Evening Star Newspaper, February 9, 1889, Page 10

10 THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON IN THE RANKS. The Causes of Desertion and Plans to Prevent It. S LIVE SUBJECT AMONG OFFICERS—GROWING IX- TEREST LX THE WELFARE OF THE MEN—DiIS- SATISFACTION AMONG RECRUITS—WHY SOLDIERS WANT TO LEAVE THE ARMY. It is but seldom thata reader of Dickens, ‘Thackeray, or other English authors who wrote about twenty-five or thirty years ago, gets a glimpse of the real elements of the British army, the rank and file, the enlisted men, although allusions and descriptions of life in the service form, in many cases, a large portion of the work. In fact. youthful perusers of these books get an indefinite idea that the English army must be made up eftirely of officers, men who sell their commissions occa- sionally when they get into financial strarts. make desperate love. pose es heroes, and get wounded at convenient times. The army itself, the “men,” as folks are apt to speak of the ivate soldiers and non-commissioned officers, eae appear upon the scene except as a great mass of material, a machine, something on the order of « printing press or a railway train. Such a thing as individuality below the level of the men who wear shoulder straps is im- Possible. This is the idea that yonng people are apt to imbibe from those works that form their best reading. It is probably due to the fact that it has only been in the last two decades or 80 that the enlisted men in regular armies have come to gain any consideration for themselves. If a man deserted it was thougbt to be a natural event that must happen, ought to be expected, and could not be prevented. There was no at- tempt to make the life of a man bearing a et such that there was less inducement for desertion tl for continuing in the ser- vice. Nowadays, However, considerable atten- tion is being given to THE SUBJECT OF DESERTION, and many remedies are constantly being con- sidered by officers to reduce this evil to the lowest possible extent. Thinking army officers in this country are giving the subject careful consideration, the first principle recog- nized in all of these efforts being that men desert because they find the army life irksome; there- fore the first step to be taken is to discover wherein the objections and bad features of army life lie and how they can be corrected. In other words, there is, at the present time. a constant effort being made to render the life of an enlisted man as attractive as the circum- stances of such an occupation will permit. REASONS FOR ENLISTING. It is undoubtedly true that most men enter the army because it affords a sure place to sleep, regular meals, good warm clothes and | some pay. Most of the men are probably | driven to enlistment by misfortunes, financial and otherwise, or by a carelessness that renders them blind to the disadvantages of the service. Many others enter from a spirit of adventure or love for the calling of arms. i In speaking on the subject of desertion to a Svar reporter the other day a prominent army | Officer remarked: “The majority of men who desert do not —_— little extras—delicacies for the men's In his last annual to the commanding of the jt.-Gen. Drum calls at- of desertion in these ‘An examination of the data shows the con- tinual presence in the ranks of an average of tpward or 71 pa cat ofthe legaarength we or cent o' stre1 tdearmy. This fact confirms the statement, by me in ious ne — larger proportion of deserters were men o than three years’ service. Measures have been taken for years to investigate the cause, real dizerent''sigoom, beyond’ indicating. thet ferent the causes are: dissatisfac- tion with army life and its restraints; restlessness, with recklessness of obligations assumed; and a desire to secure transportation to distant and supposed favorabie points in the west. tion, no more than any other crime, can never be eradicated, but it would, I am con be greatly lessened by the easures, the most effective of which are: the reduction of term of service trom five to three years, and the authorization of Congress for the purchase of discharge by men of good character, but who are desirous to leave aservice for which they find them- selves unfitted.” IN THE SECRETARY'S REPORT is the following: ‘The commanding general reports that 10 per cent of the arm deserts each year, andas a remedy he recommends that the reward for the apprehension of a de- | serter be increased to $100 and reimbursed out of his retained pay; that United States marshals, their deputies and all she con- stables and police officers be authorized by law to arrest and deliver deserters; that at least one-half of the pay of soldiers be re- tained until their enlistment has expired. and that in time of peace the soldier be allowed to dissolve his contract of enlistment by paying the expenses incurred in the enlistment, c! loth- | ing and transportation of a recruit to supply his place. In short, the commanding general says: ‘Make it practicable for a soldier to terminate a contract with which he has become dissatisfied in a fair and honorable way. and make his punishment as sure as possible if he attempts to terminate it in a dishonorable way.” CUPID’S MAIL BAG. The Sentimental Missives Which Will be Circulated Next Thursday. THIS YEAR'S VALENTINE MARKET—IS THE CUSTOM ON THE WANE?—WHAT LOCAL DEALERS saY— NOVELTIES FOR THIS SEASON—THE TRADE IN COMIC VALENTINES. Next Thursday the bashful wooer will have an opportunity to tell his tale of love and de- | votion by means of Uncle Sam’s postmen. Not that such people have not just as good an op- portunity on every day of the year, for there is no law contrabanding sentimental mail matter, but next Thursday has for years and years been set aside by general consent as the day on which sighing swains and modest maid- ens can give anonymous hints of their undy- ing affection. So well founded has this custom become that science, art and ingenuity have all complete their first year of service. A great many leave before they have been sent out | from the recruiting station. They are handled | pretty briskly by the sergeants, who poke in| their stomachs, twist back their shoulders and | chuck up their chins in drilling them without | regard for the feelings of recruits. A week or | ten days is enough to satisfy some of them that | the army is not the place for them. and they | . Then a great many stand it for six months | fore they take their departure, and so they string along. But those who desert after hav- ing served a year undoubtedly do so because of circumstance that do not come entirely from dissatisfaction with the service. Such cases will happen anywhere. It seems to me that there could bea plan adopted that would re- duce desertion considerably; it can never be entirely stopped. A NOVEL PLAN. “My idea is to give a man a chance to leave the army upon his own volition, instead of keeping him cooped within the limits of his five-year-enlistment restriction. He should have to give notice, say of three or six months, that he wanted to leave the service, and should pay the government a certain sum for the priv- ilege of being allowed to depart from the ranks, say $75 for a man who had served less than one year, $50 for a two-year man, and ©25 fora three-year man. This money could be retained from his pay during the time he served after giving notice. THE COST OF DESERTION. “You see a deserter isa heavy loss to the gov- ernment. Ishould say that,on the average, each deserter costs the United States $250. No, it is not in the expense of catching him or of trying him or of punishing him. as you sug. gest. but the cost comes from the money which the government has paid out for him in the way of clothing, feeding. paying, and training during the first year of his service, for which he gives no return. A soldier is of no value to the government until he has been in the army about a year. and if he desert before he attains this period of utility all that has been spent on him is a dead loss. no return whatever being given for the outlay. Last year there were near! 2.500 deserters, a loss of about 625. to the United States, for which there is nothing to show but the spreading of an evil influence. “I believe that if the men had a chance to | get out of the army, by purchasing their dis- e e, the number of desertions would be greatly less, The incentive to leave would be taken away, to some extent, and many who now are pl to escape would feel no desire to do so. We all have a great tendency toward that which is forbidden, for which we have no long- ing, comparatively, as soon as the barriers to its free enjoyment are removed. This, I think, would be the case with enlisted men; as soon aa they found themselves free to go they would want to stay. APPLICATIONS FOR DISCHARGE. “There are, on the average, ten applications for discharge a day at the present time. The number of men who want to get out of the army is simply overwhelming. Many of these are men who have opportunities to do better outside of the service. To such a discharge is usually granted. There are a many cases of minors whose parents apply for their dis- charge. Whenever the fact of their enlistment while under age is established the discharge must be issued, according to law. There are alsoa great many other cases, detailing hard- ships and misfortunes, that have to be care- fully considered and settled. I am confident that this number would be materially reduced if the soldier had some other means of leaving the army except by stealth. AMUSEMENT AND RECREATION. “Tt has been the endeavor of officers, of late Years, to mitigate the conditions with which the enlisted man is surrounded, so as to make desertion less desirable, and there have been many efforts in the way of providing amnse- ment and recreation for the soldiers. They | are not particularly in need of exercise, for their drills and maneuvers furnish them with # certain sort of physical work. Yet it is not recreation. and there is great need of some | kinds of games that will exercise them as well asamuse them. Base-ball, foot-ball, lacrosse, and many other games are played at many posts by the soldiers with great skill. These sports take them out into the air and give them something else to do, in their hours of | i , than sitting around their quarters » The moral effect. too, is The ent has just issued its first order regu- the government of it canteens, which form another institution that has been estab- lished to alleviate the evils that sometimes ex- ist around an enlisted man. THE CANTEEN is a sort of soldier’s club, a place where he can go for amusement, and where he can find a book or a game to entertain him, or a luncheon torefresh him. It has been established in the ish army for « number of years, and has successfully, and for four or five years there have been canteens at a number of posts im our own country. They are no an experiment, but they have hitherto been run Jessly and without definite recent order was basis, iy 5 4 i cite F é & if 3 5 é a ii i i if & & | ribbe lent their aid to make the sending and receiv- ing of valentines an episode worthy of the oc- casion. But there seems to be a popular opin- ion that the valentine custom is dying out, and that the prosaic world is demanding something alittle more substantial in the way of love tokens than a bit of painted pasteboard. Each year this opinion prevails, and, according to the length of time that has elapsed since its first appearance. the custom should, by this time, have entirely disappeared. THE CUSTOM STILL POPULAR. Yet the replies that were given by a number of local stationers the other day to this ques- tion when asked by a Star reporter, would not seem to indicate that valentines were to be buried as ——— out of date. In fact, judging from the number and variety of valentines he saw on his rounds the reporter has arrived at the conclusion that the valentine has come to stay. notwithstanding the encroaches of the Caristmas and Easter cards. The tendency in valentines, as well as in almost éverything else, is toward the odd. Novelities in valentines abound this season on the counters of the sta- tioners, new ideas that are sure to attract the attention of the most fastidious buyers, and to please the most capricious recipient. NOVELTIES, Little downy owllets, made of a combination of cotton and imagination, perch themselves in all possible positions and places. Some are driving a pair of butterflies over a celluloid field that curls up on one end to keep the tiny things from dashing over the edge; others blink their unwinking eyes from the top of a tree of about the same height as themselves; others are perched under umbrellas. The | whole line of owlishness is very pretty and unique. Another pretty style of valentine, new this year. is a tiny tambourine, the head being of bolting cloth,on which a bird is painted in plowing tints, and around the edges small bells at the ends of vari-colored ms. The whole comes in abox at a dollar, UNIQUE BOOKLETS, Another novelty is in the form of a booklet. By-the-way, booklets are crowding out the; cards, both in valentines and Christmas and Easter souvenirs; they are much more pretty and vastly nfbre popular. This particular book- let consists of from five to fifteen leav@s each, one bearing a flower or twig or leaf from the flora of the Rocky mountains, neatly mounted. The specimens are actual growths and are carefully selected with reference to the har- mony of tints in each volume. The whole is bound in heavy paper covers, tied with pretty ribbons. These cost from 75 cents up to $2, according to the number of leaves. There are some others manufactured that are an inch or so thick, costing as high as $5. CELLULOID 18 USED to a surprising extent and forms an excellent background for some of the shades in the val- entines. One unique valentine is a veritable love message. A large square envelope con- ceals its true nature, but when opened it is found to be a telegram over the Cupid’s Union line, sending a love blessing to the fair one at the other end. An extra blank is to be found inside in case the fair one wishes to reply. THE OLD-FASHIONED MISSIVES. Yet with all the novelties the old-fashioned valentine, with its profusion of silver and gold tinsel, open-work frames set upon springs, and goncealed iove-token, olds its own. There are just as many, if not more of these than of the new sort, owls to the contrary notwithstanding. ‘They are just as high and puffy in their archi- tecture as ever, but they cost much jess, A tinsel valentine that two years ago would cost a swain a two-dollar bill may nowbe bought for one-fourth that sum. erhaps this is the secret of its continued popularity, but at any rate Tne Sran_ reporter was informed by one dealer there is a great demand for old-fashioned styles, Little cupids, in attire ill suited to the season, hearts and other portions of the human anatomy, ar- rows and kindred weapons of destruction, and neat little verses with wonderful rhymes for “love,”find just as good a market to-day as they did ten years ago. But the owls and the floral specimens and bolting-cloth tambourines, with their modified sentiments, are goi: the spiral-spring styles pretty hard t! CHANGES OF SENTIMENT. There are tricks in every trade, and just as many in the valentine business as in any other. For instance—this was told by a dealer in a whisper—all these pretty love messages that are not sold are very likely to turn upon the counters eo Easter disguised by an ap- ee 1, but the same, nevertheless, en, if they don’t sell at Easter, they return = ba next ee once — transformed yond recognition by means of a new senti- —_— tied on to the right to press ‘is year. i ie if ' j by | Pe a” AN IMPOSTOR. : CHAPTER I. My name has always been something of a tr&l to me, it is so peculiar; not a bad sort of name in its way—Hubert Heavyhand—but al- ways seems to me to suggest “Pilgrim’s Pro- gress” sounds like Mr. Greatheart and others familiar to my childhood. I have considered myself the only representative of the Heavy- hands since my father's death, which took place in India when I was a boy at school, leaving me—so far as I know—relationless. My guardians were responsible for me atid my money until I came of age. when, to the horror of those worthy gentlemen, my first act was to rush off to Paris to study art, scorning the sedate paths of law, in which I was sup- posed to follow my father’s footsteps to the pinnacle of fame, an Indian judgeship. Art, and many things besides, I did study during the years that I knocked about that gay capital of the “beaux-arts,” and behold me now, man of twenty-six, priding myself on the sensations—or loss of such—of fifty. Having suddenly developed a fancy to return my native land. [ am now settledsin a Ken- sington studio. which I have decorated on the most artistic principles and fitted up in t splendor, and where I am now supposed to be working. “By Jove! you are snug,” says Akers, inter- rupting me at my breakfast about 11 o'clock one bright June morning. “Don't work too hard, my dear Smasher.” T don’t relish his joke on my name, and wish he would not bang the door. Akers inhabits the studio next mine—a bare place compared to my “‘bric-a-brac shop,” as he rudely calls it—and is not a bad sort of fellow. but too fond of jokes and so noisy. “Oh! you gay butterfly,” said he, takin; my seen appearance, “if you will go danc- ing till dawn every night of the week,” and forthwith he subsides with his pipe into the depths of an armchair, and I return to the waking dreams from which he had roused me. It was true I had been dancing till dawn, and with the most lovely and most divine—no, most human girl. Alas for my blasés feelings! Iwas but a sanguine boy in her presence. And what a waltzer! What ecstasy to float with her to the yearning, passionate throb of the waltz music; or better still, to sit with her in the dusky, shaded conservatory, heavily scented with roses, cool with splashing foun- tains, and just enough glow from the fairy lights to rosily tint those perfect shoulders, those arms, “Ha! ha!” breaks in Aker’s noisy laugh; “my dear fellow, you have no idea how idjotic you look; now do not glare at me so—this suits you much better, anihe attempted a languishin, love-lorn air, idiotic enough certainly, but am sure I never looked like that. “Dreaming about that charmer you were raving about yester eve? Tell me all; ‘unbur- den your sad soul of sighing.’ ” But Iam eo offended, being touchy this morning. and devote mvself to my neglected letters, among which is one in a cramped pre- cise hand, the signature—at which I first look— being ““G. Hea It runs thus: “My Dear Si seen your name in the Royal Academy catalogue I take the liberty of writing to you—a liberty which I think my name will excuse—and shall take it as a per- sonal favor if you would kindly.send me all in- formation of your branch of the family. “As you doubtless know, I am engaged on a work on the Heavyhand family, which I have traced from early Saxon times, and, until see- ing your name, had believed myself to be the only representative of that illustrious line whose name- ‘a “Bosh!” I ‘eMinimed; “some old idiot trump- ing up Saxon descent and imaginary ances- tors,” and I threw the.note impatiently down, for I was lamentably indifferent to such things. “Let us see,” said Akers, interrupting Ris song of “Mimi Pinson,” and picking up the note he read it through. “Some long-lost relative, my boy, waiting to shower gifts upon your unworthy headbegin- ning with Saxon ancestors, no doubt, to be fol- lowed by the hoarded wealth of the Heavy- hands. How strange are the works of Provi- dence! Here am I; only last week my uncle, in the flesh, made himself disagreeable about a jet affair,and my other uncle, you know, as lately been hardheartéd to an extent——” “By Jove! I shall be late,” I ery as the clock strikes twelve, and cutting short Akers’ ha- rangue, I rush off to dress, for am ‘I not to meet my “charmer” at luncheon at 2 o'clock? and my blue-velvet lounging suit, however be- coming, must be changed for a “get up” more suitable to the occasion. “I say,” Akers calls after me as I vanish into the dressing-room, ‘what a lark it would be to write the old chap an answer; all sorts of rub- bish, you know; stuff him well with all sorts of arns about you and your ancestors; those old fellows will swallow anything.” I leave him chuckling over the idea, and when after a time—-not short I confess—I come forth arrayed in splendor, he is still there, writing great evident enjoyment and self- appreciation. am late, so do not stop to inquire the mean- ing of this unusual literary display, and hunt frantically about for my stick. “Just listen to this,” says Akers with great pride, ‘‘this will fetch the old fellow—” But hat and stick are found, and away I rush heedless, Akers shouting after me, “I shall send it, you know; too good to be lost.” It was an ambrosial luncheon I tasted by the. le of the lovely Miss Mostyn. “Rita” her 'riends call her, short for Carita she informed me; and a blissful afternoon followed, for I escorted her—chaperoned by our hostess—to a flower show, where our chaperon was obliging enough to find an escort of her own, and all too short were those hours among the roses. I was greatly cast down by the news that Miss Mostyn was going down to the country next day, going home to “poor dear Uncle George,” who could not be left alone any longer. The promise of “lots of waltzes” at the dance she was coming up for next week alone gave me strength to bear the ecinge 2 The next day Iwas free from Akers’ inva- sion, He had gong down to Surrey for a few days to work, so I staid in the studio all the morning under the impression that I was work- ing, but I believe I spent most of the timo making smoke rings and thinking—well, of Rita. I was disturbed by an impatient knocking at my door, and as the small boy who was sup- posed to wait on all the studios on our floor— ally waiting on nothing but his own conveni- ‘ence—made no sign, I opened the door myself, and in bounced a little old gentlemen with a shining, excited face, holding out both hands tom They must have descended from who was made F FF i HS : F § 5 Hl ay a son in the time of Queen Anne, who spectable then gentleman "adventurer, you ni : — went tothe Chinees pen — iagrer . Suppowed lost, ve founded that branch inc se I ht the old gentleman would never = P; my ee Faas such a t nse, iow col imagine to do with it? just going to assure him that I had never written any such letter, when the sheet he had been reading fluttered to the ground. and in stooping to pick it up, tomy horror I saw that it was writ on my paper. ere was the crest in gilt—the doubled fist of the the address, “4 Velasquiz Studios, South Kensington;” there was no mis- taking it. I was bewildered; what could it in? The writing was not mine certainly. By Jove! it was Akers’; could it be that he had actually had the cheek to write an answer’ to that note, as he said he would? Could this be my “long-lost relative,” this old lunatic who been boring me 80? Confourd that fel- low Akers with his silly jokes! He shall pay for this nice mess he has got me into, for the old gentleman seems very decent, though quite mad about ancestors and family, and has swallowed all Akers’ rabbishing letter like gospel. And a fine ‘‘yarn” it must be, *‘Lon- ion slums"—shipwreck on Pacific islands— Spanish and Chinese Heavyhands—what more, I wonder, amI responsible for? I must ex. plain at once. “May I ask if I am speaking to Mr. G. Heavy- hand?” I ask most sirens “To be sure, to be sure,” said the old gentle- man, beamingly. “I was so pleased with your answer to the letter I wrote you about—” “But, my dear sir,” I ery, in desperation, for he is rising to go, “I must explain. I must tell you—” “Yes, of course, that is just what I want, you must explain it all tome. But I have no time now; you must come to me—come down to my place in Kent, make a long stay, and we can work together. I am at the last volume of the great work; you shall help me and we shall get it all cleared up. Now, 1 mustbe off. Rita is waiting for me in the carriage.” Rita! Could it be? No; im; ‘ible! “My niece, you know,” continued Mr. Heavy- hand. making for the door; “better come down with me and be introZaced. Stop! here is the address; come m to us on Saturday—we shall be delighted;” and away he trotted down stairs, without giving mea chance to accept or refuse his invitation. Of conrse I could not accept. It was mon- | strous; I must explain, and I rushed after him down stairs; but he was already getting into a Victoria that was waiting still Yat. ap | door. and in that Victoria, lovely as the day, sat Rita—my Rita—Miss Mostyn! “My dear, this is Mr. Hubert Heavyhand,” cried the old gentleman, too busy arranging his rugs to notice our confusion; ‘one of the family you know. He is coming down to us on Saturday; delightful, eh? Don't foget,” to me, ‘‘come on an early train. Drive on, John.” And away we drove, without my having got out one word of the “explanation,” and leav- ing me committed to accept the invitation I had not been allowed to refuse. Rita’s smile was very roguish as she nodded “au revoir ;” was she laughing at my confu- sion? I wondered if she knew about the letter, and grew hot at the thought that she would take that precious production for mine. What was to be done? I might write and tell my en- thusiastic relative—if such he were—for. of course, Icould not accept his hospitality under false pretenses; but Rita—what should I do? CHAPTER II. ‘Me flesh is weak, all the more so when there is no grat willingness on the part of the spirit to counterbaince it, So it was in my case; all &, hand to explain are forgotten. and I blush to say that Saturday sees me entering his hospita- ble doors—an impostor! I assure myself that I have come only to undeceive him, and that I would not eat of his sait under false pretenses, otherwise the hearty welcome I receive had been gall and wormwood to my sensitive spirit. But how is one to arise and testify in the middle of a garden party, such as I find in full swing when I arrive? I had to accept the situation and make the best of it—no great hardship, except for conscience’s sake, for the shady lawn is bright with pretty girls, and Rita herself is a dream of summer in her vir- eel white just touched with vivid green. ‘hat joy to paint her so against the background of tall lilies! Shunning tennis, I hang about her dainty tea table. seeking an opportunity to re- roach her for not having told me that “poor lear Uncle George” was ‘Str. Heavyhand. “How should I know,” she says, laughing, “that he had written to you? Though I might have known that he would hunt you up sooner or later; he is always on the track of some new relation.” “But I must La ege S Ibegin. Butshe goes lear, he gets hopin taken in feel that my guilty looks must e was so pleased by your letter, and came rushing up town to see you at once; it was quite a relief to me when I found it was you, a real Heavyhand. for he is always being #0 disappointed with his trowvailles.” The “blush upon my brow” may have passed for conscious merit, but Iam ready to sink into the ground. How is my guilty confession tobe made in the face of such confidence? | However, I am relieved to find that Rita knows nothing of the nature of the letter. The tennis party prolongs itself till late in | the June twilight—starry and perfumed—and, most of the guests staying after dinner, there is some impromptu dane! in the big old- fashioned drawing-room, and I ‘‘take the good the gods provide,” and am happy. To-morrow Ishall be cast out from Paradise, for ere I sleep my mind is made up; the first thing in the morning myconfession shall be made. But, alas! I reckoned literally without my host. “To-morrow” be’ Sunday, that worth: | gentleman would not hear a word about “bi ness,” a8 he calls his great work; not 4 word was I allowed to say when I broached the sub- ject, but was trotted off to church—a new ex- perience—with my secret heavy on my soul. Then followed a glorious June afternoon of “dalliance in the —= 4 fe es being an impostor—“Uncle George” was hav- ing his iftersoon nap in the library—watching Rita swinging in her hammock under the big cedaron the lawn; for I began to think, to hope—but I won't make a fool of f—Rita was not unkind to me; that is all I say, ret. . * But at dinner fate overtook me, for there appeared on the scene an “old family frien to whom Mr, Heavyhand presented me as newly-found relafion—as indeed I might be some way 2. ir. Heavyhand?” he exclaimed; “‘yes—ah, = 2 ow wonderful, how truly delight- this is Not having the 3 parol of Leopiien him, I could not perpen suitably to this enthusiasm, but he waited for no answer, and, graspin; my hand, £ glasses. peered closely into my face through his “Ab, yes; you are indeed one of us,” he went on; e true Heavyhand coloring. Saxon th: rom Eadwi of Lincolnshire, the original Heavyhand. You know the story, of course, how he slew his enemy with one blow of his fist—features show the Norman blood, that came later, of course: Edwig Ostrogeon married Emma, danghter of Hugh the Carver, ennobled by the Conqueror. You will trace the y' friend” struck a chill to my soul. I felt I was fs , seen through at once, known for the postor that I was. What if he should e: me? Then I should not have even the virtue of confession to help me to retire decently. I should be “kicked out.” I passed a wretched evening, being forced to listen to the old gentleman waxing enth same mixture in my own features, eh? ‘The Heavyhands are all alike.” I certainly did not find much resemblance between myself and this very *‘ pudgy” little gentleman. but as he seemed amial though, of course, quite mad—I thought best to humor him by mildly agreeing, all the while wonder- ing who the deuce he was, and how on earth he had got here; his ple must be near, and would soon come for him, no doubt. He seated bi with a businesslike air, “Now, my dear sir, [have a little ti and there is much A gloom: eet was the morrow’s break- fast fable, ¥ ith the eel of the “last morn- ing of the condemned.” ‘The sight of Rita in her. des wo, fresh and was my good intentiosa of writing to Mr. Heavy- | red-shaded lights. were very rnde this m: “I was a brute,” I groan can I explain?—I have spent such a wretched day. I knew you were offended with me, and oh! Rita, you know how miserable you have eme.” I was getting quite out of hand and incoherent in my excitement. Rita would not look at me, her profile looking coldly un- responsive as she walked beside me. felt = was aguif fixed between us, and was ite. “Well,” I said, tragically, “I did not think that our last walk together would have been a epee ie bee bee’ ie walk together a at matter, but it is logic regerscron’] wi at such a time’ “Our last walk?” she questioned. “Yes, our last,” in tones of deepest gloom. I thought I detected a tremor in her voice. “I must go to-morrow.” ‘why, I thought George expects—I don’t understand.” “No,” I said grimly, “I will explain to-mor- row; then I will go. Imust have strength to leave vier fe This wieomegey le sere od companie: @ tragic sigh, ought wor fetching, y gic sigh, ug! Rita is silent, so I hazard: “Shall you be sorry —do you care if I go?” No answer. I bend closer to look into the averted face, dim in the soft fading light, and my hand seeks the little hand that is not with- drawn. We are getting near the end of our walk through the shady park and nearing the ere webvsce house. a oy that I = fod impostor—forget everything but the gi side me. is id ray! =i “Rita,” I whisper, will tell me to stay.” ack little ai h,” “Very well,” I say, desperately; good-bye, then, forever T had better say it now nee not see you again”—a long pause— byt “Oh, no, no,” brokenly from Rita; her hand trembles in mine; “that is—I mean—oh, I don’t know——' Incoherent this, but to me most satisfac- ., Shall I stay. darling?” I whisper; “if Ido it must be ereige like to-day. Will ir?" I do not plead in vain; both the little hands are fast in mine now, my arms are about the slight girlish form. the blushing face hidden east, as I draw my little love tome “I must go—unless you Still no answer, only a “it must be My head was in a whir] and my pulses throb- bing wildly as I hurried through dressing for dinner, for we were dreadfully late getting home that evening. I had hardly time to think over what had happened. Now, what- ever comes, I must see Mr. Heavyhand and tell him all » all. I groan as I think how much is at e now. There is a stranger with Rita and her uncle when I arrive in the drawing-room, dusky with Mr. Heavyhand seemed tly excited as he introduced him as “Mr. | | fear from Uncle George's opposition, for he Eustace Heavyhand, one of us. Wonderful, it not, another turning up just now? One of the Lincolnshire branch, you know. descended from Eadwi Ablericson—wonderful!” and the old gentleman beamed on us all in a high state of delight. It seemed that the si had arrived that day during our absence, I was thunderstruck. Here was a complica- tion I had never thought of. Was the new- comer a brother imposter or was he a genuine article? If so, the greater would be my,down- fall I eyed him suspiciously—it seemed to me that he did the same. In the dim light I could not make out his features, but there was something curiously familiar about his figure which puzzled me. We made a move to the dining room, Isecur- ing Rita’s shy little hand on my arm. How quiet she was, usually so merry; the spell of t twilight scene so lately over was still upon her, Icould tell by her fluttered air. triumphant a8 conqueror, thongh somewhat uneasy because of the new arrival. ved in the brightly-lit dining room, I looked keenly at him, an ious scrutiny of me. ‘Hulloa! the Sponger., by Jove!” I cried in amaze, recognizing at once a familiar of my Bohemian haunts in Paris. My righteous indignation knew no bounds. This was no Heavyhand—this was an imposter! Rita and her uncle turned in surprise at my exclamation, and the “Sponger” and I stood glaring at each other across the glittering inner table, the servants gaping in the back- ground. I regretted having spoken, but it was too late now. The ‘‘Sponger” had it first recognized, but looked inclined to brave it out. “Do you know Mr. Eustace?” began the old a but I cut him short, rudely, no ubt. I must expose such a lous im- ti position. “Know him? I should think so, every one in Paris knows him. He is no Heavyhand. ‘Eustace’ he may be, but Eustace McCabe, an known as the ‘Sponger,’ and very well named, too.” I was fairly choking with sag that my ae old host — ae LA im- posed upon, and the ‘“‘Sponger” me an evil in the old days, or I would not have been so hard upon him. “Dear me, dear me, are you sure you are not mistaken?” said the old gentleman in a bewil- dered tone, turning from one to the other as grace and to bluster. It was shameful that a “gintleman” should be so treated; was not his word as good as mine? I gave him to understand that I knew of a certain affair not much to his credit in which ited — but poor Mr. Heavyhan itleman was well up in the family he was one = Log leaner branch, Eadwi, you know——' old gentleman could I felt | met his eyes in anx- | wailed on be’ defiantly now, ‘and | | | ] e old looked as he took his place at the be a is br — next?” “TI should like to speak to tinued—I am in for it now—- of the table, alone,” I con- t is—Rita—Miss Most Mr. Heavyhand resigns himself to a farther | postponement of dinner and motions the serv- ants from the room, greatly te their } I seek courage in @ glance at Rita, who is all | oo goon Lape * hy that I am losing no getting George's consent; she does not guess what she is about tohear. Now for it. | 5 id not write the letter you received—it has been a mistake.” And I hurry on to tell of Akers’ foolish joke. not that scapegoat, and falteringly end my tale, nervously playing with a wine glass, my eyes glued to the table- cloth, not daring to look up. “I must ask your pardon, I am dreadfully achamed of myself.” G. T. Kurs TAILOR H. D. Bun IMPORTER AND TAILOR, | 42 inform you that his NEW GOODS hey SS ey on ot eee ae 1111 PENNSYLVANIA AVE. Washineton, DO. Bameosns. es le in effect February 10th, 1889. aM Shae Tem ny" for’ Warrenton, mhi7 and ork to eo Pulloan Parlor ; 1 Mont- te Shreveport. i] stations M—Memjp is apepes Daily. via Lynchburg end Vewtil Sleepers Washington to Memphis aud thence to" Arkansas 8:30 P. M.—Western ita is silent, and her uncle in disma‘ ‘Then I am to understand that the letter is a fabrication; that you are not of the Northum- brian branch, not descended from The poor old gentleman seems crushed by — calamity. I feel a criminal of the deepest ive. groanin contrition, “that is, we do come from the north. but I don'tknow much about My grandfather was Gen. Sir Robert Heavyhand, knighted when governor of the annexed provinces, and my fa er was Robert Bombay— “Eh? What?” cried Mr. Heavyhand, jump- ing up as though electrified. “Bob Heavy- hand—my chum, cousin, almost brother! it be he was your father?” He rushes to me, all excitement. Why, bless me, this is won- derful! Why on earth did you not tell me so before?” Right glad am I at this sudden change, “You never gave me a chance to tell yor Ireply, and Rita breaks in laughing she doesnot seem to have been much horrified at my “confes- jon.” ‘Poor dear uncle! you are so busy bunting up relatives in the twelfth century that you never think of those of the nineteenth.” “Well, it does look like it in this case I admit, my dear, but if this foolish boy had only told me I should have known his descent So that was all a joke of your friend’ let us have dinner at last, and drink the health of our new cousin.” Little did I think the dreaded confession would have such a pleasant end, but I have not done yet. “Stop a moment,” Icry, as Mr. Heavyhand is about to ring for the servants, “I have some- thing more to say.” Rita is blushing rosy red, as I take her hand and draw her towardme. Uncle George stares in amaze. “My only excuse for my behavior in coming to your: house at all, and staying here under false pretenses, must be this: I—I love Rita, and I think she—well, in short, if you will consent——” “Eh! what?” cries Uncle George, “little Rita—why, she isonly a child yet.” “Eighteen,” puts in Rita. ‘and please, dear Uncle George, please—” The rest is whispered in his ear asshe hides her blushing face on his shoulder, and I fee] that we have not much to beams upon us through his glasses as pleased as if he had just discovered a new branch of the family. The long-deferred dinner is at last served, and the health of *‘Mr. and Mrs, Hubert Heavy- hand” is enthusiastically drank by Uncle George, while I silently pledge “The Impos- tor.—Belgravia. 08 REFLECTIONS IN FASHION’S GLASS Tue Suortest Venu. now admissible com- pletely covers the face. Sotm TwiItiep Serces, soft and fine, will be long favorites for spring gowns. Hanxpies or Ercaep Ivory for silverware of any sort are the latest caprice of fashion. Lonpox Favors the Windsor scarf for wear next summer, especially with flannel shirts. For ax ALL-Rounp serviceable full-dress = nothing approaches a good black real jace one. Tar Latest Warx of the gilded youth is his —_—— embroidered, full length, upon his suspenders, Tar New Coror, “burnt rose,” has more than a family likeness to the old-fashioned ‘‘ashes- of-roses.” New Woopex Warrrxo Sets now come in shape of a seal with the pen stuck through in place of a harpoon. Tae Steirep Six Neciice Sarets, now in preparation for next summer, discount the rainbow in color. Tae Sort “Art” Brocapes are much used for swell tea gowns. In copper shades they have usually a very fall vest and front of soft pink crape. Excivsive New Yorg Moprsres are already isplaying some very ecclesiastical looking toilets, designed for special wear during the 5 ere seemed no doubt that | moment before the spring novelties appear are Lenten season. Pants Has Beaux to wear wool for its under- clothes, and chooses the finest cashmeres in the most delicate shades and made up as daintily as either silk or linen. Tue Corsace-Potonaise is a model that is likely to be very popular next spring. These have their side forms, or back forms, prolonged forgot all about | we stood there, and McCabe took heart of | in tabs that extend to the bottom of the dress Panrstaxs of the great world now wear the crest embroidered on the cuffs and collars of their gowns, but have quite banished it from the handkerchief corners, where it was for so long supreme. Amone the pretty dress bonnets used for the those of velvet, combined with Persian nets and laces in rich broché effects and not give up his newly-found Heavyhand with- | Gilt and silver laces are also alternated wit out a struggle, and McCabe struck in with re- viving hopes. ite convinced my elderly relative—” Relative!" I cried in scorn, “he is no — new and pretty effect. Heavyhand, judge of the supreme court in | Daily for Warrenton, Joulsville, Cincinnati. ue | 11:00 P. M.—Sovthern Express Dai Lynch- bars, Danville, Raleigh, Asheviile, Chatiotte, Colmer. Aikea, Al 8 Auanta, Montgomery ~ Or sss, Tenis and Calitor:is, Palisa: ontibubc tiene Washington to New Orleans vin Atanta and Mont- i Pullman Sleeper Washiugion to Augusta, j i. wi ithout i cbaue aon on an io division leave Wash- ington 8:00 feat except Suda: seud rts a ) PM. | Returns ALL Fw Dall | AM. and Charlottesville, pers and Solid | Lowa iiie P2z5%% alt 2 1 leave Round Hill 6:05 A.M Daily and 4 ry 25S arriving Washington & | villes arrive in Washington | and 7 vis East Tennessee. Bristol | burg at 12:13 AM. and 9:40 Pit | and Ohio route “aba Charlottesvuile and 9:40 PAL: Strusbuny Loc | | Tickets, sleepiue car resery furnisied, and check: | eylva Passenger ste Gent Dia avenue, and at " ay 6th and B Jas. L. TAL LOL eral Passenger Aseut. ivi wt tion T. tTH, AND 80% vEST, TRACK” SPLENDID ec tie AILS.” MAGNIFICENT EOUIPMENT, *AsHNGTON: PROM STaTrO s », 1) :" XN, SIXTH AND b STRELTS. 2S PO? For Pittsburgand the West, Chicago Limited Express of Pullman Vestibuled Cars, at 9:50 .a.1n. daily. Past Line, nd St. Louis, to Cincinnati, xcept Satur: amo. TIMORE AND POTOMAC dmurua, and jeatec iaara, daily, except , m.,, With Si ar Washington to Kor w ‘k Haven, and Elmira, ester. aty-o0a, . 9:00, 11-00, and 0 pan. On Ov a1 4a . Limited Express are, #:40 2.10, dully, except Sunda; m. daily, with Dini For Boston without « | For Brooklyn, S. ¥., ail thr ns counect at Jer. sey City with boats of Brooklyn Aunex, affording direct transfer to Fulton street, avoiding deuble r. ie mse fertinge scross New York Cit For Philadelpina. 7:20, 8:10, 9:00, 11-00, 11-40 @.2n., 2:00, 4:10, 6:Q0.8:10, 10-00, and >. On Sunday, 9:00, 11:40 a. a. 4:10, 6-00, $:10, 10-00 end 32: I 1 Express, all dor Cars, 9:40 ain. Weck days, aud 343 pan, | daily. with Dining Gar For Atlantic Cis) Li 11 For 00,9 9:50, 11 od 00, 7:40, S10 10-06, 20am. and 4:40 p.m. daily, and 4:40 WO @ iy 20. and 9:00 a.m 19 xcept Suuday. Sundays, >. | ALEXANDEIA AND. FREDERICKSBURG ATL KALLE AND ALEXANDRIA AND WASHINGTON ROAD. 4:3 9:45, 10-57, 40. 8:30am. 12-10, 4 mdays, 8:30 a mw, 1:15, 6:45, 11:30 pan. T leave Daltimore for Washington, week 0, 6 20, 6-30, 7 "20, 8:00, (43-minute train ute train )s.m. : 12 -15,2:00, 00. 6:30, 8:00, 10-00end 11 pan, . 3:00, 8:00, 9:05 10-40 am; 20, 6 30. 8-00. 10-00 and 11 p. and 8:30am. 12:10 5 4:35 pm. Leave Au- S, 4:10, pan. Sundays, p.m. ‘on the Metropolitan Branch, 16:35, p.m. for principal stations ouly? and + 11-20 pam. fs and iiitermediais stations, 7-00 p.m. mn. march train leaves Washington on Sunday at 1.13 stopping at ell stations on Metropulitua 110:10am, 14:35, 15:30pm. Sun- 215 p.m. “Fo: Haeebstown. 110 20a.m.and 1 Pp PE Th pan. from Cincinnati and St. Low ud 55 from Pittsburc Ww. Ww. Goncenax for Mt, Tth-atreet wharf daily (exceyt Sunday) fernon abd River Tgahig os ior dows airmen afio’ggae xm ng. reaches. Wi LL. BLAKE, Captain. VER Adi Num MER “WAKE! on MONDA) 4, TH! are et A’ Pm