“Anything new ben happenin’ to you uns, Trampy?” asked the Chronic Loafer. “We ain’t seen ye ’bout these parts sence corn-plantin’ a year.”

“Nothin’ unusu’l,” replied the Tramp, laying on the porch his stick and the bandana handkerchief that contained his wardrobe. He seated himself on the step. “Nothin’ unusu’l. I wintered in Philadelphy an’ started fer these parts in May.”

“Seems like you’re lookin’ mighty glum,” said the Storekeeper. He had ceased his whittling and was examining every detail of the wanderer’s dress and physiognomy. “Might s’pose ye was in love agin.”

The traveller sighed.

“You air the sentimentalist tramp I ever seen,” the Miller cried. “Every time ye comes th’oo these parts, it’s a new un. Does ye think the weemen is so almighty blind ez to git struck on a hoodoo like you?”

[177]

“I keeps me passions an’ me shortcomin’s to meself,” replied the wanderer after he had lighted his corncob pipe. “I’ve had a heap o’ hard luck. I wouldn’t min’ gittin’ in love or in jail fer murder sep’rate, but both at oncet is too much even fer a man like me.”

“Hedgins!” the Loafer exclaimed, edging toward the end of the bench furthest from the vagrant. “In jail fer murder!”

A faint smile flitted across the face of the Tramp. Then he began his story:

“In jail fer murder an’ in love wit’ the Sher’ff’s dotter—that’s exactly what happened to me. It’s onjust; it ain’t right, it ain’t, even fer a man o’ my shortcomin’s. Let’s see. This is hay harvest, ain’t it. Well, it was jest about corn-plantin’ it all come about. I’d been workin’ me way easy up along the Sussykehanner, an’ one night put up wit’ an ole feller named Noah Punk, who lived in a lawg house at the foot o’ the big mo’ntain this side o’ Pillersville. They was no one there but him an’ his woman. She was a bad-tempered creetur’ an’ made things hum ’round that ranch when me an’ the ole man was playin’ kyards after supper. They put me to bed in the garret, an’ next day I set out agin. Punk he sayd he’d walk up the road a piece wit’ me, an’ he did. We parted at a crossroads two mile from his house. That was the last I ever seen of him. I’d never thot no more of him nuther ef it hedn’t been that[178] two days later, when I was joggin’ easy like into Jimstontown, I was ’rested—’rested, mind ye, fer the murder o’ Noah Punk. I never knowd jest what it was all ’bout tell I was comf’table fixed in the kyounty jail. An’ then I didn’t keer, fer I’d met the Sher’ff’s dotter.

“Oh, but she was a star! Jest ez plump ez ye make ’em, wit’ a dimple, an’ yaller shiny hair, an’ jest ez red ez a ripe rambo apple. When she brought me up me supper the fust night, I ast her what I was up fer, an’ she tol’ me.

“It seems like no one ever seen Noah Punk after him an’ me left the house. He never come back, an’ when they hunted fer him they found nothin’ but one o’ his ole shoes, all covered wit’ blood, be the canal where him an’ me parted. They ’rested me bekase I was last seen wit’ him. Then the Sher’ff wanted to hang some un.

“When I heard that I was kind o’ tired, an’ fer a time jest held me head down, never sayin’ nothin’. Then I looks up an’ seen Em’ly standin’ there so sorrerful.

“‘How long’ll it be tell they hangs me?’ I ast.

“‘They’ll try you next month,’ she sais. ‘Then I’d ’low another month tell——’ She bust plum inter tears.

“‘Two months, Em’ly,’ sais I, I sais, ‘an’ you feeds the prisoners. They’ll be the bless’dest two months o’ me life.’

“‘Deed, an’ that’s jest how I felt. Them words[179] was true ef I ever sayd a true word. The bless’dest two months o’ my life.

“But them days did fly! I never thot no more o’ Noah Punk or o’ hangin’. It was all of Em’ly. They was four other prisoners in the jail, an’ I never played no kyards wit’ them, but jest sot a-thinkin’ o’ her. She use ter bring us our meals three times a day. Quick ez I’d finish eatin’ I’d set waitin’ fer her to come agin. Jail was a happy place fer me. I never wanted to leave it.

“You uns otter ’a’ seen me in them days. I wasn’t sich a bum ez I am now. The Sher’ff give me a shave an’ a new suit. Puttin’ all in all, I was a pretty slick lookin’ individu’l—no red hair an’ whiskers shootin’ out in all directions, makin’ me look like an’ ile lamp, ez I hear one feller put it. Me coat didn’t hang like curtains, an’ me pants was all made o’ the same piece o’ goods. I was a dude, I was, in spite o&rs............