New York dispatch. [volume], July 11, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
i'So they are,” inter . 3 ed Gussie, abruptly.
51 One gives them sweets.”
“To please mamma,” added Charlie, de
murely.
“It wouldn’t ‘please mamma’ to pay atten
tion to her daughters," said Gussin, still hotly.
“She wants all the attention herself.”
“ What nonsense, Gussie I”
“It isn t nonsense. Every man who goes
often to the Lawns must either be in love with
inadam or pretend to be. We call—they call—
the Lawns ‘ the toll-gate.’ ”
David jumped up from his chair, crying,
abruptly, “ Dinner I” They all scrambled up
from the hearthrug, and, by the time they were
on their feet, the anticipated dinner-bell rang.
The volcanic subject of the Lawns and its oc
cupants was wisely avoided during dinner;
but, when Doris had left the gentlemen in the
dining-room and had sat down in the arm-chair
David had occupied during this discussion, the
dangerous topic was brought again under her
notice in a rather abrupt manner.
“ You don’t really believe I am in love with
any one at the Lawns, do you ?” asked a gruff
but plaintive voice at her side.
She looked up with an “ Oh 1” and a start of sur
prise to see Gussie, flushed and troubled, look
ing down at her with dog’s eyes of humble de
votion. He had slunk in so quietly, he looked
so much disturbed, that Dons, for a few mo
ments, could only look at him and laugh in
dulgeutly, as at the unexpected caress of a
spoiled New bundland.
“ Why shouldn’t you bo ?” she asked, kindly.
“Don’t laugh at me—please don’t laugh at
me !’’ he implored ; then, coming meekly a step
nearer, “ May I sit there ?” touching a stool at
her feet.
“ Yes, you can sit there if you like. B.ut
don’t look so miserable about a joke of that
silly Charlie’s, or I shall be obliged to laugh
again.”
“ But he shouldn’t say things like that—lies—
for I tell you they are lies 1” passionately.
“ Now, Gussie, you must not be so petulant.
You need to bear chaff quite well at Amble
side.”
“Ah, yes, at Ambleside I” said Gussie, soft
ening. “Look here —I can stand chaff' now,
too, when it is only chaff. But this about the
Lawns is different. I tell you I have been in
love only with one woman ever, and——”
“ Gussie I” interrupted Dons, in a voice of
warning.
“It is all right,” he protested, nodding his
head in quaint reassurance. “Look—see how
quiet and good I am 1 I’m not going to be a
tool again. I was only going to tell you that you
are tbe’only ”
“I don’t want to be told anything.”
“ Well, that I never, since that evening on the
river with you ”
“Please leave me out of the question.”
“ But I can’t explaiu myself without bringing
you in.”
“ I don’t want you to explain yourself.”
“Don’t be so unkind.”
“ Don’t be bo babyish. Really, Gussie, I don’t
think you will ever grow up.”
“That’s just it,” said he, seizing the oppor
tunity. “ I don’t mean over to grow up, or to
fall in love, or ever to be anything but a boy.
I’ve found, you see, that my ideal of woman
hood is not to be found, except just one speci
men, which is locked up in a glass case, and is
private property. So I don’t want to grow up
to manhood, you see, bnt to remain a good lit
tle boy, and come and peep at the glass case
sometimes, and rub the dust off the glass very
carefully ; which means that I’ll come and cheer
you up as I used at Ambleside—if I may.”
A most discreetly-uttered speech for Gussie,
without any violence or undue haste, but some
most honest, genuine feeling in his voice, as he
x tenderly embraced his own knees, alter a favor
-4 ite ungainly fashion of his, and glanced up
from the fire to her lace with looks too humble
to be affectionate.
Doria was touched, and he saw that she was,
and his heart ached for her in the loneliness of
her life; for both he and Charlie saw a good
deal more than Doris did, and Gussie, who
Worshiped her moat loyally since that interview
With her over Mrs. Bramwell’s wall had re
vealed to him the beautiful purity and kind
liness of her nature, could afford a very
magnanimous pity for her now that bis wild
assertions concerning David’s coldness had
proved to be too well founded. For the moment
Doris found it difficult to answer, and Gussie
had the sense not to disturb her. When she
epoke, her voice trembled a little.
“You are a good fellow, Gussie ; and, as long
as you don’t talk nonsense, you are one of the
kindest old friends I have.”
Ho thought she was going to say more ; but,
Instead of that, she got up rather abruptly, and
walked away to the piano. Gussie s heart
leaped up, and he felt a great throb pass
through him, impelling her to rush after her
headlong. Bnt he got the better of himself the
next moment, and clutched his knees more
firmly than ever.
“If I get up,” ho said to himself,” “she’ll
think I’m going to make love to her again, and
then it will be all op.”
So he remained looking at the fire until the
voices of the other men sounded in the hall,
when he sprang up as if shot from a cannon,
and rushed across the room to Doris.
He gave her one inquiring look, as if to ask,
“Have I done right?” And the answering
glance she gave him from moist, shining eyes
assured him that he bad.
“ Shall I find some music for you, Doris ?” he
asked, as the others entered the room.
But Charlie hated music. It took a girl’s at
tention away from himself. The only occasion
on which he approved of it was when he was be
tween two girls, a plain one and a pretty one.
Then, if anybody proposed music, he always
turned to the plain one and said, “Oh, yes, do
let us have some music 1 That lovely sonata
thing I’ve heard you play, with the little runs at
the top of the piano !” Now, he would not hear
of Doris's playing; and, as a nightly perform
anoe on the piano, while David plac.dly dozed,
had not increased her fondness for the practice,
it was not difficult to lead her away to the fire
again to talk.
“ Have you heard how disgustingly Melton’s
cousin has been behaving?” asked Charlie,
When he had bis coffee.
“No. Tell me.”
“Well, you know how he came back from Aus
tralia, and, when everybody thought he was a
bachelor, suddenly produced a portmanteau
containing an Antipodean wile and about eight
een Antipodean children,”
c “ Eight,” Interposed Gussie, in a voice which
Seemed to imply that in the exact number lay
the atrocity of the thing.
r “ Well, now he has fallen ill, and a week ago
fie bad the audacity to send for his innocent
victim—l mean our friend Gussie—just to see if
he would make a proper sort of guardian for the
sigh* young bushrangers, 1 expect.”
“No, no ; very likely he means to leave him a
handsome legacy. That would be only fair,
since he is so rich, and Gussie was the heir for
so long.”
Gussie shook his head.
“No, I think his wife would prevent that.
Bhe is a hard, coarse women, and she seems to
have great influence over him. He wanted to
speak to me alone, poor fellow, I believe—to
tell me he was sorry for my disappointment.
But she would not leave us for a single moment,
find she didn’t seem happy until I was at the
door to go. It was a very unpleasant visit for
me; and I was glad to be out of the house, I oan
tell you.”
“ Where do they live ?”
[‘At Reigate.”
“ Shall you spend Christmas there, Gussie ?”
Waked Doris.
“ Oh, no; my cousin is much too ill I Beside,
J don’t like them.”
“ Then you will come and spend it with us ?
I shall write to your mother to ask if she will
pome, too. She is in town, is she not ?”
“Yes. She came up from Torquay yester
day.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me, too, Doris ?”
asked Charlie, meekly.
“If you are good, I will. Hilda Warren will
J>e here, and some more nice people.”
“Thank you. Lots of girls, please ! Christ
mas is horrid without lots of girls. I say, Do
ris, are you going to do some beautiful Christ
inas shopping as you used to do with Mrs. Edg
combe? Going to Covent Garden to get fruit,
and all that?”
“ Yes, I am going up to town on the twenty
third.”
“The twenty-third? Don’t say the twenty
third, or I shan’t be able to go with you, as I
Wanted to.”
“ Then let me go with you instead of him. I
have nothing to do on that day, and I’m a first
rate judge of plums.” pleaded Gussie.
“ The only thing he learned at school,” ex
plained Papillon.
“1 don’t want either of you. You forget I
have a husband to escort me now.”
Charlie made a grimace, and David’s sweet
Voice chimed in upon the babble.
“ I am afraid I shall not be able to accompany
you on the twenty-third, Dorie. I have a share
holders’ meeting on that day. You had better
accept Melton’s offer.”
Doris’s first impulse, in the moment of cha
grin, was to declare she would go alone or with
her grandmother. But a resentful thought, the
first she had ever felt toward her husband,
suddenly prompted her to turn to Gussie and
make the appointment with him.
“ And we’ll choose Christmas presents,” said
Gussie, with the delight of a boy.
“Hush!” said Charlie tragically. “The ty
rant will o’erhear you.”
“Oh, the tyrant is not jeolous 1” said Doris,
with less sweetness than usual.
“I may accept a Christmas present, may I
not, David?”
Certainly,” said he at once.
And the appointment was settled.
Both tlje were to spend the night at
Fairleigh, so the little party could sit and chat
ter until what time they liked. It was late be
fore they broke up. Just as they were separat
ing lor the night an unexpected ring at the
:front-d or bell arrested them, and the next mo
ment a telegram was brought in for Mr. Mel
ton. A message had been sent from Reigate to
his modest lodging in town, and telegraphed on
to Fairleigh. It was from his cousin’s solicitor.
Once l ” :j deri°k Melton is worse. Come at
The last thing that Gussie said to his hostess
as she shook hands with him at the door,where
the dog-cart was waiting to drive him as far as
Croydon, was:
“Don’t forget, Doris, you have promised
tou are to be at Waterloo Station P a t three
o’clock on the twenty-third.”
“ I remember, Gussie. Good-by I”
And, ft he drove away, his three friends con
jectured among themselves whether this sud-
I >orteaded » change in his pros-
CHAPTER XIIL
“you have no jewels worthy of your posi
tion.”
Not one word in satisfaction of their curiosity
concerning Gussie and his visit to his sick
cousin did Charlie or Doris or David get during
the fortnight which elapsed between his abrupt
departure from Fairleigh and the twenty-third
of December, the day of his appointment with
Doris in town. p ,
Mrs. Glyn did indeed receive at breakfast two
days later what she thought must be a letter
from him. But, on opening the envelope, it
proved to be only a card with these words:
“ Dear Doris —You won’t forget the twenty
third, will you ? lam thinking of nothing else.
“ Yours very sincerely, “ Gussie.”
Her husband asked to see it, and she won
dered what effect the ardent expectation ex
pressed in the note would have upon him. It
had none. All he said was:
“No black edge I His cousin didn't die then;
and then he took up the city column of the
Times again.
Doris sent no answer to the note; but on the
twenty-third, after another fortnight ot uneasy
reserve with her husband, which she had not
the courage again to attempt to break, she was
surprised to find how much the little excite
ment of the shopping excursion with her old
playfellow affected her. She ran up stairs after
her solitary luncheon, rejected one bonnet be
cause it was of a dull green color, which Gus
sie had ignorantly condemned as aesthetic,
passed her mantles in review, to choose the
most becoming, and was unusually particular
about the exact shade of her gloves. She had
lost heart of late to concern herself with these
little coquetries, not being frivolous enough by
nature te take pleasure in them except for some
definite object, and to please David was no
longer a definite object, since he always gave
her the same sweet but not enthusiastic smile
of satisfaction, and never noticed any change in
her dress.
A sense of this came suddenly upon her as
she was trying to make up her mind between a
brown vail and a black one. She had not
until lately been used to analyzing her own
feelings ami motives; but the disappointment of
her vague young-girl hopes of a full and com
plete happiness with the husband of her choice
had, during the last few weeks, made her
moody and thoughttul, and, as she stood look
ing at her own handsome face in the glass be
fore her, not with vanity, but curiosity, her ex
pression changed from the light-hearted ex
pectation of a girlish pleasure into the sad,won
dering look of the woman who knows she is ne
glected and can find no reason why.
Perhaps she did not try hard enough to please
her husband, she thought, as she herself no
ticed how the momentarily animated beauty of
her face seemed to change into still marble as
the remembrance ot David came into her mind.
But her conscience was free on that point; if
she did not take special pains with her person
for David, it was because he saw no difference
between a careless toilet and a careful one—at
least on her. This little pang of vague jealousy
pricked her at the memory of certain not inju
dicious crit cisms which she had heard him
pass on the dress of other women.
Perhaps it was an indispensable condition of
married life that at the end of a couple of
months husband and wife should become wax
work figures each as far as the other was con
cerned, and remain flesh and blood to all the
world beside. This did not seem right, cer
tainly: but what had she and David done that
they should be exceptions to the general rule ?
Why did he look at her, speak to her, as if she
were a picture on the wall, instead of a living,
breathing woman at his side ?
And feelings, tumultuous, rebellious, such as
her calm life had never before known rushed
up from the very depths ot her heart, astonish
ing her by their impetuosity, frightening her,
seeming to raise the very anchors of her tu
tored simple faith in all that was right and
good. She had done no wrong; she had tried
hard, very hard, to do right; she lived a blame
less life; she bore neglect and the hardest ot all
solitude-the solitude with a living companion
— bravely, silently, and she was suffering as if
she had done some great wrong. It was the
first time that she had admitted—the first time,
indeed, that she was fully conscious—that it
was suffering, this dull, numb pain which had
suddenly, without any warning, burst out into
acute misery.
For a few minutes she gave way, and. throw
ing off her pretty little bonnet, flinging down
the seal-skin mantle that had been her last
choice, she knelt down on the floor with her
head against the bed and sobbed bitterly.
Then the soft tap of her maid, whom she had
sent to get her a camellia from the conservatory,
made her start up and rush to wash her face
with an impetuosity very unlike the usual dig
nity of her movements. When she put on the
little bonnet again, it surmounted a tear-stained
and swollen face to which the esthetic green or
any other Lead gear would have been equally
unbecoming. The choice between the vails
now fell at once on the brown, as the thickest,
and Button followed her mistress in the deep
est depths of amazement as to what had “ come
over her.”
All Doris’s girlish pleasure in her expedition
had faded away. She sat 1 oking out of the
window of the railway-carriage at the cold flat
country, and then at the uninteresting backs of
rows of suburban houses, considering the slow
but sure growth of the blight upon her life
which marriage had brought to her, and won
dering whether the effect was the same upon
David. She would speak to him that very
night—open her heart to him, if he would let
her 1 That was the point. At any sign of a
wish on her part to carry the conversation be
yond the chit-chat of details concerning their
every-day life to the more intimate discussion
of moods and feelings, David had a manner of
growing utterly blank and absent which sud
denly raised a six-feet-high barrier between
them and effectually protected him from en
croachments upon his own reserve. However,
she would try; she would resolutely speak
through the barrier, break it down, if possible,
by the force of her own feelings. Since the out
burst in her own room of an hour before, Doris
still felt sensitive, excited, not only unwilling,
but unable to go on quietly with her still, cold,
every-day lite without some relief to the pent
up emotions which the merest accident had
quickened within her.
She was impatient for the day to be over, that
she might put her new resolve into effect before
reflection and the force of daily habit had had
time to make it grow cool. In order that she
might take what she liked over her pur
chases in town, David had himself suggested
that she should dine at her grandmother’s; as
for him, he would either take Papillon to a res
taurant or perhaps go down to the Lawns ; she
need not trouble herself about him. She was
glad, therefore, that she had some occupation
to prevent her timidity from getting the better
of her courage during the h mrs before she
could meet him; but she had absolutely no
other feeling left about her expedition with Gus
sie.
It came with a little shock upon her. there
fore, that at Waterloo station, where be was
waiting on the platform, he sprang upon the
carriage step as nimbly as any guard, and,
panting out, almost inarticulate with excite
ment, “Train was late—thought you weren’t
coming !” took her hand with a frantic tremor
in his which showed plainly to what a pitch of
eagerness for the meeting lie had worked him
self.
He helped her out on to the platform, with
just one look up at her face, a look so strangely
intense that Doris asked wonderingly :
“ What is the matter with you, Gussie ? Have
you been ill?”
“No, no, no 1” said he, impatiently. “ I am
quite well. There is nothing the matter with me.
Now you can send your maid back. I’m to take
care ot you now.”
She looked at him again when she had dis
missed Button, and said abruptly, as if re
lieved;
“I see what it is. You are in mourning. I
knew there was some change in you, but 1
could not quite make out what it was.”
“ Yes,” he answered, in a rather constrained
voice; “ my cousin died on the eleventh.’’
“ Oh, that was the day you wrote to me * Why
did you say nothing about it?”
“He did not die until the evening.”
“ You were there ?”
“Yes, of course. You have seen all the
Christmas numbers ?”—they were passing the
bookstall.
“David brought them down—all those I want
ed to see.”
The subject of his cousin’s death was dis
tasteful, evidently. It could not be from his
excessive grief; Gussie had never been more to
the elder Mr. Melton than “ next of km.” He
must have been disappointed in his natural
hope of a legacy.
But waiting at the side of the platform was a
very neat brougham, drawn by a chestnut
horse, at which Doris glanced admiringly as the
footman opened the door. She raised her eye
brows with a smile as Gussie stepped in after
her.
“A present, an extravagance, or what?” she
asked, good-humoredly.
“ Neither; a loan,’’ he answered, quickly.
“ What a lovely rug, Gussie !” she exclaimed,
as he wrapped a soft, handsome bearskin care
fully round her.
“ Yes; I like dark furs.”
“ But it makes my sealskin look shabby.”
“ No, it doesn't. It shows off your face; it
makes you look like the lovely queen you are,”
he burst out in h.s extravagant Ambleaide
fashion.
“ Gussie, if you begin to talk like a baby, 1
shall stop the carriage and go back.”
“ No, you- won’t. Both the men are under
spells: they have been hired for the occasion
out of the ‘Arabian Nights,’ and, without the
utterapce of tb§ proper words, which you don’t
know, theywo’dld rduha and round ths
West end foreverA
Dorie laughed. He was so exuberantly hap- 5
py, so entirely like the old playfellow of whCtDI
she still had an affectionate recollection, that
she could not help being cheered by his high
spirits, now doubly exhilarating since the dull
depression in which she had lately lived.
As they went from shop to shop, choosing
Christmas cards and Christmas presents,
through the bright alley ol Covent Garden
buying fruit and flowers, Gussie grew more and
more buoyantly happy, and Doris caught the in
fection. He lagged behind her as she went
through the stalls outside the covered market
toward the brougham, and she had to wait lor
him; when he came up with her, she was struck
with consternation to see that his arms were
piled high with flowers, the loveliest she had
admired as they walked through together.
“ Gussie 1” she exclaimed, not knowing what
to think.
“ It’s all right—it’s a commission I” ho ex
plained hastily, as it to clear himself ol an im
NEW YORK DISPATCH. JULY 11. 1886
plied charge of theft. “ Now you’ll come and
see my mother, won’t you ?” said he, in a tone
of strong but suppressed excitement which puz
zled her. “ She wants you to come. She told
me to beg you to come. You will come, won’t
you ?”
“ Certainly,” said Doris readily, a little sur
prised by his vehemence. Mrs. Melton was a
dry and melancholy lady, much cast down by
the rude force of adverse circumstances, and
very tiresome by the persistency with which
she impressed upon her acquaintances that cir
cumstances had been adverse. What she would
be like since this recent blow of the late Mr.
Gresham’s marriage and her own son’s conse
quent disappointment, Doris dared not imagine.
“Where is Mrs. Melton staying now?” she
asked presently.
“You'll see?’ answered Gussie, enigmatic
ally.
When Doris did “see,” she was overwhelmed
with astonishment.
For, on the brougham’s stopping at a big new
hotel near the Strand, Gussie impetuously drag
ged her out, seized her arm firmly, and rushed
up stairs with her as far as the first floor, where
a man-servant threw open the door of an osten
tatiously new and magnificent room, in which
Mrs. Melton, in mourning deep enough to be
dignified and not too deep to be handsome, rose,
rustling with black silk and tinkling with jet,
from a sofa, to meet her.
“ Mamma, go and see if the things I have or
dered have come yet!” said Gussie, impetuous
ly. “You can talk to Doris afterward.”
And “ mamma,” trying hard to maintain an
expression befitting her mourning dress, while
there shone in her eyes keen satisfaction at
meeting on equal terms, as far as raiment was
concerned, a woman before whose tors and
laces her own alpacas and cottons had afore
time figuratively quailed, obediently gave Do
ris a less lugubrious kiss thau usual, and sailed
with chastened step out of the room.
Some idea of the truth was beginning to dawn
on Doris’s mind. She turned suddenly from
watching Mrs. Melton’s exit to face the young
man who had so naively secured a tete-a-tete
with her.
“ Gussie, you have been playing me a trick,”
she said, bewildered.
“And what if I have? I had a right to tell
you my news in my own way. Sit down—sit
down hero, and I’ll tell you everything. lam
mad to tell you.”
He was indeed so much excited that, to calm
him, she obeyed at once, and sat down in the
low chair he had brought to the hearth-rug for
her, ready to hear the news she had already
partly guessed. He flung himself down on the
floor in front of her, and, putting his hands up
to her throat very gently before she could pre
vent him, unfastened her cloak and threw it
open.
“ You will catch cold if you sit in that,” he
said, with his flushed face close to hers, and his
eyes drinking in the fairness of her face.
She drew back a little, and pushed his hands
away coldly.
“ No, no, you must not be unkind; you must
listen to me kindly. You will see now you
were wrong to think I wanted your fortune
when I worshipped you so at Ambleside; I be
lieved myself to be then what I am really now,
the heir to my cousin’s property, in need of no
woman’s money. Doris, Doris, it is true. My
cousin was not married at all—the woman was
not his wife. Everything is mine, mine I Ob,
Doris, Doris, if it had only come a year ago I”
He was kneeling at her feet, rubbing his head
in her hands, in utter abandonment to an ex
citement which infected Doris.
She tried to calm him with cold and severe
words, uttered in a trembling voice which took
away their sting. She wanted to rise, but he
would not let her go.
“No, no !” he cried passionately. “You must
say something kind to me first; you must tell
me you are sorry you ever thought me inter
ested .”
“ 1 am sorry, Gussie—l am sorry. I have
believed in you, you know. 1 am very, very
glad you are well oft; I feel certain you will
make a good and noble use of your money,
better than I have a chance of making of mine,”
she added sadly. “ Now you must let me go; I
am late already.”
“ Wait, wait; you haven’t had my Christmas
present. David said I might give you a Christ
mas present, didn’t he?”
“ Well, bring it down with you to Fairleigh.
Gussie, where we oan all see it together, and
you can make me a beautiful speech about it,”
said she nervously.
But he stamped with childish impatience at
the idea of deferring his own promised pleasure,
sprang to the chair where he had thrown his
overcoat, and dragged out of one of the pockets
a large flat morocco case. Doris gave a little
cry of fear. He pulled it open and placed it in
her lap. It was a set of diamonds and sap
phires, the stones of large size, the setting
perfect, the value obviously alarming. She
made a movement to thrust it aside.
“No, Doris I” he said imperiously, seizing her
bands and looking up with flashing eyes into
her face. “ I accepted from your hands help
in money, a pretty good proof that you know
me weirenough to take a present from me. You
have no jewels worthy of your position—l have
heard Airs. Edgcombe say so. Since jewels are
| of so little value in your eyes, they are just as
worthless in mine. You must keep these—you
shall! Let me put them round yonr neck,
just as I would put flowers on the t altar of a
goddess.”
But Doria repulsed him quickly, rising as she
did so. She spoke in a low tremulous voice.
“ I will keep them, Gussie, on condition that
you let me leave at once.”
He stepped back, doubtful, hesitating. With
one glance at bis excited face, she left the room,
with the jewels against her breast.
(To bo Continual.!
HUMOR OF THE HOUR.
BY THE DETROIT FRSbYrESS FIEND.
THE WALKING 18 GOOD.
“How much vhas a ticket to Lansing?” he
asked at the Third street depot yesterday.
“ Two fo’rty.”
“ Make him dwo tollar.”
“ No, sir.”
“ But I like to go oudt unt see my brudder.”
“ The price is two forty, sir."
“ flow tar was he ?”
“ Eighty-six miles.”
“I gif you dwo tollar, und mebbe I go oudt
again next Fall.”
“ No, sir.”
“ You don’t dake him ?’’
“No sir.”
“My frendt, dot vhas all right. I like to see
my brudder, but now I doan’ go oudt.”
“ Can’t help that.”
“ Mebbe you think my brudder comes in to
see me und gifs you dwo forty. You vhas off.
He vhalks eatery shtep of der way, und you
doan' get so much as von look mit his goat
tails. My frendt, goot day !”
A STRAWBERRY JACKET.
“My dear wife,” he said, as he came arid
found her crying, while three quarts of straw
berries reposed in a pan on the table, “I need
not ask the cause of your sorrow. I know it.
About an hour ago a huckster came along here
shouting:
“ ‘Strawberries I strawberries ! Eight cents
a quart, or three quarts for twenty-five cents.’
“It was a glorious opportunity, as you
thought, to save a cent, and you rushed out
and took three quarts. You had scarcely en
tered the house when you heard something
drop. You stood tor a moment like one para
lyzed. Then you flung yourself down in that
chair and began to kick and squall, and the
iron still burns your soul. However, my dear,
brace up and let it go.
“ You have bought dozens of quarts of straw
berries this year, and on each occasion the man
has measured his big thumb with the berries
and beaten you out of a cent and a half. He is
bound to get ahead ot you in some way, and
tears are ot no avail. Rather set to work and
plug up the hole in a quarter and pass it off on
him some cloudy day.”
A GRAND SUCCESS.
Two or three actors who were stranded in
Chicago last week reached Detroit yesterday,
having got thus far on their way East. One of
them called on an acquaintance to see what he
could raise to help him along.
“ Why don’t you pawn that diamond pin ?”
was asked when he hinted at a loan.
“ It’s only glass, and wouldn’t soak for a nick
el.”
“ How about yonr watch ?”
“ Nothing at the end of this brass chain,” he
replied as he drew out the pin which held it in
his p icket.
“ Haven’t you any relatives ?”
“ One in a lunatic asylum and two in the poor
house.”
“ Can’t you cheek through on your bag
gage ?”
“ The baggage was cheeked to get here on.”
“ Well, what did you go into business for,
anyway ? This is the filth or sixth time you
have been busted.”
“ Exactly, my friend, bnt if you only knew
how olten I was busted as a house painter you’d
believe I was making a grand success of this.”
He was helped to Buffalo.
LOSING A POST-OFFICE.
In the early days of Michigan, when many of
the post-offices were carried in the hats of the
postmasters, a postmaster in Livingston county
was out in the woods one day and lostsoieral
letters from the hat. A day or two after that a
pioneer named Bailey came to his house and in
quired it there was any mail for him.
“ There was a letter for you, Bill, but I’ve
lost it,” was the reply.
“When?”
“’Tother day in the woods.”
“ Wellj 1 want that letter !”
I'Bui y 6 caii’c gli it. I’m sorry I lost it, but
that’s all I can do.”
‘‘Then I’ll have yds rem >ved from office l’ !
” Haiti the official
aS he began to skin off hi» coat, “ I was appoint
ed to nffid this post-office, and I’m bound to do
it. As a private citizen I have no hard feel
ings agin y.m; as postmaster I lost the letter
writ to you by yotif sister in York State; as a
representative ol this great and awful govern
ment, I want to say to you that if I hear two
more words of sass out of your thr at I’ll sup
press the insurrection by hanging you to the
nearest tree, so help me God, sir I”
Mr. Bailey was, however, permitted to make
a hunt in the woods for bis letter, and he found
it and the insurrection was suppressed.
A FASHIONABLE MISFORTUNE.
He had been to the city and went home brim
ful <>f news.
“ You ’member the Smiths ?” he asked his
wife, “th’.silver Crik Smiths, them as got rich
on the’r grau’leyther’s money ?”
Yes, she remembered them.
“ I seen ’em. They’re way up ; livein a gran’
house on a street they call thavonoo. They ride
in a double korriage and heve no end of mo
ney.,’
She said she s’posed as much.
“But, dumb sakes! 'Mandy, you wouldn’t
want ter change places with Aer.. I see her a
minnit an’ I didn’t hev the heart to speak t’
her.”
She said she'd like to know why; stuck up
thing I
“No, she ain’t Mandy ; not ,now. She’s bin
humbled rite down to the dust. She’s as blind
as a bat.”
Blind I She guessed not.
“But she is. Fust, she didn’t kno me—me
that’s rid down hill and played tag with her
when she warnt knee-high to a turkey. Then,
Mandy, tho' her eyes was wide open, she went
rite along the streets all dressed up in her flue
close, and a leetle mite of a dog was leading her
along. He was tied to a streeng, and she had
hold of t’other end of the streeng. Now, Man
dy, bow’d you like to be her ?”
A MYSmTouImDER.
BY AN ENGLISH EX-DETEGTIVE.
PART I.
Many years ago there lived in an old, dilapi
dated tour-roomed house in Weibert street—
which then stood on the sitoof what is now one
of our main thoroughfares in the west of Lon
don, an aged couple named Willoughby, of
whom nothing was kiiowu by the neighbors
save that they wero eccentric, penurious, mor
ose and. reserved.
For eight long years Mr. and Mrs. Willough
by had lived in Weibert street—“ in the world,
but not of the world”—and as they were never
known to have any visitors, or even letters, it
was generally surmised they had neither friends
nor relations. But if they were “ all in all” to
each other, what did it matter to any one ?
One bright summer's afternoon, however,
much to every one’s surprise, two sunburnt
sailors, one about thirty-five, the other some
few years younger, were observed to be mak
ing inquiries at several houses m the street,
and finally they stopped and knocked at No. 34.
The door was opened somewhat dilatorily by
the old lady, who, in reply to the elder man’s
question, exclaimed with astonishment:
“ Yes, we do live here, and I needn’t ask you
who you are—come in;” and then, when Jack
Willoughby and his friend entered, she con
tinued : “ Well, to be sure ’ To think that I
should live to see my boy again after all these
years I” throwing her arms around his neck
and kissing him.
“ Yer might a know’d,” said Jack, fondly re
turning her embrace, “ I ’adn’t forget yer, mo
ther. I’ve often thought of yer when I’ve bin
on the deep blue sea, thousands o’ miles away,
an’ ’ow good you was to me when I was a boy.”
“And so you’ve come to life again, have
you?” interposed his father, entering the room,
but without extending his hand or greeting his
son with any sort of welcome.
“ What’s brought you back home again ?”
“ I ain’t bin dead yet, father, not as I knows
on, anyways. ’Ave I, Toddy ?” turning to his
companion for verification.
“ I think I oan answer for that,” said he.
“ Who s this you have With you? ’ inquired
the old man.
“ Teddy Shaw, a shipmate o’ mine.”
“ You’d better sit down awhile, then,” re
joined Willoughby, somewhat coldly, pointing
to two chairs on the other side of the table.
Eighteen years had elapsed since Jack had
run away from home with his father's oash-box
containing some three hundred pounds. At the
time referred to John Willoughby, senior, kept
the Ship tavern, with livery stables attached, at
a popular watering-place on the south coast,
when the son, who was a smart, good-looking
lad, seventeen years of age, though he was in
variably getting into mischief of some sort or
other, used to assist in the business.
Old Willoughby was naturally of a sullen,
hot-tempered disposition, and, money-grubber
as he was, felt so incensed at the loss of several
years’ careful savings, that he had made a vow
his son should “never darken his doors
again.”
Having soon squandered his money with bad
companions, Jack found himself in difficulties,
and, fearing to return home, had shipped on
board a merchant vessel bound for the An
tipodes.
Once only had he written home during his
eighteen years’ absence, and that was not till
ten years had elapsed, when be wrote in a pene
tential mood from Australia to express his* con
trition, to inquire after his parents, and to in
form them that he had been six times round the
world, and was then an able-bodied seaman on
board the “Germania.”
Three years later, rind tlie old people read in
the newspapers an account of a collision at sea
between the steamship “Germania” and an
American man-of-war off the Cape of Good
Hope, when they had not unnaturally con
cluded that Jack was on board the “ Germania,”
which went down with all hands.
During his eon’s absence Willoughby had ap
plied himself still more assidiously to “money
grubbing,” and having been successful in vari
ous enterprises, including one or two “shady”
transactions of nis own, had sold “ The Ship ”
and retired with a small fortune to the modest
and unpretentious dwelling in Weibert street,
where, under the idea of economizing, ho had
developed into a veritable miser,
“ And don’t you think you’re a pretty fellow ?”
said he to his son, as soon as Ito had seated him
self, the old man’s mind reverting to the lost
three hundrod pounds. * ‘
“I own. I made a mistake, father; but I’ve
suffered for it, so don’t be ’ard upon me. Try
and forgit it,” pleaded tho delinquent, anxious
to conciliate his austere parent.
“Try and forget it I” the old man repeated,
pensively. “ How can I forget it ?”
“Yes. Come, Mr. Willoughby—l know all
about it,” urged Teddy Shaw. “None of us
are perfect, yOi} know, and I’ll be bound you’ve
m<Te mistakes, j f oui‘delf, of some kind or an
other in your time.” '
“Aye, that he has,” remarked his wife, glad
to force home the argument.
“ I have never made any such mistakes, sir,”
retorted Willoughby, snappishly.
Then the old lady, anxious to change the sub
ject, said:
“Como, father, let us hear where our Jack has
been, and how he has got on, and I’ll just light
a fire and make a oup of tea. boxy Jw has
grown Id wlial he when he went away I Ana
look at his whiskers ! I knew his voice well
enough, and,” she added,with an after-thought,
“he’s more like his father than ever.”
But her husband was irascible. It was clear
ly his settled conviction that the son was not
like himself, so he grunted out a “Yes” or a
“No” occasionally, just as a matter of form,
when he couldn’t avoid it. But he was ponder
ing over his loss all the time. Then he had
mfade a vow which to him, in its connection, was
a serious matter.
“HoW WaS it you wasn’t drownded, then?”
he asked, half sorry, in his callous old heart,
that his son was not. “And how did you come
to find us out?”
Jack explained that he had loft the Germania
previous to her setting out on the ill-fated voy
age, and joined a large schooner named the Al
batross. Then he proceeded to detail some of
his experiences, and ended by stating that he
had been back a week, and had been two or
three days occupied in ascertaining the where
abouts of his parents.
“ Well,” said his mother, “ we are glad to see
you, and no mistake. Ain’t we, John ?” appeal
ing to her husband.
But John Willoughby was not to be mollified.
He nodded a faint, unintentional assent, add
ing:
“ I ’ope ye’re improved a bit, John ?”
“Never fear,” pleaded Teddy Shaw, “he’s
learned a lesson since he’s been away, and he's
a decent heart in him, as I can answer for.”
But it was not in the nature of John Wil
loughby, Senior, to forgive an injury even
though it was done him by his own son, who
could not fail to notice his father’s implacabili
ty, and it occasioned him much heartburning
and uneasiness, as he had not reckoned on it.
Indeed, he felt so uncomfortable that he si
lently resolved to take his departure imme
diately after tea.
While the party were seated at the tea table,
however, events took an unexpected turn.
Jack and his companion had come off a very
long voyage, and the former had nearly twelve
pounds in his purse. He had no idea whatever
as to how the old people were situated, and
finding them living in a small, scantily-fur
nished house, he had jumped at the conclusion
that they were poorly off, and the thought oc
curred to him that five or six pounds might be
useful to them.
In the course of conversation, therefore, with
out mentioning his own position, he startled his
father by asking him in his blunt, sailor-like
fashion, “how he was off as regards monev
matters.”
Had he taken the precaution to have stated
the extent ot bis own funds, so that the old man
could have readily understood the significance
of the question, the latter’s timidity would have
been subdued, and his apprehensions allayed.
As it was, however, having upward of two thou
sand pounds secreted in the house, in gold and
silver, he imagined that his son, in asking the
question, was actuated by some sinister mo
tive.
Accordingly the father hastily and angrily re
sented the inquiry with the remark :
“I am surprised you should ask me such a
question, after robbing me as you did ”
“For heaven’s sake, father,” interrupted the
son, “ don’t keep on ”
“Do let bygones be bygones,” entreated the
wife. . t"
“Don’t talk such stuff to mo/* retorted Wil
louguvy, snarpiy, ana rising from his seat in a
temper; “ let fiddlesticks be fiddlesticks, N?w,
come. I’m quite capable of looking after my
otfa affairs, and,” be added, addressing his
wile, the least you interfere with us the bet
ter.” • - .
Jack felt the rebuke was un&liieij for, and
was quite at a loss to account for it, as Wii
for words to express his feelings. He had ex
pected the affair ot eighteen years ago would
have all blown over, asd that an impulsive act
of folly committed in the indiscretion of yonth,
which, moreover he had amply expiated in the
experiences he had since undergone, would not
be dangled before him throughout the whole of
his life. It indeed haunted him enough of its
own accord, without any adventitious aid from
his father, and had the poor fellow been able to
have made full restitution, nothing in the world
would have given him greater pleasure.
When, therefore, he was prepared to admit
his folly, and to help his parents if they needed
it, the old man’s Ui-oonsidored remarks stung
him severely; and, as he possessed a proud and
independent spirit, he felt that he could put up
with it no longer; so, rising from his seat and
putting on his cap, he said:
“ Father, 1 a’d thought that, after eighteen
years’ absence, the wrong I ’ad done yer would
’ave 'ad time to die out, and that yer would
’ave bin as glad to see me ag’in as I was anxious
to see you and mother, and tell yer ’ow sorry I
was for what I did. I was afeerd you might
both ’ave bin dead and buried afore this .”
“ I thought you was,” interposed his father,
mercilessly.
“ No,” rejoined the son; “ it seems not, and
I’ve bin to a lot o’ trouble to find yer, and now
maybe it’s the last time I shall see yer. Way,
you treat me worse than a stranger, father.”
Old Willoughby hung down bis head,
thoughtfully gazing at the firep ace, but said
not a word.
“ I’m sorry I called,” continued Jack—“that’s
all; but my ship sails to-morrow lor the West
Indies, and p’raps when I’m gone you’ll wish
you ’adn’t bin so ’ard-’earted.”
Then, extending his horny band, he added:
“ Good-bye, old man. Don’t forget the 10th
of June.”
His father took hold of the fingers of the
proffered hand, gave them a feeble shake, and
remarked:
“ I hope you’ll always do what's right, John,
and that you’ll come to no harm. Good-bye.”
“ I’m sorry for you, my boy,” added the
mother, giving him a parting kiss. “There's
many a worse lad, I know. Call and see us
again when you come back to England. And
as lor you,” she said, casting an angry glance
at her husband, “ you ought to be ashamed of
yourself, sending the lad away again like that.
You’re making my life miserable.”
“Teach the old man to say his prayers,” said
Jack, as, with an aching heart, he went out at
the door, followed by bis iriend. ‘“Forgive
us our trespasses ’ —you know the rest, mother.
Good-by. Heaven bless yer I”
And then some tears rolled down his sun
burnt cheeks, while his mother, weeping bit
terly, waved her handkerchief after him as the
two men walked down the street.
After the sailors had loft, there were high
words at No. 34 Weibert street, Mrs. Willoughby
feeling grieved that she bad not insisted, upon,
her son at any rate staying that night, while her
busband, on the other hand,, abused her for
being weak-minded.
PART 11.
Between one and two o’clock the following
morning screams were heard proceeding from a
house in Weibert street, and a neighbor on the
opposite side of the way, who had got out of
bed to look through his window, observed two
men hurriedly leave No. 34,. closing the door
alter them, both being encumbered with heavy
parcels.
As the noises ceased, no further notice was
taken at the time, but shortly after daylight at
tention was drawn to the house by some blood
being seen on the handle of the "door, and on
the pavement also.
The neighbors put their heads together, and,
after discussing what had been seen and heard,
arrived at the conclusion that there was some
thing amiss at No. 31; so a constable was sent
tor, to whom their suspicions were communi
cated, and it was decided to effect an entry
through the window, some previous knocks at
the door having failed to elicit any responses.
To insert a knife between the woodwork and
push back the catch was but the work of three
or four minutes; then the window was thrown
open, and the constable entered, followed by
two of the neighbors.
The front parlor was seen to be in much con
fusion, many things being strewn about the
floor in evidence of the place having been ran
sacked.
Proceeding up stairs, traces of blood were
discovered on the banisters, and on the landing
outside the front room a horrible sight pre
sented itself.
The body of old Willoughby lay on the ground
in a pool of blood—his throat cut from ear to
ear, the head being nearly severed from the
body.
In his right hand he clutched a poker, with
which he had evidently striven, though only too
unsuccessfully, to defend himself. There were
also several scalp wounds which had apparently
been indicted with a life-preserver that was
picked up off the floor in the front room. Life,
of course, had been extinct for some hours.
Lying across the bed in the back room was
Mrs. Willoughby in a complete state of insensi
bility, her face smeared, and her hair matted
with blood, she also having several scalp
wounds, and having evidently been murder
ously attacked with the life-preserver, and
probably having been left for dead as well as
her husband.
Plunder had clearly been the object of the
desperad es, for a couple of chests of drawers
in the back room, beside some trunks and cup
boards in the front room, had been turned in
side out, while a small bag of sovereigns and
some loose silver were found on the floor.
A medical man was immediately called in,
who, having dressed the old lady’s wounds and
administered a teaspoonful of brandy, ordered
her careful removal to the hospital.
Three days afterward an inquest was held on
the body of her husband, and she herself hav
ing by this time recovered consciousness, but
being unable to stand, her depositions were ta
ken at her bedside in the hospital.
All that she was able to testify was that two
men with masks on their faces had forced an
entry into the house in the middle of the night,
and were in the act of packing up some gold
and silver, when their noise awoke both herself
and her husband, who sprang out of bed and
Seized the poker to defend himself; but he was
speedily overpowered by his assailants, who
treated him in the manner already described,
and upon her screaming out for help they struck
her over the head, rendering her insensibly
The assassins never spoke a word> Ahd there
to re she was not able to recognize them by their
voices, ev?n if they had been familiar to her.
In answer to questions put to her, she men
tioned the circumstance under which her son
and his companion called, and left on the after
noon Of the 10th June, but she added she was
certain that her son had no hand in the matter,
and she was equally sure his companion would
not have had; beside which, their ship was to
sail the same morning the tragedy was ex
acted.
All the more reason, argued some, for sus
pecting the two sailors.
The police authorities at .any rate did so under
the peculiar circumstances of the case. /V***
The neighbor on the opposite side of the
stjftSK 25. St ths coroner’s in-
quest, swore positively to the fact of two mon
leaving the house with heavy parcels on the
morning of the murder, and his description of
the men tallied somewhat with that furnished
by Mrs. Willoughby of her son and hie compan
ion. though he could not say in the darkness of
the night whether the men were dressed as sail
ors or not, and he certainly should not be able
to recognize them again.
At the adjourned inquest, however, a publi
can residing some half an hour’s walk from
Weibert street, came forward and deposed to
two men, dressed as sailors and answering to
the description of Willoughby and Shaw, hav
ing entered his house on the night of the 10th
June, partaken of two or three glasses of rum,
over which they had engaged in an animated
conversation, in the course of which he had
overheard one of them say that “ the old man
would repent it yet,” while the second sailor re
marked that be was “a mean old skunk,” or
words to that effect. Both men, said this wit
ness, seemed to have plenty of gold about them,
and both became the worse for the grog that he
had sold them, and he added that before they
left they got into conversation with some wo
men.
That was the only additional evidence that
was forthcoming at the time, and though it was
insufficient to enable the coroner’s jury to re
turn a verdict of willful murder against the two
sailors, there was a general consensus of opin
ion that the motive for the murder was robbery,
and that the case looked very black against
them.
The difficulty of tracing Willoughby and his
companion was by no means small, by reason of
the old lady having forgotten the name of the
vessel in which they were to have sailed the
morning following their visit to Weibert street,
as well as its destination.
Eventually, however, it was discovered that
John Willoughby and Edward Shaw were
entered as able-bodied seamen among the crew
of the “ Albatross,” which sailed for Barbadoes
at ten o’clock on the morning of the 11th of
June.
It was then decided to dispatch an experi
enced officer immediately to that port, armed
with the necessary document to secure their
apprehension, bring them up for formal ex
amination, and unless they could prove, by
ample evidence, that they were aboard ship
early on the night of the 10th of June and slept
aboard, and could furthermore give a satisfac
tory account of money in their possession, then
they were to be reconveyed to England for trial.
Telegraphic instructions were also sent ac
cordingly to Barbadoes and points of call.
In due time the two men were arrested and
brought up at Barbadoes, when they indignantly
protested their innocence of the crime imputed
to them, stated that they had leave of absence
from the ship until eight o’clock on the morn
ing of the 11th of June, and they had of course
not hesitated to avail themselves of it, but they
could not out there give the name of the place
where they stayed on the night of the 10th, as
they had forgotten it. They, however, called
two officers of the “ Albatross ” to prove that
they had each been paid off fifteen pounds for
balance of 3d Juno.'tjiat they
bore a very good character tor steadiness ana
sobrietv, and toat they rejoined the ship about
halt anTiour alter the appointed time on the
lltfi, when they seemed to be in their usual
health and spirits.
The prisoners offered of their own accord to
return in order to prove where they
slept on lhe 10th of June, provided they were
not subjected to any unnecessary loss or
venienco, and therefore there was no difficulty
in making the usual arrangements.
Arrived in England, they were formally
charged at police cqurt, when sufficient
evidence was giveil io justify a remand, and
Mr£ Willoughby, who by this time had re
covered from her injuries and was staying at
the seaside, waS potified of the proceeding, she
on her part losing no time in engaging legal
assistance for her son Jack {ind his companion,
and in visiting them in prison.
At the next hearing before the magistrate the •
same witnesses were brought forward as had '
appeared at the coroner’s inquiry, and they !
deposed to the same facts, except that the I
prisoners having been furnished with a co \y of ■
the depositions, they freely admitted, through j
their counsel, all that Mrs. Willougal y con’d •
prove, to save her the pain of appearing in tha !
witness box. And they further admitted having
visited the house of the publican above referred -
to, and who now swore to their being the men
he saw on the night in question. j
The two prisoners had, however, up to that
time been unable to name or describe the peo
ple or the place with whom or at which they
stayed that night, having taken no note of the
name of the street.
Everybody agreed that that was most unfor- ’
tunate, regarded in the light of circumstantial j
evidence adduced ; and many thought the case
looked very suspicious against them.
Counsel stated, however, that if another re- 1
mand were granted, he had hopes of being
able to furnish this missing link in their move
ments.
The remand was accordingly agreed to- for a !
week.
PART 111,
While the prisoners were lying in jail,, a- dis
pute occurred between two men having, the
appearance of laborers in a low beer-shop at
Liverpool, on a Saturday evening. Both had
been drinking heavily, and the taller and more
powerful of the two—a brutal-looking Irish
man—was overheard to threaten his companion
that if he didn’t bring him round a couple of
“ quid ” before ten o’clock, there would be
something to-pay, little dreaming, however,
when he said it that the penalty would prove
what it turned out to be.
“I tell yer, Joe, I ain’t got a farden ov it left,”
said the shorter man.
“ Now, lookie ’ere, Dick Blowers,” rejoined
the Irishman, “ that game won’t do fer me. I
ain’t ’id my share o’ the swag yut, yer know.
I ain’t a mug, and, so help me , 1 mean to
’ave two quid to-night. If I don’t, I’ll chuck
yer into the river ; so take my and go
ana fetch it.”
“ ’Tain t no good talking like that, Maloney.
If I ain’t got it, I ain't. You’ve ad as much as
I ’ad. I couldn’t’elp my «le woman ‘sloping ’
off with Bandy Bill, an' nickin’ that two 'underd,
could I ?•’
“ I don’t care a ’bout Bandy Bill. You
’ad the pieces to mind, and I’m not a-goin’ to be
fiddled out o’ mine, missus or no missus; so
now you’d better look sharp and tip ’em up.”
“If you was to give me ten quid for it I
couldn’t do- it,” said Blowers, with a heavy
sigh.
Then a sudden thought flashed through Joe
Maloney’s, mind.
“ Now I’ve got yer, Dick,” said he to his com
panion. “You told me before it was a hundred
and fifty quid that she ‘ sloped ’ with, and now
it’s got to- bo two ’underd.”
“Well, I reckon it was nearly two ’underd,
Joe—some’at between an ’underd and fifty and
two ’underd,” stammered the shorter man.
“ But let’s git out o’ this,” he added, seeing that
a tall, stout man was listening to their conver
sation ; and, suiting the action to the word, ho
finished up his beer, opened the door, and
walked out into the street.
Joe Maloney was quickly at his heels, mutter
ing something between his teeth as he followed
him out.
The two men walked along down toward the
river, wrangling as they went, and in the ardor
of their dispute they failed to notice that they
were watched by a detective officer, who had
chanced to drop into the beer-house and over
heard a portion of thei rconversation.
“ I tell yer, Dick,” said Maloney, as the two
finally turned into a narrow court, which was
a cu'-de-sac, containing some twelve or fourteen
small cottages, “ I’m ’ard up, and ain’t got
no grub in the ’ouse, and unless I pay a quid
off the back rent, me and my ole woman and
the kid ’ll git chucked out into the street; so
now,” he added, with an oath, “ d ye under
stand—l must 'ave some money? I did the
dirty work for yer, didn’t I ? Didn’t I cut ’is
throat?”
“ And didn’t I ’it ’im and tho old gal over the
’ead ?” urged Blowers.
“ Yis, and I’ll ’it you over the ’ead if yer
don’t shell out. You’ve got money right enuff.
I must ’ave been a fool to’ve let yer mind so
much of it,”
“ Stash it, Joe, or else PH round on yer. I’ve
’ad enough of your threats lately.”
“ Oh, ye ll round on me, will yer?” replied
Maloney, taking the measure of his companion.
Take that, then !” and he hit Blowers a blow
with his clenched fist under the chin which sent
him staggering against the wall.
He was about to strike him again, when Dick
fell down on th® ground insensible, and the
noise ot the affray having brought some people
to the spot, Maloney thought the best thing he
coaid do was to make off; so he rushed back
down the court, but only to fall into the arms
of a police constable, whom he assaulted very
savagely, and who, with the aid of the detective
officer, finally succeeded in getting him to the
station.
The other man was taken into his house,
where his injuries were attended to by a police
surgeon; but he had received a iatal‘blow, and
only rallied to confess that it was he and Malo
ney who had committed the Weibert street
murder on the 10th of June, for the sake of
plunder.
Blowers, in his confession, stated that Malo
ney had formerly been an ’ostler at Willough
by’s livery stables, at the Ship; that things had
gone very bad with him since Willoughby had
dismissed him for drunkenness, and given him
a bad character; that he knew the old man was
worth a lot of money, and having found out
where he lived and what the neighbors thought
of him, Maloney suggested that they might
make a good haul by breaking into the house.
It had not been their intention to murder the
old man, but as they were putting together the
seven hundred and odd pounds which they had
secured, the wife raised an alarm, and Wil
loughby, seizing the poker, became desperate;
eq that they were obliged to “fetch him one” in
self-defense, and as a knock over the head
wasn’t sufficient to quiet him, Maloney out his
throat.
Blowers had only just managed to state this
much, when he fell back and expired.
Maloney was in due time brought up and
charged. He recognized both by Mrs. Wil
loughby and other people as a former ’ostler at
the Ship, and he eventually confessed to the
crime, and under the terror of having to answer
for killing Blowers as well, he committed sui
-1 cide ip prison while under remand awaiting his
til al.
It only remains to add that Jack Willoughby
and Edward Shaw were speedily set at liberty;
that the former was a solace to his widowed
• mother with whom in the country
for some years afterward, ttllil ttlit lie ailu ounn
1 are now in partnership together as coal mer
chants, and doing well.
Both have married good domesticated little
wives, who take care to see that they never
sleep at any place they are not likely to find
again.
A PBOVOKING BENCONTBE,
THE ADVENTURE OF A HUNTER.
Mounted on an active little Indian pony, I set
off alone from a wood station on the Northern
Pacific Railroad—not fifty miles from Helena,
Montana—one afternoon early last Fall, upon a
little hunt on my own account. After having
ridden perhaps lour miles over gulchy, rough
country, I reached the top of the range, and dis
covered a fairly level region, covered here and
there with clumps of spruce. After looking
about well, I decided to ride to a certain rock a
short distance to the east, and there picket my
horse, while I proceeded to hunt afoot. My
plan in hunting deer is always to find them be
fore they find me, if possible, not being, as a
rule, very successful at a snap shot.
Jogging on toward a very high rock, I sudden
ly espied a fine, great, black-tail buck standing
among some small shrubs, off 500 yards, per
haps, to my right. Such a distance was, of
course, out of the question, even for my trusty
Bullard. So, without seeming to notice him, I
rode on, tnrnipg off to tljo fol) a little, and,
thinking himself unobserved, I had the satisfac
tion ot seeing the buck wals slowly behind a
bush to keep out of my sight. By working off
to the left for 300 yards or so, I got behind a
slight eminence, which enabled me to come up
witiiin 200 yards.
At this point I saw there were three bucks in
stead of one 1 Now the question was, how could
I get closer? There was one little shrub not
over eighteen inches high and two feet wide far
ther on and nearly in the course. I flattened
out and crawled to it. Peering over it, I could
see that the bucks were there, and, as yet, per
fectly unconscious of anything. This was the
last bit of cover, and the distance to mv game
was about one hundred and fifty steps, as I af
terward paced it.
Nerving myself for the sure and steady aim
which sends the bullet just right, I resolved
inwardly to bring down at least two of those
bucks.
And I did it I
Lying flat, I fired the first shot, and saw my
game go down. Then jumping to my feet, I
took a determined aim at the second buck,
now speeding away, and before he had taken
ten leaps I fired again. He fell sprawling. I
heard the “plump” of the bullet; he scrambled
to his ieet and struggled on, but I fired no
more. He fell again, dead, not sixty yards from
the first.
Hauling them together under a small, bushy
topped cedar, I soon had them dressed. But I
could not hang them up, lor they were far too
heavy. A slight, shuffling noise, close behind
me, caused me to turn.
Horresco referens ! There stood a perfectly
monstrous bear—a grizzly—not twenty feet back
ot me I Oh, he was the ruggedest, savagest
brute that ever my eye fell on ! Why, he looked
as if be could absorb a man by just looking at
him! I had let the monster walk up to me
from out the little ravine, back of tbe cedar,
without kpowipg it.
The instant I turned, he bristled, let out a
perfectly blood-curdling snort, and lunged for
ward, rising on his haunches, to pounce on me
— after a grizzly’s peculiarly ugly mode of at
tack. i. i . •
My trusty Bullard lay on the ground, five or
six yards out to my left, as near the beast as to
me. In Silch a situation there was, ot course,
but one thing to do—run. I ran. I just gave
one long fox-leap off, and then gathered for a
lifo-and-death race. I expected the beast would
chase me and run me down; I knew he could
do it.
But I had not gone far when I found that
such was not the animal’s intention. He had
i smelled something better—the venison—and
I w.'.s already afoul ot it, with a tremendous ap
' petite, apparently.
1 returned to tbe place the next morning, and
;ound notidug ot the bear then, though we
searched ill afternoon. Every scrap of the
venison had either been eaten or carried off
’ during the night. Altogether, I considered it a
most provoking rencontre.
DEVELOPMENIOFTIIE HOBbE
From the Pony with Sixteen Roofs to
the Noble Animal of Modern Times;
(From the Pittsburg Dispatch,}
Although the mule, as Sunset Cox said, “is
without the pride of ancestry,” it is quite a dif
ferent thing with his relative on one side of the
house, in whose outlines, bearing, size and' in
telligence may be seen very plainly his nobility
and pure lineage.
The ancestry of the horse can bo traced back,
before the time of England’s monarchs, beyondi
the Ciesars of the Eternal City, beyond tbe
creation of man, and even further than the very,
layer of earth on which we live, into the rocks
and petrifaction of the age below us. Ancient
as is nis family tree, the horse species is not; by
any means entitled, to be classed among the
“first families,” and yet his lineage is enough
to put to blush those foolish people—fortunately
few in our country—who pride themselves upon:
their descent, and feel good because a great
grandfather did something which is thought to.
shed lustre upon his degenerated, high-rcoliared,.
sharp-toed descendants. Any o’d cart-horse oa
the street can show an older and.purer strain of
descent.
Far back before the age of man there lived
upon the earth a speeiea of the horse family,
long ago extinct, which at the present day would
make a showman’s fortune. This horse-was
very little larger than a sheep, and some not
larger than a terrier dog. These little horses,
as far as we know from the fossil remains,, wero
the beginning ot the horse tribe.
They had every outline of horses, and the
anatomy also, with the exception that the feet
were most peculiar.
Instead of haying one hoof on each leg, as our
modern horses have, this diminutive pony was
the possessor of four,.making sixteen hoofs in
all. As the horse developed), these Loo s, or,
speaking more correctly, these toes, all out one
disappeared, leaving our modern: horse to walk
upon the end of one toe to each leg. If they had
all continued to remain permanent the black
smiths would have rejoiced.
In order to clearly understand the-manner ot
the gradual disappearance of these toes, a little
anatomy may be tolerated.
Starting with, the hand of man as a standard,
the thumb, which is really a finger, is called the
first finger,, the index is-the- second, the next,
third, fourth and fifth. It has been observed
that when this order is in any way interfered
with, the first to disappear is the thumb or first
finger.. This is noticed in dogs. The “ dew
claw ” is the first finger or thumb.
So it was with ths little horses. No remains
can be, found possessing the first finger. The
earliest has the second, third, fourth and fi th
toes present, all of which reached the giouud
and were usable. These toes all disappeared
until none was left except the third, which is
the toe upon whose end the horses of the pres
ent day walk.
The one just preceding our modern horse had>
three toes, the second, third and fourth, but the*
outside ones did not reach tho ground, and;
were accordingly not usable. They were up. ft,
little distance on the leg, like the little hoof of a
deer, and only remain on our modern horse- in
what is known as splint bones. It occasionally
happens that horses, as well as other animals,
will breed back, and a monstrosity, as it appears
to us, will be the result. In England, soma
time ago, a horse was born which had two.hoofs
on each loot, and was carried about tho country
as a curiosity. It was a reference, or index, of
what sort ot feet the species once had.
Just why they were at first in possession of
such feet is a matter of conjecture. It may havo
been because the ground was soft and marshy*
and tbe extra feet gave more surface for resist
ance, and as the earth grew firmer no necessity
existed for so many toes, bj that by disuse they
began to disappear.
With the modification of the feet the horse in
creased in bight and strength, getting ready to
help man bear his burdens and progress in the
line of civilization, and it is true that if all the
horses in a city were to die, and there were no
means by which their places could be filled,
civilization would retrograde, because men
would have to bear their own burdens, and the
physical man would increase, at the expense of
the intellectual, so that in time we would all go
back to semi-savages, as the students of an ath
letic college do. The horse* as we have it now,
is a vast improvement over the steed of ancient
times. It is dependent upon man for its very
life, and man is dependent upon it. As it in
creased in size, through man’s interference and
culture, it also increased in mental capacity,
until one of the most intelligent, docile, useful
creatures ever given by a Supreme Being to,
man, is the animal almost human—tho horse.
In very early days horses were not used by
all nations, and by none as beasts of burden.
Asses and mules did the drudgery, and horses
were only used as racers, warriors, hunters, or
to carry their owners upon journeys of pleasure
or business.
Seeing men on horseback, apparently a part
and parcel ol the beast, led some natives to
think that the strange appearance was but one
animal; hence the belief in tbe centaur, or ani
mal half horse and half man. In war they were
a source of great terror to those who were un
familiar with them, and often the approach ot a
troop would strike dismay to the hearts of the
enemy.
The gradual development from the little
pocket pony into the full-grown horse has been
a prominent factor in the advancement of the
human race, and upon no other animal has the
hand of human interference been so marked.
This can be seen in the wonderful variety in
the horse family. Shetland ponies, heavy
draught horses, the racer whose feet spurn the
ground, and the slow plodding but powerful
horso which draws our iron wagons, are all ths
result of care in breeding and human improve
ment of a species at one time well-nigh useless,
SHE WAS HEARTLESS.
BUT THEN SHE GOOD LOOK’
ING.
We were on the Air-Line Junction, just out ot
Toledo, and the lour or five o' us waiting for
the same train became quite friendly, as o meu
■ will under the circumstances. We were out on
the platlorm when a train came in from the
other way and about a dozen passengers got
■ AU of a jti’iri jriia i
m—» —v. «uu a proiessi mal loos about him—
he was one of the five of us who were waiting—
gave utterance to one of the biggest oaths on
> the swearing calendar, and t >ok a step or two
■ forward. We saw his attention had been at-
I traded to a good-looking woman who was in
the company of a rather ol<lish and good-look
ing min. The woman leit ner husband—for so
the man proved to be—and walked right up to
our friend and held out her hand and said:
“ Shake 1 Charlie ! Y. u aren’t looking ex
actly well. Divorce and all that doesn’t seem
to agree with you first-rate, Let me introduce
• you to my hub.”
“No! Ne.er!” gasped the man whose face
was as white as a sheet.
“Oh, well, just as you please. He’s a good
feller, and he wouldn’t be jealous. Got your
second wile picked out, old boy
“For God’s sake I go away 1”
“All right, Charlie, but I supp sod you'd bo
glad to see me. We didn’t get along together
very well as man and wife, but we shouldn’t
lay up any grudges. H ;w’s the folks at home ?
How’s your business doing ? Anybody dead or
married since 1 leit ? Say, Charlie, what did
the papers say about me, anyhow?”
He held up his hands as it t > keep her hack,
and she laughingly said:
“Bah! but 1 ain’t going to hurt you 1 If you
are going to stop here for an hour or two come
up to our room and we’ll talk over old times.”
With that she bowed and turned away, while
our Iriend began pacing the long platform. One
of the others understood the ease and whispered
to us:
“He was divorced from her two years ago,
aud it nearly drove him crazy. She was and
is a scheming, heartless, faithless woman.
Lands ! but how dare she talk to him after that
fashion 1”
About fifteen minutes to train time we went
in to see about our luggage, leaving the man
still walking. We had scarcely leit tbe platform
before a special camo dashing past. We heard
the whistle and the bell and the roaring, and
the sounds had not yet died away when there
was a shout of horror from the platform. Tho
divorced husband had flung himself under Wie
train, and when it had passed hie body was a
mangled corpse.
The woman came down from the sitting
room into the crowd and asked what had hap
pened. Some one told her that a man had flung
himself under the wheels, and she was given a
description of the victim.
“ Why, that’s my old Charlie I” she exclaimed
as she raised her hands. “Now, what could
have possessed him to do such a thing I Why
its so tunny—so very, very funny that he’d let
himself be ground up that way 1”
She ran back to the edge of the crowd to tell
her husbaud, and as she explained the horror
to him she tapped him on the shoulder and
said:
“ Now, then, you won’t be jealous of mo
again, will you !”
HEBOIC HEEDS?
Some years the English ship “ Birken
head” loundered at sea. She went down carry
ing with her a battalion of soldiers, who stood
at “ parade rest,” and saw the boats loaded
with women and children, row away from the
sinking ship. The pro lessor of poetry at Oxford
commemorated in song the heroism of men who
went to t£e bottom because it was their duty to
go. Their deed has been equaled by ihe captain
and crew of the American ship “ Cleopatra.’’ In
December last, Captain Hughes of the English
Btearaer “ Lord the “ Cleo-
patra’ 5 with nef colors union doth, and et*-
degtly sinking. The gale wag so severe and the
sea faii fh&t ihe English captain hesi
tated to order a boat to oe launched, but volun
teers coming forward, he allowed 6fi3 iu be
manned. Before it could be got away, the
American’s colors oame down, which meant
“ no help needed.”
But Captain Hughes, thinking something was
]yrong, persevered, and, by braving danger
and working hard, saved tho “ Cleopatra’s” crew.
When Captain Penelton, ot the “ Cleopatra/’
was asked why his colors were hauled down, he
replied:
“Because we had no boats, and thought it
wrong to imperil other lives in a hopeless at
tempt to save ours.”
He and his men had faced the certainty ol
death rather than tempt strangers into danger.
Is this not a theme for heroic verso ?