The Belovéd Vagabond, by William J. Locke. New York, A. L. Burt Company; ©1905, 1906.
303 p. 20 cm.
William John Locke (1863-1930) was a best-selling novelist; several of his stories were made into movies, some quite recently.
This is not a story about myself. Like Canning’s organ-grinder I have none to tell. It is the story of Paragot, the belovéd vagabond–please pronounce his name French-fashion–and if I obtrude myself on your notice it is because I was so much involved in the medley of farce and tragedy which made up some years of his life, that I don’t know how to tell the story otherwise. To Paragot I owe everything. He is at once my benefactor, my venerated master, my beloved friend, my creator. Clay in his hands, he moulded me according to his caprice, and inspired me with the breath of life. My existence is drenched with the colour of Paragot. I lay claim to no personality of my own, and any obiter dicta that may fall from my pen in the course of the ensuing narrative are but reflections of Paragot’s philosophy. Men have spoken evil of him. He snapped his fingers at calumny, but I winced, never having reached the calm altitudes of scorn wherein his soul has its habitation. I burned to defend him, and I burn now; and that is why I propose to write his apologia, his justification.
Why he singled me out for adoption from among the unwashed urchins of London I never could conjecture.
One thing I’ve learned so far: this book was one of the favorite books of Maud Hart Lovelace