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Updated: June 5, 2025
"Say, you shanghaied me on your d d old prairie schooner did I tell you to drive me to a farm? I want a drink. I'm goin' all to little pieces. What's doin'?" Ranse saw that the tramp's nerves were racking him. He despatched one of the Mexican boys to the ranch-house for a glass of whisky.
But the lad was just the fraction of a second too late, and though he did manage to grasp a portion of the tramp's coat, the ragged and rotten cloth parted in his hand. "I'll get you yet!" exclaimed Tom fiercely, as he took up the pursuit in the darkness. He had been expecting this, and yet it had come so suddenly that he was not quite prepared for it.
That accounts for the blood stains upon Cassidy's coat, but, of course, nobody credited his story. "The tramp's confession, however, was wired to the general manager of the Wabash by the conductor of the out-going train, together with a description of the tramp's clothes, which description tallies with that given of those garments worn by Cassidy.
He was tied up near the back stoop out of sight, but could be pressed into service on short notice. "If you don't go at once, I'll set the dog on you." "Huh! You can't fool me!" "No fooling about it. Major! Major!" I called. There was a rattling of chain as the animal tried to break away, and then a loud barking. The noise seemed to strike terror to the tramp's heart.
Her mind was all a mingling of past and present, but chiefly it seemed to be invaded by a young face, sullen sometimes like the tramp's, and then again gay with laughter. When she came to her every-day frame of mind, the woods were still, and to her vivid sensibilities more deserted. She made no doubt the thief was gone in the way she had marked out for him.
At the proper season you would meet in the fields, Fyne, a serious-faced, broad-chested, little man, with a shabby knap-sack on his back, making for some church steeple. He had a horror of roads. He wrote once a little book called the `Tramp's Itinerary, and was recognised as an authority on the footpaths of England.
Woodward drew the roll of bills from his pocket and began to count them over. I was eager to catch sight of them. I stood on tiptoe and peered into the window. It was an interesting scene; the sour look upon the merchant's face; the look of greed in the tramp's eye. In a moment the counting was finished. "A hundred and seventy dollars," said Mr. Aaron Woodward. "Here you are."
She thinks she's made herself into a constable, does she? Turned her house into a jail an' forgot to fasten the winders outside! Ho! Ho! Silly women!" The disappointed old fellow got as much enjoyment as he could out of the situation, and was more than delighted by thought of a tramp's shoes smirching the log-cabin quilt.
She was tired. The moonlight called her. She lay down with her profile in the light. But there were smell and features in the glare the odour was that of the tramp's skin, the features a long thin nose, pressed lips, small eyes, a look of dull liquorish cruelty.
His gaze shifted from the tramp's face to the stuff on the fire, his nostrils wrinkling. Then slowly: "I'm in trouble," he said, and held out his hands. "Wot I'd call a mild way o' puttin' it," said the tramp coolly. "That purticular kind o' joolry ain't gen'lly wore for pleasure." His eyes took on a nervous squint and roved past Mr. Trimm's stooped figure down the slope of the hillock.
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