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I have so placed it that I can never be identified; and further, I have no compunctions of conscience for the death of Thomas M. Dougherty." Not one of the thousands engaged in these horrible outrages and butcheries has, so far as we can learn, been indicted.
By that time the occupant of the monogamistic harem would be in dreamland, the bulbul silenced and the hour propitious for slumber. "Big Jim" always arose at twelve, meridian, for breakfast, and soon afterward he would return to the rendezvous of his "crowd." He was always vaguely conscious that there was a Mrs. Dougherty.
A man named Dougherty tells a thrilling story of a ride down the river on a log. When the waters struck the roof of the house on which he had taken shelter he jumped astride a telegraph pole, riding a distance of some twenty-three miles, from Johnstown to Bolivar, before he was rescued.
At seven she descended the stone steps in the Pompeian bowling alley at the side of "Big Jim" Dougherty. She wore a dinner gown made of a stuff that the spiders must have woven, and of a color that a twilight sky must have contributed. A light coat with many admirably unnecessary capes and adorably inutile ribbons floated downward from her shoulders.
"And I've sounded the depths of your hideous infamy!" "Oh!" He was laughing. "I've done more. I've made a burnt offering, within the last five minutes. Can you guess what it is?" "I I don't want to guess! I want to be told." "A burnt offering on the altar of your happiness, dear. The papers in the case of the Dougherty Investment Company no longer exist." "Dan!" "Sylvia.... Does it please you?"
The New Orleans True American of October 29, '38, speaking of this says: "It will be recollected that a few weeks ago, Judge Dougherty, one of the most respectable citizens of St. Louis, was murdered upon the same road." The same paper contains the following letter from the murderer of Judge Dougherty. "Murder of Judge Dougherty. The St.
"A pretty close call, wasn't it? or was Dougherty only putting on a few frills to go with my cup of coffee?" "It was close enough," admitted Lidgerwood half absently. He was thinking not so much of the narrow escape as of the fresh and humiliating evidence it had afforded of his own wretched unreadiness. "All right; you'll come around to my way of thinking after a while.
He's washin' some of the Peruvian scenery off his frame, now, an' will soon be along." Then Jimmie told of his discovery of Mike Dougherty, of his leaving a treble guard around the Nelson, and of numerous other adventures in the city, which, not being in any way connected with this narrative, are not set down here.
He does not, as men of other races in Manhattan do, become the convoy in his unoccupied hours of fluttering laces and high heels that tick off delectably the happy seconds of the evening parade. He herds with his own race at corners, and delivers a commentary in his Carib lingo upon the passing show. "Big Jim" Dougherty had a wife, but he did not wear a button portrait of her upon his lapel.
Myron Barlow. 120; Gifford Beal, 73; George Bellows, 120; Max Bohm, 72, 118; H. H. Breckenridge, 51; H. J. Breuer, 56, 58, 118; C. C. Cooper, 37, 47; H. G. Cushing, 66, 68; Charles H. Davis, 67; Ruger Donoho, 46; Paul Dougherty, 67; J. J. Enneking, 71; Daniel Gerber, 68; Lillian W. Hale, 40, 65, 80; W. D. Hamilton, 55, 118, 120; Harry L. Hoffman, 118; James B. Hopkins, 45, 47; John C. Johansen. 68; Sergeant Kendall, 50; William L. Lathrop, 37, 50; Ernest Lawson, 73; Hayley Lever, 66, 67, 71; F. L. Mora, 45, 71, 117; Waldo Murray, 120; Elizabeth Nourse, 56; Joseph T. Pearson, 69; Marion Powers, 56; Ellen Emmet Rand, 65; Robert Reid, 45; William Ritschel, 68, 71; Edward F. Rook, 45, 48; Robert Spencer, 67, 68; H. O. Tanner, 117; Louis C. Tiffany, 71; Giovanni Troccoli, 48; Douglas Volk, 85; Robert Vonnoh, 45, 66, 70; Horatio Walker, 85; E. K. K. Wetherell, 70, 72; Irving H. Wiles, 70; C. H. Woodbury, 37, 69, 119, 120; Charles M. Young, 45.
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