Then he got to hangin’ round the studio after hours, helpin’ Swifty Joe clean up and listenin’ to his enlightenin’ conversation. It takes a mighty talented listener to get Swifty started; but when he does get his tongue once limbered up, and is sure of his audience, he enjoys nothin’ like givin’ off his views in wholesale lots.
As for me, I never said a whole lot to Beany, nor him to me; but I couldn’t help growin’ to like the cuss, because he was one of them gentle, quiet kind that you cotton to without knowin’ exactly why. Not that I missed him a lot when he disappeared. Fact was, he just dropped out, and I don’t know as I even asked what had become of him.
I was hearin’ now, though. It wa’n’t any great tragedy, to start with. Some of the boys got skylarkin’ one lunch hour, and Beany was watchin’ ’em, when a lead paper weight he was holdin’ slipped out of his hand, struck the end of a ruler, and flipped it up into his face. A sharp corner hit him in the eye, that’s all. He had the sore peeper bound up for three or four days before he took it to a hospital.
When he didn’t show up again they wondered some, and one of the firm inquired for him at his old boardin’ place. You know how it is in town. There’s so many comin’ and goin’ that it’s hard to keep track of ’em all. So Beany just faded out.
He told me that when the hospital doctor put it to him flat how bad off his bum lamp was, and how the other was due to go the same way, he just started out and walked aimless for two days and nights, hardly stoppin’. Then he steadied down, pulled himself together, and mapped out a plan.
Besides architectin’, all he knew how to do was to raise chickens. He figured that if he could get a little place off where land was cheap, and get the hang of it well in his head before his glim was doused altogether, he might worry along. He couldn’t bear to think of goin’ back to his old home, or hangin’ around among strangers until he had to be herded into one of them big brick barracks. He wanted to be alone and outdoors.
He had a few dollars with him that he’d saved up, and when he struck this little sand plot, miles from anywhere, he squat right down on it, built his shack, got some settin’ hens, and prepared for a long siege in the dark. One eye was all to the bad already, and the other was beginnin’ to grow dim. Nice cheerful proposition to wake up to every mornin’, wa’n’t it?
Does Beany whine any in tellin’ it, though? Never a whimper! Gets off his little jokes on himself about the breaks he makes cookin’ his meals, such as sweetenin’ his coffee out of the salt bag, and bitin’ into a cake of bar soap, thinkin’ it was a slice of the soggy bread he’d make. Keeps his courage up, too, by trying to think that maybe livin’ outdoors and improvin’ his health will help him get back his sight.
“I’m sure I am some better already,” says he. “For months all I could see out of my left eye was purple and yellow and blue rings. Now I don’t see those at all.”
“That so?” says I, battin’ my head for some come-back that would fit. “Why – er – I should think you’d miss ’em, Beany.”
Brilliant, wa’n’t it? But Beany throws back his head and lets out the first real laugh he’s indulged in for over a year.
“No, hardly that,” says he. “I don’t care about carrying my rainbows around with me.”
“But look here, Beany,” says I. “You can’t stay here doin’ the poultry hermit act.”
“It’s the only thing I’m fit for,” says he; “so I must.”
“Then you’ve got to let us send you a few things occasionally,” says I. “I’ll look up your old boss and – ”
“No, no!” says he. “I’m getting along all right. I’ve been a little lonesome; but I’ll pull through.”
“You ought to be doin’ some doctorin’, though,” says I.
He shrugs his shoulders again and waves one hand. “What’s the use?” says he. “They told me at the hospital there wasn’t any help. No, I’ll just stay here and plug it out by myself.”
Talk about clear grit, eh! And maybe you can frame up my feelin’s when he insists there ain’t a thing I can do for him. About then, too, I hears ’em shoutin’ from the car for me to come along, as they’re all ready to start again. So all I does is swap grips with Beany, get off some fool speech about wishin’ him luck, and leave him standin’ there in the potato field.
Somehow I didn’t enjoy the rest of that day’s run very much, and when they jollies me by askin’ who’s my scarecrow acquaintance I couldn’t work myself up to tellin’ ’em about him. But all I could think of was Beany back there pokin’ around alone in the fog that was settlin’ down thicker and thicker every day. And in the course of two or three hours I had a thought.
“Pinckney,” says I, as we was puttin’ up in Newport, “you know all sorts of crackerjacks. Got any expert eye doctors on your list?”
He chews that over a minute or so, and concludes that he has, a Dr. Jason Craige, who’s right here in town.
“He’s the real thing, is he?” says I.
“Most skillful oculist in the country,” says Pinckney, “and charges accordingly.”
“As high as fifty a throw?” says I.
“Fifty!” says Pinckney. “You should see his Cliff Walk cottage.”
“Let’s,” says I. “There’s a friend of mine I’d like to have him take a look at to-morrow.”
“No use,” says Pinckney. “He drops his practice entirely during his vacation; wouldn’t treat an Emperor then, I’ve heard him say. He’s a good deal of a crank on that – and billiards.”
“But see here, Pinckney,” says I, and I goes on to give him the whole tale about Beany, puttin’ it over as strong as I knew how.
“Sorry,” says Pinckney; “but I know of no way in which I could induce him to change his custom. He’s Scotch, you know, and as obstinate as – Hold on, Shorty! I’ve an idea. How strong will you back my game of billiards?”
Now of all the erratic cue performers I ever watched, Pinckney gets the medal. There’s times when he can nurse ’em along the cushion and run up quite a string, and then again I’ve seen him play a game any duffer’d be ashamed of. But I begins to smell out his scheme.
“If it means a chance for Beany,” says I, “I’ll bid good-by to five twenties and let you do your worst.”
“A wager of that sort would tempt Craige, if anything would,” says Pinckney. “We’ll try it on, anyway.”
Whether it was the bluff Pinckney threw, or the insultin’ way he suggests that the Doc don’t dare take him up, I can’t say. All I know is that inside of half an hour we was in Jason Craige’s private billiard room, him and Pinckney peeled down to their shirts, and at it.
As a rule I could go to sleep watchin’ the best three-ball carom game ever played; but durin’ this contest I holds the marker’s stick and never misses a move. First off Pinckney plays about as skillful as a trained pig practicin’ on the piano; but after four or five minutes of punk exhibition he takes a brace and surprises himself.
No need going into details. Pinckney wins out, and the Doc slams his cue into the rack with some remark about producin’ the charity patient to-morrow. Did I? I routs Renée out at daylight next mornin’, has him make a fifty-mile run at Vanderbilt Cup speed, and we has Beany in the eye expert’s lib’ry before he comes down for breakfast.
It takes Dr. Craige less’n three minutes to discover that the hospital hand who told Beany he was bound to lose both lamps was a fat brained nut who’d be more useful drivin’ an ashcart. The Doc lays Beany out on a leather couch, uses a little cocaine in the right place, monkeys around a minute or so with some shiny hardware, and announces that after he’s laid up for twenty-four hours in a dark room, usin’ the wash reg’lar, he’ll be able to see as well as any of us.
It’s a fact, too; for Beany goes back on his old job next Monday mornin’.
“By Jove!” says Pinckney, after the trick is turned. “A miracle, Craige!”
“Miracle be blowed!” says the Doc. “You accomplished the miracle last night, Pinckney, when you ran thirty-two buttons on scratch hits.”