The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, vol 10 | Page 5

younger Mr. Clark, our friend, I had doubtless
noticed was an odd genius, but he had stamina--something solid about
him, for all his eccentricities--could be relied on. Had been with the

house there since a boy of twelve--took him for the father's sake; had
never missed a day's time in any line of work that ever had been given
in his charge--was weakly-looking, too. Had worked his way from the
cellar up--from the least pay to the highest--had saved enough to buy
and pay for a comfortable house for his mother and himself, and, still a
lad, maintained the expense of companion, attendant and maid servant
for the mother. Yet, with all this burden on his shoulders, the boy had
worried through some way, with a jolly smile and a good word for
every one. "A boy, sir," the enthusiastic senior concluded--"a boy, sir,
that never was a boy, and never had a taste of genuine boyhood in his
life--no more than he ever took a taste of whisky, and you couldn't get
that in him with a funnel!"
At this juncture Mr. Clark himself appeared, and in a particularly happy
frame of mind. For an hour the delighted senior and myself sat
laughing at the fellow's quaint conceits and witty sayings, the
conversation at last breaking up with an abrupt proposition from Mr.
Clark that I remain in the city overnight and accompany him to the
theater, an invitation I rather eagerly accepted. Mr. Clark, thanking me,
and pivoting himself around on his high stool, with a mechanical
"Good afternoon!" was at once submerged in his books, while the
senior, following me out and stepping into a carriage that stood waiting
for him at the curb, waved me adieu, and was driven away. I turned my
steps up the street, but remembering that my friend had fixed no place
to meet me in the evening, I stepped back into the storeroom and again
pushed open the glass door of the office.
Mr. Clark still sat on the high stool at his desk, his back toward the
door, and his ledger spread out before him.
"Mr. Clark!" I called.
He made no answer.
"Mr. Clark!" I called again, in an elevated key.
He did not stir.
I paused a moment, then went over to him, letting my hand drop lightly
on his arm.
Still no response. I only felt the shoulder heave, as with a long-drawn
quavering sigh, then heard the regular though labored breathing of a
weary man that slept.
I had not the heart to waken him; but lifting the still moistened pen

from his unconscious fingers, I wrote where I might be found at eight
that evening, folded and addressed the note, and laying it on the open
page before him, turned quietly away.
"Poor man!" I mused compassionately, with a touch of youthful
sentiment affecting me.--"Poor man! Working himself into his very
grave, and with never a sign or murmur of complaint--worn and
weighed down with the burden of his work, and yet with a nobleness of
spirit and resolve that still conceals behind glad smiles and laughing
words the cares that lie so heavily upon him!"
The long afternoon went by at last, and evening came; and, as promptly
as my note requested, the jovial Mr. Clark appeared, laughing heartily,
as we walked off down the street, at my explanation of the reason I had
written my desires instead of verbally addressing him; and laughing
still louder when I told him of my fears that he was overworking
himself.
"Oh, no, my friend," he answered gaily; "there's no occasion for anxiety
on that account.-- But the fact is, old man," he went on, half
apologetically, "the fact is, I haven't been so overworked, of late, as
over-wakeful. There's something in the night I think, that does it. Do
you know that the night is a great mystery to me--a great mystery! And
it seems to be growing on me all the time. There's the trouble. The
night to me is like some vast incomprehensible being. When I write the
name 'night' I instinctively write it with a capital. And I like my night
deep, and dark, and swarthy, don't you know. Now some like clear and
starry nights, but they're too pale for me--too weak and fragile
altogether! They're popular with the masses, of course, these blue-eyed,
golden-haired, 'moonlight-on-the-lake' nights; but, somehow, I don't
'stand in' with them. My favorite night is the pronounced brunette--the
darker the better. To- night is one of my kind, and she's growing more
and more like it all the time. If it were not for depriving you of the
theater, I'd rather just drift off now in the deepening gloom till
swallowed up in it--lost utterly. Come with me, anyhow!"
"Gladly,"