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Bellefonte, Pa., February 23, 1912.
The End of It All
{By Blanche E. Weeks.]
Copyright, 191i, by Associated Literary |
Press.)
“What's the matter, Elizabeth?” |
sald Aunt Bess as she caught sight |
of her niece's downcast face. i
The girl did not answer immediately
but continued to gaze over the sun-
lit fields. When she did speak it was
in a voice that she strove to keep
from trembling.
“Nothing, really, Aunt Bess. The
people over at the hotel asked me to
|
i
take part in the tableaux they are
having Saturday night and I told them
1 couldn't. She choked over the last
word.
“Said you couldn't, Elizabeth?
did you say that for?”
“I had to.” They wanted me to
Marguerite——the pictures are to
from plays and things like that—and
they said 1 was to wear white satin
and of course I knew I had to refuse, |
then.” :
“Couldn't you wear any other kind
of a white dress; your white mull—" |
“That wouldn't do at all; the whole |
thing is going to be a dress show; '
they're just too glad to have a chance |
to show off their clothes. O, dear,
it's awful to be poor.”. i
“If they want you {s help them why
wouldn't one of them lend you &
dress?” i
“0, Aunt Bess, I—I wouldn't ask |
them for the world; if they offered, it |
might be different, but they didn’t. |
And there is to be a dance.”
Aunt Bess sighed and looked out
into the brilliant sunshine. Neither |
spoke. Suddenly the older woman |
clasped her hands so tightly that the |
knuckles showed white, and her lips |
get in a straight line. She looked !
once more at the downcast face; then ,
without a word turned and walked up- |
stairs to her own room. She paused |
in front of the great wardrobe for a |
moment, then flung herself down on
the bed and buried her face in the |
pillows. When she sat up it was’
tear-stained but resolute. She drew a '
chair in front of the wardrobe, mount- |
ed it and from the “well” at the top |
drew forth a great pasteboard box,
covered with dust. She stared at it
a moment, then sat down on the floor |
with the box across her lap, the tears
making big splotches in the dust.
“I can't—I can't look at it again,” !
she whispered. She laid it on the!
floor and walked to the old-fashioned
dressing table and looked at her re-
flection.
“I'm old,” she sald bitterly, “old! |
Thirty-seven this month, An old |
maid. It's time I had some sense.”
Her eyes filled again. “I thought I
had forgotten—but 1 haven't. All
these years and it still hurts—Tom!— |
Tom! How could you treat me so?” |
Turning away she crept blindly back
to the bed and lay there sobbing piti- |
fully.
The sound of music from the great
hotel, under whose shadow rested her
little brown cottage, woke her to the
plain realities of her daily life.
“Lunch time,” she said aloud, “and :
1 haven't done a thing this whole
morning.”
She poured some water into the
wide basin and bathed her face; then
brushed back the soft curls, so like
the younger Elizabeth's in spite of the
threads of grey, and without a look
towards the box on the floor went
quickly down stairs and out on the
porch.
“Elizabeth.”
“Yes, Aunt Bess.”
“Elizabeth, run up to my room and
on the floor near the big wardrobe
you'll see a box. It's pretty dusty.
It’s been stowed away somewhere for
ten years, ever since we moved here.
And—what's inside is for you, Eliza. |
“For me? Why, Aunt Bess, what is
it?”
“Run and see.
you.”
The box lay where it had been
dropped and Elizabeth, kneeling down,
untied the cords. First there was a
covering of wrapping paper; then
white tissue paper, and then blue, and
last of all lay soft folds of shining
white satin. With an exclamation of
amazement she held it up, and saw it
was a dress in the style of many
years ago. Catching it up in her
arms, she ran down to the kitchen
where she knew her aunt was mak-
ing biscuits for the noonday meal.
, “Aunt Bess, you're a fairy god
mother. Where did you get this love-
ly thing?"
“That? O, I've had it a long time.
I'd almost forgotten it,” sifting the
flour vigorously. “When you spoke
abowyt the tableaux I—thought it
might be some use.”
“It's just lovely. It looks like a
wedding dress.” The sifter dropped
on the floor, sprinkling the linoleum
with a sudden shower of flour. The
older woman maved to the door and
took the broom from behind it.
“Let me, Aunt Bess.” The other
waved her off.
“If ever I get a girl again,” she be-
gan vigorously, “I'll make her prom-
ise to stay a year before I engage her.
1 declare I've lost my knack of doigg
things.”
Elizabeth looked at her keenly, then
What
i
be |
be
It's—a surprise for
| young fellow,” she said.
| everything will turn out all right.”
! feet.
night and Sunday.” There was a sud-
den increase of the pink color in her
| cheeks.
“Mr. Carter who was here iast
| month?”
“Yes, Aunt Bess, and I did want to
look nice. I've always felt so shab-
_ by—not that he cared, but I did.”
“He's a nice
“I—I hope
Aunt Bess nodded.
Then she kissed the young face.
When the girl had left the room
her aunt stood before the open door
where the odorous honeysuckle hung
| like a curtain that has been drawn
back. She looked out on the brilliant
flower garden with unseeing eyes,
thinking of the time when she, too,
had lived only for the time when “he”
would come back.
* ® a . * -
It was the opinion of everyone
when the curtain rose on “Margue-
rite” in her softly clinging satin, a
daisy in her slender hands, that fit
was the fairest picture of them all.
“Isn't she lovely?” said Lawrence
Carter to the elderly man beside him
whose acquaintance he had made on
the train that afternoon.
There was no answer but, turning,
Lawrence saw that his companion
was staring thoughtfully at the pro-
gram in his hands.
“Do you know her?” he asked at
last.
“Do 1?" Then with a little tender
laugh, “She's—mine, My sweetheart!”
The elder man shook his head si-
lently. After a long pause he spoke
again.
“I'd like to meet her. I think I
knew her people some years ago,
back in Indiana.”
“Yes; they used to live there, a gocd
many years ago, though. After this
next tableaux there’ll be a dance and
I'l introduce you,” answered the
other,
* * ® % *
In the shadow of the vines the
other Elizabeth sat alone. She had
pleaded a sudden headache after
dressing the girl in the white gown
and had left her to the care of Mrs.
Harris and Mr. Carter. Try as she
would she could not shake off the
| memories of the past; she lived the
days over and over again, and wept
bitter tears.
A step on the gravel made her draw
back into the shadow. Elizabeth was
returning early. Up the steps came a
heavy tread, surely not Elizabeth's!
She moved forward quickly.
“Who is there?” she asked, step-
ping into the brilliant moonlight.
A man stood in the shadow, but at
the sound of her voice he moved into
the light.
“It's 1,” he said in a low tone.
“You!”
For a minute she stared into his
face and then fell a limp heap at his
hen she came back to her
senses she found herself on the old
sofa in the hall where he had laid
her; the same old sofa where they
had sat so often in days gone by. He
was on his knees beside her,
“Bess!” he whispered, “Bess!”
Then he leaned his forehead on the
cushion under her head.
“It was all my fauit. [I'm sorry.
Sorry! That's not the word for it.
Forgive me.”
“The fault was all mine,” she said
tremulously. “I saw it tonight when
: 1 was sitting out there by myself. I
had no right to let anyone come be-
tween us. My sister could have taken
Elizabeth, just as well as I, but I
loved her father so; he was always
my big brother, and then, she was
named for me and looked so like me
every one said I couldn't let her go
away from me. It was a mistake. |
see it now. She's going te leave me
here alone and make a home for her-
gelf. I've tried and tried to do what
was right, ‘brokenly,’ but it always
turned out to be the wrong thing in
the end.”
“You're the most self-sacrificing
woman God ever made,” he said soft-
ly.
out of our lives, but it's not too late
for us to find happiness, is it? I
won't let it be, if you care for me
even a little. I love you, dear.”
She gave a little gasp. “I—thought
—aren’t you married yet?” she cried.
“You were the only woman in the
world for me fifteen years ago and no
other woman has taken your place.”
“Tom—Tom!"
He made no answer except to hold
her close in his arms.
Sharks on the Maine Coast.
Two Orrs Island fishermen recently
established what must be pretty near
a record in the shark catching line.
David Wilson took ten of these mon-
sters in his mackerel net, each weigh-
ing from 500 to 700 pounds. A man
by the name of Richardson came pret-
ty close to Wilson's score by finding
seven of these monsters in his nets.
The nets of both of these men were
badly torn. The fishermen cut off the
tails of the sharks as far up as they
could before they were able to get
them out of the nets. The sharks had
teeth an inch long and could have cut
off a man's leg like a broadaxe.—Lew-
iston Journal.
Sincerity of Childhood.
Children are never ridiculous. The
Comic finds in them no vulnerable
point; which may help us to under-
stand why Christ chose then as the
favorite symbol of Christian attain-
ment. The child thinks himself neith-
fore he would hide his poverty or ex-
pose his wealth. His grief is real and
thorough-going, and he weeps without
affection. —William Austin Smith, &n
the Atlantic.
“Dear, we've lost fifteen years |
oe
AUNT JENNIE
INTERVENES
By M. DIBBELL
It would have been hard to find a
more disgusted youth than was Alfred
Gilson as he plodded along the dry
country road. When nearly an hour
earlier he had alighted from the train,
expecting to find his uncle's team in
waiting for him, not a solitary turn-
out Was visible; and as the tiny vil-
lage boasted no livery stable, this
farm.
{ No rain had fallen for over two |
weeks, and it was not long before Al-
fred's perspiring face began to assume
a streaky lock from the settling dust
Fortunately he possessed a sense of
humor, which began to assert itself,
and a smile showed through the dirt
as he said to himself: “Blest if I don’t
play them a little joke for this. If
they are not willing to receive a re-
spectable nephew, I'll see hoy a dis
reputable one goes. Can't look much
worse than I do, anyhow.”
He proceeded to remove cuffs, col-
lar and necktie, turn up his coat col |
lar, rumble his hair and tilt his soft
hat, punched all out of shape, far over
une eye,
Before long, the tall white gates of
Biglow Farm loomed up before him
through the descending twilight. As-
suming the wanderer's slouch, Alfred
went up the long drive and to the rear
of the big farmhouse. He pasued at
the kitchen door and knocked vigor
ously; then waited in mischievous an-
ticiy. ition of the surprise he should
give Melissa. When the door cpened
it was not upon the good humored
face of Melissa, the servant, that he
gazed, but into a pair of clear gray
eyes, whose owner Alfred thought was
the prettiest young woman he had
ever beheld.
“Good evening,” she said kindly.
“What can I do for you?"
But all Alfred's ideas as to the yarn
he should tell Melissa if he succeedd
in concealing his identity had van-
ished.
“I beg your pardon, but I am Mr.
Biglow’s nephew,” he stammered.
An astonished expression flashed in-
to the girl's eyes, but she replied:
“Come in and I will call him. He
is with Aunt Jennie.”
Feeling decidedly small, Alfred en-
tered the kitchen and seated himself
near the door, while the girl went in
search of his uncle. She ran swiftly
up the stairs and into the room where
Mr. Biglow and Melissa were In at-
tendance on Mrs. Biglow, who had
sprained her ankle.
Mrs. Biglow was finishing the sup-
per Melissa had brought her, when her
niece entered. .
“Oh Uncle James, do please come
down stairs right away. There is a
poor, miserable looking man there,
who says he is your nephew; and I
thought the best way to soothe him
was to pretend I believed it, and come
for you."
Mr. Biglow rose at once, saying:
“You were right, my dear, and we will
soon find out who this impostor is.”
Alfred, meantime, was making the
most of his solitude. The instant the
door closed he gave his face a vig
orous scrubbing, smoothed his hair,
replaced his collar and was adjusting
his tie before the small looking glass
when his uncle and the strange young
woman appeared.
The change produced was almost
equal to one of the lightning acts of a
stage professional, and Mr. Biglow ad- |
vanced, saying:
“Well, Alfred, I don't see but that
you look natural. I guess the sudden
entrance of a stranger must have
given Sydney a scare.”
Alfred felt Hecidedly foolish as he
sncountered the look of bewilderment :
in Sydney's eyes.
{ “I looked badly enough to frighten
, anybody, when I came in, uncle,” and
then he explained his intended joke |
! on Melissa. “It was nearly a week
! ago 1 wrote you of my coming, and
i when no one showed up at the station
| I thought I would have my revenge.”
| Mr. Biglow laughed heartily. “We
have all been so occupied in looking
after Aunt Jennie for the last few
days, that no one has thought of the
postoffice,” he said. “Your letter is
still there. But let me introduce you
to your cousin by marriage, Sydney
Thompson.”
Sydney looked as if she hardly
knew whether to laugh or be angry,
when Alfred said earnestly:
“Please forgive me for frightening
you—I will never try to be funny
“Oh don't say that,” she replied,
if there were no fun in it.”
Then they all went up to Aunt Jen-
nie, and found her anxiously waiting
an explanation of the “poor, misers-
ble man” who had startled Sydney.
Alfred found that Sydney's society
became an ever increasing delight to
him as the days passed. One morn-
ing, a week after his arrival at Biglow
Aunt Jennie, who was new able to get
about a little.
meant a six-mile tramp to his uncle's
“this would be a very dismal world.
Farm, he sat on the veranda with’
“No,” sald Aunt Jennie.
all her life, she would not hear of a
ring. He ig years older than Sydney,
but I hope he will make her happy,”
: she sighed.
Alfred rose and said bitterly: “I
wish you had told me sooner. Now
that I have learned to love Sydney bet-
ter than life it is hard to find she ie
bound to another man.” He left his
astonished aunt and strode savagely
down the driveway,
Aunt Jennie gazed after him with
mingled feelings of pity and dismay.
“Poor Alfred, why did 1 not guess
what might happen and warn him?"
She spoke aloud in her excitement;
and received a second surprise when
| a second voice asked:
“Oh, Aunt Jennie, why didn’t you
warn me, too?” Sydney came through
the open door back of her aunt, and
sank down heside her.
There were tears in her eyes as she
continued: “I was just coming out to
you, and could not help hearing what |
Alfred Gilson said when he left you.
Oh, Auntie, | never did love Matthew.”
Aunt Jennie was at her wits’ end.
“Don’t cry, Sydney, dear,” she plead-
ed. “I am sure it will all come right.
. Have you learned to care lor Al-
fred?”
“I am afraid so,” said Sydney, “for
it made me feel so happy when he
said he loved me—until 1 thought of
Matthew.” The tears came in a flood,
and breaking away from her aunt, she
fled into the house.
Left alone, Mrs. Biglow did some
serious thinking, and apparently was
satisfied with the result, for her
troubled face grew calm, and rising
she limped in to the big desk. She
speedily wrote a letter, addressing it
to Matthew Chase.
Several days passed uneventfully.
Sydney and Alfred, though apparently
on friendly terms, took no more long
walks or drives together.
On the fifth day after the sending
of the epistle to Matthew Chase, Mr.
Biglow handed Sydney a letter. “That
was all for you today,” he remarked.
Seeing it was from her future hus-
band, Sydney sought her own room to
read it. Mrs. Biglow was alone when
a very bewildered looking antl yet
happy Sydney, came to her after read-
ing Matthew's communication.
“Aunt Jennie, | can't understand it,”
she began. “Matthew asks me to re-
lease him from his engagement. He
says he fears he is too old to make
me happy, and that he has always
known I cared for him only as a
friend. He thinks we would be wiser
just to continue being friends. Do you
suppose he has thought it all over
since I came away and feels as [ do?
Aunt Jennie smiled. Her letter to
Matthew Chase had been written In
the hope that Sydney's happiness need
not be sacrificed.
“Matthew Chase is a good wa
she answered, J am__ sure
thinks of your happiness first of all.
I think he has made a wise decision, |
Sydney, and you may feel you are do-
ing right in ending your engagement.”
Later Aunt Jennie told Alfred of
this sudden termination to the en-
gagement, and he went in search of
Sydney. He found her in the old-fash-
foned flower garden.
“Aunt Jennie has told me that you
are free, and | have come to ask if
you can ever care a little for me, Syd-
ney? 1 love you more than I can
tell—I have known you were the dear-
est thing on earth to me, since 1 first
saw your face.”
Sydney laughed happily. ‘The first
time I saw your face it was so dirty—"
she began, but Alfred caught her in
his arms.
HAVE THEIR O'VN TROUBLES
American Ambassadors Called on by
Compatriots to Perform Some
Queer “Stunts.”
The American taxpayer at home
and the taxpayer traveling in foreign
countries both look upon Uncle Sam's
embassies, legations and consulates
as a sort of clearing house for trou
ble. No matter what form their de-
mands take, they consider that they
. must be instantly complied with by
their representatives abroad.
| Some good Americans apparently
! labor under the delusion that an em-
| passy is argus-eyed and omnipotent.
{ At Baster one fond lover living in
| the far west cabled to our ambassador
{ at Paris that he wished a bunch of
| violets, to cost $10, sent to his best
girl, Miss Blank. With the best will
in the world his request could not be
complied with, as he gave no address
i beyond “Miss Blank, Paris,” and he
! sent no money for the flowers.
| During the last season before King
Edward's death, the American ambgs-
| sador to the court of St. James re-
ceived a note from a compatriot. In
| part it read as follows:
“lI am in London for a short visit,
and wish to attend one of the balls
given at Buckingham palace, so please
procure an invitation for me. As my
husband is not here, I also desire that
one of the attaches of your embassy,
no matter how insignificant, accom-
pany me to the ball.”
The phrase became a catchword at
the embassy. If any particular work
outside of the regular routine turned
up, the members of the staff would
laugh and point to his neighbor, say-
ing:
“You do it, Tom, you're more in-
significant than 1” and so on down
the line.
Still Problem to Be Solved.
the problem of the profitable use of
wind mills in the Netherlands for the
generation of electricity. Fourteen
cents an hour a lamp was the best
that could be done.
“Her mai
! iluge is really a family arrangement.’
and as she has known Matthew Chase |
The offer of a prize has not solved
ANOTHER
“RAFFL
By CASPER GREEN
9”
“Pooh! Pooh! It's all nonsense!"
They had been talking at the club
about a new “Raffles” who was doing
some daring things in the way of
entering houses in the city and sub-
urbs. His exploits numbered 30, and
the police had not even caught sight
of him as yet. Some of his victims
had seen a dark figure and fired at it,
but there had been no bloody trails to '
follow to success. He had robbed ;
houscholders at dinner time and he
had robbed gthers as they slept the
sleep of the just. In the instance
most talked about, he had visited
seven different bedrooms im a country '
house and robbed each one, and had
then sat down in the dining room*for
a4 lunch and 2 smoke before depart-
ing. Half a dozen of the club mem-
bers agreed that he must have nerves '
of steel, but the seventh was the ex-
ception. It was Howard Burt, a young
breker, who had sat quietly listening
for the last half hour.
“Yes, it's all nonsense,” he repeat-
ed as the others turned to him in
surprise, “There is no ‘nerve’ in
robbing a sleeping house, or in porch-
climbing when you know that there
is not one chance in fifty of meeting
anyone upstairs.”
Thereupon arose a discussion in
which there was considerable acri-
mony, and in which the seventh man
held his own against the six so well
that one of them finally resorted to
bluff and said:*
“There is a way to prove your
contention. Turn ‘Raffles’ and give
us the honest results of the experi-
ment.”
“There are six of you,” slowly re
plied the young man. “I'll lay you
one hundred each that I enter some
house within a week as a ‘Raffles’ and
bring to this club some article that
you will all recognize.”
“Done! Done! Done!” was shouted
at him from all sides, and with a
laugh he rose and left the club to
keep an engagement,
The family of General Birney, oc-
cupying a manor house ten miles out
of the city, consisted of the general
and his wife, both of whom were well
along in years, their son, Fred, who |
was in an insurance office in the city, '
and Edith, who had finished her educa-
, tion at Vassar and had returned home
to wait the great event of the life of
every young woman, matrimony. Raf-
fles had visited the houses to the east
. and west, but had deferred his call on
the general. There was plunder there,
but it was taken by the general to
signify that the robber was afraid to
. tackle an old veteran of th wars, who
‘had turned the family ! into
an armory and had had the house
rigged out with all sorts of burglar
alarms and electric bells and traps '
for the unwary.
| Some young ladies, while waiting
| for prince charming turn to poetry.
{ Others write a play. Miss Edith had
| bad the plot of a comedy-drama in
| her head ever since she was ten years
old. The time had now arrived to
| develop it. For a month she had
| been resting and thinking all day and
| working with her pen until 12 or 1
| o'clock at night. There came a par-
{ ticular night when she was bothered
| more than usual. She had brought |
|
| her hero under suck a cloud of sus-
| picion that it seemed as if career
must end in his being clubbed by a
| policeman and dragged to jail, and
| the girl was thinking deeply when a
slight noise behind her made her
turn. She turned to see “Raffles.”
She was In the library on the first
floor, and father, mother, brother and |
servants were all on the second and '
third, sound asleep. Raffles was
masked, but there was no trouble in |
figuring out that he was not the hired |
man who had come in to tell her that
one of the horses in the stable had the |
colic or that he was the gardener with '
the annoumcement that a cow had
broken into the grounds and eaten up |
her favorite rose bush.
It was well for Miss Edith that she
had been writing a play in which her
heroine swam rivers, jumped over
cliffs and pursued the James brothers
to their lair. She represented the
heroine, It would not do for her to
faint away in the presence of one rob-
ber, who did pot even display a pistol. |
The two looked at each other for half |
a minute, and then Raffles quietly sat
down in a chair a few feet away. At
the same moment the young lady re-
membered that there was a revolver |
in a drawer of the desk at which she
was writing. She had used it when
posing in the place of her heroine. |
“You are up late,” observed Raffles,
after he was comfortably seated.
“Who are you, and why are you
here?" she asked in reply.
“Just Raffles, if you please, The
first question will answer the sec-
ond.” i
He had a pleasant voice. He !
an aristocratic foot and hand. e
he lounged carelessly, his attitude was
that of a gentleman. As her first chill
of fear passed away, the girl noticed
these things. They counted in his
favor, but only to an extent. The
newspapers and the police had said
that Raffles was a gentleman. If you
must be robbed, it is better to be
robbed by a gentleman than by a
tramp, but it is still better not to be
robbed at all. Miss Edith figured
that the intrduer must have been in
the house for some time, and that he
had made up his bundle of plunder
and was ready to lave when he had
discovered her light. A sudden re-
ve to capture Raffles came to her.
t was exactly what the heroine of
ver play would have done. When the
heroine followed the James brothers,
she had only a club in her hand.
Here was a firearm ready at hand,
and though it was not loaded, how
was Raffles to know?
“A play, is it?” queried the masked
, man as he bent forward to look.
“Yes.”
“A useless waste of time. | have
been toid thet there are 500 plays
written for every one accepted. What
is the pilot? Perhaps | can give you
a pointer or two.”
“It is this!” said Miss Edith as she
pulled the drawer open and seized
the revolver and pointed it straight
at him. “There is a closet over there.
If you do not enter it I will shoot you
dead!”
“Don't trouble yourself. In the first
place, I am not armed, and if I were
there would be no shooting on my
side. In the second, I wish to identify
myself and explain my presence here.
{| If you will kindly call your brother
Fred, whom | presume is in the house,
and whom I have known personally
for the last five years—" :
“1 shall do nothing of the kind, sir.
Into that closet or 1 fire!”
“I am not the rascal Raffles. We
were discussing him at the club a few
nights ago and—"
The revolver that did not know it
was loaded seemed about to go off
and send a bullet into his brain, and
the intruder rose and walked over to
the closet indicated and opened the
door and entered. The girl followed
at his heels and turned the key and
then sat down all of a tremble and
began to cry. She had not made up
her mind what further to do when
the father came downstairs with a
shotgun in his hand. He had heard
some noise that aroused him. In the
front hall he stumbled over a silver
trophy that Fred had won in his
athletic days.
“What the devil is happening
here?” he demanded in official lan-
guage as he looked from the tearful
daughter to the trophy and back.
“Oh, Daddy, 1 have cap—captured
Raffles! He is in that closet!”
“Then I'l have him out and blow
the top of his head off! What in
blazes are you doing capturing rob-
bers without saying anything to your
superior officer about it? Things have
came to a pretty pass in the service.
Now, then, stand back while I have
the scoundrel cut. Say, you in there—
if you make the least resistance I'll
blow you into dogs’ meat!”
The door was flung wide open and
Raffles walked out. He had removed
his mask and was trying to smile, but
it was a sickly effort. He began to
apologize and explain, but the general
cut him short until he had been
_ bound with a cord torn from a por-
tiere. Then the general continued
to menace him with the shotgun
while the daughter ran upstairs to
wake up Pred. Fred came down with
a couple of “guns,” the mother de-
scended with a bottle of witch hazel
clutched by the neck, and the two
women servants were ready to take
position on the right or the left flank,
as ordered by the general. Apologies
and explanations were renewed, and
after a time they prevailed. Miss
Edith was glad #he had not shot any-
body with an unloaded revolver. The
general was sorry that he had had all
his trouble for nothing, and Fred s:id
that he would be at dinner where the
$600 were laid out.
The next time Raffles appeared at
the manor house it was under his own
name and he was on his best behavior.
Some few remarks were made to call
for blushes on his part, and the gen-
eral still insisted that he had not been
treated according to the rules of war
fare, but things passed off so well that
Howard Burt was asked to call again.
After that he did not appear to need
any special invitation, and it may be
that by the time the play is finished
the hero and heroine will decide that
the hand of Providence threw them
together to prevent Edith’s becoming
an old maid.
THIEF ESCAPES BY BALLOON
Not Quite Up to Date, as It Was Not
a Dirigible, but It Served
Purpose.
Hot-footing it some distance in ad
vance of the town marshal his pursa
er, a pickpocket made a strenuous leap
into the basket of a ballocn near
Sayre, Okla, just as the air craft was
leaving the ground, and- sailed away
to safety.
The balloon had been filled with
gas and the aeronaut, George Harvey,
was in the basket ready to start when
the marshal discovered the pickpocket
taking a wallet from a pocket of a
citizen whose attention was centered
on the balloon.
: The marshal attempted to catch the
thief and the pursued man ran and
i leaped into the basket as it cleared
the earth. He refused to heed the
marshals warning cry of “Stop thief!”
At the height of several hundred
feet the thief drew a revolver and
warned Harvey not to release the rip
cord on his balloon until he was or
dered to do so.
After the pair had traveled 50 miles
the unwelcome passenger gave the
word and the balloon was lowered
Ten feet from the ground the thie
leaped from the basket and ran, Re
lieved of part of its burden, the bal
loon again shot upward.
When Harvey finally effected a land
ing, several hundreds yards from
where the thief had alighted, he bad
disappeared.—New York World. :
From Art's Viewpoint.
“What do you think of those Camo
rigts ?"
“Well,” replied the impresasio,
“their technique isn’t much, but they
certainly have temperament.”