The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 2, 1905, Page 6

Although a o for the last three years, Ao the Deacon. fitten, he's called. called good preacheh, if I have sure preached The Word if I'd called.” eligion is all been Yok They The Great- est Offer Ever Made by a Daily News- paper is »n of Mr. 1 a novel, the large Eastern 1t will appear in resident on fingers Just th delssohn’ und promiscuous. for this week, “The Charles Ten- e remembered Bully st men magnetized und post o his grooming—and luding an irre- * you—if a man's be & good barkeep; let. him go from the nekeeper to the plano player strayed over the of a bar “Spring Song” rough the gray land's outer ghost thounght once of bein’ & preacheh,” “T've seen pow'ful in’ on worse whisky than these ds, back in Tennessee. he’s fitten; right” said Slim “Onoe I went to church in La- had a t on the wall of 2 woman and a kid, and a lot of angels floatin® Just half a little plcture Jack n a rolling stone. an Francisco and erican repub- liar to the d down the new d been perusing and sur- ment from the bar and if he's I reckon I'd been d been fitten. 6e0ececcscosencccoee through a cloud, and with B t [ h head, That i eligion is all r glancs in the toss e was ig- der in e would bait Wiggin's Be-Dam became pre- York ceased his idle n W' ’s eyes fell and flushed; ves had been the sween The air of have been good for igen, but not such air as he htly at the piano between table and the dance hall e one-lunger was broke er of fortune. His eyes, nervous glitter, fell from the to Wiggin's Madge; his v the key- ered the Dea- for the she cried. “No harm, . ,” murmured he Deacon, entreatingly. “The con- tor's money is good—but if he 0 play it, with you, it's a good or thé house—a ve'y good thing you want Slavin's money, rob Alf's layout is crooked, any- ¥ Wiggin,” she went on, “is this why I.was brung m Tennessee—to help yo' gam- S v Deacon Wiggin sighed gently as he turned away. vin won't play holds the st high unless ke for him—the money, now without her. 1 to- Slim York turned to watch or's daughter with a surly s house can't do iness ad mother back sighed the Deacon. - *lows I ought to been preachin’ o’ runnun games 0’ these sheep men an' ailroadehs. But if a man's called, he's called—" From the piano, Wiggin's Madge shot darklin es of hostility at them. The lung let his song die a His pallor flushed;. it was f he drank in lifé from ‘the fine er of her womanhood; superbly ong was she, radi arill of health and p: blown rose of red its perfume. When her angry eyes fell to the one-lung- er's slender hands it was as if some pity of ‘motherhood stirred at his weakness, and the rebel scorn of her bearing knelt to this tenderness. “Play 1it,” she whispered, and the planist's hands tuched the keys once more the “Spring Song.” At midnight Wiggin’s place was fill- ing. A murmur of voices ar above the clicking of chips and gl In the dance hall a Mexican woman was singihg “La Golondrina” to a ranch- man, half-asleep. One of the specta- tor’s-at Alf Heyman's table sauntered to the front of the house. His weak blue " eyes twinkled good-humoredly, but there was irresolution in the chin and mouth of Slavin, the boss and contractor fer the cutoff grading. *‘Hello, Deacon,” said he. “Where's Madge? I can’t play without her.” “She’s in a tempeh,” sulked the Dea- con. “She’s not born to the short grass country—she’s thinkun of heh home—and Tennessee.” Slavin was to be “braced” that night, but he knew his weakness as well as did the men who had not studied him for nothing. He had thé month’s pay for his laborers; he was watchful and susplcious—the game lay alone with the girl whose flame of beauty had caught the contractor’s eye—whom, he had boasted, he would stake to-night to “preak” the house. And to-night Wiggin's Madge, ob- stinately minded, would only sit by the piano and refuse to entertain or be diverted. A long hour Slim idled over ng the electric sion as a full- ANNOUNCEMENT. For the purpose of encouraging California and Western writers, his soda, and Slavin waxed loquacious over his whisky, while the hum of life filled the rooms. The piano player swept the instrument now into a rol- licking ragtime; now into a hack ballad of the theaters; now into some song that held a master’s soul, which was that the one-lunger loved the It was ih a simple Mexican dance, carelessly played, and yet with the nameless pathos which was in every- thing the one-lunger did, that the listeners made out a long = exulthnt crescendo of sweetness, .transcending the air until the musician himself heard it and stllled. his fingers. Out upon the night—full-throated, insist- ent, rising and then darting to low . thrills as if reproving its own glad- ness, came the song of a bird. The idlers at the bar were hushed; it seemed &= if the moving of a hand would crush this melody. The weman by the plano suddenly threw the doors wide. On the steps was a small boy in blue, with a red band about his cap, who held a birdcage with one finger through the ring. Not a note did the songster cease, pouring its golden li- .quids out upon the heavy air in a rap- ture, until the yellow bird gave a flute- SUNDAY like trill, a chirrup and a questioning call as if asking judgment upon its effort. N\ - “It's the piano,” said the small béy, gravely. ‘“The Marquis, always does that when he hears a piano—night or day, he doesn't care—he just sings.” -“Where’'d - you come from, little man?” asked ‘the woman, doubtfully. ‘““We fell off the train. I guess I walked a mile, and then the Marquis heard that piano, and be began to sing right in the dark. Hé doesn't care a bit if it is dark.” The small son of Captain Victory.-of the Third-street mission had wide and very truthful eyes, ” hé said, with “You're in a saloo: “I've been in sa- sudden conviction. Joons too, to d@o God's work. You ought for to know God-—he wants you for his kingdom.” The circle contemplated little Cap- CALL. CHARLES tain Victory in some surprise. Slim York rolled his cigar thoughtfully in his mouth. The Deacon pulled his stubby gray beard and murmured: ‘“He's fitten, 'and he’s called—he's certainly called.” “A baby in Slavin's camp,” said ‘Wiggin's daughter.. “There ain’'t been fne in fifty miles since Alf Heyman's died.” 2 “For his kingdom,” repeated Jimmy, stoutly in the silence. Then he began repeating vast, serious phrases he had heard in street and alley, and had spelled out on the gay banners of the barraclgy mission walls. - “'He “found me hungry an’ he fed % he led me out .o’ sin.for to be :?th him in glory. You ought for to know God—you ought for to stand be- fore men_ and sing his praises.”” “Sing ‘em now, little man,” com- manded Wiggin’s Madge, and.- she turned to the plano. But the one- lunger did not know any hymns. He began to play “The Rosary,” and some of his own life’s hopelessness welled up with the song’s’ long regrat. But as he .touched the keys, the bird’s notes arose from low tremolos to trills of feeling, following " the air as a night's wind will weave itself into for- gotten-melodies. And the player lost mvuu}-anm quis fell off the eastbound overland at Slavin’s Siding.” -— the last note in the bird’s own song so that the half hundred men in Wig- gin’s place were like figurés of wood under the garish lamps, curfously un- breathing, fearing the end. Alf Heyman, whose haby was dead and who was'free to say that he hated ‘women, dropped a.double eagle through the bars of the Marquis’ cage, and then went back to find his layout of sudden absorbing interest. Another piece of gold fell from Slim's hand; a sheepherder husked the outer bill from his roll and stuffed it through the bars. (The crowd began to shuffle, with comment more or less profane. Deacon Wiggin swung the boy sling- ing to the cage upon the bar. . “I ‘think,”” he geéntly sighed, “the house is fitten and is called fo' a rake- off. Gentlemen?” And awkwardly and in silence men came from the throng to shower down gald and silver and paper upon the cage's bottom. Michael Slavin amused himself with trying to drop $5 pleces upon the Marquis’ tail as he, discon- certed, hopped from swing to roost- ing-bar. A buck soldier from Lama- mie contributed an ancient silver gru- cifix that he had looted in Luzon; and while a burst of laughter was wearing down the constraint of this unwonted 00000000000000000000000000109000000000300000000030000000000000000000 C260003300000000¢00005 3 Each Week fcr the Best————=c : RULES. Bl e P1ANO- g PLAYER F FOUND v ME £ 22 ooy episode, the plano player found some melody that he seemed to caress as it fell from his fingers, and the small boy on the bar was singing it with high and earnest sweetness, so that again there was silence in the room. Whers the Blus Hills rise, ‘Neath the sunny skies— A man with a lantern opened the door and glanced anxiously at Wiggin's Madge bending over the one-lunger as if to protect him from too curious eyes, for it seemed that he was strangely seeking to look anywhere except at the other men. Then the station ager found the small boy; he cried cheerily. “That's the kid! The conductor o Eighty-two wired back—they figure he’d left the train at Slavin's. His daddy’s at Kehoe waiting to get word We'll forward the boy on the accommo- dation at 4:55. Aln’t hurt, is he? And a birdcage—what the—" “Cough up,” sald Slim. “Ain’t that the way they do in church? Sure—dig up!” The dispatcher’s hand went into his pocket. “Bring him down—some of you,” he shouted as he left. “It's twenty min- utes to traln time. I'll wire his dad— I s’pose he's just crazy!™ “We'll bring him,” retorted Madge, “the one-lunger an’ me!™ Mike Slavin had removed the bottom of the cage; he dumped silver, gold, chips and per, along with the sol- dier’s crueifix, Into a canvas sack; he whispered to Madge as he gave her the collection of Wiggin's place. “You go home,” she retorted. “Who saved yeh to-night? Who's to thank that the camp’s -pay is in ye'r belt 'stead of Wiggin's safe? I know!™ The piano player had wrapped = newspaper around the Marquis’ cage: he followed the girl out into the dawn and along the dusty trail they call a street at Slavin's. A boxcar on the siding served the camp as a station. ‘Within the keys were merrily. And roaring out of the west came the accommodation. The conductor re- celved, with sententious comment, a emall boy asleep, and with a soiled coin sack tied securely under his jack-- et, and a birdcage whose occupgnt was chirping sleepily. “All right,” he shouted back at the two men and the woman by the siding, as the long train crawled out of Sla- vin’s into a notch of light, where the day broke throuzh the mountains: “I'Il spread- the Gospel as far as Kehoe!™ The gir! was looking back at ‘the squat camp of shanties; then at the ‘mountains to the north. “In Tennessee the hills are blue™ she muttered. “It'p October, and the smoke’s all through the valley. O God—I'm goin’ somewhere—somewhara —away from Slavin's!™ . “Yes.” sald the one-lunger, listlessly, “it's killing me, too. I'd get well if T had a chance in the out-o’-doors some- where on the range.” . “Will you go?” whispered Wiggin's - Madge in a sort.of flerce eagerness. “To-morrow, or the next day? I got money—we can outfit ;'nd cross the divide, West—you an’ I'™ The one-lunger trembled in a fever of happiness. . . “You mean it, Madge?” he whisnered back, “just to off and call it home —somewhere in-the blue hills he sung The by oficting a consideration for short stories equal to that paid by the best magazines, and%for the purpose of bringing young and unknown writers to the front; the Sunday Call announces a weekly fiction con- test in which a cash prize of $50 will be paid each week for the best story submitted. There is no section of America more fertile in ma- terial for fiction or more prolific in pens gifted to give spirit to the material at hand than is California andp the West. Therefore the Sun- day Call offers $50 for the best story submitted each week by a West- ern writer. Stgries of Western life and Western characters will, as a rule, be given tne preference, but all strong stories, and especially strong stories by new writers, will receive careful consideration. . Each story will be judged strictly upon its literary merit. Type- written copy is the easiest to read and will receive the first consider- etion from the editor, but do not hesitate to send a story in hand- writing if you cannot afford to have it typewritten. s Fifty dollars in cash for a story of not less than 2500 words and mot more than 3500 words is approximately $17 per thousand words, or 1.7 cents per word, The highest price paid by the leading magazines for the work of any but the very best writers is rarely more than two cents a word, more often one cent and a half, and generally one cent. With the majority of magazines the writer, after his story is ac- cepted, is compelled to wait until the publication.of his story before he is paid, a period of seldom less than six months. and usually from nine-months to a year. The stories accepted in this contest will be paid for immediately upon publication, zad will be published on t:2 fret Sunday following the judeing of the manuscripts. SHORT STORY $ 50 $ Submitted to SUNDAY CALL No story will be considered that is less than 2500 nor more than mwfi:flrfi: in length. The length of the story must be marked in L 1 In the selection of stories names will not count. The unknown writer will have the same stznding as the popular author. 184 As one of the obiects of the Sunday Call is to develop a new corps of Western writers no stories under noms de plume will be considered. If a story earns publication it will be well worth the writer’s name. 1v Stories not accepted will be returned at once. will be published one each week. v ‘This fiction contest will be c‘olnlfinuei indefinitely. Those selected An author may submit as many manuscripts as he d:kn. but no one writer will be permitted to win more than three prizes during the contest. - Vil .Always inclose return postage. No manuscripts will be returned unless accompanied by return ':;:gle. Write on one side of paper only; put name and address legi on last and add:-css to the SUNDAY EDITOR OF T ALL. SANP CISCO, CAL. ey ine .