Evening Star Newspaper, May 16, 1926, Page 94

6 THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, MAY 16, The Courtin’ of Sally Ann By Lorna Moon Time Was When Mother Had Urged the Lassie to Marry MACINTOSH was v upholstered back and front in black satin of a thick, dull quality. Jiverything about her seem- ed to be pressed backward by deter- mined though invisible fingers. 1t was as if she were forever hreasting a gale. Her shoulders were thrown back %o far that there was an indenture Letween her shoulder blades. Even her thin gray hair seemed to be striv- ing to leave her face; the marks left by the comb divided it into little ways that went hurrying of her head. and the scalp between was pink with the exertion. The smail black lace cap on her head, coming to a point neatly on the front parting, carried out the illusion. At either side of the point three baroque pearl beads were sewed into the lace half an inch apart. For some reason they suggested hidden artil- lery. She resembled nothing so much as a tleship steaming out to the field of action Mistress MacIntosh had dealt falrly with_life, he was wont to point it but lite had been far from dealing ith her. there was MacIntosh— rd man 1o cateh he had been, 1d no such catch at that S wouldn't_ admit now. for it is i ind unwiselike to belittle the he Toudly pro claimed his saintliness to the neigh- but in her heart she imitted he had been a sore disappoint- as that mer And aure to be dead by cough he had that him in two. And the blind girl! A body ik there would come an trouble some time. But no! Without giving o thought to anybody's comfort except her own, and with no proveca. tion whatsoever, she had died the week after they had laid her father way, and this, mind vou, at tha very time that the elders had finally ry for playt n from 10 shillin week to ngs and 6 pence It was just another in: perversity of life 1l who had the musical ed die, and Sally Ann, who h not even enough metuy catch a ma 1d be left Goodness knows it wasn't for the want of help that Sally Ann was single! But it voung Sandy. ring with that like to split then there was wa might end to ince of the the daughter tion should 1 nothing dzo to was useless to speak to her, unless to instruct her in the ways to inveigle 2 man. If you left her alone with one purposely, instead of edging him into a dark corner to give him courage te kiss her, she would hand him the family album to look at. It seemed that the more you threw a man at Sally Ann, the more she drew back and let her chances slip by. She had no more her of her, and he any a time when a customer had lled to take out an insurance policy. Alistress 1welntosh had waited just out of hot till Sandy would call her to the document. but when, i had passed. she would hear front door shut on the customer’s departing heels, she would find him carefully putting away his luster china, with never a thought of insu ¢ in his head, and his onl se would be: “It's un- pleasant like, woman, t' keep harpin’ on death when a man comes t' see ve.” s a v tried woman, Mis tress MacIntosh; sorely done en: * % UT after all, the way th had tur; out now, it was a me that no man would batter down the door to get Sally Ann. With nobody else to bring in a penny, it was just as well that Sally Ann was free-footed and not tied to some man who might not so much as give her mother a pail of skimmed milk on Saturday night. It was a_ blessing too, although it had looked like o willful waste of siller at the time. that Sally Ann had spent her grandmother's legacy of 3 pounds 10 shillings to ga to Fraser- hurg and learn candy-making. And it scemed like special consideration that at the very time ally Ann irted, In - Lusiness, Sweetie-Annie's asthma took a turn for the worse, and she was obliged to give up her shop and go to live with her daughter, so that Sally Ann was able to buy her and pans for next to nothing, all her trade forby. Sally Ann would ever make s of the business if it were left to her. Indeed no: it was a case of con- stant watching to see that she didn’t glve the candy aw to any red-cheek- ed bafrn that pushed his nose again: the window. Things had come to such A pass one day that she had even caught her putting her thumb on the weight side of the scales right under ves, and she had barel vented her from giving the F bairn three half-penny’s worth of but terscotch for his half-penn s the like of this which proved that Sally as not fit to serve the public, and that finally persuaded her to don her & satin gown and serve the candy herself. It a sorry down-come that the widow of an insurance man, with a bras ate on his doar, should be serving ndy to any bajrn that had a half-penny to spend; but the black satin gown made it bearable. And even the like of SKkilly's Gype, that carried a high head and an impudent tongue in it, had been impressed by the gold locket, and remarked that it “dootless had cost a bonnie penny.” and when he ordered a pair of knitied gloves, he asked if she would mind knitting them in a heather mixture color; so it wasn't as if they dldn’t know that she was above such doings. It had been a bitter privation to give up the front parlor and turn it into a shop where all and sundry could come to geek and glower; and harder still to take the lace curtains off the win- dow and fill it with pans of candy. She didn’t want to do iz, but Sally Ann had been determined about this; she . had even gone the length of savin “Tt's no secret that we're sellin’ candy mither.” That wasn't like Sally Ann, she was unreasonable and feckless like the father of her, but it was seldom that she w impudent. There was something gleved about Sally Ann. She had started to be a perfect copy of her mother, and then lost heart. Her prominent brows were made to ve heavily marked with dark °eyebrows, but, instead, each hovered naked as an unstroked ‘“'t” above a timid, vague blue eye. Her shoulders had the challenging set of her mother’s, and her dominant cheek- bones were molded by the same firm hand, but her hair was the yellow of a mavis' breast, and her w shy and tender, as if some essence of her gentle father had crept by mistake into the wrong casket. In the shelter of her room as she braided her hair by the candle-light, Sally Ann would dream rash and glowing dreams of flashing lovers who would not be denied. But it was only in her dreams that she was brave enough to lift eyes to them; for the very approach of a man made her wits fly two ways at once in a frenzy of embarrassment.” Before her sister died, leaving her to provide for the family, she had been steeped to the lips in mortification at her mother’s constant angling after a man for her. But all that was changed now, ngs con- | little enough. | | turned tried and ill- | loff h w FI.I" from urging ber to go out, Mistresy step wi’ the like o’ ye.” | MacIntosh even contrived to have “a sinkin’ aboot her heart” every time there were any social doings, so that Sally Ann had to stay at home and tend her. She even kept her from going to serve the customers in the front parlor, except on those rare oc: casions when the water on her knee made her a cripple. And she believed that Sally Ann was content, and would never give marrying a thought unless some man came troubling her with his haverings. ety Monday morning Sally Ann made the treacle candy. She always pulled it on a big hook in the front parlor, and because custom- ers might come in, she wore her sky- blue print gown fresh from the T was a when S s Gype ridin’ doon the brae, the dirt flyln’ o'er his head as if auld Nick were at his heels,” com- mented Mistress MacIntosh. be after his gloves, an’ them barely on yet. the candy ben the hoose, Sally Ann: ve'll no’ be wantin’ t' hae speech wi' the like o' him. I canna, mither,” Sally Ann pro- tested. “I hae t' pull it when it's at this heat, or I'll hae t' heat it o'er again.” “Weel, then, turn ver back on him, and dinna let on ye ken he's here.” “He’ll_think I'm “deaf,” said Sally Ann with a flustered gig: Her heart was capering queerly the nearing clatter, of hoofs “Better think ve deaf than think ve wanton,” warned her mother. He was filling the parl ceiling before Sally Ann h: catch up with her heart. Everything about him, from his checked yellow waistcoat to his srinkling red hafr, bespoke achievement and the poise land pride that comes of it. | They him daft-like, and | nicknamed killy’s Gype,” be- cause he had come back from Aber- | deen University with newfangled no- | tions about farming. But the de. vision had died out when his oats and | Jerseys robbed them of the hest coun |ty prizes: and though they called him the Gyme” still, and cracked their jokes about his waistcoats | not_one of them above stepping up to Skilly Farm on a dark evening to ask him for a little advice. And now | that “Auld Skilly” was dead. and the Gype owned the farm, the lassies were rly on tiptoe at his approach and | angling to catch him with every wile, as much for the fine figure of a man he was, as for the grand farmhouse and byre full of Jer: But he had a high-handed way with 'k, for he was his that he couldr not minded to t step b be married for than the | minded to be married at all. He included Sally Ann in his hearty “Guid day t' ve.” but minding her mother's warning, she didn't turn round. Indeed. she couldn't have round. in such a flurry was she. The sound of his horse’s hoofs had made her heart float out of her, and for the moment he was strangely mixed up with the lover of her dreams. “Yer gloves are no' but just cast on et,” Mis Maclntosh ‘was saying discouragingly But the Gype was leaning far over | the counter to attract Sally Ann. | “How long will I hae t' wait t get some o’ the candy ve'er pullin,” Miss MaclIntosh?” Her mother made answer, cutting view of Sally Ann. lots o treacle candy all ready in the winda. How much wad ye ntin'?” But I'm minded t' the fresh,” he answered, stepping round the short counter to Sally Ann’s side. Seeing him, she missed the hook, and the candy would have fallen had he not deftly grabbed it and tossed it upon the hook again. Sally Ann smiled shyly up at him. “It's the verra color o' yer hair,’ he said, contemplating her. “Only it's no’ so bonnie Yer horse is scarin’ at something,” sald Mistress MacIntosh with a clink- ing chill in her voice. “Better tend ' ver ain business and let the lassie tend ' hers. She none o’ ver haverin’, keep Brans- hae some o’ that for there was | them, and never went so far forward | Jersey cows, and indeed, he was mnot | Ve hae | be | We'll see aboot that,” he mocked. ell her I'll be in by on my way e ' kiss her guid night.” wa Mistress MacIntosh was ngry for further speech. *Na, ve'll no leave it here,” she cried as he | pushed the candy back at her, and hurried laughing from the shop. She hurried round the counter as fast us her stiff knee would let her, intending to throw his candy after him, but as she heard the thud of departing hoofs, she stopped to consider it. After all, it was a shilling’s worth of candy, and it had been paid for: and she could sell it again and never let on to Sally Ann, Tlll-; * ok ok K Gype went thudding down the street, laughing in appreclation of his own wit. Then he bethought him of Sally Ann and his threat to kiss her good night. He hadn’t meant it at the time. But why should he not? He was surprised that he hadn’t no- ticed before how bonnie her hair was. And she had a soft-like look In her eyves that was becoming in a young la would not be a very sore trial to have to kiss Sally Ann! He grinned W that. How would she take it? She would like it, of course. She would pretend that she didn’t, but she would. He knew his worth too well to doubt that. Doubtless she would be proud and brag about it. He must watch, though. No use letting a lass hink fun was more than fun. Lasses ad n way of seeing wedding rings and the like—queer how the least thing could set them thinking that wi It would be wise to make it clear to begin with—that was the best wa hen he wondered who came court- ing Sally Ann. There was sure to be somebody, for all her quietness. His mother had often sajd that the quiet ones were the worst. She had been a | \wise woman, his mother. Maybe Sally Ann knew a lot more than she was minded to let people see, She had ziven him a look, shy-like up out of the corner of her eyes. There had | been encouragement in it, for all it was shy and softtke. Oh, 'she was no | wuileless lamb, blush though she may. | It mizht well be that she was as free with her kisses Bransbog's lasses, | for all her mousey ways. Doubtless che was expecting him this very min- ute, and thinking him blate that he hadn’t ridden round to the back of the house as soon as he left the shop. And why hadn’t he? Dullard that he | was, to keep, a lass waiting! He | wheeled his horse about, his mouth | wideninz roguishly. “All right, Sally | Ann. T'm no’ one t' keep a lass watin® for a kiss. My mither always tel't me T must be obligin’ wi' the women-folk.” sally Ann dumped the candy back |in the pan. and took her flushed | cheeks out to the back vard. Her | heart needed mdve room to beat. She | was dismayed by the pother it making. “It’s n word o 1s If 1 thought he meant a she reasoned. “And what did he sav, but that my hair is the color o the candy, which is nothing | t ;m,: the bare truth. Fine nonsense | this, to fash mysel’ o'er bare civility. She barely heard the Gype ride up | to the hedge when he vaulted over it, | high-headed. thinking she was waiting there for him. He swaggered ap- | proaching her, his cap far back upon his head, his lip lifted in amusement over his glistening teeth. xpecting some coquettish resls- tance, he longed toward her and eir- cled her tightly with his arms. | Sally Ann, crushed against his breast, lay quiet. This was her dream she had dreamed it. This was love. This was her lover come to claim her. A tide of sweetness welled up to her eves Her quietness surprised the Gype, who would have understood better if she had given him a clout on the ear. He looked down at her quince- colored head lying bright against the rough gray of his coa She's a_bonnie la he jested to himself. It would be ill'done to sappoint he ile felt for her chin and raised her scarcely resisting face. She looked up at him timidly; darkened her vellow lashe “WILL YE LET ME KISS YE, SALLY ANN?” bog's lassies that hae nothing better t’ do than listen t’ the like o’ ye.” “Mither!” cried Sally Ann reproach- fully. "ly)lnna ‘mither’ me,” snapped Mis- tress MacIntosh. ae ben the hoose as I tel't ye in the first place.” “Mither——" began Sally again. “Na, noo,” remonstrated the Gype. “T'll no’ tak’ a bite out o’ the lass.” He put out a hand to detain Sally Ann, but, obeying a commanding signal from her mother, she had the candy from the hook and was through the door like a frightened squirrel. “Be steppin’ yer way, ma mannie,” said Mistress MacIntosh with with- ering patronage. The Gype loitered. “I'll tak’ a pounl o' candy first.” He was not minded to go at Mistress MacIntosh's bidding; it pleased him to make her drop her triumphant air and reach down groaningly to the shelf under the counter for a bag of candy. *Noo,” he said, with mischief danc- ing in his face, “present it t’ Miss MaclIntosh wi' my compliments an’ tell her frae me that I'd tak' her walkin’ if she didna hae such an {ll- natured mither.” “Awa’, ye impudent bletherskate, an’ tak’ yer candy wi' ye. I'll break her twa legs afore T let her tak' a . i the Gype relaxed his hold. “This is a bonnie business,” he reflected frrita- bly. *“She’ll hae me walkin’ down the aisle to the altar afore I've time t' draw my breath.” He would have taken his arms away, but Sally, Ann leanéd helplessly against him. He was thinking of es- cape when a smile flickered across her tear-wet face. This reassured him. So she wasn't blaming him. Maybe she wasn't taking him as seriously as he had feared. Some women cried for nothing, and meant nothing by it. His arms closed about her again and his arrogant lips covered her warm mouth. Its willingness bewil- dered and conquered him. His emo- tions took a new color, his arms about her were more gentle and his lips sought her kisses with greater ten- derness. He thought how soft and small she was against his breast, and how foolish she was to trust him so. He must warn her of that. A man might well think her wanton to be so free. Sally Ann turhed her face against his shoulder, a gentle sobbing fluttered in her throat, her small body droop- ing in his arms. Seeing her so help- less, he thought he understood, and a bitter shame smote his heart. He had frightened her! Frightened her 0 that she was powerless to resist him. He had thought her free; had though her willing for his kisses, and all the time the poor lass had been too mazed to cry out against him. Oh, prideful popinjay that he was, he had frightened the lass out of her wits, and now she was crying as if the heart of her would break in two. “‘Oh, Sally Ann,” he cried, “I didna mean t' fright ye so. Dinna greet, dinna greet, my wee lamb. I'm a lout that's no' worth the hangin’, but I'd bake on a griddle afore I'd do aught t’ harm ve, Sally Ann.” She stopped sobhing, wondering at the trouble in his broad flushed face. “Yer no’ a lout,” she said, ignoring all his protestations save that one. Eager to drive away the signs of weeping, he was daubing awkwardly at her face with his red-spotted hand- kerchief. But more tears kept fall ing, for Sally Ann was so full of hap- piness it had to overflow. “Sally Ann,” came shrilly from the house. iy mither,” cried Sally Ann. ‘ait," begged the Gype. “Will ve meet me at gloamin'? Come along the Bracken lane. I'll be waitin’, Sally Ann “I canna,” and she darted away. * ok k * was a day of mazement past all telling. What pans of candy were left to burn. What pails of water left to overflow. What questions left without answer. Well might Mistress MacIntosh cry out upon her for a heedless limmer. No warlock upon the moors at evening ever went its way with less direction than did Sally Ann. At gloaming she sought her room beneath the thatch, brushing her hair with hands that flew aimless- ly and got tangled. And when at last she was ready, dressed in her Sunday best taken by stealth from the kist on the stair landing, she found that no feet of hers could take her one step from the shelter of her room. Could she go boldly down the lane to meet a lad at evening time? Could she walk up to him with lightsome ‘words upon her lips as he stood wait- ing there? Oh, no, she could not. Lasses there were that could go with high heads and light laughter, and go, and go again. But she could not. Trysts in the gloaming were not for her. Oh, to be glib-tongued like Brans- bog's lasses; 10 toss a lightsome head when lads were havering; to swing by in rustling petticoats, confident that they were admiring. Oh, to be any- body but Sally Ann Maclntosh, so that the Gype might love her. Oh, to know that he loved her, so that she might be bold enough to go to him! And what had made her believe that the like of the Gype, proud-footed as he was, could love Sally Ann Mac- Intos| ‘What folly was it that made her think that he was waiting for her now? -Why would the Gype, sought as he was by every lass in Drumorty, why would the Gype love her? Oh, it was well she had come to her senses! Food for laughter, if she found him with Bransbog's lassie, waiting to see her come; or with the | MacKenty lass that had so sharp a tongue. Well was it that her feet were wiger than her head and kept her home where none could see her folly. She began to undo the black ribbon at her neck, which was clasped by the brooch of twisted gold. By sunset the Gype had reasoned with himself that no lass could er over a kiss of his. The little limmer had tricked him, had made him go further than he meant. Oh, well, he was not unwilling to make her happy for a time. She was a bonnie wee lass. He turned his horse into the Bracken Lane with a sense that he was being very kind to Sally Ann. He had come early, for he knew that in her eagerness to see him again she would think gloaming had come when the sun had barely set and it would not be the gallant thing to keep her waiting. He was pleased with himself. He liked to make a lass happy. Dismounting, he found a place to tie his horse, not so near that every passer-by could see it from the road. | He sat where he could see Sally Ann | approaching. It got darker and he had to change his seat to see the road. He had been wrong to think that she would come earl ot course she would come late. The; always did for the first tryst. Lasse: were so retiring to begin with, and w0 demanding at the finish. He wished that they worked the other way, it would save him many a weary hour. It was getting well past gloaming. Sally Ann could come now without any blame of being hasty at a tryst. The moon was coming up. This was past a joke. The lass must be blate to think he'd wait for her till moonrise. She must set high store by herself to think he'd cool his heels for two hours waiting for a kiss of hers. Did she think that James Minty of Skillymarnoc was sore put-to o get a lass to meet him at gloaming? What had she to com- mend her that she set such value on herself? Little that he could see. Nothing for looks, and never a penny | to her name. Was he going to_sit till he took root waiting for such a lass? No. he was but waliting o let hee see how little store he set on any kiss of hers. He'd make her rue this high-handed work. He had set down higher-headed wenches than Sally Ann MacIntosh. When she came, he would kiss her light-like, and he'd talk a while cheerily, then he'd say canty and smiling at her, “Weel, my lass, it's getting late. I maun be gaun’ back to Skilly.” And he would be forgetful to kiss her good night, but very friendly with it all for fear she thought that he was vexed. And when next he saw her he would call her “Miss MacIntosh” as if naught had been between them. But she wasn't coming that was clear. How could he’lower her pride. for her if she didn’t come near him? He'd go after her. Just at first it would give her more reason for her pridefulness, but the higher he made her think of herself, the greater would be her downcome when he passed her by. e * ok ok ok SALLY ANN was bralding her hair when she heard a tap upon the window that opened upon the roof of the peat-shed. Her heart told her who it was, and she snuffed out the candles. But how could he come without a sound? How climb the roof without her brother hearing? The tapping again! She was afrald, but wildly happy. “Fairly batterin’ down the hoose t' get me,” her heart sang. Oh, that this should happen to her. And then she saw his face against the window-pane, a white wedge in the moonlight. He was raising the sash. What should she do? Should she call her mother? The Gype was propping the sash with his shoulder. There was just room for his arm and face in the narrow opening of the window. ‘Sally Ann,” he whispered, search- Lng for her in the dark room. ‘“Come ere. canna,” she whispered back at l,:lm. but came a little way toward ‘Come here,” he said again as she paused timidly. “I canna,” she answered, coming nearer a8 she spok 4 " he commanded, i \ ihaaoe 1926 —PART 5. W | »“ Ll I ') AND THEN IT WAS TOO LATE, MRS. MACINTOSH STOOD IN THE DOORWAY. |1\ “I canna.” she said softly, but came and knelt by the window. “Noo ye'll gie me a MacIntosh,” he said, of her. ‘I cunna,” she gasped. How sweet was the tumult in her heart! “Ye wilk” “No, I canna,” she faltered, pray- ing that he would insist. “It would be a sore pity t' wake ver puir sick brother,” he whispered mockingly, “but there's a loose siate by my foot, and down it goes unless ye kiss me this minute.” “Then T maun do it.” said Ann, more to assure herself him “First put neck.” he ord “I canna.” to obey. “Down goes threatened. Her arms flew up Oh, how bold she was but how happy. “Kiss me!” “I canna., eagerly, gain an’ longer, Kissing ally Ann c hold Sally than ver about arms my But her arms trembled the slate then,” he in obediance. How bold, she said, and kissed him he ordered. him as she stop,” he said, as she e’ll hae t' keep on wi’ the kissin', for I'm sorely tempted t' kick down the slat Oh! urely this w “I'm sorry for vye, ated. “it's a Paradise. ally Ann.” he sore trial t trial,” she whispered “Is 1t o'’ and then he wa s the time t should go away and leave her. Leave her lightsomely, and then, when next they met, greet her as if naught had ever been between them. But it wonld be well, and nothing more than just, to let her tell why she had broken the tryst. So he'd sound her out on that. “I'm thinkin' ye hate me for my impudence,”. he ventured. “I dinna hate ve,” she said softly, a timid hand reaching up to his crinkling hatr. “Then why did ye no' meet me? Sally Ann could not answer. How could she say all that was in her breast? How tell him that her feet at he | tmorous arms | Oh, no, her heart was too faint with | unworthiness. Sally to tell him this. pe brooded upon She didna wish t hersel’ by meeting me at askin’,” he told himself. Here was a less that would take some reaching And she was right. His mother s “A worthy bride's her no_word: The ¢ lence. Ann had her si- cheapen But he was thinking of Sally Ann as a bride? Oh, no, but thers was no harm admiring a lass that held her- self high. He wondered what she thought of him, and longed for some word to show that she did not quite despise hi Yer no ngry that T made ye kiss me: he shook her head. Will ve let me Ann She nodded shyly and turned her face to his. And then he knew that there was nothing sweeter than to kneel there on the ted roof e moonllght with Sally Ann's bout his neck and her breath, fragrant as the air from new milk, upon his face. And <o throughout the months of sweethriar roses, and well into berry kiss ve, Sally | picking time, he sought Sally Ann by were not brave enough to go to him? | i Sy e, | g 18 Volce was eager, | push the picture aw: vexed at his eager. | stealth upon the roof or in the gloam- ing along the Bracken lane. And on market days, when Mistress MacIn tosh was well occupied, he would ven ture into the Kitchen for a kiss. of marriage to Sally Ann, at times s If riding to the kirk in marnoc’s phaeton be the dappled grays, she would ¥ from her, not daring to look upon its brightness Nor did she grieve at the thought that it might never be. but rather she held her- happiness breathlessly, as one might hold a gledming bubble with ‘spread fingers TR I nd though T was the evening of *Stookle Sun- day” and the Gype had been to to pray for drought to dry n. He had hoped to over- ally Ann in the Bracken lane, but she was not at the kirl nd neither was Mistress MacIntosh. This was more than unusual. it came nigh to being alarming, and the Gype made sure that some mishap had come to young Sandy. So it was with little caution that he sought Sally Ann in the kitchen. the first | in | hasty | But he had never said & word | rer brother?” he asked. | “Na,” sald Sally Ann, understand |ing him. “Tt was the hens.’ “The hens?” “Aye. They're crop-bound. We fed them wi' the oats left frae decoratin’ | the kirk. My mither thinks it's a | visitation frae the Lord for stintin’| Him. We hae operated on sax o' them wi’ Sandy's razor. Five (luln'flne, but this ane’'s like t’ awi v She put the basket with the droop- ing Black Minorca hen upon the table. The Gype inspected it soberl “Ye'd better awa’,” Sally Ann ad- vised. “My mither's only at the hen | hoose. ‘“Hens or are pa o hens, I'll no' leave without a kis He pressed her close, and held her all the closer as she struggled, begging him to mind her | mothe; And then it was too late. Mis cIntosh stood in the doorw “Fine work this on a Sabbath day! tandin’ there haverin' wi' the scum the earth while a hen worth 18 pence s like t' pass awa’, ye wanton limmer." “Naw more o' tha “Ye'll no' call wife o' limmer.” “Wife o' yours,” screamed Mistress MacIntosh derisivel cried the Gype. mine a wanton | thought “Dinna hae a sinkin® spell, mither ™ she advised, “for I maun leave ve “Plague my glib tongue the Gype as he wer striding down the lane. “What call ad 1 ' go proposin’ marriage” I'm hankerin’ t' be tied faster than a ram at shearin’ time. For the lass never looked for it.” No. he couldn't blame the lass. was not one to snare a lad with wiles and glances. But it was not too late. He could pull in his horns again, blame his hasty speech upon her mother, and keep from Sally Ann. Never see again, that would be best. Never see could he live Ann? What She her ? How ing Sally do without It was for thr b Iy Ann aga without would he day with lightsome could he live without He looked yearning!. Why didn't she come bear this waiting. His heart wa harried with the need to hold her How could she loiter so? And then he saw her coming, her feet falling daintily upon the moss dappled path. He ran to meet her stumblinc in his eagerness, his face strained with the pain of his need v along the lane > He could n “Ave, just that." said the Gype with | | furious’ calm. “Sally Ann, come wi’ | me.” | | “No' a foot.” cried her mother. “Oot | o' my hoose, ve worthless prodigal, | afore 1 hae my sick laddie rise frae his bed ' throw ve oot “Sally Ann.” said the maun go for Sandy's sake. in_the lane.” | “Niver! cried Mistress MacIntosh | _“The lass has a tongue o’ her ain, | the pe reminded her as she went. Sally Ann faced her mother, trem bling, but new strength in er blue eyes. ‘Dinna_glower at me.” cried her | mother. “Tak’ yer sinful face oot o' my sight. Up t’ yer room, ye worth less besom!" canna, mither, sald Sally Ann in a voice so with certainty that Mistress Intosh floundered, incredulous. ‘e defy ver ain mither? Oh, that 1 should live t' see this day!" She | clutched the front of her bodice, as she did when her sinking spells were upon her. Sally Ann made no move toward | her. ! Gype, “T| Meet me I maun meet him, quiet ].\l«v ther@ was something of | “Oh. Sally Ann." he cried. sweep ing her within his grasp. “I canna wait. Sav vell have me. 1 ken I should .hae asked ve afore. I ken 1 should hae asked ye different Sally Ann!” Ann could was full of shame doubted him. He hLad meant this from the first! He had been cour ing her for marriage, and she thought he held her lightly. 3 had given him her kisses while she had doubted him. Oh. he must never now. He must never know what a wanton heart was in her breast. She was so poor thing, how could he | love her so” And from the full tide of her humility she cried, “How can ve want me for wife, that none has ever sought before?” And the Gy replied—for this an swer had come to him many times as he wondered at his love for her “It takes a man o' taste t' appreciate ve. Sally Ann.” And she was happy. not seeing that half the compliment was for himself. Sal speak. She had ever (Copyright. 1026.) Power to Borrow Oxygen in Athletics Involved in Measuring Speed Limits BY PAUL SHOUP. HAT fixes the limit beyond which the athlete cannot £0? There has been plent of talk about “gameness, “will” and “competition, much of it doubtles Now. however, physiologists have en tered on the question seriou: an English scient fellow of the R ing on investi ready made have al. aluable additions to our knowledge of the physiological b of athletic records—why and when the body calls “stop!” He explains why speed per minute decreases very rapidly for a while as the length of the race is increased, and then, strangely enough, remains almost constant, no matter how long the event. He shows how the body can “borrow” oxygen, and the impor. tance of any one’s ability to contract an “oxygen debt”; how a woman's athletic ability can be expressed as a fractional part of that of a man; and, perhaps most interesting of ail, he indicates in what races man has ap- parently about reached his limit, and in what others there is still a good chance for energetic young would-be record holders. In the first place, Prof. Hill distin- guishes between three different kinds of “fatigue.” There is that which re- sults in a short time from extremely violent effort, and there is the fatigue, which may be called exhaustion, which overcomes the body when'an effort of more moderate intensity is continued for a long time. Both of these can be called muscular. Then there is the kind which can be de- scribed as due to wear-and-tear of the body as a whole, to blisters, soreness, stiffness, nervous exhaustion, sleep- lessness, and so on, which may affect some one long before his muscular sys- tem has given out. All three of these, of course, atfect athletic records, but it is the first and second kinds which have been investigated more fully. The athlete is supposed to keep him- gelf free of the third kind; what he wants to know is: How long can my body hold out, if it starts out in per- fect physical shape? Prof. Hill, to start his investigations, kept these different types of ratigue clearly in mind. Then he charted all the important world records in swim- ming, and drew curves representing the average speed per second reached in each event, according to the length of time the évent took. Thus, a man running hard as he can for 10 seconds can average about 10 yards a second (speaking in champlonship terms, of course); if he runs for 50 seconds, his rate drops sharply to 9 yards a sec ond; if he runs for 1 minute and 40 seconds, his average rate of speed drops sharply again to 7 4.5 yards per second. But in any races that take 300 seconds or longer, his rate remains almost the same; at least it changes much less sharply. A man running for 300 seconds can make an average speed of about 6 9-10 yards per second; if he doubles his running period to 600 seconds, he still keeps about the same average rate—6 5-10 i of 69-10. It he doubles this lattdr and runs for THE RUNNING FACE OF CHARLES PADDOCK, ONE OF AMERICA’S GREATEST SPRINTERS. —_— erage speed only drops to 61-10 yards per second. All this is due to the fact that at the shorter distances two factors en- ter to make the speed possibilities totally different from those in the long races. First, a man doubling 1,200 scconds, oy 20 minuicss his aY- his speed must use far more than twice as much energy, so the higher speeds are “wasteful” compared to the lower; second, in the shortest races a champlon athlete cannot really exhaust himself, because of the capacity his body has for “going into debt” for oxygen. This second point, though easy to grasp, is not generally known. It rests on the curious but well established fact that the muscles of the body do not necessarily have to use all their oxygen at the moment the exercise i8 going on. When a muscle of the leg, arm or any other part of the body is being exercised it is “burning up” the carbohydrates that have been taken into the body in food, making fuel of them. To do this it needs oxygen. But the muscle does not need all the oxygen right away. Due to a special mechanism, of complicated body chemistry, de- formatio; gen for a while—run up an “oxygen debt.” It is called a debt, because like all debts, it must be settled for later. The consumption of oxygen is merely put off for a while, and after the exertion is finished and the body is at rest the muscles take in the oxygen to build up the reserve mechanism in the muscle again. It is much like a storage battery. Imagine an electric motor in place of the muscle and electricity instead of oxygen. The motor can be made to run by electricity that has been stored up in a battery. But once the battery is exhausted the “electricity debt” of the motor, so to speak, has reached its maximum and the motor can run no longer unless supplied with electricity direct from a dynamo (comparable with oxygen coming di- rectly from the air to the muscle), or until the battery is recharged. The significance of the oxygen debt is that a runner can take in only so much oxygen at a time from the air outside. But his muscles need more than that if he is td | to acquire a large oxyzen debt as on his capacity for taking in a large amount of oxygen while running. The amount to which even the best athlete can run into debt for oxvgen is strictly limited. Generally speak- ing. when an oxygen debt of about 15 liters, or 425 cubic feet, has been incurred the hody becomes incapa- ble of further effort. It is then com- pletely fatigued. But in the shorter races there is not enough time for the athlete to get a maximum oxygen debt] that is the reason a man cannot exhau himself completely in a 100 or vard sprint. He could still run little farther without furnishing his muscles with more oxygen right at the time. As to the quarter mile, Prof. Hill has found an oxvgen debt of 10 liters after a 440-yard race in only 5 and 300-vard sprint at top speed resulted in a maximum debt of 15 liters. There fore, the British physiologist con- cludes that a quarter mile in the e of a first-class sprinter Is enough, or almost enough, to exhaus an athlete so completely that he is unable to make any further effort for a while. Quarter-milers reading this will doubtless give a chor: amens. In anything but these short races. however, the-athlete who wishes t break records must finish with some- thing near a maximum oxygen debt. for unless he does he has not done himself justice. And whether he will or will not break records depends chiefly upon two things; his max mum oxygen debt (the degree to which he can “overdraw his account and his maximum capacity for tak ng in oxvgen at the time of effort (his “income”). Prof. Hill finds that for athletic men of average size these measures are fairly well established about 4 liters (113 cubic feet per min ute for the latter, and, as stated above, about 15 liters for the former. Besides the ability to go into deht for oxygen and to draw on an oxygen reserve, the athlete must have skill of movement. All the movements re- quired in violent forms of muscular exertion are much too rapid to be di- rectly guided by the conscious intelli- gence. They are, says Prof. Hill, mainly reflex, but set going by the will. Tt is highly important that the movements be co-ordinated so nicely that no more oxygen and gly expended than is absolutely neces- sary. Prof. Hill found that the rate of speed per second dropped off for women as the time increased in al- most_exactly the same proportion as that for men. He has calculated from his data. that woman's athletic ability may therefore’ be regarded as a_con- stant fractional part of man’s—67 per cent, to be exact. In other words, a woman running is able to liberate in a given time only about 67 per cent of the energy expended by a man of the same weight. In what races has man come near- est to his limit? Prof. Hill's charts show that the 100 and 220 yard reach his highest speed, so they draw on the temporary substitute which the latctic acid helps provide. Obviously, then, an athlete’s prowess @R-bis ability. records are far better than any others in the neghborhood, as might be ex- pected. The quarter-mile is extreme- ly good. 'The 500-yard record, kaw- over, I3 Yory bad .