29. CHAPTER XXIX.
AUGUST AND NORMAN.
IN a story such as I meant this to be, the development
of character stands for more than the evolution
of the plot, and herein is the true significance
of this contact of Wehle with the gamblers, and, indeed,
of this whole steamboat life. It is not enough
for one to be good in a country neighborhood; the sharp contests
and severe ordeals of more exciting life are needed to give
temper to the character. August Wehle was hardly the same
man on this morning at Paducah, with the nine hundred and
fifty dollars in his pocket, that he had been the evening before,
when he first felt the sharp resentment against the man who
had outraged his father. In acting on a high plane, one is unconsciously
lifted to that plane. Men become Christians sometimes
from the effect of sudden demands made upon their higher
moral nature, demands which compel them to choose between
a life higher than their present living, or a moral degradation.
Such had been August's experience. He had been drawn upward
toward God by the opportunity and necessity for heroic
action. I have no doubt the good Samaritan got more out of his
own kindness than the robbed Jew did.
Before he had a chance to restore the money to its rightful
owner, the two hours of dog-watch had expired, and he was
obliged to go on watch again, much to his annoyance. He had
been nearly twenty-four hours without sleep, and after a night
of such excitement it was unpleasant as well as perilous to
have to hold this money, which did not belong to him, for six
hours longer, liable at any minute to get into difficulty through
any scheme of the gamblers and their allies, by which his recovery
of the money might be misinterpreted. The morning seemed to
wear away so slowly. All the possibilities of Parkins's attacking
him, of young Anderson's committing suicide, and of the misconstruction
that might be put upon his motives—the making of his
disinterested action seem robbery—haunted his excitable imagination.
At last, while the engines were shoving their monotonous
shafts backward and forward, and the `palatial steamer” Iatan
was slowly pushing her way up the stream, August grew so
nervous over his money that he resolved to relieve himself of
part of it. So he sent for the mud-clerk by a passing deck-hand.
“I want you to keep this money for me until I get off
watch,” said August. “I made Parkins stand and deliver this
morning while we were at Paducah.”
“You did?” said the mud-clerk, not offering to touch the
money. “You risked your life, I declare, for that fool that called
you a thief. You are a fool, Gus, and nothing but your blamed
good luck can save you from getting salivated, bright and early,
some morning. Not a great deal I won't take that money. I
don't relish lead, and I've got to live among these fellows all my
days, and I don't hold that money for anybody. The old man
would ship me at Louisville, seeing I never stopped anybody's
engine and backed it in a hurry, as you did. If I'd known where
Parkins was, I'd a dropped a gentle word in the ear of the crowd
outside, but I wouldn't a pulled that greeny's coffee-nuts out of
the fire, and I won't hold the hot things for you. I declare
I won't. Saltpeter wouldn't save me if I did.”
So Gus had to content himself in his nervousness, not allayed
by this speech, and keep the money in his pocket until noon.
And, after all the presentiment he had had, noon came round.
Presentiments generally come from the nerves, and signify
nothing; but nobody keeps a tally of the presentiments and
auguries that fail. When the first-engineer and a new man
took the engines at noon, Gus was advised by the former to get
some sleep, but there was no sleep for him until he had found
Norman, who trembled at the sight of him.
“Where is your state-room?” said August sternly, for he
couldn't bring himself to speak kindly to the poor fellow, even
in his misery.
Norman turned pale. He had been thinking of suicide all the
morning, but he was a coward, and now he evidently felt sure
that he was to be killed by August. He did not dare disobey,
but led the way, stopping to try to apologize two or three times,
but never getting any further than “I—I—”
Once in the state-room, he sat down on the berth and gasped,
“I—I—”
“Here is your money,” said August, handing it to him. “I
made the gambler give it up.”
“I—I—” said the astonished and bewildered Norman.
“You needn't say a word. You are a cowardly scoundrel,
and if you say anything, I'll knock you down for treating my
father as you did. Only for—for—well, I didn't want to see you
fleeced.'
Norman was ashamed for once, and hung his head. It
touched the heart of August a little, but the remembrance of the
attack of the mob on his father made him feel hard again, and
so his generous act was performed ungraciously.
