he took
in his coffee. Now that seems queer, doesn't it?"

It did. It was a small thing. But it looked queer, Very queer.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning, it was clear that war was declared against the
Bredes. They came down to breakfast somewhat late, and, as soon as
they arrived, the Biggleses swooped up the last fragments that
remained on their plates, and made a stately march out of the
dining-room, Then Miss Hoogencamp arose and departed, leaving a whole
fish-ball on her plate. Even as Atalanta might have dropped an apple
behind her to tempt her pursuer to check his speed, so Miss Hoogencamp
left that fish-ball behind her, and between her maiden self and
contamination.

We had finished our breakfast, my wife and I, before the Bredes
appeared. We talked it over, and agreed that we were glad that we had
not been obliged to take sides upon such insufficient testimony.

After breakfast, it was the custom of the male half of the Jacobus
household to go around the corner of the building and smoke their
pipes and cigars where they would not annoy the ladies. We sat under a
trellis covered with a grapevine that had borne no grapes in the
memory of man. This vine, however, bore leaves, and these, on that
pleasant summer morning, shielded from us two persons who were in
earnest conversation in the straggling, half-dead flower-garden at the
side of the house.

"I don't want," we heard Mr. Jacobus say, "to enter in no man's
_pry_-vacy; but I do want to know who it may be, like, that I hev in
my house. Now what I ask of _you_, and I don't want you to take it as
in no ways _personal_, is--hev you your merridge-license with you?"

"No," we heard the voice of Mr. Brede reply. "Have you yours?"

I think it was a chance shot; but it told all the same. The Major (he
was a widower) and Mr. Biggle and I looked at each other; and Mr.
Jacobus, on the other side of the grape-trellis, looked at--I don't
know what--and was as silent as we were.

Where is _your_ marriage-license, married reader? Do you know? Four
men, not including Mr. Brede, stood or sat on one side or the other of
that grape-trellis, and not one of them knew where his
marriage-license was. Each of us had had one--the Major had had three.
But where were they? Where is _yours?_ Tucked in your best-man's
pocket; deposited in his desk--or washed to a pulp in his white
waistcoat (if white waistcoats be the fashion of the hour), washed out
of existence--can you tell where it is? Can you--unless you are one of
those people who frame that interesting document and hang it upon
their drawing-room walls?

Mr. Brede's voice arose, after an awful stillness of what seemed like
five minutes, and was, probably, thirty seconds:

"Mr. Jacobus, will you make out your bill at once, and let me pay it?
I shall leave by the six o'clock train. And will you also send the
wagon for my trunks?"

"I hain't said I wanted to hev ye leave----" began Mr. Jacobus; but
Brede cut him short.

"Bring me your bill."

"But," remonstrated Jacobus, "ef ye ain't----"

"Bring me your bill!" said Mr. Brede.

       *       *       *       *       *

My wife and I went out for our morning's walk. But it seemed to us,
when we looked at "our view," as if we could only see those invisible
villages of which Brede had told us--that other side of the ridges and
rises of which we catch no glimpse from lofty hills or from the
heights of human self-esteem. We meant to stay out until the Bredes
had taken their departure; but we returned just in time to see Pete,
the Jacobus darkey, the blacker of boots, the brasher of coats, the
general handy-man of the house, loading the Brede trunks on the
Jacobus wagon.

And, as we stepped upon the verandah, down came Mrs. Brede, leaning on
Mr. Brede's arm, as though she were ill; and it was clear that she had
been crying. There were heavy rings about her pretty black eyes.

My wife took a step toward her.

"Look at that dress, dear," she whispered; "she never thought anything
like this was going to happen when she put _that_ on."

It was a pretty, delicate, dainty dress, a graceful, narrow-striped
affair. Her hat was trimmed with a narrow-striped silk of the same
colors--maroon and white--and in her hand she held a parasol that
matched her dress.

"She's had a new dress on twice a day," said my wife, "but that's the
prettiest yet. Oh, somehow--I'm _awfully_ sorry they're going!"

But going they were. They moved toward the steps. Mrs. Brede looked
toward my wife, and my wife moved toward Mrs. Brede. But the
ostracized woman, as though she felt the deep humiliation of her
position, turned sharply away, and opened her parasol to shield her
eyes from the sun. A shower of rice--a half-pound shower of rice--fell
down over her pretty hat and her pretty dress, and fell in a
spattering circle on the floor, outlining her skirts--and there it lay
in a broad, uneven band, bright in the morning sun.

Mrs. Brede was in my wife's arms, sobbing as if her young heart would
break.

"Oh, you poor, dear, silly children!" my wife cried, as Mrs. Brede
sobbed on her shoulder, "why _didn't_ you tell us?"

"W-W-W-We didn't want to be t-t-taken for a b-b-b-b-bridal couple,"
sobbed Mrs. Brede; "and we d-d-didn't _dream_ what awful lies we'd
have to tell, and all the aw-awful mixed-up-ness of it. Oh, dear,
dear, dear!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Pete!" commanded Mr. Jacobus, "put back them trunks. These folks
stays here's long's they wants ter. Mr. Brede"--he held out a large,
hard hand--"I'd orter've known better," he said. And my last doubt of
Mr. Brede vanished as he shook that grimy hand in manly fashion.

The two women were walking off toward "our view," each with an arm
about the other's waist--touched by a sudden sisterhood of sympathy.

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Brede, addressing Jacobus, Biggle, the Major and
me, "there is a hostelry down the street where they sell honest New
Jersey beer. I recognize the obligations of the situation."

We five men filed down the street. The two women went toward the
pleasant slope where the sunlight gilded the forehead of the great
hill. On Mr. Jacobus's veranda lay a spattered circle of shining
grains of rice. Two of Mr. Jacobus's pigeons flew down and picked up
the shining grains, making grateful noises far down in their throats.



THE BULLER-PODINGTON COMPACT

BY FRANK RICHARD STOCKTON (1834-1902)

[From _Scribner's Magazine_, August, 1897. Republished in _Afield and
Afloat_, by Frank Richard Stockton; copyright, 1900, by Charles
Scribner's Sons. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.]

"I tell you, William," said Thomas Buller to his friend Mr. Podington,
"I am truly sorry about it, but I cannot arrange for it this year.
Now, as to _my_ invitation--that is very different."

"Of course it is different," was the reply, "but I am obliged to say,
as I said before, that I really cannot accept it."

Remarks similar to these had been made by Thomas Buller and William
Podington at least once a year for some five years. They were old
friends; they had been schoolboys together and had been associated in
business since they were young men. They had now reached a vigorous
middle age; they were each married, and each had a house in the
country in which he resided for a part of the year. They were warmly
attached to each other, and each was the best friend which the other
had in this world. But during all these years neither of them had
visited the other in his country home.

The reason for this avoidance of each other at their respective rural
residences may be briefly stated. Mr. Buller's country house was
situated by the sea, and he was very fond of the water. He had a good
cat-boat, which he sailed himself with much judgment and skill, and it
was his greatest pleasure to take his friends and visitors upon little
excursions on the bay. But Mr. Podington was desperately afraid of the
water, and he was particularly afraid of any craft sailed by an
amateur. If his friend Buller would have employed a professional
mariner, of years and experience, to steer and manage his boat,
Podington might have been willing to take an occasional sail; but as
Buller always insisted upon sailing his own boat, and took it ill if
any of his visitors doubted his ability to do so properly, Podington
did not wish to wound the self-love of his friend, and he did not wish
to be drowned. Consequently he could not bring himself to consent to
go to Buller's house by the sea.

To receive his good friend Buller at his own house in the beautiful
upland region in which he lived would have been a great joy to Mr.
Podington; but Buller could not be induced to visit him. Podington was
very fond of horses and always drove himself, while Buller was more
afraid of horses than he was of elephants or lions. To one or more
horses driven by a coachman of years and experience he did not always
object, but to a horse driven by Podington, who had much experience
and knowledge regarding mercantile affairs, but was merely an amateur
horseman, he most decidedly and strongly objected. He did not wish to
hurt his friend's feelings by refusing to go out to drive with him,
but he would not rack his own nervous system by accompanying him.
Therefore it was that he had not yet visited the beautiful upland
country residence of Mr. Podington.

At last this state of things grew awkward. Mrs. Buller and Mrs.
Podington, often with their families, visited each other at their
country houses, but the fact that on these occasions they were never
accompanied by their husbands caused more and more gossip among their
neighbors both in the upland country and by the sea.

One day in spring as the two sat in their city office, where Mr.
Podington had just repeated his annual invitation, his friend replied
to him thus:

"William, if I come to see you this summer, will you visit me? The
thing is beginning to look a little ridiculous, and people are talking
about it."

Mr. Podington put his hand to his brow and for a few moments closed
his eyes. In his mind he saw a cat-boat upon its side, the sails
spread out over the water, and two men, almost entirely immersed in
the waves, making efforts to reach the side of the boat. One of these
was getting on very well--that was Buller. The other seemed about to
sink, his arms were uselessly waving in the air--that was himself. But
he opened his eyes and looked bravely out of the window; it was time
to conquer all this; it was indeed growing ridiculous. Buller had been
sailing many years and had never been upset.

"Yes," said he; "I will do it; I am ready any time you name."

Mr. Buller rose and stretched out his hand.

"Good!" said he; "it is a compact!"

Buller was the first to make the promised country visit. He had not
mentioned the subject of horses to his friend, but he knew through
Mrs. Buller that Podington still continued to be his own driver. She
had informed him, however, that at present he was accustomed to drive
a big black horse which, in her opinion, was as gentle and reliable as
these animals ever became, and she could not imagine how anybody could
be afraid of him. So when, the next morning after his arrival, Mr.
Buller was asked by his host if he would like to take a drive, he
suppressed a certain rising emotion and said that it would please him
very much.

When the good black horse had jogged along a pleasant road for half an
hour Mr. Buller began to feel that, perhaps, for all these years he
had been laboring under a misconception. It seemed to be possible that
there were some horses to which surrounding circumstances in the shape
of sights and sounds were so irrelevant that they were to a certain
degree entirely safe, even when guided and controlled by an amateur
hand. As they passed some meadow-land, somebody behind a hedge fired a
gun; Mr. Buller was frightened, but the horse was not.

"William," said Buller, looking cheerfully around him,

"I had no idea that you lived in such a pretty country. In fact, I
might almost call it beautiful. You have not any wide stretch of
water, such as I like so much, but here is a pretty river, those
rolling hills are very charming, and, beyond, you have the blue of the
mountains."

"It is lovely," said his friend; "I never get tired of driving through
this country. Of course the seaside is very fine, but here we have
such a variety of scenery."

Mr. Buller could not help thinking that sometimes the seaside was a
little monotonous, and that he had lost a great deal of pleasure by
not varying his summers by going up to spend a week or two with
Podington.

"William," said he, "how long have you had this horse?"

"About two years," said Mr. Podington; "before I got him, I used to
drive a pair."

"Heavens!" thought Buller, "how lucky I was not to come two years
ago!" And his regrets for not sooner visiting his friend greatly
decreased.

Now they came to a place where the stream, by which the road ran, had
been dammed for a mill and had widened into a beautiful pond.

"There now!" cried Mr. Buller. "That's what I like. William, you seem
to have everything! This is really a very pretty sheet of water, and
the reflections of the trees over there make a charming picture; you
can't get that at the seaside, you know."

Mr. Podington was delighted; his face glowed; he was rejoiced at the
pleasure of his friend. "I tell you, Thomas," said he, "that----"

"William!" exclaimed Buller, with a sudden squirm in his seat, "what
is that I hear? Is that a train?"

"Yes," said Mr. Podington, "that is the ten-forty, up."

"Does it come near here?" asked Mr. Buller, nervously. "Does it go
over that bridge?"

"Yes," said Podington, "but it can't hurt us, for our road goes under
the bridge; we are perfectly safe; there is no risk of accident."

"But your horse! Your horse!" exclaimed Buller, as the train came
nearer and nearer. "What will he do?"

"Do?" said Podington; "he'll do what he is doing now; he doesn't mind
trains."

"But look here, William," exclaimed Buller, "it will get there just as
we do; no horse could stand a roaring up in the air like that!"

Podington laughed. "He would not mind it in the least," said he.

"Come, come now," cried Buller. "Really, I can't stand this! Just stop
a minute, William, and let me get out. It sets all my nerves
quivering."

Mr. Podington smiled with a superior smile. "Oh, you needn't get out,"
said he; "there's not the least danger in the world. But I don't want
to make you nervous, and I will turn around and drive the other way."

"But you can't!" screamed Buller. "This road is not wide enough, and
that train is nearly here. Please stop!"

The imputation that the road was not wide enough for him to turn was
too much for Mr. Podington to bear. He was very proud of his ability
to turn a vehicle in a narrow place.

"Turn!" said he; "that's the easiest thing in the world. See; a little
to the right, then a back, then a sweep to the left and we will be
going the other way." And instantly he began the maneuver in which he
was such an adept.

"Oh, Thomas!" cried Buller, half rising in his seat, "that train is
almost here!"

"And we are almost----" Mr. Podington was about to say "turned
around," but he stopped. Mr. Buller's exclamations had made him a
little nervous, and, in his anxiety to turn quickly, he had pulled
upon his horse's bit with more energy than was actually necessary, and
his nervousness being communicated to the horse, that animal backed
with such extraordinary vigor that the hind wheels of the wagon went
over a bit of grass by the road and into the water. The sudden jolt
gave a new impetus to Mr. Buller's fears.

"You'll upset!" he cried, and not thinking of what he was about, he
laid hold of his friend's arm. The horse, startled by this sudden jerk
upon his bit, which, combined with the thundering of the train, which
was now on the bridge, made him think that something extraordinary was
about to happen, gave a sudden and forcible start backward, so that
not only the hind wheels of the light wagon, but the fore wheels and
his own hind legs went into the water. As the bank at this spot sloped
steeply, the wagon continued to go backward, despite the efforts of
the agitated horse to find a footing on the crumbling edge of the
bank.

"Whoa!" cried Mr. Buller.

"Get up!" exclaimed Mr. Podington, applying his whip upon the plunging
beast.

But exclamations and castigations had no effect upon the horse. The
original bed of the stream ran close to the road, and the bank was so
steep and the earth so soft that it was impossible for the horse to
advance or even maintain his footing. Back, back he went, until the
whole equipage was in the water and the wagon was afloat.

This vehicle was a road wagon, without a top, and the joints of its
box-body were tight enough to prevent the water from immediately
entering it; so, somewhat deeply sunken, it rested upon the water.
There was a current in this part of the pond and it turned the wagon
downstream. The horse was now entirely immersed in the water, with the
exception of his head and the upper part of his neck, and, unable to
reach the bottom with his feet, he made vigorous efforts to swim.

Mr. Podington, the reins and whip in his hands, sat horrified and
pale; the accident was so sudden, he was so startled and so frightened
that, for a moment, he could not speak a word. Mr. Buller, on the
other hand, was now lively and alert. The wagon had no sooner floated
away from the shore than he felt himself at home. He was upon his
favorite element; water had no fears for him. He saw that his friend
was nearly frightened out of his wits, and that, figuratively
speaking, he must step to the helm and take charge of the vessel. He
stood up and gazed about him.

"Put her across stream!" he shouted; "she can't make headway against
this current. Head her to that clump of trees on the other side; the
bank is lower there, and we can beach her. Move a little the other
way, we must trim boat. Now then, pull on your starboard rein."

Podington obeyed, and the horse slightly changed his direction.

"You see," said Buller, "it won't do to sail straight across, because
the current would carry us down and land us below that spot."

Mr. Podington said not a word; he expected every moment to see the
horse sink into a watery grave.

"It isn't so bad after all, is it, Podington? If we had a rudder and a
bit of a sail it would be a great help to the horse. This wagon is not
a bad boat."

The despairing Podington looked at his feet. "It's coming in," he said
in a husky voice. "Thomas, the water is over my shoes!"

"That is so," said Buller. "I am so used to water I didn't notice it.
She leaks. Do you carry anything to bail her out with?"

"Bail!" cried Podington, now finding his voice. "Oh, Thomas, we are
sinking!"

"That's so," said Buller; "she leaks like a sieve."

The weight of the running-gear and of the two men was entirely too
much for the buoyancy of the wagon body. The water rapidly rose toward
the top of its sides.

"We are going to drown!" cried Podington, suddenly rising.

"Lick him! Lick him!" exclaimed Buller. "Make him swim faster!"

"There's nothing to lick," cried Podington, vainly lashing at the
water, for he could not reach the horse's head. The poor man was
dreadfully frightened; he had never even imagined it possible that he
should be drowned in his own wagon.

"Whoop!" cried Buller, as the water rose over the sides. "Steady
yourself, old boy, or you'll go overboard!" And the next moment the
wagon body sunk out of sight.

But it did not go down very far. The deepest part of the channel of
the stream had been passed, and with a bump the wheels struck the
bottom.

"Heavens!" exclaimed Buller, "we are aground."

"Aground!" exclaimed Podington, "Heaven be praised!"

As the two men stood up in the submerged wagon the water was above
their knees, and when Podington looked out over the surface of the
pond, now so near his face, it seemed like a sheet of water he had
never seen before. It was something horrible, threatening to rise and
envelop him. He trembled so that he could scarcely keep his footing.

"William," said his companion, "you must sit down; if you don't,
you'll tumble overboard and be drowned. There is nothing for you to
hold to."

"Sit down," said Podington, gazing blankly at the water around him, "I
can't do that!"

At this moment the horse made a slight movement. Having touched bottom
after his efforts in swimming across the main bed of the stream, with
a floating wagon in tow, he had stood for a few moments, his head and
neck well above water, and his back barely visible beneath the
surface. Having recovered his breath, he now thought it was time to
move on.

At the first step of the horse Mr. Podington began to totter.
Instinctively he clutched Buller.

"Sit down!" cried the latter, "or you'll have us both overboard."
There was no help for it; down sat Mr. Podington; and, as with a great
splash he came heavily upon the seat, the water rose to his waist.

"Ough!" said he. "Thomas, shout for help."

"No use doing that," replied Buller, still standing on his nautical
legs; "I don't see anybody, and I don't see any boat. We'll get out
all right. Just you stick tight to the thwart."

"The what?" feebly asked the other.

"Oh, the seat, I mean. We can get to the shore all right if you steer
the horse straight. Head him more across the pond."

"I can't head him," cried Podington. "I have dropped the reins!"

"Good gracious!" cried Mr. Buller, "that's bad. Can't you steer him by
shouting 'Gee' and 'Haw'?"

"No," said Podington, "he isn't an ox; but perhaps I can stop him."
And with as much voice as he could summon, he called out: "Whoa!" and
the horse stopped.

"If you can't steer him any other way," said Buller, "we must get the
reins. Lend me your whip."

"I have dropped that too," said Podington; "there it floats."

"Oh, dear," said Buller, "I guess I'll have to dive for them; if he
were to run away, we should be in an awful fix."

"Don't get out! Don't get out!" exclaimed Podington. "You can reach
over the dashboard."

"As that's under water," said Buller, "it will be the same thing as
diving; but it's got to be done, and I'll try it. Don't you move now;
I am more used to water than you are."

Mr. Buller took off his hat and asked his friend to hold it. He
thought of his watch and other contents of his pockets, but there was
no place to put them, so he gave them no more consideration. Then
bravely getting on his knees in the water, he leaned over the
dashboard, almost disappearing from sight. With his disengaged hand
Mr. Podington grasped the submerged coat-tails of his friend.

In a few seconds the upper part of Mr. Buller rose from the water. He
was dripping and puffing, and Mr. Podington could not but think what a
difference it made in the appearance of his friend to have his hair
plastered close to his head.

"I got hold of one of them," said the sputtering Buller, "but it was
fast to something and I couldn't get it loose."

"Was it thick and wide?" asked Podington.

"Yes," was the answer; "it did seem so."

"Oh, that was a trace," said Podington; "I don't want that; the reins
are thinner and lighter."

"Now I remember they are," said Buller. "I'll go down again."

Again Mr. Buller leaned over the dashboard, and this time he remained
down longer, and when he came up he puffed and sputtered more than
before.

"Is this it?" said he, holding up a strip of wet leather.

"Yes," said Podington, "you've got the reins."

"Well, take them, and steer. I would have found them sooner if his
tail had not got into my eyes. That long tail's floating down there
and spreading itself out like a fan; it tangled itself all around my
head. It would have been much easier if he had been a bob-tailed
horse."

"Now then," said Podington, "take your hat, Thomas, and I'll try to
drive."

Mr. Buller put on his hat, which was the only dry thing about him, and
the nervous Podington started the horse so suddenly that even the
sea-legs of Buller were surprised, and he came very near going
backward into the water; but recovering himself, he sat down.

"I don't wonder you did not like to do this, William," said he. "Wet
as I am, it's ghastly!"

Encouraged by his master's voice, and by the feeling of the familiar
hand upon his bit, the horse moved bravely on.

But the bottom was very rough and uneven. Sometimes the wheels struck
a large stone, terrifying Mr. Buller, who thought they were going to
upset; and sometimes they sank into soft mud, horrifying Mr.
Podington, who thought they were going to drown.

Thus proceeding, they presented a strange sight. At first Mr.
Podington held his hands above the water as he drove, but he soon
found this awkward, and dropped them to their usual position, so that
nothing was visible above the water but the head and neck of a horse
and the heads and shoulders of two men.

Now the submarine equipage came to a low place in the bottom, and even
Mr. Buller shuddered as the water rose to his chin. Podington gave a
howl of horror, and the horse, with high, uplifted head, was obliged
to swim. At this moment a boy with a gun came strolling along the
road, and hearing Mr. Podington's cry, he cast his eyes over the
water. Instinctively he raised his weapon to his shoulder, and then,
in an instant, perceiving that the objects he beheld were not aquatic
birds, he dropped his gun and ran yelling down the road toward the
mill.

But the hollow in the bottom was a narrow one, and when it was passed
the depth of the water gradually decreased. The back of the horse came
into view, the dashboard became visible, and the bodies and the
spirits of the two men rapidly rose. Now there was vigorous splashing
and tugging, and then a jet black horse, shining as if he had been
newly varnished, pulled a dripping wagon containing two well-soaked
men upon a shelving shore.

"Oh, I am chilled to the bones!" said Podington.

"I should think so," replied his friend; "if you have got to be wet,
it is a great deal pleasanter under the water."

There was a field-road on this side of the pond which Podington well
knew, and proceeding along this they came to the bridge and got into
the main road.

"Now we must get home as fast as we can," cried Podington, "or we
shall both take cold. I wish I hadn't lost my whip. Hi now! Get
along!"

Podington was now full of life and energy, his wheels were on the hard
road, and he was himself again.

When he found his head was turned toward his home, the horse set off
at a great rate.

"Hi there!" cried Podington. "I am so sorry I lost my whip."

"Whip!" said Buller, holding fast to the side of the seat; "surely you
don't want him to go any faster than this. And look here, William," he
added, "it seems to me we are much more likely to take cold in our wet
clothes if we rush through the air in this way. Really, it seems to me
that horse is running away."

"Not a bit of it," cried Podington. "He wants to get home, and he
wants his dinner. Isn't he a fine horse? Look how he steps out!"

"Steps out!" said Buller, "I think I'd like to step out myself. Don't
you think it would be wiser for me to walk home, William? That will
warm me up."

"It will take you an hour," said his friend. "Stay where you are, and
I'll have you in a dry suit of clothes in less than fifteen minutes."

"I tell you, William," said Mr. Buller, as the two sat smoking after
dinner, "what you ought to do; you should never go out driving without
a life-preserver and a pair of oars; I always take them. It would make
you feel safer."

Mr. Buller went home the next day, because Mr. Podington's clothes did
not fit him, and his own outdoor suit was so shrunken as to be
uncomfortable. Besides, there was another reason, connected with the
desire of horses to reach their homes, which prompted his return. But
he had not forgotten his compact with his friend, and in the course of
a week he wrote to Podington, inviting him to spend some days with
him. Mr. Podington was a man of honor, and in spite of his recent
unfortunate water experience he would not break his word. He went to
Mr. Buller's seaside home at the time appointed.

Early on the morning after his arrival, before the family were up, Mr.
Podington went out and strolled down to the edge of the bay. He went
to look at Buller's boat. He was well aware that he would be asked to
take a sail, and as Buller had driven with him, it would be impossible
for him to decline sailing with Buller; but he must see the boat.
There was a train for his home at a quarter past seven; if he were not
on the premises he could not be asked to sail. If Buller's boat were a
little, flimsy thing, he would take that train--but he would wait and
see.

There was only one small boat anchored near the beach, and a
man--apparently a fisherman--informed Mr. Podington that it belonged
to Mr. Buller. Podington looked at it eagerly; it was not very small
and not flimsy.

"Do you consider that a safe boat?" he asked the fisherman.

"Safe?" replied the man. "You could not upset her if you tried. Look
at her breadth of beam! You could go anywhere in that boat! Are you
thinking of buying her?"

The idea that he would think of buying a boat made Mr. Podington
laugh. The information that it would be impossible to upset the little
vessel had greatly cheered him, and he could laugh.

Shortly after breakfast Mr. Buller, like a nurse with a dose of
medicine, came to Mr. Podington with the expected invitation to take a
sail.

"Now, William," said his host, "I understand perfectly your feeling
about boats, and what I wish to prove to you is that it is a feeling
without any foundation. I don't want to shock you or make you nervous,
so I am not going to take you out today on the bay in my boat. You are
as safe on the bay as you would be on land--a little safer, perhaps,
under certain circumstances, to which we will not allude--but still it
is sometimes a little rough, and this, at first, might cause you some
uneasiness, and so I am going to let you begin your education in the
sailing line on perfectly smooth water. About three miles back of us
there is a very pretty lake several miles long. It is part of the
canal system which connects the town with the railroad. I have sent my
boat to the town, and we can walk up there and go by the canal to the
lake; it is only about three miles."

If he had to sail at all, this kind of sailing suited Mr. Podington. A
canal, a quiet lake, and a boat which could not be upset. When they
reached the town the boat was in the canal, ready for them.

"Now," said Mr. Buller, "you get in and make yourself comfortable. My
idea is to hitch on to a canal-boat and be towed to the lake. The
boats generally start about this time in the morning, and I will go
and see about it."

Mr. Podington, under the direction of his friend, took a seat in the
stern of the sailboat, and then he remarked:

"Thomas, have you a life-preserver on board? You know I am not used to
any kind of vessel, and I am clumsy. Nothing might happen to the boat,
but I might trip and fall overboard, and I can't swim."

"All right," said Buller; "here's a life-preserver, and you can put it
on. I want you to feel perfectly safe. Now I will go and see about the
tow."

But Mr. Buller found that the canal-boats would not start at their
usual time; the loading of one of them was not finished, and he was
informed that he might have to wait for an hour or more. This did not
suit Mr. Buller at all, and he did not hesitate to show his annoyance.

"I tell you, sir, what you can do," said one of the men in charge of
the boats; "if you don't want to wait till we are ready to start,
we'll let you have a boy and a horse to tow you up to the lake. That
won't cost you much, and they'll be back before we want 'em."

The bargain was made, and Mr. Buller joyfully returned to his boat
with the intelligence that they were not to wait for the canal-boats.
A long rope, with a horse attached to the other end of it, was
speedily made fast to the boat, and with a boy at the head of the
horse, they started up the canal.

"Now this is the kind of sailing I like," said Mr. Podington. "If I
lived near a canal I believe I would buy a boat and train my horse to
tow. I could have a long pair of rope-lines and drive him myself; then
when the roads were rough and bad the canal would always be smooth."

"This is all very nice," replied Mr. Buller, who sat by the tiller to
keep the boat away from the bank, "and I am glad to see you in a boat
under any circumstances. Do you know, William, that although I did not
plan it, there could not have been a better way to begin your sailing
education. Here we glide along, slowly and gently, with no possible
thought of danger, for if the boat should suddenly spring a leak, as
if it were the body of a wagon, all we would have to do would be to
step on shore, and by the time you get to the end of the canal you
will like this gentle motion so much that you will be perfectly ready
to begin the second stage of your nautical education."

"Yes," said Mr. Podington. "How long did you say this canal is?"

"About three miles," answered his friend. "Then we will go into the
lock and in a few minutes we shall be on the lake."

"So far as I am concerned," said Mr. Podington, "I wish the canal were
twelve miles long. I cannot imagine anything pleasanter than this. If
I lived anywhere near a canal--a long canal, I mean, this one is too
short--I'd--"

"Come, come now," interrupted Buller. "Don't be content to stay in the
primary school just because it is easy. When we get on the lake I will
show you that in a boat, with a gentle breeze, such as we are likely
to have today, you will find the motion quite as pleasing, and ever so
much more inspiriting. I should not be a bit surprised, William, if
after you have been two or three times on the lake you will ask
me--yes, positively ask me--to take you out on the bay!"

Mr. Podington smiled, and leaning backward, he looked up at the
beautiful blue sky.

"You can't give me anything better than this, Thomas," said he; "but
you needn't think I am weakening; you drove with me, and I will sail
with you."

The thought came into Buller's mind that he had done both of these
things with Podington, but he did not wish to call up unpleasant
memories, and said nothing.

About half a mile from the town there stood a small cottage where
house-cleaning was going on, and on a fence, not far from the canal,
there hung a carpet gaily adorned with stripes and spots of red and
yellow.

When the drowsy tow-horse came abreast of the house, and the carpet
caught his eye, he suddenly stopped and gave a start toward the canal.
Then, impressed with a horror of the glaring apparition, he gathered
himself up, and with a bound dashed along the tow-path. The astounded
boy gave a shout, but was speedily left behind. The boat of Mr. Buller
shot forward as if she had been struck by a squall.

The terrified horse sped on as if a red and yellow demon were after
him. The boat bounded, and plunged, and frequently struck the grassy
bank of the canal, as if it would break itself to pieces. Mr.
Podington clutched the boom to keep himself from being thrown out,
while Mr. Buller, both hands upon the tiller, frantically endeavored
to keep the boat from the bank.

"William!" he screamed, "he is running away with us; we shall be
dashed to pieces! Can't you get forward and cast off that line?"

"What do you mean?" cried Podington, as the boom gave a great jerk as
if it would break its fastenings and drag him overboard.

"I mean untie the tow-line. We'll be smashed if you don't! I can't
leave this tiller. Don't try to stand up; hold on to the boom and
creep forward. Steady now, or you'll be overboard!"

Mr. Podington stumbled to the bow of the boat, his efforts greatly
impeded by the big cork life-preserver tied under his arms, and the
motion of the boat was so violent and erratic that he was obliged to
hold on to the mast with one arm and to try to loosen the knot with
the other; but there was a great strain on the rope, and he could do
nothing with one hand.

"Cut it! Cut it!" cried Mr. Buller.

"I haven't a knife," replied Podington.

Mr. Buller was terribly frightened; his boat was cutting through the
water as never vessel of her class had sped since sail-boats were
invented, and bumping against the bank as if she were a billiard-ball
rebounding from the edge of a table. He forgot he was in a boat; he
only knew that for the first time in his life he was in a runaway. He
let go the tiller. It was of no use to him.

"William," he cried, "let us jump out the next time we are near enough
to shore!"

"Don't do that! Don't do that!" replied Podington. "Don't jump out in
a runaway; that is the way to get hurt. Stick to your seat, my boy; he
can't keep this up much longer. He'll lose his wind!"

Mr. Podington was greatly excited, but he was not frightened, as
Buller was. He had been in a runaway before, and he could not help
thinking how much better a wagon was than a boat in such a case.

"If he were hitched up shorter and I had a snaffle-bit and a stout
pair of reins," thought he, "I could soon bring him up."

But Mr. Buller was rapidly losing his wits. The horse seemed to be
going faster than ever. The boat bumped harder against the bank, and
at one time Buller thought they could turn over.

Suddenly a thought struck him.

"William," he shouted, "tip that anchor over the side! Throw it in,
any way!"

Mr. Podington looked about him, and, almost under his feet, saw the
anchor. He did not instantly comprehend why Buller wanted it thrown
overboard, but this was not a time to ask questions. The difficulties
imposed by the life-preserver, and the necessity of holding on with
one hand, interfered very much with his getting at the anchor and
throwing it over the side, but at last he succeeded, and just as the
boat threw up her bow as if she were about to jump on shore, the
anchor went out and its line shot after it. There was an irregular
trembling of the boat as the anchor struggled along the bottom of the
canal; then there was a great shock; the boat ran into the bank and
stopped; the tow-line was tightened like a guitar-string, and the
horse, jerked back with great violence, came tumbling in a heap upon
the ground.

Instantly Mr. Podington was on the shore and running at the top of his
speed toward the horse. The astounded animal had scarcely begun to
struggle to his feet when Podington rushed upon him, pressed his head
back to the ground, and sat upon it.

"Hurrah!" he cried, waving his hat above his head. "Get out, Buller;
he is all right now!"

Presently Mr. Buller approached, very much shaken up.

"All right?" he said. "I don't call a horse flat in a road with a man
on his head all right; but hold him down till we get him loose from my
boat. That is the thing to do. William, cast him loose from the boat
before you let him up! What will he do when he gets up?"

"Oh. he'll be quiet enough when he gets up," said Podington. "But if
you've got a knife you can cut his traces---I mean that rope--but no,
you needn't. Here comes the boy. We'll settle this business in very
short order now."

When the horse was on his feet, and all connection between the animal
and the boat had been severed, Mr. Podington looked at his friend.

"Thomas," said he, "you seem to have had a hard time of it. You have
lost your hat and you look as if you had been in a wrestling-match."

"I have," replied the other; "I wrestled with that tiller and I wonder
it didn't throw me out."

Now approached the boy. "Shall I hitch him on again, sir?" said he.
"He's quiet enough now."

"No," cried Mr. Buller; "I want no more sailing after a horse, and,
besides, we can't go on the lake with that boat; she has been battered
about so much that she must have opened a dozen seams. The best thing
we can do is to walk home."

Mr. Podington agreed with his friend that walking home was the best
thing they could do. The boat was examined and found to be leaking,
but not very badly, and when her mast had been unshipped and
everything had been made tight and right on board, she was pulled out
of the way of tow-lines and boats, and made fast until she could be
sent for from the town.

Mr. Buller and Mr. Podington walked back toward the town. They had not
gone very far when they met a party of boys, who, upon seeing them,
burst into unseemly laughter.

"Mister," cried one of them, "you needn't be afraid of tumbling into
the canal. Why don't you take off your life-preserver and let that
other man put it on his head?"

The two friends looked at each other and could not help joining in the
laughter of the boys.

"By George! I forgot all about this," said Podington, as he unfastened
the cork jacket. "It does look a little super-timid to wear a
life-preserver just because one happens to be walking by the side of a
canal."

Mr. Buller tied a handkerchief on his head, and Mr. Podington rolled
up his life-preserver and carried it under his arm. Thus they reached
the town, where Buller bought a hat, Podington dispensed with his
bundle, and arrangements were made to bring back the boat.

"Runaway in a sailboat!" exclaimed one of the canal boatmen when he
had heard about the accident. "Upon my word! That beats anything that
could happen to a man!"

"No, it doesn't," replied Mr. Buller, quietly. "I have gone to the
bottom in a foundered road-wagon."

The man looked at him fixedly.

"Was you ever struck in the mud in a balloon?" he asked.

"Not yet," replied Mr. Buller.

It required ten days to put Mr. Buller's sailboat into proper
condition, and for ten days Mr. Podington stayed with his friend, and
enjoyed his visit very much. They strolled on the beach, they took
long walks in the back country, they fished from the end of a pier,
they smoked, they talked, and were happy and content.

"Thomas," said Mr. Podington, on the last evening of his stay, "I have
enjoyed myself very much since I have been down here, and now, Thomas,
if I were to come down again next summer, would you mind--would you
mind, not----"

"I would not mind it a bit," replied Buller, promptly. "I'll never so
much as mention it; so you can come along without a thought of it. And
since you have alluded to the subject, William," he continued, "I'd
like very much to come and see you again; you know my visit was a very
short one this year. That is a beautiful country you live in. Such a
variety of scenery, such an opportunity for walks and rambles! But,
William, if you could only make up your mind not to----"

"Oh, that is all right!" exclaimed Podington. "I do not need to make
up my mind. You come to my house and you will never so much as hear of
it. Here's my hand upon it!"

"And here's mine!" said Mr. Buller.

And they shook hands over a new compact.



COLONEL STARBOTTLE FOR THE PLAINTIFF

By Bret Harte (1839-1902)

[From _Harper's Magazine_, March, 1901. Republished in the volume,
_Openings in the Old Trail_ (1902), by Bret Harte; copyright, 1902, by
Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of Bret Harte's
complete works; reprinted by their permission.]

It had been a day of triumph for Colonel Starbottle. First, for his
personality, as it would have been difficult to separate the Colonel's
achievements from his individuality; second, for his oratorical
abilities as a sympathetic pleader; and third, for his functions as
the leading counsel for the Eureka Ditch Company _versus_ the State of
California. On his strictly legal performances in this issue I prefer
not to speak; there were those who denied them, although the jury had
accepted them in the face of the ruling of the half-amused,
half-cynical Judge himself. For an hour they had laughed with the
Colonel, wept with him, been stirred to personal indignation or
patriotic exaltation by his passionate and lofty periods--what else
could they do than give him their verdict? If it was alleged by some
that the American eagle, Thomas Jefferson, and the Resolutions of '98
had nothing whatever to do with the contest of a ditch company over a
doubtfully worded legislative document; that wholesale abuse of the
State Attorney and his political motives had not the slightest
connection with the legal question raised--it was, nevertheless,
generally accepted that the losing party would have been only too glad
to have the Colonel on their side. And Colonel Starbottle knew this,
as, perspiring, florid, and panting, he rebuttoned the lower buttons
of his blue frock-coat, which had become loosed in an oratorical
spasm, and readjusted his old-fashioned, spotless shirt frill above it
as he strutted from the court-room amidst the hand-shakings and
acclamations of his friends.

And here an unprecedented thing occurred. The Colonel absolutely
declined spirituous refreshment at the neighboring Palmetto Saloon,
and declared his intention of proceeding directly to his office in the
adjoining square. Nevertheless the Colonel quitted the building alone,
and apparently unarmed except for his faithful gold-headed stick,
which hung as usual from his forearm. The crowd gazed after him with
undisguised admiration of this new evidence of his pluck. It was
remembered also that a mysterious note had been handed to him at the
conclusion of his speech--evidently a challenge from the State
Attorney. It was quite plain that the Colonel--a practised
duellist--was hastening home to answer it.

But herein they were wrong. The note was in a female hand, and simply
requested the Colonel to accord an interview with the writer at the
Colonel's office as soon as he left the court. But it was an
engagement that the Colonel--as devoted to the fair sex as he was to
the "code"--was no less prompt in accepting. He flicked away the dust
from his spotless white trousers and varnished boots with his
handkerchief, and settled his black cravat under his Byron collar as
he neared his office. He was surprised, however, on opening the door
of his private office to find his visitor already there; he was still
more startled to find her somewhat past middle age and plainly
attired. But the Colonel was brought up in a school of Southern
politeness, already antique in the republic, and his bow of courtesy
belonged to the epoch of his shirt frill and strapped trousers. No one
could have detected his disappointment in his manner, albeit his
sentences were short and incomplete. But the Colonel's colloquial
speech was apt to be fragmentary incoherencies of his larger
oratorical utterances.

"A thousand pardons--for--er--having kept a lady waiting--er!
But--er--congratulations of friends--and--er--courtesy due to
them--er--interfered with--though perhaps only heightened--by
procrastination--pleasure of--ha!" And the Colonel completed his
sentence with a gallant wave of his fat but white and well-kept hand.

"Yes! I came to see you along o' that speech of yours. I was in court.
When I heard you gettin' it off on that jury, I says to myself that's
the kind o' lawyer _I_ want. A man that's flowery and convincin'! Just
the man to take up our case."

"Ah! It's a matter of business, I see," said the Colonel, inwardly
relieved, but externally careless. "And--er--may I ask the nature of
the case?"

"Well! it's a breach-o'-promise suit," said the visitor, calmly.

If the Colonel had been surprised before, he was now really startled,
and with an added horror that required all his politeness to conceal.
Breach-of-promise cases were his peculiar aversion. He had always held
them to be a kind of litigation which could have been obviated by the
prompt killing of the masculine offender--in which case he would have
gladly defended the killer. But a suit for damages!--_damages!_--with
the reading of love-letters before a hilarious jury and court, was
against all his instincts. His chivalry was outraged; his sense of
humor was small--and in the course of his career he had lost one or
two important cases through an unexpected development of this quality
in a jury.

The woman had evidently noticed his hesitation, but mistook its cause.
"It ain't me--but my darter."

The Colonel recovered his politeness. "Ah! I am relieved, my dear
madam! I could hardly conceive a man ignorant enough to--er--er--throw
away such evident good fortune--or base enough to deceive the
trustfulness of womanhood--matured and experienced only in the
chivalry of our sex, ha!"

The woman smiled grimly. "Yes!--it's my darter, Zaidee Hooker--so ye
might spare some of them pretty speeches for _her_--before the jury."

The Colonel winced slightly before this doubtful prospect, but
smiled. "Ha! Yes!--certainly--the jury. But--er--my dear lady, need
we go as far as that? Cannot this affair be settled--er--out of
court? Could not this--er--individual--be admonished--told that he
must give satisfaction--personal satisfaction--for his dastardly
conduct--to --er--near relative--or even valued personal friend?
The--er--arrangements necessary for that purpose I myself would
undertake."

He was quite sincere; indeed, his small black eyes shone with that
fire which a pretty woman or an "affair of honor" could alone kindle.
The visitor stared vacantly at him, and said, slowly:

"And what good is that goin' to do _us_?"

"Compel him to--er--perform his promise," said the Colonel, leaning
back in his chair.

"Ketch him doin' it!" said the woman, scornfully. "No--that ain't wot
we're after. We must make him _pay_! Damages--and nothin' short o'
_that_."

The Colonel bit his lip. "I suppose," he said, gloomily, "you have
documentary evidence--written promises and protestations--er--er--
love-letters, in fact?"

"No--nary a letter! Ye see, that's jest it--and that's where _you_
come in. You've got to convince that jury yourself. You've got to show
what it is--tell the whole story your own way. Lord! to a man like you
that's nothin'."

Startling as this admission might have been to any other lawyer,
Starbottle was absolutely relieved by it. The absence of any
mirth-provoking correspondence, and the appeal solely to his own
powers of persuasion, actually struck his fancy. He lightly put aside
the compliment with a wave of his white hand.

"Of course," said the Colonel, confidently, "there is strongly
presumptive and corroborative evidence? Perhaps you can give me--er--a
brief outline of the affair?"

"Zaidee kin do that straight enough, I reckon," said the woman; "what
I want to know first is, kin you take the case?"

The Colonel did not hesitate; his curiosity was piqued. "I certainly
can. I have no doubt your daughter will put me in possession of
sufficient facts and details--to constitute what we call--er--a
brief."

"She kin be brief enough--or long enough--for the matter of that,"
said the woman, rising. The Colonel accepted this implied witticism
with a smile.

"And when may I have the pleasure of seeing her?" he asked, politely.

"Well, I reckon as soon as I can trot out and call her. She's just
outside, meanderin' in the road--kinder shy, ye know, at first."

She walked to the door. The astounded Colonel nevertheless gallantly
accompanied her as she stepped out into the street and called,
shrilly, "You Zaidee!"

A young girl here apparently detached herself from a tree and the
ostentatious perusal of an old election poster, and sauntered down
towards the office door. Like her mother, she was plainly dressed;
unlike her, she had a pale, rather refined face, with a demure mouth
and downcast eyes. This was all the Colonel saw as he bowed profoundly
and led the way into his office, for she accepted his salutations
without lifting her head. He helped her gallantly to a chair, on which
she seated herself sideways, somewhat ceremoniously, with her eyes
following the point of her parasol as she traced a pattern on the
carpet. A second chair offered to the mother that lady, however,
declined. "I reckon to leave you and Zaidee together to talk it out,"
she said; turning to her daughter, she added, "Jest you tell him all,
Zaidee," and before the Colonel could rise again, disappeared from the
room. In spite of his professional experience, Starbottle was for a
moment embarrassed. The young girl, however, broke the silence without
looking up.

"Adoniram K. Hotchkiss," she began, in a monotonous voice, as if it
were a recitation addressed to the public, "first began to take notice
of me a year ago. Arter that--off and on----"

"One moment," interrupted the astounded Colonel; "do you mean
Hotchkiss the President of the Ditch Company?" He had recognized the
name of a prominent citizen--a rigid ascetic, taciturn, middle-aged
man--a deacon--and more than that, the head of the company he had just
defended. It seemed inconceivable.

"That's him," she continued, with eyes still fixed on the parasol and
without changing her monotonous tone--"off and on ever since. Most of
the time at the Free-Will Baptist church--at morning service,
prayer-meetings, and such. And at home--outside--er--in the road."

"Is it this gentleman--Mr. Adoniram K. Hotchkiss--who--er--promised
marriage?" stammered the Colonel.

"Yes."

The Colonel shifted uneasily in his chair. "Most extraordinary!
for--you see--my dear young lady--this becomes--a--er--most delicate
affair."

"That's what maw said," returned the young woman, simply, yet with the
faintest smile playing around her demure lips and downcast cheek.

"I mean," said the Colonel, with a pained yet courteous smile, "that
this--er--gentleman--is in fact--er--one of my clients."

"That's what maw said, too, and of course your knowing him will make
it all the easier for you," said the young woman.

A slight flush crossed the Colonel's cheek as he returned quickly and
a little stiffly, "On the contrary--er--it may make it impossible for
me to--er--act in this matter."

The girl lifted her eyes. The Colonel held his breath as the long
lashes were raised to his level. Even to an ordinary observer that
sudden revelation of her eyes seemed to transform her face with subtle
witchery. They were large, brown, and soft, yet filled with an
extraordinary penetration and prescience. They were the eyes of an
experienced woman of thirty fixed in the face of a child. What else
the Colonel saw there Heaven only knows! He felt his inmost secrets
plucked from him--his whole soul laid bare--his vanity, belligerency,
gallantry--even his medieval chivalry, penetrated, and yet
illuminated, in that single glance. And when the eyelids fell again,
he felt that a greater part of himself had been swallowed up in them.

"I beg your pardon," he said, hurriedly. "I mean--this matter may be
arranged--er--amicably. My interest with--and as you wisely
say--my--er--knowledge of my client--er--Mr. Hotchkiss--may affect--a
compromise."

"And _damages_," said the young girl, readdressing her parasol, as if
she had never looked up.

The Colonel winced. "And--er--undoubtedly _compensation_--if you do
not press a fulfilment of the promise. Unless," he said, with an
attempted return to his former easy gallantry, which, however, the
recollection of her eyes made difficult, "it is a question of--er--the
affections?"

"Which?" said his fair client, softly.

"If you still love him?" explained the Colonel, actually blushing.

Zaidee again looked up; again taking the Colonel's breath away with
eyes that expressed not only the fullest perception of what he had
_said_, but of what he thought and had not said, and with an added
subtle suggestion of what he might have thought. "That's tellin'," she
said, dropping her long lashes again. The Colonel laughed vacantly.
Then feeling himself growing imbecile, he forced an equally weak
gravity. "Pardon me--I understand there are no letters; may I know the
way in which he formulated his declaration and promises?"

"Hymn-books," said the girl, briefly.

"I beg your pardon," said the mystified lawyer.

"Hymn-books--marked words in them with pencil--and passed 'em on to
me," repeated Zaidee. "Like 'love,' 'dear,' 'precious,' 'sweet,' and
'blessed,'" she added, accenting each word with a push of her parasol
on the carpet. "Sometimes a whole line outer Tate and Brady--and
_Solomon's Song_, you know, and sich."

"I believe," said the Colonel, loftily, "that the--er--phrases of
sacred psalmody lend themselves to the language of the affections. But
in regard to the distinct promise of marriage--was there--er--no
_other_ expression?"

"Marriage Service in the prayer-book--lines and words outer that--all
marked," said Zaidee. The Colonel nodded naturally and approvingly.
"Very good. Were others cognizant of this? Were there any witnesses?"

"Of course not," said the girl. "Only me and him. It was generally at
church-time--or prayer-meeting. Once, in passing the plate, he slipped
one o' them peppermint lozenges with the letters stamped on it 'I love
you' for me to take."

The Colonel coughed slightly. "And you have the lozenge?"

"I ate it," said the girl, simply.

"Ah," said the Colonel. After a pause he added, delicately:
"But were these attentions--er--confined to--er---sacred precincts?
Did he meet you elsewhere?"

"Useter pass our house on the road," returned the girl, dropping into
her monotonous recital, "and useter signal."

"Ah, signal?" repeated the Colonel, approvingly.

"Yes! He'd say 'Kerrow,' and I'd say 'Kerree.' Suthing like a bird,
you know."

Indeed, as she lifted her voice in imitation of the call the Colonel
thought it certainly very sweet and birdlike. At least as _she_ gave
it. With his remembrance of the grim deacon he had doubts as to the
melodiousness of _his_ utterance. He gravely made her repeat it.

"And after that signal?" he added, suggestively.

"He'd pass on," said the girl.

The Colonel coughed slightly, and tapped his desk with his pen-holder.

"Were there any endearments--er--caresses--er--such as taking your
hand--er--clasping your waist?" he suggested, with a gallant yet
respectful sweep of his white hand and bowing of his head;--"er--
slight pressure of your fingers in the changes of a dance--I mean,"
he corrected himself, with an apologetic cough--"in the passing of
the plate?"

"No;--he was not what you'd call 'fond,'" returned the girl.

"Ah! Adoniram K. Hotchkiss was not 'fond' in the ordinary acceptance
of the word," said the Colonel, with professional gravity.

She lifted her disturbing eyes, and again absorbed his in her own. She
also said "Yes," although her eyes in their mysterious prescience of
all he was thinking disclaimed the necessity of any answer at all. He
smiled vacantly. There was a long pause. On which she slowly
disengaged her parasol from the carpet pattern and stood up.

"I reckon that's about all," she said.

"Er--yes--but one moment," said the Colonel, vaguely. He would have
liked to keep her longer, but with her strange premonition of him he
felt powerless to detain her, or explain his reason for doing so. He
instinctively knew she had told him all; his professional judgment
told him that a more hopeless case had never come to his knowledge.
Yet he was not daunted, only embarrassed. "No matter," he said,
vaguely. "Of course I shall have to consult with you again." Her eyes
again answered that she expected he would, but she added, simply,
"When?"

"In the course of a day or two," said the Colonel, quickly. "I will
send you word." She turned to go. In his eagerness to open the door
for her he upset his chair, and with some confusion, that was actually
youthful, he almost impeded her movements in the hall, and knocked his
broad-brimmed Panama hat from his bowing hand in a final gallant
sweep. Yet as her small, trim, youthful figure, with its simple
Leghorn straw hat confined by a blue bow under her round chin, passed
away before him, she looked more like a child than ever.

The Colonel spent that afternoon in making diplomatic inquiries. He
found his youthful client was the daughter of a widow who had a small
ranch on the cross-roads, near the new Free-Will Baptist church--the
evident theatre of this pastoral. They led a secluded life; the girl
being little known in the town, and her beauty and fascination
apparently not yet being a recognized fact. The Colonel felt a
pleasurable relief at this, and a general satisfaction he could not
account for. His few inquiries concerning Mr. Hotchkiss only confirmed
his own impressions of the alleged lover--a serious-minded,
practically abstracted man--abstentive of youthful society, and the
last man apparently capable of levity of the affections or serious
flirtation. The Colonel was mystified--but determined of
purpose--whatever that purpose might have been.

The next day he was at his office at the same hour. He was alone--as
usual--the Colonel's office really being his private lodgings,
disposed in connecting rooms, a single apartment reserved for
consultation. He had no clerk; his papers and briefs being taken by
his faithful body-servant and ex-slave "Jim" to another firm who did
his office-work since the death of Major Stryker--the Colonel's only
law partner, who fell in a duel some years previous. With a fine
constancy the Colonel still retained his partner's name on his
door-plate--and, it was alleged by the superstitious, kept a certain
invincibility also through the _manes_ of that lamented and somewhat
feared man.

The Colonel consulted his watch, whose heavy gold case still showed
the marks of a providential interference with a bullet destined for
its owner, and replaced it with some difficulty and shortness of
breath in his fob. At the same moment he heard a step in the passage,
and the door opened to Adoniram K. Hotchkiss. The Colonel was
impressed; he had a duellist's respect for punctuality.

The man entered with a nod and the expectant, inquiring look of a busy
man. As his feet crossed that sacred threshold the Colonel became all
courtesy; he placed a chair for his visitor, and took his hat from his
half-reluctant hand. He then opened a cupboard and brought out a
bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

"A--er--slight refreshment, Mr. Hotchkiss," he suggested, politely. "I
never drink," replied Hotchkiss, with the severe attitude of a total
abstainer. "Ah--er--not the finest bourbon whiskey, selected by a
Kentucky friend? No? Pardon me! A cigar, then--the mildest Havana."

"I do not use tobacco nor alcohol in any form," repeated Hotchkiss,
ascetically. "I have no foolish weaknesses."

The Colonel's moist, beady eyes swept silently over his client's
sallow face. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, and half
closing his eyes as in dreamy reminiscence, said, slowly: "Your
reply, Mr. Hotchkiss, reminds me of--er--sing'lar circumstances that
--er--occurred, in point of fact--at the St. Charles Hotel, New
Orleans. Pinkey Hornblower--personal friend--invited Senator
Doolittle to join him in social glass. Received, sing'larly enough,
reply similar to yours. 'Don't drink nor smoke?' said Pinkey. 'Gad,
sir, you must be mighty sweet on the ladies.' Ha!" The Colonel paused
long enough to allow the faint flush to pass from Hotchkiss's cheek,
and went on, half closing his eyes: "'I allow no man, sir, to discuss
my personal habits,' said Doolittle, over his shirt collar. 'Then I
reckon shootin' must be one of those habits,' said Pinkey, coolly.
Both men drove out on the Shell Road back of cemetery next morning.
Pinkey put bullet at twelve paces through Doolittle's temple. Poor
Doo never spoke again. Left three wives and seven children, they say
--two of 'em black."

"I got a note from you this morning," said Hotchkiss, with badly
concealed impatience. "I suppose in reference to our case. You have
taken judgment, I believe." The Colonel, without replying, slowly
filled a glass of whiskey and water. For a moment he held it dreamily
before him, as if still engaged in gentle reminiscences called up by
the act. Then tossing it off, he wiped his lips with a large white
handkerchief, and leaning back comfortably in his chair, said, with a
wave of his hand, "The interview I requested, Mr. Hotchkiss, concerns
a subject--which I may say is--er--er--at present _not_ of a public
or business nature--although _later_ it might become--er--er--both.
It is an affair of some--er--delicacy."

The Colonel paused, and Mr. Hotchkiss regarded him with increased
impatience. The Colonel, however, continued, with unchanged
deliberation: "It concerns--er--a young lady--a beautiful,
high-souled creature, sir, who, apart from her personal loveliness--
er--er--I may say is of one of the first families of Missouri, and--
er--not--remotely connected by marriage with one of--er--er--my
boyhood's dearest friends. The latter, I grieve to say, was a pure
invention of the Colonel's--an oratorical addition to the scanty
information he had obtained the previous day. The young lady," he
continued, blandly, "enjoys the further distinction of being the
object of such attention from you as would make this interview--
really--a confidential matter--er--er--among friends and--er--er--
relations in present and future. I need not say that the lady I refer
to is Miss Zaidee Juno Hooker, only daughter of Almira Ann Hooker,
relict of Jefferson Brown Hooker, formerly of Boone County, Kentucky,
and latterly of--er--Pike County, Missouri."

The sallow, ascetic hue of Mr. Hotchkiss's face had passed through a
livid and then a greenish shade, and finally settled into a sullen
red. "What's all this about?" he demanded, roughly. The least touch of
belligerent fire came into Starbottle's eye, but his bland courtesy
did not change. "I believe," he said, politely, "I have made myself
clear as between--er--gentlemen, though perhaps not as clear as I
should to--er--er--jury."

Mr. Hotchkiss was apparently struck with some significance in the
lawyer's reply. "I don't know," he said, in a lower and more cautious
voice, "what you mean by what you call 'my attentions' to--any one--or
how it concerns you. I have not exhausted half a dozen words with--the
person you name--have never written her a line--nor even called at her
house." He rose with an assumption of ease, pulled down his waistcoat,
buttoned his coat, and took up his hat. The Colonel did not move. "I
believe I have already indicated my meaning in what I have called
'your attentions,'" said the Colonel, blandly, "and given you my
'concern' for speaking as--er--er mutual friend. As to _your_
statement of your relations with Miss Hooker, I may state that it is
fully corroborated by the statement of the young lady herself in this
very office yesterday."

"Then what does this impertinent nonsense mean? Why am I summoned
here?" said Hotchkiss, furiously.

"Because," said the Colonel, deliberately, "that statement is
infamously--yes, damnably to your discredit, sir!"

Mr. Hotchkiss was here seized by one of those important and
inconsistent rages which occasionally betray the habitually cautious
and timid man. He caught up the Colonel's stick, which was lying on
the table. At the same moment the Colonel, without any apparent
effort, grasped it by the handle. To Mr. Hotchkiss's astonishment, the
stick separated in two pieces, leaving the handle and about two feet
of narrow glittering steel in the Colonel's hand. The man recoiled,
dropping the useless fragment. The Colonel picked it up, fitting the
shining blade in it, clicked the spring, and then rising, with a face
of courtesy yet of unmistakably genuine pain, and with even a slight
tremor in his voice, said, gravely:

"Mr. Hotchkiss, I owe you a thousand apologies, sir, that--er--
a weapon should be drawn by me--even through your own inadvertence--
under the sacred protection of my roof, and upon an unarmed man. I
beg your pardon, sir, and I even withdraw the expressions which
provoked that inadvertence. Nor does this apology prevent you from
holding me responsible--personally responsible--_elsewhere_ for an
indiscretion committed in behalf of a lady--my--er--client."

"Your client? Do you mean you have taken her case? You, the counsel
for the Ditch Company?" said Mr. Hotchkiss, in trembling indignation.

"Having won _your_ case, sir," said the Colonel, coolly,
"the--er--usages of advocacy do not prevent me from espousing the
cause of the weak and unprotected."

"We shall see, sir," said Hotchkiss, grasping the handle of the door
and backing into the passage. "There are other lawyers who--"

"Permit me to see you out," interrupted the Colonel, rising politely.

"--will be ready to resist the attacks of blackmail," continued
Hotchkiss, retreating along the passage.

"And then you will be able to repeat your remarks to me _in the
street_," continued the Colonel, bowing, as he persisted in following
his visitor to the door.

But here Mr. Hotchkiss quickly slammed it behind him, and hurried
away. The Colonel returned to his office, and sitting down, took a
sheet of letter paper bearing the inscription "Starbottle and Stryker,
Attorneys and Counsellors," and wrote the following lines:

  Hooker _versus_ Hotchkiss.

  DEAR MADAM,--Having had a visit from the defendant in
  above, we should be pleased to have an interview with you at
  2 p.m. to-morrow. Your obedient servants,
                                            STARBOTTLE AND STRYKER.

This he sealed and despatched by his trusted servant Jim, and then
devoted a few moments to reflection. It was the custom of the Colonel
to act first, and justify the action by reason afterwards.

He knew that Hotchkiss would at once lay the matter before rival
counsel. He knew that they would advise him that Miss Hooker had "no
case"--that she would be non-suited on her own evidence, and he ought
not to compromise, but be ready to stand trial. He believed, however,
that Hotchkiss feared that exposure, and although his own instincts
had been at first against that remedy, he was now instinctively in
favor of it. He remembered his own power with a jury; his vanity and
his chivalry alike approved of this heroic method; he was bound by the
prosaic facts--he had his own theory of the case, which no mere
evidence could gainsay. In fact, Mrs. Hooker's own words that "he was
to tell the story in his own way" actually appeared to him an
inspiration and a prophecy.

Perhaps there was something else, due possibly to the lady's wonderful
eyes, of which he had thought much. Yet it was not her simplicity that
affected him solely; on the contrary, it was her apparent intelligent
reading of the character of her recreant lover--and of his own! Of all
the Colonel's previous "light" or "serious" loves none had ever before
flattered him in that way. And it was this, combined with the respect
which he had held for their professional relations, that precluded his
having a more familiar knowledge of his client, through serious
questioning, or playful gallantry. I am not sure it was not part of
the charm to have a rustic _femme incomprise_ as a client.

Nothing could exceed the respect with which he greeted her as she
entered his office the next day. He even affected not to notice that
she had put on her best clothes, and he made no doubt appeared as when
she had first attracted the mature yet faithless attentions of Deacon
Hotchkiss at church. A white virginal muslin was belted around her
slim figure by a blue ribbon, and her Leghorn hat was drawn around her
oval cheek by a bow of the same color. She had a Southern girl's
narrow feet, encased in white stockings and kid slippers, which were
crossed primly before her as she sat in a chair, supporting her arm by
her faithful parasol planted firmly on the floor. A faint odor of
southernwood exhaled from her, and, oddly enough, stirred the Colonel
with a far-off recollection of a pine-shaded Sunday school on a
Georgia hillside and of his first love, aged ten, in a short, starched
frock. Possibly it was the same recollection that revived something of
the awkwardness he had felt then.

He, however, smiled vaguely and, sitting down, coughed slightly, and
placed his fingertips together. "I have had an--er--interview with Mr.
Hotchkiss, but--I--er--regret to say there seems to be no prospect
of--er--compromise." He paused, and to his surprise her listless
"company" face lit up with an adorable smile. "Of course!--ketch him!"
she said. "Was he mad when you told him?" She put her knees
comfortably together and leaned forward for a reply.

For all that, wild horses could not have torn from the Colonel a word
about Hotchkiss's anger. "He expressed his intention of employing
counsel--and defending a suit," returned the Colonel, affably basking
in her smile. She dragged her chair nearer his desk. "Then you'll
fight him tooth and nail?" she said eagerly; "you'll show him up?
You'll tell the whole story your own way? You'll give him fits?--and
you'll make him pay? Sure?" she went on, breathlessly.

"I--er--will," said the Colonel, almost as breathlessly.

She caught his fat white hand, which was lying on the table, between
her own and lifted it to her lips. He felt her soft young fingers even
through the lisle-thread gloves that encased them and the warm
moisture of her lips upon his skin. He felt himself flushing--but was
unable to break the silence or change his position. The next moment
she had scuttled back with her chair to her old position.

"I--er--certainly shall do my best," stammered the Colonel, in an
attempt to recover his dignity and composure.

"That's enough! You'll _do_ it," said the girl, enthusiastically.
"Lordy! Just you talk for _me_ as ye did for _his_ old Ditch Company,
and you'll fetch it--every time! Why, when you made that jury sit up
the other day--when you got that off about the Merrikan flag waving
equally over the rights of honest citizens banded together in peaceful
commercial pursuits, as well as over the fortress of official
proflig--"

"Oligarchy," murmured the Colonel, courteously.

"Oligarchy," repeated the girl, quickly, "my breath was just took
away. I said to maw, 'Ain't he too sweet for anything!' I did, honest
Injin! And when you rolled it all off at the end--never missing a
word--(you didn't need to mark 'em in a lesson-book, but had 'em all
ready on your tongue), and walked out--Well! I didn't know you nor the
Ditch Company from Adam, but I could have just run over and kissed you
there before the whole court!"

She laughed, with her face glowing, although her strange eyes were
cast down. Alack! the Colonel's face was equally flushed, and his own
beady eyes were on his desk. To any other woman he would have voiced
the banal gallantry that he should now, himself, look forward to that
reward, but the words never reached his lips. He laughed, coughed
slightly, and when he looked up again she had fallen into the same
attitude as on her first visit, with her parasol point on the floor.

"I must ask you to--er--direct your memory--to--er--another point; the
breaking off of the--er--er--er--engagement. Did he--er--give any
reason for it? Or show any cause?"

"No; he never said anything," returned the girl.

"Not in his usual way?--er--no reproaches out of the hymn-book?--or
the sacred writings?"

"No; he just _quit_."

"Er--ceased his attentions," said the Colonel, gravely. "And naturally
you--er--were not conscious of any cause for his doing so." The girl
raised her wonderful eyes so suddenly and so penetratingly without
reply in any other way that the Colonel could only hurriedly say: "I
see! None, of course!"

At which she rose, the Colonel rising also. "We--shall begin
proceedings at once. I must, however, caution you to answer no
questions nor say anything about this case to any one until you are in
court."

She answered his request with another intelligent look and a nod. He
accompanied her to the door. As he took her proffered hand he raised
the lisle-thread fingers to his lips with old-fashioned gallantry. As
if that act had condoned for his first omissions and awkwardness, he
became his old-fashioned self again, buttoned his coat, pulled out his
shirt frill, and strutted back to his desk.

A day or two later it was known throughout the town that Zaidee Hooker
had sued Adoniram Hotchkiss for breach of promise, and that the
damages were laid at five thousand dollars. As in those bucolic days
the Western press was under the secure censorship of a revolver, a
cautious tone of criticism prevailed, and any gossip was confined to
personal expression, and even then at the risk of the gossiper.
Nevertheless, the situation provoked the intensest curiosity. The
Colonel was approached--until his statement that he should consider
any attempt to overcome his professional secrecy a personal reflection
withheld further advances. The community were left to the more
ostentatious information of the defendant's counsel, Messrs. Kitcham
and Bilser, that the case was "ridiculous" and "rotten," that the
plaintiff would be nonsuited, and the fire-eating Starbottle would be
taught a lesson that he could not "bully" the law--and there were some
dark hints of a conspiracy. It was even hinted that the "case" was the
revengeful and preposterous outcome of the refusal of Hotchkiss to pay
Starbottle an extravagant fee for his late services to the Ditch
Company. It is unnecessary to say that these words were not reported
to the Colonel. It was, however, an unfortunate circumstance for the
calmer, ethical consideration of the subject that the church sided
with Hotchkiss, as this provoked an equal adherence to the plaintiff
and Starbottle on the part of the larger body of non-church-goers, who
were delighted at a possible exposure of the weakness of religious
rectitude. "I've allus had my suspicions o' them early candle-light
meetings down at that gospel shop," said one critic, "and I reckon
Deacon Hotchkiss didn't rope in the gals to attend jest for
psalm-singing." "Then for him to get up and leave the board afore the
game's finished and try to sneak out of it," said another. "I suppose
that's what they call _religious_."

It was therefore not remarkable that the courthouse three weeks later
was crowded with an excited multitude of the curious and sympathizing.
The fair plaintiff, with her mother, was early in attendance, and
under the Colonel's advice appeared in the same modest garb in which
she had first visited his office. This and her downcast modest
demeanor were perhaps at first disappointing to the crowd, who had
evidently expected a paragon of loveliness--as the Circe of the grim
ascetic defendant, who sat beside his counsel. But presently all eyes
were fixed on the Colonel, who certainly made up in _his_ appearance
any deficiency of his fair client. His portly figure was clothed in a
blue dress-coat with brass buttons, a buff waistcoat which permitted
his frilled shirt front to become erectile above it, a black satin
stock which confined a boyish turned-down collar around his full neck,
and immaculate drill trousers, strapped over varnished boots. A murmur
ran round the court. "Old 'Personally Responsible' had got his
war-paint on," "The Old War-Horse is smelling powder," were whispered
comments. Yet for all that the most irreverent among them recognized
vaguely, in this bizarre figure, something of an honored past in their
country's history, and possibly felt the spell of old deeds and old
names that had once thrilled their boyish pulses. The new District
Judge returned Colonel Starbottle's profoundly punctilious bow. The
Colonel was followed by his negro servant, carrying a parcel of
hymn-books and Bibles, who, with a courtesy evidently imitated from
his master, placed one before the opposite counsel. This, after a
first curious glance, the lawyer somewhat superciliously tossed aside.
But when Jim, proceeding to the jury-box, placed with equal politeness
the remaining copies before the jury, the opposite counsel sprang to
his feet.

"I want to direct the attention of the Court to this unprecedented
tampering with the jury, by this gratuitous exhibition of matter
impertinent and irrelevant to the issue."

The Judge cast an inquiring look at Colonel Starbottle.

"May it please the Court," returned Colonel Starbottle with dignity,
ignoring the counsel, "the defendant's counsel will observe that he is
already furnished with the matter--which I regret to say he has
treated--in the presence of the Court--and of his client, a deacon of
the church--with--er---great superciliousness. When I state to your
Honor that the books in question are hymn-books and copies of the
_Holy Scriptures_, and that they are for the instruction of the jury,
to whom I shall have to refer them in the course of my opening, I
believe I am within my rights."

"The act is certainly unprecedented," said the Judge, dryly, "but
unless the counsel for the plaintiff expects the jury to _sing_ from
these hymn-books, their introduction is not improper, and I cannot
admit the objection. As defendant's counsel are furnished with copies
also, they cannot plead 'surprise,' as in the introduction of new
matter, and as plaintiff's counsel relies evidently upon the jury's
attention to his opening, he would not be the first person to distract
it." After a pause he added, addressing the Colonel, who remained
standing, "The Court is with you, sir; proceed."

But the Colonel remained motionless and statuesque, with folded arms.

"I have overruled the objection," repeated the Judge; "you may go on."

"I am waiting, your Honor, for the--er--withdrawal by the defendant's
counsel of the word 'tampering,' as refers to myself, and of
'impertinent,' as refers to the sacred volumes."

"The request is a proper one, and I have no doubt will be acceded to,"
returned the Judge, quietly. The defendant's counsel rose and mumbled
a few words of apology, and the incident closed. There was, however, a
general feeling that the Colonel had in some way "scored," and if his
object had been to excite the greatest curiosity about the books, he
had made his point.

But impassive of his victory, he inflated his chest, with his right
hand in the breast of his buttoned coat, and began. His usual high
color had paled slightly, but the small pupils of his prominent eyes
glittered like steel. The young girl leaned forward in her chair with
an attention so breathless, a sympathy so quick, and an admiration so
artless and unconscious that in an instant she divided with the
speaker the attention of the whole assemblage. It was very hot; the
court was crowded to suffocation; even the open windows revealed a
crowd of faces outside the building, eagerly following the Colonel's
words.

He would remind the jury that only a few weeks ago he stood there as
the advocate of a powerful company, then represented by the present
defendant. He spoke then as the champion of strict justice against
legal oppression; no less should he to-day champion the cause of the
unprotected and the comparatively defenseless--save for that paramount
power which surrounds beauty and innocence--even though the plaintiff
of yesterday was the defendant of to-day. As he approached the court a
moment ago he had raised his eyes and beheld the starry flag flying
from its dome--and he knew that glorious banner was a symbol of the
perfect equality, under the Constitution, of the rich and the poor,
the strong and the weak--an equality which made the simple citizen
taken from the plough in the veld, the pick in the gulch, or from
behind the counter in the mining town, who served on that jury, the
equal arbiters of justice with that highest legal luminary whom they
were proud to welcome on the bench to-day. The Colonel paused, with a
stately bow to the impassive Judge. It was this, he continued, which
lifted his heart as he approached the building. And yet--he had
entered it with an uncertain--he might almost say--a timid step. And
why? He knew, gentlemen, he was about to confront a profound--aye! a
sacred responsibility! Those hymn-books and holy writings handed to
the jury were _not_, as his Honor surmised, for the purpose of
enabling the jury to indulge in--er--preliminary choral exercise! He
might, indeed, say "alas not!" They were the damning, incontrovertible
proofs of the perfidy of the defendant. And they would prove as
terrible a warning to him as the fatal characters upon Belshazzar's
wall. There was a strong sensation. Hotchkiss turned a sallow green.
His lawyers assumed a careless smile.

It was his duty to tell them that this was not one of those ordinary
"breach-of-promise" cases which were too often the occasion of
ruthless mirth and indecent levity in the courtroom. The jury would
find nothing of that here, There were no love-letters with the
epithets of endearment, nor those mystic crosses and ciphers which, he
had been credibly informed, chastely hid the exchange of those mutual
caresses known as "kisses." There was no cruel tearing of the veil
from those sacred privacies of the human affection--there was no
forensic shouting out of those fond confidences meant only for _one_.
But there was, he was shocked to say, a new sacrilegious intrusion.
The weak pipings of Cupid were mingled with the chorus of the
saints--the sanctity of the temple known as the "meeting-house" was
desecrated by proceedings more in keeping with the shrine of
Venus--and the inspired writings themselves were used as the medium of
amatory and wanton flirtation by the defendant in his sacred capacity
as Deacon.

The Colonel artistically paused after this thunderous denunciation.
The jury turned eagerly to the leaves of the hymn-books, but the
larger gaze of the audience remained fixed upon the speaker and the
girl, who sat in rapt admiration of his periods. After the hush, the
Colonel continued in a lower and sadder voice: "There are, perhaps,
few of us here, gentlemen--with the exception of the defendant--who
can arrogate to themselves the title of regular churchgoers, or to
whom these humbler functions of the prayer-meeting, the Sunday-school,
and the Bible class are habitually familiar. Yet"--more
solemnly--"down in your hearts is the deep conviction of our
short-comings and failings, and a laudable desire that others at least
should profit by the teachings we neglect. Perhaps," he continued,
closing his eyes dreamily, "there is not a man here who does not
recall the happy days of his boyhood, the rustic village spire, the
lessons shared with some artless village maiden, with whom he later
sauntered, hand in hand, through the woods, as the simple rhyme rose
upon their lips,

  Always make it a point to have it a rule
  Never to be late at the Sabbath-school."

He would recall the strawberry feasts, the welcome annual picnic,
redolent with hunks of gingerbread and sarsaparilla. How would they
feel to know that these sacred recollections were now forever profaned
in their memory by the knowledge that the defendant was capable of
using such occasions to make love to the larger girls and teachers,
whilst his artless companions were innocently--the Court will pardon
me for introducing what I am credibly informed is the local expression
'doing gooseberry'?" The tremulous flicker of a smile passed over the
faces of the listening crowd, and the Colonel slightly winced. But he
recovered himself instantly, and continued:

"My client, the only daughter of a widowed mother--who has for years
stemmed the varying tides of adversity--in the western precincts of
this town--stands before you today invested only in her own innocence.
She wears no--er--rich gifts of her faithless admirer--is panoplied in
no jewels, rings, nor mementoes of affection such as lovers delight to
hang upon the shrine of their affections; hers is not the glory with
which Solomon decorated the Queen of Sheba, though the defendant, as I
shall show later, clothed her in the less expensive flowers of the
king's poetry. No! gentlemen! The defendant exhibited in this affair a
certain frugality of--er--pecuniary investment, which I am willing to
admit may be commendable in his class. His only gift was
characteristic alike of his methods and his economy. There is, I
understand, a certain not unimportant feature of religious exercise
known as 'taking a collection.' The defendant, on this occasion, by
the mute presentation of a tip plate covered with baize, solicited the
pecuniary contributions of the faithful. On approaching the plaintiff,
however, he himself slipped a love-token upon the plate and pushed it
towards her. That love-token was a lozenge--a small disk, I have
reason to believe, concocted of peppermint and sugar, bearing upon its
reverse surface the simple words, 'I love you!' I have since
ascertained that these disks may be bought for five cents a dozen--or
at considerably less than one half-cent for the single lozenge. Yes,
gentlemen, the words 'I love you!'--the oldest legend of all; the
refrain, 'when the morning stars sang together'--were presented to the
plaintiff by a medium so insignificant that there is, happily, no coin
in the republic low enough to represent its value.

"I shall prove to you, gentlemen of the jury," said the Colonel,
solemnly, drawing a _Bible_ from his coat-tail pocket, "that the
defendant, for the last twelve months, conducted an amatory
correspondence with the plaintiff by means of underlined words of
sacred writ and church psalmody, such as 'beloved,' 'precious,' and
'dearest,' occasionally appropriating whole passages which seemed
apposite to his tender passion. I shall call your attention to one of
them. The defendant, while professing to be a total abstainer--a man
who, in my own knowledge, has refused spirituous refreshment as an
inordinate weakness of the flesh, with shameless hypocrisy underscores
with his pencil the following passage and presents it to the
plaintiff. The gentlemen of the jury will find it in the _Song of
Solomon_, page 548, chapter II, verse 5." After a pause, in which the
rapid rustling of leaves was heard in the jury-box, Colonel
Starbottle declaimed in a pleading, stentorian voice, "'Stay me with
--er--_flagons_, comfort me with--er--apples--for I am--er--sick of
love.' Yes, gentlemen!--yes, you may well turn from those accusing
pages and look at the double-faced defendant. He desires--to--er--be
--'stayed with flagons'! I am not aware, at present, what kind of
liquor is habitually dispensed at these meetings, and for which the
defendant so urgently clamored; but it will be my duty before this
trial is over to discover it, if I have to summon every barkeeper in
this district. For the moment, I will simply call your attention to
the _quantity_. It is not a single drink that the defendant asks for
--not a glass of light and generous wine, to be shared with his
inamorata--but a number of flagons or vessels, each possibly holding
a pint measure--_for himself_!"

The smile of the audience had become a laugh. The Judge looked up
warningly, when his eye caught the fact that the Colonel had again
winced at this mirth. He regarded him seriously. Mr. Hotchkiss's
counsel had joined in the laugh affectedly, but Hotchkiss himself was
ashy pale. There was also a commotion in the jury-box, a hurried
turning over of leaves, and an excited discussion.

"The gentlemen of the jury," said the Judge, with official gravity,
"will please keep order and attend only to the speeches of counsel.
Any discussion _here_ is irregular and premature--and must be reserved
for the jury-room--after they have retired."

The foreman of the jury struggled to his feet. He was a powerful man,
with a good-humored face, and, in spite of his unfelicitous nickname
of "The Bone-Breaker," had a kindly, simple, but somewhat emotional
nature. Nevertheless, it appeared as if he were laboring under some
powerful indignation.

"Can we ask a question, Judge?" he said, respectfully, although his
voice had the unmistakable Western-American ring in it, as of one who
was unconscious that he could be addressing any but his peers.

"Yes," said the Judge, good-humoredly.

"We're finding in this yere piece, out of which the Kernel hes just
bin a-quotin', some language that me and my pardners allow hadn't
orter to be read out afore a young lady in court--and we want to know
of you--ez a fair-minded and impartial man--ef this is the reg'lar
kind o' book given to gals and babies down at the meetin'-house."

"The jury will please follow the counsel's speech, without comment,"
said the Judge, briefly, fully aware that the defendant's counsel
would spring to his feet, as he did promptly. "The Court will allow us
to explain to the gentlemen that the language they seem to object to
has been accepted by the best theologians for the last thousand years
as being purely mystic. As I will explain later, those are merely
symbols of the Church--"

"Of wot?" interrupted the foreman, in deep scorn.

"Of the Church!"

"We ain't askin' any questions o' _you_--and we ain't takin' any
answers," said the foreman, sitting down promptly.

"I must insist," said the Judge, sternly, "that the plaintiff's
counsel be allowed to continue his opening without interruption. You"
(to defendant's counsel) "will have your opportunity to reply later."

The counsel sank down in his seat with the bitter conviction that the
jury was manifestly against him, and the case as good as lost. But his
face was scarcely as disturbed as his client's, who, in great
agitation, had begun to argue with him wildly, and was apparently
pressing some point against the lawyer's vehement opposal. The
Colonel's murky eyes brightened as he still stood erect with his hand
thrust in his breast.

"It will be put to you, gentlemen, when the counsel on the other side
refrains from mere interruption and confines himself to reply, that my
unfortunate client has no action--no remedy at law--because there were
no spoken words of endearment. But, gentlemen, it will depend upon
_you_ to say what are and what are not articulate expressions of love.
We all know that among the lower animals, with whom you may possibly
be called upon to classify the defendant, there are certain signals
more or less harmonious, as the case may be. The ass brays, the horse
neighs, the sheep bleats--the feathered denizens of the grove call to
their mates in more musical roundelays. These are recognized facts,
gentlemen, which you yourselves, as dwellers among nature in this
beautiful land, are all cognizant of. They are facts that no one would
deny--and we should have a poor opinion of the ass who, at--er--such a
supreme moment, would attempt to suggest that his call was unthinking
and without significance. But, gentlemen, I shall prove to you that
such was the foolish, self-convicting custom of the defendant. With
the greatest reluctance, and the--er--greatest pain, I succeeded in
wresting from the maidenly modesty of my fair client the innocent
confession that the defendant had induced her to correspond with him
in these methods. Picture to yourself, gentlemen, the lonely moonlight
road beside the widow's humble cottage. It is a beautiful night,
sanctified to the affections, and the innocent girl is leaning from
her casement. Presently there appears upon the road a slinking,
stealthy figure--the defendant, on his way to church. True to the
instruction she has received from him, her lips part in the musical
utterance" (the Colonel lowered his voice in a faint falsetto,
presumably in fond imitation of his fair client),"'Kerree!' Instantly
the night became resonant with the impassioned reply" (the Colonel
here lifted his voice in stentorian tones), "'Kerrow.' Again, as he
passes, rises the soft 'Kerree'; again, as his form is lost in the
distance, comes back the deep 'Kerrow.'"

A burst of laughter, long, loud, and irrepressible, struck the whole
courtroom, and before the Judge could lift his half-composed face and
take his handkerchief from his mouth, a faint "Kerree" from some
unrecognized obscurity of the courtroom was followed by a loud
"Kerrow" from some opposite locality. "The sheriff will clear the
court," said the Judge, sternly; but alas, as the embarrassed and
choking officials rushed hither and thither, a soft "Kerree" from the
spectators at the window, _outside_ the courthouse, was answered by a
loud chorus of "Kerrows" from the opposite windows, filled with
onlookers. Again the laughter arose everywhere--even the fair
plaintiff herself sat convulsed behind her handkerchief.

The figure of Colonel Starbottle alone remained erect--white and
rigid. And then the Judge, looking up, saw what no one else in the
court had seen--that the Colonel was sincere and in earnest; that what
he had conceived to be the pleader's most perfect acting, and most
elaborate irony, were the deep, serious, mirthless _convictions_ of a
man without the least sense of humor. There was a touch of this
respect in the Judge's voice as he said to him, gently, "You may
proceed, Colonel Starbottle."

"I thank your Honor," said the Colonel, slowly, "for recognizing and
doing all in your power to prevent an interruption that, during my
thirty years' experience at the bar, I have never yet been subjected
to without the privilege of holding the instigators thereof
responsible--_personally_ responsible. It is possibly my fault that I
have failed, oratorically, to convey to the gentlemen of the jury the
full force and significance of the defendant's signals. I am aware
that my voice is singularly deficient in producing either the dulcet
tones of my fair client or the impassioned vehemence of the
defendant's repose. I will," continued the Colonel, with a fatigued
but blind fatuity that ignored the hurriedly knit brows and warning
eyes of the Judge, "try again. The note uttered by my client"
(lowering his voice to the faintest of falsettos) "was 'Kerree'; the
response was 'Kerrow'"--and the Colonel's voice fairly shook the dome
above him.

Another uproar of laughter followed this apparently audacious
repetition, but was interrupted by an unlooked-for incident. The
defendant rose abruptly, and tearing himself away from the withholding
hand and pleading protestations of his counsel, absolutely fled from
the courtroom, his appearance outside being recognized by a prolonged
"Kerrow" from the bystanders, which again and again followed him in
the distance. In the momentary silence which followed, the Colonel's
voice was heard saying, "We rest here, your Honor," and he sat down.
No less white, but more agitated, was the face of the defendant's
counsel, who instantly rose.

"For some unexplained reason, your Honor, my client desires to suspend
further proceedings, with a view to effect a peaceable compromise with
the plaintiff. As he is a man of wealth and position, he is able and
willing to pay liberally for that privilege. While I, as his counsel,
am still convinced of his legal irresponsibility, as he has chosen,
however, to publicly abandon his rights here, I can only ask your
Honor's permission to suspend further proceedings until I can confer
with Colonel Starbottle."

"As far as I can follow the pleadings," said the Judge, gravely, "the
case seems to be hardly one for litigation, and I approve of the
defendant's course, while I strongly urge the plaintiff to accept it."

Colonel Starbottle bent over his fair client. Presently he rose,
unchanged in look or demeanor. "I yield, your Honor, to the wishes of
my client, and--er--lady. We accept."

Before the court adjourned that day it was known throughout the town
that Adoniram K. Hotchkiss had compromised the suit for four thousand
dollars and costs.

Colonel Starbottle had so far recovered his equanimity as to strut
jauntily towards his office, where he was to meet his fair client. He
was surprised, however, to find her already there, and in company with
a somewhat sheepish-looking young man--a stranger. If the Colonel had
any disappointment in meeting a third party to the interview, his
old-fashioned courtesy did not permit him to show it. He bowed
graciously, and politely motioned them each to a seat.

"I reckoned I'd bring Hiram round with me," said the young lady,
lifting her searching eyes, after a pause, to the Colonel's, "though
he was awful shy, and allowed that you didn't know him from Adam--or
even suspected his existence. But I said, 'That's just where you slip
up, Hiram; a pow'ful man like the Colonel knows everything--and I've
seen it in his eye.' Lordy!" she continued, with a laugh, leaning
forward over her parasol, as her eyes again sought the Colonel's,
"don't you remember when you asked me if I loved that old Hotchkiss,
and I told you 'That's tellin',' and you looked at me, Lordy! I knew
_then_ you suspected there was a Hiram _somewhere_--as good as if I'd
told you. Now, you, jest get up, Hiram, and give the Colonel a good
handshake. For if it wasn't for _him_ and _his_ searchin' ways, and
_his_ awful power of language, I wouldn't hev got that four thousand
dollars out o' that flirty fool Hotchkiss--enough to buy a farm, so as
you and me could get married! That's what you owe to _him_. Don't
stand there like a stuck fool starin' at him. He won't eat you--though
he's killed many a better man. Come, have _I_ got to do _all_ the
kissin'!"

It is of record that the Colonel bowed so courteously and so
profoundly that he managed not merely to evade the proffered hand of
the shy Hiram, but to only lightly touch the franker and more
impulsive fingertips of the gentle Zaidee. "I--er--offer my sincerest
congratulations--though I think you--er--overestimate--my--er--powers
of penetration. Unfortunately, a pressing engagement, which may oblige
me also to leave town to-night, forbids my saying more. I
have--er--left the--er--business settlement of this--er--case in the
hands of the lawyers who do my office-work, and who will show you
every attention. And now let me wish you a very good afternoon."

Nevertheless, the Colonel returned to his private room, and it was
nearly twilight when the faithful Jim entered, to find him sitting
meditatively before his desk. "'Fo' God! Kernel--I hope dey ain't
nuffin de matter, but you's lookin' mightly solemn! I ain't seen you
look dat way, Kernel, since de day pooh Marse Stryker was fetched home
shot froo de head."

"Hand me down the whiskey, Jim," said the Colonel, rising slowly.

The negro flew to the closet joyfully, and brought out the bottle. The
Colonel poured out a glass of the spirit and drank it with his old
deliberation.

"You're quite right, Jim," he said, putting down his glass, "but
I'm--er--getting old--and--somehow--I am missing poor Stryker
damnably!"



THE DUPLICITY OF HARGRAVES

By O. Henry (1862-1910)

[From _The Junior Munsey_, February, 1902. Republished in the volume,
_Sixes and Sevens_ (1911), by O. Henry; copyright, 1911, by Doubleday,
Page & Co.; reprinted by their permission.]

When Major Pendleton Talbot, of Mobile, sir, and his daughter, Miss
Lydia Talbot, came to Washington to reside, they selected for a
boarding place a house that stood fifty yards back from one of the
quietest avenues. It was an old-fashioned brick building, with a
portico upheld by tall white pillars. The yard was shaded by stately
locusts and elms, and a catalpa tree in season rained its pink and
white blossoms upon the grass. Rows of high box bushes lined the fence
and walks. It was the Southern style and aspect of the place that
pleased the eyes of the Talbots.

In this pleasant private boarding house they engaged rooms, including
a study for Major Talbot, who was adding the finishing chapters to his
book, _Anecdotes and Reminiscences of the Alabama Army, Bench, and
Bar_.

Major Talbot was of the old, old South. The present day had little
interest or excellence in his eyes. His mind lived in that period
before the Civil War when the Talbots owned thousands of acres of fine
cotton land and the slaves to till them; when the family mansion was
the scene of princely hospitality, and drew its guests from the
aristocracy of the South. Out of that period he had brought all its
old pride and scruples of honor, an antiquated and punctilious
politeness, and (you would think) its wardrobe.

Such clothes were surely never made within fifty years. The Major was
tall, but whenever he made that wonderful, archaic genuflexion he
called a bow, the corners of his frock coat swept the floor. That
garment was a surprise even to Washington, which has long ago ceased
to shy at the frocks and broad-brimmed hats of Southern Congressmen.
One of the boarders christened it a "Father Hubbard," and it certainly
was high in the waist and full in the skirt.

But the Major, with all his queer clothes, his immense area of
plaited, raveling shirt bosom, and the little black string tie with
the bow always slipping on one side, both was smiled at and liked in
Mrs. Vardeman's select boarding house. Some of the young department
clerks would often "string him," as they called it, getting him
started upon the subject dearest to him--the traditions and history of
his beloved Southland. During his talks he would quote freely from the
_Anecdotes and Reminiscences_. But they were very careful not to let
him see their designs, for in spite of his sixty-eight years he could
make the boldest of them uncomfortable under the steady regard of his
piercing gray eyes.

Miss Lydia was a plump, little old maid of thirty-five, with smoothly
drawn, tightly twisted hair that made her look still older.
Old-fashioned, too, she was; but antebellum glory did not radiate from
her as it did from the Major. She possessed a thrifty common sense,
and it was she who handled the finances of the family, and met all
comers when there were bills to pay. The Major regarded board bills
and wash bills as contemptible nuisances. They kept coming in so
persistently and so often. Why, the Major wanted to know, could they
not be filed and paid in a lump sum at some convenient period--say
when the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ had been published and paid
for? Miss Lydia would calmly go on with her sewing and say, "We'll pay
as we go as long as the money lasts, and then perhaps they'll have to
lump it."

Most of Mrs. Vardeman's boarders were away during the day, being
nearly all department clerks and business men; but there was one of
them who was about the house a great deal from morning to night. This
was a young man named Henry Hopkins Hargraves--every one in the house
addressed him by his full name--who was engaged at one of the popular
vaudeville theaters. Vaudeville has risen to such a respectable plane
in the last few years, and Mr. Hargraves was such a modest and
well-mannered person, that Mrs. Vardeman could find no objection to
enrolling him upon her list of boarders.

At the theater Hargraves was known as an all-round dialect comedian,
having a large repertoire of German, Irish, Swede, and black-face
specialties. But Mr. Hargraves was ambitious, and often spoke of his
great desire to succeed in legitimate comedy.

This young man appeared to conceive a strong fancy for Major Talbot.
Whenever that gentleman would begin his Southern reminiscences, or
repeat some of the liveliest of the anecdotes, Hargraves could always
be found, the most attentive among his listeners.

For a time the Major showed an inclination to discourage the advances
of the "play actor," as he privately termed him; but soon the young
man's agreeable manner and indubitable appreciation of the old
gentleman's stories completely won him over.

It was not long before the two were like old chums. The Major set
apart each afternoon to read to him the manuscript of his book. During
the anecdotes Hargraves never failed to laugh at exactly the right
point. The Major was moved to declare to Miss Lydia one day that young
Hargraves possessed remarkable perception and a gratifying respect for
the old régime. And when it came to talking of those old days--if
Major Talbot liked to talk, Mr. Hargraves was entranced to listen.

Like almost all old people who talk of the past, the Major loved to
linger over details. In describing the splendid, almost royal, days of
the old planters, he would hesitate until he had recalled the name of
the negro who held his horse, or the exact date of certain minor
happenings, or the number of bales of cotton raised in such a year;
but Hargraves never grew impatient or lost interest. On the contrary,
he would advance questions on a variety of subjects connected with the
life of that time, and he never failed to extract ready replies.

The fox hunts, the 'possum suppers, the hoe-downs and jubilees in the
negro quarters, the banquets in the plantation-house hall, when
invitations went for fifty miles around; the occasional feuds with the
neighboring gentry; the Major's duel with Rathbone Culbertson about
Kitty Chalmers, who afterward married a Thwaite of South Carolina; and
private yacht races for fabulous sums on Mobile Bay; the quaint
beliefs, improvident habits, and loyal virtues of the old slaves--all
these were subjects that held both the Major and Hargraves absorbed
for hours at a time.

Sometimes, at night, when the young man would be coming upstairs to
his room after his turn at the theater was over, the Major would
appear at the door of his study and beckon archly to him. Going in,
Hargraves would find a little table set with a decanter, sugar bowl,
fruit, and a big bunch of fresh green mint.

"It occurred to me," the Major would begin--he was always
ceremonious--"that perhaps you might have found your duties at the--at
your place of occupation--sufficiently arduous to enable you, Mr.
Hargraves, to appreciate what the poet might well have had in his mind
when he wrote, 'tired Nature's sweet restorer'--one of our Southern
juleps."

It was a fascination to Hargraves to watch him make it. He took rank
among artists when he began, and he never varied the process. With
what delicacy he bruised the mint; with what exquisite nicety he
estimated the ingredients; with what solicitous care he capped the
compound with the scarlet fruit glowing against the dark green fringe!
And then the hospitality and grace with which he offered it, after the
selected oat straws had been plunged into its tinkling depths!

After about four months in Washington, Miss Lydia discovered one
morning that they were almost without money. The _Anecdotes and
Reminiscences_ was completed, but publishers had not jumped at the
collected gems of Alabama sense and wit. The rental of a small house
which they still owned in Mobile was two months in arrears. Their
board money for the month would be due in three days. Miss Lydia
called her father to a consultation.

"No money?" said he with a surprised look. "It is quite annoying to be
called on so frequently for these petty sums, Really, I--"

The Major searched his pockets. He found only a two-dollar bill, which
he returned to his vest pocket.

"I must attend to this at once, Lydia," he said. "Kindly get me my
umbrella and I will go downtown immediately. The congressman from our
district, General Fulghum, assured me some days ago that he would use
his influence to get my book published at an early date. I will go to
his hotel at once and see what arrangement has been made."

With a sad little smile Miss Lydia watched him button his "Father
Hubbard" and depart, pausing at the door, as he always did, to bow
profoundly.

That evening, at dark, he returned. It seemed that Congressman Fulghum
had seen the publisher who had the Major's manuscript for reading.
That person had said that if the anecdotes, etc., were carefully
pruned down about one-half, in order to eliminate the sectional and
class prejudice with which the book was dyed from end to end, he might
consider its publication.

The Major was in a white heat of anger, but regained his equanimity,
according to his code of manners, as soon as he was in Miss Lydia's
presence.

"We must have money," said Miss Lydia, with a little wrinkle above her
nose. "Give me the two dollars, and I will telegraph to Uncle Ralph
for some to-night."

The Major drew a small envelope from his upper vest pocket and tossed
it on the table.

"Perhaps it was injudicious," he said mildly, "but the sum was so
merely nominal that I bought tickets to the theater to-night. It's a
new war drama, Lydia. I thought you would be pleased to witness its
first production in Washington. I am told that the South has very fair
treatment in the play. I confess I should like to see the performance
myself."

Miss Lydia threw up her hands in silent despair.

Still, as the tickets were bought, they might as well be used. So that
evening, as they sat in the theater listening to the lively overture,
even Miss Lydia was minded to relegate their troubles, for the hour,
to second place. The Major, in spotless linen, with his extraordinary
coat showing only where it was closely buttoned, and his white hair
smoothly roached, looked really fine and distinguished. The curtain
went up on the first act of _A Magnolia Flower_, revealing a typical
Southern plantation scene. Major Talbot betrayed some interest.

"Oh, see!" exclaimed Miss Lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to her
program.

The Major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast of
characters that her fingers indicated.

Col. Webster Calhoun .... Mr. Hopkins Hargraves.

"It's our Mr. Hargraves," said Miss Lydia. "It must be his first
appearance in what he calls 'the legitimate.' I'm so glad for him."

Not until the second act did Col. Webster Calhoun appear upon the
stage. When he made his entry Major Talbot gave an audible sniff,
glared at him, and seemed to freeze solid. Miss Lydia uttered a
little, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her program in her hand. For
Colonel Calhoun was made up as nearly resembling Major Talbot as one
pea does another. The long, thin white hair, curly at the ends, the
aristocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, raveling shirt front,
the string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, were almost exactly
duplicated. And then, to clinch the imitation, he wore the twin to the
Major's supposed to be unparalleled coat. High-collared, baggy,
empire-waisted, ample-skirted, hanging a foot lower in front than
behind, the garment could have been designed from no other pattern.
From then on, the Major and Miss Lydia sat bewitched, and saw the
counterfeit presentment of a haughty Talbot "dragged," as the Major
afterward expressed it, "through the slanderous mire of a corrupt
stage."

Mr. Hargraves had used his opportunities well. He had caught the
Major's little idiosyncrasies of speech, accent, and intonation and
his pompous courtliness to perfection--exaggerating all to the purpose
of the stage. When he performed that marvelous bow that the Major
fondly imagined to be the pink of all salutations, the audience sent
forth a sudden round of hearty applause.

Miss Lydia sat immovable, not daring to glance toward her father.
Sometimes her hand next to him would be laid against her cheek, as if
to conceal the smile which, in spite of her disapproval, she could not
entirely suppress.

The culmination of Hargraves audacious imitation took place in the
third act. The scene is where Colonel Calhoun entertains a few of the
neighboring planters in his "den."

Standing at a table in the center of the stage, with his friends
grouped about him, he delivers that inimitable, rambling character
monologue so famous in _A Magnolia Flower_, at the same time that he
deftly makes juleps for the party.

Major Talbot, sitting quietly, but white with indignation, heard his
best stories retold, his pet theories and hobbies advanced and
expanded, and the dream of the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ served,
exaggerated and garbled. His favorite narrative--that of his duel with
Rathbone Culbertson--was not omitted, and it was delivered with more
fire, egotism, and gusto than the Major himself put into it.

The monologue concluded with a quaint, delicious, witty little lecture
on the art of concocting a julep, illustrated by the act. Here Major
Talbot's delicate but showy science was reproduced to a hair's
breadth--from his dainty handling of the fragrant weed--"the
one-thousandth part of a grain too much pressure, gentlemen, and you
extract the bitterness, instead of the aroma, of this heaven-bestowed
plant"--to his solicitous selection of the oaten straws.

At the close of the scene the audience raised a tumultuous roar of
appreciation. The portrayal of the type was so exact, so sure and
thorough, that the leading characters in the play were forgotten.
After repeated calls, Hargraves came before the curtain and bowed, his
rather boyish face bright and flushed with the knowledge of success.

At last Miss Lydia turned and looked at the Major. His thin nostrils
were working like the gills of a fish. He laid both shaking hands upon
the arms of his chair to rise.

"We will go, Lydia," he said chokingly. "This is an
abominable--desecration."

Before he could rise, she pulled him back into his seat.

"We will stay it out," she declared. "Do you want to advertise the
copy by exhibiting the original coat?" So they remained to the end.

Hargraves's success must have kept him up late that night, for neither
at the breakfast nor at the dinner table did he appear.

About three in the afternoon he tapped at the door of Major Talbot's
study. The Major opened it, and Hargraves walked in with his hands
full of the morning papers--too full of his triumph to notice anything
unusual in the Major's demeanor.

"I put it all over 'em last night, Major," he began exultantly. "I had
my inning, and, I think, scored. Here's what _The Post_ says:

"'His conception and portrayal of the old-time Southern colonel, with
his absurd grandiloquence, his eccentric garb, his quaint idioms and
phrases, his motheaten pride of family, and his really kind heart,
fastidious sense of honor, and lovable simplicity, is the best
delineation of a character role on the boards to-day. The coat worn by
Colonel Calhoun is itself nothing less than an evolution of genius.
Mr. Hargraves has captured his public.'

"How does that sound, Major, for a first-nighter?"

"I had the honor"--the Major's voice sounded ominously frigid--"of
witnessing your very remarkable performance, sir, last night."

Hargraves looked disconcerted.

"You were there? I didn't know you ever--I didn't know you cared for
the theater. Oh, I say, Major Talbot," he exclaimed frankly, "don't
you be offended. I admit I did get a lot of pointers from you that
helped out wonderfully in the part. But it's a type, you know--not
individual. The way the audience caught on shows that. Half the
patrons of that theater are Southerners. They recognized it."

"Mr. Hargraves," said the Major, who had remained standing, "you have
put upon me an unpardonable insult. You have burlesqued my person,
grossly betrayed my confidence, and misused my hospitality. If I
thought you possessed the faintest conception of what is the sign
manual of a gentleman, or what is due one, I would call you out, sir,
old as I am. I will ask you to leave the room, sir."

The actor appeared to be slightly bewildered, and seemed hardly to
take in the full meaning of the old gentleman's words.

"I am truly sorry you took offense," he said regretfully. "Up here we
don't look at things just as you people do. I know men who would buy
out half the house to have their personality put on the stage so the
public would recognize it."

"They are not from Alabama, sir," said the Major haughtily.

"Perhaps not. I have a pretty good memory, Major; let me quote a few
lines from your book. In response to a toast at a banquet given
in--Milledgeville, I believe--you uttered, and intend to have printed,
these words:

"'The Northern man is utterly without sentiment or warmth except in so
far as the feelings may be turned to his own commercial profit. He
will suffer without resentment any imputation cast upon the honor of
himself or his loved ones that does not bear with it the consequence
of pecuniary loss. In his charity, he gives with a liberal hand; but
it must be heralded with the trumpet and chronicled in brass.'

"Do you think that picture is fairer than the one you saw of Colonel
Calhoun last night?"

"The description," said the Major, frowning, "is--not without grounds.
Some exag--latitude must be allowed in public speaking."

"And in public acting," replied Hargraves.

"That is not the point," persisted the Major, unrelenting. "It was a
personal caricature. I positively decline to overlook it, sir."

"Major Talbot," said Hargraves, with a winning smile, "I wish you
would understand me. I want you to know that I never dreamed of
insulting you. In my profession, all life belongs to me. I take what I
want, and what I can, and return it over the footlights. Now, if you
will, let's let it go at that. I came in to see you about something
else. We've been pretty good friends for some months, and I'm going to
take the risk of offending you again. I know you are hard up for
money--never mind how I found out, a boarding house is no place to
keep such matters secret--and I want you to let me help you out of the
pinch. I've been there often enough myself. I've been getting a fair
salary all the season, and I've saved some money. You're welcome to a
couple hundred--or even more--until you get----"

"Stop!" commanded the Major, with his arm outstretched. "It seems that
my book didn't lie, after all. You think your money salve will heal
all the hurts of honor. Under no circumstances would I accept a loan
from a casual acquaintance; and as to you, sir, I would starve before
I would consider your insulting offer of a financial adjustment of the
circumstances we have discussed. I beg to repeat my request relative
to your quitting the apartment."

Hargraves took his departure without another word. He also left the
house the same day, moving, as Mrs. Vardeman explained at the supper
table, nearer the vicinity of the downtown theater, where _A Magnolia
Flower_ was booked for a week's run.

Critical was the situation with Major Talbot and Miss Lydia. There was
no one in Washington to whom the Major's scruples allowed him to apply
for a loan. Miss Lydia wrote a letter to Uncle Ralph, but it was
doubtful whether that relative's constricted affairs would permit him
to furnish help. The Major was forced to make an apologetic address to
Mrs. Vardeman regarding the delayed payment for board, referring to
"delinquent rentals" and "delayed remittances" in a rather confused
strain.

Deliverance came from an entirely unexpected source.

Late one afternoon the door maid came up and announced an old colored
man who wanted to see Major Talbot. The Major asked that he be sent up
to his study. Soon an old darkey appeared in the doorway, with his hat
in hand, bowing, and scraping with one clumsy foot. He was quite
decently dressed in a baggy suit of black. His big, coarse shoes shone
with a metallic luster suggestive of stove polish. His bushy wool was
gray--almost white. After middle life, it is difficult to estimate the
age of a negro. This one might have seen as many years as had Major
Talbot.

"I be bound you don't know me, Mars' Pendleton," were his first words.

The Major rose and came forward at the old, familiar style of address.
It was one of the old plantation darkeys without a doubt; but they had
been widely scattered, and he could not recall the voice or face.

"I don't believe I do," he said kindly--"unless you will assist my
memory."

"Don't you 'member Cindy's Mose, Mars' Pendleton, what 'migrated
'mediately after de war?"

"Wait a moment," said the Major, rubbing his forehead with the tips of
his fingers. He loved to recall everything connected with those
beloved days. "Cindy's Mose," he reflected. "You worked among the
horses--breaking the colts. Yes, I remember now. After the surrender,
you took the name of--don't prompt me--Mitchell, and went to the
West--to Nebraska."

"Yassir, yassir,"--the old man's face stretched with a delighted
grin--"dat's him, dat's it. Newbraska. Dat's me--Mose Mitchell. Old
Uncle Mose Mitchell, dey calls me now. Old mars', your pa, gimme a pah
of dem mule colts when I lef' fur to staht me goin' with. You 'member
dem colts, Mars' Pendleton?"

"I don't seem to recall the colts," said the Major. "You know. I was
married the first year of the war and living at the old Follinsbee
place. But sit down, sit down, Uncle Mose. I'm glad to see you. I hope
you have prospered."

Uncle Mose took a chair and laid his hat carefully on the floor beside
it.

"Yessir; of late I done mouty famous. When I first got to Newbraska,
dey folks come all roun' me to see dem mule colts. Dey ain't see no
mules like dem in Newbraska. I sold dem mules for three hundred
dollars. Yessir--three hundred.

"Den I open a blacksmith shop, suh, and made some money and bought
some lan'. Me and my old 'oman done raised up seb'm chillun, and all
doin' well 'cept two of 'em what died. Fo' year ago a railroad come
along and staht a town slam ag'inst my lan', and, suh, Mars'
Pendleton, Uncle Mose am worth leb'm thousand dollars in money,
property, and lan'."

"I'm glad to hear it," said the Major heartily. "Glad to hear it."

"And dat little baby of yo'n, Mars' Pendleton--one what you name Miss
Lyddy--I be bound dat little tad done growed up tell nobody wouldn't
know her."

The Major stepped to the door and called: "Lydie, dear, will you
come?"

Miss Lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in from
her room.

"Dar, now! What'd I tell you? I knowed dat baby done be plum growed
up. You don't 'member Uncle Mose, child?"

"This is Aunt Cindy's Mose, Lydia," explained the Major. "He left
Sunnymead for the West when you were two years old."

"Well," said Miss Lydia, "I can hardly be expected to remember you,
Uncle Mose, at that age. And, as you say, I'm 'plum growed up,' and
was a blessed long time ago. But I'm glad to see you, even if I can't
remember you."

And she was. And so was the Major. Something alive and tangible had
come to link them with the happy past. The three sat and talked over
the olden times, the Major and Uncle Mose correcting or prompting each
other as they reviewed the plantation scenes and days.

The Major inquired what the old man was doing so far from his home.

"Uncle Mose am a delicate," he explained, "to de grand Baptis'
convention in dis city. I never preached none, but bein' a residin'
elder in de church, and able fur to pay my own expenses, dey sent me
along."

"And how did you know we were in Washington?" inquired Miss Lydia.

"Dey's a cullud man works in de hotel whar I stops, what comes from
Mobile. He told me he seen Mars' Pendleton comin' outen dish here
house one mawnin'.

"What I come fur," continued Uncle Mose, reaching into his
pocket--"besides de sight of home folks--was to pay Mars' Pendleton
what I owes him.

"Yessir--three hundred dollars." He handed the Major a roll of bills.
"When I lef' old mars' says: 'Take dem mule colts, Mose, and, if it be
so you gits able, pay fur 'em.' Yessir--dem was his words. De war had
done lef' old mars' po' hisself. Old mars' bein' long ago dead, de
debt descends to Mars' Pendleton. Three hundred dollars. Uncle Mose is
plenty able to pay now. When dat railroad buy my lan' I laid off to
pay fur dem mules. Count de money, Mars' Pendleton. Dat's what I sold
dem mules fur. Yessir."

Tears were in Major Talbot's eyes. He took Uncle Mose's hand and laid
his other upon his shoulder.

"Dear, faithful, old servitor," he said in an unsteady voice, "I don't
mind saying to you that 'Mars' Pendleton spent his last dollar in the
world a week ago. We will accept this money, Uncle Mose, since, in a
way, it is a sort of payment, as well as a token of the loyalty and
devotion of the old régime. Lydia, my dear, take the money. You are
better fitted than I to manage its expenditure."

"Take it, honey," said Uncle Mose. "Hit belongs to you. Hit's Talbot
money."

After Uncle Mose had gone, Miss Lydia had a good cry---for joy; and
the Major turned his face to a corner, and smoked his clay pipe
volcanically.

The succeeding days saw the Talbots restored to peace and ease. Miss
Lydia's face lost its worried look. The major appeared in a new frock
coat, in which he looked like a wax figure personifying the memory of
his golden age. Another publisher who read the manuscript of the
_Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ thought that, with a little retouching
and toning down of the high lights, he could make a really bright and
salable volume of it. Altogether, the situation was comfortable, and
not without the touch of hope that is often sweeter than arrived
blessings.

One day, about a week after their piece of good luck, a maid brought a
letter for Miss Lydia to her room. The postmark showed that it was
from New York. Not knowing any one there, Miss Lydia, in a mild
flutter of wonder, sat down by her table and opened the letter with
her scissors. This was what she read:

DEAR MISS TALBOT:

I thought you might be glad to learn of my good fortune. I have
received and accepted an offer of two hundred dollars per week by a
New York stock company to play Colonel Calhoun in _A Magnolia Flower_.

There is something else I wanted you to know. I guess you'd better not
tell Major Talbot. I was anxious to make him some amends for the great
help he was to me in studying the part, and for the bad humor he was
in about it. He refused to let me, so I did it anyhow. I could easily
spare the three hundred.

Sincerely yours,
H. HOPKINS HARGRAVES.

P.S. How did I play Uncle Mose?

Major Talbot, passing through the hall, saw Miss Lydia's door open and
stopped.

"Any mail for us this morning, Lydia, dear?" he asked.

Miss Lydia slid the letter beneath a fold of her dress.

"_The Mobile Chronicle_ came," she said promptly. "It's on the table
in your study."



BARGAIN DAY AT TUTT HOUSE

By George Randolph Chester (1869- )

[From McClure's Magazine, June, 1905; copyright, 1905, by the S.S.
McClure Co.; republished by the author's permission.]

I

Just as the stage rumbled over the rickety old bridge, creaking and
groaning, the sun came from behind the clouds that had frowned all the
way, and the passengers cheered up a bit. The two richly dressed
matrons who had been so utterly and unnecessarily oblivious to the
presence of each other now suspended hostilities for the moment by
mutual and unspoken consent, and viewed with relief the little,
golden-tinted valley and the tree-clad road just beyond. The
respective husbands of these two ladies exchanged a mere glance, no
more, of comfort. They, too, were relieved, though more by the
momentary truce than by anything else. They regretted very much to be
compelled to hate each other, for each had reckoned up his vis-à-vis
as a rather proper sort of fellow, probably a man of some achievement,
used to good living and good company.

Extreme iciness was unavoidable between them, however. When one
stranger has a splendidly preserved blonde wife and the other a
splendidly preserved brunette wife, both of whom have won social
prominence by years of hard fighting and aloofness, there remains
nothing for the two men but to follow the lead, especially when
directly under the eyes of the leaders.

The son of the blonde matron smiled cheerfully as the welcome light
flooded the coach.

He was a nice-looking young man, of about twenty-two, one might judge,
and he did his smiling, though in a perfectly impersonal and correct
sort of manner, at the pretty daughter of the brunette matron. The
pretty daughter also smiled, but her smile was demurely directed at
the trees outside, clad as they were in all the flaming glory of their
autumn tints, glistening with the recent rain and dripping with gems
that sparkled and flashed in the noonday sun as they fell.

It is marvelous how much one can see out of the corner of the eye,
while seeming to view mere scenery.

The driver looked down, as he drove safely off the bridge, and shook
his head at the swirl of water that rushed and eddied, dark and muddy,
close up under the rotten planking; then he cracked his whip, and the
horses sturdily attacked the little hill.

Thick, overhanging trees on either side now dimmed the light again,
and the two plump matrons once more glared past the opposite
shoulders, profoundly unaware of each other. The husbands took on the
politely surly look required of them. The blonde son's eyes still
sought the brunette daughter, but it was furtively done and quite
unsuccessfully, for the daughter was now doing a little glaring on her
own account. The blonde matron had just swept her eyes across the
daughter's skirt, estimating the fit and material of it with contempt
so artistically veiled that it could almost be understood in the dark.



II


The big bays swung to the brow of the hill with ease, and dashed into
a small circular clearing, where a quaint little two-story building,
with a mossy watering-trough out in front, nestled under the shade of
majestic old trees that reared their brown and scarlet crowns proudly
into the sky. A long, low porch ran across the front of the structure,
and a complaining sign hung out announcing, in dim, weather-flecked
letters on a cracked board, that this was the "Tutt House." A
gray-headed man, in brown overalls and faded blue jumper, stood on the
porch and shook his fist at the stage as it whirled by.

"What a delightfully old-fashioned inn!" exclaimed the pretty
daughter. "How I should like to stop there over night!"

"You would probably wish yourself away before morning, Evelyn,"
replied her mother indifferently. "No doubt it would be a mere siege
of discomfort."

The blonde matron turned to her husband. The pretty daughter had been
looking at the picturesque "inn" between the heads of this lady and
her son.

"Edward, please pull down the shade behind me," she directed. "There
is quite a draught from that broken window."

The pretty daughter bit her lip. The brunette matron continued to
stare at the shade in the exact spot upon which her gaze had been
before directed, and she never quivered an eyelash. The young man
seemed very uncomfortable, and he tried to look his apologies to the
pretty daughter, but she could not see him now, not even if her eyes
had been all corners.

They were bowling along through another avenue of trees when the
driver suddenly shouted, "Whoa there!"

The horses were brought up with a jerk that was well nigh fatal to the
assortment of dignity inside the coach. A loud roaring could be heard,
both ahead and in the rear, a sharp splitting like a fusillade of
pistol shots, then a creaking and tearing of timbers. The driver bent
suddenly forward.

"Gid ap!" he cried, and the horses sprang forward with a lurch. He
swung them around a sharp bend with a skillful hand and poised his
weight above the brake as they plunged at terrific speed down a steep
grade. The roaring was louder than ever now, and it became deafening
as they suddenly emerged from the thick underbrush at the bottom of
the declivity.

"Caught, by gravy!" ejaculated the driver, and, for the second time,
he brought the coach to an abrupt stop.

"Do see what is the matter, Ralph," said the blonde matron
impatiently.

Thus commanded, the young man swung out and asked the driver about it.

"Paintsville dam's busted," he was informed. "I been a-lookin' fer it
this many a year, an' this here freshet done it. You see the holler
there? Well, they's ten foot o' water in it, an' it had ort to be
stone dry. The bridge is tore out behind us, an' we're stuck here till
that water runs out. We can't git away till to-morry, anyways."

He pointed out the peculiar topography of the place, and Ralph got
back in the coach.

"We're practically on a flood-made island," he exclaimed, with one eye
on the pretty daughter, "and we shall have to stop over night at that
quaint, old-fashioned inn we passed a few moments ago."

The pretty daughter's eyes twinkled, and he thought he caught a swift,
direct gleam from under the long lashes--but he was not sure.

"Dear me, how annoying," said the blonde matron, but the brunette
matron still stared, without the slightest trace of interest in
anything else, at the infinitesimal spot she had selected on the
affronting window-shade.

The two men gave sighs of resignation, and cast carefully concealed
glances at each other, speculating on the possibility of a cigar and a
glass, and maybe a good story or two, or possibly even a game of poker
after the evening meal. Who could tell what might or might not happen?



III


When the stage drew up in front of the little hotel, it found Uncle
Billy Tutt prepared for his revenge. In former days the stage had
always stopped at the Tutt House for the noonday meal. Since the new
railway was built through the adjoining county, however, the stage
trip became a mere twelve-mile, cross-country transfer from one
railroad to another, and the stage made a later trip, allowing the
passengers plenty of time for "dinner" before they started. Day after
day, as the coach flashed by with its money-laden passengers, Uncle
Billy had hoped that it would break down. But this was better, much
better. The coach might be quickly mended, but not the flood.

"I'm a-goin' t' charge 'em till they squeal," he declared to the
timidly protesting Aunt Margaret, "an' then I'm goin' t' charge 'em a
least mite more, drat 'em!"

He retreated behind the rough wooden counter that did duty as a desk,
slammed open the flimsy, paper-bound "cash book" that served as a
register, and planted his elbows uncompromisingly on either side of
it.

"Let 'em bring in their own traps," he commented, and Aunt Margaret
fled, ashamed and conscience-smitten, to the kitchen. It seemed awful.

The first one out of the coach was the husband of the brunette matron,
and, proceeding under instructions, he waited neither for luggage nor
women folk, but hurried straight into the Tutt House. The other man
would have been neck and neck with him in the race, if it had not been
that he paused to seize two suitcases and had the misfortune to drop
one, which burst open and scattered a choice assortment of lingerie
from one end of the dingy coach to the other.

In the confusion of rescuing the fluffery, the owner of the suitcase
had to sacrifice her hauteur and help her husband and son block up the
aisle, while the other matron had the ineffable satisfaction of being
_kept waiting_, at last being enabled to say, sweetly and with the
most polite consideration:

"Will you kindly allow me to pass?"

The blonde matron raised up and swept her skirts back perfectly flat.
She was pale but collected. Her husband was pink but collected. Her
son was crimson and uncollected. The brunette daughter could not have
found an eye anywhere in his countenance as she rustled out after her
mother.

"I do hope that Belmont has been able to secure choice quarters," the
triumphing matron remarked as her daughter joined her on the ground.
"This place looked so very small that there can scarcely be more than
one comfortable suite in it."

It was a vital thrust. Only a splendidly cultivated self-control
prevented the blonde matron from retaliating upon the unfortunate who
had muddled things. Even so, her eyes spoke whole shelves of volumes.

The man who first reached the register wrote, in a straight black
scrawl, "J. Belmont Van Kamp, wife, and daughter." There being no
space left for his address, he put none down.

"I want three adjoining rooms, en suite if possible," he demanded.

"Three!" exclaimed Uncle Billy, scratching his head. "Won't two do ye?
I ain't got but six bedrooms in th' house. Me an' Marg't sleeps in
one, an' we're a-gittin' too old fer a shake-down on th' floor. I'll
have t' save one room fer th' driver, an' that leaves four. You take
two now---"

Mr. Van Kamp cast a hasty glance out of the window, The other man was
getting out of the coach. His own wife was stepping on the porch.

"What do you ask for meals and lodging until this time to-morrow?" he
interrupted.

The decisive moment had arrived. Uncle Billy drew a deep breath.

"Two dollars a head!" he defiantly announced. There! It was out! He
wished Margaret had stayed to hear him say it.

The guest did not seem to be seriously shocked, and Uncle Billy was
beginning to be sorry he had not said three dollars, when Mr. Van Kamp
stopped the landlord's own breath.

"I'll give you fifteen dollars for the three best rooms in the house,"
he calmly said, and Landlord Tutt gasped as the money fluttered down
under his nose.

"Jis' take yore folks right on up, Mr. Kamp," said Uncle Billy,
pouncing on the money. "Th' rooms is th' three right along th' hull
front o' th' house. I'll be up and make on a fire in a minute. Jis'
take th' _Jonesville Banner_ an' th' _Uticky Clarion_ along with ye."

As the swish of skirts marked the passage of the Van Kamps up the wide
hall stairway, the other party swept into the room.

The man wrote, in a round flourish, "Edward Eastman Ellsworth, wife,
and son."

"I'd like three choice rooms, en suite," he said.

"Gosh!" said Uncle Billy, regretfully. "That's what Mr. Kamp wanted,
fust off, an' he got it. They hain't but th' little room over th'
kitchen left. I'll have to put you an' your wife in that, an' let your
boy sleep with th' driver."

The consternation in the Ellsworth party was past calculating by any
known standards of measurement. The thing was an outrage! It was not
to be borne! They would not submit to it!

Uncle Billy, however, secure in his mastery of the situation, calmly
quartered them as he had said. "An' let 'em splutter all they want
to," he commented comfortably to himself.



IV


The Ellsworths were holding a family indignation meeting on the broad
porch when the Van Ramps came contentedly down for a walk, and brushed
by them with unseeing eyes.

"It makes a perfectly fascinating suite," observed Mrs. Van Kamp, in a
pleasantly conversational tone that could be easily overheard by
anyone impolite enough to listen. "That delightful old-fashioned
fireplace in the middle apartment makes it an ideal sitting-room, and
the beds are so roomy and comfortable."

"I just knew it would be like this!" chirruped Miss Evelyn. "I
remarked as we passed the place, if you will remember, how charming it
would be to stop in this dear, quaint old inn over night. All my
wishes seem to come true this year."

These simple and, of course, entirely unpremeditated remarks were as
vinegar and wormwood to Mrs. Ellsworth, and she gazed after the
retreating Van Kamps with a glint in her eye that would make one
understand Lucretia Borgia at last.

Her son also gazed after the retreating Van Kamp. She had an exquisite
figure, and she carried herself with a most delectable grace. As the
party drew away from the inn she dropped behind the elders and
wandered off into a side path to gather autumn leaves.

Ralph, too, started off for a walk, but naturally not in the same
direction.

"Edward!" suddenly said Mrs. Ellsworth. "I want you to turn those
people out of that suite before night!"

"Very well," he replied with a sigh, and got up to do it. He had
wrecked a railroad and made one, and had operated successful corners
in nutmegs and chicory. No task seemed impossible. He walked in to see
the landlord.

"What are the Van Kamps paying you for those three rooms?" he asked.

"Fifteen dollars," Uncle Billy informed him, smoking one of Mr. Van
Kamp's good cigars and twiddling his thumbs in huge content.

"I'll give you thirty for them. Just set their baggage outside and
tell them the rooms are occupied."

"No sir-ree!" rejoined Uncle Billy. "A bargain's a bargain, an' I
allus stick to one I make."

Mr. Ellsworth withdrew, but not defeated. He had never supposed that
such an absurd proposition would be accepted. It was only a feeler,
and he had noticed a wince of regret in his landlord. He sat down on
the porch and lit a strong cigar. His wife did not bother him. She
gazed complacently at the flaming foliage opposite, and allowed him to
think. Getting impossible things was his business in life, and she had
confidence in him.

"I want to rent your entire house for a week," he announced to Uncle
Billy a few minutes later. It had occurred to him that the flood might
last longer than they anticipated.

Uncle Billy's eyes twinkled.

"I reckon it kin be did," he allowed. "I reckon a _ho_-tel man's got a
right to rent his hull house ary minute."

"Of course he has. How much do you want?"

Uncle Billy had made one mistake in not asking this sort of folks
enough, and he reflected in perplexity.

"Make me a offer," he proposed. "Ef it hain't enough I'll tell ye. You
want to rent th' hull place, back lot an' all?"

"No, just the mere house. That will be enough," answered the other
with a smile. He was on the point of offering a hundred dollars, when
he saw the little wrinkles about Mr. Tutt's eyes, and he said
seventy-five.

"Sho, ye're jokin'!" retorted Uncle Billy. He had been considered a
fine horse-trader in that part of the country. "Make it a hundred and
twenty-five, an' I'll go ye."

Mr. Ellsworth counted out some bills.

"Here's a hundred," he said. "That ought to be about right."

"Fifteen more," insisted Uncle Billy.

With a little frown of impatience the other counted off the extra
money and handed it over. Uncle Billy gravely handed it back.

"Them's the fifteen dollars Mr. Kamp give me," he explained. "You've
got the hull house fer a week, an' o' course all th' money that's
tooken in is your'n. You kin do as ye please about rentin' out rooms
to other folks, I reckon. A bargain's a bargain, an' I allus stick to
one I make."



V


Ralph Ellsworth stalked among the trees, feverishly searching for
squirrels, scarlet leaves, and the glint of a brown walking-dress,
this last not being so easy to locate in sunlit autumn woods. Time
after time he quickened his pace, only to find that he had been fooled
by a patch of dogwood, a clump of haw bushes or even a leaf-strewn
knoll, but at last he unmistakably saw the dress, and then he slowed
down to a careless saunter.

She was reaching up for some brilliantly colored maple leaves, and was
entirely unconscious of his presence, especially after she had seen
him. Her pose showed her pretty figure to advantage, but, of course,
she did not know that. How should she?

Ralph admired the picture very much. The hat, the hair, the gown, the
dainty shoes, even the narrow strip of silken hose that was revealed
as she stood a-uptoe, were all of a deep, rich brown that proved an
exquisite foil for the pink and cream of her cheeks. He remembered
that her eyes were almost the same shade, and wondered how it was that
women-folk happened on combinations in dress that so well set off
their natural charms. The fool!

He was about three trees away, now, and a panic akin to that which
hunters describe as "buck ague" seized him. He decided that he really
had no excuse for coming any nearer. It would not do, either, to be
seen staring at her if she should happen to turn her head, so he
veered off, intending to regain the road. It would be impossible to do
this without passing directly in her range of vision, and he did not
intend to try to avoid it. He had a fine, manly figure of his own.

He had just passed the nearest radius to her circle and was proceeding
along the tangent that he had laid out for himself, when the unwitting
maid looked carefully down and saw a tangle of roots at her very feet.
She was so unfortunate, a second later, as to slip her foot in this
very tangle and give her ankle ever so slight a twist.

"Oh!" cried Miss Van Kamp, and Ralph Ellsworth flew to the rescue. He
had not been noticing her at all, and yet he had started to her side
before she had even cried out, which was strange. She had a very
attractive voice.

"May I be of assistance?" he anxiously inquired.

"I think not, thank you," she replied, compressing her lips to keep
back the intolerable pain, and half-closing her eyes to show the fine
lashes. Declining the proffered help, she extricated her foot, picked
up her autumn branches, and turned away. She was intensely averse to
anything that could be construed as a flirtation, even of the mildest,
he could certainly see that. She took a step, swayed slightly, dropped
the leaves, and clutched out her hand to him.

"It is nothing," she assured him in a moment, withdrawing the hand
after he had held it quite long enough. "Nothing whatever. I gave my
foot a slight wrench, and turned the least bit faint for a moment."

"You must permit me to walk back, at least to the road, with you," he
insisted, gathering up her armload of branches. "I couldn't think of
leaving you here alone."

As he stooped to raise the gay woodland treasures he smiled to
himself, ever so slightly. This was not _his_ first season out,
either.

"Delightful spot, isn't it?" he observed as they regained the road and
sauntered in the direction of the Tutt House.

"Quite so," she reservedly answered. She had noticed that smile as he
stooped. He must be snubbed a little. It would be so good for him.

"You don't happen to know Billy Evans, of Boston, do you?" he asked.

"I think not. I am but very little acquainted in Boston."

"Too bad," he went on. "I was rather in hopes you knew Billy. All
sorts of a splendid fellow, and knows everybody."

"Not quite, it seems," she reminded him, and he winced at the error.
In spite of the sly smile that he had permitted to himself, he was
unusually interested.

He tried the weather, the flood, the accident, golf, books and three
good, substantial, warranted jokes, but the conversation lagged in
spite of him. Miss Van Kamp would not for the world have it understood
that this unconventional meeting, made allowable by her wrenched
ankle, could possibly fulfill the functions of a formal introduction.

"What a ripping, queer old building that is!" he exclaimed, making one
more brave effort as they came in sight of the hotel.

"It is, rather," she assented. "The rooms in it are as quaint and
delightful as the exterior, too."

She looked as harmless and innocent as a basket of peaches as she said
it, and never the suspicion of a smile deepened the dimple in the
cheek toward him. The smile was glowing cheerfully away inside,
though. He could feel it, if he could not see it, and he laughed
aloud.

"Your crowd rather got the better of us there," he admitted with the
keen appreciation of one still quite close to college days.

"Of course, the mater is furious, but I rather look on it as a lark."

She thawed like an April icicle.

"It's perfectly jolly," she laughed with him. "Awfully selfish of us,
too, I know, but such loads of fun."

They were close to the Tutt House now, and her limp, that had entirely
disappeared as they emerged from the woods, now became quite
perceptible. There might be people looking out of the windows, though
it is hard to see why that should affect a limp.

Ralph was delighted to find that a thaw had set in, and he made one
more attempt to establish at least a proxy acquaintance.

"You don't happen to know Peyson Kingsley, of Philadelphia, do you?"

"I'm afraid I don't," she replied. "I know so few Philadelphia people,
you see." She was rather regretful about it this time. He really was a
clever sort of a fellow, in spite of that smile.

The center window in the second floor of the Tutt House swung open,
its little squares of glass flashing jubilantly in the sunlight. Mrs.
Ellsworth leaned out over the sill, from the quaint old sitting-room
of the _Van Kamp apartments_!

"Oh, Ralph!" she called in her most dulcet tones. "Kindly excuse
yourself and come right on up to our suite for a few moments!"



VI


It is not nearly so easy to take a practical joke as to perpetrate
one. Evelyn was sitting thoughtfully on the porch when her father and
mother returned. Mrs. Ellsworth was sitting at the center window
above, placidly looking out. Her eyes swept carelessly over the Van
Kamps, and unconcernedly passed on to the rest of the landscape.

Mrs. Van Kamp gasped and clutched the arm of her husband. There was no
need. He, too, had seen the apparition. Evelyn now, for the first
time, saw the real humor of the situation. She smiled as she thought
of Ralph. She owed him one, but she never worried about her debts. She
always managed to get them paid, principal and interest.

Mr. Van Kamp suddenly glowered and strode into the Tutt House. Uncle
Billy met him at the door, reflectively chewing a straw, and handed
him an envelope. Mr. Van Kamp tore it open and drew out a note. Three
five-dollar bills came out with it and fluttered to the porch floor.
This missive confronted him:

MR. J. BELMONT VAN KAMP,

DEAR SIR: This is to notify you that I have rented the entire Tutt
House for the ensuing week, and am compelled to assume possession of
the three second-floor front rooms. Herewith I am enclosing the
fifteen dollars you paid to secure the suite. You are quite welcome to
make use, as my guest, of the small room over the kitchen. You will
find your luggage in that room. Regretting any inconvenience that this
transaction may cause you, I am,

Yours respectfully,
EDWARD EASTMAN ELLSWORTH.

Mr. Van Kamp passed the note to his wife and sat down or a large
chair. He was glad that the chair was comfortable and roomy. Evelyn
picked up the bills and tucked them into her waist. She never
overlooked any of her perquisites. Mrs. Van Kamp read the note, and
the tip of her nose became white. She also sat down, but she was the
first to find her voice.

"Atrocious!" she exclaimed. "Atrocious! Simply atrocious, Belmont.
This is a house of public entertainment. They _can't_ turn us out in
this high-minded manner! Isn't there a law or something to that
effect?"

"It wouldn't matter if there was," he thoughtfully replied. "This
fellow Ellsworth would be too clever to be caught by it. He would say
that the house was not a hotel but a private residence during the
period for which he has rented it."

Personally, he rather admired Ellsworth. Seemed to be a resourceful
sort of chap who knew how to make money behave itself, and do its
little tricks without balking in the harness.

"Then you can make him take down the sign!" his wife declared.

He shook his head decidedly.

"It wouldn't do, Belle," he replied. "It would be spite, not
retaliation, and not at all sportsmanlike. The course you suggest
would belittle us more than it would annoy them. There must be some
other way."

He went in to talk with Uncle Billy.

"I want to buy this place," he stated. "Is it for sale?"

"It sartin is!" replied Uncle Billy. He did not merely twinkle this
time. He grinned.

"How much?"

"Three thousand dollars." Mr. Tutt was used to charging by this time,
and he betrayed no hesitation.

"I'll write you out a check at once," and Mr. Van Kamp reached in his
pocket with the reflection that the spot, after all, was an ideal one
for a quiet summer retreat.

"Air you a-goin' t' scribble that there three thou-san' on a piece o'
paper?" inquired Uncle Billy, sitting bolt upright. "Ef you air
a-figgerin' on that, Mr. Kamp, jis' you save yore time. I give a man
four dollars fer one o' them check things oncet, an' I owe myself them
four dollars yit."

Mr. Van Kamp retired in disorder, but the thought of his wife and
daughter waiting confidently on the porch stopped him. Moreover, the
thing had resolved itself rather into a contest between Ellsworth and
himself, and he had done a little making and breaking of men and
things in his own time. He did some gatling-gun thinking out by the
newel-post, and presently rejoined Uncle Billy.

"Mr. Tutt, tell me just exactly what Mr. Ellsworth rented, please," he
requested.

"Th' hull house," replied Billy, and then he somewhat sternly added:
"Paid me spot cash fer it, too."

Mr. Van Kamp took a wad of loose bills from his trousers pocket,
straightened them out leisurely, and placed them in his bill book,
along with some smooth yellowbacks of eye-bulging denominations. Uncle
Billy sat up and stopped twiddling his thumbs.

"Nothing was said about the furniture, was there?" suavely inquired
Van Kamp.

Uncle Billy leaned blankly back in his chair. Little by little the
light dawned on the ex-horse-trader. The crow's feet reappeared about
his eyes, his mouth twitched, he smiled, he grinned, then he slapped
his thigh and haw-hawed.

"No!" roared Uncle Billy. "No, there wasn't, by gum!"

"Nothing but the house?"

"His very own words!" chuckled Uncle Billy. "'Jis' th' mere house,'
says he, an' he gits it. A bargain's a bargain, an' I allus stick to
one I make."

"How much for the furniture for the week?"

"Fifty dollars!" Mr. Tutt knew how to do business with this kind of
people now, you bet.

Mr. Van Kamp promptly counted out the money.

"Drat it!" commented Uncle Billy to himself. "I could 'a' got more!"

"Now where can we make ourselves comfortable with this furniture?"

Uncle Billy chirked up. All was not yet lost.

"Waal," he reflectively drawled, "there's th' new barn. It hain't been
used for nothin' yit, senct I built it two years ago. I jis' hadn't
th' heart t' put th' critters in it as long as th' ole one stood up."

The other smiled at this flashlight on Uncle Billy's character, and
they went out to look at the barn.



VII


Uncle Billy came back from the "Tutt House Annex," as Mr. Van Kamp
dubbed the barn, with enough more money to make him love all the world
until he got used to having it. Uncle Billy belongs to a large family.

Mr. Van Kamp joined the women on the porch, and explained the
attractively novel situation to them. They were chatting gaily when
the Ellsworths came down the stairs. Mr. Ellsworth paused for a moment
to exchange a word with Uncle Billy.

"Mr. Tutt," said he, laughing, "if we go for a bit of exercise will
you guarantee us the possession of our rooms when we come back?"

"Yes sir-ree!" Uncle Billy assured him. "They shan't nobody take them
rooms away from you fer money, marbles, ner chalk. A bargain's a
bargain, an' I allus stick to one I make," and he virtuously took a
chew of tobacco while he inspected the afternoon sky with a clear
conscience.

"I want to get some of those splendid autumn leaves to decorate our
cozy apartments," Mrs. Ellsworth told her husband as they passed in
hearing of the Van Kamps. "Do you know those oldtime rag rugs are the
most oddly decorative effects that I have ever seen. They are so rich
in color and so exquisitely blended."

There were reasons why this poisoned arrow failed to rankle, but the
Van Kamps did not trouble to explain. They were waiting for Ralph to
come out and join his parents. Ralph, it seemed, however, had decided
not to take a walk. He had already fatigued himself, he had explained,
and his mother had favored him with a significant look. She could
readily believe him, she had assured him, and had then left him in
scorn.

The Van Kamps went out to consider the arrangement of the barn. Evelyn
returned first and came out on the porch to find a handkerchief. It
was not there, but Ralph was. She was very much surprised to see him,
and she intimated as much.

"It's dreadfully damp in the woods," he explained. "By the way, you
don't happen to know the Whitleys, of Washington, do you? Most
excellent people."

"I'm quite sorry that I do not," she replied. "But you will have to
excuse me. We shall be kept very busy with arranging our apartments."

Ralph sprang to his feet with a ludicrous expression.

"Not the second floor front suite!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, no! Not at all," she reassured him.

He laughed lightly.

"Honors are about even in that game," he said.

"Evelyn," called her mother from the hall. "Please come and take those
front suite curtains down to the barn."

"Pardon me while we take the next trick," remarked Evelyn with a laugh
quite as light and gleeful as his own, and disappeared into the hall.

He followed her slowly, and was met at the door by her father.

"You are the younger Mr. Ellsworth, I believe," politely said Mr. Van
Kamp.

"Ralph Ellsworth. Yes, sir."

"Here is a note for your father. It is unsealed. You are quite at
liberty to read it."

Mr. Van Kamp bowed himself away, and Ralph opened the note, which
read:

EDWARD EASTMAN ELLSWORTH, ESQ.,

Dear Sir: This is to notify you that I have rented the entire
furniture of the Tutt House for the ensuing week, and am compelled to
assume possession of that in the three second floor front rooms, as
well as all the balance not in actual use by Mr. and Mrs. Tutt and the
driver of the stage. You are quite welcome, however, to make use of
the furnishings in the small room over the kitchen. Your luggage you
will find undisturbed. Regretting any inconvenience that this
transaction may cause you, I remain,

Yours respectfully,

J. BELMONT VAN KAMP.

Ralph scratched his head in amused perplexity. It devolved upon him to
even up the affair a little before his mother came back. He must
support the family reputation for resourcefulness, but it took quite a
bit of scalp irritation before he aggravated the right idea into
being. As soon as the idea came, he went in and made a hide-bound
bargain with Uncle Billy, then he went out into the hall and waited
until Evelyn came down with a huge armload of window curtains.

"Honors are still even," he remarked. "I have just bought all the
edibles about the place, whether in the cellar, the house or any of
the surrounding structures, in the ground, above the ground, dead or
alive, and a bargain's a bargain as between man and man."

"Clever of you, I'm sure," commented Miss Van Kamp, reflectively.
Suddenly her lips parted with a smile that revealed a double row of
most beautiful teeth. He meditatively watched the curve of her lips.

"Isn't that rather a heavy load?" he suggested. "I'd be delighted to
help you move the things, don't you know."

"It is quite kind of you, and what the men would call 'game,' I
believe, under the circumstances," she answered, "but really it will
not be necessary. We have hired Mr. Tutt and the driver to do the
heavier part of the work, and the rest of it will be really a pleasant
diversion."

"No doubt," agreed Ralph, with an appreciative grin. "By the way, you
don't happen to know Maud and Dorothy Partridge, of Baltimore, do you?
Stunning pretty girls, both of them, and no end of swells."

"I know so very few people in Baltimore," she murmured, and tripped on
down to the barn.

Ralph went out on the porch and smoked. There was nothing else that he
could do.



VIII


It was growing dusk when the elder Ellsworths returned, almost hidden
by great masses of autumn boughs.

"You should have been with us, Ralph," enthusiastically said his
mother. "I never saw such gorgeous tints in all my life. We have
brought nearly the entire woods with us."

"It was a good idea," said Ralph. "A stunning good idea. They may come
in handy to sleep on."

Mrs. Ellsworth turned cold.

"What do you mean?" she gasped.

"Ralph," sternly demanded his father, "you don't mean to tell us that
you let the Van Kamps jockey us out of those rooms after all?"

"Indeed, no," he airily responded. "Just come right on up and see."

He led the way into the suite and struck a match. One solitary candle
had been left upon the mantel shelf. Ralph thought that this had been
overlooked, but his mother afterwards set him right about that. Mrs.
Van Kamp had cleverly left it so that the Ellsworths could see how
dreadfully bare the place was. One candle in three rooms is drearier
than darkness anyhow.

Mrs. Ellsworth took in all the desolation, the dismal expanse of the
now enormous apartments, the shabby walls, the hideous bright spots
where pictures had hung, the splintered flooring, the great, gaunt
windows--and she gave in. She had met with snub after snub, and cut
after cut, in her social climb, she had had the cook quit in the
middle of an important dinner, she had had every disconcerting thing
possible happen to her, but this--this was the last _bale_ of straw.
She sat down on a suitcase, in the middle of the biggest room, and
cried!

Ralph, having waited for this, now told about the food transaction,
and she hastily pushed the last-coming tear back into her eye.

"Good!" she cried. "They will be up here soon. They will be compelled
to compromise, and they must not find me with red eyes."

She cast a hasty glance around the room, then, in a sudden panic,
seized the candle and explored the other two. She went wildly out into
the hall, back into the little room over the kitchen, downstairs,
everywhere, and returned in consternation.

"There's not a single mirror left in the house!" she moaned.

Ralph heartlessly grinned. He could appreciate that this was a
characteristic woman trick, and wondered admiringly whether Evelyn or
her mother had thought of it. However, this was a time for action.

"I'll get you some water to bathe your eyes," he offered, and ran into
the little room over the kitchen to get a pitcher. A cracked
shaving-mug was the only vessel that had been left, but he hurried
down into the yard with it. This was no time for fastidiousness.

He had barely creaked the pump handle when Mr. Van Kamp hurried up
from the barn.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Van Kamp, "but this water belongs
to us. My daughter bought it, all that is in the ground, above the
ground, or that may fall from the sky upon these premises."



IX


The mutual siege lasted until after seven o'clock, but it was rather
one-sided. The Van Kamps could drink all the water they liked, it made
them no hungrier. If the Ellsworths ate anything, however, they grew
thirstier, and, moreover, water was necessary if anything worth while
was to be cooked. They knew all this, and resisted until Mrs.
Ellsworth was tempted and fell. She ate a sandwich and choked. It was
heartbreaking, but Ralph had to be sent down with a plate of
sandwiches and an offer to trade them for water.

Halfway between the pump and the house he met Evelyn coming with a
small pail of the precious fluid. They both stopped stock still; then,
seeing that it was too late to retreat, both laughed and advanced.

"Who wins now?" bantered Ralph as they made the exchange.

"It looks to me like a misdeal," she gaily replied, and was moving
away when he called her back.

"You don't happen to know the Gately's, of New York, do you?" he was
quite anxious to know.

"I am truly sorry, but I am acquainted with so few people in New York.
We are from Chicago, you know."

"Oh," said he blankly, and took the water up to the Ellsworth suite.

Mrs. Ellsworth cheered up considerably when she heard that Ralph had
been met halfway, but her eyes snapped when he confessed that it was
Miss Van Kamp who had met him.

"I hope you are not going to carry on a flirtation with that
overdressed creature," she blazed.

"Why mother," exclaimed Ralph, shocked beyond measure. "What right
have you to accuse either this young lady or myself of flirting?
Flirting!"

Mrs. Ellsworth suddenly attacked the fire with quite unnecessary
energy.



X


Down at the barn, the wide threshing floor had been covered with gay
rag-rugs, and strewn with tables, couches, and chairs in picturesque
profusion. Roomy box-stalls had been carpeted deep with clean straw,
curtained off with gaudy bed-quilts, and converted into cozy sleeping
apartments. The mow and the stalls had been screened off with lace
curtains and blazing counterpanes, and the whole effect was one of
Oriental luxury and splendor. Alas, it was only an "effect"! The
red-hot parlor stove smoked abominably, the pipe carried other smoke
out through the hawmow window, only to let it blow back again. Chill
cross-draughts whistled in from cracks too numerous to be stopped up,
and the miserable Van Kamps could only cough and shiver, and envy the
Tutts and the driver, non-combatants who had been fed two hours
before.

Up in the second floor suite there was a roaring fire in the big
fireplace, but there was a chill in the room that no mere fire could
drive away--the chill of absolute emptiness.

A man can outlive hardships that would kill a woman, but a woman can
endure discomforts that would drive a man crazy.

Mr. Ellsworth went out to hunt up Uncle Billy, with an especial solace
in mind. The landlord was not in the house, but the yellow gleam of a
lantern revealed his presence in the woodshed, and Mr. Ellsworth
stepped in upon him just as he was pouring something yellow and clear
into a tumbler from a big jug that he had just taken from under the
flooring.

"How much do you want for that jug and its contents?" he asked, with a
sigh of gratitude that this supply had been overlooked.

Before Mr. Tutt could answer, Mr. Van Kamp hurried in at the door.

"Wait a moment!" he cried. "I want to bid on that!"

"This here jug hain't fer sale at no price," Uncle Billy emphatically
announced, nipping all negotiations right in the bud. "It's too pesky
hard to sneak this here licker in past Marge't, but I reckon it's my
treat, gents. Ye kin have all ye want."

One minute later Mr. Van Kamp and Mr. Ellsworth were seated, one on a
sawbuck and the other on a nail-keg, comfortably eyeing each other
across the work bench, and each was holding up a tumbler one-third
filled with the golden yellow liquid.

"Your health, sir," courteously proposed Mr. Ellsworth.

"And to you, sir," gravely replied Mr. Van Kamp.



XI


Ralph and Evelyn happened to meet at the pump, quite accidentally,
after the former had made half a dozen five-minute-apart trips for a
drink. It was Miss Van Kamp, this time, who had been studying on the
mutual acquaintance problem.

"You don't happen to know the Tylers, of Parkersburg, do you?" she
asked.

"The Tylers! I should say I do!" was the unexpected and enthusiastic
reply. "Why, we are on our way now to Miss Georgiana Tyler's wedding
to my friend Jimmy Carston. I'm to be best man."

"How delightful!" she exclaimed. "We are on the way there, too.
Georgiana was my dearest chum at school, and I am to be her 'best
girl.'"

"Let's go around on the porch and sit down," said Ralph.


XII

Mr. Van Kamp, back in the woodshed, looked about him with an eye of
content.

"Rather cozy for a woodshed," he observed. "I wonder if we couldn't
scare up a little session of dollar limit?"

Both Uncle Billy and Mr. Ellsworth were willing. Death and poker level
all Americans. A fourth hand was needed, however. The stage driver was
in bed and asleep, and Mr. Ellsworth volunteered to find the extra
player.

"I'll get Ralph," he said. "He plays a fairly stiff game."  He finally
found his son on the porch, apparently alone, and stated his errand.

"Thank you, but I don't believe I care to play this evening," was the
astounding reply, and Mr. Ellsworth looked closer. He made out, then,
a dim figure on the other side of Ralph.

"Oh! Of course not!" he blundered, and went back to the woodshed.

Three-handed poker is a miserable game, and it seldom lasts long. It
did not in this case. After Uncle Billy had won the only jack-pot
deserving of the name, he was allowed to go blissfully to sleep with
his hand on the handle of the big jug.

After poker there is only one other always available amusement for
men, and that is business. The two travelers were quite well
acquainted when Ralph put his head in at the door.

"Thought I'd find you here," he explained. "It just occurred to me to
wonder whether you gentlemen had discovered, as yet, that we are all
to be house guests at the Carston-Tyler wedding."

"Why, no!" exclaimed his father in pleased surprise. "It is a most
agreeable coincidence. Mr. Van Kamp, allow me to introduce my son,
Ralph. Mr. Van Kamp and myself, Ralph, have found out that we shall be
considerably thrown together in a business way from now on. He has
just purchased control of the Metropolitan and Western string of
interurbans."

"Delighted, I'm sure," murmured Ralph, shaking hands, and then he
slipped out as quickly as possible. Some one seemed to be waiting for
him.

Perhaps another twenty minutes had passed, when one of the men had an
illuminating idea that resulted, later on, in pleasant relations for
all of them. It was about time, for Mrs. Ellsworth, up in the bare
suite, and Mrs. Van Kamp, down in the draughty barn, both wrapped up
to the chin and both still chilly, had about reached the limit of
patience and endurance.

"Why can't we make things a little more comfortable for all
concerned?" suggested Mr. Van Kamp. "Suppose, as a starter, that we
have Mrs. Van Kamp give a shiver party down in the barn?"

"Good idea," agreed Mr. Ellsworth. "A little diplomacy will do it.
Each one of us will have to tell his wife that the other fellow made
the first abject overtures."

Mr. Van Kamp grinned understandingly, and agreed to the infamous ruse.

"By the way," continued Mr. Ellsworth, with a still happier thought,
"you must allow Mrs. Ellsworth to furnish the dinner for Mrs. Van
Kamp's shiver party."

"Dinner!" gasped Mr. Van Kamp. "By all means!"

Both men felt an anxious yawning in the region of the appetite, and a
yearning moisture wetted their tongues. They looked at the slumbering
Uncle Billy and decided to see Mrs. Tutt themselves about a good, hot
dinner for six.

"Law me!" exclaimed Aunt Margaret when they appeared at the kitchen
door. "I swan I thought you folks 'u'd never come to yore senses. Here
I've had a big pot o' stewed chicken ready on the stove fer two mortal
hours. I kin give ye that, an' smashed taters an' chicken gravy, an'
dried corn, an' hot corn-pone, an' currant jell, an' strawberry
preserves, an' my own cannin' o' peaches, an' pumpkin-pie an' coffee.
Will that do ye?" Would it _do_! _Would_ it do!!

As Aunt Margaret talked, the kitchen door swung wide, and the two men
were stricken speechless with astonishment. There, across from each
other at the kitchen table, sat the utterly selfish and traitorous
younger members of the rival houses of Ellsworth and Van Kamp, deep in
the joys of chicken, and mashed potatoes, and gravy, and hot
corn-pone, and all the other "fixings," laughing and chatting gaily
like chums of years' standing. They had seemingly just come to an
agreement about something or other, for Evelyn, waving the shorter end
of a broken wishbone, was vivaciously saying to Ralph:

"A bargain's a bargain, and I always stick to one I make."



A CALL

By Grace MacGowan Cooke (1863- )

[From _Harper's Magazine_, August, 1906. Copyright, 1906, by Harper &
Brothers. Republished by the author's permission.]

A boy in an unnaturally clean, country-laundered collar walked down a
long white road. He scuffed the dust up wantonly, for he wished to
veil the all-too-brilliant polish of his cowhide shoes. Also the
memory of the whiteness and slipperiness of his collar oppressed him.
He was fain to look like one accustomed to social diversions, a man
hurried from hall to hall of pleasure, without time between to change
collar or polish boot. He stooped and rubbed a crumb of earth on his
overfresh neck-linen.

This did not long sustain his drooping spirit. He was mentally adrift
upon the _Hints and Helps to Young Men in Business and Social
Relations_, which had suggested to him his present enterprise, when
the appearance of a second youth, taller and broader than himself,
with a shock of light curling hair and a crop of freckles that
advertised a rich soil threw him a lifeline. He put his thumbs to his
lips and whistled in a peculiarly ear-splitting way. The two boys had
sat on the same bench at Sunday-school not three hours before; yet
what a change had come over the world for one of them since then!

"Hello! Where you goin', Ab?" asked the newcomer, gruffly.

"Callin'," replied the boy in the collar, laconically, but with
carefully averted gaze.

"On the girls?" inquired the other, awestruck. In Mount Pisgah you saw
the girls home from night church, socials, or parties; you could hang
over the gate; and you might walk with a girl in the cemetery of a
Sunday afternoon; but to ring a front-door bell and ask for Miss
Heart's Desire one must have been in long trousers at least three
years--and the two boys confronted in the dusty road had worn these
dignifying garments barely six months.

"Girls," said Abner, loftily; "I don't know about girls--I'm just
going to call on one girl--Champe Claiborne." He marched on as though
the conversation was at an end; but Ross hung upon his flank. Ross and
Champe were neighbors, comrades in all sorts of mischief; he was in
doubt whether to halt Abner and pummel him, or propose to enlist under
his banner.

"Do you reckon you could?" he debated, trotting along by the
irresponsive Jilton boy.

"Run home to your mother," growled the originator of the plan,
savagely. "You ain't old enough to call on girls; anybody can see
that; but I am, and I'm going to call on Champe Claiborne."

Again the name acted as a spur on Ross. "With your collar and boots
all dirty?" he jeered. "They won't know you're callin'."

The boy in the road stopped short in his dusty tracks. He was an
intense creature, and he whitened at the tragic insinuation, longing
for the wholesome stay and companionship of freckle-faced Ross. "I put
the dirt on o' purpose so's to look kind of careless," he half
whispered, in an agony of doubt. "S'pose I'd better go into your house
and try to wash it off? Reckon your mother would let me?"

"I've got two clean collars," announced the other boy, proudly
generous. "I'll lend you one. You can put it on while I'm getting
ready. I'll tell mother that we're just stepping out to do a little
calling on the girls."

Here was an ally worthy of the cause. Abner welcomed him, in spite of
certain jealous twinges. He reflected with satisfaction that there
were two Claiborne girls, and though Alicia was so stiff and prim that
no boy would ever think of calling on her, there was still the hope
that she might draw Ross's fire, and leave him, Abner, to make the
numerous remarks he had stored up in his mind from _Hints and Helps to
Young Men in Social and Business Relations_ to Champe alone.

Mrs. Pryor received them with the easy-going kindness of the mother of
one son. She followed them into the dining-room to kiss and feed him,
with an absent "Howdy, Abner; how's your mother?"

Abner, big with the importance of their mutual intention, inclined his
head stiffly and looked toward Ross for explanation. He trembled a
little, but it was with delight, as he anticipated the effect of the
speech Ross had outlined. But it did not come.

"I'm not hungry, mother," was the revised edition which the
freckle-faced boy offered to the maternal ear. "I--we are going over
to Mr. Claiborne's--on--er--on an errand for Abner's father."

The black-eyed boy looked reproach as they clattered up the stairs to
Ross's room, where the clean collar was produced and a small stock of
ties.

"You'd wear a necktie--wouldn't you?" Ross asked, spreading them upon
the bureau-top.

"Yes. But make it fall carelessly over your shirt-front," advised the
student of _Hints and Helps_. "Your collar is miles too big for me.
Say! I've got a wad of white chewing-gum; would you flat it out and
stick it over the collar button? Maybe that would fill up some. You
kick my foot if you see me turning my head so's to knock it off."

"Better button up your vest," cautioned Ross, laboring with the
"careless" fall of his tie.

"Huh-uh! I want 'that easy air which presupposes familiarity with
society'--that's what it says in my book," objected Abner.

"Sure!" Ross returned to his more familiar jeering attitude. "Loosen
up all your clothes, then. Why don't you untie your shoes? Flop a sock
down over one of 'em--that looks 'easy' all right."

Abner buttoned his vest. "It gives a man lots of confidence to know
he's good-looking," he remarked, taking all the room in front of the
mirror.

Ross, at the wash-stand soaking his hair to get the curl out of it,
grumbled some unintelligible response. The two boys went down the
stairs with tremulous hearts.

"Why, you've put on another clean shirt, Rossie!" Mrs. Pryor called
from her chair--mothers' eyes can see so far! "Well--don't get into
any dirty play and soil it." The boys walked in silence--but it was a
pregnant silence; for as the roof of the Claiborne house began to peer
above the crest of the hill, Ross plumped down on a stone and
announced, "I ain't goin'."

"Come on," urged the black-eyed boy. "It'll be fun--and everybody will
respect us more. Champe won't throw rocks at us in recess-time, after
we've called on her. She couldn't."

"Called!" grunted Ross. "I couldn't make a call any more than a cow.
What'd I say? What'd I do? I can behave all right when you just go to
people's houses--but a call!"

Abner hesitated. Should he give away his brilliant inside information,
drawn from the _Hints and Helps_ book, and be rivalled in the glory of
his manners and bearing? Why should he not pass on alone, perfectly
composed, and reap the field of glory unsupported? His knees gave way
and he sat down without intending it.

"Don't you tell anybody and I'll put you on to exactly what grown-up
gentlemen say and do when they go calling on the girls," he began.

"Fire away," retorted Ross, gloomily. "Nobody will find out from me.
Dead men tell no tales. If I'm fool enough to go, I don't expect to
come out of it alive."

Abner rose, white and shaking, and thrusting three fingers into the
buttoning of his vest, extending the other hand like an orator,
proceeded to instruct the freckled, perspiring disciple at his feet.

"'Hang your hat on the rack, or give it to a servant.'" Ross nodded
intelligently. He could do that.

"'Let your legs be gracefully disposed, one hand on the knee, the
other--'"

Abner came to an unhappy pause. "I forget what a fellow does with the
other hand. Might stick it in your pocket, loudly, or expectorate on
the carpet. Indulge in little frivolity. Let a rich stream of
conversation flow.'"

Ross mentally dug within himself for sources of rich streams of
conversation. He found a dry soil. "What you goin' to talk about?" he
demanded, fretfully. "I won't go a step farther till I know what I'm
goin' to say when I get there."

Abner began to repeat paragraphs from _Hints and Helps_. "'It is best
to remark,'" he opened, in an unnatural voice, "'How well you are
looking!' although fulsome compliments should be avoided. When seated
ask the young lady who her favorite composer is.'"

"What's a composer?" inquired Ross, with visions of soothing-syrup in
his mind.

"A man that makes up music. Don't butt in that way; you put me all
out--'composer is. Name yours. Ask her what piece of music she likes
best. Name yours. If the lady is musical, here ask her to play or
sing.'"

This chanted recitation seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the
freckled boy; his big pupils contracted each time Abner came to the
repetend, "Name yours."

"I'm tired already," he grumbled; but some spell made him rise and
fare farther.

When they had entered the Claiborne gate, they leaned toward each
other like young saplings weakened at the root and locking branches to
keep what shallow foothold on earth remained.

"You're goin' in first," asserted Ross, but without conviction. It was
his custom to tear up to this house a dozen times a week, on his
father's old horse or afoot; he was wont to yell for Champe as he
approached, and quarrel joyously with her while he performed such
errand as he had come upon; but he was gagged and hamstrung now by the
hypnotism of Abner's scheme.

"'Walk quietly up the steps; ring the bell and lay your card on the
servant,'" quoted Abner, who had never heard of a server.

"'Lay your card on the servant!'" echoed Ross. "Cady'd dodge. There's
a porch to cross after you go up the steps--does it say anything about
that?"

"It says that the card should be placed on the servant," Abner
reiterated, doggedly. "If Cady dodges, it ain't any business of mine.
There are no porches in my book. Just walk across it like anybody.
We'll ask for Miss Champe Claiborne."

"We haven't got any cards," discovered Ross, with hope.

"I have," announced Abner, pompously. "I had some struck off in
Chicago. I ordered 'em by mail. They got my name Pillow, but there's a
scalloped gilt border around it. You can write your name on my card.
Got a pencil?"

He produced the bit of cardboard; Ross fished up a chewed stump of
lead pencil, took it in cold, stiff fingers, and disfigured the square
with eccentric scribblings.

"They'll know who it's meant for," he said, apologetically, "because
I'm here. What's likely to happen after we get rid of the card?"

"I told you about hanging your hat on the rack and disposing your
legs."

"I remember now," sighed Ross. They had been going slower and slower.
The angle of inclination toward each other became more and more
pronounced.

"We must stand by each other," whispered Abner.

"I will--if I can stand at all," murmured the other boy, huskily.

"Oh, Lord!" They had rounded the big clump of evergreens and found
Aunt Missouri Claiborne placidly rocking on the front porch! Directed
to mount steps and ring bell, to lay cards upon the servant, how
should one deal with a rosy-faced, plump lady of uncertain years in a
rocking-chair. What should a caller lay upon her? A lion in the way
could not have been more terrifying. Even retreat was cut off. Aunt
Missouri had seen them. "Howdy, boys; how are you?" she said, rocking
peacefully. The two stood before her like detected criminals.

Then, to Ross's dismay, Abner sank down on the lowest step of the
porch, the westering sun full in his hopeless eyes. He sat on his cap.
It was characteristic that the freckled boy remained standing. He
would walk up those steps according to plan and agreement, if at all.
He accepted no compromise. Folding his straw hat into a battered cone,
he watched anxiously for the delivery of the card. He was not sure
what Aunt Missouri's attitude might be if it were laid on her. He bent
down to his companion. "Go ahead," he whispered. "Lay the card."

Abner raised appealing eyes. "In a minute. Give me time," he pleaded.

"Mars' Ross--Mars' Ross! Head 'em off!" sounded a yell, and Babe, the
house-boy, came around the porch in pursuit of two half-grown
chickens.

"Help him, Rossie," prompted Aunt Missouri, sharply. "You boys can
stay to supper and have some of the chicken if you help catch them."

Had Ross taken time to think, he might have reflected that gentlemen
making formal calls seldom join in a chase after the main dish of the
family supper. But the needs of Babe were instant. The lad flung
himself sidewise, caught one chicken in his hat, while Babe fell upon
the other in the manner of a football player. Ross handed the pullet
to the house-boy, fearing that he had done something very much out of
character, then pulled the reluctant negro toward to the steps.

"Babe's a servant," he whispered to Abner, who had sat rigid through
the entire performance. "I helped him with the chickens, and he's got
to stand gentle while you lay the card on."

Confronted by the act itself, Abner was suddenly aware that he knew
not how to begin. He took refuge in dissimulation.

"Hush!" he whispered back. "Don't you see Mr. Claiborne's come
out?--He's going to read something to us."

Ross plumped down beside him. "Never mind the card; tell 'em," he
urged.

"Tell 'em yourself."

"No--let's cut and run."

"I--I think the worst of it is over. When Champe sees us she'll--"

Mention of Champe stiffened Ross's spine. If it had been glorious to
call upon her, how very terrible she would make it should they attempt
calling, fail, and the failure come to her knowledge! Some things were
easier to endure than others; he resolved to stay till the call was
made.

For half an hour the boys sat with drooping heads, and the old
gentleman read aloud, presumably to Aunt Missouri and themselves.
Finally their restless eyes discerned the two Claiborne girls walking
serene in Sunday trim under the trees at the edge of the lawn. Arms
entwined, they were whispering together and giggling a little. A
caller, Ross dared not use his voice to shout nor his legs to run
toward them.

"Why don't you go and talk to the girls, Rossie?" Aunt Missouri asked,
in the kindness of her heart. "Don't be noisy--it's Sunday, you
know--and don't get to playing anything that'll dirty up your good
clothes."

Ross pressed his lips hard together; his heart swelled with the rage
of the misunderstood. Had the card been in his possession, he would,
at that instant, have laid it on Aunt Missouri without a qualm.

"What is it?" demanded the old gentleman, a bit testily.

"The girls want to hear you read, father," said Aunt Missouri,
shrewdly; and she got up and trotted on short, fat ankles to the girls
in the arbor. The three returned together, Alicia casting curious
glances at the uncomfortable youths, Champe threatening to burst into
giggles with every breath.

Abner sat hard on his cap and blushed silently. Ross twisted his hat
into a three-cornered wreck.

The two girls settled themselves noisily on the upper step. The old
man read on and on. The sun sank lower. The hills were red in the west
as though a brush fire flamed behind their crests. Abner stole a
furtive glance at his companion in misery, and the dolor of Ross's
countenance somewhat assuaged his anguish. The freckle-faced boy was
thinking of the village over the hill, a certain pleasant white house
set back in a green yard, past whose gate, the two-plank sidewalk ran.
He knew lamps were beginning to wink in the windows of the neighbors
about, as though the houses said, "Our boys are all at home--but Ross
Pryor's out trying to call on the girls, and can't get anybody to
understand it." Oh, that he were walking down those two planks,
drawing a stick across the pickets, lifting high happy feet which
could turn in at that gate! He wouldn't care what the lamps said then.
He wouldn't even mind if the whole Claiborne family died laughing at
him--if only some power would raise him up from this paralyzing spot
and put him behind the safe barriers of his own home!

The old man's voice lapsed into silence; the light was becoming too
dim for his reading. Aunt Missouri turned and called over her shoulder
into the shadows of the big hall: "You Babe! Go put two extra plates
on the supper-table."

The boys grew red from the tips of their ears, and as far as any one
could see under their wilting collars. Abner felt the lump of gum come
loose and slip down a cold spine. Had their intentions but been known,
this inferential invitation would have been most welcome. It was but
to rise up and thunder out, "We came to call on the young ladies."

They did not rise. They did not thunder out anything. Babe brought a
lamp and set it inside the window, and Mr. Claiborne resumed his
reading. Champe giggled and said that Alicia made her. Alcia drew her
skirts about her, sniffed, and looked virtuous, and said she didn't
see anything funny to laugh at. The supper-bell rang. The family,
evidently taking it for granted that the boys would follow, went in.

Alone for the first time, Abner gave up. "This ain't any use," he
complained. "We ain't calling on anybody."

"Why didn't you lay on the card?" demanded Ross, fiercely. "Why
didn't you say: 'We've-just-dropped-into-call-on-Miss-Champe. It's-a
-pleasant-evening. We-feel-we-must-be-going,' like you said you would?
Then we could have lifted our hats and got away decently."

Abner showed no resentment.

"Oh, if it's so easy, why didn't you do it yourself?" he groaned.

"Somebody's coming," Ross muttered, hoarsely. "Say it now. Say it
quick."

The somebody proved to be Aunt Missouri, who advanced only as far as
the end of the hall and shouted cheerfully: "The idea of a growing boy
not coming to meals when the bell rings! I thought you two would be in
there ahead of us. Come on." And clinging to their head-coverings as
though these contained some charm whereby the owners might be rescued,
the unhappy callers were herded into the dining-room. There were many
things on the table that boys like. Both were becoming fairly
cheerful, when Aunt Missouri checked the biscuit-plate with: "I treat
my neighbors' children just like I'd want children of my own treated.
If your mothers let you eat all you want, say so, and I don't care;
but if either of them is a little bit particular, why, I'd stop at
six!"

Still reeling from this blow, the boys finally rose from the table and
passed out with the family, their hats clutched to their bosoms, and
clinging together for mutual aid and comfort. During the usual
Sunday-evening singing Champe laughed till Aunt Missouri threatened to
send her to bed. Abner's card slipped from his hand and dropped face
up on the floor. He fell upon it and tore it into infinitesimal
pieces.

"That must have been a love-letter," said Aunt Missouri, in a pause of
the music. "You boys are getting 'most old enough to think about
beginning to call on the girls." Her eyes twinkled.

Ross growled like a stoned cur. Abner took a sudden dive into _Hints
and Helps_, and came up with, "You flatter us, Miss Claiborne,"
whereat Ross snickered out like a human boy. They all stared at him.

"It sounds so funny to call Aunt Missouri 'Mis' Claiborne,'" the lad
of the freckles explained.

"Funny?" Aunt Missouri reddened. "I don't see any particular joke in
my having my maiden name."

Abner, who instantly guessed at what was in Ross's mind, turned white
at the thought of what they had escaped. Suppose he had laid on the
card and asked for Miss Claiborne!

"What's the matter, Champe?" inquired Ross, in a fairly natural tone.
The air he had drawn into his lungs when he laughed at Abner seemed to
relieve him from the numbing gentility which had bound his powers
since he joined Abner's ranks.

"Nothing. I laughed because you laughed," said the girl.

The singing went forward fitfully. Servants traipsed through the
darkened yard, going home for Sunday night. Aunt Missouri went out and
held some low-toned parley with them. Champe yawned with insulting
enthusiasm. Presently both girls quietly disappeared. Aunt Missouri
never returned to the parlor--evidently thinking that the girls would
attend to the final amenities with their callers. They were left alone
with old Mr. Claiborne. They sat as though bound in their chairs,
while the old man read in silence for a while. Finally he closed his
book, glanced about him, and observed absently:

"So you boys were to spend the night?" Then, as he looked at their
startled faces: "I'm right, am I not? You are to spent the night?"

Oh, for courage to say: "Thank you, no. We'll be going now. We just
came over to call on Miss Champe." But thought of how this would sound
in face of the facts, the painful realization that they dared not say
it because they _had_ not said it, locked their lips. Their feet were
lead; their tongues stiff and too large for their mouths. Like
creatures in a nightmare, they moved stiffly, one might have said
creakingly, up the stairs and received each--a bedroom candle!

"Good night, children," said the absent-minded old man. The two
gurgled out some sounds which were intended for words and doged behind
the bedroom door.

"They've put us to bed!" Abner's black eyes flashed fire. His nervous
hands clutched at the collar Ross had lent him. "That's what I get for
coming here with you, Ross Pryor!" And tears of humiliation stood in
his eyes.

In his turn Ross showed no resentment. "What I'm worried about is my
mother," he confessed. "She's so sharp about finding out things. She
wouldn't tease me--she'd just be sorry for me. But she'll think I went
home with you."

"I'd like to see my mother make a fuss about my calling on the girls!"
growled Abner, glad to let his rage take a safe direction.

"Calling on the girls! Have we called on any girls?" demanded
clear-headed, honest Ross.

"Not exactly--yet," admitted Abner, reluctantly. "Come on--let's go to
bed. Mr. Claiborne asked us, and he's the head of this household. It
isn't anybody's business what we came for."

"I'll slip off my shoes and lie down till Babe ties up the dog in the
morning," said Ross. "Then we can get away before any of the family is
up."

Oh, youth--youth--youth, with its rash promises! Worn out with misery
the boys slept heavily. The first sound that either heard in the
morning was Babe hammering upon their bedroom door. They crouched
guiltily and looked into each other's eyes. "Let pretend we ain't here
and he'll go away," breathed Abner.

But Babe was made of sterner stuff. He rattled the knob. He turned it.
He put in a black face with a grin which divided it from ear to ear.
"Cady say I mus' call dem fool boys to breakfus'," he announced. "I
never named you-all dat. Cady, she say dat."

"Breakfast!" echoed Ross, in a daze.

"Yessuh, breakfus'," reasserted Babe, coming entirely into the room
and looking curiously about him. "Ain't you-all done been to bed at
all?" wrapping his arms about his shoulders and shaking with silent
ecstasies of mirth. The boys threw themselves upon him and ejected
him.

"Sent up a servant to call us to breakfast," snarled Abner. "If they'd
only sent their old servant to the door in the first place, all this
wouldn't 'a' happened. I'm just that way when I get thrown off the
track. You know how it was when I tried to repeat those things to
you--I had to go clear back to the beginning when I got interrupted."

"Does that mean that you're still hanging around here to begin over
and make a call?" asked Ross, darkly. "I won't go down to breakfast if
you are."

Abner brightened a little as he saw Ross becoming wordy in his rage.
"I dare you to walk downstairs and say,
'We-just-dropped-in-to-call-on-Miss-Champe'!" he said.

"I--oh--I--darn it all! there goes the second bell. We may as well
trot down."

"Don't leave me, Ross," pleaded the Jilton boy. "I can't stay
here--and I can't go down."

The tone was hysterical. The boy with freckles took his companion by
the arm without another word and marched him down the stairs. "We may
get a chance yet to call on Champe all by herself out on the porch or
in the arbor before she goes to school," he suggested, by way of
putting some spine into the black-eyed boy.

An emphatic bell rang when they were half-way down the stairs.
Clutching their hats, they slunk into the dining-room. Even Mr.
Claiborne seemed to notice something unusual in their bearing as they
settled into the chairs assigned to them, and asked them kindly if
they had slept well.

It was plain that Aunt Missouri had been posting him as to her
understanding of the intentions of these young men. The state of
affairs gave an electric hilarity to the atmosphere. Babe travelled
from the sideboard to the table, trembling like chocolate pudding.
Cady insisted on bringing in the cakes herself, and grinned as she
whisked her starched blue skirts in and out of the dining-room. A
dimple even showed itself at the corners of pretty Alicia's prim
little mouth. Champe giggled, till Ross heard Cady whisper:

"Now you got one dem snickerin' spells agin. You gwine bust yo' dress
buttons off in the back ef you don't mind."

As the spirits of those about them mounted, the hearts of the two
youths sank--if it was like this among the Claibornes, what would it
be at school and in the world at large when their failure to connect
intention with result became village talk? Ross bit fiercely upon an
unoffending batter-cake, and resolved to make a call single-handed
before he left the house.

They went out of the dining-room, their hats as ever pressed to their
breasts. With no volition of their own, their uncertain young legs
carried them to the porch. The Claiborne family and household followed
like small boys after a circus procession. When the two turned, at
bay, yet with nothing between them and liberty but a hypnotism of
their own suggestion, they saw the black faces of the servants peering
over the family shoulders.

Ross was the boy to have drawn courage from the desperation of their
case, and made some decent if not glorious ending. But at the
psychological moment there came around the corner of the house that
most contemptible figure known to the Southern plantation, a
shirt-boy--a creature who may be described, for the benefit of those
not informed, as a pickaninny clad only in a long, coarse cotton
shirt. While all eyes were fastened upon him this inglorious
ambassador bolted forth his message:

"Yo' ma say"--his eyes were fixed upon Abner--"ef yo' don' come home,
she gwine come after yo'--an' cut yo' into inch pieces wid a rawhide
when she git yo'. Dat jest what Miss Hortense say."

As though such a book as _Hints and Helps_ had never existed, Abner
shot for the gate--he was but a hobbledehoy fascinated with the idea
of playing gentleman. But in Ross there were the makings of a man. For
a few half-hearted paces, under the first impulse of horror, he
followed his deserting chief, the laughter of the family, the
unrestrainable guffaws of the negroes, sounding in the rear. But when
Champe's high, offensive giggle, topping all the others, insulted his
ears, he stopped dead, wheeled, and ran to the porch faster than he
had fled from it. White as paper, shaking with inexpressible rage, he
caught and kissed the tittering girl, violently, noisily, before them
all.

The negroes fled--they dared not trust their feelings; even Alicia
sniggered unobtrusively; Grandfather Claiborne chuckled, and Aunt
Missouri frankly collapsed into her rocking-chair, bubbling with
mirth, crying out:

"Good for you, Ross! Seems you did know how to call on the girls,
after all."

But Ross, paying no attention, walked swiftly toward the gate. He had
served his novitiate. He would never be afraid again. With cheerful
alacrity he dodged the stones flung after him with friendly, erratic
aim by the girl upon whom, yesterday afternoon, he had come to make a
social call.



HOW THE WIDOW WON THE DEACON

By William James Lampton ( -1917)

[From Harper's Bazaar, April, 1911; copyright, 1911, by Harper &
Brothers; republished by permission.]

Of course the Widow Stimson never tried to win Deacon Hawkins, nor any
other man, for that matter. A widow doesn't have to try to win a man;
she wins without trying. Still, the Widow Stimson sometimes wondered
why the deacon was so blind as not to see how her fine farm adjoining
his equally fine place on the outskirts of the town might not be
brought under one management with mutual benefit to both parties at
interest. Which one that management might become was a matter of
future detail. The widow knew how to run a farm successfully, and a
large farm is not much more difficult to run than one of half the
size. She had also had one husband, and knew something more than
running a farm successfully. Of all of which the deacon was perfectly
well aware, and still he had not been moved by the merging spirit of
the age to propose consolidation.

This interesting situation was up for discussion at the Wednesday
afternoon meeting of the Sisters' Sewing Society.

"For my part," Sister Susan Spicer, wife of the Methodist minister,
remarked as she took another tuck in a fourteen-year-old girl's skirt
for a ten-year-old--"for my part, I can't see why Deacon Hawkins and
Kate Stimson don't see the error of their ways and depart from them."

"I rather guess _she_ has," smiled Sister Poteet, the grocer's better
half, who had taken an afternoon off from the store in order to be
present.

"Or is willing to," added Sister Maria Cartridge, a spinster still
possessing faith, hope, and charity, notwithstanding she had been on
the waiting list a long time.

"Really, now," exclaimed little Sister Green, the doctor's wife, "do
you think it is the deacon who needs urging?"

"It looks that way to me," Sister Poteet did not hesitate to affirm.

"Well, I heard Sister Clark say that she had heard him call her
'Kitty' one night when they were eating ice-cream at the Mite
Society," Sister Candish, the druggist's wife, added to the fund of
reliable information on hand.

"'Kitty,' indeed!" protested Sister Spicer. "The idea of anybody
calling Kate Stimson 'Kitty'! The deacon will talk that way to 'most
any woman, but if she let him say it to her more than once, she must
be getting mighty anxious, I think."

"Oh," Sister Candish hastened to explain, "Sister Clark didn't say she
had heard him say it twice.'"

"Well, I don't think she heard him say it once," Sister Spicer
asserted with confidence.

"I don't know about that," Sister Poteet argued. "From all I can see
and hear I think Kate Stimson wouldn't object to 'most anything the
deacon would say to her, knowing as she does that he ain't going to
say anything he shouldn't say."

"And isn't saying what he should," added Sister Green, with a sly
snicker, which went around the room softly.

"But as I was saying--" Sister Spicer began, when Sister Poteet, whose
rocker, near the window, commanded a view of the front gate,
interrupted with a warning, "'Sh-'sh."

"Why shouldn't I say what I wanted to when--" Sister Spicer began.

"There she comes now," explained Sister Poteet, "and as I live the
deacon drove her here in his sleigh, and he's waiting while she comes
in. I wonder what next," and Sister Poteet, in conjunction with the
entire society, gasped and held their eager breaths, awaiting the
entrance of the subject of conversation.

Sister Spicer went to the front door to let her in, and she was
greeted with the greatest cordiality by everybody.

"We were just talking about you and wondering why you were so late
coming," cried Sister Poteet. "Now take off your things and make up
for lost time. There's a pair of pants over there to be cut down to
fit that poor little Snithers boy."

The excitement and curiosity of the society were almost more than
could be borne, but never a sister let on that she knew the deacon was
at the gate waiting. Indeed, as far as the widow could discover, there
was not the slightest indication that anybody had ever heard there was
such a person as the deacon in existence.

"Oh," she chirruped, in the liveliest of humors, "you will have to
excuse me for today. Deacon Hawkins overtook me on the way here, and
here said I had simply got to go sleigh-riding with him. He's waiting
out at the gate now."

"Is that so?" exclaimed the society unanimously, and rushed to the
window to see if it were really true.

"Well, did you ever?" commented Sister Poteet, generally.

"Hardly ever," laughed the widow, good-naturedly, "and I don't want to
lose the chance. You know Deacon Hawkins isn't asking somebody every
day to go sleighing with him. I told him I'd go if he would bring me
around here to let you know what had become of me, and so he did. Now,
good-by, and I'll be sure to be present at the next meeting. I have to
hurry because he'll get fidgety."

The widow ran away like a lively schoolgirl. All the sisters watched
her get into the sleigh with the deacon, and resumed the previous
discussion with greatly increased interest.

But little recked the widow and less recked the deacon. He had bought
a new horse and he wanted the widow's opinion of it, for the Widow
Stimson was a competent judge of fine horseflesh. If Deacon Hawkins
had one insatiable ambition it was to own a horse which could fling
its heels in the face of the best that Squire Hopkins drove. In his
early manhood the deacon was no deacon by a great deal. But as the
years gathered in behind him he put off most of the frivolities of
youth and held now only to the one of driving a fast horse. No other
man in the county drove anything faster except Squire Hopkins, and him
the deacon had not been able to throw the dust over. The deacon would
get good ones, but somehow never could he find one that the squire
didn't get a better. The squire had also in the early days beaten the
deacon in the race for a certain pretty girl he dreamed about. But the
girl and the squire had lived happily ever after and the deacon, being
a philosopher, might have forgotten the squire's superiority had it
been manifested in this one regard only. But in horses, too--that
graveled the deacon.

"How much did you give for him?" was the widow's first query, after
they had reached a stretch of road that was good going and the deacon
had let him out for a length or two.

"Well, what do you suppose? You're a judge."

"More than I would give, I'll bet a cookie."

"Not if you was as anxious as I am to show Hopkins that he can't drive
by everything on the pike."

"I thought you loved a good horse because he was a good horse," said
the widow, rather disapprovingly.

"I do, but I could love him a good deal harder if he would stay in
front of Hopkins's best."

"Does he know you've got this one?"

"Yes, and he's been blowing round town that he is waiting to pick me
up on the road some day and make my five hundred dollars look like a
pewter quarter."

"So you gave five hundred dollars for him, did you?" laughed the
widow.

"Is it too much?"

"Um-er," hesitated the widow, glancing along the graceful lines of the
powerful trotter, "I suppose not if you can beat the squire."

"Right you are," crowed the deacon, "and I'll show him a thing or two
in getting over the ground," he added with swelling pride.

"Well, I hope he won't be out looking for you today, with me in your
sleigh," said the widow, almost apprehensively, "because, you know,
deacon, I have always wanted you to beat Squire Hopkins."

The deacon looked at her sharply. There was a softness in her tones
that appealed to him, even if she had not expressed such agreeable
sentiments. Just what the deacon might have said or done after the
impulse had been set going must remain unknown, for at the crucial
moment a sound of militant bells, bells of defiance, jangled up behind
them, disturbing their personal absorption, and they looked around
simultaneously. Behind the bells was the squire in his sleigh drawn by
his fastest stepper, and he was alone, as the deacon was not. The
widow weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, net--which is weighting a
horse in a race rather more than the law allows.

But the deacon never thought of that. Forgetting everything except his
cherished ambition, he braced himself for the contest, took a twist
hold on the lines, sent a sharp, quick call to his horse, and let him
out for all that was in him. The squire followed suit and the deacon.
The road was wide and the snow was worn down smooth. The track
couldn't have been in better condition. The Hopkins colors were not
five rods behind the Hawkins colors as they got away. For half a mile
it was nip and tuck, the deacon encouraging his horse and the widow
encouraging the deacon, and then the squire began creeping up. The
deacon's horse was a good one, but he was not accustomed to hauling
freight in a race. A half-mile of it was as much as he could stand,
and he weakened under the strain.

Not handicapped, the squire's horse forged ahead, and as his nose
pushed up to the dashboard of the deacon's sleigh, that good man
groaned in agonized disappointment and bitterness of spirit. The widow
was mad all over that Squire Hopkins should take such a mean advantage
of his rival. Why didn't he wait till another time when the deacon was
alone, as he was? If she had her way she never would, speak to Squire
Hopkins again, nor to his wife, either. But her resentment was not
helping the deacon's horse to win.

Slowly the squire pulled closer to the front; the deacon's horse,
realizing what it meant to his master and to him, spurted bravely,
but, struggle as gamely as he might, the odds were too many for him,
and he dropped to the rear. The squire shouted in triumph as he drew
past the deacon, and the dejected Hawkins shrivelled into a heap on
the seat, with only his hands sufficiently alive to hold the lines. He
had been beaten again, humiliated before a woman, and that, too, with
the best horse that he could hope to put against the ever-conquering
squire. Here sank his fondest hopes, here ended his ambition. From
this on he would drive a mule or an automobile. The fruit of his
desire had turned to ashes in his mouth.

But no. What of the widow? She realized, if the deacon did not, that
she, not the squire's horse, had beaten the deacon's, and she was
ready to make what atonement she could. As the squire passed ahead of
the deacon she was stirred by a noble resolve. A deep bed of drifted
snow lay close by the side of the road not far in front. It was soft
and safe and she smiled as she looked at it as though waiting for her.
Without a hint of her purpose, or a sign to disturb the deacon in his
final throes, she rose as the sleigh ran near its edge, and with a
spring which had many a time sent her lightly from the ground to the
bare back of a horse in the meadow, she cleared the robes and lit
plump in the drift. The deacon's horse knew before the deacon did that
something had happened in his favor, and was quick to respond. With
his first jump of relief the deacon suddenly revived, his hopes came
fast again, his blood retingled, he gathered himself, and, cracking
his lines, he shot forward, and three minutes later he had passed the
squire as though he were hitched to the fence. For a quarter of a mile
the squire made heroic efforts to recover his vanished prestige, but
effort was useless, and finally concluding that he was practically
left standing, he veered off from the main road down a farm lane to
find some spot in which to hide the humiliation of his defeat. The
deacon, still going at a clipping gait, had one eye over his shoulder
as wary drivers always have on such occasions, and when he saw the
squire was off the track he slowed down and jogged along with the
apparent intention of continuing indefinitely. Presently an idea
struck him, and he looked around for the widow. She was not where he
had seen her last. Where was she? In the enthusiasm of victory he had
forgotten her. He was so dejected at the moment she had leaped that he
did not realize what she had done, and two minutes later he was so
elated that, shame on him! he did not care. With her, all was lost;
without her, all was won, and the deacon's greatest ambition was to
win. But now, with victory perched on his horse-collar, success his at
last, he thought of the widow, and he did care. He cared so much that
he almost threw his horse off his feet by the abrupt turn he gave him,
and back down the pike he flew as if a legion of squires were after
him.

He did not know what injury she might have sustained; She might have
been seriously hurt, if not actually killed. And why? Simply to make
it possible for him to win. The deacon shivered as he thought of it,
and urged his horse to greater speed. The squire, down the lane, saw
him whizzing along and accepted it profanely as an exhibition for his
especial benefit. The deacon now had forgotten the squire as he had
only so shortly before forgotten the widow. Two hundred yards from the
drift into which she had jumped there was a turn in the road, where
some trees shut off the sight, and the deacon's anxiety increased
momentarily until he reached this point. From here he could see ahead,
and down there in the middle of the road stood the widow waving her
shawl as a banner of triumph, though she could only guess at results.
The deacon came on with a rush, and pulled up alongside of her in a
condition of nervousness he didn't think possible to him.

"Hooray! hooray!" shouted the widow, tossing her shawl into the air.
"You beat him. I know you did. Didn't you? I saw you pulling ahead at
the turn yonder. Where is he and his old plug?"

"Oh, bother take him and his horse and the race and everything. Are
you hurt?" gasped the deacon, jumping out, but mindful to keep the
lines in his hand. "Are you hurt?" he repeated, anxiously, though she
looked anything but a hurt woman.

"If I am," she chirped, cheerily, "I'm not hurt half as bad as I would
have been if the squire had beat you, deacon. Now don't you worry
about me. Let's hurry back to town so the squire won't get another
chance, with no place for me to jump."

And the deacon? Well, well, with the lines in the crook of his elbow
the deacon held out his arms to the widow and----. The sisters at the
next meeting of the Sewing Society were unanimously of the opinion
that any woman who would risk her life like that for a husband was
mighty anxious.



GIDEON

By Wells Hastings (1878- )

[From _The Century Magazine_, April, 1914; copyright, 1914, by The
Century Co.; republished by the author's permission.]

"An' de next' frawg dat houn' pup seen, he pass him by wide."

The house, which had hung upon every word, roared with laughter, and
shook with a storming volley of applause. Gideon bowed to right and to
left, low, grinning, assured comedy obeisances; but as the laughter
and applause grew he shook his head, and signaled quietly for the
drop. He had answered many encores, and he was an instinctive artist.
It was part of the fuel of his vanity that his audience had never yet
had enough of him. Dramatic judgment, as well as dramatic sense of
delivery, was native to him, qualities which the shrewd Felix Stuhk,
his manager and exultant discoverer, recognized and wisely trusted in.
Off stage Gideon was watched over like a child and a delicate
investment, but once behind the footlights he was allowed to go his
own triumphant gait.

It was small wonder that Stuhk deemed himself one of the cleverest
managers in the business; that his narrow, blue-shaven face was
continually chiseled in smiles of complacent self-congratulation. He
was rapidly becoming rich, and there were bright prospects of even
greater triumphs, with proportionately greater reward. He had made
Gideon a national character, a headliner, a star of the first
magnitude in the firmament of the vaudeville theater, and all in six
short months. Or, at any rate, he had helped to make him all this; he
had booked him well and given him his opportunity. To be sure, Gideon
had done the rest; Stuhk was as ready as any one to do credit to
Gideon's ability. Still, after all, he, Stuhk, was the discoverer, the
theatrical Columbus who had had the courage and the vision.

A now-hallowed attack of tonsilitis had driven him to Florida, where
presently Gideon had been employed to beguile his convalescence, and
guide him over the intricate shallows of that long lagoon known as the
Indian River in search of various fish. On days when fish had been
reluctant Gideon had been lured into conversation, and gradually into
narrative and the relation of what had appeared to Gideon as humorous
and entertaining; and finally Felix, the vague idea growing big within
him, had one day persuaded his boatman to dance upon the boards of a
long pier where they had made fast for lunch. There, with all the
sudden glory of crystallization, the vague idea took definite form and
became the great inspiration of Stuhk's career.

Gideon had grown to be to vaudeville much what _Uncle Remus_ is to
literature: there was virtue in his very simplicity. His artistry
itself was native and natural. He loved a good story, and he told it
from his own sense of the gleeful morsel upon his tongue as no
training could have made him. He always enjoyed his story and himself
in the telling. Tales never lost their savor, no matter how often
repeated; age was powerless to dim the humor of the thing, and as he
had shouted and gurgled and laughed over the fun of things when all
alone, or holding forth among the men and women and little children of
his color, so he shouted and gurgled and broke from sonorous chuckles
to musical, falsetto mirth when he fronted the sweeping tiers of faces
across the intoxicating glare of the footlights. He had that rare
power of transmitting something of his own enjoyments. When Gideon was
on the stage, Stuhk used to enjoy peeping out at the intent, smiling
faces of the audience, where men and women and children, hardened
theater-goers and folk fresh from the country, sat with moving lips
and faces lit with an eager interest and sympathy for the black man
strutting in loose-footed vivacity before them.

"He's simply unique," he boasted to wondering local managers--"unique,
and it took me to find him. There he was, a little black gold-mine,
and all of 'em passed him by until I came. Some eye? What? I guess
you'll admit you have to hand it some to your Uncle Felix. If that
coon's health holds out, we'll have all the money there is in the
mint."

That was Felix's real anxiety--"If his health holds out." Gideon's
health was watched over as if he had been an ailing prince. His
bubbling vivacity was the foundation upon which his charm and his
success were built. Stuhk became a sort of vicarious neurotic,
eternally searching for symptoms in his protégé; Gideon's tongue,
Gideon's liver, Gideon's heart were matters to him of an unfailing
and anxious interest. And of late--of course it might be imagination
--Gideon had shown a little physical falling off. He ate a bit less,
he had begun to move in a restless way, and, worst of all, he laughed
less frequently.

As a matter of fact, there was ground for Stuhk's apprehension. It was
not all a matter of managerial imagination: Gideon was less himself.
Physically there was nothing the matter with him; he could have passed
his rigid insurance scrutiny as easily as he had done months before,
when his life and health had been insured for a sum that made good
copy for his press-agent. He was sound in every organ, but there was
something lacking in general tone. Gideon felt it himself, and was
certain that a "misery," that embracing indisposition of his race, was
creeping upon him. He had been fed well, too well; he was growing
rich, too rich; he had all the praise, all the flattery that his
enormous appetite for approval desired, and too much of it. White men
sought him out and made much of him; white women talked to him about
his career; and wherever he went, women of color--black girls, brown
girls, yellow girls--wrote him of their admiration, whispered, when he
would listen, of their passion and hero-worship. "City niggers" bowed
down before him; the high gallery was always packed with them.
Musk-scented notes scrawled upon barbaric, "high-toned" stationery
poured in upon him. Even a few white women, to his horror and
embarrassment, had written him of love, letters which he straightway
destroyed. His sense of his position was strong in him; he was proud
of it. There might be "folks outer their haids," but he had the sense
to remember. For months he had lived in a heaven of gratified vanity,
but at last his appetite had begun to falter. He was sated; his soul
longed to wipe a spiritual mouth on the back of a spiritual hand, and
have done. His face, now that the curtain was down and he was leaving
the stage, was doleful, almost sullen.

Stuhk met him anxiously in the wings, and walked with him to his
dressing-room. He felt suddenly very weary of Stuhk.

"Nothing the matter, Gideon, is there? Not feeling sick or anything?"

"No, Misteh Stuhk; no, seh. Jes don' feel extry pert, that's all."

"But what is it--anything bothering you?"

Gideon sat gloomily before his mirror.

"Misteh Stuhk," he said at last, "I been steddyin' it oveh, and I
about come to the delusion that I needs a good po'k-chop. Seems
foolish, I know, but it do' seem as if a good po'k-chop, fried jes
right, would he'p consid'able to disumpate this misery feelin' that's
crawlin' and creepin' round my sperit."

Stuhk laughed.

"Pork-chop, eh? Is that the best you can think of? I know what you
mean, though. I've thought for some time that you were getting a
little overtrained. What you need is--let me see--yes, a nice bottle
of wine. That's the ticket; it will ease things up and won't do you
any harm. I'll go, with you. Ever had any champagne, Gideon?"

Gideon struggled for politeness.

"Yes, seh, I's had champagne, and it's a nice kind of lickeh sho
enough; but, Misteh Stuhk, seh, I don' want any of them high-tone
drinks to-night, an' ef yo' don' mind, I'd rather amble off 'lone, or
mebbe eat that po'k-chop with some otheh cullud man, ef I kin fin' one
that ain' one of them no-'count Carolina niggers. Do you s'pose yo'
could let me have a little money to-night, Misteh Stuhk?"

Stuhk thought rapidly. Gideon had certainly worked hard, and he was
not dissipated. If he wanted to roam the town by himself, there was no
harm in it. The sullenness still showed in the black face; Heaven knew
what he might do if he suddenly began to balk. Stuhk thought it wise
to consent gracefully.

"Good!" he said. "Fly to it. How much do you want?
A hundred?"

"How much is coming to me?"

"About a thousand, Gideon."

"Well, I'd moughty like five hun'red of it, ef that's 'greeable to
yo'."

Felix whistled.

"Five hundred? Pork-chops must be coming high. You don't want to carry
all that money around, do you?"

Gideon did not answer; he looked very gloomy.

Stuhk hastened to cheer him.

"Of course you can have anything you want. Wait a minute, and I will
get it for you.

"I'll bet that coon's going to buy himself a ring or something," he
reflected as he went in search of the local manager and Gideon's
money.

But Stuhk was wrong. Gideon had no intention of buying himself a ring.
For the matter of that, he had several that were amply satisfactory.
They had size and sparkle and luster, all the diamond brilliance that
rings need to have; and for none of them had he paid much over five
dollars. He was amply supplied with jewelry in which he felt perfect
satisfaction. His present want was positive, if nebulous; he desired a
fortune in his pocket, bulky, tangible evidence of his miraculous
success. Ever since Stuhk had found him, life had had an unreal
quality for him. His Monte Cristo wealth was too much like a fabulous,
dream-found treasure, money that could not be spent without danger of
awakening. And he had dropped into the habit of storing it about him,
so that in any pocket into which he plunged his hand he might find a
roll of crisp evidence of reality. He liked his bills to be of all
denominations, and some so large as exquisitely to stagger
imagination, others charming by their number and crispness--the
dignified, orange paper of a man of assured position and
wealth-crackling greenbacks the design of which tinged the whole with
actuality. He was specially partial to engravings of President
Lincoln, the particular savior and patron of his race. This five
hundred dollars he was adding to an unreckoned sum of about two
thousand, merely as extra fortification against a growing sense of
gloom. He wished to brace his flagging spirits with the gay wine of
possession, and he was glad, when the money came, that it was in an
elastic-bound roll, so bulky that it was pleasantly uncomfortable in
his pocket as he left his manager.

As he turned into the brilliantly lighted street from the somber
alleyway of the stage entrance, he paused for a moment to glance at
his own name, in three-foot letters of red, before the doors of the
theater. He could read, and the large block type always pleased him.
"THIS WEEK: GIDEON." That was all. None of the fulsome praise, the
superlative, necessary definition given to lesser performers. He had
been, he remembered, "GIDEON, America's Foremost Native Comedian," a
title that was at once boast and challenge. That necessity was now
past, for he was a national character; any explanatory qualification
would have been an insult to the public intelligence. To the world he
was just "Gideon"; that was enough. It gave him pleasure, as he
sauntered along, to see the announcement repeated on window cards and
hoardings.

Presently he came to a window before which he paused in delighted
wonder. It was not a large window; to the casual eye of the passer-by
there was little to draw attention. By day it lighted the fractional
floor space of a little stationer, who supplemented a slim business by
a sub-agency for railroad and steamship lines; but to-night this
window seemed the framework of a marvel of coincidence. On the broad,
dusty sill inside were propped two cards: the one on the left was his
own red-lettered announcement for the week; the one at the right--oh,
world of wonders!--was a photogravure of that exact stretch of the
inner coast of Florida which Gideon knew best, which was home.

There it was, the Indian River, rippling idly in full sunlight,
palmettos leaning over the water, palmettos standing as irregular
sentries along the low, reeflike island which stretched away out of
the picture. There was the gigantic, lonely pine he knew well, and,
yes--he could just make it out--there was his own ramshackle little
pier, which stretched in undulating fashion, like a long-legged,
wading caterpillar, from the abrupt shore-line of eroded coquina into
deep water.

He thought at first that this picture of his home was some new and
delicate device put forth by his press-agent. His name on one side of
a window, his birthplace upon the other--what could be more tastefully
appropriate? Therefore, as he spelled out the reading-matter beneath
the photogravure, he was sharply disappointed. It read:

      Spend this winter in balmy Florida.
    Come to the Land of Perpetual Sunshine.
Golf, tennis, driving, shooting, boating, fishing, all of the best.

There was more, but he had no heart for it; he was disappointed and
puzzled. This picture had, after all, nothing to do with him. It was a
chance, and yet, what a strange chance! It troubled and upset him. His
black, round-featured face took on deep wrinkles of perplexity. The
"misery" which had hung darkly on his horizon for weeks engulfed him
without warning. But in the very bitterness of his melancholy he knew
at last his disease. It was not champagne or recreation that he
needed, not even a "po'k-chop," although his desire for it had been a
symptom, a groping for a too homeopathic remedy: he was homesick.

Easy, childish tears came into his eyes, and ran over his shining
cheeks. He shivered forlornly with a sudden sense of cold, and
absently clutched at the lapels of his gorgeous, fur-lined ulster.

Then in abrupt reaction he laughed aloud, so that the shrill, musical
falsetto startled the passers-by, and in another moment a little
semicircle of the curious watched spellbound as a black man,
exquisitely appareled, danced in wild, loose grace before the dull
background of a somewhat grimy and apparently vacant window. A newsboy
recognized him.

He heard his name being passed from mouth to mouth, and came partly to
his senses. He stopped dancing, and grinned at them.

"Say, you are Gideon, ain't you?" his discoverer demanded, with a sort
of reverent audacity.

"Yaas, _seh_," said Gideon; "that's me. Yo' shu got it right." He
broke into a joyous peal of laughter--the laughter that had made him
famous, and bowed deeply before him. "Gideon--posi-_tive_-ly his las'
puffawmunce." Turning, he dashed for a passing trolley, and, still
laughing, swung aboard.

He was naturally honest. In a land of easy morality his friends had
accounted him something of a paragon; nor had Stuhk ever had anything
but praise for him. But now he crushed aside the ethics of his intent
without a single troubled thought. Running away has always been
inherent in the negro. He gave one regretful thought to the gorgeous
wardrobe he was leaving behind him; but he dared not return for it.
Stuhk might have taken it into his head to go back to their rooms. He
must content himself with the reflection that he was at that moment
wearing his best.

The trolley seemed too slow for him, and, as always happened nowadays,
he was recognized; he heard his name whispered, and was aware of the
admiring glances of the curious. Even popularity had its drawbacks. He
got down in front of a big hotel and chose a taxicab from the waiting
rank, exhorting the driver to make his best speed to the station.
Leaning back in the soft depths of the cab, he savored his
independence, cheered already by the swaying, lurching speed. At the
station he tipped the driver in lordly fashion, very much pleased with
himself and anxious to give pleasure. Only the sternest prudence and
an unconquerable awe of uniform had kept him from tossing bills to the
various traffic policemen who had seemed to smile upon his hurry.

No through train left for hours; but after the first disappointment of
momentary check, he decided that he was more pleased than otherwise.
It would save embarrassment. He was going South, where his color would
be more considered than his reputation, and on the little local he
chose there was a "Jim Crow" car--one, that is, specially set aside
for those of his race. That it proved crowded and full of smoke did
not trouble him at all, nor did the admiring pleasantries which the
splendor of his apparel immediately called forth. No one knew him;
indeed, he was naturally enough mistaken for a prosperous gambler, a
not unflattering supposition. In the yard, after the train pulled out,
he saw his private car under a glaring arc light, and grinned to see
it left behind.

He spent the night pleasantly in a noisy game of high-low-jack, and
the next morning slept more soundly than he had slept for weeks,
hunched upon a wooden bench in the boxlike station of a North Carolina
junction. The express would have brought him to Jacksonville in
twenty-four hours; the journey, as he took it, boarding any local that
happened to be going south, and leaving it for meals or sometimes for
sleep or often as the whim possessed him, filled five happy days.
There he took a night train, and dozed from Jacksonville until a
little north of New Smyrna.

He awoke to find it broad daylight, and the car half empty. The train
was on a siding, with news of a freight wreck ahead. Gideon stretched
himself, and looked out of the window, and emotion seized him. For all
his journey the South had seemed to welcome him, but here at last was
the country he knew. He went out upon the platform and threw back his
head, sniffing the soft breeze, heavy with the mysterious thrill of
unplowed acres, the wondrous existence of primordial jungle, where
life has rioted unceasingly above unceasing decay. It was dry with the
fine dust of waste places, and wet with the warm mists of slumbering
swamps; it seemed to Gideon to tremble with the songs of birds, the
dry murmur of palm leaves, and the almost inaudible whisper of the
gray moss that festooned the live-oaks.

"Um-m-m," he murmured, apostrophizing it, "yo' 's the right kind o'
breeze, yo' is. Yo'-all's healthy." Still sniffing, he climbed down to
the dusty road-bed.

The negroes who had ridden with him were sprawled about him on the
ground; one of them lay sleeping, face up, in the sunlight. The train
had evidently been there for some time, and there were no signs of an
immediate departure. He bought some oranges of a little, bowlegged
black boy, and sat down on a log to eat them and to give up his mind
to enjoyment. The sun was hot upon him, and his thoughts were vague
and drowsy. He was glad that he was alive, glad to be back once more
among familiar scenes. Down the length of the train he saw white
passengers from the Pullmans restlessly pacing up and down, getting
into their cars and out of them, consulting watches, attaching
themselves with gesticulatory expostulation to various officials; but
their impatience found no echo in his thought. What was the hurry?
There was plenty of time. It was sufficient to have come to his own
land; the actual walls of home could wait. The delay was pleasant,
with its opportunity for drowsy sunning, its relief from the grimy
monotony of travel. He glanced at the orange-colored "Jim Crow" with
distaste, and inspiration, dawning slowly upon him, swept all other
thought before it in its great and growing glory.

A brakeman passed, and Gideon leaped to his feet and pursued him.

"Misteh, how long yo'-all reckon this train goin' to be?"

"About an hour."

The question had been a mere matter of form. Gideon had made up his
mind, and if he had been told that they started in five minutes he
would not have changed it. He climbed back into the car for his coat
and his hat, and then almost furtively stole down the steps again and
slipped quietly into the palmetto scrub.

"'Most made the mistake of ma life," he chuckled, "stickin' to that
ol' train foheveh. 'T isn't the right way at, all foh Gideon to come
home."

The river was not far away. He could catch the dancing blue of it from
time to time in ragged vista, and for this beacon he steered directly.
His coat was heavy on his arm, his thin patent-leather ties pinched
and burned and demanded detours around swampy places, but he was
happy.

As he went along, his plan perfected itself. He would get into loose
shoes again, old ones, if money could buy them, and old clothes, too.
The bull-briers snatching at his tailored splendor suggested that.

He laughed when the Florida partridge, a small quail, whirred up from
under his feet; he paused to exchange affectionate mockery with red
squirrels; and once, even when he was brought up suddenly to a
familiar and ominous, dry reverberation, the small, crisp sound of the
rolling drums of death, he did not look about him for some instrument
of destruction, as at any other time he would have done, but instead
peered cautiously over the log before him, and spoke in tolerant
admonition:

"Now, Misteh Rattlesnake, yo' jes min' yo' own business. Nobody's
goin' step on yo', ner go triflin' roun' yo' in no way whatsomeveh.
Yo' jes lay there in the sun an' git 's fat 's yo' please. Don' yo'
tu'n yo' weeked li'l' eyes on Gideon. He's jes goin' 'long home, an'
ain' lookin' foh no muss."

He came presently to the water, and, as luck would have it, to a
little group of negro cabins, where he was able to buy old clothes
and, after much dickering, a long and somewhat leaky rowboat rigged
out with a tattered leg-of-mutton sail. This he provisioned with a jug
of water, a starch box full of white corn-meal, and a wide strip of
lean razorback bacon.

As he pushed out from shore and set his sail to the small breeze that
blew down from the north, an absolute contentment possessed him. The
idle waters of the lagoon, lying without tide or current in eternal
indolence, rippled and sparkled in breeze and sunlight with a merry
surface activity, and seemed to lap the leaky little boat more swiftly
on its way. Mosquito Inlet opened broadly before him, and skirting the
end of Merritt's Island he came at last into that longest lagoon, with
which he was most familiar, the Indian River. Here the wind died down
to a mere breath, which barely kept his boat in motion; but he made no
attempt to row. As long as he moved at all, he was satisfied. He was
living the fulfilment of his dreams in exile, lounging in the stern in
the ancient clothes he had purchased, his feet stretched comfortably
before him in their broken shoes, one foot upon a thwart, the other
hanging overside so laxly that occasional ripples lapped the run-over
heel. From time to time he scanned shore and river for familiar points
of interest--some remembered snag that showed the tip of one gnarled
branch. Or he marked a newly fallen palmetto, already rotting in the
water, which must be added to that map of vast detail that he carried
in his head. But for the most part his broad black face was turned up
to the blue brilliance above him in unblinking contemplation; his keen
eyes, brilliant despite their sun-muddied whites, reveled in the
heights above him, swinging from horizon to horizon in the wake of an
orderly file of little bluebill ducks, winging their way across the
river, or brightening with interest at the rarer sight of a pair of
mallards or redheads, lifting with the soaring circles of the great
bald-headed eagle, or following the scattered squadron of heron--white
heron, blue heron, young and old, trailing, sunlit, brilliant patches,
clear even against the bright white and blue of the sky above them.

Often he laughed aloud, sending a great shout of mirth across the
water in fresh relish of those comedies best known and best enjoyed.
It was as excruciatingly funny as it had ever been, when his boat
nosed its way into a great flock of ducks idling upon the water, to
see the mad paddling haste of those nearest him, the reproachful turn
of their heads, or, if he came too near, their spattering run out of
water, feet and wings pumping together as they rose from the surface,
looking for all the world like fat little women, scurrying with
clutched skirts across city streets. The pelicans, too, delighted him
as they perched with pedantic solemnity upon wharf-piles, or sailed in
hunched and huddled gravity twenty feet above the river's surface in
swift, dignified flight, which always ended suddenly in an abrupt,
up-ended plunge that threw dignity to the winds in its greedy haste,
and dropped them crashing into the water.

When darkness came suddenly at last, he made in toward shore, mooring
to the warm-fretted end of a fallen and forgotten landing. A
straggling orange-grove was here, broken lines of vanquished
cultivation, struggling little trees swathed and choked in the
festooning gray moss, still showing here and there the valiant golden
gleam of fruit. Gideon had seen many such places, had seen settlers
come and clear themselves a space in the jungle, plant their groves,
and live for a while in lazy independence; and then for some reason or
other they would go, and before they had scarcely turned their backs,
the jungle had crept in again, patiently restoring its ancient
sovereignty. The place was eery with the ghost of dead effort; but it
pleased him.

He made a fire and cooked supper, eating enormously and with relish.
His conscience did not trouble him at all. Stuhk and his own career
seemed already distant; they took small place in his thoughts, and
served merely as a background for his present absolute content. He
picked some oranges, and ate them in meditative enjoyment. For a while
he nodded, half asleep, beside his fire, watching the darkened river,
where the mullet, shimmering with phosphorescence, still leaped
starkly above the surface, and fell in spattering brilliance. Midnight
found him sprawled asleep beside his fire.

Once he awoke. The moon had risen, and a little breeze waved the
hanging moss, and whispered in the glossy foliage of orange and
palmetto with a sound like falling rain. Gideon sat up and peered
about him, rolling his eyes hither and thither at the menacing leap
and dance of the jet shadows. His heart was beating thickly, his
muscles twitched, and the awful terrors of night pulsed and shuddered
over him. Nameless specters peered at him from every shadow,
ingenerate familiars of his wild, forgotten blood. He groaned aloud in
a delicious terror; and presently, still twitching and shivering, fell
asleep again. It was as if something magical had happened; his fear
remembered the fear of centuries, and yet with the warm daylight was
absolutely forgotten.

He got up a little after sunrise, and went down to the river to bathe,
diving deep with a joyful sense of freeing himself from the last alien
dust of travel. Once ashore again, however, he began to prepare his
breakfast with some haste. For the first time in his journey he was
feeling a sense of loneliness and a longing for his kind. He was still
happy, but his laughter began to seem strange to him in the solitude.
He tried the defiant experiment of laughing for the effect of it, an
experiment which brought him to his feet in startled terror; for his
laughter was echoed. As he stood peering about him, the sound came
again, not laughter this time, but a suppressed giggle. It was human
beyond a doubt. Gideon's face shone with relief and sympathetic
amusement; he listened for a moment, and then strode surely forward
toward a clump of low palms. There he paused, every sense alert. His
ear caught a soft rustle, a little gasp of fear; the sound of a foot
moved cautiously.

"Missy," he said tentatively, "I reckon yo'-all's come jes 'bout 'n
time foh breakfus. Yo' betteh have some. Ef yo' ain' too white to sit
down with a black man."

The leaves parted, and a smiling face as black as Gideon's own
regarded him in shy amusement.

"Who is yo', man?"

"I mought be king of Kongo," he laughed, "but I ain't. Yo' see befo'
yo' jes Gideon--at yo'r 'steemed sehvice." He bowed elaborately in the
mock humility of assured importance, watching her face in pleasant
anticipation.

But neither awe nor rapture dawned there. She repeated the name,
inclining her head coquettishly; but it evidently meant nothing to
her. She was merely trying its sound. "Gideon, Gideon. I don' call to
min' any sech name ez that. Yo'-all's f'om up No'th likely." He was
beyond the reaches of fame.

"No," said Gideon, hardly knowing whether he was glad or sorry--"no, I
live south of heah. What-all's yo' name?"

The girl giggled deliciously.

"Man," she said, "I shu got the mos' reediculoustest name you eveh did
heah. They call me Vashti--yo' bacon's bu'nin'." She stepped out, and
ran past him to snatch his skillet deftly from the fire.

"Vashti"--a strange and delightful name. Gideon followed her slowly.
Her romantic coming and her romantic name pleased him; and, too, he
thought her beautiful. She was scarcely more than a girl, slim and
strong and almost of his own height. She was barefooted, but her
blue-checked gingham was clean and belted smartly about a small waist.
He remembered only one woman who ran as lithely as she did, one of the
numerous "diving beauties" of the vaudeville stage.

She cooked their breakfast, but he served her with an elaborate
gallantry, putting forward all his new and foreign graces, garnishing
his speech with imposing polysyllables, casting about their picnic
breakfast a radiant aura of grandeur borrowed from the recent days of
his fame. And he saw that he pleased her, and with her open admiration
essayed still greater flights of polished manner.

He made vague plans for delaying his journey as they sat smoking in
pleasant conversational ease; and when an interruption came it vexed
him.

"Vashty! Vashty!" a woman's voice sounded thin and far away.
"Vashty-y! Yo' heah me, chile?"

Vashti rose to her feet with a sigh.

"That's my ma," she said regretfully.

"What do yo' care?" asked Gideon. "Let her yell awhile."

The girl shook her head.

"Ma's a moughty pow'ful 'oman, and she done got a club 'bout the size
o' my wrist." She moved off a step or so, and glanced back at him.

Gideon leaped to his feet.

"When yo' comin' back? Yo'--yo' ain' goin' without----" He held out
his arms to her, but she only giggled and began to walk slowly away.
With a bound he was after her, one hand catching her lightly by the
shoulder. He felt suddenly that he must not lose sight of her.

"Let me go! Tu'n me loose, yo'!" The girl was still laughing, but
evidently troubled. She wrenched herself away with an effort, only to
be caught again a moment later. She screamed and struck at him as he
kissed her; for now she was really in terror.

The blow caught Gideon squarely in the mouth, and with such force that
he staggered back, astonished, while the girl took wildly to her
heels. He stood for a moment irresolute, for something was happening
to him. For months he had evaded love with a gentle embarrassment;
now, with the savage crash of that blow, he knew unreasoningly that he
had found his woman.

He leaped after her again, running as he had not run in years, in
savage, determined pursuit, tearing through brier and scrub, tripping,
falling, rising, never losing sight of the blue-clad figure before him
until at last she tripped and fell, and he stood panting above her.

He took a great breath or so, and leaned over and picked her up in his
arms, where she screamed and struck and scratched at him. He laughed,
for he felt no longer sensible to pain, and, still chuckling, picked
his way carefully back to the shore, wading deep into the water to
unmoor his boat. Then with a swift movement he dropped the girl into
the bow, pushed free, and clambered actively aboard.

The light, early morning breeze had freshened, and he made out well
toward the middle of the river, never even glancing around at the
sound of the hallooing he now heard from shore. His exertions had
quickened his breathing, but he felt strong and joyful. Vashti lay a
huddle of blue in the bow, crouched in fear and desolation, shaken and
torn with sobbing; but he made no effort to comfort her. He was
untroubled by any sense of wrong; he was simply and unreasoningly
satisfied with what he had done. Despite all his gentle, easygoing,
laughter-loving existence, he found nothing incongruous or unnatural
in this sudden act of violence. He was aglow with happiness; he was
taking home a wife. The blind tumult of capture had passed; a great
tenderness possessed him.

The leaky little boat was plunging and dancing in swift ecstasy of
movement; all about them the little waves ran glittering in the
sunlight, plashing and slapping against the boat's low side, tossing
tiny crests to the following wind, showing rifts of white here and
there, blowing handfuls of foam and spray. Gideon went softly about
the business of shortening his small sail, and came quietly back to
his steering-seat again. Soon he would have to be making for what lea
the western shore offered; but he was holding to the middle of the
river as long as he could, because with every mile the shores were
growing more familiar, calling to him to make what speed he could.
Vashti's sobbing had grown small and ceased; he wondered if she had
fallen asleep.

Presently, however, he saw her face raised--a face still shining with
tears. She saw that he was watching her, and crouched low again. A
dash of spray spattered over her, and she looked up frightened,
glancing fearfully overside; then once more her eyes came back to him,
and this time she got up, still small and crouching, and made her way
slowly and painfully down the length of the boat, until at last Gideon
moved aside for her, and she sank in the bottom beside him, hiding her
eyes in her gingham sleeve.

Gideon stretched out a broad hand and touched her head lightly; and
with a tiny gasp her fingers stole up to his.

"Honey," said Gideon--"Honey, yo' ain' mad, is yo'?"

She shook her head, not looking at him.

"Yo' ain' grievin' foh yo' ma?"

Again she shook her head.

"Because," said Gideon, smiling down at her, "I ain' got no beeg club
like she has."

A soft and smothered giggle answered him, and this time Vashti looked
up and laid her head against him with a small sigh of contentment.

Gideon felt very tender, very important, at peace with himself and all
the world. He rounded a jutting point, and stretched out a black hand,
pointing.





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