Evening Star Newspaper, July 9, 1922, Page 56

ra The Man Who Talked URELY it is not necessary to deecribe E. Sanford Jamison. ‘Well known enough he was as the active president of one of New York's larger public service cor- porations. He is one of the men who are said to think in millions while other men are thinking in hundred: 8tlll young, he -wears a bow tle blithely, piays enough polo and ten- nis and does enough motorboating home and down the sound to be brown and fit and have a waist line not yet conspicuously convex. He may be forty-five, but that is no reason why he should not make love to a ripe lass of twenty-three and win her if he can. She was Dolly Cavour, claiming, they say. descent from the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa. Anyway, she had red hair, called lovely by every one, and, all in all, was a particularly fresh, complete and wholesome per- sonality. No one could gainsay it who ever saw her come in for a hunt breakfast after a ride over the west downs of an autumn morning. And E. Sanford Jamison, who could say no with all the tart finality of the two-fist- ed e-American Napoleon of business, could never have said no to her. They used to say at the country club that she was marked to say yes to him. He not only had force, but also finessc. He was not only a sledgehammer man, he was also the possessor of that valuable thing known as a fine Italian hand. Every now and then there is a business man who thinks at times In terms of fine, high intriguc. The Jamisons have a long tradition of gentlemanly man- ners and fat wills. They still stand well after a century of American life upon the cocial to) step, and they are cagy. Somchow 1t never was suggested to Sanford to ve cagy with Loily. The thing came to him as an utter surprise. * x ox x HOUSE party at the Bevans. Gay dinner. Flash of diamonds, waite necks, white shirt fronts. Music on the terrace, where the twenty danced wildly. The garden, lined with cedars towering like cy- press trecs in an old Roman garden. The moon. The mist over the low sca. A whiff of delicate perfume, and Dolly by his side, with the garden path gravel crunching sweetly under her silver slippers. He threw his cigarette into the Jovely pool, where it hissed as it dropped into the image of her white silk. her white neck and arms, the white aura about her lovely red hair. “Well,” sald he with a sigh, and walked around the concrete curb of the water garden to stand above her. He appeared to have reached a de- eision. | “Hello, San,” she said in a cheerful, | friendly way. “Romance.” he sald. She looked into the face of thei mocn and he thought he saw tender- ness in her eves. * " “Quit looking at him and look at he said. Of course,” she replied in a low tone. “Of the two, you are the bet- ter looking man.” “And the moon Is defunct.” She did not laugh nor move when he bent down and kissed her. Be- cause she remained so silent and mo- tionless, he wondered. “You were not offended?” “Well, I rather save my kisses answercd. “Not that I haven't—but now I ratheg, save them for the man I'm going to marry. “You are going to marry me.” he sald, and no one could have told whether he asked a question or had passed sentence on her. “No, San, my dcar fellow,” she said. taking both his hands and pulling herself up to her feet, “I'm not going to marry you. In many ways I wish I were. You are a pretty good bache- lor. as bachelors go. There are not many who play on an international polo team while they are still in col- lege and then go downtown in New York and do what you have done while you are still young. The Ca- vours are rather proud of their an- cestry, but yours is as good.” “And—" “I was going on to say that you also have restraint in what you drink and do not think disproportionately of the other sex. It is good to find that in you, San, but don’t tell any- body I said so, because in these days 1 should be thought a prude’” * ok x* AMISON, who was used to exercis- ing power of personality on boards of directors, was nonplussed. He felt himsalf a little torpedoed and sinking by the bows. Dolly Cavour was talk- ing on in her skilled, diverting way while the bats swept like evil omens across the moon and the orchestra became a little plaintive and wistful in & pause between the jangles of the jass. The great E. Sanford Jamison feit that if he was not entitled to a triumph he was at least entitled to a tragedy. It was not to be turned into a mere light tete-a-tete. He took her soft wrist. “Do you understand?”’ he asked. “Yes,” she said. “But, San, there's no use—certainly not until—" She looked down at the water lilies, pale as the light illuminating their half-closed petals. “Somebody else?’ Dolly was nervous now. She felt along the outstretched hand of a flowering shrub heavy with the scent of blooms, and broke it off as if to divert any posaible cruelty from her old friend to some less sensitive thing. o San “Fm an old friend,” he said, urging reasons for confidences. His voice chattered as if he were cold, just as the old champlon's voicé chatters when he wakes from the knockout ‘which has robbed him of his title. “You are,” she admitted, almost fervently. “But somehow, San, the one thing I wonder about In you fs your love of success.” “You mean that I wili do anything to win?" \ < “Yes—perhaps even cruel thing: “Who would—who would wno had any sens Miss Cavour replied tartly. e has only beautiful balr and lips. But Jamison was #till trying to find himself.” ~A ypung western lawyer,” he said. “Duluth, wasn't it? No distinc- tlon—" “Not yet." “No great success? He is not known widely.” “No-o. But he is not thirty-five. I think—if he had his chance- Her voice died away 8o that both listened to the distant waves on the beach be- low the lower garden wall and below the rocks stretched out beyond the wall-like black gilants sprawling on the shore. “Any good man ought to have a chance,” said Jamison significantly. He drew in a long breath. “Is that all?™ he asked. “Is it only Bowme who stands between—us?" * X % % GHE looked up sgain so that the moon’s light was full upon her face and uvon the heavy string of the family Cavour pearls upon her neck. “Well,” said Sanford, with a curi- ous, coarse, bulldog look settling around his fine mouth and chin, “anything you want, Dolly, you shall have.” The king had spoken. “Let us go back,” he sald again; “let us go. They are playing my favorite thing, and my hostess always dances at least once with me." They climbed the terrace steps and wandered between the oleanders In their creen tubs into the light of the little lanterns where the punchbowl gleamed and the players of the or- chestra tested their instruments softly and close to thelr lcaning heads. i “There. you are. Dolly” said uncle, who was still a great beau. Jamison walked across the polished tiles, Imported by the Bevans family from Spain. A curlous little smile was curving his lip. Owen Bowme, who watched this smile approach, might possibly be thought by those who are critical to be a little too chunky of figure. There was something a little thick- | set. as they say. both in his face and in his body, and it spoke perhaps of some stalwart pioneer and agricul- tufal ancestry which had tried Min- nesota when the Indians still pitched tepces on the Mississippi's far bank. He had climbed up alone. With some- thing of the same spirit of venture which took his forbears away from the cast, he had returned to New York to pry his way into practice of law in the midst of a wolfish and un- familiar community. Jamison noted him well now—his tace, rather grave, but still lit by the expectancy of untouched youth; his honest and rather mischievous blue | eyes; his hair. already turning gray; his competent hands. Well, these were not ordinarily the kind of hands into which a prise 1ike Miss Cavour would fall. It usually took a great deal of carncstness, humor and honesty to make up to girls In her set for even that faint suggestion of awkwardness surrounding young men of Owen Bowme's type. Jamison was quite aware that his coming up to Bowme would be an occasion for the ambition of the younger man to give at least a little leap. Any young lawyer might have | aviated. Jamison had his place. and it was now the whisper of the street that he was to be made president of | a large bank combine. Even San- ford’s nod across the table of the her | Midday Club had become worth some- thing. “Hello, Mr. Bowme,” he raid. “1 hardly had a word with you before dinner, and. now that we dance with our perfectos, there was not a chance for us to chat.” He spoke as if he had attended the dinner merely to make the other man’'s acquaintance. “Have a bit of the punch?’ o, thanks.” Jamison sized up his man. He lis- tened to him discourse with a pointed paragraph on the latest supreme court decislon. * Kk X x BOWHE'S voice! After all, if he had obvious distinction, it was in his voice. Its timbre was deep. It was even in itself convincing. Had Bowme said gravely. “Black is white, no end of persons would have believed it to their dying day. It was never necessary for this young man to speak with vehemence. All his words, even thosce roftly spoken, were vi- brant with a peculiar fervor and hon- esty and finality. Tt was that deep- throated voice. There is only one equal to It in the United States Sen- ate, and it has been called the big- geost vote-getter in the country. Jamison smiled again ‘Look here, Mr. Bowme,” he said, almost deferentially. “Perhaps you can help me.” “Yes, Mr. Jamison.” ‘Rather confidential.” “I understand.” “The story of the combination of trust companies and the four banks is well founded. Bowme, I'm to haldl the new institution. The respons! bility is tremendous, particularly at | this critical time in world finance, and I'm lqoking for men.” Bowme laughed in a pleased tone. “Not for me?’ he ed quickly, sharp, intelligent, alert. | Jamison walked across to the little | cabaret where the cigars were and |cost one scrutinizsing glance toward | Dolly Cavour under the Chinese lan- terns, her white silk, her white fles] her white pearls expressing some thing of eternity, just as her hair, red and shimmering, suggested something of the ardent, vital, living present. He came back with the open Dbox of Maravillas in hand, holding it out in- ' gratiatingly to the younger man. It was & little llke offe who shakes a box of oats under the nose of & fugi- tive horse while concealing a bridle in the other hand. “You said I might not be looking for you, Bowme,” he spld. “Well, I am. It's at your risk. If you want to THE' SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C., JULY 9, 1922—PART 4 Showing That Business Methods Are Egt Always Suc&ssful in Love trust their banks, just as if banksthe acoount of that speech with her |his stipend by a nonchantly appro- were enemies’ of the people rather |coffee served in a dainty set in her|Priated ten thousand. than agents of the people.” Fundamentally that is the truth,” Bowme sald, reflecting, ax if to be sure that his admission would stand squarely, with all four legs upon the floor of his conscience. “Briefly, then,” sald Jamison, tap- ping his cigar in time to the music and emphasizing the steps of the gay Jancers and their flick and flash of patent leathers ang little feet in gold and yellow, green and silver; “briefly, then, I'd rather like to have you come with us as the voice of the bank." Bowme. wet hjs lips. “I'm for that,” he said decisively. “Very kind,” Jamison said. “You luxurious bed. She felt In touch with virfle American manhood. At the Reading-Huntle, ball In the middle of the winter season E. And Dbe|ganford Jamison, glorious as always was hers—if she wanted him—this|in evening dress, bent over Dolly good-looking Bowme from the w. “I know men,’ son at the board meeting. Owen Bowme!” The Rotary Club of Buffalo, N. Y., with her plate of dainties summoned said Sanford Jami- |from the far corners of the epicurean “I picked | world. “My dear girl,” he was saying to her round, little shoulder, “I do not the chamber of commerce of some big | see Owen Bowme with you tonight.” place in Massachusetts, a convention “No. He 15 a little fagged. He meeting in Washington, D. C., where [ wrote me a note.” the President of the United States was There must have been something to be the guest, and, all in all, some | ardent in the note, for Dolly for a twenty-five other dinners, banquets [moment cast her glance downward. and meetings asked that Owen Bowme be sent, if, of ecourse, the|monds, “So those were your mother’s dia- " sald Jamison with one of his WHO WANTED TO HEAR ANY given over to a speech by a congre man, of whom she had never heard, the author of some piece of raliroad legislation the name of which was Greek to her. At the bottom of the repor*. it sald: “Owen Bowme of New York and W. D. F. Murray of the British ministry also spoke.” Her smooth .forehead knit in per- plexity. She asked E. Sanford Jamison, who came over to her and Jane Scolton when they were having tea at the Rits after Mrs. Wardwarth's bridge, whether ‘'he had heard Bowme's At- lantic City address. “The best thing he has ever done!™ was the banker’s comment. “Of ONE MAN TALK. HE FOUND will make a great success. I'm mo- toring over to my own place on the Point now. Good night.” He stopped for a moment by Dolly Cavour. “There is nothing immediate about thic?" he asked. “l can’t perform my promise in a moment.” * ¥ % % GHE appeared a little vexed and a little curious and meditative about her own vexation. Finally she smiled. You're a dear. she said lightly. “There is nothing Mmediate. He knows. We have spoken of it. He is to make his mark first. If you help, San, it will be very—white of you." He smiled again and said. all. you, too, love success.” And with that he found his chauf- felir and went in his car. purring in an eight-cylinder way off among the | pines. No one could doubt the growth of Owen Bowme as it followed that evening. From the obscurity of the Nearly Theres he entered the fratern- ity of the Arriveds When it was ex pected that the Bankers' Association | Y PERSONS NTOXICATIN great Sanford Jamison himself could | characteristic diversions from his not come to address them. own line of thoughta li—ne of “Really ent sincerity, ful advocate's skill. he has a wonderful voice. [ think 1 know men. * ok Kk said Jamison with appar- “the man has a wonder- More than that, After all, OWME himself showed remarkable poise as a meteor blazing across the world of conventions, banquets and annual meetings. Dolly Cavour thought so. She read with a friendliness almost amounting to a kind of maternal pride the morning papers’ accounts of Owen'd words. Sitting up in her high Italian palace bedstead, with her coffee growing cold on her lap. she devoured the reports of what the man who had ken so persuasively to her had said on such and such a financial sub- ject at such and such a time to such and such a gathering of masters of finance and business. If the con- scientiousness of Bowme's analyses of foreign exchange, the effect of tariffs and other economic walls, and so on and so on, made her scowl as “I OFTEN WONDER WHETHER YOU HAVE REALLY LOVED ANY ONE” SAID JAMISON. DOLLY ANSWERED EVASIVELY, “SOME DAY ! makes life unreal—and wonderful. SOMETHING WILL STIR ME,” SHE SAID. of the United States was to hear E. Sanford Jamison at its annual meet- ing, Jamison was said to be quite ill. if somehow she was willing to admit with shame the Inadequacy of her un- derstanding, nevertheless, she found thought which one suspected always ran its own course without diversion of any kind. “Ye “It would not do for you to marry a poor or unsuccessful man.” he said, laughing. “You are much too—what shall T say?—rare, precious, daintily regal.” * K k% \:OXSENSE! You are too old a “Y friend to flatter me. And, be- sides, though I suspect you are & tiny bit right. San, I want you to know that I'd rather like to picture myself ag brave and worthy enough to be above worldliness—certainly in cases of love.” “I often wonder whether you have really ever loved any one.” he saidin the form of a leading question. She ran her fan of rare feathers through her half-closed fingers. She did not answer, and the evasion ap- pcared to be a clear admission that perhaps the banker was right. “Some day something will stir me,” she asserted. “I am sure of that." “Of course,” he sald, smiling sar- donically. “It would be interesting to know just what emotion will lead you along the path of the awakencd heart.” There was an awkward pause. “Needless to tell you that Owen Bowme is a great success,” he said. “I told you I would do what I could to help. For I love you, Dolly. Don't be alarmed. I'm not getting senti- mental. On the contrary, I was go- ing to say that, after all, my part was nothing. Bowme has made his own way magnificently.” He told her solemnly all that he must have guessed Bowme had told her—of the latter's brilllant rocketing as an oracle of the banquet. He listed the virtues of Bowme—sincerity. voice, ability to collect and digest facts, his subtlety as an advocate, his wisdom in restraint of statement. “And yet,” said Jamison, “there has only been the test of a year. Do you think he has quite proved that he is the permanently successful man you deserve for a mate?” “No,” she eald. “But I have faith. And if you are worried, San, that I may do anything precipitate, I'll tell you as an old, old friend that he un- derstands well enough that there will not even be any announcement under two years.” “Wise!” said Jamison. “Like you, Dolly—wise! Yours is the vital na- ture of Venus, but yours also is the poise of Minerva!" She felt the wisdom of that god- dess, perhaps, when a month later she received the long letter—the longest Owen had ever written her. The postmark was Duluth. He had gone back to see his mother. “I have played hooky from my job and will get four days of change,” he wrote. “If the truth is told, I had to cancel seven engagements to do it and this leads me to tell you that I never supposed the world held so m#ny persons who wanted to hear tany one man talk—particularly me. There is something intoxicating about it, so that it makes life & bit unreal just as there is something intoxicat- ing about my love for you, which also Owen Bowme is a name I see 80 often. I have the strange sensation that I Ih-u never seen that man and do not i1know him. A L course, & great many of those present had heard Owen before this winter, but it was splendid, excellent!” Dolly Cavour preferred to walk home alone in the cold, thinking. The sharp air deepened the color in her cheeks, but it also cleared her mind and deepencd the color of her opinion. Some time in March Jamison was dictating a telegram to Miss Shaw, his perennial stenographer, whose hair was white even at thirty. “Regret exceedingly that previous engagements prevent my speaking at banquet of your ciation on April second. My regards. “You never speak.” sald Miss Shaw lightly over her thin lips. “Never.” He took up the letter from the president of the Hardware Manufac- turers’ Association and read the para- graph, beginning: *“We feel that Mr. Bowme is already too well apprecl- ated by our members, who, of course, have listened with great pleasure to his words on many occaslons, to urge now that he be placed upon our list of speakers, which is already too long. But, my dear Mr. Jamisen. if you could find it possible— Jamison looked about at the chaste marble wainscoting of the president's room and threw the letter into the in- laid mahogany file basket. “Never.” said he. “Bowme has been a great success. “Oh, Mr. Jamison, you do know men!” sald Miss Shaw on that occa- sion. Her face was stony. It had learned to be. In April the board of directors held their meeting, and old Canford burst forth. He is a peppery, aged marti- net, whose old-fashioned, conserva- tive bank stills holds its own. His face iz the face of dyspepsia. “What's this increase in the over- head expense?” he snarled. “It ought to be pared off instead of this damna- ble distention.” Jamison sald patiently, “We would be glad of suggestions, sir.” * ok k% ‘HE old man caught the satirical import of the president's words and the flavor of challenge. He sprang to the fray. “Well, I'll make one!" he barked. “Here's thirty-two thousand a year for Owen Bowme. Owen Bowme? Owen Bowme? I'm sick of the nafne, and so Is every one else. It's got so a man can’t o to dinner without hear- ing the outpourings of a man who never did a thing in his life. TI'd rather have the toastmaster call on one of the waiters for a change. The world is full of talk. There is a pas- sion for talk. It's all talk and no action. That's the trouble with the world—talk, talk, talk; words, words, words! So bring on Owen Bowme! I'm tired of him—every one else is tired of him. If you go to a dinner, you hear him; if you happen to be abgent, you get what he said in a pamphlet that costs money to print and is read by no one. Owen Bowme is like the anvil chorus from ‘Il Trovatore'—he's been played too much!” Canford saved a last breath for a 'm inclined to agree,” Palmer of the Occidental Ship and Trading Company said quietly. “Very well, gentlemen,” Jamison said. “I rather suspected that this would be your opinion in the end." He added under his breath, “I think 1 know men.” and the white and pivk bands of the ladles, the moonlight fell i a gentle white vell over the tall cedars and the white marble and dark greens of the garden. * %% DouaY CAVOUR, always winimasical, ‘wandered off alone, after the cigarettes were lit, down the gravel path. Jamison volunteered to tell that they were all going to dance agein, and went after her with Mar- gery Bevan's voice following as she called: Dolly has a poetess hidden in her. Tell her to suppress it tonight. Six in the morning Is the test for poetesses!” He found Miss Cavour leaning on the rough granite wall at the far end of the garden, looking out over the mysterious, lJuminous sea. ‘Dolly!"" “Hello, San!” “I've come back.” “Come back?” “Yes, I'm the same old lover. Kept atill all these months, but it's no different.” “Don’t talk nonsense, San." If he had listened intently he might have sensed a menace in a new note in her voice. Instead he was eager to talk. “Bowme has had his chance,” he sald. “You know what."” “Yes—and L know the outcome. She shook her head, and the glori- ous red of her hair took the moon's light for a nick of time. “It is not exactly the thing for you, is it? I'm afrald he has talked him- self to deat! She was silent. “I want you to marry me, dear,” he ‘went on, leaning nearer to her medi- tative head. “There isn’t much I can- not give you.” “You really propose that I—" Ve “Well, San, we are alone. Get ready, S8an. We are quite alone.” He looked up a little frightened. Miss Cavour was pointing to the sound of other.steps coming down the path. 've only a moment,” she sald. “I suppose this is Owen coming. I asked him. He wanted to tell me, I sup- pose, that he has failed—falled mis- erably, dropped to the bottom, caught all that means utter discouragement; that he is even ridiculous, cheap—a common, undistinguished failure plls absurdity; that he has, as you say, talked himocif to death. Fve agly s moment to spax to yoa.~ She was breathing fast “Yeu, Qsar. “Well, San, you hnew. You sald you'd give me what I wanted in him. You knew all the time what the end would be. That was the kind of love you had for me—nothing but a self- ish, intriguing wish for possessio: Her lips closed tightly before she asked: “And now that you have wrecked my hope, do you know what you can do? 3 Jamison drew himself up. “Be careful what you say, Doll “You understand me perfectlv.’ He walked quietly away. treading & little softly as if to make a covert escape, and she turned again to gaze out over the mysterious sea. A few minutes later it was plain"™" enough to Margery Bevans, who stood with Jamison on t@e edge of the ter- race, that a woman of Dolly Cavour's Intelligence must have intended that any one who was looking should see. The moon w: quite bright still, though It had dropped near enough the horizon to be losing something of its white chastity in a blush. It dut- lined everything in the garden. It outlined Dolly Cavour. She had moved one of her slender, graceful arms out and taken Owen Bowme's chin in the palm of her hand and raised it upward. It gave the im- pression of one who lifts a broken spirit. She must have known that any one who looked could see, or per- haps it was nothing to her that she might be observed when she put her- self with such complete abandon Into Owen Bowme's arms. “Well,” saild Margery Bevans in a voice disclosing a touch of emhar- rassment, “it appears—settled.” Jamison was staring with all the complete surprise of immaturity. For a moment he felt young and untu- tored indeed. If the wrath of impo- tence and defeat was in him, he con- cealed it as he turned away and al- lowed tho yellow light of the lanterns to fall on his face. “Yes,” he sald, pulling his words. “Settled! Something must have awak- ened the things that slept some- ‘where in Dolly Couver. I thought I knew—" supplied Margery Bevans, who has much of insight. “But, my dear San, I fear you know very little about women!” (Oopyright, 1922. THE FIGHTING SIOUX (Continued from Third Page.) the man I had with me. We were all mounted. An incautions remark made by one of the Indians with Spider started a row and a lively gun- play immediately developed. An Indian in my rear had pulled his revolver to shoot me in the back. Spider was in front of me and facing my way. Suddenly he whipped out his revolver apparently covering me, but I realised in a flash that his aim was over my shoulder. Very slowly I turned my head and saw my predic- ament. There was nothing to be done, and, matched as the parties were, the fellow behind me decided, with marked deliberation, not to shoot. I laughed. Spider approached me quickly on his pony, with his hand extended as though to shake hands. “How, how,” he sald. But 1 was a bit distrustful, and I suppose I showed it—he might have seized my hand, pulled me over and stabbed me in the back. It was equally dangerous not to meet his friendly overtures, especially after what had just happened, so I seized his hand with a hearty “How, how, Spider— hay!” Placing his other hand heavily on my shoulder, he pulled me toward him. *“You laugh!" he almost yelled. “You laugh when they are going to shoot you! You laugh, eh?" Then. drawing my head cloge to his face, he sald in a hoarse whisper: “Sloux going out to fight. Sloux just left soldiers. Come fight with us. I give you ten ponies and two pretty £quaws—one, my daughter.” Vo, no, Spider. I can't do that. I have a squaw far, far away and a little papoose I've not yet seen” Drawing himself up in his saddle, he waved his hand with a “Good man” and trotted off with the Sloux that were with him. They did break out that summer, and Spider did not return to the column. After I got to know the Indians really well and could talk with them and understand their minds I often felt for them in their troubles, curel though they were. * k x % T one time the column was passing over the rolling, semi-level coun- try north of the Big Horn when 1 noticed some twenty of our Indians pulling out with Baptiste, -our gulde, who was half Indian, half Canadian French. Soon they passed out of sight. As there was nothing especial to do I made after them on my horse «—in fact, In those days no one went anywhere in the field on foot. Pass- ing over one hill after another, 1 saw them at & distance, all squatting down, Indlan fashion, so I came up and promptly dismounted to sit down with them. A pipe was being pass- ed around. I took my puff or two and passed it along. Then I noticed that they were all extremely serious. Some of the older men had tears in thelr eyes and Baptiste wore the same ex- tremely unhappy expression. I spoke to him in English: “What's the mat- ter with them, Bat?" He only an- swered by waving his hand in the direction of the broad and beautiful prairie stretching out beyond us for miles. Then, in a rather dramatic tone, he sald: “Oncs all Indian. Many, many tepees. Black with buffalo, antelope everywhere—no white men! Now look, all white men, no antelope, no buftalo and Indians nearly all gone!” 1 was placed In no very enviable light right then, but I flatter myself that I got out of it rather skilfully. Institution. These duties afforded me abundant opportunity to study mu- seum biological material, which was fully taken advantage of for a year or so, including my reading about our Indians. Later, I was ordered to New Mexico, and was, for nearly seven years, stationed or confined to old Fort Wingate, an antiquated mili- tary post, situated in the extreme northwest angle of New Mexico. “In that country I saw not a little of the Navajoes and the Apaches— more of the former than of the lat- ter. They are of an entirely different stock as compared with the Sioux of the northwest. and had not been at war with the whites for a long time —that s, the Navajoes had not. Mariana was their chief, and we were excellent friends for several years. 3 rarely met the Apaches, and only those that visited the post from time to time. With the Navajoes it was different, for, as stated, there was a camp of them close to the post, with another blg camp some twenty miles away, where their chief, Mariana, was in authority. I saw them daily for seven years and often photographed them, their hogans, their blanket- weavers, silversmiths, warriors and others. My first lessons in photog- raphy were given me there and by that remarkable character, Benjamin Wittick, long since passed away. ‘Wittick made hundreds of superb negatives of the Navajoes, but, after selling a few prints, he would break them up. Many of my own photo- graphs of the Indians, with a few I purchased from him, have been pub- lished, some by the United States Na- tional Museum. *x % I HAD my adventures with the Nava. joes: prevented one very serious outbreak against the whites, and in a big snowstorm on their reservation 1 made an attempt to collect mers than 100 skulls in a “burial cave, but was driven off by their scouts,. who had got wind of the exploit from a squaw at Fort Deflance. Speaking of getting specimens of their skulls, one of my attempts came near having a fatal ending. It was in the winter and the ground was frozen pretty hard. They had built a substantial hogan just back of my quarters on a hill of some elevation. One night they had a carouse there, and were drinking gin. A young buck ed “old washa a Navajo laundr who had washed many a' shirt for me, to pass him the bottle. of gin. Through an oversight, she picked up a bottle of kerosene in- stead. He took a “swig” of this and immediately upon discovering his mistake drew his revolver and shot her dead. Following the tribal custom, she was buried there and the hogan pulled down over the grave. The whole thing had been carelessly done. The logs and debris had been pulled about and the wolves and coyotes chewed on the half-exposed body of the squaw. In December her skull 1was pretty well uncovered, and I de- termined to t is as a souvenir. One morning my two youngsters, then but little boys, Bob and Percy, went with me up there with a gunnysack and a big knife for a trowel. The boys were standing by the semi-ex- posed skeleton and I was trying to |work the skull out of the partly frosen ground when the crack of a Winchester rang out in the clear, cold air. The ball passed between By Richard Washburn Child [ *You love success yourself, Dolly. “Almost better than anything in the world,” she said. *That is why 1 am in doubt about the other—the come zlong, say at twenty-five thou- sand a year. I'll give you one of the vice president jobs. As you know, we'll have vice presidents enough so To speak for him and in his stead came one Owen Bowme. Oh, he was a vice president of the institution, eh? So that was it? ~ Well, well! And And soon the pipe went around again. | yne two boys and just over my back, After that I was in some mighty|,q ¢t came from the Navajo camp, | tight places with Bat, and a braver| i ated on the other s f the post, man 1 naver knmw: L3N some few hundred yards away. It herself able to engage with'a thrill in ; ‘SOMETIMES my own volce does not| It was not altogether a mere coin- the intellectual flights taken by her | sound to me if it were mine. | cidence that Margery Bevans and hul cold-storage and deferred lover. +I go to Atlantic-City to the big rail- | invalild husband gave a week “It is quite wonderful, San, how (road convention on Thursday, then | party at the villa on the Long Island other—' ) “The other man. Who is he? He loves you, does he?' Jamison spoke flercely. “Oh, yes, he loves me. He-says he San—he does. 1'll'tell You—it is Owen Bowma. Jamison uttered an exclamation. It was unintelligible, but it expreased complete stupefaction. A little iater he asked: the matter is that banking heretofore | A weekly financial review printed a | It gave a comfortable sense of great |romantic thing, dear ome, in my|sige. But the wind dropped, the ::.:lfl:rl‘;::l::m“x:::“l‘:‘.:: lm: gnmn side of m:h h:l.l at onu: Two the man who i= here—|has always turngd its back on public Bowm d mens o0d-heartedness and required no ef- | world." & th of the cloud fell over the edge b jor three more ots eame, but wi “You mean PlEiNES cOL ipw s it [ potayn Dolly looked in the proper morning | of the west, and Whils the candies |old Ford Theater. on 10th street. Fur-!were quickly under cover and n # the man—— Why, I've only ‘met him once or twice. From the west? That Bowme—who sat beside Lella Vernon ~. and barely said & word to her?” that none of them will ever have bowing acquaintance with all the others, but there will be a job for you. nd what?" asked the young west- erner, rather tense, for no doubt he was thinking that this meant also Dolly Cavour in the end. = ‘“My idea is rdther new,” said San- ford Jamison slowly. “The truth of opinion. Rather, let me say, it has forgotten that the public are the ul- timate source of assets &nd Invest- ment, and have been allowed to dis- \ listen to him. The after-dinner speech was usually so dull or. if not dull was 80 trivial. Not Bowme's. It was much too good a performance. It showed keen knowledge of the world's finan- olal prohlems. The guests of the big convention banquet agreed that it was the speech of the evening. The press associn- tions carried almost every word of it. tioned ‘the great trust company with I you can make banking men seem like some tremendous self-sacrifice,” ghe said to him. “] knew my man,” said Jamison. “He can put a soul into business.” The board of directors of the “in- stitution,” as the officers like to call it, speaking in an italicised manner, began to'see the value of “putting & soul” into the midst of their activity. fort on their part. Owen Bowme was which he was now associated. It said | doing it for them. that he had “hit the nail on the head.” Even Dolly Cavour He had become the grand gesture with'a thrill | of the bank, and the bo,.rd increased \back where I can see you and we can | nave one of our walks. After all, 1 feel always a strange sense of the emptiness of life. But I can write no more. A book, entitled ‘Railroad Operating Costs’ is open before me, threatening: my mind with tables of comparative statistics. My job is to make them quite romantic, and I have no heart for it. There is only one ndewspaper for the report of that convention in Atlantic City. It oocw- pled a column and a half, mest of it shore. The warmth of an early spring had its effect. There would be a moon. Furthermore, San Jamison had baldly sugsested it. He had said: “Dp you remember that other—it was quite wonderful!” The night of the dinrer a great dark cloud had hovered threateningly over the sunset, and Margery Bevans had said they would have to feed in- burned above the white linen, the sparkiing glass and the pinks and greens of hor famous hort E'esuvres yea, later I saved his lfe ¢ h & surgical operation of & nr:.vrrlou- nature, and he was a prince of grati- tude ever after, later on doing me a good turn. Along in the early ‘80s I/left the Department of the Platte, and was as- signed to duty in Washington, having been placed in charge of the seétion ther, by Prof. Spencer F. Baird, I wi placed in charge of the dection of | plainly said—what I well knew to be the case—that I was violating one of the most sacred rules of the Nava. Joes. I pushed the two youngsters over when a second report followed, the ball striking & log not more than three or four inches from the head of my oldest boy. I ordered them to squirm over the ground to the far- wounds. The skull of “washee' adorns the top of an old secretary bird skeletons at the Smitheonlan |my tidrasy.