Drawing himself up to his full height, he threw his head back and exclaimed, “I am Colonel David Crockett for a fact. Half-horse, half-alligator, with a little touch of the snapping turtle thrown in. I can shoot straighter, run faster, dive deeper, fight harder—and write better—than any man in the whole country.”

Then, turning his gaze directly at me, he grinned with a ferocious glee. “And I’m here to skin the infernal hide off’n any lowdown cricket who claims different.”

CHAPTER 2

A tense hush—similar to those intervals of electrical stillness that separate the resoundings of a thunderstorm—fell upon the room. Though only of the briefest duration, it afforded me a moment to muster my thoughts.

That the figure looming before me was indeed the celebrated Colonel Crodkett was a fact I had already surmised. Who other than this personage would have taken such evident offense at my critique of his published memoir?—a book almost entirely devoid of either literary merit or narrative interest. A tiresome chronicle of Crockett’s feats as hunter, fighter, and frontier orator, this volume conveyed an impression of its author as little more than an unlettered ruffian, whose proudest achievement was the slaughter of four dozen members of the species Ursus americanus in a single month.

And yet, the defects of this book had by no means diminished its appeal to the vast and vulgar reading public. Thus, Crockett’s autobiography was to be found in quantity among the stock of every bookseller in the country, while works of infinitely greater value languished in total obscurity—a circumstance that could hardly fail to chafe at the heart of any serious writer compelled to pursue his high calling under harsh pecuniary conditions.

I hasten to add that, while my own situation was badly straitened, I had in no way permitted personal sentiment to color my opinions. Adhering to the most rigorous standards, my review had been utterly untainted with those envious feelings to which a less objective critic may have naturally succumbed.

At all events, it was not the unwarranted success of Crockett’s book which now engaged my attention but rather the derisive remark which its author had just directed at me. By implication at least, he had likened me to a common insect—a “lowdown cricket,” in his quaint phraseology. This gibe, I immediately saw, was a somewhat comical linguistic corruption—though whether a deliberate pun or a crude mispronunciation I would not have ventured to say.

Sitting erect in my chair, I unblinkingly met Crockett’s impudent gaze. “I see that you have taken umbrage at my assessment of your autobiographical narrative, Colonel Crockett,” said I. “That, I suppose, is the natural response of any writer whose efforts fail to elicit the esteem of those who render judgment. If the purpose of your visit is to discover the aesthetic principles upon which my opinion was based, I will be happy to accommodate you.”