I THE FATAL REQUEST]
OR FOUND OUT
By A. L. Harris Author of‘‘Mine Own Familiar Friend.” etc.
Copyright, l a » l , by (7 a t * * l l Publithing Company,
Copyright, l » o 3 , by Strett cC Smith.
-- --1
CHAPTER II—Continued.
Mr. Burritt's face became flushed,
and he started to his feet with the
haste and hot indignation which would
have done credit to one of half his
years. "James!” he cried, with pas
sion, “is this the way you speak?—
is this the way your treat your old
friend? Does the fidelity of half a
life time count for nothing? Why,
even your name has been preserved
in inviolable secrecy, and at this very
moment not one single soul, besides
myself, is aware of the object of my
journey, or of the identity of the in
dividual I have come to meet!—and
this is all you have to say to me! 1
had better return home at once, with
out more delay!”
He was evidently much moved, and
tne other man could not but recognize
that the emotion he betrayed was gen
uine. So he, too, rose from his seat
and, catching Mr. Burritt by the arm,
said, “My dear fellow, don’t misunder
stand me! Surely you did not take
me seriously just now. It is not that
I doubted you for a moment, Silas;
but-” He passed his hand over
Jus eyes, as though to clear away
something which obstructed his vision.
Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he
continued: "I only landed in the old
country this morning, and it has
brought it all back again—all the
shatno and sorrow, all the suffering
and remorse—it seems as fresh as
though—as though it had all happened
yesterday, instead of twenty years ago.
I cannot but realize the fact that, in
spite of all my wealth—honestly
earned, too, every penny of it, I swear
—1 am a pariah, an outcast. No, don’t
interrupt me. I tell you”—with a bit
ter. mirthless laugh—“I fee! more like
a returned convict than anything else.”
james!” exclaimed Mr. Burritt, !
“you shock me! you grieve me more j
than I can say! I-”
liis friend interrupted him. “You!”
“What brings you herei '
lie sneered, “you are the immaculate
citizen—the man without a past!
What have you to do with such an one
as I?” There was a bitter sarcasm
in his tone, a morbid jealousy in his
look, Mr. Burritt refused to recognize
the presence of either.
“But you will return with me, will
you not?” he said, “you will let me in
troduce you to them and make their
r acquaintance? Take us on your way,
f and spend at least one night under my
roof."
“You are very good, Silas,” said his
friend. “Ah, if they were all like
you—but you forget there are others
who—”
Mr. Burritt interrupted him. “I
know what you are going to say and
will relieve your mind at once. Of all
those—and they were not many, six
at the outside—who were intimately
acquainted with your past history
and,” he hesitated a moment, “and
that unhappy affair, not one is living
besides myself.”
"What!” cried the other man, in
great excitement, “All dead?”
“All but myself,” was the answer.
“Thank God for that!” burst from
the other's lips. “Will you swear that
this is so—that they are indeed all
•lead who are connected with the
past, except yourself?”
Mr. Burritt bent his head In reply.
The strain of the interview was begin
ning to tell upon him, together with
the hurried journey, and he felt the
need of repose.
"Believe me, Jim,” he said, falling
back again into the old familiar style
of address, "you have nothing to fear.
Your secret is safe enough v ith me—
uever doubt it.” He spoke kindly,
even affectionately, but his fatigue
£ was evident, and his friend could not
but observe it.
“Silas,” he said, “you are worn out.
We will continue the subject some
other time.”
They turned to leave the room to
Many Trees in Books.
It is stated that nine of the most
successful recent novels aggregated a
' sale of 1,000,000 copies, and the pa
per which these books were printed
on was made from puip for the most
part. Now pulp paper means the de
struction of many trees in the great
forests of the north and probably
5,000 were sacrificed for these novels.
It. would have been better, the Spring
field Republican thinks, to have left
4,999 of the trees standing, and put
the other one into a composite mod
^ ern agony.
when Interrogated as to the purpose
of his sudden expedition.
Certain of his friend's sayings had
grated upon his ear, and caused a
chill feeling of dissatisfaction and re
gret.
“Thank God!” ho had said when he
hoard of the deaths of those others,
cut off, more than one of them, be
fore they had attained their proper
span.
Mr. Burritt turned uneasily in his
bed as he reflected upon this, and re
membered that he was the only one
left who knew all. The only one his
friend had to fear. To fear! Surely
that was not the right way to put it?
j To fear! Could it be possible that his
old friend believed that lie had cause
to fear him? But what had been
his own words on the subject?
“You can ruin me, Silas, in the
eyes of my child, as well as in those
! of the world, whenever you please!”
The question was, had he, at the
time, really meant what he said? Had
he, for an instant, believed him
capable of such baseness as this?
If so—good heavens. it was a
dreadful thought—would he not have
still greater reason to exclaim, “thank
God!” when he heard of bis death?
He scarcely dared to breathe it to
himself, but the idea, having once oc
curred, clung to him, and refused to
be set aside, but returned again and
again in spite of his steadfastly re
jecting it as unworthy and dishonor
able. At the same time be found him
self wondering whether his friend, the
object of these painful thoughts, who
occupied an adjoining room, was also
lying awake and indulging in unprofit
able reflections. Or perhaps ho jvas
more pleasantly employed in thinking
of his daughter; anticipating their
meeting and picturing her as she
would be alter five years’ separation.
Whatever else lie might, or might
not be, ho was evidently an affection
ate parent, devoted to this one child.
The Court’s Exceptional Tact.
Postmaster General Payne was de
scribing an old-time Milwaukee Judge
who had been noted for his kind
heart.
"I attended one day,” said Mr.
Payne, "a session of the court at
which this judge presided. The court
crier was a very old man; he had
served with fidelity for many years,
but age was beginning now to tell on
him. He feil asleep while I was in
the court house, and in a little while
he was snoring.
“His snores, of course, disturbed the
proceedings of the court. The judge;
gether. Mr. Burrlnlt passed out first;
his companion lingered behind him.
As he did so, his brief assumption of
cheerfulness fell from him; his face
changed and darkened, and the whole
expression altered.
'All dead but one,” he whispered to
himself—“and that one—” The sen
tence was left unfinished.
CHAPTER Hi.
Midnight Reflections.
Mr. Burritt passed a very restless
night. Perhaps his dinner had dis
agreed with him. More probably it
was the result of the agitation and
excitement caused by the meeting
with the old friend he had not seen
for so many years. At any rate,
whatever the cause, there was no
doubt as to the effect; for he found
it Impossible to sleep, or to do any
thing but toss from side to side, as
hour after hour wearily wore Itself
away. By some peculiar action of the
brain, he also found himself compelled
to review all the past scenes of his
life, and mentally, step by step, re
trace the path he had trodden during
those fifty years or so, which went
to make up the sum of his existence
on this planet.
At last. In despair, he rose, and go
ing to the window, looked out upon
the night. It was a very moonlight
night—too much so, in fact. There
was something almost weird and
ghastly in its effect. So he dropped
the blind with a crash, and went back
to bed again, hoping that, this time,
he might be able to sieep.
But it was the same thing over
again. Only this time his thoughts
concentrated themselves upon his
family and his home life. He remem
bered, with a sense of remorse, that
he had been a little—only a little—
irritable at breakfast that morning,
and that he had spoken rather sharply
Mr. Bu:ritt was getting sleepy at
last. No doubt It was something
which he had eaten at dinner that
had upset his digestion and filled hls
mind with all these morbid fancies.
There was nothing like indigestion
for making one see everything in a
bad light
Then he slept, and as he slept be
dreamed a dream.
He thought he was lying on the
edge of a precipice—a precipice which
went sheer down many hundreds of
feet. But allhough he occupied such
a dangerous position he felt no uneasi
ness at first, only a little gentle sur
prise as to what he was doing there,
and a little wonder as to what was
going to happen.
Then a hand came up and out of the
abyss and grasped him, drawing him
nearer and nearer to the giddy verge
of the precipice, and he felt himself
dragged slowly but surely to destruc
tion. In vain he clutched at the grass
and stones and projections of the
cliff; he was still drawn on, until, at
last, he was poised upon the very
edge and could look down into the
depths of the chasm beneath. For a
few seconds—during which he seemed
to experience a lifetime of agony—he
remained in that awful position. Then
he felt himself falling—falling from
an immeasurable height— and woke!
“What a hideous dream,” he
thought. “How weird—how awful—
how real! I would rather lie awake
the whole night through than dream
just such another. I wonder what the
time Is?”
nc lull 1UI 11IO w»iv. 14 uuu mv
matches, and struck a light. Just half
past three—no more. As he restored
the articles again to their places, he
thought he heard faint sounds of
movement In the next room.
“Evidently I am not the only rest
less person,” he said to himself as he
lay down again. “I have a companion
in misfortune. To-morrow morning
we shall be able to compare experi
ences. Suppose I were to knock at
the wall and speak to him? But then
I might disturb someone else and
alarm them. That would never do. I
expect it must have been tho cucum
ber that gave me tho nightmare. I
hope I sha’n’t have another such
dream; if 1 do, I'll never touch cucum
ber any more as long as I live.” His
eyes closed, and in a few moments his
deep and regular breathing showed
that he had again fallen asleep.
And again he dreamt, and the
dream was as follows:
He was lying in his bed, or at least,
so he thought, and, after a while, it
seemed to him that it became very
hard and narrow, so that he had no
room to move in it. It was also very
dark. He tried to turn over upon his
side, but found, as in the other dream
that he could stir neither hand nor
foot. And what appeared to him a
long time, he began to hear sounds
over his head. Sometimes in one
place, sometimes in another, and at
the same time ho began to experience
a difficulty in breathing. And still the
sound went on—the sound of some
one hammering—of some ono ham
mering nails—
The sound of some one hammering
nails into a coffin!
And with that, all at once, the awful
truth broke upon him. He was dead,
and they were nailing him up In his
coffin—dead!
His heart stopped beating as he
grasped the full horror of the situa
tion.
They were burying him alive! Oh,
horrible!—horrible!
In vain he tried to burst the bonds
of the insensibility in which he was
held. In vain he made frenzied ef
forts to cry aloud. The most frantic
endeavors were unavailing. He was
unable to utter a sound or produce the
smallest movement. Then It seemed
as though some ono were trying to
raise the lid of the coffin. There wras
a faint, creaking sound—a faint glim
mer of light was perceptible overhead.
It increased and widened! Oh, Joy!.
He was saved—saved! The coffin-lid
was raised little by little—higher and
higher—in another moment ho should
be free!
It was done. lie saw a face bend
ing over him—a familiar face—tho
face of an old friend. Already he hail
ed him in his heart as his benefactor,
his deliverer. Then—what were those
words ho heard? Words he had heard
before—when was It?
“You can ruin me whenever you
please, but now you are in my pow
er!”
The lid was clapped down again,
leaving him in utter darkness. The
hammering began again. He made
one last tremendous effort and woke.
Woke to find himself sitting bolt
upright, with the perspiration stream
ing from him. Woke to find the man,
whose voice even now seemed to ring
in his ears as he bent over the open
coffin, standing beside his bed, in the
faint, grey light ot morning.
“What brings you here?” gasped
Mr. Burritt., as soon as he had realized
the fact that the terrible ordeal he
had just passed through was only a
dream.
“1 couldn’t sleep,” was the response,
“and I couldn’t lie still wny longer,
so I came to see whether you were
awake.”
(To be continued.)
displayed great tact in interrupting
them without embarrassing the crier.
“ ’Crier Jones,’ he said In a loud
voice. ‘Crier Jones, some one Is snor
ing.’
“The crier awakened. He started
to his feet.
“‘Silence!’ he exclaimed. ‘There
must be no snoring in the court room,’
and he glared ferociously about him."
There is no strength without
sympathy.
All’s well that ends according to
your own diagram of the finish.
I THE FATAL REQUEST I
OR FOUND OUT
By A. L. Harris Author of "Mine Own Familiar Fri«nd.”otc.
I Copyright, 19 9 1, by C a » t t l l 1‘ubliehing Company.
Copyright, 1 9 0 2, bystreet c* Smith. H
CHAPTER III.—Continued.
Mr. Burritt was puzzled and ex
pressed as much by his looks. Why
on earth did the man come stealing
into his room in that strange, uncom
fortable manner, and at that hour, and
fur no apparent purpose?
His friend seemed to read what was
passing in his mind. “I am sorry if I
have disturbed you.” he said, slowly,
"but I could not bear my own
thoughts any longer, and so I—" He
turned to leave the room.
Mr. Burritt followed him with his
eyes. He still seemed to him to be
pare of his dream—his strange, hor
rib'e dream..
Then, as the other inan reached
the door, and passing through it,
closed it behind him, he gave a gasp
of relief. The next moment he had
crossed the floor and turned the key
in the lock.
“I could have sworn I had locked It
before,” he said to himself. “At any
rate there shall be no mistake this
time,” as he shot the bolt to toake
matters doubly sure.
CHAPTER IV.
‘The Secret Lies Between Uc Two.”
Next morning Mr. Silas Burritt, and
his friend, whose incognito is still pre
served, were seated at breakfast to
gether.
Iu the clear light of day, in the
presence of the most appetizing
viands, the former gentleman found
his mind completely divested of all
those gloomy and distrustful thoughts
and suspicions which had caused him
so much disquietude previously, to say
nothing of having ruined his night's
rest. It was astonishing what a wide
ly different view he took of the mat
ter as he discussed this early meal.
His heart warmed anew toward his
old friend, who sat facl lg him, and
who also appeared to more advantage
under these more cheerful circum
stances.
“Good Heavens! What are you doing ?”
“It is quite understood that you re
turn with me and stop at least one
night," he remarked, genially. “In
fact, there is no escape for you, as I
have already dispatched a telegram
to let them know at home that I am
bringing a friend back with me.”
“You are very good, Silas,” was the
reply, “and for one night, at least, I
will accept your hospitality.”
“And you must come and stay with
us while you aro§looldng about for a
house—make us your headquarters,
you know. I’ve no doubt that the-two
girls, yours and mine, will he bosom
friends in less than no time; and as
for my boy Ted, lie’ll bo head over
heels in love your daughter—If she's
anything like your description—be
fore we know where we are. Ha, ha! I
shouldn’t be a bit surprised—the
young dog!” and Ills father laughed
aloud, delighted at his own perspi
cacity. "By the way, Jim,” relapsing
Into a more serious vein, “that would
not be a half bad idea—your girl and
my boy—eh?”
The other looked at him Intently,
‘♦ou mean it?” he asked.
"Mean it? Of course I do. Why
not?”
“In spite of—of everything that has
gone before?”
"Good heavens, man! what has the
past got to do with your Innocent
daughter? That would be visiting the
sins of the fathers upon the children
with a vengeance.”
The other man looked at his friend,
and his habitually stern face softened.
“You are very generous,” he said;
“more generous than I have a right to
expect.”
“Come, come,” answered Mr. Bur
ritt, “don’t talk like that, for heaven’s
sake; don’t let us begin it all over
again. Your secret—such as It is—
and this is the last allusion 1 intend to
make, or allow you to make, to it—
lies between us two; which Is the
same thing as saying that it Is perfect
ly safe.”
Then, more for the sake of giving
the conversation a more cheerful turn,
than for any other reason, he said:
“I think you made some remark
last night to the effect that yon had
made a large fortune. If so, I am sin
cerely glad to hear it.”
“Yes," was the Indifferent reply; "I
am, comparatively speaking, what you
would call a wealthy man. and my
daughter will be an heiress In her
way.”
“I am very g!ad to he*, it,” said
Mr Burrltt heartily; "and at the same
time—not that I wial: to boast—i miy
beth referred—the assassination of
the poor old man In his sleep.”
loiter on in the day. just before
starting to the station, Mr, Burritt. on
looking at his watch, noticed that it
had stopped. Then he remembered
that he had forgotten to bring his
watch key, and had, consequently,
been obliged to omit the ceremony of
winding it up the night before. It
occurred to him that his friend, who
was packing his portmanteau • the
next room, might be able te iS^ly
the deficiency.
He left his own room and knocked
at the door of the one adjoining. But
the occupant of the apartment, whom
he heard moving about within, appar
ently did not hear the knock, so, after
waiting a few seconds, he turned the
handle and entered.
The other was standk * in front ol
the dressing table and htb his back
to the door, so that VjJ' >e,!tons were
reflected in the mirror. He was dress
ed, all but his coat, and was carefully
examining some articlo which caught
the light as he turned it over in his
hand. He wheeled round suddenly,
with a quick frown, on hearing the
sound of the opening of the door and
Mr. Burritt's involuntary exclamation
ot alarm when he saw how his friend
was employed.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed,
“what are you doing with that thin/?"
“My dear fellow," bald the other
regaining his composure instantane
ously, "what on earth are you masing
such a fuss about? Did you never see
a revolver before?”
“Of course I have," answered Mr.
Burritt. somewhat indignantly. "But
there, for goodness sake, put the thine
down. I hate to see you trifling with
it in that way. It gives mo the cold
•shivers.”
“You aiarm yourself unnecessarily. 1
asswe you I have not the slightest in
tention of blowing my brains out
Why on earth should I? I was mere
ly examining the thing to see that it
was all right."
“But—but,” stammered Mr. Burritt.
far from reassured, “you don't mean
to say that you are in the habit ol
carrying firearms about with you?”
“My dear fellow,” minjlcked t>.e
other, "I don’t merely say it, I do it.'
“But why?” was the question
“Why?” he replied. “In case ol
emergencies. You never know when
you may need it, and I should never
think of traveling without something
ot the sort.”
"Yo« mean to say," persisted Mr.
also say that I have not done badly
myself. 1 have made my p'le, too—
not such a large one as yours, prpb
ably, but at any rate, I have the sat
isfaction of knowing that, if anything
should happen to me”—this with an
accession of seriousness—“I should
leave my family well provided for. I
have had my ups and downs as well
as others; but 1 have no fear of the
future.”
He spoke these last words quite
confidently, unconscious of the ignor
ance and rashness of the assertion.
“By the way.” he continued, after a
while, "are you a had sleeper, as a
rule, or was last night an exception,
as in my own case?”
"It was no exception, unfortunately,
for me,” was the answer. “I am a
wretched sleeper, and last night was
worse than usual. At the same time”
—with an air of restraint or awkward
ness—“I had no business to disturb
you in the way I did.”
“Don't mention it,” said Mr. Burritt
carelessly, forgetting the very differ
ent light in which the affair had ap
peared to him at the time of Its oc
currence. “Though you gave me
rather a start at the moment, on
waking up suddenly as I did, and from
a very bad dream.”
“I thought you seemed rather rest
less and uneasy in your sleep,” was
the reply.
“Insomnia is one of the greatest
curses I know, though, as a rule, I
do not suffer much from it myself. But
if, like Macbeth, ‘you have murdered
sleep,’ you are much to he pitied.”
The other man started at the ill
sounding word.
“Murdered!’ he exclaimed; then—“I
hog your pardon,” he muttered, some
what confusedly, “I did not take your
meaning at first; in fact, I have al
most forgotten my Shakespeare.”
”1 hog yours,” said Mr. Burritt; "the
quotation was most inapt. 1 had also
torgotten for the moment, that it was
to the murder of Duncan that Mac
Burritt, "that you carry it about your
person?"
The other nodded. ‘‘I.ook here!”
he said, "I’ve lived a rough sort of life
in a wild part of the world, for the last
twenty years. I've seen men shot
down by my side, in a refreshment
saloon, more than once, and more
than once had a narrow escape from
a similar fate myself. In fact”—sink
ing his voice—“I don’t mind owning
to you that on one occasion I have
killed my man—in self-defense mind,”
he added, hastily, seeing the look of
horror which, for a moment, over
spread his friend’s face. “In self
defense,” he repeated, with emphasis,
‘ and with the odds three to one.
Where should I have been then but
for my revolver? As it was, I cleared
the world of at least one ruffian.”
“And no o>e—I mean-”
“No one thought any the worse of
me, I assure you. Indeed,”—with a
faint smile, the first Mr. Burritt had
seen upon his face, lurking for a mo
ment round the corners of his mouth
—”1 even had a testimonial presented
to me by some of the leading citizens
of the place, thanking me for ridding
them of such a pestilent character as
’Black Jake,’ which was the name the
villain went by.”
*hi, urn i hi urai u uiiii luiuuguuui,
with astonishment, mingled with a
faint sensation of horror. It seemed
hard to credit that the calm, middle
aged, well dressed man before him—
his own contemporary—had passed
through such an experience as this;
and that the hand which ho had shak
en with so much cordiality had blood
upon it!
"Thank God!” he cried, "that we
have nothing of this sort in England.
There is no shooting people down in
refreshment saloons in this country!’\
"Perhaps not,” was the caustic re
ply; "but, for all that, it struck me,
on looking at the paper this morning,
that you had got your own share of
most of the crimes going—and plenty
of ‘Black Jakes,’ or their equivalent,
too.”
“Very likely,” said Mr. Burritt,
with eyes still fixed on the revolver.
"By-the-way, would you mind telling
me—Is that the same weapon that you
used on that occasion you were speak
ing of—I moan when you shot the
other—er—Individual?”
"Meaning ‘Black Jake’? Yes, I’m
happy to say It Is the very same.”
Mr. Burritt felt that he somehow re
garded the article In question with:
less favor than ever.
"I suppose there isn't the least live
lihood of its going off unexpectedly?”
he inquired, diffidently.
"Not unless I pull the trigger.” was
the careless response, “and I’m not
likely to do that, unless you attack
me first.”
The joke—if joke It were—struck
Mr. Burritt as being in singular bid
taste.
“I must say,” he repeated, with a
little perceptible irritation in his man
ner, "that, in this instance, I don’t see
the necessity for-’’
"Very likely, you don’t,” lnterruot
ed the other, resuming his coat; “but
If you had been In the habit of carry
ing it about your person for as many
years as I have, and always been ac
customed to sleep with It under ycur
pillow, you would think no more of
carrying a revolver than you would
an umbrella or a watch.”
This remark served to remind Mr.
Burritt of his original errand. He '
therefore explained the reason of his
intrusion, and having been accom
modated by the loan of the desired ar
ticle, turned to leave the room again.
He hesitated for a moment on the
threshold and cast another glance
over his shoulder at his friend, who
was doing something to the cherished
weapon with a bit of oily rag. The
latter looked up and met It.
“You don’t really mean, Silas, that
you are afraid to trust yourself in my
company now that you know I carry a
revolver?” he asked, with another sud
den frown. "You don’t surely-?”
| (To be continued.)
' A Cure for Sissies.
One way for college athletes to earn
their expenses nowadays is by acting
as sort of male governesses, says the
Chicago Inter Ocean. Wealthy par
ents whose young tons are being edu
cated at home by governesses fre
quently apply at the employment of
fices of universities for the services of
some athlete who can give their boys
five or six hours a week of compan
ionship. They are afraid that the edu
cation of governesses alone may make
their sons “sisslfled.”
A number of athletes paying their
own way through the various colleges
have such jobs. Three or four mor«
ings a weea they go to the boys, romp
with them, play ball, and during the
winter skate and coast. Usually they
are also employed in vacation to stay
with the boys at their parents’ sum
mer homes. One Northwestern stu
dent has held such a position for three
years.
When Charles Lamb Said Grace.
Recently, when Edmund Clarence
Stedman was visiting in New Eng
land, he was called upon by the head
of the house while at dinner to invoke
the divine blessing.
“I was rather surprised, and for half
a minute sorely tempted,” said Mr.
Stedman in relating the Incident,
‘'Then I rose to the occasion and
ask^d a grace which I remembered."
“Rut, Mr. Stedman,-’ demanded a
young woman of the party eagerly,
' -‘to what were you sorely tempted?”
“To do as Charles Lamb did under
similar circumstances.”
“And that was?”
“lie looked about the tv^rd and
asked in his surprise: ‘Is tvero no
clergyman present?’ The hot shook
his head. Tnen tanrb prayed: ‘For
this and all other mercies, O Lord,
make us truly thankful.’ ’’—Now York
Times.