Part 9 (1/2)
A ghastly pallor overspread the colonel's face, and he said,
”The editor is not in.”
”Well, when _will_ he be in, then?”
”Not for a week--for a month--for a year--for ever! He will never come in any more!” screamed Bangs. ”He has gone to South America, with the intention to remain there during the rest of his life. He has departed.
He has fled. If you want to see him, you had better follow him to the equator. He will be glad to see you. I would advise you, as a friend, to take the next boat--to start at once.”
”That is unfortunate,” said the man; ”I came all the way from Delaware City for the purpose of battering him up a lot with this club.”
”He will be sorry,” said Bangs, sarcastically. ”He will regret missing you. I will write to him, and mention that you dropped in.”
”My name is McFadden,” said the man. ”I came to break the head of the man who wrote that obituary poetry about my wife. If you don't tell me who perpetrated the following, I'll break _yours_ for you. Where's the man who wrote this? Pay attention:
”'Mrs. McFadden has gone from this life; She has left all its sorrows and cares; She caught the rheumatics in both of her legs While scrubbing the cellar and stairs.
They put mustard-plasters upon her in vain; They bathed her with whisky and rum; But Thursday her spirit departed, and left Her body entirely numb.'”
”The man who held the late Mrs. McFadden up to the scorn of an unsympathetic world in that shocking manner,” said the editor, ”is named James B. Slimmer. He boards in Blank street, fourth door from the corner. I would advise you to call on him and avenge Mrs. McFadden's wrongs with an intermixture of club and dog-bites.”
”And this,” sighed the poet, outside the door, ”is the man who told me to divert McFadden's mind from contemplation of the horrors of the tomb.
It was this monster who counseled me to make the suns.h.i.+ne of McFadden's smiles burst through the tempest of McFadden's tears. If that red-headed monster couldn't smile over that allusion to whisky and rum, if those remarks about the rheumatism in her legs could not divert his mind from the horrors of the tomb, was it _my_ fault? McFadden grovels! He knows no more about poetry than a mule knows about the Shorter Catechism.”
The poet determined to leave before any more criticisms were made upon his performances. He jumped down from his chair and crept softly toward the back staircase.
The story told by the foreman relates that Colonel Bangs at the same instant resolved to escape any further persecution, and he moved off in the direction taken by the poet. The two met upon the landing, and the colonel was about to begin his quarrel with Slimmer, when an enraged old woman who had been groping her way up stairs suddenly plunged her umbrella at Bangs, and held him in the corner while she handed a copy of the _Argus_ to Slimmer, and pointing to a certain stanza, asked him to read it aloud. He did so in a somewhat tremulous voice and with frightened glances at the enraged colonel. The verse was as follows:
[Ill.u.s.tration]
”Little Alexander's dead; Jam him in a coffin; Don't have as good a chance For a fun'ral often.
Rush his body right around To the cemetery; Drop him in the sepulchre With his Uncle Jerry.”
The colonel's a.s.sailant accompanied the recitation with such energetic remarks as these:
”Oh, you willin! D'you hear that, you wretch? What d'you mean by writin'
of my grandson in that way? Take that, you serpint! Oh, you wiper, you! tryin' to break a lone widder's heart with such scand'lus lies as them! There, you willin! I kemmere to hammer you well with this here umbreller, you owdacious wiper, you! Take that, and that, you wile, indecent, disgustin' wagabone! When you know well enough that Aleck never had no Uncle Jerry, and never had no uncle in no sepulchre anyhow, you wile wretch, you!”
When Mr. Slimmer had concluded his portion of the entertainment, he left the colonel in the hands of the enemy and fled. He has not been seen in New Castle since that day, and it is supposed that he has returned to Suss.e.x county for the purpose of continuing in private his dalliance with the Muses. Colonel Bangs appears to have abandoned the idea of establis.h.i.+ng a department of obituary poetry, and the _Argus_ has resumed its accustomed aspect of dreariness.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
It may fairly boast, however, that once during its career it has produced a profound impression upon the community.
Mr. Bob Parker came home at a very late hour last night; and when I opened the front door to let him in, he muttered something to the effect that he was ”sorry for being out so late.” Then he pushed by me suddenly and went up stairs in a very odd fas.h.i.+on, keeping his face as much as possible toward the door, where I remained standing, astonished at his very strange behavior. When I closed the door and went to my room, it occurred to me that something of a serious nature might have happened; and impelled partly by curiosity and partly by a desire to be of service, I knocked at Bob's door.
[Ill.u.s.tration]