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The stranger suddenly dropped young Holliday's hand and turned his face away. "I beg your pardon," said Arthur. "I hope I have not unintentionally pained you. I hope you have not lost your father?" "I can't well lose what I have never had," retorted the medical student, with a harsh mocking laugh. "What you have never had!"
Wanted me to give it to you, yourself, and nobody else." The something was a long envelope with "Mrs. Barnes, Personal," written upon it. Thankful read the inscription. "From Mr. Kendrick?" she repeated. "Which Mr. Kendrick?" "Mr. John, the young one. Mr. Holliday's comin', though.
The stranger suddenly dropped young Holliday's hand, and turned his face away. 'I beg your pardon, said Arthur. 'I hope I have not unintentionally pained you. I hope you have not lost your father. 'I can't well lose what I have never had, retorted the medical student, with a harsh, mocking laugh. 'What you have never had!
'You give me five shillings, I give you in return a clean, comfortable bed; and I warrant, beforehand, that you won't be interfered with, or annoyed in any way, by the man who sleeps in the same room as you. Saying those words, he looked hard, for a moment, in young Holliday's face, and then led the way into the room. It was larger and cleaner than Arthur had expected it would be.
By this time, the last glimmer of twilight had faded out, the moon was rising dimly in a mist, the wind was getting cold, the clouds were gathering heavily, and there was every prospect that it was soon going to rain. The look of the night had rather a lowering effect on young Holliday's good spirits.
Arthur related briefly what had happened from the time of his first taking the bed at the inn. 'I am indebted to Mr. Holliday's son then for the help that has saved my life, said the medical student, speaking to himself, with a singular sarcasm in his voice. 'Come here! He held out, as he spoke, his long, white, bony, right hand. 'With all my heart, said Arthur, taking the hand-cordially.
It was a voyage of from six to eight weeks west of the Mississippi in those days. The only stations and miserably primitive ones at that lay along Ben Holliday's overland stage route. They were far between. Indians waylaid the voyagers; fires, famine and fatigue helped to strew the trail with the graves of men and the carcasses of animals.
Half buried in the ground, the great stone lay there for nearly forty years; then it was broken up. It was the last rock the boys ever rolled down. Nearly sixty years later John Briggs and Mark Twain walked across Holliday's Hill and looked down toward the river road. Mark Twain said: "It was a mighty good thing, John, that stone acted the way it did.
In still earlier years than those I have been recalling, Holliday's Hill, in our town, was to me the noblest work of God. It appeared to pierce the skies. It was nearly three hundred feet high. In those days I pondered the subject much, but I never could understand why it did not swathe its summit with never-failing clouds, and crown its majestic brow with everlasting snows.
While we think of it, then, let us put down our first memorandum upon the art of Mr. Holliday: First Memo Mr. Holliday's stuff is distilled from life! It is not said why our hero abandoned bristol board and india ink, and it is no duty of this inquirendo to offer surmise. This vault into the petals of the sunflower seems so quaint that I once attempted to find out from Mr.
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