Stories by American Authors, Volume 6

The whistle sounded, and the train started. From the window of the "sleeper" Sinclair and his wife took their last look at the weird scene. The lieutenant, standing at the side of the track, wrapped in his cloak, caught a glimpse of Mrs. Sinclair's pretty face, and returned her bow. Then, as the car passed out of sight, he tugged at his mustache and hummed:

"Why, boys, why,
Should we be melancholy, boys,
Whose business 'tis to die?"

In less than an hour, telegrams having in the mean time been sent in both directions, the train ran alongside the platform at Barker's; and; Watkins, inperturbable as usual, met Sinclair, and gave him his letters.

"Perry gang wiped out, I hear, Major," said he "Good thing for the country. That's a lesson the 'toughs' in these parts won't forget for a long time. Plucky girl that give 'em away, wasn't she. Hope she's all right."

"She is all right," said Sinclair, with a smile.

"Glad of that. By-the-way, that father of her'n passed in his checks to-night. He'd got one warning from the Vigilantes, and yesterday they found out he was in with this gang, and they was a-going for him; but when the telegram come, he put a pistol to his head and saved them all trouble. Good riddance to everybody, I say. The sheriff's here now, and is going east on the next train to get them fellows. He's got a big posse together, and I wouldn't wonder if they was hard to hold in, after the 'boys in blue' is gone."

In a few minutes the train was off, with its living freight—the just and the unjust, the reformed and the rescued, the happy and the anxious. With many of the passengers the episode of the night was already a thing of the past. Sinclair sat by the side of his wife, to whose cheeks the color had all come back; and Sally Johnson lay in her berth, faint still, but able to give an occasional smile to Foster. In the station on the Missouri the reporters were gathered about the happy superintendent, smoking his cigars, and filling their note-books with items. In Denver, their brethren would gladly have done the same, but Watkins failed to gratify them. He was a man of few words. When the train had gone, and a friend remarked:

"Hope they'll get through all right, now," he simply said:

"Yes, likely. Two shots don't 'most always go in the same hole." Then he went to the telegraph instrument. In a few minutes he could have told a story as wild as a Norse saga, but what he said, when Denver had responded, was only—

"No. 17, fifty-five minutes late."

THE MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY.

By LINA REDWOOD FAIRFAX

He is our office-boy and messenger, and, my senior tells me, has been employed by the firm in this capacity for about thirty years. He is a negro, about sixty years old, rather short and stout, with a mincing, noiseless gait, broad African features, beautiful teeth, and small, round, twinkling eyes, the movements of which are accompanied by little abrupt, sidewise turns of the head, like a bird. His manner is a curious mixture of deference and self-importance, his voice a soft, sibilant whisper, and as he was born and bred in Alexandria, Virginia, it seems almost superfluous to add that he and the letter "r" are not on speaking terms.

He has a prominent characteristic, which always attracts attention at first sight. This is the shape of his head, which is immensely large in proportion, very bald, and so abundant in various queer, knobby excrescences about the forehead and sides, and so unnaturally long and level on top, that for some time after I made his acquaintance I could never see him without finding myself forming absurd conjectures as to whether his cranium and the hydrostatic press could ever have become acquainted at some early period of his life; and so strong is this association of ideas that, even now, his sudden appearance invariably suggests to me the study of natural philosophy. Poor fellow! his chagrin was great when this peculiar conformation of his skull was first brought to his notice. He had been telling me for some time past of the "splendid piccha" he had had "took," and I had been promised a sight of it just as soon as it arrived from the photographer's. I confess I had not been sanguine as to the result, although I knew a handsome portrait was confidently expected by the sitter. One morning he deposited the photograph before me.

"Hello!" I cried, taking it in my hand; "here you are, hit off to the life."

"Do' say that, Mist' Dunkin, do' say hit, seh," he replied, in a tone of deep mortification. Then, catching a glimpse of the picture, his ire broke forth: "Nevvah wuz like me in de wueld," he cried, in an elevated key; "nevvah wuz ha'f so ugly ez that. I'm—I'm a bettah-lookin' man, Mist' Dunkin. Why, look at de color of de thing," contemptuously. "Cain' tell de face f'om de coat I nevvah set up to be what you'd call faih-cumplectid, but disha things iss same is that thaih ink; jess iss same. My hade do' look that a way, neitha. Naw, seh, 'taint s' bad 's that."

"Why, Thomas," said I, "I think it a very good likeness—the complexion is a little dark to be sure, but do you know I particularly admire the head. Look at that forehead; any one can see that you are a man of intellect. I tell you it isn't every one who can boast of such a forehead."

"The—the 'mahk you make 'bout me, has been made 'fo'; I may say, has been made quite frequent—quite frequent; on'y lass Tuesd'y fohtni't, Sistah Ma'y Ann Jinkins—a promnunt membeh of ouh class (that is, Asba'y class, meets on Gay Street), Sistah Ma'y Ann Jinkins, she ups an' sez, befo' de whole class, dat she'd puppose de motion, dat Bro' Thomas Wheatley wuz 'p'inted fus' speakah in de nex' 'Jug-breakin' an' Jaymiah's Hamma,' by de i-nanemous vote of de class. I'm clah to say I wuz 'stonished; but ahta class wuz ovvva, Bro' Moss tole me de 'p'intment wuz made jes' f'on de 'peahunce of my hade, ''Cause,' he sez, 'no man cain't be a po' speakah with sich a fine intellec' which we see expressed in de hade of Bro' Thomas Wheatley—but, same time, I knowed all time de fus' motion come f'om Sistah Ma'y Ann Jinkins—she's a ve'y good friend o' mine, Sistah Ma'y Ann Jinkins—thinks a sight o' me; I 'scohts heh to class ev'y Tuesd'y—ev'y Tuesd'y, sine die."

"You do? What does your wife have to say to that?" I asked, maliciously.

He stared at me an instant, then replied:

"My wife!–oh—oh, Law bless yoh soul, seh, she do' keeh. Bro' 'Dolphus Beam, he sees ahta heh: you see, seh, she's I-o-n-g way 'moved f'om Asba'y class; 'twont admit none but fus'-class 'speience-givvahs in Asba'y, an' my wife she wa'n't nevvah no han' to talk; haint got de gif' of de tongue which Saul, suhname Paul, speaks of in de Scripcheh—don't possess hit, seh."

"She must be a very nice person to live with," I remarked.

"Well, y-e-es, seh," replied Thomas, after reflecting awhile. "I hain't got nuth'n' 'g'in' Ailse; she's quite, an' ohdaly, a good cook, an' laundriss, an' she's a lady,[1 - A virtuous woman.] an' all that, but sh' ain't not to say what you'd call a giftid 'oman."

"Like Sister Mary Ann Jinkins, eh?"

"Egg-zac'ly, seh. Mist' Dunkin, you put hit kehrec', seh. Ailse hain't possessed with none of the high talence, cain't exhoht, naw sing with fehveh, naw yit lead in praieh; heh talence is mos'ly boun' up in napkins—as Scripcheh say—mos'ly boun' up in napkins; foh I do' deny she kin do up all kines o' table-linen, she kin indeed. Naw, seh, I cain't say I got nuth'n' 'g'in' Ailse."

He was, I think, the worst manager of finances that I have ever known. He cleaned all the offices in our building, and earned, as near as I could estimate, about thirty-five dollars a month. Three of his four children were self-supporting, and his wife was honest and industrious, taking in washing, and getting well paid for her work. Yet, he was perpetually in debt, and his wages were always overdrawn. Whenever I came into the office after my two-o'clock lunch, and found him seated on his wooden chair, in the corner, gazing absently out at the dingy chimneys opposite—apparently too abstracted to observe my entrance, I knew I had only to go to my desk to find, placed in a conspicuous position thereon, a very small, dirty bit of paper, with these words laboriously inscribed upon it: "Mr. Dunkin Sir cen you oblidge me with the sum of three dolers an a half [or whatever the sum might be] an deduc thee same from mi salry i em in grate kneed of thee same yours mos respecfull thomas wheatley."

The form was always the same, my name in imposing capitals and the remainder in the very smallest letters which he could coax his stiff old fingers to make, and all written on the tiniest scrap of writing-paper. I think his object was to impress me with his humiliation, impecuniosity, and general low condition, because as soon as he received the money—which he always did, I vowing to myself each time that this advance should be the last, and as regularly breaking my vow—he would tip-toe carefully to the mantel-piece, get down his pen and ink, borrow my sand-bottle, and proceed to indite me a letter of acknowledgment. This written, he would present it with a sweeping bow, and then retire precipitately to his corner, chuckling, and perspiring profusely. He usually preferred foolscap for these documents, and the capitals were numerous and imposing. Like the others, however, they were invariably word for word the same, and were couched in the following terms:

"MR. DUNKIN

"SIR I have Recieved thee Sum of Three Dolers an a half from Your hans an I Recieve thee same with Joy an Grattetude.

    "Yours respecfull
    "THOMAS WHEATLEY."

I said his applications for money were always granted. I must, however, make an exception, which, after all, will only go to prove the rule. One bright morning he met me at the office-door, his face as beaming as the weather. He hardly waited for me to doff my overcoat and hat, when he announced that he had bought a second-hand parlor organ the evening before, on credit, for seventy-five dollars, to be paid in instalments of twelve dollars and a half each. He had been very hard up for a month past, as I had abundant occasion to know, and it was therefore with a feeling rather stronger than surprise, that I received the announcement of this purchase.

"But you haven't fifty cents toward paying for it. And what on earth can you possibly want with a parlor organ? Can you play?—can any of your family play?"

"Well, naw, seh," scratching his head reflectively. "I cain't s'ay they kin not to say play"—as if they were all taking lessons, and expected to become proficient at some not far distant day. "In fac', seh, none on um knows a wued o' music. I didn't mean, seh, I didn't 'tend the—the instrument fu' househol' puhpasses—I—I 'tended hit as a off'in' to ouh Sabbath-school. We—we has no instrument at present, an'—"

I am afraid I uttered a very bad word at this juncture. Thomas started, and retired in great discomfiture, and I thought I had made an end of the matter, but that afternoon I found the small scrap of paper on my desk—really, I think, with a little practice, Thomas might hope to rival the man who goes about writing the Lord's Prayer in the space of half a dollar. My name was in larger capitals, the rest in smaller letters, than usual, and I was requested "to oblidge him with the sum of twelve dolers an' a half." I knew then that the first organ-instalment was due, but I think it needless to add, his application was refused. About a week afterward, I learned that the Sabbath-school was again without a musical instrument, the organ having been pawned for twenty dollars, Thomas paying ten per cent a month on the money. It was so with everything he undertook. Once he gave me elaborate warning that I must furnish myself with another messenger at once, as he was going to make a fortune peddling oranges and apples. Accordingly, he bought a barrel (!) of each kind of fruit, sold half at reasonable rates, and then, the remainder beginning to decay on his hands, he came to me, offering really fine Havana oranges at a cent apiece.

"I'm driffin' 'em off et coss—driffin' 'em off et coss," he whispered, speaking rapidly, and waving his hands about, oriental fashion, the palms turned outward and the fingers twirling; this peculiar gesture seemed intended to indicate the cheapness of his wares. "Dey coss me mo'n that; heap mo', but I'm faih to lose um all now, en I'm driffin' 'em off, sine die."

After that, some dozen or more of the large wholesale houses engaged him to furnish their counting-rooms with lunch, and he began with brilliant prospects. He brought his basket around to me for first choice. Everything was very nice; a clean new basket, covered with a white cloth, wherein lay piles of neatly arranged packages done up in letter-paper, with a strange-looking character inscribed upon each.

"What do these letters mean?" I asked, taking up one of the packages, and trying in vain to decipher the cabalistic sign upon it.

Thomas chuckled.

"Oh, that's to show de kine of san'wich dey is, Mist' Dunkin. You see, seh, I got th'ee kines—so I put 'B' on de beef, 'H' on de hahm, an' I stahtid to put 'H' on de hystehs too, but den I foun' I couldn't tell de hystehs f'om de hahm, so den I put 'H I' on de hystehs."

"Oh, I see," said I, opening one of the "hysteh" packages. It was very good; an excellent French roll, well spread with choice butter, and two large, nicely fried oysters between. I ate it speedily, took another, and, that disposed of, asked the price.

"Ten cents, seh."

"For two!"

"Yes, seh; fi' cents 'piece."

"Why, Thomas," I exclaimed, "you mustn't begin by asking five cents apiece; you'll ruin yourself. These things are worth at least twice as much money. Why, I pay ten cents for a sandwich at an eating-house, and it doesn't begin to have as good materials in it as yours. You ought to ask more."

"Naw, seh; naw, seh; Mist' Dunkin; as' less, an' sell mo'—that's my motteh. I have all dese yeah clean sole out 'fo' two 'clock—clean sole out 'fo' two 'clock."

I interrupted him, asking the cost of each article, and then proving to him by calculation that he lost money on each sandwich he sold at five cents. But I could not convince him—he received the twenty-five cents which I insisted on paying him with many expressions of gratitude, but he left me reiterating his belief in "quick sales and small profits." "Be back yeah clean sole out by two 'clock, sine die," he exclaimed, brightly, as he departed.

This venture brought him six dollars in debt at the expiration of a fortnight, and after that, by my advice, he abandoned peddling, condemning it as a "low-life trade," and agreeing to stick to legitimate business for the future.

One of his famous expressions, the most formidable rival of sine die (which, as the reader has doubtless discovered, he intended as an elegant synonym for without fail), was entirely original—this was "Granny to Mash" (I spell phonetically), used as an exclamation, and only employed when laboring under great mental excitement.

As I was proceeding homeward one evening, I spied him standing on a street corner, holding forth to a select assemblage of his own color, who were listening to him with an appearance of the profoundest respect. His back was toward me, and I stopped and caught his words without attracting observation. He had assumed a very pompous, hortatory manner, and I could well believe he held a prominent position in Asbury class. "Yes, gentlemun; yes," he was saying, "ez Brotheh Jones 'mahks, I do live in a ve'y su-peeiaw at-mos-pheeh—suh-roundid by people of leahnin', with books, pens, blottehs, letteh-pess, en what not, ez common ez these yeah bricks which I see befo' me. But thaih hain't no trueh wued then ev'y station has its hawdships, gentlemun, en mine ah not exemp', mine ah not exemp'.