San Marcos free press. [volume] (San Marcos, Tex.) 1877-1892, 1878-10-05
1--WE don't want to lose you now after

1--WE don't want to lose you now after
all our trouble in getting you round,
Why, DIR. Chopin is telling about your
case all over the city. That Is the rea-
son you have had so many medical call
ers." look at the young doctor stolid
ly while my brain is slowly evolving
ideas which are only expressed in words
like these: go unparalleled egotist, to
harbor for one moment the idea that
these groups OF keen-eyed men were
philanthropists whose hearts were
touched by your frightful suiErings and
unhappy fate. Bah!
WHAT A FOOL you ARE!
The mother who imagines the doctor
loves her sick child has the excuse OF
maternal interest and feminine weakness
for her ridiculous egotism. But 1on,
poor, dilapidated yellow-visaged wreck,
without home, family, or relatives in
this plague-stricken city"
L unused thus with closed eyes. When
opened them the doctor had depart
ed, and Mrs. Delaney, with her ante.
diluvian straw hat lying where she had
placed it on my trunk, was busy measur-
ing out another of those horrible modi-
Gums of execrable physic which are con-
sidered the correct thing for my present
situation.
"Mrs. Delaney!"
"Glory be to God! but yer voice is
as loud as a built" she cried, getting
over little start.
81 want to write" ...
"Yeez can't do it," .-..
81 want some one to write for me-"
&c eez can't do that, ayther."
"But the doctor has allowed me to
dictate, and you wouldn't be So"
"What dostherp-the young wanP"
Eyes" 1900. ~ sN..'.
81 don't care a schnap what he says.
All! well, yeez needn't cry, now. Sure,
an 1 name it for the Dist. Yeez must
kape quiet. No, don't be so spoonkey,
an let me fix yer pilley. III bring
Johnny, and yeez can tell him what to
write. Bad luck to him! it was his fault
ye're down as We are now" T
81 .... MY AMANUENSIs q, s.
johnny comes according to promise.
He has all the physical and mental char
acteristics of the IHshman's American
son born and bred in large city.
Johnny is sharp, fairly educated, but a
confirmed hoodlum. He is 10 years of
age, freckle-faced, strongly built, and
rather good-looking youth. Withall his
hardened disregard OF the conventional
tiles, 1 can easily see that he respects
me because am newspaper-man. He
is an ardent lover of the horrible and
the exciting. He comprehends that the
midnight murder, the awful accident,
the tragic suicide, the criminal trial, the
big sporting events of the day, from a
prize-fight or a regatta down to a game
of baseball, are all witnessed by news.
paper-men, and he looks up to me as
an authoritative source of golden in
formation.
VIII he write as I dictate? Of course
he will. Is he not afraid of catching
the fever? No; he has been there. All
right. ....
1t is six weeks, or rather more, since
1 lounged into the billiard-room of the
St. Charles Hotel, and looked at the
flying ivory spheres as they were being
manipulated by two local crack players.
There is yellow fever in the city, though
the newspapers say nothing on the sub
ject. One of the players, as he chalks
his cue, makes a testing allusion on the
arrival of -.
CHROME JOHN"
have been feeling an inexplicable SEN
sation growing over me, enveloping my
limbs, covering my back, and swathing
my chest with garment of shuddering
uneasiness. l didn't like the players
remark. inwardly wished that his OPP
ponent might beat him that game, and l
strobe to one of the seats against the
wall. l was about turning round to sit
down, when something like cricket
bat struck me on the back, and felt
terrible decrease in vitality. Why do l
say a cricket-bat? Because it felt as
though light piece of wood, fashioned
like the hattiss rounded blade of
cricket-bat, had struck me squarely, but
not very hard, across the back, several
inches below the shoulder blades. l
sink into the chair. A dull, but over
mastering pain shoots through my head;
my limbs tremble. stare with peril
nacity at the game, however. My favor
tie player has an apparently impossible
shot. He looks at the situation of the
balls, and whistles deprecatingly as he
chalks his cue. With swift motion, as
if he had made up his mind for a coup
dimcile, he shoots his ball against the
Object sphere. His ivory globe spins
swiftly round the table, making one,
two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight
cushions, twice round the table, and
caroms. The spectators hum applause;
an enthusiastic, swarthy faced Creole
pounds his stick on the floor My head
becomes oppressed with load of pain,
and cold chills shoot up my back.