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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (July 15, 1915)
_y mi i CHAPTER XII—(Continued). “But, you know they nil prophesy a Worse ending for me,” he said gloom ily, without realising that his secret thoughts were crowding to the sur face. "Pooh!” she cried. "I know what you mean. Mary has told me all the things they’ve said to you. But that can't happen. You—why, Eric, dear, you Just couldn’t kill anybody. You are too tender and sweet hearted. Oh, 1 know you!" She kissed the brown fing ers that were convulsively carried to her lips. The fingers of the very hand that •ent Chetwynd against the treacherous railing! A low. mocking laugh came from the wood behind them, a laugh that brought a rush of Icy prcsplratlon through every pore in Eric’s body. He Whirled and peered into the shadows, his lips parted in a sort of stupefying horror. It was the mean, never-to-be-forgot ten laugh of Chetwynd Blagden! The girl drew back in amazement. “What Is it, Eric?” she cried. “Didn't you hear it?” he gasped. “Hear what?” “The laugh. Oood heavens, Joan, didn’t you hear it?” “No, you silly boy. You must be dreaming,” she cried merrily. He could see no one among the trees. They were absolutely alone. He •ank back against the tree, limp •nd weak. Passing his hand over his wet forehead, he muttered: ”1—I thought I heard—but I must have been mistaken. There Is no one, la there?” “There are some men repairing the bridge at Bud’s Rock,” she said. “I •aw them this morning. But that Is half a mile away. They are putting up hew railings.” He arose abruptly. “Come,” he said nervously, "let’s go home, Joan. It's later than I thought.” They hurried off across the smooth, green meadow, into the hot sunshine. Re led her directly away from the cool, Inviting shade of the wood, ignoring her protests. “It’s shorter this way,” be argued lamely, but that afforded slight content to her. He was clasping her hand in his and he was saying over and over •gain, as much to himself as to her: *Ve will be sweethearts always. Noth ing can ever come between us now, Joan.” “As if there could be any danger of that,” she said simply. The third day after this meeting at ■the edge of the wood, Eric departed for •Cambridge, firm in his decision to let nothing stand in the way of his happi ness with Joan Bright. But he was not soon to get over the •hock of tho imaginary laugh that came from nowhere, from no one in this world. CHAPTER XIII. HORACE WRITES A LETTER. At the end of four years, Eric Mld Ihorne came out of Harvard. Ho pre pared at once for the examinations of the Beaux Arts In Paris and passed them successfully, standing high ■among the Americans who went through. During the summer of his 21st year, and while he was still an undergradu ate at Cambridge, his uncle, after'di vulging the nature of the legacy which Was to fall to him. spent hours out of each day In counselling the young man as to the wisest and best way to make the most of his grandfather's bequest. There would be more than $100,000 coming to him. A solid nest egg, Mr. Blagden was wont to remark, notwith standing the fact that the funds were so diversely Invested that Eric was once Inclined to observe, with 111 timed facetiousness, that It might bo better to ■ci.il it a scrambled egg. Hts Uncle Horace repaid the effort with a pained, yet tolerant frown, ns If to say: "Har vard Is not what he was In my day.” ■He ulwnys spoke of his alma mater In the masculine sense, because, he ar gued, the college was named for and after a man, not a woman. Merely a little stitch In the character of Horace Blagden. On his 31st birthday, Eric found tilmself not only a man, but a free agent Insofar as his inheritance was concerned. There were bonds and mortgages, bank stocks and building lots, to say nothing or holdings in nearly every public utility concern In the city of Corinth. "You will have an Income of nearly »10,000,” announced Horace, after filing his final report as guardian. In other words, the best New England rates. That is what It came to. "Uncle Horace.” said Eric, as they left the court house together, "I feel that I owe you a great deal that cannot be repaid in thanks. You have spent a great deal of money In caring for Mary and m.e-” Horace checked him with a gesture. "Pray do not labor under the delusion, Eric, that you and Mary have been— er. ahem—subsisting on charity. You did not pay strict attention to the read ing of my final report, I fear. It is a very bad habit to get Into. Always pay attention to such things. My report, as Usual, sets forth all the expenditures for the year. You will find, If you ex amine It even casually, that you owe nothing to me—er—ahem!—I mean In a substantial way. I shall be fully re paid by an expression of gratitude.” He was unconsciously Ironic. Not for the world would he have had It appear •o. It was his way of Informing Erlo that he had charged up his “board and keep,” through all those years, to run “You mean,” said Eric, a trifle dazed, “that Mary and I have paid for—for what we’ve had from you?" “Precisely.” “I—1 wish T had known that long ego," muttered the young man, staring ttralght before him, his Jaws set. "I want to set you straight as to one thing, Eric," said his uncle steadily. He took the young man’s arm in his hand, an unprecedented hit of informality on his part. “I fear that you may con ceive the Idea that I am niggardly In this matter. Believe me, I am the one who pays. I am the one who filed the reports, mind you—showing that 1 children the cost of their food, their clothes, their bringing up. The whole of Corinth knows that I have done this thing. So. you see. I get my pay In the r.neers that pass behind my back— yes. sometimes in these later days, be fore my eyes. But I had an under «ta. ding with myself when 1 took you into my home years ago, In face of the opposition of your shiftless relatives »i the south. I did not intend you to tome as charity wards, so to speak. 1 did not love you sufficiently well to bestow charity upon you. To be frank, l resented you both bitterly. But. I am t fair man. Your southern relatives w ere proud. They would not have had you become objects of charltv. I told II U!l \_/ a them that a Blagden was never an ob ject of charity. A Blagden would pay for his own out of his own. You are Blagdens, both of you. Today you can look me In the face and say that you do not owe me a dollar. You are Inde pendent, Eric. I have seen to It that you who came to me against your will, who remained In my house all these years because you could not help your self—I say I’ve seen to It that you are under no pecuniary obligation to me. You have paid me, out of your Inheri tance, for everything you have re ceived, and so has Mary.” ' Uncle Horace, I-” "Just a moment, please. I am not so penurious as you think. My will has been made, Eric, these many years. In It there Is a special clause re storing to you every penny of the money I used In the payment of these—er, ahem!—fixed charges, you might say. I say It is a special clause, because during the last year I altered my will In one other and somewhat vi tal particular. I will not go Into that, however." His lean grey face hardened as he uttered the last sentence; a far away look came Into his eyes. “But I can’t think of taking back”— began Eric all at sea over the strange turn of affairs. "You can't help yourself, my boy,” said Horace Blagden, kindly. “Sit down here with me on this bench. It’s cool here, and of late the sun appears to be affecting me qddly. Erie, your aunt and I are proud of you. In spite of ourselves we have always liked ydu and Mary. If we were harsh with you, It was because we were envious—even Jealous. It Isn’t so hard to say that, either. And, believe me, there was a time when we honestly feared for your future. That Is why—” here a thin smile broke on his lips—"we set Mr. Presbrey on you. I hope you will for give us that. And yet, don’t misunder stand me, I believe he did you more good than you will admit. Well, you are 21. You are going to be a credit to all of us—living and dead. Your mid dle name Is Blagden, don’t forget that. I say we are proud of you. My boy, It Is more than that with me. I am fond of you. I will not say that your aunt is not quite as much so—er, ahem!—as I am. I want you to know that I love you for your fairness, your gentleness, your honesty. You are a good boy, Eric. I would to God you were my son.” Eric was dumbfounded. An older and keener Judge of human nature would not have been deceived Into be lieving that a generous Impulse moved Horace to that unhappy lament. It was an exposition of the quintessence of selfishness. He was thinking only of a personal gain that had been denied him in nature's distribution. But Eric did not know this. He was touched by the unhappy cry from tho great man’s soul. A sudden desire came over him to lift the dreadful suspense that was hang ing over his uncle’s head. "Uncle Horace, I want to tell you something that will make It easier for you about—Chetwynd. It has been a—” Mr. Blagden turned on him coldly. “Stop right there!” he said without raising his voice, but with a leok in his eyes that served better than a shout of command. "You are not to mention his name. sir. I have told you so be fore. There Is nothing you can say that will make—But there! I am for getting myself. We will resume our talk concerning your Investments. They are safe and sound, and I sincerely hope you will condescend to manage them ss carefully as I have done, as your guardian, and as your grandfather did before me. Do not put your fortune into the hands of the Jews. It Is safe enough In Corinth. By the Jews I mean the tendrils of New York. They suck up gold as the plants suck In the dew. I hdte a Jew. Have you noticed there are no Jews In Corinth?” "A Jew couldn't live In Corinth, ' uncle,” said Eric, who hated the town. “He’d starve to death.” His uncle closed one eye and a grim smile showed Itself faintly at the cor ners of his mouth. “I fancy he would," said he. "It Is a ; far cry from Corinth to New York." “Why shouldn’t I leave my affairs In your hands, uncle, Just as they have been?" Eric observed after a moment's reflection. “I’d only ask for a certain portion of the Income—enough to live on. you see. Is It asking too much ot you. sir?” Horace laid his hand on the young man’s knee. "I think they would he safer In my hands than In yours, my , boy. At least, for a few years. I will continue to look after them for you on the condition that you agree in writing , to—er—ahem!—to allow me absolute control over them." "For a certain length of time, sir,” said Eric steadily. “I believe I can . manage for myself when I am a little older." “Quite right. We’ll say five years. You will be married by that time, 1 • dare say." r-ric uiusnea. iie naa been with Joan Bright that very morning, "Who knows?" he mused evasively. And so it was agreed between them that Horace Blagden was to have con- . trol of Eric’s fortune for a term of years. A business transaction, pure and simple, said Mr. Bladgen, in which he proposed tb serve as agent at a much lower rate of compensation than Eric could hope to obtain from the Jews. It was quite a satisfactory ar rangement all uround, for Eric would not have had him act without compen- ■ satiori. Eric was past 22 when he pre have charged up to my own sister’s . pared for the Beaux Arts. He was to be abroad for at least two years. I.ong before he completed his work at Har vard, he was promised a commission— his first real work as an architect and builder. Judge Bright was to be his first cli ent. The young man was to design and build for him a new and magnifi cent home in Upper Corinth, a struc ture that would cost no less than $150, 000. ‘T’d sooner entrust the Job to you, Eric, than to any of those chaps in Boston, with all their training and prestige," said the Judge to the sur prised and overwhelmed undergradu ate. “You’ve got ideas, and that’s what I want. Think over the plans while you’re in Paris, and, in case you w'rlte to Joan, who is the one you’ll have to please after all, discuss them with her. She’s got ideas, too.” Of course, when the news got abroad in Corinth that a boy of 24 was to build Judge Bright’s palatial residence, the like of w'hlch Corinth had never seen except as a trespasser, there was a general sniff of amazement. More than one of the selectmen and practically the entire congregation of the First Con gregational church remonstrated with the Judge, admitting that it was none of their business, of course, and declar ing that they Uked Eric, and all that. and that he would be a great architect some day, but for heaven's sake, et cetera, et cetera. Joan was not so pessimistic. “I’ll help you with the plans, Eric,” she announced blissfully. “W.e must make no mistake. It must be perfect In every respect. Because, don’t you see. you I will live in it some day.” Eric held up his hands in horror. "Joan, Joan! Do you really think I’ll live in Corinth after I’ve got a good start in the world? Do you think I’d bury myself and you here?” "It’s a nice old place,” she protested. "So is the world a nice old place. We’ll go out and live in it somewhere.” "But papa’s building this house for me," she lamented. He looked glum. “It’s a deuce of a dilemma, I can’t give you up and I won’t give up the commission." "Well, why should we borrow trou ble?” she cried gaily. “Father will live in it for years and years. We can spend some of our time with him, Eric. We must. And, listen! 1 have it. When we’re quite old we can close it in the winter and let It in the sum mer!” W’e must not forget Adam Carr. It would not be fair to him, if we pause but for a moment to consider his own capacity for not forgetting. There were months during which Eric heard noth ing of the man, then suddenly he would nppear, as if from nowhere, calmly to resume relations as if they had separated no longer ago than the night before. He would drop in on the young man at his rooms in Cam bridge, always without warning, but never by any chance when he waS away or when he had company there. Or he would be sitting in the shade of the trees that surrounded old Jabez uarr 3 -watch house above Todville, quite as if he always had been sitting there, smoking a pipe with his father and staring intently at the Bquirrels that never quite got over being afraid to approach him. Or, again, he would come upon Eric in a New York thor oughfare, never saying ‘‘how-do-you 30," but always beginning a conver sation with some remark which fitted In precisely with the thoughts that were in the young man’s mind at the moment. It was uncanny, and yet Eric never experienced a single sen sation of uneasiness or repulsion. Somehow, it seemed to him that Adam Carr was so much a part of his own existence that he was with him in spirit at all times, no matter how ?reat the distance that separated their bodies. Once, Just before commencement lay, Adam appeared on the campus. He came up from behind an spoke to Eric, who turned without surprise, as though he had been aware of his presence all the time. You would have thought he was continuing a conversation that had not been divert ed for a moment, much less by a lapse of five months or more. ‘.‘I guess Horace has about given up hope of Chetwynd ever turning up to be forgiven.” he remarked, in the most casual manner. Again, one night in the Champs Elysees, he came upon the young American unexpectedly. “What’s the news from Corinth?” he isked, without preamble, speaking as if from the darkness. Eric turned to find his queer friend standing at his elbow, idly gazing at the gaudy retinue nf King Sasowlth of Cambodia, who was returning, with all his wives and concubines, from Pre Catalin, where he had been the unit of attraction since the sun went down. This time, Eric confided to the de tective that the situation was “getting on his nerves.” “I'm so sorry for them that I’ve half a mind to tell ‘the truth, Mr. Adam,” he said, in the course of conversation. "Why, they’re simply grieving their hearts out. It would be the greatest blessing in the world if they knew that he could never come back.” Adam chuckled. ”1 suppose you think old Horace would fall on your neck And say thank you kindly, eh? Well, fie wouldn’t my boy. He’d see to it that you fell on your own neck, after v drop of five or six feet. Be patient. Before long I’ll report to him that Chetwynd is no more. It may interest you to know that I drop Horace a line occasionally to let him know that I’m still on the lookout for his erring off spring. It’s getting to be somewhat of x tax on me, writing these letters. I've tlways hated to write letters. One of hese days—soon, perhaps—I’ll get so fired of it that I'll put an end to our sne-slded correspondence by announc ng that Chetwynd is dead. Jumped overboard Just as I was about to nab lim on a ship somewhere in the At antlc. Body not recovered. See? rhat will end it all. and Horace can sleep in peace.” "For heaven’s sake, do it soon,’ Mr. Adam.” “I'll think it over.” “But not so hard as Horace Blag len." "He is changed.” “Umph!” (CONTINUED NEXT WEEK). Vitae Lampada. fhere's a breathless hush in the Close tonight— Ten to make and the match to win— A bumping pit and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man In. And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat, Or a selfish hope of a season's fame, Jut the captain's hand on his Bhouider smote— “Play up! play up! and play the game!” rhe sand of the desert is sodden red— Red with the wreck of a square that broke— rhe gatling’s Jammed and the colonel dead. And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. rhe river of death has brimmed his banks, And England’s far. and honor a name. Jut the voice of a schoolboy callles the ranks, "Play up! play up! and play the game!” rhls is the word that year by year, While in her place the School Is set, Svery one of her sons must hear. And none that hears it dare forget, rhls they all with a joyful mind Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling, fling up the host behind— “Play up! play up! and play the game!” —Henry Newbolt. Now that ocean liners and vessels of whatever type of flag approaching the Brlt'sh or French coasts are liable to je sank without warning, the question 5f instructing passengers in the art of rdjustlng life belts is to the fore. Lord Brassey and Colonel Timson, veteran travelers, have pointed out that only rarely is a man or a woman traveling by sea able to put on a life belt quickly md properly. Fifteen years ago Col onel Timson called attention to this de ficiency, and urged that Great Britain follow the example of America in mak ing the requisite instructions compul sory on the owners of ships flying the union Jack. Nothing was done; noth ing has been dono even in these days md nights of special and extreme peril. It is possible that the matter will b« taken up by the government with a flew to suitable legislation. Umlke the brand burned into the hides of cattle, sheep brands are paint ed on the wool with tar or a like sub stance. Western ranches are experi encing great difficulty because so many brand marks are effaced by rain. The average sheep doesn't care enough about who does the killing to be much interested PEACE AFTER STORM Song of Lark Followed Thunder of Heavy Guns. Morning Hymn Came as Delightful Contrast to Man’s Ferocious En ergy of Destructiveness on European Battlefield. There had been much booming of distant cannon during the day. It came from seven miles away. We were well accustomed tc the sound. We had closed up night work at the hospital; several patients were al ready sleeping peacefully, spite of wounds, when I went to my quarters. The usual monotonous thud, thud, thudding of artillery fire at regular In tervals had turned instantaneously to something quite peculiarly virile. A quick, nervous, excitable quality of sound from the big guns filled and rent the air. m iwu uugs, auer grownng discon tentedly for a whoie morning, some times fly at each other, and quite un expectedly madly come to death grips, so did the two opposing forces appear to burst into the same wild, frenzied wrath and go for one another with all the strength at their disposal. So quickly did their deadly thunder pour itself forth, one could not count the cracks. It was one mighty roll—one gigantic, appalling roar, grim, unre lenting, unearthly. The very room I sat in seemed to partake of the vio lence; the earth shook and the walls trembled. One felt spellbound for a little while, fascinated by the awful clanging and booming and crashing in the distance. The fighting seemed to develop in in tensity as the night wore on. To com plete the horror a high wind was blowing, which added considerably to the wild effect of the man-made storm. For about half an hour I sat and lis tened. Then, although common sense declared it was futile, I gave way to a longing to go cut. Surely with all this noise there must be something to see as well! Instinct was right. Over the plain, toward the Belgian lines, there was a stupendous scene. The whole horizon pictured the temper of those frantic guns. There was one great moving ex panse of crimson fire. I went in again and settled down IT"'.... ■— for the night. The guns never ceased; in fact the sound increased rather than moderated in violence as the night progressed. Quite suddenly a strange thing happened. The whole conflict appeared to cease. As quickly as it began, the fire of artillery was abso lutely, stopped. The first great silence was even more impressive in its way than the preceding storm of tempes tuous energy. It was getting gradually lighter. One began to feel that the coming of dawn was very near at hand. Out of the silence—the deathlike silence—a sound now burst forth that made one’s heart stand still. “I heard a voice.” A tender little warbling prelude suddenly fell on my ear. Then a pause. Then a soft note. Another pause. Then a bolder note still. I.ouder and bolder the note sounded and finally turned into a trill. The lark had awaked with the dawn. With perfect trust and gentle adora tion she let her voice ring gayly forth, her delight in living, her ec stasy and praise finding expression in the most exquisite morning hymn it has ever my lot to hear.—Thedosia Lady Bagot in the London Telegraph. Sandstorm Smith Was Reassured. “Say, loeky yur!” snarled Sand storm Smith, the widely-known Okla» homan, emerging from the elevator in a Kansas City hotel five minutes after he had apparently retired to his room for the night. “Who in the blazes is that cuss in the next room to mine?” “A guest who was in an automobile accident this afternoon,” replied the clerk. “The gasoline caught fire and burned him pretty badly. I am sorry his groans disturbed you, but—” “Aw, that’s all right! I thought it was one of them infernal cabaret per formers practicing on an accordion.” —Kansas City Star. Was Making Signs. While Jane, the new maid, was tak ing her first lesson in arranging the dining table, someone in the basement kitchen put something upon the dumb waiter below. “What’s that noise?” asked Jane quickly. "Why, that’s the dumbwaiter,” re sponded the mistress. “Well,” said Jane, “he's a-scratchin’ to get out.”—Collier’s. Love is a malady of the mind that swells the head but makes $10 look like 30 cents. - SUPPLIES ALWAYS ON HAND British Claim to Have Made Transport System at the Front as Perfect as Is Possible. When it is mentioned that 2,000 tons of goods—food and other necessities— are sent every day from the base de pots to the firing line of the British army, some idea of the gigantic task of the army service will be gathered. This enormous weight of goods, says Harold Begbie, comes almost entirely from England, for we are not buying in France even so perishable a neces sity as milk. Vast stores are brought from England and loaded into sheds at the base depots. All day by motor dory and railway truck supplies for the troops are sen! out from these base depots to stores as near as possible to the firing lines And just as reserves are accumulated in the docks, so reserves are accumu lated near the front, since an accidenl to the railways might cut off the fight ing soldiers’ supplies. On one occasion there was a delay on the railways of 36 hours, but nol only did the soldier at the front gel all his food and ammunition, but he did not even have to draw on the re serves I have mentioned; regimental stores were sufficient for his need. Everything goes by clockwork. There is nb room for an accident.—Londoj Tit-Bits. It Didn’t Work. The crowded car was overflowing. “Get off the step,” the conductoi cried. “I’ve got to shut the door.” “Don't mind me,” replied the man on the step. “Close it if you like. It’i true that I have a couple of sample packages of dynamite in my overcoal pockets and the windows might b« broken and the roof blown off, bul don’t hesitate on my account. 1 haven’t many friends, anyway, and I don’t think many would sorrow ovei my early demise. Go ahead and close your door.” Then the conductor closed it. ^ The Ohe Exception. “Everyone seems to be here foi his health,” remarked the new arrival at the summer resort. “Yes, everyone but the hotel pro prietor,” replied the guest who had been there three days.”—Judge. Won’t Do. Tom—Rather pretty girl, isn’t she! Penelope—Pretty enough, yes, bul absolutely no style.—Life. . - Builders of the “Big Ditch” There has just been issued by the Historical Publishing Company of Washington, D. C., a magnificent illustrated history of the construc tion and builders of the Panama Canal. The editor of this great history is Mr. Ira E. Bennett, with associate editors, John Hays Hammond, cele brated mining engineer; Capt. Philip Andrews, U. S. N.; Rupert Blue, Surg. Gen. U. S. Public Health Service; J. Hampton Moore, Pres. At lantic Deeper Waterways Ass’n; Patrick J. Lennox, B. A., and William J. Showalter. One of the most interesting portions of the book is that dealing with the feeding of the immense army of laborers. A few paragraphs con cerning one of the foods chosen and supplied by the Commissary Department, are quoted (beginning page 428) as follows: “Visitors to the canal who were privi leged to get a glimpse of the routine inner life will recall a familiar picture of workmen going to their places of labor carrying round yellow tins. “Often, as they went, they munched a v food poured from the tin into the hand. This food, which played no inconsider able part in ‘building’ the canal, was the well-known article of diet, ‘GRAPE NUTS.’ . “The mention of Grape-Nuts in this connection is peculiarly pertinent. Not merely because Grape-Nuts is a food— for of course proper food was an integral part of the big enterprise—but because it is a cereal food which successfully withstood the effects of a tropical climate. This characteristic of Grape-Nuts was pretty well known and constituted a cogent reason for its selection for use in the Canal Zone. “This food is so thoroughly baked that it keeps almost indefinitely in any climate, as has been demonstrated again and again. “One finds Grape-Nuts on transoceanic steamships, in the islands of the seas, in Alaska, South America, Japan, along the China coast, in Manila, Australia, South Africa, and on highways of travel and the byways of the jungle—in short, wherever minimum of bulk and maxi mum of nourishment are requisite in food which has to be transported long distances, and often under extreme diffi culties. “The very enviable reputation which Grape-Nuts has attained in these respects caused it to be chosen as one of the | foods for the Canal Zone.” Graioe-Nuts FOOD —scientihcaily made of prime wheat and malted barley, contains the entire goodness of the grain, including those priceless mineral elements so essential for active bodies and keen brains, but which are lacking in white flour products and the usual dietary. There’s a reason why Grape-Nuts food was chosen by the Canai Commissariat. There’s a reason why Grape-Nuts is a favorite food of hustling people eveiywhere! Sold by Grocers __* J