Lakeland Evening Telegram Newspaper, April 20, 1912, Page 6

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The Pure |Food Store Ask the Inspector o s eienes The Telegram Is Up-To-Now SOLD AND GUARANTEED BY THE EVENING TELEGRAM LAI ELAND, FLA., APRIL 20, 1912 Cathleen’s Capture By lzola Forrester (Copyright, 1913, by Associated Literary Press.) “Listen!” whispered Cathleen ex- citedly. “Can’t you hear him now?” “‘Deed, and it's only the crackling | of the telephone wires, Miss Cathie. {Don't you be worrying so,” soothed | Blake, brushing out the long, beau- | tiful waves of chestnut hair, *“There lisn't a soul out a night like this for miles. You're tired and a bit nerv- ous.” “I'm not a bit nervous, Blake,” Cathleen retorted haughtily, She stared at the reflection of herself in the oval mirror and frowned. It was certainly a white and troubled young person who returned ber gaze of in- quiry. “Anyway, I don't think it at all right for papa to send me out bere at this time of the year.” “'Tis a foine place for the asth- ma,” Blake sald gently. “But I haven't asthma. It's papa who has asthma. I think he should bave thought of me a little in the matter. It's cold and bleak and mis- erable down here on the lhou this {ime of the year, and there's d living here—oh, Blake, t.ben n again. Don't you 1 u hear it?” It was unmlstakable gu t steady, dragging sound on thé P60 Cathleen reached for the pinkshaded lights, and extinguished them with fingers that strove to be steady. She thought quickly. They had arrived that afternoon, without warning, from New York. Her father was to follow the next morning with his nurse and secretary. Only Blake and the old housekeeper were in the house besides herself. The chauffeur was in town. The house was one of several in a summer colony on the bay. The long gardens rambled stralght down to the water's edge. It was the last of the row, and faced the sea on two sides. So far as Cathleen knew, there were no other residents there, only a few servants left in charge through the winter. Blake moved cautiously to the near- est window and peered out. It was a stormy spring night. The raln was pelting down in sheets. Out to sea the lightning cut the darkness in long glittering gashes, coming swiftly after every crack of thunder. The house was buflt with gables. Cathleen's suite was in the front, so that the side windows commanded a full view of the sloping roof on the east gable above the library. She leaned over Blake's shoulder, and watched for the next flare of light. “There he is,” she whispered. “He's climbed up as far as the parapet, Blake, and 18 crouching behind that chimney.” “And what should he do that for, Miss Cathie? Blake objected. “Wouldn't he go in the windows by cholce?” “I don't know,” laughed Cathleen, her nerves running to extremes. “Maybe he prefers chimneys. I'm go- ing to telephone the village and get the police out here just as soon as they can come.” Blake listened to the how! of the storm outside. “Ah, sure, they'll never get up the shore in this gale, Miss Cathie,” she groaned, but Cathleen had already sped down the long hall, and she spoke only to the windowpane. “Yes, hello, hello,” called Cathleen tremulously, as she got the number at Seponsett headquarters. “This {s { Mr. Reid's residence on the bay shore. There is a burglar on the roof, and I am alone except for two servants, both women. Can you send help at once? What? I don’t know. We on- ly arrived about half an hour ago. The house has been closed all win- ter. Do hurry. I'm afraid you'll be too late.” She hung up the recelver and turn- ed around to face Blake. “I think he's trying to come down the chimney, 'deed, and I do. He's acting that crafty. And there's the open fireplace in the library, Miss Cathie. Do you think bhe'll be dropping down that way?” Cathleen felt a wave of falntness sweep over her. It was her first experience with burglars. But she cleanched both hands and stood fast. “Shall I wake Mrs. Busby? “No,” replied Cathleen, firmly. “She’'s too mervous. The police will be here in ten minutes. He won't come down a hot chimney. You go and bulid a fire in the library, Blake, and I'll get papa’s revolver from his rooms, and cover him with it from my windows, and if be breaks in, Il shoot.” The man on the east gable worked with deliberation. Now he crouched behind the low parapet as the wind swept in from the sea. Then Cath- leen could see him start to work with renewed energy. He seemed to be tearing at the roof. There were slate plates on it, Cathleen remembered. Mr. Reid was British, and had his own ideas of what a roof should be like even on Long Island. She wondered it perhaps this was a slate thief, and then choked a laugh in her handker- chief, at the picture of any burglar stealing pounds of slate to bear away down the lonely shore a night like this. More probably he was a lunatic. There was a private asylum six miles away. Cathleen felt more hopeful. One might divert a lunatic where a burglar had preconceived notions. startling rapidity. I Suddenly he began todescend with | the profoundest of bows, “is to He was down on | the verity of what I speak.” the veranda roof before she realized it, not thirty feet from her. “They're coming, Miss Cathie!” called Blake, In a hushed tone from the lower hall. ‘You can hear them now.” Cathleen raised the window, and leaned out. “Don't you move or I'll shoot!” she cried. He moved, nevertheless, and quickly, too. She leveled the revolv- er and fired into the darkness, but not toward the sound. There was dead silence on the roof below her, then she could almost have sworn she heard a laugh. Blake was directing the police up- stairs. She heard steps below in the garden, hurried, adventurous steps, and drew back from the window, white and chilled. “They've got him, Miss Cathie, In the library,” Blake brought the news. “He's that bold and daring, too. They want you to see him. Not a word will he say.” “Oh, must I?" Cathleen hesitated, but the Reid blood was not made of milk, Head up, and steady nerved, she went down to the library. The burg- larg met her gaze squarely. He was young, smooth-faced, towsle-haired, rough-coated, hatless. His curly hair was drenched and curled tightly. It was the hair that gave him away. “Tommy,” she gasped. “Tommy, how could you?” “How could you?” retorted ‘l'omml.l mildly. “But I didn't know you were here?” “Your father sent me down on the afternoon train.” "B‘”’ why on earth were you on the | Tomm" eyes twinkied. He ralsed | his handcuffed wrists. “It leaked, lady. I was only fixing it. It was coming in awfully, and I was asleep in the room underneath. I didn’t hear you arrive even.” “You might have seen the light.” “But I was looking for a leak. Won't you please explain?” Cathleen explained, with what dig- nity ghe could gather. The man was |§ Mr. Thomas Drew, a close friend of the family. There was a mistake. She had no idea he was there at all. And she was very sorry. When they were alone In the great dim library, Tommy took her in his arms with unmistakable intentions. “You sald I was a close friend of the family,” he protested, “and you're the family. Do you suppose I was going to be railroaded down South or West, while you stayed here for three months? The governor needs some- body here to look after his business interests, and I applied for the posi: tion. Also, the word goes around that I'm to be a junior partner. Will you be a June bride, sweetheart?” “Tommy, you don't know how funny you looked in those steel rings.” “The first week in June?” Cathleen laughed, and ralsed her face from his coat sleeve. “If you promise to keep off people’s roofs.” LIFE IN A CITY TENEMENT Not Hard for Sophisticated Listener to Understand What Goes On in the Building. I could stand at any time In the un- swept entrance hall and tell, from an' analysis of the medley of sounds and smells that issued from doors ajar, what was going on in the several flats, from below up, writes Mary An- tin in the Atlantic. That guttural, scolding voice, unremittent as the | hissing of a steampipe, is Mrs. Ras- | nosky. I make a guess that she Is ! chastising the infant Isaac for taking | a second lump of sugar in his tea Spam, bam! yes, and she is rubbing In | her objections with the flat of her hand. That blubbering and moaning, accompanying an elephantine tread, is fat Mrs. Casey, second floor, home drunk from an afternoon out, in fear of the vengeance of Mr. Casey; to! propitiate whom she is burning a pan of bacon, as the choking fumes and outrageous sizzling testify. Ihear a feeble whining, Interrupted by long sl- lences. It is that scabby baby on the third floor, fallen out of bed again, with nobody at home to pick him up. To escape from these various hor- rors 1 ascend to the roof, where ba- con and bables and child-beating are not. But there I find two figures in calico wrappers, with bare red arms akimbo, & basket of wet clothes in front of each, and only one empty clothes-line between them. I do mot want to be dragged in as a witness in a case of assault and battery, eo I go down to the street again, grateful to note, as I pass, that the third-Sioor baby is stiil. In front of the door [ squeese through a group of children. They are golng to play tag, and are counting to see who should be “it:* My-mother-and-your-mother-went-out. to- hang-clothes; My-mother-gave-your-mother-a-punch- in- the-nose. It the children’s couplet does not give a vivid picture of the life, manners and customs of Dover -M no de scription of mine can ever do A curious scene was enacted the other day in a London (Eng) police court, during the hearing of a charge | brought against a young Swiss oper- atic artist. In reply to the accusation the prisoner stated that he had been engaged at a West End theater for ten years. Then, before any one had | guessed his purpose, the court was ringing with a tenor song from one of the Italian operas. The amazed jailer stopped bhim as soon as he had recov- ered his presence of mind, and the ac- cused seemed to share In the general astonishment. “That,” he sald, with TALKING ABOUT PIANOS why not come and so! cur superb collection o: BJUR'S Don’t worry abour We arrange t« s 50 while you pday. 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