Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 179, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 July 1915 — Page 3

HISLOVE STORY

by MARIE VAN VORST

ILLU STRATIQFO AY^WALTERS COPYKfC/iT or 7W 00085 MSfifilUJ. QOtf/WY

SYNOPSIS. Le Comte de Sabron, captain of French cavalry, takes to his quarters to raise hr hand a motherless Irish terrier pup, and names It Pitchoune. He dines with the Marquise d’Esclignac and meets Miss Julia Redmond, American heiress, who sings for him an English ballad that Ungers in his memory. Trying to save Pitchoune’s life, he declines a second invitation to dinner because of'a "very sick friend.” No more Invitations come from the Chateau d’Escllgnac. Pitchoune, though lame from his accident, thrives and Is devoted to his master. Sabron and Pltohoune meet the Marquise and Miss Redmond and after the story of Pitchoune 1s told Sabron is forgiven and Invited to dinner again. Sabron is ordered to Algiers.

CHAPTER Vl—Continued. Pitch crane, whose eyes had followed the cat out of Bight, sprang upon his master and seemed quite ready for the new departure. ‘1 shall at least have you,” Sabron said. "It will be your first campaign. We whn.il have some famous runs and I shall introduce you to a camel and make you acquainted with several donkeys, not to speak of the historic Arab steeds. You will see, my friend, that there are other animals besides yourself in creation.” “ A telegram for mon capitaine.” Brunet came in with the blue envelope which Sabron tore open. You will take with you neither horses nor dogs. It was an order from the minister of war, just such a one as was sent to some half-dozen other young officers, all of whom, no doubt, felt more or less discomfited. Sabron twisted the telegram, put it In the fireplace and lighted his cigarette with it, watching Pitchoune who, finding himself a comfortable corner in the armchair, had settled down for a nap. “So,” nodded the young man aloud, “I shall not even have Pitchoune.” He smoked, musing. In the rigid discipline of his soldier’s life he was used to obedience. His softened eyes, however, and his nervous fingers as they pulled at his mustache, showed that the command had touched him. “What shall I do with you, old fellow?” Although Sabron’s voice was low, the dog, whose head was down upon his paws, turned his bright brown eyes on his master with so much confidence and affection that it completed the work. Sabron walked across the floor, smoking, the spurs on his heels clanking, the light shining on his brilliant boots and on his uniform. He was a splendid-looking man with race and breeding, and he combined with his masculine force the gentleness of a woman. “They want me to be lonely,” he thought. "All that the chiefs consider is the soldier —not the man — even the companionship of my dog is denied me. What do they think I am going to do out there in the long eastern evenings?” He reflected. “What does the world expect an uncompanioned wanderer to do?” There are many things and the less thought about them, the better. “A letter for Monsieur le Capitaine.” Brunet returned with a note which he presented stiffly, and Pitchoune, who chose in hiß little brain to imagine Brunet an intruder, sprang from the chair like lightning, rushed at the servant, Beized the leg of his pantaloons and began to worry them, growling, Brunet regarding him with adoration. Sabron had not thought aloud the last words of the telegram, which he had used to light his cigarette. . . . Nor will It be necessary to take a personal servant. The indigenes a*e capable ordonnances. As he took the letter from Bruaet’B salver he said curtly: “I am ordered to Algiers and S shall not take iu ses nor Pitchoune.'’ The dog, at mention of his name, set Brunet's leg free and stood quiet, his head lifted. “Nor you either, mon brave Brunet.” Sabron put his hand on his servant’s shoulder, the first familiarity he had ever shown a man who served him with devotion, and who would have given his life to save his master’s. “Those,” said the officer curtly, “are the orders from headquarters, and the least said about them the better.” The ruddy cheek of the servant turned pale. He mechanically touched his forehead. “Bien, mon Capitaine,” he murmured, with a little catch In his voice. He stood at attention, then wheeled and without being dismissed, stalked out of the room. Pitchoune did not follow. He remained Immovable like a little dog cut from bronze; he understood —who ■hail say—how much of the converse*tion? Sabron threw away his cigar rette, then read his letter by the mantiepiece, leaning his arm upon it. He read slowly. He had broken the sdal •lowly. It was. the ,first letter he had ever seen in this handwriting. It was written in French and ran thus: Monsieur— My aunt wishes ms to ask you if you win come to us for s little musicale tomorrow afternoon. We hope you Will bs free, and I hope, she added, that you will bring Pitchoune Not that I ...... ■

I think he will care for the music, but afterward perhaps he will run with us as we walk to the gate. My aunt wishes me to say that she has learned from the colonel that you have been ordered to Algiers. In this way she says that we shall have an opportunity of wishing you bon voyage, and I say I hope Pitchoune will be a comfort to you. The letter ended 1b the usual formal French fashion. Sabron, turning the letter and rereading it, found that it completed the work that had been going on in his lonely heart. He stood long, musing. Pitchoune laid himself down on the rug, his bright little head between his paws, his affectionate eyes on his master. The firelight shone on them both, the musing young officer and the almost human-hearted little beast. So Brunet found them when he came In with the lamp shortly, and as he set It down on the table and its light shone on him, Sabron, glancing at the ordonnance, saw that his eyes were red, and liked him none the less for it. CHAPTER VII. * A Soldier’s Dog. “It Is Just as I thought,” he told Pitchoune. "I took you into my life, you little rascal, against my will, and now, although it's not your fault, you are making me regret it I shall end, Pitchoune, by being a cynic and misogynist, and learn to make idols of my career and my troops alone. Aftqr all, they may be tiresome, but they don’t hurt as you do, and some other things as well.” Pitchoune, being invited to the musicale at the Chateau d’Esclignac, went along with his master, running behind the captain’s horse. It was a heavenly January day, soft and mild, full of sunlight and delicious odors, and over the towers of King Rene’s castle the sky banners were made of celestial blue. The officer found the house full of people. He thought It hard that he might not have had one more intimate picture to add to his collection. When he entered the room a young man was playing a violoncello. There was a group at the piano, and among the people the only ones he clearly saw were the hostess, Madame d’Esclignac in a gorgeous velvet frock, then Miss Redmond, who stood by the window, listening to the music. She saw him come in and smiled to him, and from that moment his eyes hardly left her. What the music was that aftefnoon the Count de Sabron could not have

He Stood Long Musing.

told very Intelligently. Much of it was sweet, all of It was touching, but when Miss Redmond stood to sing and chose the little song of which he had made a lullaby, and sang It divinely, Sabron, his hands clasped behind his back and his head a little bent, still looking at her, thought that his heart would break. It was horrible to go away and not tell her. It was cowardly to feel so much and not be able to speak it. And he felt that he might be equal to some wild deed, such as crossing the room violently, putting his hand over her slender one and saying: “I am a soldier; I have nothing but a soldier’s life. I am going to Africa tomorrow. Come with me; I want you. come!” All of which, slightly impossible and quite ont of the question, nevertheless charmed and soothed him. The words of her English song, almost barbaric to him because incomprehensible, fell on his ears. Its melody was already part of him. “Monsieur de Sabron,” said Madame d’Esclignac, “you are going away tomorrow?” “Yes, Madame.” '1 expect you will be engaged in some awful native skirmishes. Perhaps you will even be able to send back a tigef skin.” “There arc no tigers in that part of Africa, Madame." The young soldier’s dark eras rest-

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, IND.

mi almost hostllely mm the gorgtous marquise in her red gown. He felt that she was glad to have him go. He wanted to say: “I shall come hack, however; I shall come back and when I return” . . . but he knew that such a boast, or even such a hope was fruitless. His colonel bad told him only the day before that Miss Redmond was one of the richest American heiresses, and there waa a question of a duke or a prince and heaven only knew what in the way of titles. As the marquise moved away her progress was something like the rolling of an elegant velvet chair, and while his feelings were still disturbed Miss Redmond crossed the room to him. Before Sabron quite knew how they had been able to escape the others or leave the room, he was standing with her in the winter garden where the sunlight came in through trellises and the perfume of the warmed plants was heavy and sweet. Before them flowed the Rhone, golden in the winter’s light. The blue river swept its waves around old Tarascon and the battlements of King Rene’s towers. “You are going to Algiers tomorrow. Monsieur de Sabron?” Miss Redmond smiled, and.how was Sabron to realize that she could not very well have wept there and then, had she wished to do so? “Yes,” he said. “I adore my regiment. I love my work. I have always wanted to see colonial service.” “Have you? It is delightful to find one’s ambitions and desires satisfied,” said Miss Redmond. “I have always longed to see the desert. It must be beautiful. Of course you are going to take Pitchoune?” “Ah!” exclaimed Sabron, “that Is Just what I am not to do.” “What!” she cried. You are hever going to leave that darling dog behind you?” “I must, unfortunately. My superior officers do not allow me to take horses or dogs, or even my servant.” “Heavens!” she exclaimed. “What brutes they are! Why, Pitchoune will die of a broken heart.” Then she said:, “You are leaving him with your man servant?” Sabron shook his head. “Brunet would not be able to keep him.” “Ah!” she breathed. “He is looking for a home? Is he? If so, would you . . . might I take care of Pitchoune?” The Frenchman impulsively put out his hand, and she laid her own in it. “You are too good,” he murmured. “Thank you. 'Pitchoune will thank you.” He kissed her hand. That was all. From within the salon came the noise of voices, and the bow of the violoncellist was beginning a new concerto. They stood looking at each other. No condition could have prevented it although the Marquise d’Esclignac was rolling toward them across the polished floor of the musicroom. As though Sabron realized that he might never see this lovely young woman again, probably never would see her, and wanted before he left to have something made clear, he asked quickly: “Could you, Mademoiselle, In a word or two tell me the meaning of the English song you sang?” She flushed and laughed slightly. “Well, it Is not very easy to put It In prose," she hesitated. “Things sound so differently in music and poetry; but it means,” she said in French, bravely, “why. It is a sort of prayer that someone you 4 love very much should be kept safe night and day. That’s about all. There is a little sadness In it, as though,” and her cheeks glowed, “as if there was a sort of separation. It means . . .” “Ah!” breathed the officer deeply, “I understand. Thank you.” And Just then Madame d’Esclignae rolled up between them and with an unmistakable satisfaction presented to her niece the gentleman she had secured. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

Your Own Home.

William L. Price in “The House of the Democrat,” gave us a description of hl3 ideal dwelling in words so genial and simple, and full of such picturesque feeling, that they seem a fitting preface to an article on the planning of a home. “The rooms,” he said, “shall be ample and low; widewindowed, deep-seated, spacious, cool by reason of shadows in summer, warmed by the ruddy glow of firesides in winter; open to wistful summer airs, tight closed agaiußt the wintry blasts; a house, a home, a shrine.” One cannot but wish that every homebuilder and architect would learn these words by heart, and hold them as a constant reminder —for In that one prophetic sentence seems to be condensed the very spirit of home. The atmosphere of comfort and restfulness cannot be attained, however, without much wise and thoughtful planning. Its roots are In the practical, the seemingly commonplace—which, rightly treated, results in lasting homelike charm. —The Craftsman.

Chinese Currency.

Currency in China has had all sorts of surprises for the layman, but the present situation Is simply extraordinary. There is now found to be an actual plethora of dollars and small coins, and since last August the Chinese have been melting them and converting them Into sycee. The reason why doßara are being melted is that large Issues of the provincial mints have found-no use in the market, and as all Chinese accounts are in taels the present price of the dollar Is no! very conducive to its existence %ai circulation.

CHANGE OF PACE IS BEST, SAYS JOHNSON

“The stories you hear about new curves and mystery balls are nonsense,” says Walter Johnson, the king of pitchers. “The spitball Is a novelty, I’ll admit, but it ruins a pitcher’s arm In time. If Ed Walsh, for instance, had never used the spitball he would have had no trouble with his wing. The same applies to Russell Ford, who seems to have lost his effectiveness. The pitching in the last world’s series was devoid of new wrinkles. Bender and Plank depended almost entirely on speed and curves. Bender mixed in a slow ball now and then, which had the Giants swinging at nothing. Bush had a jump ball which was nothing more than the time-honored inshoot, delivered so it would pass close to the upper part of the body. Mathewson’s fadeaway, socalled, was a drop ball with an out-

FOX WANTED SOME SIGNALS

Atlanta First Baseman Just a Trifle Peeved at Curves and Spitters Thrown by Russell Ford. This story comes from Rebel Oakes, manager of the Pittsburgh Feds: “Russell Ford, now with the Buffalo Feds, pftched for Atlanta in the Southern league in his early days. Jim Fox, possessing a large quantity of dry wit, played first base. “One day Ford, in attempting to catch a runner napping, threw to first. The ball took a wide curve as it neared Fox. He wasn’t expecting it, but made a gallant lunge and caught the

Russell Ford.

twister on the shin. Fox recovered the bail and returned it to Ford without comment. “A few innings later Ford was Just about to wind up to throw a spit ball when he saw another runner take a big lead off first. Ford whirled around and threw a “spitter” to Fox. The ball took a funny twist and hit Fox on the elbow. “Fox got the ball and carried it over to Ford. “Say, Russ, as long as you are going to pitch spitters and curves to first base, don’t you sort of think we ought to have signals?”

Recipe for Second Baseman.

Malone came to Mack under aq alias and promises to make a star second baseman. Collins came to Mack under an alias and did make a star second baseman. Here s the recipe for any manager who’s shy a star second baseman

curve, delivered so that it would ohoot down past the waist. “I have never tried to monkey with a new-fangled delivery. I use speed on a straight ball, also on an Inshoot under the chin. I can use a curve on the outside corner with plenty of speed, or I can sail one up with little or no speed. I find that the best results can be obtained by using change of pace—delivering slow and fast balls with the same amount of action in the box—the same windup and the same body motion. You can puzzle the best batsmen by sending up a different kind of a ball each time. Then he doesn’t know, what to expect and cannot set himself for a healthy swing. In the long run, however, speed counts when you put the ball over the plate without delay and can get the batsmen in the hole as quickly as possible.”

DIAMOND NOTES

Heine Zimmerman is developing Into a real star as a second baseman. • • * The addition of Eddie Collins has done all that the critics predicted for the White Sox. • • • Dave Fultz, the president of the Players' fraternity, wants to speed baseball up a bit. * * * Max Carey, the outfielder of the Pirates, has made five hits in a game twice this season. • • • Pitcher Finneran and Shortstop Gaff nier of the Brookfeds have been sent to the Colonial league. * * * Jack Fournier says he believes the White Sox will win the pennant and that he will bat above .350 this season. • * • Ping Bodie must be busting fences again. At least the headline proclaims that the Italians hammered Goritz. • • • Jacobson, the Detroit utility player, is one of the tallest outfielders in baseball, standing 6 feet 3 inches in his baseball shoes. • • • What’s the matter with baseball? The owners: “It’s the players.” The players: “It’s the owners.” The fans: “Maybe you both are right” • * * Those Federal league schedule makers certainly catered to the players. Each team gets a week’s vacation sometime during the summer. • • * The fans occasionally roast Umpire Tommy Connolly, but this veteran remains one of the most reliable indicator handlers in the business. • • • Vean Gregg, the pitcher uploaded on the Boston Red Sox by Joe Birmingham of the Indians, has never been able to deliver for the rwston club. * * • An official scorer was killed at a ball game in Pennsylvania by a foul tip. Imagine the applause from the players had it happened in the majors. * • * When George Mcßride gets put out of a ball game for disputing a decision we commence to think, maybe, after all, there is something in Griffith’s kicks. ...» • * A well-known baseball critic remarks that , when Connie Black started to rebuild his team he should have kept Eddie Collins and sold the rest of flu club to Chicago- _

RARE OLD BASEBALL

The oldest baseball In existence Is owned by the president of the East End Church Baseball league in Pittsburgh. The ball is nearly fifty-three years old. It was , used first in a championship game between the Eclipse team of Kingston, N. Y„ and the Hudson team of Newburg, N. Y. The game was played on June 20, 1802, and ended 49 to 18, H favor of the Kingston team. The ball is made of one piece of horsehide, sewed in the center. When it was first used underhand pitching alone was permissible. Curves were unknown. The ball carries SSOO burglary insurance and SSOO fire insurance. It was given to its present owner by John Miller, who played first base on the Eclipse team. Miller is one hundred years old now, and lives in Comwall-on-Hudson.

CUB FIELDER IS FAST

Williams Is Said to Be Speediest Runner in the Game. « Work of Graduate of Notre Dame University in the Outfield Has Been Spectacular Makes Many Unexpected Catches. A new star has shot athwart the Chicago baseball horizon in the person of Outfielder Fred “Cy” Williams. This young man is a graduate of Notre Dame university and is said by many competent judges to be the fastest runner in the national game. Hte could have gone to Stockholm, Sweden, and taken part in the Olympic game, when Jim Thorpe won so many honors, but declined on aeeount

"Cy" Williams.

of his studies. Williams holds the record for hurdling and if a contest is ever put jon for circling the bases he will surely be hard to beat. The other day he scored from second base on the squeeze play. Williams is not entirely a stranger to National league patrons, but it was not until 1915 that he was given a steady position on the Cubs and has been batting over the .300 mark, and some of his drives are the talk of the western half of the old circuit. During the training trip he made eight home run drives, most of them over the outfield fences of the various parks in the South. Recently he made the longest drive in the history of the new ball park at Cincinnati at the expense of Leon Ames, and there were two men on base at the time. In playing the outfield the work of Williams has been unusually spectacular. People have sat in their seats and fairly gasped at some of his unexpected catcheß. He covers so much ground that nothing seems impossible for him to accomplish in the line of catching files.

Boland Lauds Manager Fohl.

Bernie Boland, Tiger pitcher, predicts that Lee Fbhl will be a success as manager of the Cleveland Americans. “Fohl was manager of the Akron team when I broke into professional baseball,” says Boland. “He is one wise fellow. I think he knows a ball player about as well as any manager in the business and, for one,' I will be surprised if he doesn’t make good right through the season.”

Evers a Prognosticator.

Johnny Evers, during the spring trip, cautioned the Braves against the Cubs this year. “The Cubs will be the one team that we will have to beat out,” said Johnny, and from the way that the windy city animals are performing, it looks as though John was considerable of a prognosticator.

College Prospect Fails.

At least one of Connie Mack’s college prospects has already failed. He is Lear, the Villanova youth, who failed to show anything like class.

Fifty Chances With No Error.

Hans Wagner at Becond base for the Pittsburgh pirates handled more than 50 chances without a skip in the early games this season.