Some weeks later it was that I first met him, at Washington Park, Derby Day. He told me afterward that the minute he saw me he knew me for a "mark" and tried to "get next."
Yet, for all, Checkers was not innately bad. He was weak, I 'll admit, and cruelly mistaken; but he had a simple, lovable nature, and a natural longing for higher things. A case in point: I learned by chance that he never missed a Sunday at church since the death of his wife. He had no predilection, and I espied him one day in my own sanctuary. When questioned about it he told me these facts, and confessed to the pleasure he found in going.
"I don't know," he said; "I always enjoy it. It's quiet and cool; everybody 's well dressed, and I like to sit there, close my eyes, think over my troubles, and listen to the music. And then, again" – here his voice grew soft – "I 've a feeling that it pleases Pert to know that I 'm there. She liked me to go to church, and I think she knows it now when I go; do n't you? I would n't take a great deal of money and think that she did n't know."
What Pert must have thought of his actions weekdays was perhaps a fair question; but it was one that I had the heart not to ask. And so it went on; my efforts to get him a position and reform him ending in nothing, as I have previously related.
After the big meeting closed Checkers reached his lowest ebb. It was during these days that he made my office a loafing place. I suppose that for six weeks I practically supported him, lending him two or three dollars at a time, to "square his room rent," "get out his overcoat," "pay a doctor's bill," "play a good thing," and heaven knows what not – each time assuring him that I positively would not succumb again, but regularly doing so. Still, I never begrudged it. A couple of hours with him was worth a few dollars at any time. I divided the expense between my amusement and charity accounts; and, in truth, when with him I never could tell whether pleasure or compassion had the upper hand with me. I have tried to set down with some succinctness the major part of his experiences as I heard them; but I fear they have greatly lost, in the telling, that delicious flavor of originality which Checkers' person, voice, and manner gave to them as I heard them piecemeal. Many of his sayings, when repeated afterward by Murray or me, scarcely caused a smile, while coming from him they had seemed to us excruciatingly funny. But I believe the secret was this – he never seemed to say anything with the primary idea of being funny. He always looked up with genuine surprise when his listeners laughed, and only joined them, when the mirth was infectious, by deepening a little the cynical curves at either corner of his expressive mouth.
For two weeks I missed him. On a morning of the third he came in with a look of happiness on his face. "I 've got a job," he said, simply. I wrung his hand.
"Where?" I asked.
"With Mr. Richmond."
Richmond was one of my friends. He was a partner in a wholesale paper-house. As a boy Checkers had worked in a paper-house and knew the stock. As a consequence he had been after Richmond, whom he had met through me, to give him a position. Richmond liked him, and, when an opportunity offered, he sent for him and put him to work in the stock. At the end of two weeks he determined to give Checkers a chance upon the road. So Checkers was going out that night, and had come to say good-bye. I was delighted, you may be sure. I gave him good advice, and bade him Godspeed. A few days later I received this characteristic letter, dated from some little town in Kansas:
"DEAR MR. PRESTON:
"I 'm here doing a stage-coach business – straining the leaders of my legs, hustlin'. If trade keeps up I 'll have coin to melt when I get home, and you bet I 'll melt it. The food out here would poison a dog. I ain't got the health to go against it. I 've been sick ever since I left Chicago, anyhow, on account of Murray Jameson. I met him at the depot the night I left. He had a box of cigars he said a friend of his brought him from Mexico. He gave me a handful. I got on the train, and got busy with one – I like to croaked. Strong!!! Oh, no – it was n't strong! Drop one of them in a can of dynamite and it's ten to one it would 'do' the can. Start a 'Mexican' and a piece of Limburger in a short dash, it's a hundred to one you 'd need a searchlight to find the Limburger. I 've switched to cigarettes.
"I got in here at six to-night, and I 'm going to get away at one. After supper (Supper! I 'll tell you about that later!) I went over to the only shanty in the place that looked like a store, and opened the door. There were a lot of 'Jaspers' sitting around the stove, chewing tobacco and swapping lies. I asked the guy that got up when I came in where he kept his stock (he had nothing in sight). He lighted a lantern, walked me a quarter of a mile, and showed me four 'mooley-cows' – say, I was sore. But I 'm square with him – I gave him a couple of 'Mexicans.'
"That supper! Well, say, it was a 'peach.' (I had an egg this morning and it was a 'bird.') I sat down to the table with a St. Louis shoe-man. We turned the things down one by one as they came in. A few soda-crackers on the table saved our lives. We tried the griddle-cakes. They were pieces of scorched, greasy dough, as big as pie-plates. There were a couple of 'Rubes' at the other end of the table; a short, little, fat one, and a long, lean, thin one. We shoved the cakes on down their way. They ate their own and ours, and ordered more. I bet the shoe-man five on the fat one. We ordered more ourselves and pushed them along. The thin man finally began to weaken, but the fat one got stronger every minute. My friend said I was 'pullin',' and wanted to draw the bet; but I made him 'give up.'
"Just as we were going, the waitress came up with a grouch on, stuck out her chin, and says, 'Pie?'
"'Is it compulsory?' says the shoe-man.
"'Naw; it's mince.'
"'Well, that lets us out,' he says, and we skipped."
Later—
"I got interrupted here. The boys wanted me to play 'high-five' until train-time; I picked up a little 'perfumery money,' and came up here to Kansas City to spend Saturday night and Sunday.
"There 's a lot of 'rummies' I used to know hanging around here, 'broke.' They 've all 'got their hand out.' One of them made me a talk last night for enough to get to St. Louis on – said he 'must get there.'
"'Well,' I says, 'try the trucks; how are you on swinging under?'
"'Yes,' he says, 'you're in luck, and makin' a swell front, with your noisy duds and plenty of money, but it's a wonder you would n't 'let your blood gush' a little when you see an old friend of yours in trouble.'
"That was a new one on me, and I 'loosened.' Well, perhaps he 'll do me a good turn some time.
"Now, I must close. I see dinner's ready. There's a big, fat guy has been beating me out in a race for a seat I want in the dining-room. I 'll 'put it over him a neck' to-day for the chair. The cross-eyed fairy that waits on that table can dig up cream while the rest of the waitresses are looking around to see if there 's any skimmed milk in the joint.
"Yours till death – and as long after as they need me at the morgue.
"EDWARD CAMPBELL."
Occasionally I met Richmond and asked him how Checkers was doing. "Not badly," was the usual answer. "He is handicapped, though," explained Richmond one day, "by not thoroughly knowing our goods and those of other houses. After this trip I shall put him to work in the store again for a while."
But this never occurred. Either by mistake or through a serious error in judgment, Checkers sold an unusually large bill at an absurdly low figure. This brought a sharp reproof from the house, which he answered cavalierly. His recall and prompt dismissal followed.
A month elapsed before I saw him. He had been trying to get another position before coming to me, for his pride was lowered. One morning he came in looking careworn and threadbare. I welcomed him cordially, as usual. But though neither of us referred to his recent misfortune, it caused an evident embarrassment in his manner. After a few moments' desultory conversation he drew a letter from his pocket. "Read that," he said simply, handing it to me. With difficulty I read what seemed to be a letter from Mr. Barlow, his father-in-law. In effect it set forth that he was now alone. Mrs. Barlow was dead, and her last dying request had been that he find Checkers and restore to him his own. This he had solemnly promised to do. He complained that he was "poorly" himself, and expected to be carried off at any time, with "a misery in his chest." And he went on to say that if Checkers had not married again (perish the thought!), and would come back and live with him and take care of him, he would make him his heir to the old place as well, and to what little else he had to leave. He "did n't bear no grudge" for the loss of the house, as things had turned out – he "liked a lad of sperrit." However, whether he found Checkers or not, "the preacher and them whited sepulchers" at the church "should never finger a cent of what he left." There followed a tirade which seemed to show that the church people had made it hot for the old man after Checkers' departure, and doubtless more so after the death of Mrs. Barlow.
"What do you think?" asked Checkers as I finished.
"Think! I think it's the best of good fortune."
"Yes; with a horrible string tied to it. Of course I want my place back; but I 'd rather be hung than go back to Clarksville."
"Stuff and nonsense!" I exclaimed.
"Yes; everything is; what is n't 'stuff' is nonsense. But, say, the funniest thing of all is that he seems to think I burnt up the house. How do you suppose he got such a notion?" This with a laughable expression of innocence.
"Isn't it possible, Checkers," I said, "that this letter is a ruse to get you down there and have you arrested for arson?"
He thought a moment. "No," he replied; "I hardly think so. No judge or jury down there would convict me, anyhow, when they heard the facts – still, it's about his size. If I had a little money I would n't need to be in a hurry. There 's some friends of mine got a bottled-up 'good thing' they 're going to 'turn loose' next week, that's a 'mortal' – 'Bessie Bisland' – she 'll back in. If I had about fifty I 'd win a lot of money, quit gamblin', and wait till the old man croaked."
"Checkers!"
"Still, that might be risky; these old guys 'take notice' again scand'lous quick. While I was foolin' around some Arkansas fairy might get in and nail down my little job."
"Yes," I laughed; "upon all accounts, the quicker you get there the better."
Checkers closed one eye and fixed the other on a spot in the ceiling. "I wonder," he murmured, "how the walking is between here and Clarksville?"
"Checkers," I said, "are you broke again?"
"If you can find the price of a car ride on me, I 'll give it to you – and I 'll help you hunt."
"Checkers, your acquaintance has been expensive for me," I said soberly. "I suppose now you want me to give you the money to take you to Clarksville."
"Mr. Preston!" he exclaimed, with an earnest expression, "I don't want you to give me anything. All the money I 've had from you has been borrowed. I 've kept a strict tab on it, and I intend to repay it. My farm down there is worth $20,000; when I get that back I 'll be 'in the heart of town.' But I don't want to go back looking like a 'hobo,' and I 've got to have some money 'to make a front with.' I could write the old man that I 'm flat, and get him to send me some money easy enough. But that would give him the upper hand of me, and queer me on the start. If I drop in unexpectedly, looking as though I had money to throw to the birds, he 's likely to 'unbelt' right away, and I 'll send you your stuff the minute I get it."
Well, the upshot of it all was that I advanced to Checkers what he needed – within reason. He consumed nearly a week in making his preparations; but in the mean time I suggested that he advise Mr. Barlow and Judge Martin of his coming. When the day finally arrived he insisted that I dine with him before his departure; but I had an engagement, and was forced to refuse. We compromised, however, on a modest luncheon, during which I advised him earnestly and well.
"Now, Checkers," I said, before bidding him farewell, "you are about to begin a new life; be a man, settle down, and make some good resolutions."
"I have," he said. "It'll take me a year to live down those I have made already. Just think of Bessie Bisland running this afternoon and me with not a nickel on her."
"And, Checkers," I said, "you must school yourself to endure what may come, however unpleasant. Treat the old man well – it won't be for long; and remember what it means to you in the future. When you get your property, whether soon or late, keep it, or rent it, and live within your income."
"You bet I will," he replied, "and I believe I 'll hire three or four little sleuths to go round with me all the time, and see that nobody 'does' me."
"Have Judge Martin advise you," I said. "He doubtless knows the law; and write to me when you are settled – I shall be interested." I clasped his hand warmly in one of mine, and rested my other upon his shoulder. "And now good-bye, my boy," I said; "you have had a long run of hard luck, and I am glad that fortune is about to smile upon you again. Quit gambling; watch your opportunities and make the best of them as they come. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mr. Preston. What you say is no 'song without words,' and I 'll remember it. I have had hard luck, and, no matter what comes, I can never be as happy as I 've been in the past. But we all have our troubles, and I 'll try to make the best of things, like the old crone who had only two teeth, but she said 'Thank God, they hit!' Good-bye."
Again we shook hands and parted silently, taking opposite directions.
Ten days have passed, and I have not heard from Checkers – it is doubtless still a little early.
The morning after we parted I chanced to see in the paper that "Bessie Bisland" "also ran." It is quite as well, therefore, that Checkers did not defer his going, but went that night.