Jasper County Democrat, Volume 21, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 May 1918 — The Downward Path [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Downward Path

By Walter Joseph Delaney

(Copyright, 1917, Weatern Newspaper Union.) With cruel force Burt Gresham came in contact with the bottom of a newly dug ditch, stumbling over a board set on two kegs which had been placed for the warning and protection of pedestrians. He landed hard, his shoulder striking the edge of the cut, his clothes were torn on the nails in the board he had fallen over, and he was bruised by the side of the ditch and his attire muddied and disordered. One arm, severely sprained, hung limp by his side. He had been running to catch a trolley car when the accident occurred. As, with pain and difficulty, he noted the fading lights of the car, a bitter scowl crossed his face. : ———— “Everything is going wrong with me!” he muttered sullenly. “This about caps the climax. In debt, the boss sore at me and ready to fire me, even the clothes I wear not paid so the world is at odds with me. I’d like the chance to get even, no matter how desperately.” “Hello! Well, say, if it isn’t Burt Gresham!” hailed a familiar voice and a staggering form neared him. “Hit by the trolley?” Gresham gave a quick start at these last words. A subtle flash came from his eyes. A suggestion had sunk deep in his mind, all off its balance in his prevailing misanthropic mood. He noted the muddled condition of the man who stood regarding Idm unsteadily. “Did you see it?” “Did I? Sure, I did,” mumbled the other. “Didn’t signal, just came around the curve and hit you.” “Tossed me into the ditch—and you saw it.” “That’s it. Why, you’re hurt, ain’t you? I’ll tell you what —that company is in for damages, hey?” In a flash the structure of a base fraud arose in the thoughts of Burt Gresham. He was in a fit frame of mind to “get even” with the world. He held to the arm of Nate Dolby and entered the first saloon they came to. He treated Dolby and drank himself. He was reckless and desperate. By this time he had drilled a specious story into the mind of his irre-

sponsible companion, who circumstantially detailed the imaginary contact with the car. “I’ll see you in the morning, Dolby,” said Gresham, as they parted. “I’m going to sue the company. You are my. witness, remember.” “Sure, I will,” insisted Dolby. “Don’t forget your story, now.” “Not I. Treat me square for my trouble, though.” “Oh, sure, that.” Burt Gresham entered on his course of crime the next morning. He had gone to a surgeon and had his injured arm set in a sling. He resigned his position forthwith. He had secreted a diamond ring he was buying on installments, and went to the jeweler from whom he had purchased it, and recited a likely story of losing it in the accident. He visited his tailor and paraded his hurts and bruises. He located Dolby, primed him up to the necessary point, and then took him to the office of the electric railway. The plausible story of the duo impressed the claim agent. Gresham left the presence of that official with two hundred dollars in his pocket. He gave Dolby ten of it, braced himself up with strong drink through the day, and at dusk packed up his few belongings and made over the city. Gresham put all the past behind him, work, home, ambition. He was not a sdt, but the fiery liquor was his solace when memory and remorse assailed him. Within a month he had squandered his all. At the end of a week later he was a nameless wanderer, fast degenerating into a tramp. One morning, harassed and weary, he reached a little cross-roads schoolhouse. He observed that one pf its

windows was open. It was vacation time, so he felt safe to climb in through the embrasure. Gresham found himself In a small room containing a bench, some broken chairs and stools, brooms, maps and the like. He lay down on the bench and went to sleep. It was two hours later when Nettie Dean unlocked the door of the school house, to be soon joined by a dozen or more little ones. Once a week she made it a custom to meet her scholars and pass an hour or two in their company, and the little group were glad to be with the devoted teacher they loved. . On this special morning Nettie had brought with her to read a simple, touching story. It covered the history of a wayward youth, growing into a careless man. who took the downward path. It depicted all he had forfeited that was best in life. It told of the mother love, of her influence and precepts coming back to the culprit at the darkest moment of his life. The sweet, impressive tones of the reader awoke the slumberer. He sat up. be listened, he seemed a part of the picture drawn. A clearness of vision, no longer blinded by drink, revealed all his wicked acts in their true light. For a time he sat with his face buried In his hands. Then, trembling all over, he stole out through the window, a mighty purpose in his mind, aroused, one sentient word on his lips: “Regeneration!” Burt Gresham went back to the city and to, work. For two successive years, upon the anniversary of the day when Nettie Dean had come into his life as a rescuing angel, be shut himself into his room through all the twenty-four hours, living over that blessed one when the sweet tones of a fair young girl had started him on a new career. He devoted all his energy to business. He was made partner in a thriving firm. The money received from the railway company he had returned. The man he had wronged. Nate Dolby./fcK inveigling him into his dreadful plot he reached through a lawyer, who put Dolby on his feet, and reformed. All his old debts Gresham liquidated, with interest.

Then, one day, the new Burt Gresham made a pilgrimage. Its goal was the little old schoolhouse where his regeneration had begun. At the nearby village he learned that the last session of a term was on, and joined the men and women on their way to commemorate “the last day of school.” He sought a retired seat. For the first time he gazed upon the beautiful face of his hitherto unseen guardian angel. A pretty juvenile program was carried out. The head of the school board delivered the usual annual speeciu He complimented Miss Dean upon her success as a teacher. He told of the need of a library for the school, not within the power of the board to donate. He suggested voluntary contributions. Burt Gresham stood up electrically. “I will take the responsibility of the entire subscription,” he said, arid sat down again. The occupants of the little room stared at this munificent stranger wonderingly. The children had trooped out, not impressed in a business meeting. Their cheery voices outside made music for the heart of the redeemed man. “This is unusual, unexpected." spoke the head school commissioner, approaching Gresham and speaking with warmth. “I would like to tell a story to you 'good people,” said Gresham modestly, again arising to his feet. There was a solemn hush in the room as he began his narration —the story of his own life. When he came to tell of the hour of his redemption. Miss Dean uttered a quick gasp. She approached him when he had concluded. Her little hand lay within his own. “You are a noble man,” she said, and her tear-stained eyes were lifted to his. “And, oh! the joy of knowing that in my little, humble sphere my words have been a blessing to you.” He had won back honor, probity, and a place among men. How he longed for her as the crowning gladness of his life I She read the aspiration in his earnest face, and with true and tender regard returned his hand pressure.

“Didn’t I? Sure, I Did.”