STATEMENT: TO PRESS AND PUBLIC—CRITICS AND DEFENDERS—AND SUPREME COURT OF U.S.A.—
“I, Luke V. Brister,” began the Sheriff thoughtfully, “bein’ of sound mind an’ mem’ry—no, leave that out, Hick—that’s fur a will!—however, dang it, leave it in—’caze even my mind’ll git ’ttacked by my en’mies—all right!—I, Luke V. Brister, havin’ helt today—on Bleeker’s Island—knowed also as Destiny’s Stage—an’ leg’lly as U.S. Island 46-VII-B—havin’ helt a co’te ’thout ju’sdiction o’ the higher co’tes, an out’n the—the ’cisions o’ which a man has gotter drownd, wishes to tell the Great Amerycan Pub-lick how this co’te happened to git helt, an’ the results o’ sich holdin’—and why I, as—as—as jedge tharof, give the ’cision which I’m now ’bout to give—and which’ll cost one man his life, that man being a crim’nal named Har—”
But now the Sheriff, who had never dictated anything in his life, found himself in the usual trouble of dictationists!
“Put the date in back thar som’ere, will you, Hick?” he said hastily. “’Cludin’ the month an’ year?”
“In,” announced Hick curtly, making some pothooks near the top of his page.
“An’ this hyar statement,” the Sheriff managed to begin again, “is also a brief to you Hon’rble Gentl’men what constitutes the Soo-preme Co’te of these U-nited States, fur the valid’ty o’ my ’cision’ll git ’tacked, and they’ll likely be one or more co’te cases based on a—a hyp’theetical mistake what I hain’t really made no-how! And you gents’ll hatter ’cide whether I had a mo’al right to holt this co’te, and whether the basis what I made my ’cision on was a log’cal one. Fur I—”
“Might I—um—suggest, Sheriff,” said Hick, “that you get to whatever you want to maintain, since—well, that is, you’ve used up 100 words already.”
“Have—I?” echoed the Sheriff blankly. “Well, I’ll be damned! Thought I hadn’t spouted more’n a dozen. All right. I’ll watch that. An’ now fur to b’ile facts ’way down.”
He drew a deep breath and valiantly launched forth again.
“I—I—I,” he said, “stopped off at this hyar island t’day—no, Hick, I had oughter start back o’ that—so put it this way:—I left Shelby’s Bluff today, in th’ red pol-eece launch, aroun’ 9 a.m.—th’ minute the sun come out, and knocked the lingerin’ night-mists galley west—to go ’crost river an’ down so’s to catch me a train at Griffinstown, back o’ Griffins Landing Stage, and go see m’ sister who’s living west at Carsontow—however,” the Sheriff broke off. “sence I never got thar, Hick, just leave that out. Now we’ll begin again! I brung ’ith me a flar’—on’y one that ’uz left in the Shelby’s Bluff hardware store—a flar’ what ’uz to be th’owed into the river by me on’y when I had did ’zackly what I come fur to do!—and had pulled off safe, in the launch, towards Griffins Stage—and had with me any trespassers ef by any chance they was any! And the light from which flar’ ’uz to he cotched by Old Man Bromley, a-watchin’ in the belfery o’ the Baptis’ Chu’ch, that bein’ because o’ sartin sarcum-stances—the on’y p’int as the island kin be seed from even ef the day is clar. Sence—ahem—skip all that last stuff, Hick—I seem to be gettin’ out on a limb! Now I will start! Well, I beached m’ launch snug on th’ rocky p’int o’ this island, the time bein’, I reckon, ’bout 10 minutes atter 9. I didn’t look at my turnip, no, but it on’y takes ’bout 5 minutes to make the run in a powerboat from th’ landin’ stage on Snake Inlet whar Shelby’s Bluff really is. I wuz payin’ more ’tention to the fact that that comin’ out of that sun had all b’en a false alarm, fur when I started out, the island could be pra’tically seed from each shore, yet by the time I’d got thar, vis’bility had so drapped that you couldn’t see the bluff side shore no more, much less Mort’mer’s Grove back o’ which Shelby’s Bluff is hid like as ef ’twas—”
“Would such geography be—er—germane, Sheriff, to what you’re trying to set forth to the Supreme Court?”
“German? I don’t see nothin’ German ’bout it. But I do see as ’twould have no bearin’ on nothin’. So put in a little di’gram instead, whilst I’m fishin’ fur words. All right. Well, I landed, as I say—an’ landed fur th’ ’spress reason o’ retrievin’—on behalf of our Mayor and the McCo’niss Estate—and off’n the carkiss of—no—th’ co’rse—o’ Phi-laster McCo’niss what was interred in a pap’roid caskit here late yesterday atternoon, a diamont butt’fly pin, wuth ’bout $30,000, what our County Clerk an’ Mayor had found out last night got sekritly pinned to the und’side of his bur’al togy by his two old sarvants who ’z tryin’ to qualify fur some be-quests so’s—”
“Hadn’t we better just let it stand, Sheriff, that you came out here—to rescue a diamond butterfly pin?”
“God, yes!” said the Sheriff helplessly. “Well, whilst I ’uz ’zaminin’ and feelin’ onder McCo’niss’ buzzum, ’ith the pap’roid lid o’ his caskit shoved aside, an’, o’ co’se, the heavy lid o’ his trick vault up’ard, and even had the feel o’ the pin in my fingers, who should come rowin’ down on the island from ahind me, in a rowboat an’ with oars a-flopping, but—”
And now the Sheriff was lost a moment. Not, however, at the ludicrous memory he had of Abner Ezra Hick, with derby high on head, rowing down on the island, but rather at the grim picture he, the Sheriff, had conjured up for himself: namely, Philaster McCorniss’ dead cold marble-like face which, even though the eyes had been closed at the time, seemed to say: “Luke, don’t take my bauble!” But he pulled himself together, and went on.
“And as I ’uz feelin’ fur it and noticin’ th’ plumb empty-ness of his elygant vault an’ thinkin’ how they would a-b’en room fur another McCo’niss plumb onderneath the narrow marble slab whar he lay on—except that the pore man didn’t have no rel-tives in the world, and so he—”
“Sheriff,” remonstrated Hick, “wouldn’t what isn’t—better be left out?”
“Yeah,” said the Sheriff wearily, “strike it out. Now whar am I? Oh, yes. I’m whar you ’uz bearin’ down on me. Well, down come—and landed, ’bout midway o’ th’ east shore—landed ’caze he hatter land, seein’s th’ curr’nt ’uz so swift in the outer channel—a feller in a—a—darby hat an’ a kentri-fied suit o’ clo’s. Said landin’ bein’ at 9:18, ’caze, bein’ a law officer, I alluz obsarve, by m’ silver turnip, th’ time an’thing out-o’-th’-way hap—ne’ mind that last remark, Hick. What I say ’bout time an’ hours’ll hatter stand ’caze I say it an’ to hell with th’ hindmost! All-right. Well, I nat’r’lly s’arched you—that is, him—and hardly was done befo’ down come a man in a canoe, handlin’ it like a master—a man in a lineman’s coschume—that is, atter he shot it up on shore ’long-side th’ rowboat, he seemed to be a line—oh, drap some of them onnecessary words, Hick. I s’arched this feller, too. All this takin’ place from 9:22 on, when he landed. For—but an’ways, gents, to git to the p’int, whilst I ’uz questionin’ these two, up comes—an’ no mo’n 8 minutes later, ’twas—up comes a man in a yaller coughin’ 1-man launch. Man in a Mex’can suit. And that goddanged idjit, gents—so he’p me!—landin’ ’longside o’ whar them fus’ two boats ’uz tethered to a wooden stake, tosses a jackgrapple chain—that’s a chain, gents, what has barbs stickin’ out all over it—well, this goddanged idjit tosses a jackgrapple chain out so’s it lays plumb acrost them other two boats, an’ then, steppin’ out, with his en-gyne still a-runnin’, danged ef his fool boat didn’t slide out back from onder him, and its engyne reverse in some danged way, and shoot down-river draggin’ them other two boats like as if—like—like, b’God—”
“I’ll just put it,” said Hick hastily, “that the motor reversed—the launch jerked off and out—taking the other two boats off with it—and all disappeared in the fog.”
“That’s right—like two he-dogs followin’ a bitch dog in heat—put that in too. Soopreme Co’te or no Soopreme Co’te! Well, I s’arched this Mex’can, and, like the others, he hadn’t no gun. All had stories—yes!—why they’d b’en tryin’ to crost the river at flood. Skeered o’ me, it seems. Some of ’em, an’way.
“But now, gents, I hatter tell you ’bout what happened, with respect to so’thin’ what you’ve heered about, out thar in the world what’s lost to us, directly from the man what figgered in it. At 9:40 by my watch—just atter we’d noted vis’bility was gettin’ plumb wuss—’count we couldn’t see as fur over the waters as we had—down comes on the island a green launch with a ugly-lookin’ devil in it, with a rat-like face and a scar on it. And he chuffs right down on whar them boats had b’en drug off from, the whilst we’all stood, watchin’ th’ p’formance, a—a—a so’t o’ reception committee. And ef, gents, we hadn’t b’en the way we wuz, one of us shore would have noted who signaled that man! Fur somebody did, as you know. You even know who—but we don’t. Fur we ’uz spread out fanlike—and sort of ahind each other—Mr. Mex’can down in front, clostest to the water, arms wavin’—our lineman next ahind him, with arms folded—the kentryfied chap ahind him, thumbs, I onderstand, in his vest—and me ahind all of ’em ’ith the result I couldn’t see no more’n elbows. Well, this dirty dog, gents, takes one look at us all—his filthy mouth falls open—his eyes pop out’n his haid—and danged ef he don’t jerk on his engyne—reverse it—and go off and downstream like—like—like a bat out of—of—of—of—”
“Hades is the proper word, Sheriff, in a legal brief.”
“Hell is the word,” objected the Sheriff unsmilingly. “And whilst we ’uz figgerin’ fur this feller to come back, gents—thinkin’ ’twas a accidental reversing of his en-gyne—and dis-cossing th’ strangeness of it, we has a bad, bad, onus’al accident. The accident, gents, what has made us all daid men today! Fur—an’ this t’uk place jest at 10 o’clock—a huge daid tree—hund’ed feet long she was, ef she ’uz a foot—she musta b’en undercut off’n some bank by the flood—she shot up on th’ p’int of the island like a batterin’ ram—then pivoted ’round some broke-off nubbin what ’uz ’bout 10 feet from her front tip, and ’ith that 90-foot leever arm she had—and that current in the outer channel sweepin’ her like a pomphandle in hell, she jest plucked off my heavy red launch like ’twas a red aigshell. Why, gents—boat and tree ’uz goin’ past the island—each side—fo’ we all ever give a shout. And we ’uz marooned!
“And then, gents, so he’p me, this man I’ve b’en callin’ our Mex’can—though he ain’t sich—he up, in a kinda panic, and tossed out into the water that single flar’ what I had brung, an’ which I had sot atop the vault, ’caze ’twouldn’t fit in my pocket. That same flar’ what I’m plumb shore I spoke ’bout a w’ile back—though I also seem to ’member that I had Hick strike out all my words ’bout it, becaze—an’ways, ef’n Hick did strike out my fus’ words, I’ll say right hyar all over ag’in that ’twas a fog-piercin’ flare—ruther, y’ mought say, a mist-piercin’ flare, sence they hain’t really nothing that’ll pierce a real god-honest fog, not that they ain’t sich—strike out them fool obsarvations o’ mine, Hick—put it thisaway: ’twas jest a flare what—co’din’ to instroctions writ on it, same bein’ phoned by our Mayor to our hardware store man whar I picked it up befo’ comin’ out—I ’uz to toss into the water when I had retrieved that pin, safely cl’ared the island, and had any trespassers as mought be on it in my boat. And that signal, gents—in case Hick struck it out when I said it before—’uz bein’ watched fur by a watcher who t’uk his post sho’tly atter I pulled out, same bein’ Old Man Bromley—in the Baptist Chu’ch Belfery what jest overtops Mort’mer’s Grove cuttin’ off the town. And was cotched, that thar signal was, as you know—and we now know. And must a-b’en the last signal received in the Valley t’day. Fur the fog she started to increase then—and how!—to whar she now is, so’thin’ atter 3:30 in the atternoon. And God, gents, what a fog she is! It’s as ef the island and a little water ’round th’ aige is wropped in layers an’ layers of veils, and—”
“Careful, Sheriff,” cautioned Hick. “Objectivity in writing always involves words!”
“Yes, yes,” said the Sheriff hastily. “Well, Time passed. As Time has gotter do on a island with four men marooned. Waitin’ fur so’thin’—an’thing—to happen. Though I wasn’t idle. I tell these fellers all ’bout McCo’niss—an’ how he turned the Hel’cal Plow of his old man into a gas’line’ hell-popping plow—and how he made a forchune when he sold it to the Harvester Trust—an’ how he then re-tired to Shelby’s Bluff whar he ’uz borned and from whar he’d got t’uk away as a baby—and ’bout the sekrit sorror as many says was in th’ pore ol’ bachylor’s life—and how he bought this island—and how he lef’ a will providin’ that he be burrit out hyar, an’ in his trick vault to boot, so’s he wouldn’t mebbe git burrit alive—and how—oh, jest put it, goddang it, Hick, that I told you-all all ’bout McCo’niss—that’s right!—and ’bout Bleeker’s Island—and ever’thing. Watchin’ their answers, gents o’ th’ Soopreme Co’te—and figurin’ to cotch one of ’em as bein’ a grave-robber or so’thin’. But not cotching ’em in nothin’. An’ ’bout a qua’ter to 12 or so, we ’cides to tune in on a little all-metal raddio what had b’en lef’ ’longside McCo’niss’ vault, playin’ chu’ch music—not left accidental-like, gents o’ th’ Soopreme Co’te, like a sartin 3 life belts, what got left when the fun’al party piled off the island quick yesterday atternoon ’count o’ th’ night fog comin’ on—but on pu’pose; so we brung th’ raddio over to the marker-stone whar we ’uz all settin’, and tuned in on it, an’ i’God, gents, ef we didn’t find out, on the Valley station, that Cooperstown Dam ’way above ’uz all set to go down—and—and drownd one of us. ’Caze, you see, they wuz one belt too few fur all! But havin’, whilst fomblin’ around fur that station, caught a piece of a announcement from some Eclaw Club, in New York City, that a feller called Daily-Radio-News-Beat Tommy Topkins ’uz on his way uptown with a exclusive story ’bout a Midwest Sher’ff hurtlin’ down Big River in a red launch with 3 men, we nat’rally tuned in—’caze that Sher’ff must a-b’en me. And we couldn’t figger that ’un out!
“And what do we l’arn, gents? We l’arn, i’God, that we air hurtlin’ down-river in a red launch!—and that amongst us is a crim’nal named Hart—Al—‘Actor’—Hart—wanted fur bank-robbin’ an’ murder and breakin’ penitentiary a few months back. Fur it seems—as this feller Topkins explains—that the feller with the rat-face made Marysville, downriver, okay—cotched the ear of a New York newspaper man who was lookin’ fur flood pickters—and tolt him that he’d seed Actor Hart out hyar on the island—Hart havin’ b’en, as he ’splained, in the same cell with him in Folsom Pen. And, so this rat-faced feller even said, he’d cotched a signal from Hart to beat it quick. An’ claimed that—sekritly hatin’ Hart, he wanted to nail a part of some $22,500 reward on Hart that applied to locatin’ him on’y. And this newspaper man he called the Bluff and found that, b’God, they’d got m’ flare signal before the pea soup drapped down on everything, showin’ I’d at least cl’ared the island—and was headin’ downstream. Interpreeted in the face o’ all the clock-times involved—fur this rat-faced feller, it seems, had made note, on some turnip he had, that ’twas 9:40 when he tried to land out hyar—and ’twas 10:01 when our Mex-i-can had throwed my flare into the water—interpreeted, as I say, by the clock-readings, that signal could on’y mean that I had t’uk these 3 fellers, as was seed with me hyar, by this rat-faced feller, off with me! Why—they even found, gents, soon’s they rode back up to Shelby’s Bluff on the train—that some woman—named Mrs. Barnes—who lived in town so’s to drink our famous spring water fur her arthuritis, had b’en a-harborin’ Hart, fur 10 days or more, fur they found ev’dences in her attick—and found, mo’over, that she had 10 tronks of stolened theat’cal coschumes in her cellar. The newspaper man even ’dentified her as one Kansas City Fanny! But whilst this feller Topkins was tellin’ all this, danged ef a long-distance repo’t didn’t come in to him—via this hyar busy-bee friend of his’n as was kivverin’ the local sityation—but by way o’ some nearsighted Dutchman named Krankmeier, who had b’en despritly crossin’ the river in a launch to attend some co’te hearin’—that he—yes, this hyar Krankmeier!—had met up with us, out in the river, an’ below Griffinstown—in my red poleece boat!—a-ridin’ current, with our p’opellor snagged—why, gents, them ’uz 4 flood refugees, as shore as God made little apples, what had cotched holt o’ my empty boat from off’n some floatin’ house; an’ ’count o’ the mist plus that goddanged Dutchman’s near-sightedness what on’y ’bout let him read them jet-black letters what reads POLICE: SHELBY’S BLUFF, them 4 fellers got ’dentified as us, an’ an’ways, now thar wuz a bigger story than ever ’bout us—yet a story that was still all the—the—the nuts. Nuts I said, Hick. N—U—T—S!
“And this broadcaster, gents—’codin’ to what he tolt us—had not on’y called the Warden of Folsom Penytent’ry and got a slew o’ int’restin’ notes on Hart—but had also went into some G-man’s office in New York, and, whilst the G-man was out, had wangled out of his gal some green Public En’my cir’clar on Hart, which, said the broadcaster, give Hart’s age as 30 years an’ 7 months at the time of its publ’cation this same year, though, castin’ ’bout, and findin’ som’eres on it the act’al month an’ day o’ publ-cation, he ’uz able to set Hart as bein’ defnitely today, 30 years 8 months old, exact. And by God, gents, ever’ man I had hyar on this island was plainly thutty years old! And—”
“You don’t possibly think, do you, Sheriff,” put in the man in the Mexican costume, “that you’re keeping this—to 300 words—or even 600 words?”
“I—I don’t think a goddang thing ’bout it,” said the Sheriff exasperatedly. “Fur I’m—I’m as good as at the end. And—and it can be b’iled down by a skindycate. Now I want quiet in this co’teroom.”
And only the angry purling of the river defied Bleeker’s Island’s judge.
“And so, gents and public and press, thar I was! Topkins never tolt us how Hart was dressed—fur, so it seems, ever’-time he was ’bout to tell us so’thin’ ’bout him—he’d git a wire or so’thin’ ’bout us. Like fur instance: jest afore he was going to act’ally read th’ green cir’clar, news come in from a starn-wheeler, named Nancy Lee, that ’uz jumpin’ cross river from Marysville to Griffins Stage, that the Shelby’s Bluff red po-leece launch—black letterin’ upmost!—was snagged, overturned, on Old Antler Head, on Old Jim sandbar, now su’merged. Meanin’ that all in it got drownded in the turr’ble torrent thar. Them being us! Good—God!
“And that’s why, gents, I had to holt co’te on this island. Fur they ’uz on’y 3 life belts. And that danged dam due to bust by—say—evenin’. Well, one o’ them belts suttinly ’longed to me. Fur I’m the Law. And the one pusson, gents, who had legit’mate duties on this island. But that left two belts fur 3 men. And one of them 3—Hart—not entitled to none. And so the one man who couldn’t then prove who he was, shore had to talk fur his life!
“Which he done, gents—and I’m glad to say he’s proved hisse’f to be one Abner Ezry Hick of Bad Axe, Mich’gan, who come out hyar sekritly to Bleeker’s Island on a moughty strange mission, knowed to abs-lutely nobody, a mission what he himse’f kin re-explain to th’ world later—and he’s proved hisse’f, out hyar, if fur no other reason than that a single p’int in his story—knowed to nobody—I could confirm. And he’s takin’ down these very words fur you-all, the hon’ble Soo-preme Co’te.
“But, gents, his story revealed also that thar mought be a cyclone-slot on this island—mebbe even onder the marker-stone—so we pulls it up, and, i’God, if thar ’uzn’t—an’ inside it ’nother man—sleepin’, ’parently—in a East Injun suit, not on’y thutty years old ef he was a day, but pow’fully resemblin’ our so-called Mex’can. On’y good thing ’bout this feller was that he had a rubber blow-up vest on him. ’Twas easy to see why he ’uz asleep, ’caze I’d found on the island ’arlier a box o’ tablets labeled aspireen tablets whar’in some fool druggist had made a mistake, and so they ’uz really Narcotine tablets, the which I know right-smart well from once havin’ knowed a farmer who used to take—skip it, Hick—I’m out on a limb ag’in. Jest say that this feller freely confessed he had brung them tablets out hyar ’ith him—and becaze of a headache had t’uk one jest afore goin’ down into the slot, which same had b’en ’arly this mornin’, and jest atter he got sot down out hyar by a flood-control boat what ’uz crossin’ the river to transfer some supplies, and was then goin’ ’way ’way up river whar the boat must be headin’ right now, on’y o’ co’se ’twas to pick him up on the way back ’cept that when it came back he’d ’purrently got picked up a’ready so fur’s the captain knowed, sence th’ spur’ous East Injun wan’t hyar no more ’count o’ havin’ drapped down meanwhile into the cyclone-slot and—my God, Hick, strike ever’ bit of that out befure the limb falls off with me atop it!—put it jest this way: It’s a long story, gents—and don’t matter none here!
“But he interduced complycations, gents, ’caze he pos’-tively resembled our Mex’can. Could it be, we wondered, that that Rat-feller had made a mistake? Ef so, this man mought be—
“Well, gents, lots happened. ’Nough fur a writin’ author to make a whole passel o’ books out of. But, b’iled down, this man—who’s dead to the world right now ’count of a return engagement of his sleepiness from that tablet!—’uz able to lay his kyards on the table—tell us who he was—why he was out hyar—
“And his story, gents, reveals him to be Yoho tenBrock’-ville, a newspaperman, who came out hyar to th’ island sekritly on a strange mission knowed to abs’lutely nobody.2 And I am so able to confirm his story, by a p’int knowed to me alone, that he’s out of it, too. And ’titled to keep his blow-up vest. And which’ll be blowed up fur him—when the waters starts to rise. And—
“Now be patient, gents. Fur you read a heap longer brief than this in the Tom Mooney case—you know you did!
“Well, I ’uz then left with two men on my hands. One o’ which had to be Hart.
“The one of them was the man in the Mex’can suit. The other, the one in the lineman suit. Which latter feller had give me—as proof of who he was—a clipped 2-column newspaper pikter o’ himse’f showin’ him to be Gilbert Blake, Indy’nap’lis bank teller, who’s sho’t in his ’counts, an’ vanished! And the face of which pikter is the abs’lute twin of the man carryin’ it, even to a cold-sore scard on the corner of its mouth an’ a—a slit atween two of the front teeth—a mole—an’ even a square gold fillin’. Not that the electric cuts from which pikters git printed in newspaper making-up rooms cain’t git trans—transpos—but skip all that, Hick. This man wuz, I’d say, th’ mos’ sispicious o’ the two men, fur when we’d had a question-axin’ bee, a consid’ble while befo’, to keep all haids cool—an’—an’ Panic from a-risin’, the questions he axed were th’ most non-pra’tical ones, like, f’rinstance—and I quote all this, gents, to show you ezackly what, as a jedge, I was up ag’in today—like f’rinstance, why this island hadn’t b’en sowed by its owner ’ith grass like it ev’dent had b’en ’ith vi’lets, all of which seemed like ’twas stuff to decoy me into tellin’ how it is sowed with grass right now—No’the’n Minnysoty grass, what hain’t sprouted yit—and Loosyany vi’lets what’s now gone, ’cept the one pore leetle lone survivor we’ve all seed, an’ now tramped down whar it’s b’en tryin’ to keep growing on the island’s west sho—”
“Ahum,” coughed Hick gently.
“Right!” acknowledged the Sheriff with a sour grimace. “P’int is, gents, his questions was the non-pra’ticalest axed, and it mought even be said, when it comes to sispicious actions, that he give a p’formance today on this island with a dead raddio what involved talking in ’nough styles an’—an’—dialects what on’y a man who’d acted some’eres in a play ever could do. Not that that itse’f means an’thing—no. Fur—but be that as it was, gents, atter we-all discussing the daid Phi-laster McCo’niss, and his dyin’—though now pro’bly also daid!—friend, P’ofessor Geogar o’ Marysville—an’ the Tibetan marble as was in the McCo’niss vault—and how the builder of it, one Kieske, got delayed till but recent in buildin’ it—and ev’ry fool subjec’ an’ aspect tharof we could think of, things had settled plumb down to whar our Mex’can was in the soup—and very hot soup. Whar, in sho’t, ’twas up to him to tell his story—and do it right-smart. Becaze—
“And that story, gents, has jest b’en tolt. And b’en heered by all. And becaze, gents, I’m so damn tired o’ this fool thing called dictating that I sca’cely know whar to put my varbs and adjectivals and whatnots, the final outcome of ever’thing—plus the adjudycation by this co’te—will hatter be give you—ef I don’t live to do it—by the man who d’livers this brief to the World, and later test’fies before you-all as to the takin’ of the notes tharof. Becaze things is prob’ly due to happen fast around hyar now—and no man kin dictate the bustin’ of a dam!—which may be imm’nent—who knows?—or the grabbin’ up of awarded belts, or—so thank you, gents—and Abner Ezry Hick will complete this story.”
And the Sheriff wiped his stubby hands fiercely, one on the other, as though getting rid of the stickiest mess he had ever tangled himself in in his life, which indeed it had been. Following that operation by tossing over to Hick the rubber pouch and the piece of string. “Put yo’re pages in thar—and tie ’em up! And button yo’re hind pocket well on that pouch. And be p’epared—ef’n I don’t get through—to squar’ me before all the world. Fur that statement—that statement, that is, b’iled down, mebbe, a bit!—plus what you kin now add—will not on’y be in ev’ry paper in the U.S.A.—but, mark my words, Hick, it and you will some day be sittin’ afore the 10 Wise Old Men. Yes—sir.”
And now the Sheriff sighed painfully. For he had a painful duty to be done.
While Hick, even as the sigh sounded forth, had ripped forth a dozen or so of the notebook sheets, folded them squarely in the middle of all, crammed them in the pouch, and was drawing tight—winding and knotting, too—the string around the neck. And even buttoning it into his hip pockets as the Sheriff resumed speaking. But speaking, this time, in the direction of the man with the imitation silver-dollar-studded sombrero.
“Mex? Fur danged ef—atter callin’ you ‘Mex’ all day hyar—I kin git to call you—”
“Mex—Mex is all right,” cried the other. “Providing you accept that I am—”
“Let me talk, Mex. As ‘Mex’ it mought as well be. Mex, yo’re as lucky a man, I’m thinkin’, as is Hick—acrost from you—and tenBrock’ville, sleepin’ yander—fur—”
“You mean,” put in the black-eyed narrator of the story just heard, and almost unbelievingly, it seemed, “you mean—that you accept my story—unqualifiedl—”
“Sence,” pointed out the Sheriff calmly, “I happen to be able to confirm yo’re story at the most impo’tent—yet most onconfirm’ble—p’int—and it all hitches on that p’int—then it’s all confirmed. Fur’s I’m consarned. ’Specially—mo-ost ’specially—in view o’ sartin other things.”
And the Sheriff swung his eyes balefully to the man in the weirdly assorted lineman habiliments. And rested them coldly on the latter.
Who, after an unbelieving, incredulous pause, spoke back. And in what was almost a snarl.
“Confirmed? His story—confirmed? Why—if his story was confirmed—that would mean that I was Act—see here, you self-constituted judge of life and death on Blee—how—how is his story confirmed?”
“Want to know, do you?” said the Sheriff unsmilingly. “Well, sence yo’re not in a very good spot ef ’tis—you shall at least l’arn how ’tis. So listen—while the listenin’s good!”
2 Publisher’s note: The full story of Yoho tenBrockerville, of Buffalo, and the Sheriff’s confirmation of it, appears in an earlier novel of Mr. Keeler’s entitled Cleopatra’s Tears.