Evening Republican, Volume 23, Number 200, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 August 1920 — Yellow Men Sleep [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Yellow Men Sleep

By JEREMY LANE

Cavrritfet W Th* Caanty Ca

Under the sense conditions do yon ’believe you could have made more .of life than Con Lovington made of his? CHAPTER I—Continued. Tn Frisco again, with the boy nearly four yean of age, John worked In many strange places. They lived near Dory street. John was a marked man, He did not drink often, but he chose the most fatal occasions for It The gray shadows beneath his eyes deepened. Con learned to cut bread and light the fires—a rather solemn yon ng person, who was well aware that his father was not always the same. His eyes were blue, large, ready to trust. In his consciousness there was no such thing as stranger. The matter us home remained worldwide. He ventured down to the steam ferries and pondered the mystery of their endless coming and going. He loved the strength of horses as they hauled heaping loads over the cobbles. He wondered what made the loads so heavy. And where had everything cdme from? The fire-engines were dellghtfuL At night, when they passed 'below the window and .he could not get up, he lay beside his father and wondered what might be burning, and imagined how the smoke would come out and blacken the stars, and the fire crackle and curl up high, as the firemen worked from the street. Was it a big building burning? Who was getting burned up? What would they liave done If they hadn’t been burned up to-night? On some occasions his father would talk, but he was asleep all the while, and how could he know what he was saying? Con listened and it was like Bill the Chink. He could not understand the words of either of them, but It was wonderful to hear. There was

is rhythmic pulse to these night words of John Levington. and upon it Con was frequently carried into magic ■dreams. •Tm going* The father usually said this to the iboy in the mornlpg. and it did, not mean he was going to work. Con •understood so much, but no more. 'John Levington said it more and more often. • Con himself became marked for “different," At the age of six he felt fit He did nearly everything the boys •in the Dory street neighborhood, even the soiled little yellow boys whose play was weird with forty centuries of Astatic wickedness; but Con was not

always admitted. He could fight and climb, was generous and bold. But the clear light in his eyes betrayed him; he was different. , At length he realized that things were said concerning his father which he could not quite fathom. John stemed tired and always very gentle, drowsy tout never ready for bed. Their little kitchen was clean. The bedroom ■smelled Uke Father himself, a friendly personal scent, rather like cinnamon ,and whisky. This went with the igray-shadowed eyes, and grew more perceptible when John began to stay at home every day, being- out of work. 'Often, now. John Levington would take the child between his knees and look for a long time steadily into the ■blue eyes. Con found that this was •better than talking. He received his father into an open heart, giving him tatter devotion. John slept a great ■deal when out of work. His eyes were shadowed and sunken. They returned to Dowagiac. The ■house was rented by strangers, but the slovenly woman next door was there ,as always, her sparse black hair standing out at angles from her head. It seemed she wore the same snagged apron, stiff with grease. She moved out to the sidewalk to shake hands. / “You ain’t looking well—and Is this ft ho baby?" t x ; She nonchalantly pinched Con’s ichediq and he coldly suffered her touch. John Levington did not reach the (cemetery. As he was leading his son jto that bill the blase of an August bun mastered him. Bls vitality was gone, had Mt him long since. Con iai!»—a the street to ask at a house •for water, because his father was down and could not get up. DowaMw ambulance thus found its

premier case. The boy was handed over to the matron of the city rest room. After supper they took him to his father In the hospital. “Pm going," said John. Con was somewhat closer to the meaning now, John’s eyes were more deeply shadowed, but even tn this new situation the boy was reassured by the familiar scent of wine and cinnamon about the bed. The young son did not like the funeral. He refused to weep as instructed. But he screamed when they let him see that his father was In the box. He knew all about It now. He had seen funerals before, and thrown stones at them. It meant, as some said along Dory street, good-night. Realization of his father’s death came like a shower of hot needles, and then a slow weight on his chest. It was unbelievable. To-morrow would be all right; It must be. Con was stupefied. 'So the city council extended its humanity once more, and voted care for the waif, and it happened that the lowest bidder for his keep was the woman next door —the cheerful slattern with four of her own—and to her foul dwelling Con went to be raised.

CHAPTER II Purple Tracery. In the darkness of the months and years that followed. Con Levlngton did not suffer cqnsclously from the horrors of his environment. He became much like it, and through the accumulating films’of sordid experience he saw but vaguely that there was more in life than thia Whenever anything beautiful forced Its way toward him he could not imagine that it might be for himself. Yet the true heritage in his blood was not lost Merely his decent, poetic young self woven and crossed with filth. He companioned with the scum' of cities, after running away from Dowagiac, also took a few music lessons of Max Markov, a young Russian spirit In Chicago. He spent much of his time at a club of questlonablesß yet managed to pake a firm friend of Premenez, a Spaniard in French diplomatic circles, a princely person of Irreproachable standing. Con never realized what an Indigestible layercake he was making out of life. The nearest he ever came to straightening himself out was during recurrences of a longing to know more, to see deeper Into the complexities about him. He forgot his father and mother, even forgot the dirty woman whose marks were still upon his habits, but this longing would come frequently, out of the wells of his spirit, perhaps to be instantly polluted, denied. smUpd down. Con did not believe that real life was for such as himself. Both to the underworld and to the upper realms of society, he felt somehow an outsider. There was at last a series of events that quickened his longing to a degree that would not be put aside. The pressure of these strange events formed his life, once for all. The better story begins here, the final raveling out of the ugly weave In his days.

Through these events, all the longings of early years, even the yearnings of those who went before him. were intensified and definitely answered. Destiny, for Con Levington. began swiftly to untangle at a dinner, y quiet affair with one at bls newest friends. This fate-laden dinner was shaded and silvery, served for two, in the smaller dining-room of the Wedger house. The members of the family were all away, except one. Cedi Wedger sat opposite his guest, Levington, and talked candidly st the.

numerous motion-picture stars tn his golden orbit The guest, while attentive, and never missing his host’a callow pleasantries, was merely bearing up as best he might under boredom, and at the same time concealing the commotion in his heart Con was aware of Destiny. The wine wes expensive if not mellow, and the cooking was undeniably good, having been accomplished by Cecil’s own attache —a Chinese, whose existence seemed to begin and end In the night-flying son of the Wedgers. Con, taller than his father, held a likeness to John Levlngton only about the eyes and temples, something grave and tense, that disappeared when he laughed. He tried not to show the strain that this hour held for him, although In the luminous haze of cigarette smoke his features were a degree drawn and pale. His voice had a natural sincerity. The eyes, blue-gray and steady, seemed to hide none of the secrets that hovered In the Unes around his mouth. The gentle excellence of his brow and head ranked him one with those who had been carefully directed, well combed at the start. Con was a good listener. His were well-built limbs, the shoulders almost too massive, though he was slim through the waist, and sometimes abashed at*the fineness of his hands. The integrity of this only son of two consummate lovers had been tempered in the roaring pits of the world. Con had never been one to wait for temptation. As the reticence of childhood had been rubbed away, and before a man’s dignity had come to him, he had been famously ready. He had scaled the walls around the garden of illusion, battered his way joyfully along Its paths, and plunged Into every alluring pool. He had found its promises worthless, and had aged in a dozen years. His inner prompting had taken a false lead, but he had no regrets. With help he had at length found his way out into the clean and cooling winds of humanity. He had discovered again the treasures of a small-town boyhood, the satisfaction of open fields, the sun in his icyes. Morning air on the slopes was wine to him. In the blue rush of the sea he tried his strength, and found it sufficient. These were what he had wanted all the while. But the guideposts had all pointed the other way. Cecil Wedger’s invitation to dinner was part of a plan. The loquacious Wedger sprout had no notion that he was being used. Nor did Con feel guilty in the deception, for he was stepping into a work that claimed all his best energies. > ,

The .Chinese servant entered like a living shadow bringing fresh coffee. Cecil made his own cup into a gloria by brimming it with brandy. Levington smiled and waved the bottle away. This was not so easy as it appeared. His nostrils twitched at the fragrance from his host’s £up. Perhaps the Chinese understood, for he nodded gravely. Now Cedi, to show his democratic spirit, spoke to the servant, very nearly as one man might address another: “Chee Ming, what do you think of a chap who turns deacon and won’t drink anything at the age of twentyfive?” The Chinese countenance unfolded a few more small wrinkles near the nose, and a light appeared in the narrow eyes, as Chee Ming made reply, “Doubtless wise.” “Deacon is hardly the word,” declared the young man of twenty-five. “Deacons are a thirsty brotherhood.” Cecil considered this remarkable humor. He was glad he had asked Levington to come. The servant’s face was the yellowgray of summer dust, and when the light of a moment vanished from his eyes, they became smooth wet His body was spare, a kind of Unnaturally prolonged youth in it; and Cecil, to publish his own magnanimity and good taste, had Insisted that Chee Ming continue to robe in native dress, a loose blousing smock with white sash and narrow straight trousers. Chee Ming was scoured and brushed clean. He was not young, had never been young, and possibly would never grow old. A power that was wirenerved and psychic radiated from his motionless form. The essence of sober cunning showed in his countenance; agpM of calm iniquity had wrought in the lore of his soul; his was a face impossible to read, while a well-tamed scorn lurked in ’ his hands. He smoothly retired to the pantry. “I was telling you about my little friend, wasn’t It" resumed Cedi, livening to the task. “Yes,” replied his guest, “you were going to show me her picture." “Pinkest little thing you ever saw," asserted the pride of Hie Wedgers. “Coffee won’t be enough for you when you see—" Cecil left the table and hastened for the photograph at his newest darting. Con heard hhp whistling as he went up through the deserted mansion. Alone in the dining-room. Con also arose from the table. The tension about Ms eyes was more marked. Half a smile drew at his mouth, a

close-gathering of faculties. He went to the door of the butler’s pantry, and passed on through. In the low light beyond was Chee Ming, taking care of the silver. The face was shadowed, showing neither surprise nor Interest at the approach of Bevington; yet one bony han* moved along the shelf toward* the handle of the bread-knife. The two men came together as swiftly as struggling phantoms. Chee Ming was built of live tendons. The bread-knife came around in the grip of yellow fingers cioser over Bevington’s stomach, but could not go on. Con pinioned bls arms and, with a pang of regret bent him backward with a force that might have snapped a white man’s spine, but the Chinese would not be broken. Neither uttered a sound. An instant they locked. Their feet seemed fast to the floor. Then, under necessity, the white young man' forgot to be tender-hearted, a quick gasp of pain came from the Oriental lips and Chee Ming’s weapon rattled to the floor. The victim sighed and crumpled In Bevington’s arms. On the floor he quivered, while the victor plunged a hand into the blouse and searched. Against the skin Con touched a tiny packet of leather, warm and soft and precious. He snapped the throng, withdrew it, stood erect and listened. Cedi was humming as he returned. Bevington released the yellow hands that weakly held one ankle, lifted himself out at the pantry window, and dropped into the bushes below. In the darkness he ran across the lawn, where he had walked two hours before, listening to the endless half-

feminine chatter of his host. He mounted a stone urn. The high coping of the wall was within jumpingdistance from this, as he had noted in daylight. He sprang, clutched, and his wrists burned against the bricks. Drawing himself up, he dropped down on the o&er side, and was*ln the street It depressed him for a moment to think of the bitter misery he had dealt Chee Ming. This was not his idea of something noble. Rut he had wanted the small leather sack, still warm with Chinese heat Hatless, out of breath, he brushed th* gravel from his knees, and looked both ways. The suburb was quiet, and this the continuance of a city street that became a road beyond the town. A bluish arc-light at the Corner showed no one. Con turned to the left and walked rapidly. ’As he neared the next arc-lamp, a large black motorcar crawled out of the shadows, and drew in at the curb on his side of the road. The door opened —no light in the car. Levington stepped into It and the door swung shut after him. The leather packet was placed in ths hand of the person who sat beside him. The car whirred away. “Have any trouble?" asked the other. • “No. It was much as you had said." “How did you slip your friend Cecil?” Con explained, adding, “It was a shame to fool him.” “I understand,” replied the other. “It isn’t his fault. Maybe you can straighten it out with him some day.” “I hurt Chiney," said Levington, half to himself. There were no congratulations upon the small success. These two had expected to succeed, and were not surprised. ' j The other man was of middle age, rather slight and small. Under a soft black hat his hair showed long and gray. The lean-fibered 'Strength of his hands *i d neck might not have been considered beautiful; but to Con Levington this man was chief, and more—a comrade and second father.

“Andrew, you have found another beginning.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Con Pinioned Hie Arms and With • Pang of Regret Bent Him Backward With a Force That Might Have Snapped a White Man’s Spine.

He Tried Not to Show the Strain This Hour Heid for Him.