The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 23, 1903, Page 4

VEN though it were risky, ope day, while some of the officers of the Bengal Lancers were tiger hunting, they found a baby tiger three months old and took it back to cantonments and presented it to their commanding officer, Colonel McBride. In “There Was a Roar and a Bound, due time the beast became full-grown and and out of the bungalow like a e dog. He was spparently tame, now and then he moped and snarled yed the ferocity lying dormant nature, but on such occasions he wes given the whip and always crouched in submission at his master's feet. Like erage dog, the tiger had his likes and dislikes of men. Some of the officers never laid hands on his head without be- ing rewarded by a low, deep growl, while he was ready to welcome and make friends with others. Among the former and He Went Down in a Flash.” was Major Swift. He had been exchanged from an English cavalry regiment and been received cordially. He was a gay bachelor of 40, supposed to be possessed of a large income, and 2 man who was first in soclety and sport of all kinds. That he had lived a fast life was known to all, but that fact was not permitted to count against him. His many friends boasted of his gains or losses on the race track or at cards, and held him up as free-handed and a good fellow. There had just been a breath of scan- dal about the major at Allahabad. It had been softly whispered that he had run through his patrimony and was hard up, and that his success at cards was not al- ways due to luck alone. These whispers did not circulate far and were stamped as the result of spite and jealousy. No one but the major himself knew that they were founded on fact and that they were the sole reason for his exchange. He was tendered a farewell banquet by the officers of his late regiment and the soldier or civillan who had dared to re- peat the gossip of Allahubad would have been silenced very quickly. Had the ma- Jjor been a man to take any one into his confidence and reveal his true situation he would have been obliged to say: “At 40 years old I am without a dollar 1 can call my own. My estate Is mort- gaged for its full value; I am in debt to the money lenders; my last two horses are not pald for: I owe my tallors and am being pressed for payment, and if 1 should lose £20 at cards to-night I should have to borrow,the money to pay the debt of honor. I am simply lving on my past reputation as a man of moRey, and I see no way to better my clrcumstances except to become a card sharp and fleece the officers at this cantonment.” That would have been the truth, and only the truth, but the major would have sent a bullet through his head rather than make any such admission. There was much sporting blood in the Bengal Lancers, and the officers played for high stakes. The major did not have to encourage them to gamble; they were walting for him, but they soon had cause to regret that he had appeared. His bets were high and his luck phenomenal. But for his contlnued extravagance he could CALL THE SUNDAY have paid off much of his indebtedness ‘with the money won during the first six ‘weeks. Those not in the game praised his nerve and talked of his luck; those who always came out losers did a great deal of thinking, but were silent. At the end of two months whispers were heard again. No one could trace them to any authentic source, and they did not exact- ly charge the major with card sharping, but when they reached the colonel’s ears he listened and planned. He himself had been a heavy and continuous loser, and had not always been a philosopher his gold changed hands. There had been games at his bungalow as well as else- where and the first time that Major Swift made his appearance there those in his company had considerable curiosity to know how he would be received by the colonel’s pet. The tiger no sooner caught sight of the new officer than he ceased to frolic and became sulky and morose. There was no outbreak of temper, but he lay down and fastened his eyes on the major as if reading him through and through, and it was evident that there was dislike and distrust of the man. The beast contin- ued his glare until the colonel’s man was ordered to take him away and tle him up. The colonel had sald nothing to any of the officers, but he had secretly de- termined to watch the major's play and. discover if there was a cause for his win- ning the way he did. The major could have had no hint of it, and yet perhaps intuition had given him warning, and he was not himself at all. He played and won, but he also played and lost, and his losses were far greater than his gains. Seated at his right hand and taking no active part in the game was the colonel, and he never left his chair from first to last. The major came out loser by £200 On the next night he lost £75; on the third night £100. He made good his first two losses from his former gains, but when he rose from the third sitting he knew that he would have to borrow of a brother officer to pay his losses. The officer had not been detected cheat- ing, but he had been out of luck. The colonel may have put two and two to- gether in his own mind and so perhaps might one or two of the players, but the party broke up with the greatest appar- ent good feeling all around, and half an hour later the colonel was in bed. He was a sound sleeper, and it was partly for this r on that at night the tiger was given free range of the bungalow. There were no sentinels stationed outside the place, but a native watchman slept on the veranda. At 2 o'clock in the morn- ing this man slept and the colonel was in dreamland. The tiger was stretched on the floor, blinking and dozing, when he suddenly pricked up his ears and opened wide his eyes. He had heard a step on the earth outside. As he listened the step came nearer. It being in heat of the summer, the doorways were guarded only by mats. Presently the fmal saw one of these slightly move and he got the scent of a stranger. H,“ did not growl or spring up, but the fire in his eyes grew brighter and his teeth be- gan to show. The man, who slowly and carefully pushed the mat aside and crept into the room, which was omne im which the guests had been entertalned that night, ought to have caught the blaze of the tiger's e in the darkness, but he did not. With footfalls as gentle as a hare’s he stole across the room to the colonel's desk. The desk had been care- lessly left unlocked and he took from it a bag containing the money to be given to the win g horses of the races to be held a week later. There was £600 in the bag, and the robber had just turned from the desk to make his stealthy escape when there was a roar and a bound and he went down with a crash. It was hardly a minute before the colonel was at hand with a light, but the beast bad done his work. A blow from his paw as he sprang had broken the man's neck, and teeth and claws were still at work. He was promptly shot, and then the colonel b down and rolled the dead man over at he might see his face. “God, but it's the major!” he gasped out as he started back. “It's the Major and he has the bag of money clutched in his hand!” e THE BEAUTIFUL MISS MERRIAM S (Copyright, 1%8, by T. C. McClure.) <3 ITH Miss Merriam the —p—— Ss~=w=90 incredible had hap- pened. She was tired of hearing that she was beautiful. From her earliest recollections strangers had ex- claimed over her pretty face, and her lovers, one after another, had rung the variations on the same theme. Miss Merriam listened politely to thelr extravagances and found herself ex- tremely bored. S “To be loved for your face is-like being Joved for your fortune,” Miss Merriam ccnfided to her journal. *“Beauty has wings just as truly as riches. If a man falls in love with your complexion, what is he going to do when you come down with the smalipox? If I were a pretty fool I might be perfectly satisfled with things as they are, but I know I'm worth loving for myself—if only they had the sense to find it out.” Unfortunately for themselves, Miss Mer- riam’s adorers never suspected her pecu- liar views. If there had been one of their number shrewd enough to compliment her intellect instead of her dimples and to have talked about her sparkling wit rath- er than her sparkling eyes, he would have found the short cutjto her heart. As it was, they were unanimous in deciding that the aforementioned article had been omitted from her composition. And Miss Merriam expressed her displeasure In the following paragraph in her jourpal: “Beauty! beauty! beauty! #How tiresome it all is. I wish I might never hear I was beautiful again.” Rash prayers sometimes bring unwel- come answers. Not very many days later the city was electrified by the news that Miss Merriam had been thrown from her automobile at a well-known watering place and seriously injured. Pictures of the beauty appeared in all the leading newspapers of the country, with reference to her possible disfigurement. Miss Mer- riam’s relatives when appealed to an this important point refused to say anything to relieve the suspense or to satisfy the popular curiosity. And the explanation of their reticence was apparent when Miss Merriam made her appearance in so- clety a few weeks later. Across the fauit- By Hattie T. less curve of the girl's cheek ran an un- sightly scar, a scar so aggressively prom- inent that it held the attention of the ob- server and made him forgetful of all else. It seemed likely that Miss Merriam was to have her heart's desire and never again be forced to hear that she was beautiful. Lloyd Hollister saw her for the first time at one of the opening functions of the season, a few days after his return from abroad. ‘Notice that girl over there,” a friend said, pulling his sleeve. *“Last spring she was the ‘beautiful Miss Merriam,” and see her now. Hard luck, isn't 1t?” Hollister looked as directed. He saw a small head regally carried, a mass of dazzling hair and eyes that shot violet lights from under their arched brows. Then Miss Merriam turned her head and he saw the scar and nothing else. “I'd be sorrfer for her,” the man-at his elbow went on, “if she hadn’t turned down half the fellows in her set. I guess she thought she was good for a duke with that face of hers. Introduce you, did you say? Why, certainly, my dear fellow."” It was the innate chivalry of Hollister's nature which had prompted him to ask the honer of Miss Merriam's acquain- tance. He was as sorry for the girl as he was disgusted with the cold-blooded comments of the man who had pointed her out to him. For the first few mo- ments of their conversation he unscrupu- lously kept his eyes away from her. He could not bear to witness the beauty in eclipse, and he fancied that she, who had been so used to reading admiration in the eyes of every man must wince at the pity which tact could not conceal. Presently he found that admiration was getting the better of his sympathy. This quondam beauty was not crushed by her misfortune, She met this thunderbolt of fate's spite with a gallant courage which quickened Hollister's pulses. Her easy gavety, her apparent unconsciousness of her situation, appealed to him as no wom- an’'s beautvy had ever dome. He made the discovery that Miss Merriam was brilliant, if not longer beautiful, and that her cleverness, unlike that of many of her sex, owed nothing to 11l nature. In the months that followed he saw a great deal of Miss Merriam. It was clear that the girl's liking for soclal pleasure remained unaltered by the change in her circumstances. She went everywhere, "MYSTERIOUS LEOFRIC | By Martha McCulloch Williams. | 1%3, by T. C. McClure.) ANEY GATES was the seauty of Cane Creek neighborhood—even Sis- er Meakins admitted as much in spite of robust areju Janey would have been llkewise the selle if it had not been meocepted as a fact ever since she put up her hair and let down her frocks that he was, in the neighborhood phrase, “mortgaged propert Phil Mayben had Jaid claim to her when she came hardly to his elbow. He had, further, let no- body dispute the claim, even after she came back from boarding-school, fear- fully and wonderfully accomplished. He was & big fellow, square-jawed and square-headed, who cared nothing for books unless they dealt with figures. At figures he was marvelously quick and clever—so clever it was nothing for him to sjump successive schoolmasters, even though they were college-bred, while he knew nothing higher than the neighbor- hood academy Possibly it was a triumph of this sort which had first incited the present school- master, Leonard Trabue, to try con- clusions w him in the fleld of Miss Janey's favor. Janey loved books in the freshest, most whole-hearted fashion— e could talk books by the hour, and Naturally he found him- welcome at the Gates homestead. e as naturally Phil Mayben resented resence there, and showed it out- right, after the manner of a masterful man crazily in love. Thus, by fate and free will, and the obligation of hospital- ity, Janey was in a manner forced to take Trabue's part. The result was a very pretty quarrel, and the transfer of Phil's attentions to Miss Dora Meakins. There had been no set engagement to break—that made Phil's attitude all the more aggravating. Janey was, for monthe, bitterly unhappy over the rup- ture, although she lét nobody see it—not even her mother. Outwardly she was gayer than ever, and so charming Mr. Jeonard Trabue quite lost his head. He had meant at first only to punish that pestilent fellow, Mayben—incidentally, of ice. course, to divert himself and pass time otherwise heavy on his hands. Teaching was merely a stop-gap. Literature was his chosen vocation. He meant to enter upon it through the gate of newspaper work as soon as he could scrape together & few hundred dollars. The Gateses were not rich folk, but still comfortably off, and Janey an only child. It is but just to say the fact had little to do with Trabue's falling in love. That came upon him unawares. But once he had realized his frame of affections, he took full cognizance of it. Might it not be easier to make h!mself immortal even here in the deep country, with a charming wife, and assured comfort, than out in the hustle and hurly-burly of a city? To settle it out of hand, he proposed plumply 1o Janey. He was dazed to get a refusal, distressed, almost tearful. Next week the county paper printed, with flattering comments, a love rhyme, signed “Leofric.” Cane Creek read it, be- cause reading the paper through was cer- tainly the part of thrift if not of Chris- tian duty. Still it felt no curiosity as to the authorship until the rural press quite generally copled and praised the rhyme. A second bit of verse got reprinted in three city papers, so, upon the appearance of the third, Leofric's identity became a burning question—one that the editor him- self could not answer. All he knew was that the copy came to him by the hand of Mr. Murdock, a leading lawyer. All winter long Leofric wrote intermit- tently, becoming more and more a riddle and a personage. All winter long, too, Phil Mayben ate Sunday dinners at the Meakins’ table, and Leonard Trabue talked books and the world to Janey Gates. He was playing a walting game— resolved to win her, in spite of herself and Phil Mayben. Janey's heart was singularly steadfast; still, there were times when she thought Trabue would succeed. Phil's going had left her desolate, indeed; he could never have cared as he pretended, or he would not be able to stay away. Of course, she could not make the first move to reconcll- iation, especially sin®® he was so taken up with the Meakins’ generation. Since ke was forever lost to her, it was far from unpleasant to sun herself in Tra- bue's devotion. Spring came with such a rush that year the picnic season opened in mid-May. S{gter Meakins and Sister Hodgin, self- elected soclal autocrats, got up the first one and set the place for it—Clear Spring, just a lttle way off the Gates’ pasture. The spring was, In fact, Gates' property, so Sister Meakins let the owner know she thought it would be no more than neigh- borly of him to put up the tables, seats and stakes for the gypsy kettles, to say nothing of the swings. There Phil May- ben interfered. “You don’t play a lone hand at this game with me around, squire,” he said to Janey’s father. Thus it fell out that for two days before the picnic he was nearly as much in Janey's eyes as he had been all winter in her mind. It amazed and somewhat frightened her to find how equably she regarded him. Squire Gates brought him to dinner’ whether or no, and Janey shook hands with him and chatted gayly throughout the meal without the least flutter of the heart. She even watched him go away with no access of sentiment. If only Trabue had spoken there and then! But he was invisible until next day. The picnic crowd gathered early. Phil was the life of it, though Dora Mea- kins stuck to him like a limpet. He even bowed civilly to Trabue, who hung ahout Janey, his eves downcast, his look pre- occupied. The end of the school term was just three weeks ahead. Before he came to that parting of the ways he felt that he must know exactly where he stood. Janey had grown distinctly kinder—stfll there was something in her kindness that put him farther off. She would be an ideal wife for him. A bold stroke would do it now—a year hence would be quite too late. ‘While the laughing and chatter were at flood he drew her apart and poured out to . her his hopes, aspirations, plans. Love he barely named—might they not, Fe pleaded, be Intellectual comrades? Sus- tained by her companionship, he felt him- self capable of great things—he had al- ready made a beginning, and she was all unwittingly the inspiration of what he had done. There he tried to take her hand. Janey withdrew it gently, *“Tell me all about it she whispered, a hovering smile about her lips. Trabue bent her ear and sald hurriedly: “Yéu must not mentipn it, sweetheart but 1 am Leofric—Leofric, who wrote desolate and despalring things because you refused him.” “Indeed!"” Janey sald, getting up from her mossy rock to slip past him. Then over her shoulder added: “You will please walt until after noon for your answer. I must go help about the dinner.” Dinner was so fine a feast Lawyer Mur- dock declared he felt more than paid for his long drive out from town. He was Bquire Gates’ man of business and Janey's sworn friend. Therefore nobody won- dered at their confidential talk aside, and even Phil Mayben smiled approval when the lawlyer kissed Janey in greeting. But be sure there was a stir as Lawyer Mur- dock pullea Janey to the middle of the crowd, raised his voice, and sald, with twinkling eyes: ‘“Ladles and gentlemen, T like unmasking humbugs, so permit me to present to you—Leofric, the poetess of Cane Creek. Don’t remember it against her that she is a poetess—it's all the fault of that scoundrel, Phil Mayben—" “It won't be any longer, Mr. Murdock,” Phil sald, bursting through the crowd to catch Janey in his arms and hide her blushes in his breast. “I know I've been seven kinds of a fool,” he went on. *I don't deserve Janey—nobody does, for that matter; but I'm going to have her, or die trying.” “‘You've Lawyer Murdock sald, wringing Phil's hand. Dora Meak- ins turned her back and went off with her head high, but Mr. Leonard Trabue stayed not on the order of his going. No- body in Cane Creek neighborhood ever saw him again. Lummis. - and to all appearances enjoyed herself in spite of the sudden falling off in the num- ber of her admirers. There had been a time when the man who wished a word with the beautiful Miss Merriam was obliged to fight his way through a double ring of black coats, but Hollister had no difficulty in gaining her side whenever he went. Yet the deposed queen of hearts seemed so unconscious of anything about her which called for sympathy that Hol- lister suppressed his pity as if it had been a form of disloyalty. And after a time he no longer found this difficuit. He ad- mired Miss Merriam too much to be sorry for her. In every quality of mind and heart she met his ideal of what a woman should he. As for the scar, he looked at it now unshrinkingly. Whatever he did he meant to act with his eyes open. The night he asked her to marry him they sat in Miss Merriam's little library, where the flickering light of the grate fell full upon her face. No man worthy of the name is voluble when he lays his heart and life in the hollow of a woman's hand. Hollister stammered through his lovemaking like a boy. As he went on Miss Merriam turned away her face so that the profile was toward him. 'The light of the fire flashed on the scar, and it stood out in livid rellef. As a rule Hol- lister was not fanciful, but for an in- stant the gash seemed the mocking mouth of a demon, stretched in a flendish grin. Hollister walted for a long time for an answer to his question. Miss Merriam's face was averted and he could see that she was stirred by some strong emotion. When he made a movement to take her hand she turned toward him suddenly, and he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. “You are a prave man, Mr. Hollister,” she said in a' voice not quite steady. “Have you thought of this?” Her fingers touched the scar with a strange, half- caressing gesture. fave you thought what it will mean to have every passer-by was Hollister’'s answer. “If there is a hard thing in your life it is my right to share it.”” Then his head whirled at the”look of sudden adoration that leaped from her eyes. “Oh, T wanted to find a man like you,” Miss Merriam whispered. “I was sure there must be such a one in the world.” And then she was in his arms, with the poor, scarred cheek pressed to him, sob- bing out her heart in a burst of exultant triumph that enraptured him without his understanding it in the least. When they sald good-night Miss Mer- riam clung to her lover as if reluctant to let him out of her sight. “I must see you in the morning, dearest,” she sald. “You must spare me a few moments.” And Hollister, who was looking forward to the separation of a few hours as If it had been as many weeks, agreed with a sud- den lightness of heart. He wondered a little when he came next morning that she should keep him walt- ing. His heart leaped at every footstep in the Ball for the first half-hour, and when at last she stole into the room, clos- ing the door behind her, she took him by surprise. Hollister sprang to his feet, then stood staring blankly. An enchanting face smiled up at him, a face rosy with blushes. He saw the play of the dimples and the curve of the cheek as if he were looking on it for the first time. The scar was gone. “My Gpd!" sald E r helplessly and he dropped into a chair, his own face dead pale. Miss Merriam ran to him and dropped on her knees beside his chalr, eyes with a fascinating mixture of timidity and confldence. “Forgive me, dearest. Don’t be angry with me for deceiving you. If you only knew how tired I grew of mem who couldn’t see anything in me to love but my pretty face. That little accident with my automobile was too good an oppor- tunity to miss, and the scar was easily put on. An actress showed me how to do it, but I flatter myself that after a little T improved upon my teacher.” She smiled at Hollister shyly and did not seem to find his silence discouraging. “Please don't say you like me better the other way. I almost grew to hate my beauty when it blinded peopls to all the rest In me, but now I'm glad to have it to give to the man who loved me for myself.” Several complexion specialists claimed the credit for removing the scar that had ruined Miss Merriam’s beauty and reaped golden harvests thereby. But the beaut!- ful Miss Merriam never regained her title, for the reason that her identity was soon merged in that of the beautiful Mrs, Hollister. WHAT TINY PETER DID | By Harriett G. Canfield. 3 (Copyright, 1303, by T. C. McClure.) 5—g1! Peter!” Mrs. Gray- "J son called. “Come in and get your face The minister 1s coming to tea!" Peter was little; he hated soap and water— and ministers, so he sald, “Plague take it!" under his breath, and came in at a snall's pace. “What's he comin’ for?’ he asked, re- senttully, while his mother poked a wash- cloth uncomfortably around his ear’® “To visit your father and me,” Mrs. Grayson sald, complacently. “No, he ain’t, nefwuer! He's comin’ to see Aunt Bertha, and eat all the chicken he can hold, jest like he did last time.” “Peter Grayson,” his mother said se- verely, “go right straight up to your room and undress and go to bed. I won't allow such disrespectful language to go unpun- ished—and there isn't a word of truth in st Peter started for the stair door, sniffing hungrily as he passed the loaded table. “You can come down and eat your sup- per when you're ready to say you're sor- ry for telling such a story,” his mother called, relentingly. Peter’s room was directly over the par- lor. When there was talking down below he could hear it distinctly. It was warm weather now, and the stove had been taken down, so that he could see, as well as hear. When the doorbell rang he lay flat on his stomach and watched his mother usher the Rev. Mr. Phillet into the parlor. “I snall have to ask Y@ to \ THE SUNDAY CALL'’'S Two Full Pages of the Cleverest Fiction by the Cleverest Writers HALF-HOUR STORIETTES excuse me,” she said, cream for the peaches. Peter's mouth watered—peaches and whipped cream! He didn't know they were to have that! No ‘wonder the min- ister looked pleased! He watched him seat himself in the easiest chalr in the room; it was directly under the stovepipe hole. An ldea came into Peter's little closely-cropped head—he would fish the t'dy from the back of the minister's chair! But scarcely had he dropped his hook and line when the minister looked up and caught him. “Come down and see me,” he said, just like an every-day man. *Can’ Peter sald. “Why not?” the minister asked, getting up from his chair. ‘‘Have to catch the fish for supper?”’ he said laughingly, with a glance at the hook and line. Peter blushed through his freckles. “No, sir,” he said, “ma says I can’t come down till T say I'm sorry.” “Sorry for what, Peter?” “Sorry I told such a story "bout you!" “About me?” the minister sald. while I whip some “Yes, sir; I—-I-sald you w fond of chicken.” Mr. Phillet laughed heartily. “That fsn't a story,” he said, “T am!" “That aln't all,” Peter confessed. “I ;axl?’ you ate all the chicken you could old.” Mr. Phillet blushed guiltily. “I'm afrajd I am something of a p-i-g, when there's chicken before me. Was that all you said, Peter?” No, sir; T said—" “Yes?' the minister prompted him gen- tly. “You sald— “I sald you came here to see Aunt Bertha,” he blurted out. The. Rev. Mr. Phillet sat down again in his chair and gasped. “Did your Aunt Bertha- hear you say that? he asked feebly. ‘No, sir; don’t 'you worry, sir—she ‘wa’'n’t anywhere around.” Mr. Phillet was silent so long that Peter grew uneasy. He cleared his throat In hopes that the minister would look up, but he didn’t; he sat still—so very still that Peter imagined all manner of dread- ful things—probably he was dead, or hav- ing a fit! That was it—he was having a fit! They threw water on folks when they had fits. Billy Barnes had sald so. Peter was thinking seriously of getting his pitcher and treating Mr. Phillet to a shower bath when the door-knob turned and his Aunt Bertha came into the room. To his delight the minister rose from his chair. “Why, Mr. Phillet!” she sald, “what s the matter? Your face is so flushed; have you a fever?” “No,"” Peter called down, “I guess it was a fit” Aunt Bertha looked up. “What does the child mean?” she sald, turning to the minister. 1 tell you,” shouted Peter, “I sald he ate all the chicken he could hold, and he says it's so, and I sald he came here to see you, and he says it's a story—he dldn’t jest say so, but ha thinks so, and it give him a fit, I guess.” Bertha's face was as red as the minis- ter's. “Of course, Mr. Phillet doesn't come here to see me, Peter!” she sald severely. Aunt Bertha had never spoken to him like that before. He shut his eyes to keep the tears back. When he opened them the minister was looking up at him. “Come down here, Peter,” he sald, “and change places with your Aunt Bertha. It is she who tells a story—you are truth it- self! I do come here to see her, but I've been afraid to say so. You see she doesn’t care for me at all, Peter.” Then his Aunt Bertua sald something very disrespectful (Peter thought) to the minister. She said—very low—"“Who is telling a story now? It is you who should 80 upstairs!” But neither of them came up. They moved into a corner of the room, where Peter couldn’t see them at all. And by and by his mother came in and sald sup- per was ready. Peter began to undress—very slowly, for his stomach was empty, and he had almost decided to go down and say that he was sorry, but it was all true. He was putting on his coat again when his mother came into the room. She kissed his freckled, little face, and sald soothingly, “Go down, dear, and eat your supper now. Aunt Bertha has a big dish of peaches and cream ready for you. Th minister has explained everything—he says you did him a great kindness." Peter wondered what it was.