Evening Star Newspaper, April 17, 1897, Page 23

{ with a look of eager confidence and said: | perhaps, you don’t know; ' branch at Marysville. ! say anything about it to you before. But | where else while you are in the business— THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, APRIL (Copsright, 1896, b eh WW ve VY i eye a ts Chapter I—Con' (Continued from last Sturday.) Barker, who was casily amused, had = tracted 2 certain amusement out of Stacy's memorandum, but he straightened himself “Certainly; that’s just what it is business. { Lord! Stacy. I’m all business now. fe m = very . And I bank with you, though, Disb bere vd it's in your I didn’t want to Lord, you don't suppose I'd bank any- checks, dividends, and all that, but in this matter I felt you knew, old chap. I didn’t want to talk to a banker nor to a bank, but to Jim Stacy, my old partner.” “Barker,” said Stacy, curtly, “how much money are you short of?” ; At this direct question Barker's always quick color rose, but with an equally quick smile he said, “I don’t know yet that I'm short at all.’ “But I do. “Look here, Jim, why I'm just overloaded with shares and stocks,” said Barker, smil- ing. “Not one of which you could realize on without sacrifice. Barker, three years ago you had $300,000 put to your account at San Francisco.” x “Yes,” said Barker, with a quiet reminis- cent laugh. “I remember I wanted to draw it eut In one check to see how it would look.”” “And you've drawn out all in three years, and it locks d—d bad “How did you know it?’ asked Barker, his face beaming only with admiration of his companion’s omniscience. “How did 1 know it?’ retorted Stac: “I know you, and I know the kind ef peo ple who Eave unloaded to you.” Come, Stacy,” said Barker. “I've only invested In shares and stocks Hike every- body else, and then cnly on the best advice I could get. Like Van Loo’s, for instance— that man who was here just now, the new manager of the Empire Ditch Company. And Carter, my own Kitty's facher. And when I was offered 50,000 West Extensions and was hesitating over it, he told me you were in it, too—and that was enough for to buy it.” Yes, but you didn't go into it at his fig- - said Barker, with an eager smile, “but you sold at his figures, for I. knew that when I found that you, my old part- ner, was in it, don't you see, I preferred io buy it through your bank, and did, at 110. you wouldn't have sold’ at th figure if it w worth it then, and neith- | er I nor you are to blame if i dropped the ! next week to 60, don't you see? Stacy's eyes hardened for a moment as he looked keenly into his former partner s bright gray ones, but there was no trace of irony in Barker's. On the contrary, a slight shade of sadness came over them. No,” he said reflectively. “I Jon't thin I've ever been foollsh or followed out my own ideas, except once and that was e) travagant, I admit. That was my idea of building @ kind of refuge, you know, on! the site of our old cabin, where poor miners ut prospectors waiting for a Strike could stay without paying anything. Well, I sunk $20, in that, and might have lost more,only Carter—Kitty's tather--{ persuaded me—he's an awful clever old fellow—into turning it into a kind of branch hotel 6f Boomville, w! usirg it as an hotel ta take poor chaps who couldn't pay at half prices, or quarter prices, privately, don't you see, so as to spare their pride: awfully pretty, wasn’t it? and make the hotel profit by jit.” “Well?” said Stacy as Barker paused. ‘They didn’t come,” said Barker. “But, he added eagerly, ‘it shows that things were better thah I had imagined. Only the others did not come, either. “And you lost your $20,000," sald Stacy curtly. “Fifty thousand,” said Barker, “for, of course, it had to be a larger hotel than the other. And I think that Carter wouldn't have gone into it except to save me from losing money.” “And yet made you lose 350,000 instead of For I don't suppose he advanced $20,000, Barker simpl “1 don’t think it worth $30,000," said cy drily. “But all this doesn’t tell me what your business is with me today.” said Barker brightening up: usiness, you know. Something in the old style—as between partner and partner— and that’s w I came to you, and not to “but the banker.” And ft all comes out of something that Demorest once told us, so you'll see it's all us three again. Well, you know, of course, that the Excelsior Ditch Company has abandoned the Bar and Heavy Tree Hill. It didn't pay.” does the company pay any ss now. You ought to know, with tock on your hands.” “But listen, I found up their whole plant and ing along the Black Spur Range “And, Great Scott! taking up their ast. Barker leughed more heartily. “‘No. Not their business. But I remember that once Demorest told us, in the dear old days, that it cost nearly as much to make a| water ditch as a railroad in the way of surveying and engineering and levels, you | know. And here's the plant for a railroad. Don’t you see?” “But a railroad from Black Spur to Heavy Tree Hill—what's the good of that?" you don’t think of business?" sald Stacy THREE PARTNERS; Or The Big Strike on Heavy Tree Hill. BY BRET HARTE. ON US EELS NON VEST WG PAUL Qwowe NOOO OWE se. py Bret Harte.) “Why, Black Spur will be in the line of the new ‘Divide’ railway they're trying to get a bill for in the legislature.” “An infamous plece of wild-cat Jobbing | that will never pass,” said Stacy, decisive- Ls “They said because it was that it would pass,” said Barker, simply: “They say that Watson's bank is in It, and was bound to get it through. And, as that is a rival bank of yours, don’t you see, I thought that if we could get something real good or valuable out of it—something that would do the Black Spur good—it would be all right.” “And was your business to consult me about it?” said Stacy, bluntly. “No,” said Barker, “it’s too late to con- sult you now, though I wish I had. I’ve given my word to take it. and I can’t back out. But I haven't the $10,000. and. I. came. to you.” Stacy slowly settled himself back in his chair and put both hands in his pockets. “Not a cent, Barker; not a cent.” “I'm not asking it of the bank,” said Barker, with a smile, “for I could have gone to the bank for it. But as this was | | with you tonight, but no more business. I've enough of that with others, and theré are some waiting for me in the outer office peal (| Barker rose at once, but with the same affectionate smile and countenance, and laid his hand caressingly on Stacy’s shoulder. “It’s like you to give up so mvch of your time to me and m. foolishness and be so frank with me. An it’s mighty rough on you to have to be a mere machine instead of Jim Stacy. Don't you bother about me. I'll sell some of my ‘Wide West Extension and pull the thing through myself. It's all right, but I'm sorry for you, old chap.” He glanced eround the room at the walls and rich pan- eling, and added: “I suppose that’s w! you have to pay for all this sort of thin, Before Stacy could reply a waiting vii itor was announced for the second time, and Barker, with another handshake and @ reassuring smile to his old partner, pass- ed into the hall as if the onus of any in- felicity in the interview was upon himself alone. But Stacy did not seem to be in a particularly accessible mood to the new ler, who, in his turn, apveared to be slightly irritated by having been kept waiting over some irksome business. “You don’t seem to follow me,” he said to Stacy, after reciting his business perplexity. Can‘t you suggest something?” “Well, why don’t you get hold of one of your board of directors?” said Stacy, ab- stractedly. “There's Capt. Drummond; you and we are old friends. You were com- rades in the Mexican war, weren't you?” ‘hat be d—d!” said his visitor, bitterly. “All his interests are the other way, and tender gravity of in @ trade of this kind, you know, Stacy," @ man would sacrifice his own brother. Do you suppose that he'd let up on a sure thing that ke’s got just because he and I fought side by side at Cerro Gordo? Come, what are you giving us? You are the last man I ever expected to hear that kind of flapdoodle from. If it’s because your bank has got some other interest and you can't advise me, why don’t you say so?” Never- theless, in spite of Stacy’s abrupt disclaim- er, he left a few minutes later, half con- vinced that Stacy's lukewarmness was due to. some adverse influence. Other callers were almost as quickly disposed of, and at the end of an hour Stacy found himself again alone. SUDDE | something between us, I am asking you, Stacy. as my old partner.” Re I am answering you, Barker, as your old partner, but also as the partner of a hundred other men, who have even a greater right to ask me. And my answer is—not a cent.” Barker looked at him with a pale, aston- ished face and slightly parted lips. Stacy rose, thrust his hands deeper in his pock- ets and, standing before him, went on. “Now, look here. It's time you should understand me and yourself. Three years ago, when our partnership was dissolyed by accident or mutual consent, we will say, we started afresh, each on our own hook. Through foolishness and bad advice you have, in those three years, hopelessly involved yourself as you never would have done had we been partners, and yet in your difficulty you ask me and my new partners to help you out of a difficulty in which they have no concern. “Your new partners?” stammered Bark- “Yes. My new partners, for every man who has a share, or a deposit, or an in- terest, or a dollar in this bank is my part- ner—even you, with your securities at the branch, are one; and you may say that in this I am protecting you against yourself.” “But you have money—you have private means?” “None to speculate with as you wish me to—on account of my position; none to give away foolishly as you expect me to— on account of precedent and example. I am a soulless machine taking care of capl- tal intrusted to me and my brains, but de- cidedly not to my heart nor my sentiment. So my answer is: not a cent.” Barker's face had changed; his color had come back, but with an older expression. Presently, however, his beaming smile re- turned, with the additional suggestion of an affectionate toleration which puzzled Stacy. “I believe you're right, old chap,” he said, extending his hand to the banker, “and I wish I had talked to you before. But it's too late now, and I've given my word.” “Your word,” said Stacy. “Have you nod written agreement?” “No. My .word was accepted.” He blushed slightly, as if conscious of a great weakress. But that isn't legal nor business. And you couldn't even hold the Ditch Company to it if they chose to back out.” “But I don’t think they will,” said Bar- ker, simply. “And, you see, my word wasn't given entirely to them. I bought the thing through my wife's cousin, Harry Spring, a broker, and he makes something by it, from the company, on commis- sion, and I can’t go back on him. What did you say?” Stacy had only groaned through his set teeth. “Nothing,” he said, briefly, “except that I'm coming, as I said before, to dine ANHEUSER-BUsct BREWING Ass'n, THE LEADING BREWERY IN THE WORLD, Brewers of the Mest Whol Budweiser The Michelob The Muenchener (878-2, mé wR esome and Popular Beers. The Faust The Pale Lager HE SA WTHE FAMILIAR SHIRT OF HIS WIVE AT A FURTHER WIN DOW. But not apparently in a very satisfied mood. After a few moments of purely me- chanical memoranda making, he arose ab- ruptly and opened a small drawer in a cab- inet, from which he took a letter, still in its envelope. It bore a foreign postmark. Glancing over it hastily, his eyes at last became fixed on a concluding paragraph. “I hope,” wrote his correspondent, “that even in the rush of your big business you will sometimes look after Barker. Not that I think the dear old chap will ever g0 wroug—indeed, I often wish I was as certain of myself as of him and his in- sight; but I'm afraid we were more in- clined to b2 merely amused and tolerant of his wonderful trust and simplicity than to really understand it for his own good and ours. I Know you did not like his marriage, and was inclined to believe he was the vic- tim of a rather unscrupulous father and a foolish, unequal girl, but are you satistied that he would have been the happier with- out It, or lived his perfect life under other, and what you may think wiser, con¢* lons? If he wrote the opetry that he lives every- body would think him wonderful; for being what he is we never give him sufficient credit.” Stacy smiled grimly and penciled on his memorandum: “He wants it to the amount of $10,000.” “Anyhow,” continued the writer, “look after him, Jim, for his sake, your sake, and the sake of—Phil Demorest.” Stacy put the letter back in its envelope, and,tossing it grimly aside, went on with his calculations. Presently he stopped, re- stored the letter to his cabinet, and rang a bell on his table. “Send Mr. North here,” he said to the negro messenger. In a few moments his chief bookkeeper appeared in the doorway. “Turn to the Branch ledger and bring me a statement of Mr. George Barker's ac- count.” was here a moment ago,” said North, essaying @ confidential look toward his chief. I know it,” sald Stacy coolly, without king up. He's been running a good deal on wild- cat lately,” suggested North, “I asked for his account and not for-your epinion of it,” said Stacy shortly. The subordinate withdrew somewhat abashed, but still curious, and returned presently with ledger, which he laid be- fore his chief. Stacy ran his eyes over the list of Barker's securities. It seemed to him that all the wildest schemes of the pest year stared him in the face. His fin- ser, however, stopped on the Wide West extension. “Mr. Barker will be wanting to sell some of this stock. What is it quoted at now?” “Sixty.” “But I would prefer that Mr. Barker Should not offer in the open market at present. Give him 70 for it—private sale; that will be $10,000 paid to his credit. Ad- vise the Branch o fthis at once and keep the transaction quiet.” “Yes, sir,” responded the clerk as he moved toward the door. But he hesitated, and with another assay at confidence said irsinuatingly: “I always thought, sir, that Wide West would recover.” tacy, perhaps, not displeased to find what had evidently passed in his subordi- uate’s mind, looked at him and said dryly, “Then I would advise you also to keep that opinion to yourself.” But, clever as he Was, he had not anticipated the result. Mr. Nerth, though a trustworthy employe, was human. On arriving in the outer office, he betkoned to one of the lounging brokers and in a low voice said: “I'll take two poset of Wide West if you can get it cheap.” The broker's face became alert and eager. “Yes, but, I say, is anything up?” “I'm not here to give the business of the lenk away,” retorted North severely, “take ea et leave it.” ‘The man hurried away. Having thus vin- dicated his humanity by cee the snub he had received from Stacy to an in- ferior, he turned away to carry out his master’s instructions, yet secure in the be- Nef that he had profited discernment of the real reason of that mas- ‘8 with another financial magnate, and hed spperently divested his mind of the whole Chapter 1., When George Barker returned. to the outer ward of the financial stronghold he had penetrated, with its curving sweep of |. counters, brass railings and wirework sof g A i i \ a Bi & 17, 1897-28 PAGES. their chief, both and after, smiled with the whispered’ édhviction. that. the fresh and ingenious young stranger had been “chucked” like , until they met his kindly, tolerant and even superior eyes, and were puzzled. M ‘hile Barker, who had that sublime natal quality of ab- straction over smal} impertinences which is more exasperatin; studied indiffer- ence, after his brie! sitation, passed out unconcernedly througk the swinging ma- hogany doors into the blowy street. Here the wind and rain him; the bank and its curt refusal re forgotten; he walked onward with only a smiling mem- ory of his partner as‘n the old days. He remembered how Stacy had burned down their old cabin rathey.yhan it should fall into sordid or unworthy hands—this Stacy, who was now condemned to sink his im- pulses and become a“mfre machine. He had never known Stacy’s real motive for that act; both Demoyest and Stacy had kept their knowledge of the attempted rob- bery from their younger partner; it al- ways seemed-to him’ to‘ be a precious reve- lation of Stacy’s inner nature. Facing the wind and rain, he récalled how Stacy, though never so enthusiastic about his marriage as Demorest, had taken up Van Loo sharply for some foolish sneer about his own youthfulness. He was aftection- ately tolerant of even Stacy's dislike to his wife’s relations, for Stacy did not know them as he did. Indeed, Barker,- whose own father and mother had died in his infancy, had accepted his wife's relations with ‘a loving trust and confidence that was su- preme from the fact that he had never known any other. At last he reached his hotel. It was a Pew one, the latest creation of a feverish Progress in hotel building which had cov- ered five years and as many squares with large, showy erecticns, utterly beyond the needs of the community, yet each superior in size and adornment to its predecessor. It struck him as being the one evidence of an abiding faith in the future of the me- tropolis that he had seen in nothing else. As he entered its frescoed hall that after- noon he was suddenly reminded, by its challenging opulency, of the bank he had just quitted, without knowing that the bank had really furnished its capital’ and its original design. The gilded bar rooms, flashing with mirrors and cut glass; the saloons, with their desert expanse of Tur- key carpet and oasis of clustered divans and glided tables; the great dining room, with porphyry columns, and walls and ceil- ings shining with allegory—all these things which had attracted his youthful wonder without distracting his correct simplicity of taste he now began to comprehend. It was the bank’s money “at work.” In the clatter of dishes in the dining room he even seemed to hear again the chinking of coin. It was a short cut to his apartments to pass through a smaller public sitting room, popularly known as “‘Flirtation Camp, where eight or ten couples generally found refuge on chairs and settees by the win- dows, half concealed by heavy curtains. But the occupants were by no means youthful spinsters or bachelors; they were generally married women, guests of the hotel, receiving other people's husbands, whose wives were in “the states,” or re- sponsible middle-aged leaders of the town. in the elaborate toilets of the women, as compared with the less formal business suits of the men, there was an odd ming- ling of the social attitude with perhaps more mysterious confidences. The idle gos- sip about them had never affected Barker; rather he had that innate respect for the secrets of others which is as inseparable from simplicity as it is from high breeding, and he scarcely glanced at the different couples in his progress through the room. He did not even notice a rather striking and handsome woman who, surrounded by two or three admirers, yet looked up at Barker as he passed with self-conscious lids, as if seeking a return of her glance. But he moved on abstractedly, and only stopped when he saw suddenly the familiar skirt of his wife at a further window, and halted before it. “Oh, you,” said Mrs. Barker, half nervous, half-impaticht laugh. I thought you'd certainly stay half the af- ternoon with your old, partner, considering that you haven't met for three years.” There was no doubt she had thcught 50; there was equally no doubt that the con- versation she was carrying on with her companion—a good-looking: portly business man—was effectually interrupted. But Bark- er did not notice it. “Capt. Heath, my hus- band," she went on, ¢arelessly rising and smoothing her skirts. THe captain, who had risen, too, bowed’ vaguely at the intro- duction, but Barker extended his hand frankly. “I found Stacy Busy,” he sald in answer to his wife; “but’he is coming to dine with us tonight. y “If you meen Jim ''Stacy, the banker,” said Capt. Heath, brighteging into greater ease, e's the busiest 'man in California. T've seen men standing tn a queue outside his door, as in the old days at the post of- fice. And he only glyes you five minutes and no extension. “So you and he were bartners once?” he said, looking curiously at the still youthful Barker. But it was Mrs. Barker who answered, “Oh, yes, and always such good friends. I was awfully jealous of him.” Neverthe- less, she did not respond to the affection- ate protest in Barker’s eyes nor to the laugh of Capt. Heath, but glanced indif- fereatly around the room, as if to leave further conversation to the two men. It was impossible that she was beginning to feel that Capt. Heath was as de trop now as her husband had been a moment before. Standing there, however, between them both, idly tracing a pattern on the carpet with the toe of her silpper, she looked pret- er than she had ever looked as Kitty Car- ter. Her slight figure was more fully de- veloped. That artificial severity, covering @ natural virgin coyness, with which she used to wait at table in her father’s hotel at Boomville, had gone, and was replaced by a satisfied consciousness of her power to please. Her glance was freer, but not as frank as in those days. Her dress was un- doubtedly richer and more stylish, yet Barker’s loyal heart often reverted fondly to the chintz gown, coquettishly frilled apron and spotless cuffs and collar in which she had handed him his coffee, with a faint color that left his own face crimson. Czpt: Heath's tact being equal to her in- difference, he had excused himself. al- though he was becoming interested in this youthful husband. But Mrs. Barker, after having asserted her husband's distinction as the equal friend of the millionatre, was no mcans willing that the captain should be interested in Barker for himself alcne, and did not urge him to stay. As ne deperted she turned to her husband and, indicating the group he had passed the moment before, said: “That horrid woman has been staring at us all the time. I don’t see what you see in her to admire.” Poor Barker's admiration had been lim- ited to a few words of civility in the en- forced contact of that huge caravansary and in his quiet, youthful recognition of her striking personality. But he was then too preoccupied with his interview with Stacy to reply, and perhaps he did not quite understand his wife. It was odd how mary things he did not quite understand now about Kitty, but that he knew must be his fault. But Mrs. Barker apparently did not require, after the fashion of her Sex, a reply. For the next moment, as they moved toward thelr rooms, she ‘said impatiently: “Well, you don’t tell what Stacy said. Did you get the money?” I grieve to say that this soul of truth and frankness lied, only to his wife. Per- haps he considered it only lying to him- self, a thing of which he was at times mis- erably conscious. “It wasn’t necessary, dear,” he said; “he advised me to sell my securities in bank, anil ‘if}you only knew how dreadfully busy he is”. Mrs. Barker curiedher’ pretty lip. - “It dor't take very long to lend $10,000,” she said. “But that’s what ‘I‘diways tell you. you have about madg*me'eick by singing the praises of those wonderful partners of yorrs, and here you ask a'favor of one of them, snd he telis you 4b sell your se- curities. And you know, and he knows, they're worth next tatrothing.” “You don’t understand, .dear—,” began Barker. 7 D “I understand that you've given your word to poor Harry," said: Mrs, Barker in Pretty indignation, “who's responsible for the Ditch purchase.” ey “and I shall keep 12 1 divaye do.” said Barker, very quietly,ibut ‘with sane sicgular expression of face that had puz- zled Stacy. But Mrs. Barker, who perhaps new her husband r, agid in an alter- “Bue ho rd “But how can you, dear’ “it i'm @ thousand er two Tl ask bucyancy, turned into the bed room and walked tmilingly toward a small crib which stood in the corner. “Why, he's gone!” he said, in some dismay. “Well,” ‘said Mrs. Barker, a little impa- tiently, “you didn’t expect me to take him into the public parlor, where I was seeing visitors, did you? I sent him out with the nurse into the lower hail to play with the other children.” A, shade momentarily passed over Bar- ker’s face. He always looked forward to meeting the child when he came back. He had a belief, based on no grounds what- ever, that the little creature understood him. And he had a father’s doubt of the wholesomeness of other people's children, who were born into the world indiscrimi- nately and under the exceptional conditions of his own. “I'l go and fetch him,” he said. “You haven’t told me anything about, your interview; what you did and what your good friend Stacy said,” said Mrs. Barker, dropping languidly into a chair. “And realiy, if you are simply running away again after that child, I might just as well have asked Capt. Heath to siay lor ger.” “Oh, as to Stacy,” said Barker, dropping beside her and taking her hand, “well, dear, he was awfuliy busy, you know, and shut up in the innermost office like the agate in one of the Japanese nests of boxes. But,” he continued, brightening up, “just the same dear old Jim Stacy ot Heavy Tree Hill, when I first knew you. Lord! dear, how it all came back to me! That day I proposed to you in the belief that I was unexpectedly rich, and even bought a claim for the boys on the strength of it, ard how I came back to them to find that they had made a big strike on the very claim. Lord! I remember how I was so agraid to tell them about you—and how they guessed it—that dear old Stacy one of the first.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Barker, “and I hope your friend Stacy remembered that but for me, when you found out that you were not rich, you'd have given up the claim, and that I really deceived my own father to make you keep it. I've often worried over that, George,” she said, pensively, turning a diamond bracelet around her pretty wrist, “although I never said anything about it.” “But, Kitty, darling,” said Barker, grasp- ing his wife's hand, “I gave my note for it; you know you said that was bargain enough, and I had Letter wait until the note wes due, and until I found I couldn’t pay, before I gave up the claim. It was very clever of you, and the boys all sald so, too. But you never deceived your fath- er, dear,” he said, looking at her gravely, “for I should have told him everything. “Of course, if you look at it in that way,” said his wife, languidly. “It's nothing, only I think it ought to be remembered when people go about saying papa ruined you with his hotel schemes.” “Who dares say that?" said Barker, in- dignantly. “Well, if they don’t say it they look it. said Mrs. Barker, with a toss of her pretty head, nd I believe that’s at the bottom of Stacy’s refusal.” “But he never said a word, Kitty,” Barker, flushing. ‘Th don’t excite yourself, George,” said Mrs. Barker, resignedly, “but go for the baby. I know you're dying to go, and [ suppose it’s time Norah brought it up- stairs.” At any other time Barker would have lingered with explanations, but just then a deeper sense than usual of some misunder- standing made him anxious to shorten this domestic colloquy. He rose, pressed his wife's hand, and went out. But yet he w not entirely satisfied with himseif for leav- ing her. “I suppose it isn’t right my going off as soon as I come in,” ve murmured reproachfully to himself, ‘but I think she wants the baby back as much as I; only, aes like, she didn’t care to let me know tc said He reached the lower hall, which he knew was a favorite promenacc for the nurses, who were gathered at the further end, where a large window looked upon Mout. gomery street. But Norah, the Irish nurse, was not among them; he passed through several corridors in his search, but in vain. At last, worried and a little anxious, he turned to regain his rooms through the long saloon where he had found his wife pre ol It was deserted now; the last caller had left—even frivolity had its prescribed limits. He was consequently startled by a gentle murmur from one of the heavily curtained window recesses. It was a wo- man’s voice, low, sweet, caressing, and filled with an almost pathetic tenaerness. And it was foliowed by a distinct gurgling, satisfied crow Barker turned instantly in that direction. A step brought him to the curtain, where a singular spectacle presented itself. Seated on a lounge, cempletely absorbed and possessed by her treasure, was ihe “horri! woman" whom his wife had tndi- cated only a little while ago, holding a baby—Kitty’s sacred baby—in her wanton lap. The child was feebly grasping the end of the slender jeweled necklace which the woman held temptingly dangling from a thin, white jeweled finger above it. Bui its eyes were beaming with an intense delight, as if trying to respond to a deep, concen- trated love in the handsome face that was bent above it. At the sudden intrusion of Barker, Mrs. Horncastie looked up. There was a fain: rise in her color, but no loss of self-posses- sion. “Please don’t scold the nurse,” she said, “nor say anything to Mrs. Barker. It is ail my fault. I thought that both the nurse and child looked dreadfu!ly bored with each other, and [ borrowed the little fellow for a while to try and amuse him. At least I haven't made him cry, have I, dear?” The last epithet, it is ne2dlers to say, was ad- dressed to the little creature in her lap, but in its tender modulation it touched the father’s quick sympathies as if he had shared it with the child. “You see,” she said softly, disengaging the baby’s fingers from her necklace, “that our sex is not the only one tempted by jewelry and glitter.” Barker hesitated; the Madonna-like de- votion of the moment ago was gone; it was only the woman of the world who laugh- ingly lcoked up at him. Nevertheless, he vas touched. “Have you—ever—had a child, Mrs. Horncastle?” he asked gently and hesitatingly. He had a vague recollection that she passed for a widow, and in his simple eyes all women were virgins or married saints. “No,” she sald abruptly. Then she added with a laugh, “or perhaps I should not ad- mire them so much. I suppose it’s the same feeling bachelors have for other peo- ple’s wives. But I Know you're dying to take that boy from me. Take him, then, and don’t be ashamed to carry him yourself just because I'm here; you know you would delight to do it if I weren't.” Barker bent over the silken lap in which the child was comfortably nestling, and in that attitude had a faint consciousness that Mrs. Horncastle was mischeviously breath- ing into his curls a silent laugh. Barker lifted his first born with proud skillfulness, but that sagacious infant evidently knew. he was comfortable, and in a paroxysm of objection caught his father’s curls with one fist, while with the other he grasped Mrs. Horncastle’s brown braids and brought their heads into contact. Upon which hu- morous situation Norah, the nurse, entered.” “It’s all right, Norah,” said Mrs. Horn- castle laughing, as she disengaged herself from the linking child. “Mr. Barker has claimed the baby and has agreed to forgive you and me and say nothing to Mrs. Bark- er.” Norah, with the inscrutable criticism of her sex on her sex, thought it extremely probable and halted with exasperating dis- cretion. “There,” continued Mrs. Horncas- tle, playfully evading the child’s further advances, “go to papa, that’s a dear. Mr. Barker prefers to carry him back, Norah.” “But,” said the ingenuous and persistent a, still lingering in hopes of recalling t love children, and you think him a bright little Lase aes his age?” Feed il : é a woman’s previous expression, “you do} = fmont Wk dae Se French People Know the Value of the Pot-au-Feu. Bae ES DINING WELL FOR HALF A FRANC Aa a Domestic Economy as Practiced in a Parisian Home. FROM SOUP TO SALAD sen NE Written for-The Evening Star. It all happened on a May morning, and we were standing on a corner not a block removed fromthe Ravadire of Shoffene, the Rue Marche. We were waiting for an om- nibus to arrive which we proposed to take. When it did pass we failed to signal it. And all because a woman selling news- papers inside one of the little kiosks or booths seen all over Paris, chanced, at that moment, to be passing out a bowl ot steaming soup from her windows to a man in a blue blouse outside. Evidently she hai previously furnished the camp stool on which he'was sitting reading a newspaper. ‘This was doubtless borrowed from the pile at the window of the kiosk. Something in the atmosphere of this family pair attracted me. It might have been the sense of comfort conveyed by the steaming bowl appearing from such an un- expected quarter, especially as my own sense of appetite w sharpened by a morning spent in the aforesaid paradise. It might have been sheer and unmitigated curiosity. At all events I took possession of a bench at hand—there are always benches at hand in every country save my ewn, be it said—having first bought a “Petit Journal”-of the lady bountiful of the kicsk. This served as pretext for waiting there, not to mention its usefulness as a screen for my own observation. For, know- ing that a bowl of soup by no means su‘- fices for the midday repast of the French people, I believed that other viands would issue from the little window, and if they did I wanted to be on hand to see. I recall that I neticed with what leisure and enjoyment he partook of the soup. In spite of our own ccndition of hunger we were able to eschew envy, as our blue blouse zipped that delicious looking broth and in a leisurely fashion read his “Petit Journal.” A sound of histling inside the kiosk was explained when we saw emerge from the windew and given in exchange for the empty bowl a huge section of a loaf of bread and a plate cf boiled beef with the usual acompanying vegetables that go to make up the national dish of France—ihe pot-au-feu, I, for the first tite, realized its value in the social economy of a nation, and I fell to computing the cost of food stuffe and relative wages, and came near settling the wage and labor question on the spot, "Meanwhile our man-aie cn. Be assured there was no undue haste in the action. Compared with the mid-day repast of a well-to-do downtown merchant of Gotham our blue blouse seemed a veritable epicure. In due course of time the plate of beef, potatoes, turnips, carrots and cabbage, flanked by the mdst of the bread and a half bottle of the red wine of the country. disappeared, the items of the rewspap were from time to time discussed with th beautiful lady inside the kiosk, who, by this time, had assumed the proportions, in my mind, of a veritable providence. ~~ & Dainty Salad. I hesitate at telling what followed. I run the risk of being suspected of mendacity if I-preceed. But I ith following my note- book, and 1 brace myself against its afi mations and state that a cYisp lettuce salad, already dresséd@ as no pecple under- stand the art of doing like the French with their herbs, and prover portion: and vinegar, and tarragon, and what not, all combining to perfect ihe result. The salad, accompanied by a bit of cheese, com- prised the third group of this savory litile exhibit. I noticed my little man taking first the salad, then ending the feast with the remnant of bread-with the cheese and the finish of the bottle, like any alderman at a feast: The hour was at its close. The plates and bewls were packed in a baeket inside the kicsk, the newspaper replaced on the pile, the folding chair returned, and our blue blouse is off for his afternoon work. By this time I had forgotten my own hunger. I had been set thinking about many things. Being of a practical mind with an undeniable fondness for statistics, I tound myself calculating the cost of the banquet at which-I had been an unnoticed spectator. I have since verified the notes, and it foots up thus: Bread, 2 cents; soup, meat and vegetables, the three being th product cf a pot-au-feu, costing, together with fuel for cooking the same, 36 cents, and enough for eight perscns; hence, the cost cf the man’s soup, meat and vege- tables amounts to 4% cents; cost of salad ahd dressing the same, 2 cents; cheese, 1 cent; wine, 19 cents; total, 19% cents. A Dish for Eight. The meat invariably used for the pot-au- feu is of a cheap grade, and, even at the high prices that rule France, piece sufM- cient for eight persons, used in this way, can be bought for 25 cents. Add the cost of vegetables, which is 6 cents, and the tuel, 5 cents.’ Any one who has seen the cooking arangements of a French housc- hold and has seen the kettle simmer (ob- serve the word used is “simmer,” noi boil) over the few bits of charcoal, knows why it costs only 5 certs for fuel in preparing @ put-au-feu for eight or more pevple. This bit of meat that costs 25 cents, In the hands of any peasant of France, not A POOR MAN'S DISH|Sick Headache From | do | husbane of oil, | A: Bad Stomach. From the Plain Dealer, Cleveland, 0 ‘One day tm the summer of 189 Was sitting on the front steps o 1513 Lorain street, on the West Sid Ohio, the picture of misery. He hind «pen! mest sleepless night, and even when slumber in Short suntches came to him it was troublous amd Unresttul, For six mentha previous to the day in question Charles Vogel had been a sufferer fru headaches of the most severe aud exeruciatin character. - His experience during the preceding nigh! w simply a repetition of many others which bad pre: ceded 11, and he was wondering how long he would be to endure the mental amd pirsteal stoutn While he was preoccupied in this disheart Meditation some one with a pouch strapped shoulder placed a litte pampulet in his ham M chanleally Mr. Vogel began turning the pages of the booklet he held, while his ¢yes wandered latlessly over the pages. Suddenly, however, his Indifference was changed to interest. amt soon he Was reading « few of the testimonials giver by people who bad found in Dr. Williams’ Pink Pulls @ cure for tilx of various Kinds. “Then T begat to see if somebody bad used them for the same trouble from which I was stiffring,”” od he went on to say in narrating lis expertence, ~ I found what I was looking for. The stories I in the pamphlet unlike those which I bad seen in similar books before. They seemed to ve so straightforward and full of sincerity that I could scarcely belp believing they were true, 1 had seen other testimonials concerning the wonder- ful claims made for patent medicines, but they were pictured in such glowing terms that I was always skeptical about accepting them as the truth. 1 bad never beard of Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills be fore, but I determined to buy a box of them, and I went to the drug store near our house on Lorain street and made a parchase. It was the best i vestment I ever made. Vhen I swallowed the first pill T remarked to my mother, “IL wonder what good these things will Yh, I guess they will only make you worse," she replied; but she Was wrong; they bad just the opposite effect on me, The first pill dit not cure me—I scarcely expected that—nor did the second, but Thad not been taking them for a week before I began to. feel 1 coutinucd to have the r that Gradually the pain in my bea me ttite and at the end of a month L could see that It would soon disappear entirely if I tnued the treatment, though it was 0 simple I could scarcely call it that, 1 bought another box of pills, One more mouth posed, and 1 was cured. What Was a year ago, and I have not suffced since. My slecp is as peaceful as a beulthy child's, and I wake up in the morning anxious and willing to go to work. “What was the cause ° hendn ; but my stomach caused me the most trouble I am very glad to testify to the merit of the Pink Pills because tt ts on nt of ail others to do the same that [a ( malady, and it will give me pleasure to know that my testimonial may be the means of uelping some one else. T have the utmost confidence in the medi clue, and my mother no longer doubts its power to cure. ir. Vogel is about twenty-three years old, and is son of Charles Voxel, a mason contractor, with whom and hin mother Dr. Willams’ fe ties and all the blood and res and sallow cheeks. cure in all cases arising from mental worry, Work or excesses of whatever nature. Pink Pills are sold Iu boxes (never tn tones bulk) at 50 coms « x boxes for $2.50, aud ma ad of all or direct by mail feo Williams’ ne Company, Schenectady, N but with the vegetables added has yielded a broth both delicious and nourishing. It was such a dish that furnished the first and second courses of the banquet record Now, I am well aware that the new w man sits at my elbow suggesting that this blue blouse had altoge-her too good a time of it. She throws out suspicions that the wife inside the kiosk went dinnerless. She says a gocd many other things besides To which I reply that although the wife was also a bread winner and forced to re- main at her post through the day, the same deftness which enabled her to ve her meal would serve for hr own. believe me, it Is not the habit of a French woman to go hungry. She under- stards how to nourish herself and she doe it. French Domes: Economy. Since that morning of the banquet the scheme of housekeeping, especially of cvok- ery, of the French toilers has been studted with some care, and, although the details may seem homely and prosaic to some, I shall, all the same, give them. For illustration, let us take our fri¢nds of the kiosk: for I am :ow quite well ac- quainted with them. The man is a carpen- ter and earns $1.5 a day. His wtfe, sejling newspapers, earns 80 cents a 4 During the evening she prepares the food for the following day’s dinner. In the morntcg the iamily—there are three children, all attend- ing school—have the breakfast of coffee with boiled milk (the cafe au lait of France) with bread. Except occasionally, butier is not used with this meal. The family ak- fast costs exactly as follows: 2 cents; ore quart milk, 6 cents: cent; one and ore-half pounds cents; total, B&% cents, or 3 cents each And as five-eighths of a dinner costing 26 cents comes to 22% cents, each person dined at the cost of 9 cents, inclusive of the salad, cheese and bread. Thus the first two meals ef a day cost, for the five, Sty cents. It is safe to say that, having fared 30 well for the two meais, the third repast of the day need hot exceed the cost of 42 cents, thus making it posstble for a fa; ily of five to be fed with nourishing food at a cost of $1 a day; and, as the joint wages of the parents amount to $2.20 a day, less than the half has been used In the noarish- ing of the family. Were it not for the pot-au-feu the problem would be a painful one to solve. ee It matters little what it is that you want vhether a situation or a servact—a ant” ad. in The Star will reach the only comes from the pot tender and juicy, | Person: who can fill your need. From Life. + DETSE Re QD sowen’ thar ges THE LIOX BEFOOLED, ° ar. ee