Democratic Sentinel, Volume 14, Number 5, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 February 1890 — THEY TOOK HIM IN. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THEY TOOK HIM IN.

O be overtaken by night in the lone- * iJtr - P ar * East •jaßawL _ Tennessee is to the jjlWl ML'n, '; traveler a condition * ,e lamented, wites OpieP.Read, SKEM fSKLa.-j 11 the Chicago Time*. The road i* rough and the deep valleys have gathered a darkness

so dense that they seem the very bottomless pits of blackness. A ray of yellowish light, trembling its way through the gloom, comes down from a hill where dogs are barking. The traveler is gladdened and, riding up to a log cabin, shouts: “Halloa!” Some one opens the ddtor. “I would like to stay over night with you. lam cold, hungry, and tired, and don’t believe I can go another step.” “Wall, we kain’t no pusson, caze we an’t got no placa^br. a pusson ter sleep; but es you’ll right down

yan ter Jim Mason’s he’ll keep you in the finest sorter shape. Lives right down thar at the foot of the hill. ” The traveler turns away disappointed, of course, but he has placed a wreath of faith- upon Jim Mason who lives “right down thar,” and onward he goes through the darkness. His horse stumbles, and sometimes he has to stop and feel his way. Mile after mile is passed, it seems, but • no beam of light comes trembling oitt to meet him. He curses the man lied to him, and in his anger he thinks of finding bis way back and choking the scoundrel, when suddenly a light down the valley warms his heart. He rides up to a cabin. “Halloa!” Door is opened; man pokes his head out. “Jim Mason live here?” “What do you want with him?” “I want to stay all night.” “Oh, ’lowed mebhe yer wanted ter snatch him up befo’ the Gran’ Jury. Yes, I live here.” “Well, I was told away back yonder, I don’t know how far, that you-would accommodate me for the night.” “Bed-headed feller was it that, told you ?” he asked, still standing with his head poked out. “I don’t know; it was too dark to see.” “Wall, if it was a red-headed feller it was my son-in-law, an’ I reckon he’s the biggest liar in East Tennessy.” “I don’t know who it w as, but the question is, can I stay?” * “Question’s mighty easy answered. You kain’t.” “But, my dear sir, I can not go any further.” “Bleeged to you for callin’ me a dear sar, but I reckon you’ll hafter go furder.. Sam Mhyhew lives right down thar, an’ I think he’d be glad to take you. Jest tell Sam that you air from Texas an’ know his folks that went out thar three years ago. Tell him you knowd Alf, and Tobe, and the rest of ’ein. My brother Pete went out thar with them. Community lost a good man when Pete left, I tell you. Tall, rawboned feller that could lift one side of a steer.” I was the traveler, and I saw my chance. No casuistry could stand up against such inducements to tell a lie —yea, so great a necessity of it. I would deceive him. “My dear sir. I am from Texas, sure

enough, and 1 do know his people, though, of course, not intimately.” “Know Alf ?” “Yes.” “An’Tobe?” “Ido.” “Look here, you moat know my

brother Pete, that lives out there in Calhoon County.” “I am acquainted with him. Out there he is known as Long Pete.” “Wall, I declar, stranger, you air gettin’ interestin’.” • “Shall I get down and come in?” “Yes, but wait a minit. Now you air a truthful man, air you ?” “I have always been regarded as such.”

“Ah, bah, an’ I don’t like ter doubt you, but thar’s just one thing, an’ only one, that looks a little suspicious.” “Tell me what it is, and I will endeavoy to explain.” “Wush you would explain. You see, I an’t got no brother Pete an’ never did have none. I’m Pete myse’f. Knowd you was a rascal soon as I heard you speak. Good-night.” He shut the door and I turned away. My horse stumbled, so rough was the way, and at one time fell to his knees. It must have been twelve o’clock when I saw another light. W T hen I yelled a man opened the door. “Who’s that?” Another lie might be successful. I would take a desperate chance. “I am a preacher,” I answered, “cold, hungry, tired, and lost in this awful night of darkness. Can you take me in ?” “What sort of a preacher?” “Methodist.” “Wall, I reckon he ken,” a woman’s voice answered. “Jest get right down an’ come in, an’ Dick, ■ you take the brother’s hoss. Bless my life; the idea of a preacher bein’ lost sich a night as this. Walk right in, brother.” They had been to bed, but a great log-fire burned in the immense fireplace. The man took my horse and the woman busied herself with putting her house in order, and, during the time, deplored the hardships to which I had been subjected. The man, a comical old fellow with dead-grass whiskers, soon returned and shook hands with me time and again. “Mighty glad ter see you, brother. Han’t been a preacher at my house fur a powerful long time. Powerful glad ter see you. Stranger come along in the arl.y part of the night an’ wanted to stay with us, an’ although we’ve got a first-rate bed up-stairs I sent him on down ter Sam Mason’s, ’cause I ’lowed suthip’ mout happen. Powerful glad ter see you.” He leaned over, and, placing his hand on my knee, gazed affectionately into my face. “Dick,” exclaimed his wife, “don’t eat the brother up, fur mussy sake.” “No, Puss,” he rejoined, “I love you too well ter deprive you of that air pleasure.; Brother, what is yo’ name ?” “Sanderson,” I answered. “Wall, I am powerful glad to see you. Puss, slip out thar an’ snatch the feathers offen the Dorrtinecker hen and cook her fur Brother Sanderson. Wake up Sim an’ tell him thar’s er preacher in the house. Wush you could a met my daughter Polly, but she married Nat Buckley last week. As good a worker at the mourner’s bench as you ever seed. DraAved the Pettygast boys

in when nobody else could teach ’em. I’m powerful glad ter see you. What sort of a hoss air you ridin’?” “A pretty fair animal.” “Wall, I reckon we ken strike up a trade termorrow before church time.” “Before church time ?” ' “Yis; the meetin’house is right down thar in the holler; so you didn't miss it so mighty fur atter all. Don’t pay no ’tention to that noise. It’s only the Dondinecker hen a squawlin’. Better squawl, too, fur when that wife of mine spreads the palms of her hands out on a hen, why the hen’s life ends pretty soon afterwards, if not right thar. Mighty good thing they sent you, fur our regular preacher is sick an’ kain’t

fill the pulpit, an’ the folks don’t know it, but I reckon yon hearn of it an’ come to take his place. Wall, I’ll git up arly an’ build a fire in the meetin’ house, an’ my boy ken ride all aroun’ an’ tell the folks that have hearn of Brother Bice’s sickness that Brother Sanderson will preach. Powerful glad to see you. Why, brother, I hope you an’t sick, air you ?” I must have looked bad at that moment ; indeed my hair must have begfcn to rise on the top of my head. Preach I couldn’t have said six words. Would it do to undeceive the old fellow ? No. He was comical in some respects, but his eyes said “ Don’t yon fool with me.” The woman entered: “Fur pity sake, Dick, air you still trying t*er eat the brother up ? A pusson would think that you never hurt nobody in your life, vou air so lovin’, but Sam Bettis wouldn’t think so.” • “Wall, he told me a lie, Puss, an’ I won’t stand that frum nobody. I don’t mind a man cheatin’ me outen a dime once in a while, but it won’t do fur a pusson ter lie ter me about nothin’ a tall.” “Come on, brother, an’ eat a bite,” said the woman. I had been exceedingly hungry, but my appetite was gone. ‘ The life of the Dominecker hen might have been spared. “I expect a powerful sermon from you termorrer, brother,” my affectionate host remarked. “We an’t had our feelin’s stirred up in some time an’ we want ’em stirred. Jest want you ter pile doctrine up on that pulpit till you’d think it was a fodder-stack. That’s the only way to please our folks.”

We returned to the sitting-room. Something had to be done. “Now, brother.” said the host, “jest step right up thar and go to bed, fur you’ll need a little sleep. ’ “Thank you, but let me go out and see about my horse.” “Oh, no; I’ve fixed him all right. “But I’d rather look after him again.” “Wall, I’ll go out and see to him. You jist must sleep, fur we want a powerful sermon termorrer. Take off yo’ shoes right dotvn here by the fire.” “No, I’ll take them off up-stairs.” The room* above Avas reached by means of a ladder. I bade them goodnight and climbed uu. My intention was to escape before daylight. I could not help but groan Avhen I glanced about the room. * There Avas no window and I could nqt escape through the room below. “I must make a hole through the roof,” I mused. Would they never stop talking? At last they were quiet. The clapboards must have been held doAvn with spikes. It was awful work, but at last I succeeded in making an opening large enough. To get out on the roof was an easy matter, but how was I to get down ? I crawled to one corner and in trying to climb down slipped and fell off. I fell on a dog. It must have killed him, for nothing far removed from the grave could have sounded such a note of despair. The old man did not aAvake. I roamed round and round trying to find the stable. Found it at last. Went into the Avrong stall and was kicked by a colt. I mounted and rode away. My horse was so tired, notAvitlistanding his food and rest, that he traveled Avith difficulty ; but I urged him on. Daylight came and then 1 cursed myself. I had left my horse, a magnificent animal, and had taken an old stiff-jointed, knock-kneed thing that Avould not have brought $lO on the public square of a village. Should I go back ? Oh, no. I rode or stumbled on until the old plug gave out, and then I Avalked and carried my saddle.

HE AGREED TO TAKE HIM IN.

“I WANT MY FEELINS’ TECHED.”

THE ESCAPE.