MR. WHITTLE MAKES A CONFESSION.
The first rays of the bad morning, as it looked in at Mr. Whittle's
window, found that worthy busily engaged in cleaning and scouring his
gun. It was not yet his bedtime, for of late he spent all of every
night, instead of part of it, in prowling about--bent on mischief, _he_
said, but Silas Davy knew that Tug had a fierce desire to protect Allan
Dorris, for whom he had taken such a strange fancy, from harm; and that
night after night, whether the weather was good or bad, his friend kept
watch around The Locks, carrying his gun in readiness for instant use.
Silas usually kept him company until he became sleepy, and knew that he
must return in order to keep awake and attend to his work the next day;
but Tug, who slept during the day, seldom deserted his post. He may have
left his beat occasionally for an hour or two, but only to creep
carefully up into the hills back of the house, where he crouched and
listened beside the paths, and then crept back again.
A good many times he walked down to the hotel, always choosing an hour
when he knew Silas would be alone in the kitchen, on which occasions he
never failed to take a shot with his eyes up the alleys, and into all
the dark places; but he did not remain long, so that almost every night,
when Silas went to bed, he had the satisfaction of knowing that if the
shadow should attempt to harm Allan Dorris, there would be an explosion
loud enough to alarm the town.
Silas, who had been out on the bottoms the day before, came in late in
the evening, and, throwing himself on the bed, he slept so soundly that
when Tug appeared, late in the morning, from one of his vagrant tramps,
he was not aroused. And there he lay now, in his clothes, sound asleep,
his face as innocent as a child's, as his mind was.
As Tug scoured away on the gun, rubbing off the rust and dirt, he
occasionally looked at Silas, and the thought no doubt occurred to him,
that if there ever was a thoroughly unselfish, incapable, kind-hearted
fellow, there he was, on the bed, asleep, and resting well.
"He'll soon be awake, though," Tug said aloud, looking up at the window,
and noting the increasing light. "He can't sleep when it's light enough
for him to work. He has been driven to it by his hard masters until he
knows nothing else, and he has a habit of getting up at daylight which
he can never overcome. Silas was ruined by too much work; I was ruined
by too little of it, I suppose. Anyway, I'm ruined; nobody disputes
that. I am so ornery that I am becoming ashamed of myself."
Mr. Whittle meditated a moment, and then putting down his gun he walked
over to a piece of looking-glass, which was tacked against the wall, and
took a long look at himself. The inspection was apparently
unsatisfactory, for he shook his fist at the reflection, made a face at
it, and muttered ill-humoredly as he walked back to his chair.
"If Davy didn't forget so easy," Mr. Whittle said aloud again, rubbing
away on the gun-barrel, "what a fine man he would be! If he could make
money as easily as he is good-natured, he would be a fine fellow; but
they say he works to no purpose, and must have somebody to watch him,
though he means well,--everybody says that. If Davy should be told to
turn a crank, he would do it better than anybody, and keep at it longer;
but the men who make money not only work hard, but use judgment, and
Davy lacks judgment, poor fellow; they all say that. If the hotel should
ketch afire he wouldn't put it out unless somebody told him to; he
wouldn't think of it. But he means as well as any man in America; I can
cheerfully say that for him. An ordinary man never opens his mouth
without saying something mean; but if ever I heard Davy say a mean
thing, or knew him to do a mean thing, may I become a preacher. Well,
the talents must be divided, I suppose; for no person seems to combine
any two of them. _I_ know enough, but somebody else has the honesty, the
industry, the decency, etc., which I lack. Unfortunately, it does not
follow that a sensible man is a square man or a good man. I'd rather
trust a fool for honesty than a man with a big head, any day. The worst
crimes I have ever heard of were the work of men cursed with more brains
than conscience. I thought he couldn't sleep long after the sun was up."
Looking over at his sleeping partner, he saw that he was becoming
uneasy, and soon he sat up on the edge of the bed, and looked around in
bewilderment as he rubbed his eyes.
"Well, rogue, how do you feel?" Tug inquired, stopping his scouring.
"What time is it?" Davy inquired, with a show of excitement, and getting
on his feet without answering the question.
"I should say it was five o'clock, Wednesday morning," Tug replied,
looking out at the window, and then back at his companion, as if
wondering at his nervousness. "Why?"
"I meant to remain awake to tell you of it last night," Silas replied
hurriedly; "but I was so tired, from rowing all day, that I dropped off
to sleep soon after I came in. I have seen the shadow!"
Tug sprang up from the low chair in which he had been sitting, and began
to nervously fumble through his pockets, as if looking for ammunition.
"I was out in the bottoms with Armsby, yesterday," Davy continued, "and
twice we passed a man rowing about alone. We were not very close to him,
but I am sure it was the shadow, and that he meant mischief. Each time
when we encountered him he rowed away rapidly, and when Armsby hailed
him he paid no attention."
Tug was much concerned over this news, for, after finding his
ammunition, he went to loading his gun with great vigor.
"Could you see his short ear?" he stopped to inquire, after ramming down
a great quantity of powder.
"No, his left side was from me, but I am sure it was the same man. And I
am sure that the boat in which he rowed was the same one you took the
little woman out of. I hurried here as fast as I could to tell you, but
when I lay down on the bed to wait for you, I fell asleep. Armsby made
me row all day while he kept a look-out for ducks. I am sorry I fell
asleep."
Silas rubbed his sore arms, and looked very meek, but Tug was too busy
making arrangements to go out to notice him.
"The impudence of the scoundrel," he said, as he poured in the shot. "I
never thought to look for him in daylight. Which way did he go?"
Tug peered into the tube of the gun with his big eye, before capping it,
as if expecting to find his enemy crouching down in the powder, but
finding that the powder primed, he put on a cap, and stood ready to go
out.
"Into the woods," Silas answered. "When we first met him, he was rowing
toward town, but on seeing us he turned the other way. That was about
noon, and just before night we saw him again, coming toward town as
before, but he pulled off to the right when he met us, and disappeared
under the trees. I expected you in every moment when I fell asleep, or I
would have gone up to The Locks, and told Allan Dorris. We ought to tell
him about this man, Tug. His appearance here so regularly means trouble.
Within a year we have seen him a dozen times, and each time he has been
lurking around Allan Dorris. We really ought to do something."
In the emergency Silas did what he had done a hundred times in other
emergencies--he said that something should be done, and folded his
hands.
"Ain't I _trying_ to do something?" his companion answered testily.
"Haven't I tried my best to shoot him? What more can I do? But he has
only been here seven times. Here is the record."
He handed the gun over to Silas, who saw for the first time that there
were seven notches cut in the stock, the particularly long one
representing the time that Tug had shot at the shadow, and missed.
The men had talked of warning Dorris a great many times before, but Tug
had always argued that it was unnecessary; that it would only render him
nervous and suspicious, whereas he was now contented, and very useful to
the townspeople and his young wife. Silas had always been in favor of
putting his friend on his guard against an enemy who seemed to come and
go with the night, but Tug had stubbornly held out against it, and
perhaps this was the reason he guarded The Locks so faithfully.
Sometimes he would only hear a noise in the underbrush; at other times
he saw a crouching figure, but before deciding to fire at it, it would
disappear, but there was always something to convince him that his old
enemy was still occasionally lurking about the town. A few times he had
seen him openly, as has been narrated, but there was always something in
the way of the accomplishment of the purpose nearest his heart; the only
purpose of his life. He did not know himself why he had taken such an
interest in Dorris, nor had he ever attempted to explain it to Silas,
but he admired the man, and the only ambition he had ever acknowledged
was connected with the safety of the person he admired, according to his
own confession, next to Rum and Devilishness, for not even Davy
out-ranked the owner of The Locks in Tug's callous heart. And Dorris
himself was not more pleased when his wife was praised than was the
rusty old lawyer, and at her suggestion he had worked whenever he could
get it to do during the winter which had just passed; at copying,
drawing legal papers, and at keeping books, for he was competent at any
of these occupations. It is probable that had she asked him to go to
work as a day laborer he would have consented, for she was kind to him
in a great many ways, and often invited him to visit The Locks, when he
appeared looking very much like a scarecrow, the result of his attempts
at fixing up, and using his great eye, after arriving, to look around
for refreshments, for he was always hungry. Being a noted character,
when it became known that he had "reformed," and that he was patronized
by the Dorrises, a great many others took pains to patronize him, and
give him work of the kind he was willing to do, for he was still very
particular in this respect. When at The Locks, if he threatened to drink
too much, Mrs. Dorris took his glass and kept it, although her husband
was usually in favor of "turning him on," as Tug expressed it, for he
was very amusing when a little tipsy, and kept them in continued
laughter by his dignified oddity.
"I will tell him to-day," Tug said, taking the gun into his own hands
again. "He must not go into the bottoms unless accompanied by a party,
and as he hasn't been over yet, he may take it into his head to go
to-day. I will tell him in an hour; he won't be up before that time."
"Do you know, Tug," Silas said, "what I think of you?"
"Well, out with it. Let's have it."
"I think you are a better man than you pretend."
"It's a lie!" his companion replied fiercely, hitting the table a hard
blow with his clenched fist. "It's a lie!"
"I have often thought it was very much to your credit that you took such
an interest in a hunted man," Davy said, "who is shadowed by a cowardly
enemy, but perhaps I am mistaken--I usually am; it's not important."
Tug hung his head in mortification at this suggestion, and for once in
his life neglected to be indifferent and dignified at the same time,
which was possible with him, if with no one else.
"Whoever accuses me of being a good man," he said finally, "wrongs me.
When I made the discovery a good many years ago that I could never hope
to become anything, I made up my mind to distinguish myself for
shiftlessness. I despise a common man, therefore I am an uncommonly
proficient loafer. I am better known in this town than some of your
respectable men, and I don't have to work so hard. There are men here,
and plenty of them, who have worked all their lives, and who have no
more than I have, which is nothing. They expect that there is a great
deal in the future for them, but I have sense enough to know there is
nothing very great in the future for any of us, therefore I live as my
fancy dictates. I am a natural-born vagrant; most of us are, but most of
us do not say so. I despise five-cent respectability, therefore I am a
dollar vagrant, and will pass for that anywhere. I had enough of good
people when I was married to one of them; my wife was a _Good Woman_."
"I hope I haven't offended you," the meek little man said, looking at
his fierce companion in alarm. "I didn't mean any disrespect."
"Oh, you needn't take it back," Tug retorted. "You've gone too far. It's
all right; but let me tell you the truth for once in my life--I believe
I never did before. I expect it will set me to coughing, but I will try
it. My wife hasn't a relative in the world that I know of; certainly I
never met any of them. The only objection I have to her is that she is
_Good_. She is so _Good_ that she is a bore; goodness is a fault, and a
grave one with her. She couldn't possibly be more disagreeable than she
is, and her fault is, she is _Good_. When there is a dry spell, she
wants to get up a rain, and whether it rains or not, you are expected to
give her credit for philanthropy. When it is too cold, she moans about
the poor people who are suffering, and those who are around her must
accept this as noble, or be called wicked, or heartless, or something
else. She even has a _Good_ way of gossiping about people, and I despise
her for no other reason than that she is _Good_. I can't tolerate her;
she makes my feet cold."
Tug had uttered the word _good_ in each instance like an oath, and Davy
cowered under his cold stare as though fearing _he_ might be _good_, and
was about to be accused of it.
"Everything she does is right; everything you do is wrong,--there you
have the old women in a mouthful," the outraged husband continued. "She
is always jumping on you for not being _Good_, and for your refusal to
see goodness in her; and no one around her sees a moment's peace, for
she badgers them to death for their neglect to rid the earth of sin, or
some other trifling matter like that. She neglects herself in the most
shameful manner to moan about Rampant Rum, or the Vitality of Vice, for
I never saw her ears clean, and if ever you find her with clean
finger-nails, look out for the pigs, for they will fly. If she is a
_Good Woman_, then hurrah for the devil. The fat, the lean, the long,
the short, the ugly; _they_ go into the _Good_ business, for I never
knew anyone who could attract attention in the ordinary way to engage in
it, and when a woman becomes too fat for society, or too plain to be
admired, she goes to yelling that she is better than anybody else, and
wants everybody to behave, although they may be behaving all right
already. The good-looking and amiable ones remain at home, where they
belong, and I admire them for it. Had I been a rich man, the old women
would have remained with me, and called _that_ good, but since I was a
friendless devil, and a worthless vagabond, she left me, and called
_that_ good; I hope she is the only woman of that kind in the world.
Look how she treats little Ben! Does she act like a mother toward him?
Don't I have to take all the care of him, and look after him, and attend
to his bringing up? Is it common for mothers to neglect their own ragged
children, and weep over fat and contented people? That's what she does;
therefore, if you are a friend of mine, don't call me _Good_."
Silas was not taking as much interest in the recital as he would have
done under other circumstances, for he was thinking of Allan Dorris; but
Tug was determined to talk about the "old womern."
"When we were first married," he continued, "I told her some sort of a
lie about myself; a simple sort of a yarn about nothing, and only
intended to earn cheap glory for myself. In some way she found me out,
for she is always poking her nose around smelling for sin; and, until I
could stand it no longer and finally left her, she was continually
asking me for additional particulars of the fictitious incident I had
related. I say she found me out; I don't know it, but I always believed
she did, and that she only asked these questions to hear me lie, and
gloat over her own virtue. The story I told her was about saving a man's
life, and as he afterwards came to Davy's Bend, and knew the old womern,
I felt sure that she had found me out. After that she asked me a
thousand questions about it, and every time I invented a new lie to go
with the first one. Did she do this because she was _Good_? You bet she
didn't; she did it to convince herself that she was _Good_, and that I
was _Bad_; but I tell you that, average me up, I am as good as she is,
and I am perfectly worthless."
Picking up a rickety chair which stood near him, Mr. Whittle smashed it
to pieces on the floor, after a tremendous pounding and racket, which
was one of his ways of expressing anger.
Silas was very much impressed by this ferocious proceeding, and looked
on in meek astonishment until his companion was seated again.
"Isn't it time for you to go to The Locks?" he asked.
"Sure enough," Tug said. "I am going up there this morning. I'll go
now."
Without further words, he picked up his gun, and started out, going over
the hills to avoid the frequented streets. He had made up his mind to
make a full breast of the story, so he walked along leisurely, thinking
that he had a genuine surprise in store for his friend.
Arriving at The Locks' gate, he blew the whistle, which was always
looking out into Dorris' room like an eye, and waited for an answer. It
came soon after; the cheerful voice of Annie Dorris, inquiring what was
wanted.
"It's me,--Tug," he answered, "I want to see Dr. Dorris."
"He left an hour ago, to go over into the bottoms," was the reply.
"Anything urgent?"
"Oh, no," the man replied, as he swallowed a great lump which came up
into his throat. "Nothing urgent; I only wanted him to pull a tooth."
With long strides at first, Tug started for the river, but after he was
out of sight from The Locks, he ran like a man pursued, and arriving at
the place where the ferry was tied up, making steam for the day's work,
he seized the first boat within his reach, and pushed off into the
stream. The owner of it called to him to come back, as he wanted the
boat himself; but Tug paid no attention, except to row the harder, and
soon disappeared under the trees.