THE DUPLICITY OF HARGRAVES

By O. Henry (1862-1910)

[From _The Junior Munsey_, February, 1902. Republished in the volume,
_Sixes and Sevens_ (1911), by O. Henry; copyright, 1911, by Doubleday,
Page & Co.; reprinted by their permission.]

When Major Pendleton Talbot, of Mobile, sir, and his daughter, Miss
Lydia Talbot, came to Washington to reside, they selected for a
boarding place a house that stood fifty yards back from one of the
quietest avenues. It was an old-fashioned brick building, with a
portico upheld by tall white pillars. The yard was shaded by stately
locusts and elms, and a catalpa tree in season rained its pink and
white blossoms upon the grass. Rows of high box bushes lined the fence
and walks. It was the Southern style and aspect of the place that
pleased the eyes of the Talbots.

In this pleasant private boarding house they engaged rooms, including
a study for Major Talbot, who was adding the finishing chapters to his
book, _Anecdotes and Reminiscences of the Alabama Army, Bench, and
Bar_.

Major Talbot was of the old, old South. The present day had little
interest or excellence in his eyes. His mind lived in that period
before the Civil War when the Talbots owned thousands of acres of fine
cotton land and the slaves to till them; when the family mansion was
the scene of princely hospitality, and drew its guests from the
aristocracy of the South. Out of that period he had brought all its
old pride and scruples of honor, an antiquated and punctilious
politeness, and (you would think) its wardrobe.

Such clothes were surely never made within fifty years. The Major was
tall, but whenever he made that wonderful, archaic genuflexion he
called a bow, the corners of his frock coat swept the floor. That
garment was a surprise even to Washington, which has long ago ceased
to shy at the frocks and broad-brimmed hats of Southern Congressmen.
One of the boarders christened it a "Father Hubbard," and it certainly
was high in the waist and full in the skirt.

But the Major, with all his queer clothes, his immense area of
plaited, raveling shirt bosom, and the little black string tie with
the bow always slipping on one side, both was smiled at and liked in
Mrs. Vardeman's select boarding house. Some of the young department
clerks would often "string him," as they called it, getting him
started upon the subject dearest to him--the traditions and history of
his beloved Southland. During his talks he would quote freely from the
_Anecdotes and Reminiscences_. But they were very careful not to let
him see their designs, for in spite of his sixty-eight years he could
make the boldest of them uncomfortable under the steady regard of his
piercing gray eyes.

Miss Lydia was a plump, little old maid of thirty-five, with smoothly
drawn, tightly twisted hair that made her look still older.
Old-fashioned, too, she was; but antebellum glory did not radiate from
her as it did from the Major. She possessed a thrifty common sense,
and it was she who handled the finances of the family, and met all
comers when there were bills to pay. The Major regarded board bills
and wash bills as contemptible nuisances. They kept coming in so
persistently and so often. Why, the Major wanted to know, could they
not be filed and paid in a lump sum at some convenient period--say
when the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ had been published and paid
for? Miss Lydia would calmly go on with her sewing and say, "We'll pay
as we go as long as the money lasts, and then perhaps they'll have to
lump it."

Most of Mrs. Vardeman's boarders were away during the day, being
nearly all department clerks and business men; but there was one of
them who was about the house a great deal from morning to night. This
was a young man named Henry Hopkins Hargraves--every one in the house
addressed him by his full name--who was engaged at one of the popular
vaudeville theaters. Vaudeville has risen to such a respectable plane
in the last few years, and Mr. Hargraves was such a modest and
well-mannered person, that Mrs. Vardeman could find no objection to
enrolling him upon her list of boarders.

At the theater Hargraves was known as an all-round dialect comedian,
having a large repertoire of German, Irish, Swede, and black-face
specialties. But Mr. Hargraves was ambitious, and often spoke of his
great desire to succeed in legitimate comedy.

This young man appeared to conceive a strong fancy for Major Talbot.
Whenever that gentleman would begin his Southern reminiscences, or
repeat some of the liveliest of the anecdotes, Hargraves could always
be found, the most attentive among his listeners.

For a time the Major showed an inclination to discourage the advances
of the "play actor," as he privately termed him; but soon the young
man's agreeable manner and indubitable appreciation of the old
gentleman's stories completely won him over.

It was not long before the two were like old chums. The Major set
apart each afternoon to read to him the manuscript of his book. During
the anecdotes Hargraves never failed to laugh at exactly the right
point. The Major was moved to declare to Miss Lydia one day that young
Hargraves possessed remarkable perception and a gratifying respect for
the old régime. And when it came to talking of those old days--if
Major Talbot liked to talk, Mr. Hargraves was entranced to listen.

Like almost all old people who talk of the past, the Major loved to
linger over details. In describing the splendid, almost royal, days of
the old planters, he would hesitate until he had recalled the name of
the negro who held his horse, or the exact date of certain minor
happenings, or the number of bales of cotton raised in such a year;
but Hargraves never grew impatient or lost interest. On the contrary,
he would advance questions on a variety of subjects connected with the
life of that time, and he never failed to extract ready replies.

The fox hunts, the 'possum suppers, the hoe-downs and jubilees in the
negro quarters, the banquets in the plantation-house hall, when
invitations went for fifty miles around; the occasional feuds with the
neighboring gentry; the Major's duel with Rathbone Culbertson about
Kitty Chalmers, who afterward married a Thwaite of South Carolina; and
private yacht races for fabulous sums on Mobile Bay; the quaint
beliefs, improvident habits, and loyal virtues of the old slaves--all
these were subjects that held both the Major and Hargraves absorbed
for hours at a time.

Sometimes, at night, when the young man would be coming upstairs to
his room after his turn at the theater was over, the Major would
appear at the door of his study and beckon archly to him. Going in,
Hargraves would find a little table set with a decanter, sugar bowl,
fruit, and a big bunch of fresh green mint.

"It occurred to me," the Major would begin--he was always
ceremonious--"that perhaps you might have found your duties at the--at
your place of occupation--sufficiently arduous to enable you, Mr.
Hargraves, to appreciate what the poet might well have had in his mind
when he wrote, 'tired Nature's sweet restorer'--one of our Southern
juleps."

It was a fascination to Hargraves to watch him make it. He took rank
among artists when he began, and he never varied the process. With
what delicacy he bruised the mint; with what exquisite nicety he
estimated the ingredients; with what solicitous care he capped the
compound with the scarlet fruit glowing against the dark green fringe!
And then the hospitality and grace with which he offered it, after the
selected oat straws had been plunged into its tinkling depths!

After about four months in Washington, Miss Lydia discovered one
morning that they were almost without money. The _Anecdotes and
Reminiscences_ was completed, but publishers had not jumped at the
collected gems of Alabama sense and wit. The rental of a small house
which they still owned in Mobile was two months in arrears. Their
board money for the month would be due in three days. Miss Lydia
called her father to a consultation.

"No money?" said he with a surprised look. "It is quite annoying to be
called on so frequently for these petty sums, Really, I--"

The Major searched his pockets. He found only a two-dollar bill, which
he returned to his vest pocket.

"I must attend to this at once, Lydia," he said. "Kindly get me my
umbrella and I will go downtown immediately. The congressman from our
district, General Fulghum, assured me some days ago that he would use
his influence to get my book published at an early date. I will go to
his hotel at once and see what arrangement has been made."

With a sad little smile Miss Lydia watched him button his "Father
Hubbard" and depart, pausing at the door, as he always did, to bow
profoundly.

That evening, at dark, he returned. It seemed that Congressman Fulghum
had seen the publisher who had the Major's manuscript for reading.
That person had said that if the anecdotes, etc., were carefully
pruned down about one-half, in order to eliminate the sectional and
class prejudice with which the book was dyed from end to end, he might
consider its publication.

The Major was in a white heat of anger, but regained his equanimity,
according to his code of manners, as soon as he was in Miss Lydia's
presence.

"We must have money," said Miss Lydia, with a little wrinkle above her
nose. "Give me the two dollars, and I will telegraph to Uncle Ralph
for some to-night."

The Major drew a small envelope from his upper vest pocket and tossed
it on the table.

"Perhaps it was injudicious," he said mildly, "but the sum was so
merely nominal that I bought tickets to the theater to-night. It's a
new war drama, Lydia. I thought you would be pleased to witness its
first production in Washington. I am told that the South has very fair
treatment in the play. I confess I should like to see the performance
myself."

Miss Lydia threw up her hands in silent despair.

Still, as the tickets were bought, they might as well be used. So that
evening, as they sat in the theater listening to the lively overture,
even Miss Lydia was minded to relegate their troubles, for the hour,
to second place. The Major, in spotless linen, with his extraordinary
coat showing only where it was closely buttoned, and his white hair
smoothly roached, looked really fine and distinguished. The curtain
went up on the first act of _A Magnolia Flower_, revealing a typical
Southern plantation scene. Major Talbot betrayed some interest.

"Oh, see!" exclaimed Miss Lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to her
program.

The Major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast of
characters that her fingers indicated.

Col. Webster Calhoun .... Mr. Hopkins Hargraves.

"It's our Mr. Hargraves," said Miss Lydia. "It must be his first
appearance in what he calls 'the legitimate.' I'm so glad for him."

Not until the second act did Col. Webster Calhoun appear upon the
stage. When he made his entry Major Talbot gave an audible sniff,
glared at him, and seemed to freeze solid. Miss Lydia uttered a
little, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her program in her hand. For
Colonel Calhoun was made up as nearly resembling Major Talbot as one
pea does another. The long, thin white hair, curly at the ends, the
aristocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, raveling shirt front,
the string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, were almost exactly
duplicated. And then, to clinch the imitation, he wore the twin to the
Major's supposed to be unparalleled coat. High-collared, baggy,
empire-waisted, ample-skirted, hanging a foot lower in front than
behind, the garment could have been designed from no other pattern.
From then on, the Major and Miss Lydia sat bewitched, and saw the
counterfeit presentment of a haughty Talbot "dragged," as the Major
afterward expressed it, "through the slanderous mire of a corrupt
stage."

Mr. Hargraves had used his opportunities well. He had caught the
Major's little idiosyncrasies of speech, accent, and intonation and
his pompous courtliness to perfection--exaggerating all to the purpose
of the stage. When he performed that marvelous bow that the Major
fondly imagined to be the pink of all salutations, the audience sent
forth a sudden round of hearty applause.

Miss Lydia sat immovable, not daring to glance toward her father.
Sometimes her hand next to him would be laid against her cheek, as if
to conceal the smile which, in spite of her disapproval, she could not
entirely suppress.

The culmination of Hargraves audacious imitation took place in the
third act. The scene is where Colonel Calhoun entertains a few of the
neighboring planters in his "den."

Standing at a table in the center of the stage, with his friends
grouped about him, he delivers that inimitable, rambling character
monologue so famous in _A Magnolia Flower_, at the same time that he
deftly makes juleps for the party.

Major Talbot, sitting quietly, but white with indignation, heard his
best stories retold, his pet theories and hobbies advanced and
expanded, and the dream of the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ served,
exaggerated and garbled. His favorite narrative--that of his duel with
Rathbone Culbertson--was not omitted, and it was delivered with more
fire, egotism, and gusto than the Major himself put into it.

The monologue concluded with a quaint, delicious, witty little lecture
on the art of concocting a julep, illustrated by the act. Here Major
Talbot's delicate but showy science was reproduced to a hair's
breadth--from his dainty handling of the fragrant weed--"the
one-thousandth part of a grain too much pressure, gentlemen, and you
extract the bitterness, instead of the aroma, of this heaven-bestowed
plant"--to his solicitous selection of the oaten straws.

At the close of the scene the audience raised a tumultuous roar of
appreciation. The portrayal of the type was so exact, so sure and
thorough, that the leading characters in the play were forgotten.
After repeated calls, Hargraves came before the curtain and bowed, his
rather boyish face bright and flushed with the knowledge of success.

At last Miss Lydia turned and looked at the Major. His thin nostrils
were working like the gills of a fish. He laid both shaking hands upon
the arms of his chair to rise.

"We will go, Lydia," he said chokingly. "This is an
abominable--desecration."

Before he could rise, she pulled him back into his seat.

"We will stay it out," she declared. "Do you want to advertise the
copy by exhibiting the original coat?" So they remained to the end.

Hargraves's success must have kept him up late that night, for neither
at the breakfast nor at the dinner table did he appear.

About three in the afternoon he tapped at the door of Major Talbot's
study. The Major opened it, and Hargraves walked in with his hands
full of the morning papers--too full of his triumph to notice anything
unusual in the Major's demeanor.

"I put it all over 'em last night, Major," he began exultantly. "I had
my inning, and, I think, scored. Here's what _The Post_ says:

"'His conception and portrayal of the old-time Southern colonel, with
his absurd grandiloquence, his eccentric garb, his quaint idioms and
phrases, his motheaten pride of family, and his really kind heart,
fastidious sense of honor, and lovable simplicity, is the best
delineation of a character role on the boards to-day. The coat worn by
Colonel Calhoun is itself nothing less than an evolution of genius.
Mr. Hargraves has captured his public.'

"How does that sound, Major, for a first-nighter?"

"I had the honor"--the Major's voice sounded ominously frigid--"of
witnessing your very remarkable performance, sir, last night."

Hargraves looked disconcerted.

"You were there? I didn't know you ever--I didn't know you cared for
the theater. Oh, I say, Major Talbot," he exclaimed frankly, "don't
you be offended. I admit I did get a lot of pointers from you that
helped out wonderfully in the part. But it's a type, you know--not
individual. The way the audience caught on shows that. Half the
patrons of that theater are Southerners. They recognized it."

"Mr. Hargraves," said the Major, who had remained standing, "you have
put upon me an unpardonable insult. You have burlesqued my person,
grossly betrayed my confidence, and misused my hospitality. If I
thought you possessed the faintest conception of what is the sign
manual of a gentleman, or what is due one, I would call you out, sir,
old as I am. I will ask you to leave the room, sir."

The actor appeared to be slightly bewildered, and seemed hardly to
take in the full meaning of the old gentleman's words.

"I am truly sorry you took offense," he said regretfully. "Up here we
don't look at things just as you people do. I know men who would buy
out half the house to have their personality put on the stage so the
public would recognize it."

"They are not from Alabama, sir," said the Major haughtily.

"Perhaps not. I have a pretty good memory, Major; let me quote a few
lines from your book. In response to a toast at a banquet given
in--Milledgeville, I believe--you uttered, and intend to have printed,
these words:

"'The Northern man is utterly without sentiment or warmth except in so
far as the feelings may be turned to his own commercial profit. He
will suffer without resentment any imputation cast upon the honor of
himself or his loved ones that does not bear with it the consequence
of pecuniary loss. In his charity, he gives with a liberal hand; but
it must be heralded with the trumpet and chronicled in brass.'

"Do you think that picture is fairer than the one you saw of Colonel
Calhoun last night?"

"The description," said the Major, frowning, "is--not without grounds.
Some exag--latitude must be allowed in public speaking."

"And in public acting," replied Hargraves.

"That is not the point," persisted the Major, unrelenting. "It was a
personal caricature. I positively decline to overlook it, sir."

"Major Talbot," said Hargraves, with a winning smile, "I wish you
would understand me. I want you to know that I never dreamed of
insulting you. In my profession, all life belongs to me. I take what I
want, and what I can, and return it over the footlights. Now, if you
will, let's let it go at that. I came in to see you about something
else. We've been pretty good friends for some months, and I'm going to
take the risk of offending you again. I know you are hard up for
money--never mind how I found out, a boarding house is no place to
keep such matters secret--and I want you to let me help you out of the
pinch. I've been there often enough myself. I've been getting a fair
salary all the season, and I've saved some money. You're welcome to a
couple hundred--or even more--until you get----"

"Stop!" commanded the Major, with his arm outstretched. "It seems that
my book didn't lie, after all. You think your money salve will heal
all the hurts of honor. Under no circumstances would I accept a loan
from a casual acquaintance; and as to you, sir, I would starve before
I would consider your insulting offer of a financial adjustment of the
circumstances we have discussed. I beg to repeat my request relative
to your quitting the apartment."

Hargraves took his departure without another word. He also left the
house the same day, moving, as Mrs. Vardeman explained at the supper
table, nearer the vicinity of the downtown theater, where _A Magnolia
Flower_ was booked for a week's run.

Critical was the situation with Major Talbot and Miss Lydia. There was
no one in Washington to whom the Major's scruples allowed him to apply
for a loan. Miss Lydia wrote a letter to Uncle Ralph, but it was
doubtful whether that relative's constricted affairs would permit him
to furnish help. The Major was forced to make an apologetic address to
Mrs. Vardeman regarding the delayed payment for board, referring to
"delinquent rentals" and "delayed remittances" in a rather confused
strain.

Deliverance came from an entirely unexpected source.

Late one afternoon the door maid came up and announced an old colored
man who wanted to see Major Talbot. The Major asked that he be sent up
to his study. Soon an old darkey appeared in the doorway, with his hat
in hand, bowing, and scraping with one clumsy foot. He was quite
decently dressed in a baggy suit of black. His big, coarse shoes shone
with a metallic luster suggestive of stove polish. His bushy wool was
gray--almost white. After middle life, it is difficult to estimate the
age of a negro. This one might have seen as many years as had Major
Talbot.

"I be bound you don't know me, Mars' Pendleton," were his first words.

The Major rose and came forward at the old, familiar style of address.
It was one of the old plantation darkeys without a doubt; but they had
been widely scattered, and he could not recall the voice or face.

"I don't believe I do," he said kindly--"unless you will assist my
memory."

"Don't you 'member Cindy's Mose, Mars' Pendleton, what 'migrated
'mediately after de war?"

"Wait a moment," said the Major, rubbing his forehead with the tips of
his fingers. He loved to recall everything connected with those
beloved days. "Cindy's Mose," he reflected. "You worked among the
horses--breaking the colts. Yes, I remember now. After the surrender,
you took the name of--don't prompt me--Mitchell, and went to the
West--to Nebraska."

"Yassir, yassir,"--the old man's face stretched with a delighted
grin--"dat's him, dat's it. Newbraska. Dat's me--Mose Mitchell. Old
Uncle Mose Mitchell, dey calls me now. Old mars', your pa, gimme a pah
of dem mule colts when I lef' fur to staht me goin' with. You 'member
dem colts, Mars' Pendleton?"

"I don't seem to recall the colts," said the Major. "You know. I was
married the first year of the war and living at the old Follinsbee
place. But sit down, sit down, Uncle Mose. I'm glad to see you. I hope
you have prospered."

Uncle Mose took a chair and laid his hat carefully on the floor beside
it.

"Yessir; of late I done mouty famous. When I first got to Newbraska,
dey folks come all roun' me to see dem mule colts. Dey ain't see no
mules like dem in Newbraska. I sold dem mules for three hundred
dollars. Yessir--three hundred.

"Den I open a blacksmith shop, suh, and made some money and bought
some lan'. Me and my old 'oman done raised up seb'm chillun, and all
doin' well 'cept two of 'em what died. Fo' year ago a railroad come
along and staht a town slam ag'inst my lan', and, suh, Mars'
Pendleton, Uncle Mose am worth leb'm thousand dollars in money,
property, and lan'."

"I'm glad to hear it," said the Major heartily. "Glad to hear it."

"And dat little baby of yo'n, Mars' Pendleton--one what you name Miss
Lyddy--I be bound dat little tad done growed up tell nobody wouldn't
know her."

The Major stepped to the door and called: "Lydie, dear, will you
come?"

Miss Lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in from
her room.

"Dar, now! What'd I tell you? I knowed dat baby done be plum growed
up. You don't 'member Uncle Mose, child?"

"This is Aunt Cindy's Mose, Lydia," explained the Major. "He left
Sunnymead for the West when you were two years old."

"Well," said Miss Lydia, "I can hardly be expected to remember you,
Uncle Mose, at that age. And, as you say, I'm 'plum growed up,' and
was a blessed long time ago. But I'm glad to see you, even if I can't
remember you."

And she was. And so was the Major. Something alive and tangible had
come to link them with the happy past. The three sat and talked over
the olden times, the Major and Uncle Mose correcting or prompting each
other as they reviewed the plantation scenes and days.

The Major inquired what the old man was doing so far from his home.

"Uncle Mose am a delicate," he explained, "to de grand Baptis'
convention in dis city. I never preached none, but bein' a residin'
elder in de church, and able fur to pay my own expenses, dey sent me
along."

"And how did you know we were in Washington?" inquired Miss Lydia.

"Dey's a cullud man works in de hotel whar I stops, what comes from
Mobile. He told me he seen Mars' Pendleton comin' outen dish here
house one mawnin'.

"What I come fur," continued Uncle Mose, reaching into his
pocket--"besides de sight of home folks--was to pay Mars' Pendleton
what I owes him.

"Yessir--three hundred dollars." He handed the Major a roll of bills.
"When I lef' old mars' says: 'Take dem mule colts, Mose, and, if it be
so you gits able, pay fur 'em.' Yessir--dem was his words. De war had
done lef' old mars' po' hisself. Old mars' bein' long ago dead, de
debt descends to Mars' Pendleton. Three hundred dollars. Uncle Mose is
plenty able to pay now. When dat railroad buy my lan' I laid off to
pay fur dem mules. Count de money, Mars' Pendleton. Dat's what I sold
dem mules fur. Yessir."

Tears were in Major Talbot's eyes. He took Uncle Mose's hand and laid
his other upon his shoulder.

"Dear, faithful, old servitor," he said in an unsteady voice, "I don't
mind saying to you that 'Mars' Pendleton spent his last dollar in the
world a week ago. We will accept this money, Uncle Mose, since, in a
way, it is a sort of payment, as well as a token of the loyalty and
devotion of the old régime. Lydia, my dear, take the money. You are
better fitted than I to manage its expenditure."

"Take it, honey," said Uncle Mose. "Hit belongs to you. Hit's Talbot
money."

After Uncle Mose had gone, Miss Lydia had a good cry---for joy; and
the Major turned his face to a corner, and smoked his clay pipe
volcanically.

The succeeding days saw the Talbots restored to peace and ease. Miss
Lydia's face lost its worried look. The major appeared in a new frock
coat, in which he looked like a wax figure personifying the memory of
his golden age. Another publisher who read the manuscript of the
_Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ thought that, with a little retouching
and toning down of the high lights, he could make a really bright and
salable volume of it. Altogether, the situation was comfortable, and
not without the touch of hope that is often sweeter than arrived
blessings.

One day, about a week after their piece of good luck, a maid brought a
letter for Miss Lydia to her room. The postmark showed that it was
from New York. Not knowing any one there, Miss Lydia, in a mild
flutter of wonder, sat down by her table and opened the letter with
her scissors. This was what she read:

DEAR MISS TALBOT:

I thought you might be glad to learn of my good fortune. I have
received and accepted an offer of two hundred dollars per week by a
New York stock company to play Colonel Calhoun in _A Magnolia Flower_.

There is something else I wanted you to know. I guess you'd better not
tell Major Talbot. I was anxious to make him some amends for the great
help he was to me in studying the part, and for the bad humor he was
in about it. He refused to let me, so I did it anyhow. I could easily
spare the three hundred.

Sincerely yours,
H. HOPKINS HARGRAVES.

P.S. How did I play Uncle Mose?

Major Talbot, passing through the hall, saw Miss Lydia's door open and
stopped.

"Any mail for us this morning, Lydia, dear?" he asked.

Miss Lydia slid the letter beneath a fold of her dress.

"_The Mobile Chronicle_ came," she said promptly. "It's on the table
in your study."

COLONEL STARBOTTLE FOR THE PLAINTIFF

By Bret Harte (1839-1902)

[From _Harper's Magazine_, March, 1901. Republished in the volume,
_Openings in the Old Trail_ (1902), by Bret Harte; copyright, 1902, by
Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of Bret Harte's
complete works; reprinted by their permission.]

It had been a day of triumph for Colonel Starbottle. First, for his
personality, as it would have been difficult to separate the Colonel's
achievements from his individuality; second, for his oratorical
abilities as a sympathetic pleader; and third, for his functions as
the leading counsel for the Eureka Ditch Company _versus_ the State of
California. On his strictly legal performances in this issue I prefer
not to speak; there were those who denied them, although the jury had
accepted them in the face of the ruling of the half-amused,
half-cynical Judge himself. For an hour they had laughed with the
Colonel, wept with him, been stirred to personal indignation or
patriotic exaltation by his passionate and lofty periods--what else
could they do than give him their verdict? If it was alleged by some
that the American eagle, Thomas Jefferson, and the Resolutions of '98
had nothing whatever to do with the contest of a ditch company over a
doubtfully worded legislative document; that wholesale abuse of the
State Attorney and his political motives had not the slightest
connection with the legal question raised--it was, nevertheless,
generally accepted that the losing party would have been only too glad
to have the Colonel on their side. And Colonel Starbottle knew this,
as, perspiring, florid, and panting, he rebuttoned the lower buttons
of his blue frock-coat, which had become loosed in an oratorical
spasm, and readjusted his old-fashioned, spotless shirt frill above it
as he strutted from the court-room amidst the hand-shakings and
acclamations of his friends.

And here an unprecedented thing occurred. The Colonel absolutely
declined spirituous refreshment at the neighboring Palmetto Saloon,
and declared his intention of proceeding directly to his office in the
adjoining square. Nevertheless the Colonel quitted the building alone,
and apparently unarmed except for his faithful gold-headed stick,
which hung as usual from his forearm. The crowd gazed after him with
undisguised admiration of this new evidence of his pluck. It was
remembered also that a mysterious note had been handed to him at the
conclusion of his speech--evidently a challenge from the State
Attorney. It was quite plain that the Colonel--a practised
duellist--was hastening home to answer it.

But herein they were wrong. The note was in a female hand, and simply
requested the Colonel to accord an interview with the writer at the
Colonel's office as soon as he left the court. But it was an
engagement that the Colonel--as devoted to the fair sex as he was to
the "code"--was no less prompt in accepting. He flicked away the dust
from his spotless white trousers and varnished boots with his
handkerchief, and settled his black cravat under his Byron collar as
he neared his office. He was surprised, however, on opening the door
of his private office to find his visitor already there; he was still
more startled to find her somewhat past middle age and plainly
attired. But the Colonel was brought up in a school of Southern
politeness, already antique in the republic, and his bow of courtesy
belonged to the epoch of his shirt frill and strapped trousers. No one
could have detected his disappointment in his manner, albeit his
sentences were short and incomplete. But the Colonel's colloquial
speech was apt to be fragmentary incoherencies of his larger
oratorical utterances.

"A thousand pardons--for--er--having kept a lady waiting--er!
But--er--congratulations of friends--and--er--courtesy due to
them--er--interfered with--though perhaps only heightened--by
procrastination--pleasure of--ha!" And the Colonel completed his
sentence with a gallant wave of his fat but white and well-kept hand.

"Yes! I came to see you along o' that speech of yours. I was in court.
When I heard you gettin' it off on that jury, I says to myself that's
the kind o' lawyer _I_ want. A man that's flowery and convincin'! Just
the man to take up our case."

"Ah! It's a matter of business, I see," said the Colonel, inwardly
relieved, but externally careless. "And--er--may I ask the nature of
the case?"

"Well! it's a breach-o'-promise suit," said the visitor, calmly.

If the Colonel had been surprised before, he was now really startled,
and with an added horror that required all his politeness to conceal.
Breach-of-promise cases were his peculiar aversion. He had always held
them to be a kind of litigation which could have been obviated by the
prompt killing of the masculine offender--in which case he would have
gladly defended the killer. But a suit for damages!--_damages!_--with
the reading of love-letters before a hilarious jury and court, was
against all his instincts. His chivalry was outraged; his sense of
humor was small--and in the course of his career he had lost one or
two important cases through an unexpected development of this quality
in a jury.

The woman had evidently noticed his hesitation, but mistook its cause.
"It ain't me--but my darter."

The Colonel recovered his politeness. "Ah! I am relieved, my dear
madam! I could hardly conceive a man ignorant enough to--er--er--throw
away such evident good fortune--or base enough to deceive the
trustfulness of womanhood--matured and experienced only in the
chivalry of our sex, ha!"

The woman smiled grimly. "Yes!--it's my darter, Zaidee Hooker--so ye
might spare some of them pretty speeches for _her_--before the jury."

The Colonel winced slightly before this doubtful prospect, but
smiled. "Ha! Yes!--certainly--the jury. But--er--my dear lady, need
we go as far as that? Cannot this affair be settled--er--out of
court? Could not this--er--individual--be admonished--told that he
must give satisfaction--personal satisfaction--for his dastardly
conduct--to --er--near relative--or even valued personal friend?
The--er--arrangements necessary for that purpose I myself would
undertake."

He was quite sincere; indeed, his small black eyes shone with that
fire which a pretty woman or an "affair of honor" could alone kindle.
The visitor stared vacantly at him, and said, slowly:

"And what good is that goin' to do _us_?"

"Compel him to--er--perform his promise," said the Colonel, leaning
back in his chair.

"Ketch him doin' it!" said the woman, scornfully. "No--that ain't wot
we're after. We must make him _pay_! Damages--and nothin' short o'
_that_."

The Colonel bit his lip. "I suppose," he said, gloomily, "you have
documentary evidence--written promises and protestations--er--er--
love-letters, in fact?"

"No--nary a letter! Ye see, that's jest it--and that's where _you_
come in. You've got to convince that jury yourself. You've got to show
what it is--tell the whole story your own way. Lord! to a man like you
that's nothin'."

Startling as this admission might have been to any other lawyer,
Starbottle was absolutely relieved by it. The absence of any
mirth-provoking correspondence, and the appeal solely to his own
powers of persuasion, actually struck his fancy. He lightly put aside
the compliment with a wave of his white hand.

"Of course," said the Colonel, confidently, "there is strongly
presumptive and corroborative evidence? Perhaps you can give me--er--a
brief outline of the affair?"

"Zaidee kin do that straight enough, I reckon," said the woman; "what
I want to know first is, kin you take the case?"

The Colonel did not hesitate; his curiosity was piqued. "I certainly
can. I have no doubt your daughter will put me in possession of
sufficient facts and details--to constitute what we call--er--a
brief."

"She kin be brief enough--or long enough--for the matter of that,"
said the woman, rising. The Colonel accepted this implied witticism
with a smile.

"And when may I have the pleasure of seeing her?" he asked, politely.

"Well, I reckon as soon as I can trot out and call her. She's just
outside, meanderin' in the road--kinder shy, ye know, at first."

She walked to the door. The astounded Colonel nevertheless gallantly
accompanied her as she stepped out into the street and called,
shrilly, "You Zaidee!"

A young girl here apparently detached herself from a tree and the
ostentatious perusal of an old election poster, and sauntered down
towards the office door. Like her mother, she was plainly dressed;
unlike her, she had a pale, rather refined face, with a demure mouth
and downcast eyes. This was all the Colonel saw as he bowed profoundly
and led the way into his office, for she accepted his salutations
without lifting her head. He helped her gallantly to a chair, on which
she seated herself sideways, somewhat ceremoniously, with her eyes
following the point of her parasol as she traced a pattern on the
carpet. A second chair offered to the mother that lady, however,
declined. "I reckon to leave you and Zaidee together to talk it out,"
she said; turning to her daughter, she added, "Jest you tell him all,
Zaidee," and before the Colonel could rise again, disappeared from the
room. In spite of his professional experience, Starbottle was for a
moment embarrassed. The young girl, however, broke the silence without
looking up.

"Adoniram K. Hotchkiss," she began, in a monotonous voice, as if it
were a recitation addressed to the public, "first began to take notice
of me a year ago. Arter that--off and on----"

"One moment," interrupted the astounded Colonel; "do you mean
Hotchkiss the President of the Ditch Company?" He had recognized the
name of a prominent citizen--a rigid ascetic, taciturn, middle-aged
man--a deacon--and more than that, the head of the company he had just
defended. It seemed inconceivable.

"That's him," she continued, with eyes still fixed on the parasol and
without changing her monotonous tone--"off and on ever since. Most of
the time at the Free-Will Baptist church--at morning service,
prayer-meetings, and such. And at home--outside--er--in the road."

"Is it this gentleman--Mr. Adoniram K. Hotchkiss--who--er--promised
marriage?" stammered the Colonel.

"Yes."

The Colonel shifted uneasily in his chair. "Most extraordinary!
for--you see--my dear young lady--this becomes--a--er--most delicate
affair."

"That's what maw said," returned the young woman, simply, yet with the
faintest smile playing around her demure lips and downcast cheek.

"I mean," said the Colonel, with a pained yet courteous smile, "that
this--er--gentleman--is in fact--er--one of my clients."

"That's what maw said, too, and of course your knowing him will make
it all the easier for you," said the young woman.

A slight flush crossed the Colonel's cheek as he returned quickly and
a little stiffly, "On the contrary--er--it may make it impossible for
me to--er--act in this matter."

The girl lifted her eyes. The Colonel held his breath as the long
lashes were raised to his level. Even to an ordinary observer that
sudden revelation of her eyes seemed to transform her face with subtle
witchery. They were large, brown, and soft, yet filled with an
extraordinary penetration and prescience. They were the eyes of an
experienced woman of thirty fixed in the face of a child. What else
the Colonel saw there Heaven only knows! He felt his inmost secrets
plucked from him--his whole soul laid bare--his vanity, belligerency,
gallantry--even his medieval chivalry, penetrated, and yet
illuminated, in that single glance. And when the eyelids fell again,
he felt that a greater part of himself had been swallowed up in them.

"I beg your pardon," he said, hurriedly. "I mean--this matter may be
arranged--er--amicably. My interest with--and as you wisely
say--my--er--knowledge of my client--er--Mr. Hotchkiss--may affect--a
compromise."

"And _damages_," said the young girl, readdressing her parasol, as if
she had never looked up.

The Colonel winced. "And--er--undoubtedly _compensation_--if you do
not press a fulfilment of the promise. Unless," he said, with an
attempted return to his former easy gallantry, which, however, the
recollection of her eyes made difficult, "it is a question of--er--the
affections?"

"Which?" said his fair client, softly.

"If you still love him?" explained the Colonel, actually blushing.

Zaidee again looked up; again taking the Colonel's breath away with
eyes that expressed not only the fullest perception of what he had
_said_, but of what he thought and had not said, and with an added
subtle suggestion of what he might have thought. "That's tellin'," she
said, dropping her long lashes again. The Colonel laughed vacantly.
Then feeling himself growing imbecile, he forced an equally weak
gravity. "Pardon me--I understand there are no letters; may I know the
way in which he formulated his declaration and promises?"

"Hymn-books," said the girl, briefly.

"I beg your pardon," said the mystified lawyer.

"Hymn-books--marked words in them with pencil--and passed 'em on to
me," repeated Zaidee. "Like 'love,' 'dear,' 'precious,' 'sweet,' and
'blessed,'" she added, accenting each word with a push of her parasol
on the carpet. "Sometimes a whole line outer Tate and Brady--and
_Solomon's Song_, you know, and sich."

"I believe," said the Colonel, loftily, "that the--er--phrases of
sacred psalmody lend themselves to the language of the affections. But
in regard to the distinct promise of marriage--was there--er--no
_other_ expression?"

"Marriage Service in the prayer-book--lines and words outer that--all
marked," said Zaidee. The Colonel nodded naturally and approvingly.
"Very good. Were others cognizant of this? Were there any witnesses?"

"Of course not," said the girl. "Only me and him. It was generally at
church-time--or prayer-meeting. Once, in passing the plate, he slipped
one o' them peppermint lozenges with the letters stamped on it 'I love
you' for me to take."

The Colonel coughed slightly. "And you have the lozenge?"

"I ate it," said the girl, simply.

"Ah," said the Colonel. After a pause he added, delicately:
"But were these attentions--er--confined to--er---sacred precincts?
Did he meet you elsewhere?"

"Useter pass our house on the road," returned the girl, dropping into
her monotonous recital, "and useter signal."

"Ah, signal?" repeated the Colonel, approvingly.

"Yes! He'd say 'Kerrow,' and I'd say 'Kerree.' Suthing like a bird,
you know."

Indeed, as she lifted her voice in imitation of the call the Colonel
thought it certainly very sweet and birdlike. At least as _she_ gave
it. With his remembrance of the grim deacon he had doubts as to the
melodiousness of _his_ utterance. He gravely made her repeat it.

"And after that signal?" he added, suggestively.

"He'd pass on," said the girl.

The Colonel coughed slightly, and tapped his desk with his pen-holder.

"Were there any endearments--er--caresses--er--such as taking your
hand--er--clasping your waist?" he suggested, with a gallant yet
respectful sweep of his white hand and bowing of his head;--"er--
slight pressure of your fingers in the changes of a dance--I mean,"
he corrected himself, with an apologetic cough--"in the passing of
the plate?"

"No;--he was not what you'd call 'fond,'" returned the girl.

"Ah! Adoniram K. Hotchkiss was not 'fond' in the ordinary acceptance
of the word," said the Colonel, with professional gravity.

She lifted her disturbing eyes, and again absorbed his in her own. She
also said "Yes," although her eyes in their mysterious prescience of
all he was thinking disclaimed the necessity of any answer at all. He
smiled vacantly. There was a long pause. On which she slowly
disengaged her parasol from the carpet pattern and stood up.

"I reckon that's about all," she said.

"Er--yes--but one moment," said the Colonel, vaguely. He would have
liked to keep her longer, but with her strange premonition of him he
felt powerless to detain her, or explain his reason for doing so. He
instinctively knew she had told him all; his professional judgment
told him that a more hopeless case had never come to his knowledge.
Yet he was not daunted, only embarrassed. "No matter," he said,
vaguely. "Of course I shall have to consult with you again." Her eyes
again answered that she expected he would, but she added, simply,
"When?"

"In the course of a day or two," said the Colonel, quickly. "I will
send you word." She turned to go. In his eagerness to open the door
for her he upset his chair, and with some confusion, that was actually
youthful, he almost impeded her movements in the hall, and knocked his
broad-brimmed Panama hat from his bowing hand in a final gallant
sweep. Yet as her small, trim, youthful figure, with its simple
Leghorn straw hat confined by a blue bow under her round chin, passed
away before him, she looked more like a child than ever.

The Colonel spent that afternoon in making diplomatic inquiries. He
found his youthful client was the daughter of a widow who had a small
ranch on the cross-roads, near the new Free-Will Baptist church--the
evident theatre of this pastoral. They led a secluded life; the girl
being little known in the town, and her beauty and fascination
apparently not yet being a recognized fact. The Colonel felt a
pleasurable relief at this, and a general satisfaction he could not
account for. His few inquiries concerning Mr. Hotchkiss only confirmed
his own impressions of the alleged lover--a serious-minded,
practically abstracted man--abstentive of youthful society, and the
last man apparently capable of levity of the affections or serious
flirtation. The Colonel was mystified--but determined of
purpose--whatever that purpose might have been.

The next day he was at his office at the same hour. He was alone--as
usual--the Colonel's office really being his private lodgings,
disposed in connecting rooms, a single apartment reserved for
consultation. He had no clerk; his papers and briefs being taken by
his faithful body-servant and ex-slave "Jim" to another firm who did
his office-work since the death of Major Stryker--the Colonel's only
law partner, who fell in a duel some years previous. With a fine
constancy the Colonel still retained his partner's name on his
door-plate--and, it was alleged by the superstitious, kept a certain
invincibility also through the _manes_ of that lamented and somewhat
feared man.

The Colonel consulted his watch, whose heavy gold case still showed
the marks of a providential interference with a bullet destined for
its owner, and replaced it with some difficulty and shortness of
breath in his fob. At the same moment he heard a step in the passage,
and the door opened to Adoniram K. Hotchkiss. The Colonel was
impressed; he had a duellist's respect for punctuality.

The man entered with a nod and the expectant, inquiring look of a busy
man. As his feet crossed that sacred threshold the Colonel became all
courtesy; he placed a chair for his visitor, and took his hat from his
half-reluctant hand. He then opened a cupboard and brought out a
bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

"A--er--slight refreshment, Mr. Hotchkiss," he suggested, politely. "I
never drink," replied Hotchkiss, with the severe attitude of a total
abstainer. "Ah--er--not the finest bourbon whiskey, selected by a
Kentucky friend? No? Pardon me! A cigar, then--the mildest Havana."

"I do not use tobacco nor alcohol in any form," repeated Hotchkiss,
ascetically. "I have no foolish weaknesses."

The Colonel's moist, beady eyes swept silently over his client's
sallow face. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, and half
closing his eyes as in dreamy reminiscence, said, slowly: "Your
reply, Mr. Hotchkiss, reminds me of--er--sing'lar circumstances that
--er--occurred, in point of fact--at the St. Charles Hotel, New
Orleans. Pinkey Hornblower--personal friend--invited Senator
Doolittle to join him in social glass. Received, sing'larly enough,
reply similar to yours. 'Don't drink nor smoke?' said Pinkey. 'Gad,
sir, you must be mighty sweet on the ladies.' Ha!" The Colonel paused
long enough to allow the faint flush to pass from Hotchkiss's cheek,
and went on, half closing his eyes: "'I allow no man, sir, to discuss
my personal habits,' said Doolittle, over his shirt collar. 'Then I
reckon shootin' must be one of those habits,' said Pinkey, coolly.
Both men drove out on the Shell Road back of cemetery next morning.
Pinkey put bullet at twelve paces through Doolittle's temple. Poor
Doo never spoke again. Left three wives and seven children, they say
--two of 'em black."

"I got a note from you this morning," said Hotchkiss, with badly
concealed impatience. "I suppose in reference to our case. You have
taken judgment, I believe." The Colonel, without replying, slowly
filled a glass of whiskey and water. For a moment he held it dreamily
before him, as if still engaged in gentle reminiscences called up by
the act. Then tossing it off, he wiped his lips with a large white
handkerchief, and leaning back comfortably in his chair, said, with a
wave of his hand, "The interview I requested, Mr. Hotchkiss, concerns
a subject--which I may say is--er--er--at present _not_ of a public
or business nature--although _later_ it might become--er--er--both.
It is an affair of some--er--delicacy."

The Colonel paused, and Mr. Hotchkiss regarded him with increased
impatience. The Colonel, however, continued, with unchanged
deliberation: "It concerns--er--a young lady--a beautiful,
high-souled creature, sir, who, apart from her personal loveliness--
er--er--I may say is of one of the first families of Missouri, and--
er--not--remotely connected by marriage with one of--er--er--my
boyhood's dearest friends. The latter, I grieve to say, was a pure
invention of the Colonel's--an oratorical addition to the scanty
information he had obtained the previous day. The young lady," he
continued, blandly, "enjoys the further distinction of being the
object of such attention from you as would make this interview--
really--a confidential matter--er--er--among friends and--er--er--
relations in present and future. I need not say that the lady I refer
to is Miss Zaidee Juno Hooker, only daughter of Almira Ann Hooker,
relict of Jefferson Brown Hooker, formerly of Boone County, Kentucky,
and latterly of--er--Pike County, Missouri."

The sallow, ascetic hue of Mr. Hotchkiss's face had passed through a
livid and then a greenish shade, and finally settled into a sullen
red. "What's all this about?" he demanded, roughly. The least touch of
belligerent fire came into Starbottle's eye, but his bland courtesy
did not change. "I believe," he said, politely, "I have made myself
clear as between--er--gentlemen, though perhaps not as clear as I
should to--er--er--jury."

Mr. Hotchkiss was apparently struck with some significance in the
lawyer's reply. "I don't know," he said, in a lower and more cautious
voice, "what you mean by what you call 'my attentions' to--any one--or
how it concerns you. I have not exhausted half a dozen words with--the
person you name--have never written her a line--nor even called at her
house." He rose with an assumption of ease, pulled down his waistcoat,
buttoned his coat, and took up his hat. The Colonel did not move. "I
believe I have already indicated my meaning in what I have called
'your attentions,'" said the Colonel, blandly, "and given you my
'concern' for speaking as--er--er mutual friend. As to _your_
statement of your relations with Miss Hooker, I may state that it is
fully corroborated by the statement of the young lady herself in this
very office yesterday."

"Then what does this impertinent nonsense mean? Why am I summoned
here?" said Hotchkiss, furiously.

"Because," said the Colonel, deliberately, "that statement is
infamously--yes, damnably to your discredit, sir!"

Mr. Hotchkiss was here seized by one of those important and
inconsistent rages which occasionally betray the habitually cautious
and timid man. He caught up the Colonel's stick, which was lying on
the table. At the same moment the Colonel, without any apparent
effort, grasped it by the handle. To Mr. Hotchkiss's astonishment, the
stick separated in two pieces, leaving the handle and about two feet
of narrow glittering steel in the Colonel's hand. The man recoiled,
dropping the useless fragment. The Colonel picked it up, fitting the
shining blade in it, clicked the spring, and then rising, with a face
of courtesy yet of unmistakably genuine pain, and with even a slight
tremor in his voice, said, gravely:

"Mr. Hotchkiss, I owe you a thousand apologies, sir, that--er--
a weapon should be drawn by me--even through your own inadvertence--
under the sacred protection of my roof, and upon an unarmed man. I
beg your pardon, sir, and I even withdraw the expressions which
provoked that inadvertence. Nor does this apology prevent you from
holding me responsible--personally responsible--_elsewhere_ for an
indiscretion committed in behalf of a lady--my--er--client."

"Your client? Do you mean you have taken her case? You, the counsel
for the Ditch Company?" said Mr. Hotchkiss, in trembling indignation.

"Having won _your_ case, sir," said the Colonel, coolly,
"the--er--usages of advocacy do not prevent me from espousing the
cause of the weak and unprotected."

"We shall see, sir," said Hotchkiss, grasping the handle of the door
and backing into the passage. "There are other lawyers who--"

"Permit me to see you out," interrupted the Colonel, rising politely.

"--will be ready to resist the attacks of blackmail," continued
Hotchkiss, retreating along the passage.

"And then you will be able to repeat your remarks to me _in the
street_," continued the Colonel, bowing, as he persisted in following
his visitor to the door.

But here Mr. Hotchkiss quickly slammed it behind him, and hurried
away. The Colonel returned to his office, and sitting down, took a
sheet of letter paper bearing the inscription "Starbottle and Stryker,
Attorneys and Counsellors," and wrote the following lines:

Hooker _versus_ Hotchkiss.

DEAR MADAM,--Having had a visit from the defendant in
above, we should be pleased to have an interview with you at
2 p.m. to-morrow. Your obedient servants,
STARBOTTLE AND STRYKER.

This he sealed and despatched by his trusted servant Jim, and then
devoted a few moments to reflection. It was the custom of the Colonel
to act first, and justify the action by reason afterwards.

He knew that Hotchkiss would at once lay the matter before rival
counsel. He knew that they would advise him that Miss Hooker had "no
case"--that she would be non-suited on her own evidence, and he ought
not to compromise, but be ready to stand trial. He believed, however,
that Hotchkiss feared that exposure, and although his own instincts
had been at first against that remedy, he was now instinctively in
favor of it. He remembered his own power with a jury; his vanity and
his chivalry alike approved of this heroic method; he was bound by the
prosaic facts--he had his own theory of the case, which no mere
evidence could gainsay. In fact, Mrs. Hooker's own words that "he was
to tell the story in his own way" actually appeared to him an
inspiration and a prophecy.

Perhaps there was something else, due possibly to the lady's wonderful
eyes, of which he had thought much. Yet it was not her simplicity that
affected him solely; on the contrary, it was her apparent intelligent
reading of the character of her recreant lover--and of his own! Of all
the Colonel's previous "light" or "serious" loves none had ever before
flattered him in that way. And it was this, combined with the respect
which he had held for their professional relations, that precluded his
having a more familiar knowledge of his client, through serious
questioning, or playful gallantry. I am not sure it was not part of
the charm to have a rustic _femme incomprise_ as a client.

Nothing could exceed the respect with which he greeted her as she
entered his office the next day. He even affected not to notice that
she had put on her best clothes, and he made no doubt appeared as when
she had first attracted the mature yet faithless attentions of Deacon
Hotchkiss at church. A white virginal muslin was belted around her
slim figure by a blue ribbon, and her Leghorn hat was drawn around her
oval cheek by a bow of the same color. She had a Southern girl's
narrow feet, encased in white stockings and kid slippers, which were
crossed primly before her as she sat in a chair, supporting her arm by
her faithful parasol planted firmly on the floor. A faint odor of
southernwood exhaled from her, and, oddly enough, stirred the Colonel
with a far-off recollection of a pine-shaded Sunday school on a
Georgia hillside and of his first love, aged ten, in a short, starched
frock. Possibly it was the same recollection that revived something of
the awkwardness he had felt then.

He, however, smiled vaguely and, sitting down, coughed slightly, and
placed his fingertips together. "I have had an--er--interview with Mr.
Hotchkiss, but--I--er--regret to say there seems to be no prospect
of--er--compromise." He paused, and to his surprise her listless
"company" face lit up with an adorable smile. "Of course!--ketch him!"
she said. "Was he mad when you told him?" She put her knees
comfortably together and leaned forward for a reply.

For all that, wild horses could not have torn from the Colonel a word
about Hotchkiss's anger. "He expressed his intention of employing
counsel--and defending a suit," returned the Colonel, affably basking
in her smile. She dragged her chair nearer his desk. "Then you'll
fight him tooth and nail?" she said eagerly; "you'll show him up?
You'll tell the whole story your own way? You'll give him fits?--and
you'll make him pay? Sure?" she went on, breathlessly.

"I--er--will," said the Colonel, almost as breathlessly.

She caught his fat white hand, which was lying on the table, between
her own and lifted it to her lips. He felt her soft young fingers even
through the lisle-thread gloves that encased them and the warm
moisture of her lips upon his skin. He felt himself flushing--but was
unable to break the silence or change his position. The next moment
she had scuttled back with her chair to her old position.

"I--er--certainly shall do my best," stammered the Colonel, in an
attempt to recover his dignity and composure.

"That's enough! You'll _do_ it," said the girl, enthusiastically.
"Lordy! Just you talk for _me_ as ye did for _his_ old Ditch Company,
and you'll fetch it--every time! Why, when you made that jury sit up
the other day--when you got that off about the Merrikan flag waving
equally over the rights of honest citizens banded together in peaceful
commercial pursuits, as well as over the fortress of official
proflig--"

"Oligarchy," murmured the Colonel, courteously.

"Oligarchy," repeated the girl, quickly, "my breath was just took
away. I said to maw, 'Ain't he too sweet for anything!' I did, honest
Injin! And when you rolled it all off at the end--never missing a
word--(you didn't need to mark 'em in a lesson-book, but had 'em all
ready on your tongue), and walked out--Well! I didn't know you nor the
Ditch Company from Adam, but I could have just run over and kissed you
there before the whole court!"

She laughed, with her face glowing, although her strange eyes were
cast down. Alack! the Colonel's face was equally flushed, and his own
beady eyes were on his desk. To any other woman he would have voiced
the banal gallantry that he should now, himself, look forward to that
reward, but the words never reached his lips. He laughed, coughed
slightly, and when he looked up again she had fallen into the same
attitude as on her first visit, with her parasol point on the floor.

"I must ask you to--er--direct your memory--to--er--another point; the
breaking off of the--er--er--er--engagement. Did he--er--give any
reason for it? Or show any cause?"

"No; he never said anything," returned the girl.

"Not in his usual way?--er--no reproaches out of the hymn-book?--or
the sacred writings?"

"No; he just _quit_."

"Er--ceased his attentions," said the Colonel, gravely. "And naturally
you--er--were not conscious of any cause for his doing so." The girl
raised her wonderful eyes so suddenly and so penetratingly without
reply in any other way that the Colonel could only hurriedly say: "I
see! None, of course!"

At which she rose, the Colonel rising also. "We--shall begin
proceedings at once. I must, however, caution you to answer no
questions nor say anything about this case to any one until you are in
court."

She answered his request with another intelligent look and a nod. He
accompanied her to the door. As he took her proffered hand he raised
the lisle-thread fingers to his lips with old-fashioned gallantry. As
if that act had condoned for his first omissions and awkwardness, he
became his old-fashioned self again, buttoned his coat, pulled out his
shirt frill, and strutted back to his desk.

A day or two later it was known throughout the town that Zaidee Hooker
had sued Adoniram Hotchkiss for breach of promise, and that the
damages were laid at five thousand dollars. As in those bucolic days
the Western press was under the secure censorship of a revolver, a
cautious tone of criticism prevailed, and any gossip was confined to
personal expression, and even then at the risk of the gossiper.
Nevertheless, the situation provoked the intensest curiosity. The
Colonel was approached--until his statement that he should consider
any attempt to overcome his professional secrecy a personal reflection
withheld further advances. The community were left to the more
ostentatious information of the defendant's counsel, Messrs. Kitcham
and Bilser, that the case was "ridiculous" and "rotten," that the
plaintiff would be nonsuited, and the fire-eating Starbottle would be
taught a lesson that he could not "bully" the law--and there were some
dark hints of a conspiracy. It was even hinted that the "case" was the
revengeful and preposterous outcome of the refusal of Hotchkiss to pay
Starbottle an extravagant fee for his late services to the Ditch
Company. It is unnecessary to say that these words were not reported
to the Colonel. It was, however, an unfortunate circumstance for the
calmer, ethical consideration of the subject that the church sided
with Hotchkiss, as this provoked an equal adherence to the plaintiff
and Starbottle on the part of the larger body of non-church-goers, who
were delighted at a possible exposure of the weakness of religious
rectitude. "I've allus had my suspicions o' them early candle-light
meetings down at that gospel shop," said one critic, "and I reckon
Deacon Hotchkiss didn't rope in the gals to attend jest for
psalm-singing." "Then for him to get up and leave the board afore the
game's finished and try to sneak out of it," said another. "I suppose
that's what they call _religious_."

It was therefore not remarkable that the courthouse three weeks later
was crowded with an excited multitude of the curious and sympathizing.
The fair plaintiff, with her mother, was early in attendance, and
under the Colonel's advice appeared in the same modest garb in which
she had first visited his office. This and her downcast modest
demeanor were perhaps at first disappointing to the crowd, who had
evidently expected a paragon of loveliness--as the Circe of the grim
ascetic defendant, who sat beside his counsel. But presently all eyes
were fixed on the Colonel, who certainly made up in _his_ appearance
any deficiency of his fair client. His portly figure was clothed in a
blue dress-coat with brass buttons, a buff waistcoat which permitted
his frilled shirt front to become erectile above it, a black satin
stock which confined a boyish turned-down collar around his full neck,
and immaculate drill trousers, strapped over varnished boots. A murmur
ran round the court. "Old 'Personally Responsible' had got his
war-paint on," "The Old War-Horse is smelling powder," were whispered
comments. Yet for all that the most irreverent among them recognized
vaguely, in this bizarre figure, something of an honored past in their
country's history, and possibly felt the spell of old deeds and old
names that had once thrilled their boyish pulses. The new District
Judge returned Colonel Starbottle's profoundly punctilious bow. The
Colonel was followed by his negro servant, carrying a parcel of
hymn-books and Bibles, who, with a courtesy evidently imitated from
his master, placed one before the opposite counsel. This, after a
first curious glance, the lawyer somewhat superciliously tossed aside.
But when Jim, proceeding to the jury-box, placed with equal politeness
the remaining copies before the jury, the opposite counsel sprang to
his feet.

"I want to direct the attention of the Court to this unprecedented
tampering with the jury, by this gratuitous exhibition of matter
impertinent and irrelevant to the issue."

The Judge cast an inquiring look at Colonel Starbottle.

"May it please the Court," returned Colonel Starbottle with dignity,
ignoring the counsel, "the defendant's counsel will observe that he is
already furnished with the matter--which I regret to say he has
treated--in the presence of the Court--and of his client, a deacon of
the church--with--er---great superciliousness. When I state to your
Honor that the books in question are hymn-books and copies of the
_Holy Scriptures_, and that they are for the instruction of the jury,
to whom I shall have to refer them in the course of my opening, I
believe I am within my rights."

"The act is certainly unprecedented," said the Judge, dryly, "but
unless the counsel for the plaintiff expects the jury to _sing_ from
these hymn-books, their introduction is not improper, and I cannot
admit the objection. As defendant's counsel are furnished with copies
also, they cannot plead 'surprise,' as in the introduction of new
matter, and as plaintiff's counsel relies evidently upon the jury's
attention to his opening, he would not be the first person to distract
it." After a pause he added, addressing the Colonel, who remained
standing, "The Court is with you, sir; proceed."

But the Colonel remained motionless and statuesque, with folded arms.

"I have overruled the objection," repeated the Judge; "you may go on."

"I am waiting, your Honor, for the--er--withdrawal by the defendant's
counsel of the word 'tampering,' as refers to myself, and of
'impertinent,' as refers to the sacred volumes."

"The request is a proper one, and I have no doubt will be acceded to,"
returned the Judge, quietly. The defendant's counsel rose and mumbled
a few words of apology, and the incident closed. There was, however, a
general feeling that the Colonel had in some way "scored," and if his
object had been to excite the greatest curiosity about the books, he
had made his point.

But impassive of his victory, he inflated his chest, with his right
hand in the breast of his buttoned coat, and began. His usual high
color had paled slightly, but the small pupils of his prominent eyes
glittered like steel. The young girl leaned forward in her chair with
an attention so breathless, a sympathy so quick, and an admiration so
artless and unconscious that in an instant she divided with the
speaker the attention of the whole assemblage. It was very hot; the
court was crowded to suffocation; even the open windows revealed a
crowd of faces outside the building, eagerly following the Colonel's
words.

He would remind the jury that only a few weeks ago he stood there as
the advocate of a powerful company, then represented by the present
defendant. He spoke then as the champion of strict justice against
legal oppression; no less should he to-day champion the cause of the
unprotected and the comparatively defenseless--save for that paramount
power which surrounds beauty and innocence--even though the plaintiff
of yesterday was the defendant of to-day. As he approached the court a
moment ago he had raised his eyes and beheld the starry flag flying
from its dome--and he knew that glorious banner was a symbol of the
perfect equality, under the Constitution, of the rich and the poor,
the strong and the weak--an equality which made the simple citizen
taken from the plough in the veld, the pick in the gulch, or from
behind the counter in the mining town, who served on that jury, the
equal arbiters of justice with that highest legal luminary whom they
were proud to welcome on the bench to-day. The Colonel paused, with a
stately bow to the impassive Judge. It was this, he continued, which
lifted his heart as he approached the building. And yet--he had
entered it with an uncertain--he might almost say--a timid step. And
why? He knew, gentlemen, he was about to confront a profound--aye! a
sacred responsibility! Those hymn-books and holy writings handed to
the jury were _not_, as his Honor surmised, for the purpose of
enabling the jury to indulge in--er--preliminary choral exercise! He
might, indeed, say "alas not!" They were the damning, incontrovertible
proofs of the perfidy of the defendant. And they would prove as
terrible a warning to him as the fatal characters upon Belshazzar's
wall. There was a strong sensation. Hotchkiss turned a sallow green.
His lawyers assumed a careless smile.

It was his duty to tell them that this was not one of those ordinary
"breach-of-promise" cases which were too often the occasion of
ruthless mirth and indecent levity in the courtroom. The jury would
find nothing of that here, There were no love-letters with the
epithets of endearment, nor those mystic crosses and ciphers which, he
had been credibly informed, chastely hid the exchange of those mutual
caresses known as "kisses." There was no cruel tearing of the veil
from those sacred privacies of the human affection--there was no
forensic shouting out of those fond confidences meant only for _one_.
But there was, he was shocked to say, a new sacrilegious intrusion.
The weak pipings of Cupid were mingled with the chorus of the
saints--the sanctity of the temple known as the "meeting-house" was
desecrated by proceedings more in keeping with the shrine of
Venus--and the inspired writings themselves were used as the medium of
amatory and wanton flirtation by the defendant in his sacred capacity
as Deacon.

The Colonel artistically paused after this thunderous denunciation.
The jury turned eagerly to the leaves of the hymn-books, but the
larger gaze of the audience remained fixed upon the speaker and the
girl, who sat in rapt admiration of his periods. After the hush, the
Colonel continued in a lower and sadder voice: "There are, perhaps,
few of us here, gentlemen--with the exception of the defendant--who
can arrogate to themselves the title of regular churchgoers, or to
whom these humbler functions of the prayer-meeting, the Sunday-school,
and the Bible class are habitually familiar. Yet"--more
solemnly--"down in your hearts is the deep conviction of our
short-comings and failings, and a laudable desire that others at least
should profit by the teachings we neglect. Perhaps," he continued,
closing his eyes dreamily, "there is not a man here who does not
recall the happy days of his boyhood, the rustic village spire, the
lessons shared with some artless village maiden, with whom he later
sauntered, hand in hand, through the woods, as the simple rhyme rose
upon their lips,

Always make it a point to have it a rule
Never to be late at the Sabbath-school."

He would recall the strawberry feasts, the welcome annual picnic,
redolent with hunks of gingerbread and sarsaparilla. How would they
feel to know that these sacred recollections were now forever profaned
in their memory by the knowledge that the defendant was capable of
using such occasions to make love to the larger girls and teachers,
whilst his artless companions were innocently--the Court will pardon
me for introducing what I am credibly informed is the local expression
'doing gooseberry'?" The tremulous flicker of a smile passed over the
faces of the listening crowd, and the Colonel slightly winced. But he
recovered himself instantly, and continued:

"My client, the only daughter of a widowed mother--who has for years
stemmed the varying tides of adversity--in the western precincts of
this town--stands before you today invested only in her own innocence.
She wears no--er--rich gifts of her faithless admirer--is panoplied in
no jewels, rings, nor mementoes of affection such as lovers delight to
hang upon the shrine of their affections; hers is not the glory with
which Solomon decorated the Queen of Sheba, though the defendant, as I
shall show later, clothed her in the less expensive flowers of the
king's poetry. No! gentlemen! The defendant exhibited in this affair a
certain frugality of--er--pecuniary investment, which I am willing to
admit may be commendable in his class. His only gift was
characteristic alike of his methods and his economy. There is, I
understand, a certain not unimportant feature of religious exercise
known as 'taking a collection.' The defendant, on this occasion, by
the mute presentation of a tip plate covered with baize, solicited the
pecuniary contributions of the faithful. On approaching the plaintiff,
however, he himself slipped a love-token upon the plate and pushed it
towards her. That love-token was a lozenge--a small disk, I have
reason to believe, concocted of peppermint and sugar, bearing upon its
reverse surface the simple words, 'I love you!' I have since
ascertained that these disks may be bought for five cents a dozen--or
at considerably less than one half-cent for the single lozenge. Yes,
gentlemen, the words 'I love you!'--the oldest legend of all; the
refrain, 'when the morning stars sang together'--were presented to the
plaintiff by a medium so insignificant that there is, happily, no coin
in the republic low enough to represent its value.

"I shall prove to you, gentlemen of the jury," said the Colonel,
solemnly, drawing a _Bible_ from his coat-tail pocket, "that the
defendant, for the last twelve months, conducted an amatory
correspondence with the plaintiff by means of underlined words of
sacred writ and church psalmody, such as 'beloved,' 'precious,' and
'dearest,' occasionally appropriating whole passages which seemed
apposite to his tender passion. I shall call your attention to one of
them. The defendant, while professing to be a total abstainer--a man
who, in my own knowledge, has refused spirituous refreshment as an
inordinate weakness of the flesh, with shameless hypocrisy underscores
with his pencil the following passage and presents it to the
plaintiff. The gentlemen of the jury will find it in the _Song of
Solomon_, page 548, chapter II, verse 5." After a pause, in which the
rapid rustling of leaves was heard in the jury-box, Colonel
Starbottle declaimed in a pleading, stentorian voice, "'Stay me with
--er--_flagons_, comfort me with--er--apples--for I am--er--sick of
love.' Yes, gentlemen!--yes, you may well turn from those accusing
pages and look at the double-faced defendant. He desires--to--er--be
--'stayed with flagons'! I am not aware, at present, what kind of
liquor is habitually dispensed at these meetings, and for which the
defendant so urgently clamored; but it will be my duty before this
trial is over to discover it, if I have to summon every barkeeper in
this district. For the moment, I will simply call your attention to
the _quantity_. It is not a single drink that the defendant asks for
--not a glass of light and generous wine, to be shared with his
inamorata--but a number of flagons or vessels, each possibly holding
a pint measure--_for himself_!"

The smile of the audience had become a laugh. The Judge looked up
warningly, when his eye caught the fact that the Colonel had again
winced at this mirth. He regarded him seriously. Mr. Hotchkiss's
counsel had joined in the laugh affectedly, but Hotchkiss himself was
ashy pale. There was also a commotion in the jury-box, a hurried
turning over of leaves, and an excited discussion.

"The gentlemen of the jury," said the Judge, with official gravity,
"will please keep order and attend only to the speeches of counsel.
Any discussion _here_ is irregular and premature--and must be reserved
for the jury-room--after they have retired."

The foreman of the jury struggled to his feet. He was a powerful man,
with a good-humored face, and, in spite of his unfelicitous nickname
of "The Bone-Breaker," had a kindly, simple, but somewhat emotional
nature. Nevertheless, it appeared as if he were laboring under some
powerful indignation.

"Can we ask a question, Judge?" he said, respectfully, although his
voice had the unmistakable Western-American ring in it, as of one who
was unconscious that he could be addressing any but his peers.

"Yes," said the Judge, good-humoredly.

"We're finding in this yere piece, out of which the Kernel hes just
bin a-quotin', some language that me and my pardners allow hadn't
orter to be read out afore a young lady in court--and we want to know
of you--ez a fair-minded and impartial man--ef this is the reg'lar
kind o' book given to gals and babies down at the meetin'-house."

"The jury will please follow the counsel's speech, without comment,"
said the Judge, briefly, fully aware that the defendant's counsel
would spring to his feet, as he did promptly. "The Court will allow us
to explain to the gentlemen that the language they seem to object to
has been accepted by the best theologians for the last thousand years
as being purely mystic. As I will explain later, those are merely
symbols of the Church--"

"Of wot?" interrupted the foreman, in deep scorn.

"Of the Church!"

"We ain't askin' any questions o' _you_--and we ain't takin' any
answers," said the foreman, sitting down promptly.

"I must insist," said the Judge, sternly, "that the plaintiff's
counsel be allowed to continue his opening without interruption. You"
(to defendant's counsel) "will have your opportunity to reply later."

The counsel sank down in his seat with the bitter conviction that the
jury was manifestly against him, and the case as good as lost. But his
face was scarcely as disturbed as his client's, who, in great
agitation, had begun to argue with him wildly, and was apparently
pressing some point against the lawyer's vehement opposal. The
Colonel's murky eyes brightened as he still stood erect with his hand
thrust in his breast.

"It will be put to you, gentlemen, when the counsel on the other side
refrains from mere interruption and confines himself to reply, that my
unfortunate client has no action--no remedy at law--because there were
no spoken words of endearment. But, gentlemen, it will depend upon
_you_ to say what are and what are not articulate expressions of love.
We all know that among the lower animals, with whom you may possibly
be called upon to classify the defendant, there are certain signals
more or less harmonious, as the case may be. The ass brays, the horse
neighs, the sheep bleats--the feathered denizens of the grove call to
their mates in more musical roundelays. These are recognized facts,
gentlemen, which you yourselves, as dwellers among nature in this
beautiful land, are all cognizant of. They are facts that no one would
deny--and we should have a poor opinion of the ass who, at--er--such a
supreme moment, would attempt to suggest that his call was unthinking
and without significance. But, gentlemen, I shall prove to you that
such was the foolish, self-convicting custom of the defendant. With
the greatest reluctance, and the--er--greatest pain, I succeeded in
wresting from the maidenly modesty of my fair client the innocent
confession that the defendant had induced her to correspond with him
in these methods. Picture to yourself, gentlemen, the lonely moonlight
road beside the widow's humble cottage. It is a beautiful night,
sanctified to the affections, and the innocent girl is leaning from
her casement. Presently there appears upon the road a slinking,
stealthy figure--the defendant, on his way to church. True to the
instruction she has received from him, her lips part in the musical
utterance" (the Colonel lowered his voice in a faint falsetto,
presumably in fond imitation of his fair client),"'Kerree!' Instantly
the night became resonant with the impassioned reply" (the Colonel
here lifted his voice in stentorian tones), "'Kerrow.' Again, as he
passes, rises the soft 'Kerree'; again, as his form is lost in the
distance, comes back the deep 'Kerrow.'"

A burst of laughter, long, loud, and irrepressible, struck the whole
courtroom, and before the Judge could lift his half-composed face and
take his handkerchief from his mouth, a faint "Kerree" from some
unrecognized obscurity of the courtroom was followed by a loud
"Kerrow" from some opposite locality. "The sheriff will clear the
court," said the Judge, sternly; but alas, as the embarrassed and
choking officials rushed hither and thither, a soft "Kerree" from the
spectators at the window, _outside_ the courthouse, was answered by a
loud chorus of "Kerrows" from the opposite windows, filled with
onlookers. Again the laughter arose everywhere--even the fair
plaintiff herself sat convulsed behind her handkerchief.

The figure of Colonel Starbottle alone remained erect--white and
rigid. And then the Judge, looking up, saw what no one else in the
court had seen--that the Colonel was sincere and in earnest; that what
he had conceived to be the pleader's most perfect acting, and most
elaborate irony, were the deep, serious, mirthless _convictions_ of a
man without the least sense of humor. There was a touch of this
respect in the Judge's voice as he said to him, gently, "You may
proceed, Colonel Starbottle."

"I thank your Honor," said the Colonel, slowly, "for recognizing and
doing all in your power to prevent an interruption that, during my
thirty years' experience at the bar, I have never yet been subjected
to without the privilege of holding the instigators thereof
responsible--_personally_ responsible. It is possibly my fault that I
have failed, oratorically, to convey to the gentlemen of the jury the
full force and significance of the defendant's signals. I am aware
that my voice is singularly deficient in producing either the dulcet
tones of my fair client or the impassioned vehemence of the
defendant's repose. I will," continued the Colonel, with a fatigued
but blind fatuity that ignored the hurriedly knit brows and warning
eyes of the Judge, "try again. The note uttered by my client"
(lowering his voice to the faintest of falsettos) "was 'Kerree'; the
response was 'Kerrow'"--and the Colonel's voice fairly shook the dome
above him.

Another uproar of laughter followed this apparently audacious
repetition, but was interrupted by an unlooked-for incident. The
defendant rose abruptly, and tearing himself away from the withholding
hand and pleading protestations of his counsel, absolutely fled from
the courtroom, his appearance outside being recognized by a prolonged
"Kerrow" from the bystanders, which again and again followed him in
the distance. In the momentary silence which followed, the Colonel's
voice was heard saying, "We rest here, your Honor," and he sat down.
No less white, but more agitated, was the face of the defendant's
counsel, who instantly rose.

"For some unexplained reason, your Honor, my client desires to suspend
further proceedings, with a view to effect a peaceable compromise with
the plaintiff. As he is a man of wealth and position, he is able and
willing to pay liberally for that privilege. While I, as his counsel,
am still convinced of his legal irresponsibility, as he has chosen,
however, to publicly abandon his rights here, I can only ask your
Honor's permission to suspend further proceedings until I can confer
with Colonel Starbottle."

"As far as I can follow the pleadings," said the Judge, gravely, "the
case seems to be hardly one for litigation, and I approve of the
defendant's course, while I strongly urge the plaintiff to accept it."

Colonel Starbottle bent over his fair client. Presently he rose,
unchanged in look or demeanor. "I yield, your Honor, to the wishes of
my client, and--er--lady. We accept."

Before the court adjourned that day it was known throughout the town
that Adoniram K. Hotchkiss had compromised the suit for four thousand
dollars and costs.

Colonel Starbottle had so far recovered his equanimity as to strut
jauntily towards his office, where he was to meet his fair client. He
was surprised, however, to find her already there, and in company with
a somewhat sheepish-looking young man--a stranger. If the Colonel had
any disappointment in meeting a third party to the interview, his
old-fashioned courtesy did not permit him to show it. He bowed
graciously, and politely motioned them each to a seat.

"I reckoned I'd bring Hiram round with me," said the young lady,
lifting her searching eyes, after a pause, to the Colonel's, "though
he was awful shy, and allowed that you didn't know him from Adam--or
even suspected his existence. But I said, 'That's just where you slip
up, Hiram; a pow'ful man like the Colonel knows everything--and I've
seen it in his eye.' Lordy!" she continued, with a laugh, leaning
forward over her parasol, as her eyes again sought the Colonel's,
"don't you remember when you asked me if I loved that old Hotchkiss,
and I told you 'That's tellin',' and you looked at me, Lordy! I knew
_then_ you suspected there was a Hiram _somewhere_--as good as if I'd
told you. Now, you, jest get up, Hiram, and give the Colonel a good
handshake. For if it wasn't for _him_ and _his_ searchin' ways, and
_his_ awful power of language, I wouldn't hev got that four thousand
dollars out o' that flirty fool Hotchkiss--enough to buy a farm, so as
you and me could get married! That's what you owe to _him_. Don't
stand there like a stuck fool starin' at him. He won't eat you--though
he's killed many a better man. Come, have _I_ got to do _all_ the
kissin'!"

It is of record that the Colonel bowed so courteously and so
profoundly that he managed not merely to evade the proffered hand of
the shy Hiram, but to only lightly touch the franker and more
impulsive fingertips of the gentle Zaidee. "I--er--offer my sincerest
congratulations--though I think you--er--overestimate--my--er--powers
of penetration. Unfortunately, a pressing engagement, which may oblige
me also to leave town to-night, forbids my saying more. I
have--er--left the--er--business settlement of this--er--case in the
hands of the lawyers who do my office-work, and who will show you
every attention. And now let me wish you a very good afternoon."

Nevertheless, the Colonel returned to his private room, and it was
nearly twilight when the faithful Jim entered, to find him sitting
meditatively before his desk. "'Fo' God! Kernel--I hope dey ain't
nuffin de matter, but you's lookin' mightly solemn! I ain't seen you
look dat way, Kernel, since de day pooh Marse Stryker was fetched home
shot froo de head."

"Hand me down the whiskey, Jim," said the Colonel, rising slowly.

The negro flew to the closet joyfully, and brought out the bottle. The
Colonel poured out a glass of the spirit and drank it with his old
deliberation.

"You're quite right, Jim," he said, putting down his glass, "but
I'm--er--getting old--and--somehow--I am missing poor Stryker
damnably!"

THE BULLER-PODINGTON COMPACT

BY FRANK RICHARD STOCKTON (1834-1902)

[From _Scribner's Magazine_, August, 1897. Republished in _Afield and
Afloat_, by Frank Richard Stockton; copyright, 1900, by Charles
Scribner's Sons. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.]

"I tell you, William," said Thomas Buller to his friend Mr. Podington,
"I am truly sorry about it, but I cannot arrange for it this year.
Now, as to _my_ invitation--that is very different."

"Of course it is different," was the reply, "but I am obliged to say,
as I said before, that I really cannot accept it."

Remarks similar to these had been made by Thomas Buller and William
Podington at least once a year for some five years. They were old
friends; they had been schoolboys together and had been associated in
business since they were young men. They had now reached a vigorous
middle age; they were each married, and each had a house in the
country in which he resided for a part of the year. They were warmly
attached to each other, and each was the best friend which the other
had in this world. But during all these years neither of them had
visited the other in his country home.

The reason for this avoidance of each other at their respective rural
residences may be briefly stated. Mr. Buller's country house was
situated by the sea, and he was very fond of the water. He had a good
cat-boat, which he sailed himself with much judgment and skill, and it
was his greatest pleasure to take his friends and visitors upon little
excursions on the bay. But Mr. Podington was desperately afraid of the
water, and he was particularly afraid of any craft sailed by an
amateur. If his friend Buller would have employed a professional
mariner, of years and experience, to steer and manage his boat,
Podington might have been willing to take an occasional sail; but as
Buller always insisted upon sailing his own boat, and took it ill if
any of his visitors doubted his ability to do so properly, Podington
did not wish to wound the self-love of his friend, and he did not wish
to be drowned. Consequently he could not bring himself to consent to
go to Buller's house by the sea.

To receive his good friend Buller at his own house in the beautiful
upland region in which he lived would have been a great joy to Mr.
Podington; but Buller could not be induced to visit him. Podington was
very fond of horses and always drove himself, while Buller was more
afraid of horses than he was of elephants or lions. To one or more
horses driven by a coachman of years and experience he did not always
object, but to a horse driven by Podington, who had much experience
and knowledge regarding mercantile affairs, but was merely an amateur
horseman, he most decidedly and strongly objected. He did not wish to
hurt his friend's feelings by refusing to go out to drive with him,
but he would not rack his own nervous system by accompanying him.
Therefore it was that he had not yet visited the beautiful upland
country residence of Mr. Podington.

At last this state of things grew awkward. Mrs. Buller and Mrs.
Podington, often with their families, visited each other at their
country houses, but the fact that on these occasions they were never
accompanied by their husbands caused more and more gossip among their
neighbors both in the upland country and by the sea.

One day in spring as the two sat in their city office, where Mr.
Podington had just repeated his annual invitation, his friend replied
to him thus:

"William, if I come to see you this summer, will you visit me? The
thing is beginning to look a little ridiculous, and people are talking
about it."

Mr. Podington put his hand to his brow and for a few moments closed
his eyes. In his mind he saw a cat-boat upon its side, the sails
spread out over the water, and two men, almost entirely immersed in
the waves, making efforts to reach the side of the boat. One of these
was getting on very well--that was Buller. The other seemed about to
sink, his arms were uselessly waving in the air--that was himself. But
he opened his eyes and looked bravely out of the window; it was time
to conquer all this; it was indeed growing ridiculous. Buller had been
sailing many years and had never been upset.

"Yes," said he; "I will do it; I am ready any time you name."

Mr. Buller rose and stretched out his hand.

"Good!" said he; "it is a compact!"

Buller was the first to make the promised country visit. He had not
mentioned the subject of horses to his friend, but he knew through
Mrs. Buller that Podington still continued to be his own driver. She
had informed him, however, that at present he was accustomed to drive
a big black horse which, in her opinion, was as gentle and reliable as
these animals ever became, and she could not imagine how anybody could
be afraid of him. So when, the next morning after his arrival, Mr.
Buller was asked by his host if he would like to take a drive, he
suppressed a certain rising emotion and said that it would please him
very much.

When the good black horse had jogged along a pleasant road for half an
hour Mr. Buller began to feel that, perhaps, for all these years he
had been laboring under a misconception. It seemed to be possible that
there were some horses to which surrounding circumstances in the shape
of sights and sounds were so irrelevant that they were to a certain
degree entirely safe, even when guided and controlled by an amateur
hand. As they passed some meadow-land, somebody behind a hedge fired a
gun; Mr. Buller was frightened, but the horse was not.

"William," said Buller, looking cheerfully around him,

"I had no idea that you lived in such a pretty country. In fact, I
might almost call it beautiful. You have not any wide stretch of
water, such as I like so much, but here is a pretty river, those
rolling hills are very charming, and, beyond, you have the blue of the
mountains."

"It is lovely," said his friend; "I never get tired of driving through
this country. Of course the seaside is very fine, but here we have
such a variety of scenery."

Mr. Buller could not help thinking that sometimes the seaside was a
little monotonous, and that he had lost a great deal of pleasure by
not varying his summers by going up to spend a week or two with
Podington.

"William," said he, "how long have you had this horse?"

"About two years," said Mr. Podington; "before I got him, I used to
drive a pair."

"Heavens!" thought Buller, "how lucky I was not to come two years
ago!" And his regrets for not sooner visiting his friend greatly
decreased.

Now they came to a place where the stream, by which the road ran, had
been dammed for a mill and had widened into a beautiful pond.

"There now!" cried Mr. Buller. "That's what I like. William, you seem
to have everything! This is really a very pretty sheet of water, and
the reflections of the trees over there make a charming picture; you
can't get that at the seaside, you know."

Mr. Podington was delighted; his face glowed; he was rejoiced at the
pleasure of his friend. "I tell you, Thomas," said he, "that----"

"William!" exclaimed Buller, with a sudden squirm in his seat, "what
is that I hear? Is that a train?"

"Yes," said Mr. Podington, "that is the ten-forty, up."

"Does it come near here?" asked Mr. Buller, nervously. "Does it go
over that bridge?"

"Yes," said Podington, "but it can't hurt us, for our road goes under
the bridge; we are perfectly safe; there is no risk of accident."

"But your horse! Your horse!" exclaimed Buller, as the train came
nearer and nearer. "What will he do?"

"Do?" said Podington; "he'll do what he is doing now; he doesn't mind
trains."

"But look here, William," exclaimed Buller, "it will get there just as
we do; no horse could stand a roaring up in the air like that!"

Podington laughed. "He would not mind it in the least," said he.

"Come, come now," cried Buller. "Really, I can't stand this! Just stop
a minute, William, and let me get out. It sets all my nerves
quivering."

Mr. Podington smiled with a superior smile. "Oh, you needn't get out,"
said he; "there's not the least danger in the world. But I don't want
to make you nervous, and I will turn around and drive the other way."

"But you can't!" screamed Buller. "This road is not wide enough, and
that train is nearly here. Please stop!"

The imputation that the road was not wide enough for him to turn was
too much for Mr. Podington to bear. He was very proud of his ability
to turn a vehicle in a narrow place.

"Turn!" said he; "that's the easiest thing in the world. See; a little
to the right, then a back, then a sweep to the left and we will be
going the other way." And instantly he began the maneuver in which he
was such an adept.

"Oh, Thomas!" cried Buller, half rising in his seat, "that train is
almost here!"

"And we are almost----" Mr. Podington was about to say "turned
around," but he stopped. Mr. Buller's exclamations had made him a
little nervous, and, in his anxiety to turn quickly, he had pulled
upon his horse's bit with more energy than was actually necessary, and
his nervousness being communicated to the horse, that animal backed
with such extraordinary vigor that the hind wheels of the wagon went
over a bit of grass by the road and into the water. The sudden jolt
gave a new impetus to Mr. Buller's fears.

"You'll upset!" he cried, and not thinking of what he was about, he
laid hold of his friend's arm. The horse, startled by this sudden jerk
upon his bit, which, combined with the thundering of the train, which
was now on the bridge, made him think that something extraordinary was
about to happen, gave a sudden and forcible start backward, so that
not only the hind wheels of the light wagon, but the fore wheels and
his own hind legs went into the water. As the bank at this spot sloped
steeply, the wagon continued to go backward, despite the efforts of
the agitated horse to find a footing on the crumbling edge of the
bank.

"Whoa!" cried Mr. Buller.

"Get up!" exclaimed Mr. Podington, applying his whip upon the plunging
beast.

But exclamations and castigations had no effect upon the horse. The
original bed of the stream ran close to the road, and the bank was so
steep and the earth so soft that it was impossible for the horse to
advance or even maintain his footing. Back, back he went, until the
whole equipage was in the water and the wagon was afloat.

This vehicle was a road wagon, without a top, and the joints of its
box-body were tight enough to prevent the water from immediately
entering it; so, somewhat deeply sunken, it rested upon the water.
There was a current in this part of the pond and it turned the wagon
downstream. The horse was now entirely immersed in the water, with the
exception of his head and the upper part of his neck, and, unable to
reach the bottom with his feet, he made vigorous efforts to swim.

Mr. Podington, the reins and whip in his hands, sat horrified and
pale; the accident was so sudden, he was so startled and so frightened
that, for a moment, he could not speak a word. Mr. Buller, on the
other hand, was now lively and alert. The wagon had no sooner floated
away from the shore than he felt himself at home. He was upon his
favorite element; water had no fears for him. He saw that his friend
was nearly frightened out of his wits, and that, figuratively
speaking, he must step to the helm and take charge of the vessel. He
stood up and gazed about him.

"Put her across stream!" he shouted; "she can't make headway against
this current. Head her to that clump of trees on the other side; the
bank is lower there, and we can beach her. Move a little the other
way, we must trim boat. Now then, pull on your starboard rein."

Podington obeyed, and the horse slightly changed his direction.

"You see," said Buller, "it won't do to sail straight across, because
the current would carry us down and land us below that spot."

Mr. Podington said not a word; he expected every moment to see the
horse sink into a watery grave.

"It isn't so bad after all, is it, Podington? If we had a rudder and a
bit of a sail it would be a great help to the horse. This wagon is not
a bad boat."

The despairing Podington looked at his feet. "It's coming in," he said
in a husky voice. "Thomas, the water is over my shoes!"

"That is so," said Buller. "I am so used to water I didn't notice it.
She leaks. Do you carry anything to bail her out with?"

"Bail!" cried Podington, now finding his voice. "Oh, Thomas, we are
sinking!"

"That's so," said Buller; "she leaks like a sieve."

The weight of the running-gear and of the two men was entirely too
much for the buoyancy of the wagon body. The water rapidly rose toward
the top of its sides.

"We are going to drown!" cried Podington, suddenly rising.

"Lick him! Lick him!" exclaimed Buller. "Make him swim faster!"

"There's nothing to lick," cried Podington, vainly lashing at the
water, for he could not reach the horse's head. The poor man was
dreadfully frightened; he had never even imagined it possible that he
should be drowned in his own wagon.

"Whoop!" cried Buller, as the water rose over the sides. "Steady
yourself, old boy, or you'll go overboard!" And the next moment the
wagon body sunk out of sight.

But it did not go down very far. The deepest part of the channel of
the stream had been passed, and with a bump the wheels struck the
bottom.

"Heavens!" exclaimed Buller, "we are aground."

"Aground!" exclaimed Podington, "Heaven be praised!"

As the two men stood up in the submerged wagon the water was above
their knees, and when Podington looked out over the surface of the
pond, now so near his face, it seemed like a sheet of water he had
never seen before. It was something horrible, threatening to rise and
envelop him. He trembled so that he could scarcely keep his footing.

"William," said his companion, "you must sit down; if you don't,
you'll tumble overboard and be drowned. There is nothing for you to
hold to."

"Sit down," said Podington, gazing blankly at the water around him, "I
can't do that!"

At this moment the horse made a slight movement. Having touched bottom
after his efforts in swimming across the main bed of the stream, with
a floating wagon in tow, he had stood for a few moments, his head and
neck well above water, and his back barely visible beneath the
surface. Having recovered his breath, he now thought it was time to
move on.

At the first step of the horse Mr. Podington began to totter.
Instinctively he clutched Buller.

"Sit down!" cried the latter, "or you'll have us both overboard."
There was no help for it; down sat Mr. Podington; and, as with a great
splash he came heavily upon the seat, the water rose to his waist.

"Ough!" said he. "Thomas, shout for help."

"No use doing that," replied Buller, still standing on his nautical
legs; "I don't see anybody, and I don't see any boat. We'll get out
all right. Just you stick tight to the thwart."

"The what?" feebly asked the other.

"Oh, the seat, I mean. We can get to the shore all right if you steer
the horse straight. Head him more across the pond."

"I can't head him," cried Podington. "I have dropped the reins!"

"Good gracious!" cried Mr. Buller, "that's bad. Can't you steer him by
shouting 'Gee' and 'Haw'?"

"No," said Podington, "he isn't an ox; but perhaps I can stop him."
And with as much voice as he could summon, he called out: "Whoa!" and
the horse stopped.

"If you can't steer him any other way," said Buller, "we must get the
reins. Lend me your whip."

"I have dropped that too," said Podington; "there it floats."

"Oh, dear," said Buller, "I guess I'll have to dive for them; if he
were to run away, we should be in an awful fix."

"Don't get out! Don't get out!" exclaimed Podington. "You can reach
over the dashboard."

"As that's under water," said Buller, "it will be the same thing as
diving; but it's got to be done, and I'll try it. Don't you move now;
I am more used to water than you are."

Mr. Buller took off his hat and asked his friend to hold it. He
thought of his watch and other contents of his pockets, but there was
no place to put them, so he gave them no more consideration. Then
bravely getting on his knees in the water, he leaned over the
dashboard, almost disappearing from sight. With his disengaged hand
Mr. Podington grasped the submerged coat-tails of his friend.

In a few seconds the upper part of Mr. Buller rose from the water. He
was dripping and puffing, and Mr. Podington could not but think what a
difference it made in the appearance of his friend to have his hair
plastered close to his head.

"I got hold of one of them," said the sputtering Buller, "but it was
fast to something and I couldn't get it loose."

"Was it thick and wide?" asked Podington.

"Yes," was the answer; "it did seem so."

"Oh, that was a trace," said Podington; "I don't want that; the reins
are thinner and lighter."

"Now I remember they are," said Buller. "I'll go down again."

Again Mr. Buller leaned over the dashboard, and this time he remained
down longer, and when he came up he puffed and sputtered more than
before.

"Is this it?" said he, holding up a strip of wet leather.

"Yes," said Podington, "you've got the reins."

"Well, take them, and steer. I would have found them sooner if his
tail had not got into my eyes. That long tail's floating down there
and spreading itself out like a fan; it tangled itself all around my
head. It would have been much easier if he had been a bob-tailed
horse."

"Now then," said Podington, "take your hat, Thomas, and I'll try to
drive."

Mr. Buller put on his hat, which was the only dry thing about him, and
the nervous Podington started the horse so suddenly that even the
sea-legs of Buller were surprised, and he came very near going
backward into the water; but recovering himself, he sat down.

"I don't wonder you did not like to do this, William," said he. "Wet
as I am, it's ghastly!"

Encouraged by his master's voice, and by the feeling of the familiar
hand upon his bit, the horse moved bravely on.

But the bottom was very rough and uneven. Sometimes the wheels struck
a large stone, terrifying Mr. Buller, who thought they were going to
upset; and sometimes they sank into soft mud, horrifying Mr.
Podington, who thought they were going to drown.

Thus proceeding, they presented a strange sight. At first Mr.
Podington held his hands above the water as he drove, but he soon
found this awkward, and dropped them to their usual position, so that
nothing was visible above the water but the head and neck of a horse
and the heads and shoulders of two men.

Now the submarine equipage came to a low place in the bottom, and even
Mr. Buller shuddered as the water rose to his chin. Podington gave a
howl of horror, and the horse, with high, uplifted head, was obliged
to swim. At this moment a boy with a gun came strolling along the
road, and hearing Mr. Podington's cry, he cast his eyes over the
water. Instinctively he raised his weapon to his shoulder, and then,
in an instant, perceiving that the objects he beheld were not aquatic
birds, he dropped his gun and ran yelling down the road toward the
mill.

But the hollow in the bottom was a narrow one, and when it was passed
the depth of the water gradually decreased. The back of the horse came
into view, the dashboard became visible, and the bodies and the
spirits of the two men rapidly rose. Now there was vigorous splashing
and tugging, and then a jet black horse, shining as if he had been
newly varnished, pulled a dripping wagon containing two well-soaked
men upon a shelving shore.

"Oh, I am chilled to the bones!" said Podington.

"I should think so," replied his friend; "if you have got to be wet,
it is a great deal pleasanter under the water."

There was a field-road on this side of the pond which Podington well
knew, and proceeding along this they came to the bridge and got into
the main road.

"Now we must get home as fast as we can," cried Podington, "or we
shall both take cold. I wish I hadn't lost my whip. Hi now! Get
along!"

Podington was now full of life and energy, his wheels were on the hard
road, and he was himself again.

When he found his head was turned toward his home, the horse set off
at a great rate.

"Hi there!" cried Podington. "I am so sorry I lost my whip."

"Whip!" said Buller, holding fast to the side of the seat; "surely you
don't want him to go any faster than this. And look here, William," he
added, "it seems to me we are much more likely to take cold in our wet
clothes if we rush through the air in this way. Really, it seems to me
that horse is running away."

"Not a bit of it," cried Podington. "He wants to get home, and he
wants his dinner. Isn't he a fine horse? Look how he steps out!"

"Steps out!" said Buller, "I think I'd like to step out myself. Don't
you think it would be wiser for me to walk home, William? That will
warm me up."

"It will take you an hour," said his friend. "Stay where you are, and
I'll have you in a dry suit of clothes in less than fifteen minutes."

"I tell you, William," said Mr. Buller, as the two sat smoking after
dinner, "what you ought to do; you should never go out driving without
a life-preserver and a pair of oars; I always take them. It would make
you feel safer."

Mr. Buller went home the next day, because Mr. Podington's clothes did
not fit him, and his own outdoor suit was so shrunken as to be
uncomfortable. Besides, there was another reason, connected with the
desire of horses to reach their homes, which prompted his return. But
he had not forgotten his compact with his friend, and in the course of
a week he wrote to Podington, inviting him to spend some days with
him. Mr. Podington was a man of honor, and in spite of his recent
unfortunate water experience he would not break his word. He went to
Mr. Buller's seaside home at the time appointed.

Early on the morning after his arrival, before the family were up, Mr.
Podington went out and strolled down to the edge of the bay. He went
to look at Buller's boat. He was well aware that he would be asked to
take a sail, and as Buller had driven with him, it would be impossible
for him to decline sailing with Buller; but he must see the boat.
There was a train for his home at a quarter past seven; if he were not
on the premises he could not be asked to sail. If Buller's boat were a
little, flimsy thing, he would take that train--but he would wait and
see.

There was only one small boat anchored near the beach, and a
man--apparently a fisherman--informed Mr. Podington that it belonged
to Mr. Buller. Podington looked at it eagerly; it was not very small
and not flimsy.

"Do you consider that a safe boat?" he asked the fisherman.

"Safe?" replied the man. "You could not upset her if you tried. Look
at her breadth of beam! You could go anywhere in that boat! Are you
thinking of buying her?"

The idea that he would think of buying a boat made Mr. Podington
laugh. The information that it would be impossible to upset the little
vessel had greatly cheered him, and he could laugh.

Shortly after breakfast Mr. Buller, like a nurse with a dose of
medicine, came to Mr. Podington with the expected invitation to take a
sail.

"Now, William," said his host, "I understand perfectly your feeling
about boats, and what I wish to prove to you is that it is a feeling
without any foundation. I don't want to shock you or make you nervous,
so I am not going to take you out today on the bay in my boat. You are
as safe on the bay as you would be on land--a little safer, perhaps,
under certain circumstances, to which we will not allude--but still it
is sometimes a little rough, and this, at first, might cause you some
uneasiness, and so I am going to let you begin your education in the
sailing line on perfectly smooth water. About three miles back of us
there is a very pretty lake several miles long. It is part of the
canal system which connects the town with the railroad. I have sent my
boat to the town, and we can walk up there and go by the canal to the
lake; it is only about three miles."

If he had to sail at all, this kind of sailing suited Mr. Podington. A
canal, a quiet lake, and a boat which could not be upset. When they
reached the town the boat was in the canal, ready for them.

"Now," said Mr. Buller, "you get in and make yourself comfortable. My
idea is to hitch on to a canal-boat and be towed to the lake. The
boats generally start about this time in the morning, and I will go
and see about it."

Mr. Podington, under the direction of his friend, took a seat in the
stern of the sailboat, and then he remarked:

"Thomas, have you a life-preserver on board? You know I am not used to
any kind of vessel, and I am clumsy. Nothing might happen to the boat,
but I might trip and fall overboard, and I can't swim."

"All right," said Buller; "here's a life-preserver, and you can put it
on. I want you to feel perfectly safe. Now I will go and see about the
tow."

But Mr. Buller found that the canal-boats would not start at their
usual time; the loading of one of them was not finished, and he was
informed that he might have to wait for an hour or more. This did not
suit Mr. Buller at all, and he did not hesitate to show his annoyance.

"I tell you, sir, what you can do," said one of the men in charge of
the boats; "if you don't want to wait till we are ready to start,
we'll let you have a boy and a horse to tow you up to the lake. That
won't cost you much, and they'll be back before we want 'em."

The bargain was made, and Mr. Buller joyfully returned to his boat
with the intelligence that they were not to wait for the canal-boats.
A long rope, with a horse attached to the other end of it, was
speedily made fast to the boat, and with a boy at the head of the
horse, they started up the canal.

"Now this is the kind of sailing I like," said Mr. Podington. "If I
lived near a canal I believe I would buy a boat and train my horse to
tow. I could have a long pair of rope-lines and drive him myself; then
when the roads were rough and bad the canal would always be smooth."

"This is all very nice," replied Mr. Buller, who sat by the tiller to
keep the boat away from the bank, "and I am glad to see you in a boat
under any circumstances. Do you know, William, that although I did not
plan it, there could not have been a better way to begin your sailing
education. Here we glide along, slowly and gently, with no possible
thought of danger, for if the boat should suddenly spring a leak, as
if it were the body of a wagon, all we would have to do would be to
step on shore, and by the time you get to the end of the canal you
will like this gentle motion so much that you will be perfectly ready
to begin the second stage of your nautical education."

"Yes," said Mr. Podington. "How long did you say this canal is?"

"About three miles," answered his friend. "Then we will go into the
lock and in a few minutes we shall be on the lake."

"So far as I am concerned," said Mr. Podington, "I wish the canal were
twelve miles long. I cannot imagine anything pleasanter than this. If
I lived anywhere near a canal--a long canal, I mean, this one is too
short--I'd--"

"Come, come now," interrupted Buller. "Don't be content to stay in the
primary school just because it is easy. When we get on the lake I will
show you that in a boat, with a gentle breeze, such as we are likely
to have today, you will find the motion quite as pleasing, and ever so
much more inspiriting. I should not be a bit surprised, William, if
after you have been two or three times on the lake you will ask
me--yes, positively ask me--to take you out on the bay!"

Mr. Podington smiled, and leaning backward, he looked up at the
beautiful blue sky.

"You can't give me anything better than this, Thomas," said he; "but
you needn't think I am weakening; you drove with me, and I will sail
with you."

The thought came into Buller's mind that he had done both of these
things with Podington, but he did not wish to call up unpleasant
memories, and said nothing.

About half a mile from the town there stood a small cottage where
house-cleaning was going on, and on a fence, not far from the canal,
there hung a carpet gaily adorned with stripes and spots of red and
yellow.

When the drowsy tow-horse came abreast of the house, and the carpet
caught his eye, he suddenly stopped and gave a start toward the canal.
Then, impressed with a horror of the glaring apparition, he gathered
himself up, and with a bound dashed along the tow-path. The astounded
boy gave a shout, but was speedily left behind. The boat of Mr. Buller
shot forward as if she had been struck by a squall.

The terrified horse sped on as if a red and yellow demon were after
him. The boat bounded, and plunged, and frequently struck the grassy
bank of the canal, as if it would break itself to pieces. Mr.
Podington clutched the boom to keep himself from being thrown out,
while Mr. Buller, both hands upon the tiller, frantically endeavored
to keep the boat from the bank.

"William!" he screamed, "he is running away with us; we shall be
dashed to pieces! Can't you get forward and cast off that line?"

"What do you mean?" cried Podington, as the boom gave a great jerk as
if it would break its fastenings and drag him overboard.

"I mean untie the tow-line. We'll be smashed if you don't! I can't
leave this tiller. Don't try to stand up; hold on to the boom and
creep forward. Steady now, or you'll be overboard!"

Mr. Podington stumbled to the bow of the boat, his efforts greatly
impeded by the big cork life-preserver tied under his arms, and the
motion of the boat was so violent and erratic that he was obliged to
hold on to the mast with one arm and to try to loosen the knot with
the other; but there was a great strain on the rope, and he could do
nothing with one hand.

"Cut it! Cut it!" cried Mr. Buller.

"I haven't a knife," replied Podington.

Mr. Buller was terribly frightened; his boat was cutting through the
water as never vessel of her class had sped since sail-boats were
invented, and bumping against the bank as if she were a billiard-ball
rebounding from the edge of a table. He forgot he was in a boat; he
only knew that for the first time in his life he was in a runaway. He
let go the tiller. It was of no use to him.

"William," he cried, "let us jump out the next time we are near enough
to shore!"

"Don't do that! Don't do that!" replied Podington. "Don't jump out in
a runaway; that is the way to get hurt. Stick to your seat, my boy; he
can't keep this up much longer. He'll lose his wind!"

Mr. Podington was greatly excited, but he was not frightened, as
Buller was. He had been in a runaway before, and he could not help
thinking how much better a wagon was than a boat in such a case.

"If he were hitched up shorter and I had a snaffle-bit and a stout
pair of reins," thought he, "I could soon bring him up."

But Mr. Buller was rapidly losing his wits. The horse seemed to be
going faster than ever. The boat bumped harder against the bank, and
at one time Buller thought they could turn over.

Suddenly a thought struck him.

"William," he shouted, "tip that anchor over the side! Throw it in,
any way!"

Mr. Podington looked about him, and, almost under his feet, saw the
anchor. He did not instantly comprehend why Buller wanted it thrown
overboard, but this was not a time to ask questions. The difficulties
imposed by the life-preserver, and the necessity of holding on with
one hand, interfered very much with his getting at the anchor and
throwing it over the side, but at last he succeeded, and just as the
boat threw up her bow as if she were about to jump on shore, the
anchor went out and its line shot after it. There was an irregular
trembling of the boat as the anchor struggled along the bottom of the
canal; then there was a great shock; the boat ran into the bank and
stopped; the tow-line was tightened like a guitar-string, and the
horse, jerked back with great violence, came tumbling in a heap upon
the ground.

Instantly Mr. Podington was on the shore and running at the top of his
speed toward the horse. The astounded animal had scarcely begun to
struggle to his feet when Podington rushed upon him, pressed his head
back to the ground, and sat upon it.

"Hurrah!" he cried, waving his hat above his head. "Get out, Buller;
he is all right now!"

Presently Mr. Buller approached, very much shaken up.

"All right?" he said. "I don't call a horse flat in a road with a man
on his head all right; but hold him down till we get him loose from my
boat. That is the thing to do. William, cast him loose from the boat
before you let him up! What will he do when he gets up?"

"Oh. he'll be quiet enough when he gets up," said Podington. "But if
you've got a knife you can cut his traces---I mean that rope--but no,
you needn't. Here comes the boy. We'll settle this business in very
short order now."

When the horse was on his feet, and all connection between the animal
and the boat had been severed, Mr. Podington looked at his friend.

"Thomas," said he, "you seem to have had a hard time of it. You have
lost your hat and you look as if you had been in a wrestling-match."

"I have," replied the other; "I wrestled with that tiller and I wonder
it didn't throw me out."

Now approached the boy. "Shall I hitch him on again, sir?" said he.
"He's quiet enough now."

"No," cried Mr. Buller; "I want no more sailing after a horse, and,
besides, we can't go on the lake with that boat; she has been battered
about so much that she must have opened a dozen seams. The best thing
we can do is to walk home."

Mr. Podington agreed with his friend that walking home was the best
thing they could do. The boat was examined and found to be leaking,
but not very badly, and when her mast had been unshipped and
everything had been made tight and right on board, she was pulled out
of the way of tow-lines and boats, and made fast until she could be
sent for from the town.

Mr. Buller and Mr. Podington walked back toward the town. They had not
gone very far when they met a party of boys, who, upon seeing them,
burst into unseemly laughter.

"Mister," cried one of them, "you needn't be afraid of tumbling into
the canal. Why don't you take off your life-preserver and let that
other man put it on his head?"

The two friends looked at each other and could not help joining in the
laughter of the boys.

"By George! I forgot all about this," said Podington, as he unfastened
the cork jacket. "It does look a little super-timid to wear a
life-preserver just because one happens to be walking by the side of a
canal."

Mr. Buller tied a handkerchief on his head, and Mr. Podington rolled
up his life-preserver and carried it under his arm. Thus they reached
the town, where Buller bought a hat, Podington dispensed with his
bundle, and arrangements were made to bring back the boat.

"Runaway in a sailboat!" exclaimed one of the canal boatmen when he
had heard about the accident. "Upon my word! That beats anything that
could happen to a man!"

"No, it doesn't," replied Mr. Buller, quietly. "I have gone to the
bottom in a foundered road-wagon."

The man looked at him fixedly.

"Was you ever struck in the mud in a balloon?" he asked.

"Not yet," replied Mr. Buller.

It required ten days to put Mr. Buller's sailboat into proper
condition, and for ten days Mr. Podington stayed with his friend, and
enjoyed his visit very much. They strolled on the beach, they took
long walks in the back country, they fished from the end of a pier,
they smoked, they talked, and were happy and content.

"Thomas," said Mr. Podington, on the last evening of his stay, "I have
enjoyed myself very much since I have been down here, and now, Thomas,
if I were to come down again next summer, would you mind--would you
mind, not----"

"I would not mind it a bit," replied Buller, promptly. "I'll never so
much as mention it; so you can come along without a thought of it. And
since you have alluded to the subject, William," he continued, "I'd
like very much to come and see you again; you know my visit was a very
short one this year. That is a beautiful country you live in. Such a
variety of scenery, such an opportunity for walks and rambles! But,
William, if you could only make up your mind not to----"

"Oh, that is all right!" exclaimed Podington. "I do not need to make
up my mind. You come to my house and you will never so much as hear of
it. Here's my hand upon it!"

"And here's mine!" said Mr. Buller.

And they shook hands over a new compact.