Waifs And Strays

by Charles de Lint

  　　and the Colonel was an authority on business—had dwindled to nothing.

  　　After carefully studying the field of opportunities open to capital he had sold his little property there for eight hundred dollars and invested it in one of the enterprises opened up by the book in Okochee.

  　　“Might I inquire, sir,” said Mr. Bloom, “in what particular line of business you inserted your coin? I know that town as well as I know the regulations for illegal use of the mails. I might give you a hunch as to whether you can make the game go or not.”

  　　J. Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated representatives of by-gone days. They were so simple, impractical, and unsuspecting. He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him. He would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did these; but there are some temptations toe enticing to be resisted.

  　　“No, sir,” said Colonel Blaylock. pausing to arrange the queen’s wrap.

  　　“I did not invest in Okochee. I have made an exhaustive study of business conditions, and I regard old settled towns as unfavorable fields in which to place capital that is limited in amount. Some months ago, through the kindness of a friend, there came into my hands a map and description of this new town of Skyland that has been built upon the lake. The description was so pleasing, the future of the town set forth in such convincing arguments, and its increasing prosperity portrayed in such an attractive style that I decided to take advantage of the opportunity it offered. I

  　　carefully selected a lot in the centre of the business district, although its price was the highest in the schedule—five hundred dollars—and made the purchase at once.”

  　　“Are you the man—I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a lot in Skyland” asked J. Pinkney Bloom.

  　　“I did, sir,” answered the Colonel, with the air of a modest millionaire explaining his success; “a lot most excellently situated on the same square with the opera house, and only two squares from the board of trade. I consider the purchase a most fortuitous one.

  　　It is my intention to erect a small building upon it at once, and open a modest book and stationery store. During past years I have met with many pecuniary reverses, and I now find it necessary to engage in some commercial occupation that will furnish me with a livelihood. The book and stationery business, though an humble one, seems to me not inapt nor altogether uncongenial. I am a graduate of the University of Virginia; and Mrs. Blaylock’s really wonderful acquaintance with belles-lettres and poetic literature should go far toward insuring success. Of course, Mrs. Blaylock would not personally serve behind the counter. With the nearly three hundred dollars I have remaining I can manage the building of a house, by giving a lien on the lot. I have an old friend in Atlanta who is a partner in a large book store, and he has agreed to furnish me with a stock of goods on credit, on extremely easy terms. I am pleased to hope, sir, that Mrs. Blaylock’s health and happiness will be increased by the change of locality. Already I fancy I can perceive the return of those roses that were once the hope and despair of Georgia cavaliers.”

  　　Again followed that wonderful bow, as the Colonel lightly touched the pale cheek of the poetess. Mrs. Blaylock, blushing like a girl, shook her curl and gave the Colonel an arch, reproving tap. Secret of eternal youth—where art thou? Every second the answer comes—“Here, here, here.” Listen to thine own heartbeats, 0 weary seeker after external miracles.

  　　“Those years,” said Mrs. Blaylock, “in Holly Springs were long, long, long. But now is the promised land in sight. Skyland!—a lovely name.”

  　　“Doubtless,” said the Colonel, “we shall be able to secure comfortable accommodations at some modest hotel at reasonable rates. Our trunks are in Okochee, to be forwarded when we shall have made permanent arrangements.”

  　　J. Pinkney Bloom excused himself, went forward, and stood by the captain at the wheel.

  　　“Mac,” said he, “do you remember my telling you once that I sold one of those five-hundred-dollar lots in Skyland?”

  　　“Seems I do,” grinned Captain MacFarland.

  　　“I’m not a coward, as a general rule,” went on the promoter, “but I always said that if I ever met the sucker that bought that lot I’d run like a turkey. Now, you see that old babe-in-the-wood over there? Well, he’s the boy that drew the prize. That was the only five-hundred-dollar lot that went. The rest ranged from ten dollars to two hundred. His wife writes poetry. She’s invented one about the high grounds of Georgia, that’s way up in G. They’re going to Skyland to open a book store.”

  　　“Well,” said MacFarland, with another grin, “it’s a good thing you are along, J. P.; you can show ‘em around town until they begin to feel at home.”

  　　“He’s got three hundred dollars left to build a house and store with,” went on J. Pinkney, as if he were talking to himself. “And he thinks there’s an open house up there.”

  　　Captain MacFarland released the wheel long enough to give his leg a roguish slap.

  　　“You old fat rascal!” he chuckled, with a wink.

  　　“Mac, you’re a fool,” said J. Pinkney Bloom, coldly. He went back and joined the Blaylocks, where he sat, less talkative, with that straight furrow between his brows that always stood as a signal of schemes being shaped within.

  　　“There’s a good many swindles connected with these booms,” he said presently. “What if this Skyland should turn out to be one—that is, suppose business should be sort of dull there, and no special sale for books?”

  　　“My dear sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, resting his hand upon the back of his wife’s chair, “three times I have been reduced to almost penury by the duplicity of others, but I have not yet lost faith in humanity.

  　　If I have been deceived again, still we may glean health and content, if not worldly profit. I am aware that there are dishonest schemers in the world who set traps for the unwary, but even they are not altogether bad. My dear, can you recall those verses entitled ‘He Giveth the Increase,’ that you composed for the choir of our church in Holly Springs?”

  　　“That was four years ago,” said Mrs. Blaylock; “perhans I can repeat a verse or two.

  　　“The lily springs from the rotting mould;

  　　Pearls from the deep sea slime;

  　　Good will come out of Nazareth All in God’s own time.

  　　“To the hardest heart the softening grace Cometh, at last, to bless;

  　　Guiding it right to help and cheer And succor in distress.

  　　“I cannot remember the rest. The lines were not ambitious. They were written to the music composed by a dear friend.”

  　　“It’s a fine rhyme, just the same,” declared Mr. Bloom. “It seems to ring the bell, all right. I guess I gather the sense of it. It means that the rankest kind of a phony will give you the best end of it once in a while.”

  　　Mr. Bloom strayed thoughtfully back to the captain, and stood meditating.

  　　“Ought to be in sight of the spires and gilded domes of Skyland now in a few minutes,” chirruped MacFarland, shaking with enjoyment.

  　　“Go to the devil,” said Mr. Bloom, still pensive.

  　　And now, upon the left bank, they caught a glimpse of a white village, high up on the hills, smothered among green trees. That was Cold Branch—no boom town, but the slow growth of many years. Cold Branch lay on the edge of the grape and corn lands. The big country road ran just back of the heights. Cold Branch had nothing in common with the frisky ambition of Okochee with its impertinent lake.

  　　“Mac,” said J. Pinkney suddenly, “I want you to stop at Cold Branch.

  　　There’s a landing there that they made to use sometimes when the river was up.”

  　　“Can’t,” said the captain, grinning more broadly. “I’ve got the United States mails on board. Right
to-day this boat’s in the government service. Do you want to have the poor old captain keelhauled by Uncle Sam? And the great city of Skyland, all disconsolate, waiting for its mail? I’m ashamed of your extravagance, J. P.”

  　　“Mac,” almost whispered J. Pinkney, in his danger-line voice, “I

  　　looked into the engine room of the Dixie Belle a while ago. Don’t you know of somebody that needs a new boiler? Cement and black Japan can’t hide flaws from me. And then, those shares of building and loan that you traded for repairs—they were all yours, of course. I hate to mention these things, but—”

  　　“Oh, come now, J. P.,” said the captain. “You know I was just fooling. I’ll put you off at Cold Branch, if you say so.”

  　　“The other passengers get off there, too,” said Mr. Bloom.

  　　Further conversation was held, and in ten minutes the Dixie Belle

  　　turned her nose toward a little, cranky wooden pier on the left bank, and the captain, relinquishing the wheel to a roustabout, came to the passenger deck and made the remarkable announcement: “All out for Skyland.”

  　　The Blaylocks and J. Pinkney Bloom disembarked, and the Dixie Belle

  　　proceeded on her way up the lake. Guided by the indefatigable promoter, they slowly climbed the steep hillside, pausing often to rest and admire the view. Finally they entered the village of Cold Branch. Warmly both the Colonel and his wife praised it for its homelike and peaceful beauty. Mr. Bloom conducted them to a two-story building on a shady street that bore the legend, “Pinetop Inn.” Here he took his leave, receiving the cordial thanks of the two for his attentions, the Colonel remarking that he thought they would spend the remainder of the day in rest, and take a look at his purchase on the morrow.

  　　J.Pinkney Bloom walked down Cold Branch’s main street. He did not know this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter.

  　　Presently he saw a sign over a door: “Frank E. Cooly, Attorney-at-Law and Notary Public.” A young man was Mr. Cooly, and awaiting business.

  　　“Get your hat, son,” said Mr. Bloom, in his breezy way, “and a blank deed, and come along. It’s a job for you.”

  　　“Now,” he continued, when Mr. Cooly had responded with alacrity, “is there a bookstore in town?”

  　　“One,” said the lawyer. “Henry Williams’s.”

  　　“Get there,” said Mr. Bloom. “We’re going to buy it.”

  　　Henry Williams was behind his counter. His store was a small one, containing a mixture of books, stationery, and fancy rubbish.

  　　Adjoining it was Henry’s home—a decent cottage, vine-embowered and cosy. Henry was lank and soporific, and not inclined to rush his business.

  　　“I want to buy your house and store,” said Mr. Bloom. “I haven’t got time to dicker—name your price.”

  　　“It’s worth eight hundred,” said Henry, too much dazed to ask more than its value.

  　　“Shut that door,” said Mr. Bloom to the lawyer. Then he tore off his coat and vest, and began to unbutton his shirt.

  　　“Wanter fight about it, do yer?” said Henry Williams, jumping up and cracking his heels together twice. “All right, hunky—sail in and cut yer capers.”

  　　“Keep your clothes on,” said Mr. Bloom. “I’m only going down to the bank.”

  　　He drew eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his money belt and planked them down on the counter. Mr. Cooly showed signs of future promise, for he already had the deed spread out, and was reaching across the counter for the ink bottle. Never before or since was such quick action had in Cold Branch.

  　　“Your name, please?” asked the lawyer.

  　　“Make it out to Peyton Blaylock,” said Mr. Bloom. “God knows how to spell it.”

  　　Within thirty minutes Henry Williams was out of business, and Mr.

  　　Bloom stood on the brick sidewalk with Mr. Cooly, who held in his hand the signed and attested deed.

  　　“You’ll find the party at the Pinetop Inn,” said J. Pinkney Bloom.

  　　“Get it recorded, and take it down and give it to him. He’ll ask you a hell’s mint of questions; so here’s ten dollars for the trouble you’ll have in not being able to answer ‘em. Never run much to poetry, did you, young man?”

  　　“Well,” said the really talented Cooly, who even yet retained his right mind, “now and then.”

  　　“Dig into it,” said Mr. Bloom, “it’ll pay you. Never heard a poem, now, that run something like this, did you?—

  　　A good thing out of Nazareth Comes up sometimes, I guess, On hand, all right, to help and cheer A sucker in distress.”

  　　“I believe not,” said Mr. Cooly.

  　　“It’s a hymn,” said J. Pinkney Bloom. “Now, show me the way to a livery stable, son, for I’m going to hit the dirt road back to Okochee.”

  　　CONFESSIONS OF A HUMORIST

  　　There was a painless stage of incubation that lasted twenty-five years, and then it broke out on me, and people said I was It.

  　　But they called it humor instead of measles.

  　　The employees in the store bought a silver inkstand for the senior partner on his fiftieth birthday. We crowded into his private office to present it. I had been selected for spokesman, and I made a little speech that I had been preparing for a week.

  　　It made a hit. It was full of puns and epigrams and funny twists that brought down the house—which was a very solid one in the wholesale hardware line. Old Marlowe himself actually grinned, and the employees took their cue and roared.

  　　My reputation as a humorist dates from half-past nine o’clock on that morning. For weeks afterward my fellow clerks fanned the flame of my self-esteem. One by one they came to me, saying what an awfully clever speech that was, old man, and carefully explained to me the point of each one of my jokes.

  　　Gradually I found that I was expected to keep it up. Others might speak sanely on business matters and the day’s topics, but from me something gamesome and airy was required.

  　　I was expected to crack jokes about the crockery and lighten up the granite ware with persiflage. I was second bookkeeper, and if I

  　　failed to show up a balance sheet without something comic about the footings or could find no cause for laughter in an invoice of plows, the other clerks were disappointed. By degrees my fame spread, and I became a local “character.” Our town was small enough to make this possible. The daily newspaper quoted me. At social gatherings I was indispensable.

  　　I believe I did possess considerable wit and a facility for quick and spontaneous repartee. This gift I cultivated and improved by practice. And the nature of it was kindly and genial, not running to sarcasm or offending others. People began to smile when they saw me coming, and by the time we had met I generally had the word ready to broaden the smile into a laugh.

  　　I had married early. We had a charming boy of three and a girl of five. Naturally, we lived in a vine-covered cottage, and were happy.

  　　My salary as bookkeeper in the hardware concern kept at a distance those ills attendant upon superfluous wealth.

  　　At sundry times I had written out a few jokes and conceits that I

  　　considered peculiarly happy, and had sent them to certain periodicals that print such things. All of them had been instantly accepted.

  　　Several of the editors had written to request further contributions.

  　　One day I received a letter from the editor of a famous weekly publication. He suggested that I submit to him a humorous composition to fill a column of space; hinting that he would make it a regular feature of each issue if the work proved satisfactory. I did so, and at the end of two weeks he offered to make a contract with me for a year at a figure that was considerably higher than the amount paid me by the hardware firm.

  　　I was filled with delight. My wife already crowned me in her mind with the imperishable ev
ergreens of literary success. We had lobster croquettes and a bottle of blackberry wine for supper that night.

  　　Here was the chance to liberate myself from drudgery. I talked over the matter very seriously with Louisa. We agreed that I must resign my place at the store and devote myself to humor.

  　　I resigned. My fellow clerks gave me a farewell banquet. The speech I made there coruscated. It was printed in full by the Gazette. The next morning I awoke and looked at the clock.

  　　“Late, by George!” I exclaimed, and grabbed for my clothes. Louisa reminded me that I was no longer a slave to hardware and contractors’

  　　supplies. I was now a professional humorist.

  　　After breakfast she proudly led me to the little room off the kitchen.

  　　Dear girl! There was my table and chair, writing pad, ink, and pipe tray. And all the author’s trappings—the celery stand full of fresh roses and honeysuckle, last year’s calendar on the wall, the dictionary, and a little bag of chocolates to nibble between inspirations. Dear girl!

  　　I sat me to work. The wall paper is patterned with arabesques or odalisks or—perhaps—it is trapezoids. Upon one of the figures I

  　　fixed my eyes. I bethought me of humor.

  　　A voice startled me—Louisa’s voice.

  　　“If you aren’t too busy, dear,” it said, “come to dinner.”

  　　I looked at my watch. Yes, five hours had been gathered in by the grim scytheman. I went to dinner.

  　　“You mustn’t work too hard at first,” said Louisa. “Goethe—or was it Napoleon?—said five hours a day is enough for mental labor. Couldn’t you take me and the children to the woods this afternoon?”

  　　“I am a little tired,” I admitted. So we went to the woods.

  　　But I soon got the swing of it. Within a month I was turning out copy as regular as shipments of hardware.

  　　And I had success. My column in the weekly made some stir, and I was referred to in a gossipy way by the critics as something fresh in the line of humorists. I augmented my income considerably by contributing to other publications.

  　　I picked up the tricks of the trade. I could take a funny idea and make a two-line joke of it, earning a dollar. With false whiskers on, it would serve up cold as a quatrain, doubling its producing value. By turning the skirt and adding a ruffle of rhyme you would hardly recognize it as vers de societe with neatly shod feet and a fashion-plate illustration.