The Beaufort tribune and Port Royal commercial. [volume] (Beaufort, S.C.) 1877-1879, 1877-09-20

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out on the inquest that his real name
was Smith-that wouldn't make no mat
ter, as long as got the man."
The illustration, forcible as it was, did
not strike me as Offering a prepossess-
ing introduction, but we were already
at the rancho. The barking of dogs
brought Sylvester to the door of the
pretty little cottage which his taste had
adorned.
I briefly introduced Mr.. Kearney.
"Kearney will do-Kearney's good
enough for me-" commented the SOL
disant Kearney half aloud, to my own
horror and Sylvester's evident mystifca-
ton, and then he blandly excused him.
self for q moment that he might person
ally supervise the care of his own beast
| When he was out of ear shot, I drew the
puzzled Sylvester aside.
"I have picked up-I mean I have
been picked up on the road by gentle
maniac, whose name is not Kearney. He
is well armed and quotes Dickens. With
care, acquiescence in his views on all
subjects, and general submission to his
commands, he may be placated.
Doubtless the spectacle of your helpless
family, the contemplation of your
daughters beauty and innocence, may
touch his fine sense of humor and pathos.
Meanwhile, Heaven help .-0u, and for
give me"
ran up stairs to the little den that
my hospitable host had kept always re-
served for me in my wanderings. 1
fingered some time over my ablutions,
hearing the languid, gentlemanly drawl
of Sylvester below mingled with the
equally cool, easy slang of my mysteri-
GUS acquaintance. When 1 came down
to the sitting-room was surprised, how
ever, to find the self-styled Kearney
quietly seated on the sofa, the gentle
May Sylvester, the "Lily Of the Lone
Valley" sitting with maidenly awe and
unaffected interest on one side of him,
while on the other that arrant firt, her
cousin Kate, was practising the pitiless
archery of her eyes, with an excitement
that seemed almost real.
"Who is your deliciously cool friend?"
she managed to whisper to me at supper
as sat utterly dazed and bewildere,l
between the enrapt May Sylvester, who
seemed to hang upon his words, and this
giddy girl of the period, who was empty
ing the battery of her charms in active
rivalry upon him. "Of course we know
his name isn't Kearney. But how
romantic And isn't he perfectly lovely?
And who is he ?"
Ireplied with severe irony that was
not aware what foreign potentate was
then travelling incognito in the Sierras
of California, but that when his royal
highness was pleased to inform me, I
should be glad to introduce him proper
ly. "Until then," I added, 81 fear
the acquaintance must be Morganatic. "
"You're only jealous of him, she said
pertly. "Look at May she is COM
pletely fascinated. And her father too.
And actually, the languid, world-sick,
cynical Sylvester was regarding him
with boyish interest and enthusiasm
almost incompatible with his nature.
Yet I submit honestly to the clear-head-
ed reason of my own sex, that l could
see nothing more in the man than have
already delivered to the reader.
In the middle of an exciting story of
adventure, of which he, to the already
prejudiced mind of his fair auditors,
was evidently the hero, he stopped sud
denly.
"it's only some pack-train passing the
bridge on the lower track" explained
Sylvester, $50 on"
"It may be my horse is trife uneasy
in the stable" said the alleged Kearney;
"he amt used to boards and covering"
Heaven only knows what wild and de-
hcious revelation lay in the statement of
the fact, but the girls looked at each
other with cheeks pink with excitement
as Kearney arose, and with quite alb
sence of ceremony, quilted the table.
"Ain't he just lovely !" said Kate,
gasping for breath, "and so witty"
sWitty p said gentle May, with just
the slightest trace of defiance in her
voice. Witty, my dear? why don't
you see that his heart is Just breaking
with pathos? Witty, indeed; why, when
he was speaking of that poor Mexican
woman that was hung, 1 saw tears
gathering in his eyes. Witty, indeed !"
"Tears," laughed the cynical Sylves-
ter, "tears, idle tears. Why, you silly
children, the man is man of the world
"a philosopher, quite, observant, unas-
suming."
Unassuming !" Was Sylvester in
toxicated, or had the mysterious strang-
er mixed the "insane verb" with the
family pottage? He returned before I
could answer this self-asked inquiry,
and resumed coolly his broken narrative.
Finding myself forgotten in the man I
had so long hesitated to introduce to
my friends, retired to rest early, only
to hear, through the thin partitions, two
hours later, enthusiastic praises of the
new guest from the voluble lips Of the
girls, as they chatted together in the
next room before retiring.
At midnight I was startled by the
sound of horses hoofs and the jingling
of spurs below. A conversation be-
tween my host and some mysterious
parsonage in the darkness was carried
on in such low tone that I could not
learn its import. As the cavalcade rode
away, I raised the window.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," said Sylvester, coolly,"
"only another one of those playful
homicidal freaks peculiar to the country.
A man was shot by Cherokee Jack over
at Lagrange this morning, and that was
the sheriff of Calaveras and his posse
hunting him. ] told him I'd seen no.
body but you and your friend. By the
way, I hope the cursed noise hasn't dis
turbed him. The poor fell0T looked as