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Updated: June 28, 2025
The only person who failed to see the attraction in them was Ed Brann, who was popularly supposed to be engaged to Maud. He grew daily more sullen and repellent, toward Albert noticeably so. One evening about six, after coming in from a long walk about town, Albert entered his room without lighting his lamp, lay down on the bed, and fell asleep.
I'm glad t' see yeh!" said Troutt, so sincerely that he looked almost winning to the boy. The rest crowded around, shaking hands. "Oh, I'm on deck again." Ed Brann came in a moment later with his brother, and there was a significant little pause a pause which grew painful till Albert turned and saw Brann, and called out: "Hello, Ed! How are you? Didn't know you were here."
He sat leaning forward with his head held down in a peculiar and sinister fashion. "Hel-lo!" cried Bert; "that looks like Brann." "It is," said Maud. "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."
They raised him a little more, and he opened his eyes on the circle of hushed and excited men thronging about him. He saw Brann, with wild, scared face, standing in his cutter and peering over the heads of the crowd. "How do you feel now?" asked the doctor. "Can you hear us? Albert, do you know me?" called the girl.
Suddenly Brann gave a shrill yell and stood up in his sleigh. The gallant little bay broke and fell behind; Brann laughed, the blacks trotted on, their splendid pace unchanged. "Let the sorrel out!" yelled somebody. "Let him loose!" yelled Troutt on the corner, quivering with excitement. "Let him go!" Albert, remembering what the fellow had said, let the reins loose.
The old sorrel came round "gauming," his ugly head thrown up, his great red mouth open, his ears back. Brann and the young doctor of the place were turning together a little farther up the street. The blacks, superbly obedient to their driver, came down with flying hoofs, their great glossy breasts flecked with foam from their champing jaws.
Waste, futile and planless, mere howling, empty, chaotic waste, for no purpose under heaven but to serve as food for idle fancies as to what might have been such to me is the death of Brann, and my throat chokes with sorrow and my soul is sick with vain despair. Brann's contribution to literature is the product of less than three years of writing time.
As the editor of the Age is quite anxious to ascertain my nationality he probably suspects that I may be his father. The Independent, which I infer from the date-line of a letter calling attention to its existence, is published at Pomeroy, Wash., proposes, bumbye, to "give a history of the robberies committed by Brann during the war." H ;! I can do that myself.
Again the million words leap from the yellowed pages like tongues of fire and beauty; and ten thousand voices will cry and sing again before the hearths of those who once knew and loved the Waco Iconoclast, and will sing and cry in the homes of their children and their children's children who will read and acclaim Brann as a God whose name is writ forever in the stars.
He had been out late the night before with Maud at a party, and slumber came almost instantly. Maud came in shortly, hearing no response to her knock, and after hanging some towels on the rack went out without seeing the sleeper. In the sitting room she met Ed Brann. He was a stalwart young man with curling black hair, and a heavy face at its best, but set and sullen now.
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