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THE FORTUNES OF OLIVER HORN
THE FORTUNES OF OLIVER HORN F. HOPKINSON SMITH I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE MEMORY OF
"THE MAN OF ALL OTHERS ABOUT KENNEDY
SQUARE MOST BELOVED AND THE MAN OF ALL
OTHERS LEAST UNDERSTOOD--RICHARD HORN
THE DISTINGUISHED INVENTOR."
F.H.S.
THE FORTUNES OF
OLIVER HORN
CHAPTER I
THE OLD HOUSE IN KENNEDY SQUARE
Kennedy Square in the late fifties was a place of
birds and trees and flowers; of rude stone benches
sagging arbors smothered in vines and cool dirt-paths
bordered by sweet-smelling box. Giant magnolias
filled the air with their fragrance and climbing roses
played hide and seek among the railings of the rotting
fence. Along the shaded walks laughing boys and
girls romped all day with hoop and ball attended
by old black mammies in white aprons and gayly colored
bandannas; while in the more secluded corners
sheltered by protecting shrubs happy lovers sat and
talked tired wayfarers rested with hats off and staid
old gentlemen read by the hour their noses in their
books.
Outside of all this color perfume and old-time
charm outside the grass-line and the rickety wooden
fence that framed them in ran an uneven pavement
splashed with cool shadows and stained with green
mould. Here in summer the watermelon-man
stopped his cart; and here in winter upon its broken
bricks old Moses unhooked his bucket of oysters and
ceased for a moment his droning call.
On the shady side of the square and half-hidden
in ivy was a Noah's Ark church topped by a quaint
belfry holding a bell that had not rung for years and
faced by a clock-dial all weather-stains and cracks
around which travelled a single rusty hand. In its
shadow to the right lay the home of the Archdeacon
a stately mansion with Corinthian columns reaching
to the roof and surrounded by a spacious garden
filled with damask roses and bushes of sweet syringa.
To the left crouched a row of dingy houses built of
brick their iron balconies hung in flowering vines
the windows glistening with panes of wavy glass purpled
by age.
On the sunny side of the square opposite the
church were more houses high and low; one all garden
filled with broken-nosed statues hiding behind
still more magnolias and another all veranda and
honeysuckle big rocking-chairs and swinging hammocks;
and still others with porticos curtained by
white jasmine or Virginia creeper.
Half-way down this stretch of sunshine--and what
a lovely stretch it was--there had stood for years
a venerable mansion with high chimneys sloping roof
and quaint dormer-windows shaded by a tall sycamore
that spread its branches far across the street.
Two white marble steps guarded by old-fashioned iron
railings led up to the front door which bore on its
face a silver-plated knocker inscribed in letters of
black with the name Of its owner--"Richard Horn."
All three the door the white marble steps and the
silver-plated knocker--not to forget the round silver
knobs ornamenting the newel posts of the railings--
were kept as bright as the rest of the family plate by
that most loyal of servants old Malachi who daily
soused the steps with soap and water and then brought
to a phenomenal polish the knocker bell-pull and
knobs by means of fuller's-earth turpentine hard
breathing and the vigorous use of a buckskin rag.
If this weazened-faced bald-headed old darky resplendent
in white shirt-sleeves green baize apron and
never-ceasing smile of welcome happened to be engaged
in this cleansing and polishing process--and it
occurred every morning--and saw any friend of his
master approaching he would begin removing his pail
and brushes and throwing wide the white door before
the visitor reached the house would there await his
coming bent double in profound salutation. Indeed
whenever Malachi had charge of the front steps he
seldom stood upright so constantly was he occupied--
by reason of his master's large acquaintance--in either
crooking his back in the beginning of a bow or
straightening it up in the ending of one.
To one and all inquiries for Mr. Horn his answer
during the morning hours was invariably the same:
"Yes sah Marse Richard's in his li'l room wrastlin'
wid his machine I reckon. He's in dar now sah--"
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