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[Roads] Correct top-level section epub types, correct chapter handling
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<meta id="long-description" property="se:long-description" refines="#description"> LONG_DESCRIPTION </meta>
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<dc:language>en-US</dc:language>
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<dc:source>https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1646</dc:source>
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<dc:source>https://archive.org/details/roadsdestiny00henrgoog</dc:source>
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<meta property="se:production-notes">Any special notes about the production of this ebook for future editors/producers? Remove this element if not.</meta>
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<meta property="se:word-count">WORD_COUNT</meta>
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<meta property="se:reading-ease.flesch">READING_EASE</meta>
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@ -6,7 +6,7 @@
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="a-departmental-case" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="a-departmental-case" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">A Departmental Case</h2>
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<p>In Texas you may travel a thousand miles in a straight line. If your course is a crooked one, it is likely that both the distance and your rate of speed may be vastly increased. Clouds there sail serenely against the wind. The whip-poor-will delivers its disconsolate cry with the notes exactly reversed from those of his Northern brother. Given a drought and a subsequently lively rain, and lo! from a glazed and stony soil will spring in a single night blossomed lilies, miraculously fair. Tom Green County was once the standard of measurement. I have forgotten how many New Jerseys and Rhode Islands it was that could have been stowed away and lost in its chaparral. But the legislative axe has slashed Tom Green into a handful of counties hardly larger than European kingdoms. The legislature convenes at Austin, near the centre of the state; and, while the representative from the Rio Grande country is gathering his palm-leaf fan and his linen duster to set out for the capital, the Panhandle solon winds his muffler above his well-buttoned overcoat and kicks the snow from his well-greased boots ready for the same journey. All this merely to hint that the big ex-republic of the Southwest forms a sizable star on the flag, and to prepare for the corollary that things sometimes happen there uncut to pattern and unfettered by metes and bounds.</p>
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<p>The Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History of the State of Texas was an official of no very great or very small importance. The past tense is used, for now he is Commissioner of Insurance alone. Statistics and history are no longer proper nouns in the government records.</p>
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@ -74,9 +74,11 @@
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<p>“He paid for a whole year in advance about five months ago,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sharp. “I have the policy and receipts in my trunk.”</p>
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<p>“Oh, that’s all right, then,” said Standifer. “It’s best to look after things of that sort. Some day they may come in handy.”</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sharp departed, and soon afterward Luke Standifer went down to the little hotel where he boarded and looked up the railroad timetable in the daily paper. Half an hour later he removed his coat and vest, and strapped a peculiarly constructed pistol holster across his shoulders, leaving the receptacle close under his left armpit. Into the holster he shoved a short-barrelled .44 calibre revolver. Putting on his clothes again, he strolled to the station and caught the five-twenty afternoon train for San Antonio.</p>
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<p>The San Antonio <i>Express</i> of the following morning contained this sensational piece of news:</p>
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<p>The San Antonio <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Express</i> of the following morning contained this sensational piece of news:</p>
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<blockquote>
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<h4>BENTON SHARP MEETS HIS MATCH</h4>
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<p>
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<b>Benton Sharp Meets His Match</b>
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</p>
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<p>
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<b>The Most Noted Desperado in Southwest Texas Shot to Death in the Gold Front Restaurant—Prominent State Official Successfully Defends Himself Against the Noted Bully—Magnificent Exhibition of Quick Gun Play.</b>
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</p>
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="a-double-dyed-deceiver" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="a-double-dyed-deceiver" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">A Double-Dyed Deceiver</h2>
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<p>The trouble began in Laredo. It was the Llano Kid’s fault, for he should have confined his habit of manslaughter to Mexicans. But the Kid was past twenty; and to have only Mexicans to one’s credit at twenty is to blush unseen on the Rio Grande border.</p>
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<p>It happened in old Justo Valdos’s gambling house. There was a poker game at which sat players who were not all friends, as happens often where men ride in from afar to shoot Folly as she gallops. There was a row over so small a matter as a pair of queens; and when the smoke had cleared away it was found that the Kid had committed an indiscretion, and his adversary had been guilty of a blunder. For, the unfortunate combatant, instead of being a Greaser, was a high-blooded youth from the cow ranches, of about the Kid’s own age and possessed of friends and champions. His blunder in missing the Kid’s right ear only a sixteenth of an inch when he pulled his gun did not lessen the indiscretion of the better marksman.</p>
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="a-retrieved-reformation" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="a-retrieved-reformation" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">A Retrieved Reformation</h2>
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<p>A guard came to the prison shoe-shop, where Jimmy Valentine was assiduously stitching uppers, and escorted him to the front office. There the warden handed Jimmy his pardon, which had been signed that morning by the governor. Jimmy took it in a tired kind of way. He had served nearly ten months of a four year sentence. He had expected to stay only about three months, at the longest. When a man with as many friends on the outside as Jimmy Valentine had is received in the “stir” it is hardly worth while to cut his hair.</p>
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<p>“Now, Valentine,” said the warden, “you’ll go out in the morning. Brace up, and make a man of yourself. You’re not a bad fellow at heart. Stop cracking safes, and live straight.”</p>
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="art-and-the-bronco" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="art-and-the-bronco" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">Art and the Bronco</h2>
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<p>Out of the wilderness had come a painter. Genius, whose coronations alone are democratic, had woven a chaplet of chaparral for the brow of Lonny Briscoe. Art, whose divine expression flows impartially from the fingertips of a cowboy or a dilettante emperor, had chosen for a medium the Boy Artist of the San Saba. The outcome, seven feet by twelve of besmeared canvas, stood, gilt-framed, in the lobby of the Capitol.</p>
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<p>The legislature was in session; the capital city of that great Western state was enjoying the season of activity and profit that the congregation of the solons bestowed. The boardinghouses were corralling the easy dollars of the gamesome lawmakers. The greatest state in the West, an empire in area and resources, had arisen and repudiated the old libel or barbarism, lawbreaking, and bloodshed. Order reigned within her borders. Life and property were as safe there, sir, as anywhere among the corrupt cities of the effete East. Pillow-shams, churches, strawberry feasts and habeas corpus flourished. With impunity might the tenderfoot ventilate his “stovepipe” or his theories of culture. The arts and sciences received nurture and subsidy. And, therefore, it behooved the legislature of this great state to make appropriation for the purchase of Lonny Briscoe’s immortal painting.</p>
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="cherchez-la-femme" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="cherchez-la-femme" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">Cherchez La Femme</h2>
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<p>Robbins, reporter for the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Picayune</i>, and Dumars, of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">L’Abeille</i>—the old French newspaper that has buzzed for nearly a century—were good friends, well proven by years of ups and downs together. They were seated where they had a habit of meeting—in the little, Creole-haunted café of Madame Tibault, in Dumaine Street. If you know the place, you will experience a thrill of pleasure in recalling it to mind. It is small and dark, with six little polished tables, at which you may sit and drink the best coffee in New Orleans, and concoctions of absinthe equal to Sazerac’s best. Madame Tibault, fat and indulgent, presides at the desk, and takes your money. Nicolette and Mémé, madame’s nieces, in charming bib aprons, bring the desirable beverages.</p>
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<p>Dumars, with true Creole luxury, was sipping his absinthe, with half-closed eyes, in a swirl of cigarette smoke. Robbins was looking over the morning <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Pic.</i>, detecting, as young reporters will, the gross blunders in the makeup, and the envious blue-pencilling his own stuff had received. This item, in the advertising columns, caught his eye, and with an exclamation of sudden interest he read it aloud to his friend.</p>
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="friends-in-san-rosario" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="friends-in-san-rosario" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">Friends in San Rosario</h2>
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<p>The westbound train stopped at San Rosario on time at 8:20 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> A man with a thick black-leather wallet under his arm left the train and walked rapidly up the main street of the town. There were other passengers who also got off at San Rosario, but they either slouched limberly over to the railroad eating-house or the Silver Dollar saloon, or joined the groups of idlers about the station.</p>
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<p>Indecision had no part in the movements of the man with the wallet. He was short in stature, but strongly built, with very light, closely-trimmed hair, smooth, determined face, and aggressive, gold-rimmed nose glasses. He was well dressed in the prevailing Eastern style. His air denoted a quiet but conscious reserve force, if not actual authority.</p>
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@ -6,7 +6,7 @@
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="next-to-reading-matter" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="next-to-reading-matter" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">“Next to Reading Matter”</h2>
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<p>He compelled my interest as he stepped from the ferry at Desbrosses Street. He had the air of being familiar with hemispheres and worlds, and of entering New York as the lord of a demesne who revisited it in after years of absence. But I thought that, with all his air, he had never before set foot on the slippery cobblestones of the City of Too Many Caliphs.</p>
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<p>He wore loose clothes of a strange bluish drab colour, and a conservative, round Panama hat without the cock-a-loop indentations and cants with which Northern fanciers disfigure the tropic headgear. Moreover, he was the homeliest man I have ever seen. His ugliness was less repellent than startling—arising from a sort of Lincolnian ruggedness and irregularity of feature that spellbound you with wonder and dismay. So may have looked afrites or the shapes metamorphosed from the vapour of the fisherman’s vase. As he afterward told me, his name was Judson Tate; and he may as well be called so at once. He wore his green silk tie through a topaz ring; and he carried a cane made of the vertebrae of a shark.</p>
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@ -6,7 +6,7 @@
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="on-behalf-of-the-management" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="on-behalf-of-the-management" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">On Behalf of the Management</h2>
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<p>This is the story of the man manager, and how he held his own until the very last paragraph.</p>
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<p>I had it from Sully Magoon, viva voce. The words are indeed his; and if they do not constitute truthful fiction my memory should be taxed with the blame.</p>
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@ -6,7 +6,7 @@
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="phoebe" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="phoebe" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">Phoebe</h2>
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<p>“You are a man of many novel adventures and varied enterprises,” I said to Captain Patricio Maloné. “Do you believe that the possible element of good luck or bad luck—if there is such a thing as luck—has influenced your career or persisted for or against you to such an extent that you were forced to attribute results to the operation of the aforesaid good luck or bad luck?”</p>
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<p>This question (of almost the dull insolence of legal phraseology) was put while we sat in Rousselin’s little red-tiled café near Congo Square in New Orleans.</p>
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="roads-of-destiny" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="roads-of-destiny" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">Roads of Destiny</h2>
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<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">
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<p>
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@ -34,7 +34,8 @@
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<p>Except the roisterers in the tavern, the village folk were abed. David crept softly into his room in the shed of his father’s cottage and made a bundle of his small store of clothing. With this upon a staff, he set his face outward upon the road that ran from Vernoy.</p>
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<p>He passed his father’s herd of sheep, huddled in their nightly pen—the sheep he herded daily, leaving them to scatter while he wrote verses on scraps of paper. He saw a light yet shining in Yvonne’s window, and a weakness shook his purpose of a sudden. Perhaps that light meant that she rued, sleepless, her anger, and that morning might—But, no! His decision was made. Vernoy was no place for him. Not one soul there could share his thoughts. Out along that road lay his fate and his future.</p>
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<p>Three leagues across the dim, moonlit champaign ran the road, straight as a ploughman’s furrow. It was believed in the village that the road ran to Paris, at least; and this name the poet whispered often to himself as he walked. Never so far from Vernoy had David travelled before.</p>
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<h4>THE LEFT BRANCH</h4>
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<section id="roads-of-destiny-1" epub:type="chapter">
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<h3 epub:type="title">The Left Branch</h3>
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<blockquote>
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<p>
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<i>Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle. It joined with another and a larger road at right angles. David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then took the road to the left.</i>
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<p>With a little cry of terror and despair, the widowed maid ran and stooped above him. She found his wound, and then looked up with her old look of pale melancholy. “Through his heart,” she whispered. “Oh, his heart!”</p>
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<p>“Come,” boomed the great voice of the marquis, “out with you to the carriage! Daybreak shall not find you on my hands. Wed you shall be again, and to a living husband, this night. The next we come upon, my lady, highwayman or peasant. If the road yields no other, then the churl that opens my gates. Out with you into the carriage!”</p>
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<p>The marquis, implacable and huge, the lady wrapped again in the mystery of her cloak, the postilion bearing the weapons—all moved out to the waiting carriage. The sound of its ponderous wheels rolling away echoed through the slumbering village. In the hall of the Silver Flagon the distracted landlord wrung his hands above the slain poet’s body, while the flames of the four and twenty candles danced and flickered on the table.</p>
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<h4>THE RIGHT BRANCH</h4>
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</section>
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<section id="roads-of-destiny-2" epub:type="chapter">
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<h3>The Right Branch</h3>
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<blockquote>
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<p>
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<i>Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle. It joined with another and a larger road at right angles. David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then took the road to the right.</i>
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<p>On the qui vive in a house at the corner of the Rue Esplanade was Captain Tetreau with twenty men, ready to pounce upon the conspirators when they should appear.</p>
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<p>But it seemed that, for some reason, the plotters had slightly altered their plans. When the royal carriage had reached the Rue Christopher, one square nearer than the Rue Esplanade, forth from it burst Captain Desrolles, with his band of would-be regicides, and assailed the equipage. The guards upon the carriage, though surprised at the premature attack, descended and fought valiantly. The noise of conflict attracted the force of Captain Tetreau, and they came pelting down the street to the rescue. But, in the meantime, the desperate Desrolles had torn open the door of the king’s carriage, thrust his weapon against the body of the dark figure inside, and fired.</p>
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<p>Now, with loyal reinforcements at hand, the street rang with cries and the rasp of steel, but the frightened horses had dashed away. Upon the cushions lay the dead body of the poor mock king and poet, slain by a ball from the pistol of Monseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertuys.</p>
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<h4>THE MAIN ROAD</h4>
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</section>
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<section id="roads-of-destiny-3" epub:type="chapter">
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<h3>The Main Road</h3>
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<blockquote>
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<p>
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<i>Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle. It joined with another and a larger road at right angles. David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then sat himself to rest upon its side.</i>
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<p>M. Papineau, whose nose had brought him there among the first, picked up the weapon and ran his eye over its silver mountings with a mingled air of connoisseurship and grief.</p>
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<p>“The arms,” he explained, aside, to the curé, “and crest of Monseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertuys.”</p>
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</section>
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</section>
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</body>
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</html>
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="the-discounters-of-money" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="the-discounters-of-money" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Discounters of Money</h2>
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<p>The spectacle of the money-caliphs of the present day going about Bagdad-on-the-Subway trying to relieve the wants of the people is enough to make the great Al Raschid turn Haroun in his grave. If not so, then the assertion should do so, the real caliph having been a wit and a scholar and therefore a hater of puns.</p>
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<p>How properly to alleviate the troubles of the poor is one of the greatest troubles of the rich. But one thing agreed upon by all professional philanthropists is that you must never hand over any cash to your subject. The poor are notoriously temperamental; and when they get money they exhibit a strong tendency to spend it for stuffed olives and enlarged crayon portraits instead of giving it to the instalment man.</p>
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="the-emancipation-of-billy" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="the-emancipation-of-billy" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Emancipation of Billy</h2>
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<p>In the old, old, square-porticoed mansion, with the wry window-shutters and the paint peeling off in discoloured flakes, lived one of the last of the war governors.</p>
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<p>The South has forgotten the enmity of the great conflict, but it refuses to abandon its old traditions and idols. In “Governor” Pemberton, as he was still fondly called, the inhabitants of Elmville saw the relic of their state’s ancient greatness and glory. In his day he had been a man large in the eye of his country. His state had pressed upon him every honour within its gift. And now when he was old, and enjoying a richly merited repose outside the swift current of public affairs, his townsmen loved to do him reverence for the sake of the past.</p>
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="the-enchanted-kiss" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="the-enchanted-kiss" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Enchanted Kiss</h2>
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<p>But a clerk in the Cut-rate Drug Store was Samuel Tansey, yet his slender frame was a pad that enfolded the passion of Romeo, the gloom of Laura, the romance of D’Artagnan, and the desperate inspiration of Melnotte. Pity, then, that he had been denied expression, that he was doomed to the burden of utter timidity and diffidence, that Fate had set him tongue-tied and scarlet before the muslin-clad angels whom he adored and vainly longed to rescue, clasp, comfort, and subdue.</p>
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<p>The clock’s hands were pointing close upon the hour of ten while Tansey was playing billiards with a number of his friends. On alternate evenings he was released from duty at the store after seven o’clock. Even among his fellow-men Tansey was timorous and constrained. In his imagination he had done valiant deeds and performed acts of distinguished gallantry; but in fact he was a sallow youth of twenty-three, with an overmodest demeanour and scant vocabulary.</p>
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="the-enchanted-profile" epub:type="chapter">
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<section id="the-enchanted-profile" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Enchanted Profile</h2>
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<p>There are few Caliphesses. Women are Scheherazades by birth, predilection, instinct, and arrangement of the vocal cords. The thousand and one stories are being told every day by hundreds of thousands of viziers’ daughters to their respective sultans. But the bowstring will get some of ’em yet if they don’t watch out.</p>
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<p>I heard a story, though, of one lady Caliph. It isn’t precisely an Arabian Nights story, because it brings in Cinderella, who flourished her dishrag in another epoch and country. So, if you don’t mind the mixed dates (which seem to give it an Eastern flavour, after all), we’ll get along.</p>
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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</head>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
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<section id="the-fourth-in-salvador" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<section id="the-fourth-in-salvador" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Fourth in Salvador</h2>
|
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<p>On a summer’s day, while the city was rocking with the din and red uproar of patriotism, Billy Casparis told me this story.</p>
|
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<p>In his way, Billy is Ulysses, Jr. Like Satan, he comes from going to and fro upon the earth and walking up and down in it. Tomorrow morning while you are cracking your breakfast egg he may be off with his little alligator grip to boom a town site in the middle of Lake Okeechobee or to trade horses with the Patagonians.</p>
|
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@ -6,7 +6,7 @@
|
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
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</head>
|
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="the-guardian-of-the-accolade" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<section id="the-guardian-of-the-accolade" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Guardian of the Accolade</h2>
|
||||
<p>Not the least important of the force of the Weymouth Bank was Uncle Bushrod. Sixty years had Uncle Bushrod given of faithful service to the house of Weymouth as chattel, servitor, and friend. Of the colour of the mahogany bank furniture was Uncle Bushrod—thus dark was he externally; white as the uninked pages of the bank ledgers was his soul. Eminently pleasing to Uncle Bushrod would the comparison have been; for to him the only institution in existence worth considering was the Weymouth Bank, of which he was something between porter and generalissimo-in-charge.</p>
|
||||
<p>Weymouth lay, dreamy and umbrageous, among the low foothills along the brow of a Southern valley. Three banks there were in Weymouthville. Two were hopeless, misguided enterprises, lacking the presence and prestige of a Weymouth to give them glory. The third was The Bank, managed by the Weymouths—and Uncle Bushrod. In the old Weymouth homestead—the red brick, white-porticoed mansion, the first to your right as you crossed Elder Creek, coming into town—lived <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Robert Weymouth (the president of the bank), his widowed daughter, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Vesey—called “Miss Letty” by everyone—and her two children, Nan and Guy. There, also in a cottage on the grounds, resided Uncle Bushrod and Aunt Malindy, his wife. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> William Weymouth (the cashier of the bank) lived in a modern, fine house on the principal avenue.</p>
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@ -6,7 +6,7 @@
|
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
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</head>
|
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="the-halberdier-of-the-little-rheinschloss" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<section id="the-halberdier-of-the-little-rheinschloss" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Halberdier of the Little Rheinschloss</h2>
|
||||
<p>I go sometimes into the <i xml:lang="de">Bierhalle</i> and restaurant called Old Munich. Not long ago it was a resort of interesting Bohemians, but now only artists and musicians and literary folk frequent it. But the Pilsner is yet good, and I take some diversion from the conversation of Waiter <abbr>No.</abbr> 18.</p>
|
||||
<p>For many years the customers of Old Munich have accepted the place as a faithful copy from the ancient German town. The big hall with its smoky rafters, rows of imported steins, portrait of Goethe, and verses painted on the walls—translated into German from the original of the Cincinnati poets—seems atmospherically correct when viewed through the bottom of a glass.</p>
|
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|
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@ -6,7 +6,7 @@
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="the-lonesome-road" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<section id="the-lonesome-road" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Lonesome Road</h2>
|
||||
<p>Brown as a coffee-berry, rugged, pistoled, spurred, wary, indefeasible, I saw my old friend, Deputy-Marshal Buck Caperton, stumble, with jingling rowels, into a chair in the marshal’s outer office.</p>
|
||||
<p>And because the courthouse was almost deserted at that hour, and because Buck would sometimes relate to me things that were out of print, I followed him in and tricked him into talk through knowledge of a weakness he had. For, cigarettes rolled with sweet corn husk were as honey to Buck’s palate; and though he could finger the trigger of a forty-five with skill and suddenness, he never could learn to roll a cigarette.</p>
|
||||
|
||||
@ -6,7 +6,7 @@
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="the-passing-of-black-eagle" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<section id="the-passing-of-black-eagle" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Passing of Black Eagle</h2>
|
||||
<p>For some months of a certain year a grim bandit infested the Texas border along the Rio Grande. Peculiarly striking to the optic nerve was this notorious marauder. His personality secured him the title of “Black Eagle, the Terror of the Border.” Many fearsome tales are on record concerning the doings of him and his followers. Suddenly, in the space of a single minute, Black Eagle vanished from earth. He was never heard of again. His own band never even guessed the mystery of his disappearance. The border ranches and settlements feared he would come again to ride and ravage the mesquite flats. He never will. It is to disclose the fate of Black Eagle that this narrative is written.</p>
|
||||
<p>The initial movement of the story is furnished by the foot of a bartender in <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis. His discerning eye fell upon the form of Chicken Ruggles as he pecked with avidity at the free lunch. Chicken was a “hobo.” He had a long nose like the bill of a fowl, an inordinate appetite for poultry, and a habit of gratifying it without expense, which accounts for the name given him by his fellow vagrants.</p>
|
||||
|
||||
@ -6,7 +6,7 @@
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="the-renaissance-at-charleroi" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<section id="the-renaissance-at-charleroi" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Renaissance at Charleroi</h2>
|
||||
<p>Grandemont Charles was a little Creole gentleman, aged thirty-four, with a bald spot on the top of his head and the manners of a prince. By day he was a clerk in a cotton broker’s office in one of those cold, rancid mountains of oozy brick, down near the levee in New Orleans. By night, in his three-story-high <i xml:lang="fr">chambre garnier</i> in the old French Quarter he was again the last male descendant of the Charles family, that noble house that had lorded it in France, and had pushed its way smiling, rapiered, and courtly into Louisiana’s early and brilliant days. Of late years the Charleses had subsided into the more republican but scarcely less royally carried magnificence and ease of plantation life along the Mississippi. Perhaps Grandemont was even Marquis de Brassé. There was that title in the family. But a Marquis on seventy-five dollars per month! <i xml:lang="fr">Vraiment!</i> Still, it has been done on less.</p>
|
||||
<p>Grandemont had saved out of his salary the sum of six hundred dollars. Enough, you would say, for any man to marry on. So, after a silence of two years on that subject, he reopened that most hazardous question to <abbr>Mlle.</abbr> Adèle Fauquier, riding down to Meade d’Or, her father’s plantation. Her answer was the same that it had been any time during the last ten years: “First find my brother, Monsieur Charles.”</p>
|
||||
|
||||
@ -6,7 +6,7 @@
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="two-renegades" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<section id="two-renegades" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">Two Renegades</h2>
|
||||
<p>In the Gate City of the South the Confederate Veterans were reuniting; and I stood to see them march, beneath the tangled flags of the great conflict, to the hall of their oratory and commemoration.</p>
|
||||
<p>While the irregular and halting line was passing I made onslaught upon it and dragged from the ranks my friend Barnard O’Keefe, who had no right to be there. For he was a Northerner born and bred; and what should he be doing hallooing for the Stars and Bars among those gray and moribund veterans? And why should he be trudging, with his shining, martial, humorous, broad face, among those warriors of a previous and alien generation?</p>
|
||||
|
||||
@ -6,7 +6,7 @@
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="whistling-dicks-christmas-stocking" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<section id="whistling-dicks-christmas-stocking" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking</h2>
|
||||
<p>It was with much caution that Whistling Dick slid back the door of the boxcar, for Article 5716, City Ordinances, authorized (perhaps unconstitutionally) arrest on suspicion, and he was familiar of old with this ordinance. So, before climbing out, he surveyed the field with all the care of a good general.</p>
|
||||
<p>He saw no change since his last visit to this big, alms-giving, long-suffering city of the South, the cold weather paradise of the tramps. The levee where his freight-car stood was pimpled with dark bulks of merchandise. The breeze reeked with the well-remembered, sickening smell of the old tarpaulins that covered bales and barrels. The dun river slipped along among the shipping with an oily gurgle. Far down toward Chalmette he could see the great bend in the stream, outlined by the row of electric lights. Across the river Algiers lay, a long, irregular blot, made darker by the dawn which lightened the sky beyond. An industrious tug or two, coming for some early sailing ship, gave a few appalling toots, that seemed to be the signal for breaking day. The Italian luggers were creeping nearer their landing, laden with early vegetables and shellfish. A vague roar, subterranean in quality, from dray wheels and street cars, began to make itself heard and felt; and the ferryboats, the Mary Anns of water craft, stirred sullenly to their menial morning tasks.</p>
|
||||
|
||||
@ -16,9 +16,6 @@
|
||||
<li>
|
||||
<a href="text/a-departmental-case.xhtml">A Departmental Case</a>
|
||||
</li>
|
||||
<li>
|
||||
<a href="text/a-departmental-case.xhtml#a-departmental-case">BENTON SHARP MEETS HIS MATCH</a>
|
||||
</li>
|
||||
<li>
|
||||
<a href="text/a-double-dyed-deceiver.xhtml">A Double-Dyed Deceiver</a>
|
||||
</li>
|
||||
@ -45,15 +42,17 @@
|
||||
</li>
|
||||
<li>
|
||||
<a href="text/roads-of-destiny.xhtml">Roads of Destiny</a>
|
||||
<ol>
|
||||
<li>
|
||||
<a href="text/roads-of-destiny.xhtml#roads-of-destiny-1">The Left Branch</a>
|
||||
</li>
|
||||
<li>
|
||||
<a href="text/roads-of-destiny.xhtml#roads-of-destiny">THE LEFT BRANCH</a>
|
||||
<a href="text/roads-of-destiny.xhtml#roads-of-destiny-2">The Right Branch</a>
|
||||
</li>
|
||||
<li>
|
||||
<a href="text/roads-of-destiny.xhtml#roads-of-destiny">THE RIGHT BRANCH</a>
|
||||
<a href="text/roads-of-destiny.xhtml#roads-of-destiny-3">The Main Road</a>
|
||||
</li>
|
||||
<li>
|
||||
<a href="text/roads-of-destiny.xhtml#roads-of-destiny">THE MAIN ROAD</a>
|
||||
</ol>
|
||||
</li>
|
||||
<li>
|
||||
<a href="text/the-discounters-of-money.xhtml">The Discounters of Money</a>
|
||||
|
||||
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Reference in New Issue
Block a user