 | The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches |  |
THE MAN OF NO ACCOUNT.
HIS name was Fagg, — David Fagg. He came
to California in '52 with us, in the “Skyscraper.”
I don't think he did it in an adventurous
way. He probably had no other place to go
to. When a knot of us young fellows would recite
what splendid opportunities we resigned to go, and
how sorry our friends were to have us leave, and
show daguerreotypes and locks of hair, and talk of
Mary and Susan, the man of no account used to
sit by and listen with a pained, mortified expression
on his plain face, and say nothing. I think he
had nothing to say. He had no associates except
when we patronized him; and, in point of fact, he
was a good deal of sport to us. He was always
sea-sick whenever we had a capful of wind. He
never got his sea-legs on either. And I never
shall forget how we all laughed when Rattler took
him the piece of pork on a string, and — But you
know that time-honored joke. And then we had
such a splendid lark with him. Miss Fanny
Twinkler could n't bear the sight of him, and we
used to make Fagg think that she had taken a
books from the cabin. You ought to have witnessed
the rich scene that took place when he
came up, stammering and very sick, to thank her!
Did n't she flash up grandly and beautifully and
scornfully? So like “Medora,” Rattler said, — Rattler
knew Byron by heart, — and was n't old Fagg
awfully cut up? But he got over it, and when
Rattler fell sick at Valparaiso, old Fagg used to
nurse him. You see he was a good sort of fellow,
but he lacked manliness and spirit.
He had absolutely no idea of poetry. I 've seen
him sit stolidly by, mending his old clothes, when
Rattler delivered that stirring apostrophe of Byron's
to the ocean. He asked Rattler once, quite
seriously, if he thought Byron was ever sea-sick.
I don't remember Rattler's reply, but I know we
all laughed very much, and I have no doubt it was
something good, for Rattler was smart.
When the “Skyscraper” arrived at San Francisco
we had a grand “feed.” We agreed to meet
every year and perpetuate the occasion. Of course
we did n't invite Fagg. Fagg was a steerage-passenger,
and it was necessary, you see, now we were
ashore, to exercise a little discretion. But Old Fagg,
as we called him, — he was only about twenty-five
years old, by the way, — was the source of immense
amusement to us that day. It appeared
that he had conceived the idea that he could walk
had a good time, and shook hands with one another
all around, and so parted. Ah me! only eight
years ago, and yet some of those hands then
clasped in amity have been clenched at each other,
or have dipped furtively in one another's pockets.
I know that we did n't dine together the next year,
because young Barker swore he would n't put his
feet under the same mahogany with such a very
contemptible scoundrel as that Mixer; and Nibbles,
who borrowed money at Valparaiso of young
Stubbs, who was then a waiter in a restaurant,
did n't like to meet such people.
When I bought a number of shares in the Coyote
Tunnel at Mugginsville, in '54, I thought I 'd
take a run up there and see it. I stopped at the
Empire Hotel, and after dinner I got a horse and
rode round the town and out to the claim. One
of those individuals whom newspaper correspondents
call “our intelligent informant,” and to whom
in all small communities the right of answering
questions is tacitly yielded, was quietly pointed
out to me. Habit had enabled him to work and
talk at the same time, and he never pretermitted
either. He gave me a history of the claim, and
added: “You see, stranger” (he addressed the bank
before him), “gold is sure to come out 'er that theer
claim (he put in a comma with his pick), but the
old pro-pri-e-tor (he wriggled out the word and the
stroke of the pick for a period). He was green,
and let the boys about here jump him,” — and the
rest of his sentence was confided to his hat, which
he had removed to wipe his manly brow with his
red bandanna.
I asked him who was the original proprietor.
“His name war Fagg.”
I went to see him. He looked a little older and
plainer. He had worked hard, he said, and was
getting on “so, so.” I took quite a liking to him
and patronized him to some extent. Whether I
did so because I was beginning to have a distrust
for such fellows as Rattler and Mixer is not necessary
for me to state.
You remember how the Coyote Tunnel went in,
and how awfully we shareholders were done!
Well, the next thing I heard was that Rattler, who
was one of the heaviest shareholders, was up at
Mugginsville keeping bar for the proprietor of the
Mugginsville Hotel, and that old Fagg had struck
it rich, and did n't know what to do with his
money. All this was told me by Mixer, who had
been there, settling up matters, and likewise that
Fagg was sweet upon the daughter of the proprietor
of the aforesaid hotel. And so by hearsay and
letter I eventually gathered that old Robins, the
hotel man, was trying to get up a match between
Nellie Robins and Fagg. Nellie was a pretty,
as her father wished. I thought it would be a
good thing for Fagg if he should marry and settle
down; that as a married man he might be of some
account. So I ran up to Mugginsville one day to
look after things.
It did me an immense deal of good to make
Rattler mix my drinks for me, — Rattler! the gay,
brilliant, and unconquerable Rattler, who had tried
to snub me two years ago. I talked to him about
old Fagg and Nellie, particularly as I thought the
subject was distasteful. He never liked Fagg, and
he was sure, he said, that Nellie did n't. Did Nellie
like anybody else? He turned around to the
mirror behind the bar and brushed up his hair! I
understood the conceited wretch. I thought I 'd
put Fagg on his guard and get him to hurry up
matters. I had a long talk with him. You could
see by the way the poor fellow acted that he was
badly stuck. He sighed, and promised to pluck
up courage to hurry matters to a crisis. Nellie
was a good girl, and I think had a sort of quiet
respect for old Fagg's unobtrusiveness. But her
fancy was already taken captive by Rattler's superficial
qualities, which were obvious and pleasing.
I don't think Nellie was any worse than you
or I. We are more apt to take acquaintances at
their apparent value than their intrinsic worth.
It 's less trouble, and, except when we want to
with women is that their feelings are apt to get
interested sooner than ours, and then, you know,
reasoning is out of the question. This is what old
Fagg would have known had he been of any account.
But he was n't. So much the worse for
him.
It was a few months afterward, and I was sitting
in my office when in walked old Fagg. I
was surprised to see him down, but we talked
over the current topics in that mechanical manner
of people who know that they have something
else to say, but are obliged to get at it in that formal
way. After an interval Fagg in his natural
manner said, —
“I 'm going home!”
“Going home?”
“Yes, — that is, I think I 'll take a trip to the
Atlantic States. I came to see you, as you know
I have some little property, and I have executed
a power of attorney for you to manage my affairs.
I have some papers I 'd like to leave with you.
Will you take charge of them?”
“Yes,” I said. “But what of Nellie?”
His face fell. He tried to smile, and the combination
resulted in one of the most startling and
grotesque effects I ever beheld. At length he
said, —
“I shall not marry Nellie, — that is,” — he
of expression, — “I think that I had better not.”
“David Fagg,” I said with sudden severity,
“you 're of no account!”
To my astonishment his face brightened. “Yes,”
said he, “that 's it! — I 'm of no account! But I
always knew it. You see I thought Rattler loved
that girl as well as I did, and I knew she liked
him better than she did me, and would be happier
I dare say with him. But then I knew that old
Robins would have preferred me to him, as I was
better off, — and the girl would do as he said, —
and, you see, I thought I was kinder in the way, —
and so I left. But,” he continued, as I was
about to interrupt him, “for fear the old man
might object to Rattler, I 've lent him enough to
set him up in business for himself in Dogtown.
A pushing, active, brilliant fellow, you know, like
Rattler can get along, and will soon be in his old
position again, — and you need n't be hard on him,
you know, if he does n't. Good by.”
I was too much disgusted with his treatment of
that Rattler to be at all amiable, but as his business
was profitable, I promised to attend to it, and
he left. A few weeks passed. The return steamer
arrived, and a terrible incident occupied the papers
for days afterward. People in all parts of the
State conned eagerly the details of an awful shipwreck,
and those who had friends aboard went
lost under their breath. I read of the gifted, the
gallant, the noble, and loved ones who had perished,
and among them I think I was the first to read
the name of David Fagg. For the “man of no
account” had “gone home!”
| The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches | |