OCR Interpretation


De Queen bee. [volume] (De Queen, Ark.) 1897-current, June 25, 1897, Image 3

Image and text provided by Arkansas State Archives

Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn89051293/1897-06-25/ed-1/seq-3/

What is OCR?


Thumbnail for

II I\ S
amw awo
[Copyright, 1894, by J. B. Lippincott Company.)
I.
The conductor had eyed Lambert cu
riously os he punched his ticket. He
held it for a moment and edged his lan
tern around so that its feeble light
could reinforce the glimmer from the
bleared and smoky globe above Lam
bert’s curly head. The train had started
from the junction with that quick series
of back-wrenching jerks which all vet
eran travelers remember as character
istic of American railways, before the
introduction of “coupler buffers.” It
was a shabby, old-fashioned train —one
whose ears had “seen service,” and not
a little of it, during the long and event
ful war so recently closed. It had a
baggage car behind the wheezy old
wood-burner that drew the rickety pro
cession out into the dim, starlit aisle
through the eastward forest, and, for
the first time in a week, that baggage
car contained a trunk. It had a “smok
er,” in which three or four negroes were
soundly sleeping on the worn cushions
at the forward end, and three or four
lank, shabbily-dressed whites were con
suming tobacco and killing time under
the single lamp at the other. It had a
“ladies’ car”—so called —in which no
ladies were visible, and which differed
in appointments from the smoker only
in the facts that its seats were uphol
stered in dingy red plush instead of
blackened canvas, and that both its
lamps could be induced to burn, how
ever feebly, instead of only one. It was
a forlorn, hangdog, shame-faced sort
of train, that seemed oppressed with ti
sense of its ow n disrepute —a train that
kept in hiding during the broad light
of day and ventured to sliYik forth only
after nightfall, like some impoverished
debtor, not loving the darkness better
than light because of evil deeds, but
hating it it hated its own shabbiness,
and accepting it as only one plane above
total decrepitude, the junk shop and the
poorhouse. Starting at dusk from a
populous station on a north and south
| “trunk” line, it turned and twisted
f through red clay cuttings, jolted over
1 mud-covered ties and moss-grown tres
j ties, whistling shrill to wake the watch
i ers at ’crcss-country stations on the
way, and finally, after midnight, rested
an hour at a prominent point, a “state
center,” where, sometimes at one
o'clock but generally long after, the
night express came glaring up from the
south along the glistening rails of an
other “great northern” route, and three
nights in the week, perhaps, gave it a
sleepy passenger or two to trundle away
westward towards the. big river town it
managed *o reach by sunrise, once
more to slink out of sight until dark,
when again it crept forth and stole
away on the return trip over its clank
ing road, unresentful of comment on its
loneliness and poverty, and proud, if
anything, of the fact that this way, at
least, it ran “right end foremost,” ac
cording <o the American idea, with the
baggage instead of the ladies’ car next
the struggling engine.
It was a clear, starlit night, sharply
cold, and the planks of the platform at
lhe junction had snapped and creaked
under their glistening white coat of
frosty rime. The up train came in even
later than usual—so much so that, the
stationmaster had more than once
asked his friend the conductor of the
waiting “Owl” whether he really
thought he could “make it” over to Quit
man in time for Hie down express at
dawn. “You'd better puil out the min
ute she gits hyuh,” was his final in
junction when at last het* whistle was
heard.
A lithe, active young fellow in a trim
suit of tweed had sprung from the
sleeper before the incoming train had
fairly stopped, and, hailing the first
man he saw, asked: “Train for Tuga
loo gone yet?” which so astonished the
party addressed that he simply stared
tor a minute without reply. A voice in
the wilderness, apparently, was heard
above the hissing of steam and the loud
mouthings of the negro porters of the
two rival hotels. “All aboard for Quit
man,” it said, and, abandoning his ap
parent purpose of repeating the ques
tion in sharper tone, the young fellow
turned end ran nimbly across the dim
ly-lighted platform in the direction of
, Hie hail.
“Quitman t rain ?—Tugaloo?” he asked
of a dark form standing above the tail
, light of ihe ear.
“Quitman it is. Anybody else thar?”
| And the interrogative went off in a
■ shout. No answer.
“Aw, Hank I Anybody else?” Still
I no answer, "Tvo or three dim figures
were by tin* Um- cluslered around the
| flaring torch es <t coffe-* stand nt the
edge of the platform. The conductor
got off and walked impatiently towards
them.
"Any you gentlemen for Quitman?”
he asked.
“Quitman? Hell, no! What’s any
man want to go thar for night like this?
Pull out with your old sneezer, Jimmy,
’nless you'll stop and take a cup
coffee.”
"Oh, that you, cap? Ain’t you got
anybody for us? Thought the judge
was cornin’ up to-night.”
“Warn’t on iny car,” said the brake
man of the express, possessively.
“Young feller ’n the sleeper all I know
of.”
“Got him,” answered the conductor,
as briefly as possible for a man long
attuned to the southern drawl and
whose “got” was more like “gavvt.”
“Reckon we might as well git, then,” he
continued, returning to the colloquial
present indicative of a verb of manifold
meaning and usefulness. “Tell Hank,
will you?—Let 'er go, Jack,” he shouted
to the engineer, with a wave of his lan
tern. A yelp from the whistle was the
answer; the fireman crawled out from
a warm corner in the baggage car and
shambled drowsily forward to the cab.
Sudden jets of steam flew hissing out
on the frosty' air. One after another the
three cars lunged sharply forward and
then slowly rolled forth into the night
The sonductor clambered up the rear
steps with parting wave of his lantern,
slammed the door after him and came
up the narrow aisle to look at his pas
senger. Before he had time to speak,
however, his attention was attracted by
a succession of yells from the track
to their rear. Giving an angry yank
at the bell rope he whirled about and
hurried to the door. The train came
willingly to a sudden stand, and Lam
l>ert. stowing his hand luggage on the
empty seat before him, heard the fol
lowing lively colloquy, as did everybody
else who happened to be awake and
within a radius of 200 yards:
“What d’you want?”
“Come back hyuh, Isay.”
“What d’you wa-a-nt? I ain’t goin’
to back In thar now."
“ITuyh's a trunk.”
“Wha-at ?”
“A tru-u-nk.”
“Why in hell didn't you sling It abawd
flhst off?” sung out the conductor, dis
gustedly. “Ain’t you felluhs got any
brains? Back up, Jack!” he shouted
forward, signaling w;['u his lantern
again. "Somebody’s left a band-bawx,
by erimin v! ” And so. growling volubly,
the custodian of the "Owl” swung him
self out from the steps, hanging by the
left hand to the iron railing and hold
ing extended his green and white lan
tern with the other. A couple of stal
wart negroes came panting forward to
meet them, the offending trunk on their
shoulders, and went stumbling up the
sloping embankment towards the slow
ly-backing baggage ear. The light from
the lantern fell on the now canvas cover
and on the fresh brown finish of the
straps and handles, then on the inscrip
tion in bold black letters at the end:
I. N. LAMBERT,
U. S. Army
At sight of which the conductor
checked the half jocular, half resentful
tirade he was composing for the bene
fit of the stationmaster and abruptly
asked:
“Whuh’s it goin’?”
“Tugaloo, suh,” said the rearmost
negro.
"Well, hump it abawd, ’n’ be quick
about it.” Then, raising his voice, he
shouted across the platform: “Shuah
you ain't gawt a feedin’-baw tie or a cake
o’ soap or s’m’ other truck to fetch me
back again. Hank? Dawg gawn ’f I
reckon we ever will get to Quitman
’t this rate!”
The darkies about the coffee-stand
gave n guffaw of sympathetic rejoicing
over the official’s humor. The conductor
was evidently more popular than the
station master. One of the trunk bear
ers camo lunging in at the front door of
the ear, and. humble yet confident, ap
pealed to Lambert:
"Little somethin’, suh, fur totin' de
trunk. Bin Ins’, mns’ like, ’f it had n’
bin f'r us. Thanky. suh. Thanky.”
And the negro's eyes danced, for the
douceur handed him by the young owner
of the vagrant baggage exceeded his
hopes. He strove, indeed, to thru and
renew his thanks nt the rear door, but
was collared and hustled unceremoni
ously off the car.
"You ain't goin’ to getoff at Tugaloo
this time o’ night?” asked the conduc
tor, finally, and with that odd em-
phasis expressive of doubt as to a pas
senger’s knowledge of his own inten
tions «o often heard in our thinly-settled
districts. Lambert interpreted it to
mean “Anybody else, perhaps, but not
you." He was already cogitating as to
whether or not the conductor had in
tended some covert sneer in his recent
reference to “feeding-bottles,” for Lam
ert was but one-and-twenty, and youth
ful-looking for his years. The tone
of this inquiry and the look which ac
companied it after deliberate pause and
study of the proffered ticket, however,
were far from aggressive or discour
teous, yet the unintentional misplacing
of the emphasis, following an allusion
equally hapless and alike unintentional,
had given umbrage to the boy. “Y’ou
must expect to hear no end of unpleas
ant things,” he had been told at depart
ment headquarters, where he had re
ceived orders to go on and join his com
pany, then in camp at Tugaloo. “Every
body is mighty sore yet over the late un
pleasantness. Hold your tongue and
keep your temper,” were the parting in
junctions; and he meant to do both.
All the same he did not intend to allow
people to treat him with discourtesy—
certainly not a conductor of a public
railway. Lambert was on his dignity
in u moment. He looked the railway
man straight in the eye and replied,
with all the calm and deliberation he
could master: “My ticket would seem
to indicate that such was my intention,”
and almost immediately regretted it,
for the conductor looked up in sudden
surprise, stood one instant irresolute,
♦ ken saying: “Oh*! All right,” turned
abruptly away, walked up beyond the
stove, and roughly shaking the elbow of
a snoring passenger, sung out: “Coates
ville,” and let himself out withan em
phatic bang of the door.
Two days later, when asked at Quit
man what sort of a fellow the new lieu
tenant seemed to be. Mr. Scroggs, the
conductor, himself a soldier of large ex
perience and no little ability —a man
who had fought his way from the ranks
to the command of the remnant of a reg
iment that laid down its battered arms
among the very last, a man not five years
Lambert’s senior in age, but lustrums
ahead of him in the practical details of
bis profession—Mr. Scroggs, the con
ductor, promptly said: “He’s a dam lit
tle fool,” and never dreamed how much
he should one day deplore it.
“Newt” Lambert, as he was known
among his intimates, was far from be
,, J l 4 _
.I •r’rTlr
.V&[
' * You ain't goin’ to get off at Tugaloo this time
o’ night ?”
ing a fool. He had seen very little of
the world, it is true, and, until this De
cember night, next to nothing of the
sunny south, where at this particular
period in our national history it was not
every man w ho could so conduct himself
as not to fall into error. More especial
ly in the military service was an old
head needed on young shoulders, and
a strong head between new shoulder
straps, for army life so soon after the
great war was beset by snares and temp
tations it rarely hears of now , and many
a fellow’, brave and brainy both, in
the days that tried men’s souls ’twixt
Big Bethel and Appomattox, or Bel
mont and Bentonville, wentdown in the
unequal tussle with foe far more in
sidious than faced him in the field, but
which met him day and night now that
peace had come. It was at a time when
the classes graduating from the mili
tary academy were being assigned main
ly to the staff corps and to the artillery
and cavalry regiments. Lambert fan
cied that he should prefer the associa
tions and much prefer the stations of
the artillery to those of any other corps,
but an old friend of his father's, himself
a veteran gunner, advised the young
fellow to seek his fortune elsewhere.
"If you are commissioned a lieutenant
of artillery,” said he, “it may be 20 years
before you see your captaincy.” And.
though this was within three years
after the reorganization of the army
in ’66, not one of Lambert's contem
poraries who trusted to luck and ap
plied for the artillery had yet come
within hopeful range of the double bars.
Lambert amazed them all when he
asked for the infantry arm and took
bis commission thankfully.
He had been detailed for summer
duty at the Point, as was then a custom,
so that his leave of absence of three
months did not begin until the 28th of
August. He had been assigned to a
regiment whose ranks were sadly de
pleted by the yellow fever, ami which
was still serving in the south. “You
won’t have to hoof it. out to Idaho or
Montana, anyhow.” said a sympathetic
friend, "and you’ll have no end of fun
at New Orleans.”
But Lambert’s company was not at
New Orleans. Under recent orders it
had beeu sent up into the heart of the
country, where some turbulent spirits,
so it was alleged, had been defying the
civil officers of the general government,
and by the time the short southern win
ter set in more than half his regiment,
together with three or four others, had
been distributed by companies or de
tachments all over the gulf states, and
experienced officers were scarce as hens’
teeth. The duty was unwelcome and
galling. Lambert’s captain lost no time
in getting on staff duty, and G Com
pany went into eamp at Tugaloo under
command of its first lieutenant. Ar
riving at New Orleans, Lambert report
ed himself at the headquarters of the
general commanding, who knew the
boy’s father, welcomed the son for old
friendship’s sake, and told his chief of
staff to keep him there a week or so,
that he might see something of the
southern metropolis and of his friends
down at the barracks before going to
his exile “up the road.” Dining the
very next evening at Capt. Cram’s, with
Waring and Pierce, of the light battery,
and perhaps rather ruefully agreeing
with them that he had “made a beastly
fluke of it, going into, the doughboys,”
Lambert was asked: “Who’s in com
mand of your company now?”
“Our first lief tenant,” said he. “I
don’t know much about him—Brevet
Capt. Close.”
Whereupon Waring laid down his
knife and fork. “Angels and ministers
of grace!” he exclaimed. “Well, if
that isn't the oddest contre-temps I
ever heard of!” And then they all be
gan to laugh.
"Y’ou evidently know him,” said Lam
bert, somewhat nettled and a trifle ill
at ease. "Why did you ask me about
him? Somebody told me he had beeu
commissioned for heroism — special
bravery in action, or something of that
kind—during the war.”
“Gospel truth,” said Pierce. “Close
is the most absolutely fearless man I
ever met. Nothing even Waring could
ever do or say would ruffle him.” And
then, though Mrs. Cram declared it a
shame, she, too, joined in the general
laughter. Close was evidently a celeb
rity.
And now, as Lambert found himself
within a few miles—though it might be
several hours—of his destination, he
was thinking not a little of the officer
to whose presence he was so soon to re
port his own, and whose companionship
and influence, for good or for ill, he was
bound to accept for the simple reason
that, so far as he could learn, there wag
absolutely no one else with whom he
could associate—except, possibly, the
“contract doctor.”
[to be continued.)
HE CONVINCED THEM.
The Doctor Wm No Singer *nd lie
Proved It.
Some time ago a number of choice
spirits were enjoying a little supper in
a certain northern town.
When the cloth had been removed,
and the usual toasts honored, some one
suggested a song. The efforts of the
(first gentleman who volunteered to
oblige the company met with such a
hearty reception that others were in
duced to sing.
In the end, it was discovered that
everyone had contributed to the even
ing’s enjoyment with the exception of
the medical gentleman who occupied
the vice chair.
“Come, come, Dr. X ,” said the
chairman, “we cannot allow you toes
cape.”
The doctor protested that, he could
not sing.
“As a. matter of fact,” he explained,
“my voice is altogether unmusical, and
resembles the sound caused by the act
of rubbing a brick along the panelsofa
door.”
The company laughed and attributed
this to the doctor’s modesty. Good sing
ers, he was reminded, always needed a
lot of pressing,
“Very well, gentlemen,” said the doc
tor. rising to his feet; “if you can stand
it I will sing.”
Long before he had finished his au
dience was uneasy. The unwilling
singer had faithfully described his
voice.
There was a painful silence as the
doctor sat down, broken at length by
flie voice of a braw Scot at the far end
of the table.
“Man." he exclaimed, “your singin’s
no up to much, but your veracity’s just
awful! Ye’re richt aboot that brick!”
—London Tit-Bits.
Force of Habit
“I trust you will pardon me, Brother
Puncher,” began Rev. Mr. Longnecker,
mildly addressing the reformed 'bus
conductor, who had lately become a
member of his flock, “if I say a few
words to you in an admonitory way.”
“Certainly, Brother Longnecker,”
was the brisk reply; "the sooner I am
told of my shortcomings, the better.”
“The—er—ah? fault I have to find.
Brother Puncher. Is but a slight one.
but, brother, we feel you were just a
trifle too zealous in putting a stranger
out for not contributing to the collec
tion. Salvation is free, you know,
and—”
“That’s right enough! But I’ll tcM
you that the man who rides with me
has to pay his fare. If not, off he goes.
Business is business.*—Philadelphia
Telegraph.
THE SUNDAY SCHOOL,
latcrnational Leaaon for June 17,
1 HOT—Review.
[Arranged from I’eloubot's Notes.)
GOLDEN TEXT.—This Gospel of the
Kingdom shall be preached In all the world
for a witness unto all nations.—Matt. 24:14.
TIA> E.—The history during this quar
ter extends from A. D. 37 to A. D. 50, a
period of about 13 years.
PLACE. —The cemtraJ focus of the
Jewish Christian church remained at
Jerusalem. But the Antioch in Syria
became the Gentile center. So that
there were two harmonious foci.
From these centers Christianity
spread rapidly all over Palestine;
thence, as far as Damascus to tne north
east; to the Philistine countries on the
shore of the Mediterranean, to Creta
and eastern Asia Minor.
EVENTS. —Paul let down from the
city walls in a basket. A paralytic
healed. A dead woman restored to life.
An a|K»st<olic vision. A centurion's vi
sion. A Roman centurion and his fam
ily become Christians. Preaching of
the Christians scattered by persecution.
James, the son of Zebedee, martyred.
Peter in prison. The praying church.
Peter delivered. Death of Herod. Paul
and Barnabas at Antioch. First great
Gentile church. First foreign mission
ary journey. Experiences in Cyprus,
in Antioch of Pisidia, in Iconium, in
Lystra. The conference in Jerusalem.
REVIEW SUBJECT.
The Development of the Christian
Church. —This should include a brie<
review from the beginning, with the
emphasis upon the steps or epochs of
development during the first 20 years
of the church’s existence.
A. I).
3U ’ Preparations.
The Resurrection. The Ascen
sion Promise of Return. Ten
Days’ Prayer Meeting.
30. Birth of the Church. |
Gift of the Holy Spirit Fire
and Tongues. 3.000 Converts.
Peter's Preaching,
— u.
30. Church at Jerusalem- 2
g,
A Beautiful Picture Unity. B
Generous Giving. Love. Vt or
ship. Increasing Numbers ami
Character.
p
30 >
’0 Attacks from Without. | g
—, 1 ”
Arrests. Deliverance. Persecu
tion. Boldness New Power.
Opportunity to Preach to the
Rulers. Great Increase.
| Dangers Within.
Ananias. Sapphira. Simon Ma
gus- Warning. Purifying. In
structing.
Organization.
Seven Deacons Appointed,
Stephen Preacuing.
37 Great Persecution.
Stephen Martyr Church
Scattered.
BROADENING OF THE CHURCH. "
A D
37 Persecution Scatters the Disciples.
Samaritans received. Ethiopians con
verted.
38 Evangelization of cities on the Medlter
to ranean coast. Lydda, Joppa. Cesarea.
40
Roman Centurion converted and received
into the church.
40
to First Gentile Chprch formed at Antioch
44 of Syria.
44 Paul and Barnabas preach at Antioch.
Great numbers become Christians.
45 The First Foreign Missionaries In Cy-
prus and Asia Minor.
A Div.ding Question Arises.
50 Conference at Jerusalem.
The Gentiles Welcomed,
'lhe Ciiurch Universal.
37 Saul, to be the apostle to the Gentiles,
converted. Two or three years in Damas
cus and Arabia.
30 First Visit to Jerusalem.
15 days. Acts 0:20-20 Gal. 1:17-20.
39 Preparatory Work. Preaching in Cilicia,
to Tarsus, Syria.
43
44 A Year in Antioch with Barnaba*
Second Visit to Jerusalem.
45 Acts 11.30; 12:25
43 First Foreign Mission try Journey.
to Cyprus (S-iumis and Paphos,. Perga,
48 Antioch in Pisidia, iconium, Lystra,
or Derba.
49 Return journey and arrival at Antioch.
Rep »vts.
Third Visit to Jerusalem.
50 Conference at Jerusalem.
Question settled.
Return to Antioch.
GETTING TO WORK.
Worthleasness of a Plan Not Put Into
Execution.
We cannot expect to be estimated
solely according to our intentions. Ono
cannot safely estimate himself by what
he intends to do. A thousand of the
best intentions will amount to nothing
unless accompanied by some actual
doing. One act rescued anti set on its
feet out of the land of dreamy inten
tions is worth more than all the perfect
dreams which never become more than
drcams. Perfect dreaming will not
make perfect work. Only w orking w ill
do that. There is a point beyond which
ail farther preparation in the way of
thinking a thing over is ueseless, and
at that point the only farther prepara
tion worth speaking of is actually set
ting to work. A touch of firmness and
reality w hich nothing else cap give, is
is imparted to all the rest of a man's
intentions when he definitely sets
about the accomplishment of a long
cherished purpose. Something quite
new enters into his hand ami his heart
when he gets to work. It never comes
before.—S. S. Times.

xml | txt