The American Claimant by Mark Twain (book recommendations for teens .txt) 📖

his eyes were not only exceedingly black but were very intense, and there was something about them that indicated that they could burn with passion upon occasion. He was stoop-shouldered and lean-faced, and the general aspect of him was disagreeable; he was evidently not a very companionable person. If looks went for anything, he was the very opposite of his wife, who was all motherliness and charity, good will and good nature. All the young men and the women called her Aunt Rachael, which was another sign. Tracy’s wandering and interested eye presently fell upon one boarder who had been overlooked in the distribution of the stew. He was very pale and looked as if he had but lately come out of a sick bed, and also as if he ought to get back into it again as soon as possible. His face was very melancholy. The waves of laughter and conversation broke upon it without affecting it any more than if it had been a rock in the sea and the words and the laughter veritable waters. He held his head down and looked ashamed. Some of the women cast glances of pity toward him from time to time in a furtive and half afraid way, and some of the youngest of the men plainly had compassion on the young fellow—a compassion exhibited in their faces but not in any more active or compromising way. But the great majority of the people present showed entire indifference to the youth and his sorrows. Marsh sat with his head down, but one could catch the malicious gleam of his eyes through his shaggy brows. He was watching that young fellow with evident relish. He had not neglected him through carelessness, and apparently the table understood that fact. The spectacle was making Mrs. Marsh very uncomfortable. She had the look of one who hopes against hope that the impossible may happen. But as the impossible did not happen, she finally ventured to speak up and remind her husband that Nat Brady hadn’t been helped to the Irish stew.

Marsh lifted his head and gasped out with mock courtliness, “Oh, he hasn’t, hasn’t he? What a pity that is. I don’t know how I came to overlook him. Ah, he must pardon me. You must indeed Mr—er—Baxter— Barker, you must pardon me. I—er—my attention was directed to some other matter, I don’t know what. The thing that grieves me mainly is, that it happens every meal now. But you must try to overlook these little things, Mr. Bunker, these little neglects on my part. They’re always likely to happen with me in any case, and they are especially likely to happen where a person has—er—well, where a person is, say, about three weeks in arrears for his board. You get my meaning?—you get my idea? Here is your Irish stew, and—er—it gives me the greatest pleasure to send it to you, and I hope that you will enjoy the charity as much as I enjoy conferring it.”

A blush rose in Brady’s white cheeks and flowed slowly backward to his ears and upward toward his forehead, but he said nothing and began to eat his food under the embarrassment of a general silence and the sense that all eyes were fastened upon him. Barrow whispered to Tracy:

“The old man’s been waiting for that. He wouldn’t have missed that chance for anything.”

“It’s a brutal business,” said Tracy. Then he said to himself, purposing to set the thought down in his diary later:

“Well, here in this very house is a republic where all are free and equal, if men are free and equal anywhere in the earth, therefore I have arrived at the place I started to find, and I am a man among men, and on the strictest equality possible to men, no doubt. Yet here on the threshold I find an inequality. There are people at this table who are looked up to for some reason or another, and here is a poor devil of a boy who is looked down upon, treated with indifference, and shamed by humiliations, when he has committed no crime but that common one of being poor. Equality ought to make men noble-minded. In fact I had supposed it did do that.”

After supper, Barrow proposed a walk, and they started. Barrow had a purpose. He wanted Tracy to get rid of that cowboy hat. He didn’t see his way to finding mechanical or manual employment for a person rigged in that fashion. Barrow presently said:

“As I understand it, you’re not a cowboy.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, now if you will not think me too curious, how did you come to mount that hat? Where’d you get it?”

Tracy didn’t know quite how to reply to this, but presently said,

“Well, without going into particulars; I exchanged clothes with a stranger under stress of weather, and I would like to find him and re-exchange.”

“Well, why don’t you find him? Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I supposed the best way to find him would be to continue to wear his clothes, which are conspicuous enough to attract his attention if I should meet him on the street.”

“Oh, very well,” said Barrow, “the rest of the outfit, is well enough, and while it’s not too conspicuous, it isn’t quite like the clothes that anybody else wears. Suppress the hat. When you meet your man he’ll recognize the rest of his suit. That’s a mighty embarrassing hat, you know, in a centre of civilization like this. I don’t believe an angel could get employment in Washington in a halo like that.”

Tracy agreed to replace the hat with something of a modester form, and they stepped aboard a crowded car and stood with others on the rear platform. Presently, as the car moved swiftly along the rails, two men crossing the street caught sight of the backs of Barrow and Tracy, and both exclaimed at once, “There he is!” It was Sellers and Hawkins. Both were so paralyzed with joy that before they could pull themselves together and make an effort to stop the car, it was gone too far, and they decided to wait for the next one. They waited a while; then it occurred to Washington that there could be no use in chasing one horse-car with another, and he wanted to hunt up a hack. But the Colonel said:

“When you come to think of it, there’s no occasion for that at all. Now that I’ve got him materialized, I can command his motions. I’ll have him at the house by the time we get there.”

Then they hurried off home in a state of great and joyful excitement.

The hat exchange accomplished, the two new friends started to walk back leisurely to the boarding house. Barrow’s mind was full of curiosity about this young fellow. He said,

“You’ve never been to the Rocky Mountains?”

“No.”

“You’ve never been out on the plains?”

“No.”

“How long have you been in this country?”

“Only a few days.”

“You’ve never been in America before?”

Then Barrow communed with himself. “Now what odd shapes the notions of romantic people take. Here’s a young, fellow who’s read in England about cowboys and adventures on the plains. He comes here and buys a cowboy’s suit. Thinks he can play himself on folks for a cowboy, all inexperienced as he is. Now the minute he’s caught in this poor little game, he’s ashamed of it and ready to retire from it. It is that exchange that he has put up as an explanation. It’s rather thin, too thin altogether. Well, he’s young, never been anywhere, knows nothing about the world, sentimental, no doubt. Perhaps it was the natural thing for him to do, but it was a most singular choice, curious freak, altogether.”

Both men were busy with their thoughts for a time, then Tracy heaved a sigh and said,

“Mr. Barrow, the case of that young fellow troubles me.”

“You mean Nat Brady?”

“Yes, Brady, or Baxter, or whatever it was. The old landlord called him by several different names.”

“Oh, yes, he has been very liberal with names for Brady, since Brady fell into arrears for his board. Well, that’s one of his sarcasms—the old man thinks he’s great on sarcasm.”

“Well, what is Brady’s difficulty? What is Brady—who is he?”

“Brady is a tinner. He’s a young journeyman tinner who was getting along all right till he fell sick and lost his job. He was very popular before he lost his job; everybody in the house liked Brady. The old man was rather especially fond of him, but you know that when a man loses his job and loses his ability to support himself and to pay his way as he goes, it makes a great difference in the way people look at him and feel about him.”

“Is that so! Is it so?”

Barrow looked at Tracy in a puzzled way. “Why of course it’s so. Wouldn’t you know that, naturally. Don’t you know that the wounded deer is always attacked and killed by its companions and friends?”

Tracy said to himself, while a chilly and boding discomfort spread itself through his system, “In a republic of deer and men where all are free and equal, misfortune is a crime, and the prosperous gore the unfortunate to death.” Then he said aloud, “Here in the boarding house, if one would have friends and be popular instead of having the cold shoulder turned upon him, he must be prosperous.”

“Yes,” Barrow said, “that is so. It’s their human nature. They do turn against Brady, now that he’s unfortunate, and they don’t like him as well as they did before; but it isn’t because of any lack in Brady—he’s just as he was before, has the same nature and the same impulses, but they— well, Brady is a thorn in their consciences, you see. They know they ought to help him and they’re too stingy to do it, and they’re ashamed of themselves for that, and they ought also to hate themselves on that account, but instead of that they hate Brady because he makes them ashamed of themselves. I say that’s human nature; that occurs everywhere; this boarding house is merely the world in little, it’s the case all over—they’re all alike. In prosperity we are popular; popularity comes easy in that case, but when the other thing comes our friends are pretty likely to turn against us.”

Tracy’s noble theories and high purposes were beginning to feel pretty damp and clammy. He wondered if by any possibility he had made a mistake in throwing his own prosperity to the winds and taking up the cross of other people’s unprosperity. But he wouldn’t listen to that sort of thing; he cast it out of his mind and resolved to go ahead resolutely along the course he had mapped out for himself.

Extracts from his diary:

Have now spent several days in this singular hive. I don’t know quite what to make out of these people. They have merits and virtues, but they have some other qualities, and some ways that are hard to get along with. I can’t enjoy them. The moment I appeared in a hat of the period, I noticed a change. The respect which had been paid me before, passed suddenly away, and the people became friendly—more than that—they became familiar, and I’m not used to familiarity, and can’t take to it right off; I find that out. These people’s familiarity amounts to impudence, sometimes. I suppose it’s all right; no doubt I can get used to it, but it’s not a satisfactory process at all. I have accomplished my dearest wish, I am a man among men, on an equal footing with Tom, Dick and Harry, and yet it isn’t just exactly what I thought it was going to be.