The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe

Tug hung his head in mortification at this suggestion, and for once in his life neglected to be indifferent and dignified at the same time, which was possible with him, if with no one else.

"Whoever accuses me of being a good man," he said finally, "wrongs me. When I made the discovery a good many years ago that I could never hope to become anything, I made up my mind to distinguish myself for shiftlessness. I despise a common man, therefore I am an uncommonly proficient loafer. I am better known in this town than some of your respectable men, and I don't have to work so hard. There are men here, and plenty of them, who have worked all their lives, and who have no more than I have, which is nothing. They expect that there is a great deal in the future for them, but I have sense enough to know there is nothing very great in the future for any of us, therefore I live as my fancy dictates. I am a natural-born vagrant; most of us are, but most of us do not say so. I despise five-cent respectability, therefore I am a dollar vagrant, and will pass for that anywhere. I had enough of good people when I was married to one of them; my wife was a Good Woman."

"I hope I haven't offended you," the meek little man said, looking at his fierce companion in alarm. "I didn't mean any disrespect."

"Oh, you needn't take it back," Tug retorted. "You've gone too far. It's all right; but let me tell you the truth for once in my life—I believe I never did before. I expect it will set me to coughing, but I will try it. My wife hasn't a relative in the world that I know of; certainly I never met any of them. The only objection I have to her is that she is Good. She is so Good that she is a bore; goodness is a fault, and a grave one with her. She couldn't possibly be more disagreeable than she is, and her fault is, she is Good. When there is a dry spell, she wants to get up a rain, and whether it rains or not, you are expected to give her credit for philanthropy. When it is too cold, she moans about the poor people who are suffering, and those who are around her must accept this as noble, or be called wicked, or heartless, or something else. She even has a Good way of gossiping about people, and I despise her for no other reason than that she is Good. I can't tolerate her; she makes my feet cold."

Tug had uttered the word good in each instance like an oath, and Davy cowered under his cold stare as though fearing he might be good, and was about to be accused of it.

"Everything she does is right; everything you do is wrong,—there you have the old women in a mouthful," the outraged husband continued. "She is always jumping on you for not being Good, and for your refusal to see goodness in her; and no one around her sees a moment's peace, for she badgers them to death for their neglect to rid the earth of sin, or some other trifling matter like that. She neglects herself in the most shameful manner to moan about Rampant Rum, or the Vitality of Vice, for I never saw her ears clean, and if ever you find her with clean finger-nails, look out for the pigs, for they will fly. If she is a Good Woman, then hurrah for the devil. The fat, the lean, the long, the short, the ugly; they go into the Good business, for I never knew anyone who could attract attention in the ordinary way to engage in it, and when a woman becomes too fat for society, or too plain to be admired, she goes to yelling that she is better than anybody else, and wants everybody to behave, although they may be behaving all right already. The good-looking and amiable ones remain at home, where they belong, and I admire them for it. Had I been a rich man, the old women would have remained with me, and called that good, but since I was a friendless devil, and a worthless vagabond, she left me, and called that good; I hope she is the only woman of that kind in the world. Look how she treats little Ben! Does she act like a mother toward him? Don't I have to take all the care of him, and look after him, and attend to his bringing up? Is it common for mothers to neglect their own ragged children, and weep over fat and contented people? That's what she does; therefore, if you are a friend of mine, don't call me Good."

Silas was not taking as much interest in the recital as he would have done under other circumstances, for he was thinking of Allan Dorris; but Tug was determined to talk about the "old womern."

"When we were first married," he continued, "I told her some sort of a lie about myself; a simple sort of a yarn about nothing, and only intended to earn cheap glory for myself. In some way she found me out, for she is always poking her nose around smelling for sin; and, until I could stand it no longer and finally left her, she was continually asking me for additional particulars of the fictitious incident I had related. I say she found me out; I don't know it, but I always believed she did, and that she only asked these questions to hear me lie, and gloat over her own virtue. The story I told her was about saving a man's life, and as he afterwards came to Davy's Bend, and knew the old womern, I felt sure that she had found me out. After that she asked me a thousand questions about it, and every time I invented a new lie to go with the first one. Did she do this because she was Good? You bet she didn't; she did it to convince herself that she was Good, and that I was Bad; but I tell you that, average me up, I am as good as she is, and I am perfectly worthless."

Picking up a rickety chair which stood near him, Mr. Whittle smashed it to pieces on the floor, after a tremendous pounding and racket, which was one of his ways of expressing anger.

Silas was very much impressed by this ferocious proceeding, and looked on in meek astonishment until his companion was seated again.