Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 102, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 April 1911 — Page 2

WHO WAS HE?

Taken from the Archives of Bullivants, Limited, the greatest inquiry and detective agency of modern times

By FREDERICK REDDALE

iE private official diary of Darrel Callister, managing man for Bullivants Limited in the London office, Contained no more curious and interesting entries than those relating to the celebrated Ashley case. By virtue of the story teller’s omniscience we are enabled to - transcribe these notes, weaving therefrom the following terse narratlveconcern-

to* one of the cleverest attempted impostures of recent times. Perhaps it will help the clarity of the story if we allow Callister to be his own narrator, simply promising that while as a general rule he seldom went out “on a case" himself, yet in matters of moment or of special emergency he occasionally did so, and usually with algual success —for he was one of the cleverest secret agents of Bullivants Limited—the leading investigating agency of Its day and generation. So, without further preamble, Darrel Callister tells the* story. _ _____ On the 15th of June, 1898, 1 was sitting in our King William street office. It was near closing time anyway, and business being dull, I was about to close my desk and betake myself to Croydon, wife, and babies, with per-haps-a tour of the links before dinner, when the postman on his final round for the day dropped a letter in the box. Tbe envelope was large, square, and of heavy texture; the flap bore a coronet, and it was addressed to me personally, care of Bullivants. Within was a double sheet of coroneted paper on which in an exceedingly clerkly hand were the following lines: Darrel Callister, Ksq.—My Dear Sir: Could you do me the favor to call at 17 Kensington Gardena this afternoon about four, according to your convenience? I wish to consult you personally on a most argent and distressing family affair. Tours obediently. ASHLEY. I recognised the signature as that of one of the best-known names In tbe English peerage—Viscount Ashley, Baron Scarlett, and I don’t know how many more titles, belonging to one of the h&lf-dosen oldest earldoms. Some inkling of the trouble also had come to me through the Morning Post, though so far in the most guarded manner, since the impending scandal in high life was not yet common property.

Briefly I ran over the known facts to freshen my memory before starting to keep the appointment with his lordship. Some six years earlier the title had come to him as the nephew, of the tenth Viscount Ashley, who had presumably died without issue. I use the term “presumably” for want of a better. The old nobleman once had a son. a ne’er-do-well, who had disappeared 20 years before and was long since given up as dead by all save his mother, the dowager viscountess. now an old woman of seventy and over.

But an old woman's fond fancies could not be allowed to stand in the way of the heir-at-law, and when Lionel Ashley failed to appear, though his father's demise was widely heralded, the law assumed that he was dead, the nephew. Gerald, succeeded, was confirmed in the title and estates by the house of lords, since enjoying undisturbed possession. However, about six months before 1 came into the case on that June afternoon, a “claimant” had appeared in the person of a fellow who asserted that he was Lionel Ashley and the rightful heir—as of course he was If his proofs were good. But although the claimant bore a strong physical resemblance to the missing heir and was in fact acknowledged as her long-missing son by the dowager and sundry old family retainers; despite_.the fact that he showed a remarkable knowledge of detail concerning the family history and his own boyhood; and notwithstanding that he told a most specious tale as to his 20-year wanderings, there were enough suspicious circumstances about the man and his tale to cause considerable doubt among those most inter-

ested and ■who were unblinded by maternal love and unbiased through fancied old associations. Among these, naturally, was the present viscount, my correspondent, although I Jod&e<l him too fair-minded and honorable to dispute a Just claim properly presented. These, then, were the scanty facts in my possession when I closed my desk, called a hansom, and directed the cabby to drive to Kensington Gardens. 1 was too old a hand to let my mliJu be biased by mere newspaper talk, so was prepared to meet Viscount Ashley on neutral ground, if, as I supposed, his “family affair” concerned the “claimant." Nor was I mistaken. I was scarcely seated when my client plunged into the matter dearest bis heart—for of course the, case meant to him everything In the world—wealth, position, and political preferment.

(Oopyright, 1»10, by W.O. Chapman)

"This wretched impostor has set us all by the ears," he remarked testily after the usual ceremonious words of greeting, “and I have appealed to Bullivants in the forlorn hope that you will be able to at once clear up the mystery and expose the beggar.” “I am familiar only with the bare facts as they have appeared in the newspapers," I explained, “so with your lordship’s permission I will put a few queries. First, has this —er — pseudo viscount put in his claim legally?” “Oh, yes, counfound him!” was the answer. “He’s engaged counsel of the very best, though where he got the money I can t see for the life of me, and they and our old family lawyers have muddled over' the thing. Of course, T admit nothing—one look at the fellow would convince any fairminded man that he originally came out of the gutter. But unless we can show him up there’s nothing to prevent the case coming to trial, and that means a terrible expense, to say nothing of the scandal.” I nodded. “Are you alone in your Skepticism?" I inquired. "Why. Mr. Callister, there’s the rub,” answered Ashley. “Unfortunately my aunt, the dowager, who’s almost in her dotage, saw the rascal first, and immediately hailed him as her long-lost Lionel! There’s no manner of doubt that he’s got what the Yankees call a fine line of talk; he knows or professes to remember things about our family history which I myself never knew or have forgotten. Then, too, some of the older servants profess to recognize him as their ‘Master Lionel,’ so I fancy he feels pretty secure. Nevertheless I am certain he’s an impostor, a rank outsider." “Why?”l inquired.

“How do you tell the difference between a gentleman and a cad?” countered Ashley. “By a hundred tricks of voice and manner that with us are inborn.” “How does he account for his long absence?” was my next question. “Says he traveled all over the world, sailoring, gold-mining, sheepgrowing, prospecting, and I don’t know what. Explains his roughness by the fact that he’s been deprived of polite society all these years. But tell me this: If you’d ever spoken French like a native would you have totally forgotten it? Or would you have learned to drop your Hs? Or forgotten to use good English? Or the proper use of knife and fork, handkerchief and napkin?" I shook my head. “Doesn’t seem possible,” I admitted. “Well, it’s by such things I test him. He says he’s forgotten his French, his English, and his good manners because all these years he’s been mixed with riff-raff. Now, I don’t remember my cousin Lionel — I was too young. But we’ve got his portrait, and while this bounder does look something like Lionel might look after 20 years of roughing it, I’m molally certain that he’s a cheat and an impostor.” “Where is he now?" 1 inquired. Viscount Ashley gave an embarrassed laugh. “To tell you the truth;’ he said, ‘Tve got him bottled up down at Fairlie Castle." At this he noted my surprise, for he went on apologetically: "You see, I want to avoid as much fuss as possible. As long as the dowager’s on his side, he’s got us hip and thigh. She had him over at the dower-house in the next county, where she cried over him till the fellow cursed her and told her to up. So, to stop the rural talk and to get him under my own eye, I invited him over to the castle. But I can’t keep him there, you know, lie frightens my wife half to death.”

" hile the viscount was speaking I had determined to try and solve the mystery. • Are you going down to Fairlle tonight?” I inquired, consulting my watch. ' "That was my intention,” said Ashley, "unless —” “Then I’ll ask you to put me up for a day or two. I’d like to study this bounder of yours at close range.” “By George! Calllster. that’s no end good of you,” exclaimed my client "We’ll just have time to make the 6:10 at Paddington and be home before dark.” Fairlie Castle, it should be explained was charmingly situated in the Thames valley about an hour’s run from London. I may as well confess that my first glance at JJonel Ashley, as be called himself, was a disappointment—from our standpoint. For. although he showed all the signs of hard living, he was no worse looking than many a man knocking about London town. He was sober, and had shown the grace to dress for dinner. But he wore his evening clothes like a railroad navvy and the Instant he opened his mouth to talk the illusion vanished. The tone, the accent, the un-

couth half-profane phrases, all proclaimed tbe cad and the bounder, just as Gerald Ashley had said. I needed no further evidence— for I know a cultured Englishman when I see and bear him — and then you must remember that I met this precious Lionet with an unbiased mind. Before Lady Ashley had risen from table my verdict #as ready-the pretender was that and nothing more. No tongues of men or angels—-not even tbe poor deluded half-blind dowager—could have convinced me otherwise. But the thing to be done was to prove the man a fraud, and a self-confessed fraud, if possible. All that night and the next day I pondered the problem, but without success. The viscount had introduced me in my right name as an old t school friend, so there was no danger of the pseudo Lionel taking alarm. By the second dinner time we were the best of friends. During the day I had tramped over the park with him, and he had spoken his mind pretty freely, taking it for granted that I was familiar with the situation. As we were returning “Lionel” stopped to take a swig from his pocket-flask and then lighted a vilesmelling briar pipe. As we started again the noble old pile of Fairlie Castle came into full view. “A beautiful place,” said I, stopping to enjoy the scene. “Blarsted old rat-hole,” growled my companion. “Yer won’t ketch me livin’ ere much, not on yer nat’ral. I’d sell it damned quick if I could, ghostses an’ all!” But at the word “ghostses” I

pricked up my ears, for I had a sudden quick-born idea. “So there is a family ghost?” I queried, starting to walk on. “That’s wot th’ bloomin’ beggars s’y, but I don’t take no stock in any such bally rot.” “Then you’ve never seen the ghost?" I persisted. “No, nor any one else,” he growled. When w r e met in the drawing-room jußt before dinner I hastily whispered to Viscount Ashley: “What about your family ghost? Is there one?” He changed color, laughed uneasily, and murmured back: “They say so—the Red Lady walks in the West Wing. I’m told, but I never saw her myself. Why?” I motioned for silence, for I heard the rustle of skirts, yet managed to say before the viscountess entered: “Follow my lead after dinner.” After the wine was on the table and we three men were alone I led up to the subject of the Red Spectre, addressing this query to the viscount: “Is it true that Red Lady always shows herself to the rightful heir and to none other, just previous to his accession?”

Ashley rose nobly to the bait. “I — er—believe there is a story to that effect. But she never -showed herself to me." ‘‘An’ a damned good reason why!" exclaimed "Lionel,” thumping the polished mahogany with a fist almost as big as a leg of mutton; “’cause th’ old gal knowed yur wos a bloomin’ rotter of a ’umbug! That’s whypbll’ me!" I had purposely kept the bottle near our vulgar friend's elbow, and saw to it that he had enough drink to make him pot-valiant "Perhaps your cousin thinks he’d have better luck?” I insinuated. “An’ ’oo's got a better right t’ th’ luck?" he shouted. “Ain’t I th’ real thing? Trot out yer bloomin’ Red Lidy an’ I’ll show ’er th’ time o’ day.” “That means you'd have to spend a night alone in the West Wing,” cleverly cut in the viscount “You don't mean to say you’re game to try It?” . “Ginte!" exploded the pretender. “Nlme yer time an’ I’ll bet yer a ’underd t’ one in sufterin's th’t th’ old gal does a skirt dance fer me!” We both laughed Incredulously, telling him that he didn’t mean it, and all that, with the result that we had him pinned down to the boast that he would sleep in the haunted West Wing next night. Ashley explained that the room could not be made

ready before, because nqne of the maids would enter the room after dark. Besides, I needed the next day for certain little preparations of my own which necessitated my running up to town to makwwome purchases. While I was gone, the housekeeper swept and garnished the haunted room where the Red Lady walked. By luncheon time I was backhand then, taking Viscount Ashley Into the secret, put in a couple of hours making ready and installing some simple apparatus. Again at dinner that night I led up to the theme of the ghost, priming “Lionel" with just enough liquor to make him boastful 'and garrulous, and joking him about his coming ordeal. Greatly to my delight he evinced no symptoms of backing down, and about half-after eleven we’two gravely escorted him down tbe long danksmelling corridor and into a large and gloomy chamber whose chief article of furniture was a big old-fashioned four-poster valanced bed. We looked around, waved our candles so as to make a lot of shadows, then civilly wished the impostor good-night, purposely leaving him with only one candle. My part of the show was scheduled to begin at one o’clock. There was a wide stone balcony outside the only window of the haunted room. From the roof I had lowered a 12-foot ladder and had besides blackened every pane of glass on the outside save one in the center. Ashley had himself removed the window-shade, leaving only a pair of thin muslin curtains. When the time came 1 climbed

A REAUTIFUL PLACE SAID I STOPPING TO ENJOY THE JCENE

down the ladder with my apparatus under one arm, consisting of a- small but powerful acetylene magic-lantern and a megaphone. In the lens of the lantern I had fixed a painted slide warranted to cast through the one clean pane of glass and the lace curtains the image of a very spectral-looking Red Lady on the wall opposite the sleeper’s bed. That done, I applied the megaphone to my lips and set up a most dismal “Whoo-Whoo-Whoo.” Presumably “Cousin Lionel” w'as asleep, but the noise and the glow woke him up in short order. I kept the lantern wobbling, so as to create the illusion of a moving spectre, and the walls I sent booming through that megaphone were weird enough to scare a rogue.

“Tell the truth—Whoo!” “What are you doing here —Whoo!” “Who are you?—Whoo!” “Don’t tell any more lies —Whoo!” were some of my efforts, and spelhily they did the business. Pretty soon I could hear the beggar bouncing around; then he began to groan and swear. Finally he yelled to be let out, for in his fright he had lost the key, crying that “he’d make a clean breast of It all, only for Gord’B sike, tike him out!" Ashley had been stationed In (he hall for just such an emergency, and when he broke open the door found his pseudo cousin in a groveling heap on the floor. When he came to he confessed the whole imposture. And vyho was he? you’ll ask. Well, It seemed that his real name was Albert Edgerly, born in Bermondsey, a tailor by trade, who'd fallen in with Lionel Ashley when the latter was keeping sheep up-country in the Australian bush. They’d been no end of pals together and there was a certain amount of physical resemblance. For ten years they were chums, and in that time the heir to the peerage had unbosomed himself freely to his companion concerning himself, his family, and a thousand and one petty details which the cunning Edgerly carefully treasured. When Lionel Ashley died, the other thought i' would be easy to pass himself off for the long-sought heir. A cleverer or >*more cultured man might have succeeded, but the impostor’s low breeding and total lack of education were fatally against him. However, he had the mother on his side, and there is no telling what an English judge and fury would have decided had the case ever come to trial. So perhaps it wan fortunate that I was able to Brighten the truth out of the bold and daring impostor.

JINX ON THE JOB

HARO LOCK TALCS TOLD BY TRUTHFUL BALL PLAYERS. COULDN’T PASS THE NINTH If Games Had Been Eight Innings " JCeuievllle-,Would Have Been Win- . ner—Veteran Scorer's Hard Luck Bet—Al Bridwell's Classic. By HUGH S. FULLERTON. Burke, the little Louisville infielder, Is about as quick with his wits as he Is With his hands and feet, as he proved one day last summer. He was playing,, third base and Dare Devil Dave Altizer, who just then was hitting like a fiend, was batting for Minneapolis and, as there was a runner on first base and no one out, Burke expected Altizer would dump a bunt toward third base, so he came creeping forward foot by foot, expecting to get the bunt and throw to second In time to force the runner there. He was about 35 feet from the plate when Altizer cut loose full force at a fast ball and hit it straight at Burke like a rifle shot. The third baseman saw it coming and dropped to the ground like a flash, the ball whizzed on over third base and down the line for a two-base hit, a . run scored and Louisville was behind. Up In the stand, near the front, a 1 wild-eyed fan stood and howled: “Oh, you shirker, you yellow quitter. What made you dodge?” “My boy,'’ called Burke in reply, “this is a game of skill, not courage.”

That Louisville club last season had about the queerest run of hard luck of any team in history. It was a pretty fair ball club, except that the infield was shot to pieces by drafting of the major leagues, and at times it played good ball. The great trouble was that it couldn’t get over the ninth Inning. During the season the team won one game in the ninth inning and lost 29 in the final round after they seemed to have the game cinched. If they had been playing eight-inning games all season they would have been close to the front instead of in tail-end position. It got so that when the ninth inning came every one on the team expected an explosion, and If it failed to come the crowd rather was disappointed. Finally one day when they were playing Indianapolis and the score was 2 to 0 in their favor with two out and no one on the bases and two strikes on the batter the umpire miscalled a stftke that ought to have ended the game. The batter promptly made a base hit, the next man hit for two bases, and with men on second and third the next batter rolled an easy bounder to the short stop, who scooped it cleanly with plenty of time to toss It to first and end the agony. Evidently the nervous fear of losing in the ninth again unsettled the short stop, for instead of lobbing the ball over he threw as hard as he could and threw wide and low six feet outside the base. Owner Grayson toppled over in a faint —thinking the thirtieth game had been thrown away in the ninth, but Myers dived out, extended at full length, stabbed at the ball’ with one hand, and by one of the most wonderful catches ever made clung to the ball and crawfished back to the base just in time

Refused to Believe It Until He Read It In the Papers.

to retire the runner and save the day. Grayson came to as the crowd was departing and hurried sadly homeward, still thinking the game was lost and it was not until the next morning that he discovered that Myers had saved the team by his catch —and he refused to believe it until he read it in the papers.

John Greuber, the Pittsburg veteran, who kept the official score of Braddock’s defeat and has been the official scorer In Pittsburg ever since, lost the hardest luck bet last season that ever was recorded. John has one great joke. It has been a joke ever since George Gibson joined the Pirates. The joke consists of calling out loudly every time Gibson comes to bat: “Here’s where Gibby makes a home run.” He says that every time Gibby bats during the season. Now four years ago, over on the pld park In Allegheny (excuse us North side) George Moreland, the keeper of vital statistics in baseball, offered to bet Greuber one dollar to one cent that he could not call the turn on Gibby making a borne run and Greuber took the bet. On an average of four and a half times a game for over three years Greuber solemnly yelled:

Hhwhere Glbby makes a hmnm run” Anil after Glbby falls to make the home ran, he checks op his account with Moreland. ? One day last summer^—along In August/ Greuber. according to the vital statistics, owed Moreland $4.58. It happened that when Gibson came to bat in the seventh inning John was body or not paying close attention, and for the first time in four years he failed to yell: “Here’s where Glbby makes a home run.” Moreland called to him: “Are you on, John?” “Naw,” remarked Greuber. “Not this time. You see, I failed to call when he came to bat, and that’s a hunch he won’t hit that home run today.” And the first ball pitched Glbby hit into the left flfeld bleachers for a home run. Al BridweH, the popular little short stop of the New York Giants, lives down at Portsmouth on the Ohio river —and he has a story of a play which Is a classic. Every £ne knows the peculiarities of the t)hio river as regards floods and droughts. Well, this is a story of both. “When we were kids,” relates Brid* well, “we had a hard time finding level ball grounds, because there is hardly enough level ground around Portsmouth to make a two-base hit on. So we used tb wait for low water

They and the Umpire Swam to Shore.

and play ball in the river bed. One summer, just after I got off the Little Potatoes and was playing second base and pitching for the Stars we had a dry season. The water went lower and lower until, the crawfish began to, dig wells to get water, and we had to haul water five miles from some springs back in the hills for the ferry boats to run on. The river got dustier and dustier. We kids didn’t mind it, for every foot the river went down gave us a bigger ball ground. Well, we played ball in the river bed almost all summer and the Stars were winning the championship exoept - from the West Enders. We were after them, and finally along in September we got a match game with them for the champtynship of the town —excepting, of course, the First Team. We played in the river bed. It happened that we had laid out the diamond facihg up stream. If we had laid it out downstream we would have won that game, and the championship. ’ In the eighth inning the score was tied and we had a man on second base. I was at bat, and as I started to hit I heard a rushing sound, and looking up the' river I saw a wall ofi water coming down six feet high. There had been a cloud burst up the river and the flood was coming. I! took a strike and the runner stole third. All that was needed waß a fly to give us the lead and the game, I saw that the flood would stop play in about a minute, qo I whaled away at the next ball and hit a fly to the center fielder. The runnier held third and started home when the center fielder caught the ball. Just as he caught it the flood hit him and he started for the home plate a mile a minute. Thai runner was tearing for the plate trying to score and the rest of us were digging for high grounds. The water was too fast for our man. Ten feet before he reached the plate the flood swept that eenter fielder past and he tagged our man out, and they and the umpire swam ashore together and left the game a tie." The river went to 30 feet —so we couldn’t play off the tie, and the championship of Portamouth still is undecided.” (Copyright, 1911, by Joseph B. Bowles.) !

Passing of the ‘Big Man.’

The big-brained, big-hearted, ‘old Roman’ men, whose integrity was as unquestioned as their ability, are almost extinct. Their places are cut up and filled by smaller, less able, often much less honest men. It is not that the big men have gone to the citiesfor they are not there; it is not that they left no descendants —for in more cases than one cares to count, the smaller, less able, less honest men are their own sons. These latter frequently make as much money In a year as their fathers did In ten, and show-less character in a lifetime than their fathers did in a year.-—Cornelia A. P. Comer, in in the February Atlantic.

Girl Led Field in Fox Hunt.

Miss Sarah Fisk, 23 years old, a daughter of Lewis S. Fisk of "Philadelphia, and a granddaughter of John Dobson, a wealthy Philadelphian, rode In the biggest fox hunt ever held In Brandywine Hundred,' this state, and Delaware county, Pennaylvanla. Miss Fisk led the 60 hunters through’ the day and she took the fences and other barriers in a manner that won admiration from all. After being liberated the animal, ran to cover, but the hunters found another scent which carried them Into Delaware.—Wilmington Correspondence Philadelphia Press. *