Newspaper Page Text
SIXTH ‘PAGE
THE SUNNY SOUTH
&/>e Chanters, Most Picturesque and Er
ratic of American Families
the Temple of Agriculture, Peking, Sep
tember, 1900.”
Good men have died here, and now for
their sake.
Souvenirs bloody ’ct every one take.
Good men have died and the Boxers es
caped.
But palaces and shops have been care
fully scraped.
Generals for honesty; allies for pelf;
Most of us midway, leaning toward self.
If f had died like a rat in a hole.
Would they have valued me on blue
bowl ? i
Can't say for certain, the auctions are
over—
Hardly a cushion is left in its cover,
it's getting disgusting, this talk about
loot;
I hope if I’m killed my crowd will just
shoot.
She shocked the formalism of Washing
ton society by her frank outbreak against
society forms in general.
Miss Chanler Is a woman suffragist.
He- views are all slngtiarly earnest, as
earnest as the gray-brown eyes that rare
ly smile. She
miserly of tlm,
paying her a fot
ting vigorously,
did at her afternor
"It allows me tin.
said, in defense of hl t
Chat my thought inva
lines of what a vast *Wb/bj. e
consumed in a perfectly ? ; No/j ° f/y
manner of society. . v 0rtJ o. ^ to?
"Mow, candidly, you do np a$ c c 3//, s . ^°iif r ° do
Jot for me, nor I for you. sp d to 7l °n nt ^0 tb,^^ at
;,r b P
A friend in need is a friend
von want a regulator ti;»t
• n a Me. 1 leal ilonie, liu '
So.
^ &/>e Maiden and tHe Beau
By LOUIS J VANCE
to
t * h at
tz*
Of
Of
3 4f e .,° l >ld
Ha
a d v
<7 ta «
bo
a 1ta
a e-f>
oh
NOWN as "those queer
great-great - grandchildren
of John Jacob Astor,"
they are about to give
the heir-world another sur
prise in the series of sur
prises to which they have
treated it ever since they
grow.up. This time it is a
fierce family quarrel which
may he carried into the
courts. It concerns the
freedom of Ihe eldest and
most brilliant of the fam
ily, whom the rest will implore to return
to the insane asylum, when he escapes.
It is a climax of such originality and
brilliancy and orraticism as probably no
othir American family has shown Poli
tics. business, war. society, lit' raturc.
divorce and what was insanity, accord
ing to one point of view, and illegal in
carceration according to the other, have
all figured in the picturesquencss of these
“oncer olive branches” of the original
John Jacob Astor. who founded one of
1ho greatest fortunes in the 1'nited States.
There are five of the “queer greait-
grout-grandchildren.” as Now York's ex
clusives have named them
John Armstrong Chanler is the oldest
and most gifted as well as the most t-
rat'c of them all. He it is who. having
escaped from Bloerriingdale asylum. New
York after four years’ incarceration there
at the instance of his brothers and sis
ter, now, from the vantage ground of
Virginia, defies them to send him back
to a cell and keepers.
William Astor Chanler was variously
a wanderer in the wilds of Africa, a
writer of a book of adventures there, a
Tammany chieftain, a member of the
New York assembly, a representative in
congress and a captain in the war with
Spain.
Lewis Stuyvc-sant Chanler aided the
Parneilites in Ireland in much the same
spirit as Lafayette aided the Americans
in the revolution. He is now practicing
law without fee®, and taking only the
poor as clients.
Winthrop Chanler is the partner and
coadjutor of his brother, I/owis Stuy-
vesant. In all things, even to sending
their elder brother to Bloomingdale. j
Miss Margaret Chanler is the youngest j
of the quintet. She was a volunteer Red
Cross nurse in the late war. and later. |
when mistress of Congressman Chanler'a I
home in Washington, wrote a biting sa- |
tire against society. Ail of the Chanlers ]
are millionaires. All of them are hide- ;
pendent even to aggressiveness. All of
them are pugnaciously American, their
lives, like that of their cousin, John Ja- j
cob Astor, a standing rebuke to that f
social Benedict Arnold, William Waldorf
Astor.
Like all strong individualities, they are
prone to intemperance of thought, lan
guage and manner, and so are not always
soothing to each other.
John Armstrong Chanler is a fine, ath
letic-looking man of 40. His face, is
smooth shaven and strong featured, with
Thumb* determination written in
Nail •SfKetch every line. He strongly
0 £ resembles tli
- lawyer, John
JohnArm- Chanler. who said, when
strong he looked at his first
Chanler born: “In this boy I
mean to realize all my ideals of man
hood." The boy grew, as his father
■ wished, both as to mental and physical
stature. He won two degrees in Colum
bia college. He entererl the practice of
law with the firm of Chanler. Maxwell
& Chilton, and practiced with success.
He founded the town of Roanoke Rapids,
N. C., where he established a flourishing
industry of knitting mills. In a good or
evil day he tarried in Albemarle county,
Virginia, and bought a country home
close to Alonticello, which is alive with
memories of Thomas Jefferson, who lived
and died on the mountain side. It was a
good or evil day. according to the values
or compensations of an ill-advised mar
riage. Air. Chanler fell in love with
Amelie Rives, who married him reluc
tantly, and recorded the manner of his
ardent wooing In that fervid novel, "The
Quick or the Head.” They went to Paris,
where they became the local and liberal
patron saints of the poor art students of
Paris. Mr. Chanler founded an artist's
prize fund, or scholarship, that still ex
ists. After two years there was a rup
ture, and Air. Chanler returned to Amer
ica alone. Eventually Airs. Chanler
brought suit for divorce on the ground
of incompatibility of temper. The suit
was not contested. Soon after Mrs.
Chanler married the. Russian Prince
Troubetskoy, who is a superb athlete
of nearly the same age and much resem
bling her first husband. One who is close
to the groat-great-grandson of the origi
nal Astor says that the Chanler-Rives-
‘ Troubetskoy episode is a latter-day Rus-
kin renunciation, “llis nature is more
compatible with hers than mine. He will
make her happier. Ho shall have her,"
confidant quote* him as saying. The
eminent
Winthrop
TURNED OUT TRUE.
Coffee Drinking Responsible.
“At a dinner party a number of years
ago a physician made this statement.
‘Coffee drinking Is responsible for more
ills than any other one thing, but it is
impossible for me to make my patients
believe it.’
Neither would I believe him. but con
tinued to drink my coffee with sweet con
tent. After a time I became aware of
the fact that 1 was frequently lying
awake nearly all night without any ap
parent reason, and the morning found me
tired out and nervous.
The insomnia increased, then came a
dull pain at the base of the brain and
severe pressure at my mart. My outside
work was given up for I could hardly
bear the little fatigue of the day. ‘Ner
vous prostration brought pn by overwork.'
the Doctor said. 1 thought of the words
of oiil l>r. Bagiev. 'Cofiee is the poison
that is responsible,’ etc., etc.
1 had heard of Postum Food Coffee and
determined to try it. The first cup was
so weak and flat that it was not fit to
drink. The next time it was prepared I
looked after it myself to see that the di
rections were followed properly. The re
sult was a revelation: I found It a de
licious beverage.
The cure was not wrought in a day but
little by little my nerves became strong,
the pain cei""'' and again 1 could sleep
like a tired chlid.
I ain now completely restored lo health
jj V Postum Food Coffee used in place of
ordinary coffee, have regained the fresh
complexion of girlhood, r.nd i can realize
the truth of the old Doctor's statement,
j wish people could understand that truth
before they permit coffee to break them
down.
1 have known of several others who
have been restored to health by leaving
off coffee and taking up Postum Food
Coffee. Please do not publish my name,
jvit f am willing to answer letters of in
quiry if stamp is ineiesod." N •m- given
by Postum Co., Battle Creek, Mich.
it
divorce ensued. The Prince Troubetskoy
is a portrait painter, and as poor as
most Russian princes, as poor, in fact,
as Count Tolstoi thinks they ought all
to be. There has been no denial of the
story that the princess once appealed to
her former husband for aid for her pres
ent one, and that he gave it. The prince
and princess are now In New York, and
it is expected that she will testify in Mr.
<'hauler's behalf when the question of
his sanity comes up in the New York
courts.
It w.-s while he was interested in the
psychological experiments that are be
coming the fad of intellec-tualists of leis
ure and was writing sonnets and novels
under the influence of what he has named
the X or unconscious faculty, that hts
l>r< thers. Lewis Stuyvesnnt and Win-
th-op Chanler. concluded that he was in
sane and and had him committed to an
insane asylum. There lie remained fotir
, years. During that time lie sent to an at
torney friend a brief of his case that
Judge Micajah Wood, of Charlottesville,
Yn.. pronounced the most masterly one he
hod over seen.
He irdueed a visiting friend to lend
him some money, and one day, while on
r. tlirc-e hours’ parole, will Mi permitted
him to leave the grounds, lie took a train
to Philadelphia. He persuaded his fam
ily physician. J. Madison Taylor. AT.D . an
associate of Dr. Wier Mitchell, to place
him in a sanitarium under an assumed
l .rr.e and have his case cl tidied by emi
nent ali mists. The eminent alien
ists determined that he was
: ane. He went to Virginia, demanded the
return of his property in that state, and
the court promptly awarded it. He will
make tlv» same demand as to his property
in New York, which will precipitate the
br.ttle of the queer grcat-great-grandciiil-
dren.
Lawis Stuyvesnnt Chanler took a spe
cial law course at Oxford. He so dis
tinguish- d himself that he was made pres
ident of the famed debats
Lewis Won ing society, the Cam-
Signal bridge I'nion. an honor
Honors which had been conferred
In -upon but two Americans
England before. Charles Astor
Bristcd, who was a dis
tant relative of the Chanlers, and Dr.
William Everett, son of Dr. Ed
ward Everett. Chanler made a per
sonal study of the social conditions of the
lower classes In the United Kingdom,
an] spent two years m Ireland, where he
became an active Parnellite and a part
cv.omr and sub-editor of John Redmond's
newspaper. The Independent. If he could
have forsaken his Americanism with the
eubc of his cousin, William Waldqrf As
ter. he could have gone to parliament as
a member from Roscommon.
Instead, he returned to New York and
took up the practice of law. He chose
criminal law and the espousal of the
cause of the poor. “I have chosen the
criminal law because I believe it to be
the ennobling side of mv profession," he
said, “it is my feeling for the oppressed
ihat leads me to be the advocate of those
who may be falsely aecuscd. To defend*
humankind, to aid the oppressed and the
accused, and to save human life, Is the
highest aim of my life."
He practices without any reward ex
cept the often unuttered gratitude of
the poor whom he befriended. Seeing
a shivering wretch going out of a court
room into the stinging December air. he’
took off his own fur-lined overcoa^ and
.•■lipped it on the pauper, who stood star
ing after him. speechless, while the attor
ney called a cab and drove away to his
office.
Yet the heart of Lewis Stuyvesant
Chanler. so warm toward his inferiors,
is stout to do battle with his equals. Ar
guing a case before the late and physi
cally failing Reorder Smyth, he received
what he believed to lie an nndeserv »d
rebuke from the judge.
He answered tha judge indignantly,
paid his fine for contempt of court, and
walked out of the chambers, declaring
he would never again plead a case. Nor
did lie for two years.
William Astor Chanler, after making
for himself that hete noire to undergrad
uates, a "model to follow.” at Harvard,
made geographical study a specialty, and
"as moved to spend several years in
travel and study of Africa. He sent
some valuable reports to scientific socie
ties in. Europe, and when he returned to
America embodied his adventures in a
work for general reading, which he called
“Through Jungle and Desert.”
He identified himself with the demo
cratic machine in New York and was
( lected a Tammany chieftain. He- was a
delegate to the national convention in
Chicago in 1M!G. He issued a call for vol
unteers, and formed the first regiment
organized in the United States for the
war with Spain. Governor Black, for
reasons never quite clear to the public,
l would not accept the services of the regi-
| meat, which was forced to disband.
President AIcKinley appointed him a
captain and assistant adjutant general
(1 th? United States army. lie was at
tached to the stafT of Major General Jo
seph Wheeler and participated in all the
lighting before Santiago. Twice General
Wheeler's reports commended his high
cotirage. He was elected to congress
front the fourteenth congressional dis
trict in isas.
Winthrop Chanler, the youngest of the
brothers, shares tin ir mental activity and
aggressivenef s. He took charge of a.
scouting party that went to the relief of
the Cuban General Gomez, and had IPs
right arm broken in an encounter with
Spanish soldlf rs.
Miss Margaret Livingston Chanler was
a brave and efficient Red Cress nurse,
serving at various stations in Cuba and
Only receiving the engrossed
Girl in thanks of the legislative
Family assembly at Albany and
Undertook the war department at
Heroic Washington for her aid.
Wnr “I don't know what we
Nursing would have done without
Aliss Chanler," said one tf the sick sol
diers. "She saved many a life.”
Undeterred by the hardships of a Cuban
campaign, she went to China for service
and was one of the besieged and imper
iled women at Peking. Amid the horrors
of the sieg- she wrote this satire, to
which she gave the title: “Soliloquy in
R. RICHARD DORRANC’E,
meditatively rolling a ci
garette, cast about him an
approving glance.
“Perfect country," he
drawled to nobody in par
ticular, though Tom Darby
was at hand to hear; "or
ange sunshine on the yel
low sands, magenta shad
ows. ultramarine sea, luxu
riant fol-i-nge to beat all
creation. Thfs beats tossing
around on board a yacht,
anyway. Think I'll marry a native and
settle down to dream out my flays in
peace.”
He lit the cigarette and flopped over on
his back, flourishing heavenwards his
lengthy and Immaculately white duck-
eiad legs. Tom Darby resenttd the re
luctant display of vivid hosiery and
growled. Darby was in a resentful mood;
he had been most comfy aboard Por-
rance’s private yacht, the Beau Gallant,
anrl saw no earthly reason wnv he should
have been dragged therefrom for a mile's
the steaming shallows to the
row
THE PAINT OF THE FUTURE.
In a book of which an English trans
lation was recently published by Van
Nostrand & Co., the eminent authority.
Dr. Josef Berseh says: “Although white
lead has at present an enormous use, it is
to be hoped that this pigment, of good
color but little permanence, may be en
tirely replaced in time by zinc white, and
for some purposes by enamel white” (ar
tificial barytes).
Anyone who watches the Government
statistics year by year, can readily see
that the drift Is rapidly in the direction
indicated by Dr. Berseh. In this country
alone the consumption of zinc white has
nearly doubled in a few years while the
consumption of white lead, despite the
increase of manufacturing plants and the
growth of paint consumption, has de
creased. The reason for this change is
nol far to seek; paint users have been ed
ucated. They know, as they never knew
before, the value of paint and the prop
erties that make it valuable. Experience
and facts have been compiled and laid be
fore them in a form that “he who runs
may read.”
As a result of this education the better
grades of ready mixed paints are gradu
ally winning preference, and in the latter
the pure linseed oil class is obtaining
rapid prominence. Good ready mixed
paint cannot be made without zinc white,
and this partly, at least, explains the in
creasing use of that pigrmn - .
Among paint manufacturers who pride
themselves upon the quality of their
product, among well-informed and judi
cious consumers, as well as among care
ful architects, there is evident a growing
preference for pure oil paints containing
both zinc white and white lead, but with
a preponderence of the first-named pig
ment. and from present conditions it is
safe to predict that the paint of the future
will be compounded on something l'ke
that basis. STANTON DUDLEY.
end that they might merely loaf on the
edge of the beach. Moreover, he was
athirst.
"There’s not a drink in sight." he said
crossly, “nor a suggestion of a breeze.
This is plainly the Jumping off place. And
we’ll be caught in the deuce of a thunder
storm, if I’m not mistaken."
Disappointed, you meanJ’
'resides,” Darby went on defiantly, ig
noring the correction, "who’d have you,
I’d like to know?"
That’s immaterial; I’ll find some one.”
He raised his vole- and chanted: “Young
gentleman, rich and of distinguished ap
pearance. desires a wife. Object, matri-
m my. No trlflers—“
Darby grunted and resumed his disgust
ed contemplation of Dorrance’s socks. He
was about to make an unpleasant remark
when Both becam* aware of the presence
of a third person.
How she ever got there so quietly Dar
by could never understand, but she stood
before them, trim and neat and most de
sirable, in a chic muslin frock, and a ca
nary-colored hat of some sort, with rib
bons. perched saucily a-top her curly
brown hair. Brown e.ves she had. too, and
the very devil of mischief lurking in their
depths, and rosy lips, with the shadow of
rrtirth in their corners. Darby believes
that her nns» is tip-tilted, just the least
l»it. but he will neve/ dare assert it. At
any rate, she was entirely to be adored,
with the sun filtering down through the
leaves and dotting her with little blurs
of light.
Dorrance was on his feet in an Instant,
and you may believe that Tom Darby was
not far behind him. The two stood like
idiots, gaping at her as if she had dropped
from heaven. And she might have that,
but the dancing eyes were against the
theory.
She glanced from the one to the other,
apparently enjoying the situation im
mensely. She fairly laughed when at last
she said:
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
Both stammered incoherent responses,
and then the young lady calmly pointed
at Dorrance with the tip of her dainty
parasol.
"I'll marry you,” said she; she mlgiit
have been asking him to tea.
But Dorrance was ever more ready than
Darby—and lucky, it is but fair to state
that Tom was staggered, hut Dorrance!
"I was convinced of that when 1 laid
eyes on you,” he said, bowing.
“Just so.” she laughed.
And then Darby found his tongue.
"Perhaps you've overlook'll me.” he
said, timidly. "Dorran'-e is all very well,
but I have my points." He stuck out
his chest, louting low and with a flour
ish.
"They're well covered,” said Dorrance,
hastily.
"Which you hereby respectfully sub
mit to my consideration?" she asked.
"Just so; but you're a trifle la.te. Air.—
er—Dorrance, 1 think you said? Air. Dor-
ranee asked first."
Darby protested; “But he never imag
ined—"
“Oh, but I did," Dorrance interrupted,
unblushingly. “I’ve expected this right
along."
"Of course he has,” she added, severely.
"That was very ungallant of you."
Darby collapsed; he had never learned
to accept defeat gracefully.
"Just my luck," he moaned. “I never
raised a little doe and learned to love it
soft brown eye, but what—”
'■’Oh. dry up.” said Dorrance, ungra
ciously enough. “Beside, you have it
wrong"
Tom Darby sulked. The maiden eyed
Dorrance somewhat approvingly. He re
turned her gaze with admiring interest,
but she kept her countenance—only those
eyes would dam -■» divinely. Neither spoke
till she extended a tiny hand with a
firm, pink palm.
"Come along." she said, “since we are
to be married.”
“Ever at your service.” And he took
the hand.
“Squire of dames!” Tom Darby snap
ped.
“But you are disagreeable,” she said
wonderingly.
"Don’t mind him.” Dorrance said sooth
ingly; “we cannot jusMy blame him.”
They moved off hand in hand. Darby re
mained motionless, in high dudgeon; the
affair was so distinctly preposterous—and
the girl was so distinctly pretty. He heard
Dorrance laugh and there was a familiar
elan To his tone which warned Darby that
his friend was ripe for any absurd -adven
ture. Moreover. Darby confesses to the
sin of curiosity. He relented sufficiently
to permit a glance over his shoulder; they
were quite some distance away, disappear
ing around a bend in the beach. He ran
after them, shouting. They turned and
waited.
“Mayn't I come, too,” he pleaded hum
bly.
“if you'll be nice.” she stipulated.
“And he can he best man," said Dor
rance. tentatively.
“Come,” cried Darby. generously,
“that's some consolation! But Dick, the
Beau Gallant?”
“Bother the Beau,” said Dorrance,
warmly. He looked out to sea; the yacht
was beating steadily up against the
breeze. “Hendricks can take care of her
all right. 'Tisn't every day a lellow gets
married.”
“No, indeed.” Tom Darby assented
heartily, and followed them; at least
he could see Dorrance through, even
should he fall to keep him from egregious
folly. And he himself was falling into the
“Tnomns Edgorton Dar—"
“Tom—my promised bride. Miss Ruth
Wharton.”
Again Darby bowed, this time over a
pink and white confection of a hand. De
cidedly if Dick did—which of course was
monstrous—jf he actually should win her,
he was open to congratulation.
“Ruth,” said Dorrance, “is taking us
to her ancestral home. We are to meet
her paternal uncle. Mr. Henry Wharton,
this evening. At present he is not at
home.”
“Naturally, she wants her family to in
spect her choice. I promise to make no
revelations a.s to your character; I’ll
maintain a most discreet—”
“And damning silence. I prefer that
you talk."
“It is not far now,” said Ruth.
“The walk has made me thirsty,” Dar
by complained.
“It has. then, accomplished the in
evitable," Dorrance remarked loftily.
They had struck inland from the beach,
passing through a sparse belt of pines,
and now emerged upon a narrow strip
of sandy road. Opposite them was a lieh-
ened stone wall surmounted by broken
glass and boasting a rickety, rusty gate
of iron? The three plowed across to this
and entered fairly spacious and well-kept
grounds. Magnolias and shrubbery grew
here and there and orange trees were In
blossom; there were prim little beds of
old-fashioned flowers; also, a oastiron
stag, severely weather beaten. The tinkle
of water from a hidden fountain was very
grateful to Tom Darby’s ears. At the end
of a glade he caught glimpses of white
Corinthian columns, evidently the facade
of a mansion. Darby’s misgivings van
ished under the influence of this peace
ful scene; if Ruth were heir to such a
stately property, then Dorrance—oh,
Dorrance was plainly favored of the gods.
Meanwhile this remarkable young lady
was setting a pace that was quite un
comfortable for Darby, who was—and is
—plump (let us say), and firmly opposed
to exertion at any time. So that lie fell
somewhat in the rear and thought it
mightily discourteous that the two should
converse in tones so low that he was
able to hear never a word. Nevertheless
he persevered—though with much puff
ing—and was presently rewarded with an
easy chair upon a broad, coolly chadcd ve
randa, and iC’ft there, Dorrance and his
precious Ruth entering the house, engaged
in the most earnest of conversations. Dar
by felt horribly neglected and out of
drawing till, to his huge delight, an aged
negro appeared with a tray and glasses.
He forgot his sorrows in the rattle of
cracked ice.
The purple shadows slowly lengthened
on the lawn; a fitful breev sprang up to
fan the heated air; a nightingale sang
plaintively of a lost love, and Darby’s soul
was filled with sadness. He began to feel
very sorry for himself; no one cared for
him; he was very useless - t'C'thts world;
even Dorrance was quick to turn on him,
His closest friend, for the smile of a to
tal stranger.
From the open window came the mur
mur of voices, a steady monotone sug
gestive of anything but love's sweet si
lence. What on earth did it all mean,
anyway? Darby's glass was empty; he
a t
1< T V -
re Pr e f° 0(i
S Ol
sa,-
and more. She's an orphan and old
ton is her guardian. She comes Into
session when she’s 18, and she will tbo So ° r ‘
that tomorrow.” '
“A woman's age—” 3r
“Be quiet. If she marries before mat
nine-tenths of her Inheritance reverts to
her guardian.
Here Darby grew befuddled.
“Then why in heaven's name does she
want you?”
“I don’t know that she does, except as
an alternative. This amiable uncle is
addled about money; wants to get her
married—even tried to force her into a
match with a—oh. a real dayvtllsh sort
of follow. Fetter by name. Now, Fetter
won’t do. according to Ruth. She doesn't
want him, nor nobody, for that matte.r."
"Not even you?”
n Not even me.”
“How do you know?” she queried arch
ly from the doorway. And Darby is posi
tive that a prettier picture never was
than she made framed in Its rich, somber
darkness. “Are we not engaged?"
"I hope so,” Dorrance cried fervently;
“I’ll have you if you'll let me, though all
the world—’’
"Oh, Bore,” Darby exclaimed, hastily,
“I'm a modest man. Go on with the plot;
I begin to see a light.”
"Well, then,” Ruth took up the thread
of narrative, "as a last resort, he per
suaded mo to come down here from At
lanta. knowing that I could never escape.
And I never tnought. It's 20 miles to the
nearest village—18 to the nearest railroad.
I could not walk It if I tried, and Cassius
keeps close watch on me. The horses un
cle took with him when he left this morn
ing. saying that he would return this
evening. I am positive that he means
to bring back with him this odious Mr.
Fetter and a clergyman."
“Two and two,” said Darby.
"And—and—I know you thought me a
Bold creature this afternoon, but I was
desperate, helpless. I could not tnink
what to do. You will help me, dear Mr.
Darby—won't h .>u?” And believe me. she
plumped down on her knees before him.
Darby was so embarrassed that he
jumped as though she had kissed him. He
adopted a paternal tone, speaking with
the matured judgment of twenty-five
y ea rs.
"Why, of course, my dear, you may
roly on me." He was in a fine conceit
with himse.If for that speech.
“Oh. thank you.”
“Not at all! Not at allT” Darby mar
vels that he restrained himself from sav
ing: “Tut. tut, my dear!” He added
with a relieving inspiration; "Then the
best thing we can do ir to get right
aboard the Beau Gallant.”
“Not in a thousand years,” said Dor
rance firmly.
“Why?”
Dorrance eyed him curiously. “I’ve a
better plan,” he said at length.
“Well?”
“I’ll tell you later. For the present, you
stay here; I'm going to trot down to
the beach and signal Hendricks. We dine
aboard tonight, you and I.”
“That's a mercy. At what time?"
But Dorrance was gone.
"He is just splendid, isn't he?" said
Ruth.
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and w
oxisten.
his own
manV hiPHUNE — OPIUM
of a raginfLAd *..,2;' ,*!.* 1 '
were th” un. j.i.v-i-hciH. 'tkiai. tki.at.v *
Mr. Whart*1 ", jlnaS?
Darby, who -•y co.. Dept, a 1 CHI( AGOk
the breast of ;— ;— —
Wharton shoolS-r fl 1 ■ y '
lLU any one addicted
MORDHJsiE. OPIUM
wli ’.ely
"She glanced from ihe one to the other apparently enjoying the situa ton immensely’
contemplated it mournfully and slowly 1 “Dorrance?” (with a start). "Oh ves
stirred himself to refill if. He realized j He’s all right. If you marry him—”'
that he was very hungry. “I’ve promised." She hung her head in
Dorrance came out abruptly and seat- j such sweet confusion that Tom Darbv
1 Tv t mcjivl (* on t Vi po Miner of t Jio raron/lo nr o o m onn ■ “
mad humor of the proceeding.
"Ruth,” Dorrance began over his shoul
der.
"Who?”
My fiancee, sir!”
"Oh!”
“Introduce me,” she said demurely.
"Ruth, this is my chum, Mr. Tom
Darby—'*
ed himself on the railing of the veranda.
Darby ignored him; he was offended to
the last degree. Finally, however:
“Try a julep, Dick,” he said; "they're
excellent."
""Von were ever a carnal creature,
Tom."’
Darby looked up sharply. Dorrance’s
tone was strange. He found him smiling
rather grimly, an odd. truculent expres
sion which was at variance with his usu
al placid contentment.
"Hello!” Darby was alarmed. “What’s
up?”
“Got nerves. Tom?"
“Not a nerve—all lost in adipose tis
sue." He promptly belied himself by his
discomposure and repeated anxiously.
“What's up?"
“I want your assistance. It's just this,
old fellow, the uncle of this angel—”
“Meaning your betrothed?" Darby grin
ned in hollow fashion.
"Just that same, and seriously.”
Darby experienced a flash of compre
hension: this might explain why Dor
rance was so momentously solemn.
“Man, you don't actually intend to
commit matrimony?”
“But I do. and I may before morning.”
“Lord!" said Darby helplessly.
“No joking matter. Tom. This uncle,
Henry Wharton, as near as 1 can make
out, is a thorough-paced scoundrel.”
“The villain of this drammer?”
G’wan!”
“Listen to me, yon infernal idiot!
Ruth—”
Darby waggled his head hopeb j#;ly.
Dot ranee fixed him with a stern glare.
"Ruth,” he repeated with determination,
“is heiress to a peck of property—this
was more than ever envious.
"But he will not hold you to that prom
ise."
“Indeed." she flamed, deflanflv, "he has
the right."
“1 wish I had,” said Darby. “He's a
lucky dog.”
Here he suddenly executed a backward
leap of some several feet. Ruth had
whipped out from beneath her skirts a
small revolver. To Tom Darby its size
approximated th.^t of a cannon
"Great Scott!" he cried, "yoti can have
Don't” m nt>t th!nking of interfering.
I’or a moment her surprise was onlv
equalled by his own. Then she be-an to
laugh convulsive!**. ° n to
"Take it,” she gasped. "It's-for-you ”
inquired. WaS SUSplcious ' "VVTTat for?" he
“You might need—it—should uncle-
Henry come. He-he would Be angrv ”
Darby approached and took the weapon
gingerly.
tIon S ^ ’° aded? ” he asked - w, ‘h trepida-
■'Of course.”
“Very well, then” (In resignation). He
deposited it softly upon a table, convinced
that at any second he might become an
involuntary suicide, and retired to a
tance. R„th fled Into the hallway Dar'
by eyed the revolver askance and swore
softly, sighed and lit a cigarette.
Twilight was falling. And from behind
him came stifled mirth. mnd
Come 10 o'clock on a cool, starlit night
and the Beau Gallant was speeding
westward, under a full head of steam. To
soiled linen
“I'll have the Nu;v}i of a n ,. ver fail:.,,,
quivering with rag. t> Art ,, rP58 .1!
man, that this is pcdKox. 1212, tliica o, !.
can kidnap—yes. kilp reii t, '
zens at your will, an^ , ...„ t to tax- -ii-
“I wish,” said DarnyM » \/.ink with n- •••
wouldn't wear your cb
week at a time; you spoSH PRSlXcS
Air. Wharton fumed, sq’-'a New York.
laughed. S Insjoor&aarsu
“He's right there, pop. ««!»«win show;, i
erently. “But don't you thf”,'
little lawless?” he added to
"Not at all.” Dorrance inter?- " • > : ! w«will
ing indulgently. "The parson w- . atvia.-o.
ness that you came willingly.” 3
The parson raised expostulating
“At the pistol's point,” he
very truthfully. 'I'll
“N-onscnse! Have another.” The* - ”
son held out his glass to the offered^'
tie. "I merely Invited you to a stagl-ho
my wedding eve, and you came with al
rity, though I did understand that yc
had a pressing engagement.”
The parson smiled faintly. Air. Whar
ton attempted to control himself. ‘I’ll
tell you what,” he said, speaking slowly
and thickly. "If you’ll take us back im
mediately, I’ll give you $1,000."’
Dorrance laughed and shook his head
“Fifteen hundred?"
“You ante too low,” Tom Darby sug
gested.
"Three thousand!” he snarled.
"Oh. make it worth while, and I'll raisa
you, pe>p,” cried Fetter.
"Five!”
• r No," sairl Dorrance.
"Ten, Tnen. I’ll give you ten!”
Air. Wharton's hands were trembling vi
olently. Dorrance politely filled his glass
for him. He tossed it off eagerly.
"Twenty?” he pleaded.
"Whe-ew!” Darby wnistled. "I had no
idea the stakes were so higfi.”
Air. Wharton hesitated; every moment
was now of consequence. He stuttered
painfully.
“Fi-fif-fifty thousand,” he managed to
say.
Dorrance rose and looked at his watch.
“You have no security to offer but your
word.” he said wearily, "and that is
worthless.”
Air. Wharton’s jaw moved loosely, but
no sounds cam*.
“Moreover," Dorrance continued, “I
don’t need your money, nor do 1 want
it.”
“I'll have the law on you," Wharton
repeated sullenly; hope was dead in his
breast.
"I wouldn’t if I were you. And you
will not. This is rather a noisome busi
ness which you’ve attempted—and failed
at; your credit would suffer were it
known. So you will say nothing. I'm
happy to inform you that you're too late.
It is 11 o’clock, and your ward will ho
her own mistress in one hour.”
Dorrance walked to the door and gavo
an order. The engines began to chug
more slowly and the Beau Gallant came
almost to a standstill. Air. Wharton
sputtered threats and obscenities.
“I believe you were right,” said Dor
rance to him; “we do not desire your
company after all. Come on deck. I'll
put you ashore now.”
“The four followed him.
“That is Alobile,” he said Indicating a
haze of light on the northern horizon.
“There is a landing here and a fair road;
by hard walking you should reach it in
the early morning. Thence you can get
home by noon, if you're lucky. But by
that time Ruth and I will be married.”
“So that's your game,” Fetter sneered.
“I thought you didn’t care for the
money.”
“My dear sir," said Dorrance, unmoved,
“when you -have associated with decent
people for any length of time—if you
ever do—your thoughts may be of som -
consequence. At present your opinion is
of absolutely no moment.”
“The boat is ready, sir,” a man re
ported.
"And now. gentlemen, I thank you for
the pleasure which your company has af
forded me. Oh, not a word, sir”—to Air.
Wharton—“the obligation is entirely on
my side. Good evening.” He was bowing
then over the side when a thought struck
Him. “Oh. parson: I quite forgot; we may
need your services. Do not go.”
So the parson stayed—most willingly, it
seemed to Darby. And the Beau Gallant
turned tail on the lights of Alobile, pick’d
up her boat and steamed swiftly back
over her course.
The dawn found the yacht swinging
lazily at anchor. Air. Dorrance came on
deck, refreshed by a batli and a break
fast. yet with a carking doubt for a back
ground to his thoughts. Tie received atu
immediate impression that all nature was
chuckling in huge enjoyment cf his pre
dicament. The tilting wavelets, tremu
lous with living gold; the whirling, eddy
ing breeze; the deep, tender beauty of ihe
sky, flecked sparsely with shreds of mist;
the far reaches of the southern landscape,
palpitant with the touch of spring, to
him ail were laughing softly as -at a suc
cessful practical joke. Even the mocking
birds were, true to their reputation, glee
fully chaffing him from the pines.
He leaned upon the rail, scowled and
lit a cigar, hurling complicated oaths
down at the careless sea.
Here, an hour later, the slothful Darby
found him.
“Well,” cried Darby genially, “for an
expectant bridegrom—”
Dorrance favored him with a heavy
glare.
“Bridegroom.” he said slowly, "be eter
nally—”
“What! Why but yesterday—”
“Was yesterday. Today is another mat
ter. I'm in the devil of a fix.”
“The lady hasn’t sent word refusing
you?” anxiously.
“No. that's just the trouble.”
Darby grinned blandly at the universe.
"Romance," he propounded, "is the salt
of life and its savor. Without it—"
"One escapes the holy bonds of matri
mony. Tom, without exception you art*
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