Newspaper Page Text
“Bellefonte, Pa., December 15, 1922.
(Continued from page 6, Col. 5.)
the direction of the brownstone house.
On the top step she dropped.
Not a cent in the world! Diamond
gone! ! Car that was no good! ! And
no place to put it!!!
Early in her career as a motorist
she had discovered that cars have a
way of gathering expense like dust by
the wayside. There had been extra
tires and repairs even while you were
learning to run it. It fairly ate up
gas. You needed twice as much as
she had reckoned.
And now—this! .
Hopelessly she gazed at the point
far down the block where the police-
man stood guard. From time to time
his glance roved impatiently—and
when at last he swung on his way,
leaving the mite unprotected, Sallie
knew there was nothing to do but sit
there and watch it all through the
Then it was that the wells which had
run dry filled once more, overflowed.
Huddled in a corner of the stoop, she
fastened her wilted gaze on a spot of
blue parked close to Broadway and
wondered what she was going to do
with it when morning arrived.
She came to drowsily as a clock
struck one and something heavy de-
scended on her shoulders. It pulled
her upright, shook the sleep from her
eyes and a cry from her lips. The
“What are you doing out here?”
She strained forward.
“Jimmie! ! 1”
“What are you doing, I say?”
“Jimmie—is it—is it—you?”
“I—I—oh, I can’t believe it—you—
you!” Then panic seized her. “Jim-
mie—don’t—don’t go again. Wait—
let me tell you! I've been praying
you’d give me the chance to tell you.
I—it was true—I did buy all those
things myself. I did—I did! I was
afraid you'd be ashamed of me.”
He stood glaring silently down at
her. When his voice did come, it was
thick and tense.
“Didn’t you know it was just those
old clothes of yours that convinced me
the story you gave me was straight ?”
“But the girls always made fun of
them—and I wanted to look right for
you. And you thought—oh, Jimmie,
what you thought has nearly killed
“What could a man who knew his
Broadway think when you appeared
all of a sudden in a million dollars’
worth of finery?”
“But it wasn’t true! I took all my
money out of the bank to look nice
just for you. Jimmie—if you go again
—the way you did—I—TI’ll die!”
He gave no direct answer. Instead,
he gripped her shoulders until they
“What are you doing out here this
time of night? Answer me that!”
The car! Her eyes raced down the
block. There it stood, untouched.
“I—I hocked my diamond, Jimmie,
and bought a car. I made the girls
think you were going to give me one
and I didn’t want them to know that
you—you: ” She turned away.
“So I hocked the ring—and—and got
He followed her eyes to where a
spot of blue reposed near the corner.
“And now it won’t go and I haven’t
any money to put it anywhere. They
have been keeping it for me where I
bought it and I never thought about
garaging. So—so when it broke
down, I just had to sit here and watch
it all night.”
The rushing words halted. She look-
ed up at the face bent above hers. If
Mr. James Fowler Patterson had a
sense of humor—and he had—the com-
edy of the present situation failed to
bring it to light. He stood and gazed
down into the small tired face lifted
wih such desperate appeal.
“Jimmie, won’t you believe me this
He bent closer. “If I tell you I
could take a gun this minute and blow
out what little brains I've got, will
you believe me? Will you?” He did
not give her time to answer. “I de-
serve it—shooting’s too good. Why,
even if you dressed up like a Christ-
mas window, only a saphead that’s
wasted all his life chasing up and
down Broadway could have made such
a mistake. What’s love, anyhow?
And sweetheart—I do love you. These
weeks without you have proved how
She closed her eyes as the words
“Why,” he plunged on, “my dad had
given me up as a bad job—said he was
through! And six weeks ago I went
to him and told him I'd found the girl
who could make a man of me—asked
him to take me on at the Patterson
Iron Works, I didn’t care in what ca-
pacity. He thought I was joking—
but I put on overalls ard rolled up
my sleeves. Because I wanted to be
good enough for you. That was just
about the time you showed up in all
that gorgeousness. And I let the idea
get hold of me——Don’t cry, honey,
I can’t stand it!”
There was an instant of potent si-
“How did you happen to come past
here tonight—Jimmie ?” came smoth-
“I’ve been coming past here every
“Then why—why did you stay away
from the theatre ?”
“I didn’t—for long. Wanted to—
but couldn’t! I've watched you come
out from around the corner——" He
broke off. “Sweetness—you’ve been
looking awfully sick.”
“I’ve been awfully lonesome.”
He lifted her chin.
“Yes, Jimmie—dear: »
“Will you forgive me?”
“Yes, Baby—dear 2
“Will you wait here till I get into
my old rig, then take me for a ride
in my new car ?”’—Cosmopolitan Mag-
The Blind Man’s Eye.
(Continued from page 2, Col. 6.)
reading table, turning over the maga-
zines there; abandoning them, he
gazed about as if bored; then, with a
wholly casual manner, he came
toward Eaton and took the seat be-
“Rotten weather, isn’t it?’ Avery
observed somewhat nngraciously.
Eaton could not well avoid a reply.
“It’s been getting worse,” he com-
mented, “ever since we left Seattle.”
“We're running into it, apparently.”
Again Avery looked toward Eaton and
“Yes—lucky if we get through.”
The conversation on Avery's part
was patently forced; and it was
equally forced on Eaton's; neverthe-
less it continued. Avery introduced
the war and other subjects upon which
men, thrown together for a time, are
accustomed to exchange opinions. But
Avery did not do it easily or natu-
rally; he plainly was of the caste
whose pose it is to repel, not seek,
overtures toward a chance acquaint-
ance. His lack of practice was per-
fectly obvious when at last he asked
directly: “Beg pardon, but I don’t
think I know your name.”
Eaton was obliged to give it.
“Mine’s Avery,” the other offered:
“perhaps you heard it when we were
cetting our berths assigned.”
And again the conversation, enjoyed
by neither of them, went on. Finally
the girl at the end of the car rose and
passed them, as though leavinz ile
oar. Avery looked up.
“Where are you going, Harry?”
“I think someone ought to be with
“I'll go in just a minute.”
She had halted almost in front of
them. Avery, hesitating as though he
did not know what he ought to do,
finally arose; and as Eaton observed
She Had Halted Almost in Front of
that Avery, having introduced him-
self, appeared now to consider it his
duty to present Eaton to Harriet
Dorne, Eaton also arose. Avery mur-
mured the names. Harriet Dorne,
resting her hand on the back of
Avery’s chair, joined in the conver
sation. As he replied easily and in-
terestedly to a comment of Eaton’e,
Avery suddenly reminded her of her
tather. After a minute, when Avery
~—still ungracious and still irritated
over something which Eaton could not
guess—rather abruptly left them, she
took Avery’s seat; and Eaton dropped
into his chair beside her.
Now, this whole proceeding—though
within the convention. which, forbid-
ding a girl to make a man’s acquaint-
ance directly, says nothing against
her making it through the medium of
another man—had been so unnatu-
rally done that Eaton understood that
Harriet Dorne deliberately had ar-
ranged to make his acquaintance, and
that Avery, angry and objecting, had
She seemed to Eaton less alertly
poyish now than she had looked an
hour before when they had boarded
the train. Her cheeks were smoothly
rounded, her lips rather full, her
lashes very long. He could not look
up without looking directly at her, for
her chair, which had not been moved
since Avery left it, was at an angle
with his own.
To avoid the appearance of study-
ing her too openly, he turned slightly,
so that his gaze went past her to the
white turmoil outside the windows.
“It’s wonderful,” she said, “isn’t it?”
“You mean the storm?’ A twinkle
of amusement came to Eaton’s eyes.
“It would be more interesting if it
allowed a little more to be seen. At
present there is nothing visible but
“Is that the only way it affects you?
An artist would think of it as a back-
ground for contrasts—a thing to
sketch or paint; a writer as something
to be written down in words.”
Eaton understood. She could not
more plainly have asked him what he
“And an engineer, I suppose,” he
said, easily, “would think of it only as
an element to be included in his for-
mulas—an x, or an a, or a b, to be
put in somewhere and square-rooted
or squared so that the roof-truss he
was figuring should not buckle under
®*Oh—so that is the way you were
thinking of it?”
*You mean,” Eaton challenged her
directly, “am I an engineer?”
“Oh, no; I was only talking in pure
generalities, just as you were.”
“Let us go on, then,” she said gayly.
=] see 1 can’t conceal from you that
I am doing you the honor to wonder
what you are. A lawyer would think
of it in the light of damage it might
create and the subsequent possibilities
of litigation.” She made a little pause.
“A business man would take it into
account, as he has to take into account
all things in nature or human; it
weuld delay transportation, or harm
or aid the winter wheat.”
“Or stop competition somewhere,”
he observed, more interested.
The flash of satisfaction which came
fo her face and as quickly was
checked and faded showed him she
thought she was on the right track.
“Business,” she said, still lightly,
“wlll—how is it the newspapers put
tt?2—will marshal its cohorts; it will
send out its generals in command of
hrigades of snowplows, its colonels in
command of regiments of snow shov-
elers and its spies to discover and to
bring back word of the effect upon the
“You talk,” he said, “as if business
were a war.”
“Isn't it?—like war,
“In higher terms?’ he questioned,
attempting to make his tone like hers,
but a sudden bitterness now was be-
¢rayed by it. “Or in lower?”
“Why, in higher,” she declared, ‘“de-
manding greater courage, greater de-
votion, greater determination, greater
gelr-sacrifice. Recruiting officers can
pick any man off the streets and make
. good soldier of him, but no one
but war In
could be so sure of finding a satisfac-
tory employee in that way. Doesn™
that show that daily life, the every-
day business of earning a living and
bearing one’s share in the workaday
worid, demands greater qualities than
Her face had flushed eagerly as she
spore: a darker, livid flush answered
her words on his.
“put the opportunities for evil are
greater, too,” he asserted almost
fierceiy. “How many of those men you
speak of on the <treets have been de-
liberately, mercilessly, even savagely
sacrificed to some business expediency,
their future destroyed, their hope
killed!” Some storm of passion,
whose meaning she could not divine,
was sweeping him.
“You mean,” she asked after an in-
stant’s silence, “that you, Mr. Eaton,
have been sacrificed in such a way?”
“I am still talking in generalities,”
he denied ineffectively.
He saw that she sensed the un-
truthfulness of these last words. Her
smooth young forehead and her eyes
were shadowy with thought. Eaton
was uneasily silent. Finally Harriet
Dorne seemed to nave miade her de-
“I think you should meet my father.
Mr. Eaton,” she said. “Would you
fle did not reply at once. He knew
that his delay was causing her to
study him now with great surprise.
“I would like to meet him, yes,” he
sala, “but”’—he hesitated,
avoid answer without offending her,
hut already he had affronted her—
“but not now, Miss Dorne.”
She stared at him, rebuffed and
“You mean—" The sentence, obvi-
ously, was one she felt it better not
to finish. As though he recognized
that now she must wish the conversa-
tion to end, he got up. She rose
“I'll see you into your car, if you're
returning there,” he offered.
Neither spoke, as he went with her
into the next car; and at the section
where her father sat, Eaton bowed
silently, nodded to Avery, who coldly
returned his nod, and left her. Eaton
went on into his own car and sat
down, his thoughts in mad confusion.
How near he had come to talking
to this girl about himself, even though
he had felt from the first that that
was what she was trying to make him
do! Was he losing his common sense?
Was the self-command on which he
had so counted that he had dared to
take this train deserting him? He
felt that he must not see Harriet
Dorne again alone. In Avery he had
recognized, by that instinct which so
strangely divines the personalities one
meets, an enemy from the start;
Dorne’s attitude toward him, of
course, was not yet defined; as for
Harriet Dorne—he could not tell
whether she was prepared to be his
enemy or friend.
Eaton went into the men’s compart-
ment of his car, where he sat smok-
ing till after the train was under way
again. The porter looked in upon
him there to ask if he wished his berth
made up now; Eaton nodded assent,
and fifteen minutes later, dropping
Eaton Went Into the Men’s Compart-
ment of His Car, Where He Sat
Smoking Till After the Train Was
Under Way Again.
the cold end of his cigar and going
out into the car, he found the berth
ready for him. A half hour later the
passage of someone through the aisle
and the sudden dimming of the crack
of light which showed above the cur-
tains told him that the lights in the
car had been turned down. Eaton
closed his eyes, but sleep was far
Presently he began to feel the train
beginning to labor with the increasing
grade and the deepening snow. It was
nearing the mountains, and the weath-
er was getting colder and the storm
more severe. Eaton lifted the curtain
from the window beside him and
leaned on one elbow to look out. The
train was running through a bleak,
white desolation; no light and no sign
of habitation showed anywhere. The
events of the day ran through his
mind again with sinister suggestion.
He had taken that train for a certain
definite, dangerous purpose which re-
quired his remaining as obscure and
as inconspicuous as possible; yet al-
ready he had been singled out for at-
tention. So far, he was sure, he had
received no more than that—atten-
tion, curiosity concerning him. He
had not suffered recognition; but that
might come at any moment. ('nuld he
risk longer waiting to act?
He dropped on his back on the bed
and lay with his hands clasped under
his head. his eyes staring up at the
roof of the car.
In the card-room of the observation
car, playing and conversation stin
went on for a time; then it dimin-
ished as one by one the passengers
went away to bed. Connery, looking
into this car, found it empty and the
porter cleaning up; he slowly passed
on forward through the train, stopping
momentarily in the rear Pullman op-
posite the berth of the passenger
whom President Jarvis had commend-
ed to his care. His scrutiny of the
car told him all was correct here; the
even breathinz within the berth as-
sured him the passengers slept.
* Connery had been becoming more
certain hour by hour all through the
evening that they were going to have
great difficulty in getting the train
through. Though he knew by Presi-
dent Jarvis’ note that the officials of
the road must be watching the prog-
ress of this especial train with par-
ticular interest, he had received no
train orders from the west for sev-
eral hours. His inquiry at the last
stop had told him the reason for this;
the telegraph wires to the west had
gone down. To the east communica-
tion was still oper. but how long it
would remain so he could not guess.
Here in the deep heart of the great
mountains—they had passed the Idaho
boundary line into Montana—they
were getting the full effect of the
storm; their progress, increasingly
slow, was broken hy stops which were
becoming frequent and longer as they
(To be Continued.)
herself on me for neglecting her invi-
“She remarked to everybody that I
ay old enough to be a trifle forget-
Black certainly avenged
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