Elmer tried to explain.  He wet his lips with his tongue and looked at the train that had begun to groan and get under way.  “Well, you see,” he began, and then lost control of his tongue.  “I’ll be washed and ironed.  I’ll be washed and ironed and starched,” he muttered half incoherently.

Elmer Cowley danced with fury beside the groaning train in the darkness on the station platform.  Lights leaped into the air and bobbed up and down before his eyes.  Taking the two ten-dollar bills from his pocket he thrust them into George Willard’s hand.  “Take them,” he cried.  “I don’t want them.  Give them to father.  I stole them.”  With a snarl of rage he turned and his long arms began to flay the air.  Like one struggling for release from hands that held him he struck out, hitting George Willard blow after blow on the breast, the neck, the mouth.  The young reporter rolled over on the platform half unconscious, stunned by the terrific force of the blows.  Springing aboard the passing train and running over the tops of cars, Elmer sprang down to a flat car and lying on his face looked back, trying to see the fallen man in the darkness.  Pride surged up in him.  “I showed him,” he cried.  “I guess I showed him.  I ain’t so queer.  I guess I showed him I ain’t so queer.”

THE UNTOLD LIE

Ray Pearson and Hal Winters were farm hands employed on a farm three miles north of Winesburg.  On Saturday afternoons they came into town and wandered about through the streets with other fellows from the country.

Ray was a quiet, rather nervous man of perhaps fifty with a brown beard and shoulders rounded by too much and too hard labor.  In his nature he was as unlike Hal Winters as two men can be unlike.

Ray was an altogether serious man and had a little sharp-featured wife who had also a sharp voice.  The two, with half a dozen thin-legged children, lived in a tumble-down frame house beside a creek at the back end of the Wills farm where Ray was employed.

Hal Winters, his fellow employee, was a young fellow.  He was not of the Ned Winters family, who were very respectable people in Winesburg, but was one of the three sons of the old man called Windpeter Winters who had a sawmill near Unionville, six miles away, and who was looked upon by everyone in Winesburg as a confirmed old reprobate.

People from the part of Northern Ohio in which Winesburg lies will remember old Windpeter by his unusual and tragic death.  He got drunk one evening in town and started to drive home to Unionville along the railroad tracks.  Henry Brattenburg, the butcher, who lived out that way, stopped him at the edge of the town and told him he was sure to meet the down train but Windpeter slashed at him with his whip and drove on.  When the train struck and killed him and his two horses a farmer and his wife who were driving home along a nearby road saw the accident.