Sol Rollin was one of my studies that winter. He was a carpenter by trade and his oddities were new and delightful. He whistled as he worked, he whistled as he read, he whistled right merrily as he walked up and down the streets - a short, slight figure with a round boyish face and a fringe of iron-grey hair under his chin. The little man had one big passion - that for getting and saving. The ancient thrift of his race had pinched him small and narrow as a foot is stunted by a tight shoe. His mind was a bit out of register as we say in the printing business. His vocabulary was rich and vivid and stimulating.
'Somebody broke into the arsenic today,' he announced, one evening, at the supper table.
'The arsenic,' said somebody, 'what arsenic?'
'Why the place where they keep the powder,' he answered.
'Oh! the arsenal.'
'Yes, the arsenal,' he said, cackling with laughter at his error. Then he grew serious.
'Stole all the ambition out of it,' he added.
'You mean ammunition, don't you, Solomon?' his wife enquired.
'Certainly,' said he, 'wasn't that what I said.'
When he had said a thing that met his own approval Sol Rollin would cackle most cheerfully and then crack a knuckle by twisting a finger. His laugh was mostly out of register also. It had a sad lack of relevancy. He laughed on principle rather than provocation.
Some sort of secret comedy of which the world knew nothing, was passing in his mind; it seemed to have its exits and its entrances, its villain, its clown and its miser who got all the applause.
While working his joy was unconfined. Many a time I have sat and watched him in his little shop, its window dim with cobwebs.
Sometimes he would stop whistling and cackle heartily as he worked his plane or drew his pencil to the square. I have even seen him drop his tools and give his undivided attention to laughter. He did not like to be interrupted - he loved his own company the best while he was 'doin' business'. I went one day when he was singing the two lines and their quaint chorus which was all he ever sang in my hearing; which gave him great relief, I have no doubt, when lip weary with whistling:
Sez I 'Dan'l Skinner, I thank yer mighty mean To send me up the river, With a sev'n dollar team' Lul-ly,ul- ly,diddie ul- ly, diddleul - lydee, Oh, lul-ly, ul - ly, diddle ul - ly, diddle ul - ly dee.
'Mr Rollin!' I said.
Yes siree,' said he, pausing in the midst of his chorus to look up at me.
'Where can I get a piece of yellow pine?'
'See 'n a minute,' he said. Then he continued his sawing and his song, ' "Says I Dan SItinner, I thank yer mighty mean"- what d' ye want it fer?' he asked stopping abruptly.
'Going to make a ruler,' I answered.
'"T' sen' me up the river with a seven dollar team,',' he went on, picking out a piece of smooth planed lumber, and handing it to me.
'How much is it worth?' I enquired.
He whistled a moment as he surveyed it carefully.
''Bout one cent,' he answered seriously.
I handed him the money and sat down awhile to watch him as he went on with his work. It was the cheapest amusement I have yet enjoyed. Indeed Sol Rollin became a dissipation, a subtle and seductive habit that grew upon me and on one pretext or another I went every Saturday to the shop if I had not gone home.
'What ye goin' t' be?'
He stopped his saw, and looked at me, waiting for my answer.
At last the tirne had come when I must declare myself and I did.
'A journalist,' I replied.
'What's that?' he enquired curiously.
'An editor,' I said.
'A printer man?'
'A printer man.'
'Huh!' said he. 'Mebbe I'll give ye a job. Sairey tol' me I'd orter t' 'ave some cards printed. I'll want good plain print: Solomon Rollin, Cappenter 'n J'iner, lilillsborough, NY - soun's putty good don't it.'
'Beautiful,' I answered.
'I'll git a big lot on 'em,' he said. 'I'll want one for Sister Susan 'at's out in Minnesoty - no, I guess I'll send 'er tew, so she can give one away - an' one fer my brother, Eliphalet, an' one apiece fer my three cousins over 'n Vermont, an' one fer my Aunt Mirandy. Le's see-tew an' one is three an' three is six an' one is seven. Then I'll git a few struck off fer the folks here - guess they'll thank I'm gittin' up 'n the world.'
He shook and snickered with anticipation of the glory of it. Pure vanity inspired him in the matter and it had in it no vulgar consideration of business policy. He whistled a lively tune as he bent to his work again.
'Yer sister says ye're a splendid scholar!' said he. 'Hear'n 'er braggin' 'bout ye t'other night; she thinks a good deal o' her brother, I can tell ye. Guess I know what she's gain' t' give ye Crissmus.'
'What's that?' I asked, with a curiosity more youthll than becoming.
'Don't ye never let on,' said he.
'Never,' said I.
'Hear'n 'em tell,' he said,' 'twas a gol' lockup, with 'er pictur' in it'
'Oh, a locket!' I exclaimed.
'That's it,' he replied, 'an' pure gol', too.'
I turned to go.
'Hope she'll grow up a savin' woman,' he remarked. ''Fraid she won't never be very good t' worlt'
'Why not?' I enquired.
'Han's are too little an' white,' he answered.
'She won't have to,' I said.
He cackled uproariously for a moment, then grew serious.
'Her father's rich,' he said, 'the richest man o' Faraway, an I guess she won't never hev anything t' dew but set'n sing an' play the melodium.'
'She can do as she likes,' I said.
He stood a moment looking down as if meditating on the delights he had pictured.
'Gol!' he exclaimed suddenly.
My subject had begun to study me, and I came away to escape further examination.
