“Oh!” cried Alice, springing up from the piano-stool. “But, Mary, I have not told you that he was the identical man who lifted me up the other day when I fell in the street.”
“You don’t tell me so!”
“Yes, indeed, the very man; and, strangest of all, he seemed to know something about us, or at least about Lucy and Mr. Whacker.” And she related the strange doings and sayings of the Unknown just previous to the close of his interview with Laura.
“How very provoking,” cried Mary, impatiently, “that I should have been prevented from dining with you girls by the arrival of that stupid old cousin William, as mother will persist in calling him, though, inmy opinion, he is about as nearly related to us as the man in the moon! Pshaw!” And she stamped her foot.
“Yes, indeed, I am too sorry. Why, Mary, it would have done”—and her irrepressible eyes began to twinkle—“for a scene in that novel which—”
“Now, Alice—” began Mary, reddening.
“Which I am thinking of writing,” continued Alice, innocently. “Why, what’s the matter?”
“Oh!”
“Is Mary writing a novel?” asked Lucy, with eager interest; for she remembered that she had been always regarded as the genius of the school.
“I spoke of the novel whichIwas writing,” persisted Alice.
“Yes, but—”
“It is a maxim of the common law, Miss Lucy,” remarked the learned counsel, with ponderous gravity, “that all shall be held innocent till proven guilty. But should novel-writing ever be made (as seems inevitable) a statutory offence, I hold it as probable that this ruling will be reversed, and the presumption of the law adjudged, in the present state of literature, to lie the other way,—in plain English, that theonus probandi innocentiamwould be held to rest upon the prisoner at the bar.”
The two other girls laughed, but Mary rewarded my diversion in her support with a grateful smile.
“To think I should have missed it!”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Come over and dine with us to-morrow, and you will have a chance of seeing him.”
“How is that?” asked Mary, with dancing eyes.
“Why, he has promised to bring Laura some candy to-morrow evening, and we can all have another look at him.”
“Oh, I wonder if he will come?” cried Mary, despondingly.
“I have no doubt of it, for he seems in some strange way as much interested in us as we in him. At any rate, you will dine with us. Mr. Whacker will of course do likewise.”
The reader will please imagine the dinner in question over, the three young ladies eagerly watching, up and down the street, through the slats of the closed Venetian blinds, while Mrs. Carter and myself, too dignified to manifest our curiosity so clearly, held ourselves in the rear as a sort of reserve. Laura, our little decoy, was trotting, meanwhile, from room to room, singing and babbling; having, in fact, entirely forgotten the Stranger and his promise. It had been decided in a council of war not to remind her of it till our man was seen approaching, when she was to be sent out in a casual way to intercept him.
“Gracious, here he is!” exclaimed all three of the girls at once. “Where is Laura?”
“Laura! Laura! Laura!” cried Alice, in a suppressed voice. “Mother! Mr. Whacker! somebody bring Laura, please.”
It appears that the Unknown, instead of making his approach by way of Leigh Street, as we somehow expected, had suddenly turned into that thoroughfare from the cross-street. The girls from their position commanded a view of this cross-street for some distance, looking towards the south, as the Carters’ residence was but one remove from the corner. Strange to say, however, the gentleman emerged into Leigh Street from the north, as though returning from a walk in the country, and thus came upon the girls without warning. The reserves, forgetting their dignity, scampered off in their search for Laura. She, meanwhile, ignorant of her importance, was sitting in the back yard, building mounds upon a pile of sand that lay there, and before she could be found the stranger had passed. He turned and looked back several times, and when he reached the end of the block he stopped, and, turning, looked for some time in our direction. Meanwhile, I, having secured the little truant, was hurrying to the front, while Mrs. Carter, plump and jovial soul, was not far behind me.
“Make haste! make haste!” cried Alice, who, with Mary, had in her impatience found her way into the hall. “Make haste, or he will be gone. Come, Laura,the gentleman with the candy is out there. There, quick!” she added, with a little push; and Laura trotted out with pleased alacrity.
“Too late!” sighed Lucy from behind the shutters, where she had been placed for purposes of safe observation. “Too late! he has moved on.”
That evening, as I bade the family good-night, after with some difficulty escaping from Mrs. Carter’s urgent invitation to dine with them again next day, I agreed to call immediately after dinner, so as to be on hand should the Stranger, as we thought likely, return in search of Laura. Nor were we disappointed; and this time, warned by the failure of the preceding day, we had kept Laura well in hand; so that she was ready on the front steps as he was passing.
The two friends smiled as their eyes met.
“Where is it?” asked she, a sudden cloud of anxiety veiling her young face,—for, with those of her age, not seeing is not believing.
“Never mind!” said he, tapping his breast-pocket with a knowing air; and she hurried down the steps as best she could.
He unbuttoned his coat and slowly inserted his hand into his breast-pocket.
“Pull it out!” cried she.
“I feel something!” said he, with mystery in his tones.
“Yes!” answered she, skipping about with clasped hands.
“What is it?” And there was a rattling, as of stiff paper, down in the depths of his pocket.
“Candy!” cried she, with a shout, capering higher than ever.
He withdrew the package from his pocket with a slowness which made her dance with impatience; openedone end, peeped into it cautiously, and gave her a beaming look of delighted surprise.
“Let me look, too!” cried she; and he held it down. She, peeping in, returned his look of surprised delight.
What would life be without its fictions!
“It’s candy!” cried she; and seizing the package, and putting a piece into her mouth, she made for the steps.
“Why, where are you going?”
“I am going to show my candy to sister Lucy,” replied she, munching.
“Won’t you give me a piece?”
“Yes,” replied she, toddling back with alacrity. “Don’t take a big piece,” cautioned she, when she saw him examining the contents of the precious package. “Take a little piece.”
The stranger smiled. “Laura,” said he, “there is a good deal of human nature in man; don’t you think so?”
“Yeth, ma’am,” replied she, abstractedly; with one hand thrusting into her mouth a second piece, while with the other she reached down into the bag for a third. “You seem to like candy?”
“Yeth, I doeth,” without looking up.
“Come,” said he, taking the package and closing it; “if you eat it all, you won’t have any to show your sister Lucy; besides, it will make you sick.”
“Candy don’t never make me sick. I can show sister Lucy the booful bag what the candy came in. Where is the speckled candy?”
“Oh, the man didn’t have any.”
“If he has any, another to-morrow, will you make him send me some?”
“Oh, yes; but let’s talk a little.”
“May I have another little piece?”
“There! So you are the little girl who doesn’t know what her mother’s name is?”
“Yes, I does; my mother’s name is named Laura. My mother is named the same as me. My name is Laura, too.”
Our coaching had told.
“So your mother’s name is Laura, is it?” And the stranger nodded his head slowly up and down. “And where is your mother now?”
“She is at our house.”
“And where is your house?”
“Our house is where my mother is. There is a river where our house is. Don’t you like to sail in a boat on a river? I’m going to take another piece.” And with a roguish, though hesitating smile, she began to insert her dimpled hand into the bag.
The stranger was looking upon the ground, and heeded neither the smile nor the movement against the bag.
“Where do you go in your boat?”
She mentioned the name of a neighbor of my grandfather’s, across the river from her home.
“And where else?”
Another of our neighbors. The stranger repeated the two names with satisfaction.
“And where else?”
He never once lifted his eyes from the pavement; and there was a sort of suppressed eagerness in his voice that thrilled us all with a strange excitement, we knew not why.
“We sail in our boat to see Uncle Tom.” [Many of the young people in our neighborhood called my grandfather by this name.]
“Oh, you mean your Uncle Tom—let me see,”—and a faint smile illumined his face,—“you mean your Uncle Tom—Mulligins?”
“No-o-o-o! Minty-pepper ain’t dood. It stings my mouf.”
“Ah, yes, I know,—you sail in your boat to—see—your—Uncle Tom—Higginbotham.”
Perhaps she dimly perceived that he was drolling; at any rate, she doubled herself up with an affected little laugh.
“No, I will tell you,” said he, raising his eyes to her face,—“it is your Uncle Tom Whacker.”
The audience half rose from their seats. “Why, who can he be?” exclaimed Mrs. Carter.
“Yes, that’s his right name,—Uncle Mr. Whacker. I calls him Uncle Tom. He is a hundred years old, I reckon. My sister loves Mr. Uncle Whacker some, but she loves Mr.—Mr.—Mr. Fat Whacker the most.” [Sensation!]
As this is the second remark of this character on Laura’s part that I have recorded, it is high time that I explained that the idea had naturally enough arisen in her mind from hearing Mary and Alice rally her sister upon the increased frequency of my visits to the Carters’ since her arrival in town.
“Do you love me some?”
“Yes, I loves you a heap!”
“And I loves you a heap, too,” said he; and stooping, he kissed her several times. “And now I suppose you had better run in and show your candy to your sister Lucy.”
“All wight!” said she; and she toddled off.
The morning following these occurrences, and for several days thereafter, I had occasion to be absent from town. Calling at the Carters’ on the evening of my return, I found that the daily visits of the mysterious stranger had not been interrupted. There was, however, nothing of special interest to report. The interviews with Laura had been short, and marked only by the invariable production of the package of candy. When I expressed fears for that young lady’s digestion, I learned that, owing to a like solicitude, the girls had shared the danger with Laura so magnanimously that her health was in no immediate peril.
“Here are still some of the remains of to-day’s spoil,” said Alice, handing me a collapsed package.
“Well,” said I, “now that you have seen him so often, what do you think of him? What are your theories?”
“There are as many opinions as there are girls,” said Mrs. Carter. “What is mine? Well, I should suppose that I was too old to express an opinion upon such romantic affairs. But one thing I will say, he is undoubtedly a gentleman.”
“Oh, thank you, mamma!” cried Alice, running up to her mother and kissing her on the check with what the French call effusion,—“thank you!”
“And what are you up to now, Rattle-brain?” asked her mother, looking at her daughter with a smile full of affectionate admiration.
“You see, Mr. Whacker,” said Alice, turning to me with earnest gravity in her eyes, under which their irrepressible twinkle could have been discernible only to those who knew her well,—“you see I have been in love with him ever since I first saw him, and I infer from mamma’s remark that should anything ever come of it, I should find in her an ally.”
“Well, we shall see,” said her mother, laughing. “And what does Miss Mary think of him?”
“Oh, I’ll tell you,” promptly began Alice. “Mary, who is, you know, of a very romant—”
“Suppose, Miss Chatterbox, you will be so good,” interrupted her mother, “as to let Mary speak for herself.”
“’Tis ever thus,” sighed Alice, pouting, “never allowed to open my poor little mouth!”
“I give you permission now,” said Mary. “Tell Mr. Whacker, if you know, what I think of the Don.”
“The who?”
“The Don; that’s what we call him.”
“What! is he a Spaniard?”
“Not at all. You must know, we put Laura up to asking him his name, and she brought back the drollest one imaginable,—‘Don Miff.’ Think of it! But of course Laura got it all wrong; that could not be any human being’s name,—of course not.”
“The Don part of it,” broke in Alice, “has confirmed Mary in her previously entertained opinion that he was a nobleman of some sort travellingincog.; it would be so novelly, you know; though what good it could doherI cannot conceive, even were it so, for it was I who ‘sighted’ him first; it was I to whom he first offered his hand; mark that! it was I who first fell in love with him; and I wish it distinctly understood that as against the present company”—and she made a sweeping courtesy—“he—is—MINE!”
“I waive all my rights,” said I.
“Yes; but I don’t know how it will be with these girls, particularly Mary; for Mary is, in my opinion, already infatuated,—yes,infatuatedwith this Don Miff, as he calls himself.”
“Why, Alice, how can you say so?” But an explosion all around the circle aroused Mary to the consciousness that once more and for the thousand and first time she had failed to detect the banter that lay in ambush behind her friend’s assumed earnestness. “Oh, I knew you couldn’t mean it,” said she, with a faint smile. “The truth is, Mr. Whacker,” continued she, “I am not sure that I altogether like this mysterious Don. Do you know, Alice, I should be afraid of him?”
“Afraid of him! Why, pray?”
“Well, perhaps I am jumping at conclusions, as they say we women all do; but, unless I am greatly mistaken, that man, while he might be a very staunch friend, is certainly capable of proving a most unrelenting foe.”
“Oh, I am sure you do him injustice,” said Lucy.
This young woman was not a great talker; but whenever the absent needed a defender, the suffering a friend, or the down-trodden a champion, that gentle voice was not wanting.
“I am sure nothing could surpass the gentleness of his manner towards little Laura.”
“Very true,” rejoined Mary; “but have you not noticed the expression of his eyes at times, when he is pacing to and fro, as he did for some time yesterday, reviewing in his mind, I should judge, some event in his past life? Every now and then there would come into them a look so stern and bitter as to give his countenance an expression which might almost be called ferocious.”
“Oh, Mr. Whacker, I think Mary’s imagination must be running away with her,” broke in Lucy. “Now let me tell you of an incident which all of us witnessed one day while you were absent. The day had been damp and raw; and just as Mr. Don Miff—I don’t wonder at your laughing,—was there ever such a name before? What was I saying? Ah! there came on one of those cold October rains just as the Don was going away. He had taken but a few steps when his attention was arrested by the whining of a little dog across the street. What kind of a dog did you say it was, Mrs. Carter?”
“It was a Mexican dog, a wretched little thing, of a breed which is almost entirely destitute of hair. Our volunteers brought home some of them, as curiosities, on their return from the Mexican war. The one Lucy is speaking of is very old, and is, likely enough, the last representative of his species in the city.”
“Well,” resumed Lucy, “the poor, little, naked creature was whining piteously in the rain, and pawing against that alley-gate over yonder by that large tree; and when this ferocious man, whom Mary thinks so terrible, saw him, he stopped, then moved on, then stopped again, and at last, seeing that the little thing had been shut out, he actually walked across the street and opened the gate for him!”
“That was very sweet of my Don!” chimed in Alice.
“Yes,” urged Lucy, with gentle warmth, “you girls may laugh, and you, Mr. Whacker, may smile—”
“Upon my word—”
“Oh, I saw you—but the ferocity of a man who is tender with children and kind to brutes is ferocity of a very mild form, and I—”
“Speech! speech!” cried Alice, clapping her hands. And Lucy sank back in her chair, blushing at her own eloquence.
“Order! order! ladies and gentlemen,” cried Alice, gravely tapping on the table with a spool. “Sister Rolfe, the convention would be pleased to hear from you, at this stage of the proceedings, a continuation of your very edifying observations touching the lord DonMiff’s exceedingly alarming eyes. Sister Rolfe has the floor—order! The chair must insist that the fat lady on the sofa come to order!”
The last remark was levelled at her mother, who had a singular way of laughing; to wit, shaking all over, without emitting the slightest sound, while big tears rolled down her cheeks. Alice was the idol of her heart, and her queer freaks of vivacious drollery often set her mother off, as at present, into uncontrollable undulations of entirely inaudible laughter.
“The fat lady on the sofa, I am happy to be able to announce to the audience, is coming to.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Carter, wiping her eyes, “and do you cease your crazy pranks till the fat lady gets her breath. What were you going to say, Mary?”
“I was going to say that I am glad I said what I did, if for no other reason than that it afforded us all another opportunity of seeing how kind and charitable is Lucy’s heart.”
“Yes,” said Alice, “you elicited from Lucy her maiden speech; which I had never expected to hear in this life.”
“But really,” continued Mary, “the Don’s eyes are peculiar. Do you know what I have thought of, more than once, when I have seen their rapidly changing expression? I was reminded of certain stars which—”
“Reminiscences of our late astronomy class,” broke in Alice, in a stage whisper.
Mary smiled, but continued: “of certain stars which seem first to shrink and then to dilate,—now growing dark, at the next moment shooting forth bickering flames,—at one time—”
Mary here caught Alice’s eye, and could get no farther.
Alice rose slowly to her feet and said, gravely waving her closed fan as though it had been the wand of a showman, “This, ladies and gentlemen, is not a speech, but poetry and romance. I would simply observe that when a young woman begins by stating that she does not like a certain man, and ends by comparing his eyes to stars, the last state of that young woman shall beworse than the first. But I am somehow reminded of the Moonlight Sonata. Mr. Whacker, I beg you will conduct Miss Lucy to the piano.”
“What do you think?” said I, the next afternoon, as I entered the parlor. The young ladies were all there; Lucy, with whom I had an engagement to walk, with her bonnet on.
“Oh, what is it?”
“What do you suppose? Guess?”
“You have found out who he is!”
“Not exactly.”
“You have seen him!”
“Well, yes.”
“Have you met him,—spoken with him?”
I nodded.
“Oh, do tell us all about it!”
“There is not much to tell. Just this moment, on my way here, I came upon Laura and her nurse and the Don standing at the corner. Laura did not observe me till I was close to her, but, as soon as she did, she ran up and took hold of my hand, and said, pointing straight at the Don, ‘He’s the one what gives me the candy;’ and, immediately releasing my hand, she ran up and seized that of the so-called Don Miff, and, looking up into his face, said, ‘That ain’t Uncle Mr. Whacker. That’s Mr. Fat Whacker. He’s the one what’—” And I paused.
“Oh, please go on!” cried Alice and Mary; while Lucy colored slightly.
“I think I shall have to leave that as a riddle to be worked out at our leisure.”
“Oh, the terrible infant! What did you say? what could you say?”
“I scarcely know what I did or did not say. He spoke first, saying something about the originality ofLaura’s mode of introducing people, and I made some confused, meaningless reply, and then, after we had exchanged a few commonplaces—”
“Miss Lucy!” broke in a voice; and, looking up, we saw, thrust in at the partly-open parlor-door, the face of Molly, the nurse. “Miss Lucy, won’t you please, ma’am, step here a minute?”
The broad grin on her face excited curiosity, while it allayed alarm.
“Why, what’s the matter, Molly?”
“Dat gent’mun say—” And Molly was straightway overcome by an acute attack of the giggles.
“What?”
“Dat ’ere gent’mun he axed me to ax de lady o’ de house ef he mought’n take Laura round to Pizzini’s for some ice-cream.”[1]
This was before the days of the Charley Ross horror; but the proposition threw all the young ladies into a ferment, and ejaculation followed ejaculation in rapid succession. At last Alice rose, flew up-stairs, and presently returned with her mother.
“What’s all this?” began Mrs. Carter.
“Yes, ma’am, dis is adzactly how ’twas. Laura and me, we was a-standin’ on the cornder a-lookin’, and here comes de gent’mun dat’s always a-bringin’ her de candy, and, says he, ‘Good-evenin’, little Rosebud,’ says jess so, and ‘Howdy do, my gal,’ says he, polite-like, and says I, ‘Sarvant, mahster,’ says I, ‘I’m about,’ says I; and den Marse Jack he comed up, and Laura, she called Marse Jack out o’ he name. ‘Lor’ me,’ says I, ‘chill’un don’t know no better.’ Howsomdever, I told her, I did, ‘Heish!’ says I, easy-like, and ‘Mind your raisin,’ says I, jess as I tell you, and Marse Jack will say de same; and Marse Jack he comed on here to de house, and we was a-standin’ on de cornder, and de gent’mun says, ‘Laura,’ says he, ‘I ain’t got no candy for you to-day, but I want you to go wid me to Pizzini’sto get some ice-cream and cake; and won’t you go, my gal,’ says he, ‘an’ ax de lady of the house, down yonder, ef I mought’n take little Laura to Pizzini’s?’ Dat’s jess what he said, he did, jess as I tell you, mum; and Laura she clap her hands, she did, and ‘Come on, less go,’ says she, widout waitin’ for nothin’ nor nobody, she did.”
A brisk discussion, with opinions about equally divided, now sprang up as to the propriety of acceding to the request of the stranger; but upon Molly’s stating that the gentleman expected her to accompany Laura, a strong majority voted in the affirmative; and when the little lady herself, unable to control her impatience, came bustling into the parlor, her curls dancing, her cheeks glowing, her eyes sparkling with expectancy, the proposition was carried unanimously; to the obvious satisfaction of Molly, who lost no time in sallying forth with her little charge.
“There they go!” said Lucy, who was peeping through the blinds; “the Don and Laura hand in hand, and Molly bringing up the rear. Ah, how the little thing is capering with delight! Ah, girls, run here and see how the little woman is strutting! Now he is pointing out to her a cow and calf.”
And so, as long as they remained in sight, she chronicled their doings.
As Lucy and I were leaving the house for our walk, some one suggested—it was Mary, I believe—that it would be as well to shadow, in detective phrase, the Don; but she firmly refused to do so, saying that she knew she could trust him. Still, the suggestion left its trail upon her mind; and she exhibited an eager delight when we, on our return, saw, at the distance of a couple of blocks, the Don taking leave of Laura in front of the Carters’.
“I knew it,” said she, with modest triumph. “Mary has read so many novels and poems that she lives in constant expectation of adventures; as though an adventure could happen to any one in steady-going Richmond! Mr. Whacker!” she suddenly exclaimed, starting.
“What’s the matter?”
“He is coming this way! Whatshallwe do?” And she stood as though rooted to the pavement, helplessly looking about her for some avenue of escape.
“Why, what do you fear?” said I, laughing.
“That’s true,” said she; and she moved forward again, though with very uncertain tread.
“Mr. Whacker,” said she, presently, “would you mind giving me your arm?”
Meanwhile, the Don was coming up the street, and, as he approached us, I could see that his features were softened by a half smile. We met, face to face, at the corner above the Carters’. His eyes chancing to fall upon my face, it was obvious that he recognized me. Indeed, I am sure he gave me something like a bow, then glancing casually at Lucy. Just at this juncture she, for the first time, looked up, and their eyes met. It was then that I understood what Mary had said about his eyes. For a second his steps seemed almost arrested, and his eyes, filled with a strange mixture of curiosity and intense interest, seemed to dilate and to shoot forth actual gleams of light. Lucy, who was leaning heavily upon my arm, shivered throughout her entire frame.
“Why, what can be the matter?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” replied she, in a hollow voice. “Let us hurry home,—I can hardly breathe!”
Arrived in front of the house, within which was to be heard the busy chattering of Laura and our other friends, Lucy hurried in at the gate, and, without attempting to enter the house, dropped down upon the first step she reached, and leaning back, drew a long breath.
“Mr. Whacker,” said she, after a few moments’ silence, “you must really excuse me. I cannot conceive what made me so silly. What is he to me? But do you know, sometimes the strangest ideas come into my head, and I often wonder whether other people have the same. Sometimes I will visit some place for the first time, and suddenly it will seem to me that I have been there before, although I know all the time that it is not so. And again I will be listening to someone relating an incident just happened, and it will seem such an old story to me; and it will seem as though I had heard just the same story ages and ages ago. Do you know, I sometimes think that the ancients—however, it is all nonsense, of course. But oh, I would not feel again as I did just now for worlds! Do you know, when he passed me, I felt a sort of subtle, aerial force, a kind of magnetic influence, as it is called, drawing me towards him, and so strongly, that nothing but the firm grasp I had on your arm saved me from rushing up to him and taking him by the hand. And then, when I passed him, without speaking to him, suddenly there came over me the strangest feeling. Will you think me crazy if I tell you what it was?”
“By no means,” said I, much interested.
“Well,—will you believe me?—a sudden pang of remorse.”
“Remorse!”
“Yes; I cannot think of a better word. It seemed to me as though I had known him ages ago, in some other world, such as the Pythagoreans imagined, and that I, bright and young and happy, meeting him again, I, though I saw he was unhappy, cruelly passed him by! Oh, Mr. Whacker, I do pity him so!”
Her lower lip trembled, and her soft brown eyes glistened with rising tears. For a while neither of us spoke,—she, perhaps, afraid to trust her voice, I respecting her emotion by silence.
“Yes,” said I, at length, “it is an old story. ‘What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?’ We cannot help, though we would, feeling the sorrows of others. But, Miss Lucy, aren’t you letting your imagination—no, your tender-heartedness—run away with your judgment? Here is a great, strapping, fine-looking fellow, whom you have seen passing along the street a few times, with a rather serious expression of countenance, and you straightway jump to the conclusion that he is profoundly miserable, and even shed tears over his fate.”
“Yes, it is all very silly, of course,” said she, smiling, and brushing away her tears.
“And you must admit that you have not a particle of evidence, not a scintilla, as we lawyers say, that the Don is any more to be pitied than I, or any other person of your acquaintance.”
“Oh, a woman’s rules of evidence are very different from what you lawyers find in your great, dusty, dull volumes. See howIshould state the case. I see a great, strapping, fine-looking fellow, to borrow your language, coming here, day after day, from I know not how far, or at how great inconvenience to himself, with no other object, so far as I can divine, save that of enjoying the affectionate greetings of a little child of less than four years of age, whom he met by chance, and who, though nothing to him, in one sense seems everything to him, in that her childish love has gone out to him. What kind of a home must this man have, do you think? He can havenohome. And yet you wonder that I am sorry for him!”
“No,” said I, gladly seizing the opportunity of changing the current of her thoughts; “it is true that the views you hold of evidence do not coincide with those of Greenleaf; but I have long since ceased to wonder at your feeling sorry for anybody or anything. The number of kettles that, of my certain knowledge, have, through your intercession,notbeen tied to stray dogs’ tails, and the hosts of cats that have escaped twine cravats—”
“How cruel you boys used to be!”
“Why, Lucy, how long have you been there?” cried Alice, leaning out of the window. “Come here, Mary, and look at them,—it is a clear case. Laura,” added she, looking back into the parlor, but speaking loud enough for us to hear,—“Laura, for one so juvenile, your diagnosis is singularly accurate.”
“H’m? Whose noses?” asked Laura, looking up from the doll she was dressing.
[1]In my occasional attempts at representing the negro dialect I shall (as I have already done in the case of Laura’s prattle) hold a middle course between the true and the intelligible.
[1]
In my occasional attempts at representing the negro dialect I shall (as I have already done in the case of Laura’s prattle) hold a middle course between the true and the intelligible.
I think it will be allowed that, whatever else this story may be, it has been, so far, genteel. It is with regret, therefore, that, in the very opening of this eighth chapter, I find myself driven to the use of a word which hardly seems to comport with the previous dignity of our narrative. But, after turning the matter over in my mind again and again, I have found it impossible to discover any satisfactory synonyme, or invent any delicately-phrased equivalent for the very plebeian vocable in question. With the reader’s kind permission, therefore—
To a philosopher and a philanthropist (and I am somewhat of both, after a Bushwhackerish fashion) the wordLager Biershould undoubtedly be one of the most precious additions to a language already rich in such expressive linguistic combinations as Jersey Lightning, Gin Sling, Rum and Gum, Rye and Rock, Kill-Round-The-Corner, Santa Cruz Sour, Stone Fence, Forty-Rod, Dead Shot, etc., etc., etc., not to mention a host of such etymological simples as Juleps, Smashes, Straights, and Cobblers. For the introduction into this country of the mild tipple it indicates has unquestionably done more to arrest drunkenness than all the temperance societies that have been, are, or shall be. Still, the word itself, spell it how you will, has hardly a distinguished air; and hence I long sought, and should gladly have adopted, some such aristocratic expression as Brew of the Black Forest, Nectar of Gambrinus, Deutscher’s Dew, Suevorum Gaudium (i.e.Schwabs’ Bliss)—some genteel phrase, in a word—but that I was unwilling to sacrifice precision to elegance.
Now, the necessity that I am under of alluding to the Solace of Arminius at all, arises in the simplest way.
At the period of which I am writing, this beverage, newly introduced, had great vogue in Richmond, notablyamong the young men. Especially did college-bred young fellows give in a prompt adhesion to the new faith; and if, in any party of such, assembled to discuss, in a double sense, this new ethereal mildness, there was found any man who had attended the German universities, that man was the lion of the evening. His it was to excite our wonder by reciting deeds of prowess that he had witnessed; his to tell us what had been done; his to show us how it could be done again. I wonder whether a young medical man whom I knew in those days (now a staid and solid doctor) remembers the laugh which greeted him when he essayed to explain, to an attentive class that he was coaching in the new knowledge, how the German students managed actually to pour their beer down their throats,—swallowed it without swallowing, that is.
“It is the simplest thing in the world,” said he. “See here.” And turning a glass upside down over his mouth, its entire contents disappeared without the slightest visible movement of his throat. “Didn’t you see how it was done? The whole secret lies in thevoluntary suppression of the peristaltic action of the œsophagus.”
“The deuse you say!” cried a pupil. “Then, if that be so, I for one say, Let’s all suppress.” And that became the word with our set for that season, and much beer perished.
Why is it that a man recalls with such pleasure the follies of his youth? And why is it that the wise things we do make so little impression on our minds? For my own part, I can remember, without an effort, scores of absurdities that I have been guilty of, while of acts of wisdom scarcely one occurs to me.
The favorite haunt of my beer-drinking friends at this period was a smallish room,—you could not have called it a saloon,—a regular nest of a place, situated, not to be too explicit, not very far from, say Fourth Street. Our little nook stood alone in that part of the city, and, being so isolated in an exceedingly quiet neighborhood, it met exactly the wants of the jovial though orderly set of young professional men who,with the honest Teutons of the vicinage, frequented it.
Well, on the occasion to which I have referred, half a dozen of us were grouped around a table, and were unusually merry and bright. Our doctor’s new word had been hailed as a real acquisition, in honor of which there was some sparkling of wit, and more of beer,—a happy saying being as real a provocative of thirst as a pretzel,—and, moreover, there had arisen between him and a young and promising philologist, lately graduated at the university, and since become a distinguished professor in the land, a philologico-anatomical, serio-comical discussion, in which the philologian maintained that it was hopeless for American to emulate German youth in this matter of drinking beer, while at the same time maintaining a voluntary suppression of the peristaltic action of the œsophagus, for the very simple reason that the throat of the German, incessantly opened wide in pronouncing the gutturals of his language, and hardened by the passage of these rough sounds, becomes in process of time an open pipe, a clear, firm tube,—in a word, a regular rat-hole of a throat, such as no English-speaking youth might reasonably aspire to. The medical man, I remember, came back at him with the quick smile of one who knows, and asked him if he did not confound the larynx with the œsophagus.
“I do,” broke in a young lawyer.
“You do what?”
“I confound the larynxes and œsophagusses of both of you. Mine are growing thirsty. I say, boys, let’s suppress ’em both. Here, fünf bier!”
The mild Teuton behind the bar obeyed the order with a smile. He was never so well pleased as when a debate arose among us, sure that every flash of wit, every stroke of humor, would be followed by a call for beers all round.
I don’t think we ever drank more than we did on that evening (I really believe the beer was better then than now); and just as we were in the midst of one of our highest bursts of hilarity the door opened behind me.
“Hello!” said the doctor, in a whisper; “there’s our grenadier!”
Turning, I saw Don Miff standing by the counter, exchanging in the German language a few commonplaces (as I supposed) with the dispenser of beer.
“Who is he? Where did you ever see him before?” I asked.
“Why, here, of course. Is it possible that this is the first time you have seen him? Why, he has been coming here every evening for a week at least. Ah, I remember, you have not put in an appearance for about that time. We boys have nicknamed him ‘the Grenadier.’ He always takes a seat at that table where he is now, and, after sitting about an hour, and drinking two or three glasses of beer, goes off. We are curious to know who the deuse he can be.”
“Does he always come alone?”
“Invariably. Never speaks to a soul, save Hans, of course. What! do you know him?”
The Don’s eyes and mine had met, and we had bowed; he with the smile courteous, I with the smile expansive and bland, born of many beers.
“No; I can’t say that I do. I have met him on the street merely. But I am rather interested in him,—why, I will tell you hereafter. I say, boys,” I continued, “let’s have him over here.”
“Good!”
I approached the Don with my sweetest smile, and, saluting him, said something about our being a jolly party over at our table, and wouldn’t he join us?
“Thanks; with pleasure,” said he, rising; and the “boys,” seeing him approach, made room for him with much hospitable bustle.
“Mr. Smith,” said he, in a low voice, as we crossed the room.
“Mr. Whacker,” replied I; and, seizing his hand, I shook it with unctuous cordiality.
Are we not all brethren?
“Well, fair damsels, I have found out the great, great secret!”
“Oh, do tell us! Who is he?”
“Who he is I cannot say, but I now know his name.”
“Then Don Miff is not his real name!” said Mary, with a rather injured air. “But of course we could not expect, in our every-day world, to meet an actual person with such a name as that.”
“I should think not,” said Alice. “But whatishis name, Mr. Whacker? How fearfully slow you are, when we are dying of curiosity, as you know!”
“How stupid we have all been!” said I.
“In what respect?”
“How shockingly, dismally stupid and obtuse!”
“But how?”
“Did you not put Laura up to asking his name? You did. And did she not bring back the wordsDon Miffas the result of her investigations, and none of us ever suspected the plain English of the matter?”
Here Alice gave a little shriek and fell upon a sofa. “Just listen,” said I to Mary and Lucy, who were looking from Alice to me, and from me to Alice, with a bewildered air. “Listen carefully. J-o-h-n S-m-i-t-h, John Smith, or, according to Laura, Don Miff!”
“Impossible!” cried Mary, with a resolute stamp of her foot.
“But he told me his name himself.”
“I can’t help what he told you; but no one shall ever make me believe that his name is John Smith. There are people named Smith, of course.”
“No fair-minded person would deny that,” said Alice. “Why, Mary, there is your own Aunt Judy.”
“Yes, dear old Aunt Judy!” said Mary, smiling. “ButJohnSmith, Alice,—John!How can you believe that any Smith, senior, in the full blaze of the nineteenth century, would name his sonJohn?”
“I think it in the highest degree improbable,” said Alice.
“Improbable, Alice? Why, it is preposterous. At any rate, be there or be there not John Smiths in the world, that is nothisname.”
“With his starry eyes!” put in Alice, languishingly.
“With his starry eyes!” repeated Mary, smiling. “No; say what he will, John Smith is no more his name than Don Miff was. And as I, somehow, like the oddity of the latter, Don Miff shall he be with me till the end of the chapter.”
“Selah!” said Alice.
The most dangerous gift that a man can possess is superior skill in perilous employments. Sooner or later the most illustrious lion-tamer furnisheth forth funeral unbaked meats to the lordly beast he has so long bullied. Sooner or later, dies miserably the snake-charmer, charm he never so wisely. The noble art of self-defence has been brought to high perfection; but you shall no more find a prize-fighter with a straight nose than a rope-dancer with sound ribs. Every now and then (for the danger is not confined to the experts themselves) a bullet, advertised to perforate an orange, ploughs the scalp (though rarely reaching the brain) of its human support; and I make no doubt that the eminent pippin upon which Swiss liberty is based might have been placed once too often on his son’s head, had not William Tell abandoned, when he did, archery for politics.
I have been led into this train of thought by an accident which befell a number of the actors in our drama, through intrusting their limbs, their lives, and their sacred necks to the keeping of a young man who was reputed to be the best driver of Richmond in his day.
Now, no true artist is content unless he may exhibit his virtuosity; and this young man, like all crackwhips, had conceived the notion that the art of driving consisted, not in bringing back his passengers to their point of departure, safe and sound, but rather in showing how near he could take them to the gates of Paradise without actually ushering them therein. To him the sweetest incense was the long-drawn sigh of relief breathed out by his friends when deposited, once again and alive, at their front door. Who but he could have controlled such untrained horses,—spirited is what he calls them? Who passed that wagon at that precise spot,—made that rapid turn without upsetting?
Think not, my boy, that it escapes me that in your bright day of things perfected there will be no more drivers of horses,—nor horses either, for that matter, save in zoological gardens. Not forgetting this, but remembering that human nature remains the same, have I written these words. Beware, then, oh, last lingering male, perhaps, of the line of the Whackers, beware of the crack balloonist of your favored time!
There were four of us. Lucy and Alice sat on the rear seat, Sthenelus and I in front, on a rather more elevated position. Returning from our drive, we are rapidly moving down Franklin Street. A heavy country wagon is just in front of us, and not far behind it, though rather on the other side of the street, another creeps along, both meeting us. The problem was to pass between them. One of those fellows who knows nothing about driving would have brought his horses down to a walk, and crept through in inglorious safety. Not so Sthenelus. With him glory was above safety; and so, leaning forward, he lightly agitated the reins along the backs of his rapid bays, and we whizzed past the first wagon. The next instant our charioteer went sprawling over the dashboard, carrying the reins with him; though I, foreseeing the collision with the second wagon, had braced myself for the shock, and so managed to retain my seat.
The horses bounded instantly forward, and rushed down the street with an ever-increasing speed. The usual scene occurred. Ladies who chanced to be crossing the street, shrank back in terror to the sidewalk.
Nurses scurried hither and thither, gathering up their charges. Men stood in the middle of the street, shouting and sawing their arms, waving hats, umbrellas, handkerchiefs, but getting out of the way just in time to let the more and more frantic horses pass; while troops of boys came rushing down every cross-street, their eyes a-glitter with barbaric joy, and shouting back the glad tidings to their toiling but shorter-legged comrades in the rear.
Where do all the boys come from?
But wild with terror as they were, the horses turned up the cross-street along which they had been driven earlier in the afternoon,—the one, that is, intersecting Leigh one block above the Carters’,—and up this they rushed with a terrific clatter.
Meanwhile, I had not been idle. Immediately upon the fall of our charioteer and the bounding forward of the horses, both girls had sprung to their feet with a cry of horror; but I shouted to them to sit down, and they obeyed. Alice, however, with every jolt of unusual severity would rise and attempt to leap from the vehicle, and again and again I had to seize her and thrust her back into her seat. Lucy, on the contrary, gave me no further trouble. Ashy pale, with her hands clasped, she sat trembling and silent, her appealing eyes fixed upon me. At last I insisted upon their sitting upon the floor of the carriage, assuring them, in as confident a tone as I could muster, that there was no earthly danger if they would but resolutely hold that position; and in this, too, they obeyed me, though in Alice’s case I had to supplement my commands by a firm grip upon her shoulder.
At last, when we were approaching Leigh Street at a furious pace, and the horses were turning into it, a well-meaning man rushed, with a loud “whoa,” at the horse nearest him, at the same time belaboring him with his umbrella; and this producing an extra burst of speed, the carriage made the turn literally on two wheels; so that, in momentary expectation of an upset, I instinctively released my hold on Alice’s shoulder and seized the edge of my seat; while the girls were sofrightened that Alice sprang up, and, with a wild cry, threw her arms around my neck, Lucy, at the same time, seizing my right arm.
The two girls pulling down upon me with all the strength of panic-terror, there was no help for it. My heels flew up in the air, my legs assuming the shape of a gigantic V.
Picture to yourself, gentle reader, Mr. Fat Whacker moving down Leigh Street in this alphabetical order!
Even had I not been throttled almost to suffocation, I believe my face would have been red with shame,—often a more powerful emotion than the fear of death. (I, for example, once saw an officer, while the battle of Spottsylvania Court-House was raging, blush, instead of turning pale, when a cannon-ball, rushing past him, annihilated the seat of his trousers.)
And this is what I saw, looking through that V as a sharpshooter through the hind-sight of his rifle.
I saw the Don and Laura cosily sitting on the carriage-block, with their backs towards us, the nurse standing near by. Molly saw us as soon as we turned into Leigh Street, and knowing the horses, I suppose (all recognition of me being, I must presume, out of the question), rushed up to the Don with a scream. He leaped to his feet, and, taking in the situation at a glance, sprang into the middle of the street.
Perhaps the effect was intensified to me by the concentration of light wrought by the involuntary hindsight arrangement of my legs; possibly my perceptive faculties, stimulated by the situation, were unusually keen; but the bearing and look of the Don remain to this day indelibly impressed upon my memory. Hatless, he stood in the middle of the street, one leg advanced, and with both arms, after the fashion of ball-players, extended to the front. But it was his countenance that struck me most. His grimly-set lips, his distended nostrils, his brows intensely knit over his darkly glancing eyes, but, above all, his head, thrown back, and rocking to and fro in sympathy with the oscillations of the approaching team, gave him a look of ferocious disdain.
It is with just such a look, I can imagine, that a lion, famished and desperate, after long and vain hunting of giraffe or gazelle, prepares to spring, from his tangled ambuscade of rushes, upon the horns of an approaching bull. What must be done, saith his mighty heart, must be done—and done bravely.
’Twas Milton’s Satan stood there!
But just as the grimness of the countenance of Clearchus appeared odious to his soldiers in camp, but lovely in the hour of battle, so the look I have been describing seemed to me, at this critical juncture, to rival the beautiful disdain of Byron’s Apollo Belvedere. It was the sternly confident look of a man who scorned to rank failure among possibilities.
What would have been the result, had the horses held their straight course down the middle of the street, we can only conjecture, but such was the force of habit that, frantic as they were, they bore so far to the left just before reaching the Don, that the left wheels rattled along the gutter, within a few inches of the carriage-block, up to which they had so frequently been driven by their owner. The Don rushed to the right to intercept them, and, just as they were about to pass him, sprang upon the head of the off horse with an inarticulate cry so fierce, and a vigor so tremendous, that the animal, partly thrown back upon his haunches swerved, in his terror, violently to the left, forcing his mate upon the sidewalk. But the Don had leaped too far. Struck in the right side by the pole, he was hurled to the ground, his head striking the pavement with great force. In a moment of time both hoofs and wheels had passed over his prostrate form.
“Oh!” shrieked the girls, releasing me, and clasping their hands with mingled compassion and terror.
The V collapsed, and in an instant I went spinning over the dash-board.
The near-horse, his neck broken against the lamp-post, lay stone dead; while the other, his traces burst stood trembling in every fibre, and, as he pulled back against the reins, which still held him, uneasily snorting at his lifeless yoke-fellow.
I was somewhat stunned by my fall, but extricating myself from my entanglements, I rose just in time to see Alice spring from the carriage, followed by Lucy. The latter fell as she alighted from the carriage, but before I could reach her the Don had staggered up to her and lifted her from the ground. He was hardly recognizable. His clothes were soiled and torn, and blood was streaming from two ugly gashes in his face,—one on his forehead and another in his right cheek.
“I trust you are not hurt?” said he.
“Not at all,” answered Lucy, quickly, before she had looked at him, or knew, in fact, who had assisted her to rise. “Oh,” cried she, clasping her hands, when she caught sight of his face, “but you are dreadfully hurt!”
“Oh, no,” replied he, with a ghastly smile; “merely a few scratches.”
“Oh, but you are! Alice! Mr. Whacker! The gentleman—”
But her further utterance was interrupted by the almost hysterical entrance upon the scene of Mrs. Carter, who flew from one girl to the other pale and tremulous, endeavoring to assure herself, by repeated embraces, that they were not dead. In a few moments a miscellaneous crowd had clustered around our party, through which Mary, who had witnessed the accident from her window, rushed to greet her friends. To add to the confusion, little Laura, her nerves unstrung by the scene, was wailing piteously; so that, for a moment, we forgot the Don.
“Look! oh, look!” suddenly cried Lucy, in an excited voice; and seizing me by the arm, she gave me a push. “Quick! quick!” said she, pointing towards our deliverer.
He was leaning heavily against the lamp-post, which, for support, he had clasped with his arms; but, their hold relaxed, they had fallen and hung listlessly by hisside. With pallid face, vacant, upturned eyes, and parted lips, he was slowly sinking to the ground.
I sprang forward, but too late to catch him as he fell, or, rather, sank gently to the pavement, his head finding a pillow in the body of the dead horse.
“Who is he, Mary? How was he hurt?” asked Mrs. Carter, eagerly, as she saw Lucy hurrying to his side, and bending over him with an expression of agonized terror in her face.
“It is the Don. He tried to stop the horses, but was knocked down, and then both they and the carriage passed over his body.”
Mrs. Carter was by his side in an instant. His eyes were closed, but opening them slightly, and seeing her sympathizing looks, a faint smile illumined his ashy-pale features.
“Ask some of these people,” whispered Mrs. Carter, “to help you carry him into the house.”
He seemed to hear her, for his eyes opened again and his lips moved, though they gave forth no sound.
“What’s the m-m-m-matter, Jack?”
Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I turned and saw my friend Charley.
“What, you in the city! You are just in time. We want to take this gentleman into Mr. Carter’s.”
Charley and I took hold of his head and shoulders, some volunteers his body and limbs, and, lifting him gently, we moved towards the house. Some papers fell out of his breast-pocket as we raised him from the ground, which Charley gathered together and put into his own pocket for the time being.
“Where shall we take him?” I inquired, as we entered the hall.
“Up-stairs, into the front room. Here, this way,” said Mrs. Carter. “Alice,” said she, suddenly stopping midway on the stairs, “send for the doctor, instantly. This way,—gently. Ah, here we are at last! This room. There, lay him on that bed. Thank you, gentlemen. Now, Lucy dear, bring me some water and towels. Thank you. Don’t be so alarmed, child; he will soon revive.” And she gently passed a corner ofthe moistened towel over his soiled and blood-stained face. At this he opened his eyes for an instant, and looked up into Mrs. Carter’s face with a smile of languid gratitude, and then, closing them again, soon began to breathe heavily.
“He is asleep, girls; you had best leave him now to these gentlemen and myself. The doctor will soon be here, I hope. When did you reach the city, Mr. Frobisher?” asked she, in a sick-room whisper, turning to Charley.
“To-day. On a little b-b-b-business. Who is our friend?” And he nodded towards the bed.
“Oh, I’ll let the girls tell you when you go downstairs. It is rather a long and strange story.”
When the doctor came he found the Don in a heavy sleep and decided to make no examination into his injuries, till he awoke. So he lay, just as he was, in his clothes, till eleven o’clock, at which time he began to exhibit symptoms of returning consciousness; and we sent off for the doctor again.
Mrs. Carter, Charley, and I sat in the room with him, though one or the other of us frequently left his side to convey tidings of his condition to the girls, who were naturally anxious to know how matters were going with him. A little after eleven, after turning uneasily from side to side for some time, he awoke. Mrs. Carter arose softly, and going to the bedside and leaning over him, asked if he wanted anything; and he called for a glass of water. He barely moistened his lips, however, and then, looking from one to another of us in a bewildered way, and scanning the room with feverish eyes, he raised his head from the pillow and asked, with a puzzled look, “Where am I?”
“Never mind,” said Mrs. Carter, gently; “you are among friends.”
“Ah, thanks!” said he; and his head falling back upon the pillow, he was silent for a little while. “I have been hurt somehow, have I not?” he asked, at last.
“Yes, you were hurt trying to save others.”
“Oh, yes! It seems to me that I tried to stop a run-awayteam, but they knocked me down and went on. Or did not some one else stop them? I remember seeing the ladies leap out and one of them fell, and there was a crowd of people, and some of them lifted me up.”
“Yes, and brought you in here; but you mustn’t talk.”
“Well, I won’t talk any more,” said he, closing his eyes.
“That’s right. Lie quietly where you are, and after a while you will go to bed and have a good night’s rest, and will wake up strong in the morning.”
“Oh, yes,” said he, “I shall be all right in the morning.” But, opening his eyes wide, he began to stare around the room. “Where am I? This is not my room,” said he, with rather a wild look; and he tried to rise on his elbow, but fell back with an expression of pain on his face, closed his eyes, and lay motionless for a little while. Presently he opened them again. “I don’t know this room!” And his eyes ranged up and down and from face to face with a sort of glare. Mrs. Carter gave us an anxious look. She arose, and, drawing her chair alongside the bed, began passing her fingers through his hair. Immediately the wild look passed out of his eyes, and his face was suffused with a smile of infantile sweetness.
“You must keep quiet,” said Mrs. Carter.
“Yes,” said he, simply.
Suddenly he started up with staring eyes, and cried out, “There they come! There they come! Molly! Take Laura! Molly! Quick! Quick! Get out of the way! Ah! I missed ’em!” and he fell back with a groan.
Just then the doctor entered. Mrs. Carter touched her head.
“That’s nothing!” replied the doctor, in a cheery voice. He was a large man, with a large head, covered not so much with auburn hair as with a tawny mane. His face, too, was leonine in its strength, and his step light and springy; and he came into a sick-room with an air which seemed to say that when he entered by the door disease had to fly out by the way of the window,or else he would know the reason why. He walked straight up to the sufferer and placed his hand upon his forehead. The Don gave him a perplexed look, which passed away, however, when the doctor began to feel his pulse. The firm and confident look of the doctor seemed to give the patient control of his faculties.
“Your head aches?”
“Badly.”
“Of course. Any pain elsewhere?”
“Whenever I move there are excruciating pains in my right side.”
“We must look into that. Mrs. Carter, you will please retire. By the way, please send me one of Mr. Carter’s night-shirts. We will now undress you,” said he to the Don, “and see what’s wrong with that right side of yours. Then we shall tuck you away snugly in bed, and you will wake up to-morrow a new man.”
“Thanks,” said the Don, smiling in sympathy with the cheerful tone of his physician.
The examination over, the doctor wrote his prescriptions, and, before taking his leave, suggested that one of us should sit up with the patient, as his flightiness was likely to return during the night, while the other made himself comfortable on a lounge till he was needed as a relief. Giving us his final directions, he left the room; but no sooner had he emerged into the upper hall than he was surrounded by Mrs. Carter and the three girls, Mary having decided to pass the night with her friends.
“Is he badly hurt?”
“Yes, badly.”
“Dangerously?”
“His body is black and blue; there is an ugly lump on the back of his head, and—”
“And what?”
“He has three ribs broken.”
“Oh!” cried the girls in unison.
“Do you think, doctor,” asked Lucy, with trembling lips, “he will—” but she could not speak the word.
“Not a bit of it,” and the doctor snapped his fingers.
“Oh, I am so thankful!”
“Now be off to bed, every one of you!” said the doctor, with a certain jolly imperiousness. “Scamper!” And he shook his tawny mane. “No doubt there are plenty of fellows who would gladly die for you, but I intend to pull this one through. Good-night. Go and dream of the hero. Of course you are all in love with him. Good-night.” And with a courtly bow he took his leave.