Most people who knew the house supposed that Michael Sutherland Cripps
was the builder as well as the owner and occupant of the Cripps
Mansion, as it was called, in the district of Boston popularly referred
to as West Roxbury, though in reality situated in the southwestern
extension of Jamaica Plain. But most people were mistaken.
Mr. Cripps had, about middle life, made a pretty good “deal”—for those
days—when he suddenly got on to the way things were going in the
suburbs and made a few choice investments. As a result, he became what
was then called a millionaire. Of course he’d have been a mere piker
now, but as he couldn’t read the future, he was well satisfied. At last
he could do something. And the first thing was to get some sort of a
family about him.
You see, this Cripps was naturally a lonely man—actually suffered
unless he had people in the house with him; and he hadn’t had anybody
since the death of his parents some years before.
What I’ve said shows you that he had no family of his own—wife and all
that. He wasn’t at all a woman hater, but he was a merciless woman
critic. Odd thing, too, for he liked them first off, but every time he
got within striking distance of matrimony he saw what a tiresome thing
it was likely to be, and thereupon fled for his life.
All the same, his ideal was to live in the midst of a family,—to have
about him those who would be company for him and yet not have “claims”
and things like that, that would make life a wretched bore.
Now that he’d made his haul, his first thought was to advertise for
a family to come and live with him. But really nice people wouldn’t
answer such an ad, and that was the only kind he wanted. Along here the
thought of his own relatives occurred to him. That wasn’t a bad idea.
He’d get some of them to come.
His only near relative was a widowed sister, Cynthia Findlay, living
with her two children in St. Louis. Mr. Cripps had been supporting
them for a number of years, both before and after her husband—a poor,
disreputable fish—died of drink. She inherited nothing of value from
Mr. Findlay except his absence, which was priceless but couldn’t be
turned into money. She wouldn’t have parted with it, anyway.
He’d always liked Cynthia, and she’d had a tough life of it. He’d
have her as a starter for his adopted-family enterprise. Yes, and the
children would come in nicely, too. He’d always heard that children
kept things lively. Well, that was the way he wanted them.
He had quite a lot of kin in the cousin line—mostly seconds. A male one
consented to accept his invitation—for a time at least, and brought
with him a sprightly wife and two quite charming grown-up daughters.
Then there were two elderly ladies who might be called cousins-in-law,
one being the widow of a distant cousin and the other her sister. He
was delighted that they would come, for they were witty and cheerful
and level-headed.
And there were several youngish chaps in the remote distances
of relationship. Cripps succeeded in getting two of them—one a
second-rate sort of thing, the other a decent young fellow who was
temporarily out of a job and was persuaded to try to find one in Boston.
That seemed to be about the limit of what he wanted. The only children
he drew were his sister’s two youngsters, Dorothy and Augustus, nine
and five years old, respectively.
After Mr. Cripps made sure he could get a decent lot to come and be a
family to him, he looked about for a satisfactory place in which to
establish it—and found it. One of the finest old places of the time
it was, out Roxbury way on Torrington Road, and he picked it up at an
extraordinary bargain.
He had the house done over in various ways and everything up to date,
said date being back in the Nineties, but they had a few things even
in that benighted decade. Gas, electricity, telephones, half a dozen
bathrooms, a hot water heating system, and a few little things like
that, did him very well. For a couple of years or so he had to manage
as best he could with horses—but after that motor cars came in. Movies,
aeroplanes and radio he had to struggle along without. But not knowing
about them made the deprivation less severe.
Michael Cripps was a good spender and was bound to have the best
of everything. A delightful host he was, too, reveling in the
consciousness that he was taking care of people—giving them a good
time. Besides his adopted family, he’d go out of his way to track down
some unfortunate boyhood friend, or some far distant relative who
hadn’t done well, and give him the time of his life.
So there he was, no longer suffering the—to him—hideous nightmare of
having to live alone in a desolate house, but situated in a luxurious
mansion, virtually in the country, yet only a few miles from the
violently beating heart of the town, and surrounded by his own people,
who turned out to be very enjoyable company—some of them, indeed, quite
charming.
All went well and pleasantly—if you leave out occasional minor discords
of small consequence—for quite some years. But owing to the inroads of
death, marriage, and desertion, the population of the mansion decreased
as time went on, and no way to recruit it to full strength occurred to
Mr. Cripps. His sister Cynthia died early in 1904 and was followed by
her daughter Dorothy a year and a half later. Others of the household
had crossed the line; then, too, a couple of marriages had snatched
their victims from the fold; and a few of the members of this synthetic
family had departed for reasons of their own.
It had been quite a successful experiment as experiments go—more so
than you’d think; and there’s no denying that old Cripps had got a lot
of satisfaction out of it. But the thing had been falling away from him
piece by piece, and finally his sister’s son Augustus was the only one
left in the house with him. The old man had had a good pull at it, but
here he was down to the last dreg—as you’d be likely to call it if you
were acquainted with that precious nephew of his.
Being the only near relative that old Mr. Cripps now had on hand—or,
indeed, had at all—it was generally supposed that Augustus Findlay
would inherit the mansion, together with whatever else the old
gentleman should die possessed of. But all did not go well between
the two and there were times when gossip had it that the sporty young
nephew would lose out on the “give and bequeath” proposition if he
didn’t shove down the emergency brake on his behavior.
It was surely a trying thing for Michael Sutherland Cripps, with age
and rheumatism already beginning to frolic with him, and the most of
his once big pile melted away—or more truthfully pelted away, for
during these years of his family life he’d spent without limit—to have
to associate on intimate terms with a most objectionable brat of a
nephew, coming in nearly every night of his life fuddled with booze—a
cheap skate, and an unmitigated loafer in the real sense of the word,
for at the age of twenty-six never a thought of earning his living
had crossed his mind. Yet with all that he wasn’t a bad looker—almost
handsome in a dissipated sort of way. And he could be charming on
occasion. Women appeared fascinated by him—that is, some women. He had
a high-class one on the line once and came near landing her, but she
found out in time, tore out the hook, and swam away.
People wondered that old Cripps, whose violent temper was known
throughout the West Roxbury and Jamaica Plains districts, was standing
for that sort of thing in the house with him day after day—night after
night. But the poor old boy had a reason for standing it—his absolute
terror of being left alone. Whatever else the presence of Augustus did
to him it saved him from that.
* * * * *
One afternoon late in October (it was 1910 by this time) Mr. Cripps
was in the attic of the mansion trying to find something, when his
glance happened to light on an old trunk in which he’d been accustomed
to put letters from people acknowledging his delightful hospitality—a
lazy way of keeping a visitors’ book. Up to now he’d only once had
occasion to refer to these letters, and then merely to get an address.
So long as the Present held out as an agreeable institution, Cripps
didn’t care a great deal about recollections of bygone episodes. But
of late the Present hadn’t been doing so well by him, and the Past was
beginning to exhibit symptoms of attractiveness. One of these symptoms
now manifested itself, drawing him so gently that he could hardly feel
its pull, toward the old trunk of letters. He found a crippled chair
in which he sat down before the thing and managed—with some little
difficulty—to raise the lid.
He’d been there nearly an hour, glancing at letters which he picked up
at random here and there, when he came upon a little package of three
tied together and addressed in a hand he’d forgotten. But when he began
to read one of them he remembered. It was from a young girl who’d been
visiting there.
More than eighteen years ago the first of the letters was written.
Pretty handwriting it was. Now he came to think of it, he’d always
liked her handwriting, whoever she was. Glancing at the end, he found
that she had signed herself Iris. Oh yes, now he began to remember!
Quite a—yes—quite a charming little thing she was, too! By Jove yes!
And he’d come very near to—to——His thoughts whirled a little here,
but they settled down again in a moment. What was all this—he hadn’t
married her, so why bother about it? He couldn’t quite recall how
she came to be visiting there. Oh yes, now he remembered! She was a
distant relative—almost indescribably distant. One of those things like
second cousin of your brother-in-law’s first wife. And that reminded
him that he used to call her his cousin a thousand times removed!
It had been quite a joke between them; and at one time he had come
breathlessly near to wiping out the entire bunch of removals by making
one little suggestion—which, however, he never made. No, he never
made it, worse luck! Or was it worse? A sweet little thing she was,
and her name was—her name——He’d forgotten it again and glanced at the
end of the letter. Oh, Iris—yes, of course! Iris Heminway. He got her
last name himself. His dear little cousin, a thousand times removed.
He couldn’t think what ever became of her! Nothing in the letter but
what a perfectly lovely visit she’d had. Perhaps the next one might
have something. Postmark made it four weeks later—no, five. He began
to read. That was it—just what he thought! Somebody has asked her to
marry him and she doesn’t know what to do. Wants to know what he thinks
of her marrying a machinist. Machinist! He couldn’t recall what he’d
answered. Most likely he’d told her to go on and marry the entire
machine shop if she felt drawn to it! By George—now he thought of it,
he did say just that! Rotten beastly pride! Huffed that she’d spoken of
some one else—and there she was giving him the chance, even though he’d
never written to her in all that time! Probably doesn’t give the chap’s
name. Yes—there it was—Haworth! (Reading to himself from the letter):
“His name is Charlie Haworth. He’s a special kind of a machinist and
draughtsman and his home is in Montreal. I’m sure he is a splendid
fellow, but I thought I would like to ask your advice about it.”
That was all. She didn’t say when or where, but just wanted his advice.
Well, he’d given it to her!
And here was the last letter—Canada stamp and Montreal postmark. Yes,
she’d married the machinist and gone up there. Two years later the
letter was, according to the postmark.—Oh! Baby! That was it! (Reading
again to himself): “... wanted you to know, so I’m writing you the
first one. Of course we want his name to be from his father—Charles—but
I thought you wouldn’t mind if we called his middle name after you, so
it will be Charles Michael Haworth.”
The old man sat there for quite a while, staring before him. Then,
rather suddenly, the thought came to him that he might be able to find
these people, especially that boy—though of course he wouldn’t be a boy
any longer. He’d be along seventeen or eighteen, he should think. He
looked at the letter again. Montreal, and she gave the street address;
but that was years ago. He might try it though, just to see. Charles
Michael Haworth. He rather liked the name.
That evening he wrote a letter to the address given and sent it out to
the nearest mailbox.
But in the night he got to thinking the thing over so intensely that
sleep was impossible. It came to him then that the letter business was
a waste of time. He got nervous, too, about the matter of death, the
thought of which seldom bothered him. And on top of everything his
dissolute nephew came lurching into the house about four-thirty in the
morning, banging the heavy front door after him so that the building
shuddered, careening against furniture, and finally stumbling up the
stairway, all the while emitting a stream of disconnected profanity.
This was the finishing touch for old man Cripps. He rolled himself
out of bed and made one bull rush—in his nightgown and bare feet—into
the upper hall, meeting the astonished inebriate near the head of
the stairs. Seizing him by the collar with both hands, he shook him
back and forth, then dragged him bumping and rolling down the stairs,
through the great entrance hall, out of the front door, across the
entrance portico, and from there heaved him sprawling into the roadway.
For one instant the enraged old man stood looking at the dark mass
lying there at the bottom of the steps, then turning with a sudden
start he charged back into the house and up the stairs again and
through the upper hall to his nephew’s bedroom, where he seized with
frenzied clutchings all the clothing he could find in drawers, closets,
on chairs, and on the floor, which he forthwith pitched out through the
doorway into the hall, prancing back and forth across the room a dozen
times or more to do it.
Where the old gentleman got his wind for all this would be a
serious problem in physics and chemistry, for he was heavily built,
underexercised, and with a tobacco heart. Anyway, he did it.
As soon as he’d cleared out everything he could find he rushed out and
down the hall to his own room, and shoved in every bell push in the
place, and kept on shoving until the chauffeur came running up the
stairs, followed by both maids and the cook, and shortly after by the
head gardener and his ten-year-old son from their cottage near. All
were clutching together such garments as they’d hastily snatched up and
thrown on over their night clothes.
Mr. Cripps had a fad for bells from his room to everyone concerned. But
it was the chauffeur he wanted this time, and he yelled to him to get
the car (it was 1910 by now, and of course he had one) and take the
blankety-blank carcass of putrid hogwash at the bottom of the front
steps an’ dump it in the road—anywhere—any street—any road! Just get
the blankety-blank-blank-blank out of this place and his clothes with
him—that was all he asked!
“Here, you!” he shouted in a general way to the maids and cook, “pitch
those clothes out on top of him where Henry can find ’em—that pile in
front of his door! Take ’em all—every damn stitch—you understand? Throw
out everything he’s got! Don’t leave a damn thing he ever touched!” (To
the chauffeur) “And when you’ve dumped the dirty loafer, and his putrid
stuff on top of him, a couple of miles down the road, you come back
and take me to town! North Station is what I want! I’ll be gone two or
three days, and if any of you people allow that dirty, foul-mouthed,
booze-soaked bum to crawl back into this house while I’m away I’ll fire
the lot of you—take that from me!”
As in many instances, I can give you, in this one, only an approximate
idea of the language used. I had the testimony of four persons who were
witnesses of the scene, and the only danger is that it lacks the proper
amount of intensity and force. If it isn’t clear what happened, just
take it that Augustus Findlay was thoroughly and effectually kicked out
of the house.
The servants, without exception, liked old man Cripps. You could almost
say they were fond of him. Their opinion of Augustus I needn’t mention;
so there wasn’t the slightest danger that he’d get into the house again
even if they had to take turn and turn about in night watches to make
sure of it.
The maids attended to the throwing out of the clothes with a spirit
that could only have been born of the great enjoyment they took in
the work, and the chauffeur did no less when it came to his part of
the job. After which he transported the old gentleman to the North
Station, getting him there in time for the morning train to Montreal.
* * * * *
Those three faded letters from Iris Heminway sent old Mr. Cripps
to Canada in the hope of finding her and her husband and boy, and
persuading them to come and live with him. But after an hour on the
train he began to realize what an extremely off chance he had of
succeeding in his quest, with the meager amount of information in his
possession. They might have moved to another town—they might even be
dead. Many things can happen in eighteen years. But now he’d started,
he was going on with it! Well, he should think so!
The following morning he began the search, and had no difficulty in
finding the address. It was a modest frame cottage beginning to show
its age. A large middle-aged woman came to the door, and when Mr.
Cripps explained that he was trying to trace a family named Haworth
which had once occupied the house, she said at once, “Oh, I can tell
you that,” and asked him in.
In the little front room she said: “Charlie lives here with me. Was it
’im you was askin’ about?”
He was so dumfounded at coming upon the object of his search at the
very start that his “yes” was hardly audible. Then he added, “And—and
Mrs. Haworth and the boy?”
“It’s the boy as is ’ere, sir; there ain’t none of ’em left but ’im.”
They sat down in the small room.
“You don’t—you don’t mean both of his parents are dead!”
“Yes, sir! ’Is mother she died about three years ago, an’ ’is father
quite a spell before that.”
“And the little boy’s been living here with you since?”
“Yes, sir, ’e ’as. But you’d ’ardly call ’im _little_, sir; ’e’s comin’
on to eighteen.”
“Yes yes—of course. I knew he must be grown up, but in spite of that I
couldn’t help thinking of him as a youngster. Is he—is he a nice boy?
All right and—and straight—and good habits?”
“Indeed ’e is—a dear boy—but ’e’s a bit strange; an’ I ’opes, sir, if
you ’ave any influence with ’im, you’ll try if you can’t do something
about it.”
“Influence! But my God! I’ve never seen him, Mrs.——”
“Towse, sir.”
“Well, you see, Mrs. Towse, I don’t know the boy at all, and what’s
more I doubt if he ever heard of me. So what I might say would hardly
count with him, would it?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Towse said, “if you don’t know ’im you couldn’t do
anything just yet, but after you get acquainted ’e might listen to you.”
“What seems to be the matter?” Mr. Cripps inquired. The devastating
fear had come upon him that it might be another case of Augustus.
“It’s the way ’e was born, I suppose. ’E’s got so many ideas of ’is own
that ’e can’t go along satisfactory with w’at you might call reg’lar
work. W’y, ’e’d be a first-class machinist drawin’ good pay, but ’e’s
so full o’ plans an’ ideas for this an’ that, ’e don’t seem to keep ’is
mind on anything they put ’im to.”
Mr. Cripps inquired if the young man was doing anything just now.
“Mercy on us! Why, we can’t ’ardly get ’im ’ome for ’is meals, ’e’s
that taken up with ’is invention work; but the thing ’e gets to workin’
on don’t never seem to be w’at people want.”
“What kind of things are they?”
“W’y, there’s all sorts. ’E gets an idea an’ then nothin’ can stop
’im—no matter w’ether it’s somethin’ worth botherin’ with or not. Some
o’ the best men in Smith an’ Gaynor’s—that’s w’ere his father use to
work—they say ’e’s got a wonderful invention faculty an’ Mr. Gaynor
’imself said it just after ’e’d been lookin’ over a clock Charlie made.
It took ’im nigh to a year to finish it. Mr. Gaynor said the boy ’ad
some kind o’ new an’ un’eard-of escapin’ thing I b’lieve they called
it, that no one had ever seen or thought of before.”
“Wouldn’t it sell?”
“Not at first it wouldn’t, but w’en ’e’d ’most given it up a Mr.
Patterson ’appened to come along an’ offered ’im two ’undred dollars
for it an’ a patent on the new escapin’ thing, an’ Charlie took it.
That might sound good enough for a clock, but it ain’t no pay w’en
you comes to consider eleven months’ work, not to speak of what ’e’d
’ad to buy to make it of. But mercy! I didn’t ’ave any expectation it
would sell! I don’t see what anyone in their senses would want of such
a thing around the house, tickin’ that powerful you could hear it ’alf
a block, an’ strikin’ different sorts o’ bells an’ chimes, an’ cuckoos
singin’, an’ sun an’ moon risin’ an’ settin’, an’ ships rockin’, an’
folks comin’ in an’ out with umbrellas, an’ all. I don’t see how
people can get any sleep with all them things goin’ on!”
“Where is he, Mrs. Towse? Not here. I suppose?”
“W’y, just now ’e’s workin’ over to Rawlingson’s Garage on Westover
Street. They took ’im in there to help on repair work, an’ as soon as
’e gets to dreamin’ they dock ’is time. You see, it was the on’y way
to manage. But o’ course in a big place like Smith an’ Gaynor’s they
couldn’t trouble with no such things.”
Mr. Cripps learned that the elder Haworth had succumbed to an attack of
pneumonia some five years previously, and that his fragile little wife
had outlived him only a year and a half. The Smith & Gaynor people,
where the elder Haworth had been employed so long, were more than
generous, supporting Mrs. Haworth and the boy as long as she lived,
and after her death doing everything possible to give young Charlie a
good start as a machinist, which seemed to be the only line of work he
wanted to undertake. They apprenticed him through their shops, finding
that he was the master of every machine in the place—as well as the
drafting room and foundry—in an incredibly short time. But when it came
to regular employment, nothing could be done with him. His inability
to hold his mind to the work in hand after it had been swept by one of
his inventive brain storms was absolute. After many efforts to overcome
this difficulty they finally had to give it up and let the young man go.
Following that he picked up stray jobs here and there, handing over
whatever he earned to Mrs. Towse, who mothered him along, even buying
his clothing for him when she judged that it was necessary.
Mrs. Towse had gone to the garage to get him, and the old gentleman
waiting in the small front room felt his heart pounding most
unusually—he couldn’t imagine why. He’d never set eyes on the boy. How
could he be so disturbed over the question of the kind of boy he’d
prove to be? At last Mrs. Towse, breathing hard, came briskly into
the room, followed by a boyish-looking young man with a pale face and
steady brown eyes.
“’Ere ’e is, sir! This is Charlie Haworth!”
The two shook hands, Haworth with his serious, steady gaze on the older
man.
“Come now, Mrs. Towse” (from Mr. Cripps, smiling), “you didn’t give him
his full name. You may not know it, Mr. Haworth, but your middle name
is Michael and you owe it, in a certain sense, to me.”
The young fellow nodded slightly without taking his eyes off Mr.
Cripps. He was a trifle above medium height and rather slim, with
a delicate sort of face smooth shaven. His hair was dark but not
black. He wore “jumpers” over his regular clothes, and his hands,
notwithstanding that Mrs. Towse had made him wash them, were soiled
with what would not come off. The most noticeable thing about him was
a sort of innocent childlikeness in the steady, serious gaze of his
luminous brown eyes. When they were turned toward a person who spoke
or was spoken of, they rested on him for some little time, giving the
impression, not of staring, but of calmly reflecting on what he saw or
what the person was or had been saying.
They talked a little, Haworth answering with quiet and simple
directness when asked about his work and what, in the way of
inventions, was particularly interesting him at the present moment.
It proved to be what is known as a “time stamp”—a device for printing
the exact hour and minute of the day on workmen’s cards as they passed
in and out of factories, or on letters and such things in offices and
hotels. These machines must carry a movable printing mechanism that is
controlled by clockwork.
“Is that a new idea?” Cripps asked.
“No. I’m making one on a new principle, that’s all.”
“I see—new principle. And it’ll be a better one than the old, of
course?”
“Well, I’ll like it better, anyway,” Haworth answered, with a shadowy
smile, the first Mr. Cripps had seen on his serious face, and he was
struck by the way it lighted it up for the brief time it was there. A
moment of silence followed. Then Haworth, serious again, asked in a low
voice, “Is your name Michael?”
“Yes—Michael Cripps.”
“My mother told me. She spoke of you once in a while.”
Mr. Cripps was silent a moment, quite moved.
“I was looking over some letters,” he soon resumed, “and came across
the one she wrote telling me she’d given you the Michael out of my
name, and it—well, I had a sudden feeling that I—that I’d very much
like to see you—and—and her too if such a thing had been possible.”
Another silence, then, “Did you bring the letter?” Haworth asked.
“Why, yes. I’ve got it over at the hotel.” He read the eagerness in
the young man’s eyes and went on: “Perhaps you’ll drop in there this
evening. There’s that letter and two others. Do come. I’d like to have
a little chat.”
After a few seconds, while his steady calm eyes rested on the old man,
Haworth spoke.
“I will,” he said.
“Good,” said Mr. Cripps. And not long after—for he knew the value of
brevity in such a case, he shook hands with both of them and told
Haworth where he was staying. He went on foot the entire distance to
the hotel, vastly enjoying a shadowy revisitation of the feeling known
as treading on air.
The old fellow was captivated with the young one. So much so that
a painful dread took possession of him that he might not be able
to persuade him to leave Montreal, which was his home, and where,
undoubtedly, all the friends he had were living. Young Haworth, he was
certain, knew little about money and cared for it even less; for which
reason no pecuniary advantages he (Cripps) could hold out would be
likely to attract him.
It was Mr. Ralph Gaynor of the Smith & Gaynor Machine Works, who gave
Mr. Cripps the most light on Haworth’s characteristics as to pecuniary
matters, his genius for invention, and his inability to do steady work.
This Mr. Gaynor, who was head of the works, thought young Haworth was
hopeless. He could _learn_ all right. Good God! The boy was a marvel
when it came to that! He’d know more about a machine inside of two days
than a man they’d had on it for years. But when it came to steady work
he just couldn’t do it. Not but what he tried his best, but his mind
would get off on something else and you can’t leave big lathes and
complicated drill presses with anybody like that.
“O’ course I lit into him and gave it to him right from the shoulder,”
Mr. Gaynor said, “but it didn’t do any good. Then I fired him, and
he’d sure have starved if that Towse woman hadn’t gone on feeding him
for nothing—which she couldn’t afford to do. Then we took him back an’
tried him with a helper to watch him, but even that wouldn’t work when
he got one of his real inventing fits on him. So we had to give him up.
Fond of the boy too, but there’s a limit.”
“What do you think of his talent—his inventive faculty?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. There isn’t any doubt but what he’s got a lot
in him for new mechanical methods, but he can’t get anywhere with it
because he hasn’t got the faintest conception of what people want. And
telling him’s no good. You might as well tell a rooster to lay eggs. Of
course he might hit on a winner by accident. That happens with these
dreamy chaps once in a while, but the big guns like Edison, Marconi,
and that lot know what they’re about every minute, an’ what’s more they
never forget it. Now you must excuse me. There’s a new man on that
third lathe down there I’ve got to keep an eye on. Glad to see you.
Welcome to look through the shop if you care for such things. Good
day.” And Mr. Gaynor hurried out of his office.
* * * * *
Mr. Cripps ran a carefully managed campaign to bring about the capture,
as you might put it, of Charles Michael Haworth, and he ran it well;
for there’s no denying that he was a man of judgment. And at once
appreciating the serious limitations on what would attract the young
man, he came down without delay to pushing one thing—the advantage of
having a shop of his own, with whatever machines and room he required.
He played up to this with extreme caution, not speaking of it at all
when Haworth called upon him that first evening, and only hinting at
such a possibility during their next interview the day after. The third
time they met, which was at the garage where Haworth was employed, he
expressed curiosity as to whether young Haworth would care for a place
where he could experiment and do what he pleased.
It appeared that young Haworth would; and soon thereafter Cripps
brought in casually that, now he came to think of it, he had rather a
good place for a shop where he lived—a large and airy sort of basement.
Wouldn’t Haworth like to come along and try it, just to see how it
would go? He needn’t stay if he didn’t like it. Just call it a visit
or something like that. He, Mr. Cripps, would be delighted to have him
there—that is, of course, if he’d care for such a thing.
The young fellow sat thinking for quite a time. Finally he looked up,
and his eyes rested softly on old Cripps’s face as he asked in his
quiet and serious way, “What kind of power could we have?” And old
Cripps knew that the game was his.
A small trunk held all of Haworth’s personal belongings, but two crates
were required for the shipping of his mechanical devices that he
couldn’t leave behind.
* * * * *
Old Cripps was on edge for the few days following their arrival,
fearing the boy would be disappointed or lonely, perhaps even homesick;
the mansion itself, now that he came to figure how it might affect
the young man, seemed hideously vast and hopelessly dismal—the huge
high-ceilinged rooms, the empty echoing halls, the whole place gloomy
and overcast from the great elms standing close about.
But the young man appeared to notice nothing of all these things; on
the contrary, he fell in quietly and easily with the methods and habits
of the diminutive household.
The large basement room he was to have for a shop was thoroughly
cleaned and double flooring laid. It was ceiled and painted white;
electric lights were installed, and an electric motor for power. Old
Cripps had a mechanical expert come out to go over with Haworth the
matter of the various machines and apparatus required, and insisted
that every one of them must be of the best and most modern type. A
lathe, a shaper, two drill presses, and an emery wheel were put in
at the time; some months later another lathe for larger work was
added. Also there was a bench with vises, and all the small tools and
accessories necessary to complete a machine shop.
Opening off the main room was a smaller one with the fittings for a
drafting room, and a large rough-boarded-off space in the ell of the
basement was cleared out for the finished machines and inventions and
working models that Haworth desired to store there. These came from
Montreal (after infinite trouble with the customs) and were set up
in this place. Altogether the little plant was quite complete in all
important particulars, and thereafter it was always delightful to Mr.
Cripps to add to its equipment at the slightest hint from Haworth. For
the old man was more and more taken with the young one as the days went
by. Haworth’s gentle and charming personality, his quiet sincerity
and straightforwardness, were singularly appealing. But added to this
for old Cripps was the effect of the vast contrast between this clean,
simple-minded, almost childlike young fellow and the dissolute loafer
of a nephew he had so long endured.
It was an odd little household, the two composing it differing so
greatly in their ages, tastes, and temperaments, yet living in that
vast and gloomy mansion in perfect harmony and content, neither of them
saying much, yet thoroughly enjoying each other’s company.
Mr. Cripps became intensely interested in the young fellow’s work,
too, appreciating enthusiastically the extraordinary ingenuity of his
devices and altogether overlooking the drawback which they invariably
seemed to have of not being in the line of popular demand. He had
application made—in Haworth’s name of course—for patents on several of
the most important. And when notice came from Washington that patents
had been allowed, the old gentleman fell to dancing and prancing
about like a rheumatic schoolboy, Haworth standing silent but smiling
serenely at him as he careened ponderously about the room.
* * * * *
They had three years and four months of this life together, and then
the summons came for the old man. Some sort of stroke, I think; but no
matter—it did for him. Not at once, but the next thing to it. A couple
of days or thereabouts. He tried to tell Haworth something about the
property before he went, but couldn’t manage it. The young man sat
silent and looked at him wide-eyed like some timid animal distressed
and fearful.
Everything was left to Haworth. This included the house and grounds—on
which there was a mortgage—and a few thousand dollars in the bank,
doubtless the remnant of the money so obtained. That was all, of value.
Quite an enormous lot of worthless stocks, mostly mining, were found in
his safe-deposit boxes.
Henry P. Trescott, who had been old Cripps’s legal adviser, attended
to matters connected with the will, and if it hadn’t been for his
suggestions Haworth would never have thought of cutting down the
expenses of the establishment. He did what Trescott advised—discharged
all the servants except the cook and one maid, closed the entire
north side of the house, and had the telephones and more than half
the electric-light bulbs removed. It isn’t likely Haworth would have
consented to these economies but for Trescott’s assurance that if he
didn’t it would be but a brief time before he’d have to give up the
house and all that it contained. The lawyer at first advised selling
the place, but to that Haworth wouldn’t agree. The house itself didn’t
matter so much—it was the shop and all his things down there, and the
quiet surroundings.
Trescott also looked over Haworth’s work and occasionally sent out
people who might be interested. But no one was. And after a time the
young inventor grew to dislike having people come, knowing so well that
they’d go away again with awkward regrets for having troubled him.
One day when a caller was announced, he sent word by the maid that he
was busy and couldn’t see anyone. The result was so gratifying that
soon he came to rely on this expedient altogether. Thereafter he led a
perfectly quiet and uninterrupted existence, devoting himself to the
work he loved, undisturbed by events of any kind. The loss of his
generous and sympathetic companion had affected him deeply, and often
he was beset with an aching loneliness. But always he could retreat
into the safe sanctuary of mechanics—the perfect absorption in his
inventive pursuits—where loneliness and grief were successfully held at
bay.
His time was mostly spent in his shop or drafting room, but he liked to
walk when there were problems on his mind. He had certain places for
certain kinds of problems: along a nearby section of railroad track,
for one; a lonely little path in a patch of woods and weeds and bushes
about a mile down the road, for another, and so on. Franklin Park
wouldn’t do at all, for he was likely to meet people there; as to that,
so would he on the railroad, but there it would only be men, and the
sort he didn’t mind—working chaps, machinists, engineers, switchmen,
and trainmen on the way to work or home from it.