“That noise you heard is a phonograph,” said Keogh. “I sold him that. Mellinger had a graft in this country that was the only thing of its kind in the world. The tooting machine saved it for him once, and he always carried it around with him afterward.” “Tell me about it,” demanded Johnny, betraying interest. “I’m no disseminator of narratives,” said Keogh. “I can use language for purposes of speech; but when I attempt a discourse the words come out as they will, and they may make sense when they strike the atmosphere, or they may not.” “I want to hear about that graft,” persisted Johnny. “You’ve got no right to refuse. I’ve told you all about every man, woman and hitching post in Dalesburg.” “You shall hear it,” said Keogh. “I said my instincts of narrative were perplexed. Don’t you believe it. It’s an art I’ve acquired along with many other of the graces and sciences.” VI THE PHONOGRAPH AND THE GRAFT “What was this graft?” asked Johnny, with the impatience of the great public to whom tales are told. “’Tis contrary to art and philosophy to give you the information,” said Keogh, calmly. “The art of narrative consists in concealing from your audience everything it wants to know until after you expose your favourite opinions on topics foreign to the subject. A good story is like a bitter pill with the sugar coating inside of it. I will begin, if you please, with a horoscope located in the Cherokee Nation; and end with a moral tune on the phonograph. “Me and Henry Horsecollar brought the first phonograph to this country. Henry was a quarter-breed, quarter-back Cherokee, educated East in the idioms of football, and West in contraband whisky, and a gentleman, the same as you and me. He was easy and romping in his ways; a man about six foot, with a kind of rubber-tire movement. Yes, he was a little man about five foot five, or five foot eleven. He was what you would call a medium tall man of average smallness. Henry had quit college once, and the Muscogee jail three times—the last-named institution on account of introducing and selling whisky in the territories. Henry Horsecollar never let any cigar stores come up and stand behind him. He didn’t belong to that tribe of Indians.