Decatur Democrat, Volume 50, Number 37, Decatur, Adams County, 15 November 1906 — Page 7

Humble ; ♦ Pie ♦ By Louis J. Strong Copyright,. 1906, by P. C. Eastment “You’re a heartless coquette! You've driven my boy away forever! He’s gone—he's gone!” Mrs. Hale wailed, with angry, tearful eyes. "Gone?” Dora repeated, the indignant red fading from her cheeks. "Yes, gone! And I hold you little better than a murderer, miss!” with which startling declaration she was leaving when Dora caught her arm. “Mrs. Hale, please tell me, do yon mean that Steve is really gone now?” “Yes, I do mean that he is really gone now!” Mrs. Hale’s eyes snapped with vindictive satisfaction at the girl’s distress. “He went across country in his buggy, meaning to stop at his uncle’s to tell them goodby. He’ll take the train at Lynchburg. Oh, I’ll never see him again, and it’s your doing, you good for nothing”— She left the unpleasant epithet unspoken and stalked away. . Dora fled to her room and fell upon her bed in a tempest of grief. It had not seemed possible that Steve could carry out his threat and leave her. As she thought of It the long years ahead without him seemed to envelop and smother her. She sprang up, gasping. She must get out. “I’m going for a long ride, mamma,” ; fihe announced later, and, pulling her cycling cap over her swollen eyes, she rushed away. She skirted the village with head idown, vowing she would not speak to a soul, but an insistent voice hailed her from a small house out on the >road, and Miss Prissy Allen, the old ’maid seamstress, hurried to her. “Os all people in the world!” Dora foroaned, dreading the sharp eyes and tMually sharper tongue of Miss Prissy. “I’ve heard all about it, Dora,” Miss iFrlssy said bluntly, but with unwonted kindness. “I happened to be there when Mrs. Hale came from your house, and her wrath boiled over to me. I was just going to see you. I—l—want to—advise you, my dear girl. Don’t let foolish anger and foolish pride ruin your life. Never mind what Steve said or did. You know he loves you, and ,you love him. Let everything go. Think of the long years”— :* “Oh, Miss Prissy,” Dora broke in tragically, “I do think of them and how h X 1 /l\7 \ HE STOPPED, BLOCKING HER WAY. I’m to live through them. I can’t! It will kill me!” “Yes, you can—you will—live through them and grow' withered and hard and sharp tongued and unlovely, as I have. Folks can’t die any time they please, and you can live with a heart like a desert of ashes.” “Oh, Miss Prissy, do you mean”— Dora hesitated, the unasked question in her wide eyes. “I mean that I was a hot headed, proud young fool. I would not yield an inch. I told him to go, and he went and nevel* came back. I might have brought him back at first, but I wouldn't, and see what I am.” “Put, Miss Prissy, Steve declared he would go if I—if I”— _.__, J “Yes,” Miss Prissy interrupted, “that’s man’s way. And you told him to go, never dreaming he’d do it. That’s woman’s way. And you’re both miserable. He’ll marry, likely, though he’ll never care as much for another. That’s man’s way-too. And you—you’re not the kind that changes. Look at me and see’what’you’ll be! But you mustn’t. I’v.e opened my grave to you as a —warning. Make it up with Steve now at any cost. Write to him, and be sure you eat your share of humble pie. You deserve it, I dare say, for you are a bit of a flirt, Dora. Write at once and every day till you hear from him.” And she bolted into the house, leaving Dora staring at the unexpected romance, the secret of Miss Prissy’s lonely life. What a pitiful tragedy, rather! And one could live on and on! Oh, If she could see Steve! It might be weeks before a letter! If she could only see— She stopped abruptly, shocked with the audacity of a thought that popped into her bead. The next moment she swerved from her course and sped away on the trail of Steve. She was uncertain of the distance. It might be fifteen or twenty-five miles: but, long or short, she would make it in time. He was going to stop at his uncle’s. That was a guidepost. The open surprise and curiosity of

Steve's relatives at the "questions as tc his movements from the flushed pur- ' suer, little more than a stranger tc them, overwhelmed her with an agony of embarrassment. It was plain that, they had heard nothing of the short en I gagement and its violent rupture, and< she was not in a position to explain, for only humiliating defeat might meet her attempt at reconciliation. She was obliged to leave them with an obviously unflattering opinion of a girl who was confessedly chasing a young man and who only blushed painfully and looked! distressed instead of giving satisfactory reasons. “That was a big piece of humble pie. It almost choked me!” she gasped when once more pedaling for dear life. “But, anyhow, I know he’s going to stop twice more and intends taking the early train at Lynchburg. It was worth it to ! learn so much. I can—l will—make it!” Noon came and passed. The weary miles seemed to stretch interminably, but she pushed on, feeling that the only : Impossibility in existence was failure.' A friendly boy assured her of the route and gave her directions for saving a couple of miles. This maneuver came near being her Waterloo, for on the crosscut she met young Lawson, a one time suitor, whom she had rejected in favor of Steve. “Why, Miss Dora!” He stopped, I blocking her way. “Are you lost or' merely working off injured feelings?” • “Neither!” she replied curtly, attempting to pass. He ungallantly wheeled his horse, preventing her, saying slyly: “Your face answers as to your feelings. I might ask you how you like the sack yourself, but I’m generous. Oh,” be laughed at her look of surprise, “it’s no secret that Steve shook you and put out this morning.” “You are very wise!” she retorted, endeavoring to pass. “Oh, it’s common wisdom,” he grinned, still preventing her. “It wasn’t gentlemanly of Steve to jilt a girl so publicly. Come, now; let me make you Mrs. Lawson at once, and you’ll turn the laugh on him good and hard.” “Steve did not jilt me! I was to blame myself!” Dora flared. “Let me pass, please. I must go on!” “Why, you don’t mean that you’re tagging the fellow to try to coax him back?” he jeered insolently. Scarlet, but disdaining denial, Dora evaded him and fled, murmuring with a long breath: “That was a horrible piece of humble pie! But it’s better than eating bitter bread the rest of my life!” With a sickening fear that she was already too late, she scorched desperately over the remaining miles and dashed, panting and disheveled, into Lynchburg, coming almost immediately upon Steve, with Don and the buggy, at a sale stable. With a pang she noted that Steve was pale and haggard. He, too, had suffered, and yet he looked so stern and grave. Her courage faltered. He might not—but she must take it, this last and biggest piece of bumble pie, and if Steve were implacable she was so exhausted she was sure she would die and there would be no Miss Prissy’s fate for her. As she timidly approached Steve turned, saw her and with an exclamation darted to her, and at the sudden light in his eyes Miss Dora lopped over in his arms, half fainting, murmuring heartbrokenly: “Oh, Steve! Steve!” That was all, but enough. “The humble pie I’ve eaten! I certainly deserve entire absolution!” Dora cried self righteously when the high stepping Don was prancing home with them. “Humble pie!” Steve exclaimed. “Your little piece is nothing to the hunk I’ve got to swallow—going back after all the fuss—and how I’m toi do it I don’t see unless we’re mar- i tied at once and run away on a long ' trip.” i Dora blushed, but said nothing, and I —silence gives consent! , Safety In Thunderstorms. According to Professor Rowland, the safest of all places in a thunderstorm ■ Is an iron bedstead. Lying on this, i one is in a kind of metal cage which acts as a lightning screen. This is , contrary to a very generally accepted ; i theory, as metal of all kinds and forms i I is generally avoided under the belief ■ s that it attracts the electric fluid. Trees, I I experience shows, are very dangerous ' places to shelter beneath in thunder-> - • storms, and isolated trees more so than i a clump, especially if near water. An > oak tree by the side of a pond is con- , sidered by electricians as peculiarly unsafe, but water and damp ground • are to be avoided quite as much as ! I trees. If the storm is directly over-' i i head it would be safer to lie on the ■ t earth flat than to stand up. Indoors > I | the safest place—next to the iron bed • | —is in the middle of the room, and a i j room in the middle of the house is safer thau one at 'the bottom or top. > | All drafts and air currents should be i i avoided, and all metal objects, such as i ! mirrors, picture frames and wire bell I i pulls, should be kept as clear as possil ble. l ! English Ladle* and Floral Fascination English ladies partake the character I and the aspect of flowers. I do not ( mean merely that their visages shine i j with the pure freshness of matutinal ’ ■ i flowers even when within they are con-I i ! trarlwise affected, nor am I thinking! [ ; solely of their azure eyes, limpid as I > ! lilies, or of their blond heads of hair,' I golden as ears of wheat, or of their • transparent skin of roseate hue. No. I . ’ Apart from all these natural personal . traits, English ladies betray in their 1 I headgear, in their methods of combing ; , and dressing and general adornment that they have ever before them the flowers hs patterns and models.—Naples • Mattino.

| AN INTERESTING I £i LOAN [Original.] Miss Beyard was staying at her aunt’s cottage at Newport. Miss Beyard was rich; her aunt was rich. I was rich myself or I would not have wasted time courting Miss Beyard. Poor (young) people think that when there is plenty of money in a family the sons and daughters can afford to marry for love. It’s done exactly the other way. The poor must marry the poor, for we rich people have no matrimonial use for them. I received a note from Miss Beyard saying that she had something to tell me which she couldn’t very well write. Considering that there was a courtship on between us, this was quite enough, and there was no use in my going. It j meant that I might look elsewhere for a wife. I wrote her to that effect, then tore up my letter. After all, 1 would prefer to receive my formal dismissal from her lips. I was curious to know if her heart was going with her hand. I took the evening boat for Newport and called the next afternoon. I “Who is he'? 5 ' I asked. “Who has told you? No one but : Aunt Adeline and I and he knows any- ' thing about it. It has been somewhat sudden.” “I guessed it from your note.” “How bright of you! He is Lord 1 Bingleton.” I w r as astonished. Bingleton had been over some months. He had brought l letters to me, and I had put him under > obligations. He knew nothing of my wishes with regard to Miss He was one of the British aristocracy who had come over to America for a rich marriage. ’ ' The reason for my astonishment was that Miss Beyard is a superior girl and I had supposed quite above such a sale. I considered the price altogether insufficient, especially as Miss Beyard was worth $5,000,000. However, a title Is a good thing for a woman of means to have in the family. “Well,” I said, “it only remains for me to wish you a pleasant life among British peers and peeresses.” “You don’t seem very regretful,” she pouted. “You want a title; therefore I want you to have a title. If you needed my assistance to get one you should have it.” “That’s very kind of you.” I arose. “Are you going so soon?” “Yes. There’s nothing mutually interesting for us to chat about. Goodby. I hope there will be no slip between you and your wish.” She didn’t look altogether satisfied as she offered me her hand and bade me adieu. That evening Bingleton called on me. “I heard you were here and came up at once. I have news for you. One of your American belles has been unwise enough to throw herself away on me.” “Indeed!” “Yes; that pretty Miss Beyard—no end of money in her own right. You’ve been very .kind to me thus far, old chappie, but I’ve got a harder nut for you to crack now. The sums you have advanced are bagatelles compared with what I need now. I’ve got to keep up this expenditure for three months. Then comes the wedding, with its present to the bride. My uncle’s bequest won’t be paid for a year. That’s all the security I have to give. I mean I haven’t any to give at all.” I had said only that day to Miss Beyard, “If you needed my assistance i you should have it.” Here was a chance to help her by helping Lord Bingleton. “How much do you need?” I asked. I “I could get on with $10,000.” I “Nonsense! You need $30,000.” I i took a check book from a trunk and [ wrote him a check for $30,000. “You will average up SIO,OOO a month ak Miss Beyard's fiance. No gush, please. There’s no obligation. I know you will be good for the amount.” j In a few days I received a note from Miss Beyard asking me to call. I dropped in an hour before dinner. I saw at once there was something on her mind. She looked at me with the I same expression as before her BingleI ton affair. j “When you told me the other day,” ' she said, “that if I needed your asi sistance in my affair with Lord Bin- ! gleton you would give it I didn’t think ■ I should have to thank you for it so ; SOO11.” "What do you mean?” I asked in alarm. “You have supplied his temporary I wants.” “Has he gone daft, to tell you about , it?” | “My aunt knows his people in Eng- I j land and knows that very soon he will come into £IOO,OOO. She also knows that meanwhile he would not be able to live as we do during our engagement She offered him temporary assistance. He told her that he had just made a loan from the ‘best fellow in America’ and in the exuberance of his enthusiasm gave her your name.” I never was more astonished in my life. Miss Beyard could have knocked me down with a feather. The next afternoon Bingleton came up to me at the casino, his smiling face | big with intelligence. “She's told me all What a deucedly j funny affair, to be sure! I congratuI late you, old chappie. But, I say, do ' you need that thirty thousand? There • is a second best, you know, and I expect to land her tonight. Ten million i sure and perhaps more. But” —his face falling—“she’s not Miss Beyard.” I I begged him to keep the thirty thouI sand as long as he needed it. I was happy a few days later when he told me that he had secured the $10,000,000. I D. FISK BRADY.

| A CONVICT AND A GENTLEMAN | [Copyright, 1906, by Homer Sprague.] It was a calm starlight night, and when 1 came on duty at 10 o'clock the captain and his family had turned in. There was nothing for my watch to do except in the case of the man on the lookout, and all except him and the man who stood by the wheel in a perfunctory way were soon sprawled out and asleep. Within the hour I believe that we all slept. If I slept at all, of which I am not sure, it was less than ten minutes by the cabin clock. I was suddenly aroused by some one touching my arm, and I at once responded: “Well, what is it?” I spoke before I turned to the man at my side. When I wheeled on him I saw a stranger. He stood there with his cap in hand, and drawn up across the deck were fourteen other men, all dressed as French convicts. Every man removed his cap and bowed to me, and as I stood staring the one who had touched me quietly said: “Sir, we have come aboard.” “But what is it—wao are you?” I asked as our voices aroused the man at the wheel. “Our boat is alongside, sir. We are escaped convicts from Cayenne. We did not bail you, and we came aboard i without noise. We have been a night i and two days at sea. May 1 hope that our advent will disturb no one?” | “Good God, but we are captured by convicts!” I groaned as I finally reali ized the situation. , “And a worse thing might have happened,” he replied, with a laugh. “We haven’t the slightest intention of capturing your craft. Our only desire is to work our passage to the north. We have quite a quantity of provisions aboard our boat, and you will find us obeying orders and maintaining the best of discipline.” I descended to the cabin and aroused the captain and in whispers informed him of what had happened. He was of an excitable nature, and if I had not clapped my hand over his mouth he would have aroused the women with his exclamations. I had to tell him over and over again that the convicts offered no violence and that their leader seemed to have them under perfect control before I could quiet him. He was shaking like a leaf when we gained the deck, and he afterward told me that he expected nothing less than to be murdered out of hand. “So this is the captain?” softly asked the convict leader. "Let me reassure you, sir. There shall be no violence here. You are as safe as if in your own home ashore.” “But you—you are convicts!” exclaimed the captain as he looked around upon the gang. “Unfortunately, yes, but it does not follow that we are beasts and brutes. Some of us may not have been guilty of the crimes charged. I alone can speak your language. I am the leader. Every man will obey my slightest word. All w r e ask Is that you give us a passage to the north.” “How far to the north?” "To any of the English islands In the West Indies.” The man was speaking fairly, and when one looked at him there could be no mistake that he had been gentle born. He had the face and speech of an aristocrat. His followers were more common looking men, but their faces were not evil. The captain’s excitement quieted down after a little and he reasoned it out that it was best to give way. Indeed, there was no other conclusion for a sensible man to come to. He looked at me and I gave him a nod, and then he said: | “I will take you along and trust in i what you say.” “And I pledge you my word you shall have no cause to regret it,” replied the leader as he extended his hand. “As the weather is fine my men can occupy the decks. I have a few words to say to them.” With a gesture he called them around him, and then for five minutes he spoke in low but earnest tones. As he used the French language we con id .•■ot understand a word, and yet it was plain that he was giving them orders and advice. While he was speaking I suggested to the captain that he be invited to occupy a spare berth in the cabin, ! and this was acceded to. When the invitation was extended he accepted it as his due, but with many thanks, and introduced himself as. Mr.. Lafoy. Qur sleeping watch was roused up, the convicts’ boat unloaded and” sent adrift, explanations made and all done so quietly that the sleeping women were not aroused. The first they knew of the affair was at breakfast time. MeanI while the calm was broken. | In the morning watch I carried one of my suits of clothes to Lafoy’s stateroom, along with a razor and other things. When he came out to breakfast and was introduced he was all gentleman and no convict. He was a good talker and a natural entertainer, and the women, who had expected to meet a villain, were on friendly footing Within a quarter of an hour. As for the other convicts, our men fraternized with them at once. Some of them were sailors and they promptly turned to. Between our crew and the captain’s slop chest all were fitted out In other dress and their uniforms throwm overboard. We had the crowd with us for three weeks, and never a man during that whole time caused us the slightest trouble. As for Lafoy, all took the greatest liking to him and were sorry when the time came to part. Just where we left them Is a matter not to be betrayed, but they did not go from us empty handed, and a chance was given them to live better lives in the future. M. QUAD.

I Malcolm’s | | Rescue | Gordon Talbot >? ■! ■ Copyright, 1903, by XV. R. Caldwell “I’m worried about Nancy,” said Peyton gloomily. “You’ve got to worry about something,” was the consoling reply, as Nancy Wescott's brother Billy did not see anything to worry about in the sit- ' uatiin. "But,” persisted Peyton, “she never acted this way until that fellow Malcolm came down.” “Possibly it’s Miss Malcolm,” chuckled Billy. “If you were not holding hands last night, it’s because appear- i ances are deceitful.” “Nothing of the sort,” protested Peyton, reddening. “I was just trying to make Nan a little jealous.” “And it looks as if she might be trying to play the same game,” laughed Billy. “See here, Tom, you’ve got a fair wind and a pipe full of tobacco. What more do you want? Worry about sis when you get back to the island.” With a heavy sigh, Tom Peyton threw bis leg over the tiller to hold it while he lit his pipe. They had gone over to tie? mainland for supplies, and after beating their way against a head I wind it should have been enough to satisfy the heart of any yachtsman to have the wind right for a straight run home. It was five miles to the mainland, an absurd distance to go for butter, but the Wescott party liked the privacy of the island, and had not the launch broken down the matter of supplies would have been unimportant. Billy had volunteered to sail over and get the butter, and Tom had invited himself to go because he was so utterly miserable with Malcolm dancing attendance on Nancy. For three years he had been trying to get her to say yes to the all important question, but she had evaded the issue with the skill of a diplomat, and in despair he had sought to force matters through arousing her jealousy by flirting with Miss Malcolm. Unfortunately Nancy had seen through the plan and retaliated by engaging in a desperate flirtation with *<• V ( IfcMhvE \ £ THE NEXT INSTANT THEY WERE FLOUNDERING IN THE WATER. Malcolm. This had been the last straw, and Tom was as miserable as it is given man to be. ■ For awhile they were silent. Billy lay dreaming in the bottom of the boat, sending out great clouds of smoke as he stared up at the sky, and Peyton, j his leg still thrown over the tiller, was | engaged in devising torments to which Malcolm should be subjected if he had his way. Neither noticed that a breeze seemed to be springing up from the west. They were under the lee of Catlin island, with its steep bluffs, and spinning along nicely. Wescott island was only half a mile beyond the larger island, ; and already it seemed to Tom that he could make out Nancy and Malcolm sitting on the rocks at the point. He was just about to reach out for the glasses when the boat slipped out from under the protection of the cliffs, and with a slap the strong wind struck the sail. The next instant they; were floundering in the water. Tom couldn’t swim, but Billy grasped bis collar and hoisted hini on to the bottom of the upturned boat. “Hold fast for a moment,” he, commanded as he slipped off again. He floundered in the water for a moment, then paddled toward the boat. “Here’s the coffee!” he called.— ‘‘It’s in an air tight tin, and I’ll bet it’s all right.” “Better toss up your pipe, too,” suggested Tom, who for the first time sgw that Billy’s teeth were still clinched on the stem. “They have seen us and are coming out.” A rowboat had put out from the camp. In it Malcolm and one of the servants were pulling fuMously, while on the shore Nancy could be seen waving frantically. Malcolm bent his back to the task, and presently as they came out he began to shout messages of hope. “Bet he thinks we’re drowned and don’t know it,” laughed Billy, who had abandoned his quest for floating property to watch the little comedy. Malcolm, still puffing, drew alongside the boat and helped Peyton in. Billy climbed in over the side, and hearty “I thought I’d be in time" Malcolm swung the boat’s head about and

began to pull for the shore' with the same puffing exertion. Biily shouted t® him to ease up, that there was a chance for salvage, but Malcolm did not understand and kept on puffing and pulling. The whole camp was on shore to greet them, and Malcolm pulled up in fine style. “Have you a barrel ready?” he puffed. “What for?” demanded Billy. “A glass will do for me.” “To roll you on,” explained Malcolm. “When they take people out of the water they roll them on a barrel, don’t you know.” , “I’ll murder the first man who trie* It on me,” threatened Nancy’s brother. “Come on, Tom. let’s get some dry clothes.” They went off toward the camp, while the others gathered on the beach and talked it over. Twenty minutea later Billy, appearing in the doorway, j demanded to know whether they had | brought in the yacht. “They’re out after it now,” explained Nancy, pointing to where a little group on the sand was watching three of the men who were pulling for shore, towi Ing the boat in. Billy went off to join i them, and Tom sank into a piazza chair near Nancy. “How did Billy come to upset?" she asked curiously “He didn’t,” be admitted. “It was all my fault. We were going aloug so nicely that I never noticed a squall blowing up behind Catlin. When it hit : us I had my leg over the tiller, and before I could get it clear we were in the water.” “We were watching you from the point,” she smiled. “Mr. Malcolm was so excited that for a moment I thought he was going to' try to walk out to you.” “He certainly did work hard,” admitted Tom. “There we were sitting high and dry on the keel and poor old Malcolm breaking his back to get out there before we drowned.” “You shouldn’t laugh at Mr. Malcolm,” she reproved. “I suppose that I must have been so anxious that I communicated my excitement to hlmJ’ “I suppose you’re anxious about Billy a lot of times,” he said idly. “That boy would love to live in a boat and never come ashore.” “I don’t worry about Billy,” she denied. “He ean swim like a fish.” “Then why”— he began. “It is because I cannot swim that you were worried?” he demanded. “It would break up the party.” she explained, realizing what she bad said. “But you do care?” he pleaded. “Say you do, dear?” “Perhaps I do,” she admitted. “A whole lot?” he persisted. Nancy hesitated. The incident had been enlightening. She knew her own heart better than she had that morning. She nodded her head. It seemed to Tom only a moment before Billy came tramping up from the beach. “It’s all right, Billy,” he cried. “It’s not Malcolm, after all. It’s I.” “I’m glad of it,” growled Billy. “It’ll keep you from being grouchy, and. anyhow, that" infernal Malcolm made us lose the butter. I was just going to dive for it when he ‘saved us.’ ” Divorce Among the Burmese. The marriage customs of the Burmese are simple in the extreme. A man and woman are married or are not married, according to whether they live as husband and wife or not. A man may have several wives, though in practice he rarely has more than oqe. A woman may have only one husband. Divorce is a matter for the village elders. No court is necessary, ho decree, no appeaLto legal or ecclesiastical authority. Divorce is but the breaking of a status. A wife retains control ofc jail her property when married; she has a half share in all property acquired during marriage. If she is divorced she takes her own property and half that jointly acquired. There is no blending of her authority with that of her husband. She may do what she will with her own. There is no rule of primogeniture and no power of bequeathing property by testament. All the children inherit equally. No Buddhist may make a will. Whatever a man or a woman dies possessed of must be divided acs cording to the rules of consanguinity. There is no preference of either sex. All children are equal in this matter. The oldest son shares alike with the youngest daughter.—Lahore Tribune. The Bishop Apologized. Dr. Temple was wont to rule the diocese of Exeter with an iron hand, and a tale is told of a deanery meeting at which he presided, when the subject for discussion was “The Hindrances to the Spiritual Life of the Diocese.” After the discussion had proceeded for some time a vicar electrified his audience by declaring that the greatest hindrance to the full spiritual life was none other than the bishop himself. “I repeat it,” said the speaker calmly, “our right revei-end father in God is very far from being a father to any of us. Your manner toward us,” he continued, turning to the bishop, “is harsh in the extreme, while your method of rule is this: You treat us all, old and young, as if we were a set of schoolboys.” This bold statement drew from the bishop an apology, and he explained that beneath his brusqueness of manner was a very genuine sympathy with the work of all the clergy. This impeachment created the more sensation in the meeting.because it came from a son of Dr. Temple’s predecessor, the famous Henry of Exeter.—Westminster Gazette. Out of Office and In. A well known radical member coined this happy phrase: “It'is a pity that ■ the government has not as much courage in office as it had conscience in opposition.”—London Truth.