University of Virginia Library

6. VI.
MR. TOPLINK AND FRIENDS.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 062. In-line Illustration. Image of a man sitting at a table with a writing quill in his hand.]

WAITING for Martin on the landing
outside the door, Miss Tomes
heard sounds of weeping. Then the
low tones of the young man's voice
succeeded, so full of love and sympathy
that, although she could not
distinguish a word that was spoken,
she felt her heart swell and overflow
in an unaccountable manner. It was just like that strange
creature, Tomes, as Mr. Toplink would have observed, in his disparaging,
good-natured way.

Martin came out of the chamber so softly that she did not suspect
that any one saw her wipe away those tears, until the floor
creaked at her side. She looked hastily out of her handkerchief,
and saw the young man closing the door behind him with a careful
hand. He had brought out Miss Tomes' chamber-lamp, and
its light showed that his face was pale, and sorrowful, and wet.
Both were taken a little by surprise; but Martin smiled faintly,
and, giving the lamp to the boarder, thanked her fervently for her
kindness and attention to the orphan.

“Is there anything else I can do for her to-night?” asked
Miss Tomes, picking up the wick with a needle.

“She needs rest and sleep more than anything,” replied
Martin.

“It all seems very strange, somehow,” suggested Miss Tomes,
who, with all her good-nature, cherished a strongly-marked trait
of curiosity in her disposition; “I never felt so much interest in
a child in my life. She told me something of her history, but I
did n't understand it very well. How could she get lost away
from her father?”

Martin, always frank and sociable, gave a brief statement of
the case, for her gratification.

“And when you went back, you could not find him?”

“The bar-tender did n't know what had become of the man.
It was n't his business to take care of such people. He had done
his best; he had told him to stay, but he had chosen to go. I
asked him how long since he left. He did n't know; he had other
things to think of. `Did he drink any more liquor before he
went?' I inquired. He did n't exactly remember, but he believed
he did. He had paid for a glass, anyway, and he thought he
gave it him. It was his business to sell liquor to any one who
wanted it.”

“Dreadful!” said Miss Tomes.

“Then I told him about this little girl,” added Martin.

“That must have touched him!”

“He showed no signs of being touched. He said he could n't
help it; that was n't his affair; and went on shaking up his juleps
and making change for his customers, without the least concern.”

“Do tell me if there are such people!” ejaculated Miss Tomes.

“Not many, I hope. Yet some one told me aside that the bar-tender
was one of the best fellows in the world; he had proved
him so; only he — the bar-tender — had seen too much of such

things to be disturbed by them. He had got used to 'em, and
learned that the wisest course for him was to have as little to do
with them as possible.”

“That 's natural, I suppose,” said Miss Tomes; “but how
horrid!”

“Before I came away, I begged of him to detain the man if he
made his appearance there again. `All right,' said he, and that
was all I could get out of him; so I left him mixing his drinks
and joking with his customers.”

During this conversation, Miss Tomes had led the way to a room
under the attic, to which Martin had been directed by Mrs.
Wormlett. Miss Tomes, who had volunteered to be his guide,
now stood holding the door with one hand, and the light with the
other, and harrying him with questions.

“If you will excuse me,” he said, “I will make haste and prepare
for supper.”

“Certainly! What was I thinking of?” cried Miss Tomes, in
a tone of self-reproach. “How inconsiderate I am! You must
be so hungry and tired!”

Miss Tomes was neither young nor pretty, nor very well dressed;
but there was so much goodness in her face, as she spoke, that
Martin would have remembered the look with gratitude had he
never seen her again. He thanked her and entered the room,
while with a full heart she went tripping down stairs.

The appearance of the chamber was not inviting. It contained
three flat, mean-looking beds wedged in together, two dilapidated
wash-stands, with broken-nosed pitchers and cracked bowls, and
a single lamp-stand, at which sat a very slim young gentleman,
with a very long neck, and a sloping forehead and chin, engaged
in writing by a sickly light.

“How do you do, sir?” said the slim gentleman, looking up
with a friendly smile, and nodding. “Sit down, sir.”

He stretched out his leg behind one of the beds, hooked a chair
with the toe of his boot, drew it out, and shoved it towards
Martin.

Glancing around the room, the young romancer felt quite disheartened.
His first impulse was to throw himself upon one of
the beds, and lie there until morning, without making speech with
any one; but his kind and social nature overcame these gloomy
feelings, and he returned the boarder's salutation politely.

“Which of these beds is mine, do you suppose?” he asked,
looking as if he thought there was not much to choose between them.

“The one with the head-board and ragged pillow is unoccupied,”
replied the slim young gentleman, putting his pen behind
his ear; “but, if you would prefer mine, I 'll exchange. This is
mine with the bundles and so forth on it, which is your property,
I presume. Take your choice.”

Martin thanked the boarder, but, declining his gracious offer,
threw himself down on the unoccupied bed with a suppressed
groan.

“This is a rich boarding-house,” observed the young gentleman,
dipping his pen and putting it once more behind his ear. “You
know Mr. Wormlett, I suppose?”

“I have not that honor,” replied Martin.

“O! well, it an't no great loss,” remarked the boarder, dipping
his pen again, and holding it over the paper. “Well, yes, it is a
loss, too. He 's a character, Mr. Wormlett is. You 'll be glad to
know him. You saw the old man?”

“Yes, and the boy,” said Martin.

“Then you 'll know the boy's father when you see him. The

three are just alike. They 're an odd family. You 'll laugh
when you see the three together. Difference in years makes all
the difference between 'em. Well, I would n't say a word
against the family for the world; you 'll see for yourself. There
are some things about 'em though, — ha, ha, ha!”

The young man choked with laughter, dipped his pen again
and began to flourish over the paper, touching it only with
his little finger, — looking all the time as if he could unfold as
remarkable a tale as the ghost in Hamlet, but that he was forbid
by the dictates of a nice sense of honor. Apparently much
to his disappointment, Martin did not question him; and, after
dipping his pen two or three times, still without writing a word,
he resumed the conversation, by asking the new lodger if he saw
the old woman.

“Do you mean Mrs. Wormlett?”

“Yes; I don't mean any one else. She 's a case. You did n't
hear her say anything about Toplink, did you?”

“No, I did not. Who is Toplink?”

The young gentleman chuckled, as if he thought it a great joke,
dipped his pen and put it over his ear, and finally leaned back
in his chair for a hearty laugh.

“That 's me; my name 's Toplink,” said he, throwing up his
arms. “The old woman and me an't on very good terms. Well,
yes, we be, too. That is, nobody 'd suspect we wan't. But we
don't like each other any too well, that 's a fact. Well, I won't
say anything to prejudice you. I would n't injure her for the
world. You 'll see for yourself, though, and perhaps you 'll
understand some things better by and by than you could now.
Well, she 's a case; that 's all I got to say.”

The slim gentleman chuckled, and, leaning his long neck over

the lamp-stand, dipped his pen three times, and made preparatory
flourishes as before. As he was about to touch the paper, however,
another fit of merriment seized him violently, and he burst
into an abrupt “Ho, ho, ho!”

“You should have been here at dinner yesterday,” said he,
with tears in his eyes. “It was meat-pie day. This house is
becoming justly celebrated for its meat-pies. It 's veal the day
before, and tough steak for breakfast; then follows the meat-pie,
sweeping together the scattered fragments into one sublime dish.
But the meat-pie would be like half a pair of tongs without its
bread-pudding accompaniment. We 'd as soon think of going to
an old bachelor's wedding, where there was no bride, as of setting
down to meat-pie without its royal consort, bread-pudding. It
takes one to rally the routed roast veal and beef-steak forces,
while the other brings up the rear with broken biscuits, forlorn
crusts, and the like. The old grandfather follows us at every
onset, like a vulture, but what escapes him comes to us the
day after in the shape mentioned. — Pshaw! what am I saying?
I hope you won't think I talk about folks; I never do — that is,
to injure any one. — But, as I was going to tell you; it was meat-pie
day yesterday, and Mrs. Wormlett gave me a piece which
looked like a mangled toad-stool. Well, I lifted up the greasy
crust, and began to work industriously; when suddenly I paused,
dropped my knife and fork, took a longing, lingering look at the
object before me, and heaved a sigh. `What 's the matter?' says
Mr. Flinks, who sets opposite me. `Nothing,' says I, loud enough
for all the table to hear, `only I 'm a little affected,' says I, pulling
out my handkerchief. `Here 's an old friend,' says I, `turned
up quite unexpectedly. He was a hardened sinner when I knew
him. I dealt with him faithfully when I had him on my plate at

breakfast, and I 'm grieved to see that baking has n't improved
him.' You should have heard the laugh that followed!”

Mr. Toplink exploded at the recollection. But all that was
nothing to some things he could relate about that boarding-house,
he said, recovering himself, if it were n't for talking about folks
to their injury, which practice he heartily abhorred.

“I must tell you one thing, though,” said he, in a mysterious
whisper, laying down the pen. “It 's too good. You observed that
old — well, that young lady, to speak politely — with the curl?”

“Do you mean Miss Tomes?” asked Martin languidly.

“'Sh! Yes. She 's queer. You 've probably found that out.
She 's a book-folder.”

“Ah!” articulated Martin. He brightened a little, thinking
what a singular coincidence it would be if Miss Tomes should be
employed to fold the Beggar of Bagdad.

“Yes,” said Toplink. “Sleeps in the attic, and pays a dollar
seventy-five for her board. She 's dyspeptic, and eats Graham
bread. That 's what makes her curl so meagre, I tell folks.
Well, I won't say nothing against Tomes, neither. What I was
going to tell you: There 's a fellow,” — Toplink lowered his
voice again, — “sleeps in that there other bed, name of Leviston.
He 's a case. Well, he an't much like me, if we do room
together. He hates everybody, — even me, I sometimes think.
He and Tomes used to snarl and snap at each other, like cats and
dogs. But, before I go further, let me beg of you not to be prejudiced
by anything I say. I 'm only going to state a little circumstance
— Yes, I should judge so. Fifty degrees above zero,
and falling at that.”

This singular turn in Mr. Toplink's remarks was occasioned by
the entrance of Mr. Leviston himself.

“What should you say?” he added. “Shall we have rain in
the morning?”

At the same time, Mr. Leviston's back being turned, he winked
knowingly at Martin; then dipped his pen again and made a good
many more imaginary flourishes, working his head in sympathy
with his hand, screwing his mouth on one side and stretching his
neck to the task, until his body formed a semicircle, and the horns
of oiled hair above his temples seemed hooking at the paper.
During this operation, Sim Wormlett entered the room, and, with
several odd jerks of his head and shoulders, said that “If the new
boarder — he did n't know his name — wanted any supper, he 'd
better come down and eat it, — pa had come, and ma was waiting;
he did n't care for anybody.” Upon that, Martin got up, washed
his hands and face in one of the cracked bowls, and combed his
hair before a broken looking-glass which showed him two fragmentary
heads, resembling his own, with faces a foot long, divided
on the bridge of the nose.

Descending to the dining-room, he found Mr. Wormlett getting
up from the table. As Toplink had predicted, he knew him
at a glance. It was hard to say which was most like him,
the grandfather or grandson. A slight resemblance between him
and the family portrait, with wild eyes and standing hair,
which hung over the mantelpiece in the parlor, was also observable;
while something about the narrow forehead, and small, sharp
gray eyes, reminded one of his sister, Mrs. Lydia Dabney. Yet
there was an expression of importance in the manner in which he
carried his head and neck, peculiar to himself. If the old man
had ever had it, it had been shaken out of him long ago by the
palsy; and young Sim's odd jerks and twitches, although often
amazingly like it, needed the ripeness and experience of mature

years, to give him the air of obstinate self-conceit which characterized
his parent.

“You come from Lyddy's, they tell me?” said Mr. Wormlett,
setting his chair back from the table. “You are going to try
your fortin' in Boston, I suppose?”

Martin said he had come to town to see what he could do. Mr.
Wormlett sucked his teeth, nodded approvingly, and took his
stand, with his hands behind him, directly opposite the new
boarder.

“Boston is a good place to make money,” said he, with a crafty
smile, throwing his head to one side, in a self-complacent attitude.
“Only put your mind to it and be shrewd, and you 'll do well.
Must n't let other things interfere with business; if you do, you 'll
find it don't pay. That 's what I tell Simeon,” added Mr. Wormlett,
placing his hand on the head of his hopeful son.

Young Sim jerked his shoulders, grinned, and looked more than
ever like his father, at that moment.

“I 'm going to keep in the grocery when I 'm ten years old,”
said he, writhing and rubbing his jacket with the backs of his
hands, “an't I, pa?”

“Yes, if you 're a good boy, and learn your 'rithm'tic, and save
up your coppers. Form good habits while you 're young, my son.
That 's the way to prepare yourself for usefulness hereafter.”

Having given utterance to this fine moral precept, Mr. Wormlett
inquired what business Martin thought of going into.

“I intend to publish a book,” replied the young man, sugaring
his tea.

“Is that a profitable business?” asked the other, doubtfully.

“I don't know,” replied Martin, coloring. “I believe, however,
that successful books pay their authors very well.”

“You are the author of your book, then?” returned Mr.
Wormlett. “Well, I hope you 'll make money on 't. If it 's a
'rithm'tic or reading-book, or some such thing, I should think it
might do well. Other books, seems to me, an't of much account.
What kind is yours?”

“It 's a Romance,” replied Martin.

“A romance!” repeated Mr. Wormlett, with a leer. “Why,
that 's a novil story, an't it?”

“It 's a work of fiction,” Martin confessed, with some reluctance.

Mr. Wormlett jerked his head from one side to the other, with
an air of superior wisdom, and regarded Martin for a moment in
silence. He then expressed in general terms his disapproval of
all such publications, which tended to dissipate the minds of
young people, and give them a distaste for business. “But,”
said he, “there 's a good many folks read novils, or else there
would n't be so many writ and printed. If people will buy
'em, you may as well write 'em and make money on 'em as anybody.”
Having expressed his sentiments on that point, Mr. Wormlett
remarked that he would like to talk with his new boarder
about Lyddy, some time, but that he was in a hurry just then;
and withdrew, expressing a hope that he would be able to make
out a supper.

As soon as he was gone, the shaking grandfather put his head
into the room, and, observing that Martin had moved back from
the table, entered and sat down at a dish of fragments which had
been picked up after the boarders. Martin arose, having no desire
to witness his meal. Immediately the old man darted at a crust
he had left beside his plate, seized it, and began to gnaw it greedily
with his two front teeth, mumbling and gibbering at the same

time about the “sights” required to feed the boarders, and the
“heaps of money” people might lay up if they could live without
eating.

Miss Tomes was waiting at the door to invite Martin into the
parlor. But he was too anxious in mind, and too fatigued in body,
to see society that evening. On going up to his room, he received
a grave and earnest proposition from Mr. Toplink to “enjoy” the
night with him and Leviston, in exploring the mysteries of Boston.
Declining this kind invitation also, he retired to his bed,
and dreamed that Mr. Toplink, who talked him to sleep, was a
mighty publisher, who proposed to issue the Romance of Caleb
Bag, as a geography, provided the author would kill Miss Tomes
in the second book, and invent a milder fate for the hero than
that of dragging his body through the streets of Bagdad at the
tail of a fire-engine.