THE BATTALION.
17
rough sort of dressing-gown and on his head a cap of the
kind called fez, though much larg'er than the genuine
oriental fez and of knitted texture. This was about ten
o’clock. There were a few others there sitting on stools,
broken-legged chairs, and empty goods-boxes; and Goodrum
sat down with them and joined in their talk.
About half-past ten, on some one’s calling for more
beer, the person in charge stepped back into the room in
rear to get it, when a voice unknown to him asked through
the window if Goodrum were there. To this question an
affirmative reply was given without hesitation, and, on the
voice’s further request that he would ask Goodrum to step
to the door a moment, the bar-tender said, yes, he would,
and on his return to the front room, did so. Goodrum
had not left the door a minute when those within were hor
rified at hearing loud groans outside. They rushed out
and found the old man lying a yard or so from the doorway
in a pool of blood, with a deep gash in his head. Not far
off his cap was picked up and found to be cut through as if
by some sharp instrument.
The old man, though very weak from his wound, was
not insensible, and kept muttering, “wicked dog! wicked
dog! with the hatchet!” He was asked over and over
again, if he knew who had done it, but made no answer,
though each time he opened his mouth as though intend
ing to speak.
He was carried into the restaurant, that being the on
ly house open in the sleepy old town at that time of night,
and Dr. Bates was at once sent for. Meantime, as he kept
saying, “My daughter! my daughter!” Mrs. Brown was