The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe

Everybody knows Tug Whittle, and admits that he is perfectly harmless and hopelessly lazy—always excepting Silas Davy, who believes that his friend is very energetic and dangerous; therefore when Silas is unable to hold a position because he is a good fellow, or because he spends so much time at night with Tug that he is unfit for work during the day, he is also an inhabitant of the little law office, along with the lawyer and the rats, although it is not much of a law office, for it contains nothing but a stove, half cooking and half heating, a bed that looks as though it came from the fourth story of a cheap hotel, a few broken chairs, a box that is the lawyer's table, and a few other articles common to a kitchen, all of them second-hand, and very poor.

There is nothing about the place to suggest a law office save the sign in front, and a single leather-covered book on the inside; a ponderous volume to which Mr. Whittle applies for everything, including kindling. Silas has seen him look through it to decide questions in science, theology, law, and history, and tear leaves out of it with which to start his fire; and while a cunning man would have guessed that Mr. Whittle made up his authority, instead of finding it in the book, Silas Davy, who is not cunning, believes that it is a repository of secrets of every kind, although it is really a treatise on a law which has been repealed many years. When Silas so far forgets himself as to mildly question something his companion has said, Mr. Whittle refers to the book, and triumphantly proves his position, no difference what it may be; whereupon the little man feels much humiliated. Mr. Whittle has even been known to refer to the book to convict his enemies in Davy's Bend of various offences; and Silas has so much respect for the volume that he has no trouble in imagining that the den in which Tug lives is not only a law office, but a repository of profane, political, and sacred history, to say nothing of the sciences and the town scandal.

Like the rats again, Tug lies by during the day, and goes abroad at night, for he is seldom seen on the streets until the sun goes down, and he is not entirely himself until after midnight. Occasionally, on dark, bad days he is to be seen walking about, but not often, and it is known that he sleeps most of the day on the rough bed in his rough office. If he is disturbed by idle boys, which is sometimes the case, he gets up long enough to drive them away, and returns to his bed until it is dark, when he yawns and stretches himself, and waits patiently for Silas Davy, who is due about that hour with his supper.

But for Silas Davy, like the rats again, Tug would be compelled to steal for a living; for he never works, but Silas believes in him, and admires him, and whenever he is employed, he saves half of what he gets for his friend, who eats it, and is not grateful. Indeed, he often looks at Silas as much as to say that he is not providing for him as well as he should, whereupon Silas looks downcast and miserable; but, all in all, they get along very well together.

Up to the present rainy and wet year of our Lord eighteen hundred and no difference what, Tug has never admired anyone, so far as is known; but he admires Allan Dorris, the new owner of The Locks, and frequently says to Silas that "There is a man," at the same time aiming his big eye in the direction Dorris is supposed to be. There is every reason why Tug should admire Silas Davy, who is very good to him, but he does not, except in a way, and which is a very poor way; and there is no reason why he should admire Allan Dorris, who is suspicious of him, but he does, and on this night, Silas having arrived early with his supper, he is killing two birds with one stone, by discussing both at the same time.

"By the horns of a tough bull," Tug says, which is his way of swearing, "but there is a man. Muscle, brain, clothes, independence, money; everything. What, no butter to-night?"

He says this impatiently after running through the package his companion has brought, and not finding what he was looking for; and Silas humbly apologizes, saying he could not possibly get it at the hotel.

"Well, no matter," Tug continued in an injured way, using a pickle and two slices of bread as a sandwich. "It will come around all right some day. When I come into my rights, I'll have butter to spare. But this impudent Dorris; I like him. He has the form of an Apollo and the muscle of a giant. If he should hit you, you would fall so fast that your rings would fly off your fingers. He's the kind of a man I'd be if I had my rights."

While Tug is munching away at his supper, Davy remembers how unjust the people are with reference to these same rights; how they say he has none, and never will have, except the right to die as soon as possible. The people say that Tug's wife, the milliner, drove him from her house because he would not work, and because he was ugly in disposition, as well as in face and person; that it was soon found out that he was not so dangerous, after all, when men were talking to him, so they have regarded him as a harmless but eccentric loafer ever since. Some of the people believe that Tug does not appear on the streets during the day for fear of meeting his wife, while others contend that he goes out only at night because he is up to mischief; but neither class care to question him about the matter, for he has a mean tongue in his head, and knows how to defend himself, even though he is compelled to invent facts for the purpose.

But Davy knows that Tug can tell a very different story, and tell it well, and he is sure that there will be a genuine sensation when he finally tells it, and comes into his own.