The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain Read online

  “Pfew! I reckon it ain’t no cinnamon ’t I’ve loaded up thish-yer stove with!”

  He gasped once or twice, then moved toward the cof—gun-box, stood over that Limburger cheese part of a moment, then came back and sat down near me, looking a good deal impressed. After a contemplative pause, he said, indicating the box with a gesture—

  “Friend of yourn?”

  “Yes,” I said with a sigh.

  “He’s pretty ripe, ain’t he!”

  Nothing further was said for perhaps a couple of minutes, each being busy with his own thoughts; then Thompson said, in a low, awed voice—

  “Sometimes it’s uncertain whether they’re really gone or not—seem gone, you know—body warm, joints limber—and so, although you think they’re gone, you don’t really know. I’ve had cases in my car. It’s perfectly awful, becuz you don’t know what minute they’ll rise up and look at you!” Then, after a pause, and slightly lifting his elbow toward the box,—“But he ain’t in no trance! No, sir, I go bail for him!”

  We sat some time, in meditative silence, listening to the wind and the roar of the train; then Thompson said, with a good deal of feeling:

  “Well-a-well, we’ve all got to go, they ain’t no getting around it. Man that is born of woman is of few days and far between, as Scriptur’ says. Yes, you look at it any way you want to, it’s awful solemn and cur’us: they ain’t nobody can get around it; all’s got to go—just everybody, as you may say. One day you’re hearty and strong”—here he scrambled to his feet and broke a pane and stretched his nose out at it a moment or two, then sat down again while I struggled up and thrust my nose out at the same place, and this we kept on doing every now and then—“and next day he’s cut down like the grass, and the places which knowed him then knows him no more forever, as Scriptur’ says. Yes’ndeedy, it’s awful solemn and cur’us; but we’ve all got to go, one time or another; they ain’t no getting around it.”

  There was another long pause; then—

  “What did he die of?”

  I said I didn’t know.

  “How long has he been dead?”

  It seemed judicious to enlarge the facts to fit the probabilities; so I said:

  “Two or three days.”

  But it did no good; for Thompson received it with an injured look which plainly said, “Two or three years, you mean.” Then he went right along, placidly ignoring my statement, and gave his views at considerable length upon the un-wisdom of putting off burials too long. Then he lounged off toward the box, stood a moment, then came back on a sharp trot and visited the broken pane, observing:

  “’Twould ’a’ ben a dum sight better, all around, if they’d started him along last summer.”

  Thompson sat down and buried his face in his red silk handkerchief, and began to slowly sway and rock his body like one who is doing his best to endure the almost unendurable. By this time the fragrance—if you may call it fragrance—was just about suffocating, as near as you can come at it. Thompson’s face was turning gray; I knew mine hadn’t any color left in it. By and by Thompson rested his forehead in his left hand, with his elbow on his knee, and sort of waved his red handkerchief toward the box with his other hand, and said:

  “I’ve carried a many a one of ’em—some of ’em considerable overdue, too—but, lordy, he just lays over ’em all!—and does it easy. Cap, they was heliotrope to him!”

  This recognition of my poor friend gratified me, in spite of the sad circumstances, because it had so much the sound of a compliment.

  Pretty soon it was plain that something had got to be done. I suggested cigars. Thompson thought it was a good idea. He said:

  “Likely it’ll modify him some.”

  We puffed gingerly along for a while, and tried hard to imagine that things were improved. But it wasn’t any use. Before very long, and without any consultation, both cigars were quietly dropped from our nerveless fingers at the same moment. Thompson said, with a sigh:

  “No, Cap, it don’t modify him worth a cent. Fact is, it makes him worse, becuz it appears to stir up his ambition. What do you reckon we better do, now?”

  I was not able to suggest anything; indeed, I had to be swallowing and swallowing all the time, and did not like to trust myself to speak. Thompson fell to maundering, in a desultory and low-spirited way, about the miserable experiences of this night; and he got to referring to my poor friend by various titles—sometimes military ones, sometimes civil ones; and I noticed that as fast as my poor friend’s effectiveness grew, Thompson promoted him accordingly—gave him a bigger title. Finally he said:

  “I’ve got an idea. Suppos’n’ we buckle down to it and give the Colonel a bit of a shove toward t’other end of the car?—about ten foot, say. He wouldn’t have so much influence, then, don’t you reckon?”

  I said it was a good scheme. So we took in a good fresh breath at the broken pane, calculating to hold it till we got through; then we went there and bent over that deadly cheese and took a grip on the box. Thompson nodded “All ready,” and then we threw ourselves forward with all our might; but Thompson slipped, and slumped down with his nose on the cheese, and his breath got loose. He gagged and gasped, and floundered up and made a break for the door, pawing the air and saying hoarsely, “Don’t hender me!—gimme the road! I’m a-dying; gimme the road!” Out on the cold platform I sat down and held his head awhile, and he revived. Presently he said:

  “Do you reckon we started the Gen’rul any?”

  I said no; we hadn’t budged him.

  “Well, then, that idea’s up the flume. We got to think up something else. He’s suited wher’ he is, I reckon; and if that’s the way he feels about it, and has made up his mind that he don’t wish to be disturbed, you bet he’s a-going to have his own way in the business. Yes, better leave him right wher’ he is, long as he wants it so; becuz he holds all the trumps, don’t you know, and so it stands to reason that the man that lays out to alter his plans for him is going to get left.”

  But we couldn’t stay out there in that mad storm; we should have frozen to death. So we went in again and shut the door, and began to suffer once more and take turns at the break in the window. By and by, as we were starting away from a station where we had stopped a moment Thompson pranced in cheerily, and exclaimed:

  “We’re all right, now! I reckon we’ve got the Commodore this time. I judge I’ve got the stuff here that’ll take the tuck out of him.”

  It was carbolic acid. He had a carboy of it. He sprinkled it all around everywhere; in fact he drenched everything with it, rifle-box, cheese and all. Then we sat down, feeling pretty hopeful. But it wasn’t for long. You see the two perfumes began to mix, and then—well, pretty soon we made a break for the door; and out there Thompson swabbed his face with his bandanna and said in a kind of disheartened way:

  “It ain’t no use. We can’t buck agin him. He just utilizes everything we put up to modify him with, and gives it his own flavor and plays it back on us. Why, Cap, don’t you know, it’s as much as a hundred times worse in there now than it was when he first got a-going. I never did see one of ’em warm up to his work so, and take such a dumnation interest in it. No, sir, I never did, as long as I’ve ben on the road; and I’ve carried a many a one of ’em, as I was telling you.”

  We went in again after we were frozen pretty stiff; but my, we couldn’t stay in, now. So we just waltzed back and forth, freezing, and thawing, and stifling, by turns. In about an hour we stopped at another station; and as we left it Thompson came in with a bag, and said—

  “Cap, I’m a-going to chance him once more—just this once; and if we don’t fetch him this time, the thing for us to do, is to just throw up the sponge and withdraw from the canvass. That’s the way I put it up.”

  He had brought a lot of chicken feathers, and dried apples, and leaf tobacco, and rags, and old shoes, and sulphur, and asafetida, and one thing or another; and he piled them on a breadth of sheet iron in the middle of the floor, and set f
ire to them.

  When they got well started, I couldn’t see, myself, how even the corpse could stand it. All that went before was just simply poetry to that smell—but mind you, the original smell stood up out of it just as sublime as ever—fact is, these other smells just seemed to give it a better hold; and my, how rich it was! I didn’t make these reflections there—there wasn’t time—made them on the platform. And breaking for the platform, Thompson got suffocated and fell; and before I got him dragged out, which I did by the collar, I was mighty near gone myself. When we revived, Thompson said dejectedly:

  “We got to stay out here, Cap. We got to do it. They ain’t no other way. The Governor wants to travel alone, and he’s fixed so he can out-vote us.”

  And presently he added:

  “And don’t you know, we’re pisoned. It’s our last trip, you can make up your mind to it. Typhoid fever is what’s going to come of this. I feel it a-coming right now. Yes, sir, we’re elected, just as sure as you’re born.”

  We were taken from the platform an hour later, frozen and insensible, at the next station, and I went straight off into a virulent fever, and never knew anything again for three weeks. I found out, then, that I had spent that awful night with a harmless box of rifles and a lot of innocent cheese; but the news was too late to save me; imagination had done its work, and my health was permanently shattered; neither Bermuda nor any other land can ever bring it back to me. This is my last trip; I am on my way home to die.

  1882

  THE MCWILLIAMSES AND THE BURGLAR ALARM

  THE CONVERSATION drifted smoothly and pleasantly along from weather to crops, from crops to literature, from literature to scandal, from scandal to religion; then took a random jump, and landed on the subject of burglar alarms. And now for the first time Mr. McWilliams showed feeling. Whenever I perceive this sign on this man’s dial, I comprehend it, and lapse into silence, and give him opportunity to unload his heart. Said he, with but ill-controlled emotion:

  I do not go one single cent on burglar alarms, Mr. Twain—not a single cent—and I will tell you why. When we were finishing our house, we found we had a little cash left over, on account of the plumber not knowing it. I was for enlightening the heathen with it, for I was always unaccountably down on the heathen somehow; but Mrs. McWilliams said no, let’s have a burglar alarm. I agreed to this compromise. I will explain that whenever I want a thing, and Mrs. McWilliams wants another thing, and we decide upon the thing that Mrs. McWilliams wants—as we always do—she calls that a compromise. Very well: the man came up from New York and put in the alarm, and charged three hundred and twenty-five dollars for it, and said we could sleep without uneasiness now. So we did for a while—say a month. Then one night we smelled smoke, and I was advised to get up and see what the matter was. I lit a candle, and started toward the stairs, and met a burglar coming out of a room with a basket of tinware, which he had mistaken for solid silver in the dark. He was smoking a pipe. I said, “My friend, we do not allow smoking in this room.” He said he was a stranger, and could not be expected to know the rules of the house: said he had been in many houses just as good as this one, and it had never been objected to before. He added that as far as his experience went, such rules had never been considered to apply to burglars, anyway.

  I said: “Smoke along, then, if it is the custom, though I think that the conceding of a privilege to a burglar which is denied to a bishop is a conspicuous sign of the looseness of the times. But waiving all that, what business have you to be entering this house in this furtive and clandestine way, without ringing the burglar alarm?”

  He looked confused and ashamed, and said, with embarrassment: “I beg a thousand pardons. I did not know you had a burglar alarm, else I would have rung it. I beg you will not mention it where my parents may hear of it, for they are old and feeble, and such a seemingly wanton breach of the hallowed conventionalities of our Christian civilization might all too rudely sunder the frail bridge which hangs darkling between the pale and evanescent present and the solemn great deeps of the eternities. May I trouble you for a match?”

  I said: “Your sentiments do you honor, but if you will allow me to say it, metaphor is not your best hold. Spare your thigh; this kind light only on the box, and seldom there, in fact, if my experience may be trusted. But to return to business: how did you get in here?”

  “Through a second-story window.”

  It was even so. I redeemed the tinware at pawnbroker’s rates, less cost of advertising, bade the burglar good-night, closed the window after him, and retired to headquarters to report. Next morning we sent for the burglar-alarm man, and he came up and explained that the reason the alarm did not “go off” was that no part of the house but the first floor was attached to the alarm. This was simply idiotic; one might as well have no armor on at all in battle as to have it only on his legs. The expert now put the whole second story on the alarm, charged three hundred dollars for it, and went his way. By and by, one night, I found a burglar in the third story, about to start down a ladder with a lot of miscellaneous property. My first impulse was to crack his head with a billiard cue; but my second was to refrain from this attention, because he was between me and the cue rack. The second impulse was plainly the soundest, so I refrained, and proceeded to compromise. I redeemed the property at former rates, after deducting ten per cent. for use of ladder, it being my ladder, and next day we sent down for the expert once more, and had the third story attached to the alarm, for three hundred dollars.

  By this time the “annunciator” had grown to formidable dimensions. It had forty-seven tags on it, marked with the names of the various rooms and chimneys, and it occupied the space of an ordinary wardrobe. The gong was the size of a wash-bowl, and was placed above the head of our bed. There was a wire from the house to the coachman’s quarters in the stable, and a noble gong alongside his pillow.

  We should have been comfortable now but for one defect. Every morning at five the cook opened the kitchen door, in the way of business, and rip went that gong! The first time this happened I thought the last day was come sure. I didn’t think it in bed—no, but out of it—for the first effect of that frightful gong is to hurl you across the house, and slam you against the wall, and then curl you up, and squirm you like a spider on a stove lid, till somebody shuts the kitchen door. In solid fact, there is no clamor that is even remotely comparable to the dire clamor which that gong makes. Well, this catastrophe happened every morning regularly at five o’clock, and lost us three hours’ sleep; for, mind you, when that thing wakes you, it doesn’t merely wake you in spots; it wakes you all over, conscience and all, and you are good for eighteen hours of wide-awakeness subsequently—eighteen hours of the very most inconceivable wide-awakeness that you ever experienced in your life. A stranger died on our hands one time, and we vacated and left him in our room overnight. Did that stranger wait for the general judgment? No, sir; he got up at five the next morning in the most prompt and unostentatious way. I knew he would; I knew it mighty well. He collected his life-insurance, and lived happy ever after, for there was plenty of proof as to the perfect squareness of his death.