Catoctin clarion. [volume], December 18, 1913, Image 1

About Catoctin clarion. [volume] (Mechanicstown, Md.) 1871-1940

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Established By Wm. Need, 1870.
VOLUME XLIII.
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FHEDEHICIv HAIL HOAD
Thurmont Division
Schedule In Elfect Novemoer 18. 1913.
All trains Daily unless specifi'd
Leave Frederick Arrive Thurmont.
5 15 a. m (5.0) a in.
7.31 a. 8.16 •
10.10 a. in. Sunday Only 10 66 a. m. |
10 Id a. m. Except Sunday 11.35 a. m.
1.30 p 2.16 p. m.
4.10 p. 4.5_> p m.
4 50 p. m 5.3> p. m.
6.10 p. m 650 p. in.
10.03 P- m... W-48 P- m -
Leave Thurmont. Arrive Frederick.
6.10 a. 6 54 a. m
8.25 a. 9 OS a. m
11.55 a. m '2 3d a. m
2.20 a. 3 02 n. m.
5.10 p. 5.n5 p. m
6,15 p. 6-59 p m.
7.00 p. 7.49 p. m
11.00 p. H. 41 P- na.
Western Maryland R. R.
Schedule In Elfect November 16, 1913
GOING WEST.
3J -*a C *3
Do m § • )_ £ m
>c > P > u > *5 ds
Ms 3 'ul> -3 u o
** ac a B h'S
<JS <<3
3J H 33 O
•3.55 am 6.05 am 17 31am 110.45 am
8 10 11.01 arl2.3spm
10.00 11.51 lei 20 3.45 pm B.loam
4.00 pm 6 12pm ar7.40
9.00 10.55 1e12.16 2.40 9.00 pm
GOING EAST.
TS P £ g
dm ® 3 ® 2
>a > u > u t S .-S
"la p " ac HZ
►Jri J 3 J j < M
w u S H M
*8 25am 2.28a,n 5.05 am 6 05am 7.58 am
•7.00 8.22 10.30
t 7.15 10 25 11.40 2.25 pm
•B.oopm 1.27 pm 4.00 pm 5,06 pm 6.55
•4.15 5.42 8.27
•Daily. tDaily except Sunday.
The train leaving Biltim ire at 10 a.m.
arrives at Pittsburg at 8.05 p. m., and
the one leaving Baltimore at 9 p. m., ar
rives at Pittsburg 7.20 a.m , e.astrn time.
The through trains from Chicago to
Baltimore leave Pittsburg at 9.50 p. m.,
and 9.15 a. m., eastern time.
Children Cry
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july 16 tf
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OF FREDERICK COUNTY,
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The Catoctin Clarion.
I NOT AT ALL DIFFICULT I
►!< $
$ &
V V
By GRACE SCHEVEBS. $
►J,___________
All the girls, when speaking of Aller
Dukes, Invariably said; “Well, isn’t
he the limit?” They did not employ
the term in Its usual sense, for their
admiration of young Dukes was
boundless. What they had in mind
was his infinite capacity for keeping
still.
He never talked unless he had
something to say, and when he had
said It ceased talking. There was
sound philosophy in his method, but
the average man has not the strength
of mind to follow it out—he keeps up
a conversational twitter because he
has a horror of silence. It gets on
his nerves. Aller Dukes did not seem
to possess any nerves. At any rate,
he did not flutter an eyelash at whole
streaks of stillness. The odd part
of it was that this habit did not seem
to shut him off behind any remote
barrier —he had the faculty of making
himself more Intimately one of the
party by just listening than did the
others by reams of gabble.
He never by any chance gossiped
about himself.
Most people are so egotistical that
they think tho public Is feverishly In
terested In their trips to Europe, pro
jected or past, their new clothes at
the tailor's or dressmaker’s, their
servants’ shortcomings and the money
they are making.
Aller Dukes seemed wrapped In im
penetrable modesty. Any information
you got out of him relating to him
self |,ad to be pried and blasted loose
and he clearly regarded the operation
with disfavor.
Naturally he was fascinating to
girls, because he gave them so much
to talk and wonder about. When he
took one of them to a party she had
all the sensations of starting on a
trip Into remotest Africa, because
there alw-ays was the possibility of
making Aller Dukes talk.
Nobody has done it yet, but while
there is life there is hope. The effect
of Aller’s silence was to make other
people talk, and resolve as they would
not to chatter and unfold their best
secrets to him, they always did.
When he began taking Ethel Awl
ing around more than all the other
girls excitement ran high.
"Suppose,” said Ethel's best friend.
"Suppose he should want to propose
to you—he’d never be able to waste
words enough to lead up to it I
what’s he going to do? A girl simply
has to be sort of courted!”
“I’m not worrying,” said Ethel, and
tossed her head. “He’s just a good
friend and doesn’t care a bit about
me!”
But it was observed that she
blushed when she said It.
Perhaps Ethel herself wondered as
had her best friend. She and Aller
got along famously together because
she could talk six miles an hour and
she always took such a vivid interest
In life that she had plenty to say. Not
that Aller maintained a sphinxlike si
lence—when she eonsidered the mat
ter It seemed that he always said
things to the point. Still,as her best
friend had pointed out, a girl simply
has to be courted.
And the young man had wasted no
time in pretty speeches.
Before she realized it, Ethel Awllng
was consumed with curiosity as to
whether Aller Dukes really liked her
a good deal and how he possibly could
convey the idea to her if he did like
her.
Deep down in her heart she was
hoping that he did.
Several others had told Ethel that
they cared for her, and as she re
viewed the manner in which they had
done so none of the methods em
ployed appealed to her as at all at
tractive. To be sure, they had been
graceful enough, clever enough, artis
tic enough, and yet she had sent the
young men all away. How, she pain
fully wondered, could silent Allei
Dukes tell her of his admiration, sup
posing he should want to, so that it
would impress her? She disliked
very much the idea of not being im
pressed sufficiently to say yes. By
which one may judge that Ethel was
considerably in love with the silent
chap.
To her self she insisted that she
did not care a bit.
Most unexpectedly one evening, Just
as they were going down the stops
on their way to a party, not when
they were returning, with moonlight
and the rest of the conventional set
ting, Aller Dukes turned his head
toward Ethel a moment and then
said; “Will you marry me, Ethel?”
It took him exactly from the third
to the fifth step to say It. And Ethel,
after an instant, heard herself saying
calmly from the sixth step to the
seventh: "Yes, Aller.” And then
they were walking on the level side
walk.
Some time later Ethel said re
proachfully: "That was an awfully
funny way you proposed to me!”
Aller looked surprised. “I don’t
see why,” he said. "I wanted to know
something and what was there to do
but ask you what I wanted to
know?”
“Anyhow, I’m satisfied!” Ethel told
him.
Lost Golf Ball.
Tommy went home one day with a
nice new golf ball.
“Look at the lost ball I found on the
links, father,” he said.
“But are you sure, Tommy,” said Mr.
Traddles, “that It was a lost ball?”
"Oh, yes,” said the boy. "I saw the
man and his caddy looking for it." —
London Opinion.
THURMONT, FREDERICK COUNTY, MD., THURSDAY, DECEMBER 18, 1913.
* ft *
0000000000000000-3>
ALL THERE WAS TO II
By GRACE KERRIGAN.
When Miss Lizzie Carford entered
upon her duties us stenographer and
typewriter with Ames & Co. she didn t
look for any social side of it. There
couldn't be any in a business ollice.
She would ask for the respect that is
due any girl or woman, no matter
whether she has money and social
standing or must earn her living
Ames & Co. were middle-aged men
and both married. Both were workers,
and both quiet men. They had a small
business, but a paying one, and their
bookkeeper was also their cashier. He
was a young man of twenty-four, and
the newcomer was not favorably im
pressed with him. It is none of the
stenographer s business whether the
bookkeeper in his den is young or old —
good looking or ugly—social or surly.
Neither Mr. Adams nor his partner
were good at dictating, and they pul
tho work off on tho bookkeeper.
Again, they would be the only occu
pants of the business for hours at a
lime, and If he was surly and gruff It
would make things lonesome.
Mr. Waller Bardsley, the said hook
keeper, was in his den when Miss Cur
ford called and was hired. There hud
not been a girl In that office in the five
years he had been there, but he never
turned from his desk to look. She had
a pleasant voice, but he didn't seem to
hear it After she had gone, and he
was told by Ames that site was to take
die place, his only comment was:
“Very well, sir.”
She was waiting for him next morn
ing when he arrived.
Mr. Bardsley did not bow. He did not
Introduce himself. He did not look at
her.
He picked up the morning mall and
carried it into his dt-n and the girl was
left for half an hour to twiddle her
thumbs. Then he came out and sat
down by the machine and started off
with:
“Mr. 11. O. Wharton—Dear Sir: Your
letter of the 9th inst. at hand.”
Miss Lizzie picked up pad and pen
cil and wrote. There were five letters
in all. He never paused to say "com
ma,” “period” or "paragraph, ’ but
drove straight ahead, and when fin
ished got up without a word and went
back to his den. She typed the let
ters and laid them on the desk and
when Mr. Ames came in they were
signed and seat out to bo mailed.
“Very well done,” said Mr. Ames,
and that's all there was to It.
At noon Mr. Bardsley went out to
lunch.
When he had disappeared Miss Liz
zie went out to lunch. She was back
first, and when he came in she did not
look at him nor he at her. He couUl
have said; “Nice day, Miss Carford'.”
And she could have answered: “Yes.
very nice ”
But he didn’t say and she didn't say.
From her place by the machine she
could look into the bookkeeper's den
and she his back—always his back
After she had surveyed that back for
three mortal hours, and could have
drawn a war-map of every line and
wrinkle? she turned and looked oui
upon the root of the adjoining build
ing. There was a clothes-line stretch
ed across it, and on that line hung an
old red flannel shirt. It Happed In the
breeze. It fluttered like a wounded
bird. There were moments when it
almost ceased to breathe, as it were.
That shirt when new was a blood
red in color. It was now faded to tho
color of an old brick house in Tarry
town —the one where General Wash
ington once stopped after licking the
British to ask the owner for the tem
porary loan of his boot-jack. The
shirt had four patches on It to cover
four holes. ’l’he buttons were missing
and with increasing age it had shrunk.
What was the romance —what the mys
tery of the old red shirt?
“Why, I thought you'd gone.”
It was the voice of Mr. Ames at her
elbow. The girl had fallen asleep.
Tho bookkeeper had departed without
awakening her. Wasn’t that the trick
of a mean man?
Each day for the next month was
like every other day. Outside of the
dictation not ten words passed be
tween the stenographer and the book
keeper. They came and went with
out noticing each other. It vexed
and annoyed her for the first week
and then she said to herself:
“He’s probably mad because some
one he recommended wasn’t taken
on Instead of me, but if he thinks
he’ll get rid of me by playing the
bear he’ll find himself mistaken. I’m
real glad to find one man In the city
who Isn’t smirking around and brag
ging how smart he Is!”
Then a son of Mr. Ames’ partner
came home on his vacation from col
lege. He was a very fresh young
man. He wanted to be a high roller
but his father was tight with money
matters. He hung about the office a
good deal, though neither the book
keeper nor the stenographer was
more than barely civil to him.
At the end of a week, Miss Lizzie
noticed that the two partners were
anxious and perturbed and held con
sultations. Some excitement also
seemed to have got hold of the book
keeper. There were three days of
this, and then he disappeared and
Mr. Ames took his place. It wasn’t
for the girl to ask why, but she nat
urally wondered over It. The rou
tine continued about the saihe. At
noon all went to lunch. The door of
the bookkeeper’s den, In which was the
safe, was locked at such times.
At noon one day, Instead of going
out to lunch, the stenographer munch
ed a big apple and burled her nose
in a book she had brought down. ▲
A Family Newspaper- Independent in Politics—Devoted to Literature, Local and General News.
quarter of an hour uad passed
the door briskly opened and the fresh
young man entered. He looked to
wards the den but not around the
room. When he was sure no one
was inside he produced a key and
entered the den. He wan inside not
over two minutes, and when he re
appeared he was stuffing greenbacks
into his pockets. He locked the door
behind him and then passed out of
the office without having glimpsed the
watcher.
For a moment the girl reasoned
that be was the son of the partner,
and had a right to go and come. Then
she scented something wrong and put
on her hat and hurried down to the
street. The young man was just en
tering an auto in which sat waiting
another young man.
"Get it?” queried the latter.
"You bet!”
"How much?"
“Two hundred!”
"Gully! We'll have a devil of a
time! ”
The stenographer was in the of
fice when Mr. Ames returned from
his lunch, He smiled amiably and
passed Into the den, but a moment
later reappeared, white-faced and
trembling. He looked at the girl and
tried to speak, but could only slam
mer.
“Have you missed some money?’’
she asked.
"Y-yes!”
"How much?”
“Two hundred dollars! I counted
it out just before going to lunch.
Were you out to lunch?”
“Not today."
"Then—then—”
"Then I saw it taken! Had you
missed money before?”
"Three times Didn't you know
that was why we turned away Mr.
liardsley? We couldn't say he em
bezzled it but we were forced to sus
pect.”
"As that son of your partner took
the money today he probably took
the others. He has a key to the den.
1 sat right over there and saw him
operate."
The partner was called In and In
formed of what had occurred, and to
gether the two men took up the chase.
The young man was run down and he
made no denials. In fact, he laid the
blame all on his father.
Miss Lizzie took the halfday off
In going home she saw Mr. Hardsley
in a doorway. He looked at her but
did not bow She walked straight up
to him and said: "You are the big
gest cad and snob In the state, but
you come along with me!"
He followed her to her homo with
out asking a question, and when they
were seated she asked: "Were you
miffed because they gave me the
place?"
"Why, I wms glad of It!” he ex
claimed.
"Hut you never spoke to me."
“You didn’t ask me to lunch."
”I—l dasn’t!"
"I was afraid you'd snub me!"
"Couldn't you have given me a good
morning?"
"I wanted to awful bad. but —but—"
Mr. liardsley dared not look her in
the face He was blushing like a
maiden over a marriage proposal He
was fumbling his hands—and moving
his feet as if he would run away.
"1 see,” mused the girl as she stud
ied him. "I have found a shy man—
the only one in the world! That
changes everything You will get
your place back, and in time —if you
are not too shy—”
And in time she became the wife of
a shy man, and he was not exhibited
at a museum.
(Copyright, 191.1. by the McClure News
paper Syndicate.)
FORCED TO DECLINE OFFER
Distinguished Professor Must Have
Thought He Was a Victim of
Leap Year.
An undergraduate at liaillol having
fallen ill, his sister came to nurse
him, and the master of Hulliol paying
many visits to the young man’s rooms
frequently met the sister. There were
numerous other visitors during the pa
tient’s convalescence, and the young
lady was greatly attracted by, and
finally became engaged to, one of her
brother’s friends.
When her brother recovered and
the young lady was about to depart
the master came to say “Good-by ”
She thanked him warmly for his kind
ness to her brother, and concluded by
saying that she had a great favor to
ask of him. The master said that he
would bo delighted.
Without thinking that her remark
was capable of two interpretations,
she replied at once, "I should like you
to marry me,” meaning that he would
officiate at the ceremony.
The master, in a state of great agi
tatlon, hurried from" the room, ex
claiming, “My dear young lady, it
would be utter misery for both of
us!” —London Answers.
Waitress Had Not Aged.
He had Just reached the philosophi
cal stage when he slipperd into a res
taurant between bars for a bit to eat.
He ordered. Then he sat staring ahead,
quietly thoughtful in expreselon, and
waited.
It is admitted he did some waiting,
too. What happened to his order
couldn’t be understood outside the pe
culiar convolutions of a restaurant
kitchen, but he spent half an hour sit
ting there staring ahead of him.
At last it came. As the waitress pul
the order before him, he started from
hie deep study, as if he had forgotten
he had an order coming. Then, look
Ing up at the fair transporter of edl
hies, he said:
"You don’t look a day older!”—Ev
erybody’s Magazio*
I BORROWING A BOOK |
8 8
V V
;♦{ By NELLIE SCHOFIELD. $
“What la that Interesting looking
book there on your dresser?" asked
Marjory, as she watched her friend
Dorothy do her hair in the latest fash
ion.
“That is the new novel, ‘Untold.’
You have heard of it, haven't you?”
“Have I heard of it? Well, 1 should
say so. I have been dying to read
it and I'm going to take it home with
me now.”
“No, you are not!” declared Dorothy.
"I have three more chapters to read
and my family haven’t even seen the
book.”
“1 don’t care; I am going to take it
anyway. Hob has told so much about
it and he is coming over tomorrow
evening. 1 must be able to discuss it
with him intelligently. Let me see,
today is Monday. I'll bring it back
on Thursday.”
“But why don’t you buy a copy it
you are so anxious to read it?”
"What! Spend my money for a pop
ular novel when 1 can borrow it from
my dearest friend? Why, that would
bo extravagant.”
“But I have explained to you that
your dearest friend has not yet fin
ished the book and her family hasn’t
even seen it. Isn’t the Owner en
titled to the first perusal?”
“Don't argue the subject, dear,” or
dered Marjory, sweetly. “You know
you won't refuse me, especially now
that I have told you Bob is coming
tomorrow evening.”
“I suppose' I 11 have to lend it to
you,” sighed Dorothy. "You always
get your own way. Please understand,
Marjory, that I insist upon having
’Untold’ back by Thursday at the
latest.”
“I promise,” laughed Marjory, kiss
ing her friend. Then she hurried away
with the book under her arm.
The following Thursday afternoon
Marjory asked her mother: “Have
you seen a brown book called 'Untold'
anywhere? It was on my desk this
morning when 1 went to my French
lesson, and it isn’t there now.”
“Yes, dear,” replied Mrs, Morton.
“Your Aunt Martha was here after you
left and she borrowed it. She said she
“But I’ve Lost It.”
has been trying to get it from the
library for the longest time. I really
couldn't refuse her.”
“Well, 1 like her style!” exclaimed
Marjory. “I’ll have to go right over
there and get it. 1 don't see why peo
ple have to borrow books anyway.”
Entering her aunt's house, Marjory
said; “I came for 'Untold.' It doesn't
belong to me and I promised to return
it to the owner today. Mother should
n’t have let you take it.”
“I'm dreadfully sorry," replied her
aunt, "but the book isn’t here. On
the .way home from your house I met
Lizzie Gibbons. She told me her
brother was confined to the house
with a sprained foot and hadn't a
thing to read. As I didn't know you
had grown so particular all of a sud
den, I let ‘Untold’ to her. She will
return it inside of a week, I’m sure.”
“Dorothy will bo furious!” declared
Marjory. “1 wish people wouldn’t be
so generous with other people’s books,
even if they are my aunts. I’ll have to
go straight over there and get it.’
Upon reaching the Gibbons home
and demanding the book from Miss
Lizzie, Marjory was told: “I’m really
ashamed, dear, but I've lost it. After
I left your aunt I went down town and
when I got home I discovered that I
had dropped the book. You will find
it in the lost'and found department of
the car barns, or else in one of the
three stores I visited. I’ll give you
their names. I am sorry lam unable
to look for the book, but I can’t leave
my sick brother.”
After tramping unsuccessfully from
place to place according to the list
provided for her Marjory returned
home.
“Dorothy telephoned while you were
out,” said her mother. “She asked
me to tell you that a young man had
brought ‘Untold’ to her. He found it
in a street car and discovered her
name and address on the fly leaf. Be
ing a friend of hers, he returned it
personally. She hadn't seen him for a
year. She said he is coming again
soon and he is so nice that she is
delighted to renew the acquaintance.
She said that henceforth you can bor
row and lose all her books.”
“No, mother,” sighed Marjory. “I'm
glad Dorothy has found an old friend,
but after this I'll take wise Mr.
Shakespeare s advice and neither a
borrower nor a lender be.” —Chicago
Daily News.
■OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
LAURIE'S SCAPEGRACE
By IZOLA FORRESTER.
Forest Spring Lodge had visitors.
Laurie, riding up the winding moun
tain road on her black mare, saw the
ascending pillar of smoke above the
trees and carried the news back to
the village.
“Anybody come on the night train,
Walt?” she asked the express agent
at the little wooden depot.
Walt recalled two, but they were
village people. He listened to her
news with a shrewd'Smile.
"Guess they must have run up in
a machine. Which one would ye rath
er it was, Laurie?”
Laurie flushed, and tossed her head
in much the same way as the mare did
when 'she was restive. As though she
cared which one came up to the
Lodge! She knew what Walt meant.
For two summers, and in the long
hunting season, both of the Gregory
brothers had made no secret of their
reason for coming up to the Lodge.
It was not the deer that led them, nor
the partridge and quail. It was Laurie
Carrolton.
\\ hen she reached her own home a
horse stood at the gate, unhitched It
raised his head, whinnering to Ver
mont flelle. Very deliberately Laurie
slipped down to the stable door
Standing within was Emmons Gregory
talking to her young brother.
“it’s so mighty good to see yon
again, Laurie," he said, taking both
her hands In his. She drew them
back.
“I saw the smoke above the trees
and knew someone was there.”
“And you wished it was not me.”
I’nder the bantering tone there was
an underlying touch of bitterness.
"1 didn't wish at all. I only won
dered who was there.”
“Malcolm is with me and a few of thr
men servants. We expect more the
end of tile week. Will you ride with
me along the river road after lunch?
It was on the tip of her tongue fo
say no. but Hardy forestalled her
He was only eighteen but ho stood
two inches above Gregory's head.
"Mother wants you, Laurie,” he said
with a side glance at his sister’s face
"I'm sorry, Mr. Gregory, but 1
can’t”
"You mean you wont.” His tone
was almost rough. "Shall I send Mai
col inn down?”
"You can both keep away,” Hardy
spoke up suddenly, his face darkening
with quick, boyish anger. “What's U
to Laurie whether you come or go?”
"When you get past the cub age
you will understand that the issue lie;
with her. not you, lad,” smiled back
Emmons, with aggravating courtesy.
He raised his cap to Laurie, and wen*
out to his mount. Laurie stood watch
Ing him ride up the road.
Something in her quiet face, and the
expression of her dark eyes chocked
Hardy's hilarity.
“No. I don’t, not specially, but you’d
better keep out of it, dear. I can
managed them both."
"You’ll have your hands full, then,"
grumbled Hardy.
She smiled then at his emphasis,
but during the next few days his
words, boyish and crude as they wen
came true. The Gregory boys, a
everyone around Mount Uanzer called
them, had been left with plenty of
money, and few restrictions. Their
father had treated them experimenial
ly rather than with any affection or
real interest. They were twins, and
had come into their Inheritance at
twenty-four, when their father died.
Five years had been granted them
under this will. If at the end of that
time they had used their freedom
recklessly, and had squandered their
money, a trust fund was to be set
aside for each, taking in all of the
Gregory Interests and properties and
limiting the boys to a moderate in
come each.
There was one clause in the will
which had been held back, and was
not to be told until the expiration of
the five years or in the event of either
one marrying.
Laurie had always felt a certain re
sponsibility in the matter. She was
like her mother and it was well known
around Uanzer that Mollle Carrollton
could have married the millionaire
even in her widowhood. They had
been sweethearts long before he had
found that fortunes grow from using
other people’s brains for fuel. Yet
she had chosen father, the
local editor of the little four page
sheet, in preference. Laurie and
Hardy remained to her after their
father’s death. And oddly enough,
the twins whenever they were at
Mount Uanzer, had come to her with
all their boyish scrapes.
Tint now, In manhood, they fought
their battle out alone. Malcolm had
first right. He was the steadier of
the two, and by far the better look
ing. Fmmons seemed younger, some
way. His hair curled at the edges,
he was dark with tan and Jean and
muscular with outdoor exercise. He
lacked Malcolm’s balance of charac
ter and ease of manner. And be
tween tht' two was Laurie, winsome
and womanly, full of grace and ear
nestness.
Only her mother seemed to guess
at the struggle In her heart those last
few days. The two brothers were not
on speaking terms, yet neither would
give an inch. Long rides’ they took
over the mountain roads with Laurie,
while she laughed at them and tried
to coax them back to friendship.
"Choose one of us. and the other
will stand pat on the decision, and
be friends,” Malcolm Insisted. "Hut
you must choose.”
“He speaks for himself," Emmons
Terms SI.OO in Advance
NO. 40.
flung back hotly. "I would not be
friends with him If you chose him.”
That night he rode down to Laurie’s
home. It' was bright moonlight, a
wonderful glowing orange-colored
moon mounting slowly behind the
ragged edge of woodland. And In Its
mellow light he saw Laurie standing
on the veranda, both her hands rest
ing on Malcolm’s shoulders, and her
face raised to him. Her back was
towards him, but he knew every line
of her figure, and the light seemed to
die out of his life as he gazed at them.
He leaned his head down on the
old rock wall with a groan. Virginia
Creeper covered It, but the vines had
hardly one clinging crimson leaf now.
And suddenly he heard some one
speak his name, Laurie’s voice, a bit
tremulous, and startled. “Emmons, *
what Is It?” She put out her hands
to him. “1 was with Hardy down in
the village.”
“Where’s Malcolm?”
“I haven’t any Idea. Why?”
“I saw him there on the porch with
you, Just now.”
“Not with me —with mother.” She
laid one hand on his shoulder pity
ingly. “You silly boy. Mother was
just comforting him.”
He caught her two hands close In
his crushing grip.
"I thought it was you, Laurie. Do
you mean you’ve told him —”
Laurie nodded.
“Do you know what you've done,
dear heart? I’m the scapegrace. Dad
always said I was, and yet he was
good to me. I’ve run wild with his
money ami my life, and now I lose it
all and you too.”
“Not me, Emmons.” Her face was
uplifted to his, but he made no at
tempt to kiss her. “I told Malcolm I
had made my choice. He went straight
to mother then. And she knows — I
think she knew before I did myself.”
“Hut I may bo cut off from every
share in the old estate.”
“I'm not marrying the estate,” laugh
ed Laurie softly.
Half an hour later they stole Into
the shadowy living room where Mrs.
Carrollton sat alone before the open
fire. She listened to Emmons In si
lence while Laurie knelt beside her,
her face on her shoulder.
“It doesn't seem fair to ask I.aurle,
to be my wife, though, on account of
father’s clause in the will and I know
It was, put In to keep me straight.”
“1 happen to know what it says,
Emmons boy,” smiled back Mrs. Car
rollton, affectionately. “Your father
r< ad It to me. Both of you boys are
dear to mo, so It made no difference
which one Laurie chose. The clause
merely states that in the event of
either one marrying Laurie an extra
fifty thousand Is added to his share,
and the homestead at Mount Ranzer.”
Slowly a dawning smile overspread
Emmons' boyish face. He slipped one
arm around Laurie and drew her up
to him,
“Poor old Malcolm,” he said, with
deep feeling.
(Copyright, 1913, by the McClure News
paper Syndicate.)
DIED WITH HIS ATTACKER
Jaguar, at Least, Had the Satisfaction
of Killing His Foe Before He
Succumbed.
After we struck the main river we
passed many long eandbars and on one
of these Felipe’s ever roving eyes dis
covered a tiger asleep, says a writer la
the Outlook. The jaguar lay stretched
out on his belly, his nose on his paws,
the water almost laving the cruel tal
ons of hie front feet. We were about
fifty yards away when we first sight
ed him and I raised the rifle to Are.
The canoe rocked a trifle and I low
ered the repeater, raising it again al
most Immediately, but Felipe seized
my hand, saying:
“Don't shoot, senor, the tiger la
dead,”
The remarkable Intuition of Felipe
proved correct, as It had on many a
trip into the jungle, but when I asked
him how he knew, he merely replied
that the tiger looked like he was dead.
We landed a yard from the jaguar and
saw, crushed In the powerful teeth, tha
body of a enake, something like tha
water moccasin of the lower Mississip
pi river. The tangs of the snake wera
Imbedded In the tiger’s jaw and the
reptile's body was cut completely In
twain. It was as dead as the creature
it had killed, though neither had been
dead more than twenty-four hours.
According to Felipe, the tiger had
come down to the stream to drink and
as the great round head lowered to tha
water the enake had sent home th
deadly poison. According to Felipe*,
also, a jaguar never runs when he oan|
light, and the result lay before us.
Not Seeking Fame.
An official of the Indian bureau at
Washington tells a story to Illustrate
the Indian’s view of newspaper fame.
It appears that one Hanley, a Duluth,
timberman, was In charge of a big
drive on the St. Croix river, and that
on one occasion there was a tremend
ous jam lu the vicinity of Taylor’*
Falls. The drivers numbered five ot
six Indians, In addition to the white
men. While proceeding with his work
of Inspection, Hanley passed the Redj
men, and called out to them:
“See here, my men! Break that Jam
and I’ll put your names in the paper I’*'
One Indian grinned broadly and
said; “Six Indians dead In paper, but
we not see It!’’—lllustrated Sunday
Magazine.
The Way on the Steamer.
Bill— And you say he told you that
story about himself on the. steamef
while going abroad?
Jill— Yes, he did.
“And did you swallow It?”
“Yos. I did; but, like a lot of other;
ihtncs. it wouldn’t stay swallowed." !..