QIGG.
During the following two weeks, up to New Year's day, the three friends
made little progress in their observations. The tall girl in the immense
skirts appeared rarely to reward Matthew Maltboy's ardent gaze, and even
then seemed to look down at the dingy snow beneath, or the clouds
overhead, or to something or somebody across the way, but never to the
fluttering Maltboy.
Nothing more was seen of the pale and grayhaired workman; for he kept
the lower curtain of his window jealously drawn. But at night his
shadow, strongly projected on the curtain, was in incessant motion; and
far into the morning hours a gigantic head and arms shifted and blended
upon it in grotesque forms. At the other window of the workman's
apartment the young girl often sat, book in hand, and moved her lips as
if she were reading aloud. Her eyes were never seen to wander to the
outer world with those longings for freedom and fresh air which are
natural to the youthful heart, but were always fixed upon the book, or
upon some object within the room. She was entirely unconscious of the
distant and imperfect scrutiny to which her form and movements were
subjected by Marcus Wilkeson, who had begun to take a strange interest
in her, and in the shadow on the curtain, since the healthy and amiable
old gentleman directly opposite had ceased to smoke his pipe and indulge
in his tranquil meditation daily.
Twice only had he shown himself, and then, after a grave bow to Marcus
Wilkeson, who returned it with more than the usual inclination of head,
the old gentleman had taken a few whiffs at his pipe, looked out of the
window with a troubled air, and vanished from the sight of his
sympathizing observer, as if the quiet old sitting place had lost its
charm for him. The young man--the disturbing element of the old
gentleman's life, as Marcus Wilkeson regarded him--was not again seen
in the room where he had made his first appearance, but was discovered,
several days after that event, sitting at a table near a window in the
second story, and writing industriously. His labors were evidently not
disagreeable; for, after an hour's engagement with his pen, he would sit
back in his chair, laugh, take a long drink from a black bottle which
stood at his elbow, and light a fresh cigar. Whatever his occupation, he
was completely absorbed in it, and did not notice the pair of keen eyes
peering at him from behind a book in the house opposite. Every
afternoon, about three o'clock, the young man sat at the table with his
bottle, cigars, and writing materials, and pursued his pleasant labors.
Marcus Wilkeson would never have pretended that it was not highly
improper to watch one's neighbors. He would have denounced it as
deserving of the severest reprobation. But he would have said, that if,
while he was sitting, according to his invariable custom, at his own
window, for the sole purpose of reading a book, people chose to bring
themselves within the range of his vision, he was not therefore under
obligations to vacate his seat. He would have insisted that any glances
which he might have directed at his neighbors, were so levelled in fits
of mental abstraction, or in the exercise of a friendly regard for them.
The Overtop theory he discarded as fallacious, and likely to get its
talented founder into trouble.
That founder and his only follower, Maltboy, were determined, however,
to put the new social system into practice on New Year's day, and had
secured the ready services of Quigg, the grocer, as originally proposed
by the sagacious Overtop. Marcus Wilkeson obstinately refused to
participate in this projected grand tour; which refusal was too bad,
said Overtop, because the fourth seat in the double sleigh that had been
hired for the occasion would be left vacant.
At last came New Year's day; and the sky was cloudless, and the sun was
bright, and the weather was just cold enough to make the blood tingle
pleasantly, and the snow was a foot deep, and well beaten down in the
side streets. The elements themselves had conspired to give the Overtop
theory every chance of success.
J.M. Quigg, grocer, was elaborately attiring himself in the snug
sleeping room behind his store, at ten o'clock on the morning of the
eventful day. He little knew the tremendous importance of the part which
he was about to perform. He looked upon Overtop and Maltboy, not as the
expounders of a new social philosophy, but as cash customers to a
considerable extent, and as partners in defraying the heavy expenses of
a large double team. Mr. Quigg exercised the virtue of prudence even in
his dissipations, and derived pleasure from the reflection that he would
make his annual round of complimentary calls in an elegant turnout at a
moderate cost.
Therefore Mr. Quigg hummed pleasantly as he dressed himself, by the aid
of a large mirror which he had taken for a bad debt, and which was the
only ornament of the plainly furnished little room. Mr. Quigg was a man
of business, and never fretted with cravats, nor made himself unhappy on
the subject of hair. Three turns and a pull adjusted the former; and a
half dozen well-directed dabs with a stiff brush regulated the latter.
Fifteen minutes after he began his toilet, he took a comprehensive view
of himself in the large mirror, and mentally expressed the conviction
that, for a man of thirty-seven, he was not bad looking.
Quigg was right; and his just opinion of himself was shared by the young
widows and unmarried ladies of his acquaintance. He was about six feet
high, with a graceful figure, and the head of a statesman. A more
intellectual face, and a broader or more massive brow, assisted,
perhaps, in its general effect, by a slight baldness, were rarely if
ever seen. A distinguished professor of phrenology had picked out
Quigg's head from among half an acre of heads at a lecture upon that
subject in the city, and had pronounced it the "model head," greatly to
the disgust of all the other large-skulled men in the hall. The
professor had also assured Quigg, upon learning who and what he was,
that it was a solemn duty he owed to society to abandon the grocery
business, and devote himself to "philosophical culture, the development
of the humanities, and the true expansion of his interior
individuality." Notwithstanding this flattering opinion, Quigg still
sanded his sugar, and reduced his whiskey, and found his delight as well
as his-profit in those gross material pursuits.
The interior Quigg, of whom the professor had spoken so hopefully, was
still undeveloped. The professor's views of Quigg's head had, however,
made a deep impression upon the owner of it, and had given to Quigg's
ordinary observations on the weather, the state of his health, and the
other familiar topics to which his remarks were principally addressed,
an oracular importance in his own opinion. Such were the deceptive
effects produced by his large, polished brow, and slow, imposing speech,
that he always seemed to be on the point of uttering vital truths. But
the listener's ear ached in vain for them.
Quigg put on his overcoat, took a small glass of bitters from a bottle
kept behind the large mirror, locked up the store, proceeded to the
nearest restaurant, hastily despatched a lean, unsatisfactory chop and a
cup of weak tea, gave a half dime to the waiter who bade him, in a loud
and significant voice, "Happy New Year, sir," and then returning found
the double sleigh punctual to appointment.
It was a swan-shaped vehicle, brightly painted, thickly covered with
buffalo robes, and drawn by two high-stepping horses, which tossed their
heads and shook their bells merrily as if they shared in the prevailing
jovialty of the day.
On the front seat, and nearly filling up the whole width of the sleigh,
sat the driver. His shoulders were broad enough for two men; his legs
and arms were of twice the common size, and he had two well-defined
chins. He seemed to be double in all his dimensions, like the sleigh.
"Hallo, Quigg!" said the driver, in a voice of double strength, snapping
his whip playfully at that gentleman as he approached.
"Hallo to _you_, Cap," returned Quigg, pleasantly. "It is a very fine
day. I guess there will be a great many calls made." Quigg uttered these
words slowly, as if they were precious, and he hated to part with them.
"Shouldn't wonder," answered Cap, which was a short name for Captain
(nobody knew of what), and added, without any apparent sequence of
ideas: "I s'pose you're goin' to take some brandy along, old fellow?
It's hardly fair for me to be sittin' into the cold outside, with
nothin' to drink, while you chaps are drinkin' your champagne punch
before a warm fire."
Mr. Quigg reflected a moment, as one who reckons up profit and loss. He
then said:
"A good idea, Cap. Brandy is not a bad thing on a cold day." He spoke
with impressive solemnity.
"Or any other day," added the driver. "Partickley 'lection day.
Leastways, such was the 'pinion of the voters into my ward, last
December, when I run for School Inspector, you know. Unfortunately, I
didn't know the ropes then; and thought, when I got the nomination, I
was sure to be 'lected. My 'ponent issued tickets for free drinks at all
the rum mills into the ward. I didn't find out his game till about two
o'clock in the afternoon, and then I tried it myself. But I was too
late. He had six hours' start of me, and beat me by five hundred
drinks--I mean votes."
Mr. Quigg nodded, and said, "Of course," as if he had often heard of
such instances, and there was nothing surprising in them. He then
abruptly cut off the Captain's political reminiscences, by unlocking the
store and entering it. After a few minutes' absence, he returned with a
half-gallon jug and a tin dipper.
"A nice, fat little feller," rapturously exclaimed Captain Tonkins,
taking the proffered jug. Placing it in the bottom of the sleigh, where
such of the public as were stirring in that vicinity could not see the
operation, he half filled the tin dipper, and, raising it suddenly to
his mouth, drank the contents with a double gulp. "Prime stuff, that,"
said the Captain, smacking his lips. "A hogshead of it would make a
school commissioner, an alderman, mebbe a major of you, Quigg."
"I dare say," said Quigg. "But what would a dull, practical fellow like
me be good for in public life?" This was Quigg's habitual way of
depreciating himself, and it always impressed the hearer with a sense of
Quigg's eminent ability.
Quigg then drew a pair of yellow gloves on his large, hairy hands,
slightly ripping the two thumbs and most of the fingers in the
operation, took a seat in the double sleigh, and proclaimed himself
ready to start.