Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 212, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 September 1915 — THE PRIZE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE PRIZE

By ALISON MIER WORTHINGTON.

“If you please, sir,” remarked Ezra Bartlett, bookkeeper for the Vulcanite Rubber works at Springville,” it has been the custom for many years for the plant to recognize the graduation exercises of the town high school.” Wilton Dacre looked up hurriedly and somewhat irritably from an analysis of a large war order for army bicycle tires. He had been summoned from initial legal duties into the city six months since to assume charge of the plant business when his father had died. He had found the enterprise a vast paying one, but methods and workers in slovenly ruts. He had been arbitrarily exacting in introducing a new system and it was hard to beat his progressive ideas into the brains of others. However, he was liberal and humane and hoped that time would successfully establish his model and modern ideas. "To recognize the high school graduation exercises?” repeated Dacre. "I don’t understand you." “Why, sir," old Ezra hastened to volubly explain, “your father for years sought to encourage local advancement by donating fifty dollars in gold each year as a prize for the best essay produced by a member of the graduating class, and —” "Make it one hundred, this time,” directed Dacre in his crisp business way. ■"Telephone, Mr. Dacre," spoke the office boy Just here, and the parted lips of the bookkeeper closed, about to add something to what he had already said. “It will keep. I’d better not spring too much on the boss at one time.” Then he chuckled as he made out a check for a hundred dollars and wrote a letter to accompany it to the town school board, stating its purpose. The town paper expatiated duly and in a commendatory way on “the marked liberality of our Mr. Dacre.” The school exercises took place; Dacre was Invited, but was too busy

to attend. He had forgotten all about the incident when, the day after the exercise, old Ezra introduced once again upon his office privacy. “If you please, sir,” he observed timorously, “the high school business.” “Why, I thought that was over and done with?” returned Dacre. "Yes, sir; surely, sir, but —” “You made the donation?” “Surely, but—” “Well, what next?" “The winner of the prize, Mr. Dacre. You see, in addition to giving that, the custom of the works has been to honor the winner with a starting position in life, at the works here. An honored, cherished custom, sir. My junior assistant was the prize winner three years ago. Young Mr. Brown in the shipping department was the winner two years ago. Last year young Watson, the checker, was the favored one.” . . ~..... ..... "Is there room for . the .present graduate?” inquired Dacre quickly, anxious to get to work to his business papers. "Why, yes, sir. Your stenographer, Mr. Timms, leaves next week.” “All right. Bring your new boy around and I’ll look him over.” "But, sir—” began Ezra, in a great stAte of perturbation, “it’s not —” "Telephone,” announced the office boy just here, and Mr. Dacre became immediately absorbed, and Ezra, his face distresed and anxious, backed out of the room, with the unsteady words: "How am I going to tell him!” Whatever was on his mind, however, ot the unsolved problem indicated, Ezra grasped the dilemma by the horns. When Wilton Dacre came down to the office the next morning Ezra met him in the main office and pointed to his private room. . . ....... "In there, sir," ’he observed timorously. "Who? What do you mean?” “The prize-winning graduate, sir,” responded Ezra, and halted. Dacre entered' his private office, tossed his hat on top of his desk and turned around, intent on making short work of his visitor. Then he drew back after an embarrassing stare. Seated beside his desk, smiling, pretty and blushing like a fresh June rose, was a young girt. He was the respectful, considerate gentleman at once*

**l hope I will do,** she spoke; "and oh, sir! I want to thank you bo much. The money means a great deal to me, for you know I am an orphan and Aunt Letty is poor. But the position! If only my shorthand is quick enough for you." The hard business lines softened down in the face of the master of the plant He did not reply at once. A flashing memory of a woman who had won his regard and deceived him four years agone opened wide the gates to drwms of a new ideal of truth and loveliness, closed rigidly after the one bitter disappointment of his life. Then all that was yearning and tender In his soul went out to the eagerfaced, innocent girl before him, too artless to conceal Her Joy at being placed in business life. "I —I shall .have to speak with my bookkeeper. Miss —" began Dacre, blundering and Off his balance like some bashful schoolboy. “Eva, sir—Eva Morris.” "Just wait a moment, Miss Morris, please. What the thunder!” he burst forth upon the shrinking Ezra in the outer room. “Not a female in the place! I thought it was a boy —" “Yes, sir; but, you see, a girl beat them all to first place this year. You wouldn’t give me time to tell you about it. She’s a little model of industry, Mr. Dacre. “I’ll vouch for her there. As to having a girl around — why, sir, it will make it more cheerful,” and then the old rascal chuckled as Dacre went off, reading in his employer’s face a decided leaning towards an innovation in the system of the place. Eva did finely. There was not a great deal of stenographic work to do. She was bright, smart, an excellent correspondent She liked her employer, she was the pet of the workmen. Dacre was called away for a month on Important business. He was surprised and pleased when he returned. Somehow, things looked brightened up. In the outer office the clerical force now had their hats and coats hung up in an orderly way on hooks, where before they had been flung carelessly about. The private office was neat as a pin. The old ragged shades had been reversed and turned. A vase filled with flowers ornamented his desk.

For the first time in its history the washroom of the working hands contained clean roll towels. The sight of brush and comb in a homemade cardboard case, trimmed with a bit of blue ribbon, made Dacre smile at the incongruity, and yet somehow thrilled his heart with pleasure. And from these minor invasions of the grim rules of the works, Eva began to advance along more material lines. Dacre was amazed at many a practical suggestion she made in con- 1 sonance with his material business interests. ; -' More than ever he felt the vasf void in his being, craving for sympathy and interested companionship. The sweet, pretty girl at his side, always smiling, accommodating and grateful, seemed to have woven an irresistible charm about his heart. “Dictation,” he said one day, coming into the office, a mighty resolve in his mind, and the ready hand of his stenographer touched the keyboard. “Miss Eva Morris,’’ dictated Dacre tersely, “I love you—will you be my wife?” The fair head dropped, the wildrose blush on the beautiful face deepened. He watched her trembling hand breathlessly as a slender, shapely finger delivered three radiant notes, clicking rapidly into his longing soul: “Y-E-S.” (Copyright. 1915, by W. G. Chapman.)

“Just Wait a Moment, Miss Morris, Please.”