<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>
<p>The San Antonio <iepub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Express</i> of the following morning contained this sensational piece of news:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>
<b>Benton Sharp Meets His Match</b>
</p>
<header>
<p>Benton Sharp Meets His Match</p>
</header>
<p>
<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>
<p>The bottle oscillates from one to the other, continues to do so, and is not removed from the counter. The bartender sees two emaciated invalids dispose of enough Kentucky Belle to floor a dozen cowboys, without displaying any emotion save a sad and contemplative interest in the peregrinations of the bottle. So he is moved to manifest a solicitude as to the consequences.</p>
<p>“Not on your Uncle Mark Hanna,” responds Toledo, “will we get drunk. We’ve been—vaccinated with whiskey—and—cod liver oil. What would send you to the police station—only gives us a thirst. S-s-set out another bottle.”</p>
<p>It is slow work trying to meet death by that route. Some quicker way must be found. They leave the saloon and plunge again into the mist. The sidewalks are mere flanges at the base of the houses; the street a cold ravine, the fog filling it like a freshet. Not far away is the Mexican quarter. Conducted as if by wires along the heavy air comes a guitar’s tinkle, and the demoralizing voice of some señorita singing:</p>
<blockquoteepub:type="z3998:song">
<blockquoteepub:type="z3998:song"xml:lang="es">
<p>
<span>“En las tardes sombrillos del invierro</span>
<spanepub:type="subtitle">The Story of a Maid Made Over</span>
</h2>
<p><abbr>Dr.</abbr>Satterfield Prince, physician to the leisure class, looked at his watch. It indicated five minutes to twelve. At the stroke of the hour would expire the morning term set apart for the reception of his patients in his handsome office apartments. And then the young woman attendant ushered in from the waiting-room the last unit of the wealthy and fashionable gathering that had come to patronize his skill.</p>
<p><abbr>Dr.</abbr>Prince turned, his watch still in hand, his manner courteous, but seeming to invite promptness and brevity in the interview. The last patient was a middle-aged lady, richly dressed, with an amiable and placid face. When she spoke her voice revealed the drawling, musical slur and intonation of the South. She had come, she leisurely explained, to bespeak the services of <abbr>Dr.</abbr>Prince in the case of her daughter, who was possessed of a most mysterious affliction. And then, femininely, she proceeded to exhaustively diagnose the affliction, informing the physician with a calm certitude of its origin and nature.</p>
<p>The diagnosis advanced by the lady—<abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Galloway Rankin—was one so marvelously strange and singular in its conception that <abbr>Dr.</abbr>Prince, accustomed as he was to the conceits and vagaries of wealthy malingerers, was actually dumfounded. The following is the matter of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Rankin’s statement, briefly reported:</p>
<p>“That’s great stuff, ma’am,” said J. Pinkney Bloom, enthusiastically, when the poetess had concluded. “I wish I had looked up poetry more than I have. I was raised in the pine hills myself.”</p>
<p>“The mountains ever call to their children,” murmured <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock. “I feel that life will take on the rosy hue of hope again in among these beautiful hills. Peyton—a little taste of the currant wine, if you will be so good. The journey, though delightful in the extreme, slightly fatigues me.” Colonel Blaylock again visited the depths of his prolific coat, and produced a tightly corked, rough, black bottle. <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom was on his feet in an instant.</p>
<p>“Let me bring a glass, ma’am. You come along, Colonel—there’s a little table we can bring, too. Maybe we can scare up some fruit or a cup of tea on board. I’ll ask Mac.”</p>
<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock reclined at ease. Few royal ladies have held their royal prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman. The Colonel, with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of his courtship, and J. Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half professional and half directed by some resurrected, unnamed, long-forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but attentive court. The currant wine—wine home made from the Holly Springs fruit—went round, and then J. Pinkney began to hear something of Holly Springs life.</p>
<p>It seemed (from the conversation of the Blaylocks) that the Springs was decadent. A third of the population had moved away. Business—and the Colonel was an authority on business—had dwindled to nothing. After carefully studying the field of opportunities open to capital he had sold his little property there for eight hundred dollars and invested it in one of the enterprises opened up by the book in Okochee.</p>
<p>“Might I inquire, sir,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom, “in what particular line of business you inserted your coin? I know that town as well as I know the regulations for illegal use of the mails. I might give you a hunch as to whether you can make the game go or not.”</p>
<p>J. Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated representatives of bygone days. They were so simple, impractical, and unsuspecting. He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him. He would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did these; but there are some temptations toe enticing to be resisted.</p>
<p>“No, sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, pausing to arrange the queen’s wrap. “I did not invest in Okochee. I have made an exhaustive study of business conditions, and I regard old settled towns as unfavorable fields in which to place capital that is limited in amount. Some months ago, through the kindness of a friend, there came into my hands a map and description of this new town of Skyland that has been built upon the lake. The description was so pleasing, the future of the town set forth in such convincing arguments, and its increasing prosperity portrayed in such an attractive style that I decided to take advantage of the opportunity it offered. I carefully selected a lot in the centre of the business district, although its price was the highest in the schedule—five hundred dollars—and made the purchase at once.”</p>
<p>“Are you the man—I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a lot in Skyland” asked J. Pinkney Bloom.</p>
<p>“I did, sir,” answered the Colonel, with the air of a modest millionaire explaining his success; “a lot most excellently situated on the same square with the opera house, and only two squares from the board of trade. I consider the purchase a most fortuitous one. It is my intention to erect a small building upon it at once, and open a modest book and stationery store. During past years I have met with many pecuniary reverses, and I now find it necessary to engage in some commercial occupation that will furnish me with a livelihood. The book and stationery business, though an humble one, seems to me not inapt nor altogether uncongenial. I am a graduate of the University of Virginia; and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock’s really wonderful acquaintance with belles-lettres and poetic literature should go far toward insuring success. Of course, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock would not personally serve behind the counter. With the nearly three hundred dollars I have remaining I can manage the building of a house, by giving a lien on the lot. I have an old friend in Atlanta who is a partner in a large book store, and he has agreed to furnish me with a stock of goods on credit, on extremely easy terms. I am pleased to hope, sir, that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock’s health and happiness will be increased by the change of locality. Already I fancy I can perceive the return of those roses that were once the hope and despair of Georgia cavaliers.”</p>
<p>Again followed that wonderful bow, as the Colonel lightly touched the pale cheek of the poetess. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock, blushing like a girl, shook her curl and gave the Colonel an arch, reproving tap. Secret of eternal youth—where art thou? Every second the answer comes—“Here, here, here.” Listen to thine own heartbeats, O weary seeker after external miracles.</p>
<p>“Those years,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock, “in Holly Springs were long, long, long. But now is the promised land in sight. Skyland!—a lovely name.”</p>
<p>“Doubtless,” said the Colonel, “we shall be able to secure comfortable accommodations at some modest hotel at reasonable rates. Our trunks are in Okochee, to be forwarded when we shall have made permanent arrangements.”</p>
<p>J. Pinkney Bloom excused himself, went forward, and stood by the captain at the wheel.</p>
<p>“Mac,” said he, “do you remember my telling you once that I sold one of those five-hundred-dollar lots in Skyland?”</p>
<p>“Seems I do,” grinned Captain MacFarland.</p>
<p>“I’m not a coward, as a general rule,” went on the promoter, “but I always said that if I ever met the sucker that bought that lot I’d run like a turkey. Now, you see that old babe-in-the-wood over there? Well, he’s the boy that drew the prize. That was the only five-hundred-dollar lot that went. The rest ranged from ten dollars to two hundred. His wife writes poetry. She’s invented one about the high grounds of Georgia, that’s way up in G. They’re going to Skyland to open a book store.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said MacFarland, with another grin, “it’s a good thing you are along, J. P.; you can show ’em around town until they begin to feel at home.”</p>
<p>“He’s got three hundred dollars left to build a house and store with,” went on J. Pinkney, as if he were talking to himself. “And he thinks there’s an open house up there.”</p>
<p>Captain MacFarland released the wheel long enough to give his leg a roguish slap.</p>
<p>“You old fat rascal!” he chuckled, with a wink.</p>
<p>“Mac, you’re a fool,” said J. Pinkney Bloom, coldly. He went back and joined the Blaylocks, where he sat, less talkative, with that straight furrow between his brows that always stood as a signal of schemes being shaped within.</p>
<p>“There’s a good many swindles connected with these booms,” he said presently. “What if this Skyland should turn out to be one—that is, suppose business should be sort of dull there, and no special sale for books?”</p>
<p>“My dear sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, resting his hand upon the back of his wife’s chair, “three times I have been reduced to almost penury by the duplicity of others, but I have not yet lost faith in humanity. If I have been deceived again, still we may glean health and content, if not worldly profit. I am aware that there are dishonest schemers in the world who set traps for the unwary, but even they are not altogether bad. My dear, can you recall those verses entitled ‘He Giveth the Increase,’ that you composed for the choir of our church in Holly Springs?”</p>
<p>“That was four years ago,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock; “perhaps I can repeat a verse or two.</p>
<blockquoteepub:type="z3998:poem">
<p>
<span>“The lily springs from the rotting mould;</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">Pearls from the deep sea slime;</span>
<br/>
<span>Good will come out of Nazareth</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">All in God’s own time.</span>
</p>
<p>
<span>“To the hardest heart the softening grace</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">Cometh, at last, to bless;</span>
<br/>
<span>Guiding it right to help and cheer</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">And succor in distress.</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“I cannot remember the rest. The lines were not ambitious. They were written to the music composed by a dear friend.”</p>
<p>“It’s a fine rhyme, just the same,” declared <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom. “It seems to ring the bell, all right. I guess I gather the sense of it. It means that the rankest kind of a phony will give you the best end of it once in a while.”</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom strayed thoughtfully back to the captain, and stood meditating.</p>
<p>“Ought to be in sight of the spires and gilded domes of Skyland now in a few minutes,” chirruped MacFarland, shaking with enjoyment.</p>
<p>“Go to the devil,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom, still pensive.</p>
<p>And now, upon the left bank, they caught a glimpse of a white village, high up on the hills, smothered among green trees. That was Cold Branch—no boom town, but the slow growth of many years. Cold Branch lay on the edge of the grape and corn lands. The big country road ran just back of the heights. Cold Branch had nothing in common with the frisky ambition of Okochee with its impertinent lake.</p>
<p>“Mac,” said J. Pinkney suddenly, “I want you to stop at Cold Branch. There’s a landing there that they made to use sometimes when the river was up.”</p>
<p>“Can’t,” said the captain, grinning more broadly. “I’ve got the United States mails on board. Right today this boat’s in the government service. Do you want to have the poor old captain keelhauled by Uncle Sam? And the great city of Skyland, all disconsolate, waiting for its mail? I’m ashamed of your extravagance, J. P.”</p>
<p>“Mac,” almost whispered J. Pinkney, in his danger-line voice, “I looked into the engine room of the <iepub:type="se:vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> a while ago. Don’t you know of somebody that needs a new boiler? Cement and black Japan can’t hide flaws from me. And then, those shares of building and loan that you traded for repairs—they were all yours, of course. I hate to mention these things, but—”</p>
<p>“Oh, come now, J. P.,” said the captain. “You know I was just fooling. I’ll put you off at Cold Branch, if you say so.”</p>
<p>“The other passengers get off there, too,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom.</p>
<p>Further conversation was held, and in ten minutes the <iepub:type="se:vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> turned her nose toward a little, cranky wooden pier on the left bank, and the captain, relinquishing the wheel to a roustabout, came to the passenger deck and made the remarkable announcement: “All out for Skyland.”</p>
<p>The Blaylocks and J. Pinkney Bloom disembarked, and the <iepub:type="se:vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> proceeded on her way up the lake. Guided by the indefatigable promoter, they slowly climbed the steep hillside, pausing often to rest and admire the view. Finally they entered the village of Cold Branch. Warmly both the Colonel and his wife praised it for its homelike and peaceful beauty. <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom conducted them to a two-story building on a shady street that bore the legend, “Pine-top Inn.” Here he took his leave, receiving the cordial thanks of the two for his attentions, the Colonel remarking that he thought they would spend the remainder of the day in rest, and take a look at his purchase on the morrow.</p>
<p>J. Pinkney Bloom walked down Cold Branch’s main street. He did not know this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter. Presently he saw a sign over a door: “Frank E. Cooly, Attorney-at-Law and Notary Public.” A young man was <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Cooly, and awaiting business.</p>
<p>“Get your hat, son,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom, in his breezy way, “and a blank deed, and come along. It’s a job for you.”</p>
<p>“Now,” he continued, when <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Cooly had responded with alacrity, “is there a bookstore in town?”</p>
<p>“One,” said the lawyer. “Henry Williams’s.”</p>
<p>“Get there,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom. “We’re going to buy it.”</p>
<p>Henry Williams was behind his counter. His store was a small one, containing a mixture of books, stationery, and fancy rubbish. Adjoining it was Henry’s home—a decent cottage, vine-embowered and cosy. Henry was lank and soporific, and not inclined to rush his business.</p>
<p>“I want to buy your house and store,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom. “I haven’t got time to dicker—name your price.”</p>
<p>“It’s worth eight hundred,” said Henry, too much dazed to ask more than its value.</p>
<p>“Shut that door,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom to the lawyer. Then he tore off his coat and vest, and began to unbutton his shirt.</p>
<p>“Wanter fight about it, do yer?” said Henry Williams, jumping up and cracking his heels together twice. “All right, hunky—sail in and cut yer capers.”</p>
<p>“Keep your clothes on,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom. “I’m only going down to the bank.”</p>
<p>He drew eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his money belt and planked them down on the counter. <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Cooly showed signs of future promise, for he already had the deed spread out, and was reaching across the counter for the ink bottle. Never before or since was such quick action had in Cold Branch.</p>
<p>“Your name, please?” asked the lawyer.</p>
<p>“Make it out to Peyton Blaylock,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom. “God knows how to spell it.”</p>
<p>Within thirty minutes Henry Williams was out of business, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom stood on the brick sidewalk with <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Cooly, who held in his hand the signed and attested deed.</p>
<p>“You’ll find the party at the Pinetop Inn,” said J. Pinkney Bloom. “Get it recorded, and take it down and give it to him. He’ll ask you a hell’s mint of questions; so here’s ten dollars for the trouble you’ll have in not being able to answer ’em. Never run much to poetry, did you, young man?”</p>
<p>“Well,” said the really talented Cooly, who even yet retained his right mind, “now and then.”</p>
<p>“Dig into it,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom, “it’ll pay you. Never heard a poem, now, that run something like this, did you?—</p>
<blockquoteepub:type="z3998:poem">
<p>
<span>A good thing out of Nazareth</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">Comes up sometimes, I guess,</span>
<br/>
<span>On hand, all right, to help and cheer</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">A sucker in distress.”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“I believe not,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Cooly.</p>
<p>“It’s a hymn,” said J. Pinkney Bloom. “Now, show me the way to a livery stable, son, for I’m going to hit the dirt road back to Okochee.”</p>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<p>“That’s great stuff, ma’am,” said J. Pinkney Bloom, enthusiastically, when the poetess had concluded. “I wish I had looked up poetry more than I have. I was raised in the pine hills myself.”</p>
<p>“The mountains ever call to their children,” murmured <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock. “I feel that life will take on the rosy hue of hope again in among these beautiful hills. Peyton—a little taste of the currant wine, if you will be so good. The journey, though delightful in the extreme, slightly fatigues me.” Colonel Blaylock again visited the depths of his prolific coat, and produced a tightly corked, rough, black bottle. <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom was on his feet in an instant.</p>
<p>“Let me bring a glass, ma’am. You come along, Colonel—there’s a little table we can bring, too. Maybe we can scare up some fruit or a cup of tea on board. I’ll ask Mac.”</p>
<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock reclined at ease. Few royal ladies have held their royal prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman. The Colonel, with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of his courtship, and J. Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half professional and half directed by some resurrected, unnamed, long-forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but attentive court. The currant wine—wine home made from the Holly Springs fruit—went round, and then J. Pinkney began to hear something of Holly Springs life.</p>
<p>It seemed (from the conversation of the Blaylocks) that the Springs was decadent. A third of the population had moved away. Business—and the Colonel was an authority on business—had dwindled to nothing. After carefully studying the field of opportunities open to capital he had sold his little property there for eight hundred dollars and invested it in one of the enterprises opened up by the book in Okochee.</p>
<p>“Might I inquire, sir,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom, “in what particular line of business you inserted your coin? I know that town as well as I know the regulations for illegal use of the mails. I might give you a hunch as to whether you can make the game go or not.”</p>
<p>J. Pinkney, somehow, had a kindly feeling toward these unsophisticated representatives of bygone days. They were so simple, impractical, and unsuspecting. He was glad that he happened not to have a gold brick or a block of that western Bad Boy Silver Mine stock along with him. He would have disliked to unload on people he liked so well as he did these; but there are some temptations toe enticing to be resisted.</p>
<p>“No, sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, pausing to arrange the queen’s wrap. “I did not invest in Okochee. I have made an exhaustive study of business conditions, and I regard old settled towns as unfavorable fields in which to place capital that is limited in amount. Some months ago, through the kindness of a friend, there came into my hands a map and description of this new town of Skyland that has been built upon the lake. The description was so pleasing, the future of the town set forth in such convincing arguments, and its increasing prosperity portrayed in such an attractive style that I decided to take advantage of the opportunity it offered. I carefully selected a lot in the centre of the business district, although its price was the highest in the schedule—five hundred dollars—and made the purchase at once.”</p>
<p>“Are you the man—I mean, did you pay five hundred dollars for a lot in Skyland” asked J. Pinkney Bloom.</p>
<p>“I did, sir,” answered the Colonel, with the air of a modest millionaire explaining his success; “a lot most excellently situated on the same square with the opera house, and only two squares from the board of trade. I consider the purchase a most fortuitous one. It is my intention to erect a small building upon it at once, and open a modest book and stationery store. During past years I have met with many pecuniary reverses, and I now find it necessary to engage in some commercial occupation that will furnish me with a livelihood. The book and stationery business, though an humble one, seems to me not inapt nor altogether uncongenial. I am a graduate of the University of Virginia; and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock’s really wonderful acquaintance with belles-lettres and poetic literature should go far toward insuring success. Of course, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock would not personally serve behind the counter. With the nearly three hundred dollars I have remaining I can manage the building of a house, by giving a lien on the lot. I have an old friend in Atlanta who is a partner in a large book store, and he has agreed to furnish me with a stock of goods on credit, on extremely easy terms. I am pleased to hope, sir, that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock’s health and happiness will be increased by the change of locality. Already I fancy I can perceive the return of those roses that were once the hope and despair of Georgia cavaliers.”</p>
<p>Again followed that wonderful bow, as the Colonel lightly touched the pale cheek of the poetess. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock, blushing like a girl, shook her curl and gave the Colonel an arch, reproving tap. Secret of eternal youth—where art thou? Every second the answer comes—“Here, here, here.” Listen to thine own heartbeats, O weary seeker after external miracles.</p>
<p>“Those years,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock, “in Holly Springs were long, long, long. But now is the promised land in sight. Skyland!—a lovely name.”</p>
<p>“Doubtless,” said the Colonel, “we shall be able to secure comfortable accommodations at some modest hotel at reasonable rates. Our trunks are in Okochee, to be forwarded when we shall have made permanent arrangements.”</p>
<p>J. Pinkney Bloom excused himself, went forward, and stood by the captain at the wheel.</p>
<p>“Mac,” said he, “do you remember my telling you once that I sold one of those five-hundred-dollar lots in Skyland?”</p>
<p>“Seems I do,” grinned Captain MacFarland.</p>
<p>“I’m not a coward, as a general rule,” went on the promoter, “but I always said that if I ever met the sucker that bought that lot I’d run like a turkey. Now, you see that old babe-in-the-wood over there? Well, he’s the boy that drew the prize. That was the only five-hundred-dollar lot that went. The rest ranged from ten dollars to two hundred. His wife writes poetry. She’s invented one about the high grounds of Georgia, that’s way up in G. They’re going to Skyland to open a book store.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said MacFarland, with another grin, “it’s a good thing you are along, J. P.; you can show ’em around town until they begin to feel at home.”</p>
<p>“He’s got three hundred dollars left to build a house and store with,” went on J. Pinkney, as if he were talking to himself. “And he thinks there’s an open house up there.”</p>
<p>Captain MacFarland released the wheel long enough to give his leg a roguish slap.</p>
<p>“You old fat rascal!” he chuckled, with a wink.</p>
<p>“Mac, you’re a fool,” said J. Pinkney Bloom, coldly. He went back and joined the Blaylocks, where he sat, less talkative, with that straight furrow between his brows that always stood as a signal of schemes being shaped within.</p>
<p>“There’s a good many swindles connected with these booms,” he said presently. “What if this Skyland should turn out to be one—that is, suppose business should be sort of dull there, and no special sale for books?”</p>
<p>“My dear sir,” said Colonel Blaylock, resting his hand upon the back of his wife’s chair, “three times I have been reduced to almost penury by the duplicity of others, but I have not yet lost faith in humanity. If I have been deceived again, still we may glean health and content, if not worldly profit. I am aware that there are dishonest schemers in the world who set traps for the unwary, but even they are not altogether bad. My dear, can you recall those verses entitled ‘He Giveth the Increase,’ that you composed for the choir of our church in Holly Springs?”</p>
<p>“That was four years ago,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>Blaylock; “perhaps I can repeat a verse or two.</p>
<blockquoteepub:type="z3998:poem">
<p>
<span>“The lily springs from the rotting mould;</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">Pearls from the deep sea slime;</span>
<br/>
<span>Good will come out of Nazareth</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">All in God’s own time.</span>
</p>
<p>
<span>“To the hardest heart the softening grace</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">Cometh, at last, to bless;</span>
<br/>
<span>Guiding it right to help and cheer</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">And succor in distress.</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“I cannot remember the rest. The lines were not ambitious. They were written to the music composed by a dear friend.”</p>
<p>“It’s a fine rhyme, just the same,” declared <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom. “It seems to ring the bell, all right. I guess I gather the sense of it. It means that the rankest kind of a phony will give you the best end of it once in a while.”</p>
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom strayed thoughtfully back to the captain, and stood meditating.</p>
<p>“Ought to be in sight of the spires and gilded domes of Skyland now in a few minutes,” chirruped MacFarland, shaking with enjoyment.</p>
<p>“Go to the devil,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom, still pensive.</p>
<p>And now, upon the left bank, they caught a glimpse of a white village, high up on the hills, smothered among green trees. That was Cold Branch—no boom town, but the slow growth of many years. Cold Branch lay on the edge of the grape and corn lands. The big country road ran just back of the heights. Cold Branch had nothing in common with the frisky ambition of Okochee with its impertinent lake.</p>
<p>“Mac,” said J. Pinkney suddenly, “I want you to stop at Cold Branch. There’s a landing there that they made to use sometimes when the river was up.”</p>
<p>“Can’t,” said the captain, grinning more broadly. “I’ve got the United States mails on board. Right today this boat’s in the government service. Do you want to have the poor old captain keelhauled by Uncle Sam? And the great city of Skyland, all disconsolate, waiting for its mail? I’m ashamed of your extravagance, J. P.”</p>
<p>“Mac,” almost whispered J. Pinkney, in his danger-line voice, “I looked into the engine room of the <iepub:type="se:vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> a while ago. Don’t you know of somebody that needs a new boiler? Cement and black Japan can’t hide flaws from me. And then, those shares of building and loan that you traded for repairs—they were all yours, of course. I hate to mention these things, but—”</p>
<p>“Oh, come now, J. P.,” said the captain. “You know I was just fooling. I’ll put you off at Cold Branch, if you say so.”</p>
<p>“The other passengers get off there, too,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom.</p>
<p>Further conversation was held, and in ten minutes the <iepub:type="se:vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> turned her nose toward a little, cranky wooden pier on the left bank, and the captain, relinquishing the wheel to a roustabout, came to the passenger deck and made the remarkable announcement: “All out for Skyland.”</p>
<p>The Blaylocks and J. Pinkney Bloom disembarked, and the <iepub:type="se:vessel.ship">Dixie Belle</i> proceeded on her way up the lake. Guided by the indefatigable promoter, they slowly climbed the steep hillside, pausing often to rest and admire the view. Finally they entered the village of Cold Branch. Warmly both the Colonel and his wife praised it for its homelike and peaceful beauty. <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom conducted them to a two-story building on a shady street that bore the legend, “Pine-top Inn.” Here he took his leave, receiving the cordial thanks of the two for his attentions, the Colonel remarking that he thought they would spend the remainder of the day in rest, and take a look at his purchase on the morrow.</p>
<p>J. Pinkney Bloom walked down Cold Branch’s main street. He did not know this town, but he knew towns, and his feet did not falter. Presently he saw a sign over a door: “Frank E. Cooly, Attorney-at-Law and Notary Public.” A young man was <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Cooly, and awaiting business.</p>
<p>“Get your hat, son,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom, in his breezy way, “and a blank deed, and come along. It’s a job for you.”</p>
<p>“Now,” he continued, when <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Cooly had responded with alacrity, “is there a bookstore in town?”</p>
<p>“One,” said the lawyer. “Henry Williams’s.”</p>
<p>“Get there,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom. “We’re going to buy it.”</p>
<p>Henry Williams was behind his counter. His store was a small one, containing a mixture of books, stationery, and fancy rubbish. Adjoining it was Henry’s home—a decent cottage, vine-embowered and cosy. Henry was lank and soporific, and not inclined to rush his business.</p>
<p>“I want to buy your house and store,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom. “I haven’t got time to dicker—name your price.”</p>
<p>“It’s worth eight hundred,” said Henry, too much dazed to ask more than its value.</p>
<p>“Shut that door,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom to the lawyer. Then he tore off his coat and vest, and began to unbutton his shirt.</p>
<p>“Wanter fight about it, do yer?” said Henry Williams, jumping up and cracking his heels together twice. “All right, hunky—sail in and cut yer capers.”</p>
<p>“Keep your clothes on,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom. “I’m only going down to the bank.”</p>
<p>He drew eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his money belt and planked them down on the counter. <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Cooly showed signs of future promise, for he already had the deed spread out, and was reaching across the counter for the ink bottle. Never before or since was such quick action had in Cold Branch.</p>
<p>“Your name, please?” asked the lawyer.</p>
<p>“Make it out to Peyton Blaylock,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom. “God knows how to spell it.”</p>
<p>Within thirty minutes Henry Williams was out of business, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom stood on the brick sidewalk with <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Cooly, who held in his hand the signed and attested deed.</p>
<p>“You’ll find the party at the Pinetop Inn,” said J. Pinkney Bloom. “Get it recorded, and take it down and give it to him. He’ll ask you a hell’s mint of questions; so here’s ten dollars for the trouble you’ll have in not being able to answer ’em. Never run much to poetry, did you, young man?”</p>
<p>“Well,” said the really talented Cooly, who even yet retained his right mind, “now and then.”</p>
<p>“Dig into it,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Bloom, “it’ll pay you. Never heard a poem, now, that run something like this, did you?—</p>
<blockquoteepub:type="z3998:poem">
<p>
<span>A good thing out of Nazareth</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">Comes up sometimes, I guess,</span>
<br/>
<span>On hand, all right, to help and cheer</span>
<br/>
<spanclass="i1">A sucker in distress.”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“I believe not,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr>Cooly.</p>
<p>“It’s a hymn,” said J. Pinkney Bloom. “Now, show me the way to a livery stable, son, for I’m going to hit the dirt road back to Okochee.”</p>
<p>When Chicken awoke his car was stationary. Looking out between the slats he saw it was a bright, moonlit night. Scrambling out, he saw his car with three others abandoned on a little siding in a wild and lonesome country. A cattle pen and chute stood on one side of the track. The railroad bisected a vast, dim ocean of prairie, in the midst of which Chicken, with his futile rolling stock, was as completely stranded as was Robinson with his landlocked boat.</p>
<p>A white post stood near the rails. Going up to it, Chicken read the letters at the top, S. A. 90. Laredo was nearly as far to the south. He was almost a hundred miles from any town. Coyotes began to yelp in the mysterious sea around him. Chicken felt lonesome. He had lived in Boston without an education, in Chicago without nerve, in Philadelphia without a sleeping place, in New York without a pull, and in Pittsburg sober, and yet he had never felt so lonely as now.</p>
<p>Suddenly through the intense silence, he heard the whicker of a horse. The sound came from the side of the track toward the east, and Chicken began to explore timorously in that direction. He stepped high along the mat of curly mesquit grass, for he was afraid of everything there might be in this wilderness—snakes, rats, brigands, centipedes, mirages, cowboys, fandangoes, tarantulas, tamales—he had read of them in the story papers. Rounding a clump of prickly pear that reared high its fantastic and menacing array of rounded heads, he was struck to shivering terror by a snort and a thunderous plunge, as the horse, himself startled, bounded away some fifty yards, and then resumed his grazing. But here was the one thing in the desert that Chicken did not fear. He had been reared on a farm; he had handled horses, understood them, and could ride.</p>
<p>Approaching slowly and speaking soothingly, he followed the animal, which, after its first flight, seemed gentle enough, and secured the end of the twenty-foot lariat that dragged after him in the grass. It required him but a few moments to contrive the rope into an ingenious nose-bridle, after the style of the Mexican <ixml:lane="es">borsal</i>. In another he was upon the horse’s back and off at a splendid lope, giving the animal free choice of direction. “He will take me somewhere,” said Chicken to himself.</p>
<p>Approaching slowly and speaking soothingly, he followed the animal, which, after its first flight, seemed gentle enough, and secured the end of the twenty-foot lariat that dragged after him in the grass. It required him but a few moments to contrive the rope into an ingenious nose-bridle, after the style of the Mexican <ixml:lang="es">borsal</i>. In another he was upon the horse’s back and off at a splendid lope, giving the animal free choice of direction. “He will take me somewhere,” said Chicken to himself.</p>
<p>It would have been a thing of joy, that untrammelled gallop over the moonlit prairie, even to Chicken, who loathed exertion, but that his mood was not for it. His head ached; a growing thirst was upon him; the “somewhere” whither his lucky mount might convey him was full of dismal peradventure.</p>
<p>And now he noted that the horse moved to a definite goal. Where the prairie lay smooth he kept his course straight as an arrow’s toward the east. Deflected by hill or arroyo or impractical spinous brakes, he quickly flowed again into the current, charted by his unerring instinct. At last, upon the side of a gentle rise, he suddenly subsided to a complacent walk. A stone’s cast away stood a little mott of coma trees; beneath it a jacal such as the Mexicans erect—a one-room house of upright poles daubed with clay and roofed with grass or tule reeds. An experienced eye would have estimated the spot as the headquarters of a small sheep ranch. In the moonlight the ground in the nearby corral showed pulverized to a level smoothness by the hoofs of the sheep. Everywhere was carelessly distributed the paraphernalia of the place—ropes, bridles, saddles, sheep pelts, wool sacks, feed troughs, and camp litter. The barrel of drinking water stood in the end of the two-horse wagon near the door. The harness was piled, promiscuous, upon the wagon tongue, soaking up the dew.</p>
<p>Chicken slipped to earth, and tied the horse to a tree. He halloed again and again, but the house remained quiet. The door stood open, and he entered cautiously. The light was sufficient for him to see that no one was at home. The room was that of a bachelor ranchman who was content with the necessaries of life. Chicken rummaged intelligently until he found what he had hardly dared hope for—a small, brown jug that still contained something near a quart of his desire.</p>
<p>Del Delano entered Mike’s alone. So nearly concealed in a fur-lined overcoat and a derby two sizes too large for him was Prince Lightfoot that you saw of his face only his pale, hatchet-edged features and a pair of unwinking, cold, light blue eyes. Nearly every man lounging at Mike’s bar recognized the renowned product of the West Side. To those who did not, wisdom was conveyed by prodding elbows and growls of one-sided introduction.</p>
<p>Upon Charley, one of the bartenders, both fame and fortune descended simultaneously. He had once been honored by shaking hands with the great Delano at a Seventh Avenue boxing bout. So with lungs of brass he now cried: “Hallo, Del, old man; what’ll it be?”</p>
<p>Mike, the proprietor, who was cranking the cash register, heard. On the next day he raised Charley’s wages five a week.</p>
<p>Del Delano drank a pony beer, paying for it carelessly out of his nightly earnings of $42.85–5/7. He nodded amiably but coldly at the long line of Mike’s patrons and strolled past them into the rear room of the café. For he heard in there sounds pertaining to his own art—the light, stirring staccato of a buck-and-wing dance.</p>
<p>Del Delano drank a pony beer, paying for it carelessly out of his nightly earnings of $42.85⁵⁄₇. He nodded amiably but coldly at the long line of Mike’s patrons and strolled past them into the rear room of the café. For he heard in there sounds pertaining to his own art—the light, stirring staccato of a buck-and-wing dance.</p>
<p>In the back room Mac McGowan was giving a private exhibition of the genius of his feet. A few young men sat at tables looking on critically while they amused themselves seriously with beer. They nodded approval at some new fancy steps of Mac’s own invention.</p>
<p>At the sight of the great Del Delano, the amateur’s feet stuttered, blundered, clicked a few times, and ceased to move. The tongues of one’s shoes become tied in the presence of the Master. Mac’s sallow face took on a slight flush.</p>
<p>From the uncertain cavity between Del Delano’s hat brim and the lapels of his high fur coat collar came a thin puff of cigarette smoke and then a voice:</p>
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