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Mystery of the Locks

<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2> <h3>THE "APRON AND PASSWORD."</h3> The guests at the hotel, with their dull wit and small gossip, had disappeared, and the proprietor was seated at the long table in the dining-room, eating his supper, with no companion save Silas Davy, the patient man-of-all-work. A queer case, the proprietor. Instead of being useful to the hotel, as would naturally be expected, he was a detriment to it, for he did not even come to his meals when they were ready, making a special table necessary three times a day, greatly to the disgust of Mrs. Armsby, who did about everything around the place, from tending the office to superintending the kitchen; and she succeeded so well in all these particulars that occasional strangers had been known to familiarly pat her husband on the back, and congratulate him on keeping a house which was known far and near for its fine attention to guests. Armsby did not drink, or gamble, or anything of that kind, but he owned a gun and a hunting dog, and knew exactly when the ducks appeared in the lakes, and when the shrill piping of quail might be expected in the thickets; and he was usually there, in his grotesque hunting costume, to welcome them. In addition to this he was fond of fishing, and belonged to all the lodges; so that he had little time to attend to business, even had he been inclined that way. Mrs. Armsby regarded the men who sold powder and fishing-tackle, and encouraged the lodges, about as many another sad-hearted woman regards the liquor-sellers; and, as she went wearily about her work, had been heard to wonder whether hunting and fishing and lodge-going were not greater evils than drinking; for she had no use for her husband whatever, although he was a great deal of trouble. He never got out of bed without being called a dozen times, but when he did get up, and was finally dressed (which occupied him at least an hour) he was such a cheerful fellow, and told of his triumph at the lodge election the night before, or of his fancy shots the day before, with such good nature that he was usually forgiven. Indeed, the people found no other fault with his idleness than to good-naturedly refer to his hotel as the "Apron and Password," probably a tribute to the English way of naming houses of public entertainment; for they argued that if Mrs. Armsby could forgive her husband's faults, it was no affair of theirs; and by this name the place was known. But he had one good habit; he was fond of his wife—not because she made the living, and allowed him to exist in idleness, but really and truly fond of her; though everyone was fond of capable Mrs. Armsby: for though she was nearly always at work, she found time to learn enough of passing events to be a fair conversationalist, and sometimes entertained the guests in the parlor by singing, accompanying herself on the piano. It was said that as a girl Mrs. Armsby had been the favorite of a circle of rich relatives and friends, and that she spent the earlier portion of her life in a pleasant and aristocratic home; but when she found it necessary to make her own living, and support a husband besides, she went about it with apparent good nature, and was generally regarded as a very remarkable woman. She had been Annie Benton's first teacher, in addition to her regular duties, and a pupil still came to the house occasionally, only to find her making bread in the kitchen, or beds in the upper rooms. Armsby had been out hunting, as usual, and his wife had prepared his supper with her own hands, which he was now discussing. "There are a great many unhappy women in the world, Davy," Armsby said, looking admiringly at the contents of the plates around him, "for the reason that most husbands are mean to their wives. I wouldn't be a woman for all the money in Thompson Benton's safe; I am thankful that I am a man, if for nothing else. It is very pretty to say that any woman is so good that she can have her pick of a husband, but it is not true, for most of them marry men who are cross to them, and unfair, and thoughtless; but Mrs. Armsby has her own way here. She has a maid and a man, and I fancy she is rather a fortunate woman. Instead of being bossed around by her husband, he keeps out of the way and gives her full charge. Pull up to the table and eat something, won't you? Help yourself to the sardines." Davy accepted the invitation, and was helping himself when Mr. Armsby said: "You will find them mighty good; and they ought to be good, for they cost sixty cents a box—the three you have on your plate cost a dime. But they are as free as the air you breathe. Help yourself; have some more, and make it fifteen cents." Davy concluded not to take any sardines after this, and after browsing around among the mixed pickles and goat-cheese awhile, and being told that they ought to be good, for they cost enough, he concluded that Armsby's hospitality was intended as a means of calling attention to his rich fare; for he was very particular, and in order to please him his wife always provided something for his table which was produced at no other time. There was a bottle of olives on the table, and when Davy took one of them, Armsby explained that he had imported them himself at enormous expense, although they had been really bought at one of the stores as a job lot, the proprietor having had them on hand a number of years. "Any guests to-night?" Armsby inquired, trying to look very much vexed that the clerk had not accepted the invitation to refresh himself. "No," Davy answered, a little sulky because of his rebuff. "I am sorry for that," Armsby continued. "Mrs. Armsby enjoys a lively parlor, and she has a great deal of time in which to make herself agreeable. What a wonderful woman she is to fix up! Always neat, and always pleasant; but she has little else to do. You don't take very kindly to the ladies yourself, Davy?" The boarders frequently accused Davy of being fond of various old widows and maids in the town, whom he had really never spoken to, and gravely hinted that the streets were full of rumors of his approaching nuptials; but he paid no attention to these banters, nor did he now, except to give a little grunt of contempt for any one so foolish as to marry. "Why, bless me, Davy," Armsby said, laying down his knife and fork in astonishment; "how bald you are becoming! Let me see the back of your head." Silas turned his back to his employer's husband, and looked up at the ceiling. "It's coming; you will be as bald as a plate in a year. But we must all expect it; fortune has no favorites in this respect. I know a man who does not mistreat his wife, but I never knew one who wasn't bald. You might as well quit washing your head in salt water, Davy; for it will do no good." The facts were that Davy gave no sign of approaching baldness; but Armsby, being very bald himself, was always trying to discover that other people's hair was falling out. "Better remain single, though," he continued, referring to matrimony again, "than to marry a woman and mistreat her. All the men are unjust to their wives, barring the honorable exception just named; therefore it has always been my policy to make Mrs. Armsby a notable exception. Is there another woman in the Bend who handles all the money, and does exactly as she pleases? You are around a good bit; do you know of another?" Davy thought to himself that she was entitled to the privilege of handling the money, since she earned it all, besides supporting a vagrant husband; but he said nothing, for Silas was not a talkative man. "Whatever she does is entirely satisfactory to me," continued the model husband. "I never complain; indeed, I find much to admire. There is not another woman like her in the world, and it contains an awful lot of people." Mrs. Armsby appeared from the kitchen at this moment, and, greeting her husband pleasantly, really seemed charmed with his presence. While she was looking after his wants, he told her of his hunting that day; how he had made more double shots than any of his companions; how his dog had proved, for the hundredth time, that he was the very best in the country, as he had always contended; how tired and hungry he was, and how fortunate it was that there was no lodge that night, as in that event he would have to be present. His wife finally disappeared into the kitchen again, to arrange for the first meal of the next day, and Armsby said to Davy,— "Poor woman, she has so little to occupy her mind that she has gone into the kitchen to watch Jennie peel the potatoes. If business was not so dull—you say it is dull; I know nothing about it myself—I would hire a companion for her; someone to read to her, and walk about with her during the day. It's too bad." Unfortunately for the patrons of the Apron-and-Password, Armsby had been to New York; and though he had remained but two days, since his return he had pretended to a knowledge of the metropolis which was marvellous. When a New York man was mentioned, Armsby pretended to know him intimately, telling cheerful anecdotes of how their acquaintance began and ended. Whenever a New York institution was referred to, he was familiar with it, almost to intimacy; and a few of the Davy's Bend people amused themselves by inventing fictitious names and places in New York, and inducing Armsby to profess a knowledge of them, which he did with cheerful promptness. He never neglected an opportunity to talk about his trip, therefore when he put his chair back from the table, and engaged in quiet meditation, Silas felt sure he was about to introduce the subject in a new way; for Armsby was a very ingenious as well as a very lazy man. "You ought to wear the apron, Silas," Mr. Armsby said, looking at Silas with the greatest condescension and pity; "but it would be dreadful if your application should be greeted with the blacks. I don't recommend that you try it, mind, for that is not allowed, and the records will show that we lodge men have so much regard for principle that it has never been done; but it is something that everyone should think about, sooner or later. Only the very best men wear this emblem of greatness. But if you have faults, I should advise you not to run the risk of being humiliated, for the members are very particular. A lazy man, or a shiftless man, or a bad man of any kind, cannot get in; and when a man belongs to a lodge, it can be depended upon that he is as near right as they make them. This is the reason we must be particular in admitting new members. Reputation is at stake; for, once you are in, the others stand by you with their lives and their sacred honor. There's nothing like it." The landlord occupied himself a moment in pleasant thought of the lodges, in connection with their cheapness and general utility, and then continued, after smiling in a gratified way over his own importance in the lodge connection,— "When I first went to New York I became acquainted with the very best people immediately; for every man who wears the apron has confidence in every other man who wears it; each knows that the other has been selected from the masses with care, and they trust each other to the fullest extent. One day I went over into—" Armsby could not remember names, and he snapped his fingers now in vexation. "It is strange I am unable to name the town," he said; "I am as familiar with it as I am with my own stable. Well, no matter; anyway it is a big suburb, and you reach it by crossing the—" Again he stopped, and tried to recall the name of the bridge he had crossed, and the city he had visited, but to no avail; though he rapped his head soundly with his knuckles, for its bad behavior, and got up to walk up and down the room. "If I should forget your name, or Mrs. Armsby's, it would not be more remarkable," he continued, at last, giving up in despair. "I was brought up in sight of them; but what I started out to say was, that I walked into a bank one day, and the fine-looking man who was at the counter looked at me, at first, with the greatest suspicion, thinking I was a robber, no doubt, until I gave him a certain sign. You should have seen the change in his manner! He came through a little door at the side, and shaking hands with me in a certain way, known only to those on the inside, took me into a private office in the rear, where a number of other fine-looking gentlemen were seated around a table. "'President Judd,' he said to them, 'this gentleman wears the apron.' "All the elegant gentlemen were delighted to see me. It was not feigned, either, for it was genuine delight; and a controversy sprang up as to which of them should give his time to my entertainment while in the city, though I protested that I was so well acquainted that I could get along very well alone. But they insisted upon it, and when they began to quarrel rather fiercely about it, I gave them a sign (which reminded them of their pledge to be brothers), whereupon they were all good-natured at once, and one of them said,— "'Thank you for reminding us of our duty, brother; the best of us will occasionally forget. Will you do us the favor to pick out one of our number to show you about, and make your stay in the city pleasant?'" Davy noticed that Mrs. Armsby was listening at the kitchen door, though Armsby did not know it, for his back was turned toward her; but he did not mention the circumstance. "I liked the looks of Mr. Judd," Armsby continued, "so I said that if the other brothers would not take offence, I would like his company. The others said, 'Oh, not at all,' all of them making the sign to be brothers at the same time, and President Judd at once began arranging his business so he could go out with me, not neglecting to put a big roll of money in his pocket; and, though it was very big, the others said it wasn't half enough." Davy believed everything the people saw fit to tell him, and vouched for the truth of it when he repeated it himself, and was very much interested in what Armsby was saying. "Well, sir, when we went out, the sign was everything. You cannot imagine how potent it was. We made it when we wanted a carriage, and the driver regarded it as a favor to carry us for nothing; we made it when we were hungry, and it assured us the greatest attention at the hotels, which were nothing like this, but larger—very much larger." Davy gave evidence of genuine astonishment on learning that there were hotels larger than the "Apron and Password;" but as the proprietor himself had made the statement, he presumed it must be true, though it was certainly very astonishing. "I can't think of the name of it now, but they have a railroad in the second story of the street there, and instead of collecting fare, when the proprietors came around they put money in our outside pockets, thinking we might meet someone who was not a brother. Judd remained with me five days, taking me to his own residence at night, which was twice as big as The Locks, and when we finally parted, he loaded me down with presents, and shed tears. Next to the sign, the apron is the greatest thing in the world; I am sorry you do not wear it." Armsby wandered leisurely out into the office soon after, probably to smoke the cigars his wife kept there in a case for sale, when Mrs. Armsby came into the dining-room, and sat down, looking mortified and distressed. "Silas," she said, "don't believe a word Armsby has said to you, or ever will say, on this subject. Before he became a slave to this dreadful lodge habit, he was a truthful man, but you can't believe a word he says now. Do you know what they do at the lodges?" Davy shook his head, for of course no one except a member could know. "Let me tell you, then. They tie cooks' aprons around their waists, put fools' caps on their heads, and quarrel as to whether the hailing sign, or the aid sign, or whatever it is, is made by holding up one finger when the right thumb is touching the right ear, or whether it is two or three or four fingers. It is all about as ridiculous as this, and my advice to you is, never join. Armsby has been talking to you a good deal about the matter lately, and I suspect he wants the fun of initiating you, which is accompanied with all sorts of tricks, which gives them opportunity to make fun of you from behind their paper masks." Since it was impossible to believe both stories, Silas made up his mind to ask Tug's opinion,—Tug would know,—but he said nothing. "Some of them wear swords," Mrs. Armsby went on to say; "but, bless you, they can't draw them, and even if they should succeed in getting them out, they couldn't put them back in their scabbards again. Armsby came home one night wearing his sword, and in this very room he took it out to make a show of himself, and was so awkward with it that he broke half the dishes on the dresser, besides upsetting the lamp and wounding me on the hand. To complete his disgrace, he was compelled to ask me to put it in its case again; but I fear the lesson did the misguided man little good, for he has been as bad as ever since. But while these men might be pardoned for their foolishness if they remained in their halls, they are utterly unpardonable for disgracing their wives and friends by appearing on the street, which they occasionally do, dressed in more fantastic fashion than ever. If you should join, you would be expected to do this, and after one appearance you could never look a sensible person in the face again, unless you are lost to all sense of self-respect. Besides, it is expensive; my husband keeps me poor in attending grand lodges, and most of the failures are caused by neglecting business to talk lodge. My only fear is that my misguided husband will finally consider it his duty to kill somebody for telling about the signs and grips, and then we will all be disgraced. It is your misfortune as well as mine, Silas, that Armsby is not a drunkard. Drunkards are occasionally reformed, and are of some use in their sober intervals; but a lodge man never reforms. If a lodge man engages in business, he fails, for he does not attend to it; but a drinking man admits that he is doing wrong, and sometimes succeeds in his efforts to do better; whereas a lodge man argues all the time that his foolishness is good sense, and therefore don't try to get out of the way. Compared to me, Mrs. Whittle is a very fortunate woman." Mrs. Armsby got up at this and went out; and as Silas was preparing to follow, he heard a whistle which he recognized at once as Tug's. Whenever Tug had use for Silas early in the evening, he had a habit of whistling him out, since he never came into the hotel until his friend had possession. Silas at once put on his hat and went down to the wagon yard, where he found Tug impatiently waiting, who started off at a rapid swinging gait toward the lower end of the town and the river as soon as Silas caught sight of him. When the pair travelled, Davy always lagged behind, as he did in this instance; for in the presence of genius like Tug's, he felt that his place was in the rear. Others might doubt the ability or even the honesty of his friend, but Silas had no doubt that Tug would some day be a wonderful man, and prove that everything said to his discredit was untrue. It was a favorite saying of his that when he "came into his own," he would move about, with the magnificence of a circus procession, on the back of an elephant, with a brass band in front and a company of trumpeters behind; and Silas was content to wait. Tug occasionally illustrated this idea now as he walked along, by swinging and flinging his body about as those who ride on elephants do, and it occurred to Silas that "his own" must have arrived by boat, and that he was going after it; for he walked rapidly toward the river without looking around. Tug had not spoken a word since setting out, and after reaching the street which led down to the crazy collection of houses where he lived, he travelled down that way a while, and at last turned off toward the right, following the course of the river through alleys and back yards, and over fences and gaping sloughs, until at last he stopped near an old warehouse, which had been used a great many years before in storing freight arriving by the boats when the Bend was an important town. It was entirely deserted now, and as the two men stopped in its shadow, Tug gave his companion to understand that he must be very quiet and secret. After they had blown awhile, Tug began crawling around the building on his hands and knees, followed by his companion, occasionally raising his hand as a warning when they both stopped to listen. When Tug had reached the other end of the warehouse, he motioned Davy to come up to him; and when he did so this is what he saw:— A light skiff tied to the bank, with the oars laid across it, and a woman seated in the stern—the woman they had seen when they followed the shadow down the river, after its appearance at Allan Dorris's window. They were certain it was the same woman, because she wore a waterproof cloak, as she did on the night when they followed the shadow down the river, and she was very small. Her back was turned toward them, and she was motionless as a statue; and realizing that as her ears were covered with the waterproof she could not hear well, the two men arose to their feet after a careful inspection, and walked back to the other end of the building. "I intend to steal her," Tug whispered into his companion's ear, at the same time reaching down into Davy's pocket and taking out a handkerchief, which he arranged in his hand like a sling ready for use. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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