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Updated: May 16, 2025
Neal Farrar sighed as if there was something in that. "But, you know, it's just when an unlucky fellow would give his life not to sneeze that he's sure to bring out a thumping big one," he said plaintively. "Well, keep it back like a hero if your head bursts in the attempt," was the reply with a muffled laugh.
The express was crowded too, with people standing in the aisles, hanging to straps. The faces were very clearly distinguishable in the bright light; and Mr. Neal, strangely excited at this rapid panorama of faces, saw each one distinctly. Suddenly he leaned forward, close to the glass. He saw it! The face! It was there! But it was gone in a moment. It had been like a flash in the dark tunnel.
"No, then, I haven't. There are three large crabs in the boat, and even if there wasn't one at all we could do nicely with limpets. There's worse bait than a good limpet." "Well, and if you have the crabs I expect you've forgotten the sheep's wool. What do you think, Neal? Yesterday we were fishing cuddings off the Black Rock and Maurice ran out of wool.
We arrived one day at a clearing which lay a few miles off the way from Harrisburg to San Felipe de Austin, and belonged to a Mr Neal. He had been three years in the country, occupying himself with the breeding of cattle, which is unquestionably the most agreeable, as well as profitable, occupation that can be followed in Texas.
Neal repeated the story, telling how he knew that his own name was on the list of persons to be arrested. There was a short silence when he had finished. Then James Bigger said "You have not proved that charge. The circumstances are suspicious, but you have proved nothing." Donald Ward bowed. Finlay raised his eyes for the first time since he had been dragged into the vault, and looked round him.
This he put within his shirt. When the officials returned he had finished his repast and was waiting for them near the bars with a smile of gratitude on his lips. "This may be a confession I'm going to write," he said, grinning at Neal.
The sergeant swung the trooper's belt round his head, making it whistle through the air. Neal shivered and shrank, but the blow did not fall. The sergeant was in no hurry. "You hear that," he said, swinging the belt again. "Will you speak before I lay it on you? You shall have time to consider. Nobody shall say I hurried a prisoner.
No doubt they, as well as Plonny Neal, appreciated that Blaines College did not give the young man a fair field for his talents; and certainly they knew with admiration the articles with which he sometimes adorned the columns of their paper. Of all the directors, they now pointed out, he had stood closest to Colonel Cowles, and was most familiar with the traditions and policies of the Post.
Journalistic Worthington ran true to type in the Milly Neal affair. No newspaper published more than a paragraph about the "sudden death." Suicide was not even hinted at in print. But newspaperdom had its own opinion, magnified and colored by the processes of gossip, over which professional courtesy exercised no control.
The long list of the wounded included Brigadier-General Thomas W. Sherman, Brigadier-General Neal Dow, Colonel Richard E. Holcomb, of the 1st Louisiana; Colonel Thomas S. Clark, of the 6th Michigan; Colonel William F. Bartlett, of the 49th Massachusetts; Major Gouverneur Carr, of the 165th New York.
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