to heaven, he knelt in prayer.
"Send back this demon and give me a chance to return the same cruel punishment it has given Father. As a man, unaided by divine power, I cannot cope with this demon. Give me this aid, I beg you!"
But there was no response from the empty blue heavens, and the Spirit prudently kept silent.
Mr. Bell never left the house again. Dr. Hopson prescribed various medicines; we are not told what kind, nor do we know what other methods, if any, the physician employed. In all fairness to Dr. Hopson, we must remember that medical knowledge was extremely primitive. There was very little he could do, and by this time the doctor, the family, and John Bell himself had probably resigned themselves to the will of God—or the will of something. The Spirit claimed full responsibility; it continued to crow and congratulate itself, and revile "old Jack Bell."
Sick as he was, Mr. Bell had tried to keep up his old habit of being the first to rise in the morning. On December nineteenth he did not waken. The family was glad to see him getting some rest. His wife slipped quietly out of the room to superintend the preparation of breakfast, and John and Drewry went to feed the stock—the first order of business on a working farm, never to be neglected in spite of illness or bad weather.
After breakfast the boys looked in on their father again. He was still asleep. But alarm replaced their relief as they looked closer. Mr. Bell was not sleeping, he was in a coma, and all attempts to rouse him failed.
The doctor was sent for, and John, who had been in charge of administering his father's medicine, went running to the cupboard. When he opened it, "The three bottles of medicine which I had been giving him were gone. In their place was a dark bottle containing a brown smoky fluid which I had never seen before."
By this time the family's closest neighbors and friends had arrived, Frank Miles and John Johnson among them. John called them to look at the mysterious bottle. None of them had seen it before.
"The damned witch did this," Frank exclaimed with his customary bluntness.
The Spirit promptly confirmed the accusations. "I did it. Old Jack will never get up from that bed again. I have got him this time!"
Dr. Hopson arrived and joined the others at Mr. Bell's bedside. He shook his head gravely. John showed him the bottle. As he examined it, the Spirit cried out, "I put it there, and gave Old Jack a big dose out of it last night while he was fast asleep, which fixed him."
"I certainly did not leave it here," the doctor muttered. "Nor can I tell what it contains. Perhaps we should test it."
The test was unfortunately typical of the medical procedures of that day and that remote region. One of the barn cats was caught, and a straw was dipped into the brown liquid and wiped across its tongue.
The cat jumped and whirled over a few times, stretched out, kicked, and died.
In a passion of anger and frustration, John threw the fatal bottle into the fire. A flash of light and a blue flame marked its destruction.
As the sun declined, John Bell's family sat by his bed watching helplessly as he sank deeper into unconsciousness. Their sad vigil was enlivened by the loathsome voice singing vulgar songs and preening itself on its crime. Early in the morning of December twentieth, two months to the day since the attack at the hog pen, John Bell breathed his last.
His funeral drew the largest crowd ever seen at such occasions in Robertson County. The air was bright and crisp that morning, only a few days before Christmas. John Bell's grave had been dug on the hill under the tall cedars, beside the resting place of his son Benjamin. Mrs. Bell's somber black gown and muffling widow's veil absorbed the chilly sunlight. As the mourners turned away, the clods of earth falling onto the coffin rang hard as stones. Then, from the empty air, came the Spirit's epitaph on the man it had murdered.
"Row me up some brandy, O!" it sang, and
"Send back this demon and give me a chance to return the same cruel punishment it has given Father. As a man, unaided by divine power, I cannot cope with this demon. Give me this aid, I beg you!"
But there was no response from the empty blue heavens, and the Spirit prudently kept silent.
Mr. Bell never left the house again. Dr. Hopson prescribed various medicines; we are not told what kind, nor do we know what other methods, if any, the physician employed. In all fairness to Dr. Hopson, we must remember that medical knowledge was extremely primitive. There was very little he could do, and by this time the doctor, the family, and John Bell himself had probably resigned themselves to the will of God—or the will of something. The Spirit claimed full responsibility; it continued to crow and congratulate itself, and revile "old Jack Bell."
Sick as he was, Mr. Bell had tried to keep up his old habit of being the first to rise in the morning. On December nineteenth he did not waken. The family was glad to see him getting some rest. His wife slipped quietly out of the room to superintend the preparation of breakfast, and John and Drewry went to feed the stock—the first order of business on a working farm, never to be neglected in spite of illness or bad weather.
After breakfast the boys looked in on their father again. He was still asleep. But alarm replaced their relief as they looked closer. Mr. Bell was not sleeping, he was in a coma, and all attempts to rouse him failed.
The doctor was sent for, and John, who had been in charge of administering his father's medicine, went running to the cupboard. When he opened it, "The three bottles of medicine which I had been giving him were gone. In their place was a dark bottle containing a brown smoky fluid which I had never seen before."
By this time the family's closest neighbors and friends had arrived, Frank Miles and John Johnson among them. John called them to look at the mysterious bottle. None of them had seen it before.
"The damned witch did this," Frank exclaimed with his customary bluntness.
The Spirit promptly confirmed the accusations. "I did it. Old Jack will never get up from that bed again. I have got him this time!"
Dr. Hopson arrived and joined the others at Mr. Bell's bedside. He shook his head gravely. John showed him the bottle. As he examined it, the Spirit cried out, "I put it there, and gave Old Jack a big dose out of it last night while he was fast asleep, which fixed him."
"I certainly did not leave it here," the doctor muttered. "Nor can I tell what it contains. Perhaps we should test it."
The test was unfortunately typical of the medical procedures of that day and that remote region. One of the barn cats was caught, and a straw was dipped into the brown liquid and wiped across its tongue.
The cat jumped and whirled over a few times, stretched out, kicked, and died.
In a passion of anger and frustration, John threw the fatal bottle into the fire. A flash of light and a blue flame marked its destruction.
As the sun declined, John Bell's family sat by his bed watching helplessly as he sank deeper into unconsciousness. Their sad vigil was enlivened by the loathsome voice singing vulgar songs and preening itself on its crime. Early in the morning of December twentieth, two months to the day since the attack at the hog pen, John Bell breathed his last.
His funeral drew the largest crowd ever seen at such occasions in Robertson County. The air was bright and crisp that morning, only a few days before Christmas. John Bell's grave had been dug on the hill under the tall cedars, beside the resting place of his son Benjamin. Mrs. Bell's somber black gown and muffling widow's veil absorbed the chilly sunlight. As the mourners turned away, the clods of earth falling onto the coffin rang hard as stones. Then, from the empty air, came the Spirit's epitaph on the man it had murdered.
"Row me up some brandy, O!" it sang, and
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