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Updated: May 12, 2025
One of the stories in the first volume of these prose writings, called "The Man-Hunter," is quite equal in power to any of the graphic pieces of a similar character ever written by De Quincey or Dickens, but the tone in these books is commonly more tender and inclining to melancholy. What, for instance, could be more heart-moving than these passages of his on the death of little children?
He dined alone at a club, wandering afterward aimlessly from library to billiard room and then took to the streets, trusting to physical exercise to clear his head of the tangle that Olga had put into it. Olga, the irrepressible man-hunter, in love with a "fossilized Galahad."
"If we could only put him under down here," said a voice, which the reader will recognize as that of Nick Brower, the villainous accomplice of Professor Ruggles from the opening of our story. "Wal, I reckin we kin," said the villainous companion of Brower. As he spoke, he went to the side of the fallen man-hunter, and placed the point of a knife against his throat. "What now, pard?
This man was Breault, the man-hunter. "The swamp will hold him!" McKay was saying again, exultantly. "Even if he guesses our way, the swamp will hold him back, Nada." "But he won't know the way we have come," cried Nada, the faith in her voice answering his own. "Father John will guide him in another direction."
He had, for the time, ceased to be the cool and calculating man-hunter intent on the possession of another's life. He knew that his duty was to get Bram and take him back to headquarters, and he also knew that he would perform his duty when the opportunity came unless he had guessed correctly the significance of the golden snare. And had he guessed correctly?
There was something which he had not seen, something which he could not see, something that was hiding itself from him. He became, in an instant, the old James Kent. The instinctive processes of the man-hunter leaped to their stations like trained soldiers. He saw Marette again, as she had looked at him when he entered the room. It was not murder he had caught in her wide-open eyes.
"What are you doin' with a detective's star?" said the bar-keeper, "Haven't I a right to one; I dunno finders keepers, losers weepers I picked the bit of brass up on the road not over an hour ago," The bar-keeper was not to be pacified by such a story, and in a threatening voice, he asked: "Are you a man-hunter or not?"
The moment he had looked up into her face in the doorway, it had overwhelmed him. And now even the sound of her footsteps on the floor filled him with an exquisite exultation. It was more than exultation. It was a feeling of POSSESSION. In the hollow of his hand he Blake, the man-hunter held the fate of this woman. She was the Fiddler's wife and the Fiddler was a murderer.
But the reason why the Lord of Yany had turned man-hunter I was yet to learn. Just then I had to direct my energies to frustrating his plans. I used my spurs mercilessly.
Yes, the individual who now advanced was Ruffin the man-hunter; and the dogs I had killed, were his a brace of sleuth-hounds, well-known in the settlement as being specially trained to tracking the unfortunate blacks, that, driven by cruel treatment, had taken to the woods.
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