by W. W. Jacobs
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE
FRED TROVER'S LITTLE IRON-CLAD
Did I never tell you the story? Is it possible? Draw up your chair.Stick of wood, Harry. Smoke?
You've heard of my Uncle Popworth, though. Why, yes! You've seenhim--the eminently respectable elderly gentleman who came one day lastsummer just as you were going; book under his arm, you remember; weedon his hat; dry smile on bland countenance; tall, lank individual invery seedy black. With him my tale begins; for if I had never indulgedin an Uncle Popworth I should never have sported an Iron-clad.
Quite right, sir; his arrival _was_ a surprise to me. To know how greata surprise, you must understand why I left city, friends, business, andsettled down in this quiet village. It was chiefly, sir, to escape thefascinations of that worthy old gentleman that I bought this place, andtook refuge here with my wife and little ones. Here we had respite,nepenthe from our memories of Uncle Popworth; here we used to sitdown in the evening and talk of the past with grateful and tranquilemotions, as people speak of awful things endured in days that areno more. To us the height of human happiness was raising green cornand strawberries in a retired neighborhood where uncles were unknown.But, sir, when that Phantom, that Vampire, that Fate, loomed before myvision that day, if you had said, "Trover, I'll give ye sixpence forthis neat little box of yours," I should have said, "Done!" with thetrifling proviso that you should take my uncle in the bargain.
The matter with him? What, indeed, could invest human flesh with suchterrors--what but this? he was--he is--let me shriek it in your ear--abore--a BORE! of the most malignant type; an intolerable, terrible,unmitigated BORE!
That book under his arm was a volume of his own sermons--nine hundredand ninety-nine octavo pages, O Heaven! It wasn't enough for him topreach and repreach those appalling discourses, but then the ruthlessman must go and print 'em! When I consider what book-sellers--worthymen, no doubt, many of them, deserving well of their kind--he must havetalked nearly into a state of syncope before ever he found one to giveway, in a moment of weakness, of utter exhaustion and despair, andconsent to publish him; and when I reflect what numbers of inoffensivepersons, in the quiet walks of life, have been made to suffer theinfliction of that Bore's Own Book, I pause, I stand aghast at theinscrutability of Divine Providence.
Don't think me profane, and don't for a moment imagine I underratethe function of the preacher. There's nothing better than a goodsermon--one that puts new life into you. But what of a sermon thattakes life out of you, instead of a spiritual fountain, a spiritualsponge that absorbs your powers of body and soul, so that the longeryou listen the more you are impoverished? A merely poor sermon isn't sobad; you will find, if you are the right kind of a hearer, that it willsuggest something better than itself; a good hen will lay to a bit ofearthen. But the discourse of your ministerial vampire, fastening bysome mystical process upon the hearer who has life of his own--thoughnot every one has that--sucks and sucks and sucks; and he is exhaustedwhile the preacher is refreshed. So it happens that your born bore isnever weary of his own boring; he thrives upon it; while he seems to begiving, he is mysteriously taking in--he is drinking your blood.
But you say nobody is obliged to _read_ a sermon. O my unsophisticatedfriend! if a man will put his thoughts--or his words, if thoughts arelacking--between covers--spread his banquet, and respectfully invitePublic Taste to partake of it, Public Taste being free to decline, thenyour observation is sound. If an author quietly buries himself in hisbook--very good! _hic jacet_: peace to his ashes!
"The times have been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again,"
as Macbeth observes, with some confusion of syntax, excusable in aperson of his circumstances. Now, suppose they--or he--the man whosebrains are out--goes about with his coffin under his arm, like myworthy uncle? and suppose he blandly, politely, relentlessly insistsupon reading to you, out of that octavo sarcophagus, passages which inhis opinion prove that he is not only not dead, but immortal? If such aman be a stranger, snub him; if a casual acquaintance, met in an evilhour, there is still hope--doors have locks, and there are two sidesto a street, and nearsightedness is a blessing, and (as a last resort)buttons may be sacrificed (you remember Lamb's story of Coleridge) andleft in the clutch of the fatal fingers. But one of your own kindred,and very respectable, adding the claim of misfortune to his otherclaims upon you--pachydermatous to slights, smilingly persuasive,gently persistent--as imperturbable as a ship's wooden figureheadthrough all the ups and downs of the voyage of life, and as insensibleto cold water--in short, an uncle like my uncle, whom there was nogetting rid of--what the deuce would you do?
Exactly; run away as I did. There was nothing else to be done, unless,indeed, I had throttled the old gentleman; in which case I am confidentthat one of our modern model juries would have brought in the popularverdict of justifiable insanity. But, being a peaceable man, I wasaverse to extreme measures. So I did the next best thing--consulted mywife, and retired to this village.
Then consider the shock to my feelings when I looked up that day andsaw the enemy of our peace stalking into our little Paradise with hisbook under his arm and his carpet-bag in his hand!--coming with hissermons and his shirts, prepared to stay a week--that is to say ayear--that is to say forever, if we would suffer him--and how was he tobe hindered by any desperate measures short of burning the house down?
"My dear nephew!" says he, striding toward me with eager steps, as youperhaps remember, smiling his eternally dry, leathery smile--"NephewFrederick!"--and he held out both hands to me, book in one and bag int'other--"I am rejoiced! One would almost think you had tried to hideaway from your old uncle, for I've been three days hunting you up. Andhow is Dolly? She ought to be glad to see me, after all the troubleI've had in finding you! And, Nephew Frederick--h'm!--can you lend methree dollars for the hackman? For I don't happen to have----Thank you!I should have been saved this if you had only known I was stopping lastnight at a public house in the next village, for I know how delightedyou would have been to drive over and fetch me!"
If you were not already out of hearing, you may have noticed that Imade no reply to this affecting speech. The old gentleman has grownquite deaf of late years--an infirmity which was once a source ofuntold misery to his friends, to whom he was constantly appealing fortheir opinions, which they were obliged to shout in his ear. But now,happily, the world has about ceased responding to him, and he hasalmost ceased to expect responses from the world. He just catches youreye, and when he says, "Don't you think so, sir?" or "What is youropinion, sir?" an approving nod does your business.
The hackman paid, my dear uncle accompanied me to the house, unfoldingthe catalogue of his woes by the way. For he is one of those worthy,unoffending persons whom an ungrateful world jostles and tramplesupon--whom unmerciful disaster follows fast and follows faster. Inhis younger days he was settled over I don't know how many differentparishes; but secret enmity pursued him everywhere, poisoning theparochial mind against him, and driving him relentlessly from placeto place. Then he relapsed into agencies, and went through a longlist of them, each terminating in flat failure, to his ever-recurringsurprise--the simple old soul never suspecting, to this day, who hisone great tireless, terrible enemy is!
I got him into the library, and went to talk over this unexpectedvisit--or visitation--with Dolly. She bore up under it more cheerfullythan could have been expected--suppressed a sigh--and said she wouldgo down and meet him. She received him with a hospitable smile (Iverily believe that more of the world's hypocrisy proceeds from toomuch good-nature than from too little) and listened patiently to hisexplanations.
"You will observe that I have brought my bag," says he, "for I knew youwouldn't let me off for a day or two--though I must positively leavein a week--in two weeks, at the latest. I have brought my volume, too,for I am contemplating a new edition" (he is always contemplating a newedition, making that a pretext for luggin
g the book about with him),"and I wish to enjoy the advantages of your and Frederick's criticism.I anticipate some good, comfortable, old-time talks over the old book,Frederick!"
We had invited some village friends to come in and eat strawberriesand cream with us that afternoon; and the question arose, what shouldbe done with the old gentleman? Harry, who is a lad of a rather livelyfancy, coming in while we were taking advantage of his great-uncle'sdeafness to discuss the subject in his presence, proposed a pleasantexpedient. "Trot him out into the cornfield, introduce him to thescarecrow, and let him talk to that," says he, grinning up into thevisitor's face, who grinned down at him, no doubt thinking what awonderfully charming boy he was! If he were as blind as he is deaf, hemight have been disposed of very comfortably in some such ingeniousway--the scarecrow, or any other lay figure, might have served toengage him in one of his immortal monologues. As it was, the suggestionbore fruit later, as you will see.
While we were consulting--keeping up our scattering fire of small-armsunder the old talker's heavy guns--our parish minister called,--oldDoctor Wortleby, for whom we have a great liking and respect. Ofcourse we had to introduce him to Uncle Popworth--for they met face toface; and of course Uncle Popworth fastened at once upon the brotherclergyman. Being my guest, Wortleby could do no less than listen toPopworth, who is my uncle. He listened with interest and sympathy forthe first half hour; and then continued listening for another halfhour, after his interest and sympathy were exhausted. Then, attemptingto go, he got his hat, and sat with it in his hand half an hour longer.Then he stood half an hour on his poor old gouty feet, desperatelyedging toward the door.
"Ah, certainly," says he, with a weary smile, repeatedly endeavoringto break the spell that bound him. "I shall be most happy to hear theconclusion of your remarks at some future time" (even ministers can lieout of politeness); "but just now--"
"One word more, and I am done," cries my Uncle Popworth, for thefiftieth time; and Wortleby, in despair, sat down again.
Then our friends arrived.
Dolly and I, who had all the while been benevolently wishing Wortlebywould go, and trying to help him off, now selfishly hoped he wouldremain and share our entertainment--and our Uncle Popworth.
"I ought to have gone two hours ago," he said, with a plaintive smile,in reply to our invitation; "but, really, I am feeling the need of acup of tea" (and no wonder!) "and I think I will stay."
We cruelly wished that he might continue to engage my uncle inconversation; but that would have been too much to hope from thesublime endurance of a martyr--if ever there was one more patient thanhe. Seeing the Lintons and the Greggs arrive, he craftily awaited hisopportunity, and slipped off, to give them a turn on the gridiron.First Linton was secured; and you should have seen him roll his mute,appealing orbs, as he settled helplessly down under the infliction.Suddenly he made a dash. "I am ignorant of these matters," said he;"but Gregg understands them--Gregg will talk with you." But Greggtook refuge behind the ladies. The ladies, receiving a hint from poordistressed Dolly, scattered. But no artifice availed against thedreadful man. Piazza, parlor, garden--he ranged everywhere, and wassure to seize a victim.
At last tea was ready, and we all went in. The Lintons and Greggswere people of the world, who would hardly have cared to wait for ablessing on such lovely heaps of strawberries, in mugs of cream theysaw before them; but, there being two clergymen at the table, theceremony was evidently expected. We were placidly seated; there wasa hush, agreeably filled with the fragrance of the delicious fruit;even my Uncle Popworth, from long habit, turned off his talk at thatsuggestive moment; when I did what I thought a shrewd thing. I knew toowell my relative's long-windedness at his devotions, as at everythingelse. (I wonder if Heaven itself isn't bored by such fellows!) I hadsuffered, I had seen my guests suffer, too much from him already--tothink of deliberately yielding him a fearful advantage over us; so Icoolly passed him by, and gave an expressive nod to the old Doctor.
Wortleby began; and I was congratulating myself on my adroit managementof a delicate matter, when--conceive my consternation!--Popworth--notto speak it profanely--followed suit! The reverend egotist couldn'ttake in the possibility of anybody but himself being invited to saygrace at our table, he being present--he hadn't noticed my nod to theDoctor, and the Doctor's low, earnest voice didn't reach him--andthere, with one blessing going on one side of the table, he, as Isaid, pitched in on the other! His eyes shut, his hands spread overhis plate, his elbows on the board, his head bowed, he took care thatgrace should abound with us for once! His mill started, I knew therewas no stopping it, and I hoped Wortleby would desist. But he didn'tknow his man. He seemed to feel that he had the stroke-car, and hepulled away manfully. As Popworth lifted up his loud, nasal voice, theold Doctor raised his voice, in the vain hope, I suppose, of makinghimself heard by his lusty competitor. If you have never had twoblessings running opposition at your table, in the presence of invitedguests, you can never imagine how astounding, how killingly ludicrousit was! I felt that both Linton and Gregg were ready to tumble over,each in an apoplexy of suppressed emotions; while I had recourse tomy handkerchief to hide my tears. At length, poor Wortleby yielded tofate--withdrew from the unequal contest--hauled off--for repairs, andthe old seventy-two gun-ship thundered away in triumph.
At last (as there must be an end to everything under the sun) my unclecame to a close; and a moment of awful silence ensued, during which noman durst look at another. But in my weak and jelly-like condition Iventured a glance at him, and noticed that he looked up and around withan air of satisfaction at having performed a solemn duty in a becomingmanner, blissfully unconscious of having run a poor brother off thetrack. Seeing us all with moist eyes and much affected--two or threehandkerchiefs still going--he no doubt flattered himself that thepathetic touches in his prayer had told.
This will give you some idea of the kind of man we had on our hands;and I won't risk making myself as great a bore as he is, by attemptinga history of his stay with us; for I remember I set out to tell youabout my little Iron-clad. I'm coming to that.
Suffice it to say, he stayed--he _stayed_--he STAYED!--five mortalweeks; refusing to take hints when they almost became kicks;driving our friends from us, and ourselves almost to distraction;his misfortunes alone protecting him from a prompt and vigorouselimination; when a happy chance helped me to a solution of this awfulproblem of destiny.
More than once I had recalled Harry's vivacious suggestion of thescarecrow--if one could only have been invented that would sitcomposedly in a chair and nod when spoken to! I was wishing for somesuch automaton, to bear the brunt of the boring with which we wereafflicted, when one day there came a little man into the garden, whereI had taken refuge.
He was a short, swarthy, foreign looking, diminutive, stiff, rathercomical fellow--little figure mostly head, little head mostly face,little face mostly nose, which was by no means little--a sort of humanvegetable (to my horticultural eye) running marvelously to seed in thatorgan. The first thing I saw, on looking up at the sound of footsteps,was the said nose coming toward me, among the sweet-corn tassels.Nose of a decidedly Hebraic cast--the bearer respectably dressed,though his linen had an unwholesome sallowness, and his cloth a shiny,much-brushed, second-hand appearance.
Without a word he walks up to me, bows solemnly, and pulls from hispocket (I thought he was laying his hand on his heart) the familiar,much-worn weapon of his class--the folded, torn yellow paper, readyto fall to pieces as you open it--in short, the respectable beggar'scertificate of character. With another bow (which gave his nose theaspect of the beak of a bird of prey making a pick at me) he handed methe document. I found that it was dated in Milwaukee, and signed by themayor of that city, two physicians, three clergymen, and an editor,who bore united testimony to the fact that Jacob Menzel--I think thatwas his name--the bearer, anyway--was a deaf mute, and, consideringthat fact, a prodigy of learning, being master of no less than fivedifferent languages (a pathetic circumstance, considering that he w
asunable to speak one); moreover, that he was a converted Jew; and,furthermore, a native of Germany, who had come to this country incompany with two brothers, both of whom had died of cholera in St.Louis in one day; in consequence of which affliction, and his recentconversion, he was now anxious to return to the Fatherland, where heproposed to devote his life to the conversion of his brethren--theupshot of all which was that good Christians and charitable soulseverywhere were earnestly recommended to aid the said Jacob Menzel inhis pious undertaking.
I was fumbling in my pocket for a little change wherewith to dismisshim--for that is usually the easiest way of getting off your premisesand your conscience the applicant for "aid," who is probably animpostor, yet possibly not--when my eye caught the words (for I stillheld the document), "would be glad of any employment which may help topay his way." The idea of finding employment for a man of such a largenose and little body, such extensive knowledge and diminutive legs--whohad mastered five languages yet could not speak or understand a word ofany one of them, struck me as rather pleasant, to say the least; yet,after a moment's reflection--wasn't he the very thing I wanted, themanikin, the target for my uncle?
Meanwhile he was scribbling rapidly on a small slate he had takenfrom his pocket. With another bow (as if he had written somethingwrong and was going to wipe it out with his nose), he handed me theslate, on which I found written in a neat hand half a dozen lines inas many different languages--English, Latin, Hebrew, German, French,Greek--each, as far as I could make out, conveying the cheerfulinformation that he could communicate with me in that particulartongue. I tried him in English, French and Latin, and I mustacknowledge that he stood the test; he then tried me in Greek andHebrew, and I as freely confess that I didn't stand the test. He smiledintelligently, nodded, and condescendingly returned to the Englishtongue, writing quickly, "I am a poor exile from Fatherland, and I muchneed friends."
I wrote: "You wish employment?"
He replied: "I shall be much obliged for any service I shall be capableto do," and passed me the slate with a hopeful smile.
"What can you do?" I asked.
He answered: "I copy the manuscripts, I translate from the one languageto others with some perfect exactitude, I arrange the libraries, Imake the catalogues, I am capable to be any secretary." And he lookedup as if he saw in my eyes a vast vista of catalogues, manuscripts,libraries, and Fatherland at the end of it.
"How would you like to be companion to a literary man?" I inquired.
He nodded expressively, and wrote: "I should that like over all. But Ispeak and hear not."
"No matter," I replied. "You will only have to sit and appear tolisten, and nod occasionally."
"You shall be the gentleman?" he asked, with a bright, pleased look.
I explained to him that the gentleman was an unfortunate connection ofmy family, whom we could not regard as being quite in his right mind.
Jacob Menzel smiled, and touched his forehead interrogatively.
I nodded, adding on the slate, "He is perfectly harmless, but he canonly be kept quiet by having some person to talk and read to. He willtalk and read to you. He must not know you are deaf. He is very deafhimself, and will not expect you to reply." And, for a person wishing alight and easy employment, I recommended the situation.
He wrote at once, "How much you pay?"
"One dollar a day, and board you," I replied.
He of the nose nodded eagerly at that, and wrote, "Also you make to bewashed my shirt?"
I agreed; and the bargain was closed. I got him into the house, andgave him a bath, a clean shirt, and complete instructions how to act.
The gravity with which he entered upon the situation was astonishing.He didn't seem to taste the slightest flavor of a joke in it at all. Itwas a simple matter of business; he saw in it only money and Fatherland.
Meanwhile I explained my intentions to Dolly, saying in great glee:"His deafness is his defense: the old three-decker may bang away athim; he is IRON-CLAD!" And that suggested the name we have called himby ever since.
When he was ready for action, I took him in tow, and ran him in todraw the Popworth's fire--in other words, introduced him to my uncle inthe library. The meeting of my tall, lank relative and the big-nosedlittle Jew was a spectacle to cure a hypochondriac! "Mr. JacobMenzel--gentleman from Germany--traveling in this country," I yelledin the old fellow's ear. He of the diminutive legs and stupendous nosebowed with perfect decorum, and seated himself, stiff and erect, inthe big chair I placed for him. The avuncular countenance lighted up;here were fresh woods and pastures new to that ancient shepherd. As formyself, I was well nigh strangled by a cough which just then seizedme, and obliged to retreat--for I never was much of an actor, and thecomedy of that first interview was overpowering.
As I passed the dining-room door, Dolly, who was behind it, gave my arma fearful pinch that answered, I suppose, in the place of a scream, asa safety-valve for her hysterical emotions. "Oh, you cruel man--youmiserable humbug!" says she; and went off into convulsions of laughter.The door was open, and we could see and hear everything.
"You are traveling, h'm?" says my uncle. The nose nodded duly. "H'm! Ihave traveled, myself," the old gentleman proceeded; "my life has beenone of vicissitudes, h'm! I have journeyed, I have preached, I havepublished--perhaps you have heard of my literary venture"--and overwent the big volume to the little man, who took it, turned the leaves,and nodded and smiled, according to instructions.
"You are very kind to say so; thank you!" says my uncle, rubbing hishusky hands with satisfaction. "Rejoiced to meet with you! It is alwaysa gratification to have an intelligent and sympathizing brother to openone's mind to; it is especially refreshing to me, for, as I may saywithout egotism, my life and labors have _not_ been appreciated."
From that the old interminable story took its start and flowed on, thefaithful nose nodding assent at every turn in that winding stream.
The children came in for their share of the fun; and for the first timein our lives we took pleasure in the old gentleman's narration of hisvaried experiences.
"Oh, hear him! See him go it!" said Robbie. "What a nose!"
"Long may it wave!" said Harry.
With other remarks of a like genial nature; while there they sat, thetwo--my uncle on one side, long, lathy, self-satisfied, gesticulating,earnestly laying his case before a grave jury of one, whom he was boundto convince, if time would allow; my little Jew facing him, upright inhis chair, stiff, imperturbable, devoted to business, honorably earninghis money, the nose in the air, immovable, except when it played dulyup and down at fitting intervals; in which edifying employment I leftthem and went about my business, a cheerier man.
Ah, what a relief it was to feel myself free for a season from theattacks of the enemy--to know that my plucky little Iron-clad wasengaging him! In an hour I passed through the hall again, heard theloud, blatant voice still discoursing (it had got as far as thedifficulties with the second parish), and saw the unflinching nasalorgan perform its graceful seesaw of assent. An hour later it was thesame--except that the speaker had arrived at the persecutions whichdrove him from parish number three. When I went to call them to dinner,the scene had changed a little, for now the old gentleman, poundingthe table for a pulpit, was reading aloud passages from a powerfulfarewell sermon preached to his ungrateful parishioners. I was sorry Icouldn't give my man a hint to use his handkerchief at the affectingperiods, for the nose can hardly be called a sympathetic feature(unless, indeed, you blow it), and these nods were becoming rathertoo mechanical, except when the old gentleman switched off on theargumentative track, as he frequently did. "What think you of that?" hewould pause in his reading to inquire. "Isn't that logic? Isn't thatunanswerable?" In responding to which appeals nobody could have donebetter than my serious, my devoted, my lovely little Jew.
"Dinner!" I shouted over my uncle's dickey. It was almost the onlyword that had the magic in it to rouse him from the feast of reasonwhich his own conversation was to him. It was alw
ays easy to head himtoward the dining-room--to steer him into port for necessary supplies.The little Iron-clad followed in his wake. At table the old gentlemanresumed the account of his dealings with parish number three, and goton as far as negotiations with number four; occasionally stopping toeat his soup or roast beef very fast; at which time Jacob Menzel, whowas very much absorbed in his dinner, but never permitted himself toneglect business for pleasure, paused at the proper intervals, with hisspoon or fork half-way to his mouth, and nodded--just as if my unclehad been speaking--yielding assent to his last remarks after matureconsideration, no doubt the old gentleman thought.
The fun of the thing wore off after awhile, and then we experiencedthe solid advantages of having an Iron-clad in the house.Afternoon--evening--the next day--my little man of business performedhis function promptly and assiduously. But in the afternoon of thesecond day he began to change perceptibly. He wore an aspect of languorand melancholy that alarmed me. The next morning he was pale, and wentto his work with an air of sorrowful resignation.
"He is thinking of Fatherland," said the sympathizing Dolly; whileHarry's less-refined but more sprightly comment was, that the nose hadabout played out.
Indeed, it had almost ceased to wave; and I feared that I was about tolose a most valuable servant, whose place it would be impossible tofill. Accordingly, I wrote on a slip of paper, which I sent in to him:
"You have done well, and I raise your salary to a dollar and a quartera day. Your influence over our unfortunate relative is soothing andbeneficial. Go on as you have begun and merit the lasting gratitude ofan afflicted family."
That seemed to cheer him a little--to wind him up, as Harry said,and set the pendulum swinging again. But it was not long before thelistlessness and low spirits returned; Menzel showed a sad tendency toshirk his duty; and before noon there came a crash.
I was in the garden, when I heard a shriek of rage and despair, and sawthe little Jew coming toward me with frantic gestures.
"I yielt! I abandone! I take my moneys and my shirt, and I go!" says he.
I stood in perfect astonishment at hearing the dumb speak; while hethrew his arms wildly above his head, exclaiming:
"I am not teaf! I am not teaf! I am not teaf! He is one terreeble mon!He vill haf my life! So I go--I fly--I take my moneys and my shirt--Ileafe him, I leafe your house! I vould earn honest living, but--_Gottim himmel! Dieu des dieux!_ All de devils!" he shrieked, mixing upseveral of his languages at once, in his violent mental agitation.
"Jacob Menzel!" said I solemnly, "I little thought I was having to dowith an impostor!"
"If I haf you deceive, I haf myself more dan punish!" was his reply."Now I resign de position. I ask for de moneys and de shirt, and Ipart!"
Just then my uncle came up, amazed at his new friend's sudden revoltand flight, and anxious to finish up with his seventh parish.
"I vill hear no more of your six, of your seven--I know not how manyparish!" screamed the furious little Jew, turning on him.
"What means all this?" said my bewildered uncle.
"I tell you vat means it all!" the vindictive little impostor,tiptoeing up to him, yelled at his cheek. "I make not vell my affairsin your country; I vould return to Faderlant; for conwenience I carrydis pappeer. I come here; I am suppose teaf; I accept de position to beyour companion, for if a man hear, you kill him tead soon vid your bookand your ten, twenty parish! I hear! You kill me! and I go!"
And, having obtained his "moneys" and his shirt, he went. That is thelast I ever saw of my little Iron-clad. I remember him with gratitude,for he did me good service, and he had but one fault, namely, that hewas _not_ iron-clad!
As for my uncle, for the first time in his life, I think, he said nevera word, but stalked into the house. Dolly soon came running out toask what was the matter; Popworth was actually packing his carpet-bag!I called Andrew, and ordered him to be in readiness with the buggy totake the old gentleman over to the railroad.
"What! going?" I cried, as my uncle presently appeared, bearing hisbook and his baggage.
"Nephew Frederick," said he, "after this treatment, can you ask me if Iam going?"
"Really," I shouted, "it is not my fault that the fellow proved animpostor. I employed him with the best of intentions, for your--andour--good!"
"Nephew Frederick," said he, "this is insufferable; you will regret it!I shall never--NEVER" (as if he had been pronouncing my doom) "accept ofyour hospitalities again!"
He did, however, accept some money which I offered him, and likewise aseat in the buggy. I watched his departure with joy and terror--for atany moment he might relent and stay; nor was I at ease in my mind untilI saw Andrew come riding back alone.
We have never seen the old gentleman since. But last winter I receiveda letter from him; he wrote in a forgiving tone, to inform me thathe had been appointed chaplain in a prison, and to ask for a loanof money to buy a suit of clothes. I sent him fifty dollars and mycongratulations. I consider him eminently qualified to fill the newsituation. As a hardship, he can't be beat; and what are the roguessent to prison for but to suffer punishment?
Yes, it would be a joke if my little Iron-clad should end his careerof imposture in that public institution, and sit once more under myexcellent uncle! But I can't wish him any such misfortune. His missionto us was one of mercy. The place has been Paradise again, ever sincehis visit.--_Scribner's Magazine_, August, 1873.