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He Also Serves
If I could have a thousand years--just one little thousand years--more of life, I might, in
that time, draw near enough to true Romance to touch the hem of her robe.
Up from ships men come, and from waste places and forest and road and garret and cellar
to maunder to me in strangely distributed words of the things they have seen and
considered. The recording of their tales is no more than a matter of ears and fingers.
There are only two fates I dread--deafness and writer's cramp. The hand is yet steady; let
the ear bear the blame if these printed words be not in the order they were delivered to me
by Hunky Magee, true camp-follower of fortune.
Biography shall claim you but an instant--I first knew Hunky when he was head-waiter at
Chubb's little beefsteak restaurant and cafe on Third Avenue. There was only one waiter
besides.
Then, successively, I caromed against him in the little streets of the Big City after his trip
to Alaska, his voyage as cook with a treasure- seeking expedition to the Caribbean, and
his failure as a pearl-fisher in the Arkansas River. Between these dashes into the land of
adventure he usually came back to Chubb's for a while. Chubb's was a port for him when
gales blew too high; but when you dined there and Hunky went for your steak you never
knew whether he would come to anchor in the kitchen or in the Malayan Archipelago.
You wouldn't care for his description--he was soft of voice and hard of face, and rarely
had to use more than one eye to quell any approach to a disturbance among Chubb's
customers.
One night I found Hunky standing at a corner of Twenty-third Street and Third Avenue
after an absence of several months. In ten minutes we had a little round table between us
in a quiet corner, and my ears began to get busy. I leave out my sly ruses and feints to
draw Hunky's word-of-mouth blows--it all came to something like this:
"Speaking of the next election," said Hunky, "did you ever know much about Indians?
No? I don't mean the Cooper, Beadle, cigar-store, or Laughing Water kind-I mean the
modern Indian--the kind that takes Greek prizes in colleges and scalps the half-back on
the other side in football games. The kind that eats macaroons and tea in the afternoons
with the daughter of the professor of biology, and fills up on grasshoppers and fried
rattlesnake when they get back to the ancestral wickiup.
"Well, they ain't so bad. I like 'em better than most foreigners that have come over in the
last few hundred years. One thing about the Indian is this: when he mixes with the white
race he swaps all his own vices for them of the pale-faces--and he retains all his own
virtues. Well, his virtues are enough to call out the reserves whenever he lets 'em loose.
But the imported foreigners adopt our virtues and keep their own vices--and it's going to
take our whole standing army some day to police that gang.
 
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