Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 97, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 April 1914 — VISITS OF BURGLARIBUS [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

VISITS OF BURGLARIBUS

By FRANCES DE WOLF FENWICK.

Clytie put a dab of septe on her canvas, drew back, brußh in'hand, and ... , J,

surveyed It critically. Then she turned arqund—“That’s right!” said the man behind the gun, which in this case happened to be a pistol. “One yell and you’re a dead woman.” The yell died In her throat. Clytie stood like a stone column. “Youse don’t seem pleased ter see me!” her visitor ventured. “I’m not,” Clytie answered, succinctly.

Burglaribus opened his mouth and eyes simultaneously. * , “Youse ’ve got a steady head on yer," he remarked. “But that ain’t wot I came here ter say. W’ere’s yer dough?” “I haven’t any.” “Here now, none o’ that,” her visitor said threateningly. “Out with it. I’m a desperate character, I am, and Tin willin’ ter take chances. Bring out yer cash or —” “My good man," Clytie responded patiently. “I can’t bring out what I haven’t got. Shoot me If you feel Inclined. There are people in the next studio, you know—men. They’d tusls In the minute they heard the explosion—” ' Burglaribus lowered the pistol and looked at her intently. “Youse ’ve got a head on yer, as I said,” he remarked. “But stranglin’ don’t make no noise, an’ I reckon I’ll J ust hev’ ter choke yer .till yer feel like tellln’ me a little more.” He moved toward her. “Hold on!” said Clytie firmly. "I dpn’t see any fun in being strangled. But truly there’s hardly any money in the room—only nine dollars and seventy-eight cents altogether, and It’s 'n that little safe underneath the table, hit you can’t open it yourself—” “No, but youse kin open it for me,” Burglaribus responded. He laid his pistol down, leaned his elbow on the table, and watched Clytie with calm Interest as she stooped for the little safe.

“See,” she said, kneeling and holding it toward him, “just feel! Isn’t it heavy?” Burglaribus “hefted” the safe. The next moment his head came in con T tact with the hard-wood floor of the studio —and when he recovered hiß balance he was alone. Clytie had frantically grabbed his good right leg, yanked it from under him, then had rushed to the door and slammed it behind her. Burglaribus, swearing terribly, rubbed his aqhing head and looked for a way of escape. But it was too late. The studio door was flung open and the “men" in the “next studio” rushed in. Burglaribus was promptly nabbed and escorted to a police station. . For the next fortnight Clytie was besieged by of all kinds and sorts. She sold several' small'pictures at prices which made her wish that a sneak-thief or so would visit her weekly, and with the proceeds of one of them took a few lessons in selfdefense. She became quite an enthusiast on the subject, and acquired several really clever tricks, then settled down to her painting and gradually forgot her sudden rise to prominence. She was painting and whistling gaily one morning when the door behind her opened softly. She turned and beheld a middleaged stranger of sinister aspect. He regarded her for a minute in silence, then put his hand in his hip pocket. “Another one!” she gasped, plunging into the adjoining studio. “Oh, an awful-looking beast. Get him, quick." The three men promptly dropped their pipes, gossip, etc., and rushed to the rescue, Clytie followed. “Confound you!” yelled Burglaribus the Second. “Call this a free country? Are you all lunatics here? Can’t a man call on his relatives without being knocked down and walked on? Can’t he—” At the word “relatives” the men Slackened their hold and looked at Clytie.

“Why,” said Clytie, amazed and indignant, “you don’t suppose a silly bluff like that will help you. You know I’m no relative of yourß. Oh, don’t let him get his pistol.” “Here,” he howled as Clyde’s knights promptly collared him afresh, “one of you jackasses put your hand in my pocket and get my card-case out, confound you.” , The brother artist did as requested, and produced a silver card-case from which he drew forth a card bearing the name "Jehu N. Woolston, Scantigrease, Oregon." “Why, Woolston was my mother’s namd,” said Clytie faintly. “That young idiot’s mother was my cousin,” said Jehu Woolston wrathfully. “I’ve made my pile out West, and as I’ve no near relative of niy own, It struck me that I’d come to New York and hunt that child up. And a nice welcome I got!” he finished, glaring vindictively at the crimson Clytie. “A nice welcome—” (Copyright.-)