Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) by Richard Harding Davis (dar e dil novel online reading TXT) 📕

Was Down,  And The Three Was Eating Her Vicious,  But As I Come Up,

Scattering The Pebbles,  She Hears,  And Thinking It's One More Of

Them,  She Lifts Her Head And My Heart Breaks Open Like Someone Had

Sunk His Teeth In It. For,  Under The Ashes And The Dirt And The

Blood,  I Can See Who It Is,  And I Know That My Mother Has Come Back

To Me.

I Gives A Yell That Throws Them Three Dogs Off Their Legs.

"Mother!" I Cries. "I'm The Kid," I Cries. "I'm Coming To You,

Mother,  I'm Coming."

And I Shoots Over Her,  At The Throat Of The Big Dog,  And The Other

Two,  They Sinks Their Teeth Into That Stylish Overcoat,  And Tears It

Off Me,  And That Sets Me Free,  And I Lets Them Have It. I Never Had

So Fine A Fight As That! What With Mother Being There To See,  And Not

Having Been Let To Mix Up In No Fights Since I Become A Prize-Winner,

It Just Naturally Did Me Good,  And It Wasn't Three Shakes Before I

Had 'Em Yelping. Quick As A Wink,  Mother,  She Jumps In To Help Me,

And I Just Laughed To See Her. It Was So Like Old Times. And Nolan,

He Made Me Laugh Too. He Was Like A Hen On A Bank,  Shaking The Butt

Of His Whip,  But Not Daring To Cut In For Fear Of Hitting Me.

"Stop It,  Kid," He Says,  "Stop It. Do You Want To Be All Torn Up?"

Says He. "Think Of The Boston Show Next Week," Says He,  "Think Of

Chicago. Think Of Danbury. Don't You Never Want To Be A Champion?"

How Was I To Think Of All Them Places When I Had Three Dogs To Cut Up

At The Same Time. But In A Minute Two Of 'Em Begs For Mercy,  And

Mother And Me Lets 'Em Run Away. The Big One,  He Ain't Able To Run

Away. Then Mother And Me,  We Dances And Jumps,  And Barks And Laughs,

And Bites Each Other And Rolls Each Other In The Road. There Never

Was Two Dogs So Happy As We,  And Nolan,  He Whistles And Calls And

Begs Me To Come To Him,  But I Just Laugh And Play Larks With Mother.

"Now,  You Come With Me," Says I,  "To My New Home,  And Never Try To

Run Away Again." And I Shows Her Our House With The Five Red Roofs,

Set On The Top Of The Hill. But Mother Trembles Awful,  And Says:

"They'd Never Let The Likes Of Me In Such A Place. Does The Viceroy

Live There,  Kid?" Says She. And I Laugh At Her. "No,  I Do," I Says;

"And If They Won't Let You Live There,  Too,  You And Me Will Go Back

To The Streets Together,  For We Must Never Be Parted No More." So We

Trots Up The Hill,  Side By Side,  With Nolan Trying To Catch Me,  And

Miss Dorothy Laughing At Him From The Cart.

"The Kid's Made Friends With The Poor Old Dog," Says She. "Maybe He

Knew Her Long Ago When He Ran The Streets Himself. Put Her In Here

Beside Me,  And See If He Doesn't Follow."

So,  When I Hears That,  I Tells Mother To Go With Nolan And Sit In The

Cart,  But She Says No,  That She'd Soil The Pretty Lady's Frock; But I

Tells Her To Do As I Say,  And So Nolan Lifts Her,  Trembling Still,

Into The Cart,  And I Runs Alongside,  Barking Joyful.

When We Drives Into The Stables I Takes Mother To My Kennel,  And

Tells Her To Go Inside It And Make Herself At Home. "Oh,  But He Won't

Let Me!" Says She.

"Who Won't Let You?" Says I,  Keeping My Eye On Nolan,  And Growling A

Bit Nasty,  Just To Show I Was Meaning To Have My Way. "Why,  Wyndham

Kid," Says She,  Looking Up At The Name On My Kennel.

"But I'm Wyndham Kid!" Says I.

"You!" Cries Mother. "You! Is My Little Kid The Great Wyndham Kid The

Dogs All Talk About?" And At That,  She,  Being Very Old,  And Sick,  And

Hungry,  And Nervous,  As Mothers Are,  Just Drops Down In The Straw And

Weeps Bitter.

Well,  There Ain't Much More Than That To Tell. Miss Dorothy,  She

Settled It.

"If The Kid Wants The Poor Old Thing In The Stables," Says She,  "Let

Her Stay."

"You See," Says She,  "She's A Black-And-Tan,  And His Mother Was A

Black-And-Tan,  And Maybe That's What Makes Kid Feel So Friendly

Toward Her," Says She.

"Indeed,  For Me," Says Nolan,  "She Can Have The Best There Is. I'd

Never Drive Out No Dog That Asks For A Crust Nor A Shelter," He Says.

"But What Will Mr. Wyndham Do?"

"He'll Do What I Say," Says Miss Dorothy,  "And If I Say She's To

Stay,  She Will Stay,  And I Say--She's To Stay!"

And So Mother And Nolan,  And Me,  Found A Home. Mother Was Scared At

First--Not Being Used To Kind People--But She Was So Gentle And

Loving,  That The Grooms Got Fonder Of Her Than Of Me,  And Tried To

Make Me Jealous By Patting Of Her,  And Giving Her The Pick Of The

Vittles. But That Was The Wrong Way To Hurt My Feelings. That's All,

I Think. Mother Is So Happy Here That I Tell Her We Ought To Call It

The Happy Hunting Grounds,  Because No One Hunts You,  And There Is

Nothing To Hunt; It Just All Comes To You. And So We Live In Peace,

Mother Sleeping All Day In The Sun,  Or Behind The Stove In The Head-

Groom's Office,  Being Fed Twice A Day Regular By Nolan,  And All The

Day By The Other Grooms Most Irregular,  And,  As For Me,  I Go Hurrying

Around The Country To The Bench-Shows; Winning Money And Cups For

Nolan,  And Taking The Blue Ribbons Away From Father.

A Derelict

When The War-Ships Of A Navy Lie Cleared For Action Outside A Harbor,

And The War-Ships Of The Country With Which They Are At War Lie

Cleared For Action Inside The Harbor,  There Is Likely To Be Trouble.

Trouble Between War-Ships Is News,  And Wherever There Is News There

Is Always A Representative Of The Consolidated Press.

As Long As Sampson Blockaded Havana And The Army Beat Time Back Of

The Tampa Bay Hotel,  The Central Office For News Was At Key West,  But

When Cervera Slipped Into Santiago Harbor And Sampson Stationed His

Battle-Ships At Its Mouth,  Key West Lost Her Only Excuse For

Existence,  And The Press-Boats Burled Their Bows In The Waters Of The

Florida Straits And Raced For The Cable-Station At Port Antonio. It

Was Then That Keating,  The "Star" Man Of The Consolidated Press

Syndicate,  Was Forced To Abandon His Young Bride And The Rooms He Had

Engaged For Her At The Key West Hotel,  And Accompany His Tug To The

Distant Island Of Jamaica.

Keating Was A Good And Faithful Servant To The Consolidated Press. He

Was A Correspondent After Its Own Making,  An Industrious Collector Of

Facts. The Consolidated Press Did Not Ask Him To Comment On What It

Sent Him To See; It Did Not Require Nor Desire His Editorial Opinions

Or Impressions. It Was No Part Of His Work To Go Into The Motives

Which Led To The Event Of News Interest Which He Was Sent To Report,

Nor To Point Out What There Was Of It Which Was Dramatic,  Pathetic,

Or Outrageous.

The Consolidated Press,  Being A Mighty Corporation,  Which Daily Fed

Seven Hundred Different Newspapers,  Could Not Hope To Please The

Policy Of Each,  So It Compromised By Giving The Facts Of The Day

Fairly Set Down,  Without Heat,  Prejudice,  Or Enthusiasm. This Was An

Excellent Arrangement For The Papers That Subscribed For The Service

Of The Consolidated Press,  But It Was Death To The Literary Strivings

Of The Consolidated Press Correspondents.

"We Do Not Want Descriptive Writing," Was The Warning Which The

Manager Of The Great Syndicate Was Always Flashing To Its

Correspondents. "We Do Not Pay You To Send Us Pen-Pictures Or Prose

Poems. We Want The Facts,  All The Facts,  And Nothing But The Facts."

And So,  When At A Presidential Convention A Theatrical Speaker Sat

Down After Calling James G. Blaine "A Plumed Knight," Each Of The

"Special" Correspondents Present Wrote Two Columns In An Effort To

Describe How The People Who Heard The Speech Behaved In Consequence,

But The Consolidated Press Man Telegraphed,  "At The Conclusion Of

These Remarks The Cheering Lasted Sixteen Minutes."

No Event Of News Value Was Too Insignificant To Escape The

Watchfulness Of The Consolidated Press,  None So Great That It Could

Not Handle It From Its Inception Up To The Moment When It Ceased To

Be Quoted In The News-Market Of The World. Each Night,  From Thousands

Of Spots All Over The Surface Of The Globe,  It Received Thousands Of

Facts,  Of Cold,  Accomplished Facts. It Knew That A Tidal Wave Had

Swept Through China,  A Cabinet Had Changed In Chili,  In Texas An

Express Train Had Been Held Up And Robbed,  "Spike" Kennedy Had

Defeated The "Dutchman" In New Orleans,  The Oregon Had Coaled Outside

Of Rio Janeiro Harbor,  The Cape Verde Fleet Had Been Seen At Anchor

Off Cadiz; It Had Been Located In The Harbor Of San Juan,  Porto Rico;

It Had Been Sighted Steaming Slowly Past Fortress Monroe; And The

Navy Department Reported That The St. Paul Had Discovered The Lost

Squadron Of Spain In The Harbor Of Santiago. This Last Fact Was The

One Which Sent Keating To Jamaica. Where He Was Sent Was A Matter Of

Indifference To Keating. He Had Worn The Collar Of The Consolidated

Press For So Long A Time That He Was Callous. A Board Meeting--A Mine

Disaster--An Indian Uprising--It Was All One To Keating. He Collected

Facts And His Salary. He Had No Enthusiasms,  He Held No Illusions.

The Prestige Of The Mammoth Syndicate He Represented Gained Him An

Audience Where Men Who Wrote For One Paper Only Were Repulsed On The

Threshold. Senators,  Governors,  The Presidents Of Great Trusts And

Railroad Systems,  Who Fled From The Reporter Of A Local Paper As From

A Leper,  Would Send For Keating And Dictate To Him Whatever It Was

They Wanted The People Of The United States To Believe,  For When They

Talked To Keating They Talked To Many Millions Of Readers. Keating,

In Turn,