Barney lived in Lockport, and in an audible whisper said to us: "Ain't
he getting on finely? He'll be all right again to-morrow, please
God."
"And didn't the doctor say I'd be dead before twelve this day?"
asked Harrigan.
I looked at the clock on the mantelshelf. It was past ten. He died
an hour later.
One day the young man from Vermont rose from his seat and looked at
me across the schoolroom. I thought he was going to say something.
He took down his hat, went to the door, turned and looked at me
again, but he did not speak or make any sign. Next morning his place
was vacant, and I asked one of the boys if he had seen the young man.
The boy said:
"He ain't a-coming to school no more, I calkilate. He was buried
this morning before school hours."
That year, '49 was a dismal year in Joliet.
Mr. Rogers, one of the school managers, came and sat on a bench near
the door. He was a New Englander, a carpenter, round-shouldered,
tall and bony. He said:
"I called in to tell you that I can't vote for appinting you to this
school next term. Fact is the ladies are dead against you; don't see
you at meeting on the Sabbath; say you go to the Catholic Church with
the Irish and Dutch. I a'n't a word to say agen you myself. This is
a free country; every man can go, for aught I care, whichever way he
darn chooses--to heaven, or hell, or any other place.
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