Smif
ellefonte, Pa., October 18, 1929.
“LITTLE BOY BLUE”
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket molds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new
And the soldier was passing fair,
That was the time when our Little Boy
. Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
“Now, dor’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So, toddling off to the trundle-bed
He dreamt of the pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue,—
Oh, the years are many, the years are
i long,
But the little toy friends are true.
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting the long
years through, :
In the dust of that litule chair,
What has become ‘of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and left them there.
—Eugene Field
———— A ———————
SINNERS
“We have to keep it kind of warm
in here because of their not getting
any exercise—they get chilly,” the
matron explained.
“Don’t they get out?”
“Not this weather. And they sort
of lose interest—"
The matron glanced at the visitor
and the latter, a big quiet-eyed wo-
man in a handsome, dowdy coat,
looked back at her dubiously.
~ “They haven't got much ambition
left when they get here!” the matron
said, with a laugh.
The other frowned faintly, as if
in vague pain. She followed in si-
lence through the big clean imper-
sonal halls that smelled of coffee, dis-
infectants, air heaters and herded,
over-clothed humanity.
“I didn’t get your name?”
“Huggett. Mrs. Joe Huggett.”
“And You're some kin to Lucas
Rippey ?
Oh, no. Just a friend.”
“Some—?
Mrs. Huggett cleared her throat; her
serious face had turned a little pale.
Some of the poor forlorn old men
were reading shabby magazines in
the winter heat of the assembly
room; a radio was playing. Many of
the occupants of the big apartment
were merely staring idly into space
—broken in mind, the visitor saw, as
well as body.
Lucas Rippey was a thin blue-eyed
old man, with white, thin hair. He
rose alertly, looked surprisedly at his
visitor. When the matron had led
them to a little side parlor and left
them alone, he told Mrs. Huggett
smilingly that he could not remem-
ber the time he had had a caller be-
fore. His bright blue eyes twinkled
rather delightedly.
“But I've only be'n here two years
and ain’t settled down yet!” he con-
fessed. “I worked, up to them. I
got 'flu in the year ’twas so prev-
alent; the’ warned me pneumonia’d
foller. And sure ’nough, it did!”
“Take a good look at me, Lucas,”
Mrs. Huggett said heavily. She had
seated herself, thrown back her wid-
ow’s veil. “Don’t you remember me ?”
He looked at her keenly, still smil-
ing. “No'm. I'm sorry. But your
face don’t say nothing to me.”
“I was Emma Kent,” she
slowly.
"The old man sat down himself now,
suddenly, with an air of shock. The
light had died out of his eyes.
- “Is that who you are?” he said in
a whisper.
There was a pause. Then the wo-
man began, “I've been huntin’ you
for years.” !
“That so?” he asked, still in a
dulled voice.
“Ever since I was thirteen years
old,” she continued, “ever since I
was thirteen years old—and that’s all
of forty years ago—I've been sorry.”
A softer look came into the blue
eyes opposite her. Lucas Rippey be-
gan to shake his head regretfully,
deprecatingly.
. “I lied about you,” the woman said
said
flatly.
He cleared his throat, and spoke
without resentment. “I've often
wondered why you did that,” he ad-
mitted mildly.
“I don’t know what got into me,”
the visitor said, in a stony, quiet
voice. “I don’t know what does get
into a girl, sometimes.”
She paused and he looked at her
with respectful sympathy. “I was
runnin’ with Sue Clute,” she began
again.
~ “Well, there!” he said, his face
suddenly brightening, as he seized
upon the diversion. “I hadn’t thought
of them Clutes for forty years!”
“Sue had her picture in the paper,
and that was gall and wormwood to
me,” Emma Huggett pursued, reso-
lutely, unhappily. “She was terrible
pretty. I was just eat up with jeal-
ously. I guess.”
He was considering it, his head on
one side, lips pursued and eyes nar-
rowed. “I never thought of that. I
used to think you dremp’ all you
said. he murmured thoughtfully.
“No, I didn’t dream it,” the woman
answered promptly. “I made it all
up. I was dyin’ to be important, to
get noticed by somebody, like Sue
had. The day Kane Madison was
murdered I begun romancin’ to my
mother and gran’-mother, and the
more they made of it, the smarter I
thought I was. I don’t know what
in creation started me. But once I'd
started, seems I couldn’t stop.”
“It’s hard for us to explain our
own acts, sometimes,” Lucas said
politely.
“Hard?” she echoed. “Well, I've
been tryin’ to Explain mine for forty
years!” A shadow fell upon her
plain good face. “You were in pris.
on?” she asked reluctantly.
“Sixteen years.”
“Oh, my Lord,” Emma said in a
lifeless whisper. “State’s prison?”
she added.
“State’s prison.”
“Was it awful, Lucas?”
“Yes, at first it was,” he admitted,
.Colorado— well, I
his eyes fixed on space as he remem-
bered. “I wa'n’t much more thana
kid, and some of them men wa'n't fit
companions for man or beasts. Iwas
sickly, too; I'd be’'n raised in the
Bayliss County Orphans’ Home, you
know.”
“I didn’t know that!” she said,
stricken. After a moment she add-
ed, “One minute, the last thing I was
thinkin’ of : The
ig pa us
gmarole about how I seen you u
by the Madison place ’, and
how you was bu ’ something up
near the birch grove in Holley's
Woods.”
“lI never was anywhere near the
Madison house that day,” the old
man offered, as she paused. His
blue eyes were fixed upon her with
a sort of innocent, dispassionate ex-
peetancy. It was almost as if she
were entertaining him with a story.
“You told ’em that in court,” she
nodded. For the first time anguish
came into her voice. “Oh, why, why,
why,” she began, knotting her
work-worn hands together, “wh!
didn’t they believe you, instead
takin’ the word of a crazy girl of
thirteen! Mind you,” she went on
suddenly, “after that crazy Easter
afternoon, when I'd told my mother
this yarn, I lay awake all night, and
I made up my mind that I'd come
out with the truth the next day and
tell them I'd been lyin’.
“But I couldn’t get my courage up
for it at breakfast, and at school, in
recess, I kinder began to let it out
to the other girls thatIknew some-
thing about Kane Madison’s murder.
It was just too ,
“Walkin’ home from school, I re-
member, the wickedness ‘of what I
was doin’ suddenly came over me,
and I spoke right out loud, while I
was goin’ by Bassett’s Pond. “This
Bas got to stop! I says, as loud as
‘But then when I got home Judge
Robbins was there—the old judge
himself, that us kids were all so
scared of. And he held out his
hand to me, gently and friendly,
and he says, ‘Come here, Emma.
You're only a little girl’ he says,
‘I want you should promise me
that you'll not say any ‘more about
poor Kane Madison and the Rippey
boy. Will you do that?” he says.
“Well, a great relief came over
me, and I felt like I was saved. It
never occurred to me that he was
holdin’ me as an important witness.
I thought my share of the whole
thing was over, and when the
newspaper sent a feller out to get
my picture the next day I was just
as happy as I thought I'd be, get-
tin’ my name into the paper. Judge
Robbins had told me not to say
nothin’ more about an ng, and
yet I was gettin’) all the excitement
ot | pel pointed out and talked
about.’
“You never seen me near the
Madison house that day Kane Madi-
son was killed,” old Rippey said def-
initely,” after a pause, “becuz I wa’nt
there.”
“No, I never ‘saw you at all that
day,” she agreed | dully, the hard
shamed color in her face. “As a
matter of fact, I was up in our
attic all afternoon, dressin’ up and
playin’ lady.’
“Huh!” he commented, thinking.
The .woman looked at him anx-
iously. “I used to pray,” she be-
gan suddenly. “I used to go down
on my knees and pray that some-
body would come out and prove
that I was lyin’. But I couldn't do
it myself!” :
“I guess they'd have convicted
me, anyway,” he suggested briefly.
‘I don’t know. how they could.”
“I was kind of a loafer,” he re-
marked. “I was the kind of fel-
ler hard-workin’ men like to git in-
to. jail.”
Mrs. Huggett sat looking at him
heavily, dumbly. She sighed.
“I started life a charge on: the
state,” the man said. “I didn’t git
out of the orpanage until I was
fourteen. At twentytwo, I was
back on the state again, for sixteen
years. When I come out, I was
quite delicate, and the’ sent me to
worked some,
there. But the state was payin’ my
rent just the same. And now—here
I am, back on ’em for life this
time, unless all signs fail!”
Her alert eyes had brightened
with sudden resolute interest. “This
time,” she#®said, “I can get you out,
if you want to get out.”
- “How do you mean?” he asked,
puzzled.
“Well—" She looked about the
clean, - ugly, disinfectant-scented
room; her shrug indictated the
clean, ugly, disinfectant-scented in-
stitution behind it. - “Do you like
it here?” she asked simply.
His old face flush painfully.
“No, ma’am. Nobody could like it
here,” he answered firmly. “My
pride—you may smile to hear me
talk of pride—" :
‘I wasn't smilin’,” Emma said,
blinking and swallowing.
“The state’s generosity I deeply
appreciate,” old Lucas Rippey said,
with his favorite forlorn attempt at
literary flourish. ‘But I've by no
means made up my mind to re-
main. I ain't sixty-four yet.”
Emma Huggett was silent for a
thoughtful moment, considering. "I
have a real nice ranch, down in the
Santa Clara valley,” she began sud-
denly. “My husband got it from his
folks. I have fruit and chickens—
barns—everything.”
“I guess that's down Linden
Creek way?” he hazarded.
‘That’s in California,” Mrs. Hug-
gett said briefly. .
‘Well, for pity’s sakes!” he
ejaculated. “That's always ben a
great word with me,” he confessed.
“California.” It has a real pretty
sound. I've always thought I'd like
to see California.”
“I hope you will, the woman said
ineloquently. :
‘Ain't it some considerable dis-
tance away?” Lucas Rippey asked
respectfully.
“It's well over twelve hundred
miles by rail,” she said. :
“You be'n visitin’ back here?” he
pursued, puzzled.
“No; I come to find you.”
This left him speechless. He
smiled his polite, appreciative smile.
“For forty pe I've been sayin’
this to you,” ma Huggett pres.
ently began, in a determined voice.
“I don’t know as I ever imagined
Ahm
avy
I would find you in a State Home.
or that somewhere, sooner or later,
I'd be sayin’ it. - :
“You ‘spent sixteen years in pris.
on for a crime you didn't commit,
and it -was my fault,” she summariz.-
ed it. “I don’t know, Lucas, that
an in the world can make it
up to you,” she added, and there
W a wistful softening in her
face as she looked at him.
: ess I didn’t amount to much,
anyways,” he said tly.
“That’s neither here nor there;
that don’t lessen what I done,” she
persisted.
“Well, I always say I've had
more time than most men for read-
in’,” Lucas said cheerfully. “I'm a
great hand for a book. Adventures
—I seem to share ’em with the au.
thors!”
‘Pm well fixed,” the woman said,
not listening.
“And you live in California 2”
“I was tellin’ youu Tve got a
ranch—chickens and fruit—outside
a place called Santa Clara.”
. He looked from the high institu-
tion window at barren fields level
under Japuary’s snows. “You don’t
have no snow there?”
“My alfalfa was three inches up
this New Year's day.”
“For pity’s sakes!”
“I had a big room fixed off the
kitchen for my father,” Mrs. Hug-
gett presently observed. “He had
sciatic, and he couldn't climb
stairs. I have a radio down there
and a phonograph and an airtight.
He was comfortable there. I've got
an old car you could drive.
“I'd do for you,” she said hum-
bly, thickly her voice trembling, and
her big bare hands beginning to
tremble, too. “I'd do for you just
as I done for Father. There's lots
youd like to do about the place.
There’s a Portuguese girl helps
me with dishes and cleanin’, but
I'm one to run my own kitch-
en and I'd like to have someone to
cook for agin.”
“I don’t know as I understand
what you're drivin’ at,” Lucas said,
clearing his throat.
“It isn’t in any way makin’ up to
you,” she persisted stubbornly.
“Why,” he said kindly, pityingly,
“what you done you done as a lit-
tle girl I wouldn't hold that.
against you! Nobody wouldn't. You
seen a good chance to show off-—
ghilgren’sl do that—that ain’t noth-
“I never thought, if I ever did
find you, that you'd kill me, sayin’
that,” she observed, as he paused.
“I'll get you your ticket, I'll. make
all arrangements, and I'll meet you
at San Jose station,” she added.
The tears had come into her eyes;
with the difficult words;. tears stood !
in his bright old blue eyes as he’
answered her.
“Why, I don’t hardly suppose
you're askin’ me to leave the State |
Home, Emma?” he faltered.
She made an awkward gesture,
laughed thickly, frowned again.
“Well! You take me completely
by surprise,” said Lucas. “Well!
This is surely unexpected.”
“It’s the one thing in this world
that I want to do.” :
“Gettin’ out, huh?” he mused.
And there were already wings in
his voice. ‘I'd be glad to get out,”
he whispered, suddenly shaken. _
“This is a hard place to be —
a proud man.” His voice thickened;
he was still. “I wouldn't be no bur-
den to you!” he assured her recov-
ering. {
“I wouldn't care if you were.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be. I could do a
good deal of cartin’, in that car—I
can drive any make there is,” he
said. eagerly. “And there’s nothing
I dont’ know about chickens. Hosses
—I haven't had so much dealin’
with them. But chickens—there’s
money in them. And I ain't a sick
man you know. T've always be'n a
worker, only it was winter comin’ on,
and myself well along in years, and
they bein’ apprehensive that I'd take
another chest cold.”
“You won't get any colds in Santa
Clara.”
“Clarifornia!” he said rapt. “Well,
I declare, I didn’t know, when I got
up this mornin’—it shows how little
trust we put in Providence. Seems
we never know what’s comin’!”
She sat heavily silent watching
him anxiously. : :
“I take this very kindly of you,
Emma,” he said considering.
“It’s like a dream to me that I've
found you, Lucas, and you aren't
dead and I can maybe make up the
hundredth part of what I done to
ou!” 2 oy
y “We ain’t responsible for what we
do as children.”
“No, but we cap pay for it, Lucas.
I've been ’ for forty years.’
“Sho!” gl Sooo),
“If they'd sent you to the chair,
then I would have spoke!” she burst
out miserably. ‘There wasn’t ever
any doubt in my mind about that!
But there were extenuatin’ circum-
stances, and you was only tried for
manslaughter. And meanwhile, they
were all makin’ a fuss about me—
reporters and court—everyone. I
kept tryin’ to cut it down, and they'd
praise me for that, too.
“My folks moved away, but I made
a birl back home promise she'd let
she never wrote me. After that I
tried to put you out of mind and to
forget the whole A
“But I couldn't. It rode me day
and night. It come between me and
everything right and sweet about
my marriage and my children. There
wasn't one of 'em born but I didn’t
look down at his little face and say
to myself, ‘I wonder if some hyster-
ical girl of thirteen is goin’ to swear
your good name and your future
away
. “You spent sixteen years in jail
for a crime you didn't commit.
But I've been forty years in tor-
ment, Lucas, I used to pray that
the Lord would make it up to you
and punish me. But I never had the
courage to come out and confess.
No livin’ soul ever knew what you
and I know. I was afraid.”
“I don’t know but what I've had
the best of it, Emma. I haven't
ever be'n much of a success,” the
man said. “But I don't know’s
T've ever be'n afraid, either. You
mustn't feel too bad.”
“T want you to come and Hve in
comfort and independence on my
: my way out.” :
,a farm again,” he said.
me know what happened to you. But | P
place,” she 8said. “If I'm ever to
have another moment of peace, it'll
be due to you. It’s been burnin’ in
my soul for ten years that that was
“Well, you certainly are a good
woman,” he said slowly.
Tm not a good woman at all
I'm the: murderer, not ‘you. I hard-
ly knew you, and I did to you what
a savage wouldn't done to his enemy.
There’s no happiness I could give
you that'd clear me, I know that.
But if putterin’ about the farm and
feelin’ that you were a free man,
with something put by in the bank,
in case I was suddenly took—if
that'd mean anything to you, Lucas,
late as it is now to make amends,
why, it'd be a charity to me to let
me do it!”
He blinked with wet, smiling
eyes. But he spoke sturdily. ‘If it'd
aean ABR Bi 1
don’t know as folks realize just
what this kind of a place is like,
eatin’ amongst a lot of paupers and
beggars and fellers that aren’t men-
tally straight. If I ask for a shirt or
a sweater or a pair of pants, she un-
locks the wardrobe and hands me
out the first one she sees—I don’t
blame her, she’s not got any reason
to respec’ me—but I haven't stopped
respectin’ myself, just the same.
don’t know that there’s been an hour
how hard it is. A man likes a little
peace and privacy,” he explained
simply.
‘I'm alone now,” the woman said.
“My husband was a good man, but
he was hard. He died awhile back;
my boy died in the flu year. The
little feller died when he wasn’t but
four, and my girl married a mission-
ary and lives in China. But I'm well
fixed. I'm not complainin’.
“Only, there hasn't been a day of
my life I haven't thought of you. I
don’t know that there's been an hour
when I haven't remembered that hot
Easter Sunday, back home, when
Kane Madison was murdered, and
when I, a smug little girl with long
‘curls, stood up and lied away your
life!”
“You wasn’t nothing but a kid,
Emma.”
“I knew better'n that, though.”
“I certainly would enjoy livin’ on
“I'm coun-
try-bred, and trees and fields seem
to say something to me.”
She was looking at him wistfully;
there was something of humble en-
. treaty, something of admiration, in
her dull look. “There's just one
thing more to say,” she began ab-
ruptly. “I want you to understand
that the obligation in this matter
isn’t on your side.
It seems to me
you've already done more for me,
Lucas, than I'm ever goin’ to be able
to do for you!”
Six weeks later she walked down
to the barn, on a hot March morn-
ing, to tell him that luncheon was
ready. Supper was never anything
but warm-over biscuits and tea and
fruit sauce and such nursery fare,
: but luncheon was a daily triumph for
Emma, who was a master hand with
chicken tapioca gravy and aspara-
gus omelet.
The air was blue and singing, this
morning, and all about the white
farm-house the lilacs were in flow-
er. The yard was pleasantly littered
with ropes and planks and odds and
ends; a bridal wreath had burst like
t| a pop-corn ball under the low win-
dow of Lucas’ kitchen chamber, and
up the slope of the hiil-side plum
trees were white masses of bloom
against a celestial sky.
The barn stood in a slight depres-
sion too shallow to be called a can-
yon; mighty oaks were scattered
among the shabby old buildings;
the windmill was flanked by tow-
ering, tasseled eucalyptus trees. A
calf was bleating somewhere out
of sight; chickens were talking and
picking near the line of whitewash-
ed farm buil S.
Lucas was sitting on a backless
chair, mending something with a
neat leather thong. The spring
sunlight fell graciously upon his
comfortable relaxed old figure in its
muddy corduroys and thick sweat-
er; he was whistling to himself as
he worked, an Airedale attentive
and adoring at his knee. i
“If you aren't whitewashin‘ some-
thing, you're mendin’ it!” Emma
commented, with an air of dryness.
“That Portygee brcke his milkin’-
stol strap,” Lucas explained.
“You're a great hand for jobs,”
she said, smiling.
His delight in the little farm had
made her see it with new eyes. Joe
Huggett had been a sufficiently
i ied rancher, but there had
been no romance in his attitude.
Lucas, a broken old jailbird from ,
the poorhouse, saw enchantment
everywhere. The place seemed to
gain an entity, a personal fascina-
tion, under his eager care. '
Since Joe's death Emma had tos.
sed her weekly copy of Farm and
Orchard unopened upon a heap on
the desk in the dining room. Lucas
had fed upon these hungrily, had
drawn her into discussions of prun-
ing and henhouses.
He wanted to try a hive one of
these days; he had theories about '
acacia honey. He was already
“Uncle Luke” to the Portuguese
who worked intermittently on the
lace; Carolina, the kitchenmaid,
adored him. i
He was happy, and Emma Hug-
gett, watching him witsfully as he
expanded in this new atmosphere
of comfort and liberty, felt in her |
own sore heart a certain satisfac-
tion that was somewhat like happi- |
ness, too. The old car was a Cin
derella coach to him; he worked
over it, tinkered with it, kept it.
shining. His own books and lamp, |
his coffee cup with the pink roses
on it, the instant allegiance of the
dog, these were things in which he |
took untiring delight.
“Lunch time?” he said, when she
had inspected the milking stool.
“If you're goin’ to be a real
farmer, Lucas, you ought to call it
dinner.”
‘Well, that’s right, too.” He walk-
ed along beside her through ovened
gates and corrals. “This feels
more like June than March!” he
said. And then suddenly, “Say, lis-
ten—listen. I've got a bone to
pick with you. What's all this
about ?”
He drew from his pocket an
envelope, a typewritten letter, a
small- brown book.
BY
Her sad face brightened only a
shade Oh, yes!” she said. - “Yes-
terday - was the first. "I put some
meoney—fifty dollars—to your ac-
count.” aa on,
“I'don't need money!” he pro-
tested, “I've - got some of that
check you sent the superintendent.
I haven't no more use for money
here than Captain has!”
. The dog leaped at the kindly old
tana that dropped to his shaggy
ead. ; .
“I'd pay a foreman more'n that,
Lucas.” :
“Why, but sho !” he said. “I eat
= weight in butter and eggs every
y.”
“You don’t eat much,” she said
quietly.
“It'll just accumulate there at the
bank,” he said stubbornly.
-“It’s a good place for it.”
‘I want to tell you something that
may make you feel Emma,”
the man said suddenly. “I've kind-
er wanted to say it for some time,
and I may's well say it now. Td
live the life I've lived all over again,
to have it come out like it has now.”
“There isn't any money in the
bank that could buy your sayin’
that,” she said simply.
“We don’t know what governs
our destinies,” he went on. “What
I'd have be'n without them long
years of incarceration, who can
say? I was destined to endure
‘em, and you destined to eat your
heart out with regret. But we don’t
know but what all's for the best.”
He stopped, innocently pleased with
his own oratory.
She sighed deeply, frowned.
“You've got a sweeter nature than
I have Lucas.”
“It don’t take a very sweet na-
turre to appeciate havin’ health and
some work to do,” he suggested.
“Remorse is the thing that ages
Jou and eats into your night’s rest,
the woman observed, in her hope-
less way. ‘You might well forgive
and forget because you're innocent.
But I keep goin’ over and over it.
Ma and gran’'ma were inthe Kkitch-
en when I got home that Easter
afternoon, and I'll never forget Ma’s
holdin’ out the paper to me ‘See
about Susan Clute, and her folks
sendin’ her East for violin lessons?’
she says. Sue’d always had every-
thing I wanted.
“It kinder made me sick, the rest
of that afternoon. I changed my
dress and bathed my face and took
a good long drink of water out at
the pump, I remember, but I was
just shakin’, inside.
“About six o'clock Mrs. Tenney
came runnin’ over and she told Ma
about Kane Madison bein’ murdered.
‘T'd like to know where Lucas Rip-
pey was this afternoon, ’she says;
in a scared sort of whisper, ‘because
everyone knows he and Kane were
both after Thelma Cass.’
“Then I spoke up. Right out of a
clear sky I says, ‘Why, I saw Lucas
Rippey up near the Madison place
this afternoon !” I says. The
minute I said it I knew I was done
for. They both turned to me.
“Then you know where poor Kane
was found?’ Mrs. Tenney says.
“It must have been somewhere
near the house,’ I says, at random,
not knowin’ whether she'd know I
was lyin’ then and there, and say
that the body was down near the
railroad . tracks or something. But
no, she just looked ' scareder than
ever, and she says, “Yes. He was
layin’ right across the doorsill.’
“After that I went on. As dif-
ferent neighbors came in, I'd tell it
all afresh. And when Judge Rob-
bins come, the next day, I was as
an old shoe with the details about
how you spoke of me, and how you
were buryin’ something and asked
me not to say I'd seen you. I was
crazy, that’s the only explanation.
They had halted in the shadow of
the barn at the dooryard fence. The
lilac blossoms near them moved ina
soft breath of wind and were still.
“Ithought we was goin’ to forget
all this, Emma.”
She laughed a brief
laugh, with a note of shame and
gratitude in it. “Yes, that's the
sensible thing to do.’
“I don’t know as it matters much
what you do with your life long’s
you end it right,” Lucas said
thoughtfully.
troubled
“I know. But as if there ast
trouble enough in the world, to send
an innocent man to prison! Lucas,”
Everything delighted him, every
Waking, -@ ih a hour
Of his by usy.. pu ter ring Ay was: a
chickens. as" if ‘they had been human
entities; the old plow horses came
over: to thie” “fence, and rested
their great shaggy heads there,
when Lucas was busy in the farm.
yard; the Airedale crushed his
hairy length against Lucas’ porch
door at night, and whined and mut-
tered from time to time in a very
ecstasy of love.
She regarded the sunshiny old
face wistfully, painfully. “No
hasut ever embittered you, Lucas.”
“No,” e F conside ;
“Don’t know’s aa fgg.
‘But weren't you thunderstruck
when I, the minister's niece, come
out with all that rigmarole?”
| “Yes, I was, as I recall it. I was
real surprised.” : :
“It was my evidence that done
it, Lucas.’
“Emma, can’t you forgive and for-
get?” v
' Emma laughed in desperation,
seeing the sympathetic look upon his
kindly rosy old face.
+. ‘T tell you there’s many a mil.
lionaire of sixty-five that'd change
places with me!” he assured her
over and over again.
One hot July noon he and she
were alone on the shabby, shadowy
side porch. The sky was whitish.
blue, the fig tree shadows seemed to
pulsate with a green light. In the
orderly dooryard pepper plumes
hung motionless, filling the air with
pungent scent. Chickens were
fluffiing and complaining in the
shadow of the stable lane; the wind-
mill - wheel was lifeless. Now and
then the dog sighed and moaned
faintly in his sleep.
Emma, always restlessly active,
was stringing beans with quick ex-
pert movements of knife and fingers.
Lucas was tinkering patiently with
a flytrap, bending the wire gauze
carefully, whistling under his breath.
He glanced at his companion now
and then; stopped whistling. ‘Heat's
given ye kinder a headache, ‘has it,
Emma ?”
She raised heavy eyes. “No, I
don’t know as my head aches,” she
said slowly.
He worked on again in silence,
and again gave her an uneasy look.
“Emma,” he said suddenly, “there’s
something I want to say to you.”
She glanced up expectantly; his
tone was odd. Her hands were still
‘I've had this on my mind for
some time,” Lucas began. His old
face had reddened painfully. He
hesitated, looking at her doubtfully.
“This may make kind of a differ.
ence—he said, and stopped.
“What ever on earth are you talk-
in’ about, Lucas?” .
“You've be’n very kind to me,”
the old man resumed, forcing him-
self on. “And it's only right you
should. know.”
“Know what?” she asked, nervous
'and impatient.
“Emma,” he said, “would it sur-
‘prise you to know that I done it?’
She looked at him blankly, heavi-
ly, not in the least understanding.
“I mean, that you was right
about Kane Madison?” Lucas said.
The burning, difficult color of
middle age spread to her own face.
Her eyes not leaving his, she auto-
matically put aside her panful of
beans and raised her fingers to press
her throat.
| “Yessir, I done it,”
Lucas then
stated flatly in an expressionless
voice. 6
| “Y.you,” she stammered, and
swallowed with a dry throat. “You
!—why Lucas Rippey,” she added
sharply, ‘you don’t know what
you're sayin’!”
“Yes, I do, Emma,” he persisted
| simply.
i For a long moment she watched
‘him steadily almost fearfully. “You
. wasn't anywheres near the Madison
i place !” she whispered at last.
| “Becuz Kane Madison wa’nt killed
lat his own place. He was killed at
. Lenhart’s barn, and he run all the
way home.” : :
'! Her eyes flashed as she consider-
‘ed this. .
© “Twa’'nt possible,” she breathed.
still watching him as if fascinated.
' “That's the way it was, though
Emma.”
“Oh, my Lord!” she murmured
looking away. Her hand was
clutching her heart now.
she added abruptly, in a quickened ' ‘I hit him with a pipe in Len
ror on ! hart’s,”” Lucas resumed. “He backec
voice, ‘who did kill Kane Madison? | me up the ladder and he was tant.
“I don’t know. We had a fight | C
in’ me about Thelma. I useter g¢
st fre ery sane, wi nga, oy me shou” Thins, Ture
was proved in court. We fought over [€d me like that I uster go craz)
Thelma—she'd got into trouble, and |€Ven before I left the orphanage
he was sorter laughin’ at me about | The matron knew it. Don’t ge
ft 'Y don't know when I've got so : Litoas in a tantrum,” she usete
mad—all of a sudden. | Sha
“But that wa’nt all the score be- | aces, you never killed Kan
twixt Kane Madison and me. Ever eon way
since I'd be'n a little jellerin grade “Voit hit Him oh the head?"
d 2, hed ben bullyiey s ti He | “Down at Lenhart’s, that Sunda:
x {0 twist oY a ey | afternoon. He run out the side doo
but I never dast to tell anybody. I and went streakin’ up through th
. ? 'medder. I run after him for :
hated 2 m, sil right; . Jou have | piece, yellin’ at him that he couldn’
i ee {talk to me that way, that I'd kil
“This afternoon he come into Len- hi Th a s Ss 4
hart’s stable wiilles? jordin it for i Tm. Soars f Toi io Dac Ey
Leno Le 1d ane = Jugs 0 from | ed, right there in the middle of th
me woud lize a 8 stable, that he wouldn't die.”
Thelma. I wasn’t Rover 2 Yegulas “But a7 The is}
BO ty Rn nae i let they found in the Madisn kitch
S ’ ; A ) that had blood on it?”
I count bear to think of her bein | oP kaa Dd OE sr askehall
in trouble. . , s
“He backed me up to he loft lad- used So hammer a Steak wilh, lik
Se a a Ion thon ii knew I'd Furt him considerabk
handle—like they brought out in| There was blood on the pipe, a
court—and I yelled at him thal Ie 3 "got Op from" hy Reucel * Seare
A Et io 0) that "true | to death, and I says out loud, “Ty
guough, and that I run out after go 10 3 ger ou or bre! : ue Zot :
m. , \
‘He run across the fields towards |of come to me that no, better han
home. But I never followed him. I atound and ae Ihnocent. So 1 wel
went up into the woods and laid out and wa the gas pipe
troft and threw it down in the su
down on the grass all afternoon, on the dry grass.”
hatin’ him.” 2
“ “Your sleeves was wet when the
Lucas +” thon, Who. oid Kill im, took you!” she whispered, struck.
“Mysteries of the missin’!” he| “Yes. from washin’ the pipe.
washed my hands good, too, ar
then I prayed some more. My motl
er had be’'n a great believer, and
says, ‘T'll believe, too, if You getn
out of this!” Well I've come to b
lieve !” he replied, with his sum
old smile. “But I had a long wt
to go before I found God.”
“Lucas,” the woman said, a
(Continued on page 3, Col. &)
said cheerfully.
He admitted himself that he was
“great’ on mystery stories. But
then, Emma would muse a little
enviously, he was ‘great’ on every-
thing. She was well past her half-
century mark, but she had never
met anyone like Lucas before—un-
less an occasional vital enthusiastic
child were like him.