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title: 'The Day book. (Chicago, Ill.) 1911-1917, March 12, 1915, NOON EDITION, Image 19',
meta: 'News about Chronicling America - RSS Feed',
Image provided by: University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library, Urbana, IL
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"But what about the tower?" was
"I will take his place," explained
Warne. "I've spent one or two nights
there with him and I understand the
routine fairly welL There's only two
night trains to look out for. I'll at
tend to that and no one will kno.w
Warne hung his head with shame
and remorse as he hastened to the
tower. He felt abased, degraded.
However; he made a vow never to
touch a drop of liquor again. He
reached the tower and sat down, re
inforcing his solemn resolution by
meditating with sincere contrition
over his past careless, useless life.
A train passed at 10:15. He gave
it the clear signal. A special was list
ed for an hour later. It was to be
held until a west train sidetracked.
Warne continued his reflections. He
would be well out of the present pre
dicament with the morning. Then for
a new life. Alas! As the effects of
the liquor he had taken began to wear
away a dull lethargy overtook him,
Lure of fatality, retribution at the'
most critical juncture In his life he
It was with a mighty start, a sharp
shock that Warne awoke. His face
was blanched with terror as he
glanced at the tower clock it was
"The special!" gasped the horrified
Warne, trembling in every limb. Then
came the dim echoes of a commotion
in the direction of the bridge, ham
mering, voices, and among these lat
ter accents of excitement and of dis
tress. Hatless, confused, Warne ran down
from the tower. A man rushed from
the direction of the bridge, townward
bound. He shouted to a person scud
ding by him from the. opposite direc
tion: "Over a hundred killed it's a
After that for nearly a week Warne,
a fugitive, half mad, haunted with
constant terror and remorse, scarce I
knew what he did. He had slept
while a train dashing by unsig
naled had gone down to wreck and
ruin! Oh! he could figure it all out!
A collision at the bridge and his the
blame, his the sinfuL wicked fault
Then Canada, to hide far away
from friends and the law, for was he
not a murderer? And Msie! An anr
guishing memory in his heart o?
Coward, craven, poltroon, Ronald
Warne called himself a score of times'
because he did not go back and facef
the music like a man. Then a rest
less longing for old scenes and back
to a city where he was little known.
All the finer artistic instincts of h8
nature were blunted and inert. Now,;
af-er idleness, abject poverty, he had
It was cheap, unworthy labor for a
man of his former attainments en
larging photographs on the crayoa
line but it occupied him, it kept the
wolf from the door.
It was dull, monotonous work, but
there was even more than he could
do. The lonely room he occupied was
a safe hiding place to which his work
was sent regularly from the firm emr
One day there was a shock. In the
dusk of early evening a veiled lady
was ushered into the poor excuse for
a studio by the landlady.
"My. Wayne," spoke the lattery
"this is a young lady who sent some
work to your firm and you have it.
She is to leave the city tomorrow'
and wishes to hurry up the order, if
A great gasp broke from the art
ist's lips as his visitor cast aside her
"It is a picture of a relative," she
began, and then "Oh, Ronald!"
Yes, fate had thus strangely thrown.
Msie Barker across his path again,
for it was she the same, sweet-faced,
maiden of old, but richly attired. In
her gentle tones was manifest inter
est, the warmth of genuine friend?
ship, perhaps something more.