The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe

Davy gave evidence of genuine astonishment on learning that there were hotels larger than the "Apron and Password;" but as the proprietor himself had made the statement, he presumed it must be true, though it was certainly very astonishing.

"I can't think of the name of it now, but they have a railroad in the second story of the street there, and instead of collecting fare, when the proprietors came around they put money in our outside pockets, thinking we might meet someone who was not a brother. Judd remained with me five days, taking me to his own residence at night, which was twice as big as The Locks, and when we finally parted, he loaded me down with presents, and shed tears. Next to the sign, the apron is the greatest thing in the world; I am sorry you do not wear it."

Armsby wandered leisurely out into the office soon after, probably to smoke the cigars his wife kept there in a case for sale, when Mrs. Armsby came into the dining-room, and sat down, looking mortified and distressed.

"Silas," she said, "don't believe a word Armsby has said to you, or ever will say, on this subject. Before he became a slave to this dreadful lodge habit, he was a truthful man, but you can't believe a word he says now. Do you know what they do at the lodges?"

Davy shook his head, for of course no one except a member could know.

"Let me tell you, then. They tie cooks' aprons around their waists, put fools' caps on their heads, and quarrel as to whether the hailing sign, or the aid sign, or whatever it is, is made by holding up one finger when the right thumb is touching the right ear, or whether it is two or three or four fingers. It is all about as ridiculous as this, and my advice to you is, never join. Armsby has been talking to you a good deal about the matter lately, and I suspect he wants the fun of initiating you, which is accompanied with all sorts of tricks, which gives them opportunity to make fun of you from behind their paper masks."

Since it was impossible to believe both stories, Silas made up his mind to ask Tug's opinion,—Tug would know,—but he said nothing.

"Some of them wear swords," Mrs. Armsby went on to say; "but, bless you, they can't draw them, and even if they should succeed in getting them out, they couldn't put them back in their scabbards again. Armsby came home one night wearing his sword, and in this very room he took it out to make a show of himself, and was so awkward with it that he broke half the dishes on the dresser, besides upsetting the lamp and wounding me on the hand. To complete his disgrace, he was compelled to ask me to put it in its case again; but I fear the lesson did the misguided man little good, for he has been as bad as ever since. But while these men might be pardoned for their foolishness if they remained in their halls, they are utterly unpardonable for disgracing their wives and friends by appearing on the street, which they occasionally do, dressed in more fantastic fashion than ever. If you should join, you would be expected to do this, and after one appearance you could never look a sensible person in the face again, unless you are lost to all sense of self-respect. Besides, it is expensive; my husband keeps me poor in attending grand lodges, and most of the failures are caused by neglecting business to talk lodge. My only fear is that my misguided husband will finally consider it his duty to kill somebody for telling about the signs and grips, and then we will all be disgraced. It is your misfortune as well as mine, Silas, that Armsby is not a drunkard. Drunkards are occasionally reformed, and are of some use in their sober intervals; but a lodge man never reforms. If a lodge man engages in business, he fails, for he does not attend to it; but a drinking man admits that he is doing wrong, and sometimes succeeds in his efforts to do better; whereas a lodge man argues all the time that his foolishness is good sense, and therefore don't try to get out of the way. Compared to me, Mrs. Whittle is a very fortunate woman."

Mrs. Armsby got up at this and went out; and as Silas was preparing to follow, he heard a whistle which he recognized at once as Tug's. Whenever Tug had use for Silas early in the evening, he had a habit of whistling him out, since he never came into the hotel until his friend had possession.

Silas at once put on his hat and went down to the wagon yard, where he found Tug impatiently waiting, who started off at a rapid swinging gait toward the lower end of the town and the river as soon as Silas caught sight of him. When the pair travelled, Davy always lagged behind, as he did in this instance; for in the presence of genius like Tug's, he felt that his place was in the rear. Others might doubt the ability or even the honesty of his friend, but Silas had no doubt that Tug would some day be a wonderful man, and prove that everything said to his discredit was untrue. It was a favorite saying of his that when he "came into his own," he would move about, with the magnificence of a circus procession, on the back of an elephant, with a brass band in front and a company of trumpeters behind; and Silas was content to wait. Tug occasionally illustrated this idea now as he walked along, by swinging and flinging his body about as those who ride on elephants do, and it occurred to Silas that "his own" must have arrived by boat, and that he was going after it; for he walked rapidly toward the river without looking around.