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Updated: May 14, 2025
"Let's hear the General sing," she proposed. Gordon wound the phonograph, and the distant, metallic voice repeated the undeniable fact that Rip Van Winkle had been unaware of the select pleasures of Coney Island. The dog whimpered, then raised his head in a despairing bay. A time might come in a man's life, Gordon Makimmon realized, when this peaceful interior would spell complete happiness.
The bitter irony of it rose in a wave of black mirth to his twisted lips; he, Gordon Makimmon, was exposed as an avaricious schemer with the prospects of Greenstream, with men's hopes, with their chances. While Simmons, it was plainly intimated, had labored faithfully and in vain for the people. He rose and shook his clenched hands above his head. "If I had only shot him!" he cried.
Life isn't as dreadful as that." "It's worse," he declared somberly. They turned by Simmons' store, but continued in the opposite direction from the one-time Makimmon dwelling.
An older brother had totally disappeared from the cognizance of Greenstream during Gordon's boyhood; and a married sister, completing the tale, lived at the opposite end of the county, held close by poverty and her own large brood. Summer and winter Gordon Makimmon drove the stage between Greenstream and Stenton.
Her face was older than he had ever seen it, and pinched; in one hand she grasped a small pasteboard box. Gordon Makimmon made one step toward her. Lettice held the box in an extended hand: "Gordon," she asked, "what was this for? It was in the clothes press last evening: it couldn't have been there long. You see it's a little jewellery box from the post-office; here is the name on the lid.
"You see," William eagerly interposed; "now I'm fixed good." At the sight of the grotesque waste a swift resentment moved Gordon Makimmon it was a mockery of his money's use, a gibing at his capability, his planning. The petty treachery of Rose added its injury. He pitched the box in his hands upon the clay floor, and the accordion fell out, quivering like a live thing. "Hey!"
The mountains rose starkly to the slaty sky. Gordon Makimmon lighted a lamp in the dining room of his dwelling. The table still bore a red, fringed cloth, but was bare of all else save the castor, most of the rings of which were empty. The room had a forlorn appearance, there was dust everywhere; Gordon had pitched the headstall into a corner, where it lay upon a miscellaneous, untidy pile.
Gordon Makimmon settled resolutely to the long drive; he was oblivious of the miles of sodden road stretching out behind, he was not aware of the pale, dripping, wintry landscape he was lost in a continuous train of memories wheeling bright and distant through his mind.
Paper shaving, robbery, finished ... lawful rate ... chance " It was no more to Gordon Makimmon than the crackling of the forest branches, no more than an inexplicable hindrance to a desired consummation. "If it hadn't been for you, what you did for me ... others ... new courage, example of bigness Why! what's the matter with you, Makimmon? That's blood."
In this manner his father, just such another, had fought before him, and his grandfather before that. Nothing further back was known in Greenstream, It was well known that the first George Gordon Makimmon the Mac had been speedily debauched by the slurring, local speech had made his way to Virginia from Scotland, upon the final collapse of a Lost Cause.
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