he lived up to his principles with a fidelity that would have been
commendable in a better cause. He was seldom right, but he was always
plausible. No one knew better than he how to bring out the good point of
a bad article. He would have sold you a blind horse and convinced you
that he was doing you a favour in giving you an animal that would not be
frightened by anything he saw. No one but he could have been in a city so
short a time and yet gained to such an extent the confidence and cash of
the people about him.
When a coloured man wishes to start a stock company, he issues a call
and holds a mass meeting. This is what Solomon Ruggles did. A good many
came. Some spoke for and some against the movement, but the promoter’s
plausible argument carried the day.
“Gent’men,” he said, “my fellow colo’ed brotheren, I jest want to say
this to you, that we Af’-Americans been ca’yin’ a leaky bucket to the
well too long. We git the stream from the ground, an’ back to the ground
it goes befoah we kin git any chance to make use o’ what we’ve drawed.
But, not to speak in meterphers, this is what I mean. I mean that we
work for the white folks for their money. All they keer about us is ouah
work, an’ all we keer about them is their money; but what do we do with
it when we git it? I’ll tell you what we do with it; we take an’ give it
right back to the white folks fu’ somef’n’ or other we want, an’ so they
git ouah labour, an’ ouah money too. Ain’t that the truth?”
There were cries of “Yes, indeed, that’s so; you’re right, sho!”
“Well, now, do you want this hyeah thing to go on?”
“No!” from a good many voices.
“Then how are we going to stop it?” Mr. Ruggles paused. No one answered.
“Why,” he resumed, “by buyin’ from ourselves, that’s how. We all put in
so much ev’ry week till we git enough to buy things of ouah own; then
we’ll jest pat’onise ouahselves. Don’t you see it can’t fail?”
The audience did.
Brother Jeremiah Buford rose and “hea’tily concuhed in what the brothah
had said;” and dapper little Spriggins, who was said to be studying law,
and to be altogether as smart as a whip, expressed his pleasure that a
man of such enterprise had come among them to wake the coloured people
up to a sense of their condition and to show them a way out of it. So
the idea which had been formulated in the fecund brain of Solomon Ruggles
became a living, active reality. His project once on foot, it was easy
enough to get himself elected president and treasurer. This was quite
little enough to do for a man whose bright idea might make them all rich,
so thought the stockholders or prospective stockholders who attended the
meeting, and some who came to scoff remained to pay. It was thus that the
famous Coloured Improvement Company sprang into life.
It was a Saturday afternoon of the third week after the formation of the
company that Mr. Ruggles sat in the “firm’s” office alone. There was a
cloud upon his face. It was the day when most of the stockholders brought
in their money, but there had been a picnic the day before, and in
consequence a distinct falling off in the receipts of the concern. This
state of affairs especially annoyed the president and treasurer, because
that dual official had just involved himself in some new obligations on
the strength of what that day would bring him. It was annoying. Was it
any wonder, then, that his brow cleared and a smile lightened up his
rather pleasant features when the door opened and an old woman entered?
“Ah, madam, good afternoon,” said the Coloured American Investment
Company, rubbing its hands; “and what kin I do fer you?”
The old lady timidly approached the table which the official used as a
desk. “Is you Mistah Ruggles?” she asked.
“I have the honah to bear that name,” was the bland response.
“Well, I got a little money dat I wants to ’vest in yo’ comp’ny. I’s
hyeahd tell dat ef you put yo’ money in dere hit jes’ lays and grows.”
“That’s the princerple we go on, to take small investments and give back
big profits.”
“Well, I’s sho’ dat my ’vestment’s small ’nough, but I been savin’ it a
mighty long while.” The old woman drew a weather-beaten purse from her
pocket, and Solomon Ruggles’s eyes glistened with expectation as he saw
it. His face fell, though, when he saw that it held but little. However,
every little helps, and he brightened again as the old lady counted,
slowly and tremblingly, the small store of only five dollars in all.
Ruggles took the money in his eager palms. “Of course, Mrs.—”
“Mandy Smif’s my name.”
“Of course, we can’t promise you no fortune in return fu’ an investment
of fi’ dollahs, but we’ll do the bes’ we kin fu’ you.”
“I do’ want no fortune ner nothin’ lak dat. What I wants is a little mo’
money—’cause—’cause I got a boy; he allus been a good boy to me an’ tuk
keer o’ me, but he thought he would do bettah out West, so he went out
dere, an’ fu’ a while he got along all right an’ sent me money reg’lar.
Den he took down sick an’ got out o’ work. It was ha’d fu’ me to git
along ’dout his he’p, ’cause I’s old. But dat ain’t what hu’ts me. I don’
keer nuffin’ ’bout myse’f. I’s willin’ to sta’ve ef I could jes’ sen’ fu’
dat boy an’ bring him home so’s I could nuss him. Dat’s de reason I’s
a-’vestin’ dis money.”
Solomon Ruggles fingered the bills nervously.
“You know when a boy’s sick dey ain’t nobidy kin nuss lak his own mothah
kin, fu’ she nussed him when he was a baby; he’s pa’t o’ huh, an’ she
knows his natur’. Yo’ mothah livin’, Mistah Ruggles?”
“Yes, ’way down South—she’s ve’y ol’.”
“I reckon some o’ us ol’ folks does live too long past dey times.”
“No, you don’t; you couldn’t. I wish to God the world was full of jest
sich ol’ people as you an’ my mothah is.”
“Bless you, honey, I laks to hyeah you talk dat way ’bout yo’ mammy.
I ain’ ’fred to trus’ my money wif no man dat knows how to ’spect his
mothah.” The old woman rose to go. Ruggles followed her to the door. He
was trembling with some emotion. He shook the investor warmly by the hand
as he bade her good-bye. “I shall do the ve’y bes’ I kin fu’ you,” he
said.
“How soon kin I hyeah ’bout it?”
“I’ve took yo’ address, an’ you kin expect to hyeah from me in a week’s
time—that’s sooner than we do anything fu’ most of ouah customers.”
“Thanky, sir, fu’ the favour; thanky, an’ good-bye, Mistah Ruggles.”
The head of the company went in and sat for a long time dreaming over his
table.
A week later an angry crowd of coloured investors stood outside the
office of the Coloured Improvement Company. The office was closed to
all business, and diligent search failed to reveal the whereabouts of
Mr. Solomon Ruggles. The investors knew themselves to be the victims of
a wily swindler, and they were furious. Dire imprecations were hurled
at the head of the defaulting promoter. But, as the throng was spending
its breath in vain anger, an old woman with smiling face worked her way
through them toward the door.
“Let me th’oo,” she said; “I want to fin’ Mistah Ruggles.”
“Yes, all of us do. Has he cheated you, too, Auntie?”
“Cheated me? What’s de matter wif you, man? I put fi’ dollahs in hyeah
las’ week, an’ look at dat!”
The old woman waved some bills in the air and a letter with them. Some
one took it from her hand and read:—
DEAR MRS. SMITH,—I am glad to say that yore int’rust ’cumulated
faster than usu’l, so I kan inklose you heerwith $15. I am
sorry I shall not see you again, az I am kalled away on bizness.
Very respectably yores,
S. RUGGLES.
The men looked at each other in surprise, and then they began to
disperse. Some one said: “I reckon he mus’ be all right, aftah all. Aunt
Mandy got huh div’den’.”
“I reckon he’s comin’ back all right,” said another.
But Mr. Ruggles did not come back.
THE INTERVENTION OF PETER
THE INTERVENTION OF PETER
No one knows just what statement it was of Harrison Randolph’s that Bob
Lee doubted. The annals of these two Virginia families have not told us
that. But these are the facts:—
It was at the home of the Fairfaxes that a few of the sons of the Old
Dominion were giving a dinner,—not to celebrate anything in particular,
but the joyousness of their own souls,—and a brave dinner it was. The
courses had come and gone, and over their cigars they had waxed more
than merry. In those days men drank deep, and these men were young, full
of the warm blood of the South and the joy of living. What wonder then
that the liquor that had been mellowing in the Fairfax cellars since the
boyhood of their revolutionary ancestor should have its effect upon them?
It is true that it was only a slight thing which Bob Lee affected
to disbelieve, and that his tone was jocosely bantering rather than
impertinent. But sometimes Virginia heads are not less hot than Virginia
hearts. The two young men belonged to families that had intermarried.
They rode together. They hunted together, and were friends as far as two
men could be who had read the message of love in the dark eyes of the
same woman. So perhaps there was some thought of the long-contested hand
of Miss Sallie Ford in Harrison Randolph’s mind when he chose to believe
that his honour had been assailed.
His dignity was admirable. There was no scene to speak of. It was all
very genteel.
“Mr. Lee,” he said, “had chosen to doubt his word, which to a gentleman
was the final insult. But he felt sure that Mr. Lee would not refuse to
accord him a gentleman’s satisfaction.” And the other’s face had waxed
warm and red and his voice cold as he replied: “I shall be most happy to
give you the satisfaction you demand.”
Here friends interposed and attempted to pacify the two. But without
avail. The wine of the Fairfaxes has a valiant quality in it, and these
two who had drunken of it could not be peaceably reconciled.
Each of the young gentlemen nodded to a friend and rose to depart. The
joyous dinner-party bade fair to end with much more serious business.
“You shall hear from me very shortly,” said Randolph, as he strode to the
door.
“I shall await your pleasure with impatience, sir, and give you such a
reply as even you cannot disdain.”
It was all rather high-flown, but youth is dramatic and plays to the
gallery of its own eyes and ears. But to one pair of ears there was no
ring of anything but tragedy in the grandiloquent sentences. Peter, the
personal attendant of Harrison Randolph, stood at the door as his master
passed out, and went on before him to hold his stirrup. The young master
and his friend and cousin, Dale, started off briskly and in silence,
while Pete, with wide eyes and disturbed face, followed on behind. Just
as they were turning into the avenue of elms that led to their own house,
Randolph wheeled his horse and came riding back to his servant.
“Pete,” said he, sternly, “what do you know?”
“Nuffin’, Mas’ Ha’ison, nuffin’ ’t all. I do’ know nuffin’.”
“I don’t believe you.” The young master’s eyes were shining through the
dusk. “You’re always slipping around spying on me.”
“Now dah you goes, Mas’ Randolph. I ain’t done a t’ing, and you got to
’mence pickin’ on me—”
“I just want you to remember that my business is mine.”
“Well, I knows dat.”
“And if you do know anything, it will be well for you to begin forgetting
right now.” They were at the door now and in the act of dismounting.
“Take Bess around and see her attended to. Leave Dale’s horse here, and—I
won’t want you any more to-night.”
“Now how does you an’ Mas’ Dale ’spect dat you gwine to wait on yo’se’ves
to-night?”
“I shall not want you again to-night, I tell you.”
Pete turned away with an injured expression on his dark face. “Bess,”
he said to the spirited black mare as he led her toward the stables,
“you jes’ bettah t’ank yo’ Makah dat you ain’t no human-bein’, ’ca’se
human-bein’s is cur’ous articles. Now you’s a hoss, ain’t you? An’ dey
say you ain’t got no soul, but you got sense, Bess, you got sense. You
got blood an’ fiah an’ breedin’ in you too, ain’t you? Co’se you has.
But you knows how to answah de rein. You’s a high steppah, too: but you
don’ go to work an’ try to brek yo’ naik de fus’ chanst you git. Bess, I
’spect you ’ca’se you got jedgment, an’ you don’ have to have a black man
runnin’ ’roun aftah you all de time plannin’ his haid off jes’ to keep
you out o’ trouble. Some folks dat’s human-bein’s does. Yet an’ still,
Bess, you ain’t nuffin’ but a dumb beas’, so dey says. Now, what I gwine
to do? Co’se dey wants to fight. But whah an’ when an’ how I gwine to
stop hit? Do’ want me to wait on him to-night, huh! No, dey want to mek
dey plans an’ do’ want me ’roun’ to hyeah, dat’s what’s de mattah. Well,
I lay I’ll hyeah somep’n’ anyhow.”
Peter hurried through his work and took himself up to the big house and
straight to his master’s room. He heard voices within, but though he
took many liberties with his owner, eavesdropping was not one of them.
It proved too dangerous. So, though “he kinder lingered on the mat,
some doubtful of the sekle,” it was not for long, and he unceremoniously
pushed the door open and walked in. With a great show of haste, he made
for his master’s wardrobe and began busily searching among the articles
therein. Harrison Randolph and his cousin were in the room, and their
conversation, which had been animated, suddenly ceased when Peter entered.
“I thought I told you I didn’t want you any more to-night.”
“I’s a-lookin’ fu’ dem striped pants o’ yo’n. I want to tek ’em out an’
bresh ’em: dey’s p’intly a livin’ sight.”
“You get out o’ here.”
“But, Mas’ Ha’ison, now—now—look—a—hyeah—”
“Get out, I tell you—”
Pete shuffled from the room, mumbling as he went: “Dah now, dah now!
driv’ out lak a dog! How’s I gwine to fin’ out anyt’ing dis away? It do
’pear lak Mas’ Ha’ison do try to gi’e me all de trouble he know how.
Now he plannin’ an’ projickin’ wif dat cousin Dale, an’ one jes’ ez
scattah-brained ez de othah. Well, I ’low I got to beat dey time somehow
er ruther.”
He was still lingering hopeless and worried about the house when he saw
young Dale Randolph come out, mount his horse and ride away. After a
while his young master also came out and walked up and down in the soft
evening air. The rest of the family were seated about on the broad piazza.
“I wonder what is the matter with Harrison to-night,” said the young
man’s father, “he seems so preoccupied.”
“Thinking of Sallie Ford, I reckon,” some one replied; and the remark
passed with a laugh. Pete was near enough to catch this, but he did not
stop to set them right in their conjectures. He slipped into the house as
noiselessly as possible.
It was less than two hours after this when Dale Randolph returned and
went immediately to his cousin’s room, where Harrison followed him.
“Well?” said the latter, as soon as the door closed behind them.
“It’s all arranged, and he’s anxious to hurry it through for fear some
one may interfere. Pistols, and to-morrow morning at daybreak.”
“And the place?”
“The little stretch of woods that borders Ford’s Creek. I say, Harrison,
it isn’t too late to stop this thing yet. It’s a shame for you two
fellows to fight. You’re both too decent to be killed for a while yet.”
“He insulted me.”
“Without intention, every one believes.”
“Then let him apologise.”
“As well ask the devil to take Communion.”
“We’ll fight then.”
“All right. If you must fight, you must. But you’d better get to bed; for
you’ll need a strong arm and a steady hand to-morrow.”
If a momentary paleness struck into the young fellow’s face, it was for a
moment only, and he set his teeth hard before he spoke.
“I am going to write a couple of letters,” he said, “then I shall lie
down for an hour or so. Shall we go down and drink a steadier?”
“One won’t hurt, of course.”
“And, by the way, Dale, if I—if it happens to be me to-morrow, you take
Pete—he’s a good fellow.”
The cousins clasped hands in silence and passed out. As the door closed
behind them, a dusty form rolled out from under the bed, and the
disreputable, eavesdropping, backsliding Pete stood up and rubbed a
sleeve across his eyes.
“It ain’t me dat’s gwine to be give to nobody else. I hates to do it, but
dey ain’t no othah way. Mas’ Ha’ison cain’t be spaihed.” He glided out
mysteriously, some plan of salvation working in his black head.
* * * * *
Just before daybreak next morning, three stealthy figures crept out and
made their way toward Ford’s Creek. One skulked behind the other two,
dogging their steps and taking advantage of the darkness to keep very
near to them. At the grim trysting-place they halted and were soon joined
by other stealthy figures, and together they sat down to wait for the
daylight. The seconds conferred for a few minutes. The ground was paced
off, and a few low-pitched orders prepared the young men for business.
“I will count three, gentlemen,” said Lieutenant Custis. “At three, you
are to fire.”
At last daylight came, gray and timid at first, and then red and bold as
the sun came clearly up. The pistols were examined and the men placed
face to face.
“Are you ready, gentlemen?”
But evidently Harrison Randolph was not. He was paying no attention to
the seconds. His eyes were fixed on an object behind his opponent’s back.
His attitude relaxed and his mouth began twitching. Then he burst into a
peal of laughter.
“Pete,” he roared, “drop that and come out from there!” and away he went
into another convulsion of mirth. The others turned just in time to see
Pete cease his frantic grimaces of secrecy at his master, and sheepishly
lower an ancient fowling-piece which he had had levelled at Bob Lee.
“What were you going to do with that gun levelled at me?” asked Lee, his
own face twitching.
“I was gwine to fiah jes’ befo’ dey said free. I wa’n’t gwine to kill
you, Mas’ Bob. I was on’y gwine to lame you.”
Another peal of laughter from the whole crowd followed this condescending
statement.
“You unconscionable scoundrel, you! If I was your master, I’d give you a
hundred lashes.”
“Pete,” said his master, “don’t you know that it is dishonourable to
shoot a man from behind? You see you haven’t in you the making of a
gentleman.”
“I do’ know nuffin’ ’bout mekin’ a gent’man, but I does know how to save
one dat’s already made.”
The prime object of the meeting had been entirely forgotten. They
gathered around Pete and examined the weapon.
“Gentlemen,” said Randolph, “we have been saved by a miracle. This old
gun, as well as I can remember and count, has been loaded for the past
twenty-five years, and if Pete had tried to fire it, it would have torn
up all of this part of the county.” Then the eyes of the two combatants
met. There was something irresistibly funny in the whole situation, and
they found themselves roaring again. Then, with one impulse, they shook
hands without a word.
And Pete led the way home, the willing butt of a volume of good-natured
abuse.
NELSE HATTON’S VENGEANCE
NELSE HATTON’S VENGEANCE
It was at the close of a summer day, and the sun was sinking dimly red
over the hills of the little Ohio town which, for convenience, let us
call Dexter.
The people had eaten their suppers, and the male portion of the families
had come out in front of their houses to smoke and rest or read the
evening paper. Those who had porches drew their rockers out on them,
and sat with their feet on the railing. Others took their more humble
positions on the front steps, while still others, whose houses were
flush with the street, went even so far as to bring their chairs out
upon the sidewalk, and over all there was an air of calmness and repose
save when a glance through the open doors revealed the housewives busy
at their evening dishes, or the blithe voices of the children playing
in the street told that little Sally Waters was a-sitting in a saucer
or asserted with doubtful veracity that London Bridge was falling down.
Here and there a belated fisherman came straggling up the street that
led from the river, every now and then holding up his string of slimy,
wiggling catfish in answer to the query “Wha’ ’d you ketch?”
To one who knew the generous and unprejudiced spirit of the Dexterites,
it was no matter of wonder that one of their soundest and most highly
respected citizens was a coloured man, and that his home should nestle
unrebuked among the homes of his white neighbours.
Nelse Hatton had won the love and respect of his fellow-citizens by the
straightforward honesty of his conduct and the warmth of his heart.
Everybody knew him. He had been doing chores about Dexter,—cutting
grass in summer, cleaning and laying carpets in the spring and fall,
and tending furnaces in the winter,—since the time when, a newly
emancipated man, he had passed over from Kentucky into Ohio. Since then
through thrift he had attained quite a competence, and, as he himself
expressed it, “owned some little propity.” He was one among the number
who had arisen to the dignity of a porch; and on this evening he was
sitting thereon, laboriously spelling out the sentences in the _Evening
News_—his reading was a _post-bellum_ accomplishment—when the oldest of
his three children, Theodore, a boy of twelve, interrupted him with the
intelligence that there was an “old straggler at the back door.”
[Illustration: “WHA’ ’D YOU KETCH?”]
After admonishing the hope of his years as to the impropriety of applying
such a term to an unfortunate, the father rose and sought the place where
the “straggler” awaited him.
Nelse’s sympathetic heart throbbed with pity at the sight that met
his eye. The “straggler,” a “thing of shreds and patches,” was a
man about his own age, nearing fifty; but what a contrast he was to
the well-preserved, well-clothed black man! His gray hair straggled
carelessly about his sunken temples, and the face beneath it was thin and
emaciated. The hands that pulled at the fringe of the ragged coat were
small and bony. But both the face and the hands were clean, and there was
an open look in the bold, dark eye.
In strong contrast, too, with his appearance was the firm, well-modulated
voice, somewhat roughened by exposure, in which he said, “I am very
hungry; will you give me something to eat?” It was a voice that might
have spoken with authority. There was none of the beggar’s whine in it.
It was clear and straightforward; and the man spoke the simple sentence
almost as if it had been a protest against his sad condition.
“Jes’ set down on the step an’ git cool,” answered Nelse, “an’ I’ll have
something put on the table.”
The stranger silently did as he was bidden, and his host turned into the
house.
Eliza Hatton had been quietly watching proceedings, and as her husband
entered the kitchen she said, “Look a-here, Nelse, you shorely ain’t
a-goin’ to have that tramp in the kitchen a-settin’ up to the table?”
“Why, course,” said Nelse; “he’s human, ain’t he?”
“That don’t make no difference. I bet none of these white folks round
here would do it.”
“That ain’t none of my business,” answered her husband. “I believe in
every person doin’ their own duty. Put somethin’ down on the table; the
man’s hungry. An’ don’t never git stuck up, ’Lizy; you don’t know what
our children have got to come to.”
Nelse Hatton was a man of few words; but there was a positive manner
about him at times that admitted of neither argument nor resistance.
His wife did as she was bidden, and then swept out in the majesty of
wounded dignity, as the tramp was ushered in and seated before the table
whose immaculate white cloth she had been prudent enough to change for a
red one.
The man ate as if he were hungry, but always as if he were a hungry
gentleman. There was something in his manner that impressed Nelse that
he was not feeding a common tramp as he sat and looked at his visitor in
polite curiosity. After a somewhat continued silence he addressed the
man: “Why don’t you go to your own people when you’re hungry instead of
coming to us coloured folks?”
There was no reproof in his tone, only inquiry.
The stranger’s eyes flashed suddenly.
“Go to them up here?” he said; “never. They would give me my supper
with their hypocritical patronage and put it down to charity. You give
me something to eat as a favour. Your gift proceeds from disinterested
kindness; they would throw me a bone because they thought it would weigh
something in the balance against their sins. To you I am an unfortunate
man; to them I am a tramp.”
The stranger had spoken with much heat and no hesitation; but his ardour
did not take the form of offence at Nelse’s question. He seemed perfectly
to comprehend the motive which actuated it.
Nelse had listened to him with close attention, and at the end of his
harangue he said, “You hadn’t ought to be so hard on your own people;
they mean well enough.”
“My own people!” the stranger flashed back. “My people are the people of
the South,—the people who have in their veins the warm, generous blood of
Dixie!”
“I don’t see what you stay in the North fur ef you don’t like the people.”