If my old school-chum and room-mate John Skinner is alive to-day—and no doubt he is alive, and quite so, being, when last heard from, the very alert and effective Train Dispatcher at Butler, Indiana,—he will not have forgotten a certain night in early June (the 8th) of 1870, in “Old Number ’Leven” of the Dunbar House, Greenfield, when he and I sat the long night through, getting ready a famous issue of our old school-paper, “The Criterion.” And he will remember, too, the queer old man who occupied, but that one night, the room just opposite our own, Number 13. For reasons wholly aside from any superstitious dread connected with the numerals, 13 was not a desirable room; its locality was alien to all accommodations, and its comforts, like its furnishings, were extremely meagre. In fact, it was the room usually assigned to the tramp-printer, who, in those days, was an institution; or again, it was the local habitation of the oft-recurring transient customer who was too incapacitated to select a room himself when he retired—or rather, when he was personally retired by “the hostler,” as the gentlemanly night-clerk of that era was habitually designated.

As both Skinner and myself—between fitful terms of school—had respectively served as “printer’s devil” in the two rival newspaper offices of the town, it was natural for us to find a ready interest in anything pertaining to the newspaper business; and so it was, perhaps, that we had been selected, by our own approval and that of our fellow-students of The Graded Schools, to fill the rather exalted office of editing “The Criterion.” Certain it is that the rather abrupt rise from the lowly duties of the “roller” to the editorial management of a paper of our own (even if issued in handwriting) we accepted as a natural right; and, vested in our new power of office, we were largely “shaping the whisper of the throne” about our way.

And upon this particular evening it was, as John and I had fairly squared ourselves for the work of the night, that we heard the clatter and shuffle of feet on the side-stairs, and, an instant later, the hostler establishing some poor unfortunate in 13, just across the hall.

“Listen!” said John, as we heard an old man’s voice through the open transom of our door,—“listen at that!”

It was an utterance peculiarly refined, in language as well as intonation. A low, mild, rather apologetic voice, gently assuring the hostler that “everything was very snug and comfortable indeed—so far as the compartment was concerned—but would not the attendant kindly supply a better light, together with pen-and-ink—and just a sheet or two of paper,—if he would be so very good as to find a pardon for so very troublesome a guest.”

“Hain’t no writin’-paper,” said the hostler, briefly,—“and the big lamps is all in use. These fellers here in ’Leven might let you have some paper and—Hain’t you got a lead-pencil?”

“Oh, no matter!” came the impatient yet kindly answer of the old voice—“no matter at all, my good fellow!—Good night—good night!”

We waited till the sullen, clumpy footsteps down the hall and stair had died away.

Then Skinner, with a handful of foolscap, opened our door; and, with an indorsing smile from me, crossed the hall and tapped at 13—was admitted—entered, and very quietly closed the door behind him, evidently that I might not be disturbed.

I wrote on in silence for quite a time. It was, in fact, a full half-hour before John had returned,—and with a face and eye absolutely blazing with delight.

“An old printer,” whispered John, answering my look,—“and we’re in luck:—He’s a genius, ’y God! and an Englishman, and knows Dickens personally—used to write races with him, and’s got a manuscript of his in his ‘portmanteau,’ as he calls an old oil-cloth knapsack with one lung clean gone. Excuse this extra light.—Old man’s lamp’s like a sore eye, and he’s going to touch up the Dickens sketch for us! Hear?—For us—for ‘The Criterion.’ Says he can’t sleep—he’s in distress—has a presentiment—some dear friend is dying—or dead now—and he must write—write!”

This is, in briefest outline, the curious history of the subjoined sketch, especially curious for the reason that the following morning’s cablegram announced that the great novelist, Charles Dickens, had been stricken suddenly and seriously the night previous. On the day of this announcement—even as “The Criterion” was being read to perfunctorily interested visitors of The Greenfield Graded Schools—came the further announcement of Mr. Dickens’s death. The old printer’s manuscript, here reproduced, is, as originally, captioned—

TWIGGS AND TUDENS

“Now who’d want a more cosier little home than me and Tude’s got here?” asked Mr. Twiggs, as his twinkling eyes swept caressingly around the cheery little room in which he, alone, stood one chill December evening as the great St. Paul’s was drawling six.

“This ain’t no princely hall with all its gorgeous paraphanaly, as the play-bills says; but it’s what I calls a’ ‘interior,’ which for meller comfort and cheerful surroundin’s ain’t to be ekalled by no other ‘flat’ on the boundless, never-endin’ stage of this existence!” And as the exuberant Mr. Twiggs rendered this observation, he felt called upon to smile and bow most graciously to an invisible audience, whose wild approval he in turn interpreted by an enthusiastic clapping of his hands and the cry of “Ongcore!” in a dozen different keys—this strange acclamation being made the more grotesque by a great green parrot perched upon the mantel, which, in a voice less musical than penetrating, chimed in with “Hooray for Twiggs and Tudens!” a very great number of times.

“Tude’s a queer girl,” said Mr. Twiggs, subsiding into a reflective calm, broken only by the puffing of his pipe, and the occasional articulation of a thought, as it loitered through his mind. “Tude’s a queer girl!—a werry queer girl!” repeated Mr. Twiggs, pausing again, with a long whiff at his pipe, and marking the graceful swoop the smoke made as it dipped and disappeared up the wide, black-throated chimney; and then, as though dropping into confidence with the great fat kettle on the coals, that steamed and bubbled with some inner paroxysm, he added, “And queer and nothink short, is the lines for Tude, eh?

“Now s’posin’,” he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a tone whose careful intonation might have suggested a more than ordinary depth of wisdom and sagacity,—“s’posin’ a pore chap like me, as ain’t no property only this-’ere ‘little crooked house,’ as Tude calls it, and some o’ the properties I ’andles at the Drury—as I was a-sayin’,—s’posin’ now a’ old rough chap like me was jest to tell her all about herself, and who she is and all, and not no kith or kin o’ mine, let alone a daughter, as she thinks—What do you reckon now ’ud be the upshot, eh?” And as Mr. Twiggs propounded this mysterious query he jabbed the poker prankishly in the short-ribs of the grate, at which the pot, as though humoring a joke it failed to comprehend wholly, set up a chuckling of such asthmatic violence that its smothered cachinnations tilted its copper lid till Mr. Twiggs was obliged to dash a cup of water in its face.

“And Tude’s a-comin’ of a’ age, too,” continued Mr. Twiggs, “when a more tenderer pertecter than a father, so to speak, wouldn’t be out o’ keepin’ with the nat’ral order o’ things, seein’ as how she’s sorto’ startin’ for herself-like now. And it’s a question in my mind, if it ain’t my bounden duty as her father—or ruther, who has been a father to her all her life—to kindo’ tell her jest how things is, and all—and how I am, and everythink,—and how I feel as though I ort’o stand by her, as I allus have, and allus have had her welfare in view, and kindo’ feel as how I allus—ort’o kindo’—ort’o kindo’”—and here Mr. Twiggs’s voice fell into silence so abruptly that the drowsy parrot started from its trance-like quiet and cried “Ortokindo! Ortokindo!” with such a strength of seeming mockery that it was brushed violently to the floor by the angry hand of Mr. Twiggs and went backing awkwardly beneath the table.

“Blow me,” said Mr. Twiggs, “if the knowin’ impidence of that-’ere bird ain’t astonishin’!” And then, after a serious controversy with the draught of his pipe, he went on with his deliberations.

“Lor! it were jest scrumptious to see Tude in ‘The Iron Chest’ last night! Now, I ain’t no actur myself,—I’ve been on, of course, a thousand times as ‘fillin’,’ ‘sogers’ and ‘peasants’ and the like, where I never had no lines, on’y in the ‘choruses’; but if I don’t know nothin’ but ‘All hail!—All hail!’ I’ve had the experience of bein’ under the baleful hinfluence of the hoppery-glass, and I’m free to say it air a ticklish position and no mistake. But Tude! w’y, bless you, she warn’t the first bit flustered, was she? ’Peared-like she jest felt perfectly at home-like—like her mother afore her! And I’m dashed if I didn’t feel the cold chills a-creepin’ and a-crawlin’ when she was a-singin’ ‘Down by the river there grows a green willer and a-weepin’ all night with the bank for her piller’; and when she come to the part about wantin’ to be buried there ’while the winds was a-blowin’ close by the stream where her tears was a-flowin’, and over her corpse to keep the green willers growin’,’ I’m d—d if I didn’t blubber right out!” And as the highly sympathetic Mr. Twiggs delivered this acknowledgment, he stroked the inner corners of his eyes, and rubbed his thumb and finger on his trousers.

“It were a tryin’ thing, though,” he went on, his mellow features settling into a look not at all in keeping with his shiny complexion—“it were a tryin’ thing, and it air a tryin’ thing to see them lovely arms o’ hern a-twinin’ so lovin’-like around that-’ere Stanley’s neck and a-kissin’ of him—as she’s obleeged to do, of course—as the ‘properties’ of the play demands; but I’m blowed if she wouldn’t do it quite so nat’ral-like I’d feel easier. Blow me!” he broke off savagely, starting up and flinging his pipe in the ashes, “I’m about a-comin’ to the conclusion I ain’t got no more courage’n a blasted school-boy! Here I am old enough to be her father—mighty nigh it—and yet I’m actually afeard to speak up and tell her jest how things is, and all, and how I feel like I—like I—ort’o—ort’o—”

“Ortokindo! Ortokindo!” shrieked the parrot, clinging in a reversed position to the under-round of a chair.—“Ortokindo! Ortokindo! Tude’s come home!—Tude’s come home!” And as though in happy proof of this latter assertion, the gentle Mr. Twiggs found his chubby neck encircled by a pair of rosy arms, and felt upon his cheek the sudden pressure of a pair of lips that thrilled his old heart to the core. And then the noisy bird dropped from its perch and marched pompously from its place of concealment, trailing its rusty wings and shrieking, “Tude’s come home!” at the top of its brazen voice.

“Shet up!” screamed Mr. Twiggs, with a pretended gust of rage, kicking lamely at the feathered oracle; “I’ll ‘Tude’s-come-home’ ye! W’y, a feller can’t hear his ears for your infernal squawkin’!” And then, turning toward the serious eyes that peered rebukingly into his own, his voice fell gentle as a woman’s: “Well, there, Tudens, I beg parding; I do indeed. Don’t look at me thataway. I know I’m a great, rough, good-for—”But a warm, swift kiss cut short the utterance; and as the girl drew back, still holding the bright old face between her tender palms, he said simply, “You’re a queer girl, Tudens; a queer girl.”

“Ha! am I?” said the girl, in quite evident heroics and quotation, starting back with a theatrical flourish and falling into a fantastic attitude.—“‘Troth, I am sorry for it; me poor father’s heart is bursting with gratichude, and he would fain ease it by pouring out his thanks to his benefactor.’”

“Werry good! Werry good, indeed!” said Mr. Twiggs, gazing wistfully upon the graceful figure of the girl. “You’re a-growin’ more wonderful’ clever in your ‘presence’ every day, Tude. You don’t think o’ nothink else but your actin’, do ye, now?” And, as Mr. Twiggs concluded his observations, a something very like a sigh came faltering from his lips.

“Why, listen there! Ah-ha!” laughed Tude, clapping her hands and dancing gayly around his chair.—“Why, you old melancholy Dane, you! are you actually sighing?” Then, dropping into a tragic air of deep contrition, she continued: “‘But, believe me, I would not question you, but to console you, Wilford. I would scorn to pry into any one’s grief, much more yours, Wilford, to satisfy a busy curiosity.’”

“Oh, don’t, Tude; don’t rehearse like that at me!—I can’t a-bear it.” And the serious Mr. Twiggs held out his hand as though warding off a blow. At this appeal the girl’s demeanor changed to one of tenderest solicitude.

“Why, Pop’m,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, “I did not mean to vex you—forgive me. I was only trying to be happy, as I ought, although my own heart is this very minute heavy—very heavy—very.—No, no; I don’t mean that—but, Father, Father, I have not been dutiful.”

“W’y, yes, you have,” broke in Mr. Twiggs, smothering the heavy exclamation in his handkerchief. “You ain’t been ondutiful, nor nothink else. You’re jest all and everythink that heart could wish. It’s all my own fault, Tudens; it’s all my fault. You see, I git to thinkin’ sometimes like I was a-goin’ to lose you; and now that you are a-comin’ on in years, and gittin’ such a fine start, and all, and position and everythink.—Yes-sir! position, ’cause everybody likes you, Tudens. You know that; and I’m that proud of you and all, and that selfish, that it’s onpossible I could ever, ever give you up;—never, never, ever give you up!” And Mr. Twiggs again stifled his voice in his handkerchief and blew his nose with prolonged violence.

It may have been the melancholy ticking of the clock, as it grated on the silence following, it may have been the gathering darkness of the room, or the plaintive sighing of the rising wind without, that caused the girl to shudder as she stooped to kiss the kind old face bent forward in the shadows, and turned with feigned gayety to the simple task of arranging supper. But when, a few minutes later, she announced that Twiggs and Tudens’s tea was waiting, the two smilingly sat down, Mr. Twiggs remarking that if he only knew a blessing, he’d ask it upon that occasion most certainly.

“—For on’y look at these-’ere ’am and eggs,” he said, admiringly: “I’d like to know if the Queen herself could cook ’em to a nicer turn, or serve ’em up more tantaliz’in’er to the palate. And this-’ere soup,—or whatever it is, is rich as gravy; and these boughten rolls ain’t a bad thing either, split in two and toasted as you do ’em, air they, Tude?” And as Mr. Twiggs glanced inquiringly at his companion, he found her staring vacantly at her plate. “I was jest a-sayin’, Tudens—” he went on, pretending to blow his tea and glancing cautiously across his saucer.

“Yes, Pop’m, I heard you;—we really ought to have a blessing, by all means.”

Mr. Twiggs put down his tea without tasting it. “Tudens,” he said, after a long pause, in which he carefully buttered a piece of toast for the second time,—“Tudens, I’m ’most afeard you didn’t grasp that last remark of mine: I was a-sayin’—”

“Well—” said Tudens, attentively.

“I was a-sayin’,” said Mr. Twiggs, averting his face and staring stoically at his toast—“I was a-sayin’ that you was a-gittin’ now to be quite a young woman.”

“Oh, so you were,” said Tudens, with charming naÏvetÉ.

“Well,” said Mr. Twiggs, repentantly, but with a humorous twinkle, “if I wasn’t a-sayin’ of it, I was a-thinkin’ it.”—And then, running along hurriedly, “And I’ve been a-thinkin’ it for days and days—ever sence you left the ‘balley’ and went in ‘chambermaids,’ and last in leadin’ rÔles. Maybe you ain’t noticed it, but I’ve had my eyes on you from the ‘flies’ and the ‘wings’; and jest betwixt us, Tudens, and not for me as ort to know better, and does know better, to go a-flatterin’, at my time o’—or to go a-flatterin’ anybody, as I said, after you’re a-gittin’ to be a young woman—and what’s more, a werry ’andsome young woman!”

“Why, Pop’m!” exclaimed Tudens, blushing.

“Yes, you are, Tudens, and I mean it, every word of it; and as I was a-goin’ on to say, I’ve been a-watchin’ of you, and a-layin’ off a long time jest to tell you summat that will make your eyes open wider ’an that! What I mean,” said Mr. Twiggs, coughing vehemently and pushing his chair back from the table—“what I mean is, you’ll soon be old enough to be a-settin’ up for yourself-like, and a-marry’—W’y, Tudens, what ails you?” The girl had risen to her feet, and, with a face dead white and lips all tremulous, stood clinging to her chair for support. “What ails you, Tudens?” repeated Mr. Twiggs, rising to his feet and gazing on her with a curious expression of alarm and tenderness.

“Nothing serious, dear Pop’m,” said Tudens, with a flighty little laugh,—“only it just flashed on me all at once that I’d clean forgotten poor ‘Dick’s’ supper.” And as she turned abruptly to the parrot, cooing and clucking to him playfully,—up, up from some hitherto undreamed-of depth within the yearning heart of Mr. Twiggs mutely welled the old utterance, “Tude’s a queer girl!”

“Whatever made you think of such a thing, Father?” called Tudens, gayly; and then, without waiting for an answer, went on cooing to the parrot,—“Hey, old dicky-bird! do you think Tudens is a handsome young woman? and do you think Tudens is old enough to marry, eh?” This query delivered, she broke into a fit of merriment which so wrought upon the susceptibilities of the bird that he was heard repeatedly to declare and affirm, in most positive and unequivocal terms, that Tude had actually come home.

“Yes—sir, Tudens!” broke in Mr. Twiggs at last, lighting a fresh churchwarden and settling into his old position at the grate; “have your laugh out over it now, but it’s a werry serious fact, for all that.”

“I know it, Father,” said the girl, recovering her gravity, turning her large eyes lovingly upon him and speaking very tenderly. “I know it—oh, I know it; and many, many times when I have thought of it, and then again of your old kindly faith; all the warm wealth of your love; and our old home here, and all the happiness it ever held for me and you alike—oh, I have tried hard—indeed, indeed I have—to put all other thought away and live for you alone! But, Pop’m! dear old Pop’m—”And even as the great strong breast made shelter for her own, the woman’s heart within her flowed away in mists of gracious tears.

“Couldn’t live without old Pop’m, could her?” half cried and laughed the happy Mr. Twiggs, tangling his clumsy fingers in the long dark hair that fell across his arm, and bending till his glad face touched her own.—“Couldn’t live without old Pop’m?”

“Never! never!” sobbed the girl, lifting her brimming eyes and gazing in the kind old face. “Oh, may I always live with you, Pop’m? Always?—Forever?—”

“—And a day!” said Mr. Twiggs, emphatically.

“Even after I’m—” and she hid her face again.

“Even after—what, Tudens?”

“After I’m—after I’m—married?” murmured Tudens, with a longing pressure.

“Nothink short!” said Mr. Twiggs;—“perwidin’,” he added, releasing one hand and smoothing back his scanty hair—“perwidin’, of course, that your man is a’ honest, straitforrerd feller, as ain’t no lordly notions nor nothink o’ that sort.”

“Nor rich?”

“Well, I ain’t so p’ticklar about his bein’ pore, adzackly.—Say a feller as works for his livin’, and knows how to ’usband his earnin’s thrifty-like, and allus ’as a hextry crown or two laid up against a rainy day—and a good perwider, of course,” said Mr. Twiggs, with a comfortable glance around the room.—“’Ll blow me if I didn’t see a face there a-peerin’ in the winder!”

“Oh, no, you didn’t,” said the girl, without raising her head. “Go on—‘and a good provider—’”

“—A good perwider,” continued Mr. Twiggs; “and a feller, of course, as has a’ eye out for the substantials of this life, and ain’t afeard o’ work—that’s the idear! that’s the idear!” said Mr. Twiggs, by way of sweeping conclusion.

“And that’s all old Pop’m asks, after all?” queried the girl, with her radiant face wistful as his own.

“W’y, certainly!” said Mr. Twiggs, with heartiness. “Ain’t that all and everythink to make home happy?”—catching her face between his great brown hands and kissing her triumphantly.

“Hooray for Twiggs-and Twiggs-and Twiggs-and—” cootered the drowsy bird, disjointedly.

The girl had risen.—“And you’ll forgive me for marrying such a man?”

“Won’t I?” said Mr. Twiggs, with a rapturous twinkle.

As he spoke, she flung her arms about his neck and pressed her lips close, close against his cheek, her own glad face now fronting the little window.... She heard the clicking of the latch, the opening of the door, and the step of the intruder ere she loosed her hold.

“God bless you, Pop’m, and forgive me!—This is my husband.”

The newcomer, Mr. Stanley, reached and grasped the hand of Mr. Twiggs, eagerly, fervidly, albeit the face he looked on then will haunt him to the hour of his death.—Yet haply, some day, when the Master takes the selfsame hand within his own and whispers, “Tude’s come home,” the old smile will return.