The Saint Paul globe., April 16, 1899, Novels for Leisure Hours, Page 7, Image 39

About The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905

Image provided by: Minnesota Historical Society; Saint Paul, MN

                
my own Kites. He is the man I would rather
see than any. other man on earth.'
"By -this time everybody was excited. Mrs.
Vance and bath the girls were shaking my
hand and embracing me as affectionately as
t&ey could have done a long lost relative.
Dinner, was lost sight of. No one thought of
anything to eat, and for an hour there was
nothing talked of except the story of that
nighs *t thQ. front."— Cincinnati Enquirer,
MY RIGHTFUL VOCATION.
My name Is Arthur Clarence Fitzgerald
Mackenzie. I am 25, tall, good-looking, and
a clerk. I am not absolutely miserable, but
am nevertheless, far from happy.
T P^m C £ US< Y°L my own unh appiness is that
In if£ ? UPOn the Particular walk
in life in which my abilities are destined to
make me famous.
ev : erv W 3L my father ' s *reat principle that
men! W ll* S £ nma in a Particular depart
worfdTnr d * lusiOn was that T ™me into this
TJlltf * the SOle P ui^°se °* showing its
t"ve Hne S S startling, in the detec-
w y *.? PPOr i Uni t, V canie Bt last T walk
caTm th n m ,t h h% S Strand, trand - ln London - ln
calm, thoughtful mantipr peculiar to neople
*i.MM i ra "? r° WPr - when a P^serby looked
searchingly into my face. Tt was only a
«„«« « »»e n* wed nn a l™*t immediately,
apnarentiv satisfied with his inspection
hJJ ™' y iu ™P e * wltn eagerness and de
««£ - J? c ™ a r- aUhou ?n ontwarflly re fined |
and s-entlemanly. had „ very striking face
"That man." said I to my=elf. "has ev-rv
indication of being a villain." Then a thrill
"'"figment r*n throueh me. *« hp walked
nlfnf at ti<? ; d that hiS Par tapered o a
«amn£ f* w * 7 88 - ln faCt " a
"That man is a villain." I reiterated
Having come to this rather important con
clusion. T immediately formed the id«a nf fol
low ng him. First of all. I turned up mv
coat collar. A dpteetive must not on any
account he conspicuous. Now mv linen is
always whitp as, snow, and therefore neces
sarily conspicuous.
K J m-* n f " llnw . ed ™ v man in a slouchlnjr.
shuffline w. , n O r,»*r to show people that
I had no ohiPot in following him. T rounded
up my shoulders, bowed mv head, looked un
under my eyebrows with the most apnrover)
ferret expression, and foTiowpd mv quarry
with the pertinacity of a bloodhound.
"Fl« general annearance anr< demeanor "
T snliloouized. "are indicative of refinement •
he is. therefore, a erentleman. 'Rein? a. rren
tleman. it cannot be b'«s obiect to perpetrate
a, common burglary. He has fhp aspect of a
forelameT. Peinsr a foreigner, he may b e a
"Russian, and bPins: a Ttup«lan be may be a
Nihilist. Oood heavpns! The welfare of the
nopuiace. the very fate of the dynasty, may
be at stake. Perna.ps thic man carries an
infernal machine concealed unon his per=on.
But -"-hat 5s the life of one roan to th" safptv
of thousands? I will risk my life for
thp '-
Here t collided violently with a lamppost.
This delayed me for some time, but. when I
again caught up with my man I was reward
ed by perceiving unmistakable signs of crim
inal communication.
Two or three times I had noticed an in
dividual on the opposite side of the road, al
most keeping pace with the one I was fol
lowing. I was rather suspicious of him 'at
first but when I saw him go into a pu&lic
house T naturally c&me to the conclusion that
he had dropped out of the chase.
I was wrong, however. A little further on
my man turned back and went into the same
house. Now. thought I, as I followed him.
the plot thickens.
I found my particular villain sitting at a
table, reading a newspaper.
For nearly a quarter of an hour I furtively
watched them; then my patience was re
warded. The man who was reading took out !
a pencil and began scribbling something on \
the margin of the newspaper.
Presently the man threw the newspaper |
down, by .the side of his accomplice and j
walked out. I did not follow him this time.
I felt, con vinend that he had left behind all 1 1
wap'tpd. , .
I thought of walking over and taking up
the paper., but, as I anticipated, before I
could. dp so the other man pounced on it like j
a hawk*. Tor a few minutes he pretended to
read ,the news, then I saw his eyes sneak to
the side of the page and devour the pencil j
note, n „ ,
Now. this is where I displayed my genius.
When the man had reached the note he de
liberately tore off the piece, folded it up,
stuck it into the gas and lighted his cigarette
with it. Like a flash I took out a cigarette,
and. walking over to him. said the usual,
"After you, please," in the most natural
manner.
Apparently he was satisfied with his scru
tiny, for he handed me the slip. I lighted j
my cigarette, put out the paper and threw |
it on the floor so that it went under my |
chair. I then resumed my seat and awaited '
developments.
A few minutes later the man left, and with I
my heart in my mouth I picked up the paper j
and spread it out. Part of the writing was j
burned., but what remained almost made me
yell w wttk triumph. It ran thus:
i ' v 1 ' If '
"At.t«mp.tt will be made tomght
Qol. Levy-is' house in
apprqach. from back garden in Car
' , don st.
B}ack,Jske. and New Sawyer."
That, w&s sugieient for me. It was plain
that Colonel Lewir' house was to be the
scene of a desperate outrage. Probably the
colonel would be murdered and his residence
--.THE ACE OF SPADES^—
blown up with dynamite. I shook with ex
citement. It was as plain as daylight.
When the curtain of night dropped like- a
stormcloud over the palpitating- city (a rather
fine phrase) it found me concealed in the
shrubbery of Colonel Lewis' garden in Car
don Street.
Determined net to be anticipated I had
reached the rendezvous much earlier than
was necessary, ?o I had plenty of time to
work out my schemes.
"They will climb that wall." I soliloquized.
"They will walk along this flowerbed, so as
not to make a noise on the gravel, and no
doubt the first start will be made on that
French window. I will let them go on. The
great thing is to catch them in the act. Their
object is not plunder; they will burst open
ths window and go straight upstairs, with
Nemesis on their track.
"Then." I continued; "comes the reward >f
valor— the wreath of laurels; the columns in
the newspapers; the universal admiration of
my countrymen. T shall be t*>e idol of Eng
land, the lion of the age. I shall "
Something or somebody gripned me. sud
denly by the back of the neck. Somebody else
put his hand over my mouth, and the two
together threw me on my back with unnec
essary violence.
For a moment T was stunned. When my
senses returned and 1 opened my eyes I cr>uld
just discern thp sinister features of my friend
the villain, v.-ho was kneeling spitefully on
my chest. The other man was there, too. He
was holding me by the hair.
"Do you know h'm, Simpson"?" said one.
"No; T have never sesn him before, that
I can recollect."
"Seems a sleepy sort for one of Jake's
gang."
A light brokp upon me. "Gentlemen," I
said: "are you "
I am sorry to say these few words caused
me still more humiliation. They literally
jumped on me. and finished up by ramming
two handkerchiefs into my mouth.
What surprised me most, and partly con- |
firmed my suspicions, was that one of them |
produced a pair of handcuffs, with which he I
decorated my wrists. Having completed this j
little program, they both sat on me with the
coolest cheek you can imagine.
After listening to their conversation for a
quarter of an hour, without being able to join
in. I came to the conclusion that I had com
mitted an egregious error. From their re- j
marks I gathered that the two persons whom !
I had the honor of supporting were not Black
Jake and New Sawyer, but detectives from
Scotland Yard.
I tried to make them understand that I
wished to explain things, but they smiled in
a most provoking manner, and were not at
all kind to me. I tried to think, but my brain
was in a whirl, and before I had succeeded
in quieting it the excitement of the evening
commenced.
A stealthy trend was heard: a slight rustle
of the grass, which T should hardly have
noticed myself. Two dark forms crept along
in the shadows of the wall. They made for
the French window and silently set to work.
Two minutes later a pane of glass had been
neatly cut out and deposited on the ground.
One minute after that Black Jake and Ned
Sawyer were surprised to find themselves
looking stupidly down the muzzles of two re
volvers of extremely murderous appearance.
"No nonsense. Jake." said my friend of the
morning. "Ton are fairly bowled out this
time my lad. The house is surrounded and
I have a dozen men within call."
I managed to get out of it. although cir
cumstances looked so black against me. De
tective McFadden and his assistant had no
ticed me following them. They informed the
magistrate that I was more of a fool than
a rogue: which opinion my employer, who
was called to give evidence as to my char
acter, heartily confirmed.
After this incident I tried many different
tradPS and professions, in order to find the
one for which I was most suited, but with
out Success.
THE THUNDER BIRD.
The sun smote the hills that sheltered the
beautiful valley in which lav the mission of
St. Peter. Tt peeped through the low win
dow of Pere Palette's room and threw a
golden shaft across the narrow iron bed and
the quiet figure resting upo|i it. Father Mc-
Graw had been pacing th.c garden path for
an hour with his missal open in his hand.
Still the form on the little bed did not move.
Presently the young priest closed the book
and glanced anxiously up at the window.
He entered the house, went softly up the
stairs and gently pushed open the door of
Pere Palette's room. The face upon the
pillow was very pale and still. Father Mc-
Graw stepped quickly over and raised the
thin hand lying on the white coverlet, start
ed and let it fall. Then he sank to his kneea
beside the bed and covered his face with his
hands.
The evening before they had sat together
on the porch and Pere Palette, with a benign
smile upon his worn, intellectual features,
went back over the forty years during which
' he had fought for the salvation of the souls
of Little Bear's band.
"It is very good," he murmured gratefully.
"My work is almost done; it begin wit' dis!"
And he touched a scar upon his forehead.
"How did it happen?" asked Father Mc-
Gravy.
"Ah! — it is their superstition; the Thunder
Bird. I tried to overthrow it. My task has
seemed often hopeless, discouraging it; it is
live year only since de firs' baptism. But now
Littl' Bear himself 'aye express his willing
ness to embrace de fait."
"I remember well that first wan," said
Father McGraw. "Ut was the daughter ay
th' headman. Aigle. Claw. When her father
came to you in desperation, you said to him
' Her loife is in th' hands ay the thrue God'
I will do what I may for you and for th' I
choild.' "
The old priest nodded. "To God be the
giory!" he murmured, reverently.
That night Pere Palette had prayed lons
and fervently that the children about them
might be matured in the faith, as they were
already mature in years. Then he lifted a
candle and went slowly up the stairs to
his room, sayin gscftly to himself, over and
over:
"In good tiire; in good time, yes."
And now be was dead; and Father Mc-
Graw, as he knelt beside the little bed, asked
that he might be made a worthy successor to
thsi self-denying man who had been taken
home to dwell with the Master.
A week passed and Father McGraw sat, at
the close of another sultry July day, on the
porch of the mission house: but this time he
was alone and sad. A young Indian, plumed
and painted, with a bright blanket over his
shoulder, passed through the gate and
walked rapidly up the path toward him.
Father McGraw raised his head.
"What is ut. me son?" he asked.
"Three Quills caught a young Thunder to
day."
"Tut, tut, me son," expostulated the young
priest. "There is no such bird."
"He found it among the rocks on Saskatoon
Mountain," continued the Indian. "It is but
half-grown and could not fly. It is not like
any other bird ever seen by the warriors. Its
eyes are like burning coals. Its talons are
like spears, its feathers like steel. It is the
Thunder Bird, ruler of the sky."
"Sure, 'tis nothing but an aigle, me son; a
young aigle," urged the priest.
The Indian shook his head doggedly. "No,
it is net an eagle. It is bigger, stronger.
The color is not the same. No, it is the
Thunder Bird."
"Th 1 poor paple!" said Father McGraw,
compassionately. Then he added to the In
dian in his own speech: "I shall not thry to
convince you, me son, at prisint. Go, and me
blessin' go wid you."
From a pole before every lodge in Little
Bear's camp rung a piece of new scarlet
cloth, ft was the manito-wabinoso — a gift to
the gods, a propitiation to the Thunder Bird.
Chiefs and headmen of distant tribes came
to see and to do homage to the god. The
women disputed hotly over the questions of
priority of right in the business of feeding it.
Father McGraw set about to demonstrate to
the band that this latest object of adoration
was no more invested with supernatural at
tributes than a senseless block of wood, that
it was but a common bird, impotent to stay
the bolt launched from a kindling sky. He
had an able lieutenant in Galois, the half
breed whom the government employed to in
struct the Indians in agriculture, yet his
task was mapped out for him.
After three weeks of captivity the bird ap
parently died. Thu seemed somewhat in
compatible with the conception of the immor
tality of a god — b'nt how were they to grasp
such weighty myscerie::? Their trust in its
genuineness remained unshaken. They
stuffed the defunct god and raised in on a
pele in the center of the camp, where they
made obeisance to it as they passed. It
would shield them from the thunder and the
lightning.
Galois was a good Catholic, and he resolved
that the time had arrived for him to prove
it to the priest and to confound the supersti
tions of the savages at a single coup. He
would forever shatter their belief in the om
nipotence of the god. He would pull the bird
down and burn it.
A great clamor arose from the band over
the destruction of its idol. "The gods will
avenge this sacrilege," cried the braves; "the
half-breed will ouffer the penalty for his ap
palling crime!"
Galois laughed and called them fools and
children. This was what he had wished for
and expected. Yet they waited, calmly and
confidently, for the punishment of the de
spoiler.
At the close of a torrid day in August
black clouds sprung up and banked the sky
in the West. The cattle stood knee-deep in
the sloughs, fighting the ferocious flies and
mooing restlessly. The air had been very
close and still. The wind which blew did
not come from the direction of the clouds,
but puffed in hot, sullen breaths across them
from the south. The Indian camp felt the
portent of the elements, as the cattle did,
and it cowed and looked on.
The clouds came jp rapidly, rolling and
tumbling over each other like the angry
billows of the sea, and the wind blew strong
er and more fitful. It died away in a low
moan and left the atmosphere stifling and
burdened. An ominous rumble echoed
through the leaden vault. Suddenly a blast
leaped with a roar straight from the inky
throat of the cloudbank. It tore, shrieking
through the tops of the cottonwoods and pop
lars, and they bowed and staggered under it
like straining oxen under the lash. The
Thunder Bird had swooped down upon Little
Bear's reservation, and the warriors trembled
and looked on.
There followed an Instant's pulseless pause
and they shrank close to the ground and hid
their faces A terrific shock seemed to rive
earth and heaven, and the darkened air
blazed with a lurid, sulphurous glare. The
chimney on Galois' house swayed, toppled,
crumbled. Galois burst from the door, bear
ing in his anus a senseless burden, and his
wife followed, her face ashen pale. The roof
smoked, flamed and the house sank and
melted beneath it. The Indians looked out
and saw. Then the storm was past.
"The Thunder was merciful to the half
breed teacher of farming," said Eagle Claw.
"It did not kill his son; only stunned him."
"It was kinder to him than he deserved,"
said his daughter, Painted Sky.
The next day opened bright and fine.
Again the birds sang, the land was gold and
emerald, all nature looked smiling and re
freshed. Yet Father McGraw was far, very
far from happy. There was no longer a
Christian among the savages of the reserva
tion.
"Ut was good he was called away befoore
this great disappointment came," he said to
himself; and on the following morning he
took up the weary work of again converting
Little Bear's band.
The Dreamer.
O drearier or life's highway,
While storms are breaking o'er —
The ships with drcamihg captains
Shall never sight the shore.
On the far heights
SUV, shir.c the lights;
Dream thou no more — ro more!
O droamcr or life's highwas',
The morning dawns apace;
A lessor life hath braved the strife,
And won the gold and grii.ee.
Shall the fair light
That slays the night
Fall on thy dreaming face?
O dreamer on life's highway.
The night of dreams is o'er.
And broken are the idols
That dying dreams adore.
On the far heights,
Still shine the lights;
Dream thou no more — no more!
—Atlanta Constitution.
THE LITTLE CDRATE.
The curate and Miss Edmiston were walk
ins down the main street of the village en
gaged in conversation, which, being that of
a recently affianced pair, need not here be
repeated.
Miss Edmiston carried herself with an air
j of pretty dignity, made none the less appar
i ent by the fact that she was fully two inches
| teller than her lover, th* Rev. John St. John.
: He was a thin, wiry little man, dark-haired
and pale corr.plexioned, and was much
troubled in his daily walk with a certain un
conquerable shyness. That he should have
! won the heart of handsome Nancy Edmiston
! was a matter of surprise and disucssion
I among the residence in Broxbourne.
"Such a very uninteresting young man!"
said the maiden ladies over their afternoon
tea.
"So ridiculously retiring! How did he ever
i come to propose?" remarked the mothers
' whose daughters assisted in giving women
I an overwhelming and not altogether united
majority in Broxbourne society.
The men, on the other hand, voted St.
John a good sort, and his parishioners, in
their rough ways, owned to his many quali
ties.
"You're a dear little girl, Nancy," the
curate was stammering, looking up at his be
loved, when the were both stopped short on
the narrow pavement. A burly workman
was engaged in chastising a small boy with
a weapon in the shape of a stout leather
belt. The child screamed, and the father,
presumably, cursed.
"Stop!" cried the curate.
The angry man merely scowled and raised
the strap for another blow. St. John laid
a detaining hand on the fellow's arm, the
temerity of which caused the latter such
surprise that he loosened his grip for a mo
ment, and the youngster fled howling up an
alley.
"What the"— spluttered the bully, dancing
round the curate, who seemed to shrink
nearer to his sweetheart.
"Let us go, dear," he said. He had grown
white and was trembling.
At this juncture two of the workman's
cronies appeared at the door of the alehouse
opposite, and, seeing how matters stood,
crossed the road and, with rough hands and
soothing curses, conducted their furious
friend from the scene.
"Horrible!" sighed the curate as the lovers
continued their walk.
Miss Edmiston's head was held a trifle
higher. "If I were a man," she said, "I
would have thrashed him. I would, indeed."
"You think I should have punished him
then?" said the curate mildly. "He was a
much larger man than I, you know."
Nancy was silent. She was vaguely but'
sorely disappointed in her lover. He was not
exactly the hero she had dreamed of. How
white and shaky he had turned!
"You surely did not expect me to take part
in a street rcw, Nancy," he said presently,
somehow suspecting her thoughts. He knew
her romantic ideas. But she made no reply.
"So you think I acted in a cowardly fash
ion?" he questioned after a chill pause.
"I don't think your cloth is an excuse any
i how," she burted out suddenly and cruelly.
! The next instant she was filled with shame
i and regret. Before she could speak again,
; however, the curate had lifted his hat and
was crossing the street. An icy "Goodby!"
was all he vouchsafed her.
• •••••
Mr. St. John was returning from paying a
visit of condolence some distance out of the
village, and he had taken the short cut across
the moor. It was a clear, summer afternoon,
a week since his parting with Nancy. A
parting in earnest it had been, for the days
had gone by without meeting or communica
tion between them. The curate was a sad
young man, though the anger in his heart
still burned fiercely. To have been called a
coward by the woman he loved was not a
thing likely to be forgotten. His recent
visit too, had been particularly trying. In
his soul he felt that his words of comfort
had been unreal; that, for all he had striven,
he had failed in his mission to the bereaved
mother. So he trudged across the moor with
slow step and bent head, giving no heed to
the summer beauties around him.
He was about half way home when his »
somber meditations were suddenly inter-,; 1
rupted. A man rote from the heather, whera
he had been lying, and stood in the patb».
barring the curate's progress.
"Now, Mister Parson." he said, with men
ace in his thick voice and bloated face.
"Good afternoon, my man," return,^ St.
John, recognizing the brute of a weeK ago ■
and turning as red as a turkey cock.
"I'll 'good afternoon' ye. Mister Parson!
No! Ye don't pass till I'm done wi' ye!"
cried the iran, who had been drinking' heav- .
ily, though he -vas too seasoned to show' any
unsteadiness in gait
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