Evening Star Newspaper, July 23, 1922, Page 54

to look at ‘e’s a 'andy $¢) E AIN'T much major,: bul little “orse A groom stood at the ~nimal's head, wafting for the tall. pare man with the bronzed, weather- \caten face, who was slowly drawing n his gloves in the yard, to mount. dly the groom wondered if the \ould-be sportsman knew which side f a horse it was customary to get nto the saddle from. What could wu expect these times, when most the men who could ride in days one by would ride no more and a owd of galloping tinkers with rank igars and ranker manners had taken When he thought of came now—and the Boddington's livery too—to omen, able, renowned for fifty years, and yntrasted them with their predeces- ,rs, he was wont to spit, mentally id literally. And the quods— cwth! It was a fair disgrace to n out such ‘orses from Bodding- “Let out that throat lash a couple * holes. The groom edly a looked at the speaker A bloke that knew the name single bit of saddlery on a torse’s back was a rare cus\?mer “liese days ~And take that ironmonger's shop it of the poor brute’s mouth. Il n on & snaffl S pulls a bit when ‘e's fresh, \jor,” said the groom dubiously. The tall, spare man laughed. ‘I think I'li risk it,” he answered. Vhere did you pick him up—at :mble sale?” “*E ain’t much ter look at. I knows, major.” sald the groom, carrying out "is instructions, “but it yer ‘andle ‘im <y and nurse 'im a bit 'e’ll \give a r some sport. “I can quite believe it,” remarked the other, swinging into the saddle. * ok KK [JEFORE he had gone fifty yards ) the horse’s head had come up a \ttle. He was walking more col- ctedly. looking as if he had regained ome of the spring of former days. i'or there was a man on his back—a n born and bred to horses and “heir ways—and it would be hard to .y which of the two, the groom or he animal, realized it first. The room’s old pride in Boddington’s felt sutraged at having to offer such a mount to such a man. He turned as . two-seated racing car pulled up in the vard and a young man stepped .ut. He nodded to the groom as he removed his coat and the latter touched his cap. and day, Mr. Dawson” he re- marked. “Scent should be good.” The newcomer grunted indifferently and adjusted his already _faultless :tock, while another groom led out a magnificent blooded chestnut from a loose-box. “Who was the fellah in ratcatcher 1 passed ridin’ that awful old quod of yours?' he asked. To such a sartorial bowler hat and a short coat almost a crime *I dunno, sir,” *Ain't never seen best of me knowledge. “im at the finish.” The other regarded his chestnut complacently. He won't live half a mile If we get goin",”" he remarked. “You want a horse if hounds find in Spinner's copse., not a prehistoric bone-bag.” He gave a short laugh, in which there was more than a hint of self- satisfaction. “And you can't get a horse without money these days, George—and big money at that.” He carefully adjusted his pink coat as he sat in the saddle. “Have the gray taken to Morton's crossroads. And you can take the car there, too” he continued, turning to the chauffeur. Then, with a final hitch at his coat, he, too, went out of the yard. The old groom watched him dispassion- ately until a bend in the ro#d hid him from sight. Then he turned to one of his underlings and delivered himself of one of his cryptic utter- ances. “'Ave yer ever scen a monkey, Joe, sittin’ on the branch of a tree, 'uggin’ a waxwork doll?” “Can't say as ‘ow I ‘ave, G'arge.” exquisite a was said the groom. ‘im before to the But you'll see returned the other after profound cogitation. “Well, ver don't meed to. That monkey'd be the same shape as 'im on a ‘orse.” 'I‘HE meet of the South Lelcesters at Spinner's copse generally pro- duced a field even larger than the huge crowd which followed * % kK k¥ normal thet well known pack. the center of their country, and if Fate was kind and the fox took the direction of Hangman's Bottom, the line was unsurpassed in any country in the world. It was a quarter to eleven when the tall, spare man, having walked the three-quarters a mile from Bod- dington's, dismounted by the side of the road and thoughtfully lit a cigar- ette. His eyes took in every detail of the old familiar scene, and in spite of himself his mind went back to the last time he had been there. He smiled a little bitterly. He had been a fool to come and open old wounds. This game wasn't for him any more— his hunting days were over. If things had been different. If only— He drew back as a blood chestnut, fret- ting and firritable under a pair of heavy hands, came dancing by. spat- tering mud in all directions. —well, he might have been riding that chestnut instead of the heated clothes-peg on his back now. He looked with a kind of weary cynicism at his own mount, mournfully nib- bling grass. Then he laid a kindly hand on the animal's neck. “*Tain't your fault, old son, is 1t?" he muttered. “But to think of Spin- ner's copse—and you!” “Hounds, gentlemen, please!” The man looked up quickly, with a sudden gleam in his eyes, as hounds came slowly past. A new second whip they'd got. He remembered now. Wilson had been killed at Givenchy. But the huntsman, Mathers, was the me—a little grayer, perhaps, but 2till the same shrewd. kindly sports- man. He caught his eye at that moment and looked away quickly. There weren't likely to be many of the old crowd out today, and he'd afcred almost beyond recognition. But it was as well to be on the safe siGe. And Mathers. he remembered of old, had an eye like a hawk. He pretended to fumble with his girths, turning his back on the huntsman. It was perhaps as well that he did so for his own peace of mind, for Joe Mathers, with his jaw slowly opening, was staring, fasci- nated at the stooping figure. He was dreaming. of course. It couldn’t be he—not possibly. The man whom this stranger was like was dead—killed Tt was near | If only,| on the Somme. Entirely imagination. But still the huntsman ‘stared, until a sudden ralsing of hats all round announced the arrival of the master. * % X X |4 T was the moment that the tall, quiet man, standing a little aloof on the outskirts of the crowd, had seen dreading. He had told- himself frequently that he had forgotten the girl who stepped out of\ the car with her father. But now, as he saw once more the girl's glowing face and her slender, upright figure, showed ‘off to perfection by her hablt, he stified a groan and cursed himself more bit- terly than ever for having been such a fool as to come:. If only—once again those bitter words mocked him. He had not forgotten. He never would forget. And it was not the least part of the price he had to pay for the criminal negligence of his late father. He glanced covertly at the girl She was talking vivaciously to the man whom he had designated as a heated clothes-peg. He noticed the youth bending toward her with an air of possession which Infurlated him. Then he laughed and swung ihlm:«elf into the saddle. What had it to do with him? On a sudden impulse he turned to a farmer next him. “Who is that youngster talking to the master’s daughter?”’ he asked. The farmer looked at him in mild surprise. “You'm a stranger to these parts, mister, evidently,” he sald. “That be | young Mr. Dawson, and folks do say he be engaged to Miss Gollanfield Engaged! To that young blighter! With hands like pothooks and a seat like an elephant! And then, quite suddenly, he produced his handker- chief and proceeded most unneces- sarily to blow his nose. For Mathers was talking excitedly to Sir Hubert Gollanfleld and Maj. Dawlish, the hunt secretary, and the eyes of all three men were fixed on him. “I thought it was before, sir, and then I saw him mount, and I know, said Mathers positively. “It can't be. He was killed France” answered the “Wasn't he, David?" ve always heard so,” said Daw- lish. “I'll go and cap him now and have a closer look.” "Anyw Joe, not a word at pres- ent.’ The master turned to Mathers. “We'd better draw the spinney first.” * k¥ x HROUGH the crowd, as it slowly moved off, the secretary threaded his way toward the vaguely familiar figure ahead. It couldn’t be. It was out of the question, and yet, as he watched him, more and more did he begin to believe that the huntsman was right. Little movements, an odd, indefinable hitch of the shoulders, the set of the stranger’s head. And then, with almost & catch in his breath, he saw that the man he was following had left the crowd and was unosten- tatiously edging for a certain gap, which to the uninitiated appeared al- most a cul-de-sac. Of course, it might be just chance. On the other hand, that gap was the closely guarded preserve—as far as such things may be guarded—of the chosen few who really rode—the first fight- ers, the men who took their own line and wanted that invaluable hundred yards' start to get them clear of the mob. Slightly quickening his pace, the secretary followed his quarry. He overtook him just as he had joined the bare dozen who, with hats rammed down, sat waiting for the first whimper. They were regarding the newcomer with a certain curiosity as the secretary came up. Who was this fellow in ratcatcher mounted on = hopeless screw? And what was he doing here, anyway? “Mornin’, David.” A cherus of greeting hailed the advent of the popular secretary, but save for a brief nod and smile he took no notice. His eyes were fixed on the stranger, who was carefully adjusting one of his leathers. “Excuse me, sir” Maj. Dawlish walked his horse up to him and then sat, staring and motionless. “It can't be—" He spoke under his breath, and the stranger apparently failed to hear. “What is the cap?” he asked, cour- teously. liev. n master. “Danny!” The secretary was visi- bly agitated. “You're Danny Dray- ton! And we thought you were dead!” “I fear. sir, that there is some mis- take.” returned the other. “My name is John Marston.” In silence the two men looked at one another, and then Maj. Dawlish bowed. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Marston,” he said, gravely, “but you bear a strange resemblance to a certain very dear friend of mine whom we all be- lieved had been killed at Flers in 1916. He combined two outstanding qualities,” continued the secretary, de- liberately, “did that friend of mine— quixotic chivalry to the point of tdiocy and the most wonderful horse- manship.” Once more the eyes of the two men met, and then John Marston looked away. “l am sorry,” he remarked, quletly, “that you should have lost your friend.” ) “Ah, but have I, Mr. Marston; have 17 quickly. “You tell me he died at Flers,” re- turned the other. “And very few mistakes were made in such matters which have not been rectified since.” “‘He disappeared a year or two be- fore the wal said the secretary; “suddenly, without leaving a trace. ‘We heard he had gone to New Zea- land, but we could get no confirm tion. Do you ever go to the Grand National, Mr. Marston?"’ he continued, with apparent irrelevance. * % ¥ x -~ THE stranger stiffened in his sad- dle. “I have been,” he answered, abruptly. Merciful heavens! wouldn't some hound own to scent goon? “Do you remember that year when a certain gentleman rider was booed on the course?” went on the secre- tary, reminiscently. “It was the year John Drayton & Son went smash for half a million, and it was the son who was booed.” “I don't wonder,” returned. the stranger. “He was a fool to ride.” “Was he, Mr. Marston; was he? Or was it just part of that quixotic chivalry of which I have spoken? The horse was a rogue. There was no one else who could do him justice. So, rather than disappoint his friend, the owner, the son turned out.” “And very rightly got hissed for his pains,” said John Marston, grimly. “I remember the smash well—Dray- interrupted David' Dawlish, THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, THE MAN IN RATCATCHER DIMLY SHE HEARD A DREADFUL CLASH AND CLATTER BEHIND HER— SHE WAS PAST THE GAP, WITH A FOOT TO SPARE. ton's smash. It ruined thousands of poor people, and only a legal quibble saved a criminal prosecution.” “True,” assented the secretary, “but it was old Drayton’s fault. We all knew 1t at the time. Danny Drayton, the son—" “The man who died at Flers"” in- terrupted John Marston. And the secretary looked at him quietly. “Perhaps; perhaps not. Mistakes have occurred. But whether he died or whether he didn’t, the son was in- capable of even a mean thought. He was not to blame. “I must beg to differ, sir,” returned John Marston.’ “The firm was Dray- ton & Son. The son was responsible as much as the father. If one mem- ber of a firm goes wrong, the other members must make good. It is only fair to the public.” “I see” answered the secretary. Then I wonder who the other mem- ber of the firm can have been? The father died soon after the exposure: the son died in Flers.” He looked John Marston straight in the face. “That would seem to account for the firm,” returned the other indif- ferently “Except for one thing,” said the secretary, “the significance of which, strangely enough, has only just stuck me. There's a certain old farmer in this district who invested one hun- dred pounds with Drayton—all his savings. Along with the rest, it went smash. A month or two ago he re- ceived one hundred and thirty-five pounds in notes from an unknown source. Seven years' interest at five per cent is thirty-five pounds.” And suddenly the secretary, usually one of the most unemotional of men, leaned forward in his saddle and his voice was a little husky. “Danny, you damned quixotic fool! Come bac to us. We can't afford to lose a man who can go like you!" * Kk X TTHE man in rateatcher stari fixedly in front of him, his pro- file set and rigid. For a moment the temptation was well h over- whelming. Every account squared up; every loss made good. Then, ringing in his ears, he heard once more the yells and catcalls as he had cantered past the stand at Aintree. “As I said to you before, sir,” he aid, facing the secretary steadily, “my name is John Marston. You are making a mistake.” What Maj. Dawlish's reply would have been will never be known. He seemed on the point of an explosion of wrath when clear and shrill through the morning air came Joe Mather's “gone away." The pack came tumbling out of covert and everything else was forgotten. “It's the right line!" cried John Marston excitedly. “Hangman's Bot- tom for a quid!” The flsld streamed off, every one, ac- cording to his own peculiar methods, bent on getting the best he could out of a breast-high scent. They had gone two miles without the suspicion of a check before the secretary found himself near Sir Hu- bert. . “It's Danny, Hubert,” sald the sec- retary as they galloped side by side over a pasture fleld toward a stiff- looking post and rails, “calling him- self John Marston.” The master grunted, glancing for a moment under his bushy eyebrows at the man, two or three hundred yards in front, who, despite his mount, still lived with the vanguard. “Of course it is” he snorted. “There’s no one ,else who would be where he 13 on a horse like that. with hounds running at this rate. What's his game, David?’ “Quixotic tommyrot,” snorted the other. “He knows I know he's Danny, but he won't admit It.” “Has Molly seen him yet?" Sir Hu- bert glanced away to the left, where his duughter, on a raking black, had apparently got her hands full, “I don’'t know.’ * ok ok % THE secretary, frowning slightly, followed the direction of the other’s gaze. David Dawlish was no lover of young Dawson. He watched the girl for a moment, noting the proximity of the blood chestnut to her. Then he turned back to his old friend. “That black is too much for Molly, Hubert,” he said, a trifle un-' “He'll get away with her some “You tell her so and see what hap- pens, old man,” chuckled Sir Hubert. “I tried once.” Then he reverted to the old subject. - “What are we going to do about it, David, if it is Danny?” “There's nothing we can do,” &n- swered the other. “Officially, he's dead. The war office has said so. If he chooses to remain John Marston we can’t atop him.” So for the time-the matter was left. The hunting fleld, when the going is hot, is no place for idle speculation and talk. ' The pace by this time was begin- ning to tell. The main body of the hunt stretched over. half a dozen flelds. Even the first flight section ‘was getting thinned out. And it was as David Dawlish topped the slight rise which hid the brook at the bot- tom of the valley beyond—the notori- ous Cedar brook—that he found him- self next to Molly Gollanfield. Streaming up the other side were hounds, with Joe Mathers safely over the water and fifty yards behind | them. Two or three others were level with him, riding wide to his flank, but the secretary's eyes were fixed on 2 man In rateatcher who was just ramming an obviously tiring horse at the brook. With a faint grin, he noted the place he had selected to jump, the spot well known to every one familiar with the country as be- ing the best and firmest take-off. He watched the horse rise, just fail to clear, stumble and peck badly. He saw the rider literally lift it on its| legs again and sail on with barely al perceptible pause. And then he| glanced at Molly Gollanfield. “Well ridden, well ridden!” The girl's impulsive praise at a consum- mate piece of horsemanship made him smile a little grimly. * k¥ % THET flew %he brook simultane- ously, young Dawson a few yards behind, and swept on up the other side of the valley. “Who is that man in front, David?" called out the girl. treat to watch him ride.” “His name, so he tells me, is John Marston,” said the secretary quietly. Has he ever been out with us be- tore?” They breusted the hill as she spake. to find that the point had ended with a kill in the open. For a few minutes 1o one could think or speak of any- thing but the run. And it was a Capt. Malvin, in one of the Lancer regiments, who recalled the mysteri- ous stranger to the girl's mind. “Who is that fellow in ratcatcher, major?" Malvin was standing by her as he spoke, and the girl glanced round to find the subject of his in- terest. He had dismounted twenty or thirty yards away, and was making much of his horse, which was completely Uncle “It's a cooked. “Saw him in Boddington's,” re- marked young Dawson. “How the devil did he manage to get here on that?” “By a process known as riding.” said Malvin briefly. “If you mounted that man on a mule he'd still be at the top of a hunt, eh, Miss Gollan- field?”” But Molly Gollanfield was staring. fascinated at the stranger. “Who did you say it was, Uncle David?’" Her Voice was low and tense, and Malvin glanced at her in surprise. “John Marston,” returned the sec- retary slowly, “is the name he gave me."” And at that moment the man in ratcatcher looked at the girl. “John Marston,” she faltered. “Why —why—it's Danny! Danny, I thought you were dead!" She walked her horse toward him and held out her hand, while a won- derful light dawned in her eyes. “Danny!” she cried, “don’t you re- member me?” * K ok X RADUALLY the look of joy faded from her face, to be replaced by one of blank amazement. For the man was looking at her as if she had been a stranger. Then, with a cour- teous bow, he removed his hat. “You are the second person, madam, who has made that mistake this morning. My name is John Marston.” But the girl only stared at him in silence and shook her head. ve been watching you ride, Danny,” she said at length, “and just think of it— T didn’t know you! What a bind little fool I was, wasn't 1?* “I don’t see how you could be ex- pected to recognize me, madam,” an- swered the man. “I hope you'l' have as good a second run as thc one we've just had. I'm afraid this poor old nag must go stablewards. He looped the reins over his arm and once more raised his hat as he turned away. “But, Danny,” cried the girl, a little wildly, “you can’t go like this! “Steady, Molly.’ Young Dawson was standing beside her, looking a little ruffied. “I don't know who the devil Danny is or was, but this fellow says he's' John Marston. You can'’t go throwin’ your arms round a stranger’s neck in the huntin’ fleld. It's simply not done.” “When I require your assistance on what is or is not done, Mr. Dawson, I will let you know,” returned the girl, coldly. “Until then kindly keep such information to yourself!” “Mr. Dawson!” The youth recoiled a pace. “Molly, what do you mean?” But the girl was taking not the slightest notice of him. Her eyes were fixed on the stranger, who was talking for a moment to David Dawlish. “You forgot to take my cap,” he sald to the secretary with & smile. “It you like, I will send it along by post, or, if you prefer it, I have it on ‘me now.” *x x % - AT that moment it occurred. Per- haps it was & horse barging into the black’s quarters, perhaps it was the sugden flash of young Dawson's cigarette case in the sun, perhaps VB~ . o B Tkl D. C, JULY 23, 1922-PART %.° only TUncle David saw what really caused the black suddenly to give one wild, convulsive buck and bolt like the wind with the girl sawing vainly at its mouth. With that agonized cry, Sir Hubert started to clamber into his saddle. “The quarry!” sent a chill into the hearts of every one who heard, and half the hunt started to mount. The black was heading straight for the old, disused slate pit. But it was the immaculate Dawson who suffered the greatest shock. He had just got his foot into the stirrup when he felt himself picked up like a child and deposited in the mud. And mounted on his chestnut was the man in ratcatcher. “Keep back—all of you!" The tall, spare figure rose in the saddle and dominated the scene. “It's a one-man job." Then he swung the chestnut round, gave him one rib-binder, and followed the bolting black. “Hi! You, sir!” spluttered Dawson, “that's my horse.” But no one paid the smallest atten- tion to the aggrieved youth. They were staring at the two galloping horses. They saw the man swinging left-handed. “What's he doing? What's he do- ing?” David Dawlish was jumping up and down in his excitement. “He'll never catch her like that!” He will?” roared the cavalryman. “Oh, lovely, lovely! Look at that re- covery, sir! I ask you, look at it! Don't you see his game, man?' He turned to the secretary. “He's com- ing up between her and the quarry and he'll ride her off. If he came up straight behind, nothing could save ‘em. It's too close:” * x X % ASCINATED, the field watched the grim race, helpless, unable to do anything but sit and look on. A crowd of galloping horses would have maddened the black to frenzy. For a tew agonizing seconds, when.the girl first realized that Nigger was bolt- ing, she panicked. Then, being a thoroughbred herself, she pulled her- self together and tried to stop him But he was away with her—away with her properly, and it was just as she realized It that a strong, ringing voice came clearly from behind her left shoulder. “Drop your near rein, Molly! Put both hands on your off and pull, girl— pull! I'm coming!” She heard the thud of his horse behind her, and the black spurted again. But the chestnut crept up-till it was level with her girths—till the two horses were neck and neck. “Pull, darling—pull With a wild thrill, she heard his voice, low and tense, beside her. “Pull—pull—on that off rein!” She felt the chestnut hard against her leg as the man, exerting every ounce of his strength, started to ride her off. The black was coming round little by little, and at last she realized that they were galloping parallel with the edge’ of the quarry and not toward it. It had been touch and go. An- other twenty yards, and then, at the same ‘moment, they both saw - it Straight in front of. them, stretching back from the top of the .pit,: there yawned a great gap. She had forgot- ten the landslip during the last summe: She saw the man 1ift his crop and| give the black a heavy blow on the near side of his head. She heard his frenzied shout of “Pull! For. God's sake, pull!” And then she was gal- loping "alone. Dimly she ‘heard a dreadful crash and clatter behind her. She had one fleeting glimpse of a chestnut horse rolling over and over and bumping« sickeningly ‘downward while something else bumped down- ward, {00. Then she was past the gap with a foot to spare. That one stunning— blow with - the crop - had swung. the amaszed black through half a right angle to safety. .It.had made the chestnut swerve through half a right angle the other way to—— Ah, no, not that! Not dsad—not | dead! _He couldn't be- that—not Danny! And she knew it was Danny —had known it all along. Blowing like & steam engine, the black had topped, exhausted, and she left him standing . where he was as she ran back to the edge of the gap. “Danny! ° Danny—my man!™ ehe Tharills, My:_ter, Suspen Love Rewarded His frenzied shout | called in agony. “Speak—just a word, Danny!” Feverishly, she started to clamber down toward the still ‘figure below. But no answer came to her—only the thud of countless other horses as the fleld came up to the scene of the disaster. Sir Hubert babbled incoherently: “Only Danny could have done it he cried over and over again. “Only Danny could have saved her. And he has—and given his life to do . He peered over the top and called out anxiously to the girl below: “Care- ful, my darling, carefull’ We can get to him round by the road.” * % k% THE girl paid no heed to her father's cry, and when half a dozen men, headed by David Dawlish, rode furiously in by the old entrance to the quarry they found -her sitting on the ground with the unconscious man's head pillowed on her lap. She lifted her face, streaming with tears, and looked at the secretary. dead, Uncle David! Dann my Danny! And it was all my fault One of the men stepped forward. “May 1 examine him, Miss Gollan- fleld™ He knelt down beside the for joy. I knew he'd come—and he did. And now I could kill mysel * K k¥ TANCH old David Dawlish was > still thinking it over when the door of her room banged upstairs. “A whisky and soda, Hubert” he remarked, as the latter joined him, 'is clearly indlcated. “We'll have trouble with him, David,” grunted the master. “Damned quixotic young fool! He's got no right to get killed officially—it up- sets all one's plans. Probably have to pass an-act of parliament to bring him to life again.” “Leave it to Molly, old man.” The secretary measured out his tot. “Leave it all to her.” “I never do anything else.” sighed Sir Hubert. “What is worryifig me is young Dawson.” “There’s nothihg really in that, is there?” David Dawlish looked a little anxlously at his old friend. “There's a blood chestnut stone dead at the bottom of a pit,” returned the other. “However- % “Quite,” assented Dawlish. “Leave it to Molly; leave it all to her.” They both glanced up as a hospital nurse came down the stairs. “Mliss Gollanfleld asked me to tell you, Sir Hubert” she remarked, “that the pa- tient is conscious. She is sitting with him for a few minutes.’ “Oh, she is, is she Sir Hubert rose from his chair a little doubtfully. “Sit down, Hubert; sit down grinned Dawlish. “Haven't we just decided to leave it all to her?” “Well, John Marston! Feeling bet- ter?” ‘The man turned his head slowly on O the editor: our daily newspapers is be- ginning to read like the official communiques that use to be printed on Page 2 during the late war except that the papers used to publish the communiques from both sides so thta which ever side you was pulling for, why you could read that side's com- munique and feel like your favorite team had got the best of it, whereas amongst all the stories you see about the battles between the umpires vs, the ball plavers and bugs, you don't never find a case where the umps claims any- where near as good as a draw and in most cases the said umps don't claim nothing because he is either still un- conscious or hideing in a hollow tree when the reports is sent out. Maybe my readers has overiooked the quaint little incidence that has been comeing off lately in different leagues around the U. S. and our neighbors to the north. Well to begin with they was a couple of cuties stagged in the Eastern Canada League and the seen of action was Three Rivers which lays about. 33 way between Montreal and Quebec. s This little city couldn't use to support ball club.but a franchise was recently boughten by public spirited citizens who become wealthy dureing the Stillman spat. Well they was a umpire named Bruneau who made the rash remark that one of the Three Rivers Players was out and the crowd amused them- self by tearing off pieces of the grand stand with their teeth and throwing | them at the umps. * Xk % ¥ AFTER the game thes waited going for him outside the park and was going to present him with a necktie made entirely of rope but the police got him and his Adam's apple out of motionless figure. “I'm not a doctor, but- ** For what seemed an etern- ity he bent over him. Then he rose quickly. “A flask at once! There is still life.” It was not until the limp body had been gently placed on an extempor- ized stretcher to wait for the ambu- lance that the cavalryman turned to David Dawlish. “Danny!” he said thoughtfully. “Not Danny Drayton?” “Himself and no other,” replied the secretary. “Masquerading as John Marston.” The cavalrymas whistled softly. Aintree, before the war. I never could get to the ‘bottom of that matter.” “Couldn’t $ou?’ said David Daw- lish. “And yet it's not very diffcult. ‘The sins of the fathers are visited'— you know the rest. He disappeared, and every single sufferer in that erash is being.paid back.” “But why that dreadful quod to- day?” pursued the soldler. 11 he could get, most likely. Boddington’s cattle are pretty indif- ferent these days.” Dawlish glanced at the stretcher, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “The damned young fool could have had the pick of my stable if he'd asked for it,” he sald gruffly. “Danny—on that her- ring-gutted brute—at Spinner's copse! But ‘he ‘way always as proud as Luci- fer, was Danny. And I'm thinking no one.will ever know what he's suf- fered since the crash.” *x %% “Wm Sir ° Philip?”' With her father and David Dawlish Molly was waiting in the 'hall to hear the verdict. - Sir Philip Westwood, the great surgeon, glanced at the girl and’ smiled gravely. “As far ‘as I can_ see” he sald, “there is nothing: broken—only very severe bruises and a bad concussion. In = week he “should be walking again.” “Thank God!”. whispered the girl, and Sir Philip patted her .shoulder. “A great map” he zald, “and a great deed. 11l come over tomorrow and see him again.” He walked toward the front door, followed by Sir Hubert, and the girl turried’ hér swimming eyes on David Dawlish. X - “3¢ he died, Uncle Davia, brokenly, “I—I—" - “He's not going to, Molly,” inter- rupted the secretary. Then, after a pause, w-am you -put the spur into.Nigger?” he-asked curiously. “You .saw, did you?' .The girl .at ‘him miserably. “Because I was a little fool; because I was mad with him; ,because I loved him, and he called himself John Marston.” She rose and - laughed s little wildly. “And then, when Nigger really did bolt, § was glad—glad! And when I saw him beside me I could have sung she said “The last time T-saw him was at|™ | Wirsr @ Sport columns in | By Cyril McNeile (“Sapper” the pillow and stared at the girl. “What an unholy——" he muttered. “How's the horse?” The girl looked at him steadily. “Dead—back broken. We thought you'd done the same.” “Poor brute! Grand horse” He passed one of his hands dazedly across his forehead. “I had to take him—I couldn’t have caught you on mine. I must explain, things to your flance.” “My what?” asked the girl. “Aren’t you engaged to him the man. “They told me words tailed off and he eyes. said " The closed his * %ok ox JFOR a moment the girl looked at him. Then she bent over and laid a cool hand on his forehead. “Go to sleep, Dunny Drayton’ whispered. “Go to sleep. But the name made him eves again. she open ¥ “I told you my name w whn Marston,” he insisted “Then I require an immediate cx- of why you called e | planation darling!" she answered. With a little tired smile he gave in. “Molly." ald, very low, "my lit- tle Molly! I've dreamed of you, dear I don’t think you've ever been out of my thoughts all these long vear Just for the moment—I am Danny Tomorrow I'll be John Marsto again.” “Will you?" she whispered. and her face was very close to his. “Then there will be a scandal. For T don't see how John Marston and Mrs. Danny Drayton can possibly live ta- gether. My dear, dear man®” Copyright. All rights reserved “Kill the Umpire” Cry Heard East and West Lardner Tells of Battles Down in Durham. N. C. ! would think they would be lit [butls, the crowd into & cour i policemens that trying to Umpire O'Keefe from the bail yard 1o his hostelry. The policemens was lowed to escape with a few br but the gang toyed with O'Keefe il ithey had broke his leg. Boys will e boys. And in that same wk. Catcher Allen iof St. Paul got mad at Umpire Shan- non in Milwaukee and tore o ump's mask and smacked him but U umps managed to stay on his ft and tinue to render perilous decisions This is the gen. lay of the land in t north, south, east and middle west witih several California precinets stll miss- ing. * x5 % | \A7ELL Judge ain't it about time you done something a specially with dog days comeing on and conditions libel to go from bad to worst. Next thing you know some of these fans and ball plaYers will loose their temper and make trouble for some umpire. The 1st. thing that has got to b realized is that the present systen umpireing is all wrong. Men in cha of our national pastime has made t mistake of insisting on the umpires studying the baseball guide and mas- tering the laws of the zame with the result that they have finely became monomaniacs on the subject of have- ing games plaved according to the rules Practically all the fans and a big majority of the players ain't read the rule book since pitchers wore a mus- tache and therefore they can tell a umpire what is what without being hampered by mo printed code. Another mistake is for the umpires 1to try and umpire from right dc lthere on the field where they a A UMPIRE MADE THE RASH REMARK THAT ONE OF THE THREE RIVERS PLAYERS WAS OUT., AND THE CROWD AMUSED ITSELF BY TEARING OFF PIECES OF THE GRANDSTAND WITH THEIR TEETH AND THROWING THEM AT THE UMPS. town and nothing happened till later in the same wk. when another umps named Mahoney said in a jokeing way that a cemain player on the visiting Montreal club had reached his base ahead of the throw. Catcher Balley of Three Rivers knocked Mr, Mahoney for an afternoon nap but when he woke up he fined Baliley $50.00 and canned him out of the game whereupon the bugs took up a collection amounting to $65.00 which they give to Balley netting him a profit of $15.00. The bugs left the park be- fore the game was over and adjourned to .the hotel where Mahoney was stop- ping at and they went right up to his room and waited for him and give him a house warming that is sald to of been very carefully thought out. Mr. Mahoney afterwards sent a tele- gram to Eddie Guest the poet asking him to please not forget Three Rivers wile he is writeing hymns of praise in regards to different citles. Well about a wk. after the Three Rivers incidence they was a ball game played in Crisfleld, Md., in the Eastern Shore League and the bugs let the game g0 three full innings before one of them Jumped out of the grand stand and cracked Umpire Knowlton on the chin. The .umps was a. game bird and um- pired the last 6 innings from the hos- pital. . : close to the game to see it good. The place to umpire a ball game is either up in the grand stand or on the play- ers' bench and the umps should either be made to set in one of them 2 places or else give up their job entirely and leave lhe-flnl and bench warmers take turns giveing decisions. * k% ¥ A GOOD many experts is in favor of the umpireing being done by who ever is catching as the catchers gon- erally always seems to know when u decision is wrong, but this scheme would result in practically everybody strike- ing out which the fans don't like to sce. ‘Whatever is decided on it iIs to be hoped that they will be some radicul change, but if the moguls is stubborn and hangs on to the present system. why the lease they can do is fix it so as when a umpire makes a decision vs. Three Rivers or Durham it won't he necessary for elther athletes or bugs to soil their hands on same. Every ball park should ought to be equipped With & expert sniper that could pick off the umps the minute he went wrong and then the ground keeper's staff could rush out and roll him eut of the way like a canvas in- field cover. RING W. LARDNER. Great Neck, Long Island, July 20. -