The Complete Works of O. Henry

dey-all rode de tunnament at Oak Lawn? De day, suh, dat you win in de ridin', and you crown Miss Lucy de queen?'

'Tournament?' said Mr. Robert, taking his cigar from his mouth. 'Yes, I remember very well the--but what the deuce are you talking about tournaments here at midnight for? Go 'long home, Bushrod. I believe you're sleep-walking.'

'Miss Lucy tetch you on de shoulder,' continued the old man, never heeding, 'wid a s'ord, and say: 'I mek you a knight, Suh Robert--rise up, pure and fearless and widout reproach.' Dat what Miss Lucy say. Dat's been a long time ago, but me nor you ain't forgot it. And den dar's another time we ain't forgot--de time when Miss Lucy lay on her las' bed. She sent for Uncle Bushrod, and she say: 'Uncle Bushrod, when I die, I want you to take good care of Mr. Robert. Seem like'--so Miss Lucy say--'he listen to you mo' dan to anybody else. He apt to be mighty fractious sometimes, and maybe he cuss you when you try to 'suade him but he need somebody what understand him to be 'round wid him. He am like a little child sometimes'--so Miss Lucy say, wid her eyes shinin' in her po', thin face--'but he always been'--dem was her words--'my knight, pure and fearless and widout reproach.''

Mr. Robert began to mask, as was his habit, a tendency to soft- heartedness with a spurious anger.

'You--you old windbag!' he growled through a cloud of swirling cigar smoke. 'I believe you are crazy. I told you to go home, Bushrod. Miss Lucy said that, did she? Well, we haven't kept the scutcheon very clear. Two years ago last week, wasn't it, Bushrod, when she died? Confound it! Are you going to stand there all night gabbing like a coffee-coloured gander?'

The train whistled again. Now it was at the water tank, a mile away.

'Marse Robert,' said Uncle Bushrod, laying his hand on the satchel that the banker held. 'For Gawd's sake, don' take dis wid you. I knows what's in it. I knows where you got it in de bank. Don' kyar' it wid you. Dey's big trouble in dat valise for Miss Lucy and Miss Lucy's child's chillun. Hit's bound to destroy de name of Weymouth and bow down dem dat own it wid shame and triberlation. Marse Robert, you can kill dis ole nigger ef you will, but don't take away dis 'er' valise. If I ever crosses over de Jordan, what I gwine to say to Miss Lucy when she ax me: 'Uncle Bushrod, wharfo' didn' you take good care of Mr. Robert?''

Mr. Robert Weymouth threw away his cigar and shook free one arm with that peculiar gesture that always preceded his outbursts of irascibility. Uncle Bushrod bowed his head to the expected storm, but he did not flinch. If the house of Weymouth was to fall, he would fall with it. The banker spoke, and Uncle Bushrod blinked with surprise. The storm was there, but it was suppressed to the quietness of a summer breeze.

'Bushrod,' said Mr. Robert, in a lower voice than he usually employed, 'you have overstepped all bounds. You have presumed upon the leniency with which you have been treated to meddle unpardonably. So you know what is in this satchel! Your long and faithful service is some excuse, but--go home, Bushrod--not another word!'

But Bushrod grasped the satchel with a firmer hand. The headlight of the train was now lightening the shadows about the station. The roar was increasing, and folks were stirring about at the track side.

'Marse Robert, gimme dis 'er' valise. I got a right, suh, to talk to you dis 'er' way. I slaved for you and 'tended to you from a child up. I went th'ough de war as yo' body-servant tell we whipped de Yankees and sent 'em back to de No'th. I was at yo' weddin', and I was n' fur away when yo' Miss Letty was bawn. And Miss Letty's chillun, dey watches to-day for Uncle Bushrod when he come home ever' evenin'. I been a Weymouth, all 'cept in colour and entitlements. Both of us is old, Marse Robert. 'Tain't goin' to be long till we gwine to see Miss Lucy and has to give an account of our doin's. De ole nigger man won't be 'spected to say much mo' dan he done all he could by de fambly dat owned him. But de Weymouths, dey must say day been livin' pure and fearless and widout reproach. Gimme dis valise, Marse Robert--I'm gwine to hab it. I'm gwine to take it back to the bank and lock it up in de vault. I'm gwine to do Miss Lucy's biddin'. Turn 'er loose, Marse Robert.'

The train was standing at the station. Some men were pushing trucks along the side. Two or three sleepy passengers got off and wandered away into the night. The conductor stepped to the gravel, swung his lantern and called: 'Hello, Frank!' at some one invisible. The bell clanged, the brakes hissed, the conductor drawled: 'All aboard!'

Mr. Robert released his hold on the satchel. Uncle Bushrod hugged it to his breast with both arms, as a lover clasps his first beloved.

'Take it back with you, Bushrod,' said Mr. Robert, thrusting his hands into his pockets. 'And let the subject drop--now mind! You've said quite enough. I'm going to take the train. Tell Mr. William I will be back on Saturday. Good night.'

The banker climbed the steps of the moving train and disappeared in a coach. Uncle Bushrod stood motionless, still embracing the precious satchel. His eyes were closed and his lips were moving in thanks to the Master above for the salvation of the Weymouth honour. He knew Mr. Robert would return when he said he would. The Weymouths never lied. Nor now, thank the Lord! could it be said that they embezzled the money in banks.

Then awake to the necessity for further guardianship of Weymouth trust funds, the old man started for the bank with the redeemed satchel.

* * * * *

Three hours from Weymouthville, in the gray dawn, Mr. Robert alighted from the train at a lonely flag- station. Dimly he could see the figure of a man waiting on the platform, and the shape of a spring-waggon, team and driver. Half a dozen lengthy bamboo fishing-poles projected from the waggon's rear.

'You're here, Bob,' said Judge Archinard, Mr. Robert's old friend and schoolmate. 'It's going to be a royal day for fishing. I thought you said--why, didn't you bring along the stuff?'

The president of the Weymouth Bank took off his hat and rumpled his gray locks.

'Well, Ben, to tell you the truth, there's an infernally presumptuous old nigger belonging in my family that broke up the arrangement. He came down to the depot and vetoed the whole proceeding. He means all right, and--well, I reckon he is right. Somehow, he had found out what I had along--though I hid it in the bank vault and sneaked it out at midnight. I reckon he has noticed that I've been indulging a little more than a gentleman should, and he laid for me with some reaching arguments.

'I'm going to quit drinking,' Mr. Robert concluded. 'I've come to the conclusion that a man can't keep it up and be quite what he'd like to be--'pure and fearless and without reproach'--that's the way old Bushrod quoted it.'

'Well, I'll have to admit,' said the judge, thoughtfully, as they climbed into the waggon, 'that the old darkey's argument can't conscientiously be overruled.'