The matter of securing admission to this house was quickly settled. The
nephew, a genial, intelligent man of thirty-four, as Eugene discovered
later, had no objection. It appeared to Eugene that in some way he
contributed to the support of this house, though Mrs. Hibberdell
obviously had some money of her own. A charmingly furnished room on the
second floor adjoining one of the several baths was assigned him, and he
was at once admitted to the freedom of the house. There were books, a
piano (but no one to play it), a hammock, a maid-of-all-work, and an
atmosphere of content and peace. Mrs. Hibberdell, a widow, presumably of
some years of widowhood, was of that experience and judgment in life
which gave her intellectual poise. She was not particularly inquisitive
about anything in connection with him, and so far as he could see from
surface indications was refined, silent, conservative. She could jest,
and did, in a subtle understanding way. He told her quite frankly at the
time he applied that he was married, that his wife was in the West and
that he expected her to return after his health was somewhat improved.
She talked with him about art and books and life in general. Music
appeared to be to her a thing apart. She did not care much for it. The
nephew, Davis Simpson, was neither literary nor artistic, and apparently
cared little for music. He was a buyer for one of the larger department
stores, a slight, dapper, rather dandified type of man, with a lean, not
thin but tight-muscled face, and a short black mustache, and he appeared
to be interested only in the humors of character, trade, baseball and
methods of entertaining himself. The things that pleased Eugene about
him were that he was clean, simple, direct, good-natured and courteous.
He had apparently no desire to infringe on anybody's privacy, but was
fond of stirring up light discussions and interpolating witty remarks.
He liked also to grow flowers and to fish. The care of a border of
flowers which glorified a short gravel path in the back yard received
his especial attention evenings and mornings.
It was a great pleasure for Eugene to come into this atmosphere after
the storm which had been assailing him for the past three years, and
particularly for the past ninety days. He was only asked to pay eight
dollars a week by Mrs. Hibberdell, though he realized that what he was
obtaining in home atmosphere here was not ordinarily purchasable at any
price in the public market. The maid saw to it that a little bouquet of
flowers was put on his dressing table daily. He was given fresh towels
and linen in ample quantities. The bath was his own. He could sit out on
the porch of an evening and look at the water uninterrupted or he could
stay in the library and read. Breakfast and dinner were invariably
delightful occasions, for though he rose at five-forty-five in order to
have his bath, breakfast, and be able to walk to the factory and reach
it by seven, Mrs. Hibberdell was invariably up, as it was her habit to
rise thus early, had been so for years. She liked it. Eugene in his
weary mood could scarcely understand this. Davis came to the table some
few moments before he would be leaving. He invariably had some cheery
remark to offer, for he was never sullen or gloomy. His affairs,
whatever they were, did not appear to oppress him. Mrs. Hibberdell would
talk to Eugene genially about his work, this small, social centre of
which they were a part and which was called Riverwood, the current
movements in politics, religion, science and so forth. There were
references sometimes to her one daughter, who was married and living in
New York. It appeared that she occasionally visited her mother here.
Eugene was delighted to think he had been so fortunate as to find this
place. He hoped to make himself so agreeable that there would be no
question as to his welcome, and he was not disappointed.
Between themselves Mrs. Hibberdell and Davis discussed him, agreeing
that he was entirely charming, a good fellow, and well worth having
about. At the factory where Eugene worked and where the conditions were
radically different, he made for himself an atmosphere which was almost
entirely agreeable to him, though he quarreled at times with specific
details. On the first morning, for instance, he was put to work with two
men, heavy clods of souls he thought at first, familiarly known about
the yard as John and Bill. These two, to his artistic eye, appeared
machines, more mechanical than humanly self-directive. They were of
medium height, not more than five feet, nine inches tall and weighed
about one hundred and eighty pounds each. One had a round, poorly
modeled face very much the shape of an egg, to which was attached a
heavy yellowish mustache. He had a glass eye, complicated in addition by
a pair of spectacles which were fastened over his large, protruding red
ears with steel hooks. He wore a battered brown hat, now a limp
shapeless mass. His name was Bill Jeffords and he responded sometimes to
the sobriquet of "One Eye."
The other man was John alias "Jack" Duncan, an individual of the same
height and build with but slightly more modeling to his face and with
little if any greater intelligence. He looked somewhat the
shrewder--Eugene fancied there might be lurking in him somewhere a spark
of humor, but he was mistaken. Unquestionably in Jeffords there was
none. Jack Stix, the foreman-carpenter, a tall, angular, ambling man
with red hair, a red mustache, shifty, uncertain blue eyes and
noticeably big hands and feet, had suggested to Eugene that he work with
these men for a little while. It was his idea to "try him out," as he
told one of the associate foremen who was in charge of a gang of
Italians working in the yard for the morning, and he was quite equal to
doing it. He thought Eugene had no business here and might possibly be
scared off by a little rough work.
"He's up here for his health," he told him. "I don't know where he comes
from. Mr. Brooks sent him up here with orders to put him on. I want to
see how he takes to real work for awhile."
"Look out you don't hurt him," suggested the other. "He don't look very
strong to me."
"He's strong enough to carry a few spiles, I guess. If Jimmy can carry
'em, he can. I don't intend to keep him at it long."
Eugene knew nothing of this, but when he was told to "come along, new
man" and shown a pile of round, rough ash trunk cutting six inches in
diameter and eight feet long, his courage failed him. He was suffered to
carry some of these to the second floor, how many he did not know.
"Take 'em to Thompson up there in the corner," said Jeffords dully.
Eugene grasped one uncertainly in the middle with his thin, artistic
hands. He did not know that there were ways of handling lumber just as
there were ways of handling a brush. He tried to lift it but could not.
The rough bark scratched his fingers cruelly.
"Yah gotta learn somepin about that before yuh begin, I guess," said
Jack Duncan, who had been standing by eyeing him narrowly.
Jeffords had gone about some other work.
"I suppose I don't know very much about it," replied Eugene shamefacedly
stopping and waiting for further instructions.
"Lemme show you a trick," said his associate. "There's tricks in all
these here trades. Take it by the end this-a-way, and push it along
until you can stand it up. Stoop down now and put your shoulder right
next the middle. Gotta pad under your shirt? You oughtta have one. Now
put your right arm out ahead o'yuh, on the spile. Now you're all right."
Eugene straightened up and the rough post balanced itself evenly but
crushingly on his shoulder. It appeared to grind his muscles and his
back and legs ached instantly. He started bravely forward straining to
appear at ease but within fifty feet he was suffering agony. He walked
the length of the shop, however, up the stairs and back again to the
window where Thompson was, his forehead bursting with perspiration and
his ears red with blood. He fairly staggered as he neared the machine
and dropped the post heavily.
"Look what you're doin'," said a voice behind him. It was Thompson, the
lathe worker. "Can't you put that down easy?"
"No, I can't," replied Eugene angrily, his face tinged with a faint
blush from his extreme exertion. He was astonished and enraged to think
they should put him to doing work like this, especially since
Mr. Haverford had told him it would be easy. He suspected at once a plot
to drive him away. He would have added "these are too damn heavy for
me," but he restrained himself. He went down stairs wondering how he was
to get up the others. He fingered about the pole gingerly hoping that
the time taken this way would ease his pain and give him strength for
the next one. Finally he picked up another and staggered painfully to
the loft again. The foreman had his eye on him but said nothing. It
amused him a little to think Eugene was having such a hard time. It
wouldn't hurt him for a change, would do him good. "When he gets four
carried up let him go," he said to Thompson, however, feeling that he
had best lighten the situation a little. The latter watched Eugene out
of the tail of his eye noting the grimaces he made and the strain he was
undergoing, but he merely smiled. When four had been dropped on the
floor he said: "That'll do for the present," and Eugene, heaving a groan
of relief, went angrily away. In his nervous, fantastic, imaginative and
apprehensive frame of mind, he imagined he had been injured for life. He
feared he had strained a muscle or broken a blood vessel somewhere.
"Good heavens, I can't stand anything like this," he thought. "If the
work is going to be this hard I'll have to quit. I wonder what they mean
by treating me this way. I didn't come here to do this."
Visions of days and weeks of back-breaking toil stretched before him. It
would never do. He couldn't stand it. He saw his old search for work
coming back, and this frightened him in another direction. "I mustn't
give up so easily," he counseled himself in spite of his distress. "I
have to stick this out a little while anyhow." It seemed in this first
trying hour as though he were between the devil and the deep sea. He
went slowly down into the yard to find Jeffords and Duncan. They were
working at a car, one inside receiving lumber to be piled, the other
bringing it to him.
"Get down, Bill," said John, who was on the ground looking up at his
partner indifferently. "You get up there, new man. What's your name?"
"Witla," said Eugene.
"Well, my name's Duncan. We'll bring this stuff to you and you pile it."
It was more heavy lumber, as Eugene apprehensively observed, quarter cut
joists for some building--"four by fours" they called them--but after he
was shown the art of handling them they were not unmanageable. There
were methods of sliding and balancing them which relieved him of a great
quantity of labor. Eugene had not thought to provide himself with gloves
though, and his hands were being cruelly torn. He stopped once to pick a
splinter out of his thumb and Jeffords, who was coming up, asked, "Ain't
cha got no gloves?"
"No," said Eugene, "I didn't think to get any."
"Your hands'll get pretty well bunged up, I'm afraid. Maybe Joseph'll
let you have his for to-day, you might go in and ask him."
"Where's Joseph?" asked Eugene.
"He's inside there. He's taking from the plane."
Eugene did not understand this quite. He knew what a plane was, had been
listening to it sing mightily all the morning, the shavings flying as it
smoothed the boards, but _taking_?
"Where's Joseph?" he asked of the plane driver.
He nodded his head to a tall hump-shouldered boy of perhaps twenty-two.
He was a big, simple, innocent looking fellow. His face was long and
narrow, his mouth wide, his eyes a watery blue, his hair a shock of
brown, loose and wavy, with a good sprinkling of sawdust in it. About
his waist was a big piece of hemp bagging tied by a grass rope. He wore
an old faded wool cap with a long visor in order to shield his eyes from
the flying chips and dust, and when Eugene came in one hand was lifted
protectingly to shield his eyes. Eugene approached him deprecatingly.
"One of the men out in the yard said that you might have a pair of
gloves you would lend me for to-day. I'm piling lumber and it's tearing
my hands. I forgot to get a pair."
"Sure," said Joseph genially waving his hand to the driver to stop.
"They're over here in my locker. I know what that is. I been there. When
I come here they rubbed it into me jist as they're doin' to you. Doncher
mind. You'll come out all right. Up here for your health, are you? It
ain't always like that. Somedays there ain't most nothin' to do here.
Then somedays ag'in there's a whole lot. Well, it's good healthy work, I
can say that. I ain't most never sick. Nice fresh air we git here and
all that."
He rambled on, fumbling under his bagging apron for his keys, unlocking
his locker and producing a great pair of old yellow lumber gloves. He
gave them to Eugene cheerfully and the latter thanked him. He liked
Eugene at once and Eugene liked him. "A nice fellow that," he said, as
he went back to his car. "Think of how genially he gave me these.
Lovely! If only all men were as genial and kindly disposed as this boy,
how nice the world would be." He put on the gloves and found his work
instantly easier for he could grasp the joists firmly and without pain.
He worked on until noon when the whistle blew and he ate a dreary lunch
sitting by himself on one side, pondering. After one he was called to
carry shavings, one basket after another back through the blacksmith
shop to the engine room in the rear where was a big shaving bin. By four
o'clock he had seen almost all the characters he was going to associate
with for the time that he stayed there. Harry Fornes, the blacksmith or
"the village smith," as Eugene came to call him later on, Jimmy Sudds,
the blacksmith's helper or "maid-of-all-work" as he promptly named him;
John Peters, the engineer, Malachi Dempsey, the driver of the great
plane, Joseph Mews and, in addition, carpenters, tin-smiths, plumbers,
painters, and those few exceptional cabinet makers who passed through
the lower floor now and then, men who were about the place from time to
time and away from it at others all of whom took note of Eugene at first
as a curiosity.
Eugene was himself intensely interested in the men. Harry Fornes and
Jimmy Sudds attracted him especially. The former was an undersized
American of distant Irish extraction who was so broad chested, swollen
armed, square-jawed and generally self-reliant and forceful as to seem a
minor Titan. He was remarkably industrious, turning out a great deal of
work and beating a piece of iron with a resounding lick which could be
heard all about the hills and hollows outside. Jimmy Sudds, his
assistant, was like his master equally undersized, dirty, gnarled,
twisted, his teeth showing like a row of yellow snags, his ears standing
out like small fans, his eye askew, but nevertheless with so genial a
look in his face as to disarm criticism at once. Every body liked Jimmy
Sudds because he was honest, single-minded and free of malicious intent.
His coat was three and his trousers two times too large for him, and his
shoes were obviously bought at a second-hand store, but he had the vast
merit of being a picture. Eugene was fascinated with him. He learned
shortly that Jimmy Sudds truly believed that buffaloes were to be shot
around Buffalo, New York.
John Peters, the engineer, was another character who fixed his
attention. John was almost helplessly fat and was known for this reason
as "Big John." He was a veritable whale of a man. Six feet tall,
weighing over three hundred pounds and standing these summer days in his
hot engine room, his shirt off, his suspenders down, his great welts of
fat showing through his thin cotton undershirt, he looked as though he
might be suffering, but he was not. John, as Eugene soon found out, did
not take life emotionally. He stood mostly in his engine room door when
the shade was there staring out on the glistening water of the river,
occasionally wishing that he didn't need to work but could lie and sleep
indefinitely instead.
"Wouldja think them fellers would feel purty good sittin' out there on
the poop deck of them there yachts smokin' their perfectos?" he once
asked Eugene, apropos of the magnificent private vessels that passed up
and down the river.
"I certainly would," laughed Eugene.
"Aw! Haw! That's the life fer yer uncle Dudley. I could do that there
with any of 'em. Aw! Haw!"
Eugene laughed joyously.
"Yes, that's the life," he said. "We all could stand our share."
Malachi Dempsey, the driver of the great plane, was dull, tight-mouthed,
silent, more from lack of ideas than anything else, though oyster-wise
he had learned to recede from all manner of harm by closing his shell
tightly. He knew no way to avoid earthly harm save by being
preternaturally silent, and Eugene saw this quickly. He used to stare at
him for long periods at a time, marvelling at the curiosity his attitude
presented. Eugene himself, though, was a curiosity to the others, even
more so than they to him. He did not look like a workingman and could
not be made to do so. His spirit was too high, his eye too flashing and
incisive. He smiled at himself carrying basketful after basketful of
shavings from the planing room, where it rained shavings and from which,
because of the lack of a shaving blower, they had to be removed back to
the hot engine room where Big John presided. The latter took a great
fancy to Eugene, but something after the fashion of a dog for a master.
He did not have a single idea above his engine, his garden at home, his
wife, his children and his pipe. These and sleep--lots of it--were his
joys, his recreations, the totality of his world.