THE YOUNG MAN FROM
WYOMING
AT EAGLES MERE.
1 _ A SULLIVAN COUNTY NOVELETTE.
BY THOMAS J. INGHAM.
"It was then concluded that Obed and Cretia would go
down with me, and take possession and go right 011 with the
work. As it required several days for them to get ready, I had
to stay. ] was too uneasy in my mind for ordinary visiting,
so I borrowed Obed's gun and went out on the back hills
hunting. Deer were plenty, and I had the satisfaction of
bringing one in on my back every night. I was strong enough
to carry an ordinarily large deer several miles without much
fatigue. Mr. Dalton said I was overstocking them with meat,
but Mrs. Dalton said they could 'jerk it.' I cut it in neat
slices, and whittled some sticks smooth, on which she strung
it, after rolling it in hot salt, and then we hung it over a slow
fire and smoked and dried it until it was 'jerked,' and would
keep a long time.
"As soon as 'Cretia was ready, we loaded their baggage,
consisting chiefly of clothing, into the canoe, and early 011 a
fine morning pushed off. By running in the current and mak
ing free use of our paddles, we reached our landing above
Forty Fort Eddy before dark. We carried the baggage to the
house, and building up a cheerful fire in the fireplace, 'Cretia
got a good supper. We ate with such appetites as a voyage
011 the river is sure to give, and gave due credit to 'Cretia for
her good cooking.
"1 was too restless to stay a single day in the valley, and
made preparations for starting at once. It did not take me
long to get ready. I took my father's old army knapsack and
putin it the few articles I most needed, including 'rations' for
several days. I took only mv best suit of clothes, which I
wore. •
"Early in the morning I undertook to say good-bye at
the door, but Obed said he would set me over the river, and
'Cretia, in tears, said she would go along. So out upon the
river, and down to the mouth of Mill Creek we paddled the
canoe, and landed—oll, how well we remembered it—at the
very place mother had landed us the morning after the mas
sacre. There at last, in tears, 1 had to bid 'Cretia good-bye,
and turn my face to the mountains.
"Although I was not yet twenty years of age, I had lived
what seemed to me one life and was about to commence an
other. 'The dead past,' I said, 'shall be buried; the living
future shall give me strength to triumph at the graves of my
enemies.'
"My destination was New York. 1 had neither friends
nor acquaintances in that city. I had no foolish expectations
of picking up a fortune easily. All my hopes of success were
founded on my consciousness of ability to labor and endure
hardship. I made the journey 011 foot, traveling about forty
miles a day, and lodging at farm houses, so my expenses were
light until I reached the city.
CHAPTER TWENTY.
"I obtained lodgings the first night after my arrival in
New York at a place consistent with my slender means, and
the next morning I started out in search of employment. I
had no way to get it except to ask for it. Commencing on
the west side of Broadway near the Battery, 1 entered the
first store, and asking for the owner, was soon in his presence.
J told him, without delay or hesitation, that 1 was from the
country and seeking employment. He replied courteously,
but decided!}'., that he had no occasion for my services.
"In a similar manner 1 entered every store on that side
of Broadway. There were many variations in the way I was
received and the conversations I had, final result was
the same. I was not wanted. I then crossed to the east side
and pursued my canvass back to the Battery.
"I soon entered what I believe was the largest retail
establishment in the city, and having found the proprietor,
made my business known. He looked at me very sharply and
said:
" 'What do you expect to do?'
" 'Anything,' I answered, 'that needs to be done. What
I don't know how to do I am willing to learn.'
" 'Where arc you from?' he asked. I told him.
" 'Have you friends in the city?'
" 'Not any.'
" 'Have you letters of recommendation?'
" 'I have not.'
" 'Can you give me any references?'
" 'I can in Wilkes-Barre.'
" 'Name some.'
"I mentioned the names of some business men there.
" 'What wages do you ask?' he demanded.
" 'Enough to board and clothe me until I can earn more,'
I answered. \
" 'Well,' said he decisively, 'I want a stout young man to
handle boxes and do general work about the establishment. If
you want to do that kind of work I will try you a month at
fifteen dollars.'
"I knew fifteen dollars would only pay my board, but I
replied:
" 'That will be satisfactory. I can commence immedi
ately.'
" 'Don't you want the rest of the day to look about the
city?'
' X'o, sir, I answered; 'I shall see enough of the city
before I leave it.'
" 'You have come to stay, then?' said he.
" 'Yes,' I replied, 'I have come to stay.'
"Without any fussy show of zeal, and yet with watchful
care, I did all that was within my power to do. Without be
ing officious, I was always helpful, and did not wait to be told
to do what I perceived ought to be done. I was there early
and late.
"Mr. Golding spoke of me as the 'young man from Wy
oming,' and employes of the establishment, who did not at
CALEB CONOVER
pTSt - RAILROADER!
"•CONovt«.r-=< , _____________ ~
rmtHo'ii'wi|-A STORY ©/■ LOVE.POLITICS,INTRIGUED
A R,CM ** POWERFUL BOSS
AND AN INTREPID YOUNG
REFORMER
BY ALBERT PAYSON TERHONE
-1907 BV AL.BKRT PAVSDN TtRHUN*']
Little as he spared hiraseir, (JaleD
spared his henchmen still less. With
deadly literalness he saw to the car
rying out of his earlier order that
everyone, from Congressman to boot
black, must put his shoulder to the
wheel. The ward heelers, the priv
ileged lieutenants, the rural agents
and the high officials in the Machine,
alike, were driven as never before.
No stone was left unturned, no chance
ignored. Nor was this all. Forth
went the call to all the hundreds, rich
and poor, whom Conover at various
times had privately aided.
The capitalist whose doubtful bill
he had shoved through the Assembly;
the coal-heaver whose wife's funeral
expenses ho had paid; the Italian
peddler whose family he had saved
from eviction; the countless poor
whom his secretly-donated coal,
clothes and food had tided over hard
winters; the struggling farmer whose
mortgage he had paid; the bartender
he had saved from a murderer's fate;
all these beneficiaries and more were
commanded, in this hour of stress, to
remafhber the Boss's generosity, and
to pay the debt by working for his
election.
Checks of vast proportions (drawn
ostensibly for railroad expenses) were
cashed by Shevlin, Bourke and the
rest, and the proceeds hurled Into
every crevice or vulnerable spot in the
voting phalanx. The pick of the At
lantic seaboard's orators were sum
moned at their own price, and com
missioned to sway the people to the
Machine cause.
On waged the fight. Disinterested
outsiders beyond the scope of the Ma
chine's attractions were daily drawn,
by hundreds, into the Standlsh camp.
In the country districts his strength
grew steadily and rapidly. The peo
ple at large were aroused, not to the
usual pitch of Illogical hysteria inci
dent on a movement of this sort, but
to a calm, resolute Jealousy of their
own public rights. Which latter state
every politician knows to be immeas
urably the more dangerous of the two.
Conover's efforts, on the other hand,
were already bearing fruit. His tire
less energy, backed by his genius and
the perfection of his system, were
hourly enlarging his following. The
"railroad wards" and slums of Gran
ite and of other towns were with him
to a man, prepared on Election Day
to hurl mighty cohorts of the Un
washed to the polls in their idol's be
half. Loyalty, self-interest, party al
legiance, and more material forms of
pressures were binding throngs of
Others besides these underworld deni
zens to the Conover standard. Not
even the shrewdest non-partisan
dared forecast the result of the con
test.
It was on the eve of election. The
campaign work waa done. One way
or another, the story was now told.
The last Instructions for the next
day's duties had been given. Conover,
returning home from his headquarters,
felt as though the weight of weeks
had rolled off his shoulders. Now
that he had done all mortal man
could, he was not, like a weaker soul,
troubled about the morrow. That
could take care of Itself. Hie worry
ing or not worrying could not affect
the result. Hence, he did not worry.
As he turned Into Pompton Avenue
and started up the long slope crowned
by the garish white marble Mauso
leum, his step was as strong and un
tired as an athlete's. On his frame
of steel and Inscrutable face the un
told strain of past weeks had left no
visible mark.
A few steps in advance of him, and
going In the same direction, slouched
a lank, enervated figure.
The Railroader, by the gleam of a
street lamp, recognized Gerald, and
moved faster to catch up with him.
At such rare Intervals as he had time
to think of domestic affairs, Caleb
was more than a little concerned of
late over the behavior of this only
eon of his. Since, the visit of hts
first learn my name, also called me the same; some called me
'Wyoming,' and then for short they called me 'Wy,' and to
that name I answered for a long time.
"To bring my living within my means I rented a room
in the top of a building, which I got very cheap. In it I put a
single bedstead and mattress, with a couple of blankets. I
bought provisions in the market, and at the end of the month
I found I had not expended the whole of my wages. Mr.
Golding said he would keep me another month at twenty
dollars.
"The weather was now getting colder and I had to add
something for bedding and fire. There was a small fireplace,
and by purchasing a few cooking utensile I was able to board
myself at a moderate expense.
"After the second month Mr. Golding hired me a year for
three hundred dollars, and called upon me in hurried parts of
the day to act as an assistant to the salesmen. This part of
my duties I found constantly increased, until finally Mr. Gold
ing gave me a department "to attend to, and employed a la
borer to do the heavy work I had been doing. When I be
came a salesman I had more time mornings and evenings than
I had before, and as I attended no places of amusement 1
amused myself with long walks. I often traversed every
street. I considered it desirable for me to become familiar
with the city, and therefore I charged my memory with the
names of all the business houses, and the localities of the resi
dences of many of the principal citizens. This was not a diffi
cult task in a city of twenty-five thousand inhabitants.
(To be continued.)
wife to Granite, Gerald's demeanor
had undergone a change that had puz
zled even his father's acute mind. He
had waxed listless, taciturn and un
naturally docile. No command seemed
too distasteful for him to execute un
complainingly. No outbreak of rough
sarcasm or wrath from Caleb could
draw from him a retort, nor so much
as a show of interest. Conover knew'
the lad had taken to drinking heavily 1
and frequently, but also that
deepest potations apparently had nd
other outward efTect than to increase
his listless apathy.
Partly from malice, partly to arouse
the youth, Conover had thrown upon
him many details of campaign work.
To the older man's wonderment Ger
ald had accomplished every task with
a quiet, wholly uninterested compe
tence that was so unlike his old self
as to seem the labor of another man.
More and more, since Anice's depar
ture, Conover had come to lean on
Gerald's help. And now it no longer
astonished him to find such help cap
ably given. Yet the father was not
satisfied.
"It ain't natural." he said to him
self, as he now overhauled his son.
"Ain't like Jerry. Something's the
matter with him. He's getting to be
some use in the world. But he'll go
crazy, too, if he keeps up those
moony ways of his. He needs a shak
ing up."
He instituted the shaklng-up pro
cess In literal form by a resounding
elap between Gerald's narrow shoul
ders. But even this most maddening
of all possible salutations evoked noth
ing but a listless "Hello, father," from
its victim.
"Start Weaver off for Grafton?"
queried Caleb, falling into step with
his son.
"Yes."
"Make out any of that padrone list
I told you to frame up for me?"
"I've Just finished it. Here it is."
"Why, for a chap like you that list's
a day's work by itself! Good boy!"
No reply. Caleb glanced obliquely
at the taciturn lad. The sallow, lean
face, with its dark-hollowed eyes, was
expressionless, dull, apathetic.
< —""""
* v
I J
"Say I" demanded Conover, "what's
the matter with you anyhow?"
"Say!" demanded Conover, "what's
the matter with you, anyhow?"
"Nothing."
"Ain't sick, or anything?"
"No."
"Still grouching over that girl?"
"My wife? Yes."
"Ain't got over it yet? I've told
you you're well out of It. If she'd
cared anything for you she'd never
have settled with my New York law
yer for |60,000 and withdrawn that
fool alienation suit she was starting
against me, or signed that gen«ral re
lease. You're well out of It. I'll send
you up to South Dakota alter the cam
paign's all over and let you get a di
vorce on the quiet. No one around
here'll ever know you was married,
and in the long run the experience
won't hurt you. You've acted pretty
decent lately, Jerry, and I'm not half
eorry I changed my mind on that
'heavy-father' stunt and didn't kick
you out. After all, one marriage more
or less !s more of an accident than a
failing, so long as folks don't let it
get to be a habit. You acted like an
idiot. But bygones are bygones, so
cut out the sulks. Cheap chorus girls
■weren't made for grown men to mar
ry."
"I'll thank you to say nothing
against her," intervened Gerald stiff
ly, with the first faint show of in
terest his father had observed in him
for weeks.
"Just as you like," assented Caleb,
In high, good humor, glad to have
broken even so slightly into the oth
er's armor of apathy. "In her case,
maybe, least said the better. So
you're still homesicking for her—and
for New York, eh?"
"Yes."
"Still feel your own city ain't good
enough for you?"
"What place is for a man who has
lived in New York?"
"Rot! 'What place is?' About ten
thousand places! And some seventy
million Americans living in those
places are as good and as happy and
stand pretty near as good a chance
of the pearly gates as if they had the
heaven-sent blessing of living between
the North and East rivers."
"Yes?"
There was no interest and only ab
sent-minded query in Gerald's mono
syllable. Listlessness had again set
tled over him. Word and mental atti
tude jarred on the Railroader.
"New York!" reiterated Conover.
"I've took some slight pains to learn
a few things about that place these
last couple of months. Before that I
took your word for it that it was a
hectic, electric-lit whirlpool where
nothing ever was quiet or sane, and
where a young cub who could get ar
rested for smashing up a hotel lobby
was looked up to as a pillar of glided
society. Since then I've bothered to
find out on my own account. New
York's a city with about two millions
of people living on Manhattan Island
alone. We out-of-town jays are told
these two millions are a gay, aban
doned, fashionable lot that spend their
days in the congenial stunt of piling
up fortunes and their nights in every
sort of high jinks that can cost money
and keep 'em up till dawn. "All-night
fun, all-day fortune-grabbing. Great
place! Come see it!' Well, I have
seen It. Along around five or six p.
m. about ninety-eight per cent, of
those two million people stop work.
They've been fortune-grabbing all
right, since early morning. Only,
they've been grabbing It usually for
some one else. They pile onto the
subway or the elevated or the big
bridge and—and where do they go?
To a merry old all-night revel on the
Great White Way? To an orgy of 'On
with-the-dance. let-Joy-be-unrefined,'
hey? Not them. It's home they go,
quiet and without exhibiting to the
neighbors any season passes for all
night dissipation. They are as re
spectable, decent, orderly, early-to
bed a crowd as if they lived on a farm.
'Tain't their fault if 'home's' usually
built on the folding-bed plan and more
condensed than a can of patent milk.
Apart from that, they live Just as
everybody else in this country lives —
no better, no worse, no gayer, no
quieter. There's not a penny's differ
ence between that decent ninety-eight
per cent, and the business and work
ing folks right here in Granite."
Gerald did not answer. He had not
heard.
"That's the 'typical New Yorker,'"
went on Caleb. "The 'typical New
Yorker'—ninety-eight per cent, of him
—is the typical every dayman or wo
man of any city. He does his work,
supports his family, and goes to bed
before eleven. Those are the folks I
guess you didn't see much of when
you was there. Nor of the real so
ciety push or even the climbers. The
society headliners are too few any
how to count in the general percent
age. Besides, they're out of town
half the year. You was mostly en
gaged in playing 'Easy Mark' for the
other two per cent. The crowd you
went with is the sort that calls them
selves 'typical New Yorkers,' and
stays out all night 'cause they haven't
the brains to find any other place to
go. Just a dirty little fringe of hu
manity, hanging about all-night res
taurants or drinking adulterated
booze In some thirst emporium, or
spending some one else's money in
a green-table joint. They yawn and
look sick of life, and they tell every
one who'll listen that they're 'typical
New Yorkers.' "
A polite smile from the dry lips,
which Gerald of late was forever
moistening, was the only reply to this
harangue. Caleb gave up trying to
draw the youth into an argument, and
adopted a more business-like tone.
"I want you should run down to
Ballston for me soon's you've voted
to-morrow, Jerry. Better take the
7.15 train. I want you togo to the
office of the Ballston Herald, and give
a note from me to Bruce Lanier, one
of the editors. He'll hand you a
package. Nothing that amounts to
much, but I've paid a big price for It,
so I don't want it lost. Take good
care of It, and bring It back on the
two o'clock train. Get all the sleep
you can to-nlglit. You're liable to have
a wakeful day."
"All right."
"The package Lanier's to give you
is Just a bunch of letters about a rail
road deal. Nothing you'd understand.
They're to be ready for me any time
after to-morrow."
"I thought you wanted me to work
at the polls for you.".
"Anybody that "knows how to lie can
work at the polls. There's nobody but
you I can send for those letters. All
the other men I can trust can't be
spared to-morrow. Be ready for the
7.15 to-morrow morning," he ordered
as they mounted the broad marble
steps of the Mausoleum. "Turn in
early and get a good rest. Lord! I
hope this drizzle will turn into rain
before morning. Nothing like a rainy
election day to drown reform. The
honest heeler would turn out In a
blizzard to earn his two dollars by
voting, but a sprinkle will scare a
Silk Socker from the polls easier'n
a— "
CHAPTER XIX.
Unexpected News from Italy.
T*""""™' ■ HE great door was swung
open. Outlined against the
lighted hall behind it was
pwrll) Mrs c onovel \ She had seen
their approach, and had hastened out
into the veranda to meet them.
"Hello!" exclaimed the Railroader.
"This is like old times! Must be
twenty years since you came out to—"
"Oh, Caleb!" sobbed the little wo
man, and as the light for the first
time fell athwart her face, they saw
she was red-eyed and blotched of
cheek from much weeping. "Oh, Ca
leb, how long you've been! I tele
phoned the Democratic Club an hour
ago, and they said you'd just—"
"What's the row?" broke in her be
wildered husband. "Afraid I'd been
ate by your big nephew, or —"
"Don't, don't Joke! Something
dreadful's happened. I —"
"Then come into the library and
tell us about it quiet," interrupted
Caleb, "unless maybe you're aiming
to call in the servants later for ad
vice."
The footman behind Mrs. Conover,
at the door, tried to look as though
he had heard nothing, and bitterly re
gretted he had not been allowed to
hear more. But Letty was silenced
as she always was when the Rail
roader adopted his present tone. She
obediently scuttled down the hall to
ward the library, an open letter flut
tering in her hand. Caleb followed;
and, at a word from bis father, Ger
ald accompanied liis parents.
As soon as the library door closed
behind the trio, Mrs. Conover's grief
again rose from subdued sniffling to
unchecked tears.
"Oh, talk out, can't you!" growled
Conover. "What's up? That letter
there?ll?"s —?"
"Yes," gurgled poor Letty, torn be
tween the luxury of weeping and the
fear of offending Caleb, "it's —it's
from Blanche at Lake Como, and—
and — Oh, she isn't married at all—
and—!"
"WHAT!" roared Conover. Even
Gerald dropped his cigarette.
"It's —it's true, Caleb!" wailed Let
ty. "She isn't. And —"
"What are you blithering about?
Here!"
Conover snatched the letter and
glanced over it. Then with a snort
he thrust it back into his wife's hand.
"French!" he sniffed, In withering
contempt. "Why in hell can't the
girl write her own language, so folks
can understand what she's —?"
"She's always written her letters to
me In French ever since she was at
school in Passy. They told her It —"
"Never mind what they told her.
What's the letter say? Ain't marriedT
Why—!"
"She was married. But she Isn't.
And —"
"You talk like a man in a cave. Ia
d'Antrl dead, or—"
Her husband's frenzied impatience,
as usual, served to drive the cowed
little rabbit-like woman into worse
agonies of incoherence. But by de
/■ A
Conover snatched the letter and
glanced over it.
grees, and through dint of much ques
tioning, the whole sordid petty trage
dy related in the Como postmarked
letter was at length extracted from
her.
Blanche, thanks to her heavy dower
and her prince's family connections,
had cut more or less of a swath In
certain strata of continental society
during these early days of her stay ir.
d'Antrl's world. Her husband's An
cestral rock with its tumble down cas
tle had been bought back, and 'he ed
ifice itself put into cours'j of repair.
A bijou little house on the Pare Mon
ceau and a palazzo at Florence had
been added to the Conover fortune's
purchases, and at each of these latter
abodes a gaudy fete had been planned,
to introduce the American princess
and her dollars to the class of peoplo
who proposed henceforth to endure
the one for the sake of the other.
(To B« Continued.)