by E. W. Howe
CHAPTER XII.
RUINED BY KINDNESS.
John Bill, editor of the Davy's Bend _Triumph_, was ruined by a railroadpass. When he taught school over in the bottoms, on the other side ofthe river, and was compelled to pay his fare when he travelled, heseldom travelled, and therefore put his money carefully away, but whenhe invested his savings in the _Triumph_, and the railroad company senthim an annual pass, he made up for lost time, and travelled up and downthe road almost constantly, all his earnings being required to pay hisexpenses.
A day seldom passed that John Bill did not get off or on a train at theDavy's Bend station, carrying an important looking satchel in his righthand, and an umbrella in his left, and though he imagined that thiscoming and going gave the people an idea of his importance, he wasmistaken, for they knew he had no business out of the town, and verylittle in it: therefore they made fun of him, as they did of everythingelse, for the Davy's Bend people could appreciate the ridiculous inspite of their many misfortunes. They knew enough, else they could nothave been such shrewd fault-finders, and they had rather extensiveknowledge of everything worldly except a knowledge of the ways ofCapital, which was always avoiding them; but this was not astonishing,since Capital had never lived among them and been subject to their keenscrutiny.
When an event was advertised to take place on the line of road overwhich his pass was accepted, John Bill was sure to be present, for heargued that, in order to report the news correctly, he must be on theground in person; but usually he remained away so long, and gave thesubject in hand such thorough attention, that he concluded on his returnthat the people had heard of the proceedings, and did not write them up,though he frequently asserted with much earnestness that no editor inthat country gave the news as much personal attention as he did.
Still, John Bill claimed to be worth a good deal of money. There was noquestion at all, he frequently argued, that his business and goodwillwere worth fifteen thousand dollars--any man would be willing to paythat for the _Triumph_ and its goodwill, providing he had the money;therefore, deducting his debts, which amounted to a trifle of elevenhundred dollars on his material, in the shape of an encumbrance, and afloating indebtedness of half as much more, he was still worth a littlemore than thirteen thousand dollars. The people said that everything inhis office was not worth half the amount of the encumbrance, and thathis goodwill could not be very valuable, since his business did not payits expenses; but John Bill could prove that the people had nevertreated him justly, therefore they were likely to misrepresent the factsin his case.
There was a mortgage, as any one who cared to examine the records mightconvince himself, but it was a very respectable mortgage, and had beenextended from time to time, as the office changed hands, for fifteenyears past. It had been owned by all the best men in the neighborhood;but while a great many transfers were noted thereon, no creditsappeared, so John Bill was no worse than the rest of them. The formerparties of the first part had intended paying off the trifling amount ina few weeks, and thereby become free to act as they pleased; John Billhad the same intention concerning the document, therefore it was nogreat matter after all.
Besides, there were the accounts. He had a book full of them, and wasalways showing it to those who bothered him for money. The accounts wereall against good men; a little slow, perhaps, but good, nevertheless,and the accounts should be figured in an estimate of John Bill'saffairs, which would add a few thousands more to the total.
It was a little curious, though, that most of the men whose namesappeared on John Bill's ledger had accounts against John Bill, and whilehe frequently turned to their page and showed their balances, they alsoturned to John Bill's page in _their_ ledgers, and remarked that therewas no getting anything out of him. Thompson Benton had been heard tosay that each of these men were afraid to present their bills first,fearing that the others would create a larger one; so the accounts ranon from year to year. But whoever was in the right, it is certain thatthe accounts were a great comfort to John Bill, for he frequently lookedthem over as a miser might count his money.
John Bill was certain the people of Davy's Bend were ungrateful. He hadhelped them and their town in a thousand ways, and spent his time (orthat part of it not devoted to using his pass) in befriending them; butdid they appreciate him? They did not; this may be set down as certain,for if the editor had put them in the way of making money, they werethoroughly ungrateful. Indeed, the people went so far as to declare thatJohn Bill was the ungrateful one, nor were they backward in saying so.They had taken his paper, and helped him in every way possible, but hedid not appreciate it; so they accused each other, and a veryuncomfortable time they had of it. But though John Bill claimed to bealways helping the people, and though the people claimed that they haddone a great deal for John Bill, the facts were that neither John Billnor the people gave substantial evidence of any very great exertions ineach other's behalf, so there must have been a dreadful mistake outsomewhere. Likewise, they quarrelled as to which had tried to bring thegreater number of institutions to the town; but as to the institutionsactually secured, there were none to quarrel over, so there was peace inthis direction.
John Bill frequently came to the conclusion that his wrongs must berighted; that he must call names, and dot his i's and cross his t's,even to pointing out to the world wherein he had been wronged. He couldstand systematic persecution no longer, he said, so he would fill hisink-bottle, and secure a fresh supply of paper, with a view of holdingup to public scorn those who had trampled him in the dust of the street.But it was a bold undertaking; a stouter heart than John Bill's wouldhave shrunk from attacking a people with a defence as sound as theDavy's Bend folks could have made, so he usually compromised by writingpaid locals about the men he had intended to accuse of ingratitude,referring to them as generous, warm-hearted men, who were creditable tohumanity, all of which he added to the accounts at the rate of eightcents per line of seven words.
John Bill was so situated that he did little else than write paidlocals, though he usually found time once a week to write imaginarydescriptions of the rapid increase in circulation his paper wasexperiencing. He had discovered somehow that men who would pay fornothing else would pay for being referred to as citizens of rareaccomplishments, and as gentlemen whose business ability was such thattheir competitors were constantly howling in rage; and it becamenecessary to use this knowledge to obtain the bare necessities of life.The very men who declared that John Bill could have no more goods attheir stores until old scores were squared would soften under theinfluence of the puff, and honor his "orders" when in the hands ofeither of the two young men who did his work.
Perhaps this was one reason the _Triumph_ was on all sides of everyquestion. Whoever saw fit to write for it had his communication printedas original editorial; for the editor was seldom at home, and when hewas, he found his time taken up in earning his bread by writingpalatable falsehoods; therefore all the contributions went in, and ascorrespondents seldom agree, the _Triumph_ was a remarkable publication.Whenever a citizen had a grievance, he aired it in the _Triumph_, hiscontribution appearing as the opinion of the editor. The person attackedreplied in like manner; hence John Bill was usually in the attitude offiercely declaring _No_ one week, and _Yes_ with equal determination thenext. It was so on all subjects; politics, religion, localmatters--everything. The Republican who aired his views one week in JohnBill's remarkable editorial columns was sure to find himself confrontedby a Democrat who was handy with a pen in the next issue; the man whowrote that This, or That, or the Other, was a disgrace, would soon findout that This, or That, or the Other, were very creditable; for JohnBill's printers must have copy, and John Bill was too busy travellingand lying to furnish it himself.
Having returned home on the night train, John Bill climbed the stairwayat the head of which his office was situated, and was engaged inpreparing for his next issue. Although he felt sure that a large amountof important mail matter had arrived during his absence, it could not befound
; and therefore the editor was in rather bad humor, as he produceda list of paid notices to be written, and made lazy preparation forwriting them. The editor was always expecting important mail matter, andbecause it never came he almost concluded that the postmaster was in theintrigue against him. While thinking that he would include that officialin the expose he felt it his duty to write at some time in the future, aknock came at the door. He had heard no step ascending the stair,therefore he concluded it must be one of his young men; probably thepale one, who was wasting his life in chewing plug tobacco, andsquirting it around in puddles, in order that he might realize on a jokewhich he had perpetrated by printing a sign in huge letters, requestingvisitors not to spit on the floor.
In response to his invitation a tall gentleman came in,--a stranger,dressed in a suit of black material that gave him the appearance ofbeing much on the road, for it was untidy and unkempt. He looked a gooddeal like a genteel man who had been lately engaged in rough work, andJohn Bill noticed that he kept his left side turned from him. Thestranger's hair, as well as his moustache and goatee, were bushy, andsprinkled with gray; and he had a rather peculiar pair of eyes, which heused to such an advantage that he seemed to remark everything in theroom at a single glance. An odd man, John Bill thought; a man who mightturn out to be anything surprising; so he looked at him curiously quitea long time.
"You are Mr. Bill?" the stranger asked, after the two men had lookedeach other over to their joint satisfaction.
The editor acknowledged his name by an inclination of the head, at thesame time offering a chair.
"I came in on the night train," the tall man said, seating himself withthe left side of his face toward the door at which he had entered;"therefore I call upon you at this unseasonable hour to make a fewinquiries with reference to your place. It is not probable that I shallbecome an advertiser, or a patron of any kind; but I think you maydepend on it that I will shortly furnish you with an item of news. Ihave read your editorial paragraphs with a good deal of interest, andconcluded that you could give me the information desired."
John Bill expressed a wish to himself that the stranger would never findout that he did not write the editorials he professed to admire; butthere was a possibility that his visitor was not sincere. He had saidthat he came to the town on the night train. John Bill knew this to beuntrue, for he had been a passenger on that train himself, and no oneelse got off when he did. He was glad, however, that thedetermined-looking visitor did not bring a folded copy of the _Triumph_with him for convenience in referring to an objectionable paragraph; forJohn Bill felt sure that such a man as the stranger looked to be wouldnot go away without satisfaction of some kind. He was bothered a gooddeal in this way, by reason of his rather peculiar way of conducting the_Triumph_; but questions with reference to Davy's Bend,--he could answerthem easy enough.
But he did not contradict the statement of his visitor concerning thetime he arrived in town, for he did not look like a man who would takekindly to a thing of that sort; so the editor meekly said he would bepleased to give him any information in his power.
"I will inquire first about the man calling himself--Allan Dorris," thestranger continued, consulting a book which he took from his pocket, andpausing a little before pronouncing the name, "and I ask that thisconversation be in confidence. How long has this fellow been here?"
The tall stranger put up his book, and looked at the responsible head ofthe _Triumph_, as though he would intimate that his displeasure would beserious should his instructions be neglected.
"This is October," Mr. Bill replied, counting on his fingers. "He camein the spring, some time; probably six months ago. I do not know himpersonally. He is a doctor, and lives in a place called 'The Locks,' onthe edge of the town, in this direction," pointing his finger toward thestone church, and the house in which Allan Dorris lived. "That's aboutall I know of him."
The peculiar pair of eyes owned by the odd man followed the directionpointed out for a moment, and then settled on John Bill again.
"I have heard that he has a love affair with a young woman named--AnnieBenton," the visitor said with business precision, once more consultinghis book, and pausing before pronouncing the name, as he had donebefore. "What do you know about that?"
"I have heard something of it," the editor replied, "but nothing inparticular; only that he is with her a great deal, and that he meets herusually in a church near his house. The people talk about it, but I amtoo busy to pay much attention to such matters."
John Bill was trying to create the impression that he was kept busy inwriting the sparkling editorials which the stranger had pretended toadmire, but thinking at the last moment that his travelling was hiscredit, he added, with a modest cough: "Besides, I travel a good deal."But this was not the first time John Bill had tried to create a wrongimpression. He foolishly imagined that, being an editor, he was expectedto know more than other people; but as he did not, he frequently filledhis mind with old dates, and names, and events, by reading of them, andthen talked of the subject to others, pretending that it had justoccurred to him, and usually adding a word or two concerning the popularignorance. If he encountered a word which he did not know the meaningof, he looked it up, and used it a great deal after that, usually inconnection with arguments to prove that the average man did notunderstand the commonest words in his language. Nor was this all; JohnBill was a deceiver in another particular. He frequently intimated inthe _Triumph_ that if he were a rich man he would spend his moneyliberally in "helping the town;" that is, in mending the streets andsidewalks, and in building manufactories which would give employment to"labor." John Bill was certainly a deceiver in this, for there never wasa poor man who did not find fault with the well-to-do for taking care oftheir means. The men who have no money of their own claim to knowexactly how money should be invested, but somehow the men who have moneyentertain entirely different ideas on the subject.
Upon invitation the editor told of old Thompson Benton and hisdisposition; of the beauty of his daughter, and of her talent as amusician; of Allan Dorris's disposition, which seemed to be sour oneday, and sweet the next, and so on; all of which the stranger noted inhis book, occasionally making an inquiry as the narrative of the town'sgossip progressed. When this was concluded, the book in which the noteswere made was carefully put away, and the stranger backed toward thedoor, still keeping his left side in the shadow, first leaving aten-dollar note on the editorial table.
"I shall need your services soon," he said, "and I make a small paymentin advance to bind the bargain. When the time comes you will know it.Your business then will be to forget this interview. You are also to saynothing about it until you receive the warning to forget. I bid yougood-night."
So saying the stranger was gone, retreating down the stairway so lightlythat his footsteps could not be heard.
A rather remarkable circumstance, the editor thought; a visit at such anhour from a mysterious man who inquired minutely about a citizen who wasalmost as much of a mystery as the visitor himself; and when he heard astep on the stair again, he concluded that the stranger had forgottensomething, and was coming back, so he opened the door, only to meet Mrs.Whittle, the milliner, who carried a sealed envelope in her hand.
John Bill did not like Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, very well; for shehad a habit of saying that "her work" was all the advertising sheneeded, referring to the circumstance that she had become the townbusybody in her attempts to reform the people; but he received herpolitely, and thought to himself that when his sensation finallyappeared it would refer to this party as fluffy, fat, and beardy.
Mrs. Whittle had a good deal to say concerning the careless,good-natured wickedness of the people, and the people had a good deal tosay about Mrs. Whittle. One thing they said was, that while she wasalways coaxing those who were doing very well to become better, she wasshamefully neglecting her own blood in the person of little Ben Whittle,her only child, who was being worked to death by the farmer named Quade,in whose employ he was. Th
is unfortunate child had not seen his motherfor years, and was really sick, distressed, ragged, and dirty; but whileMrs. Whittle imagined that he was doing very well, and felt quite easyconcerning him, she could not sleep at night from worrying over the fearthat other children, blessed with indulgent parents and good homes, weregrowing up in wickedness. Her husband was a drunkard and a loafer, butMrs. Whittle had no time to bother about him; there were men in the townso thoroughly debased as to remain at home, and rest on Sunday, insteadof going to church, and to this unfortunate class she devoted her life.She frequently took credit to herself that the best citizens of Davy'sBend were not in jail, and believed that they would finally acknowledgetheir debt to her; but of her unfortunate son and her vagrant husbandshe never thought at all; so John Bill could not very well be blamed fordisliking her.
"I heard you would return to-night," the good woman said, panting fromher exertion in climbing the stairs, "and I wanted to deliver this withmy own hands, which is my excuse for coming at this late hour, though Idon't suppose that any one would doubt that I came on a good errand,even if they had seen me coming up. Bless me, what a hard stair youhave!"
John Bill took the envelope, and, after tearing it open, hung the noteit contained on an empty hook within reach of his hand, without lookingat it. Meanwhile Mrs. Whittle continued to pant, and look good.
"It refers to Allan Dorris's affair with Annie Benton," she said,recovering her breath at last. "Something should be done, and I don'tknow who else is to do it. The people all mean well enough, and they aregood enough people as a rule; but when there is good to be accomplished,I usually find it is _not_ accomplished unless I take an interest in it.No one knows better than John Bill that I do not suspect people, and amalways inclined to believe good of them, but there is something wrongabout this Allan Dorris. Mr. Ponsonboy and Mr. Wilton say so, and youknow they are very careful of what they say."
John Bill had heard that statement questioned, and he mentally addedtheir names to his black list. Two greater talking old women never worepants, John Bill had heard said, than Messrs. Ponsonboy and Wilton, andwhen he got at it he would skin them with the others.
"Better men than Mr. Ponsonboy and Mr. Wilton never lived," Mrs. Whittlesaid, "and I have concluded to write a hint which Annie Benton as wellas Allan Dorris will understand. If nothing comes of it, I will trysomething else. I am not easily discouraged, Mr. Bill; I would havegiven up long ago if I were."
Mrs. Whittle found it necessary to pause for another rest, and theeditor took opportunity to make mental note of the fact (for use in thecoming exposure) that she was dressed in the most execrable taste; thather clothes seemed to have been thrown at her from a miscellaneousassortment, without regard to color, material, or shape, and that shehad not taken the trouble to arrange them. John Bill felt certain thatwhen the people were buying copies of his paper to burn, they would readthat Mrs. Whittle was in need of the refining influences of adress-maker.
"You are a good man at heart, Mr. Bill," Mrs. Whittle said again, whichwas an expression the editor had heard before, for he was always beingtold that he was a better man than he appeared to be, though he knew agreat many people who were not better than they appeared to be. "I knowyou are, and that you do not mean all the bad things you say sometimes.I know you will help me in doing good, for it is so important that good_should_ be done. When I think of the wickedness around me, and the workthat is to be done, I almost faint at the prospect, but I only hope thatmy strength may enable me to hold out to the end. I pray that I may bespared until this is a better world."
Mr. Bill promised to find a place in his crowded columns for the goodwoman's contribution, and she went away, with a sigh for the generalwickedness.
"The world will be better off for that sigh," John Bill said, as hesettled down in his chair, and heard Mrs. Whittle step off the stairinto the street. "What we need is more sighing and less work. There isno lack of workers; in fact, the country is too full of them forcomfort, but there is a painful lack of good people to sigh. The firstone who called to-night on Allan Dorris business looked like a worker; aworker-off, I may say. This Dorris is becoming important of late. I mustmake his acquaintance. Hello! Another!"
The owner of the legs that were climbing the stairway this time turnedout to be Silas Davy, who came in and handed John Bill a piece of paper.It proved to be a brief note, which read,--
"TO JOHN BILL,--If the party who has just left your office left a communication concerning Allan Dorris, I speak for the privilege of answering it.
"TUG WHITTLE."
John Bill read the note several times over after Silas had disappeared,and finally getting up from his chair, said,--
"I'll write no more to-night; there may be interesting developments inthe morning."
