Next, Horace had a wide porch built all around Ty’s house, and he swung ropes with rings on ’em from the ceiling, an equal distance apart; and Ty got so he could swing from ring to ring, and go all around the house, and climb ladders, and as the boy got big enough to become tyrannical, which was soon enough, goodness knows, he made Ty do all manner o’ stunts—throw balls and juggle ’em, tell stories, draw pictures—Well, the fact was, that between ’em all, they kept Ty so active that first we knew, the devil had all been worked out of him and he was as civilized as any of us. One day when Horace was down visitin’ him, he sent in the Chink and had him bring out a set of ivory figures, carved most beautiful and called chess-men; and he dared Horace to play him a game, and this was the final surrender of the old Ty Jones.
He was a well edicated man, Ty was; and each winter when he had left the ranch, he had gone to some big city where he had pertended to be a regular swell. No one ever found out just what had soured him so on the world, for his nature was to be sociable to a degree. He said that no one knew the cause of it except ol’ Promotheus, and it was mightily to his credit that he hadn’t devulged the secret.
Ty strung out his surprises quite a while. It seems he was also an inventor, and had patents which brought him in a lot o’ money. He had found this cave and had just widened it where widenin’ was necessary, and had built his cabin above it. The floor was double and filled with earth, and the fake drawers were also filled with earth, so ’at no sound would show that it was hollow underneath. The drawers swung on a steel piller which could be worked from above by a rope which hung back o’ his bookcase and from below by a lever.
It was a curious thing to see Ty Jones with his bristly eyebrows and his eagle’s beak of a nose, makin’ mechanical toys for the Friar’s and Olaf’s children. They didn’t put any limit on what he was able to do, and he used to grumble at ’em as fierce as a grizzly—and then back-track like an Injun, and do whatever they wanted him to.
The Friar never quite gave up his plot to go back and work among the poor; but the’ was allus so many things imposed upon him by the home folks that he was pestered with letters every time he left; and usually compromised by gatherin’ up a bunch o’ the poor as hasty as possible, and bringin’ ’em back with him. His head was full of what he called welfare plans, and he settled the poor along all the likely cricks he found vacant, and bulldozed ’em into goin’ to work. It’s a curious coincident; but most of ’em turned out well.
The’ was a bilious feller out visitin’ me once, which called himself a sosologist. I told him about some o’ the Friar’s projects; and he said that the Friar was nothin’ but a rank Utopian, and that this sort o’ work would never remove all the evils of the world.
“You can call him anything ya want to,” sez I, “so long as it’s a word I don’t understand; but the Friar’s not tryin’ to remove all the evils in the world. He only removes those evils he can find by spendin’ his whole life in huntin’ for ’em; but he certainly does remove these ones in quick and able shape.”
Another time, right after the Friar had brought about a settlement between some sheep and cattle men, a preacher dropped off to give his appetite a little exercise at the Diamond Dot. He belonged to the same herd that the Friar had cut out from, and I thought he would be interested; so I told him consid’able about the Friar. He was a most judicious-lookin’ man, but baggy under the eyes and chin. He got all fussed up when I spoke well o’ the Friar, and said he was un-co-nonical, said he was unorthodox—Oh, he cut loose and swore at the Friar in his own tongue ’til I about lost my temper.
“Look here,” I sez to him, “it would take me some months to tell you all the good deeds the Friar has actually done; but I’ll just give you one single example. If I was to live up to my natural disposition, I’d wring your neck, or shoot off your ears, or somethin’ like that; but owin’ to the Friar havin’ taught me self-control, I’m not even goin’ to snap my fingers again’ your blue nose. Make yourself perfectly at home here, and stay as long as the East can spare ya; but you’ll have to excuse me for a while, as the Friar has just written me an order to go over into the Basin to see what can be done for a young feller who has been arrested for hoss-stealin’.”
Horace contributes liberally to the Friar’s projects; but he don’t take a hand in the game, himself—except with the imported poor which are gathered at the Cross brand, waitin’ to be transplanted. Every year he seems to shrink about an eighth of an inch smaller, and get about that much tougher. He lights out for a trip now and again, and ol’ Tank allus tags along, grumblin’. Tank thinks full as much of Horace as The did; but Tank’s a different proposition. The easier his lot is the more he grumbles; but I like nothin’ better than to have a chat with him over old times.