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Mystery of the Locks

<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2> <h3>RUINED BY KINDNESS.</h3> John Bill, editor of the Davy's Bend Triumph, was ruined by a railroad pass. When he taught school over in the bottoms, on the other side of the river, and was compelled to pay his fare when he travelled, he seldom travelled, and therefore put his money carefully away, but when he invested his savings in the Triumph, and the railroad company sent him an annual pass, he made up for lost time, and travelled up and down the road almost constantly, all his earnings being required to pay his expenses. A day seldom passed that John Bill did not get off or on a train at the Davy's Bend station, carrying an important looking satchel in his right hand, and an umbrella in his left, and though he imagined that this coming and going gave the people an idea of his importance, he was mistaken, for they knew he had no business out of the town, and very little in it: therefore they made fun of him, as they did of everything else, for the Davy's Bend people could appreciate the ridiculous in spite of their many misfortunes. They knew enough, else they could not have been such shrewd fault-finders, and they had rather extensive knowledge of everything worldly except a knowledge of the ways of Capital, which was always avoiding them; but this was not astonishing, since Capital had never lived among them and been subject to their keen scrutiny. When an event was advertised to take place on the line of road over which his pass was accepted, John Bill was sure to be present, for he argued that, in order to report the news correctly, he must be on the ground in person; but usually he remained away so long, and gave the subject in hand such thorough attention, that he concluded on his return that the people had heard of the proceedings, and did not write them up, though he frequently asserted with much earnestness that no editor in that country gave the news as much personal attention as he did. Still, John Bill claimed to be worth a good deal of money. There was no question at all, he frequently argued, that his business and goodwill were worth fifteen thousand dollars—any man would be willing to pay that for the Triumph and its goodwill, providing he had the money; therefore, deducting his debts, which amounted to a trifle of eleven hundred dollars on his material, in the shape of an encumbrance, and a floating indebtedness of half as much more, he was still worth a little more than thirteen thousand dollars. The people said that everything in his office was not worth half the amount of the encumbrance, and that his goodwill could not be very valuable, since his business did not pay its expenses; but John Bill could prove that the people had never treated him justly, therefore they were likely to misrepresent the facts in his case. There was a mortgage, as any one who cared to examine the records might convince himself, but it was a very respectable mortgage, and had been extended from time to time, as the office changed hands, for fifteen years past. It had been owned by all the best men in the neighborhood; but while a great many transfers were noted thereon, no credits appeared, so John Bill was no worse than the rest of them. The former parties of the first part had intended paying off the trifling amount in a few weeks, and thereby become free to act as they pleased; John Bill had the same intention concerning the document, therefore it was no great matter after all. Besides, there were the accounts. He had a book full of them, and was always showing it to those who bothered him for money. The accounts were all against good men; a little slow, perhaps, but good, nevertheless, and the accounts should be figured in an estimate of John Bill's affairs, which would add a few thousands more to the total. It was a little curious, though, that most of the men whose names appeared on John Bill's ledger had accounts against John Bill, and while he frequently turned to their page and showed their balances, they also turned to John Bill's page in their ledgers, and remarked that there was no getting anything out of him. Thompson Benton had been heard to say that each of these men were afraid to present their bills first, fearing that the others would create a larger one; so the accounts ran on from year to year. But whoever was in the right, it is certain that the accounts were a great comfort to John Bill, for he frequently looked them over as a miser might count his money. John Bill was certain the people of Davy's Bend were ungrateful. He had helped them and their town in a thousand ways, and spent his time (or that part of it not devoted to using his pass) in befriending them; but did they appreciate him? They did not; this may be set down as certain, for if the editor had put them in the way of making money, they were thoroughly ungrateful. Indeed, the people went so far as to declare that John Bill was the ungrateful one, nor were they backward in saying so. They had taken his paper, and helped him in every way possible, but he did not appreciate it; so they accused each other, and a very uncomfortable time they had of it. But though John Bill claimed to be always helping the people, and though the people claimed that they had done a great deal for John Bill, the facts were that neither John Bill nor the people gave substantial evidence of any very great exertions in each other's behalf, so there must have been a dreadful mistake out somewhere. Likewise, they quarrelled as to which had tried to bring the greater number of institutions to the town; but as to the institutions actually secured, there were none to quarrel over, so there was peace in this direction. John Bill frequently came to the conclusion that his wrongs must be righted; that he must call names, and dot his i's and cross his t's, even to pointing out to the world wherein he had been wronged. He could stand systematic persecution no longer, he said, so he would fill his ink-bottle, and secure a fresh supply of paper, with a view of holding up to public scorn those who had trampled him in the dust of the street. But it was a bold undertaking; a stouter heart than John Bill's would have shrunk from attacking a people with a defence as sound as the Davy's Bend folks could have made, so he usually compromised by writing paid locals about the men he had intended to accuse of ingratitude, referring to them as generous, warm-hearted men, who were creditable to humanity, all of which he added to the accounts at the rate of eight cents per line of seven words. John Bill was so situated that he did little else than write paid locals, though he usually found time once a week to write imaginary descriptions of the rapid increase in circulation his paper was experiencing. He had discovered somehow that men who would pay for nothing else would pay for being referred to as citizens of rare accomplishments, and as gentlemen whose business ability was such that their competitors were constantly howling in rage; and it became necessary to use this knowledge to obtain the bare necessities of life. The very men who declared that John Bill could have no more goods at their stores until old scores were squared would soften under the influence of the puff, and honor his "orders" when in the hands of either of the two young men who did his work. Perhaps this was one reason the Triumph was on all sides of every question. Whoever saw fit to write for it had his communication printed as original editorial; for the editor was seldom at home, and when he was, he found his time taken up in earning his bread by writing palatable falsehoods; therefore all the contributions went in, and as correspondents seldom agree, the Triumph was a remarkable publication. Whenever a citizen had a grievance, he aired it in the Triumph, his contribution appearing as the opinion of the editor. The person attacked replied in like manner; hence John Bill was usually in the attitude of fiercely declaring No one week, and Yes with equal determination the next. It was so on all subjects; politics, religion, local matters—everything. The Republican who aired his views one week in John Bill's remarkable editorial columns was sure to find himself confronted by a Democrat who was handy with a pen in the next issue; the man who wrote that This, or That, or the Other, was a disgrace, would soon find out that This, or That, or the Other, were very creditable; for John Bill's printers must have copy, and John Bill was too busy travelling and lying to furnish it himself. Having returned home on the night train, John Bill climbed the stairway at the head of which his office was situated, and was engaged in preparing for his next issue. Although he felt sure that a large amount of important mail matter had arrived during his absence, it could not be found; and therefore the editor was in rather bad humor, as he produced a list of paid notices to be written, and made lazy preparation for writing them. The editor was always expecting important mail matter, and because it never came he almost concluded that the postmaster was in the intrigue against him. While thinking that he would include that official in the exposé he felt it his duty to write at some time in the future, a knock came at the door. He had heard no step ascending the stair, therefore he concluded it must be one of his young men; probably the pale one, who was wasting his life in chewing plug tobacco, and squirting it around in puddles, in order that he might realize on a joke which he had perpetrated by printing a sign in huge letters, requesting visitors not to spit on the floor. In response to his invitation a tall gentleman came in,—a stranger, dressed in a suit of black material that gave him the appearance of being much on the road, for it was untidy and unkempt. He looked a good deal like a genteel man who had been lately engaged in rough work, and John Bill noticed that he kept his left side turned from him. The stranger's hair, as well as his moustache and goatee, were bushy, and sprinkled with gray; and he had a rather peculiar pair of eyes, which he used to such an advantage that he seemed to remark everything in the room at a single glance. An odd man, John Bill thought; a man who might turn out to be anything surprising; so he looked at him curiously quite a long time. "You are Mr. Bill?" the stranger asked, after the two men had looked each other over to their joint satisfaction. The editor acknowledged his name by an inclination of the head, at the same time offering a chair. "I came in on the night train," the tall man said, seating himself with the left side of his face toward the door at which he had entered; "therefore I call upon you at this unseasonable hour to make a few inquiries with reference to your place. It is not probable that I shall become an advertiser, or a patron of any kind; but I think you may depend on it that I will shortly furnish you with an item of news. I have read your editorial paragraphs with a good deal of interest, and concluded that you could give me the information desired." John Bill expressed a wish to himself that the stranger would never find out that he did not write the editorials he professed to admire; but there was a possibility that his visitor was not sincere. He had said that he came to the town on the night train. John Bill knew this to be untrue, for he had been a passenger on that train himself, and no one else got off when he did. He was glad, however, that the determined-looking visitor did not bring a folded copy of the Triumph with him for convenience in referring to an objectionable paragraph; for John Bill felt sure that such a man as the stranger looked to be would not go away without satisfaction of some kind. He was bothered a good deal in this way, by reason of his rather peculiar way of conducting the Triumph; but questions with reference to Davy's Bend,—he could answer them easy enough. But he did not contradict the statement of his visitor concerning the time he arrived in town, for he did not look like a man who would take kindly to a thing of that sort; so the editor meekly said he would be pleased to give him any information in his power. "I will inquire first about the man calling himself—Allan Dorris," the stranger continued, consulting a book which he took from his pocket, and pausing a little before pronouncing the name, "and I ask that this conversation be in confidence. How long has this fellow been here?" The tall stranger put up his book, and looked at the responsible head of the Triumph, as though he would intimate that his displeasure would be serious should his instructions be neglected. "This is October," Mr. Bill replied, counting on his fingers. "He came in the spring, some time; probably six months ago. I do not know him personally. He is a doctor, and lives in a place called 'The Locks,' on the edge of the town, in this direction," pointing his finger toward the stone church, and the house in which Allan Dorris lived. "That's about all I know of him." The peculiar pair of eyes owned by the odd man followed the direction pointed out for a moment, and then settled on John Bill again. "I have heard that he has a love affair with a young woman named—Annie Benton," the visitor said with business precision, once more consulting his book, and pausing before pronouncing the name, as he had done before. "What do you know about that?" "I have heard something of it," the editor replied, "but nothing in particular; only that he is with her a great deal, and that he meets her usually in a church near his house. The people talk about it, but I am too busy to pay much attention to such matters." John Bill was trying to create the impression that he was kept busy in writing the sparkling editorials which the stranger had pretended to admire, but thinking at the last moment that his travelling was his credit, he added, with a modest cough: "Besides, I travel a good deal." But this was not the first time John Bill had tried to create a wrong impression. He foolishly imagined that, being an editor, he was expected to know more than other people; but as he did not, he frequently filled his mind with old dates, and names, and events, by reading of them, and then talked of the subject to others, pretending that it had just occurred to him, and usually adding a word or two concerning the popular ignorance. If he encountered a word which he did not know the meaning of, he looked it up, and used it a great deal after that, usually in connection with arguments to prove that the average man did not understand the commonest words in his language. Nor was this all; John Bill was a deceiver in another particular. He frequently intimated in the Triumph that if he were a rich man he would spend his money liberally in "helping the town;" that is, in mending the streets and sidewalks, and in building manufactories which would give employment to "labor." John Bill was certainly a deceiver in this, for there never was a poor man who did not find fault with the well-to-do for taking care of their means. The men who have no money of their own claim to know exactly how money should be invested, but somehow the men who have money entertain entirely different ideas on the subject. Upon invitation the editor told of old Thompson Benton and his disposition; of the beauty of his daughter, and of her talent as a musician; of Allan Dorris's disposition, which seemed to be sour one day, and sweet the next, and so on; all of which the stranger noted in his book, occasionally making an inquiry as the narrative of the town's gossip progressed. When this was concluded, the book in which the notes were made was carefully put away, and the stranger backed toward the door, still keeping his left side in the shadow, first leaving a ten-dollar note on the editorial table. "I shall need your services soon," he said, "and I make a small payment in advance to bind the bargain. When the time comes you will know it. Your business then will be to forget this interview. You are also to say nothing about it until you receive the warning to forget. I bid you good-night." So saying the stranger was gone, retreating down the stairway so lightly that his footsteps could not be heard. A rather remarkable circumstance, the editor thought; a visit at such an hour from a mysterious man who inquired minutely about a citizen who was almost as much of a mystery as the visitor himself; and when he heard a step on the stair again, he concluded that the stranger had forgotten something, and was coming back, so he opened the door, only to meet Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, who carried a sealed envelope in her hand. John Bill did not like Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, very well; for she had a habit of saying that "her work" was all the advertising she needed, referring to the circumstance that she had become the town busybody in her attempts to reform the people; but he received her politely, and thought to himself that when his sensation finally appeared it would refer to this party as fluffy, fat, and beardy. Mrs. Whittle had a good deal to say concerning the careless, good-natured wickedness of the people, and the people had a good deal to say about Mrs. Whittle. One thing they said was, that while she was always coaxing those who were doing very well to become better, she was shamefully neglecting her own blood in the person of little Ben Whittle, her only child, who was being worked to death by the farmer named Quade, in whose employ he was. This unfortunate child had not seen his mother for years, and was really sick, distressed, ragged, and dirty; but while Mrs. Whittle imagined that he was doing very well, and felt quite easy concerning him, she could not sleep at night from worrying over the fear that other children, blessed with indulgent parents and good homes, were growing up in wickedness. Her husband was a drunkard and a loafer, but Mrs. Whittle had no time to bother about him; there were men in the town so thoroughly debased as to remain at home, and rest on Sunday, instead of going to church, and to this unfortunate class she devoted her life. She frequently took credit to herself that the best citizens of Davy's Bend were not in jail, and believed that they would finally acknowledge their debt to her; but of her unfortunate son and her vagrant husband she never thought at all; so John Bill could not very well be blamed for disliking her. "I heard you would return to-night," the good woman said, panting from her exertion in climbing the stairs, "and I wanted to deliver this with my own hands, which is my excuse for coming at this late hour, though I don't suppose that any one would doubt that I came on a good errand, even if they had seen me coming up. Bless me, what a hard stair you have!" John Bill took the envelope, and, after tearing it open, hung the note it contained on an empty hook within reach of his hand, without looking at it. Meanwhile Mrs. Whittle continued to pant, and look good. "It refers to Allan Dorris's affair with Annie Benton," she said, recovering her breath at last. "Something should be done, and I don't know who else is to do it. The people all mean well enough, and they are good enough people as a rule; but when there is good to be accomplished, I usually find it is not accomplished unless I take an interest in it. No one knows better than John Bill that I do not suspect people, and am always inclined to believe good of them, but there is something wrong about this Allan Dorris. Mr. Ponsonboy and Mr. Wilton say so, and you know they are very careful of what they say." John Bill had heard that statement questioned, and he mentally added their names to his black list. Two greater talking old women never wore pants, John Bill had heard said, than Messrs. Ponsonboy and Wilton, and when he got at it he would skin them with the others. "Better men than Mr. Ponsonboy and Mr. Wilton never lived," Mrs. Whittle said, "and I have concluded to write a hint which Annie Benton as well as Allan Dorris will understand. If nothing comes of it, I will try something else. I am not easily discouraged, Mr. Bill; I would have given up long ago if I were." Mrs. Whittle found it necessary to pause for another rest, and the editor took opportunity to make mental note of the fact (for use in the coming exposure) that she was dressed in the most execrable taste; that her clothes seemed to have been thrown at her from a miscellaneous assortment, without regard to color, material, or shape, and that she had not taken the trouble to arrange them. John Bill felt certain that when the people were buying copies of his paper to burn, they would read that Mrs. Whittle was in need of the refining influences of a dress-maker. "You are a good man at heart, Mr. Bill," Mrs. Whittle said again, which was an expression the editor had heard before, for he was always being told that he was a better man than he appeared to be, though he knew a great many people who were not better than they appeared to be. "I know you are, and that you do not mean all the bad things you say sometimes. I know you will help me in doing good, for it is so important that good should be done. When I think of the wickedness around me, and the work that is to be done, I almost faint at the prospect, but I only hope that my strength may enable me to hold out to the end. I pray that I may be spared until this is a better world." Mr. Bill promised to find a place in his crowded columns for the good woman's contribution, and she went away, with a sigh for the general wickedness. "The world will be better off for that sigh," John Bill said, as he settled down in his chair, and heard Mrs. Whittle step off the stair into the street. "What we need is more sighing and less work. There is no lack of workers; in fact, the country is too full of them for comfort, but there is a painful lack of good people to sigh. The first one who called to-night on Allan Dorris business looked like a worker; a worker-off, I may say. This Dorris is becoming important of late. I must make his acquaintance. Hello! Another!" The owner of the legs that were climbing the stairway this time turned out to be Silas Davy, who came in and handed John Bill a piece of paper. It proved to be a brief note, which read,— <blockquote>"To John Bill,—If the party who has just left your office left a communication concerning Allan Dorris, I speak for the privilege of answering it. "Tug Whittle." </blockquote> John Bill read the note several times over after Silas had disappeared, and finally getting up from his chair, said,— "I'll write no more to-night; there may be interesting developments in the morning." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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