A SLEEPY VILLAGE AND A FUSSY OLD MAN.
In the village of Ulmata there was just enough of life to picture the
dreamy indolence of man. Rest was its complexion, and freedom from all
marks of care its most pleasing aspect.
Old Sawyer was so demonstrably gratified to have a companion for his
nephew that he invited DeGolyer to take a room in his house, and
DeGolyer gratefully accepted this kindness. Young Sawyer was delighted
when the household had thus been arranged, and with many small
confidences and unstudied graces of boyish friendship, he kept his
guest in the refreshing atmosphere of welcome. And in the main the
uncle was agreeable and courteous, but there were times when he flew
out of his orbit of goodfellowship.
Once he came puffing into the room where DeGolyer was writing, and
blusteringly flounced upon a sofa. He remained quiet for a few
moments, and then he blew so strong a spout of annoyance that DeGolyer
turned to him and asked:
"Has anything gone wrong?"
The old fellow's eyes bulged out as if he were straining under a heavy
load. "Yes," he puffed, "the devil's gone wrong."
"But isn't that of ancient date?" DeGolyer asked.
"Here, now, young fellow, don't try to saw me!" And then he broke off
with this execration: "Oh, this miserable world--this infernal pot
where men are boiled!" He rolled his eyes like a choking ox, and after
a short silence, asked: "Young fellow, do you know what I'd do if I
were of your age?"
"If you were of my temperament as well as of my age I don't think
you'd do much of anything."
"Yes, I would; I would confer a degree of high favor on myself. I
would cut my throat, sir."
"Pardon me, but is it too late at your time of life?"
"Yes, for my nerve is diseased and I am a coward, an infamous,
doddering old coward, sir. Good God! to live for years in darkness,
bumping against the sharp corners of conscience. I have never told
Henry, but I don't mind telling you that at times I am almost mad. For
years I have sought to read myself out of it, but to an unsettled mind
a book is a sly poison--the greatest of books are but the records of
trouble. Don't you say a word to Henry. He thinks that my mind is as
sound as a new acorn, but it isn't."
"I won't--but, by the way, he is young; why don't you advise him to
kill himself?"
The old fellow flounced off the sofa and stood bulging his eyes at
DeGolyer.
"Don't you ever say such a thing as that again!" he snorted. "Why,
confound your hide! would you have that boy dead?"
DeGolyer threw down his pen. "No, I would have him live forever in his
thoughtless and beautiful paradise; I would not pull him down to the
thoughtful man's hell of self-communion."
"Look here, young man, you must have a history."
"No, simply an ill-written essay."
"Who was your father?"
"A fool."
"Ah, I grant you. And who was your mother?"
"An angel."
"No, sir, she--I beg your pardon," the old man quickly added. "You are
sensitive, sir."
DeGolyer, sadly smiling, replied: "He who suffered in childhood, and
who in after life has walked hand in hand with disappointment, and is
then not sensitive, is a brute."
"How well do I know the truth of that! DeGolyer, I have been
acquainted with you but a short time, but you appeal to me strongly,
sir. And I could almost tell you something, but it is something that I
ought to keep to myself. I could make you despise me and then offer me
your regard as a compromise. Oh, that American republic of ours,
fought for by men who scorned the romance of kingly courts, is not so
commonplace a country after all. Many strange things happen there, and
some of them are desperately foul. Is that Henry coming? Hush."
The young man bounded into the room. "Say," he cried, "I've bargained
for six of the biggest monkeys you ever saw. That old fellow "--
"Henry," the uncle interrupted, taking up a hat and fanning his
purplish face, "you are getting too old for that sort of foolishness.
You are a man, you must remember, and it may not be long until you'll
be called upon to exercise the judgment of a man."
"Oh, I was going to buy the monkeys and sell them again for three
times as much as I gave for them, but you bet that when I'm called on
to exercise the judgment, of a man I'll be there. And do you think
that I'd fool with mines or anything else in this country? I
wouldn't. I'd go to some American city and make money. Say, DeGolyer,
when are you going to start off on that jaunt?"
"What jaunt?" the old man asked.
"I am going to make a tour of the country," DeGolyer answered. "I'm
going to visit nearly every community of interest and gather material
for my letters, and shall be gone a month or so, I should think."
"And I'm going with him," said Henry.
"No," the old man replied, "you are not going to leave me here all
that time alone. I'm old, and I want you near me."
"All right, uncle; whatever you say goes."
When DeGolyer mounted a mule and set out on his journey, young Sawyer,
as if clinging to his friendship, walked beside him for some distance
into the country.
"Well, I'd better turn back here," said the young man, halting. "Say,
Hank, don't stay away any longer than you can help. It's devilish
lonesome here, you know."
"I won't, my boy."
"All right. And say, if you can't do the thing up as well as you want
to, throw up the job and come back here, for I'll turn loose, the
first thing you know, and make enough money for both of us."
"God bless you, I hope that you may always make enough for yourself."
"And you bet I will, and for you, too. I hate like the mischief to see
you go away. Couldn't think any more of you if we were twin brothers.
And you think a good deal of me, too, don't you, Hank?"
"My boy," said DeGolyer, leaning over and placing his hand on the
young fellow's shoulder, "I have never speculated with my friendship,
and I don't know how valuable it is, but all of it that is worth
having is yours. You make friends everywhere; I don't. You have
nothing to conceal, and I have nothing to make known. To tell you the
truth, you are the only real friend I ever had."
"Look out, now. That sort of talk knocks me; but say, don't be away
any longer than you can help."
"I won't!" He rode a short distance, turned in his saddle, waved his
hand and cried: "God bless you, my boy."