Ancient Lineage and Other Stories by Morley Callaghan

Author:Morley Callaghan [Callaghan, Morley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7710-1819-0
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 2012-10-30T04:00:00+00:00

TWO FISHERMEN

The only reporter on the town paper, The Examiner, was Michael Foster, a tall, long-legged, eager fellow, who wanted to go to the city some day and work on an important newspaper.

The morning he went to Bagley’s Hotel, he wasn’t at all sure of himself. He went over to the desk and whispered to the proprietor, “Did he come here, Mr. Bagley?”

Bagley said slowly, “Two men came here from this morning’s train. They’re registered.” He put his spatulate forefinger on the open book and said, “Two men. One of them’s a drummer. This one here, T. Woodley. I know because he was through this way last year and just a minute ago he walked across the road to Molson’s hardware store. The other one … here’s his name, K. Smith.”

“Who’s K. Smith?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know. A mild, harmless looking little guy.”

“Did he look like the hangman, Mr. Bagley?”

“I couldn’t say that, seeing that I never saw one. He was awfully polite and asked where he could get a boat so he could go fishing on the lake this evening, so I said likely down at Smollet’s place by the powerhouse.”

“Well, thanks. I guess if he was the hangman, he’d go over to the jail first,” Michael said.

He went along the street, past the Baptist church to the old jail with the high brick fence around it. Two tall maple trees, with branches drooping low over the sidewalk, shaded one of the walls from the morning sunlight. Last night, behind those walls, three carpenters, working by lamplight, had nailed the timbers for the scaffold. In the morning, young Thomas Delaney, who had grown up in the town, was being hanged: he had killed old Mathew Rhinehart whom he had caught molesting his wife when she had been berry picking in the hills behind the town. There had been a struggle and Thomas Delaney had taken a bad beating before he had killed Rhinehart. Last night a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk by the lamppost, and while moths and smaller insects swarmed around the high blue carbon light, the crowd had thrown sticks and bottles and small stones at the out-of-town workmen in the jail yard. Billy Hilton, the town constable, had stood under the light with his head down, pretending not to notice anything. Thomas Delaney was only three years older than Michael Foster.

Michael went straight to the jail office, where the sheriff, Henry Steadman, a squat, heavy man, was sitting on the desk idly wetting his long moustache with his tongue. “Hello, Michael, what do you want?” he asked.

“Hello, Mr. Steadman, The Examiner would like to know if the hangman arrived yet.”

“Why ask me?”

“I thought he’d come here to test the gallows. Won’t he?”

“My, you’re a smart young fellow, Michael, thinking of that.”

“Is he in there now, Mr. Steadman?”

“Don’t ask me. I’m saying nothing. Say, Michael, do you think there’s going to be trouble? You ought to know. Does anybody seem sore at me? I can’t do nothing.

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