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Updated: June 24, 2025
The man who owned that territory on which the city of Titusville now stands, and those Pleasantville valleys, had studied the subject from the second day of God's creation clear down to the present time. He studied it until he knew all about it, and yet he is said to have sold the whole of it for $833, and again I say, "no sense." But I need another illustration.
Bart, however, handled the man in a pleasant, politic manner, and soon had results working. He let Peter Pope imagine that he was the originator of every idea that he, Bart himself, suggested. He very deftly introduced the system in vogue at the Pleasantville express office. In fact, at the end of two hours Bart had accomplished all he had been sent to do.
He recalled his first meeting with Mahaffy in the stuffy cabin of the small river packet from which they had later gone ashore at Pleasantville; he thanked God that it had been given him to see beneath Solomon's forbidding exterior and into that starved heart!
He returned to New York from an exhausting campaign, depressed in spirit and weary in body and in mind. The death of his devoted wife added to his sorrows, and on November 29, 1872, only a few weeks after the Presidential election, he died at Pleasantville, N. Y., of mental and nervous prostration.
Bart had replied to this letter, wondering what mystery could possibly connect this homeless vagabond and the great ruling magnate of Pleasantville. "Now then, my friends," said Bart briskly, as he saw to it that everything was in order for the sale, "the motto for the hour is quick action and cash on delivery!" About two o'clock there were several arrivals.
Inside was a heap of old boards, and empty boxes and barrels thrown there from time to time to keep them from littering the yards. A truck and the little delivery cart, being outside of the burned shed, Bart found intact. He ran them down to the building he had determined to utilize, temporarily at least, as express headquarters for Pleasantville.
At three o'clock in the afternoon, tired, bramble-torn and a little discouraged, he sat down by the roadside to rest and think. He began to censure himself for taking the independent course he had pursued. "I should have telegraphed the company the circumstances of the burglary, and put the matter in the hands of the Pleasantville police," he reflected.
His home is in Pleasantville, N.Y. That is not far from New York City. We are really perplexed as to whether we ought to let him go." Justice Higginbotham nervously clenched his fist until the knuckles showed white. "This is ghastly, Professor. Let me put it bluntly. Here we are, eleven old comrades, and we are shall I say it suspicious of one another.
He and Mahaffy had met exactly one month before, on the deck of the steamer from which they had been put ashore at the river landing two miles from Pleasantville. Mahaffy's historic era had begun just there. Apparently he had no past of which he could be brought to speak.
"I beg your pardon," said Bart, holding up his watch, "but I keep official time, and it is exactly thirty seconds to midnight. Listen!" And thirty seconds later, from the Pleasantville court house tower, the town bell rang out twelve musical strokes. "I'll go!" said Colonel Jeptha Harrington, magnate of Pleasantville. "All right," said Bart Stirling, express company agent.
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