The Gentleman from Indiana - Page 124/212

"You read it, Ross," I said. "I don't believe I feel hearty enough to-day.

Read the items first--we can bear the waiting."

"What waiting?" inquired Mr. Schofield.

"For the poem," replied Parker, grimly.

With a vague but not fleeting smile, Ross settled the sheets in order, and

exhibited tokens of that pleasant nevousness incident to appearing before

a critical audience, armed with literature whose merits should delight

them out of the critical attitude. "I run across a great scheme down

there," he volunteered amiably, by way of preface; "I described everything

in full, in as many words as I could think up; it's mighty filling, and

it'll please the public, too; it gives 'em a lot more information than

they us'ally git. I reckon there's two sticks of jest them extry words

alone."

"Go on," said the foreman, rather ominously.

Ross began to read, a matter necessitating a puckered brow and at times an

amount of hesitancy and ruminating, as his results had already cooled a

little, and he found his hand difficult to decipher. "Here's the first,"

he said: "'The large and handsome, fawn-colored, two years and one-half year old

Jersey of Frederick Bibshaw Jones, Esquire----'"

The foreman interrupted him: "Every reader of the 'Herald' will be glad to

know that Jersey's age and color! But go on."

"'--Frederick Bibshaw Jones, Esquire,'" pursued his assistant, with some

discomfiture, "'--Esquire, our popular and well-dressed fellow-citizen----

'"

"You're right; Bib Jones is a heavy swell," said Parker in a breaking

voice.

"'--Citizen, can be daily seen wandering from the far end of his pasture-

lot to the other far end of it.'"

"'His!'" exclaimed Parker. "'His pasture-lot?' The Jersey's?"

"No," returned the other, meekly, "Bib Jones's."

"Oh," said Parker. "Is that the end of that item? It is! You want to get

out of Plattville, my friend; it's too small for you; you go to Rouen and

you'll be city editor of the 'Journal' inside of a week. Let's have

another."

Mr. Schofield looked up blankly; however, he felt that there was enough

live, legitimate news in his other items to redeem the somewhat tame

quality of the first, and so, after having crossed out several of the

extra words which had met so poor a reception, he proceeded:

"'Whit Upton's pigs broke out last Wednesday and rooted up a fine patch of

garden truck. Hard luck, Whit.'