THE TRAMP.
"A pretty tough looking character, that! But I suppose you see a great many just such specimens in this quaint little town of yours."
Father Antony's back was turned to the speaker and for several moments he remained standing at the top of the veranda steps, following with his eyes the slouching figure that had just passed through the gate and was tramping slowly along the county road. Then, with a sigh he returned to his seat and, running his fingers through his hair, remarked half absently:
"Poor fellow, he looked almost exhausted. I tried to persuade him to remain here a little longer and rest for a spell. What a life theirs is! Some of them, of course, really enjoy it, but others——. Ah, me! those poor others. And somehow that tramp who has just left us seems to me to belong to the latter class rather than to the former. But pardon me, Father, what was it you were just saying? I was so interested in my tramp that I failed to catch your words."
"I merely remarked," returned the younger priest, smiling, "that you must see a great many of these nomadic individuals in this quaint little town of yours. I have been here but a week and that is the sixth villainous looking rascal who has presented himself and demanded something to eat."
"Yes, a large number of tramps pass through here in the course of a year, for we are on the direct road between the two largest cities of the State. Many of them are, as you say, villainous looking, but I do not think they are half as bad as they look. In fact, in some cases, I have found them to be pretty good fellows once you had passed the rough exterior and reached the real man underneath."
"You must have had some very interesting experiences with these tramps of yours; have you not, Father?" asked the younger man curiously. "I wish you would tell me some of them."
Father Anthony shifted his chair so as to command a better view of the road. He watched in meditative silence until the tramp had become a mere blot upon the whiteness of the dusty road and had finally disappeared over the brow of a distant hill. Then he spoke in tones of reminiscence:
"It was on just such a May evening as this, clear and beautiful only much cooler, that I sat in this very chair and watched the road as I am doing now. But on that evening I watched anxiously, divided between hopes and fears, for the figure that was so long in coming; I was watching for Jim, the tramp. Jim had promised faithfully, but with some men promises are made only to be broken. I began to fear that Jim was one of these. Still I prayed fervently and continued to hope, though the twilight deepened and brought no sign of my vagrant.
"My meeting with Jim had come about in this way. For some time I had been playing a game of hide and seek with a certain backsliding member of my congregation. The hiding was all on his side, the seeking on mine. Try as I would I could not seem to obtain an interview with him. He was never at home when I called; so I decided that my only chance of coming to close quarters with the enemy was to surprise him at his work. That afternoon I had gone to the quarries and found my man superintending the gang in charge of the stone-crusher. He certainly was surprised and not very pleased to see me, and all I could obtain from him after more than an hour of argument and pleading was a promise that 'he would think about it.' The 'it' referred to the making of his Easter duty, the time for which had nearly expired. Bitterly disappointed, and with a feeling of utter defeat, I was turning away when my steps were arrested by a not unpleasant voice:
"'Why don't you try your hand on me, Father? I'm a black enough sheep to keep you busy for a few moments anyway.'
"I wheeled around and found myself confronted by a short, thick-set man of most unattractive appearance, a man whom you would scarce choose as a companion along a lonely road at night. At a glance I sized up my new acquaintance: a typical tramp who had taken a job at stoking the engine to vary the monotony of the road. He was no professional 'hobo,' but belonged to that class who take to tramping from necessity rather than from choice—a too great love for the bottle being the necessity. They find an odd job here and there, hold it until pay day, squander the month's earnings in the nearest saloon, then on again in search of a job somewhere else.
"I am well acquainted with these men, but there was something about the rough looking specimen before me, a certain something in his manner, in his speech, in the twinkle of his eyes, which set him apart from the rest of his class. A grizzled beard of iron grey concealed the lower half of his face, and the right temple and cheek were disfigured by a scar which gave the countenance a decidedly sinister appearance. In spite of that I felt that the man before me had at one time been accustomed to a very different life from the one he was leading now.
"'Why don't you try your hand on me, Father?' he repeated, and the smile accompanying the words made the ugly face almost pleasing.
"There was not time for a lengthy conversation, the engine requiring constant attention, but the tramp volunteered the information that he answered to the name of Jim, and promised to report at the rectory in the evening and give me a chance to try my hand on him.
"In the evening, then, I sat and waited, half fearing that he had changed his mind and would not come. But just as the first pale stars began to twinkle in the sky Jim pushed open the gate and I went to meet him with both hands extended in warmest welcome. He gave me his left hand, and for the first time I noticed that the right was gone—amputated at the wrist. Jim saw my glance of shocked pity and smiled as he said calmly:
"'It was the drink did it, Father—the hand and this scar on my face. I'd been hitting it up pretty lively and didn't realize where I was walking. The track wasn't wide enough for me and the train. One of us had to get off, and as the engine was the stronger of the two—well, you see the result before you.'
"'How long have you been tramping, Jim?' I asked.
"'More years than I care to think of now, Father. The drink again. In fact, it's been the drink at every turn; it's ruined my life, made a complete fool of me. But let's get down to business; only, you'll have to help me out, it's so long since I went to confession I've almost forgotten how.'
"'Come into the house or the confessional in the church,' I suggested.
"'The house or the confessional in the church? No, thank you, Father. My little friends up yonder, those pretty, sparkling stars, my only companions on many a lonely night, have been the witnesses of my degradation. Let them now behold my restoration to the favor of the God whom I've offended.'
"Strange words, those, from a tramp, and I marveled at them. Without more ado we 'got down to business,' and it was nearly two hours later when we parted at the gate. In answer to a question of mine, Jim replied whimsically:
"'Where do I live while I'm working on this job? Well, you see, Father, I am rather particular with regard to my lodgings, and as there is nothing around here that quite suits me, I just crawl under the engine and sleep there.'
"'But when it rains, Jim?'
"'Well, it just rains, that's all.'
"The next morning Jim attended my Mass and received Holy Communion, and every morning after that when I entered the church to offer up the Holy Sacrifice the first person I would see would be my one-armed tramp kneeling in a far corner, his rosary slipping through his fingers. The rosary had belonged to his mother, and during all his years of tramping he had guarded it as his most precious treasure. He had worn it in a little chamois bag suspended from a string around his neck, but had not used it in many, many years. He came regularly one evening in each week to make his confession and to have a little chat with me. As the summer progressed I wondered more and more at this strange new acquaintance of mine; this rough looking tramp with the manners of a gentleman and the speech, except for a few lapses in the vernacular of the road, of a man of considerable education. The oddest thing of all was the feeling I had that somewhere, at some time, Jim and I had met before. Little tricks of voice and expression would seem strangely familiar.
"The summer gradually faded into autumn, and one evening in late September when I stood at the gate to say good-night to my tramp, he remarked sadly:
"'This is good-by as well as good-night, Father. I have given up my work here and am off early in the morning.'
"'Not the road again!' I cried, and the next second would have given anything to recall the thoughtless words. A pained look crossed Jim's face, but he answered quietly:
"'No, Father, not the road. Never again shall I return to that life. I have saved my wages this summer and am going back into the world to begin life all over again. This time, with God's help, I shall not make such a muddle of it as I did before.'
"The next day he was gone, and many a night as I sat over my study-fire reading or trying to work up my sermon for Sunday, my thoughts would stray from the subject in hand and wander out into the world in search of my friend the tramp. I would listen to the wintry blasts whistling down my chimney and wonder where Jim was, and wonder still more at his complete silence. Surely he might let me know if all were well with him. Had he persevered? Or had he, perhaps, lapsed into his former ways, and was he, even now, tramping the highways and byways?
"Winter passed and spring came; still no news of Jim. Another summer, another fall, another winter. Silence, absolute silence on the part of my tramp. Then, one evening in May, exactly two years from the day when I first met him, Jim stood before me once again. I recognized him by the missing right hand and the scar on the temple. Aside from those two points and the old merry twinkle in his eye he bore absolutely no resemblance to my tramp of two years ago. The face was smooth shaven, the bloat, caused by years of drinking, had all disappeared, and he looked at least ten years younger than my former friend. His ragged tramp's garb had been replaced by neat garments such as a fairly prosperous business man might wear. His whole appearance seemed to indicate that Jim had done well in the world to which he had returned. Sitting in the garden, he told me all about it.
"Yes, he had done well. It had been hard at first, oh! very hard. There had been a time when, his savings all gone and no employment in sight, he had faced actual starvation. But the darkest hour comes before dawn, and that had been Jim's darkest hour. From then on things began to mend. He had obtained a good situation and was happy in it. He had not written because for long, for so very long, he had no news but bad news to send. There was nothing but ill-luck and misfortune to report, and he waited from day to day hoping things would brighten. Then, when the unexpected stroke of good luck came, he decided to wait yet a little longer until he could bring me the good news in person.
"All the time he was talking I watched his face carefully. That puzzling, baffling resemblance to some one whom I had known was stronger than ever since the beard which concealed so much of his face had been removed. I became more and more convinced that we had met before, but when and where? I racked my memory, but the name, the personality I wanted, eluded my grasp. Something of my thoughts must have shown in my face, for when Jim finished his narrative he threw back his head, laughing merrily at my very evident perplexity.
"'It is really too bad to keep you guessing any longer, Father,' he said. 'Let me help you to remember when and where we met before. Listen and I will tell you a little story.
"'It is Commencement day at a certain large college in a certain city which we need not name. The graduating class have met together for the last time in their own particular class-room. The saintly, white-haired priest who has watched their progress step by step from the day they first entered college stands before them. He speaks words to them which brings tears to those young eyes, accustomed, as a rule, to looking only on the merry side of life. He speaks words of true affection, of gentle admonition and fatherly advice. He gives to each youth a tiny silver medal of our Blessed Mother, and exacts from each one a promise that he will faithfully carry that little medal until the day of his death.'
"As Jim spoke he took from an inner pocket a small medal of our Lady and laid it on the palm of his hand. I drew forth my rosary, and there, beside the crucifix, hung a medal the counterpart of Jim's. He smiled as he continued:
"'I see you remember now, Father, but listen just a little longer for my story is not finished. From that class-room those lads went forth into the busy world of men and of affairs. They went their separate ways, each one to fill that position in life to which he felt himself called, most of them fired by ambition and confident of success.
"'One of those young men left the college that night with his heart as buoyant and hopeful as any of his companions. Almost from the first, however, things seemed to go wrong with him. He was an orphan, father and mother having died a few years before. Perhaps if either parent had been at hand to warn him of the dangers into which he was drifting, his life might have been different. Perhaps, even if some one had warned him, the warning would have passed unheeded. He tried law for a time and did not like it; tried business and gave that up; drifted from one thing to another, always drifting lower, lower, until at last he found himself an outcast and a wanderer. For some years he lived the life of a vagrant. If at times a longing to return to better ways, a longing for all that might have been, stirred faintly within him, the feeling was quickly drowned by recourse to the one thing to which he remained faithful, the enemy that had brought about his ruin, drink.
"'During his wanderings he picked up odd jobs here and there, and one day he is taken on by the boss of the stone-crusher over there in those quarries of yours. They were badly in need of some one to stoke the engine, and even a rough looking tramp was welcome. That same day there comes to the place a certain priest who is searching for one of the stray sheep from his own fold. The tramp recognizes the priest at once, and the sight of that familiar face brings back the old, happy days of his innocent boyhood. The priest commences to speak; he pleads, he reasons with the boss of the stone-crusher. In spirit the tramp is once more back in the college chapel listening to the saintly old man who had been his guide and confidant in youth, and who had long since passed to his reward. The vague, discontented longing for better things rises up in full strength. After all, why not? The look on the priest's face as he turns away decides him. That look of bitter disappointment, of real grief, on the face of his old college friend is more than the tramp can stand. He speaks, the priest turns to him, and—well, the rest of the story you know for yourself, Father. That is, the rest as far as any mortal can relate it. The end is not yet, but I trust that end will be one which will satisfy even you.'"
Silence reigned for several moments, the fragrant silence of a warm May night. And then:
"I am sure it will, I am sure it will," mused Father Anthony, smiling confidently. "I have no fear as to what the end will be for Jim, my one-armed tramp."
"But the other man, Father, the boss of the stone-crusher? What has become of him?"
"Oh! that little game of hide and seek is still going on, but I have not lost hope even yet. God's mills grind slowly and we must abide His own good time, His own good time."