@ Ben Ames Williams, CHAPTER XIII—Continued — “Phil,” Linda said, “I shan’t see you today or tomorrow. You will be with your mother. You won't want me." He assented: ‘Yes, Barbara and I will be with her.” She said, ‘‘But you'll feel me with you?” “Yes, Lin.” She did not kiss him, nor touch his hand; only their eyes met firm- ly, met and held and clung. Then Phil went down by those back stairs up which his father had <ome on that October night months ago; and he took the car and drove home. Barbara was there with his mother. Mrs. Sentry was sitting quietly in the living-room, her hands limp in her lap, a curious deep peace in her eyes. Barbara and Phil stayed with her, talking in low tone, till lunch was announced. But aft- erwards Barbara caught Phil's eye; and Phil moved with her through « the hall toward the door. “T've got to get out of doors for a while, Phil,” she said desperately. “I can’t stand it. She's so—still. Almost as though she were happy, were — waiting for someone. It scares me." He hid his own fears. along!” “I'll be back,” she promised; and he returned into the living-room and Mrs. Sentry asked, ‘“Has Barbara gone somewhere?” “Just for a walk)” he said, and she nodded silently, thinking: Mary is gone, and Barbara is gone, and soon Arthur too will go, and there will be only Phil and me. Phil and me. Just two. There were five of us, but now there are two Phil seems tired. I am tired, dread- fully; tired and old . . . They will shave Arthur's head . . . I mustn't think of it, of that; not concretely. I mustn't scream. I must help ruil... And she began to talk to her son, almgst happily. Somehow the afternoon passed. Barbara returned, but she stayed upstairs, writing to Dan, till dinner-time. At dinner, Mrs. Sentry tried to eat, but the first mouthful choked her. She could not swallow it; the utmost compulsion of her will would not make the muscles of her throat do their task. Phil, she saw, ate readily, easily, rather more rapid- ly than his usual habit was. He urged her to drink a cup of tea. “I'm afraid it would keep me awake,” she said, and then smiled at the absurdity of that. Awake? Would she ever sleep again? After tomorrow night, Arthur would sleep with a shaved spot, on his head. She resented that shaved spot, as though it were a desecration of the dead. His hair was still so plentiful and tHick; no hint of baldness any- where. Where was the spot they would shave? On his brow? The top of his head? Phil saw her shud- der, and rose and took her arm. “Let's walk in the garden, moth- er,” he said. She went with him submissively. Barbara watched them go, but made no move to follow them. They strolled around the house arm in arm, past the garage and the tennis court to the pergola, and sat down there; stayed there talking quietly together, careful now to avoid si- iences, since into silence, just as dreams come in sleep, hideous thoughts come crowding. Presently it was dark, and she asked, “What time is it?" “Almost ten.” “l suppose,” she decided, had better go in.” When they came in, Barbara was gone. Gone to bed, perhaps, Phil thought; and he turned on all the lights in the living-room, till he ban- ished every shadow. She asked: ‘Is it cold, Phil?” “Would you like a fire?” “I'm-—sort of shivering.” He set logs burning on the hearth: and it was hot and he perspired. He thought tomorrow would be long; and he thought he would have to be early at the office Monday morn- ing. Monday was apt to be a busy day. “Warmer now?’ he asked. She sat down on the low bench in front of the fire, hugging her knees, watching the flickering flames. She had heard or read that when during an electrocution the current was thrown into the body of the doomed man, all the lights flickered—as these flames were flickering—and were for a rgoment dimmed, and she thought of this now, but she said calmly: “Will you be busy next week, Phil?” “1 thought we'd go up to York for “a few days,” he replied. She was thinking: When the lights in the prison are dimmed, the other prisoners know what is happening and they scream and rattle the bars in their cell doors. I mustn't scream. She said: *‘That might be very pleasant, son. Barbara will be gone, of course. There will be just you and, me, i can take cook and Nel- “Sure, run “we “We'll lie in the sun and rest,” he said. She thought of all those men in the prison yammering and howling and screaming, and then she re- membered reading somewhere that nowadays there was a spcial wire to carry the electricity to the chair, not connected with the prison circuit at all, so that the prisoners did not see the lights dim; and she won- dered about the lights in the room where the chair was, and whether they would go dim, and whether any of the witnesses ever screamed when that dimness came to shadow what was happening. “I should like that,” she agreed. “The hot, bright sun.” Phil said: ‘And we'll go fishing for flounders, or maybe off shore, for cod. That's always fun.” Men sitting in straight chairs, she thought, around a small brick- walled room, all side by side, ex- cept that one chair was set by it- self, facing the others . . . She said: ‘‘Sit here by me, Phil.” He sat down on the bench close to her. “And we'll take long drives,” he said. ‘‘Back through the woods, { } some word, and then the little man volunteered, ‘“Mr. Hare told me I'd better come see Mr. Sentry.” “Mr. Hare?" She spoke like a par- rot, without inflection. ‘“Y’see,”” the old man explained, “I got this here from Mr. Hare, the first of June.” He fumbled in his pocket, produced a shabby, soft, worn old leather wallet, searched among its contents, found what he sought at last and extended it to Linda. It was a check for $250, signed by Mr. Hare, as Trustee. Linda looked at it without touching it, and the old man said: “I might have wrote a letter, but I ain't much hand at writing, and I knowed likely I'd git up t' the city before long; so 1 kep' it and cal'lated to see Mr. Hare when I come." Linda said hurriedly, “Wait a minute, please.” She went into Phil's office, closing the door be- hind her. The old man stood turn- ing his hat in his hands, looking wistfully around. The other girls be- gan a pretense of work again. Then Linda came back and said in a low tone, “Come in, please.”” She the pines. ful drives toward Agamenticus." felt her tremble; and suddenly she was weak. ‘Stay with me, Phil" she whispered. ‘Oh Phil, Phil, be always with me!” “I will, mother.” “Mary's gone, and Barbara. only you." “You'll promised. “I don't mean to be selfish, Phil But I need you so.” “I'm here,” he said again. "And I will always be-—"' The logs burned bright, burned low, were embers cooling to gray ashes, before at last they went slow- ly up the stairs. Mrs. Sentry went to Barbara's room. “Just to be sure she’s tucked in, Phil,” she said. ‘I've always done that, since you were babies.” “1 know, mother.” But--Barbara was not in her room. Phil felt a surge of anger mixed with fear. Mrs. Sentry half- smiled. always have me,” he said submissively. Phil made his mother go to bed; He thought Bar- be at Linda's home, thought of going to see. Then, grim- ly, refrained. He at least would stand by his mother here. After a while he heard a car turn into the drive in haste. He went downstairs. He saw Linda and Barbara in the hall. Barbara was weeping terri- bly; but Linda's eyes were like stars. He stared at her, bewildered, and as though he were a baby to be comforted, Linda took him in her arms. Hours before, that morning at the office, Linda's typewriter had been clattering as she typed the letters Phil had dictated, when she became conscious that someone stood beside her. She looked up and saw a shambling little man with absurdly long legs that made him look like a stork, and a small body and a small- er head perched atop them. Linda had not attended Mr. Sentry’s trial; did not recognize this man. She rose and asked, “Whom did you wish to see?” The man, confused and ill at ease, said doubtfully: “Why, Mr. Sentry, if I could. Dunno as he'll want to.” “And who shall I say?” “I'm Zeke Wines.” He looked at the other thre= stenographers, busy at their desks beyond Linda, and said apologeticaily, in a lower tone, as though the confession were a shameful one: “You know. My girl used to work here.” Linda heard the others quiet be- hind her, listening. She tried to find hind him. He looked around Phil's office, saw no one. “He ain't here?’ he said. “Mr. Sentry has gone home," she “But I am his secretary, so I can handle—whatever it is you “Well, it's this,”’ the old man told her after a moment, and extended the check again. ‘Mr. Hare sent it to me, and he said it was from Mr. Sentry, the other one. Said there'd be another check every month right along.” “Yes?” “Well, I don’t want Wines told Linda gently. *“Mr. Sentry wanted you to have it." “lI know. Mr. Hare told me all about that in the letter. But I never lived off my gal long as she was alive, and I don’t aim to now." And he said apologetically: ‘Not that I hold anything ag'in the young man here. Nor ag'in anybuddy, for that matter. Folks git twisted into a net sometimes, and they thrash around any way to git out. I've see fish do the same. Never blamed em.” “It would make Mr. Sentry— young Mr. Sentry—happy to think he was helping you.” He said gravely: “Like as not. it,” Zeke But I dunno why I should go out of my way, do something I don’t want to do, account of him.” “I see,” she assented. ‘You're right, of course. I didn’t under- stand. I'm sorry.” She took the check from his hand. “I am to de- any more?” “Thank’ee kindly.” come here.” “That's all right,” he said. never was here before. hankered to come.” He around the room. happened, ain't it?” “Just outside the door there,” she said, after a moment. “In the hall.” She passed him and opened the door. “Out here,” she said. “She'd be’'n in here, hadn't she?” “Yes.” Linda fought to hold her voice steady. ‘‘But—they found her outside in the hall.” He came slowly toward her as though to step through the door; but on the threshold he paused, half- turned, set his shoulders against the jamb to which the door was hinged. “Dunno as I need to look,’ he said in a low tone. He stood with his head a little lowered, staring straight ahead, not speaking. The silence seemed to Linda long. She was numb with sorrow for him; scarce heard him when he spoke. Yet what he said was like a crash of thunder. “Guess here's where the bullet hit, ain't it?" he asked, and pointed, and looked at her inquir- ingly. Linda after a paralyzed moment said hoarsely, “What?” “Right here,” he repeated. “The bullet hole." And he extended his hand. He touched,~she saw, the brass latch plate set on the door jamb and de- signed to receive the tongue of the lock. Her knees wavered, but she mustered enough strength to go to- ward him, almost staggering: to look where he pointed. She bent down, the better to see. The latch plate had an opening in it, rectangular, perhaps an inch and a quarter from top to bottom, some- thing over half an inch across. In- side this opening there was a re- cess where before the plate was set the wood had been chiseled out to make a slot into which the balt slid home. But there was more. There was a round hole in this raw wood, not very deep, somewhat discol- ored; and Linda, leaning close, saw that the edge of this round hole was marred as though a knife blade had been inserted there to serve as a pry, to pry something out . Old Zeke Wines said in a low tone, "Bullet must have gone right through the hole where the boit goes, never even touched the sides, “y looked “Yes,” said Linda. Her voice rose. “Yes, yes. Yes, it did!" she cried, loudly, her voice almost shrill. For one phrase was ringing in her thoughts, over and over. Bar- bara's words: “If father didn’t kill her, there'd be another bullet, some- where.” And Linda thought: There is! There is! But no wonder we didn't find it! In the shadow, and it's dark here by the door. You can’t see it even now unless you peer in through the lock. How sharp the old man’s eyes must be . . . “Well, thank'ee, Miss," said Zeke Wines meekly. “I'll bid you good day.” And he would have moved away. But Linda came to life; her thoughts began to clear. She caught his arm. “No,” she said eagerly. “Don’t go. Please! Wait. This is important. This" (TO BE CONTINUED) The three members of the mer- ganser family of ducks can well be named “wild fowl without a friend." No one cares to fight their battles for protection. Despised by the duck hunters, considered by epicures as unfit for food, condemned by fisher- men as a menace to our trout streams, the merganser ducks, called useless, destructive and pred- atory, are seriously threatened with the death penalty, notes Albert Stoll, Jr., in the Detroit News. The thousands of conservation of- ficers and fish culturists throughout the United States have been empow- ered to destroy mergansers if they appear to be destructive to fish life. There will be few so deputized who will refrain from *‘shooting on sight” the first merganser coming within range of the gun. Those who are on intimate terms with these birds, and know of their food habits, seem to agree. that they constitute one of the greatest ene- mies of our brook trout. They re- main in their northern habitat until ice completely covers even the smallest pot hole or open expanse of of ducks, their appetite never ap- pears satisfied. The examination of the stomach contents of an American merganser killed on the Boardman river proved that this bird had just partaken of a ten-inch rainbow trout for his breakfast. is surprising how large a fish the merganser can swallow with but lit- tle effort. Possibly a thinning in the ranks of the merganser is justified, but it is a certainty that ornithologists will not countenance their complete ex- termination, Famed Tower of London Not one, but many towers com the famed Tower of London. Nor- mans built the fortress on the ruins of another fort constructed by Ju- lius Caesar's legions. It has served since as the royal palace, a prison, and, finally, as sort of an historical museum and place for the crown jewels. Until 1834 it also boused the royal menagerie. Though many persons believe it still is an im fort guarding London, its weapons are an- value. ny or Mrs. Smith was particularly fond of reminding her husband that the silver was hers, the piano was hers, and the furniture was hers, and Smith was getting tired of it. ened by noises downstairs. relates Pear- ‘““Burglars!’’ echoed Smith, wear- ily. “Well, let 'em burgle. There's nothing of mine down there.” High Praise An American woman who spent “thank you" to a been particularly efforts to waiter who helpful. say had vised it with a bit of French, added a little Italian, and—well, in the midst of my floundering, imagine my chagrin when the waiter sud- denly interrupted. “ ‘Madame, you're doing swell.” ” LITTLE I kd es FAUX PAS He (exaltedly)—I feel 1 could put all the world under your feet! She-—Sir, size of my feet would not permit the carrying out of your ambition by any means. Nice of Them A woman had gone to Scotland for the first time in her life. On her return to London she expressed herself as quite surprised at the comparative civilization of the north. “Our English customs are spread- ing rapidly,” she said. “Even in a little town like St. Andrews they have a nice golf course.”—Pear- son's Weekly. Poor Elizabeth Two little girls who could not have been more than 12 at the most were discussing plans for a party. “I'm inviting only couples,” said one of them, with great dignity. “But I'm facing quite a problem with Elizabeth. She hasn't got a boy friend—you know, she's only eight.” —Cleveland Plain Dealer. Simple Test Professor—1 am going to speak on liars today. How many of you have read the twenty-fifth chapter of the text? hand. Professor—Good. You are the group to whom 1 wish to speak. There is no twenty-fifth chapter. 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Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers