The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 17, 1904, Page 12

12 THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. | PAPY ; o Zro7 —% == R = e = O — - the jail, where he was entrus opyT 1903, by T. C. McClure. “Then I'll thank you to reach in that the care of the flower beds. 1 nan,” sai ket for me, sir.” - her - sex e < HIS is the man,” said Poc! s The formalities of another T Mre. Van Vorst. Tha poRegsa de"" \Thi" r::: passed quickly. Page was strangely She laid on the ": r:‘:}” ik T cheerful about it all. Judge Marvin of chagrin. i re P table the pretty sil- .1p's the money I'd like to have you mvnn;ar;:!ed ‘:;"n m?‘f:m’;_; 5y ver police whistle get out, sir. I ain’t armed. Please e 'f g g g g el with the satisfaction give Mrs. Van Vorst $5. That'll pay ’mp:":‘;"'w"h A R And. yot Do . used it to for the little perfumery bottle I just SRS R Then ¢ wWas no ething de- a short “and as I en glance up by rchids. at ere the door While I her The & wary ey 1 him, r grip as they saw his next on the programme, pursued wretch! What ca and seized oned you. He me, but sat down ting to be arrested.” 1at did he do with the aistcoat pocket.” eat hands of the law prepared spoke gently. “Don't tiemen,” he said. “I can get it for 1 easier One of his hands s pr ed an exquist X eb- ke lace And th s another thing d He started to reach pocket when a rough hand ried the cfficer. broke while I was gettin’ the handker- stared in astonish- Page was very unlike the bur- glars of storied fa You do not look for courtesy from the man who roos ou, and she felt for the first time in her life ill at ea She was supposed to mistress of any situation; her wn butler, a common thief, was vaf- € her ment be an took five jingling dol- and laid table. d a e burglar he is, e'll give him manners at an uble ye no more Good avenin’ to ye. s marched their victim he turned and spoke to rs. Van Vorst 1 beg your pardon, ma am, for the trouble and scare I've given you, and I'm much obliged to you for fixin’ it all up for me so easy.” Leaving her to ponder this puzaling rk he disappeared with the offi- cer From the light and warmth of the luxurious house the three hurried into tte bleak rain without. The patrol wagon backed up to the sidewalk, its step conveniently ready for the st The horses fidgeted impatiently. The restless driver clanged his gong. “Hastle up ther r Politeness,” growled one of th r the wag- lo, & policem:n e wagon. d Costello on he was met who had been wa Paige! answered the man smile and entered the wit wagon. Costello followed to act &s guard, the gong clange: the horses started off with a dash and the assembled sma boys scattered, their show being ov: Td like to know what ye mean talin’ a handkerchief?" said Costello after the story had been told. “Bill Page nivver saw the in- soide of the station {n his life for any- thing but a dhrunk. Why, you're hor r than a barrel of good whis- K ‘Didn’t I make a pretty honest steal of it?” Page said evasively. “Ye made the quarest stale in all me acquaintance. = Afther takin' pleasure in announcin’ to the lady that her handkerchiet was to yer oikin’ ye sits pacefully down to wait for us with an open window and : beside Did ye think for an ella before venturin’ forth in the & Page dodged the questions good- temperedly. An hour later found him housed in the station. It was an aston shment to every one who knew him when it was told o Thus 7S THE A S#D TTES [ VaoRS 7. that he had been stealinz. been known to the police for a long time as a toper, but no one dreamed that he had any vice more serious than a love for the bottle. He had paid the penalty of being found drunk a num- He had ber of times and was known to the force as a thoroughly good fellow when sober. Judge Marvin had given him a long sentence the last time, hoping to work reform, and he had endeared himself to everybody about was not in need of sheilter as are some who seek arrest. He was sober, and Investigation proved he had given up a well-paid for a petty offense, the theft ¢ ticle that must have been w him. The jail doors creaked to admit h once more. He settled down c in his quarters, affably some of his old-time comrades. Days slipped by and a restless came over him, although he same orderly prisoner as ever. At last he approached the jailer: “Why don’t you give me my old j sir?" he asked anxiously. “Oh, you had the flower beds, didn’t you? That's so. Want them again, do you? “Oh, please, sir.” Page replied, face as eager as a child's. Next day found him out in the sun- shine, shears and trowel in hand. The flower beds surrounded the next building, which was the women's sec- tion of the jail. Page approached his work nervously and went about trim- ming the roses in a preoccupied man- ner. At every sound he started. A light step came up the walk. Page Jumped to his feet as he recognized the sound of it. “Polly!” he cried, and seized a girl's hands in his. Joy and sorrow mingled in her face. “Oh, Bill, you're back after you swore 33 was the his to me you'd never drink again,” she cried. “I haven't touched a drop, Polly,” he answered. and his words rang true. “It was for stealin’,” he cried joyfully “Stealing!” she gasped in horror. “Yes—don't you see—an honest steal. I took the handkerchief and gave It right .back and gave Mrs. Van Vorst the money to pay for the bottle I broke doin’ it. I had to run the bluff, Pol I couldn’'t stay away from you ar longer. Ain't you glad to see me, I girl 7" “I don’t know,” she sald, perplexed “Now we'll be here together just like we used to be v“°n we first got know each other. We can see h oth- er every day until you get out, and mine’s only a week after that. We see each other whem you have your to walk, for I've got the flower beds aga a And I've reformed since you talke me—ain't touched a drop, Polly, homor I ain't—and when we got I'll be as scber as a Judge, and yo never steal another pénny, poor litt girl, ‘cause your mother’ll never starving again. She's all right, I left her plenty of money. have that house with the grass in and we'll be happy to beat the band It won't be so long to walt, little girl— there, there, don't.” And her tears found refuge om his shoulder. be Polly And we'll & 2 WHEN A MAN'S BASHFUL By Otho B. Senga. £ 8 by T. C. McClure. R. WILLIAM STE- VENSON, in the nall side seat at the end of the car, waited for The Girl. She came in at the next station. He feigned absorption in a news- paper, but lost no movement of the graceful figure, and managed to get & glimpse of the fresh color in her cheek and the pretty wave of her dark hair. “She grows prettier every day,” he remarked to the advertising column, “and I'm a goner.” He looked down the aisle and en- countered the gaze of The Girl. Her quickly averted eyes and heightened color were balm to his soul. “Allsh be praised!” he whispered, seemingly scanning the paper again, “that’s the first indication that my lady is aware of my existence, and I've sat in this same seat and watched for her every morning for exactly 185 days. Hang the conventions! I'd like to walk up to her and say, ‘Madam, would you be kind enough to give me your ad- dress? I intend to call upon you, to win your love, and eventually to marry you."! I wonder what she'd say?” “What do you ride sideways for?" cried a voice at his elbow. “Why don't you sit over here? Billy made a quick resolve. Bob Ten- nessee knew almost every one in Bos- ton and was as white-souled and honor- able as if his profession were preaching the gospel, instead of detecting crimi- nals. “Bob, go out and speak to the brake- man; when you come back lopk at the lady in the fifth seat from the rear, on the left side of the car. See If you know her.” Bob complied, unquestioningly, but when he re-entered the car and looked toward the seat indicated he hurried past the astonished Billy and took the seat beside The Girl, who greeted him warmly. When the train drew in at the South station Bob looked up and waved a farewell to Stevenson, who stalked grimly out to the street. “Bob Tennessee is a blatherskite,” he muttered, savagely. “I'd like to punch bis hea He was still chafing under his wrongs when Bob sauntered into his office. “You did me a good turn this morn- ing, old boy.” said Bob blithely. “Go away,” growled Billy, “I'm too busy.” top writing a minute,” whispered Bob, “I want to tell you about her.” The pen went busily scratching on and Billy made no reply. “Her name is Murdock—Grace Murdock.” Mr. Stevensen scious. he is assistant editor on ley’s magazine,” pursued Bob, “I've known her since she was a child. At one time I was terribly sweet on her older sister, but,” sighing, “she pre- ferred Tom Trevors.” “Showed her good posed Billy, vengefully. ““Let dogs delight to bark an’ bite,’” quoted Bob, soothingly, “only that I'm a second John Rogers, I'd never tell you that I'm to be on that same train to-morrow morning, and she says I may introduce you.” “Oh, don’t trouble,” loftily, “I may take an earlier train to-morrow morn- ing.” “That’ Bob. “It doesn't at all matter,” indiffer- ently, “ and if it did I might find some way to attract her attention.” “Oh, of course you might,” retort- ed Bob witheringly, “you might forge a fit and fall at her feet, frothing at the mouth! That would undoubtedly ‘attract her attention.’” But Stevenson was impregnable to his sarcasm and Bob departed. Billy was of many minds that day. He half resolved to take a different train and in some way to make the acquaintance of the girl without Bob's assistance. Then, remembering the dignity of her bearing, he shivered at his own audacious thought. Diffi- dence was his one weakness. How he longed to possess Bob Tennessee's ready ease and absolute assurance. The self-conflict ended in his taking the usual train, weakly relying upon Bob's promised introduction. When the girl came in, looking prettier than ever, he waited feverish= ly for Bob. A wave of indignation swept over him when no Bob appear- ed. His anger overcame his diffidence. Bob had taken unfair advantage of the situation. Even now he might be somewhere on the train, enjoying his friend's disappointment and discom- fiture. This thought spurred him on. Taking his cardcase from his pocket, is serenely uncon- Brins- taste,” inter- gratitude for you!"” wailed r | | = ~n °|!< he wrote on the card, “Our friend, Bob, promised to introduce me this morning. In his absence may I not ccme and spegk with you?” A half dollar and a whispered in- struction to the train boy and the thing was done. Billy suffered agonies in a brief minute—his heart thumped against his ribs and his nuniber sixteen collar seemed four sizes too small. The girl read the pleading line, looked de- liberately down the aisle and nodded brightly. He made his way to her side, feeling like a man just rescued from drowning. “Isn’t this a delightful morning, Mr. Stevenson?” as if they were old friends. \ “You are very kind, indeed,” irrele- vantly. “I particularly wanted to meet you to-day, for I am going away to- morrow, and I want permission to write to you.” He took the plunge like a hero. Not the slightest trace of the timidity that had given him the title of *Bashful Billy” among his college mates. The girl caught her breath, but an- swered demurely, “I read all manu- scripts that are sent to me.” “Yes, I know,' but these will not be offered for publication, and I want something more than a printed slip in reply.” “And Bob calls this man bashful,” thought the girl, but she only said, “I will consider the matter.” There was time for little else; the train came to a standstill, and Miss Murdock hurried away. Still Bllly felt that he had made good progress—for a bashful man. y Late that afternoon Bob came hur- rying into his office, with apologies and protestations of regret. “I had no chance to send a line to either. you or Grace,” he sald, “and somehow, old fellow, you've made a good impression on - her—she feally wants to meet you.” “Never mind, Bob,” answered Ste- venson, kindly, “I leave to-morrow for a three months’ trip abroad. It will do just as well when I returfi.” < ““Oh, better, much better,” returned Bob, in & relieved tone, “she would for- get all about you in that time. When you come back I'll give you an intro- duction and a recommendation be- sides.” “You might put in the recommenda- tions while I'm gone,” poking his head into the closet, pretending to look for something, “and I say, Bob, make 'em strong. Tell all the good you know— the bad, keep to vourself.” ¥ “No one could say anything but good of you, Billy,” said Bob, with wonder- ing earnestness, “‘and if you weren't so confoundedly bashful, you'd say it for yourself.” Billy had a very positive conviction that Miss Murdock would not mention the circumstance of the morning to Bob, and subsequent events proved the conviction well founded. From London and Edinburgh, from Paris and Berlin, came lons, bright let- ters over which Miss Murdock laughed and eried by turns, as the writer touched upon the varying phases of life, seen from the viewpoint of a keen understanding and a quick sympathy with humanity. Her brief replies were not encourag- ing, but Biliy’s bashfuiness was ex- ceeded by his tenacity; and a foothold, once gained, he kept. He was in Ber- lin when he received a note that electri- fied him. “My vacation begins just as yours draws to a close. I leave Boston on the Commonwealth. We shall likely pass each other in mid-ocean.” “Indeed, we won't,” exclaimed Billy, “1 hereby vote myself an extension of time. T'll cable to the firm and when the Commonwealth reaches Liverpool Billy will be on the dock.” And he was. She saw him, towering above the crowd, and waved her hand. He had no intention of doing any- thing so precipitate, but when he saw the earnest face turned so Joyfully toward him something sprang up in his heart and jumped into his throat, ,and, making a hurried dash through the crowd, he caught her in his arms and kissed her. “I couldn’t help it, Grace,” he whispered, “I love you, you know.” For a single second she faltered, aghast at the man’s passionate utter- ance and at the publicity of her po- sition. Then, woman-like, she rose to the occasion. “Have you a car- riage waiting?” she asked, calmly; “let us get out of the crowd.” Seated in the carriage she held him back from her, with both hands press- ed against his breast, and gazed long and earnestly into his eves, He knew his cause w¥ won, and remained si- lent. She dropped her hands into his, and smiled tenderly. “For a bashful man, Billy, you certainly are—" but he gave her no opportunity to finish the sentence. Billy cabled the news of his en- gagement to Bob Tennessee, who spent days in fruitiess conjecture. “I give it up,” he said, finally, “but for unparalleled nerve, Billy, the bashful, may ‘go up head.'” * «# ROSES VERSUS DAISIES ¥ ¢ i By Maravene Hennedy. | FS (Copyright, 1904, by M. K. Wilson.) HE round-faced dai- sies, not the boy's pleading eyes, held her gaze. yet she smiled winsomely in- to the eager littleface as she gave him the coveted dime. She smiled whimsically as she took her seat in the crowded car. She held the daisies a moment against the crim- son roses on her breast, then reread Walter Antler's note: “Margaret, Dear: It's hard lines that I can't see you off, but Harding's out on important business and I can't de- sert the ship. Shall be with you in spirit d8 are my roses in Write me at once on your arrival. I shall be up soon for my answer. Good- by, dearest. My own dearest, God grant some day. Yours only, “WALTER.” . She leaned her fair face to the roses and breathed deeply. It was so sweet to know that she was all-in-all to the winning, successful man. Her eyes fell to the daisies, and with a sudden suffocation she opened the window. “Is it too much air for you?” she asked courteously of the plain middle- aged woman beside her. The woman laughed pleasantly. “There can't be too much air for me. T've been to the city for two weeks an’ I'm downright hungry for a whiff of fresh air. I had a good time, I guess; leastways 1 did what folks there call havin' a good time. But I've had all I ever want. Mercerville's good enough for me after this.” The girl's face grew serious. It was the charm of the eity that had taken her away from her father and her mother—and Jack. For two years the city had held her, and till just the month before she had thought she loved it too well to leave for even a few weeks' vacation. Then had come a longing, a desperate heart sickness for green fields, peaceful nights and the fragrant, cooling of the hills. She would grow tired of them in a few weeks she thought wearily. She would long thea just as earnestly for the brilliantly lighted restaurants, the Hungarian music, the sparkle and life of the gay crowds about her. She would want the theaters, the concerts, the streets pulsing with humanity. Jack met her at the train. He was the same Jack she had left—tall, loose- reality. Iy built, unconscious of himself—his pleasant face reflected his clean, hon- est life, and his easy-going gait and ready-made clothes spoke the custom of the town. She looked at him tran- quilly. No, it was not Jack that had drawn her here. It was her father or her mother. How sweet to have mother tuck her in bed, and to feel the soft kiss on her cheek after the heart-hun- gry mother thought her little ewe lamb fast asleep. How good, too, to hear father call her “Daisy” and “Girlie” once more, And she was glad to see Jack. He came next evening and told her in his soft, slow voice all the news of the place, and—once more—how dearly he loved her. ) “Do you, Jack,” she asked wistfully. “Could I mean more to you than this!™ She reached out her arms caressingly toward the stretch of green and dewy fragrant flowers lying so peacefully be- neath the soft moonlight. “Could you be happy with me on a hot, paved street, with no trees nor flelds of flowers, and where the air was—sick?"” She laughed tremulously. “You can't understand, of course, but—I came home just for the smell of the grass, the stillness, the pure, sweet air His big warm hamd clasped her cold little fingers lovinglyt “I do understand,” he said, gently. “I went to the city once, was there al- most a year, but I had to come back. I was doing well, too. I never told you about it—it seemed rather womanish for a big hulking man to hanker for green flelds and flowers.” She moved nearer to hifn. “There’s a man there,” she said, soft- ly, “that—that—I think I—love. He made it very pleasant for me, and he's clever and well-to-do. I thought a few weeks here would satisfy me, but I know now it won't. I must have the great, big open—I can't be shut in. Shall I write him ‘No? " Almost to herself she breathed the question agi- tatedly under her breath. “Not if you truly love him, Daisy, he said generously. “But I do want you, dear, and—I'd litke my chance along with his. Give me two weeks, then send for him and talk things over and decide.” The two weeks were blissful ones for both, but Margaret could not determine how great a share of the joygiving was Jack's. They trudged contentedly along the dusty rcads together, picked berries, stole apples and waded streams. They jogged gayly behind old Don. Jack’s raw-boned delivery horse, and were as satisfled as though he were a thoroughbred. Then she sent for Walter Antler and waited In strange indecision for him to come. She wrote him frankly ef her desire for the country, her uncertainty s to her feelings for him, and told him about Jack. “I don’t think I understand,” he sald uncertainly, standing tall and imma- culate beside Margaret the evening of his arrival. His handsome, keen eyes smiled good humoredly into the girl's perturbed face. “You say If I will ltve In the country you will consider my proposal. U-h-m! I would lose my mind, dearest. This place is very sweet and pretty, yes; but two days of it would drive me to drink.” He turned to her earnestly. “The city will geem different with a home of your own, and plenty of servants and theaters and concerts. Inside of a year you'll say the city's the only place on earth to Hive. Really, my darling, you can't mean this talk about the country. It's rank nonsense.” Just then Jack swung lightly out of his buggy and ran up the walk. He did not know Antler had come. The two men eyed each other for a moment tensely, then Margaret introduced them. She looked full into Jack's tanned, earnest face, then turned slowly to An- tler's clean-cut, virlle features. The men breathed deeply. Each knew that the woman he loved was deciding for or against him. Margaret herself did not realize what she was doing. She broke the rasping silence with a low “I can't go driving this evening, Jack. Come to-morrow evening, I'll go then.” “You've decided against me,” Antler said, a strange lump in-his throat, as Jack drove away. ‘“You—yoy love— him!” “Yes.” she answered gently. “He loves the life I do. You and I are so far apart on things. It's the outward- ness of each other you and I love, I think; and with Jack it's—it's some- thing that comes from within. I thought till you come if you would live in the country T would rather live my life with you than Jack, but—" “You would not—even then?" he asked eagerly. She was very lovely and he thought he loved her enough for the sacrifice. She smiled in won- drous sympathy, for had she not mea- sured love that way herself? “I love him better for all time,” she said softly. “He and I can be friends and comrades as well as husband and wife, ard that's the only way to be happy ever after.”