“Yes,” replied the tramp, “I inflicted it myself.”
“You! Why did you do it?”
“I’ll tell you.”
And he told the following story:
THE TRAMP’S STORY.
“Joseph Bunker and I have been friends from boyhood. We always lived near each other and grew up together. We never quarrelled as most boys will. The families of both of us were in well-to-do condition. The war came and reduced us to poverty. I forgot to tell you that we were natives of and then living in Virginia. After the war I learned the trade of a machinist, while Mr. Bunker wandered North to try his luck. He succeeded pretty well, I have reason to believe, far better than I have. The incident I have to relate occurred just before he left for the North. Joseph’s father died. There are a number of people in Virginia who, as perhaps you know, have a peculiar custom as regards the treatment of their dead. Before burial, in order to guard against the terrible possibility of burying their friends alive while seeming to be dead, they run a dagger through the heart. The Bunker family, as well as mine, had always adhered to this custom. Joseph Bunker, however, was an exception to the general rule. He believed the custom to be as unnecessary as it was revolting. He chose to accept the word of the doctors that his father was really dead, and did not believe there was any possibility or probability of his being in a trance. He refused to allow his father’s remains to be mutilated, as he called it. It was winter time when his father died. It was an unusually severe winter, and to dig a grave was out of the question. So the body was deposited in the receiving vault to wait for spring. In the spring a grave was dug and everything made ready for the burial. Just previous to the interment, Joseph expressed a desire to look once more upon the face of his dead parent. The casket was opened, and a most horrifying sight met the gaze of those who stood around. The corpse, as it was believed to be, had evidently come to life, and in the struggle to get out of the casket, the lid of which had been only too securely fastened down, Mr. Bunker had torn his hair out by the handfuls, and had torn to shreds the interior furnishings of his narrow prison. Strong man though he was, Joseph Bunker fainted away and did not recover consciousness until the body of his father had been buried. He and I alone remained by the grave side when the others had gone. We then and there made a solemn vow that the survivor should perform for the dead man—what the doctor should call the dead man—the office which my companion had neglected to perform in the case of his father. Shortly afterwards, as I have said, Joseph Bunker went North. A week ago I wandered into this neighborhood, partly in search of work and partly to pay a visit to my old friend. I had his address, for we had always been in communication with each other. In nearly all of his letters of late, he referred to the fact that his health was failing and that he wished I could make it convenient to be present at his death. My visit to his house found him suffering from the effects of a recent shock of apoplexy. He told me he didn’t think he had long to live. He spoke in truth. He died that very night, a few minutes after midnight. His last words were: ‘Don’t forget our vow, old friend.’ I hadn’t forgotten, but I put off doing the unwelcome work until I was certain my old friend was dead. I waited five hours, then I fulfilled my vow. I was afraid to be found with the dead body. People would not believe my story, I feared. So I struck off and got away as far from the place as possible; guilty of no crime, yet fearing punishment at the hands of those who would perhaps not believe my story.”
A Freight Car Adventure.
The freight cars of the B. & R. Railroad were being systematically robbed. During one month in 1891, the railroad company lost over $5,000 in this way. It was impossible to catch the thieves. On several occasions the conductor, engineer and brakeman had been shot at, and narrowly escaped death. The thieves used to board the train either before it left the freight yard, or during one of its numerous stops along the road, and hold the train until they had secured what they wanted, thrown it off, usually in a lonely spot far from dwellings, and made their escape. On numerous occasions a posse of police were secreted on the trains, but these nights (the robberies occurred always at night) the thieves failed to put in an appearance, evidently having learned that pains had been taken to give them a warm reception. I suspected something more than the railroad officials seemed to suspect, and when I was told to do my best to bring the thieves to justice, I laid my plans accordingly. I sought leave from the conductor to ride on his train in disguise.
“I can’t allow you to do so without permission from headquarters,” declared the conductor.
“But I want to try to capture the thieves who have been robbing this company’s trains and shooting at you, and I haven’t time to get the necessary permission,” I protested.