MR. SWIDDLER'S FLIP-FLAP
by Ambrose Bierce
Jerome Bowles (said the gentleman called Swiddler)
was to be hanged on Friday, the ninth of November,
at five o'clock in the afternoon. This was to occur
at the town of Flatbroke, where he was then in
prison. Jerome was my friend, and naturally I
differed with the jury that had convicted him as
to the degree of guilt implied by the conceded
fact that he had shot an Indian without direct
provocation. Ever since his trial I had been
endeavoring to influence the Governor of the
State to grant a pardon; but public sentiment was
against me, a fact which I attributed partly to
the innate pigheadness of the people, and partly
to the recent establishment of churches and
schools which had corrupted the primitive notions
of a frontier community. But I labored hard and
unremittingly by all manner of direct and indirect
means during the whole period in which Jerome lay
under sentence of death; and on the very morning
of the day set for the execution, the Governor
sent for me, and saying "he did not purpose being
worried by my importunities all winter," handed
me the document which he had so often refused.
Armed with the precious paper, I flew to the
telegraph office to send a dispatch to the
Sheriff at Flatbroke. I found the operator
locking the door of the office and putting up
the shutters. I pleaded in vain; he said he
was going to see the hanging, and really had
no time to send my message. I must explain
that Flatbroke was fifteen miles away; I was
then at Swan Creek, the State capital.
The operator being inexorable, I ran to the
railroad station to see how soon there would
be a train for Flatbroke. The station man,
with cool and polite malice, informed me that
all the employees of the road had been given
a holiday to see Jerome Bowles hanged, and
had already gone by an early train; that
there would be no other train till the next
day.
I was now furious, but the station man quietly
turned me out, locking the gates. Dashing to
the nearest livery stable, I ordered a horse.
Why prolong the record of my disappointment?
Not a horse could I get in that town; all had
been engaged weeks before to take people to
the hanging. So everybody said, at least,
though I now know there was a rascally
conspiracy to defeat the ends of mercy, for
the story of the pardon had got abroad.
It was now ten o'clock. I had only seven hours
in which to do my fifteen miles afoot; but I
was an excellent walker and thoroughly angry;
there was no doubt of my ability to make the
distance, with an hour to spare. The railway
offered the best chance; it ran straight as a
string across a level, treeless prairie, whereas
the highway made a wide detour by way of another
town.
I took to the track like a Modoc on the war
path. Before I had gone a half-mile I was
overtaken by "That Jim Peasley," as he was
called in Swan Creek, an incurable practical
joker, loved and shunned by all who knew him.
He asked me as he came up if I were "going to
the show." Thinking it was best to dissemble,
I told him I was, but said nothing of my
intention to stop the performance; I thought
it would be a lesson to That Jim to let him
walk fifteen miles for nothing, for it was
clear that he was going, too. Still, I wished
he would go on ahead or drop behind. But he
could not very well do the former, and would
not do the latter; so we trudged on together.
It was a cloudy day and very sultry for that
time of the year. The railway stretched away
before us, between its double row of telegraph
poles, in rigid sameness, terminating in a
point at the horizon. On either hand the
disheartening monotony of the prairie was
unbroken.
I thought little of these things, however, for
my mental exaltation was proof against the
depressing influence of the scene. I was about
to save the life of my friend--to restore a
crack shot to society. Indeed I scarcely thought
of That Jim, whose heels were grinding the hard
gravel close behind me, except when he saw fit
occasionally to propound the sententious, and
I thought derisive, query, "Tired?" Of course
I was, but I would have died rather than confess
it.
We had gone in this way, about half the
distance, probably, in much less than half
the seven hours, and I was getting my second
wind, when That Jim again broke the silence.
"Used to bounce in a circus, didn't you?"
This was quite true! in a season of pecuniary
depression I had once put my legs into my
stomach--had turned my athletic accomplishments
to financial advantage. It was not a pleasant
topic, and I said nothing. That Jim persisted.
"Wouldn't like to do a feller a somersault now,
eh?"
The mocking tongue of this jeer was intolerable;
the fellow evidently considered me "done up,"
so taking a short run I clapped my hands to my
thighs and executed as pretty a flip-flap as
ever was made without a springboard! At the
moment I came erect with my head still spinning,
I felt That Jim crowd past me, giving me a twirl
that almost sent me off the track. A moment
later he had dashed ahead at a tremendous pace,
laughing derisively over his shoulder as if he
had done a remarkably clever thing to gain the
lead.
I was on the heels of him in less than ten
minutes, though I must confess the fellow
could walk amazingly. In half an hour I had
run past him, and at the end of the hour,
such was my slashing gait, he was a mere
black dot in my rear, and appeared to be
sitting on one of the rails, thoroughly used
up.
Relieved of Mr. Peasley, I naturally began
thinking of my poor friend in the Flatbroke
jail, and it occurred to me that something
might happen to hasten the execution. I knew
the feeling of the country against him, and
that many would be there from a distance who
would naturally wish to get home before
nightfall. Nor could I help admitting to
myself that five o'clock was an unreasonably
late hour for a hanging. Tortured with these
fears, I unconsciously increased my pace with
every step, until it was almost a run. I stripped
off my coat and flung it away, opened my collar,
and unbuttoned my waistcoat. And at last, puffing
and steaming like a locomotive engine, I burst
into a thin crowd of idlers on the outskirts
of the town, and flourished the pardon crazily
above my head, yelling, "Cut him down!--cut
him down!"
Then, as every one stared in blank amazement
and nobody said anything, I found time to look
about me, marveling at the oddly familiar appearance
of the town. As I looked, the houses, streets,
and everything seemed to undergo a sudden and
mysterious transposition with reference to the
points of the compass, as if swinging round on
a pivot; and like one awakened from a dream I
found myself among accustomed scenes. To be
plain about it, I was back again in Swan Creek,
as right as a trivet!
It was all the work of That Jim Peasley. The
designing rascal had provoked me to throw a
confusing somersault, then bumped against me,
turning me half round, and started on the back
track, thereby inciting me to hook it in the
same direction. The cloudy day, the two lines
of telegraph poles, one on each side of the
track, the entire sameness of the landscape
to the right and left--these had all conspired
to prevent my observing that I had put about.
When the excursion train returned from Flatbroke
that evening the passengers were told a little
story at my expense. It was just what they needed
to cheer them up a bit after what they had seen;
for that flip-flap of mine had broken the neck
of Jerome Bowles seven miles away!
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
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