than that–it was even PROOF that he had rendered it. Of course.
So that point was settled. . . No, not quite. He recalled with a
wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just a trifle unsure as
to whether the performer of it was Richards or some other–and, oh
dear, he had put Richards on his honour! He must himself decide
whither that money must go–and Mr. Stephenson was not doubting that
if he was the wrong man he would go honourably and find the right
one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such a situation–ah, why
couldn’t Stephenson have left out that doubt? What did he want to
intrude that for?
Further reflection. How did it happen that RICHARDS’S name remained
in Stephenson’s mind as indicating the right man, and not some other
man’s name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very good. In fact
it went on looking better and better, straight along–until by-and-
by it grew into positive PROOF. And then Richards put the matter at
once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct that a proof
once established is better left so.
He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but there was still one
other detail that kept pushing itself on his notice: of course he
had done that service–that was settled; but what WAS that service?
He must recall it–he would not go to sleep till he had recalled it;
it would make his peace of mind perfect. And so he thought and
thought. He thought of a dozen things–possible services, even
probable services–but none of them seemed adequate, none of them
seemed large enough, none of them seemed worth the money–worth the
fortune Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And besides,
he couldn’t remember having done them, anyway. Now, then–now,
then–what KIND of a service would it be that would make a man so
inordinately grateful? Ah–the saving of his soul! That must be
it. Yes, he could remember, now, how he once set himself the task
of converting Goodson, and laboured at it as much as–he was going
to say three months; but upon closer examination it shrunk to a
month, then to a week, then to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he
remembered now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson had told
him to go to thunder and mind his own business–HE wasn’t hankering
to follow Hadleyburg to heaven!
So that solution was a failure–he hadn’t saved Goodson’s soul.
Richards was discouraged. Then after a little came another idea:
had he saved Goodson’s property? No, that wouldn’t do–he hadn’t
any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he might have thought
of it before. This time he was on the right track, sure. His
imagination-mill was hard at work in a minute, now.
Thereafter, during a stretch of two exhausting hours, he was busy
saving Goodson’s life. He saved it in all kinds of difficult and
perilous ways. In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a
certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get well persuaded
that it had really happened, a troublesome detail would turn up
which made the whole thing impossible. As in the matter of
drowning, for instance. In that case he had swum out and tugged
Goodson ashore in an unconscious state with a great crowd looking on
and applauding, but when he had got it all thought out and was just
beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm of disqualifying
details arrived on the ground: the town would have known of the
circumstance, Mary would have known of it, it would glare like a
limelight in his own memory instead of being an inconspicuous
service which he had possibly rendered “without knowing its full
value.” And at this point he remembered that he couldn’t swim
anyway.
Ah–THERE was a point which he had been overlooking from the start:
it had to be a service which he had rendered “possibly without
knowing the full value of it.” Why, really, that ought to be an
easy hunt–much easier than those others. And sure enough, by-and-
by he found it. Goodson, years and years ago, came near marrying a