Adventures in Silence

by Herbert W. Collingwood

The deaf man put on his glasses to read the note. Through the film which gathered on the lenses he saw only visions of youth and romance. No woman would be likely to come into the land of silence and elope with him! That would be but a clumsy and ridiculous performance, and he knew it well. These young people were probably all wrong. Yonder policeman would question them, find where they lived and notify the father of the girl. As a sober-minded citizen opposed to youthful folly and far removed from it, was it not his duty to stop such nonsense? And yet—

He who hesitates is frequently spared the necessity for decision. He looked up to find that the young people had disappeared, they had slipped out of sight during his meditation. And in his lonely silence the deaf man could smile, for he was glad that they got away.

Another deaf man was traveling through a Western State in a Pullman. This man noticed two men who seemed to be engaged in a most earnest discussion. They sat across the aisle from him and as they talked they glanced furtively about. They were a forbidding pair, one a great hulking brute with a broad red face—the other a little rat of a man with a low, receding forehead and a bright, restless eye. The wolf and the fox appeared to be hunting together. Frequently the big man became emphatic and struck the back of the seat with his great fist while the little man shook his head and bared his teeth in a smile which seemed like a menace. The deaf man wished to change his position so as to get a better view of the country, and he happened to drop into the seat which backed up against the one in which the wolf and the fox were laying their plans. At first they paid no attention to him, but continued to argue and gesticulate. Finally the fox realized that the head of the deaf man was within a foot of their conversation. How was he to know that the “listener” might as well have been a mile away in so far as successful eavesdropping was concerned? He instantly signalled to the wolf and the discussion stopped. They both soon moved to the smoking-room, where they whispered for a little time; then the fox came to sit beside the deaf man. He glanced about anxiously, but finally said:

“Did you happen to hear what we were saying?”

The “eavesdropper” read some of the words on the lips of the other, and vaguely nodded his head. Then the fox took a piece of paper and wrote:

“It is a good joke. I made a bet with my friend that we could make you think we were in earnest in planning the job. Of course there is nothing to it. It was a fake talk.”

Just then the wolf appeared with his hat and suitcase. The train was approaching a small town. “Come,” he said, “we get out here.” His friend jumped up to join him. They sprang off as the train stopped, though the conductor said that their tickets would have carried them fifty miles farther. The deaf man caught a look of fear and suspicion from the fox as the two disappeared. Of course they were planning mischief, but fear of this deaf man caused them to run from him as they would have fled a plague.

Many years ago I passed a Winter in a lumber camp far up among the snows of Northern Michigan. My bunk-mate was a gigantic, silent man, a stranger and a mystery to all the rest of us. He said little and made no friends. He had a curious habit of glancing hurriedly about him; he started at light sounds and appeared to keep a watchful eye always upon the door. Frequently at night I found him awake, gazing at the lantern which always hung at the door, near the end of the camp. One day the driver of the supply team smuggled a bottle of whiskey into camp and my bunk-mate was able to get two good drinks. We worked together that day in a lonely place, and he became quite talkative. I could not hear him well, but he was evidently trying to tell some incident of his own life. There in the forest, knee deep in snow, he appeared to be acting out a tragedy. At the last he did not seem to realize that I was there. He addressed some imaginary person, holding out his hands as if in appeal. Apparently this was rejected, and his face changed in anger. He caught up his axe and rushed up to a fallen log; he struck it a blow which sent a great chip flying a hundred feet away. Then he looked at me in wonder, seeming to realize that I must have overheard him. He sat on the log, took great handfuls of snow and held them against his head. I found myself helping him with a great chunk of ice which I had brought from the brook.

“It was the whiskey,” he suddenly shouted. “It’s poison. It makes me talk and think. Say—did you hear what I said? What was it?”

He looked at me with hard, savage eyes. I had not heard his ravings and did not recount his actions. He continued to stare at me silently, axe in hand. Then he decided to believe my denial and he kept at work as before, silent and grim. As we went back to camp that night he asked me once more, with apparent irrelevance: