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Updated: June 8, 2025
The Major's eyes held the brooding tenderness of a patron saint, as he looked the length of the wide street of the town which bore his name. "Sunnin' yourself, Major?" inquired Hiram Butefish jocularly as he passed; then paused to add, "I'm lookin' for a big turn-out at the Boosters Club to-night." "I trust so, Hiram."
Butefish, who pleaded eloquently for the construction of the ditch by local capital, and having aroused the meeting to a high pitch of enthusiasm ended with a peroration that brought forth a loud demonstration of approbation. "Gentlemen," declared Mr. Butefish, "back there in the mountains is a noble stream waitin' to irrigate a thirsty land.
Butefish declared editorially. Fresh air, pure water, and a moral atmosphere wherein it differed, he hinted, from its neighbor. There Vice rampant and innocent Youth met on every corner, while the curse of the Demon Rum was destroying its manhood. Mr. Butefish laid down the proof-sheet, sighed deeply, and quite unconsciously moistened his lips.
A street car whizzing through Prouty would put new life in it, and so hungry were its inhabitants for entertainment that he had no doubt whatever that the amusement park would make ample returns upon the investment. Mr. Butefish made a note of Mr.
There was a general turning of heads as Mormon Joe, thick of tongue, lurched over the back of the seat in front. "Kindly make it brief," replied Mr. Butefish reluctantly. "We still have important business to transact." "I only want to say that this country hasn't any more natural resources than a tin roof and when Prouty got any bigger than a saloon and a blacksmith shop it overreached itself."
Then an idea came to him. Why not make it a sheep number exclusively? Give all the wool-growers in the vicinity a write-up. Great! He'd do it. Mr. Butefish enumerated them on his fingers. When he came to Kate Prentice, he hesitated. Would Prouty stand for it the eulogy he contemplated? In a small paper one had to consider local prejudices besides, she was not a subscriber. While Mr.
There was a pine table upon a raised platform, behind which Hiram Butefish remained, as before, the Club's honored President. In the corner was a stove which had been donated by the Methodist minister, because, presumably, of a refractory grate which it was found impossible to operate without profanity.
"You're quite a stranger!" he greeted her tritely, and added, "But we've been reading about you." Kate looked her surprise. "In the Grit haven't you seen it? A great boost! Butefish really writes vurry, vurry well when he puts his mind to it." This explained the warmer temperature, she thought sardonically, but said merely: "I haven't seen the paper."
Emotion welled within him until his collar choked him, so he removed it, while the pen spread with the force he put into the actual writing. And when he had finished, he walked the floor reading the editorial, his voice vibrating, tingling with his own eloquence. The article snorted defiance. Mr. Butefish tacitly waved the bright flag of personal freedom in the face of Public Opinion.
"I am convinced," declared Mr. Butefish, "that the future of Prouty lies in fossils." "Human?" a voice inquired ironically. "Clams," replied Mr. Butefish with dignity. "Also fish and periwinkles. Locked in Nature's boozem over there in the Bad Lands there's a world of them. I kicked 'em up last year when I was huntin' horses, and realized their value.
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