The unpretentious building stood just back from the road, near the end of “Bundy’s Bridge.” It was a lonely looking structure, for there were no near neighbors. Its sustenance was drawn from a thinly populated region, but its location made it easy of access from many miles around.

The winding thoroughfare that led over the decrepit bridge was an ancient Indian trail that, like the other cherished possessions of the red man, had been merged into the economies of his white brothers.

The plashing waters of the river lulled the ear with gentle tumult. They sighed softly under the old bridge, rippled against the decayed abutments with a dirge-like rhythm, and spread out in little swirls and scrolls over the tapering sand bar below.

During the hot summer forenoons barefooted boys in fragmentary costume appeared on the structure from unknown sources. They rested long cane fish poles along the side rails, and watched for the corks to bob that floated on the lazy current. They soon disrobed and remained naked the rest of the day, making frequent trips into the river, where they wallowed along the muddy margin and splashed in the shallow water.

The agile sun burned bodies, and the shouts of the noisy happy crew, gave a touch of vibrant life and human interest to the melancholy old bridge.

When night came the scant raiment was gathered up and the slender strings of small bull-heads and sun-fish—a meager spoil if judged from a material standpoint—were carried proudly away on the dusty road. Emperors—and particularly one of them—might well envy their innocence and happiness as they faded away into the twilight.

Lofty elms, big sycamores and bass-woods, interlaced with wild grape vines, shaded the approach to the bridge, and fringed the gently sloping banks of the river.

The store was a remnant of the past. When it was built, about sixty years ago, the location seemed to offer alluring prospects. While the expected town did not materialize in the vicinity of the bridge, the store had done a thriving business, before the railroads crossed the river country, and after the old trail was graded. Few of the frequent travelers along the road had failed to stop and contribute more or less to its prosperity. The trappers from up and down the river sold their pelts and obtained supplies there, some of which consisted of very raw edged liquor, that they often claimed ate holes in their stockings. Much of it had never enjoyed the society of a revenue stamp, but as stamps affected neither the flavor or the hitting quality of the goods, nobody ever inquired into these things.

The merciless years changed the fortunes of the place, and it was now in an atmosphere of decay. It was a gray unpainted two story affair, with a wooden awning over a broad platform in front, along the outer edge of which hung a small squeaky sign:

It was the general loafing place of the old muskrat trappers and pot hunters—known as “river rats,”—and old settlers, whose principal asset was spare time, but everybody for miles around came occasionally to “keep track o’ what’s goin’ on,” and to exchange the gossip of the river country.

Posey, the jovial and philosophic proprietor, who lived upstairs, was a sympathetic member of the motley gatherings. He was utilized in countless ways. He acted as stakeholder and referee when bets were made on disputed matters of fact, delivered verbal messages, and always had the latest news. He was a good natured, ruddy faced old fellow, with an eccentric moustache that curled in at one corner of his mouth, and seemed to be trying to make its escape on the other side. He seldom wore a hat and his gray hair stood up like a flare over his high forehead.

The confused stock of goods included a little of everything that any reasonable human being would want to buy, and lots of things that nobody could ever have any sane use for. Those who were unreasonable could always get what they wanted by waiting a week or two, for “Tip” declared that he would draw upon the resources of the civilized world through the mails, if necessary, to accommodate his customers.

Posey was reliable in everything except regular attendance. He “opened store” spasmodically in the morning, and closed it “whenever they was nobody ’round” at night. When his life-long friend, Bill Stiles, was unavailable as a substitute guardian he often locked up and left a notice on the door indicating when he would return. I once found one reading: “Gone off—back Monday.” It was Wednesday and it had been there since Saturday. Various lead pencil comments had been inscribed on the misleading notice by facetious visitors, among them “Liar!” “What Monday?” “Sober up!” “Stranger called to buy a hundred dollars’ worth of goods and found nobody home.” “The sheriff has been here looking for you twice,” and several other notations calculated to annoy the delinquent. Sometimes the notice would simply read “Gone off,” which, in connection with the fact that the door was locked, was convincing to the most obtuse observer. Tip usually found a fringe of patient customers and assorted loiterers sitting along the edge of the platform, discussing the burning questions of the day, when he returned.

During the shooting seasons he spent much time on the marsh down the river. Orders were stuck under the door, and during his brief and uncertain visits to the store, he filled them and left the goods in a locked wooden box in the rear, to which a few favored customers had duplicate keys.

While Tip’s affairs were not conducted on strictly commercial principles, he had no competition, and eventually did all the business there was to be done. “I git all the money they got, an’ nobody c’d do more’n that if they was here all the time,” he remarked, as he laid his gun and a bunch of bloody ducks on the platform and unlocked the door late one night, after several days’ absence. “I got ’em all trained now an’ they’d be spoiled if I took to bein’ here reg’lar.”

There were two “spare rooms” over the store, that were reached by a stairway on the outside of the building. I usually occupied one of them whenever I visited that part of the river. Bill Stiles slept in the other when he thought it was too dark for him to go home, or he was not in a condition to make the attempt. It was in use most of the time.

Bill was the genius loci, and gave it a rich and mellow character, which it would have been difficult for Posey to sustain alone. He was a grizzled veteran of the marshes. For many years he had lived in a tumble-down shack on “Huckleberry Island.” He trapped muskrats and mink over a wide area in the winter, and shot ducks and geese for the market in the spring and fall. When the fur harvests began to fail, and the game laws became oppressive, he concluded that he was getting too old to work, and was too much alone in the world. He moved up the river and built a new shack on “Watermelon Bend,” which was within easy walking distance from the store, where he could usually find plenty of congenial company when he wanted it. Here he had become a fixture.

Out of the ample fund of his experience, flavored and garnished by the rich and inexhaustible fertility of an imagination, that at times was almost uncanny, had come tales of early life on the river and marshes that had enthralled the loiterers at the store. They shared the shade of the awning with him during the hot summer days, and surrounded the big bellied wood stove in the dingy interior during the winter days and evenings when “they was nothin’ doin’” anywhere else in the region, and listened with rapt interest to his reminiscences. Any expression of incredulity met with crushing rebuke. “I didn’t notice that you was there at the time,” he would remark with asperity. “If you wasn’t, that’ll be all from you.”

The muskrat colonies still left along the river, and out on the marshy areas, were often drawn upon by adventurous youngsters, solely for the purpose of “seein’ Bill skin ’em.” Clusters of the unfortunates were brought by their tails and laid on the store platform. The old man would look the crowd over patronizingly, take his “ripper” from his pocket, and, with a few dexterous strokes, perform feats of pelt surgery that made the tyros gasp with admiration.

“I skun six hundred an’ forty-eight rats once’t, in five hours, that I’d caught on Muckshaw Lake the night before,” was Bill’s invariable remark after he had finished his grewsome performance.

The adulation of these small audiences was the glow that illumined his declining days.

When I first met the old man years ago, he was engaged in writing his autobiography, and at last accounts he was still at it. His shack and the little room over the store had gradually become literary temples. His complicated manuscripts and notes were kept in an old black satchel of once shiny oil cloth, that he called his “war bag.” On its side was the roughly lettered inscription: “HISTORIC CRONICELS—STILES.” He carried it back and forth between his abodes with much solicitude. During the many evenings I spent with him, he would frequently extract its contents and read aloud in the dim light of a kerosene lamp. He often paused and looked over the rims of his spectacles, with animation in his gray eyes, when he came to passages that he deemed of special importance. The masses of foolscap contained records that were only intelligible to the writer. His grammar and spelling were hopelessly bad, his methods of compilation were baffling, and his penmanship was mystic, but his collection of facts and near-facts was prodigious. He took long reflective rests between the periods of active composition. They were deathless chronicles in the sense that they seemed to be without end, and they appeared to become more and more deathless as he proceeded.

The first two or three hundred pages were what Bill called a “Backfire Chapter.” It began with the Creative Dawn, and was a general historical rÉsumÉ down to the time of his appearance on earth. It skipped lightly over the great events, that loom like mountain peaks in the world’s history and tower away into the receding centuries. When he came to the Deluge he got lost among Noah’s animals for awhile and floundered hopelessly for adjectives. It was impossible to enumerate and describe all of them, but he did the best he could. Through a maze of wars and falling empires, he got Columbus to America. The Republic was established, and civilization finally flowered with the birth of Bill Stiles, A.D., 1836. From the dawn of time to the rocking of Bill’s cradle was a far cry, but his annals included what he considered the essential features of that dark period.

In addition to a vast amount of matter of purely personal interest, the work was designed to accurately record the happenings in the river country during Bill’s lifetime.

Much of his material was collected at the store. The year that Bundy’s Bridge was built, and the ferry ceased operations, was shrouded in historic gloom. Five times the year had been changed in the chronicles, for five eminent authorities differed as to the date, and each of them had at one time or another succeeded in impressing Bill. He seemed confident of all his other facts. The other bridges had given him no trouble.

There was no question in his mind as to when the Pottowattomies were relieved of their lands and forcibly removed from the country, or when the camp of horse thieves on Grape Island was broken up.

There was a tale of another band of horse thieves, whose secret retreat was on an island in the middle of a big lake of soft muck several miles south of the river.

The one route of access to it was a concealed sand bar known only to the outlaws. The unsavory crew collected their plunder on the island, where the pilfered beasts were cared for, and their markings changed with various dyes. In due time they smuggled them away in the darkness to distant markets. They once captured a too curious preacher, who was looking for his horse, and kept him in durance vile for several months. The expounder of the gospels labored so faithfully in that seemingly hopeless vineyard that the blasÉ bandits were finally “purified by the word of the Lord, gave up their dark practices, made restitution, and ever after lived model lives.”

There was a record of a mighty flood that drowned out everything and everybody, ran over the top of the bridge and carried part of it away, and following this were notations of approximate dates of sundry happenings—when the gang of counterfeiters that dwelt in Pinkamink Marsh were caught and “sent up”—the year that Bill killed a blue goose on “Boiler Slough”—when the tornado blew all of the water out of the river at “Ox Bow Bend” and left the channel bare for half an hour, and the year that “forty-six thousand rat skins was took off Shelby Marsh.”

A page was devoted to a reign of terror that lasted several weeks in 1877. For five nights an awful roar had come out of “Bull Snake Bayou.” The mystery was never explained, but Bill thought that the noise had been produced by a “whiffmatick” or a “hodad” that had come down with the spring flood, lost its way, and was shedding horns or scales in the vine-clad thickets.

The births, weddings and deaths of all the old settlers were carefully recorded, and many of their exploits detailed at length. There was an account of the capture of Hank Butts and his illicit still by the revenue officers, the failure of the jury to convict, owing to the reputations of the culprit’s two sons as dead shots, and the story of Hank’s death in a feather bed, with his boots on, when he went to visit a city relative and blew out the gas a few months later.

Bill’s experience with a “cattymount” was related with much detail. He had encountered it in the woods when he was young, and had spent two days and nights in a tree, living on crackers, plug tobacco, and a bottle of sage tea that he fortunately happened to have with him. The animal’s foot had been shattered by Bill’s only bullet and this prevented it from going into the foliage after him. The captive had chewed up over a pound of the plug and had carefully aimed the resulting juices at the baleful eye-balls that gleamed below him at night, hoping to blind his besieger. When the supply of this ammunition was exhausted the animal’s eyes were still bright, although Bill had scored many body hits and had decidedly changed the general color of his enemy.

Hunger finally compelled the savage beast to beat a retreat and the situation was relieved. The “cattymount” had evidently increased in size with the succeeding years, for in the manuscript its estimated length had been twice corrected with a pen, the last figures being the highest. Bill added that he had killed this “fierce an’ formidable animal” later, and that “its skin was taken east.”

Somewhere among the confused piles was the tale of the last voyage of the little stern-wheel steamer, “Morning Star” to the ferry, under command of “Cap’n Sink.” She had come up from the Illinois river, and the falling waters had left her stranded for a week on a sand bar. Her doughty commander paced the deck and blistered it with profanity. He swore by nine gods that he never again would go above “Corkscrew Bend,” that was so crooked that even the fish had sense enough to keep out of it. His vociferous impiety filtered intermittently through the green foliage that overhung the river, and desecrated the shadow-flecked aisles of the forest, until the Morning Star’s sister boat, the “Damfino,” came wheezing up stream. The unfortunate craft was pulled off the bar and navigation officially ended.

Reliable data was becoming scarce. Bill’s recollections were getting hazy. The old settlers, whose memories could be relied upon, were dying off, and the mists were absorbing his ascertainable facts, but, while life lasts the chronicles will go on, for Bill’s genius is not of the sort that admits defeat.

There is much human history that might with profit be entombed in these humble archives, and its obscurity would be a blessing to those who made it. As the world grows older it finds less to respect in the dusty tomes that are filled with the story of human folly, selfishness and needless bloodshed.

Bill and I were enjoying a quiet smoke on the store platform one July afternoon, and discussing his historical labors.

“We’r livin’ in ter’ble times, an’ the things that’s happenin’ now mops ev’ry thing else offen the map,” he declared, as he refilled his cob pipe. “I see things in my paper ev’ry week that oughta be noted down in my history, but I’m pretty near eighty, an’ if I try to put ’em all in I’ll never git through. There’s too damn much goin’ on. They’r ditchin’ the river an’ hell’s to pay up above. They’r blastin’ in the woods with dinnymite, an’ some o’ them ol’ codgers that lives in them shacks up above English Lake’ll be blown to kingdom come if they don’t watch out an’ duck. They better wake up an’ come down stream. Say, d’ye see that damn cuss comin’ over the bridge? That’s Rat Hyatt, an’ I’m goin’ to jump ’im when ’e gits ’ere. He lost my dog I let ’im take. That feller’s no good, an’ ’e’s ripenin’ fer damnation.”

“Muskrat Hyatt” was a tall, raw-boned, keen-eyed ne’er-do-well sort of a fellow, who had hunted and trapped on the river for many years. He lived in an old house boat that had floated down stream during high water one spring, and got wedged in among some big trees in the woods, about half a mile above the bridge. He moved into it when the waters subsided and found it an agreeable abode.

“I hope the owner never shows up,” remarked Rat, after I knew him. “I don’t think I’d like him. If the water ever gits that high ag’in an’ floats me off, I’m willin’ to go most anywheres in the old ark so long’s she don’t take a notion to go down an’ roost on the bridge with me.”

He greeted us, with rather an embarrassed air, as he came up, and the old man spent considerable time in attempting to extract some definite information about “Spot.” Rat was evasive and unsatisfactory.

“They ain’t no more patheticker sight than to see some feller that sets an’ flaps ’is ears, an’ can’t answer nothin’ that’s asked ’im without tryin’ to chin about sump’n else all the time,” declared Bill. “I don’t care nothin’ about its bein’ hot. I want to know where in hell my dog is.”

“That dog o’ your’n’s all right,” said Hyatt. “I reckon ’e’s off some’rs chas’n rabbits, an’ you needn’t do no worryin’. If anybody’s stole ’im you bet I’ll git ’im an’ the scalp o’ the feller with ’im. If ’e aint ’ere tomorrer I’ll take a look around. A dog like that can’t be kep’ hid long, an’ somebody’ll ’ave seen ’im. He ain’t no fool, an’ if ’e’s shut up anywheres, you bet ’e’ll come back w’en ’e gits out.”

“Well, you see that ’e gits out,” replied the old man with asperity. “I’m done havin’ heart disease ev’ry time I don’t see that dog w’en I go by your place, an’ I want ’im back where ’e b’longs. I didn’t give ’im to you, an’ if you don’t know where ’e is you aint fit to have charge o’ no animal. This aint no small talk that I’m doin’. Its the summin’ up o’ the court.”

Spot was a well trained bird dog. Hyatt had borrowed him from the old man about two years before, and, as his facilities for taking care of him were much better than Bill was able to provide, the animal was allowed to remain at Hyatt’s house boat on indefinite leave. He slept under the rude bed and seemed much happier there than at home.

Hyatt was now in rather a delicate position. The dog had not been seen in the neighborhood for over a week. An old trapper had come down the river in a canoe and stopped for an hour or so at the house boat. He announced his intention of leaving the country forever, and was on his way to the Illinois where he hoped to find enough muskrats to occupy his remaining days. He wanted a good quail dog, and, after much jockeying, had acquired Spot in exchange for a repeating rifle and a box of cartridges. The dog was tied in the front end of the canoe and departed with his new owner. Hyatt had an abiding faith that Spot would return in a few days, and that the stranger would be too far away down stream to want to buffet the strong current to get him back.

The dog’s homing instinct had proved reliable heretofore, as he had been sold several times under similar conditions, and was now regarded as a possible source of steady income by his thrifty guardian.

Hyatt was careful not to sell the animal to anybody who was liable to be in that part of the country again. Spot had once gone as far as the Mississippi river with a confiding purchaser, and was away only a little over two weeks. He was now expected back at any time, in fact he was under the bed when Hyatt arrived home after the disagreeable reproaches of Bill Stiles, and the next day the incident was considered closed by both parties.

The only pet that Bill had cared anything for in recent years, besides his dog, was a one legged duck that he called “Esther.” The missing support had been acquired by a snapping turtle in the river, and Bill’s sympathies and affections had been aroused. During her owner’s absence from his shack, Esther and her brown brood were confined in the hollow base of a big tree, protected from the weasels and skunks by a wire screen over the opening.

By Saturday night Hyatt and Stiles had become quite chummy again. It was very hot and we sat in front of the store with our coats off. Bill was discoursing sapiently on topics of international import, when we saw somebody down the road.

“That ol’ mudturkle comin’ yonder with that pipe stuck in all them whiskers, is Bill Wirrick,” he announced after further observation. “We call ’im ‘Puckerbrush Bill,’ on account of ’is bein’ up in Puckerbrush Bayou one night in ’is push boat, an’ tryin’ to make a short cut to git back to the river. He got ’is whiskers tangled in the puckerbrush an’ had to cut away a lot of ’em with ’is knife to git out. He’s between some pretty big bunches of ’em now, but they aint nothin’ to what they was. He had pretty near half a bushel an’ ’e used to carry ’is money in ’em. I s’pose ’e’ll begin tellin’ about all ’is troubles w’en ’e gits ’ere. That’s what’s the matter with this place, an’ it makes me tired to hear all these fellers tellin’ their troubles w’en they oughta be listenin’ to mine. My troubles has got some importance, but theirs don’t interest nobody.

“Hello, Puck,” greeted the old man, as Wirrick came up, “how’s things down to the slough?”

“Pretty slow; got’ny tobacco?”

“Listen at ’im!” whispered Bill.

He was duly supplied, and took one of the hickory chairs under the awning. Notwithstanding their reported depletion, his whiskers were still impressive, and the warm evening breeze played softly and fondly among the ample remnants. His mouth was concealed somewhere in the maze. His pointed nose and watchful furtive eyes gave his face a peculiar foxy expression.

“Its a good thing you didn’t strike a prairie fire with them whiskers, instid of a mess o’ puckerbrush,” remarked Bill, after a period of silence.

“I’m goin’ to mow ’em in a few days to cool off, an’ then raise a new crop fer next winter. They’s lots more whar them come from,” replied Wirrick. “I’ll git some whiskers that’ll make you fellers set up an’ take notice ’fore the snow flies.”

The mention of fire in connection with his whiskers must have suggested something to Wirrick, for, when he appeared without them the following week, he said that he hated a razor, couldn’t find any shears, and had “frizzled ’em off with a candle.”

Bill was shocked at his appearance.

“You look like you was half naked. I see now w’y you been keepin’ that ol’ mug o’ your’n covered up. You’ve got a bum face. You git busy an’ git all the whiskers you can right away!”

The next arrival was Swan Peterson, an aged Swede, who lived in a dilapidated shack, festooned on the inside with rusty muskrat traps, near the mouth of “Crooked Creek.” His liver had rebelled against many years of unfair treatment, and his visage was of a greenish yellow. A prodigious white moustache, that suggested a chrysanthemum in full bloom, accentuated the evidence of his ailment. He was considerably over six feet tall. The years of hardship and isolation had bent his mighty shoulders and saddened his gray eyes. Peterson was cast in a heroic mould. His ancestors were the sea wolves who roved over perilous and unknown waters, and met violent deaths, in years when the Norse legends were in the making, but their wild forays and stormy lives meant nothing to him. He had no interest in the past or traditions to uphold. All he now wanted in the world was plenty of patent medicine and whiskey to mix with it, and in a pinch, he could get along without the medicine.

The jaundiced Viking came slowly up on to the platform, looked us over languidly, and commented on the general cussedness of the weather and life’s monotonies.

“I ban har fifty years, an’ I seen the same damn thing ev’ry year all over again. It ban cold in winter an’ hot in summer. I eat an’ sleep, an’ eat an’ sleep some more, an’ work hard all day, an’ then eat an’ sleep—ev’ry day the same damn thing. I ban takin’ medicine now five years, an’ I can’t git none that’s got any kick. Mebbe I got some o’ them things that Rass Wattles says Wahoo Bitters’ll cure, but mebbe I got something else that they didn’t know about when they mixed that stuff. I find mixin’ half Wahoo an’ half whiskey ban some help, but I’m goin’ to try some other bitters an’ mix in more whiskey. That whiskey ban a good thing, an’ when I get a good thing I put a sinker on it.”

Old “Doc” Dust drove up in a squeaky buggy with an ancient top. His lazy gray mare seemed glad to get her feet into the hollowed ground in front of the hitching rail.

Certain types in the medical profession are never called anything but “Doc,” except when more profane appellations are required. Dust was a befitting name for the old man, for he appeared to be much dried up. His parchment like skin was drawn tightly over his protruding cheek bones, and his emaciated figure seemed almost ready to blow away. A frayed Prince Albert coat was secured with one button at the waist, and a rusty plug hat was jammed down on the back of his head. These things were evidently intended to impart a professional air, but they completed a sad satire. The Doc looked like a hypocritical old scamp.

Much human character, or the lack of it, may be indicated by a hat, and the manner of wearing it, particularly if it is a “plug.” Worn in the ordinary conventional way, a “correct” plug is supposed to provide a roof for a certain kind of dignity, but usually it indicates nothing beyond a mere lack of artistic sensibility. Tipped forward, it suggests sulkiness, obstinacy, and self-complacency—a sort of sporty rowdyism, when worn on one side—and disregard of the rights and opinions of others, when it is tilted back of the ears.

Of course the condition and the year of coinage of the plug enter into the equation and complicate it, but even a very shabby plug is an entertaining story teller. To a careful and discriminating student of human folly, it is replete with subtleties.

A Fiji Island cannibal, whose only wearing apparel was a plug hat, was once made chief of his tribe on account of it. It was probably as becoming to him as it had been to the spiritual adviser he had eaten. Such dignity and distinction as it was capable of imparting was his. He had attained what is possibly the apotheosis of barbaric head dress of our age.

Doc carried two medicine cases under his buggy seat on his professional rounds. One of them was stocked with a dozen large bottles with Latin labels, and the other with small phials containing white pills the size of number six shot. If his patient preferred “Alopathy,” he or she got it with a vengeance. If “Homepathy” was wanted, the smaller receptacle was drawn upon. The “leaders” in the “Alopathy” box were castor oil—calomel, and quinine. Aconite and Belladona–100, and Magnesium Phos–10 occupied the places of honor in the other.

Dust had weathered several matrimonial storms, and his last wife was now under the wild flowers in the country cemetery, where the epitaph on the unpretentious stone—erected by her own relatives—was more congratulatory than sorrowful.

“Doc” Hopkins, or “Hoppy Doc” as he was irreverently dubbed along the river, was Dust’s only rival. The competition was bitter, and many untimely ends were ascribed by each of them to the other’s criminal ignorance. Hoppy Doc often told, with great relish, a story of Cornelia Kibbins, Dust’s first wife, alleging that after a year of tempestuous married life, she had fled to her father’s home late one winter night for refuge. Her irate parent refused her an asylum. He had felt greatly outraged when the wedding took place and never wanted to see his daughter again. In answer to the plaintive midnight cry at his door, he leaned out of a second story window and delivered a torrent of invective. As he closed the window he shouted, “Dust thou art, and unto Dust shalt thou return!”

The suppliant disappeared, and evidently the worm turned, for Dust was a physical wreck for a month afterwards. Old man Kibbins subsequently declared that while his daughter “was a damn fool, she had fight’n blood in ’er, an’ the Doc ’ad better look out fer squalls.”

Dust was guyed good-naturedly by the occupants of the platform, as he went into the store to get some fine cut.

“What’s that you’ve got out there between them buggy thills, Doc?” queried Hyatt.

Bill winked at me and asked him if he had driven by his garden lately—a delicate reference to the cemetery, intended to be sarcastic.

Another stove pipe hat was brought by “Pop” Wilkins, an octogenarian. He also wore it jammed well down behind his ears. The old man climbed painfully up the steps with his hickory cane, and dropped into a chair that Hyatt brought out of the store for him. He placed the ancient tile under it, mopped his bald head with a large red bandanna, and looked wistfully beyond the river.

Pop had been afflicted with intermittent ague for several years. He was once a preacher and a temperance advocate. He was placed on the superannuated list by the Methodist conference, and had finally been expunged as a backslider. He fell from grace and yielded to the lure of strong waters. Once, after he had over indulged for several weeks, he went and sat in sad reflection on the bank of the gloomy river at night. Out of its depths came strange six footed beasts and multicolored crawling things that terrified Pop and drove remorse into his soul. Since that eventful night he had been more moderate, but he was still in danger, and it was a question as to whether old age, ague, or J. Barleycorn would get him first.

My friend “Kun’l” Peets, who was a comparatively recent importation into the river country, came over the bridge with a basket on his arm containing a couple of setter pups that he wanted Posey to see, with a view of possibly having them applied on his account at the store. He was an ex-confederate from Tennessee, and seemed sadly out of harmony with his surroundings. The pups were liberated on the platform and subjected to much poking about and criticism by the experts. The Colonel considered them “fine specimens of a noble strain,” but Wirrick thought “they looked like they had some wolf blood in ’em.” Posey agreed to accept the little animals in lieu of eight dollars owed by the Colonel, with the understanding that they were to be kept for him until they were a month older. Everybody understood his kindly consideration for the old man, and knew that he had no earthly use for the pups.

The assemblage in front of the store became more varied and interesting with the arrival of other visitors. The chairs were exhausted and the platform edge was entirely occupied. Bill Stiles had just commenced the narration of a horse trade story, when an old man appeared in the twilight on the bridge. He wore a long gray overcoat, although the evening was very warm. The story stopped and interest was centered on the slowly approaching figure.

I asked Posey who he was. He bent his head toward me confidentially, and, in something between a low whistle and a whisper, replied: “S-s-s-s-t——‘the Serpent’s Hiss’!!!”

We were in prohibition territory, and the old “bootlegger” was bringing twelve flat pint bottles in twelve inside pockets of the gray overcoat to break the drought at Posey’s store.

He was an unbonded warehouse, and the reason for the mysterious gathering on that particular evening was now apparent.

He came slowly up the steps, and seemed embarrassed to find a stranger present. I was introduced and vouched for by my friend Posey, and he seemed much relieved.

Conversation had been rather dull during the last half hour, but now it had a merry note. The jaundiced Viking brightened up and wondered how many bird’s nests had been constructed with the whiskers that Wirrick had left up in the bayou. Time worn jokes were laughed at more than usual. Some new insurance that Posey had acquired was regarded as indicating a big fire as soon as business got dull, and Doc Dust was told that he ought to keep the small bag of oats under his buggy seat away from the medicine cases or he would lose his horse.

“Well, time is flitt’n,” remarked the “Serpent’s Hiss,” as he rose and departed for the barn lot behind the store.

One by one, like turtles slipping off a log into a stream, those who sat along the edge of the platform dropped silently to the ground and followed him, and most of the occupants of the chairs joined the procession. Like the oriflamme of Henry of Navarre, the gray overcoat led them on through the dusk.

The retreat to the rear was in deference to Posey’s scruples. He preferred that the store itself should be kept free from illegitimate traffic.

The odor of substantial sin, and a faint suggestion of a dragon’s breath was in the atmosphere when the crowd returned. Deliverance had come. Aridity was succeeded by bountiful moisture, that like gentle rain, had fallen upon thirsty flowers.

The Colonel seemed in some way to be dissatisfied with his visit to the barn, and was at odds with the owner of the gray overcoat when the expedition returned. He had parted with a silver coin under protest.

“Inate cou’tesy, suh, compelled me to pa’take of you’ah abundance, suh,” he declared. “It was not that I wanted you’ah infe’nal mixcha, you mink eyed old grave robbah,” he declared, as he left with his puppies.

The old bootlegger’s name was Richard Shakes, but the obvious natural perversion to “Dick Snakes” was too tempting to be resisted by the river humorists. He was also frequently alluded to as “Tiger Cat,” a term that seemed much more appropriate to the liquids he dispensed than to him, for, outside of his questionable occupation, the old man was entirely inoffensive and harmless. He was another member of the old time trapping fraternity, and lived alone in a log house on the creek about two miles away.

He had a large collection of Indian relics, that he had spent many years in accumulating, and he took great delight in showing them to anybody who came to see him. The arrow and spear heads were methodically arranged in long rows on thin smooth boards, and held in place by the heads of tacks that overlapped their edges. The boards were nailed to the walls of faced logs all over the interior of the cabin.

Nearly everybody in the surrounding country had contributed to the collection at one time or another, and it was being added to constantly.

There were many fine specimens of tomahawk heads, stone axes, and other implements, that had been fashioned with admirable skill. The old man guarded his hoarded treasures with a miser’s solicitude, for they were the solace of his lonely life. He had refused large offers for the collection as a whole, and never could be induced to part with single specimens, except under pressure of immediate necessity.

There are few mental comforts comparable with those of absorbing hobbies. They temper the raw winds and asperities of existence to a wonderful degree, and offer a welcome balm of heart interest to lives weary of continued conflict for mythical goals. We may smile at them in others, but we realize their deep significance when they are our own.

Poor old Shakes was but another example of one made happy by a harmless fad, the joys of which might well be coveted by those whose millions have brought only fear and sorrow. After it is all over the pursuit of one phantom has been as gratifying as the quest of another, for they both end in darkness.

After sitting around for awhile, and listening to the enlivened conversation, and the gossip of the neighborhood, that now circulated freely, the old man bought a package of tobacco in the store, for which he said he had “been stung ten cents,” and left us, with the overcoat, from which the cargo had been discharged, hung lightly over his arm.

The assemblage gradually dispersed. Wirrick, Hyatt, and the jaundiced Viking went down to the river bank and departed in their “push boats.” Doc Dust invited Pop Wilkins to ride with him, and they betook themselves into the shadows. Tipton Posey relighted his pipe and Bill Stiles resumed the story of the horse trade.