Jasper County Democrat, Volume 13, Number 64, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 November 1910 — THE FORTUNE HUNTER [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE FORTUNE HUNTER

Novelized by LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE ( From the Play of the <

Same Name by WINCHELL SMITH

{ „ CHAPTER VI. ON my way back from my walk I came across Duncan sitting on the wall of the bridge. I introduced myself to him. and we walked along together. Finally I •asked him the reason for his presence iln the town. “I’m reading law, Mr. Littlejohn; jthat I shall continue. In the mean{time I shall keep my eyes open for a job,” he answered. “At any day. at any amount, the opportunity may present itself, the opportunity I’m looking jfor.” . “Probably you're right,” I assented, {lmpressed, as we turned a corner. ■j A young' woman in a very attractive linen gown was strolling toward us, finite prettily engaged with a book iwhieh she read as she walked, her fair Jvoung head bowed beneath a sunshade {which tinted her face becomingly. She (gave me a shy smile and a low voiced greeting as we passed. Only my knowledge of the young woman prevented me from being blinded by her engaging appearance. ! “That.” said I when we were out of (earshot, “shows you what a furore a jgood looking young man can create in • town like this. Josie Lockwood has

|>ut on her best bib and tuc-ker to go (walking in this aftcniqon on the off jphance of meeting you. Mr. Duncan.” { “Flattery note.” he commented. “Who's Josie Lock wood V “Daughter of Blinky Lockwood, the Richest man in Radville.’’ j “Ah!” he said cryptically, i 1 managed to hear much of Mr. Duncan while 1 myself was engaged in •formulating an estimate of the young jman. He left the hotel and took modjest accommodations at the house of Hetty Carpenter. He engaged the 'popular imagination uo less than mine iown. although 1 was more intimately Associated with him as a fellow resident at Hetty Carpenter's. My professional duties making their habitual jdemands upon my time. I saw, it may, pe, less of’hirn than many of our peojple. Certainly I learned less of his from first hand knowledge. But from my desk—it’s -the nearest to the (window right above the postoffice door I—l was enabled to keep a pretty close tline upon his habits and movements during the first fortnight of his stay In Radville. At home i saw him with unvarying Regularity at mealtimes and less frequently after supper. Between whiles he seepied to observe a fairly regular routine. In the. morning after breakfast he walked abroad for his health’s sake Id the afternoon and evening he sequestered himself in his rqom for the pursuit of bis legal studies. About the genuineness of these latter I was long without a question. Having been privileged to inspect his room, I found It redolent of ap atmosphere of highly

log table was a model of neatness, and his store of' legal treatises Impressed one vastly. That no one, not even Hetty Carpenter, ever saw the room witlv

but remarking the open volume of “The Law of Torts,” with its numerous pages painstakingly spaced by slips of paper by way of bookmarks, is an attested fact. That it was always the same volume is less widely known. > Less directly—that is to say, via my window—l learned of him compendiously from sources v.hieh would hate been anonymous but for my long acquaintance with the voices of the townspeople. 1 write these pages at my desk at, home and, if truth’s to he Told, somewhat s urr eptitiously. But with these voices ringing in my memory’s ear I seemed still to be sitting at my erstwhile desk by the window, looking out over Courthouse square, ’chewing the rubber heel of my pencil the while 1 listen

Immediately opposite, on tbe far side of tbe square, tbe courthouse rises proudly iu all the majesty of its columned front and elapboarded sides. Farther along there’s the Methodist church, very severe, with its rows of sheds on one side for the tennis of the more rural members, ftehiud them ail bulk our hilts, dim and purple against tbe overwhelming blue of the sky. It's Very quiet. There are few sounds and those few most familiar—the raucous warcry of a rooster somewhere on the Outskirts of town, an intermittent thudding of hoofs in tbe inch deep dust of the roadway. Miles Stetson wringing faint but genuine shrieks of agony from his cornet iu a room behind the opera house on the next street, periodically a shuffle of feet on the sidewalk below, less frequently the whine of the swinging doors at Schwartz’s place and above it all perhaps the shrill but n«t unpleasant accents of Angie Tothili as she pauses on the threshold downstairs and injects surprising information into the nothing reluctant ears of Maine Garrisou:

“He’s got six suits of clothes, three for summer and three for winter, and two others to wear to parties, one regular full dress suit aud another without any tails on the coat that be told Miss Carpenter was a dinner coat but Roland Barnette says he must 've meant a tuxedo, because nobody wears that kind of clothes except at night, so how could it be a dinner coat? And Miss Carpenter told rna he’s got twelve striped shirts and eight white ones and dozens of silk socks and two dozen neckties aud handkerchiefs till you can't count and”— Maine punctuates this monologue with a regular and excusable “My land!” and the young voices fade away into the midsummer afternoon quiet. I am free to resume my interrupted flight of fancy, but I refrain. The atmosphere is soporiferous. hardly conducive to editorial inspiration, and I fifid the commingled flavors of red cedar, glue aud rubber quite nourishing. , Presently Dr. Mortimer, tbe minister. comes down the street in company with his deacon. Bliuky Lockwood. They* are discussing some one in subdued tones, but I catch references to a worthy young man and the vacancy in the choir.

Josie Lockwood rustles, into hearing with Bessie Gabriel in tOw. Josie is rattling volubly, but with a hint of the, confidential in her tone. She insists that ‘»f course 1 never let on, but every time we meet I can just feel him looking and”— \ Bessie Tracey Tanner's just crazy for rear he'll take on with Angie.” '* 1 can see Josie's head toss at this. “I bet he don't know what Angie Tutbill looks like. That's too absurd”— “Absurd" is Josie’s newest word. It's a very good , word, too, but sometimes I fear she wjll wear it threadbare. It closes her remarks as the two girls dart into the postoffice# and there is peace for a time; then they emerge, giggling, and I hear Josie declare: “I’d get Roland Barnette to do it. but he’s so jealous. He makes me rired.” Bessie's response Is Inaudible.

“Well.” Josie continues. “I'm simply not going to send them oat until I meet him. Father said 1 could give It a week from Saturday, but I won't unless”— Bessie interrupts again inaudibly. “Of course I could do that, but If I just said ‘Miss Carpenter and guests’ that nosey old Homer Littlejohn ’d think I meant hii®. too. and if I only said ‘guest’ it’d look too pointed. Wt you think so?” ' To my relief they ’pass from hearing, and 1 feel for my pipe for comfort Anyway, I never did like Josie Lockwood Smoking. I meditate on the astonishing power of personality. Here is Mr. Nathaniel Duncan no more than a fortnight in our midst it he phrase is used qallousiy as something sacred to country jouroalisau, and. la-hold, not yet has the town ceased to discuss him. The control he has over the local mind and imagination is certainly wonderful. the more so since be has apparently made no effort to attract attention—rather. I should say. to the contrary. Ljniet and unassuming be goes his way. minding his own business as carefully as we would mind it fgr him, with all the good will in the world, if only we could find out what it is. But we can’t leave him alone. Tracey Tanner interrupts my in usings. • “lienor he twangs. like a tuneless banjo. ■ - ’ “'Lo, Tracey.” This lofty and blase greeting can come from none other than Roland Barnette.

“Where you goiu'?" “Over to the railway station." “What for? ’ “To give yon something to t?’k about. Fin going to send a telegrum to a friend of mine in Noo York.” “Aw. you ain't the only one can send telegrams. Sam Graham sent one jost now.” ”lle didr ; “Üb-huh. T was sort of bangin' round when be came in. and I seen him send it my self.” “Satn Graham telegraphing: Do yon know who to. Tracey?" Roland’s superiority is wearing thin under contact with his curiosity. 1 bis surprising hit of news makes him distinctly more affable and inclined to lower hrnself to the socal level of the son of the livery stable keeper.

As'for myself, I am inclined to lean out of the wiudow ami call Tracey np lest he- get out of hearing before I hear the rest of it. Fortunately I am not thus obliged to compromise my diguity. The two are at pause. "Gimme a cigarette and Fli tell you,” bargains Tracey shrewdly. "Lew Parker told me after Sam d gone.” The djgal is put through promptly. “He was telegraphin’ to— Got a match?” For once 1 am In sympathy with Roland, whose tone betrays his desire to wring Tracey’s exasperating neck. “Aw, he was only telegraphin’ to

Gresham & Jones for some sody water sirups.” “Where'd he get the money?’ There's fine scorn in Roland's comment. “I dunno. but be handed Lew a five dollar bill to pay for the message"” “Well, if Sam Graham’s got any money he'd letter hold on to it instead of buying sody water sirups. 1 guess Blinky Lockwood ’ll get after him when he finds it out. He owes Blinky ,'a note at the bank, and it's coming due in a day or two. and Blinky ain't going to renew, neither.” “Sam seemed cheerful ’nough. Anyhow. R ain't my funeral.” I have now something to think (bout, indeed, and am more than half inclined to stroll np to Graham’s and find out what has happened on my own account when the voices of Hi Nutt and Watty, the tailor, drift up to me. The cronies are coming down for their regular afternoon session oh the post-office-benches, a function which takes place daily just as soon as the sun gets round behind the building so that the seats are shaded. And I pause,

true to the ethics of journalism. It’s my duty not Ur leave just yet Surprisingly enough, these two likewise ate discussing Sam Graham. At least I can deduce nothing else from Hiram’s first words, though their subject is for the moment nameless. “Yes. sir; he’s the poorest man in this town'” “Yes," Watty quavers—“yes, I guess he be.” - •> “And he’s got no more business sense into him thau God give a goose.” “No; I guess be ain’t." “Why. look at the way things ha 3 run down at bis-store since Margaret died: She kept thiugs a-runnin’ while she was alive." Yes; she w as n fine womans Margaret Bohuu v as." _ •’And. they ain’t no doubt about it. Sam had money into the hank when slip died. But ever (sinst tlien it’s been all go out and no cofne in with him. He keeps fussiif and fussin’ with them

inventions of his. but uo qne ever, heard tell of his geitin' anything out of ’em.” “Aud wbar'd he do with ail the money be had when Margaret died?” “Spent it. what be didu’t lend and give away and lose indorsin’ notes for his friends and then havin’ to pay 'em. And, stakin' of notes, 1 heard Roland Barnette say t'other day that old Sam bud a note coinin’ due to the bank an’ Biinky wasn’t goin' to renew it any more.” “Course Sam can't pay it.” "Certainly he can't, i was in his store day before yestiddy, and they wasn't nobody come in for nothin’ w hile I was there. He don't do no business to speak of.” "How long was you there. Hi?” “From 9 o'clock to noon.” “What doin'?”

“Xuthin'—jes’ settiu' round.” “1 seen him today goin' into the bank. Guess be must ve gone to see Lockwood limit that note." “Well, I don’t envy him his call on Biinky Lockwood none.” “Mebbe he went in to deposit his coupons,” Watty chuckled. Hiram snorted, and there was silence while be filled and lit bis pipe. “I bearn tell this mornin’.” he resumed, “that Josie Lockwoods goin* to give a party next week.”

“Yes; i bearn it too. Angie Tuthill was talkin’ ’bout it to Marne Garrison up to Leonard & Call's. She said they was goin’ to have the biggest time this town ever see—goiu’ to decyrate tbe grounds with lanterns and have ice cream sent from Phillydelphy, and cakes too. Can't make out what’s come into Bliuky to let that gal of bis waste money like that.’’ “I figger.” says Iliram after a sapient pause, “she must be gettin* it up for that New York dood.” .“Duncan Y~ - „ “Üb-buh,” .. - ‘’ “I didn’t know be was 'quainted with tbe Lockwoods.” . “I didn't know be was ’quainted with nobody.” . “Nobody ’(-optin' Homer Littlejohn and Hetty Carpenter, and they don’t seem to know much about him. 1 call him dam cur'us. Hetty says he’s alius a-settin’ in his' room a-studyin’ and a-studyin’ and a-studyin’.” “He goes walkin' mornin’s, Hetty told me.” “Waal, he don't come downtown much. Nobody hardly ever sees him ’cept th church.” Hiram ponders this profoundly, finally delivering himself of an opinion which he has never forsaken. “I claim he's a s'picions character.” “Don’t look to me as though he knew 'nougfa to be much of anything.” “ Waal. now. if he's a real student and they ain’t no outs ’bout him, what in tarnation's he doin’ here? That’s jest what I’d like to have somebody tell me, Watty.” . “Hetty sez he sez he wants a quiet place to study.” • Hiram snorts with scorn. “Oh, fiddle! Ton don't catch no Noo York young feller a-settlin' dow n in Radville unless he's crazy or somethin’ worse.” “ ’Tain’t no nse tellin' Hetty Carpenter that.” “No. If anybody sez a word ag’in him she shots 'em right up.” “’Tain’t only Hetty, but all the wimmin *s on his side.”

“That’s proof enough to me he ain’t right.” “Wlmmin.’’ says Watty as the result or a period of philosophical consideration, “is all crazy about clothes. When a feller’s got good clothes you can’t make them see no harm Into him, nc matter what he, is,. I pressed some oi Duncan's last Satiddy. I never see clothes—such goods and liuin’s. They was made for him, too—made by a tailor on Fifth avenue, Noo York. I fergit the name now.”

“AVaai. Roland Barnette sex they ain’t stylish. He sez they’re too mock like an undertaker's gitnp." “Waal, Roland oughter know. He’s the fanciest dressed up feller in the county.” “Yes. I guess he be.” The subject apjiarently languishes, but I know that It still occupies their sage meditations, and presently this if demonstrated by Hiram, who expectorates liberally by way cf preface. “When this cuss Duncan fust come here,” he s:.;.jAw ith a self contained chuckle. “evTyt*>dy but me figgered he had stacks of money. - Guess they be singiu’ :i different tune now sinst he’s been goiu' round askin’ for work.” .This is news to me. and I sit up, sharing Watty’s astonishment “Be he a-d* in’ that. Hiram?” “That's what he’s l>eeu a doin." “Funny I missed bearin’ about it" “He only started this snornin’. Ilf went to , Sot hern A Lee’s and Leonard & Call’s and Godfrey’s, aud then I guess he must *ve quit discouraged. They wouldn’t none of them give him uothin’. Leastways iiiat'4 what they said after he'd goue ouL He didn’t g>e anybody a reel chance to say anything. I was in Leonard A Call’s, and he came iu aud asked for a job, but the minute Len looked at him he turned right round aud slunk out without awaitin' for I.en to say a Hiram smoked in huge enjoyment of the retrospect "He’s the curiousest critter we ever dad in thu town."

“Yes," agrees Watty; “I guess he be." At tliis juncture conies an interruption. Tracey Tanner returns hotfoot Either he has been running or bia breathlessness is due to excitement Before the two upon the bench he pauses in agitated glee, a bearer of tremendous tidings. “Hello!” he pants. “Now, you Tracey Tanner." Hiram cuts in sharply, "you run Tong and don’t be a-botherin' round. Seems like a body uever can git a chance to rest with you children alius a-buttm’ in”“Aw, sbet up.” says Tracey dispassionately. "1 only wanted to tell yon the news.” Watty quavers, “What news, Tracey?” •“Well.” says the boy, “I’ll tell yon, Watty, but I wouldn’t ’ve told him after what he said.” “But what's the news, TraceyT* There is suspense in the iteration. “Well, seeiu's it’s you, Watty’’— “You. Tracey Tanner, you run ’long and stop your jokin’!" interrupts Hiram with authority. “’Tain’t no joke; it’s news I’m tellin’ you. Sa-ay. what d’ye think, Watty?" “Yes, Tracey, yes? What is it* boy?” “That Noo York—dood,” drawls Tracey, “is a-workin’ for Sam Graham!" A dramatic pause ensues. I rise and find my Coat. “Tracey Tanner,” shrills Hiram, "be you a-teilin’ the truth?” “Kiss my hand aud cross my heart and vow honest Injun I seen him up

there just now in the store. Watty, tendin’ the sody fountain.” “Waal,” says Hiram, rising, “I don’t believe a word of it. but if it’s true we better be goin' round to see, Watty, ’cause it ain't a-goin' to last long. He won’t stay after he finds out Sam ain’t got no money to pay bis wages with.” (To Be Continued.)

JOSIE DOCK WOOD.

“HE'S GOT SIX SUITS OF CLOTHES"

TRACEY TANNER.

ANGIE TUTHILL.

“THAT DOOD IS A-WORKIN' FOR SAM GRAHAM."