The cow had forgot all about havin’ had her hoofs pared, an’ she took after him like a hungry coyote
The cow had forgot all about havin’ had her hoofs pared, an’ she took after him like a hungry coyote
The cow had forgot all about havin’ had her hoofs pared, an’ she took after him like a hungry coyote
The rock was too big to get a half hitch over, so I just ran at right angles from her, hopin’ to stretch out more rope ’n she could cover. I did it by a few feet; but she swung around into my rope head on, an’ this flung me up again’ her side. I managed to hang on to the rope, however, an’ this fixed her, ’cause she’d have had to pull that rock over before she could ’a’ come any farther. Horace had stopped an’ was gappin’ at us from a safe distance; but Tank arrived by this time an’ put another rope on her an’ we had her cross-tied between two big rocks by the time Horace arrived.
“What ya goin’ to kill her with?” he asked, his eyes dancin’ like an Injun’s at the beef whack-up.
“My cartridges are all gone,” sez Tank.
“Mine too,” sez I.
“Can’t you use a knife, or a stone?” sez Horace, the dude.
“You can try it if you want to,” sez I; “but hanged if I will.”
He took a big stone an’ walked to the head of the cow, but his nerve gave out, an’ he threw down the stone. “What in thunder did you tie her up for, then?” sez he.
“I beg your pardon,” sez I, “but I thought perhaps she might be a little vexed with you on account o’ your shootin’ her up. She was headed your way.”
He sat down on a stone an’ looked at the cow resentful. Suddenly his face lit up. “Why don’t you milk her?” sez he. “We can live on milk for weeks.”
It’s funny how much alike hungry animals look. As Horace sat on the stone with his anxious face, his poppin’ eyes, his mussed up side-burns, an’ the water drippin’ from his mouth at thought o’ the milk, he looked so much like a setter pup I once knew that it was all I could do to hold a straight face.
“Do you know how to milk, Tank?” I sez.
“I don’t,” sez Tank; “nor I don’t know what it tastes like.”
“Go ahead an’ milk her, Mr. Bradford,” I sez. “You’re the only one what knows how to milk, or who cares to drink it. What you goin’ to milk it in?”
“I never milked in my life,” sez he; “but I saw it done once when I was a boy, an’ I’m goin’ to try to milk in my hat.”
He had a bad time of it; but he only got kicked twice, an’ both times it was short, glancin’ blows, not much more ’n shoves. Finally, he came over to where me an’ Tank was settin’ an’ flopped himself down beside us. “Can’t you strangle her with those ropes?” he sez, in what might well be called deadly earnest.
We shook our heads, an’ continued to sit there lookin’ at the cow as though we expected she’d point the way out of our trouble. Presently the calf remembered his own appetite, an’ rushed up an’ gave a demonstration of what neat an’ orderly milkin’ was. Horace sighed. “Gee, I bet that’s good,” he said, the water drippin’ from his lips again. He had been four days without food, walkin’ all that time through the mountains, sleepin’ out doors with no cover but a slicker; and he had about burned up all his waste products, which Friar Tuck said was a city man’s greatest handicap. His eyes got a little red as he watched the calf, an’ I saw that he meant to slaughter it; so I sez to him: “That’s the way to milk, Mr. Bradford. Why don’t you sneak up on the other side an’ try it that way, the same time the calf is?”
He studied a moment, an’ then shook his head. “No, she could tell me from the calf,” he said sorrowful. “Our foreheads are shaped different, an’ I’d have to get down on my hands and knees. She’d tell me in a minute, an’ I don’t want to be on my hands an’ knees when she kicks me.”
“We could throw an’ hog-tie her,” sez Tank; “and you could get it easy an’ comfortable. Would you want us to do that, Mr. Bradford?”
Horace jumped to his feet an’ shook his fist in Tank’s face. “Don’t call me Mister again,” he yelled. “I’m plumb sick of it. If I ever live to get another bath an’ back East where the’s food in plenty, why, I’ll take up the Mister again; but now that I’ve got to a point where I have to suck milk from a hog-tied cow, you call me Horace, or even Dinky—which was my nickname at school. Yes, for heaven’s sake, tie the cow. I have to have milk, an’ that’s the only way I see to get it.”
Well, Tank an’ I was so full o’ laugh we could hardly truss up the cow; but we finally got her on her back so ’at she couldn’t do nothin’ but snap her tail, an’ then Horace threw his hat on the ground, an’ started in. I was entirely joyful: I knew ’at Spider Kelley, an’ as many o’ the boys as could sneak away, were watchin’ us from up on the hill, an’ this was the grand triumph of my treatment for nerves.
Horace approached the cow with consid’able caution, as she was in an awkward position. The calf had been interrupted in his meal, before he had squenched his thirst, an’ he was still prospectin’ about on his own hook.
“Here,” said Horace, givin’ him a push, “this is my turn.”
You know how a calf is: a calf ain’t afeared o’ nothin’ except hunger. Here was his food-supply bein’ robbed, right when he was needin’ it. He blatted down in his throat, an’ tried to nose Horace out of the way. Horace was findin’ that milk the best stuff he had ever tasted, an’ he fought off the calf with his right hand, while he steadied himself by puttin’ his left on the hind leg o’ the calf’s mother, an’ got a nice coat o’ creamy froth in his side-burns. He was so blame hungry he didn’t see a speck o’ humor in it; but me an’ Tank nearly died.
“Say,” sez Horace, raisin’ his head, the milk drippin’ from his lips, “can’t one o’ you fellers fend off this calf till I finish?”
Tank held the calf while I advised Horace to be temperate, an’ after a bit he gave a sigh an’ said, that that was all he could hold just then, but not to let the cow escape. We loosened her, left one o’ the ropes on for a drag picket, an’ took off the other. She was purty well subdued; but we refused to give Horace any more milk that night, an’ he went to sleep before we had a fire built. Spider Kelley was wabblin’ with laughter when he brought us our supper. He had been the only one who could stay after bringin’ up the cow; but he said he wouldn’t ’a’ missed it for three jobs.
Next mornin’ we fed Horace all the milk he could hold, an’ tried to drive the cow along with us; but her hoofs had been pared so thin that it made her cross an’ we had to give that projec’ up.
“How far are we from the ranch house?” asked Horace.
“About sixty miles,” sez Tank.
“That’s what I thought,” sez he. “Now, I can’t see any sense in all of us hoofin’ that distance. I’d go if I knew the way; but one of you could go, an’ the other stay with me an’ the cow. Then the one which went could bring back food on the buckboard, and it would be as good as if we all went.”
Now this was a fine scheme; but neither Tank nor I had thought of it. We had intended to follow our own windin’ circle back every step o’ the way; but when the milk set Horace’s brain to pumpin’, he fetched up this idee which saved us all a lot o’ bother.
“I shall go myself,” sez Tank; “weak as I am, I’ll go myself.”
It was only about fifteen or twenty miles by the short cut, an’ this would get him back to regular meals in short order; so he left me his rope an’ set out. Horace helped me with the cow that night, an’ he proved purty able help. He was feelin’ fine, an’ the milk had filled him out wonderful. He said he hadn’t felt so rough ’n’ ready for twenty years; but Spider Kelley failed to arrive with my meal that night, and I went to bed feelin’ purty well disgusted. Tank had met him before noon that day, an’ he had gone in for a hoss; and they had decided that it would be a good stunt to give me some o’ my own treatment.
Next mornin’ I felt as empty as a balloon; so after Horace had enjoyed himself, I took a little o’ the same, myself; but I didn’t take it like he did. I held my mouth open an’ squirted it in, an’ it was mighty refreshin’.
“Huh,” sez Horace, “you’re mightily stuck up. The calf’s way is good enough for me.”
“I got a split lip,” I sez, half ashamed o’ myself.
They left us there three days to allow for the time it would have taken Tank to walk if it had been as far as we claimed it was; and then Tillte Dutch drove out the buckboard. He said ’at Spider an’ Tank had quit and gone into Boggs for a little recreation; but after I had eaten my first meal out o’ the grub he brought, I didn’t bear ’em any ill will. The joke was on me as much as it was on Horace; but I’d ’a’ gone through twice as much to test that theory, an’ I’d had the full worth o’ my bother. Horace was a new man: he was full o’ vim an’ snap, an’ he gave me credit for it an’ became mighty friendly an’ confidential.
He stood up in the buckboard an’ made a farewell speech to the cow which lasted ten minutes. He also apologized to the calf, an’ told him that when he got back East, he would raise his hat every time he passed a milk wagon. He sure felt in high spirits, and made up a ramblin’ sort of a song which lasted all the way back to the house. It had the handiest tune ever invented and he got a lot o’ fun out of it. It began:
“Oh we walked a thousand miles without eatin’ any food,An’ then we met a cow an’ calf, an’ gee, but they looked good!Her eyes like ancient Juno’s were so in-o-cent an’ mild,We couldn’t bear to take her life, we only robbed her child.She strove to save the lactual juice to feed her darling boy;So we had to fling her on her back to fill our souls with joy.Now Tank an’ Happy were too proud to compete with a calf,So they sat them down an’ dined on wind, while they weakly tried to laugh.I’m but a simple-minded cuss, not proud like one of these;So I filled myself so full of milk, I’m now a cottage cheese.”
“Oh we walked a thousand miles without eatin’ any food,An’ then we met a cow an’ calf, an’ gee, but they looked good!Her eyes like ancient Juno’s were so in-o-cent an’ mild,We couldn’t bear to take her life, we only robbed her child.She strove to save the lactual juice to feed her darling boy;So we had to fling her on her back to fill our souls with joy.Now Tank an’ Happy were too proud to compete with a calf,So they sat them down an’ dined on wind, while they weakly tried to laugh.I’m but a simple-minded cuss, not proud like one of these;So I filled myself so full of milk, I’m now a cottage cheese.”
“Oh we walked a thousand miles without eatin’ any food,An’ then we met a cow an’ calf, an’ gee, but they looked good!Her eyes like ancient Juno’s were so in-o-cent an’ mild,We couldn’t bear to take her life, we only robbed her child.She strove to save the lactual juice to feed her darling boy;So we had to fling her on her back to fill our souls with joy.Now Tank an’ Happy were too proud to compete with a calf,So they sat them down an’ dined on wind, while they weakly tried to laugh.I’m but a simple-minded cuss, not proud like one of these;So I filled myself so full of milk, I’m now a cottage cheese.”
“Oh we walked a thousand miles without eatin’ any food,
An’ then we met a cow an’ calf, an’ gee, but they looked good!
Her eyes like ancient Juno’s were so in-o-cent an’ mild,
We couldn’t bear to take her life, we only robbed her child.
She strove to save the lactual juice to feed her darling boy;
So we had to fling her on her back to fill our souls with joy.
Now Tank an’ Happy were too proud to compete with a calf,
So they sat them down an’ dined on wind, while they weakly tried to laugh.
I’m but a simple-minded cuss, not proud like one of these;
So I filled myself so full of milk, I’m now a cottage cheese.”
Horace was as proud o’ this song as though it was the first one ever sung. He used the same tune on it that blind men on corners use. I reckon that tune fits most any sort of a song; it’s more like the “Wearin’ of the Green” than anything else but ten times sadder an’ more monotonous. He said he had once wrote a Greek song at college but it wasn’t a patch on this one, and hadn’t got him nothin’ but a medal. I used to know twelve or eighteen verses, but I’ve forgot most of it. It was a hard one to remember because the verses wasn’t of the same length. Sometimes a feller would have to stretch a word all out of shape to make it cover the wave o’ the tune, an’ sometimes you’d have to huddle the words all up into a bunch. Horace said that all high class music was this way; but it made it lots more bother to learn than hymns.
The verse which pleased me the most was the forty-third. Horace himself said ’at this was about as good as any, though he liked the seventy-ninth one a shade better, himself. The forty-third one ran:
“A cow-boy does not live on milk, that’s all a boy-cow’ll drink;But the cow-ma loves the last the most, which seems a funny think,I do not care for milk in pans with yellow scum o’er-smeared.I like to gather mine myself; and strain it through my beard.”
“A cow-boy does not live on milk, that’s all a boy-cow’ll drink;But the cow-ma loves the last the most, which seems a funny think,I do not care for milk in pans with yellow scum o’er-smeared.I like to gather mine myself; and strain it through my beard.”
“A cow-boy does not live on milk, that’s all a boy-cow’ll drink;But the cow-ma loves the last the most, which seems a funny think,I do not care for milk in pans with yellow scum o’er-smeared.I like to gather mine myself; and strain it through my beard.”
“A cow-boy does not live on milk, that’s all a boy-cow’ll drink;
But the cow-ma loves the last the most, which seems a funny think,
I do not care for milk in pans with yellow scum o’er-smeared.
I like to gather mine myself; and strain it through my beard.”
I never felt better over anything in my life than I did over returnin’ Horace in this condition. It was some risk to experiment with such a treatment as mine on a feller who regarded himself as an invalid; but here he was, comin’ back solid an’ hearty, with his shape shrunk down to normal, an’ full o’ jokes an’ song.
Tillte Dutch had been one o’ the braves in Spider’s Injun party; so when we got in, about ten in the evenin’, he lured the rest o’ the pack out to the corral, an’ we agreed not to make the details of our trip public. The ol’ man wouldn’t have made a whole lot o’ fuss seein’ as it had turned out all right; but still, he was dead set on what he called courtesy to guests; and he might ’a’ thought that we had played Horace a leetle mite strong. Barbie noticed the change in Horace and, o’ course, she pumped most o’ the story out o’ me.
Horace himself was as game a little rooster as I ever saw. He follered me around like a dog after that, helpin’ with my chores, an’ ridin’ every chance he had. He got confidential, an’ told me a lot about himself. He said that he hadn’t never had any boyhood, that his mother was a rich widow, an’ was ambitious to make a scholar out of him; that she had sent him to all kinds o’ schools an’ colleges an’ universities, and had had private tutors for him, and had jammed his head so full o’ learnin’ that the’ wasn’t room for his brain to beat; so it had just lain smotherin’ amidst a reek of all kinds o’ musty old facts. He said that he never had had time for exercise, and had never needed money; so he had just settled into a groove lined with books an’ not leadin’ anywhere at all. He said that since his mother’s death he had been livin’ like a regular recluse, thinkin’ dead thoughts in dead languages, an’ not takin’ much interest in anything which had happened since the fall o’ Rome; but now that he had learned for the first time what a world of enjoyment the’ was in just feelin’ real life poundin’ through his veins, he intended to plunge about in a way to increase the quality, quantity, and circulation of his blood.
Ya couldn’t help likin’ a feller who took things the way he did—we all liked him. He told us to treat him just as if he was a fourteen-year-old boy, which we did, an’ the’ wasn’t nothin’ in the way of a joke that he wasn’t up against before the summer was over; but he came back at us now an’ again, good an’ plenty.
Tank an’ Spider tossin’ up their jobs had left me with more work on my hands ’n I generally liked, so I had to stick purty close to the line until they went broke an’ took on again. Then one day me an’ Horace took a ride up into the hills. We had some lunch along and about noon we sat down in a grassy spot to eat it. We had just finished and had lighted our pipes for a little smoke when we heard Friar Tuck comin’ up the trail. I hadn’t seen him for months, an’ I was mighty glad to hear him again. He was fair shoutin’, so I knew ’at things was right side up with him. He was singin’ the one which begins: “Oh, come, all ye faithful, joyful an’ triumphant,” and he shook the echoes loose with it.
Horace turned to me with a surprised look on his face; “Who’s that?” he sez.
“That’s Friar Tuck,” sez I, “an’ if you’ve got any troubles tell ’em to him.”
“Well, wouldn’t that beat ya!” exclaimed Horace, an’ just then the Friar came onto our level with his hat off an’ his head thrown back. He was leadin’ a spare hoss, an’ seemed at peace with all the world.
When he spied me, he headed in our direction, an’ as soon as he had finished the chorus, he called: “Hello, Happy! What are you hidin’ from up here?”
I jumped to my feet, an’ Horace got to his feet, too, an’ bowed an’ said: “How do ya do, Mr. Carmichael?”
A quick change came over the Friar’s face. It got cold an’ haughty; and I was flabbergasted, because I had never seen it get that way before. “How do you do,” he said, as cheery an’ chummy as a hail-storm.
But he didn’t need to go to the trouble o’ freezin’ himself solid; Horace was just as thin skinned as he was when it was necessary, an’ he slipped on a snuffer over his welcomin’ smile full as gloomy as was the Friar’s. I was disgusted: nothin’ pesters me worse ’n to think a lot o’ two people who can’t bear each other. It leaves it so blame uncertain which one of us has poor taste.
Well, we had one o’ those delightful conflabs about the weather an’ “how hot it was daytimes, but so cool an’ refreshin’ nights,” an’, “I must be goin’ now,” an’ “oh, what’s the use o’ goin’ so soon”—and so on. Then Horace an’ the Friar bowed an’ the Friar rode away as silent an’ dignified as a dog which has been sent back home.
“Well,” sez Horace, after we’d seated ourselves again, “I never expected to see that man out here. I wouldn’t ’a’ been more surprised to have seen a blue fish with yaller goggles on, come swimmin’ up the pass.”
“Oh, wouldn’t ya?” sez I. “Well, that man ain’t no more like a blue fish with goggles on than you are. He’s ace high anywhere you put him, an’ don’t you forget that.”
“You needn’t arch up your back about it,” he sez. “I haven’t said anything again’ him. I gave up goin’ to church on his account.”
“That’s nothin’ to brag about,” sez I. “A man’ll give up goin’ to church simply because they hold it on Sunday, which is the one day o’ the week when he feels most like stackin’ up his feet on top o’ somethin’ an’ smokin’ a pipe. A man who couldn’t plan out an excuse for not goin’ to church wouldn’t be enough intelligent to know when he was hungry.”
“You must ’a’ set up late last night to whet your sarcasm!” sez Horace, swellin’ up a little. “Why don’t you run along and hold up a screen, so ’at folks can’t look at your parson.”
“How’d you happen to quit church on his account?” sez I.
“He was only a curate, when I first knew him,” sez Horace.
“He’s a curate yet,” sez I. “I tried one of his cures myself, lately; an’ it worked like a charm.” I turned my head away so ’at Horace wouldn’t guess ’at he was the cuss I had tried it on.
“A curate hasn’t nothin’ to do with doctorin’,” sez Horace. “A curate is only the assistant of the regular preacher which is called a rector. The curate does the hard work an’ the rector gets the big pay.”
“That’s the way with all assistants,” sez I; “so don’t bother with any more details. Why did you quit goin’ to church?”
“I quit because he quit,” sez Horace.
“What did he quit for,” sez I; “just to bust up the church by drawin’ your patronage away from it?”
“He quit on account of a girl,” sez Horace; an’ then I stopped my foolishness, an’ settled down to get the story out of him. Here I’d been wonderin’ for years about Friar Tuck; an’ all those weeks I had been with Horace I had never once thought o’ tryin’ to see what he might know.
Humans is the most disappointin’ of all the animals: when a mule opens his mouth, you know what sort of a noise is about to happen, an’ can brace yourself accordin’; an’ the same is true o’ screech-owls, an’ guinea-hens an’ such; but no one can prepare for what is to come forth when a human opens his mouth. You meet up with a professor what knows all about the stars an’ the waterlines in the hills an’ the petrified fishes, an’ such; but his method o’ bein’ friendly an’ agreeable is to sing comic songs like a squeaky saw, an’ dance jigs as graceful as a store box; while the fellow what can sing an’ dance is forever tryin’ to lecture about stuff he is densely ignorant of.
The other animals is willin’ to do what they can do, an’ they take pride in seein’ how well they can do it; but not so a human. He only takes pride in tryin’ to do the things he can’t do. A hog don’t try to fly, nor a butterfly don’t try to play the cornet, nor a cow don’t set an’ fret because she can’t climb trees like a squirrel; but not so with man: he has to try everything ’at anything else ever tried, an’ he don’t care what it costs nor who gets killed in the attempt. Sometimes you hear a wise guy say: “No, no that’s contrary to human nature.” This is so simple minded it allus makes me silent. Human nature is so blame contrary, itself, that nothin’ else could possibly be contrary to it. To think of Horace knowin’ about the Friar, an’ yet doggin’ me all over the map with that song of his, was enough to make me shake him; but I didn’t. I wanted the story, so I pumped him for it, patient an’ persistent.
“I never was very religious,” began Horace. Most people begin stories about other people, by tellin’ you a lot about themselves, so I had my resignation braced for this. “I allus liked the Greek religion better ’n airy other,” he went on. “It was a fine, free, joyous religion, founded on Art an’ music, an’ symmetry—”
I was willin’ to stand for his own biography; but after waitin’ this long for a clue to the Friar’s past, I wasn’t resigned to hearin’ a joint debate on the different religions; so I interrupted, by askin’ if him believin’ in the Greek religion was what had made Friar Tuck throw up his job.
“No, you chump,”—me an’ Horace was such good friends by this time that we didn’t have any regard for one another’s feelin’s. “No, you chump,” he sez, “I told you he quit on account of a girl. I don’t look like a girl, do I?”
“Well,” sez I, studying him sober, “those side-burns look as if they might ’a’ been bangs which had lost their holt in front an’ slipped down to your lip; but aside from this you don’t resemble a girl enough to drive a man out o’ church.”
I allus had better luck with Horace after I’d spurred him up a bit.
“You see, Friar Tuck, as you call him, was a good deal of a fanatic, those days,” sez Horace, after he’d thrown a stone at me. “He took his religion serious, an’ wanted to transform the world into what it would be if all people tried their best to live actual Christ-like lives. He was a big country boy, fresh from college, an’ full of ideals, an’ feelin’ strong enough to hammer things out accordin’ to the pattern he had chose.
“It was his voice which got him his place. He had a perfectly marvelous voice, an’ I never heard any one else read the service like he did. This was what took me to church, and I’d have gone as long as he stayed. You see, Happy, life is really made up of sensations an’ emotions; and it used to lift me into the clouds to see his shinin’ youth robed in white, an’ hear that wonderful voice of his fillin’ the great, soft-lighted church with melody an’ mystery. It was all I asked of religion an’ it filled me with peace an’ inspiration. Of course, from a philosophical standpoint, the Greek religion—”
“Did the girl believe in the Greek religion?” I asked to switch him back.
“No, no,” he snapped. “This Greek religion that I’m speakin’ of died out two thousand years ago.”
“Then let’s let it rest in peace,” sez I, “an’ go on with your story.”
“You understand that this was a fashionable church,” sez Horace. “They was willin’ to pay any sum for music an’ fine readin’ an’ all that; but they wasn’t minded to carry out young Carmichaels plan in the matter of Christianizin’ the world. They was respectable, an’ they insisted that all who joined in with ’em must be respectable, too; while he discovered that a lot o’ the most persistent sinners wasn’t respectable at all. His theory was, that religion was for the vulgar sinners, full as much as for the respectable ones; so he made a round-up an’ wrangled in as choice a lot o’ sinners as a body ever saw; but his bosses wouldn’t stand for his corralin’ ’em up in that fashionable church.
“He stood out for the sinners; an’ finally they compromised by gettin’ him a little chapel in the slums, an’ lettin’ him go as far as he liked with the tough sinners down there through the week; but readin’ the service on Sundays to the respectable sinners in the big church. This plan worked smooth as ice, until they felt the need of a soprano singer who could scrape a little harder again’ the ceilin’ than the one they already had. Then Carmichael told ’em that he had discovered a girl with a phe-nominal voice, an’ had been teachin’ her music for some time. He brought her up an’ gave her a trial—”
“An’ she was the girl, huh?” I interrupted.
“She had a wonderful voice, all right,” sez Horace, not heedin’ me; “but she wasn’t as well trained as that church demanded; so they hired her for twenty-five dollars a Sunday on the condition that she take lessons from a professor who charged ten dollars an hour. She was game, though, an’ took the job, an’ made good with it, too, improvin’ right along until it was discovered that she was singin’ weeknights in a café, from six to eight in the evenin’, an’ from ten to twelve at night.
“The girl had been singin’ with a screen o’ flowers in front of her; and some o’ the fashionable male sinners from the big church had been goin’ there right along to hear her sing; but they couldn’t work any plan to get acquainted with her, and this made her a mystery, and drew ’em in crowds. Finally, as her voice got better with the trainin’, critics admitted ’at she could make an agreeable noise; and the common sinners was tickled to have their judgement backed up, so they began to brag about it. The result o’ this was, that one ol’ weasel had to swaller his extra-work-at-the-office excuse, and take his own wife to hear the singer. Then the jig was up. The woman recognized the voice first pop; and within a week it was known that Carmichael had been goin’ home with her every night.
“Now, you may be so simple-minded that you don’t know it; but really, this was a perfectly scandalous state of affairs, and the whole congregation began to buzz like a swarm of angry bees. Carmichael was as handsome a young feller as was ever seen; but he had never taken kindly to afternoon teas and such-like functions, which is supposed to be part of a curate’s duties; so now, when they found he had been goin’ home nights with a girl ’at sang in a café it like to have started an epidemic of hysteria.
“They found that the girl lived in a poor part o’ the town, and supported her mother who was sickly, that they were strangers to the city, and also not minded to furnish much in the way o’ past history. They insisted upon her givin’ up the café-singin’ at once; and from what I’ve heard, they turned up their noses when they said it.
“Carmichael pointed out that she was givin’ up twenty a week for lessons which they had insisted upon; and asked ’em if they were sure a girl could be any more, respectable, supportin’ a sickly mother on five a week, than if she added fifteen to it by singin’ in a café. He got right uppish about it and said right out that he couldn’t see where it was one bit more hellish for her to sing at the café than for other Christians to pay for a chance to listen to her.
“This tangled ’em up in their own ropes consid’able; but what finally settled it was, ’at their richest member up and died, and they simply had to have a sky-scrapin’ soprano to start him off in good style; so they gave her twenty a week and paid for her lessons. The café people soon found what a card she’d been and they offered her fifty a week; but she was game and stuck to the agreement.”
“How did you find out all this, Horace?” I asked.
“A friend o’ mine belonged to the vestry,” sez Horace; “and he kept me posted to the minute. This was his first term at it, and it was his last; but he was a lucky cuss to get the chance just when he did. I have since won him over to see the beauty o’ the Greek religion.”
“What became o’ the girl?” sez I with some impatience, for I didn’t care as much as a single cuss-word for the Greek religion.
“Carmichael was a gentle spoken young feller,” sez Horace, “but for all that, he wasn’t a doormat by inheritance nor choice, and he kept on payin’ attention to the girl, and got her to sing at his annex in the slums. Night after night he filled the place with the best assortment o’ last-chance sinners ’at that locality could furnish; and he an’ the girl an’ the sinners all pitched in and offered up song music to make the stars rock; but St. Holiernthou wasn’t the sort of a parish to sit back and let a slum outfit put over as swell a line o’ melody as they were servin’, themselves; so they ordered Carmichael to cut her off his list. He tried to get ’em to hire another curate, and let him have full swing at the annex; but they told him they’d close it up first.
“Next, a delegation o’ brave an’ inspired women took it upon ’emselves to call on the girl. They pointed out that she was standin’ in the way o’ Carmichael’s career, that, under good conditions, his advance was certain; but that a false step at the start would ruin it all. They went on and hinted that if it wasn’t for her, he might have married an heiress, and grow up to be one o’ the leadin’ ministers o’ the whole country.”
“What did she do, Horace?” sez I.
“The girl was proud; she thanked the delegation for takin’ so much interest in her—and said that she would not detain ’em any longer; but would think it over as careful as she could. Then she walked out o’ the room; and the delegation strutted off with their faces shinin’ like a cavey o’ prosperous cats. The girl vanished, just simply vanished. She wrote Carmichael a letter, and that was the end of it. Some say she committed suicide, and some say she went to Europe and became a preemie donner—a star singer—but anyway, that was the end of her, as far as that region was concerned.”
“She was a fine girl,” sez I; “though I wish that instead of slippin’ off that way, she had asked me to drown the members o’ that delegation as inconspicuous as possible. I wouldn’t put on mournin’, if the whole outfit of ’em was in the same fix your confounded Greek Religion is. What was her name, Horace?”
“Janet Morris,” sez he.
I said it over a time or two to myself; and it seemed to fit her. “I like that name,” sez I. “Now tell me the way ’at the Friar cut loose and tied into that vestry. I bet he made trade boom for hospitals and undertakers.”
Ol’ Tank Williams allus maintained that I had a memory like the Lord; but this ain’t so. What I do remember, I actually see in pictures, just like I told you; but what my memory chooses to discard is as far out o’ my reach as the smoke o’ last year’s fire. I’ve worked at my memory from the day I was weaned, not bein’ enough edicated to know ’at the proper way is to put your memory in a book—and then not lose the book. I’ve missed a lot through not gettin’ on friendly terms with books earlier in life; but then I’ve had a lot o’ fun with my memory to even things up.
This part about the Friar, though, isn’t a fair test. Horace’s vestry-man friend was what is known as a short-hand reporter. Short-hand writin’ is merely a lot o’ dabs and slips which’d strain a Chinaman; but Horace said it was as plain to read as print letters, and as fast to write as spoke words. Hugo took it down right as it was given; and Horace had a copy which I made him go over with me until I had scratched it into the hardest part o’ my memory; and now it is just the same as if I had seen it with my own eyes—me knowin’ every tone in the Friar’s voice, and the way his eyes shine; yes, and the way his jaws snap off the words when he’s puttin’ his heart into a thing.
Horace sat thinkin’, before he started on with his tale; and I sat watchin’ his face. It was just all I could do to make out the old lines which had give me the creeps a few weeks before. Now, it had a fine, solid tan, the eyes were full o’ fire, and he looked as free from nerves as a line buckskin. The Friar sez we’re all just bits o’ glass through which the spirit shines; and now that I had cleaned Horace up with my nerve treatment, the’ was a right smart of spirit shinin’ out through him, and I warmed my hands at it. He simply could not learn to roll a cigarette with one hand; but in most things, he was as able a little chap as ever I took the kinks out of.
“I’m sorry I didn’t belong to that vestry,” sez Horace, after a bit. “When I look back at all the sportin’ chances I’ve missed, I feel like kickin’ myself up to the North Pole and back. From now on I intend to mix into every bloomin’ jambaree ’at exposes itself to the vision of my gaze. I’m goin’ to ride an’ shoot an’ wrestle an’ box an’ gamble an’ fight, and get every last sensation I’m entitled to—but I’ll never have another chance at a vestry-meetin’ like the one I’m about to tell you of.
“You saw how toppy Carmichael got this afternoon; so you can guess purty close how he looked when he lined up this vestry.”
“Oh, I’ve seen the Friar in action,” sez I; “and you can’t tell me anything about his style. All you can tell is the details. So go to ’em without wastin’ any more time.”
“How comes it you call such a man as him Friar Tuck?” asked Horace, who allus was as hard to drive as an only son burro.
“Well, I don’t approve of it,” sez I, “and I kicked about it to the Friar; but he only laughed, and said ’at one name was as good as another. A bettin’ barber over at Boggs give it to him for admonishin’ a gambler from Cheyenne.”
“Was he severe?” asked Horace.
“Depends on how you look at it,” sez I. “He took a club away from the gambler an’ spanked him with it; but he didn’t injure him a mite.”
“Humph,” sez Horace, “I guess the name won’t rust much while it’s in his keepin’. He took other methods at this vestry meetin’, though I don’t say they were any more befittin’. Hugo—such was the name of my friend—said it was the quietest, but the most dramatic thing he ever saw.
“They started in by treatin’ him like the boy he was, gave him a lot o’ copy-book advice, especially as to the value o’ patience, how that Paul was to do the plantin’, Appolinaris, the waterin’; but that the size an’ time o’ the harvest depended on the Lord, Himself; and that it was vanity to think ’at a young boy just out o’ college could rush things through the way he was tryin’ to.
“The’ was a hurt look about Carmichael’s eyes; but the hurt had come from the letter, not from them, so he sat quiet and smiled down at ’em in a sort of super-human calmness. They thought he was bluffed speechless, so they girded up their loins, an’ tied into him a little harder, tellin’ him that his conduct in walkin’ home nights with a café-singer was little short of immoral, although they wouldn’t make no pointed charge again’ the woman herself. Then they wound up by sayin’ ’at they feared he was too young to spend so much time amid the environs o’ sin, and that they would put an older man in charge o’ the annex, and this would leave him free to attend strictly to cu-ratin’.
“When they had spoke their piece, they were all beamin’ with the upliftin’ effect of it; and they settled back with beautiful smiles o’ satisfaction to listen to Carmichael’s thanks and repentance. He sat there smilin’ too—not smilin’ the brand o’ smiles ’at they were, but still smilin’. It would strain a dictionary to tell all there is in some smiles.
“Presently he rose up, swept his eyes over ’em for a time, and said in a low tone: ‘Then I am to understand that I am to follow in the Master’s footsteps only as far as personal chastity goes?’ said he. ‘That I may respectably pity the weak and sinful from a distance; but must not dismount from my exalted pedestal to take ’em by the hand an’ lift ’em up—Is that what you mean?’ sez he.
“They still thought he was whipped, so one of ’em pulled a little sarcasm on him: ‘Takin’ the weak an’ sinful by the hand an’ liftin’ ’em up is all right,’ said he; ‘but it’s not necessary to go home with ’em after midnight.’
“Carmichael bit his lips; he tried to hold himself down, he honestly tried for some time; but he wasn’t quite able. His hands trembled an’ his lip trembled while he was fightin’ himself; but when he kicked off his hobbles an’ sailed into ’em, his tremblin’ stopped an’ the words shot forth, clear an’ hot an’ bitish. Hugo sat back in a corner durin’ this meetin’, without speakin’ a single word; and he was glad of it. It saved him from gettin’ his feelin’s kicked into flinders about him, an’ interferin’ with the view; and it gave him a chance to take his notes.
“‘As a matter o’ faith,’ said Carmichael, ‘we believe that Jesus never sinned; but we cannot know this as a matter of fact. Yet we can know, and we do know, as a matter of history, that He mingled an’ had fellowship with the fallen, the sinful, the outcast, and the disreputable. With these He lived, and with these and for these He left the power and the life and the glory of His religion—and you say that I must live in a glass case, may only look in holy dignity down at the weak and sinful; but that I mustn’t go home with ’em after midnight. With God, a thousand years is but as a day—and yet it would be wrong for me to be in a sinner’s company after midnight!’
“Carmichael paused here to give ’em a comeback at him; but their mouths were dry, and they only hemmed an’ hawed. ‘Every Sunday, in the service of this refined an’ respectable church, hunderds of you admit that you have no health because of your sins—and yet, because of my youth, you say I must remain with you where sin is robed in silk and broadcloth, and not risk my soul where sin is robed in rags.’
“He paused again, and this time his eyes began to shoot jerk-lightning, an’ when he started to speak his deep voice shook the room like the low notes of a big organ. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I am not content to walk with the Lord, only on the day of His triumph—The very ones who strewed the pathway of His majesty with palms, and filled the air with hosaners, deserted Him at the cross—but I must walk with Him every step of the way. I do not pray that my earthly garments be spotless, I do not pray that my sandals be unworn an’ free from mud; but I do pray that when I stand on my own Calvery I may stand with those who bear crosses, not with those who have spent their lives in learnin’ to wear crowns.’
“Carmichael had discarded that entire vestry by this time, and he didn’t care a blue-bottle fly what they thought of him. He towered above them with his face shinin’, and his voice rolled down over ’em like a Norther sweepin’ through the hills. ‘Many there were,’ he went on, ‘who cried to Him, Lord, Lord; but after the tomb was sealed, it was the Magdalene whose faith never faltered, it was to her He first appeared; and on the final resurrection morning, I hope the lesser Magdalenes of all the ages, and from all the nasty corners of the world into which man’s greed has crowded ’em, will know that I am their brother, and, save for a lovin’ hand at the right moment, one of them to the last sordid detail.’
“Carmichael stopped after this, and the room was so quiet you could hear the consciences o’ that vestry floppin’ up and down again’ their pocketbooks. When he began again his voice was soft, an’ the bitterness had given way to sadness. ‘The old way was best, after all,’ he said. ‘When you pay a priest a salary, you hire him and he becomes your servant. The custom is, for masters to dictate to their servants; it is an old, old custom, and hard to break. I think I could suit you; but I do not think I shall try. The roots of my own life lead back to the gutter, and through these roots shall I draw strength to lift others from the gutter. I do not value my voice as a means to amuse those already weary of amusement: I look upon it as a tool to help clean up the world. You are already so clean that you fear I may defile you by contagion. You do not need me; and with all your careful business methods, you have not money enough to hire me.
“‘What you need here, is a diplomat; while I yearn to be on the firm’ line. I care little for the etiquette of religion, I want to get down where the fightin’ is fierce an’ primitive—so I hereby resign.
“‘This girl whom you have driven out of my life, needs no defence from me or any man. I have known her since she was a little child; poverty was her lot, and self-sacrifice has become her second nature. We are forbidden to judge; so I judge neither her nor you; but I will say that often I have stood silent before the beauty of her character, and often my face has burned at the tainted money you have put on the plate. Part of this money comes from the rental of dives. I have seen the dives themselves, I have seen their fearful product; and I cannot believe that profit wrung from a helpless slave can find its way to God—even on the contribution plate.
“‘I love the music an’ the service an’ the vestments o’ this church; and I hope I need not give them up; but my heart is in rebellion, and from this time on I take the full responsibility of my acts. I shall not choose my path; but will go as the spirit moves me; and if ever I find one single spot which seems too dark for the Light of the world to enter, then shall the soul in me shrivel and die, and I shall become a beast, howling in the jungle.’”
Horace said that after the Friar had left the room, those vestry fellers sat in a sort of daze for some time, and then got up an’ sneaked out one at a time, lookin’ exceeding thoughtful; while Hugo had hustled around to his room to read off his notes.
We sat there on the hill until dark, me tryin’ to pump him for more details, but he didn’t have ’em. He said the Friar had started to work in the slums; but was soon lost sight of, and the first he had heard of him for years was when he had come up the pass, singin’ his marchin’ song. Course, I’d liked it some better if the Friar had knocked their heads together; but still, takin’ his eyes an’ voice into consideration, it must ’a’ been a fine sight; and if ever I get the chance, I’m goin’ to take on as a vestry-man, myself, for at least one term.
Me an’ Horace was regular chums after this. I had got to likin’ him after he had showed up good stuff under treatment; but I never took him serious until he got enthusiastic about Friar Tuck. This proved him to have desirable qualities and made him altogether worth while. A man never gets too old to dote on flattery; but the older he gets the more particular he is about its quality. It’s just like tobacco an’ pie an’ whiskey an’ such things: we start out hungry for ’em an’ take a lot o’ trouble to get ’em in quantity; but after a time we’d sooner go without altogether than not to have a superior article; an’ it’s just the same way with flattery.
I took Horace into my most thoughtful moods as soon as I found out that he was as sound as a nut at heart, an’ that it wasn’t altogether his fault that he had been a pest to me at first. The human mind is like new land, some of it’s rich an’ some poor. Facts is like manure, idees is like seed, an’ education is like spadin’ up an’ hoein’ an’ rakin’. Rich soil is bound to raise somethin’, even if it’s nothin’ but weeds; but poor soil needs special care, or it won’t even raise weeds. Now, manure can be put on so thick it will turn ground sour, an’ seeds can be sowed so thick they will choke each other, an’ a green hand will sometimes hoe up the vegetables an’ cultivate the weeds; but the soil ain’t to blame for this.
Poor Horace’s mind had been bungled to an infernal degree; an’ it kept me busy rootin’ up sprouts o’ Greek religion. I’d have stood this better if the Greek gods an’ godduses had had Christian names; ’cause I own up ’at some o’ his tales of ’em was interestin’; but I couldn’t keep track of ’em, an’ so I made him discard ’em in his conversations with me; an’ the way he flattered me was, to reform himself accordin’ to what I demanded.
I was teachin’ him how to shoot, an’ he was enjoyin’ it a lot. He had plenty o’ money, and took pleasure in spendin’ it. This was good, ’cause it costs a lot o’ money to become a good shot. I’m glad I don’t know what it cost me to learn how to shoot a man through both ears after doin’ the double reverse roll. I never had but one fit chance to use this, an’ then I shot Frenchy through his ears without rememberin’ to use the roll. I allus felt bad about this, ’cause I had a good audience, an’ nothin’ saves a man from the necessity o’ shootin’ his fellows, so much as havin’ it well advertised that he is thoroughly qualified to do it in proper style. I kept up my own practicin’ while teachin’ Horace, an’ we had right sociable times.
He could throw up a tin can with his left hand, pull his gun and, about once out o’ ten shots, hit the can before it fell; which is purty fair shootin’; but he was beginnin’ to suspect that he was a regular gun-man; which is a dangerous idee for any one to get into his head. I tried to weight down his head a little to keep him sensible, but instead o’ thankin’ me he went off with Tank, who shot up a lot of his cartridges at target practice; and in return, puffed up the top-heavy opinion Horace already had of himself.
He took Horace down to a warm cañon where the’ was a lot o’ rattlesnakes, claimin’ it was necessary to test him out an’ see if he had nerve on a livin’ creature. He shot off the heads o’ three snakes, hand-runnin’, an’ it nearly broke his hatband.
When he told me about it, I let him know ’at Tank was only workin’ him. “A rattlesnake will strike at a flash, Horace,” sez I; “an’ it was the snake’s eyes which were accurate, not yours.” This cut him up an’ made him a little offish with me for a few days, until he found I had told him the truth. Ol’ Tank Williams wasn’t no fancy shot; but I’d rather have tackled Horace with a gun, cocked in his hand, than ol’ Tank, with his gun asleep in its holster.
After Horace had made the test of shootin’ at dead snakes an’ had found that he couldn’t pop off three heads hand-runnin’, he simmered down a little an’ paid more heed to what I told him; but after I had proved that I told him straighter stuff ’n Tank did, I decided it would be necessary to punish him a little. I didn’t get downright cold with him, because I didn’t want to exaggerate his vanity any more ’n it already was; but I made it a point to do my loafin’ with Spider Kelley. Horace was crazy to go bear-huntin’; but I didn’t seem interested, an’ I recommended ol’ Tank Williams as bein’ some the best bear-hunter the’ was in existence. I wasn’t jealous of Horace goin’ off shootin’ with Tank; but still if a feller chooses to dispense with my company, I allus like to show him ’at I can stand it as long as he can.
Quite a string o’ years had slipped away since the bettin’ barber o’ Boggs had strung ol’ man Dort; so I reminded Spider ’at we had agreed to help even that up sometime; and Spider, he said he was ready to do his part, whatever it happened to be; so we planned idees out among ourselves, while Horace hung around lookin’ wishful.
We had never given it away about the woodchuck not bein’ a regular squirrel; so the boys still used to congregate together purty often at ol’ man Dort’s to marvel at the way Columbus had filled out an’ took on flesh. He had got rough an’ blotchy soon after he had won the contest from Ben Butler, the red squirrel, an’ it was plain to all that Eugene had done some high-toned barberin’ on him before the day o’ the show.
Ol’ man Dort didn’t have no affection for Columbus—fact is, he sort o’ hated him for bein’ bigger ’n Ben Butler; but he kept him fat an’ fit so as to be ready to enter in a contest the minute any feller came along with a squirrel he thought was big enough to back up with a bet. The trouble was, that mighty few fellers out that way owned any squirrels, an’ as the years dragged by without him gettin’ any pastime out o’ Columbus, ol’ man Dort’s affection for him grew thinner an’ thinner. Some o’ the boys discovered him to be a woodchuck; but no one told of it for fear the old man would slaughter Eugene.
The old man kept on gettin’ barbered, so as to have the chance o’ clashin’ with Eugene about every subject which came up; but finally he got so he could be shaved in a decent, orderly manner without havin’ his head tied down to the rest. Him an’ Eugene was the most antagonistic fellers I ever met up with; but it was a long time before me an’ Spider could think up a way to get ’em fairly at it again.
One day Spider came ridin’ in from Danders, bubblin’ over with excitement, and yells out—“Pete Peabody’s got a freak guinea-pig.”
“That’s glorious news,” sez I. “Let’s get all the boys together an’ hold a celebration.”
“I guess a freak guinea-pig’s as worthy o’ bein’ commented on as airy other kind of freak,” sez Spider, stridin’ off to the corral, purty well pouted up.
He hadn’t more ’n reached it before an idee reached me, an’ I ran after him. “What is the’ freakish about this guinea-pig, Spider?” sez I.
“He’s got a tail,” snapped Spider.
“Ain’t they all got tails?” sez I.
“You know they ain’t,” he sez. “You remember what that feller from the East said last spring—if you hold up a guinea-pig by the tail, his eyes fall out, an’ then when we didn’t believe it, he told us they didn’t have no tails. Pete sez that this guinea-pig is the only one in the world what has a tail.”
“Do you reckon he’d sell it?”
“He’d sell the hair off his head,” sez Spider.
“Well, you go back there an’—But say, has Pete got any others?”
“He had ten when I left, an’ no knowin’ how many he’s got by this time. Pete sez ’at guinea-pigs is the prolificest things the’ is,” sez Spider.
“You buy three of ’em, Spider,” sez I; “a male one an’ a female one, an’ this here freak.”
“What do I want with ’em?” sez Spider.
“I’ll pay half, an’ show you how to make money out of ’em,” sez I.
“I don’t want to tinker with no such cattle as them,” sez Spider.
“You get a fresh pony, an’ it won’t take you no time at all,” sez I.
So Spider got the pony an’ went off grumblin’. When he brought ’em back he had ’em in a small box an’ they certainly was curious lookin’ insects. “I paid four bits apiece for the male an’ the female,” sez Spider, “an’ twenty-five real dollars for the freak.”
“If that’s the way prices run,” sez I, “it ain’t no wonder that guinea-pigs what are ambitious to be popular, are willin’ to give up the luxury o’ tails.”
“Now then, what in thunder are we goin’ to do with ’em?” sez Spider.
“Get a fresh pony,” sez I, “an’ we’ll go on over to Boggs.”
“You go to the equator!” yells Spider. “I ain’t had no sleep for a week.”
“Sleep,” sez I, “what’s the use o’ botherin’ about sleep? You keep on losin’ your strength this way, an’ in about a year they’ll be trundlin’ you around in a baby cart. All right then, you stay home an’ be company for the freak. We’ll hide him up in the attic so the rats can’t get him.”
“Oh I could stand it to go without sleep, if I saw any sense in it,” sez Spider; “but hanged if I’m goin’ to ride my bones through my skin just to please you.”
“Suit yourself,” sez I. “We’ll put the freak in the tin cake-box an’ punch a few holes in it to give him air. I’ll do that while you’re makin’ up your mind about goin’ along to Boggs.”
“What you goin’ to do with the male an’ the female?” sez Spider as I started away.
“I’m goin’ to sell ’em to Eugene,” I calls back over my shoulder, an’ then I knew I’d have company.
“I thought you was goin’ to Boggs,” sez Spider as soon as we had settled into a travelin’ trot. I allus find that I get along easier with people if I just leave ’em one or two items to puzzle over.
“Webb Station is closer,” sez I; “an’ if this deal causes any hard feelin’ it will be just as well not to be mixed up in it ourselves.”
“I thought you was goin’ to sell these to Eugene?” sez Spider.
“If you’d just go to sleep, Spider,” sez I, “it would save your brain the trouble o’ thinkin’ up a lot o’ thoughts which ain’t no use anyhow. I’m goin’ to let Shorty take ’em over this evenin’ an’ sell ’em to Eugene.”
“How do you know he wants ’em?”
“’Cause I know Eugene,” sez I. “I’ll fix up Shorty’s tale for him.”
Well, we explained to Shorty the bettin’ principle of guinea-pigs, an’ gave him the pigs, tellin’ him he could have all he won from Eugene on the first bet; but to then sell ’em to Eugene without lettin’ any o’ the other fellers know anything about it, an’ to make Eugene think that he had picked ’em up from a train passenger, not from us.
Shorty said that he’d go over that afternoon as soon as the passenger had gone—Shorty was the telegraph operator—so Spider an’ I came back, he sleepin’ all the way.
“Where do we come in on this deal?” sez Spider next day.
“We’ll give Eugene a chance to cut their hair a new way, an’ then we’ll go over to Boggs an’ line things up.”
“I’m beginnin’ to see how it could be worked out,” sez Spider, grinnin’.
In about a week we went over to Boggs, an’ found the town purty well deserted. We dropped into ol’ man Dort’s to compliment Columbus some an’ sympathize with Ben Butler a little, while tryin’ to hear if Eugene had made his play yet. The ol’ man was gloatin’ over the fact that Eugene wasn’t havin’ much trade, but he didn’t mention anything about guinea-pigs.
“You don’t seem rushed, yourself,” sez I.
“Course I ain’t,” he flares back. “Most o’ the fellers are still roundin’ up, an’ the rest are out huntin’ for Red Erickson.”
“Red been gettin’ thoughtless again?” sez I. Red Erickson was a big Dane who had the habit o’ runnin off stock an’ shootin’ any one who disagreed with him.
The ol’ man merely pointed to a paper pinned up on the wall offerin’ fifteen hundred dollars for Red, dead or alive. He hadn’t been operatin’ on Diamond Dot stuff, so we hadn’t paid much heed to him.
We strolled on over to Eugene’s an’ found him sittin’ down an’ talkin’ about the peculiar custom o’ guinea-pigs; so we knew that he had swallered the bait; but he didn’t offer to bet with us.
Then we went back an’ asked ol’ man Dort if he believed that a guinea-pig’s eyes would fall out if he was held up by the tail.
“It’s all rot!” sez the ol’ man, indignant. “Any one who sez such nonsense never studied the way eyes is fastened in. The tail ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”
“What kind o’ tails has guinea-pigs got?” sez I.
“Why they got—?” sez the ol’ man, an’ then stopped an’ looked blank. “What kind o’ tails have they got?”
“They haven’t got any,” sez I. “Now listen; would you be willin’ to risk a little money to even up with Eugene?”
“I’d risk every thing I got, down to my very hide,” sez the ol’ man, earnest to a degree.
“Well, then, you play careful an’ we’ll provide you with the cards,” sez I. “Eugene has some guinea-pigs, an’ he is plannin’ to string you on a bet. You come right along just as though you was as ignorant as you look, have a day fixed to decide the bet, let us know, an’ for the small sum of fifty dollars we’ll provide you with a guinea-pig which has a tail.”
“I’ll make a pauper out of him,” sez the ol’ man. “I haven’t had a chance to get a bet on Columbus since I owned him.”
“You just land Eugene,” sez I, “an’ that’ll be sport enough for one while.”
“I got shaved twice to-day,” sez the ol’ man feelin’ his chin, “’cause we got into a discussion about comets; but I reckon I can stand another to-morrow.”
The next day the old man asked Eugene what all kind o’ game grew in Africa. “Elephants, hippopotamusses an’ guinea-pigs,” sez Eugene.
“Guinea-pigs?” sez the ol’ man.
“Yes, they’re the most curious animals the’ is in existence,” sez Eugene.
“How big are they?” asked ol’ man Dort. He hadn’t an idea in the world, an’ was beginnin’ to think that if they sized up with elephants an’ hippopotamusses, he didn’t want to have to lift one by the tail to win his bet.
“They ain’t any bigger ’n young rabbits,” sez Eugene, stroppin’ his razor; “but the curious part of ’em is that if you hold up one by the tail, his eyes’ll drop out.”
“I’ll bet a hundred dollars they wouldn’t do it,” sez the ol’ man.
“That’s a safe enough bet,” sez Eugene, calm an’ easy. “They’re worth all the way up to five hundred dollars a pair, an’ it ain’t likely that a man would invest that amount in something, just to win a hundred-dollar bet.”
They sparred back an’ forth for a couple o’ days until finally Eugene bet nine hundred in cash—all he had in the world—an’ his shop an’ fixin’s, again’ eleven hundred dollars, that the old man couldn’t lift a guinea-pig by the tail without his eyes fallin’ out. If the ol’ man didn’t lift one by the tail, he lost the bet. They set the date for a week ahead, an’ the ol’ man bet Eugene three hundred dollars that he’d win the bet, takin’ Eugene’s promissory agreement for his end of it.
We brought in the freak the day before the contest an’ the ol’ man’s eyes lit up when he see the tail. It wasn’t much of a tail at that; but it was a sure enough tail an’ plenty long enough to lift him by, an’ strong enough too, an’ the’ was regular bones in it, just like any tail.
The’ was only a fair sized crowd of us on hand to see the test; but Eugene went through all the preliminaries, an’ then took the cover off his box an’ pointed to the guinea-pigs. He had shaved the parts of ’em where tails naturally belong, an’ when the boys see that they didn’t have no tails, they howled with laughter an’ began to hoot ol’ man Dort; an’ Eugene confided to ’em the plans he had for spendin’ the money he’d won.
Ol’ man Dort, he walked calmly up to the box, examined the guinea-pigs, an’ sez: “These here is not the full-blooded guinea-pigs. The full-blooded ones live in a mountainous? country an’ use their tails to steer with when they jump from rock to rock; while this kind live in swamps an’ the young alligators keep on eatin’ off their tails until they don’t have any. I’ll go get a thoroughbred an’ do my liftin’ on him.”
Well this set ’em back a good ways; an’ as the ol’ man was walkin’ off to get his own speciment, a good many bets was put up, but Eugene didn’t take any.
Purty soon, back come the ol’ man; an’ hanged if he hadn’t clipped the hair off o’ his one’s tail too. He reached in his hand an’ stroked the long-faced little duffer, an’ sez: “Gently, George the Third, gently.” Then he put on an anxious look an’ picked up the guinea-pig by the tail, holdin’ his other hand underneath to catch any eyes what happened to spill out. They didn’t none drop out, an’ the crowd give a cheer; but Eugene was all in.
He was a bad loser was Eugene, an’ he didn’t join in the festivities any. He just took up his two guineas an’ went back to his shop, while the rest of us celebrated a few. After a time me an’ Spider went to console with him a little. He was so infernally down in the mouth that I began to get a little conscience-struck. Eugene said he had been savin’ up his money to pay off the mortgage on his birthplace; an’ he made a purty sad story out of it. Fact was, that he made so sad a story out of it that I decided to get him back his tools and give him a new start.
“How much money you got, Spider?” I sez.
“I reckon I got sixty dollars,” sez Spider.
“I don’t mean just what you got with ya, I mean how much cash do you possess in the world.”
“I suppose I could raise a hundred an’ fifteen,” sez Spider, after thinkin’ a while. “What do you want to know for?”
“We got to give Eugene a start,” sez I.
Spider looked at me until he saw I was in earnest, an’ then he talked out loud. “What’s the matter with you?” he yells. “We haven’t adopted Eugene, have we? Why-for do we have to give him a start? Didn’t he lose at his own game. Great Snakes! You make me tired!”
“That was a low-down trick we played,” sez I.
“It wasn’t no lower down ’n him ringin’ in a woodchuck on the old man; and all we did it for was to square things up.”
“Yes,” sez I; “but it took us some several years to square it up, and I don’t intend to have Eugene’s moanful voice surgin’ through my ears until I’m able to think up a come-back for him. I’m goin’ to give him a start, and if you don’t feel like riskin’ your money, I’ll do it alone.”
“Do you mean ’at you’re just goin’ to pay over the price of his tools, an’ let it go at that?” sez Spider.
“That wouldn’t be any fun,” sez I. “I’m goin’ to get the tools; but I intend to get ’em for as little expense as possible, and if I can have a little fun out of it, I don’t intend to pass it up.”
Spider studied it over a while. “Well, I’ll risk fifty,” he sez after a bit; so we went back to Eugene’s.
“Would you be willin’ to do a stunt to get back your tools?” sez I.
He raised a pair o’ weepy eyes to me an’ sez: “Aw, the’ ain’t no show. I’ve a good mind to kill myself.”
“Please don’t do that,” sez Spider, who never could stand a bad loser. “When you lose your money, you allus stand a chance to win more money; but when you lose your life, why, the’ ain’t nothin’ left except to go up an’ find out what reward it earned for you.”
“Aw hell,” muttered Eugene.
“Ye-es,” agreed Spider, talkin’ through his nose, like a missionary preacher, “I reckon that is about what you’d draw, if you was to cash in now; but if you stick around an’ do your duty, you run the risk o’ havin’ better luck later on.”
After Spider had insulted Eugene until he began to sass back a little, I broke in and sez that if Eugene will agree to do what I tell him, I’ll agree to get him back his outfit; so then he wants to know what I have in mind.
“Are you willin’ to disguise yourself as a genuwine mountain trapper?” sez I.
When I sez this, Spider exploded a laugh which would ’a’ hurt the feelin’s of a sheep, and Eugene tied into us as wordy as a fox terrier; but I soothed him down an’ told him I was in earnest. “I’m willin’ to do most anything to get my tools back,” sez Eugene; “but I don’t see how I can make myself look like a genuwine trapper.”
“Have you got any false wigs and beards?” sez I.
“No, I haven’t,” sez he; “but I saved up the stuff I reaped off o’ ol’ man Dort, and I reckon I could make some.”
“The very thing!” sez I. “You fix up a rig that’ll make you look to be a hundred years old; and we’ll hunt up clothes for ya. All you’ll have to do will be to guide a green Eastener out to shoot a bear, and we’ll have the bear and everything ready for ya.”
“No, ya don’t,” sez Eugene. “I don’t fool around no bears.”
“I thought you was tired o’ life,” sez Spider.
“Well, I’m not so tired of it that I’m willin’ to have it squeezed out o’ me by a bear,” sez Eugene.
“This won’t be a real bear,” sez I; “and anyhow, they’ll be a ravine between you and it. You claimed once to be a show actor, and all you’ll have to do will be to pertend ’at you’re actin’.”
“I once was a genuwine amateur actor,” sez Eugene, “and if you’ll make it clear to me that there ain’t no danger, I’ll take the job.”
Then I explained just what he had to do; and after this me an’ Spider, who was now keen for the outcome, went around to dicker with ol’ man Dort. He was bumpin’ around among the clouds, so we didn’t have any trouble in buyin’ back Eugene’s stuff on time. When I asked him what he’d charge for Columbus, the woodchuck, he gave a snort, and said he’d throw him in for good measure; so I told him to just keep him out o’ sight for a few days, and we started back to Eugene’s.
“What do you want with that dog-gone woodchuck?” asked Spider.
“I want him to take the part of a grizzly bear,” sez I.
Spider stopped an’ looked at me. “This is goin’ too far,” sez he. “It’s bad enough to try to fool some one into believin’ ’at Eugene’s a genuwine trapper; but you couldn’t make a rag doll believe ’at Columbus was a grizzly bear.”
“You go borrow that squaw dress from Ike Spargle, an’ then we’ll see how much like a trapper Eugene’ll look,” sez I.
I went on an’ found ’at Eugene had done a master job o’ wig makin’, even fixin’ false eyebrows, an’ when he put on ol’ man Dort’s hair-crop he locked older ’n the human race. As soon as Spider came in with the squaw dress, we put it on Eugene; and while he didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen before, he looked more like the first man ’at ever started trappin’ than like anything else, an’ Spider Kelley nearly had a convulsion.
We bunked with Eugene that night; but he kept us awake bemoanin’ his cruel fate until Spider threatened to drown him head first in a bucket o’ water and after that we had a little go at slumberin’. I routed ’em out about two an’ drilled ’em up to the high ground above Spear Crick, where we waited until sun-up. Eugene was wearin’ his trapper riggin’, and in the starlight, he sure was a ghastly sight.
Just across from us on the other side o’ the crick was Sholte’s Knoll, and when the sun rose, I lined us up to be just in a direct line with it across the knoll. Both Eugene, and Spider bothered me with questions and discouragin’ kicks; but I felt purty sure my scheme would work, and only told ’em what was really for their good.
The crick ran south in a gorge, and just below us it ran into Rock River, which came from the east and made a sharp turn to the south just where Spear Crick ran into it. After the sun was up, we climbed down a circlin’ trail until we came to Rock River. Eugene refused to try to ford it; but Spider and I went across and up to Ivan’s Knoll. Rock River was bigger than Spear Crick, and Ivan’s Knoll was bigger than Sholte’s Knoll; but not one tenderfoot in a million could have told ’em apart, and Spider got gleeful at the plan—except that he kept at me to know who I was tryin’ to land. Back of Ivan’s Knoll was a round hole about ten feet across, called the Bottomless Pit, because the’ was no bottom to it. After examinin’ this place, we went on and crossed Rock River again until we came out at Sholte’s Knoll across from where the shootin’ was to be done.
“What you are to do, Spider,” sez I, “is to be at this place before dawn with Columbus tied by a stout cord. Tie him to the rock at the south end of the knoll by a weak cord, then pass your stout cord up over that jag o’ rock at the top, and just as soon as the sun hits the knoll, pull hard enough to break the weak cord, lead him gently up the slope until he has been shot at several times, then—”
“Is Eugene, that genuwine, ancient trapper goin’ to do the shootin’?” interrupted Spider.
“He is not,” sez I. “If Columbus gets shot, all you’ll have to do will be to wind around to Boggs and meet me there. If he don’t get shot, you can either turn him adrift, kill him yourself, or pack him back to ol’ man Dort’s, accordin’ to the dictates o’ your own conscience. I’ll bring the party ’at does the shootin’ up to Ivan’s Knoll, an’ make him think the bear has fallen down the Bottomless Pit after he was shot.”
“Happy,” sez Spider, “hanged if I believe it’ll go through; and I won’t be a sucker unless you tell me who is to do the shootin’.”
“Horace,” sez I, “Horace Walpole Bradford.”
Spider’s face changed expression a half dozen times in two moments; but he didn’t have any more kicks; so we went back to Eugene, and took him up to a deserted cabin, where he was to stay until needed. I left him and Spider to fix up the cabin, while I went back to the Dot to fix up Horace. Horace had a lot o’ money; but it did go again’ me to make him pay for Eugene’s outfit by puttin’ up a practical joke on him. Still, I felt called upon to square it up with Eugene, and this seemed the fairest way.