28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The growing waters.
— Byron.
The day brightened as the steamer bore out to sea, and
the sun streamed along the fast-receding shore. Morton
stood at the ship's stern, gazing back longingly towards
his native rocks. Though far from inclining to echo those
set terms of praise which the progeny of the Puritans are
fond of lavishing on themselves, he felt himself bound with
enduring cords to the woods and hills of New England, the
scene of his boyish aspirations, of his pure ambition, and
his devoted love; and while the crags of Gloucester faded
from his sight, his eyes were dimmed as he turned them
towards those rugged shores.
“Well, young man, seems to me you look a leetle kind o'
streak-ed at the idee of quitting home,” said a husky voice at
his elbow.
Morton turned, and saw a small man, with a meagre, hatchet
face, and a huge pair of black whiskers hedging round a
countenance so dead and pallid that one could see at a glance
that he was in a consumption. He had an eye hard as a
flint, one that might have faced a Gorgon without risk.
Morton regarded him with an expression which told him,
as plainly as words, to go about his business; but he might
as well have tried to look an image of brass out of countenance.
“Now I,” pursued the small man, “have some reason to
feel bad. It's an even bet if ever I see Boston lighthouse
again — about six of one and half a dozen of the other. I
consider myself a gone sucker. I've ben going, going, for
about two years, and pretty soon I expect I shall be going,
going, gone.”
These words, uttered in a sort of bravado, were interrupted
by a violent fit of coughing.
“Ever crossed the pond before?” asked the small man, as
soon as he could gain breath.
“Yes.”
“Business?”
“No.”
“I thought not. You don't look like a business man. I
know a business man, a mile off, by the cut of his jib. I'm
a business man myself, and a hard used one at that.”
Here a fresh fit of coughing began.
“Bad health; bad health, and damned hard luck, that's
what has finished up this child. If it worn't for them, I
should be worth my hundred thousand dollars this very
minute.”
Another fit of coughing.
“So you've ben across before. Well, so've I. That was
three years ago, by the doctors' advice. It's great advice they
give a man. It's good for their pockets, and there's deused
little else it's good for. I spent that year over three thousand
dollars; and if I'd staid to home, and stuck to my business,
I should have ben jest about as well, and cleared, — well,
yes, I should have cleared double the money, at the smallest
figger.”
More coughing.
“I expect you travel for pleasure.”
Morton replied by an inarticulate sound, which the other
might interpret as he pleased. He chose to interpret it in
the affirmative.
“Well, that's all very well for a young man like you.
You are young enough to like to look at the curiosities, and
take an interest in what's going on; but I'm too old a bird
for that. One night I was down to Palermo, there was an
eruption of Mount Etna going on. We were on the piazzy
at the back of Marston the consul's house, and there it was
blazing away to kill, way off on the further side of the island.
Well, the ladies was all O-ing and Ah-ing like fits. `Nonsense!'
says I; `it ain't a circumstance to the fire that burnt
down my splendid new freestone-front store on Broadway.
Now that was something worth saying O at.'”
More coughing.
“There was a young man there from Boston, and we went
round to look at the churches. He was all for staring at the
pictures, and the marble images, and the Lord knows what all,
while I went and paced off the length of the church from the
door up to the altar, and then again crosswise. There wasn't
a church in Palermo worth shaking a stick at that I didn't
know the size of, and have it all set down on paper.”
“And what good did that do you?”
“What good did that do me? Why, I had something to
show for my pains, something that would keep. They wanted
me to ride up on the back of a jackass to the top of
a mountain to see a cavern where some she saint or other
used to live, — St. Rosa Lee, or some such nigger-minstrel
name.”
“St. Rosalie, I suppose you mean.”
“St. Rosaly or St. Rosa Lee, it comes to pretty much
the same. She was fool enough to leave a comfortable home
— inside of a palace, too, be gad — and go and live all alone
by herself in that cavern. Well, they wanted me to ride up
on the jackass and see it. `No,' says I, `you don't ketch
me,' says I; `if I did, I might as well change places with the
jackass right away,' says I.”
A fresh fit of coughing.
“Yes, sir, bad health and hard luck, that's ben the finishing
of me, or else this minute I could show you my solid
hundred thousand. The fire was what begun it all. A
splendid freestone-front store, that hadn't its beat in all New
York, chock full of goods, that worn't more than half covered
by the insurance, burnt clean down to the sidewalk! Then
come the great failure you've heard of — Bragg, Dash, and
Bustup. I tell you, I was sucked in there to a handsome
figger. Top of all that, my health caved in, — uh, — uh, —
uh.” Here the coughing grew violent. “Well, I'm a gone
sucker, and it's no use crying over spilt milk. But if it
worn't for bad health and damned hard luck, I should have
been worth a hun — uh — uh — uh — a hundred thousand
dol — uh — uh — dollars, — uh — uh — uh — uh — uh.”
“This wind is too sharp for you,” observed Morton.
“Fact,” said the invalid; “I can't stand it no how.”
He went down to the cabin, Morton's eye following him in
pity and disgust.
