Courier Democrat. (Langdon, N.D.) 1891-1920, 1907-12-05

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"Gipe nc that letter." he said stc1niu.
don't you think? We all of us had
friends once-in another world as it
seems to me-but if any of us like to
remember we had them surely it's that
mans business and not ours. He's a
better MAI than most of us, and his
letters the last thing that we should
meddle with. We wouldn't have done
1t once, and we won't now" His tenn
perate tone surprised himself, but it
merely showed how every sensibility
had lost it's edge. Two months ago he
would have argued such a point with
his ready hands.
Meanwhile the reader had decided
not to fight, being an insufficient num-
Der of inches bigger and broader than
Tom and having still in his ears the
thud with which the scourger fell.
But neither was he going to give In
like a man, because men were scarce
in those heavy irons. Accordingly he
retained the letter a little longer be-
fore handing it to Tom, with a mock
ing bow.
1--WE won't, won't we?" he sneered.
"Well. as it 'appens, we won't, for
more of that rot l couldn't read If I
was paid. But you look out, my spe-
cial! If you've come ere to give your
GOLF oipc 1,o,l COON 1oorr W. ItSc l,1rly,
for you I'm in such a good temper or
you'd have gone off this table a bit diff
ferent. you blighted young ~upstart!"
Tom had in fact taken his chains in
his hands and jumped off. 1t was
when he was on the ground. with his
hurled. Others sided with the speaker
and added their maledictions to his,
yet the group about Butter (for SO the
poor lad vas called dispersed at Toms
approach, and he returned the letter to
its writer with a look that might have
made his guardian angel dry her tears,
for after many days there was kind
ness in his eyes once more.
Here, Butter" he said; "take it, and
for Gods sake not a word! YOU'RE a
better nan than l am or you wouldn't
have written at all. There, shut up!
Gratitude, forsooth! If you must show
some, don't set me thinking"
But the lads emotions were aroused
too thoroughly to be soon allayed.
They had the corner now to them
selves. and he was crying like a girl.
Tom envied him his tears.
"Read it through" sobbed the young
fellow, forcing the torn letter upon his
champion, and to please him Tom pc
rused it from beginning to end.
Awhile ago 1t would have made him
laugh and cry; now he read it unmoyed
save by his own Indifference. 1t con-
tanned a touching lie. describing the
writer as being still very happy with
the master who months since had sent
him to the iron gang. The rest was a
wondrous jumble-"and | inform you
that snaiks is very bad in this country.
We ofttimes see them fourteen to fit
teen feet long. Parrots is as thick as
crows in your country, kangaroos, too,
and it is night here when it is day
there, but Arthur Smith, / do not know
where he is. Mutton is i'd. lb., beef
But he had written no farther, and
Tom said: "Thank you, Butter. 1t
should make them happy" as he re-
turned the letter. He felt that he
ought to be touched, and he was not.
His heart seemed turned to stone when
suddenly he felt it quicken.
The lad had simply said, my name
isn't Butter; it's Butterfeld."
"a Yorkshireman? You talk like
one!y cried Tom. with a most painful
flash Of memory. Once more he was
a lucky, hopeful, penitent sinner in a
sweet smelling wagon on a night in
spring, with Blaydes' watch ticking no
warning in his pocket and with a vivid
mental picture Of Blaydes himself smil-
ing wistfully across the sti1e, beside
which he was even then lying dead.
"Aye." said young Butteriefd. "poor
old Yarkshire! 1 doubt I'll ever see it
again. My folks have left there an
ALL"
Tom had more flashes. He was get
ting used to them now.
"Where did they move to-"
"a little place they call Hendon,
an it was me that drove 'em there by
getting into trouble! Oh, it was me
%disgraced them all and drove them
away!!'
Tom let him talk, but said little more
in return. 1t was Jonathan Butter
fields son. How it brought all that
back to him! True, it was not a year
ago, but it seemed a lifetime. 1t, was
terrible to think of the little time and
the s%tupendous change. Tom Erickson
saw himself as he had been and as he
was, and the mental vision hurt him
more than the material one which the
stockade barber had shown him in a