Queer Judson

Carey Judson swung about on the high stool behind the tall,
ink-spattered cherry desk and hitched up one long leg until the heel
of the shoe upon the foot attached to the leg was hooked over the
upper round of the stool. Then, resting the elbow of a long right
arm upon the upraised knee, he lifted a hand--long and thin like
the rest of him--drew down a lock of hair until it reached the
bridge of his nose, twisted the end of the lock between his thumb
and finger, and gazed drearily out of the office window.

A snapshot of him taken in that attitude would have been a far more
characteristic likeness than any posed photograph could possibly
have been. It would have emphasized the angularity of his figure,
the every-which-wayness of his thick light brown hair, the odd
manner in which his clothes managed not to fit him, although they
had been made by a fashionable city tailor. It might have caught
the lines between his brows and at the corners of his wide,
pleasantly attractive mouth, perhaps a ghost of the expression in
his eyes, eyes which, in their dreamy wistfulness, were curiously
reminiscent of those of Abraham Lincoln. In fact, such a snapshot,
taken at this time, would, omitting such details as beard and
coloring, have been rather like a picture of the great President.
Not, however, as to age, for Carey Judson was only thirty-four.

His full name was James Carey Judson, as had been his father's
before him, which was, of course, the reason why he, the son, had
always been called Carey. Captain James Carey Judson--HE had
always been called, locally, "Cap'n Jim-Carey"--was dead, had been
dead seven years. Carey had been very fond of his father, but now
he was thankful that the old gentleman was no longer living. And,
on the whole, he envied him. To be comfortably dead must be
infinitely preferable to being uncomfortably alive. Captain Jim-
Carey had not wanted to die. He enjoyed every minute of the life
allowed him, and was accustomed to speak enviously of another
mariner, Noah, who, he said, "was spry enough to put to sea in
command of the Ark when he was six hundred and odd. A man,"
affirmed the captain, "was given time enough to learn how to
navigate in those days. Now, just as a fellow is beginning to
catch on to the ropes, he is called aloft." Captain Jim-Carey had
no wish to be called aloft; he would have much preferred staying
aboard this world. His oldest son, on the contrary, would not have
minded dying, but considered himself obliged to live. An odd fact,
as the son thought of it, but very typical of the kind of world it
was.

The room in which he sat, sprawled upon the high stool behind the
tall desk, was the office of J. C. Judson & Co. The desk and the
stool and the old eight-sided clock on the wall were part of the
office equipment purchased by Captain Jim-Carey when he gave up
going to the Banks, in 1851, and set up business there in
Wellmouth, his native town. J. C. Judson & Co. was the name on the
weather-beaten sign over the door of the good-sized building at the
foot of Wharf Lane. The printed letter and bill heads in the desk
drawer announced that J. C. Judson & Co. were "Wholesale Dealers in
Fresh and Salt Fish. Terms Thirty Days Net." When Carey was a
little boy he used vaguely to suppose that the "Net" referred to
the method by which the fish were caught. The "Co." upon the
letterhead and upon the sign had puzzled him then. He used to
wonder if Mr. Ben Early, the manager, was the "Co." or was it Jabez
Drew, the wharf boss? When he asked his father, the latter only
laughed. When he asked Jabez, Jabez solemnly admitted that he was
not only the "Co.," but the entire establishment. "I'm the Company
and the fish, too," vowed Mr. Drew. "Don't you believe it? Why--
why! I'm surprised! Don't I smell as if I was wholesale fish?"