“No, it can’t be done,” says he, and I says to him, “You can go
to —— and that ain’t no figure of speech.”
That would be inhuman, Hank. I’d as soon think of going to China without
kissing my relatives by marriage; so I walked back up-town. Hank, I wish
I wasn’t so badly attached to my family, because if I was one of them
selfish brutes without bowels of compassion I’d be riding along fine and
dandy, instead of being here without no one to love me, a suspender
sentence on my head and no money in pocket.
They took away my star and gun, which means I’m no detective in
appearance; but I ain’t mad, Hank. If you don’t hear from me in Los
Angeles you’ll know I never got there or forgot to write.
Yours privately,
DOBIE DALTON, Citizen.
P. S. I forgot to tell you that after I went back up-town I drifts into
a saloon, and I says to the bartender, “Do you know Gabe Galesburg?”
“Sure,” says he. “He left for Los Angeles today,” and I says, “What
for?”
“To live, I reckon. His wife and their niece left yesterday, but he had
to stay and ship his furniture.”
Can you beat that, Hank? I says, “What did he do with his home?”
“Sold it to Bill Gallagher,” says he, and I says, “Has Gallagher got any
kids?” He says, “One little red-headed one.”
I says, “Who is this Gallagher person?” and he says, “‘Fighting Bill’ is
all I know,” and I says, “Pardner, you think that ain’t much to know,
but it would have been a college education to me a while ago,” and the
bartender says, “Do you know him by sight?” I says, “No—by feel.”
Well, the poet was right when he wrote:
The moving finger writes, and having wrote
Moves on, nor all your prayers or getting sore,
Can move it back to rub out any debts
Nor copper any bets you’ve lost before.
And that ain’t no figure of speech. Amen.