Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 93, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 April 1916 — REPARATION [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

REPARATION

By FRANCES ELIZABETH LANYON.

Robert Dale—“ Old Trusty’’ the prison officials called him —“the thief catcher” he was designated by the convicts under hiß charge, went his usual rounds at midnight to make an amazing discovery. He was called Old Trusty because he never relaxed in his duty as guardian of the men in his especial custody. He was designated the thief catcher because, once a convict made away before his time was up, Dale hunted him to the ends of the earth, but he found his man and brought him back to a double sentence of expiation. Now Dale halted, caught at a loose iron door, flashed his lantern within, and uttered a muffled word: “Gone!” Then he blew the signal for the guard, meanwhile exploring the interior of the cell. By the time the guards had appeared he was out in the corridor again. “It was No. 921,” he reported gruffly. “You all know him. He can’t have got far, for I O. K.’d him on the eleven o’clock round. After him!” Then, the guards dispersing, he traced what had been done. A door bar sawed through, that of the corridor tower forced, a knotted rope made out of torn strips of sheets led down from a window —and freedom! More the amazed was Robert Dale because No. 921 was a model prisoner and had been since he came to the prison two years before. Dale went to the record book to revive his mem-

ory. One of its pages related the history of No. 921. Eldred Wareham was his name — a clerk in a big city bond house. He had embezzled some hundreds of dollars to invest in a rising Btock. There had come a slump. He had lost and confessed. He had been given a sentence of five years. There were no antecedents. The young man apparently had no living relatives. He had come from the country to fall a victim to the temptations of the city. The chaplain had taken a marked fancy to the ingenuous-faced, well-be-haved prisoner. Wareham was always attentive to his exhortations. His fellows sneered at his “conversion,” yet they all recognized his gentle, accommodating ways, and when he was set at work in the hospital he was the favorite nurse.

“He won’t go back to the city,” growled Dale. “Beyond that we know nothing concerning him. It will be a hard chase, but I will get him.” These were prophetic words, but their fulfillment was a long ways ahead. The guards found no trace of the fugitive. Through the best part of a year Dale made many a journey to try to find the only escaped convict he had not caught. It was of no avail and the champion thief catcher was nettled and chagrined. His promotion to under turnkey somewhat mollified his disappointment. Then, too, he had one soft spot in his heart. Many a mile away, visited only occasionally through the years, but cherished, idolized, his stepdaughter lived a quiet, happy life in a peaceful haven where he had bestowed her. She had been like a real daughter to his dead wife —the only golden thread in the warp and woof of his stern life. It was almost a year to the day after his escape that Eldred Wareham, pursuing a lonely country road, paused before a typical corners tavern. Twelve months had a good deal changed his appearance, due mainly to the hirsute appendages that well covered his face. He had become an aimless wanderer. He was footsore and penniless. He entered the place to find its proprietor half asleep in his chair. ■r~.

“I Just want to rest for a few minutes,” was his plea and the publican nodded agreeably, for he was glad of company. The evident respectability of the casual,, visitor seemed to impress him. After a few moments of desultory study of Wareham he spoke out: T reckon you haven't much cash, nor a Job?” “You are doubly right,” was the bluqt admission. “I like your appearance and maybe X can offer you something," proceeded tbe tavern keeper. queer

case! About a week ago a likely young fellow came along on a farmer’s wagon. He got off to get a drink. The more he got the more he wanted. He wouldn’t go on to his destination, wherever that might be. He's now down with the horrors in his room upstairs. We called a doctor, but he says the young fellow must have led a terrible life, for he don’t think he’ll ever get up again. He bad a pocket full of money, but no paper telling who he was. Will you nurse him for good pay?” “I’ll be glad to do it for nothing,” said Wareham eagerly. Never was there a better nurse, but the ministrations of Wareham proved of no avail. The patient took a great liking to Wareham. They became as brothers, and he told him the story of his life. He had been a reckless, riotous fellow from boyhood. He was an orphan and brought up by a high-church dignitary in England. The love of drink seemed born in him, be became a confirmed dipsomaniac and finally his uncle had cast him off. He told him he never wished to see him again, and as a last chance he gave Alan Moore a letter to an old friend, an aged clergyman in America. If he behaved himself this man might after him. Moore was provided with money. He had fallen by the wayside and was now dying. “I am not going to live,” he declared; “bury me without a name.” Eldred Wareham was strangely drawn to his patient. He told his own story. It drew them closer together. When Moore died Wareham saw to it that he was decently buried. Moore had told the tavern keeper to turn .jover to Wareham what remained of his money. He had given to Wareham some papers he had concealed on his person.

It was two years later when Robert Dale left his prison duties for the first vacation of years. He was in fine fettle. He was about to see the stepdaughter he loved and whom he had not seen for nearly three years. He carried in his pocket a notification that on the first of the coming month he was to be promoted to the highest office at the prison within the gift of the state, at a salary almost princely. Dale arrived at Hopeton to be greeted joyously by Mary Dale. It was the third day after his coming that a man passed the house at whom he stared with a start. Quickly h# called his stepdaughter. "Who is that man?" he almost gasped. “That is the assistant of our old clergyman,” said Mary, and she blushed furiously. “Oh, papa,” she continued breathlesesly, "he is the friend and helper of everyone. He came here two years ago. He does not preach, although he takes half of the visiting duties off the shoulders of our minister. He is adored by the poor and friendless, he is beloved by everyone. And oh, papa—l lpve him—we are engaged!” Robert Dale made an excuse to shorten his visit’. He kept out of the way of this Alan Moore, he had recognized as Eldred Wareham. He left the place never to return and from the next town sent for Wareham, and learned his story—the story of a reformed man giving luster and glory to the name of poor, outcast Alan Moore. “Forget me and the past —you shall never be troubled,” asserted Dale. Then he went back to his prison duties. His first step was to refuse the promotion. His next to sturdily settle back into the rut of his inferior capacity, sacrificing to a sense of honor his own preferment that two young hearts might be happy.

“I Just Want to Rest for a Few Minutes.”