Northern Wisconsin advertiser. [volume], December 28, 1899, Image 6

About Northern Wisconsin advertiser. [volume] (Wabeno, Wis.) 1898-1925

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Story of the Wedding Ring.
By BERTHA M. CLAY.
CHAPTER XVI.
Ladjr Waldron had felt the pain oi
ungratified wishes; she had known
what it was to be poor, yet to long to
be rich —to long for the pleasure and
gaity, yet to have all denied her. But
in all her life nho had never suffered
anything like this sorrow —the sorrow
of unavailing remorse, of repentance,
without the power of atonement, of
love that knows itself all unworthy
of ever meeting with love in return.
iyord Carlswood took her to the sea
side, but she looked no better when
she came back. The music of the
waves could not drown the voice of
her heart. It was so aroused that
never again was Ismay Waldron to
lull her conscience to sleep or to for
get the wrong she had done.
Even dress had lost its charm. All
the diamonds of Golconda could not
have restored her peace. She began
to excuse herself from accepting invi
tations, to find reasons why she should
not go out—-and this, too, when, as
laird Carlswood said, she was In the
pride of her glorious beauty.
The struggle was killing her; it
seemed all the greater that for so
long she had forgotten Paul. She was
always picturing to herself the delight
of a reunion wTh him: night after
night she dreampt that these ten years
were but a dream —that she was at
home with Paul in their little cottage
ngain clinging to him and praying
him never to let her go; she would
wake with teurs streaming down her
face, and weep again that it was Hut
a dream.
‘‘l would go back to him,” she said
to herself one day with a deep sob —
“1 would go back to him if 1 could."
And the Idea took possession of her
—the idea of going back —giving up
all the she had gained—
leaving her beautiful world. Was it a
beautiful world ’ Her heart ached ful
some little love and tenderness —she
was tired of her loveless life —wearied
with the weight of her sin.
"I would go back to him If I could,"
she said; and, Just as the thought of
going to Urn lyn had once seemed to
her to embody all that was most de
sirable in the world, but now the
thought of going back to Paul made
her heart beat with delight.
She pictured his happiness. What,
would he say if, some day he would
wake up suuuenly and see her stand
ing before him? She remembered his
loving words- his tender and caress
ing manner—his worship of her. He
would be overpowered with delight. He
forgot that the wrong she had done
him was a grievous one. such as man
never forgets and seldom forgives.
She must go back. Of course laird
Carlswood would never forgive her; 1
but she did not seem to care now so
much for that. She had tried both
lives, and site knew that for real hap
plnesß the life she had led with Iter
husband was the truest.
"1 will go to him," she said. "1 am
not happy here. I cannot live away
from him any longer."
In her own mind she felt sure that
Lord Ca.lswood would never disin
herit her hoy. lie had brought him up
for ten years as his heir, and it did
not seem probable that he would dis
appoint him now. She resolved to go;
and once having made the r< solve, she
was very much happier for it. Then
the practical details began to bother
her. She remembered that for ten
years she had heard nofhlng of Paul's
whereabouts. Was he still in the lit
tle cottage? Her heart contracted
with a sudden, terrible fear— was he
living or was he dead?
When should she go? The sooner
she could find an opportunity the bet
tar it woul.t be. Then she was obliged
to put aside her thought for a time.
Lord Oarlswood bad made a point of
her attendance at Lady Brentway’s
ball, and she was compelled to go.
She was especially careful about her
dress that night. She wore a robe of
pale violet velvet, with a suite of su
perb diamonds, Lord t’arlswood’s
present to her. Never in her life had
Ismay Waldron looked more beautiful.
The rooms were crowded when she
reached Lady Brentway's. As usual,
she was surrounded by a crowd of ad
mirers. and then she forgot for a time
her doubts, her fears, her troubles.
Her beautiful face grew radiant; her
eyes shone bright as stars, she was the
very embodiment of beauty and grace;
her voice sounded like sweetest music,
her laugh was sweeter than the chime
of bells. She was enchanting; people
looked n her with wonder She
danced two or three times, and then,
feeling tired, sat down. Lady Brent
way seated herself by her side
"1 have the lion of the season heie,
Mrs. Waldron. Will you allow me to
introduce him to you?"
' To which particular lion do you al
lude?" she asked
Mr Hale of Kavensdale. the "pop
ular member." as he is called. Ho is a
very handsome man. with sad. hilt
bitter expression of face. You\ must
charm him and convert him; we\want
him on the Tory side. I told W
Brentway. If any one could convert
him, it must be you."
"Making conversions Is not much [in
kmy line.” replied Mrs. Waldron. J
"Political, of course. I have made
many political conversions."
“I hope they were sincere ones,"
said the beautiful woman, with
laugh.
‘T hope so too. If nature had gifted
me with a face like yours. I should
have made more. Here comes Mr.
Dale. I have been wondering why he
accepted ray invitation; he goes no
where.”
The next moment a tall figure was
bowing before her. I.ady Brentway
said —
“Mrs. Waldron, allow me to intro
duce Mr. Dale to you." Then, bent
upon hospitable cares I.ady Brentway
moved away.
Ismay looked into the handsome
face bending near her; and then a
short, sudden, stifled cry came from
her lips, her face grew suddenly white
as death, her eyes assumed a startled,
Incredulous look.
"Mr Dale!” she said, in a low voice
like that of one in a dream.
There was no answering; the face
into which she gazed was cold and
dark and proud.
She clasped her hands tightly.
"Pray pardon me," she said. “You
are so much like—lt is—it is Paul him
self! Paul, do you not know me?”
“I have not the pleasure of knowing
Mrs. Waldron,” he said.
She stood looking after him. wonder,
fear, love, dismay, all striving for
mastery.
“It Is Paul!” she said. “As surely
as I breathe there Is my husband, and
he does not know me!”
The whole room seemed turned
around. A nervous cry rose to her
lips which she could with difficulty re
press. She looked after the tall state
ly figure.
R is It must be Paul.” she mur
mured. “That is Paul's figure and
Paul's face; yet—no, I must be dream
ing. How could Paul be Mr. Dale, ann
a member of Parliament? I must be
going mad.”
Uird Brecon came to ask her to
dance; she declined, and he looked
with wonder at her pale agitated face.
“Are you ill, Mrs. Waldron?”
"No.” she replied, "I am well
enough; but lam puzzled. Ixird Bre
con, do you know anything of the new
member, Mr. Dale?”
“Nothing much.” he answered. “I
know that he is wonderfully clever,
and 1 have heard that he is a self-made
man he has risen by his own efforts."
“What was he originally?” she
asked, with trembling lips.
"1 cannot tell; 1 have never heard.
He rose from the humblest ranks. I
believe. Does he interest you. Mrs
Waldron ?”
She played with her fan for some
moments before she answered.
"All clever people interest me.” she
replied.
“I wish I were clever,” said Lord
Brecon.
"Is he—Mr. Dale—married, do you
know?” she inuiqred.
I think not. I have met him sev
eral times, but I have never heard of
a Mrs. Dale."
And then Lord Brecon seeing that
•Mrs, Waldron was distrait and unwill
ing to talk, went away.
'lt is Paul," she said as she watcheu
the stately figure. "I remember that
fashion of bending his head—l re
member-ah me, how shall I bear it?
It is most surely Paul!”
He was standing somewhat apart,
looking over some photographs. She
watched him with a beating heart; hei
hands trembled so that her fan fell
from them, her pulse throbbed, every
nerve seemed strained.
It must be Paul; no other man liv
ing ever had a face like his! Dare l
speak to him? He did not know me;
he could not have understood my
name. 1 must go to him: or 1 shall
die!”
With all the pent-up. long repressed
love of her heart shining in her face,
the light gleaming in her Jewels and
falling On her rich violet dress, she
crossed the room and went up to him.
He did .not move even when he saw
her. She laid her hand on his arm. He
looked up in polite, cold, surprise.
"Paul." she whispered, bending low
until her beautiful face was near his,
"Paul, do you not know me? I am Is
may—lsmay. your wife.”
He smiled politely still, but coldly.
"1 fear you arc mistaken, madam; I
have no wife."
She looked at him long and earn
estly.
"Gan I be mistaken?" she said. "1
must believe——”
But the words died on her lips.
Lord Brentway Joined them with some
remark about the warmth of the room.
She was obliged to control heself al
though the effort was terrible. Ml
Dale left them with some excuse as
soon ns he could.
"He docs not know me." she said.
She would not believe that his want
of recognition was real. She was in a
mission of love, of sorrow, and dis
may. When she looked round the
room again, Mr. Dale was gone, but
Mrs. Waldron did not leave until she
had obtained his address; she had re
solved. i-ngie what might, to call upon
him.
CHAPTER XVII.
Mr. Dale sat in his room alone; on
the table before him lay pamphlets,
papers, reports, all of which he had
been resolutely studying. But from
each page a lovely face looked at him.
“Paul, Paul, I am Ismay—your
wife,” sounded ever in his ears.
He studied hard; he tried to drown
his voice. He had been haunted all
night by both.
“It is my fault,” he said to himselt.
"I went to that ball purposely to see
her —I thought to satisfy the hunger of
my heart, to still the fever of my long
ing, by looking once more on her face,
and it has been the worst thing I could
have done. How dares she to think I
could forgive her! Forgive such a
wrong as that! No; not if I were a
peasant and she were a princess!”
He turned again to his books, hut
the lovely face seemed to shine on the
page.
The morning sun came bright and
warm into the room; there was a
fragrance of mlgnonnette and helio
trope which brought the garden of
Ashburnham hack freshly to his mind.
He laid his pen down with a sigh or
despair.
“How am I to work,” he said, “if I
am troubled In this vs ay?”
“A lady wishes to see you, sir,” an
nounced the servant. She would not
give her name, hut said her business
was very important.”
"Show her in here,” he said. “It is
about some subscription, or charity, I
suppose.”
He looked once more at his book, to
note the page, and when he raised his
eyes again he saw Ismay standing neai
him—lsmay, his beautiful wife, once
so beloved. The morning sunbeams
fell upon her lovely face, on her sweep
ing dress, on the mass of golden brown
hair, on the white hands so tightly
clasped. She looked at him eagerly.
“Paul!” she cried. “You are Paul;
neither your changed name nor your
changed position can deceive me. You
are Paul —my husband.”
She went up to him with an eagei
step—she knelt at his feet and raised
her face to his.
“Speak one word to me,” she said.
“I am Ismay; and, oh. Paul, I am come
to pray you to pardon me —to implore
you to take me back —to tell you how
grieved t am, how sorry for my sin."
The words died on her lips in a
passion of tears. The stern pride and
coldness of his face frightened her.
He drew away from the touch of the
white jewelled hands.
“I have no wife,” he said. "The
woman I loved with my whole soul,
who promised me her truth, and faith,
deserted me. I have no wife.” '
Her voice was broken with sobs as
she answered him.
“I know it was wrong—cruelly,
wickedly wrong—but I was tempted,
and I fell. Oh. Paul, be merciful to
me! I was so young, so vain, so weak.
Forgive me, and take me back.”
She might have seen how terrible
was the struggle—great drops stood
upon his forehead, his whole frame
trembled.
“You ask me to take you back.
Why? Tell me why.”
“Because I love you -because it
seems to me that my soul has been
long asleep. It #ll.s awakened and
knows no rest. My heart cries for you
—I love you. Take me back, Paul.”
“You were happy enough for many
years without me," he said.
“No, I was not happy—l was intoxi
cated with vanity. I was engrossed
in pleasure—l was given up heart and
soul to the world. I never stopped to
think —I never dared to do so —I havo
lived as in a dream. I have awakened
from that dream, and I am here,
kneeling at your feet, praying you to
pardon me.”
"Do you remember that you robbed
me of my son.” he asked —"that you
took him from me. and never thought
of my claim to his love as well as you:
own?"
She bowed her head, while the tears
rained from her eyes.
“I am guilty.” she said —“oh, so
guilty. Paul! I pray you forgive me
and take me back."
“You feel that you will not be happy
again unless I do so. Ismay?”
“Never!” she replied.
“Then listen to me. The hour cf my
vengeance has come at last. What I
suffered when you left me, only
Heaven knows. The agony of death
cannot equal the agony of outraged
love and despair. 1 will not tell you
of all my pain lest you should pity me.
and l will have none of your pity; but
in my anguish I swore that 1 would
take vengeance. Now the time has
come when 1 can keep my vow —when
I can send you from my feet —when I
can refuse your prayer, and tell you
that never, never more shall you be
wife of mine! ’
She bowed her head with a deep, bit
ter sob, and then she raised her arms
and tried to clasp them round his neck.
But he drew back and caught he:
hands: he would have no caress from
her. He held her hands so tightly
that he left great red marks upon
them.
“Woman —weak. vain, light of pur
pose. light of love —what uo you know
of the depth of a man’s heart ? What
do you know of the force of his pas
sion, the strength of his love? Weak,
frail, easily led. ready to sell your
dearest and best to the first bidder,
you think you can play with a man’s
heart as children play with a hall!
You think that you may lay a man's
life in ruln—bllght It. drive him mad
with despair—and then win him back
wM&a smile and a caress!"
be Continued.
W R. the Rnglish historian
has Cardinal Gibbons for
writing a pßface to a life of John
Boyle O'Ro*.
THE OCEAN OF THE SKY.
In the ocean of the sky
The coludy tides go by,
Impetuous fare and ceaseless bear
Their precious freight on eddying air,
Perfume and purple dye.
By earth’s green bank they sweep,
Silent and soft as sleep,
But ocean's tide is not so wide
As the ethereal upper deep.
Their quiet currents flow,
\\mere the high forests blow,
They gather the wine of tree and vine,
The scent of grape, the breath of pine,
And scatter it as they go,
Frail argosies they float,
That waft the quivering note,
The echoing trill of greenwood hill,
The unconscious are, the untaught
skill
Of many a feathered throat.
When the great red sun is spent,
They follow the track he went,
They pillage and bar his cloudy car
And fling as gift to the Eevening Star
The gems of the Occident.
She sits like a queen on high
As the sunset tides go by,
And round her throne like jewels
strown
The luminous hues of night are blown
In the ocean of the sky.
God sets the tides of the sea,
In His gracious hand they be,
And twice a day they stir the hay
With the smell of salt and the flash of
spray,
And twice to the ocean flee.
And I like to think he keeps
The key of the greater deeps,
And everywhere spreads out His care
And covers the ocean of the air
With the love that never sleeps.
—Henry Robinson Palmer.
A Local Paragraph.
“The time has come for the Ameri
can people to act. Shall fifty million
patriots sit supinely by and let con
scienceless rascals tear the stars of
glory from the flag they love and
trample its proud folds of crimson and
white into the mire of national dis
honor? Not while the deeds of ’76
still shine through the mists of years
in unexampled splendor. Not while
the memories of ’6l yet live in the
hearts that thrilled with the stress of
that heroic struggle. Not while”—
Joel Snively. editor of the Meloogic
Monitor, laid down his pen with a
sigh.
Outside the dusty little window the
green waters of the bay were sparkling
in the .'-hi, shine. A keen north breeze
was driving great huddling masses of
white-shnuldered clouds over a field of
dazzling azure, and only a man who
loved the sport with the whole-souled
earnestness that tilled his entire be
ing could know h®w the fish must be
biting on such a morning! Oh, to be
out on that gleaming expanse armed
with rod and line, with only the sun
and clouds for company and a thousand
pounds or so of gamy vertebrates play
ing about within easy reach of his cun
ning hook.
But also, it was Friday morning. On
Saturday some two hundred impatient
subscribers would expect the weekly
dish of personal, political and intel
lectual pabulum which his facile pen
had long served to them on that day,
with more or less punctuality, accord
ing to the season. His duty clearly
held him to his post at such a time,
though inclination, would, how
ever, have led him elsewhere.
So, with another lingering glance at
the scene without, Mr. Snively took up
his pen and resumed the stirring ap
peal which was to awaken fifty million
patriots to action and incidentally con
vince the republicans of Meloogic that
it was their duty to vote for Joe Grid
ley for poundmaster.
So engrossed did the editor bccar. e in
this pleasing task that he did not
hear a step upon the creaking stair a
little later. If he had he would have
known at once that it was a woman
and a lady who was approaching, for
long and often painful experience had
enabled. Mr. Snively to determine
with unerring accuracy what sort of
person was climbing the somewhat
perilous ascent to the editorial sanc
tum almost as soon as his foot touch
ed the first step.
But for once the editor did not hear
the soft footfall on the stair, so he
was very much surprised and not a
little disconcerted when a fresh,
sweet voice, almost at his elbow, said
"Good morning Mr. Snively,” and look
ing up he beheld his neighbor, Mrs.
Tracy, her plump figure buttoned into
the trimmest of blue serge yachting
suits, her smiling face shaded by a
wide-brimmed hat and in her hand a
fish pole, pointed, brass-tipped, elegant
—the very perfection of dainty useless
ness.
Without waiting for a response to
her greeting she briefly made known
her errand. She was anxious for a
day's fishing and had been told of an
El.vsian spot, where the fish were so
plentiful they were actually to be had
for the asking. Unluckily, however
her own boat had not come, so she had
ventured to ask if. in case he was not
using it. Mr. Snively would be so kind
as to lend her his yawl, it being impos
sible to hire one In the village.
Mr. Snively was delighted. Mrs
Tracy was a pretty widow of uncertain
age but no uncertain charm, who had
taken the cottage next to the editor’s
own some six months before. In the
course of a rather desultory acquaint
ance the genial bachelor, whose Ideas
of the fair sex covered that his fair
neighbor was a cheery little body of
sound political views and excellent
literary tastes (from the first she had
been a prompt and paying subscriber
•o the Monitor!, but beyond that his
Pagination had not soared. Now
however, behold the pretty widow in
vested with a wholly new interest. She
was fond of fishing!
Eagerly Mr. Snively assured his visi-;
tor of his pleasure in putting his boat 1
at her disposal and gave her exhaust
ive directions as to the means of ob
taining it. A delightful half-hour of
conversation followed. As though it
wt re a magician's wand the dainty fish
pole had placed the editor and his guest
at once on terms of the most charming
intimacy and the former didn’t remem
ber ever to have enjoyed a conversa
tion so much in his life, albeit the talk
was wholly of reels and rods and
spoonhooks and other instruments of
slaughter.
All things, however, are bound to
come to an end, especially in an edi
torial office, so it wasn’t long before
Mrs. Tracy took her leave, escorted
down the stairway by her delighted
host.
At the door they were met by a spicy
breeze straight from the pine woods
across the bay. Mr. Snively sighed.
“Where is this wonderful place you
are going to?” he asked.
“Ah, that’s a secret,” she replied
gayly. “I promised I’d never, never
tell.”
“Oh, well, then I suppose it’s a crime
to even guess.” And once more the edi
tor sighed as he glanced out at the
sparkling waters.
“But you’ve been so kind,” exclaimed
the widow, noting the sigh and imme
diately filled with compunction. “It
seems ungracious of me to keep it from
you who love so to fish.” And then as
she saw him give another wistful
glance backward she burst out im
pulsively: "Promise not to betray me
and I’ll tell you—lt’s Patehang Lake!”
“Pat.chang!” cried Mr. Snively in
surprise., “Why, I never heard of a
fish down there in my life.”
"That’s the charm of it,” she rejoin
ed gleefully, “and the man who told
me about it (such a dear, dirty, old
fisherman he was) was fearfully afraid
someone else would find it out; so
don’t betray me.” And she hurried
away with a parting smile that made
the dusty office seem duller than ever
when he got back to it and reluctantly
commenced setting up his editorials,
for Mi. Snively constituted the whole
working force of the Monitor.
And his task, too, seemed harder
than ever, after the interruption.
Thoughts of his pretty visitor kept in
truding themselves into the midst of
his most impassioned appeals to the
voters of Meloogic.
How blue her eyes were and what
bewitching little rings of hair the
wind had blown up under the big hat.
And Then the fishing.
The editor of the Monitor shook his
head. Could it be possible any man
living could have a soul so lost to
honor as to play a joke on a woman
who looked like that? It seemed im
possible and yet Mr. Snively was as
sure there wasn’t a fish within a mile
of Patehang as he was that there
wasn't a free silver man in Meloogic.
Perhaps then Mrs. Tracy was sit
ting in that yawl vainly waiting for the
bite he felt certain she wouldn’t get if
she sat there till the United States got
an honest government. And he was
actually staying at home and deliber
ately abandoning a friend to such a
fate!
As this agonizing thought occurred
to Mr. Snively. he dropped his type and
started for the door. But once there
he paused and slowly returned to his
form, only to find it more and more
impossible "to keep his mind on his
work.
At last he gave up in despair.
Taking a hasty survey of what he’d
already accomplished he found his col
umns tolerably full, with the exception
of perhaps a single paragraph on the
local page. By hard work the following
morning he might hope to set up his
pages and would trust to luck for the
missing paragraph.
Like all fishermen. Mr. Snively was
a firm believer in luck. He was also
a man of action when he chose and
within five minutes of this calculation
he had locked up the editorial depart
ment and was on his wqy to Patchang
Lake.
When he reached that shallow sheet
of water a little lady in blue serge sat
in a boat in the center thereof, with an
expression of virtuous indignation on
her sunburnt features.
“What luck?” called the editor from
the shore.
“Luck!” cried the fair sportswoman,
dolefully. “There’s not enough water in
this lake to catch cold in, much less a
fish. All I’ve got for my trouble is a
mighty poor opinion of fishermen in
general and one dirty one in particu
lar.”
“Come over here,” said Snively. ‘T
know a pond not a thousand miles
away where the fish bite like mos
quitoes. If you’ll try it I think I can
/g#ip
ji fo[k Afl
z&m&Mwmi
x| v, ' * ,
-Wh *" They Say that the Shanshais and the Plymouth Rocks don’t speak
“The Shanghais are jealous because Mrs. Plymouth Rock belong* to
the Colonial Dames.” 1 /
raise your opinion of fishermen before
I’m a day older."
"I can’t.” confessed the widow
blushing with anger and mortification.
"I'm stuck —in the mud.”
One moment the man of letters hesi
tated on the bank and then, with an
inward prayer that he might at least
be spared to get out that week’s paper,
he waded boldly into the expanse of
treacherous mud that rolled between
him and beauty in distress.
The next morning the editor walked
into the Monitor office clad in his
Sunday clothes. With his acc med
methodical neatness he pulled ofl his
coat, hung it behind the door, and care
fully drew- over his linen sleeves a
pair of black alpaca ones. Then he
lighted his pipe and took his place at
the form.
There, just as he had left it, was the
vacant space at the end of the local
column still yawning for the missing
paragraph.
Mr. Snively regarded it for a few
minutes reflectively then he took up
his pen, as a smile gradually spread it
self over his face until it reached his
eyes. It still lingered there when a lit
tle later he finished and paused to
glance over his work.
| What he read was this:
"The editor of the Monitor, after
many years of bachelorhood, has the
good fortune to incur the risk and
responsibilities of matrimony. He was
married this morning to Mrs. Gertrude
Tracy, of Elm cottage, and asks the
congratulations and good wishes of
subscribers in this the happiest mo
ment of his life.”—Edgar Temple
Field. >
A Rural Wedding in Germany.
The chief society function in the
rural districts of tTermany is of course
tue wedding festival, which differs en
tirely from that of the American mar
riage Tne bride and groom, bride
maids and groomsmen and the rest of
the party march from the house to the
church in couples. After the minister
ties the knot the party re..,ms in the
same manner as it went to church.
1 here is nothing of the noise making
sort, but all the young foiks make it a
point to appear in front of the house,
when, if the contracting parties are
well-to-do, the jolly callers eacn re
ceive a piece of "wedding Dread.” This
causes great joy,- and the visitors re
turn home happy. Sometimes large
baskets full of bread are given away
on such occasions. The wedding party
generally has a dance in a hali, at
which all enjoy themselves
celebration ,
!"S1 : V i 1 Tile • '■ i
1 ' : 11 1
l;:m-' i 1
■
■
desirous to leave oft
found unworthy, and stick to the food
ship Wisdom, as in the days 'gonjT by
Let them this new year’s day spiv our
the land, count the snags they ihave
struck as they sailed along, and resslve
that they will steer clear of them in
the future. Thus may they rise above
the flesh and the devil, and be able
to walk among men as was designed
for man, when he was created a little
lower than the angels. To turn over a
new leaf is not an easy task when er
ratic conduct and years of folly have
seared the conscience, hardened the
heart and blighted one’s reputation
among his fellow men. Satan wafts
hack the leaves as you turn, but sin
cere and long continued efforts will
succeed, and you can stand before men
and angels redeemed from the bondage
oi bad habits— true victors in life’s
field. Christmas with its merrymak
ing and good cheer has departed; let
us usher in the new year with such
a renovation of the heart that the
pages of life's book for ell the year
will not be sullied by records of trans- ;
gressions.—Mary Sidney in Farm Jour
nal.
TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD.
"Keep your eye on Sproggles. !
wouldn't trust him a single moment, 'j
"What's the matter with Sprog- J
gles?”
I asked him new year's mo r
what he was going to swear off irom
and he said he had nothing to swear
off from.”