“HOME AGAIN.”
“His Excellency, Maj. Buell Hampton, an old played-out politician, who edits a little five-by-nine sheet around the corner, known as the Patriot, has returned to the city. The editor of the World is not advised as to whether the old boodler has been away organizing a society of Farmers’ Alliance in some remote township, or a lodge of Barley Hullers. It is only a question of a short time until this illiterate decoy duck will slink from southwestern Kansas to pastures that are new.”
During the forenoon the major called at the bank and asked Hugh to accompany him to the World office.
“Certainly,” said Hugh, “I will go with pleasure.” Captain Osborn opened the door of his private office, and invited Major Hampton and Hugh into his room.
“Major,” said the captain, “why are you going down to the World office?”
“To kill the dog who penned and published this calumny,” replied the major, as he handed the captain a marked copy of the World.
The old captain laughed heartily and tried to infuse the major with a jovial spirit, but he would not be infused. His face was very white, and the lines about his mouth had a hard, set expression, like a tiger ready to spring. “I would n’t pay any attention to it at all,” said the captain, soothingly.
“Fewer’s blood, sir,” hissed the major, “alone can blot out this contemptible insult. He has defamed my character, and, by the Eternal, he shall pay the price.”
“Hold on, Major,” said Captain Osborn, “I am your friend in this matter, and I cannot permit you to make a mistake. Suppose now that we force the World to run off another edition containing an ‘amende honorable,’ or something of that sort—what then?”
“I do not believe,” said the major, reflectively, “that he will do it; but if he will, and bring out the issue to-day—a full issue, mind—I will then let him off with a horsewhipping.”
“Well, now, that’s better,” said the captain, shaking hands with him, as if the affair were settled. “You stay right here, Major, until I come back.”
When Captain Osborn arrived at the World office, he found Frank Fewer, Esq., seated in a rickety old chair, engaged in wrapping bundles of papers preparatory to sending them away.
“Good morning, Captain,” said Fewer, while an idiotic grin covered his face.
“Good morning,” returned the captain, “have n’t sent away this week’s papers yet, have you?”
“No,” replied Fewer, “only a few around town; but why?”
The iron will of the old captain arose to the emergency. “Fewer,” said he, “but for my friendly interference in your behalf, you would now be a dead man.”
“What!” shrieked the editor.
“A dead man, I say!” reaffirmed the captain, in a quiet, determined voice. “Here,” said he, opening a paper, “this libelous article—why did you print such a contemptible thing?”
Fewer was at heart a groveling coward. He whined and begged, and protested that Lem Webb, a misanthropic lawyer, had written the article, and that he, Webb, had agreed to pay him five dollars for its publication.
“It will cost you your life, sir,” said the captain, with a stern military ring in his voice. “There is but one way to avert the calamity in which your corpse must necessarily figure as the principal attraction.”
“How, Captain? For God’s sake tell me,” begged the now trembling editor.
The captain explained the conditions. “Suppress all of the present issue possible, run off another issue of the paper, containing an amende honorable, and take a horsewhipping. Otherwise, death.”
The terms were agreed upon instantly, and the captain hurried back to inform the major of the “unconditional surrender,” and to prepare a copy of an amende honorable, while the frightened editor commenced making preparations for a special edition.
That afternoon the World again made its appearance, and contained the following retraction: