vvkir &
OR
HI wIC EY
WHICH?
How Ono Woman Solved the DrlnK Question
In Five Minutes. "Women Can How Have All
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I believe that. I believe every drinking man
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jrtrT* lety over my hus
band, who tiled to
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V ■:*' r .J,) found out tbat the
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4 * <■'■** sStt> ■ vice at ail, but a
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vv> >Sr 111' 1 bard drinker
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V r rm*rj' more than be did leo
"i J tuns. and so, actlce
\ i 'i on tliat theory, l
J <ound the p.-opor
1 remedy and cured
' him.
jf 1 vigJL Since then X have
" ' scores of women
tbontUwsimple,home treatmentius"<iand they,
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•' * Send no money; I have nothing to sell.
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nIH j»Y R ICHSWftUTte'JK
II 1 (*Ma Oniaaga.
IN THE SHADOW
OF SHAME
By Fitzgerald Molioy
Copyright by E. Fitzgerald Molioy.
Sjruopßiß of Preceding Chapters
Olive Pnmbartoii. after the separation from
her brutal husband, becomes successful authoress
and lives quietly villi her daughter, Veronica, in
1 lex ton Hoad, m. .John's Wood, Loudon. Her hus
band i-cert tly returns io London and by letter inaices
further dt*mauds tor money. Iler couniu Valerius
<;nlbraith, a mini of independent wealt wlio has
been in love with her since early vouth, calls to say
fan well before blurting on a trip to Kgypt. A fort
night later Olive Dumbarton 1« found in her lihrarv
holding a dagger over tli»' dead body «»f her hushanu.
She in arrested auu held for trial, and detectives are
put on the < ase. (ieorgo l'.ostoek. the publisher, and
Valerius (iaibraith take an active Interest iu the in
vestlgatlons, and the former is shadowed by Inspector
Mackworth Angela Me/za, an Italian woman, bwears
to Mrs.Dumbarton and Inspector Mackworth tlut the
murder was committed by her husband. After follow
ing inanychi' S. how< vi r, the Inspector finds that
NTezza dl» (i In a hospital several hours} before the mur
der of Dumbarton. George ltostock H run OMT bv a
horse and upon lie lag assured that he will shortly die,
bweara before witnesses that he is the murderer.
On regaining the consciousness which
her cousin's words hail c- ised her to
lose, Olive Dumbarton's distress wa*
pitiful to witness.
One thing alone served after awhile
to rouse her thoughts and stir her ener
gies. The man who loved her must not
he allowed to lie under the imputation
of a crime, to which she felt sure he
had falsely confes d. lie must learn
while yet there was time that she would
not accept this sacrifice of him; or, if.
indeed, time was already a thing rf the
past for him, then his mem ry must ln 1
cleared, his innocence vindicated before
the world, and the less delay there was
made in the undertaking such a mission
lie more readily might it he effected.
Mackworth was ihe man who best
could help her in this task, which she
foresaw would be difficult * • accomplish;
for if the effort to prove her own blanie
k'?cness had hitherto been unsuccessful,
how much more impossible might it be
to establish the innocence of one who
liad confessed to guilt.
However, an effort in this direction
, ' ' Cl 'rtainly be made, and accordingly
, n , for the inspector. Her action
■• ti \ i e mpo strength, and when
Mackworth wa* annoince(l she rose
rotn the sofa where she , d , ai since
her recovery, and to nloet him.
I have heard of Mr. Tio stock . ,
! ger," she said feverishly. "Tlow j s j le _
have you heard any news since—
since "
"Since his efinfession?" the inspector
said, supplying the word she found it
difficult to employ. "No, madam; I have
heard nothing since."
"Is there no hope?"
"I fear not."
She sat down and pointed to a chair
near her, which he took, and then, when
=he had cleared the tears from her eyes
and braced herself, she began, in a nerv
ous, agitated manner;
"There's been a great mistake—of that
I am sure."
"How?" Mackworth asked, his mobile
face assuming an air of surprise.
'ln Mr. Bostock's confessing to a
crime of which he never was guilty."
"Not guilty!" exclaimed the inspector,
still more amazed.
'[ am certain he is innocent," she re
plied hurriedly.
"Rut what proof have you. madam?"
"I have no ah >lute proof."
Mackworth looked at her eager,
flushed face, with its earnest, pitiful ex
pression.
"I have none," she repeated, aware
of the little impression she made on him
and desperately anxious he should be
lieve her. "But I feel confident he, who
is one of the kindest, the most honor
able of men, would never commit such
a crime Knowing his life is drawing
to an end, he has made this confession
to Save me. That is all. He is inno
cent'*
"Then," asked Mackv/orth, as Ins eyes
met hers in a steady, searching stare, "if
he is innocent, who is guilty?"
She read the thought which flashed
across his tnind the thought v, hich
scared and made her jrcmb'o
"I cannot say," she replied hurriedly,
"but I know he >■ not'
"May I ask, n'aaam, how you know r
"My* heart tells me, my woman's in
sight assures me he is not," she an
wercd, realizing how important was her
argument.
"Such - tings will weigh hardly against
his own corfession."
She saw the force of hn words, and
knowing she had no reason to combat
it, her misery increased, the while he
watched her silently new suggestions
arising in his mind
Presently she burst:
"Why not continue your investiga
tions as if he had never made this con
fession ?"
"Because his confession has justified
and brought my investigations to an
end."
"I don't understand," she answered,
fear chilling her blood.
"Because, madam, I have suspected
and been watching him for some time,"
Mackworth said.
"Suspected him impossible I" she
cried out.
"I assure you it is true."
"On what grounds?"
"Those which I thought sufficient; I
cannot new enter into details," he re
plied, anxious to spare her feelings by
withholding from her the motive which
he considered led Bostock to the crime.
"I arn sure that one day you will find
that you are wrong," she said, her anx
iety visible in her eyes. "But is there
nothing that can be done meanwhile—
nothing that will disprove his state
ments ?"
"Nothing," answered Mackworth, as
he rose to leave, "nothing."
She did not seek to prolong an in
terview which had not only grievously
disappointed her, but filled her with de
spair.
"Nothing?" she repeated, and then
added, in a voice so low and broken
that the words seemed spoken to herself
rather than addressed to her hearer:
"God will protect the innocent."
Mackworth bowed and softly quitted
the room, leaving her more hopelessly
crushed by sorrow than when he had
entered. But on regaining his home and
enjoying the welcome of Shawn, and
the warmth of his fire, at which he
held his feet by turns before making
himself ready for supper, the questions
which had persistently presented them
PICTORIAL MAGAZINE AND COMIC SECTION
selves during his drive from St. John's
Wood again came before him.
How was it that the man and woman
who best knew George Bostock doubted
his confession of murder?
If he were not guilty of the crime, who
was ?
And w, y was Mrs. Dumbarton so cer.
tain of his innocence on such insufficient
evidence ?
The voice of his housekeeper an
nouncing that supper was ready inter
rupted his thoughts. Before taking off
his great coat he dived his hands into
his pockets and drew out tlie gloves la
had taken by mistake. lie looked at
them carefully, admirinp their color and
their daintiness before placing them on
the chimney-piece, where, being in sight,
he would not forget to return them. .
"I will take them to Mr. Galbraith to
morrow morning," Mackworth said as.
with Shawn at his heels, he left the
room.
CHAPTER XXII.
During the night following his con
fession George Bostock continued un
conscious of the world around him.
Throughout the leng and breadth of
London his name, associated always
with the crime of which he had de
clared himself guilty, was being read
and repeated, as it would be read and
repeated next day and for many days to
come, throughout Great Britain and
wherever news had Tready traveled of
the mysterious murder of David Dum
barton.
Now, on the morn' ig succeeding his
confession, George Bostock was once
more visited by Sir Pugin Tate, who
had been much interested from the first
in his patient. Since he had last seen
the publisher the fan.ous sttrireon had
pondered over the case, when it occurred
to him that the 'angerous symptoms
which had unexpectedly set in were due
to compression of the brain by a clot
of blood, which probally occupied the
site of the removed bone and extended
beneath the skull for some way. The
removal of this clot, which doubtless
had set into a stiff mass and adhered to
surrounding structures, would prove a
'•e icatv? and critical operation, not with
out immediate danger, but yet attended
As he approached the lamp-light, Quintan saw that he looked pale and troubled.
by the possibility of the patient's re
covery.
Left alone, George Bostock must in
all human probability i'ie in a few days;
this operation would either hasten that
death or prolong his life. The question
as to whether it would be wise that his
.life should be saved, now that by his
confession he had endangered, its liberty
or limited its duration was not one into
which the surgeon > iered. It was his
duty to ignore the problem and if pos
sible to save his patient from death.
The pride he justly felt in the skilled
practice of a fM-eat science urged him
forward to a trial of the experiment,
and eventually he decided to undertake
the operation.
Therefore, early in the morning Sir
Pugin Tate once more stood beside
George Bostock, who was quite uncoil
scious, the loss of power in his left side
complete, his temperature reaching to
one hundred and seven, his pulse to sev
enty. And again did the surgeon ex
amine the wound in all its bearings, a
resolute expression in his massively
moulded face. Then bracing himself, he
prepared to wage war with death for the
iife of one who must remain unconscious
of the struggle.
An hour later he left the hospital, sat
isfied with the work he 1 ad so skilfully
performed, though as yet unable to
gauge its results. Early in the after
noon he was baok again by the bedside
of the publisher, in whom there was
outwardly little apparent change. Sir
Pugin, however, was hopeful.
"His temperature has become normal,''
he remarked to the house sttr. on
"Yes; it went down quickly."
"Has he shown any signs of con
sciousness in my absence?"
"None whatever."
"I expect he will before to-morrow,"
said Sir Pugin. "I will come again and
see him to-night. Have him carefully
watched meanwhile."
And when the next day came the
great surgeon was able to assure him
self that his hopes were realized, that
his operation had been beyond all doubt
successful.
After leaving his cousin's house on
the evening when, overcome by jealous
fury, he had insinuated that her love
fur George Rostock was responsible for
her husband's murder, Valerius had
walked about the neighborhood heedless
of where he went, so long as he avoided
crowds and traffic, bis mind in a state
of fierce rebellion against the woman
whose presence he had quitted, against
the man for whom she had confessed
her love.
All the affection Valerius had felt for
her throughout his life turned to bit
terness at the avowal she had made;
the dislike he had ever entertained to
ward Bostock had deepened to. hate. For
the publisher had succeeded in gaining
what he, Valerius, had from boyhood
sought in vain to win. That she had
denied to him was freely given to one,
who, by comparison, was a stranger.
With a rapid pace he traversed wind
ing roads and long avenues, now almost
deserted, dead leaves from the rapidly
baring branches fluttering in his face,
the sharp ring of his footsteps on the
frosty paths audible at long distances,
his thoughts in wild disorder his face
distorted by passion, Irs feelings out
raged, jealousy stinging him to madness.
Not until a couple of hours had
passed did he, without becoming con
scious of the fact, slacken his pace
through sheer weariness, and his emo
tions having meanwhile reached their
highest pitch of fury, now began to sub
side. Th'-n he reflected on the part he
had recently played, his thoughts com
ing to the subject casually and flittingly
at first, afterward with steady persist
ency that was all the more welcome, be
cause it served to inflict upon him fresh
pain, motv acute than he. had yet felt.
The indolence, the bitterness, the cru
elty of his words stocd out before him
in their true colors, and he reviewed
and realized the cowardice, the inhu
manity, the injustice of his bearing to
ward her he had eve loved, whom he
loved now more than ever. And as he
viewed his conduct in this light, his con
tempt and loathing for himself were
only equalled by his compassion and af
fection for her.
To strike her down ith such a wea
pon as he had used, • such a time as
he had sought, was to have behaved as
a despicable scoundrel, as an unmanly
wretch. What words of his could now
take from her the pain he had inflicted,
which must rankle in her mind and poi
son her peace for many a day to come?
\\ hat deed of his could make reparation
for the wrong he h 1 done her 112 He
paused in his walk and leaned against
a wall for support, dazed and. weary, all
indignation, all hate having burned them
selves out of his heart, which was now
full of remorse and pity.
And for long her- .ained there lost
in thought, the past, zith all the pleas
ures he had know.i in association with
her, thronged back from unforgotten
years; the future, with all its uncer
tainty, humiliation, pain and terror, ris
ing before him.
A sudden chill from the bitter night
air striking through im brought him
consciousness of the present. One
thing at least he resolved must be done
without delay; he woulr" seek the i> •
man he had grievously insulttJ, assure
her his words were not the cutcome of
conviction, but of passion, and beg of
her to forgive him the "am he had
caused her. With thi intention he set
forward, but the road in which he found
himself was unfamiliar, and having with
some trouble discdveied its name, he
knew not in which di» ction it led, or to
where he should turn in search of his
destination.
Resolutely he set out, looking for
some familiar landmark until, eventually
coming in sight of a church, he recog
nized his bearings anc* madr straight for
the Hexton road. Throughout hi", walk
his determination to seek Olive Dum
barton's pardon never wavered until com
ing within sight of her house, when the
lateness of the hour and its unsuitability
for a visit struck him. He looked at
his watch and saw it was long past mid
night. For all that, he went to the gar
den gate, and, pushing it, found, as he
had expected, that it was locked. He
then stepped across to the other side of
the road, that he might see the upper
windows of the house, which were all in
darkness.
With mingled feelings of relief and re
gret he saw that the moment of the meet
ing must be postponed; but he was in
no hurry to quit the spot, fatWie from
his long walk, weariness from the con
flict of his thoughts and the . .ction of
his excitement set in upon him, and he
rested there against the wall which faced
the house, satisfied to wait until chance
should send in his way a passing cab
that would drive him home.
And as he lingered there, his thoughts
full of Olive Dumbarton, the chill which
follows on inaction after exercise
struck him again, the more read
ily that he was clad in evening
dress, whereupon he wrapped the
heavy folds of his Inverness cape
around his chest and throat. Then, feel
ing more comfortable, he fell into a
reverie, from which he was eventually
aroused by a hand being pressed upon
his right arm, when, recovering himself
with a start, he gazed at the man before,
and recognized the anxious, frightened
face of Ouinton Qttave.
"It's you, Mr. Galbraith," he said, 111
almost breathless wonder.
Valerius, waking from his reverie, re
turned his gaze, and in a quiet voice,
like that of one not yet aroused from
sleep, replied, "Yes, it is I."
Quinton withdrew a sten, not knowing
what to say or how to explain his con
duct ; then, without pausing to consider
his words, he remarked:
"I was quite startled at first by see
ing you here."
"Indeed. .May Task why?" Valerius
coollv asked.
"Well, I could have sworn, and yet
could swear, it was you I saw here 011
the night Dumbarton was killed; that is,
if T didn't know you were then in Paris."
"That shows how readily you might
be mistaken, and how easily you could
bear false witness," answered Valerius,
in the same deadly calm and emphatic
manner he had assumed from the first." •
"I suppose it does; and yet "
"Well?" Galbraith said, as Quinton
hesitated and stared.
"The likeness between you and him
seems remarkable."
"Yet you see how you have blun
dered."
"Of course," replied Ouintofi, but his
voice failed to express the conviction of
his error.
"Why you see me here to-night," Va
lerius explained, "is because I am anx
ious about ni" cousin. When I brought
her news of Bostnck's confession she
naturally received a great shock, from
which she had not recovered before I
left. When I was able I returned to
make inquiries, and found, as it was
later than 1 thought, that the house wAs
in darktiess. I therefore remaine 1 here I
a few minutes to make sure all was quite
well."
"I see," replied Quinton, who had as
yet been unable to overcome his amaze
ment or to recover from his sense of
mystery with which this meeting inspired
him.
If Valerius saw this his behavior be
trayed no sign of his "perception. Judg
ing from his manner, there was nothing
more unusual in this encounter than if
it had happened at midday instead of
midnight and been the result of expec
tation instead of the cause of surprise.
"And now," he said, "that I have sat
isfied myself 110 grounds for uneasiness
pexist, I will go; I dare say I shall find
a cab as I walk homeward."
Tie had moved forward as he spoke,
and as he approached the lamplight
Qtiinton saw that he looked pale and
troubled. And when they had said
"good-night" and parted, Quinton, stand
ing at the entrance to the garden front
ing his father's house, watcheif Valerius
as his figure disappeared down the road
and into the darkness, a puzzled look
upon the young man's face, perplexing
thoughts rising in his mind, a sense of
something ominous chilling his blood,
(To be continued.)
A Chronicle of the
Rear Guard.
By LEO CRANE,
'(Copyrighted.)
The old man, bent and showing
plainly the touch of age in his dragging
step, plodded along contentedly, tapping
the staff upon the crisp and hardened
earth, and occasionally resting in the
fence corners to view the stretches of
hilly country. Upon a distant rise a
line of shadowy trees were gauntly sil
houetted against the steely blue of the
fall sky. their branches an endless
tangle of black and rustling arms. Here
and there a blotch of vivid crimson
shone in the painted glare of the even
ing sun, a token that the sacrifice of
browned leaves to the failing year had
not yet ceased. They crisply crackled
in the chilling breath of the coming
night wind. In the dim distance a thin
wreath of smoke whirled lazily and dis
appeared, showing where a forest fire
smouldered, and adding a bleak touch to
the drawing of early winter.
A flock of dirty sheep huddled to
gether in the half twilight of the lonely
road. A few straggled alone, now
rustling knee deep in leafy billows of
russet red and gold, now trampling
down the last patch of bright-hued flow
ers in a desert was'. J of their dried fel
lows. A boy, young, tousle-haired and
tattered, followed at their heels, whist
ling and waving a gnarled stick vigor
ously, now calling in a fresh and shrilly
voice at the laggards.
"How are ye, sonny?" greeted the old
man kindly.
"Pretty well, sir, I thank ye," returned
the boy.
"Likely lot o' sheep," ventured the
man, plodding in step with the boy and
urging on a stubborn animal.
"Middlin' fair," acquiesced the boy,
glancing at him curiously.
one that belongs to me," he said proudly,
"that young one. Pap giv him to me
last year. His name's Dan, same's
mine."
This information was given with an
air of quiet importance and a shy glance
to notice the effect. There was a brief
silence.
"Ye ain't from these parts," stated
the boy, half inquiringly.
"No—ain't been here fur nigh forty
year. Long time that. * * * Don't
s'pose ye remember back that far,
sonny? Last time I was here I got a
drink of water from the well just around
the bend. Live at the house, sonny?"
"Why, ye mean Jim Potter's. lie's
a mean cuss. Forty year—why, that
must hev' been durin' the war, hey?"
"Yes,'' acknowledged the man, "that
was durin' the war. There was Billy
Martin an' Sam Woodward an' Jim
Lock in our company. We all stopped
at the next house an' got a drink o'
well water —remember it just like yes
terday. Billy, lie were killed at the last
Wilderness fight; Sam Woodward, he
pegged out at Richmond, an' Lock,
lemme sec —Lock finished at Beaver
Dam Creek. All gone, them fellers —
all gone."
"What were ye ' asked the boy, look
ing at him suspiciously through half
closed eyes. "What were ye?"
"Johnny Reb," said the man quietly.
"S'pose I'm one of the rearguard now.
* * * Y,. Sj they're most all gone.
My company's all gone but mf "
"Say, you come home with me an'
git that drink o' well water. Pap'll be
glad to see ye, and 'sides, if I do say
it m'self, he's a greeb'er man than Jim
Potter, and 'sides, the water's better."
"No. * * * Guess I'd better stop
at Potter's fur the water. Stopped there
last time, ye know. * * * Me an'
Billy Martin an' Sam Woodward an'—
an'—who's that other feller I said a
minute ago? Lock. * * * Yes, me
an' Jim Lock."
"Say," said the bov, in a voice of awe,
"did ye do any fightin' 'round here?"
"Well, now, sir. I certainly think we
did. Why, along this yer road was noth
in' but dead an' dyin' men. That 'ere
ditch was full of 'em, and that 'ere hill
side, why,"l tell ye, sir, they were as
thick as bees."
"My!" exclaimed the wondering boy.
"Pap never told me 'bout that.''
They stopped at Potter's and waited
until the old man drained his tin of
well water. lie mouthed it.and tasted
it various ways, and then, holding the
j cup in hand, thought about it. Then
they trudged after the sheep, picking tip
one here and there and calling at them
harshly.
"Taste the same?" asked the boy.
"Much the same"—then, with a dry
laugh—"long time between drinks.
Forty year—considerable time."
The peaked roof of a tumble-down
house loomed up at an angle of the
road, a place as old as the countryside
and not half as fresh.
"Where's pap?" bawled the boy to a
smaller urchin playing in the dirt.
"Ain't come home from the cuttin'
vet.'' replied the other.
"Won't ye come in?'' he invited the
veteran.
"Think I'll walk a piece up the hill
side there. * * * That's where we
had our last stand. Old Simpson's bat
tery held it and nigh onto four hun
dred men killed up. Want togo 'long?"
"Course," said the boy.
"Ye see," said the man, waving his
cane in an explaining sweep over the
country, "all this yer section were full
of Rebs and Yanks, but mostly Yanks.
We came up this yer road, and in the
first day's fightin' took that 'ere hill
and held it all the second day. Mac
held the other road an' rushed troops
up fast, an' took that other hill from
Larkins' men, an' drove 'em straight
across the open, killin' 'em like so many
sheep. Then on the second day Mac
sent nigh a whole brigade through that
last field, an' deployed 'em along "
"What's deployed?" interrupted the
boy sharply. i
"Sorter seatterin' 'em," explained the
warrior.
"Oh!" ejaculated the boy, satisfied.
"Then old Larkins, who was in com
mand of us, but who wasn't fit to com
mand a lot of sutlers, he says we'd hev'
to drive 'em hack on their side of the
country, an' down we goes, the hull of
us. An' after we went down, we fought
like cats for 'bout an hour, an' then
crawled back badly crippled. I tell you,
sir, we lost 'bout hundred an' fifty men
right at that 'ere stream. We had bit
off considerable more'n we could chaw."
"What did ye do then?" queried the
boy, anxiously.
"Mac, he thought it his turn to play
the fool then, an' ordered forward a
brigade or two, and up they came at us.
We shotted 'em with grape and tore
holes in 'em that you could drive a cart
through. Next day we fell back a piece,
an' the next day we licked 'em the worst
of the war, at Cold Harbor."
Slowly they climbed the long hill, the
boy listening with great interest to the
rambling tale of nothing at all, the old
man gasping in his effort to keep pace
with his little companion, planting his
cane in the scrub and slipping over dried
grass and roots. The smell of smould
ering wood blew down upon them from
the crest, and the shadows of the for
est's black archways grew more and
more somber at their approach. A wild
bird called plaintively, and something
rustled from their path and skurried
away in the brush.
They crossed the summit and came
out again into the twilight of the other
slope. Two men were busily chopping
at a tall pine, the strokes of the blades
sounding harsh in the stillness and the
echoes roaming over the country.
"Pap," called the boy, "yer's a man
wot fought with Bobby Lee.''
The grizzled chopper greeted the vet
eran with eagerness.
"Yessir," half choked the old one
from his efforts; "yessir, right on this
hillside we fought."
"We'll hev* this one down in the next
two minutes, an' if ye'll wait we'll talk
it all over after supper."
The old man and the boy sat down
on a ragged piece of rock and watched
the workers.
"Was this rock here forty years ago?"
asked the boy.
"No doubt, sonny, no doubt."
"Don't ye know for s :re?" questioned
the boy pointedly.
"Wasn't thinkin' of rocks then, sonny.
We was fightin' an' fightin' hard.
Hadn't had anythin' to eat for two days,
an' the hull Union army a-comin* up.
Wasn't no time ur lonkin' up rocks
then. Right down in that little glade
was where I first saw Bobbv Lee, an'
I heard him tell Larkins, said he, 'Ye
must hold 'em back fur half an hour,
sure,' says he. *D—n 'em, we'll ho'f
cm back,' says Larkins, an' we did, an'
held nigh on four hundred back so hard
they never moved away."
"Ye heard Bobby Lee say that?" said
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i the boy, astonished that he had discoy
■ cred another wonderful happening in
j which this great old an figured,
i "Yessir, I heard old Bobby Lee say
t them very words."
112 The tnan nodded his head slowly.
» "Gee!" whispered the boy faintly, in
t a tone of half adoration. He shifted
his seat on the stone so as to get a bet
. ter view of the man who had once heard
Bobby Lee speak words.
"Pap often told me 'bout Bobby Lee,
but pap never heard him talk."
This man had heard the very words;
this man had heard Larkins swear; this
man was, therefore, something beyond
the ordinary, a wonder out of another
age.
"That was forty years ago," mused
the man softly; "forty years ago you
were unthought of. * * * How old
are ye? Ten? Thirty year before ye
were born. Place looked much the
same then; no doubt it'll look much the
same after ye're forgotten."
The thought, expressed in such a mat
ter-of-fact style, made the boy shudder.
It was the first time he had heard of
things remaining after he had departed;
it really was the first time his depar
ture had occurred to him; he could not
fully appreciate its .importance.
The steady chop of the axes had nearly
cut the thread of life from the pine.
Occasionally it had creaked and moaned
as if in protest. Now it cracked omi
nously and tottered, swayed.
"Look out!" yelled the • foresters.
"Look out! She's a-comin'l"
Over it bent, farther, farther, and,
with' a loud, swishing sound, settled
with a crash. A shower of dust arose.
"Many a man fell on this yer hill in
the same fashion, though some of 'em
didn't make so much noise," commented
the old fellow.
"Look here, ole man. what's this?"
asked the man who had helped is the
felling.
"Well, by all," said the veteran, in an
excited tone, "that's a shell. Gum! but
it's been there since the war."
"No!" exclaimed the chopper.
"Forty year," whispered the boy.
"Chop it out,'' said the man.
They picked it from the ground and
examined it closely, while the loy peered
into the jagged hole of the trunk in
search of anything else dating from the
war.
"It's a Union shell. They were thick
as cones 'round yer in them days. An'
it ain't gone off yet. Let's see."
The old man uok three steps for
ward and tossed the iron missile into
the smouldering fire of leaves some ten
yards away. The action was that of a
child, and he waited with a smile for
the result. A blinding flame sprang
upward, and the hills echoed with a
rending, stupefying report. A cloud of
choking smoke floated skyward.
"What a fool trick!" muttered the
woodchopper, half in anger. "Hurt ye,
boy? Hurt ye, Sam? Gawd, it's hurt
him!"
They ran to the man sprawled upon
the ground.
"It waited fur me forty year," he
gasped painfully. "Forty year a-waitin'
fur me. They all said the war was over,
but I knew better. This is the last ac
tion, an' the rearguard is peggin' out.
Mac's a-rushin' no troops, but Bobby
I.ee'll make 'em think yet. That's him
over there with Larkin, an' Larkin says,
'D n 'em, we'll hold 'em.' It's been
a long war—forty year!'
His head west back on the dingy red
ground.
"The rearguard has pegged out," said
the chopper solemnly.
11