“She was a good book,” said Mr. Warner, “but she had one bad fault.”
I was glad to have a chance to test their ability to criticize
literature; so I asked them what that fault was.
“It was too —— short,” said Mr. Warner, and the rest nodded.
Which I think is an unfair criticism of any book, but I suspect they
have little to read, and length is a consideration. I said to Mr.
Warner:
“These gentlemen have recommended you very highly as a model of
veracity. In fact they have compared you with the immortal Washington.
Mr. Suggs and I would like to associate with you, with the idea in mind
of incorporating your character in our great story of the West.”
He stared at me for a long time, wiggling his ears all the while, and
then he looked at Messrs. Jones, Simpkins and Harper. I am going to
write this as near as possible to his actual words, although I can not
depict the voice:
“My ——! Here’s the best chance I ever had, and I’m scared of myself.”
Then he turned and walked out of the door. It was a psychological moment
for him. He realized that this was his opportunity to be immortalized in
prose, but he shrank from the ordeal. Human nature is like that, I
think.
I told them my opinion, and I think Mr. Simpkins shed tears. It is
distressing to see a man cry—a strong man, who kills men without a
qualm. Mr. Jones did not cry, but his affected optic seemed to shuttle
back and forth before becoming fixed at a certain point.
Mr. Harper turned away and appeared to be interested in a piece of
printed matter, but just to illustrate his emotions—the printed matter
was upside down. Mr. Suggs said it was one of the most touching things
he had ever experienced.
I told Mr. Simpkins that I wanted to meet a noted outlaw—one with a
large price on his head.
“You and me both,” said Mr. Simpkins.