Landy George, now semi-elevated by his association with respectability, was contented, happy and ambitious to maintain his standing, where only a few months ago, and in all time previous, his whole life was the life of unsettled, unappreciated, unambitious slouching about over the face of the earth. Born somewhere North, he had somehow gotten into the South, and the Southern languor had gotten into him, holding him a willing victim. He grew careless, and his indifference was rebuked. He became rebellious, and the punishment was ostracism from the sociability of the lowest of the lowest. His antagonism to the world was a constant bid for men's hatred, and he received his full share and more. Bitterness overtook him, but he knew not his faults until he stood alone from the acquaintances he had made. Then he moved away from them. The change was an impressive relief. A week and he had moved again. He found that strangers were dearer to him. The knowledge of their indifference released his thoughts from self-analysis, and he became more content to move on and on until he realized that he had been accepted into the fraternity of tramphood. He was stunned, then, at this awakening. His pride rebelled at the thought of his situation. Hated by everyone who knew him, destined to find that regard with any other man who might later find him out, he was hopelessly beyond gaining a permanency anywhere. Resentment against those who had treated him with scorn had developed his pride abnormally, and he now found himself helpless and undecided at the mouth of the two channels that lay before him, each as uninviting as two narrow back alleys in the night might be. He made no decision then, but drifted in the line of events, circumstance dictating always his movements.
Into Louisville and out again he moved within a day. Over the great railroad bridge that crosses the Ohio river he started with only a benumbed perception of his surroundings. He stopped aimlessly and leaned against the guard-rail and watched a boat far below him churn slowly up the current of muddy water, her stern-wheel lifting glassy ribbons that broke into spray when the wheel had ended their flection.
"She's a Cincinnati packet," said a boy that had stopped beside him.
Landy gave no evidence of having heard except to turn and move on impatiently. The boy trudged at his heels, stepping deftly from tie to tie with the perfection of practice, and when they were over resumed his advances with friendly persistence.
"We're in Indianna now," he said, much as if he were glad to have made the change.
Landy looked down upon him with an outward indifference, though the ingenuous assumption of acquaintance stirred him into partial interest, while the news also compelled him to resume a little mental vigor.
"Yep, we're in Indianna," the boy reiterated.
"What d'y' think I care?" Landy brought himself to say, and, while it was scarcely the most amiable way of accepting his overture of friendship, the boy seemed quite satisfied. Having recognized instinctively his companion's social standing, and being of the same calling, he was content with the reply as expressed, for incivility was the finest mark for distinguishing his kind; and Landy was at once uncivil and ugly in mind.
"We're out'n th' South now," the boy said, again bidding for a closer acquaintance, though his assertion was more respectful than his previous ventures had been.
For an instant Landy was startled by his words, but for an instant only. His dulled intellect could not accept all at once the full joy of a new-born opportunity. But from the dying spark of that tiny hope a warmer fire grew up, and at each successive expansion of its blaze his mind unlimbered until he had grasped the importance of this change, and his eyes were kindled with ambition.
The boy walked silently by his side until they had reached the end of the railroad yards. Then he stopped.
"So long!" he said cheerily.
"Ah, come on!" Landy replied, and the boy again took up his place.
"Where y' goin'?" the boy asked, after a time, but received no reply.
Landy knew not himself, much as he should have liked to have known. In nowise suppressed the boy began to whistle, and they stepped the little suburban sidewalk behind them at a merry pace.
Into the busy town they went, the boy perfectly content in his new companion; Landy moved by his infectious good spirits. Stepping into a store, and leaving the boy outside, he demanded work. All the determination of his new resolve was in his voice, giving it an offensive inflection, and an immediate refusal rewarded him. The boy looked into his face inquiringly when he came out, but asked no questions, only dropping into his stride and resuming his improvised tune. After Landy's third attempt the boy ventured:
"Say! 'Tain't no use grubbin' this town. It's hoboed t' a frizzle." Adding sagely, "I know. I been here before!"
"Who's hoboing?" Landy replied quickly, sullenly. "I'm a-lookin' fer a job!"
"Not wo'k!" the boy ejaculated in surprise, drawing a long breath that afterward came out sharply between his teeth. "Say—" he began; but Landy turned into a feed-store, ignoring the balance of his speech, and he resolutely followed.
"Are you strong?" the man asked, in reply to Landy's query.
"You don't know him er y' wouldn't ax," the boy responded quickly, while his companion stood dumbfounded.
"Well, that's pretty good," the feed man laughed. "Do team-work I suppose?"
"Yep!" replied the boy.
"You'll do," the man said promptly. "You're working right now, so get your coats off!" To which they both responded with alacrity.
This marked the turning point in Landy's existence, and from then on his spirits, his interest in the things about him, and his future path took an upward turn. The companionship of the boy drew off much of the surliness that had grown within him. The work gave him no time for misconceptions or the imbibing of wrong impressions, and he was becoming duly happy. The boy worked three days, and innocently lent his buoyancy for the three evenings of those days to revive Landy. Then the habit of roving, the spirit of discontent, took hold upon him, and his companion awakened next morning to find him gone. All the day Landy waited—now hopeful, now despondent—and that night he did not sleep. Tossing about on the folding cot that had been allotted to him, he made the poor bed squeak from his restlessness.
When the week was over he too left and went out into the country, where he soon found other work. From town jobs to country jobs, and back again, he wandered unceasingly, yet no one place seemed to fill his needs or claim his whole attention. He drifted into acquaintances, but was long before he permitted men to gain his friendship.
In town he came to know first laborers, and later jail-guards and attendants—those who worked at the State institution nearby. In the country he fell in with farm hands, and their hearty, rough, good fellowship won him more than his town acquaintances had done. But he was soon back again, deeply surrounded by an atmosphere of brisk, city-bred knowledge, no matter how low, that was revivifying, and in the lives of his friends he lived, for he knew no other deeds than theirs—no other events than those their conversation developed, and their interests became his interests.
Of the laws he came to have the greatest respect; with crime he became disgusted. The State's criminal history was constantly before him, and from his narrowed view he found the State a wicked one indeed. But, aside from all this, there was a deeper impression made upon him by the constant allusion to the mentally deranged charges with which some of his friends were spending their working hours. A morbid curiosity compelled him to listen with eagerness to all that he could hear, and in the times when the keepers were silent, or seemed barren of further episode, he incited them to talk, an influence to which they gladly yielded. Thus he learned much that was later of great benefit.
After a year of work along or near the Ohio river he grew restless and wandered north still farther into Indiana. Near Ashville he found more work, but when the season had ended he would have started again his journeying, with no definite destination, had not the good-will and friendship of the place awakened a respect hitherto unknown to him. Then there was the Widow Martin—good, generous and sympathetic—bidding for his friendship through her kindly interest. The friendship of men had hitherto been a rare blessing with him, but the friendship of a woman had never occurred to him as being within the range of possibilities. She seemed the embodiment of all that was kindness, and he was suspicious; but when he allowed at last his confidence to respond it was the beginning of a reverence that was at once love of the—to him—near ideal. He became readily her adorer without ever having known the intermediate stage of friendship that most men in his sphere have usually enjoyed. There was no telling by what Martin was attracted to him. It may have been his imperturbable silence that attracted her loquacity, or his stoic seriousness, indicating unusual wisdom for one of her equals, that invited her efforts to extract him from himself; but, whatever it was, she became deeply interested and found a happy pride in doing with him that which others could not do. The sequel came by natural stages to her, and the end, quite in contrast to Landy's emotions, seemed not unusual or startling. She accepted and married him much as she would have performed any of her daily doings, because circumstances had clearly pointed the way to her in each advancement. Landy was joyous, buoyant and sentimental. Martin was calm, self-contained and full of plans for using his elated state to his own betterment, as she realized that he was to be pliant under the influence of his love for her. Her conection brought him into the household of Kent, and this step seemed to him to be the zenith of all that he could ever have desired. When he looked back his present position awed him, for out of all the good things that he had ever known as great a confidence had never been given him. This, then, was more than any hope would ever have pictured, and to-day he felt almost as insecure in the parsonage as the day he first took up his abode there. With care and scrupulous pains he watched Kent's and his wife's desires, and followed them religiously. Kent soon learned of his gratitude and faithfulness, and by degrees, as his own time was consumed by the cares that Virgie had relinquished, he gave Landy the custodianship of Snellins.
Early in his experience Landy found his pity becoming secondary to his interest in the charge, and when Kent finally permitted him the freedom of the demented man's quarters he was overjoyed. In the evenings, when Martin was busy with domestic affairs, and the parson with things literary, he slipped away to converse with Snellins. He learned to disregard the patient's ailment, and from short sentences he soon took to long ones, and eventually talked by the hour to him just as though he were in the enjoyment of all his faculties. Once Kent found him in the swing of a long argument on the advantages of working early and late in the summer to prepare for winter.
Snellins sat in his chair radiant and seemingly filled with delight. His hands fitted over his knees much as Landy's were, and Lady sat directly in front of him talking earnestly.
"I say—men must work sometimes, Snellins, Snellins. Did you get that, Snellins?" he said, each time repeating the name sharply. "And it 'd better be summer than winter. Eh! Snellins, Snellins. Did you get that, Snellins?" Then he laughed quietly, though his face showed no trace of mirth—only a hard determination, drawing his eyes into contracted points that searched those of his companion.
Snellins laughed, seemingly impelled to it by the sounds forced upon him, though a shade of reluctance was in his voice.
Kent stood astounded at the revelation; then stepped forward eagerly.
"Whatever induced you to try that?" he asked, admiringly.
Landy arose quickly in much confusion, though the strain of intense application still contracted his features.
"I've heard th' keepers tell about it," he replied, apologetically.
"And have you made him know you or understand you?" Kent asked.
"No-o," Landy replied sorrowfully. "Only kin make him laugh."
As the days became colder they were forced to bring Snellins up to the living floor, and in the change the little household had the greatest fear lest by chance their secret might be discovered. Every precaution was taken to prevent surprises. Landy watched and guarded with redoubled care. His time eventually was given to no other work, and in these hours, through the long nights and short days, he labored unceasingly with his charge. Snellins grew physically perfect, becoming round-faced, vigorous and hearty through Landy's ministering. For a long period covering many weeks they had all despaired, as he grew much weaker and refrained entirely from speech because of his weakness. They worried for him and for themselves, as they knew not how right or how wrong they were in keeping him in private bondage. But the time came when his improvement was marked by more flesh and a heartier appetite, and they were overjoyed. Later he laughed and afterward took up his earlier lamentations of "Poor Snell" with a lustiness that discarded all of its old dolorousness. Then it was that Landy became jubilant. He chose a set of words that he used repeatedly in a vain effort to impress them upon Snell's mind. Failure upon failure rewarded him, though they never discouraged. He went on and on, with a growing interest despite the fact of there being no signs to warrant it, until the experiment became a desire, and the desire his whole ambition.
The evening that "Doc" Murray drove away with Martin Landy was but little disturbed by his wife's departure. He had been deeply occupied, and there seemed some slight chance for a successful issue. The news of George Brandt's death impressed him only for the moment; then left at once to give room to his feverish hopes. Kent was distressed beyond expression, and Landy cared not, though out of his supreme respect for the parson he hesitated long enough with him to speak one word of condolence. As he stood awaiting a reply a thought, inspired by Kent's dejection, electrified him into quick action, and after he had tiptoed down the hall he stopped to listen, fearful lest the parson might follow him; then moved on again hurriedly into Snellins' room.
Pulling a chair directly in front of Snell he assumed his customary attitude and began to laugh sharply. It was the only thing that would attract the patient's attention. Snellins responded with his parrot-like reproduction and ended with "Poor Snell!"
Landy began then with his usual sentence, repeating and re-repeating the few words until he had centralized his whole will upon the object he sought. Then, with sudden force and an intensity of application that thrilled and startled even his own pulse to a rapid beating, he said:
"George Brandt's dead, Snellins. Snellins, George Brandt's dead!"
It was as if he were holding to the other man's mind, so sharply did he peer into his eyes, conveying by concentrated effort through both senses—of sight and hearing—his word of mouth.
Snellins sat upright, attempting to avoid his eyes, while a struggle far deeper than the one of fascination with which he was battling spread over his usually stolid face, and Landy, seeing his vantage, pressed closer with fierce persistency. Snellins drew himself up to his fullest height, but could not take his eyes from those before him. His hands twitched and his face worked convulsively. Landy pressed still closer. Their faces almost touched. Snellins' lips moved just a little, yet Landy held to his gaze. Still again he essayed to speak, though no sound came. Then, joy of joys! The words, almost unintelligible, were spoken—"Poor Virgie!" he said; and Landy, released from the strain under which he had labored, was nearly frantic with joy. He patted Snell approvingly on the shoulder. He danced with delight and laughed unrestrainedly. Snell joined in and laughed mirthlessly an echo to his outburst, and said again: "Poor Virgie!"
"Good fer you!" Landy replied happily. "You're comin' round, my boy. You're comin' round sure. Well, well, well!" he went on, as he stopped before Snell and looked into his face approvingly. "Needn't drop yer eyes, y' ought not t' be ashamed. Ef y' knew how happy you've made me you'd be happy too. Well, well, well! Now there be somethin' worth livin' fer, old boy. We'll have th' kinks outen you in no time, mark my word!" he said affectionately, shaking his big finger positively before Snell's face. "I didn't listen t' all thet talk about insane people down there on the Ohio fer nothin'," he soliloquized. "I've wisht many's th' time sence I knowed you thet I'd listened with my ears wider open then I did, but 'Susan Ann, man t' man, I think I've got th' idee.' Thet's po'try, Snell, good po'try. You'll be up t' sayin' them things fust thing you know." With a slow change he gradually talked his happiness out, and the events of the evening came back to his previously overcrowded mind. He thought of his wife's long, uncomfortable trip; of the bitter cold without, and shuddered imaginatively in sympathy for her. He felt that he saw her arrive safely; then he transferred his thoughts to the grieving one and he said: "Poor Virgie—poor Brandt!"
Snell echoed again: "Poor Virgie!" His lips moved, but he said no more.
Landy stood over him and, laying his hand on Snell's shoulders, said:
"You'll have wuss things 'an that to say when you know what's happened," and sighed sympathetically.