Sandburrs and Others

“I don’t reckon, Dave, you-all is objectin’ to whiskey none after your ride?”

“Which I ain’t done so usual,” observed Dave cheerfully, “but this yere time, Cherokee, I’ll have to pass. Confidin’ the trooth to you-all, I’m some off on nose-paint now. I’m allowin’ to tell you the win-an’-lose tharof later on. Now, if you-alls will excuse me, I’ll go wanderin’ over to the O. K. House an’ feed myse’f a whole lot.”

“I shore reckons he’s converted!” said Tutt, and he shook his head gloomily. “I wouldn’t care none, only it’s me as prevails on Dave to go over to Tucson that time; an’ so I feels responsible.”

“Whatever of it?” responded Dan Boggs, with a burst of energy, “I don’t see no reecriminations comin’, nor why this yere’s to be regarded. If Dave wants to be relig’ous an’ sing them hymns a heap, you bet! that’s his American right! I’ll gamble a hundred dollars, Dave splits even with every deal, or beats it. I’m with Dave; his system does for me, every time!”

The next day the excitement began to subside. Late in the afternoon a notice posted on the postoffice door caused it to rise again. The notice announced that Short Creek Dave would preach that evening in the warehouse of the New York Store.

“I reckons we-alls better go!” said Cherokee Hall. “I’m goin’ to turn up my box an’ close the game at first drink time this evenin’, an’ Hamilton says he’s out to shut up the dance hall, seein’ as how several of the ladies is due to sing a lot in the choir. We-alls might as well turn loose an’ give Short Creek the best whirl in the wheel – might as well make the play to win, an* start him straight along the new trail.”

“That’s whatever!” agreed Dan Boggs. He had recovered from his first amazement, and now entered into the affair with spirit.

That evening the New York Store’s warehouse was as brilliantly a-light as a mad abundance of candles could make it. All Wolfville was there. As a result of conferences held in private with Short Creek Dave, and by that convert’s request, Old Man Enright took a seat by the drygoods box which was to serve as a pulpit. Doc Peets, also, was asked to assume a place at the Evangelist’s left. The congregation disposed itself about on the improvised benches which the ardour of Boggs had provided.

At 8 o’clock Short Creek Dave walked up the space in the centre reserved as an aisle, carrying a giant Bible. This latter he placed on the drygoods box. Old Man Enright, at a nod from Short Creek Dave, called gently for attention, and addressed the meeting briefly.

“This yere is a prayer meetin’ of the camp,” said Enright, “an’ I’m asked by Dave to preside, which I accordin’ do. No one need make any mistake about the character of this gatherin’, or its brand. This yere is a relig’ous meetin’. I am not myse’f given that a-way, but I’m allers glad to meet up with folks who be, an’ see that they have a chance in for their ante, an’ their game is preserved. I’m one, too, who believes a little religion wouldn’t hurt this yere camp much. Next to a lynchin’, I don’t know of a more excellent inflooence in a western camp than these meetin’s. I ain’t expectin’ to cut in on this play none myse’f, an’ only set yere, as does Peets, in the name of order, an’ for the purposes of a squar’ deal. Which I now introdooces to you a gent who is liable to be as good a preacher as ever thumps a Bible – your old pard, Short Creek Dave.”

“Mr. Pres’dent!” said Short Creek Dave, turning to Enright.

“Short Creek Dave!” replied Enright sententiously, bowing gravely in recognition.

“An’ ladies an’ gents of Wolfville!” continued Dave, “I opens this racket with a prayer.”

The prayer proceeded. It was fervent and earnest; replete with unique expression and personal allusion. In the last, the congregation took a warm interest.

Towards the close, Dave bent his energies in supplication for the regeneration of Texas Thompson, whom he represented in his orisons as by nature good, but living a misguided and vicious life. The audience was listening with approving attention, when there came an interruption. It was from Texas Thompson.

“Mr. Pres’dent,” said Texas Thompson, “I rises to ask a question an’ put for’ard a protest.”

“The gent will state his p’int,” responded Enright, rapping on the drygoods box.

“Which the same is this,” resumed Texas Thompson, drawing a long breath. “I objects to Dave a-tacklin’ the Redeemer for me. I protests ag’in him makin’ statements that I’m ornery enough to pillage a stage. This yere talk is liable to queer me on High. I objects to it!”

“Prayer is a device without rools or limit,” responded Enright. “Dave makes his runnin’ with the bridle off; an* the chair, tharfore, decides ag’in the p’int of order.”

“An’ the same bein’ the case,” rejoined Texas Thompson with heat, “a-waivin’ of the usual appeal to the house, all I’ve got to say is, I’m a peaceful gent; I has allers been the friend of Short Creek Dave. Which I even assists an’ abets Boggs in packin’ in these yere benches, an’ aids to promote this meetin’. But I gives notice now, if Short Creek Dave persists in malignin’ of me to the Great White Throne, as yeretofore, I’ll shore call on him to make them statements good with his gun as soon as ever the contreebution box is passed.”

“The chair informs the gent,” said Enright with cold dignity, “that Dave, bein’ now a Evangelist, can’t make no gun plays, nor go canterin’ out to shoot as of a former day. However, the chair recognises the rights of the gent, an’, standin’ as the chair does in the position of lookout to this game, the chair nom’nates Dan’l Boggs, who’s officiatin’ as deacon hereof, to back these yere orisons with his six-shooter as soon as ever church is out, in person.”

“It goes!” responded Boggs. “I proudly assoomes Dave’s place.”

“Mr. Pres’dent,” interrupted Short Creek Dave, “jest let me get my views in yere. It’s my turn all right, as I makes clear, easy. I’ve looked up things some, an* I finds that the Apostle Peter, who was a great range boss of them days, scroopled not to fight. Which I trails out after Peter in this. I might add, too, that while it gives me pain to be obleeged to shoot up brother Texas Thompson in the first half of the first meetin’ we holds in Wolfville, still the path of dooty is plain, an’ I shall shorely walk tharin, fearin’ nothin’. I tharfore moves we adjourn ten minutes, an’ as thar is plenty of moon outside, if the chair will lend me its gun – I’m not packin’ of sech frivolities no more, regyardin’ of ‘em in the light of sinful bluffs – I trusts to Providence to convince brother Texas Thompson that he’s followed off the wrong waggon track. You-alls can gamble! I knows my business. I ain’t 4-flushin’ none when I lines out to pray!”

“Onless objection is heard, this meetin’ will stand adjourned for ten minutes,” said Enright, at the same time passing Short Creek Dave his pistol.

Fifteen paces were stepped off, and the opponents faced up in the moonlit street. Enright, Peets, Hall, Boggs, Tutt, Moore and the rest of the congregation made a line of admiration on the sidewalk.

“I counts one! two! three! an’ then I drops the contreebution box,” said Enright, “whereupon you-alls fires an’ advances at will. Be you ready?”

The shooting began on the word. When the smoke blew away, Texas Thompson staggered to the sidewalk and sat down. There was a bullet in his hip, and the wound, for the moment, brought a feeling of sickness.

“The congregation will now take its seats in the sanctooary,” remarked Enright, “an’ play will be re-soomed. Tutt, two of you-alls carry Texas over to the hotel, an’ fix him up all right. Yereafter, I’ll visit him an’ p’int out his errors. This shows concloosive that Short Creek Dave is licensed from Above to pray any gait for whoever he deems meet, an’ I’m mighty pleased it occurs. It’s shore goin’ to promote confidence in Dave’s ministrations.”

The concourse was duly in its seats when Short Creek Dave again reached the pulpit.

“I will now resoome my intercessions for our onfortunate brother, Texas Thompson,” said Short Creek Dave.

“I know’d he would,” commented Dan Boggs, as twenty dollars came over addressed by the wounded Thompson to the contribution box. “Texas Thompson is one of the reasonablest sports in Wolfville. Also you can bet! relig’ous trooths allers assert themse’ves.”

CRIME THAT FAILED

(Annals of the Bend)

Say! Matches,” said Chucky, removing his nose from his glass, “youse remember d’ Jersey Bank? I means d’ time youse has to go to cover an ‘d’ whole mob is pinched in d’ hole. Tell us d’ story; it’s dead int’restin’.”

This last was to me in a husky whisper.

“That play was a case of fail,” remarked Mollie Matches thoughtfully. Then turning to me as chief auditor, he continued. “It’s over twenty years ago; just on d’ heels of d’ Centenyul at Phil’delfy. D’ graft was fairly flossy durin ‘d’ Centenyul, an’ I had quite a pot of dough.

“One day a guy comes to me; he’s a bank woiker, what d’ fly people calls ‘a gopher man’; he’s a mug who’s onto all d’ points about safes an’ such. Well, as I says, this soon guy comes chasin’ to me.

“‘Matches,’ he says, ‘don’t say a woid; I’ll put youse onto an easy trick. Come wit’ me to Jersey, an’ I’ll show you a bin what’s all organised to be cracked. Any old hobo could toin off d’ play; it’s a walk-over.’

“Wit’ that, for I had confidence in this mark, see! We skins over to Jersey, an’ he steers me out to a nearby town an’ points me out a bank. What makes it a good t’ing is a vacant joint, wit’ a ‘To Rent’ sign in d’ window, built dost ag’inst d’ side of d’ bank.

“‘Are youse on?’ says d’ goph, pointin’ his main hook at d’ empty house, an’ then at d’ bank.

“Bein’ I’m no farmer meself, I takes no time to tumble. We screws our nuts, me an’ d’ goph, to d’ duck who owns d’ house, an ‘d’ nex’ news is we rents it. D’ duck who does d’ rentin’ says he can see we’re on d’ level d’ moment we floats in; but all d’ same, if we can bring him a tip or two on d’ point of our bein’ square people from one or two high rollers whose names goes, he’ll take it kindly. We says, suttenly; we fills him to d’ chin wit’ all d’ ref-runces he needs.

“‘We won’t do a t’ing but send our pastor to youse,’ puts in d’ goph.

“Good man, me pal was, as ever draws slide on a dark lantern, but always out to be funny.

“We rents d’ joint, as I states, an’ no more is said about refrunces. Now, when it comes to d’ real woik, I ain’t goin’ to do none, see! I ain’t down to dig an’ pick; it spoils me hooks for dippin’. What I does is furnish d’ tools an ‘d’ dough.

“I goes back an’ gets a whole kit of bank tools – drills, centre-bits, cold-chisels, jointed-jimmies, wedges, pullers, spreaders, fuse, powder, mauls an’ mufflers – I gets d’ whole t’ing, see! Me pal knows a brace of pards who’ll stand in on d’ play. He calls ‘em in, an’ one night d’ entire squeeze, wit ‘d’ tools, goes over an’ plants themselfs in d ‘empty house. Yes; dey takes grub an’ blankets an’ all dey needs.

“Before this I goes ag’inst d’ bank janitor; an’ while he’s a fairly downy party, I wins him. D’ janitor of d’ bank gets a hundred bones, an’ I gets a map of d’ bank, which shows where d* money is planted an’ all about it.

“What’s d’ idee? Our racket is to tunnel from d’ cellar of d’ joint we rents, under d’ sidewall of d’ bank, an’ keep on until we reaches d’ stuff, see! We’re out to do all d’ woik we can wit’out lettin’ d’ bank-crush twig d’ graft. Then we waits till Saturday noon. D’ bank shuts up on Saturday noon, understan’! An’ then we has till Monday at 9 o’clock to finish d’ woik. An’ say! it’s time plenty! It gives us time to boin!

“As I states, I don’t do any of d’ woik. D’ gopher an’ his two pals is all d’ job calls for. So I lays dead in d’ town, ready to split out me piece of d’ plunder, an’ waits results.

“To hurry me yarn, everyt’ing woiks like it’s greased to fit d’ play. D’ mob gets d’ tunnel as far as it’ll go. Saturday noon comes an ‘d’ last sucker who belongs to d’ bank skips out. It’s then me gopher an’ his two pals t’rows themselfs.

“All t’rough Saturday afternoon an’ all d’ night till daylight Sunday mornin’, them gezebos woiks away like dogs. An’ say! don’t youse ever doubt it! dey was winnin’ in a walk.

“But all this time d’ pins was set up to do ‘em. It was d’ same old story. There’s always some little nogood bet a crook is sure to overlook, an’ it goes d’ wrong way an’ downs him. Here’s what happens:

“In d’ foist place, we forgets to take d’ ‘To Rent’ sign out of d’ window, see! That’s d’ beginnin’. Nex,’ me goph an’ his side-partners digs so much dirt out of d’ tunnel it fills d’ cellar. Honest! it won’t hold no more.

“At this last, dey takes to shovelin ‘d’ dirt into a bushel basket. Then dey carries it up d’ back stairs and dumps it on d’ floor of a summer kitchen. Be 7 o’clock Sunday, mebby dey dumps as many as six basketfuls; dumps it, as I tells youse, in this lean-to, which is built on d’ rear.

“Now, right at this time there’s an old Irish Moll who keeps a boardin’ house not far away who is flyin’ along to early Mass, bein’ dead religious an’ leary about her soul, see! This old goil, as she comes sprintin’ along, gets her bleary old lamps on d’ ‘To Rent’ card. All at onct d’ idee fetches her a t’ump in d’ cocoa that d’ house would be out of sight for a boardin’ joint. Wit’ that she steers herself in to take a squint an’ size up d’ crib.

“D’ door is locked, so d’ old goil can’t come in. Wit’ that she leads d’ nex’ best card an’ goes galumpin’ round, pipin’ off d’ place t’rough d’ windows. An’ say! she gets stuck on it. She t’inks if she can rent it, she can run d’ dandy boardin’ house of d’ ward in it.

“As d’ old frail goes round d’ place, among all d’ rest, she looks t’rough d’ windows into d’ summer kitchen. She gets onto d’ dirt that’s dumped, as I states, in one corner. But she don’t see none of d’ gang, bein’ dey’s down in d’ hole at d’ time, so she don’t fasten to nothin’.

“At last she’s seen enough an’ sherries her nibs to d’ cat’edral.

“That’s all right if it’s only d’ end; but it ain’t. When it gets to about 2 o’clock, this old skate in petticoats goes toinin’ nutty ag’in about d’ empty house. Over she spins to grab another glimpse, see! When she strikes d’ summer kitchen she comes near to throwin’ a faint. D’ pile of rubbidge is twenty times as big!

“That settles it! d’ joint is ha’nted! an’ wit’ that notion all tangled up in her frizzes d’ old mut makes a straight wake for d’ priest.

“‘D’ empty house nex’ to d’ bank is full of ghosts!’ she shouts, an’ then she flings her apron over her nut an’ comes a fit.

“Now, this priest is about as sudden a party as ever comes over d’ ocean. Youse can’t give him no stiff about spooks, see! Bein’ nex’ to d’ bank is a hot tip, an’ he takes it.

“Nit! he don’t go surgin’ round for his prayer-books an d’ hully water. It would have been a dead good t’ing if he had. Nixie weedin’! D’ long-coat sucker don’t even come over to d’ house.

“What does he do? He sprints for d’ nearest p’lice station at a 40 clip, an’ fills up d’ captain in charge wit ‘d’ story till youse can’t rest. After that, it takes’ d’ p’lice captain about ten seconts to line up his push; an’ be coppin’ a sneak, he pinches me gopher an’ his two pals right in d’ hole. Dey was gettin’ along beautiful at d’ time, an’ in ten hours more dey would have had that bank on d’ hog for fair.

Dey was dead games at that. While dey gets d’ collar, not one of ‘em coughs on me, an’ me name ain’t never in it from start to finish. Dey was game, true pals from bell to bell, an’ stayed d’ distance.

“It was d’ bummest finish, all d’ same, for what looked like d’ biggest trick, an’ d’ surest big money, that I ever goes near. Youse may well peel your peeps! If it wasn’t for that old Irish keener an’ her ghost stories, in less than ten hours more we wouldn’t have got a t’ing but complete action on more’n a million plunks! There was a hay-mow full of money in that bin!

“That’s d’ last round an’ wind-up, as d’ pugs puts it. Me gopher an’ his pals is handed out ten spaces each, an’ I lose me kit of tools. Take it over all, I’m out some four t’ousand dollars on d’ deal. A tidy lump of dough to be done out of be a priest, a p’liceman an’ an old Irish boardin’ boss! D’ old loidy lands wit’ bot’ her trilbys, though; d’ bank chucks her a bundle of fly-paper big enough to stan’ for all her needs until she croaks, forcuttin’ in on our play, see!”

THE BETRAYAL

The boys had resolved on revenge, and nothing could turn them from their purpose. The trouble was this: Some one not otherwise engaged had fed the furnace an overshoe which it did not need. As incident to its consumption the overshoe had filled the building with an odour of which nothing favourable could be said. The professor afterwards, in denouncing the author of the outrage, had referred to it as “effluvia.” It had as a perfume much force of character, and was stronger and more devastating than the odour which goes with an egg in its old age, when it has begun to hate the world and the future holds nothing but gloom.

As stated, the schoolhouse reeked and reeled with this sublimated overshoe. It all pleased the boys excessively. They made as much as possible of the odour; they coughed, and sneezed, and worried the professor by holding up their hands one after the other with the remark:

“Teacher, may I go out?”

The professor, after several destructive whiffs of the overshoe, made a fiery speech. He said that could he once locate the boy who lavished this overshoe on mankind in a gaseous form, that boy’s person would experience a rear-end collision. He would be so badly telescoped that weeks would elapse before the boy could regard himself as being in old-time form. The professor said the boy who founded the overshoe odour was a “miscreant” and a “vandal.” He demanded his name of the boys collectively; and failing to get it, the professor said they were all miscreants and vandals, and that it would be as balm to his spirits were he to wade in and larrup the entire outfit.

After school the boys held a meeting.

Frank Payne, aged fourteen, the boy who could lick any boy in school, denounced the professor. He referred to the fact that his father was a school trustee; and that under the rules the professor had no right to bestow upon them the epithets of miscreants and vandals. Frank Payne advised that they whip the professor; who must, he said, while a large, muscular man, yield to mob violence.

The proposition to whip the professor was carried unanimously under a suspension of the rules.

In the ardour of this crusade for their rights the boys did not feel as if they could await the slow approach of trouble in the natural way. It was decided by them to bring matters to a focus. It was planned to have Tony Sanford stick a pin in John Dayton. That would be a splendid start! John Dayton, thus stuck, would yell; and when the professor asked the cause of his lamentations, John Dayton would point to Tony Sanford as his assassin. When the professor laid corrective hands on Tony all of the conspirators were to rush upon the professor and give him such a rough-and-tumble experience that succeeding ages would date time from the emeute. The boys were filled with glee; they regarded the business, so they said, as “a pushover.”

The hour for action had arrived.

Tony Sanford had no pin. But Tony was a fertile boy; if there was a picket off Tony’s mental fence at all, it was his foresight. Lacking a pin, the ingenious Tony stuck the small blade of his knife into John Dayton. The victim howled like a dog at night.

“Please, sir, Tony Sanford’s stabbed me,” was John Dayton’s explanation of his shrieks.

Tony Sanford was paraded for punishment. The cold-blooded enormity of the crime seemed to strike the professor dumb. He did not know how to take hold of the situation. But Tony pursued a course which not only invited but suggested action. As Tony approached, he dealt the professor an uppercut in the bread-basket, and with the cry, “Come on, boys!” closed doughtily with the foe.

The boys beheld the deeds of the intrepid Tony; they heard his cry and knew it for their cue. Nevertheless, notwithstanding, not a boy moved. They sat in their seats and gazed fixedly at Tony and the professor. With the call of Tony to his fellow-conspirators the professor saw it all.

“Tony Sanford,” quoth the professor, “we will adjourn to the library. When I get through, you will be of no further use to science.”

The door closed on Tony Sanford, and a professor weighing 211 pounds. The sounds which came welling from the library showed that some strong, emotional work was being done within. Tony and the professor sounded at times like a curlew at night, and anon like unto a man falling downstairs with a stove. Tony Sanford said afterward that he would never again attach himself to a plot which did not show two green lights on the rear platform of its caboose.

FOILED

(By the Office Boy)

CHAPTER I

DARLING, I fear that man! The cruel guy can from his place as umpire do you up.”

It was Gwendolin O’Toole who spoke. She was a beautiful blonde angel, and as she clung to her lover, Marty O’Malley, they were a picture from which a painter would have drawn an inspiration.

“Take courage, love!” said Marty O’Malley tenderly; “I’m too swift for the duck.”

“I know, dearest,” murmured the fair Gwendolin, “but think what’s up on the game! Me brother, you know him well! the rooter prince, the bleachers’ uncrowned king! he is the guardian of me vast estates. If I do not marry as he directs, me lands and houses go to found an asylum for decrepit ball tossers. And to-day me brother Godfrey swore by the Banshee of the O’Tooles that me hand should belong to the man who made the best average in to-morrow’s game. Can you win me, love?”

“I will win you or break the bat!” said Marty O’Malley, as he folded his dear one in his arms.

CHAPTER II

WHEN that villain, O’Malley, goes to bat to-morrow, pitch the ball ten feet over his head. No matter where it goes I’ll call a ‘strike.’”

It was Dennis Mulcahey who spoke; the man most feared by Gwendolin O’Toole. He was to be the next day’s umpire, and as he considered how securely his rival was in his grasp, he laughed the laugh of a fiend.

Dennis Mulcahey, too, loved the fair Gwendolin, but the dear girl scorned his addresses. His heart was bitter; he would be revenged on his rival.

“You’ve got it in for the mug!” replied Terry Devine, to whom Dennis Mulcahey had spoken. Devine was the pitcher of the opposition, and like many of his class, a low, murdering scoundrel. “But, say! Denny, if you wants to do the sucker, why don’t youse give him a poke in d’ face? See!”

“Such suggestions are veriest guff,” retorted Dennis Mulcahey. “Do as I bid you, caitiff, an’ presume not to give d’ hunch to such as I! A wild pitch is what I want whenever Marty O’Malley steps to the plate. I’ll do the rest.”

“I’ll t’row d’ pigskin over d’ grand stand,” said Terry Devine as he and his fellow-plotter walked away.

As the conspirators drifted into the darkness a dim form arose from behind a shrub. It was Marty O’Malley.

“Ah! I’ll fool you yet!” he hissed between his clinched teeth, and turning in the opposite direction he was soon swallowed by the darkness.

CHAPTER III

You’ll not fail me, Jack!” said Marty O’Malley to Jack, the barkeeper of the Fielders’ Rest.

“Not on your sweater!” said Jack, “Leave it to me. If that snoozer pitches this afternoon I hopes d’ boss’ll put in a cash-register!”

Marty O’Malley hastened to the side of his love. Jack, the faithful barkeeper, went on cleaning his glasses.

“That hobo, Devine, will be here in a minute,” said Jack at last, “an’ I must organise for him.”

Jack took a shell glass and dipped it in the tank behind the bar. Taking his cigar from between his finely chiselled lips, he blew the smoke into the moistened interior of the glass. This he did several times.

“I’ll smoke a glass on d’ stiff,” said Jack softly. “It’s better than a knockout drop.”

It was a moment later when Terry Devine came in. With a gleam of almost human intelligence in his eye Jack, the barkeeper, set up the smoked glass. Terry Devine tossed off the fiery potation, staggered to a chair, and sat there glaring. A moment later his head fell on the table, while a stertorous snore proclaimed him unconscious.