CHAPTER XIII. WIDE-AWAKE AND HIS ENEMIES.
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The `rascal' who had been engaged to act in the capacity
of driver, and holder of his horses when he dismounted
in his rounds, was no other than our friend, Sam Beau, or,
as his intimates were accustomed in friendly playfulness to
style him, “Wide-Awake.”
It will be remembered—at least we trust it will—that
this young gentleman was the same who came to Ellie's
assistance on that morning when the crowd of boys were
trying to lead Charley into evil courses, and prevented
this design by overcoming, in pitched battle, the leader
of the enemy. Since that time, Wide-Awake had tried,
as usual, every sort of employment, and in turn had left
all. He had worked at jobs upon the lighters—assisting
in unloading or loading those crafts—had run, like a
newspaper picture of the god of news, all over the city,
crying in a strident and jocose voice, the names of a dozen
papers; he had further aided in the circulation of those
journals in the morning, for subscribers—and had seriously
contemplated becoming a devil at the office of the journal
which was the exponent of his opinions in politics and
letters. He had, however, abandoned this project,
and accepted the office of bar-tender in a fashionable
drinking saloon, in order, as he said, to study human
nature there by gas-light. He had soon grown tired of
the study, however, and one morning frankly suggested to
the proprietor that he ought to close his “concern,” upon
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the ground that it was not respectable. This suggestion,
however, only caused him to become the recipient of a
torrent of abuse; and he had jocularly launched a bit of
cracker at the orator, and gone away singing. Just a
week before the day of Doctor Fossyl's visit to Joe Lacklitter,
Wide-Awake had entered into his service, upon the
ground of the perfect sympathy on his part with the
Doctor's views of life and things—and thus studying
human nature across a foot-board, had been much entertained
and instructed thereby. The versatile genius of
the “assistant,” however, had been fretting for “fresh
fields and pastures new,” and on this day a favorable
opportunity was presented to him for a change.
When Doctor Fossyl came out of Aunt Phillis' cellar,
he descried Wide-Awake standing upon the pavement at
the corner and dancing, for the purpose, probably, of
keeping his feet warm—while, with his hands in his
pockets, and his face radiant with interest and pleasure, he
looked down the street, quite past the Doctor.
Now, the carriage of Docter Fossyl was drawn by two
splendid horses, whose necks were curved magnificently,
and who champed their bits, and pawed the snow impatiently.
They were evidently not of that milky disposition
which renders it safe to leave the possessor standing anywhere;
and this made the neglect of Wide-Awake more
flagrant and worthy of punishment.
Doctor Fossyl hastened forward, drawing his old cloak
around his slender legs, and coming up to Wide-Awake,
who was still dancing, caught that gentleman by the collar
and shook him wrathfully.
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“What do you mean, you scoundrel!” he cried. “What
do you mean by leaving my horses standing there alone?”
Wide-Awake made a leap backward, which disengaged
his collar, and replied, jocosely:
“I say, Doctor, ain't that a fine turn-out?”
With which Mr. Wide-Awake pointed to a company of
volunteers, in brilliant uniforms, who were visible some
way down the street.
“Turn-out, you rascal? You dare to talk about a
turn-out when I am speaking about my horses!”
“They're a turn-out too, you know, Doctor,” said
Wide-Awake, with an independent and disrespectful gesture.
“I 'm goin' to leave you, and join the Yagers?”
“You rascal! let me get hold of you!”
“What for, Doctor?” Wide-Awake demanded, with a
cautious avoidance of Dr. Fossyl's approach; “that
wouldn't do any good.”
“I'll thrash you!”
“Where would be the use? I never did see any doctors
that were reasonable. Now, I told you that I went
about with you to see human nature. I've seen it, and
I'm goin' somewhere else.”
“Wretch!”
“Oh, no, I ain't a wretch, Doctor—I'm a philosopher,
I want to see life. I ain't like you. You are rich enough
to drive about in a coach with four horses with two
drivers, and two footmen—taking prescriptions out o'
your pocket with one hand, and putting money in with
the other,—and keeping the footman lumberin' at the
knockers on both sides o' the streets till the people think
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its fire, and cause the machines to start a-runnin'. I ain't
independent, but I'm a philosopher, and I am goin' the
rounds.”
The Doctor made a movement to grasp the collar of
Wide-Awake, but that gentleman ducked his head, thrust
his right forefinger over his left shoulder, and took his
departure, with the friendly caution to the Doctor to
“take care of himself and not bile over.”
Doctor Fossyl was so much enraged at this summary
proceeding that he stood perfectly still for some moments,
gnashing and grinding his teeth. Finding that this, however,
was not in itself a gratifying proceeding, he at last
got into his carriage, and drove off, lashing his fine
amimals furiously.
“What a jolly old coon,” said Wide-Awake, “I'm
almost sorry I left him—but I'm tired. Besides yonder's
Captain Schminky and the Yagers—hurrah! go it! here
we are!”
And uttering a shrill whistle, Wide-Awake jumped ten
feet, and ran toward the abode of Captain Schminky,
before which the company were drawn up in military
array.
During the conversation between Dr. Fossyl and his
assistant, Eilie had made her way toward the shop of
Captain Schminky, and passing through the martial-looking
Yagers, and the children who swarmed to see them,
entered the shop.
She found herself in presence of the Captain of the Yagers
himself, who was resplendent in his brilliant uniform,
and carried his gilt-handled sword with warrior-like grace.
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Within two paces stood the Lieutenant of the Yagers,
with his hand upon his hat-brim, receiving orders.
“You vil traw up de koompany in right line, Lefdenent,”
said Captain Schminky.
“Yes, Gaptain.”
“You vil den call me and de roll.”
The Lieutenant signified that he would call the personage
and the thing.
“An' you vil disburse de crowd, Lefdenant—de vagabones.”
The Lieutenant made a respectful sign, and wheeling
round went out in a military walk, which was in the best
style.
“Now, young 'oomans,” said Captain Schminky, goodnaturedly;
“what do you want?”
“Some sugar, if you please, sir,” said Ellie, “a pound.”
“Your name ees Elley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You is young frent—I geef you de pound zugar”—I
geef you doo pount.”
And Captain Schminky made a dignified sign to his
shop-keeper, who hastened to wait upon the young friend
of his master.
“We will now brocede to gall de names,” observed
Captain Schminky.
And raising his head still higher, the worthy Captain
issued forth, and stood in presence of his admiring company.
The “Yagers” were, as their name signifies, of
German blood, and, indeed, this was a pre-requisite to
admission into the company. They were clad in very
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handsome uniforms, for this class of the community are
generally men of great thrift, and are consequently well to
do in the world, as they deserve to be; and are well able
to gratify any of their fancies. The band of the “Yagers”
was especially fine and striking. In addition to the ordinary
number of wind instruments, of brass and wood, it
embraced a drum which seemed to be made for Goliah,
and a pair of cymbals which might have served for Chinese
hats.
Everything about the “Yagers” was martial and warlike—
down to their mustaches, which were huge and terrible.
When they marched, if they did not exactly shake
the ground, they produced an enormous clatter—and the
drum and cymbals out-roared and tingled any other drum
and cymbals which had ever promenaded in the van of
gallant warriors.
Captain Schminky took up a position in front of the
company, extended his arm with dignity, and commanded
the eyes of the warriors to roll toward the right, for the
purpose of “dressing.”
This was done, and then the sergeant opened his book,
and called the roll. He had nearly got through, when
Captain Schminky, who had for some time been directing
uneasy glances up the street, exclaimed:
“That'll do! glose up! here comes that tam Zam
Peau!”
The gentleman thus spoken of was Wide-Awake, who
now advanced, with dreadful satire in his countenance,
toward the captain, beating an imaginary drum, and singing
in a mighty voice:
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“When you 'ear the great big drum,
You may be sure the Yagers come!”
to which chaunt he added a vocal imitation of the drum,
which was eminently true to life.
We will not record the expressions used by Captain
Schminky under this provocation,—it is enough to say,
that they were so energetic, that Wide-Awake was filled
with uproarious and enthusiastic delight, and invented, on
the spur of the moment, the additional couplet:
“Gaptain Schminky, ton't you see,
Your tam ugly koompanee?”
which was also decorated with the drum accompaniment
for a chorus—Wide-Awake leaning far backwards, with
his chin up, and striking vigorous blows upon an imaginary
drum.
The shouts of the urchins, in support of Wide-Awake,
mingled with the furious objurgations of Captain Schminky;
and the affectionate solicitude of his intimates, caused
the young gentleman to verify immediately the truth of
that proverb which declares that a man in any emergency
should first be preserved from his friends. They closed
around Wide-Awake so effectually in their deep admiration,
that when Captain Schminky made a rush at his
enemy, Wide-Awake found the means of retreat wholly
cut off.
His presence of mind, however, did not desert him, and
leaping on the window sill of the shop, he evaded the
blow directed at him. Captain Schminky, however, was
not thus to be disappointed. He drew his sword and
made a lunge at Wide-Awake, which caused that agile
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youth to rapidly mount the shutter—perching himself on
the summit of which, he looked down triumphantly upon
the Yagers.
A cheer rose from the vagabonds, and Captain Schminky,
panting, and red in the face, tried in vain to reach up, and
prick the audacious satirist with the point of his sword.
“No, my dear Gaptain,” said Wide-Awake, chuckling,
“you gan't do it—you gan't! Your zord ees not one
spear, vat you call one sticker! Goot mornin', gaptain, I'
ope I zee you well, and your goot koompany! ha! ha!”
Captain Schminky made desperate efforts to thrust his
sword into the dangling legs of Wide-Awake, but that
youngster drew them up with astonishing agility, all the
time balancing himself upon his hands.
“Now gaptain!” he cried, “I geef you goot day—I
love your koompany—I no make fun of the gallant Yager
band of jolly poys!—I zay every where I admire the
Yagers—I zay Gaptain Schminky is a great gommander,
and hees men putiful! No you didn't that time, gaptain!
Eh? Don't you think it, gaptain. I ain't a comin' down!”
The Yagers growled, and some of the mustaches curled
in spite of the insult to the corps. Wide-Awake perceived
this favorable sign.
“My frents,” he cried in a friendly tone, “h'ist me up
one glass of lager bier, and I will trink your fery goot
helf. I will make my gildren and my grandgildren trink
your fery goot helf—you is fery grand koompany! Oh,
gaptain! what a purty zord! Hans Doffendaffer, Sauerkraut,
Dopenfinger, and Heislinger, I geef you fery goot
tay!”
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With which words Wide-Awake swung the shutters
round, caught the pipe which ran down in his reach, and
swinging to the ground began again to beat the drum, and
clash the imaginary cymbals.
It was some time before Captain Schminky recovered
his equanimity, after this attack of his enemy. He glowered
at Wide-Awake, who from a distance answered him
with smiles; and more than once shook his fist in that
direction. His ire died away, however, after a while, and
then his fine company absorbed all his attention.
He placed himself at their head, made a sign to the
drum and the rest, and crying “march!” stepped gallantly
out, and stared at vacancy with determined vigor.
The huge drum roared, the cymbals clashed, the brass
instruments rent surrounding ears, and the gallant Yagers
passed onward, wrapped in terrible and soul-inspiring
music.
Wide-Awake was left in a hopeless minority, but he
consoled himself with the hope of having more entertainment
in the future. As he turned round, with a grin upon
his careless countenance, he saw Ellie.
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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1855], Ellie, or, The human comedy. With illustrations after designs by Strother. (A. Morris, Richmond) [word count] [eaf506T].
