A MAN TO HELP FERGUS
It was really a moment of vast potentialities when Nort turned _down_
the street toward the town instead of _up_ toward the railroad station
and the open road. For down the street was the way to the
printing-office and the old Captain and Anthy and Fergus and me, and all
the things, big and little, I am about to relate. I tremble sometimes
when I think how narrowly this story escaped not coming into existence
at all.
It was upon this brief but historic journey that Ed Smith met Nort, and
like any true newspaper man with a "nose for news," stopped to pass the
time of day with the singular stranger. It took him not quite two
seconds to "size up" Nort. It was easy for Ed to "size up" people, for
he had just two classifications: those people whom he could use, and
those who could use him. His problem of life thus became quite simple:
it consisted in shifting as many as possible of those of the second
classification into the first.
"If you would not be done by a man, do him first," was one of Ed's
treasured Ben Franklinisms.
Nort was rather mistily in search of "something to do." Well, what could
he do? It took some groping in his mind to discover any accomplishment
whatever that was convertible into money, especially in a small town
like Hempfield. Finally he said he knew "something about machinery"--he
did not specify automobiles--and by some wild chance mentioned the fact
that he had once worked in a newspaper office (two months--and was
dreadfully tired of it).
Now, Ed Smith was as sharp as any lightning known in our part of the
world, and there being nothing he loved better than a "bold stroke" in
which he could "close a deal" and do it "on the spot," it took him not
above five minutes to offer Nort a trial in the office of the _Star_ at
wages which approximated nothing at all. If he could "make good," etc.,
etc., why, there were great opportunities, etc., etc. It was not the
first time that Ed had dealt with tramp printers! And Nort, still low in
his mind and quite prepared for anything, agreed to come.
Your sharp, shrewd man can deal profitably with the ninety-nine men who
walk or run or burrow or climb, especially if they happen to look seedy,
but he is never quite prepared for the hundredth man who can fly. That
is, it sometimes happens that a man who has been comfortably ensconced
in the pigeonhole labelled, "To Be Done," is suddenly--and by some
hocus-pocus which your sharp one can never quite comprehend, and
considers unfair--is suddenly discovered to have disappeared,
evaporated, to have escaped classification. I throw in this observation
at this point for what it may be worth, and not because I have anything
against Ed Smith. We may think a woodpecker's bill to be entirely too
long for beauty, but it is fine for the woodpecker. Moreover, I cannot
forget that without Ed Smith the Hempfield _Star_ would never have seen
Nort.
How well I remember my first sight of the "man to help Fergus!" It was
about two days, I think, after his arrival, and at a time when the
_Star_ was twinkling in the most extraordinary and energetic fashion.
You could almost _hear_ it twinkle. As I came into the office Anthy and
Fergus were busy at their cases, the old Captain at his desk, Ed Smith
in shirtsleeves was making up a new advertisement, and Dick, the canary,
swinging in the window. But what was that strange object in the corner
on the floor?
Why, Nort, sprawled full length, with his head almost touching the
gasoline engine! He had parts of it pretty well distributed around him
on the floor, and as nearly as I could make out, was trying to get his
nose into the boiler, or barrel, or whatever the insides of a gasoline
engine are called. Also he was whistling, as he loved to do, in a low
monotone, apparently enjoying himself. Presently he glanced up at me.
"Ever study the anatomy of a gasoline engine?" he asked.
"Never," said I.
"Interesting study," said he.
"I know something about the anatomy of cows and pigs and hens," I said,
"but I suppose a gasoline engine is somewhat different."
"Somewhat," said he.
He tinkered away industriously for a moment, and when I continued to
stand there watching him, he inquired solemnly:
"A hen has no spark coil, has it?"
"No," I said, just as solemnly, "but neither can a gasoline engine
cackle."
I shall never forget the sight of Nort as he slowly rose to a sitting
position and looked me over--especially the smile of him and the gleam
in his eyes. There was a dab of oil on his nose and smudges on his chin,
but he took me in.
So this was the person who had appeared without a hat on our highly
respectable streets, and got his shame heralded in the paper! I felt
like saying to him:
"Well, you're a cheerful reprobate, I must say!"
You see, we are nearly all of us shocked by the cheerfulness of the
wicked. We feel that those whom we have set aside as reprobates, or
sinful spectacles, should by good right draw long faces and be
appropriately miserable; and we never become quite accustomed to our
own surprise at finding them happy or contented.
In short, I began to be interested in that reprobate, in spite of
myself. I had come to town intending to have a talk with Anthy and the
old Captain (who was at this moment at work at his desk), but instead I
squatted down on the floor near Nort, and while he tinkered and puttered
and whistled, we kept up a running conversation which we both found
highly diverting.
If there is one thing I enjoy more than another it is to crack open a
hard fellow-mortal, take him apart, as Nort was taking apart his engine,
and see what it is that makes him go round. But in Nort, that morning, I
found more than a match. We parried and fenced, advanced and retreated,
but beyond a firm conclusion on my part that he was no ordinary tramp
printer and, indeed, no ordinary human being, he kept me completely
mystified, and, as I could plainly see, enjoyed doing it, too. He told
me, long afterward, that he thought me that morning an "odd one."
I deny, however, that I was carried away on the spot; I was interested,
but I was now too deeply concerned for my friends on the _Star_ to
accept him entirely. Even after he brought in his first contribution to
our columns, especially the one that began, "There is a man in this town
who quarrels regularly with his wife," I was still doubtful about
him--but I must not get ahead of my story.
Well, it was wonderful the way Nort went through the office of the
_Star_. As I think of it now, I am reminded of the description of a
remarkable plant called the lantana, which I read about recently in an
interesting book on the Hawaiian Islands. It was brought in, a humble
and lowly shrub, to help ornament a garden in those delectable isles.
Finding the climate highly agreeable and its customary enemies absent,
it escaped from the garden, and in a wild spirit of vagabondage spread
out along the sunny roads and mountainsides, until it has overrun all
the islands; and from being an insignificant shrub, it now grows to the
size of a small tree. Most painful to relate, however, the once admired
shrub has become a veritable pest, and the people of the islands are
using their ingenuity in seeking a way to destroy it.
Now, that is very much the early history of Nort in the office of the
_Star_. At first, of course, he was way down in the depths, both in his
own estimation and in ours--a man to tinker the engine, run the job
presses, sweep the floors, and do the thousand and one other useful but
menial things to help Fergus. Moreover, he was on his good behaviour and
more than ordinarily subdued. It required a reasonable amount of good
honest depression in those days to make Nort tolerable. He was like a
high-spirited horse that has to be driven hard for a dozen miles before
it is any pleasure to hold the reins. If we had known then--but we knew
nothing.
There are two ways by which men advance in this world--one is by doing,
the other by being. We Americans, these many years, have been
cultivating and stimulating the doers. We have made the doers our
heroes, and have, therefore, had no poetry, no art, no music, no
personality, and, I was going to say, no religion. Doing leads the way
to riches, power, reputation, and if it occasionally lands a man in the
penitentiary, still we feel that there is something grand about it, and
reflect that the same process also leads to the Senate or the White
House or a palace on Fifth Avenue. Ed Smith was a doer, but Nort was
only a be-er. And Nort didn't even _try_ to be: he just was. And we
planted him, a humble shrub, in the garden of our lives, and in no time
at all the vagabond had spread to the sunny uplands of our hearts. And
then----
[Illustration: I soon found that every one else in the office, Anthy
included, had begun to be interested in Nort]
I soon found that every one else in the office, Anthy included, (at that
time, anyway), had begun to be interested in Nort, much as I was. It was
not that Nort tried to court our favour by working hard, being sober,
appearing willing, in order to get ahead; that would have been Ed
Smith's way; but Nort had never in all his short life thought of getting
ahead. Of whom was he to get ahead? And why should he get ahead?
The fact is that Nort, caught in the rebound from a life that had become
temporarily intolerable, found the quietude of Hempfield soothing to
him; and the life of the printing-office was so different as to be
momentarily amusing to his royal highness. We were a new toy--that's
what we were: the rag baby for which the pampered child of wealth
temporarily discards her French dolls.
It was a fortunate thing that Ed started Nort at once on the task of
overhauling the gasoline engine, for it was one of the things that he
had always loved to do. When he had finished the engine, he must clean
up and repair the belts and pulley that operated the press, and this led
him naturally to the press itself, an ancient Hoe model with heavy
springs below that operated the running table. By this time he had begun
really to wake up, and as he worked, hummed like a hive of bees. He
called the press "Old Harry," and gave it such a cleaning up as it had
not had since the early days of Anthy's father. All this seemed to
amuse him very much, for he imagined things with his fingers. It also
amused us, he was so tremendously interested and so personal about it
all. He was forever calling in Fergus, never Ed Smith, with such remarks
as these:
"How does she look now, Fergus? Will she stand for a little stiffer
spring, you think? She's a good one, eh, Fergus, for her age?" And so
on, and so on.
During these days I watched Fergus with almost as much interest as I
watched Nort. He seemed nonplussed. He was like a hen that has
unexpectedly hatched a duckling. At one moment he seemed resentful at
this uprooting of ancient and settled institutions, and he was a little
angry all the time at being carried along by Nort's enthusiasm, for he
was constitutionally suspicious of enthusiasm; but, on the other hand,
he could not resist the constant appeals to his superior judgment. When
deferred to he would drop his head a little to one side, partially close
one eye, draw down the corners of his mouth, and after smoking furiously
for a few puffs, would take out his pipe and remark:
"Wull, it looks to me----" etc., etc.
As he gave his opinion I could see the live gleam in Nort's eyes, and I
knew that he was finding almost as much amusement in tinkering Fergus as
he found in tinkering the old press. I think that Fergus liked Nort from
the very first, but wild horses could not have dragged a favourable
opinion of him out of Fergus. Fergus had a deeply ingrained conviction
that no man should think more highly of himself than he ought to think,
and lost no opportunity of reducing bumps of self-esteem, wherever
discovered.
Having finished the old press, Nort's lively mind began to consider what
might be done with a perfectly healthy gasoline engine sitting in the
corner and wasting most of its time. He fitted up a new belt and pulley
to run the two small presses and, there being at that moment quite a job
of posters to run off, thrilled the office with the speed and ease with
which the work could be done. All this delighted Ed Smith, for it was
"something doing"--and didn't cost much: although I think he had already
begun to regard it as a suspicious sign that Nort, having fully
recovered his spirits, did not demand an immediate increase in wages. It
was the first of several unpredictable events quite outside the range of
Ed's experience.
As for the old Captain, he was stoutly opposed to it all. He called it
Ed-Smithism and refused to countenance it in any way. For thirty years
the _Star_ had been a power in the councils of Westmoreland County (said
the Captain). Why, then, these sensational changes? Why this rank
commercialism? Why all this confusion?
"I am a reasonable person, as you know, Anthy," said the Captain; "I
believe in progress. The earth moves, the suns revolve, but all this
business of Ed Smith is bosh, plain, unadulterated bosh!"
"But, Uncle----" Anthy was still earnestly trying to keep peace in the
office.
"Fudge!" roared the Captain, and then, seeing that he had pained Anthy,
he was all contrition at once, threw one arm about her shoulders and,
regaining his usual jaunty air, remarked:
"Never mind, Anthy. I am a patient man. I will await the progress of
events."
He was firmly convinced that Ed Smith and all his contraptions would
soon be abolished from the office of the _Star_.
As to Nort--the Captain did not at first see him at all. He was an
Ed-Smithism, and the Captain could not get over his first sight of
Nort, a spectacle in the streets of Hempfield. After the job presses
began to work by power, following a suggestion which it seems the
Captain had made in 1899, he apparently discovered Nort afar off, as
though looking through the big end of a spy-glass.
What was our astonishment, therefore, one evening to find the old
Captain and Nort engaged in a most extraordinary and secretive
enterprise. By chance we saw an unusual light in the front
office--Fergus's light was in the rear--and went in to investigate. A
step-ladder stood in the middle of the floor. Upon this was perched the
old Captain, coat off, white hair rumpled, head almost touching the
ceiling, hammer in hand.
"There!" he was saying.
He had been sounding the plaster on the ceiling to find a certain
stringer. Nort, just below, was gazing up with a half smile on his lips
and that look of live amusement, yes, deviltry, which came too easily to
his eyes.
"Found her, have you, Cap'n?" he was inquiring.
"Here she is," responded the Captain triumphantly.
And then they saw Fergus and me--the Captain looking very sheepish and
Nort like a bad boy caught in the jam closet.
Just how Nort did it I never knew exactly, but those two precious
partners in mischief were engaged in quite the most extraordinary
innovation in the staid old office that had yet been conceived.
"Something to cool the Captain's head," was the way Nort described it.
It was hot weather, doubly hot in the office of the _Star_, surrounded
as it was by taller buildings, and the Captain especially suffered from
the heat. In some way Nort had led him guilefully into the scheme of
installing a fan on the ceiling of the office, and, what is more, had
made the Captain believe it was his own idea. The old Captain was in
reality as simple hearted as a child, and once he and Nort had agreed
upon the plan, it delighted him to carry it forward secretly and
"surprise Anthy," as he was always surprising her with some one or
another of his extravagances. Afterward, when he referred to the great
new scheme it was at first: "We had the idea," "We thought," "We worked
it out." But in no time at all, it had become, "I had the idea," "I
thought." And when visitors came in to see the wonderful new fan waving
its majestic wooden arms over the devoted heads of the staff of the
_Star_, you would have thought the old Captain did it all himself.
I laugh yet when I think of the first few moments of the operation of
Nort's invention. We had all been a good deal excited about it, Ed not
exactly with approval, although it was a good "ad" for the _Star_--but
the old Captain was quite beside himself.
"How are you getting along, Nort?" he began inquiring early in the
afternoon of the great day.
He had been particular at first to speak to Nort as "Carr," indicating
purely formal relationship, but in the enthusiasm of putting up the fan
he soon dropped into the familiar "Nort."
"Fine, Cap'n, we'll have her running now in no time."
"Good!"
"We'll cool your head yet, Cap'n."
"I'm waiting, Nort."
When Nort finally gave the word, the old Captain drew his lame-legged
chair squarely under the fan, sat himself down in it, and stretching out
luxuriously, leaned his beautiful old head a little back. I saw the
Grand Army button on his coat.
"Whir!" went the fan. The Captain's white hair began to flutter. He sat
a moment in ecstatic silence, closing and opening his eyes, and taking a
deep breath or two. Then he said:
"Cool as a cucumber, Anthy, cool as a cucumber."
Fergus barked away down inside somewhere, his excuse for a laugh.
"Now, Anthy," said the Captain, "this was to be your surprise."
So he had Anthy sit down in the chair.
"Fine, isn't it?" said he, "regular breeze from Labrador. Greenland's
icy mountains."
"Fine!" responded Anthy.
As Anthy sat there, the fan stirring her light hair, a smile on her
lips, I saw Nort looking at her in a curious, amused, puzzled way, as
though he had just seen her for the first time and couldn't quite
account for her. I myself thought she looked a little sad around the
eyes: it came to me, indeed, suddenly, what a fine, strong face she had.
She sat with her chin slightly lifted, her hands in her lap, an odd,
still way she sometimes had. Since I first met Anthy, that day in the
office of the _Star_, I had come to like her better and better. And
somehow, deep down inside, I didn't quite like Nort's look.
"We can show 'em a thing or two, eh, Nort?" the Captain was saying.
"We can, Cap'n."
After that, no matter what happened, the Captain swore by Nort. He was a
loyal old fellow, and whatever your views might be, whatever you may
have done, even though you had sunk to the depths of being a Democrat,
if he once came to love you, nothing else mattered. I have sometimes
thought that the old Captain really had a deeper influence upon Nort
during the weeks that followed than any of us imagined.
This incident of the fan marked the apogee of the first stage of Nort's
career in the office of the _Star_. It was the era of Nort the subdued;
and preceded the era of Nort the obstreperous.
[Illustration]