Twenty years a fakir

by S. James Weldon

How I came to think of her is a question. After all these years my remembrance of her was but hazy; yet in the intervening time I had more than once thought of her, and the promise I had made myself that I would some day see her again. I had never chanced to be in her neighborhood, however, and her life since I saw her was a sealed mystery.

Would she remember me? Would she cherish an abiding hatred for the clumsy corn doctor who had once given her so much pain? No, that was hardly probable. I must have changed too much in the intervening time. When she saw me I wore no whiskers, and, in fact, was little more than a beardless boy, fairly disguised to act the part of a man. Now, a heavy brown mustache shaded my upper lip and side whiskers altered the expression of my face.

“Don’t wait,” has always been my motto, and was the one I used on this occasion. The preparations I had to make were few and simple, though I might be starting for a visit that would extend over months.

I did not disguise the fact, however, that this might be the greatest wild-goose chase of my life. Why should I imagine that Miss Mattie Higbie had remained single through all these years, or that I would care to claim her if she had? That she had changed greatly was to be expected, and it might be I was preparing myself for a greater shock than I was aware of. Well, time should show. I might as well be doing this as anything else, and it cost no more. I traveled in a Pullman through lands I had once viewed from brake-beams of a box-car, or the platform of the blind baggage, and possibly the same negro porter touched his hat and whisked off my clothes who had once shied a brick at my head.

Yet in the place itself there was not so much change, but when I debarked from the train it seemed I had been there but yesterday. The same buildings, neither more nor less dingy, the same crowds thronging up and down the streets, or lounging idly on the same corners. So it looked, and when I sought out the hotel where I had once stopped there seemed to be no change either. I was half afraid to go in for fear the landlord would recognize me and whisper the lynchers would be on hand that night.

I might have saved myself all trouble on that score. The house had changed hands, had been refitted on the inside and was quite an up-to-date hotel. I registered and found myself at once very much at home. The next thing was to find out something about Miss Mattie, and here I was, for the moment, at a loss. I did not care to mention her name until I had a clearer idea of what would be my course of procedure, and concluded, for a time at least, to trust to chance and my own resources. As a preliminary, I took a stroll out to the Higbie cottage. The house was there, but, alas, it knew the Higbies no more. Some other name was on the door, and for the moment I half fancied that all trace of my affinity was lost. I paced back towards the hotel, a sadder and a somewhat uncomfortably wiser man.

But was there ever an hour when luck was not with me? As I sauntered through the business portion of the city my eyes fell upon the sign: “John J. Higbie, Real Estate and Insurance. General Solicitor for the Stromboli.”

I had never heard of John J. Higbie before, but you may be sure the name sounded familiar. I turned into the stairway and mounted the steps as though this had been my goal from the first.

I found Mr. Higbie in his nicely furnished office. He was a well preserved veteran of the civil war, straight as a dart, keen as a sword, and, withal, as fine a specimen of the southern gentleman as I wanted to deal with. He also bore unmistakable evidences of prosperity.

Without hesitating I opened my business. I had a few thousands loose and was looking for a safe little investment, which would give me business interests in that vicinity. If things pleased me I might have more to invest when I had explored the ground. We talked business for an hour, and in that time I hardly thought of Mattie once.