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Updated: June 12, 2025
So bent had been their footsteps that neither Harrison Woodell nor other living thing could have been near them and unseen. Down the tree-fringed roadway and across the field to the barn went Harlson, and wondered somewhat at himself. Into what had he developed, and how would it all end? He was elated, but uneasy.
And he added; "If those people don't take good care of that old woman there'll be a new superintendent." But they took good care of her. This is lugging in an incident at great length as an illustration, but I know of no other way to explain how Harlson so expressed himself when I asked him how he knew whether the woman of whom he had been talking was married or not. He felt confident enough.
This one, whom I have known better than any other woman in the world, is most difficult of all for me to picture. She stood there, not uninterested altogether, for, no doubt, Harlson had been telling her already of his closest friend, his lieutenant in many things, and I had an opportunity to study her with all closeness as we exchanged the commonplaces.
He must be broiled, split open neatly and well larded with good butter, for not so juicy even as the quail is the ruffed grouse, and he must have aid. But, broiled and buttered and seasoned, well, what a bird he is! There were woodcock, too, in the lowlands, and Harlson found with them such buoyant life as we men find in sudden death of those small, succulent creatures.
Harlson picked up the filled-out blank, glanced at it, and threw it down again. "It's some mistake," he said; "that precinct is one of the stiffest the other way. Wait until we get more of them." We waited, but not for long. The returns came fluttering in like pigeons now. The second read: Harlson, 33. Sharkey, 30. There dawned a light upon me; but I said no word.
As already remarked, these two were very foolish. That same evening, when Grant Harlson reached his office, he found a note awaiting him. It was a pretty, perfumed thing, and he knew the handwriting upon it well. He had not seen the writer for three months. He had almost forgotten her existence, yet she had been one with whom his life had been, upon a time, closely associated.
They won't hang you, for you can say it was in self-defense, and my being here will prove it. Do it! Have a complete job of what you have done this summer!" The man, writhed in his ignoble position, and tears gushed from his eyes. Harlson reached forward and withdrew the pitchfork handle. Woodell scrambled to his feet ungracefully, for his hands were still strapped together before him.
She had but a little income, barely enough to live on, but she had courage unlimited, and tact, and was not insignificant as a social factor. She had the sturdiness of her ancestry, in which the name of Jean ran. "I like it," Harlson said; "it fits her 'Jean Cornish' little brown 'Jean Cornish' little leopardess, little, wise, good woman."
And Harlson formed no exception to the rule. The small personage on the limb of the fallen tree owned him as absolutely and completely as ever Cleopatra owned a slave, or Elizabeth a servitor. "I don't know what to say," he murmured. "There aren't any words but you understand."
There was a ward to be carried against a ring, and Harlson was in the midst of the fray for half a hundred reasons, and I was aiding him. He headed the more reputable faction, but in the opposition were many shrewd men and men of standing. It was no simple task we had before us, and we had been working hard, and we were not quite satisfied with the condition of things.
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