LITMIR.BIZ

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for a finish? It’s weeks ago d’ fire is. Mary meets up wit’ McManuses’ Chamsey to-day – she’s been followin’ him a good deal since she saves him – an’ as Chamsey is only six years old, he don’t know nothin’, an’ falls to Mary’s lead. It’s an easy case of bunk, an’ Chamsey only six years old like that!

      “Mary gives Chamsey d’ gay face an’ wins him right off. She buys him posies of one Dago an’ sugar candy of another; an’ then she passes Chamsey a strong tip, he’s missin’ d’ sights be not goin’ down to d’ East River.

      “Here’s what Mary does – she takes Chamsey down be d’ docks – a longshoreman loafin’ hears what she says. Mary tells Chamsey to look at all d’ chimbleys an ‘d’ smoke comin’ out!

      “‘An’ in every one there’s fire makin ‘d’ smoke,’ says Mary. ‘T’ink of all d’ fires there must be, Chamsey! I’ll bet Hell ain’t got any more fires in it than d’ woild! Do youse remember, Chamsey, how d’ fire was goin’ to boin you? Now, I’ll tell you what we’ll do, so d’ fire never will boin us; we’ll jump in, – you an’ me!’

      “An’ wit’ that, so d’ longshoreman says, Mary nails Chamsey be d’ neck wit’ her left hook an’ hops into d’ drink. Yes, dey was drowned – d’ brace of ‘em. Dey’s over to d’ dead house now on a slab – Mary an’ McManuses’ Chamsey.

      “What makes me so wet? I gets to d’ dock a minute too late to save ‘em, but I’m right in time to dive up d’ stiffs. So I dives ‘em up. It’s easy money. That’s what makes me cuffs look like ruffles an’ me collar like a corset string.” And here Chucky called for a third mixed ale, as a sign that his talk was done.

      SINGLETREE JENNINGS

      It was evening in Jordan Hollow, and Singletree Jennings stood leaning on his street gate. Singletree Jennings was a coloured man, and, to win his bread, played many parts in life. He was a whitewasher; he sold fish; he made gardens; and during the social season he was frequently the “old family butler,” in white cotton gloves, at the receptions of divers families.

      “I’m a pore man, honey!” Singletree Jennings was wont to say; “but dar was a time when me an’ my ole Delia was wuf $1,800. Kase why? Kase we brought it at auction, when Marse Roundtree died – didn’t we, Delia?”

      This was one of Singletree Jennings’s jokes.

      “But pore man or no!” Singletree Jennings would conclude, “as de Lamb looks down an’ sees me, I never wronged a man outen so much as a blue-laiged chicken in my life.”

      This evening Singletree Jennings was a prey to dejection. Nor could he account for his gloom. His son opened the gate and went whistling up the street.

      “Clambake Jennings, whar yo’ gwine?” asked Singletree Jennings.

      “Gwine ter shoot craps.”

      “Have yo’ got yer rabbit’s foot?

      “Yassir.”

      “An’ de snake’s head outen de clock?”

      “Yassir.”

      Singletree Jennings relapsed into moody silence, and Clambake passed on and away.

      The shouts and cries of some storm-rocked multitude was heard up the street. The Columbia College boys were taking home their new eight-oared boat. The shouts settled into something like the barking of a dog. It was the crew emitting the college cry.

      “What’s dat?” demanded Delia Jennings, coming to the door.

      “De Lawd save us ef I knows!” said Singletree Jennings; “onless it’s one of dem yar bond issues dey’s so ‘fraid’ll happen.”

      The tones of Singletree Jennings showed that he was ill at ease.

      “What’s de matter, Daddy Singletree?” demanded the observant Delia.

      “I’ve got a present’ment, I reckon!” said Singletree Jennings. “I’m pow’ful feard dar’ll somethin’ bust loose wrong about dat Andrew Jackson goat.”

      Singletree Jennings was the owner and business manager of a goat named Andrew Jackson. In the winter Singletree Jennings never came home without an armful of straw for Andrew Jackson. In the summer there was no need of straw. Andrew Jackson then ate the shirts off the neighbour’s clothes-lines. Andrew Jackson had been known to eat the raiment off a screaming child, and then lower his frontlet at the rescue party. Andrew Jackson was a large, impressive goat; yet he never joked nor gave way to mirth. Ordinarily, Andrew Jackson was a calm, placid goat; aroused, he was an engine of destruction.

      All of these peculiarities were explained by Singletree Jennings when Sam Hardtack and Backfence Randolph, a committee acting on behalf of the Othello Dramatic Club, desired the loan of Andrew Jackson. The church to which Singletree Jennings belonged was programming a social this very night, and divers and sundry tableaux, under the direction of the Othello Dramatic Club, were on the card. It was esteemed necessary by those in control to present as a tableau Abraham slaying Isaac. There was a paucity of sheep about, and Andrew Jackson, in this dearth of the real thing, was cast to play the character of the Ram in the Bush.

      “An’ Andrew Jackson is boun’ to fetch loose,” reflected Singletree Jennings, with a shake of his head; “an’ when he does, he’ll jes’ go knockin’ ‘round among de congregashun like a blind dog in a meat shop!”

      Singletree Jennings’s worst fears were realised. It was nine o’clock now, and he and Delia had come down to the social. Andrew Jackson had been restrained of his liberty for the previous four hours and held captive in a drygoods’ box. He was now in a state of frenzy. When the curtain went up on Abraham and Isaac, Andrew Jackson burst his bonds at the rear of the stage and bore down on the Hebrew father and son like the breath of destiny. Andrew Jackson came, dragging his bush with him. The bush was, of course, a welcome addition. Abraham saw him coming, and fled into the lap of a fiddler. Isaac, however, wasn’t faced that way. Andrew Jackson smote Isaac upon the starboard quarter. It was a follow shot, rather than a carom, and Andrew Jackson and his prey landed in the middle of the audience together. For two minutes Andrew Jackson mingled freely with the people present, and then retired by the back door.

      “I knowed destrucshun was a-comin’!” murmured Singletree Jennings. “I ain’t felt dat pestered, Delia, since de day I concealed my ‘dentity in Marse Roundtree’s smokehouse, an’ dey cotched me at it.”

      “Singletree Jennings!” observed the Reverend Handout F. Johnson, in a tone of solemn anger, while his pistol pocket still throbbed from the visitation of Andrew Jackson, “Elder Shakedown Bixby is in pursuit of dat goat of your’n with a razor. He has orders to immolate when cotched. At de nex’ conference dar’ll be charges ag’in you for substitutin’ a deboshed goat for de Ram of Holy Writ. I keers nothin’ for my pussonel sufferin’s, but de purity of de Word mus’ be protected. De congregashun will now join in singin’ de pestilential Psalms, after which de social will disperse.”

      JESS

      It was sunset at the Cross-K ranch. Four or five cowboys were gloomily about outside the adobe ranch house, awaiting supper. The Mexican cook had just begun his fragrant task, so a half hour would elapse before these Arabs were fed. Their ponies were “turned” into the wire pasture, their big Colorado saddles reposed astride the low pole fence which surrounded the house, and it was evident their riding was over for the day.

      Why were they gloomy? Not a boy of them could tell. They had been partners and campaneros, and “worked” the Cross-K cattle together for months, and nothing had come in misunderstanding or cloud. The ranch house was their home, and theirs had been the unity of brothers.

      The week before, a pretty girl – the daughter she was of a statesman of national repute – had come to the ranch from the East. Her name was Jess.

      Jess, the pretty girl, was protected in this venture by an old and gnarled aunt, watchful as a ferret, sour as a lime. Not that Jess, the pretty girl, needed watching; she was, indeed! propriety’s

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