Читать книгу The Tennessee Shad - Owen Johnson - Страница 3

Table of Contents

At the time when the celebrated Doc Macnooder, that amateur practitioner, but most professional financier, first dawned upon the school, he found the Tennessee Shad the admiration and the envy of the multitude. He had not been a week in the school before he, too, was moved to enthusiasm by the Shad’s productive imagination—productive in the sense of its consequences to others. Macnooder, at that time unknown, with only the consciousness of greatness within him, conceived at once the mighty ambition to unite this Yankee fertility of ideas to his own practical but imaginative sense of financial returns. This ambition he did not achieve in a day, for the firm of Macnooder and the Tennessee Shad was not finally established until Macnooder, by a series of audacious moves, forced himself to that position where he could compel the Shad to choose between a partner and a rival.

When the Tennessee Shad leaned against a wall his empty trousers wrapped themselves like damp sheets around his ankles. When he strode forth like a pair of animated scissors his coat hung from the points of his shoulder-blades as though floating from a rake, while his narrow, lengthened head seemed more like a cross-section than a completed structure.

Hickey, The Prodigious, after a long period of mental wrestling, had given him the nickname, and the same was agreed to be Hickey’s magnum opus. It expressed not simply a state of inordinate thinness, but one of incredible, preposterous boniness such as could only have been possessed by that antediluvian monster that did or did not sharpen its sides on the ridges of Tennessee.

The Tennessee Shad frankly confessed his ambition to be a philosopher, his idea of the same being that of a gloriously languid person who resided in a tub and thought out courses of action over which other people should toil.

His first efforts were naturally directed to the greatest saving of personal energy. His window opened, his door shut, his lamp was extinguished by a series of ropes which he operated from his bed. On retiring he drew his undergarments through his trousers, tucked the legs carefully in the socks, which in turn were placed in his slippers, and leaned the whole against the chair, on the back of which his undershirt in his shirt, his shirt in his vest, his vest in his coat lay gaping for the morrow. As a result of this precocious grasping of the principles of economics he was able to spring from his bed fully clothed with but two motions, an upward struggle and a downward kick.

The physical inertia was not, however, accompanied by any surrender of the imagination. On the contrary, he liked nothing better than to propose ideas; to lie back, lazily turning a straw in his lips, and to throw out suggestions that would produce commotions and give him the keen intellectual enjoyment of watching others hustle. These little ideas of the Tennessee Shad’s, so rapturously hailed at the inception, were not always so admired in the retrospect; especially after the rise of Macnooder to the practical partnership had introduced the element of aggressive financeering.

Now Doc Macnooder came with no surrounding haze of green, but fully equipped with the most circumstantial manner.

It lies in the annals of the Hamill House that within six hours after the opening of his trunks, he had sold a patent bootjack to the Triumphant Egghead, and a folding toothbrush to Turkey Reiter, disinfected and bandaged the foot of Peewee Davis, who had stepped on a tack, and begun the famous Hamill House March, which was a blend of the vibrant reiterations of a Chinese orchestra and the beatings of a tom-tom man.

Macnooder’s early days, as well as his age, remained closely wrapped in mystery and speculation. Many stories moved about; he had shipped before the mast and fought Chinese pirates off Malay; he had been an enforced pirate himself; he had been an actor, touring the country with barn-stormers; he had been a dentist’s assistant, a jockey, and a Pinkerton detective. Macnooder never absolutely affirmed any of these reports, and he certainly would never have denied one.

He shortly became secretary and treasurer of his House, of his Form, and of each organization to which he was admitted. He played the organ in chapel, represented twenty firms, and plied so thriving a trade in patent and ingeniously useless goods that he was able to refuse a cash offer from the village tradesmen to abandon the field.

But Macnooder was not content. He wished a reputation not simply for ubiquity, but as a hero of some desperate deed of valor and cunning, and so to enter the company of that Machiavellian spirit, the Tennessee Shad, of Turkey Reiter and of Hickey, the incarnation of mischief.

In the days of which I write smoking had still the charm of Eden’s apple. Thundering assaults were directed from the pulpit at the Demon Cigarette, which was further described as a Coffin-Nail; and boys whose stomachs rebelled smoked with a thrill at the thought of detection, immediate expulsion, disgrace, and a swift downward career, which nothing could check but the gallows.

Macnooder, either in Chinese junks or as a detective to screen his features behind a cloud of smoke, had acquired the deathly practice of inhaling the obnoxious weed, and soon began to cast about for a more safely luxurious method of enjoyment than a mattress beside an air-flue.

Now, the Hamill House, relic of the old school, was a rambling structure which had been patched and altered a dozen times, with the result that each story was composed of several levels.

Macnooder was hastening down the back steps from the third floor, one afternoon, when the lacrosse stick he carried at shoulder arms, came in smart contact with a beam, with the result that he reached the landing without the formality of the remaining steps.

He picked himself up wrathfully, and gazed at the offending beam. It was totally unnecessary, in quite an absurd position, impending over a flight of narrow stairs. The more Macnooder studied it, the more curious he became. If it was only a beam, it was of extraordinary thickness and height. If it was not a beam, it must be a sort of blind passage leading directly from his room. But leading where?

Macnooder went softly up the steps and, stretching on tiptoes, gently sounded the plastered obstruction. It certainly gave forth a most promising hollow sound.

Twenty minutes later, “Jay” Gould who had waited patiently below, rushed up in a swearing mood.

“Where in blazes is that impudent, cheeky, all-fired, nervy freshman?” he cried, stamping up in pursuit of the greenhorn who had dared to keep him waiting. But at Macnooder’s room he stopped in amazement.

“What in the name of peanuts are you doing?”

“Hush!” said Macnooder, pacing the floor. “Twelve feet from the door and six over.”

“He’s gone dippy,” said Jay, not completely surprised at this solution of Macnooder’s many-sided personality.

“Twelve feet minus four leaves eight. Allowing, say, two and a half feet for the width of the passage, it must strike in here somewhere.”

Jay Gould, keeping a chair in front of him, carefully advanced, studying first the floor and then the abstracted, concentrated gaze of Macnooder.

“I say, Doc.”

“Don’t bother me.”

“I say, dear boy, is anything wrong?”

“Come here,” said Macnooder, suddenly straightening, with a look of triumph.

“What do you want?”

“Lift your right hand and solemnly swear.”

“Swear what?”

“Never to reveal the secret mysteries I am about to unfold to you.”

“Come off. What’s the answer?”

“Swear.”

“Sure.”

“I have discovered that the Hamill House hides a secret chamber, a den of horrors, perhaps,” said Macnooder darkly.

“How did you find that out?”

“I first suspected it,” said Macnooder, rapidly dramatizing the bare facts, “by a strange, pungent, ghoulish odor that has come to me in the dead of the night.”

“Poor Doc,” said Jay Gould, shaking his head; “he is dippy, after all.”

Macnooder, perceiving the time for simple words had arrived, rapidly imparted the accident of his discovery, ending excitedly:

“Jay, that passage starts right above the floor of my closet or you can take your pick of anything I sell, at fifty per cent. off.”

Gould was convinced at once.

“But where does it lead?”

“Straight over back of your room!”

“Back!”

“Exactly. I’ve worked it all out. There’s a blind hole about six feet square directly back of your closet. What do you think of that?”

“Holy cats!” said Jay Gould, who immediately bolted for his room with Macnooder at his heels. A short comparison of distances, with a craning survey of the shelving roof, convinced them that, in fact, the greatest discovery of the age was at hand.

“You see, my room is a couple of feet higher than yours,” said Macnooder excitedly: “I’ll dig for it low down in the wall. You saw a trap-door through the floor of your closet and we’ll have it cinched.”

“This must be a profound secret,” said Jay Gould, slightly pale.

“Your hand!” said Macnooder.

Two minutes later, having locked and barred the door, the wide-eyed discoverers were flat on their bellies in Macnooder’s closet, Doc stealthily applying a chisel to the plaster which Jay Gould carefully stuffed into a washbag, illegally borrowed from the Pink Rabbit.

“It’s hollow, sure enough,” said Macnooder, when the plaster had fallen. “Where’s the saw?”

“Here you are. Down with the laths.”

“Not a sound.”

Through the dull rasping of the saw the laths gradually yielded an aperture for the passage of the human body.

“Let’s look,” said Jay Gould eagerly.

Through the jagged entrance lay a passage mysterious, adventurous, and gloomy, formed by the meeting of the sloping roof and the floor.

“Let’s explore it,” said Jay Gould, all for action.

“You bet.”

“Think of finding it!”

“It’s a wonder!”

“Start ahead, Doc.”

“Take the honor,” said Macnooder magnanimously; “I have had all the fun so far.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” said Gould resolutely; “you have every right. After you.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Are you?”

“Let’s toss.”

“Beans! I’ll go first,” said Jay Gould, who feared neither man or master.

“There may have been a murder,” said Macnooder, when Gould was safely in. “If you strike any bones, don’t rattle them.”

Jay Gould at once lit a match.

“The bite of some rats is peculiarly poisonous,” continued Macnooder, wriggling like a snake amid the cobwebs.

The first match was immediately succeeded by a second.

“Great Lalapazoozas!”

“What is it?”

“Look at this.”

Macnooder hastily hauling himself upon the passage, found a blind inclosure above five feet square, with a chimney at one side.

“Have a coffin-nail,” said Jay Gould, with perfect calm.

“What shall we call it?” said Macnooder instantly.

“The Holy of Holies.”

“Your hand again.”

“We’ll bring rugs and sofa-cushions and crackers and cheese. Eh, what?”

“Sure, Mike.”

“Say, who’ll we let in on this?”

“It must be a secret locked in the breasts of only a few,” said Jay Gould firmly. “Sport McAllister is my room-mate, he’ll have to go in.”

“Of course. But not the Walladoo Bird—no elephants that will stick their feet through the ceiling.”

“Well, how about Shingle-Foot Harris?”

“Agreed; and Tinkles Bell—five; no more!”

“We must take a separate oath of secrecy.”

“Sure.”

“Sealed with blood.”

“Quite so.”

“And brand the arms with a burning cigarette.”

“What!” said Macnooder; “all of us?”

“No—o, the fellows we let in.”

“Oh, absolutely!”

The discovery of the Holy of Holies, destined to be passed down for four successive generations (this is not fiction), unsuspected by masters or uninitiated housemates, still left Macnooder short of the national reputation which he felt was his due. Of course, among the midnight brethren his standing was enormous. But this left him as restless as the right hand when the left hand knoweth not its doing.

From, the floor of Jay Gould’s closet a trap-door was constructed, fitting cunningly in natural grooves with a bolt to be drawn below. The only moment of dire peril occurred one afternoon when Shingle-Foot, having gone into the Holy of Holies alone, fell asleep and gave forth snores that shook the House. Luckily, no masters were within, and Macnooder hastily diverted suspicion to himself while Jay Gould, scrambling into the den, seized Shingle-Foot by the throat and brutally throttled the disturber.

Still, the veneration of the inner brotherhood sufficed not. Often of evenings, when lights were out, and they were huddled by the warm bricks in whispered ecstasy lit by the winking sparks of their cigarettes, Macnooder would lapse into revery.

“What’s the matter?” one would inquire from time to time.

“I’m working out something—an idea,” Macnooder would answer, lapsing into taciturnity.

But the great idea delayed unconscionably. Macnooder’s suave good humor turned into a fidgeting irritability. He was only the big man of a House. The nation was beyond these sectional limits with its call to ambition.

Dink Stover had not yet arrived with his Sleep Prolonging Devices but Hickey who had not yet left (by request) had already pre-empted the lists of history with his nocturnal exploits and above all there was the Tennessee Shad, the fertile originator of busy schemes from recumbent positions. About this time a faculty decree was promulgated against the right of every future American citizen to acquire influenza, bronchitis and the catarrhal substitutes, and it was solemnly announced that henceforth, under odious penalties, every boy should wear a hat.

On the following morning, while the indignation was at its height, a joyful ripple spread over the school, which rushing to the fountain of rumors, beheld the Tennessee Shad lazily slouching across the Circle, equipped with what might legally be termed a hat. The rim of a derby, stripped of every vestige of a crown, reposed upon the indignant upright of his two flanking ears. It had been a hat and it was a hat. It complied with and it defied the tyrannous injunction. A roar of joy and freedom went up and in ten minutes every $3.00 to $5.00 derby in the school was decapitated and the brim defiantly riding on the exposed head of each rebellious imitator.

The incident concentrated the already passionate longings of the young Macnooder. He must pass over the limits of the house. He must rise to national scope. He must prove himself worthy of the complexities of the Tennessee Shad. For Macnooder had that critical enthusiasm for the Shad that the man of practical perceptions has for the irresponsibilities of a man of genius. The imagination of the Tennessee Shad must be turned to practical results, as Niagara, stupendous in itself, has waited for centuries to be harnessed to the pockets of business. He, Macnooder, would prove his right, capitalize the Tennessee Shad, form the firm of Macnooder and the Tennessee Shad, and putting it on a sound business basis, develop it into a source of revenue.

In this mood he was bumping up the stairs one afternoon, when he came to an alarmed and sudden halt. Directly opposite, from the crack of the Pink Rabbit’s door, came a faint, but unmistakable odor of tobacco.

Now the Pink Rabbit was among the cherubim and seraphim of the school. Macnooder could hardly believe his senses. He advanced a few steps, cocked his head on one side and drew in a deep breath. The odor was strange, but distinctly of the Demon Tobacco.

Macnooder, hastily sliding around the door, beheld, in fact, the Pink Rabbit, propped up in bed, reading a novel, devouring a box of taffy, and smoking a cigarette.

“For the love of Mike, Rabbit! What are you doing?” he exclaimed.

“What’s the matter?” said the invalid hoarsely from his couch.

But here Macnooder suddenly sniffed the air.

“Cubebs!” he said.

“Sure.”

“But that’s smoking.”

“Not at all. Doctor Charlie prescribed them—cure asthma, and all that sort of thing.”

“Cubebs are not tobacco?” said Macnooder, who had missed the preliminary stages.

“No, you chump.”

“And they’re good for colds, you say.”

“Hay fever and asthma.”

“Well, I’ll be jig-swiggered.”

Macnooder continued to his room in a state of scientific speculation, halted by the window and, digging his fists into his pockets, stared out at the Circle, around which a dozen fellows were laboriously plodding in penance.

“Cubebs aren’t tobacco,” he repeated for the tenth time. “By the great horned spoon, there certainly is something in that idea.”

That night, in the Holy of Holies, Macnooder was more silent than usual, though this time it was with a purpose.

“Doc’s in love,” said Shingle-Foot, suspiciously.

“I believe he is.”

“He certainly acts off his feed.”

This sally failed to awaken Macnooder.

“She doesn’t love him.”

“She loves another.”

“Poor old Doc.”

Macnooder calmed them with a disdainful flutter of his hand.

“I’ll tell you,” he said impressively, “what’s been occupying me.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m tired of local reputations.”

“Oh, you are,” said Sport McAllister critically; for he thought it was time that even Macnooder should be discouraged.

“I am.”

“Indeed!—and what will satisfy you, you conceited, brassy, top-heavy squirt?”

“Nothing but an international reputation,” said Macnooder, disdaining to notice the mere flight of epithets.

“You don’t say so!”

“And now I’ve got it.”

“Dear me!”

“I’ve got the greatest stunt that was ever pulled off in any school, at any time, in any country.”

“Well, we’re listening.”

“I’ll put it this way. What would happen if the faculty got on to the Holy of Holies?”

“I’d be guiding a plow in South Idaho,” said McAllister frankly.

“The use of tobacco in any form is prohibited.”

“And punishable by suspension,” said Jay Gould. “So says the catalogue. Pass the coffin-nails.”

“Well, this is what I propose to do,” said Macnooder, “I propose to go two times around the Circle, in full sight of every master in the whole place, smoking a cigarette.”

“Repeat that,” said Jay Gould.

Macnooder firmly complied.

“Oh, at night!” said Tinkles Bell scornfully; “that’s an easy one.”

“No, in full daylight.”

“And remain in the school?”

“And remain in the school.”

“Repeat the whole proposition again.”

“Are you a betting man?” said Sport McAllister, when Macnooder had stated the proposition the third time.

“First, last and always.”

“I will bet you,” said Sport McAllister, trying to still the eagerness in his voice, “I will bet you my monthly allowance from now until the close of the year. Take it, it’s yours.”

“I’ll attend to that bet.”

“What?” said McAllister, hardly believing his good fortune. “You take it?”

“The word was ‘Attend.’ ”

“To smoke a cigarette while walking twice around the Circle in full daylight, and not get suspended.”

“Exactly.”

“Will you write that down?” said McAllister, who began to plan how he should enjoy the blessings of Providence.

“We have witnesses.”

“When will you do it?” said Jay Gould.

“Within one week.”

The next day Macnooder caught a cold which thickened considerably by the following morning. Despite this, he announced to the expectant House that the attempt would be made at one-thirty that afternoon.

Promptly at that hour Sport McAllister, Jay Gould, Tinkles and Shingle-Foot, according to agreement, repaired to the Dickinson House, armed with opera-glasses, and spreading the great news. The word having circulated, the five Houses that bordered the Circle, as well as the long outline of the Upper, were suddenly and theatrically alive with spectators, carefully masked (also according to request) by hand-screens and window-curtains.

“Aw, he’ll never dare,” said Sport McAllister to the Tennessee Shad, who was furnishing the window.

“Perhaps he’s been fired already.”

“I’ll bet there’s a catch in it.”

“Why, every master in the place is around now.”

“Sure; he couldn’t go ten yards before Robinson in the Cleve would nab him.”

“Aw, he’ll never dare,” repeated Sport McAllister. In the misfortune of his friend, he found not only a certain pleasure, but a promised easing of the money stringency.

“What’s that?”

“Where?”

“Just coming behind the trees.”

“It’s Macnooder!”

“No!”

“It certainly is!”

It was Macnooder, stepping briskly forward. His throat, to emphasize its delicate condition, was wrapped around with several knitted scarfs; while, besides a sweater, he wore in the warm month of October a winter overcoat.

When precisely opposite the Upper, and in full sight of the Houses, Macnooder deliberately halted and bringing forth a box, lighted a cubeb cigarette.

Then, puffing it forth voluminously, he started around the Circle. The nearest House was the Cleve, wherein dwelt not only the Muffin Head but Brotherly Love Baldwin, the young assistant, who had new ideas on education.

As luck would have it, at that precise moment Baldwin was on the threshold, preparing to cross the Circle.

At the sight of Macnooder, steaming briskly along his way, he stiffened one moment with horror; and the next, shot violently after the offender. He did not exactly leap forward, but there was in his advance all the growling rush of a bounding dog.

Macnooder, from the tail of his eye, beheld the sweeping approach and blew forth a particularly voluminous cloud.

“Stop!”

Macnooder came to a halt in gentle surprise.

“How dare you?” exclaimed Baldwin, almost incapable of speech.

“What’s wrong, sir?” said Macnooder thickly.

Among the spectators in the Houses there was a sudden terrified craning forward.

“Throw that cigarette down! this instant—you young reprobate!”

Macnooder was seized with a fit of coughing.

“Please, sir,” he said finally, “I’m trying to work off a cold. It’s only a cubeb.”

“A what?”

“A cubeb, sir.”

Mr. Baldwin began to suspect that he had bounded into a trap. So he said with dignity:

“Were these prescribed by Dr. Jackson?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, sir. Of course, a cubeb isn’t tobacco.”

“But smoking is forbidden.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“What!”

“Catalogue only forbids use of tobacco. Cubebs are a medicine.”

Mr. Baldwin stood rubbing his chin, thoroughly perplexed. Macnooder, with serious face, waited patiently the outcome of his dilemma. Now, of course, Mr. Baldwin could have ordered him to desist from any public display so liable to misconstruction and so upsetting of discipline. But he did not; and the reason was the very human motive that actuates the oppressor and the oppressed. He had been caught, and he wanted someone else to share the ignominy.

When the spying school (who of course saw only a cigarette) actually beheld Mr. Baldwin retire and Macnooder continue on his way, smoking, a spasm of horrified amazement swept the audience, in the midst of which young Pewee Davis fell from the second story, carrying away the vines.

Nothing more happened until the first turn had been completed, when Macnooder encountered Mr. Jenkins, popularly known as Fuzzy-Wuzzy. Mr. Jenkins was near-sighted; and though he taught mathematics, his perceptions were not those of a lightning calculator.

When, on the pleasant meandering speculation of his mind, Macnooder suddenly intruded, he stopped dead, raising his hand to his spectacles to assure himself that he actually saw.

Macnooder, rounding the turn, saluted respectfully and continued his nonchalant way.

“Macnooder?”

“Yes, sir,” said Macnooder, stopping at once.

“Er—er.”

Macnooder inclined his head in an expectant sort of way until Mr. Jenkins was quite able to frame his words.

“Are you smoking a cigarette?” said the master slowly.

“A cubeb, sir, not tobacco,” continued Mac-the cigarette; “breaks up colds, sir.”

Mr. Jenkins fidgeted with his eye-glasses and stared very hard at him.

“A cubeb, sir, no tobacco,” continued Macnooder, allowing the aromatic odor to drift in his direction.

“A cubeb—” repeated Mr. Jenkins slowly, pulling his beard.

“Yes, sir,” said Macnooder.

He waited a moment and tipping his hat went on his way, leaving the perplexed master fairly rooted in his tracks.

Mr. Smith, the Muffin Head, the next to be encountered, was older in experience, and cannier. Likewise, he had witnessed the last encounter; so, instead of risking his reputation by rushing madly forth, he took up a book and started ostensibly for the library, carefully calculating his time and distance so as to cross Macnooder’s path without seeming to have sought the meeting.

That there was a trap somewhere, he was convinced. So, carefully repressing the instinctive desire to spring upon the flaunter of the scholastic red rag, he approached all alert. A slight wind brought him the unmistakable odor of the cubeb. Now, as it happened, he, too, had suffered from bronchial affliction and was no stranger to this remedy. So, when Macnooder came to a stop, he said with a superior smile:

“Yes, what is it, Macnooder?”

“Please, sir, did you want to speak to me?” said Macnooder himself surprised.

“About what?”

“I thought—”

“Oh, about smoking a cubeb? Not at all.”

“I beg pardon, sir.”

“You have a bad cold, I see.”

“Yes, sir! Yes, sir!”

“That’s very good for it.”

The Muffin Head, chuckling with satisfaction, continued on his way. He, too, in the natural course should have sent Macnooder to his room; but again the little human strain prevented. At the entrance to Memorial, he turned and looked back to see who would fall into the trap he had evaded.

This was too much for the now utterly flabbergasted school—the Muffin Head, of all masters; the strictest of disciplinarians; the most relentless of task-masters! In rapid succession the school then beheld a dozen more masters take the bait, some fairly galloping down with rage, others suspiciously sniffing the air. By the time Macnooder had completed four rounds, there remained only Mr. Baranson, of the Griswold, who had not been tempted out to investigate.

Macnooder made one more round with his eye on the study of the Griswold, hoping against hope. Finally he said:

“Well, here goes! Someone has put him on—he’s too cute to come out!”

Then, secure and triumphant, he discarded the stump of the cubeb and lit a real cigarette, completing, without mishap, twice the rounds of the Circle.

Now, Mr. Baranson, who rightly bore the title of the craftiest of the crafty, had witnessed the whole performance, chuckling hugely at the successive discomfitures of his associates, and finally guessing the explanation.

The Muffin Head, on his return from the library, hoping that he had not been seen, dropped in for an artful call; and at the proper moment paused before the window, exclaiming:

“By George, what’s that!”

Mr. Baranson doubled up with laughter at the obviousness of the trap. When he had finally wiped the tears from his eyes, he said in a slightly superior manner:

“Smith, if you’re going to deal with boys, you must use your imagination. You must out-think them. That’s the only way, Smith; the only way. Don’t walk into their traps, don’t do it. Every time a master lets himself be fooled, he loses some of his authority. Imagination, Smith; imagination!”

But an hour later, at dusk, he began to consider, to weigh and to speculate; and the more he analyzed the situation, the more he began to wonder if he had seen the last curtain. He left the House and went slowly toward the road Macnooder had traveled, and his eyes were on the ground where the last cigarette stump had fallen. Suddenly behind him a voice said solicitously:

“Have you lost anything, Mr. Baranson?”

It was Macnooder.

The two stood a long moment, master and boy, the craftiest of the crafty and the ambitious Macnooder, glance to glance, one of those silent interrogatories that can not be described.

“Your cold seems to have gone,” said Mr. Baranson at length, dealing out his words. Then he added, with a slightly twitching, generous smile, “I congratulate you!”