“What cake?” Abe inquired.
Bill told him the rumor.
“Cake?” repeated Abe. “Fer them?” and he tilted his head towards the jail. “Will you say that again, friend? I ain’t clear about it. Cake, did ye say?”
“Pound-cake,” said Bill. “Ordered special from San Francisco.”
Now pound-cake for adults is considered harmless. But it is curious how unwholesome a harmless thing can be if administered at the wrong time. The gaunt, savage-looking Californian went up to the box slowly. Then he kicked it lightly with his big boot, seeming to listen to its reverberation. Then he read the address. Then he sat down on the box to take a think. After a time he began speaking aloud. “They hold up a stage,” he said, slowly. “They lay up a passenger fer a month. And they lame Bob Griffiths fer life. And then they do up Buck. Shoot a hole through his spine. And I helped bury him; fer I liked Buck.” The speaker paused, and looked at the box. Then he got up. “I hain’t attended their prayer-meetin’s,” said he, “and I hain’t smelt their flowers. Such perfume’s liable to make me throw up. But I guess I’ll hev a look at their cake.”
He went to the baggage-room and brought an axe. The axe descended, and a splintered slat flew across the platform. “There’s a lot of cake,” said Abe. The top of the packing-case crashed on the railroad track, and three new men gathered to look on. “It’s fresh cake too,” remarked the destroyer. The box now fell to pieces, and the tattered paper wrapping was ripped away. “Step up, boys,” said Abe, for a little crowd was there now. “Soft, ain’t it?” They slung the cake about and tramped it in the grime and oil, and the boards of the box were torn apart and whirled away. There was a singular and growing impulse about all this. No one said anything; they were very quiet; yet the crowd grew quickly, as if called together by something in the air. One voice said, “Don’t forgit we’re all relyin’ on yer serenade, Mark,” and this raised a strange united laugh that broke brief and loud, and stopped, leaving the silence deeper than before. Mark and three more left, and walked towards the Lyceum. They were members of the Siskiyou band, and as they went one said that the town would see an interesting trial in the morning. Soon after they had gone the crowd moved from the station, compact and swift.
Meanwhile the Lyceum had been having disappointments. When the train was known to be late, Amanda had abandoned bestowing the cake until morning. But now a horrid thing had happened: the Siskiyou band refused its services! The rocking-chairs were plying strenuously; but Amanda strode up and down in front of Mount Shasta and Lucretia Mott.
Herr Schwartz entered. “It’s all right, madam,” said he. “My trombone haf come back, und—”
“You’ll play?” demanded the president.
“We blay for de ladies.”