Part 15 (2/2)

”Next, a delegation o' brave an' inspired women took it upon 'emselves to call on the girl. They pointed out that she was standin' in the way o' Carmichael's career, that, under good conditions, his advance was certain; but that a false step at the start would ruin it all. They went on and hinted that if it wasn't for her, he might have married an heiress, and grow up to be one o' the leadin' ministers o' the whole country.”

”What did she do, Horace?” sez I.

”The girl was proud; she thanked the delegation for takin' so much interest in her-and said that she would not detain 'em any longer; but would think it over as careful as she could. Then she walked out o' the room; and the delegation strutted off with their faces s.h.i.+nin'

like a cavey o' prosperous cats. The girl vanished, just simply vanished. She wrote Carmichael a letter, and that was the end of it.

Some say she committed suicide, and some say she went to Europe and became a preemie donner-a star singer-but anyway, that was the end of her, as far as that region was concerned.”

”She was a fine girl,” sez I; ”though I wish that instead of slippin'

off that way, she had asked me to drown the members o' that delegation as inconspicuous as possible. I wouldn't put on mournin', if the whole outfit of 'em was in the same fix your confounded Greek Religion is.

What was her name, Horace?”

”Janet Morris,” sez he.

I said it over a time or two to myself; and it seemed to fit her. ”I like that name,” sez I. ”Now tell me the way 'at the Friar cut loose and tied into that vestry. I bet he made trade boom for hospitals and undertakers.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

HAPPY'S NEW AMBITION

Ol' Tank Williams allus maintained that I had a memory like the Lord; but this ain't so. What I do remember, I actually see in pictures, just like I told you; but what my memory chooses to discard is as far out o' my reach as the smoke o' last year's fire. I've worked at my memory from the day I was weaned, not bein' enough edicated to know 'at the proper way is to put your memory in a book-and then not lose the book. I've missed a lot through not gettin' on friendly terms with books earlier in life; but then I've had a lot o' fun with my memory to even things up.

This part about the Friar, though, isn't a fair test. Horace's vestry-man friend was what is known as a short-hand reporter.

Short-hand writin' is merely a lot o' dabs and slips which'd strain a Chinaman; but Horace said it was as plain to read as print letters, and as fast to write as spoke words. Hugo took it down right as it was given; and Horace had a copy which I made him go over with me until I had scratched it into the hardest part o' my memory; and now it is just the same as if I had seen it with my own eyes-me knowin' every tone in the Friar's voice, and the way his eyes s.h.i.+ne; yes, and the way his jaws snap off the words when he's puttin' his heart into a thing.

Horace sat thinkin', before he started on with his tale; and I sat watchin' his face. It was just all I could do to make out the old lines which had give me the creeps a few weeks before. Now, it had a fine, solid tan, the eyes were full o' fire, and he looked as free from nerves as a line buckskin. The Friar sez we're all just bits o'

gla.s.s through which the spirit s.h.i.+nes; and now that I had cleaned Horace up with my nerve treatment, the' was a right smart of spirit s.h.i.+nin' out through him, and I warmed my hands at it. He simply could not learn to roll a cigarette with one hand; but in most things, he was as able a little chap as ever I took the kinks out of.

”I'm sorry I didn't belong to that vestry,” sez Horace, after a bit.

”When I look back at all the sportin' chances I've missed, I feel like kickin' myself up to the North Pole and back. From now on I intend to mix into every bloomin' jambaree 'at exposes itself to the vision of my gaze. I'm goin' to ride an' shoot an' wrestle an' box an' gamble an' fight, and get every last sensation I'm ent.i.tled to-but I'll never have another chance at a vestry-meetin' like the one I'm about to tell you of.

”You saw how toppy Carmichael got this afternoon; so you can guess purty close how he looked when he lined up this vestry.”

”Oh, I've seen the Friar in action,” sez I; ”and you can't tell me anything about his style. All you can tell is the details. So go to 'em without wastin' any more time.”

”How comes it you call such a man as him Friar Tuck?” asked Horace, who allus was as hard to drive as an only son burro.

”Well, I don't approve of it,” sez I, ”and I kicked about it to the Friar; but he only laughed, and said 'at one name was as good as another. A bettin' barber over at Boggs give it to him for admonis.h.i.+n'

a gambler from Cheyenne.”

”Was he severe?” asked Horace.

”Depends on how you look at it,” sez I. ”He took a club away from the gambler an' spanked him with it; but he didn't injure him a mite.”

”Humph,” sez Horace, ”I guess the name won't rust much while it's in his keepin'. He took other methods at this vestry meetin', though I don't say they were any more befittin'. Hugo-such was the name of my friend-said it was the quietest, but the most dramatic thing he ever saw.

”They started in by treatin' him like the boy he was, gave him a lot o' copy-book advice, especially as to the value o' patience, how that Paul was to do the plantin', Appolinaris, the waterin'; but that the size an' time o' the harvest depended on the Lord, Himself; and that it was vanity to think 'at a young boy just out o' college could rush things through the way he was tryin' to.

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