Jasper County Democrat, Volume 13, Number 53, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 October 1910 — CAMEO KIRBY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

CAMEO KIRBY

By Booth Tarkington AND Harry Leon Wilson

Adapted From the Play of the Same Name by W. B. M. Ferguson Ceyyright. 1909. by the AuuJm Cempuiy

CHAPTER XV. “f'w*" 1Y George, Cede. it looks to rS I me like you’d get the girl k 1 -ja and the plantation, too!” QtSQI exclaimed Bunce when at length the two were alone. “What was that you called me ji while ago?” returned Kirby quizzically, but with an undercurrent of great seriousness. “Nothing but a—what was It? Seems to me you said something mighty pleasant about me, you being my oldest friend and therefore complimentary. Oh. yes. nothing but a ‘damned gambler.’ That was it.” He seated, himself at the table and, as was his wont in moments of abstraction. began to cut the cards, Bunce diplomatically ignored the tribute. The mad escapade had terminated far better than he had expected or thought possible, and in consequence his native fund of good humor had been abundantly re-enforced. “Take Miss Randall while you can git her,” he advised. “She ain’t thinkin’ tonight of you bein’ a gambler.” “What do you suppose she’ll think of it tomorrow ? Think she'll remember what I am, perhaps?” “Mebbe she won’t think of it tomorrow,” said* 1 Bunce hopefully. “But what about that young Veaudry? She’d never have to think of anything he’s done—or was.” pursued Kirby. “Pretty square sort of a fellow, Larkin. Looks to me like I owe him a clear field to himself.” “I ain’t denyin’ but what he acted a gentleman to you, Gene. But now’s the time you got to think of yourself.” “Looks to me you're considerable of a turncoat,” smiled Kirby, picking up a card. “What were you saying to me about this? There’s my wife. I married that for better or for worse—too long ago for a woman to come between us now, And what else was that you said? Oh, yes—Take one good look at yourself. Gene Kirby; then take another at her.’ ” Bunce snuffled feebly. “I’ve kind o’ qhanged my mind since I said that,” he mumbled. “Besides,” consulting his watch, “it was a long time ago. It was last night now.” Silence came, and with it the white dawn, and as still the men sat, one

•mutely eying the cards, the other his fingers, a fugitive sunbeam, herald of the morning, stole into the room to shame the smoky yellow of the lamps. In the sunbeam’s golden, wake there followed a faint breeze that stirred the curtains and sent a current of cool, pure air swirling through the stagnant atmosphere. Then there fell upon the silence, with a softness so impalpable that it seemed merely a progression of the hush, the sound of distant singing. For some time and source were alike indefinite, a mere setting to harmony the charm of the young morning. And then it arose like a sweeping curve of beauty ■iTiru lx ruS'Ji> vXi iTsCrii iiit’i it.it. iiiiyciTy * melodious chorus of “Mississippi River.” Kirby shivered, and his eyes came back from the great beyond,, while Bunce sho< k Liu- ... e’ a great dog leaving the watei. “There’s the njggera goin’ out to the cane,” he said laconically. “The mornin’s here. Well, Gene?” “Well, Larkin?” The other hesitated, fortifying himself with a cheroot, which he contented himself with chewing. Finally he arose, offering elaborate signs of departure. "I hate to see a man lose out on—everything.” be tentatively observed. "Well, I'm goin’. Gene. I reckon they’ll let me have a boss now. Mebbe I better have two saddled, eh?” "Well, what do you think?” parried Kirby, slowly lifting the deck of cards from the table. “Is that my wife? Do I turn buck to the old river road with you. or do I” He lifted bls bead with brightening vision. “Hare two saddled,” be added quietly, with bitter

finality. Bunce nodded slowly, understandIngly. Alone, Kirby remained at the table, staring and seeing not. } “‘Take one good look at yourself, Gene Kirby; then take another at her,’ ” he mused mechanically and’ with dull monotony reiterating the phrase. “ ‘Take one good look at yourself, Gene Kirby.’ I might never have thought of that—l have been so busy looking a t her.” As he sat there face to face with the future, striving to learn renunciation without embitterment, the General, now dressed in nightclothes, tiptoed softly into the room. “They sent me to bed again,” he whispered, triumphant at his evasion, while be cuddled against the man’s extended arm. “I want to know the end of that story. Tell me.”

Kirby strove to assume his wonted gayety of manner. How long ago i» seemed since in the closed carriage he had prompted that light hearted laughter! “So you made another hairbreadth escape. General.” he commented lightly. “And you want to bear the end of the story—about the bad prince who was half good? I—l don't know if I can tell you the end.” “Why? Hasn't the end happened yet?” - - - - - ■ “Yes; it's come.” “But it ended all right, didn’t it?” persisted the General, with all youth’s confident optimism. “Yes,” said the man; “it ended all right.” “But I want to know if he's still a mixed prince—a mixed good and bad prince." Kirby pressed a weary hand over his throbbing forehead. “I guess he's pretty much mixed.” he confessed, still smiling bravely. The child pondered over this statement until at length he began to nod. “Did—did he go away?” he murmured drowsily, inquisitiveness battling nobly against outraged nature. “Yes—he went away,” whispered the man, his arm tightening about the small form. “You're sleepy, General.” “I’m not.” protested the child, with great earnestness, opening wide his eyes only, to promptly close them after an ineffectual struggle. “I—want—to—know—the—end.” He gave a vexed, protesting sigh: then his breathing grew deep and regular. “Your sister will tell you the end in the morning,” said the man. Rising, he gently laid the now sleeping child on the sofa and with clumsy tenderness covered him with a rug. For a long time Kirby stood looking down upon the faithful little General, who of them all had from the first given his full measure of unswerving loyalty and devotion without question and without price, and this despite the influence of family pressure, the venom of lying tongues or the specious evidence of circumstance. He knqw only that he loved: that was faith and trust sufficient. As yet he was only a very small juvenile member in life's bpys’ brigade, but still he had his own dim notions of standing true to the colors. When at length Kirby turned away it was to find himself face to face with Adele. How long she had been standing there he did not know. The fugitive sunbeam had long since vanished, as if heartily ashamed of taking precedence over its majestic progenitor, and the room was now suffused by a dull, rosy glow. For a space girl and man eyed each other in silence, both waiting for the other to speak. Finally she whispered: “Am I to tell him the end of the story?” nodding to the sleeping General. “But he'll want you to.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be fixed so that I can. Miss Randall You See, 1 was only waiting to say goodby to you." “He’ll—he'll be disappointed,” she ventured, with a pitiful attempt at composure. "And—you are only waiting to say goodby?” He nodded, smiling wanly. “You remember that story I told you of the rosebush and* the playing cards?” “Are you and -I like that?” “Just like that.” he said. “But some time”— She broke off, making a hopeless, pleading gesture. “Tell him, when he awakes,” said, Kirby, 'taking a great breath and holding high his head, “the end is that for one* great day. from sunrise to sunrise, the mixed prime was with somebody so good that be went away to try to make himself all over. And if he can”— He faltered and stopped; then, taking courage from her eyes, began again. "And if he can”— "And if he can.” slv? prompted, a great wave of color surging to cheek and neck. "And if 1 should wait for that—that wouldn't be the end?” “No. That would be' —“it would she whispered,r bolding him with her eyes. s “Just the beginning, after all.” THE END.

“HAVE TWO SADDLED," HE ADDED QUIETLY