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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Elder Conklin and Other Stories", Frank Harris weaves a rich tapestry of narrative that explores the complexities of human nature against a backdrop of early 20th-century America. The collection reveals the intricacies of life through its vivid characters and their moral dilemmas, often immersed in a candid portrayal of society's underbelly. Harris employs a direct and engaging literary style, marked by his characteristic irreverence and sharp wit, thereby immersing readers in the emotional depths and societal observations of his characters. The themes of ambition, lust, and confrontation with societal norms resonate throughout, shedding light on the human condition during a transformative period in history. Frank Harris, a controversial figure known for his outspoken views and eclectic career as a journalist and playwright, brings his unique perspective to this collection. Having traversed various cultural landscapes'Äîfrom journalism in London to literary circles in America'ÄîHarris's deep understanding of both the societal tensions and the intimate struggles of individuals enriches his storytelling. His own life experiences often manifest in the scenarios he depicts, adding layers of authenticity to his characters' journeys. "Elder Conklin and Other Stories" is a must-read for those interested in early 20th-century literature, providing not just entertainment but a profound exploration of morality and society's failings. Harris's unapologetic style invites readers to confront their own perceptions, making this collection a timeless addition to the canon of American literature.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Elder Conklin and Other Stories
Table of Contents
ELDER CONKLIN.
As soon as the Elder left the supper-table his daughter and the new schoolmaster went out on the stoop or verandah which ran round the frame-house. The day had been warm, but the chilliness of the evening air betokened the near approach of the Indian summer. The house stood upon the crest of what had been a roll in the prairie, and as the two leant together on the railing of the stoop, they looked out over a small orchard of peach-trees to where, a couple of hundred yards away, at the foot of the bluff, Cottonwood Creek ran, fringed on either bank by the trees which had suggested its name. On the horizon to their right, away beyond the spears of yellow maize, the sun was sinking, a ball of orange fire against the rose mist of the sky. When the girl turned towards him, perhaps to avoid the level rays, Bancroft expressed the hope that she would go with him to the house-warming. A little stiffly Miss Conklin replied that she'd be pleased, but—
“What have I done, Miss Loo, to offend you?” the young man spoke deprecatingly.
“Nothin', I guess,” she answered, with assumed indifference.
“When I first came you were so kind and helped me in everything. Now for the last two or three days you seem cold and sarcastic, as if you were angry with me. I'd be sorry if that were so—very sorry.”
“Why did you ask Jessie Stevens to go with you to the house-warmin'?” was the girl's retort.
“I certainly didn't ask her,” he replied hotly. “You must know I didn't.”
“Then Seth lied!” exclaimed Miss Conklin. “But I guess he'll not try that again with me—Seth Stevens I mean. He wanted me to go with him to-night, and I didn't give him the mitten, as I should if I'd thought you were goin' to ask me.”
“What does 'giving the mitten' mean?” he questioned, with a puzzled air.
“Why, jest the plainest kind of refusal, I guess; but I only told him I was afraid I'd have to go with you, seein' you were a stranger. 'Afraid,'” she repeated, as if the word stung her. “But he'll lose nothin' by waitin', nothin'. You hear me talk.” And her eyes flashed.
As she drew herself up in indignation, Bancroft thought he had never seen any one so lovely. “A perfect Hebe,” he said to himself, and started as if he had said the words aloud. The comparison was apt. Though Miss Loo Conklin was only seventeen, her figure had all the ripeness of womanhood, and her height—a couple of inches above the average—helped to make her look older than she was. Her face was more than pretty; it was, in fact, as beautiful as youth, good features, and healthy colouring could make it. A knotted mass of chestnut hair set off the shapely head: the large blue eyes were deepened by dark lashes. The underlip, however, was a little full, and the oval of the face through short curve of jaw a trifle too round. Her companion tried in vain to control the admiration of his gaze. Unelated by what she felt to be merely her due, Miss Conklin was silent for a time. At length she observed:
“I guess I'll have to go and fix up.”
Just then the Elder appeared on the stoop. “Ef you're goin',” he said in the air, as his daughter swept past him into the house, “you'd better hitch Jack up to the light buggy.”
“Thank you,” said the schoolmaster; and for the sake of saying something, he added, “What a fine view.” The Elder paused but did not answer; he saw nothing remarkable in the landscape except the Indian corn and the fruit, and the words “fine view” conveyed no definite meaning to him; he went on towards the stables.
The taciturnity of the Elder annoyed Bancroft excessively. He had now passed a couple of weeks as a boarder with the Conklins, and the Elder's unconscious rudeness was only one of many peculiarities that had brought him to regard these Western folk as belonging almost to a distinct species. George Bancroft was an ordinary middle-class Bostonian. He had gone through the University course with rather more than average success, and had the cant of unbounded intellectual sympathies. His self-esteem, however, was not based chiefly on his intelligence, but on the ease with which he reached a conventional standard of conduct. Not a little of his character showed itself in his appearance. In figure he was about the middle height, and strongly though sparely built. The head was well-proportioned; the face a lean oval; the complexion sallow; the hair and small moustache very dark; the brown eyes inexpressive and close-set, revealing a tendency to suspiciousness—Bancroft prided himself on his prudence. A certain smartness of dress and a conscious carriage discovered a vanity which, in an older man, would have been fatuous. A large or a sensitive nature would in youth, at least, have sought unconsciously to bring itself into sympathy with strange surroundings, but Bancroft looked upon those who differed from him in manners or conduct as inferior, and this presumption in regard to the Conklins was strengthened by his superiority in book-learning, the importance of which he had been trained to over-estimate.
During their drive Miss Conklin made her companion talk of Eastern life; she wanted to know what Chicago was like, and what people did in New York. Stirred by her eager curiosity, Bancroft sketched both cities in hasty outline, and proceeded to tell what he had read and heard of Paris, and Rome, and London. But evidently the girl was not interested by his praise of the art-life of European capitals or their historical associations; she cut short his disquisition:
“See here! When I first seed you an' knew you was raised in Boston, an' had lived in New York, I jest thought you no account for comin' to this jumpin'-off place. Why did you come to Kansas, anyway, and what did you reckon upon doin'? I guess you ain't goin' to teach school always.”
The young man flushed under the frankness of the girl's gaze and question, and what appeared like contempt in her opinion of him. Again he became painfully conscious that there was a wide social difference between Miss Conklin and himself. He had been accustomed to more reticence, and such direct questioning seemed impertinent. But he was so completely under the spell of her beauty, that he answered with scarcely visible hesitation:
“I came out here because I wanted to study law, and wasn't rich enough to do it in the East. This school was the first position offered to me. I had to take it, but I intend, after a term or two, to find a place in a lawyer's office in some town, and get admitted to practice. If I'd had fifteen hundred dollars I could have done that in Boston or New York, but I suppose it will all come right in time.”
“If I'd been you I'd have stayed in New York,” and then, clasping her hands on her knee, and looking intently before her, she added, “When I get to New York—an' that won't be long—I'll stay there, you bet! I guess New York's good enough for me. There's style there,” and she nodded her head decisively as she spoke.
Miss Loo and Bancroft were among the latest arrivals at the Morrises'. She stood beside him while he hitched Jack to a post of the fence amidst a crowd of other horses, and they entered the house together. In due form she presented the schoolmaster to Mr. and Mrs. Morris, and smilingly produced three linen tablecloths as her contribution to the warming. After accepting the present with profuse thanks and unmeasured praise of it and of the giver, Mrs. Morris conducted the newcomers across the passage into the best sitting-room, which the young folk had already appropriated, leaving the second-best room to their elders.
In the small square apartment were some twenty boys and girls, ranging between sixteen and twenty-two years of age. The boys stood about at one end of the room, while the girls sat at the other end chattering and enjoying themselves. Bancroft did not go among those of his own sex, none of whom he knew, and whom he set down as mere uncouth lads. He found it more amusing to stand near the girls and talk with them. By so doing he unconsciously offended the young men.
Presently a tall youth came towards them:
“I guess we'd better play somethin'?”
“Forfeits! Mr. Stevens,” was a girl's quick reply, and it was arranged to play forfeits in a queer educational fashion. First of all Mr. Stevens left the room, presumably to think. When he came in again he went over to Miss Conklin and asked her to spell “forgive.” After a moment's pause she spelt it correctly. He retired slowly, and on his return stopped again in front of Miss Conklin with the word “reconciliation.” She withstood the test triumphantly. Annoyed apparently with the pains she took, Mr. Stevens, on his next entrance, turned to a pretty, quiet girl named Miss Black, and gave her “stranger,” with a glance at Bancroft, which spread a laugh among the boys. Miss Black began with “strai,” and was not allowed to go on, for Mr. Stevens at once offered his arm, and led her into the passage.
“What takes place outside?” asked Bancroft confidentially of the girl sitting nearest to him, who happened to be Miss Jessie Stevens. She replied with surprise:
“I guess they kiss each other!”
“Ah!—Now I understand,” he said to himself, and from that moment followed the proceedings with more interest. He soon found that successive pairs called each other out in turn, and he had begun to tire of the game, when Miss Jessie Stevens stopped before him and pertly gave the word “friendship.” Of course he spelt it wrongly, and accompanied her outside the door. As he kissed her cheek, she drew away her head quickly:
“I only called you out to give you a chance of kissin' Loo Conklin.”
He thought it wiser not to reply to this, and contented himself with thanking her as they entered the room. He paused before Miss Conklin, and gave her “bumpkin,” adding, by way of explanation, “a rude country fellow.” She spelt it cheerfully, without the “p.” When the mistake was made plain to her, which took some little time, she accepted his arm, and went with him into the passage. He kissed her more than once, murmuring, “At last, Miss Loo!” She replied seriously:
“See here! You're goin' to get into a fuss with Seth Stevens if you call me out often. And he's the strongest of them all. You ain't afraid? O.K. then. I guess we'll pay him out for lyin'.”
On returning to the room, Bancroft became conscious of a thinly veiled antagonism on the part of the young men. But he had hardly time to notice it, when Miss Loo came in and said to him demurely, “Loo.” He spelt “You.” Much laughter from the girls greeted the simple pleasantry.
So the game, punctuated by kisses, went on, until Miss Loo came in for the fourth time, and stopped again before Bancroft, whereupon Seth Stevens pushed through the crowd of young men, and said:
“Miss Loo Conklin! You know the rule is to change after three times.”
At once she moved in front of the stout youth, Richards, who had come forward to support his friend, and said “liar!” flashing at the same time an angry glance at Stevens. “Lire,” spelt Richards painfully, and the pair withdrew.
Bancroft went over to the men's corner; the critical moment had come; he measured his rival with a glance. Stevens was tall, fully six feet in height, and though rather lank, had the bow legs and round shoulders which often go with strength.
As he took up his new position, Stevens remarked to a companion, in a contemptuous drawl:
“Schoolmasters kin talk an' teach, but kin they fight?”
Bancroft took it upon himself to answer, “Sometimes.”
“Kin you?” asked Stevens sharply, turning to him.
“Well enough.”
“We kin try that to-morrow. I'll be in the lot behind Richards' mill at four o'clock.”
“I'll be there,” replied the schoolmaster, making his way again towards the group of girls.
Nothing further happened until the old folk came in, and the party broke up. Driving homewards with Miss Conklin, Bancroft began:
“How can I thank you enough for being so kind to me? You called me out often, almost as often as I called you.”
“I did that to rile Seth Stevens.”
“And not at all to please me?”
“Perhaps a little,” she said, and silence fell upon them.
His caution led him to restrain himself. He was disturbed by vague doubts, and felt the importance of a decisive word. Presently Miss Conklin spoke, in a lower voice than usual, but with an accent of coquettish triumph in the question:
“So you like me after all? Like me really?”
“Do you doubt it?” His accent was reproachful. “But why do you say 'after all'?”
“You never kissed me comin' back from church last Sunday, and I showed you the school and everythin'!”
“Might I have kissed you then? I was afraid of offending you.”
“Offendin' me? Well, I guess not! Every girl expects to be kissed when she goes out with a man.”
“Let's make up for it now, Loo. May I call you Loo?” While speaking he slipped his arm round her waist, and kissed her again and again.
“That's my name. But there! I guess you've made up enough already.” And Miss Conklin disengaged herself. On reaching the house, however, she offered her lips before getting out of the buggy.
When alone in his bedroom, Bancroft sat and thought. The events of the evening had been annoying. Miss Loo's conduct had displeased him; he did not like familiarity. He would not acknowledge to himself that he was jealous. The persistent way Stevens had tried to puzzle her had disgusted him—that was all. It was sufficiently plain that in the past she had encouraged Stevens. Her freedom and boldness grated upon his nerves. He condemned her with a sense of outraged delicacy. Girls ought not to make advances; she had no business to ask him whether he liked her; she should have waited for him to speak plainly. He only required what was right. Yet the consciousness that she loved him flattered his vanity and made him more tolerant; he resolved to follow her lead or to improve upon it. Why shouldn't he? She had said “every girl expects to be kissed.” And if she wanted to be kissed, it was the least he could do to humour her.
All the while, at the bottom of his heart there was bitterness. He would have given much to believe that an exquisite soul animated that lovely face. Perhaps she was better than she seemed. He tried to smother his distrust of her, till it was rendered more acute by another reflection—she had got him into the quarrel with Seth Stevens. He did not trouble much about it. He was confident enough of his strength and the advantages of his boyish training in the gymnasium to regard the trial with equanimity. Still, the girls he had known in the East would never have set two men to fight, never—it was not womanly. Good girls were by nature peacemakers. There must be something in Loo, he argued, almost—vulgar, and he shrank from the word. To lessen the sting of his disappointment, he pictured her to himself and strove to forget her faults.
On the following morning he went to his school very early. The girls were not as obtrusive as they had been. Miss Jessie Stevens did not bother him by coming up every five minutes to see what he thought of her dictation, as she had been wont to do. He was rather glad of this; it saved him importunate glances and words, and the propinquity of girlish forms, which had been more trying still. But what was the cause of the change? It was evident that the girls regarded him as belonging to Miss Conklin. He disliked the assumption; his caution took alarm; he would be more careful in future. The forenoon melted into afternoon quietly, though there were traces on Jake Conklin's bench of unusual agitation and excitement. To these signs the schoolmaster paid small heed at the moment. He was absorbed in thinking of the evening before, and in trying to appraise each of Loo's words and looks. At last the time came for breaking up. When he went outside to get into the buggy—he had brought Jack with him—he noticed, without paying much attention to it, that Jake Conklin was not there to unhitch the strap and in various other ways to give proof of a desire to ride with him. He set off for Richards' mill, whither, needless to say, Jake and half-a-dozen other urchins had preceded him as fast as their legs could carry them.
As soon as he was by himself the schoolmaster recognized that the affair was known to his scholars, and the knowledge nettled him. His anger fastened upon Loo. It was all her fault; her determination to “pay Stevens out” had occasioned the quarrel. Well, he would fight and win, and then have done with the girl whose lips had doubtless been given to Stevens as often and as readily as to himself. The thought put him in a rage, while the idea of meeting Stevens on an equality humiliated him—strife with such a boor was in itself a degradation. And Loo had brought it about. He could never forgive her. The whole affair was disgraceful, and her words, “Every girl expects to be kissed when she goes out with a man,” were vulgar and coarse! With which conclusion in his mind he turned to the right round the section-line, and saw the mill before him.
After the return from the house-warming, and the understanding, as she considered it, with Bancroft, Miss Loo gave herself up to her new-born happiness. As she lay in bed her first thought was of her lover: he was “splendid,” whereby she meant pleasant and attractive. She wondered remorsefully how she had taken him to be quite “homely-looking” when she first saw him. Why, he was altogether above any one she knew—not perhaps jest in looks, but in knowledge and in manners—he didn't stand in the corner of the room like the rest and stare till all the girls became uncomfortable. What did looks matter after all? Besides, he wasn't homely, he was handsome; so he was. His eyes were lovely—she had always liked dark eyes best—and his moustache was dark, too, and she liked that. To be sure it wasn't very long yet, or thick, but it would grow; and here she sighed with content. Most girls in her place would be sorry he wasn't taller, but she didn't care for very tall men; they sorter looked down on you. Anyway, he was strong—a pang of fear shot suddenly through her—he might be hurt by that brute Seth Stevens on the morrow. Oh, no. That was impossible. He was brave, she felt sure, very brave. Still she wished they weren't going to fight; it made her uneasy to think that she had provoked the conflict. But it couldn't be helped now; she couldn't interfere. Besides, men were always fightin' about somethin' or other.
Mr. Crew, the Minister, had said right off that he'd make his mark in the world; all the girls thought so too, and that was real good. She'd have hated a stupid, ordinary man. Fancy being married to Seth Stevens, and she shuddered; yet he was a sight better than any of the others; he had even seemed handsome to her once. Ugh! Then Bancroft's face came before her again, and remembering his kisses she flushed and grew hot from head to foot. They would be married soon—right off. As George hadn't the money, her father must give what he could and they'd go East. Her father wouldn't refuse, though he'd feel bad p'r'aps; he never refused her anythin'. If fifteen hundred dollars would be enough for George alone, three thousand would do for both of them. Once admitted as a lawyer, he would get a large practice: he was so clever and hard-working. She was real glad that she'd be the means of giving him the opportunity he wanted to win riches and position. But he must begin in New York. She would help him on, and she'd see New York and all the shops and elegant folk, and have silk dresses. They'd live in a hotel and get richer and richer, and she'd drive about with—here she grew hot again. The vision, however, was too entrancing to be shut out; she saw herself distinctly driving in an open carriage, with a negro nurse holding the baby all in laces in front, “jest too cute for anythin',” and George beside her, and every one in Fifth Avenue starin'.
Sleep soon brought confusion into her picture of a happy future; but when she awoke, the glad confidence of the previous night had given place to self-reproach and fear. During the breakfast she scarcely spoke or lifted her eyes. Her silent preoccupation was misunderstood by Bancroft; he took it to mean that she didn't care what happened to him; she was selfish, he decided. All the morning she went about the house in a state of nervous restlessness, and at dinner-time her father noticed her unusual pallor and low spirits. To the Elder, the meal-times were generally a source of intense pleasure. He was never tired of feasting his eyes upon his daughter when he could do so without attracting attention, and he listened to her fluent obvious opinions on men and things with a fulness of pride and joy which was difficult to divine since his keenest feelings never stirred the impassibility of his features. He had small power of expressing his thoughts, and even in youth he had felt it impossible to render in words any deep emotion. For more than forty years the fires of his nature had been “banked up.” Reticent and self-contained, he appeared to be hard and cold; yet his personality was singularly impressive. About five feet ten in height, he was lean and sinewy, with square shoulders and muscles of whipcord. His face recalled the Indian type; the same prominent slightly beaked nose, high cheek bones and large knot of jaw. But there the resemblance ended. The eyes were steel-blue; the upper lip long; the mouth firm; short, bristly, silver hair stood up all over his head, in defiant contrast to the tanned, unwrinkled skin. He was clean-shaven, and looked less than his age, which was fifty-eight.
All through the dinner he wondered anxiously what could so affect his daughter, and how he could find out without intruding himself upon her confidence. His great love for his child had developed in the Elder subtle delicacies of feeling which are as the fragrance of love's humility. In the afternoon Loo, dressed for walking, met him, and, of her own accord, began the conversation:
“Father, I want to talk to you.”
The Elder put down the water-bucket he had been carrying, and drew the shirt-sleeves over his nervous brown arms, whether out of unconscious modesty or simple sense of fitness it would be impossible to say. She went on hesitatingly, “I want to know—Do you think Mr. Bancroft's strong, stronger than—Seth Stevens?”
The Elder gave his whole thought to the problem. “P'r'aps,” he said, after a pause, in which he had vainly tried to discover how his daughter wished him to answer, “p'r'aps; he's older and more sot. There ain't much difference, though. In five or six years Seth'll be a heap stronger than the schoolmaster; but now,” he added quickly, reading his daughter's face, “he ain't man enough. He must fill out first.”
She looked up with bright satisfaction, and twining her hands round his arm began coaxingly:
“I'm goin' to ask you for somethin', father. You know you told me that on my birthday you'd give me most anythin' I wanted. Wall, I want somethin' this month, not next, as soon as I can get it—a pianner. I guess the settin'-room would look smarter-like, an' I'd learn to play. All the girls do East,” she added, pouting.
“Yes,” the Elder agreed thoughtfully, doubting whether he should follow her lead eastwards, “I reckon that's so. I'll see about it right off, Loo. I oughter hev thought of it before. But now, right off,” and as he spoke he laid his large hand with studied carelessness on her shoulder—he was afraid that an intentional caress might be inopportune.
“I'm cert'in Mr. Bancroft's sisters play, an' I—” she looked down nervously for a moment, and then, still blushing deeply, changed the attack: “He's smart, ain't he, father? He'd make a good lawyer, wouldn't he?”
“I reckon he would,” replied the Elder.
“I'm so glad,” the girl went on hurriedly, as if afraid to give herself time to think of what she was about to say, “for, father, he wants to study in an office East and he hain't got the money, and—oh, father!” she threw her arms round his neck and hid her face on his shoulder, “I want to go with him.”
The Elder's heart seemed to stop beating, but he could not hold his loved one in his arms and at the same time realize his own pain. He stroked the bowed head gently, and after a pause:
“He could study with Lawyer Barkman in Wichita, couldn't he? and then you'd be to hum still. No. Wall! Thar!” and again came a pause of silence. “I reckon, anyhow, you knew I'd help you. Didn't you now?”
His daughter drew herself out of his embrace. Recalled thus to the matter in hand he asked: “Did he say how much money 'twould take?”
“Two or three thousand dollars”—and she scanned his face anxiously—“for studyin' and gettin' an office and everythin' in New York. Things are dearer there.”
“Wall, I guess we kin about cover that with a squeeze. It'll be full all I kin manage to onc't—that and the pianner. I've no one to think of but you, Loo, only you. That's what I've bin workin' for, to give you a fair start, and I'm glad I kin jess about do it. I'd sorter take it better if he'd done the studyin' by himself before. No! wall, it don't make much difference p'r'aps. Anyway he works, and Mr. Crew thinks him enough eddicated even for the Ministry. He does, and that's a smart lot. I guess he'll get along all right.” Delighted with the expression of intent happiness in his daughter's eyes, he continued: “He's young yet, and couldn't be expected to hev done the studyin' and law and everythin'. You kin be sartin that the old man'll do all he knows to help start you fair. All I kin. If you're sot upon it! That's enough fer me, I guess, ef you're rale sot on it, and you don't think 'twould be better like to wait a little. He could study with Barkman fer a year anyway without losin' time. No! wall, wall. I'm right thar when you want me. I'll go to work to do what I kin....
“P'r'aps we might sell off and go East, too. The farm's worth money now it's all settled up round hyar. The mother and me and Jake could get along, I reckon, East or West. I know more'n I did when I came out in '59.
“I'm glad you've told me. I think a heap more of him now. There must be a pile of good in any one you like, Loo. Anyhow he's lucky.” And he stroked her crumpled dress awkwardly, but with an infinite tenderness.
“I've got to go now, father,” she exclaimed, suddenly remembering the time. “But there!”—and again she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. “You've made me very happy. I've got to go right off, and you've all the chores to do, so I mustn't keep you any longer.”
She hurried to the road along which Jake would have to come with the news of the fight. When she reached the top of the bluff whence the road fell rapidly to the creek, no one was in sight. She sat down and gave herself up to joyous anticipations.
“What would George say to her news? Where should they be married?”——a myriad questions agitated her. But a glance down the slope from time to time checked her pleasure. At last she saw her brother running towards her. He had taken off his boots and stockings; they were slung round his neck, and his bare feet pattered along in the thick, white dust of the prairie track. His haste made his sister's heart beat in gasps of fear. Down the hill she sped, and met him on the bridge.
“Wall?” she asked quietly, but the colour had left her cheeks, and Jake was not to be deceived so easily.
“Wall what?” he answered defiantly, trying to get breath. “I hain't said nothin'.”
“Oh, you mean boy!” she cried indignantly. “I'll never help you again when father wants to whip you—never! Tell me this minute what happened. Is he hurt?”
“Is who hurt?” asked her brother, glorying in superiority of knowledge, and the power to tease with impunity.
“Tell me right off,” she said, taking him by the collar in her exasperation, “or—”
“I'll tell you nothin' till you leave go of me,” was the sullen reply. But then the overmastering impulse ran away with him, and he broke out:
“Oh, Loo! I jest seed everythin'. 'Twar a high old fight! They wuz all there, Seth Stevens, Richards, Monkey Bill—all of 'em, when schoolmaster rode up. He was still—looked like he wanted to hear a class recite. He hitched up Jack and come to 'em, liftin' his hat. Oh, 'twas O.K., you bet! Then they took off their clo's. Seth Stevens jerked hisn loose on the ground, but schoolmaster stood by himself, and folded hisn up like ma makes me fold mine at night. Then they comed together and Seth Stevens he jest drew off and tried to land him one, but schoolmaster sorter moved aside and took him on the nose, an' Seth he sot down, with the blood runnin' all over him. An'—an'—that's all. Every time Seth Stevens hauled off to hit, schoolmaster was thar first. It war bully!—That's all. An' I seed everythin'. You kin bet your life on that! An' then Richards and the rest come to him an' said as how Seth Stevens was faintin', an' schoolmaster he ran to the crick an' brought water and put over him. An' then I runned to tell you—schoolmaster's strong, I guess, stronger nor pappa. I seed him put on his vest, an' Seth Stevens he was settin' up, all blood and water on his face, streaky like; he did look bad. But, Loo——say, Loo! Why didn't schoolmaster when he got him down the first time, jest stomp on his face with his heels?—he had his boots on—an' that's how Seth Stevens broke Tom Cooper's jaw when they fit.”
The girl was white, and trembling from head to foot as the boy ended his narrative, and looked inquiringly into her face. She could not answer. Indeed, she had hardly heard the question. The thought of what might have happened to her lover appalled her, and terror and remorse held her heart as in a vice. But oh!—and the hot tears came into her eyes—she'd tell him when they met how sorry she was for it all, and how bad she had been, and how she hated herself. She had acted foolish, very; but she hadn't meant it. She'd be more careful in future, much more careful. How brave he was and kind! How like him it was to get the water! Oh! if he'd only come.
All this while Jake looked at her curiously; at length he said, “Say, Loo, s'pose he'd had his eye plugged out.”
