The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 20, 1903, Page 3

groaning of riven timber, the snapping of steel, as the cars, which had dashed to the bottom of a deep ravine, settled still farther in their shapeless, twisted ‘mass. Then aame the first cry of pain; others, &nd soon the ravine was filled with an awful chorus of cries, prayers, com- mands, shrieks and groans. Some nas- sengers crawled from the wreck, unhurt, unscratched even. but madmen; others bruised, broken, bleeding, surveyed the scene, and were calm commanders. These organized the less calm into rescue gangs; and soon their work was lighted by a blaze that urged them un with fury of endeavor—the wreckage was afire! Some time afterward—months—when it had ceased to be a sleepmng and waking nightmare to him, Harry Lawton be- lieved that he never lost consclousness. His first thought was that the mass of wreck was shifting, settiing, and that a pressure across his legs was becoming greater. He moved his legs and cleared them: & short piece of timber which pinned the man in the seat with him came partly over his chest, too, but he squeezed out from under it. He crawled through an opening, and found himself on a pile of shapeless material that in the dim light bore small resemblance to cars —a torrent’s driftwood, rather He clam- bered down, and was socon standing in icy water up to his knees. It was then that the scene began to glow; and some fieeting thought of what the horror was, what it was to be, flashed through his mind, and he uttered a scream so terribla it frightened him, and he listened to hear it repeated, not knowing that it was his own voice. He dashed across the creek, climbed a high bank and then tu and looked back. He saw the br bridge, the lights of the express train that had stopped on the opposite side; saw men from that train hurrying to the 8id of the wreck; saw the flames high, to cut short the work they 1i Z Then he wondered how he came where he was, turned and wandered away, laughing at times, then crying, but al- ways wondering how and why he, poor Harry Lawton, came to be wandering through the fields at night, and so cold! ing on vine was express, which had followed his train, which would have soon passed it on Among the first express-train clamber down the bank p in the work of rescue was I He was practical, st manding; and was soon directing the work; asking nothing of others in which he did not help; cautioning all to be care- to preserve every article in or near of the dead, and particularly unfortunates who had b in i done the saddest s where fire h »e. Before daylight a train came with geons, nurses and officiais of the rail- A list of all the saved was made. Harry Lawton’s name was not among e. Then th on of the de poor blacke t g was ta of the da ach, nea car; no other p: seemed to have been In that se g to identi ¥?” an off Bunton listened for the re- handle of a valise, rnt hand, and the valise clingin to the s " There may be a name on the metal, ed Mr. Bunton. cleaned y rton of White River,” D La'." hort time before I I saw him seated in the y the right hand side of the 4 alone in the seat. I happen to ;.:‘fw‘“;‘xi.uf he carried a valise with the tals of his name scratched on the tal near the handle. He was a clerk in o rou give me the name of any one we should notify—as to the—er—remains? ¢ e official. o ; (-hhad no relatives that I know of, on replied. *I shall take it as a ee that the body has c icate with me egard to the entire expense.” Hé gave we official his card ; ‘)Th» official read the card by the light ntern he carried and bowed respect- ully, for the newspaper of his town had ust reported in a prominent article that Mr. Isaac Bunton of White River was the heavy purchaser of pig iron, the time.y sale of which would enable the local fur- nace to proceed at once with the prom- ised addition to its works, an improve- ment which would greatly benefit the town. So the official respectfully said he would attend to any matter Mr. Bunton intrusted to him, and Mr. Bunton went to the train that was to carry him back to his widowed daughter; thinking of the horror of the fire in the wreck; the fire which had destroyed the lives of so many; consumed their baggage—even tbe clothes they wore—and everything their baggage and pockets, contained. Such & thing as a deed, for example. V—THE SEA-FOOD MAN. It was but two or three miles to the little village nearest the scene of the train wreck, but it was after daylight when Harry Lawton, balf dazed, weary and trightened, reached it. Already the news of the disaster had aroused the Inhabi- tants, and those who had not hurried to the wreck were at work preparing the church for use as a hospital, under in- structions sent by the surgeons, who found that many of the injured could not et once be taken on the longer journey to the larger town some miles beyond. Harry, purposeless, except as to get as far as possible from the scene, of the wreck and his pursuing employer. would have hurried past the gathering at the church—in whose burial ground, a few days later, was placed a stone inscribed with his name—but that a kindly old dame spoke to him. “You are hurt, sir. Could you have come from the accident?” “l am not hurt,” he replied, “Why, mister, look!” ana she touched his cheek and pointed to the front evercoat—both bloodstatned. “‘Come, said, “there’s no uoctor here, but we can dress those cuts; they’re mnot much, I hope. Harry followed her into the church, where she bathed his wounds, cuts made by fiying splinters, while others stood about and asked questions. He could not have told much had he wanted to. He gave his name as Harry Lambert, and his home as the town he had left the evening before, and sald that he must hurry on—it was important. He grace- fully took the hot coffee offered, and with his cuts simply dressed by the good dame, went on to the station; though his nurse urged him to wait untll the doctors came, for there was one cut, deeper than the others, that troubled her. It was noth- ing, he said: though as, he spoke the wound—it was on his right cheek, near the corner of his mouth—nhumbed his face and tightened his lips oddly. He was In New York the next day, In & cheap little boarding-house, where a woman brought him his meals, for he could not leaye his bed. He was wholly THE SUNDAY B g S exhausted, and the hurt cheek pafned im, but he would be all right, he sald, in a few days, and the woman seemed to be glad to sérve him, he was so gentle and grateful. His manner with women made many of them compassionate him, and here, in the dingy boarding-house, the hard-working mistress petted the stranger and made much of him without reasoning why. He would not have a doctor. ‘““And no reason you should,” poor heart,” the woman said, “for that cut is nearly healed, and is leaving & dimple of a scar.” [ "1?\;: what is it doing to my lips?” Har- ry asked. “Nothing,” she replied. Then after pause, looking at him closely, *“Didn’t you always smile, all the time?” “I—I—guess not,” he said, and his eyes and brows were not smiling now, though his lips were—and always would be! Harry found that he had, besides his collection of jewelry, nearly $300 in mon- ey, but no clothes except those he wore in the train. They were ‘n bad condition, and the overcoat.was plerced by splin- ters, its front stained with his blood. The woman said she could put it in-good enough shape for him to wear when he went to buy more clothes, and he began emptying its pockets, for her to take it. In an inside pocket he found—what had not been in his mind since he took it to deliver to Dr. Paxton—the deed. He turned pale at the sight of it, and trem- bled so that the paper dropped from his hands. “What is it. dear?” she asked In alarm. He sat down weakly—overcome, for the events of his last days in White River had already become vague In his bewil- dered mind, but the sight of the docu- ment brought all his fears back with ex- aggerated force, and he looked in such dread that the woman—she was not old nor unattractive—fastened the door and sought to reassure him. *“Tell me, Ha she said. “I1 know there's some mys- y. I'll not betray you. What is the aper?” pl‘: was his nature to be conflding, and especially women, but his fear made him caut even to this poor woman, vho, e ew, loved him. “!?A\c’: ng:',' he said. “Iake the coat and clean and mend it, and we'll go out for yme new clothes and a hat for you, Katie. And we'll go for dinner, and to the theater. I'd like to go_to one of the bright, plays you've told me of.” He could not decide for a'long time what to do with the deed. He tried to read its contents, but the tedlous phrase- tired him and he could not under- stand its meaning. He thought to de- roy it, but then he thought that if Mr. Bunton should ever overtake him—he pic- tured him always as in pursuit with an officer, as he had last sgen him at the station—his faflure to prdduce the deed might make his punishment greater. Then, with a fleeting boldness, he thought that the paper might be a shield against Mr. Bunton's wrath. Anyway, he would keep it concealed; that would be the safest way. He had the woman open the lining of the overcoat when she returned with it and sew the deed securely within. They went to a theater that night, and Harry was intoxicated with the glory of lights, music, scenes and beautiful wom- en. He had never dreamed that such vis- fons could be realized. His companion called his attention to one woman who had but a small part in the entertain- ment but for whom the audience—even the others on the stage—had llvely re- gard. Her few entrances and conspicuous scenes were loudly applauded, but she took all these evidences of popularity with her habitual pose of indifference. She wore many rich jewels, and her cos- tumes were notably richer than those of more prominent performers. “Yes,” whispered Harry, “I've been no- ticing her all the time.” 4 “Oh, have you?’ his companion said, g to laugh. But she was miserably happy during the rest of the performi- arce. Harry, fashionably dressed now, haunt- .ed the theater and restaurant district of Broadway. He found a soclety ready to welcome him, and he had both the dis- position and the manner of making friends, which helped him to a place in that soclety which, easy and careless as is ite scrutiny of credentials, some men find closed to them. He was not a spend- thrift, except in the matter of purchases for personal adornment, and his store of money tgok him farther than ten times the amount might have taken another, and he was soon established as a recog- nized character in the district. He was called “Smiling Harry.”” Whether he wished to or not, he always smiled, for the wound in his cheek, though it left but @ dimple of a scar, had, for lack of proper surgical attention, brought abotit a slight rictus, which fixed his weak, pretty mouth in a perpetual smile. And this was more conspicuous since, with a notion of con- cealing his identity, he had shaved off his mustache. He did not make many friends among men. though many asked him to supper parties at the gay restaurants pat- ronized by the lesser women of the thea- ters and their escorts. He was such good company, could do so many clever tricks with one's rings or watch, and had a simple store of old-fashioned riddles that made his men companions laugh at him, if not at his wit. One night the famous beauty he had noticed at the theater joined the party where Harry sat at sup- per. She was coolly. perhaps one should say Insolently, indifferent to the eager welcome and attention of the other men, but looked with undisgulsed Interest at Harry. When he ended a story he was telling, the woman, not smiling, leaned over the table, touched the scar on his cheek with her finger tips and asked, “Where did you get that?’ 1 mustn’t tell you where,” he replied. “But I'll tell you why: always to have a smile for you.” He was never doubtful of himself with women, and now smiled at her as frankly as a child might have smiled at her for her beauty. She kissed the tips of her fingers and again touched the scar with them. *You are the man they call Smil- ing Harry?"' ehe asked. *My name is Harry Lambert,” he sald. ‘Have you seen me—at the show?” Yes.” 'Will you take supper here to-morrow pight with my crowd?” “Yes.” A man now came over from the table she had deserted, and she rose and left the restaurant with him. The other men at the table treated Harry with more consideration after that. Not only on the next night, but on many others, Harry was a guest at the table of Georgle Franklyn—called by her intimates “Babe.” Always the same oth- er man was at the table, but otherwise the party changed from night to night. Sometimes Harry was invited to Georgie's apartments with a party for supper, which was sent in from a neighboring club at the order of the other man. Some- times he would call at her apartments in the afternoon and they would drive through the park in her brougham, she enveloped In rich furs. Once she ordered the coachman to stop at a restaurant in the park, but as they drew near she saw the other man entering the restaurant, and gave a hasty order not to stop. Harry's money, although he was more often a guest than a host, was growing low. One night he was entertaiing a party of friends at their favorite restau. rant when Georgle and her accustomed escort entered and she asked, “May we join you?! They were welcomed, but Harry’'s heart sank as he saw the walter bring the expensive champagne the other man always drank. When the check for the amount of the supper bill was lald by his side Harry turned pale, for it was more by a considerable sum than he had. The party was very lively and apparently no one noticed the host's distress. But soon Harry caught the eye of Georgle, and 1t directed his attention to her hand, with which she seemed to be carelessly toying with a napkin on the table. It was slowly pushed toward him, and pres- ently lay before him. Georgle talked with unusual animation, holding general attention, while Harry, as she plainly wished him to, felt under the napkin. Her purse was there, and he cautiously slipped it Into his pocket. Then, with a sigh of rellef, he glanced at her. She looked like Daisy Bunton. After that, when the other man was engaged, or was away from the city, Harry called at the theater for Georgle, carried her satchel of jewelry to her brougham, and drove away with her. Those were happy months, and proud for the poor fellow. He saw his name In some of the gossip papers, always as “Smiling Harry,” and frequently asso- clated with that of Babe Franklyn. He moved from his mean room at Katle's, declaring, when she sobbed that he would return, no fear, for he loved her. Late ‘In the spring the theater where Georgle appeared closed an company went to London. Georgie said she would not go, but the othcr sald he thought a season In Londen would improve har art, he thought: anywey, if she didn't go she iad a prospect of a lomely summer, as he would be abroad. So she sailed with the company, after writing Harry a sor- rowful and misspelled letter, in which she explained that she was so closely watched that she could not see him again; that she would gladly die for him, if she had any other means of support, and he must always remember his loving and heart-broken Babe. She married an English Duke toward the end of the London season, and finds it so hard to support him, that she has confided to friends that she Is sorry she did not mar- ry Smiling Harry, who was much less ex- pensive, and, besides, loved her. Harry went back to Katie's and helped about the boarding-house, but she learned that he was spending the money he got by pawning jewelry Georgie gave him in entertaining other friends, and Katfe sent him away in a rage. Harry sti. had many friends in the dis- trict of his early triumphs, but they were mostly young women of meager incomes, rather accustomed to recelving than giv- ing entertainments, ~and his resources were low. They were kindly hearted and frankly schemed to have Harry included in supper inyltations, more * especially when to their experienced understanding it was plain that without a supper so pro- vided Harry would go without any sup- per whatever. More than one of these friends proposed honest marriage to Harry; but he had never had a word of the progress of Daisy’s divoree suit, and he .was' afrald to make any manner of inquiry, lest Mr. Bunton should get track of him and carry out the purpose—what- ever it may have been—which started him on the search interrupted by the railway wreck. So marriage was out of the ques- tion. Also it began to be out of the ques- tion for him to haunt the restaurants of the district. Men tired of including him in their parties at_the urgency of the women; he never entertained; ‘the very waiters frowned on him, and in more than one place he was brusquely told that the management had instructed that he was not to be admitted. Harry then sought other places, of a poorer kind, but of much the same class; restaurants and other resorts on the outskirts of the dis- trict, whose patrons, like him, had fallen to that plane, or had but just achieved it on an upward progress. There he met wrecks and half wrecks, who, like him, were drifting to shoals and rocks of squalor he as yet knew nothing of, and trim-lookirig craft that were trying their salling qualities in that shady water, but ambitious for . piratical cruises in the open, sunny seas from which winds of adversity had. driven his badly piloted bark. Now his companions were per- formers in poor places of entertainment; thieves, If easy opportunity encouraged their enterprise; pickpockets and opera- tors of small confidence games, With the criminal element he consort- ed willingly, but no urging could induce him to join in their enterprises; for his fear of the police was Intense and ever present. But he liked the criminals; they were generous when in Juck, and his cheerful company was often sought by them and pald for with a meal or a night's lodging. He found some employ- ment, too, in the cheap amusement places, doing his sleight of hand tricks, telling his poor stories, and even singing the old fashioned ballads of White River days. But these engagements did not last long, because the audiences at such places where he appeared Insisted on taking him only as a joke, to be laughed at and de- rided, no matter how plaintive his song or how sad his quavering notes. For there was ever on his lips that quaint, questioning smile, so when his value as & butt and byword was exhausted he was of no more use there as an entertain- er; and from these cheap but recognized places he drifted to low resorts that pre- tended to be merely drinking saloons, but were traps for the curious or unknowing. There women harples stole from the cas- ual patrons, or men drugged or used more violent means to rob; and there for a time Harry—"Smiling Harry"'—was one of the attractions; and he sang as he was ordered pathetic ballads, for those, with his accompanying smile, drew most cus- tom from the chance seeker for novelty and best answered the regular patrons’ standard of humor. But even there nov- elty was required and Harry's attraction failed. As he had not the courage to steal nor the wit to beg, he would have starved had not a young woman, cm- ployed as an entertalner in one of the cheap but decent places of amusement, in which he, too, had worked, sought him In his distress and offered him a home. It was this woman, Bessle Day, who suggested to Harry an honest employ- ment. He became a night peddler of crabs and lobsters. In the evening Bessie would /prepare his basket of wares, boil the cfabs and lobsters bought cheaply just before the markets’' closing hours, arrange them in a basket and cover them with a clean towel. When the theaters ‘were turning out their patrons into the streets of his old district, Harry went forth with his offering to hungry and thrifty buyers. His cry: “Sea food!" re- peated at frequent intervals, In his plaint- ive voice, became one of the famillar sounds of the night. Harry liked the work, because it took him into the dis- trict which had for him more attraction than anything else in his life. Sometimes former companions would hall him and buy liberally, joking over his new-found industry. Most he sold to men and wo- CALL. men hurrying to their rooms for supper, and among these he established a kind of regular trade; not all profit, for some, When they had no money, would deem it their right to take, with a laugh, from the quaint character, who always smiled, though what they took, with dublous promise to pay, was Harry's profit for a night’s work. Yet, with profit and loss, the sea-food man helped at the end of each week to pay the expenses at “home." Bessle was not always employed, and “besides her there another in the fam- ily to be provided for, a hunchback younger sister. Nora was a quiet, pale, weakly little creature, sorrowfully striv- ing not to recognize the world her de- Pendence upon Bessle made her encoun- ter; loving the sister whose only virtue, perhaps, was that she loved Nora; hoping and praying that their life might be changed for the better; helping all that her poor strength permitted in the dutles of the pitiful “home.” When Bessie was at work Nora prepared Harry's basket and started him on his night's round, and called him “Brother Harry.” VI-LULLING A CONSCIENCE. Dr. Paxton’ had been as proud of his motherless children as he was fond of them. He would have liked to ses Howard enter his profession, but when the young man was graduated from the high school and asked to be allowed to try out in bractice Lig fancy for writing the doctor Bave his consent. Howard succeeded so well In newspaper work that, even before his father's death, he was doing occa- sional editorial work, which was received Wwith so ‘much favor it promised to ad- vance him to an editorial chair—the goal of his ambition. Grace, too, had her suc- cess, of which her father and Howard were vastly proud. She was a student of decorative designing and had already sold a design for a menu card at a price which, she boasted, pald for all the postage ré- quired to send it to the various printers Wwho had declined with thanks. It was weeks after his father's death before Howard could give any attention to the business gffairs which the lawyer had in charge. Then it was but to understand that the property, after all affairs were settled, consisted only of the family resi- dence, upon which was the mortgage of five thousand dollars. The lawyer was eager to learn for what purpose Dr. Pax- ton had obtained so large a sum on the day of his death, but Howard could give him no help in his inquirfes. Police in- .vestigation of the matter resulted only in the conclusion that the doctor’s body had been robbed of the large sum, and all public Interest in the subject ceased abruptly in the general excitement caused by the news of the awful railroad wrec! in which, with a half hundred othrenx? Harry Lawton was supposed to have death. Engrossed in the first sharpness of thelr grief and absorbed In the adjustment of their lives to their,new conditions, the matter of the mortgage and the money gbtalned upon it passed from the conjec- ture of Grace and Howard nearly as wholly as from the public mind. In the following year Howard was advanced to the promised editorial position, and soon thereafter a department of paragraphs and short verses appeared In the White River Advocate which attracted more than local attention—was copled from even by the great New York dailies. These Howard carried home for Grace to see—his work looked so much more Im- portant there than In the columns of the Advocate, Among those who congratu- lated Howard on his success was Isaac Bunton. * “And always remember, How- ard,” he said, “that if you want advice or,help—in any business matter—you must let me know."” . “Thank you,” Howard answered, “I know that I can call on you, my father's friend, for. advice, and shall do so if there's any occasion.” He thought afterward that he might have asked Mr. Bunton if he could sug- gest what business had caused his father to give the mortgage; but restrained by an aversion from opening a discussion that was as painful still as it seemed futile, he never made such Inquirles of the merchant. It was a subject, however, which was much in Mr. Bunton's mind. When he returned home, after passing a day at the farm on his way back from the wreck, the bank demanded more security for the loan on his pig iron purchase. An additional $5000 was called for, as the price of pig fron had declined half a dol- lar a ton. Bunton went to the bank ner- vous and angry. “You know,” he sald, “that it's not convenient for me to put up any more just now. But let me tell you this: If you folks aren't disposed to treat me falrly Il go elsewhere. A Pitts. burg bank will take care of my account and make me a further advance. You know the one I mean—the one that's go- ing to open a branch here.” This threat had its effect, and the presi- dent concillated. “We don't want to in- convenience you, My. Bunton,” he sald. ‘“We supposed that you could easily bor- Tow five thousand more from your fa- ther.” Bunton stared. It flashed upon him that the banker took it for granted that the five thousand dollars Farmer Bunton drew from the bank was to loan to his son, Isaac Bunton. “The bank does not know that I got the money from Doc Paxton,” Bunton thought. *“No one knows! The hoom in iron came, as he predicted, and Isaac Bunton profited largely. After closing this, his first important specula- tion, he determined to go to Howard Paxton and offer to repurchass the min- ing land, with an explanation of how the deed belonging to his father's estate was destroyed in the wreck, with the faithless messenger, Harry Lawton. But this plan was postponed by another opportunity to usa all the capital he could command. Next year's demand for Iron ore would be great, and lake freights would be high. Bunton went into the speculatign boldly, again using all the money he had, or that the bank would lend: and freight rates rose trom day to day. His operations at- tracted. the attention of some of the great men in the Iron trade. It was one of these who sent for him, and sald, ‘“Bunton, what are you going to do with all the: freight charters?” 5 “Sell 'em to you, when navigation opens In the sprin, answered the merchant boldly. “l dare say we shall be after them,” the dealer replied. *“We didn’'t know but that some one was going to open up that mining land of yours. Oh!” he added with a smile, as Bunton started, “that's the game, eh?' I made a good guess. Well, there's fron on all sides of your land. It should be opened up. Have you formed your company yet?" The merchant laughed the matter aside. Some months later the same man agaln sent for him and said abruptly, “What do you want for that fron land of yours?” “It's not for sale.” S “Oh, come! You bought it for a song— we've looked that up—and you've not sold it, nor organized a company to-develop it. That we know so much shows you how interested we are in the matter. Now name a price at which you'll let us have it, o control of it."” “It's not fGr sale,” the morchant re- plied, as before. ‘ “Why, ‘We'll give you $25,00 for the land.” “I repeat—the land isn't for sale at any price.” 3 “You are getting to be a pretty hard bu;llmr. ‘Wil you name a price?”’ “No." “Fifty thousand?” “No.” The iron man wi flushed and eager, but the merchant was very quiet—though unusually pale. The former walked up and down the floor a number of. times be- fore he paused, and sald: “I take it for granted that you' had a hint of our plans. I don't blame you for acting on that. We want that land. I'll tell you exactly how much we want it. This is final. We'll give you $100,000 for a good and clear title to that land!" The phrase, “good and clear title,” was used unconsciously, or with no other pur- pose than to give sonorous emphasis to the offer, but at the words Bunton started and his pale face flushed. “The matter can be closed up in an hour,” the iron man continued, reading supposed success in the other’s face. “We've had the title searched, and your signature is all that we want now.” “The property is not for sale,” B ton sald, and added a little huskily, least not now.” After this interview Bunton determined to Inform Howard at once of his business transaction with Dr. Paxton. He was troubled when he came to consider what explanation he should make to Howard, but he felt that no more excuse would-be needed than the truthful one that he had sent the deed to the doctor by Harry Lawton, who had falled to deliver it. Howard, enriched within a year of his fathe death, would not be inclined to ask\any particulars of the affalr which the who had induced his father to make the lucky {nvestment did not ven- ture to give. But there was another thing which caused Bunton uneasiness— the fact that he had allowed the bank to suppose that the five thousand he had obtained from the doctor had come trom his father. He felt bitterly toward the bank. It was its niggard policy that made it necessary for him to part with the land, which was now worth a for- tune. And, too, it was its stupid assump- tion as to the source of the $35000 that had first prompted him to delay.a settlement with the heirs when he went into.the freight charter speculations. Well, thers was but one thing for him to do now- make a transfer to the heirs of the land, for, of course, it would be dishonest to offer a return of the purchase prics, even though Howard was ignorant of the wonderfully advanced value of the land. But Howard was not ignorant; nor was any cme else In the town, for the fact that Isaac Bunton had refused a very large sum for some Michigan fron land was a news item In the papers. Bunton was congratulated when he went to the bank, and before he could deny his own- ership he realized that he was in unu- sually good standing there; that-a re- quest he expected a reduction of his over- draft at the bank was not made. This ‘was fortunate; it permitted him to under- take another enterprise of profit which he feared he would have to abandon. So he concluded to defer his business with {-]nwlrd. who would not suffer by the de- ay. Time and again that settlement was put off. Bunton rapidly became an op- erator of note in fron and coal. His knowledge of the market was keen, his Judgment sound and his movements bold. Soon there arose frequent occasions for visits to New York. for his affairs had become profitably involved with iron men of national importance. One of these sald to him once: ‘“‘Bunton, (hat mining land of yours, if things keep on developing at their present rate, will be the key to a deal In fron that's going to be the big- gest industrial the world has ever known, You were a lucky man to get an inkling of what's going on before you were of- fered $100,000 for land. I guess you don't need any advice, but if you do take this: Just smile at any one who offers you $500,000—$1,000,000—for if the combination that's afoot goes through, the Big People —you know who I mean—have simply got to have the ore they know is in your land. Without jt they can’t control the ore situation to’ the extent they must to make their deal a cinch.” VII-OFF TO NEW YORK. Daisy Bunton Lawton was not one to spare or govern her emotions. Her grief and rage possessed her In quickly suc- ‘at ceeding, passionate outbursts, which her- mother and grandfather could not con- trol. When her father returned to the farm, a few hours after his telegram tell- ing of the death of Harry, she refused to see him, passionately exclaiming that he was the cruel cause of the death of her husband. She became 1ill, and the country doctor advised that she should be taken South for the winter. This ad- vice was readily adopted because Dalsy declared that she would not yet see her father. ‘While his wife and child were in the Bouth Isaac Bunton rented and prepared for them a new home, a larger house in the pretentious part of town, the district known as the Heights. The older and richer families of White River, with whom the Buntons had had but little so- clal relation, congratulated him upon this move, He heard expressions of satisfac- tion that they were to have the pleasure of adding the ladies of his famlly to their social circle. Knowledge of his financial success was not confined to distant cities; he was a prophet not without renown in his own country, and his countrymen re- Joiced In his prosperity—likewise his coun- trywomen.’ ‘With newly enlightened views of his daughter’s character, Isaac made much, in his letters to his wife, of these cor- dlal expressions on the part. of the aris- tocracy of White River; and his device was not without results. Daisy noticed, with a cynical enjoyment, the promised social conquest of the Helights, and late in the winter suddenly announced to her mother that she would like to return home and see what héer father had really done for her comfort and pleasure. The Helights experienced a sensation that winter. The Buntons entertained on a scale that was dazzling: parties boldly given for the sole purpose of dancing, not with that dissipation as a scarcely atknowledged indulgence, and with pro- fessional musicians to play for the danc- ers; dmners, at which Daisy and her mother appeared at their own table in costumes theretofore known in White River only through the iilustration of fashionable events in the great citles; af- ternocn teas, where the ladles who brought their sewing found that they were awkwardly overburdened. Daisy was the moving spirit In these social In- novations—revolutions—and laughed at the fears of her mother that the Helghts would be scandalized. “Not while every one is sayingthat papa is sure to be the richest man In town,” Daisy replied with a light laugh. “A year ago we were glad to be invited by the poorest people on the Heights; now the richest are glad to be invited by us. It's the only thing that amuses me—to see them make fools of themselves over me Bunton, this isn’t business.- because I am an heiress! I llke to see them toady, and laugh In their faces. It's good fun.” Had the only thing that amused Daisy been even more extravagant and uncon- ventional, judged by White River stand- ards, Mrs. Bunton would have offered no protest, for the haunting fear of her days and nights was a return of that awful mood in which her daughter had shaken their hearts in the first days of her widowhood. There were yet days when she would see neither her father nor mother; when a passion of tears and la- mentations for her lost love would pros- trate her by their fury. Toward her father her attitude of cool indifference never changed. Toward all other she was capricious. One of Dalsy’'s caprices was directed against the Paxtons; with unaccountabls obstinacy, unless it was that her pride had been offended by the attention of one John Worthington Jr. of New York, pald to Grace Paxton. For a time after their return from the South Dalsy and her mother saw much of Grace, on the old, slmplegterms of former years; for Grace's mour: kept her from participating in the Buntons’ newly inaugurated gran- deur. But there came an abrupt end to all visits between them. Refusing her mother's request to call on the Paxtons one evening in the old homely manner, Daisy added, “And I don't see why we should have Grace and Howard here any dy!” her mother cried in dismay. “Well, why?" the girl insisted. “Even when they're out of mourning they'll not entertain us as we entertain. Let them come under the rule of our life here —soclal entertalnment is &n even ex- change.” “But the Paxtons—our oldest friend: pleaded the mother. “Daisy’s righ: interposed Mr. Bunton, emphatically. T don't see anything Howard's ever done to make him worth while.” Daisy had - made her objection in a caprice—in pique, at most—but her father epoke to plainly from deep prejudice that the girl glanced at him curiously. She would Lave changed her mind, perhaps, and championed Grace and Howard had not her father added, with a flash of an- ger even she did not care further arouse, “I'm tired of this silly praise yo hear all over town of young Paxton's scribbling. I never want to see him here again.” During the second year after his father's death Howard Paxton's success as a writer assumed flattering propor- tions. The short articles and verses in his signed department were more and more copied, and paragraphs occasionally ppeared In the press concerning the “White River Advocate man,” as he was usually called in such gossip. In the White River Club, of which Grace insist- ed he should become a member, as other- wise he would gradually cease to know any one but her, he was always intro- duced to strangers in that manner, to his great embarrassment. “It's an awful grind, Grace,” he would say to her, “to be pointed out as a town curiosity and have every man you meet look at you in & way that shows you he is waiting for you to say something a la ‘White River Advocate man.’ " “Just wait until I'm famous,” ecried Grace. “Then you'll see a proper haughty manner. When I've decorated the interior of & town hall or an opera- house you'll not see me turning the roots of my hafr red with blushes, the way you do when any one speaks to you.” “I couldn't stand it at all if it wasn't that when people meet me that way I al- ways think I'm some one else. When a man says to me, ® enjoyed reading your column so much, Mr. Paxton, I hope you'll collect your poems’ (they will call my verses poems) ‘and short stories Into & book,” why, I'd curl up, if it didn’t seem to me that they're talking about somse one else. But I met one chap to-day, New Yorker, who's a brick. ‘What's the name of your brick? ‘Worthington.” p “First neme, please,” sald Grace, gasp- ng. Howard took from his pocket s card and read, “John Worthington Ji Grace pretended to faint, she mur mured, “Smelling salts! Save me! Where Was I? Let me see the card. Slowly—not all at once.” She took the card and read a penciled list it bore of a half-dozen New York clubs. “Oh, Howard!" she ex- claimed with dramatic fervor, “you told me of this too suddenly! John Worthing. ton Jr.! What was he llke?" ‘What the deuce, Grace?" he asked, laughing at her nonsense. ‘"What's the row “Howard Paxton, man alive!” she de- claimed, “do you mean to y that you don’t know who your brick really “‘Of course I know he's Mr. Worthing- ton of New York, and a mighty nice chap. I said that before.” “Howard, you simpletos! your brick is the swell Mr. Worthington, son of the great Mr. Worthington—the ‘young Cap- tain of Industry.’ " . ““Captain of fiddlesticks!” commented Howard. “T tell you he's as simple a chap as ever was; mighty interesting; been everywhere; no nonsense about him. He's out here trying to buy Mr. Bunton’s famous mining land.” “Do you suppose there are two John Worthingtons, who are both ‘juniors,’ and both members of all the swell clubs of ll‘lew York? He must be the famous one!"” Howard began to look frightened. Now, Grace, don’'t you go and scold " he sald humbly. “I've went and gone and Invited of that howling swell ‘for to take supper with us to-morrow levenln.. Be brave, sister; we're in for A3 “To-morrow evening is chop evening,™ Grace said in a bollow tone. “Tell me exactly what he’s llke and I'll decide if chops will do. Joha Worthington Jr.l Oh!" “He’s awfully civil; interested in what a fellow says, and Interested that you are Interested in what he says. But I say.” Howard added after a pause,” New Yorkers dine at our supper hour; hadn’t we better skip chop night, and jump to steak?"” Not at all. An ‘awfully civil’ man will do very well with chops, potatoes stewed In cream, gooseberry jam, hot biscuits and tea.” Howard was examining the list pen- clled on the card. “He told me that when we got to New York he’'d put me up at any of these clubs that interest Grace, looking at her brother furtively. “Adr,-_ we going to New York, ever, How- ard?” “Shut your eyes until I tell you to open them,” he said, “and you'll ses something to make you a good little girl.™ “See Broadway, and Fifth avenue, and —and—the School of Design?" Grace asked eagerly. “Oh, If I told you you'd be as wise as I am,” Howard sald; but in such a way that his sister’s heart beat fast, for their possible migration to the big city was a dream she sometimes dared to hope might come true. (Continued Next Sunday.)