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The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, December 03, 1913, Image 10

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Krazv Kat .
eaj£jTl4rtit, 192*, Int*>rnatkm-J ftmrritm.
By the Light of tlie Mo*m
Tomorrow:
Names
WHY TAXES WENT UP !
"Fine jpier£ of land out here!" said
the dusty, shrewd looking man, as he
descended' from outside the farmer's
bouse. « .
"You're right, there," replied the
farmer eagerly. "It's the best -to be
found in the country."
"But too high a figure for a poor
man, I reckon." pried the stranger.
"It's Worth every penny of flft-y
dollars an acre," answered the farmer,
with an eye te business. • "Were you
thinking of settling and buying in
these parts?" ,
"Hardly," murmured the traveler,
making some notes in a book. '.'l'm
tee new tax assessor."
Be Dingbat Family
Polly and Her Pais
Us Boys
THE KING OF DIAMONDS
HRILllh
Continued From Yesterday
This wasa new experience for Philip,
and the blood leaped In his veins at
the girl's courageous words. But he
laughed,, in his pleasant, musical way.
"Men who would" attack a defense
less woman," he said, " are poor crea
tures where a man's heart is needed.
Nbw-just watch me, and don't be
alarmed.
He' strode to meet the advancing
trio. They halted.
"I give yt>u a last warning," he
cried. "Drive off in your carriage,
and you," to ■ the cabman, "go back
and help that horse. You must go
now, this instant, or take the conse
quences."
There was the silence of indecision.
This strong faced man, with the figure
of an athlete, meant what he said.
Victor caught his friend's arm.
"Come away," he whispered. "She
does not know you. You have failed
this time."
. Without another word the pair
crossed the road to their waiting
brougham. The cabman, who became
remarkably sober, began to whine:
"It's on'y a lark, guvnor. The lydy
would ha' took no 'arm. I didn't
mean "
Philip was strongly tempted to
kick him, but refrained. He grasped
the man's shoulder and lifted his
badge to the light:
"I will spare you for the lady's
sake," he said, grimly, "but I want
your number, in case you try any
more such tricks."
"My gawd. It's Mr. Anson!"
For the flrst time the driver saw
Philip's face clearly.
"Ah, you know me then? Who were
those blackguards who employed
you ?"
"S'elp me, sir, I on'y know one of
'em. 'E's a Mr. Victor Granier. I
often pick 'im up at the Gardenia
"E said 'is pal was sweet on the young
lydy an' wanted a putup Job ter 'elp
"er. That's all, guvnor, on me life."
"You ought to be ashamed of your
self," was Philip's only comment.
. He rejoined the girl, who was
watching the retreating brougham.
THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 3, 1913
LOUIS TRACY
"Now," he said, pleasantly, "you
can go home."
"Please drive me there. I will not
deprive you of your cab."
So they drove away together, and
the driver of the hansom, striving to
free his vehicle from the bioken tres
tles, paused to scratch his head.
" E fairly bested the crowd," he
growled, "an' got the girl as well. My
eye, but she's a beauty."
A PACK FROM THE PAST
Maida Crescent was little more than
half a mile beyond the park.
Philip thought lt due to the lady he
had beguiled that she should know
exactly how he came to interfere in
her behalf. She listened In silence,
and when she spoke, there was a sug
gestion of shy nervousness, oddly at
variance with her spirited action of a
few minutes earlier.
"I can not understand it at all," she
said. "I am seldom out so late. My
professional engagements are few and
far between, I am sorry to say."
"Were you attending a rehearsal at
the Rents Hall?"
"Yes."
"A rehearsal for Monsieur Jowkae
sy"s concert?"
"Yess."
She volunteered no further informa
tion, but Philip was a persistent per
son. .
"I do not remember another day in
my life previously." he said, "when so
many fortuitous events grouped them
selves together in such a curious re
lationship. Even this adventure is a
sequel to a prior incident. Just be
fore I Joined in the chase after you
I had purchased some tii kets for
Jowkacsy's musieale. The strangest
item of all is that I was practically
walking away from the direction in
which I live when my attention was
drawn to the cabman's behavior."
"Good gracious!" she protested,
"am I taking you out of your way?
I thought you merely happened to be
driving after us through the park."
She invited no confidences. She ad
hered strictly to the affair of the
moment, and he had no option but to
follow her cue.
"I do not think T have ever been
In Regents park before."
"What an amazing circumstance
that you should gallop off in such a
fashion to the rescue of an unknown
woman, I mean."
"That, again, is original, or nearly
so."
"Are you a Londoner?"
"To some extent—a little while each
year. I live mostly on the sea."
"Oh, that accounts for your gal
lantry. You are a sailor."
"A yachtsman," corrected Philip.
"How delightful. I have not even
seen the sea for ages. One has to work
so hard nowadays to obtain recogni
tion. I do not object to the work, for
I love music, but the bread and but
ter aspect is disagreeable, and —and—
you have learned tonight how even
the small amount of publicity I have
achieved brings with it the risk of
insult."
"By the way." he said, quietly,
striving not to add to the excitement,
under which she was certainly labor-'
Ing, "one of those men is named Vlo
tor '""•renter. You ought to know."
'Thank you. How did you ascer
tain it?"
"The cabman told me. He knew
me."
"The cabman knew you?"
"Yes. I fly about town in hansomes.
I am too lazy to walk."
He regretted the slip. He was
known to the tribe of Jehus on ac
count of his gererosity to their char
ities; moreover, was not one of the or
der his horsemaster?
The girl laughed, with a delightful
merriment that relieved the tension.
"You acted like an indolent person,"
she cried. "Do you know, I felt that
you would have banged the heads of
those men together in another in
stant."
Their vehicle slackened pace, and
curved toward the pavement in a
quiet street.
"Here I am at home," she said, and
Philip assisted her to alight.
"Oh, my music!" she wailed, sud
denly. "I left it in that horrid cab."
Philip repressed a smile.
"Tell me your name," he said, "and
I will recover it for you early in the
morning."
"Are you sure? Oh, what a trouble I
have been. How good you are."
"It is not tlie least trouble. I took
the cabman's number."
"Indeed, indeed. I am very grate
ful to you. My name is Evelyn Ath
erley. I would ask you to call some
day and see my mother, but —but—"
"You do not wish her to hear of
your adventure tonight? It would
frighten her."
"She would be terrified each time I
went out alone, Believe me, I can ill
afford a hansom, but I take one late
at night to please her, as the walk
from the nearest bus route is lonely."
"You are singing at the Regent's
hall. I will be there. By the way, my
name is Philip Anson."
The girl's big eyes—he fancied they
were blue, but in the dim light he
could not be sure—looked into his.
There was a sparkle of merriment In
them, he thought—a quick perception
of a hint delicately conveyed. But she
said, quite pleasantly:
"My last song is at 10:15. I will
leave the hall at 10:30. I hope my
mother will be with me. I will be
most pleased to see you there, and
thank you more coherently than Is
possible now, especially if you re
cover my music."
The quick trot of a fast driven
horse came round the corner.
Philip was assuring her that they
would certainly meet next evening,
when a hansom pulled up behind the
waiting vehicle, and the driver said:
"Beg pawdon, miss, you left this,"
and he held forth the lost portfolio.
The cabman was anxious to atone for
his share in the night's proceedings.
Philip tipped him In a manner that
caused the man to murmur his re
newed regret, but he was sternly told
to go. Philip's own reward from
Miss Atherley was a warm handshake
and a grateful smile.
He drove homeward, wondering
how he could best help her in her
career.
And she, after kissing her mother
"good night," went to her room to
wonder also, but her wonderment was
mixed with regret. For such a nice
young man as Philip Anson must have
troops of friends, he must be rich,
he must be far removed from the orbit
of a girl who, whatever her birth
and breeding, was driven in the flower
of her youth to earn her living on
the concert platform.
Jowkacsy won his laurels with su
perb ease. Philip, listening to the
Polish genius, found himself hoping
that the fair English girl might
achieve some measure of the raptur
ous applause bestowed on the long
hair enthusiast. He murmured the
thought in guarded commonplace, to
his musical friend.
"Impossible, my dear fellow," was
the instant verdict. "She is mediocre;
just an average singer, and no more.
Music is divine, but its exploiters suf
fer from the petty jealousies of house
maids. Jowkacsy can have no rivals
tonight. Eckstein is a master, of
course, but a necessary evil as an ac
companist. The other artists are mere
fill ups—good, or they would not be
here, but not In the front rank. Lis
ten, T am connected with a choral
society in my county, and we once
engaged a leading tenor and a second
rate barytone. The tenor had a name
with 14 letters, and the barytone only
owned four. The unfortunate local
printer selected his type to .fill the
lines on the bills by size and not by
merit. The moment tlie tenor saw
the four letter man looming large
across the poster he absolutely re
fused to sing a note unless fresh bills
were printed with his 14 letters in
larger type. And we were compelled
to humor him. That is music from
the agent's point of view."
I There's comfort—good cheer----. • I
I refreshment—satisfaction •.' I
I ef^r\ # m ever y cu p °f I
I Tea \
Sh-h! Sh-h! Look Out
Con-Tight, 1913, International Mews Service.
Tickle, Tickfe
Copyright, 1913, fciternatkmai Nfrw* Serttce, '".* . •
. (E*jl»t»nwl tnited State* Patent Otoe*). . - /■
When ' Miss Evelyn Athenley ad
vanced to the front of the platform
Philip thought he' had never seen a
woman so beautiful! She had the
grace of a perfect figure and the style
of an aristocrat. She was dressed in
light blue chiffon, with a spray of
forget-me-nots, the'color of her eyes,
arranged across .the front of her boi
ice. Anson experienced a thrill "of
pleasure when he saw that the. bou
quet he caused to be forwarded to her
contained flowers of a kindred hue.
The skill of the florist had correctly
interpreted his description, which, In
deed, was largely guesswork on his
*part. #
A high forehead and a mouth and
chin of patriarchal mold gave an air
of caste to an otherwise sweetly
pretty face.
"By jove!" whispered the critic, "if
she sings as well as siie looks I may
be mistaken."
Her first song was Goring Thomas*
"A Summer Night." IrtstaTHly it was
perceptible' thaj .her was true.->
the outpouring of a soul. In volume
it was in no way remarkable..but Its
melodious cadence,, was fresh, Innjj
cpnt, virginal-,• The notes were those
ot 4 Joyous- bird. * .*. • ,* ! •••
Anson.' biaae<i"-bx other sentiments, ,
thougljt'he-had "never heard her equal,
but, "his 'friepd, arter joining in his
vlgpfqua'applause... gave him a douche
of Judgaienj..,
"The old 'story," .he growled; "a Una
artist retarded, <perhaps spoiled, by
the need--Jo makve .Yoa early an ap
pearance. She waf\t&.a year in Milan,
another J*ear with Randegger or
Leonl, and she might if all went well,
be a star." a •
Hi» hearer chafed inwardly, but
only hazarded the option that she
was already a 'singer of rare inten
sity, while, as for appearance
Continued "Tomorrow

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