Short Stories Online

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

2006-11-30T08:37:00.000-08:00

by Charles Dickens

I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book,
to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my
readers out of humour with themselves, with each other,
with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses
pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.

Their faithful Friend and Servant,
C. D.
December, 1843.

Stave 1: Marley's Ghost

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt
whatever about that. The register of his burial was
signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker,
and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And
Scrooge's name was good upon `Change, for anything he
chose to put his hand to.

Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my
own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about
a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to
regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery
in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors
is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands
shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You
will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that
Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did.
How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were
partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge
was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole
assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and
sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully
cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent
man of business on the very day of the funeral,
and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.
The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to
the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley
was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or
nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going
to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that
Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there
would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a
stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts,
than there would be in any other middle-aged
gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy
spot -- say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance --
literally to astonish his son's weak mind.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name.
There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse
door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as
Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the
business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley,
but he answered to both names. It was all the
same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind-
stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping,
scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and
sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out
generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary
as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features,
nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek,
stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue;

and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty
rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his
wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always
about with him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and
didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on
Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather
chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he,
no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no
pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't
know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and
snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage
over him in only one respect. They often `came down'
handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with
gladsome looks, `My dear Scrooge, how are you?
When will you come to see me?' No beggars implored
him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him
what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all
his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of
Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to
know him; and when they saw him coming on, would
tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and
then would wag their tails as though they said, `No
eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!'

But what did Scrooge care! It was the very thing
he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths
of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance,
was what the knowing ones call `nuts' to Scrooge.

Once upon a time -- of all the good days in the year,
on Christmas Eve -- old Scrooge sat busy in his
counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy
withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside,
go wheezing up and down, beating their hands
upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the
pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had
only just gone three, but it was quite dark already --
it had not been light all day -- and candles were flaring
in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like
ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog
came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was
so dense without, that although the court was of the
narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms.
To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring
everything, one might have thought that Nature
lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open
that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a
dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying
letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk's
fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one
coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept
the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the
clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted
that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore
the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to
warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being
a man of a strong imagination, he failed.

`A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!' cried
a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's
nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was
the first intimation he had of his approach.

`Bah!' said Scrooge, `Humbug!'

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the
fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was
all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his
eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.
`Christmas a humbug, uncle!' said Scrooge's
nephew. `You don't mean that, I am sure?'

`I do,' said Scrooge. `Merry Christmas! What
right have you to be merry? What reason have you
to be merry? You're poor enough.'

`Come, then,' returned the nephew gaily. `What
right have you to be dismal? What reason have you
to be morose? You're rich enough.'

Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur
of the moment, said `Bah!' again; and followed it up
with `Humbug.'

`Don't be cross, uncle!' said the nephew.

`What else can I be,' returned the uncle, `when I
live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas!
Out upon merry Christmas! What's Christmas
time to you but a time for paying bills without
money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but
not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books
and having every item in `em through a round dozen
of months presented dead against you? If I could
work my will,' said Scrooge indignantly, `every idiot
who goes about with "Merry Christmas" on his lips,
should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried
with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!'

`Uncle!' pleaded the nephew.

`Nephew!' returned the uncle sternly, `keep Christmas
in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.'

`Keep it!' repeated Scrooge's nephew. `But you
don't keep it.'

`Let me leave it alone, then,' said Scrooge. `Much
good may it do you! Much good it has ever done
you!'

`There are many things from which I might have
derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare
say,' returned the nephew. `Christmas among the
rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas
time, when it has come round -- apart from the
veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything
belonging to it can be apart from that -- as a
good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant
time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar
of the year, when men and women seem by one consent
to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think
of people below them as if they really were
fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race
of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore,
uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or
silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me
good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!'

The clerk in the Tank involuntarily applauded.
Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety,
he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark
for ever.

`Let me hear another sound from you,' said
Scrooge, `and you'll keep your Christmas by losing
your situation! You're quite a powerful speaker,
sir,' he added, turning to his nephew. `I wonder you
don't go into Parliament.'

`Don't be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow.'

Scrooge said that he would see him -- yes, indeed he
did. He went the whole length of the expression,
and said that he would see him in that extremity first.

`But why?' cried Scrooge's nephew. `Why?'

`Why did you get married?' said Scrooge.

`Because I fell in love.'

`Because you fell in love!' growled Scrooge, as if
that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous
than a merry Christmas. `Good afternoon!'

`Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before
that happened. Why give it as a reason for not
coming now?'

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge.

`I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you;
why cannot we be friends?'

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge.

`I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so
resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I
have been a party. But I have made the trial in
homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas
humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!'

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge.

`And A Happy New Year!'

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge.

His nephew left the room without an angry word,
notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to
bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who
cold as he was, was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned
them cordially.

`There's another fellow,' muttered Scrooge; who
overheard him: `my clerk, with fifteen shillings a
week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry
Christmas. I'll retire to Bedlam.'

This lunatic, in letting Scrooge's nephew out, had
let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen,
pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off,
in Scrooge's office. They had books and papers in
their hands, and bowed to him.

`Scrooge and Marley's, I believe,' said one of the
gentlemen, referring to his list. `Have I the pleasure
of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?'

`Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,'
Scrooge replied. `He died seven years ago, this very
night.'

`We have no doubt his liberality is well represented
by his surviving partner,' said the gentleman, presenting
his credentials.

It certainly was; for they had been two kindred
spirits. At the ominous word `liberality,' Scrooge
frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials
back.

`At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,'
said the gentleman, taking up a pen, `it is more than
usually desirable that we should make some slight
provision for the Poor and Destitute, who suffer
greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in
want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands
are in want of common comforts, sir.'

`Are there no prisons?' asked Scrooge.

`Plenty of prisons,' said the gentleman, laying down
the pen again.
`And the Union workhouses?' demanded Scrooge.
`Are they still in operation?'

`They are. Still,' returned the gentleman, `I wish
I could say they were not.'

`The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour,
then?' said Scrooge.

`Both very busy, sir.'

`Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first,
that something had occurred to stop them in their
useful course,' said Scrooge. `I'm very glad to
hear it.'

`Under the impression that they scarcely furnish
Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,'
returned the gentleman, `a few of us are endeavouring
to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink.
and means of warmth. We choose this time, because
it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt,
and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down
for?'

`Nothing!' Scrooge replied.

`You wish to be anonymous?'

`I wish to be left alone,' said Scrooge. `Since you
ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer.
I don't make merry myself at Christmas and I can't
afford to make idle people merry. I help to support
the establishments I have mentioned -- they cost
enough; and those who are badly off must go there.'

`Many can't go there; and many would rather die.'

`If they would rather die,' said Scrooge, `they had
better do it, and decrease the surplus population.
Besides -- excuse me -- I don't know that.'

`But you might know it,' observed the gentleman.

`It's not my business,' Scrooge returned. `It's
enough for a man to understand his own business, and
not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies
me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!'

Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue
their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge returned
his labours with an improved opinion of himself,
and in a more facetious temper than was usual
with him.

Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that
people ran about with flaring links, proffering their
services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct
them on their way. The ancient tower of a church,
whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down
at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became
invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the
clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards as if
its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there.
The cold became intense. In the main street at the
corner of the court, some labourers were repairing
the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier,
round which a party of ragged men and boys were
gathered: warming their hands and winking their
eyes before the blaze in rapture. The water-plug
being left in solitude, its overflowing sullenly congealed,
and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness
of the shops where holly sprigs and berries
crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale
faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers' and grocers'
trades became a splendid joke; a glorious pageant,
with which it was next to impossible to believe that
such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything
to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the
mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks
and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor's
household should; and even the little tailor, whom he
had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for
being drunk and bloodthirsty in the streets, stirred up
to-morrow's pudding in his garret, while his lean
wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.

Foggier yet, and colder! Piercing, searching, biting
cold. If the good Saint Dunstan had but nipped
the Evil Spirit's nose with a touch of such weather
as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then
indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The
owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled
by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs,
stooped down at Scrooge's keyhole to regale him with
a Christmas carol: but at the first sound of

`God bless you, merry gentleman!
May nothing you dismay!'

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action,
that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to
the fog and even more congenial frost.

At length the hour of shutting up the counting-
house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted
from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the
expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed
his candle out, and put on his hat.

`You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?' said
Scrooge.

`If quite convenient, sir.'

`It's not convenient,' said Scrooge, `and it's not
fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think
yourself ill-used, I'll be bound?'

The clerk smiled faintly.

`And yet,' said Scrooge, `you don't think me ill-used,
when I pay a day's wages for no work.'

The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

`A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every
twenty-fifth of December!' said Scrooge, buttoning
his great-coat to the chin. `But I suppose you must
have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next
morning.'

The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge
walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a
twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his
white comforter dangling below his waist (for he
boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill,
at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in
honour of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home
to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play
at blindman's-buff.

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual
melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and
beguiled the rest of the evening with his
banker's-book, went home to bed. He lived in
chambers which had once belonged to his deceased
partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a
lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so
little business to be, that one could scarcely help
fancying it must have run there when it was a young
house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses,
and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough
now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but
Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices.
The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew
its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands.
The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway
of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of
the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the
threshold.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all
particular about the knocker on the door, except that it
was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had
seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence
in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what
is called fancy about him as any man in the city of
London, even including -- which is a bold word -- the
corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be
borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one
thought on Marley, since his last mention of his
seven years' dead partner that afternoon. And then
let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened
that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door,
saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate
process of change -- not a knocker, but Marley's face.

Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow
as the other objects in the yard were, but had a
dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark
cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked
at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly
spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The
hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air;
and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly
motionless. That, and its livid colour, made
it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the
face and beyond its control, rather than a part or
its own expression.

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it
was a knocker again.

To say that he was not startled, or that his blood
was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it
had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue.
But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished,
turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.

He did pause, with a moment's irresolution, before
he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind
it first, as if he half-expected to be terrified with the
sight of Marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall.
But there was nothing on the back of the door, except
the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he
said `Pooh, pooh!' and closed it with a bang.

The sound resounded through the house like thunder.
Every room above, and every cask in the wine-merchant's
cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal
of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to
be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and
walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too:
trimming his candle as he went.

You may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six
up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad
young Act of Parliament; but I mean to say you
might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken
it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall
and the door towards the balustrades: and done it
easy. There was plenty of width for that, and room
to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge
thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before
him in the gloom. Half a dozen gas-lamps out of
the street wouldn't have lighted the entry too well,
so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with
Scrooge's dip.

Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that.
Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But before
he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms
to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection
of the face to desire to do that.

Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. All as they
should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under
the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin
ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had
a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the
bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown,
which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude
against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guards,
old shoes, two fish-baskets, washing-stand on three
legs, and a poker.

Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked
himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his
custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off
his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and
his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take
his gruel.

It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a
bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and
brood over it, before he could extract the least
sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel.
The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch
merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint
Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures.
There were Cains and Abels, Pharaohs' daughters;
Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending
through the air on clouds like feather-beds, Abrahams,
Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats,
hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts --
and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came
like the ancient Prophet's rod, and swallowed up the
whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first,
with power to shape some picture on its surface from
the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would
have been a copy of old Marley's head on every one.

`Humbug!' said Scrooge; and walked across the
room.

After several turns, he sat down again. As he
threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened
to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the
room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten
with a chamber in the highest story of the
building. It was with great astonishment, and with
a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he
saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in
the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it
rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.

This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute,
but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had
begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking
noise, deep down below; as if some person were
dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine
merchant's cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have
heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described
as dragging chains.

The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound,
and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors
below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight
towards his door.

`It's humbug still!' said Scrooge. `I won't believe it.'

His colour changed though, when, without a pause,
it came on through the heavy door, and passed into
the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the
dying flame leaped up, as though it cried `I know
him; Marley's Ghost!' and fell again.

The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail,
usual waistcoat, tights and boots; the tassels on
the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts,
and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was
clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound
about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge
observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks,
ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel.
His body was transparent; so that Scrooge, observing him,
and looking through his waistcoat, could see
the two buttons on his coat behind.

Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no
bowels, but he had never believed it until now.

No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he
looked the phantom through and through, and saw
it standing before him; though he felt the chilling
influence of its death-cold eyes; and marked the very
texture of the folded kerchief bound about its head
and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before;
he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses.

`How now!' said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever.
`What do you want with me?'

`Much!' -- Marley's voice, no doubt about it.

`Who are you?'

`Ask me who I was.'

`Who were you then?' said Scrooge, raising his
voice. `You're particular, for a shade.' He was going
to say `to a shade,' but substituted this, as more
appropriate.

`In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.'

`Can you -- can you sit down?' asked Scrooge, looking
doubtfully at him.

`I can.'

`Do it, then.'

Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know
whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in
a condition to take a chair; and felt that in the event
of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity
of an embarrassing explanation. But the ghost sat
down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he
were quite used to it.

`You don't believe in me,' observed the Ghost.

`I don't.' said Scrooge.

`What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of
your senses?'

`I don't know,' said Scrooge.

`Why do you doubt your senses?'

`Because,' said Scrooge, `a little thing affects them.
A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may
be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of
cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of
gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!'

Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking
jokes, nor did he feel, in his heart, by any means
waggish then. The truth is, that he tried to be
smart, as a means of distracting his own attention,
and keeping down his terror; for the spectre's voice
disturbed the very marrow in his bones.

To sit, staring at those fixed glazed eyes, in silence
for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very
deuce with him. There was something very awful,
too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal
atmosphere of its own. Scrooge could not feel it
himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the
Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts,
and tassels, were still agitated as by the hot vapour
from an oven.

`You see this toothpick?' said Scrooge, returning
quickly to the charge, for the reason just assigned;
and wishing, though it were only for a second, to
divert the vision's stony gaze from himself.

`I do,' replied the Ghost.

`You are not looking at it,' said Scrooge.

`But I see it,' said the Ghost, `notwithstanding.'

`Well!' returned Scrooge, `I have but to swallow
this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a
legion of goblins, all of my own creation. Humbug,
I tell you! humbug!'

At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook
its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that
Scrooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself
from falling in a swoon. But how much greater was
his horror, when the phantom taking off the bandage
round its head, as if it were too warm to wear indoors,
its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast!

Scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands
before his face.

`Mercy!' he said. `Dreadful apparition, why do
you trouble me?'

`Man of the worldly mind!' replied the Ghost, `do
you believe in me or not?'

`I do,' said Scrooge. `I must. But why do spirits
walk the earth, and why do they come to me?'

`It is required of every man,' the Ghost returned,
`that the spirit within him should walk abroad among
his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that
spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so
after death. It is doomed to wander through the
world -- oh, woe is me! -- and witness what it cannot
share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to
happiness!'

Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain
and wrung its shadowy hands.

`You are fettered,' said Scrooge, trembling. `Tell
me why?'

`I wear the chain I forged in life,' replied the Ghost.
`I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded
it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I
wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?'

Scrooge trembled more and more.

`Or would you know,' pursued the Ghost, `the
weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself?
It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven
Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since.
It is a ponderous chain!'

Scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the
expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty
or sixty fathoms of iron cable: but he could see
nothing.

`Jacob,' he said, imploringly. `Old Jacob Marley,
tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Jacob!'

`I have none to give,' the Ghost replied. `It comes
from other regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed
by other ministers, to other kinds of men. Nor
can I tell you what I would. A very little more, is
all permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I
cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked
beyond our counting-house -- mark me! -- in life my
spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our
money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before
me!'

It was a habit with Scrooge, whenever he became
thoughtful, to put his hands in his breeches pockets.
Pondering on what the Ghost had said, he did so now,
but without lifting up his eyes, or getting off his
knees.

`You must have been very slow about it, Jacob,'
Scrooge observed, in a business-like manner, though
with humility and deference.

`Slow!' the Ghost repeated.

`Seven years dead,' mused Scrooge. `And travelling
all the time!'

`The whole time,' said the Ghost. `No rest, no
peace. Incessant torture of remorse.'

`You travel fast?' said Scrooge.

`On the wings of the wind,' replied the Ghost.

`You might have got over a great quantity of
ground in seven years,' said Scrooge.

The Ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, and
clanked its chain so hideously in the dead silence of
the night, that the Ward would have been justified in
indicting it for a nuisance.

`Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed,' cried the
phantom, `not to know, that ages of incessant labour,
by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into
eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is
all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit
working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may
be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast
means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of
regret can make amends for one life's opportunity
misused! Yet such was I! Oh! such was I!'

`But you were always a good man of business,
Jacob,' faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this
to himself.

`Business!' cried the Ghost, wringing its hands
again. `Mankind was my business. The common
welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance,
and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings
of my trade were but a drop of water in the
comprehensive ocean of my business!'

It held up its chain at arm's length, as if that were
the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it
heavily upon the ground again.

`At this time of the rolling year,' the spectre said
`I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of
fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never
raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise
Men to a poor abode! Were there no poor homes to
which its light would have conducted me!'

Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the
spectre going on at this rate, and began to quake
exceedingly.

`Hear me!' cried the Ghost. `My time is nearly
gone.'

`I will,' said Scrooge. `But don't be hard upon
me! Don't be flowery, Jacob! Pray!'
`How it is that I appear before you in a shape that
you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible
beside you many and many a day.'

It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered,
and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

`That is no light part of my penance,' pursued
the Ghost. `I am here to-night to warn you, that you
have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A
chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer.'

`You were always a good friend to me,' said
Scrooge. `Thank `ee!'

`You will be haunted,' resumed the Ghost, `by
Three Spirits.'

Scrooge's countenance fell almost as low as the
Ghost's had done.

`Is that the chance and hope you mentioned,
Jacob?' he demanded, in a faltering voice.

`It is.'

`I -- I think I'd rather not,' said Scrooge.

`Without their visits,' said the Ghost, `you cannot
hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first tomorrow,
when the bell tolls One.'

`Couldn't I take `em all at once, and have it over,
Jacob?' hinted Scrooge.

`Expect the second on the next night at the same
hour. The third upon the next night when the last
stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see
me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you
remember what has passed between us!'

When it had said these words, the spectre took its
wrapper from the table, and bound it round its head,
as before. Scrooge knew this, by the smart sound its
teeth made, when the jaws were brought together
by the bandage. He ventured to raise his eyes again,
and found his supernatural visitor confronting him
in an erect attitude, with its chain wound over and
about its arm.

The apparition walked backward from him; and at
every step it took, the window raised itself a little,
so that when the spectre reached it, it was wide open.
It beckoned Scrooge to approach, which he did.
When they were within two paces of each other,
Marley's Ghost held up its hand, warning him to
come no nearer. Scrooge stopped.

Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear:
for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible
of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of
lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and
self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment,
joined in the mournful dirge;
and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.

Scrooge followed to the window: desperate in his
curiosity. He looked out.

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither
and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they
went. Every one of them wore chains like Marley's
Ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments)
were linked together; none were free. Many had
been personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He
had been quite familiar with one old ghost, in a white
waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to
its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist
a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below,
upon a door-step. The misery with them all was,
clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in
human matters, and had lost the power for ever.

Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist
enshrouded them, he could not tell. But they and
their spirit voices faded together; and the night became
as it had been when he walked home.

Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door
by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked,
as he had locked it with his own hands, and
the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say `Humbug!'
but stopped at the first syllable. And being,
from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues
of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or
the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of
the hour, much in need of repose; went straight to
bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the
instant.

Stave 2: The First of the Three Spirits

When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed,
he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from
the opaque walls of his chamber. He was endeavouring to
pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, when the chimes of a
neighbouring church struck the four quarters. So he listened
for the hour.

To his great astonishment the heavy bell went on from
six to seven, and from seven to eight, and regularly up to
twelve; then stopped. Twelve. It was past two when he
went to bed. The clock was wrong. An icicle must have
got into the works. Twelve.

He touched the spring of his repeater, to correct this most
preposterous clock. Its rapid little pulse beat twelve:
and stopped.

`Why, it isn't possible,' said Scrooge, `that I can have
slept through a whole day and far into another night. It
isn't possible that anything has happened to the sun, and
this is twelve at noon.'

The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed,
and groped his way to the window. He was obliged to rub
the frost off with the sleeve of his dressing-gown before he
could see anything; and could see very little then. All he
could make out was, that it was still very foggy and extremely
cold, and that there was no noise of people running to and fro,
and making a great stir, as there unquestionably would have been
if night had beaten off bright day, and taken possession of the
world. This was a great relief, because "Three days after sight
of this First of Exchange pay to Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge on his
order," and so forth, would have become a mere United States
security if there were no days to count by.

Scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought
it over and over, and could make nothing of it. The more he
thought, the more perplexed he was; and, the more he endeavoured
not to think, the more he thought.

Marley's Ghost bothered him exceedingly. Every time he resolved
within himself, after mature inquiry that it was all a dream, his
mind flew back again, like a strong spring released, to its first
position, andpresented the same problem to be worked all through,
"Was it a dream or not?"

Scrooge lay in this state until the chime had gone three-quarters
more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the Ghost hadwarned
him of a visitation when the bell tolled one. He resolved to lie
awake until the hour
was passed; and, considering that he could no more go to sleep
than go to heaven, this was, perhaps, the wisest resolution in
his power.

The quarter was so long, that he was more than once convinced he
must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the clock.
At length it broke upon his listening ear.

"Ding, dong!"

"A quarter past," said Scrooge, counting.

"Ding, dong!"

"Half past," said Scrooge.

"Ding, dong!"

"A quarter to it," said Scrooge.
"Ding, dong!"

"The hour itself," said Scrooge triumphantly, "and nothing else!"

He spoke before the hour bell sounded, which it now did with a
deep, dull, hollow, melancholy ONE. Light flashed up in the room
upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn.

The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, by a
hand. Not the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his
back, but those to which his face was addressed. The curtains
of his bed were drawn aside; and Scrooge, starting up into a
half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the
unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as I am now
to you, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow.

It was a strange figure -- like a child: yet not so like a
child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural
medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded
from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions.
Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was
white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in
it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. The arms were
very long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its hold
were of uncommon strength. Its legs and feet, most delicately
formed, were, like those upper members, bare. It wore a tunic
of the purest white, and round its waist was bound
a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It held
a branch of fresh green holly in its hand; and, in singular
contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed
with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was,
that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear
jet of light, by which all this was visible; and which was
doubtless the occasion of its using, in its duller moments, a
great extinguisher for a cap, which it now held under its arm.

Even this, though, when Scrooge looked at it with increasing
steadiness, was not its strangest quality. For as its belt
sparkled and glittered now in one part and now in another,
and what was light one instant, at another time was dark, so
the figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a
thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs,
now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a
body: of which dissolving parts, no outline would be visible
in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. And in the
very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and
clear as ever.

`Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to
me.' asked Scrooge.

`I am.'

The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if
instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.

`Who, and what are you.' Scrooge demanded.

`I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.'

`Long Past.' inquired Scrooge: observant of its dwarfish
stature.

`No. Your past.'

Perhaps, Scrooge could not have told anybody why, if
anybody could have asked him; but he had a special desire
to see the Spirit in his cap; and begged him to be covered.

`What.' exclaimed the Ghost,' would you so soon put
out, with worldly hands, the light I give. Is it not enough
that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and
force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon
my brow.'

Scrooge reverently disclaimed all intention to offend
or any knowledge of having wilfully bonneted the Spirit at
any period of his life. He then made bold to inquire what
business brought him there.

`Your welfare.' said the Ghost.

Scrooge expressed himself much obliged, but could not
help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been
more conducive to that end. The Spirit must have heard
him thinking, for it said immediately:

`Your reclamation, then. Take heed.'

It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him
gently by the arm.

`Rise. and walk with me.'

It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead that the
weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes;
that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below
freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers,
dressing-gown, and nightcap; and that he had a cold upon him at
that time. The grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand,
was not to be resisted. He rose: but finding that the Spirit
made towards the window, clasped his robe in supplication.

`I am mortal,' Scrooge remonstrated, `and liable to fall.'

`Bear but a touch of my hand there,' said the Spirit,
laying it upon his heart,' and you shall be upheld in more
than this.'

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall,
and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either
hand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it
was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished
with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon
the ground.

`Good Heaven!' said Scrooge, clasping his hands together,
as he looked about him. `I was bred in this place. I was
a boy here.'

The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch,
though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still
present to the old man's sense of feeling. He was conscious
of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected
with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares
long, long, forgotten.

`Your lip is trembling,' said the Ghost. `And what is
that upon your cheek.'

Scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice,
that it was a pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead him
where he would.

`You recollect the way.' inquired the Spirit.

`Remember it.' cried Scrooge with fervour; `I could
walk it blindfold.'

`Strange to have forgotten it for so many years.' observed
the Ghost. `Let us go on.'

They walked along the road, Scrooge recognising every
gate, and post, and tree; until a little market-town appeared
in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river.
Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them
with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in
country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys
were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the
broad fields were so full of merry music, that the crisp air
laughed to hear it.

`These are but shadows of the things that have been,' said
the Ghost. `They have no consciousness of us.'

The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, Scrooge
knew and named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond
all bounds to see them. Why did his cold eye glisten, and
his heart leap up as they went past. Why was he filled
with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry
Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and bye-ways, for
their several homes. What was merry Christmas to Scrooge.
Out upon merry Christmas. What good had it ever done
to him.

`The school is not quite deserted,' said the Ghost. `A
solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still.'

Scrooge said he knew it. And he sobbed.

They left the high-road, by a well-remembered lane, and
soon approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little
weathercock-surmounted cupola, on the roof, and a bell
hanging in it. It was a large house, but one of broken
fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their walls
were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their
gates decayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables;
and the coach-houses and sheds were over-run with grass.
Nor was it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for
entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open
doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished,
cold, and vast. There was an earthy savour in the air, a
chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow
with too much getting up by candle-light, and not too
much to eat.

They went, the Ghost and Scrooge, across the hall, to a
door at the back of the house. It opened before them, and
disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by
lines of plain deal forms and desks. At one of these a lonely
boy was reading near a feeble fire; and Scrooge sat down
upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he
used to be.

Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle
from the mice behind the panelling, not a drip from the
half-thawed
water-spout in the dull yard behind, not a sigh among
the leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle
swinging of an empty store-house door, no, not a clicking in
the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge with a softening
influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears.

The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his
younger self, intent upon his reading. Suddenly a man, in
foreign garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at:
stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, and
leading by the bridle an ass laden with wood.

`Why, it's Ali Baba.' Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. `It's
dear old honest Ali Baba. Yes, yes, I know. One Christmas
time, when yonder solitary child was left here all alone,
he did come, for the first time, just like that. Poor boy. And
Valentine,' said Scrooge,' and his wild brother, Orson; there
they go. And what's his name, who was put down in his
drawers, asleep, at the Gate of Damascus; don't you see him.
And the Sultan's Groom turned upside down by the Genii;
there he is upon his head. Serve him right. I'm glad of it.
What business had he to be married to the Princess.'

To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature
on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between
laughing and crying; and to see his heightened and excited
face; would have been a surprise to his business friends in
the city, indeed.

`There's the Parrot.' cried Scrooge. `Green body and
yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the
top of his head; there he is. Poor Robin Crusoe, he called
him, when he came home again after sailing round the
island. `Poor Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin
Crusoe.' The man thought he was dreaming, but he wasn't.
It was the Parrot, you know. There goes Friday, running
for his life to the little creek. Halloa. Hoop. Hallo.'

Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his
usual character, he said, in pity for his former self, `Poor
boy.' and cried again.

`I wish,' Scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his
pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his
cuff: `but it's too late now.'

`What is the matter.' asked the Spirit.

`Nothing,' said Scrooge. `Nothing. There was a boy
singing a Christmas Carol at my door last night. I should
like to have given him something: that's all.'

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand:
saying as it did so, `Let us see another Christmas.'

Scrooge's former self grew larger at the words, and the
room became a little darker and more dirty. The panels shrunk,
the windows cracked; fragments of plaster fell out of the
ceiling, and the naked laths were shown instead; but how
all this was brought about, Scrooge knew no more than you
do. He only knew that it was quite correct; that everything
had happened so; that there he was, alone again, when all
the other boys had gone home for the jolly holidays.

He was not reading now, but walking up and down
despairingly.
Scrooge looked at the Ghost, and with a mournful
shaking of his head, glanced anxiously towards the door.

It opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy,
came darting in, and putting her arms about his neck, and
often kissing him, addressed him as her `Dear, dear
brother.'

`I have come to bring you home, dear brother.' said the
child, clapping her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh.
`To bring you home, home, home.'

`Home, little Fan.' returned the boy.

`Yes.' said the child, brimful of glee. `Home, for good
and all. Home, for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder
than he used to be, that home's like Heaven. He spoke so
gently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that
I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come
home; and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coach
to bring you. And you're to be a man.' said the child,
opening her eyes,' and are never to come back here; but
first, we're to be together all the Christmas long, and have
the merriest time in all the world.'

`You are quite a woman, little Fan.' exclaimed the boy.

She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his
head; but being too little, laughed again, and stood on
tiptoe to embrace him. Then she began to drag him, in her
childish eagerness, towards the door; and he, nothing loth to
go, accompanied her.

A terrible voice in the hall cried.' Bring down Master
Scrooge's box, there.' and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster
himself, who glared on Master Scrooge with a ferocious
condescension, and threw him into a dreadful state of mind
by shaking hands with him. He then conveyed him and his
sister into the veriest old well of a shivering best-parlour that
ever was seen, where the maps upon the wall, and the celestial
and terrestrial globes in the windows, were waxy with cold.
Here he produced a decanter of curiously light wine, and a
block of curiously heavy cake, and administered instalments
of those dainties to the young people: at the same time,
sending out a meagre servant to offer a glass of something
to the postboy, who answered that he thanked the gentleman,
but if it was the same tap as he had tasted before, he had
rather not. Master Scrooge's trunk being by this time tied
on to the top of the chaise, the children bade the schoolmaster
good-bye right willingly; and getting into it, drove
gaily down the garden-sweep: the quick wheels dashing the
hoar-frost and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens
like spray.

`Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have
withered,' said the Ghost. `But she had a large heart.'

`So she had,' cried Scrooge. `You're right. I will not
gainsay it, Spirit. God forbid.'

`She died a woman,' said the Ghost,' and had, as I think,
children.'

`One child,' Scrooge returned.

`True,' said the Ghost. `Your nephew.'

Scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly,
`Yes.'

Although they had but that moment left the school behind
them, they were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city,
where shadowy passengers passed and repassed; where shadowy
carts and coaches battle for the way, and all the strife and
tumult of a real city were. It was made plain enough, by
the dressing of the shops, that here too it was Christmas
time again; but it was evening, and the streets were
lighted up.

The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked
Scrooge if he knew it.

`Know it.' said Scrooge. `Was I apprenticed here.'

They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh
wig, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two
inches taller he must have knocked his head against the
ceiling, Scrooge cried in great excitement:

`Why, it's old Fezziwig. Bless his heart; it's Fezziwig
alive again.'

Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the
clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his
hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over
himself, from his shows to his organ of benevolence; and
called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice:

`Yo ho, there. Ebenezer. Dick.'

Scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly
in, accompanied by his fellow-prentice.

`Dick Wilkins, to be sure.' said Scrooge to the Ghost.
`Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached
to me, was Dick. Poor Dick. Dear, dear.'

`Yo ho, my boys.' said Fezziwig. `No more work to-night.
Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer. Let's
have the shutters up,' cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp clap
of his hands,' before a man can say Jack Robinson.'

You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it.
They charged into the street with the shutters -- one, two,
three -- had them up in their places -- four, five, six -- barred
them and pinned then -- seven, eight, nine -- and came back
before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses.

`Hilli-ho!' cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the
high desk, with wonderful agility. `Clear away, my lads,
and let's have lots of room here. Hilli-ho, Dick. Chirrup,
Ebenezer.'

Clear away. There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared
away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking
on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if
it were dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor was
swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon
the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and
bright a ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter's
night.

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the
lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty
stomach-aches. In came Mrs Fezziwig, one vast substantial
smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and
lovable. In came the six young followers whose hearts they
broke. In came all the young men and women employed in
the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin, the
baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particular friend,
the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was
suspected of not having board enough from his master; trying
to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who
was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress.
In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly,
some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling;
in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went,
twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again
the other way; down the middle and up again; round
and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old
top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top
couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top
couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them. When
this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his
hands to stop the dance, cried out,' Well done.' and the
fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially
provided for that purpose. But scorning rest, upon his
reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no
dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home,
exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-new man
resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish.

There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more
dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there
was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece
of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer.
But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast
and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind. The sort
of man who knew his business better than you or I could
have told it him.) struck up Sir Roger de Coverley.' Then
old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs Fezziwig. Top
couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them;
three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were
not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no
notion of walking.

But if they had been twice as many -- ah, four times --
old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would
Mrs Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner
in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me
higher, and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issue
from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the
dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted, at any given
time, what would have become of them next. And when old
Fezziwig and Mrs Fezziwig had gone all through the dance;
advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and
curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to
your place; Fezziwig cut -- cut so deftly, that he appeared
to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without
a stagger.

When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up.
Mr and Mrs Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side
of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually
as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas.
When everybody had retired but the two prentices, they did
the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away,
and the lads were left to their beds; which were under a
counter in the back-shop.

During the whole of this time, Scrooge had acted like a
man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene,
and with his former self. He corroborated everything,
remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent
the strangest agitation. It was not until now, when the
bright faces of his former self and Dick were turned from
them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious
that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its
head burnt very clear.

`A small matter,' said the Ghost,' to make these silly
folks so full of gratitude.'

`Small.' echoed Scrooge.

The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices,
who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig:
and when he had done so, said,

`Why. Is it not. He has spent but a few pounds of
your mortal money: three or four perhaps. Is that so
much that he deserves this praise.'

`It isn't that,' said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and
speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self.
`It isn't that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy
or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a
pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words and
looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is
impossible
to add and count them up: what then. The happiness
he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.'

He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped.

`What is the matter.' asked the Ghost.

`Nothing in particular,' said Scrooge.

`Something, I think.' the Ghost insisted.

`No,' said Scrooge,' No. I should like to be able to say
a word or two to my clerk just now. That's all.'

His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance
to the wish; and Scrooge and the Ghost again stood side by
side in the open air.

`My time grows short,' observed the Spirit. `Quick.'

This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to any one whom he
could see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again
Scrooge saw himself. He was older now; a man in the prime
of life. His face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later
years; but it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice.
There was an eager, greedy, restless motion in the eye, which
showed the passion that had taken root, and where the
shadow of the growing tree would fall.

He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young
girl in a mourning-dress: in whose eyes there were tears,
which sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of
Christmas Past.

`It matters little,' she said, softly. `To you, very little.
Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort
you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have
no just cause to grieve.'

`What Idol has displaced you.' he rejoined.

`A golden one.'

`This is the even-handed dealing of the world.' he said.
`There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and
there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity
as the pursuit of wealth.'

`You fear the world too much,' she answered, gently.
`All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being
beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your
nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion,
Gain, engrosses you. Have I not.'

`What then.' he retorted. `Even if I have grown so
much wiser, what then. I am not changed towards you.'

She shook her head.

`Am I.'

`Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were
both poor and content to be so, until, in good season, we could
improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You
are changed. When it was made, you were another man.'

`I was a boy,' he said impatiently.

`Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you
are,' she returned. `I am. That which promised happiness
when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now that
we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of
this, I will not say. It is enough that I have thought of it,
and can release you.'

`Have I ever sought release.'

`In words. No. Never.'

`In what, then.'

`In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another
atmosphere of life; another Hope as its great end. In
everything that made my love of any worth or value in your
sight. If this had never been between us,' said the girl,
looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him;' tell me,
would you seek me out and try to win me now. Ah, no.'

He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition, in
spite of himself. But he said with a struggle,' You think
not.'

`I would gladly think otherwise if I could,' she answered,
`Heaven knows. When I have learned a Truth like this,
I know how strong and irresistible it must be. But if you
were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believe
that you would choose a dowerless girl -- you who, in your
very confidence with her, weigh everything by Gain: or,
choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your
one guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your
repentance and regret would surely follow. I do; and I
release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you
once were.'

He was about to speak; but with her head turned from
him, she resumed.

`You may -- the memory of what is past half makes me
hope you will -- have pain in this. A very, very brief time,
and you will dismiss the recollection of it, gladly, as an
unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you
awoke. May you be happy in the life you have chosen.'

She left him, and they parted.

`Spirit.' said Scrooge,' show me no more. Conduct
me home. Why do you delight to torture me.'

`One shadow more.' exclaimed the Ghost.

`No more.' cried Scrooge. `No more, I don't wish to
see it. Show me no more.'

But the relentless Ghost pinioned him in both his arms,
and forced him to observe what happened next.

They were in another scene and place; a room, not very
large or handsome, but full of comfort. Near to the winter
fire sat a beautiful young girl, so like that last that Scrooge
believed it was the same, until he saw her, now a comely
matron, sitting opposite her daughter. The noise in this
room was perfectly tumultuous, for there were more children
there, than Scrooge in his agitated state of mind could count;
and, unlike the celebrated herd in the poem, they were not
forty children conducting themselves like one, but every
child was conducting itself like forty. The consequences
were uproarious beyond belief; but no one seemed to care;
on the contrary, the mother and daughter laughed heartily,
and enjoyed it very much; and the latter, soon beginning to
mingle in the sports, got pillaged by the young brigands
most ruthlessly. What would I not have given to one of
them. Though I never could have been so rude, no, no. I
wouldn't for the wealth of all the world have crushed that
braided hair, and torn it down; and for the precious little
shoe, I wouldn't have plucked it off, God bless my soul. to
save my life. As to measuring her waist in sport, as they
did, bold young brood, I couldn't have done it; I should
have expected my arm to have grown round it for a punishment,
and never come straight again. And yet I should
have dearly liked, I own, to have touched her lips; to have
questioned her, that she might have opened them; to have
looked upon the lashes of her downcast eyes, and never
raised a blush; to have let loose waves of hair, an inch of
which would be a keepsake beyond price: in short, I should
have liked, I do confess, to have had the lightest licence
of a child, and yet to have been man enough to know its
value.

But now a knocking at the door was heard, and such a
rush immediately ensued that she with laughing face and
plundered dress was borne towards it the centre of a flushed
and boisterous group, just in time to greet the father, who
came home attended by a man laden with Christmas toys
and presents. Then the shouting and the struggling, and
the onslaught that was made on the defenceless porter.
The scaling him with chairs for ladders to dive into his
pockets, despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight
by his cravat, hug him round his neck, pommel his back,
and kick his legs in irrepressible affection. The shouts of
wonder and delight with which the development of every
package was received. The terrible announcement that the
baby had been taken in the act of putting a doll's frying-pan
into his mouth, and was more than suspected of having
swallowed a fictitious turkey, glued on a wooden platter.
The immense relief of finding this a false alarm. The joy,
and gratitude, and ecstasy. They are all indescribable alike.
It is enough that by degrees the children and their emotions
got out of the parlour, and by one stair at a time, up to the
top of the house; where they went to bed, and so subsided.

And now Scrooge looked on more attentively than ever,
when the master of the house, having his daughter leaning
fondly on him, sat down with her and her mother at his
own fireside; and when he thought that such another
creature, quite as graceful and as full of promise, might
have called him father, and been a spring-time in the
haggard winter of his life, his sight grew very dim indeed.

`Belle,' said the husband, turning to his wife with a
smile,' I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon.'

`Who was it.'

`Guess.'

`How can I. Tut, don't I know.' she added in the
same breath, laughing as he laughed. `Mr Scrooge.'

`Mr Scrooge it was. I passed his office window; and as
it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, I could
scarcely help seeing him. His partner lies upon the point
of death, I hear; and there he sat alone. Quite alone in
the world, I do believe.'

`Spirit.' said Scrooge in a broken voice,' remove me
from this place.'

`I told you these were shadows of the things that have
been,' said the Ghost. `That they are what they are, do
not blame me.'

`Remove me.' Scrooge exclaimed,' I cannot bear it.'

He turned upon the Ghost, and seeing that it looked upon
him with a face, in which in some strange way there were
fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it.

`Leave me. Take me back. Haunt me no longer.'

In the struggle, if that can be called a struggle in which
the Ghost with no visible resistance on its own part was
undisturbed by any effort of its adversary, Scrooge observed
that its light was burning high and bright; and dimly
connecting that with its influence over him, he seized the
extinguisher-cap, and by a sudden action pressed it down
upon its head.

The Spirit dropped beneath it, so that the extinguisher
covered its whole form; but though Scrooge pressed it down
with all his force, he could not hide the light, which streamed
from under it, in an unbroken flood upon the ground.

He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an
irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own
bedroom. He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand
relaxed; and had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank
into a heavy sleep.

Stave 3: The Second of the Three Spirits

Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and
sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Scrooge had
no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the
stroke of One. He felt that he was restored to consciousness
in the right nick of time, for the especial purpose of holding
a conference with the second messenger despatched to him
through Jacob Marley's intervention. But, finding that he
turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonder which
of his curtains this new spectre would draw back, he put
them every one aside with his own hands, and lying down
again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed. For,
he wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its
appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise, and
made nervous.

Gentlemen of the free-and-easy sort, who plume themselves
on being acquainted with a move or two, and being usually
equal to the time-of-day, express the wide range of their
capacity for adventure by observing that they are good for
anything from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter; between which
opposite extremes, no doubt, there lies a tolerably wide and
comprehensive range of subjects. Without venturing for
Scrooge quite as hardily as this, I don't mind calling on you
to believe that he was ready for a good broad field of
strange appearances, and that nothing between a baby and
rhinoceros would have astonished him very much.

Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by
any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the
Bell struck One, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a
violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter
of an hour went by, yet nothing came. All this time, he lay
upon his bed, the very core and centre of a blaze of ruddy
light, which streamed upon it when the clock proclaimed the
hour; and which, being only light, was more alarming than
a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it
meant, or would be at; and was sometimes apprehensive
that he might be at that very moment an interesting case of
spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation of
knowing it. At last, however, he began to think -- as you or
I would have thought at first; for it is always the person not
in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done
in it, and would unquestionably have done it too -- at last, I
say, he began to think that the source and secret of this
ghostly light might be in the adjoining room, from whence,
on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. This idea taking
full possession of his mind, he got up softly and shuffled in
his slippers to the door.

The moment Scrooge's hand was on the lock, a strange
voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He
obeyed.

It was his own room. There was no doubt about that.
But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls
and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a
perfect grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming
berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and
ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had
been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring
up the chimney, as that dull petrification of a hearth had
never known in Scrooge's time, or Marley's, or for many and
many a winter season gone. Heaped up on the floor, to form
a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn,
great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages,
mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts,
cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears,
immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that
made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy
state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to
see:, who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's
horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge,
as he came peeping round the door.

`Come in.' exclaimed the Ghost. `Come in. and know
me better, man.'

Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this
Spirit. He was not the dogged Scrooge he had been; and
though the Spirit's eyes were clear and kind, he did not like
to meet them.

`I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,' said the Spirit.
`Look upon me.'

Scrooge reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple
green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment
hung so loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was
bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any
artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the
garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore no other
covering than a holly wreath, set here and there with shining
icicles. Its dark brown curls were long and free; free as its
genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice,
its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air. Girded
round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword
was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.

`You have never seen the like of me before.' exclaimed
the Spirit.

`Never,' Scrooge made answer to it.

`Have never walked forth with the younger members of
my family; meaning (for I am very young) my elder brothers
born in these later years.' pursued the Phantom.

`I don't think I have,' said Scrooge. `I am afraid I have
not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit.'

`More than eighteen hundred,' said the Ghost.

`A tremendous family to provide for.' muttered Scrooge.

The Ghost of Christmas Present rose.

`Spirit,' said Scrooge submissively,' conduct me where
you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt
a lesson which is working now. To-night, if you have aught
to teach me, let me profit by it.'

`Touch my robe.'

Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast.

Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game,
poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings,
fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. So did the room,
the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stood
in the city streets on Christmas morning, where (for the
weather was severe) the people made a rough, but brisk and
not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the
pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of
their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see
it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting
into artificial little snow-storms.

The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows
blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow
upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground;
which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by
the heavy wheels of carts and waggons; furrows that crossed
and recrossed each other hundreds of times where the great
streets branched off; and made intricate channels, hard to trace
in the thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy,
and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist,
half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles descended
in shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in Great
Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away
to their dear hearts' content. There was nothing very cheerful
in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of
cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest
summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.

For, the people who were shovelling away on the housetops
were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another
from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious
snowball -- better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest --
laughing heartily if it went right and not less heartily if it
went wrong. The poulterers' shops were still half open, and
the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were great,
round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the
waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and
tumbling
out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were
ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish Friars, and winking
from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went
by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were
pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there
were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers' benevolence
to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might
water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy
and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among
the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered
leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting
off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great
compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and
beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after
dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth among
these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and
stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was
something going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and
round their little world in slow and passionless excitement.

The Grocers'. oh the Grocers'. nearly closed, with perhaps
two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such
glimpses. It was not alone that the scales descending on the
counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller
parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled
up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended
scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even
that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so
extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight,
the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and
spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on
feel faint and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs
were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in
modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or that
everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but
the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful
promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other
at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left
their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to
fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in
the best humour possible; while the Grocer and his people
were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which
they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own,
worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws
to peck at if they chose.

But soon the steeples called good people all, to church and
chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in
their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the
same time there emerged from scores of bye-streets, lanes, and
nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners
to the baker' shops. The sight of these poor revellers
appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood with
Scrooge beside him in a baker's doorway, and taking off the
covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their
dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind
of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words
between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he
shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good
humour was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame
to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was. God love
it, so it was.

In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and
yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners
and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of
wet above each baker's oven; where the pavement smoked as
if its stones were cooking too.

`Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from
your torch.' asked Scrooge.

`There is. My own.'

`Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day.'
asked Scrooge.

`To any kindly given. To a poor one most.'

`Why to a poor one most.' asked Scrooge.

`Because it needs it most.'

`Spirit,' said Scrooge, after a moment's thought,' I wonder
you, of all the beings in the many worlds about us, should
desire to cramp these people's opportunities of innocent
enjoyment.'

`I.' cried the Spirit.

`You would deprive them of their means of dining every
seventh day, often the only day on which they can be said
to dine at all,' said Scrooge. `Wouldn't you.'

`I.' cried the Spirit.

`You seek to close these places on the Seventh Day.' said
Scrooge. `And it comes to the same thing.'

`I seek.' exclaimed the Spirit.

`Forgive me if I am wrong. It has been done in your
name, or at least in that of your family,' said Scrooge.

`There are some upon this earth of yours,' returned the
Spirit,' who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds
of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and
selfishness
in our name, who are as strange to us and all out kith and
kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge
their doings on themselves, not us.'

Scrooge promised that he would; and they went on,
invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of the
town. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (which
Scrooge had observed at the baker's), that notwithstanding
his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place
with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as
gracefully and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible
he could have done in any lofty hall.

And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in
showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind,
generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor
men, that led him straight to Scrooge's clerk's; for there he
went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and
on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped
to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinkling of his
torch. Think of that. Bob had but fifteen bob a-week
himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his
Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present
blessed his four-roomed house.

Then up rose Mrs Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out
but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons,
which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and
she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of
her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter
Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and
getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar (Bob's private
property, conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the
day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly
attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks.
And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing
in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the
e the baker's they had smelt the
goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious
thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced
about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the
skies, while he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked
him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling up,
knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and
peeled.

`What has ever got your precious father then.' said Mrs
Cratchit. `And your brother, Tiny Tim. And Martha
warn't as late last Christmas Day by half-an-hour.'

`Here's Martha, mother.' said a girl, appearing as she
spoke.

`Here's Martha, mother.' cried the two young Cratchits.
`Hurrah. There's such a goose, Martha.'

`Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are.'
said Mrs Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off
her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal.

`We'd a deal of work to finish up last night,' replied the
girl,' and had to clear away this morning, mother.'

`Well. Never mind so long as you are come,' said Mrs
Cratchit. `Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have
a warm, Lord bless ye.'

`No, no. There's father coming,' cried the two young
Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. `Hide, Martha,
hide.'

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father,
with at least three feet of comforter exclusive of the fringe,
hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned
up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his
shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and
had his limbs supported by an iron frame.

`Why, where's our Martha.' cried Bob Cratchit, looking
round.

`Not coming,' said Mrs Cratchit.

`Not coming.' said Bob, with a sudden declension in his
high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way
from church, and had come home rampant. `Not coming
upon Christmas Day.'

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only
in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet
door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits
hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house,
that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

`And how did little Tim behave. asked Mrs Cratchit,
when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had
hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

`As good as gold,' said Bob,' and better. Somehow he
gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the
strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home,
that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he
was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember
upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind
men see.'

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and
trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing
strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back
came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by
his brother and sister to his stool before the fire; and while
Bob, turning up his cuffs -- as if, poor fellow, they were
capable of being made more shabby -- compounded some hot
mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round
and round and put it on the hob to simmer; Master Peter,
and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the
goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose
the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a
black swan was a matter of course -- and in truth it was
something very like it in that house. Mrs Cratchit made
the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot;
Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour;
Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted
the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny
corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for
everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard
upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest
they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be
helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was
said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs
Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared
to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the
long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of
delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim,
excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with
the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah.

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe
there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and
flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal
admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes,
it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as
Mrs Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small
atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at
last. Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest
Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to
the eyebrows. But now, the plates being changed by Miss
Belinda, Mrs Cratchit left the room alone -- too nervous to
bear witnesses -- to take the pudding up and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough. Suppose it should
break in turning out. Suppose somebody should have got
over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they
were merry with the goose -- a supposition at which the two
young Cratchits became livid. All sorts of horrors were
supposed.

Hallo. A great deal of steam. The pudding was out of
the copper. A smell like a washing-day. That was the
cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook's next
door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that.
That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs Cratchit
entered -- flushed, but smiling proudly -- with the pudding,
like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half
of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with
Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding. Bob Cratchit said, and calmly
too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by
Mrs Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs Cratchit said that
now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had
had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had
something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it
was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have
been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed
to hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the
hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the
jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges
were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the
fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in
what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and
at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass.
Two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as
golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with
beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and
cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:

`A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us.'

Which all the family re-echoed.

`God bless us every one.' said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

He sat very close to his father's side upon his little
stool.
Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the
child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that
he might be taken from him.

`Spirit,' said Scrooge, with an interest he had never felt
before, `tell me if Tiny Tim will live.'

`I see a vacant seat,' replied the Ghost, `in the poor
chimney-corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully
preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future,
the child will die.'

`No, no,' said Scrooge. `Oh, no, kind Spirit. say he
will be spared.'

`If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none
other of my race,' returned the Ghost, `will find him here.
What then. If he be like to die, he had better do it, and
decrease the surplus population.'

Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by
the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief.
`Man,' said the Ghost, `if man you be in heart, not
adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered
What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what
men shall live, what men shall die. It may be, that in the
sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live
than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God. to hear
the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life
among his hungry brothers in the dust.'

Scrooge bent before the Ghost's rebuke, and trembling cast
his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them speedily, on
hearing his own name.

`Mr Scrooge.' said Bob; `I'll give you Mr Scrooge, the
Founder of the Feast.'

`The Founder of the Feast indeed.' cried Mrs Cratchit,
reddening. `I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece
of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good
appetite for it.'

`My dear,' said Bob, `the children. Christmas Day.'

`It should be Christmas Day, I am sure,' said she, `on
which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard,
unfeeling man as Mr Scrooge. You know he is, Robert.
Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow.'

`My dear,' was Bob's mild answer, `Christmas Day.'

`I'll drink his health for your sake and the Day's,' said
Mrs Cratchit, `not for his. Long life to him. A merry
Christmas and a happy new year. He'll be very merry and
very happy, I have no doubt.'

The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of
their proceedings which had no heartiness. Tiny Tim drank
it last of all, but he didn't care twopence for it. Scrooge
was the Ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast
a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full
five minutes.

After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than
before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done
with. Bob Cratchit told them how he had a situation in his
eye for Master Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full
five-and-sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed
tremendously at the idea of Peter's being a man of business;
and Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from
between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular
investments he should favour when he came into the receipt
of that bewildering income. Martha, who was a poor
apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what kind of work
she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch,
and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for a
good long rest; to-morrow being a holiday she passed at
home. Also how she had seen a countess and a lord some
days before, and how the lord was much about as tall as
Peter;' at which Peter pulled up his collars so high that you
couldn't have seen his head if you had been there. All this
time the chestnuts and the jug went round and round; and
by-and-bye they had a song, about a lost child travelling in
the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a plaintive little voice,
and sang it very well indeed.

There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not
a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes
were far from being water-proof; their clothes were scanty;
and Peter might have known, and very likely did, the inside
of a pawnbroker's. But, they were happy, grateful, pleased
with one another, and contented with the time; and when
they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings
of the Spirit's torch at parting, Scrooge had his eye upon
them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last.

By this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty
heavily; and as Scrooge and the Spirit went along the streets,
the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlours, and
all sorts of rooms, was wonderful. Here, the flickering of
the blaze showed preparations for a cosy dinner, with hot
plates baking through and through before the fire, and deep
red curtains, ready to be drawn to shut out cold and darkness.
There all the children of the house were running out
into the snow to meet their married sisters, brothers, cousins,
uncles, aunts, and be the first to greet them. Here, again,
were shadows on the window-blind of guests assembling; and
there a group of handsome girls, all hooded and fur-booted,
and all chattering at once, tripped lightly off to some near
neighbour's house; where, woe upon the single man who saw
them enter -- artful witches, well they knew it -- in a glow.

But, if you had judged from the numbers of people on
their way to friendly gatherings, you might have thought
that no one was at home to give them welcome when they
got there, instead of every house expecting company, and
piling up its fires half-chimney high. Blessings on it, how
the Ghost exulted. How it bared its breadth of breast, and
opened its capacious palm, and floated on, outpouring, with
a generous hand, its bright and harmless mirth on everything
within its reach. The very lamplighter, who ran on before,
dotting the dusky street with specks of light, and who was
dressed to spend the evening somewhere, laughed out loudly
as the Spirit passed, though little kenned the lamplighter
that he had any company but Christmas.

And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost, they
stood upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses
of rude stone were cast about, as though it were the burial-place
of giants; and water spread itself wheresoever it listed,
or would have done so, but for the frost that held it prisoner;
and nothing grew but moss and furze, and coarse rank grass.
Down in the west the setting sun had left a streak of fiery
red, which glared upon the desolation for an instant, like a
sullen eye, and frowning lower, lower, lower yet, was lost in
the thick gloom of darkest night.

`What place is this.' asked Scrooge.

`A place where Miners live, who labour in the bowels of
the earth,' returned the Spirit. `But they know me. See.'

Alight shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they
advanced towards it. Passing through the wall of mud and
stone, they found a cheerful company assembled round a
glowing fire. An old, old man and woman, with their
children and their children's children, and another generation
beyond that, all decked out gaily in their holiday attire.
The old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the howling
of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a
Christmas song -- it had been a very old song when he was a
boy -- and from time to time they all joined in the chorus.
So surely as they raised their voices, the old man got quite
blithe and loud; and so surely as they stopped, his vigour
sank again.

The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Scrooge hold his
robe, and passing on above the moor, sped -- whither. Not
to sea. To sea. To Scrooge's horror, looking back, he saw
the last of the land, a frightful range of rocks, behind them;
and his ears were deafened by the thundering of water, as it
rolled and roared, and raged among the dreadful caverns it
had worn, and fiercely tried to undermine the earth.

Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league
or so from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed,
the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse.
Great heaps of sea-weed clung to its base, and storm-birds
-- born of the wind one might suppose, as sea-weed of the
water -- rose and fell about it, like the waves they skimmed.

But even here, two men who watched the light had made
a fire, that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed
out a ray of brightness on the awful sea. Joining their
horny hands over the rough table at which they sat, they
wished each other Merry Christmas in their can of grog; and
one of them: the elder, too, with his face all damaged and
scarred with hard weather, as the figure-head of an old ship
might be: struck up a sturdy song that was like a Gale in
itself.

Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea
-- on, on -- until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any
shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman
at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who
had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations;
but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or
had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his
companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward
hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or
sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another
on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared
to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those
he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted
to remember him.

It was a great surprise to Scrooge, while listening to the
moaning of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it
was to move on through the lonely darkness over an unknown
abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound as Death: it
was a great surprise to Scrooge, while thus engaged, to hear
a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Scrooge
to recognise it as his own nephew's and to find himself in a
bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling
by his side, and looking at that same nephew with approving
affability.

`Ha, ha.' laughed Scrooge's nephew. `Ha, ha, ha.'

If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a
man more blest in a laugh than Scrooge's nephew, all I can
say is, I should like to know him too. Introduce him to me,
and I'll cultivate his acquaintance.

It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that
while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing
in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and
good-humour. When Scrooge's nephew laughed in this way: holding
his sides, rolling his head, and twisting his face into the
most extravagant contortions: Scrooge's niece, by marriage,
laughed as heartily as he. And their assembled friends being
not a bit behindhand, roared out lustily.

`Ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha.'

`He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live.' cried
Scrooge's nephew. `He believed it too.'

`More shame for him, Fred.' said Scrooge's niece,
indignantly. Bless those women; they never do anything by
halves. They are always in earnest.

She was very pretty: exceedingly pretty. With a dimpled,
surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that
seemed made to be kissed -- as no doubt it was; all kinds of
good little dots about her chin, that melted into one another
when she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever
saw in any little creature's head. Altogether she was what
you would have called provoking, you know; but satisfactory,

`He's a comical old fellow,' said Scrooge's nephew,' that's
the truth: and not so pleasant as he might be. However,
his offences carry their own punishment, and I have nothing
to say against him.'

`I'm sure he is very rich, Fred,' hinted Scrooge's niece.
`At least you always tell me so.'

`What of that, my dear.' said Scrooge's nephew. `His
wealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it.
He don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the
satisfaction of thinking -- ha, ha, ha. -- that he is ever going
to benefit us with it.'

`I have no patience with him,' observed Scrooge's niece.
Scrooge's niece's sisters, and all the other ladies, expressed
the same opinion.

`Oh, I have.' said Scrooge's nephew. `I am sorry for
him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers
by his ill whims. Himself, always. Here, he takes it into
his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us.
What's the consequence. He don't lose much of a dinner.'

`Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner,' interrupted
Scrooge's niece. Everybody else said the same, and they
must be allowed to have been competent judges, because
they had just had dinner; and, with the dessert upon the
table, were clustered round the fire, by lamplight.

`Well. I'm very glad to hear it,' said Scrooge's nephew,
`because I haven't great faith in these young housekeepers.
What do you say, Topper.'

Topper had clearly got his eye upon one of Scrooge's niece's
sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was a wretched outcast,
who had no right to express an opinion on the subject.
Whereat Scrooge's niece's sister -- the plump one with the lace
tucker: not the one with the roses -- blushed.

`Do go on, Fred,' said Scrooge's niece, clapping her hands.
`He never finishes what he begins to say. He is such a
ridiculous fellow.'

Scrooge's nephew revelled in another laugh, and as it was
impossible to keep the infection off; though the plump sister
tried hard to do it with aromatic vinegar; his example was
unanimously followed.

`I was only going to say,' said Scrooge's nephew,' that
the consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not making
merry with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant
moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses
pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts,
either in his mouldy old office, or his dusty chambers. I
mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he
likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas
till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it -- I defy
him -- if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after
year, and saying Uncle Scrooge, how are you. If it only
puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds,
that's something; and I think I shook him yesterday.'

It was their turn to laugh now at the notion of his shaking
Scrooge. But being thoroughly good-natured, and not much
caring what they laughed at, so that they laughed at any
rate, he encouraged them in their merriment, and passed the
bottle joyously.

After tea. they had some music. For they were a musical
family, and knew what they were about, when they sung a
Glee or Catch, I can assure you: especially Topper, who
could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never
swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face
over it. Scrooge's niece played well upon the harp; and
played among other tunes a simple little air (a mere nothing:
you might learn to whistle it in two minutes), which had
been familiar to the child who fetched Scrooge from the
boarding-school, as he had been reminded by the Ghost of
Christmas Past. When this strain of music sounded, all the
things that Ghost had shown him, came upon his mind; he
softened more and more; and thought that if he could have
listened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated the
kindnesses of life for his own happiness with his own hands,
without resorting to the sexton's spade that buried Jacob
Marley.

But they didn't devote the whole evening to music. After
a while they played at forfeits; for it is good to be children
sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its
mighty Founder was a child himself. Stop. There was first
a game at blind-man's buff. Of course there was. And I
no more believe Topper was really blind than I believe he
had eyes in his boots. My opinion is, that it was a done
thing between him and Scrooge's nephew; and that the
Ghost of Christmas Present knew it. The way he went after
that plump sister in the lace tucker, was an outrage on the
credulity of human nature. Knocking down the fire-irons,
tumbling over the chairs, bumping against the piano,
smothering himself among the curtains, wherever she went,
there went he. He always knew where the plump sister was.
He wouldn't catch anybody else. If you had fallen up
against him (as some of them did), on purpose, he would
have made a feint of endeavouring to seize you, which would
have been an affront to your understanding, and would instantly
have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister.
She often cried out that it wasn't fair; and it really was not.
But when at last, he caught her; when, in spite of all her
silken rustlings, and her rapid flutterings past him, he got
her into a corner whence there was no escape; then his
conduct was the most execrable. For his pretending not to
know her; his pretending that it was necessary to touch her
head-dress, and further to assure himself of her identity by
pressing a certain ring upon her finger, and a certain chain
about her neck; was vile, monstrous. No doubt she told
him her opinion of it, when, another blind-man being in
office, they were so very confidential together, behind the
curtains.

Scrooge's niece was not one of the blind-man's buff party,
but was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool,
in a snug corner, where the Ghost and Scrooge were close
behind her. But she joined in the forfeits, and loved her
love to admiration with all the letters of the alphabet.
Likewise at the game of How, When, and Where, she was
very great, and to the secret joy of Scrooge's nephew, beat
her sisters hollow: though they were sharp girls too, as
could have told you. There might have been twenty people there,
young and old, but they all played, and so did Scrooge, for,
wholly forgetting the interest he had in what was going on, that
his voice made no sound in their ears, he sometimes came out with
his guess quite loud, and very often guessed quite right, too;
for the sharpest needle, best Whitechapel, warranted not to cut
in the eye, was not sharper than Scrooge; blunt as he took it in
his head to be.

The Ghost was greatly pleased to find him in this mood,
and looked upon him with such favour, that he begged like
a boy to be allowed to stay until the guests departed. But
this the Spirit said could not be done.

`Here is a new game,' said Scrooge. `One half hour,
Spirit, only one.'

It was a Game called Yes and No, where Scrooge's nephew
had to think of something, and the rest must find out what;
he only answering to their questions yes or no, as the case
was. The brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed,
elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live
animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an
animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes,
and lived in London, and walked about the streets,
and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody, and
didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market,
and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a
tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh
question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a
fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that
he was obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last
the plump sister, falling into a similar state, cried out:

`I have found it out. I know what it is, Fred. I know
what it is.'

`What is it.' cried Fred.

`It's your Uncle Scrooge.'

Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal
sentiment, though some objected that the reply to `Is it a
bear.' ought to have been `Yes;' inasmuch as an answer
in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts
from Mr Scrooge, supposing they had ever had any tendency
that way.

`He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure,' said
Fred,' and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health.
Here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at the
moment; and I say, "Uncle Scrooge."'

`Well. Uncle Scrooge.' they cried.

`A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the old
man, whatever he is.' said Scrooge's nephew. `He wouldn't
take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. Uncle
Scrooge.'

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light
of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious
company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech,
if the Ghost had given him time. But the whole scene
passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his
nephew; and he and the Spirit were again upon their travels.

Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they
visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood
beside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands,
and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they
were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was
rich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery's every
refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not
made fast the door and barred the Spirit out, he left his
blessing, and taught Scrooge his precepts.

It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Scrooge
had his doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared
to be condensed into the space of time they passed
together. It was strange, too, that while Scrooge remained
unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly
older. Scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of
it, until they left a children's Twelfth Night party, when,
looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place,
he noticed that its hair was grey.

`Are spirits' lives so short.' asked Scrooge.

`My life upon this globe, is very brief,' replied the Ghost.
`It ends to-night.'

`To-night.' cried Scrooge.

`To-night at midnight. Hark. The time is drawing
near.'

The chimes were ringing the three quarters past eleven at
that moment.

`Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,' said
Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe,' but I see
something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding
from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw.'

`It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,' was
the Spirit's sorrowful reply. `Look here.'

From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children;
wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt
down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.

`Oh, Man. look here. Look, look, down here.' exclaimed
the Ghost.

They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged,
scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where
graceful youth should have filled their features out, and
touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled
hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and
pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat
enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No
change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any
grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has
monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to
him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but
the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie
of such enormous magnitude.

`Spirit. are they yours.' Scrooge could say no more.

`They are Man's,' said the Spirit, looking down upon
them. `And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers.
This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both,
and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for
on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the
writing be erased. Deny it.' cried the Spirit, stretching out
its hand towards the city. `Slander those who tell it ye.
Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse.
And abide the end.'

`Have they no refuge or resource.' cried Scrooge.

`Are there no prisons.' said the Spirit, turning on him
for the last time with his own words. `Are there no workhouses.'
The bell struck twelve.

Scrooge looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it
not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the
prediction of old Jacob Marley, and lifting
up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and
hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards
him.

Stave 4: The Last of the Spirits

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When
it came, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in
the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to
scatter gloom and mystery.

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed
its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible
save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been
difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it
from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside
him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a
solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither
spoke nor moved.

`I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To
Come.' said Scrooge.

The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its
hand.

`You are about to show me shadows of the things that
have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,'
Scrooge pursued. `Is that so, Spirit.'

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an
instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head.
That was the only answer he received.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time,
Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled
beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when
he prepared to follow it. The Spirit pauses a moment, as
observing his condition, and giving him time to recover.

But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him
with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the
dusky shroud, there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon
him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost,
could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap
of black.

`Ghost of the Future.' he exclaimed,' I fear you more
than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose
is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another
man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company,
and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak
to me.'

It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight
before them.

`Lead on.' said Scrooge. `Lead on. The night is
waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead
on, Spirit.'

The Phantom moved away as it had come towards him.
Scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which bore him
up, he thought, and carried him along.

They scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city rather
seemed to spring up about them, and encompass them of its
own act. But there they were, in the heart of it; on
Change, amongst the merchants; who hurried up and down,
and chinked the money in their pockets, and conversed in
groups, and looked at their watches, and trifled thoughtfully
with their great gold seals; and so forth, as Scrooge had
seen them often.

The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of business men.
Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Scrooge
advanced to listen to their talk.

`No,' said a great fat man with a monstrous chin,' I
don't know much about it, either way. I only know he's
dead.'

`When did he die.' inquired another.

`Last night, I believe.'

`Why, what was the matter with him.' asked a third,
taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box.
`I thought he'd never die.'

`God knows,' said the first, with a yawn.

`What has he done with his money.' asked a red-faced
gentleman with a pendulous excrescence on the end of his
nose, that shook like the gills of a turkey-cock.

`I haven't heard,' said the man with the large chin,
yawning again. `Left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't
left it to me. That's all I know.'

This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.

`It's likely to be a very cheap funeral,' said the same
speaker;' for upon my life I don't know of anybody to go
to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer.'

`I don't mind going if a lunch is provided,' observed the
gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. `But I must
be fed, if I make one.'

Another laugh.

`Well, I am the most disinterested among you, after all,'
said the first speaker,' for I never wear black gloves, and I
never eat lunch. But I'll offer to go, if anybody else will.
When I come to think of it, I his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak
whenever we met. Bye, bye.'

Speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with
other groups. Scrooge knew the men, and looked towards the
Spirit for an explanation.

The Phantom glided on into a street. Its finger pointed
to two persons meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinking
that the explanation might lie here.

He knew these men, also, perfectly. They were men of aye
business: very wealthy, and of great importance. He had made
a point always of standing well in their esteem: in a business
point of view, that is; strictly in a business point of view.

`How are you.' said one.

`How are you.' returned the other.

`Well.' said the first. `Old Scratch has got his own at
last, hey.'

`So I am told,' returned the second. `Cold, isn't it.'

`Seasonable for Christmas time. You're not a skater, I
suppose.'

`No. No. Something else to think of. Good morning.'

Not another word. That was their meeting, their
conversation, and their parting.

Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the
Spirit should attach importance to conversations apparently so
trivial; but feeling assured that they must have some hidden
purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be.
They could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the
death of Jacob, his old partner, for that was Past, and this
Ghost's province was the Future. Nor could he think of any
one immediately connected with himself, to whom he could
apply them. But nothing doubting that to whomsoever
they applied they had some latent moral for his own improvement,
he resolved to treasure up every word he heard,
and everything he saw; and especially to observe the
shadow of himself when it appeared. For he had an expectation
that the conduct of his future self would give him
the clue he missed, and would render the solution of these
riddles easy.

He looked about in that very place for his own image; but
another man stood in his accustomed corner, and though the
clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he
saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes that poured
in through the Porch. It gave him little surprise, however;
for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and
thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutions carried
out in this.

Quiet and dark, beside him stood the Phantom, with its
outstretched hand. When he roused himself from his
thoughtful quest, he fancied from the turn of the hand, and
its situation in reference to himself, that the Unseen Eyes
were looking at him keenly. It made him shudder, and feel
very cold.

They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part
of the town, where Scrooge had never penetrated before,
although he recognised its situation, and its bad repute. The
ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched;
the people half-naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly. Alleys and
archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offences of
smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the
whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth, and misery.

Far in this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed,
beetling shop, below a pent-house roof, where iron, old rags,
bottles, bones, and greasy offal, were bought. Upon the floor
within, were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges,
files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. Secrets
that few would like to scrutinise were bred and hidden in
mountains of unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and
sepulchres of bones. Sitting in among the wares he dealt in, by a
charcoal stove, made of old bricks, was a grey-haired rascal,
nearly seventy years of age; who had screened himself from the
cold air without, by a frousy curtaining of miscellaneous
tatters, hung upon a line; and smoked his pipe in all the luxury
of calm retirement.

Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence of this
man, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the
shop. But she had scarcely entered, when another woman,
similarly laden, came in too; and she was closely followed by
a man in faded black, who was no less startled by the sight
of them, than they had been upon the recognition of each
other. After a short period of blank astonishment, in which
the old man with the pipe had joined them, they all three
burst into a laugh.

`Let the charwoman alone to be the first.' cried she who
had entered first. `Let the laundress alone to be the second;
and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. Look
here, old Joe, here's a chance. If we haven't all three met
here without meaning it.'

`You couldn't have met in a better place,' said old Joe,
removing his pipe from his mouth. `Come into the parlour.
You were made free of it long ago, you know; and the other
two an't strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop.
Ah. How it skreeks. There an't such a rusty bit of metal
in the place as its own hinges, I believe; and I'm sure there's
no such old bones here, as mine. Ha, ha. We're all suitable
to our calling, we're well matched. Come into the
parlour. Come into the parlour.'

The parlour was the space behind the screen of rags. The
old man raked the fire together with an old stair-rod, and
having trimmed his smoky lamp (for it was night), with the
stem of his pipe, put it in his mouth again.

While he did this, the woman who had already spoken
threw her bundle on the floor, and sat down in a flaunting
manner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, and
looking with a bold defiance at the other two.

`What odds then. What odds, Mrs Dilber.' said the
woman. `Every person has a right to take care of themselves.
He always did.'

`That's true, indeed.' said the laundress. `No man
more so.'

`Why then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid,
woman; who's the wiser. We're not going to pick holes in
each other's coats, I suppose.'

`No, indeed.' said Mrs Dilber and the man together.
`We should hope not.'

`Very well, then.' cried the woman. `That's enough.
Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these.
Not a dead man, I suppose.'

`No, indeed,' said Mrs Dilber, laughing.

`If he wanted to keep them after he was dead, a wicked old
screw,' pursued the woman,' why wasn't he natural in his
lifetime. If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look
after him when he was struck with Death, instead of lying
gasping out his last there, alone by himself.'

`It's the truest word that ever was spoke,' said Mrs
Dilber. `It's a judgment on him.'

`I wish it was a little heavier judgment,' replied the
woman;' and it should have been, you may depend upon it,
if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that
bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out
plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to
see it. We know pretty well that we were helping ourselves,
before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle,
Joe.'

But the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this;
and the man in faded black, mounting the breach first,
produced his plunder. It was not extensive. A seal or two,
a pencil-case, a pair of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of no
great value, were all. They were severally examined and
appraised by old Joe, who chalked the sums he was disposed
to give for each, upon the wall, and added them up into a
total when he found there was nothing more to come.

`That's your account,' said Joe,' and I wouldn't give
another sixpence, if I was to be boiled for not doing it.
Who's next.'

Mrs Dilber was next. Sheets and towels, a little wearing
apparel, two old-fashioned silver teaspoons, a pair of
sugar-tongs, and a few boots. Her account was stated on the wall
in the same manner.

`I always give too much to ladies. It's a weakness of mine,
and that's the way I ruin myself,' said old Joe. `That's
your account. If you asked me for another penny, and made
it an open question, I'd repent of being so liberal and knock
off half-a-crown.'

`And now undo my bundle, Joe,' said the first woman.

Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience
of opening it, and having unfastened a great many knots,
dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff.

`What do you call this.' said Joe. `Bed-curtains.'

`Ah.' returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward
on her crossed arms. `Bed-curtains.'

`You don't mean to say you took them down, rings and
all, with him lying there.' said Joe.

`Yes I do,' replied the woman. `Why not.'

`You were born to make your fortune,' said Joe,' and
you'll certainly do it.'

`I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything
in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as he
was, I promise you, Joe,' returned the woman coolly. `Don't
drop that oil upon the blankets, now.'

`His blankets.' asked Joe.

`Whose else's do you think.' replied the woman. `He
isn't likely to take cold without them, I dare say.'

`I hope he didn't die of any thing catching. Eh.' said
old Joe, stopping in his work, and looking up.

`Don't you be afraid of that,' returned the woman. `I
an't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for
such things, if he did. Ah. you may look through that
shirt till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor
a threadbare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one too.
They'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me.'

`What do you call wasting of it.' asked old Joe.

`Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure,' replied
the woman with a laugh. `Somebody was fool enough to
do it, but I took it off again. If calico an't good enough for
such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's quite
as becoming to the body. He can't look uglier than he did
in that one.'

Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat
grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by
the old man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and
disgust, which could hardly have been greater, though they
demons, marketing the corpse itself.

`Ha, ha.' laughed the same woman, when old Joe,
producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their
several gains upon the ground. `This is the end of it, you
see. He frightened every one away from him when he was
alive, to profit us when he was dead. Ha, ha, ha.'

`Spirit.' said Scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. `I
see, I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my own.
My life tends that way, now. Merciful Heaven, what is
this.'

He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now
he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: on which,
beneath a ragged sheet, there lay a something covered up,
which, though it was dumb, announced itself in awful
language.

The room was very dark, too dark to be observed with
any accuracy, though Scrooge glanced round it in obedience
to a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind of room it
was. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon
the bed; and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept,
uncared for, was the body of this man.

Scrooge glanced towards the Phantom. Its steady hand
was pointed to the head. The cover was so carelessly adjusted
that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon
Scrooge's part, would have disclosed the face. He thought
of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and longed to do it;
but had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss
the spectre at his side.

Oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, set up thine altar
here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy
command: for this is thy dominion. But of the loved,
revered, and honoured head, thou canst not turn one hair
to thy dread purposes, or make one feature odious. It is
not that the hand is heavy and will fall down when released;
it is not that the heart and pulse are still; but that the
hand was open, generous, and true; the heart brave, warm,
and tender; and the pulse a man's. Strike, Shadow, strike.
And see his good deeds springing from the wound, to sow
the world with life immortal.

No voice pronounced these words in Scrooge's ears, and
yet he heard them when he looked upon the bed. He
thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would be
his foremost thoughts. Avarice, hard-dealing, griping cares.
They have brought him to a rich end, truly.

He lay, in the dark empty house, with not a man, a
woman, or a child, to say that he was kind to me in this
or that, and for the memory of one kind word I will be
kind to him. A cat was tearing at the door, and there was
a sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearth-stone. What
they wanted in the room of death, and why they were so
restless and disturbed, Scrooge did not dare to think.

`Spirit.' he said,' this is a fearful place. In leaving it,
I shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go.'

Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the
head.

`I understand you,' Scrooge returned,' and I would do
it, if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have
not the power.'

Again it seemed to look upon him.

`If there is any person in the town, who feels emotion
caused by this man's death,' said Scrooge quite agonised,
`show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech you.'

The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a
moment, like a wing; and withdrawing it, revealed a room
by daylight, where a mother and her children were.

She was expecting some one, and with anxious eagerness;
for she walked up and down the room; started at every
sound; looked out from the window; glanced at the clock;
tried, but in vain, to work with her needle; and could hardly
bear the voices of the children in their play.

At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried
to the door, and met her husband; a man whose face was
careworn and depressed, though he was young. There was
a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of serious delight
of which he felt ashamed, and which he struggled to repress.

He sat down to the dinner that had been boarding for
him by the fire; and when she asked him faintly what news
(which was not until after a long silence), he appeared
embarrassed how to answer.

`Is it good.' she said, `or bad?' -- to help him.

`Bad,' he answered.

`We are quite ruined.'

`No. There is hope yet, Caroline.'

`If he relents,' she said, amazed, `there is. Nothing is
past hope, if such a miracle has happened.'

`He is past relenting,' said her husband. `He is dead.'

She was a mild and patient creature if her face spoke
truth; but she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she
said so, with clasped hands. She prayed forgiveness the next
moment, and was sorry; but the first was the emotion of
her heart.

`What the half-drunken woman whom I told you of last
night, said to me, when I tried to see him and obtain a
week's delay; and what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid
me; turns out to have been quite true. He was not only
very ill, but dying, then.'

`To whom will our debt be transferred.'

`I don't know. But before that time we shall be ready
with the money; and even though we were not, it would be
a bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his
successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, Caroline.'

Yes. Soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter.
The children's faces, hushed and clustered round to hear what
they so little understood, were brighter; and it was a happier
house for this man's death. The only emotion that the
Ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one of
pleasure.

`Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,' said
Scrooge;' or that dark chamber, Spirit, which we left just
now, will be for ever present to me.'

The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar
to his feet; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and
there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They
entered poor Bob Cratchit's house; the dwelling he had
visited before; and found the mother and the children seated
round the fire.

Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as
still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter,
who had a book before him. The mother and her daughters
were engaged in sewing. But surely they were very quiet.

`And he took a child, and set him in the midst of
them.'

Where had Scrooge heard those words. He had not
dreamed them. The boy must have read them out, as he
and the Spirit crossed the threshold. Why did he not
go on.

The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her
hand up to her face.

`The colour hurts my eyes,' she said.

The colour. Ah, poor Tiny Tim.

`They're better now again,' said Cratchit's wife. `It
makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak
eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It
must be near his time.'

`Past it rather,' Peter answered, shutting up his book.
`But I think he has walked a little slower than he used,
these few last evenings, mother.'

They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a
steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once:

`I have known him walk with -- I have known him walk
with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.'

`And so have I,' cried Peter. `Often.'

`And so have I,' exclaimed another. So had all.

`But he was very light to carry,' she resumed, intent upon
her work,' and his father loved him so, that it was no
trouble: no trouble. And there is your father at the door.'

She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his comforter
-- he had need of it, poor fellow -- came in. His tea
was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should
help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got
upon his knees and laid, each child a little cheek, against
his face, as if they said,' Don't mind it, father. Don't be
grieved.'

Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to
all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and
praised the industry and speed of Mrs Cratchit and the girls.
They would be done long before Sunday, he said.

`Sunday. You went to-day, then, Robert.' said his
wife.

`Yes, my dear,' returned Bob. `I wish you could have
gone. It would have done you good to see how green a
place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I
would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child.'
cried Bob. `My little child.'

He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he
could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther
apart perhaps than they were.

He left the room, and went up-stairs into the room above,
which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas.
There was a chair set close beside the child, and there were
signs of some one having been there, lately. Poor Bob sat
down in it, and when he had thought a little and composed
himself, he kissed the little face. He was reconciled to what
had happened, and went down again quite happy.

They drew about the fire, and talked; the girls and mother
working still. Bob told them of the extraordinary kindness
of Mr Scrooge's nephew, whom he had scarcely seen but
once, and who, meeting him in the street that day, and seeing
that he looked a little -' just a little down you know,' said
Bob, inquired what had happened to distress him. `On
which,' said Bob,' for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman
you ever heard, I told him. `I am heartily sorry for it, Mr
Cratchit,' he said,' and heartily sorry for your good wife.'
By the bye, how he ever knew that, I don't know.'

`Knew what, my dear.'

`Why, that you were a good wife,' replied Bob.

`Everybody knows that.' said Peter.

`Very well observed, my boy.' cried Bob. `I hope they
do. `Heartily sorry,' he said,' for your good wife. If I
can be of service to you in any way,' he said, giving me
his card,' that's where I live. Pray come to me.' Now, it
wasn't,' cried Bob,' for the sake of anything he might be
able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was
quite delightful. It really seemed as if he had known our
Tiny Tim, and felt with us.'

`I'm sure he's a good soul.' said Mrs Cratchit.

`You would be surer of it, my dear,' returned Bob,' if
you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised
- mark what I say. -- if he got Peter a better situation.'

`Only hear that, Peter,' said Mrs Cratchit.

`And then,' cried one of the girls,' Peter will be keeping
company with some one, and setting up for himself.'

`Get along with you.' retorted Peter, grinning.

`It's just as likely as not,' said Bob,' one of these days;
though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. But however
and when ever we part from one another, I am sure we
shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim -- shall we -- or this
first parting that there was among us.'

`Never, father.' cried they all.

`And I know,' said Bob,' I know, my dears, that when
we recollect how patient and how mild he was; although he
was a little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily among
ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it.'

`No, never, father.' they all cried again.

`I am very happy,' said little Bob,' I am very happy.'

Mrs Cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the
two young Cratchits kissed him, and Peter and himself shook
hands. Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence was from
God.

`Spectre,' said Scrooge,' something informs me that our
parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not
how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead.'

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him, as
before -- though at a different time, he thought: indeed, there
seemed no order in these latter visions, save that they were
in the Future -- into the resorts of business men, but showed
him not himself. Indeed, the Spirit did not stay for anything,
but went straight on, as to the end just now desired,
until besought by Scrooge to tarry for a moment.

`This courts,' said Scrooge,' through which we hurry now,
is where my place of occupation is, and has been for a length
of time. I see the house. Let me behold what I shall be,
in days to come.'

The Spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere.

`The house is yonder,' Scrooge exclaimed. `Why do you
point away.'

The inexorable finger underwent no change.

Scrooge hastened to the window of his office, and looked
in. It was an office still, but not his. The furniture was
not the same, and the figure in the chair was not himself.
The Phantom pointed as before.

He joined it once again, and wondering why and whither
he had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate.
He paused to look round before entering.

A churchyard. Here, then, the wretched man whose name
he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. It was a
worthy place. Walled in by houses; overrun by grass and
weeds, the growth of vegetation's death, not life; choked up
with too much burying; fat with repleted appetite. A
worthy place.

The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to
One. He advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was
exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new
meaning in its solemn shape.

`Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,'
said Scrooge, `answer me one question. Are these the
shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of
things that May be, only.'

Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which
it stood.

`Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if
persevered in, they must lead,' said Scrooge. `But if the
courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is
thus with what you show me.'

The Spirit was immovable as ever.

Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and
following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected
grave his own name, Ebenezer Scrooge.

`Am I that man who lay upon the bed.' he cried, upon
his knees.

The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again.

`No, Spirit. Oh no, no.'

The finger still was there.

`Spirit.' he cried, tight clutching at its robe,' hear me.
I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must
have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I
am past all hope.'

For the first time the hand appeared to shake.

`Good Spirit,' he pursued, as down upon the ground he
fell before it:' Your nature intercedes for me, and pities
me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you
have shown me, by an altered life.'

The kind hand trembled.

`I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it
all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the
Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I
will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I
may sponge away the writing on this stone.'

In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought to
free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it.
The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him.

Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate aye
reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress.
It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.

Stave 5: The End of It

Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own,
the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time
before him was his own, to make amends in!

`I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future.'
Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. `The Spirits
of all Three shall strive within me. Oh Jacob Marley.
Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this. I say
it on my knees, old Jacob, on my knees.'

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions,
that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his
call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the
Spirit, and his face was wet with tears.

`They are not torn down.' cried Scrooge, folding one of
his bed-curtains in his arms,' they are not torn down, rings
and all. They are here -- I am here -- the shadows of the
things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will
be. I know they will.'

His hands were busy with his garments all this time;
turning them inside out, putting them on upside down,
tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every
kind of extravagance.

`I don't know what to do.' cried Scrooge, laughing and
crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoon of
himself with his stockings. `I am as light as a feather, I
am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I
am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to
everybody. A happy New Year to all the world. Hallo
here. Whoop. Hallo.'

He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing
there: perfectly winded.

`There's the saucepan that the gruel was in.' cried
Scrooge, starting off again, and going round the fireplace.
`There's the door, by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley
entered. There's the corner where the Ghost of Christmas
Present, sat. There's the window where I saw the wandering
Spirits. It's all right, it's all true, it all happened.
Ha ha ha.'

Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so
many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh.
The father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs.

`I don't know what day of the month it is.' said
Scrooge. `I don't know how long I've been among the
Spirits. I don't know anything. I'm quite a baby. Never
mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hallo. Whoop.
Hallo here.'

He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing
out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clang,
hammer; ding, dong, bell. Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang,
clash. Oh, glorious, glorious.

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his
head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold;
cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight;
Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious.
Glorious.

`What's to-day.' cried Scrooge, calling downward to a
boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look
about him.

`Eh.' returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

`What's to-day, my fine fellow.' said Scrooge.

`To-day.' replied the boy. `Why, Christmas Day.'

`It's Christmas Day.' said Scrooge to himself. `I
haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night.
They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of
course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow.'

`Hallo.' returned the boy.

`Do you know the Poulterer's, in the next street but one,
at the corner.' Scrooge inquired.

`I should hope I did,' replied the lad.

`An intelligent boy.' said Scrooge. `A remarkable boy.
Do you know whether they've sold the prize Turkey that
was hanging up there -- Not the little prize Turkey: the
big one.'

`What, the one as big as me.' returned the boy.

`What a delightful boy.' said Scrooge. `It's a pleasure
to talk to him. Yes, my buck.'

`It's hanging there now,' replied the boy.

`Is it.' said Scrooge. `Go and buy it.'

`Walk-er.' exclaimed the boy.

`No, no,' said Scrooge, `I am in earnest. Go and buy
it, and tell them to bring it here, that I may give them the
direction where to take it. Come back with the man, and
I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than
five minutes and I'll give you half-a-crown.'

The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady
hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast.

`I'll send it to Bon Cratchit's.' whispered Scrooge,
rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. `He shan't
know who sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe
Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's
will be.'

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady
one, but write it he did, somehow, and went down-stairs to
open the street door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's
man. As he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker
caught his eye.

`I shall love it, as long as I live.' cried Scrooge, patting
it with his hand. `I scarcely ever looked at it before.
What an honest expression it has in its face. It's a
wonderful knocker. -- Here's the Turkey. Hallo. Whoop.
How are you. Merry Christmas.'

It was a Turkey. He never could have stood upon his
legs, that bird. He would have snapped them short off in a
minute, like sticks of sealing-wax.

`Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town,'
said Scrooge. `You must have a cab.'

The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with
which he paid for the Turkey, and the chuckle with which
he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed
the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle
with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and
chuckled till he cried.

Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to
shake very much; and shaving requires attention, even when
you don't dance while you are at it. But if he had cut the
end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of
sticking-plaister
over it, and been quite satisfied.

He dressed himself all in his best, and at last got out
into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth,
as he had seen them with the Ghost of Christmas Present;
and walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded
every one with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistibly
pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured fellows
said,' Good morning, sir. A merry Christmas to you.'
And Scrooge said often afterwards, that of all the blithe
sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears.

He had not gone far, when coming on towards him he
beheld the portly gentleman, who had walked into his
counting-house the day before, and said,' Scrooge and Marley's, I
believe.' It sent a pang across his heart to think how this
old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he
knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it.

`My dear sir,' said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and
taking the old gentleman by both his hands. `How do you
do. I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of
you. A merry Christmas to you, sir.'

`Mr Scrooge.'

`Yes,' said Scrooge. `That is my name, and I fear it
may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon.
And will you have the goodness' -- here Scrooge whispered in
his ear.

`Lord bless me.' cried the gentleman, as if his breath
were taken away. `My dear Mr Scrooge, are you serious.'

`If you please,' said Scrooge. `Not a farthing less. A
great many back-payments are included in it, I assure you.
Will you do me that favour.'

`My dear sir,' said the other, shaking hands with him.
`I don't know what to say to such munificence.'

`Don't say anything please,' retorted Scrooge. `Come
and see me. Will you come and see me.'

`I will.' cried the old gentleman. And it was clear he
meant to do it.

`Thank you,' said Scrooge. `I am much obliged to you.
I thank you fifty times. Bless you.'

He went to church, and walked about the streets, and
watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children
on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into
the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows, and found
that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never
dreamed that any walk -- that anything -- could give him so
much happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps
towards his nephew's house.

He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the
courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, and
did it:

`Is your master at home, my dear.' said Scrooge to the
girl. Nice girl. Very.

`Yes, sir.'

`Where is he, my love.' said Scrooge.

`He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. I'll
show you up-stairs, if you please.'

`Thank you. He knows me,' said Scrooge, with his hand
already on the dining-room lock. `I'll go in here, my dear.'

He turned it gently, and sidled his face in, round the door.
They were looking at the table (which was spread out in
great array); for these young housekeepers are always nervous
on such points, and like to see that everything is right.

`Fred.' said Scrooge.

Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started.
Scrooge had forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting
in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done
it, on any account.

`Why bless my soul.' cried Fred,' who's that.'

`It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner.
Will you let me in, Fred.'

Let him in. It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off.
He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier.
His niece looked just the same. So did Topper when he
came. So did the plump sister when she came. So did
every one when they came. Wonderful party, wonderful
games, wonderful unanimity, wonderful happiness.

But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was
early there. If he could only be there first, and catch Bob
Cratchit coming late. That was the thing he had set his
heart upon.

And he did it; yes, he did. The clock struck nine. No
Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. He was full eighteen
minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his
door wide open, that he might see him come into the Tank.

His hat was off, before he opened the door; his comforter
too. He was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his
pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock.

`Hallo.' growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice, as
near as he could feign it. `What do you mean by coming
here at this time of day.'

`I am very sorry, sir,' said Bob. `I am behind my time.'

`You are.' repeated Scrooge. `Yes. I think you are.
Step this way, sir, if you please.'

`It's only once a year, sir,' pleaded Bob, appearing from
the Tank. `It shall not be repeated. I was making rather
merry yesterday, sir.'

`Now, I'll tell you what, my friend,' said Scrooge,' I
am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And
therefore,' he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving
Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into
the Tank again;' and therefore I am about to raise your
salary.'

Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He
had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it,
holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help
and a strait-waistcoat.

`A merry Christmas, Bob,' said Scrooge, with an earnestness
that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the
back. `A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I
have given you for many a year. I'll raise your salary, and
endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss
your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of
smoking bishop, Bob. Make up the fires, and buy another
coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit.'

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and
infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was
a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a
master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or
any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old
world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him,
but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was
wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this
globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill
of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these
would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they
should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in
less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was
quite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon
the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was
always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas
well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that
be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim
observed, God bless Us, Every One!

THE POINT OF HONOR

2006-09-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

Collected by THOMAS L. MASSON
Published by DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY for REVIEW OF REVIEWS CO. 1922

A young lieutenant was passed by a private, who failed to salute. The
lieutenant called him back, and said sternly:

"You did not salute me. For this you will immediately salute two hundred
times."

At this moment the General came up.

"What's all this?" he exclaimed, seeing the poor private about to begin.

The lieutenant explained.

"This ignoramus failed to salute me, and as a punishment, I am making
him salute two hundred times."

"Quite right," replied the General, smiling. "But do not forget, sir,
that upon each occasion you are to salute in return."

GIDEON By Wells Hastings (1878- )

2006-09-07T07:08:00.000-07:00

[From _The Century Magazine_, April, 1914; copyright, 1914, by The
Century Co.; republished by the author's permission.]

"An' de next' frawg dat houn' pup seen, he pass him by wide."

The house, which had hung upon every word, roared with laughter, and
shook with a storming volley of applause. Gideon bowed to right and to
left, low, grinning, assured comedy obeisances; but as the laughter
and applause grew he shook his head, and signaled quietly for the
drop. He had answered many encores, and he was an instinctive artist.
It was part of the fuel of his vanity that his audience had never yet
had enough of him. Dramatic judgment, as well as dramatic sense of
delivery, was native to him, qualities which the shrewd Felix Stuhk,
his manager and exultant discoverer, recognized and wisely trusted in.
Off stage Gideon was watched over like a child and a delicate
investment, but once behind the footlights he was allowed to go his
own triumphant gait.

It was small wonder that Stuhk deemed himself one of the cleverest
managers in the business; that his narrow, blue-shaven face was
continually chiseled in smiles of complacent self-congratulation. He
was rapidly becoming rich, and there were bright prospects of even
greater triumphs, with proportionately greater reward. He had made
Gideon a national character, a headliner, a star of the first
magnitude in the firmament of the vaudeville theater, and all in six
short months. Or, at any rate, he had helped to make him all this; he
had booked him well and given him his opportunity. To be sure, Gideon
had done the rest; Stuhk was as ready as any one to do credit to
Gideon's ability. Still, after all, he, Stuhk, was the discoverer, the
theatrical Columbus who had had the courage and the vision.

A now-hallowed attack of tonsilitis had driven him to Florida, where
presently Gideon had been employed to beguile his convalescence, and
guide him over the intricate shallows of that long lagoon known as the
Indian River in search of various fish. On days when fish had been
reluctant Gideon had been lured into conversation, and gradually into
narrative and the relation of what had appeared to Gideon as humorous
and entertaining; and finally Felix, the vague idea growing big within
him, had one day persuaded his boatman to dance upon the boards of a
long pier where they had made fast for lunch. There, with all the
sudden glory of crystallization, the vague idea took definite form and
became the great inspiration of Stuhk's career.

Gideon had grown to be to vaudeville much what _Uncle Remus_ is to
literature: there was virtue in his very simplicity. His artistry
itself was native and natural. He loved a good story, and he told it
from his own sense of the gleeful morsel upon his tongue as no
training could have made him. He always enjoyed his story and himself
in the telling. Tales never lost their savor, no matter how often
repeated; age was powerless to dim the humor of the thing, and as he
had shouted and gurgled and laughed over the fun of things when all
alone, or holding forth among the men and women and little children of
his color, so he shouted and gurgled and broke from sonorous chuckles
to musical, falsetto mirth when he fronted the sweeping tiers of faces
across the intoxicating glare of the footlights. He had that rare
power of transmitting something of his own enjoyments. When Gideon was
on the stage, Stuhk used to enjoy peeping out at the intent, smiling
faces of the audience, where men and women and children, hardened
theater-goers and folk fresh from the country, sat with moving lips
and faces lit with an eager interest and sympathy for the black man
strutting in loose-footed vivacity before them.

"He's simply unique," he boasted to wondering local managers--"unique,
and it took me to find him. There he was, a little black gold-mine,
and all of 'em passed him by until I came. Some eye? What? I guess
you'll admit you have to hand it some to your Uncle Felix. If that
coon's health holds out, we'll have all the money there is in the
mint."

That was Felix's real anxiety--"If his health holds out." Gideon's
health was watched over as if he had been an ailing prince. His
bubbling vivacity was the foundation upon which his charm and his
success were built. Stuhk became a sort of vicarious neurotic,
eternally searching for symptoms in his protégé; Gideon's tongue,
Gideon's liver, Gideon's heart were matters to him of an unfailing
and anxious interest. And of late--of course it might be imagination
--Gideon had shown a little physical falling off. He ate a bit less,
he had begun to move in a restless way, and, worst of all, he laughed
less frequently.

As a matter of fact, there was ground for Stuhk's apprehension. It was
not all a matter of managerial imagination: Gideon was less himself.
Physically there was nothing the matter with him; he could have passed
his rigid insurance scrutiny as easily as he had done months before,
when his life and health had been insured for a sum that made good
copy for his press-agent. He was sound in every organ, but there was
something lacking in general tone. Gideon felt it himself, and was
certain that a "misery," that embracing indisposition of his race, was
creeping upon him. He had been fed well, too well; he was growing
rich, too rich; he had all the praise, all the flattery that his
enormous appetite for approval desired, and too much of it. White men
sought him out and made much of him; white women talked to him about
his career; and wherever he went, women of color--black girls, brown
girls, yellow girls--wrote him of their admiration, whispered, when he
would listen, of their passion and hero-worship. "City niggers" bowed
down before him; the high gallery was always packed with them.
Musk-scented notes scrawled upon barbaric, "high-toned" stationery
poured in upon him. Even a few white women, to his horror and
embarrassment, had written him of love, letters which he straightway
destroyed. His sense of his position was strong in him; he was proud
of it. There might be "folks outer their haids," but he had the sense
to remember. For months he had lived in a heaven of gratified vanity,
but at last his appetite had begun to falter. He was sated; his soul
longed to wipe a spiritual mouth on the back of a spiritual hand, and
have done. His face, now that the curtain was down and he was leaving
the stage, was doleful, almost sullen.

Stuhk met him anxiously in the wings, and walked with him to his
dressing-room. He felt suddenly very weary of Stuhk.

"Nothing the matter, Gideon, is there? Not feeling sick or anything?"

"No, Misteh Stuhk; no, seh. Jes don' feel extry pert, that's all."

"But what is it--anything bothering you?"

Gideon sat gloomily before his mirror.

"Misteh Stuhk," he said at last, "I been steddyin' it oveh, and I
about come to the delusion that I needs a good po'k-chop. Seems
foolish, I know, but it do' seem as if a good po'k-chop, fried jes
right, would he'p consid'able to disumpate this misery feelin' that's
crawlin' and creepin' round my sperit."

Stuhk laughed.

"Pork-chop, eh? Is that the best you can think of? I know what you
mean, though. I've thought for some time that you were getting a
little overtrained. What you need is--let me see--yes, a nice bottle
of wine. That's the ticket; it will ease things up and won't do you
any harm. I'll go, with you. Ever had any champagne, Gideon?"

Gideon struggled for politeness.

"Yes, seh, I's had champagne, and it's a nice kind of lickeh sho
enough; but, Misteh Stuhk, seh, I don' want any of them high-tone
drinks to-night, an' ef yo' don' mind, I'd rather amble off 'lone, or
mebbe eat that po'k-chop with some otheh cullud man, ef I kin fin' one
that ain' one of them no-'count Carolina niggers. Do you s'pose yo'
could let me have a little money to-night, Misteh Stuhk?"

Stuhk thought rapidly. Gideon had certainly worked hard, and he was
not dissipated. If he wanted to roam the town by himself, there was no
harm in it. The sullenness still showed in the black face; Heaven knew
what he might do if he suddenly began to balk. Stuhk thought it wise
to consent gracefully.

"Good!" he said. "Fly to it. How much do you want?
A hundred?"

"How much is coming to me?"

"About a thousand, Gideon."

"Well, I'd moughty like five hun'red of it, ef that's 'greeable to
yo'."

Felix whistled.

"Five hundred? Pork-chops must be coming high. You don't want to carry
all that money around, do you?"

Gideon did not answer; he looked very gloomy.

Stuhk hastened to cheer him.

"Of course you can have anything you want. Wait a minute, and I will
get it for you.

"I'll bet that coon's going to buy himself a ring or something," he
reflected as he went in search of the local manager and Gideon's
money.

But Stuhk was wrong. Gideon had no intention of buying himself a ring.
For the matter of that, he had several that were amply satisfactory.
They had size and sparkle and luster, all the diamond brilliance that
rings need to have; and for none of them had he paid much over five
dollars. He was amply supplied with jewelry in which he felt perfect
satisfaction. His present want was positive, if nebulous; he desired a
fortune in his pocket, bulky, tangible evidence of his miraculous
success. Ever since Stuhk had found him, life had had an unreal
quality for him. His Monte Cristo wealth was too much like a fabulous,
dream-found treasure, money that could not be spent without danger of
awakening. And he had dropped into the habit of storing it about him,
so that in any pocket into which he plunged his hand he might find a
roll of crisp evidence of reality. He liked his bills to be of all
denominations, and some so large as exquisitely to stagger
imagination, others charming by their number and crispness--the
dignified, orange paper of a man of assured position and
wealth-crackling greenbacks the design of which tinged the whole with
actuality. He was specially partial to engravings of President
Lincoln, the particular savior and patron of his race. This five
hundred dollars he was adding to an unreckoned sum of about two
thousand, merely as extra fortification against a growing sense of
gloom. He wished to brace his flagging spirits with the gay wine of
possession, and he was glad, when the money came, that it was in an
elastic-bound roll, so bulky that it was pleasantly uncomfortable in
his pocket as he left his manager.

As he turned into the brilliantly lighted street from the somber
alleyway of the stage entrance, he paused for a moment to glance at
his own name, in three-foot letters of red, before the doors of the
theater. He could read, and the large block type always pleased him.
"THIS WEEK: GIDEON." That was all. None of the fulsome praise, the
superlative, necessary definition given to lesser performers. He had
been, he remembered, "GIDEON, America's Foremost Native Comedian," a
title that was at once boast and challenge. That necessity was now
past, for he was a national character; any explanatory qualification
would have been an insult to the public intelligence. To the world he
was just "Gideon"; that was enough. It gave him pleasure, as he
sauntered along, to see the announcement repeated on window cards and
hoardings.

Presently he came to a window before which he paused in delighted
wonder. It was not a large window; to the casual eye of the passer-by
there was little to draw attention. By day it lighted the fractional
floor space of a little stationer, who supplemented a slim business by
a sub-agency for railroad and steamship lines; but to-night this
window seemed the framework of a marvel of coincidence. On the broad,
dusty sill inside were propped two cards: the one on the left was his
own red-lettered announcement for the week; the one at the right--oh,
world of wonders!--was a photogravure of that exact stretch of the
inner coast of Florida which Gideon knew best, which was home.

There it was, the Indian River, rippling idly in full sunlight,
palmettos leaning over the water, palmettos standing as irregular
sentries along the low, reeflike island which stretched away out of
the picture. There was the gigantic, lonely pine he knew well, and,
yes--he could just make it out--there was his own ramshackle little
pier, which stretched in undulating fashion, like a long-legged,
wading caterpillar, from the abrupt shore-line of eroded coquina into
deep water.

He thought at first that this picture of his home was some new and
delicate device put forth by his press-agent. His name on one side of
a window, his birthplace upon the other--what could be more tastefully
appropriate? Therefore, as he spelled out the reading-matter beneath
the photogravure, he was sharply disappointed. It read:

Spend this winter in balmy Florida.
Come to the Land of Perpetual Sunshine.
Golf, tennis, driving, shooting, boating, fishing, all of the best.

There was more, but he had no heart for it; he was disappointed and
puzzled. This picture had, after all, nothing to do with him. It was a
chance, and yet, what a strange chance! It troubled and upset him. His
black, round-featured face took on deep wrinkles of perplexity. The
"misery" which had hung darkly on his horizon for weeks engulfed him
without warning. But in the very bitterness of his melancholy he knew
at last his disease. It was not champagne or recreation that he
needed, not even a "po'k-chop," although his desire for it had been a
symptom, a groping for a too homeopathic remedy: he was homesick.

Easy, childish tears came into his eyes, and ran over his shining
cheeks. He shivered forlornly with a sudden sense of cold, and
absently clutched at the lapels of his gorgeous, fur-lined ulster.

Then in abrupt reaction he laughed aloud, so that the shrill, musical
falsetto startled the passers-by, and in another moment a little
semicircle of the curious watched spellbound as a black man,
exquisitely appareled, danced in wild, loose grace before the dull
background of a somewhat grimy and apparently vacant window. A newsboy
recognized him.

He heard his name being passed from mouth to mouth, and came partly to
his senses. He stopped dancing, and grinned at them.

"Say, you are Gideon, ain't you?" his discoverer demanded, with a sort
of reverent audacity.

"Yaas, _seh_," said Gideon; "that's me. Yo' shu got it right." He
broke into a joyous peal of laughter--the laughter that had made him
famous, and bowed deeply before him. "Gideon--posi-_tive_-ly his las'
puffawmunce." Turning, he dashed for a passing trolley, and, still
laughing, swung aboard.

He was naturally honest. In a land of easy morality his friends had
accounted him something of a paragon; nor had Stuhk ever had anything
but praise for him. But now he crushed aside the ethics of his intent
without a single troubled thought. Running away has always been
inherent in the negro. He gave one regretful thought to the gorgeous
wardrobe he was leaving behind him; but he dared not return for it.
Stuhk might have taken it into his head to go back to their rooms. He
must content himself with the reflection that he was at that moment
wearing his best.

The trolley seemed too slow for him, and, as always happened nowadays,
he was recognized; he heard his name whispered, and was aware of the
admiring glances of the curious. Even popularity had its drawbacks. He
got down in front of a big hotel and chose a taxicab from the waiting
rank, exhorting the driver to make his best speed to the station.
Leaning back in the soft depths of the cab, he savored his
independence, cheered already by the swaying, lurching speed. At the
station he tipped the driver in lordly fashion, very much pleased with
himself and anxious to give pleasure. Only the sternest prudence and
an unconquerable awe of uniform had kept him from tossing bills to the
various traffic policemen who had seemed to smile upon his hurry.

No through train left for hours; but after the first disappointment of
momentary check, he decided that he was more pleased than otherwise.
It would save embarrassment. He was going South, where his color would
be more considered than his reputation, and on the little local he
chose there was a "Jim Crow" car--one, that is, specially set aside
for those of his race. That it proved crowded and full of smoke did
not trouble him at all, nor did the admiring pleasantries which the
splendor of his apparel immediately called forth. No one knew him;
indeed, he was naturally enough mistaken for a prosperous gambler, a
not unflattering supposition. In the yard, after the train pulled out,
he saw his private car under a glaring arc light, and grinned to see
it left behind.

He spent the night pleasantly in a noisy game of high-low-jack, and
the next morning slept more soundly than he had slept for weeks,
hunched upon a wooden bench in the boxlike station of a North Carolina
junction. The express would have brought him to Jacksonville in
twenty-four hours; the journey, as he took it, boarding any local that
happened to be going south, and leaving it for meals or sometimes for
sleep or often as the whim possessed him, filled five happy days.
There he took a night train, and dozed from Jacksonville until a
little north of New Smyrna.

He awoke to find it broad daylight, and the car half empty. The train
was on a siding, with news of a freight wreck ahead. Gideon stretched
himself, and looked out of the window, and emotion seized him. For all
his journey the South had seemed to welcome him, but here at last was
the country he knew. He went out upon the platform and threw back his
head, sniffing the soft breeze, heavy with the mysterious thrill of
unplowed acres, the wondrous existence of primordial jungle, where
life has rioted unceasingly above unceasing decay. It was dry with the
fine dust of waste places, and wet with the warm mists of slumbering
swamps; it seemed to Gideon to tremble with the songs of birds, the
dry murmur of palm leaves, and the almost inaudible whisper of the
gray moss that festooned the live-oaks.

"Um-m-m," he murmured, apostrophizing it, "yo' 's the right kind o'
breeze, yo' is. Yo'-all's healthy." Still sniffing, he climbed down to
the dusty road-bed.

The negroes who had ridden with him were sprawled about him on the
ground; one of them lay sleeping, face up, in the sunlight. The train
had evidently been there for some time, and there were no signs of an
immediate departure. He bought some oranges of a little, bowlegged
black boy, and sat down on a log to eat them and to give up his mind
to enjoyment. The sun was hot upon him, and his thoughts were vague
and drowsy. He was glad that he was alive, glad to be back once more
among familiar scenes. Down the length of the train he saw white
passengers from the Pullmans restlessly pacing up and down, getting
into their cars and out of them, consulting watches, attaching
themselves with gesticulatory expostulation to various officials; but
their impatience found no echo in his thought. What was the hurry?
There was plenty of time. It was sufficient to have come to his own
land; the actual walls of home could wait. The delay was pleasant,
with its opportunity for drowsy sunning, its relief from the grimy
monotony of travel. He glanced at the orange-colored "Jim Crow" with
distaste, and inspiration, dawning slowly upon him, swept all other
thought before it in its great and growing glory.

A brakeman passed, and Gideon leaped to his feet and pursued him.

"Misteh, how long yo'-all reckon this train goin' to be?"

"About an hour."

The question had been a mere matter of form. Gideon had made up his
mind, and if he had been told that they started in five minutes he
would not have changed it. He climbed back into the car for his coat
and his hat, and then almost furtively stole down the steps again and
slipped quietly into the palmetto scrub.

"'Most made the mistake of ma life," he chuckled, "stickin' to that
ol' train foheveh. 'T isn't the right way at, all foh Gideon to come
home."

The river was not far away. He could catch the dancing blue of it from
time to time in ragged vista, and for this beacon he steered directly.
His coat was heavy on his arm, his thin patent-leather ties pinched
and burned and demanded detours around swampy places, but he was
happy.

As he went along, his plan perfected itself. He would get into loose
shoes again, old ones, if money could buy them, and old clothes, too.
The bull-briers snatching at his tailored splendor suggested that.

He laughed when the Florida partridge, a small quail, whirred up from
under his feet; he paused to exchange affectionate mockery with red
squirrels; and once, even when he was brought up suddenly to a
familiar and ominous, dry reverberation, the small, crisp sound of the
rolling drums of death, he did not look about him for some instrument
of destruction, as at any other time he would have done, but instead
peered cautiously over the log before him, and spoke in tolerant
admonition:

"Now, Misteh Rattlesnake, yo' jes min' yo' own business. Nobody's
goin' step on yo', ner go triflin' roun' yo' in no way whatsomeveh.
Yo' jes lay there in the sun an' git 's fat 's yo' please. Don' yo'
tu'n yo' weeked li'l' eyes on Gideon. He's jes goin' 'long home, an'
ain' lookin' foh no muss."

He came presently to the water, and, as luck would have it, to a
little group of negro cabins, where he was able to buy old clothes
and, after much dickering, a long and somewhat leaky rowboat rigged
out with a tattered leg-of-mutton sail. This he provisioned with a jug
of water, a starch box full of white corn-meal, and a wide strip of
lean razorback bacon.

As he pushed out from shore and set his sail to the small breeze that
blew down from the north, an absolute contentment possessed him. The
idle waters of the lagoon, lying without tide or current in eternal
indolence, rippled and sparkled in breeze and sunlight with a merry
surface activity, and seemed to lap the leaky little boat more swiftly
on its way. Mosquito Inlet opened broadly before him, and skirting the
end of Merritt's Island he came at last into that longest lagoon, with
which he was most familiar, the Indian River. Here the wind died down
to a mere breath, which barely kept his boat in motion; but he made no
attempt to row. As long as he moved at all, he was satisfied. He was
living the fulfilment of his dreams in exile, lounging in the stern in
the ancient clothes he had purchased, his feet stretched comfortably
before him in their broken shoes, one foot upon a thwart, the other
hanging overside so laxly that occasional ripples lapped the run-over
heel. From time to time he scanned shore and river for familiar points
of interest--some remembered snag that showed the tip of one gnarled
branch. Or he marked a newly fallen palmetto, already rotting in the
water, which must be added to that map of vast detail that he carried
in his head. But for the most part his broad black face was turned up
to the blue brilliance above him in unblinking contemplation; his keen
eyes, brilliant despite their sun-muddied whites, reveled in the
heights above him, swinging from horizon to horizon in the wake of an
orderly file of little bluebill ducks, winging their way across the
river, or brightening with interest at the rarer sight of a pair of
mallards or redheads, lifting with the soaring circles of the great
bald-headed eagle, or following the scattered squadron of heron--white
heron, blue heron, young and old, trailing, sunlit, brilliant patches,
clear even against the bright white and blue of the sky above them.

Often he laughed aloud, sending a great shout of mirth across the
water in fresh relish of those comedies best known and best enjoyed.
It was as excruciatingly funny as it had ever been, when his boat
nosed its way into a great flock of ducks idling upon the water, to
see the mad paddling haste of those nearest him, the reproachful turn
of their heads, or, if he came too near, their spattering run out of
water, feet and wings pumping together as they rose from the surface,
looking for all the world like fat little women, scurrying with
clutched skirts across city streets. The pelicans, too, delighted him
as they perched with pedantic solemnity upon wharf-piles, or sailed in
hunched and huddled gravity twenty feet above the river's surface in
swift, dignified flight, which always ended suddenly in an abrupt,
up-ended plunge that threw dignity to the winds in its greedy haste,
and dropped them crashing into the water.

When darkness came suddenly at last, he made in toward shore, mooring
to the warm-fretted end of a fallen and forgotten landing. A
straggling orange-grove was here, broken lines of vanquished
cultivation, struggling little trees swathed and choked in the
festooning gray moss, still showing here and there the valiant golden
gleam of fruit. Gideon had seen many such places, had seen settlers
come and clear themselves a space in the jungle, plant their groves,
and live for a while in lazy independence; and then for some reason or
other they would go, and before they had scarcely turned their backs,
the jungle had crept in again, patiently restoring its ancient
sovereignty. The place was eery with the ghost of dead effort; but it
pleased him.

He made a fire and cooked supper, eating enormously and with relish.
His conscience did not trouble him at all. Stuhk and his own career
seemed already distant; they took small place in his thoughts, and
served merely as a background for his present absolute content. He
picked some oranges, and ate them in meditative enjoyment. For a while
he nodded, half asleep, beside his fire, watching the darkened river,
where the mullet, shimmering with phosphorescence, still leaped
starkly above the surface, and fell in spattering brilliance. Midnight
found him sprawled asleep beside his fire.

Once he awoke. The moon had risen, and a little breeze waved the
hanging moss, and whispered in the glossy foliage of orange and
palmetto with a sound like falling rain. Gideon sat up and peered
about him, rolling his eyes hither and thither at the menacing leap
and dance of the jet shadows. His heart was beating thickly, his
muscles twitched, and the awful terrors of night pulsed and shuddered
over him. Nameless specters peered at him from every shadow,
ingenerate familiars of his wild, forgotten blood. He groaned aloud in
a delicious terror; and presently, still twitching and shivering, fell
asleep again. It was as if something magical had happened; his fear
remembered the fear of centuries, and yet with the warm daylight was
absolutely forgotten.

He got up a little after sunrise, and went down to the river to bathe,
diving deep with a joyful sense of freeing himself from the last alien
dust of travel. Once ashore again, however, he began to prepare his
breakfast with some haste. For the first time in his journey he was
feeling a sense of loneliness and a longing for his kind. He was still
happy, but his laughter began to seem strange to him in the solitude.
He tried the defiant experiment of laughing for the effect of it, an
experiment which brought him to his feet in startled terror; for his
laughter was echoed. As he stood peering about him, the sound came
again, not laughter this time, but a suppressed giggle. It was human
beyond a doubt. Gideon's face shone with relief and sympathetic
amusement; he listened for a moment, and then strode surely forward
toward a clump of low palms. There he paused, every sense alert. His
ear caught a soft rustle, a little gasp of fear; the sound of a foot
moved cautiously.

"Missy," he said tentatively, "I reckon yo'-all's come jes 'bout 'n
time foh breakfus. Yo' betteh have some. Ef yo' ain' too white to sit
down with a black man."

The leaves parted, and a smiling face as black as Gideon's own
regarded him in shy amusement.

"Who is yo', man?"

"I mought be king of Kongo," he laughed, "but I ain't. Yo' see befo'
yo' jes Gideon--at yo'r 'steemed sehvice." He bowed elaborately in the
mock humility of assured importance, watching her face in pleasant
anticipation.

But neither awe nor rapture dawned there. She repeated the name,
inclining her head coquettishly; but it evidently meant nothing to
her. She was merely trying its sound. "Gideon, Gideon. I don' call to
min' any sech name ez that. Yo'-all's f'om up No'th likely." He was
beyond the reaches of fame.

"No," said Gideon, hardly knowing whether he was glad or sorry--"no, I
live south of heah. What-all's yo' name?"

The girl giggled deliciously.

"Man," she said, "I shu got the mos' reediculoustest name you eveh did
heah. They call me Vashti--yo' bacon's bu'nin'." She stepped out, and
ran past him to snatch his skillet deftly from the fire.

"Vashti"--a strange and delightful name. Gideon followed her slowly.
Her romantic coming and her romantic name pleased him; and, too, he
thought her beautiful. She was scarcely more than a girl, slim and
strong and almost of his own height. She was barefooted, but her
blue-checked gingham was clean and belted smartly about a small waist.
He remembered only one woman who ran as lithely as she did, one of the
numerous "diving beauties" of the vaudeville stage.

She cooked their breakfast, but he served her with an elaborate
gallantry, putting forward all his new and foreign graces, garnishing
his speech with imposing polysyllables, casting about their picnic
breakfast a radiant aura of grandeur borrowed from the recent days of
his fame. And he saw that he pleased her, and with her open admiration
essayed still greater flights of polished manner.

He made vague plans for delaying his journey as they sat smoking in
pleasant conversational ease; and when an interruption came it vexed
him.

"Vashty! Vashty!" a woman's voice sounded thin and far away.
"Vashty-y! Yo' heah me, chile?"

Vashti rose to her feet with a sigh.

"That's my ma," she said regretfully.

"What do yo' care?" asked Gideon. "Let her yell awhile."

The girl shook her head.

"Ma's a moughty pow'ful 'oman, and she done got a club 'bout the size
o' my wrist." She moved off a step or so, and glanced back at him.

Gideon leaped to his feet.

"When yo' comin' back? Yo'--yo' ain' goin' without----" He held out
his arms to her, but she only giggled and began to walk slowly away.
With a bound he was after her, one hand catching her lightly by the
shoulder. He felt suddenly that he must not lose sight of her.

"Let me go! Tu'n me loose, yo'!" The girl was still laughing, but
evidently troubled. She wrenched herself away with an effort, only to
be caught again a moment later. She screamed and struck at him as he
kissed her; for now she was really in terror.

The blow caught Gideon squarely in the mouth, and with such force that
he staggered back, astonished, while the girl took wildly to her
heels. He stood for a moment irresolute, for something was happening
to him. For months he had evaded love with a gentle embarrassment;
now, with the savage crash of that blow, he knew unreasoningly that he
had found his woman.

He leaped after her again, running as he had not run in years, in
savage, determined pursuit, tearing through brier and scrub, tripping,
falling, rising, never losing sight of the blue-clad figure before him
until at last she tripped and fell, and he stood panting above her.

He took a great breath or so, and leaned over and picked her up in his
arms, where she screamed and struck and scratched at him. He laughed,
for he felt no longer sensible to pain, and, still chuckling, picked
his way carefully back to the shore, wading deep into the water to
unmoor his boat. Then with a swift movement he dropped the girl into
the bow, pushed free, and clambered actively aboard.

The light, early morning breeze had freshened, and he made out well
toward the middle of the river, never even glancing around at the
sound of the hallooing he now heard from shore. His exertions had
quickened his breathing, but he felt strong and joyful. Vashti lay a
huddle of blue in the bow, crouched in fear and desolation, shaken and
torn with sobbing; but he made no effort to comfort her. He was
untroubled by any sense of wrong; he was simply and unreasoningly
satisfied with what he had done. Despite all his gentle, easygoing,
laughter-loving existence, he found nothing incongruous or unnatural
in this sudden act of violence. He was aglow with happiness; he was
taking home a wife. The blind tumult of capture had passed; a great
tenderness possessed him.

The leaky little boat was plunging and dancing in swift ecstasy of
movement; all about them the little waves ran glittering in the
sunlight, plashing and slapping against the boat's low side, tossing
tiny crests to the following wind, showing rifts of white here and
there, blowing handfuls of foam and spray. Gideon went softly about
the business of shortening his small sail, and came quietly back to
his steering-seat again. Soon he would have to be making for what lea
the western shore offered; but he was holding to the middle of the
river as long as he could, because with every mile the shores were
growing more familiar, calling to him to make what speed he could.
Vashti's sobbing had grown small and ceased; he wondered if she had
fallen asleep.

Presently, however, he saw her face raised--a face still shining with
tears. She saw that he was watching her, and crouched low again. A
dash of spray spattered over her, and she looked up frightened,
glancing fearfully overside; then once more her eyes came back to him,
and this time she got up, still small and crouching, and made her way
slowly and painfully down the length of the boat, until at last Gideon
moved aside for her, and she sank in the bottom beside him, hiding her
eyes in her gingham sleeve.

Gideon stretched out a broad hand and touched her head lightly; and
with a tiny gasp her fingers stole up to his.

"Honey," said Gideon--"Honey, yo' ain' mad, is yo'?"

She shook her head, not looking at him.

"Yo' ain' grievin' foh yo' ma?"

Again she shook her head.

"Because," said Gideon, smiling down at her, "I ain' got no beeg club
like she has."

A soft and smothered giggle answered him, and this time Vashti looked
up and laid her head against him with a small sigh of contentment.

Gideon felt very tender, very important, at peace with himself and all
the world. He rounded a jutting point, and stretched out a black hand,
pointing.

HOW THE WIDOW WON THE DEACON By William James Lampton ( -1917)

2006-09-07T07:06:00.000-07:00

[From Harper's Bazaar, April, 1911; copyright, 1911, by Harper &Brothers; republished by permission.]
Of course the Widow Stimson never tried to win Deacon Hawkins, nor anyother man, for that matter. A widow doesn't have to try to win a man;she wins without trying. Still, the Widow Stimson sometimes wonderedwhy the deacon was so blind as not to see how her fine farm adjoininghis equally fine place on the outskirts of the town might not bebrought under one management with mutual benefit to both parties atinterest. Which one that management might become was a matter offuture detail. The widow knew how to run a farm successfully, and alarge farm is not much more difficult to run than one of half thesize. She had also had one husband, and knew something more thanrunning a farm successfully. Of all of which the deacon was perfectlywell aware, and still he had not been moved by the merging spirit ofthe age to propose consolidation.
This interesting situation was up for discussion at the Wednesdayafternoon meeting of the Sisters' Sewing Society.
"For my part," Sister Susan Spicer, wife of the Methodist minister,remarked as she took another tuck in a fourteen-year-old girl's skirtfor a ten-year-old--"for my part, I can't see why Deacon Hawkins andKate Stimson don't see the error of their ways and depart from them."
"I rather guess _she_ has," smiled Sister Poteet, the grocer's betterhalf, who had taken an afternoon off from the store in order to bepresent.
"Or is willing to," added Sister Maria Cartridge, a spinster stillpossessing faith, hope, and charity, notwithstanding she had been onthe waiting list a long time.
"Really, now," exclaimed little Sister Green, the doctor's wife, "doyou think it is the deacon who needs urging?"
"It looks that way to me," Sister Poteet did not hesitate to affirm.
"Well, I heard Sister Clark say that she had heard him call her'Kitty' one night when they were eating ice-cream at the MiteSociety," Sister Candish, the druggist's wife, added to the fund ofreliable information on hand.
"'Kitty,' indeed!" protested Sister Spicer. "The idea of anybodycalling Kate Stimson 'Kitty'! The deacon will talk that way to 'mostany woman, but if she let him say it to her more than once, she mustbe getting mighty anxious, I think."
"Oh," Sister Candish hastened to explain, "Sister Clark didn't say shehad heard him say it twice.'"
"Well, I don't think she heard him say it once," Sister Spicerasserted with confidence.
"I don't know about that," Sister Poteet argued. "From all I can seeand hear I think Kate Stimson wouldn't object to 'most anything thedeacon would say to her, knowing as she does that he ain't going tosay anything he shouldn't say."
"And isn't saying what he should," added Sister Green, with a slysnicker, which went around the room softly.
"But as I was saying--" Sister Spicer began, when Sister Poteet, whoserocker, near the window, commanded a view of the front gate,interrupted with a warning, "'Sh-'sh."
"Why shouldn't I say what I wanted to when--" Sister Spicer began.
"There she comes now," explained Sister Poteet, "and as I live thedeacon drove her here in his sleigh, and he's waiting while she comesin. I wonder what next," and Sister Poteet, in conjunction with theentire society, gasped and held their eager breaths, awaiting theentrance of the subject of conversation.
Sister Spicer went to the front door to let her in, and she wasgreeted with the greatest cordiality by everybody.
"We were just talking about you and wondering why you were so latecoming," cried Sister Poteet. "Now take off your things and make upfor lost time. There's a pair of pants over there to be cut down tofit that poor little Snithers boy."
The excitement and curiosity of the society were almost more thancould be borne, but never a sister let on that she knew the deacon wasat the gate waiting. Indeed, as far as the widow could discover, therewas not the slightest indication that anybody had ever heard there wassuch a person as the deacon in existence.
"Oh," she chirruped, in the liveliest of humors, "you will have toexcuse me for today. Deacon Hawkins overtook me on the way here, andhere said I had simply got to go sleigh-riding with him. He's waitingout at the gate now."
"Is that so?" exclaimed the society unanimously, and rushed to thewindow to see if it were really true.
"Well, did you ever?" commented Sister Poteet, generally.
"Hardly ever," laughed the widow, good-naturedly, "and I don't want tolose the chance. You know Deacon Hawkins isn't asking somebody everyday to go sleighing with him. I told him I'd go if he would bring mearound here to let you know what had become of me, and so he did. Now,good-by, and I'll be sure to be present at the next meeting. I have tohurry because he'll get fidgety."
The widow ran away like a lively schoolgirl. All the sisters watchedher get into the sleigh with the deacon, and resumed the previousdiscussion with greatly increased interest.
But little recked the widow and less recked the deacon. He had boughta new horse and he wanted the widow's opinion of it, for the WidowStimson was a competent judge of fine horseflesh. If Deacon Hawkinshad one insatiable ambition it was to own a horse which could flingits heels in the face of the best that Squire Hopkins drove. In hisearly manhood the deacon was no deacon by a great deal. But as theyears gathered in behind him he put off most of the frivolities ofyouth and held now only to the one of driving a fast horse. No otherman in the county drove anything faster except Squire Hopkins, and himthe deacon had not been able to throw the dust over. The deacon wouldget good ones, but somehow never could he find one that the squiredidn't get a better. The squire had also in the early days beaten thedeacon in the race for a certain pretty girl he dreamed about. But thegirl and the squire had lived happily ever after and the deacon, beinga philosopher, might have forgotten the squire's superiority had itbeen manifested in this one regard only. But in horses, too--thatgraveled the deacon.
"How much did you give for him?" was the widow's first query, afterthey had reached a stretch of road that was good going and the deaconhad let him out for a length or two.
"Well, what do you suppose? You're a judge."
"More than I would give, I'll bet a cookie."
"Not if you was as anxious as I am to show Hopkins that he can't driveby everything on the pike."
"I thought you loved a good horse because he was a good horse," saidthe widow, rather disapprovingly.
"I do, but I could love him a good deal harder if he would stay infront of Hopkins's best."
"Does he know you've got this one?"
"Yes, and he's been blowing round town that he is waiting to pick meup on the road some day and make my five hundred dollars look like apewter quarter."
"So you gave five hundred dollars for him, did you?" laughed thewidow.
"Is it too much?"
"Um-er," hesitated the widow, glancing along the graceful lines of thepowerful trotter, "I suppose not if you can beat the squire."
"Right you are," crowed the deacon, "and I'll show him a thing or twoin getting over the ground," he added with swelling pride.
"Well, I hope he won't be out looking for you today, with me in yoursleigh," said the widow, almost apprehensively, "because, you know,deacon, I have always wanted you to beat Squire Hopkins."
The deacon looked at her sharply. There was a softness in her tonesthat appealed to him, even if she had not expressed such agreeablesentiments. Just what the deacon might have said or done after theimpulse had been set going must remain unknown, for at the crucialmoment a sound of militant bells, bells of defiance, jangled up behindthem, disturbing their personal absorption, and they looked aroundsimultaneously. Behind the bells was the squire in his sleigh drawn byhis fastest stepper, and he was alone, as the deacon was not. Thewidow weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, net--which is weighting ahorse in a race rather more than the law allows.
But the deacon never thought of that. Forgetting everything except hischerished ambition, he braced himself for the contest, took a twisthold on the lines, sent a sharp, quick call to his horse, and let himout for all that was in him. The squire followed suit and the deacon.The road was wide and the snow was worn down smooth. The trackcouldn't have been in better condition. The Hopkins colors were notfive rods behind the Hawkins colors as they got away. For half a mileit was nip and tuck, the deacon encouraging his horse and the widowencouraging the deacon, and then the squire began creeping up. Thedeacon's horse was a good one, but he was not accustomed to haulingfreight in a race. A half-mile of it was as much as he could stand,and he weakened under the strain.
Not handicapped, the squire's horse forged ahead, and as his nosepushed up to the dashboard of the deacon's sleigh, that good mangroaned in agonized disappointment and bitterness of spirit. The widowwas mad all over that Squire Hopkins should take such a mean advantageof his rival. Why didn't he wait till another time when the deacon wasalone, as he was? If she had her way she never would, speak to SquireHopkins again, nor to his wife, either. But her resentment was nothelping the deacon's horse to win.
Slowly the squire pulled closer to the front; the deacon's horse,realizing what it meant to his master and to him, spurted bravely,but, struggle as gamely as he might, the odds were too many for him,and he dropped to the rear. The squire shouted in triumph as he drewpast the deacon, and the dejected Hawkins shrivelled into a heap onthe seat, with only his hands sufficiently alive to hold the lines. Hehad been beaten again, humiliated before a woman, and that, too, withthe best horse that he could hope to put against the ever-conqueringsquire. Here sank his fondest hopes, here ended his ambition. Fromthis on he would drive a mule or an automobile. The fruit of hisdesire had turned to ashes in his mouth.
But no. What of the widow? She realized, if the deacon did not, thatshe, not the squire's horse, had beaten the deacon's, and she wasready to make what atonement she could. As the squire passed ahead ofthe deacon she was stirred by a noble resolve. A deep bed of driftedsnow lay close by the side of the road not far in front. It was softand safe and she smiled as she looked at it as though waiting for her.Without a hint of her purpose, or a sign to disturb the deacon in hisfinal throes, she rose as the sleigh ran near its edge, and with aspring which had many a time sent her lightly from the ground to thebare back of a horse in the meadow, she cleared the robes and litplump in the drift. The deacon's horse knew before the deacon did thatsomething had happened in his favor, and was quick to respond. Withhis first jump of relief the deacon suddenly revived, his hopes camefast again, his blood retingled, he gathered himself, and, crackinghis lines, he shot forward, and three minutes later he had passed thesquire as though he were hitched to the fence. For a quarter of a milethe squire made heroic efforts to recover his vanished prestige, buteffort was useless, and finally concluding that he was practicallyleft standing, he veered off from the main road down a farm lane tofind some spot in which to hide the humiliation of his defeat. Thedeacon, still going at a clipping gait, had one eye over his shoulderas wary drivers always have on such occasions, and when he saw thesquire was off the track he slowed down and jogged along with theapparent intention of continuing indefinitely. Presently an ideastruck him, and he looked around for the widow. She was not where hehad seen her last. Where was she? In the enthusiasm of victory he hadforgotten her. He was so dejected at the moment she had leaped that hedid not realize what she had done, and two minutes later he was soelated that, shame on him! he did not care. With her, all was lost;without her, all was won, and the deacon's greatest ambition was towin. But now, with victory perched on his horse-collar, success his atlast, he thought of the widow, and he did care. He cared so much thathe almost threw his horse off his feet by the abrupt turn he gave him,and back down the pike he flew as if a legion of squires were afterhim.
He did not know what injury she might have sustained; She might havebeen seriously hurt, if not actually killed. And why? Simply to makeit possible for him to win. The deacon shivered as he thought of it,and urged his horse to greater speed. The squire, down the lane, sawhim whizzing along and accepted it profanely as an exhibition for hisespecial benefit. The deacon now had forgotten the squire as he hadonly so shortly before forgotten the widow. Two hundred yards from thedrift into which she had jumped there was a turn in the road, wheresome trees shut off the sight, and the deacon's anxiety increasedmomentarily until he reached this point. From here he could see ahead,and down there in the middle of the road stood the widow waving hershawl as a banner of triumph, though she could only guess at results.The deacon came on with a rush, and pulled up alongside of her in acondition of nervousness he didn't think possible to him.
"Hooray! hooray!" shouted the widow, tossing her shawl into the air."You beat him. I know you did. Didn't you? I saw you pulling ahead atthe turn yonder. Where is he and his old plug?"
"Oh, bother take him and his horse and the race and everything. Areyou hurt?" gasped the deacon, jumping out, but mindful to keep thelines in his hand. "Are you hurt?" he repeated, anxiously, though shelooked anything but a hurt woman.
"If I am," she chirped, cheerily, "I'm not hurt half as bad as I wouldhave been if the squire had beat you, deacon. Now don't you worryabout me. Let's hurry back to town so the squire won't get anotherchance, with no place for me to jump."
And the deacon? Well, well, with the lines in the crook of his elbowthe deacon held out his arms to the widow and----. The sisters at thenext meeting of the Sewing Society were unanimously of the opinionthat any woman who would risk her life like that for a husband wasmighty anxious.

A CALL By Grace MacGowan Cooke (1863- )

2006-09-07T07:04:00.000-07:00

[From _Harper's Magazine_, August, 1906. Copyright, 1906, by Harper &
Brothers. Republished by the author's permission.]

A boy in an unnaturally clean, country-laundered collar walked down a
long white road. He scuffed the dust up wantonly, for he wished to
veil the all-too-brilliant polish of his cowhide shoes. Also the
memory of the whiteness and slipperiness of his collar oppressed him.
He was fain to look like one accustomed to social diversions, a man
hurried from hall to hall of pleasure, without time between to change
collar or polish boot. He stooped and rubbed a crumb of earth on his
overfresh neck-linen.

This did not long sustain his drooping spirit. He was mentally adrift
upon the _Hints and Helps to Young Men in Business and Social
Relations_, which had suggested to him his present enterprise, when
the appearance of a second youth, taller and broader than himself,
with a shock of light curling hair and a crop of freckles that
advertised a rich soil threw him a lifeline. He put his thumbs to his
lips and whistled in a peculiarly ear-splitting way. The two boys had
sat on the same bench at Sunday-school not three hours before; yet
what a change had come over the world for one of them since then!

"Hello! Where you goin', Ab?" asked the newcomer, gruffly.

"Callin'," replied the boy in the collar, laconically, but with
carefully averted gaze.

"On the girls?" inquired the other, awestruck. In Mount Pisgah you saw
the girls home from night church, socials, or parties; you could hang
over the gate; and you might walk with a girl in the cemetery of a
Sunday afternoon; but to ring a front-door bell and ask for Miss
Heart's Desire one must have been in long trousers at least three
years--and the two boys confronted in the dusty road had worn these
dignifying garments barely six months.

"Girls," said Abner, loftily; "I don't know about girls--I'm just
going to call on one girl--Champe Claiborne." He marched on as though
the conversation was at an end; but Ross hung upon his flank. Ross and
Champe were neighbors, comrades in all sorts of mischief; he was in
doubt whether to halt Abner and pummel him, or propose to enlist under
his banner.

"Do you reckon you could?" he debated, trotting along by the
irresponsive Jilton boy.

"Run home to your mother," growled the originator of the plan,
savagely. "You ain't old enough to call on girls; anybody can see
that; but I am, and I'm going to call on Champe Claiborne."

Again the name acted as a spur on Ross. "With your collar and boots
all dirty?" he jeered. "They won't know you're callin'."

The boy in the road stopped short in his dusty tracks. He was an
intense creature, and he whitened at the tragic insinuation, longing
for the wholesome stay and companionship of freckle-faced Ross. "I put
the dirt on o' purpose so's to look kind of careless," he half
whispered, in an agony of doubt. "S'pose I'd better go into your house
and try to wash it off? Reckon your mother would let me?"

"I've got two clean collars," announced the other boy, proudly
generous. "I'll lend you one. You can put it on while I'm getting
ready. I'll tell mother that we're just stepping out to do a little
calling on the girls."

Here was an ally worthy of the cause. Abner welcomed him, in spite of
certain jealous twinges. He reflected with satisfaction that there
were two Claiborne girls, and though Alicia was so stiff and prim that
no boy would ever think of calling on her, there was still the hope
that she might draw Ross's fire, and leave him, Abner, to make the
numerous remarks he had stored up in his mind from _Hints and Helps to
Young Men in Social and Business Relations_ to Champe alone.

Mrs. Pryor received them with the easy-going kindness of the mother of
one son. She followed them into the dining-room to kiss and feed him,
with an absent "Howdy, Abner; how's your mother?"

Abner, big with the importance of their mutual intention, inclined his
head stiffly and looked toward Ross for explanation. He trembled a
little, but it was with delight, as he anticipated the effect of the
speech Ross had outlined. But it did not come.

"I'm not hungry, mother," was the revised edition which the
freckle-faced boy offered to the maternal ear. "I--we are going over
to Mr. Claiborne's--on--er--on an errand for Abner's father."

The black-eyed boy looked reproach as they clattered up the stairs to
Ross's room, where the clean collar was produced and a small stock of
ties.

"You'd wear a necktie--wouldn't you?" Ross asked, spreading them upon
the bureau-top.

"Yes. But make it fall carelessly over your shirt-front," advised the
student of _Hints and Helps_. "Your collar is miles too big for me.
Say! I've got a wad of white chewing-gum; would you flat it out and
stick it over the collar button? Maybe that would fill up some. You
kick my foot if you see me turning my head so's to knock it off."

"Better button up your vest," cautioned Ross, laboring with the
"careless" fall of his tie.

"Huh-uh! I want 'that easy air which presupposes familiarity with
society'--that's what it says in my book," objected Abner.

"Sure!" Ross returned to his more familiar jeering attitude. "Loosen
up all your clothes, then. Why don't you untie your shoes? Flop a sock
down over one of 'em--that looks 'easy' all right."

Abner buttoned his vest. "It gives a man lots of confidence to know
he's good-looking," he remarked, taking all the room in front of the
mirror.

Ross, at the wash-stand soaking his hair to get the curl out of it,
grumbled some unintelligible response. The two boys went down the
stairs with tremulous hearts.

"Why, you've put on another clean shirt, Rossie!" Mrs. Pryor called
from her chair--mothers' eyes can see so far! "Well--don't get into
any dirty play and soil it." The boys walked in silence--but it was a
pregnant silence; for as the roof of the Claiborne house began to peer
above the crest of the hill, Ross plumped down on a stone and
announced, "I ain't goin'."

"Come on," urged the black-eyed boy. "It'll be fun--and everybody will
respect us more. Champe won't throw rocks at us in recess-time, after
we've called on her. She couldn't."

"Called!" grunted Ross. "I couldn't make a call any more than a cow.
What'd I say? What'd I do? I can behave all right when you just go to
people's houses--but a call!"

Abner hesitated. Should he give away his brilliant inside information,
drawn from the _Hints and Helps_ book, and be rivalled in the glory of
his manners and bearing? Why should he not pass on alone, perfectly
composed, and reap the field of glory unsupported? His knees gave way
and he sat down without intending it.

"Don't you tell anybody and I'll put you on to exactly what grown-up
gentlemen say and do when they go calling on the girls," he began.

"Fire away," retorted Ross, gloomily. "Nobody will find out from me.
Dead men tell no tales. If I'm fool enough to go, I don't expect to
come out of it alive."

Abner rose, white and shaking, and thrusting three fingers into the
buttoning of his vest, extending the other hand like an orator,
proceeded to instruct the freckled, perspiring disciple at his feet.

"'Hang your hat on the rack, or give it to a servant.'" Ross nodded
intelligently. He could do that.

"'Let your legs be gracefully disposed, one hand on the knee, the
other--'"

Abner came to an unhappy pause. "I forget what a fellow does with the
other hand. Might stick it in your pocket, loudly, or expectorate on
the carpet. Indulge in little frivolity. Let a rich stream of
conversation flow.'"

Ross mentally dug within himself for sources of rich streams of
conversation. He found a dry soil. "What you goin' to talk about?" he
demanded, fretfully. "I won't go a step farther till I know what I'm
goin' to say when I get there."

Abner began to repeat paragraphs from _Hints and Helps_. "'It is best
to remark,'" he opened, in an unnatural voice, "'How well you are
looking!' although fulsome compliments should be avoided. When seated
ask the young lady who her favorite composer is.'"

"What's a composer?" inquired Ross, with visions of soothing-syrup in
his mind.

"A man that makes up music. Don't butt in that way; you put me all
out--'composer is. Name yours. Ask her what piece of music she likes
best. Name yours. If the lady is musical, here ask her to play or
sing.'"

This chanted recitation seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the
freckled boy; his big pupils contracted each time Abner came to the
repetend, "Name yours."

"I'm tired already," he grumbled; but some spell made him rise and
fare farther.

When they had entered the Claiborne gate, they leaned toward each
other like young saplings weakened at the root and locking branches to
keep what shallow foothold on earth remained.

"You're goin' in first," asserted Ross, but without conviction. It was
his custom to tear up to this house a dozen times a week, on his
father's old horse or afoot; he was wont to yell for Champe as he
approached, and quarrel joyously with her while he performed such
errand as he had come upon; but he was gagged and hamstrung now by the
hypnotism of Abner's scheme.

"'Walk quietly up the steps; ring the bell and lay your card on the
servant,'" quoted Abner, who had never heard of a server.

"'Lay your card on the servant!'" echoed Ross. "Cady'd dodge. There's
a porch to cross after you go up the steps--does it say anything about
that?"

"It says that the card should be placed on the servant," Abner
reiterated, doggedly. "If Cady dodges, it ain't any business of mine.
There are no porches in my book. Just walk across it like anybody.
We'll ask for Miss Champe Claiborne."

"We haven't got any cards," discovered Ross, with hope.

"I have," announced Abner, pompously. "I had some struck off in
Chicago. I ordered 'em by mail. They got my name Pillow, but there's a
scalloped gilt border around it. You can write your name on my card.
Got a pencil?"

He produced the bit of cardboard; Ross fished up a chewed stump of
lead pencil, took it in cold, stiff fingers, and disfigured the square
with eccentric scribblings.

"They'll know who it's meant for," he said, apologetically, "because
I'm here. What's likely to happen after we get rid of the card?"

"I told you about hanging your hat on the rack and disposing your
legs."

"I remember now," sighed Ross. They had been going slower and slower.
The angle of inclination toward each other became more and more
pronounced.

"We must stand by each other," whispered Abner.

"I will--if I can stand at all," murmured the other boy, huskily.

"Oh, Lord!" They had rounded the big clump of evergreens and found
Aunt Missouri Claiborne placidly rocking on the front porch! Directed
to mount steps and ring bell, to lay cards upon the servant, how
should one deal with a rosy-faced, plump lady of uncertain years in a
rocking-chair. What should a caller lay upon her? A lion in the way
could not have been more terrifying. Even retreat was cut off. Aunt
Missouri had seen them. "Howdy, boys; how are you?" she said, rocking
peacefully. The two stood before her like detected criminals.

Then, to Ross's dismay, Abner sank down on the lowest step of the
porch, the westering sun full in his hopeless eyes. He sat on his cap.
It was characteristic that the freckled boy remained standing. He
would walk up those steps according to plan and agreement, if at all.
He accepted no compromise. Folding his straw hat into a battered cone,
he watched anxiously for the delivery of the card. He was not sure
what Aunt Missouri's attitude might be if it were laid on her. He bent
down to his companion. "Go ahead," he whispered. "Lay the card."

Abner raised appealing eyes. "In a minute. Give me time," he pleaded.

"Mars' Ross--Mars' Ross! Head 'em off!" sounded a yell, and Babe, the
house-boy, came around the porch in pursuit of two half-grown
chickens.

"Help him, Rossie," prompted Aunt Missouri, sharply. "You boys can
stay to supper and have some of the chicken if you help catch them."

Had Ross taken time to think, he might have reflected that gentlemen
making formal calls seldom join in a chase after the main dish of the
family supper. But the needs of Babe were instant. The lad flung
himself sidewise, caught one chicken in his hat, while Babe fell upon
the other in the manner of a football player. Ross handed the pullet
to the house-boy, fearing that he had done something very much out of
character, then pulled the reluctant negro toward to the steps.

"Babe's a servant," he whispered to Abner, who had sat rigid through
the entire performance. "I helped him with the chickens, and he's got
to stand gentle while you lay the card on."

Confronted by the act itself, Abner was suddenly aware that he knew
not how to begin. He took refuge in dissimulation.

"Hush!" he whispered back. "Don't you see Mr. Claiborne's come
out?--He's going to read something to us."

Ross plumped down beside him. "Never mind the card; tell 'em," he
urged.

"Tell 'em yourself."

"No--let's cut and run."

"I--I think the worst of it is over. When Champe sees us she'll--"

Mention of Champe stiffened Ross's spine. If it had been glorious to
call upon her, how very terrible she would make it should they attempt
calling, fail, and the failure come to her knowledge! Some things were
easier to endure than others; he resolved to stay till the call was
made.

For half an hour the boys sat with drooping heads, and the old
gentleman read aloud, presumably to Aunt Missouri and themselves.
Finally their restless eyes discerned the two Claiborne girls walking
serene in Sunday trim under the trees at the edge of the lawn. Arms
entwined, they were whispering together and giggling a little. A
caller, Ross dared not use his voice to shout nor his legs to run
toward them.

"Why don't you go and talk to the girls, Rossie?" Aunt Missouri asked,
in the kindness of her heart. "Don't be noisy--it's Sunday, you
know--and don't get to playing anything that'll dirty up your good
clothes."

Ross pressed his lips hard together; his heart swelled with the rage
of the misunderstood. Had the card been in his possession, he would,
at that instant, have laid it on Aunt Missouri without a qualm.

"What is it?" demanded the old gentleman, a bit testily.

"The girls want to hear you read, father," said Aunt Missouri,
shrewdly; and she got up and trotted on short, fat ankles to the girls
in the arbor. The three returned together, Alicia casting curious
glances at the uncomfortable youths, Champe threatening to burst into
giggles with every breath.

Abner sat hard on his cap and blushed silently. Ross twisted his hat
into a three-cornered wreck.

The two girls settled themselves noisily on the upper step. The old
man read on and on. The sun sank lower. The hills were red in the west
as though a brush fire flamed behind their crests. Abner stole a
furtive glance at his companion in misery, and the dolor of Ross's
countenance somewhat assuaged his anguish. The freckle-faced boy was
thinking of the village over the hill, a certain pleasant white house
set back in a green yard, past whose gate, the two-plank sidewalk ran.
He knew lamps were beginning to wink in the windows of the neighbors
about, as though the houses said, "Our boys are all at home--but Ross
Pryor's out trying to call on the girls, and can't get anybody to
understand it." Oh, that he were walking down those two planks,
drawing a stick across the pickets, lifting high happy feet which
could turn in at that gate! He wouldn't care what the lamps said then.
He wouldn't even mind if the whole Claiborne family died laughing at
him--if only some power would raise him up from this paralyzing spot
and put him behind the safe barriers of his own home!

The old man's voice lapsed into silence; the light was becoming too
dim for his reading. Aunt Missouri turned and called over her shoulder
into the shadows of the big hall: "You Babe! Go put two extra plates
on the supper-table."

The boys grew red from the tips of their ears, and as far as any one
could see under their wilting collars. Abner felt the lump of gum come
loose and slip down a cold spine. Had their intentions but been known,
this inferential invitation would have been most welcome. It was but
to rise up and thunder out, "We came to call on the young ladies."

They did not rise. They did not thunder out anything. Babe brought a
lamp and set it inside the window, and Mr. Claiborne resumed his
reading. Champe giggled and said that Alicia made her. Alcia drew her
skirts about her, sniffed, and looked virtuous, and said she didn't
see anything funny to laugh at. The supper-bell rang. The family,
evidently taking it for granted that the boys would follow, went in.

Alone for the first time, Abner gave up. "This ain't any use," he
complained. "We ain't calling on anybody."

"Why didn't you lay on the card?" demanded Ross, fiercely. "Why
didn't you say: 'We've-just-dropped-into-call-on-Miss-Champe. It's-a
-pleasant-evening. We-feel-we-must-be-going,' like you said you would?
Then we could have lifted our hats and got away decently."

Abner showed no resentment.

"Oh, if it's so easy, why didn't you do it yourself?" he groaned.

"Somebody's coming," Ross muttered, hoarsely. "Say it now. Say it
quick."

The somebody proved to be Aunt Missouri, who advanced only as far as
the end of the hall and shouted cheerfully: "The idea of a growing boy
not coming to meals when the bell rings! I thought you two would be in
there ahead of us. Come on." And clinging to their head-coverings as
though these contained some charm whereby the owners might be rescued,
the unhappy callers were herded into the dining-room. There were many
things on the table that boys like. Both were becoming fairly
cheerful, when Aunt Missouri checked the biscuit-plate with: "I treat
my neighbors' children just like I'd want children of my own treated.
If your mothers let you eat all you want, say so, and I don't care;
but if either of them is a little bit particular, why, I'd stop at
six!"

Still reeling from this blow, the boys finally rose from the table and
passed out with the family, their hats clutched to their bosoms, and
clinging together for mutual aid and comfort. During the usual
Sunday-evening singing Champe laughed till Aunt Missouri threatened to
send her to bed. Abner's card slipped from his hand and dropped face
up on the floor. He fell upon it and tore it into infinitesimal
pieces.

"That must have been a love-letter," said Aunt Missouri, in a pause of
the music. "You boys are getting 'most old enough to think about
beginning to call on the girls." Her eyes twinkled.

Ross growled like a stoned cur. Abner took a sudden dive into _Hints
and Helps_, and came up with, "You flatter us, Miss Claiborne,"
whereat Ross snickered out like a human boy. They all stared at him.

"It sounds so funny to call Aunt Missouri 'Mis' Claiborne,'" the lad
of the freckles explained.

"Funny?" Aunt Missouri reddened. "I don't see any particular joke in
my having my maiden name."

Abner, who instantly guessed at what was in Ross's mind, turned white
at the thought of what they had escaped. Suppose he had laid on the
card and asked for Miss Claiborne!

"What's the matter, Champe?" inquired Ross, in a fairly natural tone.
The air he had drawn into his lungs when he laughed at Abner seemed to
relieve him from the numbing gentility which had bound his powers
since he joined Abner's ranks.

"Nothing. I laughed because you laughed," said the girl.

The singing went forward fitfully. Servants traipsed through the
darkened yard, going home for Sunday night. Aunt Missouri went out and
held some low-toned parley with them. Champe yawned with insulting
enthusiasm. Presently both girls quietly disappeared. Aunt Missouri
never returned to the parlor--evidently thinking that the girls would
attend to the final amenities with their callers. They were left alone
with old Mr. Claiborne. They sat as though bound in their chairs,
while the old man read in silence for a while. Finally he closed his
book, glanced about him, and observed absently:

"So you boys were to spend the night?" Then, as he looked at their
startled faces: "I'm right, am I not? You are to spent the night?"

Oh, for courage to say: "Thank you, no. We'll be going now. We just
came over to call on Miss Champe." But thought of how this would sound
in face of the facts, the painful realization that they dared not say
it because they _had_ not said it, locked their lips. Their feet were
lead; their tongues stiff and too large for their mouths. Like
creatures in a nightmare, they moved stiffly, one might have said
creakingly, up the stairs and received each--a bedroom candle!

"Good night, children," said the absent-minded old man. The two
gurgled out some sounds which were intended for words and doged behind
the bedroom door.

"They've put us to bed!" Abner's black eyes flashed fire. His nervous
hands clutched at the collar Ross had lent him. "That's what I get for
coming here with you, Ross Pryor!" And tears of humiliation stood in
his eyes.

In his turn Ross showed no resentment. "What I'm worried about is my
mother," he confessed. "She's so sharp about finding out things. She
wouldn't tease me--she'd just be sorry for me. But she'll think I went
home with you."

"I'd like to see my mother make a fuss about my calling on the girls!"
growled Abner, glad to let his rage take a safe direction.

"Calling on the girls! Have we called on any girls?" demanded
clear-headed, honest Ross.

"Not exactly--yet," admitted Abner, reluctantly. "Come on--let's go to
bed. Mr. Claiborne asked us, and he's the head of this household. It
isn't anybody's business what we came for."

"I'll slip off my shoes and lie down till Babe ties up the dog in the
morning," said Ross. "Then we can get away before any of the family is
up."

Oh, youth--youth--youth, with its rash promises! Worn out with misery
the boys slept heavily. The first sound that either heard in the
morning was Babe hammering upon their bedroom door. They crouched
guiltily and looked into each other's eyes. "Let pretend we ain't here
and he'll go away," breathed Abner.

But Babe was made of sterner stuff. He rattled the knob. He turned it.
He put in a black face with a grin which divided it from ear to ear.
"Cady say I mus' call dem fool boys to breakfus'," he announced. "I
never named you-all dat. Cady, she say dat."

"Breakfast!" echoed Ross, in a daze.

"Yessuh, breakfus'," reasserted Babe, coming entirely into the room
and looking curiously about him. "Ain't you-all done been to bed at
all?" wrapping his arms about his shoulders and shaking with silent
ecstasies of mirth. The boys threw themselves upon him and ejected
him.

"Sent up a servant to call us to breakfast," snarled Abner. "If they'd
only sent their old servant to the door in the first place, all this
wouldn't 'a' happened. I'm just that way when I get thrown off the
track. You know how it was when I tried to repeat those things to
you--I had to go clear back to the beginning when I got interrupted."

"Does that mean that you're still hanging around here to begin over
and make a call?" asked Ross, darkly. "I won't go down to breakfast if
you are."

Abner brightened a little as he saw Ross becoming wordy in his rage.
"I dare you to walk downstairs and say,
'We-just-dropped-in-to-call-on-Miss-Champe'!" he said.

"I--oh--I--darn it all! there goes the second bell. We may as well
trot down."

"Don't leave me, Ross," pleaded the Jilton boy. "I can't stay
here--and I can't go down."

The tone was hysterical. The boy with freckles took his companion by
the arm without another word and marched him down the stairs. "We may
get a chance yet to call on Champe all by herself out on the porch or
in the arbor before she goes to school," he suggested, by way of
putting some spine into the black-eyed boy.

An emphatic bell rang when they were half-way down the stairs.
Clutching their hats, they slunk into the dining-room. Even Mr.
Claiborne seemed to notice something unusual in their bearing as they
settled into the chairs assigned to them, and asked them kindly if
they had slept well.

It was plain that Aunt Missouri had been posting him as to her
understanding of the intentions of these young men. The state of
affairs gave an electric hilarity to the atmosphere. Babe travelled
from the sideboard to the table, trembling like chocolate pudding.
Cady insisted on bringing in the cakes herself, and grinned as she
whisked her starched blue skirts in and out of the dining-room. A
dimple even showed itself at the corners of pretty Alicia's prim
little mouth. Champe giggled, till Ross heard Cady whisper:

"Now you got one dem snickerin' spells agin. You gwine bust yo' dress
buttons off in the back ef you don't mind."

As the spirits of those about them mounted, the hearts of the two
youths sank--if it was like this among the Claibornes, what would it
be at school and in the world at large when their failure to connect
intention with result became village talk? Ross bit fiercely upon an
unoffending batter-cake, and resolved to make a call single-handed
before he left the house.

They went out of the dining-room, their hats as ever pressed to their
breasts. With no volition of their own, their uncertain young legs
carried them to the porch. The Claiborne family and household followed
like small boys after a circus procession. When the two turned, at
bay, yet with nothing between them and liberty but a hypnotism of
their own suggestion, they saw the black faces of the servants peering
over the family shoulders.

Ross was the boy to have drawn courage from the desperation of their
case, and made some decent if not glorious ending. But at the
psychological moment there came around the corner of the house that
most contemptible figure known to the Southern plantation, a
shirt-boy--a creature who may be described, for the benefit of those
not informed, as a pickaninny clad only in a long, coarse cotton
shirt. While all eyes were fastened upon him this inglorious
ambassador bolted forth his message:

"Yo' ma say"--his eyes were fixed upon Abner--"ef yo' don' come home,
she gwine come after yo'--an' cut yo' into inch pieces wid a rawhide
when she git yo'. Dat jest what Miss Hortense say."

As though such a book as _Hints and Helps_ had never existed, Abner
shot for the gate--he was but a hobbledehoy fascinated with the idea
of playing gentleman. But in Ross there were the makings of a man. For
a few half-hearted paces, under the first impulse of horror, he
followed his deserting chief, the laughter of the family, the
unrestrainable guffaws of the negroes, sounding in the rear. But when
Champe's high, offensive giggle, topping all the others, insulted his
ears, he stopped dead, wheeled, and ran to the porch faster than he
had fled from it. White as paper, shaking with inexpressible rage, he
caught and kissed the tittering girl, violently, noisily, before them
all.

The negroes fled--they dared not trust their feelings; even Alicia
sniggered unobtrusively; Grandfather Claiborne chuckled, and Aunt
Missouri frankly collapsed into her rocking-chair, bubbling with
mirth, crying out:

"Good for you, Ross! Seems you did know how to call on the girls,
after all."

But Ross, paying no attention, walked swiftly toward the gate. He had
served his novitiate. He would never be afraid again. With cheerful
alacrity he dodged the stones flung after him with friendly, erratic
aim by the girl upon whom, yesterday afternoon, he had come to make a
social call.

BARGAIN DAY AT TUTT HOUSE By George Randolph Chester (1869- )

2006-09-07T07:03:00.000-07:00

[From McClure's Magazine, June, 1905; copyright, 1905, by the S.S.McClure Co.; republished by the author's permission.]

I
Just as the stage rumbled over the rickety old bridge, creaking andgroaning, the sun came from behind the clouds that had frowned all theway, and the passengers cheered up a bit. The two richly dressedmatrons who had been so utterly and unnecessarily oblivious to thepresence of each other now suspended hostilities for the moment bymutual and unspoken consent, and viewed with relief the little,golden-tinted valley and the tree-clad road just beyond. Therespective husbands of these two ladies exchanged a mere glance, nomore, of comfort. They, too, were relieved, though more by themomentary truce than by anything else. They regretted very much to becompelled to hate each other, for each had reckoned up his vis-à-visas a rather proper sort of fellow, probably a man of some achievement,used to good living and good company.
Extreme iciness was unavoidable between them, however. When onestranger has a splendidly preserved blonde wife and the other asplendidly preserved brunette wife, both of whom have won socialprominence by years of hard fighting and aloofness, there remainsnothing for the two men but to follow the lead, especially whendirectly under the eyes of the leaders.
The son of the blonde matron smiled cheerfully as the welcome lightflooded the coach.
He was a nice-looking young man, of about twenty-two, one might judge,and he did his smiling, though in a perfectly impersonal and correctsort of manner, at the pretty daughter of the brunette matron. Thepretty daughter also smiled, but her smile was demurely directed atthe trees outside, clad as they were in all the flaming glory of theirautumn tints, glistening with the recent rain and dripping with gemsthat sparkled and flashed in the noonday sun as they fell.
It is marvelous how much one can see out of the corner of the eye,while seeming to view mere scenery.
The driver looked down, as he drove safely off the bridge, and shookhis head at the swirl of water that rushed and eddied, dark and muddy,close up under the rotten planking; then he cracked his whip, and thehorses sturdily attacked the little hill.
Thick, overhanging trees on either side now dimmed the light again,and the two plump matrons once more glared past the oppositeshoulders, profoundly unaware of each other. The husbands took on thepolitely surly look required of them. The blonde son's eyes stillsought the brunette daughter, but it was furtively done and quiteunsuccessfully, for the daughter was now doing a little glaring on herown account. The blonde matron had just swept her eyes across thedaughter's skirt, estimating the fit and material of it with contemptso artistically veiled that it could almost be understood in the dark.

II
The big bays swung to the brow of the hill with ease, and dashed intoa small circular clearing, where a quaint little two-story building,with a mossy watering-trough out in front, nestled under the shade ofmajestic old trees that reared their brown and scarlet crowns proudlyinto the sky. A long, low porch ran across the front of the structure,and a complaining sign hung out announcing, in dim, weather-fleckedletters on a cracked board, that this was the "Tutt House." Agray-headed man, in brown overalls and faded blue jumper, stood on theporch and shook his fist at the stage as it whirled by.
"What a delightfully old-fashioned inn!" exclaimed the prettydaughter. "How I should like to stop there over night!"
"You would probably wish yourself away before morning, Evelyn,"replied her mother indifferently. "No doubt it would be a mere siegeof discomfort."
The blonde matron turned to her husband. The pretty daughter had beenlooking at the picturesque "inn" between the heads of this lady andher son.
"Edward, please pull down the shade behind me," she directed. "Thereis quite a draught from that broken window."
The pretty daughter bit her lip. The brunette matron continued tostare at the shade in the exact spot upon which her gaze had beenbefore directed, and she never quivered an eyelash. The young manseemed very uncomfortable, and he tried to look his apologies to thepretty daughter, but she could not see him now, not even if her eyeshad been all corners.
They were bowling along through another avenue of trees when thedriver suddenly shouted, "Whoa there!"
The horses were brought up with a jerk that was well nigh fatal to theassortment of dignity inside the coach. A loud roaring could be heard,both ahead and in the rear, a sharp splitting like a fusillade ofpistol shots, then a creaking and tearing of timbers. The driver bentsuddenly forward.
"Gid ap!" he cried, and the horses sprang forward with a lurch. Heswung them around a sharp bend with a skillful hand and poised hisweight above the brake as they plunged at terrific speed down a steepgrade. The roaring was louder than ever now, and it became deafeningas they suddenly emerged from the thick underbrush at the bottom ofthe declivity.
"Caught, by gravy!" ejaculated the driver, and, for the second time,he brought the coach to an abrupt stop.
"Do see what is the matter, Ralph," said the blonde matronimpatiently.
Thus commanded, the young man swung out and asked the driver about it.
"Paintsville dam's busted," he was informed. "I been a-lookin' fer itthis many a year, an' this here freshet done it. You see the hollerthere? Well, they's ten foot o' water in it, an' it had ort to bestone dry. The bridge is tore out behind us, an' we're stuck here tillthat water runs out. We can't git away till to-morry, anyways."
He pointed out the peculiar topography of the place, and Ralph gotback in the coach.
"We're practically on a flood-made island," he exclaimed, with one eyeon the pretty daughter, "and we shall have to stop over night at thatquaint, old-fashioned inn we passed a few moments ago."
The pretty daughter's eyes twinkled, and he thought he caught a swift,direct gleam from under the long lashes--but he was not sure.
"Dear me, how annoying," said the blonde matron, but the brunettematron still stared, without the slightest trace of interest inanything else, at the infinitesimal spot she had selected on theaffronting window-shade.
The two men gave sighs of resignation, and cast carefully concealedglances at each other, speculating on the possibility of a cigar and aglass, and maybe a good story or two, or possibly even a game of pokerafter the evening meal. Who could tell what might or might not happen?

III
When the stage drew up in front of the little hotel, it found UncleBilly Tutt prepared for his revenge. In former days the stage hadalways stopped at the Tutt House for the noonday meal. Since the newrailway was built through the adjoining county, however, the stagetrip became a mere twelve-mile, cross-country transfer from onerailroad to another, and the stage made a later trip, allowing thepassengers plenty of time for "dinner" before they started. Day afterday, as the coach flashed by with its money-laden passengers, UncleBilly had hoped that it would break down. But this was better, muchbetter. The coach might be quickly mended, but not the flood.
"I'm a-goin' t' charge 'em till they squeal," he declared to thetimidly protesting Aunt Margaret, "an' then I'm goin' t' charge 'em aleast mite more, drat 'em!"
He retreated behind the rough wooden counter that did duty as a desk,slammed open the flimsy, paper-bound "cash book" that served as aregister, and planted his elbows uncompromisingly on either side ofit.
"Let 'em bring in their own traps," he commented, and Aunt Margaretfled, ashamed and conscience-smitten, to the kitchen. It seemed awful.
The first one out of the coach was the husband of the brunette matron,and, proceeding under instructions, he waited neither for luggage norwomen folk, but hurried straight into the Tutt House. The other manwould have been neck and neck with him in the race, if it had not beenthat he paused to seize two suitcases and had the misfortune to dropone, which burst open and scattered a choice assortment of lingeriefrom one end of the dingy coach to the other.
In the confusion of rescuing the fluffery, the owner of the suitcasehad to sacrifice her hauteur and help her husband and son block up theaisle, while the other matron had the ineffable satisfaction of being_kept waiting_, at last being enabled to say, sweetly and with themost polite consideration:
"Will you kindly allow me to pass?"
The blonde matron raised up and swept her skirts back perfectly flat.She was pale but collected. Her husband was pink but collected. Herson was crimson and uncollected. The brunette daughter could not havefound an eye anywhere in his countenance as she rustled out after hermother.
"I do hope that Belmont has been able to secure choice quarters," thetriumphing matron remarked as her daughter joined her on the ground."This place looked so very small that there can scarcely be more thanone comfortable suite in it."
It was a vital thrust. Only a splendidly cultivated self-controlprevented the blonde matron from retaliating upon the unfortunate whohad muddled things. Even so, her eyes spoke whole shelves of volumes.
The man who first reached the register wrote, in a straight blackscrawl, "J. Belmont Van Kamp, wife, and daughter." There being nospace left for his address, he put none down.
"I want three adjoining rooms, en suite if possible," he demanded.
"Three!" exclaimed Uncle Billy, scratching his head. "Won't two do ye?I ain't got but six bedrooms in th' house. Me an' Marg't sleeps inone, an' we're a-gittin' too old fer a shake-down on th' floor. I'llhave t' save one room fer th' driver, an' that leaves four. You taketwo now---"
Mr. Van Kamp cast a hasty glance out of the window, The other man wasgetting out of the coach. His own wife was stepping on the porch.
"What do you ask for meals and lodging until this time to-morrow?" heinterrupted.
The decisive moment had arrived. Uncle Billy drew a deep breath.
"Two dollars a head!" he defiantly announced. There! It was out! Hewished Margaret had stayed to hear him say it.
The guest did not seem to be seriously shocked, and Uncle Billy wasbeginning to be sorry he had not said three dollars, when Mr. Van Kampstopped the landlord's own breath.
"I'll give you fifteen dollars for the three best rooms in the house,"he calmly said, and Landlord Tutt gasped as the money fluttered downunder his nose.
"Jis' take yore folks right on up, Mr. Kamp," said Uncle Billy,pouncing on the money. "Th' rooms is th' three right along th' hullfront o' th' house. I'll be up and make on a fire in a minute. Jis'take th' _Jonesville Banner_ an' th' _Uticky Clarion_ along with ye."
As the swish of skirts marked the passage of the Van Kamps up the widehall stairway, the other party swept into the room.
The man wrote, in a round flourish, "Edward Eastman Ellsworth, wife,and son."
"I'd like three choice rooms, en suite," he said.
"Gosh!" said Uncle Billy, regretfully. "That's what Mr. Kamp wanted,fust off, an' he got it. They hain't but th' little room over th'kitchen left. I'll have to put you an' your wife in that, an' let yourboy sleep with th' driver."
The consternation in the Ellsworth party was past calculating by anyknown standards of measurement. The thing was an outrage! It was notto be borne! They would not submit to it!
Uncle Billy, however, secure in his mastery of the situation, calmlyquartered them as he had said. "An' let 'em splutter all they wantto," he commented comfortably to himself.

IV
The Ellsworths were holding a family indignation meeting on the broadporch when the Van Ramps came contentedly down for a walk, and brushedby them with unseeing eyes.
"It makes a perfectly fascinating suite," observed Mrs. Van Kamp, in apleasantly conversational tone that could be easily overheard byanyone impolite enough to listen. "That delightful old-fashionedfireplace in the middle apartment makes it an ideal sitting-room, andthe beds are so roomy and comfortable."
"I just knew it would be like this!" chirruped Miss Evelyn. "Iremarked as we passed the place, if you will remember, how charming itwould be to stop in this dear, quaint old inn over night. All mywishes seem to come true this year."
These simple and, of course, entirely unpremeditated remarks were asvinegar and wormwood to Mrs. Ellsworth, and she gazed after theretreating Van Kamps with a glint in her eye that would make oneunderstand Lucretia Borgia at last.
Her son also gazed after the retreating Van Kamp. She had an exquisitefigure, and she carried herself with a most delectable grace. As theparty drew away from the inn she dropped behind the elders andwandered off into a side path to gather autumn leaves.
Ralph, too, started off for a walk, but naturally not in the samedirection.
"Edward!" suddenly said Mrs. Ellsworth. "I want you to turn thosepeople out of that suite before night!"
"Very well," he replied with a sigh, and got up to do it. He hadwrecked a railroad and made one, and had operated successful cornersin nutmegs and chicory. No task seemed impossible. He walked in to seethe landlord.
"What are the Van Kamps paying you for those three rooms?" he asked.
"Fifteen dollars," Uncle Billy informed him, smoking one of Mr. VanKamp's good cigars and twiddling his thumbs in huge content.
"I'll give you thirty for them. Just set their baggage outside andtell them the rooms are occupied."
"No sir-ree!" rejoined Uncle Billy. "A bargain's a bargain, an' Iallus stick to one I make."
Mr. Ellsworth withdrew, but not defeated. He had never supposed thatsuch an absurd proposition would be accepted. It was only a feeler,and he had noticed a wince of regret in his landlord. He sat down onthe porch and lit a strong cigar. His wife did not bother him. Shegazed complacently at the flaming foliage opposite, and allowed him tothink. Getting impossible things was his business in life, and she hadconfidence in him.
"I want to rent your entire house for a week," he announced to UncleBilly a few minutes later. It had occurred to him that the flood mightlast longer than they anticipated.
Uncle Billy's eyes twinkled.
"I reckon it kin be did," he allowed. "I reckon a _ho_-tel man's got aright to rent his hull house ary minute."
"Of course he has. How much do you want?"
Uncle Billy had made one mistake in not asking this sort of folksenough, and he reflected in perplexity.
"Make me a offer," he proposed. "Ef it hain't enough I'll tell ye. Youwant to rent th' hull place, back lot an' all?"
"No, just the mere house. That will be enough," answered the otherwith a smile. He was on the point of offering a hundred dollars, whenhe saw the little wrinkles about Mr. Tutt's eyes, and he saidseventy-five.
"Sho, ye're jokin'!" retorted Uncle Billy. He had been considered afine horse-trader in that part of the country. "Make it a hundred andtwenty-five, an' I'll go ye."
Mr. Ellsworth counted out some bills.
"Here's a hundred," he said. "That ought to be about right."
"Fifteen more," insisted Uncle Billy.
With a little frown of impatience the other counted off the extramoney and handed it over. Uncle Billy gravely handed it back.
"Them's the fifteen dollars Mr. Kamp give me," he explained. "You'vegot the hull house fer a week, an' o' course all th' money that'stooken in is your'n. You kin do as ye please about rentin' out roomsto other folks, I reckon. A bargain's a bargain, an' I allus stick toone I make."

V
Ralph Ellsworth stalked among the trees, feverishly searching forsquirrels, scarlet leaves, and the glint of a brown walking-dress,this last not being so easy to locate in sunlit autumn woods. Timeafter time he quickened his pace, only to find that he had been fooledby a patch of dogwood, a clump of haw bushes or even a leaf-strewnknoll, but at last he unmistakably saw the dress, and then he sloweddown to a careless saunter.
She was reaching up for some brilliantly colored maple leaves, and wasentirely unconscious of his presence, especially after she had seenhim. Her pose showed her pretty figure to advantage, but, of course,she did not know that. How should she?
Ralph admired the picture very much. The hat, the hair, the gown, thedainty shoes, even the narrow strip of silken hose that was revealedas she stood a-uptoe, were all of a deep, rich brown that proved anexquisite foil for the pink and cream of her cheeks. He rememberedthat her eyes were almost the same shade, and wondered how it was thatwomen-folk happened on combinations in dress that so well set offtheir natural charms. The fool!
He was about three trees away, now, and a panic akin to that whichhunters describe as "buck ague" seized him. He decided that he reallyhad no excuse for coming any nearer. It would not do, either, to beseen staring at her if she should happen to turn her head, so heveered off, intending to regain the road. It would be impossible to dothis without passing directly in her range of vision, and he did notintend to try to avoid it. He had a fine, manly figure of his own.
He had just passed the nearest radius to her circle and was proceedingalong the tangent that he had laid out for himself, when the unwittingmaid looked carefully down and saw a tangle of roots at her very feet.She was so unfortunate, a second later, as to slip her foot in thisvery tangle and give her ankle ever so slight a twist.
"Oh!" cried Miss Van Kamp, and Ralph Ellsworth flew to the rescue. Hehad not been noticing her at all, and yet he had started to her sidebefore she had even cried out, which was strange. She had a veryattractive voice.
"May I be of assistance?" he anxiously inquired.
"I think not, thank you," she replied, compressing her lips to keepback the intolerable pain, and half-closing her eyes to show the finelashes. Declining the proffered help, she extricated her foot, pickedup her autumn branches, and turned away. She was intensely averse toanything that could be construed as a flirtation, even of the mildest,he could certainly see that. She took a step, swayed slightly, droppedthe leaves, and clutched out her hand to him.
"It is nothing," she assured him in a moment, withdrawing the handafter he had held it quite long enough. "Nothing whatever. I gave myfoot a slight wrench, and turned the least bit faint for a moment."
"You must permit me to walk back, at least to the road, with you," heinsisted, gathering up her armload of branches. "I couldn't think ofleaving you here alone."
As he stooped to raise the gay woodland treasures he smiled tohimself, ever so slightly. This was not _his_ first season out,either.
"Delightful spot, isn't it?" he observed as they regained the road andsauntered in the direction of the Tutt House.
"Quite so," she reservedly answered. She had noticed that smile as hestooped. He must be snubbed a little. It would be so good for him.
"You don't happen to know Billy Evans, of Boston, do you?" he asked.
"I think not. I am but very little acquainted in Boston."
"Too bad," he went on. "I was rather in hopes you knew Billy. Allsorts of a splendid fellow, and knows everybody."
"Not quite, it seems," she reminded him, and he winced at the error.In spite of the sly smile that he had permitted to himself, he wasunusually interested.
He tried the weather, the flood, the accident, golf, books and threegood, substantial, warranted jokes, but the conversation lagged inspite of him. Miss Van Kamp would not for the world have it understoodthat this unconventional meeting, made allowable by her wrenchedankle, could possibly fulfill the functions of a formal introduction.
"What a ripping, queer old building that is!" he exclaimed, making onemore brave effort as they came in sight of the hotel.
"It is, rather," she assented. "The rooms in it are as quaint anddelightful as the exterior, too."
She looked as harmless and innocent as a basket of peaches as she saidit, and never the suspicion of a smile deepened the dimple in thecheek toward him. The smile was glowing cheerfully away inside,though. He could feel it, if he could not see it, and he laughedaloud.
"Your crowd rather got the better of us there," he admitted with thekeen appreciation of one still quite close to college days.
"Of course, the mater is furious, but I rather look on it as a lark."
She thawed like an April icicle.
"It's perfectly jolly," she laughed with him. "Awfully selfish of us,too, I know, but such loads of fun."
They were close to the Tutt House now, and her limp, that had entirelydisappeared as they emerged from the woods, now became quiteperceptible. There might be people looking out of the windows, thoughit is hard to see why that should affect a limp.
Ralph was delighted to find that a thaw had set in, and he made onemore attempt to establish at least a proxy acquaintance.
"You don't happen to know Peyson Kingsley, of Philadelphia, do you?"
"I'm afraid I don't," she replied. "I know so few Philadelphia people,you see." She was rather regretful about it this time. He really was aclever sort of a fellow, in spite of that smile.
The center window in the second floor of the Tutt House swung open,its little squares of glass flashing jubilantly in the sunlight. Mrs.Ellsworth leaned out over the sill, from the quaint old sitting-roomof the _Van Kamp apartments_!
"Oh, Ralph!" she called in her most dulcet tones. "Kindly excuseyourself and come right on up to our suite for a few moments!"

VI
It is not nearly so easy to take a practical joke as to perpetrateone. Evelyn was sitting thoughtfully on the porch when her father andmother returned. Mrs. Ellsworth was sitting at the center windowabove, placidly looking out. Her eyes swept carelessly over the VanKamps, and unconcernedly passed on to the rest of the landscape.
Mrs. Van Kamp gasped and clutched the arm of her husband. There was noneed. He, too, had seen the apparition. Evelyn now, for the firsttime, saw the real humor of the situation. She smiled as she thoughtof Ralph. She owed him one, but she never worried about her debts. Shealways managed to get them paid, principal and interest.
Mr. Van Kamp suddenly glowered and strode into the Tutt House. UncleBilly met him at the door, reflectively chewing a straw, and handedhim an envelope. Mr. Van Kamp tore it open and drew out a note. Threefive-dollar bills came out with it and fluttered to the porch floor.This missive confronted him:
MR. J. BELMONT VAN KAMP,
DEAR SIR: This is to notify you that I have rented the entire TuttHouse for the ensuing week, and am compelled to assume possession ofthe three second-floor front rooms. Herewith I am enclosing thefifteen dollars you paid to secure the suite. You are quite welcome tomake use, as my guest, of the small room over the kitchen. You willfind your luggage in that room. Regretting any inconvenience that thistransaction may cause you, I am,
Yours respectfully,EDWARD EASTMAN ELLSWORTH.
Mr. Van Kamp passed the note to his wife and sat down or a largechair. He was glad that the chair was comfortable and roomy. Evelynpicked up the bills and tucked them into her waist. She neveroverlooked any of her perquisites. Mrs. Van Kamp read the note, andthe tip of her nose became white. She also sat down, but she was thefirst to find her voice.
"Atrocious!" she exclaimed. "Atrocious! Simply atrocious, Belmont.This is a house of public entertainment. They _can't_ turn us out inthis high-minded manner! Isn't there a law or something to thateffect?"
"It wouldn't matter if there was," he thoughtfully replied. "Thisfellow Ellsworth would be too clever to be caught by it. He would saythat the house was not a hotel but a private residence during theperiod for which he has rented it."
Personally, he rather admired Ellsworth. Seemed to be a resourcefulsort of chap who knew how to make money behave itself, and do itslittle tricks without balking in the harness.
"Then you can make him take down the sign!" his wife declared.
He shook his head decidedly.
"It wouldn't do, Belle," he replied. "It would be spite, notretaliation, and not at all sportsmanlike. The course you suggestwould belittle us more than it would annoy them. There must be someother way."
He went in to talk with Uncle Billy.
"I want to buy this place," he stated. "Is it for sale?"
"It sartin is!" replied Uncle Billy. He did not merely twinkle thistime. He grinned.
"How much?"
"Three thousand dollars." Mr. Tutt was used to charging by this time,and he betrayed no hesitation.
"I'll write you out a check at once," and Mr. Van Kamp reached in hispocket with the reflection that the spot, after all, was an ideal onefor a quiet summer retreat.
"Air you a-goin' t' scribble that there three thou-san' on a piece o'paper?" inquired Uncle Billy, sitting bolt upright. "Ef you aira-figgerin' on that, Mr. Kamp, jis' you save yore time. I give a manfour dollars fer one o' them check things oncet, an' I owe myself themfour dollars yit."
Mr. Van Kamp retired in disorder, but the thought of his wife anddaughter waiting confidently on the porch stopped him. Moreover, thething had resolved itself rather into a contest between Ellsworth andhimself, and he had done a little making and breaking of men andthings in his own time. He did some gatling-gun thinking out by thenewel-post, and presently rejoined Uncle Billy.
"Mr. Tutt, tell me just exactly what Mr. Ellsworth rented, please," herequested.
"Th' hull house," replied Billy, and then he somewhat sternly added:"Paid me spot cash fer it, too."
Mr. Van Kamp took a wad of loose bills from his trousers pocket,straightened them out leisurely, and placed them in his bill book,along with some smooth yellowbacks of eye-bulging denominations. UncleBilly sat up and stopped twiddling his thumbs.
"Nothing was said about the furniture, was there?" suavely inquiredVan Kamp.
Uncle Billy leaned blankly back in his chair. Little by little thelight dawned on the ex-horse-trader. The crow's feet reappeared abouthis eyes, his mouth twitched, he smiled, he grinned, then he slappedhis thigh and haw-hawed.
"No!" roared Uncle Billy. "No, there wasn't, by gum!"
"Nothing but the house?"
"His very own words!" chuckled Uncle Billy. "'Jis' th' mere house,'says he, an' he gits it. A bargain's a bargain, an' I allus stick toone I make."
"How much for the furniture for the week?"
"Fifty dollars!" Mr. Tutt knew how to do business with this kind ofpeople now, you bet.
Mr. Van Kamp promptly counted out the money.
"Drat it!" commented Uncle Billy to himself. "I could 'a' got more!"
"Now where can we make ourselves comfortable with this furniture?"
Uncle Billy chirked up. All was not yet lost.
"Waal," he reflectively drawled, "there's th' new barn. It hain't beenused for nothin' yit, senct I built it two years ago. I jis' hadn'tth' heart t' put th' critters in it as long as th' ole one stood up."
The other smiled at this flashlight on Uncle Billy's character, andthey went out to look at the barn.

VII
Uncle Billy came back from the "Tutt House Annex," as Mr. Van Kampdubbed the barn, with enough more money to make him love all the worlduntil he got used to having it. Uncle Billy belongs to a large family.
Mr. Van Kamp joined the women on the porch, and explained theattractively novel situation to them. They were chatting gaily whenthe Ellsworths came down the stairs. Mr. Ellsworth paused for a momentto exchange a word with Uncle Billy.
"Mr. Tutt," said he, laughing, "if we go for a bit of exercise willyou guarantee us the possession of our rooms when we come back?"
"Yes sir-ree!" Uncle Billy assured him. "They shan't nobody take themrooms away from you fer money, marbles, ner chalk. A bargain's abargain, an' I allus stick to one I make," and he virtuously took achew of tobacco while he inspected the afternoon sky with a clearconscience.
"I want to get some of those splendid autumn leaves to decorate ourcozy apartments," Mrs. Ellsworth told her husband as they passed inhearing of the Van Kamps. "Do you know those oldtime rag rugs are themost oddly decorative effects that I have ever seen. They are so richin color and so exquisitely blended."
There were reasons why this poisoned arrow failed to rankle, but theVan Kamps did not trouble to explain. They were waiting for Ralph tocome out and join his parents. Ralph, it seemed, however, had decidednot to take a walk. He had already fatigued himself, he had explained,and his mother had favored him with a significant look. She couldreadily believe him, she had assured him, and had then left him inscorn.
The Van Kamps went out to consider the arrangement of the barn. Evelynreturned first and came out on the porch to find a handkerchief. Itwas not there, but Ralph was. She was very much surprised to see him,and she intimated as much.
"It's dreadfully damp in the woods," he explained. "By the way, youdon't happen to know the Whitleys, of Washington, do you? Mostexcellent people."
"I'm quite sorry that I do not," she replied. "But you will have toexcuse me. We shall be kept very busy with arranging our apartments."
Ralph sprang to his feet with a ludicrous expression.
"Not the second floor front suite!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, no! Not at all," she reassured him.
He laughed lightly.
"Honors are about even in that game," he said.
"Evelyn," called her mother from the hall. "Please come and take thosefront suite curtains down to the barn."
"Pardon me while we take the next trick," remarked Evelyn with a laughquite as light and gleeful as his own, and disappeared into the hall.
He followed her slowly, and was met at the door by her father.
"You are the younger Mr. Ellsworth, I believe," politely said Mr. VanKamp.
"Ralph Ellsworth. Yes, sir."
"Here is a note for your father. It is unsealed. You are quite atliberty to read it."
Mr. Van Kamp bowed himself away, and Ralph opened the note, whichread:
EDWARD EASTMAN ELLSWORTH, ESQ.,
Dear Sir: This is to notify you that I have rented the entirefurniture of the Tutt House for the ensuing week, and am compelled toassume possession of that in the three second floor front rooms, aswell as all the balance not in actual use by Mr. and Mrs. Tutt and thedriver of the stage. You are quite welcome, however, to make use ofthe furnishings in the small room over the kitchen. Your luggage youwill find undisturbed. Regretting any inconvenience that thistransaction may cause you, I remain,
Yours respectfully,
J. BELMONT VAN KAMP.
Ralph scratched his head in amused perplexity. It devolved upon him toeven up the affair a little before his mother came back. He mustsupport the family reputation for resourcefulness, but it took quite abit of scalp irritation before he aggravated the right idea intobeing. As soon as the idea came, he went in and made a hide-boundbargain with Uncle Billy, then he went out into the hall and waiteduntil Evelyn came down with a huge armload of window curtains.
"Honors are still even," he remarked. "I have just bought all theedibles about the place, whether in the cellar, the house or any ofthe surrounding structures, in the ground, above the ground, dead oralive, and a bargain's a bargain as between man and man."
"Clever of you, I'm sure," commented Miss Van Kamp, reflectively.Suddenly her lips parted with a smile that revealed a double row ofmost beautiful teeth. He meditatively watched the curve of her lips.
"Isn't that rather a heavy load?" he suggested. "I'd be delighted tohelp you move the things, don't you know."
"It is quite kind of you, and what the men would call 'game,' Ibelieve, under the circumstances," she answered, "but really it willnot be necessary. We have hired Mr. Tutt and the driver to do theheavier part of the work, and the rest of it will be really a pleasantdiversion."
"No doubt," agreed Ralph, with an appreciative grin. "By the way, youdon't happen to know Maud and Dorothy Partridge, of Baltimore, do you?Stunning pretty girls, both of them, and no end of swells."
"I know so very few people in Baltimore," she murmured, and tripped ondown to the barn.
Ralph went out on the porch and smoked. There was nothing else that hecould do.

VIII
It was growing dusk when the elder Ellsworths returned, almost hiddenby great masses of autumn boughs.
"You should have been with us, Ralph," enthusiastically said hismother. "I never saw such gorgeous tints in all my life. We havebrought nearly the entire woods with us."
"It was a good idea," said Ralph. "A stunning good idea. They may comein handy to sleep on."
Mrs. Ellsworth turned cold.
"What do you mean?" she gasped.
"Ralph," sternly demanded his father, "you don't mean to tell us thatyou let the Van Kamps jockey us out of those rooms after all?"
"Indeed, no," he airily responded. "Just come right on up and see."
He led the way into the suite and struck a match. One solitary candlehad been left upon the mantel shelf. Ralph thought that this had beenoverlooked, but his mother afterwards set him right about that. Mrs.Van Kamp had cleverly left it so that the Ellsworths could see howdreadfully bare the place was. One candle in three rooms is drearierthan darkness anyhow.
Mrs. Ellsworth took in all the desolation, the dismal expanse of thenow enormous apartments, the shabby walls, the hideous bright spotswhere pictures had hung, the splintered flooring, the great, gauntwindows--and she gave in. She had met with snub after snub, and cutafter cut, in her social climb, she had had the cook quit in themiddle of an important dinner, she had had every disconcerting thingpossible happen to her, but this--this was the last _bale_ of straw.She sat down on a suitcase, in the middle of the biggest room, andcried!
Ralph, having waited for this, now told about the food transaction,and she hastily pushed the last-coming tear back into her eye.
"Good!" she cried. "They will be up here soon. They will be compelledto compromise, and they must not find me with red eyes."
She cast a hasty glance around the room, then, in a sudden panic,seized the candle and explored the other two. She went wildly out intothe hall, back into the little room over the kitchen, downstairs,everywhere, and returned in consternation.
"There's not a single mirror left in the house!" she moaned.
Ralph heartlessly grinned. He could appreciate that this was acharacteristic woman trick, and wondered admiringly whether Evelyn orher mother had thought of it. However, this was a time for action.
"I'll get you some water to bathe your eyes," he offered, and ran intothe little room over the kitchen to get a pitcher. A crackedshaving-mug was the only vessel that had been left, but he hurrieddown into the yard with it. This was no time for fastidiousness.
He had barely creaked the pump handle when Mr. Van Kamp hurried upfrom the barn.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Van Kamp, "but this water belongsto us. My daughter bought it, all that is in the ground, above theground, or that may fall from the sky upon these premises."

IX
The mutual siege lasted until after seven o'clock, but it was ratherone-sided. The Van Kamps could drink all the water they liked, it madethem no hungrier. If the Ellsworths ate anything, however, they grewthirstier, and, moreover, water was necessary if anything worth whilewas to be cooked. They knew all this, and resisted until Mrs.Ellsworth was tempted and fell. She ate a sandwich and choked. It washeartbreaking, but Ralph had to be sent down with a plate ofsandwiches and an offer to trade them for water.
Halfway between the pump and the house he met Evelyn coming with asmall pail of the precious fluid. They both stopped stock still; then,seeing that it was too late to retreat, both laughed and advanced.
"Who wins now?" bantered Ralph as they made the exchange.
"It looks to me like a misdeal," she gaily replied, and was movingaway when he called her back.
"You don't happen to know the Gately's, of New York, do you?" he wasquite anxious to know.
"I am truly sorry, but I am acquainted with so few people in New York.We are from Chicago, you know."
"Oh," said he blankly, and took the water up to the Ellsworth suite.
Mrs. Ellsworth cheered up considerably when she heard that Ralph hadbeen met halfway, but her eyes snapped when he confessed that it wasMiss Van Kamp who had met him.
"I hope you are not going to carry on a flirtation with thatoverdressed creature," she blazed.
"Why mother," exclaimed Ralph, shocked beyond measure. "What righthave you to accuse either this young lady or myself of flirting?Flirting!"
Mrs. Ellsworth suddenly attacked the fire with quite unnecessaryenergy.

X
Down at the barn, the wide threshing floor had been covered with gayrag-rugs, and strewn with tables, couches, and chairs in picturesqueprofusion. Roomy box-stalls had been carpeted deep with clean straw,curtained off with gaudy bed-quilts, and converted into cozy sleepingapartments. The mow and the stalls had been screened off with lacecurtains and blazing counterpanes, and the whole effect was one ofOriental luxury and splendor. Alas, it was only an "effect"! Thered-hot parlor stove smoked abominably, the pipe carried other smokeout through the hawmow window, only to let it blow back again. Chillcross-draughts whistled in from cracks too numerous to be stopped up,and the miserable Van Kamps could only cough and shiver, and envy theTutts and the driver, non-combatants who had been fed two hoursbefore.
Up in the second floor suite there was a roaring fire in the bigfireplace, but there was a chill in the room that no mere fire coulddrive away--the chill of absolute emptiness.
A man can outlive hardships that would kill a woman, but a woman canendure discomforts that would drive a man crazy.
Mr. Ellsworth went out to hunt up Uncle Billy, with an especial solacein mind. The landlord was not in the house, but the yellow gleam of alantern revealed his presence in the woodshed, and Mr. Ellsworthstepped in upon him just as he was pouring something yellow and clearinto a tumbler from a big jug that he had just taken from under theflooring.
"How much do you want for that jug and its contents?" he asked, with asigh of gratitude that this supply had been overlooked.
Before Mr. Tutt could answer, Mr. Van Kamp hurried in at the door.
"Wait a moment!" he cried. "I want to bid on that!"
"This here jug hain't fer sale at no price," Uncle Billy emphaticallyannounced, nipping all negotiations right in the bud. "It's too peskyhard to sneak this here licker in past Marge't, but I reckon it's mytreat, gents. Ye kin have all ye want."
One minute later Mr. Van Kamp and Mr. Ellsworth were seated, one on asawbuck and the other on a nail-keg, comfortably eyeing each otheracross the work bench, and each was holding up a tumbler one-thirdfilled with the golden yellow liquid.
"Your health, sir," courteously proposed Mr. Ellsworth.
"And to you, sir," gravely replied Mr. Van Kamp.

XI
Ralph and Evelyn happened to meet at the pump, quite accidentally,after the former had made half a dozen five-minute-apart trips for adrink. It was Miss Van Kamp, this time, who had been studying on themutual acquaintance problem.
"You don't happen to know the Tylers, of Parkersburg, do you?" sheasked.
"The Tylers! I should say I do!" was the unexpected and enthusiasticreply. "Why, we are on our way now to Miss Georgiana Tyler's weddingto my friend Jimmy Carston. I'm to be best man."
"How delightful!" she exclaimed. "We are on the way there, too.Georgiana was my dearest chum at school, and I am to be her 'bestgirl.'"
"Let's go around on the porch and sit down," said Ralph.
XII
Mr. Van Kamp, back in the woodshed, looked about him with an eye ofcontent.
"Rather cozy for a woodshed," he observed. "I wonder if we couldn'tscare up a little session of dollar limit?"
Both Uncle Billy and Mr. Ellsworth were willing. Death and poker levelall Americans. A fourth hand was needed, however. The stage driver wasin bed and asleep, and Mr. Ellsworth volunteered to find the extraplayer.
"I'll get Ralph," he said. "He plays a fairly stiff game." He finallyfound his son on the porch, apparently alone, and stated his errand.
"Thank you, but I don't believe I care to play this evening," was theastounding reply, and Mr. Ellsworth looked closer. He made out, then,a dim figure on the other side of Ralph.
"Oh! Of course not!" he blundered, and went back to the woodshed.
Three-handed poker is a miserable game, and it seldom lasts long. Itdid not in this case. After Uncle Billy had won the only jack-potdeserving of the name, he was allowed to go blissfully to sleep withhis hand on the handle of the big jug.
After poker there is only one other always available amusement formen, and that is business. The two travelers were quite wellacquainted when Ralph put his head in at the door.
"Thought I'd find you here," he explained. "It just occurred to me towonder whether you gentlemen had discovered, as yet, that we are allto be house guests at the Carston-Tyler wedding."
"Why, no!" exclaimed his father in pleased surprise. "It is a mostagreeable coincidence. Mr. Van Kamp, allow me to introduce my son,Ralph. Mr. Van Kamp and myself, Ralph, have found out that we shall beconsiderably thrown together in a business way from now on. He hasjust purchased control of the Metropolitan and Western string ofinterurbans."
"Delighted, I'm sure," murmured Ralph, shaking hands, and then heslipped out as quickly as possible. Some one seemed to be waiting forhim.
Perhaps another twenty minutes had passed, when one of the men had anilluminating idea that resulted, later on, in pleasant relations forall of them. It was about time, for Mrs. Ellsworth, up in the baresuite, and Mrs. Van Kamp, down in the draughty barn, both wrapped upto the chin and both still chilly, had about reached the limit ofpatience and endurance.
"Why can't we make things a little more comfortable for allconcerned?" suggested Mr. Van Kamp. "Suppose, as a starter, that wehave Mrs. Van Kamp give a shiver party down in the barn?"
"Good idea," agreed Mr. Ellsworth. "A little diplomacy will do it.Each one of us will have to tell his wife that the other fellow madethe first abject overtures."
Mr. Van Kamp grinned understandingly, and agreed to the infamous ruse.
"By the way," continued Mr. Ellsworth, with a still happier thought,"you must allow Mrs. Ellsworth to furnish the dinner for Mrs. VanKamp's shiver party."
"Dinner!" gasped Mr. Van Kamp. "By all means!"
Both men felt an anxious yawning in the region of the appetite, and ayearning moisture wetted their tongues. They looked at the slumberingUncle Billy and decided to see Mrs. Tutt themselves about a good, hotdinner for six.
"Law me!" exclaimed Aunt Margaret when they appeared at the kitchendoor. "I swan I thought you folks 'u'd never come to yore senses. HereI've had a big pot o' stewed chicken ready on the stove fer two mortalhours. I kin give ye that, an' smashed taters an' chicken gravy, an'dried corn, an' hot corn-pone, an' currant jell, an' strawberrypreserves, an' my own cannin' o' peaches, an' pumpkin-pie an' coffee.Will that do ye?" Would it _do_! _Would_ it do!!
As Aunt Margaret talked, the kitchen door swung wide, and the two menwere stricken speechless with astonishment. There, across from eachother at the kitchen table, sat the utterly selfish and traitorousyounger members of the rival houses of Ellsworth and Van Kamp, deep inthe joys of chicken, and mashed potatoes, and gravy, and hotcorn-pone, and all the other "fixings," laughing and chatting gailylike chums of years' standing. They had seemingly just come to anagreement about something or other, for Evelyn, waving the shorter endof a broken wishbone, was vivaciously saying to Ralph:
"A bargain's a bargain, and I always stick to one I make."

THE DUPLICITY OF HARGRAVES

2006-06-09T13:06:00.000-07:00

By O. Henry (1862-1910)

[From _The Junior Munsey_, February, 1902. Republished in the volume,
_Sixes and Sevens_ (1911), by O. Henry; copyright, 1911, by Doubleday,
Page & Co.; reprinted by their permission.]

When Major Pendleton Talbot, of Mobile, sir, and his daughter, Miss
Lydia Talbot, came to Washington to reside, they selected for a
boarding place a house that stood fifty yards back from one of the
quietest avenues. It was an old-fashioned brick building, with a
portico upheld by tall white pillars. The yard was shaded by stately
locusts and elms, and a catalpa tree in season rained its pink and
white blossoms upon the grass. Rows of high box bushes lined the fence
and walks. It was the Southern style and aspect of the place that
pleased the eyes of the Talbots.

In this pleasant private boarding house they engaged rooms, including
a study for Major Talbot, who was adding the finishing chapters to his
book, _Anecdotes and Reminiscences of the Alabama Army, Bench, and
Bar_.

Major Talbot was of the old, old South. The present day had little
interest or excellence in his eyes. His mind lived in that period
before the Civil War when the Talbots owned thousands of acres of fine
cotton land and the slaves to till them; when the family mansion was
the scene of princely hospitality, and drew its guests from the
aristocracy of the South. Out of that period he had brought all its
old pride and scruples of honor, an antiquated and punctilious
politeness, and (you would think) its wardrobe.

Such clothes were surely never made within fifty years. The Major was
tall, but whenever he made that wonderful, archaic genuflexion he
called a bow, the corners of his frock coat swept the floor. That
garment was a surprise even to Washington, which has long ago ceased
to shy at the frocks and broad-brimmed hats of Southern Congressmen.
One of the boarders christened it a "Father Hubbard," and it certainly
was high in the waist and full in the skirt.

But the Major, with all his queer clothes, his immense area of
plaited, raveling shirt bosom, and the little black string tie with
the bow always slipping on one side, both was smiled at and liked in
Mrs. Vardeman's select boarding house. Some of the young department
clerks would often "string him," as they called it, getting him
started upon the subject dearest to him--the traditions and history of
his beloved Southland. During his talks he would quote freely from the
_Anecdotes and Reminiscences_. But they were very careful not to let
him see their designs, for in spite of his sixty-eight years he could
make the boldest of them uncomfortable under the steady regard of his
piercing gray eyes.

Miss Lydia was a plump, little old maid of thirty-five, with smoothly
drawn, tightly twisted hair that made her look still older.
Old-fashioned, too, she was; but antebellum glory did not radiate from
her as it did from the Major. She possessed a thrifty common sense,
and it was she who handled the finances of the family, and met all
comers when there were bills to pay. The Major regarded board bills
and wash bills as contemptible nuisances. They kept coming in so
persistently and so often. Why, the Major wanted to know, could they
not be filed and paid in a lump sum at some convenient period--say
when the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ had been published and paid
for? Miss Lydia would calmly go on with her sewing and say, "We'll pay
as we go as long as the money lasts, and then perhaps they'll have to
lump it."

Most of Mrs. Vardeman's boarders were away during the day, being
nearly all department clerks and business men; but there was one of
them who was about the house a great deal from morning to night. This
was a young man named Henry Hopkins Hargraves--every one in the house
addressed him by his full name--who was engaged at one of the popular
vaudeville theaters. Vaudeville has risen to such a respectable plane
in the last few years, and Mr. Hargraves was such a modest and
well-mannered person, that Mrs. Vardeman could find no objection to
enrolling him upon her list of boarders.

At the theater Hargraves was known as an all-round dialect comedian,
having a large repertoire of German, Irish, Swede, and black-face
specialties. But Mr. Hargraves was ambitious, and often spoke of his
great desire to succeed in legitimate comedy.

This young man appeared to conceive a strong fancy for Major Talbot.
Whenever that gentleman would begin his Southern reminiscences, or
repeat some of the liveliest of the anecdotes, Hargraves could always
be found, the most attentive among his listeners.

For a time the Major showed an inclination to discourage the advances
of the "play actor," as he privately termed him; but soon the young
man's agreeable manner and indubitable appreciation of the old
gentleman's stories completely won him over.

It was not long before the two were like old chums. The Major set
apart each afternoon to read to him the manuscript of his book. During
the anecdotes Hargraves never failed to laugh at exactly the right
point. The Major was moved to declare to Miss Lydia one day that young
Hargraves possessed remarkable perception and a gratifying respect for
the old régime. And when it came to talking of those old days--if
Major Talbot liked to talk, Mr. Hargraves was entranced to listen.

Like almost all old people who talk of the past, the Major loved to
linger over details. In describing the splendid, almost royal, days of
the old planters, he would hesitate until he had recalled the name of
the negro who held his horse, or the exact date of certain minor
happenings, or the number of bales of cotton raised in such a year;
but Hargraves never grew impatient or lost interest. On the contrary,
he would advance questions on a variety of subjects connected with the
life of that time, and he never failed to extract ready replies.

The fox hunts, the 'possum suppers, the hoe-downs and jubilees in the
negro quarters, the banquets in the plantation-house hall, when
invitations went for fifty miles around; the occasional feuds with the
neighboring gentry; the Major's duel with Rathbone Culbertson about
Kitty Chalmers, who afterward married a Thwaite of South Carolina; and
private yacht races for fabulous sums on Mobile Bay; the quaint
beliefs, improvident habits, and loyal virtues of the old slaves--all
these were subjects that held both the Major and Hargraves absorbed
for hours at a time.

Sometimes, at night, when the young man would be coming upstairs to
his room after his turn at the theater was over, the Major would
appear at the door of his study and beckon archly to him. Going in,
Hargraves would find a little table set with a decanter, sugar bowl,
fruit, and a big bunch of fresh green mint.

"It occurred to me," the Major would begin--he was always
ceremonious--"that perhaps you might have found your duties at the--at
your place of occupation--sufficiently arduous to enable you, Mr.
Hargraves, to appreciate what the poet might well have had in his mind
when he wrote, 'tired Nature's sweet restorer'--one of our Southern
juleps."

It was a fascination to Hargraves to watch him make it. He took rank
among artists when he began, and he never varied the process. With
what delicacy he bruised the mint; with what exquisite nicety he
estimated the ingredients; with what solicitous care he capped the
compound with the scarlet fruit glowing against the dark green fringe!
And then the hospitality and grace with which he offered it, after the
selected oat straws had been plunged into its tinkling depths!

After about four months in Washington, Miss Lydia discovered one
morning that they were almost without money. The _Anecdotes and
Reminiscences_ was completed, but publishers had not jumped at the
collected gems of Alabama sense and wit. The rental of a small house
which they still owned in Mobile was two months in arrears. Their
board money for the month would be due in three days. Miss Lydia
called her father to a consultation.

"No money?" said he with a surprised look. "It is quite annoying to be
called on so frequently for these petty sums, Really, I--"

The Major searched his pockets. He found only a two-dollar bill, which
he returned to his vest pocket.

"I must attend to this at once, Lydia," he said. "Kindly get me my
umbrella and I will go downtown immediately. The congressman from our
district, General Fulghum, assured me some days ago that he would use
his influence to get my book published at an early date. I will go to
his hotel at once and see what arrangement has been made."

With a sad little smile Miss Lydia watched him button his "Father
Hubbard" and depart, pausing at the door, as he always did, to bow
profoundly.

That evening, at dark, he returned. It seemed that Congressman Fulghum
had seen the publisher who had the Major's manuscript for reading.
That person had said that if the anecdotes, etc., were carefully
pruned down about one-half, in order to eliminate the sectional and
class prejudice with which the book was dyed from end to end, he might
consider its publication.

The Major was in a white heat of anger, but regained his equanimity,
according to his code of manners, as soon as he was in Miss Lydia's
presence.

"We must have money," said Miss Lydia, with a little wrinkle above her
nose. "Give me the two dollars, and I will telegraph to Uncle Ralph
for some to-night."

The Major drew a small envelope from his upper vest pocket and tossed
it on the table.

"Perhaps it was injudicious," he said mildly, "but the sum was so
merely nominal that I bought tickets to the theater to-night. It's a
new war drama, Lydia. I thought you would be pleased to witness its
first production in Washington. I am told that the South has very fair
treatment in the play. I confess I should like to see the performance
myself."

Miss Lydia threw up her hands in silent despair.

Still, as the tickets were bought, they might as well be used. So that
evening, as they sat in the theater listening to the lively overture,
even Miss Lydia was minded to relegate their troubles, for the hour,
to second place. The Major, in spotless linen, with his extraordinary
coat showing only where it was closely buttoned, and his white hair
smoothly roached, looked really fine and distinguished. The curtain
went up on the first act of _A Magnolia Flower_, revealing a typical
Southern plantation scene. Major Talbot betrayed some interest.

"Oh, see!" exclaimed Miss Lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to her
program.

The Major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast of
characters that her fingers indicated.

Col. Webster Calhoun .... Mr. Hopkins Hargraves.

"It's our Mr. Hargraves," said Miss Lydia. "It must be his first
appearance in what he calls 'the legitimate.' I'm so glad for him."

Not until the second act did Col. Webster Calhoun appear upon the
stage. When he made his entry Major Talbot gave an audible sniff,
glared at him, and seemed to freeze solid. Miss Lydia uttered a
little, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her program in her hand. For
Colonel Calhoun was made up as nearly resembling Major Talbot as one
pea does another. The long, thin white hair, curly at the ends, the
aristocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, raveling shirt front,
the string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, were almost exactly
duplicated. And then, to clinch the imitation, he wore the twin to the
Major's supposed to be unparalleled coat. High-collared, baggy,
empire-waisted, ample-skirted, hanging a foot lower in front than
behind, the garment could have been designed from no other pattern.
From then on, the Major and Miss Lydia sat bewitched, and saw the
counterfeit presentment of a haughty Talbot "dragged," as the Major
afterward expressed it, "through the slanderous mire of a corrupt
stage."

Mr. Hargraves had used his opportunities well. He had caught the
Major's little idiosyncrasies of speech, accent, and intonation and
his pompous courtliness to perfection--exaggerating all to the purpose
of the stage. When he performed that marvelous bow that the Major
fondly imagined to be the pink of all salutations, the audience sent
forth a sudden round of hearty applause.

Miss Lydia sat immovable, not daring to glance toward her father.
Sometimes her hand next to him would be laid against her cheek, as if
to conceal the smile which, in spite of her disapproval, she could not
entirely suppress.

The culmination of Hargraves audacious imitation took place in the
third act. The scene is where Colonel Calhoun entertains a few of the
neighboring planters in his "den."

Standing at a table in the center of the stage, with his friends
grouped about him, he delivers that inimitable, rambling character
monologue so famous in _A Magnolia Flower_, at the same time that he
deftly makes juleps for the party.

Major Talbot, sitting quietly, but white with indignation, heard his
best stories retold, his pet theories and hobbies advanced and
expanded, and the dream of the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ served,
exaggerated and garbled. His favorite narrative--that of his duel with
Rathbone Culbertson--was not omitted, and it was delivered with more
fire, egotism, and gusto than the Major himself put into it.

The monologue concluded with a quaint, delicious, witty little lecture
on the art of concocting a julep, illustrated by the act. Here Major
Talbot's delicate but showy science was reproduced to a hair's
breadth--from his dainty handling of the fragrant weed--"the
one-thousandth part of a grain too much pressure, gentlemen, and you
extract the bitterness, instead of the aroma, of this heaven-bestowed
plant"--to his solicitous selection of the oaten straws.

At the close of the scene the audience raised a tumultuous roar of
appreciation. The portrayal of the type was so exact, so sure and
thorough, that the leading characters in the play were forgotten.
After repeated calls, Hargraves came before the curtain and bowed, his
rather boyish face bright and flushed with the knowledge of success.

At last Miss Lydia turned and looked at the Major. His thin nostrils
were working like the gills of a fish. He laid both shaking hands upon
the arms of his chair to rise.

"We will go, Lydia," he said chokingly. "This is an
abominable--desecration."

Before he could rise, she pulled him back into his seat.

"We will stay it out," she declared. "Do you want to advertise the
copy by exhibiting the original coat?" So they remained to the end.

Hargraves's success must have kept him up late that night, for neither
at the breakfast nor at the dinner table did he appear.

About three in the afternoon he tapped at the door of Major Talbot's
study. The Major opened it, and Hargraves walked in with his hands
full of the morning papers--too full of his triumph to notice anything
unusual in the Major's demeanor.

"I put it all over 'em last night, Major," he began exultantly. "I had
my inning, and, I think, scored. Here's what _The Post_ says:

"'His conception and portrayal of the old-time Southern colonel, with
his absurd grandiloquence, his eccentric garb, his quaint idioms and
phrases, his motheaten pride of family, and his really kind heart,
fastidious sense of honor, and lovable simplicity, is the best
delineation of a character role on the boards to-day. The coat worn by
Colonel Calhoun is itself nothing less than an evolution of genius.
Mr. Hargraves has captured his public.'

"How does that sound, Major, for a first-nighter?"

"I had the honor"--the Major's voice sounded ominously frigid--"of
witnessing your very remarkable performance, sir, last night."

Hargraves looked disconcerted.

"You were there? I didn't know you ever--I didn't know you cared for
the theater. Oh, I say, Major Talbot," he exclaimed frankly, "don't
you be offended. I admit I did get a lot of pointers from you that
helped out wonderfully in the part. But it's a type, you know--not
individual. The way the audience caught on shows that. Half the
patrons of that theater are Southerners. They recognized it."

"Mr. Hargraves," said the Major, who had remained standing, "you have
put upon me an unpardonable insult. You have burlesqued my person,
grossly betrayed my confidence, and misused my hospitality. If I
thought you possessed the faintest conception of what is the sign
manual of a gentleman, or what is due one, I would call you out, sir,
old as I am. I will ask you to leave the room, sir."

The actor appeared to be slightly bewildered, and seemed hardly to
take in the full meaning of the old gentleman's words.

"I am truly sorry you took offense," he said regretfully. "Up here we
don't look at things just as you people do. I know men who would buy
out half the house to have their personality put on the stage so the
public would recognize it."

"They are not from Alabama, sir," said the Major haughtily.

"Perhaps not. I have a pretty good memory, Major; let me quote a few
lines from your book. In response to a toast at a banquet given
in--Milledgeville, I believe--you uttered, and intend to have printed,
these words:

"'The Northern man is utterly without sentiment or warmth except in so
far as the feelings may be turned to his own commercial profit. He
will suffer without resentment any imputation cast upon the honor of
himself or his loved ones that does not bear with it the consequence
of pecuniary loss. In his charity, he gives with a liberal hand; but
it must be heralded with the trumpet and chronicled in brass.'

"Do you think that picture is fairer than the one you saw of Colonel
Calhoun last night?"

"The description," said the Major, frowning, "is--not without grounds.
Some exag--latitude must be allowed in public speaking."

"And in public acting," replied Hargraves.

"That is not the point," persisted the Major, unrelenting. "It was a
personal caricature. I positively decline to overlook it, sir."

"Major Talbot," said Hargraves, with a winning smile, "I wish you
would understand me. I want you to know that I never dreamed of
insulting you. In my profession, all life belongs to me. I take what I
want, and what I can, and return it over the footlights. Now, if you
will, let's let it go at that. I came in to see you about something
else. We've been pretty good friends for some months, and I'm going to
take the risk of offending you again. I know you are hard up for
money--never mind how I found out, a boarding house is no place to
keep such matters secret--and I want you to let me help you out of the
pinch. I've been there often enough myself. I've been getting a fair
salary all the season, and I've saved some money. You're welcome to a
couple hundred--or even more--until you get----"

"Stop!" commanded the Major, with his arm outstretched. "It seems that
my book didn't lie, after all. You think your money salve will heal
all the hurts of honor. Under no circumstances would I accept a loan
from a casual acquaintance; and as to you, sir, I would starve before
I would consider your insulting offer of a financial adjustment of the
circumstances we have discussed. I beg to repeat my request relative
to your quitting the apartment."

Hargraves took his departure without another word. He also left the
house the same day, moving, as Mrs. Vardeman explained at the supper
table, nearer the vicinity of the downtown theater, where _A Magnolia
Flower_ was booked for a week's run.

Critical was the situation with Major Talbot and Miss Lydia. There was
no one in Washington to whom the Major's scruples allowed him to apply
for a loan. Miss Lydia wrote a letter to Uncle Ralph, but it was
doubtful whether that relative's constricted affairs would permit him
to furnish help. The Major was forced to make an apologetic address to
Mrs. Vardeman regarding the delayed payment for board, referring to
"delinquent rentals" and "delayed remittances" in a rather confused
strain.

Deliverance came from an entirely unexpected source.

Late one afternoon the door maid came up and announced an old colored
man who wanted to see Major Talbot. The Major asked that he be sent up
to his study. Soon an old darkey appeared in the doorway, with his hat
in hand, bowing, and scraping with one clumsy foot. He was quite
decently dressed in a baggy suit of black. His big, coarse shoes shone
with a metallic luster suggestive of stove polish. His bushy wool was
gray--almost white. After middle life, it is difficult to estimate the
age of a negro. This one might have seen as many years as had Major
Talbot.

"I be bound you don't know me, Mars' Pendleton," were his first words.

The Major rose and came forward at the old, familiar style of address.
It was one of the old plantation darkeys without a doubt; but they had
been widely scattered, and he could not recall the voice or face.

"I don't believe I do," he said kindly--"unless you will assist my
memory."

"Don't you 'member Cindy's Mose, Mars' Pendleton, what 'migrated
'mediately after de war?"

"Wait a moment," said the Major, rubbing his forehead with the tips of
his fingers. He loved to recall everything connected with those
beloved days. "Cindy's Mose," he reflected. "You worked among the
horses--breaking the colts. Yes, I remember now. After the surrender,
you took the name of--don't prompt me--Mitchell, and went to the
West--to Nebraska."

"Yassir, yassir,"--the old man's face stretched with a delighted
grin--"dat's him, dat's it. Newbraska. Dat's me--Mose Mitchell. Old
Uncle Mose Mitchell, dey calls me now. Old mars', your pa, gimme a pah
of dem mule colts when I lef' fur to staht me goin' with. You 'member
dem colts, Mars' Pendleton?"

"I don't seem to recall the colts," said the Major. "You know. I was
married the first year of the war and living at the old Follinsbee
place. But sit down, sit down, Uncle Mose. I'm glad to see you. I hope
you have prospered."

Uncle Mose took a chair and laid his hat carefully on the floor beside
it.

"Yessir; of late I done mouty famous. When I first got to Newbraska,
dey folks come all roun' me to see dem mule colts. Dey ain't see no
mules like dem in Newbraska. I sold dem mules for three hundred
dollars. Yessir--three hundred.

"Den I open a blacksmith shop, suh, and made some money and bought
some lan'. Me and my old 'oman done raised up seb'm chillun, and all
doin' well 'cept two of 'em what died. Fo' year ago a railroad come
along and staht a town slam ag'inst my lan', and, suh, Mars'
Pendleton, Uncle Mose am worth leb'm thousand dollars in money,
property, and lan'."

"I'm glad to hear it," said the Major heartily. "Glad to hear it."

"And dat little baby of yo'n, Mars' Pendleton--one what you name Miss
Lyddy--I be bound dat little tad done growed up tell nobody wouldn't
know her."

The Major stepped to the door and called: "Lydie, dear, will you
come?"

Miss Lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in from
her room.

"Dar, now! What'd I tell you? I knowed dat baby done be plum growed
up. You don't 'member Uncle Mose, child?"

"This is Aunt Cindy's Mose, Lydia," explained the Major. "He left
Sunnymead for the West when you were two years old."

"Well," said Miss Lydia, "I can hardly be expected to remember you,
Uncle Mose, at that age. And, as you say, I'm 'plum growed up,' and
was a blessed long time ago. But I'm glad to see you, even if I can't
remember you."

And she was. And so was the Major. Something alive and tangible had
come to link them with the happy past. The three sat and talked over
the olden times, the Major and Uncle Mose correcting or prompting each
other as they reviewed the plantation scenes and days.

The Major inquired what the old man was doing so far from his home.

"Uncle Mose am a delicate," he explained, "to de grand Baptis'
convention in dis city. I never preached none, but bein' a residin'
elder in de church, and able fur to pay my own expenses, dey sent me
along."

"And how did you know we were in Washington?" inquired Miss Lydia.

"Dey's a cullud man works in de hotel whar I stops, what comes from
Mobile. He told me he seen Mars' Pendleton comin' outen dish here
house one mawnin'.

"What I come fur," continued Uncle Mose, reaching into his
pocket--"besides de sight of home folks--was to pay Mars' Pendleton
what I owes him.

"Yessir--three hundred dollars." He handed the Major a roll of bills.
"When I lef' old mars' says: 'Take dem mule colts, Mose, and, if it be
so you gits able, pay fur 'em.' Yessir--dem was his words. De war had
done lef' old mars' po' hisself. Old mars' bein' long ago dead, de
debt descends to Mars' Pendleton. Three hundred dollars. Uncle Mose is
plenty able to pay now. When dat railroad buy my lan' I laid off to
pay fur dem mules. Count de money, Mars' Pendleton. Dat's what I sold
dem mules fur. Yessir."

Tears were in Major Talbot's eyes. He took Uncle Mose's hand and laid
his other upon his shoulder.

"Dear, faithful, old servitor," he said in an unsteady voice, "I don't
mind saying to you that 'Mars' Pendleton spent his last dollar in the
world a week ago. We will accept this money, Uncle Mose, since, in a
way, it is a sort of payment, as well as a token of the loyalty and
devotion of the old régime. Lydia, my dear, take the money. You are
better fitted than I to manage its expenditure."

"Take it, honey," said Uncle Mose. "Hit belongs to you. Hit's Talbot
money."

After Uncle Mose had gone, Miss Lydia had a good cry---for joy; and
the Major turned his face to a corner, and smoked his clay pipe
volcanically.

The succeeding days saw the Talbots restored to peace and ease. Miss
Lydia's face lost its worried look. The major appeared in a new frock
coat, in which he looked like a wax figure personifying the memory of
his golden age. Another publisher who read the manuscript of the
_Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ thought that, with a little retouching
and toning down of the high lights, he could make a really bright and
salable volume of it. Altogether, the situation was comfortable, and
not without the touch of hope that is often sweeter than arrived
blessings.

One day, about a week after their piece of good luck, a maid brought a
letter for Miss Lydia to her room. The postmark showed that it was
from New York. Not knowing any one there, Miss Lydia, in a mild
flutter of wonder, sat down by her table and opened the letter with
her scissors. This was what she read:

DEAR MISS TALBOT:

I thought you might be glad to learn of my good fortune. I have
received and accepted an offer of two hundred dollars per week by a
New York stock company to play Colonel Calhoun in _A Magnolia Flower_.

There is something else I wanted you to know. I guess you'd better not
tell Major Talbot. I was anxious to make him some amends for the great
help he was to me in studying the part, and for the bad humor he was
in about it. He refused to let me, so I did it anyhow. I could easily
spare the three hundred.

Sincerely yours,
H. HOPKINS HARGRAVES.

P.S. How did I play Uncle Mose?

Major Talbot, passing through the hall, saw Miss Lydia's door open and
stopped.

"Any mail for us this morning, Lydia, dear?" he asked.

Miss Lydia slid the letter beneath a fold of her dress.

"_The Mobile Chronicle_ came," she said promptly. "It's on the table
in your study."

COLONEL STARBOTTLE FOR THE PLAINTIFF

2006-06-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

By Bret Harte (1839-1902)

[From _Harper's Magazine_, March, 1901. Republished in the volume,
_Openings in the Old Trail_ (1902), by Bret Harte; copyright, 1902, by
Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of Bret Harte's
complete works; reprinted by their permission.]

It had been a day of triumph for Colonel Starbottle. First, for his
personality, as it would have been difficult to separate the Colonel's
achievements from his individuality; second, for his oratorical
abilities as a sympathetic pleader; and third, for his functions as
the leading counsel for the Eureka Ditch Company _versus_ the State of
California. On his strictly legal performances in this issue I prefer
not to speak; there were those who denied them, although the jury had
accepted them in the face of the ruling of the half-amused,
half-cynical Judge himself. For an hour they had laughed with the
Colonel, wept with him, been stirred to personal indignation or
patriotic exaltation by his passionate and lofty periods--what else
could they do than give him their verdict? If it was alleged by some
that the American eagle, Thomas Jefferson, and the Resolutions of '98
had nothing whatever to do with the contest of a ditch company over a
doubtfully worded legislative document; that wholesale abuse of the
State Attorney and his political motives had not the slightest
connection with the legal question raised--it was, nevertheless,
generally accepted that the losing party would have been only too glad
to have the Colonel on their side. And Colonel Starbottle knew this,
as, perspiring, florid, and panting, he rebuttoned the lower buttons
of his blue frock-coat, which had become loosed in an oratorical
spasm, and readjusted his old-fashioned, spotless shirt frill above it
as he strutted from the court-room amidst the hand-shakings and
acclamations of his friends.

And here an unprecedented thing occurred. The Colonel absolutely
declined spirituous refreshment at the neighboring Palmetto Saloon,
and declared his intention of proceeding directly to his office in the
adjoining square. Nevertheless the Colonel quitted the building alone,
and apparently unarmed except for his faithful gold-headed stick,
which hung as usual from his forearm. The crowd gazed after him with
undisguised admiration of this new evidence of his pluck. It was
remembered also that a mysterious note had been handed to him at the
conclusion of his speech--evidently a challenge from the State
Attorney. It was quite plain that the Colonel--a practised
duellist--was hastening home to answer it.

But herein they were wrong. The note was in a female hand, and simply
requested the Colonel to accord an interview with the writer at the
Colonel's office as soon as he left the court. But it was an
engagement that the Colonel--as devoted to the fair sex as he was to
the "code"--was no less prompt in accepting. He flicked away the dust
from his spotless white trousers and varnished boots with his
handkerchief, and settled his black cravat under his Byron collar as
he neared his office. He was surprised, however, on opening the door
of his private office to find his visitor already there; he was still
more startled to find her somewhat past middle age and plainly
attired. But the Colonel was brought up in a school of Southern
politeness, already antique in the republic, and his bow of courtesy
belonged to the epoch of his shirt frill and strapped trousers. No one
could have detected his disappointment in his manner, albeit his
sentences were short and incomplete. But the Colonel's colloquial
speech was apt to be fragmentary incoherencies of his larger
oratorical utterances.

"A thousand pardons--for--er--having kept a lady waiting--er!
But--er--congratulations of friends--and--er--courtesy due to
them--er--interfered with--though perhaps only heightened--by
procrastination--pleasure of--ha!" And the Colonel completed his
sentence with a gallant wave of his fat but white and well-kept hand.

"Yes! I came to see you along o' that speech of yours. I was in court.
When I heard you gettin' it off on that jury, I says to myself that's
the kind o' lawyer _I_ want. A man that's flowery and convincin'! Just
the man to take up our case."

"Ah! It's a matter of business, I see," said the Colonel, inwardly
relieved, but externally careless. "And--er--may I ask the nature of
the case?"

"Well! it's a breach-o'-promise suit," said the visitor, calmly.

If the Colonel had been surprised before, he was now really startled,
and with an added horror that required all his politeness to conceal.
Breach-of-promise cases were his peculiar aversion. He had always held
them to be a kind of litigation which could have been obviated by the
prompt killing of the masculine offender--in which case he would have
gladly defended the killer. But a suit for damages!--_damages!_--with
the reading of love-letters before a hilarious jury and court, was
against all his instincts. His chivalry was outraged; his sense of
humor was small--and in the course of his career he had lost one or
two important cases through an unexpected development of this quality
in a jury.

The woman had evidently noticed his hesitation, but mistook its cause.
"It ain't me--but my darter."

The Colonel recovered his politeness. "Ah! I am relieved, my dear
madam! I could hardly conceive a man ignorant enough to--er--er--throw
away such evident good fortune--or base enough to deceive the
trustfulness of womanhood--matured and experienced only in the
chivalry of our sex, ha!"

The woman smiled grimly. "Yes!--it's my darter, Zaidee Hooker--so ye
might spare some of them pretty speeches for _her_--before the jury."

The Colonel winced slightly before this doubtful prospect, but
smiled. "Ha! Yes!--certainly--the jury. But--er--my dear lady, need
we go as far as that? Cannot this affair be settled--er--out of
court? Could not this--er--individual--be admonished--told that he
must give satisfaction--personal satisfaction--for his dastardly
conduct--to --er--near relative--or even valued personal friend?
The--er--arrangements necessary for that purpose I myself would
undertake."

He was quite sincere; indeed, his small black eyes shone with that
fire which a pretty woman or an "affair of honor" could alone kindle.
The visitor stared vacantly at him, and said, slowly:

"And what good is that goin' to do _us_?"

"Compel him to--er--perform his promise," said the Colonel, leaning
back in his chair.

"Ketch him doin' it!" said the woman, scornfully. "No--that ain't wot
we're after. We must make him _pay_! Damages--and nothin' short o'
_that_."

The Colonel bit his lip. "I suppose," he said, gloomily, "you have
documentary evidence--written promises and protestations--er--er--
love-letters, in fact?"

"No--nary a letter! Ye see, that's jest it--and that's where _you_
come in. You've got to convince that jury yourself. You've got to show
what it is--tell the whole story your own way. Lord! to a man like you
that's nothin'."

Startling as this admission might have been to any other lawyer,
Starbottle was absolutely relieved by it. The absence of any
mirth-provoking correspondence, and the appeal solely to his own
powers of persuasion, actually struck his fancy. He lightly put aside
the compliment with a wave of his white hand.

"Of course," said the Colonel, confidently, "there is strongly
presumptive and corroborative evidence? Perhaps you can give me--er--a
brief outline of the affair?"

"Zaidee kin do that straight enough, I reckon," said the woman; "what
I want to know first is, kin you take the case?"

The Colonel did not hesitate; his curiosity was piqued. "I certainly
can. I have no doubt your daughter will put me in possession of
sufficient facts and details--to constitute what we call--er--a
brief."

"She kin be brief enough--or long enough--for the matter of that,"
said the woman, rising. The Colonel accepted this implied witticism
with a smile.

"And when may I have the pleasure of seeing her?" he asked, politely.

"Well, I reckon as soon as I can trot out and call her. She's just
outside, meanderin' in the road--kinder shy, ye know, at first."

She walked to the door. The astounded Colonel nevertheless gallantly
accompanied her as she stepped out into the street and called,
shrilly, "You Zaidee!"

A young girl here apparently detached herself from a tree and the
ostentatious perusal of an old election poster, and sauntered down
towards the office door. Like her mother, she was plainly dressed;
unlike her, she had a pale, rather refined face, with a demure mouth
and downcast eyes. This was all the Colonel saw as he bowed profoundly
and led the way into his office, for she accepted his salutations
without lifting her head. He helped her gallantly to a chair, on which
she seated herself sideways, somewhat ceremoniously, with her eyes
following the point of her parasol as she traced a pattern on the
carpet. A second chair offered to the mother that lady, however,
declined. "I reckon to leave you and Zaidee together to talk it out,"
she said; turning to her daughter, she added, "Jest you tell him all,
Zaidee," and before the Colonel could rise again, disappeared from the
room. In spite of his professional experience, Starbottle was for a
moment embarrassed. The young girl, however, broke the silence without
looking up.

"Adoniram K. Hotchkiss," she began, in a monotonous voice, as if it
were a recitation addressed to the public, "first began to take notice
of me a year ago. Arter that--off and on----"

"One moment," interrupted the astounded Colonel; "do you mean
Hotchkiss the President of the Ditch Company?" He had recognized the
name of a prominent citizen--a rigid ascetic, taciturn, middle-aged
man--a deacon--and more than that, the head of the company he had just
defended. It seemed inconceivable.

"That's him," she continued, with eyes still fixed on the parasol and
without changing her monotonous tone--"off and on ever since. Most of
the time at the Free-Will Baptist church--at morning service,
prayer-meetings, and such. And at home--outside--er--in the road."

"Is it this gentleman--Mr. Adoniram K. Hotchkiss--who--er--promised
marriage?" stammered the Colonel.

"Yes."

The Colonel shifted uneasily in his chair. "Most extraordinary!
for--you see--my dear young lady--this becomes--a--er--most delicate
affair."

"That's what maw said," returned the young woman, simply, yet with the
faintest smile playing around her demure lips and downcast cheek.

"I mean," said the Colonel, with a pained yet courteous smile, "that
this--er--gentleman--is in fact--er--one of my clients."

"That's what maw said, too, and of course your knowing him will make
it all the easier for you," said the young woman.

A slight flush crossed the Colonel's cheek as he returned quickly and
a little stiffly, "On the contrary--er--it may make it impossible for
me to--er--act in this matter."

The girl lifted her eyes. The Colonel held his breath as the long
lashes were raised to his level. Even to an ordinary observer that
sudden revelation of her eyes seemed to transform her face with subtle
witchery. They were large, brown, and soft, yet filled with an
extraordinary penetration and prescience. They were the eyes of an
experienced woman of thirty fixed in the face of a child. What else
the Colonel saw there Heaven only knows! He felt his inmost secrets
plucked from him--his whole soul laid bare--his vanity, belligerency,
gallantry--even his medieval chivalry, penetrated, and yet
illuminated, in that single glance. And when the eyelids fell again,
he felt that a greater part of himself had been swallowed up in them.

"I beg your pardon," he said, hurriedly. "I mean--this matter may be
arranged--er--amicably. My interest with--and as you wisely
say--my--er--knowledge of my client--er--Mr. Hotchkiss--may affect--a
compromise."

"And _damages_," said the young girl, readdressing her parasol, as if
she had never looked up.

The Colonel winced. "And--er--undoubtedly _compensation_--if you do
not press a fulfilment of the promise. Unless," he said, with an
attempted return to his former easy gallantry, which, however, the
recollection of her eyes made difficult, "it is a question of--er--the
affections?"

"Which?" said his fair client, softly.

"If you still love him?" explained the Colonel, actually blushing.

Zaidee again looked up; again taking the Colonel's breath away with
eyes that expressed not only the fullest perception of what he had
_said_, but of what he thought and had not said, and with an added
subtle suggestion of what he might have thought. "That's tellin'," she
said, dropping her long lashes again. The Colonel laughed vacantly.
Then feeling himself growing imbecile, he forced an equally weak
gravity. "Pardon me--I understand there are no letters; may I know the
way in which he formulated his declaration and promises?"

"Hymn-books," said the girl, briefly.

"I beg your pardon," said the mystified lawyer.

"Hymn-books--marked words in them with pencil--and passed 'em on to
me," repeated Zaidee. "Like 'love,' 'dear,' 'precious,' 'sweet,' and
'blessed,'" she added, accenting each word with a push of her parasol
on the carpet. "Sometimes a whole line outer Tate and Brady--and
_Solomon's Song_, you know, and sich."

"I believe," said the Colonel, loftily, "that the--er--phrases of
sacred psalmody lend themselves to the language of the affections. But
in regard to the distinct promise of marriage--was there--er--no
_other_ expression?"

"Marriage Service in the prayer-book--lines and words outer that--all
marked," said Zaidee. The Colonel nodded naturally and approvingly.
"Very good. Were others cognizant of this? Were there any witnesses?"

"Of course not," said the girl. "Only me and him. It was generally at
church-time--or prayer-meeting. Once, in passing the plate, he slipped
one o' them peppermint lozenges with the letters stamped on it 'I love
you' for me to take."

The Colonel coughed slightly. "And you have the lozenge?"

"I ate it," said the girl, simply.

"Ah," said the Colonel. After a pause he added, delicately:
"But were these attentions--er--confined to--er---sacred precincts?
Did he meet you elsewhere?"

"Useter pass our house on the road," returned the girl, dropping into
her monotonous recital, "and useter signal."

"Ah, signal?" repeated the Colonel, approvingly.

"Yes! He'd say 'Kerrow,' and I'd say 'Kerree.' Suthing like a bird,
you know."

Indeed, as she lifted her voice in imitation of the call the Colonel
thought it certainly very sweet and birdlike. At least as _she_ gave
it. With his remembrance of the grim deacon he had doubts as to the
melodiousness of _his_ utterance. He gravely made her repeat it.

"And after that signal?" he added, suggestively.

"He'd pass on," said the girl.

The Colonel coughed slightly, and tapped his desk with his pen-holder.

"Were there any endearments--er--caresses--er--such as taking your
hand--er--clasping your waist?" he suggested, with a gallant yet
respectful sweep of his white hand and bowing of his head;--"er--
slight pressure of your fingers in the changes of a dance--I mean,"
he corrected himself, with an apologetic cough--"in the passing of
the plate?"

"No;--he was not what you'd call 'fond,'" returned the girl.

"Ah! Adoniram K. Hotchkiss was not 'fond' in the ordinary acceptance
of the word," said the Colonel, with professional gravity.

She lifted her disturbing eyes, and again absorbed his in her own. She
also said "Yes," although her eyes in their mysterious prescience of
all he was thinking disclaimed the necessity of any answer at all. He
smiled vacantly. There was a long pause. On which she slowly
disengaged her parasol from the carpet pattern and stood up.

"I reckon that's about all," she said.

"Er--yes--but one moment," said the Colonel, vaguely. He would have
liked to keep her longer, but with her strange premonition of him he
felt powerless to detain her, or explain his reason for doing so. He
instinctively knew she had told him all; his professional judgment
told him that a more hopeless case had never come to his knowledge.
Yet he was not daunted, only embarrassed. "No matter," he said,
vaguely. "Of course I shall have to consult with you again." Her eyes
again answered that she expected he would, but she added, simply,
"When?"

"In the course of a day or two," said the Colonel, quickly. "I will
send you word." She turned to go. In his eagerness to open the door
for her he upset his chair, and with some confusion, that was actually
youthful, he almost impeded her movements in the hall, and knocked his
broad-brimmed Panama hat from his bowing hand in a final gallant
sweep. Yet as her small, trim, youthful figure, with its simple
Leghorn straw hat confined by a blue bow under her round chin, passed
away before him, she looked more like a child than ever.

The Colonel spent that afternoon in making diplomatic inquiries. He
found his youthful client was the daughter of a widow who had a small
ranch on the cross-roads, near the new Free-Will Baptist church--the
evident theatre of this pastoral. They led a secluded life; the girl
being little known in the town, and her beauty and fascination
apparently not yet being a recognized fact. The Colonel felt a
pleasurable relief at this, and a general satisfaction he could not
account for. His few inquiries concerning Mr. Hotchkiss only confirmed
his own impressions of the alleged lover--a serious-minded,
practically abstracted man--abstentive of youthful society, and the
last man apparently capable of levity of the affections or serious
flirtation. The Colonel was mystified--but determined of
purpose--whatever that purpose might have been.

The next day he was at his office at the same hour. He was alone--as
usual--the Colonel's office really being his private lodgings,
disposed in connecting rooms, a single apartment reserved for
consultation. He had no clerk; his papers and briefs being taken by
his faithful body-servant and ex-slave "Jim" to another firm who did
his office-work since the death of Major Stryker--the Colonel's only
law partner, who fell in a duel some years previous. With a fine
constancy the Colonel still retained his partner's name on his
door-plate--and, it was alleged by the superstitious, kept a certain
invincibility also through the _manes_ of that lamented and somewhat
feared man.

The Colonel consulted his watch, whose heavy gold case still showed
the marks of a providential interference with a bullet destined for
its owner, and replaced it with some difficulty and shortness of
breath in his fob. At the same moment he heard a step in the passage,
and the door opened to Adoniram K. Hotchkiss. The Colonel was
impressed; he had a duellist's respect for punctuality.

The man entered with a nod and the expectant, inquiring look of a busy
man. As his feet crossed that sacred threshold the Colonel became all
courtesy; he placed a chair for his visitor, and took his hat from his
half-reluctant hand. He then opened a cupboard and brought out a
bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

"A--er--slight refreshment, Mr. Hotchkiss," he suggested, politely. "I
never drink," replied Hotchkiss, with the severe attitude of a total
abstainer. "Ah--er--not the finest bourbon whiskey, selected by a
Kentucky friend? No? Pardon me! A cigar, then--the mildest Havana."

"I do not use tobacco nor alcohol in any form," repeated Hotchkiss,
ascetically. "I have no foolish weaknesses."

The Colonel's moist, beady eyes swept silently over his client's
sallow face. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, and half
closing his eyes as in dreamy reminiscence, said, slowly: "Your
reply, Mr. Hotchkiss, reminds me of--er--sing'lar circumstances that
--er--occurred, in point of fact--at the St. Charles Hotel, New
Orleans. Pinkey Hornblower--personal friend--invited Senator
Doolittle to join him in social glass. Received, sing'larly enough,
reply similar to yours. 'Don't drink nor smoke?' said Pinkey. 'Gad,
sir, you must be mighty sweet on the ladies.' Ha!" The Colonel paused
long enough to allow the faint flush to pass from Hotchkiss's cheek,
and went on, half closing his eyes: "'I allow no man, sir, to discuss
my personal habits,' said Doolittle, over his shirt collar. 'Then I
reckon shootin' must be one of those habits,' said Pinkey, coolly.
Both men drove out on the Shell Road back of cemetery next morning.
Pinkey put bullet at twelve paces through Doolittle's temple. Poor
Doo never spoke again. Left three wives and seven children, they say
--two of 'em black."

"I got a note from you this morning," said Hotchkiss, with badly
concealed impatience. "I suppose in reference to our case. You have
taken judgment, I believe." The Colonel, without replying, slowly
filled a glass of whiskey and water. For a moment he held it dreamily
before him, as if still engaged in gentle reminiscences called up by
the act. Then tossing it off, he wiped his lips with a large white
handkerchief, and leaning back comfortably in his chair, said, with a
wave of his hand, "The interview I requested, Mr. Hotchkiss, concerns
a subject--which I may say is--er--er--at present _not_ of a public
or business nature--although _later_ it might become--er--er--both.
It is an affair of some--er--delicacy."

The Colonel paused, and Mr. Hotchkiss regarded him with increased
impatience. The Colonel, however, continued, with unchanged
deliberation: "It concerns--er--a young lady--a beautiful,
high-souled creature, sir, who, apart from her personal loveliness--
er--er--I may say is of one of the first families of Missouri, and--
er--not--remotely connected by marriage with one of--er--er--my
boyhood's dearest friends. The latter, I grieve to say, was a pure
invention of the Colonel's--an oratorical addition to the scanty
information he had obtained the previous day. The young lady," he
continued, blandly, "enjoys the further distinction of being the
object of such attention from you as would make this interview--
really--a confidential matter--er--er--among friends and--er--er--
relations in present and future. I need not say that the lady I refer
to is Miss Zaidee Juno Hooker, only daughter of Almira Ann Hooker,
relict of Jefferson Brown Hooker, formerly of Boone County, Kentucky,
and latterly of--er--Pike County, Missouri."

The sallow, ascetic hue of Mr. Hotchkiss's face had passed through a
livid and then a greenish shade, and finally settled into a sullen
red. "What's all this about?" he demanded, roughly. The least touch of
belligerent fire came into Starbottle's eye, but his bland courtesy
did not change. "I believe," he said, politely, "I have made myself
clear as between--er--gentlemen, though perhaps not as clear as I
should to--er--er--jury."

Mr. Hotchkiss was apparently struck with some significance in the
lawyer's reply. "I don't know," he said, in a lower and more cautious
voice, "what you mean by what you call 'my attentions' to--any one--or
how it concerns you. I have not exhausted half a dozen words with--the
person you name--have never written her a line--nor even called at her
house." He rose with an assumption of ease, pulled down his waistcoat,
buttoned his coat, and took up his hat. The Colonel did not move. "I
believe I have already indicated my meaning in what I have called
'your attentions,'" said the Colonel, blandly, "and given you my
'concern' for speaking as--er--er mutual friend. As to _your_
statement of your relations with Miss Hooker, I may state that it is
fully corroborated by the statement of the young lady herself in this
very office yesterday."

"Then what does this impertinent nonsense mean? Why am I summoned
here?" said Hotchkiss, furiously.

"Because," said the Colonel, deliberately, "that statement is
infamously--yes, damnably to your discredit, sir!"

Mr. Hotchkiss was here seized by one of those important and
inconsistent rages which occasionally betray the habitually cautious
and timid man. He caught up the Colonel's stick, which was lying on
the table. At the same moment the Colonel, without any apparent
effort, grasped it by the handle. To Mr. Hotchkiss's astonishment, the
stick separated in two pieces, leaving the handle and about two feet
of narrow glittering steel in the Colonel's hand. The man recoiled,
dropping the useless fragment. The Colonel picked it up, fitting the
shining blade in it, clicked the spring, and then rising, with a face
of courtesy yet of unmistakably genuine pain, and with even a slight
tremor in his voice, said, gravely:

"Mr. Hotchkiss, I owe you a thousand apologies, sir, that--er--
a weapon should be drawn by me--even through your own inadvertence--
under the sacred protection of my roof, and upon an unarmed man. I
beg your pardon, sir, and I even withdraw the expressions which
provoked that inadvertence. Nor does this apology prevent you from
holding me responsible--personally responsible--_elsewhere_ for an
indiscretion committed in behalf of a lady--my--er--client."

"Your client? Do you mean you have taken her case? You, the counsel
for the Ditch Company?" said Mr. Hotchkiss, in trembling indignation.

"Having won _your_ case, sir," said the Colonel, coolly,
"the--er--usages of advocacy do not prevent me from espousing the
cause of the weak and unprotected."

"We shall see, sir," said Hotchkiss, grasping the handle of the door
and backing into the passage. "There are other lawyers who--"

"Permit me to see you out," interrupted the Colonel, rising politely.

"--will be ready to resist the attacks of blackmail," continued
Hotchkiss, retreating along the passage.

"And then you will be able to repeat your remarks to me _in the
street_," continued the Colonel, bowing, as he persisted in following
his visitor to the door.

But here Mr. Hotchkiss quickly slammed it behind him, and hurried
away. The Colonel returned to his office, and sitting down, took a
sheet of letter paper bearing the inscription "Starbottle and Stryker,
Attorneys and Counsellors," and wrote the following lines:

Hooker _versus_ Hotchkiss.

DEAR MADAM,--Having had a visit from the defendant in
above, we should be pleased to have an interview with you at
2 p.m. to-morrow. Your obedient servants,
STARBOTTLE AND STRYKER.

This he sealed and despatched by his trusted servant Jim, and then
devoted a few moments to reflection. It was the custom of the Colonel
to act first, and justify the action by reason afterwards.

He knew that Hotchkiss would at once lay the matter before rival
counsel. He knew that they would advise him that Miss Hooker had "no
case"--that she would be non-suited on her own evidence, and he ought
not to compromise, but be ready to stand trial. He believed, however,
that Hotchkiss feared that exposure, and although his own instincts
had been at first against that remedy, he was now instinctively in
favor of it. He remembered his own power with a jury; his vanity and
his chivalry alike approved of this heroic method; he was bound by the
prosaic facts--he had his own theory of the case, which no mere
evidence could gainsay. In fact, Mrs. Hooker's own words that "he was
to tell the story in his own way" actually appeared to him an
inspiration and a prophecy.

Perhaps there was something else, due possibly to the lady's wonderful
eyes, of which he had thought much. Yet it was not her simplicity that
affected him solely; on the contrary, it was her apparent intelligent
reading of the character of her recreant lover--and of his own! Of all
the Colonel's previous "light" or "serious" loves none had ever before
flattered him in that way. And it was this, combined with the respect
which he had held for their professional relations, that precluded his
having a more familiar knowledge of his client, through serious
questioning, or playful gallantry. I am not sure it was not part of
the charm to have a rustic _femme incomprise_ as a client.

Nothing could exceed the respect with which he greeted her as she
entered his office the next day. He even affected not to notice that
she had put on her best clothes, and he made no doubt appeared as when
she had first attracted the mature yet faithless attentions of Deacon
Hotchkiss at church. A white virginal muslin was belted around her
slim figure by a blue ribbon, and her Leghorn hat was drawn around her
oval cheek by a bow of the same color. She had a Southern girl's
narrow feet, encased in white stockings and kid slippers, which were
crossed primly before her as she sat in a chair, supporting her arm by
her faithful parasol planted firmly on the floor. A faint odor of
southernwood exhaled from her, and, oddly enough, stirred the Colonel
with a far-off recollection of a pine-shaded Sunday school on a
Georgia hillside and of his first love, aged ten, in a short, starched
frock. Possibly it was the same recollection that revived something of
the awkwardness he had felt then.

He, however, smiled vaguely and, sitting down, coughed slightly, and
placed his fingertips together. "I have had an--er--interview with Mr.
Hotchkiss, but--I--er--regret to say there seems to be no prospect
of--er--compromise." He paused, and to his surprise her listless
"company" face lit up with an adorable smile. "Of course!--ketch him!"
she said. "Was he mad when you told him?" She put her knees
comfortably together and leaned forward for a reply.

For all that, wild horses could not have torn from the Colonel a word
about Hotchkiss's anger. "He expressed his intention of employing
counsel--and defending a suit," returned the Colonel, affably basking
in her smile. She dragged her chair nearer his desk. "Then you'll
fight him tooth and nail?" she said eagerly; "you'll show him up?
You'll tell the whole story your own way? You'll give him fits?--and
you'll make him pay? Sure?" she went on, breathlessly.

"I--er--will," said the Colonel, almost as breathlessly.

She caught his fat white hand, which was lying on the table, between
her own and lifted it to her lips. He felt her soft young fingers even
through the lisle-thread gloves that encased them and the warm
moisture of her lips upon his skin. He felt himself flushing--but was
unable to break the silence or change his position. The next moment
she had scuttled back with her chair to her old position.

"I--er--certainly shall do my best," stammered the Colonel, in an
attempt to recover his dignity and composure.

"That's enough! You'll _do_ it," said the girl, enthusiastically.
"Lordy! Just you talk for _me_ as ye did for _his_ old Ditch Company,
and you'll fetch it--every time! Why, when you made that jury sit up
the other day--when you got that off about the Merrikan flag waving
equally over the rights of honest citizens banded together in peaceful
commercial pursuits, as well as over the fortress of official
proflig--"

"Oligarchy," murmured the Colonel, courteously.

"Oligarchy," repeated the girl, quickly, "my breath was just took
away. I said to maw, 'Ain't he too sweet for anything!' I did, honest
Injin! And when you rolled it all off at the end--never missing a
word--(you didn't need to mark 'em in a lesson-book, but had 'em all
ready on your tongue), and walked out--Well! I didn't know you nor the
Ditch Company from Adam, but I could have just run over and kissed you
there before the whole court!"

She laughed, with her face glowing, although her strange eyes were
cast down. Alack! the Colonel's face was equally flushed, and his own
beady eyes were on his desk. To any other woman he would have voiced
the banal gallantry that he should now, himself, look forward to that
reward, but the words never reached his lips. He laughed, coughed
slightly, and when he looked up again she had fallen into the same
attitude as on her first visit, with her parasol point on the floor.

"I must ask you to--er--direct your memory--to--er--another point; the
breaking off of the--er--er--er--engagement. Did he--er--give any
reason for it? Or show any cause?"

"No; he never said anything," returned the girl.

"Not in his usual way?--er--no reproaches out of the hymn-book?--or
the sacred writings?"

"No; he just _quit_."

"Er--ceased his attentions," said the Colonel, gravely. "And naturally
you--er--were not conscious of any cause for his doing so." The girl
raised her wonderful eyes so suddenly and so penetratingly without
reply in any other way that the Colonel could only hurriedly say: "I
see! None, of course!"

At which she rose, the Colonel rising also. "We--shall begin
proceedings at once. I must, however, caution you to answer no
questions nor say anything about this case to any one until you are in
court."

She answered his request with another intelligent look and a nod. He
accompanied her to the door. As he took her proffered hand he raised
the lisle-thread fingers to his lips with old-fashioned gallantry. As
if that act had condoned for his first omissions and awkwardness, he
became his old-fashioned self again, buttoned his coat, pulled out his
shirt frill, and strutted back to his desk.

A day or two later it was known throughout the town that Zaidee Hooker
had sued Adoniram Hotchkiss for breach of promise, and that the
damages were laid at five thousand dollars. As in those bucolic days
the Western press was under the secure censorship of a revolver, a
cautious tone of criticism prevailed, and any gossip was confined to
personal expression, and even then at the risk of the gossiper.
Nevertheless, the situation provoked the intensest curiosity. The
Colonel was approached--until his statement that he should consider
any attempt to overcome his professional secrecy a personal reflection
withheld further advances. The community were left to the more
ostentatious information of the defendant's counsel, Messrs. Kitcham
and Bilser, that the case was "ridiculous" and "rotten," that the
plaintiff would be nonsuited, and the fire-eating Starbottle would be
taught a lesson that he could not "bully" the law--and there were some
dark hints of a conspiracy. It was even hinted that the "case" was the
revengeful and preposterous outcome of the refusal of Hotchkiss to pay
Starbottle an extravagant fee for his late services to the Ditch
Company. It is unnecessary to say that these words were not reported
to the Colonel. It was, however, an unfortunate circumstance for the
calmer, ethical consideration of the subject that the church sided
with Hotchkiss, as this provoked an equal adherence to the plaintiff
and Starbottle on the part of the larger body of non-church-goers, who
were delighted at a possible exposure of the weakness of religious
rectitude. "I've allus had my suspicions o' them early candle-light
meetings down at that gospel shop," said one critic, "and I reckon
Deacon Hotchkiss didn't rope in the gals to attend jest for
psalm-singing." "Then for him to get up and leave the board afore the
game's finished and try to sneak out of it," said another. "I suppose
that's what they call _religious_."

It was therefore not remarkable that the courthouse three weeks later
was crowded with an excited multitude of the curious and sympathizing.
The fair plaintiff, with her mother, was early in attendance, and
under the Colonel's advice appeared in the same modest garb in which
she had first visited his office. This and her downcast modest
demeanor were perhaps at first disappointing to the crowd, who had
evidently expected a paragon of loveliness--as the Circe of the grim
ascetic defendant, who sat beside his counsel. But presently all eyes
were fixed on the Colonel, who certainly made up in _his_ appearance
any deficiency of his fair client. His portly figure was clothed in a
blue dress-coat with brass buttons, a buff waistcoat which permitted
his frilled shirt front to become erectile above it, a black satin
stock which confined a boyish turned-down collar around his full neck,
and immaculate drill trousers, strapped over varnished boots. A murmur
ran round the court. "Old 'Personally Responsible' had got his
war-paint on," "The Old War-Horse is smelling powder," were whispered
comments. Yet for all that the most irreverent among them recognized
vaguely, in this bizarre figure, something of an honored past in their
country's history, and possibly felt the spell of old deeds and old
names that had once thrilled their boyish pulses. The new District
Judge returned Colonel Starbottle's profoundly punctilious bow. The
Colonel was followed by his negro servant, carrying a parcel of
hymn-books and Bibles, who, with a courtesy evidently imitated from
his master, placed one before the opposite counsel. This, after a
first curious glance, the lawyer somewhat superciliously tossed aside.
But when Jim, proceeding to the jury-box, placed with equal politeness
the remaining copies before the jury, the opposite counsel sprang to
his feet.

"I want to direct the attention of the Court to this unprecedented
tampering with the jury, by this gratuitous exhibition of matter
impertinent and irrelevant to the issue."

The Judge cast an inquiring look at Colonel Starbottle.

"May it please the Court," returned Colonel Starbottle with dignity,
ignoring the counsel, "the defendant's counsel will observe that he is
already furnished with the matter--which I regret to say he has
treated--in the presence of the Court--and of his client, a deacon of
the church--with--er---great superciliousness. When I state to your
Honor that the books in question are hymn-books and copies of the
_Holy Scriptures_, and that they are for the instruction of the jury,
to whom I shall have to refer them in the course of my opening, I
believe I am within my rights."

"The act is certainly unprecedented," said the Judge, dryly, "but
unless the counsel for the plaintiff expects the jury to _sing_ from
these hymn-books, their introduction is not improper, and I cannot
admit the objection. As defendant's counsel are furnished with copies
also, they cannot plead 'surprise,' as in the introduction of new
matter, and as plaintiff's counsel relies evidently upon the jury's
attention to his opening, he would not be the first person to distract
it." After a pause he added, addressing the Colonel, who remained
standing, "The Court is with you, sir; proceed."

But the Colonel remained motionless and statuesque, with folded arms.

"I have overruled the objection," repeated the Judge; "you may go on."

"I am waiting, your Honor, for the--er--withdrawal by the defendant's
counsel of the word 'tampering,' as refers to myself, and of
'impertinent,' as refers to the sacred volumes."

"The request is a proper one, and I have no doubt will be acceded to,"
returned the Judge, quietly. The defendant's counsel rose and mumbled
a few words of apology, and the incident closed. There was, however, a
general feeling that the Colonel had in some way "scored," and if his
object had been to excite the greatest curiosity about the books, he
had made his point.

But impassive of his victory, he inflated his chest, with his right
hand in the breast of his buttoned coat, and began. His usual high
color had paled slightly, but the small pupils of his prominent eyes
glittered like steel. The young girl leaned forward in her chair with
an attention so breathless, a sympathy so quick, and an admiration so
artless and unconscious that in an instant she divided with the
speaker the attention of the whole assemblage. It was very hot; the
court was crowded to suffocation; even the open windows revealed a
crowd of faces outside the building, eagerly following the Colonel's
words.

He would remind the jury that only a few weeks ago he stood there as
the advocate of a powerful company, then represented by the present
defendant. He spoke then as the champion of strict justice against
legal oppression; no less should he to-day champion the cause of the
unprotected and the comparatively defenseless--save for that paramount
power which surrounds beauty and innocence--even though the plaintiff
of yesterday was the defendant of to-day. As he approached the court a
moment ago he had raised his eyes and beheld the starry flag flying
from its dome--and he knew that glorious banner was a symbol of the
perfect equality, under the Constitution, of the rich and the poor,
the strong and the weak--an equality which made the simple citizen
taken from the plough in the veld, the pick in the gulch, or from
behind the counter in the mining town, who served on that jury, the
equal arbiters of justice with that highest legal luminary whom they
were proud to welcome on the bench to-day. The Colonel paused, with a
stately bow to the impassive Judge. It was this, he continued, which
lifted his heart as he approached the building. And yet--he had
entered it with an uncertain--he might almost say--a timid step. And
why? He knew, gentlemen, he was about to confront a profound--aye! a
sacred responsibility! Those hymn-books and holy writings handed to
the jury were _not_, as his Honor surmised, for the purpose of
enabling the jury to indulge in--er--preliminary choral exercise! He
might, indeed, say "alas not!" They were the damning, incontrovertible
proofs of the perfidy of the defendant. And they would prove as
terrible a warning to him as the fatal characters upon Belshazzar's
wall. There was a strong sensation. Hotchkiss turned a sallow green.
His lawyers assumed a careless smile.

It was his duty to tell them that this was not one of those ordinary
"breach-of-promise" cases which were too often the occasion of
ruthless mirth and indecent levity in the courtroom. The jury would
find nothing of that here, There were no love-letters with the
epithets of endearment, nor those mystic crosses and ciphers which, he
had been credibly informed, chastely hid the exchange of those mutual
caresses known as "kisses." There was no cruel tearing of the veil
from those sacred privacies of the human affection--there was no
forensic shouting out of those fond confidences meant only for _one_.
But there was, he was shocked to say, a new sacrilegious intrusion.
The weak pipings of Cupid were mingled with the chorus of the
saints--the sanctity of the temple known as the "meeting-house" was
desecrated by proceedings more in keeping with the shrine of
Venus--and the inspired writings themselves were used as the medium of
amatory and wanton flirtation by the defendant in his sacred capacity
as Deacon.

The Colonel artistically paused after this thunderous denunciation.
The jury turned eagerly to the leaves of the hymn-books, but the
larger gaze of the audience remained fixed upon the speaker and the
girl, who sat in rapt admiration of his periods. After the hush, the
Colonel continued in a lower and sadder voice: "There are, perhaps,
few of us here, gentlemen--with the exception of the defendant--who
can arrogate to themselves the title of regular churchgoers, or to
whom these humbler functions of the prayer-meeting, the Sunday-school,
and the Bible class are habitually familiar. Yet"--more
solemnly--"down in your hearts is the deep conviction of our
short-comings and failings, and a laudable desire that others at least
should profit by the teachings we neglect. Perhaps," he continued,
closing his eyes dreamily, "there is not a man here who does not
recall the happy days of his boyhood, the rustic village spire, the
lessons shared with some artless village maiden, with whom he later
sauntered, hand in hand, through the woods, as the simple rhyme rose
upon their lips,

Always make it a point to have it a rule
Never to be late at the Sabbath-school."

He would recall the strawberry feasts, the welcome annual picnic,
redolent with hunks of gingerbread and sarsaparilla. How would they
feel to know that these sacred recollections were now forever profaned
in their memory by the knowledge that the defendant was capable of
using such occasions to make love to the larger girls and teachers,
whilst his artless companions were innocently--the Court will pardon
me for introducing what I am credibly informed is the local expression
'doing gooseberry'?" The tremulous flicker of a smile passed over the
faces of the listening crowd, and the Colonel slightly winced. But he
recovered himself instantly, and continued:

"My client, the only daughter of a widowed mother--who has for years
stemmed the varying tides of adversity--in the western precincts of
this town--stands before you today invested only in her own innocence.
She wears no--er--rich gifts of her faithless admirer--is panoplied in
no jewels, rings, nor mementoes of affection such as lovers delight to
hang upon the shrine of their affections; hers is not the glory with
which Solomon decorated the Queen of Sheba, though the defendant, as I
shall show later, clothed her in the less expensive flowers of the
king's poetry. No! gentlemen! The defendant exhibited in this affair a
certain frugality of--er--pecuniary investment, which I am willing to
admit may be commendable in his class. His only gift was
characteristic alike of his methods and his economy. There is, I
understand, a certain not unimportant feature of religious exercise
known as 'taking a collection.' The defendant, on this occasion, by
the mute presentation of a tip plate covered with baize, solicited the
pecuniary contributions of the faithful. On approaching the plaintiff,
however, he himself slipped a love-token upon the plate and pushed it
towards her. That love-token was a lozenge--a small disk, I have
reason to believe, concocted of peppermint and sugar, bearing upon its
reverse surface the simple words, 'I love you!' I have since
ascertained that these disks may be bought for five cents a dozen--or
at considerably less than one half-cent for the single lozenge. Yes,
gentlemen, the words 'I love you!'--the oldest legend of all; the
refrain, 'when the morning stars sang together'--were presented to the
plaintiff by a medium so insignificant that there is, happily, no coin
in the republic low enough to represent its value.

"I shall prove to you, gentlemen of the jury," said the Colonel,
solemnly, drawing a _Bible_ from his coat-tail pocket, "that the
defendant, for the last twelve months, conducted an amatory
correspondence with the plaintiff by means of underlined words of
sacred writ and church psalmody, such as 'beloved,' 'precious,' and
'dearest,' occasionally appropriating whole passages which seemed
apposite to his tender passion. I shall call your attention to one of
them. The defendant, while professing to be a total abstainer--a man
who, in my own knowledge, has refused spirituous refreshment as an
inordinate weakness of the flesh, with shameless hypocrisy underscores
with his pencil the following passage and presents it to the
plaintiff. The gentlemen of the jury will find it in the _Song of
Solomon_, page 548, chapter II, verse 5." After a pause, in which the
rapid rustling of leaves was heard in the jury-box, Colonel
Starbottle declaimed in a pleading, stentorian voice, "'Stay me with
--er--_flagons_, comfort me with--er--apples--for I am--er--sick of
love.' Yes, gentlemen!--yes, you may well turn from those accusing
pages and look at the double-faced defendant. He desires--to--er--be
--'stayed with flagons'! I am not aware, at present, what kind of
liquor is habitually dispensed at these meetings, and for which the
defendant so urgently clamored; but it will be my duty before this
trial is over to discover it, if I have to summon every barkeeper in
this district. For the moment, I will simply call your attention to
the _quantity_. It is not a single drink that the defendant asks for
--not a glass of light and generous wine, to be shared with his
inamorata--but a number of flagons or vessels, each possibly holding
a pint measure--_for himself_!"

The smile of the audience had become a laugh. The Judge looked up
warningly, when his eye caught the fact that the Colonel had again
winced at this mirth. He regarded him seriously. Mr. Hotchkiss's
counsel had joined in the laugh affectedly, but Hotchkiss himself was
ashy pale. There was also a commotion in the jury-box, a hurried
turning over of leaves, and an excited discussion.

"The gentlemen of the jury," said the Judge, with official gravity,
"will please keep order and attend only to the speeches of counsel.
Any discussion _here_ is irregular and premature--and must be reserved
for the jury-room--after they have retired."

The foreman of the jury struggled to his feet. He was a powerful man,
with a good-humored face, and, in spite of his unfelicitous nickname
of "The Bone-Breaker," had a kindly, simple, but somewhat emotional
nature. Nevertheless, it appeared as if he were laboring under some
powerful indignation.

"Can we ask a question, Judge?" he said, respectfully, although his
voice had the unmistakable Western-American ring in it, as of one who
was unconscious that he could be addressing any but his peers.

"Yes," said the Judge, good-humoredly.

"We're finding in this yere piece, out of which the Kernel hes just
bin a-quotin', some language that me and my pardners allow hadn't
orter to be read out afore a young lady in court--and we want to know
of you--ez a fair-minded and impartial man--ef this is the reg'lar
kind o' book given to gals and babies down at the meetin'-house."

"The jury will please follow the counsel's speech, without comment,"
said the Judge, briefly, fully aware that the defendant's counsel
would spring to his feet, as he did promptly. "The Court will allow us
to explain to the gentlemen that the language they seem to object to
has been accepted by the best theologians for the last thousand years
as being purely mystic. As I will explain later, those are merely
symbols of the Church--"

"Of wot?" interrupted the foreman, in deep scorn.

"Of the Church!"

"We ain't askin' any questions o' _you_--and we ain't takin' any
answers," said the foreman, sitting down promptly.

"I must insist," said the Judge, sternly, "that the plaintiff's
counsel be allowed to continue his opening without interruption. You"
(to defendant's counsel) "will have your opportunity to reply later."

The counsel sank down in his seat with the bitter conviction that the
jury was manifestly against him, and the case as good as lost. But his
face was scarcely as disturbed as his client's, who, in great
agitation, had begun to argue with him wildly, and was apparently
pressing some point against the lawyer's vehement opposal. The
Colonel's murky eyes brightened as he still stood erect with his hand
thrust in his breast.

"It will be put to you, gentlemen, when the counsel on the other side
refrains from mere interruption and confines himself to reply, that my
unfortunate client has no action--no remedy at law--because there were
no spoken words of endearment. But, gentlemen, it will depend upon
_you_ to say what are and what are not articulate expressions of love.
We all know that among the lower animals, with whom you may possibly
be called upon to classify the defendant, there are certain signals
more or less harmonious, as the case may be. The ass brays, the horse
neighs, the sheep bleats--the feathered denizens of the grove call to
their mates in more musical roundelays. These are recognized facts,
gentlemen, which you yourselves, as dwellers among nature in this
beautiful land, are all cognizant of. They are facts that no one would
deny--and we should have a poor opinion of the ass who, at--er--such a
supreme moment, would attempt to suggest that his call was unthinking
and without significance. But, gentlemen, I shall prove to you that
such was the foolish, self-convicting custom of the defendant. With
the greatest reluctance, and the--er--greatest pain, I succeeded in
wresting from the maidenly modesty of my fair client the innocent
confession that the defendant had induced her to correspond with him
in these methods. Picture to yourself, gentlemen, the lonely moonlight
road beside the widow's humble cottage. It is a beautiful night,
sanctified to the affections, and the innocent girl is leaning from
her casement. Presently there appears upon the road a slinking,
stealthy figure--the defendant, on his way to church. True to the
instruction she has received from him, her lips part in the musical
utterance" (the Colonel lowered his voice in a faint falsetto,
presumably in fond imitation of his fair client),"'Kerree!' Instantly
the night became resonant with the impassioned reply" (the Colonel
here lifted his voice in stentorian tones), "'Kerrow.' Again, as he
passes, rises the soft 'Kerree'; again, as his form is lost in the
distance, comes back the deep 'Kerrow.'"

A burst of laughter, long, loud, and irrepressible, struck the whole
courtroom, and before the Judge could lift his half-composed face and
take his handkerchief from his mouth, a faint "Kerree" from some
unrecognized obscurity of the courtroom was followed by a loud
"Kerrow" from some opposite locality. "The sheriff will clear the
court," said the Judge, sternly; but alas, as the embarrassed and
choking officials rushed hither and thither, a soft "Kerree" from the
spectators at the window, _outside_ the courthouse, was answered by a
loud chorus of "Kerrows" from the opposite windows, filled with
onlookers. Again the laughter arose everywhere--even the fair
plaintiff herself sat convulsed behind her handkerchief.

The figure of Colonel Starbottle alone remained erect--white and
rigid. And then the Judge, looking up, saw what no one else in the
court had seen--that the Colonel was sincere and in earnest; that what
he had conceived to be the pleader's most perfect acting, and most
elaborate irony, were the deep, serious, mirthless _convictions_ of a
man without the least sense of humor. There was a touch of this
respect in the Judge's voice as he said to him, gently, "You may
proceed, Colonel Starbottle."

"I thank your Honor," said the Colonel, slowly, "for recognizing and
doing all in your power to prevent an interruption that, during my
thirty years' experience at the bar, I have never yet been subjected
to without the privilege of holding the instigators thereof
responsible--_personally_ responsible. It is possibly my fault that I
have failed, oratorically, to convey to the gentlemen of the jury the
full force and significance of the defendant's signals. I am aware
that my voice is singularly deficient in producing either the dulcet
tones of my fair client or the impassioned vehemence of the
defendant's repose. I will," continued the Colonel, with a fatigued
but blind fatuity that ignored the hurriedly knit brows and warning
eyes of the Judge, "try again. The note uttered by my client"
(lowering his voice to the faintest of falsettos) "was 'Kerree'; the
response was 'Kerrow'"--and the Colonel's voice fairly shook the dome
above him.

Another uproar of laughter followed this apparently audacious
repetition, but was interrupted by an unlooked-for incident. The
defendant rose abruptly, and tearing himself away from the withholding
hand and pleading protestations of his counsel, absolutely fled from
the courtroom, his appearance outside being recognized by a prolonged
"Kerrow" from the bystanders, which again and again followed him in
the distance. In the momentary silence which followed, the Colonel's
voice was heard saying, "We rest here, your Honor," and he sat down.
No less white, but more agitated, was the face of the defendant's
counsel, who instantly rose.

"For some unexplained reason, your Honor, my client desires to suspend
further proceedings, with a view to effect a peaceable compromise with
the plaintiff. As he is a man of wealth and position, he is able and
willing to pay liberally for that privilege. While I, as his counsel,
am still convinced of his legal irresponsibility, as he has chosen,
however, to publicly abandon his rights here, I can only ask your
Honor's permission to suspend further proceedings until I can confer
with Colonel Starbottle."

"As far as I can follow the pleadings," said the Judge, gravely, "the
case seems to be hardly one for litigation, and I approve of the
defendant's course, while I strongly urge the plaintiff to accept it."

Colonel Starbottle bent over his fair client. Presently he rose,
unchanged in look or demeanor. "I yield, your Honor, to the wishes of
my client, and--er--lady. We accept."

Before the court adjourned that day it was known throughout the town
that Adoniram K. Hotchkiss had compromised the suit for four thousand
dollars and costs.

Colonel Starbottle had so far recovered his equanimity as to strut
jauntily towards his office, where he was to meet his fair client. He
was surprised, however, to find her already there, and in company with
a somewhat sheepish-looking young man--a stranger. If the Colonel had
any disappointment in meeting a third party to the interview, his
old-fashioned courtesy did not permit him to show it. He bowed
graciously, and politely motioned them each to a seat.

"I reckoned I'd bring Hiram round with me," said the young lady,
lifting her searching eyes, after a pause, to the Colonel's, "though
he was awful shy, and allowed that you didn't know him from Adam--or
even suspected his existence. But I said, 'That's just where you slip
up, Hiram; a pow'ful man like the Colonel knows everything--and I've
seen it in his eye.' Lordy!" she continued, with a laugh, leaning
forward over her parasol, as her eyes again sought the Colonel's,
"don't you remember when you asked me if I loved that old Hotchkiss,
and I told you 'That's tellin',' and you looked at me, Lordy! I knew
_then_ you suspected there was a Hiram _somewhere_--as good as if I'd
told you. Now, you, jest get up, Hiram, and give the Colonel a good
handshake. For if it wasn't for _him_ and _his_ searchin' ways, and
_his_ awful power of language, I wouldn't hev got that four thousand
dollars out o' that flirty fool Hotchkiss--enough to buy a farm, so as
you and me could get married! That's what you owe to _him_. Don't
stand there like a stuck fool starin' at him. He won't eat you--though
he's killed many a better man. Come, have _I_ got to do _all_ the
kissin'!"

It is of record that the Colonel bowed so courteously and so
profoundly that he managed not merely to evade the proffered hand of
the shy Hiram, but to only lightly touch the franker and more
impulsive fingertips of the gentle Zaidee. "I--er--offer my sincerest
congratulations--though I think you--er--overestimate--my--er--powers
of penetration. Unfortunately, a pressing engagement, which may oblige
me also to leave town to-night, forbids my saying more. I
have--er--left the--er--business settlement of this--er--case in the
hands of the lawyers who do my office-work, and who will show you
every attention. And now let me wish you a very good afternoon."

Nevertheless, the Colonel returned to his private room, and it was
nearly twilight when the faithful Jim entered, to find him sitting
meditatively before his desk. "'Fo' God! Kernel--I hope dey ain't
nuffin de matter, but you's lookin' mightly solemn! I ain't seen you
look dat way, Kernel, since de day pooh Marse Stryker was fetched home
shot froo de head."

"Hand me down the whiskey, Jim," said the Colonel, rising slowly.

The negro flew to the closet joyfully, and brought out the bottle. The
Colonel poured out a glass of the spirit and drank it with his old
deliberation.

"You're quite right, Jim," he said, putting down his glass, "but
I'm--er--getting old--and--somehow--I am missing poor Stryker
damnably!"

THE BULLER-PODINGTON COMPACT

2006-06-09T13:01:00.000-07:00

BY FRANK RICHARD STOCKTON (1834-1902)

[From _Scribner's Magazine_, August, 1897. Republished in _Afield and
Afloat_, by Frank Richard Stockton; copyright, 1900, by Charles
Scribner's Sons. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.]

"I tell you, William," said Thomas Buller to his friend Mr. Podington,
"I am truly sorry about it, but I cannot arrange for it this year.
Now, as to _my_ invitation--that is very different."

"Of course it is different," was the reply, "but I am obliged to say,
as I said before, that I really cannot accept it."

Remarks similar to these had been made by Thomas Buller and William
Podington at least once a year for some five years. They were old
friends; they had been schoolboys together and had been associated in
business since they were young men. They had now reached a vigorous
middle age; they were each married, and each had a house in the
country in which he resided for a part of the year. They were warmly
attached to each other, and each was the best friend which the other
had in this world. But during all these years neither of them had
visited the other in his country home.

The reason for this avoidance of each other at their respective rural
residences may be briefly stated. Mr. Buller's country house was
situated by the sea, and he was very fond of the water. He had a good
cat-boat, which he sailed himself with much judgment and skill, and it
was his greatest pleasure to take his friends and visitors upon little
excursions on the bay. But Mr. Podington was desperately afraid of the
water, and he was particularly afraid of any craft sailed by an
amateur. If his friend Buller would have employed a professional
mariner, of years and experience, to steer and manage his boat,
Podington might have been willing to take an occasional sail; but as
Buller always insisted upon sailing his own boat, and took it ill if
any of his visitors doubted his ability to do so properly, Podington
did not wish to wound the self-love of his friend, and he did not wish
to be drowned. Consequently he could not bring himself to consent to
go to Buller's house by the sea.

To receive his good friend Buller at his own house in the beautiful
upland region in which he lived would have been a great joy to Mr.
Podington; but Buller could not be induced to visit him. Podington was
very fond of horses and always drove himself, while Buller was more
afraid of horses than he was of elephants or lions. To one or more
horses driven by a coachman of years and experience he did not always
object, but to a horse driven by Podington, who had much experience
and knowledge regarding mercantile affairs, but was merely an amateur
horseman, he most decidedly and strongly objected. He did not wish to
hurt his friend's feelings by refusing to go out to drive with him,
but he would not rack his own nervous system by accompanying him.
Therefore it was that he had not yet visited the beautiful upland
country residence of Mr. Podington.

At last this state of things grew awkward. Mrs. Buller and Mrs.
Podington, often with their families, visited each other at their
country houses, but the fact that on these occasions they were never
accompanied by their husbands caused more and more gossip among their
neighbors both in the upland country and by the sea.

One day in spring as the two sat in their city office, where Mr.
Podington had just repeated his annual invitation, his friend replied
to him thus:

"William, if I come to see you this summer, will you visit me? The
thing is beginning to look a little ridiculous, and people are talking
about it."

Mr. Podington put his hand to his brow and for a few moments closed
his eyes. In his mind he saw a cat-boat upon its side, the sails
spread out over the water, and two men, almost entirely immersed in
the waves, making efforts to reach the side of the boat. One of these
was getting on very well--that was Buller. The other seemed about to
sink, his arms were uselessly waving in the air--that was himself. But
he opened his eyes and looked bravely out of the window; it was time
to conquer all this; it was indeed growing ridiculous. Buller had been
sailing many years and had never been upset.

"Yes," said he; "I will do it; I am ready any time you name."

Mr. Buller rose and stretched out his hand.

"Good!" said he; "it is a compact!"

Buller was the first to make the promised country visit. He had not
mentioned the subject of horses to his friend, but he knew through
Mrs. Buller that Podington still continued to be his own driver. She
had informed him, however, that at present he was accustomed to drive
a big black horse which, in her opinion, was as gentle and reliable as
these animals ever became, and she could not imagine how anybody could
be afraid of him. So when, the next morning after his arrival, Mr.
Buller was asked by his host if he would like to take a drive, he
suppressed a certain rising emotion and said that it would please him
very much.

When the good black horse had jogged along a pleasant road for half an
hour Mr. Buller began to feel that, perhaps, for all these years he
had been laboring under a misconception. It seemed to be possible that
there were some horses to which surrounding circumstances in the shape
of sights and sounds were so irrelevant that they were to a certain
degree entirely safe, even when guided and controlled by an amateur
hand. As they passed some meadow-land, somebody behind a hedge fired a
gun; Mr. Buller was frightened, but the horse was not.

"William," said Buller, looking cheerfully around him,

"I had no idea that you lived in such a pretty country. In fact, I
might almost call it beautiful. You have not any wide stretch of
water, such as I like so much, but here is a pretty river, those
rolling hills are very charming, and, beyond, you have the blue of the
mountains."

"It is lovely," said his friend; "I never get tired of driving through
this country. Of course the seaside is very fine, but here we have
such a variety of scenery."

Mr. Buller could not help thinking that sometimes the seaside was a
little monotonous, and that he had lost a great deal of pleasure by
not varying his summers by going up to spend a week or two with
Podington.

"William," said he, "how long have you had this horse?"

"About two years," said Mr. Podington; "before I got him, I used to
drive a pair."

"Heavens!" thought Buller, "how lucky I was not to come two years
ago!" And his regrets for not sooner visiting his friend greatly
decreased.

Now they came to a place where the stream, by which the road ran, had
been dammed for a mill and had widened into a beautiful pond.

"There now!" cried Mr. Buller. "That's what I like. William, you seem
to have everything! This is really a very pretty sheet of water, and
the reflections of the trees over there make a charming picture; you
can't get that at the seaside, you know."

Mr. Podington was delighted; his face glowed; he was rejoiced at the
pleasure of his friend. "I tell you, Thomas," said he, "that----"

"William!" exclaimed Buller, with a sudden squirm in his seat, "what
is that I hear? Is that a train?"

"Yes," said Mr. Podington, "that is the ten-forty, up."

"Does it come near here?" asked Mr. Buller, nervously. "Does it go
over that bridge?"

"Yes," said Podington, "but it can't hurt us, for our road goes under
the bridge; we are perfectly safe; there is no risk of accident."

"But your horse! Your horse!" exclaimed Buller, as the train came
nearer and nearer. "What will he do?"

"Do?" said Podington; "he'll do what he is doing now; he doesn't mind
trains."

"But look here, William," exclaimed Buller, "it will get there just as
we do; no horse could stand a roaring up in the air like that!"

Podington laughed. "He would not mind it in the least," said he.

"Come, come now," cried Buller. "Really, I can't stand this! Just stop
a minute, William, and let me get out. It sets all my nerves
quivering."

Mr. Podington smiled with a superior smile. "Oh, you needn't get out,"
said he; "there's not the least danger in the world. But I don't want
to make you nervous, and I will turn around and drive the other way."

"But you can't!" screamed Buller. "This road is not wide enough, and
that train is nearly here. Please stop!"

The imputation that the road was not wide enough for him to turn was
too much for Mr. Podington to bear. He was very proud of his ability
to turn a vehicle in a narrow place.

"Turn!" said he; "that's the easiest thing in the world. See; a little
to the right, then a back, then a sweep to the left and we will be
going the other way." And instantly he began the maneuver in which he
was such an adept.

"Oh, Thomas!" cried Buller, half rising in his seat, "that train is
almost here!"

"And we are almost----" Mr. Podington was about to say "turned
around," but he stopped. Mr. Buller's exclamations had made him a
little nervous, and, in his anxiety to turn quickly, he had pulled
upon his horse's bit with more energy than was actually necessary, and
his nervousness being communicated to the horse, that animal backed
with such extraordinary vigor that the hind wheels of the wagon went
over a bit of grass by the road and into the water. The sudden jolt
gave a new impetus to Mr. Buller's fears.

"You'll upset!" he cried, and not thinking of what he was about, he
laid hold of his friend's arm. The horse, startled by this sudden jerk
upon his bit, which, combined with the thundering of the train, which
was now on the bridge, made him think that something extraordinary was
about to happen, gave a sudden and forcible start backward, so that
not only the hind wheels of the light wagon, but the fore wheels and
his own hind legs went into the water. As the bank at this spot sloped
steeply, the wagon continued to go backward, despite the efforts of
the agitated horse to find a footing on the crumbling edge of the
bank.

"Whoa!" cried Mr. Buller.

"Get up!" exclaimed Mr. Podington, applying his whip upon the plunging
beast.

But exclamations and castigations had no effect upon the horse. The
original bed of the stream ran close to the road, and the bank was so
steep and the earth so soft that it was impossible for the horse to
advance or even maintain his footing. Back, back he went, until the
whole equipage was in the water and the wagon was afloat.

This vehicle was a road wagon, without a top, and the joints of its
box-body were tight enough to prevent the water from immediately
entering it; so, somewhat deeply sunken, it rested upon the water.
There was a current in this part of the pond and it turned the wagon
downstream. The horse was now entirely immersed in the water, with the
exception of his head and the upper part of his neck, and, unable to
reach the bottom with his feet, he made vigorous efforts to swim.

Mr. Podington, the reins and whip in his hands, sat horrified and
pale; the accident was so sudden, he was so startled and so frightened
that, for a moment, he could not speak a word. Mr. Buller, on the
other hand, was now lively and alert. The wagon had no sooner floated
away from the shore than he felt himself at home. He was upon his
favorite element; water had no fears for him. He saw that his friend
was nearly frightened out of his wits, and that, figuratively
speaking, he must step to the helm and take charge of the vessel. He
stood up and gazed about him.

"Put her across stream!" he shouted; "she can't make headway against
this current. Head her to that clump of trees on the other side; the
bank is lower there, and we can beach her. Move a little the other
way, we must trim boat. Now then, pull on your starboard rein."

Podington obeyed, and the horse slightly changed his direction.

"You see," said Buller, "it won't do to sail straight across, because
the current would carry us down and land us below that spot."

Mr. Podington said not a word; he expected every moment to see the
horse sink into a watery grave.

"It isn't so bad after all, is it, Podington? If we had a rudder and a
bit of a sail it would be a great help to the horse. This wagon is not
a bad boat."

The despairing Podington looked at his feet. "It's coming in," he said
in a husky voice. "Thomas, the water is over my shoes!"

"That is so," said Buller. "I am so used to water I didn't notice it.
She leaks. Do you carry anything to bail her out with?"

"Bail!" cried Podington, now finding his voice. "Oh, Thomas, we are
sinking!"

"That's so," said Buller; "she leaks like a sieve."

The weight of the running-gear and of the two men was entirely too
much for the buoyancy of the wagon body. The water rapidly rose toward
the top of its sides.

"We are going to drown!" cried Podington, suddenly rising.

"Lick him! Lick him!" exclaimed Buller. "Make him swim faster!"

"There's nothing to lick," cried Podington, vainly lashing at the
water, for he could not reach the horse's head. The poor man was
dreadfully frightened; he had never even imagined it possible that he
should be drowned in his own wagon.

"Whoop!" cried Buller, as the water rose over the sides. "Steady
yourself, old boy, or you'll go overboard!" And the next moment the
wagon body sunk out of sight.

But it did not go down very far. The deepest part of the channel of
the stream had been passed, and with a bump the wheels struck the
bottom.

"Heavens!" exclaimed Buller, "we are aground."

"Aground!" exclaimed Podington, "Heaven be praised!"

As the two men stood up in the submerged wagon the water was above
their knees, and when Podington looked out over the surface of the
pond, now so near his face, it seemed like a sheet of water he had
never seen before. It was something horrible, threatening to rise and
envelop him. He trembled so that he could scarcely keep his footing.

"William," said his companion, "you must sit down; if you don't,
you'll tumble overboard and be drowned. There is nothing for you to
hold to."

"Sit down," said Podington, gazing blankly at the water around him, "I
can't do that!"

At this moment the horse made a slight movement. Having touched bottom
after his efforts in swimming across the main bed of the stream, with
a floating wagon in tow, he had stood for a few moments, his head and
neck well above water, and his back barely visible beneath the
surface. Having recovered his breath, he now thought it was time to
move on.

At the first step of the horse Mr. Podington began to totter.
Instinctively he clutched Buller.

"Sit down!" cried the latter, "or you'll have us both overboard."
There was no help for it; down sat Mr. Podington; and, as with a great
splash he came heavily upon the seat, the water rose to his waist.

"Ough!" said he. "Thomas, shout for help."

"No use doing that," replied Buller, still standing on his nautical
legs; "I don't see anybody, and I don't see any boat. We'll get out
all right. Just you stick tight to the thwart."

"The what?" feebly asked the other.

"Oh, the seat, I mean. We can get to the shore all right if you steer
the horse straight. Head him more across the pond."

"I can't head him," cried Podington. "I have dropped the reins!"

"Good gracious!" cried Mr. Buller, "that's bad. Can't you steer him by
shouting 'Gee' and 'Haw'?"

"No," said Podington, "he isn't an ox; but perhaps I can stop him."
And with as much voice as he could summon, he called out: "Whoa!" and
the horse stopped.

"If you can't steer him any other way," said Buller, "we must get the
reins. Lend me your whip."

"I have dropped that too," said Podington; "there it floats."

"Oh, dear," said Buller, "I guess I'll have to dive for them; if he
were to run away, we should be in an awful fix."

"Don't get out! Don't get out!" exclaimed Podington. "You can reach
over the dashboard."

"As that's under water," said Buller, "it will be the same thing as
diving; but it's got to be done, and I'll try it. Don't you move now;
I am more used to water than you are."

Mr. Buller took off his hat and asked his friend to hold it. He
thought of his watch and other contents of his pockets, but there was
no place to put them, so he gave them no more consideration. Then
bravely getting on his knees in the water, he leaned over the
dashboard, almost disappearing from sight. With his disengaged hand
Mr. Podington grasped the submerged coat-tails of his friend.

In a few seconds the upper part of Mr. Buller rose from the water. He
was dripping and puffing, and Mr. Podington could not but think what a
difference it made in the appearance of his friend to have his hair
plastered close to his head.

"I got hold of one of them," said the sputtering Buller, "but it was
fast to something and I couldn't get it loose."

"Was it thick and wide?" asked Podington.

"Yes," was the answer; "it did seem so."

"Oh, that was a trace," said Podington; "I don't want that; the reins
are thinner and lighter."

"Now I remember they are," said Buller. "I'll go down again."

Again Mr. Buller leaned over the dashboard, and this time he remained
down longer, and when he came up he puffed and sputtered more than
before.

"Is this it?" said he, holding up a strip of wet leather.

"Yes," said Podington, "you've got the reins."

"Well, take them, and steer. I would have found them sooner if his
tail had not got into my eyes. That long tail's floating down there
and spreading itself out like a fan; it tangled itself all around my
head. It would have been much easier if he had been a bob-tailed
horse."

"Now then," said Podington, "take your hat, Thomas, and I'll try to
drive."

Mr. Buller put on his hat, which was the only dry thing about him, and
the nervous Podington started the horse so suddenly that even the
sea-legs of Buller were surprised, and he came very near going
backward into the water; but recovering himself, he sat down.

"I don't wonder you did not like to do this, William," said he. "Wet
as I am, it's ghastly!"

Encouraged by his master's voice, and by the feeling of the familiar
hand upon his bit, the horse moved bravely on.

But the bottom was very rough and uneven. Sometimes the wheels struck
a large stone, terrifying Mr. Buller, who thought they were going to
upset; and sometimes they sank into soft mud, horrifying Mr.
Podington, who thought they were going to drown.

Thus proceeding, they presented a strange sight. At first Mr.
Podington held his hands above the water as he drove, but he soon
found this awkward, and dropped them to their usual position, so that
nothing was visible above the water but the head and neck of a horse
and the heads and shoulders of two men.

Now the submarine equipage came to a low place in the bottom, and even
Mr. Buller shuddered as the water rose to his chin. Podington gave a
howl of horror, and the horse, with high, uplifted head, was obliged
to swim. At this moment a boy with a gun came strolling along the
road, and hearing Mr. Podington's cry, he cast his eyes over the
water. Instinctively he raised his weapon to his shoulder, and then,
in an instant, perceiving that the objects he beheld were not aquatic
birds, he dropped his gun and ran yelling down the road toward the
mill.

But the hollow in the bottom was a narrow one, and when it was passed
the depth of the water gradually decreased. The back of the horse came
into view, the dashboard became visible, and the bodies and the
spirits of the two men rapidly rose. Now there was vigorous splashing
and tugging, and then a jet black horse, shining as if he had been
newly varnished, pulled a dripping wagon containing two well-soaked
men upon a shelving shore.

"Oh, I am chilled to the bones!" said Podington.

"I should think so," replied his friend; "if you have got to be wet,
it is a great deal pleasanter under the water."

There was a field-road on this side of the pond which Podington well
knew, and proceeding along this they came to the bridge and got into
the main road.

"Now we must get home as fast as we can," cried Podington, "or we
shall both take cold. I wish I hadn't lost my whip. Hi now! Get
along!"

Podington was now full of life and energy, his wheels were on the hard
road, and he was himself again.

When he found his head was turned toward his home, the horse set off
at a great rate.

"Hi there!" cried Podington. "I am so sorry I lost my whip."

"Whip!" said Buller, holding fast to the side of the seat; "surely you
don't want him to go any faster than this. And look here, William," he
added, "it seems to me we are much more likely to take cold in our wet
clothes if we rush through the air in this way. Really, it seems to me
that horse is running away."

"Not a bit of it," cried Podington. "He wants to get home, and he
wants his dinner. Isn't he a fine horse? Look how he steps out!"

"Steps out!" said Buller, "I think I'd like to step out myself. Don't
you think it would be wiser for me to walk home, William? That will
warm me up."

"It will take you an hour," said his friend. "Stay where you are, and
I'll have you in a dry suit of clothes in less than fifteen minutes."

"I tell you, William," said Mr. Buller, as the two sat smoking after
dinner, "what you ought to do; you should never go out driving without
a life-preserver and a pair of oars; I always take them. It would make
you feel safer."

Mr. Buller went home the next day, because Mr. Podington's clothes did
not fit him, and his own outdoor suit was so shrunken as to be
uncomfortable. Besides, there was another reason, connected with the
desire of horses to reach their homes, which prompted his return. But
he had not forgotten his compact with his friend, and in the course of
a week he wrote to Podington, inviting him to spend some days with
him. Mr. Podington was a man of honor, and in spite of his recent
unfortunate water experience he would not break his word. He went to
Mr. Buller's seaside home at the time appointed.

Early on the morning after his arrival, before the family were up, Mr.
Podington went out and strolled down to the edge of the bay. He went
to look at Buller's boat. He was well aware that he would be asked to
take a sail, and as Buller had driven with him, it would be impossible
for him to decline sailing with Buller; but he must see the boat.
There was a train for his home at a quarter past seven; if he were not
on the premises he could not be asked to sail. If Buller's boat were a
little, flimsy thing, he would take that train--but he would wait and
see.

There was only one small boat anchored near the beach, and a
man--apparently a fisherman--informed Mr. Podington that it belonged
to Mr. Buller. Podington looked at it eagerly; it was not very small
and not flimsy.

"Do you consider that a safe boat?" he asked the fisherman.

"Safe?" replied the man. "You could not upset her if you tried. Look
at her breadth of beam! You could go anywhere in that boat! Are you
thinking of buying her?"

The idea that he would think of buying a boat made Mr. Podington
laugh. The information that it would be impossible to upset the little
vessel had greatly cheered him, and he could laugh.

Shortly after breakfast Mr. Buller, like a nurse with a dose of
medicine, came to Mr. Podington with the expected invitation to take a
sail.

"Now, William," said his host, "I understand perfectly your feeling
about boats, and what I wish to prove to you is that it is a feeling
without any foundation. I don't want to shock you or make you nervous,
so I am not going to take you out today on the bay in my boat. You are
as safe on the bay as you would be on land--a little safer, perhaps,
under certain circumstances, to which we will not allude--but still it
is sometimes a little rough, and this, at first, might cause you some
uneasiness, and so I am going to let you begin your education in the
sailing line on perfectly smooth water. About three miles back of us
there is a very pretty lake several miles long. It is part of the
canal system which connects the town with the railroad. I have sent my
boat to the town, and we can walk up there and go by the canal to the
lake; it is only about three miles."

If he had to sail at all, this kind of sailing suited Mr. Podington. A
canal, a quiet lake, and a boat which could not be upset. When they
reached the town the boat was in the canal, ready for them.

"Now," said Mr. Buller, "you get in and make yourself comfortable. My
idea is to hitch on to a canal-boat and be towed to the lake. The
boats generally start about this time in the morning, and I will go
and see about it."

Mr. Podington, under the direction of his friend, took a seat in the
stern of the sailboat, and then he remarked:

"Thomas, have you a life-preserver on board? You know I am not used to
any kind of vessel, and I am clumsy. Nothing might happen to the boat,
but I might trip and fall overboard, and I can't swim."

"All right," said Buller; "here's a life-preserver, and you can put it
on. I want you to feel perfectly safe. Now I will go and see about the
tow."

But Mr. Buller found that the canal-boats would not start at their
usual time; the loading of one of them was not finished, and he was
informed that he might have to wait for an hour or more. This did not
suit Mr. Buller at all, and he did not hesitate to show his annoyance.

"I tell you, sir, what you can do," said one of the men in charge of
the boats; "if you don't want to wait till we are ready to start,
we'll let you have a boy and a horse to tow you up to the lake. That
won't cost you much, and they'll be back before we want 'em."

The bargain was made, and Mr. Buller joyfully returned to his boat
with the intelligence that they were not to wait for the canal-boats.
A long rope, with a horse attached to the other end of it, was
speedily made fast to the boat, and with a boy at the head of the
horse, they started up the canal.

"Now this is the kind of sailing I like," said Mr. Podington. "If I
lived near a canal I believe I would buy a boat and train my horse to
tow. I could have a long pair of rope-lines and drive him myself; then
when the roads were rough and bad the canal would always be smooth."

"This is all very nice," replied Mr. Buller, who sat by the tiller to
keep the boat away from the bank, "and I am glad to see you in a boat
under any circumstances. Do you know, William, that although I did not
plan it, there could not have been a better way to begin your sailing
education. Here we glide along, slowly and gently, with no possible
thought of danger, for if the boat should suddenly spring a leak, as
if it were the body of a wagon, all we would have to do would be to
step on shore, and by the time you get to the end of the canal you
will like this gentle motion so much that you will be perfectly ready
to begin the second stage of your nautical education."

"Yes," said Mr. Podington. "How long did you say this canal is?"

"About three miles," answered his friend. "Then we will go into the
lock and in a few minutes we shall be on the lake."

"So far as I am concerned," said Mr. Podington, "I wish the canal were
twelve miles long. I cannot imagine anything pleasanter than this. If
I lived anywhere near a canal--a long canal, I mean, this one is too
short--I'd--"

"Come, come now," interrupted Buller. "Don't be content to stay in the
primary school just because it is easy. When we get on the lake I will
show you that in a boat, with a gentle breeze, such as we are likely
to have today, you will find the motion quite as pleasing, and ever so
much more inspiriting. I should not be a bit surprised, William, if
after you have been two or three times on the lake you will ask
me--yes, positively ask me--to take you out on the bay!"

Mr. Podington smiled, and leaning backward, he looked up at the
beautiful blue sky.

"You can't give me anything better than this, Thomas," said he; "but
you needn't think I am weakening; you drove with me, and I will sail
with you."

The thought came into Buller's mind that he had done both of these
things with Podington, but he did not wish to call up unpleasant
memories, and said nothing.

About half a mile from the town there stood a small cottage where
house-cleaning was going on, and on a fence, not far from the canal,
there hung a carpet gaily adorned with stripes and spots of red and
yellow.

When the drowsy tow-horse came abreast of the house, and the carpet
caught his eye, he suddenly stopped and gave a start toward the canal.
Then, impressed with a horror of the glaring apparition, he gathered
himself up, and with a bound dashed along the tow-path. The astounded
boy gave a shout, but was speedily left behind. The boat of Mr. Buller
shot forward as if she had been struck by a squall.

The terrified horse sped on as if a red and yellow demon were after
him. The boat bounded, and plunged, and frequently struck the grassy
bank of the canal, as if it would break itself to pieces. Mr.
Podington clutched the boom to keep himself from being thrown out,
while Mr. Buller, both hands upon the tiller, frantically endeavored
to keep the boat from the bank.

"William!" he screamed, "he is running away with us; we shall be
dashed to pieces! Can't you get forward and cast off that line?"

"What do you mean?" cried Podington, as the boom gave a great jerk as
if it would break its fastenings and drag him overboard.

"I mean untie the tow-line. We'll be smashed if you don't! I can't
leave this tiller. Don't try to stand up; hold on to the boom and
creep forward. Steady now, or you'll be overboard!"

Mr. Podington stumbled to the bow of the boat, his efforts greatly
impeded by the big cork life-preserver tied under his arms, and the
motion of the boat was so violent and erratic that he was obliged to
hold on to the mast with one arm and to try to loosen the knot with
the other; but there was a great strain on the rope, and he could do
nothing with one hand.

"Cut it! Cut it!" cried Mr. Buller.

"I haven't a knife," replied Podington.

Mr. Buller was terribly frightened; his boat was cutting through the
water as never vessel of her class had sped since sail-boats were
invented, and bumping against the bank as if she were a billiard-ball
rebounding from the edge of a table. He forgot he was in a boat; he
only knew that for the first time in his life he was in a runaway. He
let go the tiller. It was of no use to him.

"William," he cried, "let us jump out the next time we are near enough
to shore!"

"Don't do that! Don't do that!" replied Podington. "Don't jump out in
a runaway; that is the way to get hurt. Stick to your seat, my boy; he
can't keep this up much longer. He'll lose his wind!"

Mr. Podington was greatly excited, but he was not frightened, as
Buller was. He had been in a runaway before, and he could not help
thinking how much better a wagon was than a boat in such a case.

"If he were hitched up shorter and I had a snaffle-bit and a stout
pair of reins," thought he, "I could soon bring him up."

But Mr. Buller was rapidly losing his wits. The horse seemed to be
going faster than ever. The boat bumped harder against the bank, and
at one time Buller thought they could turn over.

Suddenly a thought struck him.

"William," he shouted, "tip that anchor over the side! Throw it in,
any way!"

Mr. Podington looked about him, and, almost under his feet, saw the
anchor. He did not instantly comprehend why Buller wanted it thrown
overboard, but this was not a time to ask questions. The difficulties
imposed by the life-preserver, and the necessity of holding on with
one hand, interfered very much with his getting at the anchor and
throwing it over the side, but at last he succeeded, and just as the
boat threw up her bow as if she were about to jump on shore, the
anchor went out and its line shot after it. There was an irregular
trembling of the boat as the anchor struggled along the bottom of the
canal; then there was a great shock; the boat ran into the bank and
stopped; the tow-line was tightened like a guitar-string, and the
horse, jerked back with great violence, came tumbling in a heap upon
the ground.

Instantly Mr. Podington was on the shore and running at the top of his
speed toward the horse. The astounded animal had scarcely begun to
struggle to his feet when Podington rushed upon him, pressed his head
back to the ground, and sat upon it.

"Hurrah!" he cried, waving his hat above his head. "Get out, Buller;
he is all right now!"

Presently Mr. Buller approached, very much shaken up.

"All right?" he said. "I don't call a horse flat in a road with a man
on his head all right; but hold him down till we get him loose from my
boat. That is the thing to do. William, cast him loose from the boat
before you let him up! What will he do when he gets up?"

"Oh. he'll be quiet enough when he gets up," said Podington. "But if
you've got a knife you can cut his traces---I mean that rope--but no,
you needn't. Here comes the boy. We'll settle this business in very
short order now."

When the horse was on his feet, and all connection between the animal
and the boat had been severed, Mr. Podington looked at his friend.

"Thomas," said he, "you seem to have had a hard time of it. You have
lost your hat and you look as if you had been in a wrestling-match."

"I have," replied the other; "I wrestled with that tiller and I wonder
it didn't throw me out."

Now approached the boy. "Shall I hitch him on again, sir?" said he.
"He's quiet enough now."

"No," cried Mr. Buller; "I want no more sailing after a horse, and,
besides, we can't go on the lake with that boat; she has been battered
about so much that she must have opened a dozen seams. The best thing
we can do is to walk home."

Mr. Podington agreed with his friend that walking home was the best
thing they could do. The boat was examined and found to be leaking,
but not very badly, and when her mast had been unshipped and
everything had been made tight and right on board, she was pulled out
of the way of tow-lines and boats, and made fast until she could be
sent for from the town.

Mr. Buller and Mr. Podington walked back toward the town. They had not
gone very far when they met a party of boys, who, upon seeing them,
burst into unseemly laughter.

"Mister," cried one of them, "you needn't be afraid of tumbling into
the canal. Why don't you take off your life-preserver and let that
other man put it on his head?"

The two friends looked at each other and could not help joining in the
laughter of the boys.

"By George! I forgot all about this," said Podington, as he unfastened
the cork jacket. "It does look a little super-timid to wear a
life-preserver just because one happens to be walking by the side of a
canal."

Mr. Buller tied a handkerchief on his head, and Mr. Podington rolled
up his life-preserver and carried it under his arm. Thus they reached
the town, where Buller bought a hat, Podington dispensed with his
bundle, and arrangements were made to bring back the boat.

"Runaway in a sailboat!" exclaimed one of the canal boatmen when he
had heard about the accident. "Upon my word! That beats anything that
could happen to a man!"

"No, it doesn't," replied Mr. Buller, quietly. "I have gone to the
bottom in a foundered road-wagon."

The man looked at him fixedly.

"Was you ever struck in the mud in a balloon?" he asked.

"Not yet," replied Mr. Buller.

It required ten days to put Mr. Buller's sailboat into proper
condition, and for ten days Mr. Podington stayed with his friend, and
enjoyed his visit very much. They strolled on the beach, they took
long walks in the back country, they fished from the end of a pier,
they smoked, they talked, and were happy and content.

"Thomas," said Mr. Podington, on the last evening of his stay, "I have
enjoyed myself very much since I have been down here, and now, Thomas,
if I were to come down again next summer, would you mind--would you
mind, not----"

"I would not mind it a bit," replied Buller, promptly. "I'll never so
much as mention it; so you can come along without a thought of it. And
since you have alluded to the subject, William," he continued, "I'd
like very much to come and see you again; you know my visit was a very
short one this year. That is a beautiful country you live in. Such a
variety of scenery, such an opportunity for walks and rambles! But,
William, if you could only make up your mind not to----"

"Oh, that is all right!" exclaimed Podington. "I do not need to make
up my mind. You come to my house and you will never so much as hear of
it. Here's my hand upon it!"

"And here's mine!" said Mr. Buller.

And they shook hands over a new compact.