what were the trees like,for instance?How did the French-Canadian guides talk?He had the gift of mimicry:aided by a partial knowledge of French I wrote down a few sentences as they sounded.The canoe had upset and he had come near drowning.I made him describe his sensations.
"I'll write your theme for you,"I exclaimed,when he had finished.
"Gee,not about that!"
"Why not?It's a personal experience."
His gratitude was pathetic....By this time I was so full of the subject that it fairly clamoured for expression,and as I wrote the hours flew.
Once in a while I paused to ask him a question as he sat with his chair tilted back and his feet on the table,reading a detective story.Isketched in the scene with bold strokes;the desolate bois brule on the mountain side,the polished crystal surface of the pool broken here and there with the circles left by rising fish;I pictured Armand,the guide,his pipe between his teeth,holding the canoe against the current;and Iseemed to smell the sharp tang of the balsams,to hear the roar of the rapids below.Then came the sudden hooking of the big trout,habitant oaths from Armand,bouleversement,wetness,darkness,confusion;a half-strangled feeling,a brief glimpse of green things and sunlight,and then strangulation,or what seemed like it;strangulation,the sense of being picked up and hurled by a terrific force whither?a blinding whiteness,in which it was impossible to breathe,one sharp,almost unbearable pain,then another,then oblivion....Finally,awakening,to be confronted by a much worried Uncle Jake.
By this time the detective story had fallen to the floor,and Tom was huddled up in his chair,asleep.He arose obediently and wrapped a wet towel around his head,and began to write.Once he paused long enough to mutter:--"Yes,that's about it,--that's the way I felt!"and set to work again,mechanically,--all the praise I got for what I deemed a literary achievement of the highest order!At three o'clock,a.m.,he finished,pulled off his clothes automatically and tumbled into bed.I had no desire for sleep.My brain was racing madly,like an engine without a governor.I could write!I could write!I repeated the words over and over to myself.All the complexities of my present life were blotted out,and I beheld only the long,sweet vista of the career for which Iwas now convinced that nature had intended me.My immediate fortunes became unimportant,immaterial.No juice of the grape I had ever tasted made me half so drunk....With the morning,of course,came the reaction,and I suffered the after sensations of an orgie,awaking to a world of necessity,cold and grey and slushy,and necessity alone made me rise from my bed.My experience of the night before might have taught me that happiness lies in the trick of transforming necessity,but it did not.The vision had faded,--temporarily,at least;and such was the distraction of the succeeding days that the subject of the theme passed from my mind....
One morning Tom was later than usual in getting home.I was writing a letter when he came in,and did not notice him,yet I was vaguely aware of his standing over me.When at last I looked up I gathered from his expression that something serious had happened,so mournful was his face,and yet so utterly ludicrous.
"Say,Hugh,I'm in the deuce of a mess,"he announced.
"What's the matter?"I inquired.
He sank down on the table with a groan.
"It's Alonzo,"he said.
Then I remembered the theme.
"What--what's he done?"I demanded.
"He says I must become a writer.Think of it,me a writer!He says I'm a young Shakespeare,that I've been lazy and hid my light under a bushel!
He says he knows now what I can do,and if I don't keep up the quality,he'll know the reason why,and write a personal letter to my father.Oh,hell!"In spite of his evident anguish,I was seized with a convulsive laughter.
Tom stood staring at me moodily.
"You think it's funny,--don't you?I guess it is,but what's going to become of me?That's what I want to know.I've been in trouble before,but never in any like this.And who got me into it?You!"Here was gratitude!
"You've got to go on writing 'em,now."His voice became desperately pleading."Say,Hugh,old man,you can temper 'em down--temper 'em down gradually.And by the end of the year,let's say,they'll be about normal again."He seemed actually shivering.
"The end of the year!"I cried,the predicament striking me for the first time in its fulness."Say,you've got a crust!""You'll do it,if I have to hold a gun over you,"he announced grimly.
Mingled with my anxiety,which was real,was an exultation that would not down.Nevertheless,the idea of developing Tom into a Shakespeare,--Tom,who had not the slightest desire to be one I was appalling,besides having in it an element of useless self-sacrifice from which I recoiled.
On the other hand,if Alonzo should discover that I had written his theme,there were penalties I did not care to dwell upon ....With such a cloud hanging over me I passed a restless night.
As luck would have it the very next evening in the level light under the elms of the Square I beheld sauntering towards me a dapper figure which Irecognized as that of Mr.Cheyne himself.As I saluted him he gave me an amused and most disconcerting glance;and when I was congratulating myself that he had passed me he stopped.
"Fine weather for March,Paret,"he observed.
"Yes,sir,"I agreed in a strange voice.
"By the way,"he remarked,contemplating the bare branches above our heads,"that was an excellent theme your roommate handed in.I had no idea that he possessed such--such genius.Did you,by any chance,happen to read it?""Yes,sir,--I read it.""Weren't you surprised?"inquired Mr.Cheyne.
