"This is an experiment. First and last, we're going to try to raise a
man from the dead. If we get him on to his pins, we'll have to supply
some crutches. Are you prepared to do that?"
"If you are."
"Right! Of course, he may refuse our help. It wouldn't surprise me a
little bit if he did refuse."
When our preparations were complete, we returned to the barn. In a few
words Ajax told the stranger of what had been done.
"After supper," he concluded, "we'll talk things over. Times are
rather good just now, and something can be arranged."
"You're very kind," replied the tramp; "but I think you had better
leave me in the barn."
"We can't," said my brother. "It's too beastly to think of you like
this."
Nevertheless, we had to argue the matter, and I ought to add that
although we prevailed in the end, both Ajax and I were aware that the
man's acceptance of what we offered imposed an obligation upon us
rather than upon him. As he was about to enter the bath-house, he
turned with the derisive smile on his lips--
"If it amuses you," he murmured, "I shall have earned my bath and
supper."
When he reappeared, nobody would have recognised him. So far, the
experiment had succeeded beyond expectation. A new man walked into our
sitting-room and glanced with intelligent interest at our household
gods. Over the mantel-piece hung an etching of the Grand Canal at
Venice. He surveyed it critically, putting up a pair of thin hands, as
so to shut off an excess of light.
"Jimmie Whistler taught that fellow a trick or two," he remarked.
"You knew Whistler?"
"Oh yes."
We left him with _Punch_ and a copy of an art journal. Ajax said
to me, as we went back to the barn--
"I'll bet he's an artist of sorts."
It happened that we had in our cellar some fine claret; a few magnums
of Léoville, '74, a present from a millionaire friend. We never drank
it except upon great occasions. Ajax suggested a bottle of this
elixir, not entirely out of charity. Such tipple would warm a graven
image into speech, and my brother is inordinately curious. Our guest
had nothing to give to us except his confidence, and that he had
withheld.
We decanted the claret very carefully. As soon as our guest tasted it,
he sighed and said quietly--
"I never expected to taste that again. It's Léoville, isn't it? And in
exquisite condition."
He sipped the wine in silence, while I thought of the bundle of foul
rags upon our rubbish heap. Ajax was talking shop, describing with
some humour our latest deal, and the present high price of fat steers.
Our guest listened politely, and when Ajax paused, he said
ironically--
"Yours is a gospel of hard work. I dare say you have ridden two horses
to a standstill to-day? Just so. I can't ride, or plough, or dig."
Ajax opened his lips to reply, and closed them. Our guest smiled.
"You are wondering what brought me to California. As a matter of fact,
a private car. No, thanks, no more claret."
Later, we hoped he might melt into confidence over tobacco and toddy.
He smoked one cigar slowly, and with evident appreciation; and, as he
smoked, he stroked the head of Conan, our Irish setter, an ultra-
particular person, who abominated tramps and strangers.
"Conan likes you," said Ajax abruptly.
"Is that his name? 'Conan,' eh? Good Conan, good dog!" Presently, he
threw away the stub of his cigar and crossed to a small mirror. With a
self-possession rather surprising, he began to examine himself.
"I am renewing acquaintance," he explained gravely, "with a man I have
not seen for some months."
"By what name shall we call that man?" said Ajax boldly.