I went out, curious as to what sort of a business this was, anyhow, and leaving him to himself.
But one morning, months later, turning a corner near there, a region of empty lots and some old sealed and untenanted storehouses, I found a crowd of boys following and stoning an old man who, on my coming near and then running to his rescue, I found to be this old dealer. He was attempting to hide behind a signboard which adjoined one of the storehouses. His face and hands were already cut by stones and bleeding. He was breathless and very much exhausted and frightened, but still angry and savage. “They stoned me, the little devils—eck—eck—eck. They hit me with rocks—eck—eck—eck. I’ll have the law on ’em, I will—eck—eck—eck. I’ll get the police after ’em—eck—eck—eck. They’re always trying to break into my place and I won’t let ’em—eck—eck—eck.”
I wondered who could break into that place with those dogs loose, who would attempt it.
But that, as I found out later in conversation with boys of the vicinity, was just the trouble. At various times they had sought to enter to recover a tossed ball, possibly to steal something, and he had set the dogs (which were always unchained in his absence) on them; or, they had been attacked by the dogs and in turn had attempted to work him and them some injury.
Yet for a period of three years after this, to my knowledge, he continued to live there in that solitary place, harassed no doubt in this way. If he ever did any business I did not see it. The gates were nearly always closed, himself rarely to be seen.
Then one day a really terrible thing happened. Some children—not these same wicked boys but others less familiar with the neighborhood, I believe—were playing ball in an open space adjoining, and a fly being struck, the ball fell into the junk-yard. Three of the more courageous ones, as the papers stated afterwards, mounted the fence to see if they could get the ball, and one of them, more courageous than the others, actually leaped into the yard and was literally torn to bits by these same dogs, all but eaten alive. And there was no one to save him before he was dead. Old Clampitt was not there.
The horror was of course immediately reported to the police, who came and killed the dogs and then arrested Clampitt. A newspaper and police investigation of his life revealed nothing save that he was assumed to be an old junk-dealer who was eccentric, a solitary, without relatives or friends. He claimed to have kept the dogs for protection, also that he had been set upon by youths of the vicinity and stoned, which was true. Even so, he was held for weeks in jail pending this investigation of his connections. No past crimes being found, apparently he was released. But so terrified was he then by the furore his savage dogs had aroused that he disappeared from this region and was heard of no more. His old rag yard was abandoned. But I often wondered about him afterwards, the years he spent there alone.
* * * * *
And then Old Ragpicker, whom I have described in Plays of the Natural and the Supernatural, and who was as described.
And Hurstwood.