“I hope, Custer, that your ma won’t be scared; it’s getting mighty late,” said the senior Shrimplin, and he shook his head as if in pity of a human weakness which his mind grasped, though he could not share in it.  “Seems to be that people give way more and more to their fear than they used to; or maybe it is that I ask too much, being naturally nervy myself and not having no nerves, as I may say.”

Half an hour later, off in the distance, the lights of Mount Hope became visible to Custer and his father.

“I’d give a good deal for a glass of suds and a cracker right now!” said Mr. Shrimplin, speaking after a long silence.  He tilted his head and took a comprehensive survey of the heavens.  “Well, we’re going to have a fine day for the hanging,” he observed, with the manner of a connoisseur.

“Why won’t they let no one see it?” demanded Custer.

“It’s to be strictly private.  I don’t know but what that’s best; it’s some different though from the hangings I’m used to.”  And Mr. Shrimplin shook his head dubiously as if he wished Custer to understand that after all perhaps he was not so sure it was for the best.

“How were they different?” inquired Custer, sensible that his parent was falling into a reminiscent mood.

“Well, they were more gay for one thing; folks drove in from miles about and brought their lunches and et fried chicken.  Sometimes there was hoss racing in the morning, and maybe a shooting scrape or two; fact is, we usually knowed who was to be the next to stretch hemp before the day was over,—­it gave you something to look forward to!  But pshaw!  What can you expect here?  Mount Hope ain’t educated up to the sort of thing I’m used to!  A feller gets his face punched down at Mike Lonigan’s or out at the Dutchman’s by the tracks, and the whole town talks of it, but no one ever draws a gun; the feller that gets his face punched spits out his teeth and goes on about his business, and that’s the end of it except for the talk; but where I’ve been there’d be murder in about the time it takes to shift a quid!”

And Mr. Shrimplin shifted his own quid to illustrate the uncertainty of human life in those highly favored regions.

“Don’t you suppose they’d let you into the jail yard to-morrow if you asked?” said Custer, to whom the hanging on the morrow was a matter of vital and very present interest.

“Well, son, I ain’t asked!” rejoined the little lamplighter in a rather startled tone.

“Well, don’t you think they’d ought to, seeing that you was one of the witnesses, and found old Mr. McBride before anybody else did?” persisted the boy.

“I won’t say but what you might think they’d want me present; but Conklin ain’t even suggested it, and if he don’t think of it I can’t say as I’ll have any hard feelings,” concluded Mr. Shrimplin magnanimously.