New York dispatch. [volume], July 04, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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2
“ Silly girl! Didn’t you know that I was go
inc to the Lawns to see Gussie Melton, and don’t
you think you might have had the sense to guess
X should have to stay to dinner ?”
“ Yes, I know it was very silly of me to be
frightened. lam ashamed oi myself already.
But you shall see, Davi'd, I won’t tease you by
such foolishness again,” said she apologetically.
Her husband almost thought for the moment
that there must be a little vailed bitterness in
her simple wor’ds ; but he did not understand
the full force of the rigid notions of wifely duty
Which Mrs. Edgcombe had instilled into her
granddaughter.
*‘And how is poor Gussie?” she asked, as
she walked quietly back into the house by her
husband’s side, avoiding his touch for fear ho
should find out how cold she was.
“ Oh, be is all right I He went back to town
to-night.”
“Do you know bis address, David? The
poor boy is in difficulties, I am afraid, and I
went to*belp him—if I can do it without hurting
his feelings.”
“His feelings? I don’t suppose be is par
ticularly sensitive. He is nothing, it seems to
me, but a gawky, ill mannered young cub, and
would be ready enough to force himself and his
grievances upon any one, I have no doubt.”
David spoke with*more irritation than Doris
had ever heard in bis tones before, and she ut
tered ber next words apologetically.
“ Oi course, if you would rather not let me
help him, I——”
“ Oh, no, you can help of course, if you
wish .' It is very Kind o you to think of it. I
will find out where he lives from Papillon.”
Doris said, “ Very well, David,” but was puz
zled by her husband’s manner. A certain re
serve, founded by David’s own somewhat phleg
matic taciturnity and increased by his wife’s re
spect, had always existed between them: but,
although it had before now disturbed her
womanly dreams of the complete confidence
which should subsist between husband and
wife, this was the first occasion upon which it
had cost Doris absolute pain. It flashed at once
into her mind that he must have met with some
disagreeable experience, from the result of
which he was st.ll suffering. . Gussie bad proba
bly broken out again, and, in spite of all bis
penitence to her the night before, bad again in
sulted David, who could not quite hide his dis
gust at the foolish young man’s conduct. She
resolved to give Gussie a still more severe
ecolding than before, and in the meantime she
thought it best to turn from the distasteful sub
ject.
“Did you meet some nice people, David?
Charlie says there are always nice people at
Mrs. Hodson’s bouse,” she said, as they went
through the hall to drawing-room.
“There was no one there except Melton.”
“ SVhat is this great attaction which makes the
lawns quite a celebrated place?” she asked,
playfully.
Doris had no thought of being jealous ; but
David, who had conventional ideas about
women, could conceive no other motive for her
question, and answered, guardedly :
“There are sometimes pretty girls among
the visitors ; that I should think is the attrac
tion for Papillon. For us greedy fogies the
great charm of the place is Mr. Hodson’s
Wines.”
Doris laughed.
“He is a very amusing man to men, isn’t
he ? It is very funny to see him eat, Charlie
says, without paying any attention to any
body.”
“That is Charlie’s view. He is a clever man
'of business, though, and I propose, with your
sanction, to invest some money of yours in a
very profitable manner to-morrow, under his
direction.”
“My sanction, David ! My marriage gave
complete sanction to anything you please to do
with the money; it is yours, and you under
stand what to do with it better than I.”
Doris never doubted that business capacity
came aa instinctively to a man as she under
stood that a knowledge of housekeeping came
to a woman. She asked for no details, and went
up-stairs happily, quite as satisfied that the im
maculate David could do nothing foolish as that
he could think nothing wrong.
It was not until nearly a week later that Doris
learned Gussie Melton’s address from David,
who brought it from Papillon, with the tidings
that Gussie was ill with rheumatic fever alone
In lodgings in town.
“I think it would be only kind if yon were to
pay him a visit, Doris.” continued David, who
was rather conscious-stricken at having advised
Gussfle’s departure from the hospitable shelter
Of the Lawns. “Itis a lonely thing to be ill in
n dark London lodging ; I know that myself by
experience.”
Doris acquiesced in this most heartily; and
the very next day she went by train up to town,
called on Mrs. Edgcombe, her grandmother,
and then went off with the old lady to the dingy
house in a dingy West-end street, where they
were surprised to find that the fastidious Gussie
occupied only one room on the top floor.
Mr. Melton was alone, the servant said ; she
believed he was very r.l; no one had been to
see him except the doctor and one other gentle
man.
“You had better wait for me down here,
dear,” said Mrs. Edgcombe to Doris. “I will
go up and see him.”
But Gussie got so excited on hearing that Mrs.
Glyn was in the house, and begged so hard to
see her “just for a moment,” that Doris had to
come up, too.
“ You can’t be very comfortable here, surely,”
said she, when she had shaken bis hot hand,
trying to stop his incoherent outburst of grati
tpde.
** *• bo ;it was horrible until you came ; but
I shall IdVe this room now you’ve been in it—
bpth of you,” be added, hastily, as his feverishly
bright eyes glanced quickly from Doris to the
old lady, who seemed much astonished by his
vehemence. “ Yon don’t know, Mrs. Edgcombe,
liow good she has been t® me, and when I didn’t
in the least deserve it. I’ve thought it all over
again and again while I’ve been lying here,
until I think, if ypu hadn’t come like this to
day, I should have been obliged to crawl up
fund get to Fairleigh to thank you—l should, in
deed 1”
S' “ What is all this ? What is it my grand
daughter has done for you ?” asked Mrs. Edg
combd, with dignity.
“It is hothing at all, grandmamma; Gussie
Is wandering a little this afternoon,” said Doris,
laughing gently.
“No, I’m not wandering, Mrs. Edgcombe.
Doris helped me out of my difficulties ; she sent
jne money—yes, money—l’m not ashamed of
owning it, I would accept anything from you
«.s I would from an angel from Heaven. Papil
lon brought it me in a letter from her. And
after all my rudeness and petulance I No wo
jpan but Doris would have done it.”
~He spoke hotly, impetuously, like the over
grown boy he was. Mrs, Edgcombe was
touched, and gave a little soft laugh that sug
gested something sweeter than merriment.
' f* Doris was always good,” she said.
, M‘Jeß, and nobody else knows how good ex
oept'me.”
“And her husband,” corrected the precise
Old lady.
i There was a momentary pause in the excite
'inent of the dialogue, which plainly intimated
that Gussie did not accept the amendment.
But the old lady was not going to accept contra
diction from this lad.
i Doris is a lucky woman to have secured a
liusband worthy oi her,” said she, with grave
obstinacy.
Gussie was obstinate, too.
t( No man is worthy of her,” he said hardily.
Doris did not think Gussie’s opinion of enough
value for her to be more than amused by this
little skirmish ; but Mrs. Edgcombe, who took
things more seriously, sent her granddaughter
down stairs first, when their visit came to an
©nd, and stood by the invalid’s bed somewhat
magisterially.
i “Do you know, young gentleman, that it is
not a wise or right thing to do to shake the pe
destal on which a young husband stands in the
heart of his young wife? He’ll come down
quite soon enough, you may be sure.”
i “I quite agree with you, Mrs. Edgcombe,
and I think there’s no time to be lost in bring
ing him down gently, to save his coming down
/With a rush,”
“ What do you mean ?”
“ That I know what men are, and don’t care
to see them worshipped for what they are not.
And, if you want to see Mr. David Glyn off his
pedestal, see him at the Lawns.”
I Mrs. Edgcombe was too proud to ask another
question, preferring to treat the young man’s
pold assertion as an invalid’s hallucination.
tJhe instantly turned the subject by asking if
ehe should come again to see him, and then
went slowly down stairs, considering the start
ling information she had just received. She
was not personally acquainted with Mrs. Hod
eon, but knew of her as a pleasure-loving mat
ron of whom no one said anything worse than
ithat she declined to sink into middle age.
Leaving David Glyn’s estimable character out
Of the question, it seemed absurd to imagine
auch a woman the rival of his beautiful and
sweet young wife. Nevertheless, the matter
had to be sifted, and they were no sooner in the
brougham than Mrs. Edgcombe began the pro
cess.
“ You and David see a good deal of the Hod
eons, pay dear, don’t you ?”
“Oh, no—at least, I don’t! I’ve never seen
Mr. Hodson, and Mrs. Hodson only once since
our marriage. David sees more oi them than I
do; he's gone down there to-day.”
“ Gone there to-day I Without you ?”
“Oh, I told him I should stay in town to dine
with you I”
“ And he will come and take you home, of
course ?”
“No; it is so far to come. I told Charlie
Papillon to come and fetch me.”
“ Oh, it is very convenient for your husband
to have a band of obliging young gentlemen al
ways ready to take the trouble of looking after
you off his hands I”
“Dear grandmamma, it was my own propo
sal,” said Dons gently. “ I wanted to see Char
lie.”
“And David wanted to see—whom? Mrs.
Hodson ?”
Doris laughed.
“No, Mr. Hodson. They have been doing
some business together lately. David has great
confidence in his judgment.”
This seemed such a reasonable explanation of
the ground of Gussie’s fancies that Mrs. Edg
combe drove home with her granddaughter
somewhat comforted.
CHAPTER XI.
f ‘ SHE WAS NOT A PROPER PERSON ON WHOM TO
spend doris*s Money,
Of course David Glyn, having tasted the
sweets ot Stock Exchange speculation, did not
stop at bis first venture. He made a little
money by it—not indeed so much as the san
guine Mr. Hodson had predicted, but still
enough to confirm his faith in that gentleman
as a safe leader to that elysium of independ
ence of one’s wife’s fortune which is the sure
reward of intelligent investment on the Stock
Exchange.
For David felt the galling chain of his wife’s
wealth more and more heavily as the feeble
loyalty—which was all that remained of the
love of his passionless marriage—daily dimin
ished. She was cold, he said to himself, to ex
cuse the tepidness of his own feelings toward
her, the perlunctory caresses which sometimes
brought the troubled 1 ok of a puzzled child
int) his wife’s face, and increased her reserve
toward him until it became a constraint that
was almost/ear.
Doris had been married six months, and
David’s indifference had been increasing rap
idly for more than tour before the young wife
dared to own, even to herself, that there was a
gulf between her and David, widening so sure
ly that she felt that in a short time there would
be no person of all her acquaintance with whom
she had so little sympathy, or from whom she
could expect so little, as her own husband.
At first she tried to stave off this knowledge
with the common-sense argument that the hon
eymoon was a season when e ery man allowed
himself a little extravagance of tenderness
which must calm down with the wear and tear
ot every-day life together. But then had David
shown much extravagance of afl’ecti n ? Doris
was a very innocent woman, a particularly cor
rect and well-brought-up woman, knowing lit
tle of the nature of the passions, or oven of the
affections, and not unduly curious to know
more, but even she could n :t help feeling that,
if the calmly kind attentions David had paid
her during the first three or four weeks of
marriage had really been an unaccustomed
overflow ot tenderness, then the every-day
stream of his affection could not be a very co
pious one.
She too had entered into marriage calmly,
schooled by her practical grandmother into
thinking more of the duties than of the pleas
ures of her new life. But the duties were so
light that she had time to find that there was a
void in her heart, and that the evenings she
spent with her husband were scarcely less soli
tary than the m rnings spent without him.
However, he did not seem to be unhappy—that
was one comfort; the “ business ” which was
now his constant excuse for abstraction in her
presence, or for an occasional evening spent
away from her, had evidently awakened a
strong new interest in 1 to for him, and Doris
tried to be glad that at least the care of her
m ney had given him an interesting occupa
tion, if her society had small attraction for him.
She was not suspicious at all, by nature or
habit; she was not jealous—yet. So she remain
ed perfectly docile,perfectly g >od-humored,and
was even meek-spirited enough to be thankful
that her docility did not irritate him.
David, on the other hand, was far less easy of
mind than she. He knew by this time that the
influence of Mrs. Hodson was far stronger up
on him than that of his wife, but then, as it was
perfectly innocent and even helpful in main
taining his respect for Doris, whom Mrs. H fl
son was most-careful to praise, he did not blame
himself on that account. But the fever for spec
ulation was growing upon him. Always with Do
ris’s sancti n,too easily got to be valued, he had
by this time plunged pretty heavily into invest
ments, sometimes fortunate, perhaps more of
ten otherwise, which involved continual inter
course with Mr. Hodson, now his recognized
man of business, and kept him in a constant in
toxication ot excitement which it required a
more mature mind than Doris’s to soothe, b’o
he told himself, so he thought, and he carried
his feverish troubles to Mrs. Hodson’s kindly
ear, and allowed her to soothe him until it was
time to return to Fairleigh, in a state of t jrpid
reaction from excitement which, while ensuring
domestic peace, was quite incompatible with
domestic joys.
“ You are late this evening, David,” Doris
plucked up courage to say one December day.
when her husband came home, flushed and
absent, at eight o’clock, after having ordered
dinner for halt-past six. Her heart was beating
violently as she made the timid accusation, the
first meek revolt that she had ever afTempted.
“ Yes, I am late, and I am very hungry,” he
answered rather shortly, sensitively aggrieved
at her hint of insubordination.
But she still felt that he was in the wrong;
and, when they were seated at dinner, and he
had satisfied the first pangs of a hunger which
did not seem to be so very acute after all, she
returned to the charge with the steady persis
tency of the meek person roused.
“ You have been very often late these last
few weeks, David; and, when you do come, you
seem tired and worried. 1 am airaid this
‘ business ’ you have grown so fond of is not
good for you.”
Her hands trembled as she crumbled up her
bread and looked steadily into the fire that
blazed in the oaken-tiled fireplace by which she
now so often sat brooding hour after hour.
David looked up at her from the cutlet he was
eating, and a cold light seemed to shine from
his blue eyes as she glanced at him which gave
her a sudden shock and made her turn her face
quickly again to the lire.
“If you are dissatisfied with my management
of your affairs, oi course you have only to say
so, Doris.”
She half started from her chair, her face on
fire, tears in her eyes; then, suppressing the
sob which rose to her lips, she sat down again,
and for a moment did not speak or look at him.
The habit of self-control, carefully instilled by
her education, helped her to bear the first deep
wound she had ever received.
“ You are cruel—and unjust,” she said at
last, in alow voice. “Whatever you do I always
accept as right—it is right for me. * Affairs/
‘ business/ are mere words to me; I know
nothing about them. But to see you looking
worn out and harassed through looking after
my interests hurts me very much. Your health
and your happiness do concern me—surely you
Will allow that 1 Why don’t you leave the busi
ness to Mr. Hodson ?”
“ That would scarcely be a conscientious way
of going to work, Doris,’’ said David, disarmed,
but still rather stiff and constrained through
the ‘feeling that his words were not quite
honest.
“ But if I don’t mind! If I would rather
have you home a little earlier, and see you a
little less tired and—and worn out, than have
you working and worrying yourself to make me
richer! What do we want with more money ?
We have already more than enough.”
“ 1 have always looked upon your money as a
trust, Doris,” said David, in his old sweet voice.
“I should not feel happy without doing my best
with it”
Doris thought this was a perverse way of look
ing at things, and, if she had known that at that
moment, through her husband’s “doing his
best,” she was risking the loss of some thous
ands, she might have felt strengthened in this
view.
“ 1 feel at the same time that you are justified
in accusing me of being dull company,” he went
on musically. —
“ Accusing you! Oh, no, indeed I never
thought ot such a thing I” protested she.
“ Well, well, you said I was dull, and I admit
it,” he corrected, with the excessive magnani
mity of the person who koows himself to be in
the wrong. “ I am rather a fogy, and my
society must be tedious, I know. Let us sit
down alter dinner and concoct invitations to all
the nice people we know, and fill the house for
Christmas-time. There are Melton and Papillon
and Hilda Warren; let us have them all, and as
many more as you can think of, and we’ll see if
make the place more cheerful than a
solemn old husband can hope to do.”
He had carried the war into the enemy’s
camp, silenced her by this pathetic implied re
proach to her for not being content with silent
devotion. Doris felt chilled; she did not attempt
to rebut his unjust accusation, but contented
herself with the usual dull interchange of de
sultory remarks about the quantity of ice in the
creek that morning and the lameness of one of
the carriage-horses, until dinner was over, and
they went into the drawing-room.
It had been a freak ot Doris’s to spend the
Winter in this big river-side house, instead of
going up to town, where her grandmother
wanted them to take a house near her. The
solitary young wife had repented some weeks
before of this arrangement; but she would not
propose an altercation for fear of being charged
vrith caprice. As she led the way through the
square comlortable hall with its dark curtains,
the firelight flickering and flashing on the oak
doors and wainscoting, the remembrance of the
old place as it used to be in the days before her
marriage, with laughing girls and übiquitous
young men filling each room with life and gay
ety, suddenly came upon her so vividly, in con
trast to her present solitary seclusion with a
husband who was practically to her little more
than an animated statue, that the tears rushed
blindingly to her eves, and she stopped, leaning
against the oak table.
Her husband, who was following, came
quickly to her side.
“ What is the matter, my darling ? Are you
ill ?” he asked tenderly, passing his arm round
her for support
Bhe leaned agaipst him gratefully, encouraging
his caresses, as she faltered out that there was
nothing the matter with her; she must have
walked too far that morning—that was all.
She was quite well—sorry to have frightened
him.
He dried her eyes, whispering loving words
to her, and led her to the drawing-room;
there, instead of talking up a book and remaining
silent on pretence of reading, which had become
a too common practice with him when alone
with his wife, he sat on the sofa near the fire
with her, and tried his best to be entertaining,
and succeeded perfectly m making his wife hap
pier than she had been for some time.
Unfortunately for the success oi this experi
ment, David found it exceedingly irksome, and
felt glad when the evening was over. Poor
Doris’s gratefully affectionate mood, which
would have made him entirely happy ii his con
duct toward her had been altogether right, puz
zled him, stung his not unsensitive conscience,
and, long, before eleven o’clock, began to bore
him too.
The next morning, however, when the night’s
sleep had distanced the remembrance oi Mrs.
Hodson, Doris’s* fresh young face, made more
beautiful and gentle by the memory of the
happy evening before, won upon him and
induced him to make a faithful promise to
be home early, so that they might have another
long evening’ together. And, as he kissed her
tenderly before leaving for town, he wondered
how he could have found the evening long, and
made a vague resolve to keep away from in
fluences which tended to separate him from
her.
But the influences wore not to be kept away
from. W hen David raid i n<nal visic to Mr.
Hodson, who always waited for him at some
NEW YORK DISPATCH. JULY 4 1886.
given rendezvous after four o’clock, ho found
that Mrs. Hodson had driven up to town to
fetch her husband; and, as that husband pro
tested that he had another business-call to
make before returning home, she commanded
rather than begged David to come as far as Pic
cadilly with her.
He made a faint semblance of protest—had
promised to be home early. He had neglected
Doris too much lately—she was dull at Fair
leigh alone
“Of course she is. You selfish creature, to
shut up a pretty wife in a big dreary old house
by the river, where I shouldn’t wonder if she
ended by drowning herself as a relief from
your prosy society! Take Charlie Papillon
down with you, and she will forgive you for be
ing a few minutes late. Well, and now tell me
all that you and Bertram have been concocting
to-day.”
David gave her a full account of some new
speculation on which he proposed to embark,
and she, with a parrot-like surface-knowledge
of Stock Exchange business and business terms,
picked up from her husband’s table talk, prat
ed “debentures” and “preference shares”
with an audacity so adorable that, when at
Thornhill’s she took a violent fancy to a silver
mounted toilet mirror which “Bertram’s
meanness” made her unable to buy, he found
the temptation to give it to her too strong to be
resisted.
He had a check-book in his pocket—he had
just been settling up with Mr. Hodson—so he
wrote out a check for thirteen guineas, and the
lady’s child-like delight over the gift—a Christ
mas present, he said, gayly—was so charming
and so pretty that it was not until he bad left
her at the corner of Jermyn street that he had
time to remember, even vaguely, that Mrs.
Hodson was not a proper person on whom to
spend Doris’s money.
It was past six already; he had promised to
bo home at five. There* was nothing loft lor it
now but to carry out Mrs. Hodson’s commands
and take Charlie Papillon homo to dinner.
The spell of Doris’s bright morning face was
broken, and he felt that another evening alone
with her, alter such a bad start, would be more
wearisome, more fraught with blunted but
sensible conscience pangs than the last. So he
called at Charlie’s rooms—modest ones shared
with a friend, and brightened by photographs
of girls—on the chance oi finding him there.
He was fortunate. Gussie, having borrowed
a sovereign from seme one, had just caliod to
take Papillon to the Criterion to dine. But both
young men were delighted to give up their
bachelor dinner, to be followed by the theatre,
to go and see Doris.
Their eagerness amazed David, who had
given his invitation hesitatingly, feeling envi
ous of the programme they had set themselves,
and sure they would not care to change it. Mel
ton had been away lately, and Charlie had
grown rather shy of visiting unasked the young
household where he was sharp enough to see
that all was not going on rightly.
Their young men’s chatter amused David
and kept his thoughts away from unpleasant
subjects all the way in the train down to Fair
leigh. “ old David,” who had had impecuni
ous days himself, insisted on paying their fares
himself, an item in the pleasure ot the excur
sion to be duly considered when one young
gentleman had in the pocket of a per.ectly
made coat twopence and a latch-key, and the
other’s borrowed capital of a sovereign would
have to be made somehow to last for pocket
money a week at least.
So they all three marched up to Fairleigh in
high good humor, and David led the way into
the hall, feeling proud of himself for having,
with much neatness, got out of a difficulty.
Doris’s bright, sweet voice was hoard faintly
in the distance as they came in. David's dull
ear did not notice that its tones were happier
than they had been for some weeks. To the
other two young men, in high spirits at the
thought of seeing a particular favorite and al
together jolly and perfect person, of course it
came with no deep significance at all.
“ Let’s hide I” said Papillon, and he and Gus
sie scrambled round the curtains like a pair of
clumsy kittens.
Doris came into the hall quickly, all in white,
like a fairy, with the soft lamplight from above
amd the red flames from the fire casting deep
shadows and iaint flickering lights upon her.
The boys saw her, and were sorry for their
light-hearted maneuver, as, peeping through
the curtains, they saw on her face a lovely, holy
joy as she raised her arms tow’ard her husband,
which made them wish David would take her
away without having seen them.
But on David himself the significance of her
expression was lost, or else he would not read
it aright. He took her raised hands ancl put
them on his shoulders as he kissed her.
“1 am not going to scold you for being late,”
she said. “I am sure you are sorry. And we
will have another happy evening, won’t we ?”
“ Yes, my dear, I hope so,” said he, in his
sweet voice; “and I have brought two naughty
boys down with me to share it with us.”
And the boys saw her arms suddenly fall and
her face change, and, without knowing why,
they wished they had not come.
(To be Gontinuel.l
DOWN iV A WELL.
A Peculiar Illicit Distillery Raided with
Remarkable Results.
(From the Atlanta, Ga., Constitution.)
Ono of the moat extensive and varied seiz
ures ever made for violation of the internet rev
enue laws, was made by Deputy Collector Chis
olm, assisted by Deputy Marshal McDonald, on
Wednesday night, two miles beyond Stone
Mountain.
The seizure consisted of one man, Benjamin
Franklin Killgore, a gin-house, fifteen-horse
power engine and boiier, one still, cap and
worm, one cotton press, cotton seed, one miN
and a number of other things.
Deputy Collector Chisolm has been working
the case for nearly a mouth.. He knew that the
ardent was being made in or near the gin-house
and he knew that he would get it, oven ii it was
as deep down as the artesian well.
Wednesday night the deputy collector and
Deputy Marshal McDonald went down to the
mountain and made a careful survey ot the sur
roundings. All was quiet around the gin, not a
noise save the chirp of the erickets, could be
heard.
“ Devilish lonesome place,” said the collector,
as he quietly walked around.
“ I’d rather be in Paulding county,” replied
the strawberry blonde deputy collector.
“ I don’t like these old houses.”
“Me neither. Ding sight rather be in the
woods.”
“ Well, here, I know there’s a still here, and
I am going to find it.”
“ And I hope we’ll find some benzine with it.”
The two officers began to try the doors, but
found everything tight and fast. The windows
were tried, but no go. The deputy collector
squared himself back, and a few vigorous kicks
brought one ot the doors down. The two men
walked in. It was as dark as a stack ot black
cats, but after getting the cold ghosts and chills
off them, a lantern was lit, and, guided by its
dim rays, a search was matte. There were no
signs of a still, not the least indications.
Ain't no still here,” said the blonde, as he
jumped about three feet high as a large rat
scampered over the floor.
“ Yes there is, and 1 am going to find it,” re
plied Mr. Chisolm, stamping his loot on the
floor.
“ What yer hunting for ?”
“ Want to see if there ain’t a cellar under
here.”
“A cellar?”
“Yes.”
“ That’s er fact. I was raised up here ’bout
Gainesville, and don’t know much about ’em,
and never would have thought ot that. We’ll
And that still now.”
And they did. The two men began walking
around, arid soon lound a place in the floor that
sounded hollow. They knew they had struck
the winning card, and the next thing was to get
into the opening.
“ There’s a trap-door here somewhere,” said
the deputy collector.
“Eh—what?” asked his companion.
“A trap-door.”
“And what the deuce is that?”
“A door in the floor.”
“ Then I’ll find it.”
And getting down on his stomach he crawled
over the floor lizzard fashion, testing every inch
of the planks with his hands. He crawled up
against a pile of cottonseed, but didn’t stop ;
he just crawled under and was buried from
sight. Presently ho came out almost suffocated,
and with a long breath, said :
“ I-I-l’ve foun’ it.”
“ You have ?”
“ Yes ; let's get this pile of seed away and
we’ll be in there in a pair ot minutes.”
They went to work and the seed was soon re
moved, and sure enough the door was lound.
It was raised up, and holding the lantern over
the opening the two men looked in. They
could see nothing eave the pitchy darkness. A
string was tied to the lantern, and it was low
ered a depth of fifteen feet or more before bot
tom was lound. Swinging the lantern around
they discovered a ladder against'the side ot the
wall. As soon as this was discovered the men
felt all right, and went down. They were soon
in-an underground distillery. Everything was
in tip-top shape and ready for business. There
was the still, and everything showed that it had
only been a short time since a run had been
made.
“ Let’s get out of here,” said the deputy col
lector, who began to turn pale behind the gills.
“ Not yet Let’s see it all,” was the reply of
the deputy marshal, who appeared deeply in
terested.
“McDonald,” replied the collector, solemn
ly, “ had you thought how easy it would be for
the moonshiners to slip up here and close that
door down on us?”
“ Great Lord 1 No, I hadn’t I” and up the
ladder the deputy marshal scrambled.
It didn’t need a second’s time to make the
ascent, and he was soon followed by the deputy
collector, almost dead with laughter.
“Narrow escape,” began McDonald, wiping
the beads of perspiration from his brow.
“ Yes,” was the only reply the deputy collect
or could make.
“ What the thunder are you laughing about?”
“Nothing. Just how quick you got out of
that pit.”
“It was getting time. If that door had closed
down on us, we never would have got out. Get
me in such a place again I”
The next thing was to arrest Killgore. They
found no trouble in this, for, going to his home,
only a short distance away, he was found en
joying the sleep of the innocent. He was ar
rested and brought to Atlanta, and gave bonds
iu the sum of $301).
A man was sent down to guard the seizures,
nnd what things can be moved will be brought
to Atlanta.
PUTTING THE “SCREW” OJ.
BY AN ENGLISH EX-DETECTIVE.
PART I.
The remarkable case I am about to endeavor
to describe was one of the earliest in which I
was concerned, and yet it is not long since the
outcome of it attracted the attention of the pub
lic. It would not be so clearly understood were
1 to commence at the point at which the police
were called in, so I conclude it is best to give
you a rough and straightforward narrative ot all
the “ information received,” but not of the man
ner or order ia which that information was ob
tained.
Hector Ramsay was a young man who had re
ceived a very fair education. Ho was a native
of Strathleven, a small town or village in Kin
rossshire, and while bis parents were alive was
destined for the pulpit. His father was an ex
ciseman, but as his income died with him, the
lad was deprived of his chances of further study,
and so he was compelled to seek employment to
support his widowed mother.
While at the university he had read much and
judiciously, and at home he had the “ run ” of
several private libraries, and this knowledge of
books led him to thirst after a practical knowl
edge of the world.
Passionately fond of the flora of his country,
he became an accomplished amateur gardener,
and when he was compelled to work for a
living, it was as a gardener he sought employ
ment.
As assistant on Lord Melven’s estate, he ac
quired a taste lor landscape gardening, which
was becoming rapidly developed, when two
important events occurred; his poor mother
died, and the young girl to whom he had given
bis simple heart went to London as nursery
governess in a family which annually visited the
neighborhood for fishing and shooting.
He confessed that he never considered him
self fitted for the church, and now—although,
youth-like, he dreamed of emulating Sir Joseph
Paxton in the distant and indefinite future—he
concluded to go to the great metropolis, and
seek employment of the kind for which he con
sidered he was best fitted.
With a view to this, he visited Kinross or
Milnathort weekly to see the London papers,
and carefully study the “ wanted ” columns.
On one of these occasions, a Mr. Steedman, a
local solicitor, met him in the street, and asked
him if “ the stranger had brought him any
good nows from London.”
“Stranger I” he returned; “I’ve seen nae
stranger.”
“ Weel, that’s strange,” returned the “writer.”
“ There’s been a man speerin’ here aboot the
Ramsays an’ the youngsters o’ that name. I
fancied ye were the lad wanted, sae I gied him
yer directions, an’ he left me to gang to the
Salutation Hotel to hire a ‘machine’ to drive
ower to see ye.”
“ And when might that be ?” asked Hector.
“It was last Friday week,” returned Mr.
Steedman. “ It's funny ye hevna seen him.
He wis an Englishman, I’m sure. Nae doot
he'll turn up yet, my lad. Ye’ll let us ken when
he dis, for 1 really thoct some one in the sooth
bad deed an’ left ye some money. I tauld him
that the last time I seed -ye, ye wur talkin’ aboot
ganging up to Lunnon, and, in fact, wur lookin’
in a’ the Luunon papers for a situation, and
saying something I couldna richtly catch, he
left mo. Thae English fowks clip their words
sae awin’, a plain man like mysel’ canna catch
them a’.”
Hector went home pondering over what he
had heard, and every day following found him
looking curiously down the road or across Loch
Leven in the direction of Kinross, as if that wist
ful gazing would bring the mysterious stranger
to him any quicker.
Of course he built castles in the air, as who
would not? As usual, they all vanished, and
so at last he concluded that the strange Eng
lishman was some one known to the family un
der whose roof Jessie Maitland lived, and that
she had asked him to call-and see him, being in
the neighborhood, but that, after making inqui
ries, time prevented him from doing ro.
Having come to this perfectly natural but un
satisfactory conclusion, Hector dismissed the
affair from his mind altogether. He still con
tinued to look out for a situation, and wrote
numberless letters for berths, but without suc
cess. One Saturday morning, however, he
found in a local paper the following advertise
ment:
Wanted.—A young man of good education as
clerk. To one of intelligence and unimpeach
able integrity, a good salary will be given.
Scotsmen only need apply to Herbert Vawdrey,
No. 212 Great Brunswick street, W. C.
Young Ramsay wrote before going to bed
that night, and his hopes of this situation were
greater than any he had entertained before. A
fortnight, however, passed without his hearing.
A week later he resolved to sell the furniture
lett in his old home—and this was a sacrifice he
always shrank from hitherto—preparatory to
going up to the modern Babylon to seek his for
tune.
The first post on the Tuesday following
brought an important-looking missive with the
London post-mark. The engraved seal was an
artistic affair, with the words “Herbert Vaw
drey ” in the centre, and “ General Financial
and Commission Agent” round the ribbon,
while the large vellum-like quarto sheet inside
was also elaborately engraved, and beneath the
heading was written :
“ Sir : Mr. Vawdrey has selected twelve from
the four hundred and fifty odd applicants for
the clerkship advertised. Kindly forward addi
tional references, with photo, if possible. The
final selection will be made now within ten
days. I am, &c.,
“ Godfrey Mowl, Secretary.”
Hector was greatly elated upon the receipt of
this message, and immediately waited upon two
additional clergymen and a landed proprietoi
who knew his family well. From these gentle
men he obtained highly eulogistic testimonials.
When these were dispatched, he felt quite con
fident of being the successful candidate, and
went home and dreamed of a palatial financial
establishment in the city of London, a speedy
marriage with bonnie Jessie Maitland, and this
vision finished up with a view—somewhat
shaky, it was confessed—of a suburban villa on
the Thames, the spacious grounds of which he
was laying out in the most approved style of
modern landscape gardening.
PART 11.
The “palatial financial establishment” was
not palatial to begin with, nor was it in the city.
Great Brunswick street, as everybody knows,
borders a very dingy—not to say disreputable
—neighborhood, and No 212 was an office which
looked as if it had once been a shop; but the
plate-glass window was now paintea vandyke
brown half way up, with a broad golden
border, and the words “ Commission Agent” be
neath that.
A plainly-papered outer office, dispelled the
last of Hector Kamsay’s illusions. A deal desk
behind the counter was backed by some pigeon
holes tilled with musty papers, and aa the door
opened, a bell attached to it rang clamorously.
At the same instant a green baize-covered door
onposite the window opened, and a tall emaci
ated, limping individual came forward to ask
the new clerk’s business.
Hector was so unpleasantly impressed by the
cunning countenance before him, that he did
not answer at once. Marks of vice and dissipa
tion were not only visible, but the person was
evidently unwashed and unshaveu, and his
linen was impure.
“What’s your business?” he asked almost
fiercely.
“I want to see Mr. Vawdrey,”replied Hector,
with a flush of anger not unmixed with diamny,
“Can’t you tell me your business ? ’ snarled
the man again.
“ My name is Ramsay, and I only arrived last
night from Scotland,” returned Heater.
“Ah !” cried a voice from the interior—“ our
friend from the North.”
These words were uttered in a harsh, mock
ing kind of way—harsher at the beginning than
at the close, Jt continued with, “ Send him
this way, my dear Mowl;” and its harshness
had altogether disappeared—indeed, the words
rolled out with melodious unctuousness.
“So this is the ‘Godfrey Mowl, Secretary/ ”
murmured Ramsay to himself, as he prepared
to follow that individual, who, with a hideous
grin, no doubt meant for a smile, now held up
the falling part of the counter, that the new ar
rival might approach the sanctum of the master
of the place.
Mr. Vawdrey was about fifty years of age, and
very stout. Clad iu the usual frock-coat of
commercial life, be looked like a traveler for
some second-class wholesale house. Th s was
Ramsay’s own idea; tor the majority of the
strangers he had ever seen at home were of
that class.
His new employer was dark, with a profusion
of black hair turning gray. He wore a gold
framed single eyeglass in his right eye, and a
number of heavy rings upon the fingers of both
hands. Coming forward, with a cigar in his
left hand, he clasped the lad’s right hand in his
and proceeded:
“ Welcome to London, my dear boy,” in the
same tone in which he had closed his first greet
ing. “ Take a seat/’ he continued, indicating
a chair, and then noticing Mowl standing in
the doorway, grinning curiously at the lad, he
shouted harshly: “ Get out, confound you !
Don’t stand there like an egyptian mummy sur
mounted by a death’s-head!”
Mowl retired muttering something, and his
employer proceeded to make himself agreeable
to Hector, who, being no fool, thought it very
strange that a clerk should be treated in
this way upon his first appearance.
1 can’t go into particulars of what followed.
Ramsay’s salary was to be thirty shillings a
week, with dinner in the house—a sum of money
which the youth thought princely when com
pared with the home earnings. Lodging had
been secured for him in the next street, and
when he eame back from the station with his
luggage, and had it carried up into the musty
back parlor on the second floor of a gaunt
house, which seemed filled with lodgers, he
thought ten shillings a week an enormous sum
to pay for such accommodation; but then it was
London, and he had beard so much of the me
tropolis—its gayety, iniquity and extravagance.
Beside, this was the choice of his employer, and
he could scarcely find fault with it—yet.
Next day he reached the office, as requested,
at nine o’clock, and was set to work to make
several copies of a certain letter. He was told
by Mowl that they were in no hurry, that per
[ haps they would never be dispatched, that it was
“all rot” writing them, that he never did until
compelled, that there was nothing worth living
for but gin and beer, the theatres and the music
halls, and the strange individual finished up by
saying, or insinuating, that Vawdrey was “ a sly
old fox,” “ a gay old trump,” “ a rum old card,”
and that the children of Israel would require to
get up very early in the morning indeed if they
hoped to “get over him”7—all of which was as
bad as Sanserif to young Ramsay, who, never
theless, began to suspect that neither his master
nor his master’s man were of the highest respect
ability.
Between ten and twelves “young lady ” of
some thirty years of age appeared at the green
baize door from the interior of the house. She
looked sleepy, and was clad in the most slat
ternly att re. Hector could see her looking
curiously in his direction, and he was mentally
comparing her with fresh Jessie Maitland, when
he heard her tell Mowl to “go to the Feather,
and order a dozen of sodas and three bottles of
cognac,” for they “had run out up stairs,” and
“the old man,” who was “ beastly seedy,” was
“ dying for a drink.”
He had lived long enough in Edinburgh to
know something of town life, but after even
making allowances for what might be deemed
“English freedom of manners,” he could not
conceal from himself that this creature was very
vulgar, if not coarse ; and he would have put
her down for an unhappily ignorant servant
girl had it not been for the fact that she greatly
resembled his new employer.
That gentleman came down yawning at twelve
o’clock. At half-past he took Hector into the
city lor luncheon, and visited so many public
houses that the country lad was as much
amazed with the multitude of his acquaintances
as at the number of glasses of all kinds of
liquors he drank. As for the youth himself,
all Vawdrey’s eloquence would not convince
him that he should drink a third glass of ale,
and his employer was evidently much annoyed
at his firmness. Ramsay also noticed that Mr.
Vawdrey’s acquaintances congratulated him
upon having trapped another “ voyager from
Greenland.” He was asked how much “ the
feathers weighed of the last chicken ?” and what
he “expected by this haul?” and a dozen
queries of a similar slangy nature—all of which
was, at first, bewildering to Ramsay. But hav
ing. resolved to do no dishonor to his home
training, and to resist all temptation in the way
of dissipation, he felt more comfortable, and
returned very much impressed with the mag
nitude of the great city, and the rapidity of
movement of its people, as witnessed on every
hand.
At dinner, at four o’clock, ho met the slipshod
lady of the morning, clad in a dress of crimson
velvet, and it became clear that she was not
only instructed to make herself very agreeable
to the youth, but inclined on her own part to do
so. She was very good-looking now that she
was neatly, if gaudily, clad : but her beauty
was of that forward nature which was almost
repulsive to a modest and inexperienced youth.
He was very good-looking and manly for his
age. His disposition was gentle, and it would
be very unlikely for him to say anything unkind
to any woman. But he was of that stern and
constant nature that only admits one love in a
lifo, and his heart was given irrevocably to Jes
sie Maitland— although, as he said at that time,
be had little hope of ever being in a position to
ask her to be his wife.
The weeks grew into months, and the mystery
ot Mr. Vawdrey’s favor was not yet solved.
That gentleman had several times asked him if
he ever knew that he had relations in India,
and being answered in the negative the subject
had dropped. On similar occasions he had
spoken of Hector’s father having been in her
majesty’s service or the Civil Service, to which
the youth had smilingly replied:
“ Well, no'doubt these descriptions are cor
rect, but they’re somewhat high-sounding. At
home, in Scotland, we simply said he ‘ was in
the Excise.’ ”
It was plain that Mr. Vawdrey wished Hector
to see “ life;” but the young man, after visiting
a few of the more intellectual theatres, flatly re
fused to spend his time at the others, or at the
music halls, so they left him to his books in his
musty and noisy lodgings.
Here occasionally he met an old miserly fel
low named Lowry, who used to lock himself up
in his room—the second floor front—sometimes
days at a time. It was said that he seldom
spoke to the other lodgers, and it was re
marked that it was odd that he took such an
interest in a stranger. He wore a shock of
reddish-gray hair and luminous spectacles,
which entirely hid his ferret-like eyes, and
being circular in formation had won for
him the name of “ Old Daddy Owl.”
Like the owl, daddy was not fond of the day
or light, and it was in the twilight that he
usually came out of his hole, and got into con
versation with Hector. One night he said, quite
suddenly, and aprop s of nothing, “If ever you
want a friend, my lad, you come to me.”
Ramsay simply smiled when he thought ot ask
ing the help of a ragged old man like that.
Ramsay at length became very uneasy. Not
withstanding the tact that he dined at home only
on Sundays, his landlady’s bill nearly “ cleared
him out” every week. He had spoken to Mowl,
but that individual only laughed derisively m
response, slapping his thin knees as if he never
heard such a joke. At length he advised him to
consult Mr. Vawdrey, who replied that “it was
a serious matter, but he must not think of mov
ing just yet.”
Another source of uneasiness was the fact
that Miss Erminio was becoming very tender
and silent when in his company. Latterly her
father would say, “ Go and have some music
with Erminie while I have a smoke,” and al
though the good man never went out of hearing,
and seldom out of sight, Hector could not mis
take the object they both had in view. For
some reason or other, Vawdrey wished him to
marry his daughter, and if he had not Jessie
Maitland in his heart, Erminie was not the
sort of girl that would ever captivate him. He
confessed to himself that he was probably pre
judiced; but he felt be never could respect a
girl whose only day of feasting and violent en
joyment was Sunday—a day that he had been
taught, in common with the rest of his country
men, to reverence and profane in no way.
One day, while following his causes of un
easiness from beginning to end, it struck him
again with greater force than over that the let
ters he continued daily copying were of
no earthly use or value, and so be determined
to have an explanation with Mr. Vawdrey with
out delay.
Knocking at his office door, he was asked to
enter the private room. He found his employer
surrounded by deeds and papers that were
genuine, and valuable enough, there could be
no doubt.
When asked what he wanted, he launched out
into his suspicions, and finished up by asking
Mr. Vawdrey bluntly, why he favored him so
much under his private roof, and why he paid
him money weekly for doing work that was ut
terly worthless.
Vawdrey never interrupted him until ha had
finished.
“ You ask me frankly several questions, my
lad,” he returned, quietly. “ You insinuate
that I .have hidden ob-ects in view. I reply you
are quite rtght. I wish to secure for my daugh
ter a good husband—a man of good family and
sufficient means. My choice has fallen on you.”
“ My family is right enough,” said Hector,
bewildered; “but as to means, I have nothing
—absolutely nothing.”
“ Ah, there you make a mistake,” replied Mr.
Vawdrey. “ You are not only a man of means,
but rich—l may say very rich.”
“Impossible I”
“ Not at all,” proceeded the financial agent.
“ Your grandfather, Hector Ramsay, who was
born in Maxweltown, Dundee, had a brother
named Hugh, who entered the East India Co.’s
service m bis early youth. He died twelve
years ago, suddenly, intestate, worth thirty
thousand pounds, roughly. Having never mar
ried, your father, his nephew, was the nearest
of kin at his death. You are your father’s only
son, and consequently the heir to both. I bring
you this money. You are young—your heart is
free—you have seen and know my daughter.
She is"a good girl and will make an excellent
wife. My dear boy, don’t look overwhelmed by
your good fortune. Rather run up stairs and
kiss Erminie. When you’ve got her in a good
humor ask her to name the day—the wedding
day.”
“ The wedding day !” said Ramsay, rising.
“ What do you mean ? I marry your daughter
never I I love another.”
“ You love another 1” cried Mr. Vawdrey,
fiercely.
“ Yes— my own Jessie Maitland. I must go
to her at once and tell her the good news ”
“Stop ’’ cried the now infuriated heir-seeker.
“Listen to me. If you don’t marry my daugh
ter, you’ll never touch a farthing of this
money ! ’
“Shall I not ?” exclaimed Hector, indignant
ly. “If the money is justly mine you cannot
deprive me of it. You must not attempt to
bully me. Did you ever know a Highlandman
who could be browbeaten by a Stand
back, man, and let mo go out I ffvffiid back, or
I’ll gie ye a blow that’ll prevent ye from ever
seeing yer daughter’s marriage. Out o’ my
way, Mowl, ye omadhaun, or I’ll brain ye whaur
ye stand I”
Vawdrey and his ill-favored lieutenant stood
back to let him pass. He was so excited with
the news and the man’s designs, that he scarce
knew what be said or did. His object was to
reach Bayswater, where Jessie lived, and hav
ing already been twice there, he knew his way,
and set off in that direction.
He had not gone far before his choler evapo
rated. Then he began to think over the informa
tion he had received, and recall what he knew of
his family history. Walking slowly down Ox
ford street, notwithstanding the noise of the
traffic, the memory of certain facts came back to
him, and a smile spread over his pleasant face.
But that passed away, and an expression of deep
melancholy took its place. This was quickly
changed, however, to one of perfect content
ment.
PART 111.
Hector Ramsay did not like to seem ungrate
ful altogether to Vawdrey. After all, he said to
himself, he “ wished to find me a wife, and it is
only natural he should wish to do the best for
his daughter. However, when I tell him all, he
will alter his plans, and all will be well again.”
He found order restored, and his employer in
his office.
“ You.have thought better of it, and have re
turned?” he said.
“ I have returned to inform you that you have
made a terrible mistake,” replied Hector.
“ Indeed I”
“Yes,” proceeded Ramsay. “I was too ex
cited to think the matter over when you first
broke the news and your plans to me. I soon
grew cool, however, and then I recalled to mind
certain facts that will no doubt aid you greatly
in the business in band.”
“ Proceed. ’■
“In Scotland, and particularly in the High
lands, the. same names are repeated over and
over again in different branches of one prolific
family. My grandfather had a second cousin of
the same name as himself—Hector.”
“Ha exclaimed Vawdrey. “ You know that.
You don’t say, however, that his only son was in
the queen’s service.”
*• His son John—who was named after his
grandfather—just as my father was John and
named after his grandfather—was a tidewaiter in
the customs at Dundee,” returned Hector.
Vawdrey uttered a long, low whistle. The
young fellow proceeded:
“My father’s cousin, John, the tide-waiter,
had a son like myself named Hector, after his
grandfather, as I am called after mine ”
“I know all this,” cried Mr. Vawdrey, rising
angrily. “ I have had enough of this. This
Hector, your fourth cousin, was tho grandson of
the real Hector who was the brother of Hugh,
the deceased general of the Indian army. This
youth, who was a few years older than you,went
to sea and was drowned, so you are the real
heir.”
“ Not while my cousin Hector’s three sisters
are alive !” cried Ramsay.
“ Sisters 1 Girls are no good for my plans,”
exclaimed Vawdrey. “Beside, they went to
America, and are now dead doubtless.”
“ I don’t think so.”
“ Well, that doesn’t matter. They know noth
ing of thia fortune—we do. If you are wise,
you will accept it and my girl’s hand; it is ready
for claiming. All the papers are prepared and
here. Come, don’t be a fool. Consent 1”
“ Never ! I would rather die first!”
“ I’ll give you till to-morrow to think over it.
If yon don’t consent then, I know how to put
the screw on, I can tell you. Poverty, ruin, dis
grace, dishonor, destruction will be your lot if
you thwart me after all my trouble and expense
on your behalf. Come, Hector, think better of
it; all may yet be well.”
“Never 1” cried Hector. “ You cannot tempt
me.”
“No, but I’ll break you.”
“I’m not afraid of that,” said the youth.
“ Truth, honor and justice must prevail. The
world is large enough. I’ll find something to
do, no doubt,, and, I suppose, get up in the
world without recourse to fraud and dishon
esty.”
“ You’ll never get up in the world except
through me. If to-morrow you don’t come for
ward and agree to my wishes, I’ll screw you
down under my heel until you are left powerless
in the dust and mud of the streets.”
Ramsay, next day, went out in search of em
ployment, but with the fortune now so common in
Loudon. When he came home he found a letter
from his late employer, pro‘easing sorrow for
what had occurred, and vowing that he didn’t
mean half he had uttered. He was naturally
angry at the failure of his plans.
“ I must begin my search anew,” he contin
ued, “ and if all else fails, make what terms 1
can with tho young ladies—if they bo still alive.
Let bygones be bygones, and if I can help you
to another situation I shall be glad to do so. I
shall be glad to reply favorably to any reference
made to me.”
Three months of misery and anxiety followed.
The savings he brought from home were all ex
pended, and his landlady became disagreeable.
Some people to whom he applied for employ
ment seemed favorable at first; but after being
referred to the financial agent, a cold refusal
came so uniformly that it dawned upon Hector
at last that his late employer was “ putting the
screw on ” to some effect.
It was at this juncture that I made the ac
quaintance of the unhappy young man. I was
on duty at the divisional police office early one
morning when the clerk, Mowl, came scrambling
along on his loose joints and his great gouty
feet.
“ A robbery has been committed at Mr. Vaw
drey’s 1” he cried.
A sergeant in uniform accompanied me to the
scene of the robbery. The night had been wet,
and there were traces of muddy feet in the front
and back offices. The desk in the inner room
had been prized open, and bank notes to the
value of twenty-five pounds stolen. The front
door had been found unlocked when Mowl came
to open it in the morning. I traced the muddy
footstept from the back window to the front
door. The mud was not the mud of the street,
but the softer and drier mold of a
Examining the window I found a little pain*
scratched oft between the two sashes, which led
to the belief that a thin table-knife had been
used to press the catch back. Going out of the
window, I found traces of footprints coming
from the back wall, but none going in the op
posite direction. I inquired who lived in the
house whose garden was on the other side of the
wall.
“ The house is a lodging-house,” said Mr.
Vawdrey, “ but .”
“ But what?” I asked.
“ A lately discharged clerk of mine lives
there.” he said, after some hesitation.
Having got the number of the house, I went
round there, and asked permission to go into
the garden. There I found the corresponding
footprints leading from the house in the direc
tion of the garden opposite. I noticed that
mortar had been loosened from the wall in
climbing over. All that was plain enough. I
next examined the boots of the lodgers. Un
fortunately, they all had been cleaned. Never
theless, I found one to suit the marks, and
upon inquiring whose it was, I was informed
that it belonged to Mr. Ramsay, the discharged
clerk.
Accompanied by the sergeant, I entered his
room when he opened it to our knock. He was
genuinely horror-stricken at our appearance,
and seemed struck dumb when I mentioned
that his late master had been robbed, and that
he was accused of the robbery.
After a close search, we found a volume of
“ Plutarch’s Lives ” behind the register grate
in the chimney, and between the leaves were
the missing notes, the numbers of which I had
copied from Mr. Vawdrey’s book. Between the
bed and the mattress a worn knife that could
have moved the catch was found, and the
sergeat whispered to me:
“ It’s the clearest case I ever saw in my life.
The lad is nothing but a fool.”
“ It’s too clear,” I returned, for I was far
from satisfied.
Looking into the face of the accused, I could
not believe him to be a thief, and the idea struck
me that it might be somebody’s interest to ruin
him; and that idea would not be dismissed.
Cautioning him in the usual way, I asked him
what he had to say.
“ I can say nothing but that I am innocent,”
he replied. “ Last night I received this letter
(handing me one) offering me a situation if I
could pay a deposit ot twenty-five pounds. I
could not, and told Mr. Lowry.so—Old Daddy
Owl—when I came in. He lives in the next
room. Ask him; he lent me the money at
once.”
I questioned the landlady regarding this
mysterious personage, but she said the old
man had left a month ago at least, and that the
young man was certainly lying.
I could do nothing but arrest him, and, as I
accompanied him to the station, I kept question
ing myself if I was not prepossessed in his favor
because he was my countryman—l am a Scots
man—and so young and guileless-looking. Un
der this influence I asked him if he bad any
friends in town or money for his defense. He
mentioned Miss Maitland’s name and address,
and said it would be an act of mercy to inform
her before she could see the case in the news
papers, He added that he had no money, but a
houseful of furniture might be sold at home for
his benefit. He gave me Mr. Steedman's ad
dress, and that good old man having sold the
goods, came up to town to get his London agent
to conduct Ramsay’s defense. Before he was
committed for trial the old solicitor related tA
me all that Hector had told him up to the night
ot the robbery—a narrative that the stipendiary
of course could not accept from the mouth of a
prisoner or his solicitor, in the face ot the direct
evidence of the robbery.
* * # r »
I soon found that Vawdrey had a very shady
“record,” and was resolved to set a trap for
him. I began to frequent a billiard-room he
nightly used, whore betting was high and sharp
ing regular. I was still very young, and looked
younger when I shaved off a rather strong
beard. I dressed up as a merchant ship’s mate
and saw that my apparently reckless play and
Scotch accent was attracting his attention.
After many drinks and long conversations he
suddenly asked me if I ever met at sea a young
seaman named Hector Ramsay. I replied that
we had not only been schoolmates in Dundee,
but shipmates up till his last voyage, ended at
Valparaiso, where he left his ship and got acci
dentally drowned afterward. After this Vaw
drey spent a good deal of his timo with me, and
I lei him understand that I was a sort of des
perado, and careless how I got money if I could
get it any way.
One night I threw my cue down, and cried :
“ I’m dead broke—ruined ! Money, watch,
all gone, and last night I was turned out of my
hotel.”
“I’ll find you lodgings,” he said, and that
night I slept in the prisoner, Ramsay’s, dd
room.
Within a week he proposed that I should im
personate Hector’s sailor cousin of the same
name. Pretending that I was never sober, I
agreed to everything, but had agreements duly
written out and attested—a practice not at all
uncommon in criminal conspiracies. As soon
as the realized, if I didn’t care about
marrying Erminie, I was to claim a clear third,
or over ten thousand pounds, and go where I
liked. In the meantime, I made love to Miss
Tursely, my landlady’s daughter, as well as to
Miss Vawdrey, and it didn’t take me long to see
that while the daughter despised the father, the
landlady was an accomplice of his in more than
one queer transaction.
I got a brother detective. Inspector Poynton,
to visit Mrs. Tursely and say that Mr. Vawdrey
was about to lay some information against her
to save himself. He then went to Vawdrey, and
hinted.that Mrs, Turs*ely proposed to denounce
him to the authorities to save herself, and then
I prevailed upon the landlady’s daughter to
conceal me and my companion in a lumber
closet beside the sitting-room, just before Mr.
Vawdrey came, in a terrible rage, to have an
understanding with his accomplice.
In the quarrel that ensued it transpired that
both houses were rented by Vawdrey, and that
an underground passage connected both. Low
ry—Old Daddy Owl—was simply Vawdrey in
disguise, and Poynter and myself heard him ac
knowledge this, and that he gave the notes to
Ramsay in that character, as the lad had said.
.Afterward he put the prisoner’s boots on and
went dowu the garden, climbing over the wall
bv aid of a ladder, and descending on the other
side. His back window he opened bv a worn
knife, but a similar one was first secreted in
Ramsay’s bed.
He unlocked the front door to make it appear
that the culprit escaped that way and went
home round the streets, even if the evidence
was accepted as it bad been accepted. A series
of other disclosures followed which cleared up
certain mysteries. We had, however, heard
enough. Rushing out, we arrested both the
man and woman—but when they came for trial,
Mrs. Tursely was discharged, and gave evi
dence against one ot the greatest sc undrels
the world ever knew, and who was sentenced
to fifteen years’ imprisonment.
Hector Ramsay was of c urse released by the
grand jury, who were instructed to throw out
the bill against him. The other Hector—tho
real heir—soon afterward turned up, and
claimed the old general’s money. Having
bought a small estate in Scotland, he went to
sea agaiiy, leaving the cousin who had suffered
so much to manage it for him. This position
enabled Hector to marry Jessie Maitland, and
now he has ample time for indulging his taste
for landscape and other gardening. In the
calmness of his northern home, however, he
never forgets the h rror of the time he spent
in London, or the man who was so justly pun
ished for putting the screw on.
SUMMER BOARDERS.
BY M. QUAD.
“Git up ’n ride,” he said as he brought the
oxen to a halt and moved along on the seat.
“ Come fur ? Goin’ to the village ? Whoa, there.
Buck, what ye fraid of 1 That ’ere off ox alius
feels as frisky as a calf and it needs old Bright
to balance him. Ain’t a patent right man, are
ye? Thought not. Mebbe ye are lookin’fur
Summer board ?”
He rattled along in an honest, confidential
way for a few minutes longer, and then sudden
ly changed the subject by saying:
“ Stranger, I’ve had experience with Summer
boarders, and 1 wouldn’t take cne into the
house to-day fur S4O a week. I moved up here
about ten years ago. Id just got married to a
thunderin’ smart widder, and we got settled in
our house airly in the Spring. One day when I
come in from work Lucinda says to me:
“ ‘ Samuel—that’s my name you know—l’vo
got the brilliantest idea you e er heard of.
Let’s take a few Summer boarders this year.”
j “ ‘ Flies and ’lasses, but who bo they ?’ says
“‘I don’t know yet. We’ll fix up our two
spare ro ms and advertise in the city papers to
accommodate a lew Summer boarders. Wo
can make en ugh money in three months to buy
that ten-acre lot of old Johnson.'
“ ‘ But we haint got ntithin’ to feed ’em on.’
“ ‘ Indeed we have. Them city folks who stuffs
their stomachs on the richness of the land will
come out here for a change. All they’ll want
will be fried eggs, oat meal, rhubarb pie and
old-fashioned sweet cake. They’ll go into fits
o er our old table cloths, cracked dishes and
plain furniture. They’ll swallow everything
down as rustic and old-fashioned, and we’H
charge ’em $6 a week apiece.’
“ I hung off fur a while, but Lucinda is a
great prevailer, and she finally prevailed on me
to give my consent. Whenever I got a spare
hour I helped her toggle up the furniture. I
had to nail up bedsteads, put extra legs to the
cheers, stop up rat-holes, stain over the bureau
with walnut juice, and do various other things
to make ready. I give Lucinda two ourty good
hoss-blankets to make rustic rugs for the floors,
and we cut up some old sheets for winder cur
tains, and by the use of thirty cents worth of
red, white and blue shelf paper we made them
rooms look what you might call Jim Dandy.
Hang it, stranger, when I cum to look ’em over
I felt as proud as a peacock, and the hug I give
Lucinda brought the tears to her eyes.
“ Wall, the last thing to be made was a rustic
cheer, and I just got up and humped myself on
it. It was Lucinda s idea, you know. She said
the city folks had got so tired of sittin’ around
on the stuffed cheers that they’d sink into a
rustic cheer with a grunt of satisfaction which
could be heard a mile away. I drawed up a
wagon load of limbs and branches, bought five
pounds of nails and a pound of glue, and in
about a week’s time I had the all-firedest,
nicest, rusticest cheer you ever sot eyes on. We
put it in what Lucinda called the Queen Anna
room, and then everything was ready for
boarders.
“We advertised in the city papers to the
amount ot eight dollars, and one arternoon a
young, solemn-faced chap, who looked as if he
hadn’t two days to live, came paddling up the
dusty road in search of Summer board, and
Lucinda took him in. He looked at the rooms,
and wo thought he grew more solemn. He had
some pork and johnny-cake and New Orleans
molasses and two-shillin’ tea for supper, and
there was no doubt of his being more solemn.
“ I forgit what Lucinda was to charge that
chap a week, with the privilege of walkin’ in
the barnyard, wadin’ in the swamp and olimb
the dead apple trees, but it wasn't fur from
eight dollars. He sot around fur a spell in the
evenin’ to ‘hear the lowin’ of the kine,’ what
ever that is, and 10 ‘commune with tired natur/
whatever that may be, and then he retired to
the Queen Anna room.
*• Stranger, we never saw that man alive no
more. He didn’t come down when the pork
and ’taters was ready in the mornin’, and after
a while I went up to arouse him, thinkin’ that
the lowin’ of the kine and the bellerin’ of the
oxen had charmed him. He was dead—deader
than a door nail. Wust of all, he had sot down
in that rustic cheer and died afore he could git
up. The coroner said the cause of his death
was too much rusticity and Queen Anna.”
“ Was that tho end of it?” I asked.
“ Yes. He hadn’t a penny in his pockets, and
I buried him at my own expense. When we
got back from the burial I says to Lucinda:
“ ‘Lucinda, let the city folks continer to sot
on their stuffed cheers and gorge their stom
achs with sweet cakes and preserves. We’H
Queen Anna these duds outer tho house and
make our money on pumpkins.’
“ Whoa there, you old sinner I Can’t you
see a streaked snake without jumpin’ outer yer
hide ?”
GERMAN ROYALTY.
Pen Pictures of the Emperor’s Family
—Bismarck the Terrible.
(From the Boston Commercial Bulletin.)
One is struck>with the pretty, gracious man
ner of the Crown Prince’s little daughters.
There is a guard house under the great Bran
denburger Gate at the end of the Unter den
Linden, and when the sentry on duty descries
down the street a coachman with a silver shoul
der knot, which distinguishes the imperial
livery, he raises a great shout and the little gar
rison scramble out of their quarters and draw
themselves up in a double line to present arms
to the royal personages—whoever it may be—
as the carriage bowls along through the middle
arch of the great gate. It is a pretty sight to
see the burly soldiers performing their salute
to the little princesses.' I never saw anything
more courtly than the gracious and unaffected
responses of these children, a gentle inclina
tion of the head, as kindly as it is queenly.
The Crown Prince is a fine, soldierly fellow
tall and handsome. He drives about gravely,
with a companion by his side and a body ser
vant in cocked hat and plume on the box with
the coachman. The lower part of his face,
being concealed by his beard, may or may not
be impressive, but his forehead and eyes are
magnificent -are such as his father’s were once,
I presume.
I saw him first on a dismal, rainy morning,
as I stood watching the queer old woman in the
flower booths in Leipsiger Platz. There was a
murmur among the crowd, a hurrying to the
curbstone, a so.emu lifting of shining cabmen’s
hats and shabby populace’s hats, military gen
tlemen, pausing in their promenade, facing
squarely toward the street and saluting. And
so a barouche rolled by and we on the sidewalk
saw a plain Prussian soldier with a red beard.
He wore a military cap and looked not a day
over forty. This was the hero of Sadowa and
Sedan—the first heir of the empire.
His wife, as everybody knows, is Victoria, the
Princess Royal of England. She is a homely
little woman, notorious for her parsimony, but
a very good wife, they say, and having great
concern for the welfare of the people.
Speaking of great people, I must not over
look the Genius ot War—that veritable Mars —
the Count von Moltke, the master ot the “last
argument,” as the Prince von Bismarck is mas
ter of the earlier dialectics of international con
troversy.
As I was walking one day in Bellevue avenue,
I saw standing upon the curbstone a thin little
man, with an absent look, wearing the tall black
cap with the red stripe, which all German offi
cers wear, and with a great military coat thrown
over his shoulders—the sleeves dangling by hia
sides. I suppose he was waiting for somebody.
When he turned and looked you in the face, you
might see that his eyes were by no means dull,
although he was over eighty. His clean-shaven
wrinkled face, and thin white hair were not
handsome, but impressive, though his head was
small and his eyes set too near together. The
genius of war, this thin, wrinkled symbol of
force, left his curbstone and paced slowly down
the street, giving the military salute now and
then to those whom he passed on his way.
The great Chancellor is seldom seen about the
streets. When he speaks in the Reichstag his
speeches are rarely announced beforehand, and
to the minds of the people this great man is
shrouded in a privacy and mystery which pique
the imagination and become his power. He
lives in a big, plain, rambling house in Wilhelm
strasse, with a court and a little garden in front,
separated from the street by a tall iron fence.
The number of the house is 77, and a magnifi
cent mansion which adjoins, bears that number
also.
Apropos of this fact I remember disputing
with a friend, upon first coming to Berlin, as to
which of these houses was the home of Bis
marck, for we had been directed merely to No.
77. My friend inclined to think that the splen
did house was the more fitting abode of the first
statesman in Europe ; I plume myself on hav
ing chosen the shabby one, for is" he not too
great a man to stand in need of splendors ?
But to return to the royal family. It was at
the imperial ball that I saw them to the best ad
vantage. This ball is annually the great social
event of the Berlin “season,” and everybody
who is anybody—everybody with a “ von ” to
his name—ls sure to be there or to have a good
excuse. The princes and princesses turn out
en masse. All the Embassadors are there, and
the Ministers and the high military personages
in splendid uniforms. Everybody wears a dec
oration or two or a dozen. (Heaven only know<
where they got thenu