ZIP'S GRATITUDE
What a complicated machinery human nature is! It seems absurd that a
strongly defined character should be just as full of surprises as the
weakest; that the fantastic, the unexpected, even the illogical, are
as surely found in the one as in the other. It would be so nice, so
simple and easy, to sit down and foreshadow a certain course of action
for a certain individual under a given stress; and to be sure that, in
human psychology, two and two make precisely four, no more and no
less.
But such is not the case. In human psychology two and two can just as
easily make ten, or fifteen, or any other number; and prophecy in the
matter is about as great a waste of time as worrying over the
possibilities of the weather. The constitution of the nervous system
cannot be estimated until put to the test. And when the first test has
revealed to us the long-awaited secret, it is just as likely to be
flatly contradicted by the second. The whole thing is the very
mischief.
Those who knew him would have been quite certain that in Scipio's case
there could only be one result from the addition of the two and two of
his psychology. In a man of his peculiar mental caliber it might well
seem that there could be no variation to the sum. And the resulting
prophecy would necessarily be an evil, or at least a pessimistic one.
He was so helpless, so lacking in all the practicalities of human
life. He seemed to have one little focus that was quite incapable of
expansion, of adaptability. That focus was almost entirely filled by
his Jessie's image, with just a small place in it reserved for his
twins. Take the woman out of it, and, to all intents and purposes, he
looked out upon a dead white blank.
Every thought in his inadequate brain was centered round his wife. She
was the mainspring of his every emotion. His love for her was his
whole being. It was something so great and strong that it enveloped
all his senses. She was his, and he was incapable of imagining life
without her. She was his, and only death could alter so obvious a
fact. She was his vanguard in life's battle, a support that shored up
his confidence and courage to face, with a calm determination,
whatever that battle had to offer him.
But with Jessie's going all prophecy would have remained unfulfilled.
Scipio did not go under in the manner to have been expected of him.
After the first shock, outwardly at least, there appeared to be no
change in him. His apparently colorless personality drifted on in
precisely the same amiable, inconsequent manner. What his moments of
solitude were, only he knew. The agony of grief through which he
passed, the long sleepless nights, the heartbreaking sense of loss,
these things lay hidden under his meaningless exterior, which,
however, defied the revelation of his secret.
After the passing of the first madness which had sent him headlong in
pursuit of his wife, a sort of mental evolution set in. That
unadaptable focus of his promptly became adaptable. And where it had
been incapable of expansion, it slowly began to expand. It grew, and,
whereas before his Jessie had occupied full place, his twins now
became the central feature.
The original position was largely reversed, but it was chiefly the
growth of the images of his children, and not the diminishing of the
figure of his wife. And with this new aspect came calmness. Nothing
could change his great love for his erring Jessie, nothing could wipe
out his sense of loss; his grief was always with him. But whereas,
judged by the outward seeming of his character, he should have been
crushed under Fate's cruel blow, an inverse process seemed to have set
in. He was lifted, exalted to the almost sublime heights where his
beacon-fire of duty shone.
Yes, but the whole thing was so absurdly twisted. The care of his
children occupied his entire time now, so that his work, in seeking
that which was required to support them, had to be entirely neglected.
He had fifty dollars between him and starvation for his children. Nor
could he see his way to earning more. The struggles of his unpractical
mind were painful. It was a problem quite beyond him. He struggled
nobly with it, but he saw no light ahead, and, with that curious
singleness of purpose that was his, he eventually abandoned the
riddle, and devoted his whole thought to the children. Any other man
would probably have decided to hire himself out to work on the claims
of other men, and so hope to earn sufficient to hire help in the care
of the twins, but not so Scipio. He believed that their future
well-being lay in his claim. If that could not be worked, then there
was no other way.
He had just finished clearing up his hut, and the twins were busy with
their games outside in the sun, aided by their four-legged yellow
companion, whose voice was always to be heard above their excited
squabblings and laughter. So Sunny Oak found things when he slouched
up to the hut with the result of the Trust's overnight meeting in his
pocket.
The loafer came in with a grin of good-nature on his perspiring and
dirty face. He was feeling very self-righteous. It was pleasant to
think he was doing a good work. So much so that the effort of doing it
did not draw the usual protest from him.
He glanced about him with a tolerant eye, feeling that henceforth,
under the guidance of the Trust he represented, Scipio's condition
would certainly be improved. But somehow his mental patronage
received a quiet set-back. The hut looked so different. There was a
wholesome cleanliness about it that was quite staggering. Sunny
remembered it as it was when he had last seen it under his regime, and
the contrast was quite startling. Scipio might be incapable of
organization, but he certainly could scour and scrub.
Sunny raked at his beard with his unclean finger-nails. Yes, Zip must
have spent hours of unremitting labor on the place since he had seen
it last.
However, he lost no time in carrying out his mission.
"Kind o' busy, Zip?" he greeted the little man pleasantly.
Scipio raised a pair of shadowed eyes from the inside of the
well-scoured fry-pan he was wiping.
"I'm mostly through fixin' these chores--for awhiles," he replied
quietly. Then he nodded in the direction of the children's voices.
"Guess I'm goin' to take the kiddies down to the creek to clean 'em.
They need cleanin' a heap."
Sunny nodded gravely. He was thinking of those things he had so
carefully written out.
"They sure do," he agreed. "Bath oncet a week. But not use a
hand-scrubber, though," he added, under a wave of memory. "Kids is
tender skinned," he explained.
"Pore little bits," the father murmured tenderly. Then he went on more
directly to his visitor. "But they do need washin'. It's kind o'
natural fer kids to fancy dirt. After that," he went on, his eyes
drifting over to a pile of dirty clothes stacked on a chair, "I'll
sure have to do a bit of washing." He set the frying-pan down beside
the stove and moved over to the clothes, picking up the smallest pair
of child's knickers imaginable. They were black with dirt, and he held
them up before Sunny's wondering eyes and smiled pathetically.
"Ridic'lous small," he said, with an odd twist of his pale lips. "Pore
little gal." Then his scanty eyebrows drew together perplexedly, and
that curious expression of helplessness that was his crept into his
eyes. "Them frills an' bits git me some," he said in a puzzled way.
"Y'see, I ain't never used an iron much, to speak of. It's kind of
awkward using an iron."
Sunny nodded. Somehow he wished he knew something about using an iron.
Birdie had said nothing about it.
"Guess you hot it on the stove," he hazarded, after a moment's
thought.
"Yes, I'd say you hot it," agreed Scipio. "It's after that."
"Yes." Sunny found himself thinking hard. "You got an iron?" he
inquired presently.
"Sure--two." Scipio laid the knickers aside. "You hot one while you
use the other."
Sunny nodded again.
"You see," the other went on, considering, "these pretties needs
washin' first. Well, then I guess they need to dry. Now, 'bout starch?
'Most everything needs starch. At least, ther' always seems to be
starch around washing-time. Y'see, I ain't wise to starch."
"Blamed if I am either," agreed Sunny. Then his more practical mind
asserted itself. "Say, starch kind o' fixes things hard, don't it?" he
inquired.
"It sure does."
Scipio was trying to follow out his companion's train of thought.
Sunny suddenly sat down on the edge of the table and grinned
triumphantly.
"Don't use it," he cried, with finality. "You need to remember kiddies
is tender skinned, anyway. Starch'll sure make 'em sore."
Scipio brightened.
"Why, yes," he agreed, with relief. "I didn't jest think about that.
I'm a heap obliged, Sunny. You always seem to help me out."
The flush of pleasure which responded to the little man's tribute was
quite distinguishable through the dirt on the loafer's face.
"Don't mention it," he said embarrassedly. "It's easy, two thinkin'
together. 'Sides, I've tho't a heap 'bout things since--since I
started to fix your kiddies right. Y'see, it ain't easy."
"No, it just ain't. That is, y'see, I ain't grumbling," Scipio went on
hurriedly, lest his meaning should be mistaken. "If you're stuck on
kiddies, like me, it don't worry you nuthin'. Kind of makes it
pleasant thinkin' how you can fix things fer 'em, don't it? But it
sure ain't easy doing things just right. That's how I mean. An' don't
it make you feel good when you do fix things right fer 'em? But I
don't guess that comes often, though," he added, with a sigh. "Y'see,
I'm kind of awkward. I ain't smart, like you or Bill."
"Oh, Bill's real smart," Sunny began. Then he checked himself. He was
to keep Bill's name out of this matter, and he just remembered it in
time. So he veered round quickly. "But I ain't smart," he declared.
"Anything I know I got from a leddy friend. Y'see, women-folk knows a
heap 'bout kiddies, which, I 'lows, is kind o' natural."
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out several sheets of paper.
Arranging them carefully, he scanned the scrawling writing on them.
"Guess you're a scholar, so I won't need to read what I writ down
here. Mebbe you'll be able to read it yourself. I sure 'low the
spellin' ain't jest right, but you'll likely understand it. Y'see, the
writin's clear, which is the chief thing. I was allus smart with a
pen. Now, this yer is jest how our--my--leddy frien' reckons kids
needs fixin'. It ain't reasonable to guess everything's down ther'.
They're jest sort o' principles which you need to foller. Maybe
they'll help you some. Guess if you foller them reg'lations your
kids'll sure grow proper."
He handed the papers across, and Scipio took them only too willingly.
His thanks, his delight, was in the sudden lighting up of his whole
face. But he did not offer a verbal expression of his feelings until
he had read down the first page. Then he looked up with eyes that were
almost moist with gratitude.
"Say," he began, "I can't never tell you how 'bliged I am, Sunny.
These things have bothered me a whole heap. It's kind of you, Sunny,
it is, sure. I'm that obliged I--"
"Say," broke in the loafer, "that sort o' talk sort o' worrits my
brain. Cut it out." Then he grinned. "Y'see, I ain't used to thinkin'
hard. It's mostly in the natur' o' work, an'--well, work an' me ain't
been friends for years."
But Scipio was devouring the elaborated information Sunny had so
laboriously set out. The loafer's picturesque mind had drawn heavily
on its resources, and Birdie's principles had undergone a queer
metamorphosis. So much so, that she would now have had difficulty
in recognizing them. Sunny watched him reading with smiling interest.
He was looking for those lights and shades which he hoped his
illuminating phraseology would inspire. But Scipio was in deadly
earnest. Phraseology meant nothing to him. It was the guidance he
was looking for and devouring hungrily. At last he looked up, his
pale eyes glowing.
"That's fine," he exclaimed, with such a wonderful relief that it was
impossible to doubt his appreciation. Then he glanced round the room.
He found some pins and promptly pinned the sheets on the cupboard
door. Then he stood back and surveyed them. "You're a good friend,
Sunny," he said earnestly. "Now I can't never make a mistake. There it
is all wrote ther'. An' when I ain't sure 'bout nothing, why, I only
jest got to read what you wrote. I don't guess the kiddies can reach
them there. Y'see, kiddies is queer 'bout things. Likely they'd get
busy tearing those sheets right up, an' then wher'd I be? I'll start
right in now on those reg'lations, an' you'll see how proper the
kiddies'll grow." He turned and held out his hand to his benefactor.
"I'm 'bliged, Sunny; I sure can't never thank you enough."
Sunny disclaimed such a profusion of gratitude, but his dirty face
shone with good-natured satisfaction as he gripped the little man's
hand. And after discussing a few details and offering a few
suggestions, which, since the acceptance of his efforts, seemed to
trip off his tongue with an easy confidence which surprised even
himself, he took his departure. And he left the hut with the final
picture of Scipio, still studying his pages of regulations with the
earnestness of a divinity student studying his Bible, filling his
strongly imaginative brain. He felt good. He felt so good that he was
sorry there was nothing more to be done until Wild Bill's return.