THE PEACOCK VEST

INTRODUCTION, by Vella Munn

Homer left no notes about The Peacock Vest, and because it wasn’t published during its lifetime, his heirs don’t know its history or what prompted him to write the humorous piece.

In the process of preparing this introduction, his oldest granddaughter, Vella Munn, came across a picture of Homer and his bride, Mable. It caught her attention because the young groom was dressed in an outfit similar to the one worn by Old Man Gary, the protagonist of The Peacock Vest. On the back of the original picture/post card, Mable had written: “The ‘Newly-Weds’ taken August 3rd, 1911.” (They were actually married July 30, 1911.)

Much as Homer’s children and grandchildren would love to believe the couple honeymooned at the famous San Francisco Cliff House in the background of the picture, the picture/post card was taken at “Kidd’s Cliff House Studio.” Not even the outfits were theirs—they were rented from the studio.

The Peacock Vest concerns an old man’s memories of a year of excess during a long lifetime of hard work and poverty. Instead of being bitter over his lost fortune, Old Man Gary remembers the year fondly. He has learned to laugh at himself.

In some respects, Homer’s short life mirrored his protagonist’s. His published fiction brought him short-lived windfalls. The rest of the time, he and his family were like most of their contemporaries, trying to keep a roof over their heads. Fortunately, unlike Old Man Gary, Homer and Mable spent their money wisely. They paid off medical bills, bought a vehicle, helped support Mable’s mother, and kept their growing children clothed.

Something else: just before his shocking death, Homer bought an accident insurance policy. He was about to become a stage driver, traveling on a steep mountain road. In a letter to his wife, dated 3/17/1924, he wrote, “…the policy calls for $24 a week for total disability or confining illness, and that the weekly payments continue as long as the trouble lasts. No 52 weeks or 104 weeks, but for an indefinite period; if I should get laid up for life, I’d get paid the $24 until the end. All other provisions are equally generous; as for a death claim, that would pay $2000 if resulting from any sort of an accident.”

His widow eventually received the $2000. Unlike Old Man Gary, she and her children never had to live in a poor house.

THE PEACOCK VEST

Old Man Gary cautiously lowered his gaunt frame into the chair which, by tacit agreement, was for his exclusive use. The other inmates were chary about arousing his temper. His rheumatism made him spiteful whenever obliged to use any other than this particular canvas-bottomed steamer chair. It fitted.

“Hot, all right,” ventured Cap’n Briggs. He felt sure that this would lead to no argument. Almshouse folks have little to occupy their minds; any controversy is apt to end in hard feelings that may last weeks.

The others grunted in agreement. Old Man Gary said nothing whatever; but when he deliberately removed his old, weather-beaten coat, Cap’n Briggs breathed freely. He eyed Gary in approval, interested in this unusual landscape—Gary without his coat. Curiosity finally could not be restrained. He waited in vain for someone able to break the ice.

“Gary, that’s an uncommon sort o’ vest you’re wearin’,” trusting that this remark was of neutral tint. Certainly it was quite true. The garment, fashioned in the high, diagonal cut of many years ago, was made of extraordinary material. It was the richest and heaviest of brocade, a deep purple in color as to the body, and thickly decorated with peacocks, worked in gold thread. The purple was scarcely faded, although the peacocks had irregular gaps in their plumage. In elegance it could be compared only with a king’s ermine; how came it to adorn “a guest of the county”?

Old Man Gary did not need to be reminded of this. For months he had hesitated to display this marvel, hardly feeling equal to explaining. But today, for some strange reason, he felt impelled to confide in these companions of misfortune.

First, he took the precaution to borrow some tobacco. He was offered more than he needed, which was what he expected. The old men’s minds were always eager for something new, something different from the unending routine of the poor-house. Gary loaded his pipe to the guards, got up steam in it to his satisfaction, painfully crossed his legs and readjusted himself to the chair, then cleared his throat importantly.

“You boys know I come out here to Californy in ’55.” If they didn’t know it, they said nothing, and Gary concluded that he was not going to be interrupted. “Well, I put in nigh onto four year, workin’ up an’ down the foot-hills from Modesto to Smartsville. I washed gravel, an’ sand, an’ plain ’dobe; an’ run around on false leads for pockets; an’ outside o’ one or two little hand-fulls o’ nuggets, all I made them four years was wages.”

The shaky old voice held no bitterness, however. “It was my strike as made Shovel Gulch.” Two of his listeners locked up quickly. “They was dozens o’ miners turned over dirt there, before me; but I kind o’ guessed better. The crick looked to me sort o’ choked up, like a dam had busted higher, maybe. Anyhow, I dug ’way down an’ took out gravel from six foot below. It was rich in color. It panned as high as forty dollars a pan!” The old man’s eyes warmed; Cap’n Briggs hitched his chair closer.

“’Twan’t no time till the Gulch swarmed with men. Nobody struck it quite so good as me, but we took out a hundred thousand a month, there, for a while. I cleaned up seventy thousand alone, before my claim petered out.

“They was a big town there before we knowed it. O’ course, me bein’ the cause o’ it all, they well nigh spoiled me, bein’ young then. Whenever I showed up, it was a sign to treat. I guess I strutted a good deal, them days.

“My tastes warn’t much, but they went all to clothes. I had the reputation o’ wearin’ a bran’ new suit every Monday, an’ I was the makin’ o’ the first tailor that come. The boys soon got to lookin’ for me to come out in my weekly trew-sew. I made it a point to wear it for the first time, near eight o’clock Monday evenin’; and it got so reg’lar, they’d look at the clock an’ say, ‘Time for Gary to show off.’ Then they’d go out in the street, an’ when I come out o’ the tailor’s shop they’d be a double line o’ men down to the Crystal Palace.

“I’d stalk along, like the young fool I was, an’ they’d look to see how different my clothes was from the last suit; an’ after I’d got by, like as not they doubled up, a-laffin’; but I never noticed. I’d go in the Palace, feelin’ mighty dignified an’ bowin’ and smilin’ like a good-natured king or somethin’. I always drew trade, an’ the barkeep’ud always treat all comers when I showed up.

“Sometimes they’d be a bunch o’ women folks in front o’ the Lace House. The good women, I mean. The others kep’ around the dance halls pretty close. But they was one girl there at the Lace House, frequent, what always inspected my new rig as admirin’ as anybody else, to my face, but after I got by, I know mighty well it was her as led the laffin’. She was Jennie Hill, an’ her paw had about the poorest claim in the Gulch; but she was the right kind, full o’ spunk, like her maw. They managed, somehow.

“Her an’ Bud O’Brien was due to get married as soon as they was old enough to know better. Bud, he was a assayer, an’ pretty well edicated, considerin’. He was a little jealous o’ me, just because Jennie’ud rubber after me, same as the other women. But shucks, Jennie didn’t care for me, at all. For all that, I never thought a whole lot o’ her, neither.”

The old man was panting with the unusual effort. He paused for breath; and appeared to be doubtful as to where to take up his story again. His hearers were in no hurry; he filled his pipe again.

Just as he was about to resume, the group noticed the almshouse carry-all coming up the drive from the county road. When they saw that it contained a strange passenger, there was a unanimous recess while they inspected the newcomer. He was a nervous individual of the apoplectic type, rather handsomely dressed by contrast with his predecessors. What had brought him here? Cap’n Briggs guessed it, and when the superintendent had led the old fellow into the office, silently outlined a bottle for his companions’ benefit. They nodded grimly.

Gary sighed heavily, and such was the inertia of the group, each unconsciously followed suit. “One day—I think it was fall, along about October o’ ’59—a rich sport come in on the noon stage from Sacramento. Bud an’ Jennie happened to be at the post-office, an’ when this here Henry Cramp hops off the stage, Jennie stares at him right smart. She couldn’t help it; Henry was a born lady-killer. He was one o’ them dark, handsome cusses, with long, curly hair an’ heavy eyebrows, an’ a trick o’ glancin’ sidewise at a girl. An’ Jennie was good to look at, herself; Henry was smitten bad.

“But Jennie give him one good look in the eye, an’ I guess there’s some women you can’t fool nohow. She placed him fair; from then on, she despised Henry for a dude. She couldn’t abide a dude.

“He was simply notorious for wearin’ a splendiferous black suit, made o’ silk velvet imported from China, special. It was worth a big pile o’ dust, an’ he wore it all the time. He was a gambler, you see; no tin-horn, Henry, but game for the most reckless play a-goin’. He had to make a prosperous showin’, an’ he did. Whenever a miner’d insist on real action for his stack, they’d send him to Henry’s table. No limit but the ceilin’, with Henry.

“Oh, he was a popular cuss. The women couldn’t help eyein’ him, with his swell velvet suit an’ his grand manners. Once, on a dare, Jennie actually let him ask her to walk down the flume with him; not only that, she did it. She didn’t know that one o’ the spiteful old hens run an’ told Bud.

“What did this fool Henry do, soon as him an’ Jennie was alone, but he up an’ popped the question. He was young, too, an’ he really thought he was offerin’ her somethin’ wonderful, meanin’ hisself. She was so mad an’ dumb-foozled, she never noticed that Bud, an’ that old hen, was sneakin’ up the trail behind ’em. She just stopped stock still an’ looked at Henry like he was a buzzard.

“‘Marry you?’ she says, terrible scornful. ‘Marry you? Why, I wouldn’t live in the same town with you!’ Them days, that was just the same as tellin’ a man to go to hell. Henry gets all riled up. He tries to grab the girl, swearin’ he’d make her take it back; and then Bud runs up, an’ for a minute it looks like war. But Henry whips off his beaver an’ pulls off a bow like George Washington, an’ says somethin’ about a woman’s wish is the law, an’ clears out. Only, that old hen what followed Bud, she heard the whole thing. Before Bud an’ Jennie got back home, half the town knew that Jennie Hill’d told Henry Cramp she wouldn’t live in the same town with him.

“Well, it was really before that, I reckon, when me ’n’ Henry first met up. ’Course, they soon told him o’ me an’ my new-suit-a-week stunt. He waited a couple o’ days, pretendin’ he was too dignified to notice me; an’ then one evenin’ he offers to treat the house.

“I hear you got a shinin’ sartorial light here,” he remarks. “Let’s see him.” One o’ the boys spots me comin’ and point me out to Henry. The whole bunch crowds into the street, lookin’ for fun.

“I was expectin’ this for a long time. I walks up very stately, an’ when I come within about ten foot o’ Henry, I stops deliberate an’ stares him up an’ down. He never wilted a bit. He kind o’ let his eyes twinkle an’ smiled a tiny bit, aggravatin’, like I was a joke. I kep’ on my poker face an’ stalks on, liftin’ my hat to the dance hall girls like they was queens.

“The next day was Monday. My suit that week was a hummer, the best yet; an’ I put it all over Henry that night. I acted a though I was kind o’ ashamed o’ my riggin’, an’ the boys was real respectful. They scarcely looked at the gambler.

“He couldn’t stand bein’ overlooked. A couple o’ hours later, he got a crowd around the bar an’ let it out how much that velvet cost. Four thousand, cold!” Gary paused to let this take effect. “Well, from then on it was nip an’ tuck between us.

“This Jennie, first thing Bud knows she’s gone to her aunt’s place on Coyote Flats. ’Course, she couldn’t stay in Shovel Gulch, after sayin’ that to Henry when she turned him down. It was plumb up to the kid. If he was set on livin’ in the Gulch after they was married, he’d have to get rid o’ Henry, somehow. An’ o’ course Bud was too proud, hisself, to set up business somewhere else.

“Henry was there to stay. He wasn’t exactly thick with anybody—gamblers don’t make friends easy. But he put up a square, lively game, an’ the boys liked him. Bud was up against it, sure. He was too decent to pull off anything low down on Henry, an’ we all savvied his predicament an’ felt kind o’ sorry for the kid.

“He moped around for a day or two, some gloomy. Then, one day I passed him, comin’ out o’ his office, an’ his eyes was sparkin’ an’ he looked real gay. Thinks I, he’s got a scheme to get rid o’ Henry. Which shows I’m a good guesser.

“Bud rounds up a bunch o’ friends an’ lets ’em in on his secret. He is blame careful not to tell anybody what was thick with Henry and me. At that, he tells pretty nigh everybody else.

“His scheme was like this: He an’ a couple o’ youngsters like him took some liquor to my tailor’s place. They each has the poor idjit measure ’em, an’ while he’s doin’ it, they fills him with alcohol. You know, even a tailor has a limit; an’ when he goes to sleep, they noses around an’ finds the sample o’ cloth which I picked for my next suit but one. It has a ticket on it with my name, an’ everything.

“Bud, he sends to Sacramento for more goods o’ the same, an’ pays out forty dollars to get it there on time. They takes the goods to another tailor, an’ he makes it up in a hurry to fit a feller, friends o’ Bud’s, about Henry’s build. The tailor sewed night an’ day to get it done.

“Sunday evenin’ Bud an’ another kid goes up to Henry’s room in the hotel. So happens, Henry is getting’ plumb tired o’ that old velvet. In comes Bud, an’ pretends a bunch o’ admirin’ citizens had voted to show their ’preciation o’ Henry with a little gift, or some such taffy, an’ winds up by presentin’ him with this here duplicate suit. The coat an’ pants, they is just a nice, elegant brown striped broad-cloth; but this here vest was a lulu, a reg’lar hummer.

“Henry bit hard. He took the suit an’ made a cute speech, an’ treated the boys copious. But bein’ vain, that way, he wouldn’t think o’ wearin’ the suit right off. Not him; that would be too dignified. Which was just was Bud was figurin’ on.

“O’ course, I never knowed a thing about it, that Monday evenin’. I steps out o’ my tailor’s shop, same as usual. Seems to me, though, the boys was uncommon quiet when I walked down the line. Pretty soon I see why. Here comes this Henry, across the street, from the hotel.

“When I gets opposite him, I blinks like a old owl. He’s dressed exactly like me, vest an’ all, complete. He stops too, an’ we looks at each other like a couple o’ fools. I gets my senses first an’ lights a stogie like nothin’ had happened, an’ saunters on to a different saloon. Once I looks back, an’ the boys is laffin’ fit to kill.

“I sure made it warm for my tailor. He swears he don’t know nothin’ about it, an’ finally I believes him. Then I goes to the other tailor; but Bud has paid him to keep his mouth shut. So happens, though, the feller what they fitted that there duplicate suit to, in he comes just then to get a vest he forget the night before. Now, I knowed that feller. He couldn’t afford no tailor; an’ I see he’s about Henry’s size. Thinks I, I’m wise!

“Gosh, I was darn mad, for a while. I saw it must o’ been Bud, an’ I couldn’t blame him. Anyhow, the town’d never get down on me, as made it. I gets a bright idea, an’ sets down an’ writes a note to Henry.

“I writes it like this: The boys has put up a job on us, an’ so on, an’ why not go ’em one better. I says, let’s pretend to get mad; you challenge me, an’ we’ll have a duel. Make ’em think we mean it, an’ make ’em back down. I warns him not to bother with blanks; just be careful to shoot high.

“I give it to the Higgins boy to deliver to Henry, an’ like a durn fool, I paid the kid a dollar an’ told him they’d be another when he come back. Off he goes, an’ I chuckles to myself a heap, thinkin’ how we’re goin’ to get even with the boys.

“What does this kid do but stumble, crossin’ the crick, an’ drop that note a-savin’ hisself. I suppose he tried to fish it out o’ the water, but he didn’t make it. He loses it complete; an’ rather than miss that extry dollar, see, the ornery brat tells me that Henry says ‘O.K.’

“That’s Tuesday mornin’. I waits till noon an’ then gallivants down to the Chop House, as usual. Soon as I eats, I saunters down by the hotel.

“They’s an uncommon bunch o’ boys on hands. Thinks I, they’s expectin’ trouble. Amen! I holds my face straight as a whip. Henry’s standin’ in the doorway, pickin’ his teeth. I has all I can do to keep from laffin’, thinkin’, o’ course, that he’s wise to the game. Looks to me like he’s actin’ it fine.

“I stops right in front o’ him an’ makes out to be fearful mad. He looks surprised, an’ sasses me right back. I lets out a big snort, contemptuous like, an’ he gets hot.

“The boys crowd ’round, o’ course, tickled to death. Henry acts as though he ain’t a-goin’ to please ’em. He just says somethin’ sharp an’ turns to go; but I ups an’ lams him on the cheek. He reaches for his gun, an’ the boys butt in and grab us both.

“Great! Thinks I, wishin’ I dared wink at Henry; then I solemnly takes out my card an’ hands it to him. He never bats an eye; out comes his own. ‘What’s your choice?’ he wants to know, cool as you please. ‘Colts, right now!’ I yells.

“I could see that some o’ Bud’s friends was thinkin’ it’ud gone far enough, but he kep’ tellin’ ’em he’d fix things O.K. Me ’n’ Henry picked our seconds, me havin’ all I can do to keep from bustin’, Henry’s doin’ it so good. We warms out immediate to a clearin’ a half mile east o’ town.

“We picks the spot, an’ while me ’n’ Henry takes off our coats, our seconds paces off the distance an’ agrees on a referee. He shows us about the handkerchief, an’ so on, an’ we take our places.

“The bunch is lined up on both sides, watchin’ Bud kind o’ anxious. He stands near the referee, an’ I see he’s goin’ to butt in before the feller can say ‘three.’ So I gets ready.

“Soon as he says ‘one,’ I don’t wait no longer. I shoots quick, over Henry’s head, o’ course. Scares him so, he shoots back; but bein’ rattled that way, me shootin’ too soon, he misses. Only, I thinks he misses on purpose, you see.

“Down I falls, graceful as I knows how. Bud lets out a funny yell an’ runs at me, an’ the bunch grabs Henry’s gun. I lays on my side, holdin’ one hand to my chest an’ breathin’ hoarse. Bud kneels beside me, stutterin’ an’ carryin’ on so’s you can’t tell what he’s saying. The doctor is comin’ on the run.

“‘Get a lawyer, quick; I wants to make my will,’ I gasps, moanin’ somethin’ ghas’ly. Bud sobs terrible, an’ owns up all about it, an’ begs to be forgiven. Henry is there too, an’ I winks at him an’ whispers, ‘I forgive you, Bud. The pain will soon be over,’ an’ I groans awful piteous. I has the whole bunch goin’ for a minute.

“Then the doctor begins huntin’ for the wound, an’ I grabs him sudden an’ hops to my feet. I sure give ’em the laff good. They looks like sick sheep.

“Then Henry butts in an’ says, ‘What notes?’ That gives it plumb away, an’ soon as they see what a close call I had, they turns the laff on me ’n’ Henry. He gets mad an’ pulls out that night.

“But me, they never let up on me about that note. I went to the weddin’, but they made so much fun I give it up an’ went to Frisco.” Gary was nearly exhausted. “I blowed in my pile in no time, there; an’”—he gave a short, bitter laugh—“here I am.”

The group stirred noisily. None of them had noticed that the newcomer had been standing behind them for the past ten minutes. He came forward and stood in front of Old Man Gary.

“Hello, Gary,” he said, in a quavering, high pitched voice. Then he fumbled with the buttons of his long black coat.

He was wearing the other peacock vest.