Traveling for the Deaf—When the Deaf Man Saved a Leg for Someone Else—The Cornetist Who Couldn’t Play a Note—When the Deaf Meet the Drunk.

Some deaf persons make the mistake of concluding that the affliction chains them at home and that they should not attempt to travel. This is wrong, for they thus lose many extraordinary adventures. It is better for us to get about if possible, and to take our chances with the world. I travel about as freely as any man with perfect ears might do, and thus see much of human nature which would otherwise be lost to me. No adventures are more amusing or exciting than those which start with mistaken identity. I have come to think that in the molding or shaping of humanity comparatively few patterns are really used, judging from the number of times that I and other deaf men have been mistaken for strange persons in the mental shuffle of ordinary minds. The man with good ears can usually explain at once, but we do not always understand, and we are led into embarrassing situations.

Once years ago I went to the country to spend the night with an old friend. It was dark when we reached the little town where I was to meet “an elderly man with a gray beard,” who would drive me to the farm. We deaf are careful to have all such arrangements understood beforehand. It was a black, gloomy night, and there were no lights at the little station except the lanterns carried by the agent and a few farmers. The deaf man is at his worst in darkness. It holds unimaginable terrors for him. Perhaps I should say perplexities, for the deaf are rarely afraid.

Most of us do more or less lip-reading, whether we make a study of the science or not, and through long habit we come to make use of the eyes without realizing how largely our lives must depend upon light. Thus, when suddenly plunged into darkness, we are lost. I carried in my hand a small black case containing the electric instrument which I used as an aid to hearing, and this proved my undoing. Such a case may be accepted as professional evidence; it may contain only a lunch or your laundry, but lawyers and physicians also carry similar ones. As I stood looking about in the dim light an elderly man with a short beard stepped up and held his lantern so as to view my face. I saw his lips frame the words:

“Come on; hurry! We are all waiting.”

I supposed he referred to supper, for I knew my friend had a very orderly and precise wife, who is a little deaf. One must be promptly on time in keeping appointments with such a character. The old man caught me by the arm, hurried me to a carriage, and fairly bundled me into it. He paid no attention to my questions, but jumped into the front seat and urged on the horse to full speed. The lantern swinging from the front axle went out as we bumped off into the darkness over mud holes and ruts without number. I tried to get my electric device into operation, but the plug had dropped out of place and I could not make connections. So on we plunged. Soon I found that the old man in front was nearly as deaf as I. The combination of two deaf men in the darkness rushing through what was to one of them an absolutely unknown country should have been thrilling, but the deaf man rarely experiences a thrill; he must wait for some one to tell him what it is all about. As usual, my mind worked back for some comparative incident.

I remembered two. The year before I had gone to Canada during the Winter. A farmer met me at the station after dark. It was very cold, and the body of a closed carriage which had been put on runners was filled with straw. This made a warm, comfortable nest, and the farmer got in with me, while his son sat up in front to drive. The same plug to my hearing device had dropped out, and in order to give me a light for finding it, my host struck a match. He held it too long and it burned his fingers. Then it fell into the straw and started a great blaze. No two men ever showed greater activity than we did as we plunged out of that carriage and threw in snow until the fire was extinguished. That scene came to my mind, and then followed the story by Ian Maclaren of the great surgeon who came up from London to perform an operation, and was carried off into the wilderness against his will by the local doctor.

We drove several miles, it seemed to me, and then suddenly turned into the yard of a farmhouse. I felt the carriage shudder as the wheel grazed the stone gatepost. The door opened and a long splinter of light darted out upon us. Two women hurried down the walk and helped me out of the carriage. They were strangers to me, and now I was sure that I was in the midst of an exciting adventure, not at the home of my friend. The women escorted me to the house, where I found two solemn-faced gentlemen evidently waiting for me. One of them held up a finger and beckoned me into an adjoining room, where upon a bed lay a man who glared at me with no agreeable face. By this time I had my “acousticon” in working order, and as this man evidently had something to say, I held the mouthpiece down to him and heard him shout:

“I tell you I won’t have it cut off!”

The two men who had brought me in were very much startled when the exact contents of my black case was revealed. They glanced at each other and then promptly escorted me out of the room. We went into the kitchen, and there, beside the stove, the mystery was explained. One of the men looked curiously at me and then asked:

“Are you not Dr. Newton of New York?”

I hastened to explain that I had never before heard of Dr. Newton. Then it was revealed to me that these men were country doctors, waiting to hold a consultation with the great surgeon, who had been expected to arrive on my train. The man on the bed had had serious trouble with his knee. These physicians had agreed that the limb must be removed, yet both hesitated to perform a complicated operation. Hence, the surgeon was coming to do it. The sick man’s father-in-law had gone to the station; he had been instructed to bring back a man of medium size, who said little and carried a black case of surgical instruments. I was to look for an elderly man with a gray beard. Father-in-law and I had mixed our signals.

It took me but a short time to convince these physicians that I could not fill the bill or saw off the leg. At last it developed that the actual surgeon was detained and could not come until the following day.

The man on the bed forgot his terror and laughed when I told him my story, and it gave him the fighting courage to compel his wife to telegraph the surgeon not to come at all. But those doctors acted as though I had deprived them of their prey. In my capacity as substitute surgeon I gave the patient the best advice I knew of:

“As one afflicted man to another, I advise you to hang right on to your leg. Try the faith cure and make yourself believe it can be saved.”

“You bet I will. They’ll have to cut my throat before they cut this leg off!”

I saw him some years later. He carried a cane and limped, but he still had two legs.

“They never cut it off,” he reported. “They put a silver cord in the joint, and it has held ever since. It’s a little stiff—but it’s a leg. I guess if Pa Morton and you hadn’t been deaf that night they would have finished the job.”

I have heard of a deaf man who had an experience somewhat similar to this. He also left the train one dark, stormy night in a good-sized city. He was a stranger, so he was quite unfamiliar with the place. He carried a small black case containing his hearing device and a few toilet articles. As he stood in the dim light looking about for his friends, two men rushed up to him, talking quite excitedly; they grasped him by the arms and hurried him outside the station. Unable to understand the performance, the deaf man followed, trying to explain that he was waiting for his friends. Almost before he knew it he found himself inside a car with these excitable gentlemen, driving rapidly through the streets. Of course, you wonder why deaf men under such conditions do not explain and break away.

“You wouldn’t catch me in any such situation,” says my friend Jones. “I’d soon make ’em understand.”

There is only one thing the matter with Jones’ point of view—he has never lived in the silence. Let him try that and he will understand that philosophy assumes a form of patience in such situations. We are usually quite helpless in the darkness, and when we go among strangers we must either suspect everyone who approaches us or consider him a friend. Most of us conclude from experience that it is wiser to drop suspicion and assume that the majority of human beings are honest. And as the great emotion of fear apparently enters the brain through the ear, we are apt to be calm under most extraordinary conditions.

We left our puzzled deaf man rushing in a car through the streets of an unknown city. The auto finally entered a narrow, dark alley and stopped before what appeared to be the back door of a large building. The deaf man was urged out of the car by his nervous companions and was hurried up a steep stairway. They blundered through several dark passages and finally came out on the stage of a theater, where they stood in the wings and watched a long-haired pianist in the center of the stage laboring to unlock the keys of a piano in a way calculated to let loose a horde of imprisoned melodies. A vast audience filled the house.

A man who appeared to be master of ceremonies rushed up to the deaf man and wrote on his notebook:

“Delighted to see you! We feared you were not coming. Your first number is next on the program. We will give the professor an encore while you are preparing.”

The poor deaf man could only stare and protest in wonder, but soon a ponderous German puffed up the stairs in great excitement. He pulled the unfortunate victim back among the heaps of properties and roared, shaking his fist:

“I am the cornetist what plays here! What do you mean, you impostor, who try to take my place?”

After they had succeeded in pacifying the German they explained to the deaf man. They had engaged a celebrated cornet soloist for the benefit concert, and had sent a reception committee to the station to meet him. It was late, and these nervous men had never seen the great musician. They did see a dignified man carrying what looked like a case for musical instruments. When they asked him if he was Professor Hoffman, the deaf man merely nodded his head as the quickest way to get rid of them, and they naturally rushed him to the theater without further ado, leaving the musician to find his way alone.

This deaf man had a keen sense of humor, and greatly relished the situation, but the German had never recognized a joke in his life, so he continued to glare at the “impostor.” After a most humble apology about all the committee could offer as recompense was an invitation to the deaf man to remain and hear the music. He remained and was interested in seeing his musical rival blow himself up to nearly twice his natural size in order properly to express his feelings through his cornet.

Many of his most amusing and at the same time tragic experiences come to the deaf man through his association with drunken people. We meet them in all our travels, and I must confess that I have never found a more interesting study than that which deals with the effect of alcohol upon the human character. A drunken deaf man is a most pitiable object, but to the observant deaf man his drunken neighbor presents a case of infinite wonder and variety. We see men naturally grim and silent singing ridiculous songs, or attempting to dance. Men usually profane, making no pretense at religion, suddenly quote from the Scriptures devoutly. Quarrelsome men of rough, ugly temper overwhelm us with attentions, while men of kindly nature challenge us to fight. We see it all, and must judge such people mainly by their actions.

Usually drunken men begin to talk to me. When they find that I do not reply they generally foam over with sorrow or anger, and it is hard to decide which is the more embarrassing. Once in a strange town when I was looking about for my friends the town drunkard accosted me. I have never known just what he did want, but when I explained that I was a stranger looking for a certain street he volunteered to show me the way. So he caught my arm and led me up the street, staggering against me at every other step, and talking loudly. And on our way we met my friend and his wife, sober and dignified persons who were horrified at my appearance under the escort of the town drunkard. In his sober moments my guide would never have thought of associating with these aristocratic representatives of Main Street, but now he greeted them jovially, as old friends. It was a most embarrassing situation, and my friends, being absolutely devoid of humor, have never felt quite sure of me since the incident.

A drunken man once approached a friend of mine with a remark which he did not understand, as he was deaf, so he merely shook his head and turned away. The intoxicated man, full of fight, followed, shouting challenges and pulling off his coat. A crowd gathered about them, and two rough-looking fellows got behind the deaf man and offered to act as his seconds. One of them advised:

“Give him an upper cut on the chin whisker and follow it up with one on his basket!”

What the deaf man did was to pull out his notebook and pencil and give them to the drunken man, who now was quite ready for the fray.

“I cannot hear a word you say. Write it out for me!”

This is offered as a suggestion to the peace-makers, that they may be more blessed than ever before. Whenever a man curses you, and you want to gain time—ask him to write it out! Here the drunken man looked curiously at the deaf man and then at the notebook. He pondered deeply for a moment and then slowly began to put on his coat. He walked unsteadily to a little box nearby, mounted it carefully and delivered a short speech something like this:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am wrong. This man is not my enemy, but my friend, made so through affliction. He is in need. I suggest that we all chip in and help him on his way. I’ll start with the price of three drinks! Come now, loosen up! He who giveth let him give quickly!”

Once I lived in the house with a kindly man who had a fierce craving for drink. He really fought against it, but it mastered him again and again. One year at Christmas he had gone for several months without drinking. He was like a consumptive who imagines that he has overcome his disease while it still lurks within only waiting for favorable conditions to blaze up. A few days before Christmas several old friends stepped out of his wild past and broke down the man’s self-control. When I came home he was “roaring drunk”—I had never seen him in worse condition. As I came up the stairs he rushed suddenly out of his room and caught me unexpectedly by the collar. As I was taken off my guard he was able to pull me inside the room, shut the door and throw himself against it. At that time I could hear much of what he said. He glared at me like a maniac. His fists were clenched, his eyes were bloodshot and he was altogether a terrifying and a pitiful spectacle.

I expected him to throw himself upon me, and I was ready. I had no idea wherein I had offended, and I did not want to hurt him. I derided that when he sprang at me I would sidestep and give him the “French trip” which I had learned in the lumber camps. That will floor anyone who is not prepared for it, and I knew that I could tie him if necessary. But there was no fight in him except the frightful battle he was waging against himself. His fists opened and he held out his hands appealingly.

“I’ve brought you here to pray for me! Get right down on your knees and pray that I may be a man and not a skunk!”

Well—take it as you like, the deaf man has his share of excitement with all sorts of men. There seems to be no good reason that we should lead uneventful lives! I have often wondered what various pompous friends of mine would have done with the above situation. Or I should like to see them master another incident which involved the same man. Once he approached me as I stood talking with visitors.

“I want you to do me a favor!” he said in the thick, eager voice of the intoxicated. “I want you to kick me, and kick me hard!” As I did not reply he thought I had not heard, so taking off his coat he backed up to me in a way any deaf person could understand!