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Page 86 text:
THE SUPER SALESMAN
As the westbound S. P. passenger creaked to a stop, a rather thin, black-
clad man was ushered off by the conductor and left standing in the glare of the
Texas sun Whatever last futile plea he was making was silenced by the depart-
ing tirain, and the stranger was alone with the tall, parched trees in the "Piney
He seemed in every detail to typify the public's ideal clergyman: he was
thin, stoop-shouldered sharp-featured, and his clothing was somber and worn,
except for the flaming red cravat. His shoes seemed brightly polished and there
was a small flower in his lapel but a small hand-bag, neatly lettered Jerome W.
Kalsh seemed to be his only luggage.
Mr. Kalsh had never expected to be face to face with rural Texas, but due
to his tactical error of fumbling the ace concealed in his palm during a poker
game with the conductor, he was now derailed in East Texas with only thirty-
four cents in his pocket. He had never been in the same situation before during
his varied career as a stock salesman, side-show speiler, real estate salesman, an
card shark, but he earnestly hoped that his resourcefulness could keep him from
having to work.
After dusting his shoes with a silk handkerchief, Mr. Kalsh started up the
track with the noble resolve to get some money from the "hicks" in some way,
for just before their parting the conductor assured him that he could either chop
wood or pick cotton if he wanted to eat. Necessity is the mother of invention,
and he would invent some big ones, if necessary.
At a road crossing a little farther on, he turned off, since a nearby sign
announced that it was only two miles to Clinger's Pharmacy, Livingston. I-le
had followed this road only ten minutes when he came to the first farmhouse,
a ramshackle gray cottage of the saddle-bag type. No one was in sight, but he
walked through the open gate, almost stumbled over a pig sleeping in the path,
and knocked on one of the porch columns. In the doorway there appeared almost
instantly the figure of a white-headed old negress, wearing a faded calico dress,
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"Wh-wh-what's de mattah? What does you all want?" she asked in high-
pitched, startled tones.
"Ah, madam, pardon me," he reassured her in a deep, sonorous voice, "but
could you give a glass of water to a weary traveler?"
"Oh, lands a' muhcy, that's just all right, mistah," she explained. "You
mighty nigh scauhd me out o' mah skin when you knocked on the douh, though.
Jes come around to the well with me at the back, suh. No, suh, no, suhg jes
keep youh hat on, uh-uh, Reverend?"
Kalsh's expression did not change when she addressed him as reverend,
although this would give him the opening he was looking for. He merely said.
"Yes, ma'am," and followed her to the well.
While he pretended to drink some of the muddy water from the well, the
negro prattled on, explaining all about herself. Aunt Julie Simpson was her
name, and she had worked for the Judson family all her life, "a mighty long
time, suh, a mighty long time," she had assured him. When she began getting
old, Mr. Judson had deeded her a piece of land which contained this house and
the ruins of an old mill, dam, and miller's house. She was now living alone on
When it came time for him to explain himself, he told her that he was
Rev. Jeremiah Hazlewood, a Methodist missionary to Afghanistan. He related
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Page 85 text:
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HONOR WIEI .L WON
JANICE Goona.-in '
It was a cold, dreary afternoon in late November. A drizzling rain had
fallen all day and as night approached, it fell heavier. Inside a little cabin, prep-
arations were being made for the evening meal. A woman with a worried look
on her face was feeding two small children, while an older daughter was heaping
wood on the large iireplace. "Margaret," said her mother, "I cannot imagine
what has happened to your father. He said he would be back in about an hour
and he's been gone three already."
"You shouldn't worry, mother, because you know a dozen things could have
detained him. I'm sure he'll be here in a few minutes," Margaret said consol-
Hardly had she finished speaking than a heavy knock sounded at the door.
Margaret ran and opened it and her father, panting for breath, rushed in. He
was drenched to the skin, and an excited look on his face sent his wife rushing
to him. "What is the matter, John? What has happened?" she questioned
"News has come that a band of unfriendly Indians are on the warpath.
We must hurry and get to Camp Worth. I would have been here an hour sooner
but I have been warning the families on the way. I'll have the team in five
minutes. Hurry and get the children ready."
"But, father," interposed Margaret, as he started out the door, "the Wards
live two miles farther on and they don't know."
"I'm sorry, child, but we cannot lose another minute." He was done and
Margaret, slipping into a heavy homespun coat, followed him to the stable.
h"Father, may I ride my mustang?" she whispered excitedly as she ran up
"I do not think it wise, daughter, but do as you choose." No sooner had
llrlaiagaret got his permission than she was slipping the bridle over her horse's
"We won't need a saddle tonight, Bill,' she whispered in the mustang's ear.
In a few seconds her mother was lifting the children into the wagon and
they were off. However, Margaret turned in the other direction and spurred her
horse. He seemed to sense that something unusual was happening for he gave his
utmost strength to getting Margaret seemingly away from her destination.
The Smith family didn't miss Margaret, for they soon met other families,
hurrying in the direction of Camp Worth. They reached the outpost about three
hours later. Mrs. Smith, while making inquiries about the Ward family, missed
Margaret. It seemed that no one had seen her. Everyone feared that she had
fallen behind and been captured. They could not form a searching party because
the attack was expected any minute.
Suddenly the sound of horse's hoofs were heard and the grating of wagon
wheels on the rocks. Everyone stood expectant. Over the hilltop a horse came
with a small rider on its back, while following close behind was a wagon rocking
to and fro driven by a man whom all recognized. The gates were opened and
the small procession rushed in. A cry rent the air, "Margaret!" "The Wards!"
It was not long until another band came along, and over these the white
men won a decisive victory.
There is little left to say except that Margaret didn't have to explain her
disappearance. This was done by the grateful Ward family.
A few days later a girl with the beauty and grace of Virginian aristocracy,
with the spirit of a pioneer and a true Texan, raised the American flag, not for
the first time over Camp Worth, but for the first time over Fort Worth. Who
else could this be but Margaret?
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Page 87 text:
with a trembling, heart-breaking pathos all the gruesome details of the child
torture and child murder among the heathen. Before he had finished Aunt J ul1e
was dabbling at her eyes and when he mentioned the need of funds, she rushed
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in to get her purse. She returned with a little money.
"Revuhren, dis is all the money I can give you to help dose po' little kids
in Afghanistan, but ah shua hopes you git enuff to go back," she told him as
she gave him the money.
When he reached Livingston, he registered at the hotel, ate lunch, and
scouted around the town to see if he could stir up something. Back of a garage
he came upon a group of farmers who were trying to increase their cotton money
with the aid of their dice. He joined them and soon owned all of the loose cash
in the dgroup and two bottles of homemade "mash" by frequently using his
He had returned to his hotel, intending to check out, when he happened to
see a copy of the Livingston Daily Herald. The feature story was about the
Texas Railroad Commission refusing to permit the Southwestern States Power
Company to build a dam near Livingston on the Angela River. The Commission
stated that no more permits would be given for dams in that section.
When he read that, something clicked inside his head which caused him to
go to his room and spend an hour in his room planning his actions and trying to
discover any flaws in his scheme. At the end of this time he had resolved on
how he would do it, so he spent the rest of the afternoon in conference with an
attorney and talking over the phone with the president of the Southwestern
States Power Company.
Early the next morning he retraced his steps to Aunt Julie, who was sur-
prised to see him again. In his most suave manner he explained to her that
the executive council of his church had wired him to buy a suitable location for
an orphanage for the parentless children of Afghanistan. He then offered her
three hundred dollars for her stretch of land along the river. The old negro
didn't know what to think about her penniless missionary now, but she agreed
that the price was a fair one. She refused to sign any papers, however, without
the consent of Mr. Judson, her former employer. Mr. Kalsh used all his diplo-
macy on her with no effect, but finally she agreed to go back to town with him
to see Mr. Judson.
When they reached the ofiice, Kalsh was almost nonplussed to meet a capable-
looking, hard-boiled business man instead of a "hick." He knew he must change
his tactics, so he excused himself for a moment and went out in the hall to do
some concentrated concentrating. Automatically, his hand reached for the bottle
in his hip pocket and raised it to his mouth. His mind cleared instantly when
he gulped it down, and he began to feel that there was a way out. Another long
swallow, and Mr. Kalsh felt very confident in his ability. By the time the third
swallow of the potent liquor trickled down his throat his plan was determined and
he marched into the room.
Giving the startled Aunt Julie a courtly bow, he requested a private con-
ference with Mr. Judson. When they retired to the inner ofiice, Mr. Judson
turned to him coldly, as if to say "Well?"
"Mr. Judson, I am an artist traveling about the country searching for inspi-
ration." Luckily Aunt Julie had not had time to tell Mr. Judson much except
that he wanted to buy some land. "As I was meditatively walking down one of
your charming sylvan lanes today, I chanced to see a setting which fulfilled all
the yearnings of my artistic soul. A small, apparently deserted cottage was
picturesquely situated on a bend of a stream. Not far from it is an old barn
and a dam, but no doubt these could be torn down."
"That was the old flour mill, Mr.-ah-ah--"
"Tomaski," volunteered his visitor.
Yes Mr. Tomaski," he repeated. "I never thought the old place was so
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