Lakeland Evening Telegram Newspaper, April 27, 1915, Page 6

—— By FRANK FILSON. (Copyright, 1915, by W. G. Chapman.) “If we canm hold out another twelve- month, we win, Miss Marston,” said John Clay, turning to his stenogra- pher. “You see, reports from all our traveling men tell us that the su- periority of the Clay filament has been thoroughly demonstrated. The ques- tion is, can we manipulate our cap- ftal to keep on manufacturing, with Rea & Co. threatening to sue for their bill, and the other creditors pressing us?” Miss Marston was silent. There was & flush on her face as she bent over her notebook. She had come to John Clay ten months before, with the highest rec- ommendations. Tactful, quick, well educated, and with a personality that commanded recognition, she had made herself indispensable to her em- ployer. The Clay company and Philip Mac- Intyre & Co. were rivals in the manu- facture of the new filament, an im- provement upon a patent recently taken out by a bankrupt concern. Ow- ing to technicalities the improvement could not be patented. Clay and Mac- Intyre had each put a product upon the market, and it was a fight to the death between them. John Clay knew that his invention was superior to his rivals’. But they had money, and he was at his wits’ ends for it. If he could hold out he would win. But his creditors were pushing him hard. At the worst he would have to sell out to Maclntyre, accept the few thou- sands that they would offer him, and g0 into retirement. The thought of defeat was bitter to him. He was straining every nerve. And, what harassed him in addition to his busi- ness troubles was the knowledge that MacIntyre was dogging him with spies. Only the week before he had to dismiss his trusted foreman just when the man was upon the point of discovering the secret process. Clay ket. And the knowledge that all was over inspired him with relief that was stronger than his sorrow. “Miss Marston, what would you say to a little jaunt in an auto to- morrow?” he asked. “We might cele- brate the end of my fortunes by tak- inz a run out to Newbury and lunch- | ing there.” Very well,” said Miss Marston, raising her head and looking him in | the face. Clay was amazed to see tears in her eyes. Did she care so much, then? It was a very quiet drive the follow- ing morning, through hedgerows gay with spring flowers. They found a little, old-fashioned inn, where they ate lunch, and afterward they sat un- der the shade of a big tree upon a lit- tle rustic seat. “Miss Marston, you know what this has meant to me?” She nodded without answering him. “I want to tell you,” he continued, taking her hand, “that I have felt for a long time that I wanted you for my wife. It was my intention to ask you after the year. But now, as a failure, I do not know that I am jus- tified in asking you; for that ten thousand and what I have left will only cover my indebtedness. I am a beggar.” Suddenly he perceived that the girl was shaking with sobs. He drew her into his arms and let her rest her face against his shoulder. “Will you wait for me till I have done something, till I am justified in asking you, dear?” he asked. She sprang out of his arms and faced him. “Listen, John,” she began. “I am wholly unworthy of you. If you only knew what I have tried to gather courage to tell you for so long. I came to you with forged recom- mendations. I was hired by Mac Intyre to find out your secret. I did it because I wanted my mother to! have the comforts to which she had | been accustomed in her old age.” There was a long pause. “But you didn't betray the secret,” | said John quietly. “No! A thousand times no. I told, Maclntyre that I would repay him the five hundred dollars he had ad- vanced me. I couldn’t betray you aft- er I had realized what a dreadful scheme I had undertaken. But now I can make amends by telling you this. Macintyre is at his Wits' end. “l Don't Know What |_Should Do Without You, Miss er(ton." had to guard each part of the manu- facture with scrupulous care. The final proceas, the carbonizing, was in the hands of three men, who received large wages and could be trusted. “But the sense of constant espionage was the hardest thing that Clay had to face. “I don't know what I should do with- out you, Miss Marston,” he said to the girl. “You have helped me wonder- fully. And it means a great deal to me to feel that if I were incapaci- tated I could leave affairs in your hands.” John Clay was a young man. He was barely thirty, and he knew that upon this venture bung all the future. He saw himself a rich man if he could weather the storms of the com- ing year. The trouble was that Mac- Intyre was not without influence in the banking world, and more than once he suspected the man's hand in preventing a loan just when negotia- tions appeared upon the point of suc- cess. For three or four months longer this state of affairs continued. Sometimes a way out of the increasing difficul- ties appeared; then the gap closed. Clay and Miss Marston became more intimate. She had introduced him to her mother, with whom she lived, in a modest apartment uptown. Clay learned that the girl's father had been a wealthy man, but had died in pov- erty after a bankruptcy. He wondered how she could obtain the means to support her mother on the limited sal- ary that Le could afford to pay. He began to feel, too, that once the storm was weathered, he would be jus- tified in asking her to become his wife. The intimacy between them was the stronger because no word of love had ever been spoken. Six months after Clay's twelve month had begun the end was in sight. “It’s all up with us, Miss Marston,” said John. “We've done our best, but Rea & Co. are going to sue us. Now we'll have to get out as best we can. Will you please take a letter from dictation?" And he dictated a letter which went sorely against the grain. He offered Maclntyre the secret and the entire right to manufacture the product of i 2 “Landlady.” The distinction which the posses- slon of land used to give is still exem- plified in the titles of “landlord” and “landlady.” Persons are amused at the colored washwoman, for instance, who insists on the term “lady.” But let the same woman run a rooming bouse, of whatever ‘description, and she is not & “landwoman,” but a “land- lndy.” He has been living on his capital, too. He has spent everything he has, and if you hold out one month longer he will be at your mercy. And 8o I—: I didn’t post that letter, because I meant to tell you today. Now let me go!” But John Clay held her tightly and raised her head and looked into her eyes. “Hilda,” he said, “I have the more faith in you because you tried to do what was foreign to your nature, and failed. You spoke just now of m ing amends. But you haven't made them. You can only make them in one way. I want you to do it in that way. Will you, dear?” She nodded mutely, and he kissed away her tears. FIRST THOUGHT OF PERISCOPE Thomas Doughty of United States Navy Made Use of It on Red River Expedition. It is stated by some writers that the periscope, the eye of the subma- rine was invented by the French, The first device of this kind to be used in naval warfare was invented by Thom- as Doughty in 1864. He was at that time acting chief engineer in the United States navy. During Banks' Red River expedition Doughty was on the turreted monitor Osage. The gunboats were annoyed by bushwhackers and Confederate cav- alry picking off their men. | Doughty rigged up a sheet fron tube extending from a few feet above the deck to the engine room below, with openings near the top and bottom, and by arrangement of mirrors he could see on shore. ‘When attacked, he would signal the gunners to turn loose, and the enemy | soon learned to give the Osage a wide berth. He little realized that his in- vention would be utilized in the world’s greatest war. \ On the Indianola Doughty ran the batteries at Vicksburg, and his vessel was sunk in the fight near Grand Gulf | b and he was captured. After his ex- change he was assigned to the Osage, which was blockading the mouth of the Red river. While on this duty he took twenty men and captured two large Confed- erate transports, for which he was complimented by Admiral Porter. He distinguished himself in the Red Riv- er expedition, and subsequently at Mobile. He died.in St. Louls in 1896. —Scientific American. Scorned His Pot Companions. Colonel Culpepper of Virginia was a thoroughly democratic body when mel- low, but quite the reverse in his nat- ural state. He was known to fore- gather with strangers and in their company pass a rousingly happy night with the flowing bowl. One morning after such a joyous occasion he was accosted by a young man, to whom he paid not the slightest attention. The other persisted, however, and said, “Why, colonel, surely you recall that 1 was out with you all last night." “Well, what of it?" roared the colonel. “Am 1 obliged to recognize every damned fool who goes on & spree with me?” Phoebe’s Only Chance. Cats at a cat show are not scored on their rat catching records; there “fore it would be of no use to enter Phoebe. She’ll have to be shown in & steel and wire trap exhibition.— Toledo Daily Blade Valuable Alaskan Dogs. (Copyright, The Frank A. Munsey Co.) All night Maurice Beaujon was pos- sessed with the certainty that Jean | was lying, wounded, in the open field. He knew the lad trusted him to come, 80 Beaujon tossed as a mother might and could sédgcely wait for the dawn He talked to Jean. The stars were paling. “There, 80, Jean"—he reached for bis boots—'so, Jean, keep up your eourage.” ¥ He raised his flask and tasted of its contents: “So, Jean, a few drops, they put heart in a man.” He stuffed a loaf of bread into his knapsack. “Now, a crumb, Jean—so!”- He gathered up gauze and dressing for a wound and thrust it into his knapsack “So now, Jean, let us see. Ab-h-h-h, that is bad, but we'll get you well. Let me tie on this bandage. They’'ll do better for you at the hos- pital, but this will serve till we get there.” He flung his knapsack over his back. “So, Jean, put your arms around my neck. Gently, gently; I'll not jar you. That's better, eh?” He laughed “The uhlans didn’t get you, Jean. It was gray when he went down the }mnd. People had their houses open, but the shop windows were closed. At the city gate an officer talking with a | sentry recognized Maurice. “Hello, Beaujon!” he called. “You have been promoted for bravery.” Beaujon nodded as a matter of course. He had fought like a demon to kill men; he must have yelled like a maniac; his throat was raw inside; he had risen to a kneeling position in the trenches to snatch a flag which had been shot away from Jean, and he ad waved {t high ve his J B LA And then the uhlans were on him ! again, but he was up and running with the flag, and he had escaped; somehow he had escaped. It miracle. He never doubted Jean's safety until the 1ad could not be found. “Where are you going, Beaujon?" “For Jean,” Beaujon answered. “Valles, he is missing?’ the officer asked. “Have you been through the hospitals?" “He is not in them,” Beaujon an- swered. This delay tortured him. He knew he could make his search better before the sun was up, for the gleam of the bayonets had dazzled him yes- terday, and from the fleld they would flash in his eyes again. Beaujon pointed. “Valles can’t be far,” he added. “We were right in those trenches, just back of those bushes.” “Well, go on, then,” said the offi- cer; “but be cautious. Remember the wounded have been taken off the ficld. You won't find him alive.” “Alive,” thought Beaujon impa- tiently; “no, not if this talking keeps up much longer.” He saluted and burst away He stepped out into the field. He had known he should see the rifles and the bayonets first, but they did not flash upon his eyes now. No, they were dull and gray like the sky. He gazed blankly into the zenith; his first instinct was to look away from the ground. There —as still a star shining; 1t was yellow a,J very faint. He met its gaze. It looked at him steadily, blinked, and went out. The thought of Jean gripped him, and he forced himself to look down again over the fleld There were spots on the bushes: thin, slow streams furrowed the ground; as the light increased these sluggish trickles, these splashes, were scarlet This was a shambles; the world a slaughterhouse. All the panoply of war was gone; all that made it brilliant, all that goad: ed hir on, was gone. Why had he een premoted for bravery? He was not brave now. His mind was confused; he must stop: he must be clear. There was a word which would help him it he could remember it. He nressed his hand to his forehead, struggling for that word. Ah, he had it! Sure. He must be sane. He strode firmly forward, looking neither to the right nor to the left, his gaze on those bushes just beyond the arther trench. He heird low moans and cries, but he did not heed them. Something moved in a heap of bodies. How dead men struggled! He passed on. There, out on a free space of ground, a dead Belgian was lying forward on his. face Beaujon paused. Clutched in the man’s hand was an arm. He stared. Then he saw that the man's other arm had been shot off. - His heart jumped Could that slender fellow be Jean? He went forward and turned him over. When he saw the face of a stranger he began to laugh. Now that the fellow did not prove to be Jean, he saw how comical it was. What did he expect to do with his ‘arm. Run to the hospital with it to have it sewed on? Beaujon pursued his search, chuck- | ling. The east grew rosy and a sweet, cool | breeze blew against him. The day | promised to be fine and clear. He was glad of that i Jean always liked to lie flat on hie | : back in an open field, staring up at the sky with eyes that were as blue. Mme. | Valles was a German, and her eyes were like her sons. { She wept because her sister had boys in the German army. Her own husband was a Belgian, and her sym- pathy must go with him; and Jean, her son—was he not fighting the uh- lans as well as his father? But women took life hard He was sorry for women. He | thought again of that fellow running ! off with his own arm before he col- lapsed. There was a saying in the Bible, “As one whom his mother com- forteth.” The fellow had probably started to run home to his mother. She must be proud of her big booby. He chuckled again. He had forgotten that word which had impressed him so strongly—that word which would help him. He knew 1t was important, but he had forgotten it again. He hummed a tune—a little, old, Alsatian tune—as he continued his search; the men whose faces he looked at made no impression on him: he only knew they were not Jean. The sun flashed on the bayonets and sabers lying about; it was pretty as a sparkling sea. He bent over a body. Some instinct | made him rise and whirl about on his ' heel. H He was face to face with one of the uhlans. The German was on foot. h man was but a mirror of the other, so identical were their expres- sions; each had believed himself alone searching for a friend. They stared at i each other; they turned; they ran in 1 opposite directions as if pursued by demons. The fight was out of both of them. | Beaujon dropped his rifle as he ran. ! Horror was on his heels. He stumbled and fell and lay as if dead, then reached slyly for his rifle. As his hand gripped it he realized that it must be another man’s, for he had dropped his own He sat up and- looked over the field. The enemy had disappeared. He rned his head, and there beside him lay Jean. It was Jean's rifie he held. ' He knew by the smile on Jean's face | that the lad was dead. Only dead men were happy like | that; that is, the right sort of dead i like Jean. | rose and shook hands with Mis &5 ' Dewey. 5 men, not the kind who struggled to get back to life. Jean's blue eyes looked straight wp into the sky. Beaujon touched the boy's face. It was still warm. Then he knew that pale star which blinked at him and went out was a signal from Jean. He wished he could lie down beside him, but he had promised to return. He had been promoted for bravery, this Beaujon. Who was the fellow— Beaujon, Beaujon, Beaujon. But he had promised to get back to him. He must find Beaujon again. He lifted Jean on his back and started homeward. It was strange that he was carrying Jeans rifle in- stead of his own. It was a message that he must fight for them both. He was grim but ex- ultant as he strode on. Where he had killed one man before, now he would kill two; it would be double the num- ber always, double for Jean. The ground was uncertain and he stumbled; then he realized he was trampling over the dead with his boots on. He lald Jean down and took off his boots, then lifted his friend fll and went on in his stocking- When he came into the city again no one offered to help him, for Beau- jon was a glant in strength and he bore Jean as though he had been a girl. He climbed the road and turned into a small hotel. Mme. Valles sat at the table with the one guest left in the hotel; she was having an extra cup of coffee with her and they were talking about the Beaujon's figure filled the doorway Jnother's , his throat was tired and his shadow fell across the two " Mme. sed her bands. She was going to cry out, but mmehn‘w she did not. Instead she managed to get to a door; it opened into her: bedroom. «Put him here, Maurice. Can you get a doctor?” [ | Beaujon laid Jean down on his bed. He patted Mme. 'Valles' cheek so sbftly in his pity. “No. Jean does not need a doctor, | Mama Valles.” He went out, closing the door on the two. There was a stranger in he dining room, and he remembered Mme. Valles did not like curious eyes. He sat down in the first chair he reached, exhausted. The guest in the hotel was an American—Miss Dewey. She had ex- pected to join friends in Berlin. She kept saying to herself that she had never expected this war when she went abroad. When she saw Beaujon’s pallor she ran to the kitchen and called Marle, the young girl who assisted Mme. Valles as a kind of underhousekeep- | er, to bring hot coffee at once. . “They have brought home Mme. Valles' son dead” she exclaimed, «gnd I think the man who brought him is fll. He looks so white.” “Yes, mademoiselle,” answered Marle. Her hand shook so she kept pouring the coffee into the saucer in- stead of the cup. “Here,” said Miss Dewey, “I will| attend to that.” She seized the coffee pot and poured the coffee with a steady hand. “Now you bring a basin of warm water to wash his feet. They are bleeding and his stockings are cut in shreds.” “Yes, mademoiselle,” answered Ma- rie. “Please tell me—where is Jean?” “His mother has him in her room. She has shut the door. Hurry with that basin, Marie.” Miss Dewey went back to Beaujon. “Try to take a little of this coffee. It will do you good.” Beaujon lifted his heavy eyes to her face. “Thank you.” Marie came hurrying in with towels and a basin of water and, kneeling down, peeled off the ragged stockings | with tender fingers. She was young i:’ and dark and richly colored. Suddenly she pressed Beaujon's bare feet to her bosom, sobbing, while she murmured: “My Jean, my | Jean!” ! She was to have married Jean |, Valles in the autumn, Beaujon’s brows contracted with pity. “Poor Marie!” he said. “Poor Marie!” His mind geemed entirely clear again. f % The coffee helped him. He watched her as she sat back on her heels, let- ting his feet drop into her lap and looking up pitifully at him. “Now, I shall have no husband.” He saw her poor, little, drooping mouth, the woe in her eyes. i It was more than grief for Jean. It was desolation come upon her. The issues of life were cut off. She would have no husband, no children. Why was she left a woman? This was what war did for women'! Beaujon spoke with difficulty, for “Marde, if I live I will return and be your husband,” When she saw the kindness on/ his face she bent forward and laid her face against his breast, sobbing. He patted her shoulder until she grew quiet. Then he saild: “Now, I must be going.” Miss Dewey was crying, too. She ran out to get him another cup of coffee. “What a good man,” she thought. Marie knelt and dried his feet and | put a pair of clean stockings on him. They were Papa Valles', as were also the boots, she brought. Papa Valles had gone to the war, too; and he was a big man like Beaujon, not slight Jean was so pretty—like & girl Her tears fell more gently. Beaujon pulled on the boots. He “Good-by,” he sald. “When you return to your own country re. member us.” She stood on the steps of the hotel, w!,ié; Marie followed him to the road. “Wait,” he sald; “I was forget something.” s He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth a big key and gave it to Marle. “It is the key to my shop. It I do not come back all is yours.” S Shc;' took it as a child might. Yes."” She kept her eyes fired wist- tully on Beaujon's face. “Good-by,” he sald, and bent to kiss ::e‘r :hluk; then suddenly drew her nto his arms and kissed her mouth. “Good-by, my wite!" : The blood coursed freel; y throu, his veins once more. That kln—z:I fresh, so sweet—had revived him. It was as though Marie had become a stranger with whom he had fallen In_'l;vo at first sight. eir love sprang new born fr this moment; it had no past. He w::: off down the road with a swinging step, his shoulders squared. The guo;l (‘.odtmbe:nt well by man. His hand mus over this V—y s somehow—yes— “Where 18 his sh ie?" Miss Dewey. St “The fourth one down on th t n:demolulle." answered Mnr?e. T Ob, that beautiful lace shop!"™ Miss Dewey exclaimed. “There are some wonderful rosepieces in the lwll:wd::mI I noticed them the first day mker?"n town. So bhe {s a lace- ';::-, mademoiselle.” ujon reached the top of the| road. He turned and waved his clh: ‘nf!;;‘he disappeared down the hill asked on her bre: mademoiselle, how one h::; can bris warte E e tWo sorrows. It iy SRSy Expensive Wood, One of the most ex Densive woods -‘::a regularly in an establisthed in. try in the United States is box- wood, the favorite material for wood | carving. It has been quoted at four | cents a cubic inch, . and by the thousand board (e:(bo“t B extensive tests m.hm':. decided that vy benefity walls on .M:";"' stone or briex t Rrows by drawing land * trom them, WHO GETS THE MONEY YOU EARN? DO YOU GE DOESISOMEBODY ELSE WHO DOES NOT EARN 177 "¢ YOUR “ERRNING POWER” CANNOT LASTIALWAYs, WHILE YOU ARE MAKING MONEY BANK IT ANDIBE Fiyg FOR OLD AGE. JUST DO R LITTLE THINKING. LA ") w'Tu u‘. WE PAY & PERICENT INTEREST ON TIME DEPOSITS, American State Bank “BE AN AMERICAN ONZ OF us.” Flour' &R Now is the Time to Lay In a Supply & 98 Ib. Sacks Best Plain Fiour 24 Ib. Sacks Best Plain Flour 12 Ib. Sacks Bcst Plain Flour 98 Ib. Srif-Rising Flour L. 6. TWEEDLLL PHONE 59 A Load of Lumber Stands For Progress and Prosperity I\;:(‘ie"‘)'lou g:ive out towards home on @ of lum i i s t S he behol:i,the impression goes out t0 S}:l ch expression as “Sometlfing doing on the . --....farm,” “There’s a man who is always busy”, or Building again, never hurt a farmer or his farm. LOAD YOUR WAGON AT OUR YARD e ———————— Lakeland Manufacturing Company LAKELAND, FLA. ——— PHONE 76 to Fran