Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, March 5, 1904, Page 6

Tom Gallon ono000005) CHAPTER I. “Give Me My Dreams Again.” In. one of the Western States of ‘America—Nevada, to be exact—there is a small town which is perishing off the face of the earth. Not that it ever existed to any large extent; for it was, at best, of a mushroom growth, and sprang up, if not exactly in a night, at least in a feverish fashion in a few days. The name of the town does not con- cern us; you will not find it on any map. A boom created it; a lying re- port concerning certain unworked sil- ver mines was responsible for its birth. Coming into existence so sud- denly and with such great prospects, it had of necessity to be built in a hurry; so that its tumble-down houses are of wood. It had originally several saloons and a dancing hall; in that first mad rush streets were designed and never finished; a lath and plas- ter hotel was run up that never got a roof to cover it. At the far end of one of the straggling streets was a little house of wood, standing quite apart fr< the unfinished town, as though ting. shyly enough, for the town to come out and meet it. With that house we are intimately concerned, \ for a matter of one night—a hot and windless night in summer. Within the little house a light shone, and an old man-—thin and shriveled and dried up—sat with his elbows propped on a table, staring straight before him. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy and wild; his thin, knotted hands were clawing at his lips, as though he hungered for something and dreamed he might get it. The man was not really old; only something had withered the flesh off his bones, and cracked and yellowed his skin until it looked like parch- ment. In one corner of the room in which he sat was an old sofa—a gaudy thing, that had been brought in the first flush of supposed prosperity to the place, and remained, incongrouos- ly enough, as the one ironical note in the furnishing of the room; for the rest, the room held only wooden chairs and an upturned box or two— and the deal table at which the man sat i On the gaudy couch lay a young girl, eovered over with an old and tattered blanket The man’s back was to- ward her, yet he shuddered every now and then, as she turned restlessly and muttered and moaned unintelligible things. He knew that she was dying —and he could do nothing to help her. They had come a long way for this; the bitter end of a weary jour- nd the end was death. Down below in the ruined town a hts shone—the last flickering it were, that had been set y enough at the end of a hopeless day. For a few derelicts still lingered in the place, and man- aged to exist in some mysterious fashion; even one saloon kept open, and from within it could be heard the sounds of a battered and jingling pi- no, all out of tune. Occasionally a shadow flitted across the street, or one stridant voice called to another. From somewhere out of the depths of it a wreck of a man had got to the little house twice that day—a man who once had ealled himself Doctor, and had not quite forgotten what he had learnt; and this wreck of a man hhad shaken his head and had given no thope. Save for this young girl, there was no woman about the place; she was to die alone, just as the hopeless ‘day was dying over the ruined town. Then from the north of the town— coming out of the dark and windless night like two spectres descending upon it—came a man and a woman, riding hard. From the dust upon them and from the heavily breathing horses they had evidently come a long way; the woman, though she rode well, yet ! d@rooped over her saddle, and had to shake herself now and then, or be encouraged by a sharp word from the man who rode with her, to keep go- ing at all. The man was a dark-eyed, handsome fellow — reckless-looking, and with certain gay adornments to his picturesque dress, and certain pright buttons about it, that bespoke the dandy. And in his face as he rode, and in the quick glances he gave from time to time behind him, was a dead- fly fear that had gnawed at his, heart, nd at the heart of the woman, for: many hours. “Hold up, Joyce!” he cried, sudden- ly. ao it is; we can go no farther, even if we have to get food and horses at the muzzle of one of my shooters. old up!” “Save your breath; I’m all right,” said the woman, doggedly. “Did you ever know me to give in yet? Did you ever know me to turn back from anything I’d put my hand to? Do you think I’ve come so far as this only to turn back now?” “No—you're all right,” said the man. “If they were all like you I wouldn’t mind. You will stick to me, Joyce?” “~’m doing it—and not talking about 4t,” she said, sharply; and they rode on in silence. They came to that lonely. house “We stop at the next place, wher- ; ADEE OEE DOODOOCOoonCo 1 eyes. | a querulous whisper. with the light in it. Farther down in the town. itself the other lights gleam- ed, but these travelers were shy of them. Their horses’ hoofs were muf- fled in the thick dust of the road; they drew near without attracting at- tention. Then the woman, alert and watchful for the safety of the man, slipped down from her horse and stole up to the uncurtained window and looked in. She went back to the man, who waited with the jaded beasts in the shadows, and reported what she had seen: an. old man sitting at a ta- ble and a young girl lying on a couch. “T don’t know this place,” said the man; “it’s out of my reckoning alto- gether. It seems almost as if we must have turned from the main road and struck something out of the beat- en track. Go ahead, Joyce; see what you can find out; see if they’ve got a drink or a bite anywhere.” She went back to the house, lifted the latch and walked in. The old man turned his head slowly at the sound, and looked at her with those wild She went forward into the room and stood in the light, so that he could see her fully. “lve lost my way,” she said, in a curiously refined voice, sharp though it was with fear and hunger, “and am afraid to go on to-night. I’ve eaten nothing for many hours—drunk noth- ing; if you could give me a little—” The old man burst into a wild laugh and pointed at her in derision. “Give you something?” he cried. “Can’t you see for yourself there’s nothing here? Look round these walls; this is what they have brought me down to. I don’t ask for food, or drink, as other men ask; I only want a little—only a yery little—of that wondrous stuff that shall send me to sleep. Such a little thing to ask—such a small thing. They call it opium—and you take it— and mold it up’—he moved his thin fingers softly and laughed in his throat—‘“and then but three whiffs— and then—Paradise! Can you give me that? I don’t ask food—I don’t want food; give me only a little—a mere pinch—of opium!” He started up and looked round the room, and stretched out his long arms imploringly toward her a she did so. Presently, after a restless motion or two, he stopped at the head of the gaudy couch and looked down at the girl upon it. He even stretched a hand toward her as though to stop that ceaseless motion of her head; drew back and shook his own. “She’s dreaming now; don’t you see her? They say she won't wake again; better for her—much better for her. Suppose, like me, she woke and found the Palace of Dreams gone? Oh, much bettter for her as it is.” “Isis she dying?” asked the wom- an, in a whisper. “Dying; that’s the word” said the old man. “She used to move about quickly and happily, once; we all come to this at the end. “I’m dying—dying for want of one little bit of the pre- cious stuff that shall put life into me again.. She wanted food; I didn’t want that. If I might only, for ‘the - last time, have ever so little of it—just to send me into dreamland again—I could forget. Only one little precious bit of opium!” She went outside again and found the man who wainted with the horses. In the faint light of the stars they looked into each other’s eyes. “Well?” “Nothing to be got there,” she re- plied, in nanswer to the abrupt. ques- tion. “An old fool—raving mad; a young girl—dying of fever, I should think. What will you do? They don’t seem to have a thing in the house— neither food nor drink nor anything.” The man tightened his belt and then drew out a revolver and looked at it. “I’m going down into the town,” he said. “Drink I must have, and food.” “You know the risk?” she asked, in “The sheriff and his men may be waiting—” “If they are, you know what they’ll get,” he said, as he swung himself into the saddle. “You’d better wait here till I come back—if I do come back. I’ll get what I can and find out what I can.” “Very well,” she replied, in the tone of one used to giving obedience to him.” “I'll wait.” He had gone but a dozen yards when he swung the animal round and came back to her. “There’s to be no back- ing down now, Joyce,” he said, in a fierce whisper. “You're not the one to desert a man, even though fifty men are out scouring the country for him. If they catch us we’ll make a fight for it, eh?” “I haven’t failed you yet,” she said, in a level voice; and, only half satis- fied, he rode away. She went back into the crazy wood- enhouse. The old man hadsunk again. into his former attitude by the table; he scarcely even Icoked up as_ she went in. After all, she had but to kill time until this horrible waiting was over, and she could fly again with the man whose troubles she was sharing, as she had shared them before. With no real feeling she crossed to the couch and looked down at the girl upon it. She had seen dying men, and dead men not a few. She had not seen death coming in this form be- fore. The face upon which she looked was a very beautiful one—so beautiful mus girl upon the couch was finely formed: and father long of limb; heavy masses. of hair fell here and there about the pillow; wide blue eyes, with no con- sciousness in their gaze, looked into hers. seeming to ask of life some better fate or ending than this. “Has she been ill long?” asked the woman, abruptly. “A long time—or so it seems,” said the old man. “Think; if she had only lived a little longer—only a little long- er—think what it would have meant! Dreams “or me all the day and all the night—no one to stop me—no one to refuse me because I had no money. She was to have been rich.” “It looks like it,” said the woman, with a little laugh. “You could dream anything, old man, I should think.” “This was no dream!” he exclaimed eagerly. “It’s too late now; but it would have happened. See here”’— he went across the room, reached up to a shelf above the couch, and took down an old leather wallet—‘it’s all here; every word of it. Over in that England I shall never see again is a great place waiting for her; it was her mother’s. Only now, when it is too late, they are asking for her—ad- vertising for her. Look; here it is!” He pointed with one shaking hand to an old, discolored newspaper sheet he had pulled out of the wallet. Look- ing it idly enough, the woman read what was printed: “£50 Reward—Yarwood—This re- ward will be paid to any one giving information as to the whereabouts of a young lady of this name. Supposed to have been born abroad about twen-- ty-onee years ago, and to have been given the name of Grace. Is believed to have traveled with her father in many parts of the world; last heard of in America. Address, Messrs. Stock & Erling, Solicitors, Chancery Lane, London.” x “Ig that the girl?” asked the wom- an, nodding her head towards the couch and speaking with some inter- est. i “Yes—my daughter,” said the old man. “Here’s a letter,” he added, pulling a sheet of paper out of the wallet and holding it up. “Followed me for nearly a year; only came to me by accident. Someone dead—I forget who it is; my memory is not what it was—and she was to have had every- thing—every penny. Too late now— too late!” “But you—her father—can claim it?” suggested the woman. “No—they won’t look at me. It was for the girl—and only the girl. They said I dragged her mother down and ruined her; they want the girl for the mother’s sake. Too late—always too late with me!” id She took the paper from his nerve- less fingers and read what was writ- ten. It was stiff and formal enough; simply stated that the writers, as so- licitors to the late John Hawley, of Hawley Park, in the county of Surrey, had at last succeeded, in accordance with the instructions of-their deceased client, in discovering an address; that they were writing to inform Mr. David Yarwood that the property of the late John Hawley was left, under certain conditions, to his grand-daughter, if alive; if not claimed within a certain time by her it would pass to others, her death being presupposed. “She'll die—and never know it— never know that she might have given her poor old father back his dreams again. Hard—very hard! It’s all here’—he tapped the wallet as he spoke—“all the papers that show it’s true. Old letters—documents—all so much waste paper now. And she’d have wanted the papers, too, to show them who she was; they’ve never seen her; never set eyes on her, any of them.” “England! The dear England of my mother! I can see the shady lanes— the flowers and trees—the white cot- tages. My mother’s England!” The cry had come from the couch; it had died away again in a mere murmur of incoherent words. The woman was fingering the wallet and looking idly from the figure on the couch to the other figure by the table. There came a quick thud of horses’ hoofs outside; she sprang for the door. The old man made a movement after her. “They’ve come to fetch her; they’ve come, with their hands full of gold, to buy me what I want and take her back again. They’re at the door!” he gasped. “Stay where you are: it’s some one for me,” she said, and went out to face the man who was impatiently calling to her “Why must you keep me waiting at such a moment as this?” he gasped. “Before heaven, I ran almost into the middle of ’em; the party has split up, somehow, and a dozen of them are down there, in the one saloon, asking questions. We must go; there’s not a moment to lose.” “Then we won’t go together,” said the woman, without looking at him. “It'll never do, you know, for you to be hampered with me; besides, I'm only another distinctive mark by which they can trace you. Go alone; T'll join you as soon as you are clear away.” “You mean that you’re going to de- sert me?” he asked, in a low voice. “You mean that this isn’t fun enough for you; you’re afraid, and you'll go back again and let me swing—eh?” “Have I ever broken my word yet?” she asked, quietly. “Oh, you needn’t finger your pistol; you don’t want to add another to the list, do you?” “I wouldn’t hesitate,” he said, sav- agely, “if I thought you meant to leave me. I went through this for you—” “I didn’t ask it,” she replied. “It was only your) jealousy; the man meant no harm.” “We won't discuss that now; where will you meet me?” : They were appealing eyes— ‘man who wrote this book. ™ sat “Out of the state, in the first place; ‘then. I’m going to make for San. Fran- cisco. You know where you first met me there? I'll send you word there as to what I’m doing—if I,get so far.” “Very well—in San _ Francisco, then,” she said. “Good bye!” “I’m sorry if I suggested you were going back on me,” he said. “You're too fond of me for that, aren’t you?” “Don’t be silly; of course I am,” she said. He put money into her hands, and then, bending down to kiss the white soon lost in the shadows. She went back toward the house, but stopped at the door as though weighing some matter in her mind. “Back to San Francisco—back to the old place!” she whispered to her- self. “Never! I’ve played a lone hand before; I’ll play it again. He dare not come back—dare not look for me. This is my chance. Mr. Owen Jag- gard, we should have had to part some day; this day is as good as ap- other.” : As she entered the door again the old man started to his feet. You’ve brought it?’ h esaid, eager- ly, stretching out his hands towards her. “The precious stuff—the opium; don’t play with a helpless old man and say you haven’t got it. You went to fetch that, didn’t you?” “— suppose you’d sell your soul for that, wouldn’t you?” she asked, as a strange thought entered her mind. “I suppose you can’t get it in this place?” she added. (To Be Continued.) WHEN HE WAS DISCOVERED. The Author Wanted Unbiased Opin- ion and Got It. Not long ago Everett T. Tomlinson, author of “A Lieutenant Under Wash- ington” and many other popular books for boys, dropped into the children’s room at the Boston public library. “I fancy I felt,” he says, “as most writers would when I discovered a lad with one of my books on the table be- fore him, and apparently deeply in- terested in its perusal. “Assured that I would have the very opportunity I most desired, that of drawing from him his. own impres- sions, I soon entered into conversa- tion with him, thereby, I fear, some- what infringing upon the rules. “For a time he talked glibly, and I was congratulating myself that I was securing candid and unbiased opin- ions from the very fountain head—a Boston boy—when suddenly he looked up, and said: “I know who you are! You're the I’ve seen your picture!’”—New York News. STRANGE CAT IN NATIONAL ZOO. He Is an African Serval, but Resem- bles Texas Wildcat. Lying peacefully in one corner of his cage in the National zoo in Wash- ington, watching visitors with his lit- tle beady, rat-like eyes, is the newly imported African serval, a member of the cat family. He is one of the first seen in this country, and gets a lot of attention, both on this account and because of his grotesque appearance. He resembles the Texas wild cat in general contour and coloring, but his markings are more distinct and regu- lar, and his long, pointed ears are not tufted as are those of his wildcat brother. The serval has a dog-like muzzle, which, combined with his long, drooping whiskers, gives him a decidedly Chinese cast of counte- nance. Although not personally beau- tiful, he seems to have a cheerful and philosophical disposition, and paces up and down or lies curled up near the bars all day without making a sound. There is some speculation among his keepers as to whether, if he chose, he could mew, ‘or howl, or park, for so far he hasn’t uttered a single sound.—New York Times. OBEYING ORDERS. Going Through a Gate and Climbing a Fence Altogether Different. An eight-year-old boy was playing in the yard of his home and his moth- er, knowing the easily-opened gate was a terrible temptation to the youngster to transfer his activities to the street, thought it well to warn him. - “Bobby,” she ordered, “you must not go out through that gate to the street.” Receiving the little fellow’s word that her command would be obeyed, she left him to his games. Not long afterward the mother looked from an upper window and saw the family’s pride playing in the for- bidden street. “Didn’t I tell you not to go out cf the gate?” she called to the young- ster. “Well, I didn’t, ma,” retorted the heir, conscious of his innocence. “Deed, I didn’t. I clum over the fence.”—Philadelphia Public Ledger. Might Be Dismissed in Disgrace. Reporter (to Lord Goodfellow, on his arrival in New York)—You are a member of the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company of London, are you not? His Lordship—Why, er, ya-as; but foh heaven’s sake, me good man, don’t make a sensation oveh the fact that I’m sobeh,—Puck. No Amateur. Mrs. Crawford—Is that an_ experi- enced girl/you have? _ Mrs. Crabshaw—Why, I should say she is! This is the ninth place she’s had this year.—Judge. After a woman gets on the shady side of forty she speaks of herself and her female friends as “us girls.” face upturned to his, rode off, and was | a rrr a ae Ee Miss Nellie Holmes, treasurer of the of Buffalo, N. Y., strongly advises all suf- fering women to rely, as she did, upon “Dear Mrs. PrngHAM:— Your medicine is indeed an ideal woman’s medicine, and by far the best I know to restore lost health and strength. I suffered misery for several years, being troubled with menorrhagia. 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