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PRESSURE F"
GEORGE AGNEW
CHAI IBERLAIN • ♦
COPYRIGHT* 6EOR6E AGNEW CHAMBERLAIN • • W.N.U.SERVICE
j CHAPTER I
I
1 Joyce sat on a leather puff beside
her small-paned window looking out
■and down at the turning maple
jleaves. She was nineteen—tomor
irow she would be twenty. Nobody
| living knew it but herself—nobody J
!she had lied about her true birthday
since she was eight and owing to a
single overwhelming catastrophe it
had been easy enough to confuse her
father. Twelve years—twelve years
in Elsinboro, six of them without
him, terribly alone with her step
mother. Yes, you could be alone
with somebody else—far lonelier
■than if you were by yourself. She
iwas alive—tremendously alive in-
Jside. That was the trouble; it had
[to stay inside. She palpitated with
•dreams of what might be —the se
jcret dreams of a young girl who
longs to believe in life as something
jwarm, something you can hold in
■your arms. But when she looked
1 outside herself she stared at a wall.
Elsinboro has its counterpart in
•Olean or Elmira but not in Wilkes
ißarre, Scranton or Pottsville. Forty
strong, it has known no
.overpowering foreign infiltration
and presents a cross-section of the
American scene, old style, from a
(miniature Tammany to an elite who
read French, talk liberalism and
discriminate between one dollar
land another. There are plenty of
gathered by adventurous
sons from the four corners of the
dearth, but there were no fabulous
[fortunes until Bolivar Smith got an
idea 15 years ago. Six roughnecks
ibelieved in it and became multi
millionaires almost overnight. They
took over the section now known as
.Platinum Hill and built their incon
gruous chateaux in a huge circle.
But Joyce Sewell was not of
• them; in fact she had no part or
parcel of Elsinboro, new or old. She
was pure North Shore, descended
[from generations of the Sewells who
ichristened more clipper ships when
'the American merchant marine
overtopped the fleets of the world
than any other tribe. Her presence
in the town was an accident—one
•of those tragic accidents that leave
their i»iark for the whole of life.
;The scene—so far away, so long ago
—lived in her eyes, shut or open
She would listen too, her ears trem
bling lest they hear. But memory
’is silent, part of its terror lies in
silence. ” s
crash of guns reached her
now, only the remembered flash. No
thud of bullets on stone, wood and
flesh, no choking scream—only the
indelible, the unforgettable scene.
Her mother unspeakably murdered.
A pause—the eternal pause that had
lasted but a second. Her father
’snatching her up under one arm, a
petaca under the other, to rush
along interminable corridors, fol
lowed by shots and the derisive
jeers of the marauders who be
lieved he could not possibly escape.
Stairs — wooden stairs, stone steps,
the secret door and the garden,
black beneath towering cypress and
spreading ash. Hurry! Hurry! The
postern, unlocked, then locked. The
starlit open night, immersion in the
icy lake, a dugout and finally refuge
in a humble peon hut. No—not
Illllllllllllllllllllll!lll!lllllllllllll!l!llll!llllllllll!llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll!lllllllllll
BLAKELY THEATRE
Thurs.-Fri., Oct. 14-15
KAY FRANCIS in
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Saturday, Oct. 16
THREE MUSKETEERS in
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MYSTERY THRILLER
Mon.-Tues., Oct. 18-19
“THE GOOD EARTH”
PAUL MUNI, LUISE RAINER
Wednesday, Oct. 20
“BLONDE TROUBLE”
JOHNNIE DOWNS—E. WHITNEY
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin
finally. Followed days in a pannier
on the back of a mule, hours in a
crowded train, a week on a refugee
ship bound for New Orleans and on
that ship Mrs. Irma Thorne, of
Elsinboro, New York.
Irma Thorne, then three years a
widow, believed it was her mission
to do people good whether they liked
it or not. She was not a refugee
but a returning traveler with a well
filled pocketbook. She had soft to
bacco-colored eyes, but there the
softness ended; though the truth
would have surprised and wounded
her, her chin, her stocky body, her
will and her conscience were as
tough as rawhide. The mere sight
of Cutler Sewell’s lackluster eyes,
gone dead in his head, staring at his
little daughter but eternally seeing
something else, was a supreme
challenge to her peculiar aptitude
for service and abnegation. She
took charge. She gave Joyce her
first bath in ten days and made her
a frock out of her own best skirt.
She rushed father and daughter to
her home in Elsinboro. She was
undoubtedly a good woman and by
every rule in the copybook Joyce
should have loved her. Gently ad
monished by her father she tried
pitifully to do so and failed. It was
no use. She was too young to think
things out; all she knew was that a
barrier of ice stood between her
heart and her benefactress.
“Daddy, let’s go away.’’
“We can’t, Joyce; not just now.
At present I haven’t a cent.”
“Please, papacito. I don’t like
her.”
“You mustn’t say that. She’s a
good woman—a very good woman.”
“I know,” quavered Joyce, be
wildered by her own detestation but
face to face with a fact. “Oh,
please, papacito, please!”
He compromised, yielding to the
endearing pet diminutive that had
never yet failed her. On the ex
cuse she ought to keep up her Span
ish as a possible asset for the future
he took her into his study for an
hour every afternoon. That hour
had been sacred, proof against any
form of interruption from the day
when a knock on the door had
thrown Joyce into a paroxysm of
screams followed by prolonged sob
bing. Yet she was no cry-baby;
that one convulsive protest was her
last, but it had been enough. She
and her father talked Spanish in
peace, not always for the full hour.
Sometimes, quite content to be at
his side, she watched him write let
' ters—long painstaking letters —al-
ways to one of two addresses.
When the answers came he filed
them away, ever more and more
sadly, in the petaca. It was a funny
little trunk covered with rawhide
stretched on the frame while still
wet. The hair was mostly worn off
but there were still arabesques of
brass-headed tacks to which he had
added a card bearing the following
signed inscription: “Upon my death
this box and contents become the
property of Joyce Sewell, my
daughter and sole heir.” With each
addition to the dossier he weakened,
.became less the man of property
and more the chastened sacrificial
goat. The day came when Irma
Thorne married what was left of
EARLY COUNTY NEWS, BLAKELY, GEORGIA
hirn for appearances’ sake and lor
" ti
“What’s the Matter
With Joyce?”
his and for Joyce’s—not for her
own. Perhaps he knew the surren
der would kill him, but at least his
orphaned child would have a roof
over her head. She was sixteen
when he died.
Helm Blackadder was a rock of
a man, forty-nine and virile, with
bushy brows, steely eyes and crisp
gray hair. He was a native son, a
product of Elsinboro so interwoven
in the town’s pattern it had never
occurred to him to consider any
other place as a base. Yet in his
capacity as an excellent engineer
and a daring promoter he had bur
rowed in South Africa, combed Ko
rea and lived in Chile with varying
degrees of profit. In the intervals
he had known Irma Bostwick, Irma
Thorne and finally Irma Sewell. Part
of him frankly admired part of her;
she had a bulldog quality and so
had he. Now she had sent for him
and as he entered her very com
fortable living room he wondered
why.
“Well, Irma, what’s on your
mind?”
“It’s Joyce, Helm; but do sit
down. Take that big chair. It looks
as if it had been made for you.”
“What’s the matter with Joyce?”
Mrs. Sewell frowned and then sub
stituted a look of patient resigna
tion. “You know all I’ve done for
her. Don’t think I mean I begrudge
it since it was my duty and there’s
no greater satisfaction in life than
seeing one’s duty and doing it. But
can you believe in spite of every
thing she actually dislikes me? She
does, though; I think she always
has.” She waited, but since Black
adder refrained from comment she
continued. “But that’s not the worst
of it; she’s harming herself, de
liberately destroying her grea;
chance.”
“How?” he asked bluntly.
“Oh, all this extra-curriculum
studying she’s been doing. She’s
kept up her Spanish so you’d think
she could teach it anywhere but now
she wants to take a business
course/’,..
“Secretarial?”
“No; she doesn’t give it any fancy
name—just plain stenography and
typing.”
“What’s wrong with that?” de
manded Blackadder. “It’s the way
several of the highest paid women
in the world got their start and I
can name half a dozen cases where
it’s been a royal road to marriage.
So I don’t see how it could hurt
Joyce?’
“You don't?” said Mrs. Sewell.
She edged forward on her chair.
“Listen, Helm: I wouldn’t tell this
to anybody but you. Howard Semp
ter, Emil Schaaf and Michael Kirk
patrick have all proposed to her
over and over again.”
“Half of Platinum Hill!” said
Blackadder, scowling. “Well, she’s
no business woman and never will
be.” *
“Why? Why do you say that?”
“Because if she were she’d marry
them all, one after the other, and
retire.”
“Oh!” gasped Mrs. Sewell, truly
shocked.
“Which one of the three do you
think she’d find it easiest to fall for
and to handle?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you.
It’s got to be one pretty soon or
none.”
“Why? What’s the hurry?”
“Can’t you think it out for your
self? If Platinum Hill goes after a
girl with no money it’s largely be
cause she isn’t a stenographer.”
Blackadder's scowl deepened. “I
hate to agree with you but I guess
you’re right. It’s a shame one town
should be saddled with three of that
brand of snob, but if she's so at
tractive, what about a boy or two of
the good old stock? Aren’t any of
them hanging around?”
“They would if they could afford
it, but they know they can’t. The
nice boys she knows are all in col
lege with years to go before they’ll
begin looking for a job. They’re
too young. I have enough income to
manage on and wait, but I know
Joyce—she won’t stay with me
much longer and she hasn't a pen
ny.”
“What about her father? I re
member hearing he owned one of
the show places mTSexico. Do you
know what that means? A hacienda
that doesn’t run over 20,000 acres
would be at the foot of the class.”
“He lost it—everything he had.
He wasn’t even compensated for the
murder of his wife though his law
yer assured him he would be. Cut
ler used to speak of it as blood
money and wouldn’t have thought of
taking it except for Joyce. And it’s
she that matters now. She’s got to
be saved from herself and you must
help.”
“I? Why me?”
“Because you’re real, Helm, and
the only man I know well enough to
turn to. There’s something in her
frightens me. Sometimes she’s a
burning bush and the next instant
she’s quicksilver. Please, Helm.
This child was put in my charge by
a direct act of God. Whether she
loves me or not it’s my duty to
guide her life along the lines of
common sense. Which do you want
her to do—go around looking for a
job at sls a week or be the first to
bring a little culture to Platinum
Hill? Which gives her the best
chance for a full life?”
"A missionary, eh?” said Black
adder, his lips quirking oddly. He
lifted his heavy shoulders and let
them fall. “Well, Mike oughtn’t to
be so bad. I remember his father
as a ditch-gang foreman with a
laugh and plenty of punch besides.”
Mrs. Sewell sighed resignedly. “I
would have chosen Howard Semp
ter, but trust a man to pick a man
is a good rule though we women
seldom follow it. So it’s to be Mrs.
Michael not Mike Kirkpatrick.
Anyway it sounds a lot better than
Mrs. Schaaf.” At that moment there
was a sound of somebody entering
the hall. “Joyce, is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She’s never once called me
mother,” whispered Mrs. Sewell to
Blackadder, a hurt and bewildered
look in her liquid brown eyes. Then
she raised her voice. “Come here,
dear; we want to talk to you.”
Blackadder disliked being rushed
and felt he was being drafted with
out his consent, but immediately
Joyce entered he was conscious of
an odd reaction as though all his
gears had gone suddenly into re
verse.
She nodded to him and turned to
her stepmother. “Well?”
“Oh, do sit down, Joyce. Can’i
you sit down and talk reasonably
for once in your life?”
Joyce started toward a chair but
stopped. “No; if we are going to
have one of our reasonable talks,
I’d rather stand.”
“That means I’ll have to stand
too,” said Blackadder, sensing he
faced a wise and clever fighter. “It
doesn’t leave me a choice, does it?”
“Not if you feel you have to stay.”
“Joyce!” cried Mrs. Sewell sharp
ly. “How can you be rude to Mr.
Blackadder, a man twice your age
and my oldest friend?”
“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” said
Joyce coolly, “I was wondering why
he’s here.”
“I’ve told you. Because he’s my
oldest and almost my only friend.
We were boy and girl together anc
if I can't turn to him in my trouble
I can appeal to nobody.”
“Your trouble!” exclaimed Joyce.
“If you’d only leave me alone, let
me go my own way, you wouldn’t
have a thing in the world to worry
about.”
“That’s just it—l can’t. I can’t
stand aside and watch you ruin your
life. It wouldn’t be right. I can tell
you to your face, here before Mr.
Blackadder, if you don’t take Mich
ael Kirkpatrick while you still have
the chance you’ll regret it the rest
of your life.”
“So it’s narrowed down to Mike,
has it?” said Joyce. “How did you
come to pick on him?”
As if she were resigning the floor
Mrs. Sewell made a gesture toward
Blackadder. Strangely uneasy he
straightened and braced his elbows
on the mantel. He leveled his eyes
at her, taking her measure.
“Let’s see if I can talk your lan
guage. Do you mind listening till
we find out?”
“No; I’ll listen.”
“You’re young, Joyce, and you’re
up against a tough situation. You
don’t like your stepmother. Well,
there’s nothing we can do about
that. Likes and dislikes don’t go
by favor or obligation; they hang
on two Spanish words, easy to un
derstand, hard to translate sim
patica and antipatica. Right?”
“Yes,” said Joyce, amazed at the
boldness of his attack and startled
by his idiomatic use of a language
she thought she alone in Elsinboro
knew.
“The yoke of living on Irma has
been galling you till all you can
think of is escape. The first thing
you picked on was to be a teacher,
but you found out it isn’t enough
to know your subject—you’ve got to
have a string of silly letters after
your name. So you thought you’d
be a stenographer and look for a
firm engaged in foreign trade. Un
fortunately, you’re unfitted for busi
ness. You’d be an absolute flop.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re emotional and a
thoroughbred; the first time you
found yourself the mechanical link
in a gyp game you’d walk out.”
“Then what’s left?” asked Joyce
dismally as much of herself as of
him.
“We’re coming to that,” said
Blackadder sharply. Perceiving he
had shaken her, his head moved for
ward between his shoulders and his
eyes grew beady. “You don’t like
Irma, but you've lived on her since
If your wants
are in the
Grocery and Market
Line—
we try and carry them.
It is not economy to buy anything except
the first quality when supplying your table;
there is less waste and more nourishment
value in good Groceries and choice Meats—
and we have only the best.
Cur prices are as cheap as you will
find in Blakely. Come in to see us.
FRYER’S MARKET
you ’were eight year's "old. She’s
given you everything you’ve had—
shelter, food, raiment and care—
and you’ve never paid for any of it
in love or in cash.”
“Oh!” gasped Joyce, wincing un
der the sting of a lash she had used
on herself again and again. “How
could I? You know I have nothing—
nothing!”
“That’s not so,” said Blackadder,
shooting the words at her. “You
have plenty if you take it to the
right market. Let’s get down to bed
rock. Do you dislike Mike any more
than you do your stepmother? Do
you?”
“No!” said Joyce.
“Then why not live on him for a
while where you can pay ten for
one?”
Watching her sink into a chair as
if he had knocked her knees from
under her he felt a curious elation.
He had beaten her, it had been a
hard fight, but he had won out.
“This way out that Helm sug
gests—” said Mrs. Sewell—“this
thing I’ve been begging you to do—
you don’t think it’s for me, do you?
It’s for you—for your own good.
We’re older than you are, we can
see back as well as ahead. Can’t
you believe us? Can’t you see it’s
your best chance for happiness?”
“Happiness!” breathed Joyce. “I
suppose every girl has her dream of
happiness.” Then her low voice be
gan to grow in volume and intensi
ty. “I know I have mine and it’s a
dream of giving, not taking. I don’t
mean giving things—money, food,
clothes—because love doesn’t grow
out of things. Even if you try your
best to make it, it doesn’t, it won’t.
I mean giving something that’s in
side you, that aches to be given
and—and—”
“I know, dear,” interrupted Mrs.
Sewell soothingly, “but believe me,
you'll feel all that if you’ll only
just—”
“Oh, you’re horrible!” cried Joyce
desperately. “I wish I hadn’t told
you! Do you think I’m blind? You
want to be rid of me—both of
you. All right. I give in. I prom
ise. If it isn’t Mike it will be some
thing else, some other way. I prom
ise.” She was gone from the room
before either of them could answer.
(To be continued next week)
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Statement of the Ownership, Man
agement, Circulation, Etc., Re
quired by the Act of Congress of
August 24, 1912, and March 3,
1933, of Early County News, Pub
lished Weekly at Blakely, Ga., for
October 1, 1937.
Georgia—Early County:
Before me, Clerk of the Superior
Court of State and county aforesaid,
personally appeared A. T. Fleming,
who, having been duly sworn accord
ing to law, deposes and says that he
is the editor and business man
ager of the Early County News,
and that the foregoing is, to
the best of his knowledge and belief,
a true statement of the ownership,
management, etc., of the aforesaid
publication for the date shown in
the above caption, required by the
Act of August 24, 1912, as amended
by the Act of March 3, 1933, embod
ied in section 537, Postal Laws and
Regulations:
1. That the names and addresses
of the publisher, editor, managing
editor, and business managers are:
Publishers—A. T. Fleming, Blake
ly, Ga.; W. H. Fleming, Blakely, Ga.
Editor—A. T. Fleming, Blakely,
Ga.
Managing Editor—A. T. Fleming.
Business Manager—A. T. Flem
ing, Blakely, Ga.
2. That the owners are:
A. T. Fleming, Blakely, Ga.
W. H. Fleming, Blakely, Ga.
3. That the known bondholders,
mortgagees, and other security hold
ers owning or holding 1 per cent
or more of total securities are:
Mrs. J. H. Hill, Blakely, Ga.
Miss Lucille Barksdale, Blake
ly, Ga.
A. T. FLEMING,
Editor & Bus. Mgr.
State of Georgia, County of
Early, si.:
Sworn to and subscribed before
me, this 9th day of October, 1937.
BERT TARVER,
Clerk Superior Court,
Early County, Ga.