Suddenly an
unnaturally shrill and excited voice was heard:
"Hyah, you, doan' come no farder! Dese yer's my premises!"
From behind the empty shanty appeared the thin old negro, bareheaded, his
shotgun at his shoulder, a striking figure against the rising moon.
The young man descended from the fence into the field. There came a flash
and a crack from Pop Thornberry's gun. The youth felt the sting of a piece
of birdshot in his leg. Howling and limping, he turned quickly over the
fence into the wagon, which made a hasty flight.
The next morning some idlers went out from the town to the scene of the
adventure. They found the old man lying hatless in the middle of the field,
face downwards, upon the shotgun. He had died of sheer exhaustion, on
guard--and on his own land, as befit an honest citizen who had never
intruded upon the peace of other men.
XXI
AT THE STAGE DOOR [Footnote: Courtesy of _Lippincott's Magazine_.
Copyright, 1892, by J. B. Lippincott Company.]
First let me explain how I came to be sitting in so unsavoury a place as
Gorson's "fifteen cent oyster and chop house" that night.
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