A Hundred Collars
Lancaster bore him—such
a little town,
Such a great man. It
doesn’t see him often
Of late years, though he keeps
the old homestead
And sends the children down
there with their mother
To run wild in the summer—a
little wild.
Sometimes he joins them for
a day or two
And sees old friends he somehow
can’t get near.
They meet him in the general
store at night,
Pre-occupied with formidable
mail,
Rifling a printed letter as
he talks.
They seem afraid. He
wouldn’t have it so:
Though a great scholar, he’s
a democrat,
If not at heart, at least
on principle.
Lately when coming up to Lancaster
His train being late he missed
another train
And had four hours to wait
at Woodsville Junction
After eleven o’clock
at night. Too tired
To think of sitting such an
ordeal out,
He turned to the hotel to
find a bed.
“No room,” the
night clerk said. “Unless——”
Woodsville’s a place
of shrieks and wandering lamps
And cars that shook and rattle—and
one hotel.
“You say ‘unless.’”
“Unless you wouldn’t
mind
Sharing a room with someone
else.”
“Who is it?”
“A man.”
“So I should hope.
What kind of man?”
“I know him: he’s
all right. A man’s a man.
Separate beds of course you
understand.”
The night clerk blinked his
eyes and dared him on.
“Who’s that man
sleeping in the office chair?
Has he had the refusal of
my chance?”
“He was afraid of being
robbed or murdered.
What do you say?”
“I’ll have to
have a bed.”
The night clerk led him up
three flights of stairs
And down a narrow passage
full of doors,
At the last one of which he
knocked and entered.
“Lafe, here’s
a fellow wants to share your room.”
“Show him this way.
I’m not afraid of him.
I’m not so drunk I can’t
take care of myself.”
The night clerk clapped a
bedstead on the foot.
“This will be yours.
Good-night,” he said, and went.
“Lafe was the name,
I think?”
“Yes, Layfayette.
You got it the first time.
And yours?”
“Magoon.
Doctor Magoon.”
“A Doctor?”
“Well, a teacher.”
“Professor Square-the-circle-till-you’re-tired?
Hold on, there’s something
I don’t think of now
That I had on my mind to ask
the first
Man that knew anything I happened
in with.
I’ll ask you later—don’t
let me forget it.”
The Doctor looked at Lafe
and looked away.
A man? A brute.
Naked above the waist,
He sat there creased and shining
in the light,
Fumbling the buttons in a
well-starched shirt.
“I’m moving into
a size-larger shirt.
I’ve felt mean lately;
mean’s no name for it.
I just found what the matter
was to-night:
I’ve been a-choking
like a nursery tree
When it outgrows the wire
band of its name tag.
I blamed it on the hot spell
we’ve been having.
’Twas nothing but my
foolish hanging back,
Not liking to own up I’d
grown a size.
Number eighteen this is.
What size do you wear?”
The Doctor caught his throat
convulsively.
“Oh—ah—fourteen—fourteen.”
“Fourteen! You
say so!
I can remember when I wore
fourteen.
And come to think I must have
back at home
More than a hundred collars,
size fourteen.
Too bad to waste them all.
You ought to have them.
They’re yours and welcome;
let me send them to you.
What makes you stand there
on one leg like that?
You’re not much furtherer
than where Kike left you.
You act as if you wished you
hadn’t come.
Sit down or lie down, friend;
you make me nervous.”
The Doctor made a subdued
dash for it,
And propped himself at bay
against a pillow.
“Not that way, with
your shoes on Kike’s white bed.
You can’t rest that
way. Let me pull your shoes off.”
“Don’t touch me,
please—I say, don’t touch me, please.
I’ll not be put to bed
by you, my man.”
“Just as you say.
Have it your own way then.
‘My man’ is it?
You talk like a professor.
Speaking of who’s afraid
of who, however,
I’m thinking I have
more to lose than you
If anything should happen
to be wrong.
Who wants to cut your number
fourteen throat!
Let’s have a show down
as an evidence
Of good faith. There
is ninety dollars.
Come, if you’re not
afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.
There’s five: that’s
all I carry.”
“I can search you?
Where are you moving over
to? Stay still.
You’d better tuck your
money under you
And sleep on it the way I
always do
When I’m with people
I don’t trust at night.”
“Will you believe me
if I put it there
Right on the counterpane—that
I do trust you?”
“You’d say so,
Mister Man.—I’m a collector.
My ninety isn’t mine—you
won’t think that.
I pick it up a dollar at a
time
All round the country for
the Weekly News,
Published in Bow. You
know the Weekly News?”
“Known it since I was
young.”
“Then you know me.
Now we are getting on together—talking.
I’m sort of Something
for it at the front.
My business is to find what
people want:
They pay for it, and so they
ought to have it.
Fairbanks, he says to me—he’s
editor—
Feel out the public sentiment—he
says.
A good deal comes on me when
all is said.
The only trouble is we disagree
In politics: I’m
Vermont Democrat—
You know what that is, sort
of double-dyed;
The News has always been Republican.
Fairbanks, he says to me,
‘Help us this year,’
Meaning by us their ticket.
‘No,’ I says,
’I can’t and won’t.
You’ve been in long enough:
It’s time you turned
around and boosted us.
You’ll have to pay me
more than ten a week
If I’m expected to elect
Bill Taft.
I doubt if I could do it anyway.’”
“You seem to shape the
paper’s policy.”
“You see I’m in
with everybody, know ’em all.
I almost know their farms
as well as they do.”
“You drive around?
It must be pleasant work.”
“It’s business,
but I can’t say it’s not fun.
What I like best’s the
lay of different farms,
Coming out on them from a
stretch of woods,
Or over a hill or round a
sudden corner.
I like to find folks getting
out in spring,
Raking the dooryard, working
near the house.
Later they get out further
in the fields.
Everything’s shut sometimes
except the barn;
The family’s all away
in some back meadow.
There’s a hay load a-coming—when
it comes.
And later still they all get
driven in:
The fields are stripped to
lawn, the garden patches
Stripped to bare ground, the
apple trees
To whips and poles. There’s
nobody about.
The chimney, though, keeps
up a good brisk smoking.
And I lie back and ride.
I take the reins
Only when someone’s
coming, and the mare
Stops when she likes:
I tell her when to go.
I’ve spoiled Jemima
in more ways than one.
She’s got so she turns
in at every house
As if she had some sort of
curvature,
No matter if I have no errand
there.
She thinks I’m sociable.
I maybe am.
It’s seldom I get down
except for meals, though.
Folks entertain me from the
kitchen doorstep,
All in a family row down to
the youngest.”
“One would suppose they
might not be as glad
To see you as you are to see
them.”
“Oh,
Because I want their dollar.
I don’t want
Anything they’ve not
got. I never dun.
I’m there, and they
can pay me if they like.
I go nowhere on purpose:
I happen by.
Sorry there is no cup to give
you a drink.
I drink out of the bottle—not
your style.
Mayn’t I offer you——?”
“No, no, no, thank you.”
“Just as you say.
Here’s looking at you then.—
And now I’m leaving
you a little while.
You’ll rest easier when
I’m gone, perhaps—
Lie down—let yourself
go and get some sleep.
But first—let’s
see—what was I going to ask you?
Those collars—who
shall I address them to,
Suppose you aren’t awake
when I come back?”
“Really, friend, I can’t
let you. You—may need them.”
“Not till I shrink,
when they’ll be out of style.”
“But really I—I
have so many collars.”
“I don’t know
who I rather would have have them.
They’re only turning
yellow where they are.
But you’re the doctor
as the saying is.
I’ll put the light out.
Don’t you wait for me:
I’ve just begun the
night. You get some sleep.
I’ll knock so-fashion
and peep round the door
When I come back so you’ll
know who it is.
There’s nothing I’m
afraid of like scared people.
I don’t want you should
shoot me in the head.
What am I doing carrying off
this bottle?
There now, you get some sleep.”
He shut the door.
The Doctor slid a little down
the pillow.
