Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA By Booth Tarkington CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE YOUNG MAN WHO CAME TO STAY II. THE STRANGE LADY III. LONESOMENESS IV. THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER V. AT THE PASTURE BARS: ELDER-BUSHES MAY HAVE STINGS VI. JUNE VII. MORNING: “SOME IN RAGS AND SOME IN TAGS AND SOME IN VELVET GOWNS” VIII. GLAD AFTERNOON: THE GIRL BY THE BLUE TENT POLE IX. NIGHT: IT IS BAD LUCK TO SING BEFORE BREAKFAST X. THE COURT-HOUSE BELL XI. JOHN BROWN'S BODY XII. JERRY THE TELLER XIII. JAMES FISBEE XIV. A RESCUE XV. NETTLES XVI. PRETTY MARQUISE XVII. HELEN'S TOAST XVIII. THE TREACHERY OF H. FISBEE XIX. THE GREAT HARKLESS COMES HOME CHAPTER I. THE YOUNG MAN WHO CAME TO STAY There is a fertile stretch of flat lands in Indiana where unagrarian Eastern travellers, glancing from car-windows, shudder and return their eyes to interior upholstery, preferring even the swaying caparisons of a Pullman to the monotony without. The landscape lies interminably level: bleak in winter, a desolate plain of mud and snow; hot and dusty in summer, in its flat lonesomeness, miles on miles with not one cool hill slope away from the sun. The persistent tourist who seeks for signs of man in this sad expanse perceives a reckless amount of rail fence; at intervals a large barn; and, here and there, man himself, incurious, patient, slow, looking up from the fields apathetically as the Limited flies by. Widely separated from each other are small frame railway stations--sometimes with no other building in sight, which indicates that somewhere behind the adjacent woods a few shanties and thin cottages are grouped about a couple of brick stores. On the station platforms there are always two or three wooden packing-boxes, apparently marked for travel, but they are sacred from disturbance and remain on the platform forever; possibly the right train never comes along. They serve to enthrone a few station loafers, who look out from under their hat-brims at the faces in the car-windows with the languid scorn a permanent fixture always has for a transient, and the pity an American feels for a fellow-being who does not live in his town. Now and then the train passes a town built scatteringly about a court-house, with a mill or two humming near the tracks. This is a county-seat, and the inhabitants and the local papers refer to it confidently as “our city.” The heart of the flat lands is a central area called Carlow County, and the county-seat of Carlow is a town unhappily named in honor of its first settler, William Platt, who christened it with his blood. Natives of this place have sometimes remarked, easily, that their city had a population of from five to six thousand souls. It is easy to forgive them for such statements; civic pride is a virtue.