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"The man with me the officer was killed. I wasn't hurt and I got away into these woods. But they think I'm dead too my name was among the list of dead." The other's peaky face lengthened in astonishment. "Why, say," he began, "I read all about that there wreck seen the list myself say, you can't be Trimm, the New York banker? Yes, you are! Wot a streak of luck! Lemme look at you!
Trimm sat down on a natural cushion of thick green moss between two roots of an oak. The place was clean and soft and sweet-scented. For some little time he sat there motionless, in a sort of mental haze. Then his round body slowly slid down flat upon the moss, his head lolled to one side and, the reaction having come, Mr. Trimm's limbs all relaxed and he went to sleep straightway.
Trimm's lower arm like a man adjusting a part of machinery, and then bringing the left hand up to meet the right, he treated it the same way. Then he stepped back. Mr. Trimm hadn't meant to protest. The word came unbidden. "This this isn't necessary, is it?" he asked in a voice that was husky and didn't seem to belong to him. "Yep," said Meyers.
If I were to choose a single author of short stories for my library on a desert island, my choice would inevitably turn to these volumes. This is quite the best volume of short stories that Mr. Cobb has yet published. Since "The Escape of Mr. Trimm," which was his first short story, was printed in the Saturday Evening Post seven years ago, Mr.
Trimm regretted his hastiness. He must surrender himself sooner or later; why not to these overalled laborers, since it was a thing that had to be done? He slid out of hiding and came trotting back to the tracks.
These men came out into the aisle, so that Meyers had to shove through them. "This here'll do as well as any, I guess," said Meyers. He drew Mr. Trimm past him into the seat nearer the window and sat down alongside him on the side next the aisle, settling himself on the stuffy plush seat and breathing deeply, like a man who had got through the hardest part of a not easy job. "Smoke?" he asked.
Trimm followed the turnkey through the long corridor and down the winding iron stairs to the warden's office. He gave no heed to the curious eyes that followed him through the barred doors of many cells; his feet rang briskly on the flags.
Reporter and cartoonist for several years; magazine contributor since 1910. Chief interests, outdoor life and travel. First short story, "The Escape of Mr. Trimm," Saturday Evening Post, November, 1910. Author of "Back Home," "Cobb's Anatomy," "The Escape of Mr.
By night then he must be free of them and on his way to some small inland city, to stay quiet there until the guarded telegram that he would send in cipher had reached Walling. There in the woods by himself Mr. Trimm no longer felt the ignominy of his bonds; he felt only the temporary embarrassment of them and the need of added precaution until he should have mastered them.
The front page was uppermost and he knew it must be of that morning's issue, for across the column tops ran the flaring headline: "Twenty Dead in Frightful Collision." Squatting on the cindered track, Mr. Trimm patted the crumpled sheet flat with his hands.
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