The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 17, 1904, Page 13

T McClure.) men's ball is be next want hesi- inches are off the ed like Sl ire » remem- ful ring in and, besides for a sket Gilory, “sh wonth er 80" t e while where's the ha f a bit of flirtation with my Western rose It was & jack rose that Coventry or he danee, ift motion to her of her halr he night equen f them Coventry sat out” with th sagebrush and rs of the g the art of Coventry satd 1 and g-room, sresting, Coven- of the iIntervais dan aght 1In e he £ an as fresh-faced, brown R " one of the outfit T F ks ranch, as Cov- it so There a little too got nd takin’' a I} promi 1 the man, strolled down to the fallen log which Covent seated himself. away,” he said, lighting a cig: red one to his companion, but it was declined The man hesitated for a moment ss if he found it hard to commence. My ne is Hackett,” he said grave- Hackett aybe you've bowed courteously. tinued, “‘that st to-mor- you It's something It's tc you g t yo What are in What sh uld I you mean?” what I mean do Hackett. in my what the othe the I returned T reck right t before you answer.” foot on the and 1 at the moon-flecked river -, T love her,” said got to know long time, s a young m Yo I've I've been h she I'm was rd sort ers, but I T ve her a home., And then—then you jur easy way of head. 1 air figh but n't ] are jare game nuy. M) your mind laughed ' he not plea said the easy. I've pretending to Miss McRay's har go back East to-morrow, and in all probability shall never see the girl agair An’ yet you've been right familous 1've been hyer—ridin and sittin’ There's been ttes, k it I'm not fools choose to make it,” said C try impatiently. “I've done nothing more than I would with any pretty girl back East.” THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. 4 B TER KNIGHT ERRANT-» blocks with The po- general treasured an evil eye sition of tenement does not in a slavey cheap ve ome’s temper. “Do yez think be keepin’ a mess of chips to do be sufferin’ yez can play wid when we all for coal Don't know nuffin’ "bout coal. Don’t retorted Hammish stur years old and gentleman un- bethought him to visit friend, the little seamstress his own floor. Concealing the pre- s ks, he trotted off to her answer to his door and went Maida let ber fire go out? doubtfully. Then he s was n a drawn heap on the blankets were huddled On t wvas piled her thread- ket and the wrapper she had nt to the bedside. * h» asked petu- sick people a pair of great vio- led him. said slowly. “Jest to death. It's taken tis come at Jast!™ “Does freezin’ goin’ to die?” “Yes.” The blue lips scarcely shaped the word, but he caught it. It dis- tressed him greatly by virtue of knowl- edge newly learned from the resource- to death mean you ful Nora. who had been trying to frighten the child with stories of death’s grim paraphernalia. He seized her shoulder in his baby hands and tried to shake her. Don’t die! he cried, piercingly. “You said Jack was comin’ home to marwy you! How can he marwy you if you is dead? Do you fink he would dig you up?” “Oh, Hammish,” said the girl very faintly, “please go away! It will be long, so long before he comes—I can- not live till then. And they told me there was no more work after this. When Jack comes tell him 1 wasn't afraid of—the It must be warmer down there.” Conscious that he was growing very cold himself, Hammish, fired with a sudden resolve, made for thegbattered coal scuttle. He would make a fire himself. For if Jack came home and had to dig Maida up might he not hold him (Hammish) responsible? How often Maida had told him proudly of her big, warm-hearted sailor who was coming across the great seas' “And 1 was in no such place as this when he knew me and courted me.” she would say more proudly still “Mammy and I had a little house of our own.” Then with a droop of her tired lids, “But when she died, after being sick so long, it was hard, so hard to make bread. You don't know how hard, little Hammish, but it will be your turn some day.” “Don’t care!” Hammish was wont to reiterate scornfully. “Will take my turn all right. Shall be a man.” But now he felt vaguely that a man's responsibility rested on him long ere he had looked for it. For the battered scuttle was utterly empty. There was nothing in the pitifully bare room out of which the tiniest fire could be made. In his search he lifted the faded cur- tain which covered the box termed a pantry. Not a fragment of food was within. It dawned on Hammish that if there was no food as well as no coal Malida might be hungry. Again he attacked her impefatively. “Has you eat your dinner™ “Go away, Hammish,” repeated the girl. “How could I eat? There—was— nothing.” Now indeed the puzzled knight er- rant faced a complex situation. His mother, the deus ex machina, who al- ways remedied all wrongs, would not return until sunset. How long did it take people to die? Would Maida really die before his mother's return— Jjust because she was cold? Of whom could he take counsel? He knew no one but his enemy, Nora. He waylajd her in the corridor. “Oh, wait!” he cried. “Please wait! How long does it take people to freeze “No time at all,” said Nora scorn- fully, “ye little fool ye!" “And then—?2" “Then they dig a cellar of a hole an’ slap ‘em into it!” She whisked on down the corridor, and Hammish went wearily to his own quarters and stood before the fire thinking. For he was now facing the great problem of self-sacrifice which all of us meet sooner or later. Either he must burn his beloved blocks or Maida must freeze. Either he must warm his milk for her on the block fire or Clinton Daingerfield. Maida must go hungry. If he did these two deeds he would lose his playthings and his supper. The girl on the bed took no heed of passing time. She was in the last sleep before death, which the frost king fllls with exquisite mirage. Then something troubled her. A voice was calling, calling insistently, angrily, and with the voice floated a smell of something burning. Then a shrill wail made her open her eyes in earrest. She sat up to discover Hammish dancing frantically around a fire of blocks in the grate, on which boiled a tin cup of milk, now running over the edge. “Dweadful smell, isn't it?” he shrieked excitedly. *“Come quick! Hurry!” She stumbled out somehow. The child must be attended to, and pres- ently found herself swallowing the hot milk Hammish manfully forced on her. It brought new life to her veins, and she understood the miracle of the fire and food. “Oh, you darling,” she wept, clasp- ing him closely. Hammish tore himself loose. “You are cwying all over me,” he said with masculine disapproval. “Was the milk too hot in you stummick?"" As they crouched together by the fire they did not hear a knock at the door until it was twice repeated. Then it was Hammish who shouted come in, Hammish who faced the stranger, and Hammish who yelled shrilly with pleasure as he discovered the sailor uniform and saw the little gray parrot perched falcon-wise on the sallor's wrist. The knight errant stood with feet apart, as though the deck heaved un- der him, and shouted triumphantly: “He's done come—an’ you won't have to be dug up neither.” A magical hour followed, for those foolish two under Hammish's eyes forgot everything but each other, He had the gray parrot and the stran- ger's pockets to himself, beiny given permission to explore them, while the fire, extravagantly repienished, shot up and crackled gayly. To the strange things his Investiga- tions produced the brown haired seam- stress paid no attention. For the golden dream of love was reality, ths hoping, the faithful waiting, had not been in vain. And when love must put aside human despair in order to enter his own kingdom he becomes radiant with a beauty that those who have not en- dured much for his sake never see. Next morning Hammish ate his breakfast with great gusto, for a big basket of various fruits was in the lit- tie pantry and he himself was allowed a huge yellow orange. Nora helped clean off the table, com- ing in for a share of fruit, and then re- marked crossly: “Be after rememberin’ to kape yer ould blocks out o' my way, or it's burnin’ ‘em I'll be.” Hammish swallowed hard. One soli- tary tear splashed on his pinafore. “They are burnt a'ready,” he said with stern dignity. For he felt bit- terly that this was Nora’s triumph. “It’s lyin' you be,” retorted Nora. Here at least he could prove her wrong. He threw wide the play-cup- board door, entering to confrent her dramatically with its drear emptiness. But, oh, miracle! From the ashes of the burned blocks had arisen such cubes and squares as he had not deem- ed possible. He saw from his moth- er's smile that they were his--all his! With a shout he sprang at them, and Maida and Jack were forgotten as swarms of soldiers manned new forts or thronged to wild attack. “Then you don’t keer for her. Then what you said up there on the porch warn't 502" “Oh, come,” Coventry replied. “You mustn’t think that what a man says to a girl in the moonlight & gospel truth, The moonlight makes him a bit senti- mental.” = “And the gal? “The girl, too. A little flirtation does no harm, and the next day it's forgot- ten.” “It's forgotten—I see! been havin' fun with meaning anything—like whar you come from.” “Exactly.” “An' you're a-goin’ back an’ leave her after makin’ her love you. It maybe is all right In your section, but we don’t call It square hyer—not with nice gals.” “But the girl don't care for me. She has a passing fancy perhaps, but that's al.” *“Yit she let you kiss her there on the porch to-night. I seen her.” Coventry arose angrily. “I'm not ac- cuscomed to have my—" he began, but Mort interrupted. “I know you ain’t, but you're going to be. I'll trouble you to sit quiet thar while I talk. You come hyer an’ meet a gal. She's a nice gal, an" a purty gal. She ain’t never seen a man liken you— or heerd one. The men she knows ain't much on dancin’ an' scrapin’ an' bein dressed up. They are just men—the men around these yere parts. “You know that gal is fallin’ in love with you more an' more every day, and vet you stay hyer. When she gives you what I ain't never even dared to ask her for; when she cares so much she ain’t carin' who sees it. why you gits ready to pull your freight for home, and forgit her offun your mind. “It's a powerful curious world,” Mort continued with a grim smile. “It don’t appear to be put together right some- how. Hyer I am lovin’ the very groun® she steps on’ an’ she ain’t carin’ for me any more than for that same ground. An' she loves you, an’ you—" The man’s face worked in the moon- light, and Coventry ~ - genulnely sorry for him. You've just her then—not they do back 13 “It will be all right, old man,” he said, “when I'm gone “You're not g Mort re- turned quletly. “Leastways not until you've married Glory.” “Are you crazy?” Coventry cried. “You made her love you, well now you're goin’ to marry her.” “But if I won't?” “Then I'm goin’ to kill you.” He sald it quite calmly, and before Coventry realized the words he w the moonlight glinting along the barrel of a revolver. “Some men,” sald Mort, “would have put a bullet into you when you fust come hyer foolin’ around, but I thought you was in earnest—an’ Glory was happy.” “Do you mean to say you're going to murder me unless I agree to your crazy nonsense ?” “T don’t know about murder. It ain’t murder to kill a snake. But anyway I'm going to kill you unless you do as I say. You want to think mighty quick. I'm goin’ to count ten an’ then—" Coventry knew what wou!d happen then, and he had an instant picture of all that would follow his refusal and a vivid sense of his folly. “One—two—three—"" the words fell steadily ltke strokes of a pendulum, four—five—" There was a rustle of parting twigs, and, Gloriana sprang out of the willows by the stream edge. “Don’t shoot, Mort!"” she cried as she sprang between the men, and then she sald something which stings Coventry ven to this day when he thinks of it Do you suppose I care for him?” she eried, pointing disdainfully at Coventry. “Him!" Again came the acc v hurt. “It was you I cared for al! only you wouldn't speak an’ I ha make you jealous so you would—on didn’t think it would come to shoot I want a man—an’ I've got him.” T w Mr. Coventry didn't stay for the wed- ding. He went home as he intended the next day; but in telling his adventures in the West he says nothing about how he was used as a stalking ho SNOWBOUND | By Temple Bailey. - | >. MeClure.) awful 1904, by T. C T was storm; the snow curled up over the tops of the fences, and there were no roads to be seen, nothing but white . 3 flelds, broken here and there by black clumps of trees. Dick Harwood bent his head to the wind and spoke softly to his horses. They were floundering sturdily through the s eager for the end of the journey and for the comfort of the warm barn and well-fllled mangers. (Copyright, an w, Dick lifted his head and looked out over the storm-swent night. That was e he had taught her in short trousers and she wore long braids. “Whao !" again came the cry, but Myra was miles away in the big city. It came from the little school- house at the crossroads, whi half covered with drifting snow. urged his horses nearer and discerned in the doorway a dark figure, then he caught the sound of a voice. “Please, whoever you are, won't you stop?” “Myra!” he d and down and ran to her. Why, Dick Harwood.” § both her hands, and then, while he held them in his warm clasp, she broke down and explained with little sobbing gasps: “I started from the station before the storm—I thought I could get home, you know, and then it started —and at last I tock sheiter in here, hoping that some one would pass and give me a ride, and you are the first person who has come—and I am near- ly frozen—nearly frozen, Dick.” “Wasn't thers any wood in stove?” asked Dick practically. “Yes, but I hadn’t any matches, and here 1 have been for hours with wood and stove and no fire,” Dick flung the door open and went into the schoolroom. The rows of battered little desks confronted him spectrally as he lighted a match and touched it to the ready laid fuel. The flames leaped up and at once began to give out comfort. “Now you get warm while I go and look after the horses,” said Dick. “There is a shed back of the house and I can cover the team with the old robes and give them a feed of corn. T'll be back in a minute.” When he returned he found that she had drawn an old settle before the fire. She sat in one corner of it with her face pink in the reflected glow. Dick noticed the whiteness of the hands that she held in front of the blaze and the gleam of gold in the hair that rippled under the modish turban. He brought in several packages and laid them beside her. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Starved! Oh, you blessed boy, you were taking home groceries,” and she held up a box of biscuits. He thrilled at the sound of her old name for him. How often she had called him her “blessed boy” in the days before she had become anbitious for a career. “It's so nice to see you, Myra,” he said, as he rummaged in the little cup- board over the teacher’s desk. “Nice—that isn't the word for the flung the > held out the — - way I feel, id Myra from the set- tle. “I was just dying to see you— all—" she added the last word quickly as Dick whirled around and looked at her with his soul in his eyes. She did not meet his look, however, and he turned away with a little sigh. “Do you like it in town?" he asked. “Um—um,” she murmured. “Does that mean ‘yes' or ‘no He had brought out a iittle kettle and a teapot and was filling the kettle with water from a covered pail that stood behind the stove. “Both,” she laughed, “I llke it and I don't like ft.” “What don’t you like?" he asked. “Oh, it's so cold. E of himself. Why, Dick, and die with twenty peor house and not one of would know it until the undertaker came. That is the trouble—no one cares, no one cares,” she declared passionately. He leaned forward eager then checked himself. “But you have your ic Oh, music,” she said disparagingly, and at her tone his heart leaped ”The water had boiled in the little ket- e. will let you make the tea,” he said, and opened the | ge of the fragrant herb. While e heated the teapot and put the tea to steep he drew a little table in front of the settle and ckers and cheese and augh and a flou enter a great, cream A he sai most yra danced arou ped her hands Dick remembered so wel stopped in front of him. said, “did you ever eat hous scilla sent it to mother,” but I guess we need it the d the table and e the little girl Finally she “Dick,” she a boarding- hook his head ‘“Well,” she sald, “you are In no con- dition to appreciate’ Aunt Priscilla’s ple. I am the only one who will do its deliciousness justice.” It was not a bad supper, that im- promptu one served by candlelight in the old 1 sick felt him- looked ful dream as he across the table at the fair face After the meal Myra fell into a re- trospective mood. “Do you remember the —inter after. noons right here In this old room, when we children used ., pop corn and roast apples, and Miss Petsey would read to us—dear Miss Betsey?” “I remember you with tke Orelight on your face, and with your cheeks red t they are now,” sald Dick ardently. “And how we used to slide down the lonr hill outside and how I lost my mittens once in the snow and you found them for me?” “I remember the kiss that you gave me for a reward,” said Dick. Myra blushed. “Listen, how wind blow she sald irrelevantly. Dick got up and went to the door. “It’s an awful night,” he said as he came back with his coat collar pow- dered white, “but when the horses are rested and you are thoroughly warm I think I can get you home—it isn’t far.” the He knelt in front of the stove and poked in more wood. Myra sat with her chin in her hand. as she leaned her elbow on her knee and gazed dreamily Into the fire. “It's good to be at home.” she sald. Something in her tone gave him cour- age. “I wish home might always be where our two hearts were, Myra,” he said with unconscious poetry. “I think that is the only home in which I shall ever be happy, Dick," she said simply. “Do you mean it, Myra? are such plain ways, dear. She sighed happily as he drew her to him. “Oh, you blessed boy,” she sald, “it was just because I loved the plain ways that I came back. and because 1 missed my friends and the dear old hills and you, Dick.” My ways