University of Virginia Library

5. V.
A TREMENDOUS JOKE.

There seems to be no mistake about it. Mr. Frisbie
has come over early, driven in his light open carriage by
his man Stephen, to see that the niggers are out. And
yonder come the workmen, to begin the work of demolition.

But the niggers are not out; not an article of furniture
has been removed.

“You see, sir,” — Mr. Williams calmly represents the
case to his landlord, as he sits in his carriage, — “it has
been impossible. We shall certainly go, just as soon as
we can get another house anywhere in town — ”

“I don't want you to get another house in town,” interrupts
the full-blooded, red-faced Frisbie. “We have had
enough of you. You have had fair warning. Now out
with your traps, and off with you!”

“I trust, at least, sir, you will give us another
week —”

“Not an hour!”

“One day,” remonstrates the mild negro; “I don't
think you will refuse us that.”

“Not a minute!” exclaims the firm Frisbie. “I 've
borne with you long enough. Fact is, we have got tired
of niggers in this town. I bought the house with you in
it, or you never would have got in. Now it is coming
down. Call out your folks, and save your stuff, if you 're
going to. — Good morning, Adsly,” to the master carpenter.
“Go to work with your fellows. Guess they 'll be
glad to get out by the time you 've ripped the roof off.”

Mr. Williams retires, disheartened, his visage surcharged
with trouble. For this wretched dwelling was his home,
and dear to him. It was the centre of his world. Around
it all the humble hopes and pleasures of the man had clustered
for years. When weary with the long day's heavy
toil, here he had found rest. To this spot his spirit, sorrow-laden,
had ever turned with gratitude and yearning.
And here he had found shelter, here he had found love and
comfort, the lonely, despised man. Even care and grief
had contributed to strengthen the hold of his heart upon
this soil. Here had died the only child he had ever lost;
and in the old burying-ground, over the hill yonder, it was
buried. Under this mean roof he had laid his sorrows

before the Lord, he had wrestled with the Lord in prayer,
and his burdens had been taken from him, and light and
gladness had been poured upon his soul. O ye proud!
do you think that happiness dwells only in high places, or
that these lowly homes are not dear to the poor?

But now this sole haven of the negro and his family was
to be destroyed. Cruel cold blew the December wind, that
wintry morning. And the gusts of the landlord's temper
were equally pitiless.

Gentleman Bill, full of confidence in his powers of persuasion,
advances, to add the weight of his respectability
to his parents' remonstrance.

“Good morning, Mr. Frisbie,” — politely lifting his hat.

“Hey?” says Frisbie, sarcastic. — “Look at his insolence,
Stephen!”

“I sincerely trust, sir,” begins Bill, “that you will
reconsider your determination, sir —”

“Shall I fetch him a cut with the hosswhip?” whispers
Stephen, loud enough for the stalwart young black to
hear.

“You can fetch him a cut with the hosswhip, if you
like,” Bill answers for Mr. Frisbie, with fire blazing up in
his polite face. “But, sir, in case you do, sir, I shall take
it upon myself to teach you better manners than to insult
a gentleman conferring with your master, sir!”

“Ha, ha, ha!” roared Mr. Frisbie. “You 've got it,
Stephen!”

The whip trembled in Stephen's angry hand, but the
strapping young negro looked so cool and wicked, standing
there, that he wisely forbore to strike.

“I am sure, sir,” Bill addresses the landlord, “you are
too humane a person —”

“No, I a'n't,” says the florid Frisbie. “I know what
you 're going to say; but it 's no use. You can't work

upon my feelings; I a'n't one of your soft kind. Drive
up to the door, Stephen.”

Stephen is very glad to start the horse suddenly and
graze Gentleman Bill's knee with the wheel-hub. Bill
steps back a pace, and follows him with the smiting look
of one who treasures up wrath. You had better be careful,
Stephen, let me tell you!

Joe stands holding the door open, and Mr. Frisbie looks
in. There, to his astonishment, he sees the women washing
clothes as unconcernedly as if nothing unusual was about
to occur. He jumps to the ground, heated with passion.

“Ho, here!” he shouts in at the door; “don't you see
the house is coming down?”

Upon which the deaf old grandfather rises in his corner,
and pulls off his cap, with the usual salutation, “Sarvant,
sah,” etc., and, sitting down again, relapses into a doze
immediately.

Frisbie is furious. “What you 'bout here?” he cries,
in an alarming voice.

“Bless you, sir,” answers the old woman over a tub,
“don't you see? We 're doon' a little washin', sir. Did n't
you never see nobody wash afore?” And she proceeds
with her rubbing.

“The house will be tumbling on you in ten minutes!”

“You think so? Now I don't, Mr. Frisbie! This 'ere
house a'n't go'n' to tumble down this mornin', I know.
The Lord 'll look out for that, I guess. Look o' these 'ere
children! look o' me! look o' my ole father there, more 'n
a hundred year ole! What 's a go'n' to 'come on us all, if
you pull the house down? Can't git another right away;
no team to haul our things off with; an' how 'n the world
we can do 'thout no house this winter, I can't see. So I 've
jes' concluded to trust the Lord, an' git out my washin'.”
Rub, rub, rub!

Frisbie grows purple. “Are you fools?” he inquires.

“Yes, I am! I 'm Fessenden's.” And the honest staring
youth comes forward to see what is wanted.

This unexpected response rather pricks the wind-bag of
the man's zeal. He looks curiously at the boy, who follows
him out of the house.

“Stephen, did you ever see that fellow before?”

“Yes, sir; he 's the one come to our house Saturday
night, and I showed round to the Judge's.”

“Are you the fellow?”

“Yes,” says Fessenden's. “There would n't any of you
let me into your houses, neither!”

“Would n't the people I sent you to let you in?”

“No!”

“Hear that, Stephen! your philanthropical Gingerford!
And what did you do?”

“I did n't do nothin', — only laid down to die, I did.”

“But you did n't die, did you?”

“No! This man he come along, and brought me here.”

“Here? to the niggers?”

“Yes! You would n't have me, so they took me, and
dried me, and fed me, — good folks, niggers!” Fessenden's
bore this simple testimony.

What is it makes the Frisbie color heighten so? Is it
Gentleman Bill's quiet smile, as he stands by and hears
this conversation?

“And you have been here ever since?” says the man,
in a humbler key, and with a milder look, than before.

“Yes! It 's a re'l good place!” says the youth.

“But a'n't you ashamed to live with niggers?”

“Ashamed? What for? Nobody else was good to me.
But they was good to me. I a'n't ashamed.”

The Frisbie color heightens more and more. He looks
at that wretched dwelling, — he glances aside at Mr.

Williams, that coal-black Christian, of sad and resigned
demeanor, waiting ruefully to see the roof torn off, — the
only roof that had afforded shelter to the perishing outcast.
Mr. Frisbie is not one of the “soft kind,” but
he feels the prick of conscience in his heart.

“Why did n't you go to the poorhouse? Did n't anybody
tell you to?”

“Yes, that 's what they said. But nobody showed me
the way, and I could n't find it.”

“Where did you come from? Who are you?”

“Fessenden's.”

“Who is Fessenden?”

“The man that owns me. But he whipped me and shet
me up, and I would n't stay.”

“Where does he live?”

“Don't know. Away off.”

“You 'd better go back to him, had n't you?”

“No! I like these folks. Best folks I ever seen!”
avers the earnest youth.

Flush and confusion are in the rich man's face. He
turns up an uneasy glance at Adsly's men, already on the
roof; then coughs, and says to Stephen, —

“This is interesting!”

“Very,” says Stephen.

“Don't you remember, I was going to make some provision
for this fellow, — I 'd have seen him safe in the almshouse,
if nothing more, — but you suggested Gingerford's.”

“I supposed Gingerford would be delighted to take him
in,” grins Stephen.

“Instead of that, he turns him out in the storm! Did
you ever hear of such sham philanthropy? By George!”
cries Frisbie, in his indignation against the Judge, “there 's
more real philanthropy in these niggers” — checking himself,
and glancing again at the workmen on the roof.

“What 's philanthropy?” asked Fessenden's. “Is that
what you 're tearin' their house down for? I 'm sorry!”

Frisbie is flustered. He is ashamed of appearing “soft.”
He wishes heartily to be well rid of the niggers. But something
in his own heart rebels against the course he has
taken to eject them.

“Just hold on there a minute, Adsly!”

“Ay, ay!” says Adsly. And the work stops.

“Now what do I do this for?” exclaims Frisbie, vexed
at himself the instant he has spoken. And he frowns, and
blows his nose furiously. “It 's because I am too good-natured
altogether!”

“No, no, sir, — I beg your pardon!” says Mr. Williams,
his heart all aglow with gratitude. “To be kind
and merciful to the poor, that is n't to be too good-natured,
sir!”

“Well, well! I a'n't one of your milk-and-water sort.
Look at such a man as Gingerford, for example! But I
guess, come case in hand, you 'll find as much genuine humanity
in me, Adsly, as in them that profess so much.
Wait till to-morrow before you knock the old shell to
pieces. I 'll give 'em another day. And in the mean
time, boy,” turning to Fessenden's, “you must find you
another home. Either go back to your guardian, or I 'll
send you over to the almshouse. These people can't keep
you, for they 'll have no house in these parts to keep themselves
in.”

“So?” says Fessenden's. “They kep' me when they
had a house, and I 'll stay with them when they have n't
got any.”

Something in the case of this unfortunate stripling
interests Frisbie. His devotion to his new friends is so
sincere, and so simply expressed, that the robust, well-fed
man is almost touched by it.

“I vow, it 's a queer case, Stephen! What do you
think of it?”

“I think —” says the joker.

“What do you think? Out with it!”

“You own that vacant lot opposite Gingerford's?”

“Yes; what of that?”

“I think, then, instead of pulling the house down, I 'd
just move it over there, niggers and all —”

“And set it opposite the Judge's!” exclaims Frisbie,
catching gleefully at the idea.

“Exactly,” says Stephen; “and give him enough of
niggers for one while.”

“I 'll do it! — Adsly! Adsly! See here, Adsly! Do
you suppose this old box can be moved?”

“I guess so. 'T a'n't very large. Ruther think the
frame 'll hold together.”

“Will you undertake the job?”

“Wal, I never moved a house. There 's Cap'en Slade,
he moves houses. He 's got all the tackle for it, and I
ha'n't. I suppose I can git him, if you want me to see to
the job.”

Agreed! It did not take Frisbie long to decide. It
was such a tremendous joke! A nest of niggers under the
dainty Gingerford nose! ho, ho! Whip up, Stephen!
And the red and puffy face, redder and puffier still with
immense fun, rode off.