Jasper County Democrat, Volume 9, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 February 1907 — Page 6

THE CONQUEST of CANAAN

By BOOTH TARKINGTON,

Author of "Cherry,” "Monsieur B«»ucalre,” Etc. ’

,?► CHAPTER I.' A DRY snow had fallen steadily throughout the still night, so that when a cold, upper wind • cleared the sky gloriously in the morning the incongruous Indiana town shone in a white harmony—roof, ledge and earth as evenly covered as by moonlight. There was no thaw. Only where the line of factories followed the big bend of the frozen river, their distant chimneys like exclamation points on a blank page, was there a first threat* against the supreme whiteness. The wind passed quickly and on high, the shouting of the school children had ceased at 0 o'clock with pitiful suddenness, no sleigh bells laughed out on the air, and the muffling of the thoroughfares wrought an unaccustomed peace like that of Sunflay. This was the phenomenon which Afforded the opening of the morning flebate of the sages In the ,wide windows of the National House. 1 Only such unfortunates as have so Car failed to visit Canaan do not know Chat the National House is on the •lain street side of the Courthouse square and has the advantage of being avlthln two minutes' walk of the railroad station, which is in plain sight of the windows, an inestimable benefit to the conversation of the aged men who 'Occupied these windows on this white morning even as they were wont in •ummer to hold against all comers the icane seated chairs on the pavement outside. I Mall time had come to mean that t>rlght hour when they all got their feet on the brass rod which protected the sills of the two big windows, with the steam radiators sizzling like kettles against the side wall. Mr. JtSias Tabor, Who had sold his hardware business magnificently (not magnificently for tils nephew, the purchaser) some ten years before, was usually, in spite of the fact that he remained a bachelor at Beventy-nlne, the last to settle down iwith the others, though often the first to reach the hotel, which he always en tered by a side door, because he did not believe In the treating system. And Itwas Mr.Eskew Arp,only seventy-five, but already a thoroughly capable cynic, who almost invariably “opened the argument,’’ and it was he who discovered the sinister intention behind the Weather of this particular morning. The malevolence of his voice and manner when he shook his finger at the town beyond the windows and exclaimed. with a bitter laugh, “Look at it!” was no surprise to his companions. "Jest look at it! I tell you the devil Is mighty smart! Ha, ha! Mighty ■mart!” Through custom it was the duty of Squire Buckalew (justice of the peace tn 1859) to be the first to take up Mr. Arp. The others looked to him for it. Therefore he asked sharply: •‘What’s the devil got to do with ■now?” “Everything to do with it, sir,” Mr. Arp retorted. “It’s plain as day to anybody with eyes and sense.” “Then I wish you’d p’fnt it out,” ■aid Buckalew, “if you’ve got either.” “By the Almighty, squire”—Mr. Arp turned m his ehair with sudden heat—“if I'd lived as long as you”— “You have,” interrupted the other, atung. “Twelve years ago.” “If I’d lived as long as you,” Mr. Arp repented unwineingiy in a louder voice, "and had follered Satan's trail ns long as you have and yet couldn’t recognize it when I see it I'd git converted nnd vote Prohibitionist.” •‘I don’t see it,” Interjected Uncle Joe Davey in bis querulous voice. (He was the patriarch of them all.) “I can’t find no cloven hoof prints in the ■now.” “All over it, sir!” cried the cynic. "All over it! Ol<l Satan loves tricks like this. Here’s a town that’s jest one squirmin’ mass of lies and envy and vice and wickedness and corruption”— “Hold'•on!” exclaimed Colonel Flitcroft. “That's a slander upon our hearths and our government. Why, when I was in the council”— “It wasn’t a bit worse then,”, Mr. Arp returned unreasonably. “Jest you look how the devil fools us. He drops down this here virgin mantle on Canaan and makes it look as good as you pretend yon think it is—as good as the Sunday school room of a country church, though that”—he went off on a tangent venomously “is generally only another whited sepulcher, and the superintendent’s mighty apt to have a bottle of whisky hid behind the organ and”— “Look here, Eskew,” said Jonas Tabor, “that’s got nothin’ to do with”— “Why ain’t it? Answer mo!” cried Mr. Arp, continuing without pause: “Why ain’t it? Can’t you wait till I git through? You listen to me; and when I’m ready I’ll listen to”— •‘See here,” began the colonel, making himself heard over three others, “I want to ask you”— “No. sir!” Mr. Arp pounded the floor irascibly with his hickory stick. “Don’t you ask me anything. How can you tell that I’m not going to answer your question without your asking it till I ’ve got through? You listen first. I say, here’s a town of nearly 30,000 Inhabitants, every last one of ’em—men, women and children—selfish and

cowardly and sinful If you could see their innermost natures; a town of the ugliest and worst built houses in the world and governed by a lot of saloon keepers, though I hope It’ll never git down to where the ministers can run it. And the devil comes along and In one night—why, all you got to do is look at it! You’d think we needn’t ever trouble to make it better. That’s what the devil wants us to do—wants us to rest easy about It and paints it up to look like a heaven of peace and purity and sanctified spirits. Snowfall like this would of made Lot turn the angel out of doors and say that the old home was good enough for him. Gomorrah would of looked like a Puritan Village, though I’ll bet my last dollar that there was a lot, and a whole lot, that’s nevev been told about Puritan villages. A lot that”— “What never was?” Interrupted Mr. Peter Bradbury, whose granddaughter had lately announced her discovery that the Bradburys were descended from Miles Standish. “What wasn’t told about Puritan villages?” “Can’t you wait?” Mr. Arp’s accents were those of pain. “Haven’t I got any right to present my side of the case? Ain’J we restrained enough to allow of free speech here? How can we ever git anywhere in an argument like this unless we let one man talk at a time? How”— “Go on with your statement,” said Uncle Joe Davey impatiently. Mr. Arp’s grievance was increased. “Now, listen to you! How many more interruptions are cornin’? I’ll listen to the other side, but I’ve got to state mine first, haven’t I? If I don’t make my point clear, what’s the use of the argument? Argumentation Is only the comparison of two sides of a question, and you have to see what the first side is before you can compare it with the other one, don't you? Are you all agreed to that?” “Yes, yes,” said the colonel. “Go ahead. We won’t interrupt until you’re through.” The “argument” grew heated. Half a dozen tidy quarrels arose. All the sages went at it fiercely except Roger Tabor, who stole quietly away. The aged men were enjoying themselves thoroughly, especially those who quarreled. Naturally the frail bark of the topic which had been launched was whirled about by tyo many side currents to remain long in sight and soon became derelict, while the Intellectual dolphins dove and tumbled In the depths. At the end of twenty minutes Mr. Arp emerged upon the surface, and in his mouth was this: “Tell me, why ain't the church—whjain’t the church and the rest, of the believers in a future life lookin’ Tor Immortality aj the other end of life too? If we’re immortal we always have been. Then why don’t they ever speculate on what we were before we were born? It’s because they’re too blame selfish; don’t care a flapdoodle about what was. All they want is to go on livin’ forever.” Mr. Arp’s voice had risen to an acrid triumphancy, when it suddenly faltered, relapsed to a murmur and then to a stricken silence as a tall, fat man of overpowering aspect threw open the outer door near by and crossed the lobby to the clerk’s desk. Au awe fell upon the sages with this advent. They were hushed and after a movement in their chairs, with a strange effect of huddling, sat disconcerted and attentive, like schoolboys at the entrance of the master. The personage had a big, fat, pink face and a heavily undershot jaw, what whitish beard he wore following his double chin somewhat after the manner displayed in the portraits of Henry VIII. His eyes, very bright under puffed upper lids, were Intolerant insultingly penetrating despite their small size. Their irritability held a kind of hotness, and yet the personage exuded frost, not of the weather, all about him. You could not Imagine man or angel daring to greet this being genially- sooner throw a kiss to Mount Pilatus! “Mr. Brown,” he said, with ponderous hostility, In a bull bass to the clerk—the kind of voice which would have made an express train leave the track and go round the other way—“do you bear me?” “Oh, yes, judge!” the clerk replied swiftly in tones as unlike those which he used for strange transients as a collector’s voice in his ladylove’s ear is unlike that which he propels at delinquents. “Do you see that snow?” asked the personage threateningly. “Yes, judge.” Mr. Brown essayed a placating smile. “Yes, Indeed, Judge Pike.’’ “Has your employer, the manager of this hotel, seen that snow?” pursued the personage, with a gesture of unspeakable solemn menace. “Yes, sir. I think so. Yes, sir.” “Do you think he fully understands that I am the proprietor of this building?” “Certain, judge, cer”— “You will Inform him that I do not intend to be discommoded by bls negligence as I pass to my offices. Tell him from me that unless he keeps the sidewalks in front of this hotel clear

of snow I will cancel his lease. Their present condition Is outrageous. Do you understand me? Outrageous! Do you hear?” “Yes, judge, I do so,” answered the clerk, hoarse with respect. “I’ll see to it this minute, Judge Pike.” “You had better.” The personage turned himself about and began a grim progress toward the door by which be had entered, his eyes fixing themselves angrily upon the conclave at the windows. He> nodded to the only man of substance among them, Jonas Tabor, and shut the door behind him with majestic insult He was Canaan’s millionaire. Naturally Jonas Tabor was the first to speak. “Judge Pike’s lookin’ mighty well,” he said admiringly. “Yes, he is.” ventured Squire Buckalew, with deference; “mighty well.” “There’s a party at the judge’s tonight,” said Mr. Bradbury—“kind of a ball Mamie Pike’s givln’ for the young folks. Quite a doln’s, I hear.” “That’s another thing that’s ruining Canaan,” Mr. Arp declared morosely—“these entertainments they have nowadays. Spend all the money out of town—band from Indianapolis, chicken salad and darky waiters from Chicago!” q A decrepit hack or two, a couple of old fashioned surreys and a few “cutunders” drove by from the 10:45 train, bearing the newly arrived and their valises, the hotel omnibus depositing several commercial travelers at the door. A solitary figure came from the station on foot, and when it appeared within fair range of the window, Uncle Joe Davey, who had but hovered on the flanks of the combat, first removed his spectacles and wiped them, as though distrusting the vision they offered him, then, replacing them, scanned anew the approaching figure and uttered a smothered cry. “My Lord A’mighty,” he gasped, “what’s this? Look there!” They looked. A truce came involuntarily, and they sat in paralytic silence as the figure made Its stately and sensational progress along Main street. It was that of a tall gentleman, cheerfully, though somewhat with ennui, enduring his nineteenth winter. His long and slender face he wore smiling, beneath an accurately cut plaster of dark hair cornicing his forehead, a fashion followed by many youths of that year. This perfect bang was shown under a round black hat whose rim was so small as almost not to be there at all, and the head was supported by a waxy white seawall of collar, rising three inches above the blue billows of a puffed cravat, upon which floated a large, hollow pearl. His ulster, sporting a big cape at the shoulders and a tasseled hood over the cape, was of a rough Scotch cloth, patterned in faint gray and white squares the size of baggage checks, and it was so long that the skirts trailed In the snow. His legs were lost in the accurately creased, voluminous garments that were the tailors’ canny reaction from the tight trousers with which the 80’s had begun—they were in color a palish russet, broadly striped with gray and in size surpassed the milder spirit of fashion so far as they permitted a liberal knee action to take place almost without superficial effort. On his feet glistened long shoes, shaped, save for the heels, like sharp racing shells. These were partially protected by tan colored low gaiters, witli flat, shiny, brown buttons. In one hand the youth swung a bone handled walking stick perhaps an inch and a half in diameter; the other carried a yellow leather banjo case, upon the outside nf which glittered the embossed silver initials “E. B.” He was smoking, but walked with his head up, making use. however, of a gait at that time new to Canaan, a semning superbly irresponsible lounge, engendering much motion

“My Lord A’mighty, ’he gasped, "what's this?”

of the shoulders, producing an effect of carelessness combined with independence, an effect which the Innocent have been known to hall as an unconscious one. With everything in sight he deigned to be amused, especially with the old faces in the National House windows. To these he waved his stick with airy graciousness. “My soul,” said Mr. Davey, “it seems to know some of us!’’ “Yes,” agreed Mr. Arp, his voice recovered, “and I know it. It’s Fanny boy Gene, come home for his holidays.” “By George, you’re right!” cried Flitcroft. “I recognize him now.” “But what’s the matter with him?” asked Mr. Bradbury eagerly. “Has he joined some patent medicine troupe?”

“Not a bit," replied Eskew. “He went east to college last fall.” “Do they make the boys wear them clothes?” persisted Bradbury. “Is It some kind of uniform?” “I don’t care what it is,” said Jonas Tabor, “if I was Henry Louden I wouldn't let him wear ’em around here.” “Ob, you wouldn’t, wouldn’t you, Jonas?” Mr. Arp employed the accents of sarcasm. “I’d like to see Henry Louden try to interfere with Gene Bantry. Fanny’d lock the old fool up in the cellar.” The lofty vision lurched out of view. “I reckon,” said the colonel, leaning forward to see the last of it—“l reckon

It was that of a tall gentleman enduring his nineteenth winter.

Henry Louden’s about the saddest case of abused stepfather I ever saw.” “It’s his own fault,” said Mr. Arp—“twice not havin’ sense enough not to marry. Him with a son of his own too!” ‘Yes,” assented the colonel, “marryin’ a widow with a son of her own, and that widow Fanny!” “Wasn’t it just the same with her first husband, Bantry?” Mr. Davey asked, not for information, as he immediately answered himself. “You bet it was! Didn’t she always rule the roost? Yes, she did. She made a god of Gene from the day he was born. Bantry’s house was run for him, like Louden’s is now.” “And look,” exclaimed Mr. Arp, with satisfaction, “at the way he’s turned out!” “He ain’t turned out at all yet. He’s too young,” said Buckalew. “Besides, clothes don’t make the man.” “Wasn’t fie smokin’ a clgareet!” cried Eskew triumphantly. This was final. “It’s a pity Henry Louden can’t do something for his own son,” said Mr. Bradbury. “Why don’t he send him away to college?” “Fanny won’t let him,” chuckled Mr. Arp malevolently. “Takes all their spare change to keep Gene there in style. I don’t blame her. Gene certainly acts the fool, but that Joe Louden is the orneriest boy I ever saw in an ornery world full.” “He always was kind of mischeevous,” admitted ’Buckalew. “I don’t think he’s mean, though, and it does seem kind of not just right that Joe’s father’s money—Bantry didn’t leave anything to speak of—has to go to keepin’ on the fat of the land, with Joe gittin’ up at Half past 4 to carry papers,’ and him goin’ on nineteen years old.” “It’s all he’s fit for!” exclaimed Eskew. “He’s low down, I tell ye. Ain’t it only last week Judge Pike caught him shootin’ craps with Pike’s nigger 4rivA aqd some other nigger hired men in the alley back of Pike’s barn.” “You ever hear that boy Joe talk politics?” asked Uncle Joe Davey, crossing a cough with a chuckle. “His head’s so full of schemes fer running this town, and state, too, it’s a wonder it don’t bust. Henry Louden told me he’s see Joe set around and study by the hour how to save $.3,000,000 for the state In two years.” “And the best he can do for himself,” added Eskew, “is deliverin’ the Daily Tocsin on a second hand Star bicycle and gamblin’ with niggers and riffraff! None of the nice young folks invite him to their doin’s any more.” “That’s because he’s got so shabby he’s quit goin’ with ’em,” said Buckalew. “No, it ain’t,” snapped Mr. Arp. “It’s because he’s so low down. He's no more ’n a town outcast. There ain’t ary one of the girls ’ll have a thing to do with him, except that rlp-rarin’ tomboy next door to Louden’s, and the others don’t have much to do with her neither, I can tell ye. That Arie Tabor”— Colonel Flitcroft caught him surreptitiously by the arm. “Sh, Eskew!” he whispered. “Look out what you’re sayin’.” “You needn’t mind me,” Jonas Tabor spoke up crisply. "I washed my hands of all responsibility for Roger’s branch of the family long ago. Never was one of ’em had the energy or brains to make a decent livin’, beginning with Roger—not one worth his salt. I set Roger’s son up in business, and all the return he ever made me was to go into bankruptcy and take to drink, till he died a sot, like his wife did of shame. I Sone all I could when I handed him over my store, and I never expect to lift a finger for ’em again. Ariel Tabor’s my grandniece, but she didn’t act like it, and you can say anything you like about her for what I care. Tbe last time I spoke to her was a year and a half ago, and I don’t reckon I’ll ever trouble to again.” .“How was that, Jonas?” quickly In-

quired Mr. Davey, v.-lio, being the eldest of the party, was the most curious. “What happened?” “She was out in the street, up on that high bicycle of Joe Louden’s. He was teachin’ her to ride, an’ she was slttln’ on it like a man does. I stopped and told her she wasn’t respectable. Sixteen years old, goln’ on seventeen!” “What did she say?” “Laughed!” said Jonas, his voice becoming louder as the recital of his wrongs renewed their sting in his soul. “Laughed!” “What did you do?” “I went up to her and told her she wasn’t a decent girl and shook the wheel.” Mr. Tabor illustrated by seizing the lapels of Joe Davey and shaking him. “I told her if her grandfather had any spunk she’d git an old fashioned hidin’ for behavin’ that way. And I shook the wheel again.” Here Mr. Tabor, forgetting in the wrath incited by the recollection that he had not to do with an Inanimate object, swung the gasping and helpless Mr. Davey rapidly back and forth in his chair. “I shook it good and hard!” “What did she do then?” asked Peter Bradbury. “Fell off on me,” replied Jonas violently. “On purpose!” “I wisht she’d killed ye,” said Mr. Davey in a choking voice as, released, he sank back in his chair. “On purpose!” repeated Jonas. “And smashed a straw hat I hadn’t had three months! All to pieces! So it couldn’t be fixed!” “And what then?” pursued Bradbury. “She ran,” replied Jonas bitterly—“ran! And Joe Louden—Joe Louden”— He paused and gulped. “What did he do?” Peter leaned forward in his chair eagerly. The narrator of the outrage gulped again and opened and shut his mouth before responding. “He said if I didn't pay for a broken spoke on his wheel he’d have to sue me!” CHAPTER 11. MAIN street, already muffled by the snow, added to its quietude a frozen hush where the wonder bearing youth pursued his course along its white, ■ straight way. None was there in whom Impertinence overmastered astonishment or who recovered from the sight in time to jeer with effect. No “Trab’s boy” gathered courage to enact in the thoroughfare a scene of mockery and of joy. And now that expression he wore—the indulgent amusement of a man of the world—began to disintegrate and show signs of change. It became finely grave, as of a high conventionality, lofty, assured and mannered, as he approached the Pike “mansion.” It was a big, smooth stone faced house, product of the seventies, frowning under an outrageously insistent mansard, capped by a cupola and staring out of long windows overtopped with ornamental slabs. Two cast iron deer, painted death gray, twins of the same mold, stood on opposite sides of the' front walk, their backs toward it and each other, their bodies in profile to the street, their necks bent, however, so that they gazed upon the passerby, yet gazed without emotion. Two large calm dogs guarded the top of the steps leading to the front door. They also were twins and of the same interesting metal, though honored beyond the deer* by coats of black paint and shellac. It was to be remarked that these dogs were of no distinguishable species or breed, yet they were unmistakably dogs. The dullest must have recognized them as such at a glance, w’hich was perhaps enough. It was a hideous house, important looking, cold, yet harshly aggressive, and 1t sat in the middle of Its flat acre of snowy lawn like a rich, fat man enraged and sitting straight up in bed to swear. And yet there was one charming thing about this ugly house. Some workmen were inclosing a large side porch with heavy canvas, evidently for festal purposes. Looking out from between two strips of the canvas was the rosy and delicate face of a pretty girl, smiling upon Eugene Bantry as he passed. It was an obviously pretty face, all the youth and prettiness there for your very first glance, elaborately pretty, like the splendid profusion of hair about and above it, amber colored hair, upon which so much time had been spent that a* eirele of large, round curls rose above the mass of It like golden bubbles tipping a coronet. The girl’s fingers were pressed thoughtfully against her chin as Eugene strode into view. Immediately • her eyes widened and brightened. He swung along the fence with the handsomest appearance of unconsciousness until he reached a point nearly opposite her. Then he turned his head as if haphazardly and met her eyes. At once she threw out her hand toward him, waving him a greeting, a gesture which as her fingers had been near her lips was a little like throwing a kiss. He crooked an elbow and with a one, two, three military movement removed his small brimmed hat, extending it to full arm’s length at the shoulder level, returned it to his head with life guard precision. This was also new to Canaan. He was letting Mamie Pike have it all at once. The Impression was as large as he could have desired. She remained at the opening in the canvas and watched him until he wagged his shoulders round the next corner and disappeared into a cross street. As for Eugene, he was calm with a great calm and very red. He had not covered a great distance, however, before his gravity was replaced, by his former smiling look of the landed gentleman amused by the Innocent pastimes of the peasants, though there was no one in sight ex-

cept a woman sweeping some snow' from the front steps of a cottage, and' she, not perceiving him, retired indoors without knowing her loss. He had come to a thinly built part of the town, the perfect quiet of which made the sound he heard as he opened the picket gate of his own home all the more startling. It was a scream, loud, frantic and terror stricken. Eugene stopped, with the gate half open. Ont of the winter skeleton of a grape arbor at one side of the four square brick house a brown faced girl of seventeen precipitated herself through the air in the midst of a shower of torn cardboard which she threw before her as s|»e leaped. She lit upon her toes and neaded for the gate at top speed, pursued by a pale young man xyhose thin arjns strove spasmodically to reach her. Scattering snow behind them, hair flying, the pair sped on like two tattered branches before a high wind, for, as they came nearer Eugene, of whom, in the tensity of their flight, they took no note, it was to be seen that both were so shabbily dressed as to be almost ragged. The girl ran beautifully, but a fleeter foot was behind her and, though she dodged and evaded like a creature of the woods, the reaching hand fell upon the loose sleeve of her red blouse, nor fell lightly. She gave a wrench of frenzy. The antique fabric refused the strain, parted at the shoulder seam so thoroughly that the whole sleeve came away, but not to its owner’s release, for she had been brought round by the jerk, so that, agile as she had shown herself, the pursuer threw an arm about her neck before she could twist away and held her. There was a sharp struggle as short as it was fierce. Neither of these extraordinary wrestlers spoke. They fought. Victory hung in the balance for perhaps four seconds. Then the girl was thrown heavily upon her back in such a turmoil of snow that she seemed to be the mere nucleus of a white comet. She struggled to get up, plying knee and elbow with a very anguish of determination, but her opponent held her, pinioned both her wrists with one hand and with the other rubbed great handfuls of snow Into her face, sparing neither mouth nor eyes. “You will!” he cried. “You will tear up my pictures! A dirty trick, and you get washed for it!” Half suffocated, choking, gasping, she still fought on, squirming and kicking with such spirit that the pair of them appeared to the beholder like figures of mist writhing in a fountain of snow. More violence was to mar the peace of morning. Unexpectedly attacked from the rear, the conqueror was seized by the nape of the neck and one wrist and jerked to his feet, simultaneously receiving a succession of kicks from his assailant. Prompted by an entirely natural curiosity, he essayed to turn his head to see who this might be, but a twist of his forearm and the pressure of strong fingers under his ear constrained him to remain as he was, therefore, abandoning resistance and, oddly enough, accepting without comment the indication that his Raptor desired to remain for the moment incognito, he resorted calmly to explanations. “She tore up a picture of mine,” he said, receiving the punishment without apparent emotion. “She seemed to think because she’d drawn it herself she had a right to.” There was a slight whimsical droop at the corner of his mouth as he spoke, w’hich might have been thought characteristic of him. He w r as an odd looking boy, not ill made, though very thin and not tall. His pallor was clear and even, as though constitutional; the features were delicate, almost childlike, but they were very slightly distorted, through nervous habit, to an expression at once W’lstful and humorous; one eyebrow was a shade higher than the other, one side of the mouth slightly drawn down; the eyelids twitched a little, habitually; the fine, blue eyes themselves were almost comically reproachful—the look of a puppy who thinks you would not have beaten him if you had known what was in his heart. All of this was In the quality of his voice, too, as he said to his invisible captor, with an air of detachment from any personal feeling: “What peculiar shoes you wear! I don’t think I ever felt any so pointed before.” The rescuing knight took no thought of offering to help the persecuted damsel to arise; instead he tightened his grip upon the prisoner’s neck until, perforce, water—not tears—started from the latter’s eyes. “You miserable little muff!” said the conqueror. “What the devil do yot mean making this scene on our front lawn?” “Why, It’s Eugene!” exclaimed the helpless one. “They didn’t expect you till tonight. When did you get in?” “Just In time to give you a lesson, my buck,” replied Bantry grimly. “In good time for that, my playfqj. stepbrother.” He began to twist the other’s wrist, a treatment of bone and ligament In the application of which schoolboys and even freshmen are often adept. Eugene made the torture acute and was apparently enjoying tbe work when suddenly, without any manner of warning, he received an astounding blow upon the left ear, which half stunned him for the moment and sent his hat flying and himself reeling, so great was the surprise and shock of it. It was not a slap, not an open handed push—nothing like It—but a fierce, well delivered blow from a clinched fist with the shoulder behind it, and it was the girl who had given it. “Don’t you dare to touch Joe!” she* cried passionately. “Don’t you lay a finger on him!”