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Title: The Laugh Maker
Author: James Oliver Curwood
Illustrator: Gayle Hoskins
Release Date: January 13, 2022 [eBook #67154]
Language: English
Produced by: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAUGH MAKER ***
The Laugh Maker
by JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD
Author of “The Blind God,” etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY GAYLE HOSKINS
You can laugh too much. You can be too cheerful. You can look too much
on the sunny side of life. You wont believe this and neither did Bobby
McTabb. But McTabb proved it out. It took the girl to help him—Kitty
Duchene was her name—tall and sweet to look upon, with those pure blue
eyes, dark with the beauty of violets, that go so well with hair which
is brown in the shadow and gold in the sun. They proved it out
together, all of a sudden. It is their story. And it will never be
believed. But it’s the truth.
Bobby McTabb was born fat. He weighed fourteen pounds at the start—and
kept going. He doubled up his avoirdupois at the end of the tenth
month, was a fraternity joke at college in his twentieth year, and
made the scales groan under two hundred and eighty pounds at the end
of his thirtieth—when he came to Fawcettville. But don’t let these
facts prejudice you against Bobby McTabb. At least don’t let them give
you a wrong steer. For Bobby McTabb, in spite of his fat, was a live
one. Fawcettville woke up the day he arrived and began to scrape off
the age-old moss from round the hubs of its village institutions. For
rumor had preceded Bobby McTabb. It endowed him with immense wealth.
He was going to boom Fawcettville. The oldest inhabitants gathered in
groups and discussed possibilities, while their sons and younger
relations worked in the hay and wheat fields. Some believed a railroad
was coming that way. Others that a big factory, like those in the
cities, was to be built. A few smelled oil, and Bobby McTabb’s first
appearance gave weight to every dream that had been dreamed. The
villagers had never seen anything like him, from his patent leather
shoes and his gaudily striped waistcoat to his round, rosy, laughing
face. He was so fat that he appeared to be short, though he was above
medium height, and everyone agreed at first glance that no soul less
than that of a millionaire could possibly abide within this earthly
tabernacle that disclosed itself to their eyes. But Bobby McTabb
quickly set all rumors at rest. He had come to found a bank—the first
bank in Fawcettville. At that minute he had just one hundred and
twenty-seven dollars in his pocket. But he said nothing of that.
How Bobby McTabb started his bank has nothing to do with this story.
But he did it—inside of a week, and prospered. The first part of the
story is how he won Confidence—and met the girl. It was his fat, and
his round, rosy, laughing face that counted. Within a month all the
men liked him, the children loved him, and mothers and daughters were
ready to trust him with anything. And never for an instant did Bobby
betray one of their trusts. He was lovable from the boots up, and grew
fatter in his prosperity as the months rolled by. He discarded his
gaudy attire, and did as the other Romans did—wore a broad-brimmed
“haying” hat in summer, “wash shirts,” and seamless trousers. He
joined the village church, was elected Sunday-school superintendent
without a dissenting vote, and was soon the heart and soul of every
country rollicking-bee for miles around. Bobby woke up every morning
with a laugh in his soul and a smile on his boyish face, and he
carried that smile and laugh about with him through every hour of the
day. He was happy. Everywhere he preached the gospel of happiness and
optimism. If your heart was sick with a heavy burden it would lighten
the moment you heard his laugh. And it was a glum face that wouldn’t
break into a smile when it met Bobby McTabb’s coming round the corner.
It was at the end of his second year that Bobby met Kitty Duchene.
What sweet-eyed, blue-eyed Kitty might not have done with him
Fawcettville will never know. She liked him. She would have loved him,
and married him, if he hadn’t been so fat. Anyway, grief didn’t settle
very heavily upon those ponderous shoulders of B. McTabb. He never
laughed a laugh less, and he didn’t stop for a minute in making other
people laugh. It was his hobby, and all the women in the world
couldn’t have broken it. “Make your neighbors laugh and you shall
inherit the Kingdom of Heaven,” he used to say. “Drive out worry and
care and you are clubbing the devil.” And so it came to pass that by
the time he had spent three years in Fawcettville, Bobby McTabb was
greater in his community than the governor of the state or the
president of the nation. And this was the condition of affairs toward
which Bobby had been planning.
And then, one morning, he was missing.
When the odds and ends of things had been counted out, and various
columns checked up, it was found that just a hundred and forty
thousand dollars had gone with Bobby McTabb.
II
It was the third of July that Bobby shook the dust of Fawcettville
from his feet. So he had the third, and all day the fourth, which was
a holiday, in which to get a good start.
Bobby was original, even in robbing a bank. In fact, this is not so
much the story of a bank pillage as it is of Bobby’s originality.
Europe, Monte Carlo, and Cape Town played as small parts in his plans
as did Timbuctoo and Zanzibar. He loved his own people too well to go
very far away from them. So he went to Duluth, where a launch was
waiting for him. On the Fourth of July he set out alone along the
northern shore up Superior, which is unbroken wilderness from Duluth
to Fort William. Three days later a fisherman found McTabb’s boat
wrecked among the rocks, and on the shore near the launch were Bobby’s
coat and hat, sodden and pathetic. Of course there were cards and
letters in the pockets of that coat, and also a roll of small bills.
So identification was easy. Close on the lurid newspaper tales of
Bobby McTabb’s defalcation followed the still more thrilling story of
his death. And, meanwhile, Bobby thought this the best joke of his
life, and with a kit of supplies on his back was hiking straight North
into the big timber.
The joke lived until about ten o’clock in the morning of the first
day, when the whole affair began to appear a little less clever to
Bobby McTabb. It was hot, and not one decent half-mile of travel did
Bobby find. Up and down ridges of broken rock, through tangled swamps
and forests of spruce and cedar he went, hitting it as straight north
as a tenderfoot could make it by compass. The water poured down his
round, red face, wet his collar first, and gradually soaked him to the
tips of his toes. But it was not the heat that troubled him most. He
was fat and succulent, as tender as a young chicken, and the black
flies gathered from miles around to feast upon him. By noon his face
was swollen until he could hardly see. His nose was like a bulb; his
feet were blistered; a thousand bones and joints that he had never
supposed were in the human anatomy began to ache, and for the first
time in his life his jolly heart went _loco_, and he began to swear.
The railroad was forty miles north. He had planned to reach that, and
follow it to some small station, whence he would take a train into the
new mining country that was just opening up, westward. It was a
terrible forty miles. He would look at his compass, strike out
confidently toward the North Pole, and five minutes later discover
that he was traveling east or west. Early in the afternoon he got into
a swamp of caribou moss that was like a spring bed, three feet thick,
under his feet. It held him up nicely for a time, and the softness of
it was as balm to his sore feet. Then he came to a place where a
caribou would have sniffed, and turned back. But B. McTabb went on—and
in. He went in—first to his knees, then to his middle, then to his
neck, and by the time he had wallowed himself to the safety of firmer
footing there was not a spot of him that was not covered with black
mud. At two o’clock Bobby McTabb struck firm ground. He believed that
he had traveled thirty-nine miles. But he made up his mind that he
would camp, and make the last mile in the cool of the morning. As a
matter of fact the lake was only six miles behind him.
When Bobby awoke on the morning of the second day he was so stiff that
he waddled and so sore that he groaned aloud, and then he made the
discovery—the alarming discovery—that was the beginning of the making
of a new man of him. His rubber grub-bag was torn to shreds, and what
was left of his provisions could have been gathered into a salt
cellar. All about the front of his tent were tracks as big as a hat,
and though he had never seen tracks like those before he knew that
they were the visiting cards of a very big and a very hungry bear. “My
Gawd!” said B. McTabb. “My Gawd!” he repeated over and over again,
when he found nothing but crumbs and a bacon string.
Then he reflected that the railroad must be but a short distance away,
and that he would surely strike some habitation or town before
dinner-time. His shoulders were sore, so he left his tent behind him,
stopping every time he came to a saskatoon tree or a clump of wild
raspberries. The fruit did very well for a time, but like many another
tenderfoot before him, he did not learn until too late that the little
red plums, or saskatoons, are as bad as green apples when taken into
an uncultivated stomach. He began to suffer along toward noon. He
suffered all of that day, and far into the night, and when the dawn of
the second day came he was no longer the old Bobby McTabb, but a
half-mad man. For three days after this the black flies fed on him and
the fruit diet ate at his vitals. On the morning of the sixth day he
came to the railroad, nearly blind, bootless, and starving, and was
found by a tie-cutter named Cassidy. For a week he lay in Cassidy’s
cabin, and when at last he came to his feet again, and looked into a
glass, he no longer recognized in himself the tenderly nurtured Bobby
McTabb of Fawcettville. His round face had grown thin. A half-inch
stubble of beard had pierced his chin and rosy cheeks. His eyes were
wild and bloodshot, and there was a looseness in the waist of his
trousers that made him gasp. Three days later he weighed himself at
the little station up the line and found that he had lost sixty
pounds.
[Illustration: On the morning of the sixth day he came to the
railroad, nearly blind, bootless and starving.]
From this day on McTabb was a different man. He had relieved himself
of sixty pounds of waste, and the effect was marvelous. A new spirit
had entered into him by the time he reached the mining country. He
prospered—and grew thinner. Unfortunately there is no moral lesson to
this little history of B. McTabb. If he had been an ordinary runaway
cashier he would have been caught and sufficiently punished, and all
the good world would have been warned by his miserable end. But McTabb
was not ordinary. He made money with the savings of Fawcettville. He
made it so fast that it puzzled him at times to keep count of it. He
turned over three claims in the first six months at a profit of a
hundred thousand dollars. This was what optimistic Bobby called a
“starter.” He was in a rough country, and once more he found himself
doing as the Romans did. He worked, and worked hard; he wore heavy
boots and shoe-packs, and the more he worked and the more he prospered
the thinner he grew.
He was richer each day. Good things came to him like flies to sugar.
At the end of his second year in the new bonanza country he was worth
a million. And this was not all. For B. McTabb was no longer short and
thick. He was tall and thin. From two hundred and eighty he had
dropped to one hundred and sixty pounds, and he was five feet ten and
a half in his cowhide boots.
But this is not the story of the beginning or the middle of Bobby
McTabb. It is the story of his extraordinary and entirely original
end, and of the manner in which pretty blue-eyed Kitty Duchene helped
to bring that end about.
McTabb was no longer known by that name. He was J. Wesley Brown,
promoter and mine owner, and as J. Wesley Brown he met Kitty Duchene
once more, in Winnipeg. Kitty was visiting a friend whose father had
joined McTabb in a promoting scheme, and all of Bobby’s old love
returned to him, for in reality it had never died. The one thing that
had been missing in his life was Kitty Duchene, and now he began to
court her again as J. Wesley Brown. There was nothing about J. Wesley
Brown that would remind one of B. McTabb, and of course Kitty did not
recognize him. One day Bobby looked deep into Kitty’s pure blue eyes
and told her how much he loved her, and Kitty dropped her head a
little forward, so that he could see nothing but the sheen of her
gold-brown hair, and promised to be his wife.
[Illustration: Kitty dropped her head and promised to be his wife.]
From this day on more and more of the old Bobby began to show in J.
Wesley Brown. He was the happiest man in the North. His old laugh came
back, full and round and joyous. He often caught himself whistling the
old tunes, telling the old stories, and cracking the old jokes that
had made Fawcettville love him. One evening when he was waiting for
Kitty, he whistled softly the tune to “Sweet Molly Malone” and when
Kitty came quietly into the room her blue eyes searched his
questioningly, and there was a gentleness in them which made him
understand that the old song had gone straight home, for it was Kitty
Duchene herself who had taught him the melody, years and years ago, it
seemed. She had told him a great deal about Fawcettville, its green
hills and its meadows, its ancient orchards and the great “bottoms,”
yellow and black with ox-eyed daisies. And tonight she said, with her
pretty face very close to his: “I want to live back in the old home,
Jim. Do you love me enough for that?”
The thrill in her voice, the soft touch of her hand, stirred Bobby’s
soul until it rose above all fear, and he promised. He would go back.
But—what might happen then? Could he always live as J. Wesley Brown?
Would no one ever recognize him? Trouble began to seat itself in his
eyes. Misgivings began to fill him. And then, in one great dynamic
explosion, the world was shattered about Bobby McTabb’s ears.
He had taken Kitty to a carnival, and like two children they were
stumbling through a “House of Mystery,” losing themselves in its
mazes, laughing until the tears glistened in Kitty’s happy eyes, when
they ran up against two mirrors. One of these made tall and thin
people short and fat, and the other made short and fat people tall and
thin. Before one of these stepped B. McTabb. For a moment he stood
there stunned and helpless. Then he gave a sudden quick gasp and faced
Kitty. There was no laughter now in the girl’s eyes, but a look of
horror and understanding. In that hapless moment Bobby’s leanness was
gone. He was the old Bobby again, short and ludicrously fat. The girl
drew back, her breath breaking in sobbing agony.
“Robert,” she cried accusingly. “Robert McTabb!”
She drew still farther away from him, and hopelessly he reached out
his arms.
“Kitty—My God, let me explain,” he pleaded. “You don’t understand—”
But she was going from him, and he did not follow.
III
Now there were three things which might have happened to Bobby McTabb.
In all justice Kitty should have immediately reported him to the
authorities, but she loved him too much for that, and was too loyal to
herself ever to see him again. Or, in the despair and hopelessness of
the situation, Bobby might have paid penance by drowning himself or
hanging himself. There was one other alternative—flight. But, as we
have stated, Bobby was an original thief, and he did just what no
other thief would have thought of doing.
He turned his properties into cash as quickly as he could, and bought
a ticket for Fawcettville. He arrived in the village on a late night
train, as he had planned. The place was deserted. People were asleep.
With a big throb at his heart he saw that the building which he had
once occupied was empty. It was just as he had left it on that third
of July morning. Something rose in his throat and choked him as he
turned away. After all he loved Fawcettville—loved it more than any
other place on earth, and the tears came into his eyes as he passed
reverently the old familiar spots, and came at last to Kitty Duchene’s
home, with the maples whispering mournfully above him. He almost
sobbed aloud when he saw a light in Kitty’s window. For a long time he
sat under the maples, until the light went out and he could no longer
see Kitty’s shadow against the curtain. All about him were the homes
of the people who had loved and trusted him, and he groaned aloud as
he turned back.
No one in Fawcettville knew of Bobby McTabb’s visit that night. No one
in the world knew of the scheme which Bobby carried away with him. On
the second day the owner of the bank building received a letter,
signed by a stranger, asking him to clean and repair the old building,
and enclosing an one-hundred dollar bill for the first quarter’s rent.
It was twice the rent Bobby McTabb had paid in the old days, and the
mystery became the talk of the village.
Bobby came again on the late night train, got off at Henderson, three
miles west of Fawcettville, and drove over in a rig. The rig was
heavily laden with various things, but chiefly with a big gilt and
gold lettered sign, such as Fawcettville had never known. There were a
few who heard the driving of the midnight nails in that sign as it was
hung over the new building. After that two men went through the
village, as stealthily as thieves, and on every barn and store, and
even on the fronts of houses, were pasted bills two feet square; and
at dawn other messengers began delivering sealed letters to the
farmers for miles around.
The first bright rays of the morning sun lighted up the gilt and gold
letters on Bobby’s sign, and those letters read:
ROBERT McTABB
Loans, Real Estate and Insurance
Sile Jenks, the milkman, was the first to read the bill in front of
his house, and with a wild yell he began awakening his neighbors.
Inside of half an hour Fawcettville was in an uproar. Men and women
came hurrying toward the old bank building, and in front of that
building, with a happy smile on his face, stood Bobby McTabb. Men
rushed up to him and wrung his hands until it seemed as though they
must pull out his arms; women crowded through to his side; children
shouted out his old name; the dogs barked in the old way—he heard the
old laughter, the old voices, the old greetings—even deeper and more
affectionate now; and then there came the first rigs from the country,
followed by others, until they streamed in from all sides, just as
they do when a circus comes to town. For three hours Bobby stood up
manfully, and then the climax came; for straight up to him, with
glorious, shining eyes and love in her face, came Kitty Duchene. She
paid no attention to those about them, but put her arms up about
Bobby’s neck and kissed him.
“NOW I understand,” she whispered, looking at him proudly. “But why
didn’t you tell me—up there, Robert?”
And for the first time in his life Bobby McTabb’s voice choked him
until he could not speak.
This was what the people of Fawcettville and the country round had
read on Bobby’s bills and in his letters:
Dear old friends—
You will remember one summer day, nearly five years ago,
when I came into your town—Bobby McTabb. I was without
friends, without introductions, without money—but you will
remember, too, how you received me with open arms, and for
two years made life for me here happier than any life that
I had ever dreamed might exist for me. You made me love
you, as I would have loved my father, my mother, my
sister; and I schemed and schemed to think of some way in
which I could repay you. At last the time came. I saw an
opportunity of making a great deal of money, but to make
that money I required a large sum in cash. I believe that
most of you would have responded to my call for that
cash—but, perhaps foolishly, I had the childish desire TO
SURPRISE YOU. So I went away and took your money with me.
I have realized, since then, that the joke was not a good
one—but never for an instant have I believed that you
would lose confidence in me.
Dear old friends, what I went away to achieve I HAVE
achieved, and my heart is near bursting with joy at the
knowledge that once more I am to be one of you—until the
end of life. Friends, I took with me just one hundred and
forty thousand dollars of your money, and I have brought
you back just six dollars for every one that you have
loaned me during that time. Is this work well done? Is it,
at last, a proof of the deep love and reverence I hold for
you all? I have the money in cash, and every depositor of
the old bank, when he calls upon me, will receive just
seven dollars in place of every dollar he had deposited.
But it is not money, but love, that counts, dear friends,
and I ask that you measure me—not by the gift I am making
to Fawcettville—but in that almost immeasurable devotion
which I hold for you all.
Affectionately,
Bobby McTabb.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the April, 1912 issue of
The Red Book Magazine.]
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