Mrs Skaggss Husbands | Page 4

became intensified as the loungers gathered about the vehicle, and only
the boldest ventured to address him. It was the Hon. Judge Beeswinger,
Member of Assembly, who to-day presumed, perhaps rashly, on the
strength of his official position.
"Any political news from below, Bill?" he asked, as the latter slowly
descended from his lofty perch, without, however, any perceptible
coming down of mien or manner.
"Not much," said Bill, with deliberate gravity. "The President o' the
United States hezn't bin hisself sens you refoosed that seat in the
Cabinet. The ginral feelin' in perlitical circles is one o' regret."

Irony, even of this outrageous quality, was too common in Angel's to
excite either a smile or a frown. Bill slowly entered the bar- room
during a dry, dead silence, in which only a faint spirit of emulation
survived.
"Ye didn't bring up that agint o' Rothschild's this trip?" asked the
barkeeper, slowly, by way of vague contribution to the prevailing tone
of conversation.
"No," responded Bill, with thoughtful exactitude. "He said he couldn't
look inter that claim o' Johnson's without first consultin' the Bank o'
England."
The Mr. Johnson here alluded to being present as the faded reveller the
barkeeper had lately put out, and as the alleged claim notoriously
possessed no attractions whatever to capitalists, expectation naturally
looked to him for some response to this evident challenge. He did so by
simply stating that he would "take sugar" in his, and by walking
unsteadily toward the bar, as if accepting a festive invitation. To the
credit of Bill be it recorded that he did not attempt to correct the
mistake, but gravely touched glasses with him, and after saying "Here's
another nail in your coffin,"--a cheerful sentiment, to which "And the
hair all off your head," was playfully added by the others,--he threw off
his liquor with a single dexterous movement of head and elbow, and
stood refreshed.
"Hello, old major!" said Bill, suddenly setting down his glass. "Are
YOU there?"
It was a boy, who, becoming bashfully conscious that this epithet was
addressed to him, retreated sideways to the doorway, where he stood
beating his hat against the door-post with an assumption of indifference
that his downcast but mirthful dark eyes and reddening cheek scarcely
bore out. Perhaps it was owing to his size, perhaps it was to a certain
cherubic outline of face and figure, perhaps to a peculiar trustfulness of
expression, that he did not look half his age, which was really fourteen.
Everybody in Angel's knew the boy. Either under the venerable title

bestowed by Bill, or as "Tom Islington," after his adopted father, his
was a familiar presence in the settlement, and the theme of much local
criticism and comment. His waywardness, indolence, and
unaccountable amiability--a quality at once suspicious and gratuitous in
a pioneer community like Angel's--had often been the subject of fierce
discussion. A large and reputable majority believed him destined for
the gallows; a minority not quite so reputable enjoyed his presence
without troubling themselves much about his future; to one or two the
evil predictions of the majority possessed neither novelty nor terror.
"Anything for me, Bill?" asked the boy, half mechanically, with the air
of repeating some jocular formulary perfectly understood by Bill.
"Anythin' for you!" echoed Bill, with an overacted severity equally well
understood by Tommy,--"anythin' for you? No! And it's my opinion
there won't be anythin' for you ez long ez you hang around bar-rooms
and spend your valooable time with loafers and bummers. Git!"
The reproof was accompanied by a suitable exaggeration of gesture
(Bill had seized a decanter) before which the boy retreated still
good-humoredly. Bill followed him to the door. "Dern my skin, if he
hezn't gone off with that bummer Johnson," he added, as he looked
down the road.
"What's he expectin', Bill?" asked the barkeeper.
"A letter from his aunt. Reckon he'll hev to take it out in expectin'.
Likely they're glad to get shut o' him."
"He's leadin' a shiftless, idle life here," interposed the Member of
Assembly.
"Well," said Bill, who never allowed any one but himself to abuse his
protege, "seein' he ain't expectin' no offis from the hands of an
enlightened constitooency, it IS rayther a shiftless life." After
delivering this Parthian arrow with a gratuitous twanging of the bow to
indicate its offensive personality, Bill winked at the barkeeper, slowly
resumed a pair of immense, bulgy buckskin gloves, which gave his

fingers the appearance of being painfully sore and bandaged, strode to
the door without looking at anybody, called out, "All aboard," with a
perfunctory air of supreme indifference whether the invitation was
heeded, remounted his box, and drove stolidly away.
Perhaps it was well that he did so, for the conversation at once assumed
a disrespectful attitude toward Tom