The Second Christmas Megapack

by Robert Reginald

  “Yes?” I said, hopefully, my pencil poised.

  “About that—I guess—”

  “Yes, Mr. Beasley?” I encouraged him, for he seemed to have dried up permanently.

  “Well, sir—I guess—Hadn’t you better see some one else about that?”

  This with the air of a man who would be but too fluent and copious upon any subject in the world except the one particular point.

  I never met anybody else who looked so pleasantly communicative and managed to say so little. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all; and I guessed that this faculty was not without its value in his political career, disastrous as it had proved to his private happiness. His habit of silence, moreover, was not cultivated: you could see that “the secret of it” was just that he was born quiet.

  My note-book remained noteless, and finally, at some odd evasion of his, accomplished by a monosyllable, I laughed outright—and he did, too! He joined cachinnations with me heartily, and with a twinkling quizzicalness that somehow gave me the idea that he might be thinking (rather apologetically) to himself: “Yes, sir, that old Beasley man is certainly a mighty funny critter!”

  When I went away, a few moments later, and left him still intermittently chuckling, the impression remained with me that he had had some such deprecatory and surreptitious thought.

  Two or three days after that, as I started downtown from Mrs. Apperthwaite’s, Beasley came out of his gate, bound in the same direction. He gave me a look of gay recognition and offered his hand, saying, “Well! Up in this neighborhood!” as if that were a matter of considerable astonishment.

  I mentioned that I was a neighbor, and we walked on together. I don’t think he spoke again, except for a “Well, sir!” or two of genial surprise at something I said, and, now and then, “You don’t tell me!” which he had a most eloquent way of exclaiming; but he listened visibly to my own talk, and laughed at everything that I meant for funny.

  I never knew anybody who gave one a greater responsiveness; he seemed to be with you every instant; and how he made you feel it was the true mystery of Beasley, this silent man who never talked, except (as my cousin said) to children.

  It happened that I thus met him, as we were both starting downtown, and walked on with him, several days in succession; in a word, it became a habit. Then, one afternoon, as I turned to leave him at the Despatch office, he asked me if I wouldn’t drop in at his house the next day for a cigar before we started. I did; and he asked me if I wouldn’t come again the day after that. So this became a habit, too.

  A fortnight elapsed before I met Hamilton Swift, Junior; for he, poor little father of dream-children, could be no spectator of track events upon the lawn, but lay in his bed upstairs. However, he grew better at last, and my presentation took place.

  We had just finished our cigars in Beasley’s airy, old-fashioned “sitting-room,” and were rising to go, when there came the faint creaking of small wheels from the hall. Beasley turned to me with the apologetic and monosyllabic chuckle that was distinctly his alone.

  “I’ve got a little chap here—” he said; then went to the door. “Bob!”

  The old darky appeared in the doorway pushing a little wagon like a reclining-chair on wheels, and in it sat Hamilton Swift, Junior.

  My first impression of him was that he was all eyes: I couldn’t look at anything else for a time, and was hardly conscious of the rest of that weazened, peaked little face and the under-sized wisp of a body with its pathetic adjuncts of metal and leather. I think they were the brightest eyes I ever saw—as keen and intelligent as a wicked old woman’s, withal as trustful and cheery as the eyes of a setter pup.

  “Hoo-ray!”

  Thus the Honorable Mr. Beasley, waving a handkerchief thrice around his head and thrice cheering.

  And the child, in that cricket’s voice of his, replied:

  “Br-r-ra-vo!”

  This was the form of salutation familiarly in use between them. Beasley followed it by inquiring, “Who’s with us today?”

  “I’m Mister Swift,” chirped the little fellow. “Mis-ter Swift, if you please, Cousin David Beasley.”

  Beasley executed a formal bow. “There is a gentleman here who’d like to meet you.” And he presented me with some grave phrases commendatory of my general character, addressing the child as “Mister Swift”; whereupon Mister Swift gave me a ghostly little hand and professed himself glad to meet me.

  “And besides me,” he added, to Beasley, “there’s Bill Hammersley and Mr. Corley Linbridge.”

  A faint perplexity manifested itself upon Beasley’s face at this, a shadow which cleared at once when I asked if I might not be permitted to meet these personages, remarking that I had heard from Dowden of Bill Hammersley, though until now a stranger to the fame of Mr. Corley Linbridge.

  Beasley performed the ceremony with intentional elegance, while the boy’s great eyes swept glowingly from his cousin’s face to mine and back again. I bowed and shook hands with the air, once to my left and once to my right. “And Simpledoria!” cried Mister Swift. “You’ll enjoy Simpledoria.”

  “Above all things,” I said. “Can he shake hands? Some dogs can.”

  “Watch him!”

  Mister Swift lifted a commanding finger. “Simpledoria, shake hands!”

  I knelt beside the wagon and shook an imaginary big paw. At this Mister Swift again shook hands with me and allowed me to perceive, in his luminous regard, a solemn commendation and approval.

  In this wise was my initiation into the beautiful old house and the cordiality of its inmates completed; and I became a familiar of David Beasley and his ward, with the privilege to go and come as I pleased; there was always gay and friendly welcome. I always came for the cigar after lunch, sometimes for lunch itself; sometimes I dined there instead of downtown; and now and then when it happened that an errand or assignment took me that way in the afternoon, I would run in and “visit” awhile with Hamilton Swift, Junior, and his circle of friends.

  There were days, of course, when his attacks were upon him, and only Beasley and the doctor and old Bob saw him; I do not know what the boy’s mental condition was at such times; but when he was better, and could be wheeled about the house and again receive callers, he displayed an almost dismaying activity of mind—it was active enough, certainly, to keep far ahead of my own. And he was masterful: still, Beasley and Dowden and I were never directly chidden for insubordination, though made to wince painfully by the look of troubled surprise that met us when we were not quick enough to catch his meaning.

  The order of the day with him always began with the “Hoo-ray” and “Br-r-ra-vo” of greeting; after which we were to inquire, “Who’s with us today?” Whereupon he would make known the character in which he elected to be received for the occasion. If he announced himself as “Mister Swift,” everything was to be very grown-up and decorous indeed. Formalities and distances were observed; and Mr. Corley Linbridge (an elderly personage of great dignity and distinction as a mountain-climber) was much oftener included in the conversation than Bill Hammersley. If, however, he declared himself to be “Hamilton Swift, Junior,” which was his happiest mood, Bill Hammersley and Simpledoria were in the ascendant, and there were games and contests. (Dowden, Beasley, and I all slid down the banisters on one of the Hamilton Swift, Junior, days, at which really picturesque spectacle the boy almost cried with laughter—and old Bob and his wife, who came running from the kitchen, did cry.) He had a third appellation for himself—“Just little Hamilton”; but this was only when the creaky voice could hardly chirp at all and the weazened face was drawn to one side with suffering. When he told us he was “Just little Hamilton” we were very quiet.

  Once, for ten days, his Invisibles all went away on a visit: Hamilton Swift, Junior, had become interested in bears. While this lasted, all of Beasley’s trousers were, as Dowden said, “a sight.” For that matter, Dowden himself was quite hoarse in court from growling so much. The bears were dismissed abruptly
: Bill Hammersley and Mr. Corley Linbridge and Simpledoria came trooping back, and with them they brought that wonderful family, the Hunchbergs.

  Beasley had just opened the front door, returning at noon from his office, when Hamilton Swift, Junior’s voice came piping from the library, where he was reclining in his wagon by the window.

  “Cousin David Beasley! Cousin David, come a-running!” he cried. “Come a-running! The Hunchbergs are here!”

  Of course Cousin David Beasley came a-running, and was immediately introduced to the whole Hunchberg family, a ceremony which old Bob, who was with the boy, had previously undergone with courtly grace.

  “They like Bob,” explained Hamilton. “Don’t you, Mr. Hunchberg? Yes, he says they do extremely!” (He used such words as “extremely” often; indeed, as Dowden said, he talked “like a child in a book,” which was due, I dare say, to his English mother.) “And I’m sure,” the boy went on, “that all the family will admire Cousin David. Yes, Mr. Hunchberg says, he thinks they will.”

  And then (as Bob told me) he went almost out of his head with joy when Beasley offered Mr. Hunchberg a cigar and struck a match for him to light it.

  “But what,” exclaimed the old darky, “whar in de name o’ de good Gawd do de chile git dem names? Hit lak to skeer me!”

  That was a subject often debated between Dowden and me: there was nothing in Wainwright that could have suggested them, and it did not seem probable he could have remembered them from over the water. In my opinion they were the inventions of that busy and lonely little brain.

  I met the Hunchberg family, myself, the day after their arrival, and Beasley, by that time, had become so well acquainted with them that he could remember all their names, and helped in the introductions. There was Mr. Hunchberg—evidently the child’s favorite, for he was described as the possessor of every engaging virtue—and there was that lively matron, Mrs. Hunchberg; there were the Hunchberg young gentlemen, Tom, Noble, and Grandee; and the young ladies, Miss Queen, Miss Marble, and Miss Molanna—all exceedingly gay and pretty. There was also Colonel Hunchberg, an uncle; finally there was Aunt Cooley Hunchberg, a somewhat decrepit but very amiable old lady. Mr. Corley Linbridge happened to be calling at the same time; and, as it appeared to be Beasley’s duty to keep the conversation going and constantly to include all of the party in its general flow, it struck me that he had truly (as Dowden said) “enough to keep him busy.”

  The Hunchbergs had lately moved to Wainwright from Constantinople, I learned; they had decided not to live in town, however, having purchased a fine farm out in the country, and, on account of the distance, were able to call at Beasley’s only about eight times a day, and seldom more than twice in the evening. Whenever a mystic telephone announced that they were on the way, the child would have himself wheeled to a window; and when they came in sight he would cry out in wild delight, while Beasley hastened to open the front door and admit them.

  They were so real to the child, and Beasley treated them with such consistent seriousness, that between the two of them I sometimes began to feel that there actually were such people, and to have moments of half-surprise that I couldn’t see them; particularly as each of the Hunchberg’s developed a character entirely his own to the last peculiarity, such as the aged Aunt Cooley Hunchberg’s deafness, on which account Beasley never once forgot to raise his voice when he addressed her. Indeed, the details of actuality in all this appeared to bring as great a delight to the man as to the child. Certainly he built them up with infinite care. On one occasion when Mr. Hunchberg and I happened to be calling, Hamilton remarked with surprise that Simpledoria had come into the room without licking his hand as he usually did, and had crept under the table. Mr. Hunchberg volunteered the information (through Beasley) that upon his approach to the house he had seen Simpledoria chasing a cat. It was then debated whether chastisement was in order, but finally decided that Simpledoria’s surreptitious manner of entrance and his hiding under the table were sufficient indication that he well understood his baseness, and would never let it happen again. And so, Beasley having coaxed him out from under the table, the offender “sat up,” begged, and was forgiven. I could almost feel the splendid shaggy head under my hand when, in turn, I patted Simpledoria to show that the reconciliation was unanimous.

  VI.

  Autumn trailed the last leaves behind her flying brown robes one night; we woke to a skurry of snow next morning; and it was winter. Downtown, along the sidewalks, the merchants set lines of poles, covered them with evergreen, and ran streamers of green overhead to encourage the festal shopping. Salvation Army Santa Clauses stamped their feet and rang bells on the corners, and pink-faced children fixed their noses immovably to display-windows. For them, the season of seasons, the time of times, was at hand.

  To a certain new reporter on the Despatch the stir and gayety of the streets meant little more than that the days had come when it was night in the afternoon, and that he was given fewer political assignments. This was annoying, because Beasley’s candidacy for the governorship had given me a personal interest in the political situation. The nominating convention of his party would meet in the spring; the nomination was certain to carry the election also, and thus far Beasley showed more strength than any other man in the field. “Things are looking his way,” said Dowden. “He’s always worked hard for the party; not on the stump, of course,” he laughed; “but the boys understand there are more important things than speech-making. His record in Congress gave him the confidence of everybody in the state, and, besides that, people always trust a quiet man. I tell you if nothing happens he’ll get it.”

  “I’m fer Beasley,” another politician explained, in an interview, “because he’s Dave Beasley! Yes, sir, I’m fer him. You know the boys say if a man is only for you, in this state, there isn’t much in it and he may go back on it; but if he’s fer you, he means it. Well, I’m fer Beasley!”

  There were other candidates, of course; none of them formidable; but I was surprised to learn of the existence of a small but energetic faction opposing our friend in Wainwright, his own town. (“What are you surprised about?” inquired Dowden. “Don’t you know what our folks are like, yet? If St. Paul lived in Wainwright, do you suppose he could run for constable without some of his near neighbors getting out to try and down him?”)

  The head and front (and backbone, too) of the opposition to Beasley was a close-fisted, hard-knuckled, risen-from-the-soil sort of man, one named Simeon Peck. He possessed no inconsiderable influence, I heard; was a hard worker, and vigorously seconded by an energetic lieutenant, a young man named Grist. These, and others they had been able to draw to their faction, were bitterly and eagerly opposed to Beasley’s nomination, and worked without ceasing to prevent it.

  I quote the invaluable Mr. Dowden again: “Grist’s against us because he had a quarrel with a clerk in Beasley’s office, and wanted Beasley to discharge him, and Beasley wouldn’t; Sim Peck’s against us out of just plain wrong-headedness, and because he never was for anything nor fer anybody in his life. I had a talk with the old mutton-head the other day; he said our candidate ought to be a farmer, a ‘man of the common people,’ and when I asked him where he’d find anybody more a ‘man of the common people’ than Beasley, he said Beasley was ‘too much of a society man’ to suit him! The idea of Dave as a ‘society man’ was too much for me, and I laughed in Sim Peck’s face, but that didn’t stop Sim Peck! ‘Jest look at the style he lives in,’ he yelped. ‘Ain’t he fairly lapped in luxury? Look at that big house he lives in! Look at the way he goes around in that phaeton of his—and a nigger to drive him half the time!’ I had to holler again, and, of course, that made Sim twice as mad as he started out to be; and he went off swearing he’d show ME, before the campaign was over. The only trouble he and Grist and that crowd could give us would be by finding out something against Dave, and they can’t do that because there isn’t anything to find out.”

  I shared his confidence on this latter score, b
ut was somewhat less sanguine on some others. There were only two newspapers of any political influence in Wainwright, the Despatch and the Journal, both operated in the interest of Beasley’s party, and neither had “come out” for him. The gossip I heard about our office led me to think that each was waiting to see what headway Sim Peck and his faction would make; the Journal especially, I knew, had some inclination to coquette with Peck, Grist, and Company. Altogether, their faction was not entirely to be despised.

  Thus, my thoughts were a great deal more occupied with Beasley’s chances than with the holiday spirit that now, with furs and bells and wreathing mists of snow, breathed good cheer over the town. So little, indeed, had this spirit touched me that, one evening when one of my colleagues, standing before the grate-fire in the reporters’ room, yawned and said he’d be glad when tomorrow was over, I asked him what was the particular trouble with tomorrow.

  “Christmas,” he explained, languidly. “Always so tedious. Like Sunday.”

  “It makes me homesick,” said another, a melancholy little man who was forever bragging of his native Duluth.

  “Christmas,” I repeated—“tomorrow!”

  It was Christmas Eve, and I had not known it! I leaned back in my chair in sudden loneliness, what pictures coming before me of long-ago Christmas Eves at home!—old Christmas Eves when there was a Tree.…

  My name was called; the night City Editor had an assignment for me. “Go up to Sim Peck’s, on Madison Street,” he said. “He thinks he’s got something on David Beasley, but won’t say any more over the telephone. See what there is in it.”

  I picked up my hat and coat, and left the office at a speed which must have given my superior the highest conception of my journalistic zeal. At a telephone station on the next corner I called up Mrs. Apperthwaite’s house and asked for Dowden.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded, when his voice had responded.

  “Playing bridge,” he answered.