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Updated: June 5, 2025
"It's a good healthy pull up the hill for him, and my folks are full to the neck with things. I'd be glad." "Sure he can." Captain Hardy was only too delighted to be able to oblige so important a customer of his company. He promptly shouted at the landing officer. "Ho, you! Masters! Just let that darn Dago tote them mails right up to Mr. Standing's office.
I am Darrell Standing, born and raised on a quarter section of land in Minnesota, erstwhile professor of agronomy, a prisoner incorrigible in San Quentin, and at present a death-sentenced man in Folsom. I do not know, of Darrell Standing's experience, these things of which I write and which I have dug from out my store-houses of subconsciousness.
Blackburne and his wife to London to a christening of a Brother's child of his on Tower Hill, and I to a play, "The Scorn-full Lady," and that being done, I went homewards, and met Mr. Moore, who had been at my house, and took him to my father's, and we three to Standing's to drink. Here Mr. Moore told me how the House had this day voted the King to have all the Excise for ever.
Darrell Standing had no more to do with the being I was than did Darrell Standing's parchment-crinkled skin have aught to do with the cool, soft skin that was mine. Nor was I aware of any Darrell Standing as I could not well be, considering that Darrell Standing was as yet unborn and would not be born for centuries. But you shall see. I lay with closed eyes, lazily listening.
But Standing's whim had demanded the necessity for preserving the name, if only for the sake of its meaning. In seven years the translation of the wilderness had been well-nigh complete. Its vast desolation remained. That could never change under human effort.
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