MR. MCGUSHER’S BAD MEMORY.
“Captain Wichard Bilder, of Belfast, Maine, wich or poowah, you are my
honawed fawther!” exclaimed Mr. Arthur McGusher. “I feel it in my blood
and bones. It can’t be othawwise.”
“Perhaps it can.”
“Impawsible! If you are pooaw, so am I. Though I have seen bettaw days,
I have been cwadled in the lap of povawty. I know what it is to suffaw
for the want of an opewa ticket. I know what it is to wear a pair of
spwing twousaws late in the autumn. I know what it is to see fawst
hawses, and not own them. I know how a pooaw man feels when he passes
Delmonico’s up-town house.”
“It is very affecting, Mr. McGusher,” said Kate, solemnly.
“My fawther, if thou art pooaw, I will wawk with thee and faw thee!”
gushed the long-lost.
“Very well, my boy; I shall go to sea, and I think you had better go
into the fo’castle, crawl through the hawse-hole, as I did. I’ll make a
sailor of you.”
“In the fo’cawstle! The smell of the taw would make me sick. But--”
“Never mind that now. I should like to look into your antecedents
before I acknowledge you as my son,” interposed Captain Bilder.
“Had your long-lost son no mawks on his pawson? no mole under the left
ear? no bawthmawk on his right shouldaw?”
“Not a mark, that I know of; but his nose was entirely different from
yours.”
“Have you no po’twait of the little one?”
“None.”
Mr. McGusher seemed to derive new strength and encouragement from these
answers, and his face bore no expression of disappointment at the
acknowledged absence of any means of identifying the long-lost.
“I must have changed in fawteen yeaws,” he added.
“Of course; though the shape of one’s nose undergoes no great
alteration. Have you the card alluded to in the letter?” asked Captain
Bilder.
“I have the cawd;” and Mr. McGusher took the pasteboard from his pocket.
[Illustration]
He laid it upon the table. It was the left-hand piece, and the
ship-master placed the middle part by the side of it. The edge of the
one exactly fitted the irregular edge of the other. The material of
both portions was the same; the writing was identical; and the words
and letters divided where the card was cut fitted each other perfectly.
Captain Bilder and Kate were very much surprised. The middle portion
of the card had come into the ship-master’s possession ten years
before. After the lapse of this long period, the second piece had come,
fully answering the description of it contained in the letter enclosing
the first.
“Turn the left-hand piece over, father. The letter that came with the
middle piece says the name of the person who had the right hand piece
would be found on the back of the one your son was to bring to you,”
said Kate.
Captain Bilder turned the part indicated, and found an address written
upon it, in the same hand as the first letter.
“‘Borden Green & Co., Bankers, New York,’” said he, reading from the
back of the card. “Borden Green & Co. were my bankers when I went to
sea. This business was certainly managed by some one who knew all about
my affairs.”
“I beg your pawdon, Captain Bildaw, but the business has not been
managed at all. I know pawsitively nothing about the mattaw except what
I have lawned from this lettaw. I have seen no pawson, spoken to no
pawson,” protested Mr. McGusher.
“Are you quite sure of that?”
“Do you doubt my wawd?” demanded the long-lost, with dignity.
“If I don’t doubt your word, I can’t take it in a case of this kind,”
replied Captain Bilder, decidedly.
“Is it pawsible my wawd is wawth so little?”
“I don’t know what is possible; and I don’t know that I care. If you
can tell me of what Orphan Asylum you were an inmate, I may take the
trouble to look the matter up,” said the ship-master.
“But, saw, I don’t know. I have no maw ideaw than yawself. You see, I
don’t wemembaw anything about the institootion,” Mr. McGusher explained.
“You don’t remember?”
“No, saw: that pawt of my existence is all a blank.”
“How long since you left the asylum?”
“How can I tell, Captain Bildaw, when I don’t wemembaw the asylum at
all?”
“How long have you boarded in Twenty-Second Street?”
“Thwee yeaws, saw.”
“And you think you are about eighteen years old now?”
“I infaw it fwom the lettaw.”
“My son, if living, would be eighteen.”
“Then that must be my age,” added the long-lost, complacently.
“You were stolen when you were four years old, the letter says.”
“I believe it, saw.”
“You were taken to England, and left with a man by the name of
McGusher,” continued Captain Bilder, referring to the letter.
“Yes, saw. How many times have I wead this intawesting fact!”
“And McGusher brought you to America thirteen years ago?”
“Undoubtedly, saw.”
“How old were you then?”
“Five, saw,” answered Mr. McGusher, after studying a little while upon
the problem.
“Can’t you remember what happened when you were five years old?”
“Not an event, saw.”
“I can, and that is fifty years ago.”
“Then yaw memowy is bettaw than mine.”
“Very well. After you came to America, it appears that the man who had
you in his care boarded with the writer of this letter till he died.
They seem to have been well acquainted; and we will suppose that he had
lived with her one year when he died.”
“I beg your pawdon; but it might not have been thwee months,” Mr.
McGusher interposed, evidently feeling that he ought to dispute the
position of the captain.
“I see that ‘a year’ is erased in the letter.”
“If it had been a yeaw, she would not have ewased it.”
“Perhaps it was not just a year; it may have been more or less; but
‘One who knows’ would not have written it if it had not been about that
time. Call it a year. How old were you then, Mr. McGusher?”
“Six, I suppose,” replied the long-lost, rather vacantly, for he could
not see where this line of reasoning would come out.
“Exactly so, Mr. McGusher. Now, can’t you remember when you were six
years old?” asked the ship-master, sharply.
“Not a single thing, saw. I have twied to wecall the events of those
yeaws, but I have twied in vain. It is all a blank to me.”
“Very singular! I don’t think another such a case ever occurred.
No matter. Now, I suppose you staid in the Orphan Asylum some
time--perhaps till you were twelve, say.”
“Impossible, Captain Bildaw. I should wemember it if I had.”
“I should say so. But you seem to have an exceedingly bad memory for a
young man of eighteen. Say two years, then, which would make you eight
when you left.”
“But I think I can wemember when I was eight,” suggested the long-lost.
“O, you can! What and where were you then?”
“It is all vewy dweamy. I can only wecall the fact that I was a living
being then.”
“Your memory is most astonishingly dull.”
“But it is pawsible, and even pwobable, that I was not at the
institootion maw than a few months. Childwen aw often taken from that
sawt of place when they aw only six or seven yeaws old. You see, people
who have no childwen of their own go to these institootions and take
childwen to bwing up. They always take the pwettiest and most pwomising
childwen; and it is pwobable I was taken befoaw I had been in the
asylum maw than a month or two.”
“Ah, Mr. McGusher, very likely. I had not taken your beauty into
consideration before.”
“Well, Captain Bilder, a man’s beauty is no cwedit to him. He can’t
help it;” and the long-lost stroked his downy mustache.
“I am afraid we must admit that you were taken from the asylum when you
were only six, Mr. McGusher.”
“I have no doubt of it, because, you see, if I had staid thaaw a yeaw
or two, I should have wemembawed it.”
“I’m not so sure of that. But never mind the asylum. You have boarded
three years in Twenty-second Street?”
“Thwee yeaws, saw.”
“Where did you board before that?” asked the captain quietly, as he
looked out the window.
“Before that?” repeated Mr. McGusher.
“Yes: where did you board four years ago?”
“Faw years ago?”
Possibly Mr. McGusher had not prepared himself for examination in this
important era of his personal history. At any rate, he hesitated.
“You don’t answer me,” said the captain.
“I was thinking. Faw yeaws ago.”
“Certainly you can tell where you boarded or lived before you went to
your present place,” added Captan Bilder, sharply.
“O, is that what you mean? I lived in the countwy faw yeaws ago,”
replied Mr. McGusher, as cheerfully as though a new revelation had
suddenly come to his darkened mind. “I lived in the countwy faw yeaws
ago.”
“What country?”
“Ha, ha, ha! Pwetty good!” laughed the long-lost. “I only meant that
I did not live in New Yawk. You see, I didn’t live in the city, but I
lived in the countwy. That was the ideaw I meant to convey. I wesided
in the wuwal distwicts.”
“Precisely so; I fully comprehend you, Mr. McGusher. You lived in the
country, and not in the city.”
“Exactly so! I couldn’t have expwessed it bettaw myself.”
“Very well; we are making some progress.”
“Yes, saw; some progwess we aw making. But you see, Captain Bildaw, it
is not always easy to see what a fellaw means. You see, a fellaw may
use the wawd countwy to mean the wuwal distwicts, when he don’t mean
the city; or he may mean Asia, Africa, or some of those places so faw
off that it makes a fellaw’s head swim to think of them.”
“I understand: your explanation is very lucid. You lived in the
country, as distinguished from the city. Now, perhaps you can inform me
precisely where you lived.”
“Of cawse I can,” replied Mr. McGusher, promptly. But the question
seemed to bother him. “It is the easiest thing in the wawld to tell
whaw I lived.”
“Why don’t you tell me, then?” demanded the ship-master.
But Mr. McGusher still hesitated, and appeared to be considering the
questions that would follow his answer, or the consequences of giving
to himself a “local habitation and a name.”
“You see, I have been in the city only thwee yeaws. I went into the
lawge mawcantile establishment of Messrs. Hewlins & Heavybones as a
boy, and wose to my pwesent position,” added the long-lost; but he was
evidently thinking of something else.
“Perhaps you will be willing to inform me where you lived before you
went there.”
“Sawtainly, saw; with pleasaw,” answered Mr. McGusher. But he did not
do it. “When I went to the lawge mawcantile--”
“I understand that part of your story perfectly. You went there,
and rose to your present position, which is very creditable to your
ability, and illustrates the triumph of genius, perseverance, and
industry. Now, will you tell me where you lived?”
“Weally, it is so long since I left the place, that I have almost
forgotten the name of it.”
“I am afraid you have quite forgotten it.”
“No, saw. The place was Goshen; not the Goshen mentioned in the
Scwipchaw, but Goshen in the State of New York. It is in Owange County,
on the Ewie Wailwoad, seventy miles fwom New Yawk City; population ovaw
thwee thousand; and they make much nice buttaw there. I daw say you
have hawd of Goshen buttaw, Captain Bilder,” said Mr. McGusher.
“I think I have.”
“You see, that isn’t the kind of buttaw they use in cheap
bawding-houses. They keep cows out there.”
“Indeed!”
“Fact, saw. I’ve seen them myself. The cows give milk, and--”
“I shall not dispute any of your facts. But I should like to ask with
whom you lived in Goshen.”
“With whom? You want the man’s name, I suppose.”
“Yes, if you happen to remember it: if you don’t, it’s of no great
consequence.”
“Of cawse I wemember it. How could I live with a man, and not wemember
his name?”
“Sure enough! But your memory has played you some shabby tricks. Please
to give me the name before you forget it.”
“I shall nevaw fawget it. It would be quite impawsible to forget it.”
“What was it, then?”
“I lived with Mr. Chessman,” answered the long-lost; and he evidently
gave the name with many misgivings as to the result.
“Chessman. Thank you. Do you remember his first name?”
“Yes, saw; his first name was Amos; his second or middle name was Pewy;
and his whole name was Amos Pewy Chessman.”
“Amos P. Chessman, was it?”
“Yes, saw.”
“Excellent! Write that name down, Kate, before Mr. McGusher forgets it;
also the town, county, and state.”
Kate seated herself at her desk, and wrote the address in full.
“You see, Mr. Chessman didn’t live wight in the village. He was a
fawmer, and had a fawm outside of the village. You see, they don’t have
fawms in the village,” Mr. McGusher explained.
“Don’t they? Well, that’s odd!” laughed Captain Bilder. “Does Mr.
Chessman live there now?”
“No, saw; he does not live there now.”
“Where does he live?”
“You see, he don’t live anywhaw, now.”
“Don’t live anywhere?”
“No, saw; he’s dead now.”
“That’s unfortunate for him, if not for the rest of us.”
“It was dooced unfawtunate. He died of a tewible disease--the
hydwophobia. You see, that’s the disease they get when they are bitten
by dogs.”
“Just so. I’ve heard of the disease.”
“You see, Mr. Chessman had a dog. I got that dog when a puppy.”
“You mean when the dog was a puppy,” suggested the ship-master.
“To be suaw. I got that dog when a puppy. Of cawse the dog was a puppy.
I never was a puppy. Puppies don’t go on two legs, and talk, and smile,
and think, and have bwains.”
“Sometimes--all but the brains. But never mind the dog, Mr. McGusher.
Mr. Chessman died--poor man!--of hydrophobia?”
“He died after I left his house. I did not witness his painful
stwuggles.”
“You were spared that, fortunately. Did Mr. Chessman have a family?”
asked Captain Bilder.
“Yes, saw--a wife and faw childwen.”
“Of course they still live on the farm in Goshen.”
“No, saw, they don’t live on the fawm in Goshen,” replied the
long-lost, with refreshing promptness. “When Mr. Chessman died, his
wife couldn’t manage the fawm; and they had to sell it to pay the
debts.”
“I’m sorry for that. But what became of the family?”
“They went to Owegon, where Mrs. Chessman had a bwother. I don’t know
what pawt of Owegon; I only heard that she had gone to Owegon.”
“I hope she found a good home in Oregon; but it’s of no consequence to
the present inquiry whether she did or not, or even that she went to
Oregon. Of course, if I write to my friend, Borden Green, the banker,
who has a country place, for aught I know, in Goshen, he will be able
to ascertain all about Mr. Chessman and his family.”
“I’m afwaid not,” replied Mr. McGusher, evidently somewhat disturbed by
the suggestion. “You see, Mr. Chessman did not live in the village.”
“That’s of no consequence. Green will find where he lived, if it was
within ten miles of the village.”
“But Mr. Chessman only lived there a shawt time.”
“Never mind; if he lived there at all, and died there of hydrophobia,
some one will remember him.”
“Pawsibly.”
“I am very much obliged to you, Mr. McGusher, for this information; and
in a week or two I shall, doubtless, be able fully to confirm all you
have stated.”
“I hope you will,” replied Mr. McGusher, rather blankly.
“I suppose Mr. Chessman took you from the Orphan Asylum.”
“Weally, I don’t know, saw.”
“You never happened to hear him or his wife state any such
circumstance?”
“Nevaw.”
“Mr. Chessman appears to have been in debt when he died, so that his
farm had to be sold. If he had four children of his own, why did he
take a child from the asylum?”
“Weally, I don’t know that he did take a child from the asylum,”
protested the long-lost, warmly.
“You don’t remember that part of your history. You lived with Mr.
Chessman, and you were in the asylum; but it does not appear how you
passed from one to the other. How long were you in Goshen?”
“Only a shawt time.”
“But as long as Mr. Chessman lived there?”
“I suppose so.”
“Where did he live before he moved to Goshen?”
“Weally, I don’t know the name of the place. It was in the countwy.”
“But you must have been fourteen years old when you left that place.”
“Certainly I knew the place; but it was an odd name. I shall think of
it in a moment,” added Mr. McGusher, pounding his head, which seemed to
be at fault, and deserved the castigation. “Ah! I have it! Gwillingham;
that was the place. It is dooced odd that I forgot it for the moment.”
“Gwillingham?”
“Grillingham,” suggested Kate, who had noticed his shabby treatment of
the rolling and trilling letter of the alphabet.
“That’s it, Miss Bildaw; thank you. Gwillingham was what I said.”
“Where is Grillingham?”
“Weally, I couldn’t tell you much about the place. I could descwibe it;
but I hawdly know where it is, except that it is in Sullivan County.”
“It’s of no consequence where it is. I am entirely satisfied with the
information you have given me. My friend, Borden Green, the banker,
will look up the case for me.”
“Yes, saw; and he has the piece of cawd which will complete the
evidence,” added Mr. McGusher.
“And you really believe you are my long-lost son?”
“Do I believe it? I know it! I have always felt that I belonged in
some highaw spheaw than I was in. I have aspiwations for something
highaw and noblaw than I have evaw seen,” said Mr. McGusher, with an
appropriate gesture.
“We will leave the matter where it is for the present. But, as I told
you before, I am a poor man; and if you are my son, you must go to
work, as I shall,” added the ship-master.
“I beg your pawdon; but, don’t you think that the pieces of cawd settle
the question?”
“They are strong evidence; but in a matter of so much importance I
desire to be sure.”
“Quite pwoper, Captain Bildaw. But in my own mind I have not a doubt,
since you have the piece of cawd. I beg your pawdon; but might I see
you alone for a moment?”
Kate left the room at this hint.
“I beg your pawdon; but, as thaw can be no doubt that I am your
long-lost son, might I beg the favaw of the small loan of one hundwed
dollaws?” Mr. McGusher proceeded.
“You have come to the wrong man for money. I have none,” replied the
captain.
“My salary is small--only five dollars a week; and it will hardly
suppawt me I have not money enough to pay my expenses in Belfast while
you are investigating the case.”
Captain Bilder declined to advance any money, if he had any to advance;
but he invited Mr. McGusher to the hospitality of his house while he
continued to occupy it. Whatever he believed in regard to the claim of
his guest, he desired to trace that remarkable letter and card to their
source. In another hour, the long-lost was at home in the paternal
mansion.