| |
| LANCASTER bore him—such a little town, | |
| Such a great man. It doesn’t see him often | |
| Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead | |
| And sends the children down there with their mother | |
| To run wild in the summer—a little wild. | 5 |
| Sometimes he joins them for a day or two | |
| And sees old friends he somehow can’t get near. | |
| They meet him in the general store at night, | |
| Pre-occupied with formidable mail, | |
| Rifling a printed letter as he talks. | 10 |
| They seem afraid. He wouldn’t have it so: | |
| Though a great scholar, he’s a democrat, | |
| If not at heart, at least on principle. | |
| Lately when coming up to Lancaster | |
| His train being late he missed another train | 15 |
| And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction | |
| After eleven o’clock at night. Too tired | |
| To think of sitting such an ordeal out, | |
| He turned to the hotel to find a bed. | |
| |
| “No room,” the night clerk said. “Unless——” | 20 |
| Woodsville’s a place of shrieks and wandering lamps | |
| And cars that shook and rattle—and one hotel. | |
| |
| “You say ‘unless.’“ | |
| |
| “Unless you wouldn’t mind | |
| Sharing a room with someone else.” | 25 |
| |
| “Who is it?” | |
| |
| “A man.” | |
| |
| “So I should hope. What kind of man?” | |
| |
| “I know him: he’s all right. A man’s a man. | |
| Separate beds of course you understand.” | 30 |
| The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on. | |
| |
| “Who’s that man sleeping in the office chair? | |
| Has he had the refusal of my chance?” | |
| |
| “He was afraid of being robbed or murdered. | |
| What do you say?” | 35 |
| |
| “I’ll have to have a bed.” | |
| |
| The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs | |
| And down a narrow passage full of doors, | |
| At the last one of which he knocked and entered. | |
| “Lafe, here’s a fellow wants to share your room.” | 40 |
| |
| “Show him this way. I’m not afraid of him. | |
| I’m not so drunk I can’t take care of myself.” | |
| |
| The night clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot. | |
| “This will be yours. Good-night,” he said, and went. | |
| |
| “Lafe was the name, I think?” | 45 |
| |
| “Yes, Layfayette. | |
| You got it the first time. And yours?” | |
| |
| “Magoon. | |
| |
| Doctor Magoon.” | |
| |
| “A Doctor?” | 50 |
| |
| “Well, a teacher.” | |
| |
| “Professor Square-the-circle-till-you’re-tired? | |
| Hold on, there’s something I don’t think of now | |
| That I had on my mind to ask the first | |
| Man that knew anything I happened in with. | 55 |
| I’ll ask you later—don’t let me forget it.” | |
| |
| The Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away. | |
| A man? A brute. Naked above the waist, | |
| He sat there creased and shining in the light, | |
| Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt. | 60 |
| “I’m moving into a size-larger shirt. | |
| I’ve felt mean lately; mean’s no name for it. | |
| I just found what the matter was to-night: | |
| I’ve been a-choking like a nursery tree | |
| When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag. | 65 |
| I blamed it on the hot spell we’ve been having. | |
| ’Twas nothing but my foolish hanging back, | |
| Not liking to own up I’d grown a size. | |
| Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?” | |
| |
| The Doctor caught his throat convulsively. | 70 |
| “Oh—ah—fourteen—fourteen.” | |
| |
| “Fourteen! You say so! | |
| I can remember when I wore fourteen. | |
| And come to think I must have back at home | |
| More than a hundred collars, size fourteen. | 75 |
| Too bad to waste them all. You ought to have them. | |
| They’re yours and welcome; let me send them to you. | |
| What makes you stand there on one leg like that? | |
| You’re not much furtherer than where Kike left you. | |
| You act as if you wished you hadn’t come. | 80 |
| Sit down or lie down, friend; you make me nervous.” | |
| |
| The Doctor made a subdued dash for it, | |
| And propped himself at bay against a pillow. | |
| |
| “Not that way, with your shoes on Kike’s white bed. | |
| You can’t rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off.” | 85 |
| |
| “Don’t touch me, please—I say, don’t touch me, please. | |
| I’ll not be put to bed by you, my man.” | |
| |
| “Just as you say. Have it your own way then. | |
| ‘My man’ is it? You talk like a professor. | |
| Speaking of who’s afraid of who, however, | 90 |
| I’m thinking I have more to lose than you | |
| If anything should happen to be wrong. | |
| Who wants to cut your number fourteen throat! | |
| Let’s have a show down as an evidence | |
| Of good faith. There is ninety dollars. | 95 |
| Come, if you’re not afraid.” | |
| |
| “I’m not afraid. | |
| There’s five: that’s all I carry.” | |
| |
| “I can search you? | |
| Where are you moving over to? Stay still. | 100 |
| You’d better tuck your money under you | |
| And sleep on it the way I always do | |
| When I’m with people I don’t trust at night.” | |
| |
| “Will you believe me if I put it there | |
| Right on the counterpane—that I do trust you?” | 105 |
| |
| “You’d say so, Mister Man.—I’m a collector. | |
| My ninety isn’t mine—you won’t think that. | |
| I pick it up a dollar at a time | |
| All round the country for the Weekly News, | |
| Published in Bow. You know the Weekly News?” | 110 |
| |
| “Known it since I was young.” | |
| |
| “Then you know me. | |
| Now we are getting on together—talking. | |
| I’m sort of Something for it at the front. | |
| My business is to find what people want: | 115 |
| They pay for it, and so they ought to have it. | |
| Fairbanks, he says to me—he’s editor— | |
| Feel out the public sentiment—he says. | |
| A good deal comes on me when all is said. | |
| The only trouble is we disagree | 120 |
| In politics: I’m Vermont Democrat— | |
| You know what that is, sort of double-dyed; | |
| The News has always been Republican. | |
| Fairbanks, he says to me, ‘Help us this year,’ | |
| Meaning by us their ticket. ‘No,’ I says, | 125 |
| ‘I can’t and won’t. You’ve been in long enough: | |
| It’s time you turned around and boosted us. | |
| You’ll have to pay me more than ten a week | |
| If I’m expected to elect Bill Taft. | |
| I doubt if I could do it anyway.’“ | 130 |
| |
| “You seem to shape the paper’s policy.” | |
| |
| “You see I’m in with everybody, know ’em all. | |
| I almost know their farms as well as they do.” | |
| |
| “You drive around? It must be pleasant work.” | |
| |
| “It’s business, but I can’t say it’s not fun. | 135 |
| What I like best’s the lay of different farms, | |
| Coming out on them from a stretch of woods, | |
| Or over a hill or round a sudden corner. | |
| I like to find folks getting out in spring, | |
| Raking the dooryard, working near the house. | 140 |
| Later they get out further in the fields. | |
| Everything’s shut sometimes except the barn; | |
| The family’s all away in some back meadow. | |
| There’s a hay load a-coming—when it comes. | |
| And later still they all get driven in: | 145 |
| The fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches | |
| Stripped to bare ground, the apple trees | |
| To whips and poles. There’s nobody about. | |
| The chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking. | |
| And I lie back and ride. I take the reins | 150 |
| Only when someone’s coming, and the mare | |
| Stops when she likes: I tell her when to go. | |
| I’ve spoiled Jemima in more ways than one. | |
| She’s got so she turns in at every house | |
| As if she had some sort of curvature, | 155 |
| No matter if I have no errand there. | |
| She thinks I’m sociable. I maybe am. | |
| It’s seldom I get down except for meals, though. | |
| Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep, | |
| All in a family row down to the youngest.” | 160 |
| |
| “One would suppose they might not be as glad | |
| To see you as you are to see them.” | |
| |
| “Oh, | |
| Because I want their dollar. I don’t want | |
| Anything they’ve not got. I never dun. | 165 |
| I’m there, and they can pay me if they like. | |
| I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by. | |
| Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink. | |
| I drink out of the bottle—not your style. | |
| Mayn’t I offer you——?” | 170 |
| |
| “No, no, no, thank you.” | |
| |
| “Just as you say. Here’s looking at you then.— | |
| And now I’m leaving you a little while. | |
| You’ll rest easier when I’m gone, perhaps— | |
| Lie down—let yourself go and get some sleep. | 175 |
| But first—let’s see—what was I going to ask you? | |
| Those collars—who shall I address them to, | |
| Suppose you aren’t awake when I come back?” | |
| |
| “Really, friend, I can’t let you. You—may need them.” | |
| |
| “Not till I shrink, when they’ll be out of style.” | 180 |
| |
| “But really I—I have so many collars.” | |
| |
| “I don’t know who I rather would have have them. | |
| They’re only turning yellow where they are. | |
| But you’re the doctor as the saying is. | |
| I’ll put the light out. Don’t you wait for me: | 185 |
| I’ve just begun the night. You get some sleep. | |
| I’ll knock so-fashion and peep round the door | |
| When I come back so you’ll know who it is. | |
| There’s nothing I’m afraid of like scared people. | |
| I don’t want you should shoot me in the head. | 190 |
| What am I doing carrying off this bottle? | |
| There now, you get some sleep.” | |
| |
| He shut the door. | |
| The Doctor slid a little down the pillow. | |
| |
