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Edith, less fatuously, would have been content to cure Gordon Sterrett. There was a quality of weakness in Gordon that she wanted to take care of; there was a helplessness in him that she wanted to protect. And she wanted someone she had known a long while, someone who had loved her a long while. She was a little tired; she wanted to get married.
And I narrated the histories of Murrell, most terrible of blood-spillers ever known to Texas; of Hardin, whose long career of crime ended in the main street in Huntsville when he faced Buck Duane; of Sandobal, the Mexican terror; of Cheseldine, Bland, Alloway, and other outlaws of the Rio Grande; of King Fisher and Thompson and Sterrett, all still living and still busy adding notches to their guns.
"There were six of us all together Martin Dillard, a coffee planter; Henry Barnes, a railroad man; old man Billfinger, an educated tintype taker; me and Jonesy, and Jerry, the boss of the barbecue. There was also an Englishman in town named Sterrett, who was there to write a book on Domestic Architecture of the Insect World.
"'Do you know, says Sterrett, setting his glasses on his nose, 'I like your cheek in asking me if I'll join you; blast me if I don't. You might have known I would, without asking. Not as a traitor to my own country, but for the intrinsic joy of a blooming row. "On the morning of the Fourth I woke up in that old shanty of an ice factory feeling sore.
We felt some bashfulness about inviting a Britisher to help crow over his own country, but we decided to risk it, out of our personal regard for him. "We found Sterrett in pajamas working at his manuscript with a bottle of brandy for a paper weight. "'Englishman, says Jones, 'let us interrupt your disquisition on bug houses for a moment. To-morrow is the Fourth of July.
He was promptly obeyed; and, resolved to take no chances, Sterrett then compelled him to cut away his masts, after which he was permitted to rig a jury mast and a single sail. "Now go home to your Dey," said his conqueror, "and give him my compliments." Not a man was killed on board the Enterprise, though, as has been shown, the loss of the enemy was severe.
"Have another floor put on," said Mr. Out. "Higher," said Mr. In. "Heaven," said Mr. Out. In a bedroom of a small hotel just off Sixth Avenue Gordon Sterrett awoke with a pain in the back of his head and a sick throbbing in all his veins. He looked at the dusky gray shadows in the corners of the room and at a raw place on a large leather chair in the corner where it had long been in use.
"'Viva it good and strong, says I. 'Likewise, viva George Washington. God save the Union, and, I says, bowing to Sterrett, 'don't discard the Queen. "'Thanks, says Sterrett. 'The next round's mine. All in to the bar. Army, too. "But we were deprived of Sterrett's treat by a lot of gunshots several squares sway, which General Dingo seemed to think he ought to look after.
In the month of August, 1801, Captain Sterrett of the United States schooner Enterprize, of twelve guns and ninety men, fell in, off Malta, with a Tripolitan cruiser of fourteen guns and eighty-five men. In this action the Tripolitans thrice hauled down her colors, and thrice perfidiously renewed the conflict. Fifty of her men were killed and wounded. The Enterprize did not lose a man.
Edith inhaled a slight cloud of whiskey. She liked men to have had something to drink; they were so much more cheerful, and appreciative and complimentary much easier to talk to. "My name's Dean, Philip Dean," he said cheerfully. "You don't remember me, I know, but you used to come up to New Haven with a fellow I roomed with senior year, Gordon Sterrett." Edith looked up quickly.
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