"It's a secret about a horse I'm going to tell you," said O'Bannon.
"Here is an advertisement that has been left to be inserted in the next paper: 'Lost, on Tuesday evening, on the road between Frankfort and Lexington, a bundle of clothes tied up in a blue-and-white checked cotton neckerchief, and containing one white muslin dress, a pale-blue silk coat, two thin white muslin handkerchiefs, one pair long kid gloves--straw colour--one pair white kid shoes, two cambric handkerchiefs, and some other things.Whoever will deliver said clothes to the printer, or give information so that they can be got, will be liberally rewarded on application to him.'
"And here, Peter, is another advertisement.Found, on Tuesday evening, on the road between Lexington and Frankfort, a bundle of clothes tied in a blue-and-white neckerchief.The owner can recover property by calling on the printer.'"He pushed the papers away from him.
"Yesterday morning who should slip around here but Amy Falconer.And then, in such a voice, she began.How she had come to town the day before, and had brought her party dress.How the bundle was lost.How she had come to inquire whether any one had left the clothes to be advertised; or whether Iwouldn't put an advertisement in the paper; or, if they were left at my office before Thursday evening, whether I wouldn't send them to her at once.""Ahem!" said Peter drily, but with moisture in his eyes.
"She hadn't more than gone before who should come in here but a boy bringing this same bundle of clothes with a note from John Gray, saying that he had found them in the public road yesterday, and asking me to send them at once to the owner, if I should hear who she was; if not, to advertise them.""That's no secret," said Peter contemptuously.
"I might have sent that bundle straight to the owner of it.But, when I have anything against a man, I always forgive him, only I get even with him first.""What are you hammering at?" cried Peter, bringing his fist down on the table."Hit the nail on the head.""Now I've got no grudge against her," continued O'Bannon."I'd hate her if Icould.I've tried hard enough, but I can't.She may treat me as she pleases:
it's all the same to me as soon as she smiles.But as for this redheaded Scotch-Irishman--""Stop!" said Peter."Not a word against him!" O'Bannon stared.
"He's no friend of yours," said he, reflectively.
"He is!"
"Oh, is he? Well, only the other day I heard him say that he thought a good deal more of your shoes than he did of you," cried O'Bannon, laughing sarcastically.
Peter made no reply, but his neck seemed to swell and his face to be getting purple.
"And he's a friend of yours? I can't even play a little joke on him.""Play your joke on him!" exclaimed Peter, "and when my time comes, I'll play mine.""When he sent the bundle here yesterday morning I could have returned it straight to her.I locked it in that closet! 'You'll never go to the ball with her,' I said, 'if I have to keep her away.' I set my trap.To-day Ihunted up Joseph Holden.'Come by the office, as you are on your way to the party to-night,' I said.'I want to talk to you about a piece of land.Come early; then we can go together.' When he came--just before you did--I said, 'Look here, did you know that Amy wouldn't be at the ball? She lost her clothes as she was coming to town the other day, and somebody has just sent them here to be advertised.I think I'd better take them around to her yet:
it's not too late.' 'I'll take them! I'll go with her myself!' he cried,jumping up.
"So she'll be there, he'll be there, I'll be there, we'll all be there--but your John can hear about it in the morning." And O'Bannon arose slowly, but unexpectedly sat down again.
"You think I won't be there," he said threateningly to Peter.
"You think I'm drunk.I'll show you! I'll show you that I can walk--that Ican dance--dance by myself --do it all--by myself--furnish the music and do the dancing."He began whistling "Sir Roger de Coverley," and stood up, but sank down again and reached for the bottle.
"Peter," he said with a soft smile, looking down at his gorgeous swan's-down waistcoat and his well-shaped dove-coloured legs: "ain't I a beauty?""Yes, you are a beauty!" said Peter.
Suddenly lifting one of his bare feet, he shot O'Bannon as by the action of a catapult against the printing-press.
He lay there all night.
IV
HOW fine a thing it would be if all the faculties of the mind could be trained for the battles of life as a modern nation makes every man a soldier.Some of these, as we know, are always engaged in active service;but there are times when they need to be strengthened by others, constituting a first reserve; and yet graver emergencies arise in the marchings of every man when the last defences of land and hearth should be ready to turn out: too often even then the entire disciplined strength of his forces would count as a mere handful to the great allied powers of the world and the devil.
But so few of our faculties are of a truly military turn, and these wax indolent and unwary from disuse like troops during long times of peace.We all come to recognize sooner or later, of course, the unfailing little band of them that form our standby, our battle-smoked campaigners, our Old Guard, that dies, neversurrenders.Who of us also but knows his faithful artillery, dragging along his big guns--and so liable to reach the scene after the fighting is over? Who when worsted has not fought many a battle through again merely to show how different the result would have been, if his artillery had only arrived in time! Boom! boom! boom! Where are the enemy now? And who does not take pride in his navy, sweeping the high seas of the imagination but too often departed for some foreign port when the coast defences need protecting?
