VII
GIVE A DOG A BAD NAME
The passing of Joseph from Canaan was complete. It was an evanishment
for which there was neither sackcloth nor surprise; and though there
came no news of him it cannot be said that Canaan did not hear of
him, for surely it could hear itself talk. The death of Jonas Tabor
and young Louden's crime and flight incited high doings in the "National
House" windows; many days the sages lingered with the broken
meats of morals left over from the banquet of gossip. But, after
all, it is with the ladies of a community that reputations finally
rest, and the matrons of Canaan had long ago made Joe's exceedingly
uncertain. Now they made it certain.
They did not fail of assistance. The most powerful influence in
the town was ponderously corroborative: Martin Pike, who stood for
all that was respectable and financial, who passed the plate o'
Sundays, who held the fortunes of the town in his left hand, who
was trustee for the widow and orphan,--Martin Pike, patron of all
worthy charities, courted by ministers, feared by the wicked and
idle, revered by the good,--Judge Martin Pike never referred to
the runaway save in the accents of an august doomster. His testimony
settled it.
In time the precise nature of the fugitive's sins was distorted
in report and grew vague; it was recalled that he had done dread
things; he became a tradition, a legend, and a warning to the young;
a Richard in the bush to frighten colts. He was preached at boys
caught playing marbles "for keeps": "Do you want
to grow up like Joe Louden?" The very name became a darkling
threat, and children of the town would have run had one called suddenly,
"HERE COMES JOE LOUDEN!" Thus does the evil men do live
after them, and the ill- fame of the unrighteous increase when they
are sped!
Very little of Joseph's adventures and occupations during the time
of his wandering is revealed to us; he always had an unwilling memory
for pain and was not afterwards wont to speak of those years which
cut the hard lines in his face. The first account of him to reach
Canaan came as directly to the windows of the "National House"
as Mr. Arp, hastening thither from the station, satchel in hand,
could bring it.
This was on a September morning, two years after the flight, and
Eskew, it appears, had been to the State Fair and had beheld many
things strangely affirming his constant testimony that this unhappy
world increaseth in sin; strangest of all, his meeting with our
vagrant scalawag of Canaan. "Not a BLAMEBIT of doubt about
it," declared Eskew to the incredulous conclave. "There
was that Joe, and nobody else, stuck up in a little box outside
a tent at the Fair Grounds, and sellin' tickets to see the Spotted
Wild Boy!" Yes, it was Joe Louden! Think you, Mr. Arp could
forget that face, those crooked eyebrows? Had Eskew tested the recognition?
Had he spoken with the outcast? Had he not! Ay, but with such peculiar
result that the battle of words among the sages began with a true
onset of the regulars; for, according to Eskew's narrative, when
he had delivered grimly at the boy this charge, "I know you
--YOU'RE JOE LOUDEN!" the extraordinary reply had been made
promptly and without change of countenance: "POSITIVELY NO
FREE SEATS!"
On this, the house divided, one party maintaining that Joe had thus
endeavored to evade recognition, the other (to the embitterment
of Mr. Arp) that the reply was a distinct admission of identity
and at the same time a refusal to grant any favors on the score
of past acquaintanceship.
Goaded by inquiries, Mr. Arp, who had little desire to recall such
waste of silver, admitted more than he had intended: that he had
purchased a ticket and gone in to see the Spotted Wild Boy, halting
in his description of this marvel with the unsatisfactory and acrid
statement that the Wild Boy was "simply SPOTTED,"--and
the stung query, "I suppose you know what a spot IS, Squire?"
When he came out of the tent he had narrowly examined the ticket-seller,--who
seemed unaware of his scrutiny, and, when not engaged with his tickets,
applied himself to a dirty law-looking book. It was Joseph Louden,
reasserted Eskew, a little taller, a little paler, incredibly shabby
and miraculously thin. If there were any doubt left, his forehead
was somewhat disfigured by the scar of an old wound--such as might
have been caused by a blunt instrument in the nature of a poker.
"What's the matter with YOU?" Mr. Arp whirled upon Uncle
Joe Davey, who was enjoying himself by repeating at intervals the
unreasonable words, "Couldn't of be'n Joe," without any
explanation. "Why couldn't it?" shouted Eskew. "It
was! Do you think my eyes are as fur gone as yours? I saw him, I
tell you! The same ornery Joe Louden, run away and sellin' tickets
for a side- show. He wasn't even the boss of it; the manager was
about the meanest-lookin' human I ever saw --and most humans look
mighty mean, accordin' to my way of thinkin'! Riffraff of the riffraff
are his friends now, same as they were here. Weeds! and HE'S a weed,
always was and always will be! Him and his kind ain't any more than
jimpsons; overrun everything if you give 'em a chance. Devil-flowers!
They have to be hoed out and scattered--even then, like as not,
they'll come back next year and ruin your plantin' once more. That
boy Joe 'll turn up here again some day; you'll see if he don't.
He's a seed of trouble and iniquity, and anything of that kind is
sure to come back to Canaan!"
Mr. Arp stuck to his prediction for several months; then he began
to waver and evade. By the end of the second year following its
first utterance, he had formed the habit of denying that he had
ever made it at all, and, finally having come to believe with all
his heart that the prophecy had been deliberately foisted upon him
and put in his mouth by Squire Buckalew, became so sore upon the
subject that even the hardiest dared not refer to it in his presence.
Eskew's story of the ticket-seller was the only news of Joe Louden
that came to Canaan during seven years. Another citizen of the town
encountered the wanderer, however, but under circumstances so susceptible
to misconception that, in a moment of illumination, he decided to
let the matter rest in a golden silence. This was Mr. Bantry.
Having elected an elaborate course in the Arts, at the University
which was of his possessions, what more natural than that Eugene
should seek the Metropolis for the short Easter vacation of his
Senior year, in order that his perusal of the Masters should be
uninterrupted? But it was his misfortune to find the Metropolitan
Museum less interesting than some intricate phases of the gayety
of New York--phases very difficult to understand without elaborate
study and a series of experiments which the discreetly selfish permit
others to make for them. Briefly, Eugene found himself dancing,
one night, with a young person in a big hat, at the "Straw-Cellar,"
a crowded hall, down very deep in the town and not at all the place
for Eugene.
Acute crises are to be expected at the "Straw- Cellar,"
and Eugene was the only one present who was thoroughly surprised
when that of this night arrived, though all of the merrymakers were
frightened when they perceived its extent. There is no need to detail
the catastrophe. It came suddenly, and the knife did not flash.
Sick and thinking of himself, Eugene stood staring at the figure
lying before him upon the reddening floor. A rabble fought with
the quick policemen at the doors, and then the lights went out,
extinguished by the proprietor, living up to his reputation for
always being thoughtful of his patrons. The place had been a nightmare;
it became a black impossibility. Eugene staggered to one of the
open windows, from the sill of which a man had just leaped.
"Don't jump," said a voice close to his ear. "That
fellow broke his leg, I think, and they caught him, anyway, as soon
as he struck the pavement. It's a big raid. Come this way."
A light hand fell upon his arm and he followed its leading, blindly,
to find himself pushed through a narrow doorway and down a flight
of tricky, wooden steps, at the foot of which, silhouetted against
a street light, a tall policeman was on guard. He laid masterful
hands on Eugene. "'SH, Mack!" whispered a cautious voice
from the stairway. "That's a friend of mine and not one of
those you need. He's only a student and scared to death."
"Hurry," said the policeman, under his breath, twisting
Eugene sharply by him into the street; after which he stormed vehemently:
"On yer way, both of ye! Move on up the street! Don't be tryin'
to poke yer heads in here! Ye'd be more anxious to git out, once
ye got in, I tell ye!"
A sob of relief came from Bantry as he gained the next corner, the
slight figure of his conductor at his side. "You'd better not
go to places like the `Straw-Cellar,' " said the latter, gravely.
"I'd been watching you for an hour. You were dancing with the
girl who did the cutting."
Eugene leaned against a wall, faint, one arm across his face. He
was too ill to see, or care, who it was that had saved him. "I
never saw her before," he babbled, incoherently, "never,
never, never! I thought she looked handsome, and asked her if she'd
dance with me. Then I saw she seemed queer--and wild, and she kept
guiding and pushing as we danced until we were near that man--and
then she--then it was all done--before--"
"Yes," said the other; "she's been threatening to
do it for a long time. Jealous. Mighty good sort of a girl, though,
in lots of ways. Only yesterday I talked with her and almost thought
I'd calmed her out of it. But you can't tell with some women. They'll
brighten up and talk straight and seem sensible, one minute, and
promise to behave, and mean it too, and the next, there they go,
making a scene, cutting somebody or killing themselves! You can't
count on them. But that's not to the point, exactly, I expect. You'd
better keep away from the `Straw-Cellar.' If you'd been caught with
the rest you'd have had a hard time, and they'd have found out your
real name, too, because it's pretty serious on account of your dancing
with her when she did it, and the Canaan papers would have got hold
of it and you wouldn't be invited to Judge Pike's any more, Eugene."
Eugene dropped his arm from his eyes and stared into the face of
his step-brother.
"Joe Louden!" he gasped.
"I'll never tell," said Joe. "You'd better keep out
of all this sort. You don't understand it, and you don't--you don't
do it because you care." He smiled wanly, his odd distorted
smile of friendliness. "When you go back you might tell father
I'm all right. I'm working through a law-school here--and remember
me to Norbert Flitcroft," he finished, with a chuckle.
Eugene covered his eyes again and groaned.
"It's all right," Joe assured him. "You're as safe
as if it had never happened. And I expect" --he went on, thoughtfully--"I
expect, maybe, you'd prefer NOT to say you'd seen me, when you go
back to Canaan. Well, that's all right. I don't suppose father will
be asking after me--exactly."
"No, he doesn't," said Eugene, still white and shaking.
"Don't stand talking. I'm sick."
"Of course," returned Joe. "But there's one thing
I would like to ask you--"
"Your father's health is perfect, I believe."
"It--it--it was something else," Joe stammered, pitifully.
"Are they all--are they all--all right at --at Judge Pike's?"
"Quite!" Eugene replied, sharply. "Are you going
to get me away from here? I'm sick, I tell you!"
"This street," said Joe, and cheerfully led the way.
Five minutes later the two had parted, and Joe leaned against a
cheap restaurant sign-board, drearily staring after the lamps of
the gypsy night- cab he had found for his step-brother. Eugene had
not offered to share the vehicle with him, had not even replied
to his good-night.
And Joe himself had neglected to do something he might well have
done: he had not asked Eugene for news of Ariel Tabor. It will not
justify him entirely to suppose that he assumed that her grandfather
and she had left Canaan never to return, and therefore Eugene knew
nothing of her; no such explanation serves Joe for his neglect,
for the fair truth is that he had not thought of her. She had been
a sort of playmate, before his flight, a friend taken for granted,
about whom he had consciously thought little more than he thought
about himself--and easily forgotten. Not forgotten in the sense
that she had passed out of his memory, but forgotten none the less;
she had never had a place in his imaginings, and so it befell that
when he no longer saw her from day to day, she had gone from his
thoughts altogether.