The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1883-12-29
LOCKE wAMsLEY's HOLIDAY.

tSio anu lOb q OdO SOliP uiAO
ever might be said or thought concerning
him, it was the tacit verdict of all who
knew him that he was sincere. Every
lineament in his placid face was a mark of
honest purpose, or rather of honest convic-
tions, since he seemed to have little purpose
beyond the mere matter of living, and that
in his case was probably enough.
Ten years had passed since he left his
home in a quiet little town on the Wabash
and made his way to the city, where, by
some inscrutable but undoubtedly honest
means, he managed to live. Among the few
who happened to know anything about him
there was a tradition that he kept a dusty
set of books in a still dustier
and very musty mill. The meager
salary paid him there enabled him to live,
provided him with two suits of clothes-one
for week days and one for S~unday-and left
a margin for such few ties and gloves as his
retired life required, His belongings were
always kept ~scrupulously neat. The whisk
that hung by the side of his l~ooking-glass
showed signs of honest service, and his hat,
when not on his head, had always a place for
it. Wamsley, himself, confessed that he was
old-maidish, a little, and mildly declared
that he could go about his room at midnight
and lay his hand on any desired article with
out striking a match.
All day at the ~mill-while the wheels were
rumbling, the burrs whirling in ceaseless
round, and everything was turbulent
and noisy, Locke Wamsley alone
was quiet, save that the mice that
darted in and about the ~"office,"
and the rats that looked askance
from convenient holes made no noise. 1t
was only at night, after he got to his solitary
room, that he INDUCED in anything like
recreation, and then be whistled softly 10
himself, as he brushed his scanty wardrobe
preparatory to composing himself for an
hour or two with some book before going to
bed. He was so circumspect even in the in
diligence of this weakness, however, that
only the fellow next door knew of it, and he
was not quite positive that Mr.. Wamsley
actually whistled.
But one day in middle December he got
to thinking about home. 1t may have been
something in the weather that did ii, or, pos
sibly, it was a thin little letter from his
mother thai set him into a train of
~reveries that seemingly had no end. In a
degree he was beside himself. All day
long his thoughts would wander from the
ledger page in spite of him. He felt guilty,
somehow, whenever he had reused enough
to find that he had been idly dreaming, in
stead of attending to his customary duties.
He could not understand himself, it was so
-.-I IL -
before him were strangely metamorphosed
into walnut trees, and the totals were the
number of pecks of nuts that he had gath
cred, and the unusual number startled him.
He caught himself once scanning his hands
to see if the stains were still there, and at the
close of the days business he could not strike
q balance by some few cents, having been en-
tirely oblivious OF his charity when he be-
slowed a corresponding sum on a mendicant
who had appealed to him at the right mo-
ment.
That night he failed to whistle when he
got to his room, and brushed his coat IN a
perfunctory way that plainly told of his
pre-occuration. After supper he could not
read with any comfort, though he snUffed
the candle repeatedly and tried to make the
page brighter. Wamsley had an old-fash-
Toned way of persisting in using candles in
stead of lamps; perhaps on account of hered-
ity, though this reason may not have oc-
Cured to him. He fortified himself in this
idiosyncrasy by the reflection that they were
both safer and cheaper than oil, and his eyes
were still good, so that he suffered no special
Inconvenience.
A neighboring clock striking ten reused
him from a reverie in which he must have
stared at a certain hole in the carpet no tell
ing how long. Still wondering what was the
matter, and mildly reproaching himself, he
Iai1 off hic o1OthoS and nnf ont tho LIGHT
The next day was the same, and the next,
until his employers noticed that something
unusual possessed their methodical book
keeper. Firm in their belief in his integ-
rity, they urged that he take a vacation, the
first in several years.
For a wonder he took kindly to the sug-
gestion, and resolved that another morning
should find him on his way to his long
neglected home.
That night he could hardly sleep, and
when at last he did close his eyes it was from
uncontrollable drowsiness. Lying there he
had thought of everything that had trans
pired when he was a boy. Everything came
back so wildly that it all seemed present
again.
With other half-clad boys he went SWIM
ming at the ''cow-ford," ran away from
school, and again experienced the delicious
ioy that was tempered with a fear that grew
stronger and stronger as the days flew by and
brought the certain punishment nearer to
hand. He remembered one term that he
didn't go to school at all, from first day to
last, and was apprehended only when his
father wen to pay for his tuition.
From the twilight of vagaries he shaded off
into dreams, and now his truant fancy be-
came incoherent. His dreams took fantastic
shapes, and ran the gam1t of such absurd
impossibilities that he felt that they bore
down on him depressingly, and made him
inordinately tired. Still he could not flee
them, but in a helpless way he seemed to
wonder what new torture they would intro
duce next.
He dreamed that the lame girl he used to
know, and for whom he mended d crutch
one day, was his sweetheart; she chung to
him heavily and assumed weird shapes; she
Eissad him 90 wistfullN-sn hnnorilv he