On the Lightship

by Herman Knickerbocker Vielé

But the experience had taught me that one who has a secret to conceal should avoid above all things making himself conspicuous. So, carrying my curio—which was of bronze and growing every moment heavier—as though it was a package from the laundry, I struck into a swinging gait, and hummed a popular refrain. My single wish now was to seem absolutely sane; for to be "bug-house" (such was the policeman's phrase), though not a crime, may lead to inquiries, perhaps examination, and I was by no means certain what incriminating matter my hidden letter might contain. Thus reasoning, I became doubtful all at once of my right to the blue envelope. And the more I thought about it, the weaker grew my confidence in the course I had pursued. What if after all I had appropriated some one's else business, some one's else secret, the hideous clue to some one's else misdemeanor?

It had been my half-formed purpose to walk until the town was far behind me, out into the quiet country where there were surely haystacks and deserted barns, or at least, if nothing better offered, trees to climb. But now the thought occurred to me that it might be safer to read my letter in broad daylight and the open street, than in uncertain and suspicious solitude.

The decision was a wise one, and I lost no time in turning it into action; for my surroundings at the moment could scarcely have been more favorable. I stood before what appeared to be a public building, tightly closed and to all appearance unused, and right at hand there was a most convenient newel-post on which to rest my curio, which had for some time been threatening to shed its wrappings altogether. I can't remember now just what it was—some Eastern object, doubtless—but scarcely had it left my hands when all the air grew resonant with yells as though the fiends of Tophet were released from durance; the great doors of the building opened, and children, innumerable children, issued forth. I have never in my life beheld so many children all at once. They swarmed about me and my curio, uttering uncouth cries, and pointing with their horrid little fingers urged their young companions far and near to join in the affray. I yield to no one in my love for childhood—properly conducted childhood—but Selbyville is not the place to find it.

With one disheartened cry, I grabbed my property, and started whither I neither knew nor cared, the children pursuing like a pack of misbehaved young wolves. I crossed a crowded thoroughfare, doubled on my tracks, overturned a push-cart full of oranges, threw a matinee audience into wild alarm, and everywhere I seemed to hear two fatal words. And when at last I threw myself upon a trolley-car the stupid vulgarism still rang in my ears.

I am sure the conductor eyed me with suspicion; but I did not care; for I was moving every moment farther from the scenes of my discomfiture, my curio out of sight beneath the seat, and my letter safely in my inside pocket. I picked up an abandoned paper, and read it, or appeared to do so, with composure, though all the while the fingers of my left hand never ceased to pinch the blue envelope, making fresh discoveries.

Within the sheet of folded note-paper there was unquestionably an inclosure of a smaller size and softer texture, perhaps a bank-note, perhaps a draft. Of course I held my imagination well in check, and tried to think of nothing more important than a newspaper cutting; but even this allowed a certain scope for fancy. Advertisements for missing heirs are not uncommon, and even poems when embalmed in orris may have deep significance. Ah! What if I were rich? What if I were loved? What if both at once? The thing is not impossible. Soon I should know all, beneath my haystack, in my barn, or, bird-like, swinging in my tree. I was so certain now that what had cost so much inconvenience must be all my own, that I would have parted from the blue envelope only with my life.

It was a shock to have my dreaming interrupted by the conductor's cheerful call, "All out!" and to find that the thrice accursed trolley had all the while been flying, not toward the country, but into the depths of darkest Selbyville, where gasworks, rolling-mills, and docks compete for grimy precedence. But if by that time I had not grown used to disappointment, the opportunity to abandon my curio beneath the seat would have made up for much.

I have often wondered since my afternoon in Selbyville where the man who wrote in praise of solitude obtained his information. I feel convinced that Crusoe never sat down for a quiet pipe without black Friday butting in to ask what time it was. But this is idle speculation.

Once freed from my incumbrance, my heart beat high with hope, and crawling through a broken fence I found myself within a lumber-yard. On every hand well-ordered planks were piled reposefully, and under foot the ground was soft with sawdust. And here I lost no time in taking out my letter. As I did so, a new and most absorbing possibility flashed upon me. The smaller inclosure might be a photograph, one of those unmounted carbon prints taken by amateurs, and so frankly truthful that only good-looking people care to send them to their friends. I felt my pulses flutter at the thought and pressed the blue envelope to my lips, secure from observation, as I fancied.

But such was not the case. A large check-jumpered person, with a protruding jaw, perched on a heap of railway ties, had been regarding me with tolerant amusement all the while. "Well, what in Paradise are you up to anyhow?" he drawled complacently.