There is no character, howsoever good and fine, but it
can be destroyed by ridicule, howsoever poor and witless.
Observe the ass, for instance: his character is about perfect,
he is the choicest spirit among all the humbler animals,
yet see what ridicule has brought him to. Instead of feeling
complimented when we are called an ass, we are left in doubt.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
A person who is ignorant of legal matters is always liable to
make mistakes when he tries to photograph a court scene with his pen;
and so I was not willing to let the law chapters in this book
go to press without first subjecting them to rigid and exhausting
revision and correction by a trained barrister--if that is what
they are called. These chapters are right, now, in every detail,
for they were rewritten under the immediate eye of William Hicks,
who studied law part of a while in southwest Missouri thirty-five
years ago and then came over here to Florence for his health and
is still helping for exercise and board in Macaroni Vermicelli's
horse-feed shed, which is up the back alley as you turn around the
corner out of the Piazza del Duomo just beyond the house where that
stone that Dante used to sit on six hundred years ago is let into
the wall when he let on to be watching them build Giotto's campanile
and yet always got tired looking as Beatrice passed along on her way
to get a chunk of chestnut cake to defend herself with in case of a
Ghibelline outbreak before she got to school, at the same old stand
where they sell the same old cake to this day and it is just as light
and good as it was then, too, and this is not flattery, far from it.
He was a little rusty on his law, but he rubbed up for this book,
and those two or three legal chapters are right and straight, now.
He told me so himself.
Given under my hand this second day of January, 1893, at the Villa Viviani,
village of Settignano, three miles back of Florence, on the hills--
the same certainly affording the most charming view to be found
on this planet, and with it the most dreamlike and enchanting sunsets
to be found in any planet or even in any solar system--and given, too,
in the swell room of the house, with the busts of Cerretani senators
and other grandees of this line looking approvingly down upon me,
as they used to look down upon Dante, and mutely asking me to adopt them
into my family, which I do with pleasure, for my remotest ancestors
are but spring chickens compared with these robed and stately antiques,
and it will be a great and satisfying lift for me, that six hundred years will.
The scene of this chronicle is the town of Dawson's Landing,
on the Missouri side of the Mississippi, half a day's journey,
per steamboat, below St. Louis.
In 1830 it was a snug collection of modest one- and two- story
frame dwellings, whose whitewashed exteriors were almost concealed
from sight by climbing tangles of rose vines, honeysuckles,
and morning glories. Each of these pretty homes had a garden in front
fenced with white palings and opulently stocked with hollyhocks, marigolds,
touch-me-nots, prince's-feathers, and other old-fashioned flowers;
while on the windowsills of the houses stood wooden boxes containing
moss rose plants and terra-cotta pots in which grew a breed of geranium
whose spread of intensely red blossoms accented the prevailing pink tint
of the rose-clad house-front like an explosion of flame. When there was room
on the ledge outside of the pots and boxes for a cat, the cat was there--
in sunny weather--stretched at full length, asleep and blissful,
with her furry belly to the sun and a paw curved over her nose.
Then that house was complete, and its contentment and peace were made
manifest to the world by this symbol, whose testimony is infallible.
A home without a cat--and a well-fed, well-petted, and properly revered cat--
may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?
All along the streets, on both sides, at the outer edge
of the brick sidewalks, stood locust trees with trunks protected by
wooden boxing, and these furnished shade for summer and a sweet fragrancer
in spring, when the clusters of buds came forth. The main street,
one block back from the river, and running parallel with it, was the
sole business street. It was six blocks long, and in each block two
or three brick stores, three stories high, towered above interjected
bunches of little frame shops. Swinging signs creaked in the wind the
street's whole length. The candy-striped pole, which indicates nobility
proud and ancient along the palace-bordered canals of Venice, indicated
merely the humble barbershop along the main street of Dawson's Landing.
On a chief corner stood a lofty unpainted pole wreathed from top to
bottom with tin pots and pans and cups, the chief tinmonger's noisy
notice to the world (when the wind blew) that his shop was on hand
for business at that corner.
The hamlet's front was washed by the clear waters of the great river;
its body stretched itself rearward up a gentle incline;
its most rearward border fringed itself out and scattered its houses
about its base line of the hills; the hills rose high, enclosing the
town in a half-moon curve, clothed with forests from foot to summit.
Steamboats passed up and down every hour or so. Those belonging to
the little Cairo line and the little Memphis line always stopped;
the big Orleans liners stopped for hails only, or to land passengers
or freight; and this was the case also with the great flotilla of
"transients." These latter came out of a dozen rivers--
the Illinois, the Missouri, the Upper Mississippi, the Ohio,
the Monongahela, the Tennessee, the Red River, the White River,
and so on--and were bound every whither and stocked with every imaginable
comfort or necessity, which the Mississippi's communities could want,
from the frosty Falls of St. Anthony down through nine climates
to torrid New Orleans.
Dawson's Landing was a slaveholding town, with a rich, slave-worked
grain and pork country back of it. The town was sleepy and comfortable
and contented. It was fifty years old, and was growing slowly--
very slowly, in fact, but still it was growing.
The chief citizen was York Leicester Driscoll, about forty years old,
judge of the county court. He was very proud of his old Virginian ancestry,
and in his hospitalities and his rather formal and stately manners,
he kept up its traditions. He was fine and just and generous.
To be a gentleman--a gentleman without stain or blemish--was his
only religion, and to it he was always faithful. He was respected,
esteemed, and beloved by all of the community. He was well off,
and was gradually adding to his store. He and his wife were very
nearly happy, but not quite, for they had no children. The longing for
the treasure of a child had grown stronger and stronger as the years
slipped away, but the blessing never came--and was never to come.
With this pair lived the judge's widowed sister, Mrs. Rachel Pratt,
and she also was childless--childless, and sorrowful for that reason,
and not to be comforted. The women were good and commonplace people,
and did their duty, and had their reward in clear consciences and the
community's approbation. They were Presbyterians, the judge was a freethinker.
Pembroke Howard, lawyer and bachelor, aged almost forty, was another
old Virginian grandee with proved descent from the First Families.
He was a fine, majestic creature, a gentleman according to the nicest
requirements of the Virginia rule, a devoted Presbyterian, an authority
on the "code", and a man always courteously ready to stand up before you in
the field if any act or word of his had seemed doubtful or suspicious to you,
and explain it with any weapon you might prefer from bradawls to artillery.
He was very popular with the people, and was the judge's dearest friend.
Then there was Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex, another F.F.V.
of formidable caliber--however, with him we have no concern.
Percy Northumberland Driscoll, brother to the judge, and younger than
he by five years, was a married man, and had had children around
his hearthstone; but they were attacked in detail by measles, croup,
and scarlet fever, and this had given the doctor a chance with his
effective antediluvian methods; so the cradles were empty. He was a
prosperous man, with a good head for speculations, and his fortune
was growing. On the first of February, 1830, two boy babes were born
in his house; one to him, one to one of his slave girls, Roxana by name.
Roxana was twenty years old. She was up and around the same day,
with her hands full, for she was tending both babes.
Mrs. Percy Driscoll died within the week. Roxy remained in charge of
the children. She had her own way, for Mr. Driscoll soon absorbed himself
in his speculations and left her to her own devices.
In that same month of February, Dawson's Landing gained a new citizen.
This was Mr. David Wilson, a young fellow of Scotch parentage.
He had wandered to this remote region from his birthplace in the interior
of the State of New York, to seek his fortune. He was twenty-five years old,
college bred, and had finished a post-college course in an Eastern
law school a couple of years before.
He was a homely, freckled, sandy-haired young fellow, with an intelligent
blue eye that had frankness and comradeship in it and a covert twinkle
of a pleasant sort. But for an unfortunate remark of his, he would no
doubt have entered at once upon a successful career at Dawson's Landing.
But he made his fatal remark the first day he spent in the village,
and it "gaged" him. He had just made the acquaintance of a group of
citizens when an invisible dog began to yelp and snarl and howl and make
himself very comprehensively disagreeable, whereupon young Wilson said,
much as one who is thinking aloud:
"I wish I owned half of that dog."
"Why?" somebody asked.
"Because I would kill my half."
The group searched his face with curiosity, with anxiety even,
but found no light there, no expression that they could read.
They fell away from him as from something uncanny, and went into privacy
to discuss him. One said:
"'Pears to be a fool."
"'Pears?" said another. "_Is,_ I reckon you better say."
"Said he wished he owned _half_ of the dog, the idiot," said a third.
"What did he reckon would become of the other half if he killed his half?
Do you reckon he thought it would live?"
"Why, he must have thought it, unless he IS the downrightest fool
in the world; because if he hadn't thought it, he would have wanted to own
the whole dog, knowing that if he killed his half and the other half died,
he would be responsible for that half just the same as if he had killed
that half instead of his own. Don't it look that way to you, gents?"
"Yes, it does. If he owned one half of the general dog, it would be so;
if he owned one end of the dog and another person owned the other end,
it would be so, just the same; particularly in the first case,
because if you kill one half of a general dog, there ain't any man
that can tell whose half it was; but if he owned one end of the dog,
maybe he could kill his end of it and--"
"No, he couldn't either; he couldn't and not be responsible if the other
end died, which it would. In my opinion that man ain't in his right mind."
"In my opinion he hain't _got_ any mind."
No. 3 said: "Well, he's a lummox, anyway."
That's what he is;" said No. 4. "He's a labrick--just a Simon-pure labrick,
if there was one."
"Yes, sir, he's a dam fool. That's the way I put him up," said No. 5.
"Anybody can think different that wants to, but those are my sentiments."
"I'm with you, gentlemen," said No. 6. "Perfect jackass--yes,
and it ain't going too far to say he is a pudd'nhead.
If he ain't a pudd'nhead, I ain't no judge, that's all."
Mr. Wilson stood elected. The incident was told all over the town,
and gravely discussed by everybody. Within a week he had lost his
first name; Pudd'nhead took its place. In time he came to be liked,
and well liked too; but by that time the nickname had got well stuck on,
and it stayed. That first day's verdict made him a fool, and he was not
able to get it set aside, or even modified. The nickname soon ceased to
carry any harsh or unfriendly feeling with it, but it held its place,
and was to continue to hold its place for twenty long years.
CHAPTER 2
Driscoll Spares His Slaves
Adam was but human--this explains it all. He did not want the apple
for the apple's sake, he wanted it only because it was forbidden.
The mistake was in not forbidding the serpent; then he would have
eaten the serpent.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Pudd'nhead Wilson had a trifle of money when he arrived,
and he bought a small house on the extreme western verge of the town.
Between it and Judge Driscoll's house there was only a grassy yard,
with a paling fence dividing the properties in the middle.
He hired a small office down in the town and hung out a tin sign
with these words on it:
D A V I D W I L S O N
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR-AT-LAW
SURVEYING, CONVEYANCING, ETC.
But his deadly remark had ruined his chance--at least in the law.
No clients came. He took down his sign, after a while, and put it
up on his own house with the law features knocked out of it.
It offered his services now in the humble capacities of land surveyor
and expert accountant. Now and then he got a job of surveying to do,
and now and then a merchant got him to straighten out his books.
With Scotch patience and pluck he resolved to live down his reputation
and work his way into the legal field yet. Poor fellow, he could
foresee that it was going to take him such a weary long time to do it.
He had a rich abundance of idle time, but it never hung heavy on his hands,
for he interested himself in every new thing that was born into the
universe of ideas, and studied it, and experimented upon it at his house.
One of his pet fads was palmistry. To another one he gave no name,
neither would he explain to anybody what its purpose was, but merely
said it was an amusement. In fact, he had found that his fads added to his
reputation as a pudd'nhead; there, he was growing chary of being too
communicative about them. The fad without a name was one which dealt
with people's finger marks. He carried in his coat pocket a shallow box
with grooves in it, and in the grooves strips of glass five inches long
and three inches wide. Along the lower edge of each strip was pasted a
slip of white paper. He asked people to pass their hands through their
hair (thus collecting upon them a thin coating of the natural oil) and then
making a thumb-mark on a glass strip, following it with the mark of the ball
of each finger in succession. Under this row of faint grease prints he
would write a record on the strip of white paper--thus:
JOHN SMITH, right hand--
and add the day of the month and the year, then take Smith's left hand
on another glass strip, and add name and date and the words "left hand."
The strips were now returned to the grooved box, and took their place
among what Wilson called his "records."
He often studied his records, examining and poring over them with
absorbing interest until far into the night; but what he found there--
if he found anything--he revealed to no one. Sometimes he copied on
paper the involved and delicate pattern left by the ball of the finger,
and then vastly enlarged it with a pantograph so that he could examine
its web of curving lines with ease and convenience.
One sweltering afternoon--it was the first day of July, 1830--
he was at work over a set of tangled account books in his workroom,
which looked westward over a stretch of vacant lots, when a conversation
outside disturbed him. It was carried on it yells, which showed that
the people engaged in it were not close together.
"Say, Roxy, how does yo' baby come on?" This from the distant voice.
"Fust-rate. How does _you_ come on, Jasper?" This yell was from close by.
"Oh, I's middlin'; hain't got noth'n' to complain of, I's gwine to come
a-court'n you bimeby, Roxy."
"_You_ is, you black mud cat! Yah--yah--yah! I got somep'n' better to do
den 'sociat'n' wid niggers as black as you is. Is ole Miss Cooper's Nancy
done give you de mitten?" Roxy followed this sally with another discharge
of carefree laughter.
"You's jealous, Roxy, dat's what's de matter wid you, you
hussy--yah--yah--yah! Dat's de time I got you!"
"Oh, yes, _you_ got me, hain't you. 'Clah to goodness if dat conceit
o' yo'n strikes in, Jasper, it gwine to kill you sho'. If you b'longed
to me, I'd sell you down de river 'fo' you git too fur gone.
Fust time I runs acrost yo' marster, I's gwine to tell him so."
This idle and aimless jabber went on and on, both parties enjoying the
friendly duel and each well satisfied with his own share of
the wit exchanged--for wit they considered it.
Wilson stepped to the window to observe the combatants; he could not
work while their chatter continued. Over in the vacant lots was Jasper,
young, coal black, and of magnificent build, sitting on a wheelbarrow
in the pelting sun--at work, supposably, whereas he was in fact only
preparing for it by taking an hour's rest before beginning. In front of
Wilson's porch stood Roxy, with a local handmade baby wagon,
in which sat her two charges--one at each end and facing each other.
From Roxy's manner of speech, a stranger would have expected her to
be black, but she was not. Only one sixteenth of her was black,
and that sixteenth did not show. She was of majestic form and stature,
her attitudes were imposing and statuesque, and her gestures and movements
distinguished by a noble and stately grace. Her complexion was very fair,
with the rosy glow of vigorous health in her cheeks, her face was full
of character and expression, her eyes were brown and liquid, and she
had a heavy suit of fine soft hair which was also brown, but the fact
was not apparent because her head was bound about with a checkered
handkerchief and the hair was concealed under it. Her face was shapely,
intelligent, and comely--even beautiful. She had an easy, independent
carriage--when she was among her own caste--and a high and "sassy" way,
withal; but of course she was meek and humble enough where white people were.
To all intents and purposes Roxy was as white as anybody, but the one
sixteenth of her which was black outvoted the other fifteen parts and
made her a Negro. She was a slave, and salable as such. Her child was
thirty-one parts white, and he, too, was a slave, and by a fiction of
law and custom a Negro. He had blue eyes and flaxen curls like his
white comrade, but even the father of the white child was able to tell
the children apart--little as he had commerce with them--by their clothes;
for the white babe wore ruffled soft muslin and a coral necklace,
while the other wore merely a coarse tow-linen shirt which barely reached
to its knees, and no jewelry.
The white child's name was Thomas a Becket Driscoll, the other's name
was Valet de Chambre: no surname--slaves hadn't the privilege.
Roxana had heard that phrase somewhere, the fine sound of it had pleased her
ear, and as she had supposed it was a name, she loaded it on to her darling.
It soon got shorted to "Chambers," of course.
Wilson knew Roxy by sight, and when the duel of wits begun to play out,
he stepped outside to gather in a record or two. Jasper went to work
energetically, at once, perceiving that his leisure was observed.
Wilson inspected the children and asked:
"How old are they, Roxy?"
"Bofe de same age, sir--five months. Bawn de fust o' Feb'uary."
"They're handsome little chaps. One's just as handsome as the other, too."
A delighted smile exposed the girl's white teeth, and she said:
"Bless yo' soul, Misto Wilson, it's pow'ful nice o' you to say dat,
'ca'se one of 'em ain't on'y a nigger. Mighty prime little nigger,
_I_ al'ays says, but dat's 'ca'se it's mine, o' course."
"How do you tell them apart, Roxy, when they haven't any clothes on?"
Roxy laughed a laugh proportioned to her size, and said:
"Oh, _I_ kin tell 'em 'part, Misto Wilson, but I bet Marse Percy
couldn't, not to save his life."
Wilson chatted along for awhile, and presently got Roxy's fingerprints
for his collection--right hand and left--on a couple of his glass strips;
then labeled and dated them, and took the "records" of both children,
and labeled and dated them also.
Two months later, on the third of September, he took this trio of finger
marks again. He liked to have a "series," two or three "takings"
at intervals during the period of childhood, these to be followed at
intervals of several years.
The next day--that is to say, on the fourth of September--something
occurred which profoundly impressed Roxana. Mr. Driscoll missed another
small sum of money--which is a way of saying that this was not a new thing,
but had happened before. In truth, it had happened three times before.
Driscoll's patience was exhausted. He was a fairly humane man toward
slaves and other animals; he was an exceedingly humane man toward the
erring of his own race. Theft he could not abide, and plainly there was
a thief in his house. Necessarily the thief must be one of his Negros.
Sharp measures must be taken. He called his servants before him.
There were three of these, besides Roxy: a man, a woman, and a boy
twelve years old. They were not related. Mr. Driscoll said:
"You have all been warned before. It has done no good. This time I
will teach you a lesson. I will sell the thief. Which of you is
the guilty one?"
They all shuddered at the threat, for here they had a good home,
and a new one was likely to be a change for the worse. The denial
was general. None had stolen anything--not money, anyway--a little sugar,
or cake, or honey, or something like that, that "Marse Percy wouldn't
mind or miss" but not money--never a cent of money. They were eloquent
in their protestations, but Mr. Driscoll was not moved by them.
He answered each in turn with a stern "Name the thief!"
The truth was, all were guilty but Roxana; she suspected that the others
were guilty, but she did not know them to be so. She was horrified
to think how near she had come to being guilty herself; she had been
saved in the nick of time by a revival in the colored Methodist Church,
a fortnight before, at which time and place she "got religion."
The very next day after that gracious experience, while her change of
style was fresh upon her and she was vain of her purified condition,
her master left a couple dollars unprotected on his desk, and she happened
upon that temptation when she was polishing around with a dustrag.
She looked at the money awhile with a steady rising resentment,
then she burst out with:
"Dad blame dat revival, I wisht it had 'a' be'n put off till tomorrow!"
Then she covered the tempter with a book, and another member of the
kitchen cabinet got it. She made this sacrifice as a matter of
religious etiquette; as a thing necessary just now, but by no means to
be wrested into a precedent; no, a week or two would limber up her piety,
then she would be rational again, and the next two dollars that got left
out in the cold would find a comforter--and she could name the comforter.
Was she bad? Was she worse than the general run of her race? No.
They had an unfair show in the battle of life, and they held it no sin
to take military advantage of the enemy--in a small way; in a small way,
but not in a large one. They would smouch provisions from the pantry
whenever they got a chance; or a brass thimble, or a cake of wax,
or an emery bag, or a paper of needles, or a silver spoon, or a dollar bill,
or small articles of clothing, or any other property of light value;
and so far were they from considering such reprisals sinful, that they
would go to church and shout and pray the loudest and sincerest with their
plunder in their pockets. A farm smokehouse had to be kept heavily
padlocked, or even the colored deacon himself could not resist a ham
when Providence showed him in a dream, or otherwise, where such a thing
hung lonesome, and longed for someone to love. But with a hundred hanging
before him, the deacon would not take two--that is, on the same night.
On frosty nights the humane Negro prowler would warm the end of the plank
and put it up under the cold claws of chickens roosting in a tree;
a drowsy hen would step on to the comfortable board, softly clucking
her gratitude, and the prowler would dump her into his bag, and later
into his stomach, perfectly sure that in taking this trifle from the man
who daily robbed him of an inestimable treasure--his liberty--he was
not committing any sin that God would remember against him in the
Last Great Day.
"Name the thief!"
For the fourth time Mr. Driscoll had said it, and always in the same
hard tone. And now he added these words of awful import:
"I give you one minute." He took out his watch. "If at the end of
that time, you have not confessed, I will not only sell all four
of you, BUT--I will sell you DOWN THE RIVER!"
It was equivalent to condemning them to hell! No Missouri Negro
doubted this. Roxy reeled in her tracks, and the color vanished out
of her face; the others dropped to their knees as if they had been shot;
tears gushed from their eyes, their supplicating hands went up,
and three answers came in the one instant.
"I done it!"
"I done it!"
"I done it!--have mercy, marster--Lord have mercy on us po' niggers!"
"Very good," said the master, putting up his watch, "I will
sell you _here_ though you don't deserve it. You ought to be sold
down the river."
The culprits flung themselves prone, in an ecstasy of gratitude,
and kissed his feet, declaring that they would never forget his
goodness and never cease to pray for him as long as they lived.
They were sincere, for like a god he had stretched forth his mighty
hand and closed the gates of hell against them. He knew, himself,
that he had done a noble and gracious thing, and was privately well
pleased with his magnanimity; and that night he set the incident down
in his diary, so that his son might read it in after years, and be
thereby moved to deeds of gentleness and humanity himself.
CHAPTER 3
Roxy Plays a Shrewd Trick
Whoever has lived long enough to find out what life is,
knows how deep a debt of gratitude we owe to Adam,
the first great benefactor of our race. He brought death into the world.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Percy Driscoll slept well the night he saved his house minions from
going down the river, but no wink of sleep visited Roxy's eyes.
A profound terror had taken possession of her. Her child could grow up
and be sold down the river! The thought crazed her with horror.
If she dozed and lost herself for a moment, the next moment she was
on her feet flying to her child's cradle to see if it was still there.
Then she would gather it to her heart and pour out her love upon it in
a frenzy of kisses, moaning, crying, and saying, "Dey sha'n't, oh,
dey _sha'nt'!'_--yo' po' mammy will kill you fust!"
Once, when she was tucking him back in its cradle again, the other child
nestled in its sleep and attracted her attention. She went and stood over
it a long time communing with herself.
"What has my po' baby done, dat he couldn't have yo' luck?
He hain't done nuth'n. God was good to you; why warn't he good to him?
Dey can't sell _you_ down de river. I hates yo' pappy; he hain't got
no heart--for niggers, he hain't, anyways. I hates him, en I could
kill him!" She paused awhile, thinking; then she burst into wild
sobbings again, and turned away, saying, "Oh, I got to kill my chile,
dey ain't no yuther way--killin' _him_ wouldn't save de chile fum goin'
down de river. Oh, I got to do it, yo' po' mammy's got to kill you to
save you, honey." She gathered her baby to her bosom now, and began to
smother it with caresses. "Mammy's got to kill you--how _kin_ I do it!
But yo' mammy ain't gwine to desert you--no, no, _dah_, don't cry--
she gwine _wid_ you, she gwine to kill herself too. Come along, honey,
come along wid mammy; we gwine to jump in de river, den troubles o' dis
worl' is all over--dey don't sell po' niggers down the river over _yonder_."
She stared toward the door, crooning to the child and hushing it;
midway she stopped, suddenly. She had caught sight of her new Sunday gown--
a cheap curtain-calico thing, a conflagration of gaudy colors and
fantastic figures. She surveyed it wistfully, longingly.
"Hain't ever wore it yet," she said, "en it's just lovely."
Then she nodded her head in response to a pleasant idea, and added,
"No, I ain't gwine to be fished out, wid everybody lookin' at me,
in dis mis'able ole linsey-woolsey."
She put down the child and made the change. She looked in the glass and
was astonished at her beauty. She resolved to make her death toilet perfect.
She took off her handkerchief turban and dressed her glossy wealth of
hair "like white folks"; she added some odds and ends of rather lurid
ribbon and a spray of atrocious artificial flowers; finally she threw
over her shoulders a fluffy thing called a "cloud" in that day,
which was of a blazing red complexion. Then she was ready for the tomb.
She gathered up her baby once more; but when her eye fell upon its
miserably short little gray tow-linen shirt and noted the contrast
between its pauper shabbiness and her own volcanic eruption of infernal
splendors, her mother-heart was touched, and she was ashamed.
"No, dolling mammy ain't gwine to treat you so. De angels is gwine
to 'mire you jist as much as dey does 'yo mammy. Ain't gwine to have
'em putt'n dey han's up 'fo' dey eyes en sayin' to David and Goliah
en dem yuther prophets, 'Dat chile is dress' to indelicate fo' dis place.'"
By this time she had stripped off the shirt. Now she clothed the naked
little creature in one of Thomas `a Becket's snowy, long baby gowns,
with its bright blue bows and dainty flummery of ruffles.
"Dah--now you's fixed." She propped the child in a chair and stood
off to inspect it. Straightway her eyes begun to widen with astonishment
and admiration, and she clapped her hands and cried out,
"Why, it do beat all! I _never_ knowed you was so lovely.
Marse Tommy ain't a bit puttier--not a single bit."
She stepped over and glanced at the other infant;' she flung a glance
back at her own; then one more at the heir of the house. Now a strange
light dawned in her eyes, and in a moment she was lost in thought.
She seemed in a trance; when she came out of it, she muttered,
"When I 'uz a-washin' 'em in de tub, yistiddy, he own pappy asked me
which of 'em was his'n."
She began to move around like one in a dream. She undressed
Thomas `a Becket, stripping him of everything, and put the tow-linen
shirt on him. She put his coral necklace on her own child's neck.
Then she placed the children side by side, and after earnest
inspection she muttered:
"Now who would b'lieve clo'es could do de like o' dat? Dog my cats
if it ain't all _I_ kin do to tell t' other fum which, let alone his pappy."
She put her cub in Tommy's elegant cradle and said:
"You's young Marse _Tom_ fum dis out, en I got to practice and git used
to 'memberin' to call you dat, honey, or I's gwine to make a mistake
sometime en git us bofe into trouble. Dah--now you lay still en
don't fret no mo', Marse Tom. Oh, thank de lord in heaven, you's saved,
you's saved! Dey ain't no man kin ever sell mammy's po' little
honey down de river now!"
She put the heir of the house in her own child's unpainted pine cradle,
and said, contemplating its slumbering form uneasily:
"I's sorry for you, honey; I's sorry, God knows I is--but what _kin_ I do,
what _could_ I do? Yo' pappy would sell him to somebody, sometime,
en den he'd go down de river, sho', en I couldn't, couldn't,
_couldn't_ stan' it."
She flung herself on her bed and began to think and toss, toss and think.
By and by she sat suddenly upright, for a comforting thought had flown
through her worried mind--
"'T ain't no sin--_white_ folks has done it! It ain't no sin,
glory to goodness it ain't no sin! _Dey's_ done it--yes, en dey was
de biggest quality in de whole bilin', too--_kings!"_
She began to muse; she was trying to gather out of her memory the
dim particulars of some tale she had heard some time or other.
At last she said--
"Now I's got it; now I 'member. It was dat ole nigger preacher dat
tole it, de time he come over here fum Illinois en preached in
de nigger church. He said dey ain't nobody kin save his own self--
can't do it by faith, can't do it by works, can't do it no way at all.
Free grace is de _on'y_ way, en dat don't come fum nobody but jis' de Lord;
en _he_ kin give it to anybody He please, saint or sinner--_he_ don't kyer.
He do jis' as He's a mineter. He s'lect out anybody dat suit Him,
en put another one in his place, and make de fust one happy forever
en leave t' other one to burn wid Satan. De preacher said it was jist
like dey done in Englan' one time, long time ago. De queen she lef'
her baby layin' aroun' one day, en went out callin'; an one 'o de
niggers roun'bout de place dat was 'mos' white, she come in en see de
chile layin' aroun', en tuck en put her own chile's clo's on
de queen's chile, en put de queen's chile's clo'es on her own chile,
en den lef' her own chile layin' aroun', en tuck en toted de queen's
chile home to de nigger quarter, en nobody ever foun' it out,
en her chile was de king bimeby, en sole de queen's chile down de
river one time when dey had to settle up de estate. Dah, now--de preacher
said it his own self, en it ain't no sin, 'ca'se white folks done it.
DEY done it--yes, DEY done it; en not on'y jis' common white folks nuther,
but de biggest quality dey is in de whole bilin'. _Oh_, I's _so_ glad I
'member 'bout dat!"
She got lighthearted and happy, and went to the cradles, and spent what
was left of the night "practicing." She would give her own child a
light pat and say humbly, "Lay still, Marse Tom," then give the real
Tom a pat and say with severity, "Lay _still_, Chambers! Does you want
me to take somep'n _to_ you?"
As she progressed with her practice, she was surprised to see how steadily
and surely the awe which had kept her tongue reverent and her manner
humble toward her young master was transferring itself to her speech
and manner toward the usurper, and how similarly handy she was becoming
in transferring her motherly curtness of speech and peremptoriness of
manner to the unlucky heir of the ancient house of Driscoll.
She took occasional rests from practicing, and absorbed herself in
calculating her chances.
"Dey'll sell dese niggers today fo' stealin' de money, den dey'll
buy some mo' dat don't now de chillen--so _dat's_ all right. When I takes
de chillen out to git de air, de minute I's roun' de corner I's gwine
to gaum dey mouths all roun' wid jam, den dey can't _nobody_ notice
dey's changed. Yes, I gwine ter do dat till I's safe, if it's a year.
"Dey ain't but one man dat I's afeard of, en dat's dat Pudd'nhead Wilson.
Dey calls him a pudd'nhead, en says he's a fool. My lan, dat man
ain't no mo' fool den I is! He's de smartes' man in dis town,
lessn' it's Jedge Driscoll or maybe Pem Howard. Blame dat man,
he worries me wid dem ornery glasses o' his'n; _I_ b'lieve he's a witch.
But nemmine, I's gwine to happen aroun' dah one o' dese days en let
on dat I reckon he wants to print a chillen's fingers ag'in; en if HE
don't notice dey's changed, I bound dey ain't nobody gwine to notice it,
en den I's safe, sho'. But I reckon I'll tote along a hoss-shoe to
keep off de witch work."
The new Negros gave Roxy no trouble, of course. The master gave her none,
for one of his speculations was in jeopardy, and his mind was so
occupied that he hardly saw the children when he looked at them,
and all Roxy had to do was to get them both into a gale of laughter
when he came about; then their faces were mainly cavities exposing gums,
and he was gone again before the spasm passed and the little creatures
resumed a human aspect.
Within a few days the fate of the speculation became so dubious that
Mr. Percy went away with his brother, the judge, to see what could be
done with it. It was a land speculation as usual, and it had gotten
complicated with a lawsuit. The men were gone seven weeks. Before they
got back, Roxy had paid her visit to Wilson, and was satisfied.
Wilson took the fingerprints, labeled them with the names and with the date--
October the first--put them carefully away, and continued his chat
with Roxy, who seemed very anxious that he should admire the great
advance in flesh and beauty which the babes had made since he took
their fingerprints a month before. He complimented their improvement
to her contentment; and as they were without any disguise of jam
or other stain, she trembled all the while and was miserably frightened
lest at any moment he--
But he didn't. He discovered nothing; and she went home jubilant,
and dropped all concern about the matter permanently out of her mind.
CHAPTER 4
The Ways of the Changelings
Adam and Eve had many advantages, but the principal one was,
that they escaped teething.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
There is this trouble about special providences--namely, there is
so often a doubt as to which party was intended to be the beneficiary.
In the case of the children, the bears, and the prophet,
the bears got more real satisfaction out of the episode than
the prophet did, because they got the children.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
This history must henceforth accommodate itself to the change which
Roxana has consummated, and call the real heir "Chambers" and the
usurping little slave, "Thomas `a Becket"--shortening this latter
name to "Tom," for daily use, as the people about him did.
"Tom" was a bad baby, from the very beginning of his usurpation.
He would cry for nothing; he would burst into storms of devilish
temper without notice, and let go scream after scream and squall
after squall, then climax the thing with "holding his breath"--
that frightful specialty of the teething nursling, in the throes of
which the creature exhausts its lungs, then is convulsed with noiseless
squirmings and twistings and kickings in the effort to get its breath,
while the lips turn blue and the mouth stands wide and rigid,
offering for inspection one wee tooth set in the lower rim of a hoop
of red gums; and when the appalling stillness has endured until one
is sure the lost breath will never return, a nurse comes flying,
and dashes water in the child's face, and--presto! the lungs fill,
and instantly discharge a shriek, or a yell, or a howl which bursts the
listening ear and surprises the owner of it into saying words which
would not go well with a halo if he had one. The baby Tom would claw
anybody who came within reach of his nails, and pound anybody he could
reach with his rattle. He would scream for water until he got it,
and then throw cup and all on the floor and scream for more.
He was indulged in all his caprices, howsoever troublesome and
exasperating they might be; he was allowed to eat anything he wanted,
particularly things that would give him the stomach-ache.
When he got to be old enough to begin to toddle about and say broken
words and get an idea of what his hands were for, he was a more
consummate pest than ever. Roxy got no rest while he was awake.
He would call for anything and everything he saw, simply saying,
"Awnt it!" (want it), which was a command. When it was brought,
he said in a frenzy, and motioning it away with his hands,
"Don't awnt it! don't awnt it!" and the moment it was gone he set up
frantic yells of "Awnt it! awnt it!" and Roxy had to give wings to
her heels to get that thing back to him again before he could get time
to carry out his intention of going into convulsions about it.
What he preferred above all other things was the tongs.
This was because his "father" had forbidden him to have them lest
he break windows and furniture with them. The moment Roxy's back
was turned he would toddle to the presence of the tongs and say,
"Like it!" and cock his eye to one side or see if Roxy was observed;
then, "Awnt it!" and cock his eye again; then, "Hab it!" with another
furtive glace; and finally, "Take it!"--and the prize was his.
The next moment the heavy implement was raised aloft; the next,
there was a crash and a squall, and the cat was off on three legs to
meet an engagement; Roxy would arrive just as the lamp or a window
went to irremediable smash.
Tom got all the petting, Chambers got none. Tom got all the delicacies,
Chambers got mush and milk, and clabber without sugar. In consequence Tom
was a sickly child and Chambers wasn't. Tom was "fractious," as Roxy
called it, and overbearing; Chambers was meek and docile.
With all her splendid common sense and practical everyday ability,
Roxy was a doting fool of a mother. She was this toward her child--
and she was also more than this: by the fiction created by herself,
he was become her master; the necessity of recognizing this relation
outwardly and of perfecting herself in the forms required to express
the recognition, had moved her to such diligence and faithfulness in
practicing these forms that this exercise soon concreted itself into habit;
it became automatic and unconscious; then a natural result followed:
deceptions intended solely for others gradually grew practically
into self-deceptions as well; the mock reverence became real reverence,
the mock homage real homage; the little counterfeit rift of separation
between imitation-slave and imitation-master widened and widened,
and became an abyss, and a very real one-- and on one side of it
stood Roxy, the dupe of her own deceptions, and on the other stood
her child, no longer a usurper to her, but her accepted and
recognized master. He was her darling, her master, and her deity
all in one, and in her worship of him she forgot who she was and
what he had been.
In babyhood Tom cuffed and banged and scratched Chambers unrebuked,
and Chambers early learned that between meekly bearing it and
resenting it, the advantage all lay with the former policy.
The few times that his persecutions had moved him beyond control
and made him fight back had cost him very dear at headquarters;
not at the hands of Roxy, for if she ever went beyond scolding
him sharply for "forgett'n' who his young marster was," she at
least never extended her punishment beyond a box on the ear.
No, Percy Driscoll was the person. He told Chambers that under no
provocation whatever was he privileged to lift his hand against his
little master. Chambers overstepped the line three times, and got
three such convincing canings from the man who was his father and
didn't know it, that he took Tom's cruelties in all humility after that,
and made no more experiments.
Outside the house the two boys were together all through
their boyhood. Chambers was strong beyond his years, and a good fighter;
strong because he was coarsely fed and hard worked about the house,
and a good fighter because Tom furnished him plenty of practice--
on white boys whom he hated and was afraid of. Chambers was his
constant bodyguard, to and from school; he was present on the
playground at recess to protect his charge. He fought himself into
such a formidable reputation, by and by, that Tom could have changed
clothes with him, and "ridden in peace," like Sir Kay in Launcelot's armor.
He was good at games of skill, too. Tom staked him with marbles to
play "keeps" with, and then took all the winnings away from him.
In the winter season Chambers was on hand, in Tom's worn-out clothes,
with "holy" red mittens, and "holy" shoes, and pants "holy" at the
knees and seat, to drag a sled up the hill for Tom, warmly clad,
to ride down on; but he never got a ride himself. He built snowmen
and snow fortifications under Tom's directions. He was Tom's patient
target when Tom wanted to do some snowballing, but the target couldn't
fire back. Chambers carried Tom's skates to the river and strapped
them on him, the trotted around after him on the ice, so as to be on
hand when he wanted; but he wasn't ever asked to try the skates himself.
In summer the pet pastime of the boys of Dawson's Landing was to
steal apples, peaches, and melons from the farmer's fruit wagons--
mainly on account of the risk they ran of getting their heads laid
open with the butt of the farmer's whip. Tom was a distinguished adept
at these thefts--by proxy. Chambers did his stealing, and got the
peach stones, apple cores, and melon rinds for his share.
Tom always made Chambers go in swimming with him, and stay by him as
a protection. When Tom had had enough, he would slip out and tie knots
in Chamber's shirt, dip the knots in the water and make them hard to undo,
then dress himself and sit by and laugh while the naked shiverer tugged
at the stubborn knots with his teeth.
Tom did his humble comrade these various ill turns partly out of
native viciousness, and partly because he hated him for his
superiorities of physique and pluck, and for his manifold cleverness.
Tom couldn't dive, for it gave him splitting headaches.
Chambers could dive without inconvenience, and was fond of doing it.
He excited so much admiration, one day, among a crowd of white boys,
by throwing back somersaults from the stern of a canoe, that it wearies
Tom's spirit, and at last he shoved the canoe underneath Chambers while
he was in the air--so he came down on his head in the canoe bottom;
and while he lay unconscious, several of Tom's ancient adversaries saw
that their long-desired opportunity was come, and they gave the false heir
such a drubbing that with Chamber's best help he was hardly able to drag
himself home afterward.
When the boys was fifteen and upward, Tom was "showing off" in the river
one day, when he was taken with a cramp, and shouted for help.
It was a common trick with the boys--particularly if a stranger
was present--to pretend a cramp and howl for help; then when the
stranger came tearing hand over hand to the rescue, the howler would
go on struggling and howling till he was close at hand, then replace
the howl with a sarcastic smile and swim blandly away, while the
town boys assailed the dupe with a volley of jeers and laughter.
Tom had never tried this joke as yet, but was supposed to be trying
it now, so the boys held warily back; but Chambers believed his master
was in earnest; therefore, he swam out, and arrived in time,
unfortunately, and saved his life.
This was the last feather. Tom had managed to endure everything else,
but to have to remain publicly and permanently under such an obligation
as this to a nigger, and to this nigger of all niggers--this was too much.
He heaped insults upon Chambers for "pretending" to think he was in
earnest in calling for help, and said that anybody but a blockheaded
nigger would have known he was funning and left him alone.
Tom's enemies were in strong force here, so they came out with their
opinions quite freely. The laughed at him, and called him coward,
liar, sneak, and other sorts of pet names, and told him they meant
to call Chambers by a new name after this, and make it common
in the town--"Tom Driscoll's nigger pappy,"--to signify that he
had had a second birth into this life, and that Chambers was the author
of his new being. Tom grew frantic under these taunts, and shouted:
"Knock their heads off, Chambers! Knock their heads off!
What do you stand there with your hands in your pockets for?"
Chambers expostulated, and said, "But, Marse Tom, dey's too
many of 'em--dey's--"
"Do you hear me?"
"Please, Marse Tom, don't make me! Dey's so many of 'em dat--"
Tom sprang at him and drove his pocketknife into him two or three
times before the boys could snatch him away and give the wounded lad
a chance to escape. He was considerably hurt, but not seriously.
If the blade had been a little longer, his career would have ended there.
Tom had long ago taught Roxy "her place." It had been many a day now
since she had ventured a caress or a fondling epithet in his quarter.
Such things, from a "nigger," were repulsive to him, and she had been
warned to keep her distance and remember who she was. She saw her
darling gradually cease from being her son, she saw THAT detail
perish utterly; all that was left was master--master, pure and simple,
and it was not a gentle mastership, either. She saw herself sink from the
sublime height of motherhood to the somber depths of unmodified slavery,
the abyss of separation between her and her boy was complete.
She was merely his chattel now, his convenience, his dog, his cringing
and helpless slave, the humble and unresisting victim of his capricious
temper and vicious nature.
Sometimes she could not go to sleep, even when worn out with fatigue,
because her rage boiled so high over the day's experiences with her boy.
She would mumble and mutter to herself:
"He struck me en I warn't no way to blame--struck me in de face,
right before folks. En he's al'ays callin' me nigger wench, en hussy,
en all dem mean names, when I's doin' de very bes' I kin.
Oh, Lord, I done so much for him--I lif' him away up to what he is--
en dis is what I git for it."
Sometimes when some outrage of peculiar offensiveness stung her to
the heart, she would plan schemes of vengeance and revel in the fancied
spectacle of his exposure to the world as an imposter and a slave;
but in the midst of these joys fear would strike her; she had made him
too strong; she could prove nothing, and--heavens, she might get sold
down the river for her pains! So her schemes always went for nothing,
and she laid them aside in impotent rage against the fates,
and against herself for playing the fool on that fatal September day
in not providing herself with a witness for use in the day when such a
thing might be needed for the appeasing of her vengeance-hungry heart.
And yet the moment Tom happened to be good to her, and kind--
and this occurred every now and then--all her sore places were healed,
and she was happy; happy and proud, for this was her son, her nigger son,
lording it among the whites and securely avenging their crimes
against her race.
There were two grand funerals in Dawson's Landing that fall--the fall
of 1845. One was that of Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex,
the other that of Percy Driscoll.
On his deathbed Driscoll set Roxy free and delivered his idolized
ostensible son solemnly into the keeping of his brother, the judge,
and his wife. Those childless people were glad to get him.
Childless people are not difficult to please.
Judge Driscoll had gone privately to his brother, a month before,
and bought Chambers. He had heard that Tom had been trying to get
his father to sell the boy down the river, and he wanted to prevent
the scandal--for public sentiment did not approve of that way of treating
family servants for light cause or for no cause.
Percy Driscoll had worn himself out in trying to save his great
speculative landed estate, and had died without succeeding.
He was hardly in his grave before the boom collapsed and left his
envied young devil of an heir a pauper. But that was nothing; his uncle
told him he should be his heir and have all his fortune when he died;
so Tom was comforted.
Roxy had no home now; so she resolved to go around and say good-by to
her friends and then clear out and see the world--that is to say,
she would go chambermaiding on a steamboat, the darling ambition of her
race and sex.
Her last call was on the black giant, Jasper. She found him chopping
Pudd'nhead Wilson's winter provision of wood.
Wilson was chatting with him when Roxy arrived. He asked her how she
could bear to go off chambermaiding and leave her boys; and chaffingly
offered to copy off a series of their fingerprints, reaching up to their
twelfth year, for her to remember them by; but she sobered in a moment,
wondering if he suspected anything; then she said she believed she
didn't want them. Wilson said to himself, "The drop of black blood in
her is superstitious; she thinks there's some devilry, some witch business
about my glass mystery somewhere; she used to come here with an old
horseshoe in her hand; it could have been an accident, but I doubt it."
CHAPTER 5
The Twins Thrill Dawson's Landing
Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond;
cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Remark of Dr. Baldwin's, concerning upstarts: We don't care
to eat toadstools that think they are truffles.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Mrs. York Driscoll enjoyed two years of bliss with that prize,
Tom--bliss that was troubled a little at times, it is true,
but bliss nevertheless; then she died, and her husband and his
childless sister, Mrs. Pratt, continued this bliss-business at the
old stand. Tom was petted and indulged and spoiled to his entire
content--or nearly that. This went on till he was nineteen,
then he was sent to Yale. He went handsomely equipped with "conditions,"
but otherwise he was not an object of distinction there.
He remained at Yale two years, and then threw up the struggle.
He came home with his manners a good deal improved; he had lost his
surliness and brusqueness, and was rather pleasantly soft and smooth, now;
he was furtively, and sometimes openly, ironical of speech, and given
to gently touching people on the raw, but he did it with a good-natured
semiconscious air that carried it off safely, and kept him from getting
into trouble. He was as indolent as ever and showed no very strenuous
desire to hunt up an occupation. People argued from this that he
preferred to be supported by his uncle until his uncle's shoes should
become vacant. He brought back one or two new habits with him,
one of which he rather openly practiced--tippling--but concealed another,
which was gambling. It would not do to gamble where his uncle could
hear of it; he knew that quite well.
Tom's Eastern polish was not popular among the young people.
They could have endured it, perhaps, if Tom had stopped there;
but he wore gloves, and that they couldn't stand, and wouldn't;
so he was mainly without society. He brought home with him a
suit of clothes of such exquisite style and cut in fashion--
Eastern fashion, city fashion--that it filled everybody with anguish
and was regarded as a peculiarly wanton affront. He enjoyed the
feeling which he was exciting, and paraded the town serene and
happy all day; but the young fellows set a tailor to work that night,
and when Tom started out on his parade next morning, he found the old
deformed Negro bell ringer straddling along in his wake tricked out
in a flamboyant curtain-calico exaggeration of his finery,
and imitating his fancy Eastern graces as well as he could.
Tom surrendered, and after that clothed himself in the local fashion.
But the dull country town was tiresome to him, since his
acquaintanceship with livelier regions, and it grew daily more
and more so. He began to make little trips to St. Louis for refreshment.
There he found companionship to suit him, and pleasures to his taste,
along with more freedom, in some particulars, than he could have at home.
So, during the next two years, his visits to the city grew in frequency
and his tarryings there grew steadily longer in duration.
He was getting into deep waters. He was taking chances, privately,
which might get him into trouble some day--in fact, _did_.
Judge Driscoll had retired from the bench and from all business
activities in 1850, and had now been comfortably idle three years.
He was president of the Freethinkers' Society, and Pudd'nhead Wilson
was the other member. The society's weekly discussions were now the
old lawyer's main interest in life. Pudd'nhead was still toiling in
obscurity at the bottom of the ladder, under the blight of that unlucky
remark which he had let fall twenty-three years before about the dog.
Judge Driscoll was his friend, and claimed that he had a mind above
the average, but that was regarded as one of the judge's whims,
and it failed to modify the public opinion. Or rather, that was one
of the reason why it failed, but there was another and better one.
If the judge had stopped with bare assertion, it would have had a good
deal of effect; but he made the mistake of trying to prove his position.
For some years Wilson had been privately at work on a whimsical almanac,
for his amusement--a calendar, with a little dab of ostensible philosophy,
usually in ironical form, appended to each date; and the judge thought
that these quips and fancies of Wilson's were neatly turned and cute;
so he carried a handful of them around one day, and read them to some
of the chief citizens. But irony was not for those people;
their mental vision was not focused for it. They read those playful
trifles in the solidest terms, and decided without hesitancy that if
there had ever been any doubt that Dave Wilson was a pudd'nhead--
which there hadn't--this revelation removed that doubt for good and all.
That is just the way in this world; an enemy can partly ruin a man,
but it takes a good-natured injudicious friend to complete the thing and
make it perfect. After this the judge felt tenderer than ever toward
Wilson, and surer than ever that his calendar had merit.
Judge Driscoll could be a freethinker and still hold his place in
society because he was the person of most consequence to the community,
and therefore could venture to go his own way and follow out his
own notions. The other member of his pet organization was allowed the
like liberty because he was a cipher in the estimation of the public,
and nobody attached any importance to what he thought or did.
He was liked, he was welcome enough all around, but he simply
didn't count for anything.
The Widow Cooper--affectionately called "Aunt Patsy" by everybody--
lived in a snug and comely cottage with her daughter Rowena,
who was nineteen, romantic, amiable, and very pretty, but otherwise
of no consequence. Rowena had a couple of young brothers--
also of no consequence.
The widow had a large spare room, which she let to a lodger, with board,
when she could find one, but this room had been empty for a year now,
to her sorrow. Her income was only sufficient for the family support,
and she needed the lodging money for trifling luxuries. But now, at last,
on a flaming June day, she found herself happy; her tedious wait was ended;
her year-worn advertisement had been answered; and not by a village
applicant, no, no!--this letter was from away off yonder in the dim great
world to the North; it was from St. Louis. She sat on her porch gazing
out with unseeing eyes upon the shining reaches of the mighty Mississippi,
her thoughts steeped in her good fortune. Indeed it was specially
good fortune, for she was to have two lodgers instead of one.
She had read the letter to the family, and Rowena had danced away to see
to the cleaning and airing of the room by the slave woman, Nancy,
and the boys had rushed abroad in the town to spread the great news,
for it was a matter of public interest, and the public would wonder
and not be pleased if not informed. Presently Rowena returned,
all ablush with joyous excitement, and begged for a rereading of the letter.
It was framed thus:
HONORED MADAM: My brother and I have seen your advertisement, by chance,
and beg leave to take the room you offer. We are twenty-four years
of age and twins. We are Italians by birth, but have lived long in
the various countries of Europe, and several years in the United States.
Our names are Luigi and Angelo Capello. You desire but one guest;
but, dear madam, if you will allow us to pay for two, we will not
incommode you. We shall be down Thursday.
"Italians! How romantic! Just think, Ma--there's never been one
in this town, and everybody will be dying to see them, and they're
all OURS! Think of that!"
"Yes, I reckon they'll make a grand stir."
"Oh, indeed they will. The whole town will be on its head!
Think--they've been in Europe and everywhere! There's never been a
traveler in this town before, Ma, I shouldn't wonder if they've seen kings!"
"Well, a body can't tell, but they'll make stir enough, without that."
"Yes, that's of course. Luigi--Angelo. They're lovely names;
and so grand and foreign--not like Jones and Robinson and such.
Thursday they are coming, and this is only Tuesday; it's a cruel
long time to wait. Here comes Judge Driscoll in at the gate.
He's heard about it. I'll go and open the door."
The judge was full of congratulations and curiosity. The letter was
read and discussed. Soon Justice Robinson arrived with more
congratulations, and there was a new reading and a new discussion.
This was the beginning. Neighbor after neighbor, of both sexes,
followed, and the procession drifted in and out all day and evening
and all Wednesday and Thursday. The letter was read and reread until
it was nearly worn out; everybody admired its courtly and gracious tone,
and smooth and practiced style, everybody was sympathetic and excited,
and the Coopers were steeped in happiness all the while.
The boats were very uncertain in low water in these primitive times.
This time the Thursday boat had not arrived at ten at night--
so the people had waited at the landing all day for nothing;
they were driven to their homes by a heavy storm without having had
a view of the illustrious foreigners.
Eleven o'clock came; and the Cooper house was the only one in the town
that still had lights burning. The rain and thunder were booming yet,
and the anxious family were still waiting, still hoping.
At last there was a knock at the door, and the family jumped to open it.
Two Negro men entered, each carrying a trunk, and proceeded upstairs
toward the guest room. Then entered the twins--the handsomest,
the best dressed, the most distinguished-looking pair of young fellows
the West had ever seen. One was a little fairer than the other,
but otherwise they were exact duplicates.
CHAPTER 6
Swimming in Glory
Let us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even the
undertaker will be sorry.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Habit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man,
but coaxed downstairs at step at a time.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
At breakfast in the morning, the twins' charm of manner and easy and
polished bearing made speedy conquest of the family's good graces.
All constraint and formality quickly disappeared, and the friendliest
feeling succeeded. Aunt Patsy called them by their Christian names
almost from the beginning. She was full of the keenest curiosity
about them, and showed it; they responded by talking about themselves,
which pleased her greatly. It presently appeared that in their early
youth they had known poverty and hardship. As the talk wandered along,
the old lady watched for the right place to drop in a question or two
concerning that matter, and when she found it, she said to the blond twin,
who was now doing the biographies in his turn while the brunette one rested:
"If it ain't asking what I ought not to ask, Mr. Angelo, how did you
come to be so friendless and in such trouble when you were little?
Do you mind telling? But don't, if you do."
"Oh, we don't mind it at all, madam; in our case it was merely misfortune,
and nobody's fault. Our parents were well to do, there in Italy,
and we were their only child. We were of the old Florentine nobility"--
Rowena's heart gave a great bound, her nostrils expanded,
and a fine light played in her eyes--"and when the war broke out,
my father was on the losing side and had to fly for his life.
His estates were confiscated, his personal property seized, and there
we were, in Germany, strangers, friendless, and in fact paupers.
My brother and I were ten years old, and well educated for that age,
very studious, very fond of our books, and well grounded in the German,
French, Spanish, and English languages. Also, we were marvelous musical
prodigies--if you will allow me to say it, it being only the truth.
"Our father survived his misfortunes only a month, our mother soon
followed him, and we were alone in the world. Our parents could have
made themselves comfortable by exhibiting us as a show, and they had
many and large offers; but the thought revolted their pride,
and they said they would starve and die first. But what they
wouldn't consent to do, we had to do without the formality of consent.
We were seized for the debts occasioned by their illness and their funerals,
and placed among the attractions of a cheap museum in Berlin to earn the
liquidation money. It took us two years to get out of that slavery.
We traveled all about Germany, receiving no wages, and not even our keep.
We had to be exhibited for nothing, and beg our bread.
"Well, madam, the rest is not of much consequence. When we escaped from
that slavery at twelve years of age, we were in some respects men.
Experience had taught us some valuable things; among others,
how to take care of ourselves, how to avoid and defeat sharks
and sharpers, and how to conduct our own business for our own profit and
without other people's help. We traveled everywhere--years and years--
picking up smatterings of strange tongues, familiarizing ourselves
with strange sights and strange customs, accumulating an education
of a wide and varied and curious sort. It was a pleasant life.
We went to Venice--to London, Paris, Russia, India, China, Japan--"
At this point Nancy, the slave woman, thrust her head in at
the door and exclaimed:
"Ole Missus, de house of plum' jam full o' people, en dey's
jes a-spi'lin' to see de gen'lemen!" She indicated the twins
with a nod of her head, and tucked it back out of sight again.
It was a proud occasion for the widow, and she promised
herself high satisfaction in showing off her fine foreign birds
before her neighbors and friends--simple folk who had hardly ever
seen a foreigner of any kind, and never one of any distinction or style.
Yet her feeling was moderate indeed when contrasted with Rowena's.
Rowena was in the clouds, she walked on air; this was to be the
greatest day, the most romantic episode in the colorless history of
that dull country town. She was to be familiarly near the source of
its glory and feel the full flood of it pour over her and about her;
the other girls could only gaze and envy, not partake.
The widow was ready, Rowena was ready, so also were the foreigners.
The party moved along the hall, the twins in advance, and entered
the open parlor door, whence issued a low hum of conversation.
The twins took a position near the door, the widow stood at Luigi's side,
Rowena stood beside Angelo, and the march-past and the introductions began.
The widow was all smiles and contentment. She received the procession
and passed it on to Rowena.
"Good mornin', Sister Cooper"--handshake.
"Good morning, Brother Higgins--Count Luigi Capello, Mr. Higgins"--
handshake, followed by a devouring stare and "I'm glad to see ye,"
on the part of Higgins, and a courteous inclination of the head
and a pleasant "Most happy!" on the part of Count Luigi.
"Good mornin', Roweny"--handshake.
"Good morning, Mr. Higgins--present you to Count Angelo Capello."
Handshake, admiring stare, "Glad to see ye"--courteous nod,
smily "Most happy!" and Higgins passes on.
None of these visitors was at ease, but, being honest people,
they didn't pretend to be. None of them had ever seen a person
bearing a title of nobility before, and none had been expecting to
see one now, consequently the title came upon them as a kind of
pile-driving surprise and caught them unprepared. A few tried to rise
to the emergency, and got out an awkward "My lord," or "Your lordship,"
or something of that sort, but the great majority were overwhelmed by
the unaccustomed word and its dim and awful associations with gilded
courts and stately ceremony and anointed kingship, so they only
fumbled through the handshake and passed on, speechless. Now and then,
as happens at all receptions everywhere, a more than ordinary friendly soul
blocked the procession and kept it waiting while he inquired how the
brothers liked the village, and how long they were going to stay,
and if their family was well, and dragged in the weather, and hoped
it would get cooler soon, and all that sort of thing, so as to be
able to say, when he got home, "I had quite a long talk with them";
but nobody did or said anything of a regrettable kind, and so the great
affair went through to the end in a creditable and satisfactory fashion.
General conversation followed, and the twins drifted about
from group to group, talking easily and fluently and winning
approval, compelling admiration and achieving favor from all.
The widow followed their conquering march with a proud eye,
and every now and then Rowena said to herself with deep satisfaction,
"And to think they are ours--all ours!"
There were no idle moments for mother or daughter. Eager inquiries
concerning the twins were pouring into their enchanted ears all
the time; each was the constant center of a group of breathless listeners;
each recognized that she knew now for the first time the real meaning
of that great word Glory, and perceived the stupendous value of it,
and understand why men in all ages had been willing to throw away
meaner happiness, treasure, life itself, to get a taste of its sublime
and supreme joy. Napoleon and all his kind stood accounted for--
and justified.
When Rowena had at last done all her duty by the people in the parlor,
she went upstairs to satisfy the longings of an overflow meeting there,
for the parlor was not big enough to hold all the comers.
Again she was besieged by eager questioners, and again she swam in
sunset seas of glory. When the forenoon was nearly gone, she recognized
with a pang that this most splendid episode of her life was almost over,
that nothing could prolong it, that nothing quite its equal could ever
fall to her fortune again. But never mind, it was sufficient unto itself,
the grand occasion had moved on an ascending scale from the start,
and was a noble and memorable success. If the twins could but do some
crowning act now to climax it, something usual, something startling,
something to concentrate upon themselves the company's loftiest admiration,
something in the nature of an electric surprise--
Here a prodigious slam-banging broke out below, and everybody rushed
down to see. It was the twins, knocking out a classic four-handed
piece on the piano in great style. Rowena was satisfied--satisfied
down to the bottom of her heart.
The young strangers were kept long at the piano. The villagers were
astonished and enchanted with the magnificence of their performance,
and could not bear to have them stop. All the music that they had ever
heard before seemed spiritless prentice-work and barren of grace and
charm when compared with these intoxicating floods of melodious sound.
They realized that for once in their lives they were hearing masters.
CHAPTER 7
The Unknown Nymph
One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie
is that a cat has only nine lives.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
The company broke up reluctantly, and drifted toward their several homes,
chatting with vivacity and all agreeing that it would be many a long
day before Dawson's Landing would see the equal of this one again.
The twins had accepted several invitations while the reception
was in progress, and had also volunteered to play some duets at
an amateur entertainment for the benefit of a local charity.
Society was eager to receive them to its bosom. Judge Driscoll had
the good fortune to secure them for an immediate drive, and to be
the first to display them in public. They entered his buggy with him
and were paraded down the main street, everybody flocking to the windows
and sidewalks to see.
The judge showed the strangers the new graveyard, and the jail,
and where the richest man lived, and the Freemasons' hall,
and the Methodist church, and the Presbyterian church, and where the
Baptist church was going to be when they got some money to build it with,
and showed them the town hall and the slaughterhouse, and got out
of the independent fire company in uniform and had them put out
an imaginary fire; then he let them inspect the muskets of the
militia company, and poured out an exhaustless stream of enthusiasm
over all these splendors, and seemed very well satisfied with the
responses he got, for the twins admired his admiration, and paid him
back the best they could, though they could have done better if
some fifteen or sixteen hundred thousand previous experiences of this
sort in various countries had not already rubbed off a considerable part
of the novelty in it.
The judge laid himself out hospitality to make them have a good time,
and if there was a defect anywhere, it was not his fault.
He told them a good many humorous anecdotes, and always forgot the nub,
but they were always able to furnish it, for these yarns were of a
pretty early vintage, and they had had many a rejuvenating pull
at them before. And he told them all about his several dignities,
and how he had held this and that and the other place of honor or profit,
and had once been to the legislature, and was now president of the
Society of Freethinkers. He said the society had been in existence
four years, and already had two members, and was firmly established.
He would call for the brothers in the evening, if they would like
to attend a meeting of it.
Accordingly he called for them, and on the way he told them all about
Pudd'nhead Wilson, in order that they might get a favorable impression
of him in advance and be prepared to like him. This scheme succeeded--
the favorable impression was achieved. Later it was confirmed and
solidified when Wilson proposed that out of courtesy to the strangers
the usual topics be put aside and the hour be devoted to conversation upon
ordinary subjects and the cultivation of friendly relations and
good-fellowship--a proposition which was put to vote and carried.
The hour passed quickly away in lively talk, and when it was ended,
the lonesome and neglected Wilson was richer by two friends than he
had been when it began. He invited the twins to look in at his
lodgings presently, after disposing of an intervening engagement,
and they accepted with pleasure.
Toward the middle of the evening, they found themselves on the road
to his house. Pudd'nhead was at home waiting for them and putting
in his time puzzling over a thing which had come under his notice
that morning. The matter was this: He happened to be up very early--
at dawn, in fact; and he crossed the hall, which divided his cottage
through the center, and entered a room to get something there.
The window of the room had no curtains, for that side of the house
had long been unoccupied, and through this window he caught sight of
something which surprised and interested him. It was a young woman--
a young woman where properly no young woman belonged; for she was in
Judge Driscoll's house, and in the bedroom over the judge's private
study or sitting room. This was young Tom Driscoll's bedroom.
He and the judge, the judge's widowed sister Mrs. Pratt, and three Negro
servants were the only people who belonged in the house. Who, then,
might this young lady be? The two houses were separated by an
ordinary yard, with a low fence running back through its middle
from the street in front to the lane in the rear. The distance was
not great, and Wilson was able to see the girl very well,
the window shades of the room she was in being up, and the window also.
The girl had on a neat and trim summer dress, patterned in broad stripes
of pink and white, and her bonnet was equipped with a pink veil.
She was practicing steps, gaits and attitudes, apparently; she was
doing the thing gracefully, and was very much absorbed in her work.
Who could she be, and how came she to be in young Tom Driscoll's room?
Wilson had quickly chosen a position from which he could watch the girl
without running much risk of being seen by her, and he remained there
hoping she would raise her veil and betray her face. But she
disappointed him. After a matter of twenty minutes she disappeared
and although he stayed at his post half an hour longer, she came no more.
Toward noon he dropped in at the judge's and talked with Mrs. Pratt
about the great event of the day, the levee of the distinguished
foreigners at Aunt Patsy Cooper's. He asked after her nephew Tom,
and she said he was on his way home and that she was expecting him
to arrive a little before night, and added that she and the judge
were gratified to gather from his letters that he was conducting himself
very nicely and creditably--at which Wilson winked to himself privately.
Wilson did not ask if there was a newcomer in the house, but he asked
questions that would have brought light-throwing answers as to that
matter if Mrs. Pratt had had any light to throw; so he went away
satisfied that he knew of things that were going on in her house
of which she herself was not aware.
He was now awaiting for the twins, and still puzzling over the problem
of who that girl might be, and how she happened to be in that
young fellow's room at daybreak in the morning.
CHAPTER 8
Marse Tom Tramples His Chance
The holy passion of Friendship is of so sweet and steady and loyal
and enduring a nature that it will last through a whole lifetime,
if not asked to lend money.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Consider well the proportions of things. It is better to be
a young June bug than an old bird of paradise.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
It is necessary now to hunt up Roxy.
At the time she was set free and went away chambermaiding,
she was thirty-five. She got a berth as second chambermaid on a
Cincinnati boat in the New Orleans trade, the _Grand Mogul_.
A couple of trips made her wonted and easygoing at the work,
and infatuated her with the stir and adventure and independence of
steamboat life. Then she was promoted and become head chambermaid.
She was a favorite with the officers, and exceedingly proud of their
joking and friendly way with her.
During eight years she served three parts of the year on that boat,
and the winters on a Vicksburg packet. But now for two months,
she had had rheumatism in her arms, and was obliged to let
the washtub alone. So she resigned. But she was well fixed--
rich, as she would have described it; for she had lived a steady life,
and had banked four dollars every month in New Orleans as a provision
for her old age. She said in the start that she had "put shoes on
one bar'footed nigger to tromple on her with," and that one mistake
like that was enough; she would be independent of the human race
thenceforth forevermore if hard work and economy could accomplish it.
When the boat touched the levee at New Orleans she bade good-by to her
comrades on the _Grand Mogul_ and moved her kit ashore.
But she was back in a hour. The bank had gone to smash and carried
her four hundred dollars with it. She was a pauper and homeless.
Also disabled bodily, at least for the present. The officers were
full of sympathy for her in her trouble, and made up a little purse
for her. She resolved to go to her birthplace; she had friends there
among the Negros, and the unfortunate always help the unfortunate,
she was well aware of that; those lowly comrades of her youth would
not let her starve.
She took the little local packet at Cairo, and now she was on
the homestretch. Time had worn away her bitterness against her son,
and she was able to think of him with serenity. She put the vile side
of him out of her mind, and dwelt only on recollections of his occasional
acts of kindness to her. She gilded and otherwise decorated these,
and made them very pleasant to contemplate. She began to long to see him.
She would go and fawn upon him slavelike--for this would have to be her
attitude, of course--and maybe she would find that time had modified him,
and that he would be glad to see his long-forgotten old nurse and treat
her gently. That would be lovely; that would make her forget her woes
and her poverty.
Her poverty! That thought inspired her to add another castle to her dream:
maybe he would give her a trifle now and then--maybe a dollar,
once a month, say; any little thing like that would help, oh,
ever so much.
By the time she reached Dawson's Landing, she was her old self again;
her blues were gone, she was in high feather. She would get along,
surely; there were many kitchens where the servants would share their
meals with her, and also steal sugar and apples and other dainties
for her to carry home--or give her a chance to pilfer them herself,
which would answer just as well. And there was the church.
She was a more rabid and devoted Methodist than ever, and her piety
was no sham, but was strong and sincere. Yes, with plenty of creature
comforts and her old place in the amen corner in her possession again,
she would be perfectly happy and at peace thenceforward to the end.
She went to Judge Driscoll's kitchen first of all. She was received
there in great form and with vast enthusiasm. Her wonderful travels,
and the strange countries she had seen, and the adventures she had had,
made her a marvel and a heroine of romance. The Negros hung enchanted
upon a great story of her experiences, interrupting her all along with
eager questions, with laughter, exclamations of delight, and expressions
of applause; and she was obliged to confess to herself that if there
was anything better in this world than steamboating, it was the
glory to be got by telling about it. The audience loaded her stomach
with their dinners, and then stole the pantry bare to load up her basket.
Tom was in St. Louis. The servants said he had spent the best part
of his time there during the previous two years. Roxy came every day,
and had many talks about the family and its affairs. Once she asked
why Tom was away so much. The ostensible "Chambers" said:
"De fac' is, ole marster kin git along better when young marster's
away den he kin when he's in de town; yes, en he love him better, too;
so he gives him fifty dollahs a month--"
"No, is dat so? Chambers, you's a-jokin', ain't you?"
"'Clah to goodness I ain't, Mammy; Marse Tom tole me so his own self.
But nemmine, 'tain't enough."
"My lan', what de reason 'tain't enough?"
"Well, I's gwine to tell you, if you gimme a chanst, Mammy.
De reason it ain't enough is 'ca'se Marse Tom gambles."
Roxy threw up her hands in astonishment, and Chambers went on:
"Ole marster found it out, 'ca'se he had to pay two hundred
dollahs for Marse Tom's gamblin' debts, en dat's true, Mammy,
jes as dead certain as you's bawn."
"Two--hund'd dollahs! Why, what is you talkin' 'bout?
Two --hund'd--dollahs. Sakes alive, it's 'mos' enough to buy a
tol'able good secondhand nigger wid. En you ain't lyin', honey?
You wouldn't lie to you' old Mammy?"
"It's God's own truth, jes as I tell you--two hund'd dollahs--
I wisht I may never stir outen my tracks if it ain't so.
En, oh, my lan', ole Marse was jes a-hoppin'! He was b'ilin' mad,
I tell you! He tuck 'n' dissenhurrit him."
"Disen_whiched_ him?"
"Dissenhurrit him."
"What's dat? What do you mean?"
"Means he bu'sted de will."
"Bu's--ted de will! He wouldn't _ever_ treat him so! Take it back,
you mis'able imitation nigger dat I bore in sorrow en tribbilation."
Roxy's pet castle--an occasional dollar from Tom's pocket--
was tumbling to ruin before her eyes. She could not abide such a
disaster as that; she couldn't endure the thought of it.
Her remark amused Chambers.
"Yah-yah-yah! Jes listen to dat! If I's imitation, what is you?
Bofe of us is imitation _white_--dat's what we is--en pow'ful
good imitation, too. Yah-yah-yah! We don't 'mount to noth'n as
imitation _niggers_; en as for--"
"Shet up yo' foolin', 'fo' I knock you side de head, en tell me 'bout
de will. Tell me 'tain't bu'sted--do, honey, en I'll never forgit you."
"Well, _'tain't_--'ca'se dey's a new one made, en Marse Tom's
all right ag'in. But what is you in sich a sweat 'bout it for,
Mammy? 'Tain't none o' your business I don't reckon."
"'Tain't none o' my business? Whose business is it den, I'd like
to know? Wuz I his mother tell he was fifteen years old, or wusn't I?--
you answer me dat. En you speck I could see him turned out po' and
ornery on de worl' en never care noth'n' 'bout it? I reckon if you'd
ever be'n a mother yo'self, Valet de Chambers, you wouldn't talk
sich foolishness as dat."
"Well, den, ole Marse forgive him en fixed up de will ag'in --do dat
satisfy you?"
Yes, she was satisfied now, and quite happy and sentimental over it.
She kept coming daily, and at last she was told that Tom had come home.
She began to tremble with emotion, and straightway sent to beg him
to let his "po' ole nigger Mammy have jes one sight of him en die for joy."
Tom was stretched at his lazy ease on a sofa when Chambers brought
the petition. Time had not modified his ancient detestation of the
humble drudge and protector of his boyhood; it was still bitter
and uncompromising. He sat up and bent a severe gaze upon the face
of the young fellow whose name he was unconsciously using and whose
family rights he was enjoying. He maintained the gaze until the victim
of it had become satisfactorily pallid with terror, then he said:
"What does the old rip want with me?"
The petition was meekly repeated.
"Who gave you permission to come and disturb me with the social
attentions of niggers?"
Tom had risen. The other young man was trembling now, visibly.
He saw what was coming, and bent his head sideways, and put up his
left arm to shield it. Tom rained cuffs upon the head and its shield,
saying no word: the victim received each blow with a beseeching,
"Please, Marse Tom!--oh, please, Marse Tom!" Seven blows--then Tom said,
"Face the door--march!" He followed behind with one, two,
three solid kicks. The last one helped the pure-white slave over
the door-sill, and he limped away mopping his eyes with his old,
ragged sleeve. Tom shouted after him, "Send her in!"
Then he flung himself panting on the sofa again, and rasped out
the remark, "He arrived just at the right moment; I was full to the
brim with bitter thinkings, and nobody to take it out of. How refreshing it
was! I feel better."
Tom's mother entered now, closing the door behind her, and approached
her son with all the wheedling and supplication servilities that fear
and interest can impart to the words and attitudes of the born slave.
She stopped a yard from her boy and made two or three admiring
exclamations over his manly stature and general handsomeness,
and Tom put an arm under his head and hoisted a leg over the
sofa back in order to look properly indifferent.
"My lan', how you is growed, honey! 'Clah to goodness, I wouldn't
a-knowed you, Marse Tom! 'Deed I wouldn't! Look at me good;
does you 'member old Roxy? Does you know yo' old nigger mammy, honey?
Well now, I kin lay down en die in peace, 'ca'se I'se seed--"
"Cut it short, Goddamn it, cut it short! What is it you want?"
"You heah dat? Jes the same old Marse Tom, al'ays so gay and funnin'
wid de ole mammy. I'uz jes as shore--"
"Cut it short, I tell you, and get along! What do you want?"
This was a bitter disappointment. Roxy had for so many days nourished
and fondled and petted her notion that Tom would be glad to see his
old nurse, and would make her proud and happy to the marrow with a
cordial word or two, that it took two rebuffs to convince her that
he was not funning, and that her beautiful dream was a fond and
foolish variety, a shabby and pitiful mistake. She was hurt to the heart,
and so ashamed that for a moment she did not quite know what to do or
how to act. Then her breast began to heave, the tears came,
and in her forlornness she was moved to try that other dream of hers--
an appeal to her boy's charity; and so, upon the impulse,
and without reflection, she offered her supplication:
"Oh, Marse Tom, de po' ole mammy is in sich hard luck dese days;
en she's kinder crippled in de arms and can't work, en if you could
gimme a dollah--on'y jes one little dol--"
Tom was on his feet so suddenly that the supplicant was startled
into a jump herself.
"A dollar!--give you a dollar! I've a notion to strangle you!
Is _that_ your errand here? Clear out! And be quick about it!"
Roxy backed slowly toward the door. When she was halfway she stopped,
and said mournfully:
"Marse Tom, I nussed you when you was a little baby, en I raised you
all by myself tell you was 'most a young man; en now you is young
en rich, en I is po' en gitt'n ole, en I come heah b'leavin' dat you
would he'p de ole mammy 'long down de little road dat's lef' 'twix'
her en de grave, en--"
Tom relished this tune less than any that he preceded it,
for it began to wake up a sort of echo in his conscience;
so he interrupted and said with decision, though without asperity,
that he was not in a situation to help her, and wasn't going to do it.
"Ain't you ever gwine to he'p me, Marse Tom?"
"No! Now go away and don't bother me any more."
Roxy's head was down, in an attitude of humility. But now the fires
of her old wrongs flamed up in her breast and began to burn fiercely.
She raised her head slowly, till it was well up, and at the same time
her great frame unconsciously assumed an erect and masterful attitude,
with all the majesty and grace of her vanished youth in it.
She raised her finger and punctuated with it.
"You has said de word. You has had yo' chance, en you has trompled
it under yo' foot. When you git another one, you'll git down on yo'
knees en _beg_ for it!"
A cold chill went to Tom's heart, he didn't know why; for he did not
reflect that such words, from such an incongruous source,
and so solemnly delivered, could not easily fail of that effect.
However, he did the natural thing: he replied with bluster and mockery.
"_You'll_ give me a chance--_you_! Perhaps I'd better get down
on my knees now! But in case I don't--just for argument's sake--
what's going to happen, pray?"
"Dis is what is gwine to happen, I's gwine as straight to yo'
uncle as I kin walk, en tell him every las' thing I knows 'bout you."
Tom's cheek blenched, and she saw it. Disturbing thoughts
began to chase each other through his head. "How can she know?
And yet she must have found out--she looks it. I've had the will
back only three months, and am already deep in debt again, and moving
heaven and earth to save myself from exposure and destruction,
with a reasonably fair show of getting the thing covered up if I'm
let alone, and now this fiend has gone and found me out somehow or other.
I wonder how much she knows? Oh, oh, oh, it's enough to break
a body's heart! But I've got to humor her--there's no other way."
Then he worked up a rather sickly sample of a gay laugh and a hollow
chipperness of manner, and said:
"Well, well, Roxy dear, old friends like you and me mustn't quarrel.
Here's your dollar--now tell me what you know."
He held out the wildcat bill; she stood as she was, and made
no movement. It was her turn to scorn persuasive foolery now,
and she did not waste it. She said, with a grim implacability in
voice and manner which made Tom almost realize that even a former
slave can remember for ten minutes insults and injuries returned
for compliments and flatteries received, and can also enjoy
taking revenge for them when the opportunity offers:
"What does I know? I'll tell you what I knows, I knows enough to
bu'st dat will to flinders--en more, mind you, _more!_"
Tom was aghast.
"More?" he said, "What do you call more? Where's there any room for more?"
Roxy laughed a mocking laugh, and said scoffingly, with a toss
of her head, and her hands on her hips:
"Yes!--oh, I reckon! _co'se_ you'd like to know--wid yo' po' little
ole rag dollah. What you reckon I's gwine to tell _you_ for?--
you ain't got no money. I's gwine to tell yo' uncle--en I'll do it
dis minute, too--he'll gimme FIVE dollahs for de news, en mighty glad, too."
She swung herself around disdainfully, and started away.
Tom was in a panic. He seized her skirts, and implored her to wait.
She turned and said, loftily:
"Look-a-heah, what 'uz it I tole you?"
"You--you--I don't remember anything. What was it you told me?"
"I tole you dat de next time I give you a chance you'd git
down on yo' knees en beg for it."
Tom was stupefied for a moment. He was panting with excitement.
Then he said:
"Oh, Roxy, you wouldn't require your young master to do such a
horrible thing. You can't mean it."
"I'll let you know mighty quick whether I means it or not!
You call me names, en as good as spit on me when I comes here,
po' en ornery en 'umble, to praise you for bein' growed up so
fine and handsome, en tell you how I used to nuss you en tend you en
watch you when you 'uz sick en hadn't no mother but me in de whole worl',
en beg you to give de po' ole nigger a dollah for to get her som'n'
to eat, en you call me names--_names_, dad blame you! Yassir,
I gives you jes one chance mo', and dat's _now_, en it las' on'y
half a second--you hear?"
Tom slumped to his knees and began to beg, saying:
"You see I'm begging, and it's honest begging, too! Now tell me,
Roxy, tell me."
The heir of two centuries of unatoned insult and outrage looked down
on him and seemed to drink in deep draughts of satisfaction.
Then she said:
"Fine nice young white gen'l'man kneelin' down to a nigger wench!
I's wanted to see dat jes once befo' I's called. Now, Gabr'el,
blow de hawn, I's ready . . . Git up!"
Tom did it. He said, humbly:
"Now, Roxy, don't punish me any more. I deserved what I've got,
but be good and let me off with that. Don't go to uncle. Tell me--
I'll give you the five dollars."
"Yes, I bet you will; en you won't stop dah, nuther. But I ain't
gwine to tell you heah--"
"Good gracious, no!"
"Is you 'feared o' de ha'nted house?"
"N-no."
"Well, den, you come to de ha'nted house 'bout ten or 'leven tonight,
en climb up de ladder, 'ca'se de sta'rsteps is broke down,
en you'll find me. I's a-roostin' in de ha'nted house 'ca'se I can't
'ford to roos' nowher's else." She started toward the door,
but stopped and said, "Gimme de dollah bill!" He gave it to her.
She examined it and said, "H'm--like enough de bank's bu'sted."
She started again, but halted again. "Has you got any whisky?"
"Yes, a little."
"Fetch it!"
He ran to his room overhead and brought down a bottle which
was two-thirds full. She tilted it up and took a drink.
Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction, and she tucked the bottle under
her shawl, saying, "It's prime. I'll take it along."
Tom humbly held the door for her, and she marched out as grim and
erect as a grenadier.
CHAPTER 9
Tom Practices Sycophancy
Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral?
It is because we are not the person involved.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
It is easy to find fault, if one has that disposition. There was once
a man who, not being able to find any other fault with his coal,
complained that there were too many prehistoric toads in it.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Tom flung himself on the sofa, and put his throbbing head in his hands,
and rested his elbows on his knees. He rocked himself back and
forth and moaned.
"I've knelt to a nigger wench!" he muttered. "I thought I had
struck the deepest depths of degradation before, but oh, dear,
it was nothing to this. . . . Well, there is one consolation,
such as it is--I've struck bottom this time; there's nothing lower."
But that was a hasty conclusion.
At ten that night he climbed the ladder in the haunted house, pale,
weak, and wretched. Roxy was standing in the door of one of the rooms,
waiting, for she had heard him.
This was a two-story log house which had acquired the reputation a few
years ago of being haunted, and that was the end of its usefulness.
Nobody would live in it afterward, or go near it by night,
and most people even gave it a wide berth in the daytime.
As it had no competition, it was called _the_ haunted house.
It was getting crazy and ruinous now, from long neglect.
It stood three hundred yards beyond Pudd'nhead Wilson's house,
with nothing between but vacancy. It was the last house in the
town at that end.
Tom followed Roxy into the room. She had a pile of clean straw in
the corner for a bed, some cheap but well-kept clothing was hanging
on the wall, there was a tin lantern freckling the floor with little
spots of light, and there were various soap and candle boxes
scattered about, which served for chairs. The two sat down. Roxy said:
"Now den, I'll tell you straight off, en I'll begin to k'leck de
money later on; I ain't in no hurry. What does you reckon
I's gwine to tell you?"
"Well, you--you--oh, Roxy, don't make it too hard for me!
Come right out and tell me you've found out somehow what a shape
I'm in on account of dissipation and foolishness."
"Disposition en foolishness! NO sir, dat ain't it. Dat jist ain't
nothin' at all, 'longside o' what _I_ knows."
Tom stared at her, and said:
"Why, Roxy, what do you mean?"
She rose, and gloomed above him like a Fate.
"I means dis--en it's de Lord's truth. You ain't no more kin to
ole Marse Driscoll den I is! _dat's_ what I means!" and her eyes
flamed with triumph.
"What?"
"Yassir, en _dat_ ain't all! You's a _nigger!_--_bawn_ a nigger and
a _slave!_--en you's a nigger en a slave dis minute; en if I opens my
mouf ole Marse Driscoll'll sell you down de river befo' you is two days
older den what you is now!"
"It's a thundering lie, you miserable old blatherskite!"
"It ain't no lie, nuther. It's just de truth, en nothin' _but_ de truth,
so he'p me. Yassir--you's my _son_--"
"You devil!"
"En dat po' boy dat you's be'n a-kickin' en a-cuffin' today
is Percy Driscoll's son en yo' _marster_--"
"You beast!"
"En _his_ name is Tom Driscoll, en _yo's_ name's Valet de Chambers,
en you ain't GOT no fambly name, beca'se niggers don't _have_ em!"
Tom sprang up and seized a billet of wood and raised it, but his mother
only laughed at him, and said:
"Set down, you pup! Does you think you kin skyer me? It ain't in you,
nor de likes of you. I reckon you'd shoot me in de back, maybe,
if you got a chance, for dat's jist yo' style--_I_ knows you,
throo en throo--but I don't mind gitt'n killed, beca'se all dis is
down in writin' and it's in safe hands, too, en de man dat's got it
knows whah to look for de right man when I gits killed.
Oh, bless yo' soul, if you puts yo' mother up for as big a fool as
_you_ is, you's pow'ful mistaken, I kin tell you!
Now den, you set still en behave yo'self; en don't you git up
ag'in till I tell you!"
Tom fretted and chafed awhile in a whirlwind of disorganizing
sensations and emotions, and finally said, with something like
settled conviction:
"The whole thing is moonshine; now then, go ahead and do
your worst; I'm done with you."
Roxy made no answer. She took the lantern and started for the door.
Tom was in a cold panic in a moment.
"Come back, come back!" he wailed. "I didn't mean it, Roxy;
I take it all back, and I'll never say it again! Please come back, Roxy!"
The woman stood a moment, then she said gravely:
"Dat's one thing you's got to stop, Valet de Chambers. You can't
call me _Roxy_, same as if you was my equal. Chillen don't speak to
dey mammies like dat. You'll call me ma or mammy, dat's what you'll
call me--leastways when de ain't nobody aroun'. _Say_ it!"
It cost Tom a struggle, but he got it out.
"Dat's all right. don't you ever forgit it ag'in, if you knows
what's good for you. Now den, you had said you wouldn't ever call
it lies en moonshine ag'in. I'll tell you dis, for a warnin':
if you ever does say it ag'in, it's de LAS' time you'll ever say
it to me; I'll tramp as straight to de judge as I kin walk,
en tell him who you is, en _prove_ it. Does you b'lieve me when I says dat?"
"Oh," groaned Tom, "I more than believe it; I _know_ it."
Roxy knew her conquest was complete. She could have proved nothing
to anybody, and her threat of writings was a lie; but she knew the
person she was dealing with, and had made both statements without any
doubt as to the effect they would produce.
She went and sat down on her candle box, and the pride and pomp of
her victorious attitude made it a throne. She said:
"Now den, Chambers, we's gwine to talk business, en dey ain't gwine
to be no mo' foolishness. In de fust place, you gits fifty dollahs
a month; you's gwine to han' over half of it to yo' ma. Plank it out!"
But Tom had only six dollars in the world. He gave her that,
and promised to start fair on next month's pension.
"Chambers, how much is you in debt?"
Tom shuddered, and said:
"Nearly three hundred dollars."
"How is you gwine to pay it?"
Tom groaned out: "Oh, I don't know; don't ask me such awful questions."
But she stuck to her point until she wearied a confession out of him:
he had been prowling about in disguise, stealing small valuables from
private houses; in fact, he made a good deal of a raid on his fellow
villagers a fortnight before, when he was supposed to be in St. Louis;
but he doubted if he had sent away enough stuff to realize the
required amount, and was afraid to make a further venture in the
present excited state of the town. His mother approved of his conduct,
and offered to help, but this frightened him. He tremblingly ventured
to say that if she would retire from the town he should feel better
and safer, and could hold his head higher--and was going on to make
an argument, but she interrupted and surprised him pleasantly by saying
she was ready; it didn't make any difference to her where she stayed,
so that she got her share of the pension regularly. She said she would
not go far, and would call at the haunted house once a month for her money.
Then she said:
"I don't hate you so much now, but I've hated you a many a year--
and anybody would. Didn't I change you off, en give you a good fambly
en a good name, en made you a white gen'l'man en rich, wid store
clothes on--en what did I git for it? You despised me all de time,
en was al'ays sayin' mean hard things to me befo' folks, en wouldn't
ever let me forgit I's a nigger--en--en--"
She fell to sobbing, and broke down. Tom said: "But you know I
didn't know you were my mother; and besides--"
"Well, nemmine 'bout dat, now; let it go. I's gwine to fo'git it."
Then she added fiercely, "En don't ever make me remember it ag'in,
or you'll be sorry, _I_ tell you."
When they were parting, Tom said, in the most persuasive way
he could command:
"Ma, would you mind telling me who was my father?"
He had supposed he was asking an embarrassing question. He was mistaken.
Roxy drew herself up with a proud toss of her head, and said:
"Does I mine tellin' you? No, dat I don't! You ain't got no 'casion
to be shame' o' yo' father, _I_ kin tell you. He wuz de highest quality
in dis whole town--ole Virginny stock. Fust famblies, he wuz.
Jes as good stock as de Driscolls en de Howards, de bes' day dey
ever seed." She put on a little prouder air, if possible,
and added impressively: "Does you 'member Cunnel Cecil Burleigh Essex,
dat died de same year yo' young Marse Tom Driscoll's pappy died,
en all de Masons en Odd Fellers en Churches turned out en give him de
bigges' funeral dis town ever seed? Dat's de man."
Under the inspiration of her soaring complacency the departed graces of
her earlier days returned to her, and her bearing took to itself a
dignity and state that might have passed for queenly if her
surroundings had been a little more in keeping with it.
"Dey ain't another nigger in dis town dat's as highbawn as you is.
Now den, go 'long! En jes you hold yo' head up as high as you want to--
you has de right, en dat I kin swah."
CHAPTER 10
The Nymph Revealed
All say, "How hard it is that we have to die"--a strange complaint
to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
When angry, count four; when very angry, swear.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Every now and then, after Tom went to bed, he had sudden wakings
out of his sleep, and his first thought was, "Oh, joy, it was
all a dream!" Then he laid himself heavily down again, with a groan
and the muttered words, "A nigger! I am a nigger! Oh, I wish I was dead!"
He woke at dawn with one more repetition of this horror, and then he
resolved to meddle no more with that treacherous sleep.
He began to think. Sufficiently bitter thinkings they were.
They wandered along something after this fashion:
Why were niggers _and_ whites made? What crime did the uncreated
first nigger commit that the curse of birth was decreed for him?
And why is this awful difference made between white and black? . . .
How hard the nigger's fate seems, this morning!--yet until last night
such a thought never entered my head."
He sighed and groaned an hour or more away. Then "Chambers" came humbly
in to say that breakfast was nearly ready. "Tom" blushed scarlet to
see this aristocratic white youth cringe to him, a nigger,
and call him "Young Marster." He said roughly:
"Get out of my sight!" and when the youth was gone, he muttered,
"He has done me no harm, poor wrench, but he is an eyesore to me now,
for he is Driscoll, the young gentleman, and I am a--oh, I wish I was dead!"
A gigantic eruption, like that of Krakatoa a few years ago,
with the accompanying earthquakes, tidal waves, and clouds of
volcanic dust, changes the face of the surrounding landscape
beyond recognition, bringing down the high lands, elevating the low,
making fair lakes where deserts had been, and deserts where green
prairies had smiled before. The tremendous catastrophe which had
befallen Tom had changed his moral landscape in much the same way.
Some of his low places he found lifted to ideals, some of his ideas
had sunk to the valleys, and lay there with the sackcloth and ashes
of pumice stone and sulphur on their ruined heads.
For days he wandered in lonely places, thinking, thinking, thinking--
trying to get his bearings. It was new work. If he met a friend,
he found that the habit of a lifetime had in some mysterious way vanished--
his arm hung limp, instead of involuntarily extending the hand for a shake.
It was the "nigger" in him asserting its humility, and he blushed
and was abashed. And the "nigger" in him was surprised when the white
friend put out his hand for a shake with him. He found the "nigger"
in him involuntarily giving the road, on the sidewalk,
to a white rowdy and loafer. When Rowena, the dearest thing his heart knew,
the idol of his secret worship, invited him in, the "nigger" in him made
an embarrassed excuse and was afraid to enter and sit with the dread
white folks on equal terms. The "nigger" in him went shrinking
and skulking here and there and yonder, and fancying it saw suspicion and
maybe detection in all faces, tones, and gestures. So strange and
uncharacteristic was Tom's conduct that people noticed it,
and turned to look after him when he passed on; and when he
glanced back--as he could not help doing, in spite of his best
resistance--and caught that puzzled expression in a person's face,
it gave him a sick feeling, and he took himself out of view as quickly
as he could. He presently came to have a hunted sense and a hunted look,
and then he fled away to the hilltops and the solitudes.
He said to himself that the curse of Ham was upon him.
He dreaded his meals; the "nigger" in him was ashamed to sit at the
white folk's table, and feared discovery all the time; and once when Judge
Driscoll said, "What's the matter with you? You look as meek as
a nigger," he felt as secret murderers are said to feel when
the accuser says, "Thou art the man!" Tom said he was not well,
and left the table.
His ostensible "aunt's" solicitudes and endearments were become
a terror to him, and he avoided them.
And all the time, hatred of his ostensible "uncle" was steadily growing
in his heart; for he said to himself, "He is white; and I am
his chattel, his property, his goods, and he can sell me, just as
he could his dog."
For as much as a week after this, Tom imagined that his character had
undergone a pretty radical change. But that was because he did
not know himself.
In several ways his opinions were totally changed, and would never go
back to what they were before, but the main structure of his character
was not changed, and could not be changed. One or two very important
features of it were altered, and in time effects would result from this,
if opportunity offered--effects of a quite serious nature, too.
Under the influence of a great mental and moral upheaval, his character
and his habits had taken on the appearance of complete change,
but after a while with the subsidence of the storm, both began to
settle toward their former places. He dropped gradually back into his
old frivolous and easygoing ways and conditions of feeling and manner
of speech, and no familiar of his could have detected anything in him that
differentiated him from the weak and careless Tom of other days.
The theft raid which he had made upon the village turned out better than
he had ventured to hope. It produced the sum necessary to pay
his gaming debts, and saved him from exposure to his uncle and
another smashing of the will. He and his mother learned to like
each other fairly well. She couldn't love him, as yet,
because there "warn't nothing _to_ him," as she expressed it,
but her nature needed something or somebody to rule over,
and he was better than nothing. Her strong character and aggressive
and commanding ways compelled Tom's admiration in spite of the fact
that he got more illustrations of them than he needed for his comfort.
However, as a rule her conversation was made up of racy tale about the
privacies of the chief families of the town (for she went harvesting
among their kitchens every time she came to the village),
and Tom enjoyed this. It was just in his line. She always collected
her half of his pension punctually, and he was always at the haunted
house to have a chat with her on these occasions. Every now and then,
she paid him a visit there on between-days also.
Occasions he would run up to St. Louis for a few weeks, and at last
temptation caught him again. He won a lot of money, but lost it,
and with it a deal more besides, which he promised to raise as
soon as possible.
For this purpose he projected a new raid on his town. He never meddled
with any other town, for he was afraid to venture into houses whose
ins and outs he did not know and the habits of whose households he
was not acquainted with. He arrived at the haunted house in disguise
on the Wednesday before the advent of the twins--after writing his
Aunt Pratt that he would not arrive until two days after--and laying
in hiding there with his mother until toward daylight Friday morning,
when he went to his uncle's house and entered by the back way with his
own key, and slipped up to his room where he could have the use of the
mirror and toilet articles. He had a suit of girl's clothes with him in a
bundle as a disguise for his raid, and was wearing a suit of his
mother's clothing, with black gloves and veil. By dawn he was tricked out
for his raid, but he caught a glimpse of Pudd'nhead Wilson through the
window over the way, and knew that Pudd'nhead had caught a glimpse of him.
So he entertained Wilson with some airs and graces and attitudes
for a while, then stepped out of sight and resumed the other disguise,
and by and by went down and out the back way and started downtown
to reconnoiter the scene of his intended labors.
But he was ill at ease. He had changed back to Roxy's dress,
with the stoop of age added to he disguise, so that Wilson
would not bother himself about a humble old women leaving a
neighbor's house by the back way in the early morning, in case he
was still spying. But supposing Wilson had seen him leave,
and had thought it suspicious, and had also followed him?
The thought made Tom cold. He gave up the raid for the day,
and hurried back to the haunted house by the obscurest route he knew.
His mother was gone; but she came back, by and by, with the news
of the grand reception at Patsy Cooper's, and soon persuaded him
that the opportunity was like a special Providence, it was so
inviting and perfect. So he went raiding, after all, and made a
nice success of it while everybody was gone to Patsy Cooper's.
Success gave him nerve and even actual intrepidity; insomuch,
indeed, that after he had conveyed his harvest to his mother in a
back alley, he went to the reception himself, and added several
of the valuables of that house to his takings.
After this long digression we have now arrived once more at the point
where Pudd'nhead Wilson, while waiting for the arrival of the twins
on that same Friday evening, sat puzzling over the strange apparition
of that morning--a girl in young Tom Driscoll's bedroom; fretting,
and guessing, and puzzling over it, and wondering who the shameless
creature might be.
CHAPTER 11
Pudd'nhead's Thrilling Discovery
There are three infallible ways of pleasing an author, and the three
form a rising scale of compliment: 1--to tell him you have read one
of his books; 2--to tell him you have read all of his books;
3--to ask him to let you read the manuscript of his forthcoming book.
No. 1 admits you to his respect; No. 2 admits you to his admiration;
No. 3 carries you clear into his heart.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
As to the Adjective: when in doubt, strike it out.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
The twins arrived presently, and talk began. It flowed along
chattily and sociably, and under its influence the new friendship
gathered ease and strength. Wilson got out his Calendar, by request,
and read a passage or two from it, which the twins praised quite cordially.
This pleased the author so much that he complied gladly when the asked
him to lend them a batch of the work to read at home. In the course of
their wide travels, they had found out that there are three sure ways of
pleasing an author; they were now working the best of the three.
There was an interruption now. Young Driscoll appeared, and joined
the party. He pretended to be seeing the distinguished strangers for
the first time when they rose to shake hands; but this was only a blind,
as he had already had a glimpse of them, at the reception, while robbing
the house. The twins made mental note that he was smooth-faced and
rather handsome, and smooth and undulatory in his movements--graceful,
in fact. Angelo thought he had a good eye; Luigi thought there was
something veiled and sly about it. Angelo thought he had a pleasant
free-and-easy way of talking; Luigi thought it was more so than was agreeable.
Angelo thought he was a sufficiently nice young man; Luigi reserved
his decision. Tom's first contribution to the conversation was a
question which he had put to Wilson a hundred times before.
It was always cheerily and good-natured put, and always inflicted a
little pang, for it touched a secret sore; but this time the pang
was sharp, since strangers were present.
"Well, how does the law come on? Had a case yet?"
Wilson bit his lip, but answered, "No--not yet," with as much
indifference as he could assume. Judge Driscoll had generously left
the law feature out of Wilson's biography which he had furnished
to the twins. Young Tom laughed pleasantly, and said:
"Wilson's a lawyer, gentlemen, but he doesn't practice now."
The sarcasm bit, but Wilson kept himself under control,
and said without passion:
"I don't practice, it is true. It is true that I have never had a case,
and have had to earn a poor living for twenty years as an expert
accountant in a town where I can't get a hold of a set of books to
untangle as often as I should like. But it is also true that I did
myself well for the practice of the law. By the time I was your age,
Tom, I had chosen a profession, and was soon competent to enter upon it."
Tom winced. "I never got a chance to try my hand at it, and I may
never get a chance; and yet if I ever do get it, I shall be found ready,
for I have kept up my law studies all these years."
"That's it; that's good grit! I like to see it. I've a notion to throw
all my business your way. My business and your law practice ought to
make a pretty gay team, Dave," and the young fellow laughed again.
"If you will throw--" Wilson had thought of the girl in Tom's bedroom,
and was going to say, "If you will throw the surreptitious and
disreputable part of your business my way, it may amount to something,"
but thought better of it and said,
"However, this matter doesn't fit well in a general conversation."
"All right, we'll change the subject; I guess you were about
to give me another dig, anyway, so I'm willing to change.
How's the Awful Mystery flourishing these days? Wilson's got a scheme
for driving plain window glass panes out of the market by decorating it
with greasy finger marks, and getting rich by selling it at famine
prices to the crowned heads over in Europe to outfit their palaces with.
Fetch it out, Dave."
Wilson brought three of his glass strips, and said:
"I get the subject to pass the fingers of his right through his hair,
so as to get a little coating of the natural oil on them,
and then press the balls of them on the glass. A fine an delicate
print of the lines in the skin results, and is permanent,
if it doesn't come in contact with something able to rub it off.
You begin, Tom."
"Why, I think you took my finger marks once or twice before."
"Yes, but you were a little boy the last time, only about
twelve years old."
"That's so. Of course, I've changed entirely since then,
and variety is what the crowned heads want, I guess."
He passed his fingers through his crop of short hair, and pressed
them one at a time on the glass. Angelo made a print of his fingers
on another glass, and Luigi followed with a third. Wilson marked the
glasses with names and dates, and put them away. Tom gave one of
his little laughs, and said:
"I thought I wouldn't say anything, but if variety is what you are after,
you have wasted a piece of glass. The hand print of one twin is the
same as the hand print of the fellow twin."
"Well, it's done now, and I like to have them both, anyway,"
said Wilson, returned to his place.
"But look here, Dave," said Tom, you used to tell people's fortunes,
too, when you took their finger marks. Dave's just an all-round genius--
a genius of the first water, gentlemen; a great scientist running to
seed here in this village, a prophet with the kind of honor that
prophets generally get at home--for here they don't give shucks for
his scientifics, and they call his skull a notion factory--hey, Dave,
ain't it so? But never mind, he'll make his mark someday--finger mark,
you know, he-he! But really, you want to let him take a shy at
your palms once; it's worth twice the price of admission or your
money's returned at the door. Why, he'll read your wrinkles as easy
as a book, and not only tell you fifty or sixty things that's going to
happen to you, but fifty or sixty thousand that ain't. Come, Dave,
show the gentlemen what an inspired jack-at-all-science we've got in
this town, and don't know it."
Wilson winced under this nagging and not very courteous chaff,
and the twins suffered with him and for him. They rightly judged,
now, that the best way was to relieve him would be to take the thing
in earnest and treat it with respect, ignoring Tom's rather
overdone raillery; so Luigi said:
"We have seen something of palmistry in our wanderings, and know very
well what astonishing things it can do. If it isn't a science,
and one of the greatest of them too, I don't know what its other
name ought to be. In the Orient--"
Tom looked surprised and incredulous. He said:
"That juggling a science? But really, you ain't serious, are you?"
"Yes, entirely so. Four years ago we had our hands read out to us as
if our plans had been covered with print."
"Well, do you mean to say there was actually anything in it?" asked Tom,
his incredulity beginning to weaken a little.
"There was this much in it," said Angelo: "what was told us
of our characters was minutely exact--we could have not have
bettered it ourselves. Next, two or three memorable things that
have happened to us were laid bare--things which no one present
but ourselves could have known about."
"Why, it's rank sorcery!" exclaimed Tom, who was now becoming very
much interested. "And how did they make out with what was going to
happen to you in the future?"
"On the whole, quite fairly," said Luigi. "Two or three of the most
striking things foretold have happened since; much the most striking
one of all happened within that same year. Some of the minor prophesies
have come true; some of the minor and some of the major ones have not
been fulfilled yet, and of course may never be: still, I should be
more surprised if they failed to arrive than if they didn't."
Tom was entirely sobered, and profoundly impressed. He said, apologetically:
"Dave, I wasn't meaning to belittle that science; I was only chaffing--
chattering, I reckon I'd better say. I wish you would look at their palms.
Come, won't you?"
"Why certainly, if you want me to; but you know I've had no chance to
become an expert, and don't claim to be one. When a past event is
somewhat prominently recorded in the palm, I can generally detect that,
but minor ones often escape me--not always, of course, but often--
but I haven't much confidence in myself when it comes to
reading the future. I am talking as if palmistry was a daily
study with me, but that is not so. I haven't examined half a
dozen hands in the last half dozen years; you see, the people got to
joking about it, and I stopped to let the talk die down. I'll tell you
what we'll do, Count Luigi: I'll make a try at your past,
and if I have any success there--no, on the whole, I'll let
the future alone; that's really the affair of an expert."
He took Luigi's hand. Tom said:
"Wait--don't look yet, Dave! Count Luigi, here's paper and pencil.
Set down that thing that you said was the most striking one that was
foretold to you, and happened less than a year afterward, and give it
to me so I can see if Dave finds it in your hand."
Luigi wrote a line privately, and folded up the piece of paper,
and handed it to Tom, saying:
"I'll tell you when to look at it, if he finds it."
Wilson began to study Luigi's palm, tracing life lines, heart lines,
head lines, and so on, and noting carefully their relations with the
cobweb of finer and more delicate marks and lines that enmeshed them
on all sides; he felt of the fleshy cushion at the base of the thumb
and noted its shape; he felt of the fleshy side of the hand between
the wrist and the base of the little finger and noted its shape also;
he painstakingly examined the fingers, observing their form, proportions,
and natural manner of disposing themselves when in repose.
All this process was watched by the three spectators with
absorbing interest, their heads bent together over Luigi's palm, and nobody
disturbing the stillness with a word. Wilson now entered upon a close
survey of the palm again, and his revelations began.
He mapped out Luigi's character and disposition, his tastes, aversions,
proclivities, ambitions, and eccentricities in a way which sometimes
made Luigi wince and the others laugh, but both twins declared that
the chart was artistically drawn and was correct.
Next, Wilson took up Luigi' history. He proceeded cautiously and
with hesitation now, moving his finger slowly along the great lines
of the palm, and now and then halting it at a "star" or some
such landmark, and examining that neighborhood minutely.
He proclaimed one or two past events, Luigi confirmed his correctness,
and the search went on. Presently Wilson glanced up suddenly with
a surprised expression.
"Here is a record of an incident which you would perhaps not wish me to--"
"Bring it out," said Luigi, good-naturedly. "I promise you
sha'n't embarrass me."
But Wilson still hesitated, and did not seem quite to know what to do.
Then he said:
"I think it is too delicate a matter to--to--I believe I would rather
write it or whisper it to you, and let you decide for yourself whether
you want it talked out or not."
"That will answer," said Luigi. "Write it."
Wilson wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Luigi,
who read it to himself and said to Tom:
"Unfold your slip and read it, Mr. Driscoll."
Tom said:
"'IT WAS PROPHESIED THAT I WOULD KILL A MAN. IT CAME TRUE
BEFORE THE YEAR WAS OUT.'"
Tom added, "Great Scott!"
Luigi handed Wilson's paper to Tom, and said:
"Now read this one."
Tom read:
"'YOU HAVE KILLED SOMEONE, BUT WHETHER MAN, WOMAN, OR CHILD,
I DO NOT MAKE OUT.'"
"Caesar's ghost!" commented Tom, with astonishment.
"It beats anything that was ever heard of! Why, a man's own hand is
his deadliest enemy! Just think of that--a man's own hand keeps
a record of the deepest and fatalest secrets of his life, and is
treacherously ready to expose himself to any black-magic stranger
that comes along. But what do you let a person look at your hand for,
with that awful thing printed on it?"
"Oh," said Luigi, reposefully, "I don't mind it. I killed the man
for good reasons, and I don't regret it."
"What were the reasons?"
"Well, he needed killing."
"I'll tell you why he did it, since he won't say himself," said Angelo,
warmly. "He did it to save my life, that's what he did it for.
So it was a noble act, and not a thing to be hid in the dark."
"So it was, so it was," said Wilson. "To do such a thing to save a
brother's life is a great and fine action."
"Now come," said Luigi, "it is very pleasant to hear you say
these things, but for unselfishness, or heroism, or magnanimity,
the circumstances won't stand scrutiny. You overlook one detail;
suppose I hadn't saved Angelo's life, what would have become of mine?
If I had let the man kill him, wouldn't he have killed me, too?
I saved my own life, you see."
"Yes, that is your way of talking," said Angelo, "but I know you--
I don't believe you thought of yourself at all. I keep that weapon
yet that Luigi killed the man with, and I'll show it to you sometime.
That incident makes it interesting, and it had a history before it
came into Luigi's hands which adds to its interest. It was given to
Luigi by a great Indian prince, the Gaikowar of Baroda, and it had been
in his family two or three centuries. It killed a good many disagreeable
people who troubled the hearthstone at one time or another. It isn't much
too look at, except it isn't shaped like other knives, or dirks,
or whatever it may be called--here, I'll draw it for you." He took a
sheet of paper and made a rapid sketch. "There it is--a broad and
murderous blade, with edges like a razor for sharpness.
The devices engraved on it are the ciphers or names of its long
line of possessors--I had Luigi's name added in Roman letters
myself with our coat of arms, as you see. You notice what a
curious handle the thing has. It is solid ivory, polished like a mirror,
and is four or five inches long--round, and as thick as a
large man's wrist, with the end squared off flat, for your thumb
to rest on; for you grasp it, with your thumb resting on the blunt end--
so--and lift it along and strike downward. The Gaikowar showed us how
the thing was done when he gave it to Luigi, and before that
night was ended, Luigi had used the knife, and the Gaikowar was a man
short by reason of it. The sheath is magnificently ornamented with
gems of great value. You will find a sheath more worth looking at
than the knife itself, of course."
Tom said to himself:
"It's lucky I came here. I would have sold that knife for a song;
I supposed the jewels were glass."
"But go on; don't stop," said Wilson. "Our curiosity is up now,
to hear about the homicide. Tell us about that."
"Well, briefly, the knife was to blame for that, all around.
A native servant slipped into our room in the palace in the night,
to kill us and steal the knife on account of the fortune encrusted
on its sheath, without a doubt. Luigi had it under his pillow;
we were in bed together. There was a dim night-light burning.
I was asleep, but Luigi was awake, and he thought he detected a
vague form nearing the bed. He slipped the knife out of the sheath
and was ready and unembarrassed by hampering bedclothes,
for the weather was hot and we hadn't any. Suddenly that native rose
at the bedside, and bent over me with his right hand lifted and a
dirk in it aimed at my throat; but Luigi grabbed his wrist,
pulled him downward, and drove his own knife into the man's neck.
That is the whole story."
Wilson and Tom drew deep breaths, and after some general chat
about the tragedy, Pudd'nhead said, taking Tom's hand:
"Now, Tom, I've never had a look at your palms, as it happens;
perhaps you've got some little questionable privacies that need--hel-lo!"
Tom had snatched away his hand, and was looking a good deal confused.
"Why, he's blushing!" said Luigi.
Tom darted an ugly look at him, and said sharply:
"Well, if I am, it ain't because I'm a murderer!" Luigi's dark
face flushed, but before he could speak or move, Tom added with
anxious haste: "Oh, I beg a thousand pardons. I didn't mean that;
it was out before I thought, and I'm very, very sorry--you must forgive me!"
Wilson came to the rescue, and smoothed things down as well as he could;
and in fact was entirely successful as far as the twins were concerned,
for they felt sorrier for the affront put upon him by his guest's
outburst of ill manners than for the insult offered to Luigi.
But the success was not so pronounced with the offender. Tom tried to
seem at his ease, and he went through the motions fairly well,
but at bottom he felt resentful toward all the three witnesses of
his exhibition; in fact, he felt so annoyed at them for having
witnessed it and noticed it that he almost forgot to feel annoyed
at himself for placing it before them. However, something presently
happened which made him almost comfortable, and brought him nearly back
to a state of charity and friendliness. This was a little spat between
the twins; not much of a spat, but still a spat; and before they got
far with it, they were in a decided condition of irritation while
pretending to be actuated by more respectable motives. By his help
the fire got warmed up to the blazing point, and he might have had the
happiness of seeing the flames show up in another moment, but for the
interruption of a knock on the door--an interruption which fretted him
as much as it gratified Wilson. Wilson opened the door.
The visitor was a good-natured, ignorant, energetic middle-aged
Irishman named John Buckstone, who was a great politician in a
small way, and always took a large share in public matters of
every sort. One of the town's chief excitements, just now, was over
the matter of rum. There was a strong rum party and a strong
anti-rum party. Buckstone was training with the rum party, and he
had been sent to hunt up the twins and invite them to attend a
mass meeting of that faction. He delivered his errand, and said
the clans were already gathering in the big hall over the market house.
Luigi accepted the invitation cordially. Angelo less cordially,
since he disliked crowds, and did not drink the powerful intoxicants
of America. In fact, he was even a teetotaler sometimes--
when it was judicious to be one.
The twins left with Buckstone, and Tom Driscoll joined the
company with them uninvited.
In the distance, one could see a long wavering line of
torches drifting down the main street, and could hear the
throbbing of the bass drum, the clash of cymbals, the squeaking
of a fife or two, and the faint roar of remote hurrahs. The tail
end of this procession was climbing the market house stairs when
the twins arrived in its neighborhood; when they reached the hall,
it was full of people, torches, smoke, noise, and enthusiasm.
They were conducted to the platform by Buckstone--Tom Driscoll
still following--and were delivered to the chairman in the midst
of a prodigious explosion of welcome. When the noise had moderated
a little, the chair proposed that "our illustrious guests be at
once elected, by complimentary acclamation, to membership in our
ever-glorious organization, the paradise of the free and the perdition
of the slave."
This eloquent discharge opened the floodgates of enthusiasm again,
and the election was carried with thundering unanimity. Then arose
a storm of cries:
"Wet them down! Wet them down! Give them a drink!"
Glasses of whisky were handed to the twins. Luigi waves his aloft,
then brought it to his lips; but Angelo set his down.
There was another storm of cries.
"What's the matter with the other one?" "What is the blond one
going back on us for?" "Explain! Explain!"
The chairman inquired, and then reported:
"We have made an unfortunate mistake, gentlemen. I find that the
Count Angelo Capello is opposed to our creed--is a teetotaler, in fact,
and was not intending to apply for membership with us. He desires
that we reconsider the vote by which he was elected. What is the
pleasure of the house?"
There was a general burst of laughter, plentifully accented with
whistlings and catcalls, but the energetic use of the gavel
presently restored something like order. Then a man spoke from
the crowd, and said that while he was very sorry that the mistake
had been made, it would not be possible to rectify it at the
present meeting. According to the bylaws, it must go over to the
next regular meeting for action. He would not offer a motion, as
none was required. He desired to apologize to the gentlemen in
the name of the house, and begged to assure him that as far as it
might lie in the power of the Sons of Liberty, his temporary
membership in the order would be made pleasant to him.
This speech was received with great applause, mixed with cries of:
"That's the talk! "He's a good fellow, anyway, if he _is_ a teetotaler!"
"Drink his health!" "Give him a rouser, and no heeltaps!"
Glasses were handed around, and everybody on the platform
drank Angelo's health, while the house bellowed forth in song:
For he's a jolly good fel-low,
For he's a jolly good fel-low,
For he's a jolly good fe-el-low,
Which nobody can deny.
Tom Driscoll drank. It was his second glass, for he had drunk
Angelo's the moment that Angelo had set it down. The two drinks
made him very merry--almost idiotically so, and he began to take a
most lively and prominent part in the proceedings, particularly in
the music and catcalls and side remarks.
The chairman was still standing at the front, the twins at his side.
The extraordinarily close resemblance of the brothers to each other
suggested a witticism to Tom Driscoll, and just as the chairman began
a speech he skipped forward and said, with an air of tipsy confidence,
to the audience:
"Boys, I move that he keeps still and lets this human philopena snip
you out a speech."
The descriptive aptness of the phrase caught the house, and a mighty
burst of laughter followed.
Luigi's southern blood leaped to the boiling point in a moment under
the sharp humiliation of this insult delivered in the presence of
four hundred strangers. It was not in the young man's nature to
let the matter pass, or to delay the squaring of the account.
He took a couple of strides and halted behind the unsuspecting joker.
Then he drew back and delivered a kick of such titanic vigor that it
lifted Tom clear over the footlights and landed him on the heads of
the front row of the Sons of Liberty.
Even a sober person does not like to have a human being emptied on him
when he is not going any harm; a person who is not sober cannot endure
such an attention at all. The nest of Sons of Liberty that Driscoll
landed in had not a sober bird in it; in fact there was probably not
an entirely sober one in the auditorium. Driscoll was promptly and
indignantly flung on the heads of Sons in the next row, and these Sons
passed him on toward the rear, and then immediately began to pummel the
front row Sons who had passed him to them. This course was strictly
followed by bench after bench as Driscoll traveled in his tumultuous
and airy flight toward the door; so he left behind him an ever-lengthening
wake of raging and plunging and fighting and swearing humanity.
Down went group after group of torches, and presently above the
deafening clatter of the gavel, roar of angry voices, and crash of
succumbing benches, rose the paralyzing cry of "_fire!_"
The fighting ceased instantly; the cursing ceased; for one distinctly
defined moment, there was a dead hush, a motionless calm, where the
tempest had been; then with one impulse the multitude awoke to life
and energy again, and went surging and struggling and swaying,
this way and that, its outer edges melting away through windows and
doors and gradually lessening the pressure and relieving the mass.
The fireboys were never on hand so suddenly before; for there was
no distance to go this time, their quarters being in the rear end
of the market house, There was an engine company and a
hook-and-ladder company. Half of each was composed of rummies and
the other half of anti-rummies, after the moral and political
share-and-share-alike fashion of the frontier town of the period.
Enough anti-rummies were loafing in quarters to man the engine
and the ladders. In two minutes they had their red shirts and helmets on--
they never stirred officially in unofficial costume--and as the
mass meeting overhead smashed through the long row of windows and
poured out upon the roof of the arcade, the deliverers were ready
for them with a powerful stream of water, which washed some of them
off the roof and nearly drowned the rest. But water was preferable
to fire, and still the stampede from the windows continued, and still the
pitiless drenching assailed it until the building was empty;
then the fireboys mounted to the hall and flooded it with water enough
to annihilate forty times as much fire as there was there;
for a village fire company does not often get a chance to show off,
and so when it does get a chance, it makes the most of it.
Such citizens of that village as were of a thoughtful and judicious
temperament did not insure against fire; they insured against the
fire company.
CHAPTER 12
The Shame of Judge Driscoll
Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear--not absence of fear.
Except a creature be part coward, it is not a compliment to say
it is brave; it is merely a loose misapplication of the word.
Consider the flea!--incomparably the bravest of all the creatures of God,
if ignorance of fear were courage. Whether you are asleep or awake he
will attack you, caring nothing for the fact that in bulk and strength
you are to him as are the massed armies of the earth to a sucking child;
he lives both day and night and all days and nights in the very lap
of peril and the immediate presence of death, and yet is no more
afraid than is the man who walks the streets of a city that was
threatened by an earthquake ten centuries before. When we speak
of Clive, Nelson, and Putnam as men who "didn't know what fear was,"
we ought always to add the flea--and put him at the head of the procession.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Judge Driscoll was in bed and asleep by ten o'clock on Friday night,
and he was up and gone a-fishing before daylight in the morning with
his friend Pembroke Howard. These two had been boys together in
Virginia when that state still ranked as the chief and most imposing
member of the Union, and they still coupled the proud and affectionate
adjective "old" with her name when they spoke of her.
In Missouri a recognized superiority attached to any person who
hailed from Old Virginia; and this superiority was exalted to
supremacy when a person of such nativity could also prove descent
from the First Families of that great commonwealth. The Howards and
Driscolls were of this aristocracy. In their eyes, it was a nobility.
It had its unwritten laws, and they were as clearly defined and as
strict as any that could be found among the printed statues of the land.
The F.F.V. was born a gentleman; his highest duty in life was to
watch over that great inheritance and keep it unsmirched.
He must keep his honor spotless. Those laws were his chart;
his course was marked out on it; if he swerved from it by so much as
half a point of the compass, it meant shipwreck to his honor;
that is to say, degradation from his rank as a gentleman.
These laws required certain things of him which his religion might forbid:
then his religion must yield--the laws could not be relaxed to
accommodate religions or anything else. Honor stood first;
and the laws defined what it was and wherein it differed in certain
details from honor as defined by church creeds and by the social laws
and customs of some of the minor divisions of the globe that had got
crowded out when the sacred boundaries of Virginia were staked out.
If Judge Driscoll was the recognized first citizen of Dawson's Landing,
Pembroke Howard was easily its recognized second citizen.
He was called "the great lawyer"--an earned title. He and Driscoll
were of the same age--a year or two past sixty.
Although Driscoll was a freethinker and Howard a strong and
determined Presbyterian, their warm intimacy suffered no
impairment in consequence. They were men whose opinions were
their own property and not subject to revision and amendment,
suggestion or criticism, by anybody, even their friends.
The day's fishing finished, they came floating downstream in their skiff,
talking national politics and other high matters, and presently met
a skiff coming up from town, with a man in it who said:
"I reckon you know one of the new twins gave your nephew a
kicking last night, Judge?"
"Did WHAT?"
"Gave him a kicking."
The old judge's lips paled, and his eyes began to flame. He choked with
anger for a moment, then he got out what he was trying to say:
"Well--well--go on! Give me the details!"
The man did it. At the finish the judge was silent a minute,
turning over in his mind the shameful picture of Tom's flight over
the footlights; then he said, as if musing aloud,
"H'm--I don't understand it. I was asleep at home. He didn't wake me.
Thought he was competent to manage his affair without my help, I reckon."
His face lit up with pride and pleasure at that thought, and he said
with a cheery complacency, "I like that--it's the true old blood--
hey, Pembroke?"
Howard smiled an iron smile, and nodded his head approvingly.
Then the news-bringer spoke again.
"But Tom beat the twin on the trial."
The judge looked at the man wonderingly, and said:
"The trial? What trial?"
"Why, Tom had him up before Judge Robinson for assault and battery."
The old man shrank suddenly together like one who has received a
death stroke. Howard sprang for him as he sank forward in a swoon,
and took him in his arms, and bedded him on his back in the boat.
He sprinkled water in his face, and said to the startled visitor:
"Go, now--don't let him come to and find you here. You see what an
effect your heedless speech has had; you ought to have been more
considerate than to blurt out such a cruel piece of slander as that."
"I'm right down sorry I did it now, Mr. Howard, and I wouldn't
have done it if I had thought; but it ain't slander;
it's perfectly true, just as I told him."
He rowed away. Presently the old judge came out of his faint and
looked up piteously into the sympathetic face that was bent over him.
"Say it ain't true, Pembroke; tell me it ain't true!" he said in a weak voice.
There was nothing weak in the deep organ tones that responded:
"You know it's a lie as well as I do, old friend. He is of
the best blood of the Old Dominion."
"God bless you for saying it!" said the old gentleman, fervently.
"Ah, Pembroke, it was such a blow!"
Howard stayed by his friend, and saw him home, and entered the house
with him. It was dark, and past supper-time, but the judge was
not thinking of supper; he was eager to hear the slander refuted
from headquarters, and as eager to have Howard hear it, too.
Tom was sent for, and he came immediately. He was bruised and lame,
and was not a happy-looking object. His uncle made him sit down, and said:
"We have been hearing about your adventure, Tom, with a handsome lie
added for embellishment. Now pulverize that lie to dust!
What measures have you taken? How does the thing stand?"
Tom answered guilelessly: "It don't stand at all; it's all over.
I had him up in court and beat him. Pudd'nhead Wilson defended him--
first case he ever had, and lost it. The judge fined the miserable
hound five dollars for the assault."
Howard and the judge sprang to their feet with the opening sentence--
why, neither knew; then they stood gazing vacantly at each other.
Howard stood a moment, then sat mournfully down without saying anything.
The judge's wrath began to kindle, and he burst out:
"You cur! You scum! You vermin! Do you mean to tell me that blood
of my race has suffered a blow and crawled to a court of law about it?
Answer me!"
Tom's head drooped, and he answered with an eloquent silence.
His uncle stared at him with a mixed expression of amazement and
shame and incredulity that was sorrowful to see. At last he said:
"Which of the twins was it?"
"Count Luigi."
"You have challenged him?"
"N--no," hesitated Tom, turning pale.
"You will challenge him tonight. Howard will carry it."
Tom began to turn sick, and to show it. He turned his hat round and
round in his hand, his uncle glowering blacker and blacker upon him
as the heavy seconds drifted by; then at last he began to stammer,
and said piteously:
"Oh, please, don't ask me to do it, uncle! He is a murderous devil--
I never could--I--I'm afraid of him!"
Old Driscoll's mouth opened and closed three times before he
could get it to perform its office; then he stormed out:
"A coward in my family! A Driscoll a coward! Oh, what have I done
to deserve this infamy!" He tottered to his secretary in the corner,
repeated that lament again and again in heartbreaking tones,
and got out of a drawer a paper, which he slowly tore to bits,
scattering the bits absently in his track as he walked up
and down the room, still grieving and lamenting. At last he said:
"There it is, shreds and fragments once more--my will. Once more you
have forced me to disinherit you, you base son of a most noble father!
Leave my sight! Go--before I spit on you!"
The young man did not tarry. Then the judge turned to Howard:
"You will be my second, old friend?"
"Of course."
"There is pen and paper. Draft the cartel, and lose no time."
"The Count shall have it in his hands in fifteen minutes," said Howard.
Tom was very heavyhearted. His appetite was gone with his property
and his self-respect. He went out the back way and wandered down the
obscure lane grieving, and wondering if any course of future conduct,
however discreet and carefully perfected and watched over,
could win back his uncle's favor and persuade him to reconstruct once
more that generous will which had just gone to ruin before his eyes.
He finally concluded that it could. He said to himself that he had
accomplished this sort of triumph once already, and that what had been
done once could be done again. He would set about it. He would bend
every energy to the task, and he would score that triumph once more,
cost what it might to his convenience, limit as it might his
frivolous and liberty-loving life.
"To begin," he says to himself, "I'll square up with the proceeds of
my raid, and then gambling has got to be stopped--and stopped short off.
It's the worst vice I've got--from my standpoint, anyway,
because it's the one he can most easily find out, through the impatience
of my creditors. He thought it expensive to have to pay two hundred
dollars to them for me once. Expensive--_that!_ Why, it cost me
the whole of his fortune--but, of course, he never thought of that;
some people can't think of any but their own side of a case.
If he had known how deep I am in now, the will would have gone to pot
without waiting for a duel to help. Three hundred dollars!
It's a pile! But he'll never hear of it, I'm thankful to say.
The minute I've cleared it off, I'm safe; and I'll never touch
a card again. Anyway, I won't while he lives, I make oath to that.
I'm entering on my last reform--I know it--yes, and I'll win;
but after that, if I ever slip again I'm gone."
CHAPTER 13
Tom Stares at Ruin
When I reflect upon the number of disagreeable people who I know
have gone to a better world, I am moved to lead a different life.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
October. This is one of the peculiarly dangerous months to speculate
in stocks in. The others are July, January, September, April,
November, May, March, June, December, August, and February.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Thus mournfully communing with himself, Tom moped along the lane past
Pudd'nhead Wilson's house, and still on and on between fences enclosing
vacant country on each hand till he neared the haunted house,
then he came moping back again, with many sighs and heavy with trouble.
He sorely wanted cheerful company. Rowena! His heart gave a bound
at the thought, but the next thought quieted it--the detested twins
would be there.
He was on the inhabited side of Wilson's house, and now as
he approached it, he noticed that the sitting room was lighted.
This would do; others made him feel unwelcome sometimes, but Wilson
never failed in courtesy toward him, and a kindly courtesy does at least
save one's feelings, even if it is not professing to stand for a welcome.
Wilson heard footsteps at his threshold, then the clearing of a throat.
"It's that fickle-tempered, dissipated young goose--poor devil,
he find friends pretty scarce today, likely, after the disgrace of
carrying a personal assault case into a law-court."
A dejected knock. "Come in!"
Tom entered, and dropped into a chair, without saying anything.
Wilson said kindly:
"Why, my boy, you look desolate. Don't take it so hard.
Try and forget you have been kicked."
"Oh, dear," said Tom, wretchedly, "it's not that, Pudd'nhead--
it's not that.. It's a thousand times worse than that--oh, yes,
a million times worse."
"Why, Tom, what do you mean? Has Rowena--"
"Flung me? _No_, but the old man has."
Wilson said to himself, "Aha!" and thought of the mysterious girl
in the bedroom. "The Driscolls have been making discoveries!"
Then he said aloud, gravely:
"Tom, there are some kinds of dissipation which--"
"Oh, shucks, this hasn't got anything to do with dissipation.
He wanted me to challenge that derned Italian savage,
and I wouldn't do it."
"Yes, of course he would do that," said Wilson in a meditative
matter-of-course way, "but the thing that puzzled me was,
why he didn't look to that last night, for one thing,
and why he let you carry such a matter into a court of law at all,
either before the duel or after it. It's no place for it.
It was not like him. I couldn't understand it. How did it happen?"
"It happened because he didn't know anything about it. He
was asleep when I got home last night."
"And you didn't wake him? Tom, is that possible?"
Tom was not getting much comfort here. He fidgeted a moment, then said:
"I didn't choose to tell him--that's all. He was going a-fishing
before dawn, with Pembroke Howard, and if I got the twins into
the common calaboose--and I thought sure I could--I never dreamed
of their slipping out on a paltry fine for such an outrageous offense--
well, once in the calaboose they would be disgraced, and uncle wouldn't
want any duels with that sort of characters, and wouldn't allow any.
"Tom, I am ashamed of you! I don't see how you could treat
your good old uncle so. I am a better friend of his than you are;
for if I had known the circumstances I would have kept that case out
of court until I got word to him and let him have the gentleman's chance."
"You would?" exclaimed Tom, with lively surprise. "And it your
first case! And you know perfectly well there never would have _been_
any case if he had got that chance, don't you? And you'd have finished
your days a pauper nobody, instead of being an actually launched and
recognized lawyer today. And you would really have done that, would you?"
"Certainly."
Tom looked at him a moment or two, then shook his head sorrowfully and said:
"I believe you--upon my word I do. I don't know why I do, but I do.
Pudd'nhead Wilson, I think you're the biggest fool I ever saw."
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
"Well, he has been requiring you to fight the Italian,
and you have refused. You degenerate remnant of an honorable line!
I'm thoroughly ashamed of you, Tom!"
"Oh, that's nothing! I don't care for anything, now that the will's
torn up again."
"Tom, tell me squarely--didn't he find any fault with you for anything
but those two things--carrying the case into court and refusing to fight?"
He watched the young fellow's face narrowly, but it was
entirely reposeful, and so also was the voice that answered:
"No, he didn't find any other fault with me. If he had had any to find,
he would have begun yesterday, for he was just in the humor for it.
He drove that jack-pair around town and showed them the sights,
and when he came home he couldn't find his father's old silver watch
that don't keep time and he thinks so much of, and couldn't remember
what he did with it three or four days ago when he saw it last,
and when I suggested that it probably wasn't lost but stolen,
it put him in a regular passion, and he said I was a fool--
which convinced me, without any trouble, that that was just what he
was afraid _had_ happened, himself, but did not want to believe it,
because lost things stand a better chance of being found again
than stolen ones."
"Whe-ew!" whistled Wilson. "Score another one the list."
"Another what?"
"Another theft!"
"Theft?"
"Yes, theft. That watch isn't lost, it's stolen. There's been another
raid on the town--and just the same old mysterious sort of thing
that has happened once before, as you remember."
"You don't mean it!"
"It's as sure as you are born! Have you missed anything yourself?"
"No. That is, I did miss a silver pencil case that Aunt Mary Pratt
gave me last birthday--"
"You'll find it stolen--that's what you'll find."
"No, I sha'n't; for when I suggested theft about the watch and got
such a rap, I went and examined my room, and the pencil case was missing,
but it was only mislaid, and I found it again."
"You are sure you missed nothing else?"
"Well, nothing of consequence. I missed a small plain gold ring worth
two or three dollars, but that will turn up. I'll look again."
"In my opinion you'll not find it. There's been a raid, I tell you.
Come _in!_"
Mr. Justice Robinson entered, followed by Buckstone and
the town constable, Jim Blake. They sat down, and after some
wandering and aimless weather-conversation Wilson said:
"By the way, We've just added another to the list of thefts, maybe two.
Judge Driscoll's old silver watch is gone, and Tom here
has missed a gold ring."
"Well, it is a bad business," said the justice, "and gets worse
the further it goes. The Hankses, the Dobsons, the Pilligrews,
the Ortons, the Grangers, the Hales, the Fullers, the Holcombs,
in fact everybody that lives around about Patsy Cooper's had been
robbed of little things like trinkets and teaspoons and suchlike
small valuables that are easily carried off. It's perfectly plain
that the thief took advantage of the reception at Patsy Cooper's when
all the neighbors were in her house and all their niggers hanging around
her fence for a look at the show, to raid the vacant houses undisturbed.
Patsy is miserable about it; miserable on account of the neighbors,
and particularly miserable on account of her foreigners, of course;
so miserable on their account that she hasn't any room to worry
about her own little losses."
"It's the same old raider," said Wilson. "I suppose there isn't
any doubt about that."
"Constable Blake doesn't think so."
"No, you're wrong there," said Blake. "The other times it was a man;
there was plenty of signs of that, as we know, in the profession,
thought we never got hands on him; but this time it's a woman."
Wilson thought of the mysterious girl straight off. She was always
in his mind now. But she failed him again. Blake continued:
"She's a stoop-shouldered old woman with a covered basket on her arm,
in a black veil, dressed in mourning. I saw her going aboard
the ferryboat yesterday. Lives in Illinois, I reckon; but I don't care
where she lives, I'm going to get her--she can make herself sure of that."
"What makes you think she's the thief?"
"Well, there ain't any other, for one thing; and for another,
some nigger draymen that happened to be driving along saw her coming
out of or going into houses, and told me so--and it just happens that
they was _robbed_, every time."
It was granted that this was plenty good enough circumstantial evidence.
A pensive silence followed, which lasted some moments, then Wilson said:
"There's one good thing, anyway. She can't either pawn or sell
Count Luigi's costly Indian dagger."
"My!" said Tom. "Is _that_ gone?"
"Yes."
"Well, that was a haul! But why can't she pawn it or sell it?"
"Because when the twins went home from the Sons of Liberty meeting
last night, news of the raid was sifting in from everywhere,
and Aunt Patsy was in distress to know if they had lost anything.
They found that the dagger was gone, and they notified the police
and pawnbrokers everywhere. It was a great haul, yes, but
the old woman won't get anything out of it, because she'll get caught."
"Did they offer a reward?" asked Buckstone.
"Yes, five hundred dollars for the knife, and five hundred more
for the thief."
"What a leather-headed idea!" exclaimed the constable.
"The thief das'n't go near them, nor send anybody.
Whoever goes is going to get himself nabbed,
for their ain't any pawnbroker that's going to lose the chance to--"
If anybody had noticed Tom's face at that time, the gray-green color
of it might have provoked curiosity; but nobody did.
He said to himself: "I'm gone! I never can square up; the rest of
the plunder won't pawn or sell for half of the bill. Oh, I know it--
I'm gone, I'm gone--and this time it's for good. Oh, this is awful--
I don't know what to do, nor which way to turn!"
"Softly, softly," said Wilson to Blake. "I planned their scheme
for them at midnight last night, and it was all finished up shipshape
by two this morning. They'll get their dagger back,
and then I'll explain to you how the thing was done."
There were strong signs of a general curiosity, and Buckstone said:
"Well, you have whetted us up pretty sharp. Wilson, and I'm free
to say that if you don't mind telling us in confidence--"
"Oh, I'd as soon tell as not, Buckstone, but as long as the
twins and I agreed to say nothing about it, we must let it stand so.
But you can take my word for it, you won't be kept waiting three days.
Somebody will apply for that reward pretty promptly,
and I'll show you the thief and the dagger both very soon afterward."
The constable was disappointed, and also perplexed. He said:
"It may all be--yes, and I hope it will, but I'm blamed if I
can see my way through it. It's too many for yours truly."
The subject seemed about talked out. Nobody seemed to have
anything further to offer. After a silence the justice of the
peace informed Wilson that he and Buckstone and the constable had
come as a committee, on the part of the Democratic party, to ask him
to run for mayor--for the little town was about to become a city and
the first charter election was approaching. It was the first attention
which Wilson had ever received at the hands of any party;
it was a sufficiently humble one, but it was a recognition of his debut
into the town's life and activities at last; it was a step upward,
and he was deeply gratified. He accepted, and the committee departed,
followed by young Tom.
CHAPTER 14
Roxana Insists Upon Reform
The true Southern watermelon is a boon apart, and not to be mentioned
with commoner things. It is chief of this world's luxuries,
king by the grace of God over all the fruits of the earth.
When one has tasted it, he knows what the angels eat. It was not a
Southern watermelon that Eve took: we know it because she repented.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
About the time that Wilson was bowing the committee out,
Pembroke Howard was entering the next house to report.
He found the old judge sitting grim and straight in his chair, waiting.
"Well, Howard--the news?"
"The best in the world."
"Accepts, does he?" and the light of battle gleamed joyously
in the Judge's eye.
"Accepts? Why he jumped at it."
"Did, did he? Now that's fine--that's very fine. I like that.
When is it to be?"
"Now! Straight off! Tonight! An admirable fellow--admirable!"
"Admirable? He's a darling! Why, it's an honor as well as
a pleasure to stand up before such a man. Come--off with you!
Go and arrange everything--and give him my heartiest compliments.
A rare fellow, indeed; an admirable fellow, as you have said!"
"I'll have him in the vacant stretch between Wilson's and
the haunted house within the hour, and I'll bring my own pistols."
Judge Driscoll began to walk the floor in a state of pleased excitement;
but presently he stopped, and began to think--began to think of Tom.
Twice he moved toward the secretary, and twice he turned away again;
but finally he said:
"This may be my last night in the world--I must not take the chance.
He is worthless and unworthy, but it is largely my fault.
He was entrusted to me by my brother on his dying bed,
and I have indulged him to his hurt, instead of training him up severely,
and making a man of him, I have violated my trust, and I must not add
the sin of desertion to that. I have forgiven him once already,
and would subject him to a long and hard trial before forgiving
him again, if I could live; but I must not run that risk.
No, I must restore the will. But if I survive the duel,
I will hide it away, and he will not know, and I will not tell him
until he reforms, and I see that his reformation is going to be permanent."
He redrew the will, and his ostensible nephew was heir to a
fortune again. As he was finishing his task, Tom, wearied with
another brooding tramp, entered the house and went tiptoeing past
the sitting room door. He glanced in, and hurried on, for the sight
of his uncle was nothing but terrors for him tonight. But his uncle
was writing! That was unusual at this late hour. What could he
be writing? A chill of anxiety settled down upon Tom's heart.
Did that writing concern him? He was afraid so. He reflected that
when ill luck begins, it does not come in sprinkles, but in showers.
He said he would get a glimpse of that document or know the reason why.
He heard someone coming, and stepped out of sight and hearing.
It was Pembroke Howard. What could be hatching?
Howard said, with great satisfaction:
"Everything's right and ready. He's gone to the battleground with
his second and the surgeon--also with his brother. I've arranged it
all with Wilson--Wilson's his second. We are to have three shots apiece."
"Good! How is the moon?"
"Bright as day, nearly. Perfect, for the distance--fifteen yards.
No wind--not a breath; hot and still."
"All good; all first-rate. Here, Pembroke, read this, and witness it."
Pembroke read and witnessed the will, then gave the old man's hand
a hearty shake and said:
"Now that's right, York--but I knew you would do it. You couldn't
leave that poor chap to fight along without means or profession,
with certain defeat before him, and I knew you wouldn't, for his
father's sake if not for his own."
"For his dead father's sake, I couldn't, I know; for poor Percy--
but you know what Percy was to me. But mind--Tom is not to know
of this unless I fall tonight."
"I understand. I'll keep the secret."
The judge put the will away, and the two started for the battleground.
In another minute the will was in Tom's hands.
His misery vanished, his feelings underwent a tremendous revulsion.
He put the will carefully back in its place, and spread his mouth
and swung his hat once, twice, three times around his head,
in imitation of three rousing huzzahs, no sound issuing from his lips.
He fell to communing with himself excitedly and joyously,
but every now and then he let off another volley of dumb hurrahs.
He said to himself: "I've got the fortune again, but I'll not let on
that I know about it. And this time I'm gong to hang on to it.
I take no more risks. I'll gamble no more, I'll drink no more,
because--well, because I'll not go where there is any of that sort of
thing going on, again. It's the sure way, and the only sure way;
I might have thought of that sooner--well, yes, if I had wanted to.
But now--dear me, I've had a scare this time, and I'll take
no more chances. Not a single chance more. Land! I persuaded myself
this evening that I could fetch him around without any great amount
of effort, but I've been getting more and more heavyhearted and
doubtful straight along, ever since. If he tells me about this thing,
all right; but if he doesn't, I sha'n't let on. I--well, I'd like to tell
Pudd'nhead Wilson, but--no, I'll think about that; perhaps I won't."
He whirled off another dead huzzah, and said, "I'm reformed,
and this time I'll stay so, sure!"
He was about to close with a final grand silent demonstration,
when he suddenly recollected that Wilson had put it out of his power
to pawn or sell the Indian knife, and that he was once more in
awful peril of exposure by his creditors for that reason.
His joy collapsed utterly, and he turned away and moped toward
the door moaning and lamenting over the bitterness of his luck.
He dragged himself upstairs, and brooded in his room a long time,
disconsolate and forlorn, with Luigi's Indian knife for a text.
At last he sighed and said:
"When I supposed these stones were glass and this ivory bone,
the thing hadn't any interest for me because it hadn't any value,
and couldn't help me out of my trouble. But now--why, now it is
full of interest; yes, and of a sort to break a body's heart.
It's a bag of gold that has turned to dirt and ashes in my hands.
It could save me, and save me so easily, and yet I've got to go to ruin.
It's like drowning with a life preserver in my reach. All the hard luck
comes to me, and all the good luck goes to other people--
Pudd'nhead Wilson, for instance; even his career has got a sort of
a little start at last, and what has he done to deserve it,
I should like to know? Yes, he has opened his own road,
but he isn't content with that, but must block mine.
It's a sordid, selfish world, and I wish I was out of it."
He allowed the light of the candle to play upon the jewels of the sheath,
but the flashings and sparklings had no charm for his eye;
they were only just so many pangs to his heart. "I must not say
anything to Roxy about this thing," he said. "She is too daring.
She would be for digging these stones out and selling them, and then--
why, she would be arrested and the stones traced, and then--"
The thought made him quake, and he hid the knife away, trembling
all over and glancing furtively about, like a criminal who fancies that
the accuser is already at hand.
Should he try to sleep? Oh, no, sleep was not for him; his trouble
was too haunting, too afflicting for that. He must have somebody
to mourn with. He would carry his despair to Roxy.
He had heard several distant gunshots, but that sort of thing
was not uncommon, and they had made no impression upon him.
He went out at the back door, and turned westward. He passed
Wilson's house and proceeded along the lane, and presently saw
several figures approaching Wilson's place through the vacant lots.
These were the duelists returning from the fight; he thought
he recognized them, but as he had no desire for white people's company,
he stooped down behind the fence until they were out of his way.
Roxy was feeling fine. She said:
"Whah was you, child? Warn't you in it?"
"In what?"
"In de duel."
"Duel? Has there been a duel?"
"Co'se dey has. De ole Jedge has be'n havin' a duel wid one o' dem twins."
"Great Scott!" Then he added to himself: "That's what made him remake
the will; he thought he might get killed, and it softened him toward me.
And that's what he and Howard were so busy about. . . .
Oh dear, if the twin had only killed him, I should be out of my--"
"What is you mumblin' 'bout, Chambers? Whah was you?
Didn't you know dey was gwine to be a duel?"
"No, I didn't. The old man tried to get me to fight one with Count Luigi,
but he didn't succeed, so I reckon he concluded to patch up
the family honor himself."
He laughed at the idea, and went rambling on with a detailed account
of his talk with the judge, and how shocked and ashamed the judge was
to find that he had a coward in his family. He glanced up at last,
and got a shock himself. Roxana's bosom was heaving with
suppressed passion, and she was glowering down upon
him with measureless contempt written in her face.
"En you refuse' to fight a man dat kicked you, 'stid o' jumpin'
at de chance! En you ain't got no mo' feelin' den to come
en tell me, dat fetched sich a po' lowdown ornery rabbit into
de worl'! Pah! it make me sick! It's de nigger in you,
dat's what it is. Thirty-one parts o' you is white, en on'y one
part nigger, en dat po' little one part is yo' _soul_.
'Tain't wuth savin'; tain't wuth totin' out on a shovel en throwin'
en de gutter. You has disgraced yo' birth. What would yo' pa
think o' you? It's enough to make him turn in his grave.
The last three sentences stung Tom into a fury, and he said to
himself that if his father were only alive and in reach of assassination
his mother would soon find that he had a very clear notion of the
size of his indebtedness to that man, and was willing to pay it
up in full, and would do it too, even at risk of his life;
but he kept this thought to himself; that was safest in his
mother's present state.
"Whatever has come o' yo' Essex blood? Dat's what I can't understan'.
En it ain't on'y jist Essex blood dat's in you, not by a long sight--
'deed it ain't! My great-great-great-gran'father en yo'
great-great-great-great-gran'father was Ole Cap'n John Smith,
de highest blood dat Ole Virginny ever turned out, en _his_
great-great-gran'mother, or somers along back dah, was Pocahontas
de Injun queen, en her husbun' was a nigger king outen Africa--
en yit here you is, a slinkin' outen a duel en disgracin' our
whole line like a ornery lowdown hound! Yes, it's de nigger in you!"
She sat down on her candle box and fell into a reverie.
Tom did not disturb her; he sometimes lacked prudence, but it was not
in circumstances of this kind, Roxana's storm went gradually down,
but it died hard, and even when it seemed to be quite gone,
it would now and then break out in a distant rumble, so to speak,
in the form of muttered ejaculations. One of these was, "Ain't nigger
enough in him to show in his fingernails, en dat takes mighty little--
yit dey's enough to pain his soul."
Presently she muttered. "Yassir, enough to paint a whole thimbleful
of 'em." At last her ramblings ceased altogether, and her countenance
began to clear--a welcome sight to Tom, who had learned her moods,
and knew she was on the threshold of good humor now.
He noticed that from time to time she unconsciously carried her finger
to the end of her nose. He looked closer and said:
"Why, Mammy, the end of your nose is skinned. How did that come?"
She sent out the sort of wholehearted peal of laughter which God had
vouchsafed in its perfection to none but the happy angels in heaven
and the bruised and broken black slave on the earth, and said:
"Dad fetch dat duel, I be'n in it myself."
"Gracious! did a bullet to that?"
"Yassir, you bet it did!"
"Well, I declare! Why, how did that happen?"
"Happened dis-away. I 'uz a-sett'n' here kinder dozin' in de dark,
en _che-bang!_ goes a gun, right out dah. I skips along out towards
t'other end o' de house to see what's gwine on, en stops by de ole winder
on de side towards Pudd'nhead Wilson's house dat ain't got no sash in it--
but dey ain't none of 'em got any sashes, for as dat's concerned--
en I stood dah in de dark en look out, en dar in the moonlight,
right down under me 'uz one o' de twins a-cussin'--not much,
but jist a-cussin' soft--it 'uz de brown one dat 'uz cussin,'
'ca'se he 'uz hit in de shoulder. En Doctor Claypool he 'uz
a-workin' at him, en Pudd'nhead Wilson he 'uz a-he'pin', en ole
Jedge Driscoll en Pem Howard 'uz a-standin' out yonder a little piece
waitin' for 'em to get ready agin. En treckly dey squared off en give
de word, en _bang-bang_ went de pistols, en de twin he say,
'Ouch!'--hit him on de han' dis time --en I hear dat same bullet
go _spat!_ ag'in de logs under de winder; en de nex' time dey shoot,
de twin say, 'Ouch!' ag'in, en I done it too, 'ca'se de bullet glance'
on his cheekbone en skip up here en glance' on de side o' de winder
en whiz right acrost my face en tuck de hide off'n my nose--
why, if I'd 'a'; be'n jist a inch or a inch en a half furder 't
would 'a' tuck de whole nose en disfiggered me. Here's de bullet;
I hunted her up."
"Did you stand there all the time?"
"Dat's a question to ask, ain't it! What else would I do?
Does I git a chance to see a duel every day?"
"Why, you were right in range! Weren't you afraid?"
The woman gave a sniff of scorn.
"'Fraid! De Smith-Pocahontases ain't 'fraid o' nothin', let alone bullets."
"They've got pluck enough, I suppose; what they lack is judgment.
_I_ wouldn't have stood there."
"Nobody's accusin' you!"
"Did anybody else get hurt?"
"Yes, we all got hit 'cep' de blon' twin en de doctor en de seconds.
De Jedge didn't git hurt, but I hear Pudd'nhead say de bullet snip
some o' his ha'r off."
"'George!" said Tom to himself, "to come so near being out
of my trouble, and miss it by an inch. Oh dear, dear, he will
live to find me out and sell me to some nigger trader yet--yes,
and he would do it in a minute." Then he said aloud, in a grave tone:
"Mother, we are in an awful fix."
Roxana caught her breath with a spasm, and said:
"Chile! What you hit a body so sudden for, like dat?
What's be'n en gone en happen'?"
"Well, there's one thing I didn't tell you. When I wouldn't fight,
he tore up the will again, and--"
Roxana's face turned a dead white, and she said:
"Now you's _done!_--done forever! Dat's de end. Bofe un us is gwine
to starve to--"
"Wait and hear me through, can't you! I reckon that when he
resolved to fight, himself, he thought he might get killed and
not have a chance to forgive me any more in this life, so he made
the will again, and I've seen it, and it's all right. But--"
"Oh, thank goodness, den we's safe ag'in!--safe! en so what
did you want to come here en talk sich dreadful--"
"Hold ON, I tell you, and let me finish. The swag I gathered
won't half square me up, and the first thing we know, my creditors--
well, you know what'll happen."
Roxana dropped her chin, and told her son to leave her alone--
she must think this matter out. Presently she said impressively:
"You got to go mighty keerful now, I tell you! En here's what you
got to do. He didn't git killed, en if you gives him de least reason,
he'll bust de will ag'in, en dat's de _las'_ time, now you hear me!
So--you's got to show him what you kin do in de nex' few days.
You got to be pison good, en let him see it; you got to do everything
dat'll make him b'lieve in you, en you got to sweeten aroun' ole Aunt Pratt,
too--she's pow'ful strong with de Jedge, en de bes' frien' you got.
Nex', you'll go 'long away to Sent Louis, en dat'll _keep_ him in yo' favor.
Den you go en make a bargain wid dem people. You tell 'em he ain't gwine
to live long--en dat's de fac', too--en tell 'em you'll pay 'em intrust,
en big intrust, too--ten per--what you call it?"
"Ten percent a month?"
"Dat's it. Den you take and sell yo' truck aroun', a little at a time,
en pay de intrust. How long will it las'?"
"I think there's enough to pay the interest five or six months."
"Den you's all right. If he don't die in six months, dat don't make
no diff'rence--Providence'll provide. You's gwine to be safe--
if you behaves." She bent an austere eye on him and added,
"En you IS gwine to behave--does you know dat?"
He laughed and said he was going to try, anyway. She did not unbend.
She said gravely:
"Tryin' ain't de thing. You's gwine to _do_ it. You ain't gwine
to steal a pin--'ca'se it ain't safe no mo'; en you ain't gwine into
no bad comp'ny--not even once, you understand; en you ain't gwine
to drink a drop--nary a single drop; en you ain't gwine to gamble
one single gamble--not one! Dis ain't what you's gwine to try to do,
it's what you's gwine to DO. En I'll tell you how I knows it.
Dis is how. I's gwine to foller along to Sent Louis my own self;
en you's gwine to come to me every day o' your life, en I'll look
you over; en if you fails in one single one o' dem things--jist _one_--
I take my oath I'll come straight down to dis town en tell de Jedge
you's a nigger en a slave--en _prove_ it!" She paused to let her words
sink home. Then she added, "Chambers, does you b'lieve me when I says dat?"
Tom was sober enough now. There was no levity in his voice
when he answered:
"Yes, Mother, I know, now, that I am reformed--and permanently.
Permanently--and beyond the reach of any human temptation."
"Den g'long home en begin!"
CHAPTER 15
The Robber Robbed
Nothing so needs reforming as other people's habits.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Behold, the fool saith, "Put not all thine eggs in the one basket"--
which is but a manner of saying, "Scatter your money and
your attention"; but the wise man saith, "Put all your eggs in
the one basket and--_watch that basket!_"
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
What a time of it Dawson's Landing was having! All its life
it had been asleep, but now it hardly got a chance for a nod,
so swiftly did big events and crashing surprises come along in one
another's wake: Friday morning, first glimpse of Real Nobility,
also grand reception at Aunt Patsy Cooper's, also great robber raid;
Friday evening, dramatic kicking of the heir of the chief citizen in
presence of four hundred people; Saturday morning, emergence as
practicing lawyer of the long-submerged Pudd'nhead Wilson;
Saturday night, duel between chief citizen and titled stranger.
The people took more pride in the duel than in all the other
events put together, perhaps. It was a glory to their town to have
such a thing happen there. In their eyes the principals had reached
the summit of human honor. Everybody paid homage to their names;
their praises were in all mouths. Even the duelists' subordinates
came in for a handsome share of the public approbation:
wherefore Pudd'nhead Wilson was suddenly become a man of consequence.
When asked to run for the mayoralty Saturday night, he was risking defeat,
but Sunday morning found him a made man and his success assured.
The twins were prodigiously great now; the town took them to its bosom
with enthusiasm. Day after day, and night after night,
they went dining and visiting from house to house, making friends,
enlarging and solidifying their popularity, and charming and surprising
all with their musical prodigies, and now and then heightening the
effects with samples of what they could do in other directions,
out of their stock of rare and curious accomplishments. They were
so pleased that they gave the regulation thirty days' notice,
the required preparation for citizenship, and resolved to finish
their days in this pleasant place. That was the climax.
The delighted community rose as one man and applauded; and when
the twins were asked to stand for seats in the forthcoming
aldermanic board, and consented, the public contentment was
rounded and complete.
Tom Driscoll was not happy over these things; they sunk deep,
and hurt all the way down. He hated the one twin for kicking him,
and the other one for being the kicker's brother.
Now and then the people wondered why nothing was heard of the raider,
or of the stolen knife or the other plunder, but nobody was able
to throw any light on that matter. Nearly a week had drifted by,
and still the thing remained a vexed mystery.
On Sunday Constable Blake and Pudd'nhead Wilson met on the street,
and Tom Driscoll joined them in time to open their conversation for them.
He said to Blake: "You are not looking well, Blake; you seem to be
annoyed about something. Has anything gone wrong in the
detective business? I believe you fairly and justifiably claim
to have a pretty good reputation in that line, isn't it so?"--
which made Blake feel good, and look it; but Tom added,
"for a country detective"--which made Blake feel the other way,
and not only look it, but betray it in his voice.
"Yes, sir, I _have_ got a reputation; and it's as good as
anybody's in the profession, too, country or no country."
"Oh, I beg pardon; I didn't mean any offense. What I started out
to ask was only about the old woman that raided the town--
the stoop-shouldered old woman, you know, that you said you were going
to catch; and I knew you would, too, because you have the reputation
of never boasting, and--well, you--you've caught the old woman?"
"Damn the old woman!"
"Why, sho! you don't mean to say you haven't caught her?"
"No, I haven't caught her. If anybody could have caught her,
I could; but nobody couldn't, I don't care who he is."
I am sorry, real sorry--for your sake; because, when it gets around
that a detective has expressed himself confidently, and then--"
"Don't you worry, that's all--don't you worry; and as for the town,
the town needn't worry either. She's my meat--make yourself easy
about that. I'm on her track; I've got clues that--"
"That's good! Now if you could get an old veteran detective down from
St. Louis to help you find out what the clues mean, and where
they lead to, and then--"
"I'm plenty veteran enough myself, and I don't need anybody's help.
I'll have her inside of a we--inside of a month. That I'll swear to!"
Tom said carelessly:
"I suppose that will answer--yes, that will answer. But I reckon
she is pretty old, and old people don't often outlive the
cautious pace of the professional detective when he has got his
clues together and is out on his still-hunt."
Blake's dull face flushed under this gibe, but before he could set
his retort in order Tom had turned to Wilson, and was saying,
with placid indifference of manner and voice:
"Who got the reward, Pudd'nhead?"
Wilson winced slightly, and saw that his own turn was come.
"What reward?"
"Why, the reward for the thief, and the other one for the knife."
Wilson answered--and rather uncomfortably, to judge by his
hesitating fashion of delivering himself:
"Well, the--well, in face, nobody has claimed it yet."
Tom seemed surprised.
"Why, is that so?"
Wilson showed a trifle of irritation when he replied:
"Yes, it's so. And what of it?"
"Oh, nothing. Only I thought you had struck out a new idea,
and invented a scheme that was going to revolutionize the timeworn
and ineffectual methods of the--" He stopped, and turned to Blake,
who was happy now that another had taken his place on the gridiron.
"Blake, didn't you understand him to intimate that it wouldn't be
necessary for you to hunt the old woman down?"
'B'George, he said he'd have thief and swag both inside of three days--
he did, by hokey! and that's just about a week ago.
Why, I said at the time that no thief and no thief's pal was
going to try to pawn or sell a thing where he knowed the pawnbroker
could get both rewards by taking HIM into camp _with_ the swag.
It was the blessedest idea that ever I struck!"
"You'd change your mind," said Wilson, with irritated bluntness,
"if you knew the entire scheme instead of only part of it."
"Well," said the constable, pensively, "I had the idea that
it wouldn't work, and up to now I'm right anyway."
"Very well, then, let it stand at that, and give it a further show.
It has worked at least as well as your own methods, you perceive."
The constable hadn't anything handy to hit back with,
so he discharged a discontented sniff, and said nothing.
After the night that Wilson had partly revealed his scheme
at his house, Tom had tried for several days to guess out the
secret of the rest of it, but had failed. Then it occurred to
him to give Roxana's smarter head a chance at it. He made up a
supposititious0z H case, and laid it before her. She thought it over,
and delivered her verdict upon it. Tom said to himself,
"She's hit it, sure!" He thought he would test that verdict now,
and watch Wilson's face; so he said reflectively:
"Wilson, you're not a fool--a fact of recent discovery.
Whatever your scheme was, it had sense in it, Blake's opinion to
the contrary notwithstanding. I don't ask you to reveal it,
but I will suppose a case--a case which you will answer as a starting
point for the real thing I am going to come at, and that's all I want.
You offered five hundred dollars for the knife, and five hundred
for the thief. We will suppose, for argument's sake,
that the first reward is _advertised_ and the second offered by
_private letter_ to pawnbrokers and--"
Blake slapped his thigh, and cried out:
"By Jackson, he's got you, Pudd'nhead! Now why couldn't I
or _any_ fool have thought of that?"
Wilson said to himself, "Anybody with a reasonably good head would
have thought of it. I am not surprised that Blake didn't detect it;
I am only surprised that Tom did. There is more to him
than I supposed." He said nothing aloud, and Tom went on:
"Very well. The thief would not suspect that there was a trap,
and he would bring or send the knife, and say he bought it for a song,
or found it in the road, or something like that, and try
to collect the reward, and be arrested--wouldn't he?"
"Yes," said Wilson.
"I think so," said Tom. "There can't be any doubt of it.
Have you ever seen that knife?"
"No."
"Has any friend of yours?"
"Not that I know of."
"Well, I begin to think I understand why your scheme failed."
"What do you mean, Tom? What are you driving at?" asked Wilson,
with a dawning sense of discomfort.
"Why, that there _isn't_ any such knife."
"Look here, Wilson," said Blake, "Tom Driscoll's right,
for a thousand dollars--if I had it."
Wilson's blood warmed a little, and he wondered if he had been played
upon by those strangers; it certainly had something of that look.
But what could they gain by it? He threw out that suggestion.
Tom replied:
"Gain? Oh, nothing that you would value, maybe. But they are strangers
making their way in a new community. Is it nothing to them to appear
as pets of an Oriental prince--at no expense? It is nothing
to them to be able to dazzle this poor town with thousand-dollar
rewards--at no expense? Wilson, there isn't any such knife,
or your scheme would have fetched it to light. Or if there is
any such knife, they've got it yet. I believe, myself,
that they've seen such a knife, for Angelo pictured it out with
his pencil too swiftly and handily for him to have been inventing it,
and of course I can't swear that they've never had it; but this I'll
go bail for--if they had it when they came to this town,
they've got it yet."
Blake said:
"It looks mighty reasonable, the way Tom puts it; it most certainly does."
Tom responded, turning to leave:
"You find the old woman, Blake, and if she can't furnish the knife,
go and search the twins!"
Tom sauntered away. Wilson felt a good deal depressed. He hardly
knew what to think. He was loath to withdraw his faith from the twins,
and was resolved not to do it on the present indecisive evidence;
but--well, he would think, and then decide how to act.
"Blake, what do you think of this matter?"
"Well, Pudd'nhead, I'm bound to say I put it up the way Tom does.
They hadn't the knife; or if they had it, they've got it yet."
The men parted. Wilson said to himself:
"I believe they had it; if it had been stolen, the scheme would have
restored it, that is certain. And so I believe they've got it."
Tom had no purpose in his mind when he encountered those two men.
When he began his talk he hoped to be able to gall them a
little and get a trifle of malicious entertainment out of it.
But when he left, he left in great spirits, for he perceived that
just by pure luck and no troublesome labor he had accomplished
several delightful things: he had touched both men on a raw spot
and seen them squirm; he had modified Wilson's sweetness for the
twins with one small bitter taste that he wouldn't be able to get
out of his mouth right away; and, best of all, he had taken the
hated twins down a peg with the community; for Blake would gossip
around freely, after the manner of detectives, and within a week
the town would be laughing at them in its sleeve for offering a
gaudy reward for a bauble which they either never possessed or
hadn't lost. Tom was very well satisfied with himself.
Tom's behavior at home had been perfect during the entire week.
His uncle and aunt had seen nothing like it before. They could find
no fault with him anywhere.
Saturday evening he said to the Judge:
"I've had something preying on my mind, uncle, and as I am going away,
and might never see you again, I can't bear it any longer.
I made you believe I was afraid to fight that Italian adventurer.
I had to get out of it on some pretext or other, and maybe I
chose badly, being taken unawares, but no honorable person could
consent to meet him in the field, knowing what I knew about him."
"Indeed? What was that?"
"Count Luigi is a confessed assassin."
"Incredible."
"It's perfectly true. Wilson detected it in his hand, by palmistry,
and charged him with it, and cornered him up so close that he had
to confess; but both twins begged us on their knees to keep the secret,
and swore they would lead straight lives here; and it was all
so pitiful that we gave our word of honor never to expose them
while they kept the promise. You would have done it yourself, uncle."
"You are right, my boy; I would. A man's secret is still his
own property, and sacred, when it has been surprised out of him
like that. You did well, and I am proud of you."
Then he added mournfully, "But I wish I could have been saved the
shame of meeting an assassin on the field on honor."
"It couldn't be helped, uncle. If I had known you were going
to challenge him, I should have felt obliged to sacrifice
my pledged word in order to stop it, but Wilson couldn't be
expected to do otherwise than keep silent."
"Oh, no, Wilson did right, and is in no way to blame. Tom, Tom,
you have lifted a heavy load from my heart; I was stung to the very
soul when I seemed to have discovered that I had a coward in my family."
"You may imagine what it cost ME to assume such a part, uncle."
"Oh, I know it, poor boy, I know it. And I can understand how much
it has cost you to remain under that unjust stigma to this time.
But it is all right now, and no harm is done. You have restored
my comfort of mind, and with it your own; and both of us
had suffered enough."
The old man sat awhile plunged in thought; then he looked up
with a satisfied light in his eye, and said: "That this assassin
should have put the affront upon me of letting me meet him on the
field of honor as if he were a gentleman is a matter which I will
presently settle--but not now. I will not shoot him until after election.
I see a way to ruin them both before; I will attend to that first.
Neither of them shall be elected, that I promise.
You are sure that the fact that he is an assassin has not got abroad?"
"Perfectly certain of it, sir."
"It will be a good card. I will fling a hint at it from the stump
on the polling day. It will sweep the ground from under both of them."
"There's not a doubt of it. It will finish them."
"That and outside work among the voters will, to a certainty.
I want you to come down here by and by and work privately among
the rag-tag and bobtail. You shall spend money among them;
I will furnish it."
Another point scored against the detested twins! Really it was
a great day for Tom. He was encouraged to chance a parting shot, now,
at the same target, and did it.
"You know that wonderful Indian knife that the twins have been making
such a to-do about? Well, there's no track or trace of it yet;
so the town is beginning to sneer and gossip and laugh.
Half the people believe they never had any such knife,
the other half believe they had it and have got it still.
I've heard twenty people talking like that today."
Yes, Tom's blemishless week had restored him to the favor of
his aunt and uncle.
His mother was satisfied with him, too. Privately, she believed she
was coming to love him, but she did not say so. She told him to
go along to St. Louis now, and she would get ready and follow.
Then she smashed her whisky bottle and said:
"Dah now! I's a-gwine to make you walk as straight as a string,
Chambers, en so I's bown, you ain't gwine to git no bad example
out o' yo' mammy. I tole you you couldn't go into no bad comp'ny.
Well, you's gwine into my comp'ny, en I's gwine to fill de bill.
Now, den, trot along, trot along!"
Tom went aboard one of the big transient boats that night with
his heavy satchel of miscellaneous plunder, and slept the sleep
of the unjust, which is serener and sounder than the other kind,
as we know by the hanging-eve history of a million rascals.
But when he got up in the morning, luck was against him again:
a brother thief had robbed him while he slept, and gone ashore at
some intermediate landing.
CHAPTER 16
Sold Down the River
If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous,
he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a
dog and a man.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
We all know about the habits of the ant, we know all about
the habits of the bee, but we know nothing at all about the
habits of the oyster. It seems almost certain that we have been
choosing the wrong time for studying the oyster.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
When Roxana arrived, she found her son in such despair and
misery that her heart was touched and her motherhood rose up
strong in her. He was ruined past hope now; his destruction
would be immediate and sure, and he would be an outcast and friendless.
That was reason enough for a mother to love a child;
so she loved him, and told him so. It made him wince, secretly--
for she was a "nigger." That he was one himself was far from
reconciling him to that despised race.
Roxana poured out endearments upon him, to which he
responded uncomfortably, but as well as he could.
And she tried to comfort him, but that was not possible.
These intimacies quickly became horrible to him, and within the hour
began to try to get up courage enough to tell her so, and require
that they be discontinued or very considerably modified.
But he was afraid of her; and besides, there came a lull now,
for she had begun to think. She was trying to invent a saving plan.
Finally she started up, and said she had found a way out. Tom was almost
suffocated by the joy of this sudden good news. Roxana said:
"Here is de plan, en she'll win, sure. I's a nigger,
en nobody ain't gwine to doubt it dat hears me talk.
I's wuth six hund'd dollahs. Take en sell me,
en pay off dese gamblers."
Tom was dazed. He was not sure he had heard aright.
He was dumb for a moment; then he said:
"Do you mean that you would be sold into slavery to save me?"
"Ain't you my chile? En does you know anything dat a mother
won't do for her chile? Day ain't nothin' a white mother won't
do for her chile. Who made 'em so? De Lord done it.
En who made de niggers? De Lord made 'em. In de inside, mothers is all
de same. De good lord he made 'em so. I's gwine to be sole into
slavery, en in a year you's gwine to buy yo' ole mammy free ag'in.
I'll show you how. Dat's de plan."
Tom's hopes began to rise, and his spirits along with them. He said:
"It's lovely of you, Mammy--it's just--"
"Say it ag'in! En keep on sayin' it! It's all de pay a
body kin want in dis worl', en it's mo' den enough.
Laws bless you, honey, when I's slav' aroun', en dey 'buses me,
if I knows you's a-sayin' dat, 'way off yonder somers,
it'll heal up all de sore places, en I kin stan' 'em."
"I DO say it again, Mammy, and I'll keep on saying it, too.
But how am I going to sell you? You're free, you know."
"Much diff'rence dat make! White folks ain't partic'lar.
De law kin sell me now if dey tell me to leave de state in six
months en I don't go. You draw up a paper--bill o' sale--
en put it 'way off yonder, down in de middle o' Kaintuck somers,
en sign some names to it, en say you'll sell me cheap 'ca'se you's
hard up; you'll find you ain't gwine to have no trouble.
You take me up de country a piece, en sell me on a farm;
dem people ain't gwine to ask no questions if I's a bargain."
Tom forged a bill of sale and sold him mother to an Arkansas
cotton planter for a trifle over six hundred dollars.
He did not want to commit this treachery, but luck threw the man in his way,
and this saved him the necessity of going up-country to hunt up a purchaser,
with the added risk of having to answer a lot of questions,
whereas this planter was so pleased with Roxy that he
asked next to none at all. Besides, the planter insisted that
Roxy wouldn't know where she was, at first, and that by the time
she found out she would already have been contented.
So Tom argued with himself that it was an immense advantaged
for Roxy to have a master who was pleased with her, as this
planter manifestly was. In almost no time his flowing reasonings
carried him to the point of even half believing he was doing Roxy
a splendid surreptitious service in selling her "down the river."
And then he kept diligently saying to himself all the time:
"It's for only a year. In a year I buy her free again;
she'll keep that in mind, and it'll reconcile her." Yes; the little
deception could do no harm, and everything would come out right
and pleasant in the end, anyway. By agreement, the conversation
in Roxy's presence was all about the man's "up-country" farm,
and how pleasant a place it was, and how happy the slaves were there;
so poor Roxy was entirely deceived; and easily, for she was not
dreaming that her own son could be guilty of treason to a mother who,
in voluntarily going into slavery--slavery of any kind,
mild or severe, or of any duration, brief or long--was making a
sacrifice for him compared with which death would have been a
poor and commonplace one. She lavished tears and loving caresses
upon him privately, and then went away with her owner--
went away brokenhearted, and yet proud to do it.
Tom scored his accounts, and resolved to keep to the very
letter of his reform, and never to put that will in jeopardy
again. He had three hundred dollars left. According to his
mother's plan, he was to put that safely away, and add her half
of his pension to it monthly. In one year this fund would buy
her free again.
For a whole week he was not able to sleep well, so much the
villainy which he had played upon his trusting mother preyed upon
his rag of conscience; but after that he began to get comfortable again,
and was presently able to sleep like any other miscreant.
The boat bore Roxy away from St. Louis at four in the afternoon,
and she stood on the lower guard abaft the paddle box
and watched Tom through a blur of tears until he melted into the
throng of people and disappeared; then she looked no more,
but sat there on a coil of cable crying till far into the night.
When she went to her foul steerage bunk at last, between the
clashing engines, it was not to sleep, but only to wait for the
morning, and, waiting, grieve.
It had been imagined that she "would not know," and would
think she was traveling upstream. She! Why, she had been
steamboating for years. At dawn she got up and went listlessly
and sat down on the cable coil again. She passed many a snag
whose "break" could have told her a thing to break her heart,
for it showed a current moving in the same direction that the boat
was going; but her thoughts were elsewhere, and she did not notice.
But at last the roar of a bigger and nearer break than
usual brought her out of her torpor, and she looked up,
and her practiced eye fell upon that telltale rush of water.
For one moment her petrified gaze fixed itself there.
Then her head dropped upon her breast, and she said:
"Oh, de good Lord God have mercy on po' sinful me--
I'S SOLE DOWN DE RIVER!"
CHAPTER 17
The Judge Utters Dire Prophesy
Even popularity can be overdone. In Rome, along at first,
you are full of regrets that Michelangelo died; but by and by,
you only regret that you didn't see him do it.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
JULY 4. Statistics show that we lose more fools on this day
than in all the other days of the year put together.
This proves, by the number left in stock, that one Fourth of
July per year is now inadequate, the country has grown so.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
The summer weeks dragged by, and then the political campaign opened--
opened in pretty warm fashion, and waxed hotter and hotter daily.
The twins threw themselves into it with their whole heart,
for their self-love was engaged. Their popularity,
so general at first, had suffered afterward; mainly because they
had been TOO popular, and so a natural reaction had followed.
Besides, it had been diligently whispered around that it was
curious--indeed, VERY curious--that that wonderful knife of
theirs did not turn up--IF it was so valuable, or IF it had ever existed.
And with the whisperings went chucklings and nudgings and winks,
and such things have an effect. The twins considered
that success in the election would reinstate them, and that
defeat would work them irreparable damage. Therefore they worked hard,
but not harder than Judge Driscoll and Tom worked against
them in the closing days of the canvass. Tom's conduct had
remained so letter-perfect during two whole months now, that his
uncle not only trusted him with money with which to persuade voters,
but trusted him to go and get it himself out of the safe
in the private sitting room.
The closing speech of the campaign was made by Judge Driscoll,
and he made it against both of the foreigners. It was
disastrously effective. He poured out rivers of ridicule upon them,
and forced the big mass meeting to laugh and applaud.
He scoffed at them as adventures, mountebanks, sideshow riffraff,
dime museum freaks; he assailed their showy titles with
measureless derision; he said they were back-alley barbers
disguised as nobilities, peanut peddlers masquerading as
gentlemen, organ-grinders bereft of their brother monkey.
At last he stopped and stood still. He waited until the place had
become absolutely silent and expectant, then he delivered his
deadliest shot; delivered it with ice-cold seriousness and
deliberation, with a significant emphasis upon the closing words:
he said he believed that the reward offered for the lost knife
was humbug and bunkum, and that its owner would know where to
find it whenever he should have occasion TO ASSASSINATE SOMEBODY.
Then he stepped from the stand, leaving a startled and
impressive hush behind him instead of the customary explosion of
cheers and party cries.
The strange remark flew far and wide over the town and made
an extraordinary sensation. Everybody was asking, "What could he
mean by that?" And everybody went on asking that question,
but in vain; for the judge only said he knew what he was talking about,
and stopped there; Tom said he hadn't any idea what his uncle meant,
and Wilson, whenever he was asked what he thought it meant,
parried the question by asking the questioner what HE thought it meant.
Wilson was elected, the twins were defeated--crushed,
in fact, and left forlorn and substantially friendless.
Tom went back to St. Louis happy.
Dawson's Landing had a week of repose now, and it needed it.
But it was in an expectant state, for the air was full of rumors
of a new duel. Judge Driscoll's election labors had prostrated him,
but it was said that as soon as he was well enough to
entertain a challenge he would get one from Count Luigi.
The brothers withdrew entirely from society, and nursed
their humiliation in privacy. They avoided the people, and wait
out for exercise only late at night, when the streets were deserted.
CHAPTER 18
Roxana Commands
Gratitude and treachery are merely the two extremities of
the same procession. You have seen all of it that is worth
staying for when the band and the gaudy officials have gone by.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
THANKSGIVING DAY. Let us all give humble, hearty, and
sincere thanks now, but the turkeys. In the island of Fiji they
do not use turkeys; they use plumbers. It does not become you
and me to sneer at Fiji.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
The Friday after the election was a rainy one in St. Louis.
It rained all day long, and rained hard, apparently trying its
best to wash that soot-blackened town white, but of course not
succeeding. Toward midnight Tom Driscoll arrived at his lodgings
from the theater in the heavy downpour, and closed his umbrella
and let himself in; but when he would have shut the door,
he found that there was another person entering--doubtless another lodger;
this person closed the door and tramped upstairs behind Tom.
Tom found his door in the dark, and entered it, and turned
up the gas. When he faced about, lightly whistling, he saw the
back of a man. The man was closing and locking his door from him.
His whistle faded out and he felt uneasy. The man turned around,
a wreck of shabby old clothes, sodden with rain and all a-drip,
and showed a black face under an old slouch hat. Tom was frightened.
He tried to order the man out, but the words refused to come,
and the other man got the start. He said, in a low voice:
"Keep still--I's yo' mother!"
Tom sunk in a heap on a chair, and gasped out:
"It was mean of me, and base--I know it; but I meant it for
the best, I did indeed--I can swear it."
Roxana stood awhile looking mutely down on him while he
writhed in shame and went on incoherently babbling self-accusations
mixed with pitiful attempts at explanation and
palliation of his crime; then she seated herself and took off her hat,
and her unkept masses of long brown hair tumbled down about her shoulders.
"It warn't no fault o' yo'n dat dat ain't gray," she said sadly,
noticing the hair.
"I know it, I know it! I'm a scoundrel. But I swear I
meant it for the best. It was a mistake, of course,
but I thought it was for the best, I truly did."
Roxana began to cry softly, and presently words began to
find their way out between her sobs. They were uttered
lamentingly, rather than angrily.
"Sell a pusson down de river--DOWN DE RIVER!--for de bes'!
I wouldn't treat a dog so! I is all broke down and en wore out
now, en so I reckon it ain't in me to storm aroun' no mo',
like I used to when I 'uz trompled on en 'bused. I don't know--
but maybe it's so. Leastways, I's suffered so much dat mournin' seem
to come mo' handy to me now den stormin'."
These words should have touched Tom Driscoll, but if they did,
that effect was obliterated by a stronger one--one which
removed the heavy weight of fear which lay upon him, and gave his
crushed spirit a most grateful rebound, and filled all his small
soul with a deep sense of relief. But he kept prudently still,
and ventured no comment. There was a voiceless interval of some
duration now, in which no sounds were heard but the beating of
the rain upon the panes, the sighing and complaining of the
winds, and now and then a muffled sob from Roxana.
The sobs became more and more infrequent, and at least ceased.
Then the refugee began to talk again.
"Shet down dat light a little. More. More yit. A pusson
dat is hunted don't like de light. Dah--dat'll do. I kin see
whah you is, en dat's enough. I's gwine to tell you de tale,
en cut it jes as short as I kin, en den I'll tell you what you's got to do.
Dat man dat bought me ain't a bad man; he's good enough,
as planters goes; en if he could 'a' had his way I'd 'a' be'n a
house servant in his fambly en be'n comfortable: but his wife
she was a Yank, en not right down good lookin', en she riz up
agin me straight off; so den dey sent me out to de quarter
'mongst de common fiel' han's. Dat woman warn't satisfied even
wid dat, but she worked up de overseer ag'in' me, she 'uz dat
jealous en hateful; so de overseer he had me out befo' day in de
mawnin's en worked me de whole long day as long as dey'uz any
light to see by; en many's de lashin's I got 'ca'se I couldn't
come up to de work o' de stronges'. Dat overseer wuz a Yank too,
outen New Englan', en anybody down South kin tell you what dat mean.
DEY knows how to work a nigger to death, en dey knows how
to whale 'em too--whale 'em till dey backs is welted like a washboard.
'Long at fust my marster say de good word for me to
de overseer, but dat 'uz bad for me; for de mistis she fine it
out, en arter dat I jist ketched it at every turn--dey warn't no
mercy for me no mo'."
Tom's heart was fired--with fury against the planter's wife;
and he said to himself, "But for that meddlesome fool,
everything would have gone all right." He added a deep and bitter
curse against her.
The expression of this sentiment was fiercely written in his face,
and stood thus revealed to Roxana by a white glare of
lightning which turned the somber dusk of the room into dazzling
day at that moment. She was pleased--pleased and grateful;
for did not that expression show that her child was capable of
grieving for his mother's wrongs and a feeling resentment toward
her persecutors?--a thing which she had been doubting.
But her flash of happiness was only a flash, and went out again and
left her spirit dark; for she said to herself, "He sole me down de river--
he can't feel for a body long; dis'll pass en go."
Then she took up her tale again.
"'Bout ten days ago I 'uz sayin' to myself dat I couldn't
las' many mo' weeks I 'uz so wore out wid de awful work en de
lashin's, en so downhearted en misable. En I didn't care no mo',
nuther--life warn't wuth noth'n' to me, if I got to go on like
dat. Well, when a body is in a frame o' mine like dat, what do a
body care what a body do? Dey was a little sickly nigger wench
'bout ten year ole dat 'uz good to me, en hadn't no mammy,
po' thing, en I loved her en she loved me; en she come out whah I uz'
workin' en she had a roasted tater, en tried to slip it to me--
robbin' herself, you see, 'ca'se she knowed de overseer didn't
give me enough to eat--en he ketched her at it, en giver her a
lick acrost de back wid his stick, which 'uz as thick as a broom handle,
en she drop' screamin' on de groun', en squirmin' en
wallerin' aroun' in de dust like a spider dat's got crippled.
I couldn't stan' it. All de hellfire dat 'uz ever in my heart
flame' up, en I snatch de stick outen his han' en laid him flat.
He laid dah moanin' en cussin', en all out of his head, you know,
en de niggers 'uz plumb sk'yred to death. Dey gathered roun' him
to he'p him, en I jumped on his hoss en took out for de river as
tight as I could go. I knowed what dey would do wid me. Soon as
he got well he would start in en work me to death if marster let him;
en if dey didn't do dat, they'd sell me furder down de river,
en dat's de same thing. so I 'lowed to drown myself en
git out o' my troubles. It 'uz gitt'n' towards dark. I 'uz at
de river in two minutes. Den I see a canoe, en I says dey ain't
no use to drown myself tell I got to; so I ties de hoss in de
edge o' de timber en shove out down de river, keepin' in under de
shelter o' de bluff bank en prayin' for de dark to shet down quick.
I had a pow'ful good start, 'ca'se de big house 'uz three
mile back f'om de river en on'y de work mules to ride dah on, en
on'y niggers ride 'em, en DEY warn't gwine to hurry--dey'd gimme
all de chance dey could. Befo' a body could go to de house en
back it would be long pas' dark, en dey couldn't track de hoss en
fine out which way I went tell mawnin', en de niggers would tell
'em all de lies dey could 'bout it.
"Well, de dark come, en I went on a-spinnin' down de river.
I paddled mo'n two hours, den I warn't worried no mo', so I quit
paddlin' en floated down de current, considerin' what I 'uz gwine
to do if I didn't have to drown myself. I made up some plans,
en floated along, turnin' 'em over in my mine. Well, when it 'uz a
little pas' midnight, as I reckoned, en I had come fifteen or
twenty mile, I see de lights o' a steamboat layin' at de bank,
whah dey warn't no town en no woodyard, en putty soon I ketched
de shape o' de chimbly tops ag'in' de stars, en den good gracious me,
I 'most jumped out o' my skin for joy! It 'uz de GRAN' MOGUL--
I 'uz chambermaid on her for eight seasons in de Cincinnati en
Orleans trade. I slid 'long pas'--don't see nobody stirrin' nowhah--
hear 'em a-hammerin' away in de engine room, den I knowed
what de matter was--some o' de machinery's broke. I got asho'
below de boat and turn' de canoe loose, den I goes 'long up, en
dey 'uz jes one plank out, en I step' 'board de boat. It 'uz
pow'ful hot, deckhan's en roustabouts 'uz sprawled aroun' asleep
on de fo'cas'l', de second mate, Jim Bangs, he sot dah on de
bitts wid his head down, asleep--'ca'se dat's de way de second
mate stan' de cap'n's watch!--en de ole watchman, Billy Hatch,
he 'uz a-noddin' on de companionway;--en I knowed 'em all; en, lan',
but dey did look good! I says to myself, I wished old marster'd
come along NOW en try to take me--bless yo' heart, I's 'mong
frien's, I is. So I tromped right along 'mongst 'em, en went up
on de b'iler deck en 'way back aft to de ladies' cabin guard,
en sot down dah in de same cheer dat I'd sot in 'mos' a hund'd
million times, I reckon; en it 'uz jist home ag'in, I tell you!
"In 'bout an hour I heard de ready bell jingle, en den de
racket begin. Putty soon I hear de gong strike. 'Set her back
on de outside,' I says to myself. 'I reckon I knows dat music!'
I hear de gong ag'in. 'Come ahead on de inside,' I says.
Gong ag'in. 'Stop de outside.' gong ag'in. 'Come ahead on de outside--
now we's pinted for Sent Louis, en I's outer de woods en
ain't got to drown myself at all.' I knowed de MOGUL 'uz in de
Sent Louis trade now, you see. It 'uz jes fair daylight when we
passed our plantation, en I seed a gang o' niggers en white folks
huntin' up en down de sho', en troublin' deyselves a good deal 'bout me;
but I warn't troublin' myself none 'bout dem.
"'Bout dat time Sally Jackson, dat used to be my second
chambermaid en 'uz head chambermaid now, she come out on de guard,
en 'uz pow'ful glad to see me, en so 'uz all de officers;
en I tole 'em I'd got kidnapped en sole down de river,
en dey made me up twenty dollahs en give it to me, en Sally she rigged
me out wid good clo'es, en when I got here I went straight to
whah you used to wuz, en den I come to dis house, en dey say
you's away but 'spected back every day; so I didn't dast to go
down de river to Dawson's, 'ca'se I might miss you.
"Well, las' Monday I 'uz pass'n by one o' dem places in
fourth street whah deh sticks up runaway nigger bills, en he'ps
to ketch 'em, en I seed my marster! I 'mos' flopped down on de
groun', I felt so gone. He had his back to me, en 'uz talkin' to
de man en givin' him some bills--nigger bills, I reckon, en I's
de nigger. He's offerin' a reward--dat's it. Ain't I right,
don't you reckon?"
Tom had been gradually sinking into a state of ghastly terror,
and he said to himself, now: "I'm lost, no matter what
turn things take! This man has said to me that he thinks there
was something suspicious about that sale. he said he had a
letter from a passenger on the GRAND MOGUL saying that Roxy came
here on that boat and that everybody on board knew all about the case;
so he says that her coming here instead of flying to a free
state looks bad for me, and that if I don't find her for him,
and that pretty soon, he will make trouble for me. I never believed
that story; I couldn't believe she would be so dead to all
motherly instincts as to come here, knowing the risk she would
run of getting me into irremediable trouble. And after all,
here she is! And I stupidly swore I would help find her,
thinking it was a perfectly safe thing to promise. If I venture to
deliver her up, she--she--but how can I help myself? I've got to do
that or pay the money, and where's the money to come from? I--I--well,
I should think that if he would swear to treat her kindly hereafter--
and she says, herself, that he is a good man--and if he would
swear to never allow her to be overworked, or ill fed, or--"
A flash of lightning exposed Tom's pallid face, drawn and
rigid with these worrying thoughts. Roxana spoke up sharply now,
and there was apprehension in her voice.
"Turn up dat light! I want to see yo' face better. Dah now
--lemme look at you. Chambers, you's as white as yo' shirt!
Has you see dat man? Has he be'n to see you?"
"Ye-s."
"When?"
"Monday noon."
"Monday noon! Was he on my track?"
"He--well, he thought he was. That is, he hoped he was.
This is the bill you saw." He took it out of his pocket.
"Read it to me!"
She was panting with excitement, and there was a dusky glow
in her eyes that Tom could not translate with certainty,
but there seemed to be something threatening about it.
The handbill had the usual rude woodcut of a turbaned Negro woman running,
with the customary bundle on a stick over her shoulder, and the
heading in bold type, "$100 REWARD." Tom read the bill aloud--
at least the part that described Roxana and named the master and his
St. Louis address and the address of the Fourth street agency;
but he left out the item that applicants for the reward might
also apply to Mr. Thomas Driscoll.
"Gimme de bill!"
Tom had folded it and was putting it in his pocket.
He felt a chilly streak creeping down his back,
but said as carelessly as he could:
"The bill? Why, it isn't any use to you, you can't read it.
What do you want with it?"
"Gimme de bill!" Tom gave it to her, but with a reluctance
which he could not entirely disguise. "Did you read it ALL to me?"
"Certainly I did."
"Hole up yo' han' en swah to it."
Tom did it. Roxana put the bill carefully away in her pocket,
with her eyes fixed upon Tom's face all the while; then she said:
"Yo's lyin'!"
"What would I want to lie about it for?"
"I don't know--but you is. Dat's my opinion, anyways.
But nemmine 'bout dat. When I seed dat man I 'uz dat sk'yerd dat I
could sca'cely wobble home. Den I give a nigger man a dollar for
dese clo'es, en I ain't be'in in a house sence, night ner day, till now.
I blacked my face en laid hid in de cellar of a ole
house dat's burnt down, daytimes, en robbed de sugar hogsheads en
grain sacks on de wharf, nights, to git somethin' to eat,
en never dast to try to buy noth'n', en I's 'mos' starved.
En I never dast to come near dis place till dis rainy night,
when dey ain't no people roun' sca'cely. But tonight I be'n a-stanin'
in de dark alley ever sence night come, waitin' for you to go by.
En here I is."
She fell to thinking. Presently she said:
"You seed dat man at noon, las' Monday?"
"Yes."
"I seed him de middle o' dat arternoon. He hunted you up, didn't he?"
"Yes."
"Did he give you de bill dat time?"
"No, he hadn't got it printed yet."
Roxana darted a suspicious glance at him.
"Did you he'p him fix up de bill?"
Tom cursed himself for making that stupid blunder, and tried
to rectify it by saying he remember now that it WAS at noon
Monday that the man gave him the bill. Roxana said:
"You's lyin' ag'in, sho." Then she straightened up and raised her finger:
"Now den! I's gwine to ask you a question, en I wants to
know how you's gwine to git aroun' it. You knowed he 'uz arter me;
en if you run off, 'stid o' stayin' here to he'p him,
he'd know dey 'uz somethin' wrong 'bout dis business, en den he would
inquire 'bout you, en dat would take him to yo' uncle, en yo'
uncle would read de bill en see dat you be'n sellin' a free
nigger down de river, en you know HIM, I reckon! He'd t'ar up de
will en kick you outen de house. Now, den, you answer me dis
question: hain't you tole dat man dat I would be sho' to come here,
en den you would fix it so he could set a trap en ketch me?"
Tom recognized that neither lies nor arguments could help
him any longer--he was in a vise, with the screw turned on,
and out of it there was no budging. His face began to take on an
ugly look, and presently he said, with a snarl:
"Well, what could I do? You see, yourself, that I was in
his grip and couldn't get out."
Roxy scorched him with a scornful gaze awhile, then she said:
"What could you do? You could be Judas to yo' own mother to
save yo' wuthless hide! Would anybody b'lieve it?
No--a dog couldn't! You is de lowdownest orneriest hound dat was ever
pup'd into dis worl'--en I's 'sponsible for it!"--and she spat on him.
He made no effort to resent this. Roxy reflected a moment,
then she said:
"Now I'll tell you what you's gwine to do. You's gwine to
give dat man de money dat you's got laid up, en make him wait
till you kin go to de judge en git de res' en buy me free agin."
"Thunder! What are you thinking of? Go and ask him for
three hundred dollars and odd? What would I tell him I want it
for, pray?"
Roxy's answer was delivered in a serene and level voice.
"You'll tell him you's sole me to pay yo' gamblin' debts en
dat you lied to me en was a villain, en dat I 'quires you to git
dat money en buy me back ag'in."
"Why, you've gone stark mad! He would tear the will to
shreads in a minute--don't you know that?"
"Yes, I does."
"Then you don't believe I'm idiot enough to go to him, do you?"
"I don't b'lieve nothin' 'bout it--I KNOWS you's a-goin'.
I knows it 'ca'se you knows dat if you don't raise dat money I'll
go to him myself, en den he'll sell YOU down de river, en you kin
see how you like it!"
Tom rose, trembling and excited, and there was an evil light in his eye.
He strode to the door and said he must get out of
this suffocating place for a moment and clear his brain in the
fresh air so that he could determine what to do.
The door wouldn't open. Roxy smiled grimly, and said:
"I's got the key, honey--set down. You needn't cle'r up yo'
brain none to fine out what you gwine to do--_I_ knows what you's
gwine to do." Tom sat down and began to pass his hands through
his hair with a helpless and desperate air.
Roxy said, "Is dat man in dis house?"
Tom glanced up with a surprised expression, and asked:
"What gave you such an idea?"
"You done it. Gwine out to cle'r yo' brain! In de fust
place you ain't got none to cle'r, en in de second place yo'
ornery eye tole on you. You's de lowdownest hound dat ever--
but I done told you dat befo'. Now den, dis is Friday.
You kin fix it up wid dat man, en tell him you's gwine away to
git de res' o' de money, en dat you'll be back wid it nex' Tuesday,
or maybe Wednesday. You understan'?"
Tom answered sullenly: "Yes."
"En when you gits de new bill o' sale dat sells me to my own self,
take en send it in de mail to Mr. Pudd'nhead Wilson,
en write on de back dat he's to keep it tell I come. You understan'?"
"Yes."
"Dat's all den. Take yo' umbreller, en put on yo' hat."
"Why?"
"Beca'se you's gwine to see me home to de wharf. You see dis knife?
I's toted it aroun' sence de day I seed dat man en bought dese clo'es en it.
If he ketch me, I's gwine to kill myself wid it. Now start along,
en go sof', en lead de way; en if you gives a sign in dis house,
or if anybody comes up to you in de street, I's gwine to jam it
right into you. Chambers, does you b'lieve me when I says dat?"
"It's no use to bother me with that question. I know your word's good."
"Yes, it's diff'rent from yo'n! Shet de light out en move along--
here's de key."
They were not followed. Tom trembled every time a late
straggler brushed by them on the street, and half expected to
feel the cold steel in his back. Roxy was right at his heels and
always in reach. After tramping a mile they reached a wide
vacancy on the deserted wharves, and in this dark and rainy
desert they parted.
As Tom trudged home his mind was full of dreary thoughts and
wild plans; but at last he said to himself, wearily:
"There is but the one way out. I must follow her plan.
But with a variation--I will not ask for the money and ruin myself;
I will ROB the old skinflint."
CHAPTER 19
The Prophesy Realized
Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a
good example.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
It were not best that we should all think alike; it is
difference of opinion that makes horse races.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Dawson's Landing was comfortably finishing its season of
dull repose and waiting patiently for the duel.
Count Luigi was waiting, too; but not patiently, rumor said.
Sunday came, and Luigi insisted on having his challenge conveyed.
Wilson carried it. Judge Driscoll declined to fight with an assassin--
"that is," he added significantly, "in the field of honor."
Elsewhere, of course, he would be ready. Wilson tried to
convince him that if he had been present himself when Angelo told
him about the homicide committed by Luigi, he would not have
considered the act discreditable to Luigi; but the obstinate old
man was not to be moved.
Wilson went back to his principal and reported the failure
of his mission. Luigi was incensed, and asked how it could be
that the old gentleman, who was by no means dull-witted, held his
trifling nephew's evidence in inferences to be of more value than Wilson's.
But Wilson laughed, and said:
"That is quite simple; that is easily explicable.
I am not his doll--his baby--his infatuation: his nature is.
The judge and his late wife never had any children.
The judge and his wife were past middle age when this treasure
fell into their lap. One must make allowances for a parental instinct
that has been starving for twenty-five or thirty years.
It is famished, it is crazed wit hunger by that time, and will be
entirely satisfied with anything that comes handy; its taste is atrophied,
it can't tell mud cat from shad. A devil born to a young couple is
measurably recognizable by them as a devil before long,
but a devil adopted by an old couple is an angel to them,
and remains so, through thick and thin. Tom is this old man's angel;
he is infatuated with him. Tom can persuade him into things which
other people can't--not all things; I don't mean that,
but a good many--particularly one class of things: the things that
create or abolish personal partialities or prejudices in the old
man's mind. The old man liked both of you. Tom conceived a
hatred for you. That was enough; it turned the old man around at once.
The oldest and strongest friendship must go to the ground
when one of these late-adopted darlings throws a brick at it."
"It's a curious philosophy," said Luigi.
"It ain't philosophy at all--it's a fact. And there is
something pathetic and beautiful about it, too. I think there is
nothing more pathetic than to see one of these poor old childless
couples taking a menagerie of yelping little worthless dogs to
their hearts; and then adding some cursing and squawking parrots
and a jackass-voiced macaw; and next a couple of hundred
screeching songbirds, and presently some fetid guinea pigs and
rabbits, and a howling colony of cats. It is all a groping and
ignorant effort to construct out of base metal and brass filings,
so to speak, something to take the place of that golden treasure
denied them by Nature, a child. But this is a digression.
The unwritten law of this region requires you to kill Judge Driscoll
on sight, and he and the community will expect that attention at
your hands--though of course your own death by his bullet will
answer every purpose. Look out for him! Are you healed--that is, fixed?"
"Yes, he shall have his opportunity. If he attacks me, I will respond."
As Wilson was leaving, he said:
"The judge is still a little used up by his campaign work,
and will not get out for a day or so; but when he does get out,
you want to be on the alert."
About eleven at night the twins went out for exercise,
and started on a long stroll in the veiled moonlight.
Tom Driscoll had landed at Hackett's Store, two miles below Dawson's,
just about half an hour earlier, the only passenger for
that lonely spot, and had walked up the shore road and entered
Judge Driscoll's house without having encountered anyone either
on the road or under the roof.
He pulled down his window blinds and lighted his candle.
He laid off his coat and hat and began his preparations.
He unlocked his trunk and got his suit of girl's clothes out from
under the male attire in it, and laid it by. Then he blacked his
face with burnt cork and put the cork in his pocket.
His plan was to slip down to his uncle's private sitting room below,
pass into the bedroom, steal the safe key from the old gentleman's
clothes, and then go back and rob the safe. He took up his
candle to start. His courage and confidence were high,
up to this point, but both began to waver a little now.
Suppose he should make a noise, by some accident, and get caught--
say, in the act of opening the safe? Perhaps it would be well to go armed.
He took the Indian knife from its hiding place, and felt
a pleasant return of his wandering courage. He slipped
stealthily down the narrow stair, his hair rising and his pulses
halting at the slightest creak. When he was halfway down, he was
disturbed to perceive that the landing below was touched by a
faint glow of light. What could that mean? Was his uncle still up?
No, that was not likely; he must have left his night taper
there when he went to bed. Tom crept on down, pausing at every
step to listen. He found the door standing open, and glanced it.
What he saw pleased him beyond measure. His uncle was asleep on
the sofa; on a small table at the head of the sofa a lamp was
burning low, and by it stood the old man's small cashbox, closed.
Near the box was a pile of bank notes and a piece of paper
covered with figured in pencil. The safe door was not open.
Evidently the sleeper had wearied himself with work upon his
finances, and was taking a rest.
Tom set his candle on the stairs, and began to make his way
toward the pile of notes, stooping low as he went.
When he was passing his uncle, the old man stirred in his sleep,
and Tom stopped instantly--stopped, and softly drew the knife from its
sheath, with his heart thumping, and his eyes fastened upon his
benefactor's face. After a moment or two he ventured forward
again--one step--reached for his prize and seized it, dropping
the knife sheath. Then he felt the old man's strong grip upon him,
and a wild cry of "Help! help!" rang in his ear.
Without hesitation he drove the knife home--and was free.
Some of the notes escaped from his left hand and fell in the blood on
the floor. He dropped the knife and snatched them up and started to fly;
transferred them to his left hand, and seized the knife again,
in his fright and confusion, but remembered himself and flung it from him,
as being a dangerous witness to carry away with him.
He jumped for the stair-foot, and closed the door behind him;
and as he snatched his candle and fled upward,
the stillness of the night was broken by the sound of urgent footsteps
approaching the house. In another moment he was in his room,
and the twins were standing aghast over the body of the murdered man!
Tom put on his coat, buttoned his hat under it, threw on his
suit of girl's clothes, dropped the veil, blew out his light,
locked the room door by which he had just entered, taking the key,
passed through his other door into the black hall,
locked that door and kept the key, then worked his way along in the dark
and descended the black stairs. He was not expecting to meet anybody,
for all interest was centered in the other part of the
house now; his calculation proved correct. By the time he was
passing through the backyard, Mrs. Pratt, her servants,
and a dozen half-dressed neighbors had joined the twins and the dead,
and accessions were still arriving at the front door.
As Tom, quaking as with a palsy, passed out at the gate,
three women came flying from the house on the opposite side of the lane.
They rushed by him and in at the gate, asking him what
the trouble was there, but not waiting for an answer.
Tom said to himself, "Those old maids waited to dress--they did the same
thing the night Stevens's house burned down next door."
In a few minutes he was in the haunted house. He lighted a candle and
took off his girl-clothes. There was blood on him all down his
left side, and his right hand was red with the stains of the
blood-soaked notes which he has crushed in it; but otherwise he
was free from this sort of evidence. He cleansed his hand on the straw,
and cleaned most of the smut from his face. Then he burned the male and
female attire to ashes, scattered the ashes,
and put on a disguise proper for a tramp. He blew out his light,
went below, and was soon loafing down the river road with the
intent to borrow and use one of Roxy's devices. He found a canoe
and paddled down downstream, setting the canoe adrift as dawn
approached, and making his way by land to the next village,
where he kept out of sight till a transient steamer came along,
and then took deck passage for St. Louis. He was ill at ease
Dawson's Landing was behind him; then he said to himself,
"All the detectives on earth couldn't trace me now; there's not a
vestige of a clue left in the world; that homicide will take its
place with the permanent mysteries, and people won't get done
trying to guess out the secret of it for fifty years."
In St. Louis, next morning, he read this brief telegram in
the papers--dated at Dawson's Landing:
Judge Driscoll, an old and respected citizen,
was assassinated here about midnight by a profligate Italian nobleman
or a barber on account of a quarrel growing out of the recent election.
The assassin will probably be lynched.
"One of the twins!" soliloquized Tom. "How lucky!
It is the knife that has done him this grace. We never know when
fortune is trying to favor us. I actually cursed Pudd'nhead
Wilson in my heart for putting it out of my power to sell that knife.
I take it back now."
Tom was now rich and independent. He arranged with the
planter, and mailed to Wilson the new bill of sale which sold
Roxana to herself; then he telegraphed his Aunt Pratt:
Have seen the awful news in the papers and am almost
prostrated with grief. Shall start by packet today.
Try to bear up till I come.
When Wilson reached the house of mourning and had gathered
such details as Mrs. Pratt and the rest of the crowd could tell him,
he took command as mayor, and gave orders that nothing
should be touched, but everything left as it was until Justice
Robinson should arrive and take the proper measures as corner.
He cleared everybody out of the room but the twins and himself.
The sheriff soon arrived and took the twins away to jail.
Wilson told them to keep heart, and promised to do it best in their
defense when the case should come to trial. Justice Robinson
came presently, and with him Constable Blake. They examined the
room thoroughly. They found the knife and the sheath.
Wilson noticed that there were fingerprints on the knife's handle.
That pleased him, for the twins had required the earliest comers to
make a scrutiny of their hands and clothes, and neither these
people nor Wilson himself had found any bloodstains upon them.
Could there be a possibility that the twins had spoken the truth
when they had said they found the man dead when they ran into the
house in answer to the cry for help? He thought of that
mysterious girl at once. But this was not the sort of work for a
girl to be engaged in. No matter; Tom Driscoll's room must be examined.
After the coroner's jury had viewed the body and its surroundings,
Wilson suggested a search upstairs, and he went along.
The jury forced an entrance to Tom's room, but found nothing, of course.
The coroner's jury found that the homicide was committed by Luigi,
and that Angelo was accessory to it.
The town was bitter against he misfortunates, and for the
first few days after the murder they were in constant danger of
being lynched. The grand jury presently indicted Luigi for
murder in the first degree, and Angelo as accessory before the fact.
The twins were transferred from the city jail to the
county prison to await trial.
Wilson examined the finger marks on the knife handle and
said to himself, "Neither of the twins made those marks."
Then manifestly there was another person concerned, either in his
own interest or as hired assassin."
But who could it be? That, he must try to find out.
The safe was not opened, the cashbox was closed, and had three
thousand dollars in it. Then robbery was not the motive,
and revenge was. Where had the murdered man an enemy except Luigi?
There was but that one person in the world with a deep grudge against him.
The mysterious girl! The girl was a great trial to Wilson.
If the motive had been robbery, the girl might answer; but there
wasn't any girl that would want to take this old man's life for revenge.
He had no quarrels with girls; he was a gentleman.
Wilson had perfect tracings of the finger marks of the knife handle;
and among his glass records he had a great array of
fingerprints of women and girls, collected during the last
fifteen or eighteen years, but he scanned them in vain,
they successfully withstood every test; among them were no duplicates
of the prints on the knife.
The presence of the knife on the stage of the murder was a
worrying circumstance for Wilson. A week previously he had as
good as admitted to himself that he believed Luigi had possessed
such a knife, and that he still possessed it notwithstanding his
pretense that it had been stolen. And now here was the knife,
and with it the twins. Half the town had said the twins were
humbugging when the claimed they had lost their knife,
and now these people were joyful, and said, "I told you so!"
If their fingerprints had been on the handle--but useless to
bother any further about that; the fingerprints on the handle
were NOT theirs--that he knew perfectly.
Wilson refused to suspect Tom; for first, Tom couldn't
murder anybody--he hadn't character enough; secondly,
if he could murder a person he wouldn't select his doting benefactor
and nearest relative; thirdly, self-interest was in the way;
for while the uncle lived, Tom was sure of a free support and a
chance to get the destroyed will revived again, but with the
uncle gone, that chance was gone too. It was true the will had
really been revived, as was now discovered, but Tom could not
have been aware of it, or he would have spoken of it, in his
native talky, unsecretive way. Finally, Tom was in St. Louis
when the murder was done, and got the news out of the morning journals,
as was shown by his telegram to his aunt. These speculations were
umemphasized sensations rather than articulated thoughts,
for Wilson would have laughed at the idea of seriously
connecting Tom with the murder.
Wilson regarded the case of the twins as desperate--in fact,
about hopeless. For he argued that if a confederate was not found,
an enlightened Missouri jury would hang them; sure;
if a confederate was found, that would not improve the matter,
but simply furnish one more person for the sheriff to hang.
Nothing could save the twins but the discovery of a person who did the
murder on his sole personal account--an undertaking which had all
the aspect of the impossible. Still, the person who made the
fingerprints must be sought. The twins might have no case WITH them,
but they certainly would have none without him.
So Wilson mooned around, thinking, thinking, guessing, guessing,
day and night, and arriving nowhere. Whenever he ran
across a girl or a woman he was not acquainted with, he got her
fingerprints, on one pretext or another; and they always cost him
a sigh when he got home, for they never tallied with the finger
marks on the knife handle.
As to the mysterious girl, Tom swore he knew no such girl,
and did not remember ever seeing a girl wearing a dress like the
one described by Wilson. He admitted that he did not always lock
his room, and that sometimes the servants forgot to lock the
house doors; still, in his opinion the girl must have made but
few visits or she would have been discovered. When Wilson tried
to connect her with the stealing raid, and thought she might have
been the old woman' confederate, if not the very thief disguised
as an old woman, Tom seemed stuck, and also much interested,
and said he would keep a sharp eye out for this person or persons,
although he was afraid that she or they would be too smart to
venture again into a town where everybody would now be on the
watch for a good while to come.
Everybody was pitying Tom, he looked so quiet and sorrowful,
and seemed to feel his great loss so deeply. He was playing a part,
but it was not all a part. The picture of his alleged uncle,
as he had last seen him, was before him in the dark pretty
frequently, when he was away, and called again in his dreams,
when he was asleep. He wouldn't go into the room where the
tragedy had happened. This charmed the doting Mrs. Pratt, who
realized now, "as she had never done before," she said, what a
sensitive and delicate nature her darling had, and how he adored
his poor uncle.
CHAPTER 20
The Murderer Chuckles
Even the clearest and most perfect circumstantial evidence
is likely to be at fault, after all, and therefore ought to be
received with great caution. Take the case of any pencil,
sharpened by any woman; if you have witnesses, you will find she
did it with a knife; but if you take simply the aspect of the
pencil, you will say she did it with her teeth.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
The weeks dragged along, no friend visiting the jailed twins
but their counsel and Aunt Patsy Cooper, and the day of trial
came at last--the heaviest day in Wilson's life; for with all his
tireless diligence he had discovered no sign or trace of the
missing confederate. "Confederate" was the term he had long ago
privately accepted for that person--not as being unquestionably
the right term, but as being the least possibly the right one,
though he was never able to understand why the twins did not
vanish and escape, as the confederate had done, instead of
remaining by the murdered man and getting caught there.
The courthouse was crowded, of course, and would remain so
to the finish, for not only in the town itself, but in the
country for miles around, the trial was the one topic of
conversation among the people. Mrs. Pratt, in deep mourning,
and Tom with a weed on his hat, had seats near Pembroke Howard,
the public prosecutor, and back of them sat a great array of friends
of the family. The twins had but one friend present to keep
their counsel in countenance, their poor old sorrowing landlady.
She sat near Wilson, and looked her friendliest. In the
"nigger corner" sat Chambers; also Roxy, with good clothes on,
and her bill of sale in her pocket. It was her most precious possession,
and she never parted with it, day or night. Tom had allowed her
thirty-five dollars a month ever since he came into his property,
and had said the he and she ought to be grateful to the twins for
making them rich; but had roused such a temper in her by this
speech that he did not repeat the argument afterward. She said
the old judge had treated her child a thousand times better than
he deserved, and had never done her an unkindness in his life;
so she hated these outlandish devils for killing him, and shouldn't
ever sleep satisfied till she saw them hanged for it.
She was here to watch the trial now, and was going to lift up just one
"hooraw" over it if the county judge put her in jail a year for it.
She gave her turbaned head a toss and said, "When dat verdic' comes,
I's gwine to lif' dat ROOF, now, I TELL you."
Pembroke Howard briefly sketched the state's case.
He said he would show by a chain of circumstantial evidence without
break or fault in it anywhere, that the principal prisoner at the bar
committed the murder; that the motive was partly revenge,
and partly a desire to take his own life out of jeopardy, and that
his brother, by his presence, was a consenting accessory to the crime;
a crime which was the basest known to the calendar of
human misdeeds--assassination; that it was conceived by the
blackest of hearts and consummated by the cowardliest of hands;
a crime which had broken a loving sister's heart, blighted the
happiness of a young nephew who was as dear as a son, brought
inconsolable grief to many friends, and sorrow and loss to the
whole community. The utmost penalty of the outraged law would be exacted,
and upon the accused, now present at the bar,
that penalty would unquestionably be executed. He would reserve
further remark until his closing speech.
He was strongly moved, and so also was the whole house;
Mrs. Pratt and several other women were weeping when he sat down,
and many an eye that was full of hate was riveted upon the unhappy prisoners.
Witness after witness was called by the state,
and questioned at length; but the cross questioning was brief.
Wilson knew they could furnish nothing valuable for his side.
People were sorry for Pudd'nhead Wilson; his budding career would
get hurt by this trial.
Several witnesses swore they heard Judge Driscoll say in his
public speech that the twins would be able to find their lost
knife again when they needed it to assassinate somebody with.
This was not news, but now it was seen to have been sorrowfully
prophetic, and a profound sensation quivered through the hushed
courtroom when those dismal words were repeated.
The public prosecutor rose and said that it was within his
knowledge, through a conversation held with Judge Driscoll on the
last day of his life, that counsel for the defense had brought
him a challenge from the person charged at the bar with murder;
that he had refused to fight with a confessed assassin--
"that is, on the field of honor," but had added significantly,
that would would be ready for him elsewhere. Presumably the person
here charged with murder was warned that he must kill or be killed the
first time he should meet Judge Driscoll. If counsel for the
defense chose to let the statement stand so, he would not call
him to the witness stand. Mr. Wilson said he would offer no denial.
[Murmurs in the house: "It is getting worse and worse for Wilson's case."]
Mrs. Pratt testified that she heard no outcry, and did not
know what woke her up, unless it was the sound of rapid footsteps
approaching the front door. She jumped up and ran out in the
hall just as she was, and heard the footsteps flying up the front
steps and then following behind her as she ran to the sitting room.
There she found the accused standing over her murdered brother.
[Here she broke down and sobbed. Sensation in the court.]
Resuming, she said the persons entered behind her were
Mr. Rogers and Mr. Buckstone.
Cross-examined by Wilson, she said the twins proclaimed
their innocence; declared that they had been taking a walk,
and had hurried to the house in response to a cry for help which was
so loud and strong that they had heard it at a considerable
distance; that they begged her and the gentlemen just mentioned
to examine their hands and clothes--which was done, and no blood
stains found.
Confirmatory evidence followed from Rogers and Buckstone.
The finding of the knife was verified, the advertisement
minutely describing it and offering a reward for it was put in evidence,
and its exact correspondence with that description proved.
Then followed a few minor details, and the case for the state was closed.
Wilson said that he had three witnesses, the Misses Clarkson,
who would testify that they met a veiled young woman
leaving Judge Driscoll's premises by the back gate a few minutes
after the cries for help were heard, and that their evidence,
taken with certain circumstantial evidence which he would call to
the court's attention to, would in his opinion convince the court
that there was still one person concerned in this crime who had
not yet been found, and also that a stay of proceedings ought to
be granted, in justice to his clients, until that person should
be discovered. As it was late, he would ask leave to defer the
examination of his three witnesses until the next morning.
The crowd poured out of the place and went flocking away in
excited groups and couples, taking the events of the session over
with vivacity and consuming interest, and everybody seemed to
have had a satisfactory and enjoyable day except the accused,
their counsel, and their old lady friend. There was no cheer among these,
and no substantial hope.
In parting with the twins Aunt Patsy did attempt a good-night with
a gay pretense of hope and cheer in it, but broke down without finishing.
Absolutely secure as Tom considered himself to be,
the opening solemnities of the trial had nevertheless oppressed him
with a vague uneasiness, his being a nature sensitive to even the
smallest alarms; but from the moment that the poverty and
weakness of Wilson's case lay exposed to the court,
he was comfortable once more, even jubilant. He left the courtroom
sarcastically sorry for Wilson. "The Clarksons met an unknown
woman in the back lane," he said to himself, "THAT is his case!
I'll give him a century to find her in--a couple of them if he likes.
A woman who doesn't exist any longer, and the clothes
that gave her her sex burnt up and the ashes thrown away--
oh, certainly, he'll find HER easy enough!" This reflection set him
to admiring, for the hundredth time, the shrewd ingenuities by
which he had insured himself against detection--more, against even suspicion.
"Nearly always in cases like this there is some little
detail or other overlooked, some wee little track or trace left behind,
and detection follows; but here there's not even the
faintest suggestion of a trace left. No more than a bird leaves
when it flies through the air--yes, through the night, you may say.
The man that can track a bird through the air in the dark
and find that bird is the man to track me out and find the
judge's assassin--no other need apply. And that is the job that
has been laid out for poor Pudd'nhead Wilson, of all people in the world!
Lord, it will be pathetically funny to see him
grubbing and groping after that woman that don't exist, and the
right person sitting under his very nose all the time!"
The more he thought the situation over, the more the humor of it
struck him. Finally he said, "I'll never let him hear the last of
that woman. Every time I catch him in company, to his dying day,
I'll ask him in the guileless affectionate way that used to gravel
him so when I inquired how his unborn law business was coming along,
'Got on her track yet--hey, Pudd'nhead?'" He wanted to laugh,
but that would not have answered; there were people about, and he
was mourning for his uncle. He made up his mind that it would be
good entertainment to look in on Wilson that night and watch him
worry over his barren law case and goad him with an exasperating
word or two of sympathy and commiseration now and then.
Wilson wanted no supper, he had no appetite. He got out all
the fingerprints of girls and women in his collection of records
and pored gloomily over them an hour or more, trying to convince
himself that that troublesome girl's marks were there somewhere
and had been overlooked. But it was not so. He drew back his
chair, clasped his hands over his head, and gave himself up to
dull and arid musings.
Tom Driscoll dropped in, an hour after dark, and said with a
pleasant laugh as he took a seat:
"Hello, we've gone back to the amusements of our days of
neglect and obscurity for consolation, have we?" and he took up
one of the glass strips and held it against the light to inspect it.
"Come, cheer up, old man; there's no use in losing your grip
and going back to this child's play merely because this big
sunspot is drifting across your shiny new disk. It'll pass,
and you'll be all right again"--and he laid the glass down.
"Did you think you could win always?"
"Oh, no," said Wilson, with a sigh, "I didn't expect that,
but I can't believe Luigi killed your uncle, and I feel very
sorry for him. It makes me blue. And you would feel as I do, Tom,
if you were not prejudiced against those young fellows."
"I don't know about that," and Tom's countenance darkened,
for his memory reverted to his kicking. "I owe them no good will,
considering the brunet one's treatment of me that night.
Prejudice or no prejudice, Pudd'nhead, I don't like them,
and when they get their deserts you're not going to find me sitting
on the mourner's bench."
He took up another strip of glass, and exclaimed:
"Why, here's old Roxy's label! Are you going to ornament
the royal palaces with nigger paw marks, too? By the date here,
I was seven months old when this was done, and she was nursing me
and her little nigger cub. There's a line straight across her thumbprint.
How comes that?" and Tom held out the piece of glass to Wilson.
"That is common," said the bored man, wearily.
"Scar of a cut or a scratch, usually"--and he took the strip
of glass indifferently, and raised it toward the lamp.
All the blood sank suddenly out of his face; his hand quaked,
and he gazed at the polished surface before him with the
glassy stare of a corpse.
"Great heavens, what's the matter with you, Wilson?
Are you going to faint?"
Tom sprang for a glass of water and offered it, but Wilson
shrank shuddering from him and said:
"No, no!--take it away!" His breast was rising and falling,
and he moved his head about in a dull and wandering way, like a
person who had been stunned. Presently he said, "I shall feel
better when I get to bed; I have been overwrought today;
yes, and overworked for many days."
"Then I'll leave you and let you get to your rest.
Good night, old man." But as Tom went out he couldn't deny himself
a small parting gibe: "Don't take it so hard; a body can't win
every time; you'll hang somebody yet."
Wilson muttered to himself, "It is no lie to say I am sorry
I have to begin with you, miserable dog though you are!"
He braced himself up with a glass of cold whisky, and went
to work again. He did not compare the new finger marks
unintentionally left by Tom a few minutes before on Roxy's glass
with the tracings of the marks left on the knife handle, there
being no need for that (for his trained eye), but busied himself
with another matter, muttering from time to time, "Idiot that I was!--
Nothing but a GIRL would do me--a man in girl's clothes
never occurred to me." First, he hunted out the plate containing
the fingerprints made by Tom when he was twelve years old, and
laid it by itself; then he brought forth the marks made by Tom's
baby fingers when he was a suckling of seven months, and placed
these two plates with the one containing this subject's newly
(and unconsciously) made record
"Now the series is complete," he said with satisfaction,
and sat down to inspect these things and enjoy them.
But his enjoyment was brief. He stared a considerable time
at the three strips, and seemed stupefied with astonishment.
At last he put them down and said, "I can't make it out at all--
hang it, the baby's don't tally with the others!"
He walked the floor for half an hour puzzling over his enigma,
then he hunted out the other glass plates.
He sat down and puzzled over these things a good while,
but kept muttering, "It's no use; I can't understand it.
They don't tally right, and yet I'll swear the names and dates are right,
and so of course they OUGHT to tally. I never labeled one of
these thing carelessly in my life. There is a most extraordinary
mystery here."
He was tired out now, and his brains were beginning to clog.
He said he would sleep himself fresh, and then see what he could
do with this riddle. He slept through a troubled and unrestful hour,
then unconsciousness began to shred away, and presently he
rose drowsily to a sitting posture. "Now what was that dream?"
he said, trying to recall it. "What was that dream? It seemed
to unravel that puz--"
He landed in the middle of the floor at a bound, without
finishing the sentence, and ran and turned up his light and
seized his "records." He took a single swift glance at them and
cried out:
"It's so! Heavens, what a revelation! And for twenty-three
years no man has ever suspected it!"
CHAPTER 21
Doom
He is useless on top of the ground; he ought to be under it,
inspiring the cabbages.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
APRIL 1. This is the day upon which we are reminded of what
we are on the other three hundred and sixty-four.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
Wilson put on enough clothes for business purposes and went
to work under a high pressure of steam. He was awake all over.
All sense of weariness had been swept away by the invigorating
refreshment of the great and hopeful discovery which he had made.
He made fine and accurate reproductions of a number of his
"records," and then enlarged them on a scale of ten to one with
his pantograph. He did these pantograph enlargements on sheets
of white cardboard, and made each individual line of the
bewildering maze of whorls or curves or loops which consisted of
the "pattern" of a "record" stand out bold and black by
reinforcing it with ink. To the untrained eye the collection of
delicate originals made by the human finger on the glass plates
looked about alike; but when enlarged ten times they resembled
the markings of a block of wood that has been sawed across the
grain, and the dullest eye could detect at a glance, and at a
distance of many feet, that no two of the patterns were alike.
When Wilson had at last finished his tedious and difficult work,
he arranged his results according to a plan in which a
progressive order and sequence was a principal feature; then he
added to the batch several pantograph enlargements which he had
made from time to time in bygone years.
The night was spent and the day well advanced now. By the
time he had snatched a trifle of breakfast, it was nine o'clock,
and the court was ready to begin its sitting. He was in his
place twelve minutes later with his "records."
Tom Driscoll caught a slight glimpse of the records,
and nudged his nearest friend and said, with a wink,
"Pudd'nhead's got a rare eye to business--thinks that as long as
he can't win his case it's at least a noble good chance to advertise
his window palace decorations without any expense." Wilson was
informed that his witnesses had been delayed, but would arrive
presently; but he rose and said he should probably not have
occasion to make use of their testimony. [An amused murmur ran
through the room: "It's a clean backdown! he gives up without
hitting a lick!"] Wilson continued: "I have other testimony--
and better. [This compelled interest, and evoked murmurs of
surprise that had a detectable ingredient of disappointment in them.]
If I seem to be springing this evidence upon the court,
I offer as my justification for this, that I did not discover its
existence until late last night, and have been engaged in
examining and classifying it ever since, until half an hour ago.
I shall offer it presently; but first I with to say a few
preliminary words.
"May it please the court, the claim given the front place,
the claim most persistently urged, the claim most strenuously and
I may even say aggressively and defiantly insisted upon by the
prosecution is this--that the person whose hand left the
bloodstained fingerprints upon the handle of the Indian knife is
the person who committed the murder." Wilson paused, during
several moments, to give impressiveness to what he was about to say,
and then added tranquilly, "WE GRANT THAT CLAIM."
It was an electrical surprise. No one was prepared for such
an admission. A buzz of astonishment rose on all sides,
and people were heard to intimate that the overworked lawyer had
lost his mind. Even the veteran judge, accustomed as he was to legal
ambushes and masked batteries in criminal procedure, was not sure
that his ears were not deceiving him, and asked counsel what it
was he had said. Howard's impassive face betrayed no sign,
but his attitude and bearing lost something of their careless
confidence for a moment. Wilson resumed:
"We not only grant that claim, but we welcome it and
strongly endorse it. Leaving that matter for the present,
we will now proceed to consider other points in the case which we
propose to establish by evidence, and shall include that one in
the chain in its proper place."
He had made up his mind to try a few hardy guesses, in
mapping out his theory of the origin and motive of the murder--
guesses designed to fill up gaps in it--guesses which could help
if they hit, and would probably do no harm if they didn't.
"To my mind, certain circumstances of the case before the
court seem to suggest a motive for the homicide quite different
from the one insisted on by the state. It is my conviction that
the motive was not revenge, but robbery. It has been urged that
the presence of the accused brothers in that fatal room,
just after notification that one of them must take the life of
Judge Driscoll or lose his own the moment the parties should meet,
clearly signifies that the natural of self-preservation moved my
clients to go there secretly and save Count Luigi by destroying
his adversary.
"Then why did they stay there, after the deed was done?
Mrs. Pratt had time, although she did not hear the cry for help,
but woke up some moments later, to run to that room--and there
she found these men standing and making no effort to escape.
If they were guilty, they ought to have been running out of the
house at the same time that she was running to that room.
If they had had such a strong instinct toward self-preservation as
to move them to kill that unarmed man, what had become of it now,
when it should have been more alert than ever. Would any of us
have remained there? Let us not slander our intelligence to that degree.
"Much stress has been laid upon the fact that the accused
offered a very large reward for the knife with which this murder
was done; that no thief came forward to claim that extraordinary
reward; that the latter fact was good circumstantial evidence
that the claim that the knife had been stolen was a vanity and a
fraud; that these details taken in connection with the memorable
and apparently prophetic speech of the deceased concerning that
knife, and the finally discovery of that very knife in the fatal
room where no living person was found present with the
slaughtered man but the owner of the knife and his brother, form
an indestructible chain of evidence which fixed the crime upon
those unfortunate strangers.
"But I shall presently ask to be sworn, and shall testify
that there was a large reward offered for the THIEF, also;
and it was offered secretly and not advertised; that this fact was
indiscreetly mentioned--or at least tacitly admitted--in what was
supposed to be safe circumstances, but may NOT have been.
The thief may have been present himself. [Tom Driscoll had been
looking at the speaker, but dropped his eyes at this point.]
In that case he would retain the knife in his possession, not daring
to offer it for sale, or for pledge in a pawnshop. [There was a
nodding of heads among the audience by way of admission that this
was not a bad stroke.] I shall prove to the satisfaction of the
jury that there WAS a person in Judge Driscoll's room several
minutes before the accused entered it. [This produced a strong
sensation; the last drowsy head in the courtroom roused up now,
and made preparation to listen.] If it shall seem necessary,
I will prove by the Misses Clarkson that they met a veiled person--
ostensibly a woman--coming out of the back gate a few minutes
after the cry for help was heard. This person was not a woman,
but a man dressed in woman's clothes." Another sensation.
Wilson had his eye on Tom when he hazarded this guess, to see
what effect it would produce. He was satisfied with the result,
and said to himself, "It was a success--he's hit!"
The object of that person in that house was robbery, not
murder. It is true that the safe was not open, but there was an
ordinary cashbox on the table, with three thousand dollars in it.
It is easily supposable that the thief was concealed in the
house; that he knew of this box, and of its owner's habit of
counting its contents and arranging his accounts at night--if he
had that habit, which I do not assert, of course--that he tried
to take the box while its owner slept, but made a noise and was
seized, and had to use the knife to save himself from capture;
and that he fled without his booty because he heard help coming.
"I have now done with my theory, and will proceed to the
evidences by which I propose to try to prove its soundness."
Wilson took up several of his strips of glass. When the audience
recognized these familiar mementos of Pudd'nhead's old time
childish "puttering" and folly, the tense and funereal interest
vanished out of their faces, and the house burst into volleys of
relieving and refreshing laughter, and Tom chirked up and joined
in the fun himself; but Wilson was apparently not disturbed.
He arranged his records on the table before him, and said:
"I beg the indulgence of the court while I make a few
remarks in explanation of some evidence which I am about to
introduce, and which I shall presently ask to be allowed to
verify under oath on the witness stand. Every human being
carries with him from his cradle to his grave certain physical
marks which do not change their character, and by which he can
always be identified--and that without shade of doubt or question.
These marks are his signature, his physiological
autograph, so to speak, and this autograph can not be counterfeited,
nor can he disguise it or hide it away, nor can it
become illegible by the wear and mutations of time.
This signature is not his face--age can change that beyond
recognition; it is not his hair, for that can fall out; it is not
his height, for duplicates of that exist; it is not his form,
for duplicates of that exist also, whereas this signature is each
man's very own--there is no duplicate of it among the swarming
populations of the globe! [The audience were interested once more.]
"This autograph consists of the delicate lines or
corrugations with which Nature marks the insides of the hands and
the soles of the feet. If you will look at the balls of your fingers--
you that have very sharp eyesight--you will observe that
these dainty curving lines lie close together, like those that
indicate the borders of oceans in maps, and that they form
various clearly defined patterns, such as arches, circles,
long curves, whorls, etc., and that these patters differ on the
different fingers. [Every man in the room had his hand up to the
light now, and his head canted to one side, and was minutely
scrutinizing the balls of his fingers; there were whispered
ejaculations of "Why, it's so--I never noticed that before!"]
The patterns on the right hand are not the same as those on the left.
[Ejaculations of "Why, that's so, too!"] Taken finger for finger,
your patterns differ from your neighbor's. [Comparisons
were made all over the house--even the judge and jury were
absorbed in this curious work.] The patterns of a twin's right
hand are not the same as those on his left. One twin's patters
are never the same as his fellow twin's patters--the jury will
find that the patterns upon the finger balls of the twins' hands
follow this rule. [An examination of the twins' hands was begun at once.]
You have often heard of twins who were so exactly
alike that when dressed alike their own parents could not tell them apart.
Yet there was never a twin born in to this world
that did not carry from birth to death a sure identifier in this
mysterious and marvelous natal autograph. That once known to you,
his fellow twin could never personate him and deceive you."
Wilson stopped and stood silent. Inattention dies a quick
and sure death when a speaker does that. The stillness gives
warning that something is coming. All palms and finger balls
went down now, all slouching forms straightened, all heads came up,
all eyes were fastened upon Wilson's face. He waited yet one, two,
three moments, to let his pause complete and perfect
its spell upon the house; then, when through the profound hush he
could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, he put out his
hand and took the Indian knife by the blade and held it aloft
where all could see the sinister spots upon its ivory handle;
then he said, in a level and passionless voice:
"Upon this haft stands the assassin's natal autograph,
written in the blood of that helpless and unoffending old man who
loved you and whom you all loved. There is but one man in the
whole earth whose hand can duplicate that crimson sign"--
he paused and raised his eyes to the pendulum swinging back and forth--
"and please God we will produce that man in this room
before the clock strikes noon!"
Stunned, distraught, unconscious of its own movement, the
house half rose, as if expecting to see the murderer appear at
the door, and a breeze of muttered ejaculations swept the place.
"Order in the court!--sit down!" This from the sheriff. He was obeyed,
and quiet reigned again. Wilson stole a glance at Tom,
and said to himself, "He is flying signals of distress now; even
people who despise him are pitying him; they think this is a hard
ordeal for a young fellow who has lost his benefactor by so cruel
a stroke--and they are right." He resumed his speech:
"For more than twenty years I have amused my compulsory
leisure with collecting these curious physical signatures in this town.
At my house I have hundreds upon hundreds of them.
Each and every one is labeled with name and date; not labeled the
next day or even the next hour, but in the very minute that the
impression was taken. When I go upon the witness stand I will
repeat under oath the things which I am now saying. I have the
fingerprints of the court, the sheriff, and every member of the jury.
There is hardly a person in this room, white or black,
whose natal signature I cannot produce, and not one of them can
so disguise himself that I cannot pick him out from a multitude
of his fellow creatures and unerringly identify him by his hands.
And if he and I should live to be a hundred I could still do it.
[The interest of the audience was steadily deepening now.]
"I have studied some of these signatures so much that I know
them as well as the bank cashier knows the autograph of his
oldest customer. While I turn my back now, I beg that several
persons will be so good as to pass their fingers through their hair,
and then press them upon one of the panes of the window
near the jury, and that among them the accused may set THEIR
finger marks. Also, I beg that these experimenters, or others,
will set their fingers upon another pane, and add again the marks
of the accused, but not placing them in the same order or
relation to the other signatures as before--for, by one chance in
a million, a person might happen upon the right marks by pure guesswork,
ONCE, therefore I wish to be tested twice."
He turned his back, and the two panes were quickly covered
with delicately lined oval spots, but visible only to such
persons as could get a dark background for them--the foliage of a tree,
outside, for instance. Then upon call, Wilson went to the
window, made his examination, and said:
"This is Count Luigi's right hand; this one, three
signatures below, is his left. Here is Count Angelo's right;
down here is his left. How for the other pane: here and here
are Count Luigi's, here and here are his brother's." He faced about.
"Am I right?"
A deafening explosion of applause was the answer.
The bench said:
"This certainly approaches the miraculous!"
Wilson turned to the window again and remarked,
pointing with his finger:
"This is the signature of Mr. Justice Robinson. [Applause.]
This, of Constable Blake. [Applause.] This of John Mason, juryman.
[Applause.] This, of the sheriff. [Applause.]
I cannot name the others, but I have them all at home, named and dated,
and could identify them all by my fingerprint records."
He moved to his place through a storm of applause--which the
sheriff stopped, and also made the people sit down, for they were
all standing and struggling to see, of course. Court, jury,
sheriff, and everybody had been too absorbed in observing
Wilson's performance to attend to the audience earlier.
"Now then," said Wilson, "I have here the natal autographs
of the two children--thrown up to ten times the natural size by
the pantograph, so that anyone who can see at all can tell the
markings apart at a glance. We will call the children A and B.
Here are A's finger marks, taken at the age of five months.
Here they are again taken at seven months. [Tom started.]
They are alike, you see. Here are B's at five months, and also at
seven months. They, too, exactly copy each other, but the patterns
are quite different from A's, you observe. I shall refer to these
again presently, but we will turn them face down now.
"Here, thrown up ten sizes, are the natal autographs of the
two persons who are here before you accused of murdering Judge Driscoll.
I made these pantograph copies last night, and will so
swear when I go upon the witness stand. I ask the jury to
compare them with the finger marks of the accused upon the
windowpanes, and tell the court if they are the same."
He passed a powerful magnifying glass to the foreman.
One juryman after another took the cardboard and the glass
and made the comparison. Then the foreman said to the judge:
"Your honor, we are all agreed that they are identical."
Wilson said to the foreman:
"Please turn that cardboard face down, and take this one,
and compare it searchingly, by the magnifier, with the fatal
signature upon the knife handle, and report your finding to the court."
Again the jury made minute examinations, and again reported:
"We find them to be exactly identical, your honor."
Wilson turned toward the counsel for the prosecution,
and there was a clearly recognizable note of warning in his voice
when he said:
"May it please the court, the state has claimed, strenuously
and persistently, that the bloodstained fingerprints upon that
knife handle were left there by the assassin of Judge Driscoll.
You have heard us grant that claim, and welcome it." He turned
to the jury: "Compare the fingerprints of the accused with the
fingerprints left by the assassin--and report."
The comparison began. As it proceeded, all movement and all
sound ceased, and the deep silence of an absorbed and waiting
suspense settled upon the house; and when at last the words came,
"THEY DO NOT EVEN RESEMBLE," a thundercrash of applause followed
and the house sprang to its feet, but was quickly repressed by
official force and brought to order again. Tom was altering his
position every few minutes now, but none of his changes brought
repose nor any small trifle of comfort. When the house's
attention was become fixed once more, Wilson said gravely,
indicating the twins with a gesture:
"These men are innocent--I have no further concern with them.
[Another outbreak of applause began, but was promptly checked.]
We will now proceed to find the guilty. [Tom's eyes
were starting from their sockets--yes, it was a cruel day for the
bereaved youth, everybody thought.] We will return to the infant
autographs of A and B. I will ask the jury to take these large
pantograph facsimilies of A's marked five months and seven months.
Do they tally?"
The foreman responded: "Perfectly."
"Now examine this pantograph, taken at eight months,
and also marked A. Does it tally with the other two?"
The surprised response was:
"NO--THEY DIFFER WIDELY!"
"You are quite right. Now take these two pantographs of B's
autograph, marked five months and seven months. Do they tally
with each other?"
"Yes--perfectly."
"Take this third pantograph marked B, eight months.
Does it tally with B's other two?"
"BY NO MEANS!"
"Do you know how to account for those strange discrepancies?
I will tell you. For a purpose unknown to us, but probably a
selfish one, somebody changed those children in the cradle."
This produced a vast sensation, naturally; Roxana was
astonished at this admirable guess, but not disturbed by it.
To guess the exchange was one thing, to guess who did it quite another.
Pudd'nhead Wilson could do wonderful things, no doubt,
but he couldn't do impossible ones. Safe? She was perfectly safe.
She smiled privately.
"Between the ages of seven months and eight months those
children were changed in the cradle"--he made one of this effect-
collecting pauses, and added--"and the person who did it is in
this house!"
Roxy's pulses stood still! The house was thrilled as with
an electric shock, and the people half rose as if to seek a
glimpse of the person who had made that exchange. Tom was
growing limp; the life seemed oozing out of him. Wilson resumed:
"A was put into B's cradle in the nursery; B was transferred
to the kitchen and became a Negro and a slave [Sensation--
confusion of angry ejaculations]--but within a quarter of an hour
he will stand before you white and free! [Burst of applause,
checked by the officers.] From seven months onward until now,
A has still been a usurper, and in my finger record he bears B's name.
Here is his pantograph at the age of twelve.
Compare it with the assassin's signature upon the knife handle.
Do they tally?"
The foreman answered:
"TO THE MINUTEST DETAIL!"
Wilson said, solemnly:
"The murderer of your friend and mine--York Driscoll of the
generous hand and the kindly spirit--sits in among you.
Valet de Chambre, Negro and slave--falsely called Thomas a Becket Driscoll
--make upon the window the fingerprints that will hang you!"
Tom turned his ashen face imploring toward the speaker, made
some impotent movements with his white lips, then slid limp and
lifeless to the floor.
Wilson broke the awed silence with the words:
"There is no need. He has confessed."
Roxy flung herself upon her knees, covered her face with her
hands, and out through her sobs the words struggled:
"De Lord have mercy on me, po' misasble sinner dat I is!"
The clock struck twelve.
The court rose; the new prisoner, handcuffed, was removed.
CONCLUSION
It is often the case that the man who can't tell a lie
thinks he is the best judge of one.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
OCTOBER 12, THE DISCOVERY. It was wonderful to find America,
but it would have been more wonderful to miss it.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
The town sat up all night to discuss the amazing events of
the day and swap guesses as to when Tom's trial would begin.
Troop after troop of citizens came to serenade Wilson,
and require a speech, and shout themselves hoarse over every
sentence that fell from his lips--for all his sentences were golden,
now, all were marvelous. His long fight against hard luck and
prejudice was ended; he was a made man for good.
And as each of these roaring gangs of enthusiasts marched away,
some remorseful member of it was quite sure to raise his
voice and say:
"And this is the man the likes of us have called a
pudd'nhead for more than twenty years. He has resigned from that
position, friends."
"Yes, but it isn't vacant--we're elected."
The twins were heroes of romance, now, and with
rehabilitated reputations. But they were weary of Western
adventure, and straightway retired to Europe.
Roxy's heart was broken. The young fellow upon whom she had
inflicted twenty-three years of slavery continued the false
heir's pension of thirty-five dollars a month to her, but her
hurts were too deep for money to heal; the spirit in her eye was
quenched, her martial bearing departed with it, and the voice of
her laughter ceased in the land. In her church and its affairs
she found her only solace.
The real heir suddenly found himself rich and free, but in a
most embarrassing situation. He could neither read nor write,
and his speech was the basest dialect of the Negro quarter.
His gait, his attitudes, his gestures, his bearing, his laugh--
all were vulgar and uncouth; his manners were the manners of a slave.
Money and fine clothes could not mend these defects or cover them up;
they only made them more glaring and the more pathetic.
The poor fellow could not endure the terrors of the white man's parlor,
and felt at home and at peace nowhere but in the kitchen.
The family pew was a misery to him, yet he could nevermore enter
into the solacing refuge of the "nigger gallery"--that was closed
to him for good and all. But we cannot follow his curious fate further--
that would be a long story.
The false heir made a full confession and was sentenced to
imprisonment for life. But now a complication came up.
The Percy Driscoll estate was in such a crippled shape when its
owner died that it could pay only sixty percent of its great
indebtedness, and was settled at that rate. But the creditors
came forward now, and complained that inasmuch as through an
error for which THEY were in no way to blame the false heir was
not inventoried at the time with the rest of the property, great
wrong and loss had thereby been inflicted upon them.
They rightly claimed that "Tom" was lawfully their property and had
been so for eight years; that they had already lost sufficiently
in being deprived of his services during that long period, and
ought not to be required to add anything to that loss; that if he
had been delivered up to them in the first place, they would have
sold him and he could not have murdered Judge Driscoll; therefore
it was not that he had really committed the murder, the guilt lay
with the erroneous inventory. Everybody saw that there was
reason in this. Everybody granted that if "Tom" were white and
free it would be unquestionably right to punish him--it would be
no loss to anybody; but to shut up a valuable slave for life--
that was quite another matter.
As soon as the Governor understood the case, he pardoned Tom at once,
and the creditors sold him down the river.
A man who is not born with the novel-writing gift has a
troublesome time of it when he tries to build a novel.
I know this from experience. He has no clear idea of his story;
in fact he has no story. He merely has some people in his mind,
and an incident or two, also a locality, and he trusts he can plunge
those people into those incidents with interesting results.
So he goes to work. To write a novel? No--that is a thought which
comes later; in the beginning he is only proposing to tell a
little tale, a very little tale, a six-page tale. But as it is a
tale which he is not acquainted with, and can only find out what
it is by listening as it goes along telling itself, it is more
than apt to go on and on and on till it spreads itself into a book.
I know about this, because it has happened to me so many times.
And I have noticed another thing: that as the short tale
grows into the long tale, the original intention (or motif)
is apt to get abolished and find itself superseded by a quite
different one. It was so in the case of a magazine sketch which
I once started to write--a funny and fantastic sketch about a
prince an a pauper; it presently assumed a grave cast of its own accord,
and in that new shape spread itself out into a book.
Much the same thing happened with PUDD'NHEAD WILSON. I had a
sufficiently hard time with that tale, because it changed itself
from a farce to a tragedy while I was going along with it--a most
embarrassing circumstance. But what was a great deal worse was,
that it was not one story, but two stories tangled together; and
they obstructed and interrupted each other at every turn and
created no end of confusion and annoyance. I could not offer the
book for publication, for I was afraid it would unseat the
reader's reason, I did not know what was the matter with it,
for I had not noticed, as yet, that it was two stories in one.
It took me months to make that discovery. I carried the manuscript
back and forth across the Atlantic two or three times, and read
it and studied over it on shipboard; and at last I saw where the
difficulty lay. I had no further trouble. I pulled one of the
stories out by the roots, and left the other--a kind of literary
Caesarean operation.
Would the reader care to know something about the story
which I pulled out? He has been told many a time how the born-
and-trained novelist works; won't he let me round and complete
his knowledge by telling him how the jackleg does it?
Originally the story was called THOSE EXTRAORDINARY TWINS.
I meant to make it very short. I had seen a picture of a
youthful Italian "freak"--or "freaks"--which was--or which were--
on exhibition in our cities--a combination consisting of two
heads and four arms joined to a single body and a single pair of legs--
and I thought I would write an extravagantly fantastic
little story with this freak of nature for hero--or heroes--
a silly young miss for heroine, and two old ladies and two boys for
the minor parts. I lavishly elaborated these people and their
doings, of course. But the take kept spreading along and
spreading along, and other people got to intruding themselves and
taking up more and more room with their talk and their affairs.
Among them came a stranger named Pudd'nhead Wilson, and woman
named Roxana; and presently the doings of these two pushed up
into prominence a young fellow named Tom Driscoll, whose proper
place was away in the obscure background. Before the book was
half finished those three were taking things almost entirely into
their own hands and working the whole tale as a private venture
of their own--a tale which they had nothing at all to do with, by rights.
When the book was finished and I came to look around to see
what had become of the team I had originally started out with--
Aunt Patsy Cooper, Aunt Betsy Hale, and two boys, and Rowena the
lightweight heroine--they were nowhere to be seen; they had
disappeared from the story some time or other. I hunted about
and found them--found them stranded, idle, forgotten, and
permanently useless. It was very awkward. It was awkward all
around, but more particularly in the case of Rowena, because
there was a love match on, between her and one of the twins that
constituted the freak, and I had worked it up to a blistering
heat and thrown in a quite dramatic love quarrel, wherein Rowena
scathingly denounced her betrothed for getting drunk, and scoffed
at his explanation of how it had happened, and wouldn't listen to it,
and had driven him from her in the usual "forever" way;
and now here she sat crying and brokenhearted; for she had found that
he had spoken only the truth; that is was not he, but the other
of the freak that had drunk the liquor that made him drunk;
that her half was a prohibitionist and had never drunk a drop in his
life, and altogether tight as a brick three days in the week, was
wholly innocent of blame; and indeed, when sober, was constantly
doing all he could to reform his brother, the other half, who
never got any satisfaction out of drinking, anyway, because
liquor never affected him. Yes, here she was, stranded with that
deep injustice of hers torturing her poor torn heart.
I didn't know what to do with her. I was as sorry for her
as anybody could be, but the campaign was over, the book was finished,
she was sidetracked, and there was no possible way of
crowding her in, anywhere. I could not leave her there,
of course; it would not do. After spreading her out so, and making
such a to-do over her affairs, it would be absolutely necessary
to account to the reader for her. I thought and thought and
studied and studied; but I arrived at nothing. I finally saw
plainly that there was really no way but one--I must simply give
her the grand bounce. It grieved me to do it, for after
associating with her so much I had come to kind of like her after
a fashion, notwithstanding things and was so nauseatingly sentimental.
Still it had to be done. So at the top of Chapter
XVII I put a "Calendar" remark concerning July the Fourth,
and began the chapter with this statistic:
"Rowena went out in the backyard after supper to see the
fireworks and fell down the well and got drowned."
It seemed abrupt, but I thought maybe the reader wouldn't notice it,
because I changed the subject right away to something else.
Anyway it loosened up Rowena from where she was stuck and
got her out of the way, and that was the main thing. It seemed a
prompt good way of weeding out people that had got stalled, and a
plenty good enough way for those others; so I hunted up the two
boys and said, "They went out back one night to stone the cat and
fell down the well and got drowned." Next I searched around and
found old Aunt Patsy and Aunt Betsy Hale where they were around,
and said, "They went out back one night to visit the sick and
fell down the well and got drowned." I was going to drown some others,
but I gave up the idea, partly because I believed that if
I kept that up it would arose attention, and perhaps sympathy
with those people, and partly because it was not a large well and
would not hold any more anyway.
Still the story was unsatisfactory. Here was a set of new
characters who were become inordinately prominent and who
persisted in remaining so to the end; and back yonder was an
older set who made a large noise and a great to-do for a little
while and then suddenly played out utterly and fell down the well.
There was a radical defect somewhere, and I must search it
out and cure it.
The defect turned out to be the one already spoken of--
two stories in one, a farce and a tragedy. So I pulled out the farce
and left the tragedy. This left the original team in, but only
as mere names, not as characters. Their prominence was wholly gone;
they were not even worth drowning; so I removed that detail.
Also I took the twins apart and made two separate men of them.
They had no occasion to have foreign names now, but it was
too much trouble to remove them all through, so I left them
christened as they were and made no explanation.
End of the Project Gutenberg edition of The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson