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I admit that I do not know much about rustics, except from novels. But I plead that the little I do know about them by personal observation does not confirm much of what the many novelists have taught me. Not long ago I happened to be staying in the neighbourhood, and came across several villagers who might, I assure you, have stepped straight out of Braxton's pages.
We'll forget profits for a year or so, lay off the men, and just keep the engineer force on and the pumping going." "I threw that into Arranzo," Jeremy Braxton's voice boomed. "And what was his comeback? That if we laid off the peons, he'd see to it that the engineers laid off, too, and the mine could flood and be damned to us. No, he didn't say that last.
Maltby, for all his sparkle, was earnest; Braxton, for all his arrogance, assiduous. 'A Faun on the Cotswolds' had no more eager eulogist than the author of 'Ariel in Mayfair. When any one praised his work, Maltby would lightly disparage it in comparison with Braxton's 'Ah, if I could write like THAT! Maltby won golden opinions in this way.
"Thar you are, Tom!" he said, "talkin' 'us to death ag'in. Can't you ever give your tongue no rest?" Silent Tom blushed once more under his tan, but said nothing, abashed by his comrade's stern rebuke. "Yes, I kin see Braxton Wyatt an' his band stalkin' us," resumed Shif'less Sol, having the floor, or rather the earth, again to himself. "Braxton's heart is full o' unholy glee.
That is mainly why, before the end of April, his publisher was in a position to state that 'the Seventh Large Impression of "Ariel in Mayfair" is almost exhausted. Let it be put to our credit, however, that at the same moment Braxton's publisher had 'the honour to inform the public that an Eighth Large Impression of "A Faun on the Cotswolds" is in instant preparation.
Early on the morning of January 24th a mounted party of twelve Mexicans made their appearance in front of the enclosure, which they quickly scaled, and discharged a volley of balls, one of which passed through a loop-hole, and, entering Mr. Braxton's eye as he was aiming a rifle at the assailants, laid him dead at the feet of his wife. Mrs.
Setting these passages aside, as not to be taken in the sense of the letter, he does not find it very difficult to dispose of others that come nearer to the obvious duties of man to man such, for instance, as that in the illustration of which, by the preacher, Mr. Braxton's self-complacency had been so much disturbed.
Then there came the sharp report of a pistol, followed by the rush of the pursuing horses. But high above all other sounds rose General Braxton's agonized voice: "My God, don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Before the Colonel could turn in his saddle Miss Braxton was beside him. "Why didn't you stay where you were?" he cried, sharply, the sense of her peril setting his nerves on edge.
She pressed the button that swung aside a section of filled book- shelves and revealed the tiny spiral of steel steps that led up to Dick's work room. At the top, a similar pivoting section of shelves swung obediently to her press of button and let her noiselessly into his room. A shade of vexation passed across her face as she recognized Jeremy Braxton's voice.
Something in the discourse had struck at the foundations of self-love and self-complacency. "Into one ear, and out at the other. So it is with me, in cases like this," answered Mr. Braxton's companion, in a changed and lighter tone.
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