The genial humor and sunny atmosphere which pervade these pages are in dramatic contrast with the circumstances under which they were written. The book was finished while the author lay upon his deathbed, but, happily for the reader, no trace of his sufferings appears here. It was not granted that he should live to see his work in its present completed form, a consummation he most earnestly desired; but it seems not unreasonable to hope that the result of his labors will be appreciated, and that David Harum will endure.
David Harum
A Story of American Life
I
David poured half of his second cup of tea into his saucer to lower its temperature to the drinking point, and helped himself to a second cut of ham and a third egg. Whatever was on his mind to have kept him unusually silent during the evening meal, and to cause certain wrinkles in his forehead suggestive of perplexity or misgiving, had not impaired his appetite. David was what he called “a good feeder.”
Mrs. Bixbee, known to most of those who enjoyed the privilege of her acquaintance as “Aunt Polly,” though nieces and nephews of her blood there were none in Homeville, Freeland County, looked curiously at her brother, as, in fact, she had done at intervals during the repast; and concluding at last that further forbearance was uncalled for, relieved the pressure of her curiosity thus:
“Guess ye got somethin’ on your mind, hain’t ye? You hain’t hardly said aye, yes, ner no sence you set down. Anythin’ gone ’skew?”
David lifted his saucer, gave the contents a precautionary blow, and emptied it with sundry windy suspirations.
“No,” he said, “nothin’ hain’t gone exac’ly wrong, ’s ye might say—not yet; but I done that thing I was tellin’ ye of today.”
“Done what thing?” she asked perplexedly.
“I telegraphed to New York,” he replied, “fer that young feller to come on—the young man General Wolsey wrote me about. I got a letter from him today, an’ I made up my mind ‘the sooner the quicker,’ an’ I telegraphed him to come ’s soon ’s he could.”
“I forgit what you said his name was,” said Aunt Polly.
“There’s his letter,” said David, handing it across the table. “Read it out ’loud.”
“You read it,” she said, passing it back after a search in her pocket; “I must ’a’ left my specs in the settin’-room.”
The letter was as follows:
Dear Sir: I take the liberty of addressing you at the instance of General Wolsey, who spoke to me of the matter of your communication to him, and was kind enough to say that he would write you in my behalf. My acquaintance with him has been in the nature of a social rather than a business one, and I fancy that he can only recommend me on general grounds. I will say, therefore, that I have had some experience with accounts, but not much practice in them for nearly three years. Nevertheless, unless the work you wish done is of an intricate nature, I think I shall be able to accomplish it with such posting at the outset as most strangers would require. General Wolsey told me that you wanted someone as soon as possible. I have nothing to prevent me from starting at once if you desire to have me. A telegram addressed to me at the office of the Trust Company will reach me promptly.
“Wa’al,” said David, looking over his glasses at his sister, “what do you think on’t?”
“The’ ain’t much brag in’t,” she replied thoughtfully.
“No,” said David, putting his eyeglasses back in their case, “th’ ain’t no brag ner no promises; he don’t even say he’ll do his best, like most fellers would. He seems to have took it fer granted that I’ll take it fer granted, an’ that’s what I like about it. Wa’al,” he added, “the thing’s done, an’ I’ll be lookin’ fer him tomorrow mornin’ or evenin’ at latest.”
Mrs. Bixbee sat for a moment with her large, light blue, and rather prominent eyes fixed on her brother’s face, and then she said, with a slight undertone of anxiety, “Was you cal’latin’ to have that young man from New York come here?”
“I hadn’t no such idee,” he replied, with a slight smile, aware of what was passing in her mind. “What put that in your head?”
“Wa’al,” she answered, “you know the’ ain’t scarcely anybody in the village that takes boarders in the winter, an’ I was wonderin’ what he would do.”
“I s’pose he’ll go to the Eagle,” said David. “I dunno where else, ’nless it’s to the Lake House.”
“The Eagil!” she exclaimed contemptuously. “Land sakes! Comin’ here from New York! He won’t stan’ it there a week.”
“Wa’al,” replied David, “mebbe he will an’ mebbe he won’t, but I don’t see what else the’ is for it, an’ I guess ’twon’t kill him for a spell. The fact is—” he was proceeding when Mrs. Bixbee interrupted him.
“I guess we’d better adjourn t’ the settin’-room an’ let Sairy clear off the tea-things,” she said, rising and going into the kitchen.
“What was you sayin’?” she asked, as she presently found her brother in the apartment designated, and seated herself with her mending-basket in her lap.
“The fact is, I was sayin’,” he resumed, sitting with hand and forearm resting on a round table, in the centre of which was a large kerosene lamp, “that my notion was, fust off, to have him come here, but
