Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 281, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 November 1916 — Page 2

TIPPECANOE

THIS is a tale about a young man who came from England to the wilderness of America to kill an enemy. At the beginning of his residence among the simple people of the frontier his heart is full of bitterness and sorrow. In the end the whole course of his life is altered. You will enjoy reading this story of brave, strong, faithful men and women.

CHAPTER I. •—l— Wilderness. April—1811! Up the valleys of the South spring stole tremblingly from the farther South, along the river lowlands of Kentucky and up the sides of the steep, pebbly hills on the Indiana shore. First to come, like the white guidons of an army of peace, the blossoms of the wild plum flung out diaphanous draperies against the monochromes of the soils and the dark greenness of the pine woods. Then, In the open spaces and around the gray log cabins on the heights, the peach trees flushed pink in the warm kisses of the sun. The new grass was starred in patches by multitudes, of bluets, the blue-eyed grass, each tiny flower as simple and as wonderful as a little child. Deep in a crevice of the limestone strata that sank to form the bed of Little Indian creek, hidden from the warmth and light of the April morning, there lay a coil of what might have been mistaken for a rope—a coil whose every fold was thick as a man’s wrist, tawny, mottled with spots of dull black, yellow-ringed. . . - Along the path through the forest there came striding a tall youth, in ragged garments, a little bundle slung at the end of a staff over his shoulder. His fair skin was deeply burned by the sun and his blue eyes were veiled in anxious thought. He had pursued another man over sea and through forest wilderness with the intention of killing that man If he should overtake him. Now, the young man’s Intention was blunted. Months before it had seemed the one right and just thing that this other man should die at his hands. This other man had caused the legal murder of the youth’s father. But to take justice into one’s own hands, even »n such provocation as this, is an act unspeakably dreadful; and weeks of meditation had succeeded only in painting it as a thing more despicable. In the fragrant breath of the virginal earth he cried out in an agony of mind. A bourgeoning universe shouted aloud for joy of victory over death. Life rose by pressing her triumphant feet on the prone shoulders of her weaker brother. Death. For the struggle between Life and Death is actual, and Life lives by killing. God himself ordained the killing and pro-' nounced it part of his eternal justice. But the agonizing man who thought of the life he had sworn to take with his own hand—what could justify his act? His act would be accomplished

“A Fine Marnin’, Young Ma-an.”

not that he might live, but in that passion of the brute —revenge. The sense of blood-guiltiness to come bore down on David Larrence with its maddening weight The young man reached thd point where the path forded the stream and paused in surprise. On the farther bank were two figures—a slender young girl whose beauty. made him draw in his breath sharply, and the figure, of an old gentleman in black coat and knee breeches, bent over a pile of brush which he was endeavoring to coax into fire. At the girl’s exclamation the old gentleman rose to his feet stiffly, brushing the twigs from his knees. *A fine inarain', yonhg ma-an I’* he

By SAMUEL McCOY

greeted cheerily, with an ethereal flavor of brogue. ) But It was not so much the friendliness In the old gentleman’s voice that made the young man smile, ns it was the smile that lighted up the eyes of the girl. Her dark hair made a silken frame about her pink cheeks and smiling lips; her eyes—sapphire blue and clear as the sky—danced with a smile of divine friendliness. And then, too, she crinkled her eyelids all around them. An Iron Image would have responded to that laughing challenge. The youth said “Good morning.” “Bound for Corydon?” Inquired the old gentleman affably. His undoubted years were somehow discounted by an almost elfin quickness of glanCte, and his hobbling gait, his whole appearance suggested a Solomon among cock-sparrows hopping along a pump handle. “Bound for Corydon?” “Yes. Am lon the right trace?” “Folly the path an’ the town’s a bit of a mile ahead of ye—but if ye will pity the sorrow of a foolish old blatherskite who can’t build a bit of a fire to save his sowl, ye’ll not push on till we’ve got the tinder going.” And he thrust his flint and steel into the young man's hands with an air of comical dismay. “Oh, do,” said the glrh “Father’s so stupid.” The young man took the flint and steel with a laugh and knelt down to obey. He rearranged the twigs with a careful hand, struck a spark into the tinder and nursed it for a breathless moment; then a tiny flame crept up, the pile of brush and the three looked at one another in triumph. “Not that we’re needin’ fire at all, at all,” said the little old gentleman, “on a day like this; but ’tls always a comfort in the woods.” “You build a fire like a woodsman,” observed the girl admiringly, “though of course you aren’t one.” He flushed, for he knew that his rags were an unusual dress for the buckskln-clad men of the forest; and the girl added quickly, “Because you aren’t carrying a rifle.” “No, I’m no woodsman,” he admitted, grateful for her tact, “but I’ve come a long distance through the woods and have had to learn a little of their ways.” dk “Ye’ve come a long way?” asked the old gentleman. “Thin ye’d btest be down with us for a bit. Sure, the town will wait.” “Oh, do!” aclded the girl Impulsively. “Tell us about the woods. Have you seen any Indians? Father didn’t want to come out here today for fear one would pounce on us.” She laughed a ripple more musical than that of the brook, and, tucking the skirts of her Amazon habit beneath her, settled herself on the ledge of limestone rock. “Tell us about Indians,” she went on comfortably. “We came here from New Orleans and haven’t seen a single, real palnt-and-feathers one yet. Ooh!” she laughed in mock terror. The fire crackled merrily up the face of the rock and a draft of its warmth swept into the crevice of the stone. The dusky thing lying within stirred pleasantly. “I’ve seen only peaceful Indians on the road so far,” smiled the young man. “I can’t tell you any exciting tales.” “Don’t be pestering the lad, Tolnette,” chided the old man. “I’ll be hound he’s too tired to talk.” The mottled rope within the crevice felt the warmth of the fire, stirred, uncoiled and glided noiselessly toward the aperture, paused again. “You live in Corydon, sir?” asked the young man. “I’d like to find work there —I’m a weaver by traded —, The old gentleman put his headztn one side in dubious reflection. “Small chance for a weaver, my lad,” he answered, “for every cabin has a loom of its own. But ye’ll find something so His words froze on his lips as a lawny mottled length flowed out from the crevice, built itself up with a quick, sinuous twist into a coil of living death; But, vylth a Ughtntngqulckness, the young man had seized' his oaken staff from the ground. “Don’t move, Toinette!” he cried; and on the words the cudgel whirled above his shoulders and struck the venomous head like a thunderbolt. A long left arm swept down and plucked the girl from the spot where the ugly folds curled and flattened among the rocks. “Merciful heaven!’’ cried the little old man weakly, and buried his. face in his hands. The girl drew a deep breath; and the young man suddenly realized that he was still straining' hertohis side. He released hgr as though she burned his fingers; and his face crimsoned yyith shame. “I beg your pardon,” he said awkwardly ; “I’m sorry Ij was soy rough.” But the girl’s eyes shone like stars. ‘Tin not thinking of roughness,” she said tremulously. “I’m just—thankful.” She w’ent over to her father and kissed him. “My . boy—” began the old man, one arm around his daughter’s waist; and ended: “Oh, if we were in Ireland, where there ar-r-e no bastes like that 1”

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, IND.

(Copyright, 1916, by Bobbs-Merrill Co.)

The young man laughed. “They stop to rattle here, thank GodI" But the little old man waved his modesty aside. “My name is Patrice O’Bannon,*t he said, “and proud I’ll be to know yours, sir.” “David Larrence,” was the answer. “You've already called me by mine,” said the girl. “I’m Toinette.” David blushed flerily. “I—there wasn’t time —I had heard your father call you by name —’’ “Never mind,” laughed the girl. “I owe you my life —names don’t matter now.” i h.u I i. i “You’ll honor me by being my guest, ' sir,” went on Mr. O’Bannon. “Sure, the fairies sent ye here at this minute.” David became conscious of his ragged clothes. “Thank you, no,” he said, “but if you can help me to find work—” “Ho; hum!” said the little old gentleman relevantly. “Ye must find worruk!—but first tell me, have ye eaten a Hoosier midday meal yet?

“Don’t Move, Toinette,” He Cried.

I thought not. We’ll go up to Conrod’s tavern and see what he can give us before ye begin to talk about huntin’ for worruk. A step, sir.” And with a last grimace at the tangled thing that lay in the grass, he linked his arm in David’s, and bobbing ridiculously along, led him through the woods. Toinette walked on the other side. David moved in a happy dream. They reached the door of Conrod’s tavern, east of the village—a square, low house of stone, two feet thick'in the walls and with the most picturesque of small-paned windows, vine-cur-tained—Mr. O’Bannon Accompanying his jerky progress with a flow of eloquence on the advantages of Corydon, where, it seemed, he and his daughter had recently arrived from New Orleans. “Hurrah,” he exclaimed as they entered the low doorway. Here’s Colonel Posey; he’ll find something for you to do, be sure.” A gentleman with hand outstretched to David’s companion came forward. “A good morning to you, Mr. O’Bannon,” he cried heartily. A fine, compelling figure of a man was Colonel Thomas Posey, as he towered over little Mr. O’Bannon, who stood looking up at him with a sidewise cock of the head. Splendidly-he filled his buff-trimmed, light blue army coat, with its huge collar reaching up to his ears. His big shoulder cape and his cocked hat, with its black and white cockade, lay on a bench where he had tossed them. He looked the Virginia gentleman he was by birth. The little old gentleman chirped a greeting and thrustforwardTfisFrag-~ ged charge. “This is Mr. Larrence,” he said, “la-ate of England and now come to try his fortunes in the American sta-ates. I am no herald to inquire of men’s pedigrees; it suffices me if I know their virtues, Colonel Posey; and if this young man’s face be no false witness, his virtues better apparel his mind than England has appareled his body.” Colonel Posey laughed good-hu-moredly. “Still quoting Sir Philip, Mr. O’Bannon? No doubt you’re right. What can we do for you, Mr. Larrence?” “Mr. O'Bannon tells me that you can perhaps give me some work to do, Colonel Posey. Is it true?” , Colonel Posey smiled again at the young man’s eagerness. “Whatever Mr. O’Esi»naon tells you is than the Constitution. We’ll find a plage for you somewhere.” “About that store of J ours, Colonel,” ] O’Bannon said. “Ye’re closing it up l while you make your trip to Louisiana, aren’t ye? Well, suppose you put this young man In char-r-ge of it and let it earn a dollar or two while ye’re

• An absorbing chronicle of stirring events that grew out of the battle of Tippecanoe in the Indiana wilderness a century ago '■ ... 'i

gone?” He leaned forward 'and whispered something in the colonel’s ear. The soldier nodded approvingly and threw away the secret: “Mr. O’Bannon promisee to be responsible for you, Mr. Larrence. Do you think you can take care of the business? It asks nothing more than ordinary shrewdness In trading.” “But,” David cried, overwhelmed, “you know nothing about me, Major Posey 1 Why—why—how can you» trust a stranger with such a responsibility?” “Oh, as for that,” the major answered, “you will be watched like a hawk by Mr. O’Bannon. For the matter of that, Mr. Larrence. I thlnk l'm a fair judge of men, myself; and I’ll echo Mr. O’Bannon’s opinion of you, at first glance. No need to blush —we say what we think, hereabouts.” David could only stammer his gratitude. “Very well, then, I’ll give Mr. O’Bannon the key at once.” He drew out an enormous affair of Iron and handed It smilingly to David’s sponsor. “And now for a Hoosier dinner,” said O’Bannon, and he produced a Spanish dollar, which the tavern keeper took with a nod. He waved David to the long table. The rude dishes were heaped with roast chicken and wild duck. There were baked buffalo Ashland cornbread, and there were pitchers of milk. At O’Bannon’s word a bottle of Madeira was added. When David had finished he rose to take ills departure With Q’KannonZ Colonel Posey walked with them to the door and laid his hand upon Mr. O’Bannon’s shoulder. “And now, Mr. O’Bannon,” he said affectionately, “I must tell you goodby, must I not?” “Yes,” said the little old gentleman. “You leave at dawn tomorrow, don’t ye? Goodby and God bless you, my friend.” “Goodby, and good fortune!” As the departing guests went out they turned and looked back. The tall, soldierly man—one day to become governor of the young Indiana territory—was still framed In the cool shadow of the doorway. He waved a courtly hand —they waved gayly in return. Little old Mr. O’Bannon hopped smilingly to where the horses were tethered, not seeming to notice that ToJnette had fallen a step behind and was walking at David’s side. O'Bannon and Toinette mounted their horses, David lending a rather clumsy hand to the girl’s assistance. He had always been afraid of girls, even ordinary ones, and Toinette O’Bannon, as a glance told, was not ordinary. David knew that there were men who would do small services for ladles with gallant grace, but, he reflected bitterly, they were not men who had been humble weavers, who had hungered for bread, been arraigned for rioting and seen their fathers hanged. And so they three went along the mile of trace that led to Corydon, David striding by the side Of the horse that bore Toinette, full of a thousand speculations as to the mysterious wilderness into which this new turn of fortune had plunged him. Seemingly Toinette thought him a squire not to lie disdained, for several times she beamed on him with liking unmistakable —but always at a time when she was quite sure he was not looking. I CHAPTER 11. Corydon. • A short day’s march north of the broad current of the Ohio, at the point where two rapid creeks —Big Indian and Little Indian—unite, stood a cluster of thirty or forty cabins. The logs that made the walls of the oldest of them had been growing in the virgin forest three years before. In the center of the village was a grassy square. In it a new stone house* forty feet square, its walls two and one-half feet thick, its roof still incomplete, stood in the shadow of the forest trees which had been left standing around ft. From the little settlement the primeval forest stretched away to the sand dunes of the Great Lakes, to the hills of the Ohio, to the prairies of the Illinois country, a vast tract of a hundred thousand square miles in extent; silent, inhabited only by savage beast and more savage redskinned hunter; pathless, dreadful, fascinating. The settlement was Corydon; the stone house the building which was to be the first capltol of the territory and the state hewn from the virgin woods. Louisville, with 1,500 Inhabitants, 20 miles to the east; Vincennes, the Old Post, with less than a thousand, 80 miles to the northwest; other than these, no settlement of any size In all that savage empire, large as England herself. Hither came all the ( picturesque figures of the new West. First to, come was the patriarch. Squire Boone, brother of Daniel Boone, the mighty hunter of Kentucky; then Lane, the Penningtons, the Spencers, George and Spier, the popularity of the latter giving rise to the old couplet: 'Mongst all the Boones thar’s jest one ...... Squire; ’Mongst all the' Spencers jest one Spier. Spier Spencer it was who opened the tavern by the half-finished court-

house, and enlisted the men qf th® country in that nerolcvcompany known as “Spenper’s Yellow Jackets.” Wnliam Henry Harrison, the young governor of the territory, had laid out his farm of 800 acres on the edge of the village, and there planted his orchard of green pippins and romanltes; and hither, to Corydon, came his friend, Colonel Thomas Posey, proud of the title won in the war with England thirty years before, but willing to servo again as a private should a second war arise. As the O’Bannons and their new friend entered Corydon, David caught sight of a young man, tall as himself, striding away down one of the narrow village lanes. He stiffened like a dog that sees Its foe. “Who Is that?” he*asked sharply. “That?” Toinette smiled at the back of the retreating figure. “That’s young Doctor Elliott of Louisville. He comes here once a week on his sorrel mare.” “Oh!” exclaimed David, relieved. How absurd of him to suppdse that la this remote spot he should meet the one human being he counted an enemy! 1 Toinette added no further word of comment on the young doctor; for although Elliott had been paying her court for weeks, she had not yet de; elded .just what she thought of him. Mr. O’Bannon drew David Into Spencer’s tavern and spoke a word to the proprietor. — ——— “They" will take care of you here tonight,” he said, “and tomorrow I’ll come over and help you open up Colonel Posey’s shop. And now, young man, wish you a good day and good luck. Toinette and I live at the other end of the village.” From the door of the inn David watched his quaint figure and that of his daughter till they disappeared from view. .A negro boy carrying pails of water came up to the tavern door. David could not resist asking hin the meaning of a word he had heard for the first time that! day: “Boy, what la a ‘Hoosier?’ ” The darky set down his pails and scratched his head in an attempt to answer with exactness. “Cap’n,” he said finally, ‘Tse a V7rginny nigger an’ I’se seen all sorts t>’ white quality in my day; but firs’ an* las’ these yere gemmen wut live yefe in Indianny an’ goes by'the name o’ Hoosiers is de beatenes’ lot o’ dem all; dey’s got mo’ quality blood in ’em ’n de no’th’n gemmen, an’ dey’s got mH*

“Is This Silk Very Dear?”

hoss sense ’n they is in all o’ Vlrglnny | an’ des as soon as de good Lawd git® tiahed o’ runnin’ de yarth, dey’s some one o’ dese Hoosiers des nachelljr gwine tek he job.” He was silent a moment and then added: “Mebbe Electioneerin’ to' de Throne ralght now.” Colonel Posey’s little one-room store was the first to be opened in the littl® village; and over it now presided, like a tall priest of trade, the weaver, David Larrence.' “Is this silk very dear?”

Do you believe that David will meet his enemy in Corydon? Or will a little time spent among these kindly people take the murder out of his heart? ' • i ■.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Making Matters Worse.

“Miss Julia is very angry with me because I kissed her last night.” “Nonsense, man; she’s only pretending to be angry “No; she’s mad clear through. And yet I apologized immediately; told her I had mistaken her for her pretty youqg sister ip. the dark.”

Consistency.

“Gimme the megaphone.” “What torr ‘Tve joined an anti-nolae movement. I’m going to get a soap box and mak® a speech about it.”

WEEK-END HOLIDAY

MOVEMENT INAUGURATED BY NEW JERSEY BANKER. Would Also Have All Days of Celebration, Except Christmas and New Year's, Observed on Week’s Last Working Day. A holiday that would be celebrated over the entire North American continent north of the Rio Grande is one of the possibilities of the Saturday full holiday national movement that has been started here by Alfred N. Chandler, a banker, says a Montclair (N. J.) dispatch to the New York Sun. The movement is to be of wide scope and headquarters, in charge of Mr. Chandler, are to be opened in, Newark. The object of the movement is to have the present “fixed date” holidays, except Christinas and Newi Year’s days, shifted to specified Saturdays nearest the dates of their present observance, andas an equivalent offset in annual holiday hours thus gained, the adoption of eight Saturday full holidays In the summer time,, Including Independence and Labor days. Whether Washington was born on the twenty-second calendar day of February or on the third Saturday of February ; whether Lincoln was born on the twelfth calendar day of February or on the second Saturday of February ; whether the Declaration of Independence was adopted on the fourth calendar day of July or on the first Saturday of July; whether Columbus discovered the western hemisphere._pn_ the twelfth calendar day of October or on the second Saturday of October—none of these precise dates of. the calendar Is of. paramount importance when compared with the of the event commemorated in the minds of those who are behind the Saturday full holiday national movement. “The business and professional man in these days begins the week’s work on Monday mornings keyed up in spirit for five or five and a half days of continued and uninterrupted effort,” said Mr. Chandler in % sbeaklng of tho movement, “but on tnV average In every sixth week there comes with a bang a legal holiday in the middle of the week. At such times it becomes difficult to throw off the pressure, to relax, to get the holiday spirit. We seem rather, once we have started, to prefer the continuous week’s work and begrudge the time lost, feeling that we are not doing. our duty to ourselves, our families or our business. “This interruption would be materially lessened If the different states would adopt the plan of observing their various legal holidays on specified Saturdays Instead of on fixed calendar dates,” continued Mr. Chandler. “Dominion day Is observed throughout Canada on the first day of July. Should we decide to observe our Independence day annually on the first Saturday in July it is not unlikely that the Canadians would conclude to observe their Dominion day on the same day. Such harmony would be of sentimental benefit and a gain usually of one business day each year In business intercourse between the two peoples.” As showing the tendency upon the part of mercantile business toward a Saturday full holiday, Mr. Chandler pointed out that a leading department store in New York city has for the last 15 years made every Saturday In July' and August a full holiday for Its employees, and during the last two summers the number of stores that have been closed all day Saturday has so rapidly increased. that last year there were 14 prominent retail stores in New York city which were closed all day every Saturday in July and August Mr. Chandler also points out that an average of four and a half days would be added to the school term by having Saturday holidays.

Saved the Dog.

Ponderous governmental machinery at Washington stood stock still recently while a thlrteen-year-old girl appeared before a group of dignified generals and tearfully pleaded for the life of a little yellow dog. She was Esther Smiley of Maryland, sister of Private Peter Smiley, a recruit in the United States Marine Corps, and the dog she held in her arms had been Peter’s playmate since youth. “Rover will surely die of grief unless you send him to my brother,” the little girl sobbed. And wonders of wonders, the dignified generals understood the little girl’s plea, and acting installer t<£ preclude the embalming of Rover in the red tape of officialdom, gave the necessary instructions, and within an hour the faithful playmate of Private Peter Smiley was crated up ready for shipment to the marine corps recruit depot, Port Royal, S. C., where Peter is training for the land and sea duties of marines.

The Old Way and the New.

Old-fashioned people used to spend the long evenings of fall and winter at home, munching popcorn or apple® over the Bible, Shakespeare or Dickens. 'Moderns go to the movies and let the Charlie Chaplirs and Mary Pick* fords improve their minds.

Exposition Building Takes Trip.

The Ohio building of the PanamaPacific exposition was embarked on a 23-mlle voyage between San Francisco bay and its new site, to become th® abode of the San Carlos Country club. The building traveled on scows and was towed by ocean-going tugs.