—_e ae.
BY MARGARET MAYO
COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
[Continued from last week.]
“Poor folks?” Polly questioned. “Do
you give money to folks? We are al.
ways itchin' to get it away from ‘em.” |
Before Douglas could think of words
with which to defend his disapproved
methods Mandy had continued eages
“An' den on Sunday, when he can't
go to church an’ preach”-- She got no
further. A sharp exclamation brought
both Mandy and Douglas to attention.
“Preach!” Polly alinost shouted. She |
looked at him with genuine alarm this
time.
“That will do, Mandy,” Douglas com-
manded, feeling an unwelcome drama
gathering about his head.
“Great Barnum amd Bailey!” Polly
exclaimed, looking at him as though
he were the very last thing In the |
world she had ever expected to see. |
“Are you a sky pilot?”
“That's what he am, chile,” Mandy
slipped the words in slyly, for she’
knew that they were against the pas- |
tor’s wishes, but she was unable to re- |
strain her mischievous impulse to sow
the seeds of curiosity that would soon
bear fruit in the inquisitive mind of
the little invalid. |
“Will you get on to me a-landin’ into '
a mixup like this?” She continued to
study the uncomfortable man at her
side. “I never thought I'd be a-talkin’
to one of you guys. What's your
name?’
“Douglas.” He spoke shortly.
“Ain't you got no handle to it?”
“If you mean my Christian name, it's |
John.”
“Well, that sounds like a sky pilot
all right. But you don't look like I
g'posed they did.”
“Why not”
“I always s'posed sky pilots was old
an’ grouchy-like. You're a'most as
good lookin’ as our strong man.”
“1 done tole kim he was too good
lookin’ to he an unmarried parson,”
Mandy chuckled, more and more
amused at the pastor's discomfort.
“Looks don't play a very important
part in my work,” Douglas answered
curtly. Mandy's confidential snickers
made him doubly anxious to get to a
less personal topic,
“Well, they count for a whole lot
with us.” She nodded her head decid-
edly. “Hov long you been showin’ in
this town, anyhow?"
“About a year,” Douglas answered,
with something of a sigh.
“A year!" she gasped. “In a burg
like this! You must have an awful lot
of laughs in your act to keep ‘em
a-comin’ that long.” She was wise in
the ways of professional success.
“Not many, I'm afraid.” He won- |
dered for the first time if this might |
be the reason for his rather indifferent |
success.
“Do you give them the same stuff, or |
have you got a rep?”
“A rep?” he repeated in surprise.
“Sure,
tries, some calls 'em. Uncle Toby's got
twenty-seven entries. It makes a heap
of difference in the big towns where
you have a run.”
“Oh, I understand!” Douglas answer-
“Well, I try to |
ed in a tone of relief.
say something new each Sunday.”
“What kind of splels do you give
‘em?’ she inquired, with growing in-
terest.
“I try to help my people to get on
better terms with themselves and to
forget their week day troubles.” He
had never had occasion to define his ef-
forts so minutely.
“Well, that's jes’ the same as us,”
Polly told him, with an air of conde-
scension, “only circuses draws more
people 'an churches.”
“Well, you take my tip. Don’t you never
go tn for vidin'.”
“Yours does seem to be a more pop-
ular form of entertainment,” Douglas
answered dryly. He was beginning to
feel that there were many tricks in the
entertainment trade which he had not
mastered. And, after all, what was his
preaching but an effort at entertain-
ment? If he failed to hold his congre-
gation by what he was saying, his lis-
teners grew drowsy and his sermon
fell short of its desired effect. It was
true that his position and hers had
points of similarity. She was appar-
ently successful. As for himself he
could not be sure. He knew he tried
| very hard and that sometimes a tired
repertory, different acts—en- |
mother or a sad faced child looked up
at him with a smile that made the
service seem worth while, ;
Polly mistook the pastor's reverie for
envy, and her tender heart was quick
to find consolation for him.
“You ain't got all the worst of it”
she said. “If we tried to play a dump
like this for six months, we'd starve to
death. You certainly must give ‘em a
great show,” she added, surveying him
with growing interest.
“It doesn't make much difference
about the show"-— Douglas began,
but he was quickly interrupted.
“That's right; it's jes’ the same with
a circus. One year you give 'em the
rottenest kind of a thing, an’ they eat
it up; the next year you hand ‘em a
knockout, an’ it's a frost. Is that
the way it is with a church show?"
“Much the same,” Douglas admitted,
half amusedly, half regretfully. “Very
often when I work the hardest I seem
to do the least good.”
“I guess our troubles is pretty much
alike,” Poliy nodded, with a motherly
air of condescension, “only there ain't
80 much danger in your act.”
“I'm not =o sure about that,”
laughed.
“Well, you take my tip.” She leaned
forward as though about to impart
a very valuable bit of information.
“Don’t you never go in for ridin’
he
ye
There ain't no act on earth so har!
-m
i / n
mw 4 fy
§ -
“ENTREAT ME
NOT TO LEAVE
“Pasy! Basy!” she Interrupted.
“Come again with that, will you?”
, “He told them the meaning of what
te read.”
“Well. 1 don't know what he told
‘em, but it did't mean anything to me,
But maybe your show is better'n his
was,” she added, trying to pacify him.
Douglas was undecided whether to
feel amused or grateful for Polly's
ever increasing sympathy. Before he
could trust his twitching lips to an-
swer she had put another question to
him.
“Are you goin’ to do a stunt while 1
am here?’
“] preach every Sunday, if that's
what you mean. 1 preach this morn:
ing.”
“Is this Sunday?’ she asked, sitting
up with renewed energy and looking
about the room as though everything
had changed color.
“Yes."
“And you got a matinee?’ she ex-
claimed incredulously.
“We have services”
gently.
“We rest up on Sundays,” she sald
in a tone of deep commiseration.
“Oh, 1 see,” lhe answered, feeling it
no time to enter upon another discus-
sion as to the comparative advantages
of their two professions,
“What are you goin’ to spiel about
today”
“About Ruth and Naomi.”
“Ruth an. who?"
“Naomi,” he repeated.
“Naomi,” she echoed, tilting her head
from side to side as she listened to
the soft cad. neces of the word. “I nev-
er heard that name before. It 'ud look
awful swell on a billboard, wouldn't
it”
“It's a Bible name, honey,” Mandy
=aid, eager to get into the conversa-
tion. “Dar’'s a buful picture bout her.
I seed it”
“1 like to look at pictures,” Polly an-
swered tentatively, Mandy crossed tt»
room to ft \ the large Bible with ¥*s
steel engravings.
he corrected.
THEE,” HE READ.
as a ridin’ act. The rest of the bunch
has got it easy alongside of us. Take
{ the fellows on the trapeze. They al-
| ways get their tackle up in jes’ the
| same place. Take the balancin’ acts.
| There ain't no difference in their lay-
! outs. Take any of 'em as depends on
| regular props, and they ain't got much
chance a-goin’ wrong. But, say, when
you have to do a ridin’ act there ain't
never no two times alike. If your
horse is feelin’ good, the ground is
stumbly; if the ground ain't on the
blink, the horse is wobbly. There's al-
ways somethin’ wrong somewheres,
| and you ain't never knowin’ how it’s
| goin’ to end, especially when you got
! to do a careful act like mine. There's
| a girl, Eloise, in our bunch what does
| a showy act on a horse what Barker
| calls Barbarian. She goes on in my
| place sometimes, and, say, them Rubes
| applauds her as much as me, an’ her
stunts is baby tricks slongside of mine.
| It's enough to make you sick of art.”
She shook her head dolefully, then sat
up with renewed interest. .
“You see, mine is careful balancin’
an’ all that, an’ you got to know your
horse an’ your ground for that. Now,
you get wise to what I'm a-tellin’ you
and don’t you never go into
which depends on anything else.”
“Thank you, Polly, I won't” Doug-
las somehow felt that he was very
much indebted to her. :
“I seen a church show once,” Polly
said suddenly.
“You did? Douglas asked, with new
interest.
“Yes,” she answeerd, closing her lips
and venturing no further comment.
“Did you like 1t?” he questioned aft-
er a pause,
“Couldn't make nothin’ out of it. 1
don’t care much for readin’.”
“Oh, it isn’t all reading,” he correct-
ed.
“Well, the guy I saw read all of
his’n. He got the whole thing right
out of a book.”
“Oh, that was only his text,” laughed
Douglas.
“Text?
“Yes. And later he tried to interpret
to his con Rl
“We got a girl named Ruth in our
‘leap of death’ stunt. Some of the
folks is kinder down on ’er, but I
ain't.”
She might have told Douglas more
of her forlorn little friend, but just
then Mandy came to the bed hugging
a large, old fashioned Bible, and Doug-
las helped to place the ponderous book
before the invalid.
“See, honey, dar dey is,” the old wo-
man said, pointing to the picture of
Ruth and Naomi. *
“Them's crackerjacks, ain't they?"
Polly gasped, and he: eyes shone with
wonder. “Which one's Ruth?’
“Dis one,” said Mandy, pointing with
her thumb.
“Why, they're dressed just like our
chariot drivers. What does it say about
‘em ?”
“You can read it for yourself,” Doug-
las answered gently. There was some-
thing pathetic in the eagerness of the
starved little mind.
“Well, I ain't much on readin’—out
loud,” she faltered, growing suddenly
conscious of her deficiencies. “Read it
for me, will you?”
“Certainly.” And he drew his chair
nearer to the bed. One strong hand
supported the other half of the Bible
and his head was very near to hers as
his deep, full voice pronounced the sol
emn words in which Ruth pleaded so
many years before.
“ ‘Entreat me not to leave thee,” he
read, “‘or to return from following
after thee, for whither thou goest J wil.
80, and where thou lodgest I will lodge.
Thy people shall be my people and thy
God my God.”
He stopped to ponder over the poetry
of the lines.
“Kind of pretty, ain't it?’ Polly said
softly. She felt awkward and con-
strained and a little overawed.
“There are far more beautiful things
than that,” Douglas assured her en-
thusiastically as the echo of many
such rang in his ears.
“There are?’ And her eyes opened
wide with wonder.
“Yes, indeed,” he replied, pityinz
more and more the starvation of mind
and longing to bring to it floods of
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light and enrichment.
“I guess I'd like to hear you spiel,”
and she fell to studying him solely.
“You would?" he asked eagerly.
“Is there any more to that story?”
she asked, iznoring his question.
“Yes, indeed.”
“Would you read me a little more?”
She was very humble now.
“ ‘Where thou diest will I die, and
there will I be buried. The Lord do so
to me, and more also, if aught but
death part me and thee.’”
Their eyes met. There was a long
pause. Suddenly the sharp, sweet
notes of the church bell brought Joh:
Douglas to his feet with a start of
surprise,
“Have you got to go?’ Polly asked
regretfully.
“Yes, 1 must, but I'll read the rest
from the church. Open the window.
Mandy!” And he passed out of the
door and quickly down the stairs.
CHAPTER VI.
W HEN John Douglas’ uncle of
fered to educate his nephew
for the ministry the boy wa:
less enthusiastic than hi:
mother. He did not remonstrate, how
ever, for it had been the custom of
generations for at least one son of each
Douglas family to preach the gospe,
of Calvinism, and his father's carce:
as an architect and landscape gardencr
had not left him much capital.
Douglas senior had been recognize!
as an artist by the few who under
stood his talents, but there is smal
demand for the builder of picturesqus
houses in the little business towns or
the middle west, and at last he passed
away, leaving his son only the burden
of his financial failure and an arden:
desire to succeed at the profession in
which his father had fared so badly
The hopeless, defeated look on the de
parted man's face had always haunted
the boy, who was artist enough to fee
his father's genius intuitively anc
aged the early tendencies of the son
toward drawing and mathematics and
to direct his thoughts toward
creeds and Bible history. 2
to the church and parsonage. The
view toward the free encircled spire
was unobstructed, for the church had
been bulit on the outskirts of the town
to allow for a growth that had not
materialized. He threw up his head
and gazed at the blue hills, with thelr
background of soft, slow movina
clouds. The smell of the fresh earth,
the bursting of the buds, the forming
of new life, set him thrilling with a
joy that was very mear to pain.
He stopped halfway up the path
and considered the advantages of a
new front to the narrow eaved cot-
tage, and when his foot touched the
first step of the vine covered porch he
was far more concerned about a new
portico than with any thought of his
first sermon.
His speculations were abruptiy cut
short by Mandy, who bustled out of
the door with a wide smile of welcome
on her black face and an unmistakable
ambition to take him immediately un-
der her motherly wing. She was much
concerned because the church people
had not met the new pastor at the sta-
tion and brought him to the house.
Upon learning that Douglas had pur-
posely avoided their escort, preferring
to come to his new home the first time
alone, she made up her mind that she
was going to like him.
Mandy had long been a fixture in the
parsonage. She and her worse half,
Hasty Jones, had come to know and
discuss the weaknesses of the many
clergymen who had come and gone,
the deacons and the congregation, both
individually and collectively. She con-
fided to Hasty that she didn’t “blame
de new parson fer not wantin’ to mix
up wid dat ar crowd.”
In the study that night, when she
and Hasty helped Douglas to unpack
his many boxes of books, they were as
eager as children about the drawings
and pletures which he showed them.
His mind had gone beyond the parson-
age front now, and he described to
Mandy felt herself almost an artist
when she and Hasty bade the pastor
good night, for she was still quivering
from the contagion of Douglas’ enthu-
slasm. Here, at last, was a master
who could do something besides fiud
fault with her,
“I jes’ wan’ to be on de groun' de
firs’ time dat Mars Douglas and dat
con Strong clinches,” she said
as they locked the doors and
out the hall light “Did you
gee his jaw?" she whispered.
look laughin’ enough now, but
you walt till he done set dat ere
Ww o' his'n, and dar ain't nobody
what's goin’ ter unsot it.”
“Maybe dar ain't goin’ ter be no
clinchin’,” said Hasty, hoping for Man-
dy’s assurance to the contrary.
“What?” shricked Mandy. “Wid dat
‘ere sneakin’ Widow Willoughby al-
ready a-tellin’ de deacons how ter start
de new parson a-goin’ proper?”
“Now, why youse always a-picki
HH
on to dat ‘ere widow?" asked Hasty, al-
Bellefonte, Pa.
ready enjoying the explosion which he
knew his defense of the widow was
sure to excite.
“I don’ like no woman what's allus
braggin’' ‘bout her clean floers,” an-
swered Mandy shortly. She turned
out the last light and tiptoed upstairs,
trying not to disturb the pastor.
John Douglas was busy already with
pencil and paper, making notes of the
plans for the church and parsonage,
which he would perfect later on.
Alas, for Douglas’ day dreams! It was
not many weeks before he understood
with a heavy heart that the deacons
were far too dull and uninspired to
share his frith In beauty as an aid to
man's spiritual uplift.
“We think we've done pretty well by
this church,” said Deacon Strong, who
was the husziness head, the political
boss and the moral mentor of the
small town’s affairs. “Just you worry
along with the preachin’, young man,
and we'll attend to the buyin’ and
buildin’ operations.”
Douglas’ mind was too active to con-
tent itself wholly with the writing of
sermons and the routine of formal pas-
torai calls. He was a keen humani-
tarian, so little by litle he came to
be interested in the heart stories and
disappointments of many of the vil-
lage unfortunates, some of whom were
outside his congregation. The men-
tally sick, the despondent, who needed
words of hope and courage more than
dry talks on theology, found In him
an ever ready friend and adviser, and
these came to love and depend on
him. But he was never popular with
the creed bound element of the
church.
Mandy had her wish about being on
tne spot the first time that the parson's
jaw squared {itself at Deacon Strong
The deacon had called at the parson-
age to demand that Douglas put a stor
to the boys playing baseball in the ad-
joining lot on Sunday. Douglas had
been unable to see the deacon’s point
of view. He declared that baseball
was a healthy and harmless form of
exercise, that the air was meant to be
breathed and that the boys who en-
joyed the game on Sunday were prin-
cipally those who were kept indoors
by work on other days. The close of
the interview was unsatisfactory both
to Douglas and the deacon.
“Dey kinder made me cold an’
prickly all up an' down de back”
Mandy said later when she described
their talk to Hasty. “Dat 'ere deacon
don’ know nuffin 'bout gittin’ roun’
de parson.” She tossed her head with
a feeling of superiority. She knew the
way. Make him forget himself with a
laugh. Excite his sympathy with some
village underdog.
[To be Continued.]
— After getting the best of a man in
one deal steer clear of him, for he will be.
gin to sit up and take votive.
— Let us a little permit nature to take
her own way ! she better understands her
own affairs than we.