In the more crucial moments of his life Hiram Look had frequently refrained from anathema. Some situations were made too matter-of-fact by cursing. Now he stood up, shoved his arms above his head, gulped a half a dozen times, blew out his breath with a “Poof!” and sat down again.
After wiping his forehead with the flat of his hand he went on with the letter.
Simon apologised for having overstepped the first estimates, but explained that he had acted thus for reasons that must appeal to Hiram. The sum was sufficient to make the signora want to stick to him, and that would keep her away from Hiram. He had destroyed the letters and buttoned the money into his inside pocket, and told her if she wanted to enjoy any of it she must marry him. He said that as her husband he should control affairs absolutely. The writer pointed out that this was real retribution to such a woman, and he assured Hiram that he would always strive to make her realise her position daily and hourly. Under such circumstances the small extra amount that he had taken was moderate salary indeed for the services he was rendering an old friend, and he trusted that Hiram would hereafter enjoy life, knowing that a woman who had betrayed him was getting punished for her infidelity.
The postscript stated that he had kept the team as a wedding present, and they were going to do the gift-sale graft at fairs from the carriage—having now the necessary capital. With deep regard for him and all inquiring friends, they were, etc.
Hiram’s eye at last found the knot-hole in the platform, and he sat with his elbows on his knees and regarded it for a long time. At first his face was ridged and knotted with fury that his moving lips could not express. Then there came grief in the puckers around his mouth—the grief of a man who felt that the whole world was against him.
He, sitting there—he who had not dared to meet the grinning voters of Palermo since that town meeting, the man who now held this riddled bankbook and that unspeakable letter crumpled in his grasp was the same man who had boasted that no one had ever “done” him!
He pulled off his tall hat in order to wipe his damp forehead.
He regarded its fuzzy nap with growing malevolence. Somehow, it seemed to suggest the braggart, the showman, grafting women, Simon Peaks and the atmosphere of tricksters. He set it upon the platform, stamped it into shapelessness, and then kicked it with all his might. It landed in the top of the lilac bush.
“Crack ’em down, gents!” squalled the parrot excitedly. He had been watching his master with solicitude for many hours, and this sudden activity reassured him.
Hiram glanced up at Absalom with a vindictiveness that should have warned the bird, and then sat down in his chair. He turned over Simon’s letter, flattened it on his bankbook, and began to write on the surface with a stubby lead pencil that he had licked carefully: