70. “I was rode,” says Bill, “the ninety miles to the stockade, not barring an inch. Then, when the settlers was rescued, I was given oats. Sand ain’t a palatable substitute. And then, for an hour I had to try to explain to him why there was nothin’ in holes, how a road can run both ways and what makes the grass green. I tell you, Sam, a human can only stand so much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and drags him down the mountain. On the way he kicks my legs black-and-blue from the knees down; and I’ve got to have two or three bites on my thumb and hand cauterized.
Note the stage trick of a character in ignorance while the audience enjoys his delusion. The surprise is his, not ours.
71. “But he’s gone”—continues Bill—“gone home. I showed him the road to Summit and kicked him about eight feet nearer there at one kick. I’m sorry we lose the ransom; but it was either that or Bill Driscoll to the madhouse.”
72. Bill is puffing and blowing but there is a look of ineffable peace and growing content on his rose-pink features.
73. “Bill,” says I, “there isn’t any heart disease in your family, is there?”
74. “No,” says Bill, “nothing chronic except malaria and accidents. Why?”
75. “Then you might turn around,” says I, “and have a look behind you.”
Suggestion.
76. Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion and sits down plump on the ground and begins to pluck aimlessly at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was afraid for his mind. Straight delineation. The former is the better art. And then I told him that my scheme was to put the whole job through immediately and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by midnight if old Dorset fell in with our proposition. So Bill braced Plot Situation. up enough to give the kid a weak sort of a smile and a promise to play the Russian in a Japanese war with him as soon as he felt a little better.
Plot Incident.