"Lord, no! What on
earth made you think that?"
I told him. It was my second success with this narrative; however, there
was a difference: my former auditor listened with flushed and breathless
excitement, whereas the present one laughed consumedly throughout.
Especially he laughed with a great laughter at the picture of Beasley's
coming down at four in the morning to open the door for nothing on sea
or land or in the waters under the earth. I gave account, also, of the
miraculous jumping contest (though I did not mention Miss Apperthwaite's
having been with me), and of the elfin voice I had just now overheard
demanding "Bill Hammersley."
"So I expect you must have decided," he chuckled, when I concluded,
"that David Beasley has gone just plain, plum insane."
"Not a bit of it. Nobody could look at him and not know better than
that."
"You're right THERE!" said Dowden, heartily. "And now I'll tell you all
there is TO it. You see, Dave grew up with a cousin of his named
Hamilton Swift; they were boys together; went to the same school, and
then to college. I don't believe there was ever a high word spoken
between them. Nobody in this life ever got a quarrel out of Dave
Beasley, and Hamilton Swift was a mighty good sort of a fellow, too. He
went East to live, after they got out of college, yet they always
managed to get together once a year, generally about Christmas-time; you
couldn't pass them on the street without hearing their laughter ringing
out louder than the sleigh-bells, maybe over some old joke between them,
or some fool thing they did, perhaps, when they were boys.
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