(THE) MATCH, a story suggested by Grant Wallace's account of the great care with which he once had to collect chapparal twigs in order not to risk having no fire --- .... In my story; one of the Joralemon sort, perhaps, a tramp is kicked off a flat car in the less populated part of the northern Minnesoat. Ugly brakeman and he'd sassed him. But sympathy with hobo's pluck and eagerness. Well, there's no shelter discernible; no light even; its growing dark, and cold with Minnesota colness. Man tears up part --- reserving part to read -- of a newspaper; carelessly collects a few twigs etc. and, being quite used to roughing it, decides to make the best of it a in a deserted n cowshed with the aid of some rotting old gunny sacks or something of the kind. Then, reaching into his pocket for a match, he finds that he has only one! Then the story; the growing fear with which he collects fuel; in order to make sure that this one match will go. He developes cold feet and each time shrikns back in fear from quite risking so much as to kindle the last match. Fonally cdrowsy with the cold, he rests for a minute --- and gets up only to settle down --- and freeze to death. The meally dramatic car of the story is ib t e scene next morning. warm comfy farmer find frig man; finds the match while asking for papers, holds it while charting & with it lits a cigard "Yet this farmer ??? pocket - fall"???
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