Somewhere in Red Gap

Somewhere in Red Gap

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Wilson, Illustrated by John R. Neill, F. R. Gruger, and Henry Raleigh
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Title: Somewhere in Red Gap
Author: Harry Leon Wilson
Release Date: December 17, 2004 [eBook #14376]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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SOMEWHERE IN RED GAP***
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SOMEWHERE IN RED GAP
by
HARRY LEON WILSON
Illustrated by John R. Neill, F. R. Gruger, and Henry Raleigh
New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers

[Illustration: "SHE WAS STANDING ON THE CENTRE TABLE BY
NOW, SO SHE COULD LAMP HERSELF IN THE GLASS OVER
THE MANTEL"]

To GEORGE HORACE LORIMER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.
The Red Splash of Romance II. Ma Pettengill and the Song of Songs III.
The Real Peruvian Doughnuts IV. Once a Scotchman, Always V. Non
Plush Ultra VI. Cousin Egbert Intervenes VII. Kate; or, Up From the
Depths VIII. Pete's B'other-in-law IX. Little Old New York

I
THE RED SPLASH OF ROMANCE

The walls of the big living-room in the Arrowhead ranch house are
tastefully enlivened here and there with artistic spoils of the owner, Mrs.
Lysander John Pettengill. There are family portraits in crayon,
photo-engravings of noble beasts clipped from the _Breeder's Gazette_,
an etched cathedral or two, a stuffed and varnished trout of such size
that no one would otherwise have believed in it, a print in three colours
of a St. Bernard dog with a marked facial resemblance to the late
William E. Gladstone, and a triumph of architectural perspective
revealing two sides of the Pettengill block, corner of Fourth and Main
streets, Red Gap, made vivacious by a bearded fop on horseback who
doffs his silk hat to a couple of overdressed ladies with parasols in a
passing victoria.
And there is the photograph of the fat man. He is very large--both high
and wide. He has filled the lens and now compels the eye. His broad
face beams a friendly interest. His moustache is a flourishing, uncurbed,
riotous growth above his billowy chin.
The checked coat, held recklessly aside by a hand on each hip, reveals
an incredible expanse of waistcoat, the pattern of which raves horribly.
From pocket to pocket of this gaudy shield curves a watch chain of
massive links--nearly a yard of it, one guesses.
Often I have glanced at this noisy thing tacked to the wall, entranced by
the simple width of the man. Now on a late afternoon I loitered before
it while my hostess changed from riding breeches to the gown of
lavender and lace in which she elects to drink tea after a day's hard
work along the valleys of the Arrowhead. And for the first time I
observed a line of writing beneath the portrait, the writing of my
hostess, a rough, downright, plain fashion of script: "Reading from left
to right--Mr. Ben Sutton, Popular Society Favourite of Nome, Alaska."
"Reading from left to right!" Here was the intent facetious. And Ma
Pettengill is never idly facetious. Always, as the advertisements say,
"There's a reason!" And now, also for the first time, I noticed some
printed verses on a sheet of thickish yellow paper tacked to the wall
close beside the photograph--so close that I somehow divined an
intimate relationship between the two. With difficulty removing my

gaze from the gentleman who should be read from left to right, I
scanned these verses:
SONG OF THE OPEN ROAD
A child of the road--a gypsy I-- My path o'er the land and sea; With the
fire of youth I warm my nights And my days are wild and free. Then ho!
for the wild, the open road! Afar from the haunts of men. The woods
and the hills for my spirit untamed-- I'm away to mountain and glen.
If ever I tried to leave my hills To abide in the cramped haunts of men,
The urge of the wild to her wayward child Would drag me to freedom
again.
I'm slave to the call of the open road; In your cities I'd stifle and die.
I'm off to the hills in fancy I see-- On the breast of old earth I'll lie.
WILFRED LENNOX, the Hobo Poet, On a Coast-to-Coast Walking
Tour. These Cards for sale.