Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 101, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 April 1916 — FOOL AND ANGEL [ARTICLE]

FOOL AND ANGEL

By IZOLA FORRESTER.

(Copyright, 1918, by the McClure Newspa- ; per Syndicate.) I Perhaps it was the interminable piano playing of the girl downstairs in the back parlor, perhaps it was only curiosity. Eaton never analyzed the motive that made him bite at Billie Tanguay’s April-fool bait. The main point was that he swallowed it, hook and line. “Eaton, have you seen it?” Billie called at his door about nine. “Seen what? He raised his head from the engineering plans on the table under the leaky student lamp. “Airship. Seems to be making for the Long Island shore, crossing from Jersey. If you hurry you can get a look.” Eaton hurried. He was in the second floor back room. It took about a minute and a half for him to reach the roof, and then as he stood alone, gazing hopefully up at the star-dotted heavens, he heard the sliding of the roof door over its ladder, the locking and Billie’s cheerful challenge: “Happy dreams. April fool!” Even then there was nothing tragic about the situation. It was merely ridiculous, and no one cares to be made ridiculous even in one’s own eyes. Eaton walked about the roof rather philosophically before the novelty of roofs began to interest him. Their house was one of a long row of tall brownstone dwellings in the West Fifties, near Sixth avenue, New York city. They were old-fashioned enough. Hence the ladder and trapdoor entrance. They all appeared to be about the same. Eaton noticed he stood on the third from the end of the row, after which came a space, he could not tell how wide, and a higher roof on the corner building. And even as he watched he saw a man emerge from the small cabinlike exit, run to the edge of the roof and take the jump to the next one. Almost immediately there followed a shot, and Eaton stepped, with natural caution, behind a group of tall cnim-ney-pots. The man had hidden behind a neighboring group, and as a policeman came in sight on the first roof he shot at him, turned and ran directly toward* Eaton’s shelter. As he dropped behind it, he said huskily over his shoulder: ; “Beat it kid, I can hold him. Here.” He handed over something wrapped iclumsily in a handkerchief, a black silk one. And even as he did so, there came another shot, and he rolled over on the graveled roof and lay quite still. The policeman was calling out something to him, Eaton knew. He seemed to want him to come nearer. Hatless, young, thoroughly confident, he stepped ever the -brick dividing- sectlons and came to the space between. It was too wide to leap unless one were running for life like the man* who lay behind the red chimney-pots. I “I live in 160,” said Eaton. “They’ve locked me out for a joke—”

I And then the most peculiar thing happened. Out of the trapdoor from No. 164 there exuded men, another policeman and some plain clothes men, and they seized Thomas W. Eaton without any warning dr apology, took the untidy handkerchief bundle out of his grasp and hustled him downstairs past shrinking, shadowy forms and down into the street. He heard one of them say disgustedly that his pal had been faking. When they went after his body it had gone from behind the red chimneypots. Vaguely sensing a growing personal indignation, Eaton was glad he had made a getaway. He kept repeating firmly: “I am Thomas W. Eaton of 160. Yoh can ask anyone living there who I _ „ amr—“You’re Slimsy Louis all right,” the man who held his arm retorted so positively that Eaton felt that until he had corroboration, it was usless to argue the point. Then he found himself being pushed up the steps at the corner house, up the elevator to the fourth floor and then into a splendidly furnished apartment, facing the policeman who had fired the two shots and the loveliest girl Eaton had ever laid eyes on All in pink negligee she was, with her long, dark hair unbound, and her eyes wide with horror at her experience. With her hands pressed to her face she looked at Eaton, but shook her head: “He wasn’t here. It was a short, dark man with a mustache.” *. “This one had the jewels in his hand when we got him,” they told her. Eaton saw the handkerchief opened and Inside was a glittering handful of diamonds and other gems, set in rings and trinkets. One necklace, he noticed, was of pearls. The girl glanced at them and nodded her head. “They’re all there, but this is not the other man.” “Then there were three of them —” began a policeman “I am Thomas W. Eaton,” began the prisoner again, with a certain quiet dignity and firmness he always used in emergencies. "I live at 160 —” “What were you doing on that roof, then?” ' “I went up to look at an airship—” He paused at the laugh of derision from the men, and only looked at the girl herself, explaining to her just how it was. “And it was just an April fool joke. The boys over at 160 slammed ;the trapdoo r shut and locked me but. I heard a shot, and stepped behind the chimney. A man leaped from this root to the row, and made for my shelter. He evidently mistook me for his confederate, and handed me the bundle-"

The nearest policeman patted his shoulder. . "Louis, you’re improving,” he said pleasantly. “You can tell that all to the judge. Come on.” “Oh, wait, please, just a minute," said the girl. "I really do think I have seen him around here quite often. I’m going to telephone 160.” So she remembered him. Eaton felt a curious thrill of keen interest. He had seen her at different times in the neighborhood, in the drug store at the corner of Sixth avenue, at the elevated station three blocks down, in the florist’s where the art students bought spring blossoms for their window sills. He had seen her, and had connected her in his mind with wealth and the magic circle of social security. She was telephoning to 160. He could imagine the flustered state of Mrs. Rawlinson, his landlady, when she heard her most exemplary boarder stood in danger of a prison cell. But, no, the girl was only asking if a Mr. Thomas W. Eaton- lived at 160. It appeared that he did, but he was not in. She turned to the police with a little smile of relief, and just a shade of pride, too. “I was sure it was a mistake. Mr. Eaton’s friend, Mr. Tanguay, will be over at once to Identify him.” Mr. Tanguay arrived inside of three minutes. His hair was rumpled recklessly, and his eyes round with astonishment. But he was straightforward and had no difficulty in convincing the guardians of the law that Eaton was a harmless citizen. “And It’S a mighty lucky thing, I should say,” added Billie earnestly, “that Mr. Eaton happened to be on the roof at just the psychological moment. He got the thief’s whole pile, didn’t he?” “And it does seem to me,” added Viola quickly, “that Instead of staying here guarding Mr. Eaton, wouldn’t it really be better to try to catch the real criminal?” She stood for a few moments there in the softly lighted hall, after the men had gone down the step, and Billie lingered at the door. “They were all my mother’s jewels that I loved and could never have replaced,” she told him gently. “I think it was almost providential, Mr. Eaton, your happening to be on the roof at just that moment. You must call tomorrow and meet mother. I have let her sleep through this awful trouble tonight. Good night.” “Shall you call?” asked Billie when they started for 160. “I’m going to marry her, if she’ll have me,” answered Eaton grimly. “Billie, you tried to make an April fool out of me, old man, but I landed in .paradise.”