Chapter XXII
Last Words
WELL, I got my Young Cap'n off this morning. I has to admit that I begun contracting a kind of a let-down feeling in my mind as the time drawed near for us to say our farewells to one another. You couldn't exactly call it homesickness nor yet downright sorrowfulness; it was kind of a mixed sensation, with regretitude and lonesomeness and gladsomeness all scrambled up together, and running through it, a knowledge that I'm going to miss him mighty much for awhile, anyhow. I certainly has grown powerful devoted to him since last summer and I knows full well that, from his standpoint, he must have similar regards towards me. I reckon our own kind of folks can appreciate how this attachment could a-sprung up betwixt us, even if most of these here Northerners can't.
It must be that my looks more or less betrays my emotions as the parting time draws closer, because he keeps on speaking cheering utterances to me about other matters, without mentioning the nearby separation; which I appreciates the spirit behind his words as much as I does the words themselves. If I told it to him once at that depot I suppose I must a-told it to him a dozen times, to give my most respectful regards to the old boss-man when next he sees him. And he keeps saying to me I must write regular and keep him posted on everything in general.
"I's shore countin' on seein' you down home next summer wen I comes down on a visit," I says; "I's already mekin' my plans 'cordin'ly. Mebbe," I says, "you mout ketch me sneakin' in even sooner 'en 'at, ef so be this yere bookin' agency bus'ness teks a notion to blow up on us."
"I've got a conviction you'll make good," he says. "If the first venture doesn't pan out I'll trust in you to light on your feet somewhere else – I've seen you in operation, you know." Then he goes on, speaking now a little bit wistful-like: "You seem able to figure out a way to beat this New York game, by playing it according to your own set of rules. But I couldn't do it – I had it proven to me and the proof cost me money. I'm through – and ought to be glad of it. You're just starting."
"Well, suh," I says, "I does my best. The way I looks at this town," I says, "is this yere way: Jest ez soon ez you gits over bein' daunted-up by the size of her, the best scheme is to start in lettin' on lak you knows mo' 'bout 'most ever'thin' 'en whut the folkses does w'ich has been livin' yere all along. That'll fetch 'em ef anything will, or else I misses my guess. This is the onliest place I knows of," I says, "whar a shined-up counterfeit passes muster jest ez well ez the pyure gold, ef not better, 'specially ef the gold happens to be sort of dulled-down an' tarnished-lookin'. The very way the town is laid out he'ps to clarify my p'int, suh," I says. "She's fenced in betwixt a bluff on one side an' a Sound on the other, an' she's sufferin' frum the effects of her own joggraphy. Jest combine in yore daily actions the biggest of bluffs an' the most roarin' of sounds an' she's liable to lay down at yore feet an' roll over at yore command. Leas'wise," I says, "them's my beliefs."
"Probably you are right," he says. "Well, Jeff, try not to let these people up here spoil you and make you fresh and impudent. I don't believe they will, though."
"Oh, but you is wrong thar, suh," I says. "I kin tek spilin' ez well ez the nex' one. Ef they aims to come edgin' 'crost the culler-line in my direction, I ain't the one to hender 'em. Whut they gives, I'll tek an' a bit mo'. Ef they ain't had the 'vantage of bein' raised the way you an' me is, an' wants fur to pamper me all up, I'm goin' to let 'em do so. Fact is, Mr. Dallas," I says, "I's gittin' pampered already. Lemme show you somethin', suh, in strictes' confidences – yere's a perfessional callin'-cyard, w'ich I had a lot of em struck off yistiddy at a printin'-shop over on Columbus Avenue." And I deals the top one off of the pack in my vest pocket and hands it over to him. "See whut it sez," I says. "It sez, 'Col. J. Exeter Poindexter, Esq.'"
"How did you work that arrangement out?" he says, smiling.
"Mouty easy-lak," I says. "'Col.' is short for 'cullid', ain't it? So I jest shortens up 'cullid' into 'Col.' an' switches it frum the caboose end to the front end. An' I changes my middle name to 'Exeter' w'ich it has a mo' stylish sound to it 'en whut 'Exodus' had. An' I tacks on the 'Esq.' at the fur endin' to mek it still mo' bindin', lak the button on a rattle-snake's tail. An' thar you is, suh!"
"But you are not a colonel – yet," he says.
"Whut's the diff'unce," I says, "so long ez these yere folkses don't know no better. They fattens on bein' deceived. An', anyway," I says, "I aims fur to cultivate the military manner. Mr. Dallas," I says, "don't mek no mistek 'bout it – I's gittin' fresh already, w'ich it is the customary custom yere, an' the chances is I'll git still fresher yit. But it'll be fur Noo Yawk pu'pposes 'sclusively. W'en I meets up wid one of my own kind of w'ite folks in these parts or w'en I goes back ag'in amongst my own folks down below the Line, I'll know my place an' my station an' I'll respec' 'em both; an' I'll be jest the same plain reg'lar ole J. Poindexter, Cullid, w'ich you alluz has knowed. Please, suh, tell Jedge Priest 'at fur me, too!" I says.
The time comes for him to get aboard without he wants to miss his train. So we says our parting words. I reckons some of them white foreigners standing there gaping at us can't understand why it is that Mr. Dallas, and him a Southern-born white gentleman, should throw his arm around my shoulder at the farewell moment and pat me on the back. But then, of course, that's due to the ignorance of their raisings and probably they is not to blame so much after all.
I will now draw to a close with the above accounts. Writing is a sight harder work than I thought it would be when I set in to do this authorizing, and I is not sorry to be shut of the job. Anyway, from now on, I'm a New York business man, which I counts on it paying better than writing for a living, if only I've got the right salt for sprinkling on the Luck-Bird's tail.
I think I has.
THE END1
Note by Jeff's amanuensis. – In the part of the Union from which Jeff hails and among his race the word mumbling denotes complaint, peevishness, a querulous utterance.
2
It is believed that Jeff meant "transient."
3
It has just dawned upon Jeff's volunteer amanuensis that throughout the preceding pages of this narrative, Jeff's more or less phonetic rendering of this word was an effort on his part to deal with the Gallicized pronunciation of an English diminutive for a common proper name, to wit: Billy.
4
The word is believed to be one of Jeff's own coinage. It is left as written. Its meaning may be doubtful but who will deny that it is a good word?
