Evening Star Newspaper, April 23, 1933, Page 76

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. €, APRIC %3, — e = JOCIETY OGGERS The author of "Paul Bunyan” tells about a red-blooded he-man who tried to change his ways By JAMES STEVENS URT STATLER was the youngest and toughest camp boss on the Evans line of lagging camps. When Alice Evans, visiting her father’s lcgging operations for the first time since she was a child, saw Curt whip five Swedes single-handed she fell in love with him. A week later Alice eloped with Curt. The young people had their honeymoon in the Canadian Rockies. Because of his knowl- edge of wild life Curt showed to good advan- tage there, and Alice was so infatuated with him that she would not allow herself to notice his table and cther manners. She and Curt made beautiful plans for their future. When the honeymoon was over Curt would find another lcgging camp to bess and they would settle down for a happy life in the tall timber. They were both so deep in the -enchantment of their romance that they had never-a doubt about Garrett Evans disowning them. Buwt'when the happy pair returned to Seattle Mr. Evans received them with cpen arms, and he wrecked their romantic plan. “Curt,” he said, in a private talk with his husky son-in-law, “Curt. I aim to treat you right. It is my wish that you be worthy of your position in Seattle society. “I've bought you and Alice a home on Killane _Island. This afterncon I'll take you around and buy you the society clothes you need. " Tonjght you'll attend your first formal function, There’ll be a lot of fine times ahead. “You'll learn golf, bridge, tennis, hunting, and the like of that. You'll beccme an expert .at the rite of afternoon tea, and so forth. That’s what you want, I hope?” HAT Curt really wanted was to get back to the lcgging camp. But he also wanted to be worthy of Alice. He said as much to Mr. Evans, and later he repeated his wish to his bride. ~ *“Oh,” said Alice. For an instant her blue eyes were dim with disappointment, Not that she herself wanted to live in the woods. It was just that a logging camp seemed to be the only place for Curt. But he seemed intensely sincere, so her disappcintment soon turned to gladness. Society life was natural - to her. “I'm really glad, Curtis,” she said at last. #“Qlad and happy.” That night he atiended his first formal function with Alice. When it was over he * went to Mr. Evans to report. “Talk about a strain!” said Curt wearily. “And I bet I done a dozen things wrong.” “Surely not a dczen,” said Mr. Evans en- couragingly. * *“Just about, I bet.” Curt’s tone was de- spondent. “You take, now, at the dinner, when the flunky brung around a plate of bis- -cuits.’ About the size of walnuts, they was. “I figgered I hadn’t ought to cause the flunky too many trips, so I raked off a whole -handful. Ever’body looked kinder funny.” “Well, that was wrong,” admitted Mr. Evans, “You shouldn’t have raked off a handful. You know, Curtis, you have somewhat of a hand. ‘There is no sense in thinking ycu did wrong, but people will think so. Custom, my boy.” “And when I et my olives with a spoon® said Curtis mournfully, “they looked funny at that, too.” “Anyway, you never drank from your finger- bowl,” said Mr. Evans. “I'm sure you remem- _ bered my warning about that.” . “No.” Curt brightened up. “I remembered _and sipped that there lemon water with my spoon.” “You enjoyed the play, I hope,” said Mr. Evans hurriedly. “Surely you were charmed with the Little Art Theater folk.” “I "wish I could say I did,” replied Curt, despondent again. “But the room and the stage was so dark you cculdn’t see an in- ‘ fernal thing that was going on. All you could hear was a flock of people somewheres, arguin’ whether to drink up another gallon of hooch or go out and strangle somebody’s baby. “And callin’ each other names like Whoosh- ka and Bushka. Roosians, Alice said they was. ‘Well, that set me agin the play. Russians are thre roitenest loggers they are; a man’ll wear out four ax handles a day on me, and then they won’t swamp.” “Yes,” said Mr. Evans sympathetically, “I know Russian loggers. But that has nothing to do with art. Alice and her friends adore Rus- sian art. I wouldn't argue it with her, if I were ycu.” Curt brightened again. “Ill learn culcher and all them things if they kill me. Don't worry, Mr. Evans, I'll make it in society or bust the seams of my tuxeder tryin’! Yes, sir!” LI‘FE on the island did drift slong pleasantly for a week, while the young couple were getting settled in their new home. Then they had an evening with nothing to do. _ For a while after dinner Curt was quite com- fortable with his cigar. He was feeling pleased with himself. Alice had comp¥mented him on ; ’ the ease and grace with which he had handled his oyster fork. But that compliment was only to soften the blow to fall. “Curtis, dear,” she said gently, after a mo- ment of sflence, “I saw you talking to the Swede farmers this afternoon.” “Oh,” said Curt, his heart sinking. “Curtis, darling,” said Alice, “I heard you talking to them.” - Curt turned red as a beet. He had talked to the Swede farmers just as he had talked to Swede loggers when he was a woods boss. All of his culture, refinement and polish had been thrown off like a new shoe that pinches. “Yes, dearest,” she said, “I was out by the windmill, looking at the honeysuckle vines. I was gazing dreamily at the blosscms, Curtis, thinking the most romanic thoughts about us, and then I was startled by the most horrid words! Oh, Curtis!” Alice’s voice trembled. “How could you? How could you use such language?” “I got lonesome,” said Curt gloomily. “They was nobody else to talk to.” “But surely there were men at the country club.” “I've tried and tried my blamedest to talk to ’em,” Curt said, a stubborn expression dis- turbing to Alice slowly creeping over his face. “They don't know nothin’. One of 'em has a story about how he was travelin’ in Italy one time. He tells it ever’ time you look crossways at him, and it wasn't much of a story to start with. Runs on and on like this here: ‘“Val,”’ the duke said to me. “‘And I said to the duke, “What?"” “‘“Got a match, Val?” «“¢1 told the duke, “Sure I got a match.” “‘And then the duke give me one of his monogrammed cigarettes.’ “Gosh, Alice, there’s no fun listenin’ to a story like that 17 times.” “It's cnly what you want, Curtis, that I'm considering,” said Alice gently. “If you find that you'd rather be a woods foreman——" Curt didn’t hesitate an instant. He was de- termined not to give an inch on this society stuff. He was bound to fight it out. “I'll go get a Rcosian book this minute,” he said grimly. THE next afternoon Curt felt more cheerful i and brave. He was going out for tennis. The art side of society had left him greggy, he ¢dmitted, but he was certain that he would zelish outdoor sports. The start was inspiring. Alice told him that he locked like a Greek god when he dressed for his first try at tennis. His powerful neck, rosy complexion and mop of blond hair looked superb above the silk tennis shirt. And the white flannel pants draped handsomely about his sturdy logger's legs. On the courts the man who had been to Italy made & monkey out of him, Curt lunged and swatted at the little white ball as though he were fighting a grizzly, but all the good it t lilustrated By PAUL KROESEN did him was to strain his back. The ball always dodged. That night he felt worse than ever, so Alice tock him to a musicale. Luckily Mr. Evans was there also, and after a long look at Curt he called him outside. He gave Curt a pint of Scotch, and then the harp-playing didn't jar on his nerves so much. In fact, Curt was feeling exuberant when he and Alice started home, and he sang “The Jam on Gerry’s Rock” all the way to the island. Curt’s vcice broke when he finished the song. Then he was silent. Alice also said nothing. But she Was thinking. She was certain now that her husband was a liar; in his heart he didn’t want to be a society man at all. After Curt had hobbled heavily and wearily up to bed Alice called her father over the tele- phone. At the end of their long conversation her eyes shown with triumph. She went up- stairs with a dancing step. Curt's jagged nerves rcused him early in the morning. He got up quietly, so as to leave Alice undisturbed, and tip-toed down to the kitchen to make some morning coffee. He stirring the first cupful, when a boy rode up on a sweating Shetland pony. “Island’'s afire!” yelled the juvenile Paul Revere, “Come and help put out the fire!” Fire! At the word all of Curt's painfully acquired culture and refinement were lost and forgotten. The word brought up vivid mem- ories of fire-fighting in the tall timber, him- self leading a band cf bullies into the smoke and flames—the old life. A west wind was beating it up from the beach, through the dry brush and grass of the late Summer. In its path was the wooded park of the country club, the Swedes’ farms, and the hillside homes of the society folk. At the edge of the park Curt ran upon four Swedes. “She ban goin’ be big fire. Jah, she ban—" “Get after some sacks and shovels, damn your eyes!” roared Curt. “You, Ole, go for some buckets. Lars, you rout out this country club outfit! Sven, telephone somebody with a portable pump! Pete, you go after the rest of the Swedes! “All of you dig up all the sacks and shovels you can find! Hustle now, or I'll give you all the ax handle. On your way, bullies!” The Swedes moved. They scattered, to carry out Curt’s bawled orders. His eyes shone. His heart beat high. P the road was an old windmill. Curt headed for it, shinned up the derrick and swung the paddles to face the wind. Then he discovered that the pump coupling was broken. He shinned down, hunted for haywire, then shinned up again. He spliced the coupling and the old machin- ery began to creak and groan. Down below water spurted from leaky valves, but a fair- sized stream gushed from the spout. Ole ar- rived with some buckets. The two of them began to carry water down through the smoke to soak the glass that skirt- ed the clubhouse park. Once the fire reached Y “It was on the duke's estate. The duke said to me, ‘Val' “. .. the rest of Val's story was muffled in g wet and muddy sack. “Get after that there fire!” roared a commanding voice. derytreesitwwldueepmmewbole island. Under his expert direction the fire-fighting went on with heroic success until the wind- mill's pump coupling broke again, this time beyond repair. Still roaring at the Swedes, Curt manned the hand pump, to fill their buckets arid wet their sacks. Still the fire crept on. Sparks flew against the brittle boards of the pumphouse and set it afire. Curt ripped the burning boards off barehanded, then manned the pump again. The pump handle snapped from a vigorous yank of his brawny arms. He tore up the beard covering of the well and bailed with a bucket attached to a rope of barbed wire. The barbs bit through the skin of his palms, but Curt kept on, and only swore harder at the Swedes. meymebe-ungthenubu:k.andmen the well went dry! “Where’s the nearest water?” he bawled at one of the Swedes. “She ban spring odder side pea field, Mister.” Cyst loaded the Swedes with two buckets apiece and started them on the run ahead of him. The battle went on. Curt gloried in it. His knicker pants were scorched in five places, his hands were burned and bleeding, his white silk shirt was smudged and torn, and his crepe-soled shoes were burned to his ankles, but little did he care. He had Swedes to boss and a fire to fight! Then the country-clubbers appeared. Curt first realized that when he heard a familiar drawl: “When I was traveling in Italy I witnessed a forest fire. It -was on the duke’s estate. The duke said to me, ‘Val’'” The rest of Val's story was muffled in a wet and muddy sack. “Get after that there fire!” roared a vcice with a commanding tone that was not to be denied. Val got. Curt energetically forced the other country- clubbers into the fray. By his roared and pro- fane directions groups of them were dispersed with wet gunny sacks along the fire line, and others were strung out in single file through the field of pea vines, and kept on the run with buckets of water. The tennis stars, bridge sharps, hunters and the folk of the Little Art Theater carried on valiently, once they had submitted to Curt’s rule. The fire receded under the attack, leav- ing black, smoking patches along the hillside, For hours frcm the time he answered the call Curt and his men were beating out the last sparks of the fire, 50 feet from the park. He was still the hero-leader, still hot and eager for battle. “Go to your homes, men,” he ordered. “I'll stand guard.” The country-clubbers and the Swedes needed no urging. One and all they dragged wearily away. When the last one was gone Curt re- laxed and leaned against a tree. He looked a wreck." His clothing was in scorched shreds. He had burns, blisters, cuts and scratches in 20 places. He was hungry and tired and incredibly dirty. But he was happy. OR half a day, at least, he had lived the old life, bossed Swedes, even made society lads perform like hard-bitten loggers. It was over now—yeah, back to the society life for him Continued on Fifteenth Page. Mournfully Curt Statler bowed his head. Ho