fooling with it, you know, and probably doing it by accident, being drunk.
Well, would it be murder?’
‘No–suicide.’
‘No, no. I don’t mean HIS act, I mean yours: would you be a murderer
for letting him have that pistol?’
After deep thought came this answer–
‘Well, I should think I was guilty of something–maybe murder–
yes, probably murder, but I don’t quite know.’
This made me very uncomfortable. However, it was not a decisive verdict.
I should have to set out the real case–there seemed to be no other way.
But I would do it cautiously, and keep a watch out for suspicious effects.
I said–
‘I was supposing a case, but I am coming to the real one now.
Do you know how the man came to be burned up in the calaboose?’
‘No.’
‘Haven’t you the least idea?’
‘Not the least.’
‘Wish you may die in your tracks if you have?’
‘Yes, wish I may die in my tracks.’
‘Well, the way of it was this. The man wanted some matches to light
his pipe. A boy got him some. The man set fire to the calaboose
with those very matches, and burnt himself up.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, it is. Now, is that boy a murderer, do you think?’
‘Let me see. The man was drunk?’
‘Yes, he was drunk.’
‘Very drunk?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the boy knew it?’
‘Yes, he knew it.’
There was a long pause. Then came this heavy verdict–
‘If the man was drunk, and the boy knew it, the boy murdered that man.
This is certain.’
Faint, sickening sensations crept along all the fibers of my body,
and I seemed to know how a person feels who hears his death sentence
pronounced from the bench. I waited to hear what my brother would say next.
I believed I knew what it would be, and I was right. He said–
‘I know the boy.’
I had nothing to say; so I said nothing. I simply shuddered.
Then he added–
‘Yes, before you got half through telling about the thing,
I knew perfectly well who the boy was; it was Ben Coontz! ‘
I came out of my collapse as one who rises from the dead.
I said, with admiration–
‘Why, how in the world did you ever guess it?’
‘You told it in your sleep.’
I said to myself, ‘How splendid that is! This is a habit
which must be cultivated.’
My brother rattled innocently on–
‘When you were talking in your sleep, you kept mumbling something
about “matches,” which I couldn’t make anything out of; but just now,
when you began to tell me about the man and the calaboose and the matches,
I remembered that in your sleep you mentioned Ben Coontz two or three times;
so I put this and that together, you see, and right away I knew it was Ben
that burnt that man up.’
I praised his sagacity effusively. Presently he asked–
‘Are you going to give him up to the law?’
‘No,’ I said; ‘I believe that this will be a lesson to him.
I shall keep an eye on him, of course, for that is but right;
but if he stops where he is and reforms, it shall never be said that
I betrayed him.’
‘How good you are!’
‘Well, I try to be. It is all a person can do in a world like this.’
And now, my burden being shifted to other shoulders, my terrors
soon faded away.
The day before we left Hannibal, a curious thing fell under my notice–
the surprising spread which longitudinal time undergoes there.
I learned it from one of the most unostentatious of men–the colored
coachman of a friend of mine, who lives three miles from town.
He was to call for me at the Park Hotel at 7.30 P.M., and drive me out.
But he missed it considerably–did not arrive till ten. He excused
himself by saying–
‘De time is mos’ an hour en a half slower in de country en
what it is in de town; you’ll be in plenty time, boss.
Sometimes we shoves out early for church, Sunday, en fetches up
dah right plum in de middle er de sermon. Diffunce in de time.