He lived with his mother, a grey, silent woman with a peculiar ashy
complexion. The house in which they lived stood in a little grove of
trees beyond where the main street of Winesburg crossed Wine Creek. His
name was Joe Welling, and his father had been a man of some dignity in
the community, a lawyer, and a member of the state legislature at
Columbus. Joe himself was small of body and in his character unlike
anyone else in town. He was like a tiny little volcano that lies silent
for days and then suddenly spouts fire. No, he wasn’t like that—he was
like a man who is subject to fits, one who walks among his fellow men
inspiring fear because a fit may come upon him suddenly and blow him
away into a strange uncanny physical state in which his eyes roll and
his legs and arms jerk. He was like that, only that the visitation that
descended upon Joe Welling was a mental and not a physical thing. He
was beset by ideas and in the throes of one of his ideas was
uncontrollable. Words rolled and tumbled from his mouth. A peculiar
smile came upon his lips. The edges of his teeth that were tipped with
gold glistened in the light. Pouncing upon a bystander he began to
talk. For the bystander there was no escape. The excited man breathed
into his face, peered into his eyes, pounded upon his chest with a
shaking forefinger, demanded, compelled attention.
In those days the Standard Oil Company did not deliver oil to the
consumer in big wagons and motor trucks as it does now, but delivered
instead to retail grocers, hardware stores, and the like. Joe was the
Standard Oil agent in Winesburg and in several towns up and down the
railroad that went through Winesburg. He collected bills, booked
orders, and did other things. His father, the legislator, had secured
the job for him.
In and out of the stores of Winesburg went Joe Welling—silent,
excessively polite, intent upon his business. Men watched him with eyes
in which lurked amusement tempered by alarm. They were waiting for him
to break forth, preparing to flee. Although the seizures that came upon
him were harmless enough, they could not be laughed away. They were
overwhelming. Astride an idea, Joe was overmastering. His personality
became gigantic. It overrode the man to whom he talked, swept him away,
swept all away, all who stood within sound of his voice.
In Sylvester West’s Drug Store stood four men who were talking of horse
racing. Wesley Moyer’s stallion, Tony Tip, was to race at the June
meeting at Tiffin, Ohio, and there was a rumor that he would meet the
stiffest competition of his career. It was said that Pop Geers, the
great racing driver, would himself be there. A doubt of the success of
Tony Tip hung heavy in the air of Winesburg.
Into the drug store came Joe Welling, brushing the screen door
violently aside. With a strange absorbed light in his eyes he pounced
upon Ed Thomas, he who knew Pop Geers and whose opinion of Tony Tip’s
chances was worth considering.
“The water is up in Wine Creek,” cried Joe Welling with the air of
Pheidippides bringing news of the victory of the Greeks in the struggle
at Marathon. His finger beat a tattoo upon Ed Thomas’s broad chest. “By
Trunion bridge it is within eleven and a half inches of the flooring,”
he went on, the words coming quickly and with a little whistling noise
from between his teeth. An expression of helpless annoyance crept over
the faces of the four.
“I have my facts correct. Depend upon that. I went to Sinnings’
Hardware Store and got a rule. Then I went back and measured. I could
hardly believe my own eyes. It hasn’t rained you see for ten days. At
first I didn’t know what to think. Thoughts rushed through my head. I
thought of subterranean passages and springs. Down under the ground
went my mind, delving about. I sat on the floor of the bridge and
rubbed my head. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, not one. Come out into
the street and you’ll see. There wasn’t a cloud. There isn’t a cloud
now. Yes, there was a cloud. I don’t want to keep back any facts. There
was a cloud in the west down near the horizon, a cloud no bigger than a
man’s hand.
“Not that I think that has anything to do with it. There it is, you
see. You understand how puzzled I was.
“Then an idea came to me. I laughed. You’ll laugh, too. Of course it
rained over in Medina County. That’s interesting, eh? If we had no
trains, no mails, no telegraph, we would know that it rained over in
Medina County. That’s where Wine Creek comes from. Everyone knows that.
Little old Wine Creek brought us the news. That’s interesting. I
laughed. I thought I’d tell you—it’s interesting, eh?”
Joe Welling turned and went out at the door. Taking a book from his
pocket, he stopped and ran a finger down one of the pages. Again he was
absorbed in his duties as agent of the Standard Oil Company. “Hern’s
Grocery will be getting low on coal oil. I’ll see them,” he muttered,
hurrying along the street, and bowing politely to the right and left at
the people walking past.
When George Willard went to work for the _Winesburg Eagle_ he was
besieged by Joe Welling. Joe envied the boy. It seemed to him that he
was meant by Nature to be a reporter on a newspaper. “It is what I
should be doing, there is no doubt of that,” he declared, stopping
George Willard on the sidewalk before Daugherty’s Feed Store. His eyes
began to glisten and his forefinger to tremble. “Of course I make more
money with the Standard Oil Company and I’m only telling you,” he
added. “I’ve got nothing against you but I should have your place. I
could do the work at odd moments. Here and there I would run finding
out things you’ll never see.”
Becoming more excited Joe Welling crowded the young reporter against
the front of the feed store. He appeared to be lost in thought, rolling
his eyes about and running a thin nervous hand through his hair. A
smile spread over his face and his gold teeth glittered. “You get out
your note book,” he commanded. “You carry a little pad of paper in your
pocket, don’t you? I knew you did. Well, you set this down. I thought
of it the other day. Let’s take decay. Now what is decay? It’s fire. It
burns up wood and other things. You never thought of that? Of course
not. This sidewalk here and this feed store, the trees down the street
there—they’re all on fire. They’re burning up. Decay you see is always
going on. It doesn’t stop. Water and paint can’t stop it. If a thing is
iron, then what? It rusts, you see. That’s fire, too. The world is on
fire. Start your pieces in the paper that way. Just say in big letters
_‘The World Is On Fire.’_ That will make ’em look up. They’ll say
you’re a smart one. I don’t care. I don’t envy you. I just snatched
that idea out of the air. I would make a newspaper hum. You got to
admit that.”
Turning quickly, Joe Welling walked rapidly away. When he had taken
several steps he stopped and looked back. “I’m going to stick to you,”
he said. “I’m going to make you a regular hummer. I should start a
newspaper myself, that’s what I should do. I’d be a marvel. Everybody
knows that.”
When George Willard had been for a year on the _Winesburg Eagle_, four
things happened to Joe Welling. His mother died, he came to live at the
New Willard House, he became involved in a love affair, and he
organized the Winesburg Baseball Club.
Joe organized the baseball club because he wanted to be a coach and in
that position he began to win the respect of his townsmen. “He is a
wonder,” they declared after Joe’s team had whipped the team from
Medina County. “He gets everybody working together. You just watch
him.”
Upon the baseball field Joe Welling stood by first base, his whole body
quivering with excitement. In spite of themselves all the players
watched him closely. The opposing pitcher became confused.
“Now! Now! Now! Now!” shouted the excited man. “Watch me! Watch me!
Watch my fingers! Watch my hands! Watch my feet! Watch my eyes! Let’s
work together here! Watch me! In me you see all the movements of the
game! Work with me! Work with me! Watch me! Watch me! Watch me!”
With runners of the Winesburg team on bases, Joe Welling became as one
inspired. Before they knew what had come over them, the base runners
were watching the man, edging off the bases, advancing, retreating,
held as by an invisible cord. The players of the opposing team also
watched Joe. They were fascinated. For a moment they watched and then,
as though to break a spell that hung over them, they began hurling the
ball wildly about, and amid a series of fierce animal-like cries from
the coach, the runners of the Winesburg team scampered home.
Joe Welling’s love affair set the town of Winesburg on edge. When it
began everyone whispered and shook his head. When people tried to
laugh, the laughter was forced and unnatural. Joe fell in love with
Sarah King, a lean, sad-looking woman who lived with her father and
brother in a brick house that stood opposite the gate leading to the
Winesburg Cemetery.
The two Kings, Edward the father, and Tom the son, were not popular in
Winesburg. They were called proud and dangerous. They had come to
Winesburg from some place in the South and ran a cider mill on the
Trunion Pike. Tom King was reported to have killed a man before he came
to Winesburg. He was twenty-seven years old and rode about town on a
grey pony. Also he had a long yellow mustache that dropped down over
his teeth, and always carried a heavy, wicked-looking walking stick in
his hand. Once he killed a dog with the stick. The dog belonged to Win
Pawsey, the shoe merchant, and stood on the sidewalk wagging its tail.
Tom King killed it with one blow. He was arrested and paid a fine of
ten dollars.
Old Edward King was small of stature and when he passed people in the
street laughed a queer unmirthful laugh. When he laughed he scratched
his left elbow with his right hand. The sleeve of his coat was almost
worn through from the habit. As he walked along the street, looking
nervously about and laughing, he seemed more dangerous than his silent,
fierce-looking son.
When Sarah King began walking out in the evening with Joe Welling,
people shook their heads in alarm. She was tall and pale and had dark
rings under her eyes. The couple looked ridiculous together. Under the
trees they walked and Joe talked. His passionate eager protestations of
love, heard coming out of the darkness by the cemetery wall, or from
the deep shadows of the trees on the hill that ran up to the Fair
Grounds from Waterworks Pond, were repeated in the stores. Men stood by
the bar in the New Willard House laughing and talking of Joe’s
courtship. After the laughter came the silence. The Winesburg baseball
team, under his management, was winning game after game, and the town
had begun to respect him. Sensing a tragedy, they waited, laughing
nervously.
Late on a Saturday afternoon the meeting between Joe Welling and the
two Kings, the anticipation of which had set the town on edge, took
place in Joe Welling’s room in the New Willard House. George Willard
was a witness to the meeting. It came about in this way:
When the young reporter went to his room after the evening meal he saw
Tom King and his father sitting in the half darkness in Joe’s room. The
son had the heavy walking stick in his hand and sat near the door. Old
Edward King walked nervously about, scratching his left elbow with his
right hand. The hallways were empty and silent.
George Willard went to his own room and sat down at his desk. He tried
to write but his hand trembled so that he could not hold the pen. He
also walked nervously up and down. Like the rest of the town of
Winesburg he was perplexed and knew not what to do.
It was seven-thirty and fast growing dark when Joe Welling came along
the station platform toward the New Willard House. In his arms he held
a bundle of weeds and grasses. In spite of the terror that made his
body shake, George Willard was amused at the sight of the small spry
figure holding the grasses and half running along the platform.
Shaking with fright and anxiety, the young reporter lurked in the
hallway outside the door of the room in which Joe Welling talked to the
two Kings. There had been an oath, the nervous giggle of old Edward
King, and then silence. Now the voice of Joe Welling, sharp and clear,
broke forth. George Willard began to laugh. He understood. As he had
swept all men before him, so now Joe Welling was carrying the two men
in the room off their feet with a tidal wave of words. The listener in
the hall walked up and down, lost in amazement.
Inside the room Joe Welling had paid no attention to the grumbled
threat of Tom King. Absorbed in an idea he closed the door and,
lighting a lamp, spread the handful of weeds and grasses upon the
floor. “I’ve got something here,” he announced solemnly. “I was going
to tell George Willard about it, let him make a piece out of it for the
paper. I’m glad you’re here. I wish Sarah were here also. I’ve been
going to come to your house and tell you of some of my ideas. They’re
interesting. Sarah wouldn’t let me. She said we’d quarrel. That’s
foolish.”
Running up and down before the two perplexed men, Joe Welling began to
explain. “Don’t you make a mistake now,” he cried. “This is something
big.” His voice was shrill with excitement. “You just follow me, you’ll
be interested. I know you will. Suppose this—suppose all of the wheat,
the corn, the oats, the peas, the potatoes, were all by some miracle
swept away. Now here we are, you see, in this county. There is a high
fence built all around us. We’ll suppose that. No one can get over the
fence and all the fruits of the earth are destroyed, nothing left but
these wild things, these grasses. Would we be done for? I ask you that.
Would we be done for?” Again Tom King growled and for a moment there
was silence in the room. Then again Joe plunged into the exposition of
his idea. “Things would go hard for a time. I admit that. I’ve got to
admit that. No getting around it. We’d be hard put to it. More than one
fat stomach would cave in. But they couldn’t down us. I should say
not.”
Tom King laughed good naturedly and the shivery, nervous laugh of
Edward King rang through the house. Joe Welling hurried on. “We’d
begin, you see, to breed up new vegetables and fruits. Soon we’d regain
all we had lost. Mind, I don’t say the new things would be the same as
the old. They wouldn’t. Maybe they’d be better, maybe not so good.
That’s interesting, eh? You can think about that. It starts your mind
working, now don’t it?”
In the room there was silence and then again old Edward King laughed
nervously. “Say, I wish Sarah was here,” cried Joe Welling. “Let’s go
up to your house. I want to tell her of this.”
There was a scraping of chairs in the room. It was then that George
Willard retreated to his own room. Leaning out at the window he saw Joe
Welling going along the street with the two Kings. Tom King was forced
to take extraordinary long strides to keep pace with the little man. As
he strode along, he leaned over, listening—absorbed, fascinated. Joe
Welling again talked excitedly. “Take milkweed now,” he cried. “A lot
might be done with milkweed, eh? It’s almost unbelievable. I want you
to think about it. I want you two to think about it. There would be a
new vegetable kingdom you see. It’s interesting, eh? It’s an idea. Wait
till you see Sarah, she’ll get the idea. She’ll be interested. Sarah is
always interested in ideas. You can’t be too smart for Sarah, now can
you? Of course you can’t. You know that.”