CHAPTER VI

A MATTER OF PERSONAL PROPERTY

In deference to the wishes of J.R.C. Tuckerman, I had formed a habit of breakfasting in summer on the little back porch that overlooks the river. Less radical departures from orthodox custom, it is true, have caused adverse comment in our watchful little town; but the spot was secluded from casual censors. And it was pleasant to sit there on a summer morning over an omelette and bacon, coffee such as no other Little Arcadian ever drank, and beaten biscuit beyond the skill of any in our vale save the stout, short-statured, elderly black man who served me with the grace of an Ambassador. Moreover, I was glad to please him, and please him it did to set the little table back against the wall of vines, to place my chair in the shaded corner, and to fetch the incomparable results of his cookery from the kitchen, couched and covered in snowy napkins against the morning breeze.

John Randolph Clement Tuckerman he was; Mr. Tuckerman to many simple souls of our town, and "Clem" to me, after our intimacy became such as to warrant this form of address. A little, tightly kinked, grizzled mustache gave a tone to his face. His hair, well retreated up his forehead, was of the same close-woven salt-and-pepper mixture. His eyes were wells of ink when the light fell into them,—sad, kind eyes, that gave his face a look of patient service long and toilsomely, but lovingly bestowed. It is a look telling of kindness that has endured and triumphed—a look of submission in which suffering has once burned, but has consumed itself. I have never seen it except in the eyes of certain old Negroes. The only colorable imitation is to be found in the eyes of my setter pup when he crouches at my feet and beseeches kindness after a punishment.

In bearing, as I have intimated, Clem was impressive. He was low-toned, easy of manner, with a flawless aplomb. As he served me those mornings in late summer, wearing a dress-coat of broadcloth, a choice relic of his splendid past, it was not difficult to see that he had been the associate of gentlemen.

As I ate of his cooking on a fair Sunday, I marvelled gratefully at the slender thread of chance that had drawn him to be my stay. Alone in that little house, with no one to make it a home for me, Clem was the barrier between me and the fare of the City Hotel. Apparently without suggestion from me he had taken me for his own to tend and watch over. And the marvel was assuredly not diminished by the circumstance that I was beholden to Potts for this black comfort.

Events were in train which were to intensify a thousand fold my amazement at the seeming inconsequence of really vital facts in this big life-plot of which we are the puppets—events so incredible that to dwell upon their relation to the minor accident of a mere Potts were to incur confusion and downright madness.

Apparently, fate had never made a wilder, more purposeless cast than when it brought Clem to Little Arcady with Potts.

True, the circumstance enabled Potts for a time to refer to his "body-servant," and to regale the chair-tilted loungers along the City Hotel front with a tale of picking the fellow up on a Southern battle-field, and of winning his dog-like devotion by subsequent valor upon other fields. "It was pathetic, and comical, too, gentlemen, to hear that nigger beg me on his bended knees to take better care of myself and not insist upon getting to the front of every charge. 'Stay back and let some of the others do a little fighting,' he would say, with tears rolling down his black cheeks. And I admit I was rash, but—"

Clem, not long after their arrival, confided to such of us as seemed worthy the less romantic tale that he had found the Colonel drunk on the streets of Cincinnati. He had gone there to seek a fortune for his "folks" and had found the Colonel instead; found him under circumstances which were typical of the Colonel's periods of relaxation.

"Yes, seh, anybody could 'a' had that man when Ah found him," averred Clem; "anybody could 'a' had him fo' th' askin'. A p'liceman offaseh neahly git him—yes, seh. But Ah seen him befo' that, an' Ah speaks his notice by sayin', 'This yeh ain' no good place to sleep, on this yeh hahd stone sidewalk. Yo' freeze yo'se'f, Mahstah,' an' of cose Ah appreciated th' infuhmities of a genaman, but Ah induced him to put on his coat an' his hat an' his boots, an' he sais, 'Ah am Cunnel Potts, an' Ah mus' have mah eight houahs sleep.' Ah sais to him, 'If yo' is a Cunnel, yo' is a genaman, an' Ah shall escoht yo' to yo' hotel.' Raght then a p'liceman offaseh come up, an' he sais, 'Yeh, yeh! what all this yeh row about?' an' Ah sais, 'Nothin' 'tall, Mahstah p'liceman offaseh, Ah's jes' takin' Mahstah Cunnel Potts to his hotel, seh, with yo' kindness,' an' he sais, 'Git him out a yeh an' go 'long with yo' then,' so Ah led th' Cunnel off, seh. An' eveh hotel he seen, he sais, 'Yes, tha' she is—tha's mah hotel,' but the Mahstahs in th' hotels they all talk ve'y shawtly eveh time. They sais, 'No—no—g'wan, tek him out a' yeh—he ain' b'long in this place, that man ain'.' So we walk an' walk an' ultimately he sais, 'If Ah'm go'n' a' git mah eight houahs sleep this naght, Ah mus' begin sometime,—why not now?' So th' Cunnel lay raght down on th' thu'faih an' Ah set mahse'f down beside him twell he wake up in th' mawnin', not knowin' what hahm maght come to him. An' he nevehdidhave no hotel in that town, seh,—no, seh. He been talkin' reglah foolishness all that theah time. An' he sais: 'Yo' stay by me, boy. Ah's go'n' a' go West to mek mah fo'chun.' Well, seh, Ah was lookin' fo' a place to mek some fo'chun mahse'f fo mah folks, an' that theah Cincinnati didn't seem jes' th' raght place to set about it, so Ah sais, 'Thank yo' ve'y much, Mahstah Cunnel,' an' Ah stays by him fo' a consid'ble length of time."

But, little by little, after their coming to our town the Colonel had alienated his companion by a lack of those qualities which Clem had been accustomed to observe in those to whom he gave himself. Potts was at length speaking of him as an ungrateful black hound, and wondering if the nation might not have been injudicious in liberating the slave.

Clem, for his part, cut the Colonel dead on Main Street one day and never afterwards betrayed to him any consciousness of his existence. It was said that their final disagreement hinged upon a matter of thirty odd dollars earned by Clem in a Cincinnati restaurant and confided later to the Colonel's too thorough keeping.

Be as it may, Clem had formed other and more profitable connections. From a doer of odd jobs of wood-sawing, house-cleaning, and stove-polishing he had risen to the dignity of a market gardener. A small house and a large garden a block away from my place were now rented by him. Also he caught fish, snared rabbits, gathered the wild fruits in their seasons, and was janitor of the Methodist church; all this in addition to looking after my own home. It was not surprising that he had money in the bank. He worked unceasingly. The earliest risers in Little Arcady found him already busied, and those abroad latest at night would see or hear him about the little unpainted house in the big garden.

I suspect he had come out into the strange world of the North with large, loose notions that the fortune he needed might be speedily amassed. Such tales had been told him in his Southland, where he had not learned to question or doubt. If so, his disappointment was not to be seen in his bearing. That look of patient endurance may have eaten a little deeper the lines about his inky eyes, but I am sure his purpose had never wavered, nor his faith that he would win at last.

As I ate my breakfast that morning he told me of his good year. The early produce of his garden had sold well. Soon there would be half an acre of potatoes to dig, and now there was a fine crop of melons just coming ripe. These he would begin to sell on the morrow.

At this point, breakfast being done, the cloth brushed, and a light brought for my pipe, Clem came from the kitchen with a new pine board, upon which he had painted a sign with shoe polish.

"Yes, seh, Mahstah Majah,—Ah beg yo' t' see if hit's raght!" and he held it up to me. It read:—

Mellins on SaleMush & WaterAsk Mr. Tuckermanat his House.

I gave the thing a critical survey under his grave regard, then applauded the workmanship and hoped him a prosperous season with the melons.

Then I beguiled him to talk of his land and his "folks," delighting in his low, soft speech, wherein the vowels languished and the r's fainted from sheer inertia.

"But, Clem, you are a free man now. Those people can't claim your services any longer."

I knew what he would say, but for the sake of hearing it once more, I had braved his quick look of commiseration for my shallowness of understanding.

"Yes, seh, Mahstah Majah, Ah knows 'bout that theah 'mancipation Procalmashum. But Ah was a ve'y diffunt matteh. Yo'-all see Ah was made oveh t' Miss Cahline pussenly by Ole Mahstah. Yes, seh, Ah been Miss Catiline's pussenal propity fo' a consid'able length of time, eveh sence she was Little Miss."

"But you are free, just the same, now."

He looked upon me with troubled, grave eyes.

"Well, seh, Mahstah Majah, Ah ain't eveh raghtly comp'ehended, but Ah've reckoned that theah wah business an' Procalmashum an' so fothe was fo' common niggehs an' fiel' han's an' sech what b'long to th' place. But Ah was diffunt. Ah ain't b'longed to th' place. Ah b'longed to Miss Cahline lak Ah endeaveh to explain. Ah was a house niggeh an' futhamoah an' notwithstandin' Ah was th' pussenal propity of Miss Cahline. Yes, seh, Ah b'long dreckly to huh—an' Ah bet them theah lawyehs at Wash'nt'n, seh, couldn't kentrive none a' they laws that woulda techedme, seh. No, seh—they cain't lay th' law to Miss Cahline's pussenalities. She ain't go'n' a' stan' no nonsense lahkthat, seh; she ain't go'n a' have no lawyeh mixin' up in huh private mattehs. Ah lahk t' see onetryit—yes, seh."

He gazed vacantly into the distance, then laughed aloud as he beheld the discomfiture of the "lawyeh" in this suppositious proceeding.

"And you even let your wife go?—that must have been hard."

"Well, seh, not tosaymah wife. Mah raght wife, she daid—an' then Ah mahied this yeh light-shaded gehl fum th' quahtahs, an' she's wild an' misled—yes, seh."

Again he was troubled, but I held him to it.

"You thought a good deal of her, didn't you, Clem?"

He studied a moment as he rearranged the roses in the bowl on the table, seeking a way to let me understand. Then he sighed hopelessly.

"Well, Mahstah Majah, Genevieve she cyahed a raght smaht fo' me, also, an' she mek it up fo' me t' come along t' town with huh. She sais Ah git a mewl an' a fahm an' thousan' dollehs money fum yo' Nawthen President an' we all live lahk th' quality. But, yo'-all see, th' ole Mahstah Cunnel say when he go off to th' wah, 'Clem, yo' black houn', ef Ah doan' eveh come back, these yeh ladies is lef in yo' pussenal chahge. Yo' unde'stan'that?Yo' go on an'dofo' 'em jes' lahk Ah was yeh.' An' young Mahstah Cap'n Bev'ly,—he's Little Miss's engaged-to-mahy genaman,—he sais, 'Clem, ef Ah doan' neveh come back, Ah pray an' entrus' yo'-all t' cyah fo' Miss Kate an' huh Maw jes lahk Ah was yeh on th' spot.' An Ah said, 'Yes, seh,' an' they ain't neithah one a' them eveh did come back. Mahstah Cunnel he daid by th' hand o' yo' Nawthen President at th' battle a' Seven Pines, an' Mahstah Cap'n Bev'ly Glentwo'th—yo' ole Mahstah Gen'al She'dan shoot him all t' pieces in his chest one day. So theah Ah is—Ahcain'tleave—an' Genevieve comes a' repohtin' huhse'f to mek mah rediments, 'cause we all free an' go'n' a' go t' Richmond t' live high an' maghty, an' Ah sais, 'Ah'm Miss Cahline's pussenal propity—Ah ain't no fiel' niggeh!' She sais, 'Is yo' a' comin' aw is youain'ta-comin'?' Ah sais, 'Ole Cunnel daid, young Cap'n daid—yo' go 'long an' min' yo' own mindin's—'"

He paused to look out over the waters with shining eyes. After a bit he said slowly, "Ah neveh thought Genevieve would go—but she did."

"Then what?"

"Well, seh, Ah stayed on th' place twell we moved oveh to Miss Cahline's secon' cousin, Mahstah Cunnel Peavey, but they wa'n't nothin' theah, so Ah sais t' Miss Cahline that Ah's goin' Nawth wheah all th' money is, an' Ah send fo' huh. So she sais, 'Ve'y good, Clem—yo' all Ah got lef t' mah name,' an' so Ah come off. Then afteh while Little Miss she git resty an' tehible fractious an' she go off t' Baltimoah t' teach in th' young ladies' educationals, an' Miss Cahline she still theah waitin' fo' me. Yes, seh, sh' ain't doin' nothin' but livin' on huh secon' cousin an' he ain' got nothin'—an' Ah lay Ah ain't go'n' a' havethatkind a' doin's. No, seh—a-livin' on Cunnel Looshe Peavey. Ah'm go'n' a' git huh yeh whah she kin be independent—"

Again he stopped to see visions.

"An' then, afteh a tehible shawt while, Ah git Little Miss fum the educationals an' theybothbe independent. Yes, seh, Ah'm gittin' th' money—reglah gole money—none a' this yeh Vaginyah papah-rags money. Ah ain't stahted good when Ah come, but Ah wagah ten hund'ed thousan' dollehs Ah finish up good!"

The last was a pointed reference to the Colonel.

"Have you seen Colonel Potts lately?" I asked. Clem sniffed.

"Yes, seh, on that tavehn cohnah, a-settin' on a cheer an' a-chestin' out his chest lahk a ole ma'ash frawg. 'Peahs like the man ain't got hawg sense, ack'in' that a-way."

A concluding sniff left it plain that Potts had been put beyond the pale of gentility by Clem.

A-CHESTIN' OUT HIS CHEST LAHK A OLE MA'ASH FRAWG.

"A-CHESTIN' OUT HIS CHEST LAHK A OLE MA'ASH FRAWG."

He left me then to do his work in the kitchen—left me back on a battle-field, lying hurt beside an officer from his land who tried weakly to stanch a wound in his side as he addressed me.

"A hot charge, sir—but we rallied—hear that yell from our men behind the woods. You can't beat us. We needn't be told that. Whatever God is, he's at least a gentleman, above practical jokes of that sort." He groaned as the blood oozed anew from his side, then pleaded with me to help him find the picture—to look under him and all about on the ground. Long I mused upon this, but at last my pipe was out, and I awoke from that troubled spot where God's little creatures had clashed in their puny rage—awoke to know that this was my day to wander in another world—the dream world of children, where everything is true that ought to be true.

"A WORLD OF FINE FABLING"

Solon Denney's home, in charge of Mrs. Delia Sullivan, late of Kerry, was four blocks up the shaded street from my own. Within one block of its gate as I approached it that morning, the Sabbath calm was riven by shouts that led me to the back of the house. In the yard next to Solon's, Tobin Crowder, of Crowder & Fancett, Lumber, Coal and Building Supplies, had left a magnificent green wagon-box flat upon the ground, a thing so fine that it was almost a game of itself. An imagination of even the second order could at once render it supremely fascinating. My two babes, collaborating with four small Sullivans, had by child magic, which is the only true magic, transformed this box into a splendid express train. The train now sped across country at such terrific speed that the small Sullivan at the throttle, an artist and a realist, crouched low, with eyes strained upon the track-head, with one hand tightly holding on his Sunday cap.

Another Sullivan was fireman, fiercely shovelling imaginary coal; still another at the side of the box grasped the handle of the brake as one ready to die at his post if need be. The last Sullivan paced the length of the wagon-box, being thrown from side to side with fine artistry by the train's jolting. He arrogantly demanded tickets from passengers supposedly both to relinquish these. And in his wake went the official most envied by all the others. With a horse's nose-bag upon his arm my namesake chanted in pleading tones above the din, "Peanuts—freshly buttered popcorn—Culver's celebrated double-X cough drops, cool and refreshing!"

But the tragic eminence of the game was occupied by my woman child. Perched in the middle of the high seat, her short legs impotently projecting into space, she was the only passenger on this train—and she, for whose sole behoof the ponderous machinery was operated, in whose exclusive service this crew of trained hirelings toiled—she sat aloft indignant, with tear-wet face, her soul revolted by the ignominy of it.

I knew the truth in a glance. There had been clamors for the positions of honor, and she, from weakness of sex, had been overborne. She, whose heart cried out for the distinction of train-boy, conductor, engineer, brakeman, or fireman, in the order named, had been forced into the only degrading post in the game—a mere passenger without voice or office in those delicate feats of administration. And she suffered—suffered with a pathetic loyalty, for she knew as well as they that some onehadto be the passenger.

I held an accusing eye upon my namesake and the train came to a sudden halt, much embarrassed, though the brakeman, with artistic relish, made a vast ado with his brake and pretended that "she" might start off again any minute.

My namesake poised himself on the foot that had no stone-bruise and began:—

"Now, Uncle Maje, Itoldher she could be engineer after we got to the next station—"

His tones were those of benevolence that has been ill-requited.

"Thatwas las' station," broke in the aggrieved passenger, "an' they wouldn't stop the train there 'cause they said it was a 'spress train and mustn't stop at such little stations—"

"I tried awful hard to stop her," said the crafty Sullivan at the throttle, "but she got away from me. She didso, now!"

"And I said, 'First to be engineer,'" resumed the passenger, bitterly, "an' they wouldn't let me, an' I said, 'Secon' to be engineer,' an' they never let me, an' I said, 'Las' to be engineer,' an' they never let me."

"She wants to beeverything" said my namesake, rendered a little sullen by this concise putting of her case.

"You come with me," I said to the passenger, "and we'll do something better than this—something fine!"

Her face brightened, for she knew that I never made idle promises as do so many grown-ups. She jumped from her seat, even though the first Sullivan tooted a throaty whistle and the second rattled his brake machinery in warning. I helped her over the side of the box, and as we walked away she shouted back to the bereaved express train a consolatory couplet:—

"First the worst, second the same,Last the best of all the game!"

That superb machinery of travel was silent, and the mechanics and officials, robbed of their passenger, eyed us with disfavor.

"They are terrapin-buzzards!" exclaimed my woman child, with deep conviction.

I shuddered fittingly at the violence of her speech.

Before we had gone far the train-boy deserted his post and came running after us.

"John B. Gough!" he exclaimed bitterly—profanely.

"He's swearing," warned his sister. "Look out, Uncle Maje, or he'll say 'Gamboge' next."

"I don't care," retorted the indignant follower; "you can't have a train without any passenger—it's silly. I don't care if I do say Gamboge. There! Gamboge it!"

I turned upon him. I had endured "terrapin-buzzards," hurled at the group by my woman child, perceiving need of relief for her pent-up passion. I had, moreover, for the same reason, permitted my namesake to roll under his tongue the formidable and satisfying expletive, "John B. Gough!" But I felt that the line must be drawn at Gamboge. Terrapin-buzzards was bad enough, though it was true that this might be used innocently, as in a moment of mild dismay, or as an exclamation of mere astonishment without sinister import. But Gamboge!—and ripped out brazenly as it had been?—No! A thousand times No!

"Calvin," I said sternly, "aren't you ashamed to use such language—before me—and before your little sister?"

But here the little sister sank beneath her true woman's level by saying:—

"I know worse than that—Dut!"

With a look of deadly coldness I sought to chill the pride that shone in her eyes as she achieved this new enormity.

"What is 'Dut'?" I asked severely.

"Dut is—isaDut," she answered, somewhat abashed by my want of enthusiasm.

"A Dut is a baddix—a regular baddix," volunteered her brother. Following a device familiar to philologists, he submitted concrete examples.

"Two of those Sullivans are Duts, and so's Mrs. Sullivan sometimes when she makes me split kindling and let the cat alone and—"

"That will do," I said; "that's enough of such talk. Come right into the house."

"It ain't a baddix to say 'O Crackers!'" he observed tentatively, as he followed us.

"It may not be for some people," I answered. "Nice people might say that once in a great while, on week-days, if they never said any other baddixes; but it's just as bad as any of them if you say all the others—especially that horrible one—"

"Gamboge," he reminded me, brightly.

"Never mind saying it again!"

Then came a new uproar from the wagon-box. We perceived that the train had moved off again, manned now entirely by Sullivans. They sought, I detected, to produce in our minds an impression that the thing was going better than ever. The toots of the Sullivan-throated whistle were louder and more frequent, and the voice of the largest could be plainly heard. He had combined the two offices of train-boy and conductor. We heard him alternately demanding "Tickets!" and urging "Peanuts, cakes, and candies!" If the intention had been to lure us back to witness a Sullivan triumph, it failed. We shut our lips tightly and moved around to the front porch.

The foiled Sullivans presently followed us here. They made a group at the base of a maple on the lawn and, affecting not to notice us, talked in a large, loud way so that we must overhear and be made envious,—even awe-struck; for they had all secured jobs on the real railroad, it appeared. They would have to begin to-morrow, probably. They didn't know for sure, but they thought it would be to-morrow. It would be fine, riding off on the big train. Probably they would never come back to this town, but sleep on their big engine every night; and every day, from the toothsome dainties of the train-boy Sullivan's basket, they would "eat all they could hold." The elder Sullivan, aged eight, he of the artistic temperament, here soared dizzily into the farthest ether of romance. He had his uniform at home, at that very moment, and a cap with "gold reading" on it—it read "Conductor" on one side, and "Candy" on the other. Only—this veritably smacked of genius—the blue coat with the gold buttons had been made too small for him, and he'd have to wait until they sent him a larger size—"a No. 12," he said, with a careless, unseeing glance at our group. This was a stroke that had nearly done for one of us—but a moment's resistance and another of sober reflection saved him. He flashed to me a look of scorn for the clumsy fabrication.

There was still a brakeman needed, it appeared,—agoodbrakeman. The Sullivans consulted importantly, wondering if "a good man" could by any chance be found "around here." They named and rejected several possible candidates—other boys that we knew. And they wondered again. No—probably every one around here was afraid to leave home, or wouldn't be strong enough.

I held my breath, perceiving at once, the villany on foot. They were trying to lure one of us into a trap. They wished one of us to leap forward with a glad, eager, artless shout—"I'llbe the other brakeman!" At once they would jeer coarsely, slapping one another's backs and affecting the utmost merriment that this one of us should have been equal to so monstrous a pretension. This would last a long time. They would take up other matters only for the sake of coming back to it with sudden explosions of contemptuous mirth.

Happily, the one of us most liable to this ignominy remained unbelieving to the bitter end; even did he pretend to a yawning sort of interest in a book carelessly picked up. The Sullivans had been foiled at every turn, and now we were relieved from the covert but not less pointed insult of their presence.

Mrs. Delia, her morning's work done, came out dressed for church, bidding me a briskly sad little "Good marnin',Major!" I responded pleasantly, for in a way I liked Mrs. Sullivan, who came each day from her bare little house under the hill to make a home for Solon and our children. At least she was kind to them and kept them plump. That she remained dismal under circumstances that seemed to me not to warrant it was a detail of minor consequence. Terry Sullivan had been no good husband to her. Beating her and the lesser Sullivans had been his serious aim when in liquor and his diversion when out. But he fell from a gracious scaffolding with a. bucket of azure paint one day and fractured his stout neck, a thing which in the general opinion of Little Arcady Heaven had meant to be consummated under more formal auspices.

But when they took Terry home and laid him on her bed, she had wailed absurdly for the lost lover in him. Through the night her cry had been, "Ah, Terry, Terry,—ye gev me manny a haird blow, darlin', but ye kep' th' hairdest til th' last!"

It was not possible to avoid being irritated a little by such a woman, but I always tried to conceal this from her. I suppose she had a right to her own play-world. She was dressed now in a limp black of many rusty ruffles that sagged close to her and glistened in spots through its rust. Both the dress and the spiritless silk bonnet that circled her keen little face seemed to have been cried over a long time—to be always damp with her tears.

With parting injunctions to my namesake to let the cat alone, not to "track up" the kitchen, and not to play with matches, the little woman lovingly cuffed the conspiring lesser Sullivans into a decorous line behind her and marched them off to church. There, I knew, she would give from her poor wage that the soul of dead Terry should be the sooner prayed out of a place, which, it would seem, might have been created with an eye single to his just needs.

Thinking of woman's love,—that, like the peace of God it passeth all understanding,—I officiated absently as one of two guests at a "tea-party." My fellow-guest was a large doll braced stiffly in its chair; a doll whose waxen face had been gouged by vandal nails. That was an old tragedy, though a sickening one at the time. The doll had been my Christmas offering to the woman child, and in the dusk of that joyous day my namesake had craved of its proud mother the boon of holding it a little while. Relinquished trustingly to him, he had sat with it by a cheerful fire—without evil intent, I do truly believe. Surely it was by chance that he found its waxen face softening under the stove's glow—and has Heaven affixed nails to any boy of seven that, in a dusky room at a quiet moment, would have behaved with more restraint? I trow not. One surprised dig and all was lost. Of that fair surface of rounded cheek, fattened chin, and noble brow not a square inch was left ungouged. It was indeed a face of evil suggestion that the unsuspecting mother took back.

That was the evening when the Crowders, living next door, had rushed over in the belief that my woman child was being murdered. The criminal had never been able to advance the shadow of a reason or excuse for his mad act. He seemed to be as honestly puzzled by it as the rest of us, though I rejoice to say that he was not left without reason to deplore it.

But the mother—the true mother—had thereafter loved the disfigured thing but the more. She promptly divested it of all its splendid garments, as a precaution against further vandalism, and the naked thing with its scarred face was ever an honored guest at our functions.

"You really must get some clothes for Irene," I said. "That's not quite the right thing, you know, having her sit there without any."

In much annoyance she rebuked me, whispering, for this thoughtless lapse from my rôle as guest. At our parties Irene was no longer Irene, but "Mrs. Judge Robinson," and justly sensitive about her faulty complexion and lack of clothes.

"Besides," came the whisper again, "I am going to make her some clothes—a lovely veil to go over her face."

Resuming her company voice, and with the aplomb of a perfect hostess who has rectified the gaucherie of an awkward guest, she pressed upon me another cup of the custard coffee, and tactfully inquired of the supposedly embarrassed Mrs. Judge Robinson if she did not think this wasverywarm weather for this time of year.

The proprieties being thus mended, our hostess raised her voice and bade Mrs. Sullivan, within doors, to hurry with the next course, which, I was charmed to learn, would be lemon soup and frosted cake. Mrs. Sullivan's response, though audible only to her mistress, who was compelled to cock an intent ear toward the kitchen, seemed to be in some manner shuffling or evasive.

"What'sthat?" she exclaimed sharply, listening again. Then, with dignity, "Well, if youdon'thurry, I'll have to come right in there and see to you this minute!"

The threat happily availed, and the feast went forward, a phantom and duly apologetic Mrs. Sullivan serving us with every delicacy which our imaginations afforded. When we had eaten to repletion, of and from the checkers which were our plates and food as well, Mrs. Judge Robinson suddenly became Irene, who had eaten too much and had to be scolded and put to bed. The lights were out, the revelry done.

"Going walking now?" asked my namesake. He did not know how to behave at tea-parties, and, sitting at a little distance from us, he had been aiming an imaginary gun at every fat robin that mined the lawn for sustenance.

"Ask your father if you may go," I said. I had heard Solon pacing his room—forever cogitating the imminent Potts. I did not enter the house oftener than I could help, for always in those rooms I felt a troubled presence, a homesick thing that pushed two frail white hands against an intangible but sufficing curtain that held it from those it sickened for. I could not long be easy there.

It was a day poised and serene, with white brush-dabs of cloud on a wonderful canvas of blue,—a day when I longed for the honeyed fragrance of the woods warming from the last night's rain.

But this was not to be my walk. Not for me the shaded arches of the wood where glad birds piped, nor the velvet hillsides tufted with green and yellow and brown, nor eke the quiet lane running between walls of foliage, where simple rabbits scampered, amazed, but not yet taught their fullest fear.

The butterflies we must chase hovered rather along urban ways. That of the woman child was social. Ahead of us she flounced. Strangely, she was herself Mrs. Judge Robinson now. I understood that she was decked in a gown of royal purple, whose sweeping velvet train gave her no little trouble. But she paid her calls. At each gate she stopped, and it seemed that persons met her there, for she began:—

"Why, how do youdo?Yes, it's lovely weather we're having. Are your children got the scarlet fever? That's too bad. So has mine. I'm afraid they'll die. Well, I must be going now.Goodday!"

Sometimes she ran back to say, "Now do come over some day and bring your work!"

The butterflies pursued by my namesake were various, and some of them were more secret.

For one he made me stand with him while he gazed long into the drug-store window. I divined at last that those giant chalices, one of green and one of ruby liquor, were the objects of his worship. He could not have told me this, but I knew that in his mind these were compounds of unparalleled richness, potent with Heaven knows what wondrous charms. It was not that he dreamed ever of securing any of the stuff; the spell endured only while they must stand there, remote, splendid, inaccessible.

Then we strolled down the quiet street to a road that went close to the railway. And there, with beating hearts, we beheld the two-twenty Eastern freight rattle superbly by us. From the cab of its inspiring locomotive one of fortune's favorites rang a priceless gold bell with an air of indifference which we believed in our hearts was assumed to impress us. And notwithstanding our suspicion, wewereimpressed, for did we not know that he could reach up his other hand and blow the splendid whistle if he happened to feel like it?

After the locomotive came the closed and mysterious box-cars, important with big numbers and initials in cabalistic sequence, indicating a wide and exciting range of travels. Then came stock cars, from between the slats of which strange and envied cattle looked out on their way to a wondrous city; and there was a car of squealing pigs, who seemed not to want to ride on a real train; and some cars of sheep that were stupidly indifferent about the whole thing. At the last was a palatial "caboose", and toward this, over the tops of the moving cars, a happy brakeman made his exciting progress, not having to hold on, or anything. He casually waved an arm at us, a salute that one of our number, in acknowledging, sought to imitate, for the cool, indifferent flourish of its arm, as if it were a common enough thing for us to be noticed by the mighty from their eminences.

This was my namesake's most beautiful of butterflies. Any one could understand that. As the train lost itself in smoke I knew well what he felt. I knew that that smoke of soft coal was so delicious, so wonderful of portent in his nostrils, that throughout his life it would bring up the wander-bidding in him—always a strange sweet passion ofstarting. Even now the journey-wonder was in his eyes. I knew that he saw himself jauntily stepping the perilous tops of cars, clad in a coat of padded shoulders bound with wide braid, a lantern on his arm, coal dust smudging the back of his neck, and two fingers felicitously gone from his left hand.

I coughed, to recall him from visions. He looked up at me, a little shyly, debating—but why should it not be told?

"Uncle Maje—when I grow up, I'm going off to be a brakeman."

"I know it," I said quietly.

"Won't it be just fine!"

"It's the very finest life in all the world. I hoped for it myself once, but I was disappointed."

He gave me a quick look of sympathy.

"Wouldn't they let you?"

"Well, they were afraid I'd be hurt—only I knew I wouldn't be—anything to speak of—a couple of fingers, perhaps—"

"Off the left hand," he suggested understandingly.

"Of course,—off the left hand."

"That brakeman on No. 3 has got two offhisleft hand," was the final comment.

We retraced our steps; but there was yet another butterfly of my namesake's. He led us to a by-path that followed the river bank up to the bridge, running far ahead of us. When we reached him he was seated, dumb with yearning, before a newly painted sign,

"GO TO BUDD'S FOR AN UP-TO-DATE 25 CT. DINNER."

He was obliged to limp that day, for his stone-bruise was coming on finely; but he had gone half a mile out of his way to worship at this wayside shrine. Again he was dreaming. In the days of his opulence he saw himself going to Budd's. Fortunately for his illusions the price was now prohibitive. I had been to Budd's myself.

"Have you ever been there?" I asked of the dreamer.

"I've been in his store, in the front part, where the candy is—and if you go 'round when he's freezing ice cream, he'll give you a whole ten-cent dish just for turning the freezer; but Pop won't let me stay out of school to do it, and Budd don't freeze Saturdays. But some day—" he paused. Then, with seemingly another idea:—

"He's got an awful funny sign up over the counter."

He would not tell me what the sign was, though, He shuffled and talked of other things. I entered Budd's on the morrow, purposely to read it, and I knew that my namesake had quailed before it. The sign was in white, frosted letters, on a blue ground, and it ran:—

TO TRUST IS TO BUSTTO BUST IS HELLNO TRUST, NO BUST, NO HELL.

Its syllogistic hardness was repellant, but I dare say it preserved a gorgeous butterfly from utter extinction.

Home again at early twilight, we ate of a cold supper set out for us by Mrs. Sullivan. And here I reflected that good days often end badly, for my namesake betrayed extreme dissatisfaction with the food.

"Why don't we have that pudding oftener—with lather on top of it?" was his first outbreak. And at last he felt obliged to declare bitterly, "We don't have a thing that's fit to eat!"

"Calvin," said his father, "if I have to whip, it will hurt you worse than it does me."

Whereupon the complainer was wisely silent, but later I heard him asserting, between catches of his breath, and out of his father's hearing:—

"I don't care—(a sniff)—when I'm rich, I'll go to Budd's for an up-to-date dinner, you bet—(a snuffle)—I'll probably go there every day of my life—(two snuffles)—yes, sir—Sundays and all!"

I cheered him as best I could.

His sister had saved her day to a happy end, babbling off to bed with the distressing Irene, to whom she would show a book of pictures until sleep shut off her little eyelid.

A wise old man—I believe he was a bishop—once said he knew "that outside the real world is a world of fine fabling."

I had stolen a day from that world. Now I hurried through the gloom of the hall, past the poor striving hands, to sit with Solon Denney and tell him of a peculiar thing I had observed during the afternoon's walk.

ADVENTURE OF BILLY DURGIN, SLEUTH

I spoke to Solon of Billy Durgin, whose peculiar, not to say mysterious, behavior I had been compelled to notice. I had first observed him that afternoon as we passed the City Hotel. Through the window of the little wash-room, where I saw that he was polishing a pair of shoes, he had winked at me from over his task, and then erected himself to make a puzzling gesture with one hand. Again, while we stood dream-bound before the window of the corner drug store, he had sent me a low whistle from across the street, following this with another puzzling arm wave; whereat he had started toward us. But instead of accosting me, as I had thought he meant to, he rushed by, with eyes rigidly ahead and his thin jaws grimly set. Throughout the stroll he haunted us, adhering to this strange line of conduct. I would turn a corner, to find Billy apparently waiting for me a block off. Then would follow a signal of no determinable import, after which he would walk swiftly past me as if unaware of my presence. Once I started to address him, but was met with "Not a word!" hissed at me in his best style from between clenched teeth.

I decided at last that Billy was playing a game of his own. For Billy Durgin, though sixteen years old, had happy access to our world of fine fabling; and to this I knew he resorted at those times when his duties as porter at the City Hotel palled upon his romantic spirit.

Billy, in short, was a detective, well soaked in the plenteous literature of his craft and living in the dream that criminals would one day shudder at the bare mention of his name.

Nor was he unprovided with a badge of office. Upon his immature chest, concealed by his waist-coat, was an eight-pointed star emblazoned with an open eye. Billy had once proudly confided to me that the star was "pure German Silver." A year before he had answered an advertisement which made known that a trusty man was wanted in every community "to act for us in a confidential capacity. Address for particulars, with stamp."

The particulars were that you sent the International Detective Association five dollars for a badge. After that you were their confidential agent, and if a "case" occurred in your territory, you were the man they turned to.

Billy's five hard-earned dollars had gone to the great city, and back had come his star. He wore it secretly at first, but was moved at length to display it to a few chosen friends; not wisely chosen, it would appear, for now there were mockers of Billy among the irreverent of the town. As he sat aloft on his boot-blacking throne, waiting for crime to be done among us, conning meantime one of those romances in which his heroes did rare deeds, he would be subjected to intrusion. Some coarse town humorist would leer upon him from the doorway—a leer of furtive, devilish cunning—and whisper hoarsely, "Hist! Are we alone?"

Struck thus below the belt of his dignity, our hero could only respond:—

"Aw, that's all right! You g'wan out a' here now an' quit your foolin'!"

But criminals seemed to have conspired against Little Arcady, to cheat it of its rightful distinction. In vain had Billy waited for a "case" to be sent him by the International Detective Agency. In vain had he sought to develop one by his own ferreting genius. Each week he searched the columns of the police paper in Harpin Gust's barber-shop, fixing in his mind the lineaments of criminals there advertised as wanted in various corners of our land. These were counterfeiters, murderers, embezzlers, horse-thieves, confidence men, what not—criminals to satisfy a sleuth of the most catholic tastes; but they were all wanted elsewhere—at Altoona, Pennsylvania, or Deming, New Mexico; at Portland, Maine, or Dodge City, Kansas. In truth, the country elsewhere swarmed with Billy's lawful prey, and only Little Arcady seemed good.

Billy also gloated over the portraits of well-known deputy sheriffs and other officers of the law printed in the same charming police paper. It seemed not too much to hope that his own likeness might one day grace that radiant page—himself in a long, fashionable overcoat, carelessly flung back to reveal the badge, with its never closing eye, and underneath, "William P. Durgin, the Dashing Young Detective, whose Coolness, Skill, and Daring have made his Name a Terror to Evil-Doers."

Famished for adventure, thirsting for danger, yearning for the perilous midnight encounter, avid of secrecy and disguises, Billy had been forced to toil prosaically, barrenly, unprofitably, about the sinless corridors of the City Hotel. All he had been able to do thus far was to regard every newcomer to the town with a steely eye of distrust; to watch each one furtively, to shadow him in his walks, and to believe during his sojourn that he might be "Red Mike, alias James K. Brown, wanted for safe-breaking at Muskegon, Michigan; reward, $1000," or some like desperado.

As such did he view them all—from the ornately garbed young man who came among us purveying windmills to the portly, broadclothed, gray-whiskered and forbiddingly respectable colporteur of the American Bible Society. Some day would his keen gray eye penetrate the cunning disguise; some day would he step quietly up to his man and say in low but deadly tones: "Come with me, now. Make no trouble or it will be the worse for you." Whereupon the guilty wretch would blanch and say in shaking voice: "My God, it's Billy Durgin, the famous detective! Don't shoot—I'll come!"

Billy had faith that this dramatic episode would occur in the very office of the City Hotel, and he believed that some of those who had joked him about his life passion would thereafter treat him in a very different manner.

Though I had long won these facts from Billy, I had never known him to play his game so openly before. But when I mentioned the thing to Solon, thinking to beguile him from his trouble, I found him more interested than I had thought he could be; for Solon knew Billy as well as I did,

"Did Billy follow you here?" he asked. "Perhaps he has a clew."

"A clew to what?"

"A clew to Potts. Billy volunteered to work up the Potts case, and I told him to go ahead."

"Was that fair, Solon, to pit a sleuth as relentless as Billy against poor Potts?"

"All's fair in love and war."

"Is it really war?"

"You ask Westley Keyts if he thinks it's love."

I think I noticed for the first time then that the Potts affair was etching lines into Solon's face.

"Of course it's war," he went on. "You know the fix I'm in. I had the plan to get Potts out. It was a good plan, too. The more I think of it the better I like it. With any man in the world but Potts that plan would have been a stroke of genius. But I don't mind telling you that this thing has robbed me of sleep for three months. Potts has got me talking to myself. I wake up talking of him, out of the little sleep I do get. I'll tell you the fact—if Potts is here six weeks longer, and let to finish this canvas, my influence in Slocum County is gone. I might as well give up and move on to another town myself, where my dreadful secret is unknown."

"Nonsense! But what can Billy Durgin do?"

"Well, I'm desperate, that's all. And one night Billy had me meet him up by the cemetery—he came disguised in long black whiskers—and he told me that Potts was James Carruthers, better known to the police of two continents as 'Smooth Jim,' wanted for robbing the post-office at Lima, Ohio. Of course that's nonsense. Potts hasn't the wit to rob a post-office. But I didn't have the heart to tell Billy so. I told him, instead, that this was the chance of his life; to fasten to Potts like an enraged leech, and draw out every secret of his dark past. You can't tell—Billy might find something to pry him into the next county with, anyway."

"He certainly looked charged with information this afternoon. He was fizzing like an impatient soda fountain. But why did he follow me?"

"Well, that might be Billy's roundabout way of getting to me. The other time he shadowed Marvin Chislett to get a message to me. If you're a detective, you can't do things the usual way, or all may be lost."

At that instant a low whistle sounded in our ears, a small missile was thrown over the evergreen hedge, bounding almost to our feet, and a slight but muscular figure was seen retreating swiftly into the dusk.

Solon sprang for the mysterious object. It was a stone, about which was wrapped a sheet of paper. This he took off and smoothed out. By the fading light we made out to read: "Meet me at graveyard steps at midnight. You know who."

We looked at each other. "Why didn't he come in here?" I asked.

"That wouldn't have been detective-like."

"But the graveyard at midnight!"

"Well, perhaps he won't hold out for midnight—Billy is merely poetic at times—and maybe if we hurry along, we can catch up with him and have it out by the marble works there instead of going clear on to the cemetery. Perhaps that will be near enough in the right spirit for Billy."

Quickly we made ready for the desperate assignation, pulling our hats well down, in a way that we thought Billy would approve.

Four blocks along the street, by rapid walking, we came within hail of the intrepid young detective. We were also opposite the marble yard of Cornelius Lawson, who wrought monuments for the dead of Little Arcady. In front of the shop were a dozen finished and half-finished stones, ghostly white in the dusk. It seemed indeed to be a spot impressive enough to meet even Billy's captious requirements, but we had underrated the demands of his artist's conscience. Solon called to him.

"Won't this do, Billy?"

Billy stopped dramatically, turned back upon us, and then exploded:—

"Fools! Would you ruin all? You must not be seen addressing me. Now I must disguise myself."

Turning stealthily from us, he swiftly adjusted a beard that swept its sable flow down his youthful chest. Then he addressed us again, still in tense, hoarse accents.

"Are you armed?"

"To the teeth!" answered Solon, with deadly grimness, and with a presence of mind which I envied.

"Then follow me, but at a distance!"

Meekly we obeyed. While our hero stalked ahead, stroking his luxuriant whiskers ever and anon, we pursued him at an interval so great that not the most alert citizen of Little Arcady could have suspected this sinister undercurrent to his simple life.

It is a long walk to the cemetery, but we reached it to find Billy seated on the steps that lead over the fence, still shielded by his hairy envelope.

"A tough case!" he whispered as we sat by him. "Our man has his spies out, and my every step is dogged both night and day."

"Indeed?" we asked.

"You know that slim little duck that got in last night, purtendin' he's a shoe-drummer? Well, he's a detective hired by Potts to shadow me. You know that big fat one, lettin' on he's agent for the Nonesuch Duplex Washin' Machine? He's another. You know that slick-lookin' cuss—like a minister—been here all week, makin' out he was canvassin' for 'The Scenic Wonders of Our Land' at a dollar a part, thirty-six parts and a portfoly to pack 'em away in? Well, he's an—"

"Hold on, Billy, let's get down to business," reminded Solon.

"But I've throwed 'em all off for the nonce," continued Billy, looking closely, I thought, to see if we were rightly affected by "nonce."

"Yes, sir, it's been the toughest darned case in my whole experience as an inside man."

He waited for this to move us.

"What have you found out?" asked Solon; "and say, can't you take off those whiskers, now that we are alone and unobserved? You know they kind of scramble your voice."

With cautious looks all about him, Billy bared his tender young face to the night. A weak wind fretted in the cedars back of us, and an owl hooted. It was not an occasion that he would permit to glide by him too swiftly.

"Well, first I had to git my skeleton keys made."

"I thought you said his door was never locked," interrupted Solon.

"That might be only a ruse," suggested our hero. "Well, I got my keys made, and then I begun to search his room. That's always a delicate job. You got to know just how. First I looked under the aidges of the carpet, clear around. Nothing rewarded my masterly search. Then I examines the bed and mattress inch by inch, with the same discouragin' results." Billy had now drifted fairly into the exciting manner of his favorite authors.

"Baffled, but not beaten, I nex' turns my attention to the pictures, examinin' with a trained eye the backs of same, where might be cunningly concealed the old will—uh—I mean the incriminatin' dockaments that would bring the craven wretch to bay and land him safely behind the bars of jestice. But it seemed like I had the cunning of a fiend to contend with. No objeks of interest was revealed to my swift but thorough examination. Thence I directed my attentions to the wall-paper, well knowin' the desperate tricks to which the higher class of criminal will ofttimes resort to. Once I thought the game was up and all was lost. That new Swede chambermaid walks right in an' ketches me at my delicate tasks.

"Always retainin' my calm presence of mind and coolness in emergencies, quick to think an' as ready to act, with an undaunted bravery I sprang at the girl's throat and hissed, 'How much will it take to silence your accursed tongue?' She draws her slight girlish figure up to its full height—'Ten thousand dollars!' she hissed back at me. 'Ten thousand devils!' I cried, hoarse with rage—"

Too palpably our hero had been overwhelmed by his passion for fictitious prose narrative.

"Hold on, Billy!—back up," broke in Solon. "This is business, you know—this isn't an Old Cap' Collyer tale."

"Well, anyway," resumed Billy, a little abashed, "I silenced the girl. I threatened to have her transported for life if she breathed a word. Mebbe she didn't suspect anything after all. Tilly ain't so very bright. So at length I continues my researches into every nook and cranny of the den, and jest as I was about to abandon the trail, baffled and beaten at every turn, what should I git but an idee to look at some papers lyin' in plain sight on the table at the head of the bed."

"Well, out with it!" I thought Solon was growing a little impatient. But Billy controlled the situation with a firm hand.

"It's an old trick," he continued, "one that's fooled many a better man than Billy Durgin—leavin' the dockaments carelessly exposed like they didn't amount to anything; but havin' the well-known tenacity of a bloodhound, I was not to be thwarted. Well—to make a long story short—"

Solon brightened wonderfully.

"I have to admit that my first suspicion was incorrect. He ain't the one that done that Lima, Ohio, job and carried off them eight hundred dollars' worth of stamps—"

"But whatdidhe do?"

"Well, I got a clew to another past of his—"

"What is it? Let's have it!"

Billy was still not to be driven faster than a detective story should move.

We heard, and dimly saw, him engaged with a metallic object which he drew from under his coat. We were silent. Then we heard him say:—

"My lamp's went out—darnthese matches!"

At last he seemed to light something. He unfolded a bit of paper before us and triumphantly across its surface he directed the rays of a bull's-eye lantern. This was his climax. We studied the paper.

"Billy," said Solon, after a pause, "this looks like a good night's work. True, it may come to naught. We may still be baffled, foiled, thwarted at every turn—and yet something tells me that the man is in our power—that by this precious paper we may yet bring the scoundrel to his knees in prayers for our mercy, craven with fear at our knowledge."

"Say," said Billy, stung to admiration by this flow of the right sort of talk, "Mr. Denney, did you ever read 'Little Rosebud, or is Beauty a Curse to a Poor Girl?' That sounded just like the detective in that—you remember—where he's talkin' to Clarence Armytage just after he's overheard the old lawyer tell Mark Vinton, the villain, 'If this child lives, you are a beggar!' Remember that?"

"Why, no, Billy. I must get that, first thing in the morning. My tribute to your professional skill was wholly spontaneous, though perhaps a shade influenced by having listened to your own graphic style. But come, men! Let us separate and be off, ere we are discovered. And mind, not a word of this. One false step might ruin all! So have a care."

It must have been one of the few perfect moments in the life of Billy.

"You may rely upon William Durgin to the bitter end," said he, with a quiet dignity. "But there is work yet ahead for me to-night.

"I got to regain my hotel unobserved. My life is not safe a moment with my every step dogged by the hired assassins of that infamous scoundrel."

"If death or disaster come to you, Billy, you shall not be unavenged. We swear it here on this spot.Swear, Cal!"

"Say," Billy called back to us, after adjusting his beard, "if anything comes of this,—rewards or anything,—first thing I'm goin' a' do—git me a good forty-four Colts. You can't stop a man with this here little twenty-two, an' it's only a one-shot at that. I'd be in anicehole sometime, wouldn't I, with my back up against a wall an' six or seven of 'em comin' for me an' nothin' butthisin my jeans?"

"Point that the other way, Billy—we'll see about a bigger one later. We can't do anything to-night. And sell your life as dearly as possible if you have to sell it."

I fell asleep that night on a conviction that our taste for barren reality is our chief error. If we could only believe forever, what a good world it could be—"a world of fine fabling," indeed! Also I wondered what J. Rodney Potts might have to apprehend from the leaven of fact in the fabling of Billy Durgin.

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