The Samaritan in people is so easily exaggerated at times.
“Oh, no. He’s one of the finest men that way I ever knew. You could see him, well enough, if you went up to Norwich, providing he’s up there. He usually is, though, I think. He lives there with his wife and mother, you know.”
I caught an afternoon boat for New London and Norwich at one-thirty, and arrived in Norwich at five. The narrow streets of the thriving little mill city were alive with people. I had no address, could not obtain one, but through the open door of a news-stall near the boat landing I called to the proprietor:
“Do you know any one in Norwich by the name of Charlie Potter?”
“The man who works around among the poor people here?”
“That’s the man.”
“Yes, I know him. He lives out on Summer Street, Number Twelve, I think. You’ll find it in the city directory.”
The ready reply was rather astonishing. Norwich has something like thirty thousand people.
I walked out in search of Summer Street and finally found a beautiful lane of that name climbing upward over gentle slopes, arched completely with elms. Some of the pretty porches of the cottages extended nearly to the sidewalk. Hammocks, rocking-chairs on verandas, benches under the trees—all attested the love of idleness and shade in summer. Only the glimpse of mills and factories in the valley below evidenced the grimmer life which gave rise mayhap to the need of a man to work among the poor.
“Is this Summer Street?” I inquired of an old darky who was strolling cityward in the cool of the evening. An umbrella was under his arm and an evening paper under his spectacled nose.
“Bress de Lord!” he said, looking vaguely around. “Ah couldn’t say. Ah knows dat street—been on it fifty times—but Ah never did know de name. Ha, ha, ha!”
The hills about echoed his hearty laugh.
“You don’t happen to know Charlie Potter?”
“Oh, yas, sah. Ah knows Charlie Potter. Dat’s his house right ovah dar.”
The house in which Charlie Potter lived was a two-story frame, overhanging a sharp slope, which descended directly to the waters of the pretty river below. For a mile or more, the valley of the river could be seen, its slopes dotted with houses, the valley itself lined with mills. Two little girls were upon the sloping lawn to the right of the house. A stout, comfortable-looking man was sitting by a window on the left side of the house, gazing out over the valley.
“Is this where Charlie Potter lives?” I inquired of one of the children.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he live in Noank?”
“Yes, sir.”
Just then a pleasant-faced woman of forty-five or fifty issued from a vine-covered door.
“Mr. Potter?” she replied to my inquiry. “He’ll be right out.”
She went about some little work at the side of the house, and in a moment Charlie Potter appeared. He was short, thickset, and weighed no less than two hundred pounds. His face and hands were sunburned and brown like those of every fisherman of Noank. An old wrinkled coat and a baggy pair of gray trousers clothed his form loosely. Two inches of a spotted, soft-brimmed hat were pulled carelessly over his eyes. His face was round and full, but slightly seamed. His hands were large, his walk uneven, and rather inclined to a side swing, or the sailor’s roll. He seemed an odd, pudgy person for so large a fame.
“Is this Mr. Potter?”
“I’m the man.”
“I live on a little hummock at the east of Mystic Island, off Noank.”
“You do?”
“I came up to have a talk with you.”
“Will you come inside, or shall we sit out here?”
“Let’s sit on the step.”
“All right, let’s sit on the step.”
He waddled out of the gate and sank comfortably on the little low doorstep, with his feet on the cool bricks below. I dropped into the space beside him, and was greeted by as sweet and kind a look as I have ever seen in a man’s eyes. It was one of perfect courtesy and good nature—void of all suspicion.
“We were sitting down in the sailboat maker’s place at Noank the other day, and I asked a half dozen of the old fellows whether they had ever known a contented man. They all thought a while, and then they said they had. Old Mr. Main and the rest of them agreed that Charlie Potter was a contented man. What I want to know is, are you?”
I looked quizzically into his eyes to see what effect this would have, and if there was no evidence of a mist of pleasure and affection being vigorously restrained I was very much mistaken. Something seemed to hold the man in helpless silence as he gazed vacantly at nothing. He breathed heavily, then drew himself together and lifted one of his big hands, as if to touch me, but refrained.
“Yes, brother,” he said after a time, “I am.”
“Well, that’s good,” I replied, taking a slight mental exception to the use of the word brother. “What makes you contented?”
“I don’t know, unless it is that I’ve found out what I ought to do. You see, I need so very little for myself that I couldn’t be very unhappy.”
“What ought you to do?”
“I ought to love my fellowmen.”
“And do you?”
“Say, brother, but I do,” he insisted quite simply and with no evidence of chicane or make-believe—a simple, natural enthusiasm. “I love everybody. There isn’t anybody so low or so mean but I love him. I love you, yes, I do. I love you.”
He reached out and touched me with his hand, and while I was inclined to take exception to this very moral enthusiasm, I thrilled just the same as I have not over the touch of any man in years. There was something effective and electric about him, so very warm and foolishly human. The glance which accompanied it spoke, it seemed, as truthfully as his words. He probably did love me—or thought he did. What difference?
We lapsed into silence. The scene below was so charming that I could easily gaze at it in silence. This little house was very simple, not poor, by no means prosperous, but well-ordered—such a home as such a man might have. After a while I said:
“It is very evident that you think the condition of some of your fellowmen isn’t what it ought to be. Tell me what you are trying to do. What method have you for improving their condition?”
“The way I reason is this-a-way,” he began. “All that some people have is their feelings, nothing else. Take a tramp, for instance, as I often have. When you begin to sum up to see where to begin, you find that all he has in the world, besides his pipe and a little tobacco, is his feelings. It’s all most people have, rich or poor, though a good many think they have more than that. I try not to injure anybody’s feelings.”
He
