Chapter: CHAPTER XV. AN OLD MISER, UPON SUITABLE REPRESENTATIONS, IS PREVAILED UPON TO VENTURE AN INVESTMENT.



The merchant having withdrawn, the other remained seated alone for a
time, with the air of one who, after having conversed with some
excellent man, carefully ponders what fell from him, however
intellectually inferior it may be, that none of the profit may be lost;
happy if from any honest word he has heard he can derive some hint,
which, besides confirming him in the theory of virtue, may, likewise,
serve for a finger-post to virtuous action.

Ere long his eye brightened, as if some such hint was now caught. He
rises, book in hand, quits the cabin, and enters upon a sort of
corridor, narrow and dim, a by-way to a retreat less ornate and cheery
than the former; in short, the emigrants' quarters; but which, owing to
the present trip being a down-river one, will doubtless be found
comparatively tenantless. Owing to obstructions against the side
windows, the whole place is dim and dusky; very much so, for the most
part; yet, by starts, haggardly lit here and there by narrow, capricious
sky-lights in the cornices. But there would seem no special need for
light, the place being designed more to pass the night in, than the day;
in brief, a pine barrens dormitory, of knotty pine bunks, without
bedding. As with the nests in the geometrical towns of the associate
penguin and pelican, these bunks were disposed with Philadelphian
regularity, but, like the cradle of the oriole, they were pendulous,
and, moreover, were, so to speak, three-story cradles; the description
of one of which will suffice for all.

Four ropes, secured to the ceiling, passed downwards through auger-holes
bored in the corners of three rough planks, which at equal distances
rested on knots vertically tied in the ropes, the lowermost plank but an
inch or two from the floor, the whole affair resembling, on a large
scale, rope book-shelves; only, instead of hanging firmly against a
wall, they swayed to and fro at the least suggestion of motion, but were
more especially lively upon the provocation of a green emigrant
sprawling into one, and trying to lay himself out there, when the
cradling would be such as almost to toss him back whence he came. In
consequence, one less inexperienced, essaying repose on the uppermost
shelf, was liable to serious disturbance, should a raw beginner select a
shelf beneath. Sometimes a throng of poor emigrants, coming at night in
a sudden rain to occupy these oriole nests, would--through ignorance of
their peculiarity--bring about such a rocking uproar of carpentry,
joining to it such an uproar of exclamations, that it seemed as if some
luckless ship, with all its crew, was being dashed to pieces among the
rocks. They were beds devised by some sardonic foe of poor travelers,
to deprive them of that tranquility which should precede, as well as
accompany, slumber.--Procrustean beds, on whose hard grain humble worth
and honesty writhed, still invoking repose, while but torment responded.
Ah, did any one make such a bunk for himself, instead of having it made
for him, it might be just, but how cruel, to say, You must lie on it!

But, purgatory as the place would appear, the stranger advances into it:
and, like Orpheus in his gay descent to Tartarus, lightly hums to
himself an opera snatch.

Suddenly there is a rustling, then a creaking, one of the cradles swings
out from a murky nook, a sort of wasted penguin-flipper is
supplicatingly put forth, while a wail like that of Dives is
heard:--"Water, water!"

It was the miser of whom the merchant had spoken.

Swift as a sister-of-charity, the stranger hovers over him:--

"My poor, poor sir, what can I do for you?"

"Ugh, ugh--water!"

Darting out, he procures a glass, returns, and, holding it to the
sufferer's lips, supports his head while he drinks: "And did they let
you lie here, my poor sir, racked with this parching thirst?"

The miser, a lean old man, whose flesh seemed salted cod-fish, dry as
combustibles; head, like one whittled by an idiot out of a knot; flat,
bony mouth, nipped between buzzard nose and chin; expression, flitting
between hunks and imbecile--now one, now the other--he made no response.
His eyes were closed, his cheek lay upon an old white moleskin coat,
rolled under his head like a wizened apple upon a grimy snow-bank.

Revived at last, he inclined towards his ministrant, and, in a voice
disastrous with a cough, said:--"I am old and miserable, a poor beggar,
not worth a shoestring--how can I repay you?"

"By giving me your confidence."

"Confidence!" he squeaked, with changed manner, while the pallet swung,
"little left at my age, but take the stale remains, and welcome."

"Such as it is, though, you give it. Very good. Now give me a hundred
dollars."

Upon this the miser was all panic. His hands groped towards his
waist, then suddenly flew upward beneath his moleskin pillow, and
there lay clutching something out of sight. Meantime, to himself he
incoherently mumbled:--"Confidence? Cant, gammon! Confidence? hum,
bubble!--Confidence? fetch, gouge!--Hundred dollars?--hundred devils!"

Half spent, he lay mute awhile, then feebly raising himself, in a voice
for the moment made strong by the sarcasm, said, "A hundred dollars?
rather high price to put upon confidence. But don't you see I am a poor,
old rat here, dying in the wainscot? You have served me; but, wretch
that I am, I can but cough you my thanks,--ugh, ugh, ugh!"

This time his cough was so violent that its convulsions were imparted to
the plank, which swung him about like a stone in a sling preparatory to
its being hurled.

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"What a shocking cough. I wish, my friend, the herb-doctor was here now;
a box of his Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator would do you good."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"I've a good mind to go find him. He's aboard somewhere. I saw his long,
snuff-colored surtout. Trust me, his medicines are the best in the
world."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"Oh, how sorry I am."

"No doubt of it," squeaked the other again, "but go, get your charity
out on deck. There parade the pursy peacocks; they don't cough down here
in desertion and darkness, like poor old me. Look how scaly a pauper I
am, clove with this churchyard cough. Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"Again, how sorry I feel, not only for your cough, but your poverty.
Such a rare chance made unavailable. Did you have but the sum named, how
I could invest it for you. Treble profits. But confidence--I fear that,
even had you the precious cash, you would not have the more precious
confidence I speak of."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!" flightily raising himself. "What's that? How, how? Then
you don't want the money for yourself?"

"My dear, _dear_ sir, how could you impute to me such preposterous
self-seeking? To solicit out of hand, for my private behoof, an hundred
dollars from a perfect stranger? I am not mad, my dear sir."

"How, how?" still more bewildered, "do you, then, go about the world,
gratis, seeking to invest people's money for them?"

"My humble profession, sir. I live not for myself; but the world will
not have confidence in me, and yet confidence in me were great gain."

"But, but," in a kind of vertigo, "what do--do you do--do with people's
money? Ugh, ugh! How is the gain made?"

"To tell that would ruin me. That known, every one would be going into
the business, and it would be overdone. A secret, a mystery--all I have
to do with you is to receive your confidence, and all you have to do
with me is, in due time, to receive it back, thrice paid in trebling
profits."

"What, what?" imbecility in the ascendant once more; "but the vouchers,
the vouchers," suddenly hunkish again.

"Honesty's best voucher is honesty's face."

"Can't see yours, though," peering through the obscurity.

From this last alternating flicker of rationality, the miser fell back,
sputtering, into his previous gibberish, but it took now an arithmetical
turn. Eyes closed, he lay muttering to himself--

"One hundred, one hundred--two hundred, two hundred--three hundred,
three hundred."

He opened his eyes, feebly stared, and still more feebly said--

"It's a little dim here, ain't it? Ugh, ugh! But, as well as my poor old
eyes can see, you look honest."

"I am glad to hear that."

"If--if, now, I should put"--trying to raise himself, but vainly,
excitement having all but exhausted him--"if, if now, I should put,
put----"

"No ifs. Downright confidence, or none. So help me heaven, I will have
no half-confidences."

He said it with an indifferent and superior air, and seemed moving to
go.

"Don't, don't leave me, friend; bear with me; age can't help some
distrust; it can't, friend, it can't. Ugh, ugh, ugh! Oh, I am so old and
miserable. I ought to have a guardian. Tell me, if----"

"If? No more!"

"Stay! how soon--ugh, ugh!--would my money be trebled? How soon,
friend?"

"You won't confide. Good-bye!"

"Stay, stay," falling back now like an infant, "I confide, I confide;
help, friend, my distrust!"

From an old buckskin pouch, tremulously dragged forth, ten hoarded
eagles, tarnished into the appearance of ten old horn-buttons, were
taken, and half-eagerly, half-reluctantly, offered.

"I know not whether I should accept this slack confidence," said the
other coldly, receiving the gold, "but an eleventh-hour confidence, a
sick-bed confidence, a distempered, death-bed confidence, after all.
Give me the healthy confidence of healthy men, with their healthy wits
about them. But let that pass. All right. Good-bye!"

"Nay, back, back--receipt, my receipt! Ugh, ugh, ugh! Who are you? What
have I done? Where go you? My gold, my gold! Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

But, unluckily for this final flicker of reason, the stranger was now
beyond ear-shot, nor was any one else within hearing of so feeble a
call.

 After Mr. Roberts leaves, Tassel thinks back over their conversation. He figures that even if Mr. Roberts was his intellectual inferior, Tassel might as well try to glean something useful from him to increase his own virtue and build up his character--you know--be the best Tassel he can be. Suddenly remembering something Mr. Roberts said, Tassel runs to the poor quarters on board the ship; he recalls the miser on his deathbed. We're afraid this isn't going to end well. Tassel finds the miser coughing and begging for water. The miser thanks Tassel for getting him a drink. Tassel promptly asks him if he has confidence in him. Miser: Sure. Tassel: Give me $100. Miser: What? No way, you scoundrel. Tassel first offers to call for the herb-doctor to administer some Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator. What? Then he guilts the miser--yes, guilts him--into giving him money by saying he could get a triple return on his investment. Miser: Investment, you say? Tassel: Yeah, I do everything for you, babe. The miser is uncertain. Tassel does the I'm walking away because I don't need your suspicious money thing. Miser calls Tassel back and gives him the $100. Tassel is cold. He scoffs at this meek offer of confidence in him and walks away with the money. The miser calls Tassel back asking for a receipt. He calls and coughs over and over. No one hears him.

