A steamboat ride to New Orleans will never lose its novelty. Romance
lies along the lower river. The land falls away and we look down upon
fields bounded by distant mist, and beyond that dim line one's fancy
gallops riotously. Not alone the passenger, but the seasoned captain of
the boat stands musing and motionless, gazing upon the scene. In his
mind he could carry the form and the rugged grandeur of a mountain; upon
a crag he could hang his recollection, but this flat endlessness is ever
an unencompassed mystery.
The wind from the gulf was soft, and the two friends stood on the
hurricane-deck, charmed with a familiar view.
"It is just as new to me now as it was when I was a boy, coming along
here with my father," said the giant. "And yet I don't see what makes it
interesting, no woods, nothing but a house here and there."
"It always makes me think I'm going over the flat side of the globe, and
I catch myself wondering what's just beyond," Tom replied. "There's the
city 'way round yonder. How long do you want to stay?"
"I don't know exactly."
"Got any particular business down here?"
"No," he said, hesitatingly. "None that I know of."
"Just pleasure, is it?"
"Well, I reckon we might call it that."
"Might call it that? But I know why I'm here. I've come because you
wanted me to. There is nothing going on that I care to see. What is it
you're after?"
"Oh, just want to look around a little."
"All right, old fellow, I'm with you, but as soon as you get tired of
looking around I wish you'd let me know. It seems to me that I've been
gone a month already. You know why."
"Yes, I know; but you've got a consolation that I never had--you know
what to expect when you get back."
"Yes, that's true, and may be you'll know what to expect one of these
days."
From the museful distance the giant removed his gaze and upon the boy at
his side he bent a kindly look. "I have been reading a good deal of
late," he said, "and old Gid has told me that I am improving, but I have
found no book to speak a word of comfort to me. I took the heartache
away back yonder--but we won't talk about it. We'll poke around down
here a day or two and then go home."
"But hang it, I thought you came to enjoy yourself and not to conjure up
things to make you sad."
"You are right, and you shan't hear any more sad talk out of me."
It was early in the forenoon when they stepped ashore and stood upon the
old levee. The splendid life of the Mississippi steamboat is fading, but
here the glow lingers, the twilight at the close of a fervid day. No
longer are seen the gilded names of famous competitors, "The Lee," "The
Natchez," but unheralded boats are numerous, and the deck-hands' chorus
comes with a swell over the water, and the wharf is a jungle of trade.
In the French market they drank black coffee, listening to the strange
chatter about them, and then aimlessly they strolled away.
"What's your programme?" the boy asked.
"Haven't any."
"Do you want to call on any of the cotton buyers?"
"No, don't care to see them."
"All right; I'll walk until you say quit."
And thus they passed the day, with strolling about, halting to look at
an old tiled roof, a broken iron gate, a wrought iron balcony, a
snail-covered garden wall; and when evening was come they went to a
hotel to rest; but no sooner had night fallen than they went out again
to resume their walk.
"Look here," said Tom, beginning to lag, "I don't want to kick, but I'd
just like to know why I am fool enough to walk all day like a mule on a
tread-mill?"
"You said you'd walk with me."
"Said I would! Haven't I?"
"Yes," the giant drawled, "in a manner."
"If I haven't walked I don't know what you call walking. You have made a
machine of me, a corn-planter. Would you mind telling me where we are
going now?"
"I confess I don't know," the giant answered.
"Then let us look around and find out. Right now I'd rather be in old
Gid's house, sitting with somebody on a bench--and I'm going back
to-morrow. What fun is there in poking about this way like a couple of
gawks? You even pull me away from the supper table to tramp up and down
these streets. Hang it, I don't want to see people. Every face I see
is----"
"A disappointment," said the giant.
"Then why do you take the crowded side of the street? Let's go in here
and sit down a moment."
They had halted in front of a music hall. From within proceeded the
husky song of a worn-out negro minstrel.
"You may go in but I'll walk on," Jim replied. "It's nothing but a dive.
I'll go on down to the corner and wait for you. Don't stay long."
Jim strode away and Tom went into the beer hall. At the far end was a
stage, and on it stood the minstrel, dimmed by intervening tobacco
smoke. The floor was covered with damp saw-dust. The place was thronged
with a motley crowd, sailors, gamblers, with here and there a sprinkle
of wayward respectability. Painted girls attended the tables and
everywhere was the slopping of beer and the stench of the cigarette.
Tom was about to turn away when the sight of a company gathered about a
table halted him; and through the smoke his vision leaped and rested
upon--Louise. There was a rush, an over-turning of a table, the toppling
over of a tipsy man, and Tom stood confronting her. In a loud voice he
cried: "What the devil are you doing here?"
She got up and held out her hand, but resentment entered her mind and
she drew it back. "What are _you_ doing here?" she replied. "I've as
much right here as you have."
"I'll show you about that!" he roared, his anger lifting his voice high
above the grumble and the sharp clack of the place. "I'll drag you out!"
Beside her sat a solemnly-respectable man, and up he got and quietly
said: "Your language is most insulting, sir."
Tom did not wait to weigh the remark; indeed he did not hear it, for
like a bull-dog in a fury he lunged at the quiet man's throat, laid hold
of his collar, shoved him off to arm's length, and struck him, but the
blow glanced and the man jerked away. And then amid loud cries, the
over-turning of tables and the smashing of glasses, the furious
youngster felt himself seized by many hands. But he was a tiger and they
could not bear him to the floor. He broke loose and sprawled one man
upon the saw-dust. Others rushed upon him and again he was in a tangle
and a tug, but he tore himself from their hands, got a square blow at
the proprietor of the house and knocked him senseless. For a moment he
was free, and this moment was not left unimproved. From an upturned
table he wrenched a leg, and swinging it above his head he cleared his
way to a side door, and snatching it open, he sprung out into a small
court, just as the police were entering at the front of the house. In
the court a dim light was burning; at the end, but a few yards away, was
a rusty iron gate, and whether or not it was locked he never knew, for
throwing down his weapon he laid hold of a bar and with a jerk he tore
the gate from its rust-eaten hinges, threw it against a wall and was out
in the street. Now he ran, through an open space, into another street,
and then he walked, panting, looking back. It must have been difficult
to explain the cause of the disturbance for the police had not followed
him. He halted under a lamp hung above a narrow doorway. His hat was
gone, his coat was torn, and the bosom of his shirt was in shreds. The
short street was deserted, but he fancied that he heard footsteps, and
quickly he walked to a corner, and turning, saw Jim standing under a
lamp-post not far away. The giant was not looking toward him, and not
hearing his easy approach, did not turn his head until Tom was almost
within the shade-rim of the lamp.
"Why, what the deuce have you been doing?" the giant cried, reaching him
at a stride. "You look like a drowned rat, and your neck is clawed. What
have you been doing?"
"Row," the boy panted.
"In that place? Come back and we'll clean it out. Come on."
"No," said Tom, "let's get away from here. I've got something to tell
you. Let's circle round here somewhere and get a hat. I'll tell you when
we get back to the hotel, and you won't care to walk any more to-night
after I've told you."
Jim might have been burning to know more, but he said nothing, for
dogged patience was a part of his heroism. He took the boy's arm and
led him away, to a place where a hat was bought, and thence to the
hotel; and not until they were shut in a room did Tom attempt to tell
his story. And it was even then some minutes before he could proceed.
His anger was gone and sorrow was upon him. Several times he choked. And
then he told his story. With hard steps the giant walked about the room,
saying not a word; but he drooped as he halted at the window, as he
stood looking out upon the glimmering lights, far below.
"You said I wouldn't want to walk to-night, but I must," he spoke, and
his voice had a smothered sound. "I am going out to look for her. And
now you know why I have been walking all day, gazing at the faces in the
crowd." He had turned from the glimmering lights and was looking at Tom.
"I traced that letter she wrote, and in my mind I settled that it must
have come from this place. But I didn't tell your mother what I
suspected; I kept it to myself."
"If you go out again I'll go with you, Jim."
"No, I insist upon going alone."
He went out; and when he returned, just before the dawn, he found the
boy asleep on a chair. He took him up, put him upon a bed and sat
himself down at a window; and when Tom awoke, along toward ten o'clock,
the giant was still sitting there.
"Jim."
"Well."
"How long have you been in?"
"Don't know."
"You didn't--didn't find her?"
"No. I went to the place where you had the fight--wish to the Lord I had
been with you--but of course couldn't learn anything. I was--was afraid
to ask about her. But I tramped around all night, and I went into all
sorts of places, looking for her, and all the time afraid that I might
find her. God, what am I talking about! Afraid of finding her! Why, she
couldn't be in a place where--where she oughtn't to be."
"But she was!" the boy cried, bounding out upon the floor. "She was
and--Great God, I can hardly believe it, I don't realize it! I have been
so swallowed up that I haven't thought about her much lately--she's
crazy, Jim. Oh, she must be. She was the purest-minded girl----"
The giant stopped him with an uplifting of his ponderous hand. "Don't
say any more. Don't say she _was_ pure-minded. She _is_ pure-minded. I
will find her and she shall tell me----"
"She can't tell you anything to clear herself, Jim. She's lost--she's
crazy."
"She's an angel," said the giant.
"My dear Jim, she's my sister and I loved her, but angels can't go----"
"Don't say it."
"I won't, but don't you be foolish. Truth is truth, and we have to look
at it whether we want to or not." He walked up and down the room. "Who
would have thought that such a thing could happen?" he went on. "It's a
dream. But why did she leave home when she knew how much we all loved
her? What made her run away from you when she knew how you loved her?
Jim, I'm going home to-day. Are you coming with me?"
"No, I'm going to stay here and look for her."
"And when you have found her she'll treat you as she did me. She'll say
she has as much right there as you have. I don't believe it's any use.
Better come home with me."
"No, I'm going to look for her, and if she'll marry me I'll bring her
home."
"Jim, she is my sister, but--I won't say it. I love her, but I would
rather have seen her dead than where I saw her last night. I'm going
home."
"Wait a moment." For a time he pondered and then he said: "You may tell
your mother, but don't tell the Major."
"But why should it be kept from him? He ought to know it. We'll have to
tell him some time."
"Some time, may be, but not now, and don't you even hint it to him, and
don't you tell Sallie. Don't tell any one but your mother. Do you hear?"
"Yes, and I reckon you're right. I'll do as you tell me. Well, it's time
and I'm going."
Jim went with him to the levee, saw him on a boat and then resumed his
search throughout the town. But he asked no questions; and three days
later when he went aboard the home-bound boat, he knew no more than he
had known the night when the boy had told his story.