A MAN OF IDEAS
HE LIVED WITH his mother, a grey, silent woman
with a peculiar ashy complexion. The house in
which they lived stood in a little grove of trees beyond where the main street of Winesburg crossed
Wine Creek. His name was Joe Welling, and his father had been a man of some dignity in the community, a lawyer, and a member of the state legislature
at Columbus. Joe himself was small of body and in
his character unlike anyone else in town. He was
like a tiny little volcano that lies silent for days and
then suddenly spouts fire. No, he wasn't like that--
he was like a man who is subject to fits, one who
walks among his fellow men inspiring fear because
a fit may come upon him suddenly and blow him
away into a strange uncanny physical state in which
his eyes roll and his legs and arms jerk. He was like
that, only that the visitation that descended upon
Joe Welling was a mental and not a physical thing.
He was beset by ideas and in the throes of one of his
ideas was uncontrollable. Words rolled and tumbled
from his mouth. A peculiar smile came upon his
lips. The edges of his teeth that were tipped with
gold glistened in the light. Pouncing upon a bystander he began to talk. For the bystander there
was no escape. The excited man breathed into his
face, peered into his eyes, pounded upon his chest
with a shaking forefinger, demanded, compelled
attention.
In those days the Standard Oil Company did not
deliver oil to the consumer in big wagons and motor
trucks as it does now, but delivered instead to retail
grocers, hardware stores, and the like. Joe was the
Standard Oil agent in Winesburg and in several
towns up and down the railroad that went through
Winesburg. He collected bills, booked orders, and
did other things. His father, the legislator, had secured the job for him.
In and out of the stores of Winesburg went Joe
Welling--silent, excessively polite, intent upon his
business. Men watched him with eyes in which
lurked amusement tempered by alarm. They were
waiting for him to break forth, preparing to flee.
Although the seizures that came upon him were
harmless enough, they could not be laughed away.
They were overwhelming. Astride an idea, Joe was
overmastering. His personality became gigantic. It
overrode the man to whom he talked, swept him
away, swept all away, all who stood within sound
of his voice.
In Sylvester West's Drug Store stood four men
who were talking of horse racing. Wesley Moyer's
stallion, Tony Tip, was to race at the June meeting
at Tiffin, Ohio, and there was a rumor that he would
meet the stiffest competition of his career. It was
said that Pop Geers, the great racing driver, would
himself be there. A doubt of the success of Tony Tip
hung heavy in the air of Winesburg.
Into the drug store came Joe Welling, brushing
the screen door violently aside. With a strange absorbed light in his eyes he pounced upon Ed
Thomas, he who knew Pop Geers and whose opinion of Tony Tip's chances was worth considering.
"The water is up in Wine Creek," cried Joe Welling with the air of Pheidippides bringing news of
the victory of the Greeks in the struggle at Marathon. His finger beat a tattoo upon Ed Thomas's
broad chest. "By Trunion bridge it is within eleven
and a half inches of the flooring," he went on, the
words coming quickly and with a little whistling
noise from between his teeth. An expression of helpless annoyance crept over the faces of the four.
"I have my facts correct. Depend upon that. I
went to Sinnings' Hardware Store and got a rule.
Then I went back and measured. I could hardly believe my own eyes. It hasn't rained you see for ten
days. At first I didn't know what to think. Thoughts
rushed through my head. I thought of subterranean
passages and springs. Down under the ground went
my mind, delving about. I sat on the floor of the
bridge and rubbed my head. There wasn't a cloud
in the sky, not one. Come out into the street and
you'll see. There wasn't a cloud. There isn't a cloud
now. Yes, there was a cloud. I don't want to keep
back any facts. There was a cloud in the west down
near the horizon, a cloud no bigger than a man's
hand.
"Not that I think that has anything to do with it.
There it is, you see. You understand how puzzled I
was.
"Then an idea came to me. I laughed. You'll
laugh, too. Of course it rained over in Medina
County. That's interesting, eh? If we had no trains,
no mails, no telegraph, we would know that it
rained over in Medina County. That's where Wine
Creek comes from. Everyone knows that. Little old
Wine Creek brought us the news. That's interesting.
I laughed. I thought I'd tell you--it's interesting,
eh?"
Joe Welling turned and went out at the door. Taking a book from his pocket, he stopped and ran a
finger down one of the pages. Again he was absorbed in his duties as agent of the Standard Oil
Company. "Hern's Grocery will be getting low on
coal oil. I'll see them," he muttered, hurrying along
the street, and bowing politely to the right and left
at the people walking past.
When George Willard went to work for the Winesburg Eagle he was besieged by Joe Welling. Joe envied the boy. It seemed to him that he was meant
by Nature to be a reporter on a newspaper. "It is
what I should be doing, there is no doubt of that,"
he declared, stopping George Willard on the sidewalk before Daugherty's Feed Store. His eyes began
to glisten and his forefinger to tremble. "Of course
I make more money with the Standard Oil Company
and I'm only telling you," he added. "I've got nothing against you but I should have your place. I could
do the work at odd moments. Here and there I
would run finding out things you'll never see."
Becoming more excited Joe Welling crowded the
young reporter against the front of the feed store.
He appeared to be lost in thought, rolling his eyes
about and running a thin nervous hand through his
hair. A smile spread over his face and his gold teeth
glittered. "You get out your note book," he commanded. "You carry a little pad of paper in your
pocket, don't you? I knew you did. Well, you set
this down. I thought of it the other day. Let's take
decay. Now what is decay? It's fire. It burns up
wood and other things. You never thought of that?
Of course not. This sidewalk here and this feed
store, the trees down the street there--they're all on
fire. They're burning up. Decay you see is always
going on. It doesn't stop. Water and paint can't stop
it. If a thing is iron, then what? It rusts, you see.
That's fire, too. The world is on fire. Start your
pieces in the paper that way. Just say in big letters
'The World Is On Fire.' That will make 'em look up.
They'll say you're a smart one. I don't care. I don't
envy you. I just snatched that idea out of the air. I
would make a newspaper hum. You got to admit
that."'
Turning quickly, Joe Welling walked rapidly away.
When he had taken several steps he stopped and
looked back. "I'm going to stick to you," he said.
"I'm going to make you a regular hummer. I should
start a newspaper myself, that's what I should do.
I'd be a marvel. Everybody knows that."
When George Willard had been for a year on the
Winesburg Eagle, four things happened to Joe Welling. His mother died, he came to live at the New
Willard House, he became involved in a love affair,
and he organized the Winesburg Baseball Club.
Joe organized the baseball club because he wanted
to be a coach and in that position he began to win
the respect of his townsmen. "He is a wonder," they
declared after Joe's team had whipped the team
from Medina County. "He gets everybody working
together. You just watch him."
Upon the baseball field Joe Welling stood by first
base, his whole body quivering with excitement. In
spite of themselves all the players watched him
closely. The opposing pitcher became confused.
"Now! Now! Now! Now!" shouted the excited
man. "Watch me! Watch me! Watch my fingers!
Watch my hands! Watch my feet! Watch my eyes!
Let's work together here! Watch me! In me you see
all the movements of the game! Work with me!
Work with me! Watch me! Watch me! Watch me!"
With runners of the Winesburg team on bases, Joe
Welling became as one inspired. Before they knew
what had come over them, the base runners were
watching the man, edging off the bases, advancing,
retreating, held as by an invisible cord. The players
of the opposing team also watched Joe. They were
fascinated. For a moment they watched and then,
as though to break a spell that hung over them, they
began hurling the ball wildly about, and amid a series of fierce animal-like cries from the coach, the
runners of the Winesburg team scampered home.
Joe Welling's love affair set the town of Winesburg
on edge. When it began everyone whispered and
shook his head. When people tried to laugh, the
laughter was forced and unnatural. Joe fell in love
with Sarah King, a lean, sad-looking woman who
lived with her father and brother in a brick house
that stood opposite the gate leading to the Winesburg Cemetery.
The two Kings, Edward the father, and Tom the
son, were not popular in Winesburg. They were
called proud and dangerous. They had come to
Winesburg from some place in the South and ran a
cider mill on the Trunion Pike. Tom King was reported to have killed a man before he came to
Winesburg. He was twenty-seven years old and
rode about town on a grey pony. Also he had a long
yellow mustache that dropped down over his teeth,
and always carried a heavy, wicked-looking walking
stick in his hand. Once he killed a dog with the
stick. The dog belonged to Win Pawsey, the shoe
merchant, and stood on the sidewalk wagging its
tail. Tom King killed it with one blow. He was arrested and paid a fine of ten dollars.
Old Edward King was small of stature and when
he passed people in the street laughed a queer unmirthful laugh. When he laughed he scratched his
left elbow with his right hand. The sleeve of his
coat was almost worn through from the habit. As he
walked along the street, looking nervously about
and laughing, he seemed more dangerous than his
silent, fierce-looking son.
When Sarah King began walking out in the evening with Joe Welling, people shook their heads in
alarm. She was tall and pale and had dark rings
under her eyes. The couple looked ridiculous together. Under the trees they walked and Joe talked.
His passionate eager protestations of love, heard
coming out of the darkness by the cemetery wall, or
from the deep shadows of the trees on the hill that
ran up to the Fair Grounds from Waterworks Pond,
were repeated in the stores. Men stood by the bar
in the New Willard House laughing and talking of
Joe's courtship. After the laughter came the silence.
The Winesburg baseball team, under his management, was winning game after game, and the town
had begun to respect him. Sensing a tragedy, they
waited, laughing nervously.
Late on a Saturday afternoon the meeting between
Joe Welling and the two Kings, the anticipation of
which had set the town on edge, took place in Joe
Welling's room in the New Willard House. George
Willard was a witness to the meeting. It came about
in this way:
When the young reporter went to his room after
the evening meal he saw Tom King and his father
sitting in the half darkness in Joe's room. The son
had the heavy walking stick in his hand and sat near
the door. Old Edward King walked nervously about,
scratching his left elbow with his right hand. The
hallways were empty and silent.
George Willard went to his own room and sat
down at his desk. He tried to write but his hand
trembled so that he could not hold the pen. He also
walked nervously up and down. Like the rest of the
town of Winesburg he was perplexed and knew not
what to do.
It was seven-thirty and fast growing dark when
Joe Welling came along the station platform toward
the New Willard House. In his arms he held a bundle of weeds and grasses. In spite of the terror that
made his body shake, George Willard was amused
at the sight of the small spry figure holding the
grasses and half running along the platform.
Shaking with fright and anxiety, the young reporter lurked in the hallway outside the door of the
room in which Joe Welling talked to the two Kings.
There had been an oath, the nervous giggle of old
Edward King, and then silence. Now the voice of
Joe Welling, sharp and clear, broke forth. George
Willard began to laugh. He understood. As he had
swept all men before him, so now Joe Welling was
carrying the two men in the room off their feet with
a tidal wave of words. The listener in the hall
walked up and down, lost in amazement.
Inside the room Joe Welling had paid no attention
to the grumbled threat of Tom King. Absorbed in
an idea he closed the door and, lighting a lamp,
spread the handful of weeds and grasses upon the
floor. "I've got something here," he announced solemnly. "I was going to tell George Willard about it,
let him make a piece out of it for the paper. I'm glad
you're here. I wish Sarah were here also. I've been
going to come to your house and tell you of some
of my ideas. They're interesting. Sarah wouldn't let
me. She said we'd quarrel. That's foolish."
Running up and down before the two perplexed
men, Joe Welling began to explain. "Don't you make
a mistake now," he cried. "This is something big."
His voice was shrill with excitement. "You just follow me, you'll be interested. I know you will. Suppose this--suppose all of the wheat, the corn, the
oats, the peas, the potatoes, were all by some miracle swept away. Now here we are, you see, in this
county. There is a high fence built all around us.
We'll suppose that. No one can get over the fence
and all the fruits of the earth are destroyed, nothing
left but these wild things, these grasses. Would we
be done for? I ask you that. Would we be done for?"
Again Tom King growled and for a moment there
was silence in the room. Then again Joe plunged
into the exposition of his idea. "Things would go
hard for a time. I admit that. I've got to admit that.
No getting around it. We'd be hard put to it. More
than one fat stomach would cave in. But they
couldn't down us. I should say not."
Tom King laughed good naturedly and the shivery, nervous laugh of Edward King rang through
the house. Joe Welling hurried on. "We'd begin, you
see, to breed up new vegetables and fruits. Soon
we'd regain all we had lost. Mind, I don't say the
new things would be the same as the old. They
wouldn't. Maybe they'd be better, maybe not so
good. That's interesting, eh? You can think about
that. It starts your mind working, now don't it?"
In the room there was silence and then again old
Edward King laughed nervously. "Say, I wish Sarah
was here," cried Joe Welling. "Let's go up to your
house. I want to tell her of this."
There was a scraping of chairs in the room. It was
then that George Willard retreated to his own room.
Leaning out at the window he saw Joe Welling going
along the street with the two Kings. Tom King was
forced to take extraordinary long strides to keep
pace with the little man. As he strode along, he
leaned over, listening--absorbed, fascinated. Joe
Welling again talked excitedly. "Take milkweed
now," he cried. "A lot might be done with milkweed, eh? It's almost unbelievable. I want you to
think about it. I want you two to think about it.
There would be a new vegetable kingdom you see.
It's interesting, eh? It's an idea. Wait till you see
Sarah, she'll get the idea. She'll be interested. Sarah
is always interested in ideas. You can't be too smart
for Sarah, now can you? Of course you can't. You
know that."
Godliness