Therefore was it that Barracaboo had forsworn literature by sample, or in uncertain instalments, and vowed vengeance upon all shabby men with indelible pencils, and printed agreements with a space left for signature. More especially had they a ‘down’ on people who wore goatees and snuffled when they talked.
‘If you see one of ’em at the station,’ said the manager—a rough, tough old customer, and disappointed at being ousted by Julius Cæsar—‘set the dogs on him. I’ll pay damages. If he don’t take that hint, touch him up with stockwhips. It’ll only be justifiable homicide at the worst. I know the law: an’ I don’t mind a fiver in such a case!’
[194]
]‘Let us only get a chance, sorr,’ said the sheep-overseer, ‘an’ we’ll learn ’em betther manners wid our whups. Doggin’s too good for the thrash!’
This state of affairs was pretty well known at Atlanta, the neighbouring township; and book-fiends, warned, generally gave Barracaboo a wide berth. Once, certainly, a new hand at the game, and one who fancied himself too much to bother about collecting local information, came boldly into the station-yard just as the bell was ringing for dinner, and produced the advance sheets of a sweet and lively work, entitled, ‘Hermits, Ancient and Modern: Illustrated with Forty-seven Choice Engravings.’
He had got to ‘Now, gentlemen,’ when, hearing the howl of execration that went up, he suddenly took in the situation and [started back to Atlanta], pursued for half the distance with thunderous whip-crackings by the sheep-overseer and the butcher, who were the only two who happened to have their horses ready.
Chancing to have a capital mount, he distanced them and galloped into town, and up the main street, reins on his horse’s neck, and trousers over his knees, half dead with fright, only to be promptly summoned and fined for furious riding within the municipality.
For weeks afterwards sheets of ‘Hermits’ strewed the ‘
cleared line,’ and he received a merciless chaffing from his fellow-fiends, who could have warned him what to expect had he confided his destination to them.
About this time came to Atlanta a small, ’cute-looking, clean-shaven, elderly man. He was unknown to any [195] ]present, but modestly admitted that he was in the book trade, and had a consignment with him. And he listened with interest to the conversation in the ‘Commercial Room.’
‘The district’s petered out,’ remarked a tall American gentleman, with the goatee and nasal voice abhorred of Barracaboo. ‘Clean petered out since that last “Universal Biography” business. They’re kickin’ everywhere. Darned if a feller didn’t draw a bead on me yesterday afore I’d time almost to explain business. Then he got so mad that I left, not wantin’ to become a lead mine.’