Beat the Devil."
"Simme," said one in the crowd, "the sins o' Gantick be wearin' out
the smoky man at a terrible rate."
"Ay," answered another, "His Naughtiness bain't ekal to Gantick."
And this observation was the original of a proverb, still repeated--
"As naughty as Gantick, where the Devil struck for shorter hours."
There was no cruelty that day on Dragon's Moor. All the afternoon
the mad Mayor sat in the sun's eye and gave judgment, while his
mother from time to time wiped away the froth that gathered on his
lips, and moistened them with water from her bottle. From first to
last she never spoke a word, but sat with a horror in her eyes, and
watched the flushed cheeks of this grown-up, bearded son. And all
the afternoon the men of Gantick brayed the Devil into shreds.
I said there was no cruelty on Dragon's Moor that day. But at
sundown the Mayor turned to his mother and said--
"We've been over-hasty, mother. We ought to ha' found out who made
the Devil what he is." At last the sun dropped; a shadow fell on the
brown moors and crept up the mound where the mother and son sat.
The brightness died out of the Mayor's face.
Three minutes after, he flung up his hands and cried, "Mother--my
head, my head!"
She rose, still without a word, pulled down his arms, slipped one
within her own, and led him away to the road. The crowd did not
interfere; they were burying the broken dragon, with shouts and rough
play.
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