The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 17, 1904, Page 4

Abe Loung and Reynolds sp! after him. Forward they slip- ped on their bellies, and the men be- hind saw one brown, knotty hand after another reach up from the grass and c clip, clip through the thickly b d wires. ard again! The men slipped like eels through and under the wires, and lay in the long grass behind. The time was come. + FORWARD!™ Crittenden never knew before the thrill that blast sent through him, and never in his life did he know it again. It was the call of America to the American, white and black: and race and color forgotten, the American ar swered with the grit of the Saxon, the Celt’s pure love of a fight, and all the dash of the passio: Gaul. As Crittenden leaped tc his f he olds leap tc then there hell of white smoke and at his feet—and Rey- nolds disappeare was a marv vard but, at moment, Crittend 1y noted poor fellow was wn into a red fragments. He was in the front line now. A brigadier. with his hat in his hand and his white hair shining in the sun, ran diagonally across In front of his line of battle, and, with a wild cheer, the run of death began. God, how the bullets hissed and the shells shrieked; and, God. how slow— slow—slow— was the run! Crittenden’s legs were of lead, and leaden were the lege of the men with him—running with guns trailing the earth or caught tightly across the breast and creeping unconscious He saw nothing but the men in front of him, the men who were dropping behind him, and the yel- low line above, and the haven at the bottom of the hill. Now and then he could see a little, dirty, blue figure leap into view on the hill and disappear. Two men only were ahead of him when he reached the foot of the hili—Sharpe and & tall Cuban close at his side with machete drawn—the cne Cuban hero of that flerce charge. But he could hear labored panting behind him. and he knew that others were coming on. God, how steep and high that hill was! He was gasping for breath now, and he was side by side with Cuban and lieu- tenant—gasping, t0o. To right and left —faint cheers. To the right. a machine gun playing like hall on the yeiow dirt. To his left a shell, bursting in front of a climbing, struggling group, and the scldiers tumbling backward and rolling ten feet down the hill. A lull in the fir- ing—the Spaniards were running—and then the top—the top! Sharpe sprang over the trench, calling out to save the wounded. A crouching Spaniard raised is pistol, and Sharpe feil. With one leap, Crittenden reached him with the butt of his gun and, with savage exul- tation, he heard the skuil c. the Span- iard crash. Straight in front, the Spaniards were running like rabbits through the brush. To the left, Kent was charging far around and out of sight. To the right, Rough Riders and negroes were driv- ing Spaniards down one hill and up the next. The negroes were as wild as at a camp meeting or a voodoo dance. One big sergeant strode along brandishing in each hand a piece of his carbine that had been shot in two by a Mauser bul- let, and shouting at the top of his voice, contemptuously: “Heah, somebody, gimme a gun! Gimme a gun, I tell ye,” still striding ahead and looking never behind him. “You don’t know how to fight. Gimme a gun!” To the negro’s left, a young lieutenant was going up the hill with naked sword in one hand and a kodak in the other—taking pictures as he ran. A bare-headed boy, running between him and a gigantic negro trooper, top- pled suddenly and fell, and another ne- gro stopped in the charge, and, with a groan, bent over him and went no farther. And all the time that machine gun was playing on the trenches like a hard rain in summer dust. Whenever a Span- jard would leap from the trenches, he fell headlong. That pitiless fire kept in the trenches the Spaniards who were found there—wretched, ‘pathetic, half- starved little creatures—and some ter- rible deeds were done in the lust of sjaughter. Ope gaunt fellow thrust a clasp knife into the buttock of ham- ming Spanjard. and, when he sprang to his feet, blew the back of his head off. Some of the riders chased the enemy over the hill and lay down in the shade. One of them pulied out a dead Span- jard’s pocket cigarettes, cigars and a lady’s slipper of white satin; with a grunt he put the slipper back. Below the trenches, two boyish prisoners sat under a tree, crying as though thcy were broken-hearted, and a big trooper walked up and patted them both kindly on the head. “Don’t cry, boys; it's all right—all right,” he said, helelesul‘y. Over at the block house, Crittenden stopped firfng suddenly, and turning to his men shouted. “Get back over the hill, boys; they're going to start in again” As they ran back, a lieutenant colonel met them. “Are you in command?” Crittenden saluted. “No, sir.” he said. “Yes, sir,” sald the old sergeant at his side. “He was. He brought these men up the hill.” “The hell he did. officers?” The old sergeant motioned to the val- ley below, and Crittenden opened his lips to explain, but just then the sud- den impression came to him that some one had struck him from behind with the butt of a musket, and he tried to wheel around—his face amazed and wondering. Then he dropped. He won- dered, too, why he couldn’t get around, and then he wondered how it was that he happened to be falling to the earth. Darkness came then, and through it ran one bitter thought—he had been shot In the back. He did think of his mother and Judith—but it was a fleet- ing vision of both, and his main thought was a dull wonder whether there would be anybody to explain how it was that his wound was not in the front. And then, as he felt himself lifted, it flashed that he would at least be found on top of the hill, and beyond ‘Where are your » P F—> = 7] N the Spaniards’ trench, and he saw Blackford’'s face above him. Then he was dropped heavily on the ground again and Blackford pitched across his' body. There was one glimpse of Abe Long’'s anxious face above him, an< other vision of Judith, ard then quiet, painless darkness. . It was fiercer firing now than ever. The Spaniards were in the second line of trenches and were making a sortle. Under the hill sat Grafton and another correspondent while the storm of bul- lets swept over them. Grafton was without glasses—a Mauser had fur- rowed the skin on the bridge of his nose, breaking his spectacle-frame so that one glass dropped on one side ©f his nose and the other on the other. The other man had several narrow squeaks. as he called them, and even as they sat, a bullet cut a leaf over his head and it dropped between the pages of his note-book. He closed the book and looked up. “Thanks,” he said. “‘That's what I want—I'll keep that.” “1 observe,” said Grafton, “that the way one of these infernal bullets sounds depends entirely on where you happen to be when you hear it. When a sharp- shooter has picked you out and is plug- ging at you, they are intelligent and vindictive. Coming through that bot- tom, they were for all the world like a lot of nasty little insects. And listen to 'em row.” The other man listened. “Hear them as they pass over and go out of hearing. That is for all the world like the last note of a meadow lark’s song when you hear him afar off and at sunset. But I notice that simile didn’t occur to me until 1 got under the lee of this hill.” He looked just around. “This hill will be famous, I suppose. Let's go up higher.”: They went up higher, passing a crowd of skuikers, or men in reserve—Grafton could not tell which—and as they went by a scldier said:. “Well, if I didn’t have to be here, I be damned if ] wouldn’t like to see anybody get me here. What them fel- lers come fer, I can’t see.” The firing was still hot when the two men got up to the danger line, and there they lay down. A wounded man lay at Grafton's elbow. Once his throat rattled and Grafton turned curi- ously. 2 . “That’s the death-rattle,” he said to himself, and he had never heard a death-rattle before. The poor fellow's throat rattled again, and again Graf- ton turned. “I never knew before,” he said to himself, “that a dying man's throat rattled but once.” Then it flashed on him with horror that he should have s0 little feeling, and he knew it at once as the curious callousness that comes quickly to toughen the heart for the sights of war. A man killed in battle was not an ordinary man at all—he stirred no sensation at all—no more than a dead animal. Already he had heard officers remarking calmly to one another, and apparently without feel- ing: “Well, so and so was killed to-day.” And he looked back to the disembarka- tion when the army was simply 1 a hurry. Two negro troopers drowned trying to get off on the They were fished up; a rope was tied about the neck of each, and they were lashed to the pier and left to be beaten against the wocden pillars by the waves for four hours before four com- rades came and took them out and buried them. Such was the dreadful callousness that sweeps through the human heart when war begins, and he was under its influence himself, and long afterward he remembered with shame his idle and half-scientific and useless curfosity about the wounded man at his elbow. As he turned his head, the soldier gave a long, deep, peaceful sigh, as though he had gone to sleep. With pity now, Grafton turned to him—and he had gone to sleep, but it was his last sleep. “Look,” said the other man. Graf- ton looked upward. Along the trenches, and under a hot fire, moved Jerry Carter, with figure bent, hands clasped behind him—with the manner, for all the world, of a.deacon in a country graveyard looking for in- scriptions on tomb stones. Now and then a bullet would have a hoarse sound—that meant it had ri- cochetted. At intervals of three or four minutes a huge, old-fashioned pro- jectile would labor through the air, visible all the time, and crash harm- lessly into the woods. The Americans called it the “long yellow feller,” and sometimes a negro trooper would turn and with a yell shoot at it as it passed over. A little way off, a squad of the Tenth Cavalry was digging a trench— cloge to the t6p of the hill. Now and then one would duck—particularly the one on the end. He had his tongue in the corner of his mouth, was twirling his pick over his shoulder like a rail- road hand, and grunting with every stroke. Grafton sould hear him. “Foh Gawd (huh!) never thought (huh!) I'd x‘lt] to love (huh!) a pick be- foh!” Grafton broke into laugh. “You see the change?” % “Part of it."” ¢ “That tall fellow with the bilue hand- kerchief afound his throat, bare head- ed, long hair?” “Well—" the other man atopfi'd for a moment. His eve had caught sight of a figure on the ground—on top of the trench, and with the profile of his face between him and the after-glow, and his tone changed—'there he is _ Grafton pressed closer. “What, that the fellow?” There was the handker- chief, the head was bare, the hair long and dark. The man’s eyes wegs closed, but he was breathing. Belo hem at that moment they heard the surgeon say: “Up there.” And two hospital men, with a Jitter, came toward them and took up the body. As they passed, Grafton: recoiled. . “Goed God!"” It was Crittenden. And, sitting on the edge of the trench, with Sharpe lying with his face on his arm-a few feet away, and the tall Cuban outstretched beside him, and the dead Spaniards, Americans and Cubans about them, Grafton told the story of Crittenden. And at the end the other man gave a low whistle and smote the back of one hand Into the palm of the other softly. Dusk fell quickly. The full moon rose. The stars came out, and under them, at the foot of the big mountains, a red fire burned sharply out in the mist rising over captured Caney, from which tireless Chaffee was. already starting his worn-out soldiers on an all-night march by the rear and to the trenches at San Juan. And along the stormed hill side camp fires were glow- ing out where the lucky soldiers who had rations to cook were cheerily fry- ing. bacon and hardtack. Grafton moved down to watch ome squad and, as he stood on the edge of tha firelight, wondering at the cheery talk and jok- ing laughter, somebody behind him said sharply: “Watch out, there,” and he turned to find himself on the edge of a grave which a detail was digging not ten vards away from the fire—digging for a dead comrade. Never had he seen,a mofe peaceful moonlit night than the night that closed over the battle field. «It was hard for him to realize that the day had not been a terrible dream, and yet, as the moon rose, its rich light, he knew, was stealing ifto the guerrilla- haunted jungles, stealing through guava bush and mango tree, down through clumps of Spanish bayonét, on stiff figures that would rise no more; on white, set faces with the peace of painless death upon them or the agony of silent torture, fought out under flerce heat and in the silence of the jungle alone. Looking toward Caney he could even see the hill from which he had wit- nessed the flight of the first shell that had been the storm center of the hur- ricane of death that had swept all through the white, cloudless day. It burst harmlessly—that shell—and meant no more than a signal to fire to the soldiers closing in on Caney, the Cubans lurking around a block house at a safe artillery distance in the woods, and to the impatient battery before San Juan. Retrospectively mnow, it meant the death knell of brave men, the quick cry and leng groaning of the wounded, the pained breathing of sick and fever stricken, the quickened heart beats of the waiting and anxious- at home—the low sobbing of the women to whom fatal news came. It meant Cervera's gallapt dash, Sampson and Schley's great vietoty, the fall of San- tiago; freedom for Cuba, a quieter sleep for the Maine dead, and peace with Spain. Once more, as he rose, he looked at the dark woods, the dead- haunted jungles which the moon was draping with a more than mortal beauty, and he knew that in them, as in the long grass of the orchard-like valley below him, comrade was looking for dead comrade. And among the searchers was the faithful Bob, look- ing for Old Captain, Crittenden, his honest heart nigh to bursting, for al- ready he had found Raincrow torn with a shell and he had borne a body back to the horror-haunted little hospital under the creek bank at the Bloody Ford—a body from which the head hung over his shoulder—limp, with a bullet hcle thoough the neck—the body of ihs Young Captain, Basil. XIL Grafton sat, sobered and saddened, vherg he was awhile. The moon swung ward, white and peaceful, toward mild-eyed stars. Crickets chirped in the graes around him, and nature's low night music started in the woods and the valley below, as thcugh the earth had never kpown the hell of fire and human passion that had rocked it through that day. Was there so much difference between the creatures of the earth and the creatures of his own proud estate? Had they not both been on the same brute level that day? And. save for the wounded and the men who had comrades wounded and dead, were notfthe unharmed as careless, almost as indifferent as cricket and tree toad to the tragedies of their sphere? Had there been any inner change in any How to Pose a i)ancing el X 4 S the beauties of the hums mind are exhibited in'all their perfection by the adornment of language, so are the ever vary- ing physical beauties of the human ex- terior, the form and shape of the *“‘noblest work of creation.” embellished by the art of photography. The photographer’s art in many ways bears a close relation to that real art which the inspired painter conceives and represents upon his canvas. This art has many divisions and branches, but photography follows them all closely. 4 Photography depicts nature without a touch of the pen, pencil or brush to disturb the exquisite lines of light and shade, and is, therefore, not an imag- inary ideal, but reaches, nevertheless, deep into the domain of the painter’s skill and genius. Some subjects are awkward in any attitude, but in the hands of a skillful photographer they can be made to as- sume a graceful pose, and the results obtained may be likened to Talley- rand’s witticism on the art of conceal- ing rather than revealing. Though the best effects are obtained by adhering to the simplicity of nature, we are obliged to deal with all sorts of conditional sitters, and so must make the best of the whims of one and the deluded vanity of another. The painter seeks expression, soul and life. He forms in his mind an ideal, and strives to blend it with the model from which he paints, and thus he se- e Girl i | t 2o i ¢ Sugl,'ng‘es.hfl . o cures a perfect picture. This means a little deception not possible to practice in photography, where beauty and blemish both appear upon the plate. To subdue the one and retain the other re- quires as much skill, perhaps, as any employed in the painter's art. /1t is in just this regard particularly that the photographer's skill is best displayed in making pictures of danc- ing girls. At first thought it might seem sufficient to let the subject dance before the camera and simply snapshot her during her evolutions, while as g matter of fact not one dancer in fifty ever reproduces in the studlo the per- formance she gives on the stage. Strange as it may appear, dancing girls invariably become awkward as soon as they step before the camera. I cannot account for it, but it is so. It is neceseary, therefore, for the photographer to learn the dancer’s best poses as she executes them in the dance, after which he can select the particular series of movements that will look best in the finished picture. Of course animation is the first requi- site of a pleasing picture. And equally, of course, each picture must be full of action. And as egch dance is distinc- tive, so each picture should be expres- sive of the whole dance itself. To pose a dancing girl, therefore, it is necessary to avoid all angles and ugly lines. To better illustrate what I mean, look upon the full-page picture printed on the first page of this edition. It is one of the best dancing poses I have ever made. man who had fought that day that was not for the worse? Would he himself get normal again, he wondered? Was there one sensitive soul who fully real- ized the horror of that day? If so, he would better have been at home. The one fact that stood above every thought that had come to him that day was the utter, the startling insignifi- cance of death. Could that mean much more thap a startlingly sudden lower- ing of the estimate put upon' human life? Across the hollow behind him and from a tall palm over the Spanish trenches, rose, loud and clear, the night song of a mocking-bird. Over there the little men in blue were toiling, toll- ing. toiling at their trenches; and along the crest of the hill th: big men in blue were toiling, tolling, toiling at theirs. All through the night anxious eyes would be strained for Chaffee, and-at dawn the slaughter would begin again. Wherever he looked, he could see with his mind’s eye stark faces in the long grass of the valley and the Spanish bayonet clumps in the woods. All day he had seen them there—dying of thirst, bleeding to death—alone. As he went down the hill, lights were mov- ing along the creek bed. A row of muffled dead lay along the bed of the creek. Yet they were still bringing in dead and wounded—a dead officer with his will and a letter to his wife clasped in his hand. ‘He had lived long enough to write them. Hellow-eyed surgeons were moving here and there. Up the bank of the creek, a voice rose: “Come on, boys” — appealingly — “you’'re not going back on me. Come on, you cursed cowards! Good! I take it back, boys. Now we've got 'em!” Another voice:' “Kill me, somebody— kill me. For God's sake, kill me. ‘Won’t somebody give me a pistol? God —God—" Once Grafton started into a tent. On the first cot lay a handsome boy, with a white, frank face, and a bullet -hole thrcugh his neck, and he recog- nized the dashing little fellow whom he had seen splashing through the bloody ford at a gallop, dropping from his horse at a barbed-wire fence, and dashing on afoot with the Rough Ri- ders. The face bore a strong likeness to the face he had seen on the hill—of the Kentuckian, Crittenden—the Ken- tucky regular, as Grafton always men- tally characterized him—and he won- dered if the boy were not the brother of whom he had heard. The lad was still alive—but how could he live with that wound in his throat? Grafton's eyes fllled with tears; it was horror— horror—all horror. Here and there along the shadowed road lay a lifeless mule or horse or a dead man. It was curious, but a man killed in battle was not like an ordi- nary dead man—he was no mere than he was—a lump of clay. It was more curious still that one’s pity seemed less acyte for man than for horse; it was the man’s choice to take the risk—the horse had no choice. Here and there by the roadside was a grave. Comrades had halted there long enough to save a comrade from the birds of prey. Every :ow and then he would meet a pack train loaded with ammunition and ration boxes; or a wagon drawn by six mules and driven by a swearing, fearless, tireless team- ster. The forest was ringing with the noise of wheels, the creaking of har- ness, the shouts of teamsters and the guards with them and the officer in charge—all on the way to the working beavers on top of the conquered hill. Going the other way were the poor wounded, on foot, in little groups of slowly moving twos and threes, and in jolting, springless army wagons—on their way of torture to more torture in the rear. His heart bled for them. And the way those men took their suf- fering! Sometimes the jolting wagons were too much for human endurance. and soldiérs would pray for the driver, when he stopped, not to start again. In one ambulance that he overtook, a man groaned. “Grit your teeth,” said another, an old Irish sergeant, sternly—"Grit your teeth; there's others thut’s hurt worse’'n you.” The sergeant lifted his head, and a bandage showed that he was shot through the face, and Grafton heard not another sound. But it was the slightly hurt—the men shot in the leg or arm—who made the most noise. He had seen three men brought into the hospital from San Juan. The surgeon took the one who was groaning. He had a mere scratch on one leg. An- other was dressed, and while the third sat silently on a stool, still another was attended, and another, before the sur- VIEW THE GREAT ST. LOUIS EXPOSITION FROM YOUR ARM CHAIR. ————ST. LOULS ———— as Louis World's Fair. Make certain of your getting WS LA P / Vo 22 e ) IN World’s Fair Portfolio Series .z PRESERVE THIS SERIES TO BE BOUND’IN PORTFOLIO FORM. There will doubtless be an unprecedented demand for this SERIES. the full set by giving an advance order. The San Francisco Call All Train Newsboys and All Newsdealers Sell The Call TRORCROAOICH QRORORORORCHCRORORORCACRCRORCY 1FCRUROEORCR0RONCK —% Z, Greater San Francisco's Greatest Daily scores again with an entirély new Sunday feature. By an exclusive arrangement, secured at an enormous cost, THE SUNDAY CAL. RIES, reproductions in color of the grounds and buildings of the Louisiana Purchase Exposition. The First of This Series Will Be Issued With the NEXT SUNDAY CALL, JANUARY 3lst ‘The original of that Sunday’s Art Supplement is the first artistic -reproduction one of the best of the many views submitted, it being the object to combine in a limited series the Nearly every one will want to preserve them to be bound in PORTFOLIO FORM. most im will be the first to issue the WORLD'S FAIR OFFICIAL ART SE- showing the architectural beauty of the Ivory City, portant and interesting fe ater San Francisco’s Greatest Paper CRCROB0H08C g | § TRCRORC and is selected res of the St. geon turned to the man who was so patiently awaiting his turn. “Where are you hurt?” The man pointed to his left side. “Through?” “Yes, sir.” That day he had seen a soldier stag- ger out from the firing line with half his face shot away and go staggering to the rear without aid. On the way he met_a mounted staff officer, and he raised his hand to his hatless, bleeding forehead, in a stern salute and, with- out a gesture for aid, staggered on. The officer’s eyes filled with tears. “Lieutenant,” said a trcoper, just after the charge on the trenches, “T think I'm wounded.” “Can you get to t2 heip?” “I think I can, sir,” and he started. After twenty paces he pitched forward —dead. His wound was through the heart. At the divisional hospital were more lights, tents, surgeons, stripped figures on the tables under the lights; rows of figures in darkness outside the tents; and rows of muffiéd shapes behind; the smell of anesthetics and cleansing flulds; heavy breathing, heavy groan- ing, and an occasional curse on the night afr. Beyond him was a stretch of moon- 1it road and coming toward him was a soldier, his arm In a sling, and stagger- ing weakly from side to side. With a start of pure gladness he saw it was Crittenden, and he advanced with his hand outstretched. “Are you badly hurt?” “Oh, no,” sald Crittenden, pointing to his hand and arm, but not mention- ing the bullet through his chest. “Oh, but I'm glad. I thought you were gone sure when I saw you laid out on the hill.” “Oh, I am all right,” he said. and his manner was as courteous as though he had been in a drawing-room; but, in spite of his nonchalance, Grafton saw him stagger when he moved off. “I say, you oughtn’t to be walking." he called. “Let me help you,” but Crittenden waved him off. “Oh, I'm all right,” he repeated, and then he stopped. “Do you know where the hospital is?” “God!"” said Grafton softly, and he ran back and put his arm around-the soldier—Crittenden laughing weakly: “I miseed it somehow." “Yes, it's back “here,” said Grafton gently, and he saw ngw that the sol- dier’'s eyes were dazéd and that he breathed heavily and leaned on him, laughing and apologizing now and then with a curious shame at his weak- ness. As they turned from the road at the hospital entrance, Crittenden dropped to the ground. “Thank you, but I'm afraid I'll have to rest a little while now. I'm all right now—don’t bother—don't bother. I'm all right. I feel kind o’ sleepy—some- how—very kind—thank—" and he closed his eyes. A surgeon was pass- ing and Grafton called him. “He’s all right,” said the surgeon, with a swift look, adding shortly, “but he must take his turn.” Grafton passed on—sick. On along the muddy road—through more pack trains, wagons, shouts, creakings, curs- ings. On through the beautiful moon- light night and through the beautiful tropical forest, under tall cocoanut and taller palm; on past the one long grave of the Rough Riders—along the battle line of the first little fight—through the ghastly, many-colored masses of hide- ous land crabs shuffiing sidewise Into the cactus and shuffiing on with an un- earthly rustling of dead twig and fallen leaf; along the crest of the foothills and down to the little town of Siboney, lighted, bustling with preparation for the wounded in the tents; bustling at the beach with the unloading of ra- tions, the transports moving here and there far out on the moon-lighted sea. Down there were straggler, wounded soldier, teamster, mule packer, refugee Cuban, correspondent, nurse, doctor, surgeon—the flotsam and jetsam of the battle of the day. The moon rose. “Water! water! water!” Crittenden could not move. He could see the lights in the tents; the half- naked figures stretched on tables; and doctors with bloody arms about them— cutting and bandaging—one with his hands Inside a man's stomach, working and kneading the bowels as though they were dough. Now and then four negro troopers would appear with something in a blanket, would walk around the tent where there was a long trench, and, standing at the head of this, two would lift up their ends of the blanket and the other two would let go, and a shapeless shape would drop into the trench. Up and down near by stfolled two young lleutenants, smoking cigarettes—calmly, carelessly. He could see all this, but that was all right; that was all right! Everything was all right except that long, black shape in the shadow near him gasp- ing: “Water! water! water!”™ He could not stand that hoarse, rasp- ing whisper much longer. His canteen he had clung to—the regular had taught him that—and he tried again to move. A thousand needles shot through him—every one, It seemed, passing through & nerve-center and back the same path again. He heard his own teeth crunch as he had often heard the teeth of a drunken man man crunch, and then he became un- conscious. When he came to, the man was still muttering: but this time it was & woman's name, and Crittenden lay still. Good God! “Judith—Judith—Judith!” each time more faintly still. There were other Judiths in the world, but the voice—ire knew the volce—somewhere he had heard it. The moon was coming; It had crossed the other man's feet and was creeping up his twisted body. It would reach his face in time, and, if he could keep from fainting again, he would see. “Water! water! water Why did not some one answer? Crit- tenden called and called and called; but he could little more than whisper. rear without (Continued Next Sunday.) .