People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 April 1894 — Page 3

THE LAWYER’S WAYS. Pre been Ust'nin' to them lawyen In the courthouse of the street, Ah' rye cone to the conclusion That I'm most completely beat. Fust one feller riz to argy, An’ he boldly waded in At be dressed the tremblin' pris'nei In a coat o’ deep-dyed sin. Why, he painted him all over In a hue o’ blackest crime, An* he smeared his reputation With the thickest kind o’ grime, Till I found myself a wonderin’. In a misty way and dim. How the Lord had come to fashion Such an awful man as him. Then the other lawyer started. An*, with brimmin* tearful eyes. Said his client was a martyr That was brought to sacrifice. An’ he give to that same pris’ner Every blessed human grace. Tell I saw the light o’ virtue Fairly shinin' from his face. Then I own 'at I was puzzled How sich things could rightly be; An’ this aggervatin’ question Seems to keep a-puzzlin’ me. So, will some one please inform me, An’ this mystery unroll — How an angel an' a devil Can possess the self-same soul? —Paul Dunbar, in Chicago Record.

MATT. A TALE OF CARAVAN

By ROBERT BUCIANAN.

CHAPTER XL— Continued. He rose negligently, went to the door, and held forth his hand; Matt took it, gave one spring, and landed inside the vehicle. “Tim, another knife and fork for the young lady—some more eggs and milk; ki fact, anything you’ve got!” said Brinkley, as he placed a seat for Matt at the little table. Tim gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. This “bold colleen,” as he called her, was becoming too much for him, but lie perforce obeyed his master’s commands. Matt sat down and ate with an appetite. Brinkley played negligently with his knife, and watched her. “It is two days since you were here, Matt,” said be. “I was seriously thinking of coming to look for you. Why wouldn’t you come before?” “ ‘Twasn’t that!” said Matt “I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t? Why? “Why, he wouldn’t let me, William Jones. He says he’ll smash me if I come here and talk to you.” As Matt spoke her bosom heaved and her eyes flashed fire. “He ain’t at home to-day,” she said, in answer to the young man’s query concerning the ex-wrecker; “he’s gone up to market-town and won’t be back before night.” As Brinkley looked at her a sudden thought seemed to strike him. “Matt,” he said, “you and I will go wreck hunting this afternoon—that is, if you’ve no objection.” She certainly had none; wherever he went she seemed to be willing to follow. In a very little while the two started off. It was Brinkley who led this time, Matt walking along beside him like a confiding child. “By the way, Matt,” he said, presently, “you told me once of treasures being hidden among the sand hills. Did anybody ever find any?” “Not that I know of.” “William Jones, for instance?” “No. Leastways I don’t know.” “Well, what would you say, Matt, if T told you that I had found one?” “If you!” “Yes. I wonder if you can keep a secret? Yes, on reflection, I think you ?an. Now, before we go on any further, Matt, first you place your hand in mine md promise never to mention until I <ive you permission what I am about to confide in you now.” Matt’s curiosity was aroused. “All right,” she replied, eagerly, “I shan’t tell.”

“Very good,” replied Brinkley; “we will now proceed.” They passed on among the sand hills and came to the entrance of the cave. Brinkley removed the stones and sand from the hole and entered. Breathless with curiosity Matt followed. They reached the bottom. Brinkley struck a light and pointed out to her all the wonderful treasures which the cave contained. It was such a surprise to the girl that for a time she could do nothing but stare and stare in speechless wonder. Whistling gayly, Brinkley turned about the casks of rum and brandy and thrust his hands into the bags and let the gleaming gold slip through his fingers. Matt’s amazement turned into awe. “Don’t,” she said, in a fearful whisper “it belongs to the fairies.” Brinkley laughed. “It belongs to a very substantial fairy, Matt, but I don’t think that today I will mention that fairy’s name. Did you ever see so much money in all your life before, Matt?” She shook her head, but her eyes vere still fixed upon the gold. “I see,” observed Brinkley, flippantly, “the sight of that gold fascinates yoa. Well, so it did me at first, but you see what use does. I can regard it now with comparative calmness. However, I have a particular wish to accustom you to the sight of wealth; therefore, I shall bring you here and show you this now and again. Come, Matt, tell me what you would do if you were very rich, if all this flotsam and jetsam, in fact, belonged to you?” Without the slightest hesitation Matt replied: “I should give it to you—leastways half of it.” “Ah, the reply is characteristic, and e'early shows you are not at present fitted to become the possessor of riches. But I shall bring you to the proper state of mind in time, no doubt. The next time I ask you a similar question you w4ll propose to give me a third, the next an eighth, and so on, until you will finally come to a proper state of mind, and decline to give me any at all. And now that I have made you th* sharer of ray secret w« will go ”

They left the cave once more and made their way back across the ■and hills, Brinkley pausing to obliterate their footprints as they went When they had proceeded some distance he paused and took the girl’s hand. “Good-by, Matt,” said he. “If it wasn’t for that promised smashing I should certainly see you home.” “Then do,” returned Matt “I don’t care if he does smash me!” “Probably not, but I do. It would be an episode in your career which it would not be pleasant to reflect upon—therefore, good-by, Matt and —and God bless you, my girl!” He gave her a fatherly salute upon the forehead; a bright flush overspread her cheek as she bounded away. Brinkley watched her until she was out of sight, then he turned and strolled quietly on in the direction of the caravan. “It’s a strange game,” he said, “and requires careful waiting. I wonder what my next move ought to be?” He tought very deeply, but when he reached the caravan he found he had come to no definite conclusion as to his plans. He therefore partook cheerfully of the repast which Tim had prepared for him, and after he had smoked a couple of pipes in the open air he retired to rest. The next morning he began pondering again. “I have got my trump card,” he said to himself, “but how to play up to it? I have a splendid hand, but it will want skillful managing if I am to win the game. One false move would do for me, for my opponents are crafty as foxes; and there are two against one. What is my right move, I wonder? I wish some good fairy would guide me!” He took out his pipe, which was his usual consoler, and smoked while he took a few turns on the greensward outside the caravan. Suddenly an idea struck him. “I think I’ll pay a domiciliary visit to Mr. Monk,” he said. “I can meet him now on pretty equal terms. If I hint a few things to him the amiable gentleman may think of becoming just.” He called up Tim and sent him on some trivial errand down to the village. As soon as he was well out of the way Brinkley entered the caravan, produced some papers from the inner pocket of his coat and locked them up securely in his trunk. “So far so good,” he said. “My amiable friend may not be in an amiable mood, and I don’t wish him to get any advantage of me!” He did not even take with him the key of the box, but having attached to it a small piece of paper, on which were some written instructions, he hid it in the caravan and started off upon hia journey. It was a dark, gloomy morning, giving every promise of coming storms. As he passed through the wood which surrounded Monkshurst house the wind whistled softly among the trees, making a moan like the sound of human voices.

“A gloomy place,” said Brinkley; “a fit residence for such as he. A dark deed might be committed here, and who would know?” The path which he traveled was a neglected carriage drive, strewed with stones, overgrown with weeds and bordered on either side by the thick trees of the forest. Presently the trees parted and he came in view of the house. A large gloomy-looking building, as neglected as the woodland, in the center of which it stood. It seemed as if only a part of it was inhabited, and the large garden at its back was unprotected by any wall and full of overgrown fruit trees. The door was opened by a grim, elderly woman. He inquired for Mr. Monk, and was informed that he was at home. The next minute he was standing in a lonely library, where the owner of the house was busy writing. Monk rose, and the two stood face to face.

CHAPTER XII. BURIED! It is not my purpose to describe the interview which took place between my hero and Mr. Monk. Suffice it to say that when the young man again emerged from the gloomy shadows of the dwelling there was a curious smile upon his face, while Mr. Monk, who had followed him to the door, and watched his retreating figure, wore a horrible expression of hatred and fear. No sooner had he disappeared than Monk left the house also, and, foHowing a footpath through the woods, made straight for William Jones’ cottage. Entering unceremoniously, he found that worthy seated beside the hearth; without a word, he rushed upon him, seized him by the throat and began pummeling his head upon the wall. The attack was so sudden that for several minutes William Jones offered no resistance whatever. Indeed, so passive was he, and so violent was the rage of his opponent, that there was every prospect of his head being beaten to a jelly. Presently, however, Monk’s fury abating, his unfortunate victim was allowed to pick himself up. He sat and stared before him, while Monk, looking like the evil one himself, glared savagely in his face. “You villain! You accursed, treacherous scoundrel!” he said. “Tell me what you’ve done, or I’ll kill you!” But William Jones was unconscious of having done anything, and he said as much, whereupon Monk’s fury was about to rise again. “Mr. Monk,” cried William Jones, in terror, "look ye now, tell me what’s the matter?” “I mean you to tell me what you have been hiding from me aU these years. Something came ashore with that child—something that might lead to her identity, and you have kept it, thinking to realize money upon it, or to have me in your power. What means it?' Speak, or I’ll strangle you!” But William Jones was evidently unable to speak, being perfectly paralyzed with fear. Monk stretched forth his hands to seize him again, when the old man, who had been a horrified

spectator of all this, suddenly broke tn with: “Look ye, now, I know there was summat. It were a leetle book, stuffed in the front of her frock!” “A book!” returned Monk, eagerly; “and what did you do with it? TeU me that, you old fool! Did you burn it?” “Burn it?” exclaimed the other. “No, mister, we don’t burn nothin’, William and me. You know where you put it, William, dear. In the old place.” “Then curse you for an avaricious old devil,” thundered Monk. “The book has been stolen —do you hear? — stolen by that young painter!” He could say no more; the effect of his words upon William Jones was electrical. He gave one wild shriek, and began tearing his hair. It now became his turn to moan and rave, and for some time nothing coherent could be got from him. At length, however, Monk gathered that there was some secret hiding place which Brinkley had discovered. “I thought his poking and prying meant summat,” moaned William Jones. “I fancied, too, I seen marks i’ the sand, but I never could find no one near, and I thought they was my own marks. Oh, what will come tome! I’m ruined!” “Curse your folly!” exclaimed Monk; “you’ve brought it all on yourself by your own greed, and you don’t deserve I should help you; but I will help you! Listen then! It is clear that this young man has possessed himself somehow of your secret and mine. But from what he has said to me, I fancy he has not as yet divulged it to a single soul. He is the only human being we have to fear. We must cease to fear him. Do you understand?” No. William Jones did not understand; so, in order to make his meaning clear,-Mr. Monk drew him out of the cottage and whispered something

HE RUSHED UPON HIM AND SEIZED HIM BY THE THROAT.

“in his ear. William Jones turned as white as death and began to tremble all over. “I couldn’t do it, sir,” he moaned. “Look, ye, now —I couldn’t do it!” Monk stamped his foot impatiently; then he turned to his frightened victim: “Listen to me, William Jones. You ought to know by this time that I have both the power and determination to effect my ends. Continue to oppose me and play the fool and all that power shall be used against you. Do you hear? I will ruin you! I will hand you over to the authorities as a thief! I will have you tried for concealing the papers which might have proved the identity of the child found washed ashore fifteen years ago! Do you hear?” Mr. Monk evidently knew the nature of the man with whom he had to deal, for, after a little more conversation, William Jones, cowering like a frightened child, promised implicit obedience. “Now, then,” said Monk, when he had brought matters to a satisfactory termination, “you will show me this hiding place of yours.” To this William Jones at first objected, but Monk was firm. “Who knows,” said he, “but there may be other things having reference to the child. I mean to see for myself. Now, William Jones?” So William Jones, seeing that resistance would be useless, promised to conduct his friend to the cave, and,

BRINKLEY STRUGGLING IN THE POWERFUL GRIP OF MONK.

after a good deal of hesitation and of continued show of unwillingness on William Jones’ part, the two men started off. When they drew near to the cave, William Jones gave a cry and pointed to the sand. Looking down, Monk clearly saw the footprints. They followed them and found that they led right to the mouth of the cave. “It’s standing open!” cried William Jones, as he pointed down with trembling finger. “Follow me!” said Monk, crawling down into the hole. Jones followed in terror. As he reached the rocus below he heard a sharp cry, anti looking down saw, by the dim light of a candle stuck in the wall, Brinkley struggling helplessly in the powerful grip of Monk. Hb had been sprung upon from behind, and was helpless through a sort of garote. Horrified and trenioling, William Jones was rooted to his place. Suddenly he saw th* young man fall

backward Hfetees, and, with «m late gasp, lie perfectly still. Monk stooped over him, and looked into his face. “O Mr. Monk!” cried William, “la he —ia he”— “He is dead!” was the reply. “So much the better.” As he spoke, he bent down and searched the young man pockets. Hia brow blackened, for he did not find what he sought. Then he took the light from the wall, and held it dose to Brinkley’s eyes. Satisfied that he did not breathe, he climbed up the path and rejoined his trembling companion. They passed out of the place, hurriedly replacing the trap-door, and piled on sand and stones. “There!” said Monk, with a wild smile on his deadly pale face. “He won’t trouble either of us again. Come, come!” And he strode hastily away, followed by William Jones, leaving the young man of the caravan in the subterranean tomb. CHAPTER XML WILLIAM JONES IS SERIOUS The two men walked together through the darkness as far as the door of William Jones’ hut; then they parted. Mr. Monk struck across the sand hills towards his own home, while Jones entered the door of his cabin. He would fain have found that cabin empty, for the memory of the last scene in the cave was still upon him, and made him as nervous as a child. But the old man was there, and wide awake, and evidently pleased at his son’s return. “Where have you been, William, dear?” said he. The question was innocent enough in itself, but it was full of hidden meaning for William Jones. “Where have I been?” he repeated; “at work, to be sure!” The tone of his reply startled the old man. He looked up, and saw to his amazement that William was as white as a ghost, and trembling violently. “What’s the matter, William, dear?” he asked, eagerly. “Have you seen a wreck, my son?” “No, I ain’t,” responded his son, ly; violent “and look ye now, old ’un, you jest be quiet, and let me alone, that’s all!” [TO BE CONTINUED.]

HE WAS PLACATED.

Why the Big Man Failed to Carry Out His Intentions. The row did not attract general attention in the restaurant until the big man with the red face threw off his coat, slammed his hat on the table and shouted: “If you’re lookin’ fer trouble you bet you can get it right here, an’ I reckon I can hand it out to ye as fast as ye can take it away?” “But I’m not looking for trouble,” protested the small man, rather feebly. “I never—” “Well, then ye don’t want to be makin’ no breaks at me,” persisted the big man walking around the table and shaking his fist at the other, “fer I’ll give ye trouble and lots of it.” “But I don't want any, I —” “The —ye don’t! I’ve got a good notion to give it to ye fer luck.” “My dear sir,” insisted the little man mildly, “I certainly never meant to give any offense. In fact, I am always very careful not to become engaged in any controversy, I —” It was evident that he was becoming somewhat excited himself now. “I make it a study to avoid getting into any sort of difficulty, and so would you if you were in my place—l’ve just served five years in prison for killing a man in Wisconsin and I don’t want any more of it, truly I don’t.” And he looked up beseechingly at his would-be antagonist, who seemed to regard him in a new light and agreed to “accept the apology.”—Detroit Tribune.

A Javanese Bed.

The very bed on which a man reclines at night affords him considerable opportunity for reflection. At first sight it never occurred to him that the great square object—looking with its covering of mosquito curtains more like a huge bird cage than anything else —was a bed. He knows better now and proceeds to examine it with interest before turning in for the night. He finds that the large square mattress is covered by a sheet, but otherwise entirely devoid of bed-clothing. At the top are two pillows for the head, and down the center is placed a long, round bolster called a Dutch wife. Thia scarcely comes up to his notion of what a bed should be, but after he has slept (or tried to sleep) for two or three nights in the hot, steamy atmosphere of Batavia he changes his mind. He finds that bed-clothes are not wanted in the coast towns of Java, and in particular he learns to appreciate the relief which he experiences by throwing arm or leg over that useful contrivuaoe for securing coolness, the Dutch wife. —Fortnightly Review.

A Pretty Compliment.

To be able to compliment without seeming to flatter is a rare gift, and probably no race of people are endowed with that gift more extensively than the French. An exampl* of the Frenchman’s rare tact in matters ol this sort is nhown in that sweet little story of a man who had ventured to compliment a white-haired old lady upon her beauty. “Ah,” said she, “I fear you flatter me. You call me pretty. Why, tam an old woman, my hair is white, and see, here is a wrinkle.” “A wrinkle!” he replied. “Never, madam; that Is not a wrinkle. It ia but a smile that has drifted from its moorings.”—Harper’s Young People.

Juvenile Jealousy.

“Mamma, the little boy next dooz has got on a new suit. Can I have one, too?” “Not now, Willie.” “Then f guess I’ll go out and pick . fight with him.” —Life.

Vicarlous Suffering.

Mrs. Witherby- Won’t yon have a* other piece of pie, Willie? Willie Slimson —Mother told mo not to take it foi myself, but as she isn't here 1 don’t mind eating her pi*o*— Judg*

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McCLURE’S MAGAZINE For 1894. Th< editors of McClure’s Mags* sine aim to publish the Best Literature ...AND THE... Most Interesting Knowledge and to make every line in the magxsine both instructive and entertaining. 100 hen and woten famous IM UTERATURB AND ACHIEVEMENT will be represented In McClure's Magazine, cither a* authors of article* or a* participant* fa* dialogue* and interviews, or a* subjects te article*. Stevenson’s New Novel. A ROMANCB OP THB SOUTH SEAS, by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd L aWL Otbourne, will run through four (7 numbers, beginning with Jan•ary. This story 1* one of thrill- j&y? Ing adventure and mysterious happening*, reminding one of ‘"Treasure I»land,” and of “ Th* » Wrecker." •»'■■■ William Dean Howells Will contribute a serial atasjp /SsLA A to ™n through three numbers, VYy “ or ® especially for younger Srt readers, and, like all hl* stories FVX for young people, it will be jua* a* interesting to their elder*. i O yyv Short Stories will bo contributed by maay well-known writer*, among other* ■ Bret Harte, Joel Chandler Harris, Conan Doyls, Prank R. Stockton, Harriet Prescott Spofford, “Q" Clark Russell, Rudyard Kipling, Octave Thanet, and I. Zangwlll. Real Conversations. Interview*, Intimate Personal Sketch**, sad Studio* of Great Hen In Action, will continue to be marked feature* of coming issue*. Under this heading are announced the following i D. L. HOODY, th* flan and hl* work, by PROFESSOR HENRY DRUHTIOND. This is the first complete study *f Mr. Moody’s career which CT-tSiKk ha* ever been prepared. Gladstone, TuTu' a Leader of Men, I/ ff '/yf By HAROLD FREDERIC. , Philip D. Armour. By ARTHUR WARREN. Mr. Armour io pewbably the greatest merchant in the hlitory of the world. He 1* also a great philanthropist. This article will present the many aide* of hi* actie. Itle*, and will be fully illustrated. Bismarck, W At hl* Greateat, S av ARCHIBALD FORBOL Ruskin at Home. r- 7 - By n. H. SPIBLfIANU Pierre Loti, jgl A personal sketch, by e-yySst HADAHB ADAH. Vlk Alphonse Dsudet, Jules Verne, | Sardou, Vw/L^^K' Andrew Carnegie Archdeacon Farrar, *“• Dumas, the Younger. (I T\ Cemils Flamarlon, end CHARLES A. DANA fflvPwvimi are the tub J ect * °f erticles te •Wvt KTt.QI the form of interviews, in which the BUtter *’ mainly autobiographical. These articles in many give full length portraits of their subjects, the stories of ow* their lives, struggles, achieve■sent* and auccesaea. These article* will be fully Illustrated.

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