As Willard Hinton stood on the porch of Your Hotel and waited for his
host for the night to call for him, he was in that state of black
dejection that comes to a young man when Ambition has proposed to
Fortune, and been emphatically rejected. For six years he had worked
persistently and ceaselessly toward a given goal, doing clerical work by
day and creative work by night, going from shorthand into longhand, and
from numerical figures into figures of speech. For the way that Hinton's
soul was traveling was the Inky Way, and at its end lay Authorship.
Hinton had taken himself and his work seriously, and served an
apprenticeship of hard study and conscientious preparation. So zealous
was he, in fact, that he had arrived at the second stage of his great
enterprise with a teeming brain, a practised hand, and a pair of
affected eyes over which the oculists shook their heads and offered
little encouragement.
For four months he had implicitly obeyed orders, attending only to his
regular work, eating and sleeping with exemplary regularity, and
spending all of his spare time in the open air. But the ravages made in
the long nights dedicated to the Muses were not to be so easily
repaired, and his eyes, instead of improving, were growing rapidly
worse. The question of holding his position had slipped from a matter of
months into weeks.
As he stood on the porch, he could hear the bustle of entertainment
going on within the limited quarters of Your Hotel. Jimmy Fallows was in
his element. As bartender, head waiter, and jovial landlord he was
playing a triple bill to a crowded house. Occasionally he opened the
door and urged Hinton to come inside.
"Mr. Opp'll be here 'fore long," he would say. "He's expecting you, but
he had to stop by to take his girl home. You better step in and get a
julep."
But Hinton, wrapped in the gloom of his own thoughts, preferred to
remain where he was. Already he seemed to belong to the dark, to be a
thing apart from his fellow-men. He shrank from companionship and
sympathy as he shrank from the light. He longed to crawl away like a
sick animal into some lonely corner and die. Whichever way he turned,
the great specter of darkness loomed before him. At first he had fought,
then he had philosophically stood still, now he was retreating. Again
and again he told himself that he would meet it like a man, and again
and again he shrank back, ready to seek escape anywhere, anyhow.
"O God, if I weren't so damnably young!" he cried to himself, beating
his clenched hand against his brow. "More than half my life yet to
live, and in the dark!"
The rattle of wheels and the stopping of a light in front of the hotel
made him pull himself together.
The small gentleman in the checked suit whom he had seen on the wharf
strode in without seeing him. He paused before he opened the door and
smoothed his scanty locks and rearranged his pink necktie. Then he drew
in his chin, threw out his chest, and with a carefully prepared smile of
welcome entered.
The buzz within increased, and it was some minutes before the door
opened again and Jimmy Fallows was heard saying:
"He's round here some place. Mr. Hinton! Oh, here you are! Let me make
you acquainted with Mr. Opp; he's going to take you out to his house for
the night."
No sooner had Hinton's hand been released from Mr. Opp's cordial grasp
than he felt that gentleman's arm thrust through his, and was aware of
being rapidly conducted down the steps and out to the vehicle.
"On no possible account," Mr. Opp was saying, with Hinton's grip in one
hand and two umbrellas in the other, "would I have allowed myself to be
late, except that it was what you might consider absolutely necessary.
Now, you get right in; just take all that robe. No, the grip can go
right here between my feet. We trust that you will not regard the
weather in any ways synonymous with the state of our feelings of
welcome."
Mr. Hinton remarked rather shortly that the weather never mattered to
him one way or another.
"That's precisely like myself," Mr. Opp went on. "I come of very sturdy,
enduring stock. For a man of my size I doubt if you'd find a finer
constitution in the country. You wouldn't particularly think it to look
at me, now would you?"
Hinton looked at the small, stooping figure, and at the peaked, sallow
face, and said rather sarcastically that he would not.
"Strong as an ox," declared Mr. Opp.
Just here the horse stumbled, and they were jerked violently forward.
Mr. Opp apologized. "Just at present we are having a little difficulty
with our country roads. We have taken the matter up in 'The Opp Eagle'
last week. All these things take time to regulate, but we are getting
there. This oil boom is going to revolutionize things. It's my firm and
abiding conviction that we are on the eve of a great change. It wouldn't
surprise me in the least if this town grew to be one of the principalest
cities on the Ohio River."
"To be a worthy eyrie for your 'Eagle'?" suggested Hinton.
"'The Opp Eagle,'" corrected Mr. Opp. "I don't know as you know that I
am the sole proprietor, as well as being the editor in addition."
"No," said Hinton, "I did not know. How does it happen that a man with
such responsibilities can take time to dabble in oil-wells?"
"You don't know me," said Mr. Opp, with a paternal smile at his own
ability. "Promoting and organizing comes as natural to me as breathing
the atmosphere. I am engineering this scheme with one hand, the Town
Improvement League with another, and 'The Opp Eagle' with another. Then,
in a minor kind of way, I am a active Odd Fellow, first cornetist in the
Unique Orchestra, and a director in the bank. And beside," Mr. Opp
concluded with some coyness, "there is the natural personal social
diversions that most young men indulge in."
By this time they had reached the gray old house on the river-bank, and
Mr. Opp hitched the horse and held the lantern, while Hinton stepped
from one stony island to another in the sea of mud.
"Just enter right into the dining-room," said Mr. Opp, throwing open the
door. "Unfortunately we are having a temporary difficulty with the
parlor heating apparatus. If you'll just pass right on up-stairs, I'll
show you the guest-chamber. Be careful of your head, please!"
With pomp and dignity Mr. Hinton was conducted to his apartment, and
urged to make known any possible want that might occur to him.
"I'll be obliged to leave you for a spell," said Mr. Opp, "in order to
attend to the proper putting up of the horse. If you'll just consider
everything you see as yours, and make yourself entirely at home, I'll
come up for you in about twenty minutes."
Left alone, Hinton went to the bureau to pin a paper around the lamp,
and as he did so he encountered a smiling face in the mirror. The face
was undoubtedly his, but the smile seemed almost to belong to a
stranger, so long had it been since he had seen it.
He made a hasty toilet, and sat down with his back to the light to await
his summons to dinner. The large room, poorly and scantily furnished,
gave unmistakable evidence of having been arranged especially for his
coming. There was no covering on the floor, there were no pictures on
the wall; but the wall-paper was of a sufficiently decorative character
to warrant the absence of other adornment. It may be said to have been a
botanical paper, for roses and lilies and sunflowers and daisies grew in
riotous profusion. The man who hung the paper evidently was of a
scientific turn, for in matching the strips he had gained some results
in cross-grafting that approached the miraculous.
After sufficient time had elapsed to have stabled half a dozen horses,
Hinton, whose appetite was becoming ravenous, went into the hall and
started down the steps. When half-way down he heard a crash of china,
and saw his host, in his shirt-sleeves, staggering under a large tray
overcrowded with dishes.
Beating a hasty retreat, he went quietly up the steps again, but not
before he heard a querulous voice remonstrate:
"Now, Mr. D., if you ain't done busted two plates and a tea-cup!"
Retiring to his room until the trouble should be adjusted, Hinton once
more contemplated the floral paper. As he sat there, the door creaked
slightly, and looking up, he thought he saw some one peeping at him
through the crack. Later he distinctly heard the rustle of garments, a
stealthy step, and the closing of the door across the hall.
At last Mr. Opp came somewhat noisily up the steps and, flinging wide
the door, invited him to descend. In the dining-room below the scene was
nothing short of festal. All the candlesticks were filled with lighted
candles, an American flag was draped across the top of the clock, and
the little schooner that rocked behind the pendulum seemed fired with
the determination to get somewhere to-night if it never did again. Even
the owls on each end of the mantel wore a benignant look, and seemed to
beam a welcome on the honored guest.
But it was the dining-table that held the center of the stage, and that
held everything else as well. The dinner, through its sequence of soup,
meat, salad, and desert, was displayed in lavish hospitality. Cove
etiquette evidently demanded that no square inch of the table-cloth
should remain unoccupied.
Seated at the table, with hands demurely folded, was the most grotesque
figure that Hinton had ever seen. Clad in a queer, old-fashioned garment
of faded blue cloth, with very full skirt and flowing sleeves, with her
hair gathered into a tight knot at the back of her head, and a necklace
of nutshells about her neck, a strange little lady sat and watched him
with parted lips and wide, excited eyes.
"If you'll just sit here opposite my sister," said Mr. Opp, not
attempting an introduction, "I'll as usual take my customary place at
the head of the board."
It was all done with great eclat, but from the first there were
unmistakable signs of nervousness on the part of the host. He left the
table twice before the soup was removed, once to get the napkins which
had been overlooked, and once to persuade his sister not to put the
baked potatoes in her lap.
When the critical moment for the trial of strength between him and the
goose arrived, he was not in good condition. It was his first wrestling
match with a goose, and his technical knowledge of the art consisted in
the meager fact that the strategic point was to become master of the
opponent's legs. The fowl had, moreover, by nature of its being, the
advantage of extreme slipperiness, an expedient recognized and made use
of by the gladiators of old.
Mr. Opp, limited as to space, and aware of a critical audience, rose to
the occasion, and with jaw set and the light of conquest in his eye
entered the fray. He pushed forward, and pulled back, he throttled, he
went through facial and bodily contortions. The match was conducted in
"the catch hold, first down to lose style," and the honors seemed
equally divided. At last, by the adroit administration of a left-leg
stroke, Mr. Opp succeeded in throwing his adversary, but unfortunately
he threw it too far.
The victory, though brilliant, was not without its casualties. The
goose, in its post-mortem flight, took its revenge, and the overturned
cranberries sent a crimson stain across the white cloth, giving a
sanguinary aspect to the scene.
When order was restored and Mr. Opp had once more taken his seat, the
little lady in the blue dress, who had remained quiet during the recent
conflict, suddenly raised her voice in joyous song.
"Now, Kippy," warned Mr. Opp, putting a restraining hand on her arm, and
looking at her appealingly. The little lady shrank back in her chair and
her eyes filled as she clasped his hand tightly in both of hers.
"As I was remarking," Mr. Opp went steadily on, trying to behave as if
it were quite natural for him to eat with his left hand, "the real
value of the underground product in this country has been but fairly
made apparent, and now that you capitalists are coming in to take a
hold, there's no way of forming a idea of the ultimate result."
Hinton, upon whom no phase of the situation had been lost, came
valiantly to Mr. Opp's rescue. He roused himself to follow his host's
lead in the conversation; he was apparently oblivious to the many
irregularities of the dinner. In fact, it was one of the rare occasions
upon which Hinton took the trouble to exert himself. Something in the
dreary old room, with its brave attempt at cheer, in the half-witted
little lady who was making such superhuman efforts to be good, and above
all in the bombastic, egotistical, ignorant editor who was trying to
keep up appearances against such heavy odds, touched the best and
deepest that was in Hinton, and lifted him out of himself. Gradually he
began to take the lead in the conversation. With great tact he relieved
Mr. Opp of the necessity of entertaining, and gave him a chance to eat
his dinner. He told stories so simple that even Miss Kippy loosened her
hold on her brother's hand to listen.
When the sunset of the dinner in the form of a pumpkin pie had
disappeared, the gentlemen retired to the fire.
"Don't you smoke?" asked Hinton, holding a match to his pipe.
"Why, yes," said Mr. Opp, "I have smoked occasional. It's amazing how it
assists you in creating newspaper articles. One of the greatest
editorials I ever turned out was when I had a cigar in my mouth."
"Then why don't you smoke?"
Mr. Opp glanced over his shoulders at Aunt Tish, who, with Miss Kippy's
doubtful assistance, was clearing the table.
"I don't mind telling you," he said confidentially, "that up to the
present time I've experienced a good many business reverses and
considerable family responsibility. I hope now in a year or two to be
able to indulge them little extra items. The lack of money," he added
somewhat proudly, "is no disgrace; but I can't deny it's what you might
call limiting."
Hinton smiled. "I think I've got a cigar somewhere about me. Here it is.
Will you try it?"
Mr. Opp didn't care if he did, and from the manner in which he lighted
it, and from the way in which he stood, with one elbow on the high
mantel-shelf and his feet gracefully crossed, while he blew curling
wreaths toward the ceiling, it was not difficult to reckon the extent of
his self-denial.
"Do you indulge much in the pleasure of reading?" he asked, looking at
Hinton through the cloud of smoke.
"I did," said Hinton, drawing a deep breath.
"It's a great pastime," said Mr. Opp. "I wonder if you are familiar with
this here volume." He took from the shelf "The Encyclopedia of Wonder,
Beauty, and Wisdom."
"Hardly a thumb-nail edition," said Hinton, receiving it with both
hands.
"Say, it's a remarkable work," said Mr. Opp, earnestly; "you ought to
get yourself one. Facts in the first part, and the prettiest poetry you
ever read in the back: a dollar down and fifty cents a month until paid
for. Here, let me show you; read that one."
"I can't see it," said Hinton.
"I'll get the lamp."
"Never mind, Opp; it isn't that. You read it to me."
Mr. Opp complied with great pleasure, and having once started, he found
it difficult to stop. From "Lord Ullin's Daughter" he passed to
"Curfew," hence to "Barbara Frietchie" and "Young Lochinvar," and as he
read Hinton sat with closed eyes and traveled into the past.
He saw a country school-house, and himself a youngster of eight
competing for a prize. He was standing on a platform, and the children
were below him, and behind him was a row of visitors. He was paralyzed
with fear, but bursting with ambition. With one supreme effort he began
his speech:
Oh, the young Lochinvar has came out of the west!
He got no further; a shout from the big boys and a word from the
teacher, and he burst into tears and fled for refuge to his mother. How
the lines brought it all back! He could feel her arms about him now, and
her cheek against his, and hear again her words of comfort. In all the
years since she had been taken from him he had never wanted her so
insistently as during those few moments that Mr. Opp's high voice was
doing its worst for the long-suffering Lochinvar.
"Mr. D.," said a complaining voice from the doorway, "Miss Kippy won't
lemme tek her dress off to go to baid. She 'low she gwine sleep in hit."
Mr. Opp abruptly descended from his elocutionary flight, and asked to be
excused for a few moments.
"Just a little domestic friction," he assured Hinton; "you can glance
over the rest of the poems, and I'll be back soon."
Hinton, left alone, paced restlessly up and down the room. The temporary
diversion was over, and he was once more face to face with his problem.
He went to the table, and, taking a note from his pocket, bent over the
lamp to read it. The lines blurred and ran together, but a word here and
there recalled the contents. It was from Mr. Mathews, who preferred
writing disagreeable things to saying them. Mr. Mathews, the note said,
had been greatly annoyed recently by repeated errors in the reports of
his secretary; he was neither as rapid nor as accurate as formerly, and
an improvement would have to be made, or a change would be deemed
advisable.
"Delicate tact!" sneered Hinton, crushing the paper in his hand.
"Courtesy sometimes begets a request, and the shark shrinks from
conferring favors. And I've got to stick it out, to go on accepting
condescending disapproval until a 'change is deemed advisable.'"
He dropped his head on his arms, and so deep was he in his bitter
thoughts that he did not hear Mr. Opp come into the room. That gentleman
stood for a moment in great embarrassment; then he stepped noiselessly
out, and heralded his second coming by rattling the door-knob.
The wind had risen to a gale, and it shrieked about the old house and
tugged at the shutters and rattled the panes incessantly.
"You take the big chair," urged Mr. Opp, who had just put on a fresh log
and sent the flames dancing up the chimney; "and here's a pitcher of
hard cider whenever you feel the need of a little refreshment. You ain't
a married man I would judge, Mr. Hinton."
"Thank the Lord, no!" exclaimed Hinton.
"Well," said Mr. Opp, pursing his lips and smiling, "you know that's
just where I think us young men are making a mistake."
"Matrimony," said Hinton, "is about the only catastrophe that hasn't
befallen me during my short and rocky career."
"See here," said Mr. Opp, "I used to feel that way, too."
"Before you met her?" suggested Hinton.
Mr. Opp looked pleased but embarrassed. "I can't deny there is a young
lady," he said; "but she is quite young as yet. In fact, I don't mind
telling you she's just about half my age."
Hinton, instead of putting two and two together, added eighteen to
eighteen. "And you are about thirty-six?" he asked.
"Exactly," said Mr. Opp, surprised. "I am most generally considered a
long sight younger."
From matrimony the conversation drifted to oil-wells, then to
journalism, and finally to a philosophical discussion of life itself.
Mr. Opp got beyond his depth again and again, and at times he became so
absorbed that he gave a very poor imitation of himself, and showed
signs of humility that were rarely if ever visible.
Hinton meantime was taking soundings, and sometimes his plummet stopped
where it started, and sometimes it dropped to an unexpected depth.
"Well," he said at last, rising, "we must go to bed. You'll go on
climbing a ladder in the air, and I'll go on burrowing like a mole in
the ground, and what is the good of it all? What chance have either of
us for coming out anywhere? You can fool yourself; I can't: that's the
difference."
Mr. Opp's unusual mental exertions had apparently affected his entire
body, his legs were tightly wrapped about each other, his arms were
locked, and his features were drawn into an amazing pucker of protest.
"That ain't it," he said emphatically, struggling valiantly to express
his conviction: "this here life business ain't run on any such small
scale as that. According to my notion, or understanding,
it's--well--what you might call, in military figures, a fight." He
paused a moment and tied himself if possible even into a tighter knot,
then proceeded slowly, groping his way: "Of course there's some that
just remains around in camp, afraid to fight and afraid to desert, just
sort of indulging in conversation, you might say, about the rest of the
army. Then there is the cowards and deserters. But a decent sort of a
individual, or rather soldier, carries his orders around with him, and
the chief and principal thing he's got to do is to follow them. What the
fight is concerning, or in what manner the general is a-aiming to bring
it all correct in the end, ain't, according to my conclusion, a particle
of our business."
Having arrived at this point of the discussion in a somewhat heated and
indignant state, Mr. Opp suddenly remembered his duties as host. With a
lordly wave of the hand he dismissed the subject, and conducted Hinton
in state to his bed-chamber, where he insisted upon lighting the fire
and arranging the bed.
[Illustration: "It was Mr. Opp saying his prayers"]
Hinton sat for a long time before undressing, listening to the wind in
the chimney, to the scrape, scrape of the cedar on the roof, and to the
yet more dismal sounds that were echoing in his heart. Everything about
the old house spoke of degeneration, decay; yet in the midst of it lived
a man who asked no odds of life, who took what came, and who lived with
a zest, an abandon, a courage that were baffling. Self-deception,
egotism, cheap optimism--could they bring a man to this state of mind?
Hinton wondered bitterly what Opp would do in his position; suppose his
sight was threatened, how far would his foolish self-delusion serve him
then?
But he could not imagine Mr. Opp, lame, halt, or blind, giving up the
fight. There was that in the man--egotism, courage, whatever it
was--that would never recognize defeat, that quality that wins out of a
life of losing the final victory.
Before he retired, Hinton found there was no drinking water in his room,
and, remembering a pitcher full in the dining-room, he took the candle
and softly opened his door. The sudden cold draft from the hall made the
candle flare, but as it steadied, Hinton saw that an old cot had been
placed across the door opposite his, as if on guard, and that beside it
knelt an ungainly figure in white, with his head clasped in his hands.
It was Mr. Opp saying his prayers.