THE SUPERLATIVE COUSIN BILL J.

A splendid new interest had now come into the household in the person of one whom Clytemnestra had so often named as Cousin Bill J. Grandfather Delcher having been ordered south for the winter by Dr. Crealock, Cousin Bill J., upon Clytie’s recommendation, was imported from up Fredonia way to look after the cow and be a man about the place.  Clytie assured Grandfather Delcher that Cousin Bill J. had “never uttered an oath, though he’s been around horses all his life!” This made him at once an object of interest to the little boy, though doubtless he failed to appraise the restraint at anything like its true value.  It had sufficed Grandfather Delcher, however, and Cousin Bill J., securing leave of absence from the livery-stable in Fredonia, arrived the day the old man left, making a double excitement for the household.

He proved to be a fascinating person; handsome, affable, a ready talker upon all matters of interest ­though sarcastic, withal ­and fond of boys.  True, he had not long hair like the little boy’s father.  Indeed, he had not much hair at all, except a sort of curtain of black curls extending from ear to ear at the back of his bare, pink head.  But the little boy had to admit that Cousin Bill J.’s moustache was even grander than his father’s.  It fell in two graceful festoons far below his chin, with a little eyelet curled into each tip, and, like the ringlets, it showed the blue-black lustre of the crow’s wing.  In the full sunlight, at times, it became almost a royal purple.

Later observation taught the little boy that this splendid hue was applied at intervals by Cousin Bill J. himself.  He did it daintily with a small brush, every time the moustache began to show a bit rusty at the roots; Bernal never failed to be present at this ceremony; nor to resolve that his own moustache, when it came, should be as scrupulously cared for ­not left, like Dr. Crealock’s, for example, to become speckled and gray.

Cousin Bill J.’s garments were as splendid as his character.  He had an overcoat and cap made from a buffalo hide; his high-heeled boots had maroon tops set with purple crescents; his watch-charm was a large gold horse in full gallop; his cravat was an extensive area of scarlet satin in the midst of which was caught a precious stone as large as a robin’s egg; and in smoking, which his physician had prescribed, he used a superb meerschaum cigar-holder, all tinted a golden brown, upon which lightly perched a carven angel dressed like those that ride the big white horse in the circus.

But aside from these mere matters of form, Cousin Bill J. was a man with a history.  Some years before he had sprained his back, since which time he had been unable to perform hard labour; but prior to that mishap he had been a perfect specimen of physical manhood ­one whose prowess had been the marvel of an extensive territory.  He had split and laid up his three hundred and fifty rails many a day, when strong men beside him had blushingly to stop with three hundred or thereabouts; he had also cradled his four acres of grain in a day, and he could break the wildest horse ever known.  Even the great Budd Doble, whom he personally knew, had said more than once, and in the presence of unimpeachable witnesses, that in some ways he, Budd Doble, knew less about a horse than Cousin Bill J. did.  The little boy was wrought to enthusiasm by this tribute, resolving always to remember to say “hoss” for horse; and, though he had not heard of Budd Doble before, the name was magnetic for him.  After you said it over several times he thought it made you feel as if you had a cold in your head.

Still further, Cousin Bill J. could throw his thumbs out of joint, sing tenor in the choir, charm away warts, recite “Roger and I” and “The Death of Little Nell,” and he knew all the things that would make boys grow fast, like bringing in wood, splitting kindling, putting down hay for the cow, and other out-of-door exercises that had made him the demon of strength he once was.  The little boy was not only glad to perform these acts for his own sake, but for the sake of lightening the labours of his hero, who wrenched his back anew nearly every time he tried to do anything, and was always having to take a medicine for it which he called “peach-and-honey.”  The little boy thought the name attractive, though his heart bled for the sufferer each time he was obliged to take it; for after every swallow of the stuff he made a face that told eloquently how nauseous it must be.

As for the satire and wit of Cousin Bill J., they were of the dry sort.  He would say to one he met on the street when the mud was deep, “Fine weather overhead” ­then adding dryly, after a significant pause ­“but few going that way!" Or he would exclaim with feigned admiration, when the little boy shot at a bird with his bow and arrow, “My! you made the feathers fly that time!” ­then, after his terrible pause ­"only, the bird flew with them.”  Also he could call it “Fourth of Ju-New-Years” without ever cracking a smile, though it cramped the little boy in helpless laughter.

Altogether, Cousin Bill J. was a winning and lovely character of merits both spiritual and spectacular, and he brought to the big house an exotic atmosphere that was spicy with delights.  The little boy prayed that this hero might be made again the man he once was; not because of any flaw that he could see in him ­but only because the sufferer appeared somewhat less than perfect to himself.  To Bernal’s mind, indeed, nothing could have been superior to the noble melancholy with which Cousin Bill J. looked back upon his splendid past.  There was a perfect dignity in it.  Surely no mere electric belt could bring to him an attraction surpassing this ­though Cousin Bill J. insisted that he never expected any real improvement until he could save up enough money to buy one.  He showed the little boy a picture cut from a newspaper ­the picture of a strong, proud-looking man with plenteous black whiskers, girded about with a wide belt that was projecting a great volume of electricity into the air in every direction.  It was interesting enough, but the little boy thought this person by no means so beautiful as Cousin Bill J., and said so.  He believed, too, though this he did not say, from tactful motives, that it would detract from the dignity of Cousin Bill J. to go about clad only in an electric belt, like the proud-looking gentleman in the picture ­even if the belt did send out a lot of electric wiggles all the time.  But, of course, Cousin Bill J. knew best.  He looked forward to having his father meet this new hero ­feeling that each was perfect in his own way.