there we were in a town we never saw before, with no place to go and no idea what to do next. ludington seemed to us like a pretty big town after wicksville, but we didn’t let that frighten us.
“what’ll we do now?” i asked.
“i’m g-g-goin’ to git the gravel out of my ears,” says mark. “you can do whatever you want to.”
that was a pretty good idea. the gravel i got wasn’t in my ears; mostly it was down my neck. i was full of it. i don’t suppose the railroad company ever missed what i took away, and i didn’t see any reason why i should carry it back, so i left a nice little pile of it on the sidewalk.
“wish i could wash up,” says mark.
“and i,” i says, cross-like, “wish you’d quit thinkin’ about how uncomfortable you are and start to thinkin’ about uncle hieronymous.”
“binney,” says he, “d-d-don’t get het up. think a minnit. jiggins and collins never saw uncle hieronymous, did they? then they wouldn’t know him if they met him. and they d-don’t know where to look. they’ll never find him to-night. there hain’t such an awful hurry that i c-c-can’t get the gravel out of my hair.”
“i’ll bet they’re lookin’ for him right now.”
mark sighed. “there hain’t any use in it,” says he, “but i s’pose i g-g-got to humor you. come on.”
we went straight ahead till we came to a wide street with electric lights on it. down to the right you could see stores and business buildings, so we turned that way, and a walk of three or four blocks took us downtown.
“now,” says mark, “where do we b-b-begin lookin’ for him?”
“hotel,” says i, pointing across the street to one.
mark looked. “no use askin’ there,” he says. “uncle hieronymous wouldn’t stay there.”
“why?” i asked.
“two reasons,” says he. “in the f-f-first place, he wouldn’t take any comfort eatin’ his meals there, and, in the s-second place, it costs too much. uncle hieronymous wouldn’t eat in any b-big dinin’-room with f-f-fifty folks lookin’ on.”
“what kind of a place would he stop at?”
“either a boardin’-house or a leetle f-f-farmer’s hotel. i b-bet there’s an old hotel here s-s-somewheres where he would f-feel to home, one where there hain’t much s-s-style.”
“well,” says i, “s’pose we find out.”
we wandered around and found a couple of hotels that didn’t look too fine. in both of them we asked for uncle hieronymous, and both times the man behind the counter grinned when we mentioned the name.
“say,” says the last one, “what’s that feller been doin’? lots of folks lookin’ for him to-night.”
“what’s that?” mark asked.
“two fellers in here not twenty minnits ago askin’ for him.”
“a f-f-fat one and a thin one?”
“them’s the pair.”
mark and i looked at each other. it was dead certain collins and jiggins weren’t letting any grass grow under their feet.
“they might stumble onto him,” i says.
“yes,” says mark, “and they m-m-might stumble onto us, too.”
i never thought of that. we might run bang into them any time, and then what would happen? something would, that’s sure; but what? i didn’t want to find out.
“we got to go cautious,” says i.
mark wrinkled his nose scornful-like.
“how’d you come to think of that?” he asked, snappish. i guess that tumble off the train had upset his disposition. i made up my mind i’d leave him alone till he felt better.
after a while he stopped still in the middle of the sidewalk and says, “hang it!” you never saw such a disgusted look as he had on his face.
“what’s matter?” i asked.
“i ought to be k-k-kicked,” says he.
“all right,” says i. “what for?”
“for not askin’ who uncle hieronymous w-w-worked for.”
to be sure. neither of us had thought of it. it would have been as easy as biting an apple to find him if we knew who his boss was, but we didn’t. now there wasn’t any way of finding out. mark felt pretty bad. he said he guessed he was getting feeble-minded and a lot of things like that. and he was mad, too. i was glad to see that, for when marcus aurelius fortunatus tidd gets mad you want to look out. from now on jiggins & co. would have to travel pretty fast to beat us.
about fifteen minutes later i saw jiggins and collins about a block ahead.
“there,” says i to mark, “is the enemy.”
“f-f-fine,” says he. “come on.”
“where?”
“f-follow ’em, of course. if they find uncle hieronymous we can b-bust in on ’em. if they go to b-bed we’ll be able to get some sleep, too.”
that was a fact. so long as we knew they were in bed it would be safe for us to take a rest, and if they were to find my uncle with us looking on it would be pretty funny if there wasn’t some way for us to warn him before he signed any papers and made over his mineral rights. it looked, as mark said, like we occupied a pretty fine strategical position. he knows a lot of words like that, and you ought to hear him say them. on a good long word with “s’s” in it like “strategical,” he’ll hiss and stutter and splutter for five minutes. it’s better than listening to a phonograph.
we kept about half a block behind jiggins & co. and on the other side of the road, taking pains to keep people between us and the men. we watched them go into several places, probably to ask about uncle hieronymous, but every time they came out disappointed. finally they stopped and argued a few minutes, and then wheeled suddenly and came back toward us. the streets were pretty clear by this time, and there was no chance for us to mingle with the crowd and get away. all we could do was duck into a dark stairway.
jiggins & co. crossed the street to our side and came walking up the sidewalk slowly, like they were pretty well played out. if they felt anything like i did they were, and there’s no doubt about it. between falling off a train, paddling all day, and walking all the evening i felt like i was about ready to give up the ship. another mile and i knew i’d up and splinter all to pieces on the sidewalk. next day somebody’d have swept me up in a dust-pan and wondered where in the world all the slivers came from.
the nearer the enemy got the farther mark and i scrooched back into the stairway. in a minnit they got right in front of us, and i heard jiggins speak to somebody.
“good evening, mister,” he says.
“good evening,” says the stranger.
“we just came to town,” says jiggins. “been here two hours. walked and walked. looking for a man. old man. lumberman. know any lumbermen?”
“heaps,” says the stranger. “used to be a lumber-jack myself.”
“just our man. i knew it as soon as i saw you. says i, ‘there’s the feller.’ yes, sir. i said it just like that. knows lots of lumbermen. fine. the one we’re looking for travels around carrying the name of hieronymous alphabet bell. know him? old feller. lives up baldwin way.”
“sure i know hieronymous,” says the stranger. “hain’t seen him for months, but i know him. him and me used to bunk together.”
“he’s in town. came to-day. can’t find him. where’d he be apt to be?”
“well,” says the stranger, “he’d be apt to be over to the masonic temple, but he hain’t, ’cause i just come from there.”
“where does he usually stop?”
“don’t usually stop at all. jest comes and goes.”
then he took to asking questions himself. “friend of hieronymous’s be you?”
“of course. to be sure. he hasn’t two better friends.”
“never heard him mention you,” says the stranger. “lemme see. how long’s hieronymous’s beard by now? must be perty long, eh?”
“never measured her exactly,” says jiggins. “long, though. foot, maybe. great beard. don’t know when i ever saw a better one.”
“umph!” says the lumberman. “good friends of hieronymous’s, eh? perty intimate-like?”
“well, not what you’d call intimate, maybe. but friends. good friends.”
“see him lately? must ’a’ seen him perty lately, eh?”
“three days ago.”
“um!” says the stranger. “what was you lookin’ for him for?”
“business,” says jiggins, and his voice began to sound like he wasn’t exactly pleased.
“most likely,” says the stranger. “well,” he says, sort of dry-like and humorous, “i don’t calc’late i can help you any. why? best reason in the world. the hieronymous i know don’t wear no beard at all. good evenin’, gents.”
well, i could have busted right out laughing, but mark pinched my leg so hard i almost hollered because it hurt. “hush!” says he. oh, but it was great! i never was so tickled in all my life as i was to hear that old lumberman get the best of those two. i’d pay money to hear it again. yes, sir, i’d go as high as a quarter, and we don’t dig up quarters in my back yard, either.
we waited a short spell, and mark says: “i’ll follow the lumberman and find out where uncle hieronymous is apt to be and who he w-w-works for. you f-f-follow jiggins & co. to where they sleep.”
“all right,” says i, and off we went.
jiggins and collins went straight to the big hotel on the avenue. i climbed the steps as close behind them as i dared and saw them go up to the man behind the counter. this man poked a big book at them, and they signed their names to it. then the man called a boy over, who took a key and led them over to the stairs. all this time i was peeking in a window with a screen in it.
just as jiggins was putting his foot on the first step he turned around and called out, “leave a call for us for seven o’clock.”
that settled them for the night. i knew where they were, and i knew how long they would stay there. now mark and i could take a few hours’ snooze, and we needed it bad, i can tell you. i can’t think of anything i wouldn’t have traded for eight long hours of sleep.
i went back to the corner of the street where mark had gone after the lumberman and waited there. in fifteen minutes he came limping along, looking as tired and disconsolate-like as if he was just getting in from a seven-days’ journey and somebody had stolen his clothes the last day out.
“well?” says i.
he shook his head. “not much g-g-good,” says he. “he don’t know who uncle hieronymous works for, and he d-d-don’t know where he is. p-promised to tell him we were here if he saw him.”
“well,” says i, “jiggins & co. are tucked in their little beds and won’t be out till seven o’clock to-morrow. have you got any good arguments why we shouldn’t find a place to sleep?”
“n-n-nary argument,” says mark.
“where’ll we go?”
“let’s t-try that little hotel back yonder. the one with the b-b-balcony in front.”
“all right,” says i. “have we got money enough?”
“i’ve g-got five dollars and thirty-two c-c-cents,” says he.
that looked like it would be enough, so we went back to the little hotel and stirred up the man, who was fast asleep behind his counter. he made us pay a dollar in advance, because he said we didn’t have any baggage. he grinned then and said he didn’t calc’late we looked over-trustworthy. said we looked to him like we were dangerous characters and ought to be watched, and made a great clatter about locking up his little safe. there are a lot of men who think it’s awful funny to make fun of boys that way. i’ve known men who never got a joke on a grown man that were always picking onto kids. but this fellow picked on the wrong kid. mark stood it awhile, getting more and more provoked every second. at last he lays down the dollar and says:
“there, mister, now you g-g-got somethin’ to put in your safe. bet this d-d-dollar’ll s’prise it most to death.”
well, sir, that’s the way that hotel looked, like dollars were pretty scarce there, and what mark said hit the man right under the belt. at first he was mad, but pretty soon he grinned, sheepish-like, and says:
“you got me there, sonny. you got me there. business hain’t what it used to be when the river was floatin’ down its millions of feet of timber. them days is gone with ’em. there’s new things to-day, boys, but us old-timers hain’t able somehow to learn new ways. our luck went with the timber. don’t blame you for hittin’ back, sonny. i was perty fresh with you, and i beg your pardon.” he stuck out his hand, and we both shook it, and were sorry for him. he looked like a nice man, and we hoped his hard luck wouldn’t last.
he showed us up-stairs and came into the room with us.
“never had no boys of my own,” says he. “wanted ’em, too.” and he sat down and told us some stories about the old lumbering days and what a wild town ludington was when the run came down and how the lumberjacks, with their mackinaw jackets and calked boots, used to swarm into town and make it dangerous for anybody that couldn’t take pretty good care of himself to be out of doors. he told us stories about the camps and about life on the rivers, and about fights and about birreling-matches, till we forgot we were sleepy. my, but those must have been bully days! but they’re all over in michigan. men that thought too much of money have butchered off the pine, and there isn’t any left, when it might have lasted for ever, almost, if it had been looked after the right way. the hotel-keeper says folks realize that now when it’s too late.
after a while he said good night. “boys,” says he, “i’ve enjoyed talkin’ with you. d’you know, i wouldn’t charge you a cent for stoppin’ here, but i bet i need that dollar a dozen times as bad as you do.”
