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Updated: June 2, 2025
"Say, pal, how fur ahead are you of yore keeper?" he demanded, his manner changing. "There is no one after me no one that I know of," explained Mr. Trimm. "I am quite alone I am certain of it." "Sure there ain't nobody lookin' fur you?" the other persisted suspiciously. "I tell you I am all alone," protested Mr. Trimm.
This sense of aloofness to the whole thing had persisted even when his personal lawyer came to him one night in the early fall and told him that the court of last possible resort had denied the last possible motion. Mr. Trimm cut the lawyer short with a shake of his head as the other began saying something about the chances of a pardon from the President. Mr.
"Thank you, Warden very kind of you," said Mr. Trimm in that crisp, businesslike way of his. He had been crisp and businesslike all his life. He heard a door opening softly behind him, and when he turned to look he saw the warden slipping out, furtively, in almost an embarrassed fashion. "Well," said Meyers, "all ready?" "Yes," said Mr. Trimm, and he made as if to rise.
"Great God!" cried the chief, transfixed at the sight. He drew the bolt and jerked open the lower half of the door. "Come in," he said, "and lemme get them irons off of you they must hurt something terrible." "They can wait," said Mr. Trimm very feebly, very slowly and very humbly. "I have worn them a long, long while I am used to them. Wouldn't you please get me some food first?"
Trimm, the swell financeer, sportin' 'round with the darbies on him all nice an' snug an' reg'lar! Mister Trimm well, if this ain't rich!" "My name is Trimm," said the starving banker miserably. "I've been wandering about here a great many hours several days, I think it must be and I need rest and food very much indeed. I don't don't feel very well," he added, his voice trailing off.
He wore no coat or waistcoat and, as he poised a horseshoe for his first cast at the stake, Mr. Trimm saw, pinned flat against the broad strap of his suspenders, a shiny, silvery-looking disk. Having pitched the shoe, the smith moved over into the shade, so that he almost touched the clump of undergrowth that half buried Mr. Trimm's protecting boulder.
Mr. Trimm, recently president of the late Thirteenth National Bank, was taking a trip which was different in a number of ways from any he had ever taken. To begin with, he was used to parlor cars and Pullmans and even luxurious private cars when he went anywhere; whereas now he rode with a most mixed company in a dusty, smelly day coach.
Merely a pair of steel rings clamped to one's wrists and coupled together with a scrap of chain, but they'll twist your arms and hamper the movements of your body in a way to constantly catch the eye of the passer-by. When a man is coming toward you, you can tell that he is handcuffed before you see the cuffs. Mr. Trimm was never able to recall afterward exactly how he got out of the Tombs.
Trimm gave mental thanks to a Deity whose existence he thought he had forgotten when the gate of the train-shed clanged behind him, shutting out the mob that had come with them all the way. Cameras had been shoved in his face like gun muzzles, reporters had scuttled alongside him, dodging under Meyers' fending arm to shout questions in his ears. He had neither spoken nor looked at them.
Trimm," "Cobb's Bill of Fare," "Roughing It de Luxe," "Europe Revised," "Paths of Glory," "Speaking of Operations," "Local Color," "Fibble, D. D.," "Old Judge Priest," "Speaking of Prussians," "Those Times and These," and "'Twixt the Bluff and the Sound." Lives within commuting distance of New York City. *Boys Will Be Boys. Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom. *Family Tree, The. *Quality Folks.
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