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Newspaper Page Text
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. MR. BEACH'S "MENTALS"
e By John Errol.
It was five years--- since Henry
Thornley, then a struggling artist but
now beginning to be known in his
profession, had stayed at Croft Inn.
It was a little placed tucked away in
the heart of the Berkshires, and kept
You Be From Old Man Beach's?"
by an old couple who took boarders
to eke out their scanty means.
And, though old Mr. and Mrs.
, Beach were pleased to see him, there
( was a certain hesitation about their
welcome. He had run down unan
. nounced, trusting to luck to obtain a
room. To his surprise and delight the
, house was nearly empty.
i The only other guest was a charm
ing young lady named Miss Marchant.
"And, though they were introduced
with all informality, Miss Marchant
whose name, Thornley learned, was
Rose did not appear enthusiastic
about becoming acquainted with him.
In fact, on the third morning
Thornton was so disgusted with his
efforts to make her friendship that he
had almost decided to leave for town.
He was strolling along a country
lane in no pleasant mood when he
heard the sound of a galloping horse
behind him. He turned, to see Miss
Marchant seated in the landlord's old
fashioned buggy, while the pony, en
tirely out of hand, was running at full
speed toward the railroad line. And
a train was sounding the in the dis
tance. It was the work of an instant for
Thornley to spring forward and
clutch the pony's bridle. Knocked
down and dragged for some distance
though he was, he brought the trem
bling steed to a standstill just as the
train thundered past
He must have fainted for, when he
awoke, the pony was cropping grass
contentedly by the wayside, while
Miss Rose Marchant kneeled at his
side, trying to revive him.
"You poor, brave man!" she said as
he opened his eyes.
It was not the words, but some
thing in her tone that startled Thorn
ley. Miss Marchant was adadressing
him distinctly as though he were an
inferior. And Thornley did not like it
He rose rather stiffly to his feet.
"Will you permit me to drive you
back?" he asked. "I understand a lit
tle about horses, and my wrist may
be stronger than yours."
He saw Miss Marchant's eyes widen
in either consternation or terror.
"O, no, no!" she cried, and sprang
into the buggy.
Thornley was not used to being
treated with contempt, and his stub
bornness rose. He caught the pony
by the bridle.
"I am sorry my company is so dis
tasteful to you," he said", "but I must
insist. You may come to some harm."
Miss Marchant screamed and