The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, March 6, 1904, Page 6

6 s HE ' SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. HER. SOET - S0AP 1904, by K. M. White- head.) HEN Farmer James Thompson mort- gaged his farm to old John Doan that he ra into might to noney B0 Inside of had st one of faijure. misfortune 1 diffe however, half a doz e t of his herd had per- " s barn had been struck thunderbolt, and fo ing that b llen be for could r s going ose the mortgage on . ¥ cks we shall be » fere’s the notice from his " Bess omr was a girl of 2 1 A to b ood looking and ] education her acquaint- than hér f a level head =z trying to stem icate him from hi She had ev uation fifty m person of have we shall be al- grace, and who happen in that if we can't pay we'll arse, but weeks may happen, but it came way., Two weeks = Bessie had start- » soft soap in a big kettle Farmer folks would the spring even vard though assured that the world would be no more by midsummer. The big kettle had been filled with lye from the leach and a fire started under it, the hour was 2 o'clock in the nd afternoon when Miss Bessie sat down on the back doorstep out of the smoke to think and plan for the future. the she In course of a quarter of an hour was so lost in her thoughts that \s oblivious of her surroundings jumped to her feet by hear- ing arsh voice saying: “Young woman, don’t you know that kettle is boiling over and wasting the lye? It was a man of 60 who had entered the front e and passed around the house. He was decently dressed, but he w bowbacked 2nd lame and his snarling, stingy disposition could be n his face. kettle is boiling as she stared at wondered who he could be. that « girl of your to know enough to put a cress it Perhap though, got lye to throw , or you sther think of marrying some than of making soft soap?” he repea “I—I was thinking——" she stam- I know, but it wasn’t about the Young woman, when you hay vthing on hand, attend to it and let castle-building alone. Thinking bread and butter.” we brix PRESCRIPTION FOR LOVE By M. J. (Cop ght, 1904, by T. C. McClure.) HE first joint en- camipment of regu- lars and organized State militia was over. The National Guardsmen were fast deserting Camp Young. Howard, Ken- tucky, for home and mother’s pies. All troop trains had pulled up to received their burdens ty and skirting the placid Ohio, pufied away through the green and d of the Muldraugh Hills— ille and the north. Fifth Michigan g of four companies <i clad fellows from the f the State, swarmed in right willingly. Now, alion, the wheels sl y revolved, the men the tourist sleepers waved cheerful good-bys to the soldiers still lining the tracks. They sang, too—smile-compel- g doggerel on the depth and sticki- ness of Kentuc or on the pro; fane uncertai rdsmen the Pullman the dozen offi- > battalion were little quieter strating their satisfaction. word beits were unbuckled and flung aside, blouses and campaign hats stacked in vacant sections. Sand- y of their re-enlistment service wiches Were shared indiscriminately the members of the happy group. There was one who sat apart, an overcoat wrapped about his tall figure, although the sunlight was warm over- head., Unseeingly he gazed out the window, a smile on his lips. It was a grave, sweet smile, not without a cer- tain tolerant cynicism in it, as one smiles who can enjoy a joke on him- Mos men in the shoes of Captain John Stewart, commanding Company K, Fifth Infantry, Michigan National Guard, would have smiled not at all Sighs, deep and dolorous, would have been their offering. But when a man fights his way up from a foundling’s crib, through successive stages of news- boy, farm laborer, and college student to a place at the bar of his country, misfortunes mildly amuse. Back of the smile Captain Stewart admitted, however, that matters were -serious enough. Plowing through bottomless roads and bivouacking in rain-soaked fields did not seem to be as good fun as they should. The cap- . tain’s legs tired easily, and a cough which had been with him, he vaguely recalled, for months, grew suddenly womMse. Keen - eyed Captain Church, regimental surgeon, noticed his pallor. Stewart was unceremoniously dragged into the hospital tent, the last day of camp, for examination. There had been questions, a thump- ing of back and chest with the sur- geon's little hammer, and divers appli- cations of the stethoscope. Then the activity was relaxed, and the bluff old doctor, who.had known and liked Stewart for years, delivered himself: “You're a sick man, captain; sicker than you know. Lobe of the right lung’s affected. It isn’t consumption, yet, but it will be if you don’t get out of that infernal Michigan -climate. Stay up there three months, and you're sure of a nice military funeral. Go to New Mexico or Arizona for a year, and you'll die some time, but it'll be of old age, or anything else but consumption.” The palior on Captain Stewart's cheek deepened & trifie. “T have a cousin down in the Oscura Mountains, New Mexico, keeping books for a mining company. I could go there,” he gald, quietly, He < Bessie walked down to the fire and rearranged it a bit, and then laid k across the top of the kettle to prevent another accident. While she was doing this the old man sat down oif the steps with a grunt d looked around and muttered to himself. Pres- ently called to her: “Young woman, is your father at work anywheres about the farm?’ “No, sir Wather is in bed with a broken leg.” 1 'spose he was doing some fool thing when he broke it? He was drawing up wood last Feb- ruar “Um. Where's your mother?” “Dead “Um. Who runs the farm? “I'm doing my best to care for things but it won’t need anybody long, as we S S P = LR R Phillips | had felt the doctor's verdict before it was uttered. “The very thing!” replied the other enthusiastically We'll be back to Waterville Sunday; get away for the south Monday—not a minute later, for every day counts now Keep out of »ors down there. Get a job herding cattle or driving stage. Work hard, live in a tent and sleep on the und Why, it'll be only a vacation for you! So Captain Stewart went back to quarters, his decrce of banishment hanging over him. He had no fear, for he felt the doctor spoke tru r beneath the balmy would cure him. The air of the lungs did not bother; but the affair of the heart! That was another story. There was a girl—"there alway iay southern s is"— Stewart told himself grimly, as the train bore him northward next day, miled cynically at his own posi- and he i “From every s best thing possible for ing. I suppose it's human nature to be contrary, thougl nd no exile ever felt worse over leaving home than I do.” Delightful are the vagaries of love, the leveler. Stewart, who had a mighty pride, had fallen hopelessly in love with Marjorie Madison, heiress of millions and courted assiduously by crafty fortune hunters, young and old. Stewart loved her not for her money, but in spite of it. Marjorie became sin- gularly interested in the clear-eyed young lawyer with his wealth of quiet humor. Now, to be in love, even when too much money on one side and too much pride on the other cffer no obstacles, is a sufficlently uncertain and heart- trying business. Something within him dragged the unwilling Stewart to the Madison home about once in three weeks. Being unable to forget the bar- rier between them, Stewart devoured the girl with his eyes, and came away affer his glimpse of paradise, cursing himself for a fool. He was a different sort of caller than most, Marjorie dis- covered, and as an antidote to the hun- ger of Stewart's glances she talked ar- rant nonsense to him. “If she were only poor,” Stewart groaned In secret daily. After each visit he decided to avoid Marjorie and strangle the temp- tation, ever growing strenger, to speak the words of love which rushed to his lps. Callahan appeared on the scene three weeks befcre the Kentucky encamp- ment. Callahan had curly blonde hair, almost as much money as Marjorie’s father and limitless audacity. He was the junior member of a Northern Mich- igan lumber firm and came to Water- ville as manager of a branch office. He straightway paid court to Miss Madison in a fashion that bid fair to distance all riv He was constantly at her side. Stewart still made his periodical visits, and between him and the blonde Callahan grew up a deep antipathy. Marjorie watched both and smiled. Which she favored no one could discover. Stewart went to Ken- tucky with his pride, rejoicing that it was not to be humbled—nay, smothered —beneath the Madison millions, but his heart was heavy as lead. Callahan was certainly making progress. “Alone to New Mexico,” the car- wheels clicked unceasingly in Stewart’s ears as the troop-train plunged mnorth- ward. “It's all off with me now, if I ever had a chance,” he mused bitterly. “I guess ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ applies to-day as much as ever it did. She'll marry Callahan inside of six months. But it's just as well; no one will say that John Stewart is a fortune hunter”; which was strictly true, though of little assistance in stilling the outery of an aching heart, dpoint it's the me that I'm go- She might pity me—ah, God, I couldn’t bear “I'll go to see her Sunday night. her pity when it's love I want!" He shrugged his shoulders. “Brace up, John; you're degenerating into maudlin scntimentality! 'l tell her it's a busi- ness chance I'm taking. She’ll never know about -the lungs—until she's en- gaged or married.” Stewart leaned back with a sigh of finality, for his plan of action, to which he must hold with all his strength, was thus outlined. Then he gave himself to the joy of conjuring her up before his mental vision. He sdw the mischievous sparkle of the gray eyes, the daintily rounded chin, and’the red, red lips. He felt again the touch of her soft, little hand. From all of which it may readily be seen that Captain Stewart was very much in love, indeed. . It was Bunday noon when the train reached Waterville. Church was just out, and there was a score of carriages at the depot. Each vehicle was soon surrounded by the returned soldiers, for Company K was composed of yofith with social standing. Captain Stewart singled out the Madison carriage. Mar- jorie was seated within. It was cold, and there were furs at her throat, but there were roses on her breast. Stew- art, with a pang, saw that Callahan was beside her. “His roses!” he sighed. “Welcome home, scidier!” said Miss Madison, with a smiling little military salute. “I read of the terrible battles of the Blues and the Browns. Did you get wounded?” Then she noted his tired eyes and the droop which he could not keep out of nis shoulders. The smile died away. “Have you been sick?” “Oh, I'm all right,” replied Captain Stewart, cheerfully, as he clasped the proffered hand. “Neither sick nor wounded, and glad to be home. How - See. e .‘F' 1T WADA IwHO (HAD ENTERED THF A GAT! 'AND PASSED AROUND [e185) 2 rMAN OF JIXTY : THE HOUSE do, Mr. Callahan?” Callahan acknowledged the greet- ing briefly. He had noticed the solici- tude for his rival in Miss Madison’s eyes, and was not pleased. “The company is forming, and ' I must get back. May I come up this evening and tell you about the cruel war?"” “Delighted to have you, Captain Stewart. And let me give you some advice—go right home and lie down for an -hour or two; you look tired.” “If - she's that way to-night,” thought Stewart, dolefully, as -he marched to the-armory at the head of his company, “I'm afraid I'll say something foolish about love in a cottage.” Then he set his jaws. “A poverty-stricken lawyer with only one lung has no business thinking of such thing. Keep a grip on yourself to- night, Jack.” Marjorie herself met him at the door that evening. Strengthened by an afternoon nap, the captain kept manfully to his resolve that no word of love should pass his lips. He even essayed a jest or two, but Miss Madi- son would not joke. . She talked but little and smiled softly. Anon si- lence fell between them, tender, sig- nificant silences, which Stewart tried his best to bridge. A new feeling had somehow, despite his attitude, arisen between them, an intimate, personal relation which he could not ignore. “I'm going away,” he said at last, “down to New Mexico. Leave to- morrow noon on the Chicago express.” “To New Mexico?” 8he did not seem surprised. “On business?” “Yes; it's business.’” He had not known it was such_embarrassing work to lle. “T have a cousin, you know— Hugh Gordon. He's in the mines at Oscura.” She was silent a moment, gazing at him steadily. He could not bear the radiance of her eyes, and half turned away. There was tremulous reproach in her low voice when she spoke: “Ah, Mr. Stewart, what are friends for if they will not share our troubles? Do you not think enough of me—of us,” she changed it quickly, and Stew- art’s heart, which had bounded at her words, sank again, “to let us into your confidence? You are going to New Mexico to fight consumption. Dr. Church told papa and me this after- noon. And you would have kept si- lent!” “Yes,” he replied, raising his head, “I would have kept silent. Every one has his troubles. It would hardly be right to intrude mine. And then there is no one who really cares—"" “No one who cares?” “I have no mear relatives,” he said simply. ‘‘There are possibly a score of people in Waterville who would say, if they heard it, ‘I hope Stewart gets bet- ter.’ Then they'll forget all about me. That isn’t caring like one's own flesh and blood.” “No one at all to care?”” There was a suspicion of tears in Miss Madison's ‘voice. The situation was becoming too much for Stewart’s resolve. He arose. “I— 1 must say good-by. It's late—there are things to pack—" She stood before him with swimming eyes, though her lips smiled a little. “So you're going alone to New Mexico and nobody cares.” “]—I—good-by, Miss Madison,” he sald, brokenly, “maybe that isn’t it—" The girl flung herself into his arms and hid her face on his breast. “John, dear John,” she sobbed, ;‘don’t you see my heart is breaking for you, and you won’t ask me, you proud old thing! I'm going with you!” s : A | “The Wave That Gave Up Its Prey” This Will Be the First of a Series of Brand New Stories by Albert Sonnichsen, the Clevs er Young Californian, Who Is Now the Literary Lion of New York, Next Sunday Call \ shall soon be leaving.” “Got to leave, eh?’_ he chuckled. “Say, young woman, I'll bet you a hairpin there’s a mortgage on this farm. Isn't it so?” “Yes, sir.” “And I'll bet another that it's held by old John Doan, the old flint-hearted rascal. Come now."” “Yes.” “I thought so—I thought so. And, of course, he's going to turn you out? ‘He wants his money, of course, replied the girl. ‘“Perhaps he has to be hard-hearted to prevent people tak- ing advantage of him. If I could see him and tell him just how things have gone with us I believe he would give us a show.” ‘“Well, why don’t you see him?" “I have tried to, but I had to deal with his agent.” “Yes—yes. Um—um. So your father is in bed with a broken leg and you are trying to run the farm? Isee. Can you cook and wash?” “Of course.” “Know enough to milk a cow and do churning *” “Yes, quite enough.” “Who makes your clothes?” con- tinued the old man as he looked her up and down. “I do, sir, but why do you ask me these questions? What right have on “Tut, tut, young woman. M's my way to ask questions, and it should be your way to answer them. Can you split wood without hacking your own feet off 2" “I have done it."” “Um. You happen to know a thing or two. Now, young lady, If you were planting potatoes how many eyes would you put in a hill?"” “And how about corn “From four to s nels . 1 do you play the “Wonder: positive- ly wonderful,” h 1 as he rub- bed his hands togeth “Anotfler ques- tion or two and I'll be going. Of course, you expect to get married some day?” “I—I don’t know stammered the blushing Bessie. “But I do. Of course, you expect to, and your chance has come. What do you say to m I'm purty nigh 60, but' I'm worth half a million dollars and can buy you silk dresses and vel- vets and diamonc st say the word and we'll be a month, and T'll save the farm for your father and give him a new start.” “I thank you, sir,” relied Miss Bes- sle with ¢ ¥, “but I shall marry for love or not at all.” “You are plain of speech, Miss Sance= box, but I'm not going to quarrel with you. You go your way and I'll go mine, but if vou let that soft soap spoil I'll eome back and ralse & row.” A week later farmer Thompson, who making an effort to hobble about his room, received a letter in an offi- cial envelope. He opened it with sink~ e next minute he was discharge of the mortgage as a pr ent to " he gasped. “Is it possible?” “And here is a letter from old John Doan, which says that you are the most sensible girl he ever saw, even to refusing his offer you were making sc Bessie—" But Bessie had run away to cry. f marriage when soap that day. I LABORS | ; FREDERICK’S By Sidney H. Cole Copyright, 1904, y M. Wood. s—a REDERICK BRIG- HAM leaned for- ward in his chair, his brows drawn in a frown of per- plexed anxiety. “Surely, Ethel,” he said in his delib- erate drawl, “my ears have deceived me.” The girl’s eyes met his own square- ly. Her face expressed very plainly her disapproval. “I think you have no cause to com- plain of defective hearing,” she said stiffly. “You don’t mean what you have just said?” he asserted. “I most certainly do mean it,” she averred. “I never doubted for a moment you would marry me,” said he. “I always supposed—' “Suppositions are not sureties,” she informed him. “Ethel,” he said coaxingly, “this has gone far enough as a joke. It's get- ting to the point where it hurts.” “I'm sorry it hurts, but it isn’t a joke, Frederick,” she said. He stared at her in amazement and rumpled his hair thoughtfully with one hand. “T'm a pretty steady-going sort,” he said, half to himself. “Don’t drink to excess; allow myself but three cigars a day; and never play over a ten-cent limit. It can’t be money, either—" “No, it's not money,” she said. “Must be I'm stupid, then.” “If you were stupid,” she sald, “I think, perhaps, I might forgive youJ “I confess I'm in the dark,” he said. “Kindly show me the vulnerable point in my armer of virtue.” “You have everything in the world to live for,” she said severely. “You start life with a big handicap in your favor; but all your qualities are nega- tive. You don’t do anything.” “Pretty clever with a boat,” he re- minded her. “Play a fair game of polo—" “Anything useful?” she hastened to amend. “I see,” he said, and for several mo- ments gazed abstractedly at the ceil- ing. “I'd llke to take exceptions to your last statement,” he said at length. “It seems to me I am doing the most useful thing in the world for a man in my position. I have plenty of money, and instead of crowding out some poor duffer who really needs that commod- ity, I keep out of it and give him a show." Her eyes flashed. “What a lame excuse,” she said. “May be a trifle spavined,” he agreed cheerfully. “I was going to say it was coward- ly,” she said. “Oh, well, it it's that, I'll join the ‘doers’ at once,” he drawled. “Let's see, law is what I was trained for, but 1 fear my legal ability has a fine coat of rust by this time.” “There are other flelds, minded him. He rose and stood before her, look- ing down at her flushed face. “If I do something useful—some- thing really useful, do I win?” he said tensely. “Yes,” she said, studying the toe of her shoe. ‘“Very well, then,” he affirmed. “You'd better decide whether it's Italy or Southern California. Good-by.” A moment later the outer door banged and the usefulness of Freder- ick had begun. He did not come to see her the fol- lowing day nor the next. In fact a week passed before she saw him again, and then it was quite by acci- dent. She was walking down the ave- nue one morning, and when she had known voice called, “Hello, Ethel!” She turned, but he was not behind her; then she looked up and beheld _ him standing on the ledge outside a second-story window. He was clad in faded blue overalls, and in one hand . re- e was a sponge, while polishing cloth “Begun at the bottor you see,” he called down *Doe - dows a to be my oc She made down the avenu mounting her ¢ she received a note. Ethek: I the other held a “Dear thrown up my job. You didn’t seem to favor it. I shall try another useful one. Yours, > B The nature of the new job disclosed itself two mornings later. Ethel was in the kitchen ng some instructions to the cook, when who should appear at the back door but Brigham, white frocked, a delivery basket on his arm, whistling irrepressibly. ood morning,” he said. “This is perhaps, somewhat more useful than window-cleaning. People must eat, you know.” “Doubtless,” said Ethel coldly. “Not so d, either,” he went om recklessly. Meet lots of nice girie. The Bentons’ cook—she" quite & stunner—flirted with me desperatsly, this morning.” “Frederick!” she sald, and hurried from the kitchen. Another note appeared that eve: “I have resigned from butcherdom, it read, “but shall persevere elsewhera™ Some days later she encountered himx again. She had been out to the Coune try Club with young Martin that gfter noon, and it was dusk when they alighted from the suburban train. As they hurried along the platform a familiar voice said: “Kerridge, mum?* It was Frederick, decked in the liwve ery of old Sam, the Brighams' coach- man. “Made four seventy-five to-day,” chuckled gleefully. o Her face grew tense. “When is this ridiculous burlesque to end?” she inquired in a stralned voice, and without waiting for his re- ply she hurried after Martin. The climax came one late February afternoon. Ethel had left the cross- town car at the corner and was hurry- ing up the avenue. When she reached St. Botolph's, shé saw quite a crowd standing on the sidewalk staring up- ward. She, too, looked up. A light- ning-rod ran up the brownstone spire, and on the lightning-rod, slowly, pain- fully working his way upward, was a man. She turned away with a little shiver of horror, but as she did so, a well-dressed man beside her cried ex- citedly: “By George! Brigham.” She stopped, sick with dread, yet she could not keep her eyes from that black dot on the spire. She saw him creep up to the very apex; saw him climb the rod that supported the weather vane. There he drew m somewhere a hammer, cleared e snow from the vane, and with sevéfial blows of the hammer set it free swing to the wind. Then he came down the rod to the bell deck and dis- appeared through a trapdoor, while the crowd cheered. Ethel, giddy with the strain of the last few minutes, entered the church. In the vestibule she saw Brigham and the sexton, who was handing him some bills. “Hello!" called the former, catching sight of her. “It was really useful. Vane sSnow! up, you know, and peo- ple in the vicinity couldn’t tell which It's Brigham—Freddy way the wind was blowing. Did you want to see the sexten?” he added pointedly, whereat that functionary discreetly took his leave. “Frederick .Brigham!" she began bravely, but suddenly the tears came and she began to sob. He watched her covertly for & moment and fina decided to risk an arm about her, o “Perhaps I'm useful, after all”™ he Oh, you aret!” wildly. e wie “To you?” he hinted “Of course,” she sald, clinging him. B te