All He Knew by John Habberton

J >> John Habberton >> All He Knew

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

ALL HE KNEW

A Story

BY

JOHN HABBERTON

AUTHOR OF "HELEN'S BABIES," "BRUETON'S BAYOU," ETC.

MEADVILLE PENN'A
FLOOD AND VINCENT
Chautauqua=Century Press

1890

MATTHEWS, NORTHRUP & CO., ART-PRINTING WORKS, BUFFALO AND NEW YORK.

ALL HE KNEW.

CHAPTER I.

As the Capital Express train dashed into the village of Bruceton one
bright afternoon, a brakeman passing through a car was touched on the
shoulder by a man, who said,--

"The man that left this in the seat in front got out three stations
back. You don't s'pose he'll want it again an' send back for it, do
you?"

The brakeman looked at an object which the speaker held up as he spoke:
it was a small fig-box, such as train-boys sometimes succeed in
imposing upon the traveling public, and it still contained several
figs.

"Want it again?" said the brakeman, with a scornful curl of the lip
that gave his black moustache a Mephistophelian twist, "of course not.
He left it there so's to get rid of it, like most of 'em do. I wouldn't
buy one of them boxes of--"

The brakeman suddenly ceased talking, and put both hands on the
passenger's shoulders with the movement peculiar to train-men whose
duty it is to rouse sleeping passengers, the effect always being to
make the victim throw his head slightly backward. Then the brakeman
looked a moment into the face before him,--it was small, weak-eyed, and
characterless,--and continued,--

"Why, Sam Kimper, I didn't know you from Adam! That broad-brimmed low
hat makes you look like somebody else. When did you get out?"

"This mornin'," said the passenger, dropping his eyes.

"Did, eh? Well, you needn't feel so bad about it, old man. Anybody's
likely to get in trouble once in a while, you know. You got catched;
some other folks 'most always don't; that's about the difference. Let's
see; how long was you--how long have you been away?"

"I was _sent_ for two years an' a half," said the passenger, raising
his head again and looking almost manly, "but, Mr. Briggs, I got all
the shortenin' of time that's allowed for good conduct,--ev'ry day of
it. If you don't believe it, I'll prove it to you. My term begun on the
11th of August, eighteen hundred an'--"

"Never mind the figures, old man: I'll take your word for it."

"But I wanted you to be sure; I thought mebbe you'd tell other folks
about it, seein' you're a good-hearted feller, an' know ev'rybody, an'
I never done you no harm."

"I'll tell 'em anyway," said the brakeman, cheerily; "I ain't no saint,
but I'm always ready to help a fellow up when he's down. I've got to
get to the rear now, to uncouple a car we have to leave here. S'long,
Sam."

"Say, Mr. Briggs," said the passenger, hurrying along behind the
brakeman, "you don't s'pose there's any chance for me to get a job in
the railroad-company's yard, do you?"

The brakeman turned with a sharp look which speedily softened as he saw
an earnest appeal in the little man's face.

"Well, Sam," he replied, his words dragging slowly along, "the yard's
always full, an' men a-waitin'. You'd have to give bonds for good
behavior, an' honesty, an'--"

"Never mind the rest, Mr. Briggs," said the ex-convict, shrinking an
inch or two in stature. "I didn't know about that, indeed I didn't, or
I--"

"Well, you needn't be a-Mr.-Briggs-in' me, anyhow," said the brakeman.
"I was only Jim before--you left town, Sam, an' I want you to go on
callin' me Jim, just the same. Do you understand that, confound you?"

"Yes, Mr.--Jim, I do; an' may God bless you for sayin' it!"

"Here we are; good luck by the car-load to you, Sam." Then the brakeman
looked back into the car and roared,--

"Bruceton."

The discharged prisoner consumed a great deal of time and distributed
many furtive glances as he alighted, though he got off the train on the
side opposite the little station. The train remained so long that when
finally it started there was no one on the station platform but the
agent, whose face was not familiar to the last passenger.

A gust of wind brought to the platform a scrap of a circus-poster which
had been loosened by recent rain from a fence opposite the station. The
agent kicked the paper from the platform; Sam picked it up and looked
at it; it bore a picture of a gorgeously-colored monkey and the head
and shoulders of an elephant.

"Ain't you goin' to put it back?" he asked.

"Not much," said the agent. "I don't rent that fence to the circus, or
menagerie, or whatever it is."

"Can I have it?"

"Findings are keepings," said the agent, "especially when they ain't
worth looking for; that's railroad rule, and I guess circus-companies
haven't got a better one."

The finder sat down on the platform, took a knife from his pocket, and
carefully cut the monkey and the elephant's head from the paper. Then
he walked to the end of the platform and looked cautiously in the
direction of the town. A broad road, crossed by a narrow street, led
from the station; into the street the little man hurried, believing
himself secure from observation, but just then the door of a coal-yard
office opened, and Judge Prency, who had been county judge, and Deacon
Quickset emerged. Both saw the new arrival, who tried to pass them
without being recognized. But the deacon was too quick for him;
planting himself in the middle of the sidewalk, which was as narrow as
the deacon was broad, he stopped the wayfarer and said,--

"Samuel, I hope you're not going back to your old ways
again,--fighting, drinking, loafing, and stealing?"

"No, deacon, I ain't. I'm a changed man."

"That's what they all say, Samuel," the deacon replied, not unkindly,
"but saying isn't doing. Human nature's pretty weak when it don't lean
on a stronger one."

"That's how I'm leanin', deacon."

"I'm glad to hear it, Samuel," said the deacon, offering his hand,
though in a rather conservative manner.

"Sam," said the judge, "I sentenced you, but I don't want you to think
hard of me and take it out of my orchard and chicken-coop. It wasn't
your first offence, you know."

"Nor the tenth, judge. You did just right. I hope 'twas a warnin' to
others."

"I think it was," said the judge, thrusting both hands into his pockets
and studying the wall of the station as if it were the record of his
own court. "I think it was; and here's my hand, Sam, and my best wishes
for a square start in life."

As the judge withdrew his hand he left behind a little wad of paper
which Sam recognized by sense of touch as the customary American
substitute for the coin of the realm. The poor fellow did not know what
to say: so he said nothing.

"Hurry along to your family, Sam. I hope you'll find them all well.
I've told my wife to see to it that they didn't suffer while you were
away, and I guess she's done it: she's that kind of woman."

Sam hurried away. The deacon followed him with his eyes, and finally
said,--

"I wonder how much truth there was in him--about leaning on a higher
power?"

"Oh, about as much as in the rest of us, I suppose."

"What do you mean?" The deacon snapped out this question; his words
sounded like a saw-file at work.

"Merely what I say," the judge replied. "We all trust to our religion
while things go to suit us, but as soon as there's something unusual to
be done--in the way of business--we fall back on our old friend the
Devil, just as Sam Kimper used to do."

"Speak for yourself, judge, and for Sam, if you want to," said the
deacon with fine dignity, "but don't include me among 'the rest of us.'
Good-morning, judge."

"Good-morning, deacon. No offence meant."

"Perhaps not; but some men give it without meaning to. Good-morning."

"I guess the coat fits him," murmured the judge to himself, as he
sauntered homeward.

CHAPTER II.

Sam Kimper hurried through a new street, sparsely settled, crossed a
large vacant lot, tramped over the grounds of an unused foundry, and
finally went through a vacancy in a fence on which there were only
enough boards to show what the original plan had been. A heap of ashes,
a dilapidated chicken-coop, and a forest of tall dingy weeds were the
principal contents of the garden, which had for background a small
unpainted house in which were several windows which had been repaired
with old hats and masses of newspaper. As he neared the house he saw in
a cove in the weeds a barrel lying on its side, and seated in the mouth
of the barrel was a child with a thin, sallow, dirty, precocious face
and with a cat in her arms. The child stared at the intruder, who
stopped and pushed his hat to the back of his head.

"Pop!" exclaimed the child, suddenly, without moving.

"Mary!" exclaimed the man, dropping upon his knees and kissing the
dirty face again and again. "What are you doin' here?"

"Playin' house," said the child, as impassively as if to have had her
father absent two years was so common an experience that his return did
not call for any manifestation of surprise or affection.

"Stand up a minute, dear, and let me look at you. Let's see,--you're
twelve years old now, ain't you? You don't seem to have growed a bit.
How's the rest?"

"Mam's crosser an' crosser," said the child; "Joe's run away, 'cause
the constable was after him for stealin' meat from--"

"My boy a thief! Oh, Lord!"

"Well, we didn't have nothin' to eat; he had to do it."

The father dropped his head and shuddered. The child continued:
"Billy's goin' to school now; Jane's servant-gal at the hotel; Tom
plays hookey all the time, an' the baby squalls so much that nobody
likes her but Billy."

The man looked sad, then thoughtful; finally he put his arm around his
child, and said, as he kissed and caressed her,--

"You're to have a better dad after this, darlin'; then maybe the
mother'll feel pleasanter, an' the baby'll be happier, an' Tom'll be a
good boy, an' we'll get Joe back somehow."

"How's you goin' to be better?" asked the child.

"Goin' to give us money to buy candy an' go to all the circuses?"

"Maybe," said the father. "I must go see the mother now."

The child followed her father to the house; there was not much
excitement in the life of the Kimper family, except when there was a
quarrel, and Mary seemed to anticipate some now, for she drawled, as
she walked along,--

"Mam's got it in for you; I heerd her say so many a time sence you war
took away."

"The poor thing's had reason enough to say it, the Lord knows," said
the man. "An'," he continued, after a moment, "I guess I've learned to
take whatever I'm deservin' of."

As Sam entered his house, a shabbily dressed, unkempt, forlorn looking
woman sat at a bare pine table, handling some dirty cards. When she
looked up, startled by the heavy tread upon the floor, she exclaimed,--

"I declare! I didn't expect you till--"

"Wife!" shouted Sam, snatching the woman into his arms and covering her
face with kisses. "Wife," he murmured, bursting into tears and pressing
the unsightly head to his breast,--"wife, wife, wife, I'm goin' to make
you proud of bein' my wife, now that I'm a man once more."

The woman did not return any of the caresses that had been showered
upon her; neither did she repel them. Finally she said,--

"You _do_ appear to think somethin' of me, Sam."

"Think somethin' of you? I always did, Nan, though I didn't show it
like I ought. I've had lots of time to think since then, though, an'
I've had somethin' else, too, that I want to tell you about. Things is
goin' to be different, the Lord willin', Nan, dear--wife."

Mrs. Kimper was human; she was a woman, and she finally rose to the
occasion to the extent of kissing her husband, though immediately
afterward she said, apparently by way of apology,--

"I don't know how I come to do that."

"Neither do I, Nan; I don't know how you can do anythin' but hate me.
But you ain't goin' to have no new reason for doin' it. I'm goin' to be
different ev'ry way from what I was."

"I hope so," said Mrs. Kimper, releasing herself from her husband's
arms and taking up the cards again. "I was just tellin' my fortune by
the keerds, havin' nothin' else to do, an' they showed a new man an'
some money,--though not much."

"They showed right both times, though keerds ain't been friends to this
family, confound 'em, when I've fooled with 'em at the saloon. Where's
the baby, though, that I ain't ever seen?"

"There," said the woman, pointing to a corner of the room. Sam looked,
and saw on the floor a bundle of dingy clothes from one end of which
protruded a head of which the face, eyes, and hair were of the same
tint as the clothing. The little object was regarding the new arrival
in a listless way, and she howled and averted her head as her father
stooped to pick her up.

"She's afraid you're goin' to hit her, like most ev'ry one does when
they go nigh her," said the mother. "If I'd knowed you was comin'
to-day, I'd have washed her, I guess."

"I'll do it myself now," said the father, "I've got the time."

"Why, you ain't ever done such a thing in your life, Sam!" said Mrs.
Kimper, with a feeble giggle.

"More's the shame to me; but it's never too late to mend. When'll Billy
get home, an' Tom?"

"Goodness knows; Billy gets kep' in so much, an' Tom plays hookey so
often, that I don't ever expect either of 'em much 'fore supper-time.
They talk of sendin' Tom to the Reform School if he don't stop."

"I'll have to stop him, then. I'll try it, anyway."

"It needs somebody that can wollup him harder'n I can; he's gettin' too
big for my stren'th. Well, if here they don't both come! I don't know
when I've seen them two boys together before, 'less they was fightin'.
I wonder what's got into 'em to-day."

The two boys came through the back yard, eying the house curiously,
Billy with wide open eyes, and Tom with a hang-dog leer from under the
brim of his hat. Their father met them at the door and put his arms
around both.

"Don't do that," said Tom, twitching away, "that sort o' thing's for
women, an' gals an' babies."

"But I'm your dad, boy."

"Needn't make a baby of me, if you be," growled the cub.

"I'd give a good deal, old as I am, if I had a dad to make a baby of me
that way, if 'twas only for a minute."

"Oh, don't be an old fool," said Tom.

"I heerd in the village you'd been let out," said Billy, "an' so I
found Tom an' told him, an' he said I lied, an' so we come home to see.
Did you bring us anythin'?"

"Yes," said the father, his face brightening, as he thrust his hand
into his pocket and took out the fig box. "Here," as he gave a fig to
each of the children and one to his wife, "how do you like that?"

"Good enough," growled Tom, "only I don't care for 'em unless I have a
whole box. I lift one out of a train-boy's basket at the station once
in a while."

"Don't ever do it again," said the father. "If you want 'em any time so
bad you can't do without 'em, let me know, an' I'll find some way to
get 'em for you."

"An' get sent up again for more'n two year?" sneered the boy.

"I don't mean to get 'em that way" said the father. "But I've got
somethin' else for you." Here he took the circus pictures from his
breast, where they had been much flattened during the several
demonstrations of family affection in which they had been involved.
"Here's a picture for each of you."

Billy seemed to approve of the monkey, but Tom scowled and said,--

"What do I care for an elephant's head, when I seen the whole animal at
the show, an' everythin' else besides?"

"S'pose I might as well get supper, though there ain't much to get,"
said the wife. "There's nothin' in the house but corn-meal, so I'll
bile some mush. An'," she continued, with a peculiar look at her
husband, "there ain't anythin' else for breakfast, though Deacon
Quickset's got lots of hens layin' eggs ev'ry day. I've told the boys
about it again an' again, but they're worth less than nothin' at
helpin' things along. The deacon don't keep no dog. Now you've got
home, I hope we'll have somethin'."

"Not if we have to get it that way," said Sam, gently. "No more
stealin'; I'll die first."

"I guess we'll all die, then," moaned Mrs. Kimper. "I didn't s'pose
bein' sent up was goin' to skeer all the spirit out of you."

"It didn't, Nan, but it's been the puttin' of a new kind of spirit into
me. I've been converted, Nan."

"What?" gasped Mrs. Kimper.

"Thunder!" exclaimed Tom, after a hard laugh. "You goin' to be a
shoutin' Methodist? Won't that be bully to tell the fellers in the
village?"

"I'm not goin' to shout, or be anythin' I know of, except an honest
man: you can tell that to all the fellers you like."

"An' be told I'm a blamed liar? Not much."

Mrs. Kimper seemed to be in a mournful revery, and when finally she
spoke it was in the voice of a woman talking to herself, as she said,--

"After all I've been layin' up in my mind about places where there was
potatoes an' chickens an' pigs an' even turkeys that could be got an'
nobody'd be any the wiser! How will we ever get along through the
winter?"

"The Lord will provide," croaked Tom, who had often sat under the
church window during a revival meeting.

"If He don't, we'll do without," said Sam, "but I guess we won't suffer
while I can work."

"Dad converted!" muttered Tom. "Dad converted! d'ye hear that?" said
he, hitting his brother to attract attention. "I must go down to the
hotel an' tell Jane; she'll steal me a glass of beer for it. Converted!
I'll be ashamed to look the boys in the face."

CHAPTER III.

The Kimper family thinned out, numerically, as soon as the frugal
evening meal was despatched. Tom and Billy disappeared separately
without remark; Mary put on a small felt hat which added a rakish air
to her precocious face, and said she was going to the hotel to see if
sister Jane had any news. Half an hour later, the cook, all the
chamber-maids, waiters, bar-keepers, and stable-boys at the hostelry
were laughing and jeering, in which they were led by Jane, as Mary told
of her father's announcement that he had been converted and would have
no more stealing done in the interest of the family larder. The fun
became so fast and furious that it was obliged to end in sheer
exhaustion; so when Tom came in an hour later, he was unable to revive
it sufficiently to secure the stolen glass of beer which he had
coveted.

Sam Kimper did not seem to notice the disappearance of the more active
portion of the family. Taking the baby in his arms, he sat with closed
eyes while his wife cleared the table. Finally he said,--

"Nan, ain't you got nothin' else to do?"

"Nothin', that I know of," said the wife.

"Come an' set down alongside o' me, then, an' let me tell you about
somethin' that come about while I was in the penitentiary. Nan, a man
that used to come there Sundays found me a-cryin' in my cell one
Sunday; I couldn't help it, I felt so forlorn an' kind o' gone like.
I'd felt that way lots o' times before, when I was out an' around, but
then I could get over it by takin' a drink. There's always ways of
gettin' a drink,--sweepin' out a saloon, or cuttin' wood agin' winter,
when the saloon'll need it. But there wasn't no chance to get a drink
in jail, an' I was feelin' as if the under-pinnin' of me was gone.

"Well, the man said he knowed a friend that would stand by me an' cheer
me up. His name was Jesus. I told him I'd heerd of Him before, 'cause
I'd been to revival meetin's an' been preached to lots by one man an'
another. He said that wasn't exactly the way he wanted me to think
about Him,--said Jesus used to be alive and go around bein' sorry for
folks that was in trouble, an' He once comforted a thief that was bein'
killed in a most uncomfortable way, though Jesus was havin' a hard time
of it Himself about that time.

"That hit me where I lived, for I--well, you know what I was sent up
for. He said Jesus was God, but he came here to show men how to live,
an' he wanted me to think about Him only as a man, while I was in
trouble. He said the worse off a man was, the more sorry Jesus was for
him: so I said,--

"'I wish He was here now, then.'

"'He _is_ here, my friend,' said the man. 'He's here, though you can't
see Him. He ain't got nothin' to make out of you: neither have I: so
you needn't be afraid to take my word for it. I'll tell you some of the
things he said.' Then he read me a lot of things that did make me feel
lots better. Why, Nan, that man Jesus was so sorry for men in jail that
He went back on some high-toned folks that didn't visit 'em: just think
of that!

"After a while the man said, 'You seem to be feelin' better.'

"'So I am,' said I.

"'Then believe in him,' says he, 'an' you'll feel better always.'

"'I've been told that before,' says I, 'but I don't know how.'

"The man looked kind o' puzzled like, an' at last says he,--

"'What's yer politics?'

"'I'm a Jackson Democrat,' says I.

"'All right,' says he, 'but Andrew Jackson's dead, ain't he?'

"'So I've heerd,' said I.

"'But you still believe in him?' says he.

"'Of course,' said I.

"'Well,' says he, 'just believe in Jesus like you do in Andrew Jackson,
and you'll be all right in the course of time. Believe that what He
said was true, an' get your mind full of what He said, an' keep it
full, remindin' yourself over an' over again for fear you forget it or
other things'll put it out of your mind, an' you'll be happier while
you're in jail, an' you won't get back here again, nor in any other
jail, after you've been let out.'

"Well, that was encouragin', for I didn't want to get in no jails no
more. When the man went away he left me a little book that didn't have
nothin' in it but things Jesus Himself said. I read it lots; some of it
I didn't understand, an' I can't get it through my head yet, but what I
did get done me so much good that I found myself kind o' changin' like,
an' I've been changin' ever since. Nan, I want you to read it too, an'
see if it don't do you good. We ain't been what we ought to be; it's
all my fault. The children ain't had no show; that's all my fault too,
but it'll take all that two of us can do to catch up with 'em. I want
you to be always 'side o' me, Nan."

"We can't let 'em starve," said the wife; "an' if what you're
believin' is goin' to keep you from pickin' up a livin' for 'em when
you get a chance, what are we goin' to do?"

"I'm goin' to work," said Sam.

"Sho! You never done three days' work hand-runnin' in your life." Then
Mrs. Kimper gave a hard laugh.

"I've done it over two years now, an' I guess I can keep on, if I get
the chance. I can stick to it if you'll back me up, Nan."

"There ain't much to me nowaday," said Mrs. Kimper, after a moment or
two of blank staring as she held her chin in her hands and rested her
elbows on her knees. "Once I had an idee I was about as lively as they
make 'em, but things has knocked it out of me,--a good many kind of
things."

"I know it, poor gal," said Sam; "I know it: I feel a good deal the
same way myself sometimes; but it helps me along an' stren'thens me up,
like, to know that Him that the visitor in jail told me about didn't
have no home a good deal of the time, an' not overmuch to eat, an' yet
was cheerful like, an' always on His nerve. It braces a fellow up to
think somebody's who's been as bad off as himself has pulled through,
an' not stole nothin', nor fit with nobody, nor got drunk, but always
was lookin' out for other folks. Say, Nan, 'pears to me it's gettin'
dark all of a sudden--oh!"

The exclamation was called out by the cause of the sudden darkness,
which was no other than Deacon Quickset, who had reached the door-way
without being heard. The deacon's proportions were generous; those of
the door were not.

"Samuel," said the deacon, "you said this afternoon that you were a
changed man, and that you were leaning on a strength greater than your
own. I want to see you make a new start and a fair one; and, as there's
a prayer- and experience-meeting around at the church to-night, I
thought I'd come around and tell you that 'twould be a sensible thing
to go there and tell what the Lord's done for you. It will put you on
record, and make you some friends; and you need them, you know."

Sam was pallid by nature, more so through long confinement, but he
looked yet more pale as he stammered,--

"Me--speak--in meetin'? Before folks that--that's always b'longed to
the church?"

"You must acknowledge Him, Samuel, if you expect Him to bless you."

"I hain't no objections to acknowledgin' Him, deacon, only--I'm not the
man to talk out much before them that I know is my betters. I ain't got
the gift o' gab. I couldn't never say much to the fellers in the
saloon along around about election-times, though I b'lieved in the
party with all my might."

"It doesn't take any gift to tell the plain truth," said the deacon.
"Come along. Mrs. Kimper, you come too, so Samuel will have no excuse
to stay home."

"Me?" gasped Mrs. Kimper. "Me?--in meetin'? Goodness, deacon, it gives
me the conniptions to think of it! Besides,"--here she dragged her
scanty clothing about her more closely,--"I ain't fit to be seen among
decent folks."

"Clothes don't count for anything in the house of the Lord," said the
deacon, stoutly, though he knew he was lying. "Meeting begins at
half-past seven, and the sun's down now."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9