Chapter: CHAPTER XXV. THE COSMOPOLITAN MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE.



In the act of retiring, the cosmopolitan was met by a passenger, who
with the bluff _abord_ of the West, thus addressed him, though a
stranger.

"Queer 'coon, your friend. Had a little skrimmage with him myself.
Rather entertaining old 'coon, if he wasn't so deuced analytical.
Reminded me somehow of what I've heard about Colonel John Moredock, of
Illinois, only your friend ain't quite so good a fellow at bottom, I
should think."

It was in the semicircular porch of a cabin, opening a recess from the
deck, lit by a zoned lamp swung overhead, and sending its light
vertically down, like the sun at noon. Beneath the lamp stood the
speaker, affording to any one disposed to it no unfavorable chance for
scrutiny; but the glance now resting on him betrayed no such rudeness.

A man neither tall nor stout, neither short nor gaunt; but with a body
fitted, as by measure, to the service of his mind. For the rest, one
less favored perhaps in his features than his clothes; and of these the
beauty may have been less in the fit than the cut; to say nothing of
the fineness of the nap, seeming out of keeping with something the
reverse of fine in the skin; and the unsuitableness of a violet vest,
sending up sunset hues to a countenance betokening a kind of bilious
habit.

But, upon the whole, it could not be fairly said that his appearance was
unprepossessing; indeed, to the congenial, it would have been doubtless
not uncongenial; while to others, it could not fail to be at least
curiously interesting, from the warm air of florid cordiality,
contrasting itself with one knows not what kind of aguish sallowness of
saving discretion lurking behind it. Ungracious critics might have
thought that the manner flushed the man, something in the same
fictitious way that the vest flushed the cheek. And though his teeth
were singularly good, those same ungracious ones might have hinted that
they were too good to be true; or rather, were not so good as they might
be; since the best false teeth are those made with at least two or three
blemishes, the more to look like life. But fortunately for better
constructions, no such critics had the stranger now in eye; only the
cosmopolitan, who, after, in the first place, acknowledging his advances
with a mute salute--in which acknowledgment, if there seemed less of
spirit than in his way of accosting the Missourian, it was probably
because of the saddening sequel of that late interview--thus now
replied: "Colonel John Moredock," repeating the words abstractedly;
"that surname recalls reminiscences. Pray," with enlivened air, "was he
anyway connected with the Moredocks of Moredock Hall, Northamptonshire,
England?"

"I know no more of the Moredocks of Moredock Hall than of the Burdocks
of Burdock Hut," returned the other, with the air somehow of one whose
fortunes had been of his own making; "all I know is, that the late
Colonel John Moredock was a famous one in his time; eye like Lochiel's;
finger like a trigger; nerve like a catamount's; and with but two little
oddities--seldom stirred without his rifle, and hated Indians like
snakes."

"Your Moredock, then, would seem a Moredock of Misanthrope Hall--the
Woods. No very sleek creature, the colonel, I fancy."

"Sleek or not, he was no uncombed one, but silky bearded and curly
headed, and to all but Indians juicy as a peach. But Indians--how the
late Colonel John Moredock, Indian-hater of Illinois, did hate Indians,
to be sure!"

"Never heard of such a thing. Hate Indians? Why should he or anybody
else hate Indians? _I_ admire Indians. Indians I have always heard to be
one of the finest of the primitive races, possessed of many heroic
virtues. Some noble women, too. When I think of Pocahontas, I am ready
to love Indians. Then there's Massasoit, and Philip of Mount Hope, and
Tecumseh, and Red-Jacket, and Logan--all heroes; and there's the Five
Nations, and Araucanians--federations and communities of heroes. God
bless me; hate Indians? Surely the late Colonel John Moredock must have
wandered in his mind."

"Wandered in the woods considerably, but never wandered elsewhere, that
I ever heard."

"Are you in earnest? Was there ever one who so made it his particular
mission to hate Indians that, to designate him, a special word has been
coined--Indian-hater?"

"Even so."

"Dear me, you take it very calmly.--But really, I would like to know
something about this Indian-hating, I can hardly believe such a thing to
be. Could you favor me with a little history of the extraordinary man
you mentioned?"

"With all my heart," and immediately stepping from the porch, gestured
the cosmopolitan to a settee near by, on deck. "There, sir, sit you
there, and I will sit here beside you--you desire to hear of Colonel
John Moredock. Well, a day in my boyhood is marked with a white
stone--the day I saw the colonel's rifle, powder-horn attached, hanging
in a cabin on the West bank of the Wabash river. I was going westward a
long journey through the wilderness with my father. It was nigh noon,
and we had stopped at the cabin to unsaddle and bait. The man at the
cabin pointed out the rifle, and told whose it was, adding that the
colonel was that moment sleeping on wolf-skins in the corn-loft above,
so we must not talk very loud, for the colonel had been out all night
hunting (Indians, mind), and it would be cruel to disturb his sleep.
Curious to see one so famous, we waited two hours over, in hopes he
would come forth; but he did not. So, it being necessary to get to the
next cabin before nightfall, we had at last to ride off without the
wished-for satisfaction. Though, to tell the truth, I, for one, did not
go away entirely ungratified, for, while my father was watering the
horses, I slipped back into the cabin, and stepping a round or two up
the ladder, pushed my head through the trap, and peered about. Not much
light in the loft; but off, in the further corner, I saw what I took to
be the wolf-skins, and on them a bundle of something, like a drift of
leaves; and at one end, what seemed a moss-ball; and over it,
deer-antlers branched; and close by, a small squirrel sprang out from a
maple-bowl of nuts, brushed the moss-ball with his tail, through a hole,
and vanished, squeaking. That bit of woodland scene was all I saw. No
Colonel Moredock there, unless that moss-ball was his curly head, seen
in the back view. I would have gone clear up, but the man below had
warned me, that though, from his camping habits, the colonel could sleep
through thunder, he was for the same cause amazing quick to waken at the
sound of footsteps, however soft, and especially if human."

"Excuse me," said the other, softly laying his hand on the narrator's
wrist, "but I fear the colonel was of a distrustful nature--little or no
confidence. He _was_ a little suspicious-minded, wasn't he?"

"Not a bit. Knew too much. Suspected nobody, but was not ignorant of
Indians. Well: though, as you may gather, I never fully saw the man,
yet, have I, one way and another, heard about as much of him as any
other; in particular, have I heard his history again and again from my
father's friend, James Hall, the judge, you know. In every company being
called upon to give this history, which none could better do, the judge
at last fell into a style so methodic, you would have thought he spoke
less to mere auditors than to an invisible amanuensis; seemed talking
for the press; very impressive way with him indeed. And I, having an
equally impressible memory, think that, upon a pinch, I can render you
the judge upon the colonel almost word for word."

"Do so, by all means," said the cosmopolitan, well pleased.

"Shall I give you the judge's philosophy, and all?"

"As to that," rejoined the other gravely, pausing over the pipe-bowl he
was filling, "the desirableness, to a man of a certain mind, of having
another man's philosophy given, depends considerably upon what school of
philosophy that other man belongs to. Of what school or system was the
judge, pray?"

"Why, though he knew how to read and write, the judge never had much
schooling. But, I should say he belonged, if anything, to the
free-school system. Yes, a true patriot, the judge went in strong for
free-schools."

"In philosophy? The man of a certain mind, then, while respecting the
judge's patriotism, and not blind to the judge's capacity for narrative,
such as he may prove to have, might, perhaps, with prudence, waive an
opinion of the judge's probable philosophy. But I am no rigorist;
proceed, I beg; his philosophy or not, as you please."

"Well, I would mostly skip that part, only, to begin, some
reconnoitering of the ground in a philosophical way the judge always
deemed indispensable with strangers. For you must know that
Indian-hating was no monopoly of Colonel Moredock's; but a passion, in
one form or other, and to a degree, greater or less, largely shared
among the class to which he belonged. And Indian-hating still exists;
and, no doubt, will continue to exist, so long as Indians do.
Indian-hating, then, shall be my first theme, and Colonel Moredock, the
Indian-hater, my next and last."

With which the stranger, settling himself in his seat, commenced--the
hearer paying marked regard, slowly smoking, his glance, meanwhile,
steadfastly abstracted towards the deck, but his right ear so disposed
towards the speaker that each word came through as little atmospheric
intervention as possible. To intensify the sense of hearing, he seemed
to sink the sense of sight. No complaisance of mere speech could have
been so flattering, or expressed such striking politeness as this mute
eloquence of thoroughly digesting attention.

 A guy in a bad suit with an even worse pukey violet vest speaks to the now-gloomy cosmopolitan. He comments on Pitch's misanthropy and compares him to the "Indian-hating" Colonel John Moredock of Illinois. The cosmopolitan doesn't know who that is, but he's shocked that anyone would hate Indians. He has a moment of fetishizing the other with his Pocahontas was super-cool opinions. The new guy says he knows all about Moredock; plus, when he was a kid, he and his dad rested their horses at the dude's cabin once. He peeked into the Colonel's room but only found a squirrel instead of the napping man who was supposed to be there. The cosmopolitan agrees to hear more about this Indian-hating man with a rifle. That'll be in the next chapter, though.

