A MOST PECULIAR FELLOW.
Early the next morning George Witherspoon was pacing the sidewalk in
front of his house when DeGolyer came up. The merchant was startled.
"Why, where did you come from!" he exclaimed.
"I thought it best to get back as soon as possible," DeGolyer
answered, shaking hands with him. "The truth is, I met a man who
caused me to change my plans. He wants to buy my paper, and so I came
back with him."
"Good enough, my dear boy. We'll go down immediately after breakfast
and close with him one way or another. I am delighted, I assure you.
Why, I missed you every minute of the time. See how I have already
begun to rely on you? I haven't said a word to your mother about that
angel. Hah, you'd burn down the Colossus, would you? Why, bless my
life, you rascal."
"Who is that?" Ellen cried as they entered the hall; and with an airy,
early-morning grace she came running down the stairway. "Oh, nobody
can place any confidence in what you say," she declared, kissing him.
"Goodness alive, man, you look as if you hadn't slept a wink since you
left home." Just then Mrs. Witherspoon came out of the dining-room.
"Mother," Ellen called, "here's one of your mother's people, and he's
darker than ever."
Mrs. Witherspoon fondly kissed him before she gave Ellen the usual
look of gentle reproach. "You must have known how much we missed you,
my son, and that is the reason you came home. And you're just in time
for breakfast. Ellen, _will_ you please get out of the way? And what
do you mean by saying that he's darker than ever?" Here she gave
DeGolyer an anxious look. "But you are not ill, are you, my son?"
"Ill!" Witherspoon repeated, with resentment. "Of course he's not ill.
What do you mean by ill? Do you expect a man to travel a thousand
miles and then look like a rose? Is breakfast ready? Well, come then.
We've got business to attend to."
"Now, as to this man who wants to buy my paper," said DeGolyer, when
they were seated at the table, "let me tell you that he is a most
peculiar fellow, and if he finds that I am anxious to sell, he'll back
out. Therefore I don't think you'd better see him, father."
"Nonsense, my dear boy; I can make him buy in three minutes."
"That may be, but you might scare him off in one minute. He's an
old-maidish sort of fellow, and is easily frightened. You'd better let
me work him."
"All right, but don't haggle. There are transactions in which men are
bettered by being beaten, and this is one of them."
"Yes, but it isn't well to let eagerness rush you into a folly."
"Ah, but in this affair folly was at the other end--at the buying."
"Then, with a wise sale, let us correct that folly."
"All right, but without haggling. When are you to meet this man
again?"
"At noon."
"And when shall I see you?"
"Immediately after the deal is closed."
On DeGolyer's part the day was spent in the spinning of the threads of
excuses. He might explain a week's delay, but how was he to account
for a three months' put-off? And if at the end of that time young
Witherspoon's case should be pronounced hopeless what course was then
to be taken?
He did not see George Witherspoon again until dinner-time. The
merchant met him with a quick inquiry. "We will discuss it in the
library, father," DeGolyer answered.
"But can't you tell me now whether or not it has come out all right?"
"I think it's all right, but you may not. But let as wait until after
dinner."
When they went into the library Witherspoon hastily lighted his cigar,
and sat down in his leather-covered chair. "Well, how did it come
out?" he asked.
DeGolyer did not sit down. Evidently he expected to remain in the room
but a short time.
"I told you that he was a very peculiar fellow."
"Yes, I know that. What did you do with him?"
"Well, the deal isn't closed yet. He wants to go into the office and
work three months before he decides."
"Tell him to go to the devil!" Witherspoon exclaimed.
"No, I can't do that."
"Why can't you? Do you belong to him? Have you a consideration for
everybody but me?"
"I very nearly belong to him."
"You very nearly belong to him!" Witherspoon cried. "What in the name
of God do you mean? Have you lost your senses?"
"My senses are all right, but my situation is peculiar."
"I should think so. Henry, I don't want to fly all to pieces. Lately,
and with your help, I have pulled myself strongly together, and now I
beg of you not to pull me apart."
"Father, some time ago you said that we have more control over
ourselves than we exercise; and now I ask you to exert a little of
that control. The sense of obligation has always been strong in me,
and I feel that it is largely developed in you. I said that I very
nearly belonged to this man, and I will tell you why; and don't be
impatient, but listen to me for a few minutes. A number of years ago
uncle left me in New Orleans and went on one of his trips to South
America. He had not been gone long when yellow fever broke out. It was
unusually fatal, and the city, though long accustomed to the disease,
was panic-stricken. I was one of the early victims. Every member of
the family I boarded with died within a week, and I was left in the
house alone. This man, this peculiar fellow, Nat Parker, found me,
took charge of me and did not leave me until I was out of danger. Of
course, there was no way to reward him--you can merely stammer your
gratitude to the man who has saved your life. He told me that the time
might come when I could do him a good turn. Well, I met him the other
day in New Orleans, and I incidentally spoke of my intention to sell
my paper. He said that he would buy it. I told him that I would make
him a present of it, but he resentfully replied that he was not a
beggar. I came back with him to Chicago, and afraid that any
interference might offend him, I told you that you should have
nothing to do with the transaction. He has an ambition to become known
as a newspaper man, and he foolishly believes that I am a great
journalist. So he declares that for three months he must serve under
me. What could I say? Could I tell him that I would dispose of the
paper to some one else? I was compelled to accept his terms. I
insisted that he should live with us during the time, but he objected.
He swore that he must not be introduced to any of my people--to be
petted like a dog that has saved a child's life. And there's the
situation."
Witherspoon's cigar had fallen to the floor. Some time elapsed before
he spoke, and when he did speak there was an unnatural softness in his
voice. "Strange story," he said. "No wonder you are peculiar when you
have been thrown among such peculiar people. If your friend were a
sane man, we could deal with him in a sensible manner, but as he is
not we must let him have his way. But suppose that at the end of three
months he is tired of the paper?"
"I will sell it or give it away. But there'll be no trouble about
that. It's a valuable piece of property, and I will swear to you that
if at the end of that time Henry Witherspoon does not go into the
Colossus with his father, it will be the father who keeps him out. Now
promise me that you won't worry."
Witherspoon got up and took Henry's hand. "You have done the best you
could, my son. It is peculiar and unbusinesslike, but we can't help
that."
"Will you explain to mother?"
"Yes, but the more I look at it the stranger it seems. I don't know,
however, that it is so strange after all. He is simply a chivalrous
crank of the South, and we must humor him. But I'll be glad when all
this nonsense is over."
DeGolyer sat in his room, smoking his pipe. He looked at his
reflection in the mirror, and said: "Oh, what a liar you are! But your
day for truth is coming."