WHIMPERMETER
IN the vernacular of the road the John Yegg was trying to snare
Joshua, and Joshua knew it. Still, he had little fear of the man. He
was perhaps too inexperienced to fear anybody who did not threaten to
thrust his head into a bathtub filled with water. He knew himself to
be a novice at tramping over the country. Also he was lonesome, for he
had had friends of a sort in the House of Refuge. He studied the man
who termed himself The Whimperer, and wondered if, despite the fellow’s
repulsiveness, it might not be well to consider his proposal. The tramp
could help him over the rough places in his journey westward. It might
even be possible that he would be an asset when it came to inducing
people to look through the telescope at ten cents a look, for Joshua
was not a forward young man and knew that he would find difficulty in
selling his knowledge to the public. Then, could he not contrive to
steal away and leave The Whimperer whenever the association became
irksome? He did not like the man’s face. But, then, he had not liked
the face of Beaver Clegg when first he saw it; and what a change that
ugly man had wrought in his life! Joshua could read the stars, but he
had not the experience in life to read the faces of his fellowmen. It
was the fact that The Whimperer might help him to get out West, above
everything else, that caused him to consider this strange offer of
partnership.
For Joshua was determinedly bound for the West. Locked up for so long
in the House of Refuge, he had met no girls at all, and the picture of
Madge Mundy was still fresh in his memory. She was the last girl that
he had met before his commitment, the girl who had aroused in him the
first whisperings of the male’s desire for the society of the opposite
sex. He still thought of Madge as he had seen her last, Oriental-topaz
eyes aglow, bronze hair streaming down her youthful shoulders. And, boy
though he yet was, he was seriously intent on seeking her, out there
somewhere in the West. Perhaps the man called The Whimperer could help
him find her.
Their orders were set before them, and the tramp talked as he ate
greedily. He told of adventures on the road, covering a period of
many years of vagabondage. His speech was quaint and in great part
unintelligible to Joshua, but the boy listened despite secret warnings
that came again and again.
“Dere’s a lotta t’ings a plug c’n folly if he’s wise,” observed The
Whimperer. “Don’t worry--youse’n’ me’ll always get our scoffin’s. And
if de telescope racket fails and de woist comes to de woist I c’n slip
whimpermeter to de Ezras and get us lumps.”
“I don’t always understand you,” said Joshua. “What’s a lump?”
“A lump,” explained The Whimperer, inwardly gloating over the boy’s
innocence, “is wot a kin’ lady slips youse w’en youse batter de back
door. If she invites youse in and lets youse t’row yer feet unner de
table, it’s a set-down. If she slips youse a lunch in a poiper bag,
it’s a lump. See? Get me, Jack?”
“And what is whimpermeter?”
“Dat’s a woid dat I coined meself,” proudly proclaimed the John Yegg.
“I’m kinda educated, youse see, Jack. Dat is, w’ile I ain’t got any
schoolin’, I see t’ings. Get me? I use me nut, and I read quite a lot.
Wot I call whimpermeter is a line o’ patter dat I hand out w’en I’m
moochin’ fer de eats. I c’n twist up me face till it looks like I’m
geed-up fer good. See dis here scar?” He indicated the smooth, red
mark on his cheek. “Dat’s wot youse’d call an artificial scar, Jack. I
had dat boined dere wid acid, an’ I had ’er run down into de corner o’
me mout’ apoipus. Den w’en I twist me mout’ towards it--like dis--an’
close de eye on dat side--like dis--dey all kinda run togedder, an’ me
face looks like I been t’rough some terrible experience. Hey? Get me?”
Joshua did get him, for his face, twisted as it was, looked hideous.
“Den,” The Whimperer continued, “I was an acerbat in a little circus
onct, until de booze got me. An’ I c’n t’row me arms outa joint an’
make it look like I’m all crippled up. Jes’ watch!”
On the stool, he twisted himself sidewise, and there came a succession
of bony clicks along his left arm. Through his coatsleeve, even, Joshua
could see the knots where bones had jumped their sockets, and his
fingers, every one out of joint, were monstrously contorted. The entire
arm looked as if it had been rendered useless in grinding machinery.
“Dat wing is me livin’, Jack,” he proudly observed. “How ’bout it?
Didn’t I look like I needed some kin’ lady’s help? Den I play like I’m
dumb, too--see?--an’ I twist meself up like dat and point to me mout’
an’ shake me head, an’ slip ’em one o’ dese here pomes dat I wrote
meself an’ had printed in Chicago.”
He fished in an inside pocket of his greasy coat and produced a dirty
card, which he proudly handed to his prospective neophyte.
“Read dat,” he offered.
And Joshua read:
A blighted life, a broken soul,
Sir or Madam, here you see.
Once my limbs were sound and whole,
Then no beggar could I be.
Pride I had, and children too,
A fond wife and a home unmarred.
Every Sunday in my pew
I sat; and other days worked hard.
A miner I, and honestly
I strove to do my best in life.
A great explosion suddenly
Wrecked home and self and wife.
This useless arm, this sightless eye
Were mine, when from the fragments
They bore me to my cot to die
With my wife’s tears upon my garments.
One look into my ruined face
And the poor girl swooned away.
Without her care so kind and chaste
My little ones soon knew decay.
For my wife passed--of shock, they said--
And one by one my lisping tots
Were also laid in caskets. Flowers red
They placed about their graves in pots.
But I lived on, the wreck you see.
No hard work can I do.
O Sir or Madam, pity me
As I would pity you--
If _you_ were thus by Fate subdued
And _I_ was strong and whole!
O help me to a bed and food,
And Heaven bless your soul!
Joshua’s lips were twitching over the unconscious humor of this weird
verse, but he straightened them when he noted that the author’s keen
little eyes were watching him defiantly.
“Ain’t dat a nifty sob-squeezer, Jack?” he wanted to know.
“It’s very good,” Joshua lied placidly.
“It gets de coin,” remarked The Whimperer, recovering the card. “Dat’s
wot I call whimpermeter. I make up dem voises meself, an’ sometimes
I peddle ’em to udder stiffs dat ain’t got de savvy an’ wot I calls
de capacity to compose ’em fer demselves. Dat’s w’y dey call me De
Whimperer--whimperin’ is me graft. See? And I make more money dan any
stiff on de road, I’ll bet. But if youse’re t’rough scoffin’, le’s get
outa here an’ beat it down to de jungles. We’ll build a fire an’ wait
fer de eleven-o’clock t’rough freight, bound west. She stops here fer
woter. Rap on a dish fer de lady to come out o’ de kitchen--and youse
pay fer me, too. Wot d’ye say, Jack? I’m a little short dis evenin’,
but I’ll slip youse it to-morrow.”
This was more than Joshua had bargained for, but when the proprietress
came at his signal he meekly paid for his own and the John Yegg’s
meal. Then, scarce knowing why he did it, he shouldered his telescope
and followed the tramp out into the soft summer night, steeped in the
perfume of roses and serenaded by choirs of frogs.
The Whimperer shuffled along toward the river at the side of Joshua.
Joshua really had no place to go unless he rented a room in the town’s
one hotel, and if he could catch a train westward-bound at eleven
o’clock that night he preferred to do so. He therefore accompanied the
tramp, curious to learn more of the strange life into which he had
ventured as mysteriously as man is born upon the earth, willy nilly.
In the river bottom, some distance from the village, The Whimperer
built a fire--after Joshua had collected twigs and driftwood.
“It ain’t cold,” said the tramp, “but a fire’s nice. Now youse lay
down an’ get a little sleep, an’ I’ll wake youse up w’en de freight is
ramblin’ in. Go on--do wot I tell youse. If youse’re gonta be me kid,
youse’ve gotta min’ me.”