hobby-horse—anything at all—to wick away one’s worries.” He turned to look out at the water again, smiling at it as if in benediction. “Mine’s a trifle childish, but it seems to turn the trick. I study the kabala.”
“A privilege to meet you, Mr. Barker,” I said, already on my feet. “I get off in a quarter-hour, so if you’ll kindly excuse—”
“In a
quarter
-hour?” Barker squealed. “Where, for pity’s sake? There’s nothing up ahead of us but cottonwoods and muck!”
“A cottage, belonging to a relative of mine,” I said tightly. “On Island 37—”
“Island
37
!” Barker sang out, slapping the table-top in triumph. “I
knew
you lived a life of intrigue, Mr. Ball!”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I mumbled, backing out onto the deck. “My aunty’s boy, Thaddeus, has a tubercular hip—”
“Don’t slink off like some sort of
pick-pocket,
Virgil!” Barker said, jumping up from the table. “I
may
call you Virgil?”
“Not slinking—begging your pardon—my cabin—”
“Favor me with your card, at the very least!”
“No card either, damn you!” I snapped, struggling against the urge to pitch myself into the river.
“Take mine, then,” Barker said, pressing a moist wad of paper into my hand. Before I could answer him he’d disappeared, quinine-water and all, like a jack-rabbit into its burrow.
I reeled back to my cabin in a daze. Who in Christ’s name was this Barker? I did my level best to know each member of our fraternity by sight, if not by name—; but I’d never before laid eyes on him, I was certain. On the other hand (“contrary-wise,” as the Redeemer would say), the Trade was growing more byzantine by the hour. It was just conceivable that Barker
was
a colleague—; but if so, what the devil was he playing at? I forced myself to walk measuredly about my cabin, taking deep, deliberate breaths, and in time I recovered my calm. There was nothing for it, I decided, but to carry on. Either the man was as pudding-headed as he seemed, or he was sporting with me masterfully—: I’d discover which, most likely, when I tried to disembark.
When the landing arrived, however, there was neither hide nor hair of him. As the steamer pulled up and the hitch-ties were thrown, I remembered the paper he’d given me and dug it out of my pocket. It was bare of print save for this device—:
Underneath was scribbled, in a loose, excitable hand—: MORRIS P. BARKER, RUNAWAYS. That was all. Barker did not appear out of the shadows to whistle at me or to clap me in irons, and I stepped off the
Vesuvius
not so much like a thief in the night as a school-boy who’s been told by his teacher to run along home and hunt squirrels. I all but cart-wheeled down the landing in my relief. But the thought of Barker—Barker blustering, Barker winking, Barker singing “City of the Sun” in his shrill, squirrelish voice—buzzed about me like a horse-fly. It followed me up to the Redeemer’s quarters, worrying me cruelly all the while—; then, all at once, it settled on the Redeemer’s brow and bit him.
Samuel Clemens.
June 8, 1860.
My Sweet Leah,
You may or may not care to hear about a rare type of character I met yesterdayon a pack steamer out of New Orleans—I will tell you about him anyhow. The boat was the
Culpepper,
bound for St. Paul, Minnesota (don’t you
have an aunty there, my little cockrobin?) and I discovered him drinking
sweet co fee and rootbitters in the pilot-house with none other than Horace
Bixby, whom I cubbed under on the
Paul Jones.
Bixby’s new cub was at the
wheel, sweating and mumbling to himself like I did on my first run, but Bixby
payed him no attention. In fact it took that old eggbeater a good quarter-hour
to privilege your Sam with so much as a nod, so immaculate was his devotion
to his guest. There wasn’t much for me to do but take a seat on the bench and
wait my turn. Thankfully I had the visitor to goggle at; and that passed the
time for me
“A privilege to meet you, Mr. Barker,” I said, already on my feet. “I get off in a quarter-hour, so if you’ll kindly excuse—”
“In a
quarter
-hour?” Barker squealed. “Where, for pity’s sake? There’s nothing up ahead of us but cottonwoods and muck!”
“A cottage, belonging to a relative of mine,” I said tightly. “On Island 37—”
“Island
37
!” Barker sang out, slapping the table-top in triumph. “I
knew
you lived a life of intrigue, Mr. Ball!”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I mumbled, backing out onto the deck. “My aunty’s boy, Thaddeus, has a tubercular hip—”
“Don’t slink off like some sort of
pick-pocket,
Virgil!” Barker said, jumping up from the table. “I
may
call you Virgil?”
“Not slinking—begging your pardon—my cabin—”
“Favor me with your card, at the very least!”
“No card either, damn you!” I snapped, struggling against the urge to pitch myself into the river.
“Take mine, then,” Barker said, pressing a moist wad of paper into my hand. Before I could answer him he’d disappeared, quinine-water and all, like a jack-rabbit into its burrow.
I reeled back to my cabin in a daze. Who in Christ’s name was this Barker? I did my level best to know each member of our fraternity by sight, if not by name—; but I’d never before laid eyes on him, I was certain. On the other hand (“contrary-wise,” as the Redeemer would say), the Trade was growing more byzantine by the hour. It was just conceivable that Barker
was
a colleague—; but if so, what the devil was he playing at? I forced myself to walk measuredly about my cabin, taking deep, deliberate breaths, and in time I recovered my calm. There was nothing for it, I decided, but to carry on. Either the man was as pudding-headed as he seemed, or he was sporting with me masterfully—: I’d discover which, most likely, when I tried to disembark.
When the landing arrived, however, there was neither hide nor hair of him. As the steamer pulled up and the hitch-ties were thrown, I remembered the paper he’d given me and dug it out of my pocket. It was bare of print save for this device—:
Underneath was scribbled, in a loose, excitable hand—: MORRIS P. BARKER, RUNAWAYS. That was all. Barker did not appear out of the shadows to whistle at me or to clap me in irons, and I stepped off the
Vesuvius
not so much like a thief in the night as a school-boy who’s been told by his teacher to run along home and hunt squirrels. I all but cart-wheeled down the landing in my relief. But the thought of Barker—Barker blustering, Barker winking, Barker singing “City of the Sun” in his shrill, squirrelish voice—buzzed about me like a horse-fly. It followed me up to the Redeemer’s quarters, worrying me cruelly all the while—; then, all at once, it settled on the Redeemer’s brow and bit him.
Samuel Clemens.
June 8, 1860.
My Sweet Leah,
You may or may not care to hear about a rare type of character I met yesterdayon a pack steamer out of New Orleans—I will tell you about him anyhow. The boat was the
Culpepper,
bound for St. Paul, Minnesota (don’t you
have an aunty there, my little cockrobin?) and I discovered him drinking
sweet co fee and rootbitters in the pilot-house with none other than Horace
Bixby, whom I cubbed under on the
Paul Jones.
Bixby’s new cub was at the
wheel, sweating and mumbling to himself like I did on my first run, but Bixby
payed him no attention. In fact it took that old eggbeater a good quarter-hour
to privilege your Sam with so much as a nod, so immaculate was his devotion
to his guest. There wasn’t much for me to do but take a seat on the bench and
wait my turn. Thankfully I had the visitor to goggle at; and that passed the
time for me
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