The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain

by Mark Twain

  Ed stayed a week, and had an immense time—and never suspected that the Commodore’s shrewd eyes were on him, and that he was daily being weighed and measured and analyzed and tried and tested.

  Yes, he had an immense time; and never wrote home, but saved it all up to tell when he should get back. Twice, with proper modesty and decency, he proposed to end his visit, but the Commodore said, “No—wait; leave it to me; I’ll tell you when to go.”

  In those days the Commodore was making some of those vast combinations of his—consolidations of warring odds and ends of railroads into harmonious systems, and concentrations of floating and rudderless commerce in effective centers—and among other things his far-seeing eye had detected the convergence of that huge tobacco-commerce, already spoken of, toward Memphis, and he had resolved to set his grasp upon it and make it his own.

  The week came to an end. Then the Commodore said:

  “Now you can start home. But first we will have some more talk about that tobacco matter. I know you now. I know your abilities as well as you know them yourself—perhaps better. You understand that tobacco matter; you understand that I am going to take possession of it, and you also understand the plans which I have matured for doing it. What I want is a man who knows my mind, and is qualified to represent me in Memphis, and be in supreme command of that important business—and I appoint you.”

  “Me!”

  “Yes. Your salary will be high—of course—for you are representing me. Later you will earn increases of it, and will get them. You will need a small army of assistants; choose them yourself—and carefully. Take no man for friendship’s sake; but, all things being equal, take the man you know, take your friend, in preference to the stranger.”

  After some further talk under this head, the Commodore said: “Good-by, my boy, and thank Alf for me, for sending you to me.”

  When Ed reached Memphis he rushed down to the wharf in a fever to tell his great news and thank the boys over and over again for thinking to give him the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt. It happened to be one of those idle times. Blazing hot noonday, and no sign of life on the wharf. But as Ed threaded his way among the freight-piles, he saw a white linen figure stretched in slumber upon a pile of grain-sacks under an awning, and said to himself, “That’s one of them,” and hastened his step; next, he said, “It’s Charley—it’s Fairchild—good”; and the next moment laid an affectionate hand on the sleeper’s shoulder. The eyes opened lazily, took one glance, the face blanched, the form whirled itself from the sack-pile, and in an instant Ed was alone and Fairchild was flying for the wharfboat like the wind!

  Ed was dazed, stupefied. Was Fairchild crazy? What could be the meaning of this? He started slow and dreamily down toward the wharfboat; turned the corner of a freightpile and came suddenly upon two of the boys. They were lightly laughing over some pleasant matter; they heard his step, and glanced up just as he discovered them; the laugh died abruptly; and before Ed could speak they were off, and sailing over barrels and bales like hunted deer. Again Ed was paralyzed. Had the boys all gone mad? What could be the explanation of this extraordinary conduct? And so, dreaming along, he reached the wharfboat, and stepped aboard—nothing but silence there, and vacancy. He crossed the deck, turned the corner to go down the outer guard, heard a fervent—

  “O Lord!” and saw a white linen form plunge overboard.

  The youth came up coughing and strangling, and cried out:

  “Go ’way from here! You let me alone. I didn’t do it, I swear I didn’t!”

  “Didn’t do what?”

  “Give you the—”

  “Never mind what you didn’t do—come out of that! What makes you all act so? What have I done?”

  “You? Why, you haven’t done anything. But—”

  “Well, then, what have you got against me? What do you all treat me so for?”

  “I—er—but haven’t you got anything against us?”

  “Of course not. What put such a thing into your head?”

  “Honor bright—you haven’t?”

  “Honor bright.”

  “Swear it!”

  “I don’t know what in the world you mean, but I swear it, anyway.”

  “And you’ll shake hands with me?”

  “Goodness knows I’ll be glad to! Why, I’m just starving to shake hands with somebody!”

  The swimmer muttered, “Hang him, he smelt a rat and never delivered the letter!—but it’s all right, I’m not going to fetch up the subject.” And he crawled out and came dripping and draining to shake hands. First one and then another of the conspirators showed up cautiously—armed to the teeth—took in the amicable situation, then ventured warily forward and joined the love-feast.

  And to Ed’s eager inquiry as to what made them act as they had been acting, they answered evasively and pretended that they had put it up as a joke, to see what he would do. It was the best explanation they could invent at such short notice. And each said to himself, “He never delivered that letter, and the joke is on us, if he only knew it or we were dull enough to come out and tell.”

  Then, of course, they wanted to know all about the trip; and he said:

  “Come right up on the boiler deck and order the drinks—it’s my treat. I’m going to tell you all about it. And to-night it’s my treat again—and we’ll have oysters and a time!”

  When the drinks were brought and cigars lighted, Ed said:

  “Well, when I delivered the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt—”

  “Great Scott!”

  “Gracious, how you scared me. What’s the matter?”

  “Oh—er—nothing. Nothing—it was a tack in the chair-seat,” said one.

  “But you all said it. However, no matter. When I delivered the letter—”

  “Did you deliver it?” And they looked at each other as people might who thought that maybe they were dreaming.

  Then they settled to listening; and as the story deepened and its marvels grew, the amazement of it made them dumb, and the interest of it took their breath. They hardly uttered a whisper during two hours, but sat like petrifactions and drank in the immortal romance. At last the tale was ended, and Ed said:

  “And it’s all owing to you, boys, and you’ll never find me ungrateful—bless your hearts, the best friends a fellow ever had! You’ll all have places; I want every one of you. I know you—I know you ‘by the back,’ as the gamblers say. You’re jokers, and all that, but you’re sterling, with the hallmark on. And Charley Fairchild, you shall be my first assistant and right hand, because of your first-class ability, and because you got me the letter, and for your father’s sake who wrote it for me, and to please Mr. Vanderbilt, who said it would! And here’s to that great man—drink hearty!”

  Yes, when the Moment comes, the Man appears—even if he is a thousand miles away, and has to be discovered by a practical joke.

  From FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR, 1897

  A STORY WITHOUT AN END

  WE HAD one game in the ship which was a good time-passer—at least it was at night in the smoking-room when the men were getting freshened up from the day’s monotonies and dullnesses. It was the completing of non-complete stories. That is to say, a man would tell all of a story except the finish, then the others would try to supply the ending out of their own invention. When every one who wanted a chance had had it, the man who had introduced the story would give it its original ending—then you could take your choice. Sometimes the new endings turned out to be better than the old one. But the story which called out the most persistent and determined and ambitious effort was one which had no ending, and so there was nothing to compare the new-made endings with. The man who told it said he could furnish the particulars up to a certain point only, because that was as much of the tale as he knew. He had read it in a volume of sketches twenty-five years ago, and was interrupted before the end was reached. He would give any one fifty dollars who would finish the story to the satisfaction of a jury to be appointed by ourselves. We appo
inted a jury and wrestled with the tale. We invented plenty of endings, but the jury voted them all down. The jury was right. It was a tale which the author of it may possibly have completed satisfactorily, and if he really had that good fortune I would like to know what the ending was. Any ordinary man will find that the story’s strength is in its middle, and that there is apparently no way to transfer it to the close, where of course it ought to be. In substance the storiette was as follows:

  John Brown, aged thirty-one, good, gentle, bashful, timid, lived in a quiet village in Missouri. He was superintendent of the Presbyterian Sunday-school. It was but a humble distinction; still, it was his only official one, and he was modestly proud of it and was devoted to its work and its interests. The extreme kindliness of his nature was recognized by all; in fact, people said that he was made entirely out of good impulses and bashfulness; that he could always be counted upon for help when it was needed, and for bashfulness both when it was needed, and when it wasn’t.

  Mary Taylor, twenty-three, modest, sweet, winning, and in character and person beautiful, was all in all to him. And he was very nearly all in all to her. She was wavering, his hopes were high. Her mother had been in opposition from the first. But she was wavering, too; he could see it. She was being touched by his warm interest in her two charity protégés and by his contributions toward their support. These were two forlorn and aged sisters who lived in a log hut in a lonely place up a cross-road four miles from Mrs. Taylor’s farm. One of the sisters was crazy, and sometimes a little violent, but not often.

  At last the time seemed ripe for a final advance, and Brown gathered his courage together and resolved to make it. He would take along a contribution of double the usual size, and win the mother over; with her opposition annulled, the rest of the conquest would be sure and prompt.

  He took to the road in the middle of a placid Sunday afternoon in the soft Missourian summer, and he was equipped properly for his mission. He was clothed all in white linen, with a blue ribbon for a necktie, and he had on dressy tight boots. His horse and buggy were the finest that the livery-stable could furnish. The lap-robe was of white linen, it was new, and it had a hand-worked border that could not be rivaled in that region for beauty and elaboration.

  When he was four miles out on the lonely road and was walking his horse over a wooden bridge, his straw hat blew off and fell in the creek, and floated down and lodged against a bar. He did not quite know what to do. He must have the hat, that was manifest; but how was he to get it?

  Then he had an idea. The roads were empty, nobody was stirring. Yes, he would risk it. He led the horse to the road-side and set it to cropping the grass; then he undressed and put his clothes in the buggy, petted the horse a moment to secure its compassion and its loyalty, then hurried to the stream. He swam out and soon had the hat. When he got to the top of the bank the horse was gone!

  His legs almost gave way under him. The horse was walking leisurely along the road. Brown trotted after it, saying, “Whoa, whoa, there’s a good fellow”; but whenever he got near enough to chance a jump for the buggy, the horse quickened its pace a little and defeated him. And so this went on, the naked man perishing with anxiety, and expecting every moment to see people come in sight. He tagged on and on, imploring the horse, beseeching the horse, till he had left a mile behind him, and was closing up on the Taylor premises; then at last he was successful, and got into the buggy. He flung on his shirt, his necktie, and his coat; then reached for—but he was too late; he sat suddenly down and pulled up the lap-robe, for he saw some one coming out of the gate—a woman, he thought. He wheeled the horse to the left, and struck briskly up the cross-road. It was perfectly straight, and exposed on both sides; but there were woods and a sharp turn three miles ahead, and he was very grateful when he got there. As he passed around the turn he slowed down to a walk, and reached for his tr—too late again.

  He had come upon Mrs. Enderby, Mrs. Glossop, Mrs. Taylor, and Mary. They were on foot, and seemed tired and excited. They came at once to the buggy and shook hands, and all spoke at once, and said, eagerly and earnestly, how glad they were that he was come, and how fortunate it was. And Mrs. Enderby said, impressively:

  “It looks like an accident, his coming at such a time; but let no one profane it with such a name; he was sent—sent from on high.”

  They were all moved, and Mrs. Glossop said in an awed voice:

  “Sarah Enderby, you never said a truer word in your life. This is no accident, it is a special Providence. He was sent. He is an angel—an angel as truly as ever angel was—an angel of deliverance. I say angel, Sarah Enderby, and will have no other word. Don’t let any one ever say to me again, that there’s no such thing as special Providences; for if this isn’t one, let them account for it that can.”

  “I know it’s so,” said Mrs. Taylor, fervently. “John Brown, I could worship you; I could go down on my knees to you. Didn’t something tell you—didn’t you feel that you were sent? I could kiss the hem of your lap-robe.”

  He was not able to speak; he was helpless with shame and fright. Mrs. Taylor went on:

  “Why, just look at it all around, Julia Glossop. Any person can see the hand of Providence in it. Here at noon what do we see? We see the smoke rising. I speak up and say, ‘That’s the Old People’s cabin afire.’ Didn’t I, Julia Glossop?”

  “The very words you said, Nancy Taylor. I was as close to you as I am now, and I heard them. You may have said hut instead of cabin, but in substance it’s the same. And you were looking pale, too.”

  “Pale? I was that pale that if—why, you just compare it with this lap-robe. Then the next thing I said was, ‘Mary Taylor, tell the hired man to rig up the team—we’ll go to the rescue.’ And she said, ‘Mother, don’t you know you told him he could drive to see his people, and stay over Sunday?’ And it was just so. I declare for it, I had forgotten it. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘we’ll go afoot.’ And go we did. And found Sarah Enderby on the road.”

  “And we all went together,” said Mrs. Enderby. “And found the cabin set fire and burnt down by the crazy one, and the poor old things so old and feeble that they couldn’t go afoot. And we got them to a shady place and made them as comfortable as we could, and began to wonder which way to turn to find some way to get them conveyed to Nancy Taylor’s house. And I spoke up and said—now what did I say? Didn’t I say, ‘Providence will provide’?”

  “Why sure as you live, so you did! I had forgotten it.”

  “So had I,” said Mrs. Glossop and Mrs. Taylor; “but you certainly said it. Now wasn’t that remarkable?”

  “Yes, I said it. And then we went to Mr. Moseley’s, two miles, and all of them were gone to the camp-meeting over on Stony Fork; and then we came all the way back, two miles, and then here, another mile—and Providence has provided. You see it yourselves.”

  They gazed at each other awe-struck, and lifted their hands and said in unison:

  “It’s per-fectly wonderful.”

  “And then,” said Mrs. Glossop, “what do you think we had better do—let Mr. Brown drive the Old People to Nancy Taylor’s one at a time, or put both of them in the buggy, and him lead the horse?”

  Brown gasped.

  “Now, then, that’s a question,” said Mrs. Enderby. “You see, we are all tired out, and any way we fix it it’s going to be difficult. For if Mr. Brown takes both of them, at least one of us must go back to help him, for he can’t load them into the buggy by himself, and they so helpless.”

  “That is so,” said Mrs. Taylor. “It doesn’t look—oh, how would this do!—one of us drive there with Mr. Brown, and the rest of you go along to my house and get things ready. I’ll go with him. He and I together can lift one of the Old People into the buggy; then drive her to my house and—”

  “But who will take care of the other one?” said Mrs. Enderby. “We mustn’t leave her there in the woods alone, you know—especially the crazy one. There and back is eight miles, you see.”

  Th
ey had all been sitting on the grass beside the buggy for a while, now, trying to rest their weary bodies. They fell silent a moment or two, and struggled in thought over the baffling situation; then Mrs. Enderby brightened and said:

  “I think I’ve got the idea, now. You see, we can’t walk any more. Think what we’ve done; four miles there, two to Moseley’s, is six, then back to here—nine miles since noon, and not a bite to eat: I declare I don’t see how we’ve done it; and as for me, I am just famishing. Now, somebody’s got to go back, to help Mr. Brown—there’s no getting around that; but whoever goes has got to ride, not walk. So my idea is this: one of us to ride back with Mr. Brown, then ride to Nancy Taylor’s house with one of the Old People, leaving Mr. Brown to keep the other old one company, you all to go now to Nancy’s and rest and wait; then one of you drive back and get the other one and drive her to Nancy’s, and Mr. Brown walk.”

  “Splendid!” they all cried. “Oh, that will do—that will answer perfectly.” And they all said that Mrs. Enderby had the best head for planning in the company; and they said that they wondered that they hadn’t thought of this simple plan themselves. They hadn’t meant to take back the compliment, good simple souls, and didn’t know they had done it. After a consultation it was decided that Mrs. Enderby should drive back with Brown, she being entitled to the distinction because she had invented the plan. Everything now being satisfactorily arranged and settled, the ladies rose, relieved and happy, and brushed down their gowns, and three of them started homeward; Mrs. Enderby set her foot on the buggy step and was about to climb in, when Brown found a remnant of his voice and gasped out—