Caroline Lockharl
has written several novels that sold
widely and were appreciated for their
insight, character drawing and vitality.
Her field is the West of to-day with
its vast reaches of mountain, plain
and desert, and its people as big
hearted and clean as all out-of-doors.
No story of hers has achieved greater
heights than that which opens in the
next POPULAR MAGAZINE, on sale
August 7th, entitled:
The Man From the Bitter Roots
T^WO weeks ago we had something to
say about old authors and new
ones. We said that we would hold on
to the old authors, and print everything
they wrote, provided it was worthy of
them and of the magazine, and that we
would seek out and welcome the new
wherever they were to he found. Just
by way of making good on the last re-
mark, we now announce a new four-part
story by a new writer — new at least to
the pages of The Popular. The story
is called "The Man from the Bitter
Roots," and the author is Caroline Lock-
hart, author of "Me — Smith," which was
a best seller a number of years ago.
a a
T^HIS new story fell into our hands
more or less by accident. It had
been written with book publication in
mind. Sometimes we go after a thing
and get it, and have some little reason,
perhaps, for feeling elated over the per-
formance, and sometimes, on the other
hand, the lesson seems to be brought
home to us that there is such a thing
as ordinary, old-fashioned, bull luck.
The hunter may track the deer all day
and fail — only to see the flash of a white
tail where he least expected it. The fish-
erman may whip a stream for hours
with not a bite, and another time a
random cast in the unlikeliest pool may
bring him the biggest of the season.
Being ready and awake to the opportu-
nity of course has something to do with
it. Vigilance and stubborn optimism
under the most unpromising circum-
stances are the tributes we must bear if
we want the smiles of fortune. We
knew enough to read the unpromising-
looking stack of battered manuscript
when we found it, and to hold on to it
after we read it. And now, having
given due consideration to these moral
maxims and philosophical reflections, we
will proceed to weigh the fish, to meas-
ure the horns of the buck.
» H
\ 17 HEN you read "The Man from the
Bitter Roots," you will realize
that it is one of the best long stories that
has ever appeared in this magazine. We
say this with consideration, and with
the memory of many great stories. If
it had been written to our order it could
not have met our ideas better, and few
stories written to order have ever had
so much spirit, atmosphere, and dynamic
energy. It is the life story of a strong
man. We see him first as a boy with a
strong, definite character, struggling in-
stinctively with harsh circumstances, a
child taking a mad race across thirty
miles of prairie only to find his mother
on her deathbed. The first chapter of
the book is the only one devoted to his
boyhood, but in that chapter we can read
the character, and something, perhaps,
of the future of the man that is to be.
We know that he may be killed, but
never really defeated. We find him next
in a lonely cabin, with a half-mad com-
panion working on a mine in the wilder-
ness of the Bitter Roots. The same
boy grown to be a young man, big and
strong, sane and patient and courageous,
with the same kindness and tenderness
A CHAT WITH YOU— Continued.
for dumb animals, the same placid de-
termination. The fight that night in the
cabin, the death of his companion, the
snowstorm that follows and isolates
them from all the world are things easy
to read but hard to forget. The swift-
changing scenes of that night flash vivid
and unforgelable like a landscape shown
to us by intermittent flares of lightning.
The blizzard closes in, and they are
alone, apparently separated from all the
world, the dead and the living in the
little cabin. But other actors in the
drama are moving toward them. Across
the white ridges of the Bitter Roots a
city sportsman, hunting Rocky Moun-
tain sheep, his guide, and his Chinese
cook are cut off by the storm. To reach
the cabin is their only chance, and the
guide finally reaches it. These are the
opening chapters of the first big install-
ment, the opening action that prepares
for the drama that is to follow. The
city sportsman, the guide who is a great
character, even the Chinaman are to play
their parts in it. They are little figures
brought together in the wilderness of
snowy peaks by the hand of fate. Their
conflicting characters are to react upon
each other in the development of a great
story.
'T'HERE are other actors in the drama,
*■ other men and women and one girl,
of whom we especially like to think as
we review the story. We have said
enough about it. We don't want to spoil
it for you. It happens all in four big
dramatic acts, with a number of scenes
in each act, and you will have it all in
two months. We read so many manu-
scripts here that sometimes we think
that asking us to read a story as a treat
is like trying to be nice to a letter car-
rier by taking him out for a good long
walk. And yet we think we would like
to read "The Man from the Bitter
Roots" again. Perhaps we will.
0 a
O PEAKING of the older writers, we
have all of us remembered happily
some of the novels of Fred Beclulolt.
He hasn't been in The Popular for
some time, but it is not his fault nor
ours. Novels such as you are accus-
tomed to read in The Popular do not
grow overnight in any man's mind.
There's another Beclulolt novel, how-
ever, full length, to appear complete in
the issue of The Popular, out two weeks
from to-day. ''Forty Miles from No-
where" it is called, and it is a story of
the oil business. Wc don't say as much
about it as about "The Man from Bitter
Roots" not because it isn't worth it, but
because you know Bechdolt well, and
what to expect from him.
Gold and oil are not everything in life,
and there are other activities to be read
about in the next issue. There is a
rousing story of an automobile racer, by
Frank Condon; there is a story of the
real-estate business by Holworthy Hall ;
there fe a story of the egg business by
Hamby, who can make even an egg seem
romantic; and there is a story of the
navy by Clarence Cullen, who knows
how to write about the navy partly be-
cause he was in it. Only a few of the
things in the next number, but surely
they are enough to stir your interest just
a little.
Begin "The Man From Bitter Roots/' by Caroline Lockhart, in the next issue, if
you like a story of the present-day West still lull of glamor and lure.
VOLUME XXXVII
NUMBER 3
m
W. H. D. Koerner
THE PRODIGAL. A Complete Xovel, . W. B. M. Ferguson .
liown and out, the hero ol this story, afler stiuaiulering his patrimony, finds that he
has inherited a baseball club, also down and out. "What shall he do with It'.'''
is the problem that confronts him.
THE COUP. A Short Story W. Douglas Newton
Iteing the tale o( an aviator who soars over the field of battle while his passenger
marks a chart with colored pencils— a proceeding that irritates the birdman
more than the shrapnel bursting about hiin.
McHENRY AND DILLINGHAM: ANGELS. A Short Story, Holworthy Hall "NSs^jj
Theatrical promoting on a brand new scale, in which "I'epper" needs all his wits.
The Editor
-i ilil-Kslablished Ruslncss-
The
THE PROBATION OF P. 0. A Sliort Story,
CAUGHT IN THE NET. Editorials,
Thrifty America— Social and Individual Klliciency-
l'iltsburgh of Africa— The lises of Adversity.
INSIDE THE LINES. A Three-Part Story, , Earl Derr Biggers and
I'art II. Robert Welles Ritchie
A novellzation of the successful play that may be said lo eciual the stage production.
IN THIS CORNER A Short Story, H. C. Witwer
As told by the manager, the Inside story of this prl/.e light was enough to make your
hair curl several times.
George Washington Ogden
Among the sheep-herders of the West where the graduate-agronomist goes lo get a
taste of real life.
IT CAN BE DONE. A Short Story, Foxhall Williams .
Megrue loved baseball but his affections were divided between putting them over
the plate and lilting his elbow In another way.
PUPPETS ON A STRING. A Short Story, . . William A. Magill
In which money changes hands with bewildering swiftness, and the man who thinks
he has it, hasn't.
THE QUEER PLACE. A Short Story, Frederick Niven .
There was a something about this checker-board that held attention In spite of
yourself.
A VENTURE IN PRIVATE PRESERVES. A Short Story, Raymond S. Spears
Wall Street in the woods experiences a new sort of craft ami graft.
THE GIRL FROM NOWHERE. A Short Story, George Woodruff Johnston
Suspicion naturally centered upon her when the famous ruby vanished.
84
90
102
106
140
151
176
185
197
206
216
TwIce-a-Month Publication issued by STREET & SMITH. 79-89 Seventh Avenue. New York. OBHOND G. Smith and Geohce C.
Smith. Proprietor*. Copyright. 1915. by Street & Smith, New York. Copyright. 1915, by Street & Smith, Great Hritain. Ail relents
Reserved. Published everywhere are cautioned against using any of the contents or this Magazine either wholly or in part. Entered at
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THE POPULAR MAGAZINE
VOL. XXXVII. JULY 23, 1915. No. 3.
The Prodigal
By W. B. M. Ferguson
Author of "A Man's Code," " The Wrong House," etc.
This prodigal dissipates a quarter of a million in two years; and when
his last cent Is gone and he is headed for the Down-and-Out Club, fate picks
him up and makes him Inheritor of one of the strangest legacies we ever
heard of. What he does with his strange legacy is the story. It Is a tale
of business and sport, with a spice of romance. Among other things, you
will be introduced to a baseball diamond and learn how to run a ball team
— and how not to. And that Ferguson is qualified to write about baseball
you will admit, having In mind his novel, "A Man's Code," published some
time ago.
{A Complete Novel)
CHAPTER I.
THE TRIUMVIRATE CELEBRATE AN
AUSPICIOUS OCCASION.
A TRIO of young men, occupy-
ing a conspicuous center table,
had become the cynosure of all
eyes in fashionable Augerot's
cabaret that night, and the climax came
when their leader, who looked the
youngest of three, insisted upon tak-
ing the floor, to the strains of the
latest musical hit, and executing prob-
ably the most fantastic one-step Broad-
way had ever witnessed. He was part-
nered by one of his companions, a fat,
pink-cheeked gentleman.
In the midst of this exhibition the
manager appeared, conscious of an un-
pleasant duty, and spoke a word in
iB
private. Whereupon the leader of the
triumvirate ceased his terpsichorean
efforts, clapped the other familiarly on
the back, and then, turning, addressed
the assembled company.
"Your pardon, ladies and gentle-
men. Everybody's pardon," he began,
with a most infectious if rather un-
steady laugh. "No offense intended,
I assure you. My friends and I are
merely celebrating a most auspicious
occasion, most auspicious, I assure you
— a fool and his money being soon
parted. Ladies and gentlemen, let us
drink to the sentiment." And, heedless
of masculine scowls, he raised an empty
champagne glass, which' slipped from
his grasp and shivered to atoms on the
floor.
In a far corner a girl was dining
2
THE POPULAtR MAGAZINE
alone for the moment, and now, as the
triumvirate, shepherded by the diplo-
matic manager, made their flowery exit
and the commotion died down, she sat
staring at the closed door.
Her escort joined her presently.
"The management should know better
than to admit a crowd like that," he
exclaimed. "And if it had been any
one but that fellow and his friends
they'd have been fired out long ago,
neck and crop. Lorimer thinks be-
cause he has a fool's license he can
get away with any nonsense."
"Lorimer?" echoed the girl. "Is
that his name? I mean the one who
made the speech and seemed the leader.
Do you know him?"
Her companion shrugged. "I know
of him, and so would you if you were
a New Yorker. He's known from the
St. Denis to the Plaza and back again.
His wild escapades have been news-
paper talk for years."
"He didn't look the typical fool,"
said the girl. "Who were the other
two?"
"Oh, a couple of the same stripe.
The one who looked as if he'd been
blown up to eighty pounds' pressure is
'Fatty' Stuveysant; the other, Morti-
mer Conyers. He, at least, is old
enough to know better. I don't know
much about him except that he's a
rounder and travels with Lorimer and
Stuveysant. Prodigals all ; that's the
best you can say of them."
"Prodigals all," murmured the girl,
a far-away look in her eyes. "And two
of them so young!"
Meanwhile the triumvirate, home-
ward bound, had picked up a mutual
friend — Billy Wate, sporting writer on
the New York Star — and now, in his
bachelor quarters, Lorimer was en-
deavoring to explain the evening's en-
tertainment.
"The grand final blow-out of the
season," he grinned. "The triumphant
passing of the fool and his money,
my friend."
"Do you mean that you're ruined?"
exclaimed Wate.
"Absolutely, my dear boy," put in
Stuveysant. "Behold three ruined
prodigals! Gaze upon the impressive
scene! Of course Conyers was more
or less ruined anyway, but it's a new
and diverting experience for Rummy
Lorimer and me. For, you must know,
my dear boy, that I've just completed
the 'Circle of Love,' which consists in
being kicked out the front door by an
irate father, taken in the back door by
a doting mother, and kicked out the
front door again by the aforesaid
father. In other words, my allowance
has been amputated at the root, the
parental roof has been forbidden me,
and, like Hagar of old, I've been cast
forth into the wilderness where the
Whangdoodle mourneth for his first-
born. Hence these tears." And Mr.
Stuveysant helped himself to another
high ball.
"Serves you right," said Billy Wate.
"I only wonder the aforesaid parent
didn't do it long ago. If you were my
child you'd never have had a chance
to grow a stomach like that. That
facade of yours, Fatty, is an outstand-
ing affront to all honest, hard-working
citizens and a horrible example to the
young." _
He turned with some show of con-
cern to Lorimer.
"Is it straight goods, Harry? Are
you really down and out? A quarter
of a million in two years?"
"Behold the remains!" Harry Lori-
mer turned out his pockets, and flipped
some greenbacks on the table. "Bird-
seed, that's all. Yes, a quarter of a
million in two years. Going some, eh?
I never was a piker, Billy."
"No," said Wate slowly, "pikers
never finish this way. Have you
thought of what you'll do?"
Lorimer laughed. "No, I haven't
THE
3L
7
knowing each other, if he had wished
to make us thoroughly dislike each
other, he couldn't have hit on a better
way than this. It's a wonder to me
any lawyer would draw up such a
will."
"The will, sir, is legal in every re-
spect," replied Mr. Owen, with asper-
ity. "You'll discover that if you at-
tempt to contest it. Your uncle may
have been a little eccentric toward the
last, but there never was a question
of his absolute sanity. A man can dis-
pose of his estate as he pleases, sir,
and his lawyer isn't responsible for
whatever disposition he makes."
"I apologize, Mr. Owen, if I sug-
gested anything of a personal nature
by what I said," remarked Lorimer.
"I didn't mean to, I assure you. You
must make some allowance for a man
who has just lost three hundred thou-
sand. As for attempting to break the
will, that never entered my head. I
think I may be permitted to call i£ ec-
centric; but, at all events, I don't at-
tempt to question its validity or that
obvious truth that my uncle had a per-
fect right to do whatever he liked with
his money."
The approving look deepened in Mr.
Owen's shrewd old eyes, and he ap-
peared considerably mollified.
"This," he said almost kindly, tak-
ing a long envelope from a tin deed
box, "contains papers relative to the
Palestine Baseball Club, the deed to
Lorimer Park, and mortgage of same.
Also, a communication from your late
uncle."
Further red tape being wound up
satisfactorily, Lorimer shook hands
with Mr. Gabriel Owen and took his
leave.
Some time later, in their suite in the
Ten Eyck Hotel, he permanently in-
terrupted Messrs Conyers and Stu-
veysant's game of pinochle by the ac-
count of his visit to the lawyers, the
bombshell exploding among this new
audience with all the success of its ini-
tial effort.
"Suffering mackerel!" gasped Stu-
veysant, collapsing on the bed. "Why,
we're ruined all over again! What
are you laughing at, Rummy? Where's
the joke?"
"Well, what's the use of bleating?"
grinned Lorimer. "I've only lost
something I never had."
"Are you fellows crazy ?" put in Con-
yers. "Where does the losing come
in ? Don't you as good as get the three
hundred thousand if you marry the
girl — for she gets the other half? Well,
then, what more do you want? Of
course your refusal to the lawyer was
only a grand-stand play."
"Was it?" asked Lorimer. "You've
got another think coming, Mort."
"Do ySu mean to say you're going to
turn it down?" demanded the other in-
credulously. "In the name of common
sense, why?"
"Because I'm not for sale," snapped
Lorimer, with his first show of anger.
"I may be a waster, but I'm no huck-
ster. I won't marry for the sole sake
of money, no matter how great the
amount or my necessity, and you can
paste that in your little brown hat. I
don't want any part of my uncle's
money under such conditions, and that
settles it."
"Well, all I can say is that you're
a monumental ass," observed Conyers
bitterly. Stuveysant, however, had
looked his silent approval. "We came
up here expecting to fall into a for-
tune, and all we get is a ball team that
mayn't be worth funeral expenses."
"I bet it's worth a fortune," declared
Stuveysant confidently. "There's big
money in the game, and I know a fel-
low that pulled half a million out of
it."
"He never pulled half a million out
of the bushes unless he sunk a couple
of million at the start," sneered Con-
yers.
8
THE VOVULAtR MAGAZINE
While they were arguing this point,
a bell boy came in with a letter for
Lorimer. It was from Wate, written
the previous evening from the Star
office, and ran in part as follows:
From what I can figure out, your ball team,
known to fame as the Invincibles, are a bunch
of sand-lotters, and the franchise worth
about thirty cents in bad money. They're in
the County League, and have finished last for
the past three seasons. They're known as the
"Cellar Champions" and the "Hashhouse In-
vincibles" — from the way they scramble the
eggs and spill the beans. It looks to me as
if your late uncle were something of a hu-
morist, and had left you a fine, juicy lemon
to suck.
I'll try to run up and look things over, so
don't do anything definite till I see you.
A harrowing silence succeeded the
public reading of this epistle.
"Ruined for the third time!" ex-
claimed Stuveysant tragically. "Of all
the darn, miserable, rotten luck "
"I told you so," said Conyers ' in
gloomy triumph. "I just knew they'd
pan out a bunch of sand-lotters. The
Hashhouse Invincibles I How does it
feel, Rummy, to be a bloated baseball
capitalist "
"Oh, forget it !" said Lorimer.
"What's the good of croaking? I'm
going up to this Holy Land and find
out for myself just how bad things
are."
"If we can even sell the franchise for
car fare home," exclaimed Stuveysant
hopefully.
"Sell it?" sneered Conyers. "Why,
you'll have to pay somebody to take
it away. A fine, juicy lemon to suck !"
CHAPTER III.
A VISIT TO THE OFFICE.
Palestine proved to be hardly de-
serving of the title bestowed on it by
Conyers, for it was a thriving, if some-
what old-fashioned, town and not with-
out some claim to history and distinc-
tion. Conyers, however, with that vast
contempt of a certain type of New
Yorker for anything not daubed with
the Broadway brand of paint, affected
to sneer at its unmistakable air of
rurality evidenced by the long, quiet,
shady avenues and wooden houses.
Lorimer had engaged rooms in the
Empire House, the town's most am-
bitious hotel, and he now left Conyers
and Stuveysant, and set off for the
Palestine Baseball Club, which, he
learned, had an office on upper Main
Street in a building known iocally as
the Lorimer Block.
He boarded an uptown trolley, find-
ing a place on the back seat beside a
gentleman whose general plan of archi-
tecture may be best described as "gan-
gling." He was big-jointed and
loosely packed, with a long, blushing
neck like a turkey cock, and an ill-
favored jaw that kept munching a wad
of gum with irritating persistence. He
was evidently something of a local
celebrity, for the conductor spoke to
him .with familiarity.
"Hello, Clark," he was saying.
"Anything doing yet? Heard who's
got the Invincibles?"
"I hear it's the old man's nephew,"
replied Mr. Clark shortly. "One of
these tinhorn sports from New
York."
"Didn't know he had a nephew," ob-
served the conductor. "I s'pose he'll
sell the franchise."
"Sell it?" laughed the other. "Why,
you couldn't give it away. Who's
sucker enough to hold the bag?"
"Well," said the other defensively,
"I heard that Pete Delaney didn't think
so worse of it at that."
"Piffle! Pete Delaney ain't the kind
to ask to have a tin can tied to him.
He won't buy the franchise, and the
guy who does ought to have his head
examined."
Lorimer located without difficulty the
headquarters of the Palestine Baseball
Club in a ground-floor office of the
Lorimer Block, a substantial building
THE
JL
15
stiffly. "I didn't request this interview
for that purpose. My real reason for
the interview, Mr. Lorimer, was to sug-
gest that you not only keep the prop-
erty but manage it yourself "
"Who? Me?"
"Yes, you." Miss Walker folded her
hands and looked at him. "I hope you
won't think me presumptuous in all
this "
"Not a bit. I can only thank you and
wonder why you've gone to so much
trouble — for you must have worked
very hard indeed during the past two
days to become so well posted. Why
are you so keen on my not selling to
Delaney?"
She met his eyes frankly. "Because,
for one reason, I don't like to sit by
and see a person robbed, no matter
who it is. Mr. Delaney's offer isn't fair
at all. He's taking advantage of your
ignorance and lack of interest. The po-
tential value of the property must be
considered as well as the actual, and I
believe that potential value to be con-
siderable.
"Then," she continued slowly, "there
is what you might call the sentimental
side of the question. Aren't there some
tilings, Mr. Lorimer, that can't be meas-
ured in dollars and cents? Don't you
think it would be a great thing, a very
great thing, to try and make the club
what it used to be? It seems to me the
fight itself would be worth something.
You are the last of the Lorimers, and
the name for twenty-five years has been
identified with the Palestine Baseball
Club.
"That's how the situation appeals to
me, Mr. Lorimer. Of course, it will
mean the very hardest kind of work,
but then isn't it better to wear out than
to rust out? It would be another mat-
ter if you couldn't afford the time, but
I happen to know that you can. Don't
think I'm trying to exaggerate the good
points of the proposition and minimize
the bad ones. It won't be any tri-
umphal march. If you refuse to sell
out, you may make enemies. You will
have a fight on your hands and plenty
of the hardest kind of work. In a
word, the situation is crying out for a
man; and, from one or two things you
said to Mr. Jellibond, I have ventured
to think you may be that man, Mr.
Lorimer."
He was silent, being more stirred by
her words than he cared to admit even
to himself.
"Now," concluded Miss Walker,
flushing suddenly, and looking timid,
"I've said all that was on my mind, and
no doubt I've said quite too much. It
was good of you to listen so patiently.
I didn't mean to be impudent or pre-
sumptuous. Nor do I ask or expect,
Mr. Lorimer, that you take my mere
word for all this; I only ask that you
don't close with Mr. Delaney's offer in
a hurry. I ask that you look over the
ground carefully and find out these
things for yourself."
"I thank you for all you've said,"
exclaimed Lorimer at length. "It's aw-
fully good of you, and I appreciate it
more than I can say. But there's a
vital fact, Miss Walker, which you don't
know — nor did my uncle when he left
me the property and advised me to hold
on to it. At that time — two years ago —
I was worth about a quarter of a mil-
lion ; to-day I am worth nothing but
this baseball property. It isn't that I'm
afraid to take a sporting chance, but
simply that I haven't any money to risk.
I haven't a blessed cent. The truth is,"
he finished, "I've been all kinds of a
fool. I didn't lose my money ; I threw
it away "
"I know that," said the girl calmly.
"This morning wasn't the first time I
saw you, Mr. Lorimer. I've seen you
before."
He stared. "Where? When?"
"Why, the other evening. You made
a little speech, I remember."
Lorimer colored hotly and turned em-
16
THE POPULAR MAGAZINE
barrassed eyes to the window. So she
had been dining that evening in Au-
gerot's. She had actually seen him in
the role of prodigal and buffoon. He
writhed inwardly at memory of the "au-
spicious occasion" and his stupid, silly
speech.
"You said, on that occasion, you were
celebrating the event of a fool and his
money being soon parted," added Miss
Walker, "so what I know hasn't been
learned from any gossip that may be
making the rounds of Palestine. My
escort, that night, is a New Yorker if
I'm not, and he told me something
about you and your friends."
"That wouldn't be hard, I imagine,"
said Lorimer, with a shrug. "The New
York papers seem to know more about
me than I do myself. I've been no
saint," he added, with a touch of bit-
terness, "but they've credited me with
many things I never did — not that it
matters in the least, of course. They
can make all the copy out of it they
want to; it's a matter of perfect indif-
ference to me."
"Is it?" asked Miss Walker. She
was tapping her teeth with a pencil and
looking fixedly at his profile as he stood
with half-averted head against the light.
It was a face that held more than a
hint of latent strength and power, a face
both the masculine and feminine world
instinctively liked.
''Is it?" she repeated. "Do you hon-
estly think reputations don't count for
anything? It seems to me they must
be worth something when they are so
difficult to win and so easy to lose."
"I hope you're not trying to read me
a sermon," said Lorimer. "You don't
strike me as being one of those foolish
people who choose to believe a person
does wrong because he doesn't know
any better."
"Oh, dear, no," laughed Miss Walker.
"Sermons are quite out of my line. Be-
sides, they're awfully tedious, and I've
quite enough to do with the beams in
my own eye; I wouldn't dream of ex-
perimenting with other people's motes.
I only venture to throw out, as a sort
of general remark, neither new or di-
verting, that reputations are worth
something, after all, and that, if they
happen to be lost, why, one can happen
to find them again. Also that hard
work seems the best cure for boredom.
Have you ever tried it, Mr. Lorimer?"
He turned and looked at her.
"Miss Walker, you know me for what
I am — a prodigal and ne'er-do-well.
I've dissipated a quarter of a million
in two years; that is my record. You
knew it, it seems, when you asked for
this interview. You ask me now to
keep the property and even manage it
myself, yet say the situation is crying
out for a man. Have you the smallest
reason for thinking me that man?
Doesn't all you know about me give
the flat lie to that? Come, be honest
with me. What is the real reason you
don't wish me to sell out? You are
clever — I've discovered that — but I'm
not quite a fool, you know."
"If you were," said Miss Walker
tartly, as she put away the carbon paper
and began tidying up, "this interview
wouldn't have taken place, Mr. Lorimer.
It's because I don't think you a fool,
no matter how successfully you may
have played it, that I've ventured to
say what I have.
"You say I know you're a prodigal
and ne'er-do-well, but I don't know any-
thing of the kind. I know you were,
but we aren't to-day nor to-morrow
what we were yesterday. Life doesn't
stand still like that, and we have the
daily choice of going forward or back-
ward. You can't remain merely a prod-
igal, Mr. Lorimer, even if you want to ;
prodigals either reform or end in jail —
if they don't blow their brains out.
"Of course, it's absolutely none of
my business," she finished, "but, all the
same, I think it a burning shame if a
man of your years and evident educa-
THE c r x R0ULA*of the shoulders.
"It's a secret which I myself do not
know, Lady Crandall — and never will."
Back to the o'erweening lure of the
gown the flitting fancy of the general's
lady betook itself.
"You — don't think this is a shade too
young for me, Miss Gerson?" Anxiety
pleaded to be quashed.
"Nonsense!" Jane laughed.
"But I'm no chicken, my dear. If
you would look me up in our family
Bible back in Davenport you'd^nd "
"People don't believe everything they
read in the Bible any more," Jane as-
sured her. "Your record and Jonah's
would both be open to doubt."
"You're very comforting," Lady
Crandall beamed. Her maid knocked
and entered upon the lady's crisp:
"Come !"
"The general wishes to see you, Lady
Crandall, in the library."
"Tell the general I'm in the midst of
trying on " Lady Crandall began,
then thought better of her excuse. She
dropped the shimmering gown from her
shoulders and slipped into a kimono.
"Some stuffy plan for entertaining
somebody or other, my dear" — this to
Jane. "The real burden of being gov-
ernor general of the Rock falls on the
general's wife. Just slip into your bon-
net, and when I'm back we'll take that
little stroll through the Alameda I've
130
THE Wi/L>?9? MAGAZINE
promised you for this morning." She
clutched her kimonc about her and
whisked out of the room.
General Crandall, just rid of the du-
bious pleasure of Billy Capper's com-
pany, was pacing the floor of the library
office thoughtfully. He looked up with
a smile at his wife's entrance.
"Helen, I want you to do something
for me," he said.
"Certainly, dear." Lady Crandall was
not an unpleasing picture of ripe beauty
to look upon, in the soft drape of the
Japanese robe. Even in his worry, Gen-
eral Crandall found himself intrigued
for the minute.
"There's a new chap in the signal
service — just in from Egypt — name's
Woodhouse. I wish you would invite
him to tea, my dear."
"Of course ; any day."
"This afternoon, if you please,
Helen," the general followed.
His wife looked slightly puzzled.
"This afternoon? But, George, dear,
isn't that — aren't you — ah — rushing this
young man to have him up to Gov-
ernment House so soon after his ar-
rival ?" She suddenly remembered
something which caused her to reverse
herself. "Besides, I've asked him to
dinner — the dinner I'm to give the
Americans to-morrow night before
they sail."
General Crandall looked his surprise.
"You didn't tell me that. I didn't
know you had met him."
"Just happened to," Lady Crandall
cut in hastily. "Met him at the Hotel
Splendide last night when I brought
Miss Gerson home with me."
"What was Woodhouse doing at the
Splendide?" the general asked suspi-
ciously.
"Why, spending the night, you fool-
ish boy. Just off the Princess Mary,
he was. I believe he did Miss Gerson
some sort of a service — and I met him
in that way — quite informally."
"Did Miss Gerson — a service — hum !"
"Oh, a trifling thing! It seemed she
had only French money, and that cau-
tious Aimer fellow wouldn't accept it.
Captain Woodhouse gave her English
gold for it — to pay her bill. But
why "
"Has Miss Gerson seen him since?"
General Crandall asked sharply.
"Why, George, dear, how could she?
We haven't been up from the breakfast
table an hour."
"Woodhouse was here less than an
hour ago to pay his duty call and re-
port," he explained. "I thought per-
haps he might have met our guest
somewhere in the garden as he was com-
ing or going."
"He did send her some lovely roses."
Lady Crandall brightened at this, to
her, patent inception of a romance; she
doted on romances. "They were in
Miss Gerson's room before she was
down to breakfast."
"Roses, eh? And they met infor-
mally at the Splendide only last night."
Suspicion was weighting the general's
words. "Isn't that a bit sudden? I
say, do you think Miss Gerson and
this Captain Woodhouse had met some-
where before last night?"
"I hardly think so — she on her first
trip to the Continent and he coming
from Egypt. But "
"No matter. I want him here to tea
this afternoon." The general dis-
missed the subject and turned to his
desk. His lady's curiosity would not
be so lightly turned away.
"All these questions — aren't they
rather absurd? Is anything wrong?"
She ran up to him andlaid her hands
on his shoulders.
"Of course not, dear." He kissed her
lightly on the brow. "Now run along
and play with that new gown Miss Ger-
son gave you. I imagine that's the
most important thing on the Rock to-
day."
Lady Crandall gave her soldier hus-
band a peck on each cheek, and skipped
INSIVE THE LINES
131
back to her room. When he was alone
again, General Crandall resumed his
restless pacing. Resolution suddenly
crystallized, and he stepped to the desk
phone. He called a number.
"That you, Bishop? . . . General
Crandall speaking. . . . Bishop, you
were here on the Rock seven years ago?
. . . Good ! . . . Pretty good memory
for names and faces, eh? . . . Right!
... I want you to come to Govern-
ment House for tea at five this after-
noon. . . . But run over for a little
talk with me some time earlier — an hour
from now, say. Rather important. . . .
You'll be here. . . . Thank you."
General Crandall sat at his desk and
tried to bring himself down to the rou-
tine crying from accumulated papers
there. But the canker Billy Capper
had implanted in his mind would not
give him peace. Major General Cran-
dall was a man cast in the stolid British
mold ; years of army discipline and tra-
dition of the service had given to his
conservatism a hard grain. In common
with most of those in high command,
he held to the belief that nothing ex-
isted — nothing could exist — which was
not down in the regulations of the war
office, made and provided. For up-
ward of twenty-five years he had played
the hard game of the service — in Egypt,
in Burma, on the broiling rocks of
Aden, and here, at last, on the key to
the Mediterranean. During all those
years he had faithfully pursued his duty,
had stowed away in his mind the wis-
dom disseminated in blue-bound books
by that corporate paragon of knowl-
edge at home, the war office. But
never had he read in anything but
fluffy fiction of a place or a thing called
the Wilhelmstrasse, reputed by the
scriveners to be the darkest closet and
the most potent of all the secret cham-
bers of diplomacy. The regtrlations
made no mention of a Wilhelmstrasse,
even though they provided the brand of
pipe clay which should brighten men's
pith helmets and stipulated to the ounce
an emergency ration. Therefore, to the
official military mind at least, the Wil-
helmstrasse was nonexistent.
But here comes a beach comber, a
miserable jackal from the back alleys
of society, and warns the govenor gen-
eral of the Rock that he has a man
from the Wilhelmstrasse — a spy bent
on some unfathomable mission — in his
very forces on the Rock. He says that
an agent of the enemy has dared mas-
querade as a British officer in order to
gain admission inside the lines of Eu-
rope's most impregnable fortress, Eng-
land's precious stronghold, there to do
mischief !
General Crandall's tremendous re-
sponsibility would not permit him to
ignore such a warning, coming even
from so low a source. Yet the man
found himself groping blindly in the
dark before the dilemma presented; he
had no foot rule of precept or experi-
ence to guide him.
His fruitless searching for a prop in
emergency was broken by the appear-
ance of Jane Gerson in the door open-
ing from Lady Crandall's rooms to the
right of the library. The girl was
dressed for the out-of-doors; in her
arms was a fragrant bunch of blood-
red roses, spraying out from the top
of a bronze bowl. The girl hesitated
and drew back in confusion at seeing
the room occupied; she seemed eager
to escape undetected. But General
Crandall smilingly checked her flight.
"I — I thought you would be out,"
Jane stammered, "and "
"And the posies " the general in-
terrupted.
"Were for you to enjoy when you
should come back." She smiled easily
into the man's eyes. "They'll look so
much prettier here than in my room."
"Very good of you, I'm sure." Gen-
eral Crandall stepped up to the rich
cluster of buds and sniffed critically.
Without looking at the girl, he con-
132
THE POPULAR MAGAZINE
tinned : "It appears to me as though
you had already made a conquest on the
Rock. One doesn't pick these from the
cliffs, you know."
"I should hardly call it a conquest,"
Jane answered, with a sprightly toss of
her head.
"But a young man sent you these
flowers. Come — confess!" The gen-
eral's tone was bantering, but his eyes
did not leave the piquant face under
the chic summer straw hat that shaded
it.
"Surely. One of your own men —
Captain Woodhouse, of the signal serv-
ice." Jane was rearranging the stems
in the bowl, apparently ready to accept
what was on the surface of the gen-
eral's rallying.
"Woodhouse, eh?" You've known
him for a long time, I take it."
"Since last night, general. And yet
some people say Englishmen are slow."
She laughed gayly and turned to face
him. His voice took on a subtle quality
of polite insistence:
"Surely you met him somewhere be-
fore Gibraltar."
"How could I, when this is the first
time Captain Woodhouse has been out
of Egypt for years?"
"Who told you that?" The general
was quick to catch her up. The girl
felt a swift stab of fear. On the in-
stant she realized that here was some-
body attempting to drive into the mys-
tery which she herself could not un-
derstand, but which she had pledged
herself to keep inviolate. Her voice
fluttered in her throat as she answered :
"Why, he did himself, general."
"He did, eh? Gave you a bit of his
history on first meeting. Confiding
chap, what ! But you, Miss Gerson —
you've been to Egypt, you say?"
"No, general."
Jane was beginning to find this cross-
examination distinctly painful. She
felt that already her pledge, so glibly
given at Captain Woodhouse's insist-
ence, was involving her in a situation
the significance of which might prove
menacing to herself — and one other.
She could sense the beginnings of a
strain between herself and this genial
elderly gentleman, her host.
"Do you know, Miss Gerson" — he
was speaking slowly and soberly now —
"I believe you and Captain Woodhouse
have met before."
"You're at liberty to think anything
you like, general — the truth or other-
wise." Her answer, though given smil-
ingly, had a sting behind it.
"I'm not going to think much longer.
I'm going to know!" He clapped his
lips shut over the last word with a
smack of authority.
"Are you really, General Crandall?"
The girl's eyes hardened just percep-
tibly. He took a turn of the room and
paused, facing her. The situation
pleased him no more than it did his
breezy guest, but he knew his duty and
doggedly pursued it.
"Come — come, Miss Gerson ! I be-
lieve you're straightforward and sincere
or I wouldn't be wasting my time this
way. I'll be the same with you. This
is a time of war; you understand all
that implies, I hope. A serious ques-
tion concerning Captain Woodhouse's
position here has arisen. If you have
met him before — as I think you have —
it will be to your advantage to tell me
where and when. I am in command of
the Rock, you know."
He finished with an odd tensing of
tone which conveyed assurance of his
authority even more than did the sense
of his words. His guest, her back to
the table on which the roses rested and
her hands bracing her by their tense
grip on the table edge, sought his eyes
boldly.
"General Crandall," she began, "my
training in Hildebrand's store hasn't
made me much of a diplomat. All this
war and intrigue makes me dizzy. But
I know one thing : this isn't my war,
INSIVE THE LINES
133
or my country's, and I'm going to follow
my country's example and keep out
of it."
General Crandall shrugged his shoul-
ders and smiled at the girl's defiance.
"Maybe your country may not be able
to do that," he declared, with a touch
of solemnity. "I pray God it may. But
I'm afraid your resolution will not hold,
Miss Gerson."
"I'm going to try to make it, any-
way," she answered.
Gibraltar's commander, baffled thug
by a neutral — a neutral fair to look
upon, in the bargain — tried another
tack. He assumed the fatherly air.
"Lady Crandall and I have tried to
show you we were friends — tried to
help you get home," he began.
"You've been very good to me," Jane
broke in feelingly.
"What I say now is spoken as a
friend, not as governor of the Rock. If
it is true that you have met Woodhouse
before — and our conversation here veri-
fies my suspicion — that very fact makes
his word worthless and releases you
from any promise you may have made
not to reveal this and that you may
know about him. Also it should put you
on your guard — his motives in any at-
tentions he may pay you cannot be
above suspicion."
"I think that is a personal matter I
am perfectly capable of handling."
Jane's resentment sent the flags to her
cheeks.
General Crandall was quick to back
water: "Yes, yes! Don't misunder-
stand me. What I mean to say is "
He was interrupted by his wife's
voice, calling for Jane from the near-
by room. Anticipating her interrup-
tion, he hurried on :
"For the present, Miss Gerson, we'll
drop this matter. I said a few minutes
ago I intended shortly to — know. I
hope I won't have to carry out that —
threat."
Jane was withdrawing one of the
buds from the jar. At his last word,
she dropped it with a little gasp.
"Threat, general?"
"I hope not. Truly I hope not. But,
young woman "
She stooped, picked up the flower,
and was setting it in his buttonhole be-
fore he could remonstrate.
"This one was for you, general," she
said, and the truce was sealed. That
minute, Lady Crandall was wafted into
the room on the breeze of her own stac-
cato interruption.
"What's this— what's this! Flirting
with poor old George — pinning a rose
on my revered husband when my back's
turned? Brazen miss ! I'm here to take
you off to the gardens at once, where
you can find somebody younger — and
not near so dear — to captivate with your
tricks. At once, now !"
She had her arm through Jane's and
was marching her off. An exchange
of glances between the governor and
Hildebrand's young diplomat of the dol-
lar said that what had passed between
them was a confidence.
Jaimihr Khan announced Major
Bishop to the general a short time later.
The major, a rotund, pink-faced man
of forty, who had the appearance of
being ever tubbed and groomed to the
pink of parade perfection, saluted his
superior informally, accepted a ciga-
rette, and crossed his plump legs in
an easy-chair near the general's desk.
General Crandall crossed his arms on
his desk and went direct to his subject:
"Major, you were here on the Rock
seven years ago, you say?"
"Here ten years, general. Regular
rock scorpion — old-timer."
"Do you happen to recall this chap
Woodhouse whom I sent to you to re-
port for duty in the signal tower to-
day? Has transfer papers from Wady
Haifa."
"Haven't met him yet, though Cap-
tain Carson tells me he reported at my
office a little more than an hour ago —
134
THE POPULAR MAGAZINE
see him after parade. Woodhouse —
Woodhouse " The major propped
his chin on his fingers in thought.
"His papers — army record and all
that — say he was here on the Rock for
three months in the spring of nineteen-
seven," General Crandall urged, to re-
fresh the other's memory.
Major Bishop stroked his round
cheeks, tugged at one ear, but found
recollection difficult.
"When I see the chap — so many com-
ing and going, you know. Three months
— bless me ! That's a thin slice out of
ten years."
"Major, I'm going to take you into
my confidence," the senior officer be-
gan ; then he related the incident of
Capper's visit and repeated the charge
he had made. Bishop sat aghast at the
word "spy."
"Woodhouse will be here to tea this
afternoon," continued Crandall. "While
you and I ask him a few leading ques-
tions, I'll have Jaimihr, my Indian,
search his room in barracks. I trust
Jaimihr implicitly, and he can do the
job smoothly. Now, Bishop, what do
you remember about nineteen-seven —
something we can lead up to in conver-
sation, you know?"
The younger man knuckled his brow
for a minute, then looked up brightly.
"I say, general, Craigen was gover-
nor then. But — um — aren't you a bit —
mild ; this asking of a suspected spy
to tea?"
"What can I do?" the other replied,
somewhat testily. "I can't clap an of-
ficer of his majesty's army into prison
on the mere say-so of a drunken out-
cast who has no proof to offer. I must
go slowly, major. Watch for a slip
from this Woodhouse. One bad move
on his part, and he starts on his way
to face a firing squad."
Bishop had risen and was slowly pac-
ing the room, his eyes on the walls, hung
with many portraits in oils.
"Well, you can't help admiring the
nerve of the chap," he muttered, half
to himself. "Forcing his way onto the
Rock — why, he might as well put his
head in a cannon's mouth."
"I haven't time to admire," the gen-
eral said shortly. "Thing to do is to
act."
"Quite right. Nineteen-seven, eh?
Um " He paused before the por-
trait of a young woman in a Gainsbor-
ough hat and with a sparkling, piquant
face. "By George, general, why not
try him on Lady Evelyn? There's a
fair test for you, now !"
"You mean Craigen's wife?" The
general looked up at the portrait quiz-
zically. "Skeleton's bones, Bishop."
"Right; but no man who ever saw
her could forget. I know I never can.
Poor Craigen !"
"Good idea, though," the older man
acquiesced. "We'll trip him on Lady
Evelyn."
Jaimihr Khan appeared at the double
doors. "The general sahib's orderly,"
he announced. The young subaltern en-
tered and saluted.
"That young man, General Crandall,
the one Sergeant Crosby was to escort
out of the lines to Algeciras "
"Well, what of him? He's gone, I
hope."
"First train to Madrid, general; but
he left a message for you, sir, to be de-
livered after he'd gone, he said."
"A message ?" General Crandall was
perplexed.
"As Sergeant Crosby had it and gave
it to me to repeat to you, sir, it was,
'Arrest the cigar girl calling herself
Josefa. She is one of the cleverest spies
of the Wilhelmstrasse.' "
CHAPTER XIII.
ENTER, A CIGARETTE.
Mr. Joseph Aimer, proprietor of the
Hotel Splendide, on Waterport Street,
was absorbed, heart and soul, in a cu-
rious task. He was emptying the pow-
INSI dmky little mirrors. He looks in it a
no comeback — I just stands there an . J . , , . . , A , . ,,
J hi -t-» i +■ in -fh^iTi cmrf Inn/Hi +r\ kiit-»ir^l + •
minnit an' then says, kinda to himself :
"Only that little red spot over me
eye.'"
looks at him.
"Get me overcoat, will you, Jake?
he says next. "Whadda ya ravin' about?" I says
I sends one a the handlers for it. Tony laffs an' gets up.
"Well, are ya goin' to sleep here?" I "They ain't no marks on me face to-
says. night, is there, Jake?" he says.
HILL, THE FISHERMAN
JAMES J. HILL, the builder of the Great Northern, has a strong touch of
the savage huntsman in his blood. In early summer, wherever he may be,
whether in New York, at his farm in St. Paul, in Seattle, or in the farthest
Northwest, this love for the wilds asserts itself, and instinctively the railroad
pioneer can "sense" that the "salmon are running" far over in the distant St.
Lawrence, past his old hunting camp on St. John's River.
So keen is this natural instinct of Mr. Hill's that he can tell almost to the day
when the game fish suddenly leave their grounds in the unknown depths of the
ocean to start "running" up into the fresh water of the rivers of Labrador to
spawn.
In Mr. Hill's camp, on the coast of Saguenay, a watcher is stationed, on the
lookout for the first signs of salmon. The news of its approach is rushed to
New York, St. Paul, or other points, as the case may be, but Mr. Hill, guided
by instinct, very often has started on his trip before the message has reached him.
From the opening day of the sport, Mr. Hill goes after the wild game of
the river with all the energy, skill, and craftiness that he once devoted to out-
witting his rivals of the rail. For three weeks he thinks of nothing else, and
no human event can come between him and his sport. In fact, his orders are
positive that he must not be disturbed during this period by any letters, mes-
sages, or corporation developments, however important, imperative, or critical
they may be.
In his canoe, on the wild river in Saguenay, provided only with a light pole
and line, Mr. Hill finds the fishing an exciting diversion.
The big fish are tired out on the line, and the guide stands ready to gaff
them as they are hauled in over the side of the boat. Mr. Hill has an average
daily record of sixteen fish, and they are big fellows, too.
When his steam yacht, the Wacouta, begins her trip to New York City from
the fishing camp, she is loaded down, as a rule, with at least three hundred fish,
packed in refrigerators. It is Mr. Hill's custom to wire his friends, in whatever
part of the country they may be: "Where shall I send your fish?" Each big
salmon, frozen solid and packed in sawdust, is placed in an air-tight box, fully
three inches thick, and sent to its destination. And all the friends of the great
railroad builder — and there is a long list of them — are regaled with a surfeit of
delicious salmon steaks.
The Probation of P. D.
By George Washington Ogden
Author of "Unlucky Men" Etc.
In "Unlucky Men" Ogden gave us the story of Oil. Now he tells the
story of Sheep. A notable novel, realistic and fascinating. You will follow
with Increasing interest the experiences of "P. D."— such the two black
letters on his suit case proclaimed him — who, graduating from college with
a reputation as an agronomist, goes West with his hopes in his hand to
make his fortune out of sheep. Other things interest him beside sheep:
notably the song of an unknown singer — the song of a spirit, he is told, who
had been singing for a thousand years I
(In Two Parts— Part One)
CHAPTER I.
THE LAND OF SHEEP.
IT seemed a land of rigor and of
waste. There was the sunlight of
May, tenderly assertive of the
rights of the season, but the wind
of March appeared to have come back
to comb its rough fingers through the
shivering willows.
Drifts of snow still gleamed in the
indentures of the hills, like tenacious
teeth fastened upon the brown land,
each drift with . its trickling rivulet
speeding to swell some ribald stream.
In the poor shelter of banks and wil-
low clumps, where they had drifted
blindly with the icy winds to perish
in unuttered agony, now half hidden by
the torrents rushing past; and on bleak
knolls, where they had dropped when
the giddy pangs of starvation filmed
their eyes, the thin carcasses of range
cattle lay in scores. On station plat-
forms were heaped great stacks of
fresh sheep hides, all bearing testimony
on the severity of the winter then pass-
ing.
The little train had been wearing its
way northward since early morning,
heading into the land of sheep. The
smoking car, which looked as if it had
worn out its usefulness carrying New
Jersey commuters, and then had gone
West with the same hope of rejuvena-
tion as impels men to face that way,
was carrying a band of disputatious
shearers, bound for the big sheds along
the Northwestern.
They, were cursing the cold with
unanimous voice, for they found it bit-
ter, coming into it unprepared as they
had come, from the warmth of Arizona,
reeking rancidly with the grease of
countless fleeces shorn since they be-
gan the season, away down in Sonora.
Few of them wore overcoats, several
had not even outside shirts, their brown
necks showing, oily as whalers', above
the grimy limits of undergarments. For
it is a shearer's way to buy and wear
out, never to wash, the few and simple
garments which his untidy trade al-
lows. There had been much smoking,
with passing of twists, plugs, and
pouches up and down, and some drink-
152
THE POPULAR MAGAZINE
ing from broad-shouldered bottles
which several of them had tucked away
in their scant gear.
All of them carried shears, all but
the one called the Dutchman. Some
had them sticking points upward out
of the breast pockets of their coats,
some stowed them under the straps
of meager bundles and flat-bellied grips.
But all that the Dutchman had to show
for the cleaning-up they had given him
in Cheyenne was a scythe stone, black
and greasy, which he guarded in the
inner pocket of his short, hike-tailed
coat.
The Dutchman was a little man, hard-
lumped at the cheek bones, gaunt of
the neck, white-eyebrowed, white-mus-
tached — that sweated-out kind of white
which has no tint of age in it, no mat-
ter how old, nor of youth, no matter
how young. He was a scorched and
dry-looking man, rimmed red around
the eyelids like a thresher. It made
one thirsty just to look at the Dutch-
man's neck.
But there was a great amount of ex-
cellence in that peculiar black whetstone
which he carried, according to his talk.
In the early part of the day he had
diverted his companions of chance by
telling stories of which the stone "was
the heart and the bone. Later, when
the liquor began to claw inside of their
otherwise empty stomachs and set them
on quarrelsome edge, the Dutchman
employed it as a wand of peace.
More than once, when greasy fists
were flourished, and combats seemed
imminent, the Dutchman had spraddled
between them, along the cluttered aisle
of the rocking car, and brought the tal-
ismanic stone from his pocket. Hold-
ing it tenderly in his palm, and strok-
ing it with affection in his red -bordered
eyes, he would cunningly draw the dis-
putants' attention to certain marvelous
qualities with which the black cube in
the sacred Kabah itself could not com-
pare.
He had such an entirely extraneous
way of coming into disputes, like smoke
blowing, or dust whipping up, that he
always succeeded in drawing one or
both parties to the threatened combat
off before it came to blows. His cun-
ning seemed to win him little credit
among his fellows, but it had come,
early in the day, to be admired by one
who sat apart in a back corner of the
car.
This was a young man with smooth,
scholarly face, who wore his long, light
hair combed back like the crest of a
cockatoo. Shiny bright glasses rode
upon his large, hard-backed nose, and
his clear blue eyes looked through them
with humorous gleam. One might have
thought, looking at him grinning over
the Dutchman's labors of pacification,
that he had just stepped out for a day
of diversion, and that to-morrow would
see him back in the classrooms with
his books.
Not so, however. P. D. — such the
two black letters on the end of his good
leather suit case proclaimed him — was
what the college world from which he
lately had emerged considered a fin-
ished man. P. D. held some such no-
tion himself, perhaps, as a man should,
for self-esteem and self-confidence are
more than half the battle. Not that
he was long in ethics, broad in philos-
ophy, deep in languages and literature,
unmatched in polemics. Far from it.
P. D. would have told you, if you had
been on that little Wyoming train that
day and put the question, that he was
an agronomist.
He would have called it "scientific
farmer," only he never had farmed.
Back in the agricultural college which
he had quitted but a little while gone,
they laid stress on the rashness of
claiming to be a scientific farmer be-
fore one had farmed. One could be
an agronomist with safety in any com-
pany, but scientific farmers are getting
to be so common that one must be pre-
THE TXROftATION OF P. a woman,
Angus said. Leave it to him. But I
could help him if I would but stay on
the hilltop above Daft John's flock and
sing the song 'Loch Lomond.'
" 'When you sing that song,' said An-
gus, 'Daft John goes mooning up the
hill to lie in the bush and listen. I have
seen him at it more than once.' So
Angus proposed to me that I go near
Daft John's flock and sing, and when
he left the sheep to listen, lead him
away by skipping from bush to bush,
from hill to hill. . Then he could go in
freely and drive home our sheep without
interference from Daft John, and I
should have my passage money home.
So the thing was done, and I laughed
over it, and was light at heart in the
hope of going home, away from this
bleak land forever. It was sport to
lure on poor Daft Johnny, for I am
nimble on the foot as a hare, and from
bush to bush I can go like a shadow,
keeping out of sight."
"So you can," said Peter, giving her
full credit for her cunning.
"But once you almost found me,"
said she. "On that last day it was, when
you came with the dog. The collie
caught me; and you would have, too, if
you had followed him. But I must tell
you how I was led on to become a thief.
It was almost three years ago that we
played that trick on Daft John, and
Angus stole almost a hundred sheep
from under his eyes. When Angus told
me that we had robbed MacKinnon, I
fell sad, and was ashamed. I said he
must give back the sheep, but he
laughed in my face and said it was only
the beginning. I was smirched now,
and if found out I would go to prison
with him. I must help him play the
same trick on other dull shepherds, and
in the fall I should have my passage
money home. There was no other hope
of having it, he said.
"I refused him a long time, and then
the home hunger drove me to help him
lure away one of Carter's men who was
herding above three thousand sheep. He
was a raw, green lad like you, only not
bright as you are, and he was afraid
when he heard me singing above him
on the hill and ran the other way. But
not far enough for Angus. So on the
next day we tried again, with success.
Angus drove away thirty from the flock.
The loss was not discovered, but the
herder fell sick from the fright, and
another came in his place, a wise one,
too sharp for Angus to try to deceive.
"Next summer after that, we played
the same game twice on Daft John, and
brought away ninety all told. Then
nothing more was done until you came.
Between you and Daft John, this time,
Angus came away with nearly four hun-
dred sheep. You saw how he took the
brands out of the wool and put on our
own. He has mixed them with five
hundred ewes of our own, and is on the
way to Vesper now, to load them in
cars and ship them to Omaha."
"So that was the way you worked it,"
said Peter, feeling very small indeed in
THE tpcROtBATlON OF een able to beat with his glove
and a prayer, as the saying goes, as-
sailed him as if he had been the veriest
tyro. Men who had been lucky to get
half a dozen hits off him in a season
drove home three or four blows in a
single game.
In the fourth of these games came
the worst blow of all. Con Martin, of
the Reds, was at bat. Con was a great
pitcher, but he was probably the feeb-
lest batter that ever stood at the plate.
When he got a hit it was first-page
news. This season he had still, when
he faced Larry, to make his first safe
drive. And now he hit one of Larry's
choicest curves into the right-field stand
for a home run — the first, and the last,
that he ever made! It broke Larry's
heart, and after the game he went to
his brother pitcher and spoke as man
to man.
"Con," he said almost tearfully,
"you're a grand pitcher! You're the
only man in this league can come in
my class. But you never got a hit off
me before. Tell me how you straight-
ened out that curve?"
"Why— uh— I d'know, Larry," fal-
tered Con, appreciating his feelings.
"Curve, you say? It wasn't a curve!
She never broke at all! I just swung,
and the first thing I knew she was in
the stand. You wasn't a bit more sur-
prised than I was."
Larry went away, shaking his head.
It was the first time his curve hadn't
broken. Something was dreadfully
wrong. He needed consolation — and
sought it in a bottle.
He kept on losing games. There
were no physical signs of deterioration.
He looked as well as ever. His pitch-
ing seemed to be as good as it had ever
been. But weak batters still found it
easy to hit, and, as for the sluggers,
they simply murdered whatever Larry
served to them.
Dan Fetherston had to speak at last,
of course. Megrue wasn't an asset to
the Turks any more. He was the
heaviest sort of liability. And every
one knew the reason.
"Well?" said Dan one evening after
a particularly disastrous game. "What
seems to be the trouble, Larry?"
"I dunno," said Megrue helplessly.
"Honest, Dan— i I'm pitching as well as
I ever did. They've just got on to me
— Vail."
"Regan says your curve isn't break-
ing and there's no hop to your fast one,
Larry."
Regan was Larry's regular catcher,
and Regan had said these things to
Larry himself pointedly more than once
in the course of consultations on the
diamond.
"They seem to know what's com-
ing," Fetherston went on. "At least —
they step out and hit as if they did.
But, as far as I can see, your motion's
as good as ever."
"Sure it is — and so'm I," said Larry,
eagerly clutching at that straw. "Say
— did you see what that big stiff Tanzer
said about me in the Star? He as good
as put in his paper that it was be-
cause I was drinkin' they'd started
hittin' !"
"Did he?" said Fetherston. "Well?"
"Well, you don't think so, do you,
Dan? Gee — I'd quit — but I can't now^
But, shucks — that's not the reason !"
It was the cry of a frightened, puz-
zled boy that came from Larry Megrue
then. And it was all Fetherston could
do to refrain from breaking out; from
talking, as Lloyd had put it, like a Dutch
uncle. But others had tried that, and
it had done no good. He was deter-
mined now to stick to his own plan.
It seemed to him that it was beginning
to work.
"You ought to know," was all he said.
180
THE a
Are you so satis-
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Do you want to go through life holding down a cheap man's joh ? Or
would you be better satisfied if you knew that your future was assured ;
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THE POPULAR MAGAZINE ADVERTISER
DIARY April 15, 1820
We celebrated Dan's birthday
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171
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