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F.TE-IMNY50N NLE,LY
PUBLISH LPv
LONDON
NE_W YOf^K
CoFTBioBrr, 1897,
BY
F. TENNTSOy iJEELT.
OopyrlKhted in the United States and Great Britain.
AU righU reserutd.
CONTENTS.
ThS SCFKBINTENDiatl'B EXAMFIA .... 6
Ths Bbiok Opficis 80
The Grebk God Babbeb ..... 41
TJoLT Baohel . . . . . . . . 6B
The Hoon in the Picture ..... 62
His Sixteen-Eightt-Nine . ; . . . 96
Bio Hep and Little Ladt 108
An Ivort SmLB 120
Old Joblet 133
Old Billt UO
SWINQINO IN THE DuSK 146
A Memorable Meal 153
A Dead Maroh 156
An Imperious Court 159
Hi8 Special 165
At THE Sprino ........ 177
Not fob Three Hundred Thousand . . . 188
Her Sweet Dream 194
(S)
ODD FOLKS.
WANTED A OERTIPIOATE.
At a small town on a railway running through Ken-
tucky an express company had been robbed of $5,000.
The loss of the money was insignificant when viewed
simply as the removal of so many pieces of paper bear-
ing the portrait of a distinguished American, but the
necessity to hold up some one in the glaring light of the
law as a dazzling example was a momentous consider-
ation. It may be observed that a great corporation
never knows an evil doer as an individual, but regards
him wholly as an " example " ; indeed, the closest re-
lationship and services that have endured through,
many years can be forgotten by a great institution when
it sets out to establish an " example." And I have
often wondered why some one has not taken up the
business of professional "example," to undergo a
sentence to prison, for a reasonable salary. Well,
$5,000 was taken one night from the express office in
Springdale. The saf« was blown open, the town
(6)
6 ODD POLKS.
trembled for three days in a delirium of excitement,
uid the agent, with a bruise on bis hed,d, lay in hia
Joom at the tavern. At that time I was operating a
ietective agency in Louisville (truly, a despicable call-
bg, I must say), and the division superintendent of the
express company sent for me. A great man was he.
Consciously impressive, portly, with animal life running
like an engine within him. As I entered his private
apartment he turned in his chair and, looking at me a
moment, said :
« So you are Capt. Blake?"
*' My name is Blake ; yes, sir."
" I suppose you have heard of our little affair down
in the country ? "
" Yes ; I have read an account of it."
"What do you think?"
•'It is only now, sir, that I have found it to my ad-
vantage to think."
" Ah ; I see." And after a short pause he added :
" Now, I tell you what we have done, and then I'll tell
you what we want you to do. The agent at Springdale
has been arrested."
He paused and looked at me as if he expected me to
show astonishment, but I didn!t. I simply said:
" Tes ; " and he continued : " About six years ago ha
came to us most highly recommended, strictly sober,
»Bd witii ao bad haUta. There is no bank in Hbn town.
TEE aXJPEBINTENDENT'8 EXAMPLE. t
and on numerous occasions he has been intrusted with
large sums of money. He is of a good family, and
during many years his father has been cashier of a bank
in this city."
He leaned back in his chair, stroked his side whiskers,
and looked at me, and I fancied that I could hear the
great engine of health pumping within him. "I
authorized his arrest last night," he went on, "and I
have a dispatch- telling me that the town is greatly ex-
cited. The physician is unable to decide whether or
not the blow on the head was self-inflicted, but he
agrees that it looks suspicious."
" Well," said I, " what do you want me to 4o ? "
"I have a scheme," he answered. "There have
been so many similar cases, you understand, that I be-
lieve we could convict him upon the testimony of the
physician and pther suspicious ci,rcumstances ; and al-
though it is necessary for us to have an example, you
understand, yet I should like to know beyond question
whether or not he is guilty. I may be overparticular,
but, the fact is, I want him to make a confession. I
may be a trifle soft-hearted, you understand, but I'd
like to know."
" Don't you always want to know," I asked.
"Oh, yes, surely," he quickly replied, "but as a gen-
eral thing we are willing for thelaw to settle that point
and aot accordingly. But down in that part of the,
8 ODD FOLKS.
country an example is badly needed, and if this fellow
Haines coiild be brought to confess, why it would be-
well, it would be a good thing for us, you know."
" And your scheme ? "
" Is this. I want you to be put into the cell with
him, win his confidence, and worm a confession out of
him."
" Rather an old scheme," I was bold enough to re-
ply-
" Oh, I've been told you are a most discouraging
man, but I am determined upon this, and I am willing
to pay handsomely for your services, and if you suc-
ceed the Amdunt of compensation shall be doubled."
This, of course, interested me, and during more than
an hour we laid our plane and talked them over, and
when I left him it was with these words : " You may
depend upon it that I shall do my duty."
That evening an officer conducted me along the
main street of Springdale. The sight of the handcuffs
upon my wrists caught the eyes of the corner loungers,
and soon a crowd was following us, and occasionally I
heard the remark : " Got him all right, haven't they ? "
I heard the words, " horse thief, I bet you," and as
unimpulsive as I am I turned around to confront a
mottled face. The officer, who knew nothing of the
Saperiiit*a«t»at's scheme — wbo was proud to be mads
THE SUPEBINTENDENT'S EXAMPLE. 9
■o important^gave me a jerk, and the mob applauded
him. By the time we reached the jail the air was full
of " horse thief." I had no sooner been shoved through
the door into the corridor than the words " hang him "
smote my ears like a blow from a mallet, for I knew the
abhorrence in which my countrymen held the stealing
of a horse ; that, charged with any other crime, a man
might hope for some sort of a hearing, but that to be
suspected of horse theft was more than likely to mean
deaf ears and quick action. The mob was now fierce.
The jailer, a fat and humorous old fellow, stepped out.
I stood in the corridor just behind him^ Near me
stood a man holding a key waiting to show me to my
quarters.
" Boys," said the jailer, " what do you want ? "
" You know what we want, Buck," replied a lank
fellow who had asauined command outside. " We
want that boss thief 1 "
" Bill, there ain't no hoss thief here ! "
" Tell that up at Bear Waller an' up the right fork
of Big Sandy, but don't tell it to us. That feller stole
the Widder Cage's hoss, and we want him."
" Who says so ? "
" Why, Ab, here." And I saw him nod at a fellow
standing near, and the light held at an upper window
fell upon bis mottled face.
" How do you know, Ab ? " t^e jailer asked.
10 ODD FOLKS.
" Why, McGee 'lowed he was the man, and he was
with the fellers that got after him."
" Where's McGee ? Let him identify him. And if
he's the man, I'll agree to hang'^him myself, and then
eat a foot of the rope. No, boys, you are wrong this
time. You have hung fellers out of here all right
enough, but you'd make a mistake this time, and it
ain't exactly right to make such mistakes. I ricoUect
they hung the wrong man over at Hover not long
agQ, and it caused a good deal of talk and some ill-
feelin*, so I advise you to be more particular. > Now, if
you want to know right bad, I'll tell you what the man
is charged with."
" Out with it," the leader cried.
" Why, they do say that he killed a man."
The light was still held at the window, and I saw the
eager and expectant countenance of the leader droop
to disappointment.
" Buck, is that straight f '
" As a rope puUin' a bucket out of a well."
"All right, then," said the leader, turning about.
" There air occasions when a feller's got a right to kill
a m^n, but nobody ever had a right to steal a boss.
Boys, let's go down to Tobe's grocery. I understand
they air goin' to out a watermillon, knock a nail keg in
the head, and wring a dishrag down there pretty soon.
Come on."
THS aUPESINTENDENT'S EXAMPLE. H
The jailer, his fat sides shaking, stepped back and
closed the door, and the man with the key motioned
me to follow him.
As the turnkey was fumbling with the look I heard
the nervous pacing, to and 'fro^ of a man inside the
cell, and when I stepped in he turned about, looked at
me, and, withdrawing his brief attention with a con-
temptuous bat of his eyes, said to the jailer :
" Buck, you've been acquainted with me long enough
to know that I don't want to be shut in here with a
horse thief."
" Oh, you heard them fellers, did you ? Of course,
you don't want to be shut up with a boss thief— don't
want to be shut up at all for that matter, Jimmie— but
there are some things we can't help, and bein' shut up
with the first feller that comes along is sometimes one
of them. Tom, stick that candle up there over the
door and leave it there till it burns out so these here
gentlemen can see how to entertain each other. That's
all right; it'll stick. Well, good-night. Glad we've
got room enough in there for both of you, and if you
don't find bed clothes Enough shout for more. In fact,
whatever you don't see in the dark, ask for."
The shooting of the bolt sent a chill through me,
and my fellow-prisoner, noticing my momentary dis-
tress, gave me a kindly look. " You are not used to
12 6DI> folks.
it," he said. " They may be lying about you as they
are about me. It's an easy thing to do."
"And sometimes a hard thing to disprove," I replied,
sitting down on my bunk, opposite his own. He made
no reply, but turned about and resumed his pacing up
and down the cell. I was careful not to let him catch
me gazing at him, but I sat there studying him closely.
And surely I was never impressed more deeply by the
bearing and the countenance of a man. There was
something about him that was more than graceful, an
attraction new to me, unexpected, surprising. I had
seen studied suggestions of it on the stage — the hand-
some, brave, reckless gambler. His features were not
regular, his nose was faulty, his chin weak, and yet as
a whole his face was strikingly picturesque. He must
have been about twenty-five years of age.
The flickering of the light told me that the candle
was dying. Had he been walking so long in silence,
and had I in silence been studying him so long ?
" We'll soon be in the dark," I said. " I hate the
dark. But it is in keeping with this miserable hole.
Here a sunbeam would be like a bright-haired child,
strayed into a den of vice."
" Yes," he replied, pausing to look at me.
" Were you ever on the stage ? " I asked.
"No. There goes the light."
Blackness fell about us. I heard him ctretoh himself
THE SUPEBINTENDENT'8 EXAMPLE. 18
upon his bed. I lay down to ponder over him, to
speculate upon his character. I wondered if he were
really guilty. Before seeing him I would have staked
anything upon my belief in his guilt, but now I was
uncertain. Time and again I turned over, striving to
force myself to sleep. And I muttered charges of
weakness against myself. He had done a rare thing —
kad won my friendship.
CHAPTER IL
Long before the sun came up, but when the misty
dawn-light began, like a thin fog, to stream down horn
a high and narrow window, my fellow-prisoner arose
and resumed his walk. And with a strange impatience
I waited to see if daylight would confirm the impreS'
•ion that had come upon me as the dying candle rays
were flitting upon the gloomy walls. But before th»
day was strong there came footsteps down the corridorii
The slide-window in the door was opened, and th«
thick voice of the fat jailer was poured in npon us.
" Boys, stirring about already ? Don't believe it's a
good plan to stir about much before you eat a bite.
Had an uncle that broke a colt before breakfast and
aged so fast afterwards that he died at ninety. Bring
th« wedding breakfast this way, Nick. Oar cook got
14 ODD fOLKB.
married this morning while the water was boiling.
Hah, how's our hoss thief this mornin' ? Came in one
of bein' a nightmare yistidy evenin', eh? Yes, sir;
durin' the off season of the year, when the boys ain't
got much to do, they'd as soon hang a man as not.
But they don't mean no particular harm by it."
Thus he talked while the turnkey "spread" our
breakfast, and he stood there, his great round face fill-
ing the window, until breakfast was cleared, and even
then he hung about until it grew light enough for me
to see him wink. And this he did several times, slyly
looking at me and then at Haines. In his " squint "
was legible the fact that he had been intrusted with
the secret of my\mis8ion, and I cannot say that it was
an agreeable discovery. I fancied that I could already
see unconscious betrayal stewing through his hanging
jowl, and, hardened as I was, I must have blushed, for
I grew sick at the thought of standing exposed before
that young fellow, meeting the contemptuous look of
his melancholy eyes. Then the daylight had confirmed
the impression left by the dying candle.
The day wore along, and our acquaintance made but
slow progress. J waited for his advances, but he made
none. When not walking he sat where the light waa
strongest, reading a lead-colored pamphlet.
'♦ What are you reading ? " I asked.
•*A fool thing."
TBB SUPESllfTElft>ENT^» EIAMPLB, IB
"Who wrote it?"
"A fool."
"Ah, I didn't know that a piece of my work had
found its way into this place." He laughed. " I sup-
pose it might just as well have been yours, but it hap-
pens to be mine — an amateur play printed at my own
expense."
" Has it been played ? "
" Yes ; had a one-night run in the church for the bene-
fit of the same."
" Was it a success ? "
"Quite. Respect for the church debt forbade any
one's leaving the house, although there was a good deal
of tittering when the moon got out of order, burned
the negro's fingers, and fell down."
"What's the name of the piece?"
"'The Detective.'"
" I suppose you make him a hero."
" No ; a black-hearted villain."
" Served him right," I replied ; and it was well that
he did not look up, for I felt a slow shiver creeping
over me.
At night another candle was placed above the door,
and sitting in its yellow glow he grew more inclined to
talk seriously of himself. He had been well educated,
had tried to do a number of things, had done ill — had
failed as a country editor, had learned telegrapihji and
16 0D1> FOLKS.
at last had settled down to a lonely midnight luncheon
in the wayside office of an express company. I was
sorry for him, for I knew that hidden somewhere a suc-
cess might lie waiting for him, as it does for many of
us ; but, ah, how long it lies waiting, and how rusty it
has grown when sometime we find itl His features,
now that I hac' become better acquainted with them,
were weaker, and this increased my pity; but I w»p
rssolTed to do my duty, I would win him if I could.
The days passed and he called me Dick. We had
read the same books. In our admiration for the same
book or poem lies the first tottering of many a down-
fall. In a similar taste we recognize our second self,
and shrewdness shuts its eyes and dreams.
We talked about books, and those of his farorites
that I had not seen I pretended to love. It was night,
and the candle was burning above the door.
"A man must live with one self and write with
another," he said.
" We all have two selves," I replied. " I know that
I have. One self does wrong, and the other self, which
is a sort of indulgent parent, suffers over it."
He looked at me and was silent. A shadow fell
across his face. He looked up at the candle and said ;
" We'll soon be in the dark."
" We are always in the dark," I answered. " In
daiknesB while we are doing, and only step out into
TEE SUPERINTENDENT'S EXAMPLE. 17
the light long etiough to look back and find that we did
a wrong while in the dark. I would give half my life
if I could recall one dark night."
He leaned toward me. "What happened?" he
asked hoarsely.
"I don't know but I might as well tell you. A
trouble aired is lighter for the airing. It is the secret
f^ouble that eats the heart. I am here susjpected of a
crime."
" Yes ? " he said, eagerly.
" But there is no direct proof against me. Com*
closer. That fat jailer might be out there."
He did not get up ; he scrambled across the floor and
eat down near me.
" I had been out of employment a long time," I went
ouj speaking low, " and was forced to quit the city. I
wandered about doing odd jobs, desperate, hating the
world. Well, one day, not long ago, I came into a
neighborhood not far from here. I stopped at a
farmer's house and asked for something to eat. He re-
ceived me into his house, placed a chair at his table,
and treated me as his guest. A rainstorm came up,
and he insisted upon my remaining over night 'mth.
him. Just before bed time a hired man came in to re«
ceive his wages, and I saw the old man take out his
wallet, and when he had unwound a rtring, laying i*
earefully arvss bis knee, I caught eig^of a ^0 not*'
18 ODD FOLKS.
Sooa afterward I was shown to a room just above. And
I laid there thinking of that money. At first I turned
over with a shudder. And then the weary miles I had
walked stretched out before me. I could see the dust
in the road — and the heat danced on the hot hilltop,
and in the glimmer I saw that old man's money. I
turned over again — not with a shudder, but with a
mere shiver — and I saw myself treading that dry road ;
and I saw a railway train sweeping past, and I caught
sight of two men as they tipped their glasses. They
saw me, and one of them shouted : ' Not for you, poor
fool. I rob the poor, but you haven't sense enough to
rpb even the rich when they spread their money before
your very eyes.' It seemed that the train slacked long
enough for the scoundrel thus to tantalize me, and then
it thundered on, the two scoundrels tipping their
glasses again. I got out of bed, tiptoed to the head of
the stairway, and listened. I heard the ticking of the
dock. I stepped back and dressed myself. Then I
trod softly downstairs. In the room a light was burn-
ing dimly. The old man and his wife were sound
asleep. His trousers were under his pillow. Slowly I
pulled them away, and without noise I got out. Then
I ran for a mile at least, and then I stopped and thrust
my hand into the pocket— and there was the wallet.
The moment I touched it I would have given half my
li£e iMT«r to have seen it. But repentamM waa now
TBE SUPEBINTZNDSNT'S BXAMPLt. 1»
too late. I could have taken the tnonej back — ^in faet,
I was almost decided on this risk, when jny blood shot
through me at the barking of a dog — and dropping the
trousers, but gripping the money, I leaped over a fence
and ran fiercely into the woods. Well, I went to a
town, tricked myself out in new clothes, had my beard
shaved off, and was ready to take a railway train and
tip glasses with some other scoundrel when I was
arrested. I said I was suspected of the crime, and that
is the case, for that blessed old farmer was not certain
that I was the man. And here I have told you all
about it. But I trust you ; I don't know why, but
I do."
The candle wick fell and the cell was black. Haines
said not a word. I heard him scramble to his feet, and
then with a sigh he l^y down heavily upon his bunk.
And so long a silence followed that I thought him
asleep> when he began to mutter something and I heard
him repeat my own words : «' A trouble aired is lightee
for the airing."
" I hope you don't think any less of me," I remarked.
" No, I am sorry for yoii — sorry that your better sell
yielded. But don't you think they will convict you ? "
" Yes, I am afraid so."
** And if they do, are you going to make a oonfes'
«on?"
•*No. I haw oonfM0«d to you, and that was oooUq^
so ODD FOLKB.
to my conscience.' There is bravado in confessiiig to
the world, but coufessiug to a friend is a simple virtae."
I listened with my head off the pillow, and be mut-
tered something, but I did not understand him.
" There is one thing I am glad of," said I.
"What is that?"
" The fact that I have no near relatives to be die*
graced."
"That's fortunate," he replied.
I waited for him to say more, but he was silent,
though I knew that he was not asleep, for I heard him
turn over time and again. I was now almost out of
patience. I had made my confession. Why didn't he
make his ? I felt that I had won his confidence ; I knew
that he admired my tastes, because they agreed with
his own. I had given to him the most pronounced of
all flattery — I imitated his accent and his mannerisms.
I was growing weary of my contract. Confinement
was telling on my nerves. Inwardly I cursed the
Superintendent and all his senseless whims. I con-
demned the undertaking as a foolish experiment, withr
out the possibility of a compensating result. But the
Superintendent's promise came back to me. My affairs
llad been running behind hand. I was in need of
money. Yes, I would stick it out. Haines began to
mutter.
"TftUdog to me?" I asked.
TBX SUPERINTENDENT'S EXAMPLE. 21
"No, wasn't saying anything. By the way — and
you please pardon me for such a question, but if they
should send you to the penitentiary, how long do you
suppose it would be for ?"
" Not 80 loud," I cautioned.
" There are no other prisoners on this floor. How
long do you suppose it would be for ? "
"Ten years at least."
"That long? Terrible to think of. But I suppose
robbery is different from theft or embezzlement. After
all, if a man goes to the penitentiary it doesn't make
much difference for how long. The mere sentence is
enough to break his heart."
" Yes, but time may heal a broken heart."
"Not time done in a penitentiary."
Was he laughing at me ? I listened, and I thought
I heard him titter, but it might have been the ripple of
a suppressed sob.
"I wonder what time it is? " said he, turning over
wearily.
" Must be nearly day. Yoa seem more than usually
distressed."
" I am. My heart has been growing heavier since
you told me your story."
"Don't think of me, my dear boy, but of your-
self."
** I wa thinking of myssll^ and that's what makes my
92 ODD FOLKS.
heart bo heavy." {"or a few moments he was silent and
then he continued :
" And you say thete is a sort of bravado ih confew-
ing to the world ? "
" Yes ; and the church, early in the beginning, rec-
ognized id man the yearning, the necessity to confess
his errors to an individual. In my case religion plays
no part. I told you of my depravity and my heart has
become lighter. Suppose we go to sleep."
" I can't, Dick, I am too wretched. And now I am
going to tell you something^but it's daylight, and our
fat friend is comitig."
CHAPTER in.
DtTBiNa all that day we talked in closest sympathyf
but I was afraid to remind him of his resolve to con-
fess. Nor did he refer to it; indeed, at noofitime,
when sunlight fell into the cell, he flipped a joke at our
condition, but I, knew that this was brOad-day banter
and that the ghost would return at night.
That afternoon his sister came from Louisville. On
a chair, brought for her by the jailer's wife, she sat in-
side the cell, and, looking at her, I could have fancied
that she was a part of the noon hour. She wept at
first, but she grew cheerful when I assured her that her
brother would prove his ii^nocencQ.
TBE SUPERINTENDENT'S EXAMPLE. 23
"Oh, I know that," she said; "but think of what a
ahame it is to keep him shut up here so long. And you
haven't done anything, either, have you ? I don't see
what makesi people so mean."
J She remained with us until evening, and the light
was surely gone when she went away ; and the hours
were slow and long before the candle was put above
the door. But the old fellow came with it after a
stretched-ont season. "Boys/' he said, filling the
window with his face, " I've a little piece of news for
you. The grand jury met to-day and court will be in
session before the week's out, and, consequently, you'll
have a hearin' pretty soon. But don't git skeered, for
the foreman of the jury is a boss doctor, and the Judge
owns a livery stable. This might not seem to make
any difference, but it do, for I want to tell you that a
feller that knows how to handle a hoss knows how to
handle a man.
"Well, I must leave you now," he continued.
" Pardon me for not spendin' more time with you, but
they keep me on the rush these days."
He was gone at last. Haines was pacing the floor.
Would he wait for the death of the candle ? I said
nothing, but sat on my bunk waiting.
" The candle burns longer than usual tO-night," hg
said. He was waiting for the darkness.
94 ODD FOLKS.
" Yes ; for it seems to know that we are sleepy, and it
wants to tantalize us."
" I'm not sleepy," he replied quickly. He sat down.
I said nothing. " I'm not sleepy — I can't sleep until I
have told you something. I'm going to throw off all
reserve and talk to you as I would to myself. My
father is cashier of a bank. He is one of the most
lovable of men, but he is weak, always itching to better
his condition in life, living in the midst of money, daily
noting its power, counting the wealth of other men.
In such an atmosphere it was but natural that he
should feel the clamp placed upon him by a moderate
income. He had a brother, much older than himself,
and this brother was slowly dying. The brother had
money, say $10,000, and it had been given out' that the
larger part of this money was to fall to my father. But
the brother continued to linger, though his hour was
surely near. Just after hearing, one day, that his
brother could not survive another night, my father saw
a grand opportunity to invest f6,000. The return
would be quick. He would use the bank's money, and
even should the investment fail, he could soon replace
the amount from his brother's estate. The investment
was made — and lost — and the brother grew better. In
despair, father came to see me. I thought of mother
and sister when I told him that I would risk every-
thing to save him. In the express office, during the
TES SUPEBINTENDENT'S EXAMPLE. 3S
tobacco season, there was constantly a large amount of
money iu the company's safe. I would take $5,000 and
wait for the brother to die. Well, I took that amount,
and father was saved. But the brother continued to
improve. And it was drawing near the time when I
might expect a call from the company's inspector. I
had no means of raising the money — I was not in-
ventive — 80 I was forced to resort to an old trick. I
blew open the safe and knocked myself senseless with
an iron bar. There was money scattered all about the
room when the town officer and the night watchman
rushed in, and the supposition was that the robbers
were too much frightened to gather it up ; and when
an investigation was made it was discovered that but
$5,000 was missing. And the day after I was arrested
the brother died. Father came heartbroken to see me
the day you were put in here, and his plan was to buy
off the express company, but I urged him not to at-
tempt it, knowing that they would rather send a man
to the penitentiary than to compromise for twice that
amount of money. But we were agreed on one point
— ^that no matter what was done with me the money
should be mysteriously returned. Father and yourself
are the only ones that know the truth. Mother and
sister will always believe me innocent. I have one
strong hope," he went on after a short pause, " I don't
think that the doctor who examined me is over*
M ODD FOLKS.
Mrupulous, and, if worked skillfully, I think that we
might buy him. You see I am determined to take every
advantage that a thief s shrewdness can suggest. I
may deserve to go to the penitentiary, but I am not
enough of a Christian to suffer willingly. There, the
oandle's gone."
I lay down to think. I had won my fight and my
reward was sure.
" What do you think of it all ? " he asked when I had
thought that he must be asleep.
" A sad case," I answered, pitying his frailty. The
son had inherited the weakness of the father.
" And do you think that if we buy the doctor they
esn convict me? The fact is, I did hit myself a ter-
rific blow."
" They will if they can," I answered.
" I know that. Good-night," he added, " I think I
ean sleep now."
Long before day I was up and dressed, with a few
words scribbled to the Superintendent, asking to be re-
leased at once ; and when the fat jailer came, I gave
him the note.
During the day we talked of books, though with a
lessened interest on my part.
" You don't appear to be well," he said.
" Brooding has worn my spirits away," I answered.
** But you shouldn't lose hope. Something tells ne
TBE BUPERINTENDENT'S EXAMPLE. 97
that before long we shall be together, free and happy,
ready to serve man because we have violated his laws.
We will go out west where generosity gilds a fault, and
live a buoyant life. And now, even if we are con-
demned, let us promise to join each other after our time
is served. Will you promise that ? "
"Yes."
" Give me your hand."
We shook hands, and he walked up and down the
cell, with a smile parting his lips.
" I think more of you than any fellow I ever met,
Dick. In fact, you are the only real companion I have
ever known. You stimulate my ifnind — make me feel
that I can do good in the World. I hope they won't
separate us — ^hope that if they send us to prison they
will send us together. It is awful to be oompanionlesB.
Dick, you don't look well. You mustn't get sick, but
if yon do I'll nurse you — they mustn't take you out of
here."
The fat jailer appeared. " I have a piece of news,"
he said. " The doctor has been called out of town for a
few days, and the grand jury will skip your case,
Haines, until he comes back. So you'll have a few
days more of rest. Saw the foreman of the grand jury,
Haines, and I told him to treat you like a blooded hoss,
and if he can make up his mind to do that you are all
light But J h»ven't got such good news for you," h«
28 ODD FOLK&.
added, speaking to me ; and Haines wheeled about and
looked at him.
•'What about me ? " I asked.
" Well, they are goin' to take y©« over into Gasper
County."
" No ! " Haines cried, grasping my arm.
•* That's the orders," said the jailer. " I told them
that tbey'd better let him stay a little longer now that
he'd got so well acquainted and so well liked, but they
'lowed, they did, that they believed not — said that
possibly he mout come agin after the crops was laid
" Don't tantalize him," I cried, alarmed at the poor
fellow's distress.
" Bless you, I don't want to worry him. Never want
to pester a body. Well, come on."
Haines gave me his hand ; his lips were trembling.
He said not a word, but as I passed out he gave me a
quick look and then turned his back to the door. At
we were going through the corridor the jailer strove to
pump me, but I shut him up and went my way.
Ah, the glofy of the sunshine and the thrill of the
sweet air. I stood near a garden where flowers nodded,
feeling that I had been snatched from a loathsome
dream. And I thought of that poor fellow who must
pay for his father's greed. How harder than a rook is
human justice ; but ha must be just or man'* law b*'
TBE SVPEBINtmOElfT'S XtAMfLE. 9^
comes a laughable failure. I turned away, toward tha
railway station, and the sight of the express office
smote me with sadness. " Poor, loyal, and generous
fool," I said.
The train came. And the wheels kept repeating
something — they always do. And what was it ? " Re-
member your promise, remember your promise." Yes,
I would remember it.
I had accomplished my mission and now for the re-
ward.
The Superintendent was in his office waiting for me
that evening. A check book lay in front of him.
" Ah, Captain, I am glad to see you. And what do
you say ? "
And instantly I replied : " The man is innocent.
Turn him out."
He gave me a blank look and shoTed the check book
from him.
" Innocent I "
" As a lamb. Turn him out."
I stalked away, poor, but with a smile in my heart.
I was a liar, but I was a man.
The money was mysteriously returned. Haines
found the success lying down the road, waiting, and he
found it before it had gathered rust. He is an evan-
gelist, telling his story to the world ; and his sister—^
■he's my wife.
THE BBIOK OFFICE.
Ik the old and remote village of Eddex stood a
small brick building. Formerly it had been the law
office of Judge Branham, remembered as a man of great
learning and ability. And during the years that fol-
lowed his death an old Justice of the Peace was wont
to say, " Who will have the audacity to hang a lawyer's
sign in front of the Judge's temple of wisdom ? " This
remark was repeated until every man in the village
claimed it — the green grocer and the cobbler. Finally,
it was agreed that no one should summon the senseless
courage — this was the way it was put in the village —
to occupy the little, dingy den once so nearly filled by
the fat jurist.
The old tin sign bung there until it was blown away
during a summer hail-storm, and after that the battered
post stood holding out its naked arm. The property
changed hands, but the office remained vacant. In the
columns of the village newspaper it was offered for
rent, and the young lawyers, taught to revere the great,
laiffed at the anuo»«cemeat. But one morning the
TEE BSICK OFFICE. tt
villagers were startled to see a new sign swinging from
the old arm. "A. C. Jonnett, Attomey-at-law," in
bright green letters, was plain to every gaze, and, of
course, an insult to the memory held warmly dear.
" It is an outrage ! " declared the old Justice, having
hastily arrived in his shirt-sleeves. " It is intended as
an insult, and ought to be pulled down. Why, I've
lived in this town sixty -odd years this spring, and I
never saw the like before. Hop up there, some of yon,
and pull off that tin blasphemy."
" Hold on," interposed the Mayor. " Let ns proceed
with more deliberation. Of course, this office is sacred
to us, but it is now owned by a comparative stranger,
and has doubtless been rented by a stranger. And[,
surely, when we have had a talk with him he will be
willing to move to some other place. Go slow, boys.
See who is inside."
A young fellow made the announcement that the
ofiQce was locked.
" Ah ! " said the Justice, " his conscience has smitten
him and he has sneaked off. But you are right, Mr.
Mayor. It is better to proceed with deliberation."
Just at that moment the tavern bell rang for break-
fast. No matter what the people of a remote village
may be doing, or what question the wise and ancient
heads of the municipality may be discussing, the ring^
iag of the tavern bell calls #>o instant halt. It is the
38 Ot>D POLKS.
voice announcing the crawl rather than the flight of
time, and in a village the fact that one hour has suc-
ceeded another hour is a great thing to know.
The Justice and the Mayor went home to break&st,
and afterward, when they returned to renew their in-
vestigations, they found the oflSce open. The Mayor
was the first to enter ; and he had advanced but a few
feet beyond the threshold when he staggered back
against the Justice, close upon his heels. And then the
two men stood gaping in astonishment. At the desk
■at a handsome young woman.
" We — we are looking for A. C. Jonnett," the Mayor
tKtsimmered.
" I am that person," replied the young woman, ri».
ing, and sweetly smiling.
" What ! " the Justice gasped. " You don't mean to
say that you are a lawyer? "
" I don't only mean to say it, I do say it."
*' But I never heard of such a thing 1 "
'■'■ Perhaps jiot ; and there are doubtless many othez
things you never heard of."
" I don't know about that, miss. But there are a
great many things I have heard of, and one of them ia
an honored Judge whose memory "
" That will do," she interrupted, raising her hand.
" I have heard of the Judge, and I respect his memory
far mora than you do. I have read his books 9^ ad-
TSM SBICS OFFICE. M
mire the keenness of his mind. Have you read his book
on the fallacies of circumstantial evidence ? "
" Didn't know he wrote one."
" I thought not. Did you wish to see m« on any
other business ? "
" I believe not," said the Mayor. He turned toward
the door, his friend moving with him, but halted, faoed
about, and said :
" You surely don't mean that you are going to prac-
tice law in this town ? "
" Yes ; that's my business."
" But the people here never heard of such a thing
as a woman lawyer, and you might stay here for forty
years and never get a case."
"Well, I'll try it forty years, and at the end of
that time I may be able to decide whether or not to
•8ttle here permanently."
" Gosh 1 but you've got nerve."
And laughing at him, she replied :
"Gosh! I need it."
" I reckon you do. But," he added, giving hie com-
panion an odd wink, " even if it was common for wo-
men to practice at the bar you are too pretty for a
lawyer."
" I have seen better looking criminals than lawyers,"
the replied, smiling.
The two men strode away. The teport that th« new
3
34 ODD FOLKS.
lawyer was a woman was spread about, and so large a
crowd was soon collected about her door that the young
woman closed her establishment and went to the tavern.
The proprietor apologized to her for the ill-behavior of
his town, and on the way to her room she halted long
enough to say : " O, the novelty wiU wear out by the
time I'm elected prosecuting attorney for this district."
And the landlord, grinning as he passed on, said he
reckoned it " mout " a good while before that time.
The next day was Sunday. The new lawyer went
to church, to be stared at, and preached at. She sat
far back toward the door, and the hemming and hawing
of the minister were testimony of the annoyance he
felt at beholding the honored members of his flock
twisting their necks to gaze at the astounding novelty,
a female barrister. She conducted herself with simple
dignity, paying respectful attention to the sermon, and
when the services were done she walked straightway
to the hotel. About the church door a crowd gathered
to discuss her, and in the midst of this idle assembly
stood the old Justice of the Peace. He was more than
honestly worried — he was sorely distressed. Hia im-
portance had long hung upon his reminiscences of the
old Judge, and by common consent he had taken charge
of the great man's memory, sole executor of the es-
tate, bonds and mortgages of recollection — and thus to
be intruded upon was a fetching blow. If the intruder
TBE SBIOS OffKS, 16
Were only a man, come with the defiance of a man's
strength, procedure would be clear ; but, instead, he
was confronted by a young and winsome woman.
However, his duty lay before him, like a straight path,
and he had but one course to pursue. He would make
it so unpleasant for the woman that she would soon va-
cate the old office, if not the town. The Circuit Judge
was his friend, and that morning they held a long con-
ference ; and now, as he stood in the middle of that
idle throng, bare of his hat, with the sun beating upon
his ancient head, he looked about him until his eyea
fell upon the Mayor's face, and then he said :
" Speakin' in the nature of a parable, I may say that
there is more ways than one of killin' a dog when you
ain't got a rope to hang him with. And I want it un-
derstood that I don't mean nothin' personal, and, fur-
thermore, that there ain't a man in all this community
that's fonder of ladies' society than I am. Do you fdl-
ler me ? " he added, nodding at the Mayor.
"Bumpin' up agin your heels," the ]>^ayor an-
•wered.
" I thought so. No, sir ; you might git on a pert
boss and ride all day and not find a man that likes the
ladies better than I do. And the fact that I have been
married three times is proof of the fact. Now, I know
that you gentlemen are all interested in what I'm
doin', so I'll keep no secrets from you. I went over to
see the Circuit Judge this mornin', anci he tells me that
the young woman has got the right to practice in his
court, and worse than that, she can't by any due proc-
ess of law be got out of the brick office ; but there is a
recourse. The Judge don't like the idea of a woman
practicin' law, and — well, in fact, he'll make it in
terestin' for her from the very jump. Court opens to-
morrow mornin', and I want all you gentlemen to be
there."
When court assembled the next day Attorney Jon-
nett, duly enrolled, took her seat with the other law-
yers ; and when the Judge, following the usual polite
custom, asked the members of the bar, one by one, if
they had any motion to make, A. C. Jonnett, in a sweet
voice, answered ; " No motion, your Honor."
A few unimportant cases were taken up and set
aside, and then work on the criminal docket was begun.
The first case was that of a young man named Elliott.
He had been indicted on a charge of stealing $20. He
was tall, pale, nervous, with an intellectual expression
jf countenance. He was a stranger, had not been able
to give bond, and for more than two months he had
lain in jail ; and now, as he had not the money where-
with to employ counsel, it was the Judge's duty to ap-
point a lawyer to defend him. He was guilty, of
course, and such an appointment was a genial farce,
bat H was the law. The Judge looked about until his
THE BBIOK OFFICE. «f
Btern eye rested upon Attorney Jonnett. His look
was interpreted, and a titter went about the room.
The young woman blushed slightly, and the old Jus-
tice, nudging the Mayor, whispered :
" This here is the beginnin' of her embarrassment in
this town. I like the ladies' society, understand — "
" We must have silence ! " the Judge demanded :
then he appointed Agnes C. Jonnett to defend ths
prisoner.
Now there was no red of confusion on her face. She
was pale and courageous. She Went over to the pris-
oner and sat down beside him ; she went to the hotel-
keeper, and shortly afterward had the defendant's bond
fixed. She announced that the defense was not ready
for trial, and was given three days for preparation,
riuring that time she worked day and night, and when
the case was called she was ready. Her examination
of the witnesses was sharp, and the prosecuting attor-
ney gave her many a look of antagonistic admiration.
Finally, the argument was begun, and then she sur-
prised the court. Her command of language was ex-
quisite ; she was impassioned, and upon a backwoods
jury passion falls with the grace of a gospel. She
wrung tears from the eyes of those rough but soft-
hearted men ; she threw upon them a hypnotic spell of
pathos ; she conyinoed them that the young man wa^
uuiooAQ^ »ad » T«rdict of not guilty was brought in.
38 ODD FOLKS.
The tavern bell was tinging as she left the courtroom.
Some one spoke to her. She looked up and recognized
the old Justice.
"Miss, I reckon I am about as good a critic as you'd
find in a day's ride — mout ride a pert hoss from sun to
sun and not find a keener one — and I -want to say that
you made as good a speech as I ever heard."
" I thank you, sir."
" O, not at all. You proved that young fellow's in-
nocence beyond a doubt ; and he can settle right down
and live here if he wants to."
" I am glad to hear you say that," she replied, walk-
ing along with him. " At first I thought him guilty,
but now I know he is not. And, by the way, he is go-
ing to settle down here. He is a doctor."
" You don't say so ? He didn't look it. But when
a man gets down in the world, and lays in jail awhile,
he don't look much of anything. Fust thing we
knowed of him he was pokin' round here like he was
sorter daft. By the way," he added, halting at the
corner of the street, " I want to tell you not to give
yourself no uneasiness about that brick office. You
may stay there as long as you want to. I've done my
duty by the old Judge, and that's all anybody can do."
Elliott began the practice of medicine. He had been
graduated from a well-known institution, and waa
reaUy a skillful phjrBiciau. But oonwraing himself h«
THE BRICK OFFICE. »
was strangely silent. One day, he succeaafally per-
formed a startling surgical operation and the country-
side rang with his name. Every day his buggy was
stopped in front of the little brick office, and a smile
always welcomed him. He called one night when
Agnes was late at work. That day his buggy had not
stopped, and laughingly he said he had called to ex-
plain.
" Look here," he broke out, taking a seat near her
desk, "do^ou know that this is our anniversary ? "
" Our anniversary ? What do you mean ? "
" One year ago to-day you saved me from prison."
"01" was all she said, looking down.
" And now, looking back, it seems that I never lived
until then — I was bom that day, for with your smile
came the sweet breath of life."
" Flatterer I " she said.
"No, a rare example — gratitude." She looked at
him, and in her glance was a thrilling question.
" More than gratitude," he hastened to say.
" What can be more than gratitude ? "
"Love," he answered.
\
I
A soft wind came out of the woodB, and the tin sign
fwung on the old arm of the poit> They stood bj the
40 ODD FOLKS,
desk, and his arm was about her. Suddenly he took it
away, stepped back, and folded his arms.
" Agnes, I have made a sweet confession, and now I
must make a bitter one. I was guilty."
" What? " she cried, drawing back.
"Listen to me. I stole the $20. I came here a
vagabond, not knowing whither I went — a victim of
morphine. I was moneyless. All night I raved. I
thought I should go mad ; I was mad, and at morning
I stole the money and ran away to get the drug. I
got it, and then the awful sense of my crime came upon
me, and when they found me I was in a fence corner
praying, with my mother's voice throbbing in my ears.
They took me to jail, and there, with the determination
of one inspired, I lessened my allowance of morphine
until I cured myself. Yes, I cured my body, and in
the sight of God you cured my soul. Long ago I re-
funded three times the amount of the theft — Bent it
anonymously. And now, Agnes "
She held out her handa to him.
THE GREEK GOD BARBER.
BooAGE and a friend went into a barber shop, and
when they came out, Bocage remarked : " Those bar-
bers in there are about as distinguished looking a set
of fellows as I ever saw. The one that shaved you
might easily be taken for a United States Senator,
while the one who condescended to accommodate me
oould serve as a faultless model for a Greek god. I
think that if I had a jury composed of such material, I
could make a speech that would charm back to rosy
life the long cold and dusty ear of Cicero."
" Bocage," said the friend, " for a man who hopes to
make his living by the laying down of dull law, you
are the silliest sentimentalist I have ever seen. I laid
a wager some time ago that a sudden outcropping of
this trait would one day get you in trouble. You can't
go even into a barber shop, the place, perhaps, for sar-
casm, but never for sentiment, without having your
fancy aroused."
"Perhaps I should have been a poet," Booage an-
swered, dodging a cab.
*' Bat don't you tbiak that seUing flowers iostsifd of
« ODD FOLKS.
trying to give them voice, lies closer to the scope of
your abilities ? "
"That's all right, old fellow, you may guy me as
much as you please, but you can not alter the fact that
the man who shaved me looks like a Greek god; and
how easy it would be for him, although he may be as
ignorant as a guinea-pig, to go to some fashionable
watering place and pass himself off as a distinguished
personage, marry the handsomest girl in the country.
Well, I must leave you here."
" Going out of town, are you ? "
" Yes, going to Lake Minnetonka for a few weeks."
The evening was charming. The air was as soft as
a whispered sentiment; Music, refined into an echo,
floated across the lake ; well-dressed men and fashion-
able women promenaded on the long veranda of a
summer hotel. Socage had smoked himself into senti-
mental listlessness and was sitting apart from the slowly
moving throng. Suddenly he became wide awake. A
beautiful girl, on the arm of a Greek god model, passed
him.
"There's my barber," he said to himself. "I will
watch him, and when the proper time comes, I will
send him back to his shop. I have been here two
weeks and no one has paid any partieolar attentaon to
THE queer: god barber. 43
me, but here comes a barber and becomes at once a
cliampion of beauty. I will follow the fellow."
He followed along with well-disguised aimlessness,
until he met the proprietor of the hotel. "Captain,"
Raid he, "who is that nice looking man walking with
liat beautiful girl ? "
The captain, after looking a moment, asked, "Do you
mean that tall, young fellow and blondish girl ?
«Yes."
"Why, he is a Mr. Stockbridge, of Lexington, Ken-
tucky, and she is Miss Ambridge, of Baltimore."
" I wonder if they have known each other long."
" That I can't say. I believe, however, that they
met for the first time several nights ago."
" I should like to be presented."
" Well, that can be arranged easily enough. Yonder
is her father. I'll introduce you to him."
Bocage was presented to Mr. Ambridge, and found
him to be an exceedingly pleasant old gentleman, with
a remarkably unworldly air.
"May I ask what business you are engaged in?"
Bocage asked.
"Your question is perfectly proper," said the old
gentleman, noticing that his new acquaintance was
slightly embarrassed. "I am not really in any busi-
ness, being the rector of one of the leading churches of
our oii^. I bars oome hither for rest) having dons
41 ODD FOLKB.
much labor of late. This is my first visit to this de-
lightful spot, having hitherto spent my vacations at the
seaside."
"Did you come alone?"
"No, my daughter is with me. She has just re-
turned from Rome, whither she went to study art ; not
that she purposes to follow painting as a means of live-
lihood, but to indulge the longing of the purest of all
sentiment. She is coming now."
"That — er — excuse me — ^but that handsome ladj
with the tall young man 7 "
"Yea."
" A friend of the family, I suppose."
" Well, no. A comparatively new acquaintance."
"I should like to be presented. Of course, I am a
stranger to you, but the proprietor of this hotel, a man,
as you doubtless know, of eminent respectability, will
vouch for my standing.' '
Booage was presented } the barber scanned him closely.
Socage felt the blood of triumph surging through hit
veins. He would let the fellow play awhile, and then
he would reel him in. After dinner Bocage sought
Stockbridge and asked him if he would not take a
•troll. Stockbridge hesitated a moment and then said
that ha would. They walked along the beach. .
"Where are yoa from, Mr. Stookbridgaf "
MEentooky."
lEB QSBES: GOB 6ASSES. 4S
" Have you lived there long ? "
" I was born there, but I have beea away so much
that I know but little of the State."
" Foreign travel ? " Bocage asked.
Stockbridge hesitated a moment, and then replied ;
" No, not exactly, although I have been in Mexico a
good deal."
" You are pretty well acquainted with our own
country, I should think."
" Well, no, I can't say that I am."
" You have been in Chicago, I presume."
" Why do you presume so ? "
" Oh, I don't know, except that nearly every Ameit>
can visits Chicago sooner or later."
" I have been in Chicago."
" Yea, I'll bet you have," Bocage mused.
" But it is too rushing for my nerves," Stockbridge
continued.
" Yes, it is rushing, but it has many advantages over
a quieter place. Our hotels are great, and it is said
that our barber shops can't be beaten."
" Suppose we return to the hotel," said Stockbridge.
** I have an engagement."
They returned to the hotel. Bocage went to his
room, and when he came down he saw the barber and
Miss Ambridge sitting on the veranda. He joined
them, expressing a hope that he did not intrude.
46 Obt> fOLSB.
"Oh, not in the least," said the young lady. "I
have just been trying to convince Mr. Stockbridge that
he ought to read Arnold's 'Light of the World,' and I
trust that you will come to my assistance."
" As a man of taste, he should read that great work,"
Bocage answered. He had never read it — had
merely glanced at its skeleton printed in a newspaper.
" I am very fond of it," he continued, " and think that
it is really better than the ' Light of Asia.' "
" I can hardly agree with you there," said Miss Am.
bridge. " The ' Light of Asia ' being more paganish ia,
to my mind, more poetic. Christianity has not im-
proved poetry, although it has blessed the world.
Poetry, in its truest and sublimest sense, is the light of
the dawn, and not the glare of noontide. Do yon agree
with me, Mr. Stockbridge ? "
" Well, I don't know much about it ; to tell you the
truth, I never read much poetry, except in the news-
papers. I like a good book, such as ' Allen Quarter-
main.' "
"Oh, no," cried the girl; "say 'Lorna Doone.'"
" I never read that."
" Then you have missed the sweetest novel in the
English language," said Bocage, who had struggled up
to the great snow-storm and had then put down the
book and taken up " She."
" Well, I don't know about that," Stockbridge re-
TSB GSSSK GOD BABBXS. «
plied. " I reckon a man reads the books that suit him
best, and I guess his taste in reading is pretty much the
same as it is in music. He likes what he does like and
that's about all there is to it."
" You are right," said Socage. " Take opera, for in-
stance. Some people like one opera and some another.
One man will go into ecstasies over 'Otello,' while
another is perfectly satisfied with the 'Barber of
Seville.' "
" Will you please excuse me a moment ? " Stock-
bridge asked, rising.
" Yes," said the girl ; " but you won't stay long, will
you?"
"No, not long."
"Isn't he grand and delightful?" she remarked,
when the barber, not of Seville, but of Chicago, had
withdrawn.
" Yes," said Bocage, " he is a very nice-looking man ;
rather neat, too."
" Neat doesn't express it," the girl replied, " he is so
voble-looking."
" What business is he engaged in ? "
" Well, I don't know that he is in any business, but
his father is the owner of a fine blue-grass farm and has
many blooded horses, I understand."
"Did he say so?"
**Ye8, or I should not have known it."
46 ODD FOLKS.
" Humph," Bocage grunted.
" But do you doubt it, Mr. Bocage ? "
" Suppose I should say that I have reason for doubt-
ing it?"
" Oh, but I don't see how you can have reason for
saying so. He has conducted himself as a perfect gen-
tleman ever since I met him and I have no cause for
doubting his word."
" He has conducted himself as a gentleman so far as
I know, and yet I have cause to doubt his word. Now,
I am going to say something for your own good, u saw
you with that man and I was at once interested in your
behalf and was determined to warn you. Mind you, I
shall say nothing against the man's calling, for it is a
necessary one, but I despise bis pretense. He is simply
a Chicago barber."
" Oh, Mr. Bocage, you ought to be ashamed of your-
self."
" I am telling the truth. He works in a Dearborn
' street shop and shaved me the day I left Chicago.
He's coming back. I must bid you good-night."
The next morning when Bocage came down, Stock-
bridge was waiting for him. " Let me see you a mo-
ment," said the barber.
" Am I next ? " Bocage sarcastically asked.
"You are next so far as I am concerned. What
TEE GREEK GOD BARBER. 40
liaye you been telling Miss Ambridge about me?"
Stookbridge asked, drawing Bocage aside.
" I suppose you know."
" Yes, I know, for she told me. You say that I am
a Chicago barber."
" And I acknowledge that you are a good one. I
don't care how much you enjoy yourself or how high
you aspire, but I despise pretense. If you had come
here without any disguise, I should have — well, I
haven't time to talk to you."
"But I have time to talk and to act unless you make
proper amends. You must go to that young lady and
teil her that you are a liar."
" Mind how you talk, or I shall not be responsible
for my action. Tell her that I am a liar, indeed, when
I couldn't even tell her that I was mistaken. You
know, as well as you know anything, that you shaved
me not long ago."
"I will give you until noon to apologize to that
lady."
"Why apologize to her? I have said nothing about
her."
" No matter, you have slandered her future husband."
" Now, look here," said Bocage, " you can't bluff me.
I won't have it. If the girl is a mind *"% marry you at
ter what I have said, all right."
" Even / \ had ehaved you——"
80 ODD FOLKS.
" Which you did."
" Well, then, don't you think that you have acted the
part of a coward ? "
" No, I think I have acted the part of a man in ex-
posing a fellow who is seeking to deceive a trusting girl."
" All right. Do you think, though, that you wiU.
be ready by noon to acknowledge to Miss Ambridge
that you are a liar ? "
" I am as ready now as I shall ever be."
" I will give you until noon."
" By noon," said Bocage, as he strode off, " he will
be gone. I rather like his gall. Why, helloa, judge I "
he suddenly exclaimed, springing forward and seizing
the hand of an elderly-looking gentleman. " When did
you arrive ? "
" Just now."
" How's everything in Louisville ? "
" Oh, moving along smoothly. I am looking for
Louis Stockbridge, of Lexington."
** Ah, have you met him ? "
« Not since I came here, but I have known him a long
time — his father is an old friend of mine.**
" Can it be possible ! " Bocage exclaimed.
"It must be possible when it is already a &ct.
What do you mean ? "
" Why, sir, I took that man Stockbrid«|B to be a
Ohioago bwbar."
TSE VBESK GiOD BARBER. 51
* You'd better not tell Mm so."
" But I have told him so and he has given me until
noon to apologize to — to — the young lady. It is all
mixed up."
" Well, then, you'd better straighten it out by making
the amplest apology within the range of retraction's
most persuasive language."
" I must be a fool. By George ! I would have sworn
that he was a barber. YoUder he comes. I doii't like
to apologize here, unless I can do it quietly. There are
too many people looking."
Stockbridge and the judge cordially greeted each
other and then Bocage stepped up. " My dear sir^"
said he, " I have made an egregious blunder "
" I think so," teplied Stockbridge, " and I have de-
cided not to give you until noon," and, wheeling
Bocage about, he kicked him off the veranda.
******
The next day while Bocage was walking along Deai»
born street, he glanoed into a barber shop and saw a
man that looked like a Greek god rubbing the swoUea
head of a drunken Swede.
UGLY EACHEL.
In the Cumberland mountains, near a macb-tnTeled
road, and not far from a stream that seemed to exist in
a succession of accidental tumblings, there once lived
an old man who held natural claims to local distinction,
but who was chiefly known for one cause. He was a
wonderful rifle shot, but this brought him no fame ; he
was one of the most skillful of fishermen, but this
aroused not the slightest degree of interest ; he was a
dangerous opponent in a wrestle; a champion at a
eorn-shncking ; a notably solemn man at a funeral; a
marked rejoicer at a celebration ; an astonishing breaker
of colts ; a master of stubborn steers, and the terror of
balky horses, and yet all these accomplishments, any
two of which are quite enough to bring renown to a
man in almost any mountain community, were disre-
garded. Why, then, was he known to all? Simply
because he was the father of Rachel Moss. It had often
been declared by men of keen judgment and women of
unerring taste, that Rachel was the most unattractive,
indeed, the ugliest girl that nature could possibly form.
Sha had tha hayest-like hair, t^r aatut-like eyes that
XJGLT BACSEL. 88
had ever been seen ; her mouth looked like an incision
made in impulsive revenge, and her chin was the very
climax of ill-shape. No imagination could picture a
more unattractive woman.
Naturally enough, Rachel was never invited into
" society." No one seemed to think that there could
possibly be any enjoyment for her. Once a young
fellow, who, in early youth had been struck on the head
with a stone and who had afterward been nearly
squeezed to death by a bear, a man who, in short, was
a jabbering idiot, chattered a declaration of love
to her, and every one who heard of it roared with
laughter.
Old man Moss, Rachel's father, took summer board-
ers, but the girl never attempted to force her presence
upon them. When not engaged in the kitchen, or when
not shyly picking her way along the tumbling stream,
she sat alone in an attic room.
One evening a distinguished looking traveler stopped
at the old Moss house. He was an artist and at one
time had dreamed of fame, but the unexpected in-
heritance of a large estate and the ease which naturally
followed, turned his mind from the thoughts of a
struggle for a place in the capricious world of art. He
had passed through seasons of dissipation and was now
seeking rest far from the exacting eye of fashion. He
paid no attention to the other boarders — hi liTed
64 OJDD FOLKS.
within himself. The days passed, and although he
politely answered every question addressed to him, he
avoided meeting any one. After a time he was put
down as a man suffering from the gnawings of remorse.
One day he caught the sight of Rachel. His first
impression was a shudder of repulsion, and then moved
by a strange fascination, he sought a better view of her
face, which, when gained, made him yearn to get a
closer look at her features. The dinner hour was over
and the boarders sat in the shade of the porch, nodding.
The woodpecker, with his red head glaring in the sun-
light, tapped on the dead arm of a white oak tree, and
a ragged sheep, with her eyes bulging in a melancholy
stare, stood in the dusty road. Rachel slyly stole
away, and sought the cool brink of the hurrying stream.
The artist followed her. She had gone some distance
up the rugged glade, and, pausing under an over-cup
acorn tree, was looking at a wild honeysuckle that
trembled under the weight of a humming-bird, when she
heard a stone splash in the water. The next moment
she had turned to run away, when the artist scrambled
out of the stream, whither a treacherous bowlder had
thrown him and cried :
" Please wait a moment."
She paused, though with painful embarrassment, un.<
til he approached, and, half hiding her face, waited for
him to speak.
UQLT RACHEL. 85
" If the water had been deeper I should have had a
good ducking," said he. " I am not as dry as a pow>
der-horn, as it is."
" I am sorry you fell in," she answered.
" Oh, it doesn't amount to anything," he cheerfully
replied. " We live in the same house, I believe ? " he
continued after a pause.
" Yes, I am Mr. Moss' daughter."
♦'I didn't know he had a daughter."
" Then you have not heard of me ? "
" No, I have heard of nothing concerning the family
affairs of any one in this neighborhood."
" You have been fortunate," she said, with the merest
suggestion of bitterness in the tone of her voice. " I
didn't suppose that any one could escape hearing an ac-
count of my father's unfortunate celebrity."
" I don't coiuprehend your meaning," he rejoined.
"Is your father celebrated on account of a misfox^
tune?"
"Yes."
" And may I ask what that misfortune is ? "
" The fact that he is my father," she answered.
" But why is that a misfortune ? "
"Oan't you see?" she bitteirly asked, throwing asida,
with unwonted boldness, her old sun bonnet, and ex-
posing every feature of her face. "Don't you see
tibat it is because I am unrivalled in my ugliness?
» ODD FOLKS.
Come, be honest enough to acknowledge that yon do
see."
" I confess that you may be without a rival in your
nnenvied line of distinction, but I can't see why the
old man should be held accountable." /
" Oh, your honesty is charming," she cried, laughing
merrily ; " I never encountered such frankness outude
a book."
" You know something of books, then, do you ? "
" Yes, I have been driven into an acquaintance with
them. You must know that among ignorant people
much depends upon looks. Intelligence counts for
nothing, and cultivation is looked upon as a weakness
or rather as an insanity. An old school teacher
boarded at our house years ago, and filled our attic —
now my attic — with books. He was kind enough, or
tolerant enough, to teach me, and when he died, he left
me his books. That is, he was unable to take them
with him, and as no one else wanted them they became
my property. If I had been passably good looking, I
should doubtless have never looked into them, but as
my face was my physical misfortune I was driven to
the attic for my only real pleasure. I know but little
of the neighborhood gossip, and, therefore, have but
little to say to the neighbors. In fact, I am ashamed t«
talk to ignorant people."
UQLT BJ.OEEL. 51
" I must thank you for the compliment you are now
paying me," said the artist.
"Oh, you are under no obligations whatever. But
to tell you the truth I am surprised that I should talk
80 freely to you, a total stranger. I suppose, though,
we all have our moods. If I had seen you sooner, I
shosld have run away."
" I'm glad you didn't, for I am in need of your
society, although I am not so very bookish. I have de-
voted my life to the study of art."
" There you have a decided advantage of me," she
answered. " I know nothing whatever of art, except
what I have read."
" In that event you know as much as most people,
for there are thousands of pretended art critics who do
not even read about it. By the way, I have become
interested in you."
" Thank you. I will attempt to make better bread
after this."
"I am serious," he earnestly declared.
" So am I," she replied. " There is nothing more
eerious than making bread."
" Come, now, don't guy me ; don't make fun of me."
" I don't think I can make anything of you more
than you are."
"That's a compliment, or it isn't, I don't know
M ODD FOLKS.
wfaich ; but, really, I am interested in you and hare a
favor to ask."
"What is it?"
" That you will meet me here every day."
" But I should like to know why."
" I can't tell you now — I will some other time."
" I can't promise."
•' But will you meet me here to-morrow ? "
" Yes, I will promise that, but I don't know why.
Indeed, if I had been told an hour ago that I should
ever have agreed to meet any one, and especially a man,
I — ^well, I oould not have thought such a thing possible.
I must go now."
The artist sat for a time gazipg after her and then he
gave himself up to meditation. He was interested in
her — more deeply interested than he had ever been in
any human being. " I will paint her portrait," he had
mused while talking to her. " From the very child-
hood of art down to its unrevered gray hairs to-day,
the artist has sought in high and low life, the beautiful
face that should on his canvas, carry his name down
through ' all time to come.' Why should not I reverse
this order — why should not those ugly features bear
my name to generations yet to come ? I will win her
consent and will paint a true portrait, which, in com-
parison, shall show ' Medusa ' as a joy for ever, being
80 teoly a thing of beaaij."
UQLT RACHEL. SS
He sat there deeply meditating, and to him there
came back, as if an anxious hour of the necessitous
past had stepped into the prosperous and easy present,
a dream of fame, a dream so vivid and intense that he
shook with agitation.
The next day he was sitting on that same rook,
when Rachel came. "I don't know why I am so
prompt," she said. "In fact, I don't know why I
have come at all, yet something seemed to be drawing
me.
His blood leaped. Fate herself was aiding him. " I
should have been greatly disappointed if you hadn't
come," he answered. " Isn't the day lovely ? "
" Yes, it falls upon the earth like God's beneficent
smile." He looked up quickly, and wished that he
eould have thrown her face upon the canvas at that mo-
ment. He asked her to name her favorite books, and
for more than an hour he sat listening to the passionate
praise which she bestowed upon her friends, and at
times he fancied himself attempting to paint her words.
Onoe he thought to tell her of the intended portrait,
but discretion whispered that the time was not yet in
full bloom.
Day after day they met under the over-cup acorn
tree. The time was in full bloom and he said ;
"Bachel,*! have another great favor to ask of you, tha
ipreatest that I could possibly ask."
• ODD FOLKS.
" Is it that I might still farther improT« in mj brtad
making ? "
" Will yon never forbear to ridicnlo me ? What do
I care for bread ? Bread may be the staff of life, but
art is the wing of the soul. I want to paint a portrait
of you ; want to paint you just as you are, so that iu
after years I can look upon your face and bring np
these surroundings."
She laughed. He looked up in surprise. "A
miracle has been wrought," she said. "A man has
cultivated me for my face alone. Yes, you may paint
my picture, for your poorest work can but flatter m» ;
but I shall name the conditions. The picture must b«
painted here, and at no time must you work on it after
I have told you to stop."
" The conditions are satisfaotoiy, Rachel. I will bf
gin to-morrow."
Day after day she sat for him. Sometimes, with his
brush just ready to touch the canvas, he would pause
and listen to her as if her words were the unexpected
wild-wood notes, and sometimes, when she seemed to be
inspired with poetry, he would turn away from his work
and in a tranquil rapture gaze upon her. One day he
touched the canvas and, throwing down his brush, ex>
claimed:
" God in Heaven, it is beautiful." It was the pictora
of a divine face — the faatorss of an angel. ** Saohelt"
UQLT SACHEL. (H
he cried, " I have painted your soul. See," it sprang
from the canvas like a burst of light. " Look, girl, I
have caught a face fresh from Heaven's mould. It is
your Boul, girl, it is your soul 1 Look, Rachel I " He
ran to her and started back in horror. She was life-
less, and his brush had caught the image of her passing'
sool.
THE MOON IN THE PICTURE.
CHARACTERS.
John Badfleld, general inspector Amerioan Ezpreas
Company ; Harvey Q-ray, a handsome deaf mute ;
Nick Bowles, a detective ; Nat Morris, son of widow ;
Jerry, colored man of all work; Widow Morris;
Ijaura, pretty daughter of widow; Harriet, old maid
daughter of widow.
AOTL
TnvrR, THB PEESENT.
SoENi! — Farm house of widow, turned into summer re-
sort, Northern Illinois, Parlor, plainly furnished, old me-
lodeon or piano, center table, sofa, rocking chairs, several
upholstered chairs, simple pictures on wall, door C, small
mirror on wall L, blind fireplace L covered with screen,
poker decorated ivith a ribbon leaning against wall near
screen. Curtain rises discovering Laura sitting on sofa ;
Jerry, voith hat wadded in his hand, standing near the do»r
as if about to go out,
Jeret — An' ez I wiis sayin' ter myse'f, ef dat man
Mr. Radfield has got so much mouej, w'y doan he go
ober yander ter d» ^tel dat da built 'crou de lak«?
TOE KOON IN THE FIOTUBB. aS
Ef I had money like da say he has, you wouldn't see
me roostin' on de groun'; huh, see me up in de highest
tree. But I doan know whuther he got money or not ;
he ain't come showin' me none.
Latjea — {smiling) People don't usually go round
showing their money.
Jerky — {jolting himself with a laugh) He doan, an'
dat's er fack. But whut's de matter wid dat uder
generman ?
Latjea — ^Who, Mr. Gray? Why, he is a deaf
mute.
Jebby — Huh, an' I reckon dat's de reason he kain't
talk. Now ain't dat er mighty bad fix fur er person
ter be in ? 'Pear ter me like ef I couldn't talk I'd jest
hatter — shatter — talk anyhow; jest couldn't keep &om
it. Dar ain't nuthin' dat could keep me frum it, I tell
you, caze when I gits mad it — it — it jest talks itse'f.
Wall, I must be gwine now. I clar I so busy I doan
know what ter do fust. An' do you know dat yo' sis-
ter come er callin' me lazy ? Yas, she did. Come woke
me up whar I wuz lyin' er sleep out dar under er apple
tree jest ter call me lazy. Dat wan't ho way ter act,
an' says I, " gone way frum yere, chile, an' doan fool
wid me caze I'se dangus." Yas, I mus' go, now.
Latjba — Well, why don't you go on ?
Jbbbt — Who, me ? Now you ain't goin' ter turn er
^in me, k you ? I neber se^d sich times ez dese ysn.
M ODD FOLKS.
Eber body tellin* you ter go on now. An' I'm gwine,
too. Wall, I must go. Whut you want ter keep
holdin' me yere fur ?
Lattea — {with pretended anger) You trifling rascal,
I'm not holding you. Go on.
Jekry — Dat's whut I said I gwine do. Yere I goes.
Enter Hakvby Gbay.
Latjba — ^What a pity it is that he can neither hear
nor talk. {Gray takes the rocking chair and turning it
toioard her, sits dovm.) Yes, and he is so handsome, too.
How sad he looks. They say that it is just as much
as he can do to write his name. What a pity. {Sud-
denly brightening) But what a chance this is for me to
say what I please to a man. And, oh, how I can
practice on him and say lovely things to him. Oh,
how handsome you are ; and I am in love with you.
Now, sir, what do you think of that ? Why don't you
tell me how delightful it is to have a modest girl tell
you of her love ? Poor man, I am sorry for you, and
I'm going to keep on telling you how much I love
you. You are just as sweet as you can be. Why, he'i
not even looking at me. Never mind, sir. You don't
appreciate your good fortune ; you don't know what a
precious thing a young girl's love is ; and a handsome
girl, too. {Springs from the sofa and hvmorovtim poau
THE MOON IN TBE PICTURE. M
In front of mirror.) Now you may think that this is
vanity, but if you do, you won't say anything about it,
will you ? You mustn't because you are my aweet-
hdart, you know.
Enter Miss Habeibt.
Habbibt — Why, whom are you talking to?
Lauba — Oh, to Mr. Gray.
Hakeiet — What a silly goose you are.
Lattea — Why, just because I have taken advantage
of the opportunity to say what I please to a man ? I
can't let such a privilege slip past me. {Takes hold of
Harriet and attempts to waltz with her.)
Haeeiet — {freeing herself) For gracious sake s^op
your foolishness. I never saw such a girl. What musk
this man think of you, cutting up this way ?
Lauba — It doesn't make any difference what he
thinks. He won't say anything about it, will you pre-
cious ? {to Gray.)
Haeeiet — ( with energy) Laura, I'm ashamed of
you. Go on out there and help mother set the table.
Lauba — {with mock concern) And will you promise
not to make love to my sweetheart while I'm gone ?
Haeeiet — {laughing in spite of all efforts at restraint)
Oh, go on with you. You are enough, to make a cat
laugh.
Lauba— (wiod. Did you enjoy your boat ride?
THE MOON JN THE PICTVBE. 7S
Latjba— ^(u;tV% enthxisiasm) It was delightful.
Radfield — And I want you to go with me aome
time.
Lauba— (spinWcZZy) Oh, you want me to go with
you. Is that the way to ask ?
Radpibld — (bovnng') I should have said that I de«
sire that pleasure.
' Lattea — Oh, that's different. But I can't go with
you ; I'm engaged for the season.
Radfeeld — Not to dummy, I hope.
Lattba — {angrily) Mr. Radfield, you should not
speak that way. This man can't help his affliction. I
won't talk to you {Arising)
Radpield — {apologetically) Pardon me, please. Wait
just a moment. Wait, pleasd, I was joking. . {Lailra
halts near the door.) I have something to say to you.
Lauba — Well, say it.
Radpield — Sit down and I will.
Lauba — No, I'll stand here.
Radpield — I hardly know how to begin.
Lattba— Then what you were jgoing to say must not
be very important,
Radpield — Yes, it is of great importance, and that
is the reason I don't know how to begin.
Lattba — Well, I'm waiting.
Radpield — {seriously) Miss Laura —
LA1rBA>-~Tl»t^i a good atert.
W ODD FOLKS.
Radfuild — Miss Laura, I have thought—
Lauba — Oh, you have thought. You surprise me.
RADFiEiiD — Please give me time. I have thought
■ince coming here that I had found the most charming
spot on the face of the earth ; and the secret of that
charm has made itself known to me. I love you.
Please wait. Yes, I love you. I know how awkward
this confession is, for I am a man of affairs and am but
little used to the sly ways of sentiment, but I love you
and want you to be my wife. In the city I have gone
into society just enough to form a distaste for society
women, and I had supposed that I should never enter-
tain the thought of marriage, but you — you have
thrilled me, transformed me, compelled me to sur-
render.
Lattba— (saiZy) I believe you are in earnest, Mr.
Radfield, and I shall therefore speak earnestly. It is
possible that you do not quite understand your own
mind. I am a simple girl, with some pretences to edu-
cation, it is true, but when brought into comparison
with the women of the world I might be found sadly
wanting. I am flattered by your offer, I admit, but I
cannot marry you. Wait, now. {Eadfteld moves im-
patiently.) I waited for you and now you must wait
for me. I am old-fashioned enough to believe that a
woman Bhould lov9 her hiubaod, ftud I don't lore you ;
TBE MOON IN THE PICTURE. W
why, our marriage is out of the question. Isn't it,
■weetheart? {Smiling at Qtray. Exit.)
Radpibld — {arising and walking up and down the
room) What ! it can't be that she is in love with this
poor clod. It must not be. With that girl for a wife
and with a summer home here, I should be happy.
And this sphinx is between us. {Turning to Gray)
Well, I'll fix you.
Widow — {without) Go right on now and wash your
fac«. Go on, this instant !
Nat — {without) All time have to be washin' my face.
Make Jerry go and wash his face.
Enter Widcm and Nat. Widow sighs and takes rocking
chair. Nat hangs about her^ standing first on one foot and
then on the other.
Nat — Want ten cents, now.
Widow — Go on away. I'll not give you ten oent«.
Nat — Want ten cents, now.
Widow — {making a motion at him) If you don't g«
on away, I'll box your jaws.
Nat — Don't give me ten cents I'll thrash the settin"
hen off her nest.
Widow — Don't you do that, sir ; if you do, I'll w;hip
you.
Nat — If you don't give me ten cents, I won't wash
my face.
TO ODD FOLES.
Widow — Well, wUl you go and wash your face and
be a good boy if I give you ten cents ?
Nat — Yessum.
Widow — {giving him money) There now, dear, go
on and be a good boy.
Nat — Won't be good all the time for ten cents. Be
good till dinner time. (^Exit N.')
Jbbbt — (without') Whut you come runnin' er gin
me fur, hah ? Look whar you gwine, ur de fust thing
you know suthin gwine dr^jp an' drop hard, I tell you.
(^Enter Jerry.") Boy come runnin' ergin me like he
wuz er calf. Folks all time tryin' run ove' me.
Gwine yere suthin drap, too, da is. Er — er — er Miz
Morris, I thought I'd come an' ax you ef you kere ef I
put on dem britches hangin' in de closet up stairs.
Widow — There are no breeches hanging there.
Jbbbt — Yassum, da is, caze I hung 'em dar yiatidy.
Widow — But what were you doing with them ?
Jebby — Why, I wore 'em one ur two times an' hung
'em dar, an' now I 'lowed I ax you ef you kere ef I
w'ar 'em ergin. Huh?
Widow — (almost tearfully) You trifling rascal, those
trousers belonged to my dear husband.
Jbbbt — {surprised) Did da? Wall, I want to tell
you dat he wuz er pusson dat knowed whut britches
wuz. I yered folks say dat he wuz er mighty smart
Baa, an' da lay, too, dat you an' him wuz monstos well
TSE MOON IN TBE PIOTUBS. TO
luited to one nuder, an' I thought ez he wan't gwine
need dem britches ergin, you mout gib 'em ter me.
Huh?
Widow — Well, yes, you may have them.
Jebby — ^Thank you, ma'am. Huh I gwine cut s
swath 'mung dem ladies now, I tell you. (^Turnmg to
go.)
RADFiBiiD — Madam, why don't you make that fellow
earn those trousers ?
Jebby — Dar's dat white jpusson er firin' off dat mouth
o' hizen. Ever' time I comes near him he has ter 'isolt
me. Come er talkin' 'bout er moon in er pictur ei
keepin' er man er wake. Whut.kin yer spect frum er
pusson like dat? An' say, pusson, lemme tell you dat
you gwine keep on foolin' wid me tell you yere suthin'
drap, an' w'en you look roun' ter see whut it is, you'll
find yo'self lyin' dar. Huh ? (Uxit.)
Badfibld — {to widow) Why don't you drive that
brute o£f the place ?
Widow— Why, didn't I tell you that he saved Nat'*
life ? I just couldn't think of driving him away now,
and besides he is so much help to me.
{Gray gets up, walks aiout tJie room, hohing at thepio-
tures.y
Radfield — I might remember my obligation to him
but at the same time I certainly should protect myself
against his insolence.
» ObD FOLKS.
Widow — Oh, he is never insolent to me ; indeed, he
does everything I tell him to do. ( Gray approaches the
door, stands there a moment and exit.') Poor man, I do
pity him.
Radfibld — Oh, he's all right. In fact, I think he ia
to be envied.
Widow — What, a deaf and dumb man to be envied.
I don't see how you can make that out.
Radfield — It may be clearer to you when I tell you
that your daughter Laura i{| in love with him.
Widow — (^greatly surprised) Why, how can you
gay such a thing, Mr. Radfield ?
Radfield — Easily enough. Truth may be pretty
scarce, but sometimes it is on hand and then to tell it
ia not a difficult matter. I know that she is in love
with him. I heard her say as much.
Widow — It was only a joke. Laura is too sensible
a girl to throw herself away.
Radfield — I wonder then that she is not sensible
enough to see something that is to her advantage. I
have asked her to be my wife and she has refused.
Widow — (^thoughtfully) Perhaps she —
Radfield — There is no perhaps about it. She has
simply refused to marry me. I hope, madam, that you
have no objections to me ?
Widow — {brightening) I object to you? Surely
TBE MOOIf IN THE PIOTUBE. 81
not, Mr. Radfield, for never since my poor husband's
death have I seen a man —
Radfield — I mean of course that I hope you have
no objections to me for a son-in-law.
WTDOW-^{sobermg') Yes, I know what you mean. I
am surely bright enough to tell what a person means.
I don't boast of being very smart but I know enough
for that. I hope you don't think —
Radfield— Of course not, madam.
Widow— Well I'm Very glad you don't. Let me
see. Well, I don't know that I object to you as a son-
in-law, but — there's Harriet.
Enter Harriet.
Haebibt— Mother, your preserves are boiling over.
Widow-— (spnngrj to her feet) Gracious, why didn't
you tell me ?
Habeiet — I did.
Widow — {passing quickly thtough the door) Jerry,
you good-for-nothing thing why did ydu let them pre-
serves boil over?
Jbbby — {far without) Doan come talkin' ter me
w'en I dun burnt my finger in 'em ; soused my finger
in dar ter see ef da wuz hot an da wuz.
Habbiet — {seating herself on the so/et) Pardon me,
but did I hear you tell mother that LPm had rcfoMd
to be your mfe f
82 ODD FOLKS.
Radfikld— Yes.
Hakribx — Little fool, she never did have any sense.
But never mind, she's got to marry you.
Radfield — I am thankful that you champion my
cause. I {Bowles, the detective, appears at the door.)
Come in. Miss Morris will you pardon us for a few
minutes. I have some very important business with
this man. But wait, you needn't go. What was I
thinking about ? I can go out with him.
Habbjbt — (on her feef) Oh, no, I was going any
way. (Exit H.)
Radpibld — (to Bowles) Sit down.
Bowles — (continuing to stand) No, thank you,
haven't time. Just stepped in to tell you that I'm .go-
ing back to town. I don't think there's anything in
the case — ^your suspicions of dummy are not well enough
founded.
RAi>FiELD-;-(m«) Don't be a fool, man.
Bowles — I have decided not to be and that's the
reason I'm going back to town. I know more about
this business than you do ; I have made a number of
mistakes in my time and have decided to profit by
them. Good day. (Turns to go.) .
Badfudld — Wait a moment.
Bowles — No use to wait. Ton have advised me
not to be a fool and I have taken your advioe. (Sait
TEE MOON nr TBS PIOTUSS. SS
Radfield — Insolent puppy. Those detectives don't
know enough to— there you are, eh ?
Enter Orayl Walks about the room, paying no atteri'
tion to Radfield.
Radfield — I'm going to get rid of you some way,
you blockhead. I believe if you were out of the
way everything would be well. And I want you to
understand that I'm going to marry that girl. {Or ay
stands with his back t07j)ard him, looking toward mirror.)
I could brain you and no one would ever be the wiser.
{Looks about.) I pould hit you back of the neck and
tell them that you had fallen in a fit. Yes, tell th^m
that you struck your head against the rocker of this
chair. {Moves chair.) I'm not going to be foiled by
you. {Seizes poker. Gray wheels about with a pistol in
one hand and with other hand points at mirror!)
Jbbby — {poking his head through the door) Tas, sab^
yas sah ; de moon in de pictur. '
Curtain. !
Act TO.
TWO DAYS liATBB.
Scene — Same. Curtain rises, Badfield and Laura du'
covered in the aittvim-room, Laura in rocking chair with
Ibook, facing Badjldd, who itandawiA one hand mling or
emter table.
«4 ODD FOLKS.
Laitba — [taoking up from booh) Why did you tell
mama that you had asked me to marry you ?
Radfield — ^Perhaps I wanted her to intercede for
me.
Latiea — As if that would do any good.
Badfibld — ^I didn't know but it might.
Lattra — If I were a man I wouldn't marry a girl
that had to be begged.
Radmeld — (with a mirthtess laugh) I suppose that
is the right view to take of it, but when a man is in love
all sensible views are obscured.
Laitba — Can you be so much in love as that? I
thought that your fancy for me was merely an idle
whim.
Radfield — Whims belong to women, men are moved
by ideas.
Lattea — {with surprise) Oh ! and is that the reason
that some of them move so seldom and so slowly ?
Radfield — {seriously) Miss Laura, a man may. joke
while a surgeon is cutting off his arm, but levity does
not come from a wounded heart. If a man jokes whea
his heart aches he is either a fool or a hypocrite.
Lauba — You will please pardon me, but I don't
think that you love me very much. It is a sort of
summer love and will pass away when the frost falls.
Jbbby — (untkoui) Wonder whar I lef dat ar pipe.
Neber seed de like. Man kaiiFl" ^ut hiB pipe down—
TBE MOON IN THE PICTURE. 85
(^Snters and looks at Badfield.') Skuze me, sah, but did
you pick up my pipe ?
Radfield — {turning contemptuously upon him) What.?
Look here ; you'll go too far with me the first thing you
know. Remember that I am under no obligations to
you. You haven't saved me from drowning.
Jeeky — (looJcing at him with a squint in his eye) Tas,
sah, an' you went too fur wid me de minit you come up
ter whar I wuz. How did I know but you mout hab
picked up my pipe ?
Rabfield — (^severely') Get out, you impudent raa-
eal!
Jebby — Dat's zactly whar I wuz gwine, sah. (^Mbven
to the door, looks back.) One deze days you gwine yere
suthin drap. Mind whut I tells you, an' it gwine drap
hard, too. QExit J.")
RADJraLD-^(to Laura') Your mother will never mako
a success at keeping boarders. By the way, how longf
is that dummy going to stay ?
Laitra — (^looking down at her book) Mr. Gray will go
when he is ready to start, I suppose.
Radfibld — {taking a seat") I shouldn't wonder. By
the way, did your mother tell you anything else beside
the fact that I had asked you to marry me ?
Latjba — (without looking up) I don't remember.
Radfibld — Didn't she tell you that I said that you
wer« in love with Gray ?
ee ODD FOLKS.
Lauba — (without taking her eyes from the hook) Isn't
he handsome ?
Radfibld — And his mind is as deaf as his ears.
Latjba — And he is so much of a gentleman.
Enter Widow.
Widow — Do I intrude ?
Laxtba — (looking up) No, mama, we are so glad you
came.
Widow — (seating herself on the sofa) I was afraid
that yon were talking about something that you didn't
want me to hear.
Laxtba — (laughing) But a girl ought not to talk
about anything that she doesn't want her mother to
hear.
Radfibld — (to the widow) There is thoughtfalness
for you.
Widow — Oh, Laura is all the time thoughtful. And
all my children are obedient. (Nat enters and stretches
himself upon the floor.) Get up, son. Don't lie there,
you might take cold. Did you hear me ? Get up from
there and go and wash your face.
Nat — (turning over) All time have to wash my face.
Why don't you make Jerry wash his face ?
Widow — You've got nothing to do with Jerry. Get
np, and after awhile I'll give you some preserves.
Nat — Want 'em now.
THE MOON IN THE PIOTUSE. «
Widow— Wait wntil I go out.
Nat— Give 'em to me now or I won't get up.
Widow — All right, sir, I won't let you go to mill
with Jerry to-morrow.
Nat — (brightening) If I get up will you ?
Widow — Yes, if you'll get up and be good.
(Nat goes to the sofa and lies dovm with his head in
mdow^s lap.) ' ,
Radfibld — {arising) Well, I am going out to row.
Won't you come along. Miss Laura ?
Lattba — {without looking at him) No, I thank you,
I'm tired.
Widow — {persuasively, to Laura") Oh, go on with
him.
Nat — Mebby if you give her some preserves she wilL
Lauba — I don't care to go, mama.
Widow — Why, you go with Mr. Gray, and he can't^
even ask you.
Latjea^ — ^And probably that's the reason I go.
Radpibld — {to Laura) Well, will you go this after-
noon?
Latiea— I'll see about it.
Radfibld — That's as good as a promise, I suppose.
(^Exit Badjield.)
Widow — {to Laura) Why didn't you go with him ?
Lattba— Oh, I just couldn't ! I don't like him at all,
mama.
St ODD FOLKS.
Widow — I wish you wouldn't be so foolish. (Risu)
You can see how fond he is of you. {Not tumbles on
the floor.) Get up, son, and come on. Come, and I'U
give you the preserves. ,
Nat — {getting wp) And you've got to let me go with
Jerry, too, now.
Latjea-:-(
solute proof on me, too I
9* ODD FOLKS.
Gra.t — Yes, I have, and that proof is that yon are
the sweetest and most charming woman in the world.
{Holds out his hand^ ; she slowly approaches him and he
takes her hands.)
Jebby — {poking his head in at the door) Whut I dun
tole you 'bout, dat suthin' gwine drap ? Ur moon in er
picture, er — haw I haw I
Curtain.
flIS SIXTEEN-EIGHTY-NINE.
CHAPTER I.
Off Dearborn street in Chicago, there is an old
book — "joint," — ^that has long been known to people
who find a musty delight in old style type and musty
bindings. It is a cellar, approached by a dark and nar-
row stairway, and many a man, attracted thither by
stories that were told of the place, ha^«» turned back in
disgust when half way down the stairs. The old ceUar
was of itself as musty as a rare first edition, and
was but dimly lighted, but the eager eyes of a true
bibliomaniac soon discovered the beauties of this, the
wayward biding place of weaiy learning, abashed fan-
cies and murdered ambitions. The walls were covered
with books, and the corners were stacked and jammed
with old political pamphlets. What records of the
law's injustice; what demands for reformations that
never came I
This place, known as the " Book-worm's Joint," wm
kept by an old man named Dorsey. He was onee the
proprietor of an old book »^all in London. Why he
86 ODD FOLKS.
left the world's relic house of literature and settled in
Chicago is not known, nor does it materially affect this
recital. I don't know how the old man would have ap-
peared in the sunlight, for I never saw him there, but
amid the shadows of his "joint," he was most impress-
ive. His hair was long and white ; his flowing gray
beard seemed to be kept as a sort of religion. He was
tall, and bent and feeble. His eyes were of a mildewed
brown, in color, and were so weak that he could
scarcely read a newspaper — to-day's " pert " infringe-
ment on the learning of yore — but with the swift glance
of intuition he could discern the faded title of an an-
cient tome. Visitors of a certain class were welcome,
but purchasers seemed to alarm him. He was com-
pelled to sell books, for he had no other source of in-
come, but it gave him pain to part with a volume, and
once, when the necessity of meeting his rent had forced
him to sell the political pamphlets of DePoe, he fell
upon his miserable bed and moaned as if his heart
would break. He was a book miser. The disastrous
year to the commercial world was a year of compara-
tive prosperity to old Dorsey, for then he was not
so much assailed by customers. As time passed he
grew worse and hugged his books in an embrace of
despair.
One afternoon a collector called and presented him a
biU.
SIB SISTSSN-BIGETT-NINS. VI
••What is it for?" the old man asked, tremblingly
adjusting his glasses.
" December rent."
« But I paid it the other day, didn't I ? "
" No, you paid for November about a month ago."
" It seems to me, young man, that you were here the
other day and that I paid you for December."
" I can't help how it seems to you. I know my busi-
ness, I reckon."
" Well, how much is the amount ? "
"You ought to know. You've paid it often
enough."
" Ah, I grant you that," he replied, scanning the bill-
" What 1 " he suddenly exclaimed, " forty dollars I
You have raised on me."
" No, we haven't. It's been forty dollars for the last
four years."
" But I don't think I ought to pay so much, young
man."
" Well, then, get out. A fellow wants to start a
Turkish bath in here, anyway."
" Oh, no, no ; I can't do that. I have been here so
long that I am attached to the place."
*• Well, then, pay your rent."
" I will, but I can't do it to-day. Come around some
other time." y
" I will come to-morrow, and if you don't pay thea
7
98 ODD FOLKS.
you may know what to expect. It's growing harder
and harder to get money out of you, and we're getting
tired of it. See ? "
The collector went out, and Dorsey, turning to a man
who had just entered, asked: " Can I do anything for
you, sir ? "
" Well, I don't know," the man answered, slowly
turning about the room. " Thought I'd drop in and
look around. Have you a catalogue ? "
" No, sir."
" Ought to issue one every once in a while."
" That would be unnecessary, sir, as I don't add to
my stock."
" Humph, you don't do a very thriving business."
" No. To tell the truth I don't care to do any busi-
ness. I did at first, though. I used to purchase
largely and get out a catalogue every three months but
now I — ^the truth is, I have only the books that I am
attached to and don't want to part with them."
" Ha I rather a strange case. But you must have
made considerable money while you were actively in
the business."
" Yes, I made some, but lost it. Do you remember
fifteen years ago when the steamship 'McAlpin' was
lost?"
" Yes, believe I do."
•• I bad twenty-five thousand doUara worth of books
Sm SlXTESN-EIQBTY-mWB. M
on board, and their loss discouraged me so that I have
never taken much of an interest in business since."
" I see ; and the keeping of this place is now a sort
of sentiment with you."
" Well, I suppose you might term it a sentiment. I
have lived in this cellar so long that I could not find
contentment elsewhere. I should be like the prisoner
who begged to be re-admitted inta his cell ; and these
books are my family. I part with one sometimes — and
•o does a man bury his children sometimes."
"Yes, that's true."
The visitor began to browse about, with the slow
motion of carelessness, but with an eye of cool and care-
ful search.
" What have we here ? "
" One of the earliest English edititions of Plutarch,"
the old man answered with strange excitement, and
then quickly reached out to take the volume.
" Let me look at it," said the visitor, turning about.
" Oh, I don't think you will like it, sir. It hasn't
been very well cared for, and I fancy that the binding
wasn't very good in the first place. Indeed, sir," he
added, becoming more eager to take the book, " I dont
believe that it is so old as its date would imply. 1689
— I don't really believe it is so old as that. I haven't
looked into the matter very, closely, not being much
interested, you know, but I don't believe there was
lOd ODD P0LK8.
an English translation of Plutarch so far back as
that."
"The deuce there wasn't," the visitor replied ; "how
did Shakespeare manage to follow Plutarch'a Julius
Csesar so closely ? "
"Well, but Shakespeare may have been a better
scholar than Ben, Jonson thought he was. Inde«d,
sir, great men have begun to believe that Bacon wrote
the plays, — at least the classic ones."
" Rats ! " said the visitor. " How many volumes ar«
there of this ? "
" Eight, and you see what unwieldly things they are."
" What will you take for the set ? "
" Really, sir, I think I have an edition that will
suit you much better."
" Don't want any other edition ; want this. What
will you take for it ? "
" I don't want to sell it," he said, taking the volame
from the visitor.
" It isn't so rare, old man, that it is priceless. I will
give you seventy-five dollars."
" The price is satisfactory enough, but I don't care
to sell."
" But don't you need money ? Didn't I hear a man
say just now that unless you pay him forty dollars to-
morrow, steps will be taken to turn you into th*
street?"
HIS SIXTEEN-EIGETY-NINE. 101
*• Yes, that's a fact ; yes."
" Then, why are you so foolish ? "
"My dear sir, I wouldn't order a man out of my
house for the world, but won't you please go away ? I
am sick and must lie down."
"Yes, I will go away, but I will come back to-mor-
row."
The visitor went out and the old man, gathering up
his precious volumes, tenderly placed them on his bed,
and then laid down beside them. Hours passed and
still he continued to lie 4here. Once some one came
in, and coughed to attract his attention, but he did not
look up. He dozed off into a troubled dream, and was
awakened by voices in the " joint." He got up, and,
after rubbing Ms dim old eyes, reoogniised two acq.uaint«
ances.
" Hello, Donsey."
" Good evening, gentlemea."
" You may well say evening if yott virish to refet
to the lateness of the hour."
" What time it it ? "
« After twelve."
" I had no idea it waS 80 late," the old man said, get*
ting up and coming forward.
" You were not awake to hear the uewB."
"What news?"
« A bank jtuk ap th« itrevt wai robbtd of flftMa
102 ODD FOLKS.
thousand dollars this evening. But I don'^ suppose it
concerns you much ? "
" Well, I can't say that I'm shocked, still the news
is interesting. If somebody had to be robbed I don't
know of an institution that is more able to lose money
than a bank. It is much better, too, than if an old
book store had been robbed. Won't you come back
and sit down ? "
" No, just thought we'd drop in a moment and look
round. Good night."
CHAPTER II.
The first thing Dorsey thought of the next morning,
was that he had to pay his rent that day. But he had
strong hopes that he might make enough of what he
termed comparatively indifferent sales to raise forty
dollars ; yet the morning wore away and no one came
in. Just at noon the collector entered the place.
" Well, have you got forty dollars for me ? "
" I am sorry to say that I haven't. I expected some
money this morning but it didn't come. But I am sure
it will be here by to-morrow. Anything I can do for
you, sir ? " he asked, turning to a man who had ju»t
entered, and then he drew back for he recognized the
man who had offered seventy-five dollars for Plutarch.
HIS SIXTEEN-EIQETT-NINE. lOS
"Yes," the man answered, "you can let me have
those books."
" But I told you " ;
" Never mind what you told me. Here are seventy-
five dollars, nearly enough to pay two months rent.
Come, now, don't be foolish. You'll soon forget the
attachment you had for them. You don't want to be
set out in the street. Here, give the man his rent."
"But he can't put me out under a month and by
that time I'll have the money."
" Well, but what's the use of hanging fire over a
thing that must be done ? "
A long discussion followed. The would-be purchaser
was persuasive and logical ; the old man finally
yielded in a sort of dreamy way. The persistent cus-
tomer marched off with his books and the collector
went away with his rent.
Old Dorsey's eyes were more than ever a mildewed
brown, and his flowing beard, which had seemed to be
kept as a sort of religion, was tangled as no creed
ought to be. Sometimes he would mumble as if talk-
ing apologetically to some one, and then he would
break out as if in a fierce argument. Late one night
he was pacing up and down the room when an odd
and cautious-looking man came down the narrow stair-
way.
" Who are you ? " the old man demanded, and then
104 ODD FOLKS.
added, when the visitor halted: "I have paid th«
lent."
" Glad of it," the visitor answered.
" Well, but why do you come back here,? Is It
possible that another month has passed ? "
" I don't know what you are talking about.
"Didn't you come around here this morning and
collect forty dollars from me ? "
" I never saw you before."
"Is that so?" and, then, after a few moments'
silence, during which he rubbed his dim, old eyes, he
added : " Well, what do you waijt here now? "
" Just thought I'd drop in and warm myself. Didn't
reckon you'd care."
" Of course I don't, but let me see if you are a
first edition."
The fellow laughed and said: "I reckon I am.
That is, my father and mother always said I was the
oldest of five children."
" What's your date ? "
'»1860, I understand."
"And not 1689?"
"Hah, you must think I'm just out of the ark."
" Hardly so old as that, but when were you first
translated? You know it has been held by certain
scholars, or I may aay alleged scholars, that a versatile
monk put yptt into orud* English b«for« tbe a^ of
SIS SIXTEEN-EIGHTY-NINE. lOS
printing was invented. How about that — ^but, pray
pardon me, I thought for a moment you were ' Plu-
tarch's Lives.' "
" Well, now, I ain't and never was anybody's life but
my own."
The old man rubbed his brow and said : " It was a
long time before I could believe in the occult, but I am
becoming a full-fledged mystic. It is something that
all sensible men must come to. But mysticism is too
grand to be grasped at once. It is the key to all wis-
dom ; and there can be no sorrow when all men are
just and wise, for justice relieves the wants of the body
and wisdom will provide against grief."
" Have you got anything to eat handy ? " the visitor
asked, glancing about.
" I wish I had Greek wine and pomegranates," the
old man answered, " but I haven't. You are welcome,
though, to what I have. Here is a beefsteak pie," he
added, taking a plate from a shelf and handing it to the
visitor. " You see I still keep my English appetite."
"Thanks."
The fellow seized the pie and began eagerly to de-
vour it. The old man stood watching him. The fel-
low's eyes bulged out. " Got any water ? " he asked,
almost choked. The old man handed him a leaking
dipper of water. "I am old fashioned even in my
driokiag," h« aaid. The old fellow walked baok to bis
106 ODD FOLKS.
bed, tamed despairingly toward the door, confusedly
put out his hands before him, and then, wheeling about
and facing his guest, who was swallowing the last
morsel pf the meat pie, said in tremulous tones :
" I thank heaven that you have returned."
" Good enough, but as I never was here before I
don't see how I could have returned."
" But didn't a brisk, and heartless business man give
me seventy-five dollars for you? "
"If he gave you any money for me I wish you
would let me have it,"
" Oh my 1689 1 " cried the old man, attempting to
fling his arms about the fellow, " Oh, my Plutarch, I
will never part with you again."
" What kind of a joint have I struck? "
" You have come home and you will never leave me
again."
" Much obliged to you for your kindness but I've got
my own affairs to look after. It's gettin' along toward
mornin' and I reckon I'd better go."
" You can not go, my Plutarch. Ah, what binding,
what print. There are none like you these days. Tell
l,me, did the disturbed elements foretell Caesar's death?
In the dreams of an anxious mind did the fountain
spurt blopd ? "
" I give it up."
" But did Alexander ride the fieij horse that Philip
BIB BIXTEEN-EiaHTY-NINE. lOT
was unable to master? I know that you are a ro-
mancer, and that you have talked much for the mere
pleasure of listening to your own musical words, but
you can tell an old worshipper many truths that you
withheld, even from Montaigne."
" Cap, your water is too deep for me. Let me get
out." The old man was standing between his guest
and the door.
" No, you are not going to leave me."
"I've got to go. Get out of the way," he said, at-
tempting to pass the old man. " I don't want to stay
down here with a crazy man. Let me by, I say. Turn
me loose. I'll choke the life out of you. Get away."
The old man fell on the floor, and desperately clun^
to the fellow's knees.
" Turn me loose, you old fool, or I'll tramp the life
out of you."
The old man uttered a loud and despairing cry.
Footsteps on the stairway — police. They seized the
fellow ; they knew him — had been searching for him.
He was the bank robber.
The old man, still grieving over his loss, is in the
asylum at Kankakee.
BIG HEP AND LITTLE LADY.
When the superintendent of a railway, that had just
been built through Allen county, Kentucky, published
an announcement that he would buy all the cord-wood
that might be ricked up at certain places along his road,
the news flew as a carrier pigeon, conveying the words
of promised deliverance from the cutthroat mortgage
of the crossroads merchant. The country was exceed-
ingly poor. The hillside fields were trenched with
gullies, and the gushing rain-tide had washed away so
much of the soil that many a patch of land, which at
its best was capable of producing only nubbins, would
not now have sprouted a black-eyed pea. Along the
creeks there was strips of comparatively fertile land,
but they were subject to overflow and were not, even
after the kindliest season, productive of sufBcient grain
to keep their owners out of debt. It was early spring
when the superintendent's publication was received,
and instantly there was an unhitching of old plow
horses, and a throwing of old bull-tongue plows into
the fence corners.
It was like a call to armit in a patriotic oommunity ;
51© SUP AND LITTLE LADT. m
it seemed to be the movement of a single impulse.
Every ablfrbodied man shouldered his axe and turned
toward the " big woods," a great and rugged forest
which was yet the common property of mankind.
Cabins were built, and patches here and there in th«
woods soon bore the aspect of a mining camp.
Hep Brooks was one of the first men to build a
cabin. He was known as Big Hep ; and he was a
giant. He was splendidly proportioned, and Bradford
Wellbanks, an old circuit-rider who lost his life recently
while attempting to save a worthless fellow from
drovrning, often pleasantly remarked that he would bet
his saddle-bags that Big Hep could outrun a buck and
kill him with his fist after he caught him. Hep was
about twenty-five years old, and although he was a
rather good-looking fellow, had never spent much time
in the society of women. It was soon remarked that
he was adorning his cabin with many an extra touch,
and one evening a neighbor said to him that he must
be thinking of making some woman happy.
" I am," he answered.
" That's right, for you're gittin' old enough. This
is a mighty fine place for women up here in the hillg
and they can help a right smart chance when we begin
to haul the wood down to the road. When air you
goiii' to git married ? "
" You air too hard for me now," said Hep.
110 Oi>D FOLKS,
" Why, I thought you 'lowed you was goin' to makd
some woman happy."
"So I did, but makin' a woman happy don't always
mean marryin'. This cabin " — pointing with pride to
the hut — " is for my mother."
" Oh, I didn't know that. By the way I don't be-
lieve I ever seed her."
" No, I reckon not. She is livin' over in Barren
county with my brother Jim an' never has been out to
AUen. You know I ain't been livin' here but about
two years ; come out here to see if I couldn't git a
place for her, but it 'peared like the harder I worked
the wus times got, and I was jest about to give up and
go somewhar else when this wood business come up.
It won't take me long now to knock out a few dol-
lars."
" I reckon not, but have you made any arrangements
about havin' yo' wood hauled down to the road ? "
" That was about the only thing that stood in my
way, not havin' airy boss, Ijut I have agreed to pay
Sim Joyner so much to haul it out and rick it up for
me. I've got to strike out early in the mornin' atter
mother."
" I reckon you'll have some little trouble in hirin' a
hoBB to go that fur."
" Yes, a good deal. The truth is I kain't git a boss
at all, but I'll fetch her all right enough."
Bia BEP AND LITTLE LADT. Ill
Hep' 8et out early the next morning while his neigh-
bors were eating breakfast. He disappeared down the
valley, singing his one tuneless song :
" Oh, the old raccoon was chased from his hole,
And he couldn't git back for to save his sonl.
He tried it late and he tried it soon,
Bat he couldn't git back, that old raccoon,"
Four days passed before they' heard that tuneless
song again, and then they heard it coming up out of
the valley.
" I don't see his mother wi^h him," a man remarked,
shading his eyes with his hand. " Mebby the old lady
couldn't walk so fur. He's got a pretty big bundle of
something on his back."
They stood speculating until Hep came up, and then
they saw a woman's head protruding from a roll of
blanket which the giant carried on his back. Every
one uttered an exclamation of surprise when Hep
placed his mother in a hickory sapling chair which he
had made for her, and which he requested some one to
bring from the cabin.
" Now you sit right here, Little Lady, till I git you
suthin' to eat," said the giant. " You see," he pleas-
antly added, turning to his neighbors, "that thar's a
good deal of diffunce in our size. , I weigh over two
hundred and Little Lady don't weigh but ninety."
U3 ObD FOtSS.
•* A&d ia she r'a'ly yo' mother ? " Some one asked.
"Indeed I am," the little, old woman spoke up.
"And if you had seed Hep onct long time ago you
wouldn'ter thought he would be much when he growd
Tip. But bless us all, jest look at him now."
How sweet and pleased her old face was. She had
that peculiar countenance which seems to come as an
illumined beauty to old age — a face through which one
catches glimpses of a patient and loving soul. She
looked like a mere doll, and was as easily amused as a
child. Big Hep brought his axe and showed it to her,
and when he explained that he had experienced some
trouble in finding one large enough for him, she seized
the arms of the chair and laughed.
CHAPTER II.
Hep's house became a favorite resort, and at even-
ing the neighbors would gather there and sing religious
songs. They knew no worldly airs, and to them music
was the handmaiden of the gospel. The leader of the
musical exercises was a girl named Lutie Moore. She
was the daughter of a man who owned several
teams, and was, therefore, high in the social grade.
She had the appearance of a flirt, and it was knowa
BIG SEP AND LITTLE LADY. US
that she had smiled upon Rob Turner, as hard a work-
ing young fellow as ever lived, and then refused to
marry him, although he begged her piteously and al-
though he was a hard-working boy. It was soon dis-
covered that Big Hep was smitten with her, and one
Sunday when he hired one of her father's horses and
took her to church, at least ten miles distant, the
gossips knew that a marriage or a refusal would be the
result. Old Miss Beverly, the chief of gossips, called
on Hep's mother that Sunday, and the impulse to gos-
sip was so strong within her that she disregarded her
usual skirmishing and went at once into the engage-
ment.
"I reckon you know that Hep's gone with Lute
Moore to-day."'
"Yes," the little, old woman answered, "but I
reckon he'll come back." f
" Oh, of course, but haven't you been thinkin' that
he mout want to marry her ? "
" The only thing I've thought about it is that she
would have to search a mighty long time before she
could do better."
" I understand that, too, but ain't you afeered she
■won't have him, and that it will pretty nigh break his
heart?"
" He has a mighty big heart, Miss Beverly."
** That's tvxe enough, but big heartr ir ginflnlly tbm
9
114 ODD FOLKS.
easiest to break. Look at Rob Turner, far instance.
Thar ain't nobody got no bigger heart than he has, and
thar ain't a harder workin' boy in all this country, and
now look at him. He mopes about like he don't kere
•whuther the price of wood keeps up or not. If I had a
son — and I reckon it's a blessin' that I ain't-— I would
hate to see him makin' a set at a girl like Lute Moore.
I would jest give him a piece of sensible advice. I
would tell him to be keerful of women that thinks
themselves good lookin' an' take some good, honest per-
son that thinks more of other folks than she does of
herself. I would tell him to find some good girl,
makes no difference if she was a little older than
him, and marry her. I have been mightily inter-
ested in Hep ever sense I fust seed him, and I do so
much want him to git a good wife whenever he do
marry."
"Little Lady," with all her smallness physically,
and beauty born of a sweet and patient soul, was a
woman, and while Miss Beverly was talking this
little mother mused : " I see what you air drivin'
at, Missie, but you might as well hush, for Hep will
never marry such a lookin' busjjr-body as you air.
Why, thar wouldn't be no livin' in the house with
you."
" Well, I must go," said Miss Beverly, rising. " I
thought I would merely drop over and se» iron awhile.
J!W JBSP AND LITTLE LADY, MS
I wish — bnt never mind — " She was now standing in
the door, twisting the strings of her gingham sun-
bonnet.
" What were you goin' to wish?"
" Oh, nuthin', only I thought that if you cared to
speak of it, you might tell Hep that we air all might'ly
interested in him. I don't think I ever seen a young
man that I ever was more interested in than I am in
him. Good mornin'."
When Hep returned from church, late that evening,
his mother looked at him closely, as if she were search-
ing for evidences of unrequited love; and when
he had sat down to the table upon which his dinner had
been spread, she noticed that he did not eat with his
usual relish.
» What's the matter, Hep ? "
" Oh, nuthin'," he answered, looking up surprised.
"What makes you think thar's anything the mat>
ter?"
" I didn't think you eat like you had much appetite,
and thar is the dandelion greens, too."
" I won't try to fool you, Little Lady," he said,
smiling. " I will jest tell you exactly what is the mat*
ter. I love Lutie Moore."
" And do she love you, my son ? "
" That's what I kain't find out."
** Have you said anything to her about it?"
11«» \ ODD FOLKS.
" Not yet. I have been tryin' to all day, but some*
how I couldn't. I'd keep on lookin' ahead and think
that when I got thar I would say somethin', but I kep'
puttin' it off, an' puttin' it off, till here I am an' nuthin'
ain't been said yit."
" Do you want me to go over and talk to her ? "
" Gracious, no I " he exclaimed. " She would think,
that I ain't got sense enough to talk fur myself, and
that would settle it right then and thar. The next
time the folks come over here to sing I will walk home
with her and say somethin' or bust a hame-string, as
pap uster say."
The singing party met that very night, and Hep
walked home with Lutie Moore. He struggled with
himself as they walked along, and not until they had
almost arrived at Moore's cabin could he summon up
sufficient courage. Finally, in a sort of desperate burst,
he exclaimed :
"Stop right here whar you air and let me say
suthin'." - She stopped and turned her face toward him.
The moon was shining.
" Miss Lutie," said he, " I want to teU you somethin'
that I have tried mighty hard to say. I never was
much of a hand to go among women, for the reason
that I never was much interested in their talk, but it's
different with you. It don't make no difference what
you say, I am interested in it ; ai>4 1 don't believe you
BIG SEP AND LITTLE LADY. 117
•ould say a word that wouldn't sorter stir me up.
What have you got to say to that ? " he added, his des-
peration giving away to embarrassment.
" I don't know what you mean," she said.
" Wall, I mean jest this here ! I love you ; and now
what have you got to say to that ? "
" I say that I am glad of it."
" Air you railly ! " he exclaimed, placing his hands on
her head. " Air you sho nuff, and air you glad enough
to love me?"
" Yes," she said smiling, and the moon that shone full
in her face pointed out the smile to him.
He scarcely remembered anything else that night,
except that he hastened home and tdld his mother that
he was almost too happy to live.
"Lift me up and kiss me," said the little, old
woman.
He got up the next morning singing his one tuneless
song. " And you won't forget me after you are mar-
ried, will you son ? " the little woman asked.
He sat down, looked at her a moment, and said:
" I don't see what could have put that into yo' little
head. I love that girl well enough to die for her, but
I couldn't love her well enough to forgit you."
The gossips soon learned of Hep's engagement, and
there was great surprise when it was reported that
liUtie was " dead in love " with him. " Aad her father
lie ODD FOLKS.
owns SO many teams, too," one woman remarked.
" Sholy, strange things do happen in this here world."
The night was beautiful ; the wedding was to take
place on the following day. Big Hep and Lutie sat on
a log. They could hear " Little Lady " singing.
" Hep," said the girl, " we'll be so happy after we
air married."
"Yes, the happiest of anybody in the world," he
answered.
"And then yo' won't have no trouble in gittin'
bosses to haul yo' wood. Say, dear, how long ia yo'
mother goin' to stay with you ? "
"Alius," Hep' proudly answered.
" No, that mustn't be. I like her well enough, but
Fm afeerd she would make me tired."
He arose, looked down upon her for a moment and
then said : " And if that's the case, I reckon I would
make you tired, too. I worship you — or did worship
you — ^but the Lord has p'inted out my duty. Good-
night."
" But wait. Hep, tell me that we air to be married in
the momin'."
" Good-night," he repeated.
The neighbors that arose early th9 nest morning,
BIG SEP AND LITTLE LADY. 11«
•aw Hep, with a large bundle ou his back, going down
into the y^alley, and they heard the words of his tune-
less song:
, " Ob, the old raccoon was chased from his Aole,
And he couldn't git hack for to save his sonL
He tried it late and he tried it soon,
Bat he conldn't git back, that old raccoMi."
/
^N IVORY SMILE.
CHAPTER I.
The following sketch, written by Col. J. McCloud,
of Kentucky, was recently given to me by a son of that
well-known gentleman :
I lived in Kentucky and owned a number of slaves.
Among them was an enormous man, named Amos. I
think he was the strongest human being I ever have
seen. Once when I was a boy I went with Amos to a
fcircus. During the performance the ring-master an-
nounced that he had a wonderful mule. " I will give
this mule to any man who can either ride him or lead
him around the ring." Amos arose. I plucked his
coat and excitedly asked what he was going to do. I
asked this, although I knew well enough what was on
his mind.
"Chile," said he, "dar ain't no man, white nur
black, dat's gwine blufip me wid er mule ; " and before
I could by persuasion restrain him, he had stalked into
the ring. The mule was a small animal and depended
for success upon that quality which so well serves the
(120)
AK irOSr SMILE. VA
small man and the politician — trickery. Amos turned
to the ring-master and said :
" You means dat I kin hab dis mule ef I kin ride him
ur lead him ? "
" That is exactly what I mean." '
" Ah, hah, an' does you mean dat ef I takes dis yere
mule oaten de ring I kin hab him ? "
" Yes, if you can take him out of the ring he is your
property."
Amos seized the mule and I don't know how, but in
a moment had him on his back. The frightened animal
struggled, but Amos, amid the wildest applause, carried
him out of the ring.
"He's mine," Amos shouted as he put down his
burden.
" Not so fast, my good fellow," the ring-master cried,
quickly following him. " I said you might have him if
you could lead him out of the ring."
" An' den you said I could hab him ef I tuck him
out?"
" Oh, no," the ring-master answered, taking hold of
the bridle. " I said if you could lead him ; but now to
show that there's nothing mean about me, I will
Bolemnly swear in the presence of these good people,
that I will giye you the elephant if you take him on
your shoulder down to the river and give him a bath."
The audience roared as though the world's gre«test
la ODD FOLKS.
vittioism had just been uttered, and Amos, iisgusted
with the perfidy of showmen, returned to his seat.
I was deeply attached to Amos, who, my father a»>
■nred me was my individual property ; and I used to
smile over the absurdity of so small a boy owning so
large a man. When I grew up, and when the death of
my father gave to me the sad inheritance of all the
slaves, I depended on Amos as a sort of general man-
ager. He was so faithful and had so apparent an affec-
tion for me, that in gratitude and especially in a Chris-
tian prompting, I resolved to set him free. So, one
day just before Christmas, I called him as he was cross-
ing the yard.
"Good mawnin'. Mars George; how does you feel
dis mawnin', sab? "
" First-rate, Amos. In fact, I feel so well that I
have decided to give you a great Christmas present."
" Thankee, sah," he replied, removing bis hat and
bowing low, " an' lemme tell you dat de Lawd ain't
gwine furgit you fur dat. Lawd dun said He is mighty
in lub wid de cheerful giber, an' ef you ain't one I
doan know who is. Look yere. Mars George, whut it
gwine be ? "
" Never mind, I'll tell you when Christmas morning
eomes."
" Dat's right an' proper, sah, but somehow I'd lik«
ter hab «r little sprter idee. I wanter know how t«r
AN IVOBT BMILE. 123
shape myself. Man 'pear like he wanter be s'prized,
but still he'd ruther know whut he gwine be s'prized
erbout. When de dog trees er 'possum er man would
like ter be s'prized ez ter whut sort o' varment dar is
up dar, still he'd ruther know whuther it's er 'possum
ur er coon 'fo' he chops down de tree."
" That's all right, Amos, but you go ahead and cut
down the tree and leave it to me to provide against
disappointment."
" Wall, ez you nebber has diserp'inted me, I'll do
dat. I got 'up ter go ober in de woods, sah, an' see
erbout hawlin' up some back-logs fur Christmas. Doan
want none de white folks ter git cold on dat day, I as-
sho you. Dar ain't nuthin' dat takes de brightness
offen Christmas day like chilly white folks. Good
mawnin', Mars George."
He went away, singing the blithe song of a light
lieart. He was a giant but he was a child.
Before daylight, one morning shortly* afterward,
while I was yet in bed, a house servant tapped on the
door and told me that Amos wanted to seeme. " Tell
him to come in," I answered. The giant, black in the
dark shadows of the dim lamp-light and the early
morning, entered the room and stood near my bedside.
There was the sudden gleam of an ivory smile, then a
low, musical laugh and the warm tones of a "good
mawnin', M^rs George."
184 ODD FOLKS.
" Well, Amos, what do you want this time of day ? "
" Dat's whut I come ter tell you, sah. I woke up
•bout midnight, an' 'fo' de Lawd I couldn't go ter sleep
ergin ftir 'layin' dar worryin'."
"What about?"
" Wall, sah, jes dis : I wuz wonderin' whut in de
worl' you gwine gib me fur dat Christmus present.
Now I know you gwine turn ober wid one dem flounces
de white folks has, an' say I'se foolish an' ain't got no
sense, an' I 'low mebbe you'd be right ef you did say
80, but I jest couldn't he'p it, Mars George."
But I did not turn over with one of those flounces
that the " white folks " have ; I reached out and took
his hand. " My poor child," said I, " my poor child
" and I really could say nothing else. He broke
down. The giant was on his knees.
" Oh, you calls me er chile, when it wa'n't but da
udder day dat I toted you in my arms, showing you de
geese swimmin' in de pond, an' now you is er gre't big
man an' calls me chile. Ole Marster's time does fly
monstrus fast when de little toddler o' yistidy terday
takes you by de han' like he gwine lead you, an' calls
you chile. But I wush you would tell me whut dat
present gwine be. It doan 'pear like Ikin stand it no
longer. Mars George." With the tenderness of a
mother's touch his hand stroked my hair. " Tell me
jest dis time, Mars George, an' I won't ax you no mo'."
AN irOBT SMILE. 19S
" Amosi you have only two more days to wait, and I
don't believe that it would be real kindness to tell you
now."
" Wall, sah," he said, slowly arising to his feet, " it
will hatter go, I reckon. Ain't dar er jug in dat closet.
Bah ? Dat one right dar ? "
" Yes, I think so."
"Wall, would you miud ef I wuz ter tilt it up ez er
sort o' good mawnin' ter dis new-bo'n day, sah ? "
" Help yourself, Amos."
"I thanks you, I does. Ef dar's anythin' dat
smooths out de wrinkles o' er diserp'intment, it's one
deze fine articles o' licker."
He drew out the jug and tilted a long good morning
to the new-born day, and then, slowly wiping his mouth
with the back of his hand, declared that he was
strengthened against the trials of another season of dis-
apjiointment.
He did not again speak of the present until early
Christmas morning. Then he came and tapped on my
bedroom door.
" Mars George, oh. Mars George."
«' Is that you, Amos ? "
" Tas, sah, an' I come ter 'mind you dat Chris'mat
done come." .
« I know that, Amos."
** Tas, sah, I 'lowed you did, but I wus aortor
1S6 ODD FOLKS.
skeered dat ole Satan mout put suthin' in yo' way tei
make you furgit it."
" You haven't known him to put many things in myi
way to make me forget promises, have you? "
" No, sah, but still you kain't nebber tell what Satan
gwine do. De Good Book say he alius pokin' round
seekin' whut he kin 'vower."
" Well, I'll be out pretty soon, and give you the
present."
" All right, sah, but you ain't gwine turn ober an' go
ter sleep ergin, is you ? "
♦'No, I'm getting up now;" and then I heard him
mutter : " thank de Lawd fur dat."
There had been so much speculation among the ne-
groes as to what Amos' present was to be, that I was
greeted by nearly every man, woman and child on the
plantation when I stepped out upon the veranda. I
shall never forget that morning. The sun was rising.
Far in the west the loitering stars were fading one by
one, and above them hung the quartered moon, stripped
of her majesty and |paled by the brightening glory of
the morn. Far down the creek, where the lurking
shadows hid under the bending willow boughs, the
rushing waters played a deep-toned symphony, and in
the woods a t^ired dog, barked unheeded, where he had
" treed " at midnight.
« Amos," I said, aftpping forward.
AN IVOBT SMILE. 12»
•* Tas, Mars George," he answered, bowing.
" I promised you a Christmas present, and in view of
my great attachment, you, with reason, supposed that
it was to be something to be valued far above the ordi-
nary gift."
"Yas, Mars George."
" Amos, I am going to give you something which
many of the world's greatest men have died for, and
for which any great man would shed his blood. Amos,
I give you freedom."
He did not bound into the air, as I had expected ;
he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand^ and
quietly said :
" I 'lowed you gwine gimme dat 'possum dog."
" What 1 You old rascal," I exclaimed, " would you
rather have a dog than your freedom ? "
He looked up and thus replied : " Er ole man kin
hab comfort wid er 'possum dog, sah, but when free-
dom 3omes ter er ole man it makes him feel foolish."
" Amos, you are not so old. I will give you two
hundred dollars, and you can go away and be a free
man. Although I am deeply attached to you, yet I
would not advise you to stay here. Come, and I will
give you the money."
1S8 ODD FOLKS.
CHAPTER II.
Teaks passed, and the war came. I went as a cap-
tain into the Confederate army. I shall say but little
of my military career, for there is but a small part of it
that concerns this narration. While on a raid in Ken-
tucky I was captured. A number of depredations had
been committed upon Union men, and I was charged
with these wanton outrages. I was innocent, but, un-
fortunately, had no proof at my command. I was
court-martialed and sentenced to be shot. My captors
were men who knew me — most of them were my
neighbors, and despised me for not having taken sides
with them.
The night was intensely cold. Under a tree I lay,
bound with a rope. There were no tents ; the com-
mand was under marching orders. There were no
fires ; there was nothing but gloom and a freezing at-
mosphere. One of my guards was a man who owned a
small farm near mine. I had done him favors.
" Mills," said I — he was standing near me — " Mills,
this war business is very serious, isn't it ? "
" It is for traitors," he answered.
» That's all right, Mills 5 but you shouldn't tjpk that
Aif jvosr amtz its
Wfty to me simply because I held an opinion opposite
to your own."
" My opinion is the one held by the State," he re-
plied. " You must remember that Kentucky didn't go
out of the Union. Therefore, you are not only ft
traitor to the general government, but a traitor to your
own commonwealth."
" You look at it that way, and perhaps you are right,
but I was born in Virginia and Virginia has gone out.
I am inclined to believe that we made a mistake. As
for myself, I should hate to see this country dis-
rupted."
" Yes, it seems so," he sarcastically answered. '♦ The
certainty of being shot at daylight has a tendency to
make a man thoughtful at midnight."
" Mills."
" Well ; but don't talk so loud. You are supposed
to keep silent ; but what were you going to say ? "
" I was going to say that I dont want to be shot at
daylight."
"Oh, you were. How did so strange a thought
occur to you ? "
" It occurred to me in a most natural way. Now,
Just change places with me and — "
" No, thank you."
"I mean that you just suppose yourself in my
fix."
130 ODD F0LS8.
" Mj imagination isn't that strong. At school, yott
know, I was always a matter-of-fact sort of fellow.
You were the imaginative boy of the class."
" Yes, and that's one of the reasons why I don't relish
the idea of being shot at daybreak. It strikes me that
if I were in your position and you in mine, I would do
something for you."
" Oh, yes, when a man's fancy is Wrought up, as
yours must be, anything is likely to strike him."
" MUk, don't you remember that if it hadn't been
for my father your brother might have gone to the pen-
itentiary ? "
" Yes ; but what's that got to do with this affair ? "
" I should think that gratitude would arise and an-
swer that question."
" That was very well said, but you must know that
gratitude rarely keeps a man from being shot at sun-
rise. I gad, it rarely keeps him from starving to death.
There is no gratitude, captain."
" There may not be with some people."
"I mean that no man is grateful enough to risk his
life. But before you go any farther, let me say that it
would have been better had that brother of mine gone
to the pen."
"Why?"
" Well, he's in the rebel army."
" Mills," I said, after a few moment's silence, *' if it
^jv irosr SMILE. isi
were not for one thing, to-morrow morning oould not
strike so great a terror to my heart."
"What's that?"
" I am engaged to marry Mary Caldwell."
" Handsome girl, but she'll soon forget you."
" I wish I were untied."
" Yes, I reckon you would like to take to your heels."
" I would run away, but not until I had knocked you
down."
" Good boy ; but I reckon you'd better stop talking
now and go to sleep. You want to be in good, trim,
you know, for the devil's dress parade."
He walked off a short distance and sat down, I im-
agined, for I could not see. I wondered what time it
was, and just then I heard Mills say, in answer to an
inq^uiry, that it must be about four o'clock, I heard
something move on the ground near me, and then there
came a whisper that thrilled my heart :
" Doan say er word. Mars George — I'se yere."
Then I felt myself slowly dragged, and then I was
lifted from the ground and carefully carried away in
the deepened darki^ess of the thick woods.
" Does you know me ? " came another whisper.
" Yes ; God bless you."
" Hush. Let me git you round on my back an* den
we'll be all right."
He seemed to be running, especially after he struok
IM ODD F0LX3.
• path, and shortly afterwards the raking boughs of the
treea assured me that we were again in the thick woods.
•'Put me down and untie me," I whispered.
"Hush."
He hastened along, going faster and faster. H«
crossed a frozen stream and began to climb a hill.
" I can put you down now," he said, after a long
time. He put me down and cut the rope that bound
me. I was so stiff and sore that I could scarcely walk.
The grayish advance of dawn was marching down
the hillside when we halted. Old Amos turned to
me. Again there was the sudden gleam of an ivory
smUe.
"Mars George, I forgibs you, sah, fur not makin'
me er present o' dat 'possum dog. You gib me ez er
Chris'mas present er freedom what de Lawd has per-
mitted me ter enjoy ; and now, sah, on dis Chris'mas
mawnin "
" This is Christmas, Amos ; I had not thought of
it."
"Yas, an' I gives you yo' freedom ez er present.
You'll find er hoss in dat little stable down yander,
sah. Good bye, and may de Lawd bless you."
OLD JOBLEY.
Old Joblbt was always accompanied by a deaf and
dumb boy, his grandson. The only word the boy could
utter and, so far as any one could discover, the only
word he could hear was " Zib." Sometimes, and par-
ticularly at early morning when he felt disposed to be
loquacious, he would run up to the old man and cry
" zib, zib, zib." Then it was known that he was moved
by the cheering influences of the season, or that the
currents of his small and silent life were smooth and
of pleasant gliding.
What a drunkard old man Jobley was ! Yes, so
much of a drunkard that people said that had he not
wasted his life with drink he surely would have gone
to Congress. What a fallacy. A man of an ordinary
mind gets drunk and says foolish things that are sud-
den enough and strange enough to be interesting, and
people say that liquor is at its old trick of blighting a
great intellect. Jobley was a man of pretty fair sense,
it is true, and though he might have gone to Congress
— ^for many shadowy minds have gone thither — yet he
oould not have become a statesman, even though ther«
(133)
1»4 ODD FOLKS.
never had been distilled a drop of anything that would
make a man forget his dignity. But how he did like
to sit around and talk about what he would have been
had he never drunk liquor ; and he always made it out
that he surely would have been rich.
During his whole life he had lived on a hillside
farm, and from what source his riches could have come
no one in the community was sufficiently imaginative
to surmise. The old man was a periodical debaucher,
and whenever he got off a spree he invariably declared
it to be his last.
" I simply won't waste my life in any such a way,"
he would declare. " I do quit for five months at a
time, and a man that can quit that long can quit for-
ever. Just watch me, now ; you just keep your eye on
the old man and he'll show you what firmness is.
Won't he Zib?"
" Zib, zib," the boy would reply.
When the old fellow was getting well after a spree,
the boy always took care of him. The old man's wife
had no patience with such ailments.
" He needn't expect me to wait on him," she would
say. " Heaven knows I was worn out with him years
and years ago. He ruined my life, gracious knows.
It's a good thing that poor little child don't understand
things, but how he can love «n old drunkard is more
than I oaa aee."
OLD JOBLEY. 136
"If you had beeu more patient with him years ago he
might not have been so bad," a privileged neighbo]?
once remarked. " There is such a thing as curing a
man by gentleness. I know that my George used to
get drunk, but I shamed him out of it before it took
much of a hold on him. I didn't scold him — I treated
him so kindly that his conscience kept him sober."
" Oh you needn't talk to me about conscience. A
drunkard hasn't got any."
" After a while may be not, but he has at first. I
know that my George used to suffer awfully in mind,
and when I'd come into the room he'd seem to be afraid
to look at me — afraid I'd scold him— but I wouldn't
let on that I thought he'd done wrong. You ought to
have tried that plan, for I believe that many a man has
been saved that way."
"That's all nonsense. The whippin' post is the
thing."
" Well, I've tried that plan and you haven't, and my
husband is a sober man and yours isn't. That's all
I've got to say. Good day."
Seven months had passed and old Jobley was still
sober. One evening, sitting by the log fire with Zib on
his knee, he spoke of his long period of abstinence.
" It's nothin' to boast about," his wife said, shaking
a cat out of a chair and sitting down. "Seven months
indeed I My father was never drunk in his life^ ttud
IM ODD FOLZa.
here yoo brag because you've been sober seyen
months."
" No, I'm not exactly braggin*, mother, but I'm sorter
cobgratulatia' myself."
"Well, you'd better not holler till you get out of the
woods."
" No use to holler at all then, Martha. But if you
holler before you get out of the woods somebody may
come and help you out. How's that Zib ? "
The boy did not look up aod the old man shouted
"Zib I" and the boy looked up quickly and replied,
"Zib, Zib."
At the breakfast table the next morning the old man
said:
" Martha, me and Zib are goia' out to the post ofBoe
this mornin' for I believe there must be a letter for us.
Heigh?"
"You don't believe nothin' of the sort. You just
want to go there and get drunk ; that's exactly what
you want, or you wouldn't go such a cold, snowy day
as this."
"There you go," the old man replied; "you are the
most suspicious creature I ever saw in my life. Why,
if I was as suspicious as you I wouldn't believe —
wouldn't believe the Bible, even. Let me tell you one
thing right here; there ain't money enough in this
county to put ft drop of liquor in me. Do you under>
OLD JOBLEY. 137
stand ? Not money enough in this whole county. I'm
goin* out there, and if there ain't no letter for me I'm
comin' right straight back. Now mark what I tell you
— aright straight back."
Off they went on the roan mare — ^the gray old man
and the deaf and dumb boy. The day was intensely
cold, with a spiteful spitting of snow. A log fire
crackled in the back room of the general store and
post office, and- a loud company was gathered there.
Old Jobley, with the boy on his knee, sat for a time
listening to the stories he had often heard before.
" Lem," he said, speaking to the postmaster, " it struck
me last night that there must be a letter here for
me.
" Why, who on earth would waste time a writin' to
you?" Pud Perdue cried.
"Never mind about that. Pud," the old man an-
swered. " Bet I get ten letters to your one."
" Bet neither one of you never did get tea letters," a
red-eyed fellow shouted.
" That's neither here nor there," said the old man.
" I 'lowed last night there was a letter here for me, and
I wish you'd see if there is, Lem."
" No use lookin', Jobley, for I know there ain't," Lem
replied,
" "Well, then, I reckon about all I've got to do is to
go home."
138 ODD FOLKS.
"Oh, don't be snatched," said the red-eyed fellow*
" we're goin' to open a kag of nails in a minit."
" You can go home when you can't go nowhere else,"
Lem remarked with a quotation from the time-honored
lore of the backwoods.
" Yes, I guess that's so, but I told the old woman I'd
be right back."
"And of course she knowed you were lyin'," said
Pud.
" Sorter seemed like she did," the old man replied.
*' Say, boys, it has been seven months since I touched
a drop."
" Oh, come now," Lem protested.
" Yes, I'll swear to it. Seven months ; and it strikes
me that a man ought to gather up pretty good control
of himself in that length of time."
" Seems like he ought," said the red-eyed fellow.
" There are times," remarked the old man, " when a
little liquor does a man a heap of good."
" I reckon you're right."
" Say, Lem, draw us off some in that pint cup."
When old Mrs. Jobley, after an anxious night of
waiting, opened the door at early morning, she saw the
roan mare, with snow on her back, standing at the gate.
The neighbors turned out to search the woods, and
OLD JOBLET. 139
at noontime they came upon the old man lying in the
snow; and the boy was crouched down beside him, with
his face hidden in the folds of his grandfather's coat.
They saw at once that the old fellow was dead. A
man touched the little fellow and cried :
"Zib!"
But the child did not look up.
OLD BILLY.
Rain came in dashes. It was like the angry spitting
of a cornered cat. The landscape was dreary; the
farmhouses seemed as blotches of wretchedness^ — the
train roared toward Chicago. There were not many
passengers. Some of them were nodding, others sat in
gloomy resignation, but there were three men who were
inclined to be prankish. These three men. Brooks,
Adams and Cooper, were actually laughing, at one of
the oldest of jokes, doubtless, and a gaunt old fellow,
wise enough to be miserable, was frowning on them in
sour disapproval when the train stopped at a station.
A woman, with a bundle almost as large as a feather
bed, bumped her way off, and a comical-looking old
fellow nodded and " ducked " his way on. What a pe-
culiar old fellow he did appear to be, with his squint-
ing eyes set so close together and with his hook-nose
shaped so much like a scythe. His type is not found
in old countries — quiet self assurance in homespun
clothes exists only in America.
" What have we picked up now ? " said Brooks.
" The governor of the atate, perhaps," Adams an-
(140)
OLD SlLLt. I4i
fiwered, and then added : " Cooper, go and ask that
old fellow to explain himself."
" Well, I don't know that he owes me an explansr
tion," Cooper replied, " but if you say so I'll go and tell
him that you want to see him."
" All right, go and tell him to come down here and
make himself sociable."
Cooper told the old fellow that he was wanted, and
he good humoredly came back and joined the friends.
"You looked lonesome up there," said Brooks, "and
we didn't know but you might be willing to enter into
a sort of reciprocity with us."
" Much obleeged," the old fellow replied, squinting
comically.
" Where are you from ? " Adams asked.
"Wall," he answered, pulling at his thin, streaky
beard, "my home is down yan in Kaintucky, sah.
Come up here in Indiany to see my married daughter
that lives back yander a piece. Hearn her husband
wa'n't treatin' her very well and I 'lowed, I did, that
I'd come up and maul him awhile. I transacted my
business with him and I reckon it's all right now."
" What's your name ?"
« Old Billy."
" Which way are you going now ? " Cooper asked.
" Thiser way," he answered, pointing forward.
•♦ Yes, 8o I see."
142 ODD FOLKS.
" Glad of it, sah, I'm always glad to Tarn that a
person aint blind. I 'lowed I'd go up here to Chicago
and see how all them rascals are gittin' along. Bascals
tickle me might'ly."
" There isn't fun enough in this," Brooks adroitly
whispered, and then said aloud: "Well, Old Billy
you say you live in Kentucky ? "
" Yes, sah, in Allen county."
" Well, then, tell us a story. I have heard that
Allen county is full of yarns."
" I don't know any story. You don't 'kaoyr Ab
Starbuck, do you ? "
" No ; but what about him ? "
"Nothin', only he was about the toughest man in
Kaintucky. And mean ! Thar wa'n't nuthin' too
mean for him to do. One night over on Big Sandy he
rid into a meetin' house durin' a revival and shot out
the lights and left the mourners thar in the dark. Oh,
he was bad, and when he got on the rampage folks had
to git out of his way. When he come to town busi-
ness jest nachuUy suspended. I never shall furgit one
day when he come to Scottville. A good many of the
merchants closed their doors when they heam that he
had come, and men were pretty scarce on the street, I
tell you. Wall, Ab he come a stalkiu' along the side-
walk with a couple of pistols in his belt, and a bowis
knife in his boot leg. Old men got out of his way, and
6LD BILLt. 148
little children got off the sidewalk down in the mud to
let him pass. Wall, jest about the time he was
the worst lookin' — jest atter he had kicked a dog out
into the street, here come an old nigger man, walkin'
along, meetin' him. The nigger didn't git out of the
way — he walked right into Ab Starbuck — bumped
against him. Ab jumped back. He was too much as*
tonished to think about his bowie knife, and he hauled
off with his monstrus fist and hit the nigger in the
mouth. The old man staggered. He wiped his bloody
lips with one hand, and began to feel about at sirm'a
length in front of him with the other ; and then, in a
voice as gentle as a child's, he said :
" ' Boss, you must skuze me, sah; I'se blind.'
"'My God, old man! I didn't know that!'" Ab
cried, and then stood with his hand restin' on the
nigger's shoulder. ' Old man,' he said, ' I wouldn't
hurt you for the world,' and he took out his hanker-
chief and wiped the nigger's lips. ' Old man,' he went
on, • that hat you've got on aint fit to wear. Come in
here,' and he led him into a store that happened not to
be closed up on account of the desperado. ' Here,' he
called, and the storekeeper began to dance around,
'give this old man the best hat you've got in the
house. Wy, your shoes are all worn out, too, old man.
We'll jest get a new pair, that's what we'll do. And
you need a coat too. Oh, we can't afford to go around
144 ODD POL&S.
lookin' shabby. We don't care what it costs. Here,
young fellow, hustle around. Hand us a coat.' He
stood lookin' on with tender eyes. When the nigger
was rigged out, Ab asked :
" ' Whar was you headed for, old gentleman — and
God knows you are a gentleman, I don't care how black
you are.'
" ' I was goin' down to the wagin yard, sah.'
" ' Wall, it's too muddy to walk down thar with them
new shoes on, so I'll jest send you down thar in a hack.
Here, Mister, make out your bill ' ; and when he had
paid what was due the store he put the old man in a
hack and sent him away."
The three friends looked at one another but said
nothing. The train stopped at a station, and a tired-
looking woman, carrying a little girl in her arms, got
on. She took a seat just opposite the three friends and
Old Billy. The little girl began to cry. Brooks
bought her an orange, but she would not take it.
Adams offered her an apple, but she screamed at him.
" Oh, I don't know what to do with her," said the.
woman, sighing. " I don't know what is the matter
with her."
Old Billy looked at the woman and then at the child.
" Your child, madam ? " he asked.
« Yes, sir."
•• Your only child, I reckon."
OLD BILLY. 14B
« Yes, sir."
" The only one you've ever had, I take it."
" Well, yes, sir," she answered, regarding him curi-
ously.
" And ybti were an only child, too, 1 teskon.*'
" I was, sir."
"And you didn't play with children much."
"ifd,Sir."
"1 thought hot.'*
The old man got up, took a little stawl that had
beien thrown on k seat, tt^isted It, tied a knot at one
iend, smoothed the thing into the semblance of a rag
doll, handed it to the little girl and said : " Lote
the doll." The littlo creature seized the rag and
hugged it. She ceased crying in a moment, and in a
Sweet disregard of what was going on about her,
hummed the improvised tiine of tenderness.
" Madam," said the old man, " your little girl simply
wanted somethin* to love and protect."
'' Gentlemen,*' Brooks remarked, arising, " the man
who can thus touch the earliest bud of woman's noble
nature— tbe very germ of the truest of all affection,
motherly love, is my master. He is nr*i Old Billy, Wt,
gentlemen, he is the Hon. William.*'
10
SWINGING IN THE DUSK
The Hatchie river was raging. Far away over the
hills black clouds were hanging, and dogwood trees,
still green of leaf and white of blossom, came down the
tumbling stream. The air was warm and heavy, and
the woodpecker that flew over the bottom field ap-
peared likely to fall ere he could reach the dead tree
that stood at the edge of the clearing. Reports &om
up the river gave exciting accounts of another swell
coming down from the mountains, and in the neighbor-
hood of Hickory Flat there was nothing talked of ex-
cept the disasters of the flood. A yoke of oxen belong-
ing to old Matt Sprague had been dumped out of a lot
by the sudden caving of a bank and whirled away, and
it was excitingly reported that a fine brood mare, the
property of 'Squire Nickelson, had been washed against
a tree and killed. The Hatchie was a treacherous
stream, and the people had been brought up in the be-
lief that it could be guilty of almost any trick known
to the southern tributaries of the Mississippi, but no
ons had been sufficiently schooled to mispect this
MWINQINa m THS DUSK. 147
stream capable of so broad-spread a disaster as was noAT
threatened.
Lit Halpin, a hard-working fellow who had married
one of the Lanier girls, had just completed a one-story
board house in the second bottom of the Hatchie. At
the time of his marriage he was a hired man on a farm ;
and a hired man in that part of the country is scarcely
a Ward McAllister of society. But the knowledge
that there existed a prejudice against him did not seem
to lie with much weight upon the mind of Lit Halpin.
He said that he wasn't much of a society man anyway ;
declared that he didn't care to ride about on Sundays
wearing high-heeled boots that were too small for him
— and this the social life of Hickory Flat imperiously
demanded — he sought simply an opportunity to earn a
living. And he did earn a living. Not only this, he
won the love of the handsomest girl in the community
in an accidental way and married her. He bought a
piece of land in the rich second bottom and had just
put away his tools, after completing his modest house,
when the Hatchie began its threatening rise.
" Allie," he said, speaking to his wife, " I believe
the old Hatch is going to try to gouge us out. Up a
little way from here it is digging pretty sharply into
the bank."
" Oh, I hope not, Lit." She was standing on th^
rennda.
148 6DJD JPOLkS.
" So do I, but that won't keep the water back. If
hope worked half the time there wouldn't be one-third
as much trouble in the world."
" That's true," she admitted ; and after a moment's
silence, she asked :
" Do you think we can do anything?"
"Not thudh." He tUrrted and looked about him.
"AUie," said he, "I'll tell you ^hat we might do.
We might tie the house with a cable rope, so that if
the water doiss cbme we'll bb ahchdred."
" Oh, that would be charming," she cried. " But
will it float ? " she asked, bebbming serious.
" Of course it Will. I'll g6 and get that well rope
and fix the thing tight now."
The rope was found to be Ibttg enough. He at-
tached one end to the strong underpinning of the house,
and the other end he made fast to a large cottonwoOd
tree, leaving a play of about fifty feet. He smiled at
his own ingenuity, and said that if the freakish river
should take a turn in his direetion, it would find him
prepared. Just then a man rode up.
" Lit," he called, " the water is about to sweep old
man Potts from the face of the earth. We must go
down and help him save his cattle. Here, hop up be-
hind me."
This admitted of no protest, nrr cf a moment's qa«s-
SWINGING IN TEE DUSK. 14»
Zoning. Lit jumped upon a stump and sprang upon
the horse.
" AUia," he calledi looking back, " stay in the house
and you'll be all right. There's no danger, auyway,
but stay in the bouse."
The horse galloped away. The woman went about
her work. The clouds over the hills grew darker
but the sun shone on the house, and in the brightness
there was so blithe a promise that the danger would
pass that t]ie wife huipmed a tune as she worked.
Suddenly there came a roar and a jar. She ran out
upon the veranda. The river had cut thrpugh the
field. The house was afloat. The current was swift,
and the rope was taut. There was no way to reach
land, and the woman, feeling that she was safe, sat
down to await the return of her husband. Soine one
called her, and looking up she saw a man stapding near
the tree at the other end of the rope.
" Where's Lit ? " the man asked.
" Gone to help save cattle. And why don't you go
to help, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself,
Tobe."
The man looked about him. " Yes," he said, " but
there are other things in this life that a person might
be ashamed of. I know people that ought to be
ashamed of something worse than not saving cattle*
160 ODD FOLKS.
I know a woman who promised to marry a man and
didn't."
" Go on away, Tobe ; I don't want to have any words
with you.'
" Don't you ? But I reckon you will."
" If Lit were here you wouldn't talk to me that way.
I'm going to tell him when he comes home."
The water was so loud in its roar that she had to lift
her voice.
" Do you reckon ? " he shouted. " When do you ex-
pect to see him again ?"
" He'll be home pretty soon — too soon for your good."
"Do you think so?"
"If I had something to shoot with you shouldn't
stand there and torment me."
"Do you reckon? You ought to have kept your
gun at home instead of letting folks borrow it. Say,
after you fooled me I told you that you'd be sorry,
didn't I'"
« I didn't fool you, Tobe."
" Yes, you did ; you said you'd marry me."
" Well, but I told you shortly afterward that I
couldn't. That wasn't fooling yoti."
" Wasn't it ? I think it was, and I told you that
you'd be sorry. You couldn't keep your word, but I'm
going to show you that I can ke^p mine. The water's
«wift out there, aio't it?"
SWINGING IN TEE DUSK. UX
'♦ What do you mean to do ! " she cried in alarm.
"I'm going to keep my word."
" Tobe, please go on away."
" I will — I'll go one way and you'll go another. The
water's pretty swift out there, ain't it? "
"What are you doing? " she shrieked. "For God's
Bake don't cut that rope, Tobe ! "
The house went whirling down the stream.
CHAPTER II.
Is a remote community, near the line of the Indian
territory, a rude court sat in session. A prisoner, tied
with a rope, sat on a bench. He had come into the
neighborhood six months before, and had killed a man.
Now he was on trial for his life, y The verdict was
brought in, and just then a man strode into the room.
" Judge," he said, " wait a moment. I'm no lawyer
and have no right to talk in court, but I beg you to
listen to me."
" This is a court of justice rather than of law," the
judge answered. "Speak."
The prisoner drew back and tried to hide his face.
"Gentlemen," said the man who had just entered,
" for months I have been looking for the wretch you've
grot tied there. Listen." He told an affecting story of
lae ODD FOLKS.
a home in Tennessee. He told of a flood, and of his
house, tied to a tree. He drew a rude but strong
picture of his wife sitting on the veranda, with the
waters of a mad river roaring about her. " This wretch
came up and stood on the bank, gentlemen," he con
tinned. " He declared that my wife had promised to
marry him. He knew that I was nowhere about the
place — ^he knew that I had gone to help his own father
save his cattle from drowning. Gentlemen, this scoun-
drel cut the rope that held the house, and — I found
her," he added after a pause — " I found her when the
river fell. And now I tell you that this hound does
not belong to your law, but to mine. See here, I have
brought this all the way from Tennessee." He un-
wound a rope from about his body. " I say he is mine.
Judge, did you hear what I said ? "
" Mr. Sheriff," said the judge, " we have made a mis-
take. The prisoner does not belong to us."
Near the place where the court met, a tree leaned
over the road, and when evening was come a man sat
with his back against a stump, watching a human fig-
ure, swinging in the dust.
A MEMOBABLE MEAL.
It was at Iqncheon, q,p4 one of Chicago's largest
iperchants wag in a talkative moocj. "One particular
meal lives in ipy niemory," said he- " It was years ago,
and I had just arrived in Chicago. I had come from
the East, and had ' worked ' xnj way on canal boats
and afterwards hoofed it over the pr9,irie. I had been
led to believe that all one had to do was to come here
and pick up money. I looked about with an eager eye,
but didn't find any. Indeed, I must have struck the
town when its pulse was low for I couldn't get any
work. I had gone two days with nothing to eat.
Something had to be done. I didn't want to steaj. In
fact, nothing was left lying in my way. But I had to
get something to eat, one way or another. I shuddered
at the thought of begging, but I stepped into a store
and hinted that I should like to eat something. A man
looked up from his desk, flashed a measurement over
me, and said : ' Get out, you hulk.' For a short time
anger relieved my hunger, but resentment, while it
may temporarily turn the edge of appetite, can not
shut tl;e knife. I was walking along Lake street when
the richest of perfuiue, the fragrance of a New England
(IM)
l»4x ODD FOLKS.
boiled dinner, came through a doorway. I stepped into-
the place. At that time it was the largest restaurant
in Chicago. A feeling of desperate boldness came over
me, and with a firm step I walked back and took a seat
at a table. My first intention was to give a modest
order, but could modesty serve a thief, and surely I was
a thief, for I had come in to steal my dinner. No, I
would suffer no self-restraint If I had to steal, I
would steal the best. The waiter came and I ordered
nearly everything on the bill of fare. It was an eter-
nity before the order was filled, and when it came 1 was
so nervously eager that I could scarcely eat ; but after
a while I settled down to a sort of physical happiness.
No one noticed that I was eating like a wolf. Sud-
denly a sore dread fell upon me. How was I going to
get out ? I looked toward the door, and for the first
time I noticed that the cashier was a most threatening
and burly-looking fellow. Then I began to speculate
as to the particular method he would choose to rid me
of my life. At last I settled upon the belief that he
would kick me to death. This was suggested, I re-
member, by the fact that just as I sat looking at him he
came out from behind the counter and kicked at a dog.
Yes, my time had come. I had saved myself from
starving merely to die a mere violent death. I philoso-
phized that after all life was not worth living. But I
w(ti young, and it w^s h^rd to die without bi^ving ag-
A UEMOBABLE MEAL. IK
eomplislied anything. I took up the check which the
waiter had placed on the table. Gracious alive, I oWed
$1.40! I thought of my home, away back in the hills
of New England. I thought of my husky father, iand
I wished that I had his strength. There was no use of
putting it off. Better die and get it off my mind. I
took the check, walked up to the cashier's desk, and
with hopelessness settled into a resignation that might
have been taken for the serenest of confidence, I placed
the piece of paper in front of that frowning giant. He
turned it over, looked at it and then looked at me.
»• ♦ Was everything all right ? ' he asked.
" ' Yes, sir.'
"•Well!*
"I looked at him a moment and then said : * I won't
tell a pitiful tale. I was hungry ; I had no money ; I
came in, ordered the best you've got, and now I am at
your service.'
" He opened the showcase. Ah 1 instead of kick-
ing me to death, he was going to shoot me. He reached
in and grabbed up something, and, withdrawing his
hand, said, ' Have a cigar ? *
" That was a long time ago," the merchant continued,
after a pause, " but I think of it nearly every time I
go into a restaurant. What did you say ? Oh, what
became of the burly fellow ? H^ is the mana^r of
9mr wholesale departptentit"
A DEAD MARCH.
/
At night they broqght a man to the hotel. He had
sprung up ^om an opium dream — wild and a maniac.
He had gone to a CJiinese opium den and for hours he
lay in a stupor, but suddenly he awoke with a cry and
he sprang up and shook in a frenzy. Soiqe one said
that he was staying at a hptel in the " down-town "
district, and thither they took him. His eyes looked
like glass marbles with curiously-wrought figufes in
them, but the design of the figures could not be
traced. They took him to a room and compelled him
to lie down. A doctor came and injected morphine
into his- arm. Some one remarked: " I warrant you
he's a handsome fellow when he's at himself."
Three children were playing in the corridor, and a
boy, early in beginning the lordly deception which the
male feels that it is legitimate to practice on the oppo-
site sex, said to a girl: "He is a robber and they
brought him out of a cave where there's ever so much
gold, and they're going to kill him."
At intervals during the night the man slept, but at
times he would spring up and rave like a demon.
A DEAD MARCS. 187
" They are gotie, they are murdered," he kept on re-
peating. " Why didn't they take me. They are mur-
dered."
To a certain class af human beiilgs the following
day will ever be memorable. A procession marched
along the street. The music was a' dead march, but
from further down the line came the strains of Annie
Laurie. There were coflSns with red flags thrown
over thieta. The air was cold and raw, and everywhere
there seemed to be a suppressed excitement — a hushed
yell. On the sidewalks rough men stood, breathing
hard. They were panting for tevenge. A man
stepped from the throng. He unfurled an American
flag, took the lead of the procession and defiantly
marched onward. There was a loud murmur — a growl,
but no one dared molest him.
A party of ladies and gentlemen were asseipbled in
the drawing-room of the hotel to which the opium
maniac had been taken. The procession was passing.
Some one accidentally struck the keys of a piano.
The next moment the maniac rushed into the room.
He had been asleep, and his attendant had left him.
The piano had called him back to wakefulness but not
to reason. His eyes glared. The designs in them
could now have been traced, a man said — coffins with
red rags over them.
"They have tried to keep me from it, bat thejr
158 ODD FOLKS.
can't," he cried. " I was born to play their ♦ funeral
march. ' "
He threw himself at the piano. A storm arose, and
out of the storm came a cry of distress. The storm
deepened and there was a rumble as if a great multi-
tude were threatening vengeance. The company
turned from the windows and gazed in awe at the pian-
ist. There was present a man who was celebrated in
Europe as a musical genius and he was enraptured.
" This is not a man," he cried. " It is a tormented
BOUl."
The procession passed. The strains of "Annie
Laurie " were heard far down the street. The storm
also had passed, and the piano seemed a green bank
where waters rippled. Birds were singing. The
ripple grew fainter — the birds were hushed. Silence.
The man leaned forward. His nurse ran into the room.
The European genius said, " Don't disturb him. He
will play again."
They waited, but he did not move. Yes, he did
move — He leaned back slowly and fell on the floor.
The designs were no longer in his eyes-— they may have
been there, but the lights were turned out behind
them.
His name was never discovered. He had registered
when he came to the hotel, but when the book was ex^
amincd th«r« waa fblMid an onintelligible scratch.
AN IMPERIOUS COURT.
Neolet was riding along a road in a remote and
picturesque part of southern Missouri. The day was
delightful — the weather had crossed the imaginary line
that fancy has drawn between Spring and Summer.
Negley did not belong to any temperance order, or if
he did his adherence to its precepts was not very
strict, for as he rode along there in the sunshine he took
out a whisky bottle, held it up and looked through it.
That hasty survey assured him that there was but one
drink left.
" Well, I might as well take it of^ my mind and put
it where it will do more good or harm," he mused.
"What's this," he added, looking at a line of print
across the label on the flask. " ' Please break this bot-
tle.' Now why should I put myself to that trouble ?
My obligation ended when I paid for the stuff, and
the manufacturer has no more right to make any
further demand. But after all it's a very slight re-
quest. It implies but little exertion on my part." He
drank the whisky and again looked at the request.
This time he noticed it wv printed in red. *'A11
160 ODD FOLKS.
right, gentlemen, I will go you," said he, and rising in
his stirrups he threw the bottle at a rail fence. The
bottle whirled through an opening, made by a crooked
rail, and then there came a loud cry like the howl of a
wild beast. And a man jumped up, looked about
him, sprang over the fence, and, bounding to the mid-
dle of the road, in front of Negley, shook his fist and
exclaimed :
"So I've got you. Oh, attempt to get away and
I'll shoot the top of your head off. Can't lie down to
take a little nap but somebody must come along and
try to kill .me. feut I've got you."
"My dear sir," said Niegley, "1 humbly beg your
pardon. I didn't see yOu until after 1 had thrown that
bottle."
" You didn't, hay ? Haven't you got anything to do
but go about the country throwing bottles? What
did you throw at if yoU didn't throw at me? Oh, I've
wot you ! "
" My dear sir, I thtew at the fence."
"What did yoil want to throw at this febce for?
And do yoti mean t6 tell me that you couldn't hit
that fence ? And say. Why did you t^ant to hit the
fence?"
" I wanted to bteak the bottle."
" What did you want to break the bottle for ? Why
couldn't you have thrown it over there againi*^ th»t
AN IMPEBJOUS COURT. Ifil
rook ? Look here, your aim was to assassinate Qne of
the most prominent citizens of this neighborhood, and
if any law can he squeezed out of the statutes of this
State you shall suffer for it. Turn off yojider at the
right, and ride slowly toward that house across the
creek."
" Look here," Negley protested, " you can't arrest me
without a warrant."
"Can't I? We'll see. Things may be different
where you came from, but in this part of the country
the law doesn't sit cross-legged and see a criminal get
away just because no warrant; has been issued for him.
Bide on, there."
Negley is a peaceable sort of a fellow, and he is also
a man of exquisite ju4gment ; so he rode along. When
be arrived at; the gate in front of the house that had
been pointed out, he was told to dismount. He did
so, and just then a girl, swift of motion and with a
wild tangle of dark hair, came out.
" Hal," said Negley's captor, " here's a fellow that
tried to kill me just now, and I'm going to have him
tried for his life, even if we do have to stretch a point
in law. Here, take this pistol and hold him here until
I come back."
The girl took the pistol and the man disappeared.
" What is he going to do ? " Negley asked.
"He's gone after /the constable and the clerk. Got
u
103 ODD poim
to have '6m or lie can't run the court. He's the
Judge."
" Look here, miss, I didn't hit your father intention-
ally. I simply threw a bottle away to break it and
happened to hit him."
" Was there anything in the bottle ? " she asked.
" No."
" Then no wonder he got mad."
Negley's face brightened. " And won't you please
let me ride on away ? "
" No, I'll have to keep you till pap comes."
" But you could shoot at me and not hit me."
" Oh, hitting you wouldn't make so much difference,
but I might hit the horse, and that would be bad."
She held him there until the old man returned,
and then a formal indictment was issued. The Judge
decided that the case was not bailable, and it was
therefore necessary to keep the prisoner in close con-
finement until the next day, when it was intended that
the trial should begin. So the prisoner was locked in
the smokehouse and a guard was appointed. Negley
sat down on a box of salt pork and cursed the back-
woods institutions of his country. He knew that he
could have the old man arrested and severely dealt
with, but that was small consolation. What he wanted
was to get out of that greasy prison.
AN iMPEsmm oousr. im
"Who's on guaid out there?" he asked, talking
through a crack.
"lam."
" Oh, is, that you, miss ? "
"Yes. Jim, the constable, has gone to get some*
thing to eat and I have to stay until he gets back."
" What time of night is it ? "
" 'Bout ten, I think."
" Look here, if you will let me out I will send you a
■ilk dress."
" I'd like to have one powerful but I have to do my
duty. Here comes Jim."
The next day Negley was arraigned before what pur-
ported to be a solemn court. The old man presided
with severe dignity. He not only pointed out the
crime of striking a man with a bottle, but declared that
added to this crime was the awful offense of contempt
of court, as he himself was the man who had received
the blow. The prisoner urged that out of the tender
obedience of his nature he had simply obeyed a request
pasted on a bottle. But the bottle was produced.
The label was gone — some evil-minded person had re-
moved it. This was a serious complication. "Pris-
oner," said the Judge, " I don't see but one way out of
it. Marry the girl."
" What ! " the prisoner exclaimed.
164 ODJD POLKS.
" Yes, that's the law. You become my son-in-law oi
take the consequences."
This appeared to satisfy the entire court. Th«
prisoner, who had been watching for an opportunity,,
darted through the doorway, tumbled over a fence and
was soon in a woods. He had left a fine horse, but he
had escaped a wife. Several weeks later, while sitting
in a St. Louis hotel, Negley overheard the following
fragment of a conversation: "Yes, I was down in
that country once and was arrested on some fool charg*
-?-don't exactly remember now what it was — and th«
court decided that I should marry a girl. The girl had
nothing to do with, the affair, but that made no difPar-
ence. Well, I seized what I thought to be an accidental
opportunity and ran away, leaving a $250 horse. I
afterward heard that this was the aim of the court. I
hear that other men have been trapped pretty much in
the same way."
ms SPECIAL.
Theeb lived in Chicago, not long ago, an old fellow
whom the newspapet men knew as old Marcus. He
was known in all the newspaper offices ; he haunted
them at most inopportune times when the city editor
was on the stretcher of a threatened " scOop " and when
the night editor was on the frenzied tiptoe of closing'
the "foi?ms.'* Old Marcus always had unimportant
" special " to sell, " just for enough to get along on."
Want had made him weazen ; poverty had skpped him
into servility of manner, but he fesfjifed to write oa
monetary subjects. The anteniise of his mind were
constantly feeling for some financial crisis. He kneVir
' exactly how maty dollars there were in the govern-
ment vaults ; he doUldt tell you hoW many dollars Were
appropriated by the late session of congress, and could
recite, with astonishing glibness, page after page from
the Banker's Montlity. An ordinary event did not in-
terest him. He would not read even the headlines of
a sensational murder, but Would hungrily gulp dowiJ
the details of a bank fstilure. On the night after the
Bladridgs murder hd Went intb the office o:f ft morning
(les)
IM ODD FOLKS.
paper and shrinking his way to the city editor's desk,
said:
" Mr. Lowery, pardon my interruption, but I have a
vei-y strong article here that I wish you'd look at. The
shipment of gold from this country "
The city editor wheeled about and gave him a look
that jolted him. " Great Csesar, Marciis, this is no
time to talk about shipments of gold. We'd have no
room to-night for an account of the discovery of Capt.
Kidd's boodle ; we've got a great murder on hand — a
magnificent murder. Why don't you go to the news
editor with your stuff. It's not in my line anyway."
" He won't talk to me — doesn't seem to know what
he wants. Now, on the sixteenth there was shipped
from New York, $3,562,840, and—"
" That'll do. Gracious alive, how your head must
ache, trying to keep up with all that stuff."
" But it is of extreme importance to the country."
" Of course. Why don't you take it to a financial
paper ? "
" Because a man has to be a banker or the average
financial paper won't pay any attention to him."
" Well, so long, Marcus. I haven't time to talk to
you to-night. Go and find out who killed Bladridgs
and reap the reward of a scoop."
" I am no detective, Mr. Lowery."
" That's all right. So long."
BIS SPECIAL. 1«
" There'll be a time, Mr. Lowery, when you'll be
glad to get the first whack at something I write."
" I Jiope so."
" I'll furnish you an item one of these days that'll
wake you up."
" All right, but put it off as long as you can."
The old man fumbled his way down the stairs and
went to another newspaper office. The city editor was
in a stew and the night editor was boiling. They
snapped at him when he offered his special. He went
away and sought his room up a dark and ill-smelling
alley. The place was miserable. Its atmosphere was
heavy with the steamy stench of a midnight lunch,
served in a neighboring hell-hole. The old man
lighted a lamp and placed it on a goods box which
served as a desk. There was no furniture in the room,
except a stool-bottom chair with the back broken off,
and a few cooking utensils. Newspaper cuttings, con-
taining numerous figures and dollar marks, were tacked
here and there on the wall, as if they were gems in oil,
holding a rich bit of landscape or a handsome face.
Old Marcus pat down with a weary and discour-
aged drop. He sat for a time, seeming to be worn out|
and then, taking up his pen, began to write. Sud-
denly his old and wrinkled face flushed, and his form
rounded out. His hastening pen left an enchanting
track of figures. He mumbled over them and mar
168 ODD FOLKS.
mured, " beautiful," as if he were a poet, astonished at
the wasteful outpour of his own inspiration.
" Seventy-six millions, nine hundred and four thou-
sand, six hundred and fourteen," he muttered. " Beau-
tiful, and yet they won't take it ; but they wiU take
something one of these days. I will thrill them."
CHAPTER II.
One Sunday night Lowery looked up "io find old
Marcus standing near.
" Helloa, Marcus."
" Good evening, Mr. Lowery. Are you pushed for
time?"
" Never pushed much Sunday night ; but say, don't
tell me anything about the financial condition of the
country. I never did have time enough to hear about
that."
" But I have a thing here that would be the very
thing for Monday morning. Now, Wall street — "
"Great Csesar, Marcus, don't begin that. Don't
you get tired ? Say, you ought to go off somewhere
and rest; you caa't steuid the strain much Icmger.
There is nothing that wears harder on the brain than
financleriog, and foxit better look out. Dda't jom
EI8 SPECIAL. 169
know that Gould and all those fellows have been
warned by their physicians, not to keep up the strain
too long ? Look out, Marcus."
" Mr. Lowery," said the old man, and in his voice
there was a tone of sadness, " I am too old and too
feeble to be made fun of this way. I know you don't
mean any harm by it, and for a long time I could stand
it, but I have been so oppressed of late that what was
once a mere reminder that I was carrying something
has become a heavy load. Don't make furi of me."
Lowery had shoved back his chair, and was regard-
ing the old man with an expresaioti of sympathy.
" Marcus, you know that I wouldn't say anything to
hurt your feelings. I am sorry iot you if you are in
distress, and will help you out if I can. Where are
you from, anyway, old man ? "
For the first time he felt a sort of interest itt this
sirange piece of dtiftwood on the riter of life.
" I came from Boston seven years ago. Ah, Lowery,"
he added with a brightening face, " there's the financial
town for you. I used to Write for the weekly iState-
ment, published there, and the editor often said that he
didn't see how he could get along without ffle. Do
yoU remember, about ten years ago, an article givlttg
an exhaustive account of the debt of England— how
she owed more than all the coined money in the would
could piy 1 "
170 ODD FOLKS.
" I read something like that, but I don't know where
I saw it," Lowery answered.
" Well, no matter where you saw it, I wrote it."
" Did the editor of the weekly Statement pay you for
your contributions? "
" Oh, gracious, yes."
" How much ? "
" Oh, he used to pay me a dollar a column. It
wasn't much, I know, but in these days of dry rot and
sensationalism, a man ought to be glad to get the truth
printed at almost any price. That reminds me that I
have an article here that will create a sensation through*
out the country. It involves the sum of forty-eight
millions, five hundred "
" That's enough," Lowery interposed.
" But don't you want the article ? "
" No, I'm afraid it's too sensational."
" Nonsense, Lowery. It would add tone and dignity
to your paper. I was noticing this morning what a lot
of dry stuff you print — ^not one gleam of light except
a few figures telegraphed from Washington."
The city editor made a gesture of impatience. The
igreat financier continued : " Of course, you needn't
take it. I didn't expect you would. You are hired to
get up news for unthinking people, and a piece of real
intelligence is of no use to you. I'll bet that one of
these days I'll write an article that you'll want."
mS SPECIAL. 171
" How many millions will it involve ? "
" Not a blessed cent."
"Ah, you begin to interest me."
" You'll not only be interested, but thrilled when
you see the article."
" When are you going to write it? "
" I don't know exactly, but when you read it you
will be astonished at my power to produce sensational
matter, and the boys in the office will talk about it, and
the whole town will be eager to know more of the
writer."
" All right, bring it up."
"No, I shall not bring it."
"You'll send it in, eh?"
« No, I'll not do that, either."
" Then how am I to get it? "
" If you'll give me a dollar I'll promise to direct it
to you."
"All right, here's your money."
The old man took the dollar and went out. They
heard him fumbling his way down the narrow stairs,
and then one of the men said :
" Didn't know you ever paid in advance, Mr. Low-
ery."
"Poor fbllow," replied the city editor, "he needed
the dollar. I don't think, however, that he'll need
many more."
172 ODD FOLKS.
" I'll bet," said a reporter, " that he'll never furnisk
an item until he's dead."
Some time passed, and old Marcus did not call, but
one night just as some one had mentioned his name,
there came a telephone message announcing that he
was dead. About an hour later a reporter came in,
and handing Lowery a sealed envelope, said : " This
was found on old Marcus' desk addressed to you. The
police don't know whether he died a natural death or
committed suicide. Maybe this will tell."
Lowery tore open the envelope and read the follow*
Mr SENSATIONAL SPECIAL.
" I told you that I would write you a sensational
special. Here it is. I know that I shall not be able
to get out of my room again, as it is about as much as
I can do to sit up, and I must hasten to the fulfillment
of my promise.
•' A number of years ftgo, while I lived in Bostoh, I
did a great deal of writing, as I once told you, for th«
Statement. Once, while in the ofBce, I met a very
pleasant man who had just handed in his views on an
important financial transaction. We talked a while
And I found him to be bright and entertaining. I met
him a number of times and became interested in him.
One d»7 irhil9-w« w«r« talking, my wife, who was dowB
SIB BPEOUl. 178
town shopping, called for me. I introduced him, and
when she and I left the office he accompanied us. We
walked some distance together, and when we parted, I
gave him the number of our house and asked him to
call. He said that he should be pleased to do so, and
he did caU several evenings later and made himself
most agreeable. My wife was a handsome and charm-
ing woman, much younger than I. She was much
taken with the fellow. You can begin to supmise, can't
you? You can, unless you are as stupid as I was.
This man called frequently, and instead of keeping up'
» financial talk with me, talked literature to my wife.
Fool is the practical man who marries a woman of lit-
erary bent. The fellow of gabbling nonsense, of
metrical bluhbers, of the dactylic dripping of mental
foam, can come along and wind a pliant will about his
finger.. Babbled literature has ruined many an honest
plodder's home. Look at the farmer boy. What a
fool he is to marry a girl that loves poetry. Well, one
day when I went home I found that my wife had run
away with that villain. They had gone, I knew not
whither, but I felt within my soul that I should meet
them again and kill them. I could not follow them — I
was too poor. Some time afterwards I learned that
they were in Europe. Then, after a long time, I met a
man who told me that my wife was dead and that the
man was living in Chicago, that he was wealthy and,
IM ODD POLXB,
consequently, esteemed. I came to Chicago almost as
a tramp. The man, I learned, had gone with a party
of capitalists to South America. I resolved to wait for
.him, and I lived on bitter bread and sweet hope. 1
had a long knife, made of a file and finely tempered.
I would kill him with that. Why ? One day my wife
put a ring — his ring — on her finger and couldn't get it
off. ' I will fix it,' he said, and he went to a hardware
store and got a file and filed it off. The operation
must have been painful, done with the clumsy fingers
of love, and the flesh was torn, but she looked up at
him and smiled. It was then that I knew he had won
her heart. Yes, I would kiU him with that knife, but
I pawned it to a saloon man, so reduced was I, and h«
used it to carve beef for the free lunch. One day,
while I was standing in the saloon, in walked my man.
I stepped back and he did not notice me. He yreat up
to the lunch counter and cut off a piece of beef with
my knife — ah, his knife, too — and after taking a drink
went away. I tried to raise money enough to get the
knife — I wrote financial items but could not sell them.
At last I worked for the saloon man ; I cleaned out his
spittoons and got my knife. Then, every night, I
looked for my man. I was cautious, for I didn't want
to be hanged. One night, after writing an article
which I hoped you would accept, I started for your
office. I saw my man. I followed him and I pressed
ma sMotAt. m
tte knife affectionately against me aa I walked along.
My man turned into an alley, evidently to go to a re-
tired saloon, and I hastened after him. He did go into
the saloon and I waited in the alley, not far off. He
came out and approached me. I stood against the wall.
Should I stab him without saying anything ? No. I
wanted to hear him speak. I spoke to him and he
stopped.
" ' Who are you ? ' he asked.
" ' My name is File and Ring,' I said.
"'I never heard of such a fool name.'
" ' Then I will introduce myself,' and I stabbed him.
He made a smothered noise — and was dead. I pulled
my knife out of his breast, wiped it on his beard and
hastened to my miserable room. Ah, there was a great
sensation the next morning. An enterprising citizen
had been murdered, and it was no ordinary murder,
for none of the valuables on his person had been mo-
lested. The next night I took my financial article to
your office and you and your man were talking about
my man, and were wondering if the police would catch
the murderer. I am the man that killed Bladridge.
You will find the knife in my pillow, and if you ques-
tion the truth of my statement, telegraph to R. J. Bis-
comb, 4311 State street, Boston, and ask him what ha
knows about me. He does not know where I am and
probably does not suspect that I committed the mur-
m ODD FQLZS.
der, but will believe what I have written. I have kept
my promise — have written a special that will create a
sensation. And now I am to die here alone. I could
call for help, but need none. Good-bye."
The knife was found in the pillow. A dispatch was
Bent to R. J. Biscomb, and he replied that he was ac-
quainted with the details of the family trouble through
which Marcus had passed, and that the old man had
undoubtedly committed the murder.
AT THE SPBINO.
In every neighbortood throughout the heayily wooded
districts of the South there stands an old log house
slowly settling do'vrn into dec3,y ; and pear it, op the
same hill, is a white board church. The old house was
a place of religious resort years ago, and within its
walls America's most fervid oratory was he^rd. In the
fall of the year, when the fodder had been polled, when
the leaves on the oak trees had caijghj; the fiijst breath
of autumn, the " revival " began g,t Mount Zion. A
strong man from a distance, a gospel Sp,nison, came to
help the young circuit-rider — came to arraign the devil
and to paint sin in most horrible colors. Many a
shoat was slaughtered, and many a pone of corn bread
was baked. Eloquence, zeal, power to convert did not
turn the edge of the preacher's appetite. He was a
worker and he believed in eating; he gloried in hig
physical as well as in his religious strength. Indeed,
his bodily strength stood him well in hand, for he wai
sometimes called upon to fight Satan in more forms
than one. The tough man from over the creek — and
it appeared that the toughest man always lived just
noross the p^ek — ^held preachers in coP^mpt, and WM
18 (177;
178 ODD FOLKS.
opposed to the spread of the gospel; so the circuit*
rider was sometimes forced to get down in the county
road, hitch his horse, and thrash this fellow.
As long as the weather was good, the young men re-
mained outside the meeting house, lolling under the
trees, talking horse, swapping saddles, knives, and
sometimes horses. The old men, the women and the
children sat inside, listening to the preadher. The
preachers inveighed against this neglect on the part of
the young fellows, but it was a custom of the country
and could not be remedied. The church was near a
spring, and the spring was a place of great social resort.
It was here that the young men sat and picked out
their future wives from among the^young women who
dismounted at the horse-block not far away. This is a
fair sample of their talk :
" Zeb, how's your tobacco ? "
" Putty good. Turning out better than I expected."
" Glad to hear it* I didn't 'low you'd have any.
Rid along by your upper patch about a month ago, and
a tobacco worm hopped up on the fence and asked me
for a chaw ; 'lowed he'd dun chawed all yourn up."
This never failed to raise a laugh, even among the
old men who had heard it when they were boys.
Once a "revival" was in progress at Oak Grove in
Sumner county, Tennessee. It had bden a year of
great ain, of backsliding, and the new circiMt-rider was
Jil THE SPBINQ. 179
ambitious to reclaim the swamp lands of the chu^cL
And he had made a very fair start. He had wallowed
old Sandy Balch in the county road, had larrupped one
of the Stallcup boys with an apple tree sprodt, and had
eaten with marked relish a sweet potato pie baked by
the widow Morris. Now all that remained was to per-
suade the backsliders to return, to urge the new crop
of sinners to throw over their evil ways. His only
hope to catch the young men was at night ; during the
day, he must be content with the old men and the
women. He was near the close of his sermon, one day
at noon ; a horse discussion was going on at the spring.
"Now, this horse of mine," said Tom Dabbs, "is one
that you read about."
" Yes," Tobe Brock replied, " but this horse of mine
is one that men preach about."
" 1 never beam nobody preach about him."
"You hain't? Well, you must have paid mighty
little attention to the sermon. Brother Hooker is goia*
to preach about him to-night."
" Yes, that's mighty fine to tell these folks settin'
about here. He's goin' to call up mourners to-night,
an' I know he ain't goin' to talk horse."
" He may call up mourners, but he's goin' to talk
about my horse, all the same." \
" I'll bet you five dollars he don't."
•*I'Te jest got five and I'll take you,"
180 OJ>D FOLZS.
The money was put up ; and as Brock was walking
away from the spring a friend said : " Tobe, you air
nighty foolish to throw away five dollars these hard
iinies."
" Ain't flung away no five dollars."
" Yes, you have, makin' such a bet as that."
"You wait."
The sermon was done and Mr. Hooker was riding to-
ward the place where he wag to eat dinner. Tobe
Brock overtook him.
" Tobe, why don't you come into the fold? "
" I've been layin' off to do so, Brother Hooker, and
I believe I will after a while."
"Why not now, Tobe?"
" Well, I'm breakin' some steers now. Hava to wait
till I git them broke."
" But what difference does that make ? "
"Makes a good deal. No man can break «teers
without cussin'."
" That's all nonsense."
" Yes, it do look that way to a man that ain't breakin'
steers ; but let him try it once, and he'll find that
cussin' is the nachulest thing in the world. But I am
goin' to mend my licks this fall. Say, I've got a little
proposition to make to you. Now this fellow, Tom
Dabbs — ^but wait a minute. I ^ard you say y«»u
wanted to fix up the church."
At THE SPBINO. 181
••Yes, I do."
" That's what I thought, and I 'lowed to give you
five doUats."
"I trish you would. That would make up the
amount."
" I think I can. Now this fellow, Tom Dabbs, thinks
a man ain't got courage to do nothin'. He said that a
preacher is hampered and hilt down more than any-
body. 1 'lowed he wan't — 'lowed that you could say
putty much vlrhat you pleased ; said that you could talk
about a horse while standin' right Up in the pulpit —
Said that you could mention my horse. He offered to
bet five dollars that you wouldn't, jand I tuck him up.
Now wait a Ininute. You mention my horse to-night
in your sermon, and I'll give you five."
" But I won't encourage betting."
"You won't? But you air encouragin' it when yoti
let fellows go on bettin' without gettin' nipped. You
can teach this fellow that it's dangerous to bet, and you
might cure him. He thinks he's got a sure thing, and
you ought to show him that it's mighty risky even to
bet on a certainty, and besides the church will get
fixed up."'
" You've put it on pretty strong ground, Tobe? "
" Yes, and I believe that's your duty both to the
church and to — ^to showin' fellows that they oughtn't to
bet — Well, you know what I'm tryin' to git at."
182 ODD FOLKS.
" Yes, and I will think about it."
That night Tobe leaned forward and listened eagerly
to every word the preacher uttered. And he saw no
place where a mention of his horse might be slipped in.
" The Son of Man came humbly riding on an ass," said
the preacher. " How illustrative of his meekness. He
could have mounted the charger of a Roman centurion.
He could have had the fiery steed from the Arabian des-
ert ; or coming down to a mere homelike illustration,
he could have ridden an animal Such as we see hitched
out yonder under the trees, a horse such as our young
men ride, such as that poor, blinded sinner Tobe Brock
rides. Ah, he is well mounted now on the prancing
steed of pride ; he feels strong ; he thinks that he will
never be compelled to flounder on foot in the mud of
despair. But his time is coming ; and your time is
coming, Tom Dabbs ; and yours, Lit Perdue ; and yours,
Sam Johnson ; and yours. Bob Stoveall ; and yours,
John White — yea, you are all approaching your time."
Before the sermon was over every man whom he
mentioned was at the bench, praying that his sins might
be pardoned ; and when the congregation was dis-
missed, the stake-holder was told to return the money,
that the bet was off.
That was a long time ago. Tobe is the pastor of a
church in West Tennessee, and Tom is a presidit g el-
der in Arkansas.
iioih for Three Hundred Thousand.
At a watering place in Virginia there arrived one
evening a puffy man of middle age, and his daughter,
rather an attractive girl. The old man's entrance into
society was not upon invitation ; it was a break in, as
if a steer had jumped into a forbidden pasture. A
number of gentlemen and ladies were seated near the
end of a shaded veranda, discussing a book that had
achieved an almost instant popularity, when the puffy
newcomer brusquely shoved his way forward, and in a
loud voice blurted out his opinion ;
" I ain't read the book," said he, " but I'll bet that
it don't amount to much. There is more humbuggery
in this here book business than in most any other I
know of. Books'U do putty well for women, but in my
opinion a man is throwing away his time with 'em. I
had a twin brother that took to books along back when
he was a boy, and although he was a bright feller — as
bright as I was — he never amounted to much. I had
to take up a mortgage on his place for him not more'n
six months ago. That's about what I think of books."
He leaned back against the railing of the " banisters "
(183)
184 ODD FOLKS.
and surveyed the party with the satisfaction of a man
who has carried his point and who is thoroughly pre-
pared for any subsequent attack. The ladies, especially
the better-natured ones, smiled; the men, with one ex-
ception, laughed. The exception was a young lawyer
from Nashville. He looked with the inquiry of dis-
approval at the intruder, and then quietly remarked :
" I had thought of writing a book, a charming
romance, but through fear that I might possibly compel
you to take up another mortgage, I will forego the
pleasure."
The interloper, no wise abashed, replied: "It's a
good step you're takin', I reckon, as the writin' of the
book might be more interestin' to you than the readin*
of it would be to anybody else."
" Doubtless," retorted the young lawyer, " you are
right. Some dull plodder might attempt to spell
it out and bruise his alleged mind on unlooked-for,
sharp corners."
" Young feller, what is your name ? " the intruder
asked ; and the young fellow, never afraid to make him-
self known, answered :
" I am George Miles, sir."
" Ah, hah ! George Miles. Where do you live? "
" Nashville, sir."
" Ah, hah ! I know that town putty well. I went
along with the army some little durin' the war.
^02* FOB THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND. 186
and bought up the hides of the cattle that were
killed for the soldiers, and made a pretty good thing
out of it in the Nashville market. I used to know Tin
old soap boiler there named Josh Miles. Any kia to
him?"
The ladies tittered and the .old fellow looked at them
in astonishment) knowing that he had not uttered a
witticism.
"I never heard of your friend Miles," said the
lawyer, " although he might have made a fair article of i
soap."
" Pity for you theili 1 reckoflj as all men were cleaner
for havin' knowed old Josh." The men laughed, the
ladies tittered again, and the old fellow* conscious this
time that he must have said something to the point,
bowed his acknowledgments. Just then his daughter
appeared, standing in a door. " Father," she called,
" I am ready."
" I am ready, too," he answered, and withdrew with
clumsy haste.
That evening, while Miles and several other men sat
under a tree, smoking, the old fellow came out with an
enormous Cigar in his mouth and " squashed " himself
down on a bench.
"Boys," said he, breaking into the conversation,
" I'm gittin' so I ruther like this here one-hoss place.
I did think that it would be a little too much for me to
IM ODD FOLKS.
stay out here, and I wa'n't keen to come nuther, but
Minnie set her heart on it and away we come. My
name is Beck."
No one said anything, and Mr. Beck continued:
" I reckon I've done about as much hus'lin' in my time
as the most of men. I was a pore boy, but instead of
foolin' away my time with books I went to work and
ain't sorry for it. I have noticed, in my knockin'
round, that money is putty nigh the boss. It may not
be happiness in itself, but without it there ain't very
much enjoyment. Larnin' may command the respect
of the few, but money employs the services of the many,
and to challenge the complete respect of men you must
make 'em serve you."
"I don't know but you are right," said one of the
men.
" Of course I'm right, and what is the use of people
shuttin' their eyes against the fact, or ruther pretendin'
that they do ? I know that there's a sort of respecta-
bility, or I mout say aristocracy that money sometimes
ain't got, but just wait awhile and money'U git it all
right."
" What business are you in ? " some one asked,
" Well, I ain't in any business now — have retired,
you might say. I made my money in different sorts of
speculation and have got it well invested. I live in
(reorgia and am putty much at home wheu I'm there, \
NOT FOB TEBEE HUNDRED TSOUSAND. 187
can tell you. My wife has been dead a good while, and
about all I've got to look after is the enjoyment of my
daughter. Her will is law with me and I am straight-
forward enough to say right here, or right anywhere,
for that matter, that the man who wins her love will be
fortunate. There's about two hundred thousand dollars
waitin' for him."
George Miles looked up quickly and, with a sneer,
said: "I wouldn't marry her for three hundred
thousand."
The old man seized his cane, which he had leaned
against the bench and, springing to his feet, glared at
Miles, who, without changing his position, sat placidly
smoking.
" Do you mean to insult me, sir ? " Beck roared.
"Not in the least," Miles answered. "You ex-
pressed your opinion and I merely expressed mine.
You introduced your daughter's name in a way not
only unnecessary to the force of your former state-
ment concerning the power of money, but with a nar-
row-minded vulgarity that was disgusting. If you
want to strike me, do so. I have said nothing in
disparagement of the young lady — I said that I
wouldn't marry her for three hundred thousand, and I
wouldn't; not that she is not worthy of me, but be-
cause our tastes are, doubtless, wholly dissimilar.
Now,, if you want to hit me with that stick, all right."
188 ODD POLKS.
" I -vTon't hit you," Beck replied. " What you wy
may be right from your standp'int, but no matter what
you thought about my daughter you ought to have
kept it to yourself. It looks to me like I would have
studied a long time before I would have made any such
remark — and I would have thought that any true gentle-
man would have done the same. I am a rough-and-
ready sort of a man, and admit that I don't always
do the proper thing, and if my room is worth more
to you than my company, why, I wish yott good-
evenin'."
"Oh,^no," several of the men cried, but he brusquely
hastened away.
" George, you ought not to have said that," a friend
remarked. "You can't blame him for thinking so
much of his daughter, nor for his determination to
give her future husband two hundred thousand dol-
lars."
"My dear fellow," Miles answered, "I don't blame
him for thinking so much of her, and I commend his
determination to reward her future husband, but I do
despise his vulgar show. He is an old bear, and I want
none of him."
" I wouldn't mind marrying the girl," said a young
fellow named Hicks ; " I could put up with the girl's
possible bad taste and with the old man's vulgarity.
Yonder go the old man and the girl. He is looking
NOT FOR THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND. 189
this way, and I warrant he is telling her about you,
George."
" I don't care if he is," Miles replied. " His ill-will
and her prejudice can't hurt me."
CHAPTER II.
Several days later Miles, whose friends had left
the place, was strolling along the mountain's side when
suddenly, upon turning a sharp point of rock that
jutted out over the path, he met Miss Beck. The path
was too narrow to admit of his passing the girl, and he
was about to turn back, when she pleasantly remarked :
" Oh, don't turn back on my account. I will swing
over to one side and let you pass. I shouldn't have far
to fall, you see."
" I'll hang over," said he, bowing.
" Oh, no," she interposed. " I am afraid you might
hurt yourself, and then "
" And then what ? " he asked.
" Nothing, only you might be disfigured if you should
chance to fall, and you might afterward consent to
marry a girl for less than three hundred thousand
dallars."
"Ah, your father repeated my remark," he said,
■lightly colorioip^
190 ODD FOLKS.
" Yes, or I shouldn't have known of it, as I wasn't
eavesdropping." '
He would gladly have tumbled off to let her pass,
but she detained him with ^his remark :
" You place a pretty high estimate upon yourself,
don't you?"
" Yes, rather," he answered, now determined to be
bold.
" It is strange that I never heard of you," she said.
" I was looking over a sort of encyclopedia of great
men just before I came here, and it is singular that
your picture was not in it."
"The compiler of the book called on me," he re-
plied, " but I refused to become the victim of a cheap
print. He wanted my picture, and had intended that
it should fill one page and run over on the second, but
I refused."
"And I suppose," said the girl, "that if he had
thought of putting in your self-importance, he would
have counted on filling the entire book."
" I don't know, but if he had done so, his volume
would have been more respectable."
" Oh, it must be delightful to be so respectable," she
exclaimed, with enthusiasm. " By the way, who was
your father ? "
" His name is Andrew Miles."
"What does he dp?"
NOT FOR THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND, 191
" He is a lawyer."
" Ah ! A strange country this, where the aristocracy
is cpmposed mainly of lawyers. What was your
grandfather, or did you ever hear of him ? "
Miles blushed. He had heard more or less vaguely,
of one of his grandfathers — ^had heard that he was a
oobbler and that he had deserted from the army dur-
ing the war of 1812.
" Oh, don't tax your memory with trying to recall
his name. I am so glad to have met you," she sud-
denly exclaimed. " I like to see gentleness and con-
sideration joined with greatness. Now, sir, if you feel
disposed to scramble down you would oblige me by
doing so."
The season was growing late, and there were but few
visitors remaining. Miles continued to linger, partly
because it made but little difference where he was, and
partly because he didn't want that Miss Beck to think
that she had driven him off. He met her every day,
and spoke, in reply to her, his little piece of sarcasm.
One day while the girl was playing on the piano he
strode into the parlor. She ceased playing upon see-
ing him, and turning, said :
«' I don't object to mild punishment, but I will not
torture you with my music/'
IM ODD FOLKS.
" You are becoming considerate as the days pass by."
" Yes, and I am tired of playing, anyway. Isn't it a
great pity that father isn't worth four hupdred thou-
sand dollars."
"Why so?"
" Because he might then be able to marry me off."
" Possibly. Some men are not very p^fticular."
" And," said she, " I am convinced that the majority
of women are not particular at alj."
The old man appeared in the door. His f^ce was
haggard and a wild look was in his eyes.
" Minnie," he called, " Minnie, come here."
She ran to him and Miles heard him say, "I am
ruined. That iron company is busted up and I am
ruined."
It was rather late at night. The Becks were arrang-
ing their departure. Miles was sitting in the parlor
when Miss Beck entered. Seeing him, she drew baclt
and was about to withdraw, when he bade her stay a
moment.
" You must excuse me," she said. " I do jaot care to
hear any sarcasm to-night; I don't believe I could
stand it. I am very wretched on my father's account.
He has been victimized and is now a pauper."
" And are you not wretched on your own account ? "
he asked.
mr FOB fsME smt)Rt:b fsovsim. i«
"Please don't gibe me now," she pleaded.
He got up and moving slowly toward her, said:
*' I am no better than one of my grandfathers, and he
was shot for desertion. I have been a prig, a brute,
and now I will give you the opportunity to humiliate
me. I love you."
She said nothing — she stood as if stunned, but her
eyes spoke and he put his arms about her.
" It — it will make that poor old man happy again,"
ghe said. " It will make him happy for he knows that
I love you."
U
HER SWEET DREAM.
Many a season had passed since any one had ven-
tured to teach a school in the Black-Haw neighborhood.
The old log house wherein so many droning voices had
in times gone by parsed " Jbhn found his hat in the
road," had begun to squat with the weight of time rest-
ing upon it ; hazel-bushes grew about the doorstep, and
a grape-vine, crawling on the ground, passed a dozen
sassafras saplings to droop over the window. It is said
that Henry Clay once " taught a term " in this house,
but of this there is no direct proof, though it is well
authenticated that Tom Marshall came hither at night
to join in debate with the wiseacres of the community.
After the war the Black-Haw community lost its ambi-
tion ; the old men were cowed, and the young men
went West, and during ten years the schoolhouse was
idle. Then came along a spry young man who said
that he wanted to earn money enough to finish his own
education. He mounted a horse and circulated a paper.
Some families subscribed a scholar, some a half, aqd
some but a third ; but he gathered what might havo
<194)
SEB SWEET DBEAM. 195
been regarded as a fair sprinkling, and opened up his
school. Perhaps his own education was finished,
though of this nothing is known, but it is known that
he did not earn the money in that neighborhood ; for
on the third morning after he took his place beside the
great flagstone hearth, a lout of a youngster clothed in
brown jeans came up and declared that it was all right
to study and make pot-hooks with poke berry ink, but
that the time to treat had come.
" Treat ! " exclaimed the teacher, and his eyes stuck
out. "I haven't enough money to buy a handker-
chief: so don't come to me with a proposition to
treat."
The boy said that he was sorry that the teacher had
no handkerchief; he reckoned that every educated man
ought to have one, but at the same time if education
couldn't furnish a man with a handkerchief, what was
the use of spending half a lifetime in getting an educa-
tion?
The teacher ordered him to sit down. He was rather
a polite boy, and he did not positively refuse, but he
demurred. He said that he wasn't at all tired ; said
that he had been sitting down all day. No, he didn't
want to sit down ; he wanted to eat.
The crossroads grocer, not more than five miles
away, had cove oysters and cheese, and a council of
four had decided that the teacher must trudge over to
196 ODD FOLKS.
the store, accompanied by an escort of honor, and pur-
chase specified material for a small feast. The council
knew that times were hard, and therefore would not
insist that the entire school be invited to the feast;
indeed, the council insisted upon a feast for the
council.
The teacher's smile was yellowish and sickly ; he
said that he appreciated the generosity of the council,
but that modesty compelled him to decline the escort
of honor.
A few more remarks were made, and then an an-
cient dust began to arise from the floor. Along to-
ward noon the young man stepped out of the school-
room, with the back of his coat sliced like a gridiron;
after that, year after year, the old house was empty.
One afternoon, not long ago, a young woman called
at the house of Clab Morris, and said that she had
come to teach school in the old house. The visitor had
just sat down upon a bench which Clab had drawn out
from the wall, and she did not see him when he turned
his face away to laugh ; but she must have heard his
snicker, for she looked at him sharply when he gave her
his attention again. She was young, rather frail and
pretty. She was dressed in bright colors, and looked
like a part of the springtime, just come, and just be«
ginning to green the hillsides.
" Well," said Clab, " I've got no objections."
BER SWEET DBEAM. 197
" I thank you. I was told that you were about the
Jnost influential man in the neighborhood "
" Yes," he broke in ; "I reckon I am. Don't know
Lit Smith, I guess ? "
" No, sir."
" Well, I can fling him down three times outen five,
any day, and a man that can do that has got influencej
I tell you. Still, I ain't proud, and you^neenter hesitate
to talk to me jest as you feel."
She smiled, and replied : "It is rare that one meets
with such modesty."
" Yes, I reckon it is. Folks these days brag a mon-
st'us sight ; but I alius made it a p'int to be modest.
You'll sorter have to excuse things around here ; wife
has gon6 over to one of the neighbor's, and won't
be back for an hour or so; children all growed up
and gone. Now, what is your idee of teachin' of a
school?"
She explained that she would teach good manners,
as well as reading and writing, and he nodded his head
in approval.
" Good manners," he said, " is a mighty fine thing.
Goin' along the road the other day, and one of Phil
Mayhew's boys flung a rock at me, and pecked a hole
in my old mar's head. And I should think that sich a
youngster was somewhat lackin' in good manners,
wouldn't you ? "
198 ODD FOLKS.
She agreed that she thought so, and the affinity thus
established greatly pleased him. He said he would do
all he could to assist her in getting up the school.
" But I don't see why you want to teach school," he
added. " I alius thought women that couldn't git
married was the ones that teached school ; but it
strikes me that you could marry about any man that
might happen to come along. Them eyes of your'n
look like violets a-peepin' outen the snow. Thar, now,
'skuze me ; didn't mean no harm. But I mean it when
I say you could marry >most anybody. Why, my son
Zeb, the boss doctor, would break his neck atter you,
'cause he's a good jedge of fine stock, and I want to
tell you that a hoss has to be monst'us sick to git
away from him. Yes, you'd ketch any man's eye, and
ef I wa'n't married — but I don't want to brag. Now
tell me a leetle somethin' about yourself."
" Must I be perfectly frank with you ? " "
" I don't know what you mean, but I think you
ought to."
" I will. I live quite a distance from here. A
young man and I had a quarrel, and I have come away
to teach school."
" Ah, ha ! and I don't reckon the young man was yo'
brother. That's all right. I've got a good deal of sym-
pathy for folks that have quarrels. Don't say nothiu'
about it, but some time ago wife an' me had a quarrel,
EEB SWEET DREAM. 199
and I'm big enough to say that it was mostly my fault.
I tuck a lot of her carpet-rags to wash off a hoss with,
and she felt insulted, and I did, too, when she did,
and so we had it. Well, I didn't go off to teach school,
but I went out into the woods and swore that I'd
sleep thar behind a log till she 'pologized, and she
'lowed that ef I waited for that I'd lay thar as long
as the log did, and so we had it. I raked up some
leaves and lay down behind the log, and that evenin'
she brought my supper, and I lay thar and eat it, and
wiped my hands on the leaves, and 'lowed that every-
thing was all right. I slept first-rate, and the next
mornin' I went about my business as usual, and the
next night I tuck my place behind the log. About
nine o'clock she come out and asked me ef I had
kiver enough, and I told her that I believed not ; so
she raked up a few more leaves and put 'em on me,
and went on back to the house. Well, I got along all
right till about twelve o'clock, and then come the
coldest rain you ever seed ; and jest about the time I got
soakin' wet it turned off into a freeze, and then I
'lowed that it was about time for me to 'pologize, and I
got outen that pile of leaves and walked home like a
board, and since then I've let her carpet-rags alone, I
tell you. Why, bless my life, and your'n, too, yaoder
ebe comes pow."
Sbe ODD FOLXS.
Again on the playground there were shouts of
laughter and the soft patter of bare feet, and a favor-
ite with everyone was Miss Elmer, the teacher. The
larger boys were at work in the fields, hastening to
plant the crops, and there among the hazel-bushes and
the vines the young woman worked and dreamed.
Nearly every day, at playtime, sitting where the light
was mellow, she would write a letter, but she always
tore it to pieces when " books " were called.
" What makes you write so much and tear it up? " a
little girl asked. " Why don't you come and play with
us?"
And the teacher answered, " I am writing a dream
that came to me and went away again."
" And do you keep on writing it, hoping it will come
back ? " an older girl asked.
But the young woman shook her head, and told
them that they must talk no more about it. But the
next day she would write another letter. Once she
put her writing into an envelope, and gave it to old
Clab to post ; but she ran after him, took it, and tore it
into pieces, red with blushes, as she scattered the frag-
ments in the road.
Clsb's wife knew that a man was at the bottom of
the young woman's trouble.
" My dear," she said one morning, just as Miss El-
mer was getting ready for school, " I wouldn't pester
HER SWEET DREAM. 201
myself with writiu' so much ; it's about a fetch-taked
man, and I know it ; and I want to tell you that there
is hardly one of them that's worth the powder and lead
to kill 'em. They do provoke a body so, a-sp'ilin'
carpet-rags and a-wallerin' behind logs in the pouts ; so
ef I was you I would jest go ahead with my school, and
let him alone, whoever he may be. Here comes Sam
Briley."
Briley was the mental mystery of the neighborhood ;
he was called inoffensive, but Miss Elmer was afraid of
him. Often at night he would come to the house, and
sitting with his eyes fastened on her, would say the
oddest things.
"I'll walk down to the schoolhouse with you," he
said, nodding at old Clab's wife, and then shooting a
gaze at the teacher. .
She was afraid to refuse, so she walked on, saying
nothing. He walked beside her.
"Did you write you' long letter yistidy? " he asked.
" Yes, sir."
"What for?"
" To tear up."
" What you want to write it fur, if you tear it up ? "
" Because I feel like writing it, and then I feel like
tearing it up."
« I don't like it."
"FoM don't lik» It f
202 ODD FOLKS.
" That's what I said."
" What have you to do with it ? "
" A good deal ; don't want you to write to a man."
She looked at him, walking along ; she moved fur-
ther away from him, but he stepped up close beside
her.
" I ain't told you yet," he said, " but I had a dream,
too. Heard you say that you had one. And in my
dream I heard a voice say that you was made for me,
and not for the man that you write letters to."
" Mr. Briley, will you please go away ? "
" Yes, I'll do that ; but you musn't expect me to stay
away. They say that I went crazy on religion, and I
'lowed that they might be right, but now I know they
was wrong. I went crazy about you, years before I
saw you, and my dream tells me that you can bring my
mind back and make me happy. Will you ? "
She looked at him. They were standing still, facing
each other. His face was pale, and his eyes looked like
coals of fire in a bed of ashes. She was frightened.
" Don't try to run away from me," he said ; " I can
run faster than you can, but I won't pass you; I'll
keep up with you, and we'll run on to the end of the
rainbow together. I'll let you go now, but to-night
I'll come to the house and tell you more about my
plans."
He turned away, and she hastened to the sohool. At
SEB SWEET DBEAM. 203
playtime she sat alone, dreaming her dream, but it was
fitful with the image of the crazy man flitting through
it. A little girl came up to her, hanging back, and
stammering.
" What is the trouble, Mollie ? " she asked.
" If I tell you you'll whip me," the child replied.
«No, I won't."
" It was awful bad, but I did it."
"Did what?"
" Sent the pieces of letter. You took the letter from
old Caleb and tore it to pieces and threw the pieces in
the road ; but you didn't tear the envelope very much,
and I took all the pieces and found the name on the
envelope, and put all the pieces in another envelope,
and wrote the name on it, and put it in the post office
because it made me sorry to see you writing all the
time. And now are you going to whip me ? "
The teacher could scarcely speak. " Eun on away,"
she sobbed.
The children were dismissed and in a corner where
the light was soft the teacher sat dreaming. But in
the dream was the image of the insane man, and she
felt that he was at the house, waiting for her. She
dreaded to meet him again. An hour passed but she
did not write — she sat there dreaming. During the
day there had been a hoarse wind in the tree tops ; now
it was a whisper among the bushes. Suddenly jshe was
204 ODD FOLKS.
startled by a footstep at the door. She sprung to her
feet to run away, but a voice commanded her to stay.
The insane man stood at the threshold ; in his hand he
held an enormous bludgeon.
" Stand right where you are," he commanded, ad-
vancing into the room.
She stood there, trembling. He halted in front of
the long writing table and placed his club upon it.
" Don't move," he said. For a time he was silent
and then he continued : " I have had another dream
and this time it was perfectly clear. At first I thought
that to save my life you had to be my wife, but my
dream tells me better."
" Oh, thank you," she cried.
" But hold on. You are not to save me that way,
but you are to save me after all. The blood of the
lamb taketh away the sin of the world. You are the
lamb and I am the world. And your blood must wash
away my sins. You are saved already for you are a
lamb, but I am condemned for I am the world and
therefore full of sin. But even a lamb must pray, and
now " With his finger nail he made a mark in the
soft wood of the table. " And now, when the sun gets
here, you must die."
She was a brave little creature. She did not scream ;
she would argue with hirn. The sun was going fast
and the light had but an inch to move. She looked
BER SWEET DREAM. SOS
at the light— looked at the club which he had taken
up.
" When it reaches this mark there will be two blows,"
he said, " one on the table as the signal and the other
on "
"I understand," she interrupted, "but you must
know that it is not necessary for me to die in order to
save you. I can save you better by living."
" No," he replied, shaking his head, " my dream tells
me not."
" But I have had a dream, and it tells me that I must
live for you, not die for you."
" Your dream is a lie ; mine is the truth."
"But," she persisted, "my dream says that yours ia
a lie. Let us go to the house and compare them."
He shook his head. " No, dreams are nothing when
you begin to compare them."
" Why, they told me that you were a half-wit and
here you are talking wisdom," she cried.
He nodded his head and looked down at the, mark.
" They told you the truth," he said. " But some
times a half-wit is better than a whole wit. Let me
see." He unbuttoned his coat. "I must dye the
bosom of my shirt with your blood — and it will be
beautiful. Don't you wish you could see it ? Oh, you
are a beautiful creature. And ain't it right that you
should pay the penalty for such beauty ? How things
206 ODD FOLKS.
do change. This morning I wanted you for my wife,
but now I want your beautiful blood. Yesterday I
was a fool, spluttering a fool's words, but now I am a
wise man with a strange fire in my breast. And I be-
lieve that when I go out of here with my bosom dyed
with your precious blood " He hesitated, gazing
down upon the table, but the light was gone ; a fleck
of cloud had dimmed the sun. " It will be back in a
moment," he said.
The light came back. It was almost touching the
mark. "Let me pray," she said, sinking upon her
knees as she saw him grasp the club. After all it was
not so hard to die. She had nothing to live for. The ,
madman struck the desk. The next blow — it did not
fall. She waited, praying, afraid to look up. The ter-
rific blow upon the table had deafened her, and she
heard nothing more, no footsteps, no struggle, no fall
upon the floor — nothing. Something touched her hair.
She sprung to her feet and a young man seized her in
his arms.
At the door they halted and looked back. The
madman lay sprawled upon the floor with his arms
spread out. They did not speak, both silently wonder-
ing if he were dead. The madman groaned, and the
young man and the teacher, with a look of relief,
hastened away.
" Your torn letter—**
BEE SWEET DREAM. 207
"The mischief of a blessed, child," she broke in.
" But let us say nothing now."
They passed a log house and. a little girl ran out.
The teacher, with tears in her eyes, tobk the little
thing in her arms and kissed her passionately. " Oh,
you have brought back my sweet dream," she said.
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Neely*s Popular Libfary, Paper, 25c
If ever a book was well named this one
certainly deserves commendation in that line,
for the humor and satire within its covers are as
cutting as the strongest caustic ever applied to
the human skin. Sparkling epigrammatic wit
is a rare quality in these latter days, and Mr.
Robinson undoubtedly possesses this sterling
gift to no mean degree. We commend the book
as one well worthy of perusal and study, for
much philosophy is contained in its burning
satire. In fact there does not appear to be a dull
line between the covers. The talented author
has been successful as journalist, lawyer and
dramatist, and bids fair to carve his name among
the leading satirists of the day. It is not a book
to be read from cover to cover at one sitting;
but like highly spiced food or the condiments
themselves, a small amount taken at a time will
be highly relished. Few persons can dip iijto
these pages without being deeply impressed with
the wide range of subjects treated by the author,
and the masterly, convincing manner in which
he carries out his self-allotted task.
For sale (vsrywkcr*, or asnt post-paid on raoeipt of prioa,
P. TENNYSON NEELY, Publisher,
96 <;^MMi street, London. 114 Fifth Avwrae, New YOfJb
SnOKINQ FLAX.
A Story of Dixie's Latest Problem,
By HALLIB ERMINIE RIVES.
Neely's Prismatic Library. Gilt top, 50 cents.
', Stories of the South, dealing with its familiar types
and lighter scenes, are of ordinary occurrence. Somber
essays, descanting wisely upon its social problems are
not rare. But seldom, indeed, has any writer succeeded
in decking a sectional sermon in the garb of romance or
of tragedy and sketching with the bold crayon of realistic
circumstance, the trenchant lines of a condition against
which theoretic logicians inveigh in vain. In " Smoking
Flax " Miss Rives has done this — her story deals with that
grave question of southern social economy, the lynching.
Miss Rives needs no introduction, since "A Fool in
Spots" arid numerous short stories gained for this beau-
tiful daughter of Dixie a young popularity. She is a
cousin of Amelia Rives, now the Princess Troubepkoi,
and has much of the poetic feeling which distinguished
that vivid authoress. Her present book is a fierce
arraignment of the northern societies which see in Judge
Lynch only the law] ess and unreasoning arbiter of a blind
and passion-led mob. And yet the arraignment is before
no court, and the briefs are all drawn up by the reader.
Upon the stem and rigid warp of brutal and bloody
fact, Miss Rives, with the hand of a practised workman,
nnd with a shuttle wound with the bright hues and
odorous warmths of the south-land has woven a woof of
romance, of woman's tenderest love and man's manliest
devotion. The lights and shades are closely mingled,
and through all the story, from its opening in the calm
of peace and content, to its tragic close in the storm of
death and bitterness and despair, the reader is held in an
interest which grows steadily more real and more en-
thralling.
For sale everywhere, or sent post-paid oa receipt of prioe.
F. TENNYSON NEELY, Publisher,
90 Queen Street, London. 114 Fifth Avenue, New York,
Kerchiefs to Hunt Sotds*
By M. AMELIA FYTCHE.
Neely's Popular Library.
V Paper, 25c.
' Of late years writers have found it necessary
to attract the eye of the passing public toward
their work by giving- it some striking title. Un«
fortunately in many instances these remarkable
names serve only that purpose, and have little or
no application for the story. This can hardly
be said of Miss Fytche's new book, " Kerchiefs
to Hunt Souls." If for no other reason, this
book should certainly arouse considerable curi-
osity on account of the remarkable title, which
the author has, she confesses, dug out of the Bible,
in order to stamp the peculiar features of her
story. It is a book well worth reading, and one
we cordially recommend to all who enjoy a good
story when based upon those great morals that
govern the. world. There is a promise of even
better things to come from this talented writer.
•Kerchiefs to Hunt Souls" has aroused con.
Siderable newspaper controversy from Maine to
California, which fact is in itself enough to stamp
the book one of more than ordinary ability, since
space is too valuable to be wasted on trash in
the estimation of the modern editor.
P«r sale everywhere, or sent post-paid on receipt of prieCk
P. TENNYSON NEELY, Publisher.
f6 Queen Street, London. 114 Filtb Avenue. New Yeslb.
Novels of WilBs Steefl.
In A Mountain of Gold the reader is led throtigh
many strange adventures, whUe a vein of love arouse
the interest of the fair sex. Mr. Steell has shown more
than ordinary power in describing Western scenes. Fof
many years to come the region from the Rockies to th«
Pacific must be the home of romance. The century be
fore us is destined to be marked by stupendous discover*
ies in the treasures of the earth, and stories of mining
must always commend themselves to the eager public.
IsiDRA, The Patriot Daughter of .Mexico.
The land of the Montezumas has always been invested
»ith a halo of romance ever since the days when the
Spanish invader, Cortez, swept over the country with
his conquering army of treasure seekers. This interest,
instead of waning as the years pass by, rather increases.
New knowledge of Mexico but whets our eagerness to
learn more of her strange people, their methods of living,
and the vast treasures that lie sealed under her mountain
ledges. " Isidra " is written by one who is thoroughly
at home in his subject. It is a charming tale of love
and adventure under the Mexican flag, and one cannot
read the romance without learning many iniaeresting
things in connection with our neighbors over tii9 border^
IISIDRA. Paper,, 50 cents.
A MOUNTAIN OF COLD. Paper. 25 e«nts.
Par Mlc everywhMe, or iMit poit-paid en receipt ofprlM.
P. TENNYSON NEELY, Publisher,
f6 QHMn Street, London. 114 Fifth AvcniMt New Y«ilH
MehUn
Pianos
Are creating more favorable comment than any other make
of the present day. They are unexcelled in Tone, Touch and
Durability ; also for Novelty in Design and Beauty of Cases.
Be sure to see the Melilin Piano before purchasing any o ner.
Your inspection is invited at our warerooms, or at any of our
numerous agencies. Sold for cash or on easy payments. Illus-
trated Catalogue and full particulars sent on application to,
Paul Q. Mehlin & Sons
Warerooms, No. 2? Union Square, New York.