One said a certain newspaper correspondent, naming him, had proved it to
be the work--I forget of whom. But I shall never forget what followed.
Two or three challenged the literary preeminence of that correspondent,
and from as many directions I was asked for my opinion. Ah me! Lying
back against a pile of saddles with my head in my hands, sodden with
self-assurance, I replied, magnanimously, "Oh, I don't set up for a
critic, but--well--would you call him a better man than
Charlie Toliver?"

"Who--o?" It was not one who asked; the whos came like shrapnel; and
when, not knowing what else to do, I smiled as one dying, there went up
a wail of mirth that froze my blood and then heated it to a fever. The
company howled. They rolled over one another, crying, "Charlie
Toliver!--Charlie Toliver!--Oh, Lord, where's Scott Gholson!--Charlie
Toliver!"--and leaped up and huddled down and moaned and rolled and
rose and looked for me.

But, after all, fortune was merciful, and I was gone; the Major had
summoned me--his brother had come. I went circuitously and alone. As I
started, some fellow writhing on the grass cried, "Charlie Tol--oh, this
is better than a tcharade!" and a flash of divination enlightened me.
While I went I burned with shame, rage and nervous exhaustion; the name
Scott Gholson had gasped in my ear was the name of her in the curtained
wagon, and I cursed the day in which I had heard of Charlotte Oliver.



IV