He hung around the billiard-room, an’ beat every man that tackled him! he played card games all night in the little back room at the saloon, an’ smoked cigars all day. The widder tried every argyment, but it didn’t work. She cried, but it only made him bad-tempered, though he’d cry with her by the hour, an’ say as how he knew he was bad to her an’ no good to nobody else. An’ then he’d dry her eyes, an’ kiss her wrinkled cheek, an’ tease a dollar out o’ her to pay for more billiards an’ cigars, an’ drinks.
But Tom worked away manful an’ came nigh bein’ the support o’ the whole fam’ly. He allus had a cheery word for his mother an’ a kind word for Dick when he went home from his work, and the whole village was proud o’ him, for he didn’t seem to have a fault on earth. He didn’t drink ner smoke ner play games, an’ his week’s wages was tossed inter his mother’s lap every Saturday night.
So matters went on till ‘78, when the gold fever broke out fresh in Colorado, an’ the papers was filled with news of the big strikes made every day by poor men who woke up to find themselves rich. It was the talk o’ the hull town, an’ ‘specially the little crowd that congergated in the back room o’ the saloon. An’ no one listened to the stories more eagerly than Dick Weemins. For once he read the papers reg’lar, an’ never could talk enough about the gold diggin’s. He wasn’t often a hard drinker, but durin’ those days he was drunk more’n once, an’ one afternoon I saw Tom stop at the saloon as he were goin’ home to supper an’ come out arm an’ arm with his brother. He didn’t scold or abuse him; but jest led him home an’ put him to bed.
The next mornin’ there was a conference at the widder’s, an’ soon after she come down to the store to ask my advice. It seems Dick had asked her to let him have the thousan’ dollars she had been savin’ for him, to go to the gold-diggin’s with. He promised to brace up an’ be a man if she would; an’ agreed, in case he failed to make his fortune, never to ask her for another dollar while he lived.
To her su’prise Tom had sided with his brother, sayin’ as he thought it might be the savin’ of him, an’ that Dick would never need the money more’n he did then. For my part I were puzzled what to advise, but I told her I thought it was like throwin’ the money away to let a lad like Dick go to the gold fields with it.
That settled the matter, as it only needed a little oppersition to induce the widder to agree; an’ one fine mornin’ Mister Dick, dressed up in a new suit o’ store clothes, an’ lookin’ handsome an’ happy, bid good-bye to us all an’ left for the far West to make his fortune.
The same train that Dick Weemins went away on, Parson Bullum’s daughter got off of, bein’ jest back from boardin’ school; an’ I think Tom Weemins fell in love with her on the spot. She was a bright, lively little girl, was Bessie Bullum, an’ somethin’ of a beauty, too, in her way. She’d learned new-fangled notions at boardin’-school, an’ dressed as dainty as any lady in the land. Her hair was yeller as gold an’ her eyes as black as night — a combination I was allers opposed to in a woman. But Tom Weemins didn’t think so, an’ he begun to pay attentions to her in a way that soon set the tongues o’ the hull neighborhood a’ waggin’.
The girl took it very easy an’ quiet, as if it was jest her due, an’ bein’ the queen among all the town girls it was only nach’ral that the most promisin’ an’ han’somest young man in town should make up to her.
The widder was kind o’ lonely them days, bein’ as how Dick was away at the diggin’s an’ Tom spendin’ every spare minnit with Bessie, but she bore it very meek, as, indeed, she did all her trials; an’ she looked very happy an’ pleased when Tom told her one mornin’, with a glowin’ face an’ sparklin’ eyes, that Bessie Bullum had promised to be his wife.
Then the widder give him the other thousan’ dollars, sayin’ he had as much right to his share as Dick had; an’ he bought the little store across on the corner an’ put in a new stock, an’ a bran’ new sign over the door with his name on it in big letters. Trade begun to come his way, too, an’ for a little while there was nothin’ to mar the widder’s contentment, ‘cept that she never heard a word from Dick. O’ course she allus hoped he was doin’ well, and as he never was much of a letter writer she said as she couldn’t well expect that he’d stop up suddin like, in the midst of diggin’ gold, an’ let her know how well he was doin’.
So things went on smooth enough for a time, but the first blow of all the widder’s troubles wasn’t long in comin’. A theatre troop played in the town for a week, an’ Bessie Bullum went every night, an’ got pretty well acquainted with the actor folks. Tom never suspected there was anythin’ wrong in the acquaintance till ‘bout a month afterwards, when he got a letter from Bessie sayin’ she had run away an’ joined a troupe, an’ that he must never expect to see her again.
He didn’t take the blow as a man should. We all tried to tell him that a woman o’ that sort wasn’t worth worryin’ about; but he only stared at us with a white face an’ a dead look in his eyes, as if he didn’t take in what we was sayin’. Instead o’ goin’ home to his supper, as usual, he dropped in to the salloon, an’ when he come out late at night he was dead drunk, an’ jest able to stagger home. From that time on he was more often drunk than sober, an’ they say as how the father was once a drinkin’ man, an’ it come natch’ral to both the boys, only the widder’s influence had allus kept Tom from it before.
Trade begun to drop away from the Weemins store, an’ matters looked pretty black for the widder. Then come the next blow. Joe Harris, one of our boys that had gone out to the gold-diggin’s, come home agin, a sadder an’ a wiser man, an’ he brought full reports of the doin’s of Dick Weemins.
It seems when he first got there Dick was full o’ pluck an’ hope; but after a few days at the diggin’s he got tired o’ the hard work an’ begun lookin’ ‘round for a easier way to make a fortune. Gamblers was thick in them parts, an’ it didn’t take long for Dick to git acquainted with ‘em. You know the rest — Dick’s thousan’ dollars melted slowly away till he come outer the game one mornin’ without a penny in the world. He borrered a revolver of one o’ the gang an’ went inter the woods to shoot himself, but he thought better of it an’ become a perfessional gambler instead. When Joe come home Dick Weemins had already won a name for himself, but not one to make the poor widder any happier. He was called “Di’mond Dick,” an’ had the reputation of bein’ the slickest hand at fleecin’ the innercents in all the camp.
Joe’s story got pretty well circulated, an’ by an’ by it reached the widder’s ears, an’ from that time her courage seemed to leave her; for she broke down complete, an’ cried by the hour. Often I’d go by the cottage on my way to dinner an’ see her bendin’ over her work by the winder, the tears fallin’ drop by drop on the sewin’ she had took in to support herself an’ Tom. You see the poor soul had set her heart on Dick’s makin’ a man of himself, for he were her fav’rit son an’ the apple of her eye, so to speak. An’ so his downfall cut her up more than Tom’s, though that chap was as bad as he well could be. I don’t believe he ever drew a sober breath, ‘til one day he come down with the shakes, an’ at the same time the sheriff walked inter the little store an’ took all there was left to satisfy the creditors.
I tell you when I thought of all the wretchedness that saucy little Bessie Bullum had caused, I could have took the mis’rable girl by the neck an’ strangled her with my own hands!
But that’s neither here nor there. I’m stickin’ to facts in this here story, — or a tryin’ to, anyhow.
The widder couldn’t sew much while Tom was wrastlin’ with the devils the drink brought to him, an’ so I took to leavin’ a bit of a brown-paper parcel on her steps every night when I went home, an’ I b’lieve it were needed bad enough.
After a time Tom got better. In a few days he was able to git out again, an’ he headed straight for the saloon. That settled the matter, and a few of us got together an’ kidnapped him an’ took him to the ineb’rate asylum over in
Jersey. Then the widder was took sick, an’ the neighborin’ women nursed her by turns till she recovered, but she got up a total wreck of her old self, an’ unable to do any work. She was bent over nearly double, an’ her hand shook so bad that she couldn’t hold a needle in it.
Well, I ask you, stranger, what could be done in such a case? The man that owned her house didn’t push for the rent, nor even complain, but still he couldn’t afford to give it up to her entirely; an’ even if he did, where was she to get the money for groceries an’ coal an’ such like? So the neighbors held a meetin’ an’ decided she’d better go over to the countyhouse, where they could care for her better than we could an’ where her last years could be passed in peace an’ comfort.
The widder cried a good deal when I broke to her the verdict, but said meekly as she was ready to go. Well, then I backed out, an’ swore that as long as I had a cent on earth she should not go. This had its effect on the town people, but not on the widder. She suddenly developed a world o’ stubbornness, an’ said as it was false pride that made her shrink from the county-house, but true womanly pride that led her to refuse such help from a stranger. As if, after all these years, I could be called a stranger to the Widder Weemins, as I’d once thought of for Missus Noll! But no argyments would alter her determination, so to the county-house she went.
It must ‘a’ been a full year after, an’ folks had kind o’ forgot the Weemins fam’ly an’ their troubles, when one mornin’ as I come past the little cottage at the end o’ the lane I saw a man settin’ on the steps with his face in his hands. At first I thought it was a stranger. He wore better clothes than our town-people, an’ a silk tile on his head, an’ patent-leather shoes on his feet; and on the hand that hid his face a great di’mond glittered in the sunlight.
As I stopped in front of him he raised his head, an’ I recognized Dick Weemins.
“Where’s mother?” he asked, hoarsely.
The house was vacant jest then, bein’ for rent, an’ I s’pose he’d jest come from the depot an’ was s’prised to find the old place locked up. Now I didn’t have much sympathy for this man, but as I saw the haggard an’ worried look on his face I somehow didn’t jest know how to break the news to him! so I stood fust on one foot an’ then on the other an’ tried to think it out.
“Where’s mother?” he asked again.
“Over to the county-house.”
“My God! The county-house! Where’s Tom?”
“To the ‘sylum — over in Jersey.”
“Asylum? What asylum — and why?”
“Ineb’rate. Got the jams, an’ was no good to nobody.”
The man groaned an’ put his face in his hands again.
Well, I felt as I couldn’t help him any, an’ so I left him settin’ there an’ went down to the store, an’ got to work; but I couldn’t forget the look on his face, somehow, an’ I wondered what he would decide to do.
I heard by noon what he did do. He went to parson Bullum’s an’ got the whole story, straight, an’ the parson didn’t spare his daughter any, either, but laid the blame for all the trouble at her door, where it belonged.
Then Dick rented the little house an’ furnished it with all the comforts the town could afford. An’ then he drove away in a pony-carriage that was sent down from the city, an’ was so slick that it made all our folks stare their eyes out, an’ when he come back the widder was settin’ by his side with the happiest smile on her face I’d seen for years. The whole village was excited by that time over the return o’ Dick Weemins an’ his queer actins, an’ when he druv up to the cottage there was quite a little crowd gathered, an’ they give the old widder a kind an’ hearty cheer. Dick’s face flushed with a grateful look, an’ the poor woman smiled an’ nodded at the folks in quite her old way.
Soon after Dick come inter my store an’ ordered up goods in quite an extravygent way. I noticed his di’mond ring an’ breastpin was gone, an’ he give me a twenty-dollar bill to take my pay out of.
I hesitated a minnit, an’ then, says I,-
“Dick Weemins, is that gamblin’ money?”
He looked at me surprised like; then says he, —
“Gamblin’ money? Yes; but as honest come by as any penny you ever touched.”
“That it’s not!” I spoke up, “for gamblin’ an’ honesty can’t be spoke in the same breath.”
“Indeed!” says he. How wonderful Dick Weemins had changed, to be sure. “Friend Noll, all occupations, to my notions, is gamblin’ — or speculatin’, which ‘mounts to the same thing. Did anybody ever question Gould’s or Vanderbilt’s money? an’ aint it all the proceeds o’ gamblin’? For my part, I never robbed the widder ner the orphan, while these men have ruined thousan’s. Your own business is a speculation — a sort o’ gamblin’. If you sell your goods at a profit, you win — otherwise you lose. The very money you give the parson is speculation: if he saves souls, you win, if he don’t you lose. In my business when a man had more money ‘u he knew what to do with, I let him speculate, an’ if he lost I won. Am I worse than you? Is my money less honest come by?”
I felt his reasonin’ was all wrong, but it took my breath away, an’ never bein’ very strong in argyment, I changed the bill an’ said nothin’.
But this wasn’t all the queer things that Dick Weemins did, by any means. He got his brother out o’ the ‘sylum, an’ though he was nothin’ but the wreck o’ his old self, Dick undertook to build him up again. An’ soon after the strangest thing happened of all his strange acting. He went away for nearly a week, an’ come back leadin’ a thin, veiled woman, dressed in a shabby black gown, who cried every step from the depot to the widder’s cottage. But when she got there she threw off her veil an’ fell on her knees before Tom “Weemins an’ asked him to forgive her. An’ he did, for they were married soon after; an’ though we never heard the whole story, it got noised around that Dick had hunted up Bessie Bullum an’ rescued her jest in time to save her from a grave in the river. And all this was done by Dick Weemins — nothin’ but a wicked gambler.
Tom Weemins’ big store is the pride of the town now, an’ draws trade for all the rest of us. An’ his wife seems contented an’ happy, though she never goes out inter society. The widder is a pretty old lady now, but she’s passin’ her last days in peace an’ luxury, an’ has a woman that does nothin’ but wait on her.
An’ Dick? Well, stranger, you know this story I’ve been tellin’ took place sev’ral year ago, an’ times has changed with the gambler since then. But if you go up to the big brick house at the top o’ the hill yonder, an’ ask for the proprietor o’ the woollen-mills that has made our town famous, you’ll meet the best-lookin’ an’ most respected man in the hull county. He’s mayor o’ the town, too, an’ they talk o’ runnin’ him for congress next term. And the curiousest part of it all, stranger, is that this man, the biggest gun as we’ve got in these ‘ere parts, is no other than Dick Weemins, the reformed gambler!
The Extravagance of Dan
From: The National Magazine, May 1897
“To think,” exclaimed farmer Biggs, solemnly, as in either hand he held upright the carving knife and fork, their butts resting upon the tablecloth; “to think as I should ‘a’ raised up a boy to be as extravygent as this!”
Aunt Annabel shook her head sorrowfully, Mrs. Biggs gave a low moan of grief and little ‘Liz’beth with eyes big and wondering, stared full at her brother Dan.
Dan himself stood beside the breakfast table, half defiant, more than half embarrassed, and feeling uncommonly like a fish out of water. It was Sunday morning, and Dan, who had driven to town the evening before and returned late, had just sprung a genuine surprise upon the family circle.
“Jest look,” continued his father, severely, as he pointed full at the culprit with the carving knife, “at that red shirt an’ high dude collar!”
“It ain’t red,” protested Dan, eagerly; “it’s pink, with white stripes.”
“An’ the blue necktie!�
�� gasped Aunt Annabel, with another reproachful shake of her bead.
“An” the bran’ new suit!” said Dan’s mother, striving to conceal the tone of pride that crept into her voice.
“An’ oh, Pop! — look at his shoes!” cried little ‘Liz’beth, clapping her hands.
They all looked down at Dan’s feet, and stared in amazement at the shiny, patent-leathers that glistened in all their newness.
“‘Twere my money.” said Dan, the blood surging into his round, beardless face, “an’ I don’t know as it’s anybody’s business ‘cept mine. Can’t a feller be a gentleman if he wants to?”
“Not with them hands,” said his father, sternly.
Dan looked down at the big, red fists that hung far out of his sleeves, and then put them behind his back.
“Ner with them feet,” declared Aunt Annabel, with evident contempt. Dan shifted them uneasily.
“Ner with that head o’ hair.” said his mother, critically. Dan’s hands sought his head, and he ran his fingers slowly through the sandy shock of hair that adorned it.
“You kin cut it, can’t ye, mar?” he asked, anxiously.
“I kin, o’ course,” replied Mrs. Biggs, “but I dunno as it would be a Christian act to encourage you in your foolish extravygence.”
“Foolish ain’t no name for it,” announced Mr. Biggs; “it’s down-right wicked.”
“‘Twere my money,” repeated Dan, but the tears stood in his blue eyes as he realized the impossibility of justifying himself to his unsympathetic friends.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 846