Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Law of the Land by Emerson Hough (top 10 inspirational books .txt) 📖
- Author: Emerson Hough
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Book online «The Law of the Land by Emerson Hough (top 10 inspirational books .txt) 📖». Author Emerson Hough
It needed a bolder mind, and this, as it chanced, was at hand, after the devil’s fashion in such affairs. Henry Decherd had known Carson in the community where he had lived before his removal to the city. The two had since then met by chance now and again on the street or elsewhere. Once, when Eddring chanced to be out of town, they happened to meet and paused for a conversation longer than usual. There came a hint from Carson, a word of quick inquiry from Decherd, a flush of timorous guilt upon the face of the unfaithful humble one; and presently these two repaired to the office of the claim agent, locked the door behind them, and soon were absorbed in certain lines and columns of figures which had been prepared by Carson.
“This ain’t for ten years, nor half of it,” said the latter, at length. “But you can see it runs up to a good lot of money. Look here.” Decherd gave a long whistle as he looked at the footings of the columns of figures.
“And they’re all unpaid claims,” he said. “Judgments from one end of the line to the other, it looks like. By Jove, it does seem that the road had to pay for about everything in the Delta, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, it don’t have to pay these things, don’t you worry,” said Carson. “It don’t need no sympathy, this road don’t. It will take care of itself, all right. These ain’t claims that’s going to be paid, but ones that ain’t going to be paid. They’re ones that’s in judgment and can be collected; but the owners of these judgments don’t seem to know their rights. They don’t collect. Maybe they’re dead or moved away, or maybe they’ve forgotten all about it, or maybe their lawyers haven’t taken pains to tell them—you can’t tell about all these things. Every big accident that happens on the road, there’s a lot of judgments taken against the road; but they don’t all get paid, as you see. That is one of the secrets of our business.”
“A pretty situation of affairs, isn’t it?” said Decherd. “Looks like the road would have to pay, if these claims were fought.”
“I should say so. These judgments are on the court records all the way from here to New Orleans, and they’re all as good as gold. The company can’t dodge out of one of them, if a fellow takes enough. interest to get around and collect. Most of them are air-tight. Some have gone on appeal to upper courts, but we don’t bother to appeal these little ones. And, you know, there ain’t a court in the Delta that wouldn’t cinch the road if it got a chance.”
“How much do they foot up?” said Decherd again, reaching out his hand for the papers.
“About eighty thousand dollars, or something like that. Why, if a fellow—”
“A fellow couldn’t push the whole thing at once, you know; he would be discovered the first thing,” said Decherd. The other pricked up his ears eagerly.
“Suppose he was caught,” said he, “what could they do? If I want to go down to John Jones’ cabin, down somewhere in the cane-brakes, and give him five dollars for a judgment that he has forgot about, or is scared to try to collect, why, I get the judgment, and it’s legal, ain’t it? Or suppose I just poke him up to collect it and he gives me half? That’s legal, ain’t it? And who can help it, even if anybody knew? Why, say, if I was Mr. Eddring there, knowing what he does about these claims, do you reckon I’d be working very long? I reckon not. I’d go in along this line of road and I’d get some fellow to hunt up these claims, a few at a time, and I’d see that the company paid these judgments!” He swelled up at the thought of his own daring. “Why, Mr. Eddring,” he went on, “he could stand in on both sides—draw a salary from the company, an’ divide with the niggers and the white folks that has claims against the road. It’s easy, especially with the niggers, because they never do know what’s going on, anyhow.”
Decherd puckered up his lips, and paused for a time in thought. Carson went on. “I wouldn’t ask anything better than this,” said he, “to get plumb rich in about two or three years.”
Decherd walked up and down slowly, his finger pressed to his chin in thought. His face was worn and haggard. His clothing had taken on a seedy cast not formerly common to him. Apparently things might have been better with him in a financial way. Perhaps he saw a way to mend matters. “Halves?” said he at length, suddenly looking straight into Carson’s face.
The clerk flushed a dull red. The conspiracy was formed. “Why, yes,” said he, his voice half-trembling. “I reckon that would be about right.”
“Well, then, give me the lists,” said Decherd. “I’m up and down the road in the Delta now and then. I’ll take care of these things. As for you, whatever you see or hear, keep your mouth shut, or it’ll be the worse for you.”
“Sure,” said Carson, and endeavored to laugh.
One day not long subsequent to the little meeting of Decherd and Carson in Eddring’s office, there chanced to be in the same southern city one James Thompson, traveling representative of a furnishing house in the North, he being then engaged in completing his regular business trip through that part of the country. Mr. Thompson, it seemed, found himself in need of a traveling-bag, and, fancying the merchandising possibilities of the place, stepped into a prominent shop on the main street at a late hour of the afternoon, and proceeded to satisfy his somewhat exacting personal taste. He selected a bag of alligator leather, of what seemed to him suitable dimensions and trimmings.
“This will do me, I think,” said he, “about as long as I need one. I’m going to quit the road and settle down before long.”
“You better haf your name-cart put on it, anyvays,” said the salesman. “It’s more stylish.”
But Mr. Thompson was in a hurry and could not wait for that. He was obliged to leave the city that night on train Number 4, the New Orleans Limited on the Y. V. railroad. Presently, he chuckled to himself, he would not be taking train Number 4 any more, but would be sleeping at home in his own bed, and not obliged to get up in the morning until he felt like it. His season’s work was nearly over, and after that he intended to retire from the house and start up in a business of his own; all of which are very comforting reflections to one who is past fifty, and who has been “on the road” for many years.
In due time Mr. Thompson, smoking a comfortable cigar, ambled up to the gate beyond which stood Number 4 in the railway station. He tossed his alligator bag to the porter at the car step, who placed it among others on the platform of the car. Mr. Thompson then ambled into the car and sought out the smoking-compartment, heaving a sigh of content as he settled down to the enjoyment of his cigar.
The conductor of Number 4 looked at his watch, raised his hand and cried out “All aboard!” shortly and sharply. In the waiting-room of the station a negro train-caller sang out, “All abo-o-oh-d!” in a long-drawn minor, which sounded rather as warning than as invitation. The caller, as he completed his last round, sprang aside to escape the rush of a young man who ran through the gate just in time to catch the moving train. He threw his own hand-bag up on the platform for the porter’s care, and also passed back into the train. This late-comer was Henry Decherd.
As Number 4 rolled out to the southward, the usual little comedy of a railway train at night-time began. An old lady asked the porter a dozen times what time the “kyars would get to N’Yawlns.” Two florid gentlemen leaned together in one seat and discussed cotton, cotton, cotton. In yet another berth two young farmers were having their first experience in high life, and were eager to try the experience of actually going to sleep upon the cars while the same continued their forward progress—a thing which had seemed impossible to them. Not removing their clothing, they venturesomely pulled off their shoes, and thereafter, in some fashion, managed to squeeze together into the same berth. “Why, I’m a-layin’ mighty comf’table now,” exclaimed one presently, to his own evident surprise and gratification.
“So’m I,” exclaimed the other. Silence then for a little while, when again the first voice was heard: “Why, my feet’s right wahm!”
“So’s mine!” replied his friend, in equal delight and surprise.
“I reckon I’ll take my shoes inside,” said the first speaker, presently.
“So’ll I,” said the second; after which there came silence.
In another part of the car was a lady with a little child, which jumped and squirmed about, and made eyes at all mankind, including James Thompson. The latter made eyes in turn, and waggled his fingers at the youngster, which trilled and gurgled as it danced up and down, now hiding its face, again springing up into view above the back of the plush-covered seat.
“I have three of my own back home, madam,” said Mr. Thompson, going up to the mother of the child. “Come here, baby, and give me a kiss; because I’m a poor man who can’t be kissed by his own little girl.” The child kissed him gleefully and sweetly a dozen times; and perhaps, after all, that was shriving and absolution for James Thompson. Not all of us go down into the valley of the shadow with the kiss of innocence on our lips.
Number 4 steamed on to the southward. She crossed the flat bottoms where the great river was hedged out by the levees; edged off again toward the red clay hills and finally, leaving this fringe of little eminences, plunged straight and deep into the ancient forests of the Delta, whose flat floor lay out ahead for many miles. Number 4 was
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