The Syracuse and Lake Wawasee Journal, Volume 15, Number 20, Syracuse, Kosciusko County, 14 September 1922 — Page 2

—- ______ The Big-Town Round Up By WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE Copyright by William MacLeod Raine ‘

IF ••NO VIOLENCE!" SYNOPSIS—A foreword tells thle: Motoring through Arizona a party of easterners, father and daughter and a male companion, stop to witness a cattle round up. The girl leaves the car and is attacked by a wild steer. A masterpiece of rid'.ng on the part of one of the cowboys saves her life. Then the story begins; Clay Lindsay, rangerider on an Arizona ranch, announces his intention to visit the Dig town." New York. •On the train Clay becomes interested in a young woman. Kitty Mason, on her way to New York to become a mo'.’.on-picture actress. ShO is marked as a fair prey by a fellow trawler, Jerry Durand. gang politician and ex-prize tighter; Clay rprovokgs a quarrel and throws Durand from the train. On his first dav In New York Clay is splashed ‘ I with water by a janitor. That ind vid al the range-rider punishes and loaves tied to a tire hydrant. A young woman who sees the occv.rrence. Invites Clay into her horse and hides him from the police Clay's ••rescuer" introduces erself as%eatrice Whitford. Lindsav meets her father. Colin Whitford. He meets" Kitty’Mason by accident. She has been disappointed »in her stage aspirations. Clay visits her. Kitty is insulted by a customer. Clay punishes the annever. Outside, he is attacked by Jerry Durand and a companion and beaten insensible. Clay’s acquaintance with Beatrice Whitford r pens. His "side partner" on t Arizona, ranch. Johnnie Green, comes t'o the "big town.” The two take an apartment together. Word comes that Kitty Mason is in trouble. Clay goes to the rescue and is helped by Annie Millikan. He comes on a party of “gunmen,” obviously waiting for his appearan e. Clay "gets the drop” on the thugs, locks them in a room and escapes. With a theater party, which includes the Whitfords. Clay meets Kitty Mason, friendless and penniless. He leaves the party to take the girl Jo his apartment. Beatrice resents Lindsay's interest in Kitty. The two part in anger. Hurt and indignant. Beatrice practically proposes marriage to an old admirer. Clarence Bromfield, wealthy man-about-town. Their engagement is announced. Durand's gang kidnaps Kitty. Clay appeals to Annie Millikan, who tells him where the girl is likely to be 'found. There Clay has a hard gun and fist battle- with Durand, and bests him. Annie is rescued. CHAPTER XlV—Continued. —'9— "What did you drink that has made You so happy this morning, Johnnie?” she asked lightly. The cowpuncher’s secret burst from’ him. “I done got married, Miss Beatrice.” “You-’-what?” “I up and got married day before yesterday,” he beamed. u, “And who’s the happy girl?” ‘‘Kitty Mason. We jes’ walked to the church round the corner. Clay, he Stood up with us and give the brldq (away. It’s me ’n’ her for Arizona poeo pronto." Beatrice felt a queer Joyous lift inside her as of some weight that had gone. In a single breath Johnnie had blown away the mists of misunderstanding that for weeks had clouded her vijion. Her heart went out to •Clay with a rush of warm emotion. The friend she had distrusted was all ■she had ever believed Him- He was snore —a man too stanch to desert tinkler pressure any one who had even a slight glann oil hhn. £,£l want to meet her. Will you bring her to > see me this afternoon, Johnnie?” she asked. His face was one glad grin. “I sure will. Y’betcha, by jollies.” He did. i To Beatrice, busy writing a letter, came Jenkins some hours later. “A young —person—to see you, Miss Whitford.” He said it with a manner so apologetic that it stressed his opinion of the social status of the visitor. "What kind of a person?” “A young woman, Miss, From the country, I tyke it.” "She didn’t give you a card?” “No, Mtes. She came with the person Mr. Whitford took on to ’elp with the work houtside.” “Oh! Show them both up. And have tea sent in, Jenkins.” Kitty’s shy eyes lifted apprehensively to those of this slim young patrician so beautifully and simply gowned. Instantly her fears fled. Beatrice moved swiftly to her with both hands outstretched. ./ “I’m so glad to meet you.” I She kissed the young wife with unaccustomed tenderness. For the Colorado girl had about her a certain modesty that was disarming, an appeal of helplessness Beatrice could not resist. Kitty, in the arms of her hostess, ■wept a few tears. She had been under a strain in anticipating the ordeal of meeting Johnnie’s mistress, and she had discovered her to be a very sweet, warm-hearted girl. As for Johnnie, he had a miserably happy half-hour. He had brought his hat in with him and he did not know how to dispose of it. What he did do was to keep it revolving in his hands. This had to be abandoned when Miss Whitford handed him a quite unnecessary cup of tea and a superfluous plate of toasted English muffins. He wished his hands had not been so big and red and freckled. Also he had an uncomfortable suspicion that his tow hair was tousled end uncombed in spite of his attempts at home to plaster it down. He declined sugar and cream because for some reason it seemed easier to say “No’m” than “Yes,” though lie always took both with tea. And he disgraced himself by scalding hie tongue and falling to suppress the pain. Finally the plate, with his mufto carefully balanced on his knee, fro’m soma devilish caprice plunged

! over the precipice to the carpet and ' the bit of china broke. Whereupon Kitty gently reproved [ him. ns was her wifely duty. | "I ain’t no society fellow,” the dis- ! tressed puncher explained to his hostess, tiny beads of perspiration on his j forehead. Beatrice had already guessed as much, but she did not admit it to Johnnie. She and Kitty smiled at each other in that common superiority which their sex gives them to any mere man upon such an occasion. For Mrs. John Green, though afternoon tea was to her an alien custom, took to it as a duck to water. Miss Whitford .landed Johnnie an envelope. "Would it be too much trouble for you to take a letter to Mr. Lindsay?” she asked very casually us they rose to go. The bridegroom said he was much obliged and he would be plumb tickled to take a message to Clay. When Clay read the note his blood glowed. It was a. characteristic twoline apology: I’ve been a horrid little prig. Clay (so the letter ran). Won’t you come over tomorrow and,go riding with me? BEATRICE. *••••*•* Colin Whitford had been telling Clay the story of how a young cowpuncher had snatched Beatrice from under the hoofs of a charging steer. His daughter and the Arizonan listened without comment. "I’ve always thought I’d like to explain to that young man I didn’t mean to insult him by offering money for saving Bee. But you see he didn’t give me any chance. I never did learn his name,” concluded the mining man. “And of course we’d like him to know that we appreciate what lie did for me.” Beatrice added. She looked at Clay, and a pulse beat in her soft throat. “I reckon he knows that,” Lindsay suggested. “You must ’a’ thought him mighty rude for to break away like you say he did.” “We couldn’t understand it till nfter- ! ward. Mr. Bromfield had slipped him ; a fifty-collar bill ami naturally he re- ! seated it.” Miss Whitford’s face bub- • bled with reminiscent mirth. She looked a question at Clay. “What do you suppose that impudent young scalawag did with the fifty?” “Got drunk on It most likely.” ‘ "He. fed It to his horse. Clary was furious.” , “He would be,” said the cattleman ' dryly, in spite of the best Intentions to be generous to his successful rival. “But I reckon I know why yore grandstand friend in chaps pulled such a ! play. In Arizona you can’t square such things with money. So far as I can make out the puncher didn’t do ' anything to write home about, but he ' didn’t want pay for it anyhow.” ; ' “Os course, Bromfleld doesn’t un1 derstand the West,” said Whitford. “I wouldn’t like that young puncher half so well if he’d taken the money.” [ “He didn’t need to spoil a perfectly good flfty-dollar bill, though,” admitted ’ Clay. “Yes, he did,” denied Beatrice. “That was his protest against Claren- [ don’s misjudgment of him. I’ve always thought it perfectly splendid in Its ’ insolence. Some day I’m going to tell him so.” “It happened in your corner of Arizona, Lindsay. If you ever find out ' who the.chap was I wish you’d let us know,” Whitford said. “I’ll remember.” “If you young people are going riding—” " —We’d better get started. Quite right, Dad. We’re off. Clarendon will probably call up. Tell him I’ll be In about four-thirty.” She pinched her father’s ear, kissed him on one ruddy cheek, then on the other, and joined Clay at the door. They were friends again, had been , for almost half an hour, even though they had not yet been alone together, but their friendship was to hold reservations now. The shallow of Clarendon t Bromfield rode between them. They were a little stiff with each oXberTnot I so casual as they had been. A consciousness of sex had obtruded into the old boyish camaraderie. After a brisk canter they drew their horses together for a walk. } Beatrice broke the ice of their comj monplaces. She looked directly at him, her cheeks flushing. “I don’t know how you’re going to forgive me, . Clay. I’ve been awf’ly small and prig- . gish. I hate to think I’m ungenerous, j but that’s just what I’ve been.” “Let’s forget it.” he said gently. ] “No, I don't want to forget—not till I’ve told you how humble I feel today. . I might have trusted you. Why didn’t ' I? It would have been easy for me to have taken your little friend in and [j made things right for her. That’s y what I ought to have done. But, instead of that —Oh, I hate myself for y the way I acted.” s Her troubled smile, grave and sweet, v touched him closely. It was In his (1 horoscope that the spell of this young s Diana must be upon him. 1 He put his hand on hers as It rested a on the pommel of the saddle and gave ft it a slight pressure. “You’re a good q scout, HT pardner.” t But it was Beatrice’s way to step I. up to punishment and was I- coming. As a little girl, wmle still ald most a baby, she had once walked up s to hey mother, eyes flashing with spiritjapd pronounced judgment on herstflfi “I’ve turn to be spanked. I broke k. Claire’s doll an’ I’m glad of it. mean h old flng. So there!” Now she was not e going to let the subject drop until she s had freed her soul. e “No, Clay, I’ve been a poor sportst- man. When my friend needed me I j, failed him. It hurts me, because—oh, d I you know. When the test cama I

1 t wasn’t there. One hates to be a quitter.” I Her humility distressed him, though he loved the spirit of her apology. “It’s all right. Bee. Don’t you worry. All friends misunderstand each s other, but tlie real ones clear things up.” i She had not yet told him the whole truth and she meant to make ■ glean confession. "I’ve been a miserable little fool.” She stopped with a little catch of the • breath, flamed red, and plunged on. Her level eyfes never flinched from his. "I’ve got to out with it. Clay. You won’t misunderstand, I know. I was jealous. I wanted to keep your friendship to myself—didn’t want to share it witli another girl. That’s how mean 1 am.” A warm smile lit his face. "I’ve sure enough found my frleifd again this mo’nin.” Her smile met his. Then, lest barriers fall too fast between Them, she put her horse to a gallop. As they’moved into the park a snorting automobile leaped past them with muffler open. The horse upon which A® “ All Mir' / P J1 7 IS I Her Troubled Smile, Grave and Sweet, Touched Him Closely. Beatrice rode was a young one. It gave instant signals of alarm, went sunflshlng on its hind legs, came down to all fours, and bolted. Beatrice kept her head. She put her weight on the reins with all the grip of her small, strong hands. But the horse had the bit in its teeth. She felt herself helpless, flying wildly down the road at Incredible speed. Bushes and trees, the reeling road, a limousine, a mounted policeman, all flew by her with blurred detail. She became aware of the rapid thud of hoofs behind, of a figure beside her riding knee to knee, of a brown hand taking hold of the rein close to the bit. The speed slackened. The horses pounded to a halt. The girl found herself trembling. She leaned back in a haze of dizziness, against an arm which circled her shoulder and waist. Memory leaped across the years to that other time when she had rested in his arms, his heart beating against hers. In that moment of deep understanding of herself, Beatrice knew the truth beyond any doubt. A new heaven and a new earth were waiting for her, but slie could not enter them. For she herself had the gate and locked it fast. His low voice soothed and comforted her. “I’m all right,” she told him. Clay withdrew his arm. “I’d report that fellow if I had his number,” he said. "You stick to yore saddle fine. You’re one straight-up rider.” “I'll ask Mr. Bromfleld to give you fifty dollars again,” she laughed nervously.

ADAM AND EVE GO SHOPPING , —

> wWriter Has Drawn Liberally on His Imagination in Describing Remarkable Excursion. Let us Imagine our scapegoat ancestors attempting an eleven-o’clock stroll through Drang's ten-story department store. Can we not hear the 'tense ejaculations of our first mother before the mountains of unknown things, wools, satins, silks, chailies, organdies and muslins, piled ceiling high before her? Even Adam, who has a reputation as a namer of things, ' might well drop all his Miltonic airs I of superiority, and say for once in 1 some dainty form of Edenic language, • “Eve, dear, I certainly am out of soundings. I can find names easily enough for birds, beasts and fishes, , but all this’’ (with a gesture of meek i hopelessness) “is out of my zone. Yet ! I am sure it is all intended for your sex; for I’m thinking no man would I gear himself uu In any of this—- » duffle”—if one may help him to a I word. Then Eve, if true to her old Edenic > form, would retort: » “But Adam, dear, you can’t deny • that It is all most tempting, and I am > going to pick out right away some of • that soft, cloudy stuff, the color of a • sunrise ; I’m sure It would be much > prettier than fig leaves for a dress.”— i North American Review. t j Thia Fits Moat of Us. Henry Ward Beecher, so the story - goes, was once asked by a young I preacher how he could make his congregation keep wide awake and atten- [ tlve during his sermons. Beecher re*

SYRACUSE AKD LAKE WAWASEE JOURNAL

That word “again” stuck in his consciousness. “You've known me all along,” he charged. “Os course I’ve known you—knew you when you stood on the steps after you had tied the janitor.” "I knew you, too?” “Why didn’t you say so?” “Did you expect me to make that grandstand play on the ‘parada’ a claim on yore kindness? I didn’t do a thing for you that day any man wouldn’t have done. I happened to be the lucky fellow that got the chance. That’s all. Come to that. it_ was up to you to do the recognizing if any was done. It had worked out that you didn’t know me. but once or twice from things you said I almost thought you did.” “I meant to tell you some time, but —well. I wanted to see how long you could keep from telling me. Now you’ve done it again.” “I’d like to ride with you the rest of yore life,” he said unexpectedly. They trembled on the edge of selfrevelation. It was the . girl who rescued them from the expression of their emotions. “I’ll Speak to Clary about It. Maybe he’ll taike you on as.a groom,” she said with surface lightness. ~ As sirton as they reached home Beatrice led the way into the library. Bromfleld was sitting there with her father. They were talking over plans [for the annual election of officers of I tlie Bird Cage Mining company. Whiti.ford was tlie largest stockholder and I Bromfleld owned the next biggest f block. They controlled it between j them. “Dad, Rob Roy bolted and Mr. Lin 1i say stopped him before I was, thrown.” Whitford rose, the color ebbing from [ his cheeks. “I’ve always told ypu that i brute was dangerous. I’ll offer him for sale today.” “And I've discovered that we know the man who saved me from tlie wild steer in Arizona. It was Mr. Lindsay.” “Lindsay!” Whitford turned to him. “Is that right?” “It’s correct.” Colin Whitford, much moved, put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. “Son, you know what Td like to tell you. I reckon I can’t say it right.” “We’ll consider it said, Mr. Whitford,” answered Clay with his quick, boyish smile. “No use In spillin’ a lot of dictionary words.” “Why didn’t you tell us?” “It was nothin’ to brag about.” Bromfleld came to time with a thin words of thanks. “We’re all greatly in your debt, Mr. Lhidsuy.” As the days passed the malicious jealousy of the New York clubman deepened to a steady hatred. A fellow of ill-controlled temper, his thinskinned vanity writhed at the condition which confronted him. He was engaged to a girl who preferred another and better man, one against whom he had an unalterable grudge. He recognized in the westerner an eager energy, a clean-cut resilience, and an abounding vitality he would have given a great deal to possess. His own early manhood had been frittered away In futile dissipations and he presented bitterly the contrast between himself and Lindsay that must continually be present in the mind of the girl who had promised to marry him. He had many adventitious things to offer her—such advantages as modern civilization has made desirable to hothouse women —but he could not give the clean, splendid youth she craved. It was the price fie had paid for many sybaritic pleasures he had been too soft to deny himself. With only a little more than two weeks of freedom before her, Beatrice made the most of her days. For the first time in her life she became a creature of moods. The dominant ones were rebellion, recklessness and repentance. While Bromfleld waited and fumed she rode and tramped with Clay. It was not fair to her affianced lover. She knew that. But there were

E —— plied that he always had a man watch for sleepers, with instructions, as soon as he saw anyone start nodding or dozing, to hasten to the pulpit and wake up the preacher. Aren’t you and I usually less sensible? Would we not be inclined to have the watcher wake up, not ourselves, but the fellows caught sleeping? In other words, aren’t we disposed always to blame others? When things go wrong in an organization the president usually feels it is necessary for him to shake up nis associates. His associates, in turn, usually start kicking up ructions with those under them. And workers, when they are dissatisfied, usually lay the blame, not at their own door but at the door of the foreman or the department head or the big boss—somebody, anybody, except ourselves. How about adding this Beecher squib to what we always carry around with us in our mind?—Forbes Magazine. All the Symptoms. “Was Mr. Grabcoin in his office -when you called?” “No, he must have been playing golf.” “Are you sure about this?” “Reasonably sure. The office force seemed to think he wouldn’t be back soon. Most of the clerks had their feet up on their desks and three stenographers were glued to telephones.”—Birmingham Age-Herald. Not Becoming, Perhaps. No woman Is so angelic as to prefer a halo to a hat—London Opinion.

i times when she wanted to shriek as dressmakers and costumers fussed over her and wore out her jangled nerves with multitudinous details. The same hysteria welled up in her occasionally at the luncheons and dinners that were being given in honor of her approaching marriage. It was not logical, of course. She was moving toward the destiny she had chosen for herself. But there was an instinct in her. savage and primitive, to hurt Bromfield because she herself was suffering. In the privacy of her room she passed hours of tearful regret for these bursts of fierce insurrection. Ten days before the wedding Beatrice wounded his vanity flagrantly. Clarendon was giving an informal tea for her at his rooms. Half an hour before the time set, Beatrice got him on the wire and explained that her car was stalled with engine trouble two miles from Yonkers. “I’m awf’ly sorry. Clary,” she pleaded. “We ought not to have come so far. Please tell our friends I’ve been delayed, and —I won’t do it again.” Bromfield hung up the receiver in a cold fury. He "restrained himself for tlie moment, made the necessary explanation, and went through with tlie tea somehow. But as soon as his guests were gone he gave himself up to his anger. He began planning a revenge on the man who no doubt was laughing in his sleeve at him. He wanted the fellow exposed, discredited and humiliated. But how? Walking up and d»wn his room like a caged panther, Bromfield remembered that Lindsay had other enemies in New York, powerful ones, who would be eager to co-oper-ate with him in bringing about the man’s downfall. Was it possible for him to work with them under cover? If so, in what way? Clarendon Bromfleld was not a criminal, but a conventional member of society. It was not in his mind or in his character to plot the murder or mayhem of his rival. What he wanted was a public disgrace, one that would blare his name out to the newspapers as a lawbreaker. He wanted to sicken Beatrice and her father of their strange infatuation for Lindsay. A plan began to unfold Itself for him. It was one which called for expert assistance. He called up Jerry Durand, got him on the telephone, and made an appointment to meet him secretly. CHAPTER XV “No Violence.” The ex-pugilist sat back In the chair chewing an unlighted black cigar, his fishy eyes fixed on Bromfleld. Scars still decorated the colorless face, souvenirs of a battle in which he had been bested by a man he hated. Durand had a capacity for silence. He waited now for this exquisite from the upper world to tell his business. Clarendon discovered that he had an unexpected repugnance to doing this. A fastidious sense of the obligations of class served him for a soul and the thing he was about to .do could not be justified even in his loose code of ethics. He examined the ferule of his Malacca cane nervously. “I’ve come to you, Mr. Durand, about —about a fellow called Lindsay.” The bulbous eyes of the other narrowed. He distrusted on principle all kid gloves. _ aose he had met were jR lite ’ l! I B I “Say! Who the H—l Are You? What’s Eat in’ You? Whatta You Want?” mostly ambitious reformers. Furthermore, any stranger who mentioned the name of the Arizonan became Instantly an object of suspicion. “What about him?” “I understand that you and he are not on friendly terms. I’ve gathered that from what’s been told me. Am I correct?” Durand thrust out his salient chin. “Say! Who the h—l are you? What’s eatin’ you? Whatta you want?” “I’d rather not tell my name.” “Nothin’ doin’. No name, no business. That goes.” “Very well. My name is Bromfleld. This fellow Lindsay—gets in my way. I want to —eliminate him.” “Are you askin’ me to croak him?” “Good G—d, no! I don’t want him hurt _ physically," cried Bromfleld, alarmed. “Whatta you want, then?” The tight-lipped mouth and the harsh voice called for a showdown. “I want him discredited —disgraced."

“Why?”

“Why?” “Some friends of mine are infatuated by him. I want 4o unmask him in a public way so as to disgust them with him.” “I’m hep. It’s a girl.” “We’ll not discuss that.” said the clubman with a touch of hauteur. “As to the price, if you can arrange the thing as 1 want it done, i'll not haggle over terms.” The ex-pugilist listened sourly to Bronifield’s proposition. He watched narrowly this fashionably dressed visitor. His suspicions still stirred, but not so actively. He was inclined to believe in the sincerity of the fellow’s hatred of tlie westerner. Jealousy over a girl could easily account for it. Jerry did not intend to involve himself until he had made sure. “Whatta you want me to do? Come clean. ’ “Could we get him into a gamblinghouse, arrange some disgraceful mixup with a woman, get the place raided by the police, and have the whole thing come out in the papers?” Jerry’s slitted eyes went off into space. The thing could be arranged. The trouble in getting Lindsay was to draw him into a trap he coui-l'not break through. If Bromfield cou.d deliver his enemy into his hands. Durand thought he would be a fool not to make the most of the chance. As for this soft-fingered swell’s stipulation against physical injury, that could be ignored if the opportunity offered. "Can you bring this Lindsay to a gambling-dump? Will he come with you?” demanded the gang politician. “1 think so. I’m not sure. But if 1 do that, can you fix the rest?” “It’ll cost money.” “How much will you need?” “A coupla thousand to start with. More before I’ve finished. I’ve got to salve the cops.” Bromfleld had prepared for this contingency. He counted out a thousand dollars in bills of large denominations. “I’ll cut that figure in two. Understand. He’s not to be hurt. I won’t have any rough work.” "Leave that to me.” “And you’ve got to arrange it so that when the house is raided I escape without being known.” "I'll do that, too. Leave your address and I’ll send a man up later to wise you as to the scheme when I get one fixed up.” On a sheet torn from his memorandum book Bromfleld wrote the name of the club which he most frequented. “Don’t forget the newspapers. I want them to get the story,” said the clubman, rising. “I’ll see they cover the raid.” Bromfield, massaging a glove onto his long fingers, added another word of caution. "Don’t slip up on this thing. Lindsay’s a long way from being a soft mark.” "Don’t I know it?” snapped Durand viciously. “There’ll be no slip-up this time if you do your part. We’ll get him. and we’ll get him right.” “Without any violence, of course.” “Oh, of course.” Was there a covert but derisive jeer concealed in that smooth assent? Bromfleld did not know, but he took away with him an unease that disturbed his sleep that night. Before the clubman was out of the hotel, Jerry was snapping instructions at one of his satellites. "Trail that fellow. Find where h« goes, wno he is, what girl he’s mashed on, all about him. See if he’s hooked up with Lindsay. And how? Hop to it! Did you get a slant at him as he went out?” "Sure I did. He’s my meat.” The trailer vanished. Jerry stood at the window, still sullenly chewing his unlighted cigar, and watched his late visitor and the trailer lose themselves in the hurrying crowds. "White-livered simp. ‘No vi< lence Mr. Durand.’ Hmp! Different .lere.” An evil grin broke through on the thin-lipped, cruel face. When Bromfield suggested to Clay with a touch of stiffness that he would be glad to show him a side of New York night life probably still unfamiliar to him, the cattleman felt a surprise he carefully concealed. He guessed that this was a belated attempt on the part of Miss Whitford’s fiance to overcome tlie palpable dislike he had for her friend. If so, the impulse that Inspired the offer was a creditable one. Lindsay llad no desire to take in any of the plague spots of the city with Bromfield. Something about the society man set his back up, to use his own phrase. . But because this was true he did not intend to be outdone in generosity by a successful rival. Promptly and heartily he accepted the invitation. If he had known that a note and a card from Jerry Durand lay In the vest pocket of his cynical host while he was holding out the olive branch, it is probable the Arizonan would have said, “No, thank you, kind sir.” The note mentioned no names. It said, “Wednesday, at Maddock’s, 11 p. m. Show this card.” And to Maddock’s, on Wednesday, at an hour something earlier then 11, the New Yorker led his guest after a call at one or two clubs. Even from the outside the place had a dilapidated look that surprised Lindsay. The bell was of that brand you keep pulling till you discover it is out of order. Decayed gentility marked the neighborhood, though the blank front of the houses looked impeccably respectable. “I've been a horrid little prig, Clay. Won’t you come over to- * morrow and go riding with me?” (TO BE CONTINUED.)

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