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My Cousin The Colonel
by
“No, my dear boy, I can’t join the long procession of scullions, cooks, butlers, valets, and bottle-washers which seem to make up so large a part of your population. I couldn’t keep step with them. It is altogether impossible for me to conduct myself in this matter like a menial-of-all-work out of place. ‘Wanted, a situation, by a respectable young person of temperate habits; understands the care of horses; is willing to go into the country and milk the cow with the crumpled horn.’ No; many thanks.”
“State your own requirements, Flagg. I didn’t propose that you should offer yourself as coachman.”
“It would amount to the same thing, Wesley. I should at once be relegated to his level. Some large opportunity is dead sure to present itself to me if I wait. I believe the office should seek the man.”
“I have noticed that a man has to meet his opportunities more than halfway, or he doesn’t get acquainted with them. Mohammed was obliged to go to the mountain, after waiting for the mountain to come to him.”
“Mohammed’s mistake was that he didn’t wait long enough. He was too impatient. But don’t you fret. I have come to Yankeedom to make my fortune. The despot’s heel is on your shore, and it means to remain there until he hears of something greatly to his advantage.”
A few days following this conversation, Mr. Nelson, of Files & Nelson, wholesale grocers on Front Street, mentioned to me casually that he was looking for a shipping-clerk. Before the war the firm had done an extensive Southern trade, which they purposed to build up again now that the ports of the South were thrown open. The place in question involved a great deal of outdoor work–the loading and unloading of spicy cargoes, a life among the piers–all which seemed to me just suited to my cousin’s woodland nature. I could not picture him nailed to a desk in a counting-room. The salary was not bewildering, but the sum was to be elastic, if ability were shown. Here was an excellent chance, a stepping-stone, at all events; perhaps the large opportunity itself, artfully disguised as fifteen dollars a week. I spoke of Flagg to Mr. Nelson, and arranged a meeting between them for the next day.
I said nothing of the matter at the dinner-table that evening; but an encouraging thing always makes a lantern of me, and Clara saw the light in my face. As soon as dinner was over I drew my cousin into the little side room, and laid the affair before him.
“And I have made an appointment for you to meet Mr. Nelson to-morrow at one o’clock,” I said, in conclusion.
“My dear Wesley”–he had listened to me in silence, and now spoke without enthusiasm–“I don’t know what you were thinking of to do anything of the sort. I will not keep the appointment with that person. The only possible intercourse I could have with him would be to order groceries at his shop. The idea of a man who has moved in the best society of the South, who has been engaged in great if unsuccessful enterprises, who has led the picked chivalry of his oppressed land against the Northern hordes–the idea of a gentleman of this kidney meekly simmering down into a factotum to a Yankee dealer in canned goods! No, sir; I reckon I can do better than that.”
The lantern went out.
I resolved that moment to let my cousin shape his own destiny–a task which in no way appeared to trouble him. And, indeed, now that I look back to it, why should he have troubled himself? He had a comfortable if not luxurious apartment in Macdougal Street; a daily dinner that asked only to be eaten; a wardrobe that was replenished when it needed replenishing; a weekly allowance that made up for its modesty by its punctuality. If ever a man was in a position patiently to await the obsequious approach of large opportunities that man was Washington Flagg. He was not insensible to the fact. He passed his time serenely. He walked the streets–Flagg was a great walker–sometimes wandering for hours in the Central Park. His Southern life, passed partly among plantations, had given him a relish for trees and rocks and waters. He was also a hungry reader of novels. When he had devoured our slender store of fiction, which was soon done, he took books from a small circulating library on Sixth Avenue. That he gave no thought whatever to the future was clear. He simply drifted down the gentle stream of the present. Sufficient to the day was the sunshine thereof.