into the air above his pursuer’s heads. This earned him  the title of “Bang-bang Bosten”. A small group of young men did admit him to then circle and seriously tried to treat him as an ordinary being, as indeed, he had been capable of becoming
    Fortunately, the fatty tumor, in spite of repeated operations, triumphed and cut short what promised to be an unhappy existence.
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    Today was a still, cold October weather day following a white frost. Trees are commencing to change color and thin out, and houses have such a look about them, as if they knew some hideous secret, or were in despair. Tremendous silences settle down over the town at times. Great dramas are expected at any moment, but no dramas are forthcoming. It is now that railroad whistles jar the atmosphere; the freight whistles sound like some wild beasts in despair.[i]