THE "APRON AND PASSWORD."
The guests at the hotel, with their dull wit and small gossip, had
disappeared, and the proprietor was seated at the long table in the
dining-room, eating his supper, with no companion save Silas Davy, the
patient man-of-all-work.
A queer case, the proprietor. Instead of being useful to the hotel, as
would naturally be expected, he was a detriment to it, for he did not
even come to his meals when they were ready, making a special table
necessary three times a day, greatly to the disgust of Mrs. Armsby, who
did about everything around the place, from tending the office to
superintending the kitchen; and she succeeded so well in all these
particulars that occasional strangers had been known to familiarly pat
her husband on the back, and congratulate him on keeping a house which
was known far and near for its fine attention to guests.
Armsby did not drink, or gamble, or anything of that kind, but he owned
a gun and a hunting dog, and knew exactly when the ducks appeared in the
lakes, and when the shrill piping of quail might be expected in the
thickets; and he was usually there, in his grotesque hunting costume, to
welcome them. In addition to this he was fond of fishing, and belonged
to all the lodges; so that he had little time to attend to business,
even had he been inclined that way.
Mrs. Armsby regarded the men who sold powder and fishing-tackle, and
encouraged the lodges, about as many another sad-hearted woman regards
the liquor-sellers; and, as she went wearily about her work, had been
heard to wonder whether hunting and fishing and lodge-going were not
greater evils than drinking; for she had no use for her husband
whatever, although he was a great deal of trouble. He never got out of
bed without being called a dozen times, but when he did get up, and was
finally dressed (which occupied him at least an hour) he was such a
cheerful fellow, and told of his triumph at the lodge election the night
before, or of his fancy shots the day before, with such good nature that
he was usually forgiven. Indeed, the people found no other fault with
his idleness than to good-naturedly refer to his hotel as the "Apron and
Password," probably a tribute to the English way of naming houses of
public entertainment; for they argued that if Mrs. Armsby could forgive
her husband's faults, it was no affair of theirs; and by this name the
place was known.
But he had one good habit; he was fond of his wife--not because she made
the living, and allowed him to exist in idleness, but really and truly
fond of her; though everyone was fond of capable Mrs. Armsby: for though
she was nearly always at work, she found time to learn enough of passing
events to be a fair conversationalist, and sometimes entertained the
guests in the parlor by singing, accompanying herself on the piano.
It was said that as a girl Mrs. Armsby had been the favorite of a circle
of rich relatives and friends, and that she spent the earlier portion of
her life in a pleasant and aristocratic home; but when she found it
necessary to make her own living, and support a husband besides, she
went about it with apparent good nature, and was generally regarded as a
very remarkable woman. She had been Annie Benton's first teacher, in
addition to her regular duties, and a pupil still came to the house
occasionally, only to find her making bread in the kitchen, or beds in
the upper rooms.
Armsby had been out hunting, as usual, and his wife had prepared his
supper with her own hands, which he was now discussing.
"There are a great many unhappy women in the world, Davy," Armsby said,
looking admiringly at the contents of the plates around him, "for the
reason that most husbands are mean to their wives. I wouldn't be a woman
for all the money in Thompson Benton's safe; I am thankful that I am a
man, if for nothing else. It is very pretty to say that any woman is so
good that she can have her pick of a husband, but it is not true, for
most of them marry men who are cross to them, and unfair, and
thoughtless; but Mrs. Armsby has her own way here. She has a maid and a
man, and I fancy she is rather a fortunate woman. Instead of being
bossed around by her husband, he keeps out of the way and gives her full
charge. Pull up to the table and eat something, won't you? Help yourself
to the sardines."
Davy accepted the invitation, and was helping himself when Mr. Armsby
said:
"You will find them mighty good; and they ought to be good, for they
cost sixty cents a box--the three you have on your plate cost a dime.
But they are as free as the air you breathe. Help yourself; have some
more, and make it fifteen cents."
Davy concluded not to take any sardines after this, and after browsing
around among the mixed pickles and goat-cheese awhile, and being told
that they ought to be good, for they cost enough, he concluded that
Armsby's hospitality was intended as a means of calling attention to his
rich fare; for he was very particular, and in order to please him his
wife always provided something for his table which was produced at no
other time. There was a bottle of olives on the table, and when Davy
took one of them, Armsby explained that he had imported them himself at
enormous expense, although they had been really bought at one of the
stores as a job lot, the proprietor having had them on hand a number of
years.
"Any guests to-night?" Armsby inquired, trying to look very much vexed
that the clerk had not accepted the invitation to refresh himself.
"No," Davy answered, a little sulky because of his rebuff.
"I am sorry for that," Armsby continued. "Mrs. Armsby enjoys a lively
parlor, and she has a great deal of time in which to make herself
agreeable. What a wonderful woman she is to fix up! Always neat, and
always pleasant; but she has little else to do. You don't take very
kindly to the ladies yourself, Davy?"
The boarders frequently accused Davy of being fond of various old widows
and maids in the town, whom he had really never spoken to, and gravely
hinted that the streets were full of rumors of his approaching nuptials;
but he paid no attention to these banters, nor did he now, except to
give a little grunt of contempt for any one so foolish as to marry.
"Why, bless me, Davy," Armsby said, laying down his knife and fork in
astonishment; "how bald you are becoming! Let me see the back of your
head."
Silas turned his back to his employer's husband, and looked up at the
ceiling.
"It's coming; you will be as bald as a plate in a year. But we must all
expect it; fortune has no favorites in this respect. I know a man who
does not mistreat his wife, but I never knew one who wasn't bald. You
might as well quit washing your head in salt water, Davy; for it will do
no good."
The facts were that Davy gave no sign of approaching baldness; but
Armsby, being very bald himself, was always trying to discover that
other people's hair was falling out.
"Better remain single, though," he continued, referring to matrimony
again, "than to marry a woman and mistreat her. All the men are unjust
to their wives, barring the honorable exception just named; therefore it
has always been my policy to make Mrs. Armsby a notable exception. Is
there another woman in the Bend who handles all the money, and does
exactly as she pleases? You are around a good bit; do you know of
another?"
Davy thought to himself that she was entitled to the privilege of
handling the money, since she earned it all, besides supporting a
vagrant husband; but he said nothing, for Silas was not a talkative man.
"Whatever she does is entirely satisfactory to me," continued the model
husband. "I never complain; indeed, I find much to admire. There is not
another woman like her in the world, and it contains an awful lot of
people."
Mrs. Armsby appeared from the kitchen at this moment, and, greeting her
husband pleasantly, really seemed charmed with his presence. While she
was looking after his wants, he told her of his hunting that day; how he
had made more double shots than any of his companions; how his dog had
proved, for the hundredth time, that he was the very best in the
country, as he had always contended; how tired and hungry he was, and
how fortunate it was that there was no lodge that night, as in that
event he would have to be present.
His wife finally disappeared into the kitchen again, to arrange for the
first meal of the next day, and Armsby said to Davy,--
"Poor woman, she has so little to occupy her mind that she has gone into
the kitchen to watch Jennie peel the potatoes. If business was not so
dull--you say it is dull; I know nothing about it myself--I would hire a
companion for her; someone to read to her, and walk about with her
during the day. It's too bad."
Unfortunately for the patrons of the Apron-and-Password, Armsby had been
to New York; and though he had remained but two days, since his return
he had pretended to a knowledge of the metropolis which was marvellous.
When a New York man was mentioned, Armsby pretended to know him
intimately, telling cheerful anecdotes of how their acquaintance began
and ended. Whenever a New York institution was referred to, he was
familiar with it, almost to intimacy; and a few of the Davy's Bend
people amused themselves by inventing fictitious names and places in New
York, and inducing Armsby to profess a knowledge of them, which he did
with cheerful promptness.
He never neglected an opportunity to talk about his trip, therefore when
he put his chair back from the table, and engaged in quiet meditation,
Silas felt sure he was about to introduce the subject in a new way; for
Armsby was a very ingenious as well as a very lazy man.
"You ought to wear the apron, Silas," Mr. Armsby said, looking at Silas
with the greatest condescension and pity; "but it would be dreadful if
your application should be greeted with the blacks. I don't recommend
that you try it, mind, for that is not allowed, and the records will
show that we lodge men have so much regard for principle that it has
never been done; but it is something that everyone should think about,
sooner or later. Only the very best men wear this emblem of greatness.
But if you have faults, I should advise you not to run the risk of being
humiliated, for the members are very particular. A lazy man, or a
shiftless man, or a bad man of any kind, cannot get in; and when a man
belongs to a lodge, it can be depended upon that he is as near right as
they make them. This is the reason we must be particular in admitting
new members. Reputation is at stake; for, once you are in, the others
stand by you with their lives and their sacred honor. There's nothing
like it."
The landlord occupied himself a moment in pleasant thought of the
lodges, in connection with their cheapness and general utility, and then
continued, after smiling in a gratified way over his own importance in
the lodge connection,--
"When I first went to New York I became acquainted with the very best
people immediately; for every man who wears the apron has confidence in
every other man who wears it; each knows that the other has been
selected from the masses with care, and they trust each other to the
fullest extent. One day I went over into--"
Armsby could not remember names, and he snapped his fingers now in
vexation.
"It is strange I am unable to name the town," he said; "I am as familiar
with it as I am with my own stable. Well, no matter; anyway it is a big
suburb, and you reach it by crossing the--"
Again he stopped, and tried to recall the name of the bridge he had
crossed, and the city he had visited, but to no avail; though he rapped
his head soundly with his knuckles, for its bad behavior, and got up to
walk up and down the room.
"If I should forget your name, or Mrs. Armsby's, it would not be more
remarkable," he continued, at last, giving up in despair. "I was brought
up in sight of them; but what I started out to say was, that I walked
into a bank one day, and the fine-looking man who was at the counter
looked at me, at first, with the greatest suspicion, thinking I was a
robber, no doubt, until I gave him a certain sign. You should have seen
the change in his manner! He came through a little door at the side, and
shaking hands with me in a certain way, known only to those on the
inside, took me into a private office in the rear, where a number of
other fine-looking gentlemen were seated around a table.
"'President Judd,' he said to them, 'this gentleman wears the apron.'
"All the elegant gentlemen were delighted to see me. It was not feigned,
either, for it was genuine delight; and a controversy sprang up as to
which of them should give his time to my entertainment while in the
city, though I protested that I was so well acquainted that I could get
along very well alone. But they insisted upon it, and when they began to
quarrel rather fiercely about it, I gave them a sign (which reminded
them of their pledge to be brothers), whereupon they were all
good-natured at once, and one of them said,--
"'Thank you for reminding us of our duty, brother; the best of us will
occasionally forget. Will you do us the favor to pick out one of our
number to show you about, and make your stay in the city pleasant?'"
Davy noticed that Mrs. Armsby was listening at the kitchen door, though
Armsby did not know it, for his back was turned toward her; but he did
not mention the circumstance.
"I liked the looks of Mr. Judd," Armsby continued, "so I said that if
the other brothers would not take offence, I would like his company. The
others said, 'Oh, not at all,' all of them making the sign to be
brothers at the same time, and President Judd at once began arranging
his business so he could go out with me, not neglecting to put a big
roll of money in his pocket; and, though it was very big, the others
said it wasn't half enough."
Davy believed everything the people saw fit to tell him, and vouched for
the truth of it when he repeated it himself, and was very much
interested in what Armsby was saying.
"Well, sir, when we went out, the sign was everything. You cannot
imagine how potent it was. We made it when we wanted a carriage, and the
driver regarded it as a favor to carry us for nothing; we made it when
we were hungry, and it assured us the greatest attention at the hotels,
which were nothing like this, but larger--very much larger."
Davy gave evidence of genuine astonishment on learning that there were
hotels larger than the "Apron and Password;" but as the proprietor
himself had made the statement, he presumed it must be true, though it
was certainly very astonishing.
"I can't think of the name of it now, but they have a railroad in the
second story of the street there, and instead of collecting fare, when
the proprietors came around they put money in our outside pockets,
thinking we might meet someone who was not a brother. Judd remained with
me five days, taking me to his own residence at night, which was twice
as big as The Locks, and when we finally parted, he loaded me down with
presents, and shed tears. Next to the sign, the apron is the greatest
thing in the world; I am sorry you do not wear it."
Armsby wandered leisurely out into the office soon after, probably to
smoke the cigars his wife kept there in a case for sale, when Mrs.
Armsby came into the dining-room, and sat down, looking mortified and
distressed.
"Silas," she said, "don't believe a word Armsby has said to you, or ever
will say, on this subject. Before he became a slave to this dreadful
lodge habit, he was a truthful man, but you can't believe a word he says
now. Do you know what they do at the lodges?"
Davy shook his head, for of course no one except a member _could_ know.
"Let me tell you, then. They tie cooks' aprons around their waists, put
fools' caps on their heads, and quarrel as to whether the hailing sign,
or the aid sign, or whatever it is, is made by holding up one finger
when the right thumb is touching the right ear, or whether it is two or
three or four fingers. It is all about as ridiculous as this, and my
advice to you is, never join. Armsby has been talking to you a good deal
about the matter lately, and I suspect he wants the fun of initiating
you, which is accompanied with all sorts of tricks, which gives them
opportunity to make fun of you from behind their paper masks."
Since it was impossible to believe both stories, Silas made up his mind
to ask Tug's opinion,--Tug would know,--but he said nothing.
"Some of them wear swords," Mrs. Armsby went on to say; "but, bless you,
they can't draw them, and even if they should succeed in getting them
out, they couldn't put them back in their scabbards again. Armsby came
home one night wearing his sword, and in this very room he took it out
to make a show of himself, and was so awkward with it that he broke half
the dishes on the dresser, besides upsetting the lamp and wounding me on
the hand. To complete his disgrace, he was compelled to ask me to put it
in its case again; but I fear the lesson did the misguided man little
good, for he has been as bad as ever since. But while these men might be
pardoned for their foolishness if they remained in their halls, they are
utterly unpardonable for disgracing their wives and friends by appearing
on the street, which they occasionally do, dressed in more fantastic
fashion than ever. If you should join, you would be expected to do this,
and after one appearance you could never look a sensible person in the
face again, unless you are lost to all sense of self-respect. Besides,
it is expensive; my husband keeps me poor in attending grand lodges, and
most of the failures are caused by neglecting business to talk lodge. My
only fear is that my misguided husband will finally consider it his duty
to kill somebody for telling about the signs and grips, and then we will
all be disgraced. It is your misfortune as well as mine, Silas, that
Armsby is not a drunkard. Drunkards are occasionally reformed, and are
of some use in their sober intervals; but a lodge man never reforms. If
a lodge man engages in business, he fails, for he does not attend to it;
but a drinking man admits that he is doing wrong, and sometimes succeeds
in his efforts to do better; whereas a lodge man argues all the time
that his foolishness is good sense, and therefore don't try to get out
of the way. Compared to me, Mrs. Whittle is a very fortunate woman."
Mrs. Armsby got up at this and went out; and as Silas was preparing to
follow, he heard a whistle which he recognized at once as Tug's.
Whenever Tug had use for Silas early in the evening, he had a habit of
whistling him out, since he never came into the hotel until his friend
had possession.
Silas at once put on his hat and went down to the wagon yard, where he
found Tug impatiently waiting, who started off at a rapid swinging gait
toward the lower end of the town and the river as soon as Silas caught
sight of him. When the pair travelled, Davy always lagged behind, as he
did in this instance; for in the presence of genius like Tug's, he felt
that his place was in the rear. Others might doubt the ability or even
the honesty of his friend, but Silas had no doubt that Tug would some
day be a wonderful man, and prove that everything said to his discredit
was untrue. It was a favorite saying of his that when he "came into his
own," he would move about, with the magnificence of a circus procession,
on the back of an elephant, with a brass band in front and a company of
trumpeters behind; and Silas was content to wait. Tug occasionally
illustrated this idea now as he walked along, by swinging and flinging
his body about as those who ride on elephants do, and it occurred to
Silas that "his own" must have arrived by boat, and that he was going
after it; for he walked rapidly toward the river without looking around.
Tug had not spoken a word since setting out, and after reaching the
street which led down to the crazy collection of houses where he lived,
he travelled down that way a while, and at last turned off toward the
right, following the course of the river through alleys and back yards,
and over fences and gaping sloughs, until at last he stopped near an old
warehouse, which had been used a great many years before in storing
freight arriving by the boats when the Bend was an important town. It
was entirely deserted now, and as the two men stopped in its shadow, Tug
gave his companion to understand that he must be very quiet and secret.
After they had blown awhile, Tug began crawling around the building on
his hands and knees, followed by his companion, occasionally raising his
hand as a warning when they both stopped to listen. When Tug had reached
the other end of the warehouse, he motioned Davy to come up to him; and
when he did so this is what he saw:--
A light skiff tied to the bank, with the oars laid across it, and a
woman seated in the stern--the woman they had seen when they followed
the shadow down the river, after its appearance at Allan Dorris's
window. They were certain it was the same woman, because she wore a
waterproof cloak, as she did on the night when they followed the shadow
down the river, and she was very small. Her back was turned toward them,
and she was motionless as a statue; and realizing that as her ears were
covered with the waterproof she could not hear well, the two men arose
to their feet after a careful inspection, and walked back to the other
end of the building.
"I intend to steal her," Tug whispered into his companion's ear, at the
same time reaching down into Davy's pocket and taking out a
handkerchief, which he arranged in his hand like a sling ready for use.