Evening Star Newspaper, November 17, 1929, Page 107

SON, D. C, NOVEMBER 17, 1929. A <2n O. Henry Memorial Story ‘ T . o B Vi R ML R G T T 22 life and a desire to crow. A crowing shook the room, but it came from Zeb. “Hot! Golly, Gram died in the sizzlingest spell, middle of August, folks can remember. Didn’'t embalm in them days, so 'twas ice or nothing. We drew lots for shifts—us boys. Ben and Ellery drew day; Sam and me night. Mebbe we didn't work! Lugged in hunks from the ice house to the shed; thar we cracked and lugged in dish pans to the settin’ room. Crack—Ilug— mop—Ilug—crack. Five days! It's been a pow- erful sight o’ comfort sence to know we kept Gram’s promise. Then come the funeral— smart one. Slathers o’ flowers and mourners and hacks. Cal'ate you've seen the lot whar we buried her?” At the mention of burial a sense of enormity made me shudder. I was beginning to realize that the further Zeb progressed in the matter of the obsequies of Gram Perkins the more alive she became—at that moment she possessed the house—every crack and cranny in it. She pos- sessed Zeb, and she possessed me. I found my- self straining my ears for the rattle of dishes in the butt'ry or the sharp thin note of a whistle. Zeb's ear was cocked as well as mine. “Them dreams,” he said, pulling himself to- ther. “First one come 15 years after Gram died. All was gone from the harbor by that time but me. Ber took the pneumony and died quick. Ellery got liver complaint, turned yal- ler as arnicy and thinned to a straw. Sort o blew away he did. Sam—he got trampled on by a horse. That left jes’ me. Night after I buried Marm I come back here and had my first dream. I was ‘young ag’in. Boys back, Marm back, all of us settin’ thar at Gram’s funeral. Parson was a-prayin’—had been fur a considerable time. I could hear Nate French fumblin’ fur his tunin’ fork, so’s to lead the departin’ hymn when plain as daylight I heard a tick-tack—Ilike Gram was knockin’ on some wind’y. Kept hopin’ she’d quiet down when out shot another whistle—clear above the parson's prayin’. Nobody but me seemed to notice, so I got up gingerly and tiptoed over to the coffin and raised the lid. “Thar she was—fixin’ fur to tick-tack ag'in. I grappled her fingers quick and showed ’em back whar they belonged. Then I leaned over and whispercd, loud as I durst, ‘Lay still, Gram, Parson’s nigh through and we’ll be movin’ along shortly. Folks'll be passin’ ’round in a moment to view the remains. Fur the Lord’s sake, close your eyes and act sensible. Wall « . . that fixed her. She give me a wink so'd I know she’d act right, and I tiptoed back to my place. They was all still prayin'—kept right on a-prayin’ twell I woke up. Three years later, come November, I had the second.” Zeb shivered, and so did I. I wanted that second dream and yet I did not want it. Had I chosen I could no more have stayed it than | ¥ i \ ;f"‘-~ . ) A €7 one could have held back the second act of a Greek tragedy. “We was on our way to the cemetery.” Zeb's voice lifted me free of all choice in the mat- ter. “I was ridin’ outside the first hack, bein’ the youngest, and I was thinkin’ what a fine day it was fur that time o' year. Sort o' funny, too, fur Gram died in August and here it was November and we was jes’ gettin’ to bury her. I was lookin’ at the hearse when it happened. Hearses was different in them days, black urns at the four top corners with black plumes stickin’ out and a pair o’ solid wooden doors behind. Above the poundin’ of the horses’ hoofs I heard a hammerin’ on them solid dcors. Bang . . . bang . . . plain as daylight. Old Jared Sims was drivin’ and I didn't want he should hear, so I sung out, ‘Cal’ate they're shinglin’ the Coomb’s barn.’ He turned ’‘round in his seat to look, and jes’ that minute thar come a regular whale of a hammerin’ and the doors of the hearse bust cpen. Thar was Gram—top of her own coffin, peekin’ down low at me and beckonin’ fur me to come and get her. “MAD! I was as mad as a hornet. I went back to that wink she’d given me in t'other dream and seemed like she'd gone back on her word-—something Gram had never done livin’. I was off the seat of that hack in a jiffy, runnin’ aside the hearse. When the goin’ slowed up I stuck my head inside and hollered, ‘Ye git straight back whar ye b’long! And what's more ye stay thar!" Then I begun to whimper like I couldn’t stand my feelin’s another minute. ‘Gram,’ says I, ‘hain’t ye got any heart? Do ye want to disgrace us boys? How’ll ye cal'ate we’ll feel to have the neigh- bors thinkin’ we're tryin’ to bury ye ag’in your will? We give ye them five days like we prom- ised—can’'t ye lay down decent and proper now?’ “That settled her. She turned, meek as a cow, climbed back into her coffin and closed the lid down. I went back to the hack and climbed up. We was still a-goin’ when I woke up.” An interlude followed. I tried to bring back my mind to the reality of life as I knew it to be. I figured my trout flies and did my best to imagine the still, deep pool below the swamp where I had been on the point of cast- ing just as my last leader broke. Half an hour more I could be back there, casting again. But the pool and the trout faded into oblivion beside the sterner reality of Gram Perkins. I was on the hack with young Zeb, my eyes fas- tened in growing perturbation on a pair of solid black doors. “Jes’ started on our January thaw when the next dream took me,” broke in Zeb. “We'd reached the cemetery. Grave dug, coffin low- ered, folks standin’ 'round fur a final prayer. To all appearances everything was goin’ first rate. But the sexton hadn't more than picked up his shovel, easy-like, when out comes a whistle, clear as a fog horn. I opened my eyes quick and looked down. Thar was Gram, poppin’ out like a jack-in-the-box, lid swung wide open and both hands reachin’ fur the dirt the sexton was shovelin’ in. Yes, ma'am! Ye never saw dirt fly in all your born days the way Gram made it fly. At the rate she was goin’, I knew we’'d be standin’ thar twell Doomsday, gettin’ her buried. “Everybody else was prayin’ hard along with the parson, and he was 'most to the Resurrec- tion. I knew somethin’ had to be done quick, so in I jumped. I slapped the dirt out of her hands hard like you would with a child and says I, ‘Land o’ goodness, Gram, what ails ye? We've fetched ye along to what the Bible calls your last restin’ place. All we boys is askin’' of ye now is to keep quiet and rest twell Jergment day.’ “The words warn't more’'n out afore I knew I'd said the wrong thing. She didn't lay any more store 'bout this eternal restin’ than what ye would, settin thar’ fingerin’ them flies. She give me the most pitiful look ye ever saw on a human face. It said, plain as daylight, ‘Zeb, lug me back home and let me git to work ag'in.’ “wall . .. I took to whimperin’ like a 2-year=- old. ‘Ef ye woan't do it fur the Bible, says I, ‘do it fur us boys. Ye've al'ays been terrible proud of us—al'ays wanted we should have jes’ what we wanted, and ther’s nothin’ in the whole o’ creation we want so much this minute as to see ye restin’ peaceful. Git back in. Close your eyes, fold your hands, git that listen fur the last trumpet look on your face. Hurry, woan't ye? The sexton’s shovelin’ like sixty.” “She give me another of them pitiful looks— nigh broke me all up—and she sort o’ slid back and slammed the lid down on her fur all the world like one of these cuckoo clocks. I lit out and landed side o' the parson jes’ as he said ‘Amen.’ . ., . ‘Amen,’ says I, thankful like. ‘Amen,’ says the sexton. . , * Amen,’ says the mourners in a roarin’ chorus like the sea. And then I swear to ye that way under the dirt I heard Gram sing out Amen! Tell ye I woke in a sweat!™ “Cold sweat?” I asked. think of. “Cold as a clam, dripped with it.” “That makes three.” “Three!” Zeb tolled it out like a passing bell. “All bad enough—the fourth, worst of all. Ye wait.” I waited. It was all I could “THREE years I lived comfortable in my mind. Seemed like that last Amen had settled things. Then May come along. I'd been slippin’ some of them geraniums to take up to the cemetery Memorial Day. I could still walk some—slowly, but git about—and I went to bed rnighty real happy at the idea o’ fixin’ up Gram’s grave. Right on top o' that came the fourth dream! “I was swingin’ up the road toward the cemetery, and in one hand'I ecarried a pot with the slips in, and t'other held my stick I walked with. Jes’ about reached the lot when up comes a jedge from Boston—nice feller— and I asked him to come along and see the view from our place. ‘Most famous in the State,’ says I. ‘Clear days we can see 'most anything.’ “I fetched him through the iron gates and stood him up close to the monument and begun pointin’ places out. ‘Thar’s Mount Washington,” says I. ‘Some days ye can see the whole Presidential Range. . . . Thar's Katahdin . . . thar's . . .’ But I stopped thar dead. I'd caught something move in the grass by Gram’'s headstone. The next minute out come a whistle, loudest I ever heard. I swung the jedge clear 'round and pointed out to sea. ‘Thar’'s Mount Desert,’ says I, and ‘thar’s Isle au Haut. That's the Rockland boat ye hear whistlin’—consarn it!’ “I looked at Gram. She'd got her head and shoulders clear and she was whistlin’ ag'in fur. dear life. her mouth and nodded her head toward our back. Seemed like she was askin’ me fur the last time to take her home. The jedge seemed lost in the scenery, and I stepped up to Gram and showed her the geranium slips. ‘Look at them,” says I. ‘Fetched ’em all the way over to decorate your grave, and here ye be, bustin’, loose and cuttin’ up. Hain't ye ever goin’ to give in and rest in peace?’ “Wall, she never said a word, jes’ kept worke ing herself further and further out. I was terrible scairt the jedge would turn 'round any second and ketch her. Stood thar on pins and needles watchin’ Gram rise from her grave. ‘Have a hcart, Gram,” I begun coaxin’ ag'in.. ‘How'd ye like a city feller like that jedge to ketch a Perkins turnin’ ghost like?’ . . . Never. finished what I set out to say. She looked 80 queer and upset—so like she wanted to tell me sometning and didn't know how. I stood thar, geraniums in one hand, stick in t’other, tryin' to make out what it was Gram wanted to tell me. Then it come over me, all of a flash. 'Twasn't she that wanted to git out; ‘twas that smart, spunky body o’ hern. It was drivin’ the sperrit same as a strong wind drlves: a cloud afore it. She was ready to rest if that doggoned crippled-up, pie-bakin’, doughnute’ fryin’ body would have let her be. But it wouldn't. It was draggin’ her out of her coffin,’ out of her grave, turnin’ her loos: about the county like no decent sperrit could stand. “‘I'll fix it says I, droppin’ the geranium’ and grabbin’ the stick with both hands. ‘I'll fix it so it'll let ye rest quiet twell doomsday,” and with that I laid on Gram with that stick. I beat her up twell thar warn't nothin’ left but a scatterin’ of dust on the spring sod. Yes, ma’am! I reduced Gram to dust and ashes like the Bible said had to be.” 2 A long sigh swept the stillness of the room. The face of Zeb Perkins underwent a sequenece, of changes. Triumph had been there, but it, dwindled out and sorrow took its place; and then a fear, a tremulous commiseration and, finally, bewilderment. He now looked straight at me. His eyes were dull, fearful. “They, doan't understand, them Perkins to the harbor. They doan’t think I ever ought to have done that to Gram.” I gathered up my flies and was halfway to the door before Zeb spoke again. His voice had now grown querulous: “Wall—what do ye think?” * “I gave my answer as I slipped out of doors, into the wide spaces again. “I think the trout are going to bite,” said I. (Copyright, 1929.) Old-Fashioned Ducel. Continued from Eleventh Page swordsmanship was Adolphe Possein, a flery French journalist. He knew nothing of the art of swordsmanship, but had several serious fights and always won without taking a scratch himself. His method was simple. In the French duel the fighting begins when the director of combat orders, ‘“Allez, Messieurs,” (Go, gentlemen). Possein never waited for the word “Messieurs,” but upon hearing the word “Allez,” went after his adversary like a flash. His opponent, not used to such mad tactics, usually got his before the fight for him had started. None of Possein’s duels lasted more than a few seconds, and he won them all IN France, pistol duels are much less frequent than fights with swords. Pistol duels, gov- erned by strict rules, are of two kinds: The “duel au commandement” and the “duel au vise.” The latter is the more deadly and the most bloodthirsty form of regulated combat. In the “duel au commandement” the adver- saries fire at the word of command. It offers a striking illustration of the method by which risks are now equalized in cases where com- batants are of widely differing degrees of skill- fulness. The men face each other 25 yards apart, each holding his pistol at arm’s length by his side. Firing takes place when the director, standing midway between and at one side of the men, gives the order “Fire,” followed by the words, “One, Two Three.” Neither man must lift his arm or fire before “two” has been spoken, but both must fire before “three” has been called. Any breach of this etiquette means dishonor- able conduct on the dueling field. ‘The scope this system gives to the man direct- ing the combat to equalize the chances of the two men is obvious. He is, of course, acquaint- ed with their relative degree of skill and it is his duty, in honor, to see that their chances shall be as nearly equal as possible. The call- ing of the fatal numbers a little quicker or a little slower may make all the difference between life and death of one of them. If the more skillful combatant is given time he should easily score, but if the time is cut down proportionate with the lesser man’s both must fire impetuously and their fa hl more on an equal basis. This explains why so many French duels end with the conventional phrase, “Two balls were exchanged without results.” Many seconds do not regard even this precaution in the rules as adequate to meet certain situations. The seconds have the duty of loading the pistols and in many cases they may regard the reason for the duel as trivial, whatever the principals may think. Usually all parties engaged are more or less personal friends and so it oftem happens that blank cartridges are placed in the * pistols, unknown to the combatants. A deli« cate situation is solved and honor is satisfied. THE “duel au vise” is simpler, but more deadly. The men face each other with their -pistol arms down parallel with their legs, The director of combat calls “Are you ready?” At his discretion, when both have replied, he calls “Fire.” Each combatant then has the choice of lete ting fly at once, or of biding his time and take ing the risk of running his adversary's fire in order to take careful aim. If one waits, the other, having fired, must drop his pistol and stand immobile and await his enemy’s bullet. This form of dueling is now infrequent chiefly because it is difficult to find reputable seconds to act in such cases, for the duel is likely to degenerate into something little short of colde blooded murder. F BY RUTH SAWYER Then she took her fingers out o!- The swords generally used in French duels nk the slender, flexible, dull-edged weapons wi points sharpened to the utmost keenness, and ™ known as “epees de combat.” They are shorter and lighter than the rapier and heavier and superior in quality to the fleuret, or foil. Duels with sabers are now practically out of practice in France. In pistol dueling special pistols are used, fire Ing a spherical bullet nearly half an inch in diameter. The return of the duel fulfills a prophecy of M. Rouzier Dorcieres, a noted duelist who was killed in the war. “In our old France,” he used to say, “we are still a people of the sword, and always shall be.” (Copyright, 1929.)