The Man Of No Account

: Selected Stories

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
y 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!"



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