I'm taller than you! But,” she added, looking at his dripping clothes
and dragging out a blanket from the corner, “I couldn't dry myself
as quick as you kin!” To her surprise, however, Hemmingway tossed the
blanket aside, and pointing to the floor, which was already filmed with
water, ran to the still warm stove, detached it from its pipe, and threw
it overboard. The sack of flour, bacon, molasses, and sugar, and all the
heavier articles followed it into the stream. Relieved of their weight
the cabin base rose an inch or two higher. Then he sat down and said,
“There! that may keep us afloat for that 'couple of hours' you speak of.
So I suppose I may talk now!”
“Ye haven't no time,” she said, in a graver voice. “It won't be as long
as a couple of hours now. Look over thar!”
He looked where she pointed across the gray expanse of water. At first
he could see nothing. Presently he saw a mere dot on its face which at
times changed to a single black line.
“It's a log, like these,” he said.
“It's no log. It's an Injun dug-out*--comin' for me.”
* A canoe made from a hollowed log.
“Your father?” he said joyfully.
She smiled pityingly. “It's Tom Flynn. Father's got suthin' else to look
arter. Tom Flynn hasn't.”
“And who's Tom Flynn?” he asked, with an odd sensation.
“The man I'm engaged to,” she said gravely, with a slight color.
The rose that blossomed on her cheek faded in his. There was a moment of
silence. Then he said frankly, “I owe you some apology. Forgive my folly
and impertinence a moment ago. How could I have known this?”
“You took no more than you deserved, or that Tom would have objected
to,” she said, with a little laugh. “You've been mighty kind and handy.”
She held out her hand; their fingers closed together in a frank
pressure. Then his mind went back to his work, which he had
forgotten,--to his first impressions of the camp and of her. They both
stood silent, watching the canoe, now quite visible, and the man that
was paddling it, with an intensity that both felt was insincere.
“I'm afraid,” he said, with a forced laugh, “that I was a little too
hasty in disposing of your goods and possessions. We could have kept
afloat a little longer.”
“It's all the same,” she said, with a slight laugh; “it's jest as well
we didn't look too comf'ble--to HIM.”
He did not reply; he did not dare to look at her. Yes! It was the same
coquette he had seen last night. His first impressions were correct.
The canoe came on rapidly now, propelled by a powerful arm. In a few
moments it was alongside, and its owner leaped on the platform. It was
the gentleman with his trousers tucked in his boots, the second voice
in the gloomy discussion in the general store last evening. He nodded
simply to the girl, and shook Hemmingway's hand warmly.
Then he made a hurried apology for his delay: it was so difficult to
find “the lay” of the drifted cabin. He had struck out first for the
most dangerous spot,--the “old clearing,” on the right bank, with its
stumps and new growths,--and it seemed he was right. And all the rest
were safe, and “nobody was hurt.”
“All the same, Tom,” she said, when they were seated and paddling off
again, “you don't know HOW NEAR YOU CAME TO LOSING ME.” Then she
raised her beautiful eyes and looked significantly, not at HIM, but at
Hemmingway.
When the water was down at “Jules'” the next day, they found certain
curious changes and some gold, and the secretary was able to make a
favorable report. But he made none whatever of his impressions “when
the water was up at 'Jules','” though he often wondered if they were
strictly trustworthy.
THE BOOM IN THE “CALAVERAS CLARION”
The editorial sanctum of the “Calaveras Clarion” opened upon the
“composing-room” of that paper on the one side, and gave apparently upon
the rest of Calaveras County upon the other. For, situated on the very
outskirts of the settlement and the summit of a very steep hill, the
pines sloped away from the editorial windows to the long valley of the
South Fork and--infinity. The little wooden building had invaded Nature
without subduing it. It was filled night and day with the murmur of
pines and their fragrance. Squirrels scampered over its roof when it was
not preoccupied by woodpeckers, and a printer's devil had once seen a
nest-building blue jay enter the composing window, flutter before one
of the slanting type-cases with an air of deliberate selection, and then
fly off with a vowel in its bill.
Amidst these sylvan surroundings the temporary editor of the “Clarion”
sat at his sanctum, reading the proofs of an editorial. As he was
occupying that position during a six weeks' absence of the bona fide
editor and proprietor, he was consequently reading the proof with some
anxiety and responsibility. It had been suggested to him by certain
citizens that the “Clarion” needed a firmer and more aggressive policy
towards the Bill before the Legislature for the wagon road to the South
Fork. Several Assembly men had been “got at” by the rival settlement of
Liberty Hill, and a scathing exposure and denunciation of such methods
was necessary. The interests of their own township were also to be
“whooped up.” All this had been vigorously explained to him, and he had
grasped the spirit, if not always the facts, of his informants. It is
to be feared, therefore, that he was perusing his article more with
reference to its vigor than his own convictions. And yet he was not so
greatly absorbed as to be unmindful of the murmur of the pines
without, his half-savage environment, and the lazy talk of his sole
companions,--the foreman and printer in the adjoining room.
“Bet your life! I've always said that a man INSIDE a newspaper office
could hold his own agin any outsider that wanted to play rough or tried
to raid the office! Thar's the press, and thar's the printin' ink and
roller! Folks talk a heap o' the power o' the Press!--I tell ye, ye
don't half know it. Why, when old Kernel Fish was editin' the 'Sierra
Banner,' one o' them bullies that he'd lampooned in the 'Banner' fought
his way past the Kernel in the office, into the composin'-room, to
wreck everythin' and 'pye' all the types. Spoffrel--ye don't remember
Spoffrel?--little red-haired man?--was foreman. Spoffrel fended him off
with the roller and got one good dab inter his eyes that blinded him,
and then Spoffrel sorter skirmished him over to the press,--a plain
lever just like ours,--whar the locked-up form of the inside was still
a-lyin'! Then, quick as lightnin', Spoffrel tilts him over agin it, and
HE throws out his hand and ketches hold o' the form to steady himself,
when Spoffrel just runs the form and the hand under the press and down
with the lever! And that held the feller fast as grim death! And when
at last he begs off, and Spoff lets him loose, the hull o' that 'ere
lampooning article he objected to was printed right onto the skin o' his
hand! Fact, and it wouldn't come off, either.”
“Gosh, but I'd like to hev seen it,” said the printer. “There ain't any
chance, I reckon, o' such a sight here. The boss don't take no risks
lampoonin', and he” (the editor knew he was being indicated by some
unseen gesture of the unseen workman) “ain't that style.”
“Ye never kin tell,” said the foreman didactically, “what might happen!
I've known editors to get into a fight jest for a little innercent
bedevilin' o' the opposite party. Sometimes for a misprint. Old man
Pritchard of the 'Argus' oncet had a hole blown through his arm because
his proofreader had called Colonel Starbottle's speech an 'ignominious'
defense, when the old man hed written 'ingenuous' defense.”
The editor paused in his proof-reading. He had just come upon the
sentence: “We cannot congratulate Liberty Hill--in its superior
elevation--upon the ignominious silence of the representative of all
Calaveras when this infamous Bill was introduced.” He referred to his
copy. Yes! He had certainly written “ignominious,”--that was what his
informants had suggested. But was he sure they were right? He had a
vague recollection, also, that the representative alluded to--Senator
Bradley--had fought two duels, and was a “good” though somewhat
impulsive shot! He might alter the word to “ingenuous” or “ingenious,”
either would be finely sarcastic, but then--there was his foreman, who
would detect it! He would wait until he had finished the entire article.
In that occupation he became oblivious of the next room, of a silence,
a whispered conversation, which ended with a rapping at the door and the
appearance of the foreman in the doorway.
“There's a man in the office who wants to see the editor,” he said.
“Show him in,” replied the editor briefly. He was, however, conscious
that there was a singular significance in his foreman's manner, and an
eager apparition of the other printer over the foreman's shoulder.
“He's carryin' a shot-gun, and is a man twice as big as you be,” said
the foreman gravely.
The editor quickly recalled his own brief and as yet blameless record
in the “Clarion.” “Perhaps,” he said tentatively, with a gentle smile,
“he's looking for Captain Brush” (the absent editor).
“I told him all that,” said the foreman grimly, “and he said he wanted
to see the man in charge.”
In proportion as the editor's heart sank his outward crest arose. “Show
him in,” he said loftily.
“We KIN keep him out,” suggested the foreman, lingering a moment; “me
and him,” indicating the expectant printer behind him, “is enough for
that.”
“Show him up,” repeated the editor firmly.
The foreman withdrew; the editor seated himself and again took up
his proof. The doubtful word “ignominious” seemed to stand out of the
paragraph before him; it certainly WAS a strong expression! He was about
to run his pencil through it when he heard the heavy step of his visitor
approaching. A sudden instinct of belligerency took possession of him,
and he wrathfully threw the pencil down.
The burly form of the stranger blocked the doorway. He was dressed like
a miner, but his build and general physiognomy were quite distinct
from the local variety. His upper lip and chin were clean-shaven, still
showing the blue-black roots of the beard which covered the rest of his
face and depended in a thick fleece under his throat. He carried a small
bundle tied up in a silk handkerchief in one hand, and a “shot-gun” in
the other, perilously at half-cock. Entering the sanctum, he put down
his bundle and quietly closed the door behind him. He then drew an empty
chair towards him and dropped heavily into it with his gun on his
knees. The editor's heart dropped almost as heavily, although he quite
composedly held out his hand.
“Shall I relieve you of your gun?”
“Thank ye, lad--noa. It's moor coomfortable wi' me, and it's main
dangersome to handle on the half-cock. That's why I didn't leave 'im on
the horse outside!”
At the sound of his voice and occasional accent a flash of intelligence
relieved the editor's mind. He remembered that twenty miles away, in
the illimitable vista from his windows, lay a settlement of English
north-country miners, who, while faithfully adopting the methods,
customs, and even slang of the Californians, retained many of their
native peculiarities. The gun he carried on his knee, however, was
evidently part of the Californian imitation.
“Can I do anything for you?” said the editor blandly.
“Ay! I've coom here to bill ma woife.”
“I--don't think I understand,” hesitated the editor, with a smile.
“I've coom here to get ye to put into your paaper a warnin', a notiss,
that onless she returns to my house in four weeks, I'll have nowt to do
wi' her again.”
“Oh!” said the editor, now perfectly reassured, “you want an
advertisement? That's the business of the foreman; I'll call him.” He
was rising from his seat when the stranger laid a heavy hand on his
shoulder and gently forced him down again.
“Noa, lad! I don't want noa foreman nor understrappers to take this job.
I want to talk it over wi' you. Sabe? My woife she bin up and awaa these
six months. We had a bit of difference, that ain't here nor there, but
she skedaddled outer my house. I want to give her fair warning, and let
her know I ain't payin' any debts o' hers arter this notiss, and I ain't
takin' her back arter four weeks from date.”
“I see,” said the editor glibly. “What's your wife's name?”
“Eliza Jane Dimmidge.”
“Good,” continued the editor, scribbling on the paper before him;
“something like this will do: 'Whereas my wife, Eliza Jane Dimmidge,
having left my bed and board without just cause or provocation, this
is to give notice that I shall not be responsible for any debts of her
contracting on or after this date.'”
“Ye must be a lawyer,” said Mr. Dimmidge admiringly.
It was an old enough form of advertisement, and the remark showed
incontestably that Mr. Dimmidge was not a native; but the editor smiled
patronizingly and went on: “'And I further give notice that if she does
not return within the period of four weeks from this date, I shall take
such proceedings for relief as the law affords.'”
“Coom, lad, I didn't say THAT.”
“But you said you wouldn't take her back.”
“Ay.”
“And you can't prevent her without legal proceedings. She's your wife.
But you needn't take proceedings, you know. It's only a warning.”
Mr. Dimmidge nodded approvingly. “That's so.”
“You'll want it published for four weeks, until date?” asked the editor.
“Mebbe longer, lad.”
The editor wrote “till forbid” in the margin of the paper and smiled.
“How big will it be?” said Mr. Dimmidge.
The editor took up a copy of the “Clarion” and indicated about an inch
of space. Mr. Dimmidge's face fell.
“I want it bigger,--in large letters, like a play-card,” he said.
“That's no good for a warning.”
“You can have half a column or a whole column if you like,” said the
editor airily.
“I'll take a whole one,” said Mr. Dimmidge simply.
The editor laughed. “Why! it would cost you a hundred dollars.”
“I'll take it,” repeated Mr. Dimmidge.
“But,” said the editor gravely, “the same notice in a small space will
serve your purpose and be quite legal.”
“Never you mind that, lad! It's the looks of the thing I'm arter, and
not the expense. I'll take that column.”
The editor called in the foreman and showed him the copy. “Can you
display that so as to fill a column?”
The foreman grasped the situation promptly. It would be big business for
the paper. “Yes,” he said meditatively, “that bold-faced election type
will do it.”
Mr. Dimmidge's face brightened. The expression “bold-faced” pleased him.
“That's it! I told you. I want to bill her in a portion of the paper.”
“I might put in a cut,” said the foreman suggestively; “something like
this.” He took a venerable woodcut from the case. I grieve to say it was
one which, until the middle of the present century, was common enough in
the newspaper offices in the Southwest. It showed the running figure of
a negro woman carrying her personal property in a knotted handkerchief
slung from a stick over her shoulder, and was supposed to represent “a
fugitive slave.”
Mr. Dimmidge's eyes brightened. “I'll take that, too. It's a little
dark-complected for Mrs. P., but it will do. Now roon away, lad,” he
said to the foreman, as he quietly pushed him into the outer office
again and closed the door. Then, facing the surprised editor, he said,
“Theer's another notiss I want ye to put in your paper; but that's
atween US. Not a word to THEM,” he indicated the banished foreman with a
jerk of his thumb. “Sabe? I want you to put this in another part o' your
paper, quite innocent-like, ye know.” He drew from his pocket a gray
wallet, and taking out a slip of paper read from it gravely, “'If this
should meet the eye of R. B., look out for M. J. D. He is on your track.
When this you see write a line to E. J. D., Elktown Post Office.' I want
this to go in as 'Personal and Private'--sabe?--like them notisses in
the big 'Frisco papers.”
“I see,” said the editor, laying it aside. “It shall go in the same
issue in another column.”
Apparently Mr. Dimmidge expected something more than this reply, for
after a moment's hesitation he said with an odd smile:
“Ye ain't seein' the meanin' o' that, lad?”
“No,” said the editor lightly; “but I suppose R. B. does, and it isn't
intended that any one else should.”
“Mebbe it is, and mebbe it isn't,” said Mr. Dimmidge, with a
self-satisfied air. “I don't mind saying atween us that R. B. is the man
as I've suspicioned as havin' something to do with my wife goin' away;
and ye see, if he writes to E. J. D.--that's my wife's initials--at
Elktown, I'LL get that letter and so make sure.”
“But suppose your wife goes there first, or sends?”
“Then I'll ketch her or her messenger. Ye see?”
The editor did not see fit to oppose any argument to this phenomenal
simplicity, and Mr. Dimmidge, after settling his bill with the foreman,
and enjoining the editor to the strictest secrecy regarding the origin
of the “personal notice,” took up his gun and departed, leaving the
treasury of the “Clarion” unprecedentedly enriched, and the editor to
his proofs.
The paper duly appeared the next morning with the column advertisement,
the personal notice, and the weighty editorial on the wagon road. There
was a singular demand for the paper, the edition was speedily exhausted,
and the editor was proportionately flattered, although he was surprised
to receive neither praise nor criticism from his subscribers. Before
evening, however, he learned to his astonishment that the excitement was
caused by the column advertisement. Nobody knew Mr. Dimmidge, nor his
domestic infelicities, and the editor and foreman, being equally in the
dark, took refuge in a mysterious and impressive evasion of all inquiry.
Never since the last San Francisco Vigilance Committee had the office
been so besieged. The editor, foreman, and even the apprentice, were
buttonholed and “treated” at the bar, but to no effect. All that could
be learned was that it was a bona fide advertisement, for which one
hundred dollars had been received! There were great discussions and
conflicting theories as to whether the value of the wife, or the
husband's anxiety to get rid of her, justified the enormous expense and
ostentatious display. She was supposed to be an exceedingly beautiful
woman by some, by others a perfect Sycorax; in one breath Mr. Dimmidge
was a weak, uxorious spouse, wasting his substance on a creature who did
not care for him, and in another a maddened, distracted, henpecked man,
content to purchase peace and rest at any price. Certainly, never was
advertisement more effective in its publicity, or cheaper in proportion
to the circulation it commanded. It was copied throughout the whole
Pacific slope; mighty San Francisco papers described its size and
setting under the attractive headline, “How they Advertise a Wife in the
Mountains!” It reappeared in the Eastern journals, under the title of
“Whimsicalities of the Western Press.” It was believed to have crossed
to England as a specimen of “Transatlantic Savagery.” The real editor
of the “Clarion” awoke one morning, in San Francisco, to find his paper
famous. Its advertising columns were eagerly sought for; he at once
advanced the rates. People bought successive issues to gaze upon this
monumental record of extravagance. A singular idea, which, however,
brought further fortune to the paper, was advanced by an astute critic
at the Eureka Saloon. “My opinion, gentlemen, is that the whole blamed
thing is a bluff! There ain't no Mr. Dimmidge; there ain't no Mrs.
Dimmidge; there ain't no desertion! The whole rotten thing is an
ADVERTISEMENT o' suthin'! Ye'll find afore ye get through with it
that that there wife won't come back until that blamed husband buys
Somebody's Soap, or treats her to Somebody's particular Starch or Patent
Medicine! Ye jest watch and see!” The idea was startling, and seized
upon the mercantile mind. The principal merchant of the town, and
purveyor to the mining settlements beyond, appeared the next morning at
the office of the “Clarion.” “Ye wouldn't mind puttin' this 'ad' in
a column alongside o' the Dimmidge one, would ye?” The young editor
glanced at it, and then, with a serpent-like sagacity, veiled, however,
by the suavity of the dove, pointed out that the original advertiser
might think it called his bona fides into question and withdraw his
advertisement. “But if we secured you by an offer of double the amount
per column?” urged the merchant. “That,” responded the locum tenens,
“was for the actual editor and proprietor in San Francisco to determine.
He would telegraph.” He did so. The response was, “Put it in.” Whereupon
in the next issue, side by side with Mr. Dimmidge's protracted warning,
appeared a column with the announcement, in large letters, “WE HAVEN'T
LOST ANY WIFE, but WE are prepared to furnish the following goods at
a lower rate than any other advertiser in the county,” followed by the
usual price list of the merchant's wares. There was an unprecedented
demand for that issue. The reputation of the “Clarion,” both as a shrewd
advertising medium and a comic paper, was established at once. For a few
days the editor waited with some apprehension for a remonstrance from
the absent Dimmidge, but none came. Whether Mr. Dimmidge recognized that
this new advertisement gave extra publicity to his own, or that he was
already on the track of the fugitive, the editor did not know. The
few curious citizens who had, early in the excitement, penetrated
the settlement of the English miners twenty miles away in search of
information, found that Mr. Dimmidge had gone away, and that Mrs.
Dimmidge had NEVER resided there with him!
Six weeks passed. The limit of Mr. Dimmidge's advertisement had been
reached, and, as it was not renewed, it had passed out of the pages
of the “Clarion,” and with it the merchant's advertisement in the next
column. The excitement had subsided, although its influence was still
felt in the circulation of the paper and its advertising popularity. The
temporary editor was also nearing the limit of his incumbency, but had
so far participated in the good fortune of the “Clarion” as to receive
an offer from one of the San Francisco dailies.
It was a warm night, and he was alone in his sanctum. The rest of the
building was dark and deserted, and his solitary light, flashing out
through the open window, fell upon the nearer pines and was lost in the
dark, indefinable slope below. He had reached the sanctum by the
rear, and a door which he also left open to enjoy the freshness of
the aromatic air. Nor did it in the least mar his privacy. Rather the
solitude of the great woods without seemed to enter through that
door and encompassed him with its protecting loneliness. There was
occasionally a faint “peep” in the scant eaves, or a “pat-pat,” ending
in a frightened scurry across the roof, or the slow flap of a heavy
wing in the darkness below. These gentle disturbances did not, however,
interrupt his work on “The True Functions of the County Newspaper,” the
editorial on which he was engaged.
Presently a more distinct rustling against the straggling blackberry
bushes beside the door attracted his attention. It was followed by a
light tapping against the side of the house. The editor started and
turned quickly towards the open door. Two outside steps led to the
ground. Standing upon the lower one was a woman. The upper part of her
figure, illuminated by the light from the door, was thrown into greater
relief by the dark background of the pines. Her face was unknown to
him, but it was a pleasant one, marked by a certain good-humored
determination.
“May I come in?” she said confidently.
“Certainly,” said the editor. “I am working here alone because it is
so quiet.” He thought he would precipitate some explanation from her by
excusing himself.
“That's the reason why I came,” she said, with a quiet smile.
She came up the next step and entered the room. She was plainly but
neatly dressed, and now that her figure was revealed he saw that she was
wearing a linsey-woolsey riding-skirt, and carried a serviceable rawhide
whip in her cotton-gauntleted hand. She took the chair he offered her
and sat down sideways on it, her whip hand now also holding up her
skirt, and permitting a hem of clean white petticoat and a smart,
well-shaped boot to be seen.
“I don't remember to have had the pleasure of seeing you in Calaveras
before,” said the editor tentatively.
“No. I never was here before,” she said composedly, “but you've heard
enough of me, I reckon. I'm Mrs. Dimmidge.” She threw one hand over
the back of the chair, and with the other tapped her riding-whip on the
floor.