From 36b2b27d32bcf50a4da269a7680092c633310b2e Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: vr8ce Date: Sun, 15 Mar 2020 11:03:50 -0500 Subject: [PATCH] Remove attribution lines from new stories --- src/epub/text/a-houston-romance.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/a-mystery-of-many-centuries.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/a-new-microbe.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/a-night-errant.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/a-story-for-men.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/a-strange-case.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/a-tragedy.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/an-odd-character.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/an-unknown-romance.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/barbershop-adventure.xhtml | 1 - .../text/binkleys-practical-school-of-journalism.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/how-she-got-in-the-swim.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/how-willie-saved-father.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/in-mezzotint.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/jack-the-giant-killer.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/led-astray.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/nothing-new-under-the-sun.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/paderewskis-hair.xhtml | 7 ++++--- src/epub/text/simmons-saturday-night.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/sufficient-provocation.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/the-barber-talks.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/the-bruised-reed.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/the-dissipated-jeweler.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/the-legend-of-san-jacinto.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/the-mirage-on-the-frio.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/the-pint-flask.xhtml | 1 - src/epub/text/vereton-villa.xhtml | 3 +-- src/epub/text/whiskey-did-it.xhtml | 1 - 28 files changed, 5 insertions(+), 31 deletions(-) diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-houston-romance.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-houston-romance.xhtml index ed526ab..067126e 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-houston-romance.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-houston-romance.xhtml @@ -24,7 +24,6 @@

“In heaven’s name,” said his friend, “what brought you here to bury yourself forever from the world; why did you leave your friends and pleasures to pass your days in this dreary place?”

“Listen,” said the monk, “and I will tell you. I am now supremely and ecstatically happy. I have attained the goal of my desires. Look at this robe.” He glanced proudly at the dark, severe robe that swept downward from his waist in graceful folds.

“I am one man,” he continued, “who has arrived at the fruition of his dearest earthly hopes. I have got something on at least that will not bag at the knees.”

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, November 24, 1895.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-mystery-of-many-centuries.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-mystery-of-many-centuries.xhtml index 69424d6..54cb0f2 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-mystery-of-many-centuries.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-mystery-of-many-centuries.xhtml @@ -19,7 +19,6 @@

The other, day the Post Man saw a nice, clean-minded old gentleman, who is of the old school of cavaliers, and who is loath to see woman come down from the pedestal on which he has always viewed her.

He was watching a lady bicycle rider go by. The Post Man asked him what he thought.

“I never see a lady on a bicycle,” said he, “but I am reminded of God, for they certainly move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.”

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 10, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-new-microbe.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-new-microbe.xhtml index a9dd137..45fe2a7 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-new-microbe.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-new-microbe.xhtml @@ -27,7 +27,6 @@

“Funny little round things, ain’t they?” she said. “Are they injurious to the system?”

“Sure death. Get one of ’em in your alimentary canal and you’re a goner. I’m going to write to the London Lancet and the New York Academy of Sciences tonight. What shall we call ’em, Ellen? Let’s see⁠—Ellenobes, or Ellenites, or what?”

“Oh, John, you wretch!” shrieked his wife, as she caught sight of the tin bucket on the table. “You’ve got my bucket of Galveston oysters that I bought to take to the church supper! Microbes, indeed!”

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, December 15, 1895.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-night-errant.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-night-errant.xhtml index 69e6437..b1a7aff 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-night-errant.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-night-errant.xhtml @@ -64,7 +64,6 @@

“Dat man what left de stuff, mammy, he couldn’t have been God, for God don’t get full; but if it wasn’t him, mammy, I bet a dollar he was Dan Stuart.”

As the Post Man trudges back along the dark road to the city, he says to himself:

“We have seen tonight good springing up where we would never have looked for it, and something of a mystery all the way from Alabama. Heigho! this is a funny little world.”

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning;, March 1, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-story-for-men.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-story-for-men.xhtml index 88ac654..478c860 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-story-for-men.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-story-for-men.xhtml @@ -31,7 +31,6 @@

She hastily put on her hat and cloak and said:

“Now, be good children till I come back.” Then she went out, locked the door and hurried away to Mrs. Flutter’s.

That is all.

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, December 15, 1895.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-strange-case.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-strange-case.xhtml index 883e2a5..8c99a12 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-strange-case.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-strange-case.xhtml @@ -34,7 +34,6 @@

“It was simply to wear a pair of bloomers,” said the young physician. “You see by separating the opposing factions harmony was restored. The Adams and the Redmond divisions no longer clashed, and the cure of the patient was complete. Let me see,” continued the physician, “it is nearly half past seven, and I have an engagement to call upon her at eight. In confidence, I may say that she has consented to change her name to mine at an early date. I would not have you repeat what I have told you, of course.”

“To be sure, I will not,” said the reporter. “But won’t you take another lemo⁠—”

“No, no, thank you,” said the doctor, rising hurriedly, “I must go. Good evening. I will see you again in a few days.”

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 3, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-tragedy.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-tragedy.xhtml index ef4ecc3..6ae538b 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-tragedy.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-tragedy.xhtml @@ -23,7 +23,6 @@

“I have said it, oh, Caliph. It is too gross.”

The Caliph made a sign: Mesrour, the executioner, whirled his scimeter through the air and the head of Scheherezade rolled upon the floor. The Caliph pulled his beard and muttered softly to himself:

“I knew all the time that 288 is two gross, but puns don’t go anywhere in my jurisdiction at present.”

-

(Houston Daily Post, Friday morning, November 8, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/an-odd-character.xhtml b/src/epub/text/an-odd-character.xhtml index 435a224..7bf1202 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/an-odd-character.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/an-odd-character.xhtml @@ -45,7 +45,6 @@

He unrolled it, took something from it between his thumb and finger and thrust it into his mouth.

The sickly, faint, sweet odor of gum opium reached the reporter.

The mystery about the tramp was solved.

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning-, May 24, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/an-unknown-romance.xhtml b/src/epub/text/an-unknown-romance.xhtml index ec5a59f..bf18210 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/an-unknown-romance.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/an-unknown-romance.xhtml @@ -25,7 +25,6 @@

Miss Augusta Vance had flown from the irritating presence of fussy female friends and hysterical relatives to her boudoir for a few moments’ quiet. She had no letters to burn; no past to bury. Her mother was in an ecstasy of delight, for the family millions had brought them places in the front row of Vanity Fair.

Her marriage to Pelham Van Winkler was to be at high noon. Miss Vance fell suddenly into a dreamy reverie. She recalled a trip she had taken with her family a year before, to Europe, and her mind dwelt lingeringly upon a week they had spent among the foothills of the Alps in the cottage of a Swiss mountaineer. One evening at twilight she had gone with a pitcher across the road and filled it from a spring. She had fancied to put on that day the peasant costume of Babette, the daughter of their host. It had become her well, with her long braid of light-gold hair and blue eyes. A hunter had crossed the road as she was returning⁠—an Alpine chamois hunter, strong, stalwart, bronzed and free. She had looked up and caught his eyes, and his held hers. She went on, and still those magnetic eyes claimed her own. The door of the cottage had opened and voices called. She started and obeyed the impulse to tear a bunch of gentians from her bosom and throw them to him. He had caught them, and springing forward gave her an edelweiss flower. Not since that evening had the image of that chamois hunter left her. Surely fate had led him to her, and he seemed a man among men. But Miss Augusta Vance, with a dowry of five millions, could not commit the folly of thinking of a common hunter of the Alps mountains.

Miss Vance arose and opened a gold locket that lay upon her dressing case. She took from it a faded edelweiss flower and slowly crumpled it to dust between her fingers. Then she rang for her maid, as the church bells began to chime outside for the marriage.

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/barbershop-adventure.xhtml b/src/epub/text/barbershop-adventure.xhtml index 69692b3..e7ebc84 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/barbershop-adventure.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/barbershop-adventure.xhtml @@ -72,7 +72,6 @@

“ ‘As much like as two peas,’ said the man. ‘They were twins, and nobody could tell ’em apart from their faces or their talk. The only difference between ’em was that one of ’em was as bald-headed as a hen egg and the other had plenty of hair.’ ”

“Now,” said the barber as he poured about two ounces of bay rum down the Post Man’s shirt front, “that’s how I account for it. The bald-headed Plunket would come in my shop one time and the one with hair would come in another, and I never knew the difference.”

When the barber finished the Post Man saw the African with the whisk broom waiting for him near the front door, so he fled by the back entrance, climbed a brick wall and escaped by a side street.

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, June 7, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/binkleys-practical-school-of-journalism.xhtml b/src/epub/text/binkleys-practical-school-of-journalism.xhtml index b21552d..feffb9b 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/binkleys-practical-school-of-journalism.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/binkleys-practical-school-of-journalism.xhtml @@ -71,7 +71,6 @@

“I must tell you,” said the Post Man, “that I don’t believe your story at all.”

The ragged man replied sadly and reproachfully: “Did I not pay my last dollar for refreshments while telling it to you? Have I asked you for anything?”

“Well,” said the Post Man, after reflecting a while, “it may be true, but⁠—”

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, February 16, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/how-she-got-in-the-swim.xhtml b/src/epub/text/how-she-got-in-the-swim.xhtml index 7faf311..911f1bb 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/how-she-got-in-the-swim.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/how-she-got-in-the-swim.xhtml @@ -30,7 +30,6 @@

Mrs. St. Bibbs took her husband’s arm with a sweet smile.

“All right, George,” she said, “I just wanted you to see that this town can’t put up no society shindigs that are too high up for me to tackle. I once spent two weeks in Galveston, and I generally catch on to what’s proper as quick as anybody.”

At present there are no two society people in town more sought after and admired than George St. Bibbs and his accomplished wife.

-

(Houston Daily Post, Monday morning, May 18, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/how-willie-saved-father.xhtml b/src/epub/text/how-willie-saved-father.xhtml index accdb11..a3b5036 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/how-willie-saved-father.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/how-willie-saved-father.xhtml @@ -49,7 +49,6 @@

Mr. Flint sank into a peaceful slumber and his fever left him. The next day he was able to sit up, and feeling much stronger, when Willie told him whose rent it was he had raised.

Mr. Flint then fell dead.

Alas! messieurs, life is full of disappointments!

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 3, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/in-mezzotint.xhtml b/src/epub/text/in-mezzotint.xhtml index 53867e0..1d8eb25 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/in-mezzotint.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/in-mezzotint.xhtml @@ -30,7 +30,6 @@

The light in his wife’s room was turned low, and she lay upon her bed undressed. As he stepped to her side and raised her hand, some steel instrument fell and jingled upon the floor, and he saw upon the white countenance a creeping red horror that froze his blood.

He sprang to the lamp and turned up the blaze. As he parted his lips to send forth a shout, he paused for a moment, with his eyes upon his dead patient’s half ticket that lay upon the table. The other half had been neatly fitted to it, and it now read:

ADMIT TWO

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/jack-the-giant-killer.xhtml b/src/epub/text/jack-the-giant-killer.xhtml index 856a511..4ecd750 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/jack-the-giant-killer.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/jack-the-giant-killer.xhtml @@ -36,7 +36,6 @@

“Tan ’ou tell me de ’tory about Dack de Diant Killer?” asked the little girl.

Just then the lady came out, and the little girl jumped down and ran to her. They had a little consultation, and as they went out the door the staff heard the lady say:

“B’ess urn’s heart, muzzer will tell ums all about Jack when us gets home.”

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, January 19, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/led-astray.xhtml b/src/epub/text/led-astray.xhtml index ac91d5b..d298be5 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/led-astray.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/led-astray.xhtml @@ -75,7 +75,6 @@

“I have first,” he said, “a duty to perform.” He knelt before the whiskey keg, closed his mouth over the faucet and turned on the handle.

Sing, happy birds, in the green trees, but your songs make not half the melody that ripples in the glad heart of little Kathleen.

When Fergus arose from the keg, he was the same old Fergus once more. He gathered his bride to his heart, and Mr. O’Malley fired both barrels of his gun into the ceiling with joy. Fergus was rescued.

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, April 19, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/nothing-new-under-the-sun.xhtml b/src/epub/text/nothing-new-under-the-sun.xhtml index 0dd42b3..317379c 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/nothing-new-under-the-sun.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/nothing-new-under-the-sun.xhtml @@ -27,7 +27,6 @@

“It’s peculiar stuff. I can’t just make it out. Look at his hand; he’s got an old newspaper in it gripped like a vise.”

He stoops and forces the old paper from the cold fingers. He examines it from curiosity and dully stumbles upon the truth.

“Say, Bill,” he says, “here’s a funny thing. This old newspaper’s got an article in it very near exactly the same as that thing the gent wrote himself.”

-

(Houston Daily Post, Friday morning, November 29, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/paderewskis-hair.xhtml b/src/epub/text/paderewskis-hair.xhtml index 2823925..11f37fa 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/paderewskis-hair.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/paderewskis-hair.xhtml @@ -21,7 +21,8 @@

“ ‘If I had a pair of gloves, I’d soon prove I am right,’ said Nat.

“ ‘I wish you had,’ said John. ‘In a minute you wouldn’t know anything.’

“ ‘You couldn’t stand up two minutes before a man who knew the first principles of boxing,’ said Goodwin. ‘Your weight and your rush are the only points in your favor.’

-

“ ‘If we just had some gloves!’ said John, grinding his teeth.

+

“ ‘If we just had some gloves!’ said John, grinding his teeth.

+

“They both turned and looked at Paderewski as if by common consent.

“Paderewski at that time had coal black hair, as smooth and straight as an Indian’s, that hung down his back in a thick mass.

“Sullivan and Goodwin sprang upon him at the same time. I don’t know which of them did it, but there was the flash of a knife, and in two seconds Paderewski was scalped as neatly as a Comanche Indian could have done it.

@@ -48,7 +49,8 @@

“It seemed that it had been a mighty bad year on the sheep men, and they were feeling gloomy and disheartened over the prospects. The great trouble in Australia is this: The whole continent is overrun with a prolific breed of rabbits that feed upon the grass and shrubs, sometimes completely destroying all vegetation within large areas. The government has a standing offer of something like 50,000 pounds for a plan by which these rabbits can be destroyed, but nothing has ever been discovered that will do the work.

“During years when these rabbits are unusually destructive, the sheep men suffer great losses by not having sufficient range for their sheep. At the time of our visit the rabbits had almost ruined the country. A few herds of sheep were trying to subsist by nibbling the higher branches that the rabbits could not reach, but many of the flocks had to be driven far into the interior. The people were feeling very sore and blue, and it made them angry to even hear anybody mention a rabbit.

“About noon we stopped for lunch near the outskirts of a little village, and the prince’s servants spread a fine cold dinner of potted game, pati de foie gras, and cold fowls. The prince had ordered a large lot of wines to be sent along, and we had a merry repast.

-

“The villagers and sheep raisers loafed around by the hundred, watching us; and a hungry-looking, starved-out lot they were.

+

“The villagers and sheep raisers loafed around by the hundred, watching us; and a hungry-looking, starved-out lot they were.

+

“Now, there isn’t a more vivacious, genial and convivial man in the world than Hermann, the great prestidigitateur. He was the life of the party, and as soon as the prince’s wine began to mellow him up, he began to show off his tricks. He threw things in the air that disappeared from sight, changed water into liquids of all colors, cooked an omelet in a hat; and pretty soon we were surrounded by a gaping, awestruck lot of bushmen, both natives and English born.

“Hermann was pleased with the open-mouthed attention he was creating, so he walked out into an open space where he could face them all, and began drawing rabbits out of his sleeves, his coat collar, his pockets by the half dozen. He threw them down, and as fast as they could scamper away the great magician kept on pulling out more rabbits to the view of the astonished natives.

“Suddenly, with a loud yell, the sheep raisers seized clubs and stones and drawing their long sheath knives, rushed upon our party.

@@ -59,7 +61,6 @@

“I understand DeWolf Hopper is going to dramatize the incident, and will produce it next season, appearing as a Kangaroo.

“Coxey was caught on the edge of a little stream which he refused to enter, and the natives dragged him before an English justice of the peace who released him the next day. The prince took the whole thing as a good joke. He is an all round good fellow and no mistake.

“Sometime,” said Colonel Pollock, as he rose to receipt for a telegram, “I will tell you about an adventure I had among the Catacombs of Rome, along with Ralph Waldo Emerson, Barney Gibbs and the Shah of Persia.” Colonel Pollock leaves on the night train for San Antonio on his way to the City of Mexico.

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning:, January 26, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/simmons-saturday-night.xhtml b/src/epub/text/simmons-saturday-night.xhtml index 8b79c37..a66ba8c 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/simmons-saturday-night.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/simmons-saturday-night.xhtml @@ -119,7 +119,6 @@

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I invite you all when in New York to call at my joint, at 2508 Bowery. Ask for Diamond Joe, and you’ll see me. I’m going into Mexico for two weeks to see after my mining plants and I’ll be at home any time after then. Upstairs, 2508 Bowery; don’t forget the number. I generally make my traveling expenses as I go. Good night.”

Mr. Simmons backed quickly out and disappeared.

Five minutes later Captain Richard Saxon Clancy, paymaster (?) for the M. K. & T. Railway Company, and member (?) of the Dallas Young Men’s Christian Association, alias “Jimmy,” stood at a corner bar and said: “Whiskey, old man, and⁠—say get a bigger glass than that, will you? I need it.”

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, April 12, 1896)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/sufficient-provocation.xhtml b/src/epub/text/sufficient-provocation.xhtml index 5eed0ed..8e6094d 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/sufficient-provocation.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/sufficient-provocation.xhtml @@ -18,7 +18,6 @@

“Keep still,” said the recorder sternly. “Go on with your statement.”

“I wuz playin’ en up comes dis here coon what I hit. He am pow’ful jealous ob my playin’ en he wuz mad ’coz de flo’ committee selected me to puhfahm. While I wuz playin’ dis obstrepelous coon came right close up to me en he say: ‘Watermillions be gittin’ ripe now in nudder mont’. I keeps on playin’. He says: ‘Sposin’ you had a great big ripe watermillion, wid red meat en black seeds.’ I keeps on playin’. He says: ‘You take him en bus him open on a rock, en you scoop up a big han’ful ob de heart, en you look all roun’ en nobody come.’ I keeps on playin. He says: ‘You cram de heart in yo’ mouf, en crunch down on hit, en de juice hit run down yo’ ahm en hit run down yo’ chin to yo’ neck, en de sweetness run down you’ th’oat.’ Den my mouf water so it fill dat French hahp plum full, en de music stop, en de flo’ committee look aroun’. Den I up wit a chair en bus’ dis coon ober de head, en I flings myself on de mussy ob dis co’t, kase, Mars Judge, you knows what dese here sandy lan’ watermillions is yo’sef.”

“Get out of here, both of you,” said the recorder. “Next case.”

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/the-barber-talks.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-barber-talks.xhtml index fae7892..a515661 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/the-barber-talks.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-barber-talks.xhtml @@ -41,7 +41,6 @@

“Him?” said the barber, “why he died, of course, but he died with one of the beautifulest shaves that ever a man had.⁠—Brush!”

An African of terrible aspect bore down upon the Post Man, struck him violently with the stub of a whisk broom, seized his coat at the back and ripped it loose from its collar.

“Call again,” growled the barber in a voice of the deepest menace, as the scribe made a rush for the door and escaped.

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 31, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/the-bruised-reed.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-bruised-reed.xhtml index dc4f9f4..ae9cf0e 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/the-bruised-reed.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-bruised-reed.xhtml @@ -26,7 +26,6 @@

“His wonderful, magnetic influence is as powerful to move the hearts of his roughest, most unlettered hearer, as it is to touch a responsive chord in the cultured brain of the man of refinement and taste.”

“And my sermon,” said the preacher, laying his delicate finger tips one against the other, and allowing the adulation even of this being to run with a slight exhilaration through his veins. “Did it awaken in you any remorse for the life of sin you have led, or bring any light of Divine pity and pardon to your soul, as He promises even unto the most degraded and wicked of creation?”

“Yer sermon, reverend?” asked the being, carrying a trembling hand to the disfiguring wounds upon his face. “Do you see them cuts and them bruises? Do you know where I got ’em? I never heard yer sermon. I got dese cuts on de rocks outside when de cop and yer usher fired me out de church. De bruised reed He will not quench, an’ de smokin’ flax He will not ‘stinguish. Has you anything to say, reverend?

-

(Houston Dally Post, Sunday morning, December 1, 1895.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/the-dissipated-jeweler.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-dissipated-jeweler.xhtml index 04d8386..2c6bd97 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/the-dissipated-jeweler.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-dissipated-jeweler.xhtml @@ -73,7 +73,6 @@

“James H. Miggles, alias Slick Simon, alias The Weeping Widow, alias Bunco Kate, alias Jimmy the Sneak, General confidence man and burglar. Works generally in female disguises. Very plausible and dangerous. Wanted in Kansas City, Oshkosh, New Orleans and Milwaukee.”

This is why Mr. Thomas Keeling did not continue his detective business in Houston.

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/the-legend-of-san-jacinto.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-legend-of-san-jacinto.xhtml index a914299..fcda3aa 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/the-legend-of-san-jacinto.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-legend-of-san-jacinto.xhtml @@ -34,7 +34,6 @@

“ ‘ “ ‘ “ ‘ “ ‘ “My son, I am growing old and will not be with you long. There is an old legend connected with this ground, and I feel that it should be told you. A long time ago, before you were born my grandfather one day⁠—” ’ ” ’ ” ’ ” ’ ”

“See here, you old blatherskite,” said the Post reporter, “you’ve got this story back about 600 years before the Pontius Pilate’s time now. Don’t you know a news item from an inscription on the pyramids? Our paper doesn’t use plate matter. Why don’t you work this gag of yours off on the syndicates?”

The aged hermit then frowned and reached under his coat tail, and the reporter ran swiftly, but in a dignified manner, to the Hoodoo Jane and embarked. But there is a legend about the San Jacinto battle ground somewhere in the neighborhood, if one could only get at it.

-

(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, April 19, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/the-mirage-on-the-frio.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-mirage-on-the-frio.xhtml index f770c48..221c688 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/the-mirage-on-the-frio.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-mirage-on-the-frio.xhtml @@ -31,7 +31,6 @@

“I’ve told you all I know,” said the sheep man. “Sallie said the man dropped all of a sudden while he was choppin’ at the door, and she never heard no gun shoot. I don’t pretend to explain nothin’, I’m telling you what happened. You might say somebody in the brush seen him breakin’ in the door and shot him, usin’ noiseless powder, and then slipped away without leavin’ his card, or you might say you don’t know nothin’ at all about it, as I do.”

“Do you think⁠—” began the young man.

“No, I don’t think,” said the sheep man, rather shortly. “I said I’d tell you about the mi-ridge I seen, and I told you just as it happened. Is they any coffee left in that pot?”

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(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, April 19, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/the-pint-flask.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-pint-flask.xhtml index ee2f1f8..c05070a 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/the-pint-flask.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-pint-flask.xhtml @@ -51,7 +51,6 @@

He hurled the flask at the minister and it struck him on the ear and broke into twenty pieces. The minister let out a yell and turned and ran back to his house.

The colonel gathered a pile of stones and hid among the tall weeds, resolved to fight the whole town as long as his ammunition held out. His hard luck had made him desperate. An hour later three mounted policemen got into the weeds, and the colonel surrendered. He had cooled off by that time enough to explain matters, and as he was well known to be a perfectly sober and temperate citizen, he was allowed to go home.

But you can’t get him to pick up a bottle now, empty or full.

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(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/vereton-villa.xhtml b/src/epub/text/vereton-villa.xhtml index 744d68c..8abb1cb 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/vereton-villa.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/vereton-villa.xhtml @@ -62,7 +62,7 @@

When the supper bell rang I was invited into a long, lofty room, wainscoted with dark oak and lighted by paraffine candles.

Aubrey DeVere sat at the foot of the table and carved. He had taken off his coat, and his clinging undershirt revealed every muscle of a torso as grand as that of the Dying Gladiator in the Vatican at Rome. The supper was truly a Southern one. At one end was an enormous grinning opossum and sweet potatoes, while the table was covered with dishes of cabbage, fried chicken, fruit cake, persimmons, hot raw biscuits, blackhaws, Maypops, fried catfish, maple syrup, hominy, ice cream, sausages, bananas, crackling bread, pineapples, squashes, wild grapes and apple pies.

Pete, the colored man, waited upon us, and once in handing Mr. DeVere the gravy he spilled a little of it upon the tablecloth. With a yell like a tiger, Aubrey DeVere sprang to his feet and hurled his carving knife to the handle in Pete’s breast. The poor colored man fell to the floor, and I ran and lifted his head.

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“Goodbye, missie,” he whispered. “I hear de angels singing, and I sees de bressed Mars Abraham Linkum smilin’ at me from near de great white th’one. Goodbye missie, OP Pete am goin’ home.’>

+

“Goodbye, missie,” he whispered. “I hear de angels singing, and I sees de bressed Mars Abraham Linkum smilin’ at me from near de great white th’one. Goodbye missie, OP Pete am goin’ home.’>

I rose and faced Mr. DeVere.

“Inhuman monster!” I cried. “You have killed him!”

He touched a silver bell and another servant appeared.

@@ -107,7 +107,6 @@

One of his great toes fell through the car window and fell in my lap.

Cyrus is not of a jealous disposition, and I now have that great toe in a bottle of alcohol on my writing desk. We are married now, and I will never taken another trip to the South.

The Southern people are too impulsive.

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(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 10, 1896.)

diff --git a/src/epub/text/whiskey-did-it.xhtml b/src/epub/text/whiskey-did-it.xhtml index afaa868..a9f5bcf 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/whiskey-did-it.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/whiskey-did-it.xhtml @@ -16,7 +16,6 @@

“It done it in dis way,” said the negro, ducking his head as the policeman raised his hand to brush a fly off his nose. “I is one ob de wust niggers in dis town, en dey don’t no policeman got sand ’nuff to try en ’rest me fo’ de last two years. Dis mawnin’ dis here mis’able little dried-up ossifer what’s got me, goes out an’ fills hisse’f up wid mean whisky till he ain’t know what danger he am in, an’ he come an’ scoop me up. Dis little runt wid brass buttons wouldn’t er tetch me ef he ain’t plum full er whisky. Yes, boss, de whisky am done it, an’ nuffin’ else.”

The philanthropist put up his note book and walked away, while the officer whacked the negro over the head a couple of times with his club and dragged him down the steps, exclaiming:

“Come along ‘n shuzzer mouse, you blacksh rascal. Strongarm e’r law gossher zis time, ‘n no mistake.”

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(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)