One Of Them

“I ‘ll tell you a secret, stranger; you ‘ll not be your own friend if you don’t speak to me in another tone of voice. I ain’t used to be halloaed at, I ain’t.”

“One thing at a time, sir,” said O’Shea. “When I have finished the business which brought me here, I shall be perfectly at your service.”

“Now I call that talkin’ reasonable. Step inside, sir, and take a seat,” said Quackinboss, whose manner was now as calm as possible.

Whatever irritation O’Shea really felt, he contrived to subdue it in appearance, as he followed the other into the room.

O’Shea was not so deficient in tact that he could not see his best mode of dealing with the American was to proceed with every courtesy and deference, and so, as he seated himself opposite him, he mentioned the reason of his coming there without anything like temper, and stated that from a slight altercation such a difference arose as required either an explanation or a meeting.

“He can’t go a-shooting with you, stranger; he ‘s struck down this morning,” said Quackinboss, gravely, as the other finished.

“Do you mean he ‘s ill?”

“I s’pose I do, when I said he was down, sir.”

“This is most unfortunate,” broke in O’Shea. “My duties as a public man require my being in England next week. I hoped to have settled this little matter before my departure. I see nothing for it but to beg you will in writing – a few lines will suffice – corroborate the fact of my having presented myself here, according to appointment, and mention the sad circumstances by which our intentions, for I believe I may speak of Mr. Layton’s as my own, have been frustrated.”

“Well, now, stranger, we are speakin’ in confidence here, and I may just as well observe to you that of all the weapons that fit a man’s hands, the pen is the one I ‘m least ready with. I ‘m indifferent good with firearms or a bowie, but a pen, you see, cuts the fingers that hold it just as often as it hurts the enemy, and I don’t like it.”

“But surely, where the object is merely to testify to a plain matter-of-fact – ”

“There ain’t no such things on the ‘arth as plain matters of fact, sir,” broke in Quackinboss, eagerly. “I’ve come to the middle period of life, and I never met one of ‘em!”

O’Shea made a slight, very slight movement of impatience at these words; but the other remarked it, and said, —

“We ‘ll come to that presently, sir. Let us just post up this account of Mr. Layton’s, first of all.”

“I don’t think there is anything further to detain me here,” said O’Shea, rising with an air of stiff politeness.

“Won’t you take something, sir, – won’t you liquor?” asked Quackinboss, calmly.

“Excuse me; I never do of a morning.”

“I ‘m sorry for it. I was a-thinkin’, maybe you ‘d warm up a bit with a glass of something strong. I was hopin’ it’s the cold of the day chilled you!”

“Do you mean this for insult, sir?” said O’Shea. “I ask you, because, really, your use of the English language is of a kind to warrant the question.”

“That ‘s where I wanted to see you, sir. You ‘re coming up to a good boilin’-point now, stranger,” said Quackinboss, with a pleased look.

“Is he mad, is he deranged?” muttered O’Shea, half aloud.

“No, sir. We Western men are little liable to insanity; our lives are too much abroad and open-air lives for that. It’s your thoughtful, reflective, deep men, as wears a rut in their mind with thinkin’; them ‘s the fellows goes mad.”

O’Shea’s stare of astonishment at this speech scarcely seemed to convey a concurrence in the assertion, and he made a step towards the door.

“If you’re a-goin’, I’ve nothing more to say, sir,” said Quackinboss.

“I cannot see what there is to detain me here!” said the other, sternly.

“There ain’t much, that’s a fact,” was the cool reply. “There’s nothing remarkable in them bottles; it’s new brandy and British gin; and as for myself, sir, I can only say I must give you a bill payable at sight, – whenever we may meet again, I mean; for just now this young man here can’t spare me. I ‘m his nurse, you see. I hope you understand me?”

“I believe I do.”

“Well, that’s all right, stranger, and here’s my hand on ‘t.” And even before O’Shea was well aware, the other had taken his hand in his strong grasp and was shaking it heartily. O’Shea found it very hard not to laugh outright, but there was a meaning-like determination in the American’s manner that showed it was no moment for mirth.

It was, however, necessary to say something to relieve a very awkward pause, and so he observed, —

“I hope Mr. Layton’s illness is not a serious one. I saw him, as I thought, perfectly well two days back.”

“He’s main bad, sir; very sick, – very sick, indeed.”

“You have a doctor, I suppose?”

“No, sir. I have some experience myself, and I ‘m just a-treatin’ him by what I picked up among people that have very few apothecaries, – the Mandan Indians.”

“Without being particular, I must own I ‘d prefer a more civilized course of physic,” said O’Shea, with a faint smile.

“Very likely, stranger; and if you had a dispute, you ‘d rather, mayhap, throw it into a law court, and leave it to three noisy fellows to quarrel over; while I’d look out for two plain fellows, with horny hands and honest hearts, and say, ‘What’s the rights o’ this, gentlemen?’”

“I wish you every success, I’m sure,” said O’Shea, bowing.

“The same to you, sir,” said the other, in a sing-song tone. “Good-bye.”

When O’Shea had reached the first landing, he stopped, and, leaning against the wall, laughed heartily. “I hope I ‘ll be able to remember all he said,” muttered he, as he fancied himself amusing some choice company by a personation of the Yankee. “The whole thing was as good as a play! But,” added he, after a pause, “I ‘m not sorry it’s over, and that I have done with him!” Very true and heartfelt was this last reflection of the Member for Inch, – a far more honest recognition than even the hearty laugh he had just enjoyed, – and then there came an uneasy afterthought, that asked, “What could he mean by talking of a long bill, payable at some future opportunity? Surely he can’t imagine that we ‘re to renew all this if we ever meet again. No, no, Colonel, your manners and your medicine may be learned amongst the Mandans, but they won’t do here with us!” And so he issued into the street, not quite reassured, but somewhat more comforted.

So occupied was his mind with the late scene, that he had walked fully half-way back to his inn ere he bestowed a thought upon Joe. Wise men were they who suggested that the sentence of a prisoner should not immediately follow the conclusion of his trial, but ensue after the interval of some two or three days. In the impulse of a mind fully charged with a long narrative of guilt there is a force that seeks its expansion in severity; whereas, in the brief respite of even some hours, there come doubts and hesitations and regrets and palliations. In a word, a variety of considerations unadmitted before find entrance now to the mind, and are suffered to influence it.

Now, though Mr. O’ Shea’s first and not very unnatural impulse was to give Joe a sound thrashing and then discharge him, the interval we have just described moderated considerably the severity of this resolve. In the first place, although the reader may be astonished at the assertion, Joe was one very difficult to replace, since, independently of his aptitude to serve as groom, valet, or cook, he was deeply versed in all the personal belongings of his master. He had been with him through long years of difficulty, and aided him in various ways, from corrupting the virtuous freeholders of Inchabogue to raising an occasional supply on the rose-amethyst ring. Joe had fought for him and lied for him, with a zealous devotion not to be forgotten. Not, indeed, that he loved his master more, but that he liked the world less, and Joe found a sincere amount of pleasure in seeing how triumphantly their miserable pretensions swayed and dominated over mankind. And, lastly, he had another attribute, not to be undervalued in an age like ours, – he had no wages! It is not to be understood that he served O’Shea out of some sense of heroic devotion or attachment: no; Joe lived, as they say in India, on “loot”. When times were prosperous, – that is, when billiards and blind-hookey smiled, and to his master’s pockets came home small Californias of half-crowns and even sovereigns, – Joe prospered also. He drank boldly and freely from the cup when brimful, but the half-empty goblet he only sipped at. When seasons of pressure set in, Joe’s existence was maintained by some inscrutable secret of his own; for, be it known that on O’Shea’s arrival at an hotel, his almost first care was to announce, “You will observe my servant is on board wages; he pays for himself;” and Joe would corroborate the myth with a bow. Bethink yourself, good reader, had you been the Member for Inch, it might have been a question whether to separate from such a follower.

By the fluctuations of O’Shea’s fortunes, Joe’s whole conduct seemed moulded. When the world went well with his master, his manner grew somewhat almost respectful; let the times grow worse, Joe became indifferent; a shade lower, and he was familiar and insolent; and, by long habit, O’Shea had come to recognize these changes as part of the condition of a varying fortune.

Little wonder was it that Joe grew to speak of his master and himself as one, complaining, as he would, “We never got sixpence out of our property. ‘T is the ruin of us paying that annuity to our mother;” and so on.

Now, these considerations, and many others like them, weighed deeply on O’Shea’s mind, as he entered the room of the hotel, angry and irritated, doubtless, but far from decided as to how he should manifest it. Indeed, the deliberation was cut short, for there stood Joe before him.

“I thought I was never to see your face again,” said O’Shea, scowling at him. “How dare you have the insolence to appear before me?”

“Is n’t it well for you that I ‘m alive? Ain’t you lucky that you ‘re not answering for my death this minute?” said the other, boldly. “And if I did n’t drive like blazes, would I be here now? Appear before you, indeed! I’d like to know who you ‘d be appearin’ before, if I was murthered with them bitthers you gave me?”

“Lying scoundrel! you think to turn it all off in this manner. You commit a theft first, and if the offence had killed you, it’s no more than you deserved. Who told you to steal the contents of that bag, sir?”

“The devil, I suppose, for I never felt pain like it, – twistin’ and tearin’ and torturin’ me as if you had a pinchers in my inside, and were nippin’ me to pieces!”

“I ‘m glad of it, – heartily glad of it.”

“I know you are, – I know you well. ‘T is a corpse you ‘d like to see me this minute.”

“So that I never set eyes on you, I don’t care what becomes of you.”