27. CHAPTER XXVII.
THE RESULT OF AN EVENING WITH GENTLEMEN.
ALL the time that these smiling villains were by
consummate art drawing their weak-headed victim
into their toils, what was August doing? Where
were his prompt decision of character, his quick
intelligence, his fine German perseverance, that
should have saved the brother of Julia Anderson from harpies?
Could our blue-eyed young countryman, who knew how to cherish
noble aspirations walking in a plowman's furrow—could he
stand there satisfying his revenge by witnessing the ruin of a
young man who, like many others, was wicked only because he
was weak?
In truth, August was a man whose feelings were persistent.
His resentment was—like his love—constant. But his love of
justice was higher and more persistent, and he could not have
seen any one fleeced in this merciless way without taking sides
strongly with the victim. Much less could he see the brother
of Julia tempted on to the rocks by the false lights of villainous
wreckers without a great desire to save him. For the letter of
Andrew had ceased now to burn in his pocket. That other letter—the
only one that Julia had been able to send through Cynthy
Ann and Jonas—that other letter, written all over with such
tender extravagances as love feeds on; the thought of that other
letter, which told how beautiful and precious were the invitations
to the weary and heavy-laden, had stilled resentment, and
there came instead a keen desire to save Norman for the sake
of Julia and justice. But how to do it was an embarrassing question—a
question that was more than August could solve. There
was a difficulty in the weakness and wrong-headedness of Norman;
a difficulty in Norman's prejudice against Dutchmen in
general and August in particular; a difficulty in the fact that
August was a sort of a fugitive, if not from justice, certainly from
injustice.
But when nearly a third of Norman's employer's money
had gone into the gamblers' heap, and when August began to
understand that it was another man's money that Norman was
losing, and that the victim was threatened by no half-way ruin,
he determined to do something, even at the risk of making
himself known to Norman and to Parkins—was he Humphreys
in disguise?—and at the risk of arrest for house-breaking.
August acted with his eyes open to all the perils from gamblers'
pistols and gamblers' malice; and after he had started to
interfere, the mud-clerk called him back, and said, in his half-indifferent
way:
“Looky here, Gus, don't be a blamed fool. That's a purty
little game. That greeny's got to learn to let blacklegs alone,
and he don't look like one that'll take advice. Let him scorch
a little; it'll do him good. It's healthy for young men. That's
the reason the old man don't forbid it, I s'pose. And these fellows
carry good shooting-irons with hair-triggers, and I declare I
don't want to be bothered writing home to your mother, and
[ILLUSTRATION]
THE MUD-CLERK.
[Description: 555EAF. Page 183. In-line engraving of the head and shoulders of a
young man with a pen or pencil behind his ear.]
explaining to her that you got killed in a fight with blacklegs.
I declare I don't, you see. And then you'll get the `old man'
down on you, if you let a bird out of the trap in which he goes
snucks; you will, I declare. And you'll get walking-papers at
Louisville. Let the game alone. You haven't got any hand to
play against Parkins, nohow; and I reckon the greenhorns are
his lawful prey. Cats couldn't live without mice. You'll lose
your place, I declare you will, if you say a word.”
August stopped long enough to take in the full measure of
his sacrifice. So far from being deterred by it, he was more
than ever determined to act. Not the love of Julia, so much,
now, but the farewell prayer and benediction and the whole life
and spirit of the sweet Moravian mother in her child-full house
at home were in his mind at this moment. Things which
a man will not do for the love of woman he may do for
the love of God—and it was with a sense of moral exaltation
that August entered into the lofty spirit of self-sacrifice he had
seen in his mother, and caught himself saying, in his heart, as he
had heard her say, “Let us do anything for the Father's sake!”
Some will call this cant. So much the worse for them. This
motive, too little felt in our day—too little felt in any day—is
the great impulse that has enabled men to do the bravest things
that have been done. The sublimest self-sacrifice is only possible
to a man by the aid of some strong moral tonic. God's love
is the chief support of the strongest spirits.
August touched Norman on the arm. The face of the latter
expressed anything but pleasure at meeting him, now that he
felt guilty. But this was not the uppermost feeling with
Norman. He noticed that August's clothes were spotted with
engine-grease, and his first fear was of compromising his
respectability.
In a hurried way August began to explain to him that he was
betting with gamblers, but Smith stood close to them, looking
at August in such a contemptuous way as to make Norman feel
very uncomfortable, and Parkins seeing the crowd attracted by
August's explanations—which he made in some detail, by way
of adapting himself to Norman—of the trick by which the
upper card is thrown out first, Parkins said, “I see you understand
the game, young man. If you do, why don't you bet?”
At this the crowd laughed, and Norman drew away from
the striker's greasy clothes, and said that he didn't want to speak
any further to a burglar, he believed. But August followed, determined
to warn him against Smith. Smith was ahead of him,
however, saying to Norman, “Look out for your pockets—
that greasy fellow will rob you.”
And Norman, who was nothing if not highly respectable,
resolved to shake off the troublesome “Dutchman” at once. “I
don't know what you are up to now, but at home you are known
as a thief. So please let me alone, will you?” This Norman
tried to say in an annihilating way.
The crowd looked for a fight. August said loud enough to be
heard, “You know very well that you lie. I wanted to save you
from being a thief, but you are betting money now that is not
yours.”
The company, of course, sympathized with the gentleman and
against the machine-oil on the striker's clothes, so that there
arose quickly a murmur, started by Smith, “Put the bully out,”
and August was “hustled.” It is well that he was not shot.
It was quite time for him to go on watch now; for the loud-ticking
marine-clock over the window of the clerk's office pointed
to three minutes past twelve, and the striker hurried to his post
at the starboard engine, with the bitterness of defeat and the
shame of insult in his heart. He had sacrificed his place, doubtless,
and risked much beside, and all for nothing. The third
engineer complained of his tardiness in not having relieved
him three minutes before, and August went to his duties with a
bitter heart. To a man who is persistent, as August was,
defeat of any sort is humiliating.
As for Norman, he bet after this just to show his independence
and to show that the money was his own, as well as in the
vain hope of winning back what he had lost. He bet every cent.
Then he lost his watch, and at half-past one o'clock he went to
his state-room, stripped of all loose valuables, and sweating great
drops. And the mud-clerk, who was still in the office, remarked
to himself, with a pleasant chuckle, that it was good for him; he
declared it was; teach the fellow to let monte alone, and keep his
eyes peeled when he traveled. It would so!
The idea was a good one, and he went down to the starboard
engine and told the result of the nice little game to his
friend the striker, drawling it out in a relishful way, how the
blamed idiot never stopped till they'd got his watch, and then
looked like as if he'd a notion to jump into the “drink.” But
'twould cure him of meddlin' with monte. It would so!
He walked away, and August was just reflecting on the heartlessness
of his friend, when the mud-clerk came back again, and
began drawling his words out as before, just as though each distinct
word were of a delightful flavor and he regretted that he
must part with it.
“I've got you even with Parkins, old fellow. He'll be strung
up on a lamp-post at Paducah, I reckon. I saw a Paducah man
aboard, and I put a flea in his ear. We've got to lay there an
hour or two to put off a hundred barrels of molasses and two
hundred sacks of coffee and two lots of plunder. There'll be
a hot time for Parkins. He let on to marry a girl and fooled her.
They'll teach him a lesson. You'll be off watch, and we'll have
some fun looking on.” And the mud-clerk evidently thought
that it would be even funnier to see Parkins hanged than it had
been to see him fleece Norman. Gus the striker did not see how
either scene could be very entertaining. But he was sick at heart,
and one could not expect him to show much interest in manly
sports.
