The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 21, 1903, Page 7

I SUNDAY CALL. ATWENTIETH CE MADGE Vag ORRIS COULD not have helped it for my fe; and that is how I came to do it. All this fuss they are mak- jng about me is no use.” It was one of those days when neisco weather is sald to presage thquake. . e girl who had spoken, turned e ce 1o the wall and refused to say y mere, though the eagep repdtter estioned her with his suavest adroit- ss. He had no more of success than e several who had preceded hi But ny there were who had witnessed the ers had loud headlines and col- sensational description. it he man who loved her knelt beside er couch, fear and jealousy warring in = breast. Do not die and leave me,” he begged, then caught her hand and sharply asked er, “Why @id you do it—what whs hesto To dle is mot to be dead,” she sald, then, wearily, “I do not know why— w could I know why? I did it because I had to, I say.” "he physiclan came. He pushed the young man out of the room with scant ourtesy. The girl put her leand to the age and glanced mechanically up at e physician’'s face. His finger was on pulse; his eyes were on his watch. s face Bad a pussled expression. She had lain in this passive, listless condition wenty-four hours, while the great city was full of talk of her deed “Iteis golng now,” she said. my -mother,"” “l want The mother came, and when they were elone together the white-faced girl asked her, “What do they say about it—the apers? : » mother's face flushed. She took from & little pocket in her white apron & <lipping of newspaper; it was crumpled from having been hastily hidden. She read from it in a low and awed voice gn The reporter had prepared it in excerpt fis best vein: « « » from the excited crowd which thronged the sidewalks of Market street ple called to him, shouted to hig, ehreked at him, but the young man stop- n the street; he was looking wonder- £y at the people running, he was look- way from the danger. ‘It is suicide! screamed a woman; ‘He is a fool! cried in. The clanging of bells mingied tter of hoofs and rattle of cobble stones. . The terrible ging with fiying speed the great, glistening-topped fire engine would bLe upon him in enother moment. In an- other mement that boyish face would be rampled by those death-desling hoofs in the maddening race to the fire; in an- other moment those awful wheels would grind him under them, the gray cobble stones would redden with his blood. Mothers of sons shut their eyes that they might not see the sight— thers shud- dered. Then it was that a tall, slender §irl darted like & ray of light from the 4 act of daring, and the morn-} crowd upon the sidewalk. Her face was colorless .as the white dress she wore. Her eyes in the semi-dusk had a phos- phorescent light. The air cut by the swiftness of that flying juggernaut, flut- tered the ribbons at her waist; the hot breath from the nostrils of the horses Jifted the curls on the back of her neck as she darted straight under thelr noses and precipitated herself, hands first, against the young man with all the force and violenee of her weight. That was all the people saw. It was over in a breath; *the engine which had rounded the corner at such terrific speed was gone. A heap of promiscuous drapery, with arms and feet and head, lay beyond the middle of the street. .The people closed about it the incoming tide swirls around a stone on the beach.” Fhe girl put her hand impatiently to the bandage on her forehead. “Skip all that and read where they say e —— % Precipitated herself against the young man with all the force and violence of her weight. P why she did 1t.” The mother's eyes followed down the lines. She resumed the reading. “It was thought by those who wit- nessed the heroic deed that the young msn was very near and dear tp the girl, but it turns out that the young people bad never met. The heroic act was an impulse, the generous volition of a great unselfish soul. The young man—' “Stop,” said the girl. “They are all wrong. None of them have the reason; but if they would make the old man out @ young man, how could they get any- thing else right?” The mother slipped the clipping of the newspaper back into her pocket; she looked inquiringly into the eyes of the The girl slightly shook her head. my mind s all right.” ““Then tell me, child, what it all means; why do you lle here like this? That bump on your head does not amount to a row of pins. What was the reason, then? Why did you do it? Why did you take such a halr-breadth chance of leaving me childless for the sake of a stranger you had never seen? Surely ycu must know!"” _ The girl lay silent a while and (hen ‘suddenly asked: “What was my father like?” The suddenness and the question sur- prised the mother into forgetting the an- swer she expected. She pointed to a life- size bust on the wall; the name in one corner was well known In the wor!d of art. It was the portralt of a young man, “No, ‘mother’s a country lad not yet 20. - His cheeks had the red of health in them, there was the innocence, the unsophistication of rural life in his face. It was a good-looking face. . “He was like that,” she said, “‘when he came to the city—so tall and straight and good-looking.” A reminiscent smile hov- ered about her mouth. “But when he was old—what was he ke then?"” . § : The reminiscent smile faded from the lfps. “He committed a sin agalnst ‘me, and I was alone for many years—then he came back. He was gray—" 3 . “His halr was long and white, was it not?” ‘The girl raised on her elbow—"and the wind blew it about his neck—and—he ‘was stooped a little In the shoulders, wasn't he?—and he cgrried a cane?” She asked it eagerly. “¥es, he was like that, but how could you know? You were a babe too young to talk when he died.” A faint flush crept into the glrl's cheeks. “The cane,” she went on, “had a gold dragon's head, and one eye of green jade in the head.” - The mother looked frightened. ‘You never saw that cane. I threw it in the bay before you were born. I'could not bear the sight of it. It was a present to him from—from—i{t was the only thing he kept of his—his—years away from me. I hated its mocking, evil eye. No; you never, never saw that cane!” Her nostrils were dilating with agita- tlon. @Tell me, child, why did you take such a hair-breadth chance of leaving me childless for a stranger you had never seen?” AR A ks “Yes, I saw it. He had it with him, mother. His face was smooth shaven and there was an appealing look in his eyes— was there not a wistful, inexpressible sort of expression in his eyes?” The mother’s calmness returned. “Yes, that look was always in his eyes after he came back; that is why I had to forgive him. But I am more curious now to know how you know these things about your father than T was to know why you ven- tured your life for a man you never knew. “Why, that is just it, mother; that is the very reason itself. He stooped over a cane like that, the wind blew Hhis long, white hair, his eyes looked at me with that irresistible appeal and I had to go.” The mother wrung her hands. “Child, you ére out of your head. He was a young man you saved, a mere boy, the papers say, a country lad with coarse clothes and hair cut as old fashioned as your father's in the picture there.” “My head is all right, mother. They may have seen a young man—the man I saw was old. How long has my father been dead?—you would never talk about him before.” “Yesterday at years,” she sighed. noon it was eighteen There was & knock at the doon A very young man came in. He had & patch of courtplaster over his temple. He was smiling. He sald he wanted to thank the young lady who saved nhis life. He said he wanted to do something for her and her mother—work for them—anything they would let him do. The mother glanced from his face to the portrait and & scream stopped on her lips. He tried to explain how the noises had confused him—how he had wondered why the people all ran from the strest—how he had not seen the engine at all<that he had seen only one facs in the erowd. His cheeks flushed a deeper color as he sald it, he looked bashfully at the girl on the couch. “You see,” he went on fa his timid, hesitating way, “it is my first visit to & city. It was my birthday and I camse alone to the great city to celebrate it; I was eighteen yesterday at noon.” * The eyes of the mother and daughter met and simultaneously flashed to the portrait on the wall. The girl nodded mechanically; the mother covered her face with her hands. The young man drew a quick shivering breath. He smiled and sald apologeti- cally: “A goose walked over my grave.” |Our Republic’s Lord Great : Chamberlain In the official lists he appears as Su- perintendent of Public Bulldings and Grounds. In fact, he is “Lord Great Chamberlain” to the President. Ours is in no sense an Anglo-Saxon ‘country, though it is still chlled so because it was Anglo-Saxon in a limited sense up to the second or third decade of“the last cen- tury. But it has many curious Anglo- Saxon survivals or engraftings, one of them a passion for giving things mislead- ing names. Perhaps there was once a Lord Great Chamberlain who was merely Superin- tendent of Public Bulldings and Grounds at the lower end of Pennsylvania avenue. But that was a long time ago. For many years the major of engineers assigned to that title, with the rank and pay of col- onel, has been actually the chief officer of the President’s court, the manager of what might be called his public house- hold. ‘Whenever the President entertains on a grand scale, says David Graham Phillips, he is obviously in command, directing the ceremonials, superintending the evolu- tions of his staff of dancing and small- talk army men, overseeing the assiduities of the court retinue or servants. When a new Embassador or other ‘eminent per- sonage, domestic or forelgn, arrives, he is the functionary who puts on a gor- geous uniform, drives In state in: the President’s carriage to the visitor's lodg- ings, escorts him to the President, Intro- duces him, takes him away and escorts him back to his lodgings. Also he in large measure directs the expenditures from the White House privy purse. England’s Hard Luck In Africa England has had hard luck in Africa, from Egypt to the Transvaal. What with fanatics who achieve heaven through a violent death and Fuzzy-Wuszies who are disinclined to shoot up thelr blood rela- tions, the Mad Mullah has proved a for- midable and relentless foe. . The est disaster comes from Somalifland, which the British have for a long time been trying to pacify. The Mad Mullah's mis- sion in life is to preach the gospel ac- cording to his lights and to cut up, de- stroy and annihilate British and Egyptian troops sent fo remonstrate with him. On April 13 he caught Major Plunkett, ‘with & command of 200 Sikhs and African rifles, at Gumburru, which is somewhers in the center of Somaliland. Nine British officers and nearly the entire force of na- tive troops wers killed. “Ran out of am- munition and fought with the bayonet un- til -overwhelmed,” reads the dispatch, Hadji Mohammed Abdullah, the Mad Mul- lah, only achleved political prominence a few years ago. After a pligrimage to Mecca (which may or may not have con- sisted of a trip to Feringhi rifle manufac- tories) he returned to the desert to revive the religious spirit of the tribesmen and back up his new creed with Martinis and patent ammunition, which he had In great plenty, A bold man and a prophet (who pos- scssed rifles), the fame of the Mad Mullah extended into Abyssinia; the tribes to the number of 80,000 insane men gathered to His standard, and In 1399 with an army at his heels he “declared war” on the Brit- ish invader. Then began the So: campaign.