“Lord bless me, that’s just what he is,” said Sellers, with something like a groan, “it’s exactly what he is; there’s a contribution in him from every ancestor he ever had. In him there’s atoms of priests, soldiers, crusaders, poets, and sweet and gracious women—all kinds and conditions of folk who trod this earth in old, old centuries, and vanished out of it ages ago, and now by act of ours they are summoned from their holy peace to answer for gutting a one-horse bank away out on the borders of Cherokee Strip, and it’s just a howling outrage!”
“Oh, don’t talk like that, Colonel; it takes the heart all out of me, and makes me ashamed of the part I am proposing to—”
“Wait—I’ve got it!”
“A saving hope? Shout it out, I am perishing.”
“It’s perfectly simple; a child would have thought of it. He is all right, not a flaw in him, as far as I have carried the work. If I’ve been able to bring him as far as the beginning of this century, what’s to stop me now? I’ll go on and materialize him down to date.”
“Land, I never thought of that!” said Hawkins all ablaze with joy again. “It’s the very thing. What a brain you have got! And will he shed the superfluous arm?”
“He will.”
“And lose his English accent?”
“It will wholly disappear. He will speak Cherokee Strip—and other forms of profanity.”
“Colonel, maybe he’ll confess!”