The Mournful Number

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Title:     The Mournful Number
Author: Henry Wallace Phillips [More Titles by Phillips]

"It's a great misfortune to be superstishyous," said Mr. Scraggs. "Such a thing would never have troubled me if I hadn't a-learnt from experience that facts carried out the idee. Now, you take that number thirteen. There's reason for believin' it's unlucky. One reason is, when things is all walkin' backwards folks says they're at sixes and sevens. Well, six and seven makes thirteen, so there you are."

"I ain't much more than arrived," replied Red, rubbing his head dubiously.

"I'm comin' fast," said Charley; "but don't wait for me, Zeke."

"Well, that's only speculation, anyhow," continued Mr. Scraggs indulgently; "and speculation has made heaps of trouble for piles of people if I'm to believe what I read, which I don't. But here's cold facts. I was born on the thirteenth of April, at a time when me and the country was both younger than we are now. Hadn't been for that I'd dodged considerable mishaps. It was on the thirteenth of October last, in the early mornin', that I mistook that rattlesnake for a chunk of wood and heaved him in the stove."

"Well, where's the bad luck in that?" asked Charley.

"Inquire of the snake," said Mr. Scraggs; "besides, he smelt awful. I don't seem to be able to bring back any mornin' I cared less for breakfast than that one. Suppose you was a happy rattlesnake, Charley, with a large and promisin' fambly; suppose, now, on a frosty thirteenth of October you crawled under the cook-stove to get warm the minute the camp cook opened the door, and, before you limbered up enough to bite him, cooky lays cold and unfeelin' hands upon you and Jams you into the stove--ain't the number thirteen goin' to carry unpleasant recollections for you from that on? Bet your life. Howsomever, these are only small details. My main proof that the number thirteen ain't any better than it orter be lies in the fact that one day I married the thirteenth in Mrs. Scraggs. If I'd never'd hearn of such a thing I'd know'd thirteen was no good from that time on. This ain't to cast reflections on the other Mrs. Scraggses, neither. I will say for them wimmen that anything simple-heartedness could do to prepare a man to meet his end cheerful they done. But Mehitabel the Thirteenth, of the reignin' family of Scraggs, was a genius. Uncle Peter Paisley uset to say that a genius was a person that could take a cork and a dryness of the throat, and with them simple ingrejents construct a case of jim-jams. More than one-quarter of the time Uncle Pete knew what he was talkin' about, too, and the rest of it he was too happy to care. Mehitabel was a sure-enough genius: she could make a domestic difficulty out of a shoestring, she could draw a fambly jar through a hole in a sock, and she could bring on civil war over the question of whether there was anything to quar'l about,

"Come Christmastime, I thought I'd leave home for a spell. There was an old friend of mine holdin' down a mine out in the hills. I knew he wouldn't have no company around, and I pined for solitude. There is a time in the affairs of men, as Shakespeare says, when a pair of cold feet beats any hands in the deck. Keno Jim said Shakespeare said so, and Shakespeare's too dead to argue.

"'So I puts on a pair of them long, slidin' snowshoes they call 'skees' and slips for William Pemberton and the lonesome mountains. People don't call a thing 'skee' unless they hev good reason for it. Before I caught the hang of them durn disconnected bob-sleds I saw where the 'skee' come in. The feller that loaned 'em to me kindly explained that you slid down the hills on 'em, and it was great sport. When I clumb the first hill and stood perspirin' on top I felt entitled to a little sport. 'Hooray!' says I, and pushed loose. It was a long, wide, high hill with trees and things on it. Some time after I started, say about three seconds, I thought I'd like to slack a bit and view the scenery. The way I was travelin' the scenery looked like the spokes of a flywheel. I left my stummick and my immortal soul about ten rods behind me. You could play checkers on my coat-tail, as the sayin' is. Man! And I pushed up a hurricane. It cut my eyes so I cried icicles a foot long. _Roar-row-roor-s-s-wish_! we went in the open, and _me-a-arrr_! we ripped through the timber. I crossed a downed log unexpected and flew thirty foot in the air. Whilst aloft I see a creek dead ahead of me. There wasn't nothin' to do but jump when I come to it, so I jumped. I don't care a cuss whether you believe me or not, dear friends and brothers, but I want to tell you right now that I cleared the creek with something like one hundred and eighty feet to spare! At which I took to throwin' summersaults. I threw one solid quarter-mile of summersaults before that suddent cravin' was satisfied.

"'Y-a-as,' says I when I picked myself up. 'Well, I reckon I've done enough of this here skeedaddlin' for one mornin'. So after that I went along quiet and dignified to William Pemberton's.

"I hit his cabin on Christmas Eve, findin' him very low-spirited. It seems that he was expectin' an attack from some people anxious to jump the claims, thereby gettin' the mill standin' on the property. The feller that hired Billy as watchman promised him everything and forgot it. Billy was almighty faithful but hot-tempered'

"'Think of it!' says he to me. 'I gets word two days ago that the gang is comin' to hop me, and old man Davis ain't even sent me a rifle, like he agreed. What does he expect? Does he have illusions that when they come squirtin' lead at me I'm goin' to peg at 'em with snowballs?'

"Then he laid back, fightin' for breath, and kickin' out with his legs till I loosened his collar. It was a terrible strain, bein' watchman of a mill under them conditions, with a disposition like this. I pitched in to make him feel better. After I'd narrated some incidents that went to make up livin' with Mrs. Scraggs he chirped up considerable. 'Well, sir! This _is_ a gay world, ain't it?' says he. 'I wisht I could offer you something to drown your sorrers in, Zeke, but unless you happen to have brought along the makings of a flowing bowl we can't put an end to 'em at this ranch.'

"Well, now, that was sorrerful tidin's. I reckon William took notice of my face--Christmas Eve, alone on top of a God-forsaken mountain and not a smell of anything to make the sun rise in our souls--oh, murder!

"'I feel awful bad about this, Zeke,' says he.

"'Don't mention it,' says I as soon's I could tune my pipes to a cheerful lie. 'Your presence is sufficient.'

"'But I have an idee,' says he, pushing his finger agin my ribs. 'Don't git excited, Zeke, only to be cast down the harder, but there's a chance. All last summer we had stockholders' investigation meetings, and the way old man Davis led 'em to make investigations through a glass darkly was a sin and a scandal. The altytood was too altytoodinous for strangers, says old man Davis, and therefore they must take a drink; and it was too cold and too hot, too wet and too dry, and if everything else failed it was too cussed mejium for them to live through it without takin' a drink. The consequence was that all I remember about a stockholder is that he's a kind of man with wibbly-wabbly knees and feet that wants to swap sides, who spends his time hiccupin' up and down the mine trails, findin' specimens when and where old man Davis wills.'

"William Pemberton smote his forehead with the flat of his hand--everything took hold of William _so_ vi'lent. 'I give you my word, Zeke,' says he, 'that them horse-car busters picked hunks of red serpentine, loaded with gold from the Texas Star, out of our white quartz ledges that never see gold since Adam played tag, and believed it was all right--just the same as the gent pulls a rabbit out of your hat at the show, and you're convinced that rabbit was there all the time unbeknownst to you. And to think--' he says.

"'Sit down, William, sit down,' says I. 'I don't know what to do for appleplexy.'

"'Well, I'll sit down to oblige you, Zeke; but to think of them flappy-footed yawps puttin' away good liquor by the pailful--pailful?' yells William scornful. 'Barrelful--steam-enjine b'ilerful--

"'Well,' says I hastily, 'you was sayin' you had an idee?'

"'Oh, yes!' says he. 'It don't stand in reason they rounded up every last bottle, so it occurred to me that if we hunted we might make discoveries.'

"'Why, so we could!' I hollers loud and hearty, with more notion of creatin' a diversion, however, than any rank faith in my havin' a good time off what old man Davis overlooked. 'It'll be like hide-and-go-seek of a Christmas Eve when we was kids, William.'

"So we scrimmaged round here and there till there was only one closet in the cabin left.

"'I saved it till the last--it's the most likely,' says William. 'Shine a light on our departing hopes, Ezekiel.'

"He put his hand very careful toward the back. 'E. G. W., says he,' 'my fingers have teched something cold and smooth, just like a bottle--pull hard, Ezekiel.'

"I took a long breath and pulled hard.

"'It _is_ round,' says William Pemberton. 'It _is_ a bottle.'

"Nothin' could be heard but the beatin' of our hearts.

"'Is it--is it--_heavy_, William?' I falters. Then you couldn't hear nothin', for our hearts had cease to beat. He let loose of a roar same as a lion that's skipped atop of his prey.

'Ezekiel G. W. Scraggs!' he shrieks, 'she's full!'

"'I wish no better luck myself,' says I. 'Trot her out!'

"When the light of the lantern fell upon that bottle we got a shock. Instead of the cheerin' color that usually fills useful bottles, the contents of this here one was green--green as grass off a June hillside.

"'Well!' says William, 'what in--where in--why, it's perfumery!' he hollers, and raises it for a smash.

"'Hold, William! Hold!' says I. 'It's got red sealin'-wax on the top. If you break it before we take a sample you and me is the best of friends parted in the middle, not to mention the disturbance we'll make in this room.'

"So I took it away from him and looked at it in the candle-light. Sure enough, there was the inspirin' words on it, 'Liqueur--Creme de Menthe.' A furreign way of spellin' liquor, to be sure, but what's a letter or two out of the way, so long as the results is in sight?

"'William,' says I, 'L-i-q, lick, u-e-u-r, er--licker. Get glasses, William, and let us be joyful.'

"William mumbled somethin' about green not bein' a joyful color, but he went and did as I told him.

"That stuff smelt of perpemint, fearful. It was a young ladies' bevridge if ever I hit one. We sot opposite each other, filled a tumbler apiece, says, 'Here's how,' and waited. We waited quite some time.

"'Ezekiel, do you notice anythin'?' says William. Well, to tell the truth, I hadn't; yet it might only been fancy, so I says, 'Seems to me I _do_, William--nothin' vi'lent, nor musical, nor humorous--but a kind of a tranquil, preliminary, what-you-might-call-indication of somethin' to follow.'

"'Huh,' says William, 'let's try another.

"We was careful to load to the brim this time. After five minutes I says, 'Are you sure you don't notice nothin,' William?' I observed a risin' color in his face.

"'U-m-m--y-a-as,' says he most sarcastical; 'I notice somethin', Ezekiel--a strong smell of peppermint--not escaped you, perhaps? Well, there's just one more swig of green paint goin' to force itself into the midst of William Pemberton, and if there ain't more to show for it than the present odor and a sensation 'sif I'd been turned inside out and exposed to the wintry blasts you'll hear from me, Ezekiel. I've stood,' says William, 'about all I'm prepared to stand. The next act will be for me to proceed to get a move on.'

"Knowin' what a powerful disposition he had I most sincerely hoped our next glass would bring about satisfactory conclusions. I downed her, but it had got to be all I could do, I felt a freezin' cold in my vitals, like William had complained of, instead of the warmth and comfort for which I looked. Y-a-as, I swallered that glass by main strength, like a snake would a hop-toad--kinder lengthened myself until I was outside of it.

"'Tick-tick-tick,' remarks William's clock on the wall. When it had arranged its hands before its mild countenance in such a way as to inform me that twenty minutes, mountain time, had done all the elapsin' possible, I slid my anxious gaze on William. He held to his chair with both hands, and white spots showed in his cheeks, the way he chawed his teeth together.

"'Ahem,' says I, clearin' my throat, 'Hum--ah, do you--er--do you no--'

"I got no farther. William leant over and bent his finger double agin my chest. 'Full well,' says he in a tone of v'ice not loud but so loaded with meanin' it bumped on his teeth--'full well, Ezekiel George Washington Scraggs, do I assimerlate what the results of such a course will be, but if you should persume to ast me any more if I notice anything I shall at once arise and bat you in the eye--I am beyond carin' for conserquences.'

"'Now, now, now! What is the use of gettin' so excited? Take a drink of water--you'll bust your b'iler, foamin' like that,' I says.

"'Water!' says William. 'Ha, ha, ha.' It wasn't no giggle, that laugh of his. It was one of them blood-curdlers you read about.

"'All right," says he, brisk, 'to oblige you--remember that.' He turned the dipper upside down, then heaved it through the window. 'Sufferin' Ike'' says he, "I can't even taste it--nothin' but cold, cold. Went down my gullet like a buckshot down a ten-foot shaft.' He struggled for air and continued; 'Here am I,' says he, 'William Pemberton, celebratin' Christmas by dyeing my linin' green and smellin' like a recess in a country school.' His ventilation give out again, whilest he worked his face into knots and flew his hands around. 'You come along with me,' says he, 'and I'll show you a Christmas celebration.'

"I grabbed him. 'William,' I says, 'your eye is desperate. You explain to me before you scuff a foot.'

"'Leggo me,' he says; 'I tell you, leggo me, Zeke Scraggs. I'm goin' to have my revenge. I'm goin' to take ten cases of giant powder and blow the mill of Honorable John Lawson Davis, Member of Congress, Champion Double-Jointed, Ground-and-Lofty, Collar-and-Elbow, Skin and Liar, so high in the air that folks'll think there's a new comet, predictin' war and trouble.'

"'William,' I says 'you ain't goin' to do no such thing--that's wicked, that is.' I tried to speak stern, but this here Christmas hadn't amounted to much so far, and I never had seen a stamp mill blew up, so I couldn't help wonderin' how it would look.

"'See here!' says he, 'I'll admit many a time you've licked me in a friendly way, Ezekiel, and I'm obliged to you; but, now, be you, or ben't you, my guest?'

"'I be,' says I.

"'Then don't let's hear no more out of you,' he says, 'but come along.'

"'The powder'll be friz,' I hints, still tryin' to switch him off.

"'Not much,' he says. 'She's down a cellar twenty foot deep--come on.'

"'Just as you say, William,' I remarks--the only thing to do.

"So we toted ten cases of giant to the bottom of the mill, fixed the cap and fuse careful, touched her off, and walked away from there.

"Whilest I wouldn't have you think for a minute, dear friends and brothers, that I uphold any conduct like that, for my part I'm willin' to admit there's things less exhileratin' than standin' on a small rise, of a clear, fine, moonlight winter night, waitin' to see a fifty-stamp mill go off,

"And she went. Let me repeat it: she went. We first ketched a smack on the soles of our feet, and then that mill flew to a fiery finish. Jeehoopidderammity! It was simply gorgeous.

"We didn't have time to take it all in, howsomever, for after the first blast a big, black thing sailed over our heads with the fearfullest screech that ever scart a man to death.

"'Zeke,' says William, hangin' on to my neck, 'did I hear somethin', or is it that cussed green ink workin'?'

"'I thought I observed a sound,' says I; 'and whatever it was lit yonder. Let's go see.

"William hadn't intended to go and see at all. In fact, I dragged him by the hair and belt the hull distance--not that I was exactly afraid, but nothin' is so lonesome when you have company.

"There was a hole in a snowbank where whatever it was went in. I started to paw down, but William was for bunchin' it.

"'I tell you, let it be and hump yourself out'n here,' says he. 'It's after me because I blew up the mill; it's the devil, that's what it is.'

"'Is it?' says I. 'Well, let's have a look at him. My veins is full of cream de menthy, and I'll knock his horns off'n him if he gives me any lip.'

"Just then the snowbank heaved up. It wasn't no devil--that is, not exactly. It was a lady. I'd a bet on it if I'd had time to think. I might have known there was no place on top of this footstool where E. G. W. Scraggs could rest his weary feet without some female happenin' in the same spot at the same time. I should have took William's advice, but it was now too late.

"We stood around kinder awk'ard, with her brushin' snow from herself, till I says, 'Well, good-evenin', ma'am.'

"First off she says good-evenin', too, out of surprise. Then she begun to talk altogether different. She described William and me by sections, goin' into particulars, and nobuddy'd loaned us money on her recommend. I was used to this at home, so I spoke up nice and silent in our defense. There ain't quite so much noise when only one is talkin.'

"Finally, when her breath give out, William says very humble, 'Would you mind informin' us, ma'am, how you come to be in these parts just now?'

"She explained fully that, in answer to an advertisement in the paper, she was slidin' over to Squaw Creek. The advertisement called for a wife for a farmer, to be forty years old, or thereabouts, able to cook, plow, do washing and light blacksmith's work, and to have a capital of five hundred dollars to invest in the concern.

"'An' now,' says she, beginning to weep, 'I'd camped in that mill, an' I was only for steppin' out to git a bit of a stick to cook me soopper, an' I was on me way back, when a-r-rur-BOOMP! it ses, an' where's the five hoondred dollars that I left there, I dunno? Agghh woosha-woosha the day, ye divils, ye! An' me hoopled t'rough the air like a ol' hat--bad cess to yer ugly faces! The cuss o' Crom'll lie heavy on ye for mistreatin' a poor, lone widdy woman!'

"'Well, ma'am,' says I, 'I wouldn't take the loss of the money to heart. When the gentleman sees your face he won't care.' Usually, you can kinder edge around the rough places with that game of talk. But it didn't go here.

"'Aggh, g'wan, ye bald-headed ol' pepper-mint lozenger!' she hollers. 'D'ye s'pose I niwer see a lookin'-glass? Where's the man'll marry me widout me money? "Me face is me forchune, sor," sez she. "Tek it to the gravel bank an' have it cashed, then," sez he. Where's the man that'll have me, face an' all, lackin' the coin? Woora, woora, answer me that!'

"Well, as usual, it was up to me. There wasn't no escapin' it. A man might just as well meet his fate smilin' as trailin' his lip on the ground, for my experiences teaches, dear friends and brothers, that Fate just naturally don't care a wooden-legged tinker's dam.

"'Madam,' says I, removin' my hat and bowin', 'the honorable name of Scraggs is at your disposal.'

"'Eh?' says she. 'What's that you're sayin'?'

"'I repeat, plainly and sadly, ma'am, that one-fourteenth of my heart and hands is at your disposal.'

"'Heh?' says she again. 'An' what's the one-foorteeneth mane?'

"'I have now,' I replies, 'thirteen wives--'Before I could get another word out she was ra'rin.'

"'Oh!' she yells, 'ye villyan! Ye long-legged blaggard! Ye hairless ol' scoundrel of the world! How dast ye?' She begun lookin' around for a club, so I talked fast.

"'It's my religion, ma'am,' says I. 'I'm a Mormon by profession, mixed with accident. Think a minute before you do somethin' that'll cause general regret.'

"'Well,' she says, calmin' down, 'is there e'er an Oirish leddy in the lot?'

"'Not one, up till this joyful present,' I answers. 'I don't rightly know what country they hail from, but I can truthfully add that I'm not thinkin' of takin' up homestead rights there.'

"'Aggh, g'long wid yer jokin',' says she, as kittenish as anything. 'Yer only foolin', ye are.' "'Ma'am,' says I, 'if you say the word I shall at once proceed to get my fiery, untamed skees and go gallopin' over the mountains to make you the fourteenth Mrs. Scraggs with all speed and celery possible. You have only to speak to turn this dreadful uncertainty into a horrible fact. I pay for what I break; that's me, Jo Bush.'

"'Well, ain't this suddent!' she says. 'But I'll not stop ye from yer intentions--men is that set in their ways! Run along, now, loike a good choild!'

"'Well, good-by, William!' I says when we started, 'You see how it is yourself!"

"He cried on my coat collar. I honest believe that grass-juice had a jump or two in it, so darned insijous a man wouldn't notice.

"'To think it was me brought this on,' he hollers. 'Me an' my revengeful nature! You try to forgive me, Ezekiel. And we everlastingly did wind up that mill, anyhow!'

"'William,' says I, 'take no heed. No man is above what happens to him, unless like he'd been atop of the mill when she dispersed. I forgive you--good-by.'"

Mr. Scraggs puffed his pipe thoughtfully. "Thirteen," he ruminated, and shook his head. "Tell me not them mournful numbers."

"But," interrupted Charley, "I don't see as you was any worse off than before?"

"Me?" replied Mr. Scraggs in surprise. "Me? No, _I_ wasn't any worse off. But, as I said before, inquire of the snake.

"Mrs. Mehitabel Thirteenth Scraggs opened up on me a few mornings after that, and my latest acquisition instantly laid hold of her by the hair of her head and beat her with a fryin'-pan till Number Thirteen had to take to her feet and stay that way for a week.

"'You _will_ talk to my ol' man like that, will _you_?' says Bridget. 'Well, mind you this, now! If he nades batin' _I'll_ bate him, but fur anny skimpy, yaller critter like yerself to so much as give him a sassy look I'll construe as a mortial offense. Run along, now, run along, and git him his breakfas', or I'll strangle ye with me foot!'

"No," said Mr. Scraggs, sadly. "I wasn't no worse off. If so it hadn't 'a' been Bridget took a drop too much at the drug-store one night, and another drop too much over the edge of the canon on the way home, I reckon I'd had some good out of life. But it wasn't to be, it wasn't to be. Drowned in the bud by the inflooence of that cussed unlucky number, thirteen."

[The end]
Henry Wallace Phillips's short story: The Mournful Number

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