The latest transient guest at the Roach House--a hotel kept on the
entomological plan in Bumsteadville--was a gentleman of such lurid
aspect as made every beholder burn to know whom he could possibly be.
His enormous head of curled red hair not only presented a central
parting on top and a very much one-sided parting and puffing-out behind,
but actually covered both his ears; while his ruddy semi-circle of beard
curled inward, instead of out, and greatly surprised, if it did not
positively alarm, the looker-on, by appearing to remain perfectly
motionless, no matter how actively the stranger moved his jaws. This
ball of improbable inflammatory hair and totally independent face rested
in a basin of shirt collar; which, in its turn, was supported by a rusty
black necktie and a very loose suit of gritty alpaca; so that, taking
the gentleman for all in all, such an incredible human being had rarely
been seen outside of literary circles.
"Landlord," said the stranger to the brown linen host of the Roach
House, who was intently gazing at him with the appreciative expression
of one who beholds a comic ghost,--"landlord, after you have finished
looking at my head and involuntarily opening your mouth at some
occasional peculiarity of my whiskers, I should like to have something
to eat. As you tell me that woodcock is not fit to eat this year, and
that broiled chicken is positively prohibited by the Board of Health in
consequence of the sickly season, you may bring me some pork and beans,
and some crackers. Bring plenty of crackers, landlord, for I'm uncommon
fond of crackers. By absorbing the superfluous moisture in the head,
they clear the brain and make it more subtle."
Having been served with the wholesome country fare he had ordered,
together with a glass of the heady native wine called applejack, the
gentleman had but just moved a slice of pork from its bed in the beans,
when, with much interest, he closely inspected the spot of vegetables he
had uncovered, and expressed the belief that there was something alive
in it.
"Landlord," said he, musingly, "there is something amongst these beans
that I should take for a raisin, if it did not move."
Placing upon his nose a pair of vast silver spectacles, which gave him
an aspect of having two attic windows in his countenance, the landlord
bowed his head over the plate until his nose touched the beans, and
thoughtfully scrutinized the living raisin.
"As I thought, sir, it is only a water-bug," he observed, rescuing the
insect upon his thumb-nail. "You need not have been frightened, however,
for they never bite."
Somewhat reassured, the stranger went on eating until his knife
encountered resistance in the secondary layer of beans; when he once
more inspected the dish, with marked agitation.
"Can this be a skewer, down here?" inquired he, prodding at some hard,
springy object with his fork.
The host of the Roach House bore both fork and object to a window, where
the light was less deceptive, and was presently able to announce
confidently that the object was only a hair-pin. Then, observing that
his guest looked curiously at a cracker, which, from the gravelly marks
on one side, seemed to have been dug out of the earth, like a potato, he
hastened to obviate all complaint in that line by carefully wiping every
individual cracker with his pocket handkerchief.
"And now, landlord," said the stranger, at last, pulling a couple of
long, unidentified hairs from his mouth as he hurriedly retired from the
meal, "I suppose you are wondering who I am?"
"Well, sir," was the frank answer, "I can't deny that there are points
about you to make a plain man like myself thoughtful. There's that about
your hair, sir, with the middle-parting on top and the side-parting
behind, to give a plain person the impression that your brain must be
slightly turned, and that, by rights, your face ought to be where your
neck is. Neither can I deny, sir, that the curling of your whiskers the
wrong way, and their peculiarity in remaining entirely still while your
mouth is going, are circumstances calculated to excite the liveliest
apprehensions of those who wish you well."
"The peculiarities you notice," returned the gentleman, "may either
exist solely in your own imagination, or they may be the result of my
own ill-health. My name is TRACEY CLEWS, and I desire to spend a few
weeks in the country for physical recuperation. Have you any idea where
a dead-beat,[1] like myself, could find inexpensive lodgings in
Bumsteadville?"
The host hastily remarked, that his own bill for those pork and beans
was fifty cents; and upon being paid, coldly added that a Mrs. SMYTHE,
wife of the sexton of Saint Cow's Ritualistic Church, took hash-eaters
for the summer. As the gentleman preferred a high-church private
boarding-house to an unsectarian first class hotel, all he had to do was
to go out on the road again, and keep inquiring until he found the
place.
Donning his Panama hat, and carrying a stout cane, Mr. CLEWS was quickly
upon the turnpike; and, his course taking him near the pauper
burial-ground, he presently perceived an extremely disagreeable child
throwing stones at pigeons in a field, and generally hitting the
beholder.
"You young Alderman! what do you mean?" he exclaimed, with marked
feeling, rubbing the place on his knee which had just been struck.
"Then just give me a five-cent stamp to aim at yer, and yer won't ketch
it onc't," replied the boyish trifler. "I couldn't hit what I was to
fire at if it was my own daddy."
"Here are ten cents, then," said the gentleman, wildly dodging the last
shot at a distant pigeon, "and now show me where Mrs. SMYTHE lives.
"All right, old brick-top," assented the merry sprite, with a vivacious
dash of personality. "D'yer see that house as yer skoot past the Church
and round the corner?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's SMYTHE'S, and BUMSTEAD lives there, too--him as is always
tryin' to put a head on me. I'll play my points on him yet, though.
_I'll_ play my points!" And the rather vulgar young chronic absentee
from Sunday-school retired to a proper distance, and from thence began
stoning his benefactor to the latter's perfect safety.
Reaching the boarding-house of Mrs. SMYTHE, as directed, Mr. TRACEY
CLEWS soon learned from the lady that he could have a room next to the
apartment of Mr. BUMSTEAD, to whom he was referred for further
recommendation of the establishment. Though that broken-hearted
gentleman was mourning the loss of a beloved umbrella, accompanied by a
nephew, and having a bone handle, Mrs. SMYTHE was sure he would speak a
good word for her house. Perhaps Mr. CLEWS had heard of his loss?
Mr. CLEWS could not exactly recall that particular case; but had a
confused recollection of having lost several umbrellas himself, at
various times, and had no doubt that the addition of a nephew must make
such a loss still heavier.
Mr. BUMSTEAD being in his room when the introduction took place, and
having Judge SWEENEY for company over a bowl of lemon tea, the new
boarder lifted his hat politely to both dignitaries, and involuntarily
smacked his lips at the mixture they were taking for their coughs.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," said Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, in a manner almost
stealthy; "but, as I am about to take summer board with the lady of this
house, I beg leave to inquire if she and the man she married are
strictly moral except in having cold dinner on Sunday?"
Mr. BUMSTEAD, who sat very limply in his chair, said that she was a very
good woman, a very good woman, and would spare no pains to secure the
comfort of such a head of hair as he then saw before him.
"This is my dear friend, Judge SWEENEY," continued the Ritualistic
organist, languidly waving a spoon towards that gentleman, "who has a
very good wife in the grave, and knows much more about women and gravy
than I. As for me," exclaimed Mr. BUMSTEAD, suddenly climbing upon the
arm of his chair and staring at Mr. CLEW'S head rather wildly, "my only
bride was of black alpaca, with a brass ferrule, and I can never care
for the sex again." Here Mr. BUMSTEAD, whose eyes had been rolling in an
extraordinary manner, tumbled into his chair again, and then, frowning
intensely, helped himself to lemon tea.
"I am referred to your Honor for further particulars," observed Mr.
TRACEY CLEWS, bowing again to Judge SWEENEY. "Not to wound our friend
further by discussion of the fair sex, may I ask if Bumsteadville
contains many objects of interest for a stranger, like myself?"
"One, at least, sir," answered the Judge. "I think I could show you a
tombstone which you would find very good reading. An epitaph upon my
late better-half. If you are a married man you can not help enjoying
it."
Mr. CLEWS regretted to inform his Honor, that he had never been a
married man, and, therefore, could not presume to fancy what the
literary enjoyment of a widower must be at such a treat.
"A journalist, I presume?" insinuated Judge SWEENEY, more and more
struck by the other's perfect pageant of incomprehensible hair and
beard.
"His Honor flatters me too much."
"Something in the lunatic line, then, perhaps?"
"I have told your Honor that I never was married."
Since last speaking, Mr. BUMSTEAD had been staring at the new boarder's
head and face, with a countenance expressive of mingled consternation
and wrath, and now made a startling rush at him from his chair and
fairly forced half a glass of lemon tea down his throat.
"There, sir!" said the mourning organist, panting with suppressed
excitement. "That will keep you from taking cold until you can be walked
up and down in the open air long enough to get your hair and beard
sober. They have been indulging, sir, until the top of your head has
fallen over backwards, and your whiskers act as though they belonged to
somebody else. The sight confuses me, sir, and in my present state of
mind I can't bear it."
Coughing from the lemon tea, and greatly amazed by his hasty dismissal,
Mr. CLEWS followed Judge SWEENEY from the room and house in precipitate
haste, and, when they were fairly out of doors, remarked, that the
gentleman they had just left had surprised him unprecedentedly, and that
he was very much put out by it.
"Mr. JOHN BUMSTEAD, sir," explained the Judge, "is almost beside himself
at the double loss he has sustained, and I think that the sight of your
cane, there, maddened him with the memory it revived."
"Why," exclaimed the gentleman of the hair, staring in wonder, "you
don't mean to tell me that my cane looks at all like his nephew?"
"It looks a little like the stick of his umbrella, which he lost at the
same time," was the grave answer.
After walking on in thoughtful silence for a while, as though deeply
pondering the striking character of a man whose great nature could thus
at once unite the bereaved uncle with the sincere mourner for the dumb
friend of his rainier days, Mr. TRACEY CLEWS asked whether suspicion yet
pointed to any one?
Yes, he was told, suspicion did point very decidedly at a certain
person; but, as no specific reward had yet been offered in sufficient
amount to justify the exertions of police officials having families to
support; and as no lifeless body had yet been found; and as it was not
exactly certain that the abstraction of an umbrella by unknown parties
would justify the criminal prosecution of a person for having in his
possession an Indian Club:--in view of all these complicated
circumstances, the law did not feel itself authorized to execute any
assassin at present.
"And here we are, sir, at last, near our Ritualistic Church," continued
Judge SWEENEY, "where we stand up for the Rite so much that strangers
sometimes complain of it as fatiguing. Upon that monument yonder, in the
graveyard, you may find the epitaph I have mentioned. What is more, here
comes a rather interesting local character of ours, who cut the
inscription and put up the monument."
Mr. MCLAUGHLIN came shuffling up the road as he spoke, followed in the
distance by the inevitable SMALLEY and a shower of promiscuous stones.
"Here, you boy!" roared Judge SWEENEY, beckoning the amiable child to
him with a bit of small money, "aim at _all_ of us--do you hear?--and
see that you don't hit any windows. And now, MCLAUGHLIN, how do you do?
Here is a gentleman spending the summer with us, who would like to know
you."
Old MORTARITY stared at the hair and beard, thus introduced to him, with
undisguised amazement, and grimly remarked, that if the gentleman would
come to see him any evening, and bring a social bottle with him, he
would not allow the gentleman's head to stand in the way of a further
acquaintance.
"I shall certainly call upon you," assented Mr. CLEWS, "if our young
friend, the stone-thrower, will accept a trifle to show me the way."
Before retiring to his bed that night, the same Mr. TRACEY CLEWS took
off his hair and beard, examined them closely, and then broke into a
strange smile. "No wonder they all looked at me so!" he soliloquized,
"for I did have my locks on the topside backmost, and my whiskers turned
the wrong way. However, for a dead-beat, with all his imperfections on
his head, I've formed a pretty large acquaintance for one day."[2]
(_To be Continued._)
[Footnote 1: "Buffer" is the term used in the English story. Its nearest
native equivalent is, probably, our Dead-Beat;" meaning, variously,
according to circumstances, a successful American politician; a wife's
male relative; a watering-place correspondent of a newspaper, a New York
detective policeman; any person who is uncommonly pleasant with people,
while never asking them to take anything with him; a pious boarder; a
French revolutionist.]
[Footnote 2: In both conception and execution, the original of the above
Chapter, in Mr. DICKENS's work, is, perhaps, the least felicitous page
of fiction ever penned by the great novelist; and, as this Adaptation is
in no wise intended as a burlesque, or caricature, of the _style_ at the
original, (but rather as a conscientious imitation of it, so far as
practicable,) the Adapter has not allowed himself that license of humor
which, in the most comically effective treatment of said Chapter, might
bear the appearance of such an intention.]
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