Evening Republican, Volume 23, Number 104, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 April 1920 — Page 2

The Man Nobody Knew

i J Synopsis.—ln * base hospital at Neuilly. France, his face disfigured beyond recognition, an American soldier serving in the French army attracts attention by his deep despondency. Asked by the surgeons for a photograph to guide them In making over his face, be offers in derision a picture of the Savior, bidding them take that as a model. They do so, making a remarkable likeness. Invalided home, on the boat he meets Martin Hannon, New York broker, who is attracted by his remarkable features The ex-soldier gives his name as “Henry Hilliard," and bis home as Syracuse, New York. He left there under a cloud, and is embittered against his former fellow townsmen. Harmon makes him a proposition to sell mining stocks In Syracuse, concealing his identity. He accepts it. seal eg tu it a chance to make good and prove he has been underestimate*!.

CHAPTER I IL—Continued. He knew, from meticulous study and practice, the full effect of his manner, which was distinguished, patrician. He knew the almost irresistible magnetfam which had befallen him by accident. He had been prepared—in his own imagination—for the battery of interest which was promptly trained upon Kim. And yet, as he pursued his luggage toward the desk, he faltered In his pride, he felt as though the sorrowful eyes of all Syracuse were riveted upon him; the well-recalled surroundings unmanned him, and he was impelled to halt, lift up his hands in token of surrender, and to cry out: “This Is not I! Tide Is not I! It is the nlan I might have been—if you and I had understood each other!” So great was his anguish that in that moment he honestly believed that it was the equal fault of the city, and of himself, that he had gone forth discredited. Behind the desk stood a clerk and — Hilllard’s heart tripped—the manager who had tendered him the ultimatum. Hilliard’s pen spilt a blot of Ink on the register; his ears were, tuned for the speech of recognition which would blast his dreams of triumph, and send him off again In multiplied disgrace. “Yes, sir,” said the clerk with extreme .deference, “and about what price, sir?” The manager, who had been scrutinizing Hilliard Intently, whispered something to the clerk; the clerk bit his Up and looked up sharply; the prodigal winced, and stiffened. "Parlor o—ten dollars?” asked the cleric. “Very comfortable room, sir . . . Front I" The manager, as Hilliard retreated, said impatiently to the clerk: “What's the matter with you. Jimmy, anyway? Don't you know how to size up a man yet? Don’t ask a than like that what he’ll have-dell ’em what we’ve got 1“ Up* airs, Hilliard went limp from the reaction. He had doubted what he knew —and this was proof of his lack of innocence. But the manager—who two years ago had called him by his first name —the manager had looked him full in the face, and made not the faintest sign of recognition! It was in Improved confidence, J hen, that he went down to dinner; and deliberately chose a central .seat in the most popular of the three available rooms. He was actively eager to be observed; now that he had passed his Arst examination, he craved test after teat; no inquisition could be too urgent for him. And at the nearest table sat a business man he knew, and a girl he knew; from their matter-of-fact attentiveness, he judged that they had been married during his absence; they gazed interminably at him, but only in admiration. He mentally checked off his list—that made a trio of old acquaintances who failed to know him. Facing him, a dozen feet away, sat a man who had been Hilliard's employer for an epochal six weeks —this man, too, was obviously Interested, but unenlightened. Four! A dinner party, comprising six girls and six young men, filed gayly past him; every one of the twelve he had known well, some of them intimately; they looked down at him in passing, and, without exception; went on In Ignorance. A tiny roseleaf of a girl was rather noticeably attracted to him; she spoke to her partner, who turned, and stared, and nodded in the bored fashion of any escort to whom a handsome stranger is pointed out; and Hilliard could have laughed aloud at the irony of the incident. They had known each other for a dozen years, that girl and Hilliard; in the dozen and first, her mother had forbidden him her house. He dined with considerable leisure, and smoked a cigar almost to the end before he left the table. When he quitted the room, it was with practical assurance that his gravest fears were groundless, but for an additional precaution he read an evening paper in the lobby and endued in safety the inspection of a score of men who had known him well enough to refuse to loan him money. At half-past eight, vastly heartened and refreshed, he equipped himself with certain documents from his suitand called for a taxicab. The address he gave the driver was high •a the eastern hills; during the last half mile, Hilliard was peering out at ttd ehaded lights of houses where he tad played in his earlier youth. The ear stopped; Hilliard went up a stoneflagged walk, up broad stone steps, and stood on a huge veranda. He was calm, yet-hU knees

“AND HERE IS HIS CROIX DE GUERRE."

ed, and yet his heart was pumping in uneven beats; for the moment, his throat was dusty dry. As he the level of the veranda, there was a stir of activity off to the right, and an erect, middleaged man clambered out of a hammock, and came briskly forward. Rack in the shadows Hilliard could detect the soft outlines of a white dress. “Yes?” The middle-aged man was politely brusque. “Is this . . . Mr. Cullen? Mr. James Cullen?" “Yes sir!" The middle-aged man was very convincing about It “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?” -Hilliard bowed stiffly from the hips —a touch of foreign courtesy which had its effect “If you’re at leisure, Mr. Cullen, I should like very much to have a word with you. On —I think I may call it so—urgent private matters. My name is Hilliard. In brief,- I've come up from New York today to bring you a letter from a young man named Richard Morgan.” “Morgan!” said the older man sharply, “Dick Morgan I” Back In the shadows there was a sudden rustle. “Where’s he?" “He’s dead," said Hilliard. “He died, in France.” Mr. Cullen stood perfectly still, and Hilliard, watching him Intently, was overcome by resentment at the knowledge that two years ago this man had held Hilliard’s fate in his thick fingers. “No!” said Mr. Cullen. “Of all things 1 Well,-what d'you know about that! Dick Morgan dead!” There was surprise, but little poignancy In his tone. “Isn’t that terrible! And over In France! . . . Angela, did you hear that?” More rustling from the shadaws, and a slim figure stepping out of them into the foreground; It was Angela Cullen, just over the brink of seventeen, exquisitely small and blonde, and profoundly agitated by the news. Hilliard bowed mechanically; he had remembered her as a vivid little hoyden. Queer, that his heart should skip a beat or two at beholding her now. But she had brought the first remembrance of untroubled days back to him, and the contrast hurt —abominably. _ “Oh, dad!” she said with a quick Intake of her breath. “Oh . . . dad!" And clung to him for refuge, staring the while with wide and fearful eyes at the tall stranger who had delivered the laconic message. Cullen held her close, and cleared his throat He was in the commonenough situation of a man who feels that he. ought to be deeply moved, and isn’t and wonders why; and his transparent effort to be funereal was slightly overdone. “It’s a great shock to us—of course,” he said, speaking slowly. “A great shock. ... Oh! Mr. Hilliard—my daughter. Well, I must say L . . , Suppose we sit down and talk this over —”

Hilliard bowed again; Mr. Cullen, his arm encircling led the way to the hammock and its reinforcement of wicker chairs. The trio was seated: Hilliard coughed delicately, and after that, there was a brief silence. Gradually.» the air was charged with constraint. Here he was, and there was Angela and Mr. Cullen—all of them a little older, all of them a great deal more repressed, but even so, here they were, these three, just as they had sat in the same place, on the same sort of summer evenings, when Dicky Morgan wasn't yet anathema, and when . . . “This .. . this thing happened some time ago, did it? You were abroad yourself?” “Yes. I was." “I want to hear about Dick,** said Angela in a dry little voice. “Pleasel And . . . and who are you, . Mr. Hilliard F ‘ , “Angela I” said her father, reproachfully, but Hilliard, coughing with great vehemence, felt a sudden inrush of triumph which gave him confidence. It was the triumph of dramatic success; the consciousness that whatever might come next, he had actually appeared before people who knew him best, and that they saw a stranger. He smiled, as a churchman smiles. “All I pretend to be Is a friend el Dick’s. I— * . ' 2_ \ “Oh! A friend!* Cullen’s Intonationwas curiously warped. “Perhaps you’ll understand better If Igo back to the beginning. Shall IF “Dot" Cullen motioned him carteblanche, and Hilliard took g k»e breath, and began,

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER. IND.

By HOLWORTHY HALL

OopyricMky - Dodd. Mo»4 A OW. JO*

“Back in May, 1915,” he said, “I went to England and then to France to arrange some government contracts for copper products. In France, I was stunned —as everyone—by the backlash of the war. And like everyone else, I did what I could on the spot . . . bought tobacco for the soldiers, and all that sort of thing. It isn’t a question of charity, once you see the circumstances —you simply look, and realize that the most you can do Is so trivial* in comparison with what there is to be done that you

. . . well, you do all you can and wish to heaven It were ten thousand times more. And then you try to find out where your mite will do the most good, and It staggers you because there are so many places where they need everything you have and everything everybody else has. It so happened that a friend of mine was in one of the American surgical units at Neuilly. I couldn’t spread my own little contributions over all the institutions that needed It —there wouldn’t have been enough to notice, so naturally I spent most of my time and most of my money at Neuilly. The cases there are all severe. The men need more help than the average, and there was one ward in particular . . . I won’t describe it to you, but the first time I ever set foot in it, I knew I’d found the place to take all I had to give. And it was there that I met this man Morgan.” He paused a moment. “And Morgan needed me more than anyone else in the ward.” “Was he . . . hurt so badly?” The girl’s voice was taut with feeling. “Yes, badly,” he said, “but that wasn’t the point He was alone. He was friendless. He was under the darkest cloud that ever man can live under. You know what it was, Mr. Cullen.”

The older man nodded tardily. “I have an Idea,” he conceded. “Well, there he was —wounded, and marooned in France, and with a bad conscience. Perhaps you can under-stand-why he got my sympathy.” “Poor Dick !” said Angela, barely above a whisper, and Hilliard, looking across at her, was stirred by vague Intuitions which rendered him guiltily uncomfortable. It had simply never occurred to him in announcing the death of a man who had run away from Syracuse In disgrace, he might find pity and forgiveness waiting for expression. Was there still an opportunity for him to change his tactics, to admit that it was only the unregenerate soul and the outward countenance of - Dicky Morgan that had perished, and to maintain that a new being, a penitent and resolute being, had arisen phoenixlike to make atonement for the wasted years that had been ended by shrapnel fire from the Huns? And suppose he did so, what would they say? If public opinion were to model itself upon the sorrow of poor little Angela Cullen, was it not better to confess at once, to wipe the slate clean, and to begin afresh? Had he said so much that the pathway to truth was closed—or was a He well stuck to better than the truth,' half told?

Morals, which are nothing but negative virtues anyway, hang on trifles. Hilliard was tottering on Hie utter-

“Was Me Hurt So Badly?"

most edge of decision—and Mr. Cullen flung the weight of an aimless charge against him, and settled the matter out of hand. , ' ' “He certainly had plenty to’ be sorry for," said Mr. Cullen. “Oh. dad!" said Angela, with a quick intake of her breath. Virtuous, was Mr. Cullen. A churchgoer end a communicant, was Mr. Cullen. A giver of alms, and a friend to his friends—but in forgetting that the evil that men do shouldn’t rightfully be allowed to live on after them, and In remembering, perhaps too dearly at that moment, the final Interview he bad held with Dicky Morgan. Mr. Callen throttled repentance Into a state

of furious helplessness, and brought back Hilliard to his senses. : ; . “Yes.” £ald Hilliard, “be had plenty to be sorry for, and be Was. Of his troubles here. Pm not capable of sitting as judge. Instead, I sat as confessor. So that you’ll be more Interested in that part &f his life which you evidently haven’t known about, and I have. He left here,. I- think, in December. He hadn’t any fixed purpose; all he wanted was to find a place where he could begin over again on a fresh basis, and make a man of himself. - . . For that much, at least, you can give him credit.” “And I do," said Cullen, approvingly. Hilliard. Swept again by the nearness of deliverance from his deceits, leaned forward. A strong Indorsement of Morgan's ambition at this juncture might yet have brought about a recantation.

“I'm glad you do, Mr. Cullen. . . . I think myself it was the only course he could havelaken." He hung perilously upon the response; it would either justify or condemn his present attitude, “That’s probably why he took it," said Mr. Cullen. “Oh, I’m fair enough to him, Mr. Hilliard, but as for judgment —” ’He shook his head,-firmly. “What made him go .to France?” Hilliard sat back. The gate* of truth clanged shut “That came to him as the logical course,” he said shortly. “He’d met with some brother adventurers in New York, and they put the idea into his head. He had no money, so that he worked his passage across on the Monette, a French tramp, in January, 1915. On the other side, he met a lieutenant of artillery who took a fancy to him. As you undoubtedly know, he spoke French like a native, and that made it easy for him. France is a land of papers, and of records; and papers and records can be created, shuffled —when there’s a reason. The reason was that a republic needed men—and the lleutenant'was willing to be a forger if that were a condition to his being a patriot His conception of patriotism was to enlist every able-bodied man tn the service of France. But at that time,-the'war was still rather exclusive as far as Americans were concerned. So- that Dicky Morgan disappeared from earth —and there was a new soldier of the sixty-ninth Territorials by the name of Pierre Dutout . . . ‘Peter Nobody.’ ” “What!” said Mr. Cullen. Hilliard shrugged his shoulders. “I said he told me much about himself. He sailed under his own name, and I dare say you can verify that in Nev? York. But when he landed, he took an alias. He had wanted to start over again, unhampered. Nothing could have been more opportune than this chance. See what it gave him! He simply dropped out of the world. ... It was the possibility of-lo’sing himself utterly that first appealed to him. And there must have been a good cause.” “Yes,” said Mr. Cullen absently. “There was. But ... always theatrical, Dick was. That was so like him—to do just that sort of tiling, and to do it just that way.” “As nearly as I could gather,” said Hilliard, “he had been practically . . . er . . . ostracized here. Is that correct?” He noted that Angela flinched at the suggestion, and that her head was drooping very low. but there was a good reason for it.” “Oh! dad!” said Angela, pleadingly, below her breath. “Please don’t say things l-like that—l can’t stand any more —”

“What his offense may have been, I don’t know,” said Hilliard, plunging doggedly Into his narrative. “But he left town, so he told me, in a tremendous revulsion of feeling. His one ambition was to make something of himself, to .wash out the past—to justify his existence. And he went overseas with the idea of genuine service and sacrifice. And very soon, terribly soon ... during a. night attack . . • they got him.” Hilliard paused effectively. “There wasn’t a chance in a hundred for him to recover, and he knew it. And then it came to him, blindingly and desperately, that the world —that U, the world x which had known him in his failures—would never, hear what he had done. He had made his sacrifice, and It was useless. In hospital, he was Pierre-Dutout, you see . . . and between that character, and his own, was the barrier of the subterfuge he had grasped so eagerly—his alias, and Els false record. No one would have any reason to doubt that he wasn’t what he purported to be. He craved to tell someone; to send back a message to his old friends; and I happened to be there—and he confided in me. And here I am, Mr. Culleh. ' Bringing credentials. Now, in the first place, I have a photograph of him, taken from his original passport.” He produced It from his pocket, and offered it to Mr. Cullen. “Is there any mistake, sir? Or Is it the Dick Morgan you know?” Mr. Cullen switched on a standing lamp; Angela hid her face, and shrank back from the white electric glare. “Yes—yes.” He gave the tiny picture to his daughter. “There’s no question about it Mr. Hill iard.” “That’s Dick!" said Angela agonizedly. ' “With his signature, at course—you recognize It, do you?” “It’s his handwriting fast enough,’’ conceded Mr. Cullen. He looked up at' Hilliard- and his brows were furrowed, as though he were struggling to comprehend what all this had to do with the Cullen family, “Yes. Dramatic boy, he was—always. Siows—, don’t itF - _ “Dramatic—yea. That is—imagine-

tlve. Venturesome.' And it's a quality that sometimes makes heroes, Mr. Cullen. Would you have called him braveF* “I’m not' sure of that, sir. I—* "I would!” said Angela. "I would!” “Foolhardy, often. But brave . . “Watt, then!” said Hilliard, motioning. He was transfixed by the vision of Angela Cullen, who had started up in passionate defense of an old-time playmate; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were shining, she was ineffably appealing in her tearless grief and in her loyalty. For the first time, Hilliard could see how the passing years had brought out the woman In her; he could see, dazzling light of the porch lamp, what an adorable champion he had left behind him. Her vehemence thrilled him; his own cheeks reddened, and his heart was abruptly quickened at the sight ■of her at the same time that it congealed from her father’s estinfate. “You know,” he said, “that bravery under fire has a peculiar reward. It’s called a citation. In orders. You think that Morgan wasn’t brave, Mr. Cullen. . But there’a proof. A proof-that even you must recognize." He tempered his voice. “For here,” he said, whlp-

“And Hero Is His Croix de Guerre."

ping a folded paper into view, “is what the republic of France says about him! Here is the record that will endure as long as France does. Here, Mr. Cullen, is Dicky Morgan’s citation! . . Dead quiet—for second after second. Angela had turned pale; she was winking hard. “His ... citation!" Mr. Cullen mopped his forehead. “His own copy of it was lost, but I brought the official journal . * • shall I translate? “‘Pierre Dutout, private of the six-ty-ninth Territorials, during the battles of the fourth of May and the days following, has made exhibit of the highest devotion and the greatest courage; and especially by carrying out a volunteer duty, under heavy fire on the night of the sixth of May, has given to his whole detachment an extraordinary example of loyalty and heroic sacrifice.’” '

.He gave the newspaper to Mr. Cullen. “And here—ls his Croix de Guerre.” On Impulse, he handed it .not to Mr. Cullen, whose palm was ready for It, but to Angela. She had taken the decoration half fearfully, and she had glanced at Hilliard with an expression so curiously combined of awe and joy and jealousy -that his own eyes wavered, and he had momentarily averted his .gaze. When he had ventured to turn to her again, she had carried one hand to her breast, pressed tightly, she was looking down at the bronze cross In her lap, and her shoulders were shaking perceptibly. Hilliard gripped tho arms of his chair, and- every muscle of him drawn lense ... his farce was sudden tragedy, and horror clutched At him. Angela was crying . . . stoical, by supreme effort, at the news of Morgan’s death, she was crying, now that she believed' he had died gloriously. It was a hard problem for him to analyze ... ft was so magnificently complimentary and Inconsistent.... v “It would seem to me,” said Mr. Cullen, somewhat thickly, “that he wiped the slate clean enough for all practical purposes, anyway." He took the war cross from Angela’s reverent fingers, and examined it curiously. He looked at Angela, and slipped his arm around her; she sat up straighter, and drew a shivering breath. “I may have been wrong in my judgment," said Mr. Cullen soberly. Hilliard, who had been moodily sunk in revery, fumbled a third time in his inner coat pocket. - t “He sent you a letter,” he said. “I suppose you’ve been wondering, under all the circumstances, what brought me up here to you. It wasn’t to eulogize him particularly; it was to bring you his message. And perhaps r<K better say now that ho made mo read it . . .” - ■ • Enter the one and only girl in Dick Morgan’s life. ____________

Just as Good.

fe Bobby. Just home from hft first visit to the country, was telltngthe folks et Its wonders. .“And say. ma," he said, “out on the Ann they get milk from cows, and It s Just as good as any. Boston Transcript.

Home Town Helps

HOME GARDEN STILL NEEDED All Food Thus Raised Is a Distinct Gain, Helping to Overcome World's Shortage. It has been proved that organisation will effect a material increase in the supply of food products. During the war home gardening was carried.on to an extent that very, greatly relieved the shortage. Many families supplied their tables with' vegetables entirely out of their own garden plots. Every ton of food thus raised is a gain. What is needed now is organization, and this should be effected as a preliminary step. If the people will support this movement, in ■full recognition of its importance, a great acreage will be added .to the productive area of the country. The farm lands that heretofore have produced market truck will probably be devoted'to other staples, or possibly to grazing. There will be no waste land, but, on the contrary, more land under cultivation. The seriousness of this "Situation cannot be too strongly urged. Every person who is in a position to become a gardener during the coming season should do his bit for the relief of the country from the food stringency. — Washington Star.

PATH OF GOOD CITIZENSHIP

Oath Taken by Residents of Ofd Athens Might Be Revived Today With Good Results. •” As a part of the campaign to “sell Indianapolis to its ewn citizens,” those In charge of arrangements for the convention of the Associated Advertising Clubs of tjie World have written what they term a sales contract which will be distributed among clubs and other organizations. The contract is a reminder of the oath that residents of Athens took centuries agd. It said: '• “We will never bring disgrace on this, our city, by an act of dishonesty or cowardice. "We will fight for the ideals and sacred things of the city, both alone and with many. “We will revere and obey the city’s laws, and we will-do our best to incite a like reverence and respect In those about, us who are prone to annul them or set them at naught. “We will strive increasingly to quicken the public’s sense of civic duty. "Thus -in all these ways we will transmit this city, not only not less, but greater, better and more beautiful than It was transmitted to us.”

Beautify the Home.

There are so many native shrubs, vines and flowers to be planted about the farm homes that their absence is a deplorable fact. In a recent drive of a thousand miles we saw only four farmhouses where attention had been paid to beautifying them. Naturally, they were noticed. Don’t dot the lawn with fantastic flower beds of annual flowers. Put hardy shrubs around the foundation, the taller growing ones behind. Then In front of these plant the perennial flowers such as iris, crocus, narcissus, peony, sweet william, phlox, etc.. Keep the lawn open. A few ivy or wild grape vines make a hideous outhouse less noticeable. Shrubs can be transplanted In November. Get as much soli with them as possible and tamp the roots firmly in place.—Farm Life.

Home Always Good Investment.

There are many estimable citizens who do not own a home, but that does not disprove the-fact that homeowning is a cure for unrest and the nomadic instincts. With persons Of small means, the ownership of a home Implies sacrifice and discipline. The character of the home builder not only becomes stronger, but he imbibes unconsciously the essence of patriotism. He upholds American Institutions, because he is a part of them. There may be other methods of turning one’s savings to profitable account besides buying or building a permanent home. But there is no other method that gives more solid returns in confidence for the future, in family' protection; and in Americanization of Ideals.—Chicago Journal.

Plan Home Wisely.

Thh attractiveness of a home isn’t dependent on the amount of money spent on it A small and inexpensive house may be as beautiful In its way as a large and costly mansion. The essential thing isn’t the cost It is the good taste of the designer. The old lesson is repeated. “With what do you mix your colors?” was.the question put to the famous painter. “With brains, sir,” was the retort The house needs to be designed and planned with brains. .

Pays to Own Home.

A citizen who owns his home, no matter what his vocation, is a more responsible member of the community, as well as more Advanced in an assored standard of comfort and prosis a long step toward the possession of substantial Income, one in