Evening Star Newspaper, May 29, 1897, Page 20

20 : ——— i & URAL TURUSTAATEAA Xsc)\se) otiotl NONE OWOWADY. Se Colsefsok ce VOW oT, WZ sek se) By 2 o'clock Steptoe was at “The Three Boulders,” where he got a fast horse and galloped into San Felipe by 4. As he de- scended the last slope through the fast- nesses of pines toward the little valley over- looked in its remoteress and purely pas- teral simplicity by the gold-seeking im- migrants—tis seclusion as one of the furth- est north Californian missions still pre- served through ite insignificance and the efforts of the remaining brotherhood, who used it as an infirmary and a school for the few remaining Spanish familles—he re- membered how he once blundered upon it with the boy while hotly pursued by a hue and cry from cne of the larger towns, and how he found sanctuary there. He remembered how, when the pursifit was | over, he had placed the boy there under | the padre’s charge. He had led to his | wife regarding the whereabouts of her) son, but he free expe and the gcod for the child's 's sake, the generous “restitution” which this coarse, powerful. ruffianly looking father was apparently seeking to make. He was quite aware of it at the time, 2 it with grim cyni- k to him with a ignificance. Might they, | pted, equally | for the chure cism:; new and smartin; THE THREE Or, The Big Strike on Heavy Tree Hill. Written for The Evening Star. BY BRET HARTE. (Copsright, 1397, by Bret Harte.) RLS LLL LILLE LA had spoken truly regarding his| arms expectantly. They had often ridden 's maintenance, | tegether on the same horse. vd PARTNERS; * ard, as the father looked at-him, he could see the likeness to his mother in his clear- cut features. and even a resemblance to himself in his square, compact chest and shoulders, and crisp, black curls. A thrill of purely animal paternity passed over him, the flerce joy of his flesh over his own flesh! His own son, by God! They could not take that from him! They might plot, swindle, fawn, cheat, lie and steal away bis affections, but there he was, plain to all eyes, his own son, his very son! “Come here,” he said in a singular, half- weary and half-protesting voice. which the boy instantly recognized as his father’s accents of affection. The boy hesitated as he stood on the edge of the road and pointed, with mingled mischief and fastidiousness, to the depths of impalpable red dust t] lay between him and the horseman. Steptoe saw that he was very smartly attired in holiday guise, with white duck trousers and patent leather shoes, and, after the Spanish fash- ien, wore black kid gloves. He certainly was a bit of a dandy, as he had said. The father’s whole face changed as he wheeled and came before the lad, who lifted up his “No rides today in that toggery, Eddy, he said, in the same voice. “But I'll get down and we'll go and sit somewhere un- der a tree and have some talk. I've got a bit of a job that’s hurrying me, and I can't © time.” Not one of your old jobs, father? I thought you had quite given that up.” ‘The boy spoke more carelessly than re- THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, MAY 29, 1897-24 PAGES: - for a wife, which he liked better than her. dad, ought to have seen what stui { made up?" The boy burst into a shrill, selene jaush. and Steptoe, catching the infectlo#, Jaughed loudly in his own coarse, brutal way. --~ For some moments they sat there looking into each other's faces, shaking wit! thetic emotion, the father forgetting jurpose of his coming there, his rage ov Van Loo'a, visit, and eyen the Aenjdezvous to which his horse in the road below was waiting.-to bring him, the son forgetting their retreat from Heavy Tree Hill and his shameful vagabond wanderings with that father in the years that followed. The sinking sun stared blankly in their faces; the protecting pines above them, moved by. a stronger gust, shook a few cones upon them; an enormous crow mockingly re- peated the father’s coarse laugh, and a squirrel scampered away from the strange- ly assorted pair as Steptoe, wiping his eyes and forehead with his pocket hand- kerchief, said: “And did you send it?” “Oh, Van Loo thought it too strong, said that those sort of lovesick fools made more fuss over ‘little things than they did over big ones, and he sort of toned it down and fixed it up himself. But it told. For there were never any more letters in the post office in her handwriting, and there wasn’t any posted to her in his.” They both laughed again, and then Step- toe rose. “I must be getting along,” he said, curiously looking at the boy. “I've got to catch a train at Three Bowlders station.” “Three Bowlders?” repeated the boy. “I'm going there, too, on Friday, to meet Fr. Cipriano.” “I reckon my work will be done by Fri- day,” said Steptoe, musingly. Standing thus, holding his boy’s hand, he was think- ing that the real fight at Marshall's would not take place at once, for it might take a day or two for Marshall to gather forces. But he only pressed his son's hand gently. “I wish you would sometimes take me with you, as you used to,” said the boy, curiously. “I’m bigger now, and wouldn't be in your way.” Steptoe looked at the boy with a choking sense of satisfactiog and pride. But he said “No,” and then suddenly, with simu- lated humor, “Don't you be taken in by any letters from me such as you and Van Loo used to write. You hear?’ The boy laughed. “And,” continued Steptoe, “if anybody says I sent for you, don’t you believe them. = “No,” said the boy, smiling. “And don't you even believe I'm dead till you see me so. You understand. By the way, Fr. Pedro has some money of mine kept for you. Now, hurry back to school, and say you met me, but that I was in a great hurry. I reckon I may have been tather rough to the priesis.”” They had reached the lower road again, and Steptoe silently unhitched his horse. “Good-bye,” he said, as he laid his hand on the boy’s arm. “Good-bye, dad.” He mounted his horse slowly. ‘Well, he said, smilingly, looking down the road, “you ain't got anything more to say to me, have you?” “No, dad.” “Nothin’ you want?” “Nothin’, dad.” “All right. Good-bye.” He put spurs to his horse and cantered down the road without looking back. The boy watched him out of sight with idle cu- riosity, and thea went on his way, whis- tlirg and striking off the heads of wayside weeds with his walking stick. Chapter VII. The sun arose so brightly over Hymettus cn the morring after the meeting of the three partners that it was small wonder that Barker's impressionable nature quick- ly responded to it, and, without awakening “YOU DID NOT SEEM TO HEAR.” too, not succeed in weaning the boy’s af- fection from him, or if the mother had interfered, would .ihey not side with her in claiming an equal right? He had som times laughed to himself over the security ef this hiding place, so unknown and so unlikely to be discovered by her, yet with- in « reach of her frierds and his ene- mies; he now ground his teeth over the mistake which his doting desire to keep} his son accessible to him had caused him to make. He put spurs to his horse, dashed down the little. narrow, ill-paved street, through the deserted plaza, and pulled up in a cloud of dust before the only remain- with its cracked belfry of the 1 mission church. A new dor- d school building had been ex- tended from its walls, but in a subdued, harmonious, modest way, quite unlike the usual glaring “‘whitepine” glories of provin- cial towns. Steptoe laughed to himself bitterly. Some of his money had gone in it. He seized the horse-hair rope dangling from a bell by the wall and rang it sharp- ly. A soft-footed priest appeared—Fr. Do- menico. “Eddy Horncastle? Ah! yes. dear child, was gone.” et mite eptoe In a voice that Where? When? With m? vardon, seror, but for a time—only a pascar to the next village. It is his saint's day—he has a half holiday. He ts a good boy. It ts a little pleasure for him and for * sald Steptoe, softened into a rough apolcey, “I forgot. ‘All right. Has he had @ny visitors lately—lady, for instance?” Fr. Domenico cast a look half of fright half of reproval upon his guest. “A lady her In bis relief Stetoe burst Into a coarse laugh. “Of course; you see, I forgot that, too. I was thinking of one of his woman fclks—you know, relatives—aunts. Was there any cther visitor?” “Only ene. Ah! we know the senor's rules regarding his son.” 2" repeated Steptoe. “Who was it?” quite a hidalgo—an old friend of the —most polite, most accemplished, flu- n Spanish, perfect in deportment. The Senor Herncastle surely could find nothing to object to. Fr. Pedro was charmed with him. A man of affairs, and yet a good Cztholic, too. It was a Seaor Van Loo— Don Paul the bey called him and they talked of the boy’s studies in the old days as if—inde-d, but for the stranger belug a cabalero and man of the world—as if he had Teen his teacher.” It was a proof of the intensity of the fatrer's feellngs that they had pasaed be- yond the power of his usual coarse, brutal expression, and he only stared at the priest with a dull. red face in which the blood secmed to have stagnated. Presently he said, thickly: “When did he come?” “A few days ago.” “Which way did Eddy go?” “To Brown's Mills, scarcely a league away. He will be here—even now—on the instant. But the sencr will come into the refectory and take some of the old mis- sion wine from the Catalan grape, planted 150 years ago, until the dear child returns. He will be so happy.” “No. I'm in a hurry. I will go on and meet Lim.” He took off his hat, mopped his crisp, wet hair with his handkerchief, and {n a thick, slow. impeded voice, more suggestive than the outburst he restrained, said: “And as long as my son remains here that man, Van Loo, must not pass this gale, speak to him or even see him. You hear me? See to it, you and all the others. See to it, I say, or—" He stopped abrup:- ly, clapped His hat on the swollen veins of bis forehead, turned quickly, passed out witheut another word through the arch- way into the road, and before the good priest could cross himself or recover from his astcnishment the thud of nis horse's hoofs came upon the dusty road. It was ten minutes before his face re- sumed its usual color. But in that ten min- utes, as if some of the struggle of his rider had passed into him, his horse was sweatirg with exhaustion and fear. For in that ten minutes, in this new imagina- tion with which he was cursed, he had kil’ed both Van Loo and his son, and burn- ed the refectosy over the heads of the treqcherous priests. Then quite himself e@gtin, 2 voice came to him from the rocky trail abcve the road with the hall of “Father!” He started quickly as a lad of fifteen cr sixteen came bounding down the hilie‘de and ran toward him. “You passed me and I called to you, but you did not scem to hear,” said the boy, breathlessly. “Then I ran a¥ter you. Have you been to the mission?” Steptoe looked at him quite as breath- lessly, a deeper —— He was, even it sight, me lad, glowing with youth and the excitement of his run, proachfully, or even wonderingly, yet as he dismounted and tethered his horse Step- toe answered evasively, “It's a big thing, sonny; maybe we'll make our eternal for- tune, and then we'll light out from_this hole and have a gay time elsewhere. Come aleng.”” He teok the boy's gloved right hand in his own powerful grasp, and together they clambered up the steep hillside to a rocky ledge, on which a fallen pine from above had crashed, snapped itself in twain, and then left its withered crown to hang half down the slope, while the other half rested on the ledge. On this they sat, looking down upon the road and the tethered horse. A gentle breeze moved the treetops above their heads and the westering sun played hide and seek with the shifting shadows. The boy's face was quick and alert wi that moved around him, but thought: the father’s face was heavy, cept for the eyes, that were fixed upon his. son. “Van Loo came to the mission,” he said, suddenly, The boy's eyes glittered quickly, like a steel that pierced the sther’s heart. “Oh, he said, simply, “then tne padre told you? “How did he know you were here?’ asked Steptoe. “I don't know,” said the boy, quickly. “TI think he said something, but I've for- gotten it. It was mighty good of him to come, for I thought, you know, that he did not care to see me after Heavy Tree, and that he'd gone back on us.”” the boy, but without any show of Interest or sympathy, “we talked mostly about old times.” “Tell me about those old times, Eddy. You never told me anything about them.” The boy, momentarily arrested more by something in the tone of his father’s volce— @ weakness he had never noticed before— than by any suggestion of his words, said with a laugh, “Oh, only about what we used to do when I was very little and used to call myself his ‘little brother,’ don’t you remember, long before the big etrike on ee Tree. They were gay times we had en. “And how he used to teach you to imi- tate other people's handwriting?” said Steptoe. “What made you think of that, pop?’ said the boy, with a slight wonder in his eyes. “Why, that’s the very thing we did talk about.” “But you didn't do it again; you ain't done it since,” said Steptoe, quickly. “Lord! no,” said the boy contemptuously. “There ain't no chance now, and there wouldn't be any fun in it. It isn’t like the old times when him and me were all alone, and we used to write letters as coming from other people to all the boys round Heavy Tree and the Bar, and sometimes as far as Boomville, to get them to do things, and they’d think the letters were rex @ Spree hes ‘em. And there'd be the biggest kind of a row, and nobod: — who did it.” ee teptoe stared at this flesh of his ow: flesh half in relief, half in frightened ‘ad miration. Sitting astride the log, his el- bows on his knees and his gloved hends aupporting his round cheeks, the boy's Pandsome face became illuminated with an impish deviltry which the father had never seen before. With dancing eyes he went on: “It was one of those very games we Played so long ago that he wanted to see me about and wanted me to keep mum about, for some of the foiks that he played it on were around here now. It was a game we got off on one of the big strike partners long before the strike. Sai tell you, dad, for you know what happened af- terward, and you'll be glad. Well, that Partner, Demorest, was kind of silly, you remember, a sort of Miss Nancyish fellow, always gloomy and lovesick after his giri in the states. Well, we'd written lots of letters to b yr from their chaps before, and got lots of fun out it, but we had even a better show for a game here, for tt hap- pened that Van Loo knew all the girl—things that even the man’s own part- ner didn’t, for Van Loo’s mother was a sort of a friend of the girl's family, and traveled about with her, and knew that the girl was spoony over this Demorest, and that they corresponded. So, knowing that Van Loo was employed at Heavy Tree, bed to hinr to ‘ind out all ‘about Deraotest an yw to stop this foolish nonsense, for the girl's parents.didn’t want h pore a broken-down miner like bins” we thought we'd do it our own way a letter to her ag if it was trom hin, Gute you see? I want Faye, him Sgt artful names and eay that be heted her, le was @ mu! and that he had kill orf tates tet that he was thinking of becoming a Dig- ger Indian and of having a Digger squaw the still sleeping child, he dressed hurried- ly and was the first to greet it in the keen air of the slope behind the hotel. .To his pantheistic spirit it had always seemed as natural for him to early welcome his: re- turning brothers of the woods and hills as to say good merning to his fellow mortals. And in the joy of seeing Black Spur rising again to his level in the distance before him, he doffed his hat to it with a return of his old boyish habit, laid his arm caress- inglyaround the great girth of che nearest pine, clapped his hands to the scampering squirrels in his path, and whistled to the dipping jays. In this way he quite forgoi the more serious affairs of the preceding night, or, rather, saw them only in the gilding of the morning, until, looking up, he perceived the tall figure of Demorest ap- proaching him; and then it struck him, with his first glance at his old partner's fece, that his usual svave, gentle melan- choly had been succeeded by a critical syn- icism of lock and a restrained bitterness of accent. Barker's loyal heart smote him for his own selfishness; Demorest had Ween hard hit by tne discovery of the forgery and Stacy’s concern in it, and had doubt- “I thought ) of knocking at your door as I passed.” he said, with sympathetic apology, “but I was afraid i might disturb ycu. Isn't it glori- cus here? Quite like the cld hill. Look at that lizard; he hasn’t moved once since he first saw me. Do you remember the one who used to steal our sugar, and then stiffen himself into stone cn the edge of the bowl, until he looked hke an ornamental handle to it?” he continued, rebounding again into spirits. “Barker,” said Demorest abruptly, “what sort of woman 1s this Mrs. Van Loo, whose rooms I occupy?” ‘Oh,” said Barker, with optimistic inno- @ most proper woman, -haired, well-dressed, with a little foreign accent, and a still more foreign courtesy. Why, you don’t suppose we'd" “But what is she like?” said Demorest ee ‘k “Well,” said Barker, thoughtfully, “she is the kind of a woman who might bean ee mother, I suppose.”" “You mean the mother of a forger and a swindler?” asked Demorest, sharply. es “There are no mothers of swindlers and forgers,” said Barker gravely, “in the ay you tnean. It’s only those poor devil: he said, pointing, nevertheless, with a certain admiration to a circling sparrow-hawk above him, “who have inherited instincts. What I mean fs that she might be Van Loo's mother because he didn’t select her. “Where did she come from and how long has she been here?” nsked Demorest. “Sh2 came from abroad, I believe, and “Van Loo Came to the Mission.” she came here just after you left. Van Loo, after he became ore of the Ditch Company, sent for her anf her daughters to keep house for him. But you'll see her today or tomorrow probably when she re- turns. I'll introduce you; she'll be rather glad to meet some one from abroad, and all the more if he happens to be rich and distinguished, and eligible for her daugh- ters.” He stopped suddenly in his smile, remembering Demorest’s life-long secret. But, to his surprise, his companion’s face, instead of darkening as it was wont to do at any such allusion, brightened suddenly. with a singular excitement as he answered dryly, “Ah, well, if the girls are pretty, who knows!” Indeed, his spirits seemed to have re- turned with strange vivacity as they walk- ed back to the hotel, and he asked many other questions regarding Mrs. Van Loo and her daughters, and particularly if her daughters had also been abroad. When they reached the veranda they found a few early risers eagerly reading the Sacra- mento papers, which had just arrived, or, little knots, discussing the news. In- they would probably have stopped and his companion had not Barker, anxious to relieve his friend's curiosity, with him at once to moatagers tell me exactly when a ‘Van Loo to return?” waked fi you less passed a restless night, while he (Bar- | } ker) had forgotten all about it. was anxiously perusing, and said with a peculiar smile: “Well, nopshe was {2 re- turn today, but ff you're Wahting ie, y her rooms I should s woul t PE any trouble about itj-as she'll hardly coming back here now. She’s rather high and mighty in style, 1 know, and a detér- ed sort of criiter, but kon er daughter wouldn’ ae much to be waltzing found in public hfter what has happened,” SR “I don’t understand you;!t said Demorest impatiently. “What has happened?” “Haven't you heard the pews?” said tne manager in surprise. {It’s Jn all the Sacra- mento newspapers. Van Loo {s a defaulter —has hypothecated everything he had and skedaddled.” : Barker started. He ‘jvas"not thinking of the loss of his wife's’ morey—only of fier disappointment and mortification over it. Poor girl! Perhaps she was also worrying over his resentment, as if ghe did not know him! He would go to her at once at Boom- ville. Then he remembered that she was coming with Mrs. Horncastle, and might be already on her way here by rail or coach, and he would miss her. Demorest in the meantime had seized a paper and was intently reading it. “There's bad news, too, for your friend, your old partner,” said the manager, half sympathetically, half _interrogatively. “There has been a drop out in everything the bank is carrying, and everybody is un- loading. Two firms failed in ’Frisco yester- day that were carrying things for the bank, and have thrown everything back on it. There was an awful panic last night, and they say none of the big speculators knows where he stands. Three of our best customers in the hotel rushed off to the bay this morning, but Stacy himself start- ed before daylight and got the through night express to stop for him on the ‘Di- vide’ on signal. Shall I send any telegrams that may come to your room?” Demorest knew that the manager sus- pected him of being interested in the bank, and understood the purport of the question. He-answered with calm surprise that he Was expecting no telegrams, and added: “But if Mrs. Van Loo returns I beg you to at once let me know,” and, Barker's arm, went in to breakfast. Seat- ed by themselves, Demorest looked at his companion. “I'm afraid, Barker boy, that this thing is more serious to Jim than we expected last night, or than he cared to tell us. And you, old man, I fear are hurt a little at Van Loo’s flight. He had some money of your wife's, hadn’t he?” Barker, who knew that the bulk of Demo- rest's fortune was in Stacy’s hands, was touched at this proof of his unselfish thought, and answered with equal unsel- fishness that he was concerned only by the fear of Mrs. Barker's disappointment. “Why, Lord! Phil, whether she’s lost or saved her money it’s nothing to me. I gave it to her to do what she liked with it, but I'm afraid she'll be worrying over what I think of it, as if she did not know me! And I'm half a mind, if it were not for missing her, to go over to Boomville, where she’s stopping.” “I thought you said she was in San Francisco,” said Demorest, abstractedly. Barker colored. “Yes,” he answered quickly. ‘But I've heard since that she stopped at Boomville on the way.” — “Then don’t let me keep you here,” turned Demorest. “For if Jim telegraphs to me I shall start for San Francisco at once, and I rather think he will. I did not like to say so before those panic-mongers outside who are stampeding everything; so run along, Barker boy, and ease your mind about the wife. We may have other things to think about soon. Thus adjured, Barker arose from his half-finished breakfast and slipped away. Yet he was not quite certain what to do. His wife must have heard the news at Boomville as quickly as he had, and, if so, would be on her way with Mrs. Horn- castle; or she might be waiting for him, knowing, too, that he had heard the news, in fear and trembling.. For it was Bar. ker's custom to endow. all: those he cared for with nis own sensitiveness, and it was not like him to reflect that the woman who had so r@klessly speculated against his opinion would scarcely feat his reproaches in her defeat. In the fullness of his heart he telegraphed to her, im case she had not yet left Boomville: “Aub right. Have heard news. Understand perfectly. Don't worry. Come to me.” Then he left the hotel by the stable entrance in order to evade the guests who had congregated on the ver- anda and made his way to a little weotled crest which he knew conimanded a view of the two roads from Boomville. Here he determined to wait arf intercept her before she reached the ‘hotel. He knew that many of the gusts“ were aware of his wife's speculation’ with Van Loo, and that he was her brokers He!wished to spare her running ‘the gauntlet ‘of: their curious. stares and comments as she-drove up alone. As he was climbing the slope 'the coach from Sacramento dashed past him on the road below, but he knew that it had changed horses at Boomvijle at 4 o'clock, and that his tired wife would not have availed herself of it at that hour, particu- larly as she could not have yet received the fateful news. He threw himself under a large pine, and watched the stage coach disappear as it swept around into the court yard of the hotel. Barker sat there for some moments with taking his eyes bent upon the two forks of the red read that diverged below him, but which appeared to become whiter and more dazzling as he searched their dis- tance. There was nothing to be seen ex- cept an occasional puff of dust which event- ually revealed a horseman or a long trail- ing cloud out of which a solitary mule, one of a pack train of six or eight, would mo- mentarily emerge and be lost again. Then he suddenly heard his name called, and looking up, saw Mrs. Horncastle, who had halted a few paces from him between two columns of ihe long-drawn aisle of pines. In that mysterious half light she seemed such a beautiful and geddess-like figure that his consciousness at first was unable to grasp anything else. She was always wonderfully well dressed, but the warmth and seclusion of this mountain morning had enabled her to wear a light gown of some delicate fabric which set off the gr: of her figure, and even pardoned the rural coquetry of 2 silken sash around her still siender waist. An open white parasol thrown over her shoulder made a nimbus for Ler charming head and the thick coils of hair under her lace-edged hat. He had never seen her look so beautiful before. And that thought was so plain in his frank face and eyes as he sprang to his feet that it brought a slight rise of color to her own cheek. “I saw you climbing up here as I pas: in the coach a few minutes ago,” ghe sa! with a smile, “‘and as soon as I had shaken the dust off I followed you.” “Where's Kitty?” .he stammered. The color faded from her face as it had come, and a shade of something like re- proach crept into her dark eyes. And whatever it had been her purpose to say, or however carefully she might have pre- pared herself for this interview, she was evidently taken aback by the sudden direct- ness of the inquiry. Barker saw this as quickly, and as quickly referred it to his own rudeness. His whole soul rushed in apology to his face as he said: “O forgive me! I was anxious about Kitty; indeed, I had thought of coming again to Boomville, for you've heard the news, of course? Van Loo ts a defaylter, and has run away with the poor child’s money.” Mrs. Horncastle had heard the news at the hotel. She paused a.moment to collect herself, and then said slowly and tenta- tively, yet with a watchful intensity in her eyes: “Mrs. Barker went, I think, to the ‘Divide-— se att But she was instantly interrupted by the eager Barker. “I see.’ Ithought of that at once. She went @irectly to the com- pany’s offices to see if’shé‘could save any- thing from the wreck«befere she saw mie. It was like her, poor girl And you—you, he went on, eagerly, Whole faze beam- ing with gratitude, “yon, out of your good- ness, came here to teil me.” He held out both hands and took,bers in his. (To be cqntinued.) SSeS ee No Room for West;Pointers, From the Pittsburg Dispgtch.s It is no wonder a murmur is heard from West Point, when sixty-two young men will be graduated in’#Juite, and there is not a single vacancy fi tH army to which one of them may be appointed. There are already eleven additional second Heufen- ants on the army register, who have never been assigned to regiments. They belong to the graduating class of last year. These, with. fifteen non-commissioned officers, make a total of eighty-eight who must be taken care of. According to the usual rate of mortality, there will be but four or five’ vacancies in the list between now and June, when the future field marshals will be kissing the girls at Weet Point - bye, and those will be given to enlisted men who have been advanced in the last eleven months. A Buroj war would he a god- ically ,correct young s00--——___ The Underground System, ground system in New frig Be you?” © American—“Not tthe cable GENERAL JAMES LONGSTREET =< BY HAMLIN GARLAND. Ss SEE (Copyright, 1897, the S. S. MeClure Co.) Written for The Evening Star. General Longstreet lives in Gainesville, a lite town near Atlanta, Ga., a town so distinctively of the mountain south that to enter it as I did on Saturday afternoon, after sixteen hours in a Pullman car, is to enter another world. ‘The square swarmed with negroes on foot and on mule back, wjth mountaineers im primitive carts drawn by bulls and driven by rope lines. Behind the wagons boys were wrestling, surrounded by laughing huddies of their fellows. On the sidewalks sad women, lank and forlorn, moved aim- lessly about, carrying babes tn their nerve- less arms, and on all this tangle of human kind, horse kind, carts, cattle, were the stains of the orange-colored loam of the south. I stood before it and reread in it the stories of Joel Chandler Harris and his fellow novelists of the south. The types were all there—the poor white, the white- bearded old squires, the negroes of the flat nose and thick lips and of all shades of color, and in the midst of them, serene, unafraid, might be seen occasionally a dainty, high-bred girl picking her leisurely way. It made it possible for me to realize as never before the ante-bellum life of the state of Georgia. for it is only in an occa- sional slow-moving town like this that one can see distinct survivals of all the classes of the old-time south. My inquiries for the general brought out the grateful fact that his townsmen held him in high regard. I was assured that he was a very fine old gentleman, and one man recalled with pleasure that, at the Atlanta expositiun General Longstreet rode a horse at the head of the procession, and that the people cheered to see him pass, erect and soldierly. ‘He lives on a farm just on the edge of town,” my in- formant said, and, taking his direction, I angled away, along ‘the straight road” to- ward the suburbs. It was November, and little darkies were raking and burning leaves, and the smell was wonderfuliy fine and pungent. I looked for a large, old-fashioned south- ern place, with pillars and wide hall. In- stead, the house was an ordinary story- and-a-half farm house, such as a northern carpenter might build. A beard nailed to a tree offered wine for. sale at a very low price, and I saw an extensive vineyard across the road. A Jean, farmer-tike person told me that General Longstreet was in his vineyard, and there I came upon him, scissors in hand, busily pruning his vin He is a big old man, stooping a little no and slow of gait. He wears long whiskers cut away from the chin. s white as wool, but his skin as though sleep and good dig were still his to command. white We talked for a time about his garden and vineyard. “I get out every afternoon he said, “and work about. I find the sun and air do me good.” One of his arms fs a little disabled, and he is quite deaf in one car. He could not hear very well in the open air and at his suggestion we returned to the house. “I live with my tenant. He is a veteran of the northern army,” he said at the door, and there was a slight smile about his eyes. The house was small and plainly furnis ed, and out of it the general retains but a single small room, ‘h he sleeps and smokes and writes. As we sat together and talked of the war and of the great Union commander, his old comrade at West Point, I became aware that I was in the presence of a very re- markable personality. not merely a great soldier, according to the estimate of Grant and others competent to judge, but also a thinker of unusual originality, and a brave, high-mi itizen. He was great enough and mous enough to utter the finest eulogium of Gen. Grant ever spoken: by a southerner,and one excelled in its real comprchension of the man and soldier by few from any lips whatever. I refer to the address at Boston last summer. He talked of Grant with affection and with clear-sighted knowledge of his whole career. “He was a highly honorable mau as well as a great man. A man singularly free from vulgarity and profanity. His life was uniformly good and true and kind from the time he went to West Point until } he died’’—was his judgment. Grant on his part admired Longstreet and loved him for his own sake as well as for his close relation to his life. Gen. Longstreet was a kinsman of the Dents murriage—was, be: E ey were together at nt, at Jefferson barracks in '44, in in ‘45, and then for three years in Mexico, and they met once in St. Li after ‘ant had res They met next first formaliti ned from the army. at Appomattox. After the Grant stepped filled with emo- e if we can't return to s by playing a game of reat God!" excl. neath his breath, “Wh. ought to be brothers?” What could a big, liberal-minded, honor- abie man like Longstreet do but join hands with his magnanimous conqueror and life- leng friend and say: ‘Sam, I'll do my part to reconstruct our torn und dismembered nation.” This he has done. He left the war behind and set his face to the future. fe fought, and fought hard, but when the fighting was done he was done fighting. : dily upheld every measure which in his judgment would restore the Union and peace and harmony soonest, no matter what his critics might say. Jt does not appear in Gen. Longstreet’s talk that he holds any bitterness toward his detractors. He talked like a philoso- pher, a gentleman, and a lover of the whole America. He made a most powerful im- pression upon me. First of all it was a shock to find so great a figure living in such cramped conditions. It made me un- derMand that I was in the land of the conquered. His home was burned some years ago during his absence, and all his books, papers and pictures were destroyed. His wife is dead, and his sons and daugh- ters live far distant from him. Therefore, he sits alone in his little room and smokes his pipe and dreams of the epic days of the war. He has no pension, as the victorious gen- erals have, though he carries a wound in his throat which makes speaking diffi- cult. I could not think of a man of his rank in the northern army left so utterly one side. This man, who set the first flag on the redoubt back of the bishop's palace at Monterey, fifty years ago; who saw Grant win his promotion at Molino del Rey: who was present at his marriage; who entered the southern army just im the fuliness of his powers, and who won his way by leaps and bounds to a foremost place in the battle line of "65, and to a position second to none in patriotism when the war was over—is now pruning vines on pleasant afternoons in a little vineyard on a Georgia hillside. His life, like Grant's, is epic in its contrasts. I wonder if the past does not all seem a dream to him. As he took my hand to say “Good night” it was almost dark, and he loomed above me with a hulking stoop in his massive frame, and his eyes peered down at me, sad and penetrating, but his broad face was inscrutably placid. My questions had put him far back in the past, that was evi- dent. As I trod my cautious way back along the winding street toward the village I said to myself, “I have seen the ghost of the confederacy. I have touched hands with its greatest’ living representative.” To meet Gen. Longstreet, to see his white hairs, to look into his retrospective eyes and watch his slow movements, the hesi- tating movements of an old man, is to be made emotionally aware that the mighty struggle of thirty-three years ago is ing into the land of dreams. In ten years it will have scarcely a single living leader. Its steel is dust, Its granite sand, its heroes are soon to be @ memory. «+ o-— A Royal Engagement. Puck. Eastcrn Potentate (at a legation recep- tion at Washington)—“Great Allah! My son, you would seek an alliance with the house of @ Christian--of a Chicago Chris- than? Son of your father, I must remind you that you are of royal blood!” Hassan Eli (his son)—“So is the fair Christian, oh, edored sire! I am assured that her father is a famous pork prin and her next of kin is a corn baron!” . - ——_+o+—____ Hard to Repress, From Life. = K She—“There’s Mrs. Smith, and her uncle was only buried yesterday.” <5 “There. is only } death in her family own.” i med Longstreet, be- will men fight who CATARRH ~ TREATED FREE While Doctor McCoy Is Teaching the People He Will Enforce His Teaching by Giving All His Treatment For Catarrh Free. The treatment that is universally used all over the country for Catarrhal troubles is the treatment that Dr. McCoy originated and formulated in 1883; the treatment, by the way, which he vastly im. proved in his later practice. The fact that it is his carlier treatment t! is universally used for “Catarrh by doctors certainly entitles him to speak with anthority regarding this disease, and in the series of articles (co will fry to set the public ard the profession as well entirely right upon the subject. Doctor MeCoy will give the people his treatment without charge while be is teaching them about Catarrh, He will treat them all’ free, simply charging for the med He Is not selling modi- cine either. He is simply giving them medic the cost of it. His services and his treatment for Catarrh are entirely free for the time—that is, While he ts teaching the people the truth about Ca- tarrh in this series of articles or lessons. James G. Clark, 3218 O st. n.w. Cured of catarrh of the stomach. HOW CATARRH PASSES INTO THE BRONCHIAL TUBES~Lessm No. 5 . 1897, J. C. McOOY¥.) (Copyr! In this climate the most common extension of arrh is from the throat to the bronchial tubes. assage from the throat there comes a period arseness and huskiness of the volce, announe- ing its entry Into the deeper structures. “Chis con- tion, while secn in persons of every age, in the iid, im the old in the youth and and in old age, is more fo in elder people, and the reason ts apparent W is taken into consideration that those of advanced years have had more time for the disease to spread from part to another. ‘The extension cf Catarrh into the bronchial tubes, is, at all times, seri us; serious in the first of the Catarrh s the lining of the great air carriers, tubes, inoperative In a large measure, ling produced by the Catarrh narrows: r ts a free nt of lis. Farther, the exten- into the bronchial tubes must er be s matter when it ts taken Inte co; how near the bronchial tules are to the lung and how readily Catarth extends from one part to - and bow extension from the tens Catarrhal Pneumonia, F arrhal Consumpti ¢ persons past mid suffer from severe coughts, which co: all winter, to moderate dur- are sufferers from Bronchial Ca- cough of old people, so commonly no- jy the cough of Bronchial Catarrh, e of Catarrh in the I because “the presence render in such persons, narrowing up th of these tubes as it does, accounts for the shortness of Dreath on the slightest exertion. Further, the at- tacks of coughing that ac tarch are worse toward evening and during the Light. Coming on as they do in paroxysms they prevent the one afflicted from obtaining the restf and refreshing sleep that ix always demanded after the exertions of the day. Bronchitis, or rather I should say, chronic bronchitis, is the name which a great many doctors give to Bronchial Catarrh, A Case of Ordinary Catarrh. ‘ou would watch carefully for a few, weeks or ws you would likely notice after a time that the sufferer was coustantly clearing bis throat, and if you asked him what his trouble was he would tell you that he had caught cold in the throat, and Sighted) which will follow he | that the throat felt sore and inflamed at times, | feeling as though sand was dusted on it or that a hewn hair bad lodged in it. kl tell you that he had to drink water to moisten bis throat, and that during the night bis throat felt dry and | | | { parched. If you watched him carefully for several days he would tell you that most of the soreness had left his throat; that the throat no lonzes dry, but tat now he was called upon effort to remove a nasty, sticky disci ‘onstantly forming in the throat make an > that was would tell ou that when be retired for the night a asleep he would be awakened after dropping in the imek part of his throat, whie as if it had fallen from the | on arising he was compelled a lot of mucus which bad coll during the night. If you follow th ml spit up in his throat ¢ husky, 9 morring you will notice that be is along about noon you will find his I grown less marked, that he is making repeated forts to clear Lis thr and that toward night iis hoarseness returns, it Is more marked than it was in the morutng. 1 ext morning Le will tell you of restless sleep, difficulty to bresthe, and of such a tickling se tion tn the throat that he Is compelled to use lent effort to free it, and this irritates the thr makes it fecl very sore and inflamed, and br on & cough that ix quite violent in « ter he will tell you that after a severe fit of « i, Sticky matters up and spit out possibly in two or th hoarseness will gradually disappear only complain of slight theklt @ moist cough that comes on when any dust or irritating material from If you followed this case daring the sumi would find that his gener: , and that mest of bis sy but in the fall during a violent « you would notice that he bad ang strength Alsappear, of weather lose feel nd that he was troubled very severe cough that plagued bim most every wight when be fiixt retired to bed and as so arose in U You would not violent spe jing wovld bring up a white, frothy mate or mucus mixed with yellow pus. He would tel mi that be felt so through the chest as a coughing, avd had a pain beh aust bone, and possitily out a week or ugh until Lis throat be and sore. Tired out by the coughing fit and bathed in perspiration from t would fall as another fit of cone would continue till toward morning, bre king bis slumber, robbing him of restful sleep, and"he would arise not one bit refreshed, but feeling wore ted than when be went to bed. ‘The condition above descrited is common with Cetarrh sufferers and explains the extension of the diserse frow the nose into the bronchial tubes, involving im its parsage the throat, larynx and windpipe, and showing by characteristic symptoms when each of these parts is invelved. In some cases this extension takes place slowly, and months and years are required for the dincase eproad to tie deeper parts, In other cases extension is a more rapid one, and a few w Wili be all that fs necessary to present it in its forms. . McCoy System of Medicine, McCOY’S NATIONAL PRACTICE, Dr. J. Cresap McCoy, Dr. J. M. Cowden, Consulting Physicians. 715 13th Street Northwest. Office Hours, 9 to 12 a.m., 1 to 5 p.m., 6 to 8S p.m.daily. Sunday, AERIAL SHIPS IN WAR. A Military Expert Points Out Their | chine in mid-z Great Destructive Possibility. From the Pall Mall Budget. Capt. Sir B. Baden-Powell, a distinguish- ed military authority, warns the govern- ments of all nations that they had better put bomb proof roofs on their forts, if they want to stand any chance whatever of winning the next war in which they en- gage. Capt. Powell says that an aerial war ship is an absolute certainty, and that what the military genius of the future will have to look out for will be bombs over- head, instead of in front or behind. In other words, Capt. Powell states that the fort without a roof will be about as useful as the fifth wheel of a wagon. When questioned about the matter, Capt. Powell said: “While we have time, let us take what precaution we may for our de- ferse. It may be possible to protect to some extent our fortifications by means of sicping, bomb-prcof rocfs over the more vulnerable portions. The guns must be made capable of firing vpward. During the sicge of Paris the Germans had a number of guns. specially made on swivel mourt- irgs for firing at ballocns, though it is also true that very few of them were hit during the siege. Rockets might, perhaps, prove mcre useful. The only really efficient means of defense, however, will undoubted- ly be for every army and every govern- ment to make themselves equal, if not su- perior, to their enemies with aerial arma- ments. Aerial Machines Will Figure. “I think we may at all events consider it a fact that aerial machines will figure to a great extent in the wars of the future. These msy be the existing cumbersome wirdbag, traveling with difficulty fourteen miles an hour, or they may be balloons £0 ceeores as to go twenty or thirty miles an hour. “It is also possible that a slow-; B= ing fiying engine may be introduced. or occasions of the greatest value. “Every nation has this problem to con- sider as they are at present situated, with the Russia. Should I: would be practically impossible, then, for an observer, on seeing an aerial m r, to discover and reproduce mechanism of its motor. age of Such Air Ships. “If two nations actually went to war— two great nations—that power which had organized an aerial navy would possess such an incalculable advantage that its op- ponent would suffer a most crushing de- feat. Within a few hours of the declara- tion of war some aeromotors could be dis- patched quite out of range of guns, and perhaps traveling at such a speed as to insure safety from: projectiles over the enemy's country. From them explosive shells could be dropped where and when the acronaut willed. By this means forti- fications could lamaged, magazines blown up, ships sunk and cities ruined. Is it not plain, then, that an absolute necessity exists for the modern fort to have a bomb-proof roof? The facis I have pre- sented are known to every careful student of military matters. They are not theories ripe for explosion, but facts, the realization of which cannot come too x the details of th Aa ———-e+—_. The Anti-Bore Device. From Hardware, I called on a prominent hardware mer- chant some months ago. He seemed’to be very glad to see me, and after a time the conversation drifted around to bores. “They don’t stay long with me,” said the mer- chant. “How do you get rid of them?” I asked. “I just touch a bell button with my foot,” said he, “and there is a sudden call for me, and I slip ont, and stay out.” Just then a red-headed boy thrust in his head and said, “Mr. Blank, they want to oe a in the back office, right off.” eft.