A SHOT AT THE SHADOW.
The regular patronage of the "Apron and Password," like the attendance
at a theatre when reported by a friendly critic, was small, but
exceedingly respectable.
A gentleman of uncertain age who answered to the name of Ponsonboy, and
who professed to be a lawyer, usually occupied the head of the one long
table which staggered on its feet in the dingy dining-room, and when his
place was taken by a stranger, which happened innocently enough
occasionally, Ponsonboy frowned so desperately that his companions were
oppressed with the fear that they would be called upon to testify
against him in court for violence.
The minister, who occupied the seat next to Ponsonboy, and who was of
uncertain age himself, could demonstrate to a certainty that the legal
boarder was at least forty-five, but the legal boarder nevertheless had
a great deal to say about the necessity which seemed to exist for the
young men to take hold, and rescue Davy's Bend from the reign of "the
fossils," a term which was applied to most of the citizens of the town
after the other epithets had been exhausted, and as but few of them knew
what a fossil was, they hoped it was very bad, and used it a great deal.
Ponsonboy was such a particular man that he could only be pleased in two
ways--by accusing him of an intention to marry any stylish girl of
twenty, or of an intention to remove to Ben's City, which he was always
threatening to do.
"It would be useless for me to deny that I have had flattering offers,"
it was his custom to reply, when asked if there was anything new with
reference to his contemplated change of residence. "But I am deuced
timid. I came here a poor boy, with a law-book in one hand and an extra
shirt in the other, and I don't want to make a change until I fully
consider it."
It was a matter of such grave importance that Ponsonboy had already
considered it fifteen years, and regularly once a year during that time
he had arranged to go, making a formal announcement to that effect to
the small but select circle around the table, the members of which
either expressed their regrets, or agreed to be with him in a few
months. But always at the last moment Ponsonboy discovered that the
gentleman who had been making the flattering offers wanted to put too
much responsibility on him, or something of that kind, whereupon the
good lady on his left, and the good gentleman on his right, were happy
again.
It was true that the legal boarder came to Davy's Bend a poor boy, if a
stout man of thirty without money or friends may be so referred to; it
was also true that he was poor still, though he was no longer a boy; but
Ponsonboy rid himself of this disagreeable truth, so far as his friends
were concerned, by laying his misfortunes at the door of the town, as
they all did. He was property poor, he said, and values had decreased so
much of late years, that he was barely able to pay his taxes, although
he really possessed nothing in the way of property except a tumble-down
rookery on which there was a mortgage. But Ponsonboy, whose first name
was Albert, appeared to be quite content with his genteel poverty, so
long as he succeeded in creating an impression that he would be rich and
distinguished but for the wrong done him by that miserable impostor,
Davy's Bend.
The good man on his right, the Rev. Walter Wilton, and pastor of the old
stone church where Annie Benton was organist, was a bachelor, like
Ponsonboy; but, like Ponsonboy again, he did not regard himself as a
bachelor, but as a young man who had not yet had time to pick out a lady
worthy of his affections.
Close observers remarked that age was breaking out on good Mr. Wilton in
spots, like the measles in its earlier stages; short gray hairs peeped
out at the observer from his face, and seemed to be waving their arms to
attract attention, but he kept them subdued by various arts so long that
it was certain that some time he would become old in a night. He walked
well enough, _now_, and looked well enough; but when he forgets his
pretence of youth, then he will walk slowly down to breakfast some fine
morning with a crook in his back and a palsy in his hand.
When it was said of Rev. Walter Wilton that he was pious, the subject
was exhausted; there was nothing more to say, unless you chose to
elaborate on piety in general. He knew something of books, and read in
them a great deal, but old Thompson Benton was in the habit of saying
that if he ever had an original idea in his head, it was before he came
to the Bend as a mild menace to those whose affairs did not permit of so
much indolent deference to the proprieties.
The Reverend Wilton did not gossip himself, but he induced others to, by
being quietly shocked at what they said, and regularly three times a day
Ponsonboy and his assistant on the left laid a morsel before him, which
he inquired into minutely--but with the air of a man who intended to
speak to the erring parties; not as a gossip. Reverend Wilton never
spoke a bad word against anyone, nor was he ever known to speak a good
one, but he always gave those around him to understand by his critical
indifference to whatever was in hand that, were he at liberty to desert
his post, and allow the people to fall headlong into the abyss out of
which he kept them with the greatest difficulty, he would certainly show
them how the affairs of men should be properly conducted.
Too good for this world, but not good enough for the next, Reverend
Wilton only existed, giving every sort of evidence that, were it not
unclerical, he would swear at his salary (which was less than that of a
good bricklayer), denounce his congregation for good and sufficient
reasons, cheat his boarding-place, and hate his companions; but his
trade being of an amiable nature, he was a polite nothing, with a great
deal of time on his hands in which to criticise busy people, which he
did without saying a word against them.
Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, sat on Ponsonboy's left; a tall and solidly
built lady of forty-five, who was so very good as to be disagreeable.
The people dreaded to see her come near them, for her mission was
certain to be one of charity, and Mrs. Whittle's heart was always
bleeding for somebody. Summer and winter alike, she annoyed the people
by telling them of "duties" which were not duties at all; and finally
she was generally accepted as the town nuisance, although Mrs. Whittle
herself believed that she was quite popular because of the good she
intended to accomplish, but which seemed to be impossible because of the
selfishness of the people. Thompson Benton had given it out flat that if
she ever came bothering around him, he would give her the real facts in
the case, instead of putting his name on her subscription paper, but for
some reason she kept away from him, and never heard the real facts,
whatever they were. She regarded old Thompson, however, as a mean man,
and moaned about him a great deal, which he either never heard of or
cared nothing about.
Old Thompson was seldom seen at church on Sunday evening, therefore Mrs.
Whittle felt quite sure that he was prowling around with a view of
safe-blowing, or something of that kind, and she never referred to him
except to intimate that he was up to mischief of the most pronounced
sort. A man who was not at church on Sunday evening, in the opinion of
Mrs. Whittle, must be drunk in a saloon, or robbing somebody, for where
else could he be? Mrs. Whittle only recognized two classes of men; those
who were in the churches, and those who were in the saloons; and in her
head, which was entirely too small for the size of her body, there was
no suspicion of a middle ground. Those who craved the attention of Mrs.
Whittle found it necessary to be conspicuous either as a saint or a
sinner.
Theoretically Mrs. Whittle was a splendid woman, and certainly a bad
woman in no particular except that she carried her virtues to such an
extent that the people disliked her, and felt ashamed of themselves for
it, not feeling quite certain that they had a right to find fault with
one who neglected not only her affairs, but her person, to teach others
neatness, and thrift, and the virtues generally.
If she accomplished no good, as old Thompson Benton stoutly asserted, it
was certain she did some harm, for the people finally came to neglect
affairs in which they would otherwise have taken a moderate interest
because of their dislike of Mrs. Whittle. A great many others who were
inclined to attend to their own affairs (which are always sufficient to
occupy one's time, heaven knows) were badgered to such an extent by Mrs.
Whittle that they joined her in various enterprises that resulted in
nothing but to make their good intentions ridiculous, and finally there
was a general and a sincere hope that blunt Thompson Benton would find
opportunity to come to the rescue of the people.
Three times a day this trio met, and three times each day it was
satisfied with itself, and dissatisfied with Davy's Bend, as well as
everything in it, including Allan Dorris. The new occupant of The Locks
was generally popular with the people, but the hotel trio made the
absurd mistake of supposing that they were the people, therefore they
talked of Dorris as though he were generally hated and despised. They
were indignant, to begin with, because he did not covet the acquaintance
of the only circle in the town worth cultivating, and as time wore on,
and he still made no effort to know them, they could come to only one
conclusion; that he was deserving of their severest denunciation.
Could Thompson Benton have known of the pious conclusions to which they
came concerning his child, and which she no more deserved than hundreds
of other worthy women deserve the gossip to which they are always
subjected, he would have walked in upon them, and given the two men
broken heads, and the woman the real facts in her case which he had been
promising; but there is a destiny which protects us from an evil which
is as common as sunshine, and Thompson Benton was not an exception to
the rule.
It was the custom of the hotel trio to come late to supper and remain
late, greatly to the disgust of the cook and the man-of-all-work, and,
surrounding the table in easy positions, they gossipped to their heart's
content, at last wandering away to their respective homes, very well
satisfied with one another, if with nothing else.
It was after nine o'clock when they got away on the evening with which
we have to do, and by the time Davy had eaten his own supper and put the
room in order for the morning, it was ten. Hurriedly putting up a
package of whatever was at hand for Tug, he was about starting out at
the kitchen door when he met Mr. Whittle on the steps. He had somehow
come into possession of a long and wicked-looking musket, which he
brought in with him, and put down near the door connecting the kitchen
with the dining-room. Seeing Davy's look of surprise, he seated himself
in Ponsonboy's place, and explained.
"Poison has its advantages, for it does not bark when it bites, but it
lacks range, and henceforth I carry a gun. How was Uncle Albert
to-night?"
Silas placed a plate of cold meat before his friend, and replied that
Mr. Ponsonboy would be in a fine rage if he should hear himself referred
to as Uncle Albert.
"Oh, would he?" Tug inquired, sighting at his companion precisely as he
might have sighted along the barrel of his musket. "That man is fifty
years old if he is a day, and don't let him attempt any of his giddy
tricks with me. I wouldn't stand it; I know too much about him. I have
known Uncle Albert ever since he was old enough to marry, and I know
enough to hang him, the old kicker. I've known him to abuse the
postmaster for not giving him a letter with money in it, although he
didn't expect one, and accuse him of stealing it, and whenever he spells
a word wrong, and gets caught at it, he goes around telling that he has
found a typographical error in the dictionary. What did he say about me
to-night?"
"He said--I hope you won't believe that I think so,"--Davy apologized in
advance--"that you robbed the only client you ever had of a thousand
dollars."
"_Did_ he, though?" Tug impudently inquired. "Well, I'll give him half
if he'll prove it, for I need the money. Uncle Albert hears what is said
about me, and I hear what is said about him. If he'll make a date with
me, I'll exchange stories with him; and he won't have any of the best of
it, either. The people sometimes talk about as good a man as I am, and
even were I without faults, there are plenty of liars to invent stories,
so you can imagine that they give it to Uncle Albert tolerable lively."
Tug did not mingle with the people a great deal, but he knew about what
they were saying, and when talking to Silas he did not hesitate to quote
them to substantiate any position he saw fit to take. He had a habit of
putting on his hat on these occasions, and inviting Silas to accompany
him out in the town to see the principal people, in order that they
might own to what Tug had credited them with saying. But Silas always
refused to go, not doubting that his friend's inventions were true, so
it happened that Tug made out rather strong cases against his enemies.
"I can stand up with the most of them," he said, with an ill humor to
which hunger lent a zest; "and them that beat me, I can disgrace with
their poor relations. Show me the man that can't be beat if you go at
him right, and you may hang me with a thread. Them that are well-behaved
have shiftless relations, and I'll get them drunk, and cause them to
hurrah for 'Uncle Bill,' or 'Aunt Samantha,' or whoever it may be, in
front of their fine houses. I pride myself on my meanness, and I'll not
be tromped on. Let him that is without sin cast the first stone, and
I'll not be stoned. You can bet on that, if you want to."
Tug proceeded with his meal in silence until Silas said to him that
Reverend Wilton was a good man. Silas had a habit of inducing Tug to
abuse his enemies by praising them, and the ruse never failed.
"Well, don't he get paid for being good?" Tug replied, waving a kitchen
fork in the air like a dagger. "Ain't that his business? It's no more to
his credit to say that he is good, than to say that Silas Davy is a
hotel Handy Andy. If you say that he knows a good deal about books, I
will say, so does Hearty Hampton know a good deal about mending shoes,
for it's his trade. Shut Hearty up in a room, and pay him to post
himself regarding certain old characters he cares nothing about, and pay
him well, and in the course of years he will be able to speak of people,
events, and words which you, having been busy all the time, will know
nothing about. He ought to be good; it's his business. I always know
what a preacher is going to say when he opens his mouth, for don't I
know what he's hired to say? I don't like good men, any way, but a man
who is paid to be good, and expects me to admire him for it, will
find--well, I'll not do it, that's all. How's the old lady?"
There was a faint evidence that Tug was about to laugh at the thought of
his divorced wife, and his cheeks puffed out as a preliminary, but he
changed his mind at the last moment, and carefully sighted at Silas, as
if intending to wing his reply, like a bird from a trap.
"She is uncommonly well, for her," Silas said, looking meekly at his
companion. "She is almost gay."
"Oh, the young thing; _is_ she," Tug retorted. "Do you know what she
reminds me of? An old man in a dress trying to imitate a girl."
There was unutterable meanness in Mr. Whittle's last remark, and when he
looked around the room with fierce dignity, he seemed to be wondering
why any one should continue to live in the face of his displeasure.
"I heard her say to-night, when I brought in a third lot of cakes, that
you were the bane of her life," Silas said, timidly, and dodging his
head to one side, as if expecting Tug Whittle to jump at him for
repeating the scandalous story. "Although she says she is heart-broken,
I notice she eats mighty well; for her."
"And I suppose Reverend Good and Uncle Alfred encouraged her," Tug
replied. "What good husbands bachelors imagine they would be, and what
miserable old growlers they turn out. Before a man is married he takes a
great deal of comfort to himself in thinking what a kind, indulgent
husband and father he would be, and how different from other men, but
they soon fall with a dull sickening thud to the level of the rest of
us. It's easy enough to be a good husband in theory, and it's easy
enough to be brave in theory, but when the theorists come down to actual
business, they are like the rest of us. It's like an actor in a show. He
wants to find a villain, and punish him, and the villain appears about
that time, and makes no resistance, and is beaten to great applause,
finally shrinking away while the other fellow looks ferociously at him,
but it is not that way in real life. The villain fights in real life,
and usually whips. If I knew that the men I dislike would stand it
peaceable, like the villains in a show, I'd beat 'm all to death; but as
it is, I am a coward, like Ponsonboy, and you, and Armsby, and all the
rest of them; except Allan Dorris--there's a man who'd fight. When I
read in books about brave men, it makes me feel ashamed, until I
remember that the men in actual life are not like those in the books.
What did Her Ladyship say about Hector?"
Mrs. Whittle's first husband had been a certain Hector Harlam, with
whose history Silas was very familiar from his association with Tug, so
he answered,--
"She wiped away a tear, and regretted his death. She seemed greatly
affected,--for her."
"She can't possibly regret his death more than I do," Tug said. "He
appreciated her; I never did, and I am sorry she does not join Hector in
glory, or wherever he is, for she is no earthly good in Davy's Bend. She
told me once that he always called her his baby."
There was no keeping it in now; the thought of his wife being called a
"baby" was so absurd to Tug that he was about to laugh. His cheeks
swelled out as though the laugh came up from below somewhere, and he
found it necessary to swallow it, after which there was a faint smile on
his face, and a gurgle in his throat. When Mr. Whittle smiled, it was
such an unusual proceeding that his scalp had a habit of crawling over
towards his face, to take a look, which it did in this instance, and
then went back to its old position at the top of his head. It was a
dreadful laugh, but Silas was used to it, and was not alarmed.
"That woman wants to be a man the worst way," the old scoundrel went on
to say. "I hope it accounts for the circumstance that she never looks
like a woman should. A white dress on a woman--a _real_ woman,
understand; not an imitation one--looks handsome; and I never see a girl
dressed in white that I do not fall in love with her, but when the old
lady puts it on, with a frill at her neck, or any such trifling thing, I
want to find a woodpile and an axe to cut off my feet. I don't know why
anyone should want to be a man; I know what a man is, and I wonder at
this strange ambition of the old lady. I never see a man that I don't
want to spit on him. Ugh!"
He shrugged his shoulders in unutterable disgust, but soon modified his
manner, as Davy began talking of another matter.
"Barney Russell, of Ben's City, was here to-day," the little man said.
"He used to live in Davy's Bend; I suppose you remember him."
"There's another feller I don't like," Mr. Whittle replied, with a
snort. "He comes up here regularly once a month to crow over us, and
tell around that he has two overcoats; one for winter, and another for
spring. Some say he has seven canes, a different one for every day in
the week; but he ain't half the man Dorris is, although he carries silk
handkerchiefs with a red 'R' in the corner. If I should leave Davy's
Bend, I'd never come back, as he does; for I have done so many
contemptible things here that I wouldn't want to be reminded of them by
seeing the place again. I don't blame Barney, though, for having two
overcoats," Tug continued thoughtfully. "Next to two pairs of shoes,
it's the greatest luxury a rich man can afford--I'd own two overcoats
myself if I had the money. A man who has two overcoats and two pairs of
shoes, and uses a knife to cut his tobacco, instead of biting it off
like a pig, is ready to die; there will be little left in the world for
him to regret after he's gone,--but to return to the serious business of
life: it is usually on a Wednesday when the shadow appears. This is his
night, and I'm looking for him."
He turned his big eye toward the corner where he had left the musket,
and, seeing it was safe, resumed,--
"I have never been of any use to a single human being in all my life,
but I intend to make myself useful to Allan Dorris by shooting the
shadow. Give me that gun."
Silas went over to where the gun was standing, and returned with it in
his hand. Placing his finger about half way up the barrel, and following
it with his great eye, Tug said,--
"It is loaded to there. Thompson Benton trusted me for the ammunition,
though he said he knew he would never get the money. I have a notion to
pay him now, for contrariness. Have you fifty cents about you?"
Silas carefully went through his pockets, as if he were not quite sure
about it, but after a long examination replied that he hadn't a cent.
"Well, it's no great matter, though you ought to keep money about you; I
am liable to need it. But, if let alone by the shadow, Allan Dorris will
marry Annie Benton, and become a happy man, which he has never been
before. I don't know what he has been up to before he came here, and I
don't care, for I like him, and I am going out now to get a shot at his
enemy."
Without further words he walked out, followed by Silas, who carefully
locked the kitchen door and put the key in his pocket. Viewed at a
distance, the pair looked like a man and a boy out hunting; the boy
lagging behind to carry the game.
It was a bad night, for which the Bend was famous, and though it was not
raining, there was so much moisture in the air from a recent rain, that
it occurred to Silas, as he went limping along towards The Locks, for
they walked in that direction, that if Tug should find the shadow, and
fire his gun at it, the discharge would precipitate another shower; for
the prop under the water in the sky seemed to be very unsubstantial and
shaky that night.
It had been raining at intervals all day, and the two men floundered
along in the mud until they reached the church which stood near Allan
Dorris's house, where Tug stopped awhile to consider. Coming to a
conclusion after some deliberation, he pulled two long boards up from
the church steps, and, giving the gun to Silas to hold, he carried them
to the middle gable of the building, on the side looking towards The
Locks. Climbing up on the window-sill, he placed one end of each board
on the wall which surrounded The Locks, and which was only a few feet
from the church, and the other on the window-sash, pulling the upper one
down to aid the lower one in holding his weight, and allowing one end of
each board to protrude into the church. Then climbing up, and straddling
one of the boards, he took his gun, and motioned his companion to
follow.
When Davy seated himself by the side of his friend, he found that the
low gable would protect them from the rain, should it come on, and that
from where they sat they commanded a view of Dorris's window; the one
above the porch where they had once seen the shadow appear, and in which
a light now appeared. Silas felt certain that it was Tug's intention to
wait there all night for a shot, and he made himself as comfortable as
possible.
Occasionally he fell into a light doze, but on coming out of it, by
losing his balance, he saw that Tug was still intently watching the
window, with the musket in his hands ready for use.
Two hours passed in this manner, when the patience of Silas was rewarded
by seeing Tug crane his neck, and look intently through the trees. Silas
looked himself, and saw a man's head slowly rising to the porch roof
from below. It came up in full view, and then a part of the body was
seen as the shadow climbed over the low railing. As near as Silas could
make out, the man wormed himself around, and finally stood upon the
porch railing to look in at the top of the window; so that only a part
of his head and none of his body could be seen from where the men were.
Although he heard Tug cock the gun when the head first appeared, he
seemed to be waiting for a larger mark to shoot at; for there was
nothing to be seen except a part of a hat. Occasionally this would be
withdrawn, but it would soon appear again, and remain motionless a long
time, as though the wearer was intently gazing at something transpiring
in the room which greatly interested him. Tug did not seem at all
excited, as Silas was, but sat watching the shadow, as motionless as a
stone.
After a longer disappearance than usual, during which time Tug became
very nervous, the hat came in view again, and Silas said softly,--
"Suppose it should disappear, and never come back?"
Apparently Tug had not thought of this possibility, for he hurriedly
threw the gun to his shoulder, aimed a moment, and fired. The report was
tremendous, and seemed to frighten Tug himself; for he hurriedly jumped
down, and softly raised the sash into position, replaced the boards on
the steps, and set out toward the town. Reaching the vicinity of the
hotel, he waited until Silas came up, and said,--
"Sleep in your own bed to-night; we must not be found together."
So saying he disappeared, and Silas crept to his lonely room to wonder
what Allan Dorris would find when he went out to investigate the
shooting.