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Cobb. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1.25em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + + h1,h3,h4 {text-align: center; clear: both; } + + h2 {text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; + clear: both; } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 12%; margin-right: 12%; } + +div.trans-note {border-style: solid; border-width: 1px; + background-color: #DDE; color: #000; + margin: 3em 15%; padding: 1em; text-align: center;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 1%; font-size: 75%; text-align: right;} + + .blockquot{margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 12%;} + + .bbox {border: dotted 3px; width: 70%; padding: 2%; margin: auto;} + + .totoc {position: absolute; right: 2%; font-size: 75%; text-align: right;} + .totoi {position: relative; left: 2%; font-size: 75%; text-align: right;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .first {font-size: 400%; float: left; padding: 0.1em; + clear: left; line-height: 70%; } + + .g {letter-spacing: .5em;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold; font-size: 85%} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Escape of Mr. Trimm, by Irvin S. Cobb + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Escape of Mr. Trimm + His Plight and other Plights + +Author: Irvin S. Cobb + +Release Date: March 11, 2008 [EBook #24799] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ESCAPE OF MR. TRIMM *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Marcia Brooks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<h1>THE ESCAPE OF MR. TRIMM</h1> + +<a name="frontis" id="frontis"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 368px;"> +<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="368" height="500" alt="frontispiece" title="NOBODY PAID ANY ATTENTION TO MR. TRIMM." /> +<span class="caption">Nobody paid any attention to Mr. Trimm. +—<i>Frontispiece</i> <small>(<i>Page 18</i>)</small></span> +<span class="totoi"><a href="#toi">[To List]</a></span></div> +<br /><br /> +<div class="bbox"> +<h1>THE ESCAPE<br /> +OF MR. TRIMM<br /></h1> +<h2><i>HIS PLIGHT AND OTHER PLIGHTS</i></h2> +<br /> +<h3>BY</h3> +<br /> +<h2>IRVIN S. COBB</h2> +<br /> +<h4>AUTHOR OF<br /> +OLD JUDGE PRIEST,<br /> +BACK HOME, <span class="smcap">Etc.</span><br /></h4> +<br /> +<h3>GROSSET & DUNLAP</h3> +<h4>PUBLISHERS NEW YORK<br /></h4> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<center><span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1910, 1911, 1912 <span class="smcap">and</span> 1913<br /> +<span class="smcap">By The Curtis Publishing Company</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1913<br /> +<span class="smcap">By The Frank A. Munsey Company</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1913<br /> +<span class="smcap">By George H. Doran Company</span><br /></center> + +<div class="trans-note">Transcriber's Note: A List of Illustrations has been added.</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>TO MY WIFE</h2> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><a name="toc" id="toc"></a> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of Contents"> +<tr><td align='left'>CHAPTER</td><td align='left'></td><td align='right'>PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>I.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Escape of Mr. Trimm</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>II.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Belled Buzzard</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>III.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">An Occurrence up a Side Street</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>IV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Another of those Cub Reporter Stories</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>V.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Smoke of Battle</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>VI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Exit of Anne Dugmore</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_179">179</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>VII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">To the Editor of the Sun</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_202">202</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>VIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Fishhead</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>IX.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Guilty as Charged</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_260">260</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<a name="toi" id="toi"></a> +<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of Illustrations" width="80%"> +<tr><td align='left'>Nobody paid any attention to Mr. Trimm.</td><td align='right'><a href="#frontis">Frontispiece</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>“Two long wing feathers drifted slowly down.”</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_70">Facing page 70</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>“I was the one that shot him—with this thing here.”</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_164">Facing Page 164</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>He Dragged The Rifle By The Barrel, So That Its Butt Made A Crooked Furrow In The Snow.</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_192">Facing Page 193</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE ESCAPE OF MR. TRIMM</h2> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> +<h2>I</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<h3><span class="g">THE ESCAPE OF MR. TRIMM</span></h3> + + +<p><span class="first">M</span>r. Trimm, recently president of the +late Thirteenth National Bank, was +taking a trip which was different in +a number of ways from any he had +ever taken. To begin with, he was used to +parlor cars and Pullmans and even luxurious +private cars when he went anywhere; whereas +now he rode with a most mixed company in a +dusty, smelly day coach. In the second place, +his traveling companion was not such a one +as Mr. Trimm would have chosen had the +choice been left to him, being a stupid-looking +German-American with a drooping, yellow +mustache. And in the third place, Mr. +Trimm's plump white hands were folded in +his lap, held in a close and enforced companionship +by a new and shiny pair of Bean's +Latest Model Little Giant handcuffs. Mr. +Trimm was on his way to the Federal penitentiary +to serve twelve years at hard labor for +breaking, one way or another, about all the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> +laws that are presumed to govern national +banks.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>All the time Mr. Trimm was in the Tombs, +fighting for a new trial, a certain question had +lain in his mind unasked and unanswered. +Through the seven months of his stay in the +jail that question had been always at the back +part of his head, ticking away there like a +little watch that never needed winding. A +dozen times a day it would pop into his thoughts +and then go away, only to come back again.</p> + +<p>When Copley was taken to the penitentiary—Copley +being the cashier who got off with +a lighter sentence because the judge and jury +held him to be no more than a blind accomplice +in the wrecking of the Thirteenth National—Mr. +Trimm read closely every line that the +papers carried about Copley's departure. But +none of them had seen fit to give the young +cashier more than a short and colorless paragraph. +For Copley was only a small figure +in the big intrigue that had startled the country; +Copley didn't have the money to hire big lawyers +to carry his appeal to the higher courts +for him; Copley's wife was keeping boarders; +and as for Copley himself, he had been wearing +stripes several months now.</p> + +<p>With Mr. Trimm it had been vastly different. +From the very beginning he had held the public +eye. His bearing in court when the jury came +in with their judgment; his cold defiance when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> +the judge, in pronouncing sentence, mercilessly +arraigned him and the system of finance for +which he stood; the manner of his life in the +Tombs; his spectacular fight to beat the +verdict, had all been worth columns of newspaper +space. If Mr. Trimm had been a popular +poisoner, or a society woman named as co-respondent +in a sensational divorce suit, the +papers could not have been more generous in +their space allotments. And Mr. Trimm in +his cell had read all of it with smiling contempt, +even to the semi-hysterical outpourings +of the lady special writers who called him The +Iron Man of Wall Street and undertook to +analyze his emotions—and missed the mark +by a thousand miles or two.</p> + +<p>Things had been smoothed as much as +possible for him in the Tombs, for money and +the power of it will go far toward ironing out +even the corrugated routine of that big jail. +He had a large cell to himself in the airiest, +brightest corridor. His meals were served by +a caterer from outside. Although he ate them +without knife or fork, he soon learned that a +spoon and the fingers can accomplish a good +deal when backed by a good appetite, and Mr. +Trimm's appetite was uniformly good. The +warden and his underlings had been models +of official kindliness; the newspapers had sent +their brightest young men to interview him +whenever he felt like talking, which wasn't +often; and surely his lawyers had done all in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> +his behalf that money—a great deal of money—could +do. Perhaps it was because of these +things that Mr. Trimm had never been able +to bring himself to realize that he was the +Hobart W. Trimm who had been sentenced to +the Federal prison; it seemed to him, somehow, +that he, personally, was merely a spectator +standing to one side watching the fight of +another man to dodge the penitentiary.</p> + +<p>However, he didn't fail to give the other man +the advantage of every chance that money +would buy. This sense of aloofness to the +whole thing had persisted even when his +personal lawyer came to him one night in the +early fall and told him that the court of last +possible resort had denied the last possible +motion. Mr. Trimm cut the lawyer short +with a shake of his head as the other began +saying something about the chances of a pardon +from the President. Mr. Trimm wasn't in +the habit of letting men deceive him with idle +words. No President would pardon him, and +he knew it.</p> + +<p>“Never mind that, Walling,” he said steadily, +when the lawyer offered to come to see him +again before he started for prison the next +day. “If you'll see that a drawing-room on +the train is reserved for me—for us, I mean—and +all that sort of thing, I'll not detain you +any further. I have a good many things to do +tonight. Good night.”</p> + +<p>“Such a man, such a man,” said Walling to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> +himself as he climbed into his car; “all chilled +steel and brains. And they are going to lock +that brain up for twelve years. It's a crime,” +said Walling, and shook his head. Walling +always said it was a crime when they sent a +client of his to prison. To his credit be it +said, though, they sent very few of them +there. Walling made as high as fifty thousand +a year at criminal law. Some of it was very +criminal law indeed. His specialty was picking +holes in the statutes faster than the legislature +could make them and provide them and +putty them up with amendments. This was +the first case he had lost in a good long time.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>When Jerry, the turnkey, came for him in +the morning Mr. Trimm had made as careful +a toilet as the limited means at his command +permitted, and he had eaten a hearty breakfast +and was ready to go, all but putting on his +hat. Looking the picture of well-groomed, +close-buttoned, iron-gray middle age, Mr. +Trimm followed the turnkey through the long +corridor and down the winding iron stairs to +the warden's office. He gave no heed to the +curious eyes that followed him through the +barred doors of many cells; his feet rang +briskly on the flags.</p> + +<p>The warden, Hallam, was there in the private +office with another man, a tall, raw-boned +man with a drooping, straw-colored mustache +and the unmistakable look about him of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> +police officer. Mr. Trimm knew without being +told that this was the man who would take +him to prison. The stranger was standing at +a desk, signing some papers.</p> + +<p>“Sit down, please, Mr. Trimm,” said the +warden with a nervous cordiality. “Be through +here in just one minute. This is Deputy +Marshal Meyers,” he added.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm started to tell this Mr. Meyers +he was glad to meet him, but caught himself and +merely nodded. The man stared at him with +neither interest nor curiosity in his dull blue +eyes. The warden moved over toward the +door.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Trimm,” he said, clearing his throat, +“I took the liberty of calling a cab to take +you gents up to the Grand Central. It's +out front now. But there's a big crowd of +reporters and photographers and a lot of other +people waiting, and if I was you I'd slip out +the back way—one of my men will open the +yard gate for you—and jump aboard the +subway down at Worth Street. Then you'll +miss those fellows.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Warden—very kind of you,” +said Mr. Trimm in that crisp, businesslike way +of his. He had been crisp and businesslike +all his life. He heard a door opening softly +behind him, and when he turned to look he +saw the warden slipping out, furtively, in +almost an embarrassed fashion.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Meyers, “all ready?”<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Mr. Trimm, and he made as if +to rise.</p> + +<p>“Wait one minute,” said Meyers.</p> + +<p>He half turned his back on Mr. Trimm and +fumbled at the side pocket of his ill-hanging +coat. Something inside of Mr. Trimm gave +the least little jump, and the question that +had ticked away so busily all those months +began to buzz, buzz in his ears; but it was +only a handkerchief the man was getting out. +Doubtless he was going to mop his face.</p> + +<p>He didn't mop his face, though. He unrolled +the handkerchief slowly, as if it contained +something immensely fragile and valuable, and +then, thrusting it back in his pocket, he faced +Mr. Trimm. He was carrying in his hands +a pair of handcuffs that hung open-jawed. +The jaws had little notches in them, like +teeth that could bite. The question that had +ticked in Mr. Trimm's head was answered at +last—in the sight of these steel things with +their notched jaws.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm stood up and, with a movement +as near to hesitation as he had ever been guilty +of in his life, held out his hands, backs upward.</p> + +<p>“I guess you're new at this kind of thing,” +said Meyers, grinning. “This here way—one +at a time.”</p> + +<p>He took hold of Mr. Trimm's right hand, +turned it sideways and settled one of the +steel cuffs over the top of the wrist, flipping +the notched jaw up from beneath and pressing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> +it in so that it locked automatically with +a brisk little click. Slipping the locked cuff +back and forth on Mr. Trimm's lower arm like +a man adjusting a part of machinery, and then +bringing the left hand up to meet the right, he +treated it the same way. Then he stepped +back.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm hadn't meant to protest. The +word came unbidden.</p> + +<p>“This—this isn't necessary, is it?” he +asked in a voice that was husky and didn't +seem to belong to him.</p> + +<p>“Yep,” said Meyers. “Standin' orders is +play no favorites and take no chances. But +you won't find them things uncomfortable. +Lightest pair there was in the office, and I +fixed 'em plenty loose.”</p> + +<p>For half a minute Mr. Trimm stood like a +rooster hypnotized by a chalkmark, his arms +extended, his eyes set on his bonds. His +hands had fallen perhaps four inches apart, +and in the space between his wrists a little +chain was stretched taut. In the mounting +tumult that filled his brain there sprang before +Mr. Trimm's consciousness a phrase he had +heard or read somewhere, the title of a story +or, perhaps, it was a headline—The Grips +of the Law. The Grips of the Law were upon +Mr. Trimm—he felt them now for the first +time in these shiny wristlets and this bit of +chain that bound his wrists and filled his whole +body with a strange, sinking feeling that made<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +him physically sick. A sudden sweat beaded out +on Mr. Trimm's face, turning it slick and wet.</p> + +<p>He had a handkerchief, a fine linen handkerchief +with a hemstitched border and a monogram +on it, in the upper breast pocket of his +buttoned coat. He tried to reach it. His +hands went up, twisting awkwardly like crab +claws. The fingers of both plucked out the +handkerchief. Holding it so, Mr. Trimm +mopped the sweat away. The links of the +handcuffs fell in upon one another and lengthened +out again at each movement, filling the +room with a smart little sound.</p> + +<p>He got the handkerchief stowed away with +the same clumsiness. He raised the manacled +hands to his hat brim, gave it a downward +pull that brought it over his face and then, +letting his short arms slide down upon his +plump stomach, he faced the man who had +put the fetters upon him, squaring his shoulders +back. But it was hard, somehow, for him +to square his shoulders—perhaps because of +his hands being drawn so closely together. +And his eyes would waver and fall upon his +wrists. Mr. Trimm had a feeling that the skin +must be stretched very tight on his jawbones +and his forehead.</p> + +<p>“Isn't there some way to hide these—these +things?”</p> + +<p>He began by blurting and ended by faltering +it. His hands shuffled together, one over, +then under the other.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Here's a way,” said Meyers. “This'll +help.”</p> + +<p>He bestirred himself, folding one of the +chained hands upon the other, tugging at the +white linen cuffs and drawing the coat sleeves +of his prisoner down over the bonds as far as +the chain would let them come.</p> + +<p>“There's the notion,” he said. “Just do +that-a-way and them bracelets won't hardly +show a-tall. Ready? Let's be movin', then.”</p> + +<p>But handcuffs were never meant to be hidden. +Merely a pair of steel rings clamped to one's +wrists and coupled together with a scrap of +chain, but they'll twist your arms and hamper +the movements of your body in a way to constantly +catch the eye of the passer-by. When +a man is coming toward you, you can tell that +he is handcuffed before you see the cuffs.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm was never able to recall afterward +exactly how he got out of the Tombs. +He had a confused memory of a gate that was +swung open by some one whom Mr. Trimm +saw only from the feet to the waist; then he +and his companion were out on Lafayette +Street, speeding south toward the subway +entrance at Worth Street, two blocks below, +with the marshal's hand cupped under Mr. +Trimm's right elbow and Mr. Trimm's plump +legs almost trotting in their haste. For a +moment it looked as if the warden's well-meant +artifice would serve them.</p> + +<p>But New York reporters are up to the tricks<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +of people who want to evade them. At the +sight of them a sentry reporter on the corner +shouted a warning which was instantly caught +up and passed on by another picket stationed +half-way down the block; and around the wall +of the Tombs came pelting a flying mob of +newspaper photographers and reporters, with +a choice rabble behind them. Foot passengers +took up the chase, not knowing what it was +about, but sensing a free show. Truckmen +halted their teams, jumped down from their +wagon seats and joined in. A man-chase is +one of the pleasantest outdoor sports that a +big city like New York can offer its people.</p> + +<p>Fairly running now, the manacled banker +and the deputy marshal shot down the winding +steps into the subway a good ten yards ahead +of the foremost pursuers. But there was one +delay, while Meyers skirmished with his free +hand in his trousers' pocket for a dime for the +tickets, and another before a northbound local +rolled into the station. Shouted at, jeered at, +shoved this way and that, panting in gulping +breaths, for he was stout by nature and staled +by lack of exercise, Mr. Trimm, with Meyers +clutching him by the arm, was fairly shot +aboard one of the cars, at the apex of a human +wedge. The astonished guard sensed the situation +as the scrooging, shoving, noisy wave +rolled across the platform toward the doors +which he had opened and, thrusting the officer +and his prisoner into the narrow platform space<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +behind him, he tried to form with his body a +barrier against those who came jamming in.</p> + +<p>It didn't do any good. He was brushed +away, protesting and blustering. The excitement +spread through the train, and men, and +even women, left their seats, overflowing the +aisles.</p> + +<p>There is no crueler thing than a city crowd, +all eyes and morbid curiosity. But Mr. Trimm +didn't see the staring eyes on that ride to the +Grand Central. What he saw was many shifting +feet and a hedge of legs shutting him in +closely—those and the things on his wrists. +What the eyes of the crowd saw was a small, +stout man who, for all his bulk, seemed to have +dried up inside his clothes so that they bagged +on him some places and bulged others, with +his head tucked on his chest, his hat over his +face and his fingers straining to hold his coat +sleeves down over a pair of steel bracelets.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm gave mental thanks to a Deity +whose existence he thought he had forgotten +when the gate of the train-shed clanged behind +him, shutting out the mob that had come with +them all the way. Cameras had been shoved +in his face like gun muzzles, reporters had +scuttled alongside him, dodging under Meyers' +fending arm to shout questions in his ears. +He had neither spoken nor looked at them. +The sweat still ran down his face, so that when +finally he raised his head in the comparative +quiet of the train-shed his skin was a curious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +gray under the jail paleness like the color of +wet wood ashes.</p> + +<p>“My lawyer promised to arrange for a compartment—for +some private place on the +train,” he said to Meyers. “The conductor +ought to know.”</p> + +<p>They were the first words he had uttered +since he left the Tombs. Meyers spoke to a +jaunty Pullman conductor who stood alongside +the car where they had halted.</p> + +<p>“No such reservation,” said the conductor, +running through his sheaf of slips, with his eyes +shifting from Mr. Trimm's face to Mr. Trimm's +hands and back again, as though he couldn't +decide which was the more interesting part of +him; “must be some mistake. Or else it was +for some other train. Too late to change now—we +pull out in three minutes.”</p> + +<p>“I reckon we better git on the smoker,” +said Meyers, “if there's room there.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm was steered back again the length +of the train through a double row of pop-eyed +porters and staring trainmen. At the steps +where they stopped the instinct to stretch out +one hand and swing himself up by the rail +operated automatically and his wrists got a +nasty twist. Meyers and a brakeman practically +lifted him up the steps and Meyers +headed him into a car that was hazy with blue +tobacco smoke. He was confused in his gait, +almost as if his lower limbs had been fettered, +too.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p> + +<p>The car was full of shirt-sleeved men who +stood up, craning their necks and stumbling +over each other in their desire to see him. +These men came out into the aisle, so that +Meyers had to shove through them.</p> + +<p>“This here'll do as well as any, I guess,” +said Meyers. He drew Mr. Trimm past him +into the seat nearer the window and sat down +alongside him on the side next the aisle, settling +himself on the stuffy plush seat and breathing +deeply, like a man who had got through the +hardest part of a not easy job.</p> + +<p>“Smoke?” he asked.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm shook his head without raising it.</p> + +<p>“Them cuffs feel plenty easy?” was the +deputy's next question. He lifted Mr. Trimm's +hands as casually as if they had been his +hands and not Mr. Trimm's, and looked at +them.</p> + +<p>“Seem to be all right,” he said as he let them +fall back. “Don't pinch none, I reckon?” +There was no answer.</p> + +<p>The deputy tugged a minute at his mustache, +searching his arid mind. An idea came +to him. He drew a newspaper from his pocket, +opened it out flat and spread it over Mr. +Trimm's lap so that it covered the chained +wrists. Almost instantly the train was in +motion, moving through the yards.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>“Be there in two hours more,” volunteered +Meyers. It was late afternoon. They were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> +sliding through woodlands with occasional +openings which showed meadows melting into +wide, flat lands.</p> + +<p>“Want a drink?” said the deputy, next. +“No? Well, I guess I'll have a drop myself. +Travelin' fills a feller's throat full of dust.” +He got up, lurching to the motion of the flying +train, and started forward to the water cooler +behind the car door. He had gone perhaps +two-thirds of the way when Mr. Trimm felt +a queer, grinding sensation beneath his feet; +it was exactly as though the train were trying +to go forward and back at the same time. +Almost slowly, it seemed to him, the forward +end of the car slued out of its straight course, +at the same time tilting up. There was a +grinding, roaring, grating sound, and before +Mr. Trimm's eyes Meyers vanished, tumbling +forward out of sight as the car floor buckled +under his feet. Then, as everything—the +train, the earth, the sky—all fused together +in a great spatter of white and black, Mr. +Trimm, plucked from his seat as though a +giant hand had him by the collar, shot forward +through the air over the seatbacks, his chained +hands aloft, clutching wildly. He rolled out +of a ragged opening where the smoker had +broken in two, flopped gently on the sloping +side of the right-of-way and slid easily to the +bottom, where he lay quiet and still on his +back in a bed of weeds and wild grass, staring +straight up.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> + +<p>How many minutes he lay there Mr. Trimm +didn't know. It may have been the shrieks +of the victims or the glare from the fire that +brought him out of the daze. He wriggled +his body to a sitting posture, got on his feet, +holding his head between his coupled hands, +and gazed full-face into the crowning railroad +horror of the year.</p> + +<p>There were numbers of the passengers who +had escaped serious hurt, but for the most part +these persons seemed to have gone daft from +terror and shock. Some were running aimlessly +up and down and some, a few, were +pecking feebly with improvised tools at the +wreck, an indescribable jumble of ruin, from +which there issued cries of mortal agony, and +from which, at a point where two locomotives +were lying on their sides, jammed together like +fighting bucks that had died with locked horns, +a tall flame already rippled and spread, sending +up a pillar of black smoke that rose straight, +poisoning the clear blue of the sky. Nobody +paid any attention to Mr. Trimm as he stood +swaying upon his feet. There wasn't a scratch +on him. His clothes were hardly rumpled, +his hat was still on his head. He stood a +minute and then, moved by a sudden impulse, +he turned round and went running straight +away from the railroad at the best speed his +pudgy legs could accomplish, with his arms +pumping up and down in front of him +and his fingers interlaced. It was a grotesque<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +gait, almost like a rabbit hopping on its +hindlegs.</p> + +<p>Instantly, almost, the friendly woods growing +down to the edge of the fill swallowed him +up. He dodged and doubled back and forth +among the tree trunks, his small, patent-leathered +feet skipping nimbly over the irregular +turf, until he stopped for lack of wind in +his lungs to carry him another rod. When +he had got his breath back Mr. Trimm leaned +against a tree and bent his head this way and +that, listening. No sound came to his ears +except the sleepy calls of birds. As well as +Mr. Trimm might judge he had come far into +the depths of a considerable woodland. Already +the shadows under the low limbs were growing +thick and confused as the hurried twilight of +early September came on.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm sat down on a natural cushion of +thick green moss between two roots of an oak. +The place was clean and soft and sweet-scented. +For some little time he sat there motionless, +in a sort of mental haze. Then his round body +slowly slid down flat upon the moss, his head +lolled to one side and, the reaction having come, +Mr. Trimm's limbs all relaxed and he went to +sleep straightway.</p> + +<p>After a while, when the woods were black +and still, the half-grown moon came up and, +sifting through a chink in the canopy of leaves +above, shone down full on Mr. Trimm as he +lay snoring gently with his mouth open, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +his hands rising and falling on his breast. The +moonlight struck upon the Little Giant handcuffs, +making them look like quicksilver.</p> + +<p>Toward daylight it turned off sharp and cool. +The dogwoods which had been a solid color at +nightfall now showed pink in one light and +green in another, like changeable silk, as the +first level rays of the sun came up over the +rim of the earth and made long, golden lanes +between the tree trunks. Mr. Trimm opened +his eyes slowly, hardly sensing for the first +moment or two how he came to be lying under +a canopy of leaves, and gaped, seeking to +stretch his arms. At that he remembered +everything; he haunched his shoulders against +the tree roots and wriggled himself up to a +sitting position where he stayed for a while, +letting his mind run over the sequence of +events that had brought him where he was +and taking inventory of the situation.</p> + +<p>Of escape he had no thought. The hue and +cry must be out for him before now; doubtless +men were already searching for him. It would +be better for him to walk in and surrender +than to be taken in the woods like an animal +escaped from a traveling menagerie. But +the mere thought of enduring again what he +had already gone through—the thought of +being tagged by crowds and stared at, with +his fetters on—filled him with a nausea. +Nothing that the Federal penitentiary might +hold in store for him could equal the black,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +blind shamefulness of yesterday; he knew +that. The thought of the new ignominy that +faced him made Mr. Trimm desperate. He +had a desire to burrow into the thicket yonder +and hide his face and his chained hands.</p> + +<p>But perhaps he could get the handcuffs off and +so go to meet his captors in some manner of +dignity. Strange that the idea hadn't occurred +to him before! It seemed to Mr. Trimm that +he desired to get his two hands apart more +than he had ever desired anything in his whole +life before.</p> + +<p>The hands had begun naturally to adjust +themselves to their enforced companionship, +and it wasn't such a very hard matter, though +it cost him some painful wrenches and much +twisting of the fingers, for Mr. Trimm to get +his coat unbuttoned and his eyeglasses in their +small leather case out of his upper waistcoat +pocket. With the glasses on his nose he subjected +his bonds to a critical examination. +Each rounded steel band ran unbroken except +for the smooth, almost jointless hinge and the +small lock which sat perched on the back of the +wrist in a little rounded excrescence like a steel +wart. In the flat center of each lock was a +small keyhole and alongside of it a notched +nub, the nub being sunk in a minute depression. +On the inner side, underneath, the cuffs slid +into themselves—two notches on each showing +where the jaws might be tightened to fit +a smaller hand than his—and right over the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +large blue veins in the middle of the wrists were +swivel links, shackle-bolted to the cuffs and +connected by a flat, slightly larger middle link, +giving the hands a palm-to-palm play of not +more than four or five inches. The cuffs did +not hurt—even after so many hours there +was no actual discomfort from them and the +flesh beneath them was hardly reddened.</p> + +<p>But it didn't take Mr. Trimm long to find +out that they were not to be got off. He +tugged and pulled, trying with his fingers for +a purchase. All he did was to chafe his skin +and make his wrists throb with pain. The +cuffs would go forward just so far, then the +little humps of bone above the hands would +catch and hold them.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm was not a man to waste time in +the pursuit of the obviously hopeless. Presently +he stood up, shook himself and started +off at a fair gait through the woods. The +sun was up now and the turf was all dappled +with lights and shadows, and about him much +small, furtive wild life was stirring. He stepped +along briskly, a strange figure for that green +solitude, with his correct city garb and the +glint of the steel at his sleeve ends.</p> + +<p>Presently he heard the long-drawn, quavering, +banshee wail of a locomotive. The sound +came from almost behind him, in an opposite +direction from where he supposed the track +to be. So he turned around and went back +the other way. He crossed a half-dried-up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +runlet and climbed a small hill, neither of +which he remembered having met in his night +from the wreck, and in a little while he came +out upon the railroad. To the north a little +distance the rails ran round a curve. To the +south, where the diminishing rails running +through the unbroken woodland met in a long, +shiny V, he could see a big smoke smudge +against the horizon. This smoke Mr. Trimm +knew must come from the wreck—which was +still burning, evidently. As nearly as he +could judge he had come out of cover at least +two miles above it. After a moment's consideration +he decided to go south toward the +wreck. Soon he could distinguish small dots +like ants moving in and out about the black +spot, and he knew these dots must be men.</p> + +<p>A whining, whirring sound came along the +rails to him from behind. He faced about +just as a handcar shot out around the curve +from the north, moving with amazing rapidity +under the strokes of four men at the pumps. +Other men, laborers to judge by their blue +overalls, were sitting on the edges of the car +with their feet dangling. For the second time +within twelve hours impulse ruled Mr. Trimm, +who wasn't given to impulses normally. He +made a jump off the right-of-way, and as the +handcar flashed by he watched its flight from +the covert of a weed tangle.</p> + +<p>But even as the handcar was passing him +Mr. Trimm regretted his hastiness. He must<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +surrender himself sooner or later; why not to +these overalled laborers, since it was a thing +that had to be done? He slid out of hiding and +came trotting back to the tracks. Already +the handcar was a hundred yards away, flitting +into distance like some big, wonderfully +fast bug, the figures of the men at the pumps +rising and falling with a walking-beam regularity. +As he stood watching them fade away +and minded to try hailing them, yet still +hesitating against his judgment, Mr. Trimm +saw something white drop from the hands of +one of the blue-clad figures on the handcar, +unfold into a newspaper and come fluttering +back along the tracks toward him. Just as he, +starting doggedly ahead, met it, the little +ground breeze that had carried it along died +out and the paper dropped and flattened right +in front of him. The front page was uppermost +and he knew it must be of that morning's +issue, for across the column tops ran the flaring +headline: “Twenty Dead in Frightful Collision.”</p> + +<p>Squatting on the cindered track, Mr. Trimm +patted the crumpled sheet flat with his hands. +His eyes dropped from the first of the glaring +captions to the second, to the next—and +then his heart gave a great bound inside of him +and, clutching up the newspaper to his breast, +he bounded off the tracks back into another +thicket and huddled there with the paper +spread on the earth in front of him, reading by +gulps while the chain that linked wrist to wrist<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +tinkled to the tremors running through him. +What he had seen first, in staring black-face +type, was his own name leading the list of +known dead, and what he saw now, broken up +into choppy paragraphs and done in the nervous +English of a trained reporter throwing a great +news story together to catch an edition, but +telling a clear enough story nevertheless, was +a narrative in which his name recurred again +and again. The body of the United States +deputy marshal, Meyers, frightfully crushed, +had been taken from the wreckage of the +smoker—so the double-leaded story ran—and +near to Meyers another body, with features +burned beyond recognition, yet still retaining +certain distinguishing marks of measurement +and contour, had been found and identified +as that of Hobart W. Trimm, the convicted +banker. The bodies of these two, with eighteen +other mangled dead, had been removed +to a town called Westfield, from which town +of Westfield the account of the disaster had +been telegraphed to the New York paper. In +another column farther along was more about +Banker Trimm; facts about his soiled, selfish, +greedy, successful life, his great fortune, his +trial, and a statement that, lacking any close +kin to claim his body, his lawyers had been +notified.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm read the account through to +the end, and as he read the sense of dominant, +masterful self-control came back to him in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +waves. He got up, taking the paper with +him, and went back into the deeper woods, +moving warily and watchfully. As he went +his mind, trained to take hold of problems and +wring the essence out of them, was busy. Of +the charred, grisly thing in the improvised +morgue at Westfield, wherever that might be, +Mr. Trimm took no heed nor wasted any pity. +All his life he had used live men to work his +will, with no thought of what might come to +them afterward. The living had served him, +why not the dead?</p> + +<p>He had other things to think of than this +dead proxy of his. He was as good as free! +There would be no hunt for him now; no +alarm out, no posses combing every scrap of +cover for a famous criminal turned fugitive. +He had only to lie quiet a few days, somewhere, +then get in secret touch with Walling. +Walling would do anything for money. And +he had the money—four millions and more, +cannily saved from the crash that had ruined +so many others.</p> + +<p>He would alter his personal appearance, +change his name—he thought of Duvall, +which was his mother's name—and with +Walling's aid he would get out of the country +and into some other country where a man +might live like a prince on four millions or the +fractional part of it. He thought of South +America, of South Africa, of a private yacht +swinging through the little frequented islands<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +of the South Seas. All that the law had tried +to take from him would be given back. Walling +would work out the details of the escape—and +make it safe and sure—trust Walling +for those things. On one side was the prison, +with its promise of twelve grinding years +sliced out of the very heart of his life; on the +other, freedom, ease, security, even power. +Through Mr. Trimm's mind tumbled thoughts +of concessions, enterprises, privileges—the +back corners of the globe were full of possibilities +for the right man. And between this +prospect and Mr. Trimm there stood nothing +in the way, nothing but——</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm's eyes fell upon his bound hands. +Snug-fitting, shiny steel bands irked his wrists. +The Grips of the Law were still upon him.</p> + +<p>But only in a way of speaking. It was preposterous, +unbelievable, altogether out of the +question that a man with four millions salted +down and stored away, a man who all his life +had been used to grappling with the big things +and wrestling them down into submission, a +man whose luck had come to be a byword—and +had not it held good even in this last +emergency?—would be balked by puny scraps +of forged steel and a trumpery lock or two. +Why, these cuffs were no thicker than the gold +bands that Mr. Trimm had seen on the arms +of overdressed women at the opera. The +chain that joined them was no larger and, +probably, no stronger than the chains which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> +Mr. Trimm's chauffeur wrapped around the +tires of the touring car in winter to keep the +wheels from skidding on the slush. There +would be a way, surely, for Mr. Trimm to free +himself from these things. There must be—that +was all there was to it.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm looked himself over. His clothes +were not badly rumpled; his patent-leather +boots were scarcely scratched. Without the +handcuffs he could pass unnoticed anywhere. +By night then he must be free of them and on +his way to some small inland city, to stay +quiet there until the guarded telegram that +he would send in cipher had reached Walling. +There in the woods by himself Mr. Trimm no +longer felt the ignominy of his bonds; he felt +only the temporary embarrassment of them +and the need of added precaution until he +should have mastered them.</p> + +<p>He was once more the unemotional man +of affairs who had stood Wall Street on its +esteemed head and caught the golden streams +that trickled from its pockets. First making +sure that he was in a well-screened covert of +the woods he set about exploring all his pockets. +The coat pockets were comparatively easy, now +that he had got used to using two hands where +one had always served, but it cost him a lot +of twisting of his body and some pain to his +mistreated wrist bones to bring forth the +contents of his trousers' pockets. The chain +kinked time and again as he groped with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> +undermost hand for the openings; his dumpy, +pudgy form writhed grotesquely. But finally +he finished. The search produced four cigars +somewhat crumpled and frayed; some matches +in a gun-metal case, a silver cigar cutter, two +five-dollar bills, a handful of silver chicken +feed, the leather case of the eyeglasses, a couple +of quill toothpicks, a gold watch with a dangling +fob, a notebook and some papers. Mr. +Trimm ranged these things in a neat row upon +a log, like a watchmaker setting out his kit, +and took swift inventory of them. Some he +eliminated from his design, stowing them back +in the pockets easiest to reach. He kept for +present employment the match safe, the cigar +cutter and the watch.</p> + +<p>This place where he had halted would suit +his present purpose well, he decided. It was +where an uprooted tree, fallen across an incurving +bank, made a snug little recess that was +closed in on three sides. Spreading the newspaper +on the turf to save his knees from soiling, +he knelt and set to his task. For the time he +felt neither hunger nor thirst. He had found +out during his earlier experiments that the +nails of his little fingers, which were trimmed +to a point, could invade the keyholes in the +little steel warts on the backs of his wrists and +touch the locks. The mechanism had even +twitched a little bit under the tickle of the +nail ends. So, having already smashed the gun-metal +match safe under his heel, Mr. Trimm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> +selected a slender-pointed bit from among its +fragments and got to work, the left hand drawn +up under the right, the fingers of the right +busy with the lock of the left, the chain +tightening and slackening with subdued clinking +sounds at each movement.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm didn't know much about picking +a lock. He had got his money by a higher form +of burglary that did not require a knowledge +of lock picking. Nor as a boy had he been +one to play at mechanics. He had let other +boys make the toy fluttermills and the wooden +traps and the like, and then he had traded +for them. He was sorry now that he hadn't +given more heed to the mechanical side of +things when he was growing up.</p> + +<p>He worked with a deliberate slowness, +steadily. Nevertheless, it was hot work. The +sun rose over the bank and shone on him +through the limbs of the uprooted tree. His +hat was on the ground alongside of him. The +sweat ran down his face, streaking it and wilting +his collar flat. The scrap of gun metal +kept slipping out of his wet fingers. Down +would go the chained hands to scrabble in the +grass for it, and then the picking would go on +again. This happened a good many times. +Birds, nervous with the spirit that presages +the fall migration, flew back and forth along +the creek, almost grazing Mr. Trimm sometimes. +A rain crow wove a brown thread in +the green warp of the bushes above his head.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +A chattering red squirrel sat up on a tree +limb to scold him. At intervals, distantly, +came the cough of laboring trains, showing +that the track must have been cleared. There +were times when Mr. Trimm thought he felt +the lock giving. These times he would work +harder.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>Late in the afternoon Mr. Trimm lay back +against the bank, panting. His face was +splotched with red, and the little hollows at +the sides of his forehead pulsed rapidly up and +down like the bellies of scared tree frogs. The +bent outer case of the watch littered a bare +patch on the log; its mainspring had gone the +way of the fragments of the gun-metal match +safe which were lying all about, each a worn-down, +twisted wisp of metal. The spring of +the eyeglasses had been confiscated long ago +and the broken crystals powdered the earth +where Mr. Trimm's toes had scraped a smooth +patch. The nails of the two little fingers were +worn to the quick and splintered down into +the raw flesh. There were countless tiny +scratches and mars on the locks of the handcuffs, +and the steel wristbands were dulled with +blood smears and pale-red tarnishes of new +rust; but otherwise they were as stanch and +strong a pair of Bean's Latest Model Little +Giant handcuffs as you'd find in any hardware +store anywhere.</p> + +<p>The devilish, stupid malignity of the damned<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +things! With an acid oath Mr. Trimm raised +his hands and brought them down on the log +violently. There was a double click and the +bonds tightened painfully, pressing the chafed +red skin white. Mr. Trimm snatched up his +hands close to his near-sighted eyes and looked. +One of the little notches on the under side of +each cuff had disappeared. It was as if they +were living things that had turned and bitten +him for the blow he gave them.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>From the time the sun went down there +was a tingle of frost in the air. Mr. Trimm +didn't sleep much. Under the squeeze of the +tightened fetters his wrists throbbed steadily +and racking cramps ran through his arms. +His stomach felt as though it were tied into +knots. The water that he drank from the +branch only made his hunger sickness worse. +His undergarments, that had been wet with +perspiration, clung to him clammily. His +middle-aged, tenderly-cared-for body called +through every pore for clean linen and soap +and water and rest, as his empty insides called +for food.</p> + +<p>After a while he became so chilled that the +demand for warmth conquered his instinct +for caution. He felt about him in the darkness, +gathering scraps of dead wood, and, after breaking +several of the matches that had been in the +gun-metal match safe, he managed to strike +one and with its tiny flame started a fire. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> +huddled almost over the fire, coughing when +the smoke blew into his face and twisting and +pulling at his arms in an effort to get relief +from the everlasting cramps. It seemed to +him that if he could only get an inch or two +more of play for his hands he would be ever +so much more comfortable. But he couldn't, +of course.</p> + +<p>He dozed, finally, sitting crosslegged with +his head sunk between his hunched shoulders. +A pain in a new place woke him. The fire +had burned almost through the thin sole of his +right shoe, and as he scrambled to his feet and +stamped, the clap of the hot leather flat against +his blistered foot almost made him cry out.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>Soon after sunrise a boy came riding a horse +down a faintly traced footpath along the +creek, driving a cow with a bell on her neck +ahead of him. Mr. Trimm's ears caught the +sound of the clanking bell before either the +cow or her herder was in sight, and he limped +away, running, skulking through the thick +cover. A pendent loop of a wild grapevine, +swinging low, caught his hat and flipped it off +his head; but Mr. Trimm, imagining pursuit, +did not stop to pick it up and went on bareheaded +until he had to stop from exhaustion. +He saw some dark-red berries on a shrub upon +which he had trod, and, stooping, he plucked +some of them with his two hands and put +three or four in his mouth experimentally.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +Warned instantly by the acrid, burning taste, +he spat the crushed berries out and went on +doggedly, following, according to his best +judgment, a course parallel to the railroad. +It was characteristic of him, a city-raised man, +that he took no heed of distances nor of the +distinguishing marks of the timber.</p> + +<p>Behind a log at the edge of a small clearing +in the woods he halted some little time, watching +and listening. The clearing had grown +up in sumacs and weeds and small saplings +and it seemed deserted; certainly it was still. +Near the center of it rose the sagging roof of +what had been a shack or a shed of some sort. +Stooping cautiously, to keep his bare head +below the tops of the sumacs, Mr. Trimm +made for the ruined shanty and gained it +safely. In the midst of the rotted, punky +logs that had once formed the walls he began +scraping with his feet. Presently he uncovered +something. It was a broken-off harrow tooth, +scaled like a long, red fish with the crusted rust +of years.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm rested the lower rims of his handcuffs +on the edge of an old, broken watering +trough, worked the pointed end of the rust-crusted +harrow tooth into the flat middle link +of the chain as far as it would go, and then +with one hand on top of the other he pressed +downward with all his might. The pain in his +wrists made him stop this at once. The link +had not sprung or given in the least, but the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +twisting pressure had almost broken his wrist +bones. He let the harrow tooth fall, knowing +that it would never serve as a lever to free him—which, +indeed, he had known all along—and +sat on the side of the trough, rubbing his +wrists and thinking.</p> + +<p>He had another idea. It came into his mind +as a vague suggestion that fire had certain +effects upon certain metals. He kindled a +fire of bits of the rotted wood, and when the +flames ran together and rose slender and straight +in a single red thread he thrust the chain into +it, holding his hands as far apart as possible +in the attitude of a player about to catch a +bounced ball. But immediately the pain of +that grew unendurable too, and he leaped +back, jerking his hands away. He had succeeded +only in blackening the steel and putting +a big water blister on one of his wrists right +where the shackle bolt would press upon it.</p> + +<p>Where he huddled down in the shelter of +one of the fallen walls he noticed, presently, +a strand of rusted fence wire still held to half-tottering +posts by a pair of blackened staples; +it was part of a pen that had been used once +for chickens or swine. Mr. Trimm tried the +wire with his fingers. It was firm and springy. +Rocking and groaning with the pain of it, he +nevertheless began sliding the chain back and +forth, back and forth along the strand of wire.</p> + +<p>Eventually the wire, weakened by age, +snapped in two. A tiny shined spot, hardly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> +deep enough to be called a nick, in its tarnished, +smudged surface was all the mark that +the chain showed.</p> + +<p>Staggering a little and putting his feet +down unsteadily, Mr. Trimm left the clearing, +heading as well as he could tell eastward, away +from the railroad. After a mile or two he came +to a dusty wood road winding downhill.</p> + +<p>To the north of the clearing where Mr. +Trimm had halted were a farm and a group +of farm buildings. To the southward a mile +or so was a cluster of dwellings set in the midst +of more farm lands, with a shop or two and a +small white church with a green spire in the +center. Along a road that ran northward from +the hamlet to the solitary farm a ten-year-old +boy came, carrying a covered tin pail. A +young gray squirrel flirted across the wagon +ruts ahead of him and darted up a chestnut +sapling. The boy put the pail down at the +side of the road and began looking for a stone +to throw at the squirrel.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm slid out from behind a tree. A +hemstitched handkerchief, grimed and stained, +was loosely twisted around his wrists, partly +hiding the handcuffs. He moved along with +a queer, sliding gait, keeping as much of his +body as he could turned from the youngster. +The ears of the little chap caught the faint +scuffle of feet and he spun around on his bare +heel.</p> + +<p>“My boy, would you——” Mr. Trimm began.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> + +<p>The boy's round eyes widened at the apparition +that was sidling toward him in so strange +a fashion, and then, taking fright, he dodged +past Mr. Trimm and ran back the way he had +come, as fast as his slim brown legs could take +him. In half a minute he was out of sight +round a bend.</p> + +<p>Had the boy looked back he would have +seen a still more curious spectacle than the +one that had frightened him. He would have +seen a man worth four million dollars down on +his knees in the yellow dust, pawing with +chained hands at the tight-fitting lid of the +tin pail, and then, when he had got the lid off, +drinking the fresh, warm milk which the pail +held with great, choking gulps, uttering little +mewing, animal sounds as he drank, while +the white, creamy milk ran over his chin and +splashed down his breast in little, spurting +streams.</p> + +<p>But the boy didn't look back. He ran all +the way home and told his mother he had seen +a wild man on the road to the village; and +later, when his father came in from the fields, +he was soundly thrashed for letting the sight +of a tramp make him lose a good tin bucket +and half a gallon of milk worth six cents a +quart.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>The rich, fresh milk put life into Mr. Trimm. +He rested the better for it during the early +part of that night in a haw thicket. Only<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +the sharp, darting pains in his wrists kept rousing +him to temporary wakefulness. In one +of those intervals of waking the plan that had +been sketchily forming in his mind from the +time he had quit the clearing in the woods took +on a definite, fixed shape. But how was he +with safety to get the sort of aid he needed, +and where?</p> + +<p>Canvassing tentative plans in his head, he +dozed off again.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>On a smooth patch of turf behind the blacksmith +shop three yokels were languidly pitching +horseshoes—“quaits” they called them—at +a stake driven in the earth. Just beyond, +the woods shredded out into a long, yellow and +green peninsula which stretched up almost to +the back door of the smithy, so that late of +afternoons the slanting shadows of the near-most +trees fell on its roof of warped shingles. +At the extreme end of this point of woods Mr. +Trimm was squatted behind a big boulder, +squinting warily through a thick-fringed curtain +of ripened goldenrod tops and sumacs, +heavy-headed with their dark-red tapers. He +had been there more than an hour, cautiously +waiting his chance to hail the blacksmith, +whose figure he could make out in the smoky +interior of his shop, passing back and forth in +front of a smudgy forge fire and rattling metal +against metal in intermittent fits of professional +activity.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> + +<p>From where Mr. Trimm watched to where +the horseshoe-pitching game went on was not +more than sixty feet. He could hear what +the players said and even see the little puffs +of dust rise when one of them clapped his +hands together after a pitch. He judged by +the signs of slackening interest that they would +be stopping soon and, he hoped, going clear +away.</p> + +<p>But the smith loafed out of his shop and, +after an exchange of bucolic banter with the +three of them, he took a hand in their game +himself. He wore no coat or waistcoat and, +as he poised a horseshoe for his first cast at +the stake, Mr. Trimm saw, pinned flat against +the broad strap of his suspenders, a shiny, +silvery-looking disk. Having pitched the shoe, +the smith moved over into the shade, so that +he almost touched the clump of undergrowth +that half buried Mr. Trimm's protecting +boulder. The near-sighted eyes of the fugitive +banker could make out then what the flat, +silvery disk was, and Mr. Trimm cowered +low in his covert behind the rock, holding his +hands down between his knees, fearful that a +gleam from his burnished wristlets might strike +through the screen of weed growth and catch +the inquiring eye of the smith. So he stayed, +not daring to move, until a dinner horn sounded +somewhere in the cluster of cottages beyond, +and the smith, closing the doors of his shop, +went away with the three yokels.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then Mr. Trimm, stooping low, stole back +into the deep woods again. In his extremity +he was ready to risk making a bid for the +hire of a blacksmith's aid to rid himself of +his bonds, but not a blacksmith who wore a +deputy sheriff's badge pinned to his suspenders.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>He caught himself scraping his wrists up +and down again against the rough, scrofulous +trunk of a shellbark hickory. The irritation +was comforting to the swollen skin. The +cuffs, which kept catching on the bark and +snagging small fragments of it loose, seemed +to Mr. Trimm to have been a part and parcel +of him for a long time—almost as long a time +as he could remember. But the hands which +they clasped so close seemed like the hands of +somebody else. There was a numbness about +them that made them feel as though they were +a stranger's hands which never had belonged +to him. As he looked at them with a sort of +vague curiosity they seemed to swell and grow, +these two strange, fettered hands, until they +measured yards across, while the steel bands +shrunk to the thinness of piano wire, cutting +deeper and deeper into the flesh. Then the +hands in turn began to shrink down and the +cuffs to grow up into great, thick things as +cumbersome as the couplings of a freight car. +A voice that Mr. Trimm dimly recognized as +his own was saying something about four +million dollars over and over again.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm roused up and shook his head +angrily to clear it. He rubbed his eyes free +of the clouding delusion. It wouldn't do for +him to be getting light-headed.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>On a flat, shelving bluff, forty feet above a +cut through which the railroad ran at a point +about five miles north of where the collision +had occurred, a tramp was busy, just before +sundown, cooking something in an old washboiler +that perched precariously on a fire of +wood coals. This tramp was tall and spindle-legged, +with reddish hair and a pale, beardless, +freckled face with no chin to it and not much +forehead, so that it ran out to a peak like the +profile of some featherless, unpleasant sort of +fowl. The skirts of an old, ragged overcoat +dangled grotesquely about his spare shanks.</p> + +<p>Desperate as his plight had become, Mr. +Trimm felt the old sick shame at the prospect +of exposing himself to this knavish-looking +vagabond whose help he meant to buy with a +bribe. It was the sight of a dainty wisp of +smoke from the wood fire curling upward +through the cloudy, damp air that had brought +him limping cautiously across the right-of-way, +to climb the rocky shelf along the cut; but now +he hesitated, shielded in the shadows twenty +yards away. It was a whiff of something +savory in the washboiler, borne to him on the +still air and almost making him cry out with +eagerness, that drew him forth finally. At<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +the sound of the halting footsteps the tramp +stopped stirring the mess in the washboiler +and glanced up apprehensively. As he took in +the figure of the newcomer his eyes narrowed +and his pasty, nasty face spread in a grin of +comprehension.</p> + +<p>“Well, well, well,” he said, leering offensively, +“welcome to our city, little stranger.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm came nearer, dragging his feet, +for they were almost out of the wrecks of his +patent-leather shoes. His gaze shifted from +the tramp's face to the stuff on the fire, his +nostrils wrinkling. Then slowly: “I'm in +trouble,” he said, and held out his hands.</p> + +<p>“Wot I'd call a mild way o' puttin' it,” +said the tramp coolly. “That purticular kind +o' joolry ain't gen'lly wore for pleasure.”</p> + +<p>His eyes took on a nervous squint and roved +past Mr. Trimm's stooped figure down the +slope of the hillock.</p> + +<p>“Say, pal, how fur ahead are you of yore +keeper?” he demanded, his manner changing.</p> + +<p>“There is no one after me—no one that +I know of,” explained Mr. Trimm. “I am +quite alone—I am certain of it.”</p> + +<p>“Sure there ain't nobody lookin' fur you?” +the other persisted suspiciously.</p> + +<p>“I tell you I am all alone,” protested Mr. +Trimm. “I want your help in getting these—these +things off and sending a message to a +friend. You'll be well paid, very well paid. +I can pay you more money than you ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +had in your life, probably, for your help. +I can promise——”</p> + +<p>He broke off, for the tramp, as if reassured +by his words, had stooped again to his cooking +and was stirring the bubbling contents of the +washboiler with a peeled stick. The smell of +the stew, rising strongly, filled Mr. Trimm with +such a sharp and an aching hunger that he +could not speak for a moment. He mastered +himself, but the effort left him shaking and +gulping.</p> + +<p>“Go on, then, an' tell us somethin' about +yourself,” said the freckled man. “Wot brings +you roamin' round this here railroad cut with +them bracelets on?”</p> + +<p>“I was in the wreck,” obeyed Mr. Trimm. +“The man with me—the officer—was killed. +I wasn't hurt and I got away into these woods. +But they think I'm dead too—my name was +among the list of dead.”</p> + +<p>The other's peaky face lengthened in astonishment.</p> + +<p>“Why, say,” he began, “I read all about +that there wreck—seen the list myself—say, +you can't be Trimm, the New York banker? +Yes, you are! Wot a streak of luck! Lemme +look at you! Trimm, the swell financeer, +sportin' 'round with the darbies on him all +nice an' snug an' reg'lar! Mister Trimm—well, +if this ain't rich!”</p> + +<p>“My name is Trimm,” said the starving +banker miserably. “I've been wandering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +about here a great many hours—several days, +I think it must be—and I need rest and food +very much indeed. I don't—don't feel very +well,” he added, his voice trailing off.</p> + +<p>At this his self-control gave way again and +he began to quake violently as if with an ague. +The smell of the cooking overcame him.</p> + +<p>“You don't look so well an' that's a fact, +Trimm,” sneered the tramp, resuming his +malicious, mocking air. “But set down an' +make yourself at home, an' after a while, when +this is done, we'll have a bite together—you +an' me. It'll be a reg'lar tea party fur jest us +two.”</p> + +<p>He broke off to chuckle. His mirth made +him appear even more repulsive than before.</p> + +<p>“But looky here, you wus sayin' somethin' +about money,” he said suddenly. “Le's take +a look at all this here money.”</p> + +<p>He came over to him and went through Mr. +Trimm's pockets. Mr. Trimm said nothing +and stood quietly, making no resistance. The +tramp finished a workmanlike search of the +banker's pockets. He looked at the result as +it lay in his grimy palm—a moist little wad +of bills and some chicken-feed change—and +spat disgustedly with a nasty oath.</p> + +<p>“Well, Trimm,” he said, “fur a Wall Street +guy seems to me you travel purty light. About +how much did you think you'd get done fur +all this pile of wealth?”</p> + +<p>“You will be well paid,” said Mr. Trimm,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> +arguing hard; “my friend will see to that. +What I want you to do is to take the money +you have there in your hand and buy a cold +chisel or a file—any tools that will cut these +things off me. And then you will send a telegram +to a certain gentleman in New York. +And let me stay with you until we get an +answer—until he comes here. He will pay +you well; I promise it.”</p> + +<p>He halted, his eyes and his mind again on the +bubbling stuff in the rusted washboiler. The +freckled vagrant studied him through his red-lidded +eyes, kicking some loose embers back +into the fire with his toe.</p> + +<p>“I've heard a lot about you one way an' +another, Trimm,” he said. “'Tain't as if you +wuz some pore down-an'-out devil tryin' to +beat the cops out of doin' his bit in stir. You're +the way-up, high-an'-mighty kind of crook. +An' from wot I've read an' heard about you, +you never toted fair with nobody yet. There +wuz that young feller, wot's his name?—the +cashier—him that wuz tried with you. He +went along with you in yore games an' done +yore work fur you an' you let him go over the +road to the same place you're tryin' to dodge +now. Besides,” he added cunningly, “you +come here talkin' mighty big about money, +yet I notice you ain't carryin' much of it in +yore clothes. All I've had to go by is yore +word. An' yore word ain't worth much, by +all accounts.”<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p> + +<p>“I tell you, man, that you'll profit richly,” +burst out Mr. Trimm, the words falling over +each other in his new panic. “You must help +me; I've endured too much—I've gone +through too much to give up now.” He +pleaded fast, his hands shaking in a quiver of +fear and eagerness as he stretched them out +in entreaty and his linked chain shaking with +them. Promises, pledges, commands, orders, +arguments poured from him. His tormentor +checked him with a gesture.</p> + +<p>“You're wot I'd call a bird in the hand,” +he chuckled, hugging his slack frame, “an' +it ain't fur you to be givin' orders—it's fur +me. An', anyway, I guess we ain't a-goin' +to be able to make a trade—leastwise not on +yore terms. But we'll do business all right, all +right—anyhow, I will.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” panted Mr. Trimm, +full of terror. “You'll help me?”</p> + +<p>“I mean this,” said the tramp slowly. He +put his hands under his loose-hanging overcoat +and began to fumble at a leather strap +about his waist. “If I turn you over to the +Government I know wot you'll be worth, +purty near, by guessin' at the reward; an' +besides, it'll maybe help to square me up fur +one or two little matters. If I turn you loose +I ain't got nothin' only your word—an' +I've got an idea how much faith I kin put in +that.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm glanced about him wildly. There<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +was no escape. He was fast in a trap which +he himself had sprung. The thought of being +led to jail, all foul of body and fettered as +he was, by this filthy, smirking wretch made +him crazy. He stumbled backward with some +insane idea of running away.</p> + +<p>“No hurry, no hurry a-tall,” gloated the +tramp, enjoying the torture of this helpless +captive who had walked into his hands. “I +ain't goin' to hurt you none—only make sure +that you don't wander off an' hurt yourself +while I'm gone. Won't do to let you be +damagin' yoreself; you're valuable property. +Trimm, now, I'll tell you wot we'll do! We'll +just back you up agin one of these trees an' +then we'll jest slip this here belt through +yore elbows an' buckle it around behind at +the back; an' I kinder guess you'll stay right +there till I go down yonder to that station +that I passed comin' up here an' see wot kind +of a bargain I kin strike up with the marshal. +Come on, now,” he threatened with a show of +bluster, reading the resolution that was mounting +in Mr. Trimm's face. “Come on peaceable, +if you don't want to git hurt.”</p> + +<p>Of a sudden Mr. Trimm became the primitive +man. He was filled with those elemental +emotions that make a man see in spatters of +crimson. Gathering strength from passion out +of an exhausted frame, he sprang forward at +the tramp. He struck at him with his head, +his shoulders, his knees, his manacled wrists,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +all at once. Not really hurt by the puny +assault, but caught by surprise, the freckled +man staggered back, clawing at the air, tripped +on the washboiler in the fire, and with a yell +vanished below the smooth edge of the cut.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm stole forward and looked over +the bluff. Half-way down the cliff on an outcropping +shelf of rock the man lay, face downward, +motionless. He seemed to have grown +smaller and to have shrunk into his clothes. +One long, thin leg was bent up under the skirts +of the overcoat in a queer, twisted way, and +the cloth of the trouser leg looked flattened +and empty. As Mr. Trimm peered down at +him he saw a red stain spreading on the rock +under the still, silent figure's head.</p> + +<p>Mr. Trimm turned to the washboiler. It +lay on its side, empty, the last of its recent +contents sputtering out into the half-drowned +fire. He stared at this ruin a minute. Then +without another look over the cliff edge he +stumbled slowly down the hill, muttering to +himself as he went. Just as he struck the level +it began to rain, gently at first, then hard, +and despite the shelter of the full-leaved forest +trees, he was soon wet through to his skin +and dripped water as he lurched along without +sense of direction or, indeed, without any +active realization of what he was doing.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>Late that night it was still raining—a cold, +steady, autumnal downpour. A huddled figure<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +slowly climbed upon a low fence running about +the house-yard of the little farm where the boy +lived who got thrashed for losing a milkpail. +On the wet top rail, precariously perching, the +figure slipped and sprawled forward in the +miry yard. It got up, painfully swaying on +its feet. It was Mr. Trimm, looking for food. +He moved slowly toward the house, tottering +with weakness and because of the slick mud +underfoot; peering near-sightedly this way and +that through the murk; starting at every sound +and stopping often to listen.</p> + +<p>The outlines of a lean-to kitchen at the back +of the house were looming dead ahead of him +when from the corner of the cottage sprang a +small terrier. It made for Mr. Trimm, barking +shrilly. He retreated backward, kicking +at the little dog and, to hold his balance, striking +out with short, dabby jerks of his fettered +hands—they were such motions as the terrier +itself might make trying to walk on its hindlegs. +Still backing away, expecting every +instant to feel the terrier's teeth in his flesh, +Mr. Trimm put one foot into a hotbed with +a great clatter of the breaking glass. He felt +the sharp ends of shattered glass tearing and +cutting his shin as he jerked free. Recovering +himself, he dealt the terrier a lucky +kick under the throat that sent it back, yowling, +to where it had come from, and then, as +a door jerked open and a half-dressed man +jumped out into the darkness, Mr. Trimm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +half hobbled, half fell out of sight behind the +woodpile.</p> + +<p>Back and forth along the lower edge of his +yard the farmer hunted, with the whimpering, +cowed terrier to guide him, poking in dark +corners with the muzzle of his shotgun for the +unseen intruder whose coming had aroused +the household. In a brushpile just over the +fence to the east Mr. Trimm lay on his face +upon the wet earth, with the rain beating down +on him, sobbing with choking gulps that +wrenched him cruelly, biting at the bonds on +his wrists until the sound of breaking teeth +gritted in the air. Finally, in the hopeless, +helpless frenzy of his agony he beat his arms up +and down until the bracelets struck squarely +on a flat stone and the force of the blow sent +the cuffs home to the last notch so that they +pressed harder and faster than ever upon the +tortured wrist bones.</p> + +<p>When he had wasted ten or fifteen minutes +in a vain search the farmer went shivering back +indoors to dry out his wet shirt. But the +groveling figure in the brushpile lay for a long +time where it was, only stirring a little while +the rain dripped steadily down on everything.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>The wreck was on a Tuesday evening. Early +on the Saturday morning following the chief +of police, who was likewise the whole of the day +police force in the town of Westfield, nine miles +from the place where the collision occurred,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> +heard a peculiar, strangely weak knocking at +the front door of his cottage, where he also had +his office. The door was a Dutch door, sawed +through the middle, so that the top half might +be opened independently, leaving the lower +panel fast. He swung this top half back.</p> + +<p>A face was framed in the opening—an +indescribably dirty, unutterably weary face, +with matted white hair and a rime of whitish +beard stubble on the jaws. It was fallen in +and sunken and it drooped on the chest of its +owner. The mouth, swollen and pulpy, as if +from repeated hard blows, hung agape, and +between the purplish parted lips showed the +stumps of broken teeth. The eyes blinked +weakly at the chief from under lids as colorless +as the eyelids of a corpse. The bare white +head was filthy with plastered mud and twigs, +and dripping wet.</p> + +<p>“Hello, there!” said the chief, startled at +this apparition. “What do you want?”</p> + +<p>With a movement that told of straining +effort the lolled head came up off the chest. +The thin, corded neck stiffened back, rising +from a dirty, collarless neckband. The Adam's +apple bulged out prominently, as big as a +pigeon's egg.</p> + +<p>“I have come,” said the specter in a wheezing +rasp of a voice which the chief could hardly +hear—“I have come to surrender myself. I +am Hobart W. Trimm.”</p> + +<p>“I guess you got another thing comin',”<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +said the chief, who was by way of being a +neighborhood wag. “When last seen Hobart +W. Trimm was only fifty-two years old. Besides +which, he's dead and buried. I guess +maybe you'd better think agin, grandpap, and +see if you ain't Methus'lah or the Wanderin' +Jew.”</p> + +<p>“I am Hobart W. Trimm, the banker,” +whispered the stranger with a sort of wan +stubbornness.</p> + +<p>“Go on and prove it,” suggested the chief, +more than willing to prolong the enjoyment of +the sensation. It wasn't often in Westfield +that wandering lunatics came a-calling.</p> + +<p>“Got any way to prove it?” he repeated as +the visitor stared at him.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” came the creaking, rusted hinge of +a voice, “I have.”</p> + +<p>Slowly, with struggling attempts, he raised +his hands into the chief's sight. They were +horribly swollen hands, red with the dried blood +where they were not black with the dried dirt; +the fingers puffed up out of shape; the nails +broken; they were like the skinned paws of a +bear. And at the wrists, almost buried in the +bloated folds of flesh, blackened, rusted, battered, +yet still strong and whole, was a tightly-locked +pair of Bean's Latest Model Little Giant +handcuffs.</p> + +<p>“Great God!” cried the chief, transfixed at +the sight. He drew the bolt and jerked open +the lower half of the door.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Come in,” he said, “and lemme get them +irons off of you—they must hurt something +terrible.”</p> + +<p>“They can wait,” said Mr. Trimm very +feebly, very slowly and very humbly. “I +have worn them a long, long while—I am +used to them. Wouldn't you please get me +some food first?”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<h2>II</h2> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> +<h3><span class="g">THE BELLED BUZZARD</span></h3> + + +<p><span class="first">T</span>here was a swamp known as Little +Niggerwool, to distinguish it from Big +Niggerwool, which lay across the river. +It was traversable only by those who +knew it well—an oblong stretch of tawny +mud and tawny water, measuring maybe four +miles its longest way and two miles roughly +at its widest; and it was full of cypress and +stunted swamp oak, with edgings of canebrake +and rank weeds; and in one place, where a +ridge crossed it from side to side, it was snaggled +like an old jaw with dead tree trunks, +rising close-ranked and thick as teeth. It +was untenanted of living things—except, +down below, there were snakes and mosquitoes, +and a few wading and swimming fowl; +and up above, those big woodpeckers that the +country people called logcocks—larger than +pigeons, with flaming crests and spiky tails—swooping +in their long, loping flight from snag +to snag, always just out of gunshot of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> +chance invader, and uttering a strident cry +which matched those surroundings so fitly +that it might well have been the voice of the +swamp itself.</p> + +<p>On one side little Niggerwool drained its +saffron waters off into a sluggish creek, where +summer ducks bred, and on the other it ended +abruptly at a natural bank of high ground, +along which the county turnpike ran. The +swamp came right up to the road and thrust +its fringe of reedy, weedy undergrowth forward +as though in challenge to the good farm lands +that were spread beyond the barrier. At the +time I am speaking of it was mid-summer, and +from these canes and weeds and waterplants +there came a smell so rank as almost to be +overpowering. They grew thick as a curtain, +making a blank green wall taller than a man's +head.</p> + +<p>Along the dusty stretch of road fronting the +swamp nothing living had stirred for half an +hour or more. And so at length the weed-stems +rustled and parted, and out from among +them a man came forth silently and cautiously. +He was an old man—an old man who had +once been fat, but with age had grown lean +again, so that now his skin was by odds too +large for him. It lay on the back of his neck +in folds. Under the chin he was pouched like +a pelican and about the jowls was wattled +like a turkey gobbler.</p> + +<p>He came out upon the road slowly and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +stopped there, switching his legs absently +with the stalk of a horseweed. He was in his +shirtsleeves—a respectable, snuffy old figure; +evidently a man deliberate in words and +thoughts and actions. There was something +about him suggestive of an old staid sheep +that had been engaged in a clandestine transaction +and was afraid of being found out.</p> + +<p>He had made amply sure no one was in sight +before he came out of the swamp, but now, +to be doubly certain, he watched the empty +road—first up, then down—for a long half +minute, and fetched a sighing breath of satisfaction. +His eyes fell upon his feet, and, +taken with an idea, he stepped back to the edge +of the road and with a wisp of crabgrass wiped +his shoes clean of the swamp mud, which was +of a different color and texture from the soil +of the upland. All his life Squire H. B. +Gathers had been a careful, canny man, and +he had need to be doubly careful on this summer +morning. Having disposed of the mud on his +feet, he settled his white straw hat down +firmly upon his head, and, crossing the road, +he climbed a stake-and-rider fence laboriously +and went plodding sedately across a weedfield +and up a slight slope toward his house, half a +mile away, upon the crest of the little hill.</p> + +<p>He felt perfectly natural—not like a man +who had just taken a fellowman's life—but +natural and safe, and well satisfied with himself +and with his morning's work. And he was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> +safe; that was the main thing—absolutely +safe. Without hitch or hindrance he had done +the thing for which he had been planning and +waiting and longing all these months. There +had been no slip or mischance; the whole +thing had worked out as plainly and simply +as two and two make four. No living creature +except himself knew of the meeting in the +early morning at the head of Little Niggerwool, +exactly where the squire had figured they +should meet; none knew of the device by which +the other man had been lured deeper and +deeper in the swamp to the exact spot where +the gun was hidden. No one had seen the two +of them enter the swamp; no one had seen +the squire emerge, three hours later, alone.</p> + +<p>The gun, having served its purpose, was hidden +again, in a place no mortal eye would +ever discover. Face downward, with a hole +between his shoulder blades, the dead man was +lying where he might lie undiscovered for +months or for years, or forever. His pedler's +pack was buried in the mud so deep that not +even the probing crawfishes could find it. +He would never be missed probably. There +was but the slightest likelihood that inquiry +would ever be made for him—let alone a +search. He was a stranger and a foreigner, +the dead man was, whose comings and goings +made no great stir in the neighborhood, and +whose failure to come again would be taken as +a matter of course—just one of those shiftless,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +wandering Dagoes, here today and gone +tomorrow. That was one of the best things +about it—these Dagoes never had any people +in this country to worry about them or look +for them when they disappeared. And so it +was all over and done with, and nobody the +wiser. The squire clapped his hands together +briskly with the air of a man dismissing a +subject from his mind for good, and mended +his gait.</p> + +<p>He felt no stabbings of conscience. On +the contrary, a glow of gratification filled him. +His house was saved from scandal; his present +wife would philander no more—before his +very eyes—with these young Dagoes, who +came from nobody knew where, with packs on +their backs and persuasive, wheedling tongues +in their heads. At this thought the squire +raised his head and considered his homestead. +It looked good to him—the small white +cottage among the honey locusts, with beehives +and flower beds about it; the tidy whitewashed +fence; the sound outbuildings at the back, +and the well-tilled acres roundabout.</p> + +<p>At the fence he halted and turned about, +carelessly and casually, and looked back along +the way he had come. Everything was as +it should be—the weedfield steaming in the +heat; the empty road stretching along the +crooked ridge like a long gray snake sunning +itself; and beyond it, massing up, the dark, +cloaking stretch of swamp. Everything was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +all right, but——The squire's eyes, in their +loose sacs of skin, narrowed and squinted. +Out of the blue arch away over yonder a small +black dot had resolved itself and was swinging +to and fro, like a mote. A buzzard—hey? +Well, there were always buzzards about on a +clear day like this. Buzzards were nothing +to worry about—almost any time you could +see one buzzard, or a dozen buzzards if you +were a mind to look for them.</p> + +<p>But this particular buzzard now—wasn't +he making for Little Niggerwool? The squire +did not like the idea of that. He had not +thought of the buzzards until this minute. +Sometimes when cattle strayed the owners +had been known to follow the buzzards, knowing +mighty well that if the buzzards led the +way to where the stray was, the stray would +be past the small salvage of hide and hoofs—but +the owner's doubts would be set at rest +for good and all.</p> + +<p>There was a grain of disquiet in this. The +squire shook his head to drive the thought +away—yet it persisted, coming back like a +midge dancing before his face. Once at home, +however, Squire Gathers deported himself in a +perfectly normal manner. With the satisfied +proprietorial eye of an elderly husband who +has no rivals, he considered his young wife, +busied about her household duties. He sat +in an easy-chair upon his front gallery and read +his yesterday's Courier-Journal which the rural<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> +carrier had brought him; but he kept stepping +out into the yard to peer up into the sky and +all about him. To the second Mrs. Gathers +he explained that he was looking for weather +signs. A day as hot and still as this one was a +regular weather breeder; there ought to be +rain before night.</p> + +<p>“Maybe so,” she said; “but looking's not +going to bring rain.”</p> + +<p>Nevertheless the squire continued to look. +There was really nothing to worry about; still +at midday he did not eat much dinner, and +before his wife was half through with hers he +was back on the gallery. His paper was cast +aside and he was watching. The original +buzzard—or, anyhow, he judged it was the +first one he had seen—was swinging back and +forth in great pendulum swings, but closer +down toward the swamp—closer and closer—until +it looked from that distance as though +the buzzard flew almost at the level of the +tallest snags there. And on beyond this first +buzzard, coursing above him, were other buzzards. +Were there four of them? No; there +were five—five in all.</p> + +<p>Such is the way of the buzzard—that +shifting black question mark which punctuates +a Southern sky. In the woods a shoat or a +sheep or a horse lies down to die. At once, +coming seemingly out of nowhere, appears a +black spot, up five hundred feet or a thousand +in the air. In broad loops and swirls this dot<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> +swings round and round and round, coming a +little closer to earth at every turn and always +with one particular spot upon the earth for +the axis of its wheel. Out of space also other +moving spots emerge and grow larger as they +tack and jib and drop nearer, coming in their +leisurely buzzard way to the feast. There +is no haste—the feast will wait. If it is a +dumb creature that has fallen stricken the +grim coursers will sooner or later be assembled +about it and alongside it, scrouging ever closer +and closer to the dying thing, with awkward +out-thrustings of their naked necks and great +dust-raising flaps of the huge, unkempt wings; +lifting their feathered shanks high and stiffly +like old crippled grave-diggers in overalls that +are too tight—but silent and patient all, +offering no attack until the last tremor runs +through the stiffening carcass and the eyes +glaze over. To humans the buzzard pays a +deeper meed of respect—he hangs aloft longer; +but in the end he comes. No scavenger shark, +no carrion crab, ever chambered more grisly +secrets in his digestive processes than this +big charnel bird. Such is the way of the +buzzard.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>The squire missed his afternoon nap, a thing +that had not happened in years. He stayed +on the front gallery and kept count. Those +moving distant black specks typified uneasiness +for the squire—not fear exactly, or panic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +or anything akin to it, but a nibbling, nagging +kind of uneasiness. Time and again he said +to himself that he would not think about them +any more; but he did—unceasingly.</p> + +<p>By supper time there were seven of them.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>He slept light and slept badly. It was not +the thought of that dead man lying yonder +in Little Niggerwool that made him toss +and fume while his wife snored gently alongside +him. It was something else altogether. +Finally his stirrings roused her and she asked +him drowsily what ailed him. Was he sick? +Or bothered about anything?</p> + +<p>Irritated, he answered her snappishly. Certainly +nothing was bothering him, he told her. +It was a hot enough night—wasn't it? And +when a man got a little along in life he was apt +to be a light sleeper—wasn't that so? Well, +then? She turned upon her side and slept +again with her light, purring snore. The +squire lay awake, thinking hard and waiting +for day to come.</p> + +<p>At the first faint pink-and-gray glow he was +up and out upon the gallery. He cut a comic +figure standing there in his shirt in the half +light, with the dewlap at his throat dangling +grotesquely in the neck opening of the unbuttoned +garment, and his bare bowed legs +showing, splotched and varicose. He kept +his eyes fixed on the skyline below, to the south. +Buzzards are early risers too. Presently, as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +the heavens shimmered with the miracle of +sunrise, he could make them out—six or +seven, or maybe eight.</p> + +<p>An hour after breakfast the squire was on +his way down through the weedfield to the +county road. He went half eagerly, half +unwillingly. He wanted to make sure about +those buzzards. It might be that they were +aiming for the old pasture at the head of the +swamp. There were sheep grazing there—and +it might be that a sheep had died. Buzzards +were notoriously fond of sheep, when dead. +Or, if they were pointed for the swamp, he +must satisfy himself exactly what part of the +swamp it was. He was at the stake-and-rider +fence when a mare came jogging down the road, +drawing a rig with a man in it. At sight of +the squire in the field the man pulled up.</p> + +<p>“Hi, squire!” he saluted. “Goin' somewheres?”</p> + +<p>“No; jest knockin' about,” the squire +said—“jest sorter lookin' the place over.”</p> + +<p>“Hot agin—ain't it?” said the other.</p> + +<p>The squire allowed that it was, for a fact, +mighty hot. Commonplaces of gossip followed +this—county politics and a neighbor's wife +sick of breakbone fever down the road a piece. +The subject of crops succeeded inevitably. +The squire spoke of the need of rain. Instantly +he regretted it, for the other man, who was by +way of being a weather wiseacre, cocked his head +aloft to study the sky for any signs of clouds.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Wonder whut all them buzzards are doin' +yonder, squire,” he said, pointing upward with +his whipstock.</p> + +<p>“Whut buzzards—where?” asked the squire +with an elaborate note of carelessness in his +voice.</p> + +<p>“Right yonder, over Little Niggerwool—see +'em there?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” the squire made answer. “Now +I see 'em. They ain't doin' nothin', I reckin—jest +flyin' round same as they always do in +clear weather.”</p> + +<p>“Must be somethin' dead over there!” +speculated the man in the buggy.</p> + +<p>“A hawg probably,” said the squire promptly—almost +too promptly. “There's likely to +be hawgs usin' in Niggerwool. Bristow, over +on the other side from here—he's got a big +drove of hawgs.”</p> + +<p>“Well, mebbe so,” said the man; “but +hawgs is a heap more apt to be feedin' on high +ground, seems like to me. Well, I'll be gittin' +along towards town. G'day, squire.” And +he slapped the lines down on the mare's flank +and jogged off through the dust.</p> + +<p>He could not have suspected anything—that +man couldn't. As the squire turned away +from the road and headed for his house he +congratulated himself upon that stroke of his +in bringing in Bristow's hogs; and yet there +remained this disquieting note in the situation, +that buzzards flying, and especially buzzards<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> +flying over Little Niggerwool, made people +curious—made them ask questions.</p> + +<p>He was half-way across the weedfield when, +above the hum of insect life, above the inward +clamor of his own busy speculations, there came +to his ear dimly and distantly a sound that +made him halt and cant his head to one side +the better to hear it. Somewhere, a good way +off, there was a thin, thready, broken strain +of metallic clinking and clanking—an eery +ghost-chime ringing. It came nearer and became +plainer—tonk-tonk-tonk; then the tonks +all running together briskly.</p> + +<p>A sheep bell or a cowbell—that was it; but +why did it seem to come from overhead, from +up in the sky, like? And why did it shift so +abruptly from one quarter to another—from +left to right and back again to left? And how +was it that the clapper seemed to strike so fast? +Not even the breachiest of breachy young +heifers could be expected to tinkle a cowbell +with such briskness. The squire's eye searched +the earth and the sky, his troubled mind giving +to his eye a quick and flashing scrutiny. He +had it. It was not a cow at all. It was not +anything that went on four legs.</p> + +<p>One of the loathly flock had left the others. +The orbit of his swing had carried him across +the road and over Squire Gathers' land. He +was sailing right toward and over the squire +now. Craning his flabby neck, the squire +could make out the unwholesome contour of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> +the huge bird. He could see the ragged black +wings—a buzzard's wings are so often ragged +and uneven—and the naked throat; the +slim, naked head; the big feet folded up against +the dingy belly. And he could see a bell too—an +undersized cowbell—that dangled at the +creature's breast and jangled incessantly. All +his life nearly Squire Gathers had been hearing +about the Belled Buzzard. Now with his own +eye he was seeing him.</p> + +<p>Once, years and years and years ago, some +one trapped a buzzard, and before freeing it +clamped about its skinny neck a copper band +with a cowbell pendent from it. Since then +the bird so ornamented has been seen a hundred +times—and heard oftener—over an area +as wide as half the continent. It has been +reported, now in Kentucky, now in Texas, +now in North Carolina—now anywhere between +the Ohio River and the Gulf. Crossroads +correspondents take their pens in hand +to write to the country papers that on such +and such a date, at such a place, So-and-So +saw the Belled Buzzard. Always it is the +Belled Buzzard, never a belled buzzard. The +Belled Buzzard is an institution.</p> + +<p>There must be more than one of them. It +seems hard to believe that one bird, even a +buzzard in his prime, and protected by law in +every Southern state and known to be a bird +of great age, could live so long and range so +far and wear a clinking cowbell all the time!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +Probably other jokers have emulated the +original joker; probably if the truth were +known there have been a dozen such; but the +country people will have it that there is only +one Belled Buzzard—a bird that bears a +charmed life and on his neck a never silent +bell.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>Squire Gathers regarded it a most untoward +thing that the Belled Buzzard should have +come just at this time. The movements of +ordinary, unmarked buzzards mainly concerned +only those whose stock had strayed; +but almost anybody with time to spare might +follow this rare and famous visitor, this belled +and feathered junkman of the sky. Supposing +now that some one followed it today—maybe +followed it even to a certain thick clump of +cypress in the middle of Little Niggerwool!</p> + +<p>But at this particular moment the Belled +Buzzard was heading directly away from that +quarter. Could it be following him? Of +course not! It was just by chance that it flew +along the course the squire was taking. But, +to make sure, he veered off sharply, away from +the footpath into the high weeds so that the +startled grasshoppers sprayed up in front of +him in fan-like flights.</p> + +<p>He was right; it was only a chance. The +Belled Buzzard swung off too, but in the +opposite direction, with a sharp tonking of its +bell, and, flapping hard, was in a minute or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +two out of hearing and sight, past the trees +to the westward.</p> + +<p>Again the squire skimped his dinner, and +again he spent the long drowsy afternoon +upon his front gallery. In all the sky there +were now no buzzards visible, belled or unbelled—they +had settled to earth somewhere; and +this served somewhat to soothe the squire's pestered +mind. This does not mean, though, that +he was by any means easy in his thoughts. +Outwardly he was calm enough, with the ruminative +judicial air befitting the oldest justice +of the peace in the county; but, within him, +a little something gnawed unceasingly at his +nerves like one of those small white worms that +are to be found in seemingly sound nuts. +About once in so long a tiny spasm of the +muscles would contract the dewlap under his +chin. The squire had never heard of that +play, made famous by a famous player, wherein +the murdered victim was a pedler too, and +a clamoring bell the voice of unappeasable +remorse in the murderer's ear. As a strict +churchgoer the squire had no use for players or +for play actors, and so was spared that added +canker to his conscience. It was bad enough +as it was.</p> + +<p>That night, as on the night before, the old +man's sleep was broken and fitful and disturbed +by dreaming, in which he heard a metal +clapper striking against a brazen surface. +This was one dream that came true. Just<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +after daybreak he heaved himself out of bed, +with a flop of his broad bare feet upon the floor, +and stepped to the window and peered out. +Half seen in the pinkish light, the Belled Buzzard +flapped directly over his roof and flew +due south, right toward the swamp—drawing +a direct line through the air between the slayer +and the victim—or, anyway, so it seemed to +the watcher, grown suddenly tremulous.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>Knee deep in yellow swamp water the squire +squatted, with his shotgun cocked and loaded +and ready, waiting to kill the bird that now +typified for him guilt and danger and an abiding +great fear. Gnats plagued him and about +him frogs croaked. Almost overhead a log-cock +clung lengthwise to a snag, watching him. +Snake doctors, limber, long insects with bronze +bodies and filmy wings, went back and forth +like small living shuttles. Other buzzards +passed and repassed, but the squire waited, +forgetting the cramps in his elderly limbs and +the discomfort of the water in his shoes.</p> + +<p>At length he heard the bell. It came nearer +and nearer, and the Belled Buzzard swung +overhead not sixty feet up, its black bulk a fair +target against the blue. He aimed and fired, +both barrels bellowing at once and a fog of +thick powder smoke enveloping him. Through +the smoke he saw the bird careen and its bell +jangled furiously; then the buzzard righted +itself and was gone, fleeing so fast that the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +sound of its bell was hushed almost instantly. +Two long wing feathers drifted slowly down; +torn disks of gunwadding and shredded green +scraps of leaves descended about the squire in +a little shower.</p> + +<p>He cast his empty gun from him so that it +fell in the water and disappeared; and he +hurried out of the swamp as fast as his shaky +legs would take him, splashing himself with +mire and water to his eyebrows. Mucked with +mud, breathing in great gulps, trembling, a +suspicious figure to any eye, he burst through +the weed curtain and staggered into the open, +his caution all gone and a vast desperation +fairly choking him—but the gray road was +empty and the field beyond the road was +empty; and, except for him, the whole world +seemed empty and silent.</p> + +<p>As he crossed the field Squire Gathers composed +himself. With plucked handfuls of grass +he cleansed himself of much of the swamp mire +that coated him over; but the little white +worm that gnawed at his nerves had become a +cold snake that was coiled about his heart, +squeezing it tighter and tighter!</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 370px;"> +<img src="images/illo_facing_p70.jpg" width="370" height="500" alt="p70" title="TWO LONG WING FEATHERS DRIFTED SLOWLY DOWN" /> +<span class="caption">“Two long wing feathers drifted slowly down.” +—<small><i>Page 70</i></small></span> +<span class="totoi"><a href="#toi">To List</a></span></div> + +<p>This episode of the attempt to kill the Belled +Buzzard occurred in the afternoon of the third +day. In the forenoon of the fourth, the weather +being still hot, with cloudless skies and no air +stirring, there was a rattle of warped wheels +in the squire's lane and a hail at his yard fence.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +Coming out upon his gallery from the innermost +darkened room of his house, where he had been +stretched upon a bed, the squire shaded his +eyes from the glare and saw the constable of +his own magisterial district sitting in a buggy +at the gate waiting.</p> + +<p>The old man went down the dirtpath slowly, +almost reluctantly, with his head twisted up +side wise, listening, watching; but the constable +sensed nothing strange about the other's +gait and posture; the constable was full of +the news he brought. He began to unload the +burden of it without preamble.</p> + +<p>“Mornin', Squire Gathers. There's been a +dead man found in Little Niggerwool—and +you're wanted.”</p> + +<p>He did not notice that the squire was holding +on with both hands to the gate; but he did +notice that the squire had a sick look out of +his eyes and a dead, pasty color in his face; +and he noticed—but attached no meaning +to it—that when the squire spoke his voice +seemed flat and hollow.</p> + +<p>“Wanted—fur—whut?” The squire +forced the words out of his throat, pumped +them out fairly.</p> + +<p>“Why, to hold the inquest,” explained the +constable. “The coroner's sick abed, and he +said you bein' the nearest jestice of the peace +you should serve.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said the squire with more ease. “Well, +where is it—the body?”<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> + +<p>“They taken it to Bristow's place and put +it in his stable for the present. They brought +it out over on that side and his place was the +nearest. If you'll hop in here with me, squire, +I'll ride you right over there now. There's +enough men already gathered to make up a +jury, I reckin.”</p> + +<p>“I—I ain't well,” demurred the squire. +“I've been sleepin' porely these last few nights. +It's the heat,” he added quickly.</p> + +<p>“Well, suh, you don't look very brash, and +that's a fact,” said the constable; “but this +here job ain't goin' to keep you long. You see +it's in such shape—the body is—that there +ain't no way of makin' out who the feller +was nor whut killed him. There ain't nobody +reported missin' in this county as we know of, +either; so I jedge a verdict of a unknown +person dead from unknown causes would be +about the correct thing. And we kin git it all +over mighty quick and put him underground +right away, suh—if you'll go along now.”</p> + +<p>“I'll go,” agreed the squire, almost quivering +in his newborn eagerness. “I'll go right now.” +He did not wait to get his coat or to notify +his wife of the errand that was taking him. +In his shirtsleeves he climbed into the buggy, +and the constable turned his horse and clucked +him into a trot. And now the squire asked the +question that knocked at his lips demanding to +be asked—the question the answer to which +he yearned for and yet dreaded.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> + +<p>“How did they come to find—it?”</p> + +<p>“Well, suh, that's a funny thing,” said +the constable. “Early this mornin' Bristow's +oldest boy—that one they call Buddy—he +heared a cowbell over in the swamp and so he +went to look; Bristow's got cows, as you know, +and one or two of 'em is belled. And he kept +on followin' after the sound of it till he got way +down into the thickest part of them cypress +slashes that's near the middle there; and +right there he run acrost it—this body.</p> + +<p>“But, suh, squire, it wasn't no cow at all. +No, suh; it was a buzzard with a cowbell on +his neck—that's whut it was. Yes, suh; +that there same old Belled Buzzard he's come +back agin and is hangin' round. They tell +me he ain't been seen round here since the year +of the yellow fever—I don't remember myself, +but that's whut they tell me. The niggers +over on the other side are right smartly worked +up over it. They say—the niggers do—that +when the Belled Buzzard comes it's a sign +of bad luck for somebody, shore!”</p> + +<p>The constable drove on, talking on, garrulous +as a guinea hen. The squire didn't heed +him. Hunched back in the buggy, he harkened +only to those busy inner voices filling his mind +with thundering portents. Even so, his ear +was first to catch above the rattle of the +buggy wheels the far-away, faint tonk-tonk! +They were about half-way to Bristow's place +then. He gave no sign, and it was perhaps<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> +half a minute before his companion heard +it too.</p> + +<p>The constable jerked the horse to a standstill +and craned his neck over his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Well, by doctors!” he cried, “if there ain't +the old scoundrel now, right here behind us! +I kin see him plain as day—he's got an old +cowbell hitched to his neck; and he's shy a +couple of feathers out of one wing. By doctors, +that's somethin' you won't see every day! In +all my born days I ain't never seen the beat of +that!”</p> + +<p>Squire Gathers did not look; he only cowered +back farther under the buggy top. In the +pleasing excitement of the moment his companion +took no heed, though, of anything +except the Belled Buzzard.</p> + +<p>“Is he followin' us?” asked the squire in a +curiously flat, weighted voice.</p> + +<p>“Which—him?” answered the constable, +still stretching his neck. “No, he's gone now—gone +off to the left—jest a-zoomin', like +he'd done forgot somethin'.”</p> + +<p>And Bristow's place was to the left! But +there might still be time. To get the inquest +over and the body underground—those were +the main things. Ordinarily humane in his +treatment of stock, Squire Gathers urged the +constable to greater speed. The horse was +lathered and his sides heaved wearily as they +pounded across the bridge over the creek which +was the outlet to the swamp and emerged from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> +a patch of woods in sight of Bristow's farm +buildings.</p> + +<p>The house was set on a little hill among +cleared fields and was in other respects much +like the squire's own house except that it was +smaller and not so well painted. There was +a wide yard in front with shade trees and a lye +hopper and a well-box, and a paling fence with +a stile in it instead of a gate. At the rear, +behind a clutter of outbuildings—a barn, a +smokehouse and a corncrib—was a little +peach orchard, and flanking the house on the +right there was a good-sized cowyard, empty +of stock at this hour, with feedracks ranged in +a row against the fence. A two-year-old negro +child, bareheaded and barefooted and wearing +but a single garment, was grubbing busily in +the dirt under one of these feedracks.</p> + +<p>To the front fence a dozen or more riding +horses were hitched, flicking their tails at the +flies; and on the gallery men in their shirtsleeves +were grouped. An old negro woman, +with her head tied in a bandanna and a man's +old slouch hat perched upon the bandanna, +peeped out from behind a corner. There were +gaunt hound dogs wandering about, sniffing +uneasily.</p> + +<p>Before the constable had the horse hitched +the squire was out of the buggy and on his +way up the footpath, going at a brisker step +than the squire usually traveled. The men +on the porch hailed him gravely and ceremoniously,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +as befitting an occasion of solemnity. +Afterward some of them recalled the look in +his eye; but at the moment they noted it—if +they noted it at all—subconsciously.</p> + +<p>For all his haste the squire, as was also +remembered later, was almost the last to enter +the door; and before he did enter he halted and +searched the flawless sky as though for signs +of rain. Then he hurried on after the others, +who clumped single file along a narrow little +hall, the bare, uncarpeted floor creaking loudly +under their heavy farm shoes, and entered a +good-sized room that had in it, among other +things, a high-piled feather bed and a cottage +organ—Bristow's best room, now to be placed +at the disposal of the law's representatives +for the inquest. The squire took the largest +chair and drew it to the very center of the +room, in front of a fireplace, where the grate +was banked with withering asparagus ferns. +The constable took his place formally at one +side of the presiding official. The others sat +or stood about where they could find room—all +but six of them, whom the squire picked for +his coroner's jury, and who backed themselves +against the wall.</p> + +<p>The squire showed haste. He drove the +preliminaries forward with a sort of tremulous +insistence. Bristow's wife brought a bucket +of fresh drinking water and a gourd, and +almost before she was out of the room and the +door closed behind her the squire had sworn his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +jurors and was calling the first witness, who it +seemed likely would also be the only witness—Bristow's +oldest boy. The boy wriggled +in confusion as he sat on a cane-bottomed +chair facing the old magistrate. All there, +barring one or two, had heard his story a dozen +times already, but now it was to be repeated +under oath; and so they bent their heads, +listening as though it were a brand-new tale. +All eyes were on him; none were fastened on +the squire as he, too, gravely bent his head, +listening—listening.</p> + +<p>The witness began—but had no more than +started when the squire gave a great, screeching +howl and sprang from his chair and staggered +backward, his eyes popped and the +pouch under his chin quivering as though it +had a separate life all its own. Startled, the +constable made toward him and they struck +together heavily and went down—both on +their all fours—right in front of the fireplace.</p> + +<p>The constable scrambled free and got upon +his feet, in a squat of astonishment, with his +head craned; but the squire stayed upon the +floor, face downward, his feet flopping among +the rustling asparagus greens—a picture of +slavering animal fear. And now his gagging +screech resolved itself into articulate speech.</p> + +<p>“I done it!” they made out his shrieked +words. “I done it! I own up—I killed him! +He aimed fur to break up my home and I +tolled him off into Niggerwool and killed him!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +There's a hole in his back if you'll look fur it. +I done it—oh, I done it—and I'll tell everything +jest like it happened if you'll jest keep +that thing away from me! Oh, my Lawdy! +Don't you hear it? It's a-comin' clos'ter and +clos'ter—it's a-comin' after me! Keep it +away——” His voice gave out and he buried +his head in his hands and rolled upon the +gaudy carpet.</p> + +<p>And now they all heard what he had heard +first—they heard the tonk-tonk-tonk of a +cowbell, coming near and nearer toward them +along the hallway without. It was as though +the sound floated along. There was no creak +of footsteps upon the loose, bare boards—and +the bell jangled faster than it would +dangling from a cow's neck. The sound +came right to the door and Squire Gathers +wallowed among the chair legs.</p> + +<p>The door swung open. In the doorway +stood a negro child, barefooted and naked +except for a single garment, eyeing them with +serious, rolling eyes—and, with all the strength +of his two puny arms, proudly but solemnly +tolling a small rusty cowbell he had found in +the cowyard.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<h2>III</h2> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> +<h3><span class="g">AN OCCURRENCE UP A<br /> +SIDE STREET</span></h3> + + +<p><span class="first">“S</span>ee if he's still there, will you?” said +the man listlessly, as if knowing in +advance what the answer would be.</p> + +<p>The woman, who, like the man, was +in her stocking feet, crossed the room, closing +the door with all softness behind her. She +felt her way silently through the darkness of a +small hallway, putting first her ear and then +her eye to a tiny cranny in some thick curtains +at a front window.</p> + +<p>She looked downward and outward upon one +of those New York side streets that is precisely +like forty other New York side streets: two +unbroken lines of high-shouldered, narrow-chested +brick-and-stone houses, rising in abrupt, +straight cliffs; at the bottom of the canyon a +narrow river of roadway with manholes and +conduit covers dotting its channel intermittently +like scattered stepping stones; and on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +either side wide, flat pavements, as though the +stream had fallen to low-water mark and +left bare its shallow banks. Daylight would +have shown most of the houses boarded up, +with diamond-shaped vents, like leering eyes, +cut in the painted planking of the windows and +doors; but now it was night time—eleven +o'clock of a wet, hot, humid night of the late +summer—and the street was buttoned down +its length in the double-breasted fashion of a +bandmaster's coat with twin rows of gas lamps +evenly spaced. Under each small circle of +lighted space the dripping, black asphalt had +a slimy, slick look like the sides of a newly +caught catfish. Elsewhere the whole vista +lay all in close shadow, black as a cave mouth +under every stoop front and blacker still in +the hooded basement areas. Only, half a mile +to the eastward a dim, distant flicker showed +where Broadway ran, a broad, yellow streak +down the spine of the city, and high above +the broken skyline of eaves and cornices there +rolled in cloudy waves the sullen red radiance, +born of a million electrics and the flares from +gas tanks and chimneys, which is only to be +seen on such nights as this, giving to the heaven +above New York that same color tone you find +in an artist's conception of Babylon falling or +Rome burning.</p> + +<p>From where the woman stood at the window +she could make out the round, white, mushroom +top of a policeman's summer helmet as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> +its wearer leaned back, half sheltered under +the narrow portico of the stoop just below her; +and she could see his uniform sleeve and his +hand, covered with a white cotton glove, come +up, carrying a handkerchief, and mop the +hidden face under the helmet's brim. The +squeak of his heavy shoes was plainly audible +to her also. While she stayed there, watching +and listening, two pedestrians—and only +two—passed on her side of the street: a +messenger boy in a glistening rubber poncho +going west and a man under an umbrella going +east. Each was hurrying along until he came +just opposite her, and then, as though controlled +by the same set of strings, each stopped +short and looked up curiously at the blind, dark +house and at the figure lounging in the doorway, +then hurried on without a word, leaving the +silent policeman fretfully mopping his moist +face and tugging at the wilted collar about +his neck.</p> + +<p>After a minute or two at her peephole behind +the window curtains above, the woman passed +back through the door to the inner, middle +room where the man sat.</p> + +<p>“Still there,” she said lifelessly in the half +whisper that she had come to use almost +altogether these last few days; “still there +and sure to stay there until another one just +like him comes to take his place. What else +did you expect?”</p> + +<p>The man only nodded absently and went on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> +peeling an overripe peach, striking out constantly, +with the hand that held the knife, at +the flies. They were green flies—huge, shiny-backed, +buzzing, persistent vermin. There +were a thousand of them; there seemed to be +a million of them. They filled the shut-in +room with their vile humming; they swarmed +everywhere in the half light. They were +thickest, though, in a corner at the back, where +there was a closed, white door. Here a great +knot of them, like an iridescent, shimmering +jewel, was clustered about the keyhole. They +scrolled the white enameled panels with intricate, +shifting patterns, and in pairs and singly +they promenaded busily on the white porcelain +knob, giving it the appearance of being alive +and having a motion of its own.</p> + +<p>It was stiflingly hot and sticky in the room. +The sweat rolled down the man's face as he +peeled his peach and pared some half-rotted +spots out of it. He protected it with a cupped +palm as he bit into it. One huge green fly +flipped nimbly under the fending hand and lit +on the peach. With a savage little snarl of +disgust and loathing the man shook the clinging +insect off and with the knife carved away +the place where its feet had touched the soft +fruit. Then he went on munching, meanwhile +furtively watching the woman. She was on +the opposite side of a small center-table from +him, with her face in her hands, shaking her +head with a little shuddering motion whenever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +one of the flies settled on her close-cropped hair +or brushed her bare neck.</p> + +<p>He was a smallish man, with a suggestion of +something dapper about him even in his present +unkempt disorder; he might have been handsome, +in a weakly effeminate way, had not +Nature or some mishap given his face a twist +that skewed it all to one side, drawing all of +his features out of focus, like a reflection viewed +in a flawed mirror. He was no heavier than +the woman and hardly as tall. She, however, +looked less than her real height, seeing that +she was dressed, like a half-grown boy, in a +soft-collared shirt open at the throat and a +pair of loose trousers. She had large but +rather regular features, pouting lips, a clear +brown skin and full, prominent brown eyes; +and one of them had a pronounced cast in +it—an imperfection already made familiar +by picture and printed description to sundry +millions of newspaper readers. For this was +Ella Gilmorris, the woman in the case of the +Gilmorris murder, about which the continent +of North America was now reading and talking. +And the little man with the twisted face, who +sat across from her, gnawing a peach stone +clean, was the notorious “Doctor” Harris +Devine, alias Vanderburg, her accomplice, and +worth more now to society in his present untidy +state than ever before at any one moment of +his whole discreditable life, since for his capture +the people of the state of New York stood<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +willing to pay the sum of one thousand dollars, +which tidy reward one of the afternoon papers +had increased by another thousand.</p> + +<p>Everywhere detectives—amateurs and the +kind who work for hire—were seeking the +pair who at this precise moment faced each +other across a little center-table in the last +place any searcher would have suspected or +expected them to be—on the second floor of +the house in which the late Cassius Gilmorris +had been killed. This, then, was the situation: +inside, these two fugitives, watchful, silent, +their eyes red-rimmed for lack of sleep, their +nerves raw and tingling as though rasped with +files, each busy with certain private plans, each +fighting off constantly the touch of the nasty +scavenger flies that flickered and flitted iridescently +about them; outside, in the steamy, +hot drizzle, with his back to the locked and +double-locked door, a leg-weary policeman, +believing that he guarded a house all empty +except for such evidences as yet remained of +the Gilmorris murder.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>It was one of those small, chancy things that +so often disarrange the best laid plots of murderers +that had dished their hope of a clean +getaway and brought them back, at the last, +to the starting point. If the plumber's helper, +who was sent to cure a bathtub of leaking in +the house next door, had not made a mistake +and come to the wrong number; and if they,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> +in the haste of flight, had not left an area door +unfastened; and if this young plumbing apprentice, +stumbling his way upstairs on the hunt +for the misbehaving drain, had not opened the +white enameled door and found inside there +what he did find—if this small sequence of +incidents had not occurred as it did and when +it did, or if only it had been delayed another +twenty-four hours, or even twelve, everything +might have turned out differently. But fate, +to call it by its fancy name—coincidence, to +use its garden one—interfered, as it usually +does in cases such as this. And so here they +were.</p> + +<p>The man had been on his way to the steamship +office to get the tickets when an eruption +of newsboys boiled out of Mail Street into +Broadway, with extras on their arms, all shouting +out certain words that sent him scurrying +back in a panic to the small, obscure family +hotel in the lower thirties where the woman +waited. From that moment it was she, really, +who took the initiative in all the efforts to +break through the doubled and tripled lines +that the police machinery looped about the +five boroughs of the city.</p> + +<p>At dark that evening “Mr. and Mrs. A. +Thompson, of Jersey City,” a quiet couple +who went closely muffled up, considering that +it was August, and carrying heavy valises, +took quarters at a dingy furnished room house +on a miscalled avenue of Brooklyn not far<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +from the Wall Street ferries and overlooking +the East River waterfront from its bleary back +windows. Two hours later a very different-looking +pair issued quietly from a side entrance of +this place and vanished swiftly down toward the +docks. The thing was well devised and carried +out well too; yet by morning the detectives, +already ranging and quartering the town as +bird-dogs quarter a brier-field, had caught +up again and pieced together the broken ends +of the trail; and, thanks to them and the +newspapers, a good many thousand wide awake +persons were on the lookout for a plump, brown-skinned +young woman with a cast in her right +eye, wearing a boy's disguise and accompanied +by a slender little man carrying his head slightly +to one side, who when last seen wore smoked +glasses and had his face extensively bandaged, +as though suffering from a toothache.</p> + +<p>Then had followed days and nights of blind +twisting and dodging and hiding, with the hunt +growing warmer behind them all the time. +Through this they were guided and at times +aided by things printed in the very papers +that worked the hardest to run them down. +Once they ventured as far as the outer entrance +of the great, new uptown terminal, and turned +away, too far gone and sick with fear to dare +run the gauntlet of the waiting room and the +train-shed. Once—because they saw a made-up +Central Office man in every lounging long-shoreman, +and were not so far wrong either—they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> +halted at the street end of one of the +smaller piers and from there watched a grimy +little foreign boat that carried no wireless +masts and that might have taken them to any +one of half a dozen obscure banana ports of +South America—watched her while she hiccoughed +out into midstream and straightened +down the river for the open bay—watched +her out of sight and then fled again to their +newest hiding place in the lower East Side +in a cold sweat, with the feeling that every +casual eye glance from every chance passer-by +carried suspicion and recognition in its flash, +that every briskening footstep on the pavement +behind them meant pursuit.</p> + +<p>Once in that tormented journey there was a +sudden jingle of metal, like rattling handcuffs, +in the man's ear and a heavy hand fell detainingly +on his shoulder—and he squeaked like +a caught shore-bird and shrunk away from +under the rough grips of a truckman who had +yanked him clear of a lurching truck horse +tangled in its own traces. Then, finally, had +come a growing distrust for their latest landlord, +a stolid Russian Jew who read no papers +and knew no English, and saw in his pale pair +of guests only an American lady and gentleman +who kept much to their room and paid +well in advance for everything; and after +that, in the hot rainy night, the flight afoot +across weary miles of soaking cross streets +and up through ill-lighted, shabby avenues<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +to the one place of refuge left open to them. +They had learned from the newspapers, at +once a guide and a bane, a friend and a dogging +enemy, that the place was locked up, now that +the police had got through searching it, and +that the coroner's people held the keys. And +the woman knew of a faulty catch on a rear +cellar window, and so, in a fit of stark desperation +bordering on lunacy, back they ran, like +a pair of spent foxes circling to a burrow from +which they have been smoked out.</p> + +<p>Again it was the woman who picked for her +companion the easiest path through the inky-black +alley, and with her own hands she pulled +down noiselessly the broken slats of the rotting +wooden wall at the back of the house. And +then, soon, they were inside, with the reeking +heat of the boxed-up house and the knowledge +that at any moment discovery might come +bursting in upon them—inside with their +busy thoughts and the busy green flies. How +persistent the things were—shake them off a +hundred times and back they came buzzing! +And where had they all come from? There +had been none of them about before, surely, +and now their maddening, everlasting droning +filled the ear. And what nasty creatures they +were, forever cleaning their shiny wings and +rubbing the ends of their forelegs together +with the loathsome suggestion of little grave-diggers +anointing their palms. To the woman, +at least, these flies almost made bearable the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +realization that, at best, this stopping point +could be only a temporary one, and that within +a few hours a fresh start must somehow be +made, with fresh dangers to face at every +turning.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>It was during this last hideous day of flight +and terror that the thing which had been growing +in the back part of the brain of each of +them began to assume shape and a definite +aspect. The man had the craftier mind, but +the woman had a woman's intuition, and she +already had read his thoughts while yet he +had no clue to hers. For the primal instinct +of self-preservation, blazing up high, had +burned away the bond of bogus love that held +them together while they were putting her +drunkard of a husband out of the way, and +now there only remained to tie them fast this +partnership of a common guilt.</p> + +<p>In these last few hours they had both come +to know that together there was no chance of +ultimate escape; traveling together the very +disparity of their compared appearances marked +them with a fatal and unmistakable conspicuousness, +as though they were daubed with +red paint from the same paint brush; staying +together meant ruin—certain, sure. Now, +then, separated and going singly, there might +be a thin strand of hope. Yet the man felt +that, parted a single hour from the woman, +and she still alive, his wofully small prospect<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +would diminish and shrink to the vanishing +point—New York juries being most notoriously +easy upon women murderers who give themselves +up and turn state's evidence; and, by +the same mistaken processes of judgment, +notoriously hard upon their male accomplices—half +a dozen such instances had been playing +in flashes across his memory already.</p> + +<p>Neither had so much as hinted at separating. +The man didn't speak, because of a +certain idea that had worked itself all out +hours before within his side-flattened skull. +The woman likewise had refrained from putting +in words the suggestion that had been uppermost +in her brain from the time they broke +into the locked house. Some darting look of +quick, malignant suspicion from him, some +inner warning sense, held her mute at first; +and later, as the newborn hate and dread of +him grew and mastered her and she began to +canvass ways and means to a certain end, she +stayed mute still.</p> + +<p>Whatever was to be done must be done +quietly, without a struggle—the least sound +might arouse the policeman at the door below. +One thing was in her favor—she knew he was +not armed; he had the contempt and the +fear of a tried and proved poisoner for cruder +lethal tools.</p> + +<p>It was characteristic also of the difference +between these two that Devine should have +had his plan stage-set and put to motion long<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +before the woman dreamed of acting. It was +all within his orderly scheme of the thing +proposed that he, a shrinking coward, should +have set his squirrel teeth hard and risked +detection twice in that night: once to buy a +basket of overripe fruit from a dripping Italian +at a sidewalk stand, taking care to get some +peaches—he just must have a peach, he had +explained to her; and once again when he +entered a dark little store on Second Avenue, +where liquors were sold in their original packages, +and bought from a sleepy, stupid clerk +two bottles of a cheap domestic champagne—“to +give us the strength for making a fresh +start,” he told her glibly, as an excuse for taking +this second risk. So, then, with the third +essential already resting at the bottom of an +inner waistcoat pocket, he was prepared; and +he had been waiting for his opportunity from +the moment when they crept in through the +basement window and felt their way along, she +resolutely leading, to the windowless, shrouded +middle room here on the second floor.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>How she hated him, feared him too! He +could munch his peaches and uncork his warm, +cheap wine in this very room, with that bathroom +just yonder and these flies all about. +From under her fingers, interlaced over her +forehead, her eyes roved past him, searching +the littered room for the twentieth time in the +hour, looking, seeking—and suddenly they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +fell on something—a crushed and rumpled +hat of her own, a milliner's masterpiece, laden +with florid plumage, lying almost behind him +on a couch end where some prying detective +had dropped it, with a big, round black button +shining dully from the midst of its damaged +tulle crown. She knew that button well. It +was the imitation-jet head of a hatpin—a +steel hatpin—that was ten inches long and +maybe longer.</p> + +<p>She looked and looked at the round, dull +knob, like a mystic held by a hypnotist's +crystal ball, and she began to breathe a little +faster; she could feel her resolution tighten +within her like a turning screw.</p> + +<p>Beneath her brows, heavy and thick for a +woman's, her eyes flitted back to the man. +With the careful affectation of doing nothing at +all, a theatricalism that she detected instantly, +but for which she could guess no reason, he +was cutting away at the damp, close-gnawed +seed of the peach, trying apparently to fashion +some little trinket—a toy basket, possibly—from +it. His fingers moved deftly over its +slick, wet surface. He had already poured +out some of the champagne. One of the pint +bottles stood empty, with the distorted button-headed +cork lying beside it, and in two glasses +the yellow wine was fast going flat and dead in +that stifling heat. It still spat up a few little +bubbles to the surface, as though minute +creatures were drowning in it down below.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +The man was sweating more than ever, so that, +under the single, low-turned gas jet, his crooked +face had a greasy shine to it. A church clock +down in the next block struck twelve slowly. +The sleepless flies buzzed evilly.</p> + +<p>“Look out again, won't you?” he said for +perhaps the tenth time in two hours. “There's +a chance, you know, that he might be gone—just +a bare chance. And be sure you close +the door into the hall behind you,” he added +as if by an afterthought. “You left it ajar +once—this light might show through the +window draperies.”</p> + +<p>At his bidding she rose more willingly than +at any time before. To reach the door she +passed within a foot of the end of the couch, +and watching over her shoulder at his hunched-up +back she paused there for the smallest fraction +of time. The damaged picture hat slid +off on the floor with a soft little thud, but he +never turned around.</p> + +<p>The instant, though, that the hall door closed +behind her the man's hands became briskly +active. He fumbled in an inner pocket of his +unbuttoned waistcoat; then his right hand, +holding a small cylindrical vial of a colorless +liquid, passed swiftly over one of the two +glasses of slaking champagne and hovered +there a second. A few tiny globules fell +dimpling into the top of the yellow wine, then +vanished; a heavy reek, like the smell of +crushed peach kernels, spread through the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +whole room. In the same motion almost he +recorked the little bottle, stowed it out of sight, +and with a quick, wrenching thrust that bent +the small blade of his penknife in its socket he +split the peach seed in two lengthwise and +with his thumb-nail bruised the small brown +kernel lying snugly within. He dropped the +knife and the halved seed and began sipping +at the undoctored glass of champagne, not +forgetting even then to wave his fingers above +it to keep the winged green tormentors out.</p> + +<p>The door at the front reopened and the +woman came in. Her thoughts were not upon +smells, but instinctively she sniffed at the +thick scent on the poisoned air.</p> + +<p>“I accidentally split this peach seed open,” +he said quickly, with an elaborate explanatory +air. “Stenches up the whole place, don't it? +Come, take that other glass of champagne—it +will do you good to——”</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was some subtle sixth sense that +warned him; perhaps the lightning-quick realization +that she had moved right alongside him, +poised and set to strike. At any rate he +started to fling up his head—too late! The +needle point of the jet-headed hatpin entered +exactly at the outer corner of his right eye and +passed backward for nearly its full length into +his brain—smoothly, painlessly, swiftly. He +gave a little surprised gasp, almost like a sob, +and lolled his head back against the chair rest, +like a man who has grown suddenly tired. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +hand that held the champagne glass relaxed +naturally and the glass turned over on its side +with a small tinkling sound and spilled its +thin contents on the table.</p> + +<p>It had been easier than she had thought it +would be. She stepped back, still holding the +hatpin. She moved around from behind him, +and then she saw his face, half upturned, almost +directly beneath the low light. There was no +blood, no sign even of the wound, but his jaw +had dropped down unpleasantly, showing the +ends of his lower front teeth, and his eyes +stared up unwinkingly with a puzzled, almost +a disappointed, look in them. A green fly lit +at the outer corner of his right eye; more green +flies were coming. And he didn't put up his +hand to brush it away. He let it stay—he +let it stay there.</p> + +<p>With her eyes still fixed on his face, the +woman reached out, feeling for her glass of +the champagne. She felt that she needed it +now, and at a gulp she took a good half of it +down her throat.</p> + +<p>She put the glass down steadily enough on +the table; but into her eyes came the same +puzzled, baffled look that his wore, and almost +gently she slipped down into the chair facing +him.</p> + +<p>Then her jaw lolled a little too, and some of +the other flies came buzzing toward her.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<h2>IV</h2> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> +<h3><span class="g">ANOTHER OF THOSE CUB<br /> +REPORTER STORIES</span></h3> + + +<p><span class="first">T</span>he first time I saw Major Putnam +Stone I didn't see him first. To be +exact, I heard him first, and then I +walked round the end of a seven-foot +partition and saw him.</p> + +<p>I had just gone to work for the Evening Press. +As I recall now it was my second day, and I +hadn't begun to feel at home there yet, and +probably was more sensitive to outside sights +and noises than I would ever again be in that +place. Generally speaking, when a reporter +settles down to his knitting, which in his case +is his writing, he becomes impervious to all +disturbances excepting those that occur inside +his own brainpan. If he couldn't, he wouldn't +amount to shucks in his trade. Give him a +good, live-action story to write for an edition +going to press in about nine minutes, and the +rattles and slams of half a dozen typewriting +machines, and the blattings of a pestered city<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +editor, and the gabble of a couple of copy boys +at his elbow, and all the rest of it won't worry +him. He may not think he hears it, but he +does, only instead of being distracting it is +stimulating. It's all a part of the mechanism +of the shop, helping him along unconsciously to +speed and efficiency. I've often thought that, +when I was handling a good, bloody murder +story, say, it would tone up my style to have +a phonograph about ten feet away grinding out +The Last Ravings of John McCullough. Anyway, +I am sure it wouldn't do any harm. A +brass band playing a John Philip Sousa march +makes fine accompaniment to write copy to. +I've done it before now, covering parades and +conventions, and I know.</p> + +<p>But on this particular occasion I was, as I +say, new to the job and maybe a little nervous +to boot, and as I sat there, trying to frame a +snappy opening paragraph for the interview I +had just brought back with me from one of +the hotels, I became aware of a voice somewhere +in the immediate vicinity, a voice that didn't +jibe in with my thoughts. At the moment I +stopped to listen it was saying: “As for me, +sir, I have always contended that the ultimate +fate of the cause was due in great measure to +the death of Albert Sidney Johnston at Shiloh +on the evening of the first day's fight. Now +then, what would have been the final result +if Albert Sidney Johnston had lived? I ask +you, gentlemen, what would have been the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> +final result if Albert Sidney Johnston had +lived?”</p> + +<p>Across the room from me I heard Devore +give a hollow groan. His desk was backed +right up against the cross partition, and the +partition was built of thin pine boards and was +like a sounding board in his ear. Devore was +city editor.</p> + +<p>“Oh, thunder!” he said, half under his +breath, “I'll be the goat! What would have +been the result if Albert Sidney Johnston had +lived?” He looked at me and gave a wink of +serio-comic despair, and then he ran his blue +pencil up through his hair and left a blue +streak like a scar on his scalp. Devore was one +of the few city editors I have ever seen who +used that tool which all of them are popularly +supposed to handle so murderously—a blue +pencil. And as he had a habit, when he was +flustered or annoyed—and that was most of +the time—of scratching his head with the +point end of it, his forehead under the hair +roots was usually streaked with purplish-blue +tracings, like a fly-catcher's egg.</p> + +<p>The voice, which had a deep and space-filling +quality to it, continued to come through and +over the partition that divided off our cubby-hole +of a workroom—called a city room by +courtesy—from the space where certain other +members of the staff had their desks. I got +up from my place and stepped over to where +the thin wall ended in a doorway, being minded<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> +to have a look at the speaker. The voice +sounded as though it must belong to a big man +with a barrel-organ chest. I was surprised to +find that it didn't.</p> + +<p>Its owner was sitting in a chair in the middle +of a little space cluttered up with discarded +exchanges and galley proofs. He was rather +a small man, short but compact. He had his +hat off and his hair, which was thin but fine +as silk floss, was combed back over his ears +and sprayed out behind in a sort of mane +effect. It had been red hair once, but was now +so thickly streaked with white that it had +become a faded brindle color. I took notice +of this first because his back was toward me; +in a second or two he turned his head sideways +and I saw that he had exactly the face to +match the hair. It was a round, plump, elderly +face, with a short nose, delicately pink at the +tip. The eyes were a pale blue, and just under +the lower lip, which protruded slightly, was +a small gray-red goatee, sticking straight out +from a cleft in the chin like a dab of a sandy +sheep's wool. Also, as the speaker swung +himself further round, I took note of a shirt of +plaited white linen billowing out over his chest +and ending at the top in a starchy yet rumply +collar that rolled majestically and Byronically +clear up under his ears. Under the collar was +loosely knotted a black-silk tie such as sailors +wear. His vest was unbuttoned, all except the +two lowermost buttons, and the sleeves of his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> +coat were turned back neatly off his wrists. +This, though, could not have been on account +of the heat, because the weather wasn't very +hot yet. I learned later that, winter or +summer, he always kept his coat sleeves turned +back and the upper buttons of his vest unfastened. +His hands were small and plump, +and his feet were small too and daintily shod +in low, square-toed shoes. About the whole +man there was an air somehow of full-bloomed +foppishness gone to tassel—as though having +been a dandy once, he was now merely neat +and precise in his way of dress.</p> + +<p>He was talking along with the death of Albert +Sidney Johnston for his subject, not seeming +to notice that his audience wasn't deeply +interested. He had, it seemed, a way of stating +a proposition as a fact, as an indisputable, +everlasting, eternal fact, an immutable thing. +It became immutable through his way of +stating it. Then he would frame it in the form +of a question and ask it. Then he would +answer it himself and go right ahead.</p> + +<p>Boynton, the managing editor, was coiled +up at his desk, wearing a look of patient endurance +on his face. Harty, the telegraph editor, +was trying to do his work—trying, I say, +because the orator was booming away like a +bittern within three feet of him and Harty +plainly was pestered and fretful. Really the +only person in sight who seemed entertained +was Sidley, the exchange editor, a young man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> +with hair that had turned white before its time +and in his eye the devil-driven look of a man +who drinks hard, not because he wants to drink +but because he can't help drinking. Sidley, +as I was to find out later, had less cause to +care for the old man than anybody about the +shop, for he used to disarrange Sidley's neatly +piled exchanges, pawing through them for his +favorite papers. But Sidley could forget his +own grievances in watchful enjoyment of the +dumb sufferings of Harty, whom he hated, as +I came to know, with the blind hate a dipsomaniac +often has for any mild and perfectly +harmless individual.</p> + +<p>As I stood there taking in the picture, the +speaker, sensing a stranger's presence, faced +clear about and saw me. He nodded with a +grave courtesy, and then paused a moment as +though expecting that one of the others would +introduce us. None of the others did introduce +us though, so he went ahead talking about +Albert Sidney Johnston's death, and I turned +away. I stopped by Devore's desk.</p> + +<p>“Who is he?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“That,” he said, with a kind of leashed and +restrained ferocity in his voice, “is Major +Putnam P. Stone—and the P stands for Pest, +which is his middle name—late of the Southern +Confederacy.”</p> + +<p>“Picturesque-looking old fellow, isn't he?” +I said.</p> + +<p>“Picturesque old nuisance,” he said, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +jabbed at his scalp with his pencil as though +he meant to puncture his skull. “Wait until +you've been here a few weeks and you'll have +another name for him.”</p> + +<p>“Well, anyway, he's got a good carrying +voice,” I said, rather at a loss to understand +Devore's bitterness.</p> + +<p>“Great,” he mocked venomously; “you can +hear it a mile. I hear it in my sleep. So will +you when you get to know him, the old bore!”</p> + +<p>In due time I did get to know Major Stone +well. He was dignified, tiresome, conversational, +gentle mannered and, I think, rather +lonely. By driblets, a scrap here and a scrap +there, I learned something about his private +life. He came from the extreme eastern end +of the state. He belonged to an old family. +His grandfather—or maybe it was his great-grand-uncle—had +been one of the first United +States senators that went to Washington after +our state was admitted into the Union. He +had never married. He had no business or +profession. From some property or other he +drew an income, small, but enough to keep him +in a sort of simple and genteel poverty. He +belonged to the best club in town and the most +exclusive, the Shawnee Club, and he had served +four years in the Confederate army. That +last was the one big thing in his life. To the +major's conceptions everything that happened +before 1861 had been of a preparatory nature, +leading up to and paving the way for the main<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +event; and what had happened since 1865 +was of no consequence, except in so far as it +reflected the effects of the Civil War.</p> + +<p>Daily, as methodically as a milkwagon horse, +he covered the same route. First he sat in +the reading room of the old Gaunt House, +where by an open fire in winter or by an open +window in summer he discussed the blunders +of Braxton Bragg and similar congenial topics +with a little group of aging, fading, testy +veterans. On his way to the Shawnee Club +he would come by the Evening Press office +and stay an hour, or two hours, or three hours, +to go away finally with a couple of favored +exchanges tucked under his arm, and leave us +with our ears still dinned and tingling. Once +in a while of a night, passing the Gaunt House +on my way to the boarding house where I +lived—for four dollars a week—I would see +him through the windows, sometimes sitting +alone, sometimes with one of his cronies.</p> + +<p>Round the office he sometimes bothered us +and sometimes he interfered with our work; +but mainly all the men on the staff liked him, +I think, or at least we put up with him. In +our home town each of us had known somebody +very much like him—there used to be at least +one Major Stone in every community in the +South, although most of them are dead now, +I guess—so we all could understand him. +When I say all I mean all but Devore. The +major's mere presence would poison Devore's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +whole day for him. The major's blaring notes +would cross-cut Devore's nerves as with a dull +and haggling saw. He—Devore I mean—disliked +the major with a dislike almost too +deep for words. It had got to be an obsession +with him.</p> + +<p>“You fellows that were born down here have +to stand for him,” he said once, when the +major had stumped out on his short legs after +an unusually long visit. “It's part of the +penalty you pay for belonging in this country. +But I don't have to venerate him and fuss over +him and listen to him. I'm a Yankee, thank +the Lord!” Devore came from Michigan and +had worked on papers in Cleveland and Detroit +before he drifted South. “Oh, we've got his +counterpart up my way,” he went on. “Up +there he'd be a pension-grabbing old kicker, +ready to have a fit any time anybody wearing +a gray uniform got within ninety miles of him, +and writing red-hot letters of protest to the +newspapers every time the state authorities +sent a captured battle flag back down South. +Down here he's a pompous, noisy old fraud, too +proud to work for a living—or too lazy—and +too poor to count for anything in this world. +The difference is that up in my country we've +squelched the breed—we got good and tired +of these professional Bloody Shirt wavers a +good while ago; but here you fuss over this +man, and you'll sit round and pretend to listen +while he drools away about things that happened<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +before any one of you was born. Do +you fellows know what I've found out about +your Major Putnam Stone? He's a life member +of the Shawnee Club—a life member, mind +you! And here I've been living in this town +over a year, and nobody ever so much as +invited me inside its front door!”</p> + +<p>All of which was, perhaps, true, even though +Devore had an unnecessarily harsh way of +stating the case; the part about the Shawnee +Club was true, at any rate, and I used to think +it possibly had something to do with Devore's +feelings for Major Stone. Not that Devore +gave open utterance to his feelings to the +major's face. To the major he was always +silently polite, with a little edging of ice on +his politeness; he saved up his spleen to spew +it out behind the old fellow's back. Farther +than that he couldn't well afford to go anyhow. +The Chief, owner of the paper and its editor, +was the major's friend. As for the major +himself, he seemed never to notice Devore's +attitude. For a fact, I believe he actually felt +a sort of pity for Devore, seeing that Devore +had been born in the North. Not to have been +born in the South was, from the major's way of +looking at the thing, a great and regrettable +misfortune for which the victim could not be +held responsible, since the fault lay with his +parents and not with him. By way of a suitable +return for this, Devore spent many a spare +moment thinking up grotesque yet wickedly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +appropriate nicknames for the major. He +called him Old First and Second Manassas +and Old Hardee's Tactics and Old Valley of +Virginia. He called him an old bluffer too.</p> + +<p>He was wrong there, though, certainly. +Though the major talked pretty exclusively +about the war, I took notice that he rarely +talked about the part he himself had played +in it. Indeed, he rarely discussed anybody +below the rank of brigadier. The errors of +Hood's campaign concerned him more deeply +than the personal performances of any individual. +Campaigns you might say were his +specialty, campaigns and strategy. About such +things as these he could talk for hours—and +he did.</p> + +<p>I've known other men—plenty of them—not +nearly so well educated as the major, who +could tell you tales of the war that would +make you see it—yes, and smell it too—the +smoke of the campfires, the unutterable fatigue +of forced marches when the men, with their +tongues lolling out of their mouths like dogs, +staggered along, panting like dogs; the bloody +prints of unshod feet on flinty, frozen clods; +the shock and fearful joy of the fighting; the +shamed numbness of retreats; artillery horses, +their hides all blood-boltered and their tails +clubbed and clotted with mire, lying dead with +stiff legs between overturned guns; dead men +piled in heaps and living men huddled in +panics—all of it. But when the major talked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> +I saw only some serious-minded officers, in +whiskers of an obsolete cut and queer-looking +shirt collars, poring over maps round a table +in a farmhouse parlor. When he chewed on +the cud of the vanished past it certainly was +mighty dry chewing.</p> + +<p>There came a day, a few weeks after I went +to work for the Evening Press, when for once +anyway the major didn't seem to have anything +to say. It was in the middle of a blistering, +smothering hot forenoon in early June, muggy +and still and close, when a fellow breathing +felt as though he had his nose buried in layers +of damp cotton waste. The city room was a +place fit to addle eggs, and from the composing +room at the back the stenches of melting metals +and stale machine oils came rolling in to us in +nasty waves. With his face glistening through +the trickling sweat, the major came in about +ten o'clock, fanning himself with his hat, and +when he spoke his greeting the booming note +seemed all melted and gone out of his voice. +He went through the city room into the room +behind the partition, and passing through a +minute later I saw him sitting there with one +of Sidley's exchanges unfolded across his knee, +but he wasn't reading it. Presently I saw him +climbing laboriously up the stairs to the second +floor where the chief had his office. At quitting +time that afternoon I dropped into the place +on the corner for a beer, and I was drinking it, +as close to an electric fan as I could get, when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +Devore came in and made for where I was +standing. I asked him to have something.</p> + +<p>“I'll take the same,” he said to the man +behind the bar, and then to me with a kind +of explosive snap: “By George, I'm in a good +mind to resign this rotten job!” That didn't +startle me. I had been in the business long +enough to know that the average newspaper +man is forever threatening to resign. Most +of them—to hear them talk—are always +just on the point of throwing up their jobs +and buying a good-paying country weekly +somewhere and taking things easy for the rest +of their lives, or else they're going into magazine +work. Only they hardly ever do it. So +Devore's threat didn't jar me much. I'd +heard it too often.</p> + +<p>“What's the trouble?” I asked. “Heat +getting on your nerves?”</p> + +<p>“No, it's not the heat,” he said peevishly; +“it's worse than the heat. Do you know +what's happened? The chief has saddled Old +Signal Corps on me. Yes, sir, I've got to take +his old pet, the major, on the city staff. It +seems he's succeeded in losing what little +property he had—the chief told me some rigmarole +about sudden financial reverses—and +now he's down and out. So I'm elected. I've +got to take him on as a reporter—a cub +reporter sixty-odd years old, mind you, who +hasn't heard of anything worth while since +Robert E. Lee surrendered!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>The pathos of the situation—if you could +call it that—hit me with a jolt; but it hadn't +hit Devore, that was plain. He saw only the +annoying part of it.</p> + +<p>“What's he going to do?” I asked—“assignments, +or cover a route like the district men?”</p> + +<p>“Lord knows,” said Devore. “Because the +old bore knows a lot of big people in this town +and is friendly with all the old-timers in the +state, the chief has a wild delusion that he can +pick up a lot of stuff that an ordinary reporter +wouldn't get. Rats!</p> + +<p>“Come on, let's take another beer,” he said, +and then he added: “Well, I'll just make +you two predictions. He'll be a total loss as +a reporter—that's one prediction; and the +other is that he'll have a hard time buying his +provender and his toddies over at the Shawnee +Club on the salary he'll draw down from the +Evening Press.”</p> + +<p>Devore was not such a very great city editor, +as I know now in the light of fuller experience, +but I must say that as a prophet he was fairly +accurate. The major did have a hard time +living on his salary—it was twelve a week, +I learned—and as a reporter he certainly was +not what you would call a dazzling success. +He came on for duty at eight the next morning, +the same as the rest of us, and sorry as I +felt for him I had to laugh. He had bought +himself a leather-backed notebook as big as a +young ledger, just as a green kid just out of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +high school would have done, and he had a +long, new, shiny, freshly sharpened lead pencil +sticking out of the breast pocket of his coat. +He tried to come in smartly with a businesslike +air, but it wouldn't have fooled a blind man, +because he was as nervous as a debutante. It +struck me as one of the funniest things—and +one of the most pathetic—I had ever seen.</p> + +<p>I'll say this for Devore—he tried out the +major on nearly every kind of job; and surely +it wasn't Devore's fault that the major failed +on every single one of them. His first attempt +was as typical a failure as any of them. That +first morning Devore assigned him to cover a +wedding at high noon, high noon being the +phrase we always used for a wedding that took +place round twelve o'clock in the day. The +daughter of one of the wealthiest merchants in +the town, and also one of our largest advertisers, +was going to be married to the first deputy +cotillion leader of the German Club, or something +of that nature. Anyhow the groom was +what is known as prominent in society, and the +chief wanted a spread made of it. Devore sent +the major out to cover the wedding, and when +he came back told him to write about half a +column.</p> + +<p>He wrote half a column before he mentioned +the bride's name. He started off with an eight-line +quotation from Walter Scott's Lady of the +Lake, and then he went into a long, flowery +dissertation on the sacred rite or ceremony of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> +matrimony, proving conclusively and beyond +the peradventure of a doubt that it was handed +down to us from remote antiquity. And he +forgot altogether to tell the minister's name, +and he got the groom's middle initial wrong—he +was the kind of groom who would make a +fuss over a wrong middle initial, too—and +along toward the end of his story he devoted +about three closely-written pages to the military +history of the young woman's father. It +seems that her parent had served with distinction +as colonel of a North Carolina regiment. +And he wound up with a fancy flourish and +handed it in. I know all these details of his +story, because it fell to me to rewrite it.</p> + +<p>Devore didn't say a word when the old major +reverently laid that armload of copy down in +front of him. He just sat and waited in silence +until the major had gone out to get a bite to +eat, and then he undertook to edit it. But +there wasn't any way to edit it, except to throw +it away. I suppose that kind of literature went +very well indeed back along about 1850; I +remember having read such accounts in the +back files of old weeklies, printed before the +war. But we were getting out a live, snappy +paper. Devore tried to pattern the local side +after the New York and Chicago models. As +yet we hadn't reached the point where we spoke +of any white woman without the prefix Mrs. +or Miss before her name, but we were up-to-date +in a good many other particulars. Why,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +it was even against the office rule to run +“beauty and chivalry” into a story when +describing a mixed assemblage of men and +women; and when a Southern newspaper bars +out that ancient and honorable standby among +phrases it is a sign that the old order has +changed.</p> + +<p>For ten minutes or so Devore, cursing softly +to himself, cut and chopped and gutted his way +through the major's introduction, and between +slashing strokes made a war map of the Balkans +in his scalp with his blue pencil. Then +he lost patience altogether.</p> + +<p>“Here,” he said to me, “you're not doing +anything, are you? Well, take this awful +bunch of mushy slush and read it through, and +then try to make a decent half-column story +out of it. And rush it over a page at a time, +will you? We've got to hustle to catch the +three o'clock edition with it.”</p> + +<p>Long before three o'clock the major was back +in the shop, waiting for the first run of papers +to come off the press. Furtively I watched him +as he hunted through the sticky pages to find +his first story. I guess he had the budding +pride of authorship in him, just as all the rest +of us have it in us. But he didn't find his +story, he found mine. He didn't say anything, +but he looked crushed and forlorn as he got up +and went away. It was like him not to ask +for any explanations, and it was like Devore +not to offer him any.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>So it went. Even if he had grown up in the +business I doubt whether Major Putnam Stone +would ever have made a newspaper man; and +now he was too far along in life to pick up even +the rudiments of the trade. He didn't have +any more idea of news values than a rabbit. +He had the most amazing faculty for overlooking +what was vital in the news, but he +could always be depended upon to pick out +some trivial and inconsequential detail and +dress it up with about half a yard of old-point +lace adjectives. He never by any chance used +a short word if he could dig up a long, hard one, +and he never seemed to be able to start a story +without a quotation from one of the poets. It +never was a modern poet either. Excepting +for Sidney Lanier and Father Ryan, apparently +he hadn't heard of any poet worth while since +Edgar Allan Poe died. And everything that +happened seemed to remind him—at great +length—of something else that had happened +between 1861 and 1865. When it came to +lugging the Civil War into a tale, he was as +bad as that character in one of Dickens' novels +who couldn't keep the head of King Charles +the First out of his literary productions. With +that reared-back, flat-heeled, stiff-spined gait +of his, he would go rummaging round the +hotels and the Shawnee Club, meeting all sorts +of people and hearing all sorts of things that +a real reporter would have snatched at like a +hungry dog snatching at a T-bone, and then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> +he would remember that it was the fortieth +anniversary of the Battle of Kenesaw Mountain, +or something, and, forgetting everything +else, would come bulging and bustling back +to the office, all worked up over the prospect +of writing two or three columns about that. +He just simply couldn't get the viewpoint; +yet I think he tried hard enough. I guess the +man who said you couldn't teach an old dog +new tricks had particular reference to an old +war dog.</p> + +<p>I remember mighty well one incident that +illustrates the point I am trying to make. +We had a Sunday edition. We were rather +vain of our Sunday edition. It carried a +colored comic supplement and a section full +of special features, and we all took a more or +less righteous pride in it and tried hard to make +it alive and attractive. We didn't always +succeed, but we tried all right. One Saturday +night we put the Sunday to bed, and about one +o'clock, when the last form was locked, three +or four of us dropped into Tony's place at +the corner for a bite to eat and a drink. We +hadn't been there very long when in came the +old major, and at my invitation he joined us +at one of Tony's little round tables at the back +of the place. As a general thing the major +didn't patronize Tony's. I had never heard +him say so—probably he wouldn't have said +it for fear of hurting our feelings—but I +somehow had gathered the impression that the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> +major believed a gentleman, if he drank at all, +should drink at his club. But it was long after +midnight now and the Shawnee Club would +be closed. Ike Webb spoke up presently.</p> + +<p>“It's a pity we couldn't dig up the governor +tonight,” he said.</p> + +<p>The governor had come down from the state +capital about noon, and all the afternoon and +during most of the evening Webb had been +trying to find him. There was a possibility +of a big story in the governor if Webb could +have found him. The major, who had been +sitting there stirring his toddy in an absent-minded +sort of way, spoke up casually: “I +spent an hour with the governor tonight—at +my club. In fact, I supped with him in +one of the private dining rooms.” We looked +up, startled, but the major went right along. +“Young gentlemen, it may interest you to +know that every time I see our worthy governor +I am struck more and more by his +resemblance to General Leonidas Polk, as that +gallant soldier and gentleman looked when I +last saw him——”</p> + +<p>Devore, who had been sitting next to the +major, with his shoulder half turned from the +old man, swung round sharply and interrupted +him.</p> + +<p>“Major,” he said, with a thin icy stream of +sarcasm trickling through his words, “did +you and the governor by any remote chance +discuss anything so brutally new and fresh<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +as the present political complications in this +state?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” said the major blandly. “We +discussed them quite at some length—or at +least the governor did. Personally I do not +take a great interest in these matters, not so +great an interest as I should, perhaps, take. +However, I did feel impelled to take issue with +him on one point. Our governor is an honest +gentleman—more than that, he was a brave +soldier—but I fear he is mistaken in some of +his attitudes. I regard him as being badly +advised. For example, he told me that no +longer ago than this afternoon he affixed his +official signature to a veto of Senator Stickney's +measure in regard to the warehouses of +our state——”</p> + +<p>As Devore jumped up he overturned the +major's toddy right in the major's lap. He +didn't stop to beg pardon, though; in fact, +none of us stopped. But at the door I threw +one glance backward over my shoulder. The +major was still sitting reared back in his chair, +with his wasted toddy seeping all down the +front of his billowy shirt, viewing our vanishing +figures with amazement and a mild reproof +in his eyes. In the one quick glance that I +took I translated his expression to mean +something like this:</p> + +<p>“Good Heavens, is this any way for a party +of gentlemen to break up! This could never +happen at a gentlemen's club.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>It was a foot-race back to the office, and +Devore, who had the start, won by a short +length. Luckily the distance was short, not +quite half a block, and the presses hadn't +started yet. Working like the crew of a sinking +ship, we snatched the first page form back +off the steam table and pried it open and +gouged a double handful of hot slugs out of +the last column—Devore blistered his fingers +doing it. A couple of linotype operators who +were on the late trick threw together the stick +or two of copy that Webb and I scribbled off +a line at a time. And while we were doing this +Devore framed a triple-deck, black-face head. +So we missed only one mail.</p> + +<p>The first page had a ragged, sloppy look, but +anyway we were saved from being scooped to +death on the most important story of the year. +The vetoing of the Stickney Bill vitally affected +the tobacco interests, and they were the biggest +interests in the state, and half the people of +the state had been thinking about nothing else +and talking about nothing else for two months—ever +since the extra session of the legislature +started. It was well for us too that we did +save our faces, because the opposition sheet +had managed to find the governor—he was +stopping for the night at the house of a friend +out in the suburbs—and over the telephone +at a late hour he had announced his decision +to them. But by Monday morning the major +seemed to have forgotten the whole thing. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +think he had even forgiven Devore for spilling +his toddy and not stopping to apologize.</p> + +<p>As for Devore, he didn't say a word to the +major—what would have been the use? To +Devore's credit also I will say that he didn't +run to the chief, bearing complaints of the +major's hopeless incompetency. He kept his +tongue between his teeth and his teeth locked; +and that must have been hard on Devore, for he +was a flickery, high-tempered man, and nervous +as a cat besides. To my knowledge, the only +time he ever broke out was when we teetotally +missed the Castleton divorce story. So far as +the major's part in it was concerned, it was +the Stickney veto story all over again, with +variations. The Castletons were almost the +richest people in town, and socially they stood +way up. That made the scandal that had been +brewing and steeping and simmering for months +all the bigger when finally it came to a boil. +When young Buford Castleton got his eyes +open and became aware of what everybody else +had known for a year or more, and when the +rival evening paper came out in its last edition +with the full particulars, we, over in the Evening +Press shop, were plastered with shame, for +we didn't have a line of it.</p> + +<p>A stranger dropping in just about that time +would have been justified in thinking there +was a corpse laid out in the plant somewhere, +and that all the members of the city staff +were sitting up with the remains. As luck<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +would have it, it wasn't a stranger that dropped +in on our grand lodge of sorrow. It was +Major Putnam Stone, and as he entered the +door he caught the tag end of what one of us +was saying.</p> + +<p>“I gather,” he said in that large round +voice of his, “that you young gentlemen are +discussing the unhappy affair which, I note, is +mentioned with such signally poor taste in the +columns of our sensational contemporary. I +may state that I knew of this contemplated +divorce action yesterday. Mr. Buford Castleton, +Senior, was my informant.”</p> + +<p>“What!” Devore almost yelled it. He had +the love of a true city editor for his paper, and +the love of a mother for her child or a miser +for his gold is no greater love than that, let me +tell you. “You knew about this thing here?” +He beat with two fingers that danced like the +prongs of a tuning fork on the paper spread +out in front of him. “You knew it yesterday?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” said the major. “The elder +Mr. Castleton bared the truly distressing +details to me at the Shawnee Club.”</p> + +<p>“In confidence though—he told you about +it in confidence, didn't he, major?” said Ike +Webb, trying to save the old fellow.</p> + +<p>But the major besottedly wouldn't be saved.</p> + +<p>“Absolutely not,” he said. “There were +several of us present, at least three other +gentlemen whose names I cannot now recall. +Mr. Castleton made the disclosure as though<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +he wished it to be known among his friends +and his son's friends. It was quite evident to +all of us that he was entirely out of sympathy +with the lady who is his daughter-in-law.”</p> + +<p>Devore forced himself to be calm. It was +almost as though he sat on himself to hold +himself down in his chair; but when he spoke +his voice ran up and down the scales quiveringly.</p> + +<p>“Major,” he said, “don't you think it would +be a good idea if you would admit that the +Southern Confederacy was defeated, and turned +your attention to a few things that have occurred +subsequently? Why didn't you write +this story? Why didn't you tell me, so that I +could write it? Why didn't——Oh, what's +the use!”</p> + +<p>The major straightened himself up.</p> + +<p>“Sir,” he said, “allow me to correct you in +regard to a plain misstatement of fact. Sir, +the Southern Confederacy was never defeated. +It ceased to exist as a nation because we were +exhausted—because our devastated country +was exhausted. Another thing, sir, I am +employed upon this paper, I gainsay you, as +a reporter, not as a scandal monger. I would +be the last to give circulation in the public +prints to another gentleman's domestic unhappiness. +I regard it as highly improper that a +gentleman's private affairs should be aired in +a newspaper under any circumstances.”</p> + +<p>And with that he bowed and turned on his +heel and went out, leaving Devore shaking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +all over with the superhuman task of trying +to hold himself in. About ten minutes later, +when I came out bound for my boarding house, +the major was standing at the front door. He +looped one of his absurdly small fingers into +one of my buttonholes.</p> + +<p>“Our city editor means well, no doubt,” +he said, “but he doesn't understand, he doesn't +appreciate our conceptions of these matters. +He was born on the other side of the river, +you know,” he said as though that explained +everything. Then his tone changed and anxiety +crept into it. “Do you think that I went too +far? Do you think I ought to return to him +and apologize to him for the somewhat hasty +and abrupt manner of speech I used just now?”</p> + +<p>I told him no—I didn't know what might +happen if he went back in there then—and +I persuaded him that Devore didn't expect +any apology; and with that he seemed better +satisfied and walked off. As I stood there +watching him, his stiff old back growing smaller +as he went away from me, I didn't know which +I blamed the more, Devore for his malignant, +cold disdain of the major, or the major for his +blatant stupidity. And right then and there, +all of a sudden, there came to me an understanding +of a thing that had been puzzling me +all these weeks. Often I had wondered how +the major had endured Devore's contempt. +I had decided in my own mind that he must be +blind to it, else he would have shown resentment.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +But now I knew the answer. The +major wasn't blind, he was afraid; as the saying +goes, he was afraid of his job. He needed it; +he needed the little scrap of money it brought +him every Saturday night. That was it, I +knew now.</p> + +<p>Knowing it made me sorrier than ever for +the old man. Dimly I began to realize, I +think, what his own mental attitude toward +his position must be. Here he was, a mere +cub reporter—and a remarkably bad one, a +proven failure—skirmishing round for small, +inconsequential items, running errands really, +at an age when most of the men he knew were +getting ready to retire from business. Yet +he didn't dare quit. He didn't dare even to +rebel against the slights of the man over him, +because he needed that twelve dollars a week. +It was all, no doubt, that stood between him +and actual want. His pride was bleeding to +death internally. On top of all that he was +being forced into a readjustment of his whole +scheme of things, at a time of life when its +ordered routine was almost as much a part +of him as his hands and feet. As I figured +it, he had long before adjusted his life to +his income, cunningly fitting in certain small +luxuries and all the small comforts; and now +this income was cut to a third or a quarter +perhaps of its former dimensions. It seemed +a pretty hard thing for the major. It was +fierce.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>Perhaps my vision was clouded by my sympathy, +but I thought Major Stone aged visibly +that summer. Maybe you have noticed how +it is with men who have gone along, hale and +stanch, until they reach a certain age. When +they do start to break they break fast. He +lost some of his flesh and most of his rosiness. +The skin on his face loosened a little and +became a tallowy yellowish-red, somewhat like +a winter-killed apple.</p> + +<p>His wardrobe suffered. One day one of his +short little shoes was split across the top just +back of the toe cap, and the next morning +it was patched. Pretty soon the other shoe +followed suit—first a crack in the leather, +then a clumsy patch over the crack. He wore +his black slouch hat until it was as green in +spots as a gage plum; and late in August he +supplanted it with one of those cheap, varnished +brown-straw hats that cost about thirty-five +cents apiece and look it.</p> + +<p>His linen must have been one of his small +extravagances. Those majestically collared +garments with the tremendous plaited bosoms +and the hand worked eyelets, where the three +big flat gold studs went in, never came ready +made from any shop. They must have been +built to his measure and his order. Now +he wore them until there were gaped places +between the plaits where the fine, fragile linen +had ripped lengthwise, and the collars were +frayed down and broken across and caved in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +limply. Finally he gave them up too, and +one morning came to work wearing a flimsy, +sleazy, negligee shirt. I reckon you know the +kind of shirt I mean—always it fits badly, +and the sleeves are always short and the bosom +is skimpy, and the color design is like bad wall-paper. +After his old full-bosomed grandeur +this shirt, with a ten-cent collar buttoned on +to it and overriding the neckband, and gaping +away in the front so that the major's throat +showed, seemed to typify more than anything +else the days upon which he had fallen. +About this time I thought his voice took +on a changed tone permanently. It was still +hollow, but it no longer rang.</p> + +<p>A good many men similarly placed would +have taken to drink, but Major Putnam Stone +plainly was never born to be a drunkard and +hard times couldn't make one of him. With +a sort of gentle, stupid persistence he hung +fast to his poor job, blundering through some +way, struggling constantly to learn the first +easy tricks of the trade—the a, b, c's of it—and +never succeeding. He still lugged the +classical poets and the war into every story +he tried to write, and day after day Devore +maintained his policy of eloquent brutal silence, +refusing dumbly to accept the major's clumsy +placating attempts to get upon a better footing +with him. After that once he had never +attempted to scold the old man, but he would +watch the major pottering round the city room,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +and he would chew on his under lip and viciously +lance his scalp with his pencil point.</p> + +<p>Well, aside from the major, Devore had his +troubles that summer. That was the summer +of the biggest, bitterest campaign that the +state had seen, so old-timers said, since Breckinridge +ran against Douglas and both of them +against Lincoln. If you have ever lived in the +South, probably you know something of political +fights that will divide a state into two +armed camps, getting hotter and hotter until +old slumbering animosities come crawling out +into the open, like poison snakes from under +a rock, and new lively ones hatch from the +shell every hour or so in a multiplying adder +brood.</p> + +<p>This was like that, only worse. Stripped of +a lot of embroidery in the shape of side issues +and local complications, it resolved itself in a +last-ditch, last-stand, back-to-the-wall fight of +the old régime of the party against the new. +On one side were the oldsters, bearers of famous +names some of them, who had learned politics +as a trade and followed it as a profession. +Almost to a man they were professional office +holders, professional handshakers, professional +silver tongues. And against them were pitted +a greedy, hungry group of younger men, less +showy perhaps in their persons, less picturesque +in their manner of speech, but filled each one +with a great yearning for office and power; +and they brought to the aid of their vaulting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> +ambitions a new and a faultlessly running +machine. From the outset the Evening Press +had championed the cause of the old crowd—the +state-house ring as the enemy called it, +when they didn't call it something worse. We +championed it not as a Northern or an Eastern +paper might, in a sedate, half-hearted way, but +fiercely and wholly and blindly—so blindly +that we could see nothing in our own faction +but what was good and high and pure, nothing +in the other but what was smutted with evil +intent. In daily double-leaded editorial columns +the chief preached a Holy War, and in +the local pages we fought the foe tooth and +nail, biting and gouging and clawing, and they +gouged and clawed back at us like catamounts. +That was where the hard work fell upon Devore. +He had to keep half his scanty staff working +on politics while the other half tried to cover +the run of the news.</p> + +<p>If I live to be a thousand years old I am +not going to forget the state convention that +began at two o'clock that muggy September +afternoon at Lyric Hall up on Washington +Street in the old part of the town. Once upon +a time, twenty or thirty years before, Lyric +Hall had been the biggest theater in town. +The stage was still there and the boxes, and +at the back there were miles—they seemed +miles anyway—of ancient, crumbling, dauby +scenery stacked up and smelling of age and +decay. Booth and Barrett had played there,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> +and Fanny Davenport and Billy Florence. +Now, having fallen from its high estate, it +served altered purposes—conventions were +held at Lyric Hall and cheap masquerade balls +and the like.</p> + +<p>The press tables that had been provided +were not, strictly speaking, press tables at +all. They were ordinary unpainted kitchen +tables, ranged two on one side and two on the +other side at the front of the stage, close up +to the old gas-tipped footlights; and when we +came in by the back way that afternoon and +found our appointed places I was struck by +certain sinister facts. Usually women flocked +to a state convention. By rights there should +have been ladies in the boxes and in the balcony. +Now there wasn't a woman in sight anywhere, +only men, row after row of them. And there +wasn't any cheering, or mighty little of it. +When I tell you the band played Dixie all the +way through with only a stray whoop now and +then, you will understand better the temper +of that crowd.</p> + +<p>The situation, you see, was like this: One +side had carried the mountain end of the +state; the other had carried the lowlands. +One side had swept the city; that meant a +solid block of more than a hundred delegates. +The other side had won the small towns and +the inland counties. So it stood lowlander +against highlander, city man against country +man, and the bitter waters of those ancient<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +feuds have their wellsprings back a thousand +years in history, they tell me. One side led +slenderly on instructed vote. The other side +had enough contesting delegations on hand to +upset the result if these contestants or any +considerable proportion of them should be +recognized in the preliminary organization.</p> + +<p>One side held a majority of the delegates who +sat upon the floor; the other side had packed +the balcony and the aisles and the corners with +its armed partizans. One side was in the +saddle and determined; the other afoot and +grimly desperate. And it was our side, as I +shall call it, meaning by that the state-house +ring, that for the moment had the whiphand; +and it was the other side, led in person by State +Senator Stickney, god of the new machine, +that stood ready to wade hip deep through +trouble to unhorse us.</p> + +<p>Just below me, stretching across the hall +from side to side in favored front places, sat +the city delegates—Stickney men all of them. +And as my eye swept the curved double row +of faces it seemed to me I saw there every man +in town with a reputation as a gun-fighter or +a knife-fighter or a fist-fighter; and every one +of them wore, pinning his delegate's badge to +his breast, a Stickney button that was round +and bright red, like a clot of blood on his shirt +front.</p> + +<p>They made a contrast, these half-moon +lines of blocky men, to the lank, slouch-hatted,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +low-collared country delegates—farmers, school +teachers, country doctors and country lawyers—who +filled the seats behind them and on +beyond them. To the one group politics was +a business in which there was money to be +made and excitement to be had; to the other +group it was a passion, veritably a sacredly +high and serious thing, which they took as +they did their religion, with a solemn, intolerant, +Calvinistic sincerity. There was one +thing, though, they all shared in common. +Whether a man's coat was of black alpaca or +striped flannel, the right-hand pocket sagged +under the weight of unseen ironmongery; or if +the coat pocket didn't sag there was a bulging +clump back under the skirts on the right hip. +For all the heat, hardly a man there was in +his shirtsleeves; and it would have been funny +to watch how carefully this man or that eased +himself down into his seat, favoring his flanks +against the pressure of his hardware—that is +to say, it would have been funny if it all hadn't +been so deadly earnest.</p> + +<p>You could fairly smell trouble cooking in +that hall. In any corner almost there were +the potential makings of half a dozen prominent +funerals. There was scarce a man, I judged, +but nursed a private grudge against some +other man; and then besides these there was +the big issue itself, which had split the state +apart lengthwise as a butcher's cleaver splits +a joint. Looking out over that convention,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +you could read danger spelled out everywhere, +in everything, as plain as print.</p> + +<p>I was where I could read it with particular +and uncomfortable distinctness, too, for I had +the second place at the table that had been +assigned to the Evening Press crew. There +were four of us in all—Devore, who had +elected to be in direct charge of the detail; +Ike Webb, our star man, who was to handle +the main story; I who was to write the running +account—and, fourthly and lastly, Major +Putnam Stone. The major hadn't been included +in the assignment originally, but little +Pinky Gilfoil had turned up sick that morning, +and the chief decided the major should come +along with us in Gilfoil's place. The chief +had a deluded notion that the major could +circulate on a roving commission and pick up +spicy scraps of gossip. But here, for this once +anyway, was a convention wherein there were +no spicy bits of gossip to be picked up—curse +words, yes, and cold-chilled fighting words, +but not gossip—everything focused and was +summed up in the one main point: Should +the majority rule the machine or should the +machine rule the majority? So the major sat +there at the far inside corner of the table doing +nothing at all—Devore saw to that—and +was rather in the way. For the time I forgot +all about him.</p> + +<p>The clash wasn't long in coming. It came +on the first roll call of the counties. Later<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> +we found out that the Stickney forces had been +counting, all along, on throwing the convention +into a disorder of such proportions as to force +an adjournment, trusting then to their acknowledged +superiority at organization to win some +strong strategic advantage in the intervening +gap of time. Failing there they meant to raise +a cry of unfairness and walk out. That then +was their program—first the riot and then, +as a last resort, the bolt. But they had men +in their ranks, high-tempered men who, like +so many skittish colts, wouldn't stand without +hitching. The signals crossed and the thunder +cracked across that calm-before-the-storm situation +before there was proper color of excuse +either for attack or for retreat.</p> + +<p>It came with scarcely any warning at all. +Old Judge Marcellus Barbee, the state chairman, +called the convention to order, he standing +at a little table in the center of the stage. +Although counted as our man, the judge was +of such uncertain fiber as to render it doubtful +whose man he really was. He was a kindly, +wind-blown old gentleman, who very much +against his will had been drawn unawares, as it +were, into the middle of this fight, and he was +bewildered by it all—and not only bewildered +but unhappy and frightened. His gavel +seemed to quaver its raps out timorously.</p> + +<p>A pastor of one of the churches, a reverend +man with a bleak, worried face, prayed the +Good Lord that peace and good-will and wise<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> +counsel might rule these deliberations, and then +fled away as though fearing the mocking echoes +of his own Amen. Summoning his skulking +voice out of his lower throat, Judge Barbee +bade the secretary of the state committee +call the counties. The secretary got as far +as Blanton, the third county alphabetically +down the list. And Blanton was one of the +contested counties. So up rose two rival +chairmen of delegations, each waving aloft +his credentials, each demanding the right to +cast the vote of free and sovereign Blanton, +each shaking a clenched fist at the other. Up +got the rival delegations from Blanton. Up +got everybody. Judge Barbee, with a gesture, +recognized the rights of the anti-Stickney delegation. +Jeers and yells broke out, spattering +forth like a skirmish fire, then almost instantly +were merged into a vast, ominous roar. Chairs +began to overturn. Not twenty feet from me +the clattering of the chairman's gavel, as he +vainly beat for order, sounded like the clicking +of a telegraph instrument in a cyclone.</p> + +<p>I saw the sergeant-at-arms—who was our +man too—start down the middle aisle and +saw him trip over a hostile leg and stumble +and fall, and I saw a big mountaineer drop +right on top of him, pinning him flat to the +floor. I saw the musicians inside the orchestra +rail, almost under my feet, scuttling away in +two directions like a divided covey of gorgeous +blue and red birds. I saw the snare drummer,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +a little round German, put his foot through +the skin roof of his own drum. I saw Judge +Barbee overturn the white china pitcher of ice +water that sweated on the table at his elbow, +and as the cold stream of its contents spattered +down the legs of his trousers saw him staring +downward, contemplating his drenched limbs +as though that mattered greatly.</p> + +<p>All in a flash I saw these things, and in that +same flash I saw, taking shape and impulse, +a groundswell of men, all wearing red buttons, +rolling toward the stage, with the picked bad +men of the city wards for its crest; and out +of the tail of my eye I saw too, stealing out +from the rear of the stage, a small, compact +wedge of men wearing those same red buttons; +and the prow of the wedge was Fighting Dave +Dancy, the official bad man of a bad county, +a man who packed a gun on each hip and carried +a dirk knife down the back of his neck; a man +who would shoot you at the drop of a hat and +provide the hat himself—or at least so it was +said of him.</p> + +<p>And I realized that the enemy, coming by +concerted agreement from front and rear at +once, had nipped those of us who were upon +the stage as between two closing walls, and +I was exceedingly unhappy to be there. I +ducked my head low, waiting for the shooting +to begin. Afterward we figured it out that +nobody fired the first shot because everybody +knew the first shot would mean a massacre,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> +where likely enough a man would kill more +friends than foes.</p> + +<p>What happened now in the space of the next +few seconds I saw with particular clarity of +vision, because it happened right alongside me +and in part right over me. I recall in especial +Mink Satterlee. Mink Satterlee was one of +the worst men in town, and he ran the worst +saloon and prevailed mightily in ward politics. +He had been sitting just below our table in the +front row of seats. He was a big-bodied man, +fat-necked, but this day he showed himself +quick on his feet as any toe-dancer. Leading +his own forces by a length, he vaulted the +orchestra rail and lit lightly where a scared +oboe player had been squatted a moment before; +Mink breasted the gutterlike edging of +the footlights and leaped upward, teetering a +moment in space. One of his hands grabbed +out for a purchase and closed on the leg of +our table and jerked it almost from under us.</p> + +<p>At that Devore either lost his head or else +indignation made him reckless. Still half +sitting, he kicked out at the wriggling bulk +at his feet, and the toe of his shoe took Mink +Satterlee in his chest. It was a puny enough +kick; it didn't even shake Mink Satterlee +loose from where he clung. He gave a bellow +and heaved himself up on the stage and, before +any of us could move, grabbed Devore by the +throat with his left hand and jammed him +back, face upward, on the table until I thought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> +Devore's spine would crack. His right hand +shot into his coat pocket, then, quick as a +snake, came out again, showing the fat fist +armed with a set of murderously heavy brass +knucks, and he bent his arm in a crooked sickle-like +stroke, aiming for Devore's left temple. +I've always been satisfied—and so has Devore—that +if the blow had landed true his skull +would have caved in like a puff-ball. Only it +never landed.</p> + +<p>Above me a shadow of something hung for +the hundredth part of a second, something +white flashed over me and by me, moving downward +whizzingly; something cracked on something; +and Mink Satterlee breathed a gentle +little grunt right in Devore's face and then +relaxed and slid down on the floor, lying half +under the table and half in the tin trough +where the stubby gas jets of the footlights +stood up, with his legs protruding stiffly out +over its edge toward his friends. Subconsciously +I noted that his socks were not mates, +one of them being blue and one black; also +that his scalp had a crescent-shaped split +place in it just between and above his half-closed +eyes. All this, though, couldn't have +taken one-fifth of the time it has required for +me to tell it. It couldn't have taken more +than a brace of seconds, but even so it was +time enough for other things to happen; and +I looked back again toward the center of the +stage just as Fighting Dave Dancy seized<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +startled old Judge Barbee by the middle from +behind and flung him aside so roughly that +the old man spun round twice, clutching at +nothing, and then sat down very hard, yards +away from where he started spinning.</p> + +<p>Dancy stooped for the gavel, which had +fallen from the judge's hand, being minded, +I think, to run the convention awhile in the +interest of his own crowd. But his greedy +fingers never closed over its black-walnut +handle, because, facing him, he saw just then +what made him freeze solid where he was.</p> + +<p>Out from behind the Evening Press table +and through a scattering huddle of newspaper +reporters, stepping on the balls of his feet as +lightly as a puss-cat, emerged Major Putnam +Stone. His sleeves were turned back off his +wrists and his vest flared open. His head +was thrust forward so that the tuft of goatee +on his chin stuck straight out ahead of him +like a little burgee in a fair breeze. His face +was all a clear, bright, glowing pink; and in +his right hand he held one of the longest cavalry +revolvers that ever was made, I reckon. +It had a square-butted ivory handle, and as I +saw that ivory handle I knew what the white +thing was that had flashed by me only a +moment before to fell Mink Satterlee so +expeditiously.</p> + +<p>Writing this, I've been trying to think of +the one word that would best describe how +Major Putnam Stone looked to me as he ad<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>vanced +on Dave Dancy. I think now that +the proper word is competent, for indeed the +old major did look most competent—the +tremendous efficiency he radiated filled him +out and made him seem sundry sizes larger +than he really was. A great emergency acts +upon different men as chemical processes act +upon different metals. Some it melts like lead, +so that their resolution softens and runs away +from them; and some it hardens to tempered +steel. There was the old major now. Always +before this he had seemed to me to be but +pot metal and putty, and here, poised, alert, +ready—a wire-drawn, hard-hammered Damascus +blade of a man—all changed and transformed +and glorified, he was coming down on +Dave Dancy, finger on trigger, thumb on +hammer, eye on target, dominating the whole +scene.</p> + +<p>Ten feet from him he halted and there +was nobody between them. Somehow everybody +else halted too, some even giving back a +little. Over the edge of the stage a ring of +staring faces, like a high-water mark, showed +where the onward rushing swell of the Stickney +city delegates had checked itself. Seemingly +to all at once came the realization that the +destinies of the fight had by the chances of +the fight been entrusted to these two men—to +Dancy and the major—and that between +them the issue would be settled one way or +the other.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>Still at a half crouch, Dancy's right hand +began to steal back under the skirt of his long +black coat. At that the major flung up the +muzzle of his weapon so that it pointed skyward, +and he braced his left arm at his side +in the attitude you have seen in the pictures +of dueling scenes of olden times.</p> + +<p>“I am waiting, sir, for you to draw,” said +the major quite briskly. “I will shoot it +out with you to see whether right or might +shall control this convention.” And his heels +clicked together like castanets.</p> + +<p>Dancy's right hand kept stealing farther and +farther back. And then you could mark by +the change of his skin and by the look out of +his eyes how his courage was clabbering to +whey inside him, making his face a milky, +curdled white, the color of a poorly stirred +emulsion, and then he quit—he quit cold—his +hand came out again from under his coat +tails and it was an empty hand and wide open. +It was from that moment on that throughout +our state Fighting Dave Dancy ceased to +be Fighting Dave and became instead Yaller +Dave.</p> + +<p>“Then, sir,” said the major, “as you do not +seem to care to shoot it out with me, man to +man, you and your friends will kindly withdraw +from this stage and allow the business of this +convention to proceed in an orderly manner.”</p> + +<p>And as Dave Dancy started to go somebody +laughed. In another second we were all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +laughing and the danger was over. When an +American crowd begins laughing the danger is +always over.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>Newspaper men down in that town still +talk about the story that Ike Webb wrote for +the last edition of the Evening Press that afternoon. +It was a great story, as Ike Webb told +it—how, still sitting on the floor, old Judge +Barbee got his wits back and by word of mouth +commissioned the major a special sergeant-at-arms; +how the major privily sent men to close +and lock and hold the doors so that the Stickney +people couldn't get out to bolt, even if +they had now been of a mind to do so; how +the convention, catching the spirit of the +moment, elected the major its temporary chairman, +and how even after that, for quite a +spell, until some of his friends bethought to +remove him, Mink Satterlee slept peacefully +under our press table with his mismated legs +bridged across the tin trough of the footlights.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>In rapid succession a number of unusual +events occurred in the Evening Press shop +the next morning. To begin with, the chief +came down early. He had a few words in +private with Devore and went upstairs. When +the major came at eight as usual, Devore was +waiting for him at the door of the city room; +and as they went upstairs together, side by side,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +I saw Devore's arm steal timidly out and rest +a moment on the major's shoulder.</p> + +<p>The major was the first to descend. Walking +unusually erect, even for him, he bustled +into the telephone booth. Jessie, our operator, +told us afterward that he called up a haberdasher, +and in a voice that boomed like a bell +ordered fourteen of those plaited-bosom shirts +of his, the same to be made up and delivered +as soon as possible. Then he stalked out. +And in a minute or two more Devore came +down looking happy and unhappy and embarrassed +and exalted, all of them at once. +On his way to his desk he halted midway of +the floor.</p> + +<p>“Gentlemen,” he said huskily—“fellows, +I mean—I've got an announcement to make, +or rather two announcements. One is this: +Right here before you fellows who heard most +of them I want to take back all the mean +things I ever said about him—about Major +Stone—and I want to say I'm sorry for all +the mean things I've done to him. I've tried +to beg his pardon, but he wouldn't listen—he +wouldn't let me beg his pardon—he—he +said everything was all right. That's +one announcement. Here's the other: The +major is going to have a new job with this +paper. He's going to leave the city staff. +Hereafter he's going to be upstairs in the room +next to the chief. He's gone out now to pick +out his own desk. He's going to write specials<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> +for the Sunday—specials about the war. +And he's going to do it on a decent salary too.”</p> + +<p>I judge by my own feelings that we all +wanted to cheer, but didn't because we thought +it might sound theatrical and foolish. Anyhow, +I know that was how I felt. So there +was a little awkward pause.</p> + +<p>“What's his new title going to be?” asked +somebody then.</p> + +<p>“The title is appropriate—I suggested it +myself,” said Devore. “Major Stone is going +to be war editor.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<h2>V</h2> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> +<h3><span class="g">SMOKE OF BATTLE</span></h3> + + +<p><span class="first">T</span>his befell during the period that Major +Putnam Stone, at the age of sixty-two, +held a job as cub reporter on the Evening +Press and worked at it until his +supply of fine linen and the patience of City +Editor Wilbert Devore frazzled out practically +together. The episode to which I would here +direct attention came to pass in the middle of +a particularly hot week in the middle of that +particularly hot and grubby summer, at a +time when the major was still wearing the last +limp survivor of his once adequate stock of +frill-bosomed, roll-collared shirts, and when +Devore's scanty stock of endurance had already +worn perilously near the snapping point.</p> + +<p>As may be recalled, Major Stone lived a +life of comparative leisure from the day he +came out of the Confederate army, a seasoned +veteran, until the day he joined the staff of the +Evening Press, a rank beginner; and of these +two employments one lay a matter of four<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> +decades back in a half-forgotten past, while +the other was of pressing moment, having +to do with Major Stone's enjoyment of his +daily bread and other elements of nutrition +regarded as essential to the sustenance of +human life. In his military career he might +have been more or less of a success. Certainly +he must have acquitted himself with +some measure of personal credit; the rank he +had attained in the service and the standing +he had subsequently enjoyed among his comrades +abundantly testified to that.</p> + +<p>As a reporter he was absolutely a total loss; +for, as already set forth in some detail, he was +hopelessly old-fashioned in thought and speech—hopelessly +old-fashioned and pedantic in his +style of writing; and since his mind mainly +concerned itself with retrospections upon the +things that happened between April, 1861, +and May, 1865, he very naturally—and very +frequently—forgot that to a newspaper reporter +every day is a new day and a new beginning, +and that yesterday always is or always +should be ancient history, let alone the time-tarnished +yesterdays of forty-odd years ago. +Indeed I doubt whether the major ever comprehended +that first commandment of the +prentice reporter's catechism.</p> + +<p>Devore, himself no grand and glittering success +as a newspaper man, nevertheless had +mighty little use for the pottering, ponderous +old major. Devore did not believe that bricks<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> +could be made without straw. He considered +it a waste of time and raw material to +try. Through that summer he kept the major +on the payroll solely because the chief so willed +it. But, though he might not discharge the +major, at least he could bait him—and bait +him Devore did—not, mind you, with words, +but with a silent, sublimated contempt more +bitter and more biting than any words.</p> + +<p>So there, on the occasion in question, the +situation stood—the major hanging on tooth +and nail to his small job, because he needed +most desperately the twelve dollars a week +it brought him; the city editor regarding him +and all his manifold reportorial sins of omission, +commission and remission with a corrosive, +speechless venom; and the rest of us +in the city room divided in our sympathies +as between those two. We sympathized with +Devore for having to carry so woful an incompetent +upon his small and overworked crew; +we sympathized with the kindly, gentle, tiresome +old major for his bungling, vain attempts +to creditably cover the small and piddling +assignments that came his way.</p> + +<p>I remember the date mighty well—the +third of July. For three days now the Democratic +party, in national convention assembled +at Chicago, had been in the throes of labor. +It had been expected—in fact had been as +good as promised—that by ten o'clock that +evening the deadlock would melt before a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +sweetly gushing freshet of party harmony and +the head of the presidential ticket would be +named, wherefore in the Evening Press shop +a late shift had stayed on duty to get out an +extra. Back in the press-room the press was +dressed. A front page form was made up and +ready, all but the space where the name of the +nominee would be inserted when the flash +came; and in the alley outside a picked squad +of newsboys, renowned for speed of the leg +and carrying quality of the voice, awaited +their wares, meanwhile skylarking under the +eye of a circulation manager.</p> + +<p>Besides, there was no telling when an arrest +might be made in the Bullard murder case—that +just by itself would provide ample excuse +for an extra. Two days had passed and two +nights since the killing of Attorney-at-Law +Rodney G. Bullard, and still the killing, to +quote a favorite line of the local descriptive +writers, “remained shrouded in impenetrable +mystery.” If the police force, now busily +engaged in running clues into theories and +theories into the ground, should by any blind +chance of fortune be lucky enough to ascertain +the identity and lay hands upon the person +of Bullard's assassin, the whole town, +regardless of the hour, would rise up out of +bed to read the news of it. It was the biggest +crime story that town had known for ten +years; one of the biggest crime stories it had +ever known.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>In the end our waiting all went for nothing. +There were no developments at Central Station +or elsewhere in the Bullard case, and at +Chicago there was no nomination. At nine-thirty +a bulletin came over our leased wire +saying that Tammany, having been beaten +before the Resolutions Committee, was still +battling on the floor for its candidate; so that +finally the convention had adjourned until +morning, and now the delegates were streaming +out of the hall, too tired to cheer and almost +too tired to jeer—all of which was sad news +to us, because it meant that, instead of taking +a holiday on the Fourth, we must work until +noon at least, and very likely until later. +Down that way the Fourth was not observed +with quite the firecrackery and skyrockety +enthusiasm that marked its celebration in most +of the states to the north of us; nevertheless, +a day off was a day off and we were deeply disgusted +at the turn affairs had taken. It was +almost enough to make a fellow feel friendly +toward the Republicans.</p> + +<p>Following the tension there was a snapback; +a feeling of languor and disappointment possessed +us. Devore slammed down the lid of +his desk and departed, cursing the luck as he +went. Harty, the telegraph editor, and Wilbur, +the telegraph operator, rolled down their +shirtsleeves and, taking their coats over their +arms, departed in company for Tony's place +up at the corner, where cool beers were to be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> +found and electric fans, and a business men's +lunch served at all hours.</p> + +<p>That left in the city room four or five men. +Sprawled upon battered chairs and draped +over battered desks, they inhaled the smells +of rancid greases that floated in to them from +the back of the building; they coddled their +disappointment to keep it warm and they +talked shop. When it comes to talking shop +in season and out of season, neither stock actors +nor hospital surgeons are worse offenders than +newspaper reporters—especially young newspaper +reporters, as all these men were except +only Major Stone.</p> + +<p>It was inevitable that the talk should turn +upon the Bullard murder, and that the failure +of the police force to find the killer or even to +find a likely suspect should be the hinge for +its turning. For the moment Ike Webb had +the floor, expounding his own pet theories. +Ike was a good talker—a mighty good reporter +too, let me tell you. Across the room from +Ike, tilted back in a chair against the wall, +sat the major, looking shabby and a bit forlorn. +For a month now shabbiness had been +seizing on the major, spreading over him like +a mildew. It started first with his shoes, which +turned brown and then cracked across the +toes, it extended to his hat, which sagged in +its brim and became a moldy green in its +crown, and now it had touched his coat +lapels, his waistcoat front, his collar—his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +rolling Lord Byron collar—and his sleeve +ends.</p> + +<p>The major's harmlessly pompous manner +was all gone from him that night. Of late his +self-assurance had seemed to be fraying and +frazzling away, along with those old-timey, +full-bosomed shirts of which he had in times +gone by been so tremendously proud. It was +as though the passing of the one marked the +passing of the other—symbolic as you might +say. Formerly, too, the major had also excelled +mightily in miscellaneous conversation, +dominating it by sheer weight of tediousness. +Now he sat silent while these youngsters with +their unthatched lips—born, most of them, +after he reached middle age—babbled the +jargon of their trade. He considered a little +ravelly strip along one of his cuffs solicitously.</p> + +<p>Ike Webb was saying this—that the biggest +thing in the whole created world was a big +scoop—an exclusive, world-beating, bottled-up +scoop of a scoop. Nothing that could possibly +come into a reporter's life was one-half so big +and so glorious and satisfying. He warmed to +his theme:</p> + +<p>“Gee! fellows, but wouldn't it be great to +get a scoop on a thing like this Bullard murder! +Just suppose now that one of us, all by +himself, found the person who did the shooting +and got a full confession from him, whoever +he was; and got the gun that it was done +with—got the whole thing—and then turned<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> +it loose all over the front page before that big +stiff of a Chief Gotlieb down at Central Station +knew a thing about it. Beating the police to +it would be the best part of that job. That's +the way they do things in New York. In +New York it's the newspapers that do the +real work on big murder mysteries, and the +police take their tips from them. Why, some +of the best detectives in New York are reporters. +Look what they did in that Guldensuppe case! +Look at what they've done in half a dozen +other big cases! Down here we just follow +along, like sheep, behind a bunch of fat-necked +cops, taking their leavings. Up there a +paper turns a man loose, with an unlimited +expense account and all the time he needs, and +tells him to go to it. That's the right way +too!”</p> + +<p>By that the others knew Ike Webb was +thinking of what Vogel had told him. Vogel +was a gifted but admittedly erratic genius +from the metropolis who had come upon us as +angels sometimes do—unawares—two weeks +before, with cinders in his ears and the grime +of a dusty right-of-way upon his collar. He +had worked for the sheet two weeks and +then, on a Saturday night, had borrowed what +sums of small change he could and under cover +of friendly night had moved on to parts unknown, +leaving us dazzled by the careless, +somewhat patronizing brilliance of his manner, +and stuffed to our earlobes with tales of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> +the splendid, adventurous, bohemian lives that +newspaper men in New York lived.</p> + +<p>“Well, I know this,” put in little Pinky +Gilfoil, who was red-headed, red-freckled and +red-tempered: “I'd give my right leg to pull +off that Bullard story as a scoop. No, not +my right leg—a reporter needs all the legs +he's got; but I'd give my right arm and throw +in an eye for good measure. It would be the +making of a reporter in this town—he'd have +'em all eating out of his hand after that.” He +licked his lips. Even the bare thought of the +thing tasted pretty good to Pinky.</p> + +<p>“Now you're whistling!” chimed Ike Webb. +“The fellow who single-handed got that tale +would have a job on this paper as long as he +lived. The chief would just naturally have +to hand him more money. In New York, +though, he'd get a big cash bonus besides, an +award they call it up there. I'd go anywhere +and do anything and take any kind of a chance +to land that story as an exclusive—yes, or +any other big story.”</p> + +<p>To all this the major, it appeared, had been +listening, for now he spoke up in a pretty fair +imitation of his old impressive manner:</p> + +<p>“But, young gentlemen—pardon me—do +you seriously think—any of you—that any +honorarium, however large, should or could +be sufficient temptation to induce one in your—in +our profession—to give utterance in +print to a matter that he had learned, let us<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> +say, in confidence? And suppose also that by +printing it he brought suffering or disgrace +upon innocent parties. Unless one felt that +he was serving the best ends of society—unless +one, in short, were actuated by the +highest of human motives—could one afford +to do such a thing? And, under any circumstances, +could one violate a trust—could one +violate the common obligation of a gentleman's +rules of deportment——”</p> + +<p>“Major,” broke in Ike Webb earnestly, “the +way I look at it, a reporter can't afford too +many of the luxuries you're mentioning. His +duty, it seems to me, is to his paper first and +the rest of the world afterward. His paper +ought to be his mother and his father and all +his family. If he gets a big scoop—no matter +how he gets it or where he gets it—he +ought to be able to figure out some way of +getting it into print. It's not alone what he +owes his paper—it's what he owes himself. +Personally I wouldn't be interested for a minute +in bringing the person that killed Rod Bullard +to justice—that's not the point. He was a +pretty shady person—Rod Bullard. By all +accounts he got what was coming to him. It's +the story itself that I'd want.”</p> + +<p>“Say, listen here, major,” put in Pinky +Gilfoil, suddenly possessed of a strengthening +argument; “I reckon back yonder in the Civil +War, when you all got the smoke of battle in +your noses, you didn't stop to consider that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> +you were about to make a large crop of widows +and orphans and cause suffering to a whole +slue of innocent people that'd never done you +any harm! You didn't stop then, did you? +I'll bet you didn't—you just sailed in! It +was your duty—the right thing to do—and +you just went and did it. 'War is hell!' Sherman +said. Well, so is newspaper work hell—in +a way. And smelling out a big story +ought to be the same to a reporter that the +smoke of battle is to a soldier. That's right—I'll +leave it to any fellow here if that ain't +right!” he wound up, forgetting in his enthusiasm +to be grammatical.</p> + +<p>It was an unfortunate simile to be making +and Pinky should have known better, for at +Pinky's last words the old major's mild eye +widened and, expanding himself, he brought +his chair legs down to the floor with a thump.</p> + +<p>“Ah, yes!” he said, and his voice took on +still more of its old ringing quality. “Speaking +of battles, I am just reminded, young +gentlemen, that tomorrow is the anniversary +of the fall of Vicksburg. Though Northern-born, +General Pemberton was a gallant officer—none +of our own Southern leaders was more +gallant—but it has always seemed to me that +his defense of Vicksburg was marked by a +series of the most lamentable and disastrous +mistakes. If you care to listen, I will explain +further.” And he squared himself forward, +with one short, plump hand raised, ready to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +tick off his points against Pemberton upon his +fingers.</p> + +<p>By experience dearly bought at the expense +of our ear-drums, the members of the Evening +Press staff knew what that meant; for as you +already know, the major's conversational specialty +was the Civil War—it and its campaigns. +Describing it, he made even war a +commonplace and a tiresome topic. In his hands +an account of the hardest fought battle became +a tremendously uninteresting thing. He weeded +out all the thrills and in their places planted +hedges of dusty, deadly dry statistics. When +the major started on the war it was time to be +going. One by one the youngsters got up and +slipped out. Presently the major, booming +away like a bell buoy, became aware that his +audience had dwindled. Only Ike Webb remained, +and Ike was getting upon his feet and +reaching for the peg where his coat swung.</p> + +<p>“I'm sorry to leave you right in the middle +of your story, major; but, honestly, I've got +to be going,” apologized Ike. “Good night, +and don't forget this, major”—Ike had halted +at the door—“when a big story comes your +way freeze to it with both hands and slam it +across the plate as a scoop. Do that and you +can give 'em all the laugh. Good night again—see +you in the morning, major!”</p> + +<p>He grinned to himself as he turned away. +The major was a mighty decent, tender-hearted +little old scout, a gentleman by birth and breeding,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> +even if he was down and out and dog-poor. +It was a shame that Devore kept him skittering +round on little picayunish jobs—running +errands, that was really what it was. Still, +at that, the old major was no reporter and +never would be. He wouldn't know a big +story if he ran into it on the big road—it +would have to burst right in his face before he +recognized it. And even then the chances were +that he wouldn't know what to do with it. It +was enough to make a fellow grin.</p> + +<p>Deserted by the last of his youthful compatriots—which +was what he himself generally +called them—the major lingered a moment +in heavy thought. He glanced about the +cluttered city room, now suddenly grown +large and empty. This was the theater where +his own little drama of unfitness and failure +and private mortification had been staged and +acted. It had run nearly a month now, and a +month is a long run for a small tragedy in a +newspaper office or anywhere else. He shook +his head. He shook it as though he were trying +to shake it clear of a job lot of old-fashioned, +antiquated ideals—as though he were trying +to make room for newer, more useful, more +modern conceptions. Then he settled his +aged and infirm slouch hat more firmly upon +his round-domed skull, straightened his shoulders +and stumped out.</p> + +<p>At the second turning up the street from the +office an observant onlooker might have noticed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> +a small, an almost imperceptible change in +the old man's bearing. There was not a sneaky +bone in the major's body—he walked as he +thought and as he talked, in straight lines; +but before he turned the corner he glanced up +and down the empty sidewalk in a quick, +furtive fashion, and after he had swung into +the side street a trifle of the steam seemed +gone from his stiff-spined, hard-heeled gait. +It ceased to be a strut; it became a plod.</p> + +<p>The street he had now entered was a badly +lighted street, with long stretches of murkiness +between small patches of gas-lamped +brilliance. By day the houses that walled it +would have showed themselves as shabby and +gone to seed—the sort of houses that second +cousins move into after first families have +moved out. Two-thirds of the way along the +block the major turned in at a sagged gate. +He traversed a short walk of seamed and +decrepit flagging, where tufts of rank grass +sprouted between the fractures in the limestone +slabs, and mounted the front porch of a house +that had cheap boarding house written all +over it.</p> + +<p>When the major opened the front door the +tepid smell that gushed out to greet him was +the smell of a cheap boarding house too, if you +know what I mean—a spilt-kerosene, boiled-cabbage, +dust-in-the-corners smell. Once upon +a time the oilcloth upon the floor of the entry +way had exhibited a vivid and violent pattern<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +of green octagons upon a red and yellow +background, but that had been in some far +distant day of its youth and freshness. Now +it was worn to a scaly, crumbly color of +nothing at all, and it was frayed into fringes +at the door and in places scuffed clear through, +so that the knot-holes of the naked planking +showed like staring eyes.</p> + +<p>Standing just inside the hall, the major +glanced down first at the floor and then up to +where in a pendent nub a pinprick of light +like a captive lightning-bug flickered up and +down feebly as the air pumped through the +pipe; and out of his chest the major fetched +a small sigh. It was a sigh of resignation, +but it had loneliness in it too. Well, it was a +come-down, after all these peaceful and congenial +years spent among the marble-columned, +red-plushed glories of the old Gaunt House, to +be living in this place.</p> + +<p>The major had been here now almost a month. +Very quietly, almost secretly, he had come +hither when he found that by no amount of +stretching could his pay as a reporter on the +Evening Press be made to cover the cost of +living as he had been accustomed to live prior +to that disastrous day when the major waked +up in the morning to find that all his inherited +investments had vanished over night—and, +vanishing so, had taken with them the +small but sufficient income that had always +been ample for his needs.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>In that month the major had seen but one +or two of his fellow lodgers, slouching forms +that passed him by in the gloom of the +half-lighted hallways or on the creaky stairs. +His landlady he saw but once a week—on +Saturday, which was settlement day. She +was a forlorn, gray creature, half blind, and +she felt her way about gropingly. By the +droop in her spine and by the corners of her +lips, permanently puckered from holding pins +in her mouth, a close observer would have +guessed that she had been a seamstress before +her eyes gave out on her and she took to keeping +lodgers. Of the character of the establishment +the innocent old major knew nothing; he +knew that it was cheap and that it was on a +quiet by-street, and for his purposes that was +sufficient.</p> + +<p>He heaved another small sigh and passed +slowly up the worn steps of the stairwell until +he came to the top of the house. His room +was on the attic floor, the middle room of the +three that lined the bare hall on one side. +The door-knob was broken off; only its iron +center remained. His fingers slipped as he +fumbled for a purchase upon the metal core; +but finally, after two attempts, he gripped it +and it turned, admitting him into the darkness +of a stuffy interior. The major made +haste to open the one small window before +he lit the single gas jet. Its guttery flare +exposed a bed, with a thin mattress and a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> +skimpy cover, shoved close up under the +sloping wall; a sprained chair on its last legs; +an old horsehide trunk; a shaky washstand of +cheap yellow pine, garnished forth with an ewer +and a basin; a limp, frayed towel; and a +minute segment of pale pink soap.</p> + +<p>Major Stone was in the act of removing his +coat when he became aware of a certain sound, +occurring at quick intervals. In the posture +of a plump and mature robin he cocked his +head on one side to listen; and now he remembered +that he had heard the same sound the +night before, and the night before that. These +times, though, he had heard it intermittently +and dimly, as he tossed about half awake and +half asleep, trying to accommodate his elderly +bones to the irregularities of his hot and uncomfortable +bed. But now he heard it more +plainly, and at once he recognized it for what +it was—the sound of a woman crying; a +wrenching succession of deep, racking gulps, +and in between them little moaning, panting +breaths, as of utter exhaustion—a sound +such as might be distilled from the very dregs +of a grief too great to be borne.</p> + +<p>He looked about him, his eyes and ears +searching for further explanation of this. He +had it. There was a door set in the cross-wall +of his room—a door bolted and nailed +up. It had a transom over it and against the +dirty glass of the transom a light was reflected, +and through the door and the transom the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> +sound came. The person in trouble, whoever +it might be, was in that next room—and that +person was a woman and she was in dire distress. +There was a compelling note in her +sobbing.</p> + +<p>Undecided, Major Stone stood a minute +rubbing his nose pensively with a small forefinger; +then the resolution to act fastened +upon him. He slipped his coat back on, +smoothed down his thin mane of reddish +gray hair with his hands, stepped out into the +hall and rapped delicately with a knuckled +finger upon the door of the next room. There +was no answer, so he rapped a little harder; +and at that a sob checked itself and broke off +chokingly in the throat that uttered it. From +within a voice came. It was a shaken, tear-drained +voice—flat and uncultivated.</p> + +<p>“Who's there?” The major cleared his +throat. “Is it a woman—or a man?” demanded +the unseen speaker without waiting +for an answer to the first question.</p> + +<p>“It is a gentleman,” began the major—“a +gentleman who——”</p> + +<p>“Come on in!” she bade him—“the door +ain't latched.”</p> + +<p>And at that the major turned the knob and +looked into a room that was practically a counterpart +of his own, except that, instead of a +trunk, a cheap imitation-leather suitcase stood +upright on the floor, its sides bulging and +strained from over-packing. Upon the bed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> +fully dressed, was stretched a woman—or, +rather, a girl. Her head was just rising from +the crumpled pillow and her eyes, red-rimmed +and widely distended, stared full into his.</p> + +<p>What she saw, as she sat up, was a short, +elderly man with a solicitous, gentle face; the +coat sleeves were turned back off his wrists +and his linen shirt jutted out between the +unfastened upper buttons and buttonholes of +his waistcoat. What the major saw was a +girl of perhaps twenty or maybe twenty-two—in +her present state it was hard to guess—with +hunched-in shoulders and dyed, stringy +hair falling in a streaky disarray down over +her face like unraveled hemp.</p> + +<p>It was her face that told her story. Upon +the drawn cheeks and the drooped, woful lips +there was no dabbing of cosmetics now; the +professional smile, painted, pitiable and betraying, +was lacking from the characterless mouth, +yet the major—sweet-minded, clean-living old +man though he was—knew at a glance what +manner of woman he had found here in this +lodging house. It was the face of a woman +who never intentionally does any evil and yet +rarely gets a chance to do any good—a weak, +indecisive, commonplace face; and every line +in it was a line of least resistance.</p> + +<p>That then was what these two saw in each +other as they stared a moment across the +intervening space. It was the girl who took +the initiative.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span>“Are you one of the police?” Then instantly +on the heels of the query: “No; I +know better'n that—you ain't no police!”</p> + +<p>Her voice was unmusical, vulgar and husky +from much weeping. Magically, though, she +had checked her sobbing to an occasional hard +gulp that clicked down in her throat.</p> + +<p>“No, ma'am,” said Major Stone, with a +grave and respectful courtesy, “I am not +connected with the police department. I am +a professional man—associated at this time +with the practice of journalism. I have the +apartment or chamber adjoining yours and, +accidentally overhearing a member of the opposite +sex in seeming distress, I took it upon +myself to offer any assistance that might lie +within my power. If I am intruding I will +withdraw.”</p> + +<p>“No,” she said; “it ain't no intrusion. I +wisht, please, sir, you'd come in jest a minute +anyway. I feel like I jest got to talk to +somebody a minute. I'm sorry, though, if +I disturbed you by my cryin'—but I jest +couldn't help it. Last night and the night +before—that was the first night I come here—I +cried all night purty near; but I kept my +head in the bedclothes. But tonight, after it +got dark up here and me layin' here all alone, I +felt 's if I couldn't stand it no longer. Honest, +I like to died! Right this minute I'm almost +plum' distracted.”</p> + +<p>The major advanced a step.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>“I assure you I deeply regret to learn of +your unhappiness,” he said. “If you desire +it I will be only too glad to summon our +worthy landlady, Miss—Miss——” he paused.</p> + +<p>“Miss La Mode,” she said, divining—“Blanche +La Mode—that's my name. I +come from Indianapolis, Indiana. But please, +mister, don't call that there woman. I don't +want to see her. For a while I didn't think +I wanted to see nobody, and yit I've known all +along, from the very first, that sooner or later +I'd jest naturally have to talk to somebody. +I knew I'd jest have to!” she repeated with a +kind of weak intensity. “And it might jest +as well be you as anybody, I guess.”</p> + +<p>She sat up on the side of the bed, dangling +her feet, and subconsciously the major took +in fuller details of her attire—the cheap white +slippers with rickety, worn-down high heels; +the sleazy stockings; the over-decorated skirt +of shabby blue cloth; the soiled and rumpled +waist of coarse lace, gaping away from the +scrawny neck, where the fastenings had pulled +awry. Looped about her throat and dangling +down on her flat breast, where they heaved up +and down with her breathing, was a double +string of pearls that would have been worth +ten thousand dollars had they been genuine +pearls. A hand which was big-knuckled and +thin held a small, moist wad of handkerchief. +About her there was something unmistakably +bucolic, and yet she was town-branded, too,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> +flesh and soul. Major Stone bowed with the +ceremonious detail that was a part of him.</p> + +<p>“My name, ma'am, is Stone—Major Putnam +Stone, at your service,” he told her.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir,” she said, seeming not to catch +either his name or his title. “Well, mister, +I'm goin' to tell you something that'll maybe +surprise you. I ain't goin' to ast you not to +tell anybody, 'cause I guess you will anyhow, +sooner or later; and it don't make much difference +if you do. But seems's if I can't hold +in no longer. I guess maybe I'll feel easier in +my own mind when I git it all told. Shet that +door—jest close it—the lock is broke—and +set down in that chair, please, sir.”</p> + +<p>The major closed the latchless door and +took the one tottery chair. The girl remained +where she was, on the side of her bed, her slippered +feet dangling, her eyes fixed on a spot +where there was a three-cornered break in the +dirty-gray plastering.</p> + +<p>“You know about Rodney G. Bullard, the +lawyer, don't you?—about him bein' found +shot day before yistiddy evenin' in the mouth +of that alley?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “Though I was +not personally acquainted with the man himself, +I am familiar with the circumstances you +mention.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” she said, with a sort of jerk behind +each word, “it was me that done it!”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon,” he said, half doubting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> +whether he had heard aright, “but what +was it you said you did?”</p> + +<p>“Shot him!” she answered—“I was the +one that shot him—with this thing here.” +She reached one hand under the pillow and +drew out a short-barreled, stubby revolver +and extended it to him. Mechanically he +took it, and thereafter for a space he held it +in his hands. The girl went straight on, pouring +out her sentences with a driven, desperate +eagerness.</p> + +<p>“I didn't mean to do it, though—God +knows I didn't mean to do it! He treated me +mighty sorry—it was lowdown and mean all +the way through, the way he done me—but I +didn't mean him no real harm. I was only +aimin' to skeer him into doin' the right thing +by me. It was accidental-like—it really was, +mister! In all my life I ain't never intentionally +done nobody any harm. And yit it seems +like somebody's forever and a day imposin' +on me!” She quavered with the puny passion +of her protest against the world that had +bruised and beaten her as with rods.</p> + +<p>Shocked, stunned, the major sat in a daze, +making little clucking sounds in his throat. +For once in his conversational life he couldn't +think of the right words to say. He fumbled +the short pistol in his hands.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 372px;"> +<img src="images/illo_facing_p164.jpg" width="372" height="500" alt="illo_facing_p164" title="I WAS THE ONE THAT SHOT HIM" /> +<span class="caption"> +“I was the one that shot him—with this thing here.”—Page 164</span> +<span class="totoi"><a href="#toi">To List</a></span></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> +“I'm goin' to tell you the whole story, jest +like it was,” she went on in her flat drone; and +the words she spoke seemed to come to him +from a long way off. “That there Rodney +Bullard he tricked me somethin' shameful. +He come to the town where I was livin' to make +a speech in a political race, and we got acquainted +and he made up to me. I was workin' +in a hotel there—one of the dinin' room help. +That was two years ago this comin' September. +Well, the next day, when he left, he got +me to come 'long with him. He said he'd +look after me. I liked him some then and he +talked mighty big about what he was goin' +to do for me; so I come with him. He told +me that I could be his——” She hesitated.</p> + +<p>“His amanuensis, perhaps,” suggested the +old man.</p> + +<p>“Which?” she said. “No; it wasn't that +way—he didn't say nothin' about marryin' me +and I didn't expect him to. He told me that +I should be his girl—that was all; but he didn't +keep his word—no, sir; right from the very +first he broke his word to me! It wasn't +more'n a month after I got here before he quit +comin' to see me at all. Well, after that I +stayed a spell longer at the house where I was +livin' and then I went to another house—Vic +Magner's. You know who she is, I reckin?”</p> + +<p>The major half nodded, half shook his head.</p> + +<p>“By reputation only I know the person in +question,” he answered a bit stiffly.</p> + +<p>“Well,” she went on, “there ain't so much +more to tell. I've been sick lately—I had a +right hard spell. I ain't got my strength all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> +back yit. I was laid up three weeks, and last +Monday, when I was up and jest barely able +to crawl round, Vic Magner, she come to me +and told me that I'd have to git out unless +I could git somebody to stand good for my +board. I owed her for three weeks already +and I didn't have but nine dollars to my name. +I offered her that, but she said she wanted it +all or nothin'. I think she wanted to git shet +of me anyway. Mister, I was mighty weak +and discouraged—I was so! I didn't know +what to do.</p> + +<p>“I hadn't seen Rod Bullard for goin' on +more than a year, but he was the only one I +could think of; so I slipped out of the house +and went acrost the street to a grocery store +where there was a pay station, and I called +him up on the telephone and ast him to help +me out a little. It wasn't no more than right +that he should, was it, seein' as he was responsible +for my comin' here? Besides, if it hadn't +been for him in the first place I wouldn't never +'a' got into all that trouble. I talked with +him over the telephone at his office and he said +he'd do somethin' for me. He said he'd send +me some money that evenin' or else he'd bring +it round himself. But he didn't do neither +one. And Vic Magner, she kept on doggin' +after me for her board money.</p> + +<p>“I telephoned him again the next mornin'; +but before I could say more'n two words to +him he got mad and told me to quit botherin'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> +him, and he rung off. That was day before +yistiddy. When I got back to the house Vic +Magner come to me, and I couldn't give her +no satisfaction. So about six o'clock in the +evenin' she made me pack up and git out. I +didn't have nowheres to go and only eight +dollars and ninety cents left—I'd spent a +dime telephoning so, before I got out I took +and wrote Rod Bullard a note, and when I got +outside I give a little nigger boy fifteen cents +to take it to him. I told him in the note I +was out in the street, without nowheres to +go, and that if he didn't meet me that night +and do somethin' for me I'd jest have to come +to his office. I said for him to meet me at +eight o'clock at the mouth of Grayson Street +Alley. That give me two hours to wait. I +walked round and round, packin' my baggage.</p> + +<p>“Then I come by a pawnstore and seen a +lot of pistols in the window, and I went in and +I bought one for two dollars and a half. The +pawnstore man he throwed in the shells. But +I wasn't aimin' to hurt Rod Bullard—jest +to skeer him. I was thinkin' some of killin' +myself too. Then I walked round some more +till I was plum' wore out.</p> + +<p>“When eight o'clock come I was waitin' +where I said, and purty soon he come along. As +soon as he saw me standin' there in the shadder +he bulged up to me. He was mighty mad. +He called me out of my name and said I didn't +have no claims on him—a whole lot more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> +like that—and said he didn't purpose to be +bothered with me phonin' him and writin' him +notes and callin' on him for money. I said +somethin' back, and then he made like he +was goin' to hit me with his fist. I'd had +that pistol in my hand all the time, holdin' it +behind my skirt. And I pulled it and I pointed +it like I was goin' to shoot—jest to skeer him, +though, and make him do the right thing by +me. I jest simply pointed it at him—that's +all. I didn't have no idea it would go off +without you pulled the hammer back first!</p> + +<p>“Then it happened! It went off right in +my hand. And he said to me: 'Now you've +done it!'—jest like that. He walked away +from me about ten feet, and started to lean +up against a tree, and then he fell down right +smack on his face. And I grabbed up my +baggage and run away. I wasn't sorry about +him. I ain't been sorry about him a minute +since—ain't that funny? But I was awful +skeered!”</p> + +<p>Rocking her body back and forth from the +hips, she put her hands up to her face. Major +Stone stared at her, his mind in a twisting +eddy of confused thoughts. Perhaps it was +the clearest possible betrayal of his utter unfitness +for his new vocation in life that not until +that very moment when the girl had halted her +narrative did it come to him—and it came +then with a sudden jolt—that here he had +one of those monumental news stories for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> +which young Gilfoil or young Webb would be +willing to barter his right arm and throw in an +eye for good measure. It was a scoop, as +those young fellows had called it—an exclusive +confession of a big crime—a thing that +would mean much to any paper and to any +reporter who brought it to his paper. It +would transform a failure into a conspicuous +success. It would put more money into a pay +envelope. And he had it all! Sheer luck had +brought it to him and flung it into his lap.</p> + +<p>Nor was he under any actual pledge of +secrecy. This girl had told it to him freely, +of her own volition. It was not in the nature +of her to keep her secret. She had told it to +him, a stranger; she would tell it to other +strangers—or else somebody would betray +her. And surely this sickly, slack-twisted +little wanton would be better off inside the +strong arm of the law than outside it? No +jury of Southern men would convict her of +murder—the thought was incredible. She +would be kindly dealt with. In one illuminating +flash the major divined that these would +have been the inevitable conclusions of any +one of those ambitious young men at the +office. He bent forward.</p> + +<p>“What did you do then, ma'am?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“I didn't know what to do,” she said, dropping +her hands into her lap. “I run till I +couldn't run no more, and then I walked and +walked and walked. I reckin I must 'a' walked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> +ten miles. And then, when I was jest about to +drop, I come past this house. There was a +light burnin' on the porch and I could make +out to read the sign on the door, and it said +Lodgers Taken.</p> + +<p>“So I walked in and rung the bell, and when +the woman came I said I'd jest got here from +the country and wanted a room. She charged +me two dollars a week, in advance; and I +paid her two dollars down—and she showed +me the way up here.</p> + +<p>“I've been here ever since, except twice +when I slipped out to buy me somethin' to eat +at a grocery store and to git some newspapers. +At first I figgered the police would be a-comin' +after me; but they didn't—there wasn't +nobody at all seen the shootin', I reckin. And +I was skeered Vic Magner might tell on me; +but I guess she didn't want to run no risk of +gittin' in trouble herself—that Captain Brennan, +of the Second Precinct, he's been threatenin' +to run her out of town the first good +chance he got. And there wasn't none of the +other girls there that knowed I ever knew Rod +Bullard. So, you see, I ain't been arrested +yit.</p> + +<p>“Layin' here yistiddy all day, with nothin' +to do but think and cry, I made up my mind +I'd kill myself. I tried to do it. I took that +there pistol out and I put it up to my head +and I said to myself that all I had to do was +jest to pull on that trigger thing and it wouldn't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> +hurt me but a secont—and maybe not that +long. But I couldn't do it, mister—I jest +couldn't do it at all. It seemed like I wanted +to die, and yit I wanted to live too. All my +life I've been jest that way—first thinkin' +about doin' one thing and then another, and +hardly ever doin' either one of 'em.</p> + +<p>“Here on this bed tonight I got to thinkin' +if I could jest tell somebody about it that maybe +after that I'd feel easier in my mind. And +right that very minute you come and knocked +on the door, and I knowed it was a sign—I +knowed you was the one for me to tell it to. +And so I've done it, and already I think I +feel a little bit easier in my mind. And so +that's all, mister. But I wisht please you'd +take that pistol away with you when you go—I +don't never want to see it again as long +as I live.”</p> + +<p>She paused, huddling herself in a heap upon +the bed. The major's short arm made a gesture +toward the cheap suitcase.</p> + +<p>“I observe,” he said, “that your portmanteau +is packed as if for a journey. Were you +thinking of leaving, may I ask?”</p> + +<p>“My which?” she said. “Oh, you mean +my baggage! Yes; I ain't never unpacked it +since I come here. I was aimin' to go back to +my home—I got a stepsister livin' there and she +might take me in—only after payin' for this +room I ain't got quite enough money to take +me there; and now I don't know as I want to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> +go, either. If I kin git my strength back I +might stay on here—I kind of like city life. +Or I might go up to Cincinnati. A girl that +I used to know here is livin' there now and +she wrote to me a couple of times, and I know +her address—it was backed on the envelope. +Still, I ain't sure—my plans ain't all made +yit. Sometimes I think I'll give myself up, +but most generally I think I won't. I've got +to do somethin' purty soon though, one way or +another, because I ain't got but a little over +three dollars left out of what I had.”</p> + +<p>She sank her head in the pillow wearily, +with her face turned away from him. The +major stood up. Into his side coat pocket he +slipped the revolver that had snuffed out the +late and unsavory Rodney Bullard's light of +life, and from his trousers pocket he slowly +drew forth his supply of ready money. He +had three silver dollars, one quarter, one dime, +and a nickel—three-forty in all. Contemplating +the disks of metal in the palm of his +hand, he did a quick sum in mental arithmetic. +This was Thursday night now. Saturday +afternoon at two he would draw a pay +envelope containing twelve dollars. Meantime +he must eat. Well, if he stinted himself +closely a dollar might be stretched to bridge +the gap until Saturday. The major had +learned a good deal about the noble art of +stinting these last few weeks.</p> + +<p>On the coverlet alongside the girl he softly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> +piled two of the silver dollars and the forty +cents in change. Then, after a momentary +hesitation, he put down the third silver dollar, +gathered up the forty cents, slid it gently +into his pocket and started for the door, the +loose planks creaking under his tread. At the +threshold he halted.</p> + +<p>“Good night, Miss La Mode,” he said. “I +trust your night's repose may be restful and +refreshing to you, ma'am.”</p> + +<p>She lifted her face from the pillow and +spoke, without turning to look at him.</p> + +<p>“Mister,” she said, “I've told you the whole +truth about that thing and I ain't goin' to lie +to you about anythin' else. I didn't come +from Indianapolis, Indiana, like I told you. +My home is in Swainboro', this state—a +little town. You might know where it is? +And my real name ain't La Mode, neither. +I taken it out of a book—the La Mode part—and +I always did think Blanche was an awful +sweet name for a girl. But my real name is +Gussie Stammer. Good night, mister. I'm +much obliged to you fer listenin', and I ain't +goin' to disturb you no more with my cryin' +if I kin help it.”</p> + +<p>As the major gently closed her door behind +him he heard her give a long, sleepy sigh, like +a tired child. Back in his own room he glanced +about him, meanwhile feeling himself over for +writing material. He found in his pockets a +pencil and a couple of old letters, whereas he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> +knew he needed a big sheaf of copy paper for +the story he had to write. Anyway, there was +no place here to do an extended piece of writing—no +desk and no comfortable chair. The +office would be a much better place.</p> + +<p>The office was only a matter of two or three +blocks away. The negro watchman would be +there; he stayed on duty all night. Using the +corner of his washstand for a desk, the major +set down his notes—names, places, details, +dates—upon the backs of his two letters. +This done, he settled his ancient hat on his +head, picked up his cane, and in another minute +was tiptoeing down the stairs and out the +front doorway. Once outside, his tread took +on the brisk emphasis of one set upon an +important task and in a hurry to do it.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>Ten minutes later Major Stone sat at his +desk in the empty city room of the Evening +Press. Except for Henry, the old black night +watchman, there was no other person in the +building anywhere. Just over his head an +incandescent bulb blazed, bringing out in strong +relief the major's intent old face, mullioned +with crisscross lines. A cedar pencil, newly +sharpened, was in his fingers; under his right +hand was a block of clean copy paper. His +notes lay in front of him, the little stubnosed +pistol serving as a paper weight to hold the +two wrinkled envelopes flat. Through the loop +of the trigger guard the words, Gussie Stammer,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> +alias Blanche La Mode, showed. Everything +was ready.</p> + +<p>The major hesitated, though. He readjusted +his paper and fidgeted his pencil. He +scratched his head and pulled at the little tuft +of goatee under his lower lip. Like many +a more experienced author, Major Stone was +having trouble getting under way. He had his +own ideas about a fitting introductory paragraph. +Coming along, he had thought up a +full sonorous one, with a biblical injunction +touching on the wages of sin embodied in it; +but, on the other hand, there was to be borne +in mind the daily-dinned injunction of Devore +that every important news item should begin +with a sentence in which the whole story was +summed up. Finally Major Stone made a beginning. +He covered nearly a sheet of paper.</p> + +<p>Then, becoming suddenly dissatisfied with +it, he tore up what he had written and started +all over again, only to repeat the same operation. +Two salty drops rolled down his face +and fell upon the paper, and instantly little +twin blistered blobs like tearmarks appeared +on its clear surface. They were not tears, +though—they were drops of sweat wrung +from the major's brow by the pains of creation. +Again he poised his pencil and again he halted +it in the air—he needed inspiration. His gaze +rested absently upon the pistol; absently he +picked it up and began examining it.</p> + +<p>It was a cheap, rusted, second-hand thing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +poorly made, but no doubt deadly enough at +close range. He unbreeched it and spun the +cylinder with his thumb and spilled the contents +into his palm—four loaded shells, suety +and slick with grease, and one that had been +recently fired; and it was discolored and +flattened a trifle. Each of the four loaded +shells had a small cap like a little round staring +eye set in the exact center of its flanged +butt-end, but the eye of the fifth shell was +punched in. He turned the empty weapon in +his hands, steadying its mechanism, and as +he did so a scent of burnt powder, stale and +dead, came to him out of the fouled muzzle. +He wrinkled his nose and sniffed at it.</p> + +<p>It had been many a long day since the major +had had that smell in his nostrils—many a +long, long day. But there had been a time +when it was familiar enough to him. Even +now it brought the clamoring memories of that +far distant time back to him, fresh and vivid. +It stimulated his imagination, quickening his +mind with big thoughts. It recalled those +four years when he had fought for a principle, +and had kept on fighting even when the substance +of the thing he fought for was gone +and there remained but the empty husks. It +recalled those last few hopeless months when +the forlorn hope had become indeed a lost +cause; when the forty cents he now carried in +his pocket would have seemed a fortune; when +the sorry house where he lodged now would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> +have seemed a palace; when, without prospect +or hope of reward or victory, he had piled +risk upon risk, had piled sacrifice upon sacrifice, +and through it all had borne it all without +whimper or complaint—fighting the good +fight like a soldier, keeping the faith like a +gentleman. It was the Smoke of Battle!</p> + +<p>The major had his inspiration now, right +enough. He knew just what he would write; +knew just how he would write it. He laid +down the pistol and the shells and squared off +and straightway began writing. For two hours +nearly he wrote away steadily, rarely changing +or erasing a word, stopping only to repoint +the lead of his pencil. Methodically as a machine +he covered sheet after sheet with his fine +old-fashioned script. Never for one instant +did he hesitate or falter.</p> + +<p>Just before one o'clock he finished. The +completed manuscript, each page of the twenty-odd +pages properly numbered, lay in a neat +pile before him. He scooped up the pistol +shells and stored them in an inner breast +pocket of his coat; then he opened a drawer, +slipped the emptied revolver well back under +a riffle of papers and clippings and closed the +drawer and locked it. His notes he tore into +squares, and those squares into smaller squares—and +so on until the fragments would tear +no finer, but fluttered out between his fingers +in a small white shower like stage snow.</p> + +<p>He shoved his completed narrative back<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> +under the roll-top of Devore's desk, where the +city editor would see it the very first thing +when he came to work; and as he straightened +up with a little grunt of satisfaction and +stretched his arms out the last of his fine-linen +shirts, with a rending sound, ripped down the +plaited front, from collarband almost to waistline.</p> + +<p>He eyed the ruined bosom with a regretful +stare, plucking at the gaping tear with his +graphite-dusted fingers and shaking his head +mournfully. Yet as he stepped out into the +street, bound for his lodgings, he jarred his +heels down upon the sidewalk with the brisk, +snapping gait of a man who has tackled a hard +job and has done it well, and is satisfied with +the way he has done it.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>Under a large black head the major's story +was printed in the Fourth of July edition of +the Evening Press. It ran full two columns +and lapped over into a third column. It was +an exhaustive—and exhausting—account of +the Fall of Vicksburg.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<h2>VI</h2> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p> +<h3><span class="g">THE EXIT OF ANSE<br /> +DUGMORE</span></h3> + + +<p><span class="first">W</span>hen a Kentucky mountaineer goes +to the penitentiary the chances are +that he gets sore eyes from the +white walls that enclose him, or +quick consumption from the thick air that he +breathes. It was entirely in accordance with +the run of his luck that Anse Dugmore should +get them both, the sore eyes first and then the +consumption.</p> + +<p>There is seldom anything that is picturesque +about the man-killer of the mountain country. +He is lacking sadly in the romantic aspect +and the delightfully studied vernacular with +which an inspired school of fiction has invested +our Western gun-fighter. No alluring jingle +of belted accouterment goes with him, no gift +of deadly humor adorns his equally deadly +gun-play. He does his killing in an unemotional, +unattractive kind of way, with absolutely no +regard for costume or setting. Rarely is he a +fine figure of a man.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>Take Anse Dugmore now. He had a short-waisted, +thin body and abnormally long, thin +legs, like the shadow a man casts at sunup. +He didn't have that steel-gray eye of which +we so often read. His eyes weren't of any +particular color, and he had a straggly mustache +of sandy red and no chin worth mentioning; +but he could shoot off a squirrel's +head, or a man's, at the distance of a considerable +number of yards.</p> + +<p>Until he was past thirty he played merely +an incidental part in the tribal war that had +raged up and down Yellow Banks Creek and +its principal tributary, the Pigeon Roost, +since long before the Big War. He was getting +out timber to be floated down the river on the +spring rise when word came to him of an +ambuscade that made him the head of his +immediate clan and the upholder of his family's +honor.</p> + +<p>“Yore paw an' yore two brothers was laywaid +this mawnin' comin' 'long Yaller Banks +togither,” was the message brought by a breathless +bearer of news. “The wimmenfolks air +totin' 'em home now. Talt, he ain't dead yit.”</p> + +<p>From a dry spot behind a log Anse lifted his +rifle and started over the ridge with the long, +shambling gait of the born hill-climber that +eats up the miles. For this emergency he had +been schooled years back when he sat by a wood +fire in a cabin of split boards and listened to +his crippled-up father reciting the saga of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> +feud, with the tally of this one killed and that +one maimed; for this he had been schooled +when he practised with rifle and revolver +until, even as a boy, his aim had become as +near an infallible thing as anything human +gets to be; for this he had been schooled still +more when he rode, armed and watchful, to +church or court or election. Its coming found +him ready.</p> + +<p>Two days he ranged the ridges, watching his +chance. The Tranthams were hard to find. +They were barricaded in their log-walled strongholds, +well guarded in anticipation of expected +reprisals, and prepared in due season to come +forth and prove by a dozen witnesses, or two +dozen if so many should be needed to establish +the alibi, that they had no hand in the massacre +of the Dugmores.</p> + +<p>But two days and nights of still-hunting, +of patiently lying in wait behind brush fences, +of noiseless, pussy-footed patrolling in likely +places, brought the survivor of the decimated +Dugmores his chance. He caught Pegleg Trantham +riding down Red Bird Creek on a mare-mule. +Pegleg was only a distant connection of +the main strain of the enemy. It was probable +that he had no part in the latest murdering; +perhaps doubtful that he had any prior knowledge +of the plot. But by his name and his +blood-tie he was a Trantham, which was enough.</p> + +<p>A writer of the Western school would have +found little in this encounter that was really<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> +worth while to write about. Above the place +of the meeting rose the flank of the mountain, +scarred with washes and scantily clothed with +stunted trees, so that in patches the soil showed +through like the hide of a mangy hound. The +creek was swollen by the April rains and ran +bank-full through raw, red walls. Old Pegleg +came cantering along with his rifle balanced +on the sliding withers of his mare-mule, for he +rode without a saddle. He was an oldish man +and fat for a mountaineer. A ten-year-old +nephew rode behind him, with his short arms +encircling his uncle's paunch. The old man +wore a dirty white shirt with a tabbed bosom; +a single shiny white china button held the neckband +together at the back. Below the button +the shirt billowed open, showing his naked back. +His wooden leg stuck straight out to the side, +its worn brass tip carrying a blob of red mud, +and his good leg dangled down straight, with +the trousers hitched half-way up the bare +shank and a soiled white-yarn sock falling down +into the wrinkled and gaping top of an ancient +congress gaiter.</p> + +<p>From out of the woods came Anse Dugmore, +bareheaded, crusted to his knees with dried +mud and wet from the rain that had been dripping +down since daybreak. A purpose showed +in all the lines of his slouchy frame.</p> + +<p>Pegleg jerked his rifle up, but he was hampered +by the boy's arms about his middle and +by his insecure perch upon the peaks of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> +slab-sided mule. The man afoot fired before +the mounted enemy could swing his gunbarrel +into line. The bullet ripped away the lower +part of Pegleg's face and grazed the cheek of +the crouching youngster behind him. The +white-eyed nephew slid head first off the buck-jumping +mule and instantly scuttled on all +fours into the underbrush. The rifle dropped +out of Trantham's hands and he lurched forward +on the mule's neck, grabbing out with +blind, groping motions. Dugmore stepped +two paces forward to free his eyes of the smoke, +which eddied back from his gunmuzzle into +his face, and fired twice rapidly. The mule +was bouncing up and down, sideways, in a mild +panic. Pegleg rolled off her, as inert as a sack +of grits, and lay face upward in the path, with +his arms wide outspread on the mud. The +mule galloped off in a restrained and dignified +style until she was a hundred yards away, +and then, having snorted the smells of burnt +powder and fresh blood out of her nostrils, +she fell to cropping the young leaves off the +wayside bushes, mouthing the tender green +shoots on her heavy iron bit contentedly.</p> + +<p>For a long minute Anse Dugmore stood in +the narrow footpath, listening. Then he slid +three new shells into his rifle, and slipping down +the bank he crossed the creek on a jam of +driftwood and, avoiding the roads that followed +the little watercourse, made over the shoulder +of the mountain for his cabin, two miles down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> +on the opposite side. When he was gone +from sight the nephew of the dead Trantham +rolled out of his hiding place and fled up the +road, holding one hand to his wounded cheek +and whimpering. Presently a gaunt, half-wild +boar pig, with his spine arched like the mountains, +came sniffing slowly down the hill, +pausing frequently to cock his wedge-shaped +head aloft and fix a hostile eye on two turkey +buzzards that began to swing in narrowing +circles over one particular spot on the bank +of the creek.</p> + +<p>The following day Anse sent word to the +sheriff that he would be coming in to give +himself up. It would not have been etiquette +for the sheriff to come for him. He came +in, well guarded on the way by certain of his +clan, pleaded self-defense before a friendly +county judge and was locked up in a one-cell +log jail. His own cousin was the jailer and +ministered to him kindly. He avoided passing +the single barred window of the jail in the daytime +or at night when there was a light behind +him, and he expected to “come clear” shortly, +as was customary.</p> + +<p>But the Tranthams broke the rules of the +game. The circuit judge lived half-way across +the mountains in a county on the Virginia line; +he was not an active partizan of either side in +the feud. These Tranthams, disregarding all +the ethics, went before this circuit judge and +asked him for a change of venue, and got it,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> +which was more; so that instead of being tried +in Clayton County—and promptly acquitted—Anse +Dugmore was taken to Woodbine +County and there lodged in a shiny new brick +jail. Things were in process of change in +Woodbine. A spur of the railroad had nosed +its way up from the lowlands and on through +the Gap, and had made Loudon, the county-seat, +a division terminal. Strangers from the +North had come in, opening up the mountains +to mines and sawmills and bringing with them +many swarthy foreign laborers. A young +man of large hopes and an Eastern college +education had started a weekly newspaper and +was talking big, in his editorial columns, of +a new order of things. The foundation had +even been laid for a graded school. Plainly +Woodbine County was falling out of touch +with the century-old traditions of her sisters +to the north and west of her.</p> + +<p>In due season, then, Anse Dugmore was +brought up on a charge of homicide. The +trial lasted less than a day. A jury of strangers +heard the stories of Anse himself and of the +dead Pegleg's white-eyed nephew. In the +early afternoon they came back, a wooden +toothpick in each mouth, from the new hotel +where they had just had a most satisfying +fifty-cent dinner at the expense of the commonwealth, +and sentenced the defendant, Anderson +Dugmore, to state prison at hard labor for the +balance of his natural life.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>The sheriff of Woodbine padlocked on Anse's +ankles a set of leg irons that had been made by +a mountain blacksmith out of log chains and +led him to the new depot. It was Anse Dugmore's +first ride on a railroad train; also it +was the first ride on any train for Wyatt Trantham, +head of the other clan, who, having been +elected to the legislature while Anse lay in +jail, had come over from Clayton, bound for +the state capital, to draw his mileage and be +a statesman.</p> + +<p>It was not in the breed for the victorious +Trantham to taunt his hobbled enemy or even +to look his way, but he sat just across the +aisle from the prisoner so that his ear might +catch the jangle of the heavy irons when Dugmore +moved in his seat. They all left the train +together at the little blue-painted Frankfort +station, Trantham turning off at the first +crossroads to go where the round dome of the +old capitol showed above the water-maple +trees, and Dugmore clanking straight ahead, +with a string of negroes and boys and the +sheriff following along behind him. Under the +shadow of a quarried-out hillside a gate opened +in a high stone wall to admit him into life +membership with a white-and-black-striped +brotherhood of shame.</p> + +<p>Four years there did the work for the gangling, +silent mountaineer. One day, just before +the Christmas holidays, the new governor of +the state paid a visit to the prison. Only his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> +private secretary came with him. The warden +showed them through the cell houses, the +workshops, the dining hall and the walled +yards. It was a Sunday afternoon; the white +prisoners loafed in their stockade, the blacks +in theirs. In a corner on the white side, where +the thin and skimpy winter sunshine slanted +over the stockade wall, Anse Dugmore was +squatted; merely a rack of bones enclosed in +a shapeless covering of black-and-white stripes. +On his close-cropped head and over his cheekbones +the skin was stretched so tight it seemed +nearly ready to split. His eyes, glassy and +bleared with pain, stared ahead of him with +a sick man's fixed stare. Inside his convict's +cotton shirt his chest was caved away almost +to nothing, and from the collarless neckband +his neck rose as bony as a plucked fowl's, with +great, blue cords in it. Lacking a coverlet to +pick, his fingers picked at the skin on his +retreating chin.</p> + +<p>As the governor stood in an arched doorway +watching, the lengthening afternoon shadow +edged along and covered the hunkered-down +figure by the wall. Anse tottered to his feet, +moved a few inches so that he might still be +in the sunshine, and settled down again. This +small exertion started a cough that threatened +to tear him apart. He drew his hand across +his mouth and a red stain came away on the +knotty knuckles. The warden was a kindly +enough man in the ordinary relations of life,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> +but nine years as a tamer of man-beasts in a +great stone cage had overlaid his sympathies +with a thickening callus.</p> + +<p>“One of our lifers that we won't have with +us much longer,” he said casually, noting that +the governor's eyes followed the sick convict. +“When the con gets one of these hill billies +he goes mighty fast.”</p> + +<p>“A mountaineer, then?” said the governor. +“What's his name?”</p> + +<p>“Dugmore,” answered the warden; “sent +from Clayton County. One of those Clayton +County feud fighters.”</p> + +<p>The governor nodded understandingly. +“What sort of a record has he made here?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, fair enough!” said the warden. “Those +man-killers from the mountains generally make +good prisoners. Funny thing about this fellow, +though. All the time he's been here he never, +so far as I know, had a message or a visitor +or a line of writing from the outside. Nor +wrote a letter out himself. Nor made friends +with anybody, convict or guard.”</p> + +<p>“Has he applied for a pardon?” asked the +governor.</p> + +<p>“Lord, no!” said the warden. “When he +was well he just took what was coming to him, +the same as he's taking it now. I can look up +his record, though, if you'd care to see it, sir.”</p> + +<p>“I believe I should,” said the governor +quietly.</p> + +<p>A spectacled young wife-murderer, who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> +worked in the prison office on the prison books, +got down a book and looked through it until +he came to a certain entry on a certain page. +The warden was right—so far as the black +marks of the prison discipline went, the friendless +convict's record showed fair.</p> + +<p>“I think,” said the young governor to the +warden and his secretary when they had moved +out of hearing of the convict bookkeeper—“I +think I'll give that poor devil a pardon for +a Christmas gift. It's no more than a mercy +to let him die at home, if he has any home to +go to.”</p> + +<p>“I could have him brought in and let you +tell him yourself, sir,” volunteered the warden.</p> + +<p>“No, no,” said the governor quickly. “I +don't want to hear that cough again. Nor +look on such a wreck,” he added.</p> + +<p>Two days before Christmas the warden sent +to the hospital ward for No. 874. No. 874, +that being Anse Dugmore, came shuffling in +and kept himself upright by holding with one +hand to the door jamb. The warden sat +rotund and impressive, in a swivel chair, holding +in his hands a folded-up, blue-backed +document.</p> + +<p>“Dugmore,” he said in his best official +manner, “when His Excellency, Governor +Woodford, was here on Sunday he took notice +that your general health was not good. So, of his +own accord, he has sent you an unconditional +pardon for a Christmas gift, and here it is.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>The sick convict's eyes, between their festering +lids, fixed on the warden's face and a sudden +light flickered in their pale, glazed shallows; +but he didn't speak. There was a little pause.</p> + +<p>“I said the governor has given you a pardon,” +repeated the warden, staring hard at him.</p> + +<p>“I heered you the fust time,” croaked the +prisoner in his eaten-out voice. “When kin +I go?”</p> + +<p>“Is that all you've got to say?” demanded +the warden, bristling up.</p> + +<p>“I said, when kin I go?” repeated No. 874.</p> + +<p>“Go!—you can go now. You can't go too +soon to suit me!”</p> + +<p>The warden swung his chair around and +showed him the broad of his indignant back. +When he had filled out certain forms at his +desk he shoved a pen into the silent consumptive's +fingers and showed him crossly where to +make his mark. At a signal from his bent +forefinger a negro trusty came forward and took +the pardoned man away and helped him put +his shrunken limbs into a suit of the prison-made +slops, of cheap, black shoddy, with the +taint of a jail thick and heavy on it. A deputy +warden thrust into Dugmore's hands a railroad +ticket and the five dollars that the law requires +shall be given to a freed felon. He took them +without a word and, still without a word, +stepped out of the gate that swung open for +him and into a light, spitty snowstorm. With +the inbred instinct of the hillsman he swung<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> +about and headed for the little, light-blue +station at the head of the crooked street. He +went slowly, coughing often as the cold air +struck into his wasted lungs, and sometimes +staggering up against the fences. Through a +barred window the wondering warden sourly +watched the crawling, tottery figure.</p> + +<p>“Damned savage!” he said to himself. +“Didn't even say thank you. I'll bet he never +had any more feelings or sentiments in his life +than a moccasin snake.”</p> + +<p>Something to the same general effect was +expressed a few minutes later by a brakeman +who had just helped a wofully feeble passenger +aboard the eastbound train and had steered +him, staggering and gasping from weakness, +to a seat at the forward end of an odorous red-plush +day coach.</p> + +<p>“Just a bundle of bones held together by a +skin,” the brakeman was saying to the conductor, +“and the smell of the pen all over him. +Never said a word to me—just looked at me +sort of dumb. Bound for plumb up at the far +end of the division, accordin' to the way his +ticket reads. I doubt if he lives to get there.”</p> + +<p>The warden and the brakeman both were +wrong. The freed man did live to get there. +And it was an emotion which the warden had +never suspected that held life in him all that +afternoon and through the comfortless night in +the packed and noisome day coach, while the +fussy, self-sufficient little train went looping,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> +like an overgrown measuring worm, up through +the blue grass, around the outlying knobs of the +foothills, on and on through the great riven +chasm of the gateway into a bleak, bare clutch +of undersized mountains. Anse Dugmore had +two bad hemorrhages on the way, but he lived.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>Under the full moon of a white and flawless +night before Christmas, Shem Dugmore's +squatty log cabin made a blot on the thin +blanket of snow, and inside the one room of +the cabin Shem Dugmore sat alone by the +daubed-clay hearth, glooming. Hours passed +and he hardly moved except to stir the red +coals or kick back some ambitious ember of +hickory that leaped out upon the uneven +floor. Suddenly something heavy fell limply +against the locked door, and instantly, all +alertness, the shock-headed mountaineer was +backed up against the farther wall, out of +range of the two windows, with his weapons +drawn, silent, ready for what might come. +After a minute there was a feeble, faint pecking +sound—half knock, half scratch—at the +lower part of the door. It might have been +a wornout dog or any spent wild creature, but +no line of Shem Dugmore's figure relaxed, and +under his thick, sandy brows his eyes, in the +flickering light, had the greenish shine of an +angry cat-animal's.</p> + +<p>“Whut is it?” he called. “And whut do +you want? Speak out peartly!”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 379px;"> +<img src="images/illo_facing_p192.jpg" width="379" height="500" alt="illo_facing_p192" title="HE DRAGGED THE RIFLE BY THE BARREL" /> +<span class="caption">He dragged the rifle by the barrel, so that its butt made a +crooked furrow in the snow.—Page 197.</span><br /> +<span class="totoi"><a href="#toi">To List</a></span></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> +The answer came through the thick planking +thinly, in a sort of gasping whine that +ended in a chattering cough; but even after +Shem's ear caught the words, and even after +he recognized the changed but still familiar +cadence of the voice, he abated none of his +caution. Carefully he unbolted the door, +and, drawing it inch by inch slowly ajar, he +reached out, exposing only his hand and arm, +and drew bodily inside the shell of a man that +was fallen, huddled up, against the log door +jamb. He dropped the wooden crossbar back +into its sockets before he looked a second time +at the intruder, who had crawled across the +floor and now lay before the wide mouth of +the hearth in a choking spell. Shem Dugmore +made no move until the fit was over and the +sufferer lay quiet.</p> + +<p>“How did you git out, Anse?” were the first +words he spoke.</p> + +<p>The consumptive rolled his head weakly from +side to side and swallowed desperately. “Pardoned +out—in writin'—yistiddy.”</p> + +<p>“You air in purty bad shape,” said Shem.</p> + +<p>“Yes,”—the words came very slowly—“my +lungs give out on me—and my eyes. +But—but I got here.”</p> + +<p>“You come jist in time,” said his cousin; +“this time tomorrer and you wouldn't a' never +found me here. I'd 'a' been gone.”</p> + +<p>“Gone!—gone whar?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Shem slowly, “after you was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> +sent away it seemed like them Tranthams +got the upper hand complete. All of our side +whut ain't dead—and that's powerful few—is +moved off out of the mountings to Winchester, +down in the settlemints. I'm 'bout the +last, and I'm a-purposin' to slip out tomorrer +night while the Tranthams is at their Christmas +rackets—they'd layway me too ef——”</p> + +<p>“But my wife—did she——”</p> + +<p>“I thought maybe you'd heered tell about +that whilst you was down yon,” said Shem +in a dulled wonder. “The fall after you was +took away yore woman she went over to the +Tranthams. Yes, sir; she took up with the +head devil of 'em all—old Wyatt Trantham +hisself—and she went to live at his house up +on the Yaller Banks.”</p> + +<p>“Is she——Did she——”</p> + +<p>The ex-convict was struggling to his knees. +His groping skeletons of hands were right in +the hot ashes. The heat cooked the moisture +from his sodden garments in little films of +vapor and filled the cabin with the reek of +the prison dye.</p> + +<p>“Did she—did she——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, she's been dead quite a spell now,” +stated Shem. “I would have s'posed you'd +'a' heered that, too, somewhars. She had a +kind of a risin' in the breast.”</p> + +<p>“But my young uns—little Anderson and—and +Elviry?”</p> + +<p>The sick man was clear up on his knees now,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> +his long arms hanging and his eyes, behind +their matted lids, fixed on Shem's impassive +face. Could the warden have seen him now, +and marked his attitude and his words, he +would have known what it was that had brought +this dying man back to <i>his</i> own mountain +valley with the breath of life still in him. A +dumb, unuttered love for the two shock-headed +babies he had left behind in the split-board +cabin was the one big thing in Anse Dugmore's +whole being—bigger even than his sense of +allegiance to the feud.</p> + +<p>“My young uns, Shem?”</p> + +<p>“Wyatt Trantham took 'em and he kep' +'em—he's got 'em both now.”</p> + +<p>“Does he—does he use 'em kindly?”</p> + +<p>“I ain't never heered,” said Shem simply. +“He never had no young uns of his own, and +it mout be he uses 'em well. He's the high +sheriff now.”</p> + +<p>“I was countin' on gittin' to see 'em agin—an +buyin 'em some little Chrismus fixin's,” +the father wheezed. Hopelessness was coming +into his rasping whisper. “I reckon it ain't no +use to—to be thinkin'—of that there now?”</p> + +<p>“No 'arthly use at all,” said Shem, with +brutal directness. “Ef you had the strength +to git thar, the Tranthams would shoot you +down like a fice dog.”</p> + +<p>Anse nodded weakly. He sank down again +on the floor, face to the boards, coughing hard. +It was the droning voice of his cousin that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> +brought him back from the borders of the coma +he had been fighting off for hours.</p> + +<p>For, to Shem, the best hater and the poorest +fighter of all his cleaned-out clan, had come +a great thought. He shook the drowsing man +and roused him, and plied him with sips from +a dipper of the unhallowed white corn whisky +of a mountain still-house. And as he worked +over him he told off the tally of the last four +years: of the uneven, unmerciful war, ticking +off on his blunt finger ends the grim totals of +this one ambushed and that one killed in the +open, overpowered and beaten under by weight +of odds. He told such details as he knew of +the theft of the young wife and the young ones, +Elvira and little Anderson.</p> + +<p>“Anse, did ary Trantham see you a-gittin' +here tonight?”</p> + +<p>“Nobody—that knowed me—seed me.”</p> + +<p>“Old Wyatt Trantham, he rid into Manchester +this evenin' 'bout fo' o'clock—I seed +him passin' over the ridge,” went on Shem. +“He'll be ridin' back 'long Pigeon Roost some +time before mawnin'. He done you a heap o' +dirt, Anse.”</p> + +<p>The prostrate man was listening hard.</p> + +<p>“Anse, I got yore old rifle right here in the +house. Ef you could git up thar on the mounting, +somewhar's alongside the Pigeon Roost +trail, you could git him shore. He'll be full +of licker comin' back.”</p> + +<p>And now a seeming marvel was coming to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> +pass, for the caved-in trunk was rising on the +pipestem legs and the shaking fingers were +outstretched, reaching for something.</p> + +<p>Shem stepped lightly to a corner of the cabin +and brought forth a rifle and began reloading +it afresh from a box of shells.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>A wavering figure crept across the small +stump-dotted “dead'ning”—Anse Dugmore +was upon his errand. He dragged the rifle +by the barrel, so that its butt made a crooked, +broken furrow in the new snow like the trail +of a crippled snake. He fell and got up, and +fell and rose again. He coughed and up the +ridge a ranging dog-fox barked back an answer +to his cough.</p> + +<p>From out of the slitted door Shem watched +him until the scrub oaks at the edge of the +clearing swallowed him up. Then Shem fastened +himself in and made ready to start his +flight to the lowlands that very night.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>Just below the forks of Pigeon Roost Creek +the trail that followed its banks widened into +a track wide enough for wagon wheels. On +one side lay the diminished creek, now filmed +over with a glaze of young ice. On the other +the mountain rose steeply. Fifteen feet up +the bluff side a fallen dead tree projected its +rotted, broken roots, like snaggled teeth, from +the clayey bank. Behind this tree's trunk, in +the snow and half-frozen, half-melted yellow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> +mire, Anse Dugmore was stretched on his face. +The barrel of the rifle barely showed itself +through the interlacing root ends. It pointed +downward and northward toward the broad, +moonlit place in the road. Its stock was +pressed tightly against Anse Dugmore's fallen-in +cheek; the trigger finger of his right hand, +fleshless as a joint of cane, was crooked about +the trigger guard. A thin stream of blood +ran from his mouth and dribbled down his chin +and coagulated in a sticky smear upon the gun +stock. His lungs, what was left of them, were +draining away.</p> + +<p>He lay without motion, saving up the last +ounce of his life. The cold had crawled up +his legs to his hips; he was dead already from +the waist down. He no longer coughed, only +gasped thickly. He knew that he was about +gone; but he knew, too, that he would last, +clear-minded and clear-eyed, until High Sheriff +Wyatt Trantham came. His brain would last—and +his trigger finger.</p> + +<p>Then he heard him coming. Up the trail +sounded the muffled music of a pacer's hoofs +single-footing through the snow, and after +that, almost instantly Trantham rode out into +sight and loomed larger and larger as he drew +steadily near the open place under the bank. +He was wavering in the saddle. He drew nearer +and nearer, and as he came out on the wide +patch of moonlit snow, he pulled the single-footer +down to a walk and halted him and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> +began fumbling in the right-hand side of the +saddlebags that draped his horse's shoulder.</p> + +<p>Up in its covert the rifle barrel moved an +inch or two, then steadied and stopped, the +bone-sight at its tip resting full on the broad +of the drunken rider's breast. The boney +finger moved inward from the trigger guard +and closed ever so gently about the touchy, hair-filed +trigger—then waited.</p> + +<p>For the uncertain hand of Trantham, every +movement showing plain in the crystal, hard, +white moon, was slowly bringing from under +the flap of the right-side saddlebag something +that was round and smooth and shone with a +yellowish glassy light, like a fat flask filled +with spirits. And Anse Dugmore waited, being +minded now to shoot him as he put the bottle +to his lips, and so cheat Trantham of his last +drink on earth, as Trantham had cheated him +of his liberty and his babies—as Trantham +had cheated those babies of the Christmas +fixings which the state's five dollars might have +bought.</p> + +<p>He waited, waited——</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>This was not the first time the high sheriff +had stopped that night on his homeward ride +from the tiny county seat, as his befuddlement +proclaimed; but halting there in the +open, just past the forks of the Pigeon Roost, +he was moved by a new idea. He fumbled +in the right-hand flap of his saddlebags and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> +brought out a toy drum, round and smooth, +with shiny yellow sides. A cheap china doll +with painted black ringlets and painted blue +eyes followed the drum, and then a torn paper +bag, from which small pieces of cheap red-and-green +dyed candy sifted out between the +sheriff's fumbling fingers and fell into the snow.</p> + +<p>Thirty feet away, in the dead leaves matted +under the roots of an uptorn dead tree, something +moved—something moved; and then +there was a sound like a long, deep, gurgling +sigh, and another sound like some heavy, +lengthy object settling itself down flat upon +the snow and the leaves.</p> + +<p>The first faint rustle cleared Trantham's +brain of the liquor fumes. He jammed the +toys and the candy back into the saddlebags +and jerked his horse sidewise into the protecting +shadow of the bluff, reaching at the same +time to the shoulder holster buckled about +his body under the unbuttoned overcoat. For a +long minute he listened keenly, the drawn pistol +in his hand. There was nothing to hear except +his own breathing and the breathing of his horse.</p> + +<p>“Sho! Some old hawg turnin' over in her +bed,” he said to the horse, and holstering +the pistol he went racking on down Pigeon +Roost Creek, with Christmas for Elviry and +little Anderson in his saddlebags.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>When they found Anse Dugmore in his +ambush another snow had fallen on his back<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> +and he was slightly more of a skeleton than +ever; but the bony finger was still crooked +about the trigger, the rusted hammer was back +at full cock and there was a dried brownish +stain on the gun stock. So, from these facts, +his finders were moved to conclude that the +freed convict must have bled to death from +his lungs before the sheriff ever passed, which +they held to be a good thing all round and a +lucky thing for the sheriff.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<h2>VII</h2> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p> +<h3><span class="g">TO THE EDITOR<br /> OF THE +SUN</span></h3> + + +<p><span class="first">T</span>here was a sound, heard in the early +hours of a Sunday morning, that used +to bother strangers in our town until +they got used to it. It started usually +along about half past five or six o'clock and it +kept up interminably—so it seemed to them—a +monotonous, jarring thump-thump, thump-thump +that was like the far-off beating of +African tomtoms; but at breakfast, when the +beaten biscuits came upon the table, throwing +off a steamy hot halo of their own goodness, +these aliens knew what it was that had roused +them, and, unless they were dyspeptics by +nature, felt amply recompensed for the lost +hours of their beauty sleep.</p> + +<p>In these degenerate latter days I believe +there is a machine that accomplishes the same +purpose noiselessly by a process of rolling and +crushing, which no doubt is efficacious; but +it seems somehow to take the poetry out of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +the operation. Old Judge Priest, our circuit +judge, and the reigning black deity of his +kitchen, Aunt Dilsey Turner, would have +naught of it. So long as his digestion survived +and her good right arm held out to endure, +there would be real beaten biscuits for the +judge's Sunday morning breakfast. And so, +having risen with the dawn or a little later, +Aunt Dilsey, wielding a maul-headed tool of +whittled wood, would pound the dough with +rhythmic strokes until it was as plastic as +sculptor's modeling clay and as light as eiderdown, +full of tiny hills and hollows, in which +small yeasty bubbles rose and spread and burst +like foam globules on the flanks of gentle wavelets. +Then, with her master hand, she would +roll it thin and cut out the small round disks +and delicately pink each one with a fork—and +then, if you were listening, you could hear +the stove door slam like the smacking of an +iron lip.</p> + +<p>On a certain Sunday I have in mind, Judge +Priest woke with the first premonitory thud +from the kitchen, and he was up and dressed +in his white linens and out upon the wide front +porch while the summer day was young and +unblemished. The sun was not up good yet. +It made a red glow, like a barn afire, through +the treetops looking eastward. Lie-abed blackbirds +were still talking over family matters +in the maples that clustered round the house, +and in the back yard Judge Priest's big red<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> +rooster hoarsely circulated gossip in regard to +a certain little brown hen, first crowing out +the news loudly and then listening, with his +head on one side, while the rooster in the next +yard took it up and repeated it to a rooster +living farther down the road, as is the custom +among male scandalizers the world over. +Upon the lawn the little gossamer hammocks +that the grass spiders had seamed together +overnight were spangled with dew, so that +each out-thrown thread was a glittering rosary +and the center of each web a silken, cushioned +jewel casket. Likewise each web was outlined +in white mist, for the cottonwood trees were +shedding down their podded product so thickly +that across open spaces the slanting lines of +the drifting fiber looked like snow. It would +be hot enough after a while, but now the whole +world was sweet and fresh and washed clean.</p> + +<p>It impressed Judge Priest so. He lowered +his bulk into a rustic chair made of hickory +withes that gave to his weight, and put his +thoughts upon breakfast and the goodness of +the day; but presently, as he sat there, he saw +something that set a frown between his faded +blue eyes.</p> + +<p>He saw, coming down Clay Street, upon the +opposite side, an old man—a very feeble old +man—who was tall and thin and dressed in +somber black. The man was lame—he +dragged one leg along with the hitching gait +of the paralytic. Traveling with painful slowness,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> +he came on until he reached the corner +above. Then automatically he turned at right +angles and left the narrow wooden sidewalk +and crossed the dusty road. He passed Judge +Priest's, looking neither to the right nor the +left, and so kept on until he reached the corner +below. Still following an invisible path in +the deep-furrowed dust, he crossed again to +the other side. Just as he got there his halt +leg seemed to give out altogether and for a +minute or two he stood holding himself up by +a fumbling grip upon the slats of a tree box +before he went laboriously on, a figure of pain +and weakness in the early sunshine that was +now beginning to slant across his path and +dapple his back with checkerings of shadow +and light.</p> + +<p>This maneuver was inexplicable—a stranger +would have puzzled to make it out. The +shade was as plentiful upon one side of Clay +Street as upon the other; each sagged wooden +sidewalk was in as bad repair as its brother +over the way. The small, shabby frame +house, buried in honeysuckles and balsam +vines, which stood close up to the pavement +line on the opposite side of Clay Street, facing +Judge Priest's roomy and rambling old home, +had no flag of pestilence at its door or its +window. And surely to this lone pedestrian +every added step must have been an added +labor. A stranger would never have understood +it; but Judge Priest understood it—he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> +had seen that same thing repeated countless +times in the years that stretched behind him. +Always it had distressed him inwardly, but +on this particular morning it distressed him +more than ever. The toiling grim figure in +black had seemed so feeble and so tottery and +old.</p> + +<p>Well, Judge Priest was not exactly what you +would call young. With an effort he heaved +himself up out of the depths of his hickory +chair and stood at the edge of his porch, polishing +a pink bald dome of forehead as though +trying to make up his mind to something. +Jefferson Poindexter, resplendent in starchy +white jacket and white apron, came to the +door.</p> + +<p>“Breakfus' served, suh!” he said, giving to an +announcement touching on food that glamour +of grandeur of which his race alone enjoys the +splendid secret.</p> + +<p>“Hey?” asked the judge absently.</p> + +<p>“Breakfus'—hit's on the table waitin', +suh,” stated Jeff. “Mizz Polks sent over her +houseboy with a dish of fresh razberries fur +yore breakfus'; and she say to tell you, with +her and Mistah Polkses' compliments, they is +fresh picked out of her garden—specially +fur you.”</p> + +<p>The lady and gentleman to whom Jeff had +reference were named Polk, but in speaking of +white persons for whom he had a high regard +Jeff always, wherever possible within the limitations<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> +of our speech, tacked on that final s. +It was in the nature of a delicate verbal compliment, +implying that the person referred to +was worthy of enlargement and pluralization.</p> + +<p>Alone in the cool, high-ceiled, white-walled +dining room, Judge Priest ate his breakfast +mechanically. The raspberries were pink beads +of sweetness; the young fried chicken was a +poem in delicate and flaky browns; the spoon +bread could not have been any better if it had +tried; and the beaten biscuits were as light as +snowflakes and as ready to melt on the tongue; +but Judge Priest spoke hardly a word all through +the meal. Jeff, going out to the kitchen for +the last course, said to Aunt Dilsey:</p> + +<p>“Ole boss-man seem lak he's got somethin' +on his mind worryin' him this mawnin'.”</p> + +<p>When Jeff returned, with a turn of crisp +waffles in one hand and a pitcher of cane sirup +in the other, he stared in surprise, for the +dining room was empty and he could hear his +employer creaking down the hall. Jeff just +naturally hated to see good hot waffles going to +waste. He ate them himself, standing up; and +they gave him a zest for his regular breakfast, +which followed in due course of time.</p> + +<p>From the old walnut hatrack, with its white-tipped +knobs that stood just inside the front +door, Judge Priest picked up a palmleaf fan; +and he held the fan slantwise as a shield for +his eyes and his bare head against the sun's +glare as he went down the porch steps and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> +passed out of his own yard, traversed the +empty street and strove with the stubborn +gate latch of the little house that faced his +own. It was a poor-looking little house, and +its poorness had extended to its surroundings—as +if poverty was a contagion that spread. +In Judge Priest's yard, now, the grass, though +uncared for, yet grew thick and lush; but +here, in this small yard, there were bare, shiny +spots of earth showing through the grass—as +though the soil itself was out at elbows and +the nap worn off its green-velvet coat; but +the vines about the porch were thick enough +for an ambuscade and from behind their green +screen came a voice in hospitable recognition.</p> + +<p>“Is that you, judge? Well sir, I'm glad to +see you! Come right in; take a seat and sit +down and rest yourself.”</p> + +<p>The speaker showed himself in the arched +opening of the vine barrier—an old man—not +quite so old, perhaps, as the judge. He +was in his shirtsleeves. There was a patch +upon one of the sleeves. His shoes had been +newly shined, but the job was poorly done; +the leather showed a dulled black upon the +toes and a weathered yellow at the sides and +heels. As he spoke his voice ran up and down—the +voice of a deaf person who cannot hear +his own words clearly, so that he pitches them +in a false key. For added proof of this affliction +he held a lean and slightly tremulous hand +cupped behind his ear.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>The other hand he extended in greeting as +the old judge mounted the step of the low +porch. The visitor took one of two creaky +wooden rockers that stood in the narrow space +behind the balsam vines, and for a minute or +two he sat without speech, fanning himself. +Evidently these neighborly calls between these +two old men were not uncommon; they could +enjoy the communion of silence together without +embarrassment.</p> + +<p>The town clocks struck—first the one on +the city hall struck eight times sedately; and +then, farther away, the one on the county +courthouse. This one struck five times slowly, +hesitated a moment, struck eleven times with +great vigor, hesitated again, struck once with +a big, final boom, and was through. No +amount of repairing could cure the courthouse +clock of this peculiarity. It kept the time, but +kept it according to a private way of its own. +Immediately after it ceased the bell on the +Catholic church, first and earliest of the Sunday +bells, began tolling briskly. Judge Priest +waited until its clamoring had died away.</p> + +<p>“Goin' to be good and hot after while,” he +said, raising his voice.</p> + +<p>“What say?”</p> + +<p>“I say it's goin' to be mighty warm a little +later on in the day,” repeated Judge Priest.</p> + +<p>“Yes, suh; I reckon you're right there,” +assented the host. “Just a minute ago, before +you came over, I was telling Liddie she'd find<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> +it middlin' close in church this morning. She's +going, though—runaway horses wouldn't keep +her away from church! I'm not going myself—seems +as though I'm getting more and more +out of the church habit here lately.”</p> + +<p>Judge Priest's eyes squinted in whimsical +appreciation of this admission. He remembered +that the other man, during the lifetime of +his second wife, had been a regular attendant +at services—going twice on Sundays and to +Wednesday night prayer meetings too; but +the second wife had been dead going on four +years now—or was it five? Time sped so!</p> + +<p>The deaf man spoke on:</p> + +<p>“So I just thought I'd sit here and try to +keep cool and wait for that Ledbetter boy +to come round with the Sunday paper. Did +you read last Sunday's paper, judge? Colonel +Watterson certainly had a mighty fine piece +on those Northern money devils. It's round +here somewhere—I cut it out to keep it. +I'd like to have you read it and pass your +opinion on it. These young fellows do pretty +well, but there's none of them can write like +the colonel, in my judgment.”</p> + +<p>Judge Priest appeared not to have heard him.</p> + +<p>“Ed Tilghman,” he said abruptly in his high, +fine voice, that seemed absurdly out of place, +coming from his round frame, “you and me +have lived neighbors together a good while, +haven't we? We've been right acros't the street +from one another all this time. It kind of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> +jolts me sometimes when I git to thinkin' how +many years it's really been; because we're +gittin' along right smartly in years—all us +old fellows are. Ten years from now, say, +there won't be so many of us left.” He +glanced sidewise at the lean, firm profile of his +friend. “You're younger than some of us; +but, even so, you ain't exactly what I'd call +a young man yourself.”</p> + +<p>Avoiding the direct, questioning gaze that +his companion turned on him at this, the judge +reached forward and touched a ripe balsam +apple that dangled in front of him. Instantly +it split, showing the gummed red seeds clinging +to the inner walls of the sensitive pod.</p> + +<p>“I'm listening to you, judge,” said the deaf +man.</p> + +<p>For a moment the old judge waited. There +was about him almost an air of embarrassment. +Still considering the ruin of the balsam apple, +he spoke, and it was with a sort of hurried +anxiety, as though he feared he might be checked +before he could say what he had to say.</p> + +<p>“Ed,” he said, “I was settin' on my porch +a while ago waitin' for breakfast, and your +brother came by.” He shot a quick, apprehensive +glance at his silent auditor. Except +for a tautened flickering of the muscles about +the mouth, there was no sign that the other +had heard him. “Your brother Abner came +by,” repeated the judge, “and I set over there +on my porch and watched him pass. Ed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> +Abner's gittin' mighty feeble! He jest about +kin drag himself along—he's had another +stroke lately, they tell me. He had to hold on +to that there treebox down yonder, steadyin' +himself after he crossed back over to this side. +Lord knows what he was doin' draggin' down-town +on a Sunday mornin'—force of habit, +I reckin. Anyway he certainly did look older +and more poorly than ever I saw him before. +He's a failin' man if I'm any judge. Do you +hear me plain?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“I hear you,” said his neighbor in a curiously +flat voice. It was Tilghman's turn to avoid +the glances of his friend. He stared straight +ahead of him through a rift in the vines.</p> + +<p>“Well, then,” went on Judge Priest, “here's +what I've got to say to you, Ed Tilghman. You +know as well as I do that I've never pried into +your private affairs, and it goes mightily against +the grain for me to be doin' so now; but, Ed, +when I think of how old we're all gittin' to be, +and when the Camp meets and I see you settin' +there side by side almost, and yet never seemin' +to see each other—and this mornin' when I +saw Abner pass, lookin' so gaunt and sick—and +it sech a sweet, ca'm mornin' too, and +everything so quiet and peaceful——” He +broke off and started anew. “I don't seem +to know exactly how to put my thoughts into +words—and puttin' things into words is +supposed to be my trade too. Anyway I +couldn't go to Abner. He's not my neighbor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> +and you are; and besides, you're the youngest +of the two. So—so I came over here to you. +Ed, I'd like mightily to take some word from +you to your brother Abner. I'd like to do +it the best in the world! Can't I go to him +with a message from you—today? Tomorrow +might be too late!”</p> + +<p>He laid one of his pudgy hands on the bony +knee of the deaf man; but the hand slipped +away as Tilghman stood up.</p> + +<p>“Judge Priest,” said Tilghman, looking down +at him, “I've listened to what you've had to +say; and I didn't stop you, because you are +my friend and I know you mean well by it. +Besides, you're my guest, under my own roof.” +He stumped back and forth in the narrow confines +of the porch. Otherwise he gave no sign +of any emotion that might be astir within +him, his face being still set and his voice flat. +“What's between me and my—what's between +me and that man you just named always will +be between us. He's satisfied to let things go +on as they are. I'm satisfied to let them go on. +It's in our breed, I guess. Words—just +words—wouldn't help mend this thing. The +reason for it would be there just the same, and +neither one of us is going to be able to forget +that so long as we both live. I'd just as soon +you never brought this—this subject up again. +If you went to him I presume he'd tell you +the same thing. Let it be, Judge Priest—it's +past mending. We two have gone on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> +this way for fifty years nearly. We'll keep +on going on so. I appreciate your kindness, +Judge Priest; but let it be—let it be!”</p> + +<p>There was finality miles deep and fixed as +basalt in his tone. He checked his walk and +called in at a shuttered window.</p> + +<p>“Liddie,” he said in his natural up-and-down +voice, “before you put off for church, couldn't +you mix up a couple of lemonades or something? +Judge Priest is out here on the porch with me.”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Judge Priest, getting slowly up, +“I've got to be gittin' back before the sun's up +too high. If I don't see you again meanwhile +be shore to come to the next regular meetin' +of the Camp—on Friday night,” he added.</p> + +<p>“I'll be there,” said Tilghman. “And I'll +try to find that piece of Colonel Watterson's +and send it over to you. I'd like mightily +for you to read it.”</p> + +<p>He stood at the opening in the vines, with +one slightly palsied hand fumbling at a loose +tendril as the judge passed down the short +yard-walk and out at the gate. Then he went +back to his chair and sat down again. All +those little muscles in his jowls were jumping.</p> + +<p>Clay Street was no longer empty. Looking +down its dusty length from beneath the shelter +of his palmleaf fan, Judge Priest saw here and +there groups of children—the little girls in +prim and starchy white, the little boys hobbling +in the Sunday torment of shoes and +stockings; and all of them were moving toward<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> +a common center—Sunday school. Twice +again that day would the street show life—a +little later when grown-ups went their way +to church, and again just after the noonday +dinner, when young people and servants, +carrying trays and dishes under napkins, would +cross and recross from one house to another. +The Sunday interchange of special dainties +between neighbors amounted in our town to a +ceremonial and a rite; but after that, until the +cool of the evening, the town would simmer +in quiet, while everybody took Sunday naps.</p> + +<p>With his fan, Judge Priest made an angry +sawing motion in the air, as though trying to +fend off something disagreeable—a memory, +perhaps, or it might have been only a persistent +midge. There were plenty of gnats and midges +about, for by now—even so soon—the dew +was dried. The leaves of the silver poplars +were turning their white under sides up like +countless frog bellies, and the long, podded +pendants of the Injun-cigar trees hung dangling +and still. It would be a hot day, sure enough; +already the judge felt wilted and worn out.</p> + +<p>In our town we had our tragedies that +endured for years and, in the small-town way, +finally became institutions. There was the +case of the Burnleys. For thirty-odd years +old Major Burnley lived on one side of his +house and his wife lived on the other, neither +of them ever crossing an imaginary dividing +line that ran down the middle of the hall,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> +having for their medium of intercourse all that +time a lean, spinster daughter, in whose gray +and barren life churchwork and these strange +home duties took the place that Nature had +intended to be filled by a husband and by +babies and grandbabies.</p> + +<p>There was crazy Saul Vance, in his garb of +a fantastic scarecrow, who was forever starting +somewhere and never going there—because, +as sure as he came to a place where two roads +crossed, he could not make up his mind which +turn to take. In his youth a girl had jilted +him, or a bank had failed on him, or a horse +had kicked him in the head—or maybe it was +all three of these things that had addled his +poor brains. Anyhow he went his pitiable, +aimless way for years, taunted daily by small +boys who were more cruel than jungle beasts. +How he lived nobody knew, but when he died +some of the men who as boys had jeered him +turned out to be his volunteer pallbearers.</p> + +<p>There was Mr. H. Jackman—Brother Jackman +to all the town—who had been our leading +hatter once and rich besides, and in the +days of his affluence had given the Baptist +church its bells. In his old age, when he was +dog-poor, he lived on charity, only it was not +known by that word, which is at once the +sweetest and bitterest word in our tongue; +for Brother Jackman, always primped, always +plump and well clad, would go through the +market to take his pick of what was there,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> +and to the Richland House bar for his toddies, +and to Felsburg Brothers for new garments +when his old ones wore shabby—and yet +never paid a cent for anything; a kindly conspiracy +on the part of the whole town enabling +him to maintain his self-respect to the last. +Strangers in our town used to take him for a +retired banker—that's a fact!</p> + +<p>And there was old man Stackpole, who had +killed his man—had killed him in fair fight +and had been acquitted—and yet walked quiet +back streets at all hours, a gray, silent shadow, +and never slept except with a bright light +burning in his room.</p> + +<p>The tragedy of Mr. Edward Tilghman, +though, and of Captain Abner G. Tilghman, his +elder brother, was both a tragedy and a mystery—the +biggest tragedy and the deepest mystery +our town had ever known or ever would know +probably. All that anybody knew for certain +was that for upward of fifty years neither of +them had spoken to the other, nor by deed or +look had given heed to the other. As boys, +back in sixty-one, they had gone out together. +Side by side, each with his arm over the other's +shoulder, they had stood up with a hundred +others to be sworn into the service of the +Confederate States of America; and on the +morning they went away Miss Sally May +Ghoulson had given the older brother her silk +scarf off her shoulders to wear for a sash. Both +the brothers had liked her; but by this public<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> +act she made it plain which of them was her +choice.</p> + +<p>Then the company had marched off to the +camp on the Tennessee border, where the new +troops were drilling; and as they marched +some watchers wept and others cheered—but +the cheering predominated, for it was to be +only a sort of picnic anyhow—so everybody +agreed. As the orators—who mainly stayed +behind—had pointed out, the Northern people +would not fight. And even if they should fight +could not one Southerner whip four Yankees? +Certainly he could; any fool knew that much. +In a month or two months, or at most three +months, they would all be tramping home again, +covered with glory and the spoils of war, and +then—this by common report and understanding—Miss +Sally May Ghoulson and +Abner Tilghman would be married, with a big +church wedding.</p> + +<p>The Yankees, however, unaccountably fought, +and it was not a ninety-day picnic after all. +It was not any kind of a picnic. And +when it was over, after four years and a +month, Miss Sally May Ghoulson and Abner +Tilghman did not marry. It was just before +the battle of Chickamauga when the other men +in the company first noticed that the two +Tilghmans had become as strangers, and worse +than strangers, to each other. They quit +speaking to each other then and there, and to +any man's knowledge they never spoke again.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> +They served the war out, Abner rising just +before the end to a captaincy, Edward serving +always as a private in the ranks. In a dour, +grim silence they took the fortunes of those +last hard, hopeless days and after the surrender +down in Mississippi they came back with the +limping handful that was left of the company; +and in age they were all boys still—but in +experience, men, and in suffering, grandsires.</p> + +<p>Two months after they got back Miss Sally +May Ghoulson was married to Edward, the +younger brother. Within a year she died, and +after a decent period of mourning Edward +married a second time—only to be widowed +again after many years. His second wife bore +him children and they died—all except one, +a daughter, who grew up and married badly; +and after her mother's death she came back to +live with her deaf father and minister to him. +As for Captain Abner Tilghman, he never +married—never, so far as the watching eyes +of the town might tell, looked with favor +upon another woman. And he never spoke to +his brother or to any of his brother's family—or +his brother to him.</p> + +<p>With years the wall of silence they had +builded up between them turned to ice and the +ice to stone. They lived on the same street, +but never did Edward enter Captain Abner's +bank, never did Captain Abner pass Edward's +house—always he crossed over to the opposite +side. They belonged to the same Veterans'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> +Camp—indeed there was only the one for +them to belong to; they voted the same ticket—straight +Democratic; and in the same +church, the old Independent Presbyterian, they +worshiped the same God by the same creed, +the older brother being an elder and the younger +a plain member—and yet never crossed looks.</p> + +<p>The town had come to accept this dumb and +bitter feud as unchangeable and eternal; in +time people ceased even to wonder what its +cause had been, and in all the long years only +one man had tried, before now, to heal it up. +When old Doctor Henrickson died, a young +and ardent clergyman, fresh from the Virginia +theological school, came out to take the vacant +pulpit; and he, being filled with a high sense +of his holy calling, thought it shameful that +such a thing should be in the congregation. +He went to see Captain Tilghman about it. +He never went but that once. Afterward it +came out that Captain Tilghman had threatened +to walk out of church and never darken +its doors again if the minister ever dared to +mention his brother's name in his presence. +So the young minister sorrowed, but obeyed, +for the captain was rich and a generous giver +to the church.</p> + +<p>And he had grown richer with the years, +and as he grew richer his brother grew poorer—another +man owned the drug store where +Edward Tilghman had failed. They had grown +from young to middle-aged men and from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> +middle-aged men to old, infirm men; and first +the grace of youth and then the solidness of +maturity had gone out of them and the gnarliness +of age had come upon them; one was halt +of step and the other was dull of ear; and the +town through half a century of schooling had +accustomed itself to the situation and took it +as a matter of course. So it was and so it always +would be—a tragedy and a mystery. It had +not been of any use when the minister interfered +and it was of no use now. Judge Priest, +with the gesture of a man who is beaten, +dropped the fan on the porch floor, went +into his darkened sitting room, stretched +himself wearily on a creaking horsehide sofa +and called out to Jeff to make him a mild +toddy—one with plenty of ice in it.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>On this same Sunday—or, anyhow, I like +to fancy it was on this same Sunday—at a +point distant approximately nine hundred and +seventy miles in a northeasterly direction from +Judge Priest's town, Corporal Jacob Speck, +late of Sigel's command, sat at the kitchen window +of the combined Speck and Engel apartment +on East Eighty-fifth Street in the Borough +of Manhattan, New York. He was in his shirtsleeves; +his tender feet were incased in a pair +of red-and-green carpet slippers. In the angle +of his left arm he held his youngest grandchild, +aged one and a half years, while his right +hand carefully poised a china pipe, with a bowl<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> +like an egg-cup and a stem like a fishpole. +The corporal's blue Hanoverian eyes, behind +their thick-lensed glasses, were fixed upon a +comprehensive vista of East Eighty-fifth Street +back yards and clothespoles and fire escapes; +but his thoughts were very much elsewhere.</p> + +<p>Reared back there at seeming ease, the +corporal none the less was not happy in his +mind. It was not that he so much minded +being left at home to mind the youngest baby +while the rest of the family spent the afternoon +amid the Teutonic splendors of Smeltzer's +Harlem River Casino, with its acres of gravel +walks and its whitewashed tree trunks, its +straggly flower beds and its high-collared beers. +He was used to that sort of thing. Since a +plague of multiplying infirmities of the body +had driven him out of his job in the tax office, +the corporal had not done much except nurse +the babies that occurred in the Speck-Engel +establishment with such unerring regularity. +Sometimes, it is true, he did slip down to the +corner for maybe zwei glasses of beer and +a game of pinocle; but then, likely as not, +there would come inopportunely a towheaded +descendant to tell him Mommer needed him +back at the flat right away to mind the baby +while she went marketing or to the movies.</p> + +<p>He could endure that—he had to. What +riled Corporal Jacob Speck on this warm and +sunny Sunday was a realization that he was +not doing his share at making the history of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> +the period. The week before had befallen the +fiftieth anniversary of the marching away of +his old regiment to the front; there had been +articles in the daily papers about it. Also, +in patriotic commemoration of the great event +there had been a parade of the wrinkled survivors—ninety-odd +of them—following their +tattered and faded battle flag down Fifth +Avenue past apathetic crowds, nine-tenths of +whom had been born since the war—in foreign +lands mainly; and at least half, if one might +judge by their looks, did not know what the +parading was all about, and did not particularly +care either.</p> + +<p>The corporal had not participated in the +march of the veterans; he had not even attended +the banquet that followed it. True, the +youngest grandchild was at the moment cutting +one of her largest jaw teeth and so had required, +for the time, an extraordinary and special +amount of minding; but the young lady's +dental difficulty was not the sole reason for his +absence. Three weeks earlier the corporal had +taken part in Decoration Day, and certainly +one parade a month was ample strain upon a +pair of legs such as he owned. He had returned +home with his game leg behaving more gamely +then usual and with his sound one full of new +and painful kinks. Also, in honor of the +occasion he had committed the error of wearing +a pair of stiff and inflexible new shoes; wherefore +he had worn his carpet slippers ever since.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>Missing the fiftieth anniversary was not +the main point with the corporal—that was +merely the fortune of war, to be accepted with +fortitude and with no more than a proper and +natural amount of grumbling by one who had +been a good soldier and was now a good citizen; +but for days before the event, and daily ever +since, divers members of the old regiment had +been writing pieces to the papers—the German +papers and the English-printing papers +too—long pieces, telling of the trip to Washington, +and then on into Virginia and Tennessee, +speaking of this campaign and that and +this battle and that. And because there was +just now a passing wave of interest in Civil +War matters, the papers had printed these +contributions, thereby reflecting much glory +on the writers thereof. But Corporal Speck, +reading these things, had marveled deeply +that sane men should have such disgustingly +bad memories; for his own recollection of these +stirring and epochal events differed most widely +from the reminiscent narration of each misguided +chronicler.</p> + +<p>It was, indeed, a shameful thing that the +most important occurrences of the whole war +should be so shockingly mangled and mishandled +in the retelling. They were so grievously +wrong, those other veterans, and he was +so absolutely right. He was always right in +these matters. Only the night before, during +a merciful respite from his nursing duties, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> +had, in Otto Wittenpen's back barroom, spoken +across the rim of a tall stein with some bitterness +of certain especially grievous misstatements +of plain fact on the part of certain +faulty-minded comrades. In reply Otto had +said, in a rather sneering tone the corporal +thought:</p> + +<p>“Say, then, Jacob, why don't you yourself +write a piece to the paper telling about this +regiment of yours—the way it was?”</p> + +<p>“I will. Tomorrow I will do so without +fail,” he had said, the ambition of authorship +suddenly stirring within him. Now, however, +as he sat at the kitchen window, he gloomed +in his disappointment, for he had tried and +he knew he had not the gift of the written line. +A good soldier he had been—yes, none better—and +a good citizen, and in his day a capable +and painstaking doorkeeper in the tax office; +but he could not write his own story. That +morning, when the youngest grandchild slept +and his daughter and his daughter's husband +and the brood of his older grandchildren +were all at the Lutheran church over in the +next block, he sat himself down to compose +his article to the paper; but the words would +not come—or, at least, after the first line or +two they would not come.</p> + +<p>The mental pictures of those stirring great +days when he marched off on his two good legs—both +good legs then—to fight for the +country whose language he could not yet speak<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> +was there in bright and living colors; but +the sorry part of it was he could not clothe +them in language. In the trash box under the +sink a dozen crumpled sheets of paper testified +to his failure, and now, alone with the youngest +Miss Engel, he brooded over it and got low in +his mind and let his pipe go smack out. And +right then and there, with absolutely no warning +at all, there came to him, as you might say +from the clear sky, a great idea—an idea so +magnificent that he almost dropped the youngest +Miss Engel off his lap at the splendid shock +of it.</p> + +<p>With solicitude he glanced down at the +small, moist, pink, lumpy bundle of prickly +heat and sore gums. Despite the sudden +jostle the young lady slept steadily on. Very +carefully he laid his pipe aside and very carefully +he got upon his feet, jouncing his charge +soothingly up and down, and with deftness +he committed her small person to the crib that +stood handily by. She stirred fretfully, but +did not wake. The corporal steered his gimpy +leg and his rheumatic one out of the kitchen, +which was white with scouring and as clean +as a new pin, into the rearmost and smallest +of the three sleeping rooms that mainly made +up the Speck-Engel apartment.</p> + +<p>The bed, whereon of nights Corporal Speck +reposed with a bucking bronco of an eight-year-old +grandson for a bedmate, was jammed +close against the plastering, under the one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> +small window set diagonally in a jog in the wall, +and opening out upon an airshaft, like a chimney. +Time had been when the corporal had +a room and a bed all his own; that was before +the family began to grow so fast in its second +generation and while he still held a place of +lucrative employment at the tax office.</p> + +<p>As he got down upon his knees beside the +bed the old man uttered a little groan of discomfort. +He felt about in the space underneath +and drew out a small tin trunk, rusted +on its corners and dented in its sides. He +made a laborious selection of keys from a +key-ring he got out of his pocket, unlocked +the trunk and lifted out a heavy top tray. +The tray contained, among other things, such +treasures as his naturalization papers, his pension +papers, a photograph of his dead wife, +and a small bethumbed passbook of the East +Side Germania Savings Bank. Underneath was +a black fatigue hat with a gold cord round +its crown, a neatly folded blue uniform coat, +with the G. A. R. bronze showing in its uppermost +lapel, and below that, in turn, the suit +of neat black the corporal wore on high state +occasions and would one day wear to be buried +in. Pawing and digging, he worked his hands +to the very bottom, and then, with a little +grunt, he heaved out the thing he wanted—the +one trophy, except a stiffened kneecap +and an honorable record, this old man had +brought home from the South. It was a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> +captured Confederate knapsack, flattened and +flabby. Its leather was dry-rotted with age +and the brass C. S. A. on the outer flap was +gangrened and sunken in; the flap curled up +stiffly, like an old shoe sole.</p> + +<p>The crooked old fingers undid a buckle +fastening and from the musty and odorous +interior of the knapsack withdrew a letter, +in a queer-looking yellowed envelope, with a +queer-looking stamp upon the upper right-hand +corner and a faint superscription upon +its face. The three sheets of paper he slid +out of the envelope were too old even to rustle, +but the close writing upon them in a brownish, +faded ink was still plainly to be made out.</p> + +<p>Corporal Speck replaced the knapsack in +its place at the very bottom, put the tray back +in its place, closed the trunk and locked it +and shoved it under the bed. The trunk +resisted slightly and he lost one carpet slipper +and considerable breath in the struggle. Limping +back to the kitchen and seeing that little +Miss Engel still slumbered, he eased his frame +into a chair and composed himself to literary +composition, not in the least disturbed by the +shouts of roistering sidewalk comedians that +filtered up to him from down below in front of +the house, or by the distant clatter of intermittent +traffic over the cobbly spine of Second +Avenue, half a block away. For some time he +wrote, with a most scratchy pen; and this is +what he wrote:</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">To the Editor of the Sun, City.</span></p> + +<p>“<i>Dear Sir</i>: The undersigned would state +that he served two years and nine months—until +wounded in action—in the Fighting +Two Hundred and Tenth New York Infantry, +and has been much interested to see what other +comrades wrote for the papers regarding same +in connection with the Rebellion War of North +and South respectively. I would state that +during the battle of Chickamauga I was for a +while lying near by to a Confederate soldier—name +unknown—who was dying on account +of a wound in the chest. By his request I +gave him a drink of water from my canteen, +he dying shortly thereafter. Being myself +wounded—right knee shattered by a Minie +ball—I was removed to a field hospital; but +before doing so I brought away this man's +knapsack for a keepsake of the occasion. +Some years later I found in said knapsack a +letter, which previous to then was overlooked +by me. I inclose herewith a copy of said +letter, which it may be interesting for reading +purposes by surviving comrades.</p> + +<center>“Respectfully yours,</center> + +<p style="text-align: right;">“<span class="smcap">Jacob Speck</span>,</p> + +<p style="text-align: right;">“Late Corporal L Company,</p> +<p style="text-align: right;">“Fighting Two Hundred and Tenth New York, U. S. A.” +</p></div> + +<p>With deliberation and squeaky emphasis +the pen progressed slowly across the paper, +while the corporal, with his left hand, held<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> +flat the dead man's ancient letter before him, +intent on copying it. Hard words puzzled +him and long words daunted him, and he was +making a long job of it when there were steps +in the hall without. There entered breezily +Miss Hortense Engel, who was the oldest of +all the multiplying Engels, pretty beyond question +and every inch American, having the gift +of wearing Lower Sixth Avenue stock designs +in a way to make them seem Upper Fifth +Avenue models. Miss Engel's face was pleasantly +flushed; she had just parted lingeringly +from her steady company, whose name was +Mr. Lawrence J. McLaughlin, in the lower +hallway, which is the trysting place and courting +place of tenement-dwelling sweethearts, +and now she had come to make ready the +family's cold Sunday night tea. At sight of +her the corporal had another inspiration—his +second within the hour. His brow smoothed +and he fetched a sigh of relief.</p> + +<p>“'Lo, grosspops!” she said. “How's every +little thing? The kiddo all right?”</p> + +<p>She unpinned a Sunday hat that was plumed +like a hearse and slipped on a long apron that +covered her from Robespierre bib to hobble hem.</p> + +<p>“Girl,” said her grandfather, “would you +make tomorrow for me at the office a copy of +this letter on the typewriter machine?”</p> + +<p>He spoke in German and she answered in +New-Yorkese, while her nimble fingers wrestled +with the task of back-buttoning her apron.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>“Sure thing! It won't take hardly a minute +to rattle that off. Funny-looking old thing!” +she went on, taking up the creased and faded +original. “Who wrote it? And whatcher +goin' to do with it, grosspops?”</p> + +<p>“That,” he told her, “is mine own business! +It is for you, please, to make the copy +and bring both to me tomorrow, the letter and +also the copy.”</p> + +<p>So on Monday morning, when the rush of +taking dictation at the office of the Great +American Hosiery Company, in Broome Street, +was well abated, the competent Miss Hortense +copied the letter, and that same evening her +grandfather mailed it to the Sun, accompanied +by his own introduction. The Sun straightway +printed it without change and—what +was still better—with the sender's name +spelled out in capital letters; and that night, +at the place down by the corner, Corporal +Jacob Speck was a prophet not without honor +in his own country—much honor, in fact, +accrued.</p> + +<p>If you have read certain other stories of +mine you may remember that, upon a memorable +occasion, Judge William Pitman Priest +made a trip to New York and while there had +dealings with a Mr. J. Hayden Witherbee, a +promoter of gas and other hot-air propositions; +and that during the course of his stay in the +metropolis he made the acquaintance of one +Malley, a Sun reporter. This had happened<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> +some years back, but Malley was still on the +staff of the Sun. It happened also that, going +through the paper to clip out and measure up +his own space, Malley came upon the corporal's +contribution. Glancing over it idly, he caught +the name, twice or thrice repeated, of the town +where Judge Priest lived. So he bundled +together a couple of copies and sent them South +with a short letter; and therefore it came +about in due season, through the good offices +of the United States Post-office Department, +that these enclosures reached the judge on a +showery afternoon as he loafed upon his wide +front porch, waiting for his supper.</p> + +<p>First, he read Malley's letter and was glad +to hear from Malley. With a quickened +interest he ran a plump thumb under the +wrappings of the two close-rolled papers, opened +out one of them at page ten and read the +opening statement of Corporal Jacob Speck, +for whom instantly the judge conceived a long-distance +fondness. Next he came to the +letter that Miss Hortense Engel had so accurately +transcribed, and at the very first words +of it he sat up straighter, with a surprised and +gratified little grunt; for he had known them +both—the writer of that letter and its recipient. +One still lived in his memory as a red-haired +girl with a pert, malicious face, and the other +as a stripling youth in a ragged gray uniform. +And he had known most of those whose names +studded the printed lines so thickly. Indeed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> +some of them he still knew—only now they +were old men and old women—faded, wrinkled +bucks and belles of a far-distant day.</p> + +<p>As he read the first words it came back to +the judge, almost with the jolting emphasis +of a new and fresh sensation, that in the days +of his own youth he had never liked the girl +who wrote that letter or the man who received +it. But she was dead this many and many +a year—why, she must have died soon after +she wrote this very letter—the date proved +that—and he, the man, had fallen at Chickamauga, +taking his death in front like a soldier; +and surely that settled everything and +made all things right! But the letter—that +was the main thing. His old blue eyes +skipped nimbly behind the glasses that saddled +the tip of his plump pink nose, and the +old judge read it—just such a letter as he +himself had received many a time; just such +a wartime letter as uncounted thousands of +soldiers North and South received from their +sweethearts and read and reread by the light +of flickering campfires and carried afterward +in their knapsacks through weary miles of +marching.</p> + +<p>It was crammed with the small-town gossip +of a small town that was but little more than +a memory now—telling how, because he would +not volunteer, a hapless youth had been waylaid +by a dozen high-spirited girls and overpowered, +and dressed in a woman's shawl and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> +a woman's poke bonnet, so that he left town +with his shame between two suns; how, since +the Yankees had come, sundry faithless females +were friendly—actually friendly, this being +underscored—with the more personable of +the young Yankee officers; how half the town +was in mourning for a son or brother dead or +wounded; how a new and sweetly sentimental +song, called Rosalie, the Prairie Flower, was +being much sung at the time—and had it +reached the army yet? how old Mrs. Hobbs +had been exiled to Canada for seditious acts +and language and had departed northward +between two files of bluecoats, reviling the +Yankees with an unbitted tongue at every step; +how So-and-So had died or married or gone +refugeeing below the enemy's line into safely +Southern territory; how this thing had happened +and that thing had not.</p> + +<p>The old judge read on and on, catching +gladly at names that kindled a tenderly warm +glow of half-forgotten memories in his soul, +until he came to the last paragraph of all; +and then, as he comprehended the intent of +it in all its barbed and venomed malice, he +stood suddenly erect, with the outspread +paper shaking in his hard grip. For now, +coming back to him by so strange a way across +fifty years of silence and misunderstanding, he +read there the answer to the town's oldest, +biggest tragedy and knew what it was that all +this time had festered, like buried thorns, in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> +the flesh of those two men, his comrades and +friends. He dropped the paper, and up and +down the wide, empty porch he stumped on +his short stout legs, shaking with the shock +of revelation and with indignation and pity for +the blind and bitter uselessness of it all.</p> + +<p>“Ah hah!” he said to himself over and over +again understandingly. “Ah hah!” And then: +“Next to a mean man, a mean woman is the +meanest thing in this whole created world, I +reckin. I ain't sure but what she's the meanest +of the two. And to think of what them +two did between 'em—she writin' that hellish +black lyin' tale to 'Lonzo Pike and he puttin' +off hotfoot to Abner Tilghman to poison his +mind with it and set him like a flint against his +own flesh and blood! And wasn't it jest like +Lon Pike to go and git himself killed the next +day after he got that there letter! And wasn't +it jest like her to up and die before the truth +could be brought home to her! And wasn't +it like them two stubborn, set, contrary, close-mouthed +Tilghman boys to go 'long through +all these years, without neither one of 'em ever +offerin' to make or take an explanation!” +His tone changed. “Oh, ain't it been a pitiful +thing! And all so useless! But—oh, thank +the Lord—it ain't too late to mend it part +way anyhow! Thank God, it ain't too late +for that!”</p> + +<p>Exulting now, he caught up the paper he +had dropped, and with it crumpled in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> +pudgy fist was half-way down the gravel walk, +bound for the little cottage snuggled in its +vine ambush across Clay Street before a better +and a bigger inspiration caught up with him +and halted him midway of an onward stride.</p> + +<p>Was not this the second Friday in the month? +It certainly was. And would not the Camp be +meeting tonight in regular semimonthly session +at Kamleiter's Hall? It certainly would. +For just a moment Judge Priest considered the +proposition. He slapped his linen clad flank +gleefully, and his round old face, which had +been knotted with resolution, broke up into +a wrinkly, ample smile; he spun on his +heel and hurried back into the house and to +the telephone in the hall. For half an hour, +more or less, Judge Priest was busy at that +telephone, calling in a high, excited voice, +first for one number and then for another. +While he did this his supper grew cold on +the table, and in the dining room Jeff, the +white-clad, fidgeted and out in the kitchen +Aunt Dilsey, the turbaned, fumed—but, at +Kamleiter's Hall that night at eight, Judge +Priest's industry was in abundant fulness +rewarded.</p> + +<p>Once upon a time Gideon K. Irons Camp +claimed a full two hundred members, but +that had been when it was first organized. +Now there were in good standing less than +twenty. Of these twenty, fifteen sat on the +hard wooden chairs when Judge Priest rapped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> +with his metal spectacle case for order, and +that fifteen meant all who could travel out at +nights. Doctor Lake was there, and Sergeant +Jimmy Bagby, the faithful and inevitable. +It was the biggest turnout the Camp had had +in a year.</p> + +<p>Far over on one side, cramped down in a +chair, was Captain Abner Tilghman, feeble +and worn-looking. His buggy horse stood +hitched by the curb downstairs. Sergeant +Jimmy Bagby had gone to his house for him +and on the plea of business of vital moment +had made him come with him. Almost directly +across the middle aisle on the other side sat +Mr. Edward Tilghman. Nobody had to go for +him. He always came to a regular meeting of +the Camp, even though he heard the proceedings +only in broken bits.</p> + +<p>The adjutant called the roll and those present +answered, each one to his name; and mainly +the voices sounded bent and sagged, like the +bodies of their owners. A keen onlooker might +have noticed a sort of tremulous, joyous impatience, +which filled all save two of these old, +gray men, pushing the preliminaries forward +with uncommon speed. They fidgeted in their +places.</p> + +<p>Presently Judge Priest cleared his throat of +a persistent huskiness and stood up.</p> + +<p>“Before we proceed to the regular routine,” +he piped, “I desire to present a certain matter +to a couple of our members.” He came down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> +off the little platform, where the flags were +draped, with a step that was almost light, +and into Captain Abner Tilghman's hand he +put a copy of a city paper, turned and folded +at a certain place, where a column of printed +matter was scored about with heavy pencil +bracketings. “Cap'n,” he said, “as a personal +favor to me, suh, would you please read this +here article?—the one that's marked”—he +pointed with his finger—“not aloud—read +it to yourself, please.”</p> + +<p>It was characteristic of the paralytic to say +nothing. Without a word he adjusted his +glasses and without a word he began to read. +So instantly intent was he that he did not see +what followed next—and that was Judge Priest +crossing over to Mr. Edward Tilghman's side +with another copy of a paper in his hand.</p> + +<p>“Ed,” he bade him, “read this here article, +won't you? Read it clear through to the end—it +might interest you maybe.” The deaf +man looked up at him wonderingly, but took +the paper in his slightly palsied hand and bent +his head close above the printed sheet.</p> + +<p>Judge Priest stood in the middle aisle, making +no move to go back to his own place. He +watched the two silent readers. All the others +watched them too. They read on, making +slow progress, for the light was poor and their +eyes were poor. And the watchers could +hardly contain themselves; they could hardly +wait. Sergeant Jimmy Bagby kept bobbing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> +up and down like a pudgy jack-in-the-box that +is slightly stiff in its joints. A small, restrained +rustle of bodies accompanied the rustle of the +folded newspapers held in shaky hands.</p> + +<p>Unconscious of all scrutiny, the brothers +read on. Perhaps because he had started first—perhaps +because his glasses were the more +expensive and presumably therefore the more +helpful—Captain Abner Tilghman came to +the concluding paragraph first. He read it +through—and then Judge Priest turned his +head away, for a moment almost regretting he +had chosen so public a place for this thing.</p> + +<p>He looked back again in time to see Captain +Abner getting upon his feet. Dragging his +dead leg behind him, the paralytic crossed the +bare floor to where his brother's gray head +was bent to his task. And at his side he halted, +making no sound or sign, but only waiting. +He waited there, trembling all over, until the +sitter came to the end of the column and read +what was there—and lifted a face all glorified +with a perfect understanding.</p> + +<p>“Eddie!” said the older man—“Eddie!” +He uttered a name of boyhood affection that +none there had heard uttered for fifty years +nearly; and it was as though a stone had +been rolled away from a tomb—as though +out of the grave of a dead past a voice had +been resurrected. “Eddie!” he said a third +time, pleadingly, abjectly, humbly, craving +for forgiveness.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span>“Brother Abner!” said the other man. “Oh, +Brother Abner!” he said—and that was all +he did say—all he had need to say, for he +was on his feet now, reaching out with wide-spread, +shaking arms.</p> + +<p>Sergeant Jimmy Bagby tried to start a cheer, +but could not make it come out of his throat—only +a clicking, squeaking kind of sound +came. As a cheer it was a miserable failure.</p> + +<p>Side by side, each with his inner arm tight +gripped about the other, the brothers, bareheaded, +turned their backs upon their friends +and went away. Slowly they passed out +through the doorway into the darkness of the +stair landing, and the members of the Gideon +K. Irons Camp were all up on their feet.</p> + +<p>“Mind that top step, Abner!” they heard +the younger man say. “Wait! I'll help you +down.”</p> + +<p>That was all that was heard, except a scuffling +sound of uncertainly placed feet, growing +fainter and fainter as the two brothers passed +down the long stairs of Kamleiter's Hall and +out into the night—that was all, unless you +would care to take cognizance of a subdued +little chorus such as might be produced by +twelve or thirteen elderly men snuffling in a +large bare room. As commandant of the +Camp it was fitting, perhaps, that Judge +Priest should speak first.</p> + +<p>“The trouble with this here Camp is jest +this,” he said: “it's got a lot of snifflin' old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> +fools in it that don't know no better than to +bust out cryin' when they oughter be happy!” +And then, as if to show how deeply he felt the +shame of such weakness on the part of others, +Judge Priest blew his nose with great violence, +and for a space of minutes industriously +mopped at his indignant eyes with an enormous +pocket handkerchief.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>In accordance with a rule, Jeff Poindexter +waited up for his employer. Jeff expected +him by nine-thirty at the latest; but it was +actually getting along toward ten-thirty before +Jeff, who had been dozing lightly in the dim-lit +hall, oblivious to the fanged attentions of some +large mosquitoes, roused suddenly as he heard +the sound of a rambling but familiar step +clunking along the wooden sidewalk of Clay +Street. The latch on the front gate clicked, +and as Jeff poked his nose out of the front door +he heard, down the aisle of trees that bordered +the gravel walk, the voice of his master uplifted +in solitary song.</p> + +<p>In the matter of song the judge had a peculiarity. +It made no difference what the words +might be or the theme—he sang every song +and all songs to a fine, high, tuneless little +tune of his own. At this moment Judge +Priest, as Jeff gathered, was showing a wide +range of selection. One second he was announcing +that his name it was Joe Bowers and he +was all the way from Pike, and the next he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> +was stating, for the benefit of all who might +care to hear these details, that they—presumably +certain horses—were bound to run all +night—bound to run all day; so you could +bet on the bobtailed nag and he'd bet on the +bay. Nearer to the porch steps it boastingly +transpired that somebody had jumped aboard +the telegraf and steered her by the triggers, +whereat the lightnin' flew and 'lectrified +and killed ten thousand niggers! But even +so general a catastrophe could not weigh +down the singer's spirits. As he put a +fumbling foot upon the lowermost step of +the porch, he threw his head far back and +shrilly issued the following blanket invitation +to ladies resident in a far-away district:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Oh, Bowery gals, won't you come out tonight?</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Won't you come out tonight?</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Oh, Bowery gals, won't you come out tonight,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And dance by the light of the moon?</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>I danced with a gal with a hole in her stockin';</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And her heel it kep' a-rockin'—kep' a-rockin'!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>She was the purtiest gal in the room!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Jeff pulled the front door wide open. The +song stopped and Judge Priest stood in the +opening, teetering a little on his heels. His +face was all a blushing pinky glow.</p> + +<p>“Evenin', jedge!” greeted Jeff. “You're +late, suh!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span>“Jeff,” said Judge Priest slowly, “it's a +beautiful evenin'.”</p> + +<p>Amazed, Jeff stared at him. As a matter +of fact, the drizzle of the afternoon had changed, +soon after dark, to a steady downpour. The +judge's limpened hat brim dripped raindrops +and his shoulders were sopping wet, but Jeff +had yet to knowingly and wilfully contradict +a prominent white citizen.</p> + +<p>“Yas, suh!” he said, half affirmatively, half +questioningly. “Is it?”</p> + +<p>“It is so!” said Judge Priest. “Every star +in the sky shines like a diamond! Jeff, it's the +most beautiful evenin' I ever remember!”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<h2>VIII</h2> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> +<h3><span class="g">FISHHEAD</span></h3> + + +<p><span class="first">I</span>t goes past the powers of my pen to try to +describe Reelfoot Lake for you so that +you, reading this, will get the picture of +it in your mind as I have it in mine. +For Reelfoot Lake is like no other lake that +I know anything about. It is an afterthought +of Creation.</p> + +<p>The rest of this continent was made and +had dried in the sun for thousands of years—for +millions of years for all I know—before +Reelfoot came to be. It's the newest +big thing in nature on this hemisphere probably, +for it was formed by the great earthquake +of 1811, just a little more than a hundred +years ago. That earthquake of 1811 surely +altered the face of the earth on the then far +frontier of this country. It changed the +course of rivers, it converted hills into what +are now the sunk lands of three states, and it +turned the solid ground to jelly and made it +roll in waves like the sea. And in the midst<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> +of the retching of the land and the vomiting +of the waters it depressed to varying depths +a section of the earth crust sixty miles long, +taking it down—trees, hills, hollows and all; +and a crack broke through to the Mississippi +River so that for three days the river ran up +stream, filling the hole.</p> + +<p>The result was the largest lake south of the +Ohio, lying mostly in Tennessee, but extending +up across what is now the Kentucky line, and +taking its name from a fancied resemblance +in its outline to the splay, reeled foot of a +cornfield negro. Niggerwool Swamp, not so +far away, may have got its name from the same +man who christened Reelfoot; at least so it +sounds.</p> + +<p>Reelfoot is, and has always been, a lake of +mystery. In places it is bottomless. Other +places the skeletons of the cypress trees that +went down when the earth sank still stand +upright, so that if the sun shines from the +right quarter and the water is less muddy +than common, a man peering face downward +into its depths sees, or thinks he sees, down +below him the bare top-limbs upstretching +like drowned men's fingers, all coated with +the mud of years and bandaged with pennons +of the green lake slime. In still other places +the lake is shallow for long stretches, no deeper +than breast deep to a man, but dangerous +because of the weed growths and the sunken +drifts which entangle a swimmer's limbs. Its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> +banks are mainly mud, its waters are muddied +too, being a rich coffee color in the spring and +a copperish yellow in the summer, and the +trees along its shore are mud colored clear up to +their lower limbs after the spring floods, when +the dried sediment covers their trunks with a +thick, scrofulous-looking coat.</p> + +<p>There are stretches of unbroken woodland +around it and slashes where the cypress knees +rise countlessly like headstones and footstones +for the dead snags that rot in the soft ooze. +There are deadenings with the lowland corn +growing high and rank below and the bleached, +fire-blackened girdled trees rising above, barren +of leaf and limb. There are long, dismal flats +where in the spring the clotted frog-spawn +clings like patches of white mucus among the +weed stalks and at night the turtles crawl +out to lay clutches of perfectly round, white +eggs with tough, rubbery shells in the sand. +There are bayous leading off to nowhere +and sloughs that wind aimlessly, like great, +blind worms, to finally join the big river that +rolls its semi-liquid torrents a few miles to the +westward.</p> + +<p>So Reelfoot lies there, flat in the bottoms, +freezing lightly in the winter, steaming torridly +in the summer, swollen in the spring when the +woods have turned a vivid green and the +buffalo gnats by the million and the billion +fill the flooded hollows with their pestilential +buzzing, and in the fall ringed about gloriously<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> +with all the colors which the first frost brings—gold +of hickory, yellow-russet of sycamore, +red of dogwood and ash and purple-black of +sweet-gum.</p> + +<p>But the Reelfoot country has its uses. It +is the best game and fish country, natural or +artificial, that is left in the South today. In +their appointed seasons the duck and the +geese flock in, and even semi-tropical birds, +like the brown pelican and the Florida snake-bird, +have been known to come there to nest. +Pigs, gone back to wildness, range the ridges, +each razor-backed drove captained by a gaunt, +savage, slab-sided old boar. By night the +bull frogs, inconceivably big and tremendously +vocal, bellow under the banks.</p> + +<p>It is a wonderful place for fish—bass and +crappie and perch and the snouted buffalo +fish. How these edible sorts live to spawn +and how their spawn in turn live to spawn +again is a marvel, seeing how many of the +big fish-eating cannibal fish there are in Reelfoot. +Here, bigger than anywhere else, you +find the garfish, all bones and appetite and +horny plates, with a snout like an alligator, +the nearest link, naturalists say, between the +animal life of today and the animal life of the +Reptilian Period. The shovel-nose cat, really +a deformed kind of freshwater sturgeon, with +a great fan-shaped membranous plate jutting +out from his nose like a bowsprit, jumps all +day in the quiet places with mighty splashing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> +sounds, as though a horse had fallen into the +water. On every stranded log the huge snapping +turtles lie on sunny days in groups of +four and six, baking their shells black in the +sun, with their little snaky heads raised watchfully, +ready to slip noiselessly off at the first +sound of oars grating in the row-locks.</p> + +<p>But the biggest of them all are the catfish. +These are monstrous creatures, these catfish of +Reelfoot—scaleless, slick things, with corpsy, +dead eyes and poisonous fins like javelins and +long whiskers dangling from the sides of their +cavernous heads. Six and seven feet long they +grow to be and to weigh two hundred pounds +or more, and they have mouths wide enough to +take in a man's foot or a man's fist and strong +enough to break any hook save the strongest +and greedy enough to eat anything, living or +dead or putrid, that the horny jaws can master. +Oh, but they are wicked things, and they tell +wicked tales of them down there. They call +them man-eaters and compare them, in certain +of their habits, to sharks.</p> + +<p>Fishhead was of a piece with this setting. +He fitted into it as an acorn fits its cup. All +his life he had lived on Reelfoot, always in +the one place, at the mouth of a certain slough. +He had been born there, of a negro father and +a half-breed Indian mother, both of them now +dead, and the story was that before his birth +his mother was frightened by one of the big +fish, so that the child came into the world<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> +most hideously marked. Anyhow, Fishhead +was a human monstrosity, the veritable embodiment +of nightmare. He had the body of +a man—a short, stocky, sinewy body—but +his face was as near to being the face of a +great fish as any face could be and yet retain +some trace of human aspect. His skull sloped +back so abruptly that he could hardly be said +to have a forehead at all; his chin slanted off +right into nothing. His eyes were small and +round with shallow, glazed, pale-yellow pupils, +and they were set wide apart in his head and +they were unwinking and staring, like a fish's +eyes. His nose was no more than a pair of +tiny slits in the middle of the yellow mask. +His mouth was the worst of all. It was the +awful mouth of a catfish, lipless and almost +inconceivably wide, stretching from side to +side. Also when Fishhead became a man +grown his likeness to a fish increased, for the +hair upon his face grew out into two tightly +kinked, slender pendants that drooped down +either side of the mouth like the beards of a +fish.</p> + +<p>If he had any other name than Fishhead, +none excepting he knew it. As Fishhead he +was known and as Fishhead he answered. +Because he knew the waters and the woods of +Reelfoot better than any other man there, +he was valued as a guide by the city men who +came every year to hunt or fish; but there +were few such jobs that Fishhead would take.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> +Mainly he kept to himself, tending his corn +patch, netting the lake, trapping a little and +in season pot hunting for the city markets. +His neighbors, ague-bitten whites and malaria-proof +negroes alike, left him to himself. Indeed +for the most part they had a superstitious fear +of him. So he lived alone, with no kith nor +kin, nor even a friend, shunning his kind and +shunned by them.</p> + +<p>His cabin stood just below the state line, +where Mud Slough runs into the lake. It +was a shack of logs, the only human habitation +for four miles up or down. Behind it the +thick timber came shouldering right up to the +edge of Fishhead's small truck patch, enclosing +it in thick shade except when the sun stood +just overhead. He cooked his food in a primitive +fashion, outdoors, over a hole in the soggy +earth or upon the rusted red ruin of an old +cook stove, and he drank the saffron water +of the lake out of a dipper made of a gourd, +faring and fending for himself, a master hand +at skiff and net, competent with duck gun +and fish spear, yet a creature of affliction and +loneliness, part savage, almost amphibious, set +apart from his fellows, silent and suspicious.</p> + +<p>In front of his cabin jutted out a long fallen +cottonwood trunk, lying half in and half out +of the water, its top side burnt by the sun +and worn by the friction of Fishhead's bare +feet until it showed countless patterns of tiny +scrolled lines, its under side black and rotted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> +and lapped at unceasingly by little waves like +tiny licking tongues. Its farther end reached +deep water. And it was a part of Fishhead, +for no matter how far his fishing and trapping +might take him in the daytime, sunset would +find him back there, his boat drawn up on the +bank and he on the outer end of this log. +From a distance men had seen him there many +times, sometimes squatted, motionless as the +big turtles that would crawl upon its dipping +tip in his absence, sometimes erect and vigilant +like a creek crane, his misshapen yellow +form outlined against the yellow sun, the +yellow water, the yellow banks—all of them +yellow together.</p> + +<p>If the Reelfooters shunned Fishhead by +day they feared him by night and avoided him +as a plague, dreading even the chance of a +casual meeting. For there were ugly stories +about Fishhead—stories which all the negroes +and some of the whites believed. They said +that a cry which had been heard just before +dusk and just after, skittering across the +darkened waters, was his calling cry to the big +cats, and at his bidding they came trooping in, +and that in their company he swam in the lake +on moonlight nights, sporting with them, diving +with them, even feeding with them on what +manner of unclean things they fed. The cry +had been heard many times, that much was +certain, and it was certain also that the big +fish were noticeably thick at the mouth of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> +Fishhead's slough. No native Reelfooter, white +or black, would willingly wet a leg or an arm +there.</p> + +<p>Here Fishhead had lived and here he was +going to die. The Baxters were going to kill +him, and this day in mid-summer was to be the +time of the killing. The two Baxters—Jake +and Joel—were coming in their dugout to do +it. This murder had been a long time in the +making. The Baxters had to brew their hate +over a slow fire for months before it reached the +pitch of action. They were poor whites, poor +in everything—repute and worldly goods and +standing—a pair of fever-ridden squatters who +lived on whisky and tobacco when they could +get it, and on fish and cornbread when they +couldn't.</p> + +<p>The feud itself was of months' standing. +Meeting Fishhead one day in the spring on +the spindly scaffolding of the skiff landing at +Walnut Log, and being themselves far overtaken +in liquor and vainglorious with a bogus +alcoholic substitute for courage, the brothers +had accused him, wantonly and without proof, +of running their trot-line and stripping it of +the hooked catch—an unforgivable sin among +the water dwellers and the shanty boaters of the +South. Seeing that he bore this accusation +in silence, only eyeing them steadfastly, they +had been emboldened then to slap his face, +whereupon he turned and gave them both the +beating of their lives—bloodying their noses<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> +and bruising their lips with hard blows against +their front teeth, and finally leaving them, +mauled and prone, in the dirt. Moreover, in +the onlookers a sense of the everlasting fitness +of things had triumphed over race prejudice +and allowed them—two freeborn, sovereign +whites—to be licked by a nigger.</p> + +<p>Therefore, they were going to get the nigger. +The whole thing had been planned out amply. +They were going to kill him on his log at sundown. +There would be no witnesses to see it, +no retribution to follow after it. The very +ease of the undertaking made them forget +even their inborn fear of the place of Fishhead's +habitation.</p> + +<p>For more than an hour now they had been +coming from their shack across a deeply +indented arm of the lake. Their dugout, +fashioned by fire and adz and draw-knife from +the bole of a gum tree, moved through the +water as noiselessly as a swimming mallard, +leaving behind it a long, wavy trail on the +stilled waters. Jake, the better oarsman sat +flat in the stern of the round-bottomed craft, +paddling with quick, splashless strokes. Joel, +the better shot, was squatted forward. There +was a heavy, rusted duck gun between his +knees.</p> + +<p>Though their spying upon the victim had +made them certain sure he would not be about +the shore for hours, a doubled sense of caution +led them to hug closely the weedy banks.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> +They slid along the shore like shadows, moving +so swiftly and in such silence that the watchful +mud turtles barely turned their snaky +heads as they passed. So, a full hour before +the time, they came slipping around the +mouth of the slough and made for a natural +ambuscade which the mixed breed had left +within a stone's jerk of his cabin to his own +undoing.</p> + +<p>Where the slough's flow joined deeper water +a partly uprooted tree was stretched, prone +from shore, at the top still thick and green +with leaves that drew nourishment from the +earth in which the half-uncovered roots yet +held, and twined about with an exuberance of +trumpet vines and wild fox-grapes. All about +was a huddle of drift—last year's cornstalks, +shreddy strips of bark, chunks of rotted weed, +all the riffle and dunnage of a quiet eddy. +Straight into this green clump glided the dugout +and swung, broadside on, against the +protecting trunk of the tree, hidden from the +inner side by the intervening curtains of rank +growth, just as the Baxters had intended it +should be hidden, when days before in their +scouting they marked this masked place of +waiting and included it, then and there, in the +scope of their plans.</p> + +<p>There had been no hitch or mishap. No one +had been abroad in the late afternoon to mark +their movements—and in a little while Fishhead +ought to be due. Jake's woodman's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> +eye followed the downward swing of the sun +speculatively. The shadows, thrown shoreward, +lengthened and slithered on the small +ripples. The small noises of the day died out; +the small noises of the coming night began to +multiply. The green-bodied flies went away +and big mosquitoes, with speckled gray legs, +came to take the places of the flies. The +sleepy lake sucked at the mud banks with +small mouthing sounds as though it found the +taste of the raw mud agreeable. A monster +crawfish, big as a chicken lobster, crawled out +of the top of his dried mud chimney and +perched himself there, an armored sentinel +on the watchtower. Bull bats began to flitter +back and forth above the tops of the trees. A +pudgy muskrat, swimming with head up, was +moved to sidle off briskly as he met a cotton-mouth +moccasin snake, so fat and swollen with +summer poison that it looked almost like a legless +lizard as it moved along the surface of the +water in a series of slow torpid s's. Directly +above the head of either of the waiting assassins +a compact little swarm of midges hung, +holding to a sort of kite-shaped formation.</p> + +<p>A little more time passed and Fishhead came +out of the woods at the back, walking swiftly, +with a sack over his shoulder. For a few +seconds his deformities showed in the clearing, +then the black inside of the cabin swallowed +him up. By now the sun was almost down. +Only the red nub of it showed above the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> +timber line across the lake, and the shadows +lay inland a long way. Out beyond, the big +cats were stirring, and the great smacking +sounds as their twisting bodies leaped clear +and fell back in the water came shoreward in +a chorus.</p> + +<p>But the two brothers in their green covert +gave heed to nothing except the one thing +upon which their hearts were set and their +nerves tensed. Joel gently shoved his gun-barrels +across the log, cuddling the stock to +his shoulder and slipping two fingers caressingly +back and forth upon the triggers. Jake +held the narrow dugout steady by a grip upon +a fox-grape tendril.</p> + +<p>A little wait and then the finish came. +Fishhead emerged from the cabin door and +came down the narrow footpath to the water +and out upon the water on his log. He was +barefooted and bareheaded, his cotton shirt +open down the front to show his yellow neck +and breast, his dungaree trousers held about +his waist by a twisted tow string. His broad +splay feet, with the prehensile toes outspread, +gripped the polished curve of the log as he +moved along its swaying, dipping surface until +he came to its outer end and stood there +erect, his chest filling, his chinless face lifted +up and something of mastership and dominion +in his poise. And then—his eye caught what +another's eyes might have missed—the round, +twin ends of the gun barrels, the fixed gleams<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> +of Joel's eyes, aimed at him through the green +tracery.</p> + +<p>In that swift passage of time, too swift almost +to be measured by seconds, realization flashed +all through him, and he threw his head still +higher and opened wide his shapeless trap of a +mouth, and out across the lake he sent skittering +and rolling his cry. And in his cry was +the laugh of a loon, and the croaking bellow +of a frog, and the bay of a hound, all the compounded +night noises of the lake. And in +it, too, was a farewell and a defiance and an +appeal. The heavy roar of the duck gun came.</p> + +<p>At twenty yards the double charge tore the +throat out of him. He came down, face forward, +upon the log and clung there, his trunk +twisting distortedly, his legs twitching and +kicking like the legs of a speared frog, his +shoulders hunching and lifting spasmodically +as the life ran out of him all in one swift coursing +flow. His head canted up between the +heaving shoulders, his eyes looked full on the +staring face of his murderer, and then the blood +came out of his mouth and Fishhead, in death +still as much fish as man, slid flopping, head +first, off the end of the log and sank, face +downward, slowly, his limbs all extended out. +One after another a string of big bubbles came +up to burst in the middle of a widening reddish +stain on the coffee-colored water.</p> + +<p>The brothers watched this, held by the horror +of the thing they had done, and the cranky<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> +dugout, tipped far over by the recoil of the gun, +took water steadily across its gunwale; and +now there was a sudden stroke from below +upon its careening bottom and it went over +and they were in the lake. But shore was only +twenty feet away, the trunk of the uprooted +tree only five. Joel, still holding fast to his +hot gun, made for the log, gaining it with +one stroke. He threw his free arm over it and +clung there, treading water, as he shook his +eyes free. Something gripped him—some +great, sinewy, unseen thing gripped him fast +by the thigh, crushing down on his flesh.</p> + +<p>He uttered no cry, but his eyes popped out +and his mouth set in a square shape of agony, +and his fingers gripped into the bark of the tree +like grapples. He was pulled down and down, +by steady jerks, not rapidly but steadily, so +steadily, and as he went his fingernails tore +four little white strips in the tree bark. His +mouth went under, next his popping eyes, then +his erect hair, and finally his clawing, clutching +hand, and that was the end of him.</p> + +<p>Jake's fate was harder still, for he lived +longer—long enough to see Joel's finish. He +saw it through the water that ran down his +face, and with a great surge of his whole body +he literally flung himself across the log and +jerked his legs up high into the air to save them. +He flung himself too far, though, for his face +and chest hit the water on the far side. And +out of this water rose the head of a great fish,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> +with the lake slime of years on its flat, black +head, its whiskers bristling, its corpsy eyes +alight. Its horny jaws closed and clamped in +the front of Jake's flannel shirt. His hand +struck out wildly and was speared on a poisoned +fin, and unlike Joel, he went from sight with +a great yell and a whirling and a churning of +the water that made the cornstalks circle on +the edges of a small whirlpool.</p> + +<p>But the whirlpool soon thinned away into +widening rings of ripples and the cornstalks +quit circling and became still again, and only +the multiplying night noises sounded about the +mouth of the slough.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The bodies of all three came ashore on the +same day near the same place. Except for +the gaping gunshot wound where the neck +met the chest, Fishhead's body was unmarked. +But the bodies of the two Baxters were so +marred and mauled that the Reelfooters buried +them together on the bank without ever knowing +which might be Jake's and which might +be Joel's.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<h2>IX</h2> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> +<h3><span class="g">GUILTY AS CHARGED</span></h3> + + +<p><span class="first">T</span>he Jew, I take it, is essentially temperamental, +whereas the Irishman is +by nature sentimental; so that in the +long run both of them may reach the +same results by varying mental routes. This, +however, has nothing to do with the story +I am telling here, except inferentially.</p> + +<p>It was trial day at headquarters. To be +exact, it was the tail end of trial day at headquarters. +The mills of the police gods, which +grind not so slowly but ofttimes exceeding +fine, were about done with their grinding; +and as the last of the grist came through the +hopper, the last of the afternoon sunlight +came sifting in through the windows at the +west, thin and pale as skim milk. One after +another the culprits, patrolmen mainly, had +been arraigned on charges preferred by a superior +officer, who was usually a lieutenant +or a captain, but once in a while an inspector, +full-breasted and gold-banded, like a fat blue<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> +bumblebee. In due turn each offender had +made his defense; those who were lying about +it did their lying, as a rule, glibly and easily +and with a certain bogus frankness very pleasing +to see. Contrary to a general opinion, the +Father of Lies is often quite good to his children. +But those who were telling the truth +were frequently shamefaced and mumbling of +speech, making poor impressions.</p> + +<p>In due turn, also, each man had been convicted +or had been acquitted, yet all—the +proven innocent and the adjudged guilty alike—had +undergone punishment, since they all +had to sit and listen to lectures on police discipline +and police manners from the trial +deputy. It was perhaps as well for the peace +and good order of the community that the +public did not attend these séances. Those +classes now that are the most thoroughly and +most personally governed—the pushcart pedlers, +with the permanent cringing droops in +their alien backs; the sinful small boys, who +play baseball in the streets against the statutes +made and provided; the broken old wrecks, +who ambush the prosperous passer-by in the +shadows of dark corners, begging for money +with which to keep body and soul together—it +was just as well perhaps that none of them +was admitted there to see these large, firm, +stern men in uniform wriggling on the punishment +chair, fumbling at their buttons, explaining, +whining, even begging for mercy under<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> +the lashing flail of Third Deputy Commissioner +Donohue's sleety judgments.</p> + +<p>“The only time old Donny warms up is +when he's got a grudge against you,” a wit of +headquarters—Larry Magee by name—had +said once as he came forth from the ordeal, +brushing imaginary hailstones off his shoulders. +“It's always snowing hard in his soul!”</p> + +<p>Unlike most icy-tempered men, though, Third +Deputy Commissioner Donohue was addicted +to speech. Dearly he loved to hear the sound +of his own voice. Give to Donohue a congenial +topic, such as some one's official or +personal shortcomings, and a congenial audience, +and he excelled mightily in saw-edged +oratory, rolling his r's until the tortured consonants +fairly lay on their backs and begged +for mercy.</p> + +<p>This, however, would have to be said for +Deputy Commissioner Donohue—he was a +hard one to fool. Himself a grayed ex-private +of the force, who had climbed from the ranks +step by step through slow and devious stages, +he was coldly aware of every trick and device +of the delinquent policeman. A new and particularly +ingenious subterfuge, one that tasted +of the fresh paint, might win his begrudged +admiration—his gray flints of eyes would +strike off sparks of grim appreciation; but +then, nearly always, as though to discourage +originality even in lying, he would plaster on +the penalty—and the lecture—twice as thick.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> +Wherefore, because of all these things, the +newspaper men at headquarters viewed this +elderly disciplinarian with mixed professional +emotions. Presiding over a trial day, he +made abundant copy for them, which was very +good; but if the case were an important one +he often prolonged it until they missed getting +the result into their final editions, which, if +you know anything about final editions, was +very, very bad.</p> + +<p>It was so on this particular afternoon. Here +it was nearly dusk. The windows toward the +east showed merely as opaque patches set +against a wall of thickening gloom, and the +third deputy commissioner had started in at +two-thirty and was not done yet. Sparse +and bony, he crouched forward on the edge +of his chair, with his lean head drawn down +between his leaner shoulders and his stiff +stubble of hair erect on his scalp, and he +looked, perching there, like a broody but +vigilant old crested cormorant upon a barren +rock.</p> + +<p>Except for one lone figure of misery, the +anxious bench below him was by now empty. +Most of the witnesses were gone and most +of the spectators, and all the newspaper men +but two. He whetted a lean and crooked +forefinger like a talon on the edge of the docket +book, turned the page and called the last case, +being the case of Patrolman James J. Rogan. +Patrolman Rogan was a short horse and soon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> +curried. For being on such and such a day, +at such and such an hour, off his post, where +he belonged, and in a saloon where he did not +belong, sitting down, with his blouse unfastened +and his belt unbuckled; and for having no +better excuse, or no worse one, than the ancient +tale of a sudden attack of faintness causing +him to make his way into the nearest place +where he might recover himself—that it +happened to be a family liquor store was, he +protested, a sheer accident—Patrolman Rogan +was required to pay five days' pay and, moreover, +to listen to divers remarks in which he +heard himself likened to several things, none +of them of a complimentary character.</p> + +<p>Properly crushed and shrunken, the culprit +departed thence with his uniform bagged and +wrinkling upon his diminished form, and the +third deputy commissioner, well pleased, on +the whole, with his day's hunting, prepared to +adjourn. The two lone reporters got up and +made for the door, intending to telephone in +to their two shops the grand total and final +summary of old Donohue's bag of game.</p> + +<p>They were at the door, in a little press of +departing witnesses and late defendants, when +behind them a word in Donohue's hard-rolled +official accents made them halt and turn round. +The veteran had picked up from his desk a +sheet of paper and was squinting up his hedgy, +thick eyebrows in an effort to read what was +written there.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>“Wan more case to be heard,” he announced. +“Keep order there, you men at the door! +The case of Lieutenant Isidore Weil”—he +grated the name out lingeringly—“charged +with—with——” He broke off, peering +about him for some one to scold. “Couldn't +you be makin' a light here, some of you! I +can't see to make out these here charges and +specifications.”</p> + +<p>Some one bestirred himself and many lights +popped on, chasing the shadows back into the +far corners. Outside in the hall a policeman +doing duty as a bailiff called the name of +Lieutenant Isidore Weil, thrice repeated.</p> + +<p>“Gee! Have they landed that slick kike at +last?” said La Farge, the older of the reporters, +half to himself. “Say, you know, that +tickles me! I've been looking this long time +for something like this to be coming off.” Like +most old headquarters reporters, La Farge +had his deep-seated prejudices. To judge +by his present expression, this was a very +deep-seated one, amounting, you might say, +to a constitutional infirmity with La +Farge.</p> + +<p>“Who's Weil and what's he done?” inquired +Rogers. Rogers was a young reporter.</p> + +<p>“I don't know yet—the charge must be +newly filed, I guess,” said La Farge, answering +the last question first. “But I hope they +nail him! I don't like him—never did. +He's too fresh. He's too smart—one of those<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> +self-educated East Side Yiddishers, you know. +Used to be a court interpreter down at Essex +Market—knows about steen languages. And +he—here he comes now.”</p> + +<p>Weil passed them, going into the trial room—a +short, squarely built man with oily black +hair above a dark, round face. Instantly you +knew him for one of the effusive Semitic type; +every angle and turn of his outward aspect +testified frankly of his breed and his sort. +And at sight of him entering you could +almost see the gorge of Deputy Commissioner +Donohue's race antagonism rising inside +of him. His gray hackles stiffened and +his thick-set eyebrows bristled outward like +bits of frosted privet. Again he began whetting +his forefinger on the leather back of the +closed docket book. It was generally a bad +sign for somebody when Donohue whetted his +forefinger like that, and La Farge would have +delighted to note it. But La Farge's appraising +eyes were upon the accused.</p> + +<p>“Listen!” he said under his breath to Rogers. +“I think they must have the goods on Mister +Wisenheimer at last. Usually he's the cockiest +person round this building. Now take a look +at him.”</p> + +<p>Indeed, there was a visible air of self-abasement +about Lieutenant Weil as he crossed the +wide chamber. It was a thing hard to define +in words; yet undeniably there was a diffidence +and a reluctance manifest in him, as though<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> +a sense of guilt wrestled with the man's natural +conceit and assurance.</p> + +<p>“Rogers,” said La Farge, “let's hustle out +and 'phone in what we've got and then come +back right away. If this fellow's going to get +the harpoon stuck into him I want to be on +hand when he starts bleeding.”</p> + +<p>Only a few of the dwindled crowd turned +back to hear the beginning of the case, whatever +it might be, against the Jew. The rest +scattered through the corridors, heading mainly +for the exits, so that the two newspaper men +had company as they hurried toward the main +door, making for their offices across the street. +When they came back the long cross halls were +almost deserted; it had taken them a little +longer to finish the job of telephoning than +they had figured. At the door of the trial +room stood one bulky blue figure. It was the +acting bailiff.</p> + +<p>“How far along have they got?” asked +La Farge as the policeman made way for them +to pass in.</p> + +<p>“Captain Meagher is the first witness,” +said the policeman. “He's the one that's +makin' the charge.”</p> + +<p>“What is the charge?” put in Rogers.</p> + +<p>“At this distance I couldn't make out—Cap +Meagher, he mumbles so,” confessed the +doorkeeper. “Somethin' about misuse of police +property, I take it to be.”</p> + +<p>“Aha!” gloated La Farge in his gratification.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> +“Come on, Rogers—I don't want to +miss any of this.”</p> + +<p>It was plain, however, that they had missed +something; for, to judge by his attitude, Captain +Meagher was quite through with his testimony. +He still sat in the witness chair +alongside the deputy commissioner's desk; +but he was silent and he stared vacantly at +vacancy. Captain Meagher was known in the +department as a man incredibly honest and +unbelievably dull. He had no more imagination +than one of his own reports. He had a +long, sad face, like a tired workhorse's, and +heavy black eyebrows that curved high in the +middle and arched downward at each end—circumflexes +accenting the incurable stupidity +of his expression. His black mustache drooped +the same way, too, in the design of an inverted +magnet. Larry Magee had coined one of his +best whimsies on the subject of the shape of +the captain's mustache.</p> + +<p>“No wonder,” he said, “old Meagher never +has any luck—he wears his horseshoe upside +down on his face!”</p> + +<p>Just as the two reporters, re-entering, took +their seats the trial deputy spoke.</p> + +<p>“Is that all, Captain Meagher?” he asked +sonorously.</p> + +<p>“That's all,” said Meagher.</p> + +<p>“I note,” went on Donohue, glancing about +him, “that the accused does not appear to be +represented by counsel.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span>A man on trial at headquarters has the right +to hire a lawyer to defend him.</p> + +<p>“No, sir,” spoke up Weil briskly. “I've +got no lawyer, commissioner.” His speech +was the elaborated and painfully emphasized +English of the self-taught East Sider. It +carried in it just the bare suggestion of the +racial lisp, and it made an acute contrast to +the menacing Hibernian purr of Donohue's +heavier voice. “I kind of thought I'd conduct +my own case myself.”</p> + +<p>Donohue merely grunted.</p> + +<p>“Do you desire, Lieutenant Weil, for to ask +Captain Meagher any questions?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>Weil shook his oily head of hair.</p> + +<p>“No, sir. I wouldn't wish to ask the captain +anything.”</p> + +<p>“Are there any other witnesses?” inquired +Donohue next.</p> + +<p>There was no answer. Plainly there were no +other witnesses.</p> + +<p>“Lieutenant Weil, do you desire for to say +something in your own behalf?” queried the +deputy commissioner.</p> + +<p>“I think I'd like to,” answered Weil.</p> + +<p>He stood to be sworn, took the chair Meagher +vacated and sat facing the room, appearing—so +La Farge thought—more shamefaced and +abashed than ever.</p> + +<p>“Now, then,” commanded Donohue impressively, +“what statement, if any, have +you to make, Lieutenant Weil, touchin' on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> +this here charge preferred by your superior +officer?”</p> + +<p>Weil cleared his throat. Rogers figured that +this bespoke embarrassment; but, to the biased +understanding of the hostile La Farge, there +was something falsely theatrical even in the +way Weil cleared his throat.</p> + +<p>“Once a grandstander always a grandstander!” +he muttered derisively.</p> + +<p>“What did you say?” whispered Rogers.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” replied La Farge—“just thinking +out loud. Listen to what Foxy Issy has +to say for himself.”</p> + +<p>“Well, sir, commissioner,” began the accused, +“this here thing happens last Thursday, just +as Captain Meagher is telling you.” He had +slipped already into the policeman's trick of +detailing a past event in the present tense.</p> + +<p>“It's late in the afternoon—round five +o'clock I guess—and I'm downstairs in the +Detective Bureau alone.”</p> + +<p>“Alone, you say?” broke in Donohue, emphasizing +the word as though the admission +scored a point against the man on trial.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir, I'm alone. It happens that +everybody else is out and I'm in temporary +charge, as you might say. It's getting along +toward dark when Patrolman Morgan, who's +on duty out in the hall, comes in and says +to me there's a woman outside who can't talk +English and he can't make out what she wants. +So I tells him to bring her in. She comes in.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> +Right away I see she's a Ginney—an Italian,” +he corrected himself hurriedly. “She's got a +child with her—a little boy about two years +old.”</p> + +<p>“Describe this here woman!” ordered Donohue, +who loved to drag in details at a trial, +not so much for the sake of the details themselves +as to show his skill as a cross-examiner.</p> + +<p>“Well, sir,” complied Weil, “I should say +she's about twenty-five years old. It's hard +to tell about those Italian women, but I should +say she's about twenty-five—or maybe twenty-six. +She's got no figure at all and she's dressed +poor. But she's got a pretty face—big +brown eyes and——”</p> + +<p>“That will do,” interrupted the deputy +commissioner—“that will do for that. I +take it you're not qualifyin' here for a beauty +expert, Lieutenant Weil!” he added with elaborate +sarcasm.</p> + +<p>“You asked me about her looks, sir,” parried +Weil defensively, “and I'm just trying to tell +you.”</p> + +<p>“Proceed! Proceed!” bade Donohue, rumbling +his consonants.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir. Well, in regard to this woman: +She's talking so fast I can't figure out at first +what she's trying to tell me. It's Italian she's +talking—or I should say the kind of Italian +they talk in parts of Sicily. After a little I +begin to see what she's driving at. It seems +she's the wife of one Antonio Terranova and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> +her name is Maria Terranova. And after I get +her straightened out and going slow she tells +me her story.”</p> + +<p>“Is this here story got a bearin' on the +charges pendin'?”</p> + +<p>“I think it has. Yes, sir; it helps to explain +what happens. As near as I can make out +she comes from some small town down round +Messina somewhere, and the way she tells +it to me, her husband leaves there not long +after they're married and comes over here to +New York to get work, and when he gets enough +money saved up ahead he's going to send back +for her. That's near about three years ago. +So she stays behind waiting for him, and in +about four months after he leaves the baby +is born—the same baby that she brings in +here to headquarters with her last Thursday. +She says neither one of them thinks it'll be +long before he can save up money for her +passage, but it seems like he has the bad luck. +He's sick for a while after he lands, and then +when he gets a job in a construction gang the +padrone takes the most of what he makes. +And just about the time he gets a little saved +up some other Ginney—Italian—in the construction +camp steals it off of him.</p> + +<p>“So he's up against it, and after a while he +gets desperate. So he joins in with a Black +Hander gang—amateurs operating up in the +Bronx—and the very first trick he helps turn +he does well by it. His share is near about a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> +hundred dollars, and he sends her the best +part of it to bring her and the baby over. She +don't know at the time, though, how he raises +all this money—so she tells me. And I think, +at that, she's telling the truth—she ain't got +sense enough to lie, I think. Anyway it +sounds truthful to me—the way she tells it +to me here last Thursday night.”</p> + +<p>“Proceed!” prompted Donohue testily.</p> + +<p>“So she takes this here money and buys +herself a steerage ticket and comes over here +with the baby. That, as near as I can figure +out, is about three months ago. She's not +seen this husband of hers for going on three +years—of course the baby's never seen him. +And she figures he'll be at the dock to meet +her. But he's not there. But his cousin is +there—another Italian from the same town. +He gets her through Ellis Island somehow +and he takes her up to where he's living—up +in the Bronx—and tells her the reason her +husband ain't there to meet her. The reason +is, he's at Sing Sing, doing four years.</p> + +<p>“It seems that after he's sent her this passage +money the husband gets to thinking Black +Handing is a pretty soft way to make a living, +especially compared to day laboring, and he +tries to raise a stake single-handed. He writes +a Black Hand letter to an Italian grocer he +knows has got money laid by, only the grocer +is foxy and goes to the Tremont Avenue Station +and shows the letter. They rig up a plant and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> +this here Antonio Terranova walks into it. +He's caught with the marked bills on him. +So just the week before she lands he takes a +plea in General Sessions and the judge gives +him four years. When she gets to where she's +telling me that part of it she starts crying.</p> + +<p>“Well, anyway, that's the situation—him +up there at Sing Sing doing his four years and +her down here in New York with the kid on +her hands. And she don't ever see him again, +either, because in about three or four weeks—something +like that—he's working with a +gang in the rock quarry across the river, where +they're building the new cell house, and a chunk +of slate falls down and kills him and two +others.”</p> + +<p>“Right here and now,” interrupted the third +deputy commissioner, “I want to know what's +all this here stuff got to do with these here +charges and specifications?”</p> + +<p>“Just a minute, please. I'm coming to +that right away, commissioner,” protested the +accused lieutenant with a sort of glib nervous +agility; yet for all of his promising, he paused +for a little bit before he continued. And this +pause, brief enough as it was, gave the listening +La Farge time to discover, with a small +inward jar of surprise, that somehow, some +way, he was beginning to lose some of his +acrid antagonism for Weil; that, by mental +processes which as yet he could not exactly +resolve into their proper constituents, it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> +beginning to dribble away from him. And +realization came to him, almost with a shock, +that the man on the stand was telling the truth. +Truth or not, though, the narrative thus far +had been commonplace enough—people at +headquarters hear the like of it often; and as +a seasoned police reporter La Farge's emotions +by now should be coated over with a calloused +shell inches deep and hard as horn. Trying +with half his mind to figure out what it was +that had quickened these emotions, he listened +all the harder as Weil went on.</p> + +<p>“So this here big chunk of rock or slate +or whatever it was falls on him and the two +others and kills them. Not knowing where +to send the body, they bury it up there at +Sing Sing, and she never sees him again, +living or dead. But here just a few days ago +it seems she picks up, from overhearing some +of the other Italians talking, that we've got +such a thing as a Rogues' Gallery down here +at headquarters and that her husband's picture +is liable to be in it. So that's why she's +here. She's found her way here somehow and +she asks me won't I”—he caught himself—“won't +the police please give her her husband's +picture out of the gallery.”</p> + +<p>“And for why did she want that?” rumbled +Donohue.</p> + +<p>“That's what I asks her myself. It seems +she's got no shame about it at all. She tells +me she wants to hang on to it until she can<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> +get the money to have it enlarged into a big +picture, and then she's going to keep it—till +the bambino—that's Italian for baby, commissioner, +you know—till the baby grows +up, so he can see what his dead father looked +like.”</p> + +<p>Now of a sudden La Farge knew—or +thought he knew—why his interest had +stirred in him a minute before. Instinctively +his reporter's sixth sense had scented a good +news story before the real point of the story +had come out, even. A curious little silence +had fallen on the half-lighted, almost empty +big room. Only the voice of Weil broke this +silence:</p> + +<p>“Of course, commissioner, I tries to explain +to her what the circumstances are. I tells +her that, in the first place, on account of the +mayor's orders about cutting down the gallery +having gone into effect, it's an even bet her +husband's picture ain't there anyhow—that +it's most likely been destroyed; and in the +second place, even if it is there, I tells her I've +got no right to be giving it to her without an +order from somebody higher up. But either +she can't understand or she won't. I guess +my being in uniform makes her think I'm +running the whole department, and she won't +seem to listen to what I says.</p> + +<p>“She cries and she carries on worse than +ever, and begs and begs me to give it to her. +I guess you know how excitable those Italian<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> +women can be, especially when they are +Sicilians. Anyhow, commissioner, after a lot +of that sort of thing I tells her to wait where +she is for a minute. I leaves her and I goes +across into the Bertillon room, where the +pictures are, and I looks up this here Antonio +Terranova. I forget his number now and I +don't know how it is he comes to be overlooked +when we're cleaning out the gallery; +but he's there all right, full face and side view, +with his gallery number in big white figures +on his chest. And, commissioner, he's a +pretty tolerable tough-looking Ginney.” The +witness checked an inclination to grin. “I +takes a slant at his picture, and I can't make +up my own mind which way he'll look the worst +enlarged into a crayon portrait—full face or +side view. I can still hear her crying outside +the door. She's crying harder than ever.</p> + +<p>“I puts the picture back, and I goes out +to where she is and tries to argue with her. +It's no use. She goes down on her knees and +holds the baby up, and tells me it ain't for her +sake she's asking this—it's for the bambino. +And she calls on a lot of Italian saints that I +never even heard the names of some of them +before—and so on, like that. It's pretty +tough.</p> + +<p>“She's such a stupid, ignorant thing you +can't help from feeling sorry for her—nobody +could.” He hesitated a moment as though +seeking for words of explanation and extenuation<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> +that were not in his regular vocabulary. +“I got kids of my own, commissioner,” he +said suddenly, and stopped dead short for a +moment. “I'm no Italian, but I got kids of +my own!” he repeated, as though the fact +constituted a defense.</p> + +<p>“Well, well—what happened then?” The +deputy commissioner's frosty voice seemed to +have frozen so hard it had a crack in it. And +now then the Semitic face of Weil twisted into +a grin that was more than shamefaced—it +was downright sheepish.</p> + +<p>“Why, then,” he said, “when I comes back +out of the Bertillon room the second time she +goes back down on her knees again and she +says to me—of course she ain't expected to +know what my religion is—maybe that explains +it, commissioner—she says to me that +all her life—every morning and every night—she's +going to pray to the Blessed Virgin +for me. That's what she says anyway. So I +just lets it go at that.”</p> + +<p>He halted as though he were through.</p> + +<p>“Then do I understand that, without an +order from any superior authority, you gave +this here woman certain property belonging +to the Police Department?” Old Donohue's +voice was gruffer than common, even. He +whetted his talon forefinger on the desk top.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir,” owned up the Jew. “There's +nobody there but just us two. And I don't +know how Captain Meagher comes to find the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> +picture is gone and that it was me took it—but +it's true, commissioner. She goes away +kissing it and holding it to the breast of her +clothes—that Rogues' Gallery picture! Yes, +sir; I gives it to her.”</p> + +<p>The third deputy commissioner's gold-banded +right arm was shoved out, with all the lean +fingers upon the hand at the far end of it +widely extended. He spoke, and something +in his throat—a hard lump perhaps—husked +his brogue and made his r's roll out like dice.</p> + +<p>“Lieutenant Weil,” he said, “I congratulate +you! You're guilty!”</p> + +<h3><span class="g">THE END</span></h3> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Escape of Mr. Trimm, by Irvin S. Cobb + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ESCAPE OF MR. 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