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Updated: May 3, 2025
"You'd think he was Carewe's only son and heir instead of his worst enemy. Hark to the man!" "I'd let it burn, if I were he," returned the other. "It was all Crailey's fault," said Tappingham, swinging an arm free to wipe the spattered mud from his face. "He swore he wouldn't budge without his uniform, and the rest only backed him up; that was all.
"I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee, As giving it the hope that there It might not withered be." Perhaps, just then, Vanrevel would have wished to hear him sing anything in the world rather than that, for on Crailey's lips it carried too much meaning tonight, after the voice in the garden.
Who doesn't know where Crailey's Here's Main Street; look out for the turn!" They swung out of the thick shadows of Carewe Street into full view of the fire, and their faces were illuminated as by sunrise. The warehouses stood on the river-bank, at the foot of the street, just south of the new "covered bridge."
At the corner of the warehouse, Miss Carewe detached her hand from Crailey's, yet still followed him as he made a quick detour round the next building. A minute or two later they found themselves, undetected, upon Main Street in the rear of the crowd. There Crailey paused. "Forgive me," he said, breathlessly, "for taking your hand. I thought you would like to get away."
"Crailey!" whispered Miss Betty, leaning heavily on the back of a chair. "Crailey?" She looked at Mrs. Tanberry with vague interrogation, but Mrs. Tanberry did not understand. "Crailey!" It was then that Crailey's eyelids fluttered and slowly opened; and his wandering glance, dull at first, slowly grew clear and twinkling as it rested on the ashy, stricken face of his best friend.
Deep anxiety knitted Crailey's brow. "I understood she knew of the quarrel," he said, thoughtfully. "I saw that, the other evening when I helped her out of the crowd. She spoke of it on the way home, I remember; but how did she know that you were Vanrevel? No one in town would be apt to mention you to her." "No, but she did know, you see." "Yes," returned Mr. Gray slowly. "So it seems!
Carewe happened to be examining the musket his father had carried in 1812, when the weapon was accidentally discharged, the ball entering Crailey's breast; how Mr.
So he strode on toward nowhere. Day was breaking when Mr. Gray climbed the stairs to his room. There were two flights, the ascent of the first of which occupied about half an hour of Crailey's invaluable time; and the second might have taken more of it, or possibly consumed the greater part of the morning, had he received no assistance.
Will Cummings had abandoned the pen for the sword until such time as Santa Anna should cry for quarter, and had left the office in charge of an imported substitute; but late that night he came to his desk once more, to write the story of the accident to Corporal Gray; and the tale that he wrote had been already put into writing by Tom Vanrevel as it fell from Crailey's lips, after the doctor had, come, so that none might doubt it.
He turned and calling a final good-by over his shoulder, went clattering noisily down to the street and vanished from Crailey's sight.
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