by E. W. Howe
CHAPTER XV.
A SHOT AT THE SHADOW.
The regular patronage of the "Apron and Password," like the attendanceat a theatre when reported by a friendly critic, was small, butexceedingly respectable.
A gentleman of uncertain age who answered to the name of Ponsonboy, andwho professed to be a lawyer, usually occupied the head of the one longtable which staggered on its feet in the dingy dining-room, and when hisplace was taken by a stranger, which happened innocently enoughoccasionally, Ponsonboy frowned so desperately that his companions wereoppressed with the fear that they would be called upon to testifyagainst him in court for violence.
The minister, who occupied the seat next to Ponsonboy, and who was ofuncertain age himself, could demonstrate to a certainty that the legalboarder was at least forty-five, but the legal boarder nevertheless hada great deal to say about the necessity which seemed to exist for theyoung men to take hold, and rescue Davy's Bend from the reign of "thefossils," a term which was applied to most of the citizens of the townafter the other epithets had been exhausted, and as but few of them knewwhat a fossil was, they hoped it was very bad, and used it a great deal.
Ponsonboy was such a particular man that he could only be pleased in twoways--by accusing him of an intention to marry any stylish girl oftwenty, or of an intention to remove to Ben's City, which he was alwaysthreatening to do.
"It would be useless for me to deny that I have had flattering offers,"it was his custom to reply, when asked if there was anything new withreference to his contemplated change of residence. "But I am deucedtimid. I came here a poor boy, with a law-book in one hand and an extrashirt in the other, and I don't want to make a change until I fullyconsider it."
It was a matter of such grave importance that Ponsonboy had alreadyconsidered it fifteen years, and regularly once a year during that timehe had arranged to go, making a formal announcement to that effect tothe small but select circle around the table, the members of whicheither expressed their regrets, or agreed to be with him in a fewmonths. But always at the last moment Ponsonboy discovered that thegentleman who had been making the flattering offers wanted to put toomuch responsibility on him, or something of that kind, whereupon thegood lady on his left, and the good gentleman on his right, were happyagain.
It was true that the legal boarder came to Davy's Bend a poor boy, if astout man of thirty without money or friends may be so referred to; itwas also true that he was poor still, though he was no longer a boy; butPonsonboy rid himself of this disagreeable truth, so far as his friendswere concerned, by laying his misfortunes at the door of the town, asthey all did. He was property poor, he said, and values had decreased somuch of late years, that he was barely able to pay his taxes, althoughhe really possessed nothing in the way of property except a tumble-downrookery on which there was a mortgage. But Ponsonboy, whose first namewas Albert, appeared to be quite content with his genteel poverty, solong as he succeeded in creating an impression that he would be rich anddistinguished but for the wrong done him by that miserable impostor,Davy's Bend.
The good man on his right, the Rev. Walter Wilton, and pastor of the oldstone church where Annie Benton was organist, was a bachelor, likePonsonboy; but, like Ponsonboy again, he did not regard himself as abachelor, but as a young man who had not yet had time to pick out a ladyworthy of his affections.
Close observers remarked that age was breaking out on good Mr. Wilton inspots, like the measles in its earlier stages; short gray hairs peepedout at the observer from his face, and seemed to be waving their arms toattract attention, but he kept them subdued by various arts so long thatit was certain that some time he would become old in a night. He walkedwell enough, _now_, and looked well enough; but when he forgets hispretence of youth, then he will walk slowly down to breakfast some finemorning with a crook in his back and a palsy in his hand.
When it was said of Rev. Walter Wilton that he was pious, the subjectwas exhausted; there was nothing more to say, unless you chose toelaborate on piety in general. He knew something of books, and read inthem a great deal, but old Thompson Benton was in the habit of sayingthat if he ever had an original idea in his head, it was before he cameto the Bend as a mild menace to those whose affairs did not permit of somuch indolent deference to the proprieties.
The Reverend Wilton did not gossip himself, but he induced others to, bybeing quietly shocked at what they said, and regularly three times a dayPonsonboy and his assistant on the left laid a morsel before him, whichhe inquired into minutely--but with the air of a man who intended tospeak to the erring parties; not as a gossip. Reverend Wilton neverspoke a bad word against anyone, nor was he ever known to speak a goodone, but he always gave those around him to understand by his criticalindifference to whatever was in hand that, were he at liberty to deserthis post, and allow the people to fall headlong into the abyss out ofwhich he kept them with the greatest difficulty, he would certainly showthem how the affairs of men should be properly conducted.
Too good for this world, but not good enough for the next, ReverendWilton only existed, giving every sort of evidence that, were it notunclerical, he would swear at his salary (which was less than that of agood bricklayer), denounce his congregation for good and sufficientreasons, cheat his boarding-place, and hate his companions; but histrade being of an amiable nature, he was a polite nothing, with a greatdeal of time on his hands in which to criticise busy people, which hedid without saying a word against them.
Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, sat on Ponsonboy's left; a tall and solidlybuilt lady of forty-five, who was so very good as to be disagreeable.The people dreaded to see her come near them, for her mission wascertain to be one of charity, and Mrs. Whittle's heart was alwaysbleeding for somebody. Summer and winter alike, she annoyed the peopleby telling them of "duties" which were not duties at all; and finallyshe was generally accepted as the town nuisance, although Mrs. Whittleherself believed that she was quite popular because of the good sheintended to accomplish, but which seemed to be impossible because of theselfishness of the people. Thompson Benton had given it out flat that ifshe ever came bothering around him, he would give her the real facts inthe case, instead of putting his name on her subscription paper, but forsome reason she kept away from him, and never heard the real facts,whatever they were. She regarded old Thompson, however, as a mean man,and moaned about him a great deal, which he either never heard of orcared nothing about.
Old Thompson was seldom seen at church on Sunday evening, therefore Mrs.Whittle felt quite sure that he was prowling around with a view ofsafe-blowing, or something of that kind, and she never referred to himexcept to intimate that he was up to mischief of the most pronouncedsort. A man who was not at church on Sunday evening, in the opinion ofMrs. Whittle, must be drunk in a saloon, or robbing somebody, for whereelse could he be? Mrs. Whittle only recognized two classes of men; thosewho were in the churches, and those who were in the saloons; and in herhead, which was entirely too small for the size of her body, there wasno suspicion of a middle ground. Those who craved the attention of Mrs.Whittle found it necessary to be conspicuous either as a saint or asinner.
Theoretically Mrs. Whittle was a splendid woman, and certainly a badwoman in no particular except that she carried her virtues to such anextent that the people disliked her, and felt ashamed of themselves forit, not feeling quite certain that they had a right to find fault withone who neglected not only her affairs, but her person, to teach othersneatness, and thrift, and the virtues generally.
If she accomplished no good, as old Thompson Benton stoutly asserted, itwas certain she did some harm, for the people finally came to neglectaffairs in which they would otherwise have taken a moderate interestbecause of their dislike of Mrs. Whittle. A great many others who wereinclined to attend to their own affairs (which are always sufficient tooccupy one's time, heaven knows) were badgered to such an extent by Mrs.Whittle that they joined her in various enterprises that resulted innothing but to make their good intentions ridiculous, and finally ther
ewas a general and a sincere hope that blunt Thompson Benton would findopportunity to come to the rescue of the people.
Three times a day this trio met, and three times each day it wassatisfied with itself, and dissatisfied with Davy's Bend, as well aseverything in it, including Allan Dorris. The new occupant of The Lockswas generally popular with the people, but the hotel trio made theabsurd mistake of supposing that they were the people, therefore theytalked of Dorris as though he were generally hated and despised. Theywere indignant, to begin with, because he did not covet the acquaintanceof the only circle in the town worth cultivating, and as time wore on,and he still made no effort to know them, they could come to only oneconclusion; that he was deserving of their severest denunciation.
Could Thompson Benton have known of the pious conclusions to which theycame concerning his child, and which she no more deserved than hundredsof other worthy women deserve the gossip to which they are alwayssubjected, he would have walked in upon them, and given the two menbroken heads, and the woman the real facts in her case which he had beenpromising; but there is a destiny which protects us from an evil whichis as common as sunshine, and Thompson Benton was not an exception tothe rule.
It was the custom of the hotel trio to come late to supper and remainlate, greatly to the disgust of the cook and the man-of-all-work, and,surrounding the table in easy positions, they gossipped to their heart'scontent, at last wandering away to their respective homes, very wellsatisfied with one another, if with nothing else.
It was after nine o'clock when they got away on the evening with whichwe have to do, and by the time Davy had eaten his own supper and put theroom in order for the morning, it was ten. Hurriedly putting up apackage of whatever was at hand for Tug, he was about starting out atthe kitchen door when he met Mr. Whittle on the steps. He had somehowcome into possession of a long and wicked-looking musket, which hebrought in with him, and put down near the door connecting the kitchenwith the dining-room. Seeing Davy's look of surprise, he seated himselfin Ponsonboy's place, and explained.
"Poison has its advantages, for it does not bark when it bites, but itlacks range, and henceforth I carry a gun. How was Uncle Albertto-night?"
Silas placed a plate of cold meat before his friend, and replied thatMr. Ponsonboy would be in a fine rage if he should hear himself referredto as Uncle Albert.
"Oh, would he?" Tug inquired, sighting at his companion precisely as hemight have sighted along the barrel of his musket. "That man is fiftyyears old if he is a day, and don't let him attempt any of his giddytricks with me. I wouldn't stand it; I know too much about him. I haveknown Uncle Albert ever since he was old enough to marry, and I knowenough to hang him, the old kicker. I've known him to abuse thepostmaster for not giving him a letter with money in it, although hedidn't expect one, and accuse him of stealing it, and whenever he spellsa word wrong, and gets caught at it, he goes around telling that he hasfound a typographical error in the dictionary. What did he say about meto-night?"
"He said--I hope you won't believe that I think so,"--Davy apologized inadvance--"that you robbed the only client you ever had of a thousanddollars."
"_Did_ he, though?" Tug impudently inquired. "Well, I'll give him halfif he'll prove it, for I need the money. Uncle Albert hears what is saidabout me, and I hear what is said about him. If he'll make a date withme, I'll exchange stories with him; and he won't have any of the best ofit, either. The people sometimes talk about as good a man as I am, andeven were I without faults, there are plenty of liars to invent stories,so you can imagine that they give it to Uncle Albert tolerable lively."
Tug did not mingle with the people a great deal, but he knew about whatthey were saying, and when talking to Silas he did not hesitate to quotethem to substantiate any position he saw fit to take. He had a habit ofputting on his hat on these occasions, and inviting Silas to accompanyhim out in the town to see the principal people, in order that theymight own to what Tug had credited them with saying. But Silas alwaysrefused to go, not doubting that his friend's inventions were true, soit happened that Tug made out rather strong cases against his enemies.
"I can stand up with the most of them," he said, with an ill humor towhich hunger lent a zest; "and them that beat me, I can disgrace withtheir poor relations. Show me the man that can't be beat if you go athim right, and you may hang me with a thread. Them that are well-behavedhave shiftless relations, and I'll get them drunk, and cause them tohurrah for 'Uncle Bill,' or 'Aunt Samantha,' or whoever it may be, infront of their fine houses. I pride myself on my meanness, and I'll notbe tromped on. Let him that is without sin cast the first stone, andI'll not be stoned. You can bet on that, if you want to."
Tug proceeded with his meal in silence until Silas said to him thatReverend Wilton was a good man. Silas had a habit of inducing Tug toabuse his enemies by praising them, and the ruse never failed.
"Well, don't he get paid for being good?" Tug replied, waving a kitchenfork in the air like a dagger. "Ain't that his business? It's no more tohis credit to say that he is good, than to say that Silas Davy is ahotel Handy Andy. If you say that he knows a good deal about books, Iwill say, so does Hearty Hampton know a good deal about mending shoes,for it's his trade. Shut Hearty up in a room, and pay him to posthimself regarding certain old characters he cares nothing about, and payhim well, and in the course of years he will be able to speak of people,events, and words which you, having been busy all the time, will knownothing about. He ought to be good; it's his business. I always knowwhat a preacher is going to say when he opens his mouth, for don't Iknow what he's hired to say? I don't like good men, any way, but a manwho is paid to be good, and expects me to admire him for it, willfind--well, I'll not do it, that's all. How's the old lady?"
There was a faint evidence that Tug was about to laugh at the thought ofhis divorced wife, and his cheeks puffed out as a preliminary, but hechanged his mind at the last moment, and carefully sighted at Silas, asif intending to wing his reply, like a bird from a trap.
"She is uncommonly well, for her," Silas said, looking meekly at hiscompanion. "She is almost gay."
"Oh, the young thing; _is_ she," Tug retorted. "Do you know what shereminds me of? An old man in a dress trying to imitate a girl."
There was unutterable meanness in Mr. Whittle's last remark, and when helooked around the room with fierce dignity, he seemed to be wonderingwhy any one should continue to live in the face of his displeasure.
"I heard her say to-night, when I brought in a third lot of cakes, thatyou were the bane of her life," Silas said, timidly, and dodging hishead to one side, as if expecting Tug Whittle to jump at him forrepeating the scandalous story. "Although she says she is heart-broken,I notice she eats mighty well; for her."
"And I suppose Reverend Good and Uncle Alfred encouraged her," Tugreplied. "What good husbands bachelors imagine they would be, and whatmiserable old growlers they turn out. Before a man is married he takes agreat deal of comfort to himself in thinking what a kind, indulgenthusband and father he would be, and how different from other men, butthey soon fall with a dull sickening thud to the level of the rest ofus. It's easy enough to be a good husband in theory, and it's easyenough to be brave in theory, but when the theorists come down to actualbusiness, they are like the rest of us. It's like an actor in a show. Hewants to find a villain, and punish him, and the villain appears aboutthat time, and makes no resistance, and is beaten to great applause,finally shrinking away while the other fellow looks ferociously at him,but it is not that way in real life. The villain fights in real life,and usually whips. If I knew that the men I dislike would stand itpeaceable, like the villains in a show, I'd beat 'm all to death; but asit is, I am a coward, like Ponsonboy, and you, and Armsby, and all therest of them; except Allan Dorris--there's a man who'd fight. When Iread in books about brave men, it makes me feel ashamed, until Iremember that the men in actual life are not like those in the books.What did Her Ladyship say about Hector?"
Mrs. Whittle's first husband had been a c
ertain Hector Harlam, withwhose history Silas was very familiar from his association with Tug, sohe answered,--
"She wiped away a tear, and regretted his death. She seemed greatlyaffected,--for her."
"She can't possibly regret his death more than I do," Tug said. "Heappreciated her; I never did, and I am sorry she does not join Hector inglory, or wherever he is, for she is no earthly good in Davy's Bend. Shetold me once that he always called her his baby."
There was no keeping it in now; the thought of his wife being called a"baby" was so absurd to Tug that he was about to laugh. His cheeksswelled out as though the laugh came up from below somewhere, and hefound it necessary to swallow it, after which there was a faint smile onhis face, and a gurgle in his throat. When Mr. Whittle smiled, it wassuch an unusual proceeding that his scalp had a habit of crawling overtowards his face, to take a look, which it did in this instance, andthen went back to its old position at the top of his head. It was adreadful laugh, but Silas was used to it, and was not alarmed.
"That woman wants to be a man the worst way," the old scoundrel went onto say. "I hope it accounts for the circumstance that she never lookslike a woman should. A white dress on a woman--a _real_ woman,understand; not an imitation one--looks handsome; and I never see a girldressed in white that I do not fall in love with her, but when the oldlady puts it on, with a frill at her neck, or any such trifling thing, Iwant to find a woodpile and an axe to cut off my feet. I don't know whyanyone should want to be a man; I know what a man is, and I wonder atthis strange ambition of the old lady. I never see a man that I don'twant to spit on him. Ugh!"
He shrugged his shoulders in unutterable disgust, but soon modified hismanner, as Davy began talking of another matter.
"Barney Russell, of Ben's City, was here to-day," the little man said."He used to live in Davy's Bend; I suppose you remember him."
"There's another feller I don't like," Mr. Whittle replied, with asnort. "He comes up here regularly once a month to crow over us, andtell around that he has two overcoats; one for winter, and another forspring. Some say he has seven canes, a different one for every day inthe week; but he ain't half the man Dorris is, although he carries silkhandkerchiefs with a red 'R' in the corner. If I should leave Davy'sBend, I'd never come back, as he does; for I have done so manycontemptible things here that I wouldn't want to be reminded of them byseeing the place again. I don't blame Barney, though, for having twoovercoats," Tug continued thoughtfully. "Next to two pairs of shoes,it's the greatest luxury a rich man can afford--I'd own two overcoatsmyself if I had the money. A man who has two overcoats and two pairs ofshoes, and uses a knife to cut his tobacco, instead of biting it offlike a pig, is ready to die; there will be little left in the world forhim to regret after he's gone,--but to return to the serious business oflife: it is usually on a Wednesday when the shadow appears. This is hisnight, and I'm looking for him."
He turned his big eye toward the corner where he had left the musket,and, seeing it was safe, resumed,--
"I have never been of any use to a single human being in all my life,but I intend to make myself useful to Allan Dorris by shooting theshadow. Give me that gun."
Silas went over to where the gun was standing, and returned with it inhis hand. Placing his finger about half way up the barrel, and followingit with his great eye, Tug said,--
"It is loaded to there. Thompson Benton trusted me for the ammunition,though he said he knew he would never get the money. I have a notion topay him now, for contrariness. Have you fifty cents about you?"
Silas carefully went through his pockets, as if he were not quite sureabout it, but after a long examination replied that he hadn't a cent.
"Well, it's no great matter, though you ought to keep money about you; Iam liable to need it. But, if let alone by the shadow, Allan Dorris willmarry Annie Benton, and become a happy man, which he has never beenbefore. I don't know what he has been up to before he came here, and Idon't care, for I like him, and I am going out now to get a shot at hisenemy."
Without further words he walked out, followed by Silas, who carefullylocked the kitchen door and put the key in his pocket. Viewed at adistance, the pair looked like a man and a boy out hunting; the boylagging behind to carry the game.
It was a bad night, for which the Bend was famous, and though it was notraining, there was so much moisture in the air from a recent rain, thatit occurred to Silas, as he went limping along towards The Locks, forthey walked in that direction, that if Tug should find the shadow, andfire his gun at it, the discharge would precipitate another shower; forthe prop under the water in the sky seemed to be very unsubstantial andshaky that night.
It had been raining at intervals all day, and the two men flounderedalong in the mud until they reached the church which stood near AllanDorris's house, where Tug stopped awhile to consider. Coming to aconclusion after some deliberation, he pulled two long boards up fromthe church steps, and, giving the gun to Silas to hold, he carried themto the middle gable of the building, on the side looking towards TheLocks. Climbing up on the window-sill, he placed one end of each boardon the wall which surrounded The Locks, and which was only a few feetfrom the church, and the other on the window-sash, pulling the upper onedown to aid the lower one in holding his weight, and allowing one end ofeach board to protrude into the church. Then climbing up, and straddlingone of the boards, he took his gun, and motioned his companion tofollow.
When Davy seated himself by the side of his friend, he found that thelow gable would protect them from the rain, should it come on, and thatfrom where they sat they commanded a view of Dorris's window; the oneabove the porch where they had once seen the shadow appear, and in whicha light now appeared. Silas felt certain that it was Tug's intention towait there all night for a shot, and he made himself as comfortable aspossible.
Occasionally he fell into a light doze, but on coming out of it, bylosing his balance, he saw that Tug was still intently watching thewindow, with the musket in his hands ready for use.
Two hours passed in this manner, when the patience of Silas was rewardedby seeing Tug crane his neck, and look intently through the trees. Silaslooked himself, and saw a man's head slowly rising to the porch rooffrom below. It came up in full view, and then a part of the body wasseen as the shadow climbed over the low railing. As near as Silas couldmake out, the man wormed himself around, and finally stood upon theporch railing to look in at the top of the window; so that only a partof his head and none of his body could be seen from where the men were.
Although he heard Tug cock the gun when the head first appeared, heseemed to be waiting for a larger mark to shoot at; for there wasnothing to be seen except a part of a hat. Occasionally this would bewithdrawn, but it would soon appear again, and remain motionless a longtime, as though the wearer was intently gazing at something transpiringin the room which greatly interested him. Tug did not seem at allexcited, as Silas was, but sat watching the shadow, as motionless as astone.
After a longer disappearance than usual, during which time Tug becamevery nervous, the hat came in view again, and Silas said softly,--
"Suppose it should disappear, and never come back?"
Apparently Tug had not thought of this possibility, for he hurriedlythrew the gun to his shoulder, aimed a moment, and fired. The report wastremendous, and seemed to frighten Tug himself; for he hurriedly jumpeddown, and softly raised the sash into position, replaced the boards onthe steps, and set out toward the town. Reaching the vicinity of thehotel, he waited until Silas came up, and said,--
"Sleep in your own bed to-night; we must not be found together."
So saying he disappeared, and Silas crept to his lonely room to wonderwhat Allan Dorris would find when he went out to investigate theshooting.