Evening Star Newspaper, October 17, 1896, Page 18

PART I. THE SECLUSION OF BERTRAM DYER. I knew Bertram Dyer when ke was living on two boiled eggs in the morning, and an eccasional invitation to dinner; but he was constitutionally incapable of be:soming either poor in flesh or shabby in dress, and therefore few of his friends were aware how meager was the reward of his literary labors. It was a pleasure, in those days, to see him eat; and I enjoyed it as often as I could afford to do so. Now that his fame is so great, I can boast of having fed him; and, moreover, I can advance the claim that it was one of my dinners which start- ed him on the road to fortune. On the occasion in question I had asked Bertram to meet me at a tobacconist’s on 42d street, near the hotel where we were to dine. Urged by appetite, he came too early; and I found him sitting on the ped- estal of a wooden Indian in front of the shop. Aroused from deep meditation by the sound of my voice, he arose and faced the Image. “Old fellow,” he said, but which of us he was addressing I do not know, “there's money in a story about Indians. And forthwith he wrote one which has been the taik of three continents, if I count Australia. Though Dyer was under thirty and had never seen a live Indian, he was thought, in England, to be a general of our 4 Found Him Sitting on the Pedestal of a Wooden Indian. western army and the peculiar terror of the red man. A newspaper portrait of him, which appeared bald, through a defect in the plate, led to the rumor that he had been scalped, and thousands of people were thus induced to buy his book. The sin- gularly lurid coloring of the street Indian shines out.in Dyer’s description cf war paint, and lends a horrid realism to the tale which but fully appr except myself. If there 3 one thing worth money is ad Offe that is certainly to a man in these days, it »rtising, and Dyer had an abundance. 's from publishers came thick and fast im the wake of it, and my friend was well «w less and less of him; for, though 1 me to come to his home, I went jom, having taken a violent dislike to Mrs. Dyer. Then he moved away from the city for reasons that se2n-d excclient . pre them to me, tuough I urged him to remain, for I had ery much attached to him. It ep- peared that he was overwhelm~d with It- erary engagements which fe ‘thought it would be easier for him to fuliill if he could have the quiet of the country. Also, he was entertaining many of his wife's rela- tions, and they had be upon him, notwithstandi Bize of his income. nt an abandoned farm in the e Berkshire hills, and made a . Hing of the rude old farm- We mainiained a desultory cor- respondence as long, I fancy, as nature will have such things live; and then I knew no more of him, except by paragraphs in the papers, and by his published writings, which appeared in great and increasing profusion. About two years after his withdrawal into seclusion I came to know his cousin, Miss Emily Dyer, a charming young wo- man, who had been thrown upon her own resources by the death of her parents, and was struggling to maintain herself in New York. She had secured a position as a “retoucher” in a phctographer's es- tablishment, and her leisure was given to drawing and painting. Her work was hard, her wages very small, and, to cap the climax af misfortune, the photographer had fallen in love with her. I would have rescued her from all these hardships and perils by the simple process of matrimony: but, unharpily, she did not care for me. Her affections were fixed upon a tall, tow- headed youth who was studying art, but had not yet learned to draw a salary. Even by the light of their own roseate hopes it seemed likely that they might have to wait a year or two before the young man should become rich and famous; and, in meantime, I thought that Bertram r, as the nearest relative of the girl, hi to help her along. I wrote to him upon the subject, and received a reply ten days later. It was a refusal, and he had dictated it to a sten- ographer’ The thing read like a circular abcut foreign missio: I would have thought it a forgery, gotten up by his wife, but for the unmistakable Dyer signa- ture. Such Nttle, fine-lined, coldly regu- lar characters! Why had I not long ago read his true nature in his parsimonious chirography. Yet I had thought him one of the most generous and tenderly sympa. thetic of men. Could success change a human creature so completely? I could not credit It, yet on the chance that it was true, I was moved to thank God that he had made me a failure. ter spending a day or two in an en- deavor to digest Bertram’s letter, I went to see Emily. We were just as good friends as if I hau never given her the annoyance of refusing me. She was ill and could not receive me. Upon leaving the house where she was boarding, I perceived the flaxen-haired artist patrolling the other side of the street. A mutual sorrow often upites the bitterest enemies. I accosted my successful rival and offered him a cigar, which he received quite in the way of friendship. “| don't believe it's anything serious,” he said, in an anxious tone. “She is tired; that’s all. If she could only go out into the country and rest for awhile—" I quite agreed with his unspoken con- clusion, but, though we walked together till after midnight and talked of nothing else, we did not suceeed in reaching a solution of the difficulty. ‘The next day I set out on a pilgiimage to the Berkshire hills. 5 Bertram Dyer’s retreat was situated in @ peculiarly desolate region. The nearest railroad station was ten miles away, in the town of Rockwood. There I alighted one evening, and secured lodgings in a quaint Uttle hotel kept by three old maids. That one of them who does the cooking should be earning $20,000 a year in New York, and wearing the “cordon bleu.” Her hot biscuits appeal to all that is highest and noblest in a man’s nature. He who be- gins the day with them can hardly descend to the level of an ignoble act before sun- set—when he can have some more. Being fortified for a task that promised many difficulties, I rode away from the hotel in Rockwood about 9 o'clock in the morning. mounted upon a bicycle which I had brought from New York. I had re- eeived careful directions regarding the road, which, indeed, was easy enough to follow. since there was no other. It was in excel- Tent condition, and, despite the hills, I might have made the ten miles at good speed, but I stopped frequently to admire the scenery, which was always beautiful, and sometimes had the effect of grande ir. ‘There were points in the road from which I could command a wide prospect, and once, at about six miles distance, I got a glimpse of Bertram's house. With the ald of strong field glasses I could see it quite distinctly. and it seemed a pleasant place in which ic Eve and write. I reached the border of my friend’s csiate un to be a burden g the comfortable LLLLLLQLLLGS IMMORTAL FAME. BY HOWARD FIELDING. wy (Copsright, 1896, by the Bacheller Syndicate.) THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1896-TWENTY-FOUR PAGES, before 11 o'clock. There was a gate giving entrance to an avenue that wound away to- ward the house, which was invisible from that point. A grove, bright with autumn tints, growing beside the main réad temptett me to make the circuit of the grounds, and I entered them eventually on the side to- ward Greenville, a town in which I should have left the railroad, but for the reputa- tion of the Rockwood inn, since Greenvj!le is nearer New York and only about a mile further from Dyer’s home. On approaching the house I perceived Mrs. Elizabeth Graves—mother of Mra. Dyer— standing on the steps that led up to the veranda. I had met her in New York, and I liked her even less than her unamiable daughter. Her surprise at the sight of me made me aware that my letter announcing my intended visit had not arrived. Indeed, 1 had given it an insufficient start, consider- ing the irregularity of the malls in that region. Mrs. Graves was not more co!d In her wel: come than I had expected her to he. “You rode over from Greenville, I sup- Pose,” she said. “It's a pity you didn’t come the other way, for if you had you'd have met Bertram. He drove over to kock- wood this afternoon. “Indeed,” said I. start?" “Between 9 and <0," sho answered. Of course, I krew perfectly well that Bertram had not been un the road to Rock- wood at the time specifed, but I am not one who would betray a man to his mother-in- law. If it suited my friend’s conventence to leave a lie behind him. at home, that was @ matter with which his own conscience might deal. So I let it be understood that I had come from Greenville. Mrs. Dyer came out of the house almost immediately. She was somewhat more cordial than her mother had been. The clder woman would have sent. me.away hungry, but the younger invited me to lunch, though with no great excess of hos- pitality. However, my mission was of a character to make one patient under any provocation. No poor relation in real life or in fiction was ever less particular than I about the flavor of the invitation. If there had been any possibility of finding out where Bertram had gone, I would have fol- lowed him, but since he had taken pains to lie about his destination, I thought it best to wait for him. His wife seemed doub*ful when he would return, and she regretted that my time was so short, etc., etc. I had said nothing about being in a hurry; nd when the words were thus put into my mouth I repudiated them. “My business with him is very urgent,” said I. “If he does not return in the course of the day, I shall make an effort to find him.” Mrs. Dyer looked at her mother as one who would say: “This is ‘a very disagree- able person;” and the mother answered with her eyes: “I wish he were in Pata- gonia.” Nevertheless, I remained for lunch- eon, and conversed as amicably as possible with the two ladies already mentioned, and also with two sisters of Mrs. Dyer, with her aunt, and with her grandfather on the maternal side. The table was set for two other persons, but they did not appear while I was present. In the afternoon a sudden and violent rainstorm swept down from the western hills, and I biessed it, for not even the peo- ple with whom I was a guest dared turn me from their doors in such weather. I stayed to dinner, and when the mournful meal was done, Grandfather Graves went forth to view the lowering clouds and re- turned with an aspect as gloomy as their own. Then Mrs. Dyer asked me to r-main over night, and I accepted the invitation With cheerful alacrity. it was not much after 9 o'clock when I retired to my room. Midntght is my crdi- nary bedtime, and I felt no desire to sleep. 1 waited an hour or more till the house be- zme quiet, and then stole forth to smoke on the veranda. The moon was just breaking through the clouds and the night wae fuH of: heauty and wonderfully warm. For a long time I sat there, smoking and thinking of Emily Dyer. I had good hope that she would profit by my secret intercession with her cousin, and when that was over tiere might be something else that I could do for her. At least I could help the lanky boy whom she had honored by her prefer- erce to make a profitable use of such talent as he had. Suddenly I was startled by something falling beside me. It was my cigar, which bad slipped from my fipgers. I had: been asleep. The moon had sunk almost to the hills upon the west. It- was’ nearly 3 o'clock. I re-entered the house and softly closed and locked the door. At that moment. I heard a noise from the other end of the hall. Some one was coming. I hastily stepped into the unlighted sit- ting room. A slender, dark young man “What time did he I Hastily Stepped Into the Unlighted Sitting Room. with disheveled hair passed close to my hiding place, but did not see me. He was carrying a lamp and yawning painfully. When he had gone upstairs and entered a bed room I stole up after him. The re- mainder of the night I passed tn slumber. When I came down the next morning I met Mrs. Graves in the hall. ‘Bertram came back last night,” she said. “Perhaps you heard him drive up to the front door, a little after twelve?” “No, I hadn't heard him, nor had I seen him, though at the hour named I had been sitting almost directly before the door. However, I did not tell her that. “Later in the night,” she continued, “he was taken very sick. You won't he able to see him. We have sent to Greenville for a doctor. I expressed my deepest sympathy. * About ® o'clock the doctor from Green- ville arrived. I recognized him as the young man with the tangled hair who had passed so near me on the preceding night. PART IT. A FRIENDLY BURGLARY. I considered it highly important to as- certain whether the young man who per- sonated the Greenville doctor really had any knowledge of medicine. If he had it would, seem probable that he was a resi- dent physician attending upon Bertram in an illness that was by no means the sud- den and unexpected attack des:rihed to me by Mrs. Graves. Accepting that view two theories would naturally suggest them- selves to account for the ‘luplicity and concealment that were being practiced. by the household. Bertram’s illness might be of such a nature that ff would better be Kept secret; he might be periodically in- sane. Second, he might be at the point of death, and his wife and her relations might fear that I would influence him against them in the disposition of the money he had earned and the valuable copyrights he held. z On the other hand, if the young man were not a doctor there must be some sort of plot against my friend, whereby he was held prisoner and prevented from communicating with the outer world... Per- haps his property was slowly be! ab- sorbed by the Graves contingent. was prepared to suspect Mrs. Graves of any- thing. As for Mrs. Dyer, I could not re- gard her as an active element in s0 se- rious an affair. My dislike ior her bad been baged upon her mental vacuity, upen her absurd inferiority to her hi She had seemed to me incapable of good or evil except as others might influence her. Grandfather Graves was a shrewd oid rat, with an eye e an X-ray to explore the inside of another's pocket With the cther members of the household I was almost unacquainted, but I did not detect any leading it among them. On the whole I regarded Mrs. Dyer as the best of the lot, and the easiest to deal with in such efforts as I might make to solve the mystery. I resolved to have a word with her before leaving the house, and, therefore, I clung to the veranda “}-more tightly than the vines that encircled its ancient pillars while Mrs. Graves strove to-lop me off with the cold cdge of in- hospitality. “*Mrs. Dyer and “the doctor’ seemed sur- prised that I had shown so much tenacity, when they at last descended from the west- ¢rn chamber where they had presumably been’ busy with the sick man. I ventured to inquire about my friend’s health, and was assured by the young man that a fa- Xorable termination of the case might be looked for “in a few weeks; whereupon Mra..Graves nodded her head at me as much as to say: “I'll get rid of you long be- ) fore.that, my boy.” Apparent acquiescence seemed to be my best course, and I made my adieux with so great a semblance of sincerity that the | hatchet-faced old woman was deceived. She took “the doctor’ into the house again, ‘vstensibly to offer him some refreshment, and thus I was left alone with Mrs. Dyer, | which was what I had wished for. Immedi- ately I began to speak of her husband as it I had no hope of ever seeing him alive pgain. I dilated upon his many amiable Qualities and upon the brilliancy of his genius, judging that if she had really been led into any plot against him, her affection for him—the sincerity of which I had never doubted—would be stirred to such a degree that she would betray signs of remorse. To my great satisfaction, she began to cry; and thus I knew that, though Bertram’s case might be desperate, there was one, at least, of his persecutors who had not en- tered into the plot with her whole heart. My mouth was open to begin a plea that she should trust me as a friend and teli me all, when Mrs. Graves suddenly ap- Peared in the doorway. The glance which she leveled at me was like one of the tomahawks that flashed in Bertram’s first Sreat story, and I fled for my life. Of course, I had not abandoned the ad- venture. It was a retreat in the nature of a feint, designed to ratse false hopes in the heart of the enemy. No sooner had I pass- ed out of Dyer’s Farm, by the Greenville gate, than I wheeled to the westward, fol- lowing a road that passed close to the base of a steep, wooded hill that I had noticed from the veranda. Its top was less than half a mile from the house, and I believed that it would afford me an excellent point of observation. Concealing my bicycle among the trees, I climbed the hill, and speedily found a spot from which I could look out upon my friend’s abode without danger of being seen. As I turned my eyes upon it, the blinds outside the windows of the western Mrs. Graves Saddenly Appeared the Doorway. chamber were opened, and, with the aid of my field glasses, I easily recognized Mrs. Dyer as the person who had opened them. She passed to the window in the south wall, and immediately a flood of light streamed into the chamber. It was not a sick room, certainly. The bed was neatly made up. Beside it was a stand on which were several books and magazines, but no phils or other detestable appurtenances of isemte. ere was no one else in the room but Mrs. Dyer, so far as I could see. Certainly no invalid would have been exposed to such a draft of crisp autumn air as must have been surging through the apartment. This discovery strengthened a suspicion which I had previously formed that I-yer was really In a room on the ground floor. I observed that the whole north end of the house seemed closed. It was from a roo: in that part of the dwelling that the youn, man had come on the preceding night. Had he been watching with an invalid, or gvarding a prisoner? I resolved to solve the problem before another night had passed. It may seem strange that, among my theories, I did not consider the possibility that Dyer was purposely avoiding me. In explanation I can say only that my ticories were based upon my knowledge of the man. He was not one to hide from friend or foe. I believed that if left to nis ewn choice he would receive me with the he: test cordiality. It was impossible that wy intercession on behalf of his cousin had of- tended him to such a degree that he did not wish to see me. I remained all day among the hills, ob- serving the house from different points. Hunger drove me to a farm house in the afternoon. It was as poor an abode as ever I saw in the country, but full of good will. The farmer’s wife lamented heartily that she could give me no better entertainment, but tomorrow was her “baking day,” and “everything was clean eat up.” There was no cooked food in the house except a pumpkin pte baked in a yellew, earthen ware dish, three inches deep. This she set before me with a pitcher of milk, and I made a meal of them. The pie was som- ber with molasses, which tmparted an acidity to it that was not unpleasant at first, but it grew upon me in succeeding heurs. I think the pangs of remorse must be something hke that, when one has rea!l: sinned. However, one cannot cure remo: with bicarbonate of soda. I rode ten miles to Rockwood for this useful drug, and in- cidentally obtained from the apothecary some bits of information about Bertram Dyer. “He used to come over here quite some, when he and his folks fust moved into the old Peters place,"’ said the druggist, “but lately I ain’t seen nothing of him. I guess he’s trading with somebody over Greenville way. His folks buy their groceries over there. I heerd awhile ago that he was sick, but I ain't sold any medicine to him lately, and I guess maybe he’s better. be you going up that way?” Possibly. Would I be coming back by way of Rockwood? If so, would I drop in? Rockwood folks would be glad to hear how Mr. Dyer was getting along. Some of them had read one of his books, and they thought it pretty good for a young man to write. They were in hopes he would write something about Rockwood, and kind of help the place along. I promised to sug- gest a local story to the distinguished author, if I had the pleasure of meeting him. It was about 10 o'clock when I arrived once more upon the outskirts of the “old Peters place.” I had resolved to pass the night in its vicinity; and to commit a friendly burglary if my investigations should convince me that Bertram was the Prisoner of his wife’s relations. At first the moon was too high for my purpose, but before midnight it had drop- ped nearly to the hills, and some light clouds obscured tt. Then I stealthily ap- proached the house, and was soon conceal- ed in the shadow of the northern wall. A very faint light escaped through a cur- I Pushed Aside the Curtain. tained and shuttered window of the room which I had most in mind. I crouched be- neath that window and listened. At first all was still; then I became aware of sounds that. made me shudder. Some cne within was groaning, not loudly, as if with violent pain, but rather, as it seemed to me, with wrath. Sometimes I could hear the rumbling of words that sounded like caths, Again I heard a rustling as cf pa- r. Finally some cne cried: “There! —— it!” ‘with tremendous emphasis. The voice sounded unlike Dyer’s, yet I could not be sure. Presently the Nght went out. I caught the faint sound of a closing door. Then all was still. I waitcd fifteen minutes, according to my best judgment, but it might not have been so long. Then I tried the fastening of the window, haying softly opened the blinds. It seemed t8;Ye secure, but at last I forced the catch,“ gid raised the lower sash. The pulley sqwealed painfully, but it aroused no one. ‘ving paused to make sure of that, I pushéd-Aside the curtain and thrust in my head. “The room was totally dark. I climbed in ‘cautiously and stood for a moment listening in the gloom. Faint noises in the al@ house counterfeited footfalls, and I wi have said that I was not alone but for;the aimlessness with which the patterings fan across the room and stopped and ran again. At last I ventured, tg light a match. The flame revealed a latgs, square room, fitted up like a study, with yn abundance of fine old furniture. .A well-filled book case cov- ered nearly all one wafl. Close to my right hand was a great antique desk, cpen and strewn with typewritten sheets. Bending over them, I recognized Dyer’s hand in va- rious corrections. (, | The match ‘burned my fingers. 1 threw it down and lighted another, with the flame of which I kindled a Jamp that stood upon the desk. Then I perceived in the midst of the typewritten sheets a brief manu- script. letter addressed to myself. It ex- presséd Very mild regret for having miss- ed seeing me, and the nope that I would come again “next summer.” I laughed scft- ly, at the impatience of the writer to see me. He asked that I would write to him, but I must not say anything more about Emily. Especially I must write if ever I contemplated coming to the Berkshirts again. The style was forced; the penman- ship was labored. The letter had “come hard.” It had plainly been written at dic- tation and under compulsion. No wonder Dyer had sworn when ‘he had finished it. Evidently the poor fellow was not at all his own master in that house. I re- solved anew to see him and to rescue him. Where could he be? Where but in that other room on the north end of the house, the room that I had seen no one enter or leave on the preceding day? There was a door between the rooms. I turned the knob. It was locked on the other side. I ventured, to call, softly: “Bertram!” A confused murmur—a pain- ful, smothered sound—was audible within. I called again, es loudly as I dared. Still the same murmuring noise, a little louder than before. Had they tied the poor fellow ike a dog and gagged him? I put my strength upon the door, softly, steadily. The lock ylelded. I entered. The room was dark, but a light sud- denly flashed up. I saw a tumbled bed, a flaring lamp on a table; and, beyond, Grandfather Graves in his scanty night clothing, just in the act of taking down an epormous old-fashicned musket from the wall. Bertram Dyer was not there, and a half second later neither was I. My forin might have been seen flitting across the lawn, while behind me, and, indeed, all around me, echoed the resounding bang of the old musket. PART IIL THE TREATY OF DYER'S FARM. I passed the remainder of the night in a barn belonging to one of Dyer’s neigh- bors, for it seemed urwise to remam upon his estate. Grandfather Graves was ev!- dently a@ man of action despite his ad- vanced years, and I had no desire to en- counter him again, except upon the most conventicnal terms. His musket shot must have aroused the household; indeed, from a lurking place among the trees 1 saw lights flash at many of the windows, but there was no indication that a search was being made for me cutside the house. Whether he had recognized me, or had mistaken me for a burglar? of the ordinary sort, was a matier to which I devoted considerable thcught, without reaching any conclusion, as | lay upon my scented couch of hay in the hospitable barn. I breakfasted at a farm house, and then set out tpon another. reconnaissance in the direction of my friend’s abode. It was my hope to encounter Mrs. Dyer at such a distarce from the house as would enable me to talk with her unmolested by her formidable mother or the prompt and iras- cible Grandfather: Graves. 1 thought 1 yrobable that the évents of the last twen- -four hours might have shaken her alle- giance to the Graves faetion so much that she might be willing tovabandon whatever se was on foot. With this purpose In'view I approach= the “old Peters place” In as secret a man ber as possible, ehcost led through a thiek xe whose green wall complet off the house from ob. tion north. I had forded my way yards through this. thieket when { 1 tre on at 200 ame through : he tops of the trees ‘and glinted upon something white in the open; and it was this which first at- ted my attention. Immediately [ per- that the clearing was a z . and T remembered that the F fami'y, which for a century or more inhabited the estate, had been so far from a village that. they would hardly have Lorne their dead to a churchyare. It is not uncommon in rural New England to seg the monuments of the dead almost under the windows of the living. Usually ‘hey are not placed in so retired a spot upon the estate as was here the case, but can be seen from the traveled road. The flash of the white stone attracied me sufficiently to make me turn aside from my way toward the small cemetery. It was the last place where I should have feared discovery; and, therefore, my sur- prise was great when, upon forcing my way between two masses of green boughs, I suddenly perceived a woman standing beside one of the graves. In a moment I ed Mrs. Dyer. She held some flowers in her hands—t had notized that In a Moment I Recognized Mrs, Dyer. she cultivated a great many in the kouse— and as I watched her, she bent down urd placed her offering carefully upon the lo mound at her feet. Then she knelt down for a moment. Instinctively L bowed my head; and when I raised my eyes again she was just slipping away Into the grove on the ocher side of the clearing. So great was my surprise at this en- counter that, though it was just what I had wished for, I failed to take advaniage of it. She was gone before I could com- mand my voice and call to,her. Yet I had learned all tha€ I could wish to krow. A strong wave of grief passed over me. So genuine was my sorrow that I took no note of the strange complic: tions and contradictions that were in- volved in the discovery I had made. With uncovered head I approached the mound beside which she had knelt. A small and plain slab Was erected there. It had suffered mych irom the wecther, and that surprised me,;but not nearly so much as did the inscription which I saw upon the stone: 4, 0 o- = a o | Sacred to|{he Memory of i ELIPHALRT C, PETERS, Who Departed This Ife January the | Third, Eighteen Hundred and Eleven. i | | jAfter a Long and Painfill Sickness ye | He Bore with Christian Fortitude, | He Entered Into Rest, and Is Now En- joying the Beaulitude of Heaven (as | We Trust). se | ° -— ° It seemed as if I,must be still asleep in the old barn and dreaming fantastic non- sense. Why should) Mrs. Dyer come in the early morning :to lay flowers upon the grave of Eliphalet. C.% Peters, who had flourished principaHy in the preceding cen- tury? It was inconceivable. Her conduct required a rational explanation, and was susceptible of it, I put on my hat and hur- ried toward the hovse. There seemed to be no longer any need of concealment, and so I aproached the front door boldly. Mrs. Dyer was on the veranda with her mother and Grandfather Graves. They all sprang up at sight of me, and ) thought that the younger woman was going to run away, but, sustained by the presence of the others, she remained. I bade them all good morning as cour- teously as I could. “Well?” cried Mrs. Graves, sharply. “Out with it. What do you know?” “I know that Bertram is dead,” said I, “and that you stole 2 headstone in order that it might help you to tell a lie.” “No, no; not quite so bad as that,” said Grandfather Graves. “We didn’t rob any- body, dead or alive. I found Eliphalet Pe- ters’ tombstone up in the loft over the woodshed, and I know all about it. The stone was ordered when Eliphalet was sick, but he disappointed his relations and got well. The story has been handed down. Peters died, and was buried somewhere else.”” “Mother,”” sobbed Mrs. “tell him responded Mrs. why we did this wicked thing. “I suppose I must,” Graves; “but I wish he'd minded his own business. The fact is that we did what any sensible folks would have done, and what Bertram told us to do. He knew that he hadn’t long to live when he moved up here. He had some kind of heart trouble. But he had made a great name, and he didn’t The Inscription Surprised Me. want it to be wasted. Anything with his name on it would sell, and so he wrote all he could, and used up a good deal of old stuff that nobody would buy before he got to be famous.” “All recognized geniuses do that,” said I. ‘Well, he died,” continued Mrs. Graves, ind there we were. It came upon us very suddenly.” “We had hoped he might pull through,” said Grandfather Graves. ‘Did he have any literary assistance be- fore. fore he died?” I asked. be responded Mrs. Graves. “He was always saying that he would find some one, but he never did. When the poor, dear boy was gone we buried him in the Peters cem- etery. But we couldn’t let his name perish with him. I appeal to you, sir; could we?” “Remember that he had a very large family,” said Grandfather Graves. “It was a trying situation,” I admitted. “What did you do?” “We sent for my nephew Clarence,” re- plied Mrs. Graves. “He is the young man who ‘rsonated the Greenville doctor, I suppose?” said I. “Yes; that was Clarence,” Mrs. Graves responded. ‘He was working in a machine shop in Boston before he came up here. I didn’t know how he would do, but there was nobcdy else in the family whom we could trust. Clarence had had a good edu- cation, and I remembered that ke had tried to get work on a newspaper at one time. Then, too, Bertram had cnce had a letter from him, and he sald it was a master- piece.” “He wanted to borrow a hundred dollars,” said Grandfather Graves. “We got him up here as soon as we cculd,” the lady continued, without noticing the interruption, “and I've been paying him $25 a week ever since. He's written a pow- er of stories in the last nine months. He took naturally to Bertram’s handwriting, and besides we got him a typewriter, which has helped him a good dea At this moment I heard a peculiarly hol- low and mournful groan. Turning quickly I percetved Clarence Graves, who had soft- ly stepped out upon the veranda. His hair was in that disorder which med natural to it, and I observed that a spot upon the right side of his head was nearly bald. As my eye rested upon the spot, he rubbed it with a despairing gesture that seemed te be habitual with him. “I wish you'd left me in Boston,” he cried out to Mrs. Graves. .“I wish I was work- ing in a machine shop at a dollar a day. What had I done that the Lord should make a writer out of me?’ Tell me, my young friend,” said I, “was you whom I heard groaning in the north m last Of course it was,’ he arswered. “Do I ever do anything else but groan? I was just finishing a story. But what's the use? no sooner done than another's be- One’ gun. aid I. “By you wrote ‘It is the curse of literature, , that was a clever let! that was nothing,” he rejoined. easy enough, and it don’t lie on my conscience. But Stories—” He ended the sentence with a groan. “And now you know all,” said Graves. “Oh, please don’t tell on us!” cried Mrs. yer. f you do we shall all go to the poor house,” added Grandfather Graves. “Do not be alarmed,’ I hastened to say. “Far be it from me to interfere with your commercial arrangements. As I am in the business myseif, it would be distinctly un- professional. Otherwise, the case has no moral aspect. I have never held it wrong to deceive the public, and to cheat a publisher is a virtue. I shall simply recommend some additional precautions, and then I shall say 50 more on that matter. But there is a point upon which I must insist. Miss Emily Dyer is a most deserving young woman, and—" “You would recommend an allowance, I suppose?” said Mrs. Graves. “Shall we say $50 a week?" I suggested. Grandfather Graves groaned and Mrs. Graves protested, but what was the use? I had them in my power. The contract was drawn up and signed. I call it the treaty of Dyer’s farm. ‘There is a stipulation that an affectionate letter shall accompany each remittance; and I may say here that the terms of the agreement are being faithfully tulfilled. Emily, of course, is not in the secret. Indeed, she knows nothing of my conrection with her good fortune. She will marry .the lanky young artist soon, and may Providence make him worthy of her. I have not visited the farm again, but I keep an eye on current fiction, and Ber- tram Dyer’s name continues to hold its place. Some of his stories strike me as a bit mechanical, but perhaps if I did not know that Clarence had worked in a ma- chine shop I should not remark it. After all, criticism is so much affected bysa knewledge of a writer’s personality! It te very unfortunate that writers are not known simply by numbers. Their portraits and blographies might be kept at head- quarters, but they oughtn’t to get into pub- lic prints. That is an offense to Art, which I always write with a capital letter. The Leading Liar. ‘om the Cineinnat! Enquirer. After the dog liar, the smart baby liar and the horse Har had their turns, the common, ordinary lar said: “Well, you fellows own some pretty bright live stock, but I don’t think any of them compare with my educated katydid.” “What does it do?” asked the man with, the dog that knew the time of day. “My wife's sister is a schoolma’am, and has taught the insect to say ‘Kathryn did.’ "* Mrs. 10 A Fortune Waiting. From Exchange. There is a fortune for the milliner who shall devise a bonnet that can be worn in any part of the church and always present the trimmed side to the congregatipn. ee Living in Hope From the Bay City Chat. “I haven't had a ride in a carriage I don’t know when,” complained Mrs. Jaysmith.” “Never mind,” replied her husband. “Just have patience. Some of the neighbors will have a funeral one of these days.” Something to Do With the Bar. From the Cleveland Plain-Dealer. “Now, you wouldn't believe, to look at him, that that man was a judge, would you?” “I don’t know as I'd pick him out for a judge, but a glance at his nose would be sufficient to convince me that he had some- thing to do with the bar. Lack of Confidence. From the Clev2land Plain-Dealer. “Then you won't lend me a dime?” ‘The voice was full of pathos and huski- ness. The other man shook his head. “What this country is just a-starvin’ for is return of confidence,” Said the first man as he sadly moved away. eee Purely Mental. From Puck. “I am told that he has some mental af- fection.” “Yes; he is in love with Miss Blunose of Boston.” CATCHING RIFLE BULLETS Explanation of a Sensational Exhibition Mao by Hermann, A Squad of Soldiers Apparently Fires a Deadly Charge, but the Magi- cian Escapes Unharmed. ‘The public at large, as well as people who are experts at legerdemain, universally ac- knowledge that “the shooting trick” is the most sensational and the most wonderful of any of the performances given by our modern. magicians. It is equaled only by some of the marvelous tricks of the Indian fakirs. Two years ago Prof. A. Herrmann did it for the first time in this country in the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. It was un the occasion of an entertainment for charity. The vast auditorium was crowded to the doors. The shooting was to ciose the evening's entertainment. When the time came, six soldiers from the United States troops, stationed at Gcvernor’s Is- land, were marched on the stage under ccemmand of a sergeant. The soldiers had been selected that afternoon by the com- mandant of the post. They were the crack marksmen of the battation. Herrmann had never seen them or held any communication with them. He did not even know their names. Following the soldiers came a com- mittee of three prominent New Yorkers ai @ surgeon, who stood in the wings. Nobody else was on the stage but Herrmann. The firing party was drawn up tn line. Herr- mann passed along the line, looking through the barrel of each man’s rifle to see that there was no cartridge in it. Then he re- tired to one side. The sergeant took stx regulation United States army rifle cartridges, with fixed balls, from his pouch and placed them on a salver handed to him from the wings. These he then passed to the committee for examination. After the committee was sat- isfied that the cartridges were what they purported to be, the sergeant went among the audience and allowed any one who pleased to examine them and put identiti- cation marks on the bullets. At least fifty people inspected them. When all were sat- sfied of the genuineness of the deadly missiles he returned to the stage, gave a cartridge to each soldier, and uttered the command “Load!” The lecks clicked, the rifles were brought to a “carry,” and the squad was marched down on an improvised platform over the heads of the audience about twenty feet from the stage. They faced about and were ready for the volley, three kneeling and three standing. The Critical Mome Meanwhile Herrmann had stepped to the wings and taken from a table there a china plate. This he placed on the stage floor at his feet. Then he braced himself as though to meet a shock and held his hands, palms out, in front of his chest. “I am ready,” h2 said, in a voice hardly above a whisper. As he stood there, his pale face set and his black eyes looking into the muzzles of the six loaded muskets, the audience gave one mighty gasp and held its breath. “Fire!” commanded the sergeant. There was a crash, heet of flame, and through the wreath of blue powder smoke Herrmann could be seen bending over. and dropping the bullets upon the plate. Some women had screamed, others had fainted. Then came a tumult of cheers. Herrmann was unhurt except for some burns on his fingers made by the hot bullets. Yes, they were the same bullets. They were’ posi- tively identified by the people who had marked them. It was very thrilling, tut it was all theat- rical effect. As a matter of fact, Herrmann Was not in danger for one second, and no bullets were fired at him. He himself has never explained the trick, but from an au- thoritative inside source it is possible to tell exactly how it is done. The sergeant is a confederate. The sol- diers: not, and are as much surprised a8 anybody that their shots do not take effect. The sergeant is the man who realiy performs the trick, although he has very little to do. So simple is it that he requires no rehearsal, and is not even told what to do until he comes to the theater with his men. Ten dollars is liberal pay for what he does. Several days before the performance Herrmann secures six ball cartridges ex- actly like those to be given the sergeant for use in the performance. He extracts the balls from these cartridges and sub- stitutes in their place bullets made of a composition of mercury and black lead. This composition can be molded into any shape, and when piaced in the shell looks exactly like a genuine leaden bullet. The mercury is so heavy that the weight of the fake cartridge is aisoAthe same as the real article. The soldiers fi handling them can- not detect the difference without feeling of the bullet end of the cartridge, and that they have no opportunity to do. When fired the mercury and plumbago fly into dust and do no harm. It cannot even be felt a few feet away from the muzzles. A Trick Salver. The next thing the trickster does is to prepare a trick salver. All that’s required is a salver with a double bottom worked by a button underneath. This is a very simple device, used by all magicians. It is as common in sleight-of-hand work as trick tumblers or trick eggs. With these “props” and an intelligent sergeant the magician is all ready to be shot at. When the sergeant places the real car- tridges on the salver and passes them to the committee and the audience to ex- amine, the fake cartridges are already in it, concealed in the false bottom. Of course it is the real cartridges that are examined and marked. As he walks back from the audience to the stage he holds the salver at arm’s length, with a hand grasping it on each side to show that he is not touch- ing the cartrid or trying to change them. His fingers are under the salver and his thumbs bent over its edge. With cne of his fingers he gives the button a gentle touch. Presto! the button changes. The fake cartridges come on top, the real ones go out of sight underneath. He quickly hands out these fake cartri¢ges to the men one by one and gives the command to load. Before any one has had 4« chance to ex- amine them they are in the guns and safe from prying eyes. Where the Bullets Come From. ‘The sergeant then walks to the wings to put down the seemingly empty salver on a table just out of sight. Hid behind this table is the magician’s assistant. As soon as the salver is put down he touches the spring and brings the real cartridges up. With a pair of pincers he rapidly pulls the bullets out of the shells and drops them into a hot dish. He has time to do all this easily enough while the soldiers are being marched down to the platform and faced about. ‘Then Herrmann comes to the wings to get the plate on which to drop the bullets. But before he picks up the plate he gathers in the bullets, which by this time have become slightly heated, and palms them between his fingers or up his sleeves. Then knowing that the only bullets on the stage are in bis possession he can face the rifles without fear and drop the marked leaden bails on the plate as soon as the volley is fired. Simple, isn’t it? And yet of such ma- terial are marvels made. The only danger that Herrmann runs is the chance that one of the soldiers may be a crank and have an extra cartridge with him and fire it. In that case the trick would probably turn out a tragedy. It is on that account that Herrmann insists on look- ing through the barrels of the guns after the soldiers march on. As the men are at “attention” all the while afterward, there would be no opportunity for one of them to surreptitiously load his piece. The load- ing {s done while the soldiers are in line facing the audience and the sergeant. Each man holds up the cartridge given him, and at the command “load,” inserts it in the chamber in plain sight of all. No time or chance is allowed for a substitu- tion. > Good Advice. From Life. “I shouldn't advise you to leave Jack for very long, dear. Some husbands, you know, are like return tickets.” “Why, ma! What do you mean “They are forfeited if detached. soe Natural Result. From Tid-Bits. He—“This tune seems to haunt me.” She—“Because you have murdered it so often,” ‘ Absolutely Pure. Accream of tartar baking powder. Highest of all in leavening strength.—Latest United States Government Food Report. Borat Baxixo Powper Co., New York. FREE BOOKS AND LUNCHES. Pablic School Features Which in Mrs. Stowell’s Opinion Are Desirable. Louise Reed Stowell in School Board Journal. The American people are more interest- ed today in having every child benefited by its schools than it is in having the character of the schools improved. Not how high shall we take our schools, nor how broad shall we make our courses of instruction; but, how may every child be reached, and how may every child be made a safer and better member of the community, is the school problem of the day. Any movement reaching down and uplifting gives strength to the school system, and the taxpayer reczives his com- pensation, The sooner we come to look upon the intellectual and moral training of every child, of every human soul, as the highest politica! wisdom, and the imperative duty of the state, the better will be the individ- ual happiness and the public security. A liberal education for every child should be for ever the ideal of the teacher, the board of education, and the legislator. The responsibility rests with the bcard of education to make our public schools free. They should be free public scnools it every respect. They should be free schcol buildings, free furniture, free cpparatus, free fuel, free ink, free copy books, free slates and pencils, free stationery, free in- Struction, free text books, and alss—what I would like to see—free lunches. The public schools must give this free education. Free public schools were es- tablished for this very purpose. For this every barrier excluding any deserving pu- pil should be broken down and swept away. The cost of text books is such a barrier in many states. The cost of noon lunches is such a barrier in all of cur large cities. The American system of free schools was established over two hundred and fifty years ago. When one of the states or- dained that every town of one hurdred householders should maintain a school in which youth could be fitted for the uni- versity. The same state established the first free high school, the first free nor- mal school, the first free art school, and Pige free school library in every dis- rict. Those states and cities which have not dopted the free text book system and pro- vided every child within its limits with School books, stationery, slates and pen- cils, materials for drawing, mechanical work and all that the child seeds in the school room are behind in the onward movement of progress. ‘This system should be extended to every high school as well ae to the «rammar chools. This should include every high school whether business, mechanical, or lit- erary, in the ccuntry, And every normal school as well as high scaool. Communities which have tried this free text bock system are perfectly satisfied with the results and would not be willing to return to the old plan. The policy of furnishing free text bodks to the children is winning its way fast and is certain to be universal in Amer.ca. The following states hav adopted free text books, while many others have partly done so. Maine, New Hampshi: Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, New Jersey. Pennsylvania, Delaware, Nebraska, Idaho, and the cities of Baltimore, Brooklyn, De- iroit, New York and Philadsiphia. There are two extremely progressive movements which, could they be adopted, and there is no reason why they should not, would make our public school system iceal. The first of these is, in iny belief, ef very great importance. The furnishing of free, whulesome, hot lunches to every child in school at the hour of the noon meal. In those schools of onr large cities, which are so situated as to be filled with the children of extremely poor families, it is as much a duty to furnish to the chil- dren something to eat as it is a duty to furnish them something to study. Still, whether in the rural districts or in the crowded cities, I believe it is the duty of the boards of education to see that wher- ever children have to bring their lunch to school, they should be supplied with som thing warm and wholesome to eat, ard that free of expense to the family. This move- ment would fill our high and grammar schools to overflowing. I would also like to see all school books given to each individual child to hold and to keep as his own property, not only so long as he comes to school, put always. It would train this child in proper‘y rights. It would be a constant source of education to tne child's parents—and in many cases they would be the only books the father and mother can have to read. It woula be an education to the family. - see He Struck Another Match, From Short Stories Bishop Wilmer of Alabama, famous as a story teller, says that one of his friends lost a dearly beloved wife, and in his sor- Tow caused these words to he inscribed on her tombstone: “The light of mine eyes has gone out.” The bereaved married within a year. Shortly afterward the bishop was walking through the graveyard with anoth- er gentleman. When they arrived at the tomb, the latter asked the bishop what he would say of the present state of affairs, in view of the words on the tombstone. “I think,” said the bishop, “the words ‘But I have struck another match’ should be added.” epi Selid for McKinley. From the Boston Herald. “What is your name?” asked his honor im the naturalizaticn court in Chicago. “McKinley,” replied the Italian. “Can you read or write the English lan- guage,” asked the court. “McKinley,” answered the Italian. ‘If you can neither read nor write, how do you expect to vote?” persisted the court. “McKinley,” replied the Italian. And yet he was given his papers. “Th’ ole ‘squire stop an’ spoke to me this marnin’; an’ Oi ast ‘im ‘ow Master Philip was gettin’ on in Lunnoi ‘Oh,’ says ‘e, ‘*e’s bin called to the bar.’ Oi dunno wot ‘e meant, so Oi didn’ say nothin’; but O1 says to meself, ‘Ah,’ Oi says, ‘from what a remember of 'm, ‘e didn’ want me callin’!