In point of literary merit the new was inferior
to the old--was even repulsive in its terse and sav-
age jocularity:
JO. DUNFER. DONE FOR
I turned from it with indifference, and brushing
away the leaves from the tablet of the dead pagan
restored to light the mocking words which, fresh
from their long neglect, seemed to have a certain
pathos. My guide, too, appeared to take on an added
seriousness as he read it, and I fancied that I could
detect beneath his whimsical manner something of
manliness, almost of dignity. But while I looked
at him his former aspect, so subtly unhuman, so
tantalizingly familiar, crept back into his big eyes,
repellent and attractive. I resolved to make an end
of the mystery if possible.
'My friend,' I said, pointing to the smaller grave,
'did Jo. Dunfer murder that Chinaman?'
He was leaning against a tree and looking across
the open space into the top of another, or into the
blue sky beyond. He neither withdrew his eyes, nor
altered his posture as he slowly replied:
'No, sir; he justifiably homicided him.'
'Then he really did kill him.'
'Kill 'im? I should say he did, rather. Doesn't
everybody know that? Didn't he stan' up before the
coroner's jury and confess it? And didn't they find
a verdict of "Came to 'is death by a wholesome
Christian sentiment workin' in the Caucasian
breast"? An' didn't the church at the Hill turn
W'isky down for it? And didn't the sovereign people
elect him Justice of the Peace to get even on the
gospellers? I don't know where you were brought up.
Pages:
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113