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Updated: May 22, 2025
"Look here," said Martin, slowly, "you go back to Six-Cross-Roads and tell your folks that if anything happens to a hair of Mr. Harkless's head every shanty in your town will burn, and your grandfather and your father and your uncles and your brothers and your cousins and your second-cousins and your third-cousins will never have the good luck to see the penitentiary.
Bud went down the rickety outside stairs, and sat on the lowest step, whistling "Wait till the Clouds Roll by, Jenny"; Ross Schofield descended to set up the quatrain, and Fisbee and Parker were left to silence and troubled meditation. They were seated on opposite sides of Harkless's desk. Sheets of blank scratch-paper lay before them, and they relaxed not their knit brows.
Somehow, the look of the sheriff's Sunday coat, wrinkling forlornly from his broad, bent shoulders, was both touching and solemn. He said simply: "He's conscious and not out of his head. They're gone in to take his ante-mortem statement," and they went into the room. Harkless's eyes were bandaged. The lawyer was speaking to him, and as Horner went awkwardly toward the cot.
But there swung out a chorus from fresh, Aryan throats, in the house south of Meredith's: "Where, oh where, are the grave old Seniors? Safe, now, in the wide, wide world!" "Doesn't that thrill you, boy?" said Meredith, joining the group about Harkless's chair. "Those fellows are Sophomores, class of heaven knows what. Aren't you feeling a fossil. Father Abraham?"
They did agree, however, that Harkless's quiet was not unkind, whatever its cause, and that when it was broken it was usually broken to conspicuous effect. Perhaps it was because he wrote so much that he hated to talk. A bent figure came slowly down the street, and William hailed it cheerfully: "Evening, Mr. Fisbee." "A good evening, Mr. Todd," answered the old man, pausing. "Ah, Mr.
Harkless was down with a relapse and was very fretful; and he'd taken the liberty of reading the letter and temporarily suppressing it under doctor's orders; they were afraid he'd come, sick as he was, from a sense of duty, and asked us to withdraw the letter, and referred us to Mr. Harkless's representative on the 'Herald. So we applied here to Miss Sherwood, and that's why we had this meeting.
Harkless's room was so pretty." "Oh, it ain't much, I reckon," he replied, and continued to look out of the window and laugh. She went to the desk and removed her gloves and laid her rain-coat over a chair near by. "Is this Mr.
There came a day in August when Meredith took the convalescent from the hospital in a victoria, and installed him in his own home. Harkless's clothes hung on his big frame limply; however, there was a drift of light in his eyes as they drove slowly through the pretty streets of Rouen. The bandages and splints and drugs and swathings were all gone now, and his sole task was to gather strength.
They answered him with angry shouts and hootings, but he made his big voice heard, and bade them do nothing rash; no facts were known, he said; it was far from certain that harm had been done, and no one knew that the Six-Cross-Roads people had done it even if something had happened to Mr. Harkless. He declared that he spoke in Harkless's name.
For some minutes, Meredith had been dully conscious of a rustle and stir in the invalid's chamber, and he began to realize that no mere tossing about a bed would account for a noise that reached him across a wide hall and through two closed doors of thick walnut. Suddenly he heard a quick, heavy tread, shod, in Harkless's room, and a resounding bang, as some heavy object struck the floor.
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