Two more years, years without especial incident to the people who lived up Terrapin River, passed away. Everyone knew of John and Eva's betrothal, and as no one had any objections to offer, there came not a jar, not a harsh sound to disturb the smoothly flowing current of their affection. One evening, as Potter and John sat in the old house awaiting the return of Alf, who had gone to Sunset to make some small purchases, the young man, after many minutes of deep meditation, looked up and remarked:
"I have worked harder of late in the hope that I might make money enough to place my approaching marriage upon a sensible footing, but it seems——"
"There, my boy," Potter broke in, "there now, don't worry. Of courseevery man should look to the future, but not to brood in dark foreboding. We are getting along very well, and I think you may safely—there's Alf."
The old man came in bringing several bundles. "Fetchtaked fellers ober yander," said he, "put er brick under my saddle when I had my hoss hitched, an' when I got on ter come home w'y de old critter flung me in de road. Huh, when I hit de groun' I thought de whole face o' de yeth dun struck loose. Suthin' gwine obertake dem boys one deze days. Da's dun forgot erbout dem she bears dat grabbed up dem mean white chillun when da made fun o' er old servant. Suthin' gwine ter obertake 'em, I tell you. Oh, you neenter laugh, genermen, fur suthin' gwine ter slip up behin' 'em an' grab 'em, sho."
They had eaten supper, and Potter, in his favorite position, was leaning back against the wall, when a newspaper in which one of the bundles had been wrapped, attracted his attention.
"Alf, hand me that paper," said he. "I would subscribe for some paper if we lived nearer a post office. Ah! a country sheet from Kentucky. Let me see if Uncle Billie Jackson was in town yesterday, or if Aunt Nancy Phelps has the thanks of the editor for a choice lot of radishes. I see that Uncle Bob Redmond has sold a fine colt to Anthony Boyle, and here is also the startling information that Abe Stallcup has purchased the old Adams place. I suppose——" He started. The paper shook. He sprang from the chair, pressed his hands to his head, sank upon his knees, clasped his hands and exclaimed:
"Thank God! Thank God! Oh, merciful heaven, it has come at last!"
He bowed his head and wept. John and Alf stood looking on in speechless amazement.
"Thank God, it has come at last. Oh, my friends—you—you——"
"What is the matter?" John cried.
"Wait. I—I will tell you. Here," headded, "read this. Read it out for I have only seen its aim."
John took the paper and read the following:
"A number of years ago, our readers will remember, Hon. Sam Bradwell, who lived near Lexington, this State, was convicted of the murder of Colonel Joe Moore, and was sentenced to be hanged, but made his escape the night before the execution was to take place. Now comes a sequel. About two weeks ago a man named Zack Fry, supposing that he was on his death-bed, confessed that he was the murderer of Moore. But instead of dying, he soon recovered. He was then brought to trial, and, instead of attempting to make a defense, reiterated his confession. He was sentenced to be hanged, and his execution took place last Friday. The Governor has issued a proclamation declaring Bradwell innocent, and offers a reward for intelligence of his whereabouts. Bradwell was one of the most prominent men in the State. He was a bachelor andowns one of the largest and finest farms in the famous Blue Grass region. He had served three terms in the Legislature, and but for the Moore trouble would doubtless have been sent to Congress. He and Moore were not on friendly terms—in fact, they were opposed to each other in the House of Representatives, of which body Moore was also a member. Nothing has been heard of Bradwell since his escape from jail. He has no very near relatives, and his farm, we understand, is looked after by a number of his friends. There is great rejoicing, we hear, over the proof of his innocence, for he was exceedingly popular with all classes, and especially so with the more refined element. Nearly every paper throughout the country has either published or referred to the Governor's proclamation, and we sincerely trust that the wanderer may soon return home."
Potter, or Bradwell, stood complacently smiling upon John as he neared the end of the article. His excitement had passedaway, leaving not the slightest trace of its sudden bursting forth. John sat in a sort of dazed silence, gazing at his friends, and Alf, whose half-open mouth bespoke a mystified state of mind, stood leaning against the wall.
"Now, my friends," said Bradwell, "you know why Sam Potter lived in this out-of-the-way place. Let us all be perfectly easy now. Alf, sit down. You look as though you were about to be hanged. I will walk up and down the room, as it would be almost impossible for me to keep still, and will tell you the story of my trouble in Kentucky. As the newspaper article states, Moore and I were members of the Legislature. One day he introduced a bill, the passage of which I did not think would be of benefit to the State. In fact, it was full of what we called buncombe, and was, I thought, intended to play upon an unthoughtful constituency and insure the re-election of its author. I opposed the measure, and was somewhat instrumental in its defeat.This inflamed Moore's anger. He denounced me in most violent terms, and swore that he would hold me to an account which might prove painful to one of us. The Legislature adjourned the next day, and, as I did not make it my business to look for Moore, I left the capital without seeing him. He lived near Lexington, to the east; I lived west. One day, several weeks later, while riding horseback to town, I saw, sitting on a fence, a hawk that had just caught a quail. I drew my pistol and fired at the hawk, but missed it. I went on into town, and, as I was going to remain but a very short time, did not put up my horse at a livery stable, but tied him to a rack in a lot in the rear of several stores. I had transacted my business, and was going through an alley leading to the lot, when I heard the report of a pistol. I hurried onward, and, upon turning into the lot, came upon the dead body of Moore. A bullet had passed through his head. Before I had recovered from theshock of so ghastly a discovery, several men ran to the place, and it was not long until a large crowd had gathered in the lot. I did not think of my position, and surely had no idea that I should be suspected. You may therefore well imagine my surprise when the sheriff arrested me. I was searched. One chamber of my revolver was empty, and, still worse, the bullet which had passed through Moore's head, and which was extracted from a cedar post, corresponded in size with the bore of my pistol. I was taken to jail. The next day bail was refused. This was annoying, but aside from being suspected of so grave a charge, I did not regard the affair as serious. I had not counted upon the men whom I had to fight. I had not thought of Moore's enraged relatives. The trial came on. There was great excitement. I had many friends, but it seemed that they were afraid of the Moores. The jury was cowed. A verdict of guilty was brought in. A motion for a new trial was overruled. My lawyers, prominent and able men, appealed to the supreme court. The decision of the court below was sustained. The date of execution was fixed. I could not realize it. One day I saw through my grated window that men were putting up a scaffold in the jail yard. My blood ran cold. Far into the night they carried their labors. Lanterns, like the red eyes of vultures, shed a lurid—I thought bloody—light upon the scene. I heard the hammers and saws. A nail glanced under the blow of a hammer and struck my window. It fell inside the cell. The hammers and saws hushed their awful noises. 'All done, Dave?' I heard someone ask. 'Yes,' came the reply; 'everything's ready.' The workmen went away. The red eyes disappeared, and all was dark. I got down from the window and found the nail. It was a large one. The window through which I had been looking was some distance from the floor. The Sheriff's officer in the yard rarely glanced at it. I heard the 'death watch' whistlingin the corridor. I climbed up to the window. The ends of the bars, where they fitted into the stones on each side of the window, were made more secure with lead that had been melted and poured about them. With the nail I soon gouged away the lead from one of the bars, but the bar could not be moved. I attempted to gouge out more lead. I dropped the nail. It fell outside. In despair I seized the bar and fell backward. It broke. A thrill shot through me. Had anyone heard me? No. The 'death watch' continued to whistle. The broken bar was a powerful lever. Another bar and another one was forced out, until not one remained. I looked out. No sounds—all darkness. I went through the window, feet foremost, and dropped to the ground. Heavens, I could not scale the outer wall! I thought of the scaffold. It was near the wall. I mounted it. A rope dangled from a beam overhead. I seized the rope, swung out, turned loose and caught the top of the wall. In a moment more Iwas on the ground—free. I sank upon my knees and thanked God. I was afraid to go home, so, without a cent of money, I set out on my journey. I will not speak of my privations, of the weary miles I walked—of how I worked on a new railroad, and how I managed to get a few books. But I will say this, my dear boy, your face was the first to beam upon the outcast a true and generous welcome. There, there now. I am sorry that my simple recital has moved you to tears. Alf, what are you blubbering about?"
"Sorter got suthin' in dis eye jes' now, an' got suthin' in my throat, too, I b'l'ebe. Neber seed de like. Man kaint stan' erbout yere widout gittin' all used up, things flyin' roun' so."
John caught Bradwell's hand and pressed it to his breast. "My dear boy," said the giant, "your approaching marriage is now placed upon a sensible footing. You and your wife shall go with me to Kentucky. The farm is not mine, butyours and mine. The house is large, is built of stone, and in it there are many rare books. I have all the time trusted that the light of truth would fall upon that crime, and now—but we will not talk about it. John, we will go over to-morrow and tell Mrs. Forest and Eva. Alf, you shall go to Kentucky with us."
John went to bed in a whirl of happiness. He could not sleep long at a time. Joy, as well as sorrow, puts sleep to flight. Would morning never come? What can come with such slowness as a wished-for day-break? Another doze. Sunlight streamed in upon the bed.
When Bradwell had shown Mrs. Forest the newspaper article, he told his story. The ladies were much affected, and Mrs. Forest, as she wiped her eyes, said:
"Well, I called you Bradshaw, you remember. I just knew it was Brad something, for I do think that I saw you in Kentucky years ago."
Eva and John walked along the road whose edges were fringed with flowers.
"There is nothing in our way now, precious."
"No," she replied, "nothing has been in the way, nothing, dear, but your groundless concern. Our life, I know, will almost be an ideal one."
"It shall be if love and faithfulness can make it so," he replied.
They sat down on a log and talked until the horn summoned them to dinner. That afternoon, as Bradwell and John were walking toward home, the young man remarked:
"Eva has only one trouble now."
"What is that?"
"Leaving her mother."
"Is she going to leave her?"
"Of course. Are we not going to Kentucky?"
"Yes; but Mrs. Forest, or rather Mrs. Bradwell, is going with us. Oh, you young fellows don't know everything."
They shook hands and walked on in happy silence.
The day was beautiful. It was autumn, and streaks of gray could be seen in the crab-grass. Age and infirmity had given to the "chatter jack's" song a harsher sound, and the toad, avoiding the grass where the dew was chilly, stretched himself in the dusty road.
The neighbors for miles around had gathered at Mrs. Forest's house. The bashful boy in brown homespun cast a wistful eye at the dining-table, and the half-grown girl in her linsey frock longed to see the marriage ceremonies performed.
"Where is Alf?" Bradwell asked.
No one knew. Old Jeff Lucas "'lowed" that he must be prowling around looking for something to eat, and "Aunt Liz," with a violent wrinkling of her nose, declared that if he wanted anything to eat he should get it at once, for she knew he would starve to death away off there in Kentucky.
"Mandy," said Mrs. Forest, addressing a colored woman who had come to assistin waiting on the guests, "do you know where Alf is?"
"How I know whar he is?" the woman replied. "Ef he got bizness ober yere I reckon he be yere airter while."
The ceremonies were performed, and while congratulations were still being extended Alf stepped up on the gallery. "Yere," he cried, waving a piece of paper, "somebody else got tet git married yere. Come on, Mandy." He and Mandy were married. "Oh!" the old negro exclaimed, with a pretense of great surprise, "I neber did see de like o' marryin' dat's gwine on dese days. Man kaint walk roun' yere widout bumpin' ergin somebody dat's dun married."
Bradwell and Mrs. Bradwell, John and Eva, were to go to the railway station, thirty miles away, in a wagon. Alf and his wife would ride a mule. After many farewells had been exchanged, and after John had affectionately kissed his aunt, old Jeff's wife remarked:
"I jest know you air all goin' to starveter death, but don't think I want ter keep you here, fur goodness knows I don't."
She watched the wagon until it had turned a bend in the road, and then, clasping her hands over old Jeff's shoulder, bowed her head and sobbed.
The bridal party stood on the railway platform. "Eva," said John, "are you happy?"
"Yes, my soul is filled with a quiet joy."
The train came within sight. "It is the vehicle," said John, gazing up the road, "that is to convey us to a new and happy life."
"Yes."
Bradwell lifted his hand to point out something. John seized it and pressed it to his breast.
The conversation had turned upon the war and the old soldiers' fondness for reminiscence had been freely indulged, when someone, addressing Alf Billingsly, asked if he had served during the war.
"No," Billingsly replied. "I was not in the army, but I was in one engagement. I was a boy and was living in Gallatin, Tenn., when John Morgan dashed in and captured Colonel Boon. Some time had elapsed since the Confederate forces were driven away, and the villagers, especially the boys, were almost wild with joy at the sight of gray uniform. A season of feasting followed, and then there came the report that Colonel Johnson, a dashing Federal officer, was, with a thousand picked cavalrymen, advancing upon thetown. My mother gathered her children about her and took refuge in a cellar, but, feeling that my pride had been trampled upon, I escaped and mingled with the soldiers that were preparing for battle. Old wine, and whisky of less venerable age, had flowed during the feast, and many of the men and officers were drunk. Some were singing songs of more implied patriotism than of actual tune; others, with the rising fervor of tipsyness, declared that they would not go home till morning. Ah, before the next morning came many of them had gone home. I importuned a bugler to let me get on his horse behind him and ride out to the battle. He said that if I would take his canteen over to the house of a well-known old negro and bring it back full of peach brandy, I might go home with him. I did so, having left with the negro my hat and jacket as pawned evidences of good faith, and took my place behind the bugler. An officer ordered me to get down, but I begged so hard that his reckless good humor overcame his soberer sense of discipline. With shouts and songs of discordant loudness we marched out to battle. The morning was beautiful. The ironweed was in bloom, and sitting on its purple top the dryfly sang the song of midsummer. Mockingbirds flitted in the apple trees, and the bee-martin flew round and round, waiting for a sight of the honey-laden laborer that had just gone over into a field of clover. The troops dashed out upon a blue-grass plane, jeweled here and there with the rich setting of a long-cared-for and magnificent tree. Over the brow of a green slope—the phrenological bump of perception on the face of the landscape—the enemy was seen advancing. It was to be a cavalry fight. It was to be a shock of horse and a clash of sabre. I looked to the right and saw that our men were stretched out in a long line, and looking ahead, I saw that the enemy was in similar form. My friend blew his bugle. Every horse dashed forward. A line ofblue dashed to meet us. I felt a keen sense of delight. My friend blew his bugle. Clash! The two lines had met with drawn sabres. It was a beautiful sight. Not a shot had been fired. There was no dust. Clash! Far to the right, as the sabres flashed, there were two long lines of brightness, broken into whirling glints of sun-ray-catching silver. I may not have had the spirit of a poet, but the beauty and not the horror impressed me. I lost not an adjunct—I failed not to catch a single shading. I saw a bee-martin catch a bee; I saw an ironweed bend its purple head beneath the touch of a lark; I saw a man, with his skull split open fall to the ground. My friend blew his bugle. The horses leaped forward. The line of blue began to grow ragged. Wild shouts arose. Gunshots with, it seemed to me, intruding noise like the yap, yap, yap of a stray dog, rang out here and there. The enemy was retreating. My friend, standing in his stirrups, waved his bugle high in the air and thenblew upon it a triumphant blast. The enemy made a stand, and again the sabres flashed, but the old wine and new whisky made the Confederates impetuous. My friend blew his bugle. The opposing line broke, and then there came gunshots with, it seemed to me, a sort of revengful bark. My friend lifted his bugle, but did not blow it. I thought that he had taken pity upon the vanquished line. We bounded forward. My friend began to lean back against me. He was laughing, I could plainly see. He leaned back farther. 'Don't lean back so far,' I said. 'Stop; don't you see you are about to shove me off?' He leaned back farther. I moved to one side—reached around and took hold of the horn of the saddle. Blood spurted from the bugler's breast. I looked up and saw that death had thrown its film into his eyes. I reached down with my foot and kicked the stirrup away. The bugler leaned over and fell to the ground. I got into the saddle, rode up to a fence, threw the bridle rein over astake, climbed down off the horse and ran away. I went back over the grassy slope. I saw a martin catch a bee; I saw the purple head of the ironweed bend beneath the touch of the lark."
A physician told Tom Blake that he not only needed a change of scene, but that to regain his health he required absolute freedom from business cares. "I would advise you," said the doctor, "to get on a horse and ride away, no matter whither. Go to the mountains—shun the merest suggestions of civilization; in short, sleep out like a bear."
Blake attempted to act upon this advice. He stuffed a few shirts into a pair of saddlebags, mounted a jolting horse, and rode up into the grandeur of rugged mountain gorges. But to him the scenery imparted no thrill of admiration. His heart beat low, and his pulse quivered with a weakening flutter. The fox that in sudden alarm sprang across the pathway, theraccoon that, with awkward scramble, climbed a leaning tree, called not for a momentary quickening of his blood. He was passing through one of the most distressing of human trials. He had no disease; every muscle was sound. What, then, was the trouble? You shall know.
He lay at night in a bank of leaves. Now everything startled him. He trembled violently when the sun went down. Once he sprang, with a cry of alarm, from his bed of leaves. Then he lay down again, ashamed. The horse had snorted.
Farther and farther he went into the wildness of the mountains. One evening he came upon a narrow road, and, following it for some distance, saw a house. It was an old inn, with a suggestion of the brigand about it. He tied his horse to a fence made of poles and went into the house. There he found a man with a parchment face and small, evil eyes, and a woman who, on the stage, could have appropriately taken therôleof hag.
"Why, come in, sir, come in," said theman, getting up and placing a chair for Blake. "Wife and I have been so lonesome for the last day or so that we have been wishing somebody would come. Haven't we, Moll?"
The woman removed a cob pipe from her mouth, drew the back of a skinny hand across her blue-looking lips, made a noise like the guttural croak of an old hen with the roup, and said, "Yes."
"You'll of course stay all night with us," the man remarked. "We can't possibly allow you to go on, especially as we are going to have falling weather. Oh, when it comes to hospitality, why, you'll find it right here. I'll go out and put up your horse."
Blake entered no objections. His deplorable condition would have forced him into a compliance with almost any sort of proposition. The man went out, put up the horse, and soon returned with a log of wood. "The more fire we have the more cheerful it will be," he explained. "Out prospecting?" he asked.
"No," Blake answered.
"Don't live nowhere near here, I reckon?"
"No."
"How long do you expect to remain in this part of the country?"
"I don't know."
The old woman mumbled and then, with a grating croak, said:
"He don't 'pear willin' ter tell much about hisse'f. Some folks is mighty curi's thater way."
"Never mind, Moll," the host quickly responded. "It ain't quite time for you to put in, except in the way of getting us a bite to eat."
She arose, without replying, and began preparations for supper.
"It is a dull time of the year with us," said the host. "It has been about two weeks since our last boarder left. But I reckon business will pearten up a little when the fishing season opens."
Blake paid no attention, except when some sharp and unexpected note in theold man's voice produced a tingling of the nerves.
Shortly after supper, Blake declared his readiness to go to bed. He was shown into a sort of shed room, separated by a thin partition from the room which he had just quitted. The old man placed a spluttering candle on the hearth, and, expressing the hope that his guest would pass a quiet and peaceful night, withdrew.
Blake lay unable to sleep. Once the spluttering candle caused him to spring up in bed. Suddenly his ears, extremely sensitive with his nervousness, caught the sounds of a whispered conversation.
"It won't do to shed blood," said the old man. "It won't do, for we made a mighty narrow escape the last time. It's impossible to get blood stains out of the house.
"I b'l'eve them saddlebags air full uv money," the hag replied.
"I don't doubt that, and we've got to have it."
"How air you goin' ter git it?"
"Poison him. I wasn't a sort of doctor all these years for nothing."
"You never was no doctor ter hurt."
"But I'll be a doctor to-night to hurt."
"How air you goin' ter pizen him? Thar ain't a speck uv pizen on the place."
"Where is that morphine?"
"Up thar in the bottle, but will that fix him?"
"Yes, and in such a way that nobody will suspect anything."
"How air you goin' ter do? Hold it under his nose?"
"Hold it under his foot!" the man contemptuously replied. "I am going to make him take it."
"How?"
"I'll fix it."
Then there occurred a whispering of which Blake caught the following:
"Think that's ernuff?" the woman asked.
"It's nearly half a teaspoonful. Enough to make five men sleep throughout eternity."
A moment later the host entered Blake's room. His manner was free from embarrassment. In one hand he held a glass containing water.
"Stranger, I don't want to disturb you, but it occurred to me just now that you looked as if you might be going to have a spell of sickness, so I thought I would bring you some medicine. I am willing to help a man, but I don't want him to be sick on my hands. I am a doctor, but I don't propose to keep a hospital."
"Suppose I refuse to take the medicine?"
"Then you'll put me to the trouble of pouring it down you, that's all. I am a mighty gentle sort of a fellow as long as everything goes on all right, but if a hitch occurs, why I am as rough as a swamp oak."
"Are you sure the medicine will not hurt me?"
"Hurt you! Why, it will do you good. Here, swallow it down."
Blake drank the contents of the glass.The host smiled, bowed, and withdrew. Then there followed another whispered conversation.
"Tuck it all right, did he?"
"Like a lamb. He'll be all right in a half-hour from now."
During fifteen or twenty minutes Blake lay quietly in bed. Then he got up, dressed himself noiselessly, arranged the bed covers to resemble the form of a man, took his saddlebags, stepped out at a back door, went to the stable, saddled his horse, mounted and rode up to a window and looked into the room which he had occupied. Cattle were tramping about the yard, and the noise made by the horse attracted no attention. He took a position so that he could, unobserved, see all that passed within the room. The "doctor" and the old woman soon entered. They made no attempt to speak in low tones.
"Whar is his saddlebags?" the woman asked.
"Under his head, I reckon. Snatch off the covers. He won't wake up."
The old woman pulled off the covers and uttered a cry of surprise. Blake tapped on the window glass.
"Say, Doc," he called, "bring me the rest of that morphine. You see, I have been a morphine eater for a number of years, but am trying to quit. Your dose came in pretty handy, for I was in a bad fix. I am all right now, and am much obliged to you. Good-night."
Less than a week from that time the "doctor" and his wife were in jail, charged with the murder of a traveler. They were hanged at Greenville last September.
Several years ago I was the editor and proprietor of the New EbeneezerPlow Point. It was a weekly publication, and, with its name as well as with its class of matter, appealed to the farmers, and danced a pandering jig to the shrill whistle of their prejudices. One day E. Sim Nolan, a prominent man in the community, came into my office and said:
"I have been thinking of you for the past day or two, and I think that with my keen business instincts I have unearthed the stone with which you may pave your way to fortune. Writing is a very fine accomplishment and plays its little part in journalism, but it is not the main thing. Now, the main thing in the newspaper business is to achieve success. 'Howcan this be done?' you naturally ask. Not by advising the county to repair the bridge over Cypress Bayou; not the editorial advising the party to organize, but by getting business. One line in a thoroughly thrifty paper is worth more and has more weight than a thousand lines in a dragging publication that has to apologize every other week for its inability to get out on time. You want a partner, not to help you write, but a commercial rip-snorter, who can run business into a corner, choke it into submission, and then drag it into the office. That's the kind of a man you need. 'Where can I find him?' you are about to ask. You have found him, or rather he has found you. I am that man. I am that commercial rip-snorter. I can go out and in two days load thePlow Pointso full of advertisements that you'll have to put up side-boards. What do you think of it?"
"I have no doubt of your ability," I replied, "but I can not afford to pay you."
"You don't have to pay me. The workwill pay for itself. Now here; say that you are making seventy-five dollars per month. Very well. The commercial rip-snorter comes in. You get one hundred and fifty dollars per month and the commercial rip-snorter gets one fifty. W'y, it's as plain and simple and guileless as the soft laughter of a child. It shall not be for one month but for all time. In short, take me in as a partner. What is the greatest business stimulant? Salary? No, sir. Proprietary interest. Give me a half interest in your paper, and it will fly higher than the kite of Franklin. It will roar louder than a cyclone, and scatter dollars where we can easily gather them up. As a rule, I am not an enthusiast. Ordinarily I am a quiet man. The soldier is quiet until his grand occasion comes."
I told him that I would think about it and give him an answer on the following day. That afternoon I consulted with several friends. The county judge declared that when Nolan put his shoulderto the wheel the wagon moved. The county attorney said that I could well afford to pay Nolan to take a half interest. That night I went to bed in a highly agreeable state of mind. The clouds were breaking away, and I could see the sun shining. The business cares of the office would be lifted off my mind, and I could devote myself to writing and to study. With nothing to do but to digest my subjects, I could write editorials that would establish me as a party leader. I dreamed of web perfecting presses, and of being consulted by great politicians. I hummed a tune before breakfast. The trade was soon consummated; and, delivering the books to Nolan, I seated myself in my inner sanctum, warmed by a stove pipe which came through from an adjoining shed occupied by a shoemaker, and gave myself up to deep thought. At last my time had come. At last the people must acknowledge my leader-writing ability. The next day Nolan brought in a few advertisements. Ah,the ripened fruit had already begun to fall.
"By the way," said Nolan, as he seated himself on a corner of my table, "I have got a great scheme on hand."
"Glad of it," I rapturously replied. "What is it?"
"A number of our most prominent men have boned me to run for sheriff."
"But will it not take up too much of your time?"
"Why, no. You see, I can be elected as easily as falling off a log, and then, as sheriff, I can flood our paper with legal advertisements."
"Nolan, you are a remarkable man."
"You just wait."
I wrote editorials in his behalf, and even left my sanctum and made speeches for him. He was elected. He turned over his newspaper books to his son, and took charge of the sheriff's office. The boy sat in the office, and, during the forenoon, whistled a circus tune. In the afternoon he got drunk. A few daysafter Nolan was installed, I went over to get an armful of legal advertisements. There were none on hand just at that time, Nolan told me. "In fact," said he "it has been decided not to print the delinquent-tax list this year."
I was disappointed. The boy whistled his circus tune and then went out and got drunk. The next day, when I wanted to draw five dollars, the boy gave me thirty-five cents. Bills began to come in, and my deep thought was much disturbed by them. One morning Nolan came in, and, after whistling in imitation of his son, said:
"It's pretty tough."
"What is?"
"Why, as sheriff, I've got to take charge of this office. Paper bill."
I was staggered.
"Can't we pay our bill?" I exclaimed.
"Haven't any money at present, I am sorry to say. I regret now that I ran for sheriff, for it's devilish uncomfortable to close out a partner."
I did not exactly understand it, but when he served an execution on me I went out. As sheriff, he took charge of the office, discharged his son, and took charge of the business and editorial departments. I consulted several lawyers. They said that I was out. I knew that. They didn't know how I could get in again. The law was very peculiar. I knew that, too. I found out afterward that Nolan had called on all the lawyers, and had told them that if they interfered with his affairs, he would bear down on their clients, and as most of their clients were in jail, they did not interfere. Nolan, as sheriff—and he is now serving his fourth term—is still editor and proprietor of the New EbeneezerPlow Point.
When the hum in the court-room had settled into an occasional whisper, the judge asked the prisoner if he would like to make a statement. The prisoner, a slender man, with hair holding a slight intention to curl, and with eyes large and willful, arose and made this statement:
John Flanders and I were the best of friends, though we were not drawn toward each other by any common ties of vocation. In the early part of my life I turned to literature, not that I expected to realize a fortune in such a pursuit, but because I could do nothing else. Flanders was a sort of general speculator. It seemed to me that every time he stepped out in the street he saw a dollar, chased it, overtook it, and put it in his pocket. My work wasdifficult and uncertain; and the pigeon-holes of my desk were often stuffed with rejected manuscripts. Gradually I discovered that I could not write if I knew that Flanders was in the same building in which I had a room. At first I regarded this feeling as a nervous freak, and tried to put it aside, but then, finding that every literary thought had flown away from me, I would discover that Flanders was in the building. One day when I heard his footsteps in the hall I called him into my room. "Flanders," said I, "you know that I have to make my living by literary work?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Well, but do you know that you contribute largely to my failure?"
"No," he replied; "how can that be?"
"It is in this way, Flanders: I can not write while you are in this building. Just so soon as you step into the elevator downstairs, my ideas droop and my pen splutters."
"I am sorry," he rejoined.
"I know you are," said I, "for there is not in the world a more sympathetic man than you are."
"If I am so sympathetic, then why should I disturb you so?"
"I don't know, Flanders, but you do disturb me. Now, I have a favor to ask of you."
"It shall be granted."
"It is this: please do not come into this building again."
"I will stay away," he said.
He did not come into the building again, and for a time I wrote with ease; but one day my ideas flew away and my pen cut through the paper. I knew that Flanders was not in the building, but I knew that he was in town. I strove to write, but this fact weighed upon me. I went out to look for Flanders. I found him in the Open Board of Trade, busily engaged in driving a bargain. I drew him to one side.
"Flanders," said I, "you have again put my ideas to flight."
"How so?" he asked. "I have not been in your building since you requested me to keep away."
"I know that; but you are in Chicago, and I have discovered that I can not write if we are in the same town. Now, it really makes no difference to you where you are."
"No," he replied.
"You can make a living anywhere."
"Yes."
"Well, then, leave this city."
"I will do so," said he. "I will go to New York."
I bade him an affectionate good-by, and he left on the next eastern-bound train. I returned to my work with a feeling of refreshment. My pen tripped over the paper with graceful airiness, and my thoughts, arrayed in gay apparel, sported joyously. Thus several weeks went by, but one day my pen stopped. I urged it, as a farmer urges a balky horse, but it refused to move forward. It was because Flanders was in this country. I wrote tohim: "Flanders," said I, "you must leave New York—must leave the United States. I can not write if we are both under the same flag. I have a great piece of work to perform and I know that you will not seek to deprive me of the fame which its accomplishment will bring. Please leave this country."
A few days later I received the following reply: "I leave to-day for London."
Again I went to work with a thrill of pleasure. The rosebuds of thought opened with each passing breeze of inspiration. A month passed. One day my pen fell. Instantly my thoughts flew to Flanders, and I sadly shook my head. I could not write if Flanders and I lived in English-speaking countries. I wrote to him. He was still generous, for in his reply he said: "I appreciate your feelings. To-morrow I shall sail for Asia."
Again I experienced the usual relief, and the rosebuds which had so long been covered with dust, opened with blooming freshness. Flanders wrote to me fromPekin. Then my pen fell again. I could not write if he and I were in the same world. I replied to his letter: "Flanders," said I, "come home at once."
I waited two weary months. One night, just as I had lighted my lamp and sat down to dream with De Quincy, Flanders shoved open the door and entered the room. I threw my arms about him and pressed him to me for I loved him.
"Are you glad to see me, Flanders?" I asked, shoving him into an easy seat.
"Delighted," he replied. "What is it you would have me do?"
"Nothing but sit where you are."
He looked at me with affection. His eyes were soft and glowing. I reached into my desk and took out a sharp paper-cutter, and, as Flanders was beaming upon me, I stabbed him. He sprang to his feet and threw his arms about me, but I stabbed him again and again. He sank to the floor and I sat down to my work. Oh, how my thoughts flew. With wings that were feathered with silvery down andtipped with gold, they soared higher and higher. I——
"Hold on," said the judge. "I would not have permitted this statement had I not from the first been interested in its very curiousness. You are not charged with the murder of anyone named Flanders. You found a little boy playing among the flowers in a park and slew him."
The prisoner pressed his hands to his head. "Oh," he cried, "if Flanders be not dead I can not write. He would not deprive me of the fame——"
An officer led him away.
Jasper Hendricks, old man Blue, Abe Stallcup, and several other men, farmers in the neighborhood, sat, one rainy day, about the fireplace in a Tennessee crossroads store. Autumn had just begun to enforce its principles—that is, a lingering mildness of atmosphere had just turned cool enough to shiver a little when the sun had sunk behind the distant timber line. The "evangelist" had made his annual fall visit to the neighborhood, and, assisted by local talent, was holding a revival in Round Pound meeting-house.
The party of men in the store had been discussing the main features of the meeting, and in their crude way had been speculating upon religion in general, whenold man Blue, a deacon and an ultra-religionist, remarked:
"Wall, gentlemen, it's all right ter talk, but when the ho'n blows, callin' us ter a final settlement, w'y we jest nachully cave; that's all. The bravest man in the world would a leetle ruther stay here, ef he's in his right mind, than ter take the chances in a neighborhood (as a feller namedHamestringorHamlet, I dunno which, once said) frum which thar ain't nobody returned ter tell us the condition uv the craps an' sich. Now I've a putty strong hope that my after-life will be smooth an' easy, but I'll jest tell you whut's er fack, I'd ruther stay here er leetle longer, even ef I hafter plow with er jumpin' coulter an' break a yoke of calves urcasion'ly, than ter go thar."
"You air right!" Stallcup responded. "At times when we air sorter shoutin' round the mourner's bench we feel like we wouldn't kere ef we wuz called erway at wunst, but airter we git out an' see the sun shine the next day, an' see the birdserhoppin' erround the straw-stack, an' lissen ter the ole jaybird that's dun picked a quarrel with the yallerhammer, w'y we feel sorter like stayin' here a while longer."
Then Jasper Hendricks spoke. Every one turned to pay him particular attention. He was the one man in the neighborhood whom no one understood. He was strikingly handsome—tall, with soft black hair that seemed to worm itself into graceful curls. He was not saintly in his deportment. Often at night, while a furious storm was raging, and while the lightning painted in frightful colors a momentary picture on the cliffs, Hendricks, half drunk and chanting a stirring tune, had been seen to gallop at desperate speed through the crash and roar of the weather's awful outbreak.
"Gentlemen," said Hendricks, "you air but pore proofs uv yo' faith. Ef you really believe whut you say you do—believe that thar is er crown that airter while will press with gentle soothin' on your troubled brows, you would long furthe time when you mout leave this world. The shinin' uv the sun an' the quarrel uv the jaybird an' yallerhammer wouldn't have no influence ter hold you back frum er everlastin' joy."
"Hendricks," said old man Blue, "you air er sort uv er poet an' kain't understan' the feelin's uv er common man."
"I'm not er poet only in feelin'," Hendricks replied, "but ef I was I'd know mo' erbout you than I do, fur the poet, erbove all others, understan's the feelin's uv the common man. It is his perfeck understan'in' uv the heart uv the common man that makes him er poet."
"Have you got any hope in the next world, Hendricks?" old man Blue asked.
"Have you?"
"Yas."
"Why?"
"Becaze, I've got er promise."
"Who made it?"
"W'y, the Lord, I think."
"Promised you that you would be perfectly happy in the next world?"
"Yas," the old man replied.
"Air you perfeckly happy in this here world?"
"No, I ain't."
"Do you believe that the Lord always keeps his promises?"
"Yas, I do."
"Then why don't you want ter go ter the next world at once? Why don't you pray fur death?"
"I don't know, Hendricks."
"I do."
"Why, then?"
"Because you don't believe the Lord has made you any promise."
"Oh, yas, I do."
"Oh, no, you don't."
"Wall, I tell you whut it is, Hendricks, no sensible man hankers airter dyin'."
"He does, if the Lord has made him a promise."
"Yas, but he wants ter wait the Lord's own time."
"A good excuse," Hendricks replied. "You want to wait the Lord's own time,an' you hope that the Lord's time will be long."
"Hendricks, you kain't blame er man for wantin' to live."
"Yes, I can, if he believes that he would be better off in another world."
"But he don't know that."
"Then he ain't got religion, an' don't b'l'eve what God says."
"Oh, yas, Hendricks. You know it would skeer you might'ly ef you knowed you had ter die ter-day."
"I'm not religious, but ter know that I had ter die ter-day wouldn't skeer me."
"I think it would, Hendricks."
"But I know it wouldn't; so now, fur the sake uv argyment, let us say that I have got ter die ter-day."
"Yas," rejoined old Blue, "we ken say it fur argyment's sake, an' it won't skeer you, but ef it was sho' 'nuff, it would."
"Wall, then, say it's sho' 'nuff."
"We ken say it, but that won't skeer you, fur you know it ain't true."
"But I know it is true."
"What, you know that you are goin' ter die ter-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"How do you know it?"
"By this fack," Hendricks replied. He drew a revolver, placed it against his head, and fired. He fell from the chair, dead. The men looked in horror upon the scene. A breeze through the open doorway stirred Hendricks' hair into beautiful curls.
Among the guests at a small summer hotel were a little boy and his mother. The boy's fullness of life and richness of prankish resource kept the timid, shrinking mother in a constant state of alarm; and the servants, noticing that she was afraid that her son might give offense, took pains to increase her anxiety by telling the child, in those soft but forced tones of kindness which burn worse than harshness, not to make so much noise and not to scatter bread crumbs on the steps. The proprietor's wife, an old woman whom everyone said was motherly, unconsciously took a cue from the servants, and, forgetting that her own sons and daughters were once noisy children, began to oppress the boy.
"Sh-sh—don't make a fuss," she said, meeting him in the hall. "Little boys must be seen and not heard. Go and put that ball away. You might break something. Never mind that cat. Get out of my way. I wonder what your mother can be thinking about."
"Tommie," his mother called from a neighboring room.
"Maam."
"Come here."
"I ain't doin' nothin'."
"Oh, let him alone, I pray you," said the proprietor's wife, inclining her head and smiling at the mother, who had appeared in the doorway. "I was simply afraid that he might break something with his ball, but do let him enjoy himself, I beseech you. Children will be children, you know."
"I do hope he won't cause you any trouble," the mother replied. "I do the very best I can with him, but—I—I—come here, son."
She reached out, took the boy by the hand, and drew him into the room.
"What makes you cry, mamma?"
"Because you are so bad, darling," she replied, taking him into her arms.
"I didn't know I was bad."
"But you are. You seem to make everybody miserable."
"What's miserable?"
"Unhappy."
"What's unhappy?"
"Go, sit down over there."
He climbed up on a trunk, twisted himself around, tore his clothes, got down, killed a fly on the window pane, picked up a feather which he found in a corner, threw it up and blew his breath upon it, turned over a work-basket, climbed upon the bed where his mother had lain down, put his hands on her face, gazed with mischievous tenderness into her eyes, and said:
"I love you."
She clasped him to her bosom. "You'll be a good boy, won't you?"
"Yessum, an' when that nigger makes a face at me, I won't say anything."
"Well, you must not."
"An' musn't I grab holt of the calf's tail when he shoves it through the fence?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Oh, because it will hurt him. Let mamma go to sleep now, but don't you go out."
"Nome."
The woman sank to sleep. The boy got off the bed and went to the window. He looked up at a fly that was buzzing at the top, went back to the bed, gently kissed his mother, and stole out into the hall. Exuberant with freedom, he began to gallop in imitation of a horse.
"Sh-sh!"
He was confronted by the proprietor's wife. "What are you racing around here like a mule for—say? Don't you know you are wearing out the carpet? Why don't you go somewhere and sit down and behave like a human being? Think I bought this carpet to have it scuffed outthis way? Stop raking your foot on the floor that way."
He held up his hands as if, in begging for forgiveness, he would kiss her. "Don't put your greasy hands on me. Go on, now, and don't rake your feet on this carpet. I don't know what mothers these days can be thinking about."
"Tommie," his mother called.
"Yessum."
"Come here."
"Oh, I don't know what to do with you," she said, when she had drawn him into the room. "What makes you so bad?"
"I dunno; but it must be the bad man."
"Yes, and he'll get you, too, if you don't behave yourself."
"And will he hurt me?"
"Yes; he will."
"How?"
"Burn you."
"Ho! I'd shoot him."
"You couldn't."
"Why couldn't I?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Then how do you know he would burn me?"
"Oh, I don't know that he would."
"Then what made you say that he would?"
"For gracious sake, give me a little peace."
"A little piece of bread?" he asked, while his eyes twinkled with mischief.
"Hush, sir; hush. Not another word out of you. Take your dirty hands away from my face."
"I want to hug you."
"Well, hug me, then, and sit down."
"You love me, don't you?"
"Yes, little angel," she said, pressing him to her bosom.
"More than all the houses an' railroads an' steamboats put together?"
"Yes."
To the mother the days were dragged over the field of time like the dead body of an animal. In misery lest her son should cause offense, she watched him,and, at table, hushed him. The proprietor's wife scolded him, and at last the little fellow's spirit was cowed. He crept through the hall, and, on tiptoe, to keep from wearing out the carpets, he moved through the house. He would shrink when he saw the proprietor's wife, and in his sleep he muttered apologies and declared that he would be good. One morning he awoke with a burning fever.
"I wish you would come in and see my little boy," said the mother, addressing the proprietor's wife. She went in. The little fellow looked at her, and, as a deeply-troubled expression crossed his face, said:
"I won't wear out the carpet."
"Why, no, you won't hurt the carpet. Get up and run on it all you want to."
"I can't, now."
"But you can after awhile."
Days of suffering; nights of dread. Everything had been done and the doctor had gone home. A heart-broken woman buried her face in the bedclothes. Theproprietor's wife, with tears streaming down her face, stood looking upon a wasted face which had, only a short time before, beamed with mischief.
"Little boy," she said, "dear little fellow, you are going to leave us. You are going to heaven."
"No," he faintly replied, "I will be in the way, and they won't let me laugh there."
A long silence followed, and then the old woman whispered:
"He is gone."
A man with heavy boots walked on the carpet in the hall.
One hot afternoon a tramp printer entered the office of the Franklin (Ky.)Patriot. The regular corps of compositors were sufficient to do all necessary work, but the boys were lazy and wanted to go fishing, so the tramp was given temporary employment. When the boys returned next day they were surprised, and not a little ashamed, to see that the tramp had "set up" the entire paper—work which would have taken the entire force several days to perform. When the proof-sheets were brought in, they were found to be so clean that the editor of thePatriotsent for the tramp.
"What is your name?" the editor asked.
"Oscar Howell."
"Where are you from?"
Mr. Howell waived his hand around in a complete circle.
"What does that mean?"
"Means that I am from everywhere."
"Do you want work?"
"That's the reason I came here."
"I mean regular work."
"Yes; but I don't want to throw anybody out of a job."
"Glad you are so honorable; but those boys out there are my sons and I am thinking of sending them to school."
"All right, then, I will take their place."
"Do you drink?"
"I wound up the ball of an extended spree the other day, but I am not going to drink any more."
"I hope your resolution may hold out."
"I will give it many a half-soling."
"Well, you may begin regular work to-morrow morning."
"All right, sir."
Within two months from that time Mr. Howell was one of the best dressed menin the town. People who had commented on his shabby appearance now called him handsome. He joined the Good Templars' lodge and mingled in the society of the tittering maidens of the village. Doctors and lawyers sought his company. He had brought a literary freshness to the town. His jokes were new; his courtesy marked. One year passed away. Mr. Howell was engaged to marry the handsomest and most intelligent young woman in the town. The girl's father and mother were delighted. Howell was envied by all the young men. The day for the wedding drew near. The "popular and enterprising tailor" had made Howell's wedding suit.
One day another tramp entered the office. Howell dropped his "make-up rule" and sprang forward to meet him.
"Why, Shorty, how are you?"
"Sorter slow," the tramp replied as he placed his elbows on the imposing-stone. "How is it with you?"
"Oh, I am flying. Going to get married to-morrow night."
"Glad to hear it. When we separated that day with a carefully divided quart, I didn't think your lines would so soon fall in such appreciative places."
"Neither did I. It is all due, though, Shorty, to my sobriety. I tell you there is no hope for the drunkard. I'll never drink any more."
"Glad. Expect to quit pretty soon myself. What sort of wedding-toggery have you got?"
"Finest you ever saw."
"Would like to see 'em. Where's your room?"
"Just across the street."
"Suppose we go over."
"All right. You ought to see my girl."
They went to Howell's room.
"By George!" exclaimed Shorty. "You will be fixed up in style, won't you?"
"I should say so. Well, it's time, for I have been a fool long enough."
"Say, put 'em on. I want to see how you will look as a bridegroom."
"I don't want to rumple 'em."
"Go ahead and put 'em on. You know that in my present plight I can't go to see you step off."
"To please you, Shorty, I'll put 'em on, but you are the only person that could cause me to yield in this matter."
He put on the clothes.
"By George, Oscar, you look like a French dancing master. Well, I'm going to take a little nip."
He took a bottle out of his pocket and shook it. "Here's some old stuff a fellow gave me at Hopkinsville. Fifteen years old. Remember the time we struck that old negro for a pint of peach brandy? Well, here's to you. Ah, hah, hah. Would you try a little?"
"No."
"Won't hurt you. Wouldn't hurt a flea. I tell you that when a fellow feels bilious a little licker is a mighty good thing for him. Ever get bilious?"
"Yes, bilious now. Haven't had any appetite for a week."
"I was 'way off the other day, but this stuff (again shaking the bottle), has set me all right."
"You don't mean to say that you have had that licker for several days?"
"Yes. Tell you what's a fact, a man doesn't want but little of this stuff, and the beauty of it is, it keeps him from drinking bad licker."
"Let me smell of it."
Howell held the bottle to his nose. Then, with a sudden impulse, his lips closed over the neck. "Ah, that is good. What sort of a time have you had since I saw you last?"
"Tough, I tell you. Take another pull and hand it over here. Recollect that song old Patsy Bolivar used to sing—'When this old coat was new?'"
"Yes," Howell replied, "I was thinking about it the other night. Let me taste your ware, as Simple Simon remarked. Getting pretty low, too."
"Yes, too low."
"That isn't bad. Say, can you sing Patsy's song?"
"Might if I had licker enough."
"Let's slip down the back stairs into that saloon."
"All right, but ain't you going to take off your wedding clothes?"
"No; we won't be down there but a few minutes."
The next day a battered bridegroom and a ragged tramp awoke in a cattle car, seventy-five miles from Franklin.
"Say, Oscar!"
"Well."
"Give me your vest. You ain't got no use for so much toggery."
"All right, here she is."
"Where shall we strike for?"
"Reckon we'd better get off at the junction and strike out down the Memphis road."