“All some people needs to make ’em happy is a lookin’ glass,” observed Sipes, “but ol’ John ain’t stuck on ’imself; wot does ’e want with it? He prob’ly busted it w’en ’e peeked in it to see if ’is ol’ hat was on straight.”
“I hope John’s got some insurance on this place,” Saunders remarked, as he dragged the mattress to the wall and piled the bedstead and chairs on it. We found a bottle half full of kerosene under the bench, which we emptied over the floor.
“Now gimme a match!” demanded Sipes.
When we reached the foot of the bluff the flames were merrily at work above us. The smoke-house, and the stuff accumulated around the nets, were soon on fire. We next visited Napoleon’s humble quarters on the sand, and another column of smoke and flame was added to the joy of the occasion.
“We can’t leave fer a while yet,” said Saunders; “no fire’s any good ’less somebody’s ’round to poke it.”
We spent considerable time watching the fires, to assure ourselves that the destruction was complete, and that there was no possibility of the flames on the bluff getting into the woods beyond through the dry weeds on the sand. There was a light off-shore breeze, so there was little danger.
“That ol’ joint’s clean at last,” observed Sipes, as we rowed away in the early hours of the morning.
From far away we looked upon the scene of Catfish John’s dreary life, illumined by gleams from the smouldering embers that played along the face of the bluff.
There were essentials that the old man’s humble surroundings had lacked. Long sad years were interwoven with them, but the faded face in the old daguerreotype may have lighted the dark rooms and helped to make the lonely place an anchorage, for is home anywhere but in the heart? It does not seem to consist of material things. Absence, estrangement, and death destroy it—not fire. Sometimes, out of the losses and wrecks of life, it is rebuilded, but not of wood and stone.
I arranged with John to transport my few belongings to the railroad station the next day, and regretfully left the contented old mariners and their happy “cookie,” who was no small part of the riches that had come from the Winding River.