Jasper County Democrat, Volume 8, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 September 1905 — What the Worm Turned [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

What the Worm Turned

By Honore Willsie

Bob lay on his cot and looked out the door of the adobe hut toward the cook’s shack, from the chimney of which came a wisp of smoke. “Five o’clock,” he thought. “Don’t have to get up for an hour yet It’s going to be a roaster today.” And he threw off the blanket which the cold of the Mexican night demanded, then lay with bared chest and bands locked behind his head. Through the door his gaze could travel for miles across the desert, and with #-es that saw but did not heed he stared far out where plain and sky met. “Gads! What wouldn’t I give to see the little old town?” he said aloud. “The willows on the river are Just smoky fuzz about now. The maple leaves are Just little reddish scraps, and the hypaticas are out, and the wild flowers are thick in Holman’s woods. The air is just like—oh, look at those cactus plants! I bonder what grudge nature had against the earth when she made them. And the sky by noon will be nothing but an inverted redhot kettle, with us spluttering and frying down beneath it. Homesick! I tell you, I’m crazy with it! I’m”— "Say, Bob, dry up your muttering and murmuring, will you, and give a man a chance to sleep!” And a sleep flushed face turned toward him from the cot across the room. “Too late to sleep now, anyhow, Wallace,” answered Bob. “Wake up and talk to a fellow, can’t you?” Wallace heaved a great sigh, tossed off his blanket and, like his friend, lay with bare chest and arms behind his head. “Say, Wallace, let’s pass this up and go back to God’s country. These deserts are just wearing the heart out of me. Let’s go back, finish up that last year In college and settle down and act white again. Uncle John was right. We never were cut out for mining experts. Gads! Six months of this has been enough for me. The sun and the half breeds and, by Jove, most of all the blamed bugs have got on my nerves. I may be as bad as a girl, but I admit that I -would like to go back where I could sleep without wondering if a centlped or half a dozen of those long legged spiders were going to snuggle up to me before morning. Let's go home, Wally.’’ Wallace’s gray eyes stared steadily out the door. “Bob,” he said slowly, “you don’t know anything about homesickness compared with what I could tell you. But I tell you right here,

once for all, I'm not going home until Alice sends for me. You can do as you please.” Bob turned his pillow over, looked at his watch and then said: “Well, I’ve told you before that I thought you and Alice were a couple of chumps to let a misunderstanding about a waltz break your engagement, and I’ve told Alice bo, I don't care if she Is my sister. But It's your affair. And you know that homesickness or no homesickness, I’ll stick by the mine as long as you do.” “But,” Wallace continued, exactly as If Bob bad not spoken, “this Is a God forsaken country. When you get out on the desert, with nothing but lonesomeness all around you, I tell you—say, Bob, do you remember that willow tree down, by Acker’s? I’ll bet there will be forty kids down there before school this morning getting whistle sticks. The bark Is just right now. And, say. I’ll bet, too, that every kid of them has a russet apple In his pocket to eat at recess. Nothing but russets left now!” “Um,” said Bob, Tve forgotten what an npple looks like. And about now we’d be teasing to wear a straw hat to school—a cap gets so hot about noon—and every time one of the kids runs Into another they rattle like gravel against a window pane.” “Marbles!” said Wallace. “Do you remember the time that Mlbsy Jones swallowed a ’stoney’ and the teacher licked him so hard for ‘communicating’ with you that Mlbsy actually coughed It up? Gee! I haven’t thought of that for years. And the grass In the pasture Is getting velvety, and the little fellows are wondering how many weeks It will be before It will pay to

cot school and go swimming. Say, Bob, do you remember”— “Shut up, will you?” growled Bob. “Haven’t I enough to remember without adding to the list? Say something pleasant now before we have to get up.” A silence followed. After a few seconds, without knowing why, Bob turned and looked at bis friend. Then, with a gasp of horror, he lay still and stared. Wallace was lying with every muscle of his body rigid. His hands clutched either side of his cot, and beads of sweat stood on his forehead, while with half raised head he stared down at his chest. There, its ugly brown body outlined against the flesh, was a centlped slowly moving abont on the white expanse, now forward, now back, now stopping, as If to wonder at the throbbing which vaguely disturbed it. Neither man stirred or uttered a sound. The natives had told them that when frightened the centiped digs In Its claws for support and that thus the victim Is poisoned. There was no sound save the heavy breathing of Bob and tlie song with which the cook announced to the world: "The flower, the flower, The pretty pepper flower Lived and loved in the sun!” The centiped had stopped in the middle of Wallace’s chest. Bob saw a sudden quiver run through Wallace's white Ups, and then slowly the tremor was communicated to bis entire body. “What can I do? Oh, what can I do?" he thought. Then very deliberately the centiped began to move. Carefully, as if each of Its myriad legs must be exactly planted, it traveled, Inch by inch, across Wallace’s body and then, like lightning, dropped to the floor. Simultaneously Bob was upon It with a heavy boot, and its ugly length of loathsomeness was gathered to Its fathers. Then, without a word. Bob handed Wallace a dipper of water, which the man took with trembling hand and chattering teeth. Breathing hard, he lay white and limp for a few moments. Then he rose, pulled on his clothes and, deliberately walking over to the wall, began to take down the garments hanging there'and to throw them into a suit case. “That will be about all for me,” he Baid. “I made up my mind that if that thing ever got off me I was going home, where bugs are less affectionate. You can do as you please. I am going home to Alice.” And he Jammed a riding boot in on top of a heap of writing paper. Bob watched him with a half grin. “Me, too, Pete,” he said. He walked to tlie door and called to Pedro to harness the bronchos. ' “A centiped is a bold, bad bug,” he continued, “but it wouldn't surprise me if Alice acquired a weakness for It.” Then he, too, began to pack a suitcase.

THE CENTIPKD HAD STOPPED IN THE MIDDLE OF WALLACE’S CHEST.