COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY < A
[Continued from last week ]
Douglas had held himself more and
more aloof from the day of Polly's dis-
appearance. He expressed no opinion
about the deacons or their recent dis-
approval of him. He avoided meeting
as possible.
Nothing was sald about the pastor's
plans for the future or about his con-
tinued connection with the church, and
the inquisitive sisterhood was on the
point of exploding from an overac-
"Why didn’t she come running in to see
them, as Mandy had felt so sure she
would? Why had the pastor stayed
away on the hills all day?
Unanswered questions were always
an abomination to Mandy, so finally
she drew a quarter from the knotted
gingham rag that held her small wad
of savings and told Hasty to “go 'long
to de show an’ find out ’bout Miss
Polly.”
She was anxiously waiting for him
when Deacon Strong knocked at the
door for the second time that after-
noon.
“Is Mr. Douglas back yet?’ he asked.
“No, sah, he ain't,” sald Mandy very
shortly. She felt that Strong and El
verson had been “a-tryin’ to spy on de
parson all day,” and she resented their
visits more than she usually did.
“What time are you expectin’ him?
“I don’t nebber spec’ Massa Doug-
las till I sees him.”
Strong grunted uncivilly and went
down the steps. She saw from the
window that he met Elverson in front
of the church.
“Dey sure am a-meanin’ trouble”
she mumbled.
The band had stopped playing; the
last of the audience had straggled
down the street. She opened the door
and stood on the porch; the house
seemed to suffocate her. What was
keeping Hasty?
He came at last, but Mandy could
tell from his gait that he brought un-
welcome knews.
“Ain't she dar?’
“She's a-trabbelin’ wid 'em, Mandy,
but she didn’t done ride.”
“See heah, Hasty Jones, is dat ere
chile sick?”
“I don’ rightly know,” sald Hasty.
“A great big man, what wored clothes
like a gemmen, comed out wid a whip
in his hand an’ says as how he's |
*bliged to 'nounce anudder gal in Miss
Polly's place. An’ den he says as how
de udder gal was jes’ as good, an’ den
ever'body look disappointed like, an’
‘den out comes de udder gal on a hoss |
an’ do tricks, an’ I ain't heard no more
*bout Miss Polly.”
“She's sick, dat's what I says,” Man-
dy declared excitedly, “an’ somebody's
got to do somethin!”
“I done all I knowed,” drawled Has-
ty, fearing that Mandy was regretting
her twenty-five cent investment,
“Go ‘long out an’ fix up dat ‘ere
kitchen fire,” was Mandy's impatient
reply. “I got to keep dem vittels
warm for Massa John.”
She wished to be alone, so that she
could think of some way to get hold
of Polly. “Dat baby faced mornin’
glory done got Mandy all wobbly 'bout
de heart,” she declared to herself as
she crossed to the window for a sight
of the pastor.
It was nearly dark when she saw
him coming slowly down the patl
from the hill. She lighted the study
“She's sick, dat's what I says.”
lamp, rearranged the cushions and
tried to make the room look cheery
for his entrance.
“I's 'fraid yo's mighty tired,” she
sald.
“Oh, no,” answered Douglas absently.
“Mebbe yo'd like Mandy to be sarvin’
your supper in here tonight. It's more
cheerfuler.”
He crossed to the window and looked
out upon the circus lot. The flare of
the torches and the red fire came up
to have done with dreams
and speculation, to feel something tan-
gibie, warm and real within his grasp.
“I can't go on like this!” he cried. “I
can't!” He turned from the window
and walked hurriedly up and down the
room. Indoors or out, he found no
new gravel walk?’ he asked Hasty,
remembering that he had been laying
a fresh path to the Sunday school
room.
“Jes’ yo’ come eat yo' supper,” Man-
dy called to Douglas. “Don’ yo’ worry
your head ‘bout dat lazy husban’ ob
mine. He ain't goin’ ter work ‘nuff
to hurt hisself.” For an instant she
had been tempted to let the pastor
know how Hasty had gone to the cir-
cus and seen nothing of Polly, but her
motherly Instinct won the day, and
she urged him to eat before disturbing
him with her own anxieties. It was
no use. He only toyed with his food;
he was clearly ill at ease and eager to
be alone, She gave up trying to tempt
his appetite and began to lead up in
a roundabout way to the things which
she wished to ask.
“Dar’'s qui‘e some racket out dar in
de lot tonight,” she said. Douglas did
not answer. After a moment she went
| on, “Hasty didn't work on no walk
today.” Douglas looked at her quiz-
zically, while Hasty, convinced that
for reasons of her own she was going
to get him into trouble, was making
frantic motions. “He done gone ter de
circus,” she blurted out. Douglas’ face
became suddenly grave. Mandy saw
that she had touched an open wound.
“I jes’ couldn't stan’ it, Massa John.
I had ter find out "bout dat angel chile.”
There was a pause. She felt that he
was waiting for her to go on.
“She didn’t done ride today.”
He looked up with the eyes of a
dumb, persecuted animal. “And de
gemmen in de show didn't tell nobody
why—jes' speaked 'bout de udder gal
takin’ her place.”
“Why didn't she ride?” cried Doug-
las, in an agony of suspense.
“Dat's what I don’ know, sah’
Mandy began to cry. It was the first
time in his experience that Douglas
had ever known her to give way to
any such weakness.
Hasty came down from the window
and tried to put one arm about Man-
dy’'s shoulders.
“Leab me along, yo' nigger!” she ex-
claimed, trying to cover her tears with
a show of anger that she did not feel;
then she rushed from the room, fol-
lowed by Hasty.
The band was playing loudly. The
din of the night performance was
increasing. Douglas’ nerves were
strained to the point of breaking. He
would not let himself go near the win-
dow. He stood by the side of the ta-
ble, his fists clinched, and tried to
beat back the impulse that was pulling
him toward the door. Again and again
he set his teeth.
It was uncertainty that gnawed at
him so. Was she ili? Could she need
him? Was she sorry for having left
him? Would she be glad if he went
for her and brought her back with
him? He recalled the hysterical note
in her behavior the dey that she went
away—how she had pleaded, only a
few moments before Jim came, never
to be separated from him. Had she
really cared for Jim and for the old
life? Why had she never written?
‘Was she ashamed? Was she sorry for
what she had done? What could it
mean? He threw his hands above his
head with a gesture of despair. A mo-
ment later he passed out into the night.
CHAPTER XIIL
was slow tonight. The big
show was nearly over, yet
many of the props used in the
early part of the bill were still
unloaded.
He was tinkering absen
with one of the wagons in the back lot,
and the men were standing about idly
waiting for orders when Barker came
out of the main tent and called to him
ly:
“Hey, there, Jim! What's your ex-
cuse tonight?”
“Hxcuse for what?" Jim crossed
slowly to Barker.
“The cook tent was started half an
hour late, and the sideshow top ain't
loaded yet.”
“Your wagons Is on the bum; that's
what! No. 38 carries the cook tent.
an’ the blacksmith has been tinkerin’
with it all day. Ask him what shape
it's In.”
“You're always stallin’,” was Bar-
ker’s sullen complaint. “It's the wag-
ons or the blacksmiths or anything but
the truth. [ know what's the matter,
all right.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked
Jim sharply.
“I mean that all your time's took up
a-carryin’ and a-fetchin’ for that girl
what calls you ‘Muvver Jim."*”
“What have you got to say about
her?’ Jim eyed him with a threaten-
ing look.
“lI got a-plenty,” sald Barker as he
turned to snap his whip at the small
boys who had stolen into the back lot
to peek under the rear edge of the
big top. “She's been about as much
good as a sick cat since she come back.
You saw her act last night.”
“Yes,” answered Jim doggedly.
“Wasn't it punk? She didn’t show at
all this afternoon; sald she was sick.
And me with all them people inside
what knowed her waitin’ to see her!
“Give her a little time,” Jim pleaded.
“She ain't rode for a year.”
“Time!” shouted Barker. “How much
#oes she want? She's been back a
month, and Instead of bracin’ up she's
a-gettin’ worse. There's only one thing
for me to do.”
“What's that?’ asked Jim uneasily.
“I'm goin’ to call her, and call her
bard.”
“Look here, Barker,” and Jim squared
his shoulders as he looked steadily at
the other man, “you're boss here, and
I takes orders from you, but if I
catches you abusin’' Poll your bein’
boss won't make no difference.”
“You can't bluff me!” shouted Barker.
“I ain't bluffin’. I'm only tellin’ you,”
said Jim very quietly.
“Well, you tell her to get on to her
job. If she don’t, she quits; that's all.”
He hurried into the ring.
Jim took one step to follow him,
then stopped and gazed at the ground
with thoughtful eyes. He, too, had
seen the change in Polly. He had tried
te rouse her. It was no use. She had
“Star gazin', Poll™ he asked.
looked at him blankly. “If she would
only complain,” he said to himself;
“if she would only get mad, anything.
anything to wake her.” But she did
not complain. She went through her
daily routine very humbly and quietly.
She sometimes wondered how Jim
could talk so much about her work.
but before she could answer the ques-
tion her mind drifted back to other
days, to a garden and flowers, and Jim
stole away unmissed and left her with
folded band and wide, staring eyes.
gazing into the distance.
The memory of these times made
Jim helpless tonight. He had gone on
hoping from day to day that Barker
might not notice the “let down” in her
work, and now the blow had fallen.
How could he tell her?
One of the acts came tumbling out
of the main tent. There was a mo-
ment's confusion as clowns, acrobats
and animals passed each other on their
way to and from the ring; then the lot
cleared again, and Polly came slowly
from the dressing tent. She looked
very different from the little girl
whom Jim had led away from the par-
son's garden in a simple white frock
one month before. Her thin, pensive
face contrasted oddly with her glitter-
ing attire. Her hair was knotted high
on her head and intertwined with
flowers and jewels. Her slender neck
seemed scarcely able to support its
burden. Her short, full skirt and low
cut bodice were ablaze with white
and colored stones.
“What's on, Jim?” she asked.
“The ‘leap o' death.’ You got plenty
of time.”
Polly's mind went back to the gir!
who answered that call a year ago.
Her spirit seemed very near tonight.
The band stopped playing. Barker
made his grandiloguent announcement
about the wonderful act about to be
seen, and her eyes wandered to the
distant church steeple. The moonlight
seemed to shun it tonight. It looked
cold and grim and dark. She won-
dered whether the solemn bell that
once called its flock to worship had
become as mute as her own dead heart.
She did not hear the whir of the great
machine inside the tent as it plunged
through space with its girl occupant.
These things were a part of the daily
routine, part of the strange, vague
dream through which she must stum-
ble for the rest of her life.
Jim watched her in silence. Her
face was turned from him. She had
forgotten his presence.
“Star gazin', Poll?” he esked at
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length, dreading to disturb her reverie.
“I guess I was, Jim.” She turned to
him with a little, forced smile. He
longed to save her from Barker's
threatened rebuke,
“How you feelin’ tonight?’
“I'm all right,” she answered cheer-
fully.
“ hing you want?"
“Want?' She turned upon him with
startled eyes. There was so much
that she wanted that the mere men-
tion of the word had opened a well of
pain in her heart.
“I mean can I do anything for you?”
“Oh, of course not” She remem-
bered how little any one could do.
“What is it, Poll?” he begged, but
she only turned away and shook her
head with a sigh. He followed her
with anxious eyes. “What made you
cut out the show today? Was it be-
cause you didn't want to ride afore
folks what knowed you-—ride afore
him mebbe?”
“Him? Her face was white. Jim
feared she might swoon. “You don't
mean that he was"— !
“Oh, no,” he answered quickly, “of
course not. Parsons don’t come to
places like this one. I was only figur-
in’ that you didn't want other folks to
see an’ to tell him how you was rid-
in.” She did not answer.
“Waa that it, Poll?” he urged.
“I don’t know.” She stared into space.
“Was it?”
“I guess it was,” she said after a
long time.
“l knowed it!” he cried. “I was a
fool to 'a’ brung you back! You don't
belong with us no more.”
“Oh, don’t, Jim! Don't! Don't make
me feel I'm in the way here too!”
“Here too?’ He looked at her in as-
tonishment. “You wasn’t in his way,
was you, Poll?”
“Yes, Jim.” She saw his look of un-
bellef and continued hurriedly: “Oh, I
tried not to be! I tried so hard. He
used to read me verses out of a Bible
sald you wouldn't?
She did not answer. Strange things
were going through the mind of the
slow witted Jim. He braced himself
for a difficult question.
“Will you answer me somethin’
straight? he asked.
“Why, of course,” she sald as she
met his gaze.
“Do you love the parson, Poll?’
She started.
“Is that it?”
Her lids fluttered and closed; she
caught her breath quickly, her lips
apart, then looked far into the dis-
“Yes, Jim, I'm afraid that's it.” The
little figure drooped, and she stood be-
fore him with lowered eyes, unarmed.
Jim looked at her helplessly, then
shook his big, stupid head.
“Ain't that h—1?"
i
He stopped and looked at her In
astonishment. It was the first time
that he had ever heard that sharp note
in her voice. Her tiny figure was
stiffened with decision. Her eyes were
blazing.
“If you ever dare to speak to him—
about me, you'll never see me again.”
Jim was perplexed.
“I mean It, Jim. I've made my
choice, and I've come back to you. It
Children Cry for |
Bellefonte, Pa.
‘you ever try to fix up things between | the ring.
him and me. I'll run away—really and
truly away—and you'll never, never get
me back.”
He shuffled &wkwardly to her side
and reached apologetically for the lit-
tle clinched fist. He held it in his big
rough hand, toying nervously with the
tiny fingers.
“I wouldn't do nothin’ that you
wasn't a-wantin’, Poll. 1 was just
a-tryin’ to help you, only I—I never
seers to know how.”
She turned to him with tear dimmed
eyes and rested her hands on his great,
broad shoulders, and he saw the place
where he dwelt in her heart.
PE
1 ring, and Jim turned away to
superintend their loading.
Performers again rushed by each
other on their way to and from the
main tent.
Polly stood in the center of the lot.
frowning and anxious, The mere men-
tion of the pastor's name had made It
seem impossible for her to ride to
night. For hours she had been whip
ping herself up to the point of doing
it, and now her courage failed her.
She followed Barker as he came from
CHAPTER XIV.
HE “leap of death” implements
were being carried from the
“Mr. Barker, please!”
He turned upon her sharply.
“Well, what is it now?”
“I want to ask you to let me off
again tonight.” She spoke in a short,
Jerky, desperate way.
“What!” he shrieked. “Not go Into
the ring, with all them people inside
what's paid their money because they
knowed you?
“That's it!" she cried. “I can’t! I
can't!”
“You're gettin’ too tony! Barker
sneered. “That's the trouble with you.
You ain't been good for nothin’ since
you was at that parson’s house. You
didn’t stay there, and you're no use
here. First thing you know you'll be
out all round.”
“Out?
“Sure. You don’t think I'm goin’ to
head my bill with a ‘dead one,’ do
you?
“I am not a ‘dead one,’ ” she answer-
ed excitedly. “I'm the best rider
you've had since mother died. You've
said so vourself.”
[To be Continued.]
Children Cry for
Fletcher's Castoria.
Lyon & Co.
—_—— nn
Lyon & Co.
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ht
Allegheny Bs.
Bellefonte, Pa.