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into the river again. But still, they didnā€™t elect another chief in his place. Other tribes thought that was curious, and wondered about it a lot, but finally they came to the conclusion that the beech grove people were afraid a new chief might turn out to be a bad Indian, too, and wear iron shoes like Vendonah. But they were wrong, because the real reason was that the tribe had led such an exciting life under Vendonah that they couldnā€™t settle down to anything tamer. He was awful, but he always kept things happeningā ā€”terrible things, of course. They hated him, but they werenā€™t able to discover any other warrior that they wanted to make chief in his place. I suppose it was a little like drinking a glass of too strong wine and then trying to take the taste out of your mouth with barley water. They couldnā€™t help feeling that way.ā€

ā€œI see,ā€ said Eugene. ā€œSo thatā€™s why they named the place ā€˜They-Couldnā€™t-Help-Itā€™!ā€

ā€œIt must have been.ā€

ā€œAnd so youā€™re going to stay here in your garden,ā€ he said musingly. ā€œYou think itā€™s better to keep on walking these sunshiny gravel paths between your flowerbeds, and growing to look like a pensive garden lady in a Victorian engraving.ā€

ā€œI suppose Iā€™m like the tribe that lived here, papa. I had too much unpleasant excitement. It was unpleasantā ā€”but it was excitement. I donā€™t want any more; in fact, I donā€™t want anything but you.ā€

ā€œYou donā€™t?ā€ He looked at her keenly, and she laughed and shook her head; but he seemed perplexed, rather doubtful. ā€œWhat was the name of the grove?ā€ he asked. ā€œThe Indian name, I mean.ā€

ā€œMola-Haha.ā€

ā€œNo, it wasnā€™t; that wasnā€™t the name you said.ā€

ā€œIā€™ve forgotten.ā€

ā€œI see you have,ā€ he said, his look of perplexity remaining. ā€œPerhaps you remember the chiefā€™s name better.ā€

She shook her head again. ā€œI donā€™t!ā€

At this he laughed, but not very heartily, and walked slowly to the house, leaving her bending over a rosebush, and a shade more pensive than the most pensive garden lady in any Victorian engraving.

ā€¦ Next day, it happened that this same ā€œVendonahā€ or ā€œRides-Down-Everythingā€ became the subject of a chance conversation between Eugene and his old friend Kinney, father of the fire-topped Fred. The two gentlemen found themselves smoking in neighbouring leather chairs beside a broad window at the club, after lunch.

Mr. Kinney had remarked that he expected to get his family established at the seashore by the Fourth of July, and, following a train of thought, he paused and chuckled. ā€œFourth of July reminds me,ā€ he said. ā€œHave you heard what that Georgie Minafer is doing?ā€

ā€œNo, I havenā€™t,ā€ said Eugene, and his friend failed to notice the crispness of the utterance.

ā€œWell, sir,ā€ Kinney chuckled again, ā€œit beats the devil! My boy Fred told me about it yesterday. Heā€™s a friend of this young Henry Akers, son of F. P. Akers of the Akers Chemical Company. It seems this young Akers asked Fred if he knew a fellow named Minafer, because he knew Fred had always lived here, and young Akers had heard some way that Minafer used to be an old family name here, and was sort of curious about it. Well, sir, you remember this young Georgie sort of disappeared, after his grandfatherā€™s death, and nobody seemed to know much what had become of himā ā€”though I did hear, once or twice, that he was still around somewhere. Well, sir, heā€™s working for the Akers Chemical Company, out at their plant on the Thomasvile Road.ā€

He paused, seeming to reserve something to be delivered only upon inquiry, and Eugene offered him the expected question, but only after a cold glance through the nose-glasses he had lately found it necessary to adopt. ā€œWhat does he do?ā€

Kinney laughed and slapped the arm of his chair.

ā€œHeā€™s a nitroglycerin expert!ā€

He was gratified to see that Eugene was surprised, if not, indeed, a little startled.

ā€œHeā€™s what?ā€

ā€œHeā€™s an expert on nitroglycerin. Doesnā€™t that beat the devil! Yes, sir! Young Akers told Fred that this George Minafer had worked like a hounā€™-dog ever since he got started out at the works. They have a special plant for nitroglycerin, way off from the main plant, oā€™ courseā ā€”in the woods somewhereā ā€”and George Minaferā€™s been working there, and lately they put him in charge of it. He oversees shooting oil-wells, too, and shoots ā€™em himself, sometimes. They arenā€™t allowed to carry it on the railroads, you knowā ā€”have to team it. Young Akers says George rides around over the bumpy roads, sitting on as much as three hundred quarts of nitroglycerin! My Lord! Talk about romantic tumbles! If he gets blown sky-high some day he wonā€™t have a bigger drop, when he comes down, than heā€™s already had! Donā€™t it beat the devil! Young Akers said heā€™s got all the nerve there is in the world. Well, he always did have plenty of thatā ā€”from the time he used to ride around here on his white pony and fight all the Irish boys in Can-Town, with his long curls all handy to be pulled out. Akers says he gets a fair salary, and I should think he ought to! Seems to me Iā€™ve heard the average life in that sort of work is somewhere around four years, and agents donā€™t write any insurance at all for nitroglycerin experts. Hardly!ā€

ā€œNo,ā€ said Eugene. ā€œI suppose not.ā€

Kinney rose to go. ā€œWell, itā€™s a pretty funny thingā ā€”pretty odd, I meanā ā€”and I suppose it would be pass-around-the-hat for old Fanny Minafer if he blew up. Fred told me that theyā€™re living in some apartment house, and said Georgie supports her. He was going to study law, but couldnā€™t earn enough that way to take care of Fanny, so he gave it up. Fredā€™s wife told him all this. Says Fanny doesnā€™t do anything but play bridge these days. Got to playing too high for awhile and lost more than she wanted to tell Georgie about, and borrowed a little from old Frank Bronson. Paid him back, though. Donā€™t know how Fredā€™s

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