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A lucky thought strikes him; he opens the window and gets out. Struggles with ivy and things on the outside of the jail, and finally reaches her just as Mr. Feeny is about to dash a large wooden stone onto his head. He throws Mr. F. into the river. Pardon arrives. Fond embraces. Tears of joy and kisses a la Pogue. Everybody much happy. Curtain falls.
Caleb had been tricked out of everything he had in the world, for it was just a question of days now before Pogue would, in spite of Saryann, throw off all pretense and order Caleb from the place to shift for himself. Raften sat a long time thinking, then said: "Caleb, you do exactly as Oi tell ye and ye'll get yer farrum back. First, Oi'll lend ye wan thousand dollars for wan week."
Them's nothing but the accidents of the cork that you're looking at and handling; but, as I tould you afore, the real cork's dhrew and is here prisint on the end ov this nate little insthrument, and it was the noise I made in dhrawing it, and nothing else, that you mistook for the sound ov the pogue." You know there was no conthravening what he said; and the Pope couldn't openly deny it.
"Thayer's maybe five hundred or six hundred dollars, but it's near enough." Caleb, however, was allowed to think it real money, and fully prepared, he called at his own the Pogue house the next day, knocked, and walked in. "Good morning, father," said Saryann, for she had some decency and kindness.
"Sure, thet wor ownly me joke. Th'room pogue, ma colleen ogue?" The girl near, to whom he addressed the latter part of his speech, which sounded like Greek to me, blushed and laughed, turning away shyly. "Hullo!" I exclaimed. "What does that mean, Mick?" "Faith, it manes `Give me a kiss, me purty gurl, Tom," he answered, bursting into a roar of laughter.
"Surely there is none of this 'graft' as you call it, in a perfect and harmonious matrimonial union!" "Well," said Pogue, "nothing that would justify you every time in calling Police Headquarters and ordering out the reserves and a vaudeville manager on a dead run. But it's this way: Suppose you're a Fifth Avenue millionaire, soaring high, on the right side of copper and cappers.
Beside his expression the cry of Henry James for lacteal nourishment at the age of one month would have seemed like a Chaldean cryptogram. He told me stories of his profession with pride, for he considered it an art. And I was curious enough to ask him whether he had known any women who followed it. "Ladies?" said Pogue, with Western chivalry. "Well, not to any great extent.
Pogue says he kills Sheep 'an' every one is ready to believe it. I never knowed a Hound turn Sheep-killer, an' I never knowed a Sheep-killer kill at home, an' I never knowed a Sheep-killer content with one each night, an' I never knowed a Sheep-killer leave no tracks, an' Sheep was killed again and again when Turk was locked up in the shanty with me." "Well, whose Dog is it does it?"
A chambermaid with a room-cleaning air fluttered nearby in the hall, unable to enter or to flee, scandalized by the stocking feet, aghast at the Colt's, yet powerless, with her metropolitan instincts, to remove herself beyond the magic influence of the yellow-hued roll. I sat on his trunk while Ferguson Pogue talked. No one could be franker or more candid in his conversation.
While in the metropolis Pogue can always be found at one of two places. One is a little second-hand book-shop on Fourth Avenue, where he reads books about his hobbies, Mahometanism and taxidermy. I found him at the other his hall bedroom in Eighteenth Street where he sat in his stocking feet trying to pluck "The Banks of the Wabash" out of a small zither.
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