DUTY AND THE JUG.
Mr. Thomas Ardmore, one trunk, two bags, and a little brown jug reached
the Guilford House, Raleigh, at eight o’clock in the morning. Ardmore
had never felt better in his life, he assured himself, as he chose
a room with care, and intimated to the landlord his intention of
remaining a week. But for the ill luck of having his baggage marked he
should have registered himself falsely on the books of the inn; but
feeling that this was not quite respectable, he assured the landlord,
in response to the usual question, that he was not Ardmore of New York
and Ardsley, but an entirely different person.
“Well, I don’t blame you for not wanting to be taken for any of that
set,” remarked the landlord sympathetically.
“I should think not!” returned Ardmore, in a tone of deep disgust.
The Guilford House coffee was not just what he was used to, but he
was in an amiable humour, and enjoyed hugely the conversation of the
commercial travellers with whom he took his breakfast. He did not
often escape from himself or the burden of his family reputation, and
these strangers were profoundly entertaining. It had never occurred
to Ardmore that man could be so amiable so early in the day, and his
own spirits rallied as he passed the sugar, abused the hot bread, and
nodded his approval of bitter flings at the inns of other southern
towns of whose existence he only vaguely knew. They spoke of the
president of the United States and of various old world monarchs in
a familiar tone that was decidedly novel and refreshing; and he felt
that it was a great privilege to sit at meat with these blithe spirits.
Commercial travellers, he now realized, were more like the strolling
players, the wandering knights, the cloaked riders approaching lonely
inns at night, than any other beings he had met out of books. It was
with the severest self-denial that he resisted an impulse to invite
them all to visit him at Ardsley or to use his house in Fifth Avenue
whenever they pleased. When the man nearest him, who was having a
second plate of corn-cakes and syrup, casually inquired his “line,”
Ardmore experienced a moment of real shame, but remembering the jug he
had acquired in the night, he replied,--
“Crockery.”
“Mine’s drugs. Do you know Billy Gallop?--he’s in your line.”
“Should say I did,” replied Ardmore unhesitatingly. “I took supper with
him in Philadelphia Sunday night.”
“How’s trade?”
“Bully,” replied Ardmore, reaching for the syrup. “I broke my record
yesterday.”
The drug man turned to listen to a discussion of the row between
Governors Osborne and Dangerfield precipitated by one of the company
who had fortified himself with a newspaper, and Ardmore also gave ear.
“Whatever did happen at New Orleans,” declared a Maiden Lane jewellery
representative, “you can be quite sure that Dangerfield won’t get the
hot end of the poker. I’ve seen him, right here at Raleigh, and he has
all the marks of a fighting man. He’d strip at two hundred, and he’s
six in his socks.”
“Pshaw! Those big fellows are all meat and no muscle,” retorted the
drug man. “I doubt if there’s any fight in him. Now Osborne’s a
different product--a tall, lean cuss, but active as a cat. A man to be
governor of South Carolina has got to have the real stuff in him. If it
comes to a show-down you’ll see Dangerfield duck and run.”
This discussion was continued at length, greatly to Ardmore’s delight,
for he felt that in this way he was being brought at once into touch
with Miss Dangerfield, now domiciled somewhere in this town, and to
whom he expected to be properly introduced just as soon as he could
devise some means to that end. As he had not read the newspapers, he
did not know what the row was all about, but he instinctively aligned
himself on the Dangerfield side. The Osbornes were, he felt, an
inferior race, and he inwardly resented the imputations upon Governor
Dangerfield’s courage.
“I wonder if the governor’s back yet?” asked one man.
“The morning paper says not, but he’s expected to-day,” replied the man
with the newspaper.
“About the first thing he’ll have to do will be to face the question of
arresting Appleweight. I was in Columbia the other day, and everybody
was talking of the case. They say”--and the speaker waited for the
fullest attention of his hearers--“they say Osborne ain’t none too
anxious to have Appleweight arrested on his side of the line.”
“Why not?” demanded Ardmore.
“Well, you hear all kinds of things. It was only whispered down there,
but they say Osborne was a little too thick with the Appleweight crowd
before he was elected governor. He was their attorney, and they were
a bad lot for any man to be attorney for. But they haven’t caught
Appleweight yet.”
“Where’s he hiding? don’t the authorities know?”
“Oh, he’s up there in the hills on the state line. His home is as much
on one side as the other. He spends a good deal of time in Kildare.”
“Kildare?” asked Ardmore, startled at the word.
“Yes, it’s the county seat, what there is of it. I hope you never make
that town?” and the inquirer bent a commiserating glance upon Ardmore.
“Well, they use jugs there, I know that!” declared Ardmore; whereat the
table roared. The unanimity of their applause warmed his heart, though
he did not know why they laughed.
“You handle crockery?” asked a man from the end of the table. “Well, I
guess Dilwell County consumes a few gross of jugs all right. But you’d
better be careful not to whisper jugs too loud here. There’s usually a
couple of revenue men around town.”
They all went together to the office, where they picked up their sample
cases and sallied forth for a descent upon the Raleigh merchants; and
Ardmore, thus reminded that he was in the crockery business, and that
he had a sample in his room, sat down under a tree on the sidewalk
at the inn door to consider what he should do with his little brown
jug. It had undoubtedly been intended for Governor Dangerfield, who
was supposed to be on the train he had himself taken from Atlanta to
Raleigh. There had been, in fact, two jugs, but one of them he had
tossed back into the hands of the man who had pursued the train at
Kildare. Ardmore smoked his pipe and meditated, trying to determine
which jug he had tossed back; and after long deliberation, he slapped
his knee, and said aloud,--
“I gave him the wrong one, by jing!”
The boy had said that his offering contained buttermilk, a beverage
which Ardmore knew was affected by eccentric people for their stomach’s
sake. He had sniffed the other jug, and it contained, undeniably, an
alcoholic liquid of some sort.
Jugs had not figured prominently in Ardmore’s domestic experiences;
but as he sat under the tree on the curb before the Guilford House he
wondered, as many other philosophers have wondered, why a jug is so
incapable of innocency! A bottle, while suggestive, is not inherently
wicked; but a jug is the symbol of joyous sin. Even the soberest souls,
who frown at the mention of a bottle, smile tolerantly when a jug is
suggested. Jugs of many centuries are assembled in museums, and round
them the ethnologist reconstructs extinct races of men; and yet even
science and history, strive they never so sadly, cannot wholly relieve
the jug of its cheery _insouciance_. A bottle of inferior liquor
may be dressed forth enticingly, and alluringly named; but there’s
no disguising the jug; its genial shame cannot be hidden. There are
pleasant places in America where, if one deposit a half-dollar and a
little brown jug behind a certain stone, or on the shady side of a
blackberry bush, jug and coin will together disappear between sunset
and sunrise; but lo! the jug, filled and plugged with a corn-cob,
will return alone mysteriously, in contravention of the statutes in
such cases made and provided. Too rare for glass this fluid, which
bubbles out of the southern hills with as little guilt in its soul as
the brooks beside which it comes into being! But, lest he be accused
of aiding and abetting crime against the majesty of the law, this
chronicler hastens to say that on a hot day in the harvest field,
honest water, hidden away in a little brown jug in the fence corner,
acquires a quality and imparts a delight that no mug of crystal or of
gold can yield.
As Mr. Ardmore pondered duty and the jug a tall man in shabby corduroy
halted near by and inspected him carefully. Mr. Ardmore, hard upon
his pipe, had not noticed him, somewhat, it seemed, to the stranger’s
vexation. He patrolled the sidewalk before the inn, hoping to attract
Ardmore’s attention, but finding that the young man’s absorption
continued, he presently dropped into a neighbouring chair under the
maple tree.
“Good-morning,” said Ardmore pleasantly.
The man nodded but did not speak. He was examining Ardmore with a pair
of small, shrewd gray eyes. In his hands he held a crumpled bit of
brown paper that looked like a telegram.
“Well, I reckon you jest got to town this mornin’, young fella.”
“Yes, certainly,” Ardmore replied promptly. He had never been addressed
in quite this fashion before, but it was all in keeping with his new
destiny, and he was immediately interested in the stranger, who was
well on in middle age, with a rough grizzled beard, and a soft hat,
once black, that now struggled for a compromise tint between yellow and
green.
“Ever been hyeh befo’?”
“Never; but I’m crazy about the place, and I’ll be seen here a good
deal hereafter.”
Ardmore produced his cigar-case and extended it to the stranger. The
man, awed by the splendour of the case, accepted a cigar a little
gingerly.
“Drummer, I reckon?”
“Commercial traveller, we prefer to be designated,” replied Ardmore,
with dignity.
“I guess drummer’s good enough down hyeh. What y’u carry?”
“Jugs. I’m in the jug business. Never had any business but jugs.”
The man paused in lighting his cigar, stared at Ardmore over the
flaming match, drew the fire into the cigar several times, then settled
back with his hands in his pockets.
“Full ’r empty?”
“The jugs? Oh, empty jugs; but it’s no affair of mine what becomes of
the jugs afterwards.”
“Y’u likely got samples with y’u?”
“Well, not many. You see my line is so well known I don’t have to carry
samples any more. The trade knows our goods.”
“Stop at Kildare on the way up?” and the stranger looked about
guardedly.
“Certainly, my friend, I always ‘make’ Kildare,” replied Ardmore, using
a phrase he had acquired at breakfast.
“Train runs through the’ pretty late at night?”
“Beastly. But I hardly ever sleep, anyhow. A man in my splendid health
doesn’t need sleep. It’s a rotten waste of time.”
Silence for several minutes; then the stranger leaned forward in his
chair, resting his elbows on his knees, and said in a low tone,--
“I got a telegram hyeh says y’u got a jug thet y’u ain’t no right t’
last night at Kildare. I want thet jug, young fella.”
“Now that’s very unfortunate. Ordinarily I should be delighted, but I
really couldn’t give away my Kildare jug. Now if it was one of my other
jugs--even my Omaha jug or my dear old Louisville jug--I shouldn’t
hesitate a minute, but that old Kildare jug! My dear man, you don’t
know what you ask!”
“Y’ll give me thet jug, or it’ll be the worse for y’u. Y’u ain’t in
thet game, young fella.”
“Not in it! You don’t know whom you are addressing. I’m not only in the
game, but I’m in to the finish,” declared Ardmore, sitting upright in
his chair. “You’ve got the wrong idea, my friend, if you think you can
intimidate me. That jug was given me by a friend, a very old and dear
friend----”
“A friend of yourn!”
The keen little gray eyes were blinking rapidly.
“One of the best friends I ever had in this world,” and Ardmore’s face
showed feeling. “He and I charged side by side through the bloodiest
battles of our Civil War. I will cheerfully give you my watch, or
money in any sum, but the jug--I will part with my life first! And
now,” concluded Ardmore, “while I should be glad to continue this
conversation, my duties call me elsewhere.”
As he rose, the man stood quickly at his side, menacingly.
“Give me thet jug, or I’ll shoot y’u right hyeh in the street.”
“No, you wouldn’t do that, Old Corduroy. I can see that you are kind
and good, and you wouldn’t shoot down an unarmed man. Besides, it would
muss up the street.”
“Y’u took thet jug from my brother by lyin’ to ’im. He’s telegraphed me
to git it, and I’m a-goin’ to do it.”
“Your brother sent you? It was nice of him to ask you to call on me.
Why, I’ve known your brother intimately for years.”
“Knowed my brother?” and for the first time the man really seemed to
doubt himself. “Wheh did y’u know Bill?”
“We roomed together at Harvard, that’s how I know him, if you force
me to it! We’re both Hasty Pudding men. Now if you try to bulldoze me
further, I’ll slap your wrists. So there!”
Ardmore entered the hotel deliberately, climbed to his room, and locked
the door. Then he seized the little brown jug, drew the stopper, and
poured out a tumblerful of clear white fluid. He took a swallow, and
shuddered as the fiery liquid seemed instantly to cause every part of
his being to tingle. He wiped the tears from his eyes and sat down.
The corn-cob stopper had fallen to the floor, and he picked it up and
examined it carefully. It had been fitted tightly into the mouth of
the jug by the addition of a bit of calico, and he fingered it for a
moment with a grin on his face. He was, considering his tranquil past,
making history rapidly, and he wished that Griswold, whom he imagined
safely away on his law business at Richmond, could see him now embarked
upon a serious adventure, that had already brought him into collision
with a seemingly sane man who had threatened him with death. Griswold
had been quite right about their woeful incapacity for rising to
emergencies, but the episode of the jugs at Kildare was exactly the
sort of thing they had discussed time and time again, and it promised
well. His throat was raw, as though burned with acid, and it occurred
to him for an anxious moment that perhaps he had imbibed a poison
intended for the governor.
He was about to replace the cob stopper when, to his astonishment, it
broke in his fingers, and out fell a carefully folded slip of paper. He
carried it to the window and opened it, finding that it was an ordinary
telegraph blank on which were written in clear round characters these
words:
The Appleweight crowd never done you harm. If you have any of them
arrested you will be shot down on your own doorstep.
When Mr. Thomas Ardmore had read this message half a dozen times with
increasing satisfaction he folded it carefully and put it away in his
pocket-book.
Taking half a sheet of notepaper he wrote as follows:
Appleweight and his gang are cowards. Within ten days those that have
not been hanged will be in jail at Kildare.
He studied the phraseology critically, and then placed the paper in the
cob stopper, whose halves he tied together with a bit of twine. As the
jug stood on the table it was, to all appearances, exactly as it had
been when delivered to Ardmore on the rear of the train at Kildare, and
he was thoroughly well pleased with himself. He changed the blue scarf
with which he had begun the day for one of purple with gold bars, and
walked up the street toward the state house.
This venerable edifice, meekly reposing amid noble trees, struck
agreeably upon Ardmore’s fancy. Here was government enthroned in quiet
dignity, as becomes a venerable commonwealth, wearing its years like a
veteran who has known war and tumult, but finds at last tranquillity
and peace. He experienced a feeling of awe, without quite knowing it,
as he strolled up the walk, climbed the steps to the portico and turned
to look back from the shadow of the pillars. He had never but once
before visited an American public building--the New York city hall--and
he felt that now, indeed, he had turned a corner and entered upon a
new and strange world. He had watched army manœuvres abroad with about
the same attention that he gave to a ballet, and with a like feeling
of beholding a show contrived for the amusement of spectators; but
there was not even a policeman here to represent arsenals and bayonets.
The only minion of government in sight was the languid operator of a
lawn-mower, which rattled and hummed cheerily in the shadow of the
soldiers’ monument. There was something fine about a people who, as he
learned from the custodian, would not shake down these historic walls
obedient to the demands of prosperity and growth, but sent increased
business to find lodgment elsewhere. He ascended to the toy-like
legislative chambers, where flags of nation and state hung side by
side, and where the very seats and desks of the law-makers spoke of
other times and manners.
Mr. Ardmore, feeling that he should now be about his business, sought
the governor’s office, where a secretary, who seemed harassed by the
cares of his position, confirmed Ardmore’s knowledge of the governor’s
absence.
“I didn’t wish to see the governor on business,” explained Ardmore
pleasantly, leaning upon his stick with an air of leisure. “He and my
father were old friends, and I always promised my father that I would
never pass through Raleigh without calling on Governor Dangerfield.”
“That is too bad,” remarked the young man sympathetically, though with
a preoccupation that was eloquent of larger affairs.
“Could you tell me whether any members of the governor’s family are at
home?”
“Oh yes; Mrs. Dangerfield and Miss Jerry are at the mansion.”
“Miss Jerry?”
“Miss Geraldine. We all call her Miss Jerry in North Carolina.”
“Oh yes; to be sure. Let me see; it’s over this way to the mansion,
isn’t it?” inquired Ardmore.
“No; out the other end of the building--and turn to your right. You
can’t miss it.”
The room was quiet, the secretary a young man of address and
intelligence. Here, without question, was the place for Ardmore to
discharge his business and be quit of it; but having at last snatched a
commission from fleeting opportunity, it was not for him to throw it to
another man. As he opened the door to leave, the secretary arrested him.
“Oh, Mr.--pardon me, but did you come in from the south this morning?”
“Yes; I came up on the Tar Heel Express from Atlanta.”
“To be sure. Of course you didn’t sit up all night? There’s some
trouble brewing around Kildare. I thought you might have heard
something, but, of course, you couldn’t have been awake at two o’clock
in the morning?”
The secretary was so anxious to acquit him of any knowledge of the
situation at Kildare that it seemed kindest to tell him nothing. The
secretary’s face lost its anxiety for a moment, and he smiled.
“The governor has an old friend and admirer up there who always puts a
jug of fresh buttermilk on board when he passes through. The governor
was expected home this morning, and I thought maybe----”
“You’re positive it’s always buttermilk, are you?” asked Ardmore, with
a grin.
“Certainly,” replied the secretary, with dignity. “Governor
Dangerfield’s sentiments as to the liquor traffic are well known.”
“Of course, all the world knows that. But I’m afraid all jugs look
alike to me; but then, the fact is I’m in the jug business myself.
Good-morning.”
The governor’s mansion was easily found, and having walked about the
neighbourhood until his watch marked eleven, Ardmore entered the
grounds and rang the bell at the front door.
Once within, the air of domestic peace, the pictures on the walls, a
whip and a felt hat with a blue band on the hall table, and a book on
a chair in the drawing-room, turned down to mark the absent reader’s
place, rebuked him for his impudence. If he had known just how to
escape he would have done so; but the maid who admitted him had said
that Miss Dangerfield was at home, and had gone in search of her
with Ardmore’s card. He deserved to be sent to jail for entering a
gentleman’s house in this way. He realized now, when it was too late,
that he ought to have brought letters to one of the banks and been
introduced to the Dangerfields by some gentleman of standing, if he
wished to know them. The very portraits on the walls, the photographs
on the mantel and table, frowned coldly upon him. The foundations of
his character were set in sand; he knew that, because he had found it
so easy to lie, and he had been told in his youth that one sin paved
the way for another. He would take the earliest train for Ardsley
and bury himself there for the remainder of his days. He had hardly
formed this resolution when a light step sounded in the hall, and Miss
Geraldine Dangerfield stood at the threshold. His good resolutions went
down like a house of cards.
“Miss Dangerfield,” he began, “I had the pleasure of meeting your
father in New Orleans the other day, and as I was passing through town
unexpectedly, I thought I should give myself the pleasure of calling
on him. He said that in case I found him absent I might call upon you.
In fact, he wrote a line on a card for me to present, but I stupidly
left it at my hotel.”
They faced each other in the dim, cool room for what seemed to him
endless centuries. She was much younger than he had imagined; but her
eyes were blue, just as he remembered them, and her abundant light
hair curled away from her forehead in pretty waves, and was tied
to-day with a large bow of blue ribbon. For an instant she seemed
puzzled or mystified, but her blue eyes regarded him steadily. The very
helplessness of her youth, the simplicity of her blue linen gown, the
girlish ribbon in her hair, proclaimed him blackguard.
“Won’t you please sit down, Mr. Ardmore?”
And when they were seated there was another pause, during which the
blue eyes continued to take account of him, and he fingered his tie,
feeling sure that there was something wrong with it.
“It’s warm, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is. It’s a way summer has, of being mostly warm.”
He was quite sure that she was laughing at him; there was a tinge of
irony in the very way in which she pronounced “wa’m,” lingeringly,
as though to prolong her contempt for his stupidity in not finding
anything better to say.
She had taken the largest chair in the room, and it seemed to hide her
away in its shadows, so that she could examine him at her leisure as he
sat under a window in the full glare of its light.
“I enjoyed meeting your father so much, Miss Dangerfield. I think we
are always likely to be afraid of great men, but your father made me
feel at home at once. And he tells such capital stories--I’ve been
laughing over them ever since I left New Orleans.”
“Father has quite a reputation for his stories. When did you leave New
Orleans, Mr. Ardmore?”
“Sunday night. I stopped in Atlanta a few hours and came on through.
What a fine old town Atlanta is! don’t you think so?”
“I certainly do not, Mr. Ardmore. It’s so dreadfully northernized.”
When she said “no’thenized” her intonation gave the word a fine,
cutting edge.
“I suppose, Mr. Ardmore, that you saw papa at the luncheon at the
Pharos Club in New Orleans?”
“Why, yes, Miss Dangerfield. It was there I met the governor!”
“Are you sure it was there, Mr. Ardmore?”
“Why, I think that was the place. I don’t know my New Orleans as I
should, but----”
Ardmore was suddenly conscious that Miss Dangerfield had risen, and
that she stood before him, with her fair face the least bit flushed,
her blue eyes alight with anger, and that the hands at her sides were
clenched nervously.
“My father was not at luncheon at the Pharos Club, Mr. Ardmore. You
never saw my father in your life. I know why it is you came here, and
if you are not out of that door in one second I shall call the servants
and have them throw you out.”
She ceased abruptly and turned to look into the hall where steps
sounded.
“Is that you, Jerry?”
“Yes, mamma; I’ll be up in just a minute. Please don’t wait for me.
It’s only the man to see about the plumbing.”
The lady who had appeared for an instant at the door went on slowly up
the stairs, and the girl held Ardmore silent with her steady eyes until
the step died away above.
“I know what you want my father for. Mr. Billings and you are both
pursuing him--it’s infamous, outrageous! And it isn’t his fault. I
would have you know that my father is an honourable man!”
The bayonets were at his breast: he would ask for mercy.
“Miss Dangerfield, you are quite mistaken about me. I shall leave
Raleigh at once, but I don’t want you to think I came here on any
errand to injure or annoy your father.”
“You are one of _those_ Ardmores, and Mr. Billings represents you. You
thought you could come here and trick me into telling where my father
is. But I’m not so easily caught. My mother is ill because of all this
trouble, and I must go to her. But first I want to see that you leave
this house!”
“Oh, I’m sorry you are in trouble. On my honour, Miss Dangerfield, I
know nothing of Billings and his business with your father.”
“I suppose you will deny that you saw Mr. Billings in Atlanta
yesterday?”
“Why, no. I can’t exactly----”
“You’d better not! I saw you there talking to him; and I suppose he
sent you here to see what you could find out.”
The room whirled a moment as she dealt this staggering blow. Billings,
of the Bronx Loan and Trust Company, had said that Miss Dangerfield
was peppery, but his employment of this trifling term only illustrated
his weak command of the English language. It is not pleasant to be
pilloried for undreamed-of crimes, and Ardmore’s ears tingled. He must
plunge deeper and trust to the gods of chance to save him. He brought
himself together with an effort, and spoke so earnestly that the words
rang oddly in his own ears.
“Miss Dangerfield, you may call me anything you please, but I am not
quite the scoundrel you think me. It’s true that I was not in New
Orleans, and I never saw your father in my life. I came to Raleigh
on a mission that has absolutely nothing to do with Mr. Billings; he
did not know I was coming. On the way here a message intended for your
father came into my hands. It was thrown on the train at Kildare last
night. I had gone out on the platform because the sleeper was hot,
and a warning to your father to keep his hands off of Appleweight was
given to me. Here it is. It seems to me that there is immediate danger
in this, and I want to help you. I want to do anything I can for you.
I didn’t come here to pry into your family secrets, Miss Dangerfield,
honestly I didn’t!”
She took the piece of paper into her slim little hands and read it,
slowly nodding her head, as if the words only confirmed some earlier
knowledge of the threat they contained. Then she lifted her head, and
her eyes were bright with mirth as Ardmore’s wondering gaze met them.
“Did _you_ get the jug?”
“I got two jugs, to tell the truth; but when they seemed dissatisfied
and howled for me to give one back, I threw off the buttermilk.”
“You threw back father’s buttermilk to the man who gave you the
applejack? Oh! oh!”
Miss Jerry Dangerfield sat down and laughed; and Ardmore, glad of an
opportunity to escape, found his hat and rushed from the house.