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But the other tarried, thoughtfully puffing his pipe. "And the father was not dead?" "'Twas only the living death," said the old man, now lighting a lantern. "You know that grave in a poem of Sidney Trove: 'It has neither sod nor stone; It has neither dust nor bone. He planned to be as one dead to the world." "And the other man of mystery who was he?" "Some child of misfortune.
"Who the devil have you got there, Pelham?" said Lord Chester. "A person," said I, "who picked me up at Paris, and insists on the right of treasure trove to claim me in England. But will you let me ask, in my turn, whom that cheerful mansion we have just left, belongs to?" "To a Mr.
"I'll take these to the barn," said he; "they'd have a fit if they was t' see 'em. What be they?" "I do not know what they are," said Trove. "Wal!" said Tunk. "They're queer folks them Frenchmen. This looks like an iron bar broke in two in the middle." He got his lantern, picked up the bottle, the sling-shot, and the iron, and went away to the barn.
Then he told of that deadly battle in the grass. "But these webs might have been the work of another spider," said the attorney. "It matters not," Trove insisted, "for the webs were spun at least twelve hours before the crime. One of them contains the body of a red butterfly with starred wings. We cut the wings that day, and Miss Vaughn put them in a book she was reading."
He held out a hand to show its steadiness. "Very good," Trove remarked. "Good? Why, it's jest as stiddy as a hitchin' post, an' purty nigh as stout. Feel there," said Tunk, swelling his biceps. "You must be very strong," said Trove, as he felt the rigid arm. "A man has t' be in the boss business, er he ain't nowheres. If they get wicked, ye've got t' put the power to 'em."
They stopped them for water at the creeks and rivers; slowed them down to browse or graze awhile at noontime; and when the sun was low, if they were yet in a land of fences, he of the horse and wagon hurried on to get pasturage for the night. That first day some of the leaders had begun to wander and make trouble. For that reason Trove was walking beside the buckboard in front of the drove.
Of an evening he went often to the Sign of the Dial, and there read his lines and got friendly but severe criticism. He came into the shop one evening, his "Horace" under his arm. "'Maecenas, atavis, edite regibus'" Trove chanted, pausing to recall the lines. The tinker turned quickly. "'O et presidium et duice decus meum," he quoted, never stopping until he had finished She ode.
"An' put a ribbon in her forelock, an' a coat o' silk on her back, an', mind ye, a man o' kindness in the saddle?" "Yes, sir." "Then take thy horse, an' Allah grant thou be successful on her as many times as there be hairs in her skin." "And the price?" said Allen. "Name it, an' I'll call thee just." The business over, the tinker called to Trove, who had led the filly to her stall,
He had the rare and charming gift, in talking to young people, of making them feel that he regarded them as equals. And though he was imparting knowledge all the time, he had the air of being really more interested in what they had to contribute. That walk was a revelation to me, a kind of treasure trove of natural science.
When he dare not murder his daily trove because he believes it to be a Manifestation, an Emissary, an Embodiment, and half a dozen other things all out of the regular course of nature, he is more than upset. He is actually distressed.
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