“There is noticeable in the new (and somewhat
incongruous) portico erected by Solomon Tibbs at the
residence of Mr. Henry Tibbs Willetts, an attempt
at rococo decoration which cannot fail to sadden the
passer-by.”
“Miss Sherwood of Rouen, whom Miss Briscoe knew
at the Misses Jennings’ finishing-school in
New York, is a guest of Judge Briscoe’s household.”
Fisbee’s items were written in ink; and there
was a blank space beneath the last. At the bottom
of the page something had been scribbled in pencil.
Harkless tried vainly to decipher it, but the twilight
had fallen too deep, and the writing was too faint,
so he struck a match and held it close to the paper.
The action betokened only a languid interest, but when
he caught sight of the first of the four subscribed
lines he sat up straight in his chair with an ejaculation.
At the bottom of Fisbee’s page was written in
a dainty, feminine hand, of a type he had not seen
for years:
“‘The time has
come,’ the Walrus said,
’To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and
sealing-wax—
And cabbages—and kings—’”
He put the paper in his pocket, and set off rapidly
down the village street.
At his departure William Todd looked up quickly; then
he got upon his feet and quietly followed the editor.
In the dusk a tattered little figure rose up from
the weeds across the way, and stole noiselessly after
William. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his waistcoat
unbuttoned and loose. On the nearest corner Mr.
Todd encountered a fellow-townsman, who had been pacing
up and down in front of a cottage, crooning to a protestive
baby held in his arms. He had paused in his vigil
to stare after Harkless.
“Whereas he bound for, William?” inquired
the man with the baby.
“Briscoes’,” answered William, pursuing
his way.
“I reckoned he would be,” commented the
other, turning to his wife, who sat on the doorstep,
“I reckoned so when I see that lady at the lecture
last night.”
The woman rose to her feet. “Hi, Bill Todd!”
she said. “What you got onto
the back of your vest?” William paused, put
his hand behind him and
encountered a paper pinned to the dangling strap of
his waistcoat. The
woman ran to him and unpinned the paper. It bore
a writing. They took it
to where the yellow lamp-light shone through the open
door, and read:
“der
Sir
“FoLer
harkls aL yo ples an gaRd him yoR best venagesn is
closteR, harkls not Got 3 das to liv
“We
come in Wite.”
“What ye think, William?” asked the man
with the baby, anxiously. But the woman gave
the youth a sharp push with her hand. “They
never dast to do it!” she cried. “Never
in the world! You hurry, Bill Todd. Don’t
you leave him out of your sight one second.”
AT THE PASTURE BARS: ELDER-BUSHES MAY HAVE STINGS
