“I’ll keep you out, Tim. Belton, did you say?”
“Yes—John Belton. He’ll let you have one of the pictur’s, mebbe, ef you don’t tell what you want with hit. Ef you tell him that, he wouldn’t sell you one fer no price—’cause Belton wants ter live erwhile yet.”
Jack Cromby finessed. He had his own picture taken, being now thoroughly carried away with the advertising scheme, and voluntarily paid cash in advance. He then begged of the well-pleased artist one of Aunt Tildy’s,—to “send away to some friends.” In after days—though it is a shameful thing to print—he very generously assisted the unfortunate Belton to erect a barricade of fiction between himself and his outraged patron.
Jack’s one great error in discretion, after embarking on this perilous enterprise, was committed when he confided his plans to a young belle of the community. Handsome, dashing, well-dressed, and generous, Jack was a favorite, and numbered his sweethearts by dozens up and down the road. Among these was Miss Pinkie Appleby, selected by him in an evil moment to become the joint custodian of his mature plans touching Aunt Tildy’s likeness. Of course, Miss Pinkie laughed. What girl would not, in the circumstances? How could the innocent joke, as Jack described it, in any way injure Aunt Tildy? And what girl would not have promptly confided the secret to several intimates whom Jack had not honored, with strict injunctions as to secrecy?
The little group of idlers around the warehouse were holding their usual morning conversation when Aunt Tildy’s vehicle turned the corner at a pace that caused all four wheels to slide sidewise and give forth a harsh warning. Tim Broggins suspended his whittling a moment, looked at the broad scar left in the dust, and suffered his contemplative gaze to follow the receding figure in the buggy.
“What ails Tildy?” The question came from Judge Oglesby, whose two hundred and fifty pounds were waiting upright in a broad chair while his justice court threatened to convene. “Sorter flustered, ’pears to me.” He crossed his fat hands on his hickory cane and rested them against his zone of greatest circumference, blinking, as the dust began to float in.
“I wonder!—I wonder!” said Tim, reflectively, as he resumed his interrupted occupation. “Now, gentlemen, I’m goin’ ter give er guess; an’ watch me hit the nail on the head! Jedge, you know how ol’ Squire Jones laugh’ erbout that sneeze picture las’ night, an’ how drunk he were?”
“Squire was putty drunk, Tim. Worse ’n usual.”
“Well, now, I bet squire stop’ an’ tole Aunt Tildy all erbout hit! Right on his way home, her store is, an’ most gener’ly he begins to ricollec’ things he was to bring back ’bout time he gits there! Aunt Tildy gits er big trade o’ that sort. Hit’s a good soberin’-up stan’ for fellows goin’ thet erway an’ totin’ too much of the brand o’ O-be-joyful they buy eroun’ town. Yes, sir, squire tole ’er cert’in—dad blast his ol’ skin, he had oughter be lynched! Where’d she pull up, Jedge?”
“Lawyer Thomas’s office!”