himself. He might ‘a’ took cold and died.”
“Why did he do it?” I queried, very much interested by now.
“Oh, Charlie’s naturally big-hearted,” put in the little old man who sold cunners. “He believes in the Lord and the Bible. Stands right square on it, only he don’t belong to no church like. He’s got the biggest heart I ever saw in a livin’ being.”
“Course the other fellow didn’t have any shoes for to wear,” put in the boat-maker explanatorily, “but he never would work, anyhow.”
They lapsed into silence while the latter returned to his measuring, and then out of the drift of thought came this from the helper in the corner:
“Yes, and look at the way Bailey used to sponge on him. Get his money Saturday night and drink it all up, and then Sunday morning, when his wife and children were hungry, go cryin’ around Potter. Dinged if I’d ‘a’ helped him. But Potter’d take the food right off his breakfast table and give it to him. I saw him do it! I don’t think that’s right. Not when he’s got four or five orphans of his own to care for.”
“His own children?” I interrupted, trying to get the thing straight.
“No, sir; just children he picked up around, here and there.”
Here is a curious character, sure enough, I thought—one well worth looking into.
Another lull, and then as I was leaving the room to give the matter a little quiet attention, I remarked to the boatmaker:
“Outside of his foolish giving, you haven’t anything against Charlie Potter, have you?”
“Not a thing,” he replied, in apparent astonishment. “Charlie Potter’s one of the best men that ever lived. He’s a good man.”
I smiled at the inconsistency and went my way.
A day or two later the loft of the sail-maker, instead of the shed of the boat-builder, happened to be my lounging place, and thinking of this theme, now uppermost in my mind, I said to him:
“Do you know a man around here by the name of Charlie Potter?”
“Well, I might say that I do. He lived here for over fifteen years.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
He stopped in his stitching a moment to look at me, and then said:
“How d’ye mean? By trade, so to speak, or religious-like?”
“What is it he has done,” I said, “that makes him so popular with all you people? Everybody says he’s a good man. Just what do you mean by that?”
“Well,” he said, ceasing his work as though the subject were one of extreme importance to him, “he’s a peculiar man, Charlie is. He believes in giving nearly everything he has away, if any one else needs it. He’d give the coat off his back if you asked him for it. Some folks condemn him for this, and for not giving everything to his wife and them orphans he has, but I always thought the man was nearer right than most of us. I’ve got a family myself—but, then, so’s he, now, for that matter. It’s pretty hard to live up to your light always.”
He looked away as if he expected some objection to be made to this, but hearing none, he went on. “I always liked him personally very much. He ain’t around here now any more—lives up in Norwich, I think. He’s a man of his word, though, as truthful as kin be. He ain’t never done nothin’ for me, I not bein’ a takin’ kind, but that’s neither here nor there.”
He paused, in doubt apparently, as to what else to say.
“You say he’s so good,” I said. “Tell me one thing that he ever did that struck you as being preëminently good.”
“Well, now, I can’t say as I kin, exactly, offhand,” he replied, “there bein’ so many of them from time to time. He was always doin’ things one way and another. He give to everybody around here that asked him, and to a good many that didn’t. I remember once”—and a smile gave evidence of a genial memory—“he give away a lot of pork that he’d put up for the winter to some colored people back here—two or three barrels, maybe. His wife didn’t object, exactly, but my, how his mother-in-law did go on about it. She was livin’ with him then. She went and railed against him all around.”
“She didn’t like to give it to them, eh?”
“Well, I should say not. She didn’t set with his views, exactly—never did. He took the pork, though—it was right in the coldest weather we had that winter—and hauled it back about seven miles here to where they lived, and handed it all out himself. Course they were awful hard up, but then they might ‘a’ got along without it. They do now, sometimes. Charlie’s too good that way. It’s his one fault, if you might so speak of it.”
I smiled as the evidence accumulated. Houseless wayfarers, stopping to find food and shelter under his roof, an orphan child carried seven miles on foot from the bedside of a dead mother and cared for all winter, three children, besides two of his own, being raised out of a sense of affection and care for the fatherless.
One day in the local postoffice I was idling a half hour with the postmaster, when I again inquired:
“Do you know Charlie Potter?”
“I should think I did. Charlie Potter and I sailed together for something over eleven years.”
“How do you mean sailed together?”
“We were on the same schooner. This used to be a great port for mackerel and cod. We were wrecked once together.”
“How was that?”
“Oh, we went on rocks.”
“Any lives lost?”
“No, but there came mighty near being. We helped each other in the boat. I remember Charlie was the last one in that time. Wouldn’t get in until all the rest were safe.”
A sudden resolution came to me.
“Do you know where he is now?”
“Yes, he’s up in Norwich, preaching or doing missionary work. He’s kind of busy all the time among the poor people, and so on. Never makes much of anything out of it for himself, but just likes to do it, I guess.”
“Do you know how he manages to live?”
“No, I don’t, exactly. He believes in trusting to Providence for what he needs. He works though, too, at one job and another. He’s a carpenter for one thing. Got an idea the Lord will send ‘im whatever he needs.”
“Well, and does He?”
“Well, he lives.” A little later he added:
“Oh, yes. There’s nothing lazy about Charlie. He’s a good worker. When he was in the fishing line here there wasn’t a man worked harder than he did. They can’t anybody lay anything like that against him.”
“Is he very difficult to talk to?” I asked, meditating on seeking him out.
