They diverted barroom loungers and passers-by.
Pop called on one local capitalist after another, seeking one who would
buy his gold or aid into preparing it for the market. All laughed at
his delusion, deeming it harmless, and all gave him good reason for not
accepting his offer of business partnership. So he went from the bank
president to the baker, from the member of congress for whom he had voted
to the barber, from the hotel proprietor to the bartender. The negroes of
the town, feeling that their race was humiliated in Pop, began to hold
aloof from him. No serious-minded person who learned of his delusion gave
it a second thought.
"Say Pop, where do you get this gold, anyhow?" asked a tobacco-chewing
gamin at the railroad station one day.
"Dat's my business," replied Thornberry, with some dignity.
"Oh," said his questioner, "I know. Tobe McStenger followed you out the
other day and saw where you got it. He'd a brung some in hisself, but it
wasn't on his property."
"Yes, Pop, you better look out," put in a telegraph operator, "or you'll be
taken up for trespassing. 'Tisn't your land, you know, where you find your
gold.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200