Evening Star Newspaper, July 31, 1927, Page 82

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- 1927—PART 5. — THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON. D. C., JULY 3I, “] AM GOING INTO THE CHANCEL . .. YOU AND MR. WARNER HAD BETTER COME, TOO, AS THE PROMISE . —By— Carter Goodloe Warner Decided That Frankness Was the Best Policy to Follow HE church rehearsal was over, and Warner told hir sudden panic that n¥ver, un- der any circumstances, could he go through with the real ceremony. It had been a full-dress rehearsal— for all but the bride, of course—and his ears were still filled with the crashing reverberations of the ding march. his eves still da dissolving views of the eight Watteau bridesmaids in rainbow-hued chiffon frocks, advancing slowly up the aisle, | swaying this way and that, leaning affectedly on tall, ribbon-bedecked sticks. They had broken ranks now and were moving about, chatting| animatedly with the groomsmen, their | conversation much interfered with by | the diminutive flower girl and velvet- | clad ring hearer, riotously at large, | now that their onerous duties were | performed Over this scene the competently and coolly watching Remy as she one group to another, now talking over the program with the organist, now turning to speak with the flor who had dropped in for last s tions, now catching the fleeing flower | mirl and ring bearer to coach them | once more in their “parts.” realized | finally that just so would she zo through life—ordering its forces, im-| posing her wishes on all around her. The fear that had been tugging at him for weeks seemed suddenly to clutch_him, ph: and choke him. | The wedding party went back to| Remy's for sandwiches, and when it broke up, Warner left with the rest. Three blocks up the avenue he stop- | ped his taxi, got out, paid the chauf- feur, and walked b to the hig| white stone house he had just left. | He stood looking up at it for a mo- ment, and then, spurred by the fear ithat Remy might demur at seeing him so0 late, he ran up the steps and | wressed the electric button. { * ok ok X RIGGS, the Cosgroves’ butler, loath to believe that anvthing more could happen in a day already packed with hectic events, waited, doubtful that the bell which had rung so often, could possibly have rung again at that hour. A second reverberation dashed his hopes, and he told himself bitterly that the eve of a wedding is a trying time in any household. But at’ the| sight of Warner his bitterness dis- solved, and he welcomed the morrow’s bridegroom to the warmth of the library. He, too, had known a wed- @ing eve! Men, high and low, were pretty much alike, he reflected. e mssured the young man_that he would send a maid to Miss Remy with the message, and as he disappeared through the door on his errand, he favored Warner with a sympathetic glance. Warner resented the look and its sentimental implications_with a fer- wour that astonished himself. He stood by the mantel, his clenched Thands thrust_deep into his pockets, scowling at Briggs’ retreating back. Well, he wouldn't have to see him wgain, he told himself. No—he would never see Briggs again. As for that miatter, he would never see Remy Bgain—or this room, where so much had happened to him. He looked around it as though for the first time. In a certain sense it was the first time, for he had never before been able to look at it with detach- ment. Remy had always been there with him, and Remy had always de- mmanded his_entire attention. There was something rather suffocating mbout the demands Remy made upon one. She was certainly not the sort 1o gide him time for all this—the * Franz Hals high above the carved mantel, the Rodin near the window, the long rows of dignified, handsome- 1y bound books, stretched along the walls, which looked a8 though no one ever handled or loved them. As he glanced at them now, he grinned with sardonic amusement. What was he doing dans cette galere magnifique, anyway, he asked him- self. The doctors assure us that we change completely every seven years. Well, he had changed completely in seven weeks. He had come into that charming room a certain sort of man, seven weeks before, and he was leav- ng it for the last time, tonight, a totally different person. It was all over—or would be, in a few minutes. Remy would never forgive him, natu- rally. He straightened up and raised his head, as he heard her foot on the stairway. She came in quickly and laid a hand on Warner's shoulder, putting up her provocative lips, on which hov- ered a subtle feminine replica of Brigg® intimate smile. But Warner only looked at her strangely and made no movement to take her into his arms. “What's the matter?” she manded. “Are you still angry?” He shook his head. “Then what is it?” a scarcely concealed tonishment, “Can’t you guess?” “Heavens, mno!” she said, and glanced at the clock. “It's almost 12 o'clock. Phil—don’t ask me to en- Fage in a guessing_contest at this hour of the night! Just let me have it straight, can’t you, old dear?” In the beginning, Warner had sometimes thought Remy too direct, 00 brutaily forthright in her manner. It was a note in her vouthful ultra- modernism which he hadn’t particu- Jarly liked. But now he welcomed her straightforward technigue. The inter- view couldn’t be too short, too much to the point for him. “I want to tell you something I should have told you weeks ago, Remy, and to give you back some- thing 1 should never have asked you or." T ihe girl's intent gaze held a look of surprise, followed by one of fear. She moved slightly away from War- ner. “I don't think T understand.” Her straight, dark brows that contrasted so beautifully with her yellow hair drew together in a puzzled frown. "The curved. full lips flattened out into 2 thin red line. “I don’t understand,” she said, again. * * x ¥ ARNER filled his lungs with air, as for a dive. Then he took the plunge. “I's simply this, Remy!—TI've known for weeks that we weren't suited to each other—oh, don't shake | your head! You've found it as hard 1o put up with me as—well—the 1ruth is, my dear girl, we've made a bad 1 in. and now, at the eleventh | hour, I've found the courage to come hride presided Warner, moved from | de- She spoke with impatient as- hers and own up to it and set you | free. 1'm not the man for you, and J ought never to have asked you to marry me.” For a moment, the girl did not speak. She moved a chair closer with her knee, sank down on it, and looked up at Warner. She touched her bob- bed hair with a little gesture which he had once thought charmin but which, for some time, 4 uely snnoyed him, and smiled. He no- ticed with a shock how sharp and pointed were the s 1 eve-teeth as her lip drew back over them. “Is this a jol Phil?” 0—oh, no!” he said earnestly. *“It's in extremely bad taste, you Xnow." she swept on, ignoring his protest ** ‘Ba taste'!—there my He ve a little la e to realize that I, ) hing I do and say is labeled uste’ by you. Isn't that enough itzelf to prove what I say ~l)h’ll aren’t suited to each other?” “Don’t be absurd, Phil! People don't break engagements for a su- perficial reason like that. Besides, I dare say you'll learn—I've always known you were clever. Youll find out quickly enough what's done and 1 are, you ically, by the throat |S | | ding. old des | what isnt, once you are really one pat's just it, Remy. I find that [ don't really want to be one of you, The type doesn’t impress me as being the perfect thing, by | means. I'm afraid of becoming { rubber stamp.” | She smiled at idor. on't worr; a him with disarming old dear! You won't. You'll be my ‘voung Lochinvar the end. And frankly, T hepe you always will be wild-western and cave- | mannish—it was what first attracted me to you, you know.” she added. “I've always wondered.” * & RoR ¥ REMY mot np and stood leaning against the mantel, facing W ner. She looked at the tall, slim young man before her with an ap- pralsing glance that missed nothing, neither his good nor his bad points His keen face and slender, athleti gure, though undeniably good, were somehow unfashionable. He was handsome, compelling. in an unstand ardized way—sharply different from the men she had always known. At times she felt like a_pith-ball between two opposing electric poles—now at- tracted, now repelled she had been far more attracted than repelled. She felt strongly attracted now. I like it—to a certain extent,” | 4, finally, and smiled. “When it doesn't interfere with your 1 Warner grinned sar- | wedding cere- up that ranch of of nowhere for You really have | her absurd about the wed- | I've worked hard over | 1t will make a beau- nd 1 certainly feel that 1 have the vight to arrange my wed ding according to my ideas—espe- cially as you didn’t seem to have any on the subject.” “Oh, yes—I had some. 1'd thought about it—out there, under the stars —just a few friends some dim, quiet cl e Remy laughed a tinkling, amused laugh and sank down again on her chair. “It's unfortunate that our ideas on the subject didn't happen to co- incide, Phil!” “Well, I wasn’t thinking paticular: Iy of the wedding. I was thinking haven't you noticed that our ideas | never coincide, Remy?" demanded | Warner. “They coincided the night you asked me to marry you and 1 consented,” d the girl quickl Warner shifted his stance a little and looked down at the fire before | speaking. res—but, if you will be as honest with me as I am with you, Remy, youll acknowledge that, for once, you made a mistake.” “I acknowledge no such thing,” re-| torted the girl. “Don’t you think it a mistake to marry a man whose whole attitude toward life and mode of living are so different from your own?” she made an amused little moue. Not if he will promise to change them—as you have!” “That's just the point,” said Warner slowly. “I find I can't keep | that promise. “Ah, that is serious. A man who won't keep his promises. voice had an icy edge to it. t isn't that I won't—it's that I can’t, Remy!" “Just what do you mean by that?" she asked, after an instant’s pause. Warner leaned restlessly against the mantelpiece, then moved away from it uncertainly and sank into a chair near Remy's “See here,” he said, “let’s talk this over sensibly and quietl “What do you want to talk over sensibly and quietly?” demanded the girl, “Why—the mistake we are think- ing of making and how to avoid it.” Warner leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “If—if you had engaged passage on a boat sailing for Europe and had suddenly discovered that she was unseaworthy, wouldn't you can- cel vour passage, Remy? I've come to the conclusion that our hoat will go down in the first blow, and I think the only sane thing to do is —to_cancel our passage.” “You can't_cancel a passage when it's time to haul in the gang-plank! It's, too late—no steamship company “nf the mony m mean nd giving on the edge office—ves heen r the whole thi tiful pictu —in e | any | On the whole, | | ther development of the natural re- ou've decided that you dislike that ground so much that you want it—and me—to fade out of the picture | of your life. Is that it?” | *Yes,” said Warner “Impossible, old dear!” “Why impossible’? It me—that would be differer again. ‘ She shook her bobbed head exasperated fashion. 1 I tell you I do love you, Phil—in | my v Oh, of course, I'm not sen mental—it isn't" done nowadays—and, if you throw me over, I shan't go to | the hottom, like the ‘“wild duck,’ be-, | canse 1 have-a couple of slugs in me {and a trailing wing! 1'll come to the [ «urface all right, and T'll keep afloat, But 1 acknowledge I shan't feel happy. You've come to mean a lot to me, Phil. You may not be perfect, but you can put it all over the men I've known—" * ok ok Xk adily. you loved he said in an HIS stared brightly at him while her mind raced backward to the pre- | ceding Summer, when she had sud | denly found the men of her set in- | tolerable. ~ Josh Carlisle had taught her what to expect in the way of ultimate disillusionment, and it was |in a revolt against him and his kind that she had acquiesced in her fa- ther's invitation to accompany him on a trip to inspect some mining properties in Idaho. The inspection over, they had decided on a short and it at the end of a hard ¥'s going in the Snake River coun-| that they 1 come upon the low Ranch A Remy stared at Warner, could see again the hot, treeless up-| land trail, from which they had un-| expectedly looked down into the val- ley, with ner's ranch lying cool | and shad, it the hottom. 1t seemed like a glimpse of Paradise, with its copper-splashed pool gleam- ing blue as a Maxfield Parrish bit of water between the dark, pointed pop- lars growing beside it; and the white ranch house, su unded by unbelie ably green z.ass and fat, grazin: cat- tle, seemed to extend welcome to them. They turned their horses’ heads downward, and at sunset drew rein at the wide porsh-steps of the “Bye-low Ranch,” and Remy saw Warner for the first time. . . . From the very beginning he had been attracted to her. An impersonal note in his attention: a politeness untinged with gallantr piqued her. As for Warner, the unexpected advent of the girl, her youth, the aura of wealth and power about her, dazzled him. who had never been dazzled hy such things. It was as though he had plucked a star from the blue, 2 Together they rode the ranch, and he showed the girl the waving fields of alfalfa, explaining the wonders of the irrigating system and unfolding all the plans so dear to him for fur- she, v sources of the day grew too hot for riding, they loafed in the big, cool living room, looking at his guns and hunting tro. phies and discussing the books and magazines that crowded the tables and spilled over on the floor. In the evenings they sat out under the bright stars, the shadow of the Sawtooth Mountains looming faintly in the distance, and Warner told her the uneventful story of his life. He had been brought West when a baby, by his father, seeking health after a breakdown, and had grown up in the large tranquillity of that new country, alone, save for his parents, his dogs and horses, and the occa’ sional bands of migrating Indians. His father had managed to make a | little money, and there had been a | tutor for the boy during a couple of Winters, and then three vears at Le- land Stanford. He had been recalled from college by the death of his father, followed by that of his mother in a few months.” Since then he had lived alone, busy, contented. * % % *x RF\IY and her father staved two weeks, and, long before the im- promptu visit was up she knew that she wanted Warner more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She felt sure that she had only to stretch out her hand, and she knew no reason for staying it. Hadn't she always got what she wanted? And now this prize which had seemed so easily within her grasp was slipping from her, eluding her! There had been times since Warner's count; When the would stand for it, Phil. And. be- sides, if one has any sporting blood,. 12 NER ONL' arrival in New York, Remy acknowl- edged to herself, when she had doubt- =) (AR (el SHE LAID A HAND ON WARNER'S SHOULDER, PUTTING UP HER PROVOCATIVE LIPS. BUT WAR. ¢ LOOKED AT HER STRANGELY AND MADE NO MOVEMENT TO TAKE HER INTO HIS ARMS. had | - to her with a despairing gesture. ea here, Rem: I'm an untamed creature. All my days I've lived out in the open. If you loved me enough to live my lifo——" she stopped him with a_ gesture. “I'm quite willing to go out to Idaho in the Summera and spend a | few weeks at your ranch—it's a smart enough thing to do now—sy while at a ‘dude ranch "— Wi winced-—but as for living there You can’'t serfously think I'd want to live ther “Oh, no. 'm convineed wouldn't.” Warner's it t had gone flat. “I'm as convineed of it as 1 am that it is the only existence for me. I've honestly tried to change I've meant to do all you ask and expeet of me, but T suddenly knew to. night that 1 couldn’t. I've got to have freedom. He stoppad and look ed at the girl meditatively. “If there Is @ sane oxplanation of what I'm do- ing tonight it's that, T suppose—the horror of putting myself in a situ- ation from which there Is no escape And, fecling as I do, 1 decided that the only honest thing was to tell you all_this before it was—too late.” “You call this belated r fulfill your promises ‘honest'? “Yes. Perhaps if ours could have been a real marriage, if you had been willing 1o follow me. to have walked out there in that spaclous tranquillity, hand in hand with me, under the quiet stars—then love might have had the illusion of liberty. But here!— in this cramped life, hedged about by A thousand conventions — g.ood heavens! T've the suffocating feelir that T've walked into a trap, a cav n endless tunnel! I know you de spise me—T despise myself, = But [ an no more control this feeling than I can control the color of my eyes. It's a physical terror 1 feel, mind you as though T were helpless, shut in, bound—can’t you understand, Rem “I understand that you are a coward and a welcher. T 'understand, you once wanted me and that now all you want is to leave me flat—to humiliate me before my world—to be free of me —to get away! That's ft, isn't it?” demanded the girl passionately. “That's the way it looks to you, T suppose,” said Warner slowly. “And it is frue that T want to be free again —to be rid of this unconquerable fear that grips me.” Kk % [HE girl turned pale beneath the rouge on her round youns cheeks She rose with unaccustomed dignit “I would never dream of holding a man who wanted to leave me,” she in a tone Warner had never 1 her use. She glanced at the and struck her hands sharply together. “But—but what can we do? too late to get a notice into the papers—the usual ‘the engagement has been broken hy mutual consent'!” She smiled bitter I'll do anything under heaven anything to make this e vou sl to 4 fair that you should bear the brunt of it,” said the girl coldly “Why not tell everybody that T am ‘a_coward and a welcher,” as vou jut it? That will set you straight and serve me right.” The girl moved slow stood by the table, drumming lightly on it with her finger tips. She ave | a short laugh. | “It's_just like you, Phil, to suggest that! It would be the very last thing I'd do. Inform an amused world that T've been thrown down, abandoned by my ‘voung Lochinvar'?>—thank you!” “I see. I was only anxious that no blame should attach to you. But, of course, I see now it wouldn't d “Of course not. In a case like this, it is better for the woman to be wrong than right. If there is any throwing down to be done, I must do it—you owe me that much at least.” I owe you everything.” verything, except——"" There was the hint of a break in Remy's voice, but she pulled herself sharply to- gether. It wasn't her way to show emotion. She stared down thought- fully at the table, still drumming lightly on it with her polished finger- tips. Suddenly she looked’ up at Warner, and there was a curious, bright light in her eye: “I've thought of a way—but it will be hard on you, I admit.” “I've told you I'd do anything under heaven you want done. Punish me as you see fit—I deserve to be punished.” “It will be punishment all right,” | I N {one would rather take the trip, with the chance of drowning, than to be [ left behind, disappointed.” Warner smiled a little. believed you'd Remy, and you wouldn't be left be- hind for long. You'd simply take the I next boat w | are plenty for you to pick and choose |from! It isn't as though you loved { me. The girl frowning. Oh, I dare say T'd make another [ sailing_date. But—I do_love you. Phil. You're different. 1 was o tired of all the men I'd known. They are all so alike—" “That's it—that's what I've come to realize—that 1 was just something new for you to play with, Remy. | You'a betfer have left me out there {in the West, where you found me: It was the life I'd always known, and now I realize that it’s the only life I {can lead.” “You should have thought of that | soomer,” said the girl coldly. “Perhaps—only I'm sure you'll a knowledge that, before I came East, I didn't know what I was up against. It was practically impossible for me to realize your background.” “And now-—on our wedding da- she glanced fixain at the clock— “I don't lifted her bright head, be very disappointed, | ith some one else—there ed the wisdom of her choice—mo- ments when Warner had seemed the square peg in the round hole—but, with the possibility of losing him, his | desirability redoubled. All her preda- i tory instincts awoke and warred with her pride. She looked at Warner with {eyes cold as steel. | ““And so you want me to put an lend to things between us—here to- | night—-2" | “It's best for you as for me: “Oh, never mind about me!” She i tossed the words at him defiantly. The point is you want me to give| you up. Haven't you any intelligible | explanation of your request, at least, | to_offer me?” Warner looked at her perplexedly. “Yes,” he said at length, slowly. 1 don't recognize myself here | —here. You aren’t 1and I don't recognize you. | the same girl—" | “I've changed less than you,” she !interrupted, “since my feelings have not changed as yours have. I care | Just the same—-"" “Yes, but no longer for me. You | care for a man of your own creating man who will give up the lite that was the breath of him, who will chain himself to a mahogany desk in an office and gamble for money, a | “To begin with, we're both different | i o'clock, then. said the girl quietly. “It's just this —it's too late to tell everybody, so we'll say nothing and let them come to the church. You must be there with your best man, but—I shall not come! It will be the worst quarter of an hour in your life, but you've simply got to stand for it.” “] see.” ‘After all, these people are not your friends—they’'re mine—and they’ll for- give me and forget you and your| humiliation quickly enough. And it's the only way I can think of to clear myself—to make them believe abso- lutely that it was I who tired of the engagement——" Her voice broke defi- nitely this time. “You'll just have to stand for it, Phil,"” she said again. “You couldn’t think of anything T wouldn't stand for, Remy. All I ask | of you is that some day you'll write and tell me that you forgive me and understand,” said Warner gravely. He got to his feet. “Until four * ok ok ok | 'HE afternoon throngs on the Ave-! nue were being treated to their favorite free ‘show”—a fashionable church wedding. White-gloved police- men waved up the gleaming limou- sines in unending line and dispatched THE BRIDAL PARTY WILL SURELY BE HERE ANY MINUTE NOW,” HE SAID. 4 i IRt \ ) "in.r]"! awning, beneath which women richly dressed, and men in frock coats and high silk hats passed into the Church | Through th~ perfume of of the Heavenly Angels. opening portals the flowers and the crash of organ music | were wafted to the afternoon air. In side the guests rustled and craned their necks and whispered about the bride. Remy Cosgrove had been one of the most conspicuous of the yomuger set. She had personalit [overything she did attracted atten- tion. Her selection of a young, un- known Westerner had piqued society, and society, thirsting to have its curiosity satisfied, was out in force. Warner, who had come early, waited in the vestry room with his best man, Amos Whitridge—a young fellow he had never Iaid his eyes on until a few weeks before. The slen derness of his acquaintanceship with his “best man” typified clearly enough the curously haphazard character of the whole situation, as far as he was concerned. He hadn’t a_real friend or relation in that part of the United ates. All those people out there, foregathered from curiosity, expect- ing to see him go through with the were to cacred ceremony of his life, | Remy's friends—just stranger him. There was one though. As Remy had said, the humiliation she was about to put upon him would be more bearable under theose circumstances. All he really wanted in the world, himself, was that it should be over! He glanced at his watch surrepti tiously. A few minutes more and he would be free! He slipped his, watch back and touched lightly and jubilantly a small, flat envelope in the pocket of his waistcoat. Ity was ticket back to the “Bye-low Ranch.” Freedom and contentment were in that little en- velope. He sighed happily. This bad quarter of an hour would soon be over and done with forever. Just to get away from all this and back to the waving green of the alfalfa fields and the sunsets behind the jagged moun- tain, Whitridge opened the and peeped out. I never saw such a crowd!” rhancel door at came into the vestry, shook hands with Warner, and put on his canon- consolation, | It's five minutes after he told | The rector* of the Heavenly Angels | icals. Then he consulted his watch. |"“Don’t get nervous, voung man! four, | bride is always late!” He smiled jocu- larly at Warner, and turned to Whit- Iridge. *“I am going into the chancel. | You and Mr. Warner had hetter come, too, as the hridal party will surely be here any moment now.” he said, and, followed by the two young men, passed into the chancel. From their station behind the bar- rage of palms, Warner could see the shifting, myriad-hued assemblage per- fectly. !Yl'nm the organ-loft there hummed the | murmured talk of the restless throng. The heavy perfume of flowers hung in | the agitated air. Warner felt a queer constriction in his throat, a tightening about his pounding heart. If only it were over'—if only the ordeal were |over and he could slip away! | He put his hand in his pocket ana [touched again his passport to liberty. | Atter all, it wouldn't be long now—he him. He'd stand it! Freedom {only a little way ahead! He passed a lh::nrl‘lkex'rllief across his damp fore- head. but the | Above the swelling arpeggios | was only getting what was coming to | was | uddenly the organ stopped with a <h. There was a deep sileQce broken only by the soft, conceed | movement of craning necks. And | then the first soft strains of the Men. delssohn *Wedding-March” fell upon Warner’s startled ears. Young Whit- rid " he whispered. ‘Warner shook his head. “Wait a minute!——there's some mistake—-" His dry lips had difficulty in forming |the words. Whitridge stared at himg “What's the matter with you?" he demanded. Hurry!— ner faced about, and, e's compelling hand on his arm, found himself walking to the tront of the chancel. He looked down the aisle with troubled eyes, and there, in the dim, flower-strewn distance, he saw, advancing in slow, ineluctable procession, the eight Watteau brides- maids, the diminutive flower-girl and velvet-clad ring-bearer, and behind them was Remy, in white satin and rose point. leaning on the arm of her father. (Covyright. 1927.) Steamer Which Threatened to Founder Was Feature of Old-Time Outing Days BY STEPHEN LEACOCK. HE Knights of Pythias organ- ized a July excursion out of Mariposa. The steamer Mari- posa Belle was bedecked with flags to start off on that fate- ful morning, her occupants little dreaming of what was to happen be- fore night. The boat was due to leave at 7. There was no doubt about the hour— not only 7, but 7 sharp. The notice in the Newspacket said: “The boat will leave sharp at 7”; and the advertisin posters on the telegraph poles on M sinaba street that hegan “Ho, for In- Island!” ended up with the : “Boat leaves at 7 sharp.” There was a big notice on the wharf that oat leaves sharp on time.” s right on the hour, the whis- tle blew loud and long; and then at :15, three short peremptory blasts; and at 7:30, one quick angry call—just one—and very soon after that they cast off the last of the ropes and the Mariposa Belle sailed off in her cloud of flags, and the band of the Knights of Pythias, timing it to a nicety, broke into “The Maple Leaf for Iver! 1 suppose that all excursions when they start are much the same. Any- way, on the Mariposa Belle everybody went running up and down all over the boat with deck chairs and camp stools and baskets, and found places, splendid places to sit, and then got scared that there might be better ones and chased off again. People hunted for places out of the | sun, and when they got them swore that they weren't going to freeze to please anybody; and the people in the sun said that they hadn't paid 50 cents to be roasted. Others said that they hadn’t paid 50 cents to get cov- ered with cinders, and there were still others who hadn’t paid 50 cents to get shaken to death by the propeiier. Still, it was all right presently. The people seemed to get sorted out into the places on the boat where they be- longed. The women, the older ones, all vitated into the cabin on the lower deck and by getting round the table with needlewnrk, and with all the win- dows shut, they soon had it, as they said themselves, just like being at home. All the young boys and the toughs and the men in the band got down on the lower deck forward, where the »0at was dirtiest and where the anchor was and the coils of rope. And upstairs on the afterdeck there were Lillian Drone and Miss Lawson, the high school teacher, with a book of German poetry—Gothey, I think it was—and the bank teller and | landing | against the wooden wharf and all the the younger men. - In the center, standing beside the rail, were Dean Drone and Dr. Gal-! lagher, looking through binocular glasses at the shore. i Up in front on the little deck for- ward of the pilot house was a group of the older men, Mullins and Duff and Mr. Smith in a deck chair, and be- side him Mr. Gingham, the undertaker of Mariposa, on a stool. Down the lake, mile by mile over the calm water, steamed the Mari- posa Belle. They passed Poplar Point where the high sandbanks are, with all the swallow’s nests in them, and Dean Drone and Dr. Gallagher looked at them alternately _through binocular glasses, and Dr. Gallaghe who knew Canadian history, said to Dean Drone that it was strange to think that = Champlain had there with his French explorers 300 years ago, and Dean Drone, who didn’t know Canadian history, said it was; stranger still to think that the hand of the Almighty had piled up the hills and rocks long before that, and Dr. Gallagher said it was wonderful how the French had found their way through such pathless wilderness, and | Dean Drone said that it was won- derful also to think that the Almighty had placed even the smallest shrub in its appointed place. Dr. Gallagher said it filled him with admiration. Dean Drone said it filled him with awe. Dr. Gallagher said he'd been full of it ever since he was a boy, and Dean Drone said so had he. Then a little further, as the Mari-{ posa Belle steamed on down the lake, they passed the Old Indian Portage, where the great gray rocks are, and Dr. Gallagher said that it was just here that a party of 500 French had made their way with all their baggage and accouterments across the rocks of the divide and_down to the Great Bay. And Dean Drone said that it reminded him of Xenophon leading his 10,000 Greeks over the hill passes of Ar- them in lordly fashion. The halting. man who—" He broke off gnd turned curious crowd pressed close about tha the | landed | IF THE STEAMER SANK, SHE SAID, THAT WAS THE LAST EXCURSION SHE'D GO ON. have seen and spoken to Champlain, and Dean Drone said how much he re- sretted mever to have known Xeno- phon. Tho boat steamed on and the sun rose higher and higher, and the fresh- ness of the morning changed into the full glare of noon, and they went on to where the lake began to narrow in at its foot, just where the Indian’s Island is—all grass and trees and with a log wharf running into the water. The Indian’s Island itself is all cov- ered with trees and tangled vines, and the water about it is So still that it's all reflected double and looks the same either way up. The scene was all o quiet and still and unbroken that Miss Cleghorn— the sallow girl in the telephone ex- change—said she'd like to be buried there. But all the people were so busy getting their baskets and gathering up their things that no one had time to attend to it. I mustn’t even try to describe the and the boat crunching people running to the same side of the deck and Christie Johnson calling out to the crowds to keep to the starboard and nobody being able to find it. Every one who has been on a Mari- posa excursion knows all about that. Nor can I describe the day itself and the picnic under the trees. 1 should say that there were races, too, on the grass on the open side of tha island, graded most accordingly to ages—races for boys under 13 and girls over 19 and all that sort of thing. Sports are generally conducted on that plan in Mariposa. It is realized that a woman of 60 has an unfair ad vantage over a mere child. Dean Drone managed the races and decided the ages and gave out the prizes; the Wesleyan minister helped. | and he and the young student who was relieving In the Presbyteriar church held the string at the winning point. They had to get mostly clergymen for the races because all the men had wandered off, somehow, to where they were drinking lager beer out of two kegs stuck on pine logs among the trees. But if you've ever been on a Mari- posa excursion you know all about these details any way. So the day wore on and presently 'HE inhabitants of the Lushai Hills, in India, like other barbaric and savage peoples, have standards of weight and measure that they find simple and intelligible, but that are very confusing to the stranger. In every village there is a_small, flat basket, the size of which is fixed by the chief and which is used for all retail dealings in rice and the like, but they measure large quantities in loads, a load being about 50 pounds. After the harvest, the unhusked rice is piled in a conical heap. A Lushai will tell you his crop s chipzawn, meaning that the heap is level with his head; or silai-zawn, which means that it is level with the end of the gun held up perpendicular- ly over his head. Lesser quantities are denoted by the height of his hand {or hoe or ax held up. | He measures time by the cooking of a pot of rice—about an hour—or by { the time he can hold a sip of nicotine in his mouth. He has names for each period of the day, denoting his usual occupation at that hour. He also di- | vides the year according to the agri- cultural occupation proper to the dif- ferent seasons. | Short distances are measured by parts of the human body, as we speak tof a span. But the Lushai has 16 or 17 of these, extending from chang- khat—that is, the distance from the i tip to the first joint of the first finger —to hlam, which is the distance a man can_stretch with both arms ex- tended. Longer distances the Lushai ODD STANDARDS OF MEASUREMENT the sun came through the trees on a slant and the steamer whistle blew with a great puff of white steam and all the people came straggling down to the wharf and pretty soon the Mari- posa Belle had floated out on the lake again and headed for the town, miles away. I suppose you have often noticed the contrast there is between an ex cursion on its way out in the morning and what it looks like on the way home. In the morning everybody is so restless and animated and moves to and fro all over the boat and asks questions. But coming home, as ths afternoon gets later and later and the sun sinks beyond the hills, all the people seem to get so still and qulet and drowsy. So it was with the people on th: Mariposa Belle. They sat there on the benches and the deck chairs in little clusters. and listened to the regu- lar beat of the propeller and almost dozed off asleep as they sat. Then when the sun set and the dusk drew on, it grew almost dark on the deck and so still that you could hardly tell there was any one on board. And if you had looked at the steamer from the shore or from one of the islands, you'd have seen the row of lights from the cabin windows shining on the water and the red glare of the burning hemlock from the funnel, and you'd have heard the soft thud of the propeller miles away over the lake. Now and then, too, vou could have heard them singing on the steamer— the voices of the girls and the men blended into unison by the distance, 1';mg and falling in long-drawn .- o You may talk as you will about the intoning choirs of your European ca- thedrals, but the sound of our own singing, borne across the waters of & silent lake at evening is good enough for those of us who know Mariposa. I think that it was just as ‘hey were singing like this that word went ‘round that the hoat was sinking. If you have ever been in any sud- den emergency on the water, you will understand the strange psycholog it—the way in which what is pening seems to become known all in a moment without a word being said. The news is transmitted from one to the other by some mysterious process, At any rate, on the Mariposa Belle first one and then the other heard that there was six inches of water in far as I could ever learn, the first of it was that George Duff, the bank manager, came very quictly to Dr. Gallagher, and asked him if he thought that the boat was sinking. The doctor said no, that he had thought so earlier in the day, but that he didn't now think that she was. 4 | the day, the distance a man can| travel before his midday meal—terms | that perplex strangers, although they | are well understood by the people. | ‘There are few measures of \velght:i a curious one is chuai—that is, as much a man can support hung from the tip of the first finger, palm downware Many of the stars and constellations have names most of them have some story attached to’ them. The months are lunar months, and some have names, but these are not widely known or used. In the hills they often tell a story of Shahji, a Hindu prince, who on a certain occasion showed himself al-, most as clever as Archimedes. A high official had made a vow that he would distribute to the poor the weight of his own elephant in silver money. But how should he go about to learn what the weight really was? All the learned and clever men of | the court labored in vain to construct a machine of sufficient strength to | weigh the elephant. At length Shahji | came forward and suggested a plan that was as simple as it was ingeni- ous. He caused the unwieldy animal to be conducted along a stage spe- cially made for the purpose into a flat-bottomed boat. Then, having marked on the boat the height to which the water reached after the ele- phant had weighed it down, he had the creature led out and stones substi- tuted in sufficient quantities to sink the boat to the same line. The stones were then taken to-the scales and describes by such terms as the dis-|Welghed one by one. tance of the nearest jhum, the dis-| Thus, menia down to the sea. Dr. Gallagher | tance of the farthest jhum, the dis- court, s734 that he had often wished he could tance a mithan will wander during weight of fiam i to the admiration. of the Shahji discovered the true After that Duff, according to his wn account, had said to Macartney the lawyer, that the boat was sink ing. And Pepperleigh said it was & doubted it very much. Then somebdoy came to Judge Pep- perleigh and woke him up and said that there was six inches of water in the steamer and that she was sink- ing. And Pepperleigh said it was a perfect scandal and passed the new: on to his wife and she said that they had no business to allow it and that if the steamer sank that was the last excursion she’d go on. So the -news went all 'round the { hoat and everywhere the people a ered in groups and talked about in the angry and excited way that peo- ple have when a steamer is sinking on one of the lakes like Lake Mis sanotti, (Cooyright. 1927.) - Asphalt Lumber. 'HE term “asphalt lumber” {s em- vloyed to designate a boardlike product, not so very long ago brought !to the attention of the commercias | world, which, while composed of layers of a special long fiber satu- rated with a composition of asphalt can be cut, worked, joined and nailed * g like wood. This material is designed tor rooffing and is water and weather proof. The boards are made with a 1-inch rabbet running the full length on both sides, enabling the material to be matched up readily and quickly, while a special asphaltic cement ap- all:u -In::.c l;l- n»n:d point .v:.n- solid board. 3 L S

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