JONESY

'Twas Peter T. Brown that suggested it, you might know. And, as likewise

you might know, 'twas Cap'n Jonadab that done the most of the growling.

“They ain't no sense in it, Peter,” says he. “Education's all right in

its place, but 'tain't no good out of it. Why, one of my last voyages

in the schooner Samuel Emory, I had a educated cook, feller that had

graduated from one of them correspondence schools. He had his diploma

framed and hung up on the wall of the galley along with tintypes of two

or three of his wives, and pictures cut out of the Police News, and the

like of that. And cook! Why, say! one of the fo'mast hands ate half a

dozen of that cook's saleratus biscuit and fell overboard. If he hadn't

been tangled up in his cod line, so we could haul him up by that, he'd

have been down yet. He'd never have riz of his own accord, not with them

biscuits in him. And as for his pie! the mate ate one of them bakeshop

paper plates one time, thinking 'twas under crust; and he kept sayin'

how unusual tender 'twas, at that. Now, what good was education to that

cook? Why--”

“Cut it out!” says Peter T., disgusted. “Who's talking about cooks?

These fellers ain't cooks--they're--”

“I know. They're waiters. Now, there 'tis again. When I give an order

and there's any back talk, I want to understand it. You take a passel of

college fellers, like you want to hire for waiters. S'pose I tell one

of 'em to do something, and he answers back in Greek or Hindoo, or such.

_I_ can't tell what he says. I sha'n't know whether to bang him over the

head or give him a cigar. What's the matter with the waiters we had last

year? They talked Irish, of course, but I understood the most of that,

and when I didn't 'twas safe to roll up my sleeves and begin arguing.

But--”

“Oh, ring off!” says Peter. “Twenty-three!”

And so they had it, back and forth. I didn't say nothing. I knew how

'twould end. If Peter T. Brown thought 'twas good judgment to hire a

mess of college boys for waiters, fellers who could order up the squab

in pigeon-English and the ham in hog-Latin, I didn't care, so long as

the orders and boarders got filled and the payroll didn't have growing

pains. I had considerable faith in Brown's ideas, and he was as set on

this one as a Brahma hen on a plaster nest-egg.

“It'll give tone to the shebang,” says he, referring to the hotel; “and

we want to keep the Old Home House as high-toned as a ten-story organ

factory. And as for education, that's a matter of taste. Me, I'd just as

soon have a waiter that bashfully admitted 'Wee, my dam,' as I would one

that pushed 'Shur-r-e, Moike!' edge-ways out of one corner of his mouth

and served the lettuce on top of the lobster, from principle, to keep

the green above the red. When it comes to tone and tin, Cap'n, you trust

your Uncle Pete; he hasn't been sniffling around the tainted-money bunch

all these days with a cold in his head.”

So it went his way finally, as I knew it would, and when the Old Home

opened up on June first, the college waiters was on hand. And they was

as nice a lot of boys as ever handled plates and wiped dishes for their

board and four dollars a week. They was poor, of course, and working

their passage through what they called the “varsity,” but they attended

to business and wa'n't a mite set up by their learning.

And they made a hit with the boarders, especially the women folks. Take

the crankiest old battle ship that ever cruised into breakfast with

diamond headlights showing and a pretty daughter in tow, and she would

eat lumpy oatmeal and scorched eggs and never sound a distress signal.

How could she, with one of them nice-looking gentlemanly waiters hanging

over her starboard beam and purring, “Certainly, madam,” and “Two lumps

or one, madam?” into her ear? Then, too, she hadn't much time to find

fault with the grub, having to keep one eye on the daughter. The amount

of complaints that them college boys saved in the first fortnight was

worth their season's wages, pretty nigh. Before June was over the Old

Home was full up and we had to annex a couple of next-door houses for

the left-overs.

I was skipper for one of them houses, and Jonadab run the other. Each

of us had a cook and a waiter, a housekeeper and an up-stairs girl.

My housekeeper was the boss prize in the package. Her name was Mabel

Seabury, and she was young and quiet and as pretty as the first bunch

of Mayflowers in the spring. And a lady--whew! The first time I set

opposite to her at table I made up my mind I wouldn't drink out of my

sasser if I scalded the lining off my throat.

She was city born and brought up, but she wa'n't one of your common “He!

he! ain't you turrible!” lunch-counter princesses, with a head like a

dandelion gone to seed and a fish-net waist. You bet she wa'n't! Her

dad had had money once, afore he tried to beat out Jonah and swallow

the stock exchange whale. After that he was skipper of a little society

library up to Cambridge, and she kept house for him. Then he died and

left her his blessing, and some of Peter Brown's wife's folks, that knew

her when she was well off, got her the job of housekeeper here with us.

The only trouble she made was first along, and that wa'n't her fault.

I thought at one time we'd have to put up a wire fence to keep them

college waiters away from her. They hung around her like a passel of

gulls around a herring boat. She was nice to 'em, too, but when you're

just so nice to everybody and not nice enough to any special one, the

prospect ain't encouraging. So they give it up, but there wa'n't a male

on the place, from old Dr. Blatt, mixer of Blatt's Burdock Bitters and

Blatt's Balm for Beauty, down to the boy that emptied the ashes, who

wouldn't have humped himself on all fours and crawled eight miles if

she'd asked him to. And that includes me and Cap'n Jonadab, and we're

about as tough a couple of women-proof old hulks as you'll find afloat.

Jonadab took a special interest in her. It pretty nigh broke his heart

to think she was running my house instead of his. He thought she'd ought

to be married and have a home of her own.

“Well,” says I, “why don't she get married then? She could drag out and

tie up any single critter of the right sex in this neighborhood with

both hands behind her back.”

“Humph!” says he. “I s'pose you'd have her marry one of these

soup-toting college chaps, wouldn't you? Then they could live on Greek

for breakfast and Latin for dinner and warm over the leavings for

supper. No, sir! a girl hasn't no right to get married unless she gets

a man with money. There's a deck-load of millionaires comes here every

summer, and I'm goin' to help her land one of 'em. It's my duty as a

Christian,” says he.

One evening, along the second week in July 'twas, I got up from the

supper-table and walked over toward the hotel, smoking, and thinking

what I'd missed in not having a girl like that set opposite me all these

years. And, in the shadder of the big bunch of lilacs by the gate, I see

a feller standing, a feller with a leather bag in his hand, a stranger.

“Good evening,” says I. “Looking for the hotel, was you?”

He swung round, kind of lazy-like, and looked at me. Then I noticed

how big he was. Seemed to me he was all of seven foot high and broad

according. And rigged up--my soul! He had on a wide, felt hat, with a

whirligig top onto it, and a light checked suit, and gloves, and slung

more style than a barber on Sunday. If I'D wore them kind of duds they'd

have had me down to Danvers, clanking chains and picking straws, but on

this young chap they looked fine.

“Good evening,” says the seven-footer, looking down and speaking to me

cheerful. “Is this the Old Ladies' Home--the Old Home House, I should

say?”

“Yes, sir,” says I, looking up reverent at that hat.

“Right,” he says. “Will you be good enough to tell me where I can find

the proprietor?”

“Well,” says I, “I'm him; that is, I'm one of him. But I'm afraid we

can't accommodate you, mister, not now. We ain't got a room nowheres

that ain't full.”

He knocked the ashes off his cigarette. “I'm not looking for a room,”

says he, “except as a side issue. I'm looking for a job.”

“A job!” I sings out. “A JOB?”

“Yes. I understand you employ college men as waiters. I'm from Harvard,

and--”

“A waiter?” I says, so astonished that I could hardly swaller. “Be you a

waiter?”

“_I_ don't know. I've been told so. Our coach used to say I was the best

waiter on the team. At any rate I'll try the experiment.”

Soon's ever I could gather myself together I reached across and took

hold of his arm.

“Son,” says I, “you come with me and turn in. You'll feel better in the

morning. I don't know where I'll put you, unless it's the bowling alley,

but I guess that's your size. You oughtn't to get this way at your age.”

He laughed a big, hearty laugh, same as I like to hear. “It's straight,”

he says. “I mean it. I want a job.”

“But what for? You ain't short of cash?”

“You bet!” he says. “Strapped.”

“Then,” says I, “you come with me to-night and to-morrer morning you go

somewheres and sell them clothes you've got on. You'll make more out of

that than you will passing pie, if you passed it for a year.”

He laughed again, but he said he was bound to be a waiter and if

I couldn't help him he'd have to hunt up the other portion of the

proprietor. So I told him to stay where he was, and I went off and found

Peter T. You'd ought to seen Peter stare when we hove in sight of the

candidate.

“Thunder!” says he. “Is this Exhibit One, Barzilla? Where'd you pick up

the Chinese giant?”

I done the polite, mentioning Brown's name, hesitating on t'other

chap's.

“Er-Jones,” says the human lighthouse. “Er-yes; Jones.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Jones,” says Peter. “So you want to be a waiter,

do you? For how much per?”

“Oh, I don't know. I'll begin at the bottom, being a green hand. Twenty

a week or so; whatever you're accustomed to paying.”

Brown choked. “The figure's all right,” he says, “only it covers a month

down here.”

“Right!” says Jones, not a bit shook up. “A month goes.”

Peter stepped back and looked him over, beginning with the tan shoes and

ending with the whirligig hat.

“Jonesy,” says he, finally, “you're on. Take him to the servants'

quarters, Wingate.”

A little later, when I had the chance and had Brown alone, I says to

him:

“Peter,” says I, “for the land sakes what did you hire the emperor for?

A blind man could see HE wa'n't no waiter. And we don't need him anyhow;

no more'n a cat needs three tails. Why--”

But he was back at me before I could wink. “Need him?” he says. “Why,

Barzilla, we need him more than the old Harry needs a conscience. Take

a bird's-eye view of him! Size him up! He puts all the rest of the

Greek statues ten miles in the shade. If I could only manage to get his

picture in the papers we'd have all the romantic old maids in Boston

down here inside of a week; and there's enough of THEM to keep one hotel

going till judgment. Need him? Whew!”

Next morning we was at the breakfast-table in my branch establishment,

me and Mabel and the five boarders. All hands was doing their best to

start a famine in the fruit market, and Dr. Blatt was waving a banana

and cheering us with a yarn about an old lady that his Burdock Bitters

had h'isted bodily out of the tomb. He was at the most exciting part,

the bitters and the undertaker coming down the last lap neck and neck,

and an even bet who'd win the patient, when the kitchen door opens and

in marches the waiter with the tray full of dishes of “cereal.” Seems

to me 'twas chopped hay we had that morning--either that or shavings; I

always get them breakfast foods mixed up.

But 'twa'n't the hay that made everybody set up and take notice. 'Twas

the waiter himself. Our regular steward was a spindling little critter

with curls and eye-glasses who answered to the hail of “Percy.” This

fellow clogged up the scenery like a pet elephant, and was down in the

shipping list as “Jones.”

The doc left his invalid hanging on the edge of the grave, and stopped

and stared. Old Mrs. Bounderby h'isted the gold-mounted double spyglass

she had slung round her neck and took an observation. Her daughter

“Maizie” fetched a long breath and shut her eyes, like she'd seen her

finish and was resigned to it.

“Well, Mr. Jones,” says I, soon's I could get my breath, “this is kind

of unexpected, ain't it? Thought you was booked for the main deck.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, polite as a sewing-machine agent, “I was, but Percy

and I have exchanged. Cereal this morning, madam?”

Mrs. Bounderby took her measure of shavings and Jones's measure at the

same time. She had him labeled “Danger” right off; you could tell that

by the way she spread her wings over “Maizie.” But I wa'n't watching her

just then. I was looking at Mabel Seabury--looking and wondering.

The housekeeper was white as the tablecloth. She stared at the Jones

man as if she couldn't believe her eyes, and her breath come short and

quick. I thought sure she was going to cry. And what she ate of that

meal wouldn't have made a lunch for a hearty humming-bird.

When 'twas finished I went out on the porch to think things over. The

dining room winder was open and Jonesy was clearing the table. All of a

sudden I heard him say, low and earnest:

“Well, aren't you going to speak to me?”

The answer was in a girl's voice, and I knew the voice. It said:

“You! YOU! How COULD you? Why did you come?”

“You didn't think I could stay away, did you?”

“But how did you know I was here? I tried so hard to keep it a secret.”

“It took me a month, but I worked it out finally. Aren't you glad to see

me?”

She burst out crying then, quiet, but as if her heart was broke.

“Oh!” she sobs. “How could you be so cruel! And they've been so kind to

me here.”

I went away then, thinking harder than ever. At dinner Jonesy done the

waiting, but Mabel wa'n't on deck. She had a headache, the cook said,

and was lying down. 'Twas the same way at supper, and after supper Peter

Brown comes to me, all broke up, and says he:

“There's merry clink to pay,” he says. “Mabel's going to leave.”

“No?” says I. “She ain't neither!”

“Yes, she is. She says she's going to-morrer. She won't tell me why, and

I've argued with her for two hours. She's going to quit, and I'd rather

enough sight quit myself. What'll we do?” says he.

I couldn't help him none, and he went away, moping and miserable. All

round the place everybody was talking about the “lovely” new waiter,

and to hear the girls go on you'd think the Prince of Wales had landed.

Jonadab was the only kicker, and he said 'twas bad enough afore, but

now that new dude had shipped, 'twa'n't the place for a decent,

self-respecting man.

“How you goin' to order that Grand Panjandrum around?” he says. “Great

land of Goshen! I'd as soon think of telling the Pope of Rome to empty

a pail of swill as I would him. Why don't he stay to home and be a

tailor's sign or something? Not prance around here with his high-toned

airs. I'm glad you've got him, Barzilla, and not me.”

Well, most of that was plain jealousy, so I didn't contradict. Besides

I was too busy thinking. By eight o'clock I'd made up my mind and I went

hunting for Jones.

I found him, after a while, standing by the back door and staring up at

the chamber winders as if he missed something. I asked him to come along

with me. Told him I had a big cargo of talk aboard, and wouldn't be able

to cruise on an even keel till I'd unloaded some of it. So he fell into

my wake, looking puzzled, and in a jiffy we was planted in the rocking

chairs up in my bedroom.

“Look here,” says I, “Mr.--Mr.--”

“Jones,” says he.

“Oh, yes--Jones. It's a nice name.”

“I remember it beautifully,” says he, smiling.

“All right, Mr. Jones. Now, to begin with, we'll agree that it ain't

none of my darn business, and I'm an old gray-headed nosey, and the like

of that. But, being that I AM old--old enough to be your dad, though

that's my only recommend for the job--I'm going to preach a little

sermon. My text is found in the Old Home Hotel, Wellmouth, first house

on the left. It's Miss Seabury,” says I.

He was surprised, I guess, but he never turned a hair. “Indeed?” he

says. “She is the--the housekeeper, isn't she?”

“She was,” says I, “but she leaves to-morrer morning.”

THAT hit him between wind and water.

“No?” he sings out, setting up straight and staring at me. “Not really?”

“You bet,” I says. “Now down in this part of the chart we've come to

think more of that young lady than a cat does of the only kitten left

out of the bag in the water bucket. Let me tell you about her.”

So I went ahead, telling him how Mabel had come to us, why she come, how

well she was liked, how much she liked us, and a whole lot more. I guess

he knew the most of it, but he was too polite not to act interested.

“And now, all at once,” says I, “she gives up being happy and well and

contented, and won't eat, and cries, and says she's going to leave.

There's a reason, as the advertisement folks say, and I'm going to make

a guess at it. I believe it calls itself Jones.”

His under jaw pushed out a little and his eyebrows drew together. But

all he said was, “Well?”

“Yes,” I says. “And now, Mr. Jones, I'm old, as I said afore, and nosey

maybe, but I like that girl. Perhaps I might come to like you, too; you

can't tell. Under them circumstances, and with the understanding that

it didn't go no farther, maybe you might give me a glimpse of the lay

of the land. Possibly I might have something to say that would help. I'm

fairly white underneath, if I be sunburned. What do you think about it?”

He didn't answer right off; seemed to be chewing it over. After a spell

he spoke.

“Mr. Wingate,” says he, “with the understanding that you mentioned, I

don't mind supposing a case. Suppose you was a chap in college. Suppose

you met a girl in the vicinity that was--well, was about the best ever.

Suppose you came to find that life wasn't worth a continental without

that girl. Then suppose you had a dad with money, lots of money. Suppose

the old fo--the gov'nor, I mean--without even seeing her or even

knowing her name or a thing about her, said no. Suppose you and the old

gentleman had a devil of a row, and broke off for keeps. Then suppose

the girl wouldn't listen to you under the circumstances. Talked rot

about 'wasted future' and 'throwing your life away' and so on. Suppose,

when you showed her that you didn't care a red for futures, she ran

away from you and wouldn't tell where she'd gone. Suppose--well, I guess

that's enough supposing. I don't know why I'm telling you these things,

anyway.”

He stopped and scowled at the floor, acting like he was sorry he spoke.

I pulled at my pipe a minute or so and then says I:

“Hum!” I says, “I presume likely it's fair to suppose that this break

with the old gent is for good?”

He didn't answer, but he didn't need to; the look on his face was

enough.

“Yes,” says I. “Well, it's likewise to be supposed that the idea--the

eventual idea--is marriage, straight marriage, hey?”

He jumped out of his chair. “Why, damn you!” he says. “I'll--”

“All right. Set down and be nice. I was fairly sure of my soundings, but

it don't do no harm to heave the lead. I ask your pardon. Well, what you

going to support a wife on--her kind of a wife? A summer waiter's job at

twenty a month?”

He set down, but he looked more troubled than ever. I was sorry for him;

I couldn't help liking the boy.

“Suppose she keeps her word and goes away,” says I. “What then?”

“I'll go after her.”

“Suppose she still sticks to her principles and won't have you? Where'll

you go, then?”

“To the hereafter,” says he, naming the station at the end of the route.

“Oh, well, there's no hurry about that. Most of us are sure of a free

one-way pass to that port some time or other, 'cording to the parson's

tell. See here, Jones; let's look at this thing like a couple of men,

not children. You don't want to keep chasing that girl from pillar to

post, making her more miserable than she is now. And you ain't in no

position to marry her. The way to show a young woman like her that you

mean business and are going to be wuth cooking meals for is to get the

best place you can and start in to earn a living and save money. Now,

Mr. Brown's father-in-law is a man by the name of Dillaway, Dillaway of

the Consolidated Cash Stores. He'll do things for me if I ask him to,

and I happen to know that he's just started a branch up to Providence

and is there now. Suppose I give you a note to him, asking him, as a

favor to me, to give you the best job he can. He'll do it, I know. After

that it's up to you. This is, of course, providing that you start for

Providence to-morrer morning. What d'you say?”

He was thinking hard. “Suppose I don't make good?” he says. “I never

worked in my life. And suppose she--”

“Oh, suppose your granny's pet hen hatched turkeys,” I says, getting

impatient, “I'll risk your making good. I wa'n't a first mate, shipping

fo'mast hands ten years, for nothing. I can generally tell beet greens

from cabbage without waiting to smell 'em cooking. And as for her, it

seems to me that a girl who thinks enough of a feller to run away from

him so's he won't spile his future, won't like him no less for being

willing to work and wait for her. You stay here and think it over. I'm

going out for a spell.”

When I come back Jonesy was ready for me.

“Mr. Wingate,” says he, “it's a deal. I'm going to go you, though I

think you're plunging on a hundred-to-one shot. Some day I'll tell you

more about myself, maybe. But now I'm going to take your advice and

the position. I'll do my best, and I must say you're a brick. Thanks

awfully.”

“Good enough!” I says. “Now you go and tell her, and I'll write the

letter to Dillaway.”

So the next forenoon Peter T. Brown was joyful all up one side because

Mabel had said she'd stay, and mournful all down the other because his

pet college giant had quit almost afore he started. I kept my mouth

shut, that being the best play I know of, nine cases out of ten.