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MR. OPP
BYALICE HEGAN RICEAUTHOR OF “MRS. WIGGS OF THE CABBAGE PATCH,”LOVEY MARY, SANDY, ETC.WITH ILLUSTRATIONSBY LEON GUIPONNEW YORKTHE CENTURY CO.1909[p iii]Copyright, 1908, 1909, byThe Century Co.
Published, April, 1909
THE DE VINNE PRESS
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGEHe read impressively
Frontispiece
‘Don’t leave me45Why, Mr. Opp, Im not old enough124It was Mr. Opp saying his prayers192Oh, my God, it has come258Cant nobody beat me making skirts314[p ii]MR. OPP1
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MR. OPP
I
hope your passenger hasn’t missed his train,” observed theferryman to Mr. Jimmy Fallows, who sat on the river bank with the painter of his rickety little naphtha launchheld loosely in his hand.“Mr. Opp?” said Jimmy. “I bet he did. If there is one person in the world that’sgot a talent for missing things, it’s Mr. Opp. I never seen him that he hadn’t just missedgettin’ a thousand dollar job, or inventin’ a patent, or bein’ hurt when he had took outa accident policy. If he did ketch a train, like enough it was goin’ the wrong way.”[p4]Jimmy had been waiting since nine in the morning, and it was now well past noon. He was a placid gentlemanof curvilinear type, short of limb and large of girth. His trousers, of that morose hue termed by the countrypeople “plum,” reached to his armpits, and his hat, large and felt and weather-beaten, was onlyprevented from eclipsing his head by the stubborn resistance of two small, knob-like ears.“Mr. Opp ain’t been back to the Cove for a long while, has he?” asked the ferryman,whose intellectual life depended solely upon the crumbs of information scattered by chance passers-by.“Goin’ on two years,” said Mr. Fallows. “Reckon he’s been so busyformin’ trusts and buyin’ out railways and promotin’ things generally that heain’t had any time to come back home. It’s his step-pa’s funeral that’sbringin’ him now. The only time city folks seem to want to see their kin folks in the country is whenthey are dead.”“Ain’t that him a-comin’ down the [p5] bank?” asked the ferryman, shading hiseyes with his hands.Mr. Fallows, with some difficulty, got to his feet.“Yes, that’s him all right. Hustlin’ to beat the band. Wonder if he takes me for a streetcar.”Coming with important stride down the wharf, and whistling as he came, was a small man of about thirty-five.In one hand he carried a large suit-case, and in the other a new and shining grip. On both were painted, inletters designed to be seen, “D. Webster Opp, Kentucky.”[p3]MR. OPP2
In fact, everything about him was evidently designed to be seen. His new suit of insistent plaid, hismagnificent tie sagging with the weight of a colossal scarf-pin, his brown hat, his new tan shoes, all demandedindividual and instant attention.The only insignificant thing about Mr. Opp was himself. His slight, undeveloped body seemed to be in achronic state of apology for failing properly to set off the glorious raiment wherewith it was [p6] clothed. Hispock-marked face, wide at the temples, sloped to a small, pointed chin, which, in turn, sloped precipitouslyinto a long, thin neck. It was Mr. Opp’s eyes, however, that one saw first, for they were singularlyvivid, with an expression that made strangers sometimes pause in the street to ask him if he had spoken tothem. Small, pale, and red of rim, they nevertheless held the look of intense hunger—hunger for thehope or the happiness of the passing moment.As he came bustling down to the water’s-edge he held out a friendly hand to Jimmy Fallows.“How are you, Jimmy?” he said in a voice freighted with importance. “Hope Ihaven’t kept you waiting long. Several matters of business come up at the last and final moment, and Imissed the morning train.”Jimmy, who was pouring gasolene into a tank in the launch, treated the ferryman to a prodigious wink.“Oh, not more’n four or five hour,” he said, casting side glances of mingled [p7] scornand admiration at Mr. Opp’s attire. “It is a good thing it was the funeral you was tryin’to get to instid of the death-bed.”“Oh, that reminds me,” said Mr. Opp, suddenly exchanging his air of cheerfulness for one of becoming gravity—“what time is the funeral obsequies going to take place?”“Whenever we git there,” said Jimmy, pushing off the launch and waving his hand to theferryman. “You’re one of the chief mourners, and I’m the undertaker; thereain’t much danger in us gettin’ left.”Mr. Opp deposited his baggage carefully on the seat, and spread his coat across the new grip to keep it fromgetting splashed.“How long was Mr. Moore sick?” he asked, fanning himself with his hat.“Well,” said Jimmy, “he was in a dangerous and critical condition for about twenty-oneyears, accordin’ to his own account. I been seein’ him durin’ that time on a average of four times a [p8] day, and last night when I seen him in his coffin it was the first time the old gentleman failedto ask me to give him a drink on account of his poor health.”“Is Ben there?” asked Mr. Opp, studying a time-table, and making a note in hismemorandum-book.“Your brother Ben? Yes; he come this mornin’ just before I left. He was cussin’considerable because you wasn’t there, so’s they could go on and git through. He wants tostart back to Missouri to-night.”“Is he out at the house?”“No; he’s at Your Hotel.”The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mr. Opp, by Alice Hegan RiceI3
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