Friar Tuck Being the Chronicles of the Reverend John Carmichael, of Wyoming, U. S. A.

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

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

It is supposed to be told by an outdoor man in those delightful moments of relaxation when the restraint of self-consciousness is dropped, and the spirit flows forth with a freedom difficult to find, outside the egoism of childhood. This general suggestion is easily tossed out; but the reader must supply the details—the night camps with the pipes sending up incense about the tiny fires, the winter evenings when the still cold lurks at the threshold or the blizzard howls around the log corners; or those still more elusive moments when the riding man shifts his weight to a single thigh, and tells the inner story which has been rising from his open heart to his closed lips 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 story comes direct from the teller; and, toil as we will over printed pages, they obstinately refuse to reproduce the twinkle of bright, deep-set eyes, the whimsical twist which gives character to a commonplace word, the subtile modulations of a mellow voice, the discriminating accent which makes a sentence fire when spoken, and only ashes when written; or, hardest of all, those eloquent pauses and illuminating gestures which convey a climax neither tongue nor pen dare attempt.

Happy Hawkins is complex, but the basic foundation of his character is simplicity. His audience is usually a mixed one, men of the range and an Easterner or two, fortunate enough to find the way into his confidence. Occasionally he amuses himself by talking to the one group over the heads of the other; but even then, his own simplicity is but thinly veiled. The phases of life which he holds lightly are exploited with riotous recklessness; but whoever would visit his private shrines must tread with reverent step.

His exaggerations are not to deceive, but to magnify—an adjunct to expression invariably found among primitive people. A brass monkey is really not sensitive to variations of temperature; and yet, even among the civilized, a peculiarly vivid impression is conveyed by stating that a particular cold snap has had a disintegrating effect upon the integrity of a brass monkey. There is a philosophy of exaggeration which is no kin to falsehood.

Happy has an eager, hungry, active mind, a mind worthy of careful cultivation; but forced by circumstances to gather its nourishment along lines similar to those adopted by the meek and lowly sponge. A sponge is earnest, patient, and industrious; but, fixed to a submerged stone as it is, it is hampered by limitations which no amount of personal ambition is quite able to overcome. As Happy himself was fond of saying: “The thing ’at sets most strangers again each other, is the fact that each insists on judgin’ everything from his own standpoint. A cow-puncher gets the idee that because an Eastener can’t sit comfortable on a bronco when it’s sunfishin’ or twistin’ ends, he jes nachely ain’t fit to clutter up the surface o’ the earth; while the Eastener is inclined to estimate the puncher an’ his pony as bein’ on the same intellectual level. If they’d just open up an’ examine each other impartial, they’d mighty soon see ’at the difference in ’em came from what they did, instead o’ the choice o’ their lines o’ business dependin’ on their natural make-up. I once had a no-account pinto which refused to squat back on the rope, and I rejoiced exceeding when I got seventy-five bucks for him; but the feller I took advantage of clipped his mane, docked his tail, introduced him into swell-society, and got three hundred for him as a polo pony; which all goes to show—” (The finish of this is an expansive wave of the hand, a tilt of the head to the right, and an indescribably droll expression.)

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

R. A. W.

CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE—THE MEETING CHAPTER TWO—THE BETTIN’ BARBER O’ BOGGS CHAPTER THREE—ABOVE THE DUST CHAPTER FOUR—TY JONES CHAPTER FIVE—THE HOLD-UP CHAPTER SIX—A REMINISCENCE CHAPTER SEVEN—HORACE WALPOLE BRADFORD CHAPTER EIGHT—A CASE OF NERVES CHAPTER NINE—TREATING THE CASE CHAPTER TEN—INJUNS! CHAPTER ELEVEN—BENEFITS OF FASTING CHAPTER TWELVE—A COMPLETE CURE CHAPTER THIRTEEN—AN UNEXPECTED CACHE CHAPTER FOURTEEN—HAPPY’S NEW AMBITION CHAPTER FIFTEEN—TENDER FEELINGS CHAPTER SIXTEEN—THEMIS IN THE ROCKIES CHAPTER SEVENTEEN—KIT MURRAY CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—TESTING THE FRIAR’S NERVE CHAPTER NINETEEN—OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS CHAPTER TWENTY—QUARRELING FOR PEACE CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE—PEACE TO START A QUARREL CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO—A PROGRESSIVE HUNT CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE—A LITTLE GUN-PLAY CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR—NIGHT-PROWLERS CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE—THE TRADE-RAT’S CHRISTMAS-GIFT CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX—A CONTESTED LIFE-TITLE CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN—A STRANGE ALLIANCE CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT—THE HEART OF HAPPY HAWKINS CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE—THE LITTLE TOWN OF BOSCO CHAPTER THIRTY—TY JONES GETS A WOMAN CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE—JUSTICE UNDELAYED CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO—THE FRIAR GOES ALONE CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE—THE FRIAR GIVEN TWO WEEKS CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR—A CROSS FOR EVERY MAN CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE—THE FRIAR A COMPLICATION CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX—A SIDE-TRIP TO SKELTY’S CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN—PROMOTHEUS IN THE TOILS CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT—OLAF RUNS THE BLOCKADE CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE—SKIRMISHES CHAPTER FORTY—AN IRRITATING GRIN CHAPTER FORTY-ONE—THE NIGHT-ATTACK CHAPTER FORTY-TWO—HAND TO HAND CHAPTER FORTY-THREE—THE GIFT OF THE DAWN CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR—TY JONES NODS HIS HEAD CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE—THE LITTLE GUST O’ WIND CHAPTER FORTY-SIX—THE FINAL MOVES