I hated Babe Durgon with a bitter loathing that I had been suppressing for years.

It all went back to the summer of 1884 when I was eleven years old.

Times were hard, and the mill was "down." Father had gone to Pittsburgh to look for work.

I was scouring the town of Sharon to pick up any odd job that would earn me a nickel.

There were no telephones and I used to carry notes between sweethearts, pass show bills for the "opry," and ring a hand-bell for auctions.