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"Cracky! that's a fine team Black Hawks, both of them. I wonder if ol' sorrel can pass 'em?" "Oh, please don't try!" pleaded the girl. "Why not?" "Because because I'm afraid." "Afraid of what?" "Afraid something 'll happen." "Something is sure to happen; I'm goin' to pass him if old Bones has any git to him." "It'll make him mad." "Who mad? Brann?" "Yes." "Well, s'pose it does, who cares?"
How is he?" asked an old lady, peering at him as he passed. On the porch stood Mrs. Welsh, supported by Ed Brann. "She's all right, I tell you. He ain't hurt much, either; just stunned a little, that's all." "Maud! child!" cried the mother, as Maud appeared out of the crowd, followed by a bevy of girls.
But there was a peculiar set look on the girl's face that promised little for Brann. Albert, being no more of a self-analyst than Maud, simply said, "Served him right," and dwelt no more upon it for the time. At supper, however, he was extravagantly gay, and to himself unaccountably so.
MR. BRANN: Will you please answer the following question and thereby settle a dispute in Seymour: Is love intoxicating? My correspondent neglects to state whether Seymour is a Prohibition town.
The old sorrel's teeth came together with a snap; his head lowered and his tail rose; he shot abreast of the blacks. Brann yelled: "Sam Saul, git!" "See them trot!" shouted Bert, lost in admiration; but Maud, frightened into silence, had covered her head with the robe to escape the blinding cloud of flying snow. The sorrel drew steadily ahead; he was passing when Brann turned.
With the roll of the years, the perspective of time, like a low swung sun, casts the mountain's shadow ever farther across the valley; and Brann the Waco journalist has become Brann the American genius. No matter how dead the issues, how local to time and place the characters of which he wrote, his writing is literature and the imperishable legacy of the world.
But, unless we invent some theory of universal telepathy to have wafted inspiration to Waco from all the canonized dead from Homer to Carlyle, we can only conceive that Brann derived his knowledge and his power, without encouragement and without guidance, by poring over the printed page in lonely hours bitterly wrested from the wolf of poverty that for forty years held mortgage on his time.
At the table they met the usual group of village boarders: the Brann brothers, newsdealers; old man Troutt, who ran the livery-stable and smelled of it; and a small, dark, and wizened woman who kept the millinery store. The others, who came in late, were clerks in the stores near by. Maud served the dinner, while Stella and her mother waited upon the table.
The late-lamented Brann had a felicity and a facility in the use of words that finally cost him his life. Men with pistol facility and word felicity die by the pistol. The brain of the prizefighter does not convolve: he relies more on his "jabs" than on thoughts that burn and those who live by the hammer die by the hammer.
"You bet there were!" answered Toby. "Twenty-three altogether; one boat capsized; Kelly, 'Bug' Kelly, son of that fellow that runs the Crystal Grotto, he was drowned, and one of Hocheimer's Hocheimer, the jeweller, you know one of his travelling salesmen was drowned; a little Jew named Brann, a diamond expert; he jumped overboard and " "Don't!" said Vandover with a sharp gesture.
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