The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe

  CHAPTER III.

  THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.

  Allan Dorris sleeps on, unconscious of the darkness peering in at himfrom the outside, which is also running riot in the town, andparticularly down by the river, where the crazy houses with theirboarded windows seem to collect shadows during the day for use at night,robbing the sunlight for the purpose; for there is little brightness andwarmth at Davy's Bend, but much of dampness and hazy atmosphere.

  There is light and life down this way; a light in the window of thewretched house occupied by Mr. Tug Whittle, and all the neighboringbuildings are alive with rats and vermin. Tug occupies his house for thesame reason that the rats occupy theirs, for in this quarter of the townthe tenants pay no rent. Some of the buildings were once busy warehousesand stores, but they have been turned over to the rats these ten years,and Tug occupies a little frame one from choice, as he argues that if itfalls down from old age, there will not be so many ruins in which tobury the tenants. Besides, the big buildings shelter him from the coldnorth winds in winter, and do not interfere with the southern breezesfrom the river in summer; therefore the faded sign of "T. Whittle, LawOffice," swings in front of the little frame building back from thestreet, instead of from the more imposing ones by its side.

  Everybody knows Tug Whittle, and admits that he is perfectly harmlessand hopelessly lazy--always excepting Silas Davy, who believes that hisfriend is very energetic and dangerous; therefore when Silas is unableto hold a position because he is a good fellow, or because he spends somuch time at night with Tug that he is unfit for work during the day, heis also an inhabitant of the little law office, along with the lawyerand the rats, although it is not much of a law office, for it containsnothing but a stove, half cooking and half heating, a bed that looks asthough it came from the fourth story of a cheap hotel, a few brokenchairs, a box that is the lawyer's table, and a few other articlescommon to a kitchen, all of them second-hand, and very poor.

  There is nothing about the place to suggest a law office save the signin front, and a single leather-covered book on the inside; a ponderousvolume to which Mr. Whittle applies for everything, including kindling.Silas has seen him look through it to decide questions in science,theology, law, and history, and tear leaves out of it with which tostart his fire; and while a cunning man would have guessed that Mr.Whittle made up his authority, instead of finding it in the book, SilasDavy, who is not cunning, believes that it is a repository of secrets ofevery kind, although it is really a treatise on a law which has beenrepealed many years. When Silas so far forgets himself as to mildlyquestion something his companion has said, Mr. Whittle refers to thebook, and triumphantly proves his position, no difference what it maybe; whereupon the little man feels much humiliated. Mr. Whittle has evenbeen known to refer to the book to convict his enemies in Davy's Bend ofvarious offences; and Silas has so much respect for the volume that hehas no trouble in imagining that the den in which Tug lives is not onlya law office, but a repository of profane, political, and sacredhistory, to say nothing of the sciences and the town scandal.

  Like the rats again, Tug lies by during the day, and goes abroad atnight, for he is seldom seen on the streets until the sun goes down, andhe is not entirely himself until after midnight. Occasionally, on dark,bad days he is to be seen walking about, but not often, and it is knownthat he sleeps most of the day on the rough bed in his rough office. Ifhe is disturbed by idle boys, which is sometimes the case, he gets uplong enough to drive them away, and returns to his bed until it is dark,when he yawns and stretches himself, and waits patiently for Silas Davy,who is due about that hour with his supper.

  But for Silas Davy, like the rats again, Tug would be compelled to stealfor a living; for he never works, but Silas believes in him, and admireshim, and whenever he is employed, he saves half of what he gets for hisfriend, who eats it, and is not grateful. Indeed, he often looks atSilas as much as to say that he is not providing for him as well as heshould, whereupon Silas looks downcast and miserable; but, all in all,they get along very well together.

  Up to the present rainy and wet year of our Lord eighteen hundred and nodifference what, Tug has never admired anyone, so far as is known; buthe admires Allan Dorris, the new owner of The Locks, and frequently saysto Silas that "_There_ is a man," at the same time aiming his big eye inthe direction Dorris is supposed to be. There is every reason why Tugshould admire Silas Davy, who is very good to him, but he does not,except in a way, and which is a very poor way; and there is no reasonwhy he should admire Allan Dorris, who is suspicious of him, but hedoes, and on this night, Silas having arrived early with his supper, heis killing two birds with one stone, by discussing both at the sametime.

  "By the horns of a tough bull," Tug says, which is his way of swearing,"but there _is_ a man. Muscle, brain, clothes, independence, money;everything. What, no butter to-night?"

  He says this impatiently after running through the package his companionhas brought, and not finding what he was looking for; and Silas humblyapologizes, saying he could not possibly get it at the hotel.

  "Well, no matter," Tug continued in an injured way, using a pickle andtwo slices of bread as a sandwich. "It will come around all right someday. When I come into my rights, I'll have butter to spare. But thisimpudent Dorris; I like him. He has the form of an Apollo and the muscleof a giant. If he should hit you, you would fall so fast that your ringswould fly off your fingers. He's the kind of a man I'd be if I had myrights."

  While Tug is munching away at his supper, Davy remembers how unjust thepeople are with reference to these same rights; how they say he hasnone, and never will have, except the right to die as soon as possible.The people say that Tug's wife, the milliner, drove him from her housebecause he would not work, and because he was ugly in disposition, aswell as in face and person; that it was soon found out that he was notso dangerous, after all, when men were talking to him, so they haveregarded him as a harmless but eccentric loafer ever since. Some of thepeople believe that Tug does not appear on the streets during the dayfor fear of meeting his wife, while others contend that he goes out onlyat night because he is up to mischief; but neither class care toquestion him about the matter, for he has a mean tongue in his head, andknows how to defend himself, even though he is compelled to invent factsfor the purpose.

  But Davy knows that Tug can tell a very different story, and tell itwell, and he is sure that there will be a genuine sensation when hefinally tells it, and comes into his own.

  "What a voice he has, and what a eye," Mr. Whittle goes on to say,throwing a leg over a chair to be comfortable. "I usually despise adecent man because I am not one myself, but this fellow--damn him, Ilike him."

  Silas Davy was the sort of a man who is never surprised at anything. Hadhe been told on a dark night that it was raining blood on the outside,he would not have disputed it, or investigated it, believing that suchstorms were common, though they had escaped his observation; thereforehe was not surprised that Tug admired Allan Dorris, although he knew hehad no reason to.

  "I have known people to come here and denounce us for a lack of culturewho knew nothing about propriety except to eat pie with a fork," Mr.Whittle said again; "but this Dorris,--I'll bet he practises theproprieties instead of preaching them. He don't remind me of the peoplewho come here and call us ignorant cattle because we do not buy theirdaub paintings at extravagant prices, or take lessons from them; _he_don't look like the cheap fellows who declare that we lack cultivationbecause we refuse to patronize their fiddle and pianow concerts,therefore look out for Dorris. He's a man, sure enough; I'll stake everydollar I'm worth and my reputation on it."

  Although he had neglected to bring butter, the supper Silas had broughtwas good enough to put Mr. Whittle in a cheerful humor, and hecontinued,--

  "The people around here put me in mind of the freaks in a dime museum;but Dorris's clothes fit him, and he looks well. There are plenty of menso common that they look shabby in broadcloth, and who are so miserablyshaped that no tailor can
fit their bones; but this fellow--he wouldlook well with a blanket thrown over his shoulders, and running wild.Hereafter, when I refer to my rights, understand that I would be aDorris sort of a fellow were justice done me. Did you bring me a drink?"

  Silas produced a flask from his pocket, and while Tug was mixing thecontents with sugar, by means of stirring them together with a spoon ina tumbler, making a cheerful, tinkling sound the while, he delivered astirring temperance lecture to his companion. He did this so often thatSilas regarded himself as a great drunkard, although that was not one ofhis failings; but he felt grateful to Tug, who drank a great deal, forhis good advice. He was so mortified to think of his bad habits andTug's worthiness, that he turned his face away, unable to reply.

  "Dorris reminds me of a young widow two years after the funeral," Mr.Whittle said, after drinking the dram he had prepared. "Handsome, clean,well-dressed, and attractive. I have an ambition to be a young widowmyself, but owing to the circumstance that I have been defrauded of myrights, at present I look like a married woman with six children whodoes not get along with her husband. In short, I am slouchy, andill-tempered, and generally unattractive, with an old wrapper on, and myhair down. Ben, come here."

  The light in the room was so dim that it had not yet revealed to theeyes of Silas the form of a boy seated on a low box at the side of theroom farthest from him, who now came over into the rays of the lamp, andlooked timidly at Tug.

  Silas knew the boy very well; little Ben Whittle, the son of his friend,who worked on a farm three miles in the country, and who came to townoccasionally after dark to see Silas, who treated him well, but alwaysreturning in time to be called in the morning; for his employer was arough man, and very savage to his horses and cattle and boys. Ben wasdressed in a coat no longer than a jacket, buttoned tightly around hisbody, and his pants were so short that they did not nearly touch thetops of his rough shoes. He wore on his head a crazy old hat, throughthe torn top of which his uncombed hair protruded, and altogether he wassuch a distressing sight that Davy was always pitying him, although hewas never able to do him much good, except to treat him kindly when hecame to the hotel at long intervals, and give him something to eat.

  "Are you hungry?" Tug inquired, looking sharply at the boy, as he stoodcringing before him.

  "Yes, sir, if you please."

  "Then help yourself," his father roughly returned, crabbed because Benhad told the truth, and pointing to the table; whereupon the boy went tonibbling away at the crumbs and bones remaining of the lunch brought bySilas.

  Little Ben was so surprisingly small for a boy of eleven that he wascompelled to stand to reach the crumbs and bones, but his fatherregarded him as a brawny youth as tough as dogwood.

  "When I was a boy of his age," Tug said to Davy, "they dressed me up ingood clothes, and admired me, and thought I was about the cutest thingon earth, but I wasn't."

  Davy looked up as if to inquire what he really was at Ben's age, andreceived an answer.

  "I was an impudent imp, and detested by all the neighbors; that's thetruth. My father used to go around town, and tell the people the cutethings I said, instead of making me go to work, and teaching meindustry; but the people didn't share his enthusiasm, and referred to meas that 'worthless Whittle boy.' Ben, what can you do?"

  "I can cut corn, sir, and drive the team, and plough a little," the boyreplied, startled by his father's loud voice.

  "Anything else?"

  "I can't remember everything, sir. I do as much as I can."

  Little Ben did not look as though he could be of much use on a farm, forhe was very thin, and very weak-looking; but apparently this did notoccur to his father, who continued to stare at him as though he wonderedat his strength.

  "Think of that, will you," Tug continued, addressing Silas again. "Hecan cut corn, and plough, and all that, and only eleven years old. Why,when he gets to be thirteen or fourteen he will whip old Quade, and takepossession of the farm! What could I do when I was eleven years old?Nothing but whine, and I was always at it, although I was brought up ina house with three-ply carpets on the floor, and always treated well. Iwas treated _too_ well, and I intend to make a man out of Ben by seeingthat he is treated as mean as possible. Look here, you," he addedturning toward the boy, "when old Quade fails to lick you twice a day,get your hat and run for me; and I'll try and make you so miserable thatyou'll amount to something as a man."

  It was the opinion of Davy that Ben was meanly enough treated already,not only by his father, but by the farmer with whom he worked; for noone seemed to be kind to the boy except himself, and he made his longjourneys to town for no other reason than to hear Davy's gentle voice.But Davy was afraid to say this to Tug, and in his weakness could donothing to help him. In the present instance he looked out of thewindow.

  "You are a fortunate boy in one respect, at least," the admiring fathersaid to his son again. "Your mother hates you, and you have a prospectof becoming a man. Many a boy at your age has a good bed to sleep on,and plenty to eat, and will grow up into a loafer; but here you are onthe high road to greatness. Had my father been a wise man, as yourfather is, I might have been a storekeeper now instead of what I am;therefore don't let me hear you complain--I'll give you something tocomplain about if I do. The ways of Providence may be a littlemysterious to you now, you robust rascal; but when the Hon. BenjaminWhittle goes to Congress he will tell the reporter who writes him upthat his father was a kind, thoughtful man who did a great deal forhim."

  There was something more than the darkness peering in at the window whenSilas Davy looked that way; a good deal more--a strange man's face,which was flattened against the lower pane. At the moment that Silas sawhim, the man seemed to be using his eyes in investigating the othercorner of the room, for he did not know for a moment that he wasdetected. When his gaze met Silas Davy's, he quickly drew away from thewindow, and disappeared; but not until Silas remarked that it was aswarthy, malicious face, and that cunning and determination wereexpressed in its features. Silas was not at all astonished at theappearance, as was his custom; but when he looked at Tug again, to payrespectful attention to his next observation, he saw that he, too, hadseen the face, for he was preparing to go out.

  "Another stranger," Tug said, as he looked for his hat. "We are becominga great town."

  Silas asked no questions, but when his companion stepped into the dirtystreet, leaving little Ben alone, he followed, and walked a few pacesbehind him, as he hurried along in the direction of the inhabitedportion of the town. As they neared the dismal lamps, and while theywere yet in the darkness, they saw the figure of a tall man, envelopedin what seemed to be a waterproof cloak, turn into the main street,which ran parallel with the river, and walk toward the hotel where Davywas employed. But the man wearing the cloak did not stop there, exceptto examine a scrap of paper under the light; after which he turnedagain, and walked in the direction of The Locks. Silas and his companionfollowed, as rapidly as they could, for there were no lights now, andthey stumbled over the hills, and into the gullies, until The Locks gatewas reached, which they found ajar.

  This strange circumstance did not deter them from entering at once,though quietly and with caution, and together they crept up thepavement, and up the front steps, through the front door, which was wideopen, and up the stairway, until they stopped in front of the doorleading into the room occupied by Allan Dorris.

  Everything was still; and as they stood there in the dark, listening,Tug was surprised to find that Davy was in front of him, whereas he hadbelieved that he was in his rear. Likewise Silas Davy was surprised, forwhile he was sure that Tug had passed him, and gone lightly down thestairs, a moment afterward he put his hand on him, and knew that he wasbending over, and listening at the keyhole.

  But nothing could be heard except the regular breathing of Allan Dorrisas he slept in his chair, although they now realized that the mysteriousstranger had passed them on the stairs, and was on the outside; so theycrept down the stairs, and into the street, clo
sing the door and gateafter them.

  Over the hills and into the hollows again; so they travelled back totheir retreat down by the river, where they greatly surprised little Benand the rats by opening the door suddenly and walking in upon them.

  Silas dropped down on the bed, and Tug into a chair, where they remaineda long time without speaking.

  "What do you make of it?" Tug inquired at last.

  "Nothing," Silas returned.

  There was another long silence, which was finally broken by Tugremarking,--

  "I make nothing of it, myself. We are agreed for once."