Chapter 3

The young man's speech was frozen on his lip, and a frown settled off his brow. Seeing that he was annoyed, though why she could not guess, Ruth hastened to amend matters by adding:

"Believe me, what I say is true. I am indeed sorry."

"Sorry that I live?"

"Most heartily am I."

"It is hard to credit such a statement from one so--from you."

"Do not say so. Miriam has already charged me with being glad that you were not drowned. It would pain me deeply if you also believed as she does."

The girl looked at him with swimming eyes, and the young man knew not what to answer. Finally he said:

"There is some horrible mistake. I cannot make it out. Perhaps our words, though apparently the same, have a different meaning. Sit down, Ruth, I want to ask you some questions."

Ruth cast a timorous glance towards the workers, and murmured something about not having much time to spare, but she placed the water-cans on the ground and sank down on the grass. Stanford throwing himself on the sward at her feet, but, seeing that she shrank back, he drew himself further from her, resting where he might gaze upon her face.

Ruth's eyes were downcast, which was necessary, for she occupied herself in pulling blade after blade of grass, sometimes weaving them together. Stanford had said he wished to question her, but he apparently forgot his intention, for he seemed wholly satisfied with merely looking at her. After the silence had lasted for some time, she lifted her eyes for one brief moment, and then asked the first question herself.

"From what land do you come?"

"From England."

"Ah! that also is an island, is it not?"

He laughed at the "also," and remembered that he had some questions to ask.

"Yes, it is an island--also. The sea dashes wrecks on all four sides of it, but there is no village on its shores so heathenish that if a man is cast upon the beach the inhabitants do not rejoice because he has escaped death."

Ruth looked at him with amazement in her eyes.

"Is there, then, no religion in England?"

"Religion? England is the most religious country on the face of the earth. There are more cathedrals, more churches, more places of worship in England than in any other State that I know of. We send missionaries to all heathenish lands. The Government, itself, supports the Church."

"I imagine, then, I mistook your meaning. I thought from what you said that the people of England feared death, and did not welcome it or rejoice when one of their number died."

"They do not fear death, and they do not rejoice when it comes. Far from it. From the peer to the beggar, everyone fights death as long as he can; the oldest cling to life as eagerly as the youngest. Not a man but will spend his last gold piece to ward off the inevitable even for an hour."

"Gold piece--what is that?"

Stanford plunged his hand into his pocket.

"Ah!" he said, "there are some coins left. Here is a gold piece."

The girl took it, and looked at it with keen interest.

"Isn't it pretty?" she said, holding the yellow coin on her pink palm, and glancing up at him.

"That is the general opinion. To accumulate coins like that, men will lie, and cheat, and steal--yes, and work. Although they will give their last sovereign to prolong their lives, yet will they risk life itself to accumulate gold. Every business in England is formed merely for the gathering together of bits of metal like that in your hand; huge companies of men are formed so that it may be piled up in greater quantities. The man who has most gold has most power, and is generally the most respected; the company which makes most money is the one people are most anxious to belong to."

Ruth listened to him with wonder and dismay in her eyes. As he talked she shuddered, and allowed the yellow coin to slip from her hand to the ground. "No wonder such a people fears death."

"Do you not fear death?"

"How can we, when we believe in heaven?"

"But would you not be sorry if someone died whom you loved?"

"How could we be so selfish? Would you be sorry if your brother, or someone you loved, became possessed of whatever you value in England--a large quantity of this gold, for instance?"

"Certainly not. But then you see--well, it isn't exactly the same thing. If one you care for dies you are separated from him, and----"

"But only for a short time, and that gives but another reason for welcoming death. It seems impossible that Christian people should fear to enter Heaven. Now I begin to understand why our forefathers left England, and why our teachers will never tell us anything about the people there. I wonder why missionaries are not sent to England to teach them the truth, and try to civilize the people?"

"That would, indeed, be coals to Newcastle. But there comes one of the workers."

"It is my father," cried the girl, rising. "I fear I have been loitering. I never did such a thing before."

The man who approached was stern of countenance.

"Ruth," he said, "the workers are athirst."

The girl, without reply, picked up her pails and departed.

"I have been receiving," said the young man, coloring slightly, "some instruction regarding your belief. I had been puzzled by several remarks I had heard, and wished to make inquiries concerning them."

"It is more fitting," said the man, coldly, "that you should receive instruction from me or from some of the elders than from one of the youngest in the community. When you are so far recovered as to be able to listen to an exposition of our views, I hope to put forth such arguments as will convince you that they are the true views. If it should so happen that my arguments are not convincing, then I must request that you will hold no communication with our younger members. They must not be contaminated by the heresies of the outside world."

Stanford looked at Ruth standing beside the village well.

"Sir," he said, "you underrate the argumentative powers of the younger members. There is a text bearing upon the subject which I need not recall to you. I am already convinced."

THE METAMORPHOSES OF JOHNSON.

I was staying for some weeks at a lovely town in the Tyrol which I shall take the liberty of naming Schwindleburg. I conceal its real title because it charges what is termed a visitors' tax, and a heavy visitors' tax, exacting the same from me through the medium of my hotel bill. The town also made me pay for the excellent band that performs morning and afternoon in the Kurpark. Many continental health resorts support themselves by placing a tax upon visitors, a practice resorted to by no English town, and so I regard the imposition as a swindle, and I refuse to advertise any place that practises it. It is true that if you stay in Schwindleburg less than a week they do not tax you, but I didn't know that, and the hotel man, being wise in his own generation, did not present his bill until a day after the week was out, so I found myself in for the visitors' tax and the music money before I was aware of it. Thus does a foolish person accumulate wisdom by foreign travel. I stayed on at this picturesque place, listening to the band every day, trying to get value for my money. I intended to keep much to myself, having work to do, and make no acquaintances, but I fell under the fascination of Johnson, thus breaking my rule. What is the use of making a rule if you can't have the pleasure of breaking it?

I think the thing that first attracted me to Johnson was his utter negligence in the matter of his personal appearance. When he stepped down from the hotel 'bus he looked like a semi-respectable tramp. He wore a blue woolen shirt, with no collar or necktie. He had a slouch hat, without the usual affectation of a Tyrolese feather in it. His full beard had evidently not been trimmed for weeks, and he had one trouser-leg turned up. He had no alpenstock, and that also was a merit. So I said to myself, "Here is a man free from the conventionalities of society. If I become acquainted with anybody it will be with him."

I found Johnson was an American from a Western city named Chicago, which I had heard of, and we "palled on." He was very fond of music, and the band in the Kurpark was a good one, so we went there together twice a day, and talked as we walked up and down the gravel paths. He had been everywhere, and knew his way about; his conversation was interesting. In about a week I had come to love Johnson, and I think he rather liked me.

One day, as we returned together to the Hotel Post, he held out his hand.

"I'm off to-morrow," he said; "off to Innsbruck. So I shall bid you good-bye. I am very glad indeed to have met you."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." I replied. "But I won't say good-bye now, I'll see you to the station to-morrow."

"No, don't do that. I shall be away before you are up. We'll say good- bye here."

We did, and when I had breakfast next morning I found Johnson had left by the early train. I wandered around the park that forenoon mourning for Johnson. The place seemed lonely without him. In the afternoon I explored some of the by-paths of the park within hearing distance of the band, when suddenly, to my intense surprise, I met my departed friend.

"Hello! Johnson," I cried, "I thought you left this morning."

The man looked at me with no recognition in his face.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "my name is Baumgarten."

Looking more closely at him I at once saw I was mistaken. I had been thinking of Johnson at the time, which probably accounted for the error. Still, his likeness to Johnson was remarkable--to Johnson well groomed. He had neatly-trimmed side-whiskers and moustache, while Johnson had a full beard. His round hat was new, and he wore an irreproachable collar, and even cuffs. Besides this he sported a cane, and evidently possessed many weaknesses to which Johnson was superior. I apologized for my mistake, and was about to walk on when Baumgarten showed signs of wishing to become acquainted.

"I have just arrived," he said, "and know nothing of the place. Have you been here long?"

"About two weeks," I answered.

"Ah! then, you are a resident as it were. Are there any good ascents to be made around here?"

"I have not been informed that there are. I am not a climber myself, except by funicular railway. I am always content to take other people's figures for the heights. The only use I have for a mountain is to look at it."

Then Baumgarten launched into a very interesting account of mountain dangers he had passed through. I found him a most entertaining talker, almost as fascinating as Johnson himself. He told me he was from Hanover, but he had been educated in Great Britain, which accounted for his perfect English.

"What hotel are you at?" he asked, as the band ceased playing.

"I am staying at the Post," I answered. "And you?"

"I am at the Adler. You must come to dine with me some evening, and I will make it even by dining with you. We can thus compare _table d'hotes_."

Baumgarten improved on acquaintance in spite of his foppishness in dress. I almost forgot Johnson until one day I was reminded of him one day by Baumgarten saying, "I leave to-night for Innsbruck."

"Innsbruck? Why, that's where Johnson is. You ought to meet him. He's an awfully good fellow. A little careless about his clothes, that's all."

"I should like to meet him. I know no one in Innsbruck. Do you happen to know the name of his hotel?"

"I do not. I don't even know Johnson's first name. But I'll write you a note of introduction on my card, and if you should come across him, give him my regards."

Baumgarten accepted the card with thanks, and we parted.

Next day, being warm, I sat on a bench in the shade listening to the music. Now that Baumgarten had gone, I was meditating on his strange resemblance to Johnson, and remembering things. Someone sat down beside me, but I paid no attention to him. Finally he said: "This seems to be a very good band."

I started at the sound of his voice, and looked at him too much astonished to reply.

He wore a moustache, but no whiskers, and a green Tyrolese felt hat with a feather in it. An alpenstock leaned against the bench beside him, its iron point in the gravel. He wore knickerbockers; in fact, his whole appearance was that of the conventional mountaineer-tourist. But the voice! And the expression of the eyes!

"What did you say?"

"I said the band is very good."

"Oh, yes. Quite so. It's expensive, and it ought to be good. I'm helping to pay for it. By the way, you arrived this morning, I take it?"

"I came last night."

"Oh, indeed. And you depart in a few days for Innsbruck?"

"No, I go to Salzburg when I leave here."

"And your name isn't Johnson--or--or Baumgarten, by any chance?"

"It is not."

"You come neither from Chicago nor Hanover?"

"I have never been in America, nor do I know Hanover. Anything else?"

"Nothing else. It's all right. It's none of my business, of course."

"What is none of your business?"

"Who are you."

"Oh, there's no secret about that. I am a Russian. My name is Katzoff. At least, these are the first and last syllables of my name. I never use my full name when I travel; it is too complicated."

"Thanks. And how do you account for your perfect English? Educated in England, I presume? Baumgarten was."

"No, I was not. You know we Russians are reputed to be good linguists."

"Yes, I had forgotten that. We will now return to the point from which we started. The band is excellent, and it is about to play one of four favorite selections, Mr. Katzburg."

"Katzoff is the name. As to the selection, I don't know much about music, although I am fond of popular pieces."

Katzoff and I got along very nicely, although I did not seem to like him as well as either Johnson or Baumgarten. He left for Salzburg without bidding me good-bye. Missing him one day, I called at the Angleterre, and the porter told me he had gone.

Next day I searched for him, wondering in what garb I should find him. I passed him twice as he sat on the bench, before I was sure enough to accost him. The sacrifice of his moustache had made a remarkable difference. His clean-shaven face caused him to look at least ten years younger. He wore a tall silk hat, and a long black morning coat. I found myself hardly able to withdraw my eyes from the white spats that partially covered his polished boots. He was reading an English paper, and did not observe my scrutiny. I approached him.

"Well, Johnson," I said, "this _is_ a lay out. You're English this time, I suppose?"

The man looked up in evident surprise. Fumbling around the front of his waistcoat for a moment, he found a black silk string, which he pulled, bringing to his hand a little round disc of glass. This he stuck in one eye, grimacing slightly to keep it in place, and so regarded me apparently with some curiosity. My certainty that it was Johnson wavered for a moment, but I braved it out.

"That monocle is a triumph, Johnson. In combination with the spats it absolutely staggers me. If you had tried that on as Baumgarten I don't know that I should have recognized you. Johnson, what's your game?"

"You seem to be laboring under some delusion," he said at last. "My name is not Johnson. I am Lord Somerset Campbell, if you care to know."

"Really? Oh, well, that's all right. I'm the Duke of Argyll, so we must be relatives. Blood is thicker than water, Campbell. Confess. Whom have you murdered?"

"I knew," said his lordship, slowly, "that the largest lunatic asylum in the Tyrol is near here, but I was not aware that the patients were allowed to stroll in the Kurpark."

"That's all very well, Johnson, but----"

"Campbell, if you please."

"I don't please, as it happens. This masquerade has gone on long enough. What's your crime? Or are you on the other side of the fence? Are you practising the detective business?"

"My dear fellow, I don't know you, and I resent your impertinent curiosity. Allow me to wish you good-day."

"It won't do, Johnson, it has gone too far. You have played on my feelings, and I won't stand it. I'll go to the authorities and relate the circumstances. They are just suspicious enough to----"

"Which? The authorities or the circumstances?" asked Johnson, sitting down again.

"Both, my dear boy, both, and you know it. Now, Johnson, make a clean breast of it, I won't give you away."

Johnson sighed, and his glass dropped from his eye. He looked around cautiously. "Sit down," he said.

"Then you _are_ Johnson!" I cried, with some exultation.

"I thought you weren't very sure," began Johnson. "However, it doesn't matter, but you should be above threatening a man. That was playing it low down."

"I see you're from Chicago. Go on."

"It's all on account of this accursed visitors' tax. That I decline to pay. I stay just under the week at a hotel, and then take a 'bus to the station, and another 'bus to another hotel. Of course my mistake was getting acquainted with you. I never suspected you were going to stay here a month."

"But why didn't you let me know? Your misdemeanor is one I thoroughly sympathize with. I wouldn't have said anything."

Johnson shook his head.

"I took a fellow into my confidence once before. He told it as a dead secret to a friend, and the friend thought it a good joke, and related it, always under oath that it should go no further. The authorities had me arrested before the week was out, and fined me heavily besides exacting the tax."

"But doesn't the 'bus fares, the changing, and all that amount to as much as the tax?"

"I suppose it does. It isn't the money I object to, it's the principle of the thing."

This interview was the last I ever had with Johnson. About a week later I read in the Visitors' List that Lord Somerset Campbell, who had been a guest of the Victoria (the swell hotel of the place), had left Schwindleburg for Innsbruck.

THE RECLAMATION OF JOE HOLLENDS.

The public-houses of Burwell Road--and there were many of them for the length of the street--were rather proud of Joe Hollends. He was a perfected specimen of the work a pub produces. He was probably the most persistent drunkard the Road possessed, and the periodical gathering in of Joe by the police was one of the stock sights of the street. Many of the inhabitants could be taken to the station by one policeman; some required two; but Joe's average was four. He had been heard to boast that on one occasion he had been accompanied to the station by seven bobbies, but that was before the force had studied Joe and got him down to his correct mathematical equivalent. Now they tripped him up, a policeman taking one kicking leg and another the other, while the remaining two attended to the upper part of his body. Thus they carried him, followed by an admiring crowd, and watched by other envious drunkards who had to content themselves with a single officer when they went on a similar spree. Sometimes Joe managed to place a kick where it would do the most good against the stomach of a policeman, and when the officer rolled over there was for a few moments a renewal of the fight, silent on the part of the men and vociferous on the part of the drunkard, who had a fine flow of abusive language. Then the procession went on again. It was perfectly useless to put Joe on the police ambulance, for it required two men to sit on him while in transit, and the barrow is not made to stand such a load.

Of course, when Joe staggered out of the pub and fell in the gutter, the ambulance did its duty, and trundled Joe to his abiding place, but the real fun occurred when Joe was gathered in during the third stage of his debauch. He passed through the oratorical stage, then the maudlin or sentimental stage, from which he emerged into the fighting stage, when he was usually ejected into the street, where he forthwith began to make Rome howl, and paint the town red. At this point the policeman's whistle sounded, and the force knew Joe was on the warpath, and that duty called them to the fray.

It was believed in the neighborhood that Joe had been a college man, and this gave him additional standing with his admirers. His eloquence was undoubted, after several glasses varying in number according to the strength of their contents, and a man who had heard the great political speakers of the day admitted that none of them could hold a candle to Joe when he got on the subject of the wrongs of the working man and the tyranny of the capitalist. It was generally understood that Joe might have been anything he liked, and that he was no man's enemy but his own. It was also hinted that he could tell the bigwigs a thing or two if he had been consulted in affairs of State.

One evening, when Joe was slowly progressing as usual, with his feet in the air, towards the station, supported by the requisite number of policemen, and declaiming to the delight of the accompanying crowd, a woman stood with her back to the brick wall, horror-stricken at the sight. She had a pale, refined face, and was dressed in black. Her self-imposed mission was among these people, but she had never seen Joe taken to the station before, and the sight, which was so amusing to the neighborhood, was shocking to her. She enquired about Joe, and heard the usual story that he was no man's enemy but his own, although they might in justice have added the police. Still, a policeman was hardly looked upon as a human being in that neighborhood. Miss Johnson reported the case to the committee of the Social League, and took counsel. Then it was that the reclamation of Joe Hollends was determined on.

Joe received Miss Johnson with subdued dignity, and a demeanor that delicately indicated a knowledge on his part of her superiority and his own degradation. He knew how a lady should be treated even if he was a drunkard, as he told his cronies afterwards. Joe was perfectly willing to be reclaimed. Heretofore in his life, no one had ever extended the hand of fellowship to him. Human sympathy was what Joe needed, and precious little he had had of it. There were more kicks than halfpence in this world for a poor man. The rich did not care what became of the poor; not they--a proposition which Miss Johnson earnestly denied.

It was one of the tenets of the committee that where possible the poor should help the poor. It was resolved to get Joe a decent suit of clothes and endeavor to find him a place where work would enable him to help himself. Miss Johnson went around the neighborhood and collected pence for the reclamation. Most people were willing to help Joe, although it was generally felt that the Road would be less gay when he took on sober habits. In one room, however, Miss Johnson was refused the penny she pleaded for.

"We cannot spare even a penny," said the woman, whose sickly little boy clung to her skirts. "My husband is just out of work again. He has had only four weeks' work this time."

Miss Johnson looked around the room and saw why there was no money. It was quite evident where the earnings of the husband had gone.

The room was much better furnished than the average apartment of the neighborhood. There were two sets of dishes where one would have been quite sufficient. On the mantelshelf and around the walls were various unnecessary articles which cost money.

Miss Johnson noted all this but said nothing, although she resolved to report it to the committee. In union is strength and in multitude of counsel there is wisdom. Miss Johnson had great faith in the wisdom of the committee.

"How long has your husband been out of work?" she asked.

"Only a few days, but times are very bad and he is afraid he will not get another situation soon."

"What is his trade?"

"He is a carpenter and a good workman--sober and steady."

"If you give me his name I will put it down in our books. Perhaps we may be able to help him."

"John Morris is his name."

Miss Johnson wrote it down on her tablets, and when she left, the wife felt vaguely grateful for benefits to come.