eben holden-第30部分

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'I　mean　the　history　of　Sol　Rollin；　the　man　you　are　boarding　with；'　said　he　smiling　at　me　and　then　he　told　the　story　of　the　cookies。

The　principal　of　the　HilIsborough　Academy　was　a　big；　brawny　bachelor　of　Scotch　descent；　with　a　stem　face　and　cold；　grey；　glaring　eyes。　when　he　stood　towering　above　us　on　his　platform　in　the　main　room　of　the　building　where　I　sat；　there　was　an　alertness　in　his　figure；　and　a　look　of　responsibility　in　his　face；　that　reminded　me　of　the　pictures　of　Napoleon　at　Waterloo。　He　always　carried　a　stout　ruler　that　had　blistered　a　shank　of　every　mischievous　boy　in　school。　As　he　stood　by　the　line；　that　came　marching　into　prayers　every　morning　he　would　frequently　pull　out　a　boy；　administer　a　loud　whack　or　two；　shake　him　violently　and　force　him　into　a　seat。　The　day　I　began　my　studies　at　the　Academy　I　saw　him　put　two　dents　in　the　wall　with　the　heels　of　a　young　man　who　had　failed　in　his　algebra。　To　a　bashful　and　sensitive　youth；　just　out　of　a　country　home；　the　sight　of　such　violence　was　appalling。　My　first　talk　with　him；　however；　renewed　my　courage。　He　had　heard　I　was　a　good　scholar　and　talked　with　me　in　a　friendly　way　about　my　plans。　Both　Hope　and　I　were　under　him　in　algebra　and　Latin。　I　well　remember　my　first　error　in　his　class。　I　had　misconstrued　a　Latin　sentence。　He　looked　at　me；　a　smile　and　a　sneer　crowding　each　other　for　possession　of　his　face。　In　a　loud；　jeering　tone　he　cried：　'Mirabile　dictu！'

I　looked　at　him　in　doubt　of　his　meaning。

'Mirabile　dictu！'　he　shouted；　his　tongue　trilling　the　r。

I　corrected　my　error。

'Perfect！'　he　cried　again。　'Puer　pulchre！　Next！'

He　never　went　further　than　that　with　me　in　the　way　of　correction。　My　size　and　my　skill　as　a　wrestler；　that　shortly　ensured　for　me　the　respect　of　the　boys；　helped　me　to　win　the　esteem　of　the　master。　I　leamed　my　lessons　and　kept　out　of　mischief。　But　others　of　equal　proficiency　were　not　so　fortunate。　He　was　apt　to　be　hard　on　a　light　man　who　could　be　handled　without　over…exertion。

Uncle　Eb　came　in　to　see　me　one　day　and　sat　awhile　with　me　in　my　seat。　While　he　was　there　the　master　took　a　boy　by　the　collar　and　almost　literally　wiped　the　blackboard　with　him。　There　was　a　great　clatter　of　heels　for　a　moment。　Uncle　Eb　went　away　shortly　and　was　at　Sol　Rollin's　when　I　came　to　dinner。

'Powerful　man　ain't　he？'　said　Uncle　Eb。

'Rather；'　I　said。

'Turned　that　boy　into　a　reg'lar　horse　fiddle；'　he　remarked。　'Must　'ave　unsot　his　reason。'

'Unnecessary！'　I　said。

'Reminded　me　o'　the　time　'at　Tip　Taylor　got　his　tooth　pulled；'　said　he。　'Shook　'im　up　so　'at　he　thought　he'd　had　his　neck　put　out　o'　ji'nt。'

Sol　Rollin　was　one　of　my　studies　that　winter。　He　was　a　carpenter　by　trade　and　his　oddities　were　new　and　delightful。　He　whistled　as　he　worked；　he　whistled　as　he　read；　he　whistled　right　merrily　as　he　walked　up　and　down　the　streets　…　a　short；　slight　figure　with　a　round　boyish　face　and　a　fringe　of　iron…grey　hair　under　his　chin。　The　little　man　had　one　big　passion　…　that　for　getting　and　saving。　The　ancient　thrift　of　his　race　had　pinched　him　small　and　narrow　as　a　foot　is　stunted　by　a　tight　shoe。　His　mind　was　a　bit　out　of　register　as　we　say　in　the　printing　business。　His　vocabulary　was　rich　and　vivid　and　stimulating。

'Somebody　broke　into　the　arsenic　today；'　he　announced；　one　evening；　at　the　supper　table。

'The　arsenic；'　said　somebody；　'what　arsenic？'

'Why　the　place　where　they　keep　the　powder；'　he　answered。

'Oh！　the　arsenal。'

'Yes；　the　arsenal；'　he　said；　cackling　with　laughter　at　his　error。　Then　he　grew　serious。

'Stole　all　the　ambition　out　of　it；'　he　added。

'You　mean　ammunition；　don't　you；　Solomon？'　his　wife　enquired。

'Certainly；'　said　he；　'wasn't　that　what　I　said。'

When　he　had　said　a　thing　that　met　his　own　approval　Sol　Rollin　would　cackle　most　cheerfully　and　then　crack　a　knuckle　by　twisting　a　finger。　His　laugh　was　mostly　out　of　register　also。　It　had　a　sad　lack　of　relevancy。　He　laughed　on　principle　rather　than　provocation。　Some　sort　of　secret　comedy　of　which　the　world　knew　nothing；　was　passing　in　his　mind；　it　seemed　to　have　its　exits　and　its　entrances；　its　villain；　its　clown　and　its　miser　who　got　all　the　applause。

While　working　his　joy　was　unconfined。　Many　a　time　I　have　sat　and　watched　him　in　his　little　shop；　its　window　dim　with　cobwebs。　Sometimes　he　would　stop　whistling　and　cackle　heartily　as　he　worked　his　plane　or　drew　his　pencil　to　the　square。　I　have　even　seen　him　drop　his　tools　and　give　his　undivided　attention　to　laughter。　He　did　not　like　to　be　interrupted　…　he　loved　his　own　company　the　best　while　he　was　'doin'　business'。　I　went　one　day　when　he　was　singing　the　two　lines　and　their　quaint　chorus　which　was　all　he　ever　sang　in　my　hearing；　which　gave　him　great　relief；　I　have　no　doubt；　when　lip　weary　with　whistling：

Sez　I　'Dan'l　Skinner；　I　thank　yer　mighty　mean　　To　send　me　up　the　river；　With　a　sev'n　　dollar　team'　Lul…ly；ul…　ly；diddie　ul…　ly；　diddleul　…　lydee；　Oh；　lul…ly；　ul　…　ly；　diddle　ul　…　ly；　diddle　　ul　…　ly　dee。

'Mr　Rollin！'　I　said。

Yes　siree；'　said　he；　pausing　in　the　midst　of　his　chorus　to　look　up　at　me。

'Where　can　I　get　a　piece　of　yellow　pine？'

'See　'n　a　minute；'　he　said。　Then　he　continued　his　sawing　and　his　song；　'　〃Says　I　Dan　SItinner；　I　thank　yer　mighty　mean〃…　what　d'　ye　want　it　fer？'　he　asked　stopping　abruptly。

'Going　to　make　a　ruler；'　I　answered。

'〃T'　sen'　me　up　the　river　with　a　seven　dollar　team；'；'　he　went　on；　picking　out　a　piece　of　smooth　planed　lumber；　and　handing　it　to　me。

'How　much　is　it　worth？'　I　enquired。

He　whistled　a　moment　as　he　surveyed　it　carefully。

''Bout　one　cent；'　he　answered　seriously。

I　handed　him　the　money　and　sat　down　awhile　to　watch　him　as　he　went　on　with　his　work。　It　was　the　cheapest　amusement　I　have　yet　enjoyed。　Indeed　Sol　Rollin　became　a　dissipation；　a　subtle　and　seductive　habit　that　grew　upon　me　and　on　one　pretext　or　another　I　went　every　Saturday　to　the　shop　if　I　had　not　gone　home。

'What　ye　goin'　t'　be？'

He　stopped　his　saw；　and　looked　at　me；　waiting　for　my　answer。

At　last　the　tirne　had　come　when　I　must　declare　myself　and　I　did。

'A　journalist；'　I　replied。

'What's　that？'　he　enquired　curiously。

'An　editor；'　I　said。

'A　printer　man？'

'A　printer　man。'

'Huh！'　said　he。　'Mebbe　I'll　give　ye　a　job。　Sairey　tol'　me　I'd　orter　t'　'ave　some　cards　printed。　I'll　want　good　plain　print：　Solomon　Rollin；　Cappenter　'n　J'iner；　lilillsborough；　NY　…　soun's　putty　good　don't　it。'

'Beautiful；'　I　answered。

'I'll　git　a　big　lot　on　'em；'　he　said。　'I'll　want　one　for　Sister　Susan　'at's　out　in　Minnesoty　…　no；　I　guess　I'll　send　'er　tew；　so　she　can　give　one　away　…　an'　one　fer　my　brother；　Eliphalet；　an'　one　apiece　fer　my　three　cousins　over　'n　Vermont；　an'　one　fer　my　Aunt　Mirandy。　Le's　see…tew　an'　one　is　three　an'　three　is　six　an'　one　is　seven。　Then　I'll　git　a　few　struck　off　fer　the　folks　here　…　guess　they'll　thank　I'm　gittin'　up　'n　the　world。'

He　shook　and　snickered　with　anticipation　of　the　glory　of　it。　Pure　vanity　inspired　him　in　the　matter　and　it　had　in　it　no　vulgar　consideration　of　business　policy。　He　whistled　a　lively　tune　as　he　bent　to　his　work　again。

'Yer　sister　says　ye're　a　splendid　scholar！'　said　he。　'Hear'n　'er　braggin'　'bout　ye　t'other　night；　she　thin