Original story by Mark Twain, edited by Nathan
I was asked, upon my sister in law Vera learning of my planned trip to Vermont to check on my uncles’ mill, to check on a friend of her friend by the name of Leon (or Leonidis) W Smiley. Reverend Smiley was supposedly familiar to a mutual friend of them both, but without a name for this acquaintance I was instructed to ask after one Simon Wheeler, who was likely to be a mutual of most and could likely give the requested update.
I have since wondered if there was ever a Reverend Leonidis W Smiley or whether Vera had put me to this with the knowledge that asking of Simon Wheeler would put him in a mind of the apparently infamous individual known only as Smiley, and proceed to regale me with stories of this odd fellow’s activities. If that were her intent, she succeeded. Nonetheless, I have attempted to put down here the whole of the interaction so that I can relay it back to her to close the inquiry.
I say that I have attempted, for whatever reason there were certain parts of his tale that I could not follow entirely as either his peculiar dialect seemed to render some words incomprehensible and sometimes painful.
I came upon Simon Wheeler after only a small inquiry with the mill workers at a nearly empty tavern just two blocks from the mill, in downtown Barnet. The fellow was fat and balding, having a nearly blank expression made more pronounced by his overlarge eyes, his wide unsmiling mouth, and an almost grey tint to his skin. I introduced myself to him and made my inquiry regarding the good Reverend. His ear twitched slightly and his breathing became labored for a second before he stood from his seat and nearly knocked me over, ushering me into a seat in the corner and seating himself on a bench he dragged near – which had the effect of neatly blocking me in. I was his captive audience, and I suppose I had asked for it. Once seated, I asked him again for any information he might have on Reverend Leonidis W Smiley. His response was as follows:
There was a Smiley round here, wasn’t no reverend but sure did some stirring up around town what like a reverend might have if he went in the drunk tank and started up preachin. Smiley must have been round here about nineteen-hundred, maybe one or two. Could’n have a drink for a couple years, it was before we got the whiskey back. Smiley’d bet on odd things. Anything and everything really, as long as there was a bet. He’d bet on something and if you wouldn’t bet against him he’d swap sides. Only thing is is that Smiley was uncommon lucky. If you saw him up at the horses he’d be flush cause the safe bet came up dead or broke a leg or the jockey went and got hooked up with some whore and wouldn’t pay and got throwed in the clink and they could’n find a replacement. He’d put up on dog fights and cock fights or whatever you have. Wouldn’t always win, I spect he throwed it sometimes so people didn’t run him off but I’d put money on him winning any bet he liked to take. If he ever saw a fly about to light he’d bet you on where it’d go next. Sure as you’d take that bet he watched that fly all intent and that fly’d take off being a fly and it’d circle here and hover and think about a spot across the room and then look at the top of someone’s hat and then sure as daybreak it’d land right where he said it would even if it took a whole hour to watch that fly and he’d smile and take your dollar just like he’d known the whole time it was his. If you walked by him on the street and said you were on your way to the store he’d bet on how long it would take you to get there or he’d bet on how much you’d spend or a specific product you’d buy while you were there and just as sure as he said you’d come out that store with a can of pomade even though you were bald as a dog what has the mange and can’t keep a string of hair on its’ neck cause the shop keep told you it’d help your baby girl with her cough even though you nor the shop keep know the baby was gonna die anyway before you even got home.
This Smiley had a Model T he got from that man Ford and he’d drive it around just like he was going somewheres but he’d just drive it and go to this corner of town and then to that corner of town and then to the middle of town and then to the other corners and then he’d drive like a circle or as close as he could to one around the town and then he’d get out and walk to the east corner and just sit and he’d smile at anyone what walked by and that was the only time I never saw him make a bet with anybody, not even if it was clear betting was on the mind of whoever was sidling up to him. Not for the rest of the day even and sometimes not the day after it seemed like he was waitin’ on something and once he felt good about it he’d start back in. Once after a day like that he bet he could pull a whole store down with that Model T since the store was about to be tore down anyway so they could put in a Bloomingdales and he said they wouldn’ even have to pay him just as long as they let him try and make good on the bet if he did it… (I feel certain Simon Wheeler continued this particular story for quite a few minutes, but I have no recollection of the story here. I know that it was here that I experienced a vague sense of being under water – indeed, the air around me grew thick and had the smell of briny bog water. Maybe I saw the store collapse in a vision while he was relating the event, with odd angles and a green glowing spire extended through it.) …there was nothing left of the store and they all just got all quiet and left.
He got hold of a rooster once and he went about town trying to get in the cock fights and some folk didn’t want him in cause he’d just made himself too lucky but there was some that wanted him in so they could try to get some of their lost money back. They figured they had a chance on account of that rooster’s feathers hung on him like he was a two year old boy wearing his 10 year old brother’s hand me down clothes and could hardly cock-a-doodle-doo without coughing and chocking before he got the doodle out so they let him put his rooster in the ring. That old cock just sat there like it was already sitting in the butcher’s window while that other bird laid into him throwing feathers and blood and chicken shit everywhere and that bird didn’t make a noise just looked out at the crowd like it was begging for it all to stop and then they called the betting closed cause there was already a huge sum old Smiley’d have to pay out and that old rooster was pretty much not moving but soon as they closed the bet that old rooster just swallowed that other bird right up. Just unhinged his beak and his waddles fell to the ground like his feathers really were detached and the other bird just fell down his throat. That bird swelled up just like you might if you swallowed another person, became a whole lot more rooster shaped and color came back to his feathers and for about a minute that old decrepit bird become the most fine specimen of a rooster any of us ever seen and then it was just that old bird falling apart again. Everybody paid old Smiley and grumbled their way out the warehouse and some of em said they wasn’t never fighting cocks again. My cousin Charlie throwed up once he was outside and I think a couple more guys did.
He got hold of a frog out the river and went telling everybody that’d listen that he was gonna learn it to be the greatest (….)ing frog ever (at this point I assumed I was developing a headache, and will never fully understand what the frog was supposed to be doing, despite multiple following repetitions) and that you’d never seen a frog (….) like his frog would and furthermore it would be the best (….)er that had ever been and he took that frog to his house and for a couple months you didn’t see Smiley, not even out in his car making circles around the town. All sorts of smells and smoke came out from his house like things was burning and folks heard him yelling at the frog to (….) and sometimes you’d actually see flames coming up over the fence around his back yard and on occasion you heard screaming in the night and some people said they saw cats (….)ing and cows too and they never seen a cat or cow (….) before or even knew they could and it wasn’t natural and Beauregard who lived next door to Smiley even though there was a couple acres between them said he even dreamed he had (….)ed and said he figured if he could get his hands on Smiley he’d like to strangle him.
When Smiley came out from his house folks kind of avoided him seeing as he looked different, like his skin was all grey and puffy and he smelled like that frog and he’d gone bald but there wasn’t no frog he didn’t even talk about the frog and he didn’t bet anyone about anything and do you hear splashing from the river?
(Here Simon Wheeler got up and moved towards the doorway, looking back at me as he moved)
You sit right there a second stranger and rest easy. I’m just specting somebody, I’ll be right back.
But by the by I did not expect at this point I’d hear anything at all about Reverend Leon Smiley nor did I think I could suffer any more of this tale, nor suffer that headache that pounded in my head every time that indiscernible word presented itself, so I started to leave out the side door.
Simon met me halfway (I’m not sure how he managed, due to moving much slower than I and the side door being much closer than the front door to which he had been headed) and continued on:
Anyway there wasn’t any frog but there sure was this odd looking goat with..
At this point I broke replying “Damn Smiley and his afflicted goat!” in the most polite way you can say such a thing and hurried to the side door, begging his pardon and wishing him well before departing.
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