The multitude of legs, engaged by the pair in the service of Valentine,
King & Co., were distinguished from each other by a bit of house slang.
I was known as “last legs” among my companions for some time after
my initiation to the warehouse. At first I was inclined to resent the
reduction of my individuality to such a vulgar formula, but as I became
inured to hard tasks the sharpness of this indignity wore away.
There was one pair of legs doing service for the firm whose owner became
my most valued friend and confidant. In his business capacity he was
called “long legs,” but his proper name was Philbert Chaffin. He was
a tall, slim boy, with blue eyes and light hair, the son of a stage
carpenter, who was employed at one of the cheap theatres and who
lived within a stone's throw of my lodgings. His language was a unique
combination of bad grammar and provincial brogue; but every boy in
the warehouse allowed that he was a good fellow. He had spent many an
evening with me, and confided to me many a secret which, owing to solemn
pledges made at that time, I am not at liberty to divulge, before he
invited me to dine and spend an evening with the family. I accepted his
invitation gratefully, and the next evening Phil took me over. It was a
hearty welcome that I received at the home of the Chaffins. My enjoyment
of their simple hospitality would have been perfect but for the
embarrassment I felt at the many apologies with which it was offered.
Mrs. Chaffin knew as 'ow the tea was not as good as I was used to
drinking, but she 'oped it didn't taste “murky.” I assured her that
it did not taste murky, although a little doubtful as to the exact
significance of the word when applied to tea. But in spite of my
declaration she insisted that it must taste “murky” to one who was
accustomed to better things. The ham was never too good in Liverpool,
but she 'oped that it wasn't “reesty.” I solemnly declared that it was
not “reesty.” But Mrs. Chaffin and Mr. Chaffin out of the goodness of
their hearts continued to condole with me on the score that such ham
tasted and must taste “reesty” to one not used to it. I had no sooner
satisfied their misgivings concerning the ham than I was compelled to
take issue with them as to the bread, regarding which they entertained a
lurking suspicion of staleness. During all of this discussion about the
ham, the tea and the bread, I was conscious that a pair of big brown
eyes, darkly shaded with long lashes, were staring at me across the
table. Whenever I had the courage to glance that way I observed that
they had been looking at me intently, and were suddenly averted. These
wondering eyes belonged to the only daughter in the family.
“They've all been boys,” said Mrs. Chaffin, “since Hetty was born.”
I thought it strange that the H in her daughter's name was the only one
that the good woman had shown the ability to manage.
“Hetty is the only one of the lot that takes to books,” she continued.
“The head master told me she will make a good scholar, and dear a me!
she does nothing but read books from mornin' till night.” While Hetty
and her mother removed the dishes we drew our chairs about the fire,
and Mr. Chaffin, a blunt, simple-minded man, entertained me with sage
observations regarding politics and the weather. He spoke rather loudly,
and in a key which, as I learned afterward, he only employed on very
special occasions. Presently the youngest lad in the family, who sat
on his father's knee, demanded a song. The response was prompt and
generous. The selection with which Mr. Chaffin favored us contained
upward of forty stanzas, relating the unhappy story of a fair maid and
a bold sailor, both of whom met a tragic death, in the last stanza, just
before the day set for their marriage. The song being finished, Hetty
and her mother drew their chairs up to the fire; Hetty sat next me,
and after a severe inward struggle I summoned the courage to ask her a
question. She answered me in the fewest words possible, but in a
voice so sweet and low that I wondered then and often afterward at
its contrast to the other voices I had heard in that house. She wore a
home-spun frock and a neat white pinafore, set off with a dainty ribbon
tied about her throat.
“She's uncommon still when strangers is here, sir,” said Mrs. Chaffin;
“but law me! she goes rompitin' about the house like as if she was crazy
sometimes, ticklin' her father and tryin' t' snip off his beard with the
scissors.”
That night was the beginning of happier days for me. When at last I
rose to go it was near midnight. I forgot my weariness as I walked to my
lodgings, thinking of those simple, honest people and of their kindness
to me.
I enjoyed high jinks at the house of the Chaffins at least once a week
during the next year of my apprenticeship, near the close of which
I began to get ready for a visit to my stepmother in fulfilment of a
promise I had made by letter. It had been, on the whole, a happy year to
me. I had known many lonely hours, to be sure, but those visits to the
little old weather-stained house, in which I found my first friends
after leaving home, cheered me from week to week. I knew, too, that
Hetty enjoyed those long evenings as much as I did, which meant more to
me than I would have dared confess to her. I thought of her a good deal,
but it always resulted in the wretched feeling that we were both very
young after all. It is not likely that I would have decided to go home
for a fortnight, but that I thought it would be pleasant to observe
the effect of saying good-by to Hetty. I had no doubt that she would be
quite overcome with grief and loneliness after I had gone, and, reckless
youth that I was, nothing could have made me more happy than to have
known that she really felt grieved on my account. And yet when I called
to bid them all good-by, the evening before I started, she betrayed no
sign of regret. In fact, she seemed so much happier than usual that I
worried about it for weeks, even after I had gone so far away that it
seemed doubtful whether we would ever meet again. It did not occur to
me that I had been less skilful than she in concealing my emotions, and
that she might be merry only because she could perceive that I was sad.
Mrs. Chaffin was the only member of the family who seemed to entertain
feelings as serious as my own. She had dreamed that I would not come
back again, and we all laughed at her then, but when the swift years had
revealed some of their secrets, we thought of this prophetic dream with
a sadness deeper than any that comes to childish hearts. Hester and Phil
walked with me to the gate when I left the house. The radiance of a full
moon fell on our faces through the flying clouds. Phil, stupid fellow!
had so much to say that I did not get a chance to speak to his sister
before she darted back to the house as if pursued. On reaching my
lodgings I was surprised to find a gentleman waiting for me.
“Don't know me, eh?” said he, shaking my hand warmly.
He was a tall, portly man, with a kindly face, clean shaven except for
a pair of close-cropped, iron-gray side whiskers. I was sure I had seen
him before, but couldn't think of his name.
“Earl,” said he, handing me a card on which his name and address were
printed as follows:
DAVID GORDON EARL,
Barrister at Law,
Lincoln's Inn, London.
I remembered distinctly having accompanied my father to his office on
one occasion some years before.
“I've come up from London on purpose to see you. Just got here only a
few minutes ago,” said he, laying off his overcoat. “But upon my word!”
he added, surveying me from head to foot, “I didn't expect to find such
a big, strapping fellow as you are. Your surroundings are quite as I had
supposed they would be. Cramped quarters in a miserable tumble-down back
street! I suppose your guardian provided this place for you?”
“I believe so,” said I.
“Did you know that your stepmother had married again?” he asked.
“Married!” I exclaimed. “To whom?”
“To Martin Cobb.”
“To my guardian?” I asked, in astonishment.
Not heeding my question, he continued:
“You're intending to go home to-morrow, I believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My boy,” said he, “I have an interest in you. I was your father's
friend and adviser for many years. I came all this distance to tell you
not to go to London. Do not ask me why, I beg you,” said he, with an
impatient gesture when I attempted to speak. “It would do you no good to
learn my reason for making this request. Listen to this--it's important
to you: There's an uncle of yours in America, your nearest relative,
I believe. Of course you have heard your father speak of him. A most
eccentric fellow! but a man of fine ability. He was a graduate of Oxford
and a physician of great skill and learning. Thirty-five years ago he
went to Canada and finally settled in a large town on one of the great
lakes not far from the border. It was Detroit, I believe. Your father
told me, shortly before his death, that he had not heard from your uncle
for many years. I have written to him twice within a twelvemonth, but
have received no reply. I want you to go over and look him up. If you
should find that he is dead, there's no harm done, and you can take time
to look about for a business opportunity. If you don't like it, come
back, but, if you can content yourself there for awhile, you had better
do so.”
“But, sir, I have no money.”
“You are going for me; I shall, therefore, insist upon paying the bills.
In the success of the undertaking I have, perhaps, as great an interest
as you.”
“When do you wish me to start?” I asked.
“To-night. That is to say, I would like you to leave this place at once,
go with me to a hotel, and sail by the first steamer that leaves for New
York.”
Ever since that strange and silent messenger had come to me with my
uncle's letter I had been haunted by a desire to go in quest of him. Now
that it was possible, I hesitated. What would Hester say on hearing that
I had gone to America? It would be very grand to write her from New York
that I had been suddenly called abroad on important business. Would she
care? Of course she would care, and I was willing to wager a sixpence
with myself that she would cry bitterly, too, on receiving the letter.
Ah, what a punishment that would be for her coldness and indifference!
Yes, I would go. I began picking up my things and packing them into my
box.
“I conclude that you have decided to go,” he said.
“Yes, sir. I shall be ready in a moment,” I replied.
We were soon rattling over the pavements in a cab that had been waiting
at the door.
On arriving at the Northwestern Hotel we were informed that a steamer
would leave for New York at five in the morning. We drove at once to
the dock and having succeeded in making comfortable arrangements for my
passage Mr. Earl went aboard the steamer with me. In a retired corner
of the great cabin I confessed to him that there was a girl in Liverpool
for whom I had a feeling of extraordinary tenderness.
He laughed heartily and insisted that I should tell him all the
particulars.
“You are rather young yet to entertain so serious a passion,” said he,
as he held my hand for a moment before going ashore. “You will get over
it as easily as you got into it.”
I sat down, unable to reply or to restrain the tears that came to my
eyes as he left me alone. I went to my stateroom at once and to bed.
What thoughts came to me as I lay there inviting sleep to turn them
into dreams, while the great ship waited for the tide! I tossed about
my berth; I prayed; I listened. At length I thought I heard my father's
voice mingled with others, and a sound of casting off--but I heard no
more.