The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 02Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 02
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
I will not say that the Hanson family was Poor White, because the name
savours of offence; but I may go as far as this--they were, in many
points, not unsimilar to the people usually so called. Rufe himself
combined two of the qualifications, for he was both a hunter and an
amateur detective. It was he who pursued Russel and Dollar, the robbers
of the Lake Port stage, and captured them the very morning after the
exploit, while they were still sleeping in a hayfield. Russel, a drunken
Scotch carpenter, was even an acquaintance of his own, and he expressed
much grave commiseration for his fate. In all that he said and did, Rufe
was grave. I never saw him hurried. When he spoke, he took out his pipe
with ceremonial deliberation, looked east and west, and then, in quiet
tones and few words, stated his business or told his story. His gait was
to match; it would never have surprised you if, at any step, he had
turned round and walked away again, so warily and slowly, and with so
much seeming hesitation did he go about. He lay long in bed in the
morning--rarely, indeed, rose before noon; he loved all games, from
poker to clerical croquet; and in the Toll House croquet ground I have
seen him toiling at the latter with the devotion of a curate. He took an
interest in education, was an active member of the local school-board,
and when I was there, he had recently lost the schoolhouse key. His
waggon was broken, but it never seemed to occur to him to mend it. Like
all truly idle people, he had an artistic eye. He chose the print stuff
for his wife's dresses, and counselled her in the making of a patch-work
quilt, always, as she thought, wrongly, but to the more educated eye,
always with bizarre and admirable taste--the taste of an Indian. With
all this, he was a perfect, unoffending gentleman in word and act. Take
his clay pipe from him, and he was fit for any society but that of
fools. Quiet as he was, there burned a deep, permanent excitement in his
dark blue eyes; and when this grave man smiled, it was like sunshine in
a shady place.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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