_Piebald Joys_
It's maybe twenty minutes later on when Mr. Dallas calls to me to come
to him and bring Koga with me, him saying the both of us is required for
to witness an agreement which has been drawed up. Right then and there
for the first and last time in my life, that there Japanee boy wins my
admirations. He don't bat a single eye-lash as he follows me in where
they is. He acts like all his life he'd been used to walking into a
setting-room and finding two gentlemen there, one of 'em with a pistol
and the other with a hard chill. He just sucks his breath in once or
twice and starts smiling very pleasant upon one and all. I judges he
must a-been brought up in a kind of a rough neighborhood over in his own
country.
Mr. Raynor has done rose up from the floor by this time, and is setting
in a chair where he can be more comfortable; at that, he ain't seeming
totally comfortable. His teeth and his hands and his feet keeps on
misbehaving, and he looks to me like he's been losing considerable flesh
even in that short time since I left him. His complexion also remains
very bad. You'd say, offhand, here was a gentleman fixing to be taken
down with a severe spell of illness, or else just getting over one and
still far from well.
He puts his name to a piece of writing which is spread out on the table,
Mr. Dallas standing over him and sort of indicating the place to him
with the nozzle of that there trusty old forty-four. He has some
difficulty in getting his name set down by reason of him keeping
flinching away from the gun and also on account of his fingers being so
out of control. Then me and Koga likewise signs and whilst I is so doing
I rejoices to note that the document is all done in Mr. Dallases'
handwriting.
When this has been attended to there does not seem to be no reason why
Mr. Raynor should linger longer amongst us. He indicates that he craves
to go but still don't actually go till Mr. Dallas gives him the word.
For such a previously brash white man he certainly has been rendered
very docile. And dumb--huh! Alongside of him guinea-pigs is plumb
rambunctuous.
I helps him on with his overcoat, which he has trouble getting into it
by reason of not seeming to be able to stick his arms into the sleeves
until after several tries; and such is his agitated feelings that he
starts off forgetting his hat. I puts it on his head for him, him not
saying a word but just staring about him kind of null and void, and now
and then shivering slightly; and as he goes down the hall towards the
elevator he's got one hand sort of pressed up against the wall for to
support him on his way. If I'd been him I should a-went right straight
on home and laid down for a spell. Probably that's what he did do. I
know I ain't seen hair nor hide of him since and I ain't expecting to do
so, neither, without we should run into one another by accident on the
street sometime.
As I comes back from the front door after seeing him safely off, Mr.
Dallas is waiting for me in the middle of the floor with a grin on his
face, which it mighty near splits his face in half across the middle. He
lays down the agreement paper and the artillery so he can shake hands
with me with both hands.
"Jeff," he says, "for the second time in less than two hours let me
tender you my earnest congratulations and my everlasting gratitude.
Thanks to you," he says, "and you alone, I'm getting out of the
double-barreled hole I was in, reasonably intact. What's gone I'll
gladly charge up to profit and loss and valuable experience. What's left
is a whole lot more than I had dared to hope it would be before you took
a hand. When I look back on my feelings last night and contrast them
with my feelings today--say, by Jupiter!" he says, "come to think of it,
it's all happened between late dinner-time of one day and late
lunch-time of the next! It doesn't seem possible! What can I do to
square myself with you for the debt I owe you?"
"Well, suh," I says, "you mout start in to please me by eatin' a lil'
somethin'. Yore speakin' of lunch-time 'minds me 'at you ain't been
right constant at yore meals lately. Whut you needs," I says, "is to git
yore appetite back an' stow a smidgin' of warm vittles down yore
insides."
"Jeff," he says, still hanging onto my hands and pumping 'em so fervent
it makes me feel right diffident for him to be doing so, "you're the
doctor and your prescriptions suit me. Bring on the grub! Say it with
chowders! We'll celebrate," he says, "over the festal hot biscuits!
What, ho, for the wassail waffles!"
And with that he goes prancing about over the room dragging me along
with him, like he was, say, about nine years old, going on ten.