There was revealed a ridiculous photograph of a little girl. She was
leaning against a balustrade of gorgeous decoration, and the
formidable bang to her hair was prominent. The figure was as
graceful as an upright sled-stake, and, withal, it was of the hue of
lead. "There," said Scully tenderly. "That's the picter of my little
girl that died. Her name was Carrie. She had the purtiest hair you
ever saw! I was that fond of her, she-"
Turning then he saw that the Swede was not contemplating the picture
at all, but, instead, was keeping keen watch on the gloom in the rear.
"Look, man!" shouted Scully heartily. "That's the picter of my
little gal that died. Her name was Carrie. And then here's the
picter of my oldest boy, Michael. He's a lawyer in Lincoln an' doin'
well. I gave that boy a grand eddycation, and I'm glad for it now.
He's a fine boy. Look at 'im now. Ain't he bold as blazes, him there
in Lincoln, an honored an' respicted gintleman. An honored an'
respicted gintleman," concluded Scully with a flourish. And so saying,
he smote the Swede jovially on the back.
The Swede faintly smiled.
"Now," said the old man, "there's only one more thing." He dropped
suddenly to the floor and thrust his head beneath the bed. The Swede
could hear his muffled voice. "I'd keep it under me piller if it
wasn't for that boy Johnnie. Then there's the old woman- Where is it
now? I never put it twice in the same place.
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