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Updated: June 10, 2025
We can understand that a volume of police literature would not be out of place in the home of an executive of the law. Miss Woppit, though hardly reassured by the hearty protestations of Hoover and Barber Sam as to her brother's security, hoped that all would be well.
The yellowish hair had fallen down about the shoulders; Jim stroked it and spoke to the white face, repeating "Willie, Willie, Willie," over and over again. The presence and the voice of that evil brother, whom he had so bravely served, seemed to arrest the offices of Death. The boy came slowly to, opened his eyes and saw Jim Woppit there. There was pathos, not reproach, in the dying eyes.
Jim Woppit galloped ahead, his swarthy face the picture of terror. "Who is it who 's killed who 's hurt?" he asked. Nobody made answer, and that meant everything to Jim. He leapt from his horse, crept to the dying boy's side and took the bruised head into his lap.
It is presumed that Miss Woppit slept that night. Following the moving of that woodbox and that small trunk there was no sound of betrayal if Miss Woppit did not sleep. Once the men in the front room were startled by the woman's voice crying out, "Jim oh, Jim!" in tones of such terror as to leave no doubt that Miss Woppit slept and dreamed frightful dreams.
All of a sudden, sharp, exacting, and staccato-like, the telephone sounded; seemed like it said, "Quick trouble help!" By the merest chance a lucky chance Jim Woppit happened to be close by, and he reached for the telephone and answered the summons. "Yes." "Where?" "You bet right away!" That was what Jim said; of course, we heard only one side of the talk.
In the first place, Miss Woppit would never let the boys call on her of an evening unless her brother Jim was home; she had strict notions about that sort of thing which she would n't waive.
Miss Woppit was fertile in questionings of this kind, and Mary made satisfactory answers, for she was sure that everybody liked Jim, and as for her father, why, he had taken Jim right into his confidence the day he came to the camp. Sir Charles had indeed made a confidant of Jim. One day he called him into his room at the Mears House. "Mr.
Sir Charles was the first to suggest a fund for a monument to poor Jake, and he headed the subscription list with one hundred dollars, cash down. A noble funeral it was; everybody cried; at the grave Three-fingered Hoover recited the poem about true love and Jim Woppit threw in a wreath of hollyhock leaves which his sister had sent the poor thing was too sick to come herself.
To make short of a long tale, I will say that the result of the long parley, in which Miss Woppit exhibited a most charming maidenly embarrassment, was that Three-fingered Hoover and Barber Sam were admitted to the cabin for the night.
And if she is skeered, why, you kind o' hang round there to-night and act like you knew everything was all O. K." "But may be Hoover 'll be lonesome," suggested Barber Sam. He was a sly dog. "Then you go 'long too," said Jim Woppit. "Tell her I said so." Three-fingered Hoover would rather a good deal rather have gone alone.
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