He lay flat on his back, his eyes wide open, and his feet were at right angles to his body. The rigor mortis had already set in to such an extent that I felt as if I had struck a picket fence when I endeavoured to pass. It was characteristic of him, perhaps, that he could not even die without arranging some kind of a trap for me to fall into. I was obliged to move him before I could get outdoors, and the undertaking proved unusually difficult.
I gave him a decent burial, and painted him a headstone, but I never saw Ab again. The Goat’s body was bloated in a way which led me to suspect poison, and, as time goes on, my suspicion becomes stronger, for the end of a wild animal is always a tragedy, and Jagg was unquestionably wild.
SNOOF
I passed the remaining weeks of my exile in hermit-like solitude. I was not disposed to make further studies in my chosen calling, and time hung heavily upon my hands. I checked off the days upon my calendar with red ink, so that I should not become confused and miss the date of my departure. Having been shipped out of town until September first, to save my life, I did not intend to sacrifice it by returning on August thirty-first. “Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well,”—a trite copy-book maxim, that, but none the less a true one.
The English language, vast as it is, can convey no adequate idea of my longing for civilisation. The rush and roar of city life, the loud-voiced clangour of commerce, and the fine, inspiring click of my telegraph instrument would have been music to me. I packed up, ready to start at one minute after twelve on the night of my release. Happily, there was a train at a quarter past one, and I could get to town in time for breakfast.
From the time of my packing until I set off on the long trail, at one minute after twelve, by my jewelled repeater, I experienced the discomfort of those who have moved mentally, but are still clamped, physically, to the places they have moved from.
My stern fidelity to truth compels me to record the fact that my arrival in the city was not as pleasing as I had fancied it would be. The noise was terrible, and before eating my simple breakfast at a quick-lunch counter, I was obliged to stuff cotton into my ears. This did not prevent me from hearing the candid comments made upon my personal appearance by the pretty waitresses.
“Uncle Rube, from Hayville,” observed a dashing blonde to her giggling companion. “Pipe the alfalfa on the jay’s mug,” said another. At this there were hissing murmurs of: “Sh-h! He’ll hear you!” “Naw,” said the speaker, “he’s deef. He’s calked his listeners with white fur. Bet his wife had a hand in it. She don’t want him to bring home no gold bricks in his carpet-bag.”
The talk had risen to such a crescendo pitch that passers-by were fain to take an interest in it, and it seemed to me that it was time to interfere.
“Young ladies,” I said, clearing my throat, “I have neither wife nor carpet-bag. I have calked my listeners, as you concisely put it, to keep the chatter of green parrots from interfering with my noteworthy meditations. I am a Scientist—an unchristian Scientist, I may add, and I shall take pleasure in sending a copy of The Ladies’ Own to this restaurant for the guidance of the help. Read it carefully, study it, ponder over its noble precepts, and it will enable you to win the respect of your employer and his customers.”