I
On a sweltering July day a long and ungainly shadow, stretching thirty
feet upon the ground, crept noiselessly up an avenue leading to a
fashionable hotel at a great summer resort. The sun was setting, and
its slanting rays caused the shadow to assume the appearance of an
anamorphosis of ludicrous proportions. It was a timid shadow--perhaps a
shadow of strange and unnerving experiences.
The original of it was worthy of study. He was a short, stout,
stoop-shouldered man; his hair was ragged and dusty, his beard
straggling and scant. His visible clothing consisted of a slouch hat,
torn around the rim and covered with dust; a woollen shirt; a pair of
very badly soiled cotton trousers; suspenders made of rawhide strips,
fastened to his trousers with wooden pins, and the strangest of old
boots, which turned high up at the toes like canoes (being much too
long for his feet), and which had a rakish aspect.
The man's face was a protest against hilarity. Apparently he had all
the appurtenances of natural manhood, yet his whole expression would
have at once aroused sympathy, for it was a mixture of childishness,
confidence, timidity, humility, and honesty. His look was vague and
uncertain, and seemed to be searching hopelessly for a friend--for the
guidance of natures that were stronger and minds that were clearer. He
could not have been older than thirty-five years, and yet his hair and
beard were gray, and his face was lined with wrinkles. Occasionally he
would make a movement as if to ward off a sudden and vicious blow.
He carried a knotty stick, and his ample trousers-pockets were filled
to such an extent that they made him appear very wide in the hips and
very narrow in the shoulders. Their contents were a mystery. The
pockets at least produced the good effect of toning down the marvellous
ellipticity of his legs, and in doing this they performed a valuable
service.
"Hullo! who are you?" gruffly demanded a porter employed in the hotel,
as the disreputable-looking man was picking his way with great nicety
up the broad interior stairs, afraid that his dusty boots would deface
the polished brasses under foot.
"Baker," promptly replied the man, in a small, timid voice, coming to a
halt and humbly touching his hat.
"Baker? Well, what's your other name?"
"Mine?"
"Yes, yours."
The stranger was evidently puzzled by the question. He looked vacantly
around the ceiling until his gaze rested upon a glass chandelier above
him; but, finding no assistance there, his glance wandered to an oriel,
in which there was a caged mocking-bird.
"Jess Baker--that's all," he answered at last, in his thin voice and
slow, earnest manner.
"What! don't know your other name?"
"No, I reckin not," said Baker, after a thoughtful pause. "I reckin
it's jess Baker--that's all."
"Didn't they ever call you anything else?"
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
Again Baker looked helplessly around until he found the chandelier, and
then his eyes sought the oriel. Then he started as if he had received a
blow, and immediately reached down and felt his ankles.
"Yes, sir," he answered.
"What was it?"
"Hunder'd'n One," he quietly said, looking at his questioner with a
shade of fear and suspicion in his face.
The porter believed that a lunatic stood before him. He asked:
"Where are you from?"
"Georgy."
"What part of Georgia?"
Again was Baker at sea, and again did his glance seek the chandelier
and the oriel.
"Me?" he asked.
"Yes, you. What part of Georgia are you from?"
"Jess Georgy," he finally said.
"What do you want here?"
"Well, I'll tell you. I want you to hire me," he replied, with a faint
look of expectancy.
"What can you do?"
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
"Oh, well, I'll tell you. Most everything."
"What salary do you want?"
"Me?"
"Of course you."
"Want?"
"Yes."
"Oh, well, about five dollars a day, I reckin."
The porter laughed coarsely. "You needn't talk to me about it," he
said; "I'm not the proprietor."
"The which?" asked Baker.
"The boss."
"Oh, ain't you?" and then he looked very much puzzled indeed.
The porter had had sufficient amusement, and so he demanded, in a
brusque and menacing tone, "Now, say--you get away from here quick! We
don't want no crazy tramps around here. You understand?"
Baker did not stir, but stood looking helplessly at the porter,
surprised and grieved.
"Get out, I say, or I'll set the dogs on you!"
A look of deep mortification settled on Baker's face, but he was not
frightened; he did not move a muscle, except to glance quickly around
for the dogs.
"Ain't you going, you crazy old tramp? If you don't I'll lock you up
and send for the sheriff;" and the porter rattled some keys in his
pocket.
Instantly a great horror overspread the countenance of Baker from
Georgia. He looked wildly about and seemed ready to run, and labored
with an imaginary weight that clung to his ankles. He took a single
step in his agitation, and suddenly realized that no such encumbrance
detained him. He shook off the delusion and sprang to the bottom of the
stairs. His whole appearance had changed. Humility had given way to
uncontrollable fear, and he had become a fleeing wild beast that was
hunted for its life. He sprang through the outer door and reached the
ground in another bound, and gathered his strength for immediate flight
from terrors without a name.
"Stop, there!" called a stern, full voice.
Baker obeyed instantly; obeyed as might a man long accustomed to the
most servile obedience; as might a dog that has been beaten until his
spirit is broken. He bared his head, and stood in the warm glow of the
fading light, meek and submissive. All signs of fear had disappeared
from his face; but he was no longer the Baker from Georgia who, a few
minutes ago, had trudged along the gravelled walk after the ungainly
shadow. He had sought a thing and had not found it--had bitten a rosy
apple and was choked with dust. Even the rakish boots looked
submissive, and showed their brass teeth in solemn acquiescence to an
inevitability; and somehow they looked not nearly so rakish as
formerly.
The voice that had checked Baker had not a kindly tone; it was that of
a suspicious man, who believed that he had detected a thief in the act
of making off with dishonest booty stored in ample pockets. Yet his
face had a generous look, though anger made his eyes harsh. The two men
surveyed each other, anger disappearing from the face of one to give
place to pity, the other regarding him with mild docility.
"Come along with me," said the gentleman to Baker.
Evidently Baker had heard those words before, for he followed quietly
and tamely, with his dusty old hat in his left hand and his head bowed
upon his breast. He walked so slowly that the gentleman turned to
observe him, and found him moving laboriously, with his feet wide apart
and his right hand grasping an invisible something that weighted down
his ankles. They were now passing the end of the hotel on their way to
the rear, when they came near a hitching-post, to which rings were
affixed with staples. Baker had been looking around for something, and,
as the gentleman (who was Mr. Clayton, the proprietor of the hotel)
stopped near the post, Baker walked straight up to it, without having
looked to the left or the right. Upon reaching it he dropped the
invisible something that he carried in his right hand, laid his hat on
the ground, slipped the rawhide suspenders from his shoulders,
unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it over his head, and laid it on the grass
alongside his hat. He then humbly embraced the post and crossed his
hands over a ring to which a chain was attached. He laid his cheek
against his bare right arm and waited patiently, without having uttered
a protest or made an appeal. The old boots looked up wistfully into his
sorrowing face.
His naked back glistened white. It was a map on which were traced a
record of the bloody cruelties of many years; it was a fine piece of
mosaic--human flesh inlaid with the venom of the lash. There were
scars, and seams, and ridges, and cuts that crossed and recrossed each
other in all possible directions. Thus stood Baker for some time, until
Mr. Clayton kindly called to him:
"Put on your shirt."
He proceeded to obey silently, but was confused and embarrassed at this
unexpected turn of events. He hesitated at first, however, for he
evidently did not understand how he could put on his shirt until his
hands had been released.
"Your hands are not chained," explained Mr. Clayton.
The revelation was so unexpected that it almost startled the man from
Georgia. He pulled out one hand slowly, that a sudden jerk might not
lacerate his wrist. Then he pulled out the other, resumed his shirt and
hat, picked up the imaginary weight, and shuffled along slowly after
his leader.
"What is your name?" asked the gentleman.
"Hunder'd'n One."
They were soon traversing the corridor in the servants' quarter of the
hotel, when Baker halted and ventured to say:
"I reckin you'r in the wrong curryder." He was examining the ceiling,
the floor, and the numbers on the doors.
"No, this is right," said the gentleman.
Again Baker hobbled along, never releasing his hold on the invisible
weight. They halted at No. 13. Said Baker, with a shade of pity in his
voice,--
"'Taint right. Wrong curryder. Cell hunder'd'n one's mine."
"Yes, yes; but we'll put you in this one for the present," replied the
gentleman, as he opened the door and ushered Baker within. The room was
comfortably furnished, and this perplexed Baker more and more.
"Hain't you got it wrong?" he persisted. "Lifer, you know. Hunder'd'n
One--lifer--plays off crazy--forty lashes every Monday. Don't you
know?"
"Yes, yes, I know; but we'll not talk about that now."
They brought a good supper to his room, and he ate ravenously. They
persuaded him to wash in a basin in the room, though he begged hard to
be permitted to go to the pump. Later that night the gentleman went to
his room and asked him if he wanted anything.
"Well, I'll tell you. You forgot to take it off," Baker replied,
pointing to his ankles.
The gentleman was perplexed for a moment, and then he stooped and
unlocked and removed an imaginary ball and chain. Baker seemed
relieved. Said the gentleman, as Baker was preparing for bed:
"This is not a penitentiary. It is my house, and I do not whip anybody.
I will give you all you want to eat, and good clothes, and you may go
wherever you please. Do you understand?"
Baker looked at him with vacant eyes and made no reply. He undressed,
lay down, sighed wearily, and fell asleep.