Checkers: A Hard-luck Story

Uncle Jerry Halter, from the back woods – a character; shrewd, crabbed and as close as the next minute – was foremost among these, and at last he discovered our friend, Mr. Campbell, checked suit and all, returning from having washed his hands, after a not very successful attempt at filling a large brown jug with molasses.

The old man crowded through to the counter, leaning over it expectantly, but Checkers passed him by unheeded, making his way toward a pretty girl.

"Hey there!" exclaimed Uncle Jerry indignantly – his voice was loud and very nasal. "Hey! 'Checkers,' or whatever your name is – I'm in a hurry, and I want to go."

Instantly there was a general laugh, and Checkers stopped and turned around.

"Well, go if you want to – you're not tied down," he retorted, and the laugh was on Uncle Jerry.

The old man colored to the roots of his hair. "You 're very fresh, young feller," he snarled.

"Yes; warranted to keep in any climate," said Checkers, smiling good-naturedly at him.

Arthur happened along just then, and soothed and waited upon Uncle Jerry, getting him peaceably out of the store.

In the morning at breakfast he related the incident to Mr. Kendall, who he knew would appreciate it.

"There is only one man about here meaner than old Jerry Halter," said Mr. Kendall, addressing Checkers, "and that is the father of Arthur's little friend, Miss Barlow. I once heard a friend of mine say of him that 'he wouldn't smile unless it was at another man's expense,' and I quite believe it. Arthur could tell you no end of humorous things about him, if he only would. But I suppose he does n't want to relate what may some day be family secrets. How is that, Arthur?"

Arthur looked annoyed, but did not reply to this bit of parental humor.

"As soon as Pert and Sadie come home you must take Mr. Campbell to call on them, Arthur," said Aunt Deb. "They are two lovely girls," she continued, turning to Checkers. "They 've been away to school; to a seminary up in Illinois. School's out now, of course, but they 're visiting somewhere – in St. Louis, I believe. They 're expected home this week, though; so you 'll have the pleasure of meeting them soon."

"Sisters?" asked Checkers.

"No; not sisters, but cousins, and almost inseparable. Sadie is n't as pretty as Pert, but she 's just as sweet as sweet can be, and a perfect treasure about a house. Are you fond of young ladies, Mr. Campbell?"

Checkers hardly knew what to say. "I 'm a great admirer of girls in general," he replied, after a moment's hesitation, "and they 've always struck me as being a mighty nice thing to kind of have around. But I 've had very little experience with them – that is, at least, in the last two years."

The truth was, that the friends with whom Checkers had gone to live in Chicago, after his mother's death, had been people of true worth and refinement. They were poor – a widowed mother and two daughters – and the liberal sum which Checkers insisted upon paying them for his monthly maintenance was to them a matter of grateful benefit. But they, in return, had exercised a restraining influence over him; had taught him to be courteous and gentlemanly, deferential to his elders, and respectful toward women, or, at least to maintain such an outward semblance, which answered all general purposes.

He had conceived a boyish adoration for the elder daughter, four years his senior, which had aided her materially in her influence over him for good. And it was only as he began to realize the utter hopelessness of his passion, and at the same time found himself being supplanted by the bearded man who some months after married her and took her away, that he grew dissatisfied with working and found the excitement that he craved in racing and kindred gambling devices.

For several years he had lived this life, gradually growing hard and careless. But now that he found himself once more an inmate of a respectable family circle, he resumed his gentleness of manner, as it had been a half-forgotten rôle.

"I had been keeping the girls as a little surprise for him, Aunt Deb," said Arthur rather reproachfully. "To meet a girl who has been described to you is like listening to a joke which is told point first."

"I warrant he 'll find plenty to be interested in after he meets them, for all we may tell him," replied Aunt Deb.

"Yes," said Mr. Kendall, "there is something about each girl one meets a little different from any other. At least it was so when I was a boy. I never found any two quite alike."

"I never found one alike any two times," said Arthur, very feelingly; "but their uncertainty, I suppose, is their charm. Come, let's go out and loaf under the trees."

"Thank God, Sunday comes once a week," said Checkers. "I could stand two a week without straining myself."

"The girls are to be home Friday," said Arthur. "Friday night we 'll go down and call, if you'd like to."

"Tickled to death," said Checkers.

"Sadie will probably stay with Pert a while, as her father, Judge Martin, has gone to Texas, and won't be back for a couple of weeks. Sadie's mother is dead, you know, and she and the old man are all alone. By the way, the Judge is rich, and Sadie is rich in her own right, too."

"That settles it, Sadie dear; you 're mine. A fortune-teller told me I 'd marry a rich girl."

"Better see her before you marry her, had n't you?" suggested Arthur.

"Why? She has n't got pen-paralysis, has she?"

"Pen-paralysis! No; what on earth is that?"

"Well, as long as she can sign a check, I guess we can manage to worry along. She may have faults; she probably has; but any girl who marries me won't be getting any the best of it. There' s a heap of consolation in that idea to a man about to commit matrimony."

"There are very few men I know of," said Arthur, "but what could 'lay to their soul that flattering unction.'"

"When you 're swapping 'sights unseen,'" said Checkers, "you do n't want too good a knife, or a horse yourself, or you 'll get the hooks on the trade."

"With all respect to you, my boy, you'd be far from 'getting the hooks,' as you call it, with Sadie Martin for a wife."

"Or you with Miss Barlow, I suppose."

Arthur's only response was a long drawn sigh, and he gazed into distance vacantly.

"Where did they get the name of 'Pert' for Miss Barlow, Arthur?" asked Checkers, suddenly.

"It's an abbreviation of a biblical name," said Arthur. "In a verse of one of Paul's Epistles to the Romans, he says, 'Salute also the beloved Persis.' When Pert was a child they gave her the nick-name, and it's stuck to her ever since."

Friday evening came at last, and Arthur and Checkers at an early hour drove down the mountain to call upon the young ladies.

The Barlows lived much nearer Clarksville than did the Kendalls, though upon a different road, and the young men had a long and round-about drive ere they reached their destination. As they entered the driveway two large dogs came bounding toward them, growling fiercely.

"Look out thar, boys, ye do n't git dog-bit!" shouted a voice. "Here Lion, here Tige; commir, ye varmints! What d 'ye mean? All right now; I 've got a-hold of 'em. That you, Arthur; how de do?"

"How do you do, Mr. Barlow?" responded Arthur.

"Hitch yer hosses ter that tree thar. I 'll send Joe out ter tend to 'em. Ye 'll find the girls round the side in a hammock. Here 's Pert a-comin' now."

"Good evening, Arthur, I 'm glad to see you," said a pleasant voice, and out of the shadow into the light of the yellow moon, which was just showing over the tops of the trees, the figure of a girl in white appeared, moving quickly and gracefully toward them.

Arthur stepped forward, and taking both of her hands in his, pressed them silently for a moment. "Pert," he said, "I want you to meet my friend, Mr. Campbell. Come here, old man. Miss Barlow, Mr. Campbell."

"I am very glad to meet you, Miss Barlow," said Checkers, with a graceful inclination.

"Where's Sadie, Pert? Oh, here she comes," said Arthur. "That you, Sadie? How are you?"

"Pretty well, thank you. How's yourself?"

"Sadie, let me introduce you to a friend of mine. Miss Martin, Mr. Campbell."

Miss Martin straightway offered her hand, and Checkers shook it cordially.

"Let's go and sit where we can see the moon – it's perfectly beautiful to-night," said Pert. "Arthur, get two chairs from the porch, and bring them over by the hammock."

Arthur went to fulfill his mission while Checkers walked between the young ladies.

Suddenly he skipped nimbly forward. "Excuse me while I climb a tree," he exclaimed, with a comical intonation. "There comes Lion and Tige, and I 'm afraid it's another horrible case of 'They're After Me.'"

"Oh, they won't touch you while you 're with us," laughed Sadie. "Here Lion, here Tige, good dogs."

"Well then, I think I 'd better establish my popularity with them both right now," said Checkers; and with an air of confidence he kindly patted and rubbed their heads in a way that dogs love, and made them his friends.

Meanwhile Arthur arrived with the chairs. Sadie seated herself in one of them, and motioning Checkers to place the other beside her, left the hammock to Pert and Arthur.

"Did you have a good time in St. Louis, girls?" asked Arthur.

"Oh lovely!" they both exclaimed.

"We hated dreadfully to come home," continued Sadie, "but we simply had to. Our clothes were in tatters. All the men were so sweet to us. They kept something going on every minute."

Then followed an enthusiastic account of their good time, which was tiresome to Checkers, and torture to Kendall.

"Pert, get your banjo," said Arthur, suddenly. "It seems like years since I 've heard you play."

"It has n't but one string on it, Arthur," laughed Pert, "but I 'll fix it up to-morrow, sure."

"I think it would sound very smooth out here in the moonlight, Miss Barlow," suggested Checkers. "If you have some new strings I 'd be glad to fix it up for you. I used to play a bit myself."

Sadie jumped up. "Come, let's go and get it," she said; and she and Checkers went into the house.

She ushered Checkers into a room where Mr. Barlow, in shirt sleeves and stocking feet, sat dozing in a rocking chair, while his wife, a sweet-faced, grey-haired woman, worked button-holes in his new gingham shirts.

Checkers felt drawn towards Mrs. Barlow. She reminded him strangely of his mother. She had a smile like a benediction; but in her weary eyes he could read a tragedy.

The banjo was one of Arthur's many gifts to Pert in days gone by, and Checkers to his great relief found it a very excellent instrument.

Checkers was not a conversationalist, where conversation had to be made; but he was a very good amateur banjoist, and he sang an excellent comic song; and he was glad of the opportunity offered to show himself in perhaps his best rôle.

While, with the banjo on his knee, he deftly adjusted the strings, Miss Martin sat beside him, an interested spectator, and talked to him in an undertone.

"I thought we had better come in here and give Arthur a little chance," she said – "poor fellow." This with a long drawn sigh, which seemed to demand an explanation.

Checkers looked up, inquiringly. This was his first legitimate opportunity of taking a comprehensive look at her. The casual glance had proclaimed her plain, but now in the bright light of a hanging-lamp she seemed to him hopelessly unattractive. He felt chagrined and disappointed. He was angry with Arthur for not having prepared him for such a cruel disillusion. For somehow since his jesting words of the previous Sabbath morning, he had allowed his fancy to run the gamut of many glittering possibilities.

He had started forth that evening, feeling a pleasurable excitement in the vague presentiment that he was going to meet his destiny. But now it simply "would n't do." He decided quickly and became resigned.

"It was n't that she was really so ugly," he afterwards explained to me, "but there was n't anything about her that you could tie to, and sort of forget the rest" – except her "stuff," and he wasn't sure but that was one of Arthur's "pipe-dreams." She had no style, no face, no figure. Nothing at all for a little starter. She was just a girl, that was all – just a girl. A fact which put her beyond the pale.

"Why do you say 'poor fellow?'" said Checkers, after several moments silence. "It seems to me he's mighty lucky to have such a tidy little friend."

"Yes, but I fear she is only a friend, and that's why I 'm so sorry for him. I like Arthur; I think he is simply a dear. He has always been perfectly lovely to me. But Pert – well, Pert is very peculiar, and Arthur, you know, is awfully fast."

Checkers put on an incredulous look. "Arthur fast!" he exclaimed with a laugh. "Why, if he was in a city, I 'd expect him to get run over by a hearse inside of a week."

"Oh, you men always stand up for each other; but I know all about it. You can't fool me."

Mrs. Barlow looked up from her sewing. "You and Arthur are very old friends, I suppose," she said, interrogatively.

This was just the question that Checkers had feared. "We went to school at about the same time," he replied, and immediately struck up an air, which, for the time, precluded further questioning. "At least, I suppose we did," he thought to himself, "as we are about the same age."

Meanwhile Pert and Arthur sat in the hammock outside in the radiant moonlight. It seemed to Arthur Pert had never looked so beautiful before. Her large, dark eyes were lustrous; and a silvery halo played about her soft, brown hair, while the pale light gave the clear skin of her oval face the pallor of marble, save for her lips, which were the redder by contrast.

"Such a nice little fellow!" she had exclaimed, as Sadie and Checkers went into the house. "Who is he, Arthur? Where did he come from?"

Arthur hesitated awkwardly. It had been his intention to confess to Pert all the circumstances of his last misadventure; but her few words in praise of Checkers now suddenly emphasized in his mind the thought that everything he had to tell was as clearly discreditable to himself as it was favorable to Checkers, and he had n't the generosity of nature to put the matter upon that footing.

Still, when upon several former occasions, he had confessed to Pert his weaknesses and sins, there had been a kindness in her ready sympathy, her gentle chiding and disapproval, which seemed to bring her nearer to him than she ever was during good behavior. He had found a certain desperate pleasure at times in telling her of his misdoings. It roused her, at least temporarily, out of her usual placid indifference toward him – an attitude to which he sometimes felt that her hatred would have been preferable.

As a school-girl of sixteen, with romantic tendencies, Pert had entered upon the task of reforming Arthur, with a childish belief that the love he professed for her, and which she, in a measure, returned, might be made a means to an earnest and successful endeavor upon his part to become worthy of her. But lapse after lapse had shaken this faith, and three years of experience found her with simply a sisterly pity for this weak young man, whose devotion was so abject that he ceased to interest her, and whose spasmodic vices were not of the kind which make some men so darkly fascinating.

And so Arthur hesitated, debating rapidly in his mind what to say, what to leave unsaid. "Well, it's a rather peculiar story, Pert, although it all happened naturally enough," he answered, after a little time. "I went up to Little Rock a few weeks ago to see a party on business. I found when I got there that he had gone to Hot Springs, and so I followed him over there. I wound up the business in a couple of days, but, as long as I was there, I thought I 'd stay a week or so and take a few baths.

"Well, one day in the cooling-room I struck up a conversation with the man lying next to me, and I 'll pledge you my word I never laughed so much in all my life as I did that morning at our little friend here, who told me a lot of his hard-luck stories.

"We dressed, and went and had lunch together, and he told me that he was dead, flat broke. He had been 'bucking the tiger,' and was waiting to hear from his uncle, to whom he had written for money. I met him again a few days later, and he told me he had n't heard a word as yet; that his trunk was in hock at the hotel, and altogether he was in the deuce of a fix. But he seemed so cheerful about it all that I could n't help taking a liking to him, and I proposed that he come to Clarksville with me, and take a job in the store, till he heard from his uncle, or had saved enough money to get straightened out again. He jumped at the chance, and I brought him along. He 's a first-class salesman, and jolly good company; but I 'm afraid he won 't stay with me much longer; he's getting tired of the place already. I shall be dreadfully lonesome when he 's gone.

"But heavens, Pert; how lonesome I 've been without you, away at your school all these months. It seems so good to see you here that I can scarcely believe my eyes."

"I 'm glad to be back on some accounts, although it grows horribly stupid here."

"Stupid, Pert! It wouldn't seem stupid to me on a desert island, if you were there."

"I should n't care to try it."

"Pert, dear," Arthur's voice grew tender, "I want to say a few words to you seriously, and I beg of you to listen seriously. We are children no longer, little girl. You have finished with school, and I have practically assumed control of father's business. I have no new story to tell you, but you know that I love you and long for you now as I have loved and longed for you for years.

"You have been my good angel, Pert. It has been my love for you and your influence over me alone that has kept me steadfast during hours of terrible temptation. You know I 'm not naturally vicious, Pert; I must have inherited this appetite I have had to fight so hard against. But I am overcoming it – I 'll conquer it, Pert; and with you to be with me to love me and help me, I 'll make a good man. I 'll make a place and a name in the world. But I need you, darling – I love you, and I 'd rather die than live without you. We 'll sell out this business, leave this place, and go back to the East and civilization to live, where there 's something to see and to do. You shall have everything, anything, dear, that your heart desires – only say that you love me." And bending nearer, he sought to draw her to him in a passionate embrace.

Pert did not move from her position in the hammock; but firmly resisted his endeavor, and, taking his arm from around her waist, simply handed it back to him, as it were. (A maneuvre upon a girl's part more aggravating, en passant, than any other one thing she can do.)

"I am sorry," she said, as Arthur still sat in the hammock beside her, silent and downcast – "I 'm dreadfully sorry, Arthur, that you should have brought this matter up again. We have been such friends so many years, and you are such a good friend, when you are only a friend. I hate to wound you, if, indeed, you care for me as you say you do; but I do n't love you, Arthur, in the way you would have me, and I know I never shall. It's best that I should tell you this plainly, and I know you will be glad of it in the end. I am not the girl you think me, Arthur. You do n't know me as I really am. If you did you 'd be glad to have escaped so luckily. I always try to make a good impression, but really I am willful, selfish and discontented. You would be awfully sorry when it was too late. Believe me, I am telling the truth. So let's never talk about this any more, but be the good friends we have always been."

Arthur jumped up impatiently. "You are trifling with me, as you always do," he said, with a savage ring in his voice. "I do n't care what your faults are. I want you, just as you are, to be my wife. Care for you as I say I do! I have loved you since we were children together. I have never cared for any one else. My every thought has been for your happiness. I have never spared trouble, time or money in doing what I thought would please you – and why do you suppose I 've done so? for fun? for glory? for something to pass away time? I tell you, Pert, I 'm getting mighty tired of this kind of foolishness. You and I are fitted for each other by reason of natural situation, if nothing else. What other man is there around here who is anywhere near your equal, socially? What kind of a life will you lead cooped up on this hillside farm as the years go by? – a living death, only think of it!

"Your father is willing, anxious, that you should be married and safely provided for – I have talked with him; he has told me so. My father simply worships you, and nothing on earth would please him so much as to have you for a daughter-in-law."

"But, Arthur," said Pert, almost pleadingly, "I have told you how I feel about it. I don't love you, and how can I marry a man I do n't love? I am fonder of you, much fonder, than of any other man I know, and I can't begin to tell you how bad I should feel to lose your friendship, but – "

She paused as a sound of voices reached them, and in a moment, to her great relief, Sadie and Checkers, with the banjo, came round the house and joined them.

One sweep of the strings, to be sure it was in tune, and Checkers tendered Pert the instrument.

"No, I shan't play; we want to hear you," she laughingly exclaimed, putting her hands behind her. "I am only a novice, and you know the old proverb, 'The poor ye have always with ye.'"

Without more ado Checkers sat down and played a couple of lively airs.

"Now, a song," exclaimed Pert; "I am sure that you sing."

"How did you guess it?" asked Checkers, smiling. "Well, what shall it be, a 'serio-chronic,' or a song about some 'old oaken' thing?"

"Oh, something funny, Mr. Campbell," said Sadie.

Checkers sang a song of an Irish dance. This he followed with one of the popular ballads of the day, full of melody.

He had a clear, high voice, with a touch of that boyish sweetness in it, which made Emmet so famous. A sweetness to which the open air and the sharpness of the banjo added a charm.

The girls were delighted. They called upon him for song after song, until Arthur, pulling out his watch, said abruptly, "It is time to be going," and went to untie the horses.

Amid hearty hand-shakings and cordial invitations to call again soon, Checkers said good-by, and climbed into the buggy as Arthur drove up.

Down the driveway, out upon the moon-lit road, they sat in silence. Each was busy with his own thoughts. Arthur cut the horses viciously from time to time for no apparent reason. Checkers smoked a cigarette as though altogether pleased with himself. Arthur finally broke the spell. "Well," he exclaimed, with a rising inflection.

"A nice line of girls. Miss Barlow's 'Class A'" answered Checkers. "The other one is all right, too; but she 's just a few chips shy on looks."

"Looks are not the only thing in the world," snapped Arthur; "beauty's only skin deep."

"It might improve some of our friends a little to skin 'em, then, if that's so," laughed Checkers. "That reminds me," he continued musingly, "of what a friend of mine, 'Push' Miller, told me once. He said he never in his life ran across two pretty girls that trotted together. If one of 'em was a queen, her partner was safe to be about a nine-spot. He figured that the pretty one used the other as a kind of foil, while the homely one trailed along to get in on the excess trade which the pretty one drew, and turned over to her."

As Arthur neither laughed at, nor replied to, this sally, Checkers concluded he had a grouch, and left him to his own devices.

That night, upon going to bed, the girls, as was natural, had compared notes, and quickly discovered the apparent discrepancy between Checkers' statement to Mrs. Barlow, and the story Arthur had related to Pert.

"I am sorry to know that Mr. Campbell has told a deliberate lie," said Pert, "but there is some excuse for him, after all, for any other explanation would have been embarrassing."

"Oh, a little thing like a lie or two does n't stand in the way of the average man," said Sadie.

"Well, there is something back of Arthur's story, Sadie, I know from the way he hesitated. We 'll know all about it before long, I guess. He 's an awfully cute little fellow, though, isn't he? I hope he'll decide to stay a while; he 's such jolly good company, and Arthur's so tiresome."