Harrington: A Story of True Love

by William Douglas O'Connor

“My gosh! Mr. Harrington,” he howled, amidst his grief, “there aint a more mis’able young nigger this side of Jordan than me. He’s took off, and I’m the guilty party, Mr. Harrington, when I didn’t mean it. Oh, Lord A’mighty, I can’t provide for that family never no more, and the man that won’t provide for his family, is just wus than an infidel, and that’s in the Holy Bible, Mr. Harrington, and father’s the victim of misplaced confidence, and oh, my gosh, I wish I was in Canada, as sure as you’re born.”

With which outburst, the wretched Tugmutton let his head droop on the blue-striped shirt which covered his fat chest, and with his grey-jacketed, short fat arms hanging over Harrington’s hands, and his grey-trowsered, short broad legs dangling motionless, he sobbed as if his big heart was breaking. Harrington, filled with compassion for his uncouth sorrow, took him in his arms like an infant, and held him still, not even smiling at the odd ideas and odd phrases which he had poured forth, and which, even in that painful hour, might well have moved a smile.

“Hush, Charles,” murmured the young man. “Don’t cry any more. Come, I want you to tell us all that has happened. I want you to tell the whole truth, and perhaps we can find Antony again.”

At this, Tugmutton started in his arms, and stopped crying instantly.

“Let me down, Mr. Harrington, let me down,” he excitedly vociferated, wriggling like a conger eel from Harrington’s hold, and dumping upon the floor. “My gosh! if you’ll on’y find that Antony, I’ll tell you every word of the truth and the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God.”

Harrington pushed a chair up to the couch for Muriel, and seating himself in another, drew the boy near him, and at once, in rapid and excited tones, Tugmutton began his confession, telling everything even to the most irrelevant details.

It appeared from what he said that his empire over Roux had extended also over Antony, and that the latter, completely subjugated by his grand airs and assumption of superior knowledge, had in his simplicity come to look upon him as one of the most powerful of his guardians. In this mood, Tugmutton had regaled him with glowing accounts of the attractions of the city, every inch of which, from Roxbury Line to Salutation Alley, and further in all directions, was as familiar to the Bedouin feet of the fat Puck as his own abode in Southac street. Especially had he dwelt upon the glories of Boston Common, and that day he had expatiated upon them till Antony, filled with wonderment, almost imagined the place some unheard of Eden. Roux falling asleep in the afternoon, Tugmutton had continued his ecstatic panegyric on the Common, and finally wound up by proposing a short tour to that romantic region during the repose of his father. After some demurring on the part of Antony, and considerable domineering on that of Tugmutton, the former yielded, and they stole softly down-stairs and out at the street door, while their hosts were in the library. Reaching the Common, rich in the sunset light, and its malls filled with gaily-dressed promenaders, the enchanted Antony wandered with his pigmy guide across the inclosure, and emerged with him on the Park street corner. There they stood on the pavement, while Tugmutton descanted on the magnificence of the Park street church, with especial reference to the height of the steeple, loftiness of spire being in his view the chief end and crowning perfection of all church architecture. As he was talking, a hack drove up and stood at a little distance from them, and at the same time his eye fell upon a gentleman standing near a side entrance of the church, and smilingly beckoning to him. A little astonished at first, and then a little flattered at this affability, he turned with a lofty and vain-glorious air to Antony, as much as to say, you see the immense consideration paid me by the aristocracy, and bidding him wait there a moment, crossed the street to the stranger, who, with a smiling nod, retreated into the passage, which happened to be open. Thither Tugmutton followed him. What the stranger said, his subsequent fright drove out of his memory, and he could only recollect that he held him lightly by the arm as he spoke to him; but in the midst of the interview, happening to glance around, he saw a man rush, pushing Antony before him, crowd him into the hack, and spring in after him, while the vehicle rattled away down Winter street. Of course Tugmutton sprang to follow, but the stranger seized him by the throat, and shook him so that he could neither speak nor cry. Released presently, the wretched boy rushed into the street, and after the carriage. But it was out of sight, and running back to the church, the stranger was gone. Too much horrified to make any outcry, Tugmutton had instantly run with all his speed back to Temple street, where he had arrived as we have related.

All this, involving details which under ordinary circumstances he would have suppressed as disgraceful to himself, but which he now frankly disclosed in the full conviction that a knowledge of the entire truth would enable Harrington to recapture Antony from the kidnappers, Tugmutton poured forth in his own way to his pale and silent auditors, and ending, sat eagerly staring first at one and then the other, as wondering what was to be done now that he had told all.

“Charles,” said Harrington, “what kind of a looking man was it you saw seize Antony?”