Kitabı oku: «Out of a Labyrinth», sayfa 17
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
It is long past midnight. A preternatural stillness broods over the four corners where the north and south road, two miles north from Clyde, intersects the road running east and west, that bears westward toward the coal beds and the river.
There are no houses within sight of these corners, and very few trees; but the northeastern corner is bounded by what the farmers call a "brush fence," an unsightly barricade of rails, interwoven with tall, ragged, and brambly brush, the cuttings, probably, from some rank-growing hedge.
The section to the southwest is bordered by a prim hedge, thrifty and green, evenly trimmed, and so low that a man could leap across it with ease.
And now the silence is broken by the sound of wheels coming from the direction of Clyde; swift running wheels that soon bring their burden to the four corners, and then come to a sudden halt.
It is a light buggy, none other than that owned by Mr. Larkins, of Clyde, drawn by his roans that "go in no time," and it contains three men.
"There!" says the driver, who is Larkins himself, springing to the ground, and thrusting his arm through the reins, "here we are, with nothing to do but wait. We always do wait, you know."
"Yes, I know," assents a second individual, descending to the ground in his turn. "We're always on time. Now, if a man only could smoke – but he can't."
And Ed. Dwight shrugs his shoulders and burrows in his pockets, and shuffles his feet, as only Ed. Dwight can.
"Might's well get out, Briggs," says Larkins, to the man who still sits in the buggy.
"Might's well stay here, too," retorts that individual, gruffly. "I'm comfortable."
Larkins sniffs, and pats the haunch of the off roan.
Dwight snaps a leaf from the hedge and chews it nervously.
The man in the buggy sits as still as a mummy.
Presently there comes again the sound of wheels. Not noisy wheels, that would break in upon midnight slumbers, nor ghostly wheels, whose honesty might be called in question, but well oiled, smooth running wheels, that break but do not disturb the stillness.
These also approach the cross roads, and then stop.
The first are those of a coal wagon, drawn by four handsome horses; the second, those of a vehicle of the same description, drawn by two fine steeds.
Two men occupy the first wagon; one the next.
As the foremost wagon pauses, Larkins tosses his reins to the silent man in the buggy, and advances, followed by Dwight.
"Anything wrong?" queries Larkins.
"Not if you are all right," replies a harsh voice, a voice that has a natural snarl in it.
"All right, Cap'n; give us your orders."
The two men in the wagon spring to the ground, and begin to unharness the foremost horses. The other wagon comes closer.
"You and Briggs are to take in these two teams. Tom is to go on with the Morgans. Dwight is to take us back to Trafton," says the rasping voice.
Dwight comes closer, and then exclaims:
"By George, Captain, it's you in person."
"Yes, it's me," shortly. "Simpson failed to come, and I wanted to have a few words with you and Larkins. Hark! What's that?"
Wheels again; swift rushing, rattling wheels. Six heads are turned toward the north, whence they approach.
Suddenly there is a whistle, short and shrill.
Men are bounding over the low hedge to the left! Men are rising up from the long grass by the roadside!
Oaths, ejaculations, cracking of pistols, plunging of horses —
"The first man who attempts to run will be shot down!"
I hear these words, as I drive the Brookhouse roadster, foaming and panting, into the midst of the melee.
In spite of the warning one man has made a dart for liberty, has turned and rushed directly upon my horse.
In spite of the darkness his sharp eyes recognize the animal. What could his son's horse bring save a warning or a rescue?
He regains his balance, which, owing to his sudden contact with the horse, he had nearly lost, and springs toward me as my feet touch the earth.
"Arch!"
Before he can realize the truth my hands are upon him. Before he can recover from his momentary consternation other hands seize him from behind.
The captain of the horse-thieves, the head and front and brains of the band, is bound and helpless!
It is soon over; the horse-thieves fight well; strive hard to evade capture; but the attack is so sudden, so unexpected, and they are unprepared, although each man, as a matter of course, is heavily armed.
The vigilants have all the advantage, both of numbers and organization. While certain ones give all their attention to the horses, the larger number look to the prisoners.
Briggs, the silent man in the buggy, is captured before he knows what has happened.
Tom Briggs, his cowardly brother, is speedily reduced to a whimpering poltroon.
Ed. Dwight takes to his heels in spite of the warning of Captain Warren, and is speedily winged with a charge of fine shot. It is not a severe wound, but it has routed his courage, and he is brought back, meek and pitiful enough, all the jauntiness crushed out of him.
Larkins, my jehu on a former occasion, makes a fierce fight; and Louis Brookhouse, who still moves with a limp, resists doggedly.
Our vigilants have received a few bruises and scratches, but no wounds.
The struggle has been short, and the captives, once subdued, are silent and sullen.
We bind them securely, and put them in the coal wagons which now, for the first time, perhaps, are put to a legitimate use.
We do not care to burden ourselves with Larkins' roans, so they are released from the buggy and sent galloping homeward.
The bay Morgans, which have been "stolen" for the sake of effect, are again harnessed, as leaders of the four-in-hand. The vigilants bring out their horses from behind the brush fence, and the procession starts toward Trafton.
No one attempts to converse with the captives. No one deigns to answer a question, except by a monosyllable.
'Squire Brookhouse is wise enough to see that he can gain nothing by an attempt at bluster or bribery. He maintains a dogged silence, and the others, with the exception of Dwight, who can not be still under any circumstances, and Tom Briggs, who makes an occasional whimpering attempt at self-justification, which is heeded by no one, all maintain a dogged silence. And we move on at a leisurely pace, out of consideration for the tired horses.
As we approach Trafton, the Summer sun is sending up his first streak of red, to warn our side of the world of his nearness; and young Warren reins his horse out from the orderly file of vigilants, who ride on either side of the wagons.
He gallops forward, turns in his saddle to look back at us, waves his hat above his head, and then speeds away toward the village.
I am surprised at this, but, as I look from one face to another, I see that the vigilants, some of them, at least, understand the movement, and so I ask no questions.
I am not left long in suspense as to the meaning of young Warren's sudden leave-taking, for, as we approach to within a mile of Trafton, our ears are greeted by the clang of bells, all the bells of Trafton, ringing out a fiercely jubilant peal.
I turn to look at 'Squire Brookhouse. He has grown old in an instant; his face looks ashen under the rosy daylight. The caverns of his eyes are larger and deeper, and the orbs themselves gleam with a desperate fire. His lifeless black locks flutter in the morning breeze. He looks forlorn and desperate. Those clanging bells are telling him his doom.
Warren has done his work well. When we come over the hill into Trafton, we know that the news is there before us, for a throng has gathered in the street, although the hour is so early.
The bells have aroused the people. The news that the Trafton horse-thieves are captured at last, in the very act of escaping with their booty, has set the town wild.
Not long since these same horse-thieves have led Trafton on to assault, to accuse, and to vilify an innocent man. Now, those who were foremost at the raiding of Bethel's cottage, are loudest in denouncing those who were then their leaders; and the cry goes up,
"Hand over the horse-thieves! Hand them out! Lynch law's good enough for them!"
But we are fourteen in number. We have captured the prisoners, and we mean to keep them.
Once more my pistols, this time fully loaded, are raised against a Trafton mob, and the vigilants follow my example.
We guard our prisoners to the door of the jail, and then the vigilants post themselves as a wall of defence about the building, while Captain Warren sets about the easy task of raising a trusty relief guard to take the places of his weary men.
It is broad day now. The sun glows round and bright above the Eastern horizon. I am very weary, but there is work yet to be done.
I leave Captain Warren at the door of the jail, and hasten toward the Hill.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
"THE COUNTERFEITER'S DAUGHTER."
I am somewhat anxious about this coming bit of work, and a little reluctant as well, but it must be done, and that promptly.
Just outside of the avenue gate I encounter a servant from the Hill House, and accost him.
"Is Miss Manvers at home, and awake?"
"Yes, she is at home; she has been disturbed by the bells," and has sent him to inquire into the cause of the commotion.
She does not know, then! I heave a sigh of relief and hurry on.
I cross the avenue, and follow the winding foot-path leading up to the front entrance. I make no effort to see Jim or Gerry, at the barn; I feel sure that they are equal to any emergency that may arise.
Miss Manvers is standing at an open drawing-room window; she sees my approach and comes herself to admit me.
Then we look at each other.
She, I note, seems anxious and somewhat uneasy, and she sees at a glance that I am not the jaunty, faultlessly-dressed young idler of past days, but a dusty, dishevelled, travel-stained individual, wearing, instead of the usual society smile, a serious and preoccupied look upon my face.
"Miss Manvers," I say, at once, "you will pardon my abruptness, I trust; I must talk with you alone for a few moments."
She favors me with a glance of keen inquiry, and a look of apprehension crosses her face.
Then she turns with a gesture of careless indifference, and leads the way to the drawing-room, where she again turns her face toward me.
"I have before me an unpleasant duty," I begin again; "I have to inform you that Arch Brookhouse has been arrested."
A fierce light leaps to her eyes.
"Is that all?" she questions.
"The charge against him is a grave one," I say, letting her question pass unanswered. "He is accused of attempted abduction."
"Abduction!" she exclaims.
"And attempted assassination."
"Assassination! ah, who?"
"Attempt first, upon myself, in June last. Second attempt, upon Dr. Carl Bethel."
A wrathful look crosses her face.
"I wish they could hang him for it!" she says, vindictively. Then she looks me straight in the eyes. "Did you come to tell me this because you fancy that I care for Arch Brookhouse?" she questions.
"No."
"Why, then?"
"Because I am a detective, and it was my duty to come. There is more to tell you. 'Squire Brookhouse and his gang were arrested last night in the act of removing stolen horses from your barn."
Her face pales and she draws a long sighing breath, but she does not falter nor evince any other sign of fear.
"So it has come," she says. "And now you are here to arrest me. I don't think I shall mind it much."
"I have come to make terms with you, Miss Lowenstein, and it will be your fault if they are hard terms. I know your past history, or, at least – "
"At least, that I am a counterfeiter's daughter, and that I have served a term as a convict," she finishes, sarcastically.
"I know that you are the daughter of Jake Lowenstein, forger and counterfeiter. I know that you were arrested with him, as an accomplice; that immunity was offered you if you would testify against your father, the lawyers being sure that your evidence alone would easily convict him. I know that you refused to turn State's evidence; that you scoffed at the lawyers, and rather than raise your voice against your father, let them send you to prison for two years."
"You know all this?" wonderingly. "How did you find me out here?"
"Before you were taken to prison, they took your picture for – "
I hesitate, but she does not.
"For the rogue's gallery," she says, impatiently. "Well! go on."
"You were fiercely angry, and the scorn on your face was transferred to the picture."
"Quite likely."
"I had heard of your case, and your father's, of course. But I was not personally concerned in it, and I never saw him. I had never seen you, until I came to Trafton."
"I have changed since then," she breaks in, quickly.
"True; you were a slender, pretty young girl then. You are a handsome woman, now. Your features, however, are not much changed; yet probably, if I had never seen you save when your face wore its usual serene smile, I should never have found you out. But my comrade, who came to Trafton with me – "
"As your servant," she interposes.
"As my servant; yes. He had your picture in his collection. On the day of your lawn party, I chanced to see you behind a certain rose thicket, in conversation with Arch Brookhouse. He was insolent; you, angry and defiant. I caught the look on your face, and knew that I had seen it before, somewhere. I went home puzzled, to find Carnes, better known to you as Cooley, looking at a picture in his rogue's gallery. I took the book and began turning its leaves, and there under my eye was your picture. Then I knew that Miss Manvers, the heiress, was really Miss Adele Lowenstein."
"You say that it will be my fault if you make hard terms with me. My father is dead. I suppose you understand that?"
"Yes; I know that he is dead, but I do not know why you are here, giving shelter to stolen property and abbetting horse-thieves. Frankly, Miss Lowenstein, so far as your past is concerned, I consider you sinned against as much as sinning. Your sacrifice in behalf of your father was, in my eyes, a brave act, rather than a criminal one. I am disposed to be ever your friend rather than your enemy. Will you tell me how you became connected with this gang, and all the truth concerning your relations with them, and trust me to aid you to the limit of my power?"
"You do not promise me my freedom if I give you this information," she says, more in surprise than in anxiety.
"It is not in my power to do that and still do my duty as an officer; but I promise you, upon my honor, that you shall have your freedom if it can be brought about."
"I like the sound of that," says this odd, self-reliant young woman, turning composedly, and seating herself near the open window. "If you had vowed to give me my liberty at any cost I should not have believed you. Sit down; I shall tell you a longer story than you will care to listen to standing."
I seat myself in obedience to her word and gesture, and she begins straightway:
"I was seventeen years old when my father was arrested for counterfeiting, and I looked even younger.
"He had a number of confederates, but the assistant he most valued was the man whom people call 'Squire Brookhouse. He was called simply Brooks eight years ago.
"When my father was arrested, 'Squire Brookhouse, who was equally guilty, contrived to escape. He was a prudent sharper, and both he and father had accumulated considerable money.
"If you know that my father and myself were sentenced to prison, he for twenty years, and I for two, you know, I suppose, how he escaped."
"I know that he did escape; just how we need not discuss at present."
"Yes; he escaped. Brookhouse used his money to bribe bolder men to do the necessary dangerous work, for he, Brookhouse, needed my father's assistance, and he escaped. I had yet six months to serve.
"Well, Brookhouse had recently been down into this country on a plundering expedition. He was an avaricious man, always devising some new scheme. He knew that without my father's assistance, he could hardly run a long career at counterfeiting, and he knew that counterfeiting would be dangerous business for my father to follow, in or near the city, after his escape.
"They talked and schemed and prospected; and the result was that they both came to Trafton, and invested a portion of their gains, the largest portion of course, in two pieces of real estate; this and the Brookhouse place.
"Before we had been here a year, my father grew venturesome. He went to the city, and was recognized by an old policeman, who had known him too well. They attempted to arrest him, but only captured his dead body. The papers chronicled the fact that Jake Lowenstein, the counterfeiter, was dead. And we, at Trafton, announced to the world that Captain Manvers, late of the navy, had been drowned while making his farewell voyage.
"After that, I became Miss Manvers, the heiress, and the good Traftonites were regaled with marvelous stories concerning a treasure-ship dug out from the deep by my father, 'the sea captain.'
"Their main object in settling in Trafton, was to provide for themselves homes that might afford them a haven should stormy times come. And, also, to furnish them with a place where their coining and engraving could be safely carried on.
"Then the 'Squire grew more enterprising. He wanted more schemes to manage. And so he began to lay his plans for systematic horse-stealing.
"Little by little he matured his scheme, and one by one he introduced into Trafton such men as would serve his purpose, for, if you inquire into the matter, you will find that every one of his confederates has come to this place since the first advent of 'Squire Brookhouse.
"The hidden place in our barn was prepared before my father was killed, and after that – well, 'Squire Brookhouse knew that I could be a great help to him, socially.
"I did not know what to do. This home was mine, I felt safe here; I had grown up among counterfeiters and law-breakers, and I did not see how I was to shake myself free from them – besides – "
Here a look of scornful self-contempt crosses her face.
"Besides, I was young, and up to that time had seen nothing of society of my own age. Arch Brookhouse had lately come home from the South, and I had fallen in love with his handsome face."
She lifts her eyes to mine, as if expecting to see her own self-scorn reflected back in my face, but I continue to look gravely attentive, and she goes on:
"So I stayed on, and let them use my property as a hiding-place for their stolen horses. I kept servants of their selection, and never knew aught of their plans. When I heard that a horse had been stolen, I felt very certain that it was concealed on my premises, but I never investigated.
"After a time I became as weary of Arch Brookhouse as he, probably, was of me. Finally indifference became detestation. He only came to my house on matters of business, and to keep up the appearance of friendliness between the two families. Mrs. Brookhouse is a long-suffering, broken-down woman, who never sees society.
"I do not intend to plead for mercy, and I do not want pity. I dare say that nine-tenths of the other women in the world would have done as I did, under the same circumstances. I have served two years in the penitentiary; my face adorns the rogues' gallery. I might go out into the world and try a new way of living, but I must always be an impostor. Why not be an impostor in Trafton, as well as anywhere else? I have always believed that, some day, I should be found out."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
"LOUISE BARNARD'S FRIENDSHIP."
When she has finished her story there is a long silence, then she says, with a suddenness that would have been surprising in any other woman than the one before me:
"You say you have arrested Arch Brookhouse for the shooting of Dr. Bethel. Tell me, is it true that Dr. Bethel is out of danger?"
"He is still in a condition to need close attention and careful medical aid; with these, we think, he will recover."
"I am very glad to know that," she says, earnestly.
"Miss Lowenstein, I have some reason for thinking that you know who is implicated in that grave-robbing business."
"I do know," she answers, frankly, "but not from them. The Brookhouses, father and sons, believed Dr. Bethel to be a detective, and to be candid, so did I. You know 'the wicked flee when no man pursueth.' They construed his reticence into mystery. They fancied that his clear, searching eye was looking into all their secrets. I knew they were plotting against him, but I had told Arch Brookhouse that they should not harm him. When I went down to the cottage with Louise Barnard, I felt sure that it was their work, the grave-robbing.
"Tom Briggs was there, the fiercest of the rioters. Tom had worked about my stable for a year or more, and I thought that I knew how to manage him. I contrived to get a word with him. Did you observe it?"
"Yes, I observed it."
"I told him to come to The Hill that evening, and he came. Then I made him tell me the whole story.
"Arch Brookhouse had planned the thing, and given it to Briggs to execute. There were none of the regular members of the gang here to help him at that work, so he went, under instructions, of course, to Simmons and Saunders, two dissolute, worthless fellows, and told them that Dr. Bethel had offered him thirty dollars to get the little girl's body, and offered to share with them.
"Those three did the work. Briggs buried the clothing and hid the tools. Then, when the raid began, Briggs told his two assistants that, in order to avoid suspicion, they must join the hue and cry against Dr. Bethel, and so, as you are aware, they did."
This information is valuable to me. I am anxious to be away, to meet Simmons and Saunders. I open my lips to make a request, when she again asks a sudden question.
"Will you tell me where and how you arrested the Brookhouse gang? I am anxious to know."
"I will tell you, but first will you please answer one more question?"
She nods and I proceed.
"I have told you that Arch Brookhouse is charged with attempted abduction; I might say Louis Brookhouse stands under the same charge. Do you know anything about the matter?"
"I? No."
"Did you ever know Miss Amy Holmes?"
"Never," she replies, emphatically. "Whom did they attempt to abduct?"
"Three young girls; three innocent country girls."
"Good heavens!" she exclaims, her eyes flashing fiercely, "that is a deed, compared with which horse-thieving is honorable!"
I give her a brief outline of the Groveland affair, or series of affairs, so far as I am able, before having heard Carnes' story. And then I tell her how the horse-thieves were hunted down.
"So," she says, wearily, "by this time I am known all over Trafton as the accomplice of horse-thieves."
"Not so, Miss Lowenstein. The entire truth is known to Carnes and Brown, the two detectives I have mentioned, to Jim Long, and to Mr. Warren. The vigilants knew that the horses had been concealed near Trafton, but, owing to the manner in which the arrests were made, they do not know where. I suppose you are aware what it now becomes my duty to do?"
"Assuredly," with constrained voice and manner. "You came here to arrest me. I submit."
"Wait. From first to last it has been my desire to deal with you as gently as possible. Now that I have heard your story, I am still more inclined to stand your friend. The three men in Trafton who know your complicity in this business, are acting under my advice. For the present, you may remain here, if you will give me your promise not to attempt an escape."
"I shall not try to escape; I would be foolish to do so, after learning how skillfully you can hunt down criminals."
"Thanks for the compliment, and the promise implied. If you will give your testimony against the gang, telling in court the story you have told me, you shall not stand before these people without a champion."
"I don't like to do it. It seems cowardly."
"Why? Do you think they would spare you were the positions reversed?"
"No, certainly not; but – " turning her eyes toward the foliage without, and speaking wistfully, "I wish I knew how another woman would view my position. I never had the friendship of a woman who knew me as I am. I wish I knew how such a woman as Louise Barnard would advise me."
Scarcely knowing how to reply to this speech, I pass it by and hasten to finish my own.
Will she remain in her own house until I see her again, which may not be until to-morrow? And will she permit me to leave Gerry Brown here, for form's sake?
Jim Long would hardly question my movements and motives, but Mr. Warren, who is the fourth party in our confidence, might. So, for his gratification, I will leave Gerry Brown at the Hill.
She consents readily enough, and I go out to fetch Gerry.
"Miss Lowenstein, this is my friend, Gerry Brown, who has passed the night in your barn and in very bad company. Will you take pity on him and give him some breakfast?" I say, as we appear before her.
She examines Gerry's handsome face attentively, and then says:
"If your late companions were bad, Mr. Brown, you will not find your present company much better. You do look tired. I will give you some breakfast, and then you can lock me up."
"I'll eat the breakfast with relish," replies Gerry, gallantly; "but as for locking you up, excuse me. I've been told that you would feed me and let me lie down somewhere to sleep; and I've been ordered to stay here until to-morrow. It looks to me as if I were your prisoner, and such I prefer to consider myself."
I leave them to settle the question of keeper and prisoner as best they can, and go out to Jim.
He is smoking placidly, with Arch Brookhouse, in a fit of the sulks, sitting on an overturned peck measure near by, and Dimber Joe asleep on a bundle of hay in a corner.
We arouse Dimber and casting off the fetters from their feet, set them marching toward the town jail, where their brethren in iniquity are already housed.
Trafton is in a state of feverish excitement. As we approach the jail with our prisoners the air is rent with jeers and hisses for them, and "three cheers for the detective," presumably for me.
I might feel flattered and gratified at their friendly enthusiasm, but, unfortunately for my pride, I have had an opportunity to learn how easily Trafton is excited to admiration and to anger, so I bear my honors meekly, and hide my blushing face, for a time, behind the walls of the jail.
All the vigilants are heroes this morning, and proud and happy is the citizen who can adorn his breakfast table with one of the band. The hungry fellows, nothing loath, are borne away one by one in triumph, and Jim and I, who cling together tenaciously, are wrangled over by Justice Summers and Mr. Harris, and, finally, led off by the latter.
We are not bored with questions at the parsonage, but good, motherly Mrs. Harris piles up our plates, and looks on, beaming with delight to see her good things disappearing down our hungry throats.
We have scarcely finished our meal, when a quick, light step crosses the hall, and Louise Barnard enters. She has heard the clanging bells and witnessed the excitement, but, as yet, scarcely comprehends the cause.
"Mamma is so anxious," she says, deprecatingly, to Mr. Harris, "that I ran in to ask you about it, before going down to see Carl – Dr. Bethel."
While she is speaking, a new thought enters my head, and I say to myself instantly, "here is a new test for Christianity," thinking the while of that friendless girl at this moment a paroled prisoner.
"Miss Barnard," I say, hastily, "it will give me pleasure to tell you all about this excitement, or the cause of it."
"If I understand aright, you are the cause, sir," she replies, smilingly. "How horribly you have deceived us all!"
"But," interposes Mr. Harris, "this is asking too much, sir. You have been vigorously at work all night, and now – "
"Never mind that," I interrupt. "Men in my profession are bred to these things. I am in just the mood for story telling."
They seat themselves near me. Jim, a little less interested than the rest, occupying a place in the background. Charlie Harris is away at his office. I have just the audience I desire.
I begin by describing very briefly my hunt for the Trafton outlaws. I relate, as rapidly as possible, the manner in which they were captured, skipping details as much as I can, until I arrive at the point where I turn from the Trafton jail to go to The Hill.
Then I describe my interview with the counterfeiter's daughter minutely, word for word as nearly as I can. I dwell on her look, her tone, her manner, I repeat her words: "I wish I knew how another woman would view my position. I wish I knew how such a woman as Louise Barnard would advise me." I omit nothing; I am trying to win a friend for Adele Lowenstein, and I tell her story as well as I can.
When I have finished, there is profound silence for a full moment, and then Jim Long says:
"I know something concerning this matter. And I am satisfied that the girl has told no more and no less than the truth."
I take out a pocket-book containing papers, and select one from among them.
"This," I say, as I open it, "is a letter from the Chief of our force. He is a stern old criminal-hunter. I will read you what he says in regard to the girl we have known as Adele Manvers, the heiress. Here it is."
And I read:
In regard to Adele Lowenstein, I send you the papers and copied reports, as you request; but let me say to you, deal with her as mercifully as possible. There should be much good in a girl who would go to prison for two long years, rather than utter one word disloyal to her counterfeiter father. Those who knew her best, prior to that affair, consider her a victim rather than a sinner. Time may have hardened her nature, but, if there are any extenuating circumstances, consider how she became what she is, and temper justice with mercy.
"There," I say, as I fold away the letter, "that's a whole sermon, coming from our usually unsympathetic Chief. Mr. Harris, I wish you would preach another of the same sort to the Traftonites."
