Part 23

She emerged from a bathing-house in a garb very odd to the eyes of Mr. Putchett, but one which did not at all change that gentleman’s opinion of the wearer. She ran into the water, was thrown down by the surf, she was swallowed by some big waves and dived through others, and all the while the veteran operator watched her with a solicitude, which, despite his anxiety for her safety, gave him a sensation as delightful as it was strange.

The bath ended, Alice rejoined Mr. Putchett and conducted him to the spot where the wonderful shells with pink and yellow spots were found. The new shell-seeker was disgusted when the child shouted “Come along!” to several other children, and was correspondingly delighted when they said, in substance, that shells were not so attractive as once they were.

Mr. Putchett’s researches in conchology were not particularly successful, for while he manfully moved about in the uncomfortable and ungraceful position peculiar to shell-seekers, he looked rather at the healthy, honest, eager little face near him than at the beach itself.

Suddenly, however, Mr. Putchett’s opinion of shells underwent a radical change, for the child, straightening herself and taking something from her pocket, exclaimed:

“Oh, dear, somebody’s picked up all the pretty ones. I thought, may be, there mightn’t be any here, so I brought you one; just see what pretty pink and yellow spots there are on it.”

Mr. Putchett looked, and there came into his face the first flush of color that had been there—except in anger—for years. He had occasionally received presents from business acquaintances, but he had correctly looked at them as having been forwarded as investments, so they awakened feelings of suspicion rather than of pleasure.

But at little Alice’s shell he looked long and earnestly, and when he put it into his pocket he looked for two or three moments far away, and yet at nothing in particular.

“Do you have a nice boarding-house?” asked Alice, as they sauntered along the beach, stopping occasionally to pick up pebbles and to dig wells.

“Not very,” said Mr. Putchett, the sanded barroom and his own rather dismal chamber coming to his mind.

“You ought to board where we do,” said Alice, enthusiastically. “We have _heaps_ of fun. Have you got a barn?”

Mr. Putchett confessed that he did not know.

“Oh, we’ve got a splendid one!” exclaimed the child. “There’s stalls, and a granary, and a carriage-house and _two_ lofts in it. We put out hay to the horses, and they eat it right out of our hands—aren’t afraid a bit. Then we get into the granary, and bury ourselves all up in the oats, so only our heads stick out. The lofts are just _lovely_: one’s full of hay and the other’s full of wheat, and we chew the wheat, and make gum of it. The hay-stalks are real nice and sweet to chew, too. They only cut the hay last week, and we all rode in on the wagon—one, two, three, four—seven of us. Then we’ve got two croquet sets, and the boys make us whistles and squalks.”

“Squalks?” interrogated the broker.

“Yes; they’re split quills, and you blow in them. They don’t make very pretty music, but it’s ever so funny. We’ve got two big swings and a hammock, too.”

“Is the house very full?” asked Mr. Putchett.

“Not so very,” replied the child. “If you come there to board, I’ll make Frank teach you how to make whistles.”

That afternoon Mr. Putchett took the train for New York, from which city he returned the next morning with quite a well-filled trunk. It was afterward stated by a person who had closely observed the capitalist’s movements during his trip, that he had gone into a first-class clothier’s and demanded suits of the best material and latest cut, regardless of cost, and that he had pursued the same singular coarse at a gent’s furnishing store, and a fashionable jeweler’s.

Certain it is that on the morning of Mr. Putchett’s return a gentleman very well dressed, though seemingly ill at ease in his clothing, called at Mrs. Brown’s boarding-house, and engaged a room, and that the younger ladies pronounced him very stylish and the older ones thought him very odd. But as he never intruded, spoke only when spoken to, and devoted himself earnestly and entirely to the task of amusing the children, the boarders all admitted that he was very good-hearted.

Among Alice’s numerous confidences, during her second stroll with Mr. Putchett, was information as to the date of her seventh birthday, now very near at hand. When the day arrived, her adorer arose unusually early, and spent an impatient hour or two awaiting Alice’s appearance. As she bade him good-morning, he threw about her neck a chain, to which was attached an exquisite little watch; then, while the delighted child was astonishing her parents and the other boarders, Mr. Putchett betook himself to the barn in a state of abject sheepishness. He did not appear again until summoned by the breakfast-bell, and even then he sat with a very red face, and with eyes directed at his plate only. The child’s mother remonstrated against so much money being squandered on a child, and attempted to return the watch, but he seemed so distressed at the idea that the lady dropped the subject.

For a fortnight, Mr. Putchett remained at the boarding-house, and grew daily in the estimation of every one. From being thought queer and strange, he gradually gained the reputation of being the best-hearted, most guileless, most considerate man alive. He was the faithful squire of all the ladies, both young and old, and was adored by all the children. His conversational powers—except on matters of business—were not great, but his very ignorance on all general topics, and the humility born of that ignorance, gave to his manners a deference which was more gratifying to most ladies than brilliant loquacity would have been. He even helped little Alice to study a Sunday-school lesson, and the experience was so entirely new to him, that he became more deeply interested than the little learner herself. He went to church on Sunday, and was probably the most attentive listener the rather prosy old pastor had.

Of course he bathed—everybody did. A stout rope was stretched from a post on the shore to a buoy in deep water where it was anchored, and back and forth on this rope capered every day twenty or thirty hideously dressed but very happy people, among whom might always be seen Mr. Putchett with a child on his shoulder.

One day the waves seemed to viciously break near the shore, and the bathers all followed the rope out to where there were swells instead of breakers. Mr. Putchett was there, of course, with little Alice. He seemed perfectly enamored of the water, and delighted in venturing as far to the sea as the rope would allow, and there ride on the swells, and go through all other ridiculously happy antics peculiar to ocean-lovers who cannot swim.

Suddenly Mr. Putchett’s hand seemed to receive a shock, and he felt himself sinking lower than usual, while above the noise of the surf and the confusion of voices he heard some one roar:

“The rope has broken—scramble ashore!”

The startled man pulled frantically at the piece of rope in his hand, but found to his horror that it offered no assistance; it was evident that the break was between him and the shore. He kicked and paddled rapidly, but seemed to make no headway, and while Alice, realizing the danger, commenced to cry piteously, Mr. Putchett plainly saw on the shore the child’s mother in an apparent frenzy of excitement and terror.

The few men present—mostly boarding-house keepers and also ex-sailors and fishermen—hastened with a piece of the broken rope to drag down a fishing-boat which lay on the sand beyond reach of the tide. Meanwhile a boy found a fishing-line, to the end of which a stone was fastened and thrown toward the imperiled couple.

Mr. Putchett snatched at the line and caught it, and in an instant half a dozen women pulled upon it, only to have it break almost inside Mr. Putchett’s hands. Again it was thrown, and again the frightened broker caught it. This time he wound it about Alice’s arm, put the end into her hand, kissed her forehead, said, “Good-by, little angel, God bless you,” and threw up his hand as a signal that the line should be drawn in. In less than a minute little Alice was in her mother’s arms, but when the line was ready to be thrown again, Mr. Putchett was not visible.

By this time the boat was at the water’s edge, and four men—two of whom were familiar with rowing—sat at the oars, while two of the old fishermen stood by to launch the boat at the proper instant. Suddenly they shot it into the water, but the clumsy dip of an oar turned it broadside to the wave, and in an instant it was thrown, waterlogged, upon the beach. Several precious moments were spent in righting the boat and bailing out the water, after which the boat was safely launched, the fishermen sprang to the oars, and in a moment or two were abreast the buoy.

Mr. Putchett was not to be seen—even had he reached the buoy it could not have supported him, for it was but a small stick of wood. One of the boarders—he who had swamped the boat—dived several times, and finally there came to the surface a confused mass of humanity which separated into the forms of the diver and the broker.

A few strokes of the oars beached the boat, and old “Captain” Redding, who had spent his Winters at a government life-saving station, picked up Mr. Putchett, carried him up to the dry sand, laid him face downward, raised his head a little, and shouted:

“Somebody stand between him and the sun so’s to shade his head! Slap his hands, one man to each hand. Scrape up some of that hot, dry sand, and pile it on his feet and legs. Everybody else stand off and give him air.”

The captain’s orders were promptly obeyed, and there the women and children, some of them weeping, and all of them pale and silent, stood in a group in front of the bathing-house and looked up.

“Somebody run to the hotel for brandy,” shouted the captain.

“Here’s brandy,” said a strange voice, “and I’ve got a hundred dollars for you if you bring him to life.”

Every one looked at the speaker, and seemed rather to dislike what they saw. He was a smart-looking man, but his face seemed very cold and forbidding; he stood apart, with arms folded, and seemed regardless of the looks fastened upon him. Finally Mrs. Blough, one of the most successful and irrepressible gossips in the neighborhood, approached him and asked him if he was a relative of Mr. Putchett’s.

“No, ma’am,” replied the man, with unmoved countenance. “I’m an officer with a warrant for his arrest, on suspicion of receiving stolen goods. I’ve searched his traps at the hotel and boarding-house this morning, but can’t find what I’m looking for. It’s been traced to him, though—has he shown any of you ladies a large diamond?”

“No,” said Mrs. Blough, quite tartly, “and none of us would have believed it of him, either.”

“I suppose not,” said the officer, his face softening a little. “I’ve seen plenty of such cases before, though. Besides, it isn’t my first call on Putchett—not by several.”

Mrs. Blough walked indignantly away, but, true to her nature, she quickly repeated her news to her neighbors.

“He’s coming to!” shouted the captain, turning Mr. Putchett on his back and attempting to provoke respiration. The officer was by his side in a moment. Mr. Putchett’s eyes had closed naturally, the captain said, and his lips had moved. Suddenly the stranger laid a hand on the collar of the insensible man, and disclosed a cord about his neck.

“Captain,” said the officer, in a voice very low, but hurried and trembling with excitement, “Putchett’s had a very narrow escape, and I hate to trouble him, but I must do my duty. There’s been a five thousand dollar diamond traced to him. He advanced money on it, knowing it was stolen. I’ve searched his property and can’t find it, but I’ll bet a thousand it’s on that string around his neck—that’s Putchett all over. Now, you let me take it, and I’ll let him alone; nobody else need know what’s happened. He seems to have behaved himself here, judging by the good opinion folks have of him, and he deserves to have a chance which he won’t get if I take him to jail.”

The women had comprehended, from the look of the stranger and the captain, that something unusual was going on, and they had crowded nearer and nearer, until they heard the officer’s last words.

“You’re a dreadful, hateful man!” exclaimed little Alice.

The officer winced.

“Hush, daughter,” said Alice’s mother; then she said: “Let him take it, captain; it’s too awful to think of a man’s going right to prison from the gates of death.”

The officer did not wait for further permission, but hastily opened the bathing-dress of the still insensible figure.

Suddenly the officer started back with an oath, and the people saw, fastened to a string and lying over Mr. Putchett’s heart, a small scallop-shell, variegated with pink and yellow spots.

“It’s one I gave him when I first came here, because he couldn’t find any,” sobbed little Alice.

The officer, seeming suddenly to imagine that the gem might be secreted in the hollow of the shell, snatched at it and turned it over. Mr. Putchett’s arm suddenly moved; his hand grasped the shell and carried it toward his lips; his eyes opened for a moment and fell upon the officer, at the sight of whom Mr. Putchett shivered and closed his eyes again.

“That chill’s a bad sign,” muttered the captain.

Mr. Putchett’s eyes opened once more, and sought little Alice; his face broke into a faint smile, and she stooped and kissed him. The smile on his face grew brighter for an instant, then he closed his eyes and quietly carried the case up to a Court of Final Appeals, before which the officer showed no desire to give evidence.

Mr. Putchett was buried the next day, and most of the people in the neighborhood were invited to the funeral. The story went rapidly about the neighborhood, and in consequence there were present at the funeral a number of uninvited persons: among these were the cook, barkeeper and hostler of the hotel, who stood uncomfortably a little way from the house until the procession started, when they followed at a respectful distance in the rear.

When the grave was reached, those who dug it—who were also of those who carried the bier—were surprised to find the bottom of the coffin-box strewn and hidden with wild flowers and scraps of evergreen.

The service of the Church of England was read, and as the words, “Ashes to ashes; dust to dust,” were repeated, a bouquet of wild flowers was tossed over the heads of the mourners and into the grave. Mrs. Blough, though deeply affected by the services, looked quickly back to see who was the giver, and saw the officer (who had not been seen before that day) with such an embarrassed countenance as to leave no room for doubt. He left before daylight next morning, to catch a very early train; but persons passing the old graveyard that day beheld on Putchett’s grave a handsome bush of white roses, which bush old Mrs. Gale, living near the hotel, declared was a darling pot-plant which had been purchased of her on the previous evening by an ill-favored man who declared he _must_ have it, no matter how much he paid for it.

THE MEANEST MAN AT BLUGSEY’S.

TO miners, whose gold-fever had not reached a ridiculous degree of heat, Blugsey’s was certainly a very satisfactory location. The dirt was rich, the river ran dry, there was plenty of standing-room on the banks, which were devoid of rocks, the storekeeper dealt strictly on the square, and the saloon contained a pleasing variety of consolatory fluids, which were dispensed by Stumpy Flukes, ex-sailor, and as hearty a fellow as any one would ask to see.

All thieves and claim-jumpers had been shot as fast as discovered, and the men who remained had taken each other’s measures with such accuracy, that genuine fights were about as unfrequent as prayer-meetings.

The miners dug and washed, ate, drank, swore and gambled with that delightful freedom which exists only in localities where society is established on a firm and well-settled basis.

Such being the condition of affairs at Blugsey’s, it seemed rather strange one morning, hours after breakfast, to see, sprinkled in every direction, a great number of idle picks, shovels and pans; in fact, the only mining implements in use that morning were those handled by a single miner, who was digging and carrying and washing dirt with an industry which seemed to indicate that he was working as a substitute for each and every man in the camp.

He was anything but a type of gold-hunters in general; he was short and thin, and slight and stooping, and greatly round-shouldered; his eyes were of a painfully uncertain gray, and one of them displayed a cast which was his only striking feature; his nose had started as a very retiring nose, but had changed its mind half-way down; his lips were thin, and seemed to yearn for a close acquaintance with his large ears; his face was sallow and thin, and thickly seamed, and his chin appeared to be only one of Nature’s hasty afterthoughts. Long, thin gray hair hung about his face, and imparted the only relief to the monotonous dinginess of his features and clothing.

Such being the appearance of the man, it was scarcely natural to expect that miners in general would regard him as a special ornament to the profession.

In fact, he had been dubbed “Old Scrabblegrab” on the second day of his occupancy of Claim No. 32, and such of his neighbors as possessed the gift of tongues had, after more intimate acquaintance with him, expressed themselves doubtful of the ability of language to properly embody Scrabblegrab’s character in a single name.

The principal trouble was, that they were unable to make anything at all of his character; there was nothing about him which they could understand, so they first suspected him, and then hated him violently, after the usual manner of society toward the incomprehensible.

And on the particular morning which saw Scrabblegrab the only worker at Blugsey’s, the remaining miners were assembled in solemn conclave at Stumpy Fluke’s saloon, to determine what was to be done with the detested man.

The scene was certainly an impressive one; for such quiet had not been known at the saloon since the few moments which intervened between the time, weeks before, when Broadhorn Jerry gave the lie to Captain Greed, and the captain, whose pistol happened to be unloaded, was ready to proceed to business.

The average miner, when sober, possesses a degree of composure and gravity which would be admirable even in a judge of ripe experience, and miners, assembled as a deliberative body, can display a dignity which would drive a venerable Senator or a British M. P. to the uttermost extreme of envy.

On the occasion mentioned above, the miners ranged themselves near the unoccupied walls, and leaned at various graceful and awkward angles. Boston Ben, who was by natural right the ruler of the camp, took the chair—that is, he leaned against the centre of the bar. On the other side of the bar leaned Stumpy Flukes, displaying that degree of conscious importance which was only becoming to a man who, by virtue of his position, was sole and perpetual secretary and recorder to all stated meetings at Blugsey’s.

Boston Ben glanced around the room, and then collectively announced the presence of a quorum, the formal organization of the meeting, and its readiness for deliberation, by quietly remarking:

“Blaze away!”

Immediately one of the leaners regained the perpendicular, departed a pace from the wall, rolled his tobacco neatly into one cheek, and remarked:

“We’ve stood it long enough—the bottom’s clean out of the pan, Mr. Chairman. Scrabblegrab’s declined bitters from half the fellers in camp, an’ though his gray old top-knot’s kept ’em from takin’ satisfaction in the usual manner, they don’t feel no better ’bout it than they did.”

The speaker subsided into his section of wall, composed himself into his own especial angles, and looked like a man who had fully discharged a conscientious duty.

From the opposite wall there appeared another speaker, who indignantly remarked:

“Goin’ back on bitters ain’t a toothful to what he’s done. There’s young Curly, that went last week. That boy played his hand in a style that would take the conceit clean out uv an angel. But all to onct Curly took to lookin’ flaxed, an’ the judge here overheard Scrabblegrab askin’ Curly what he thort his mother’d say ef she knew he was makin’ his money that way? The boy took on wuss an’ wuss, an’ now he’s vamosed. Don’t b’lieve me ef yer don’t want ter, fellers—here’s the judge hisself.”

The judge briskly advanced his spectacles, which had gained him his title, and said:

“True ez gospel; and when I asked him ef he wasn’t ashamed of himself fur takin’ away the boy’s comfort, he said No, an’ that I’d be a more decent man ef I’d give up keards myself.”

“He’s alive yit!” said the first speaker, in a tone half of inquiry and half of reproof.

“I know it,” said the judge, hastening to explain. “I’d lent my pepperbox to Mose when he went to ’Frisco, an’ the old man’s too little fur a man uv my size to hit.”

The judge looked anxiously about until he felt assured his explanation had been generally accepted. Then he continued:

“What’s he good fur, anyhow? He can’t sing a song, except somethin’ about ‘Tejus an’ tasteless hours,’ that nobody ever heard before, an’ don’t want to agin; he don’t drink, he don’t play keards, he don’t even cuss when he tumbles into the river. Ev’ry man’s got his p’ints, an’ ef he hain’t got no good uns, he’s sure to have bad uns. Ef he’d only show ’em out, there might be somethin’ honest about it; but when a feller jist eats an’ sleeps an’ works, an’ never shows any uv the tastes uv a gentleman, ther’s somethin’ wrong.”

“I don’t wish him any harm,” said a tall, good-natured fellow, who succeeded the judge; “but the feller’s looks is agin the reputation uv the place. In a camp like this here one, whar society’s first-class—no greasers nur pigtails nur loafers—it ain’t the thing to hev anybody around that looks like a corkscrew that’s been fed on green apples and watered with vinegar—it’s discouragin’ to gentlemen that might hev a notion of stakin’ a claim, fur the sake uv enjoyin’ our social advantages.”

“N-none uv yer hev got to the wust uv it yit,” remarked another. “The old cuss is too fond uv his dust. Billy Banks seen him a-buyin’ pork up to the store, an’ he handled his pouch ez ef ’twas eggs instid of gold-dust—poured it out as keerful ez yer please, an’ even scraped up a little bit he spilt. Now, when I wuz a little rat, an’ went to Sunday-school, they used to keep a-waggin’ at me ’bout evil communication a-corruptin’ o’ good manners. That’s what _he’ll_ do—fust thing yer know, _other_ fellers’ll begin to be stingy, an’ think gold-dust wuz made to save instid uv to buy drinks an’ play keards fur. _That’s_ what it’ll come to.”

“Beggin’ ev’rybody’s pardon,” interposed a deserter from the army, “but these here perceedin’s is irreg’lar. ’Tai’nt the square thing to take evidence till the pris’ner’s in court.”

Boston Ben immediately detailed a special officer to summon Old Scrabblegrab, declared a recess of five minutes, and invited the boys to drink with him.

Those who took sugar in theirs had the cup dashed from their lips just as they were draining the delicious dregs, for the officer and culprit appeared, and the chairman rapped the assembly to order.