nicely.
I’ll try to describe him for you.
The man who held the monopoly on Bixby’s attentions wore a three-quarterhat bu fed to looking-glass brightness, a shirtfront entirely appropriate for a visit to the “Opéra de l’Epoche,” a carbuncle breast-pin, gloves of
white kid and boots of the butteriest patent leather. I nearly took him for the
“Dauphin” of France when I first caught sight of him. He sat perched like a
dove on the opposite bench; his English was fine, if a bit Creole in the delivery;
he supported his palms on a cane of lacquered teechee-wood. From top to bottom, hat included, he was no more than four and one-half feet in height.
At this point you’re sure to think this no different from my other sketches,
but I petition you (pussums!) for a half-dram of patience. Bixby took notice of
me at last, and answered my smile with a granitic nod, evidently with the idea
of sending me about my business; the dwarf, however, let it be known that he
would tolerate my presence. Now: when I cubbed under Horace “Gomorrah”
Bixby, damned to perdition if anybody got comfortable on his watch, let alone
(by Jesus!) presumed to direct traffic; Bixby’s pilot-box was his Eden. To see the
old tyrant dictated to under his own steam—by a frock-coated Tom Thumb,
no less!—was too much for me by half. I made a small, confused noise, loosened
my neck-tie, seized a lock of hair behind my ear and twisted with all my
might. I was not, judging by the result, asleep; neither was I in my cups.
Meanwhile, the conversation—such as it was—continued. All I could do was
listen in astonishment.
The talk ran along the usual channels for a time; by and by it turned to
negroes. Bixby said something to the effect that a darky’s worth proceeds from
the weight of sack he’s able to carry without discomfort; he imagined himself,
quite reasonably, to be speaking for us all. But Tom Thumb begged to differ.
“Some men of note, Mr. Bixby, equate the black race with the renegade
angels mentioned in Leviticus, who lusted after the daughters of Men, and
were cast out of Heaven on account of it.” He raised his co fee-cup
thoughtfully to his lips. “From that point of view, the best measure of a darky—”
(he lingered over the word, rolling it about on his tongue, delighting in it)
“—would be the number of our daughters, mistresses, and wives that he has
bedded.”
A slack-jawed silence fell. The sound of the paddlewheel rose up loud as
thunder through the floor. I tried to guess, from the dwarf ’s expression, how
he meant this speech to be received—; but I found his face expressionless. After
perhaps a minute’s time, with no small expenditure of e fort, Bixby stammered:
“I can hardly concur with such—” (here he fell silent for a moment,
gnashing his teeth) “—I could never—” (another splenetic stammer) “—Never
conscience such a—”
“I quite agree, Mr. Bixby,” the dwarf interrupted. “No penalty could be
too severe in such cases.”
“Certainly not,” said Bixby. His face was the color of a pomegranate.
“I don’t believe I’ve met your young associate. . . ?”
Bixby took a breath. “That’s Clemens, sir. One of my old cubs.”
The dwarf winked at me. “What’s your opinion, Mr. Clemens?”
As I was incapable of rational speech by then, I simply shrugged my shoulders.He nodded and set his cup back on its saucer.
“I apologize, gentlemen, if I’ve led us into muddied waters. Theology is
an inexact science, I’m afraid.” He sighed. “Perhaps a dose of chemistry might
help us in our quandary.”
“I see no quandary,” Bixby murmured, staring off into the distance. “A
gallows is quickly made.”
“An acquaintance of mine—Asa Trist, of Cane River—you know him,
perhaps, Mr. Clemens? He is about your age.”
“By name, sir,” I managed to reply. In fact Trist is well known on the
river as an epileptic and a fool.
“As I was saying: this young man, since his
I’ll try to describe him for you.
The man who held the monopoly on Bixby’s attentions wore a three-quarterhat bu fed to looking-glass brightness, a shirtfront entirely appropriate for a visit to the “Opéra de l’Epoche,” a carbuncle breast-pin, gloves of
white kid and boots of the butteriest patent leather. I nearly took him for the
“Dauphin” of France when I first caught sight of him. He sat perched like a
dove on the opposite bench; his English was fine, if a bit Creole in the delivery;
he supported his palms on a cane of lacquered teechee-wood. From top to bottom, hat included, he was no more than four and one-half feet in height.
At this point you’re sure to think this no different from my other sketches,
but I petition you (pussums!) for a half-dram of patience. Bixby took notice of
me at last, and answered my smile with a granitic nod, evidently with the idea
of sending me about my business; the dwarf, however, let it be known that he
would tolerate my presence. Now: when I cubbed under Horace “Gomorrah”
Bixby, damned to perdition if anybody got comfortable on his watch, let alone
(by Jesus!) presumed to direct traffic; Bixby’s pilot-box was his Eden. To see the
old tyrant dictated to under his own steam—by a frock-coated Tom Thumb,
no less!—was too much for me by half. I made a small, confused noise, loosened
my neck-tie, seized a lock of hair behind my ear and twisted with all my
might. I was not, judging by the result, asleep; neither was I in my cups.
Meanwhile, the conversation—such as it was—continued. All I could do was
listen in astonishment.
The talk ran along the usual channels for a time; by and by it turned to
negroes. Bixby said something to the effect that a darky’s worth proceeds from
the weight of sack he’s able to carry without discomfort; he imagined himself,
quite reasonably, to be speaking for us all. But Tom Thumb begged to differ.
“Some men of note, Mr. Bixby, equate the black race with the renegade
angels mentioned in Leviticus, who lusted after the daughters of Men, and
were cast out of Heaven on account of it.” He raised his co fee-cup
thoughtfully to his lips. “From that point of view, the best measure of a darky—”
(he lingered over the word, rolling it about on his tongue, delighting in it)
“—would be the number of our daughters, mistresses, and wives that he has
bedded.”
A slack-jawed silence fell. The sound of the paddlewheel rose up loud as
thunder through the floor. I tried to guess, from the dwarf ’s expression, how
he meant this speech to be received—; but I found his face expressionless. After
perhaps a minute’s time, with no small expenditure of e fort, Bixby stammered:
“I can hardly concur with such—” (here he fell silent for a moment,
gnashing his teeth) “—I could never—” (another splenetic stammer) “—Never
conscience such a—”
“I quite agree, Mr. Bixby,” the dwarf interrupted. “No penalty could be
too severe in such cases.”
“Certainly not,” said Bixby. His face was the color of a pomegranate.
“I don’t believe I’ve met your young associate. . . ?”
Bixby took a breath. “That’s Clemens, sir. One of my old cubs.”
The dwarf winked at me. “What’s your opinion, Mr. Clemens?”
As I was incapable of rational speech by then, I simply shrugged my shoulders.He nodded and set his cup back on its saucer.
“I apologize, gentlemen, if I’ve led us into muddied waters. Theology is
an inexact science, I’m afraid.” He sighed. “Perhaps a dose of chemistry might
help us in our quandary.”
“I see no quandary,” Bixby murmured, staring off into the distance. “A
gallows is quickly made.”
“An acquaintance of mine—Asa Trist, of Cane River—you know him,
perhaps, Mr. Clemens? He is about your age.”
“By name, sir,” I managed to reply. In fact Trist is well known on the
river as an epileptic and a fool.
“As I was saying: this young man, since his
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