# Henry William's Reincarnation

Extracted from Everybody's magazine, 1906 November, pp. 685-691. Illustrations by John Conacher omitted
Henry William's Reincarnation
By HUGH PENDEXTER
IT was a dual sensation for Peevy's Mills. The community would have been well satisfied with knowing how Abigail Judkins was to decide the rivalry for her fat hand and comfortable home. But now, in addition to gaining a hint of this, the good people were amazed and interested to hear that the blacksmith, once considered her favored suitor, had lost his name. They all knew that he had been adopted by old man Stullins to take the place of Jim Stullins, an only son, who had run away from home when a youngster. The old man had even given him Jim's name and had lived long enough to see him grow up and do it more credit than ever the first owner had done. And the unexpected return of the genuine James Stullins, aged and broken in health, yet insistent on preserving the entire equity in his name, was the cause of the blacksmith's most peculiar predicament.
“Say what ye will,” declared Jasper Peabody as he sat on the post-office steps, “th' real Jim Stullins has th' only right ter th' name. No matter how shiftless he's been, it's th' one thing ye can't take away from him. As head s'lectman I shall refuse ter make out another poll-tax against th' blacksmith under that name.”
“I don't blame ye, Jasper,” cried Postmaster Abner Whitten admiringly and with a touch of malice glistening in his deep-set eyes. For the postmaster had a strong predilection for the widow Judkins and had come to fear the blacksmith, who was younger in years and much more prepossessing in physical presentment.
“I dunno,” mused Hiram Carr gravely. “Of course, there ain't only one Jim Stullins, but it don't seem right for th' Mills ter lose that poll-tax. Can't ye make it out John Doe, or somethin'?”
“Dod rot it! Th' man sartainly has some kind of a name,” shrilly protested old man Cram, wavering his pendulous whisker first toward the selectman and then toward the others. “Who ever heard of a man thurty-five years old, hale an' hearty, an' not havin' a name? If he was sick it wouldn't seem so queer. But even a boss has some kind of a name.”
“Ye see,” explained William Durgin, leaning back on the bottom step, much to the damage of the groceries his wife was then impatiently awaiting, “when old Stullins got word Jim was dead at th' tender age of sixteen years, he went ter town an' fetched back this orphan an' give him Jim's name. He was only a year old then, an' if he ever had a name old Stullins never let on.”
“Wal, he ain't got none now, neither,” grinned the postmaster as he dragged out an empty mail-sack to use for a cushion. “Danged if it ain't funny.”
“It sartainly is curious,” agreed the head selectman. “Guess it kinder cuts him out of th' runnin' after th' widder, eh, postmaster?”
The postmaster chuckled heartily for a few seconds before replying. “Ye sartainly are a keen observer, Jasper. But all jokin' aside, I can't see how a woman could marry a man without he had a name. Not that I ever figgered on Jim—I mean th' black smith—as havin' her favor.”
“Havin' her favor!” sneered Mr. Carr. “Why, she wouldn't look twice at him if he had all th' names between here an' Bangor. No, sirree! Catch her takin' up with th' blacksmith!”
“I guess th' town clerk could be prosecuted if he let him file any marriage intentions,” piped up old man Cram.
“Yep,” agreed the postmaster complacently. “But, d'ye know, fellers, what's ter hinder th' real Jim Stullins from takin' th' blacksmith shop? So long as th' sign reads 'James Stullins,' I guess th' real Jim has title ter it.”
“He's took th' sign down,” informed the head selectman. “As a town officer I had ter warn him he couldn't do business under that name unless he wanted ter be made liable for takin' money under false pretenses.”
“But what I can't figger out,” mumbled old man Crane, “is, why can't he take another name?”
“What I want is ter see him a—payin' his poll-tax,” persisted Mr. Carr.
“Wal, ye can see him in person about it; for here he comes now, lookin' mighty like he was squelched,” hoarsely whispered Mr. Durgin.
The newcomer, tall and broad of shoulders, approached uncertainly, his good-natured, simple face wearing a look of deep concern. He paused just before reaching the loungers and eyed them wistfully, as if in fear he might not be welcome. Then, with his head bowed almost sheepishly, he shuffled forward and sank heavily on the edge of the platform.
“How be ye, sir?” saluted the postmaster sternly.
“How d'ye do, blacksmith?” added the head selectman with a sly wink to his friends.
The blacksmith turned his head slowly, and in a broken voice protested: “I tell ye, fellers, it's derned serious ter me. Why, I feel jest us if I was nothin'. But what be I ter do? I can't finish out my days without some kind of a proper name.”
“Why don't ye take another one?” demanded old man Cram testily “If I was big as a ox I'd have at dandy.”
“I don't know any but what it in use here in the village,“ groaned the blacksmith.
“Of course he can't take just any name he has a fancy for,” remonstrated the postmaster, frowning. “He's not only too honest for that, but th' owner would kick.”
“He could splice two on 'em, couldn't he?” suggested Mr. Cram.
“Hardly,” broke in the head selectman firmly. “In that case he'd have two owners instead of one after him. Ye see, fellers—” and his tone assumed all its official pomp—“ye can't go around th' county pickin' up names th' same as ye'd steal a hen?”
“But I'll pay,” cried the blacksmith eagerly. “I'll give thirty dollars for a name that clears th' law an' makes me feel as if I was livin'.”
Old man Cram immediately pricked up his ears and eagerly anticipated the others by offering: “In that case jest consider—er—say, Twinkteetum. I vum! I didn't think I had it in me. There ye be! A danged odd name an' one no one can kick ag'in yer usin'. How's it strike ye?”
“It don't strike him at all,” interposed Postmaster Whitten angrily. “That ain't no name of a human bein'. It's th' name of a star, I take it. An', Mr. Cram, I'd like ter see ye inside afore ye start for home.”
As Mr. Cram was under some financial obligations to the speaker, he meekly bowed his aged head and made no more suggestions.
“No,” declared the blacksmith dully, after his awkward tongue had assailed the appellative in a whisper, “ it don't sound right. Sounds as if I was a daredevil, or somethin'. I've tried ter think an' think, but bein' no literary character I can't call ter mind any name but what I know here in th' village. Still it seems kind of close an' narrer that none of ye'll let me have one of yer fambly names that ain't workin'.”
“Th' idea is this,” the postmaster hastened to explain; “which one of us knows when we'll want ter use th' very name we might let ye have? S'posin' we had ter use it an' come ter ye an' asked ter have it back? Why, ye'd be so mixed up ye'd never know yerself. S'posin' I said, 'All right, go ahead an' use my dead uncle's name. Call yerself Reuben Huff.' Then up bobs a cousin an' asks why in tarnation I did it for, seein' as how he wanted ter name a child Reuben Huff. Then there'd be a purty how d'ye do.”
“Yas,” declared Mr. Peabody solemnly, “Whitten is right.”
“Wal, I hate like sin ter do it, but I'll have ter write out of town for one, then,” declared the blacksmith desperately.
“An' how would ye sign th' letter?” demanded the postmaster, stifling a smile.
“Jest th' same as if he was in prison,” whispered Mr. Durgin admiringly.
“Then I don't see as how I can do nothin',” groaned the blacksmith, rising slowly. “I can't twist or turn, or do nothin'.”
“Not so bad as that,” placated the postmaster. “I guess, if th' town officers will meet in my office next week—say, on Tuesday—we can figger out a name that will fit ye like a glove.”
“I'll have ter wait, of course; but I hate ter feel so lost until then,” mumbled the blacksmith over his shoulder. Then after walking a few steps he stopped and wheeled, protesting anxiously: “But I forgot; I can't wait till then. Ter-day's Monday; why not make it ter-morrer? I must have some kind of a name before Saturday. Why, I wanted——”
“Wal?” prompted the postmaster icily.
The blacksmith gazed at them numbly for a few seconds and then completed lamely, “I wanted ter be known by some name before Saturday; that's all. I only wish Jim Stullins was here now,” he broke out again plaintively. “I'll bet I could hire him ter rent me his name, if nothin' more. I guess th' money would do him th' most good.”
“But he's gone back ter town an' ye must depend on us,” retorted the postmaster. “An' we'll have ter have time ter do some tall thinkin' afore we can fit ye out. As ye say, it's a serious matter an' we can't go slapdash at it, like it was some kind of a frolic.”
“Lawd! I don't see how a week will be time enough,” amended Mr. Durgin.
“They'll have ter hustle,” declared old man Cram, stroking his whisker dubiously.
As the blacksmith walked moodily through the dust to his shop his simple mind was beset with new worries. He knew he must be “somebody” before Saturday, or else suffer the greatest loss possible. For more than a year he had turned his eyes in bashful longing after the plump widow Judkins. Too backward to ply his suit arduously he had remained at a distance and dumbly observed the slashing advances of the postmaster. Whitten had a dashing style about him that could not leave the object of his choice long in doubt. And yet, after he had been in the lists for several months and the widow showed no signs of succumbing, the blacksmith had plucked up heart and grown so bold as shyly to intimate his passion.
But just as he reached the point of tremulous hope the blow descended that left him with no standing before the law. A week ago Mrs. Judkins had told him that shortly she should pack up her goods and move to an adjacent town to live with a sister. Life at the Mills was lonely for her, she explained; and right then and there he would have spoken almost boldly had she not added, “so lonely since Henry William died.” This mention of her husband's name left him tongue-tied, and the golden opportunity was lost.
Later he learned that she intended to depart on Saturday; knowledge of this fact doubtless made clear to the postmaster his crying need to be known as a definite quantity before that day. It did not seem logical even to the blacksmith's slow mind to go to her and say, “Be my wife,” when he had no name to give her. He speculated hazily as to her status assuming she should marry him now. So far as he could decide she would be reduced like himself to the undesirable plane of a nonentity. Obviously such a situation was impossible.
To ease his mind he took a turn at blowing the bellows and hammering on some wagon work. The labor began to do him good in lessening the mental strain, and he was tediously groping his way to a definite plan of aggressive action when a customer entered and in paying a bill asked for a receipt. Then the hopelessness of it all came back to him as, after mechanically writing the voucher, he was brought to a halt over the signature.
“Dod rot a receipt, anyway,” he growled, throwing the paper into the fire. And as soon as the customer departed he locked his shop.
The morrow found him in no easier frame of mind. In fact, haunted by the dread of another proffer of payment, he did not dare to loiter about the forge, and always a poor companion to himself when idle, he walked far from the village and returned late in the afternoon, nearly exhausted.
“Hi!” cried the postmaster as he dragged his heavy frame by the office, “hold on a minute. I jest wanted ter report progress. Danged if I didn't keep awake almost all night rasslin' over that name. I've got a stunner for th' furst name—Theobold. Dug it out of a story. Now jest put yerself in my hands an' I'll pull ye through a-hikin', if it takes a leg.”
“Derned neighborly of ye,” sighed the blacksmith dolefully, “but I did want that name for this week. It means a heap ter me. I can't tell ye jest how much, but if ye could grapple onter th' last name between now an' Saturday, I'd be everlastin'ly obleeged.”
“I'll do what I can, but I'm afraid it can't be did till next week,” said the postmaster regretfully, frowning with the weight of his cogitations. “Ye see, last names come hardest. There's where ye have ter be almighty careful an' go slow an' let th' brain do a little simmerin' before ye decide But I'll do my best.”
“Try an' pick out one that I can remember easy,” cautioned the blacksmith as with head bowed despondently he resumed his moody way.
“Land sakes!” exclaimed a voice on his right. “How pert we be.”
He turned quickly, his eyes showing a new light, but remembering his anonymous condition he groaned slightly as he hesitated at the widow's gate.
“Don't ye find it hard work ter speak ter me?” he asked bitterly.
“Sha'n't ye give up! An' why?” And her fat hands mechanically caused the gate to swing open a bit.
“I didn't know but what it would bother ye, seein' as how I ain't got no name,” he explained listlessly, stumbling into the yard and slumping down on the stone step.
“I'd forgot,” she murmured, puckering her brows. Then in irritation, “But why don't ye git a name? If I was a man an' as big as you be I'd have one, an' a finnified one, too.”
“Jest what old Cram said,” he returned. “I've wished for th' last few days that I wa'n't so big. Seems if it would be easier ter git a name for a small man.”
“A small man is always small-natur'd,” she sniffed.
A dull glow of satisfaction lighted his eyes for a moment as he recalled the stubby form of the postmaster; then he sighed: “It don't help much, but I'm glad ye think so. Sometimes, though, these small chaps are kind of poetic-like an' can sling words an' find names. Whitten is goin' ter dig one up for me next week. Wish I had it now.” And his gaze met hers sorrowfully.
“Why now more'n any other time?” she murmured.
“Oh, because. Gittin' ready ter move?”
“I be.”
“Prob'ly will move by Saturday?“
“Prob'ly.”
“Dod rot it! If a man could only buy a name.”
“If Henry William was livin' he'd give ye one quick enough,” she condoled.
“If he was, I wouldn't give a dern whether I had one or not,” he growled.
“Mebbe ye don't take to his name,” she observed a bit acridly.
“Wal, it always struck me as twisted. Why didn't he call it William Henry?” he asked.
“It suited me,” she replied stiffly. “It suited me so well I shall never change th' last name. Besides, I don't see's ye are exactly in position to criticize.”
“Ye're right,” he mumbled, rising. “I'm jest nothin'. Lawd! any name would look mighty good ter me if ye wa'n't so sot on Judkins.”
“Wal, before ye go ye might lift this bar'l for me,” she suggested, her eyes growing tender as they surveyed his abject bearing.
{[dhr]} “Wal, I guess it was too much for him an' he'll never come back,” observed Postmaster Whitten complacently as he joined the group on the steps. “Derned if I'd believed he'd been so simple.” And he laughed silently and wagged his head in enjoyment.
“I guess he really was afraid he'd have ter go through life without no name at all,” guffawed the head selectman. “Danged if I ain't sorry' we didn't chip in an' buy him one of them breastpins what says 'Baby' on it. It wouldn't have cost more'n a quarter, all told.”
“By Judas, Jasper! But I wish ye had thought of it,” cried the postmaster regretfully.
“I got so I had ter whistle ter him like a dog when I wanted ter attract his attention,” snickered Mr. Durgin.
“An' me a-steerin' him away from names that might be needed in my fambly,” added Mr. Carr.
“I see Widder Judkins goin' over on th' Pitchmope stage,” digressed old man Cram.
“Yas,” drawled the postmaster with a knowing wink; “she went over ter tell her sister she'd changed her mind an' would stop here. I kinder reasoned with her, an' ye'll notice she kinder quit packin' up.”
“I snum! But ye're a shrewd one when it comes ter women,” declared the old man.
“Ha! ha! kinder decided she likes Peevy's Mills th' best, after all, eh?” chuckled the head selectman.
“Wal,” grinned the postmaster, “I won't mislead ye, an' it ain't boastin' any ter say that she does. Better not speak of it ter any one jest yet, as I ain't got around ter declare myself.”
“Oh, I say now, Ab, what ye want ter keep her in suspense for?” expostulated Mr. Peabody.
“Well, ye see, fellers,” explained the postmaster gravely, “I believe in not lettin' a woman git th' idea I'm cheap an' easy got. Let 'em feel a little unsartain, is my motter.”
“An' a blamed good one, too,” indorsed Mr. Carr. “That's th' way I did with my woman.”
“Where'll ye live, Ab,” inquired the head selectman eagerly, “in her house, or over th' office?”
“Here,” replied the postmaster firmly. “I shall sell that place. Jest so much money layin' idle.”
“Her first husband left her somethin' besides th' house, didn't he?” queried Mr. Carr gently.
“Oh, so, so,” replied Mr. Whitten airily. “I never see a woman yet that would make me forgit th' lady on th' doller.”
“Wal, if ye ain't slicker'n all git out,” piped Mr. Cram.
“Yas,” smirked the postmaster, “I always want ter know— But here comes th' stage an' I've got ter drag out that derned mail.”
As the stage, accompanied by a cloud of dust, rolled slowly up to the steps the loungers were mildly surprised to see that it contained passengers. Then to their amazement the tall form trying to pass through the door resolved itself into the blacksmith. He had returned, after all, and the circle rose to its feet in the interest of the moment. But whom was he clumsily aiding to alight?
“Great Scott!” cried Mr, Carr, dashing inside the office. “Come out here, Ab, an' see th' blacksmith. He's come back.”
“Come after his name, mebbe,” remarked the postmaster sarcastically, with his face drawn down into a frown. “I guess I ain't got no more time ter fuss with him. Ye can tell him I couldn't git a name to him.”
“But th' widder is with him,” added Mr. Carr in a hoarse whisper.
“What!” ejaculated Mr. Whitten, and his feet no longer lagged.
But before he could reach the threshold the widow and her escort entered. Never had she looked so comely and desirable to the postmaster as now. He mentally vowed he would have consented to marry her if she had possessed nothing besides her plump figure and fresh face.
“Any mail for me, Mr. Whitten?” she asked lightly, as her companion allowed her to take the lead.
“I dunno. I'll see. If th' blacksmith should ask that question, I'd have ter inquire, 'What name, please?'” he returned dryly, not neglecting to pass a wink to the staring faces in the doorway.
“Do tell,” she simpered, tilting her double chin so as to gaze over his head. “Well, in th' futur', when he asks, jest kindly peep into th' Henry William Judkins mail-box.”
“Why, what for?” gasped the postmaster.
“Because that's who he is now,” she returned quietly.
“By Judas!” ejaculated Mr. Peabody. “Danged if she ain't allowed him ter use her husband's name.”
“Henry William Judkins, ye're big enough to step forward an' say something,” she reminded him sternly.
The blacksmith, his face distorted by a lame grin, advanced and after indulging in a bashful chuckle explained: “Ye see, fellers, I decided not ter wait for th' town ter name me. An' as Mrs. Judkins allowed she'd never change her name, an' as I always opined Henry William Judkins's widder was th' best thing any man could git on earth anywhere, I also opined th' name was good enough for me. We was married this mornin'.”
“He's goin' to have th' new sign put up over his shop to-morrow,” she added in pleased animation. “Come, Henry.”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1945, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 78 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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