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Updated: May 26, 2025
And oblivious to it all slept Ross Shanklin Ross Shanklin, the tramp and outcast, ex-convict 4379, the bitter and unbreakable one who had defied all keepers and survived all brutalities. Texas-born, of the old pioneer stock that was always tough and stubborn, he had been unfortunate. At seventeen years of age he had been apprehended for horse-stealing.
Virgil tells us this plant is best cultivated on the sea side; but every maritime situation is not congenial, unless a protection is afforded from the cold northerly winds. The chief attraction of Shanklin is the Chine. This is a natural fissure or cleft in the earth, running from the village to the sea in a circuitous direction and increasing in width and depth as it approaches the shore.
There was neither name nor address on the telegram, but it was easy to see that it was for "Jerry" at Meander. Some deal was on foot, a crooked deal, no doubt, between Shanklin and somebody for something in which Peterson and Number One Hold on! Slavens sat up with a quickening of interest in those two words which he thought he never should feel again. Peterson!
He was hustled from his place to make room for the new guests, and surlily retired to a neighbouring table, where, if he could not hear all that was said, he could at least see all that went on. "Hullo!" said Shanklin gaily, "here's a nice time to turn up, dear boys. Medlock and I have nearly done supper." "Couldn't help.
Comanche appeared livelier than ever as he passed along its thronged streets. Those who were to leave as soon as they could get a train were making a last reckless night of it; the gamblers were busy at their various games. The doctor passed the tent where Hun Shanklin had been stationed with his crescent table.
His only comfort in those first days was the thought of the money which he had taken from Shanklin, with the aid of the gambler's own honest little die. That cash was now safe in the bank at Meander.
I do believe he buys his own postage-stamps when he writes home to his mamma!" This last announcement was too comical to be received gravely. "Ha, ha! he ought to be exhibited!" said Shanklin. "He ought to be starved!" said Durfy viciously. "He knocked me down once, and I wouldn't have told you of him if I didn't owe him a grudge the puppy!"
Feeling the need of rest after all the gayety and excitement of Paris, Morse and part of his family retired to Shanklin, on the Isle of Wight, where in a neat little furnished cottage Florence Villa they spent part of two happy months. Then with his wife and daughter and youngest son he journeyed in leisurely fashion through England and Scotland, returning to Paris in October.
"Game's closed," Shanklin announced, shutting up his valise, into which he had tossed both dice and box. He made a move as if to part the tent-wall behind him. "Hold on!" said the doctor, snatching off his goggles and pushing up the brim of his hat. "I've got another score to settle with you, Shanklin. Do you know me now?" Shanklin didn't wait to reply.
They played billiards, at which Mr Shanklin won. They also played cards, at which, by a singular coincidence, Mr Shanklin won too. Finally, they supped together, and then went home to bed, each one under the delusion that he had spent a very pleasant evening. Reginald was far from sharing the same opinion as he paced home that evening.
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