JOHN LIPSKY'S SIGN
After supper, Stafford, feeling clamorously the need of a cigar,
strolled back into the smoking compartment. It was already well filled,
among the occupants being a Colonel Livingstone, a genial character with
whom Stafford had already become acquainted. He was greeted warmly and
seated himself to engage idly in the desultory conversation which was
going on.
"I wonder what breed of Indians once inhabited this region?" queried one
of the smokers. "They must have had poor picking."
"I don't know," said the colonel, "Apaches, I imagine."
A drawling voice broke in, the owner of which was a young man, a person
of such self-confidence, nerve and general up-to-dateness, that Stafford
whimsically christened him "The Gallus Youth."
"I know an Indian story which is true," said the Gallus Youth. "Do you
want me to tell it?"
There was a general assent, the smokers subsided comfortably in their
seats, and from clouds of smoke the voice proceeded, the whole group
listening, or at least, if not listening, keeping silence:
JOHN LIPSKY'S SIGN
Probably nothing more strange and puzzling has ever happened, either in
a great city or in the country, than what is to be told of here, and
which relates to both.
When John Lipsky bought the small barber shop on South Clark street it
occurred to him that he might increase his receipts a trifle by putting
in a modest show-case containing cigars and cigarettes and tobacco; for
Lipsky, while a man with no vices, has a large family to support and is
compelled not only to economize but to devise all means for adding to
the defenses against the wolf at the door. When he bought the barber
shop, which contained only two chairs, he was forced to make the
investment on credit, as was also the case with the cigar and tobacco
outfit. He was forced also to make certain repairs inside the shop, and
found himself then without money and with a business not yet
established, while the little Lipskys kept on eating and wearing out
clothes. He could not afford a barber's pole, though the stripes
painted on the door jamb had practically disappeared under the influence
of wind and weather, and, at the same time, put out a sign to make it
known to passers-by that he had cigars for sale. He might afford one of
the signs, but, assuredly, not both. Then to thrifty John Lipsky came a
sudden inspiration. Why not combine the signs in one?
And here comes in what seems a key and yet may not be a key to
happenings too remarkable for belief.
Oswald Shornstein is a sculptor working in a great establishment on the
West Side. His specialty in the sculptor's art is the making of wooden
Indians. Shornstein's vacation last summer was spent in Wisconsin, where
he spent much of his idling time in the vicinity of an Indian settlement
near Green Bay. He formed the acquaintance of a prominent member of the
dwindling tribe, a tough old hunter known as Keeshamok--which,
translated, means "Bounding Bear"--and they were often together, fishing
and smoking and loafing throughout the pleasant summer days. When
Shornstein returned to town he entertained a feeling of decided
friendship for the lazy but interesting Winnebago.
The sculptor's vacation had done him good, and he plunged with vigor
into his work again, the more so because the supply of wooden Indians at
the time was hardly equal to the demand, and within a week he had
produced a masterpiece.
Shornstein had genius, but, in this case, genius had an inspiration.
Ordinarily Shornstein made just an Indian, but now it was different. It
was a particular Indian which came forth from the wood in response to
his practised handiwork. Fresh in the mind of the artist were the face
and figure of the swarthy Keeshamok, and, almost unconsciously, he
reproduced them. The work was done. There upon his pedestal stood
Keeshamok of the Winnebagos!
Meanwhile what of Lipsky? He had resolved to advertise shop and cigars
at one fell swoop; he would buy a wooden Indian and have him painted
gloriously in colored spiral stripes from head to heel! He carried out
his idea promptly and fate ordained it that the wooden Indian bought by
Lipsky was the image of the Winnebago, Keeshamok. It was painted
according to the barber's wildest design, and never was seen such a sign
before! Holy Moses! It would have scared a wolverine! Lipsky had been
wiser than he knew. From failure he had plucked success. The terrifying
sign brought curious customers in scores; cigars sold rapidly and the
business of the barber shop required at once another chair.
Meanwhile had come November and hunting was good in the Wisconsin woods.
The Indians were alert. Keeshamok and a companion one day killed a deer
and dragged it to the nearest village, where they made a sale. They
staggered forth at dusk each whooping gutturally but joyously, and each
carrying a mighty jug. They took the forest path for camp and pursued it
weavingly but far, until, at last, Keeshamok, somewhat the drunker,
proposed a camp upon the spot and consumption of firewater all through
the deepening night. His companion refused and left him to his own
devices.
Obtruding almost into the roadway projected the end of a mighty hollow
log lying beneath a mountain of smaller logs and brush, and to Keeshamok
came, as he stood there undecided, a novel vision of beatitude. There
were warmth and shelter. He would creep into the log, and there, with
his jug to comfort him, pass such a night as Indian never passed before!
He acted on the glorious impulse.
He crawled far in and stretched himself out upon the soft, dry flakes
of rotten wood and took deep draughts of whisky and defied the outside
world! It was a solitary but a grand debauch. The hours passed and the
Indian became almost torpid. He slept a little. The cold intensified and
he awoke and drank again, but was still cold. He comprehended but dimly,
yet another idea came to him. He would build a little fire and that
would warm him! He scraped together a mound of the dry debris beyond
him, and, after many efforts, got a match alight and applied it to the
heap, which blazed at once. It warmed him. He took another drink and lay
down again and slept.
There appeared next morning beside the wood road a vast gray patch of
surface upon which could be seen no object larger than a hand. The ashes
of the great hollow tree and of the dead trees upon it were sifting
through the forest with every wind, and with them were blown the ashes
of the Indian Keeshamok. He had no body!
That night something happened in South Clark Street in Chicago,
something so inexplicable and startling as to pass beyond the realm of
credibility. At precisely midnight, the striped Indian in front of
Lipsky's barber-shop stepped from his pedestal and fled northward,
without a sound. So silent and so swift his flight that those whom he
met or passed felt, rather than saw, a flitting thing. The city was left
behind and still northward across the frozen fields and through the
woods he went. The medicine moccasins of Hiawatha never carried one more
wondrously. The farms and forests of far Wisconsin were reached at last
and faded by, and at last before the runner's eyes appeared the cabins
of his kinsmen. What life came to him now! He bounded upward in
exaltation! He burst in among the clustered habitations with the wild
piercing whoop of the returning warrior!
"Owannox! wah quah-quah! Kinniwa! Wow, wow, wanny-wanny-Yook! Ek-ek!
Laroo!"
Cabin doors burst open, dogs rushed forth, men and squaws dashed out and
all was wild commotion. The voice of Keeshamok had been recognized on
the instant. He leaped in among his people joyfully.
Then arose such yells and shrieks as made the very woodland quiver!
There was a rush for cabins whose doors were closed and barred within a
minute's space. The very dogs, yelping with every leap, fled to the
forest. Even they were appalled and recognized but as a spectre the
missing Keeshamok. Within the Indian village all was frightful silence.
With bowed head stood the striped wooden Indian in the midst of the
cabins. Then he turned his face toward the south and the silent run
began again. In the morning he stood once more upon his pedestal in
front of Lipsky's barber shop.
How can it be accounted for? What psychologist or scientist can explain
it? The spirit of Keeshamok lacks, of course, the usual form in which to
reappear and do any haunting anywhere, for good or evil, since his body
was consumed entirely. Does it seek the marvelous imitation made by
Shornstein as the only substitute? Who, indeed, shall say? There are
many things unknown to us.
And still, each night, the striped Indian runs his futile race and makes
his sad return.