More happy end what saint e'er knew!To whom like mercy shown!His Saviour's death in rapturous view,And unperceived his own.VideAnnual Register for 1776.D. W."The poetry is not original, but is taken from the "Register."Mr. Webster's scrupulous care of his dress is well known. On each of the occasions I saw him, his dress—which, as is well known, was the blue coat with the buff or white vest and brass buttons, and, at least on one occasion in the summer, white trousers—seemed to have been nearly new. I was told by a lady who heard the eulogy on Adams and Jefferson in 1826, in Faneuil Hall that on that occasion he wore a gown.There are in literature a few biographies in which the hand of a master has, in a brief compass, given a portraiture of an illustrious subject, which, like the faces portrayed by the great painters of the Middle Ages, leaves nothing wanting and which no fulness of detail could improve. Of these, Tacitus's "Life of Agricola" is probably the most perfect example. Kirkland's "Fisher Ames" is of the same class. So, also, unless I am greatly deceived, is the "Life of Daniel Webster," by Edward Everett, published with Webster's Works in 1852. This admirable biography, partly, perhaps, by reason of its place in a voluminous publication, has attracted far less attention than its own excellence and the fame of its author would lead us to expect. It will be worth all the pains taken in preparing these articles if it shall lead the youth of the country to study carefully this masterly portrait by one great statesman and orator of another who was his teacher, leader, and friend. I extract from it one passage which gives the key to Webster's great success and to the success of every great orator who has stirred the feeling or convinced the understanding of the people by the power of eloquent speech:"The orator who would do justice to a great theme or a great occasion must thoroughly study and understand the subject; he must accurately and, if possible, minutely digest in writing beforehand the substance, and even the form, of his address; otherwise, though he may speak ably, he will be apt not to make in all respects an able speech. He must entirely possess himself beforehand of the main things which he wishes to say, and then throw himself upon the excitement of the moment and the sympathy of the audience. In those portions of his discourse which are didactic or narrative, he will not be likely to wander, in any direction, far from his notes; although even in thoseportions new facts, illustrations, and suggestions will be apt to spring up before him as he proceeds. But when the topic rises, when the mind kindles from within, and the strain becomes loftier, or bolder, or more pathetic, when the sacred fountain of tears is ready to overflow, and audience and speaker are moved by one kindred sympathetic passion, then the thick-coming fancies cannot be kept down, the storehouse of the memory is unlocked, images start up from the slumber of years, and all that the orator has seen, read, heard, or felt returns in distinct shape and vivid colors. The cold and premeditated text will no longer suffice for the glowing thought. The stately, balanced phrase gives place to some abrupt, graphic expression, that rushes unbidden to his lips. The unforeseen incident or locality furnishes an apt and speaking image; and the discourse instinctively transposes itself into a higher key."BALLADBy J. Russell Taylor"Whither away? Shall we sail or stay? Whither away," I said,"Into the sunset's glory of gold and passion of rose-red?Over the water changed to wine and into the sky we slip,But never a fairer shore than this shall find our buoyant ship,Not though by shadowy Arcady we drop the anchor at last,And in the dusk our weary sails come rattling down the mast.Into the dark steals off the bark: let us stay in our bridal June:Whither away should lovers stray from the Island of Honeymoon?""O far away in the dying day, and farther away," she cried,"Ere the glory of gold has faded yet or the passion of rose-red died,O far away from the happier present visit the happy past,Though never shall our ghostly sails die down the shadowy mast:For we will flit by the twilight land and name the places fair,But set no foot on the shore," she cried, "nor drop the anchor there:But under the night with so swift a flight that the keel is singing in tune,Back, haste back on the starry track to the Island of Honeymoon!"A ROYAL ALLYBy William Maynadier BrowneIllustrations by A. I. KellerLike many other energetic and successful men, Mr. Cutting had his enemies. When, as counsel for the East End Land and Traction Company, he discovered that the policy of a majority of the Board of Directors was to slowly but surely "freeze out" the smaller stockholders, he promptly resigned his position, and proceeded to form a coalition among the to-be-frozen. This coalition had for its object the overthrow of the existing management and the subsequent instituting of a new and generous policy.Michael O'Connor.After a hard, stubborn fight, Mr. Cutting and his followers won; the management was displaced, and Mr. Cutting again became counsel for the company. But he had added to his list of enemies some who, though few in number, were long of memory, relentless, and powerful.Under the newrégimethe company prospered, and the patient stockholders received their dividends regularly, hitherto withheld or, rather, made to appear non-existing by means of the well-known device of undervaluing the company's lands in converse ratio to its increasing earnings.The annual meeting was but two days off, and Mr. Cutting's sky seemed clear and tranquil; but overnight clouds had gathered black and ominous. The enemy, believing themselves once more superior in strength, or nearly enough so to venture upon the step, at the last moment sounded the note of war. That evening's paper contained insinuations, which were followed in the morning editions by large headlines and by direct though guarded accusations.It was this morning, the morning of the very day before the annual meeting, that I was sitting in the office reading these same accusations. I was indignant and tired out.All the night before I had been closeted with Mr. Cutting in his house, working out with him a defence for use in the battle to come, writing to this or telegraphing to that out-of-town holder of the stock; in one instance even cabling to London for a proxy allowing Mr. Cutting to vote a thousand shares held by a friend of his who was abroad. Together we had gone through the long list of stockholders, checking off those for and those against us, and embodying in a new list the names, not a few, of those either uncertain or unknown to us. This list comprised the names of almost all the smaller holders, owning from one to fifty shares. The only large holding was that of one Andrew J. Ahearn, against whose name appeared the goodly figure of five hundred shares. But, alas! he was among the unknown to us.As I was leaving the house Mr. Cutting had said to me, mournfully: "I'm afraid they've got us this time. We need four thousand shares more, counting Emley's as safe; and the cable may not reach him in time, or he may be out of London. But, never mind," he added, clapping me warmly on the shoulder; "we will fight 'em till they knock us out, and go for 'em again next year. See you at the office."As I walked slowly home to my lodgings through the long, level shadows of the early morning, the distinct rattling of incoming milk-carts and the twitter of countless sparrows pulsed through my tired brain in throb with the names of big and little stockholders. Thus, after a bath and breakfast, I had reached the office tired and indignant over the unjust and unwarranted attacks upon Mr. Cutting contained in the morning papers. Though counsel in name, he was in fact the managing head of the company's affairs.As I sat at my desk, the newspapers lying about on the floor where I had thrown them in my anger, the door opened and old O'Connor entered.Unlike his former appearances upon the scene of Mr. Cutting's domain, he did not wait to be spoken to, but crossed to me briskly, without hesitation or apology, merely removing his tall hat and sweepingly smoothing his thin white hair as he sat himself down firmly in a chair directly facing me. Something was on his mind, evidently."Phwat's dthis the papers do be sayin' about Mr. Cuttin', sor," he began, but, remembering himself, hastened to add, "Good-morning, sor. And how is Mr. Cutting this morning, sor?"I told him that Mr. Cutting was well. Then I explained to him that the newspaper attacks were instigated by the old Board of Directors of the East End Company, who were trying to oust Mr. Cutting and his friends from the directorate. At receiving this piece of information he merely remarked, tersely, "The divils!" and after a pause added, in a whisper, "Shure, Mr. Cuttin' can down the whole av thim——" Then, with a note of anxiety in his voice, "Can't he, now, sor?"I replied that it looked very doubtful, the time left us being so short and the other side having prepared themselves so secretly."And phwat's dthis," O'Connor went on, an angry look still more contracting his wizened face and concentrating all his features to a point at the tip of his short up-turned nose—"phwat's dthis they do be sayin'—Chimmie, me bar-tender, was afther readin' ut to me—phwat's dthis about Mr. Cuttin' mismanaging the money?""Not the money," I hastened to say; "the affairs of the company.""Well—annyho-ow, 'tis a dommed lie," said O'Connor, thrusting out his square chin farther and farther with each word as it escaped from between the compressed wide lips, which at last opened in a far from pleasant grin, showing his still sound if ragged teeth, as he ejaculated, with fine distinctness, "The blay-gyards!" and then asked, with sudden eagerness, "Do there be anny wan av thim oi knaw, now?""No," I said, laughingly, "unless you happen to have met the former president, Mr. Walker;" thinking that that gentleman would in all probability be the least likely to be among the O'Connor's acquaintances."Phwat Walker is this?" he asked, all interest and expectation."The former president," I said."'Tis not Jarge Double-ye, it is, now, is ut?" He was leaning forward, looking eagerly into my eyes, his hands tightly clutching his knees."It is," I replied. "George W. Walker.""An'do I know him!" he exclaimed, leaning back and throwing up both hands, as if exhausted with amazement. "An' it's the loikes av him is fightin' Mr. Cuttin', is ut?" I nodded. "Well, well, well!" he murmured, softly. "Phwatdo ye dthink av that! Whishper! Sit still, there, you."He rose and tiptoed quickly to the door, opened it, and with an imperative backward jerk of the head summoned somebody from the hallway without. In a few moments a small elderly woman squeezed into the room. She was dressed in black and carried her hands clasped in front of her, seeming to hold in place the corners of a shawl that, folded over hershoulders, was crossed at her waist. Her bonnet was diminutive, but somehow uncompromising, almost defiant, in its plainness. From beneath it peeped a portion, but enough, of a smooth brown wig. By it I recognized her. She was the consort of the lineal descendant of the last king of Ireland; she was O'Connor's wife and Mollie's, now Mrs. Fennessey's, mother.Ejaculated, with fine distinctness, "The blay-gyards!"—Page 222."Ah! Mrs. O'Connor!" I exclaimed, rising, "how do you do? I am glad to see you again."She merely courtesied sharply and sniffed once. She was not nearly so gracious and so comfortably confiding as she had been in the state chamber of her own castle, where I last saw her. However, she remarked at length, pleasantly enough, that "it was a rale plisint mornin', the day," and seated herself in a chair near the door. For perhaps a minute O'Connor stood by her side and whispered to her. She seemed interested. I caught the sound of "Jarge Double-ye" from him, and a crisp and threatening "Ho, ho!" from her in reply. Then they crossed to my desk, O'Connor drawing a folded paper from his pocket as he came. His manner now was grave and business-like."Av you plaze, sor, Mrs. O'Connor and mesilf would thank you if you would be so kind as to lit us j'intly sign this paper forninst ye.""Do you want me to witness the signatures? Is that it?" I asked, taking the paper and mechanically starting to unfold it."Yis, sor. But 'tis—excuse me, sor—'tis a private matther. Read it, sor, if—if——" He paused, much embarrassed. I hastened to assure him it was not necessary for me to read it, and, smoothing down the lowest fold of the document,handed O'Connor a well-filled pen. He, in turn, handed it to his wife, with the words, "Sign you, Bridget Ann, fur-rst, and I'll sign afther, meself.""Where do I putt me name, Michael, dear?" she asked, now seated uneasily at my desk."Just undher the worruds 'Wid my consint,'" he answered, pointing with a short, knotty, curved index-finger to the words "So help me, God," which appeared on the right side of the sheet, just below the edge of the folded section that covered the remainder of the writing, except the words "With my consent," which were on the same line, but at the left. I corrected his mistake.Slowly and awkwardly, but with great patience, Mrs. O'Connor's signature was constructed. If a decided upward slant indicates, as students of chirography assert, that the writer is of sanguine and ambitious temperament, the lady was surely a worthy spouse for an heir to the throne of Ireland. The signature ran up, up, up, until balked by the folded edge; but pressing against this obstacle, it ran its remaining course in protest against its confinement. Whether or not it spelled Bridget Ann O'Connor, it certainly spelled nothing else.O'Connor, as usual, had left his spectacles at home. I signed his name and an ×, while he softly touched the tip of my pen-holder. He sighed with relief when it was over, and remarked: "Shure, cross or name, 'tis all the same. There's no differ. Thank you kindly, sor, and phwat do I owe you, now?"As I waved away his question, Mr. Cutting came in from the company's offices, which adjoined our own.Despite his anxieties, Mr. Cutting greeted O'Connor with his usual cheery, "Well, Michael, how are you?" and then seeing Mrs. O'Connor, crossed to her and shook hands; after which she resumed her seat, and sniffed once more—this time with more decision and with her nose in the air.Sheknew she knew Henry H. Cutting, Esq., whether the rest of the world knew she did or not."Well, Michael, what can I do for you to-day?" he asked, pleasantly. O'Connor was immediately all confusion. As he tried to answer, he fumbled with his tall hat (which he had hurriedly grasped from its resting-place on my desk at Mr. Cutting's entrance), he pulled with gentle uncertainty at the fringe of white beard that encircled his anxious face, while his eyes followed the line of the washboard as if searching there for encouragement."Anything wrong?" asked Mr. Cutting."No, sor; no, Mr. Cuttin'," O'Connor at last stammered. "Not wid me, nor yit wid anny belongin' to me. But, Mr. Cuttin', sor, I do be hearin' av—av—phwat the papers——" He paused.I saw a look of pain and disappointment quickly cross Mr. Cutting's face, and I read his thoughts on the instant. His old servant and friend, doubtful of its security, had come to demand his money."Av phwat the papers do be sayin' about you," O'Connor at last gained courage to say, "and av phwat thim blaygyards do be havin' in moind to do to you, sor. So-o I wud—meanin' no presumshin, sor, and wid your kind permission—be afther givin' you this, sor. I dictayted it and me daughter, Mollie, that's now Mrs. Fennessey, wrote it down for me. Av you plaze, sor."He handed Mr. Cutting the paper I had witnessed, and was gently rising and falling on his toes, holding his tall hat behind him in both hands, while he nervously moistened his lips and gazed at the wall.Mr. Cutting read the paper quickly, then walked abruptly to the window and stood looking out. There was silence for several moments. O'Connor continued his gentle rising and falling. Mrs. O'Connor sighed softly, smoothed her gown by a touch or two, and again folded her hands. Then Mr. Cutting turned and resting his left hand, which still held the paper, on O'Connor's shoulder, with his right grasped the other's right and shook it warmly. There was the glitter of moisture in his eyes, but his fine face wore an expression of mingled affection and mirth."Michael," he said, his clear, musical voice firm and kind, "I thank you with all my heart for your generous offer of assistance. And you, too, Bridget." Mrs. O'Connor half rose, sat down again and sniffed. "But I cannot—it would not be right for me to accept it."Then followed a wholly unwritablescene—O'Connor and his wife, by turns and at times together, protesting, insisting, assuring, even coaxing. In themêléeof warm-hearted Irish explosives, I could distinguish, "Shure, I've plinty money"—"More than plinty, he has"—"What wid me rum"—"Yis, an' your junk"—"And me rints"—"There's a good man, now" "No bodther at all, at all." But at last O'Connor caught a look in his former employer's eye that he knew. He saw that further argument or entreaty was useless. At a gesture from Mr. Cutting, he and his wife desisted.Slowly and awkwardly, but with great patience, Mrs. O'Connor's signature was constructed.—Page 224."No, Michael," Mr. Cutting continued, quietly; "it is impossible. It is out of the question. Besides, I must tell you, and now seems a good time, that while my affairs are in no danger, they are, owing to this new development in the company's prospects, causing me a good deal of trouble and anxiety. I have, therefore, turned the property of yours I was holding into cash, and it is now in my bank. I want you to wait here while I send and draw it out. Then I am going to ask you to take care of it yourself—at least, for the present. I am happy to say the amount has increased considerably, and I know you won't be disappointed."His tone was firm, and his determination manifest. O'Connor humbly acquiesced with his familiar "Phwativer you plaze, sor, Mr. Cutting, sor." Then Mr. Cutting said:"But there is one thing you can do for me, Michael, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you will.""I will, then," said O'Connor, brightening. "Phwat is ut?""Give me this paper," said Mr. Cutting, holding up the paper O'Connor had handed him."Shure I will, sor, if you want it. 'Tis no use to me now." His sadness had returned, and now held him completely.Mr. Cutting then disappeared into the company's offices; but in passing my deskon the way he laid the paper before me, whispering as he did so, "Read that."O'Connor and his wife were now conversing apart, in mournful numbers, so I read, unobserved, this:"I, Michael O'Connor, being of sound and disposing mind, this day do hereby loan to Mr. Henry H. Cutting, Esq., for any use he please, all my money he has now in charge, him to repay whenever it suits his convenience, and if never at all, no matter at all."So help me God."Michael"his × mark"O'Connor."With my consent,"Bridget Ann O'Connor."
More happy end what saint e'er knew!To whom like mercy shown!His Saviour's death in rapturous view,And unperceived his own.VideAnnual Register for 1776.D. W."
More happy end what saint e'er knew!To whom like mercy shown!His Saviour's death in rapturous view,And unperceived his own.
More happy end what saint e'er knew!
To whom like mercy shown!
His Saviour's death in rapturous view,
And unperceived his own.
VideAnnual Register for 1776.D. W."
VideAnnual Register for 1776.
D. W."
The poetry is not original, but is taken from the "Register."
Mr. Webster's scrupulous care of his dress is well known. On each of the occasions I saw him, his dress—which, as is well known, was the blue coat with the buff or white vest and brass buttons, and, at least on one occasion in the summer, white trousers—seemed to have been nearly new. I was told by a lady who heard the eulogy on Adams and Jefferson in 1826, in Faneuil Hall that on that occasion he wore a gown.
There are in literature a few biographies in which the hand of a master has, in a brief compass, given a portraiture of an illustrious subject, which, like the faces portrayed by the great painters of the Middle Ages, leaves nothing wanting and which no fulness of detail could improve. Of these, Tacitus's "Life of Agricola" is probably the most perfect example. Kirkland's "Fisher Ames" is of the same class. So, also, unless I am greatly deceived, is the "Life of Daniel Webster," by Edward Everett, published with Webster's Works in 1852. This admirable biography, partly, perhaps, by reason of its place in a voluminous publication, has attracted far less attention than its own excellence and the fame of its author would lead us to expect. It will be worth all the pains taken in preparing these articles if it shall lead the youth of the country to study carefully this masterly portrait by one great statesman and orator of another who was his teacher, leader, and friend. I extract from it one passage which gives the key to Webster's great success and to the success of every great orator who has stirred the feeling or convinced the understanding of the people by the power of eloquent speech:
"The orator who would do justice to a great theme or a great occasion must thoroughly study and understand the subject; he must accurately and, if possible, minutely digest in writing beforehand the substance, and even the form, of his address; otherwise, though he may speak ably, he will be apt not to make in all respects an able speech. He must entirely possess himself beforehand of the main things which he wishes to say, and then throw himself upon the excitement of the moment and the sympathy of the audience. In those portions of his discourse which are didactic or narrative, he will not be likely to wander, in any direction, far from his notes; although even in thoseportions new facts, illustrations, and suggestions will be apt to spring up before him as he proceeds. But when the topic rises, when the mind kindles from within, and the strain becomes loftier, or bolder, or more pathetic, when the sacred fountain of tears is ready to overflow, and audience and speaker are moved by one kindred sympathetic passion, then the thick-coming fancies cannot be kept down, the storehouse of the memory is unlocked, images start up from the slumber of years, and all that the orator has seen, read, heard, or felt returns in distinct shape and vivid colors. The cold and premeditated text will no longer suffice for the glowing thought. The stately, balanced phrase gives place to some abrupt, graphic expression, that rushes unbidden to his lips. The unforeseen incident or locality furnishes an apt and speaking image; and the discourse instinctively transposes itself into a higher key."
"Whither away? Shall we sail or stay? Whither away," I said,"Into the sunset's glory of gold and passion of rose-red?Over the water changed to wine and into the sky we slip,But never a fairer shore than this shall find our buoyant ship,Not though by shadowy Arcady we drop the anchor at last,And in the dusk our weary sails come rattling down the mast.Into the dark steals off the bark: let us stay in our bridal June:Whither away should lovers stray from the Island of Honeymoon?""O far away in the dying day, and farther away," she cried,"Ere the glory of gold has faded yet or the passion of rose-red died,O far away from the happier present visit the happy past,Though never shall our ghostly sails die down the shadowy mast:For we will flit by the twilight land and name the places fair,But set no foot on the shore," she cried, "nor drop the anchor there:But under the night with so swift a flight that the keel is singing in tune,Back, haste back on the starry track to the Island of Honeymoon!"
"Whither away? Shall we sail or stay? Whither away," I said,"Into the sunset's glory of gold and passion of rose-red?Over the water changed to wine and into the sky we slip,But never a fairer shore than this shall find our buoyant ship,Not though by shadowy Arcady we drop the anchor at last,And in the dusk our weary sails come rattling down the mast.Into the dark steals off the bark: let us stay in our bridal June:Whither away should lovers stray from the Island of Honeymoon?""O far away in the dying day, and farther away," she cried,"Ere the glory of gold has faded yet or the passion of rose-red died,O far away from the happier present visit the happy past,Though never shall our ghostly sails die down the shadowy mast:For we will flit by the twilight land and name the places fair,But set no foot on the shore," she cried, "nor drop the anchor there:But under the night with so swift a flight that the keel is singing in tune,Back, haste back on the starry track to the Island of Honeymoon!"
"Whither away? Shall we sail or stay? Whither away," I said,"Into the sunset's glory of gold and passion of rose-red?Over the water changed to wine and into the sky we slip,But never a fairer shore than this shall find our buoyant ship,Not though by shadowy Arcady we drop the anchor at last,And in the dusk our weary sails come rattling down the mast.Into the dark steals off the bark: let us stay in our bridal June:Whither away should lovers stray from the Island of Honeymoon?"
"Whither away? Shall we sail or stay? Whither away," I said,
"Into the sunset's glory of gold and passion of rose-red?
Over the water changed to wine and into the sky we slip,
But never a fairer shore than this shall find our buoyant ship,
Not though by shadowy Arcady we drop the anchor at last,
And in the dusk our weary sails come rattling down the mast.
Into the dark steals off the bark: let us stay in our bridal June:
Whither away should lovers stray from the Island of Honeymoon?"
"O far away in the dying day, and farther away," she cried,"Ere the glory of gold has faded yet or the passion of rose-red died,O far away from the happier present visit the happy past,Though never shall our ghostly sails die down the shadowy mast:For we will flit by the twilight land and name the places fair,But set no foot on the shore," she cried, "nor drop the anchor there:But under the night with so swift a flight that the keel is singing in tune,Back, haste back on the starry track to the Island of Honeymoon!"
"O far away in the dying day, and farther away," she cried,
"Ere the glory of gold has faded yet or the passion of rose-red died,
O far away from the happier present visit the happy past,
Though never shall our ghostly sails die down the shadowy mast:
For we will flit by the twilight land and name the places fair,
But set no foot on the shore," she cried, "nor drop the anchor there:
But under the night with so swift a flight that the keel is singing in tune,
Back, haste back on the starry track to the Island of Honeymoon!"
Like many other energetic and successful men, Mr. Cutting had his enemies. When, as counsel for the East End Land and Traction Company, he discovered that the policy of a majority of the Board of Directors was to slowly but surely "freeze out" the smaller stockholders, he promptly resigned his position, and proceeded to form a coalition among the to-be-frozen. This coalition had for its object the overthrow of the existing management and the subsequent instituting of a new and generous policy.
Michael O'Connor.
Michael O'Connor.
After a hard, stubborn fight, Mr. Cutting and his followers won; the management was displaced, and Mr. Cutting again became counsel for the company. But he had added to his list of enemies some who, though few in number, were long of memory, relentless, and powerful.
Under the newrégimethe company prospered, and the patient stockholders received their dividends regularly, hitherto withheld or, rather, made to appear non-existing by means of the well-known device of undervaluing the company's lands in converse ratio to its increasing earnings.
The annual meeting was but two days off, and Mr. Cutting's sky seemed clear and tranquil; but overnight clouds had gathered black and ominous. The enemy, believing themselves once more superior in strength, or nearly enough so to venture upon the step, at the last moment sounded the note of war. That evening's paper contained insinuations, which were followed in the morning editions by large headlines and by direct though guarded accusations.
It was this morning, the morning of the very day before the annual meeting, that I was sitting in the office reading these same accusations. I was indignant and tired out.
All the night before I had been closeted with Mr. Cutting in his house, working out with him a defence for use in the battle to come, writing to this or telegraphing to that out-of-town holder of the stock; in one instance even cabling to London for a proxy allowing Mr. Cutting to vote a thousand shares held by a friend of his who was abroad. Together we had gone through the long list of stockholders, checking off those for and those against us, and embodying in a new list the names, not a few, of those either uncertain or unknown to us. This list comprised the names of almost all the smaller holders, owning from one to fifty shares. The only large holding was that of one Andrew J. Ahearn, against whose name appeared the goodly figure of five hundred shares. But, alas! he was among the unknown to us.
As I was leaving the house Mr. Cutting had said to me, mournfully: "I'm afraid they've got us this time. We need four thousand shares more, counting Emley's as safe; and the cable may not reach him in time, or he may be out of London. But, never mind," he added, clapping me warmly on the shoulder; "we will fight 'em till they knock us out, and go for 'em again next year. See you at the office."
As I walked slowly home to my lodgings through the long, level shadows of the early morning, the distinct rattling of incoming milk-carts and the twitter of countless sparrows pulsed through my tired brain in throb with the names of big and little stockholders. Thus, after a bath and breakfast, I had reached the office tired and indignant over the unjust and unwarranted attacks upon Mr. Cutting contained in the morning papers. Though counsel in name, he was in fact the managing head of the company's affairs.
As I sat at my desk, the newspapers lying about on the floor where I had thrown them in my anger, the door opened and old O'Connor entered.
Unlike his former appearances upon the scene of Mr. Cutting's domain, he did not wait to be spoken to, but crossed to me briskly, without hesitation or apology, merely removing his tall hat and sweepingly smoothing his thin white hair as he sat himself down firmly in a chair directly facing me. Something was on his mind, evidently.
"Phwat's dthis the papers do be sayin' about Mr. Cuttin', sor," he began, but, remembering himself, hastened to add, "Good-morning, sor. And how is Mr. Cutting this morning, sor?"
I told him that Mr. Cutting was well. Then I explained to him that the newspaper attacks were instigated by the old Board of Directors of the East End Company, who were trying to oust Mr. Cutting and his friends from the directorate. At receiving this piece of information he merely remarked, tersely, "The divils!" and after a pause added, in a whisper, "Shure, Mr. Cuttin' can down the whole av thim——" Then, with a note of anxiety in his voice, "Can't he, now, sor?"
I replied that it looked very doubtful, the time left us being so short and the other side having prepared themselves so secretly.
"And phwat's dthis," O'Connor went on, an angry look still more contracting his wizened face and concentrating all his features to a point at the tip of his short up-turned nose—"phwat's dthis they do be sayin'—Chimmie, me bar-tender, was afther readin' ut to me—phwat's dthis about Mr. Cuttin' mismanaging the money?"
"Not the money," I hastened to say; "the affairs of the company."
"Well—annyho-ow, 'tis a dommed lie," said O'Connor, thrusting out his square chin farther and farther with each word as it escaped from between the compressed wide lips, which at last opened in a far from pleasant grin, showing his still sound if ragged teeth, as he ejaculated, with fine distinctness, "The blay-gyards!" and then asked, with sudden eagerness, "Do there be anny wan av thim oi knaw, now?"
"No," I said, laughingly, "unless you happen to have met the former president, Mr. Walker;" thinking that that gentleman would in all probability be the least likely to be among the O'Connor's acquaintances.
"Phwat Walker is this?" he asked, all interest and expectation.
"The former president," I said.
"'Tis not Jarge Double-ye, it is, now, is ut?" He was leaning forward, looking eagerly into my eyes, his hands tightly clutching his knees.
"It is," I replied. "George W. Walker."
"An'do I know him!" he exclaimed, leaning back and throwing up both hands, as if exhausted with amazement. "An' it's the loikes av him is fightin' Mr. Cuttin', is ut?" I nodded. "Well, well, well!" he murmured, softly. "Phwatdo ye dthink av that! Whishper! Sit still, there, you."
He rose and tiptoed quickly to the door, opened it, and with an imperative backward jerk of the head summoned somebody from the hallway without. In a few moments a small elderly woman squeezed into the room. She was dressed in black and carried her hands clasped in front of her, seeming to hold in place the corners of a shawl that, folded over hershoulders, was crossed at her waist. Her bonnet was diminutive, but somehow uncompromising, almost defiant, in its plainness. From beneath it peeped a portion, but enough, of a smooth brown wig. By it I recognized her. She was the consort of the lineal descendant of the last king of Ireland; she was O'Connor's wife and Mollie's, now Mrs. Fennessey's, mother.
Ejaculated, with fine distinctness, "The blay-gyards!"—Page 222.
Ejaculated, with fine distinctness, "The blay-gyards!"—Page 222.
"Ah! Mrs. O'Connor!" I exclaimed, rising, "how do you do? I am glad to see you again."
She merely courtesied sharply and sniffed once. She was not nearly so gracious and so comfortably confiding as she had been in the state chamber of her own castle, where I last saw her. However, she remarked at length, pleasantly enough, that "it was a rale plisint mornin', the day," and seated herself in a chair near the door. For perhaps a minute O'Connor stood by her side and whispered to her. She seemed interested. I caught the sound of "Jarge Double-ye" from him, and a crisp and threatening "Ho, ho!" from her in reply. Then they crossed to my desk, O'Connor drawing a folded paper from his pocket as he came. His manner now was grave and business-like.
"Av you plaze, sor, Mrs. O'Connor and mesilf would thank you if you would be so kind as to lit us j'intly sign this paper forninst ye."
"Do you want me to witness the signatures? Is that it?" I asked, taking the paper and mechanically starting to unfold it.
"Yis, sor. But 'tis—excuse me, sor—'tis a private matther. Read it, sor, if—if——" He paused, much embarrassed. I hastened to assure him it was not necessary for me to read it, and, smoothing down the lowest fold of the document,handed O'Connor a well-filled pen. He, in turn, handed it to his wife, with the words, "Sign you, Bridget Ann, fur-rst, and I'll sign afther, meself."
"Where do I putt me name, Michael, dear?" she asked, now seated uneasily at my desk.
"Just undher the worruds 'Wid my consint,'" he answered, pointing with a short, knotty, curved index-finger to the words "So help me, God," which appeared on the right side of the sheet, just below the edge of the folded section that covered the remainder of the writing, except the words "With my consent," which were on the same line, but at the left. I corrected his mistake.
Slowly and awkwardly, but with great patience, Mrs. O'Connor's signature was constructed. If a decided upward slant indicates, as students of chirography assert, that the writer is of sanguine and ambitious temperament, the lady was surely a worthy spouse for an heir to the throne of Ireland. The signature ran up, up, up, until balked by the folded edge; but pressing against this obstacle, it ran its remaining course in protest against its confinement. Whether or not it spelled Bridget Ann O'Connor, it certainly spelled nothing else.
O'Connor, as usual, had left his spectacles at home. I signed his name and an ×, while he softly touched the tip of my pen-holder. He sighed with relief when it was over, and remarked: "Shure, cross or name, 'tis all the same. There's no differ. Thank you kindly, sor, and phwat do I owe you, now?"
As I waved away his question, Mr. Cutting came in from the company's offices, which adjoined our own.
Despite his anxieties, Mr. Cutting greeted O'Connor with his usual cheery, "Well, Michael, how are you?" and then seeing Mrs. O'Connor, crossed to her and shook hands; after which she resumed her seat, and sniffed once more—this time with more decision and with her nose in the air.Sheknew she knew Henry H. Cutting, Esq., whether the rest of the world knew she did or not.
"Well, Michael, what can I do for you to-day?" he asked, pleasantly. O'Connor was immediately all confusion. As he tried to answer, he fumbled with his tall hat (which he had hurriedly grasped from its resting-place on my desk at Mr. Cutting's entrance), he pulled with gentle uncertainty at the fringe of white beard that encircled his anxious face, while his eyes followed the line of the washboard as if searching there for encouragement.
"Anything wrong?" asked Mr. Cutting.
"No, sor; no, Mr. Cuttin'," O'Connor at last stammered. "Not wid me, nor yit wid anny belongin' to me. But, Mr. Cuttin', sor, I do be hearin' av—av—phwat the papers——" He paused.
I saw a look of pain and disappointment quickly cross Mr. Cutting's face, and I read his thoughts on the instant. His old servant and friend, doubtful of its security, had come to demand his money.
"Av phwat the papers do be sayin' about you," O'Connor at last gained courage to say, "and av phwat thim blaygyards do be havin' in moind to do to you, sor. So-o I wud—meanin' no presumshin, sor, and wid your kind permission—be afther givin' you this, sor. I dictayted it and me daughter, Mollie, that's now Mrs. Fennessey, wrote it down for me. Av you plaze, sor."
He handed Mr. Cutting the paper I had witnessed, and was gently rising and falling on his toes, holding his tall hat behind him in both hands, while he nervously moistened his lips and gazed at the wall.
Mr. Cutting read the paper quickly, then walked abruptly to the window and stood looking out. There was silence for several moments. O'Connor continued his gentle rising and falling. Mrs. O'Connor sighed softly, smoothed her gown by a touch or two, and again folded her hands. Then Mr. Cutting turned and resting his left hand, which still held the paper, on O'Connor's shoulder, with his right grasped the other's right and shook it warmly. There was the glitter of moisture in his eyes, but his fine face wore an expression of mingled affection and mirth.
"Michael," he said, his clear, musical voice firm and kind, "I thank you with all my heart for your generous offer of assistance. And you, too, Bridget." Mrs. O'Connor half rose, sat down again and sniffed. "But I cannot—it would not be right for me to accept it."
Then followed a wholly unwritablescene—O'Connor and his wife, by turns and at times together, protesting, insisting, assuring, even coaxing. In themêléeof warm-hearted Irish explosives, I could distinguish, "Shure, I've plinty money"—"More than plinty, he has"—"What wid me rum"—"Yis, an' your junk"—"And me rints"—"There's a good man, now" "No bodther at all, at all." But at last O'Connor caught a look in his former employer's eye that he knew. He saw that further argument or entreaty was useless. At a gesture from Mr. Cutting, he and his wife desisted.
Slowly and awkwardly, but with great patience, Mrs. O'Connor's signature was constructed.—Page 224.
Slowly and awkwardly, but with great patience, Mrs. O'Connor's signature was constructed.—Page 224.
"No, Michael," Mr. Cutting continued, quietly; "it is impossible. It is out of the question. Besides, I must tell you, and now seems a good time, that while my affairs are in no danger, they are, owing to this new development in the company's prospects, causing me a good deal of trouble and anxiety. I have, therefore, turned the property of yours I was holding into cash, and it is now in my bank. I want you to wait here while I send and draw it out. Then I am going to ask you to take care of it yourself—at least, for the present. I am happy to say the amount has increased considerably, and I know you won't be disappointed."
His tone was firm, and his determination manifest. O'Connor humbly acquiesced with his familiar "Phwativer you plaze, sor, Mr. Cutting, sor." Then Mr. Cutting said:
"But there is one thing you can do for me, Michael, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you will."
"I will, then," said O'Connor, brightening. "Phwat is ut?"
"Give me this paper," said Mr. Cutting, holding up the paper O'Connor had handed him.
"Shure I will, sor, if you want it. 'Tis no use to me now." His sadness had returned, and now held him completely.
Mr. Cutting then disappeared into the company's offices; but in passing my deskon the way he laid the paper before me, whispering as he did so, "Read that."
O'Connor and his wife were now conversing apart, in mournful numbers, so I read, unobserved, this:
"I, Michael O'Connor, being of sound and disposing mind, this day do hereby loan to Mr. Henry H. Cutting, Esq., for any use he please, all my money he has now in charge, him to repay whenever it suits his convenience, and if never at all, no matter at all.
"So help me God."Michael"his × mark"O'Connor.
"So help me God.
"Michael"his × mark"O'Connor.
"With my consent,"Bridget Ann O'Connor."
You may be sure it found a safe abiding-place among Mr. Cutting's most cherished possessions. He soon came back into the office, alert and eager, a new light in his eyes.
"Mike," he exclaimed, so suddenly that O'Connor dropped his hat, "perhaps youcanhelp me after all."
"Glory be to God!" exclaimed O'Connor, looking at him, though groping for his hat, which had rolled in a short semi-circle to his wife's feet and was now safely reposing in her lap. "How, sor?"
"Parker," said Mr. Cutting turning to me, "let me have that copy of the list of the uncertain and unknown. Ah!" as he took it and with a flirt opened it. "Michael, see if you can tell me anything of these people. Perhaps you may know the first one on the list—Andrew J. Ahearn, five hundred shares."
"Andy Ahearn!" replied O'Connor, in interested surprise. "Yis, sor, shure I know Andy Ahearn these t'irty years—more shame to me."
"Oh, ho! Thrue for you," came from Mrs. O'Connor's direction.
"What sort of man is he?" Mr. Cutting asked.
"Shure, he do go round pickin' up bur-rnt matches against the day there's no builder left who'll give him firewood; and him wort' his t'ousands upon t'ousands. And now I think av it, sor, I can tell ye how he kem by thim five hunder' shares." Here the old man became very deliberate and precise. "Now, d'ye moind, he is—no-o—he was father to Carneelus Ahearn, him that was in the Legislayter five year ago. 'Twas thin d'ye moind, your company—as it is no-ow—was petishinin' for a—phwat's this ut is—a franchise. Well, I dunno-o; but thin it was many av thim in the Legislayter got shares av stock. Some sez they bought thim, and odthers sez—but that's neidther here nor there, at all, at all, and av no consequince now. But 'twas this same Carneelus, d'ye moind, son to Andy, that was afther give a term av five years in jail, for—for—phwat's this they calls shtealin' whin it ain't shtealin', now?"
"Embezzlement," I suggested.
"That's ut," said O'Connor. "An' he died two years afther, wid t'ree year yet comin' to him. So, now, d'ye moind how ould Andy Ahearn kem by the five hunder' shares? He bought thim arf av his son, Carneelus."
"Do you think you could get him to give you a proxy?" Mr. Cutting asked.
"An' phwat's that, sor, av you plaze?"
"Shure, Michael, dear," came in cooing accents from the lady across the room, "a proxy is a godfather or a godmother whin they are unabil to be prisint."
I tried not to laugh, and Mr. Cutting turned his head to hide a smile; but O'Connor saw that something was wrong. Turning toward his wife, he said, impressively:
"Shure, Bridgit Ann, 'tis not ba-abies we're dishcussin', dear. 'Tis business, it is."
Mr. Cutting and I finally succeeded in giving him a fairly good idea of what a proxy was.
"Shure, 'tis a permit fer me to vote fer him as I plaze, thin?" he asked, at last.
Mr. Cutting said that that was near enough for all practical purposes, and went on reading from the list of names, selecting those of evident or probable Celtic origin. It was amazing how many the old couple knew, either personally or by hearsay. In many instances Mrs. O'Connor was with difficulty restrained from giving a complete family history of the person in question. As the reading progressed they became more and more excited and enthusiastic, until at last O'Connor broke out with:
"Nivver moind the rist, sor. Gimmethe list av the whole av thim, and a boonch av thim godfa—I mane, thim proxies."
"There's a good man, now—no bodther at all, at all."—Page 225.
"There's a good man, now—no bodther at all, at all."—Page 225.
"And moind you take Chimmie along wid you, Michael," said Mrs. O'Connor, grasping at once her husband's intention and eagerly espousing it. "Chim knows manny as well as you, and some betther. Thin, he is eddicayted, too, Michael, dear. And I'll get Tim to come over and tind bar, dear."
"Thrue for you, Bridgit Ann," said O'Connor, warmly. "'Tis Chimmie an' me will do the job this day."
I gave him a handful of printed blanks to use for the proxies, and Mr. Cutting handed him the list of names. He disposed of these summarily in the capacious pocket of his coat, caught his wife by the arm, and together they started to go.
At this moment a clerk entered and handed Mr. Cutting O'Connor's money.
"Wait, Michael," he called. "Here's your money; and here"—reaching for a paper in his desk—"is an account of how we stand. It is all there. Look it over at your leisure."
O'Connor hesitated, a last look of pleadingin his eyes; then took the money and account, thrust them deep into his trousers pocket, and hurried to the door. This he partly opened, and he and milady scurried funnily through the narrow space, like a pair of elderly black puppies. The door closed behind them.
Mr. Cutting leaned back in his chair, and laughed for a full minute. Then he asked me to bring him the signed dictation. I did so. He read it through once more, laughed again, and sighed:
"God bless him! Being of sound and disposing mind this day, I will take the will for the deed." He sat for a moment in thought; then holding the paper before him, he said, musingly: "Few, very, very few are those inthisworld so broadly eddicayted as to have dictayted this."
"There are few of the blood royal," I ventured to remark.
"And more's the pity," he said, as the lock of his lacquered dispatch-box clicked. For a time we were silent.
"It just occurs to me," I said at last, "that we forgot to have him sign a receipt."
"Receipt, man!" he exclaimed. "A receipt fromhim? Besides, we have Bridget Ann as a witness." And chuckling, he passed again into the company's offices.
Not until the very hour of the day of the meeting did we realize that we had entirely forgotten to instruct O'Connor to have such proxies as he might get made out in Mr. Cutting's name.
The morrow came, and with it the meeting. The stockholders were not present in large numbers, but enough were there to crowd uncomfortably the directors' room where the meeting was held. O'Connor had not put in an appearance, nor had we heard from him since his and his wife's hurried departure of the day before. Our side was not a very hopeful party. True, Emley had cabled his attorney to give Mr. Cutting a proxy, and it was now safe in Mr. Cutting's possession, with the others he had obtained. But we were sure of only twenty-two thousand out of a total of fifty thousand shares, and to our knowledge (now, alas! at the last moment) the other side had been working like beavers to obtain proxies. Still, there was a chance for us. It is as misleading to count your proxies before they are voted, as to count your chickens before they are hatched. Some of the enemy's might be revoked at any moment, or be superseded by others bearing later dates. At any rate, preparation was passed. The fight was on.
Mr. Cutting was seated at the side of the room, surrounded by a little group of his fellow-directors and friends. I was beside the president, the necessary books and papers at my hand, ready to perform my duties as secretary. It was a position I held through Mr. Cutting's kindness and influence. At last the president called the meeting to order.
The reading of the minutes of the previous meeting was dispensed with, for which I was grateful. Something in the air told me that the enemy were eager for action. As many formalities as could be were omitted or summarily disposed of. The instant the treasurer's report had been read and accepted, Mr. Walker, the ex-president, was on his feet.
Then followed a very able, if wholly misleading, attack upon the policy pursued by the board of directors during their term of office. Mr. Walker was a man of force and a good speaker; and his remarks had their effect upon not a few uncertain ones, if one could judge by the look of approval apparent on the faces of many who were present. But as he neared the end, either his personal enmity toward Mr. Cutting or the excitement due to the occasion, got the better of his judgment. He closed by a personal attack upon the counsel, whom he characterized as "the non-commissioned general who had cunningly devised this whole campaign of extravagance, wickedly designed to elate and bamboozle the smaller stockholders, who, when the inevitable result of such reckless expenditure should come—namely, a crash—would find themselves obliged to sell their little hard-earned holdings." "To whom," Mr. Walker ended, "it is hardly necessary for me to say."
From where I sat I commanded a view of the door that led directly into the corridor of the building. Just as Mr. Walker's spleen was beginning to take possession of him, I saw this door open and O'Connor enter. He was accompanied by a short, stocky, red-haired young Irishman, whom I recognized as his bartender, "Chimmie."
The old chap looked hot and excited,but not tired, and far from dejected. There was a new alertness about him, much like that you will see in an old and experienced bull-terrier, who has every reason to believe that the rat-trap is about to be opened. I watched him.
"A proxy is a godfather or a godmother whin they are unabil to be prisint."—Page 226.
"A proxy is a godfather or a godmother whin they are unabil to be prisint."—Page 226.
With head bent forward, and with one bunchy hand curled like a warped oyster-shell about his ear, he listened to every word. I saw him ask a man next him who was speaking. I could tell that this was his question by the effect the man's answer produced upon him. His eyebrows lowered and contracted, and from beneath them he glared at "Jarge Double-ye," while the far from pleasant grin appeared, grew, and hardened about his mouth. Meanwhile he was gradually edging his way forward, his faithful companion at his elbow, nearer and nearer to the speaker. In the general interest in Mr. Walker's remarks, few noticed the pair.
At last the descendant of the last King of Ireland was in a position squarely in front of the speaker, and separated from him by the width of the directors' long table, upon which now reposed the old tall hat so familiar to me and to Mr. Cutting.
The instant Mr. Walker was seated, after his speech, he of the royal blood seized his opportunity.
"Mr. Prisidint," he said, firmly and clearly, depositing his large red cambrichandkerchief in the hat beside him. The president bowed, saying:
"You have the floor, Mr. ——. Excuse me; you are a stockholder, I suppose?"
"I am, sor."
I was amazed.
"Your name, please."
"Michael O'Connor, twinty-wan —— Wharf, junk-dealer and licensed liquor-seller."
There was a slight stir of expectancy among those present. The president glanced at me, waiting for me to verify O'Connor's statement. I had run my finger down the O's in the list of names, well knowing, of course, O'Connor's was not there. I shook my head.
"Your name does not seem to appear on the list, Mr. O'Connor," said the president.
"Shure, I only bought me shtock this mornin', sor," replied O'Connor with a reassuring and comforting wave of the hand to the chief officer of the company. Chimmie, at his elbow still, handed him a paper from a bunch of many he held ready in his hand. O'Connor passed it up to the president, with the remark, "Here is me credintials, sor, av you plaze."
That gentleman merely glanced at it, then returned it to O'Connor, and said,
"A certificate of stock, I see. Did you expect to vote?"
"Dthat's phwat I kem here fer," said O'Connor, with a quick nod of the head, which showed that the royal blood was stirring.
Then the president explained to him that the transfer-books were closed, and that, by the by-laws of the company, nobody was allowed to vote at its meetings except such persons as were duly registered holders of its stock, or were holders of a proxy from somebody who was.
Enter O'Connor and Chimmie.—Page 228.
Enter O'Connor and Chimmie.—Page 228.
"Proxy, is ut!" exclaimed O'Connor. "Chimmie, me boy, give me the odtherwan." Jimmie handed him a second paper, which he in turn handed to the president.
The royal blood was now at boiling-point.—Page 232.
The royal blood was now at boiling-point.—Page 232.
"This seems to be perfectly regular, dated to-day, from Andrew J. Ahearn, for five hundred shares," the president said, and handed the proxy to me.
The stir of expectation had become a ripple of excitement. I observed that Mr. Walker moved uneasily.
"Yis, sor," said O'Connor, with a touch of ludicrousaplomb. "Andy Ahearn—shure, the ould divil wouldn't give me the wan widout I bought the odther. And now, thin, sor, I have the privilege to vote, is ut?"
The president bowed and looked about the room for some other person who might have business before the meeting.
"Thin I, Michael O'Connor," the old fellow continued, to everybody's surprise and amusement, "do hereby vote on these five hunder' shares"—here he held the certificate aloft in his right hand—"for Mr. Hinry Haitch Cutting, Esquire, so help me God, and——"
He was interrupted by a roar of laughter. Mr. Walker was now on his feet. When the laughter ceased, he said:
"Mr. President, are we to take this stockholder as a fair example of Mr. Cutting's faithful following?"
The question was greeted with silence. Mr. Walker had made a blunder, and he was instantly made to feel it. O'Connor spoke again, quietly and slowly, addressing the presiding officer, but looking angrily at the interrupter through half-closed eyelids, his nose held high. As he spoke he gently smoothed down his long upper lip at the corners with thumb and forefinger.
"Mr. Prisidint," he said, "I think—I dunno-o—but may-be-e—I have the floo-or?"
The president bowed, but added that it was not yet time to take a vote. Those who are familiar with the Irish well know how rarely you find one with absolutelynoknowledge of parliamentary procedure. It seems to be imbibed with the mother's milk. O'Connor was not in the least disconcerted. "Thin, sor," he continued, "wid your kind permission, I will make a few remarks."
"I shall be glad to hear them, Mr. O'Connor," the president said. A small wave of approval passed over the meeting. O'Connor placed his thumbs firmly in the armholes of his waistcoat, planted his feet well apart, and began. The royal blood was up.
"Mr. Prisidint and gintlemin," with a low, sweeping bow from left to right, "and Jarge Double-ye Walker." Here he cleared his throat to allow his sarcasm time to penetrate the understanding of his hearers. It did. "Whidther or not I am a fair example uvahlMr. Hinry Haitch Cutting Esquire's fait'ful follyers, I am unabil to say, they bein' so large in noomber, by God's justice.But, Mr. Prisidint and gintlemin, and Jarge Double-ye Walker, wid ahl modesty, I do claim to be a fair example av some thirty-foor av Mr. Hinry Haitch Cutting Esquire's fait'ful follyers, who owns bechune thim two t'ousand wan hunder' and sivin shares, countin' me own five hunder'. They are ivery wan av thim Oirish, includin' mesilf, and I have the proxies av ivery wan av thim, includin' me own. Put that in your poipe, Jarge Double-ye Walker." The royal blood was getting hot. A round of applause burst from Mr. Cutting's party, but it quickly subsided at the sharp rap of the president's gavel upon the table. This, however, had little effect upon O'Connor. The royal blood was now at boiling-point.
"Moreover, Jarge Double-ye Walker," he continued, too quickly for interruption, and emphasizing each clause with clenched fists, "they pays their taxes, they pays their bills. They has paid for their little hard-earned holdin's in this company, and—some av thim owns tinimint-houses, but not one wid bad plumbin' and defective drainage, Jarge Double-ye Walker."
Caution had been royally thrown to the winds. The president rapped hard and long upon his desk. The listeners moved uneasily in their seats.
"Mr. O'Connor," the president said, sharply, "you must confine your remarks to the business in hand and address them to the chair, or I must ask you to take your seat."
"I ax your pardon, Mr. Prisidint," said O'Connor. He was now his old self, and went on with homely courtesy, to say: "It is my wish, sor, to say just a few worruds more regyardin' me idee av phwatconshtitutes the fitness av a man for the job av managin' the affairs av odthers than himself—wid your kind permission, Mr. Prisidint, and I'll not be long, at all, at all." The president bowed. As the old Irishman continued, his voice grew soft and tender, at times sinking almost to a whisper.
"I am unabil, bein' mesilf uneddicayted and a plain man, to deshcribe to yez just phwat I'm wantin' to tell yez. But maybe you'll know from this. Twinty year ago come the tinth av this prisint month, I wint to worruk for a certin gintleman, to do chores about the place and phwat gyardenin' and potherin' round the grounds was nicissary. He had a purty place in the country—a rale pur-rty place, and there was a shweet little house there he putt me in—all for mesilf and me wife and me baby—a little gurrul she was, wan year old. I had been to worruk in the city, where I lived in a tinimint—noomber t'ree Gay's Alley, so called it was. Me wife was ailin', and the baby was takin' afther her modther at the time; so, shure, it was deloighted we was at the chanst to live in the country and wid our new place. A lovely home it was. Well, just tin days afther we kem, me wife was tuk wid fever—typhide fever it was—and two days afther little Mollie was tuk, too, just the same. Oh! wurra! wurra! but thim was heart-breakin' days! But niver moind, I'll not bodther you wid ahl av it. Wan night me wife was terrible bad, little Mollie bein' ashleep in the nixt room, and not near so bad as her modther, to my thinkin'. The docthor kem, and wid him the gintleman that emplyed me. Whin the docthor had looked at the two, he sez to me, 'The modther is very low,' he sez, 'but she will come t'rough all right; but the young un,' he sez, 'is in a viry criticil condition. She'll need conshtant attintion,' he sez, 'and I cannot be here mesilf,' he sez, 'to save her life!' Me heart died in me that minute.
"But quick, wid no hesitation, the gintleman sez to the docthor, callin' him by name, he bein' a frind av his, he sez, 'John,' he sez, 'I'll look afther the little one mesilf durin' the night,' he sez. 'I've done it before this, as you know,' he sez; 'and come again, you, in the mornin',' he sez."
Here the old man paused. There was perfect silence in the room. When he again spoke, it was in a hoarse whisper, but he could be distinctly heard.
"For t'ree whole nights—long, sad, weary nights—the gintleman niver lift the side av Mollie's bed, onliss whin he crep' in to putt his hand on me shoulder and say to me, 'Keep up, me man. We'll pull 'em both t'rough, all right'—and we did that same. Glory be to God and the Blessed Virgin! they're alive and well this day, the two av thim.
"Well, Mr. Prisidint and gintlemin, I am not eddicayted and I dunno-o—I may be wrong, but to my moind that gintleman is the kind av a man that hav fitness for the job av managin' the affairs av odthers beside himself. And that gintleman is Mr. Hinry Haitch Cutting, Esquire."
He paused and looked about him sheepishly; then turning so as to face Mr. Walker, he said:
"Mr. Jarge Double-ye Walker, I ax your pardon for shpeakin' so rough to ye, sor. 'Tis ahl past and gone now, sor, and I bear ye no ill-will." Then to the president he said, quietly, "Thank you kindly, Mr. Prisidint;" and taking his hat, moved back among those who were standing near the door.
Mr. Cutting now moved that we proceed to the election of officers for the ensuing year. The motion was carried.
When the ballots were counted, it was found that the existing officers had received the votes of twenty-seven thousand and some odd shares, thus having a clear majority. We could, of course, tell exactly how many votes were due to O'Connor's proxies; but how many more were due to his personal presence at the meeting, we could only estimate.
T
There were marks of teeth on his right boot, but no marks at all on his body. Fright—or fright following on that evening's frenzy—had killed him.
He was buried three days later, and Mr. Raymond read the service. No rain had fallen, and the blood of the three hounds still stained the gravel dividing the grave from the porch, where the crowd had shot them down.
For awhile his death made small difference to the family at the Parsonage. They had fought the shadow of his enmity and proved it for what it was; a shadow and little else. But they had scarcely realized their success, and wondered why the removal of the shadow did not affect them more.
About this time Taffy began to carry out a scheme which he and his father had often discussed, but hitherto had found no leisure for—the setting up of wooden crosses on the graves of the drowned sailormen. They had wished for slate: but good slate was expensive and hard to come by, and Taffy had no skill in stone-cutting. Since wood it must be, he resolved to put his best work into it. The names, etc., should be engraved, not painted merely. Some of the pew-fronts in the church had panels elaborately carved in flat and shallow relief—fine Jacobean designs, all of them. He took careful rubbings of the narrowest, made tracings, and set to work to copy them on the face of his crosses.
One afternoon, some three weeks after the Squire's funeral, he happened to return to the house for a tracing which he had forgotten, and found Honoria seated in the kitchen and talking with his father and mother. She was dressed in black, of course, and either this or the solemnity of her visit gave her quite a grown-up look. But to be sure, she was mistress of Tredinnis now, and a child no longer.
Taffy guessed the meaning of her visit at once. And no doubt this act of formal reconciliation between Tredinnis House and the Parsonage had cost her some nervousness. When he entered his parents stood up and seemed just as awkward as their visitor. "Another time, perhaps," he heard his father say. Honoria rose almost at once, and would not stay to drink tea, though Humility pressed her.
"I suppose," said Taffy next day, looking up from his Virgil, "I suppose Miss Honoria wants to make friends now, and help on the restoration?"
Mr. Raymond, who was on his knees fastening a loose hinge in a pew-door, took a screw from between his lips.
"Yes, she proposed that."
"It must be splendid for you, dad!"
"I don't quite see," answered Mr. Raymond, with his head well inside the pew.
Taffy stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and took a turn up and down the aisle.
"Why," said he, coming to a halt, "it means that you have won. It's victory, dad, andIcall it glorious!" His lip trembled. He wanted to put a hand on his father's shoulder, as any other comrade would. But his abominable shyness stood between.
"We won long ago, my boy." And Mr. Raymond wheeled round on his knees, pushed up his spectacles, and quoted the famous lines, very solemnly and slowly: