The Combustible Qualities of John Henry Crown

A man may learn a great many things in this life, some from books, some from experience, and the rest from watching another fellow make a spectacle of himself. It was my privilege, on one memorable evening, to receive instruction of the latter sort, courtesy of Mr. John Henry Crown and a fire that proved altogether too sociable.

We had set ourselves to the serious business of supper, which is a labor no sensible man neglects. John Henry was down on his hands and knees, coaxing a reluctant fire into usefulness. He puffed at it like a steam engine with asthma, delivering careful little breaths to the coals.

“Come on now,” he muttered, “you ain’t so dead you can’t be persuaded.”

I stood off, observing, as is my custom when another man is doing the work. Presently, while he was engaged in blowing life into the fire at one end, he betrayed a certain enthusiasm at the other.

I remarked upon it at once.

“Well now, John Henry,” I said, “you appear to be working both bellows at once. That’s efficiency, if not elegance.”

He paused, looked over his shoulder with a dignity that had suffered, and said, “Mind your own business.”

It was sound advice, though I had no intention of following it.

The fire, encouraged by all available winds, took a sudden liking to existence and sprang up in a cheerful blaze. John Henry, satisfied, turned his back to it to enjoy the warmth, which I considered a decision of questionable foresight.

I took Betsy, the donkey, and a more sensible creature than either of us, to the far side of the field to curry her down and see to her feed. She regarded me with that steady expression donkeys reserve for human folly, which is to say she looked like she knew something unfortunate was about to happen and had decided to let it.

From across the field, I called out, “John Henry, I’d take care if I were you. A man putting out that much vapor near open flame is liable to promote himself to a hazard.”

He waved a hand without turning. “I said, mind your business!”

“Very good,” I answered. “I’ll mind it from a safe distance.”

I had just set to brushing Betsy when a most uncommon yell split the evening air.

I looked up in time to witness John Henry Crown tearing down the hill at a speed I would not have credited him with under ordinary circumstances. His back pockets were alight in a manner both vivid and instructive.

“Fire!” he hollered, as though the fact might have escaped notice.

Betsy let out a bray so perfectly timed and so richly expressive that I declare it bore all the marks of laughter. I joined her in it, though I will admit my laughter was less musical.

John Henry continued his descent, slapping at himself with an urgency that suggested a newfound respect for the properties of flame. He vanished over the rise, still in lively conversation with the fire.

I did not see him again for three days.

In the meantime, I tended to Betsy, who conducted herself with composure and, I thought, a trace of satisfaction. We got on well enough without combustion.

As for John Henry, when he did return, he carried himself more cautiously around open flames and with a noticeable reduction in commentary from either end. Experience had improved him, as it does most men, though it seldom does so with such spectacle.