Evening Republican, Volume 23, Number 217, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 September 1920 — Page 2

Yellow Men Sleep

"WHAT A WORLD."

Synopsis. — Cornell u* Levtagtoo. well-born, an orphan, coma* to wiawiMwwi through the devious way* of the underworld. H* Is saved for a batter Ufa by Andrew March. The strange adventures of "Yellow Men Sleep” begin when Con takes by force a small leather sack from Cbes Mine, tbs Chinese cook of an acquaintance. This sack contain* a Chinese map of the Gobi desert, which Is precious beyond price to Andrew March. Eighteen years before armed men in the Gobi had taken March's wife and Infant daughter from him. Mow he send* Con In search of them. On the voyage Con find* Che* Mtog a fellow passenger. Con Is shot by a poisoned dart, and while he is In the ooosequent stupor hts Inap is stolen. On the river boat to Peking be again eees Chee Ming, and realises they are seeking the same destination. Con keeps faith with Andrew March and starts on his mission westward with a caravan. After weeks, of difficult travel he reaches the little settlement of Ohan-aung and reads Instructions from Andrew March to the effect that Con has been made a federal agent to search out Chee Ming, who has brought quantities of korssh. a deadly drug, to San Francisco. At Shan-sung Con is unexpsctodly joined by March. The two Americans press forward Into the desert. Armed horsemen swoop down on them, yob them of everything and leave them to die In the desert. r *

CHAPTER VI Trespass. Tills shred of a chance, half humorous, wa s deep-set In anger and loss. Sand was a rasp to their bodies, and the slashed clothing gave scant protection. Already, in Imagination, Con was in need of a drink. The thought of brandy was a horror now, and the idea of clear, cool water like a knife in Hie throat Andrew March sat down and studied the bottom of his foot “How much do you think,” Con Inquired, “In miles?” “Oh, not so very far. If we only had one camel —” “Yes—one with milk In her.” “Don’t talk like that I” said the elder man, sharply. The subject of drinkables was thus dismissed by the veteran, and Con bowed his head in acknowledgment. Late in the day the sand-storm passed, and the air cleared. They went up along the vanes of sand, fresh drifted, out gully, to gaze at large upon their world —a prison as vast as the horizon circle. “The white race could wander In here and get lost,” said Andrew March. “Let’s not talk about getting lost, either,” said Levington. It was the elder man’s turn to nod agreement. The country was fantastic in formation and color, reddish hills running In rows ahead, like the spine of a world monster showing through. At intervals were cuts showing the deeper layers of rocky blue and blood-color. Not so much as a dead twig anywhere, or a bird. The skyline was notched with tilted rocks. Levington could not help wondering how soon he would wither and dry up, to bleach beside some colorful boulder. Pain was gripping him. It was neither grief nor illness, but the current of life, deeper than many are called to feel. He met it silently, with a fortitude that perhaps his mother and father before him helped to integrate. Death had small part in this, bitterness. It was a matter of life. “Help me to keep sane,” he said to March- - .—^^^^2===^^=

“That la mutual," said his friend. “But you are not In any danger. I watched you a long while before choosing you for this task. You are not a materialist, and only materialists go Insane." “Yes, I suppose all the others are born with a touch of some kind.” “So I've heard," replied March. They walked, through the sand. Sometimes their feet sank deep and threw them backward, but perhaps the next step would find smooth and solid rock. Progress was a rack of physical strain, and pitifully slow. The hills ahead, so hard to reach, were on a diagonal across their route. It startled Levington to tad that this diagonal straightened out every hundred paces. <n»fc was simply rite effect of the landscape upon their eyes. The hills were distinctly misleading, having a tendency to deflect the course that should lie at an angle over them. Without strict attention to their shadows, rim two pedestrians must certainly have wandered off into sandy agis bad wrought cunningly to conf*sour path should lead across those big lumps to the southwest," said : ''Mag smaller, since there was nothing and eomoarlßons. ' Night drew down before they had made any noticeable progress. They had a pillow of proper shape, restful

By JEREMY LANE

It was solid rock. A dull substitute for Sleep claimed their bodies. Levtngton’s dreams were wrecked by huge tumbling mountains that proved at the striking-moment to be riders, desert robbers with the fervor of a perverted religion In their ice-colored eyes. All through this wretched slumber, the white man ached and horned from the lashing of the storm, nerve-torn by the thought of their capture and plight. At daybreak the wind began again. “Let’s go,” said Con. "My understanding” —as March studied his tattooed foot, he maps this pun—“dictates plainly a continuance of that direction.” Levington followed him over the unfriendly surfaces. An old wind, half asleep, hissed against rocks, and at moments burned their ankles. By the flying dust the sun was diminished to a far red-hot griddle. Con could not look at his friend for the hurt It gave him. He knew that he must himself look as bad. It was not vanity that made him care, but a simple desire to remain human, and not become a thing of rags and beard and thirst. Tolling up the unequal slopes, to arrive at a new point of confusion, they would note that their shadows no longer fell true beside them, and March would sit down and study the map In Its Inconvenient location. Then they would go on. The crest of the first series of hills gave only a sharper wind, a broader vista of desolation. Levington was desperately weary. His step slouched, and the once powerful shoulders lurched sidewise. Lonely thoughts passed through his mind, like birds In a ruined hall. His eyes were puffed. There was Memphis, and that mystic high board fence at the end of the blind alley. There was Bill the yellow cook, twisting his hands together In such a quick fascinating manner; or laughing with a voice-like the cry of gulls ; again, Intoning wonder-tales In a language beyond translation. A phantom Shast stood at moments on the edge of the world. Then the unclean woman of Dowagiac appeared, with oily black hair, straggling upon her neck, her body bulging with neglect —and suddenly Levington was choking. March gave him a hand. “Control yourself,” whispered the elder man. “It can be done. Same as walking straight when you’re drunk. I’ve seen men in India go for ten days without water, and fifty days without food. It can be done.” “Thanks,” muttered Con hoarsely. ‘Til try. Ten days, you say, without —water.” “And they haven’t as good reasdn as we.” . After a time Con turned again to March, and the twist on his face was meant for a smile: “Do you think It will be ten days this timer They pressed down Into the narrow valley. The next miniature range did not he parallel either to their course

“I’ve Seen Men in India Go for Jen Days Without Water, Fifty Days Without Food. It Can Be Done.”

or to its dry sister range. Complexity of lines and contours increased. The two sun-caught men could no longer rely upon their own shadows, for time was passing, and they could not determinate how much to allow for the tiffing of the planet. Con’s heart pounded with fear. It seemed old earth herself was no longer tolerant. Much of the former Levington was broken down. All toe cells at hte body that had ever cried for brandy were now dead and gone. He had been burned down to the pure, primitive thirst for water. No trifling attachments could remain here to nettle, a man. Desire, once red and full aa the storms of summer Bight, had faded out. Cob had been seared and whipped to a plane «f humanity barf and * . /

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER IND.

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solid and basic —a relation of man to the earth and sun—where the heats of sex are but a new zero. All the moist forces of Levington were turned inward to sustain life itself. “Is that that I hear thunderr “Maybe the pulse in your own ears,” answered March. They staggered up a third series of hills, which were spread fan-shape- in the midst of the world. Looking back, they noted that the first range appeared to have turned partly about since they passed that way. The sun of afternoon showed In the wrong quarter of the sky. March sank to his knees and began to draw Intersecting lines in the sand. To Con, as he sprawled near his friend. It was like forcing the solar system back Into place. West and'north were again established, alffiort against conviction. They dragged across the third range, but the instinctive flutter of hope in their hearts died quickly, when they saw that had miscalculated. Across a deeper valley was another monster bank of dust, another range. Abruptly Con stopped and pointed down the slope. Directly below them something was moving. Stones were rolling down the hill. It was not dear from what point they started. Perhaps a dragon had burrowed into the hill and was kicking out the %arth from his nest. Clods of red clay went flying down, below the two watchers. Levington peered, forgetting the awful sun. It was like recovery from blindness, to find something In motion In the dead world. At length, from a hole in the hillside, a li ing creature appeared, resembling somewhat a man. Now others of the same species emerged and stood on a sandy ledge, half-way down the slope. They seemed like jfat, misshapen children, thlnlegged, < hunched of shoulder, with heads stet dose. Their caps were coils of their own hair. The arms of all were dwarfish. They had come out to take the air after their labors within the hill. The falling clay had stopped. More and yet more of these demihumans came out Into 'the sunlight, until the slope was darkly patched with their leathern bodies. March shook bis head. Levington noted the first sign of fear in the elder man, who remained silent. From that distance they determined that the creatures were naked above the waist, but that they wore short, dark skirts Ilk- those pictured upon the ancient ways of Assyria. Their canes or staves proved to be Implements resembling garden hoes. The faint sound of their conversation drifted up to the Americans. But this was drowned in the slow thunder of Con’s temples.

"Cave men?" muttered Levington. “Witches’ children.” “Aren’t they solid? Have my eyes gone out?” March did not hear, for he simply whispered to himself, “What a world!” A dromedary was coming across from the further hills. Leisurely it followed a slanting way up to the cluster of creatures around the pit On the beast were strapped four baskets. Now many hands set about filling these with pebbles, or so It appeared. The camel-driver was another of the crooked dwarfs. When the baskets were full, he led the animal down by the same path, starting across the valley toward the opposite barrier of sand. • The little men who had come out of the hill began to disappear. Their bare bodies were like rough nuggets of copper. Levington’s eyes twitched, and he brushed a hand across his face. He wanted to laugh and fling himself down hill. He would ask them for water. For an instant he hated Andrew March for being afraid, and an instant later realised this feeling was merely his own deep-stirring fear. He swallowed thickly. A tear stood in one eye, making humorous the pain in his heart.

“Didn’t know I had it In me,” he said, grinning. March did not see the tear. He had grown pale beneath the grime. “Oh, God!" he mumbled, “this Isn’t what we came for I” “Suppose we’d better not ask them for a drink," said Con. “We’ll go on and hunt tor it, because It must grow natural somewhere around here. Shall we follow the dromedary?” The little men had gone In. Dust rose like smoke from the open shaft. The laden beast was etching his way across the valley. March had roused from his apathy. He looked at Con, who asked: "Can yon make It —down hill?" “Boy," said March steadily, “you’ve got a tungsten nervous system.” Commanding their scant energies, the white men made a final play lor life, and walked along the crest of the ridge, to keep the animal in view without exposing themselves. The afternoon was waning. The wind slackened. The valley beneath them was painted with soft purple shadow. The hunched little humans and the dromedary turned Into a cleft in toe great bank, and disappeared. -There most be something to drink where he is going;" said Goo. _ .

“Yea, because the dromedary la natural, at least* "Yoa 'might wait here,” continued Levington, “and TU ran on to make rare.” “We’ll go together,” said March. They descended to the valley, and crossing, entered the ravine. Con was light-beaded now. He had no further thought of avoiding discovery, by no matter what enemy. Instinct began and ended In thirst and even the idea of death meant li possible drink. This pervasive dryness was a question of the soul, a thirst far deeper than the body. Reckless Intent shone In Levington’* eyes. March looked at him sidewise, and Con heard only the latter fragments of his speech: “Cincinnati —you were going like this when I first saw you. I knew then bow Washington needed you in the Gobi. God needa you-r-thls Is It—” “Cincinnati,” said Con, uncertainly, “netted me the best friend In the world.” He stumbled headlong in a returning wave of weakness, quite the opposite of a moment since. Dust of the dromedary was rising not far ahead. It required a furious expense of will power to gain upon ft. Then, something like a loving hand touched their faces. This was a cool breeze from the far upper end of the ravine. The pathway was wide and well graded. In the sunlight colored

A Rushing. Cloud of Horsemen Thundered into the Ravine From the Upper Levels.

strata walled high and various on either side, as might appear to an ant traversing a lane of birthday cake. The breeze was soft upon their cheeks. Perhaps the peculiar halting person beside the dromedary felt that he was being followed —a most fabulous event to him. Some antenna of his wretched consciousness was troubled, apd he glanced behind him, through the dun cloud. His throat closed upon a cry of horror. Convulsed, he fled up the rise, and out of ‘sight His pale scream came back. “Announcing us,” whispered Con, grimly. —“But look!” Another figure waited at the end of the upward road —some one upon a horse, motionless. The sunlight was a rain of black dots for Levington now, bat his muscles were galvanized to a forward motion. It was pot in him to stop. He took time to note, stupidly, that though his feet were 'bleeding, they were Insensible as boots. He guessed that the mounted figure might be a sentinel. The sequence of what followed was never afterward clear to Con. Closer, he saw the glitter upon a long gray cloak. The sentinel had no weapon, and gave no sign other than to watch with curiosity the two jaded wanderers. The pony was well groomed and restive, Arabian in build. Prom beyond the crest of the road a volley of shouts came down into the ravine* and the swift beat of hoofs." All these on-coming riders were as yet invisible, but the cries were resonant with hate.

March called out to the gray sentinel, in the best Chinese he could frame with swollen lips. In response, the left arm of the rider came up, glittering, to shield the face below the eyes. A rushing cloud of horsemen thundered Into the ra#ne from the upper levels. Swords were bare, flashing In the ruddy light. Harsh battle-chant-ing filled the dust The riders swoop* ed down to trample the intruders. Levington was not accountable. Hs leaned forward to breast them. His hands worked with strange power. Something elemental lived in him; something like the centaurs that bad peopled the night horizons. His throat rattled the challenge.' The first of the wild horogfl swerved as if he were a croudgng wolf. Con rocked forward, and seised h sword-wrist as It swung low March’s bead. And abruptly all sLieugtb left him. He fell In the road. . M *

. 1 a* V - V-*-: - The gray sentinel turns ? out to be a princess. j (to BHt CONTINUED.)

A new broom sweep* alnost M dtutf t stralxbt 8mA < X.

CULTURED DUBLIN.

IT HAS been said that Dublin has more the character of a continental than an English city; this Is true in a way, but It Is not the first thing that strikes the visitor from across the Irish fiea. The most striking thing about Dublin Is that its architecture bears traces of being all of one time, says a writer In the Christian Science Journal. To us who are used to the extraordinary hotchpotch of London, deriving its characteristics of brick and stone from every conceivable century, there is something peculiarly attractive about the street upon street of square Georgian houses. London always seems to be In a state of violent reaction against everything which is called “eighteenth century,” so that those parts of London which most" resemble Dublin seem most foreign to our conception of London Itself. Perhaps It is because it is Georgian that Bloomsbury attracts a particular type of inhabitant, as often as not a cultured foreigner, not to be found in the urbanity of Mayfair, nor In the banality of Maida Vale. And if you imagine a city where all the streets are like Great Ormond street and the squares like the Bloomsbury squares, you have an honest conception of Dublin.

Nor does the eighteenth century appear in tne houses alone; there are those In Dublin who carry on the tradition of old world courtliness which has long become rare enough to be remarkable even in Bloomsbury; it Is true that they are few in number even here, but they are sufficient to leave a certain fragrance of other days in drawing room and coffee house. Clad in Romance. Before getting on board the boat at Holyhead, Great Britain will leave memories of abject Anglesea In the traveler’s mind, and when the waste of sea reveals ahead of him the first contours of Ireland, the mountains rise up to greet him with a very different face from that of the flat and cheerless little Island he has just crossed. They are almost blatantly green, so that he must perforce murmur platitudes beneath his breath about the “emerald isle.” Dubliners are forever conscious of those mountains near by; they escape to them as often as they can and endow them with a symbolical meaning. The Dublin mountains seem to have got misplaced from the far west; they are that pirt’of primeval Connacht which has set Itself at the door of Dublin In order to turn the heart of the Gael west rather than east In the Dublin mountains there travel' to and fro the old with whom lingers the memory of a Celtic poetry and from whom Synge and Teats and the rest have gathered so much local , color.

In Dublin Itself this old culture lingers alongside of the modern and English industrialism of the Liffey. and the quaysides, and in the dirty streets on the north side one can still come across a ballad singer with a little group round him. Charles Lever, when he was at Trinity college, dressed as a ballad singer and earned 80 shillings in the Dublin streets, and another and even mon famous Trinity college student earned a crown every now and then for a street soqg. This young man was Oliver Goldsmith, whose statue now graces the entrance to the university, than whom no man could be found more typical of the best period of Dublin's prosperity. The Bohemian Quarter. Today all the varied energies, political, literary, social, are concentrated into a space bounded by Grafton street, Stephen's green. Trinity college railings and Merrion square; within these limits there is scarcely a - house that does not conceal some enthusiasm. Not the least. Interesting sedc to tarn business into an art; the “Sod ©f Turf," where you can —vir ud eat and drink in Gaelic, where the fire is a real toirf fire; and the waitress • real KerryJhe so somber eighteenth century Dublin mat Nkae With color that would delight a post-im-pressionist; then there Is the Irish

Sackville Street, Dublin.

bookshop which, like all the rest, has come Into being through a wider enthusiasm than the mere desire to sell books. There Is an Arts club of the most respectable type, so respectable, indeed, that the bohemians who do not belong to It will tell you that it has only once had a real artist within Its doors and he was expelled at the end of a week. Stephen’s green is the great center of the whole city; here, as he tells us in that most fabulous of histories, ' “Ave Atque Vale,” Mr. George Moore lingered to meet Mr. Yeats on the occasion of their founding the Irish dramatic movement; here live Mme. Gonne, the Irish Joan of Arc,- and Mrs. John Richard Green, Ireland’s historian, and many others of the best loved of Ireland’s children. And in those most tragic days of April, 1916, Mme. Marcievics held Stephen’s green with a troop of boy scouts. A story is told which shows the amazing muddle of those days. Some English lady visitors had just looked at the Shelburne hotel and, looking out of the window, they saw some bare-kneed, 'red-cheeked children digging trenches In the green. “We highly approve of the scout movement,” they said. “Let us take them some plates of bread and jam.” Judge of their surprise a quarter of an hour later to find them selves prisoners of war In the middle of the green.

AMAZING FEATS OF STRENGTH

Pole, Without Beemingly Remarkable Muscular Developments, Breaks Record —Performer's Awful Fate. Visitors to a well-known London music hall some years ago witnessed a remarkable sight. It was announced that a Pole, named Lettl, would perform some amazing feats of strength. There appeared upon the stage a little man only five feet In height, and weighing about 140 pounds. Not young, either, for he was only three years off forty. The audience rubbed their eyes. Was this the much advertised strong man?. A hbge anchor was brought in, and four men clung to It This burden, weighing no less than 1,500 pounds, was at once lifted by Lettl, who thus beat the record lift by no less than 400 pounds, y, He then stood between two eight horsepower cars, to which he attached himself by means of hooks, which he held In his hands. The cars were started simultaneously, but by sheer finger-strength, Lettl held them so that they could not move, Although the engines were working at full • power. This feat of holding two cars may perhaps be taken as pretty well the limit of human strength. That it is a fearfully risky feat is proved by the horrible accident which recently befell the famous strong man known as Apollon. ' , At Vichy, before a large audience, he essayed a similar feat, his arms be-, lng harnessed by chains to two cars which were driven In opposite directions. He accomplished the performance safely, and then, in answer to applause, tried it again. To the horror of the spectators, he was semi to lose bis balance. ’ Before the motors could be stopped, all the muscles of the right side of his chest were tom out. He died almost Instantly. 1 " J ;/***’

The Colors on Santiago Walls.

All Cuban cities offer A motley os tints, but Santiago outdoes them ah in the chaotic jumble of pigments, hs a sfitfle block we found house jvalli of mvender, sap green, robin’s egg blue, maize yellow, sky gray, saffron deep imperial pink, old rose, light pink, yellow ocher, maroch, tan, vermilion and purple. This jumble of colors with never two shades of the same de -gree, gives file city a kaleidoscopic brilliancy under the tropical sun that la equally and trying to the

Tobacco feeds Are Almost Dust.

The seeds of the tobacco plant aru so minute that a thimbleful will furnish enough plants for an sere of ground. - "