________________________________________________
_ Genesis and his dog were waiting just outside
the kitchen door, and of all the world
these two creatures were probably the last in
whose company William Sylvanus Baxter desired
to make a public appearance. Genesis was an
out-of-doors man and seldom made much of a
toilet; his overalls in particular betraying at
important points a lack of the anxiety he should
have felt, since only Genesis himself, instead of a
supplementary fabric, was directly underneath
them. And the aged, grayish, sleeveless and
neckless garment which sheltered him from waist
to collar-bone could not have been mistaken for a
jersey, even though what there was of it was
dimly of a jerseyesque character. Upon the feet
of Genesis were things which careful study would
have revealed to be patent-leather dancing-
pumps, long dead and several times buried; and
upon his head, pressing down his markedly criminal
ears, was a once-derby hat of a brown not
far from Genesis's own color, though decidedly
without his gloss. A large ring of strange metals
with the stone missing, adorned a finger of his
right hand, and from a corner of his mouth
projected an unlighted and spreading cigar stub
which had the appearance of belonging to its
present owner merely by right of salvage.
And Genesis's dog, scratching himself at his
master's feet, was the true complement of Genesis,
for although he was a youngish dog, and had
not long been the property of Genesis, he was a
dog that would have been recognized anywhere
in the world as a colored person's dog. He was
not a special breed of dog--though there was
something rather houndlike about him--he was
just a dog. His expression was grateful but
anxious, and he was unusually bald upon the bosom,
but otherwise whitish and brownish, with a gaunt,
haunting face and no power to look anybody in
the eye.
He rose apprehensively as the fuming William
came out of the kitchen, but he was prepared to
follow his master faithfully, and when William
and Genesis reached the street the dog was
discovered at their heels, whereupon William came
to a decisive halt.
``Send that dog back,'' he said, resolutely.
``I'm not going through the streets with a dog
like that, anyhow!''
Genesis chuckled. ``He ain' goin' back,'' he
said. `` 'Ain' nobody kin make 'at dog go back. I
'ain' had him mo'n two weeks, but I don' b'lieve
Pres'dent United States kin make 'at dog go
back! I show you.'' And, wheeling suddenly,
he made ferocious gestures, shouting. ``G'on back,
dog!''
The dog turned, ran back a few paces, halted,
and then began to follow again, whereupon Genesis
pretended to hurl stones at him; but the
animal only repeated his manoeuver--and he
repeated it once more when William aided Genesis
by using actual missiles, which were dodged with
almost careless adeptness.
``I'll show him!'' said William, hotly. ``I'll
show him he can't follow ME!'' He charged upon
the dog, shouting fiercely, and this seemed to do
the work, for the hunted animal, abandoning his
partial flights, turned a tucked-under tail, ran all
the way back to the alley, and disappeared from
sight. ``There!'' said William. ``I guess that 'll
show him!''
``I ain' bettin' on it!'' said Genesis, as they
went on. ``He nev' did stop foll'in' me yet. I
reckon he the foll'indest dog in the worl'! Name
Clem.''
``Well, he can't follow ME!'' said the surging
William, in whose mind's eye lingered the vision
of an exquisite doglet, with pink-ribboned throat
and a cottony head bobbing gently over a
filmy sleeve. ``He doesn't come within a mile of
ME, no matter what his name is!''
``Name Clem fer short,'' said Genesis, amiably.
``I trade in a mandoline fer him what had her
neck kind o' busted off on one side. I couldn'
play her nohow, an' I found her, anyways. Yes-
suh, I trade in 'at mandoline fer him 'cause always
did like to have me a good dog--but I d'in'
have me no name fer him; an' this here Blooie
Bowers, what I trade in the mandoline to, he say
HE d'in have no name fer him. Say nev' did know
if WAS a name fer him 'tall. So I'z spen' the
evenin' at 'at lady's house, Fanny, what used to
be cook fer Miz Johnson, nex' do' you' maw's;
an' I ast Fanny what am I go'n' a do about it, an'
Fanny say, `Call him Clematis,' she say. ` 'At's
a nice name!' she say. `Clematis.' So 'at's name
I name him, Clematis. Call him Clem fer short,
but Clematis his real name. He'll come, whichever
one you call him, Clem or Clematis. Make
no diff'ence to him, long's he git his vittles. Clem
or Clematis, HE ain' carin'!''
William's ear was deaf to this account of the
naming of Clematis; he walked haughtily, but as
rapidly as possible, trying to keep a little in
advance of his talkative companion, who had
never received the training as a servitor which
should have taught him his proper distance from
the Young Master. William's suffering eyes were
fixed upon remoteness; and his lips moved, now
and then, like a martyr's, pronouncing inaudibly
a sacred word. ``Milady! Oh, Milady!''
Thus they had covered some three blocks of
their journey--the too-democratic Genesis chatting
companionably and William burning with
mortification--when the former broke into loud
laughter.
``What I tell you?'' he cried, pointing ahead.
``Look ayonnuh! NO, suh, Pres'dent United
States hisse'f ain' go tell 'at dog stay home!''
And there, at the corner before them, waited
Clematis, roguishly lying in a mud-puddle in the
gutter. He had run through alleys parallel to
their course--and in the face of such demoniac
cunning the wretched William despaired of
evading his society. Indeed, there was nothing
to do but to give up, and so the trio proceeded,
with William unable to decide which contaminated
him more, Genesis or the loyal Clematis.
To his way of thinking, he was part of a dreadful
pageant, and he winced pitiably whenever the eye
of a respectable passer-by fell upon him. Everybody
seemed to stare--nay, to leer! And he felt
that the whole world would know his shame by
nightfall.
Nobody, he reflected, seeing him in such
company, could believe that he belonged to ``one of
the oldest and best families in town.'' Nobody
would understand that he was not walking with
Genesis for the pleasure of his companionship
--until they got the tubs and the wash-
boiler, when his social condition must be thought
even more degraded. And nobody, he was shudderingly
positive, could see that Clematis was not
his dog (Clematis kept himself humbly a little in
the rear, but how was any observer to know that
he belonged to Genesis and not to William?
And how frightful that THIS should befall him
on such a day, the very day that his soul had been
split asunder by the turquoise shafts of Milady's
eyes and he had learned to know the Real Thing
at last!
``Milady! Oh, Milady!''
For in the elder teens adolescence may be
completed, but not by experience, and these years
know their own tragedies. It is the time of life
when one finds it unendurable not to seem perfect
in all outward matters: in worldly position, in
the equipments of wealth, in family, and in the
grace, elegance, and dignity of all appearances in
public. And yet the youth is continually betrayed
by the child still intermittently insistent
within him, and by the child which undiplomatic
people too often assume him to be. Thus with
William's attire: he could ill have borne any
suggestion that it was not of the mode, but taking
care of it was a different matter. Also, when it
came to his appetite, he could and would eat
anything at any time, but something younger than
his years led him--often in semi-secrecy--to
candy-stores and soda-water fountains and ice-
cream parlors; he still relished green apples and
knew cravings for other dangerous inedibles.
But these survivals were far from painful to him;
what injured his sensibilities was the disposition
on the part of people especially his parents, and
frequently his aunts and uncles--to regard him
as a little boy. Briefly, the deference his soul
demanded in its own right, not from strangers
only, but from his family, was about that which
is supposed to be shown a Grand Duke visiting
his Estates. Therefore William suffered often.
But the full ignominy of the task his own
mother had set him this afternoon was not realized
until he and Genesis set forth upon the return
journey from the second-hand shop, bearing the
two wash-tubs, a clothes-wringer (which Mrs.
Baxter had forgotten to mention), and the tin
boiler--and followed by the lowly Clematis. _
Read next: CHAPTER V. SORROWS WITHIN A BOILER
Read previous: CHAPTER III. THE PAINFUL AGE
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