Just Samuel Jones
Samuel Jones was an energetic as well as a very careful young man. He had inherited a small sum of money from his father. It was his purpose to use so much of this as was necessary in completing his education; the remainder was to be carefully invested as a nest egg for the reserve he intended to create which he spoke and thought of as The Dam. The idea back of this name was that if the Dam were big enough and were full it would keep the mill going for some time should the springs run dry.
Sam was careful in other ways also. He laid careful plans each morning so that no time need be wasted. If the day was cool he put on a heavy suit; if cloudy he wore rubbers and carried an umbrella. If the temperature rose suddenly after such a beginning and the sun shone brightly, he had at least done his part and this consoled him for the suffering he must endure. This disposition subjected Sam to the ridicule of his unmarried sister, Tilly, who acted as his housekeeper. Tilly was of a very different build. No one ventured to call Tilly careful—she was conspicuously careless. She had a pretty foot and loved to buy new shoes, but she often dressed in a hurry, and her shoes, having been discarded in a hurry, were not readily matched. In consequence,she sometimes appeared at breakfast with a shoe upon the right foot and a slipper on the left. This impropriety filled Sam with anguish. Perhaps this difference in disposition was one of the reasons for their affection, for they were very fond of each other and they led a very happy life.
Sam had a poor opinion of college men. Part of this low rating was no doubt prejudice and part was due to the fact that he was not a college man himself. He saw very clearly, however, that many college men acquire only a fine polish. The process fails to get enough paint on the rough wood of the foundation to hide the coarse grain which shows through in all its crudity. He had also taken note of his own rather brusque manner, and laid it, correctly, to the lack of those opportunities which come to the college man unsought. Anxious to repair this defect he became precise and a trifle stilted. This Tilly was not slow to notice and criticize. Tilly loved college boys and their ways. She listened with attention to their songs and was up on all their pranks. Their escapades amused her and she forgave their faults. She knew them well for they lived in a college town.
Back of all Sam’s spur to action was a love of chemistry. He became enamoured of it in High School where Steele’s Fourteen Weeks was the text-book. Beginning by pouring vinegar on baking soda in his mother’skitchen, he had managed to study carefully a good many chemical substances so that his knowledge was much broader and deeper than that obtained by most college students. As the lumberman notices all the straight trees large enough for sawing so Sam tagged all objects with formulae. Water was H2O; vinegar C2H4O2; Cream of tartar (CHOH COOH, CHOH COOK); and sugar C12H22O11. After the death of their mother Sam had fitted up a laboratory in the attic and hung out the shingle of an analytical chemist. The income obtained in this way being too small he conceived the idea of adding to it by the concoction of various specialties, and Jones’ Talcum Powder, Jones’ Velvet Cream and Jones’ Tooth Paste made their appearance on the shelves of neighboring druggists and were spoken of in terms of praise by those who had used them. These had been supplemented by various perfumes which found favor with the weaker sex and became the foundations of a business which was steadily increasing. Into this scene of happiness and peaceful prosperity Fate dropped several bombs.
Sam and Tilly loved the movies. They formed a background of romance to their prosaic lives. They read, eagerly, all they could find in print about the stars ofmoviedom and were well acquainted with the features of the prominent actors. Twice a week they attended, rain or shine. As this involved long walks in bad weather they had, with the dawn of prosperity, invested in a Ford.
It was a windy night in October. There was a threat of rain in the air as the sullen clouds drifted past over the moon. As they returned to the car, which had been left in a side street, a tiny muffled wail greeted them: “Gracious! it’s a cat,” said Tilly. “Good Lord! it’s a baby!” It was wrapped in an old, frayed, woolen blanket. They took it home—what else could they do?—and Tilly unwrapped it in her warm room. It was clean and warm and dry, and its clothing, though of the plainest material and somewhat worn, was also clean. Tilly declared it was a darling. She sent Sam for a bottle and some of the best milk, fed the child and covered her warmly in a large arm chair which was pushed against the bed so that she might hear the little one move in the night. Tilly declared the little girl had aristocratic features. She fell violently in love with her and declared she would not give her up. Sam smiled and agreed. He seldom opposed Tilly, though he felt somewhat doubtful of the propriety of keeping the baby. The little one grew apace. She soon became the central sun of the household about which Sam and Tilly revolved—two obedient satellites.
The household duties soon became too great for Tilly, and Elizabeth Tillicum was sent for. Elizabeth was a New Jersey product, redolent of the hills that border the Delaware. Her hair was sandy—the color of New Jersey sand. Her eyes were blue—the color of the blue water of the Atlantic which rolls over the New Jersey sand beaches, though this water is often green; and her freckles were—just plain brown freckles. I am not saying Elizabeth was beautiful—she was not. She agreed with everyone; she was quite unable to contradict; indeed her acquiescence was almost slavish. In size she was opulent. It seemed doubtful when she sat down whether some portion of her anatomy might not spill over on the floor but this never actually happened. With all her disposition to conciliate she persisted in moving slowly, and all the alleged work that she performed was performed at a uniform slow speed. Some critics averred that she did not work—she lolloped. They said that when she did do work it was so poorly done that it must first be undone and then done over again. However this may be, Elizabeth steadfastly, slowly and pleasantly pushed her way through the world. But she was not a bomb, she was not even a torpedo.
Very few people can be reformed by preaching at them, object lessons are more effective. Her own carelessness was well known to Tilly and made her secretly admireSam’s precision and half despise Elizabeth’s sloppy work. The coming of the baby brought a change. Tilly read up on the care of babies in a volume entitled “The Feeding and Care of Children.” This learned work explained the overwhelming importance of cleanliness. It detailed the various minute bugs which lurk in the air, water and soil ready to seize and carry off the unsuspecting child. From a heedless maiden, Tilly was rapidly transformed into the veriest martinet, watching for the least speck of impurity to pounce upon and destroy it. Everything the baby ate was sterilized, and the bottles, spoons and plates scalded assiduously. Toward this campaign of cleanliness the baby herself manifested a cynical indifference. She threw the bottle on the floor. She drew her spoon through her hair, and after crawling through all the dirt attainable, rubbed her grimy hands over her half-cleared plate and then thrust the chubby paws down her throat. Such behaviour wasanathema maranathaand filled Tilly with despair.
Sam was at first far from being charmed by the dirt and disorder which the child insisted upon, but she soon vanquished him. Her velvet skin, lovely color and wide open smile would have melted a stone, and Sam soon became her slave. In return she manifested an ardent preference for his society; crowed when he came home, howled when he left, insisted on sitting in his lap, thrusther fingers into his eyes, nose and ears, pulled his hair and showed not the slightest regard for his privacy or the ordinary courtesies of life. Sam was reformed in spite of himself. For the sake of peace he put up with rumpled hair, moist and slimy kisses and greasy fingerprints on his coat. Such is the mollifying discipline babies hand around in humanizing their elders.
The naming of the baby had been a dreadful ordeal, and nearly ended in a rupture between Sam and Tilly.
“We do not know her name,” said Sam, “so we had better give her one which is merely descriptive; then when her real name is divulged there will be less temptation to ignore it. I propose to call her Monday October Jones until we discover her real name. This is descriptive of the day of the week and the month she came to us.”
“She shall have no such barbarous name,” said Tilly. “You may as well call her Man Friday at once. I will not have any such name. She is going to have a pretty name. Monday October Jones: the idea! I shall call her Arma:
Arma virumque canoTrojae qui primus ab oris
Arma virumque canoTrojae qui primus ab oris
Arma virumque canoTrojae qui primus ab oris
Arma virumque cano
Trojae qui primus ab oris
Don’t you remember that pretty verse Jimmy Case sings?”
Tilly’s words had an air of finality. She had been a bit uncertain herself until Sam put in an oar. There was another rhyme which sang through her consciousness making her undecided. It was:
Gaudeamus igiturJuvenes dum sumus
Gaudeamus igiturJuvenes dum sumus
Gaudeamus igiturJuvenes dum sumus
Gaudeamus igitur
Juvenes dum sumus
that she had heard the college boys sing. But on the whole she inclined toward Arma, for Gaudeamus did not sound like a female. So the baby was named Arma Virumque Jones.
Arma was a romantic little soul. She thirsted for the unusual and wonderful. As she grew to girlhood she invested those dear to her with imaginary virtues. Tilly was a lovely and stately lady and Sam the personification of all that was noble and good. She was a beautiful girl, with curly brown hair and a clean mind. With her twelfth birthday began her affairs of the heart. Her first flame was a beautiful Italian boy who dwelt in an old house in the alley. This flame was quenched when she encountered him after he had consumed a larger ration of garlic than was usual. The next conflagration was started by the grocer’s boy, but this was quenched when she overheard him swear. This was followed by a passion for a young and rather dull divine who never dreamed of his conquest, so that it died of inanition.
Bomb the Second
The three were sitting in the living room one evening in June. Sam and Tilly were reading and Arma was getting out her lessons, when a resounding knock on the door was heard, and a great big, strong, jolly man burst in, shook hands with Sam and noisily proclaimed how glad he was to see “this darn old fraud” once more.
Sam’s face lighted with pleasure as he welcomed him and introduced him as “Billy Gesundheit, my old friend and comrade in Pittsburgh.”
“My word, what a name!” thought Tilly, “But what a fine looking man. He seems too good to be true.” This was during her trip upstairs to inspect the guest room where he was to spend the night.
Sam had lived two years in the smokehouse city as chemist to a young struggling steel plant. Before he left this puny infant industry had begun putting on the seven league boots of manhood. At this time Gesundheit was a hearty young workman to whom Sam took a fancy. This was vigorously reciprocated; Sam was carried off to Billy’s home and introduced to his widowed mother who was a wonderful housekeeper. She became interested in Sam at once—for was he not a friend of her Billy?—sewed on his buttons, darned his socks, and wound up by taking complete possession. Sam soonmoved into their spare room and, as the homely phrase has it, “she ate him and slept him.”
Billy informed them that he had risen in rank considerably since Sam’s departure and was now acting as manager of the works. He had come to New York on business and must soon leave for home; he expected to make frequent visits, however, and here he looked at Tilly, and he would not fail to visit them as often as possible. He also informed them that to-morrow was a holiday for them; he was to take entire charge, manage all details and pay all expenses; all they need do was to enjoy themselves as much as possible.
After breakfast next morning Billy produced a map of the city for each member of the party. “A taxicab is coming at eight,” he began, “to take us to the place where our excursion starts. I’m going to walk part of the way; the rest of you may do so or ride, just as you please.”
“Where are we going?” said Tilly.
“We are going to circumnavigate the city,” said Billy. “I doubt whether you know your own town. Most people do not. If we first go around it, and then go through all the streets and alleys you will know it on the outside at least. After we get through we will quiz one another on the names of the streets and alleys and their location. It is good fun and has a use beside.”
For about a mile the city line ran along the middle of a highway. It was not a well paved highway. There were stones, tin cans and piles of rubbish to be dodged. Then the line led through an orchard. Here Billy got out, inviting the others to go with him, but only Tilly accepted the invitation. The others followed the road, agreeing to wait for the pedestrians at a point further along, while the foot passengers gracefully climbed the fence. They had not gone more than a few hundred feet among the trees, which were old and decayed, before they caught sight of a house ahead. Sitting on the back porch in a hickory rocking chair was an ancient lady, clad in calico, rocking gently to and fro while knitting a pair of socks. As the travelers drew near, she looked up and said:
“I’m knitting these socks for my son. He don’t like wool next his skin, so I use cotton, but I have an awful time getting the right kind of thread. If the thread is too coarse, he says they look like gunny bags and if it is too fine the socks are not warm enough. He is very pertickler, my son is. Maybe you know him; his name is Winterbottom; first name Jeremiah, after his father. He’s well known in Wilmington. Don’t you know him?”
“No,” said Billy, sitting down on the edge of the porch and making room for Tilly beside him, “I don’t know him but I hear he is a very fine man. I hope you will tell us more about him. What is his business?”
“Making flat irons. What’s yours?”
“I make iron and steel.”
“I don’t see then why you don’t know him. You got a nice lookin wife.”
“Thank you, I think so too,” said Billy, while Tilly blushed.
“Why did you let her think we were married?” said Tilly, after they had left the old lady behind.
“Well I kinda wish we were, and I hoped she only had the news a little ahead of time.”
“You are certainly a fast worker.”
“Sure, I no sooner saw you than I picked you. I can always make up my mind quickly, and I’m after you from now on.”
This made Tilly laugh, but she did not seem displeased.
They picnicked in a grove near the edge of town and then finished the circuit. Then they navigated all the streets and alleys and returned home to quiz one another all that evening. They were all surprised to find how much they had learned about the city.
Billy’s visits followed one another in quick succession. He knew his own mind, as he had said, and Tilly’s inclined to him more and more. When Sam awoke to the state of affairs he knew the second bomb had fallen and might burst at any minute.
Bomb the Third
Arma’s first loves were merely fancies. Having no substantial foundation they died as soon as born. Sam and Tilly had made no secret of her origin and she was spared a shock when she learned it of those pests of society whom, like the poor and Congress, we have always with us. She was a great reader and devoured all the books she could obtain. Among these was Charlotte Bronte’s story of “The Professor.” With the reading of this story a new point of view dawned upon her. She had before this looked upon Sam as immeasurably older and belonging to a disappearing age. But it appeared that a difference of ages was not so important as she had imagined, indeed might be an advantage from many points of view. Her previous flames had been boys, except for the divine, and he was a man of no perception—not worth considering. Besides, Sam had money—almost always a consideration with girls, who are nearly always full of worldly wisdom. Sam had become a possibility. As she studied him further he became a probability. She grew shy and a trifle coquettish. But Sam for a long time took no notice. He was absorbed in other matters.
Arma was, of course, very much interested in Tilly’s love affair as it developed. She viewed it with muchfavor. The same worldly wisdom which told her that Sam was desirable from a matrimonial point of view, told her also that if Tilly should go to Pittsburgh Sam must more fully depend upon her. She became interested in cooking and studied all Sam’s needs. Tilly was studying Billy at the same time. Arma secretly began to resent any interference with Sam—he was her property. She pampered him like a born mother—which she was.
Gradually but unconsciously Arma revealed her new set of ideas to Tilly who was not lacking in perception; but Tilly made no sign—she was relieved. For Sam’s welfare was dear to her, and here were other hands to take up the tasks she must lay down. She became Arma’s co-conspirator, gradually resigning to her the primacy in Sam’s affairs which she had hitherto kept as her own.
As Arma became absorbed in Sam, she began to manifest an interest in his work and asked many questions. It was pleasant to teach a pupil so bright, so much interested and so beautiful—for Sam could not help but notice her beauty. There were others who saw it also. The young men began to call and she was not annoyed at first; but few of them interested her very long. They knew so little. One day she betrayed herself. One of these boys had bored her for an hour before he departed and she met Sam in the passage.
“Well, has he gone?” said Sam.
“Yes, he has,” she replied, “and I am so glad, I like you much better.” And these words were accompanied by a look which would have awakened and galvanized an anchorite, and then she blushed a rosy red and fled.
There are really two bombs in this chapter. Arma’s bomb was a copy of “The Professor,” Sam’s bomb was the look Arma gave him when she blushed.
It came the next morning while Arma was concocting a tapioca pudding—one of Sam’s favorites. There was a ring at the front door and a well-dressed lady entered and asked: “Does Samuel Jones live here?”
“Yes,” said Arma.
“Are you the little girl they found in their auto?”
“Yes,” said Arma, wonderingly.
“Then I am your mother.”
“Why did you give me away?”
“Your father deserted me and I was penniless. I have been poor ever since until quite recently, too poor to claim you. An uncle in California died last month and left me his money. I have been out settling his estate and I am just back. I want you to go with me.”
“No,” said Arma, “I cannot go with you but I can see you very often, and I am so glad I have a mother to love.” Then they fell into each others arms in tears.
When Arma told her story at lunch the others gasped. She continued: “I think I must go to her.” Then Sam gasped: “My God! I’ll be all alone. Get her to come here, Arma, I can’t bear to have you go.”
Now wasn’t Arma a sly puss? And she did not go, Sam went to her. He told her how much he loved her. She listened sagely and said: “yes, she liked him pretty well. She thought she might like to stay with him.” And she did. And after awhile Sam discovered that she had been madly in love with him all the time—but he did not discover this for a long time, she was a woman and did not tell all she knew for awhile. She grew more fond of Sam every day and now she tells him everything—almost.