’Six months afterwards my friend (he was a cynical,
more than middle-aged bachelor, with a reputation
for eccentricity, and owned a rice-mill) wrote to
me, and judging, from the warmth of my recommendation,
that I would like to hear, enlarged a little upon Jim’s
perfections. These were apparently of a quiet
and effective sort. “Not having been able
so far to find more in my heart than a resigned toleration
for any individual of my kind, I have lived till now
alone in a house that even in this steaming climate
could be considered as too big for one man. I
have had him to live with me for some time past.
It seems I haven’t made a mistake.”
It seemed to me on reading this letter that my friend
had found in his heart more than tolerance for Jim—that
there were the beginnings of active liking. Of
course he stated his grounds in a characteristic way.
For one thing, Jim kept his freshness in the climate.
Had he been a girl—my friend wrote—one
could have said he was blooming—blooming
modestly—like a violet, not like some of
these blatant tropical flowers. He had been in
the house for six weeks, and had not as yet attempted
to slap him on the back, or address him as “old
boy,” or try to make him feel a superannuated
fossil. He had nothing of the exasperating young
man’s chatter. He was good-tempered, had
not much to say for himself, was not clever by any
means, thank goodness—wrote my friend.
It appeared, however, that Jim was clever enough to
be quietly appreciative of his wit, while, on the other
hand, he amused him by his naiveness. “The
dew is yet on him, and since I had the bright idea
of giving him a room in the house and having him at
meals I feel less withered myself. The other day
he took it into his head to cross the room with no
other purpose but to open a door for me; and I felt
more in touch with mankind than I had been for years.
Ridiculous, isn’t it? Of course I guess
there is something—some awful little scrape—which
you know all about—but if I am sure that
it is terribly heinous, I fancy one could manage to
forgive it. For my part, I declare I am unable
to imagine him guilty of anything much worse than
robbing an orchard. Is it much worse? Perhaps
you ought to have told me; but it is such a long time
since we both turned saints that you may have forgotten
we, too, had sinned in our time? It may be that
some day I shall have to ask you, and then I shall
expect to be told. I don’t care to question
him myself till I have some idea what it is. Moreover,
it’s too soon as yet. Let him open the
door a few times more for me.
. . .” Thus
my friend. I was trebly pleased—at
Jim’s shaping so well, at the tone of the letter,
at my own cleverness. Evidently I had known what
I was doing. I had read characters aright, and
so on. And what if something unexpected and wonderful
were to come of it? That evening, reposing in
a deck-chair under the shade of my own poop awning
(it was in Hong-Kong harbour), I laid on Jim’s
behalf the first stone of a castle in Spain.
