Dick's Christmas Stocking
Whistling Dick's Christmas Stocking, by O. Henry [pen name of
William Sidney Porter (1862-1910); this story appeared in the collection,
Roads of Destiny, 1909]
It was with much caution that Whistling Dick slid back the door of the box-car,
for Article 5716, City Ordinances, authorized (perhaps unconstitutionally)
arrest on suspicion, and he was familiar of old with this ordinance. So,
before climbing out, he surveyed the field with all the care of a good general.
He saw no change since his last visit to this big, almsgiving, long-suffering
city of the South, the cold weather paradise of the tramps. The levee where
his freight-car stood was pimpled with dark bulks of merchandise. The breeze
reeked with the well-remembered, sickening smell of the old tarpaulins that
covered bales and barrels. The dun river slipped along among the shipping
with an oily gurgle. Far down toward Chalmette he could see the great bend
in the stream, outlined by the row of electric lights. Across the river
Algiers lay, a long, irregular blot, made darker by the dawn which lightened
the sky beyond. An industrious tug or two, coming for some early sailing
ship, gave a few appalling toots, that seemed to be the signal for breaking
day. The Italian luggers were creeping nearer their landing, laden with
early vegetables and shellfish. A vague roar, subterranean in quality, from
dray wheels and street cars, began to make itself heard and felt; and the
ferryboats, the Mary Anns of water craft, stirred sullenly to their menial
Whistling Dick's red head popped suddenly back into the car. A sight too
imposing and magnificent for his gaze had been added to the scene. A vast,
incomparable policeman rounded a pile of rice sacks and stood within twenty
yards of the car. The daily miracle of the dawn, now being performed above
Algiers, received the flattering attention of this specimen of municipal
official splendor. He gazed with unbiased dignity at the faintly glowing
colors until, at last, he turned to them his broad back, as if convinced
that legal interference was not needed, and the sunrise might proceed unchecked.
So he turned his face to the rice bags, and, drawing a flat flask from an
inside pocket, he placed it to his lips and regarded the firmament.
Whistling Dick, professional tramp, possessed a half-friendly acquaintance
with this officer. They had met several times before on the levee at night,
for the officer, himself a lover of music, had been attracted by the exquisite
whistling of the shiftless vagabond. Still, he did not care, under the present
circumstances, to renew the acquaintance. There is a difference between
meeting a policeman upon a lonely wharf and whistling a few operatic airs
with him, and being caught by him crawling out of a freight-car. So Dick
waited, as even a New Orleans policeman must move on some time--perhaps
it is a retributive law of nature--and before long "Big Fritz"
majestically disappeared between the trains of cars.
Whistling Dick waited as long as his judgment advised, and then slid swiftly
to the ground. Assuming as far as possible the air of an honest laborer
who seeks his daily toil, he moved across the network of railway lines,
with the intention of making his way by quiet Girod Street to a certain
bench in Lafayette Square, where, according to appointment, he hoped to
rejoin a pal known as "Slick," this adventurous pilgrim having
preceded him by one day in a cattle-car into which a loose slat had enticed
As Whistling Dick picked his way where night still lingered among the big,
reeking, musty warehouses, he gave way to the habit that had won for him
his title. Subdued, yet clear, with each note as true and liquid as a bobolink's,
his whistle tinkled about the dim, cold mountains of brick like drops of
rain falling into a hidden pool. He followed an air, but it swam mistily
into a swirling current of improvisation. You could cull out the trill of
mountain brooks, the staccato of green rushes shivering above the chilly
lagoons, the pipe of sleepy birds.
Rounding a corner, the whistler collided with a mountain of blue and brass.
"So," observed the mountain calmly, "you are already pack.
Und dere vill not pe frost before two veeks yet! Und you haf forgotten how
to vistle. Dere was a valse note in dot last bar."
"Watcher know about it?" said Whistling Dick, with tentative familiarity;
"you wit yer little Gherman-band nixcumrous chunes. Watcher know about
music? Pick yer ears, and listen agin. Here's de way I whistled it--see?"
He puckered his lips, but the big policeman held up his hand.
"Shtop," he said, "und learn der right way. Und learn also
dot a rolling shtone can't vistle for a cent."
Big Fritz's heavy moustache rounded into a circle, and from its depths came
a sound deep and mellow as that from a flute. He repeated a few bars of
the air the tramp had been whistling. The rendition was cold, but correct,
and he emphasized the note he had taken exception to.
"Dot p is p natural, and not p vlat. Py der vay, you petter pe glad
I meet you. Von hour later, und I vould haf to put you in a gage to vistle
mit der chail pirds. Der orders are to bull all der pums after sunrise."
"To bull der pums--eferybody mitout fisible means. Dirty days is der
price, or fifteen tollars."
"Is dat straight, or a game you givin' me?"
"It's der pest tip you efer had. I gif it to you pecause I pelief you
are not so bad as der rest. Und pecause you can vistle 'Der Freischütz'
bezzer dan I myself gan. Don't run against any more bolicemans aroundt der
corners, but go away from town a few tays. Goot-pye."
So Madame Orleans had at last grown weary of the strange and ruffled brood
that came yearly to nestle beneath her charitable pinions.
After the big policeman had departed, Whistling Dick stood for an irresolute
minute, feeling all the outraged indignation of a delinquent tenant who
is ordered to vacate his premises. He had pictured to himself a day of dreamful
ease when he should have joined his pal; a day of lounging on the wharf,
munching the bananas and cocoanuts scattered in unloading the fruit steamers;
and then a feast along the free-lunch counters from which the easy-going
owners were too good-natured or too generous to drive him away, and afterward
a pipe in one of the little flowery parks and a snooze in some shady corner
of the wharf. But here was a stern order to exile, and one that he knew
must be obeyed. So, with a wary eye open for the gleam of brass buttons,
he began his retreat toward a rural refuge. A few days in the country need
not necessarily prove disastrous. Beyond the possibility of a slight nip
of frost, there was no formidable evil to be looked for.
However, it was with a depressed spirit that Whistling Dick passed the old
French market on his chosen route down the river. For safety's sake he still
presented to the world his portrayal of the part of the worthy artisan on
his way to labor. A stall-keeper in the market, undeceived, hailed him by
the generic name of his ilk, and "Jack" halted, taken by surprise.
The vendor, melted by this proof of his own acuteness, bestowed a foot of
Frankfurter and half a loaf, and thus the problem of breakfast was solved.
When the streets, from topographical reasons, began to shun the river bank
the exile mounted to the top of the levee, and on its well-trodden path
pursued his way. The suburban eye regarded him with cold suspicion, individuals
reflected the stern spirit of the city's heartless edict. He missed the
seclusion of the crowded town and the safety he could always find in the
At Chalmette, six miles upon his desultory way, there suddenly menaced him
a vast and bewildering industry. A new port was being established; the dock
was being built, compresses were going up; picks and shovels and harrows
struck at him like serpents from every side. An arrogant foreman bore down
upon him, estimating his muscles with the eye of a recruiting-sergeant.
Brown men and black men all about him were toiling away. He fled in terror.
By noon he had reached the country of the plantations, the great, sad, silent
levels bordering the mighty river. He overlooked fields of sugarcane so
vast that their farthest limits melted into the sky. The sugar-making season
was well advanced, and the cutters were at work; the wagons creaked drearily
after them; the Negro teamsters inspired the mules to greater speed with
mellow and sonorous imprecations. Dark-green groves, blurred by the blue
of distance, showed where the plantation-houses stood. The tall chimneys
of the sugar-mills caught the eye miles distant, like lighthouses at sea.
At a certain point Whistling Dick's unerring nose caught the scent of frying
fish. Like a pointer to a quail, he made his way down the levee side straight
to the camp of a credulous and ancient fisherman, whom he charmed with song
and story, so that he dined like an admiral, and then like a philosopher
annihilated the worst three hours of the day by a nap under the trees.
When he awoke and again continued his hegira, a frosty sparkle in the air
succeeded the drowsy warmth of the day, and as this portent of a chilly
night translated itself to the brain of Sir Peregrine, he lengthened his
stride and bethought him of shelter. He traveled a road that faithfully
followed the convolutions of the levee, running along its base, but whither
he knew not. Bushes and rank grass crowded it to the wheel ruts, and out
of this ambuscade the pests of the lowlands swarmed after him, humming a
keen vicious soprano. And as the night grew nearer, although colder, the
whine of the mosquitoes became a greedy, petulant snarl that shut out all
other sounds. To his right, against the heavens, he saw a green light moving,
and, accompanying it, the masts and funnels of a big incoming steamer, moving
as upon a screen at a magic-lantern show. And there were mysterious marshes
at his left, out of which came queer gurgling cries and a choked croaking.
The whistling vagrant struck up a merry warble to offset these melancholy
influences, and it is likely that never before, since Pan himself jiggered
it on his reeds, had such sounds been heard in those depressing solitudes.
A distant clatter in the rear quickly developed into the swift beat of horses'
hoofs, and Whistling Dick stepped aside into the dew-wet grass to clear
the track. Turning his head, he saw approaching a fine team of stylish grays
drawing a double surrey. A stout man with a white moustache occupied the
front seat, giving all his attention to the rigid lines in his hands. Behind
him sat a placid, middle-aged lady and a brilliant-looking girl hardly arrived
at young ladyhood. The lap-robe had slipped partly from the knees of the
gentleman driving, and Whistling Dick saw two stout canvas bags between
his feet--bags such as, while loafing in cities, he had seen warily transferred
between express wagons and bank doors. The remaining space in the vehicle
was filled with parcels of various sizes and shapes.
As the surrey swept even with the sidetracked tramp, the bright-eyed girl,
seized by some merry, madcap impulse, leaned out toward him with a sweet,
dazzling smile, and
cried, "Mer-ry Christ-mas!" in a shrill, plaintive treble.
Such a thing had not often happened to Whistling Dick, and he felt handicapped
in devising the correct response. But lacking time for reflection, he let
his nstinct decide, and snatching off his battered derby, he rapidly extended
it at arm's length, and drew it back with a continuous motion, and shouted
a loud, but ceremonious, "Ah, there!" after the flying surrey.
The sudden movement of the girl had caused one of the parcels to become
unwrapped, and something limp and black fell from it into the road. The
tramp picked it up and found it to be a new black silk stocking, long and
fine and slender. It crunched crisply, and yet with a luxurious softness,
between his fingers.
"Ther bloomin' little skeezicks!" said Whistling Dick, with a
broad grin bisecting his freckled face. "Wot d'yer think of dat, now!
Mer-ry Chris-mus! Sounded like a cuckoo clock, dat's what she did. Dem guys
is swells, too, bet yer life, an' der old 'un stacks dem sacks of dough
down under his trotters like dey was common as dried apples. Been shoppin'
fer Chrismus, and de kid's lost one of her new socks w'ot she was goin'
to hold up Santy wid. De bloomin' little skeezicks! Wit' her 'Mer-ry Chris-mus!'
W'ot 'd yer t'ink! Same as to say, Hello, Jack, how goes it?' and as swell
as Fift' Av'noo, and as easy as a blowout in Cincinnat'."
Whistling Dick folded the stocking carefully and stuffed it into his pocket.
It was nearly two hours later when he came upon signs of habitation. The
buildings of an extensive plantation were brought into view by a turn in
the road. He easily selected the planter's residence in a large square building
with two wings, with numerous good-sized, well-lighted windows, and broad
verandas running around its full extent. It was set upon a smooth lawn,
which was faintly lit by the far-reaching rays of the lamps within. A noble
grove surrounded it, and old-fashioned shrubbery grew thickly about the
walls and fences. The quarters of the hands and the mill buildings were
situated at a distance in the rear.
The road was now enclosed on each side by a fence, and presently, as Whistling
Dick drew nearer the houses, he suddenly stopped and sniffed the air.
"If dere ain't a hobo stew cookin' somewhere in dis immediate precinct,"
he said to himself, "me nose has quit tellin' de trut'."
Without hesitation he climbed the fence to windward. He found himself in
an apparently disused lot, where piles of old bricks were stacked, and rejected,
decaying lumber. In a corner he saw the faint glow of a fire that had become
little more than a bed of living coals, and he thought he could see some
dim human forms sitting or lying about it. He drew nearer, and by the light
of a little blaze that suddenly flared up he saw plainly the fat figure
of a ragged man in an old brown sweater and cap.
"Dat man," said Whistling Dick to himself softly, "is a dead
ringer for Boston Harry. I'll try him wit' de high sign."
He whistled one or two bars of a rag-time melody, and the air was immediately
taken up, and then quickly endedwith a peculiar run. The first whistler
walked confidently up to the fire. The fat man looked up and spake in a
loud, asthmatic wheeze:
"Gents, the unexpected but welcome addition to our circle is Mr. Whistling
Dick, an old friend of mine for whom I fully vouches. The waiter will lay
another cover at once. Mr. W. D. will join us at supper, during which function
he will enlighten us in regard to the circumstances that give us the pleasure
of his company."
"Chewin' de stuffin' out'n de dictionary, as usual, Boston," said
Whistling Dick; "but t'anks all de same for de invitashun. I guess
I finds self here about de same way as yous guys. A cop gimme de tip dis
mornin'. Yous workin' on dis farm?"
"A guest," said Boston sternly, "shouldn't never insult his
entertainers until he's filled up wid grub. 'Tain't good business sense.
Workin'!--but I will restrain myself. We five--me, Deaf Pete, Blinky, Goggles,
and Indiana Tom--got put on to this scheme of Noo Orleans to work visiting
gentlemen upon her dirty streets, and we hit the road last evening just
as the tender hues of twilight had flopped down upon the daisies and things.
Blinky, pass the empty oyster-can at your left to the empty gentleman at
For the next ten minutes the gang of roadsters paid their undivided attention
to the supper. In an old five-gallon kerosene can they had cooked a stew
of potatoes, meat, and onions which they partook of from smaller cans they
had found scattered about the vacant lot.
Whistling Dick had known Boston Harry of old, and knew him to be one of
the shrewdest and most successful of his brotherhood. He looked like a prosperous
stock-drover or a solid merchant from some country village. He was stout
and hale, with a ruddy, always smoothly shaven face. His clothes were strong
and neat, and he gave special attention to his decent-appearing shoes. During
the past ten years he had acquired a reputation for working a larger number
of successfully managed confidence games than any of his acquaintances,
and he had not a day's work to be counted against him. It was rumored among
his associates that he had saved a considerable amount of money. The four
other men were fair specimens of the slinking, ill-clad, noisome genus who
carried their labels of "suspicious" in plain view.
After the bottom of the large can had been scraped, and pipes lit at the
coals, two of the men called Boston aside and spake with him lowly and mysteriously.
He nodded decisively, and then said aloud to Whistling Dick:
"Listen, sonny, to some plain talky-talk. We five are on a lay. I've
guaranteed you to be square, and you're to come in on the profits equal
with the boys, and you've got to help. Two hundred hands on this plantation
are expecting to be paid a week's wages to-morrow morning. Tomorrow's Christmas,
and they want to lay off. Says the boss: 'Work from five to nine in the
morning to get a train load of sugar off, and I'll pay every man cash down
for the week and a day extra.' They say: 'Hooray for the boss! It goes.'
He drives to Noo Orleans to-day, and fetches back the cold dollars. Two
thousand and seventy-four fifty is the amount. I got the figures from a
man who talks too much, who got 'em from the bookkeeper. The boss of this
plantation thinks he's going to pay this wealth to the hands. He's got it
down wrong; he's going to pay it to us. It's going to stay in the leisure
class, where it belongs. Now, half of this haul goes to me, and the other
half the rest of you may divide. Why the difference? I represent the brains.
It's my scheme. Here's the way we're going to get it. There's some company
at supper in the house, but they'll leave about nine. They've just happened
in for an hour or so. If they don't go pretty soon, we'll work the scheme
anyhow. We want all night to get away good with the dollars. They're heavy.
About nine o'clock Dear Pete and Blinky'll go down the road about a quarter
beyond the house, and set fire to a big cane-field there that the cutters
haven't touched yet. The wind's just right to have it roaring in two minutes.
The alarm'll be given, and every man Jack about the place will be down there
in ten minutes, fighting fire. That'll leave the money sacks and the women
alone in the house for us to handle. You've heard cane burn? Well, there's
mighty few women can screech loud enough to be heard above its crackling.
The thing's dead safe. The only danger is in being caught before we can
get far enough away with the money. Now, if you--"
"Boston," interrupted Whistling Dick, rising to his feet, "t'anks
for de grub yous fellers has given me, but I'll be movin' on now."
"What do you mean?" asked Boston, also rising.
"W'y, you can count me outer dis deal. You oughter know that. I'm on
de bum all right enough, but dat other t'ing don't go wit' me. Burglary
is no good. I'll say good night and many t'anks fer--"
Whistling Dick had moved away a few steps as he spoke, but he stopped very
suddenly. Boston had covered him with a short revolver of roomy calibre.
"Take your seat," said the tramp leader. "I'd feel mighty
proud of myself if I let you go and spoil the game. You'll stick right in
this camp until we finish the job. The end of that brick pile is your limit.
You go two inches beyond that, and I'll have to shoot. Better take it easy,
"It's my way of doin'," said Whistling Dick. "Easy goes.
You can depress de muzzle of dat twelve-incher, and run 'em back on de trucks.
I remains, as de newspapers says, 'in yer midst.'"
"All right," said Boston, lowering his piece, as the other returned
and took his seat again on a projecting plank in a pile of timber. "Don't
try to leave; that's all. I wouldn't miss this chance even if I had to shoot
an old acquaintance to make it go. I don't want to hurt anybody specially,
but this thousand dollars I'm going to get will fix me for fair. I'm going
to drop the road, and start a saloon in a little town I know about. I'm
tired of being kicked around."
Boston Harry took from his pocket a cheap silver watch and held it near
"It's a quarter to nine," he said. "Pete, you and Blinky
start. Go down the road past the house and fire the cane in a dozen places.
Then strike for the levee, and come back on it, instead of the road, so
you won't meet anybody. By the time you get back the men will all be striking
out for the fire, and we'll break for the house and collar the dollars.
Everybody cough up what matches he's got."
The two surly tramps made a collection of all the matches in the party,
Whistling Dick contributing his quota with propitiatory alacrity, and then
they departed in the dim starlight in the direction of the road.
Of the three remaining vagrants, two, Goggles and Indiana Tom, reclined
lazily upon convenient lumber and regarded Whistling Dick with undisguised
disfavor. Boston, observing that the dissenting recruit was disposed to
remain peaceably, relaxed a little of his vigilance. Whistling Dick arose
presently and strolled leisurely up and down keeping carefully within the
territory assigned him.
"Dis planter chap," he said, pausing before Boston Harry, "w'ot
makes yer t'ink he's got de tin in de house wit' 'im?"
"I'm advised of the facts in the case," said Boston. "He
drove to Noo Orleans and got it, I say, to-day. Want to change your mind
now and come in?"
"Naw, I was just askin'. Wot kind o' team did de boss drive?"
"Pair of grays."
"Women folks along?"
"Wife and kid. Say, what morning paper are you trying to pump news
"I was just conversin' to pass de time away. I guess dat team passed
me in de road dis evenin'. Dat's all."
As Whistling Dick put his hands into his pockets and continued his curtailed
beat up and down by the fire, he felt the silk stocking he had picked up
in the road.
"Ther bloomin' little skeezicks," he muttered, with a grin.
As he walked up and down he could see, through a sort of natural opening
or lane among the trees, the planter's residence some seventy-five yards
distant. The side of the house toward him exhibited spacious, well-lighted
windows through which a soft radiance streamed, illuminating the broad veranda
and some extent of the lawn beneath.
"What's that you said?" asked Boston, sharply.
"Oh, nuttin' 't all," said Whistling Dick, lounging carelessly,
and kicking meditatively at a little stone on the ground.
"Just as easy," continued the warbling vagrant softly to himself,
"an' sociable an' swell, an' sassy, wit' her 'Mer-ry Chris-mus.' Wot
d'yer t'ink, now!"
Dinner, two hours late, was being served in the Bellemeade plantation dining-room.
The dining-room and all its appurtenances spoke of an old r´gime that
was here continued rather than suggested to the memory. The plate was rich
to the extent that its age and quaintness alone saved it from being showy;
there were interesting names signed in the corners of the pictures on the
walls; the viands were of the kind that bring a shine into the eyes of gourmets.
The service was swift, silent, lavish, as in the days when the waiters were
assets like the plate. The names by which the planter's family and their
visitors addressed one another were historic in the annals of two nations.
Their manners and conversation had that most difficult kind of ease--the
kind that still preserves punctilio. The planter himself seemed to be the
dynamo that generated the larger portion of the gaiety and wit. The younger
ones at the board found it more than difficult to turn back on him his guns
of raillery and banter. It is true, the young men attempted to storm his
works repeatedly, incited by the hope of gaining the approbation of their
fair companions; but even when they sped a well-aimed shaft, the planter
forced them to feel defeat by the tremendous discomfiting thunder of the
laughter with which he accompanied his retorts. At the head of the table,
serene, matronly, benevolent, reigned the mistress of the house, placing
here and there the right smile, the right word, the encouraging glance.
The talk of the party was too desultory, too evanescent to follow, but at
last they came to the subject of the tramp nuisance, one that had of late
vexed the plantations for many miles around. The planter seized the occasion
to direct his good-natured fire of raillery at the mistress, accusing her
of encouraging the plague. "They swarm up and down the river every
winter," he said. "They overrun New Orleans, and we catch the
surplus, which is generally the worst part. And, a day or two ago, Madame
New Orleans, suddenly discovering that she can't go shopping without brushing
against great rows of the vagabonds sunning themselves on the banquettes,
says to the police: 'Catch 'em all,' and the police catch a dozen or two,
and the remaining three or four thousand overflow up and down the levees,
and madame there"--pointing tragically with the carving-knife at her--"feeds
them. They won't work, they defy my overseers, and they make friends with
my dogs; and you, madame, feed them before my eyes, and intimidate me when
I would interfere. Tell us, please, how many to-day did you thus incite
to future laziness and depredation?"
"Six, I think," said madame, with a reflective smile; "but
you know two of them offered to work, for you heard them yourself."
The planter's disconcerting laugh rang out again.
"Yes, at their own trades. And one was an artificial-flower maker,
and the other a glass-blower. Oh, they were looking for work! Not a hand
would they consent to lift to labor of any other kind."
"And another one," continued the soft-hearted mistress, "used
quite good language. It was really extraordinary for one of his class. And
he carried a watch. And had lived in Boston. I don't believe they are all
bad. They have always seemed to me to rather lack development. I always
look upon them as children with whom wisdom has remained at a standstill
while whiskers have continued to grow. We passed one this evening as we
were driving home who had a face as good as it was incompetent. He was whistling
the intermezzo from 'Cavalleria' and blowing the spirit of Mascagni himself
A bright-eyed young girl who sat at the left of the mistress leaned over
and said in a confidential undertone:
"I wonder, Mamma, if that tramp we passed on the road found my stocking,
and do you think he will hang it up to-night? Now I can hang up but one.
Do you know why I wanted a new pair of silk stockings when I have plenty?
Well, old Aunt Judy says, if you hang up two that have never been worn,
Santa Claus will fill one with good things, and Monsieur Pambe will place
in the other payment for all the words you have spoken--good or bad--on
the day before Christmas. That's why I've been unusually nice and polite
to everyone to-day. Monsieur Pambe, you know, is a witch gentleman! he--"
The words of the young girl were interrupted by a startling thing.
Like the wraith of some burned-out shooting star, a black streak came crashing
through the window-pane and upon the table, where it shivered into fragments
a dozen pieces of crystal and china ware, and then glanced between the heads
of the guests to the wall, imprinting therein a deep, round indentation,
at which, to-day, the isitor to Bellemeade marvels as he gazes upon it and
listens to this tale as it is told.
The women screamed in many keys, and the men sprang to their feet, and would
have laid their hands upon their swords had not the verities of chronology
The planter was the first to act; he sprang to the intruding missile and
held it up to view.
"By Jupiter!" he cried. "A meteoric shower of hosiery! Has
communication at last been established with Mars?"
"I should say--ahem!--Venus," ventured a young gentleman visitor,
looking hopefully for approbation toward the unresponsive young-lady visitors.
The planter held at arm's length the unceremonious visitor--a long dangling
black stocking. "It's loaded," he announced.
As he spoke he reversed the stocking, holding it by the toe, and down from
it dropped a roundish stone, wrapped about by a piece of yellowish paper.
"Now for the first interstellar message of the century!" he cried;
and nodding to the company, who had crowded about him, he adjusted his glasses
with provoking deliberation, and examined it closely. When he finished he
had changed from the jolly host to the practical, decisive man of business.
He immediately struck a bell, and said to the silent-footed mulatto man
who responded: "Go and tell Mr. Wesley to get Reeves and Maurice and
about ten stout hands they can rely upon, and come to the hall door at once.
Tell him to have the men arm themselves, and bring plenty of ropes and plough
lines. Tell him to hurry." And then he read aloud from the paper these
To the Gent of de Hous:
Dere is five tuff hoboes xcept meseif in the vaken lot near de road war
de old brick piles is. Dey got me stuck up wid a gun see and I taken dis
means of comunikaten. 2 of der lads is gone down to set fire to de cain
field below de hous and when yous fellers goes to turn de hoes on it de
hole gang is goin to rob de house of de money yoo gotto pay off wit say
git a move on ye say de kid dropt dis sock in der rode tel her mery crismus
de same as she told me. Ketch de bums down de rode first and den sen a relefe
core to get me out of soke youres truly,
There was some quiet, but rapid, maneuvering at Bellemeade during the ensuing
half hour, which ended in five disgusted and sullen tramps being captured
and locked securely in an out-house pending the coming of the morning and
retribution. For another result, the visiting young gentlemen had secured
the unqualified worship of the visiting young ladies by their distinguished
and heroic conduct. For still another, behold Whistling Dick, the hero,
seated at the planter's table, feasting upon viands his experience had never
before included, and waited upon by admiring femininity in shapes of such
beauty and "swellness" that even his ever-full mouth could scarcely
prevent him from whistling. He was made to disclose in detail his adventure
with the evil gang of Boston Harry, and how he cunningly wrote the note
and wrapped it around the stone and placed it in the toe of the stocking,
and, watching his chance, sent it silently, with a wonderful centrifugal
momentum, like a comet, at one of the big lighted windows of the dining-room.
The planter vowed that the wanderer should wander no more; that his was
a goodness and an honesty that should be rewarded, and that a debt of gratitude
had been made that must be paid; for had he not saved them from a doubtless
imminent loss, and maybe a greater calamity? He assured Whistling Dick that
he might consider himself a charge upon the honor of Bellemeade; that a
position suited to his powers would be found for him at once, and hinted
that the way would be heartily smoothed for him to rise to as high places
of emolument and trust as the plantation afforded.
But now, they said, he must be weary, and the immediate thing to consider
was rest and sleep. So the mistress spoke to a servant, and Whistling Dick
was conducted to a room in the wing of the house occupied by the servants.
To this room, in a few minutes, was brought a portable tin bathtub filled
with water, which was placed on a piece of oiled cloth upon the floor. There
the vagrant was left to pass the night.
By the light of the candle he examined the room. A bed, with the covers
neatly turned back, revealed snowy pillows and sheets. A worn, but clean,
red carpet covered the floor. There was a dresser with a beveled mirror,
a washstand with a flowered bowl and pitcher; the two or three chairs were
softly upholstered. A little table held books, papers, and a day-old cluster
of roses in a jar. There were towels on a rack and soap
in a white dish.
Whistling Dick set his candle on a chair and placed his hat carefully under
the table. After satisfying what we must suppose to have been his curiosity
by a sober scrutiny, he removed his coat, folded it, and laid it upon the
floor, near the wall, as far as possible from the unused bathtub. Taking
his coat for a pillow, he stretched himself luxuriously upon the carpet.
When, on Christmas morning, the first streaks of dawn broke above the marshes,
Whistling Dick awoke and reached instinctively for his hat. Then he remembered
that the skirts of Fortune had swept him into their folds on the night previous,
and he went to the window and raised it, to let the fresh breath of the
morning cool his brow and fix the yet dreamlike memory of his good luck
within his brain.
As he stood there, certain dread and ominous sounds pierced the fearful
hollow of his ear.
The force of plantation workers, eager to complete the shortened task allotted
to them, were all astir. The mighty din of the ogre Labor shook the earth,
and the poor tattered and forever disguised Prince in search of his fortune
held tight to the window-sill even in the enchanted castle, and trembled.
Already from the bosom of the mill came the thunder of rolling barrels of
sugar, and (prison-like sounds) there was a great rattling of chains as
the mules were harried with stimulant imprecations to their places by the
wagon-tongues. A little vicious "dummy" engine, with a train of
flat cars in tow, stewed and fumed on the plantation tap of the narrow-gauge
railroad, and a toiling, hurrying, hallooing stream of workers were dimly
seen in the half darkness loading the train with the weekly output of sugar.
Here was a poem, an epic--nay, a tragedy--with work, the curse of the world,
for its theme.
The December air was frosty, but the sweat broke out upon Whistling Dick's
face. He thrust his head out of the window and looked down. Fifteen feet
below him, against the wall of the house, he could make out that a border
of flowers grew, and by that token he overhung a bed of soft earth.
Softly as a burglar goes, he clambered out upon the sill, lowered himself
until he hung by his hands alone, and then dropped safely. No one seemed
to be about upon this side of the house. He dodged low and skimmed swiftly
across the yard to the low fence. It was an easy matter to vault this, for
a terror urged him such as lifts the gazelle over the thorn bush when the
lion pursues. A crash through the dew-drenched weeds on the roadside, a
clutching, slippery rush up the grassy side of the levee to the footpath
at the summit, and--he was free!
The east was blushing and brightening. The wind, himself a vagrant rover,
saluted his brother upon the cheek. Some wild geese, high above, gave cry.
A rabbit skipped along the path before him, free to turn to the right or
to the left as his mood should send him. The river slid past, and certainly
no one could tell the ultimate abiding place of its waters.
A small, ruffled, brown-breasted bird, sitting upon a dogwood sapling, began
a soft, throaty, tender little piping in praise of the dew which entices
foolish worms from their holes; but suddenly he stopped, and sat with his
head turned sidewise, listening.
From the path along the levee there burst forth a jubilant, stirring, buoyant,
thrilling whistle, loud and keen and clear as the cleanest notes of the
piccolo. The soaring sound rippled and trilled and arpeggioed as the songs
of wild birds do not; but it had a wild free grace that, in a way, reminded
the small brown bird of something familiar, but exactly what he could not
tell. There was in it the bird call, or reveille, that all birds know; but
a great waste of lavish, unmeaning things that art had added and arranged,
besides, and that were quite puzzling and strange; and the little brown
bird sat with his head on one side until the sound died away in the distance.
The little bird did not know that the part of that strange warbling that
he understood was just what kept the warbler without his breakfast; but
he knew very well that the part he did not understand did not concern him,
so he gave a little flutter of his wings and swooped down like a brown bullet
upon a big fat worm that was wriggling along the levee path.
"A-No.1 At Rest At Last"
Copyright by Grahamqckr 2001