THAT MYSTERIOUS DAGUERREOTYPE SALOON
For two years our young neighbor Catherine had been carrying on a little
industry that had proved fairly lucrative--namely, gathering and curing
wild herbs and selling them to drug stores in Portland. Her grandmother
had taught her how to cure and press the herbs. One season she sold
seventy dollars' worth.
Catherine took many long jaunts to gather her herbs--thoroughwort,
goldthread, catnip, comfrey, skullcap, pennyroyal, lobelia, peppermint,
old-man's-root, snakehead and others of greater or less medicinal value.
She soon came to know where all those various wild plants grew for miles
round. Naturally she wished to keep her business for herself and was
rather chary about telling others where the herbs she collected grew.
She had heard that thoroughwort was growing in considerable quantity in
the old pastures at "Dresser's Lonesome." She did not like to go up
there alone, however, for the place was ten or eleven miles away, and
the road that led to it ran for most of the distance through deep woods;
a road that once proceeded straight through to Canada, but had long
since been abandoned. Years before, a young man named Abner Dresser had
cleared a hundred acres of land up there and built a house and a large
barn; but his wife had been so lonely--there was no neighbor within ten
miles--that he had at last abandoned the place.
Finally Catherine asked my cousin Theodora to go up to "Dresser's
Lonesome" with her and offered to share the profits of the trip. No one
enjoyed such a jaunt better than Theodora, and one day early the
previous August, they persuaded me to harness one of the work horses to
the double-seated buckboard and to take them up there for the day.
It was a long, hard drive, for the old road was badly overgrown; indeed
we were more than two hours in reaching the place. What was our
amazement when we drew near the deserted old farmhouse to see a
"daguerreotype saloon" standing before it: one of those peripatetic
studios on wheels, in which "artists" used to journey about the country
taking photographs. Of course, card photographs had not come into vogue
then; but there were the daguerreotypes, and later the tintypes, and
finally the ambrotypes in little black-and-gilt cases.
Those "saloons" were picturesque little contrivances, not much more than
five feet wide by fifteen feet long, and mounted on wheels. On each side
was a little window, and overhead was a larger skylight; a flight of
three steps led up to a narrow door at the rear. The door opened into
the "saloon" proper, where the camera and the visitor's chair stood;
forward of that was the cuddy under the skylight, in which the
photographer did his developing.
The photographer was usually some ambitious young fellow who, after
learning his trade, often made and painted his "saloon" himself.
Frequently he slept in it, and sometimes cooked his meals in it. If he
did not own a horse, he usually made a bargain with some farmer to haul
him to his next stopping place in exchange for taking his picture. When
business grew dull in one neighborhood, he moved to another. He was the
true Bohemian of his trade--the gypsy of early photography.
The forward wheels of this one were gone, and its front end was propped
up level on a short piece of timber; but otherwise the "saloon" looked
as if the "artist" might at that moment be developing a plate inside.
On closer inspection, however, we saw that weeds had sprung up beneath
and about it, and I guessed that the wagon had been standing there for
at least a month or two; and on peeping in at the little end door we saw
that birds or squirrels had been in and out of the place. All that we
could make of it was that the photographer, whoever he was, had come
there, left his "saloon" and gone away--with the forward wheels.
We gathered a load of herbs and drove home again, much puzzled by our
discovery. The story of the "daguerreotype saloon" at Dresser's Lonesome
soon spread abroad, but no one was able to furnish a clue to its
history. Of course all manner of rumors began to circulate; some people
declared that the owner of the "saloon" must be a naturalist who had
journeyed up there to take pictures of wild animal life; others thought
that the photographer had lost his way and perished in the woods.
When Willis Murch passed along the old road in October that fall, the
mysterious "saloon" was still standing there; and lumbermen spoke of
seeing it there during the winter. That next August, a year after we had
first discovered it, Catherine and Theodora again went up to Dresser's
Lonesome to gather herbs; and still the "daguerreotype saloon" was
there.
It was Halstead who carried the girls up on that trip. The weather had
been threatening when they started, and showers soon set in; rain fell
pretty much all the afternoon, so that the girls were badly delayed in
gathering their herbs. When Halstead declared that it was high time to
start for home, Catherine proposed that they stay there overnight and
finish their task the next day. The roof of the old farmhouse was now so
leaky that they could find no shelter there from the rain; but Catherine
suggested that the deserted "daguerreotype saloon" would be a cosy place
to camp in.
Theodora did not like the idea very well, for the region was wild and
lonely, and Halstead thought he ought to return to the farm.
"Why, this old saloon is just as good as a house!" Catherine said. "We
can fasten the door, and then nothing can get in. And we have plenty of
lunch left for our supper."
At last Theodora reluctantly agreed to stay. Promising to return for
them by noon the next day, Halstead then started for home. After he had
gone, the girls gathered a quart or more of raspberries, to eat with
their supper. When they had finished the meal, they made, with the sacks
of herbs, a couch on the floor of the "saloon," and Catherine fastened
the door securely by leaning a narrow plank from the floor of the old
barn against it.
For a while the girls lay and talked in low tones. Outside everything
was very quiet, and scarcely a sound came to their ears. All nature
seemed to have gone to rest; not a whippoorwill chanted nor an owl
hooted about the old buildings. Before long Catherine fell peacefully
asleep. Theodora, however, who was rather ill at ease in these wild
surroundings, had determined to stay awake, and lay listening to the
crickets in the grass under the "saloon." But crickets make drowsy
music, and at last she, too, dropped asleep.
Not very much later something bumped lightly against the front end of
the "saloon" outside; the noise was repeated several times. Oddly
enough, it was not Theodora who waked, but Catherine. She sat up and,
remembering instantly where she was, listened without stirring or
speaking. Her first thought was that a deer had come round and was
rubbing itself against the "saloon."
"It will soon go away," she said to herself, and did not rouse her
companion.
The queer, bumping, jarring sounds continued, however, and presently
were followed by a heavy jolt. Then for some moments Catherine heard
footsteps in the weeds outside, and told herself that there must be two
or three deer. She was not alarmed, for she knew that the animals would
not harm them; but she hoped that they would not waken Theodora, who
might be needlessly frightened.
But presently she heard a sound that she could not explain; it was like
the jingling of a small chain. Rising quietly, she peeped out of one of
the little side windows, and then out of the other. The clouds had
cleared away, and bright moonlight flooded the place, but she could not
see anywhere the cause of the disturbance. Whatever had made the sounds
was out of sight in front; there was no window at that end of the
"saloon."
Still not much alarmed, Catherine stepped up on the one old chair of the
studio and cautiously raised the hinged skylight. At that very instant,
however, the "saloon" started as if of its own accord and moved slowly
across the yard and down the road!
The wagon started so suddenly that Catherine fell off the chair.
Theodora woke, but before she could speak or cry out Catherine was
beside her.
"Hush! Hush!" she whispered, and put her hand over her companion's
mouth. "Don't be scared! Keep quiet. Some one is drawing the old saloon
away!"
That was far from reassuring to Theodora. "Oh, what shall we do?" she
whispered in terror.
Catherine was still begging her to be silent, when a terrific jolt
nearly threw her off her feet. In great alarm the girls sprang to the
little rear door to get out and escape.
But as a result probably of the rocking and straining of the frail
structure, the plank that Catherine set against the door had settled
down and stuck fast. Again and again she tried to pull it away, but she
could not move it. Theodora also tugged at it--in vain. They were
imprisoned; they could not get out; and meanwhile the old "saloon" was
bumping over the rough road.
"Oh, who do you suppose it is?" Theodora whispered, weak from fear.
"Where do you suppose he is going with us?"
"We must find out. Hold the chair steady, Doad, if you can, while I get
up and look out."
She set the chair under the skylight again, and then, while Theodora
held it steady, climbed upon it--no easy matter with the vehicle rocking
so violently--and tried to raise the skylight. But that, too, had
jammed. At last, by pushing hard against it, she succeeded in raising it
far enough to let her peer out over the flat roof.
There, in the moonlight, she saw a strange-looking creature,--a
man,--who rolled and ambled rather than walked; he was leading a white
horse by the bit, and the horse was dragging the "saloon" down the road.
The man was a truly terrifying spectacle. He seemed to be a giant; his
head projected far forward between his shoulders, and on his back was
what looked like a camel's hump! His feet were not like human feet, but
rather like huge hoofs; and the man, if he was one, wabbled forward on
them in a way that turned Catherine quite sick with apprehension. All
she could think of was the picture of Giant Despair in her grandmother's
copy of Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress.
Unable to imagine who or what he could be, Catherine stood for some
moments and stared at him, fascinated. All the while Theodora was
anxiously whispering:
"Who is it? Who is it? Oh, let me see!"
"Don't try to look," Catherine answered earnestly, as she leaped to the
floor. "Doad, we must get out if we can."
She threw herself at the door again and tried to pull it open; Theodora
joined her, but even together they could not stir it.
Meanwhile the "saloon" swayed and jolted over the rough road; to keep
from pitching headlong from side to side the girls had to sit down on
the sacks. Their one consoling thought was that, if they could not get
out, their captor, whoever he was, could not get in.
They were a little cheered, too, when they realized that the wagon was
apparently following the road that led toward home. But when they had
gone about three or four miles and had come to the branch road that led
to Lurvey's Mills, they felt the old "saloon" turn off from the main
road. With sinking hearts they struggled again to open the door, until,
weak and exhausted, they gave up.
Theodora was limp with terror at their plight. Catherine, more resolute,
tried to encourage her companion; but as they jogged and jolted over the
deserted road for what seemed hours, even her own courage began to
weaken.
At last they came to a ford that led across a muddy brook. As the horse
entered the water, the forward end of the rickety old "saloon" pitched
sharply downward. The prop that had held the door fast loosened and the
door flew open!
Needless to say, the girls lost little time in getting out of their
prison. Before the "saloon" had topped the other bank, they jumped out
and ran into the alder bushes that bordered the stream.
Their captor was evidently not aware of their escape, for the "saloon"
kept on its course. As soon as it was out of sight the girls waded the
brook and, hastening back to the fork of the road, took the homeward
trail.
About four o'clock in the morning grandmother Ruth heard them knocking
at the door. They were still much excited, and told so wild and curious
a story of their adventure that after breakfast the old Squire and
Addison drove over to Lurvey's Mills to investigate.
Almost the first thing they saw when they reached the Mills was that old
"daguerreotype saloon," standing beside the road near the post office,
and pottering about it a large, ungainly man--a hunchback with club
feet.
A few minutes' conversation with him cleared up the mystery. This was
the first he had heard that two girls had ridden in his "saloon" the
night before! His name, he told them, was Duchaine, and he said that he
came from Lewiston, Maine.
"Maybe you've heard of me," he said to Addison, with a somewhat painful
smile. "The boys down there call me Big Pumplefoot."
Unable to do ordinary work, he had learned to take ambrotypes and set up
as an itinerant photographer. But ere long his mother, who was a French
Canadian, had gone back to live at Megantic in the Province of Quebec;
and in June the year before he set off to visit her. Thinking that he
might find customers at Megantic, he had taken his "saloon" along with
him; but when he got to Dresser's Lonesome he found the road so much
obstructed that he left the "saloon" behind, and went on with his horse
and the forward wheels.
An accident had laid him up at Megantic during the winter and spring,
but later in the season he started for Maine. On the way down the old
road from Canada he got belated, and had not reached Dresser's Lonesome
with his horse and wheels until late at night; but as there was no place
where he could put up, and as the moon was shining, he had decided to
hitch up to his "saloon" and continue on his way to the Mills.
Thus the mystery was cleared up; but although the explanation was simple
enough, Theodora and Catherine were little inclined to laugh over their
adventure.