The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 26, 1903, Page 5

' IN THE HOUSE OF THE SUNDAY CALL. HALF-HOUR THE LODVING HEART By Keith Gordon. HE idea of any wise person caring for mon- ey, especially in New York,” she gibed, as the sank down upon one of the cushioned benches in the big win- onable dow of the fas overlooking the X 2 emptuously watched the car- rying feverishly after one a s if happiness lay at the ot or else rolling sadly back again as if ate that it was not dhere, after turned an astonished face atsap- where 1ows obser the plz Siaey oot K most. one!” she_ echoed wit ck lunges w nary foe, wit scorn, er foil at an a poor, youn he esked, wa across her cheek d with she rel ‘demised’ her v generally hat when you have aces of ough ne of the royal I'm t say that it isr it strikes me that SANK DOWN UPON ONE OF THE is. It's worse than servants! You tors and have little pots of greasy Mrs. see Lofty's supply. It is im- and then began with the air through the window of her fofl in the direction . dark hotel which frowned them. anish, n'est pas?” she mim- old in its place, my House of ing Heart! I think the name es- pec elling. since it is rituated, as you see, on what we might call the Street ee the house plainly. The rt of modified Italian, with & projecting cornice and an inner court.” iazard nodded. Don’t you think the boxes of hyacinths windows and the big, low entrance it & friendly look? That is what m &t particularly,” she explained h well-feigned anxiety,” “a friendly looking house “Great!” was Hazard's feeling com- ment. “But who In thunder is that man standing the window?’ And he strained his eves toward the great hotel. Then he turned to her with an expres- jon of pleased and Iinnocent surprise. Jove! me!” “It looked so homely and inviting, I suppose, that I couldn't resist it,” he ex- lained, as he noticed the warm flush rising in her cheeks, while she tapped the polished floor with the steel in a nervous, embarrassed way. In & moment she had recovered her- self. “Siree you are in I hope you like the @ivans and the low table and the books and pictures. Please notice, too, that things are within reach. It doesn't look, does it, as if I were trying to live up to my fortupe, or suggest that I have stopped to think what Mrs. Lofty would ve done under similar circumstances?” Not a bit,” he assured her heartily, while the peculiar compression of the lips of an old gentleman sitting next them indicated suppressed amusement. “Well, come on, then! Now this room, which has everything beautiful and use- fui and comfortable that I could find to put into it, is for my heart-sick and dis- couraged friends. Some of them I shall not have met before. But in some way —1 don't know how—they will find their way to this little door (It opens quietly on Fifty-eighth street, you see), and I shall cheer them up.” “Leave care behind, all those who en- ter here.,”” he murmured, as if he were reading an inscriotion. The girl laughed in a pleased way, and whipped the air with her weapon until it fairly sang. “Excel ! A public sympathizer is really what we need. I believe as many people fail from a lack of sympathy and encouragement as from lack of ability.” e had grown suddenly ea and her eyes filled with tears. Hazard leaned e her in real distress, forgetting everything—the merry clatter of the other s, the old gentleman who sat and the swift . oving panorama in his 3 amazement over this un- expected revelation of h depth of feel- ng in this girl who en s0 long re- garded as whimsical cal , silly of me,” she began, with a tie shake in her voice: “but there have been mome rough places—places where Mrs. Lofty, for instance, has looked on from her nd said, ‘I hope Il get on dear!” eft me wit n cour- t eating ar 1 have SHIt Shat 30 MY 1se Loving Heart I should like to have lifferent fted himself ar The old man as to get a be view But neither of the young him, and she began her more ‘These bedrooms are house. I intend them for n ance e of the hand she im imaginary s P> though ve able, fous. Int stall m give them g peop where everyb CUSHIONED BENCHES IN THE comes to criticize every one else.” They looked at each other and broke into long and merry laughter. Hazard's worldliness had vanished like a cloud. “It's a great idea, sweetheart,” he said softly, “and I'd like to work to make it come true. Would you let me—do you think—"" But the blushes were so violent this time that he got no further, and besides the old gentleman was standing before them. “I am Jasper Clark,” he said simply, and at that name they both stared at him in amazement; “I know you'll forgive an old man for listening.” Then with a bow he continued, whimsically: “I should very much like the pleasure of your company at dinner—that is, when this ‘exclusive reception’ is over,” he finished with ad- mirable mimiery of her frony of a few moments before as he’ made a gesture toward the Millionaires’ Club over the way. “You see the time may come when 1 shall want to enter that quiet little door on Fifty-eighth street,” and he glanced with kindly eyes at the future mistress of tue House of the Loving Heart. —_———— Too Much Mystery Is Made of Elec- tricity. “We make too much mystery of electric- ity,” says Charles P. Stelnmetz. “We really know more about it than we do about other phenomena. Take gravity, for Instance. Who knows what it is, why it acts, and how? We do know how to handle electricity, how to produce it, how it acts through distance, and so on, but no one knows why the earth attracts the stone, always attracts it, and always acts on it. Every one sees gravity act and does not think anything about it, but it seems a sort of fashion to regard elec- tricity as a great mystery. We even hear, nowadays, that some scientists are trying to prove that the mystery of life and death is due to electricity. Our bodles are dynamos, and not furnaces, they tell us. Well, I do not think the case gis proved. Electrical energy produces a pHy- siological effect, but so do other forms of energy. Life itself is a form of energy, but the relation of the two is not shown. ‘We do not know that the action of nerves and muscles is due to electricity. It is an interesting theory, but still academic.” —_— 3 THE SUNDAY CALL’S FASCINATING STORIETTES MIE GOT But as he struck the top of the hill and began to descend toward Benson he felt a Jerk which nearly threw him off his seat. Looking back, he saw that the worst had B s 3 By William Walker Hines. & i 0 (Copyright, 103, by T. C. McClure.) cessfully guard against. T was the general un- Gacstanding among ant | SXoihe side the employes of the Lawrenceburg division of the X. and Y. R. R. that whken Jimmie Kincaid got his engine TR he would also get Net- tie Oliver. But Jimmie's chance for get- .ng an engine in the near future did not seem particularly bright. He was fourth on the list of firemen of the Lawrence- burg division, and that meant fie must walt untll four engineers died, reached the age limit or were fired. Of course there was always the chance that he would be able to do something to attract the attention of the superintendent of mo- tive power and then he might get his en- gine at any time. In the meantime Nettie had a fairly good position as telegrapher at Benson Station and Jimmie could get b chance to chat with her for a few minutes every day when his train, passenger No. 14, laid over on the siding at Benson to allow the Limited Mail to pass. When he had be- gun scraping an acquaintance with Net- tie, something more than a year before, Jimmie had used the pretext that he was thinking of learning telegraphy, and un- der her tutorship he had picked up a fair working knowledge of the Morse code. Many a sly joke did the train crew of No. 14 crack at Jimmie's suddenly born ambition to learn telegraphy, but he bore of these with equanimity and sald at the knowledge might come in handy some time. After awhile it became un- derstood among all the men that Jimmie's case was really serfous and then the FASHIONABLE GYMNASIUM.® Jokes stopped. Even the head brakeman of No. 14, who had a reputation as a wit, forebore to make remarks about the cun- nection between the Morse code and pret- ty girls. Benson Station {s at the foot of “Twelve-Mile Hill,” and this hill is re- garded by the engineers as the worst place on the division. The grade is so heavy that the track winds up the hill in two long loops. When you get to the beginning of the second loop you are only a mile from Benson Station on a straight line, but it is six miles distant by the track. After he had mastered the rudiments of the Morse code Jimmie would take hold of the whistle cord when No. 14 came to the loop on the down grade and signal “Hello” to Nettle at Benson Station in sharp blasts upon the whistle which stood for the dots and dashes of the code. So things went along for a year and Jimmie's prospects of promotion got little brighter. On the records of the office of the superintendent of motive power he was stlll merely James Kincald, fourth on the list of firemen, with a good repu- tation and the prospect of succeeding to an engine in the course of five or six years. When business pickpd up imn the fall a number of extra ffeight trains were put on and he got his first chance to run an engine. On the first trip it fell to his lot to take out the third section of freight train No. 106, east bound. The third section of No. 106 was made up of thirty-one heavily loaded cars and none of these were equipped with alr brakes. As he pulled out of Adairville the old yard mas- ter swung himself up into the cab of the engine and sald: “I think ye'll pull the engine all right, Jimmie, me bye, but for the love of the saints be carefnl when you strike the top of the hill this side of Benson. Faith, it's a heavy train they've given ye, and if it should break in two going down that hill and thim cyars with no air brakes on to them, there’ll be the devil and all to pay.” Despite this warning, there was no fear of a “break in two” in Jimmie's heart he nursed his engine along toward the top of the hill on the other side of which lay Benson. This is an accident which happens very rarely, and which not even the most experienced engineer can suc- WATCH F “REL MOUNTAIN WEDDING” NLXT SUNDAY CALL. —_————— happened. A coupling had snapped in the middle of the train. For the present there was but one thing to do, and that was to go down grade as fast as he could. Looking back he could see that the rear brakeman, who was the only man on the cars which had been left behind, had made one inef- fectual attempt to set the brakes and then had jumped to safety. Jimmie knew that if the fourteen cars running wild behind caught up with the forward half of the train there would be wreck, which would cause damage to the extent of thousands of dollars and blacklist, if not kili, the engineer responsible. Faster and faster the telegraph poles on the side of the track flew past him. Jimmie's mind was working faster than it had ever done in his life. His orders directed him to lay over on thé siding at Bengon Station for the westbound pas- senger train to pass, and he knew that at any cost he must save the passenger. Away off to the further side of Benson he could already see the faint line of smoke coming up from it, and he knew that it would arrive at Benson in just about ten minutes. He figured that his own train was going about a mile a min- ute and would reach Benson in seven min- utes If no alterna- tive offered itself he resolved to put em all brakes y when he got to the foot of the nill ’, and deliberately ‘'wreck his own traimn. There was a straight track for three miles on the further side of Benson, and the engineer of the passenger would see the wreck in ample time to come to a stop. This plan, if carried out, would prob- ably mean death for Jimmie, but he analyzed the situation none the less coolly because of that. Death is something that engineers get accustomed to facing. But if he could only discover some way of letting Nettie know the condition of af- fairs! It would be an easy matter for her to throw the derailing switch after he had passed and allow the rear half of the train to come Lo a safe haven in the corn- field beside the track. Down at the station Nettle heard a sound which sent her rushing out to the platform. Away up the hill she could see a freight traln coming down at a terrific rate of speed. The whistle cord seemed to be in the hands of a lunatic, for the whistle was sounding in strange, unearth- ly shrieks. As she watched it something struck her as being strangely familiar atout the way the whistle was sounding. All of a sudden it struck her that there was method in them, and that, interpret- ed by the Morse code, they were saying, “BN, BN, BN,” her station call. This was continued for a few seconds, and then began, “Broke in two. Throw de- railing switch when first section is past station.” Three times this was repeated and then the engine went around the curve at the further end of the loop and she could hear the whistle only taintly. But she had heard enough and when Jimmie's engine whizzed past the station, with his white face pressed closely against the glass at the slde of the en- gine cab, he saw Nettie standing at the switch. When the last car in the part of the train which still remained intact had passed the frog he saw her throw all her weight on the switch handle and the sig- nals told him that every one of the cars which were following him would pile themselves ungracefully, but harmlessly on the soft earth of the cornfleld. Bring- ing his ingine to a stop he ran back to the station and on to the siding in ample time to let the passenger train pass him. Briefly, when the resultant row cleared, Jimmie was a full-fledged engineer, and a month later the railroad lost the tele- graph operator at Benson Station and Jimmie got a wife. OR THE * By Harriett (Copyright, 1908, by T. C. McClure. Martha Raymond ain’t changed none since she was 20, "cept to get redder headed,” the village dressmaker said to Deecon Linde- ley's wife. 2 “I don’t know,” Mrs. Lindsley replied. ‘“Seems to me she's more independent than ever since her pa and ma died.” “Think so? Well, she’s still on the sunny side of 35, and got more taste than any young girl in town. She never wears red next to her hair—always black or white, or green. I tell you an artist don’t un- derstand colors better'n Martha does. I wonder if Phil Gardner’s proposed to her yet this spring?”’ “I guess not; it's usually a little later'n this he asks her—bout when I'm half through house cleanin’.” Every one in the village knew that Phillp Gardner annually proposed to Mar- tha Raymond, and was annually rejected, but only the reject- or and the rejected 7 knew that old Mrs. Gardner was the | BY THE HAND OF | A LITTLE CHILD G. Canfield. “Mother can’t sleep when she’s there; it's too nolsy.” “That's it. I should have to keep still all the time, and I'd set my heart on having a canary, and a plano, and one of those talking machines when I was married.” Philip smiled sadly. “If you change your mind about mother,” he said. can let me know: otherwise I'll not ask vou again.” Martna laughed scornfully. “I'm not likely to change my mind,” she said “When T do, you'll 3ec me wearing red flowers in my hair—and you know I'l never do that. A year went by and spr again, but Philip, to the asto the entire village, did not Martha Ravmond.” The dressmaker ex- claimed over the fact when she was sew- ing for Mrs. Lindsley I declare,” she said, “I belleve Martha kind of misses when 1 was se * for her last week she see like. I noticed neither.” “Serves her right ten so often. 1 for givin' Philip the heard Widow Ram- +v's son had been 'goin’ there some."” “Yes, but she wouldn’t give no enc: egement, for shesald wasn't good to hismott er. She says a man that ain’t considerate of his mother won't be con- siderate of his wite.” Another spring came, and every eye From Art Photograph by Lawrence F. Terkelson, Chief Operator at Bushnell’s. cause of Philip's woe. Every year he had said, ‘“Martha, won't you marry me now?" and Martha had replied, “Not If I must live with your mother, Phil.” Strange to say, he had never asked her to be more explicit; he had no idea of her reason for refusing to live with his moth- er. It was enough for him that she re- fused. This year it was later than usual. Mrs. Lindsley had finished house cleaning when he climbed the steep hill road tlhat led to the old Raymond homestead. It was early In the evening, and Martha was busy among her flower beds. She looked up with a consclous smile when the little gate clicked behind him. “Good evening, Phil” she said, you come to get some violets “No,” he replied bluntly, get you. Can't I, Martha?”’ “Not if I must llve with your mother, Phil,” she said with an air of finality. To her surprise he did not, as before, turn dejectedly away. There was a de- termined lock in his eyes, before which she trembled. “I-1 must go in,” she said. “Not until you've mentioned what you have against my mother,” and he deliber- ately barred her way. Martha's temper rose. live with her for a farm!” she ecried. “She’s as still as death. I like to sing, and laugh, and make a cheerful clatter, but your mother's house is as silent as a tomb. You can hear a pin drop there any time.” Philip heaved a great sigh of relief. “Mother wouldn’t object to your clatter,” he sald smilingly. - “Is that all?"” “All? Isn't that enough? Besides, I don’t belleve in living in the same house with my mother-in-law!" Philip's face clouded. *“I can't turn my mother out, even to please you, Martha,” he sald. 'No one wants you to turn her out, I'm sure. But I don’t ses why she can't live In the city with your brother?” “da 1 came to “I wouldn’t was on Philip. “He will go to see Martha now,” they said to one another. But Phillp did not climb the hill road. He had looked in vain for red flowers in Martha's hair. One beautiful Sabbath morning in June Martha Raymond sat on the broad doorstep waiting for the “first bell” to ring for church. Her brother and his wife and little daughter were visiting her. Ruth was to accompany bher to church. The child was playing in the old-fash- joned garden, where larkspurs and roses ran wild. Martha called her, and she came running up with her hands full of blossoms. “‘Pitty f'owers,” she sald. “Rufe put some in Aunt Marfa's hair,” and she climbed up on the broad stone and peeped roguishly into Martha's face. “‘Only the blue flowers, dearie—the lark- spurs. Auntle doesn't wear red in her hair.” “Yeth,” lisped the sweet baby voice, “pitty b'u f'owers in auntie’s hair,” and she tucked a crimson rambler ng the soft red colls. Then she slip) her lit- tle hand into Martha's and they went to church together. Phillp and his mother sat directl: hind them. The old lady loaknd‘"ln’qr::: ingly at_the little child, but Philip's eyes sought Martha's hair, just as they had done in vain for two long years. He half rose from his seat, for there was the blessed red signal at last. He rub- bed his eyes and looked again, and when the minister read, “What went ye out to see”’ he murmured, “A red flower, ot course.” His mother laid a reproving hand on his arm. “Hush,” she whispered, just as she had whispered years ago to the restless youngster beside her. Early that afternoon he climbed the hill road. Martha's brother answered his knock. She was in the garden with little Ruth, he sald. He found them there among the roses and larkspurs. ‘‘Martha,” he cried, hurryin 5“"‘ path, “how can I ear 7" “Thank me?” she sald tremulously, “for what, Philip?* “For wearing this,” and he took the withered red rose from her hair. Her eyes opened wide with surprise. “I idn’t know it was there,” she faltered. . lisped. “T dess I did Phillp’s face feil. “So it's all a mis- take,” he said sadly. But Martha put her arms around her little niece and held her close. “Tell him,” she said. ‘“‘that Auntle’s gl:; Yyou put the pretty ‘D'u f'ower’ in her down the thank you, —pitty