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Updated: May 16, 2025
It was five-o'clock when Harkless climbed the stairs to the "Herald" office, and his right arm and hand were aching and limp. The sales were rapid; for no one could resist the opportunity to read in print descriptions of what his eyes had beheld and his ears had heard that day.
The people came at the smoker like a long wave, and Warren Smith, Briscoe, Keating, and Mr. Bence of Gaines were swept ahead of it. Before the train stopped they had rushed eagerly up the steps and entered the car. Harkless was on his feet and started to meet them. He stopped. "What does it mean?" he said, and began to grow pale. "Is Halloway did McCune have you "
Ephraim Watts, who, following a calling more fashionable in the eighteenth century than in the latter decades of the nineteenth, had shaken the dust of Carlow from his feet some three years previously, at the strong request of the authorities. The "Herald" had been particularly insistent upon his deportation, and, in the local phrase, Harkless had "run him out of town."
"I think they are," said Helen, "and they are more beautiful than the 'Italian skies, though I doubt if many of us Hoosiers realize it; and certainly no one else does." The old man leaned over and patted her hand. Harkless gasped. "'Us Hoosiers!" chuckled the judge. "You're a great Hoosier, young lady! How much of your life have you spent in the State? 'Us Hoosiers!"
If John Harkless had been in health, uninjured and prosperous, Tom Meredith could no more have thrown himself on his knees beside him and called him "old friend" than he could have danced on the slack-wire. One day they thought the patient sleeping; the nurse fanned him softly, and Meredith had stolen in and was sitting by the cot.
John said: "Good afternoon, judge"; the whip cracked like a pistol-shot, and the buckboard dashed off in a cloud of dust. "Every once in a while, Harkless," the old fellow called after them, "you must remember to look at the team."
"What are those?" asked Harkless, with a gesture of his hand which seemed to include the entire room. "Those!" repeated Ross, staring blankly. "Those rosettes these streamers that stovepipe all this blue ribbon." Ross turned pale. "Ribbon?" he said, inquiringly. "Ribbon?" He seemed unable to perceive the decorations referred to.
"I wouldn't risk it, if I were you," she warned him, "because I didn't speak to you at all. I shut my lips tight and trembled all over every bit of the time I was dancing with you. I did not sleep that night, because I was so unhappy, wondering what the Great Harkless would think of me. I knew he thought me unutterably stupid because I couldn't talk to him.
He spoke in shouts, though neither was hard of hearing. "Yes; just soaking," answered Harkless; "it's such a gypsy day. How is Mr. Bowlder?" "I'm givin' good satisfaction, thankye, and all at home. She's in town; goin' in after her now." "Give Mrs. Bowlder my regards," said the journalist, comprehending the symbolism. "How is Hartley?" The farmer's honest face shaded over, a second.
The barouche rolled into the Square, and, as it passed, Harkless turned, and bent a sudden gaze upon the group in the buckboard; but the western sun was in his eyes, and he only caught a glimpse of a vague, bright shape and a dazzle of gold, and he was borne along and out of view, down the singing street. "Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
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