By Ambrose Bierce
I
ONE DOES NOT ALWAYS EAT WHAT IS ON THE TABLE
By the light of a tallow candle which had been placed on one end of a rough
table a man was reading something written in a book. It was an old account book,
greatly worn; and the writing was not, apparently, very legible, for the man
sometimes held the page close to the flame of the candle to get a stronger light
on it. The shadow of the book would then throw into obscurity a half of the
room, darkening a number of faces and figures; for besides the reader, eight
other men were present. Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent,
motionless, and the room being small, not very far from the table. By extending
an arm any one of them could have touched the eighth man, who lay on the table,
face upward, partly covered by a sheet, his arms at his sides. He was dead.
The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke; all seemed to
be waiting for something to occur; the dead man only was without expectation.
From the blank darkness outside came in, through the aperture that served for a
window, all the ever unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness—the long
nameless note of a distant coyote; the stilly pulsing thrill of tireless insects
in trees; strange cries of night birds, so different from those of the birds of
day; the drone of great blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of
small sounds that seem always to have been but half heard when they have
suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an indiscretion. But nothing of all this was
noted in that company; its members were not overmuch addicted to idle interest
in matters of no practical importance; that was obvious in every line of their rugged
faces—obvious even in the dim light of the single candle. They were evidently
men of the vicinity—farmers and woodsmen.
The person reading was a trifle different; one would have said of him that he
was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that in his attire which attested a
certain fellowship with the organisms of his environment. His coat would hardly
have passed muster in San Francisco; his foot-gear was not of urban origin, and
the hat that lay by him on the floor (he was the only one uncovered) was such
that if one had considered it as an article of mere personal adornment he would
have missed its meaning. In countenance the man was rather prepossessing, with
just a hint of sternness; though that he may have assumed or cultivated, as
appropriate to one in authority. For he was a coroner. It was by virtue of his
office that he had possession of the book in which he was reading; it had been
found among the dead man's effects—in his cabin, where the inquest was now
taking place.
When the coroner had finished reading he put the book into his breast pocket.
At that moment the door was pushed open and a young man entered. He, clearly,
was not of mountain birth and breeding: he was clad as those who dwell in
cities. His clothing was dusty, however, as from travel. He had, in fact, been
riding hard to attend the inquest.
The coroner nodded; no one else greeted him.
"We have waited for you," said the coroner. "It is necessary to have done
with this business to-night."
The young man smiled. "I am sorry to have kept you," he said. "I went away,
not to evade your summons, but to post to my newspaper an account of what I
suppose I am called back to relate."
The coroner smiled.
"The account that you posted to your newspaper," he said, "differs, probably,
from that which you will give here under oath."
"That," replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, "is as you
please. I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent. It was not written as
news, for it is incredible, but as fiction. It may go as a part of my testimony
under oath."
"But you say it is incredible."
"That is nothing to you, sir, if I also swear that it is true."
The coroner was silent for a time, his eyes upon the floor. The men about the
sides of the cabin talked in whispers, but seldom withdrew their gaze from the
face of the corpse. Presently the coroner lifted his eyes and said: "We will
resume the inquest."
The men removed their hats. The witness was sworn.
"What is your name?" the coroner asked.
"William Harker."
"Age?"
"Twenty-seven."
"You knew the deceased, Hugh Morgan?"
"Yes."
"You were with him when he died?"
"Near him."
"How did that happen—your presence, I mean?"
"I was visiting him at this place to shoot and fish. A part of my purpose,
however, was to study him and his odd, solitary way of life. He seemed a good
model for a character in fiction. I sometimes write stories."
"I sometimes read them."
"Thank you."
"Stories in general—not yours."
Some of the jurors laughed. Against a somber background humor shows high
lights. Soldiers in the intervals of battle laugh easily, and a jest in the
death chamber conquers by surprise.
"Relate the circumstances of this man's death," said the coroner. "You may
use any notes or memoranda that you please."
The witness understood. Pulling a manuscript from his breast pocket he held
it near the candle and turning the leaves until he found the passage that he
wanted began to read.
II
WHAT MAY HAPPEN IN A FIELD OF WILD OATS
" . . . The sun had hardly risen when we left the house. We were looking for
quail, each with a shotgun, but we had only one dog. Morgan said that our best
ground was beyond a certain ridge that he pointed out, and we crossed it by a
trail through the chaparral. On the other side was comparatively level
ground, thickly covered with wild oats. As we emerged from the chaparral
Morgan was but a few yards in advance. Suddenly we heard, at a little distance
to our right and partly in front, a noise as of some animal thrashing about in
the bushes, which we could see were violently agitated.
"'We've started a deer,' I said. 'I wish we had brought a rifle.'
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