When Joel Bird was up for Governor of Missouri, Sam Henly was editing
the Berrywood _Bugle_; and no sooner was the nomination made by the
State Convention than he came out hot against the party. He was an able
writer, was Sam, and the lies he invented about our candidate were
shocking! That, however, we endured very well, but presently Sam turned
squarely about and began telling the truth. _This_ was a little too
much; the County Committee held a hasty meeting, and decided that it
must be stopped; so I, Henry Barber, was sent for to make arrangements
to that end. I knew something of Sam: had purchased him several times,
and I estimated his present value at about one thousand dollars. This
seemed to the committee a reasonable figure, and on my mentioning it to
Sam he said "he thought that about the fair thing; it should never be
said that the _Bugle_ was a hard paper to deal with." There was,
however, some delay in raising the money; the candidates for the local
offices had not disposed of their autumn hogs yet, and were in financial
straits. Some of them contributed a pig each, one gave twenty bushels of
corn, another a flock of chickens; and the man who aspired to the
distinction of County Judge paid his assessment with a wagon. These
things had to be converted into cash at a ruinous sacrifice, and in the
meantime Sam kept pouring an incessant stream of hot shot into our
political camp. Nothing I could say would make him stay his hand; he
invariably replied that it was no bargain until he had the money. The
committeemen were furious; it required all my eloquence to prevent their
declaring the contract null and void; but at last a new, clean one
thousand-dollar note was passed over to me, which in hot haste I
transferred to Sam at his residence.
That evening there was a meeting of the committee: all seemed in high
spirits again, except Hooker of Jayhawk. This old wretch sat back and
shook his head during the entire session, and just before adjournment
said, as he took his hat to go, that p'r'aps'twas orl right and on the
squar'; maybe thar war'n't any shenannigan, but _he_ war dubersome--yes,
he war dubersome. The old curmudgeon repeated this until I was
exasperated beyond restraint.
"Mr. Hooker," said I, "I've known Sam Henly ever since he was _so_ high,
and there isn't an honester man in old Missouri. Sam Henly's word is as
good as his note! What's more, if any gentleman thinks he would enjoy a
first-class funeral, and if he will supply the sable accessories, I'll
supply the corpse. And he can take it home with him from this meeting."
At this point Mr. Hooker was troubled with leaving.
Having got this business off my conscience I slept late next day. When I
stepped into the street I saw at once that something was "up." There
were knots of people gathered at the corners, some reading eagerly that
morning's issue of the _Bugle_, some gesticulating, and others stalking
moodily about muttering curses, not loud but deep. Suddenly I heard an
excited clamor--a confused roar of many lungs, and the trampling of
innumerable feet. In this babel of noises I could distinguish the words
"Kill him!" "Wa'm his hide!" and so forth; and, looking up the street, I
saw what seemed to be the whole male population racing down it. I am
very excitable, and, though I did not know whose hide was to be warmed,
nor why anyone was to be killed, I shot off in front of the howling
masses, shouting "Kill him!" and "Warm his hide!" as loudly as the
loudest, all the time looking out for the victim. Down the street we
flew like a storm; then I turned a corner, thinking the scoundrel must
have gone up _that_ street; then bolted through a public square; over a
bridge; under an arch; finally back into the main street; yelling like a
panther, and resolved to slaughter the first human being I should
overtake. The crowd followed my lead, turning as I turned, shrieking as
I shrieked, and--all at once it came to me that _I_ was the man whose
hide was to be warmed!
It is needless to dwell upon the sensation this discovery gave me;
happily I was within a few yards of the committee-rooms, and into these
I dashed, closing and bolting the doors behind me, and mounting the
stairs like a flash. The committee was in solemn session, sitting in a
nice, even row on the front benches, each man with his elbows on his
knees, and his chin resting in the palms of his hands--thinking. At each
man's feet lay a neglected copy of the _Bugle_. Every member fixed his
eyes on me, but no one stirred, none uttered a sound. There was
something awful in this preternatural silence, made more impressive by
the hoarse murmur of the crowd outside, breaking down the door. I could
endure it no longer, but strode forward and snatched up the paper lying
at the feet of the chairman. At the head of the editorial columns, in
letters half an inch long, were the following amazing head-lines:
"Dastardly Outrage! Corruption Rampant in Our Midst! The Vampires
Foiled! Henry Barber at his Old Game! The Rat Gnaws a File! The
Democratic Hordes Attempt to Ride Roughshod Over a Free People! Base
Endeavor to Bribe the Editor of this Paper with _a Twenty-Dollar Note_!
The Money Given to the Orphan Asylum."
I read no farther, but stood stockstill in the center of the floor, and
fell into a reverie. Twenty dollars! Somehow it seemed a mere trifle.
Nine hundred and eighty dollars! I did not know there was so much money
in the world. Twenty--no, eighty--one thousand dollars! There were big,
black figures floating all over the floor. Incessant cataracts of them
poured down the walls, stopped, and shied off as I looked at them, and
began to go it again when I lowered my eyes. Occasionally the figures 20
would take shape somewhere about the floor, and then the figures 980
would slide up and overlay them. Then, like the lean kine of Pharaoh's
dream, they would all march away and devour the fat naughts of the
number 1,000. And dancing like gnats in the air were myriads of little
caduceus-like, phantoms, thus--$$$$$. I could not at all make it out,
but began to comprehend my position directly Old Hooker, without moving
from his seat, began to drown the noise of countless feet on the stairs
by elevating his thin falsetto:
"P'r'aps, Mr. Cheerman, it's orl on the squar'. We know Mr. Henly can't
tell a lie; but I'm powerful dubersome that thar's a balyance dyue this
yer committee from the gent who hez the flo'--if he ain't done gone laid
it yout fo' sable ac--ac--fo' fyirst-class funerals."
I felt at that moment as if I should like to play the leading character
in a first-class funeral myself. I felt that every man in my position
ought to have a nice, comfortable coffin, with a silver door-plate, a
foot-warmer, and bay-windows for his ears. How do you suppose you would
have felt?
My leap from the window of that committee room, my speed in streaking it
for the adjacent forest, my self-denial in ever afterward resisting the
impulse to return to Berrywood and look after my political and material
interests there--these I have always considered things to be justly
proud of, and I hope I am proud of them.
"THE BUBBLE REPUTATION"