Wolfville Nights

by Alfred Henry Lewis

  Produced by Al Haines

  WOLFVILLE NIGHTS

  by

  Alfred Henry Lewis

  Author of "Wolfville", "Wolfville Days", "Peggy O'Nea", &c.

  1902,

  CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER

  DEDICATION SOME COWBOY FACTS I. THE DISMISSAL OF SILVER PHIL II. COLONEL STERETT'S PANTHER HUNT III. HOW FARO NELL DEALT BANK IV. HOW THE RAVEN DIED V. THE QUEERNESS OF DAVE TUTT VI. WITH THE APACHE'S COMPLIMENTS VII. THE MILLS OF SAVAGE GODS VIII. TOM AND JERRY; WHEELERS IX. THE INFLUENCE OF FARO NELL X. THE GHOST OF THE BAR-B-8 XI. TUCSON JENNIE'S CORRECTION XII. BILL CONNORS OF THE OSAGES XIII. WHEN TUTT FIRST SAW TUCSON XIV. THE TROUBLES OF DAN BOGGS XV. BOWLEGS AND MAJOR BEN XVI. TOAD ALLEN'S ELOPEMENT XVII. THE CLIENTS OF AARON GREEN XVIII. COLONEL STERETT'S MARVELS XIX. THE LUCK OF HARDROBE XX. LONG AGO ON THE RIO GRANDE XXI. COLONEL COYOTE CLUBBS

  To

  William Greene Sterett

  this volume is

  inscribed.

  NEW YORK CITY,

  August 1, 1902

  MY DEAR STERETT:--

  In offering this book to you I might have advantage of the occasionto express my friendship and declare how high I hold you as ajournalist and a man. Or I might speak of those years at Washingtonwhen in the gallery we worked shoulder to shoulder; I might recall toyou the wit of Hannum, or remind you of the darkling Barrett, themighty Decker, the excellent Cohen, the vivid Brown, the imaginativeMiller, the volatile Angus, the epigrammatic Merrick, the quietlysatirical Splain, Rouzer the earnest, Boynton the energetic, Carsonthe eminent, and Dunnell, famous for a bitter, frank integrity. Imight remember that day when the gifted Fanciulli, with no moredelicate inspiration than crackers, onions, and cheese, and no moresplendid conservatory than Shoemaker's, wrote, played and consecratedto you his famous "Lone Star March" wherewith he so disquieted thepublic present of the next concert in the White House grounds. Or Imight hark back to the campaign of '92, when together we struggledagainst national politics as evinced in the city of New York; I mightrepaint that election night when, with one hundred thousand whirlingdervishes of democracy in Madison Square, dancing dances, and singingsongs of victory, we undertook through the hubbub to send from the"Twenty-third street telegraph office" half-hourly bulletins to ourpapers in the West; how you, accompanied of the dignified RichardBright, went often to the Fifth Avenue Hotel; and how at last youdictated your bulletins--a sort of triumphant blank verse, theywere--as Homeric of spirit as lofty of phrase--to me, who caught themas they came from your lips, losing none of their fire, and soflashed them all burning into Texas, far away. But of what availwould be such recount? Distance separates us and time has comebetween. Those are the old years, these are the new, with neweryears beyond. Life like a sea is filling from rivers of experience.Forgetfulness rises as a tide and creeps upward to drown within usthose stories of the days that were. And because this is true, itcomes to me that you as a memory must stand tallest in the midst ofmy regard. For of you I find within me no forgetfulness. I have metothers; they came, they tarried, they departed. They came again; andon this second encounter the recollection of their existences smoteupon me as a surprise. I had forgotten them as though they had notbeen. But such is not your tale. Drawn on the plates of memory, aswith a tool of diamond, I carry you both in broadest outline and ineach least of shade; and there hangs no picture in the gallery ofhours gone, to which I turn with more of pleasure and of good. Noram I alone in my recollection. Do I pass through the Fifth AvenueHotel on my way to the Hoffman, that vandyked dispenser leanspleasantly across his counter, to ask with deepest interest: "Do youhear from the Old Man now?" Or am I belated in Shanley's, a beamingring of waiters--if it be not an hour overrun of custom--willhalf-circle my table, and the boldest, "Pat," will question timidly,yet with a kindly Galway warmth: "How's the Old Man?" Old Man! Thatis your title: at once dignified and affectionate; and by it you comeoften to be referred to along Broadway these ten years after itsconference. And when the latest word is uttered what is there moreto fame! I shall hold myself fortunate, indeed, if, departing, I'mremembered by half so many half so long. But wherefore extendourselves regretfully? We may meet again; the game is not playedout. Pending such bright chance, I dedicate this book to you. It isthe most of honour that lies in my lean power. And in so doing, I amalmost moved to say, as said Goldsmith of Johnson in his offering of_She Stoops to Conquer_: "By inscribing this slight performance toyou, I do not mean to so much compliment you as myself. It may do mesome honour to inform the public that I have lived many years inintimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also toinform them that the greatest wit may be found in a character withoutimpairing the most unaffected piety." I repeat, I am all but movedto write these lines of you. It would tell my case at least; andwhile description might limp in so far as you lack somewhat of thatsnuffle of "true piety" so often engaging the Johnsonian nose, youmake up the defect with possession of a wider philosophy, a betterhumour and a brighter, quicker wit than visited or dwelt beneath thecandle-scorched wig of our old bully lexicographer.

  ALFRED HENRY LEWIS.