Chapter 20

REAPPEARANCE OF ONE WHO MAY BE REMEMBERED.

The herb-doctor had not moved far away, when, in advance of him, this spectacle met his eye. A dried-up old man, with the stature of a boy of twelve, was tottering about like one out of his mind, in rumpled clothes of old moleskin, showing recent contact with bedding, his ferret eyes, blinking in the sunlight of the snowy boat, as imbecilely eager, and, at intervals, coughing, he peered hither and thither as if in alarmed search for his nurse. He presented the aspect of one who, bed-rid, has, through overruling excitement, like that of a fire, been stimulated to his feet.

“You seek some one,” said the herb-doctor, accosting him. “Can I assist you?”

“Do, do; I am so old and miserable,” coughed the old man. “Where is he? This long time I’ve been trying to get up and find him. But I haven’t any friends, and couldn’t get up till now. Where is he?”

“Who do you mean?” drawing closer, to stay the further wanderings of one so weakly.

“Why, why, why,” now marking the other’s dress, “why you, yes you—you, you—ugh, ugh, ugh!”

“I?”

“Ugh, ugh, ugh!—you are the man he spoke of. Who is he?”

“Faith, that is just what I want to know.”

“Mercy, mercy!” coughed the old man, bewildered, “ever since seeing him, my head spins round so. I ought to have a guardeean. Is this a snuff-colored surtout of yours, or ain’t it? Somehow, can’t trust my senses any more, since trusting him—ugh, ugh, ugh!”

“Oh, you have trusted somebody? Glad to hear it. Glad to hear of any instance, of that sort. Reflects well upon all men. But you inquire whether this is a snuff-colored surtout. I answer it is; and will add that a herb-doctor wears it.”

Upon this the old man, in his broken way, replied that then he (the herb-doctor) was the person he sought—the person spoken of by the other person as yet unknown. He then, with flighty eagerness, wanted to know who this last person was, and where he was, and whether he could be trusted with money to treble it.

“Aye, now, I begin to understand; ten to one you mean my worthy friend, who, in pure goodness of heart, makes people’s fortunes for them—their everlasting fortunes, as the phrase goes—only charging his one small commission of confidence. Aye, aye; before intrusting funds with my friend, you want to know about him. Very proper—and, I am glad to assure you, you need have no hesitation; none, none, just none in the world; bona fide, none. Turned me in a trice a hundred dollars the other day into as many eagles.”

“Did he? did he? But where is he? Take me to him.”

“Pray, take my arm! The boat is large! We may have something of a hunt! Come on! Ah, is that he?”

“Where? where?”

“O, no; I took yonder coat-skirts for his. But no, my honest friend would never turn tail that way. Ah!——”

“Where? where?”

“Another mistake. Surprising resemblance. I took yonder clergyman for him. Come on!”

Having searched that part of the boat without success, they went to another part, and, while exploring that, the boat sided up to a landing, when, as the two were passing by the open guard, the herb-doctor suddenly rushed towards the disembarking throng, crying out: “Mr. Truman, Mr. Truman! There he goes—that’s he. Mr. Truman, Mr. Truman!—Confound that steam-pipe., Mr. Truman! for God’s sake, Mr. Truman!—No, no.—There, the plank’s in—too late—we’re off.”

With that, the huge boat, with a mighty, walrus wallow, rolled away from the shore, resuming her course.

“How vexatious!” exclaimed the herb-doctor, returning. “Had we been but one single moment sooner.—There he goes, now, towards yon hotel, his portmanteau following. You see him, don’t you?”

“Where? where?”

“Can’t see him any more. Wheel-house shot between. I am very sorry. I should have so liked you to have let him have a hundred or so of your money. You would have been pleased with the investment, believe me.”

“Oh, I have let him have some of my money,” groaned the old man.

“You have? My dear sir,” seizing both the miser’s hands in both his own and heartily shaking them. “My dear sir, how I congratulate you. You don’t know.”

“Ugh, ugh! I fear I don’t,” with another groan. “His name is Truman, is it?”

“John Truman.”

“Where does he live?”

“In St. Louis.”

“Where’s his office?”

“Let me see. Jones street, number one hundred and—no, no—anyway, it’s somewhere or other up-stairs in Jones street.”

“Can’t you remember the number? Try, now.”

“One hundred—two hundred—three hundred—”

“Oh, my hundred dollars! I wonder whether it will be one hundred, two hundred, three hundred, with them! Ugh, ugh! Can’t remember the number?”