By this time a man who was duly authorized to act as town marshal appeared on the scene, and with a deal of importance seized Horton's person in the majestic name of the Law! and conveyed his seizure, followed by the crowd, to the village lockup. A small plank box, twelve feet by twelve feet in all of its dimensions, without a window, and principally used for the occasional cooling off of some obstreperous bucolics who on coming to town became surcharged with the staff of life in a liquid form. Into this hole, standing solitary and alone in the centre of the village common, he was thrown, and the door closed with a bang. The rusty key grated in the rusty lock, the rusty crowd outside gave some rusty whoops and yells, and then went off pawing the air as men who had done great deeds. It was as though, in some far off Hindoo village, the tiger that had been fattening his ribs upon the natives had at last been caught and caged. Everybody, save that poor battered and bruised form on the floor of the village lockup, was triumphant!
And now of what use is a triumph unless we celebrate it? And what is the great American method of celebrating triumphs? From the nabob who in gilded apartments gracefully nods his head to his brother nabob, as he remarks: "I congratulate you" before sending the soul of sunny France gurgling down his pink throat, down to the ragged effigy who leans against the sour-smelling fetid bar and cracks his glass against the glass of his brother effigy, with: "Here's luck, d—n your soul!" as he pitches the scorching tanglefoot down his red hot gullet, we Americans have our own method of celebrating triumphs. We get drunk.
So these Lickskilletonians celebrated in the hour of their triumph.
Stiff, sore, bruised, battered and bleeding, the Evangelist struggled to his feet and staggering to a narrow, iron-barred slit in the side of the village lockup, looked out. The sun was creeping to bed among the purple hills of the horizon. Already it had nearly disappeared; all save a narrow disk, that with a red, autumnal glow was bidding the world good-night. Long and earnestly he gazed upon the glowing west, painted with red and purple and russet, and trimmed with silver and gold. With its woods and meadows and vales, painted by God's own hand. With its fading lights, its deepening shadows, its soft grey of coming twilight. Long he gazed, until the shadows had swallowed up the light, and the grey of twilight was lost in the dusk of night. Then he flung himself on the floor, and sleep came with a soft and soothing balm to anoint his wounds; his eyes filled with that last glow—his last—of his Creator's sunlight.
CHAPTER XVIII.
JUDGE LYNCH HOLDS COURT.
A short distance out of Lickskillet stood a country church. A quiet-looking, unpretentious frame building, with a stunted little steeple surmounted by a weather-vane in the shape of an arrow hanging at right angles on an iron rod with a gilded point. The weekly prayer meeting was being held that evening, and the yeomen of the vicinity met to send their appeals for clemency, in a body, to the Great Judge on high; each taking his turn in the supplications. A sort of prayerful round-robin. An opportunity to improve the recording angel's record in the celestial ledger, and enhance their reputations for goodness among the neighbors by a full, (but inexpensive,) confession of their sins and wickedness. Confessions on general principles, however—not specific ones. Brother Longhorn prayed for forgiveness for his sins in general, but did not mention defrauding Green Southdown in a horse trade, nor did he speak any thing about restitution. Brother Ploughgit demanded that the wicked be no longer allowed to flourish like the green bay tree—and did not tremble with personal apprehension while doing it. Brother Hedges took much satisfaction in announcing that he was a poor, weak sinner—which confession was apparently concurred in by a number of the brethren. Brother Ryefield spoke glowingly of charity and prayed that they all might be greatly blessed with that virtue—but said nothing about withdrawing a suit against a man who was trying to support a wife, five children, and the consumption on nothing. Brother Powter wanted strength to do His bidding, which caused Brother Applegate to reflect that if His bidding conflicted with Brother Powter's own bidding it would take all the strength of sixteen hundred million yoke of fat cattle to answer Brother Powter's prayer. Brother Potts was thankful for what he had and wanted more. Brother Rockafellow prayed that their hearts might all be filled with an abiding peace and love. And they all say "Amen!"
After meeting the general topic was the capture of the horse thief. Down in the village the unregenerated were still holding a feeble celebration, but beyond an excuse for celebrating they did not look upon the capture as an incentive to sterner action. Not so with the brethren. They did not endorse the celebration. That is, not publicly. Moreover they looked upon the celebrants as a vain and worldly people.
But at a cross road Brother Powter met Brother Longhorn, and was overtaken by Brother Rockafellow and Brother Ploughgit and Brother Hedges, and several other brothers, and a discussion ensued as to the safety of live stock in that vicinity—more especially "hosses."
"I tell ye wot," said Brother Powter, "this thing's got to be stopped. We aint none of us safe!"