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Buttered Side Down: Stories

2. The Man Who Came Back
There are two ways of doing battle against Disgrace. You may live it down; or you may
run away from it and hide. The first method is heart-breaking, but sure. The second
cannot be relied upon because of the uncomfortable way Disgrace has of turning up at
your heels just when you think you have eluded her in the last town but one.
Ted Terrill did not choose the first method. He had it thrust upon him. After Ted had
served his term he came back home to visit his mother's grave, intending to take the next
train out. He wore none of the prison pallor that you read about in books, because he had
been shortstop on the penitentiary all-star baseball team, and famed for the dexterity with
which he could grab up red-hot grounders. The storied lock step and the clipped hair
effect also were missing. The superintendent of Ted's prison had been one of the reform
kind.
You never would have picked Ted for a criminal. He had none of those interesting
phrenological bumps and depressions that usually are shown to such frank advantage in
the Bertillon photographs. Ted had been assistant cashier in the Citizens' National Bank.
In a mad moment he had attempted a little sleight-of-hand act in which certain Citizens'
National funds were to be transformed into certain glittering shares and back again so
quickly that the examiners couldn't follow it with their eyes. But Ted was unaccustomed
to these now-you-see-it-and-now-you-don't feats and his hand slipped. The trick dropped
to the floor with an awful clatter.
Ted had been a lovable young kid, six feet high, and blonde, with a great reputation as a
dresser. He had the first yellow plush hat in our town. It sat on his golden head like a
halo. The women all liked Ted. Mrs. Dankworth, the dashing widow (why will widows
persist in being dashing?), said that he was the only man in our town who knew how to
wear a dress suit. The men were forever slapping him on the back and asking him to have
a little something.
Ted's good looks and his clever tongue and a certain charming Irish way he had with him
caused him to be taken up by the smart set. Now, if you've never lived in a small town
you will be much amused at the idea of its boasting a smart set. Which proves your
ignorance. The small town smart set is deadly serious about its smartness. It likes to take
six-hour runs down to the city to fit a pair of shoes and hear Caruso. Its clothes are as
well made, and its scandals as crisp, and its pace as hasty, and its golf club as dull as the
clothes, and scandals, and pace, and golf club of its city cousins.
The hasty pace killed Ted. He tried to keep step in a set of young folks whose fathers had
made our town. And all the time his pocketbook was yelling, "Whoa!" The young people
ran largely to scarlet-upholstered touring cars, and country-club doings, and house
parties, as small town younger generations are apt to. When Ted went to high school half
the boys in his little clique spent their after-school hours dashing up and down Main
street in their big, glittering cars, sitting slumped down on the middle of their spines in
 
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