As much as I dislike superlatives, I must confess that nothing in my
life has given me greater surprise than that letter addressed to me in a
firm but unfamiliar hand, face upward on the counter of a small
curiosity shop in an insignificant by-street of a strange city.
I have a weakness for such small shops, where one is commonly permitted
to roam at will amid a multitude of attractive objects without the
slightest obligation to buy, and the proprietors are often men of
intelligence and education. When I have leisure I rarely resist the
temptation to enter, and in this case the impulse had been almost
mandatory.
It was my first visit to Selbyville, and I may say that it will probably
be my last; for I have never seen a duller, less interesting place. A
bad connection had left me stranded at the railway station there, with
several hours to be disposed of, as I feared, in aimless wanderings
along streets and avenues each one more crude and commonplace than the
last; but the chance discovery of a favorite haunt filled me at once
with lively satisfaction.
A dark and musty little shop, it proved to be, and its owner all I could
have wished--a mild old Dickens person who had a virtuous pride in his
collection, and at once divined in me a sympathetic listener. At first I
followed him from case to case with unaffected interest and attention;
but presently, I own, his conversation grew a trifle wearisome, and I
allowed my thoughts to stray.
He had produced, as I remember well, a tray of antique cameos, and to
make room for it upon the counter brushed aside a litter of disordered
papers. Neglected bills, they seemed to be, and circulars such as a
careless man forgets to throw away. But I noted nothing more; for
suddenly amid the trash my own familiar name confronted me, bold, clear,
and unmistakable, across a large and square envelope of a bluish tint:
"Josiah Brunson Dykefellow, Esq., 109 South Ninth Street, City."
Now, I am not a man to jump at rash conclusions. The address, of course,
was one that might be found in almost any city; but as it happened to be
mine in Masonburg, and as my name was not a common one, to say the
least, the letter seemed so clearly meant for me that I should have
taken it without compunction, could I have done so unobserved. But the
merchant never left me for a moment, and though most amiable I gave him
credit for too much good sense to deliver a sealed communication on the
unsupported statement of a perfect stranger; for I had left my card-case
in my satchel at the station, and as I am a bachelor my linen is
unmarked. However the letter came to be there, it was evident that I
should have to exercise diplomacy to gain possession of my own. And so,
continuing our circuit of the shop, I weighed the matter nicely. My
final resolution was, I shall always think, little short of inspiration.
We had reached an ancient rosewood wardrobe of enormous size and hideous
design before I found the opportunity to put my plan in operation.
"Ah! this is something I should like to own," I cried, "provided that my
new rooms are large enough to hold it. And," I added carelessly,
"perhaps you can direct me to the address"--I feigned to consult a
memorandum--"109 South Ninth Street."
The worthy dealer turned on me a look of half-amused surprise. "That's
here," he said--"right here, this street and house."
"Indeed!" I cried, though I had not been wholly unprepared for such an
answer. "That's really odd! for this, my dear sir, is the very place
where I was told to seek lodgings."
"There must be some mistake," replied the dealer civilly; "for as it is
the house is too small to accommodate my family."
At this I must have feigned the signs of extreme annoyance rather
cleverly; for the dealer joined in condemnation of officious friends in
general, and especially of one McPherson, a second auditor, who had so
misled me.
"That ass McPherson," I explained, "has put me to the greatest
inconvenience! For, feeling certain of the rooms, I have actually given
this address to correspondents. But," I hastened to assure my courteous
listener, "I shall, of course, write at once and save you any trouble on
that score. Please save the wardrobe for a day or two. My name is Josiah
Brunson Dykefellow."
As I pronounced each syllable with distinctness, I could perceive the
dealer's kindly face expand with pleasure. "Why, Mr. Dykefellow!" he
exclaimed, "a letter came for you this morning. I was about to return it
to the carrier. Here it is."
I thanked him, gave the square envelope only a casual glance before
slipping it into an inner pocket, and then bought a curio, scarcely
knowing what I did. I could hardly wait to see my purchase wrapped in
newspaper. I feared the dealer might think better of his confidence and
make demands on me for identification. I felt the prick of conscience
that an honest man must feel who gains even a righteous victory by
disingenuous means.
When the door had closed behind me and I was free to stride up Ninth
Street with my curio beneath my arm, I dreaded at every step to hear the
hue and cry of "Stop thief!" at my heels. Once safe beyond the nearest
corner, I actually ran. Up one street, down another, now running, and
now short of breath, proceeding at a rapid walk, I came at length to a
small, well-nigh deserted public square, and here, seated on a retired
bench, I cautiously took out my blue envelope, and for the first time
scrutinized its inscription.
The writer was evidently a person of decided character; but whether man
or woman it was impossible to guess. There was something masculine about
the stationery, which suggested a well-appointed club; but on the other
hand, the seal of violet wax, the rather blurred impression of what
might have been a dainty crest, the smell of orris, I fancied, spoke of
a lady's boudoir. As for the postmark, it was non-committal as to place,
but the hour and date were clearly nine-thirty P. M. the previous day,
which seemed rather late for a lady; but again, few men ever write "In
haste" across the corner of a letter. Of course it would have been a
simple matter to have solved the mystery then and there; but a mystery
solved can never be itself again, and for the moment I determined to
prolong the pleasures of anticipation. I chuckled to myself, and cast a
friendly glance about me, vaguely imagining what Selbyville might mean
to me in after years. Assuming an easy attitude upon the bench, I gazed
into the sky.
"Ah, Fate!" I was beginning to soliloquize, when a rude voice beside me
interrupted.
"Say, kape yer feet offen the grass, unless ye own the earth!" it said,
and looking up I saw before me the sinister visage of a minion of the
law. "And what are ye doin' here anyway?" the voice went on while the
visage turned with undisguised suspicion toward my curio, which did look
something like an infant wrapped in newspaper.
I said that I was waiting for my train, and asked with all humility to
be directed to the station.
I was answered with contumely. I was commanded to "Get a move on!" I was
told with scant civility that the Union Station was only one block away.
"Even you can't miss it," my informant said. "Follow South Ninth
Street."
I rose and thanked the man with all the dignity at my command. I also
gave him a cigar, which seemed to mollify him; but if my random flight
had brought me once more to the far end of Ninth Street, I should have
let every train that ever cleared from Selbyville depart without me
rather than have risked another meeting with the curiosity man. As I
sauntered nonchalantly in the wrong direction, I am sure that I caught a
vulgar idiom muttered by official lips.
But the experience had taught me that one who has a secret to conceal
should avoid above all things making himself conspicuous. So, carrying
my curio--which was of bronze and growing every moment heavier--as
though it was a package from the laundry, I struck into a swinging gait,
and hummed a popular refrain. My single wish now was to seem absolutely
sane; for to be "bug-house" (such was the policeman's phrase), though
not a crime, may lead to inquiries, perhaps examination, and I was by no
means certain what incriminating matter my hidden letter might contain.
Thus reasoning, I became doubtful all at once of my right to the blue
envelope. And the more I thought about it, the weaker grew my
confidence in the course I had pursued. What if after all I had
appropriated some one's else business, some one's else secret, the
hideous clue to some one's else misdemeanor?
It had been my half-formed purpose to walk until the town was far behind
me, out into the quiet country where there were surely haystacks and
deserted barns, or at least, if nothing better offered, trees to climb.
But now the thought occurred to me that it might be safer to read my
letter in broad daylight and the open street, than in uncertain and
suspicious solitude.
The decision was a wise one, and I lost no time in turning it into
action; for my surroundings at the moment could scarcely have been more
favorable. I stood before what appeared to be a public building, tightly
closed and to all appearance unused, and right at hand there was a most
convenient newel-post on which to rest my curio, which had for some time
been threatening to shed its wrappings altogether. I can't remember now
just what it was--some Eastern object, doubtless--but scarcely had it
left my hands when all the air grew resonant with yells as though the
fiends of Tophet were released from durance; the great doors of the
building opened, and children, innumerable children, issued forth. I
have never in my life beheld so many children all at once. They swarmed
about me and my curio, uttering uncouth cries, and pointing with their
horrid little fingers urged their young companions far and near to join
in the affray. I yield to no one in my love for childhood--properly
conducted childhood--but Selbyville is not the place to find it.
With one disheartened cry, I grabbed my property, and started whither I
neither knew nor cared, the children pursuing like a pack of misbehaved
young wolves. I crossed a crowded thoroughfare, doubled on my tracks,
overturned a push-cart full of oranges, threw a matinee audience into
wild alarm, and everywhere I seemed to hear two fatal words. And when
at last I threw myself upon a trolley-car the stupid vulgarism still
rang in my ears.
I am sure the conductor eyed me with suspicion; but I did not care; for
I was moving every moment farther from the scenes of my discomfiture, my
curio out of sight beneath the seat, and my letter safely in my inside
pocket. I picked up an abandoned paper, and read it, or appeared to do
so, with composure, though all the while the fingers of my left hand
never ceased to pinch the blue envelope, making fresh discoveries.
Within the sheet of folded note-paper there was unquestionably an
inclosure of a smaller size and softer texture, perhaps a bank-note,
perhaps a draft. Of course I held my imagination well in check, and
tried to think of nothing more important than a newspaper cutting; but
even this allowed a certain scope for fancy. Advertisements for missing
heirs are not uncommon, and even poems when embalmed in orris may have
deep significance. Ah! What if I were rich? What if I were loved? What
if both at once? The thing is not impossible. Soon I should know all,
beneath my haystack, in my barn, or, bird-like, swinging in my tree. I
was so certain now that what had cost so much inconvenience must be all
my own, that I would have parted from the blue envelope only with my
life.
It was a shock to have my dreaming interrupted by the conductor's
cheerful call, "All out!" and to find that the thrice accursed trolley
had all the while been flying, not toward the country, but into the
depths of darkest Selbyville, where gasworks, rolling-mills, and docks
compete for grimy precedence. But if by that time I had not grown used
to disappointment, the opportunity to abandon my curio beneath the seat
would have made up for much.
I have often wondered since my afternoon in Selbyville where the man who
wrote in praise of solitude obtained his information. I feel convinced
that Crusoe never sat down for a quiet pipe without black Friday butting
in to ask what time it was. But this is idle speculation.
Once freed from my incumbrance, my heart beat high with hope, and
crawling through a broken fence I found myself within a lumber-yard. On
every hand well-ordered planks were piled reposefully, and under foot
the ground was soft with sawdust. And here I lost no time in taking out
my letter. As I did so, a new and most absorbing possibility flashed
upon me. The smaller inclosure might be a photograph, one of those
unmounted carbon prints taken by amateurs, and so frankly truthful that
only good-looking people care to send them to their friends. I felt my
pulses flutter at the thought and pressed the blue envelope to my lips,
secure from observation, as I fancied.
But such was not the case. A large check-jumpered person, with a
protruding jaw, perched on a heap of railway ties, had been regarding
me with tolerant amusement all the while. "Well, what in Paradise are
you up to anyhow?" he drawled complacently.
"I trust that you will pardon the intrusion," I replied politely; "but I
have taken the liberty of stepping in to read a letter."
"Then you can just step out again," returned the man with a deliberation
in itself a rudeness. "This ain't no reading-room."
"But," I protested, "surely you will not grudge me a modicum of solitude
and quiet?"
"I guess we ain't got what you want in stock to-day. I guess you'd
better inquire up at the jail; they make a sort of specialty of just
them things."
I left, unwilling to expose myself to further incivility; and presently
I quitted the gas-house region altogether; but not before I had been
driven from a brewery by a dog, and from a canal-boat by a woman
bargeman; a stevedore had challenged me to fight, and an intoxicated
roustabout had given me an apple. And nowhere, nowhere, did I find a
spot to read my letter.
Time passed; how much I shall never know, for I had lost all track of
it. Nor could I find to-day the little bridge where, weary and
disheartened, I sank down upon the broad stone coping to rest. Below,
the waters tumbled foaming through a raceway toward the turbines of a
power-house, with a sound that mingled pleasantly with the whir of
wheels and dynamos within. In contrast with the sordid sights and sounds
of Selbyville, the place was grateful and refreshing to the eye and ear,
and looking from the coping I was pleased to perceive a shelf of masonry
projecting below, wide enough to form a comfortable seat, and easily
reached by a short drop from the bridge. Here, indeed, was an oasis, a
refuge, a retreat. But unfortunately the place had been preëmpted by a
negro, who appeared to be asleep.
"Hello!" I shouted, for nothing short of manslaughter could now balk me
of my purpose. "Hello, my colored friend! Would you not like to earn a
dollar?"
"Sure, boss!" he answered, waking instantly.
"Then go," I said, "directly to the City Hall and find out if the Mayor
is in town."
The man demurred, until the actual contact of the dollar with his palm
convinced him of my good faith. And presently he clambered to the
bridge, while I lost little time in dropping to his place.
"Say, boss," he called down to me in a nervous whisper, "if youse done
goin' to drown yourself, won't you please wait till I get off where I
cain't hear you splash?"
At last I was alone, at last secure from interruption! And scarcely
daring to believe in such good fortune, I crouched against the wall and
held my breath. So minutes went by, each one an agony of fear that some
fresh difficulty might yet confront me. Then, gaining strength, I
cautiously drew forth once more the treasured blue envelope.
My hands were tremulous, my nerves tingling with emotion; but I had
schooled myself to bear whatever good or evil Fate might have in store.
The strong cool wind from beneath the bridge brought me new courage, and
the very machinery seemed to murmur promises. I pressed my blue envelope
to my heart; I laid it on my knee for one brief instant, to experience
again the tantalizing delights of anticipation.
The breeze became a gale. It threatened to dislodge my hat, and in one
mad moment I raised both hands. In the next--I know not how it
happened--in the next, I saw my letter far below where the wild waters
whirled. For an instant it leaped and danced before me, lighter than the
foam, and then with one last flash of blue it disappeared in the black
waters of the turbine pit.--
"Continued on page 14," _Sunday Magazine_, April 1, '07.
Much as I dislike superlatives, I may say that never have I been so
disappointed and annoyed.
("If you have read this story, it may be well to remind you that
this is April 1st."--ED. _Sunday Magazine_.)