A Jolly Fellowship

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After he had settled these important matters, and the head-waiter and
the proprietor had become convinced that I was a person of much
consequence, who had to be carefully consulted before anything could be
done, we went down stairs, and at the street-door Uncle Chipperton
suddenly stopped me.

"See here," said he, "I want to tell you something. I'm not coming to
this dinner."

"Not--coming!" I exclaimed, in amazement.

"No," said he, "I've been thinking it over, and have fully made up my
mind about it. You see, this is intended as a friendly reunion,--an
occasion of good feeling and fellowship among people who are bound
together in a very peculiar manner."

"Yes," I interrupted, "and that seems to me, sir, the very reason why
you should be there."

"The very reason why I should not be there," he said. "You see, I
couldn't sit down with that most perverse and obstinate man, Colbert,
and feel sure that something or other would not occur which would make
an outbreak between us, or, at any rate, bad feeling. In fact, I know I
could not take pleasure in seeing him enjoy food. This may be wrong, but
I can't help it. It's in me. And I wont be the means of casting a shadow
over the happy company which will meet here to-night. No one but your
folks need know I'm not coming. The rest will not know why I am
detained, and I shall drop in toward the close of the meal, just before
you break up. I want you to ask your father to take the head of the
table. He is just the man for such a place, and he ought to have it,
too, for another reason. You ought to know that this dinner is really
given to you in your honor. To be sure, Rectus is a good
fellow--splendid--and does everything that he knows how; but my wife and
I know that we owe all our present happiness to your exertions and good
sense."

He went on in this way for some time, and although I tried to stop him,
I couldn't do it.

"Therefore," he continued, "I want your father to preside, and all of
you to be happy, without a suspicion of a cloud about you. At any rate,
I shall be no cloud. Come around here early, and see that everything is
all right. Now I must be off."

And away he went.

I did not like this state of affairs at all. I would have much preferred
to have no dinner. It was not necessary, any way. If I had had the
authority, I would have stopped the whole thing. But it was Uncle
Chipperton's affair, he paid for it, and I had no right to interfere
with it.

My father liked the matter even less than I did. He said it was a
strange and unwarrantable performance on the part of Chipperton, and he
did not understand it. And he certainly did not want to sit at the head
of the table in another man's place. I could not say anything to him to
make him feel better about it. I made him feel worse, indeed, when I
told him that Uncle Chipperton did not want his absence explained, or
alluded to, any more than could be helped. My father hated to have to
keep a secret of this kind.

In the afternoon, I went around to the hotel where the Chippertons
always staid, when they were in New York, to see Corny and her mother. I
found them rather blue. Uncle Chipperton had not been able to keep his
plan from them, and they thought it was dreadful. I could not help
letting them see that I did not like it, and so we didn't have as lively
a time as we ought to have had.

I supposed that if I went to see Rectus, and told him about the matter,
I should make him blue, too. But, as I had no right to tell him, and
also felt a pretty strong desire that some of the folks should come
with good spirits and appetites, I kept away from him. He would have
been sure to see that something was the matter.

I was the first person to appear in the dining-room of the restaurant
where the dinner-table was spread for us. It was a prettily furnished
parlor in the second story of the house, and the table was very
tastefully arranged and decorated with flowers. I went early, by myself,
so as to be sure that everything was exactly right before the guests
arrived. All seemed perfectly correct; the name of each member of the
party was on a card by a plate. Even little Helen had her plate and her
card. It would be her first appearance at a regular dinner-party.

The guests were not punctual. At ten minutes past six, even my father,
who was the most particular of men in such things, had not made his
appearance. I waited five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes more, and became
exceedingly nervous.

The head-waiter came in and asked if my friends understood the time that
had been set. The dinner would be spoiled if it were kept much longer. I
said that I was sure they knew all about the time set, and that there
was nothing to be done but to wait. It was most unaccountable that they
should all be late.

I stood before the fireplace and waited, and thought. I ran down to the
door, and looked up and down the street. I called a waiter and told him
to look into all the rooms in the house. They might have gone into the
wrong place. But they were not to be seen anywhere.

Then I went back to the fireplace, and did some more thinking. There was
no sense in supposing that they had made a mistake. They all knew this
restaurant, and they all knew the time. In a moment, I said to myself:

"I know how it is. Father has made up his mind that he will not be mixed
up in any affair of this kind, where a quarrel keeps the host of the
party from occupying his proper place, especially as he--my father--is
expected to occupy that place himself. So he and mother and Helen have
just quietly staid in their rooms at the hotel. Mrs. Chipperton and
Corny wont come without Uncle Chipperton. They might ride right to the
door, of course, but they are ashamed, and don't want to have to make
explanations; and it is ridiculous to suppose that they wont have to be
made. As for Rectus and his people, they could not have heard anything,
but,--I have it. Old Colbert got his back up, too, and wouldn't come,
either for fear a quarrel would be picked, or because he could take no
pleasure in seeing Uncle Chipperton enjoying food. And Rectus and his
mother wouldn't come without him."

It turned out, when I heard from all the parties, that I had got the
matter exactly right.

"We shall have to make fresh preparations, sir, if we wait any longer,"
said the head-waiter, coming in with an air of great mental disturbance.

"Don't wait," said I. "Bring in the dinner. At least, enough for me. I
don't believe any one else will be here."

The waiter looked bewildered, but he obeyed. I took my seat at the place
where my card lay, at the middle of one side of the table, and spread my
napkin in my lap. The head-waiter waited on me himself, and one or two
other waiters came in to stand around, and take away dishes, and try to
find something to do.

It was a capital dinner, and I went carefully through all the courses. I
was hungry. I had been saving up some extra appetite for this dinner,
and my regular appetite was a very good one.

I had raw oysters,

And soup,

And fish, with delicious sauce,

And roast duck,

And croquettes, made of something extraordinarily nice,

And beef _a la mode_,

And all sorts of vegetables, in their proper places,

And ready-made salad,

And orange pie,

And wine-jelly,

And ice-cream,

And bananas, oranges and white grapes,

And raisins, and almonds and nuts,

And a cup of coffee.

I let some of these things off pretty easy, toward the last; but I did
not swerve from my line of duty. I went through all the courses, quietly
and deliberately. It was a dinner in my honor, and I did all the honor I
could to it.

I was leaning back in my chair, with a satisfied soul, and nibbling at
some raisins, while I slowly drank my coffee, when the outer door
opened, and Uncle Chipperton entered.

He looked at me in astonishment. Then he looked at the table, with the
clean plates and glasses at every place, but one. Then he took it all
in, or at least I supposed he did, for he sat down on a chair near the
door, and burst out into the wildest fit of laughing. The waiters came
running into the room to see what was the matter; but for several
minutes Uncle Chipperton could not speak. He laughed until I thought
he'd crack something. I laughed, too, but not so much.

"I see it all," he gasped, at last. "I see it all. I see just how it
happened."

And when we compared our ideas of the matter, we found that they were
just the same.

I wanted him to sit down and eat something, but he would not do it. He
said he wouldn't spoil such a unique performance for anything. It was
one of the most comical meals he had ever heard of.

I was glad he enjoyed it so much, for he paid for the whole dinner for
ten, which had been prepared at his order.

When we reached the street, Uncle Chipperton put on a graver look.

"This is all truly very funny," he said, "but, after all, there is
something about it which makes me feel ashamed of myself. Would you
object to take a ride? It is only about eight o'clock. I want to go up
to see old Colbert."

I agreed to go, and we got into a street-car. The Colberts lived in one
of the up-town streets, and Uncle Chipperton had been at their house, on
business.

"I never went to see them in a friendly way before," he said.

It was comforting to hear that this was to be a friendly visit.

When we reached the house, we found the family of three in the parlor.
They had probably had all the dinner they wanted, but they did not look
exactly satisfied with the world or themselves.

"Look here, Colbert," said Uncle Chipperton, after shaking hands with
Mrs. Colbert, "why didn't you go to my dinner?"

"Well," said Mr. Colbert, looking him straight in the face, "I thought
I'd better stay where I was. I didn't want to make any trouble, or pick
any quarrels. I didn't intend to keep my wife and son away; but they
wouldn't go without me."

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Colbert.

"Oh, well!" said Uncle Chipperton, "you needn't feel bad about it. I
didn't go, myself."

At this, they all opened their eyes as wide as the law allowed.

"No," he continued, "I didn't want to make any disturbance, or
ill-feeling, and so I didn't go, and my wife and daughter didn't want to
go without me, and so they didn't go, and I expect Will's father and
mother didn't care to be on hand at a time when bad feeling might be
shown, and so they didn't go. There was no one there but Will. He ate
all of the dinner that was eaten. He went straight through it, from one
end to the other. And there was no ill-feeling, no discord, no cloud of
any kind. All perfectly harmonious, wasn't it, Will?"

"Perfectly," said I.

"I just wish I had known about it," said Rectus, a little sadly.

"And now, Mr. Colbert," said Uncle Chipperton, "I don't want this to
happen again. There may be other reunions of this kind, and we may want
to go. And there ought to be such reunions between families whose sons
and daughter have been cast away together, on a life-raft, in the middle
of the ocean."

"That's so," said Mrs. Colbert, warmly.

"I thought they were _saved_ on a life-raft," said old Colbert, dryly.
"And I didn't know it was in the middle of the ocean."

"Well, fix that as you please," said Uncle Chipperton. "What I want to
propose is this: Let us settle our quarrel. Let's split our difference.
Will you agree to divide that four inches of ground, and call it square?
I'll pay for two inches."

"Do you mean you'll pay half the damages I've laid?" asked old Colbert.

"That's what I mean," said Uncle Chipperton.

"All right," said Mr. Colbert; "I'll agree." And they shook hands on it.

"Now, then," said Uncle Chipperton, who seemed unusually lively, "I must
go see the Gordons, and explain matters to them. Wont you come along,
Rectus?" And Rectus came.

On the way to our hotel, we stopped for Corny and her mother. We might
as well have a party, Uncle Chipperton said.

We had a gay time at our rooms. My father and mother were greatly amused
at the way the thing had turned out, and very much pleased that Mr.
Colbert and Uncle Chipperton had become reconciled to each other.

"I thought he had a good heart," said my mother, softly, to me, looking
over to Uncle Chipperton, who was telling my father, for the second
time, just how I looked, as I sat alone at the long table.

Little Helen had not gone to bed yet, and she was sorry about the dinner
in the same way that Rectus was. So was Corny, but she was too glad that
the quarrel between her father and Mr. Colbert was over, to care much
for the loss of the dinner. She was always very much disturbed by
quarrels between friends or friends' fathers.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE STORY ENDS.

Three letters came to me the next morning. I was rather surprised at
this, because I did not expect to get letters after I found myself at
home; or, at least, with my family. The first of these was handed to me
by Rectus. It was from his father. This is the letter:

"MY DEAR BOY:" (This opening seemed a little
curious to me, for I did not suppose the old
gentleman thought of me in that way.) "I shall not
be able to see you again before you leave for
Willisville, so I write this note just to tell you
how entirely I am satisfied with the way in which
you performed the very difficult business I
intrusted to you--that of taking charge of my son
in his recent travels. The trip was not a very
long one, but I am sure it has been of great
service to him; and I also believe that a great
deal of the benefit he has received has been due
to you." (I stopped here, and tried to think what
I had done for the boy. Besides the thrashing I
gave him in Nassau, I could not think of
anything.) "I have been talking a great deal with
Sammy, in the last day or two, about his doings
while he was away, and although I cannot exactly
fix my mind on any particular action, on your
part, which proves what I say" (he was in the same
predicament here in which I was myself), "yet I
feel positively assured that your companionship
and influence have been of the greatest service to
him. Among other things, he really wants to go to
college. I am delighted at this. It was with much
sorrow that I gave up the idea of making him a
scholar: but, though he was a good boy, I saw that
it was useless to keep him at the academy at
Willisville, and so made up my mind to take him
into my office. But I know you put this college
idea into his head, though how, I cannot say, and
I am sure that it does not matter. Sammy tells me
that you never understood that he was to be
entirely in your charge; but since you brought him
out so well without knowing this, it does you more
credit. I am very grateful to you. If I find a
chance to do you a real service, I will do it.

"Yours very truly,
"SAMUEL COLBERT, SR."

The second letter was handed to me by Corny, and was from her mother. I
shall not copy that here, for it is much worse than Mr. Colbert's. It
praised me for doing a lot of things which I never did at all; but I
excused Mrs. Chipperton for a good deal she said, for she had passed
through so much anxiety and trouble, and was now going to settle down
for good, with Corny at school, that I didn't wonder she felt happy
enough to write a little wildly. But there was one queer resemblance
between her letter and old Mr. Colbert's. She said two or three
times--it was an awfully long letter--that there was not any particular
thing that she alluded to when she spoke of my actions. That was the
funny part of it. They couldn't put their fingers on anything really
worth mentioning, after all.

My third letter had come by mail, and was a little old. My mother gave
it to me, and told me that it had come to the post-office at Willisville
about a week before, and that she had brought it down to give it to me,
but had totally forgotten it until that morning. It was from St.
Augustine, and this is an exact copy of it:

"My good friend Big Little Man. I love you. My
name Maiden's Heart. You much pious. You buy
beans. Pay good. Me wants one speckled shirt.
Crowded Owl want one speckled shirt, too. You send
two speckled shirts. You good Big Little Man. You
do that. Good-bye.

"MAIDEN'S HEART, Cheyenne Chief.

"Written by me, James R. Chalott, this seventh day
of March, 187-, at the dictation of the
above-mentioned Maiden's Heart. He has requested
me to add that he wants the speckles to be red,
and as large as you can get them."

During the morning, most of our party met to bid each other good-bye.
Corny, Rectus and I were standing together, having our little winding-up
talk, when Rectus asked Corny if she had kept her gray bean, the
insignia of our society.

"To be sure I have," she said, pulling it out from under her cloak. "I
have it on this little chain which I wear around my neck. I've worn it
ever since I got it. And I see you each have kept yours on your
watch-guards."

"Yes," I said, "and they're the only things of the kind we saved from
the burning 'Tigris.' Going to keep yours?"

"Yes, indeed," said Corny, warmly.

"So shall I," said I.

"And I, too," said Rectus.

And then we shook hands, and parted.

THE END.

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* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

The word "won't" is spelled "wont" consistently in the original. This
was retained.

Page 26, word "with" added to text. (done with dinner)

Page 95, "depot" changed to "depot" to conform to rest of text. (at the
depot)

Page 259, "Canavaral" changed to "Canaveral". (Cape Canaveral)

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