Stories in Light and Shadow - Bret Harte (best love novels of all time txt) š
- Author: Bret Harte
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But a few days later brought a more notable event to Uncle Billy. One afternoon in Montgomery Street he recognized in one of its smartly dressed frequenters a man who had a few years before been a member of Cedar Camp. Uncle Billyās childish delight at this meeting, which seemed to bridge over his old partnerās absence, was, however, only half responded to by the ex-miner, and then somewhat satirically. In the fullness of his emotion, Uncle Billy confided to him that he was seeking his old partner, Jim Foster, and, reticent of his own good fortune, spoke glowingly of his partnerās brilliant expectations, but deplored his inability to find him. And just now he was away on important business. āI reckon heās got back,ā said the man dryly. āI didnāt know he had a lock-box at the post-office, but I can give you his other address. He lives at the Presidio, at Washerwomanās Bay.ā He stopped and looked with a satirical smile at Uncle Billy. But the latter, familiar with Californian mining-camp nomenclature, saw nothing strange in it, and merely repeated his companionās words.
āYouāll find him there! Good-by! So long! Sorry Iām in a hurry,ā said the ex-miner, and hurried away.
Uncle Billy was too delighted with the prospect of a speedy meeting with Uncle Jim to resent his former associateās supercilious haste, or even to wonder why Uncle Jim had not informed him that he had returned. It was not the first time that he had felt how wide was the gulf between himself and these others, and the thought drew him closer to his old partner, as well as his old idea, as it was now possible to surprise him with the draft. But as he was going to surprise him in his own boarding-houseāprobably a handsome oneā Uncle Billy reflected that he would do so in a certain style.
He accordingly went to a livery stable and ordered a landau and pair, with a negro coachman. Seated in it, in his best and most ill-fitting clothes, he asked the coachman to take him to the Presidio, and leaned back in the cushions as they drove through the streets with such an expression of beaming gratification on his good-humored face that the passers-by smiled at the equipage and its extravagant occupant. To them it seemed the not unusual sight of the successful miner āon a spree.ā To the unsophisticated Uncle Billy their smiling seemed only a natural and kindly recognition of his happiness, and he nodded and smiled back to them with unsuspecting candor and innocent playfulness. āThese yer āFrisco fellers aināt ALL slouches, you bet,ā he added to himself half aloud, at the back of the grinning coachman.
Their way led through well-built streets to the outskirts, or rather to that portion of the city which seemed to have been overwhelmed by shifting sand-dunes, from which half-submerged fences and even low houses barely marked the line of highway. The resistless trade-winds which had marked this change blew keenly in his face and slightly chilled his ardor. At a turn in the road the sea came in sight, and sloping towards it the great Cemetery of Lone Mountain, with white shafts and marbles that glittered in the sunlight like the sails of ships waiting to be launched down that slope into the Eternal Ocean. Uncle Billy shuddered. What if it had been his fate to seek Uncle Jim there!
āDarās yar Presidio!ā said the negro coachman a few moments later, pointing with his whip, āand darās yar Washāwomanās Bay!ā
Uncle Billy stared. A huge quadrangular fort of stone with a flag flying above its battlements stood at a little distance, pressed against the rocks, as if beating back the encroaching surges; between him and the fort but farther inland was a lagoon with a number of dilapidated, rudely patched cabins or cottages, like stranded driftwood around its shore. But there was no mansion, no block of houses, no street, not another habitation or dwelling to be seen!
Uncle Billyās first shock of astonishment was succeeded by a feeling of relief. He had secretly dreaded a meeting with his old partner in the āhaunts of fashion;ā whatever was the cause that made Uncle Jim seek this obscure retirement affected him but slightly; he even was thrilled with a vague memory of the old shiftless camp they had both abandoned. A certain instinctāhe knew not why, or less still that it might be one of delicacyāmade him alight before they reached the first house. Bidding the carriage wait, Uncle Billy entered, and was informed by a blowzy Irish laundress at a tub that Jim Foster, or āArkansaw Jim,ā lived at the fourth shanty ābeyant.ā He was at home, for āheād shprained his fut.ā Uncle Billy hurried on, stopped before the door of a shanty scarcely less rude than their old cabin, and half timidly pushed it open. A growling voice from within, a figure that rose hurriedly, leaning on a stick, with an attempt to fly, but in the same moment sank back in a chair with an hysterical laughāand Uncle Billy stood in the presence of his old partner! But as Uncle Billy darted forward, Uncle Jim rose again, and this time with outstretched hands. Uncle Billy caught them, and in one supreme pressure seemed to pour out and transfuse his whole simple soul into his partnerās. There they swayed each other backwards and forwards and sideways by their still clasped hands, until Uncle Billy, with a glance at Uncle Jimās bandaged ankle, shoved him by sheer force down into his chair.
Uncle Jim was first to speak. āCaught, bā gosh! I mighter known youād be as big a fool as me! Look you, Billy Fall, do you know what youāve done? Youāve druv me out er the streets whar I was makinā an honest livinā, by day, on three crossinās! Yes,ā he laughed forgivingly, āyou druv me out er it, by day, jest because I reckoned that some time I might run into your darned fool face,āā another laugh and a grasp of the hand,āāand then, bāgosh! not content with ruininā my business BY DAY, when I took to it at night, YOU took to goinā out at nights too, and so put a stopper on me there! Shall I tell you what else you did? Well, by the holy poker! I owe this sprained foot to your darned foolishness and my own, for it was getting away from YOU one night after the theatre that I got run into and run over!
āYe see,ā he went on, unconscious of Uncle Billyās paling face, and with a naivete, though perhaps not a delicacy, equal to Uncle Billyās own, āI had to play roots on you with that lock-box business and these letters, because I did not want you to know what I was up to, for you mightnāt like it, and might think it was lowerinā to the old firm, donāt yer see? I wouldnāt hev gone into it, but I was played out, and I donāt mind tellinā you NOW, old man, that when I wrote you that first chipper letter from the lock-box I hednāt eat anythinā for two days. But itās all right NOW,ā with a laugh. āThen I got into this businessāthinkinā it nothināā jest the very last thingāand do you know, old pard, I couldnāt tell anybody but YOUāand, in fact, I kept it jest to tell youā Iāve made nine hundred and fifty-six dollars! Yes, sir, NINE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX DOLLARS! solid money, in Adams and Co.ās Bank, just out er my trade.ā
āWot trade?ā asked Uncle Billy.
Uncle Jim pointed to the corner, where stood a large, heavy crossing-sweeperās broom. āThat trade.ā
āCertingly,ā said Uncle Billy, with a quick laugh.
āItās an outdoor trade,ā said Uncle Jim gravely, but with no suggestion of awkwardness or apology in his manner; āand thar aināt much difference between sweepinā a crossinā with a broom and raking over tailing with a rake, ONLYāWOT YE GET with a broom YOU HAVE HANDED TO YE, and ye donāt have to PICK IT UP AND FISH IT OUT ER the wet rocks and sluice-gushinā; and itās a heap less tiring to the back.ā
āCertingly, you bet!ā said Uncle Billy enthusiastically, yet with a certain nervous abstraction.
āIām glad ye say so; for yer see I didnāt know at first how youād tumble to my doing it, until Iād made my pile. And ef I hadnāt made it, I wouldnāt hev set eyes on ye agin, old pardānever!ā
āDo you mind my runninā out a minit,ā said Uncle Billy, rising. āYou see, Iāve got a friend waitinā for me outsideāand I reckonāā he stammeredāāIāll jest run out and send him off, so I kin talk comfāble to ye.ā
āYe aināt got anybody youāre owinā money to,ā said Uncle Jim earnestly, āanybody follerinā you to get paid, eh? For I kin jest set down right here and write ye off a check on the bank!ā
āNo,ā said Uncle Billy. He slipped out of the door, and ran like a deer to the waiting carriage. Thrusting a twenty-dollar gold-piece into the coachmanās hand, he said hoarsely, āI aināt wantinā that kerridge just now; ye ken drive around and hev a private jamboree all by yourself the rest of the afternoon, and then come and wait for me at the top oā the hill yonder.ā
Thus quit of his gorgeous equipage, he hurried back to Uncle Jim, grasping his ten-thousand dollar draft in his pocket. He was nervous, he was frightened, but he must get rid of the draft and his story, and have it over. But before he could speak he was unexpectedly stopped by Uncle Jim.
āNow, look yer, Billy boy!ā said Uncle Jim; āI got suthinā to say to yeāand I might as well clear it off my mind at once, and then we can start fair agin. Now,ā he went on, with a half laugh, āwasnāt it enough for ME to go on pretendinā I was rich and doing a big business, and gettinā up that lock-box dodge so as ye couldnāt find out whar I hung out and what I was doināāwasnāt it enough for ME to go on with all this play-actinā, but YOU, you long-legged or nary cuss! must get up and go to lyinā and play-actinā, too!ā
āME play-actinā? ME lyinā?ā gasped Uncle Billy.
Uncle Jim leaned back in his chair and laughed. āDo you think you could fool ME? Do you think I didnāt see through your little game
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