Getting Ready to Die
Sheriff John Flournoy loafed in the office of the Tickfall Whoop, and listened to the bark and splutter of a little one-dog-power engine attached to the printing press. The air was permeated with the odor of gasoline, machine oil, and printers’ ink. The cigar he was attempting to smoke tasted of all three, and he tossed it out of the window.
“Just before Christmas is the worst time of the year,” he sighed impatiently. “Everybody tries to be so blame cheerful and good-natured.”
He turned around in his screaking swivel-chair and glared at the typewriter on the table before him. He reached out an idle finger and touched a key; there was an immediate response in the sharp tap of the type upon the platen.
“I never did fiddle with one of these things,” he grinned to himself, as he picked up a sheet of paper and adjusted it in the machine. “But I’m never too old to learn.”
Then, with the ponderous middle finger of each giant hand, the big sheriff began to poke out letters which spelled words—sometimes. Tiny beads of sweat came out on his forehead; his iron jaws clamped; his lips tightened; and a strained look came into his eyes, accentuating the tiny wrinkles which formed crows’-feet on each side of his temples.
“Gosh!” he complained. “I never worked as hard in my whole life. Why in thunder don’t they arrange these letters alphabetically, instead of scrambling them all over the ranch so a feller can’t find them?”
After a long time he leaned back with a sigh of infinite relief and snatched the paper from the machine. A broad grin spread over his face at the sight of his handiwork.
“This is a fearful and wonderful thing,” he chuckled. “I didn’t know there were as many figures, punctuation marks, and capital letters in the world as I have interspersed gratuitously in this interesting communication.”
The bark and splutter of the gasoline engine suddenly ceased. Flournoy sprang up and opened the door of the office entering into the press-room.