Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

“Yes, yes, Toboso. But this young man--I'm sure he must have great talents, great talents, quite remarkable. Ah--yes, Jinny!”

“Hey, Jinny,” they sang together, “Ho, Jinny! Listen, love, to me. I'll sing to you, and play to you, a dulcet melode-e-e”--while Boston danced a shuffle and the Kid snapped the cards in time. Then, at Toboso's invitation and command, Boston sang a song, called “The Cheerful Man,” resembling a ballad, to a somewhat monotonous tune, and perhaps known in the music halls of the time--all with a sweet, resonant voice and a certain pathos of intonation:--

“I knew a man across this land

Came waving of a cheerful hand,

Who drew a gun and gave some one

A violent contus-i-on,

This cheerful man.

“They sent him up, he fled from 'quad'

By a window and the grace of God,

Picked up a wife and children six,

And wandered into politics,

This cheerful man.

“'In politics he was, I hear,

A secret, subtle financier--

So the jury says, 'But we agree

He quits this sad community,

This cheerful man.'

“His wife and six went on the town,

And he went off; without a frown

Reproaching Providence, went he

And got another wife and three,

This cheerful man.

“He runs a cross-town car to-day

From Bleecker Street to Avenue A.

He swipes the fares with skilful ease,

Keeps up his hope, and tries to please,

This cheerful man.

“Our life is mingled woe and bliss,

Man that is born of woman is

Short-lived and goes to his long home.

Take heart, and learn a lesson from

This cheerful man.”

“But,” said Father Wiliston, “don't you think really, Mr. Alley, that the moral is a little confused? I don't mean intentionally,” he added, with anxious precaution, “but don't you think he should have reflected”--

“You're right, Elder,” said Toboso, with decision. “It's like that. It ain't moral. When a thing ain't moral that settles it.” And Boston nodded and looked sympathetic with every one.

“I was sure you would agree with me,” said Father Wiliston. He felt himself growing weary now and heavy-eyed. Presently somehow he was leaning on Toboso with his head on his shoulder. Toboso's arm was around him, and Toboso began to hum in a kind of wheezing lullaby, “Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny!”

“I am very grateful, my dear friends,” murmured Father Wiliston. “I have lived a long time. I fear I have not always been careful in my course, and am often forgetful. I think”--drowsily--“I think that happiness must in itself be pleasing to God. I was often happy before in this room. I remember--my dear mother sat here--who is now dead. We have been quite, really quite cheerful to-night. My mother--was very judicious--an excellent wise woman--she died long ago.” So he was asleep before any one was aware, while Toboso crooned huskily, “Hey, Jinny!” and Boston Alley and the Newark Kid sat upright and stared curiously.

“Holy Jims!” said the Kid.

Toboso motioned them to bring the pulled grass. They piled it on the settle, let Father Wiliston down softly, brought the broken table, and placed it so that he could not roll off.

“Well,” said Toboso, after a moment's silence, “I guess we'd better pick him and be off. He's got sixty in his pocket.”

“Oh,” said Boston, “that's it, is it?”

“It's my find, but seeing you's here I takes half and give you fifteen apiece.”

“Well, that's right.”

“And I guess the Kid can take it out.”

The Kid found the pocketbook with sensitive gliding fingers, and pulled it out. Toboso counted and divided the bills.

“Well,” whispered Toboso thoughtfully, “if the Elder now was forty years younger, I wouldn't want a better pardner.” They tiptoed out into the night. “But,” he continued, “looking at it that way, o' course he ain't got no great use for his wad and won't remember it till next week. Heeled all right, anyhow. Only, I says now, I says, there ain't no vice in him.”

“Mammy tuck me up, no licks to-night,” said the Kid, plodding in front. “I ain't got nothing against him.”

Boston Alley only fingered the bills in his pocket.

It grew quite dark in the room they had left as the fire sunk to a few flames, then to dull embers and an occasional darting spark. The only sound was Father Wiliston's light breathing.

When he awoke the morning was dim in the windows. He lay a moment confused in mind, then sat up and looked around.

“Dear me! Well, well, I dare say Toboso thought I was too old. I dare say”--getting on his feet--“I dare say they thought it would be unkind to tell me so.”

He wandered through the dusky old rooms and up and down the creaking stairs, picking up bits of recollection, some vivid, some more dim than the dawn, some full of laughter, some that were leaden and sad; then out into the orchard to find a bough apple in the dewy grasses; and, kneeling under the gnarled old tree to make his morning prayer, which included in petition the three overnight revellers, he went in fluent phrase and broken tones among eldest memories.

He pushed cheerfully into the grassy road now, munching his apple and humming, “Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny!” He examined the tree at the highway with fresh interest. “How singular! It means an empty house. Very intelligent man, Toboso.”

Bits of grass were stuck on his back and a bramble dragged from his coat tail. He plodded along in the dust and wabbled absent-mindedly from one side of the road to the other. The dawn towered behind him in purple and crimson, lifted its robe and canopy, and flung some kind of glittering gauze far beyond him. He did not notice it till he reached the top of the hill above Ironville with Timothy's house in sight. Then he stopped, turned, and was startled a moment; then smiled companionably on the state and glory of the morning, much as on Toboso and the card tricks of the Newark Kid.

“Really,” he murmured, “I have had a very good time.”

He met Timothy in the hall.

“Been out to walk early, father? Wait--there's grass and sticks on your coat.”

It suddenly seemed difficult to explain the entire circumstances to Timothy, a settled man and girt with precedent.

“Did you enjoy it?--Letter you dropped? No, I haven't seen it. Breakfast is ready.”

Neither Bettina nor Mrs. Timothy had seen the letter.

“No matter, my dear, no matter. I--really, I've had a very good time.”

Afterward he came out on the porch with his Bible and Concordance, sat down and heard Bettina brushing his hat and ejaculating, “Fater!” Presently he began to nod drowsily and his head dropped low over the Concordance. The chickens clucked drowsily in the road.

ON EDOM HILL