Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 176, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 August 1917 — Real Man [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Real Man

By Walter J. Delaney

by W. G. Chapman.) There were eight in the group—frowsy* hard-looking fellows, shuffling In gait, tattered as to attire, unshaven and not even dean. Ont was building a fire, six of his companions were rifling their pockets, producing stolen eggs and onions and slices of bread, cake fragments, in short, the general variety of food likely to be given at the kitchen door to begging tramps. This, in fact, they were, even the man who lay back where a heap of old railroad ties had been piled so as to form a sort of shelter. He half lifted on one arm, his haggard face showing Illness and pain. “The medicine, boys!” he cried out eagerly. Each one of the group hung his head. The sick man gulped. He said huskily: "No money, eh? Well, I know you did your best I guess you had better get me to a hospital.” “There’s Busy Ben to report yet,” announced the cook of the group. “He’s the one that coaxes the coin out of people. Ah, there he is now.” A stalwart feliow with a limping foot came through the woodland path tothe tramp camp, situated exactly on the county line for reasons prudence. - “Any coin, partner?” piped the cook. “Sure,” retorted the new-comer, and rather gruffly, it seemed. “Here’s your medicine, Bartley,” and he handed the invalid a bottle, which the latter seized Joyously. “Oh, you’ve got it, have you?” he cried, “Now, I’ll get well. How did you come across it?” “Bought it, of course.” “Where did you get the money?” “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. The good people baugh! All of them thought I was lying when I told them I had a sick partner. I offered to work for the town druggist a whole day if he’d fill the prescription and he hooted me out into the street. Charity—but I got it.” Busy Ben was strangely mute after that. He seemed pre-occupied and disturbed. One of the men had brought a chicken. This with the other food made a good meal. They

boiled the eggs In an old kettle, made coffee in the same receptacle and then the group generally settled down to the tramp’s paradise —sleep. Only Busy Ben, thoughtfully smoking his stump of a pipe, sat up near the blazing fire, ever and anon edging closer to the shelter where sick John Bartley lay. Tenderly he spoke: “Taken a dose yet?” “Two of them. Didn’t you notice me eat? Why, I feel like a new man already! There was never such a knocker for chills and fever like that blessed prescription. I’ll be afoot inside of two days. Partner, I’ll hope to do as much for you some day.” Busy Ben only stared stonily. His soul was chock full of sentiment just now, but he strove hard to conceal it. Then the grateful eyes beaming upon him unlocked the door of his mind. He glanced sharply at his snoring compatriots. Then he leaned towards the invalid. “Bartley, I want to tell you something. I stole that money.” The sick man looked perturbed. He was living a hard life, but he had once been a respectable citizen and shame was not yet dead within him. He was silent, but his lips twitched. "I had to do It," continued Ben, as hardly as he could. “Everybody turned me down. I was getting desperate, for I knew that the medicine maybe meant life dr death to you. I was sitting resting behind a hedge when I heard voices. Beyopd it was a womap and a child, a little girl about eight years old. They had just come gut of an old hut. You know the big wind we had last night? Well, it had blown down half of the old ruin. It seemed

the mother and child had ventured into the wreck to see if they Could ■ gather up some of their belongings. | They’ carried a lot of clothes, going to some new place of'Tefuge. The little one, it seemed, had tried to find her savings bank, but the bureau where it was lay under a heap of wreckage. ‘We’ll come again tomorrow and look for it,’ the mother promised. Then they went away. “And then—” “I got the money,” spoke Ben in a low, subdued tone, shrugging his shoulders as if to cast off unpleasant thoughts. “There was seventy-two cents in the little bank. I took fifty cents, the price of the medicine.” “Some day—” began Bartley in a tone of emotion. “Yes," nodded Ben, “some day you and I must make up the cents in dollars, if we’re real men.” Then he walked away. Imagination or reality, the medicine cured John Bartley, but not in two days, nor in six. It was a full week before he could get well about Then he made urgent inquiries of Ben as to the location of the blown-down house and the woman and the girl. It was nearly noon when he located the wrecked hut Near to it under a set of tarpaulins was a lot of new building material. Bending over a bed of flowers was a little girl. “The one that Ben robbed!” muttered Bartley hoarsely. “Heaven bless her forevermore!” and the tears stood in his eyes. Then he approached the child. She looked up with fearless, friendly eyes. She picked a lovely rose and tendered it to him. “ “I’m sort of keeping the flowers all right till we get the new house up,” she said. ‘Tm afraid it will be a long time, though,” she added. “How is that?” inquired Bartley. “Why,, under those covers yonder is a patent bungalow mamma bought. Oh, we were to have such a fine house! It’s all paid for, but the bank mamma had the rest of her money in to pay for the building of the house has failed. So mamma has to put me with Aunt Nellie, who is poor, and mamma is out nursing. But maybe some day we can earn enough to put up the house.” “Boys,” spoke John Bartley to his fellow tramps that night, “among us are some workers, surely. I was once an architect. Will you help me build the house I have told you about?” Millville witnessed a marvel that week. Nine earnest, Industrious tramps with alacrity and vigor followed the directions of Architect Bartley. Little Floribel Moore was on hand most of the time, half comprehending the unique situation. Mrs. Moore was engaged in nursing twenty miles away. She stood spellbound as she viewed the bungalow which unexpected hands had constructed. The tramps had disappeared, but two days later little Floribel ran up to Bartley in the street and ran towards him, pulling her mother after her. “Mamma, this is the man who showed the others what to do and told me such pretty stories.” “You see, we heard of your misfortune,” lamely explained Bartley, “and thought we’d surprise you,” and evaded the point direct, but it was sure to come out some time. Bartley’s fellow migrators went on to pastures new. Bartley himself remained in. Millville. A village contractor had employed him gladly when he learned of his former experience as an architect. "Within a month few would have recognized the well-dressed, businesslike new-tlme “Mr.” Bartley as the old-time fellow companion of uncouth knights of the road.

Mrs. Moore, installed in her pretty new home, was glad to welcome him as an occasional visitor. Little Floribel doated upon him. One evening as mother and child were in the room where Bartley was their guest, the little one chanced to take her savings bank from the mantel to inspect its contents. ; “Oh, mamma, look!” cried Floribel suddenly “who put in all of the bright new pennies?” The “bright new pennies” weregold pieces. At last John Bartley had been able to keep his vow. For each penny taken by Busy Ben he had substituted a gold dollar. He flushed With embarrassment. The searching, eye of the widow scanned him and then, as Floribel was busied over the counting of her treasure, she asked softly: “What does this mean?” For the first time the widow knew all of the truth. Into her beautiful eyes came pity, sympathy and love, for those two, “just plain folks,” had been coming closer and closer to one another during the weeks of their growing friendship, and fate destined that their lonely lives should be united.

Frowsy, Hard-Looking Fellows.