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[Illustration: WM. H. CRANE AS DAVID HARUM]
_WM. H. CRANE EDITION_
THE
CHRISTMAS STORY FROM
DAVID HARUM
By
Edward Noyes Westcott
ILLUSTRATED FROM MR. CHARLES FROHMAN'S
PRODUCTION OF DAVID HARUM.
A COMEDY DRAMATIZED FROM THE NOVEL
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1900
Copyright, 1898, 1900,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
[Illustration]
PREFACE
"Dave done the thing his own way," said Aunt Polly to the Widow Cullom.
"Kind o' fetched it round fer a merry Chris'mus, didn't he?"
This is the story which is reprinted here from Mr. Westcott's famous
book. It was David Harum's nature to do things in his own way, and the
quaintness of his methods in raising the Widow Cullom from the depths of
despair to the heights of happiness frame a story which is read between
laughter and tears, and always with a quickening of affection for the
great-hearted benefactor. David Harum's absolute originality, his
unexpectedness, the dryness of his humor, the shrewdness of his insight,
and the kindliness and generosity beneath the surface, have made him a
permanent figure in literature. Moreover, the individual quality of
David Harum is so distinctively American that he has been recognized as
the typical American, typical of an older generation, perhaps, in mere
externals, but nevertheless an embodiment of characteristics essentially
national. While only Mr. Westcott's complete book can fully illustrate
the personality of David Harum, yet it is equally true that no other
episode in the book presents the tenderness and quaintness, and the full
quality of David Harum's character, with the richness and pathos of the
story which tells how he paid the "int'rist" upon the "cap'tal" invested
by Billy P. Fortunately this story lends itself readily to separate
publication, and it forms an American "Christmas Carol" which stands by
itself, an American counterpart of the familiar tale of Dickens, and
imbued with a simplicity, humor, and unstudied pathos peculiarly its
own.
The difference between the written and the acted tale is illustrated in
the use made of the Christmas story in the play. In the book David tells
John Lenox the story of the Widow Cullom and her dealings with 'Zeke
Swinney, and reveals the truth to her in his office, and the dinner
which follows at his house is prolonged by his inimitable tales. In the
play action takes the place of description. In the first act we see
'Zeke Swinney obtaining blood-money from the widow, and the latter makes
the acquaintance of Mary Blake, newly entered upon her career of
independence as Cordelia Prendergast. In the second act we see the widow
giving the second mortgage to David, and thereby strengthening Mary
Blake's suspicions, and in the third act David pictures his dreary youth
and Billy P.'s act of kindness, and brings the widow to her own, the
climax coming with the toast which opens the dinner and closes the play.
It was a delicate and difficult task for even so distinguished an actor
as Mr. Crane to undertake a part already hedged about by conflicting
theories; but his insight and his devotion to the character have
succeeded in actually placing before us the David Harum created by Mr.
Westcott.
The illustrations of this book, reproduced from stage photographs by
the courtesy of Mr. Charles Frohman, include the best pictures of Mr.
Crane in character, and also stage views of scenes in the second and
third acts, which show the development and culmination of the Widow
Cullom episode. The Christmas Story is now published separately for the
first time in this volume, which unites a permanent literary value with
the peculiar interest of Mr. Crane's interpretations of the famous
character.
* * * * *
After many discouragements, the author of David Harum lived long enough
to know that his book had found appreciation and was to be published,
but he died before it appeared.
Edward Noyes Westcott, the son of Dr. Amos Westcott, a prominent
physician of Syracuse, and at one time mayor of the city, was born
September 27, 1846. Nearly all his life was passed in his native city of
Syracuse. His active career began early at a bank clerk's desk, and he
was afterward teller and cashier, then head of the firm of Westcott &
Abbott, bankers and brokers, and in his later years he acted as the
registrar and financial expert of the Syracuse Water Commission. His
artistic temperament found expression only in music until the last years
of his life. He wrote articles occasionally upon financial subjects, but
it was not until the approach of his last illness that he began David
Harum. No character in this book is taken directly from life. Stories
which his father had told and his own keen observations and lively
imagination furnished his material, but neither David Harum nor any
other character is a copy of any individual. No trace of the author's
illness appears in the book. "I've had the fun of writing it, anyway,"
he wrote shortly before his death, "and no one will laugh over David
more than I have. I never could tell what David was going to do next."
This was the spirit of the brave and gentle author, who died March 31,
1898, unconscious of the fame which was to follow him.
R. H.
NEW YORK, _August, 1900._
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Wm. H. CRANE Edition]
The Christmas Story from David Harum
CHAPTER I
It was the 23d of December, and shortly after the closing hour. Peleg
had departed and our friend had just locked the vault when David came
into the office and around behind the counter.
"Be you in any hurry?" he asked.
John said he was not, whereupon Mr. Harum hitched himself up on to a
high office stool, with his heels on the spindle, and leaned sideways
upon the desk, while John stood facing him with his left arm upon the
desk.
"John," said David, "do ye know the Widdo' Cullom?"
"No," said John, "but I know who she is--a tall, thin woman, who walks
with a slight stoop and limp. I noticed her and asked her name because
there was something about her looks that attracted my attention--as
though at some time she might have seen better days."
"That's the party," said David. "She has seen better days, but she's eat
an' drunk sorro' mostly fer goin' on thirty year, an' darned little else
a good share o' the time, I reckon."
"She has that appearance certainly," said John.
"Yes, sir," said David, "she's had a putty tough time, the widdo' has,
an' yet," he proceeded after a momentary pause, "the' was a time when
the Culloms was some o' the kingpins o' this hull region. They used to
own quarter o' the county, an' they lived in the big house up on the
hill where Doc Hays lives now. That was considered to be the finest
place anywheres 'round here in them days. I used to think the Capitol to
Washington must be somethin' like the Cullom house, an' that Billy P.
(folks used to call him Billy P. 'cause his father's name was William
an' his was William Parker), an' that Billy P. 'd jest 's like 's not be
president. I've changed my mind some on the subject of presidents since
I was a boy."
Here Mr. Harum turned on his stool, put his right hand into his
sack-coat pocket, extracted therefrom part of a paper of "Maple Dew,"
and replenished his left cheek with an ample wad of "fine-cut." John
took advantage of the break to head off what he had reason to fear might
turn into a lengthy digression from the matter in hand by saying, "I beg
pardon, but how does it happen that Mrs. Cullom is in such
circumstances? Has the family all died out?"
"Wa'al," said David, "they're most on 'em dead, all on 'em, in fact,
except the widdo's son Charley, but as fur's the family's concerned, it
more 'n _died_ out--it _gin_ out! 'D ye ever hear of Jim Wheton's calf?
Wa'al, Jim brought three or four veals into town one spring to sell.
Dick Larrabee used to peddle meat them days. Dick looked 'em over an'
says, 'Look here, Jim,' he says, 'I guess you got a "deakin" in that
lot,' he says. 'I dunno what you mean,' says Jim. 'Yes, ye do, goll darn
ye!' says Dick, 'yes, ye do. You didn't never kill that calf, an' you
know it. That calf died, that's what that calf done. Come, now, own up,'
he says. 'Wa'al,' says Jim, 'I didn't _kill_ it, an' it didn't _die_
nuther--it jes' kind o' _gin out_.'"
John joined in the laugh with which the narrator rewarded his own
effort, and David went on: "Yes, sir, they jes' petered out. Old Billy,
Billy P.'s father, inher'tid all the prop'ty--never done a stroke of
work in his life. He had a collige education, went to Europe, an' all
that, an' before he was fifty year old he hardly ever come near the old
place after he was growed up. The land was all farmed out on shares, an'
his farmers mostly bamboozled him the hull time. He got consid'able
income, of course, but as things went along and they found out how slack
he was they kept bitin' off bigger chunks all the time, an' sometimes he
didn't git even the core. But all the time when he wanted money--an' he
wanted it putty often, I tell ye--the easiest way was to stick on a
morgige; an' after a spell it got so 't he'd have to give a morgige to
pay the int'rist on the other morgiges."
"But," said John, "was there nothing to the estate but land?"
[Illustration]
"Oh, yes," said David, "old Billy's father left him some consid'able
pers'nal, but after that was gone he went into the morgige bus'nis as I
tell ye. He lived mostly up to Syrchester and around, an' when he got
married he bought a place in Syrchester and lived there till Billy P.
was about twelve or thirteen year old, an' he was about fifty. By that
time he'd got 'bout to the end of his rope, an' the' wa'n't nothin' for
it but to come back here to Homeville an' make the most o' what the' was
left--an' that's what he done, let alone that he didn't make the most
on't to any pertic'ler extent. Mis' Cullom, his wife, wa'n't no help to
him. She was a city woman an' didn't take to the country no way, but
when she died it broke old Billy up wus 'n ever. She peaked an' pined,
an' died when Billy P. was about fifteen or so. Wa'al, Billy P. an' the
old man wrastled along somehow, an' the boy went to collige fer a year
or so. How they ever got along 's they did I dunno. The' was a story
that some far-off relation left old Billy some money, an' I guess that
an' what they got off'm what farms was left carried 'em along till Billy
P. was twenty-five or so, an' then he up an' got married. That was the
crownin' stroke," remarked David. "She was one o' the village
girls--respectable folks, more 'n ordinary good lookin' an' high
steppin', an' had had some schoolin'. But the old man was prouder 'n a
cock-turkey, an' thought nobody wa'n't quite good enough fer Billy P.,
an' all along kind o' reckoned that he'd marry some money an' git a new
start. But when he got married--on the quiet, you know, cause he knowed
the old man would kick--wa'al, that killed the trick, an' the old man
into the bargain. It took the gumption all out of him, an' he didn't
live a year. Wa'al, sir, it was curious, but, 's I was told, putty much
the hull village sided with the old man. The Culloms was kind o' kings
in them days, an' folks wa'n't so one-man's-good's-anotherish as they be
now. They thought Billy P. done wrong, though they didn't have nothin'
to say 'gainst the girl neither--an' she's very much respected, Mis'
Cullom is, an' as fur's I'm concerned, I've alwus guessed she kept Billy
P. goin' full as long 's any one could. But 't wa'n't no use--that is to
say, the sure thing come to pass. He had a nom'nal title to a good deal
o' prop'ty, but the equity in most on't if it had ben to be put up
wa'n't enough to pay fer the papers. You see, the' ain't never ben no
real cash value in farm prop'ty in these parts. The' ain't ben hardly a
dozen changes in farm titles, 'cept by inher'tance or foreclosure, in
thirty years. So Billy P. didn't make no effort. Int'rist's one o' them
things that keeps right on nights an' Sundays. He jest had the deeds
made out an' handed 'em over when the time came to settle. The' was some
village lots though that was clear, that fetched him in some money from
time to time until they was all gone but one, an' that's the one Mis'
Cullom lives on now. It was consid'able more'n a lot--in fact, a putty
sizable place. She thought the sun rose an' set where Billy P. was, but
she took a crotchit in her head, and wouldn't ever sign no papers fer
that, an' lucky fer him too. The' was a house on to it, an' he had a
roof over his head anyway when he died six or seven years after he
married, an' left her with a boy to raise. How she got along all them
years till Charley got big enough to help, I swan! I don't know. She
took in sewin' an' washin', an' went out to cook an' nurse, an' all
that, but I reckon the' was now an' then times when they didn't overload
their stomechs much, nor have to open the winders to cool off. But she
held on to that prop'ty of her'n like a pup to a root. It was putty well
out when Billy P. died, but the village has growed up to it. The's some
good lots could be cut out on't, an' it backs up to the river where the
current's enough to make a mighty good power fer a 'lectric light. I
know some fellers that are talkin' of startin' a plant here, an' it
ain't out o' sight that they'd pay a good price fer the river front, an'
enough land to build on. Fact on't is, it's got to be a putty valu'ble
piece o' prop'ty, more 'n she cal'lates on, I reckon."
Here Mr. Harum paused, pinching his chin with thumb and index finger,
and mumbling his tobacco. John, who had listened with more attention
than interest--wondering the while as to what the narrative was leading
up to--thought something might properly be expected of him to show that
he had followed it, and said, "So Mrs. Cullom has kept this last piece
clear, has she?"
"No," said David, bringing down his right hand upon the desk with
emphasis, "that's jes' what she hain't done, an' that's how I come to
tell ye somethin' of the story, an' more on't 'n you've cared about
hearin', mebbe."
"Not at all," John protested. "I have been very much interested."
"You have, have you?" said Mr. Harum. "Wa'al, I got somethin' I want ye
to do. Day after to-morro' 's Chris'mus, an' I want ye to drop Mis'
Cullom a line, somethin' like this, 'That Mr. Harum told ye to say that
that morgige he holds, havin' ben past due fer some time, an' no
int'rist havin' ben paid fer, let me see, more'n a year, he wants to
close the matter up, an' he'll see her Chris'mus mornin' at the bank at
nine o'clock, he havin' more time on that day; but that, as fur as he
can see, the bus'nis won't take very long'--somethin' like that, you
understand?"
[Illustration]
"Very well, sir," said John, hoping that his employer would not see in
his face the disgust and repugnance he felt as he surmised what a scheme
was on foot, and recalled what he had heard of Harum's hard and
unscrupulous ways, though he had to admit that this, excepting perhaps
the episode of the counterfeit money, was the first revelation to him
personally. But this seemed very bad indeed.
"All right," said David cheerfully, "I s'pose it won't take you long to
find out what's in your stockin', an' if you hain't nothin' else to do
Chris'mus mornin' I'd like to have you open the office an' stay 'round a
spell till I git through with Mis' Cullom. Mebbe the' 'll be some papers
to fill out or witniss or somethin'; an' have that skeezicks of a boy
make up the fires so'st the place'll be warm."
"Very good, sir," said John, hoping that the interview was at an end.
But the elder man sat for some minutes apparently in a brown study, and
occasionally a smile of sardonic cunning wrinkled his face. At last he
said: "I've told ye so much that I may as well tell ye how I come by
that morgidge. Twon't take but a minute, an' then you can run an' play,"
he added with a chuckle.
"I trust I have not betrayed any impatience," said John, and instantly
conscious of his infelicitous expression, added hastily, "I have really
been very much interested."
"Oh, no," was the reply, "you hain't _betrayed_ none, but I know old
fellers like me gen'rally tell a thing twice over while they're at it.
Wa'al," he went on, "it was like this. After Charley Cullom got to be
some grown he helped to keep the pot a-bilin', 'n they got on some
better. 'Bout seven year ago, though, he up an' got married, an' then
the fat ketched fire. Finally he allowed that if he had some money he'd
go West 'n take up some land, 'n git along like pussly 'n a flower
gard'n. He ambitioned that if his mother 'd raise a thousan' dollars on
her place he'd be sure to take care of the int'rist, an' prob'ly pay off
the princ'pal in almost no time. Wa'al, she done it, an' off he went.
She didn't come to me fer the money, because--I dunno--at any rate she
didn't, but got it of 'Zeke Swinney.
"Wa'al, it turned out jest 's any fool might 've predilictid, fer after
the first year, when I reckon he paid it out of the thousan', Charley
never paid no int'rist. The second year he was jes' gettin' goin', an'
the next year he lost a hoss jest 's he was cal'latin' to pay, an' the
next year the grasshoppers smote him, 'n so on; an' the outcome was that
at the end of five years, when the morgige had one year to run,
Charley'd paid one year, an' she'd paid one, an' she stood to owe three
years' int'rist. How old Swinney come to hold off so was that she used
to pay the cuss ten dollars or so ev'ry six months 'n git no credit fer
it, an' no receipt an' no witniss, 'n he knowed the prop'ty was
improving all the time. He may have had another reason, but at any rate
he let her run, an' got the shave reg'lar. But at the time I'm tellin'
you about he'd begun to cut up, an' allowed that if she didn't settle up
the int'rist he'd foreclose, an' I got wind on't an' I run across her
one day an' got to talkin' with her, an' she gin me the hull narration.
'How much do you owe the old critter?' I says. 'A hunderd an' eighty
dollars,' she says, 'an' where I'm goin' to git it,' she says, 'the Lord
only knows.' 'An' He won't tell ye, I reckon,' I says. Wa'al, of course
I'd known that old Swinney had a morgidge because it was a matter of
record, an' I knowed him well enough to give a guess what his game was
goin' to be, an' more'n that I'd had my eye on that piece an' parcel an'
I figured that he wa'n't any likelier a citizen 'n I was." ("Yes," said
John to himself, "where the carcase is the vultures are gathered
together.")
"'Wa'al,' I says to her, after we'd had a little more talk, 's'posen
you come 'round to my place to-morro' 'bout 'leven o'clock, an' mebbe we
c'n cipher this thing out. I don't say positive that we kin,' I says,
'but mebbe, mebbe.' So that afternoon I sent over to the county seat an'
got a description an' had a second morgige drawed up fer two hundred
dollars, an' Mis' Cullom signed it mighty quick. I had the morgige made
one day after date, 'cause, as I said to her, it was in the nature of a
temp'rary loan, but she was so tickled she'd have signed most anythin'
at that pertic'ler time. 'Now,' I says to her, 'you go an' settle with
old Step-an'-fetch-it, but don't you say a word where you got the
money,' I says. 'Don't ye let on nothin'--stretch that conscience o'
your'n if nes'sary,' I says, 'an' be pertic'ler if he asks you if Dave
Harum give ye the money you jes' say, "No, he didn't." That won't be no
lie,' I says, 'because I ain't _givin_' it to ye,' I says. Wa'al, she
done as I told her. Of course Swinney suspicioned fust off that I was
mixed up in it, but she stood him off so fair an' square that he didn't
know jes' what _to_ think, but his claws was cut fer a spell, anyway.
[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act II]
"Wa'al, things went on fer a while, till I made up my mind that I
ought to relieve Swinney of some of his anxieties about worldly bus'nis,
an' I dropped in on him one mornin' an' passed the time o' day, an'
after we'd eased up our minds on the subjects of each other's health an'
such like I says, 'You hold a morgige on the Widder Cullom's place,
don't ye?' Of course he couldn't say nothin' but 'yes.' 'Does she keep
up the int'rist all right?' I says. 'I don't want to be pokin' my nose
into your bus'nis,' I says, 'an' don't tell me nothin' you don't want
to.' Wa'al, he knowed Dave Harum was Dave Harum, an' that he might 's
well speak it out, an' he says, 'Wa'al, she didn't pay nothin' fer a
good while, but last time she forked over the hull amount. But I hain't
no notion,' he says, 'that she'll come to time agin.' 'An' s'posin' she
don't,' I says, 'you'll take the prop'ty, won't ye?' 'Don't see no other
way,' he says, an' lookin' up quick, 'unless you over-bid me,' he says.
'No,' I says, 'I ain't buyin' no real estate jes' now, but the thing I
come in fer,' I says, 'leavin' out the pleasure of havin' a talk with
you, was to say that I'd take that morgige off'm your hands.'
"Wa'al, sir, he, he, he, he! Scat my----! At that he looked at me fer a
minute with his jaw on his neck, an' then he hunched himself, 'n drawed
in his neck like a mud turtle. 'No,' he says, 'I ain't sufferin' fer the
money, an' I guess I'll keep the morgige. It's putty near due now, but
mebbe I'll let it run a spell. I guess the secur'ty's good fer it.'
'Yes,' I says, 'I reckon you'll let it run long enough fer the widder to
pay the taxes on't once more anyhow; I guess the secur'ty's good enough
to take that resk; but how 'bout _my_ secur'ty?' I says. 'What d'you
mean?' he says. 'I mean,' says I, 'that I've got a second morgige on
that prop'ty, an' I begin to tremble fer my secur'ty. You've jes' told
me,' I says, 'that you're goin' to foreclose an' I cal'late to protect
myself, an' I _don't_ cal'late,' I says, 'to have to go an' bid on that
prop'ty, an' put in a lot more money to save my investment, unless I'm
'bleeged to--not _much!_ an' you can jes' sign that morgige over to me,
an' the sooner the quicker,' I says."
David brought his hand down on his thigh with a vigorous slap, the
fellow of the one which, John could imagine, had emphasized his demand
upon Swinney. The story, to which he had at first listened with polite
patience merely, he had found more interesting as it went on, and,
excusing himself, he brought up a stool, and mounting it, said, "And
what did Swinney say to that?" Mr. Harum emitted a gurgling chuckle,
yawned his quid out of his mouth, tossing it over his shoulder in the
general direction of the waste basket, and bit off the end of a cigar
which he found by slapping his waistcoat pockets. John got down and
fetched him a match, which he scratched in the vicinity of his hip
pocket, lighted his cigar (John declining to join him on some plausible
pretext, having on a previous occasion accepted one of the brand), and
after rolling it around with his lips and tongue to the effect that the
lighted end described sundry eccentric curves, located it firmly with an
upward angle in the left-hand corner of his mouth, gave it a couple of
vigorous puffs, and replied to John's question.
"Wa'al, 'Zeke Swinney was a perfesser of religion some years ago, an'
mebbe he is now, but what he said to me on this pertic'ler occasion was
that he'd see me in hell fust, 'an _then_ he wouldn't.
"'Wa'al,' I says, 'mebbe you won't, mebbe you will, it's alwus a
pleasure to meet ye,' I says, 'but in that case this morgige bus'nis 'll
be a question fer our executors,' I says, 'fer _you_ don't never
foreclose that morgige, an' don't you fergit it,' I says.
"'Oh, you'd like to git holt o' that prop'ty yourself. I see what you're
up to,' he says.
[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act II]
"'Look a-here, 'Zeke Swinney,' I says, 'I've got an int'rist in that
prop'ty, an' I propose to p'tect it. You're goin' to sign that morgige
over to me, or I'll foreclose an' surrygate ye,' I says, 'unless you
allow to bid in the prop'ty, in which case we'll see whose weasel-skin's
the longest. But I guess it won't come to that,' I says. 'You kin take
your choice,' I says. 'Whether I want to git holt o' that prop'ty myself
ain't neither here nor there. Mebbe I do, an' mebbe I don't, but
anyways,' I says, '_you_ don't git it, nor wouldn't ever, for if I can't
make you sign over, I'll either do what I said or I'll back the widder
in a defence fer usury. Put that in your pipe an' smoke it,' I says.
"'What do you mean?' he says, gittin' half out his chair.
"'I mean this,' I says, 'that the fust six months the widder couldn't
pay she gin you ten dollars to hold off, an' the next time she gin you
fifteen, an' that you've bled her fer shaves to the tune of sixty odd
dollars in three years, an' then got your int'rist in full.'
"That riz him clean out of his chair," said David. "'She can't prove
it,' he says, shakin' his fist in the air.
[Illustration]
"'Oh, ho! ho!' I says, tippin' my chair back agin the wall. 'If Mis'
Cullom was to swear how an' where she paid you the money, givin' chapter
an' verse, and showin' her own mem'randums even, an' I was to swear that
when I twitted you with gittin' it you didn't deny it, but only said
that she couldn't _prove_ it, how long do you think it 'ould take a
Freeland County jury to find agin ye? I allow, 'Zeke Swinney,' I says,
'that you wa'n't born yestid'y, but you ain't so old as you look, not by
a dum sight!' an' then how I did laugh!
"Wa'al," said David, as he got down off the stool and stretched himself,
yawning, "I guess I've yarned it enough fer one day. Don't fergit to
send Mis' Cullom that notice, an' make it up an' up. I'm goin' to git
the thing off my mind this trip."
"Very well, sir," said John, "but let me ask, did Swinney assign the
mortgage without any trouble?"
"O Lord! yes," was the reply. "The' wa'n't nothin' else fer him to do.
I had another twist on him that I hain't mentioned. But he put up a
great show of doin' it to obleege me. Wa'al, I thanked him an' so on,
an' when we'd got through I ast him if he wouldn't step over to the
'Eagil' an' take somethin', an' he looked kind o' shocked an' said he
never drinked nothin'. It was 'gin his princ'ples, he said. Ho, ho, ho,
ho! Scat my----! Princ'ples!" and John heard him chuckling to himself
all the way out of the office.