Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 287, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 December 1915 — MISS SINDBAD [ARTICLE]

MISS SINDBAD

By CLARISSA MACKIE.

Vale Benson was fishing off Bass Rocks when the bjrisk little motor boat whisked under his very nose and darted away around the point. “There goer Mini Sindbad, the Sailor," he chockled at the nickname given to the saucy owner of the launch. “Ai d. by Jove, she’s running off with my line!" The reel was spinning merrily and the line sang a tune as it ran tautly after the vanishing boat. Vale’s hook and sinker were caught in the propeller of the little craft “Hi, there!" he shouted. Miss Sindbad did not turn around. “Hi, there! Miss Sindbad!" he yelled in desperation. The brown head turned, the boat swung a wide circle and came about A pair of big, brown eyes looked up into his. “You called me?” she asked sternly. “Why—why, yes—you are running off with my line," he explained, pointing downwards. “Oh—l didn’t know —I am very sorry. Can you come down and get it off?" she asked crisply. It took him half an hour to disentangle the line from the propeller. At last it was ofT and Miss Sindbad was free to pursue her way. During the half hour Vale had learned that she lived in the red-gabled house at the extreme point. “Red Gables," he muttered, staring after her. “Why, that is where Freda Frake, the writer, lives. By Jove, it’s Miss Frake herself!” All that evening he dreamed of Miss Slndbad’s brown eyes and flushed cheeks, of the dimple in her chin and the soft curve of her face. How lovable she was! And to think that she should turn out to be Freda Frake, that mysterious writer of fascinating romances whose stories he had eagerly bought for his magazine, but whose personal identity was a mystery to hfm and his staff. “Tomorrow," he told himself, “I will call upon her. Who says there is no romance in this workaday world?" When the morrow came a walk out to the end of the point brought the young publisher all too soon at the end of his journey. Seated at a table under the vines was an enormously stout woman writing rapidly in a leather-covered book. “Mr. Benson! I have always hoped to meet you some day,” she cried with outstretched hand. “Miss Frake?” he faltered. “Yes, of course —but how could you know me?” she laughed. “Sit down here. James, serve tea at once.” An hour later Vale took farewell of the popular authoress and without one glimpse of Miss Sindbad wended his way down to a group of cozy little cottages on the sandy slope. He glanced casually at the last one and stopped abruptly. On the gate was the neat sign, “Red Gables,” and coming down the steep steps was Miss Sindbad herself, a white duck hat on her brown head, her dark eyes dancing with pleasure. "So this is Red Gables!" exclaimed Vale, and then at her amused glance he went on recklessly. “I’ve been calling on Miss Frake—l thought you lived there!” “Such a pity—and such a difference,” she sighed. “We’re not a bit literary at our Red Gables —just plain, everyday folks —” “I like everyday folks,” Interrupted Vale enthusiastically. “They’re easy to get on with.” “That’s nice of you,” she smiled as they went down to the shore. "Father’s a painter—he’s down there painting my boat. That’s mother in the white sunbonnet —she’s holding the pot—she’s' always around where father is."

Vale saw a tall, bearded man in paint-splashed overalls plying a brush vigorously, and near him stood a slender little woman holding a big pail of paint. “Oh, Jean,” called the woman, as the girl approached. Benson thrilled at the name. It was his favorite of names for women. “Coming, mother! And I’m bringing a sort of celebrity—l know it’s forbidden, but he somehow walked into my life and I had to bring him along.” She laughed gayly and introduced Vale, and as her father swung around the two men leaped toward each other with outstretched hands. “Hammond!” exclaimed Vale heartily. “Dick Hammond!” “Vale Benson,” cried the painter, “where did you run across my girl?” Vale explained while Mrs. Hammond murmured dismay at Jean’s daring, seafaring ways. “To think you should prove to be one of father’s friends,” said Jean laughingly. “Once upon a time I saw you—you were only five then, and I was fifteen. You —promised to marry me,” he teased her. But Jean had vanished into the house and he saw her no more that night “But tomorrow is another day,” he told himself gayly as he went back to the hotel. Tomorrow is always another day for lovers. Tomorrow he would see Miss Sindbad once more. And the next day would be another day. And then would come the great day when Jean would agree to give up being plain fnifcw and agree to marry a celebrity. “Miss Freda Frake shall be the bridesmaid.” he chuckled. (Copyright, IMS. by the McClure Newro*.