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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, March 06, 1887, Image 1

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K\ | zr Ifl I i ( in 1l -si
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VOl\. XUI.--NO. 21.
Entered at the Rost Office at New YorL,
JL ¥., as Second Class Matter*
The NEW YORK DISPATCH in a journal ©flight, agree
•nble and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de
"voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given
•to Music and the Drama.
The Dispatch is sold by all Nows Agents of the city and
‘Suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY.
Post Office Box No. 1775.
De Wolf Hopper’s Itival-THe Muscle of
Music — A Boneless •Ije&d.er —** liar*
r.-iine Wtint. It Is Like-Thu
Kclipse of De Hoppe r— What
•t Conductor Could Do.
For once in his professional career De Wolf Hop
per has met a rival—and' connected, too, with the
company in which be has heretofore held place as
the principal and in fact the only comedian in the
cast —whatever the opera.
' And the rival is directly in front of him as long as
the curtain is up and he is on in the scene.
To be sure bis name is not in the cast—but he is
there all the same—and Da Wolf Helper had better
look sharp alter his laurels—which is another name
for the encores.
It cannot go otherwise than hard for the come
dian on the stage, doing his level best to keep his
audience in a roar,‘when confronting him in the
orchestra there is a continuous exhibition of acro
batic, gymnastic and pantomimic specialties by the
conductor of the band.
During the first performance of•• Lorraine” st
the Star lheatre, on Monday night last, this musical
rival of the comedian got in his fine work in amus
ing the audience, «o effectually, that toward the
close ot the second act it became a matter of serious
question whether it wouldn’t have been the proper
eaper to reverse the order of things and have con
ductor Ad. Neuendorff change place with Hopper.
Gr retire the Conductor in favor of the second
fiddle of the baud, and so relieve the audience from
the divided duty of watching two exquisitely
funny and entertaining performers at one and the
same time.
This plan not being proct cable, permit me.
Colonel McCaull, to whisper in your ear-discharge
And pnt Nenendorff in Hopper’s part, and let
him, as Gaspard, lead the orchestra on the stage.
Ho could thus mingle his acrobatic, pantomimic
and gymnastic specialties as Conductor with the
burlesquerie and tomfoolery of the assinino old
is sufficient for a comic operetta—especially one
which has so much of lyric worth in its numbers to
commend it as this “Lorraine.”
Be it known that Mr. Nenendorff is a musician of
more than ordinary talent. As a manager he has
thus far been something of a failure. I believe,
however, that bo has never made known the extent
of his capacity as a comedian of the horse-play
school—or any other way than as in conjunction
with his leadership of an orchestra during the time
ol actual performance.
But when ho opened out—when he took his place
on the conductor’s little platform and grasped the
baton, and the eurtain went up—be not only took
in the situation and the stage, but the attention of
the entire audience.
Of what avail the vivacity and presence of the
Cottrel y, with her shapely limbs, her handsome
face and artistic work; the posing and sweetly sweet
smile of Pcragini ; the dignity and blonde wig of
Oimi; the winsome voice and earnestness and sin
cerity of Alias Griswold, or the antics and comedy
of Do Wolf Hopper, which were wont to set the
house in a roar, as compared to the exposition of
voiceloss farce and comical physical diablerie of
the tireless conductor?
Who cared for chorus or ballad, for duet or recita
tive—the bright costumes, the pretty choristers or
the scenic sellings, when they could have an entire
«ire us in the orchestra without the trouble of look
ing beyond the footlights ?
Two waves of the wand—a great and sudden
epread of his arms—a weird plunge forward, as if
be intended the impossible feat of balancing his
shoulders on his ears, and then be began climbing
all over himself. The twistings and gyrations of the
“ boneless prodigy” of tho circus were as child’s
play compared to this exhibition.
I have witnessed the peculiarities and gesturing
©f very nearly all the conductors of opera—grand
and comic, of military and string bands—from that
early period when the rotund Jtiilien ap
peared here at Tripier Hall, to tho latest—Arditi.
But they all would pa’e their ineffectual action in
the presence of tho acrobatic master, Nenendorff.
When the first act approached its conclusion—ah,
what an illustration he gave of the capacity of tho
human form, actuated by a species of lyric galvan
ism, for contorting itsei: into
without causing even the most infinitissemal drop
ef perspiration to exude from the cuticle which cov
ered his front 1 bon •«.
Who yearned for the voices, the words,the action,
the music of “Lorraine ’’—with this wonderful and
ever-changing display of physical agility ?
Mow, with a wild plunge forward over the music
eland, with tbe arms extended like a man swim*
ming against the tide —and with bis baton pointing
With deadly aim at the Griswold, as it it Were
loaded with lyric birdshot and his purpose was to
blew her frail form into fragmentary half notes—
again falling back upon his reserved rights of per
pendicularity, he makes a demi-quaver screw of his
anatomy which almost dislocates the caudal
portions of bis clawhammer coat from the body
amt dives at the buss viol wrestler, who dodges be
hind hie instrument pallid with fear. Then, as if
he were a willow sapling undergoing massage treat
ment from a Colorado cyclone, he whirls about,
faces the stage and Just as that dear old light of oth
er days, Eoldene, came down and began to lift her
voice in song, and opened her mouth, he made a
forward and upward plunge, and aroused a dread
that ho was about to throw himself headlong down
her throat.
Then throwing himself back and raising tbe ante
©n his flexors and/extensors.and combining tho rapid
circular action of a penny whirligig with the flop of
a stranded shad, he turned his glare upon one of
tho blowers of brass on bis right, who crawled up
into tho mouth of his big bassoon and was soon no
more during tho act.
Then he doubted himself up and made a series of
vindictive onslaughts upon three or four of the
principals on tho stage, and *
out of all remembranca that ho was a professional
beauty, and made De Wolf Hopper look as melan
choly as a pauper’s funeral iu a snow storm.
Then the arms began an up and down movement
—like tho flippers of an Alae.; a seal climbing up a
slippery rock; then one arm gyrated, and the hands
slowly boat tho air. as do tho wings of a barnyard
gooso in the act of elevating itself above the level
of a worm fence; straightening himself up, then
comes his fit again—a twist of tho spinal vertebrae
a pitch of tho head forward, and making what |
seems to be a lump job of himself, ho assumes an
other change—there is a final spread of arms, a sort
of fireworks saturnalia—the baton drops, the great
acrobat and lyric comedian takes a header—and the
act is over.
The bassoon player creeps out of the mouth of
his instrument, the scraper of tho enlarged feline
inteatinals comes out from behind his bass viol and
the thumpers of the sheepskin—breathe again.
Under the stage, in the music room, restoratives
of a fluidic nature are administered to tho exhaust
ed leader. A pretzel is waved twice or thrice under
his nostrils, a spoonful of limburger ae an additional
stimulant is gently but firmly passed into bls
aesophagus -and in a few moments he once again
resumes his normal condition.
“ Al tu Brule !*' murmurs De Wolf Hopper, as he
gazes upon this revivification of his triumphant
•• Well, with him in the orchestra, how ©an any
opera be anything else but comic ?” quoth the Cot
•• If he faints from exhaustion after the next »ct,
somebody run around to the front of the house,
catch Syd. Rosenfeld, yank him iu hero and shake
him over Ad.—that’ll make him more lively,” or
dered Col. McCaull.
and the third—find the crusher of Hopper on band,
but with a score of variations in his acrobatic and
pantomimic display. Once he flattened himself
over tbe music stand and footlights as if he
were a coon skin nailed to the door of acoun
try blacksmith’s shop; anon he was struck
in his off ear by a false note from the orchestral
sattelite who did the chief wheezing on t-he clario
nette—this diversion was supplemented by the
reckless and unprincipled fellow wlio worked the
oboe growler, and ibis double outrage was the cue
that brought the leader into a series of side-splitting
spasms, pitches, plunges <nd gyrations which
aroused the audience to an enthusiastic and long
continued expression of its admiration.
But the opera—where, oh, whore was the opera
and its representatives, behind tbe foot lights ?
Well, they were moving slowly, progressing to
ward the close and braving with a fortitude deserv
ing of praise, the neglect they suffered from the
audience. And the principals fought nobly. The
opera would have been - comic had there not been
the work of the acrobatic farceur intervening be
tween tho performance on tho stage and the public
in front.
It was—despite this side show, fairly comic—and
not only comic to this degree, but it was in all
respects given an excellent and thoroughly enjoya
ble representation.
That is to say with De Wolf Hopper laboring
under the disheartening disadvantage of having his
rival in the eccentric and grotesque line operating
In front of him, and at times almost under his very
The ordeal was terrible, but he survived it. So
aid the Cottrelly, who is of that philosophic tem
perament which will calmly endure present evils
rather than run tbe chance of confronting others
as yet untried in ber experience.
of •• Lorraine” and of “ Don Cjesar,” has evidently
inoculated himself, or rather bis compositions, with
the Strauss method. As a consequence, in bis
numbers, there is a mi’d breaking out of the waltz
movement; but it is by no means an unpleasant
factor in his works.
The music or “Lorraine” is bright and, if at
times slightly reminiscent of the measures of the
Viennese composers, it is, in many respects, infin
itely superior to “Don Caasar.” It is more an
opera of melodies; it comes in a plainer and more
tuneful method to the hearing ; there are evi
dences in the arrangement of its numbers that the
composer has striven to bring his music within the
j popular comprehension rather than lift it up to the
j satisfaction of the more cultivated sense and to
; secure the favor of the higher critical estimate. In
i fact, it has within its fl.ow of melodies the ele-
I ments which commend it to that general public
that holds comic opera in special regard.
The libretto, as adapted from the German of
Oscar Walther by Mr. Will. J. Henderson, is not
overladen with wit or with humor; but its text is,
nevertheless, fairly bright, the arrangement of the
business clever and the story as told in the original
has been unchanged.
This story is in brief based upon tho adventures
of Lorraine, who, when a child, having been aban
doned to tbe keeping of a peasant, is in search of
his father. Louis XIV., King of France, meets Lor
raine, becomes interested in him and at length dis
covers that they are both the sons of Louis XIII.
The King creates Lorraine a peer of France, and
all ends well. Lorraine and Madelaine are happily
united—Gaspard no longer worries over the dispo.
Bition of his neico or Oudorde’s agile tongue and—
Neuendorff facing the ensemble of beauty, color, mel
ody and light, ties himself into a knot and disappears.
So does the audience. The scenic settings are new
and appropriate, and the conductor’s baton is of
highly polished lignum vihe, and loaded to the
But whatever of humor and point there may be
in the libretto, of rhythm and melody in the music,
all these are
in tbe interest of the audience to the acrobatic
exorcises of De Wolf Hopper’s rival, Ad. Neuendorff.
His is one of those remarkable and sustained exhi
bitions of nervous force eccentrically developed,
and which seem to give to his form tho pliability ol
a wet rag, and the elasticity of India-rubber.
These are attributes rarely centered elsewhere than
in tbe professional tumblers and athletes of a cir
cus ring.
Even the most expert of those spangled artists of
the spring-board and tan-bark, were he gifted with
the musical talent possessed by Hopper’s rival,
would have to undergo long years of severe and on.
remitted practice before he could hope to equal the
“Lorraine” conductor’s flexibility of limb, origi
nality, in contortion and picturesque and startling
changes of position.
As he is wonderful in conducting such a little thing
as a comic opera orchestra, how overwhelmingly
sublime he must be in action when he starts in en
a band of sixty-instrument-power for grand opera.
Fancy tbe amazing convolutions, the tortuous
twistings, the spread of arms, tbe piling of himself
on top of himself, winding himself aroggd fete Vft
*fin, and all the extraordinary, tiered and frantic
plunges, leaps and dives of this master of acrobatic
leadership, rushing his orchestra through the mys
terious windings and labyrinthine mazes of a
Wagner opera 1
It would be a sight which would live in one’s
memory as long as life lasted—like tbe first sight of
a circus performance, with menagerie attachments.
Why should—oh, why should Herr Neuendorff
ever have sought such poor and Inadequate resort
for the accumulation of wealth as the management
of a theatre, when, as a gymnastic conductor—a
boneless leader, so to speak—he could have amassed
a fortune?
When “Lorraine” ceases somewhat in its “draw
ing” power, Herr Neuendorff might add new fea
tures to his present exhibition. He copld, and
doubtless will, vary the monotony of things by
somersaulting over three or four of tbe fiddlers all
in a row, balance himself on tbe flute-player’s nose,
dance a can-can on the bass drum, roil over the
xylophone, kick the wind out of the bagpipes, jug
gle six in hand of the books of the score, and blow
himself out of tho trombone. While indulging iu
these spectacular vagaries ho could still keep his
baton waving and mark time with the same unerr
ing accuracy which thus far has distinguished his
agile leadership.
With his gyrations in the orchestra, Col. McCaull
could easily dispense with the necessity of giving a
performance ot the opera at tho ono-uigbt stands-—
the leader would be sufficient lor the entertain
ment of tlie provincial yokeis and hayseeds.
Verily, what would “Lorraine” be without Nen
endorff ?
Mrs. Parvenus (indicating a painting
of the Madonna)—" Whose picture is that ?” Deaf
er—'• Raphaels, madam.” Mrs. Farvenuo (sur
prised)—•• Are you sure ? I h ivo always supposed
that Raphael was a man.”
NEW YORK. 6. 1887.
The Fatal Downward Road Quick
ly Traveled by Dick
How He and Rosa Started On It
Heartless Betrayal and Utter
There is an old saying that “ tbe devil is a bad
paymaster.” And so ho ia; surprisingly bad for one
who still manages to do such a large business. For
a time, now and then, he may affect to be liberal, to
get some wary victim more securely into his
clutches, but, take him “by and large,” as the sail
ors say, and he turns out quite mean, if not actu
ally rascally in his dealings with those who serve
him. Sometimes, it is vehemently suspected, he
fairly punches an unfortunate gentleman, with tbe
gad of misery, into his toils—as a coal mine propri
etor might starve big employees into *HcJi deepens
tiou that they would strike and come to utter ruin
at a tim? when ho wanted to •’ shut down work,”
and consequently raise the price of coal on hand. If
“imitation is tho sincerest form of flattery,” then
the coal mine proprietors generally should stand
well with the devil, provided he has any germs of
reciprocal fooling in him. But all this seems to be
more or less a divergence from tho straight-forward
duty of tolling the warning tale of DISK Stephen
son, who, in the Winter of 1857-8,
in a cell of a Cincinnati station-house, where he
was temporarily an involuntary resident under dis
agreeably strong suspicion of being the perpetrator
of a brutal assassination for purposes of robbery.
Dick, at that terminal point of his career, was
very far from being •• nice,” in any possible sense,
yet there were those standing about his corpse, the
morning after his self-murder, who said *• it was *n
awful pity about poor Dick.”
Six years before that date, he was guilty of his
first offence against morality and social Uw, the
seduction of a pretty young Jewess named Rosa
Goldstein. At least she said he was guilty. Perhaps
he was, but in the proceedings she instituted to
compel him to marry her, he protected himself by
the presentation of abundant evidence t?.at if he
had been the first to lead her astray, she had since
very willingly accepted other guides in forbidden
paths, and that cast sufficient doubt over her
affirmation of his guilt to shield him from tbe
dreadful fate of marriage—to such a willing wife.
When the trial was over, Rosa seemed to philo
sophically accept tbe situation, and at her solicita
tion bis
with her were resumed upon an apparently
thoroughly amicable basis. But, as might have
been expected, be one night discovered that he was
not in tbe enjoyment of a monopoly, and iu a bitter
fight that ensued he nearly killed another young
man and had to flee from Cincinnati—where both
he and she had been born and brought up together
—to escape arrest and certain long imprisonment.
Soon alter he went away, Rosa also disappeared.
Two years later, they met again, this time in New
Orleans; he as the confidential book-keeper of a
large commission house (Rodriguez & Martin), and
she as the “ star boarder ” in a fashionable "board
ing house for ladies only,” where she flourished
under tbe name of Florence Goldie. Sho seemed
overjoyed to meet him again and a reconciliation
was speedily effected. Within three days he had
ber out of that bouse and installed in pretty lodg
ings as his mistress, sho again swearing that she
loved him better than all the rest of tbe world and
would bo true to him forever.
“Flossie” was an expensive toy, much beyond
what a young man in bis position could legitimate,
ly afford, and it was not a great while before he be
gan misappropriating small sums from tho funds
of his employers. Tbe business of the firm was
large, its system ruther a loose one, Dick implicitly
trusted, and his little peculations might perhaps
have gone on indefinitely without being suspected,
had he been satisfied with reasonable amounts.
But small amounts
She wanted fine clothes, jewelry, luxuries of all
kinds, and by artful means continued to press Dick
to increase bis pilferings to what he could not bat
recognize was a dangerous extent. One day be
overheard bis employers discussing a suspicion
that all was not right about the accounts, and re
solving to have a look through them the succeed
ing day. When, in great anxiety, he that evening
told Eosa of what was before him, she said:
" Then the game is up. We will have to get out
of town before they catch you. But it would be
madness to run away without first making a good
haul to carry us along until something else turns
up. You have told me that there are always fifteen
or twenty thousand dollars in the safe. You have
the key of the store and tbe combination of the
safe. Get that money to-night. Before daylight we
will be secreted aboard a vessel running from here
to Havana, the captain of which is the lover of
Flora Martinez, a friend of mine, and he will hide
us securely. Once in Havana we will be happy—
iree from fear and with plenty of money to enjoy
life. Stay here, and to-morrow night you will sleep
in prison, and I—l don’t know where.”
The suggestion artiully involved in her last words
did more than anything else to decide him upon
for he was strangely infatuated with the girl, and—
as experience had taught him he was right in being
—intensely jealous ot her.
Batwi en 12 and 1 o’clock that night. Dick stealth
ily let himself into the store of Rodrlguez & Mar
tin. Tho big safe stood in such a position that it
was easy for him to improvise a screen that would
preclude the possibility of anybody on the side
walk seeing a small light inside tbe back of the
store near the sa e. Having raised such a screen,
be went deliberately to work, by the light of su -
cessive wax matches, upon tbe combination of the
Mr. Rodriguez, tbe senior member of the firm, a
man nearly sixty years of age, was a confirmed
gambler and generally a lucky one. This night,
however, bis for.une was so bad that by midnight
be had lost at the gaming-table all tbe money he had
with him, and, after a little reflection, the happy
thought occurred to him of getting a few thousand
dollars from bis private safe, in the back office of the
store, and pressing a pew comb’natipß at th© game
that ho felt s'.ire must be SuCces-fu!,
Entering tho store by a back door, of which only
the partners had keys, he was in the private office.
Looking through the glass partition between that
office and tho store, ho was amazed to see, outside,
tbe safe door open, with Dick Stephenson kneeling
before it, taking out bundles of bank-notes and
stuffing them into a small hand-valiso with his
right hand, while with his loft he was striking wax
matches, one alter another, to light his operations.
He realized that ho was looking upon robbery but
of ho wan cot aware was, that
was also there and waiting for him. He stepped
quickly out Into the store and reached Dick’s side
without being heard, bolding his cane in the mid
die and intending to deal Dick a blow with it, for.
getting in his momentary excitement that the cane
he held was not the solid one ho usually carried in
daytime, but eno with a sword, or long triangular
dagger, in it that he sometimes took with him at
Dick looked up, only in time to see in one com
prehensive glance bis employer and the stick about
descending on bis head. He tried to dodge the
blow, but was only partly successful. Tbe stick
glanced off tho side of bis head and its handle, with
the dagger attached, flew from its place in the cane,
struck with a sharp ringing sound against tho s .fe
door and fell at bis feet. He snatched it, sprang up
and the next instant, so quickly that he could not
realize bow it happened, Air. Rodriquez laid dead
before him, with tbe long blade of the dagger driven
clear through his heart. Suddenly overcome with
horror Dick dashed out into the street, leaving the
valise and money beside the dead man, and the
store door open.
A watchman found the door open, went in to in
vestigate and turned the light of his dark lantern
full upon thefcorpsof Mr. Rodriquez,lying in a pool
of blood before the open safe.
Dick Stephenson was not oven suspected. In
quiries were made, of course, and he showed that
be had been entertaining a couple of friwnds at his
rooms until eleven o’clock that night; that at half
past one he and his mistress had been iu a restau
rant getting a late supper, and tho inference was
easily accepted that the intervening time had been
spent with her. But Rosa’s attitude gave him
a great deal of uneasiness. He had told her every
thing but only one object seemed indelibly fixed
in her memory. She did not care anything about
tho white-haired old man with
bnt ahe lamented loudly Dick's folly in running
away without that bag of money which he had al
ready packed. It seemed to disgust her with him
and when, a few days afterward, she wanted some
■ money that Ire could not give her, she coo ly an
nounced to him her determination to leave him and
place herself under the protection of a gentleman
who could better provide tor her
They had a furious quarrel. He threatened beat,
iug her. She swore that if he did she would de
nounce him as tbe murderer of Mr. Rodriguoz. He
went out and drank copiously to drown his miser
able reflections. When he returned to her rooms,
late that night, a big man, half undrdssed, came
out and threw him down-stairs, dislocating his
shoulder. While he was still confined to his room
by the pain of that injury, a former fellow-clerk
brought him timely warning that his peculations
had been discovered, and Mr. Martin intended hav
ing him arrested the next day. That night he man
aged to slip aboard a steamboat going up the river,
and so escaped to Memphis, where he landed in a
miserably-destitute condition.
Dick was almost dead with pain, hunger and ex
haustion before ho could make up his mind to beg.
When he did so, however, fortune for once favored
him. A good-natured gambler, who had juet made
a big winning, gave him ten dollars “for luck.”
He got drunk, stupidly drunk, on tho two drinks of
wh sky ho took immediately to brace him, so weak
was be. and while he was in that condition somo
petty thief robbed him of every remaining cent of
the gambler's bounty. When ho recovered his
senses he started out again to beg, and, as luck
would have it, struck the same man who had bo
friended him the day before. The "luck” had
been good, and tho gambler was not ill-disposed to
befriend him again, but a little surprised that his
pensioner should get around "so—sudden,” as he
expressed it. When informed of the circumstances,
he laughed over what he viewed a» a good joke,
gave him another tun, and supplemented it with
some advice. Dick’s clothes wero still good, his ad
dress was pleasing, ho seemed smart—why should
bo not make himself useful? Tho result of their
conversation was that for a couple of years there
after ho lived tbe precarious lifo of a professional
During that time he became a drunkard. He
drank to drown his memory. Eventually tho gam
blers concluded that he had become "no good”
and ’■ bounced” him. He we At to 3t. Louis. Thero,
in his desperation—for though bo earnestly tried to
find honest employment. never could do co—ho
attempted a burglary. It - was a clumsy attempt,
and be was caught. The man whom he tried to
rob, with a grim humor, gave hitp his choice of
going to jail or boing soundly whipped by a couple
01 stout negro slaves. He chose the flatter. They
used cowhides, and with such good relish for the
job, that when they let him go, bls back was a dis
colored, swollen, pulpy mass of,wheals and open
wounds, and the blood ran down his trowsers legs.
That whipping seamed to take out of him ill the
manhood that had, until then, been left in him.
He became a drunken, ragged, bloated, wretched
tramp. How he lived he did not himself know.
For a time he consorted with a black woman of bad
character, Who took him in for sheer pity’s sake.
Before long, however, she turned him out because
he taiked'in bis sleep of things that "froze ber
blood.” Then he got On somehow to Louisville.
There he robbed clothes-lines and ben-honses, "like
a bad nigger,” and went to the work-house for it a
while. At length ho worked his way as a deck-hand
on a river boat, up to Cincinnati, where, only six
years before, he bad been in every respect the oppo
site of tbe thing ho had now become. The home to
which he bad hoped to return, existed no longer.
His father, a stern old man and a widower, had
learned of bis d egrace, and in dying, two years be
fore Dick’s return, had disinherited him. His sis
ter, who had got all the old man bad to leave, looked
upon him with loathing and horror, and her hus
band literally kicked him out. He became a mis
erable loafer about low drinking-houses and an
associate of tbe vilest scum of tbe town, regardless
ot color,
One afternoon an opportunity presented itself for
him to steal three long, slender bars of soft lead,
such as are used for tho easting of rifle bullets.
They were hardly worth stealing; he had no place
to dispose of thorn, oven for a drink, and it would
have puzzled him to tell why he took them, but he
did so. Little did be imagine that the devil had
work for him to do, the crowning job of his life of
evil, and that tho tool for it was thus putin his way.
After stealing the lead he wandered down to the
levee. Sitting there in the lee of a cotton bale that
somewhat shielded him from the wind, while the
sun’s rays a little warmed him, he remembered the
lead bars and took them out of his pockot,
" What a weapon they would make,” he thought,
weighing them iu his right hand, "if they were all
in one
The idea of converting them into a weapon pos
sessed him. Each bar was flat on one side, convex
on the other, and weighed a pound. The flat sur
faces of two bars he placed together and then he
twisted them so that they would hold that position.
The third bar he wound around one end of the bars
bo joined, hammering it tight with two cobblestones
bo that it would stay in place. The thing he thus
made was a terrible " slungshot.” What did he
want with such a weapon ? He did not know. He
only made it because he had an impulse to do so.
Then ho put it in his pocket, and becoming chilled,
as the keen evening wind came down the river and
leaden clouds obscured the sun, arose and started
out to beg. A few pennies were tossed to him, but
not enough to get a meal, to say nothing of shelter
through the inclement night. A ferocious hate for
all humanity awoke in him.
About nine o’clock that evening he went into the
El Dorado saloon, on Third street, to beg. There he
chanced to witness tbe completion of some business
transaction between two men. One of them—a
burly, middle-'aged person, who seemed to be a river
man—was handing over what seemed to be a large
amount of money to the other, who was of more
slender build and much older, and he heard the
former say:
"There, that’s tho last payment on tbe Mary
“Yes,” replied his companion, “the boat is all
yours now,”
Dick Stephenson determined that ho would
He went out and stood in the doorway, on the
opposite side of the street, shivering with cold,
weak with fasting, gripping tight his deadly slung
shot, and waiting iov tbe old man with the money to
come forth. It seemed to him an age that he waited,
but it was only a little over half an hour. Then
the man came out alone, and, turning to the left,
went around the corner to Sycamore street and up
to a cigar shop opposite the theatre, where be pur
chased a bunch of cigars. Dick followed him as
closely as be dared without attracting attention,
hoping to see him go to some darker nud less fre
quented streets. Through Sycamore. Fourth. Wal
nut, Fifth and Elm streets the man pursued his
way—always in well-lfghted streets and among
many persons. From Elm he turned down Sixth
to Plum, up Plum and then down George. At last
he was in a dark street, where bis steps were the
only ones heard. Dick—whose ragged, heelless
shoes were so thin that bis footfalls were noiseless
—glided stealthily after him, overtook him. and
putting all bis strength into one terribla blow upon
his temple, struck him down as dead as if a light
ning bo.t had descended upon him.
With hurrying nervous fingers Dick hunted
through his victim’s pockets for the money. It was
gone ! There was absolutely nothing of value but a
little small change, less than a dollar. And for this,
Dick had perpetrated the awful crime ©f deliberate
murder. He had not foreseen that which ho now
realized had taken place, that the old man, not car
ing to risk carrying so large a sum on the streets at
n ght, had deposited it temporarily with the pro
prietor of the hl Dorado saloon.
While Dick was still rummaging the dead man’s
clothes, in hope of finding the money even yet, in
some pocket previously overlooked, the clutch of a
sturdy policeman was laid unon his collar. He re
sisted arrest as well as he could, but in vain. He
had dropped the slung-shot, and when be strove to
regain it, the officer dealt him such a blow with his
club upon his arm. that it was benumbed and
seemed for a to haya broken. Without
that weapon he wat i)OWetlo»S id with his
vigorous captor.
The wretched young fellow recognized that his
case was hopeless, as the evidence was certain to
hang him if he went to trial, so, having made a
written con'ession embodying all in this narration,
be fished out a knife from inside tho lining of his
vest where it had gone through a hole in his pocket,
and cut his throat from ear to oar.
A. Queer Tlxlng- to teal.
Thomas McDonald, aged twelve, was charged
with stealing a wheelbarrow from the store door of
Charles Foster, Third avenue and Forty-eighth
street. Mr. Foster did not know any thing about
the thelt beyond the loss. Tbe barrow was worth $2
Officer Brady made the arrest. One of Mr. Fos
ter’s men told him of the theft, and h« looked for
tho boy that stole it. Finding McDonald, be told
him he had sold it to a man in Fortieth street for
forty cents. He recovered the barrow and wheeled
it to the Station House.
Dennis McDonald, the uncle, said he was a student
at Columbia College, aud was the boy’a godfather.
He had taken groat interest in the boy, and thought
he could make something of him. This boy was
not gifted with this world’s goods, like witness’s
father. The boy’s father moved from Harlem and
got into this bad neighborhood. He was a bard
working man, and to show what good people they
were, he put the old man’s bank book in evidence.
Mr. Jenkins said the mother of the boy was
arrested by one of the oflTcers of his society, for
being a drunkard.
" What was done with her ?” asked the Court.
" She was put under S3OO bail, and then they let
her off with ten days. I could have gone her bail,”
said Mr. McDonald, " bnt I thought it would do ber
good to be in for a few days, Sho said this officer
came early in the moning to the house, it wasn’t in
tbe shape it should be. A poor man’s home is not
always in order. &be was frightened with grief, she
was afraid the officer would take her other son
Notwithstanding this appeal to the Court, Tommy
was sent to the Protectory.
“ It is a pretty sight to see the young
wile standing at the front gate of an evening,
watching for her choice for life as be returns home
from his labors of the day.” Yes, and it’s a lively
eight to watch them both as they Bit down to the
supper-table, he j; wing like thunder at the dried
up and burned aleak, which got that way from her
standing at the front gate so long watching lor his
The Story of Monsieur Miquard
A Kussian Prince’s Escape from
• Siberia.
The Detective Work of Jean and
Paulk _
A Paris Officer and His Accomplice
Jean Bonvalet was looking out of the window of
an attic in one of a row of tall Lonses on th© Rue
Tonrnefort, Pari®. The room was email and poorly
furnished, and Jean himself might be similarly de
scribed. Ho was not over five foot three, very thin
and palo, and wore a suit of gray tweed which had
boon neatly patched here and there. Jean had long
black hair, thrust behind his ears, and a very faint
mustache. He was probably not more than nineteen,
though ho might have passed for twenty-five.
Lying on the only bod in the room, was a youth
vary dissimilar in all respects to Jean. He was fully
five let ten in bight,- broad of chest and strong of
limb, with closely cropped light hair and a ruddy
face. His clothes wore new and neatly made, and
he looked not a day more than twenty years of age.
••Eh. weM,” said Jean, •• we are here without a
sou in the world. What shall we do?”
••Steal I” was the answer of the young man in the
••Just so, Paul Pavißy,” Jean said; “but you
want me to do the stealing.”
"My dear Jean, what would you have ? I have
always taken car® of jvu when I Dad the money.
When I ran away from Marseilles, I brought with
me nearly two thousand francs, I mot you by
chance. We struck up an acquaintance, and-as
long as the stuff lasted, yon wanted for nothing.”
•* And alter that, I had to shift for you and my
self too. In three mouths I have collected three
hundred and two pockeVbooka, containing in all a
contribution to our funds of 1,227 francs—a very
handsome sum. Now, lam suspected as you know.
It was only by the sheerest good luck that I escaped
jail a week ago, lam willing enough to work; but
it must be teme new game. By the way, do you
know who that Monsieur Lianconrt is, who lives on
the second floor ? He seems to be well off, for as I
was coming in the other day, 1 met him at the en
trance in the act of taking something from a purse
that was absolutely stuffed with notes. Oh, didn't
my finger* itch 1”
" 1 have no idea who be is. Can't you operate
on him ? You are an ingenious fellow and brainy—
try and develop a scheme. I’m going to sleep.
Jean took his hat and went down stairs, at the
bead ol the last flight, be met Monsieur Lian court
coming up.
"It is raining,” said monsieur; ••! must get an
" bo must I,” said Jean.
Monsieur Lianconrt opened his door with his
latch key, left the door ajar and passed into the
room beyond for bis umbrella. Jean slipped in like
a cat and crouched by the side of a table. Monsieur
Liancourt, suspecting nothing, passed out with his
umbrella, closed the door and went forth Into the
Jean began to look around him. He saw many
things he would like to take, but only a minute or
two bad passed when he heard a step and some one
at the door. He slipped under the bed and lay still.
Monsieur Lianconrt bad returned and with him
a stranger. They sat down near the window and
talked. Jean took it all in. He judged from the
conversation that the stranger, who was addressed
as Monsieur Cbocque, was a detective. He learned
beyond doubt that Liancourt was a confidential
valet to a Monsieur Miquard, who resided at No. —,
rue de Provence, and was marvelously rich and
somewhat, it appeared to Jean, eccentric*
"I have got every thing to a fine point,” said
Liancourt; •• Monsieur Miquard has resided in his
present apartments since July 7, 1874, just ten
years ago. The crime to which you allude was per
petrated on June 13, that year. You say that
Quivrain, the suspected criminal, was six feet tall;
that is just Monsieur Miquard’s height. You say
that his hair and beard were dark brown; that is
tho natural color of Monsieur Miquard’s, when I
first made his acquaintance. I was a barber and
dresser at the Theatre Francais. He offered me
5,000 francs a year to become his private and con
fidential attendant. I have been in that position
for nearly ten years. I changed the hue of his hair
to its present yellow and carefully preserve it that
color from day to day. I shave him twice a day—
early in the morniug and before he goes out of an
evening, so that tho color of his beard is never per.
ceptible. By cosmetics and washes I tone down his
complexion. That is all Ido for my salary. From
ten in tbo morning until seven in the evening I
have nothing to do, and at eight my duties are over
for tho day. Monsieur is rich—he must be. He
has never sent mo to a bank and I have never dis
covered any book or account to show that he has
any money deposited anywhere.”
" This s a matter which must be handled with
much care and judgment,” said Monsieur Chocque.
"It would never do to make a mistake.”
Much talk followed as to the division of some
thing, but what, Jean could not a understand. Then
both gentlemen drank some cognac and departed
together. Jean did not stop to investigate the con
tents of the apartments, but let himself out as
quickly as possible. He thought over what ho had
just heard.
*• I will not say a word to Paul about it,” he told
himself; " this is my own particular business and
I’m going to run it myself."
He crossed the river and wandered toward the
Rue de Provence. Here was the houee where Mon
sieur Miquard lived. Ho occupied the first floor
upstairs. He was probably at home then. Jean
was brave, but he aid not 1 ke this business—lacing
a stranger and telling him that be was suspected of
being a great criminal, and that his own valet was
conspiring to ruin him.
Jean passed the house two or three times. Then
be plucked up courage, and went into the drug
store, which occupied the ground floor, and asked
for Monsieur Miquard. Ho was told to ring tho bell
and did so. Then a tremor seized him. Suppose
the door was opened by Liancourt I Jean was just
about to turn and run, when the door clicked and
the lace of a woman appeared.
Yes, Monsieur Miquard was in. Walk upstairs,
young man, and wipe your feet and don’t touch the
wall with your dirty fingers.
Jean found himself in a small, elegantly furnished
room, whose walls were covered with books, whose
floor was covered with books, whose tables and
chairs were covered with books. Monsieur Miquard
was seated on a pile of books, with several books on
his knees. lie received Jean with a sweet smile and
i* a gen tie tone begged hhh excuse the litter. Then
he laid aside the books and invited Jean into an
other room, larger, airier, more elaborately fur
nished, with beautiful pictures on the walls and
elegant vases filled with newly-cut flowers.
Jean stared in amazement. Monsieur Miquard
put his band on his shoulder and led him to a will'
dow, asking him to be seated and to tell his busi
ness. The truth was that Jean was not well and
felt faint, and grew very nervous accordingly. Mon
sieur Miquard saw it and got him a tumbler of
wine. Then Jean began to talk thus:
"I’ll tell you what I am, to begin. I’m a thief.
I’ve been a thief always, so far as I know. 1 don’t
know where I whs born or who were my parents.
I’ve lived all my lifetime over the river and stolen
mostly for other people. I'm stealing lor other
people now. I live with a friend named Faul Ra
villy, in the Rue Tournefort. I came out this
morning to steal—for I’aui. Then something strange
Jean narrated the conversation between Lian
court and Chocque—save it all in a plain, straight
forward way. Monsieur Miquard listened Intently.
•‘ Yon have been very candid with me,” he said,
•• and I will be the same with you.”
Then he narrated a story which will be told in
due time. After he bad concluded, be said :
••Now, I must do something for you and for
Paul. You are both young, and it is too bad that
you should go to tho devil, as you evidently are.
Here are 300 francs. Get yourself a good suit of
clothes. See that Paul is provided with what he
needs. To-morrew come hither at 8 o’clock in the
evening and I will have a talk with you both.”
Jean departed. He went straight to bis attic on
the Rue Tournefort and found Paul asleep on the
bed. He roused him up and showed him the 300
francs. Paul helped himself instantly to one-huif
of it. Then they went out and had breakfast.
After the meal was ended, Paul said: "Where did
you get this money?”
•• I didn t steal it—l earned it,” replied Jean.
•• You earned it. '1 ell me how ?”
••Not yet—to-morrow night you may know, not
Then they went out and Jean bought himself a
suit of clothes, had his hair dressed, purchased
sundry articles of necessity and then suggested a
trip to Versailles. Thither they went and spent
tho rest of tho day.
As they were going to bed, Jean said :
"Paul, no more stealing; no more dishonesty of
any kind for either of us. A'rich friend is going to
do something for us, I don’t know what, yet.”
Then be told him of tho invitation for the next
evening to Monsieur Miquard’s on the Rue de
"I don’t understand it nt all,” said Paul.
"There wo are even,” replied Jean.
They went, nevertheless, and Monsieur Miquard i
entertained them royally. Before they left ho in
structed them to watch Liancourt and Chocque.
This is how they did it;
•• You watch Liancourt,” said Joan to Paul, "for
he doesn t know you. I’ll watch Chocque.”
Paul was around lively next day. He followed
Liancourt to Monsieur Miquard’s, and waited till
ho le!t, then followed him to a house on the rue St.
•Jacques, and saw him enter. Presently up came
Cbocqne’s, and entered tho same place. At Chocqne’s
heels camo Paul.
•• We’ve got ’em,” said Jean; •* both in the same
"But,” said Paul, "we mustn’t be seen together,
you see. I’ll stand at one end of tbo row and you
at the other.”
This they did, and watched patiently. Presently
Liancourt and Choeques camo out together, and
walked to tho corner where Paul was on sontry.
Here they called a cab.
"To No.—rue do Provence,” said Liancourt io
the driver.
Paul beckoned to Jean, who came running up.
"They’re off to Monsieur Miquard’s,” said Paul;
"let us follow, or rather get ahead.”
Pair! called a cab, and both got in.
"Drive like the devil to No. — rue <l© Provence,”
said Paul. •• See that cab ahead of us ? You must
get ahead of it right away.”
They got aheatLpf it by three minutes, and were
in Monsieur Miquard’s when Liancourt and
Choeques arrived. They came up to the bouse on
foot, having discharged the cab at tho corner.
Monsieur Miquard put Jean and Paul in a closet
in the dressing room. Presently in oftine Lian
"Thera Is an offieer below,” said Liancourt, "who
eays his business is important.”
•Bring him up,” said Monsieur Miquard.
Choeques appeared in due time. Monsieur Mi
quard was sitting in bls dressing room, waiting to
j be shaved.
" Mons. Miquard,” said Choeques, •• my duty is
painiul. The police have received information that
you are in reality Guillaume Quivrain, who over
ten years ago mnrdered your employer, Mons. Te
mple. Yon see I know all tbe facts. Mods. Temple
was English. He quarreled with his wife, and sell
tea his property in England, came hither —that is,
to Bourg, in Bourgogne. bought large estates
there. Yon managed them for him for many years
and stole many hundreds of thousands of francs.
Finally he made a will in favor of his half brother,
and described therein the sum of money which he
had deposited, according to your fraudulent state
ments. Then ho caused you to write a letter for
this half brother at once, as death might
approach at any time. You never sent the
letter, but you poisoned tbe old man that
night, and fled with over a million francs, it is com
puted, which belonged to the dead man. You were
searched lor but never found. You dyed your hair,
kept your dark beard closely shaven and changed
your appearance in other ways. Now justice has
overtaken you, and it is for you to decide what form
it shall assume.”
All this time Mons. Miquard had listened net.
vously, like one who was trying hard to restrain
and not betray himself.
"Well, now.” he said, "seeing you know all this,
what do you propose ?”
"This is to assume the form of business—purely
business?” asked Choeques.
"It seems so,” was the reply.
"Then,” said Choeques, "100,000 francs for me
and the same for Mons. Lancourt would not be
out of the way.”
"Lancourt? is he in it?” asked Mons. Miquard.
"I have had tbe honor to give Mons. Choeques
much information,” said Liancourt.
"What time will you give me?” asked Mons.
•* It is a business that ought to be done on a cash
basis,” said Liancourt.
"Will yon take a check for two hundred thou
sand francs ? *
"Liancourt can take it, as that will excite no re
mark,” said Choeques.
He drew the check on Rothschild, and handed it
to Liancourt.
•• Having found out who you are,” said Liancourt,
••I cannot attend upon you any longer.”
Then he and Choeques withdrew. Mons. Miqu-.rd
put on his overcoat and started with Paul and Jean
for the prefecture of police. , There he told his story
to the chief.
"Now,” said he, "lam not Quivrain, and never
was at Bourg in my life. lam Prince , a Rus-
slan. In 1870 1 was implicated in a plot against the
government, and sent to Siberia, my estates being
given to my sister, the wife of a nobleman high in
favor. In February, 1874, certain friends, whom I
must not name, caused my death to be reported,
and I was ‘buried.’ In reality, I was furnished
with means to escape, and found my way to France,
where I have resided ever since. My sister has
faithfully forwarded to me every eeut of the inoome
of my property. I adopted moans of disguise, as I
did not wish to be recognized. Many persons of
high position here, however, knew mo, and I have
had pleasant friendships. lean furnish you with
absolute proof of the truth of my story,”
When Choeques and Liancourt were arrested for
blackmail and made to disgorge, and when, three
months later, they were sent, on the evidence of
Jean and Paul and Mons. Miquard, for ten years
each into penal servitude, only a part of this story
came out. Tho real facts are told now for the first
It may be right to say that Jean and Paul are now
in a good way of business, the prince having fur
nished them means to go into the hat trade, a slight
knowledge of which Joan had acquired in some way
or other.
Agents of the Society for the Suppression of tbe
Sale of Oleomargarine ter butter have taken a now
departure. Leaving off for a little while the butter
and cheese dealers and groceries, they have made a
start for the coffee and cake saloons.
The first brought up on a round turn was John
L. Hart, who keeps an establishment at No. 1,483
Third avenue.
John J. Sorogan and Thomas R. Gray, employed
to look after the sale of imitation butter, entered
Mr. Hart’s place February 20th, 1887, and took a
seat at the table. Mr. Sorogan called for a cup of
tea, bread and bnltor. A piece of butter, about tbe
size of a dollar, was given him on a little plato. He
ate his bread, drank his tea, but wiuked at the but
ter, which he potted in a little jar and put in his
pocket. He then asked what was to pay. The
waiter said ten cents. Before corking up the so
called butter, he asked the waiter if that was what
he served for butter. Charles Fitzpatrick, tire
waiter, said it was. The butter was brought with
the tea and bread. It had all tho appearance of
butter. Ten days ago he called at ths restaurant
and asked defendant if bis name was John Hart.
He said, "Yes, sir.” He asked him if he was pro
prietor. He said, "Yes.” He asked him hew long
he had been proprietor. The reply was : "I don’t
know as that makes any difference to you. I don’t
owe anybody.” On the day ho was arrested, ho
said if be had been there at the time he would not
have allowed Sorogan to take it.
" What did you pay for the coffee ?” asked coun
"Ten cents for what was served.”
"You know it is not a butter store. You couldn’t
have asked for half a pound of butter?”
"I don’t think I could,”
"It is a restaurant?”
•• Yes, sir.”
Thouihs It. Gray said he went to the restaurant
with the last witness. He called for a cup of tea,
some bread and butter. What he got had the ap
pearance of butter.
The bottled stuff was produced, and the chemist
who made the analysis, said it was oleomargarine.
There was twenty five per cent, of butter in it.
Counsel for defendant admitted that it was oleo
margarine, but asked a dismissal of the case on the
ground that there was no infraction** of the law.
Here was a man who kept a restaurant. Two men
go in the place. One asks for liver, tea and bread;
the other, tea and bread. The butter they give
away with the tea and bread; it is not sold. They
give it away to everybody. It is not a place for the
sale of butter, it is a restaurant. If he gave a little
of his oleomargarine with the bread and coffoe, he
held it to be no offense.
The Court said tbe question was at that time, was
defendant the proprietor. In the whole testimony
it was not shown that he had any connection with
the place when complainant was in it. There was
nothing to show what that statement referred to,
without yon imagined. ** If he had been there at
tbe time be would not have allowed us to take it.”*
It was not stated what he would not have allowed
them to take. If they bad the waiter, they would
have a case against him. They fail to show propri
etorship at the time.
"Not guilty,” said Justice Kilbreth.
jV Silent Thief.
William Ford, a very respectable appearing young
man, pleaded guilty to stealing a roll of cloth worth
ten dollars. The theft was evidently done to be
locked up and get something to eat.
William Perry, the complainant, said prisoner
came in the store and asked for a directory. He
told him they had no directory, and, in going out,
prisoner openly lifted the piece of goods and was
walking out, when stopped.
The officer who made the arrest never saw the
Mr. Perry said a friend of the prisoner called on
him and said Ford was a very respectable, well
behaved young man. and was formerly employed in
a house in Boston. He had no excuse to offer when
arrested, and Mr. Perry couldn't say how he came
to take it.
Prisoner said nothing in his own behalf, and tho
Court sent him to prison lor ten days.
Love ma little, love me long.
Is tho burden of my song;
Love that is.too hot and strong
Burneth soon to waste.
Still I would not have thee cold.
Nor too backward or too bold;
Love that Iseteth till ’tis old
Fade th not in haste.
If thou lovest me too much,
'Twill not prove as true as touch;
Love me little, more than such.
For I feel the end.
I’m with little weil cohtent.
And a little from thee sent
Is enough, with true intent,
To be steadfast triend.
Bay thou lov’st me while thou live,
I to thee my love will give,
Never dreaming to deceive
While that love enduros.
Nay, and after death, in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth
As now, in my May ef youth,
This my love assures.
Constant love is moderate ever,
And it will through pers’over;
Give me that, with true eudoavov
I will'll restore.
A suit of durance lei it bo
For all weathers; that for me
For the land or ter tbe sea
Lasting evermore.
Winter’s cold or Summer’s heat.
Autumn’s tempest on it beat,
It can never know defeat,
Never can rebel.
Such the love that I would gain,
Such tbe love, I tell thee plate,
Thou must give or woo in vain—
So to thee farewell I
•• Greta,” says Jack slowly, and with an air of
judicial gravity, " I foar that Lorrie is about to
have the measles.”
It is the third morning after the races; the
rector has gone to bis study, and Greta and
Lorrie and Jack are “mooning” away tho usual
five minutes during which they always sit talk
ing over the last cup ot coffee.
“Good gracious, Jack! what makes you say
that?” demands Greta, with her solt laugh.
Lorrie and eyes him angrily.
“ Why do I think that Lorrie ie going to have
the measles?” he answers; keeping his gaze
upon the bewitching face with provoking
steadiness. " Because the dear child dis
plays all the premonitory symptoms. Her
appetite for tho last two days has been
on the decline; ibis morning I perceive
that it has disappeared altogether—a sure
sign of coming measle troubles. Then sh«
has grown singularly silent and thoughtful—
measles again, or perhaps softening of the brain.
Then, haven’t you noticed that the poor girj
spends her time in smiling to herself, and grow
ing red and white by turns ? I have. All Signe
of the dreaded mor ales I Lorrie, my child, con
fess that you have got spots on your arm; go te
bed at once, like a respectable infant, and let u«
«end for Dr. Cox 1”
Greta laughs again, and Lorrie tries to join it,
but it is rather a feeble attempt.
“You don’t really feel ill, do you, Lorrie?”
Greta asks, almost anxiously. “ It’s all non
sense about the measles, of course, because
you’ve had them.”
“ Feel ill 1” echoes Lerrie, derisively; •• I
never felt better in my li'e. What ie the use of
paying any attention to Jack's idiocy ?'
"I beg your pardon,” says Jack, with labored
politeness. “Do I understand that you deny
the unwonted silence, the occasional smiling,
the intermittent fits of blushing ?”
“Jack, you are—l really don’t know what to
call you 1” she says, rising with a laugh, but a
shaky one. “ Why is it that the male species ot
the human race, when young, should be such a
terrible nuisance ? Why don’t you go and shoot,
or fish, or—ride over to Carshal barracks, for
instance ? Anything but worry us 'I”
“ I’m going to shoot a fish,” he eays placidly.
“I’d go over to the barracks, but that Guy ie
“Lord Kendale away 1” says Greta.
Lorrie turns swiftly to the window, just in
time to conceal the sudden crimson which rises
to her face, from Jack’s keen eyes.
“Yes,” says Jack. “Left three days ego.
Didn’t you know it ?”
“ How should we know it ?” asks Greta, with
her gentle laugh.
“Ob, ah, I forgot! He wrote me a short
note and sent a polite message for you ! I fory
got all about it I”
Lorrie’s heart beats fast.
"Of course !” she remarks, with feeble calm
ness, “There is only one thing you don’t for
get—your dinner ! And what was tho message,
pray ?”
She tries to speak indifferently, but her face,
turned away from them, is still hoisting the red
" Oh, nothing of importance, or I should have
given it to you; something about your catching
cold, I think. Seen my pipe, Greta? ’ and b«
goes out whistling.
Lorrie watches him as he comes outside, and
leans ont of tho window.
" Whore has Lord Kendale gone, Jack ? I
hope he’ll remember my gloves 1”
*• Oh, he’ll remember them fast enough. Ho
has gone io his father’s—Latcbam.”
Lorrie draws back behind the window cur
tains, a sudden paleness taking the place of tho
tell-tale crimson.
“Gone to his father’s 1” For three days eho
has been waiting to see him, to hear from him.
Three days which, measured by her wistful
heart’s impatience, might well be accounted
three years. “ Gone to his father’s I” Has bo
gone to tell the proud old earl that his son has
fallen in love with a penniless girl; his son to
whom he had looked to bnihl up the fortunes of
the tottering house of Latcham? And, if so,
what has been the result? Will Guy write to
her, and how soon 1”
With restless impatience she takes her bat
and goes out. Three days ; he may write to
day, he may come hack ! At the thought tbe
blood rises to her face again. Oh, it be would
only some back ! If sbo had ever had any
doubt as to whether she loved him or not, these
three days of absence have solved that doubt
All the light seems to have gone ont of her
life, all the color from the flowers and tbe sky.
For the first time since her last childish illnesu
she has toyed with her food instead of attacking

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