Part 8

"Well, suh, when Mose say dat, I clap my han's, I did, an' holla 'Good! good! now you got it!' I couldn't he'p it fer ter save my life. De man in de pulpit maul de planks wid de mallet like he tryin' ter split um, an' he 'low dat ef folks in de gall'ry don't keep still, he'll have um cle'r'd out. I holla back at 'im, 'You better have some er dat gang down dar cle'r'd out!' Quick ez a flash, suh, dat ar Mr. Scott what been talkin' wid Marse Tumlin jump up an' 'low, 'I secon's de motion!' De man in de pulpit say, 'What motion does de gemman fum Floyd secon'?' Den Mr. Scott fling his head back an' 'low, 'De Honnerbul Minervy Ann Perdue done move dat de flo' be cle'r'd 'stidder de gall'ry. I secon's de motion.'

"Den fum dat he went on an' 'buze de erpublican party, speshually dat ar man what had de 'spute wid Hamp. Mr. Scott say dey got so little sense dat dey go ag'in a paper put in by one er der own party. He say he ain't keer nothin' 'tall 'bout de paper hisse'f, but he des wanter show um up fer what dey wuz.

"He totch'd um, suh, ez you may say, on de raw, an' when he git th'oo he say, 'Now, I hope de cheer will deal wid de motion of de Honnerbul Minervy Ann Perdue.' Mr. Scott say, 'She settin' up dar in de gall'ry an' she got des ez much right ter set on dis flo' es nineteen out er twenty er dem settin' here.' De man in de pulpit look at me right hard, an' den he 'gun ter laugh. I say, 'You nee'n ter worry yo'se'f 'bout me. You better 'ten' ter dem ar half-drunk niggers an' po' white trash down dar. I wouldn't set wid 'em ef I never did fin' a place fer ter set at.'

"Wid dat, suh, I pickt up my pairsol an' make my way out, but ez I went I hear um whoopin' an' hollerin'."

"Well, they didn't pass the bill, did they?" I asked.

"What? dat paper er Marse Tumlin's? Bless yo' soul, suh, dey run'd over one an'er tryin' ter pass it. Mr. Scott fit it like he fightin' fire, an' make out he wuz turribly ag'in it, but dat des make um wuss. Hamp say dat inginer'lly dem ar laws has ter wait an' hang fire; but dey tuck up dat un, an' shove it th'oo. Dey tuck mo' time in de 't'er een' er de Legislatur', whar ol' Alpory wuz at, but it went th'oo when it start. Dey don't have no sech gwines-on now, suh. Ef dey did, I 'speck I'd hatter come up an' jine de Legislatur' ag'in."

Whereupon, Aunt Minervy Ann laughed heartily, and began to make her preparations for returning home.

THE SILENT WAYFELLOW

By Bliss Carman

To-day when the birches are yellow, And red is the wayfaring tree, Sit down in the sun, my soul, And talk of yourself to me!

Here where the old blue rocks Bask in the forest shine, Dappled with shade and lost In their reverie divine.

How goodly and sage they are! Priests of the taciturn smile Rebuking our babble and haste, Yet loving us all the while.

In the asters the wild gold bees Make a warm busy drone, Where our Mother at Autumn's door Sits warming her through to the bone.

What is your afterthought When a red leaf rustles down, Or the chickadees from the hush Challenge a brief renown?

When silence falls again Asleep on hill-side and crest, Resuming her ancient mood, Do you still say, "Life is best?"

We have been friends so long, And yet not a single word Of yourself, your kith or kin Or home, have I ever heard.

Nightly we sup and part, Daily you come to my door; Strange we should be such mates, Yet never have talked before.

A cousin to downy-feather, And brother to shining-fin, Am I, of the breed of earth, And yet of an alien kin,

Made from the dust of the road And a measure of silver rain, To follow you brave and glad, Unmindful of plaudit or pain.

Dear to the mighty heart, Born of her finest mood, Great with the impulse of joy, With the rapture of life imbued,

Radiant moments are yours, Glimmerings over the verge Of a country where one day Our forest trail shall emerge.

When the road winds under a ledge, You keep the trudging pace, Till it mounts a shoulder of hill To the open sun and space.

Ah, then you dance and go, Illumined spirit again, Child of the foreign tongue And the dark wilding strain!

Through the long winter dark, When slumber is at my sill, Will you leave me dreamfast there, For your journey over the hill?

To-night when the forest trees Gleam in the frosty air, And over the roofs of men Stillness is everywhere,

By the cold hunter's moon, What trail will you take alone, Through the white realms of sleep, To your native land unknown?

Here while the birches are yellow, And red is the wayfaring tree, Sit down in the sun, my soul, And talk of yourself to me.

THE MAN FROM THE MACHINE

By Judson Knox

I

I was early down at the bank that morning, as the day promised to be a sweltering one, and a little extra work in the cool of the forenoon would save a deal of discomfort later on.

So, by half-past eight, when Ted Lummis, the book-keeper, and Bill Ryan, who balanced pass-books and ran the appendix ledger, arrived, I had the safe open, and their ledgers, with fresh blotters, laid out ready for them on their desks.

But, as usual, they preferred to loiter and chat awhile in the president's office. After a few words to me, therefore, Ted comfortably settled himself in the big desk-chair, lit a cigarette, and commenced unfolding the morning paper. Bill, as his custom was, took up a post by the window and watched the loafers on the street corner.

I was wetting the teller's sponges at the sink, and speculating how long his mistakes in cash would keep us after hours that afternoon, when a great guffaw broke out in the office. I recognized the voice as Ted's, and, squeezing my sponges into their dishes, hurried into the banking-room, slopping a trail of water on the floor behind me.

From there I could see the backs of the two fellows, still shaking with laughter, bent over the president's desk, on which the open paper was spread.

"You didn't know he was going to have one?" Ted was saying, in a tone of superiority to which he apparently considered the possibility of asking this question entitled him.

"No. How should I?" replied Bill, evidently piqued; and then added, by way of subterfuge, "what's he or his family to me?"

When Bill spoke in this way it was pretty certain he was talking about John Makeator, our teller.

"Well," pressed the other, bound on making his point, "you knew he wouldn't take a vacation this summer. What did you suppose that was for?"

"Why? Good Lord, isn't he stingy enough?"

"Perhaps he wanted the additional salary to help pay for his mistakes in cash," I suggested, scarcely less uncharitably, but with the memory of yesterday's three hours' hunt for a balance rising again in my mind.

"_He_ is John, I presume," I went on, as the others turned around; "but what's up with him, Ted? What's he 'got?'"

"'Got!' You fellows are as blind as if you were locked up in the vault. 'Got!' Why, a baby, of course, Jim!"

Ted, with difficulty, repressed his emotions, reckoning, doubtless, on a more dramatic effect if my outburst should come unaccompanied. However, at the moment, the news struck me in quite other than a laughable light; and I must have disappointed Ted, for I only said:

"Well, it's mighty funny; but I'm sure we ought to be glad for poor old John."

Ted, who at heart is the kindest fellow in the world, instantly sobered.

"Glad, why, of course, I'm glad, Jim! But——"

"You'll be damn glad, then, at three o'clock this afternoon," broke in Bill, testily, seeing the turn the conversation was taking. "Yesterday he kept us here till after seven; last night he had a baby, and to-day—oh, Lord! Well, stay and talk about it if you want to; and make out to rejoice with him when he comes in. I'm going to work," and he walked off irritably to his desk in the other room.

Ted looked after him and smiled.

"He hasn't forgiven John for speaking to Habinger about him the other day." Habinger was the president.

"John was right," I said. "Bill had no business to meddle with his cash, even if John is slow in counting it."

"Yes," assented Ted; and then he laughed again, so openly and frankly this time, that the merely comic element in the news came over me irresistibly, and I could not help joining him.

"Mr. Young!" shouted Bill from his desk, where he was making a show of sorting pass-books, but, in reality, was watching the door, so as to be the first to announce John's arrival. He then slipped to the teller's counter, pressed the button which springs the electric lock, and Mr. Young, the cashier, came in.

"Well, Mr. Young," asked Bill, "what time is John going to let us out to-day?" The question was put, even before the door had shut behind the cashier. The idea of working late into the evening was pleasanter to Bill than he would have cared to admit, or, perhaps, realized.

"Hello, Bill! Good-morning, Ted!—Oh, yes! I thought you'd have heard the news. And we'll have to make Margaret—that's her name—a present. I saw John early this morning. He'll be down soon, too."

The cashier briskly pushed the little swing door of the office, and came in to Ted and me. He was going to say something more, but, noticing that our looks were turned across to Bill, glanced over that way himself, and comprehending the situation quickly, cried good naturedly:

"I wouldn't tease him too much about it when he comes, Bill. He's sensitive, you know. Besides, it's his first one——"

"Well, it was time I hope," was the contemptible retort, which put into spiteful, bitter form the idea which to the rest of us was only reason for special satisfaction.

As Bill took up his perch again, the cashier walked into the banking room, and Ted and I followed him. Mr. Young sat down at a table and inspected the morning's mail, which I cut open for him.

"Oh, yes, he'll be down this morning," he began, as he rapidly and keenly went through envelope after envelope. "Ah, here's a draft on Potter, Jim—yes, his wife is doing nicely. No danger at all—Another on Smith and Weston, $2,600. Means a sweat for you, and don't——"

"We'll all sweat enough before the day's over," came from Bill.

"Look here, old man," laughed the cashier, with a sharp knitting of his brows, however; "I'll bet you half a dozen cigars" (two-fers were a stock wager among us) "that John makes fewer mistakes in cash to-day than you."

"And you only affect cash in the clearings," put in Ted.

"Don't want to bet," was the surly, almost inaudible response, and Bill wheeled his stool about again, and began making perfunctory scratches with his pen, the corner of his eye all the while on the door.

"John!" he cried suddenly in the tone of a look-out on board a man-of-war off a hostile harbor.

We all turned about and faced the door. Ted hastily folded up the morning paper, which was still in his hand, and put it behind him. Mr. Young gathered his letters into a pile before him and stood up, and Bill left his station, and took up a position back of the rest of us where he could spy without seeming to be interested.

"With his wheel polished clean, and a new pair of stockings," he snickered, peering, on tiptoe, over my shoulder.

This time no one offered to press the electric button, so John had to use his key. We could hear it click some time on the metal outside, before the bolt shot.

However, John was the first to speak as he entered. His voice was even higher than ordinary and more forced; but there was a clear ring to it, and it did not waver.

"Mornin', George," he said, simply, and then turned his attention to getting his wheel into the passage.

"Hello, John!" cried the cashier, cheerily. "Coming out to congratulate you again. How's everything?"

"Fine, George, fine!" answered the latter, straightening up to his full height, and with a firmer snap in his voice than ever.

"Blacked his shoes," muttered Bill, turning away and suppressing a grin. "Oh, Lord! and a clean shave, too."

By this time the teller and the cashier had stopped hand-shaking, and the latter was pushing John in through the office door toward us.

"The rest of the fellows want to shake hands with you, John," said he, slapping the disconcerted father on the back.

This was John's ordeal. Two emotions were visibly struggling in him. He knew perfectly, poor fellow, his incompetence, and the consequent slight estimate in which we (being only plodding accountants, with no very exalted criterion to judge men by) held him. Nevertheless, this morning it must have been plain to him a new factor had entered into his position among us—one, moreover, which, quite irrespective of his ability or inefficiency as a commercial automaton, entitled him to a positive measure of respect from us. Diffident, however, and totally lacking in self-confidence as he was, how was he to break through the old barriers of contempt and derision which we held out against him, and demand of us, and enforce from us the payment of this new obligation?

It was a task, truly, which seemed to require more courage and power over others than the little man possessed, and very much depended on an initial success. One could see that he felt this himself; for as he walked toward us (his knees perceptibly shaking, in spite of the unusual length of his strides) he shifted his eyes from side to side; and when they did rest on one of us for a moment, there was in their weak, watery blue an appeal rather than a command.

Ted was the first to meet him. He gripped his hand hard and cordially, and looked straight into his face.

"Mighty glad to hear it, John," he said.

John flushed, and his eyes brightened and he held on fast.

"Thanks, Ted, thanks!" he stammered, much moved.

But, as their hands parted, Ted smiled. It was not meant unkindly; but Ted, who was a cocky, self-assured chap, and something of a sport, too, never seemed able to look seriously at the affair for more than a second at a time.

John's courage, which had begun to rise, left him instantly; and he quite lost his self-control. He was white as he took the limp hand Bill stretched out to him.

"Congratulate you, John," the latter said, frigidly, and the "Thanks, Bill, thanks," of the reply was all of a tremble.

Suddenly, however, a new feeling seemed to come over John, and this was indignation—indignation at himself, and anger at the man before him. He reddened, and stood erect again, and dropped Bill's hand; and, without a word, turned to me.

I don't recollect what I said to John. Perhaps I said nothing. I remember only I was thinking, "You'd have lost that bet, Bill, if you'd taken it."

II

Shortly after, Al Williams, who was John's next in rank, came in; but I did not notice his greeting as I was busy over by the window filing checks. Then, at nine, we opened up, and the regular routine of work began.

Nine-thirty was my time for starting off with the morning's collections, drafts on tradespeople, post-office orders, protested checks and the like. I was very anxious that the president should arrive before I left, for I was particularly curious to see how John would take his congratulations, and in what spirit they would be offered.

John had entered the bank as clerk when the president was teller—almost twenty years ago—and had worked under him ever since. Both men at first sight impressed one as of a type very common in this bustling country of ours. Small, nervous men, with light, drooping mustaches, and excitable ways, they both were. To each of them the touch of silver, or the smell of dirty bills, or the holding of a pen between the fingers was but the signal for a certain set of reactions on the accuracy of which his claim to usefulness in this world depended. Mere machines one might call them both, but there was a vast difference between them nevertheless. For, while John's nervousness was the nervousness of dissipated force, the president's was that of concentrated alertness and precision and celerity. John was a very poor machine, indeed, and as like as not to go wrong and become tangled up in his own mechanism. Habinger, on the other hand, was a very perfect one, and it was a saying in the bank that he could foot a column with every wink of his eye. His every pen-stroke, too, was an ultimatum, and stood on the books as it was first written, without blot or erasure.

So John (who had no other standards to measure men by but those of the ledger and the time-lock) had made an idol of the president. In his worship he was not only sincere and fervent, but entirely without jealousy; for whatever egotism he might have had to start with must long ago have been knocked out of him by the successions of selfish and ambitious clerks he had seen pass beyond and above him; and, as Bill had so cruelly hinted, by his ten years of unfruitful married life.

It was, then, a real pleasure for John, on days when business was rushing, to have Habinger unceremoniously shove him aside at the counter, and in fifteen minutes dispose of a long row of customers whom the hapless teller had suffered to gather there.

At these times John would stand behind the president, and look over his shoulder with wonder like a little child's on his face; and when the work was finished, his "Thank you, sir; thank you!" was uttered in a tone of glad gratitude quite unalloyed, even by the consciousness of Bill's sneering whispers at his back, or by the sly smile of the next depositor, as he handed over his bills and checks.

So, as I said, I wished greatly to be in the bank when the president came; and with this purpose I lingered a moment over my time at the check-file, pretending to be very much occupied.

John's eye this morning, however, was as sharp as Habinger's; and, as the pointer of the clock above his head marked five minutes past the half hour, he called out brusquely,

"Hi, Jimmy! Time you were gone; and a heavy clearing this morning, too, so you want to be back early."

His manner was authoritative, and I rose hastily, and reluctantly commenced sorting out my collections and memoranda. But just then Habinger came in, and with a quick brush of my arm, I swept my papers on the floor directly behind John.

I don't know whether John fathomed my design or not; but he was down by me on the floor in an instant; and before I had touched one of them, the papers were gathered up and stuffed into my pocket-book.

"Now, off with you!" he cried, and gave me a shove, and then turning, met the president's outstretched hand.

"Mr. Makeator," the latter began, and this was all I heard, for I was heartily ashamed of my impertinence.

However, those two words and the glance I could not help throwing back were enough. John's face was flushed again, but this time with joy and pride; for never before had the president thus publicly called him by his last name. Indeed, of all the shrewd things Habinger ever said, I believe this was the shrewdest, and I would have given Bill ten to one on that bet had I thought he would take it.

I made a mess of my work that morning I know—was fined two dollars at the clearing for a wrong subtraction; forgot to call for a couple of drafts I had left at Shan's—the liquor dealer—the day before; mislaid a registered letter; and entered Boston remittances in the New York book. My thoughts while out of the bank were on John, and while in the bank my eyes were on no one else.

Indeed, there was a fascination in watching the little teller work. He never made more mistakes, perhaps, in his life; but he detected every one of them instantly. He had squeezed his sponges dry in two hours, and, not thinking to have me moisten them again, simply wet his fingers in his mouth, and thumbed his bills and scraped his silver all unconscious of any inconvenience.

He was perpetually on the go, dabbling in everyone else's work, but never losing his head. He ordered us around as if he were president and directors all in one. Once, I recollect, when a ten-dollar roll of quarters fell and split on the floor, he told Bill peremptorily to pick them up, without so much as a "please," or turning around to see if he were obeyed—which he was, and promptly, too.

As for Bill, at first he simply sat dumfounded on his stool, and watched John open-mouthed. But John found him out in a jiffy, tossed him a handful of pass-books, which Bill took without a remark and proceeded to balance forthwith.

John's conversation over the counter was of a line with his actions.

"Mornin', Mr. Bemis, mornin'! Hot day? Yes, I should say so. Good deposit this morning. Business picking up? Yes?—Eh?—Ah.—Yes!—yes, thanks, sir! yes, doin' splendid sir, splendid!—Coughlin to pitch this afternoon?—yes, going to call her Margaret, sir—my wife's name—Ah, this check here, sir? Call & Co. $123.75. Well—Eh—Hi, Jim!" (this in a whisper to me, and handing me the doubtful check under the counter). "Telephone down to the 'Third' and see if that's good—yes, ten pounds seven ounces, sir. Let's see, $443 in bills I make it only."

Then, as I came back from the telephone, "All right, Mr. Bemis. Wanted to make sure, you know; $123.75? Born at half-past two exactly. Good-morning——

"But, Mr. Bemis! _Oh_, Mr. Bemis! Wait a moment, please. Forgot to indorse this, I guess? Yes? All right. Feeling fine myself, sir—first rate. Yes. Good-morning."

III

Mr. Young insisted on John's leaving early for lunch, and staying as long as he pleased.

"Well, George, I will," said the latter, "because my work's all done up ahead of time—B & A bills counted" (and he pointed to a heap of vile-smelling green-backs, neatly sorted into little packages, and lying at one side) "and pay-rolls all made up. And I'll stay, too, if they want me."

However, he was back sharp at half-past one; and came in with two packages of dry goods under his arm. These he hurriedly secreted in a cupboard under the counter, though from the solicitude with which he handled them, I judged that he would almost have preferred to lock them up in the vault. Bill (and the occurrence did not seem strange then) made no comments of any sort during this proceeding.

Then he went out back, put on his linen jacket, and in a moment replaced Al at the counter, and the hustling commenced again.

From now on, until a quarter to four, John did all the talking. The rest of us were too much occupied in obeying his orders. I never knew him so voluble. He must first tell us about the state of affairs at home. Everything was doing finely; baby lusty and thriving, wife in good spirits, and "almost strong enough to get up," nurse scarcely needed, doctor still less. Then a list of his congratulations, and an account of Mrs. Makeator's visitors during the morning; and finally, as the choicest bit of news, and typical of the generally satisfactory condition of things, his wife's declaration that he must not bother about her and the baby, but go up to the park with the rest of us and see the ball-game.

All this was gone over a dozen times to us; and once, at least, to every customer whom he knew. While telling it, too, he thumbed his bills, checked off deposit tickets, received telephone messages from me, and directed the answering of them; bossed Bill, Ted, and Al about, as he had never done before, and never once asked the cashier's or president's advice on any topic—a circumstance entirely new in our experience of him.