Friar Tuck

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  He shot his hand across an' pulled his gun quick as aflash; but Horace didn't move, he just sat still, with a friendlysmile on his face]

  FRIAR TUCK

  BEING THE CHRONICLES OF THE REVEREND JOHN CARMICHAEL, OF WYOMING, U.S.A.,

  AS SET FORTH AND EMBELLISHED BY HIS FRIEND AND ADMIRER HAPPY HAWKINS

  AND HERE RECORDED BY ROBERT ALEXANDER WASON

  AUTHOR OF HAPPY HAWKINS, THE KNIGHT-ERRANT, ETC.

  ILLUSTRATED BY STANLEY L. WOOD

  NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS

  Copyright, 1912 By Small, Maynard and Company (Incorporated)

  Entered at Stationers' Hall Published, September 7, 1912; Sixth edition, November, 1912

  Many there are who respond to the commonplace, monotonous call ofDuty, and year after year uncomplainingly spend their lives on thetreadmill of Routine; but who still feel in their hearts the call ofthe open road, the music of the stars, the wine of the western wind,and the thrilling abandon of a mad gallop out beyond speed limits andgrass signs to where life has ceased to be a series of cogs and--a manis still a man.

  To the members of this fraternity, whose emblem, hidden behind deepand steadfast eyes, is often missed by man, but always recognized bydogs and horses, I dedicate this book, in the hope that for an hour ortwo it may lift the pressure a little.

  R. A. W.

  JUST BETWEEN YOU AND ME

  Reviews are not infrequently colored by a temporary elevation of thecritic's mind (or a temporary depression of the critic's liver),advertisements are not invariably free from bias; so, perhaps, a fewwords of friendly warning will not be considered impertinent.

  Whosoever is squeamishly sensitive as to the formal technique ofliterary construction will save himself positive irritation byavoiding this book. It is a told, rather than a written story; andthis is a compromise which defies Art and frankly turns to the moreelastic methods of Nature.

  It is supposed to be told by an outdoor man in those delightfulmoments of relaxation when the restraint of self-consciousness isdropped, and the spirit flows forth with a freedom difficult to find,outside the egoism of childhood. This general suggestion is easilytossed out; but the reader must supply the details--the night campswith the pipes sending up incense about the tiny fires, the winterevenings when the still cold lurks at the threshold or the blizzardhowls around the log corners; or those still more elusive moments whenthe riding man shifts his weight to a single thigh, and tells theinner story which has been rising from his open heart to his closedlips for many a long mile.

  Nor will these details suffice to complete the atmosphere in which,bit by bit, the story is told. The greatest charm in the told storycomes direct from the teller; and, toil as we will over printed pages,they obstinately refuse to reproduce the twinkle of bright, deep-seteyes, the whimsical twist which gives character to a commonplace word,the subtile modulations of a mellow voice, the discriminating accentwhich makes a sentence fire when spoken, and only ashes when written;or, hardest of all, those eloquent pauses and illuminating gestureswhich convey a climax neither tongue nor pen dare attempt.

  Happy Hawkins is complex, but the basic foundation of his character issimplicity. His audience is usually a mixed one, men of the range andan Easterner or two, fortunate enough to find the way into hisconfidence. Occasionally he amuses himself by talking to the one groupover the heads of the other; but even then, his own simplicity is butthinly veiled. The phases of life which he holds lightly are exploitedwith riotous recklessness; but whoever would visit his private shrinesmust tread with reverent step.

  His exaggerations are not to deceive, but to magnify--an adjunct toexpression invariably found among primitive people. A brass monkey isreally not sensitive to variations of temperature; and yet, even amongthe civilized, a peculiarly vivid impression is conveyed by statingthat a particular cold snap has had a disintegrating effect upon theintegrity of a brass monkey. There is a philosophy of exaggerationwhich is no kin to falsehood.

  Happy has an eager, hungry, active mind, a mind worthy of carefulcultivation; but forced by circumstances to gather its nourishmentalong lines similar to those adopted by the meek and lowly sponge. Asponge is earnest, patient, and industrious; but, fixed to a submergedstone as it is, it is hampered by limitations which no amount ofpersonal ambition is quite able to overcome. As Happy himself was fondof saying: "The thing 'at sets most strangers again each other, is thefact that each insists on judgin' everything from his own standpoint.A cow-puncher gets the idee that because an Eastener can't sitcomfortable on a bronco when it's sunfishin' or twistin' ends, he jesnachely ain't fit to clutter up the surface o' the earth; while theEastener is inclined to estimate the puncher an' his pony as bein' onthe same intellectual level. If they'd just open up an' examine eachother impartial, they'd mighty soon see 'at the difference in 'em camefrom what they did, instead o' the choice o' their lines o' businessdependin' on their natural make-up. I once had a no-account pintowhich refused to squat back on the rope, and I rejoiced exceeding whenI got seventy-five bucks for him; but the feller I took advantage ofclipped his mane, docked his tail, introduced him into swell-society,and got three hundred for him as a polo pony; which all goes toshow--" (The finish of this is an expansive wave of the hand, a tiltof the head to the right, and an indescribably droll expression.)

  The above is a fair sample of the leisurely way in which Happy Hawkinstells a story. This is not the proper way to tell a story. A storyshould travel an air-line and not stop at the smaller stations, whileHappy prefers to take his bed along on a spare horse and camp outwherever the mood strikes him. The reader who delights in a storywhich speeds along like a limited, will probably be disappointed inthis book; while, on the other hand, the reader who enjoys theintimate association which is lighted with the evening camp fire, runsa risk of finding some relaxation in taking another little trip withHappy Hawkins.

  R. A. W.