The Man Of No Account
His name was Fagg--David Fagg. He came to California in '52 with
us, in the SKYSCRAPER. I don't think he did it in an adventurous
way. He probably had no other place to go to. When a knot of us
young fellows would recite what splendid opportunities we resigned
to go, and how sorry our friends were to have us leave, and show
daguerreotypes and locks of hair, and talk of Mary and Susan, the
man of no account used to sit by and listen with a pained,
mortified expression on his plain face, and say nothing. I think
he had nothing to say. He had no associates except when we
patronized him; and, in point of fact, he was a good deal of sport
to us. He was always seasick whenever we had a capful of wind. He
never got his sea legs on, either. And I never shall forget how we
all laughed when Rattler took him the piece of pork on a string,
and-- But you know that time-honored joke. And then we had such a
splendid lark with him. Miss Fanny Twinkler couldn't bear the
sight of him, and we used to make Fagg think that she had taken a
fancy to him, and send him little delicacies and books from the
cabin. You ought to have witnessed the rich scene that took place
when he came up, stammering and very sick, to thank her! Didn't
she flash up grandly and beautifully and scornfully? So like
"Medora," Rattler said--Rattler knew Byron by heart--and wasn't old
Fagg awfully cut up? But he got over it, and when Rattler fell
sick at Valparaiso, old Fagg used to nurse him. You see he was a
good sort of fellow, but he lacked manliness and spirit.
He had absolutely no idea of poetry. I've seen him sit stolidly
by, mending his old clothes, when Rattler delivered that stirring
apostrophe of Byron's to the ocean. He asked Rattler once, quite
seriously, if he thought Byron was ever seasick. I don't remember
Rattler's reply, but I know we all laughed very much, and I have no
doubt it was something good for Rattler was smart.
When the SKYSCRAPER arrived at San Francisco we had a grand "feed."
We agreed to meet every year and perpetuate the occasion. Of
course we didn't invite Fagg. Fagg was a steerage passenger, and
it was necessary, you see, now we were ashore, to exercise a little
discretion. But Old Fagg, as we called him--he was only about
twenty-five years old, by the way--was the source of immense
amusement to us that day. It appeared that he had conceived the
idea that he could walk to Sacramento, and actually started off
afoot. We had a good time, and shook hands with one another all
around, and so parted. Ah me! only eight years ago, and yet some
of those hands then clasped in amity have been clenched at each
other, or have dipped furtively in one another's pockets. I know
that we didn't dine together the next year, because young Barker
swore he wouldn't put his feet under the same mahogany with such a
very contemptible scoundrel as that Mixer; and Nibbles, who
borrowed money at Valparaiso of young Stubbs, who was then a waiter
in a restaurant, didn't like to meet such people.
When I bought a number of shares in the Coyote Tunnel at
Mugginsville, in '54, I thought I'd take a run up there and see it.
I stopped at the Empire Hotel, and after dinner I got a horse and
rode round the town and out to the claim. One of those individuals
whom newspaper correspondents call "our intelligent informant," and
to whom in all small communities the right of answering questions
is tacitly yielded, was quietly pointed out to me. Habit had
enabled him to work and talk at the same time, and he never
pretermitted either. He gave me a history of the claim, and added:
"You see, stranger," (he addressed the bank before him) "gold is
sure to come out'er that theer claim, (he put in a comma with his
pick) but the old pro-pri-e-tor (he wriggled out the word and the
point of his pick) warn't of much account (a long stroke of the
pick for a period). He was green, and let the boys about here jump
him"--and the rest of his sentence was confided to his hat, which
he had removed to wipe his manly brow with his red bandanna.
I asked him who was the original proprietor.
"His name war Fagg."
I went to see him. He looked a little older and plainer. He had
worked hard, he said, and was getting on "so-so." I took quite a
liking to him and patronized him to some extent. Whether I did so
because I was beginning to have a distrust for such fellows as
Rattler and Mixer is not necessary for me to state.
You remember how the Coyote Tunnel went in, and how awfully we
shareholders were done! Well, the next thing I heard was that
Rattler, who was one of the heaviest shareholders, was up at
Mugginsville keeping bar for the proprietor of the Mugginsville
Hotel, and that old Fagg had struck it rich, and didn't know what
to do with his money. All this was told me by Mixer, who had been
there, settling up matters, and likewise that Fagg was sweet upon
the daughter of the proprietor of the aforesaid hotel. And so by
hearsay and letter I eventually gathered that old Robins, the hotel
man, was trying to get up a match between Nellie Robins and Fagg.
Nellie was a pretty, plump, and foolish little thing, and would do
just as her father wished. I thought it would be a good thing for
Fagg if he should marry and settle down; that as a married man he
might be of some account. So I ran up to Mugginsville one day to
look after things.
It did me an immense deal of good to make Rattler mix my drinks for
me--Rattler! the gay, brilliant, and unconquerable Rattler, who had
tried to snub me two years ago. I talked to him about old Fagg and
Nellie, particularly as I thought the subject was distasteful. He
never liked Fagg, and he was sure, he said, that Nellie didn't.
Did Nellie like anybody else? He turned around to the mirror
behind the bar and brushed up his hair! I understood the conceited
wretch. I thought I'd put Fagg on his guard and get him to hurry
up matters. I had a long talk with him. You could see by the way
the poor fellow acted that he was badly stuck. He sighed, and
promised to pluck up courage to hurry matters to a crisis. Nellie
was a good girl, and I think had a sort of quiet respect for old
Fagg's unobtrusiveness. But her fancy was already taken captive by
Rattler's superficial qualities, which were obvious and pleasing.
I don't think Nellie was any worse than you or I. We are more apt
to take acquaintances at their apparent value than their intrinsic
worth. It's less trouble, and, except when we want to trust them,
quite as convenient. The difficulty with women is that their
feelings are apt to get interested sooner than ours, and then, you
know, reasoning is out of the question. This is what old Fagg
would have known had he been of any account. But he wasn't. So
much the worse for him.
It was a few months afterward and I was sitting in my office when
in walked old Fagg. I was surprised to see him down, but we talked
over the current topics in that mechanical manner of people who
know that they have something else to say, but are obliged to get
at it in that formal way. After an interval Fagg in his natural
manner said:
"I'm going home!"
"Going home?"
"Yes--that is, I think I'll take a trip to the Atlantic States. I
came to see you, as you know I have some little property, and I
have executed a power of attorney for you to manage my affairs. I
have some papers I'd like to leave with you. Will you take charge
of them?"
"Yes," I said. "But what of Nellie?"
His face fell. He tried to smile, and the combination resulted in
one of the most startling and grotesque effects I ever beheld. At
length he said:
"I shall not marry Nellie--that is"--he seemed to apologize
internally for the positive form of expression--"I think that I had
better not."
"David Fagg," I said with sudden severity, "you're of no account!"
To my astonishment his face brightened. "Yes," said he, "that's
it!--I'm of no account! But I always knew it. You see I thought
Rattler loved that girl as well as I did, and I knew she liked him
better than she did me, and would be happier I dare say with him.
But then I knew that old Robins would have preferred me to him, as
I was better off--and the girl would do as he said--and, you see, I
thought I was kinder in the way--and so I left. But," he
continued, as I was about to interrupt him, "for fear the old man
might object to Rattler, I've lent him enough to set him up in
business for himself in Dogtown. A pushing, active, brilliant
fellow, you know, like Rattler can get along, and will soon be in
his old position again--and you needn't be hard on him, you know,
if he doesn't. Good-by."
I was too much disgusted with his treatment of that Rattler to be
at all amiable, but as his business was profitable, I promised to
attend to it, and he left. A few weeks passed. The return steamer
arrived, and a terrible incident occupied the papers for days
afterward. People in all parts of the State conned eagerly the
details of an awful shipwreck, and those who had friends aboard
went away by themselves, and read the long list of the lost under
their breath. I read of the gifted, the gallant, the noble, and
loved ones who had perished, and among them I think I was the first
to read the name of David Fagg. For the "man of no account" had
"gone home!"
-THE END-
Bret Harte's short story: The Man Of No Account
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