The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe

Besides the harm he had done Mrs. Dorris, the wrong he had done his son was on his mind a great deal, and he avoided the boy whenever it was possible. He was ashamed to look into his face, though he was always doing something to please him. His rough experience on the farm had forever ruined the boy's health, and his father was continually expecting to be summoned from the field to attend his funeral.

Tug was still rugged and rough, and unsociable with those with whom he came in contact in the field or on the road, but he loved those in The Locks, from Mrs. Dorris down to the baby, with a devotion which made him a more famous character than he had ever been as a vagrant. He had become scrupulously honest and truthful, as well as industrious; and those who marvelled at the change were told by the wiser heads that Tug had something on his mind which he was trying to relieve by good works.

Silas Davy no longer had reason to regret that he was unable to buy little Ben a suit of clothes, for little Ben was well clothed now, and comfortably situated, except as to his cough; but in other respects the clerk had not changed for the better.

He was still employed at the hotel, and still heard the boarders threaten to move to Ben's City; for Davy's Bend continued to go slowly down the hill. He still heard Armsby boast of his fancy shots, and of his triumphs in the lodge; and, worst of all, he still heard patient Mrs. Armsby complain of overwork, and knew that it was true.

He occasionally went to The Locks to see Mr. Whittle,—usually on Sunday evening, when that worthy was most likely to be at home,—and as we come upon them now, to take a last look at them, it is Sunday evening, and Tug and Silas are seated on a rude bench, in front of the detached house, with little Ben between them.

"I have come to the conclusion, Mr. Davy,"—Tug is wonderfully polite recently, and no longer refers to his companion by his first name,—"I have come to the conclusion that there is only one way to get along; it is expressed in a word of four letters—work. Busy men do not commit great crimes, and they know more peace than those who are idle; therefore the best way to live is to behave yourself. I don't know whether I can behave myself enough from now on to do any good, or not; but I intend to try."

"I think you can, Tug," Davy replied. "You have been very useful during the past two years."

"But I have been very useless during the past forty and odd," Mr. Whittle continued, looking at little Ben as though he were evidence of it. "I have changed my mind about everything, with one exception, within a few years,—except that I do not believe a certain person is good, I have no opinion now that I had a year ago,—but on this I will never change. My acquaintance with Dorris and his wife has taught me a good many things which I did not know before. His bravery taught me that bravery comes of a clear conscience, and his wife's goodness and devotion teach me to believe that a dead man is not so bad off, after all. Did you know that she expects to meet her husband again?"

Tug waved his hand above his head, intended as an intimation that Mrs. Dorris expected to meet her husband in heaven, and looked at Silas very gravely, who only nodded his head.

"She seems to know it," Tug continued, "and why should I dispute her? How much more do I know than Annie Dorris? By what right do I say that she is wrong, and that I am right? She is good enough to receive messages, but I am not; and it has occurred to me that I had better be guided by her. I have never been converted, or anything of that kind, but I have felt regret for my faults. I have done more than that. I have said aloud, as I worked in the fields, 'I'm sorry.' I have frequently said that,—may be only to myself, but may be to the winds, which are always hurrying no one knows where. Who knows where they may carry the sound when a wicked man says, sincerely, 'I'm sorry?'"