CHAPTER VI.
HE IS DOOMED FOR WORSE ACCIDENTS.
It may seem strange for you to hear of me again, after the conclusionof the last chapter of my blunders. But it was not I who made the lastblunder--it was the druggist. Quite by mistake the imbecile who waitedupon me put up four ounces of the aromatic syrup of rhubarb. I feltmyself gradually sinking into the death-sleep after I had taken it;with the thought of Belle uppermost in my mind, I allowed myself tosink--"no more catastrophes after this last and grandest one--no morered faces--big mouth--tea-napkins--wonder--if she--will be--sorry!"and I became unconscious.
I was awakened from a comfortable slumber by loud screams; motherstood by my bed, with the vial labeled "laudanum" in one hand, myletter in the other. Father rushed into the room.
"Father, John's committed suicide. Oh! bring the tartar-emetic quick!Make some coffee as strong as lye! Oh! send for a stomach-pump. TellMary to bring the things and put the coffee on; and you come here, an'we'll walk him up and down--keep him a-going--that's his onlysalvation! Oh! John, John! that ever your bashfulness should drive youinto this! Up with him, father! Oh! he's dying! He ain't able to helphimself one bit!"
They dragged me off the bed, and marched me up and down the room.Supposing, as a matter of course, that I ought to be expiring, I feltthat I was expiring. My knees tottered under me; they only hauled mearound the more violently. They forced a spoonful of tartar-emeticdown my throat; Mary, the servant-girl, poured a quart of black coffeedown me, half outside and half in; then they jerked me about the flooragain, as if we were dancing a Virginia reel.
The doctor came and poked a long rubber tube down and converted meinto a patent pump, until the tartar-emetic, and the coffee, and thepumpkin-pie I had eaten for dinner had all revisited this mundanesphere.
They had no mercy on me; I promenaded up and down and across withfather, with Mary, with the doctor, until I felt that I should die ifthey didn't allow me to stop promenading.
The worst of it was, the house was full of folks; they crowded aboutthe chamber door and looked at me, dancing up and down with the hiredgirl and the doctor.
"Shut the door--they shall _not_ look at me!" I gasped, at last. Thedoctor felt my pulse and said proudly to my mother:
"Madam, your son will live! Our skill and vigilance have saved him."
"Bless you, doctor!" sobbed my parents.
"I will _not_ live," I moaned, "to be the laughing stock ofBabbletown. I will buy some more."
"John," said my father, weeping, "arouse yourself! You shall leavethis place, if you desire it--only live! I will get you the positionof weather-gauger on top of Mount Washington, if you say so, but don'tcommit any more suicide, my son!"
I was affected, and promised that I wouldn't, provided that I wasfound a situation somewhere by myself. So the excitement subsided.Father slept with me that night, keeping one eye open; the doctor gotthe credit of saving my life, and the girls of Babbletown were scaredout of laughing at me for a whole month.
When we came to talk the matter over seriously--father and I--it wasfound to be too late in the season to procure me the Mount Washingtonappointment for the winter; besides, the effect of my attempt to"shuffle off this mortal coil" was to literally overrun our store withcustomers. People came from the country for fifteen miles around, inox teams, on horse-back, in sleighs and cutters, and bob-sleds, andcrockery-crates, to buy something, in hopes of getting a glimpse ofthe bashful young man who swallowed the pizen. Now, father was toocute a Yankee not to take advantage of the mob. He forgot hispromises, and made me stay in the store from morning till night, sothat women could say: "I bought this 'ere shirting from the young manwho committed suicide; he did it up with his own hands."
"I'll give you a fair share o' the profits, John," father would say,slyly.
Well, things went on as it greased; the girls mostly stayed away--theBabbletown girls, for they had guilty consciences, I suspect; and inFebruary there came a thaw. I stood looking out of the store windowone day; the snow had melted in the street, and right over the stonesthat had been laid across the road for a walk, there was a greatpuddle of muddy water about two yards wide and a foot deep. I soon sawHetty Slocum tripping across the street; she came to the puddle andstood still; the soft slush was heaped up on either side--she couldn'tget around and she couldn't go through. My natural gallantry got thebetter of my resentment, and I went out to help her over,notwithstanding what she had said when I was under the counter.Planting one foot firmly in the center of the puddle and bracing theother against the curb-stone, I extended my hand.
"If you're good at jumping, Miss Slocum," said I, "I'll land yousafely on this side."
"Oh," said she, roguishly, "Mr. Flutter, can I trust you?" and shereached out her little gloved hand.
All my old embarrassment rushed over me. I became nervous at thecritical moment when I should have been cool. I never could tell justhow it happened--whether her glove was slippery, or my foot slipped ona piece of ice under slush, or what--but the next moment we were bothof us sitting down in fourteen inches of very cold, very muddy water.
THE NEXT MOMENT WE WERE BOTH OF US SITTING DOWN INFOURTEEN INCHES OF VERY COLD, VERY MUDDY WATER.]
My best beaver hat flew off and was run over by a passing sled, whilea little dog ran away with Hetty's seal-skin muff.
I floundered around in that puddle for about two minutes, and then Igot up. Hetty still sat there. She was white, she was so mad.
"I might a known better," said she. "Let me alone. I'd sit hereforever, before I'd let _you_ help me up."
The boys were coming home from school, and they began to hoot andlaugh. I ran after the little dog who was making off with the muff.How Hetty got up, or who came to her rescue I don't know. That curbelonged about four miles out of town, and he never let up until hegot home.
I grabbed the muff just as he was disappearing under the house withit, and then I walked slowly back. The people who didn't know me tookme for an escaped convict--I was water-soaked and muddy, hatless, andhad a sneaking expression, like that of a convicted horse-thief. Twoor three persons attempted to arrest me. Finally, two stout farmerssucceeded, and brought me into the village in triumph, and marched mebetween them to the jail.
"Why, what's Mr. Flutter been doin'?" asked the sheriff, coming out tomeet us.
"Do you mean to say you know him?" inquired one of the men.
"Yes, I know him. That's our esteemed fellow-citizen, young Flutter."
"And he ain't no horse-thief nor nuthin'!"
"Not a bit of it, I assure you."
The man eyed me from head to foot, critically and contemptuously.
"Then all I've got to say," he remarked slowly, "is this--appearancesis very deceptive."
It was getting dusk by this time, and I was thankful for it.
"I slipped down in a mud-puddle and lost my hat," I explained to thesheriff, as I turned away, and had the satisfaction of hearing theother one of my arresters say, behind my back:
"Oh, drunk!"
I hired a little boy, for five cents, to deliver Miss Slocum's muff ather residence. Then I went into the house by the kitchen, bribed Maryto clean my soiled pants without telling mother, slipped up-stairs,and went to bed without my supper.
The next day I bought a handsome seven-dollar ring, and sent it toHetty as some compensation for the damage done to her dress.
That evening was singing-school evening. I went early, so as to get myseat without attracting attention. Early as I was, I was not thefirst. A group of young people was gathered about the greatblack-board, on which the master illustrated his lessons. They werehaving lots of fun, and did not notice me as I came in. I stolequietly to a seat behind a pillar. Fred Hencoop was drawing somethingon the board, and explaining it. As he drew back and pointed with thelong stick, I saw a splendid caricature of myself pursuing a smalldog with a muff, while a young lady sat quietly in a mud-puddle in thecorner of the black-board, and Fred was saying, with intense gravity:
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br /> "This is the man, all tattered and torn, that spattered the maiden allforlorn. _This_ is the dog that stole the muff. _This_ is the ring hesent the maid--"
"Muff-in ring," suggested some one, and then they laughed louder thanever.
I felt that that singing-school was no place for me that evening, andI stole away as noiselessly as I had entered.
I went home and packed my trunk. The next morning I said to father:
"Give me my share of the profits for the last month," and he gave meone hundred and thirty dollars. "I am going where no one knows me,mother, so good-bye. You'll hear from me when I'm settled," and I wasactually off on the nine o'clock New York express.
Every seat was full in every car but one--one seat beside a pretty,fashionably-dressed young lady was vacant. I stood up against thewood-box and looked at that seat, as a boy looks at a jar ofpeppermint-drops in a candy-store window. After a while I reflectedthat these people were all strangers, and, of course, unaware of myinfirmity; this gave me a certain degree of courage. I left thesupport of the wood-box and made my way along the aisle until I cameto the vacant seat.
"Miss," I began, politely, but the lady purposely looked the otherway; she had her bag in the place where I wanted to sit, and shedidn't mean to move it, if she could help it. "Miss," I said again, ina louder tone.
Two or three people looked at us. That confused me; her refusing tolook around confused me; one of my old bad spells began to come on.
"Miss," I whispered, leaning toward her, blushing and embarrassed, "Iwould like to know if you are engaged--if--if you are taken, I mean?"
She looked at me then sharp enough.
"Yes, sir, I _am_," she said calmly; "and going to be married nextweek."
The passengers began to laugh, and I began to back out. I didn't stopat the wood-box, but retreated into the next car, where I stood untilmy legs ached, and then sat down by an ancient lady, with a long nose,blue spectacles, and a green veil.
The Blunders of a Bashful Man Page 6