The Ape, the Idiot Other People | Page 7

Clayton.
The revelation was so unexpected that it almost startled the man from Georgia. He pulled out one hand slowly, that a sudden jerk might not lacerate his wrist. Then he pulled out the other, resumed his shirt and hat, picked up the imaginary weight, and shuffled along slowly after his leader.
"What is your name?" asked the gentleman.
"Hunder'd'n One."
They were soon traversing the corridor in the servants' quarter of the hotel, when Baker halted and ventured to say:
"I reckin you'r in the wrong curryder." He was examining the ceiling, the floor, and the numbers on the doors.
"No, this is right," said the gentleman.
Again Baker hobbled along, never releasing his hold on the invisible weight. They halted at No. 13. Said Baker, with a shade of pity in his voice,--
"'Taint right. Wrong curryder. Cell hunder'd'n one's mine."
"Yes, yes; but we'll put you in this one for the present," replied the gentleman, as he opened the door and ushered Baker within. The room was comfortably furnished, and this perplexed Baker more and more.
"Hain't you got it wrong?" he persisted. "Lifer, you know. Hunder'd'n One--lifer--plays off crazy--forty lashes every Monday. Don't you know?"
"Yes, yes, I know; but we'll not talk about that now."
They brought a good supper to his room, and he ate ravenously. They persuaded him to wash in a basin in the room, though he begged hard to be permitted to go to the pump. Later that night the gentleman went to his room and asked him if he wanted anything.
"Well, I'll tell you. You forgot to take it off," Baker replied, pointing to his ankles.
The gentleman was perplexed for a moment, and then he stooped and unlocked and removed an imaginary ball and chain. Baker seemed relieved. Said the gentleman, as Baker was preparing for bed:
"This is not a penitentiary. It is my house, and I do not whip anybody. I will give you all you want to eat, and good clothes, and you may go wherever you please. Do you understand?"
Baker looked at him with vacant eyes and made no reply. He undressed, lay down, sighed wearily, and fell asleep.
II.
A stifling Southern September sun beat down upon the mountains and valleys. The thrush and the mocking-bird had been driven to cool places, and their songs were not heard in the trees. The hotel was crowded with refugees from Memphis. A terrible scourge was sweeping through Tennessee, and its black shadow was creeping down to the Gulf of Mexico; and as it crept it mowed down young and old in its path.
"Well, Baker, how are you getting along?" It was the round, cheerful voice of Mr. Clayton.
The man from Georgia was stooping over a pail, scouring it with sand and a cloth. Upon hearing the greeting he hung the cloth over the pail and came slowly to the perpendicular, putting his hands, during the operation, upon the small of his back, as if the hinges in that region were old and rusty and needed care.
"Oh, well, now, I'll tell you. Nothin' pertickler to complain on, excep'----"
"Well?"
"I don't believe it's quite exactly right."
"Tell me about it."
"Well, now, you see--there ain't nobody a-listenin', is there?"
"No."
"I think they ought to give me one more piece, any way."
"Piece of what?"
"Mebbe two more pieces."
"Of what?"
"Pie. It was pie I was a-talkin' about all the time."
"Don't they give you sufficient?"
"Pie?"
"Yes."
"No, sir; not nigh enough. An'--an'--come here closter. I'm a-gittin' weak--I'm a-starvin'!" he whispered.
"You shall not starve. What do you want?"
"Well, now, I was jess a-thinkin' that one or two more pieces fur dinner every day--every day----"
"Pie?"
"Yes, sir; pie. I was a-talkin' about pie."
"You shall certainly have it; but don't they give you any?"
"What? Pie?"
"Yes."
"Oh, well, they do give me some."
"Every day?"
"Yes, sir; every day."
"How much do they give you?"
"Pie?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'll tell you. About two pieces, I believe."
"Aren't you afraid that much more than that would make you sick?"
"Oh, well, now, I'm a-goin' to tell you about that, too, 'cause you don't know about it. You see, I'm mostly used to gittin' sick, an' I ain't mostly used to eatin' of pie." He spoke then, as he always spoke, with the most impressive earnestness.
Baker had undergone a great change within the two months that had passed over him at the hotel. Kindness had driven away the vacant look in his eyes and his mind was stronger. He had found that for which his meagre soul had yearned--a sympathizing heart and a friend. He was fat, sleek, and strong. His old boots--the same as of yore, for he would not abandon them--looked less foolish and seemed almost cheerful. Were they not always in an atmosphere of gentleness and refinement, and did they not daily tread the very ground pressed by the bravest and richest boots in the land? It is true that they were often covered with slops and