The Fortunes of Oliver Horn [56]
inscrutable laws of fate, begged the gentlemen present to give no further thought to his existence, and after a moment of silence continued his remarks on the acrobatic ring to Oliver in the same monotonous tone of voice which he had addressed to the room before Cockburn's flank movement had made him bite the dust.
"It may seem to you, Mr.-- Mr.--, I haven't your name, sir," and he bent his head toward Oliver.
"Horn, sir," Oliver suggested. "Oliver Horn."
"Thanks, it may seem to you that I'm exaggerating, Mr. Oliver Horn, the wonder of this perfarmance, but-"
The rest of the sentence, despite the Hibernian's well-intentioned efforts, was not addressed to Oliver, but to the room at large, or rather to its furniture, or to be still more exact, to the legs of the piano, and such chairs and tables as the Irishman's prostrate body bumped into on the way to his room. For at that instant Waller, to save Oliver, as he pretended, from further annoyance, had caught the distinguished Hibernian by both feet, and in that position dragged him along the floor, as if he had been a wheelbarrow, McFudd's voice never changing its tone as he continued his remarks on physical culture, and the benefits which would accrue to the human race if they would practice the acrobat's hand-spring.
When Fred and Oliver had closed their bedroom door for the night, the guests having departed and all the regular boarders being supposedly secure in their beds (Fred without much difficulty had persuaded Oliver to share his own bed over night), there came a knock at Fred's door, and the irrepressible Irishman stalked in.
He had removed his vest, high collar, and shoes, and had the air and look of an athlete. The marvellous skill of the acrobat still occupied his mind.
"Don't disturb yourself, my dear Stone, but me deloightful conversation with yer friend, Mr. Horn, was interrupted by that wild beast of a Waller, and I wanted to finish it. I am quite sure I can do it--the trick I was telling ye of. I've been practizing in me room. It's as easy as rolling off a jaunting car."
"No, Mac, old man. Go to bed again," pleaded Fred.
"Not till I show ye, me boy, one of the most beautiful feats of agility--"
"Come off, Mac, I say," cried Fred, catching the Irishman around the waist.
"I'll come nothing! Unhand me, gentlemen, or by the--" and tearing himself free McFudd threw a hand-spring with the ease of a professional, toppled, for a moment, his feet in the air, scraped along the whitewashed wall with his heels, and sweeping the basins and pitchers filled with water from the wash- stand measured his length on the floor. Then came the crash of broken china, a deluge of water, and Fred and Oliver began catching up sponges and towels to stay the flood.
A minute later a man in a long gray beard and longer night-robe--one of the regular boarders-- bounded up the stairs two steps at a time and dashed through Fred's open door.
"By thunder, boys!" he cried, "I don't mind how much noise you make, rather like it; but what the devil are you trying to drown us out for? Wife is soaking--it's puddling down on our bed."
By this time every door had been flung open, and the room was filled with half-dressed men.
"It's that lunatic, McFudd. He's been to the circus and thinks he's Martello," cried Fred, pointing to the prostrate Irishman with the sponge which he had been squeezing out in the coal-scuttle.
"Or the clown," remarked Waller, stooping over McFudd, who was now holding his sides and roaring with laughter.
Long after Fred had fallen asleep, Oliver lay awake thinking of the night's pleasure. He had been very, very happy--happier than he had been for many months. The shouts of approval on his election to membership, the rounds of applause that had followed his rendering of the simple negro melodies, resounded in his ears, and the joy of it all still tingled through his veins. This first triumph of his life had brought with it a certain confidence in himself--a new feeling of self-reliance--of being able to hold his own
"It may seem to you, Mr.-- Mr.--, I haven't your name, sir," and he bent his head toward Oliver.
"Horn, sir," Oliver suggested. "Oliver Horn."
"Thanks, it may seem to you that I'm exaggerating, Mr. Oliver Horn, the wonder of this perfarmance, but-"
The rest of the sentence, despite the Hibernian's well-intentioned efforts, was not addressed to Oliver, but to the room at large, or rather to its furniture, or to be still more exact, to the legs of the piano, and such chairs and tables as the Irishman's prostrate body bumped into on the way to his room. For at that instant Waller, to save Oliver, as he pretended, from further annoyance, had caught the distinguished Hibernian by both feet, and in that position dragged him along the floor, as if he had been a wheelbarrow, McFudd's voice never changing its tone as he continued his remarks on physical culture, and the benefits which would accrue to the human race if they would practice the acrobat's hand-spring.
When Fred and Oliver had closed their bedroom door for the night, the guests having departed and all the regular boarders being supposedly secure in their beds (Fred without much difficulty had persuaded Oliver to share his own bed over night), there came a knock at Fred's door, and the irrepressible Irishman stalked in.
He had removed his vest, high collar, and shoes, and had the air and look of an athlete. The marvellous skill of the acrobat still occupied his mind.
"Don't disturb yourself, my dear Stone, but me deloightful conversation with yer friend, Mr. Horn, was interrupted by that wild beast of a Waller, and I wanted to finish it. I am quite sure I can do it--the trick I was telling ye of. I've been practizing in me room. It's as easy as rolling off a jaunting car."
"No, Mac, old man. Go to bed again," pleaded Fred.
"Not till I show ye, me boy, one of the most beautiful feats of agility--"
"Come off, Mac, I say," cried Fred, catching the Irishman around the waist.
"I'll come nothing! Unhand me, gentlemen, or by the--" and tearing himself free McFudd threw a hand-spring with the ease of a professional, toppled, for a moment, his feet in the air, scraped along the whitewashed wall with his heels, and sweeping the basins and pitchers filled with water from the wash- stand measured his length on the floor. Then came the crash of broken china, a deluge of water, and Fred and Oliver began catching up sponges and towels to stay the flood.
A minute later a man in a long gray beard and longer night-robe--one of the regular boarders-- bounded up the stairs two steps at a time and dashed through Fred's open door.
"By thunder, boys!" he cried, "I don't mind how much noise you make, rather like it; but what the devil are you trying to drown us out for? Wife is soaking--it's puddling down on our bed."
By this time every door had been flung open, and the room was filled with half-dressed men.
"It's that lunatic, McFudd. He's been to the circus and thinks he's Martello," cried Fred, pointing to the prostrate Irishman with the sponge which he had been squeezing out in the coal-scuttle.
"Or the clown," remarked Waller, stooping over McFudd, who was now holding his sides and roaring with laughter.
Long after Fred had fallen asleep, Oliver lay awake thinking of the night's pleasure. He had been very, very happy--happier than he had been for many months. The shouts of approval on his election to membership, the rounds of applause that had followed his rendering of the simple negro melodies, resounded in his ears, and the joy of it all still tingled through his veins. This first triumph of his life had brought with it a certain confidence in himself--a new feeling of self-reliance--of being able to hold his own