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Updated: June 3, 2025
The sudden light of publicity that had fallen upon the Cant-Pass-It saloon sent a glow over that entire region of Billy-goat Hill. Everybody had something to talk about, and everybody talked, except Chick. Phineas Flathers appointed himself headquarters for information, and devoted himself exclusively to arguing about the matter.
Then her face hardened suddenly, and she wheeled into the kitchen. "Flathers," she said, "it's him coming round the house now. He said he'd be back before six, an' wouldn't stand no foolin'. What you goin' to do, Flathers?" Before Miss Lady and Mrs.
Something was snorting and hissing without, something that sounded as if it might be the Devil! In Chick's creed there was but one affirmation. He believed absolutely in the Devil. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was red, and cloven-footed and that his tail ended in a hard, sharp, spike, like Mammy Flathers' ice-pick.
Meanwhile, a bedraggled little rose languished unnoticed beneath the manuscript of "The History of Norman Influence on English Language and Literature." For three hundred and sixty-five days Myrtella Flathers held undisputed sway in the house of Queerington.
In the bed, propped on pillows and with throat bandaged, Chick executed a lively tune with knife and fork on his plate, while Maria Flathers dedicated herself to the task of preventing Loreny May from putting her blue-slippered foot in the butter. Without, the sleet pelted the windows, and the red top of Mr. Iseling's wagon waiting at the gate.
Looking out of the wagon, they could see the broad yellow waters of the river with its long, black coal barges, and the dim outline of Billy-goat Hill, growing fainter in the distance. "Faster, Mr. Flathers, drive faster!" implored Miss Lady.
"Would you know the Big One again? Oh, Chick, try to remember what he looked like!" Chick shook his head, "Naw, I don't 'member what none of 'em looked like. But you know which one he was; he gimme the silver knob offen his whip." Miss Lady sprang to her feet: "We must get him to the courthouse, Mr. Flathers. Quick! Help me with his clothes. I'll put on his shoes and stockings."
This agreement having been arrived at, Myrtella reached for her broom, and began such a vigorous attack on the steps, that Flathers was forced to conclude that his presence could be cheerfully dispensed with. He gathered himself up, slapped his hat on the side of his head, tucked his Bible under his arm, and made a sweeping bow. "Fare thee well, my own true love.
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