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Updated: June 2, 2025
Trimm, with Meyers clutching him by the arm, was fairly shot aboard one of the cars, at the apex of a human wedge.
It was as if they were living things that had turned and bitten him for the blow he gave them. From the time the sun went down there was a tingle of frost in the air. Mr. Trimm didn't sleep much. Under the squeeze of the tightened fetters his wrists throbbed steadily and racking cramps ran through his arms. His stomach felt as though it were tied into knots.
Mr. Trimm shook his head without raising it. "Them cuffs feel plenty easy?" was the deputy's next question. He lifted Mr. Trimm's hands as casually as if they had been his hands and not Mr. Trimm's, and looked at them. "Seem to be all right," he said as he let them fall back. "Don't pinch none, I reckon?" There was no answer. The deputy tugged a minute at his mustache, searching his arid mind.
Trimm was on his way to the Federal penitentiary to serve twelve years at hard labor for breaking, one way or another, about all the laws that are presumed to govern national banks. All the time Mr. Trimm was in the Tombs, fighting for a new trial, a certain question had lain in his mind unasked and unanswered.
He moved slowly toward the house, tottering with weakness and because of the slick mud underfoot; peering near-sightedly this way and that through the murk; starting at every sound and stopping often to listen. The outlines of a lean-to kitchen at the back of the house were looming dead ahead of him when from the corner of the cottage sprang a small terrier. It made for Mr. Trimm, barking shrilly.
Whether one approves or disapproves in general of the ending is irrelevant in this case. This story must take its place as one of the best dozen stories of the war. THE FAMILY TREE, and 15. It is seven years since Irvin Cobb published his first short story, "The Escape of Mr. Trimm," in the Saturday Evening Post.
Other men, laborers to judge by their blue overalls, were sitting on the edges of the car with their feet dangling. For the second time within twelve hours impulse ruled Mr. Trimm, who wasn't given to impulses normally. He made a jump off the right-of-way, and as the handcar flashed by he watched its flight from the covert of a weed tangle. But even as the handcar was passing him Mr.
It'll be a reg'lar tea party fur jest us two." He broke off to chuckle. His mirth made him appear even more repulsive than before. "But looky here, you wus sayin' somethin' about money," he said suddenly. "Le's take a look at all this here money." He came over to him and went through Mr. Trimm's pockets. Mr. Trimm said nothing and stood quietly, making no resistance.
Where he huddled down in the shelter of one of the fallen walls he noticed, presently, a strand of rusted fence wire still held to half-tottering posts by a pair of blackened staples; it was part of a pen that had been used once for chickens or swine. Mr. Trimm tried the wire with his fingers. It was firm and springy.
"What do you mean?" panted Mr. Trimm, full of terror. "You'll help me?" "I mean this," said the tramp slowly. He put his hands under his loose-hanging overcoat and began to fumble at a leather strap about his waist. "If I turn you over to the Government I know wot you'll be worth, purty near, by guessin' at the reward; an' besides, it'll maybe help to square me up fur one or two little matters.
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