Newspaper Page Text
AUGUST 23, 1902
FOURTH PAGE
THE SUNNY SOUTH
“iSonny Boy’s” Diary
3y CYRUS TOWN8END BRADY.
MONG the most devoted of
my parishioners was a
certain Mrs. Allen—devot
ed to the church, of
course, that is, although
if I may judge from her
actions, I think she held
me personally in high
esteem as well. When I
became acquainted with
her she was a widow with
one son. Other children,
girls, had been born to
. her, X learned afterwards,
ut s ' le had lost them in their early
childhood, and, after the death of her
husband, who had been a major in the
marine corps of the United States navy,
her life had been entirely devoted to this
son, in whom her heart was so wrapped
up that she fairly worshiped him.
She was a gentle, quiet, retiring little
■woman, sad-faeed and inclined to melan
choly when George, her son, was not
with her. He was a hearty, healthy lad,
abounding in strength and spirits, full of
tin and mischief, but never vicious, and
he certainly adored her with a genuine
enthusiasm. His mother seemed actually
to bask in the sunshine of his presence,
tnd, when they were together, she was a
different woman.
When I first knew them the boy had
just been given an appointment at An
napolis, and. though he graduated at the
head of his class and should naturally
have gone into the line of the navy, he
had followed the fumily tradition by
electing to serve in the marine corps, as
his father and grandfather lyfore him
had done. He had risen to the grade
of first lieutenant, and was one of the
officers of the little band of Unititl States
marines who formed the legation guard
in Pekin during the terrible summer of
1300. i well rememher the fearful anxiety
and yet the superhuman resolution with
which Mrs. A1 !y n confronted those days
of silence and suspense.
Sadly enough, among the first mes
sages which got through from the be
sieged ministers was one announcing the
death of her son. I was with her, of
course, immediately upon the receipt of
the news. Her grief was as silent as it
was terrible. She made no complaint.
The blow just struck her down. Her
heart was affected in some way, and Dr.
Taylor informed me, and I, in turn, told
her, that her days were numbered. 1 felt
that it was best that she should know it.
Now that her son had been taken, the
desire to live left her. and she was al
most happy in the thought that a short
time—a month or two at most, the doc
tor said—would unite them X'ain.
A few days after the receipt of the first
had news, freedom of communication hav
ing been restored meanwhile, the report
of-George's death was contradicted. Some
one had blundered in tlie first message,
and things were in such a state we could
never find out who. He had been des
perately wounded, they said, but would
roceover.
His mother brightened under this en
couraging news. There was a faint rally
and some improvement in her condition,
but nothing of a permanent character.
She realized the situation fully, but she
summoned all her resolution and deter
mination to her assistance and told me
that she could not die until she had seen
her son again. Dr. Taylor thought that
probably she might survive under the
inspiration of her devotion until the hoy,
about whom we continued to receive
if ivorable reports, should come home
again.
So she lingered through the summer-
struggling. anxious, hopeful, determined.
I happened to lie with her on the eventful
day when she received his first letter.
The joy with which she took it from me
and tore it open with her white, feeble,
trembling hands was almost painful to
witness—I felt as if I were introoding
upon a meeting—but her blank look of
astonishment, changing to regret, and
then to hitter disappointment—even an
guish—as she mastered its contents, was
surprising.
"I have lost my boy,” she said with
trembling lips after awhile, as she hand
ed me the letter.
“What?” I cried.
“Oh. no. he is getting better and is com
ing back. I did not mean that, but—but
— he is going to be married. Read it
yourself.”
Why. it was a letter to make any wom
an's heart proud, I thought, and I said so.
There were sober words of thanksgiving
to God that his life had been spared; a
modest expression of satisfaction in the
promotion to a captaincy which had come
to him for his splendid courage during
the siege, notably when he led the at
tack on the sandbag fort on the wall,
where he was wounded, and lots of love
for his mother. That was not all. though.
He had been a demonstrative boy al
ways. 7 suppose. He had lavished affec
tionate endearments upon her and she
had-been first in his heart, hut now—ah,
there was the rub.
I realized, as I reflected on the situa
tion. that I was only a man, and that
no man had ever fathomed the subtle
depths of a woman's, a mother’s heart.
It was as she had said, he was going to
be married. I must admit that nine-
tenths of the letter was filled with de
scriptions of the young woman to whom
he had plighted his troth. He sang her
praises with the blindness of youth and
the ardor of manhood.
They had met for the first time during
the siege. She had been a belated trav
eler who had been caught in the boxer
uprising, and she had 'been forced to take
shelter in the legation. She had shown
herselt to be a heroine, of course. Every
body was heroic in those days. We all
expected they would be, and they were.
After George had been wounded she had
nursed him back to life and won her way
into his heart in the process. It was all
quite natural, certainly, and very ro
mantic. She was coming back with him.
They were to he married by one of the
missionaries in the legation where the
romance had begun as soon as he was
able to stand it, and he hoped soon to'
present to his mother a new daughter,
who was “the best, the sweetest, the
noblest little woman in the worl<V’ and
whom “I love and adore with all my
heart,” and so on until the end of the
letter.
I thought myself that he might have
spared her a little of that; and as I
watched Mrs. Allen's face and tried to
talk to her, I began to have a dim real
ization of the shock to her. That boy
had been everything to her, as I said,
and she to him. She had always been first
in his affection and he in hers. Alone in
the world the two had grown tip to
gether. Now that his life was spared, she
confronted the fact that she was called
upon to share him with another woman.
“Oh, the bitterness of jealousy in old
age! It was there. Oh, the hopeless feel
ing (hat comes over a mother when she
realizes that, in a certain sense, she is
supplanted. It was there. I saw it In the
white face, the pressed lips, the trem
bling hand of the stricken woman lean
ing bark in the chair 'before mo. It mat
ters not that it is the usual course of
life—that did not make it easier for her.
Other mothers had .to bear such things,
we both knew, but now it seemed dif
ferent.
Well, I comforted her as best I could,
said all things possible before I left her,
but to little purpose, I fear. The next
day she was dead! The second shock had
been too much for her. I was with her
when she passed away. When I came
(Copyright, *1902.)
into the room I noticed that the table
by her bed was covered with a pile of
common red-backed blank books, which I
had never seen before.
“ ‘Sonny Boy!’ "—that's what she called
him; in spite of the fact that he was a
great big fellow, and as mainly as a
soldier should be; he was always in her
In death as in life, we will be together.
The book may close over and be opened
no more. He cannot return to me, but 1
shall go to him. I shall write no more.
I have left directions that this story of
a life—or two lives—his and mine—shall
he burned when I am gone to meet 'Son
ny Boy.’ “
“I did not mean that, but—but— he is going to be married."
heart what he had been as a child— | But on the next page the entries began
“ ‘Sonny Boy’s’ diary," she whispered to | again. She had taken up her wonted
lifelong task once more When she found
that he was living. Curiously enough,
while there was joy in the pages now.
I seemed to read in them more of regret
—in spite of herself. The doom written
against her could not be revoked. Yet
the conditions were changed. She had to
look forward to a, long parting instead of
an eternal meeting, and it hurt her. Yet
she must live until he came back. I saw
it was her will power alone that kept her
ttl). She must see him agfi.Tn before she
went out into the dark, or the light rath
er. to wait for him.
So, in a hand that grew more feeble
from day to day. she jotted down her
hopes and longings for her son. How
much the trembling letters told of her
growing weakness, how different were
the characters from the bold, flowing,
graceful writing of the beginning.
Finally I came to the entry—the last—
on the day she had received the news of
his approaching n arriage. Oh, the an
guish that ran through the written
words! They seemed to gasp out her
grief from the page, sometimes 1 could
scarcely decipher them. 1 turned hack
to the entry following the report of his
death and I declare It was no more
heartbroken.
Another woman had come between
me. "I want you to take them—keep
them until he comes home, and then give
them to him. And I want you to read
them, too, so that you may know—and—
and—sympathize.”
Sympathize with whom, I wondered.
With George, or with her? Ah, I soon
found out. I thought she had gone after
the prayers had been said, she lay on
the bed so still and quiet. But she open
ed her eyes presently and whispered
brokenly in the silence;
‘‘Tell him—I love him better than—
than—anyone in the whole world—will —
ever—love him—‘Sonny—Boy.’ ”
After that her eyes remained open un-
* til I closed them.
I took the books home and the evening
of the day of the funeral 1 sat down to
read them. It was late at night—or
rather early in the morning—when I fin
ished them, and then I did something for
which my conscience has troubled me
ever since.
1 wish that I could tell you all that
was in those little worn blank books!
Every word of them had been written
by her own hand. She began with his
birth, the first entry being made as soon
as she was able, to hold the pen. | he
chronicled religiously every event that
bore even the remotest relation to the
boy. You could see how he grew into her them! With unconscious cruelty, in that
life, how he became a part of it, and - fatal letter, George had told her over
finally as the years passed by, all of it.
There was nothing that he did or said
which was not noted. Ills most trivial
actions, his most unimportant words,
were all faithfully set down and comment
ed upon. In those books was the history
of the development of a human being,
nay, the development of a great passion
as well.
As he grew older and his mother lost
successively his father and the two little
girls, it was easy to see how the boy
became more and more to her. The en
tries were longer and more connected-
more coherent, I should say. There were
whole pages filled with speculations con
cerning him. She set down the ambitions
she cherished for his work, the hopes
born in her heart for his future, her
dreams of his achievements that were to
he. She quoted bits front his letters when
he was away at school. She inserted
photographs of hint in all stages of de
velopment. She wrote out the prayers
that she made for his welfare.
The entries abounded with expressions
of her ever-growing, absorbing love for
him. Yes, and when he had his boyish
flirtations and had evidently written to
her ahout the charming girls he had met
the jealousy of a mother’s heart spoke in
her comments. .It was quite evident to
me, as I read on. absorbed in it all. that
she would never have been able to hear
the idea of any one coming between
her and that lad. How she rejoiced in
his successes and love for her! Tivre
were troubles, too; illnesses, scrapes, but
her love never wavered, and tilings al
ways seemed to come right in the end.
I could see that the keeping of that
diarj- had become a passion with her.
She confessed herself to it as a devotee
might to some spiritual adviser. She
poured out her heart on those pages
which no living eye but mine had ever
seen. I verily believe. She was absolutely
true, entirely frank. The hook was a self
revelation. all unconscious. I could see
the ennobling effect of that great pas
sion. She grew greater as I read on and
on. A soul was laid bare In the written
pages. I seemed to be treading on halloa
ed ground ns I tenderly turned the faded
leaves. No one could ever have spoken
aloud as she wrote. It's not in nature to
do so. It was her secret heart, her most
sacred feelings, her inmost soul, that lived
and vibrated In the silent letters. I seem
ed to be looking at things not meant for
mortal eyes.
And through it all there was a note
of depreciation. Was she, could she, b'e
worthy of him? Oh, the sweetness of the
humility of a mother?
But I cannot linger to tell the story,
all I read, all I divined. At last came
the entries of the present year. When
he had gone away she had sworn she
would be brave. He was a soldier, he
must do his duty, and ttphold the honored
name of his father, but. oh. the anxiety
of it all! I could see that It had almost
killed her. yet she had kept up under
the dreadful strain until the news of his
death came.
1 am not ashamed to say that I put
the book down and cried like a baby
when I read what she had written.
Broken-hearted sentences, bits of pray-
er, words of scripture, "O, Absolom. my-
son, my son!” Tears on the pages. The
pages were alive with her words. As I
said, they spoke as no human voice could
have spoken. They told a tale which hu
manity could not have revealed. And her
heart was broken. •
Then came the entry of the day when
I had told her she was doomed. The
subdued Joy with which she heard the
news, with which she looked forward
to the prospect of a speedy meeting, was
quite evident. One phase struck me on
that page.
"The work of years is over. I lay down
the pen—” she had written. “ 'Sonny
Boy’ ”—she never failed to use that title;
she clung to it more tenaciously as he
grew older. It seemed vety sweet to
me—“is gone, and I am going, thank God.
and oven^gain how he loved the woman
"ne was about to marry! She could not"
get away from it. Innocently dnough
he had given her to understand that ho
loved the girl more than all the world,
Thoughtlessly lie plunged this dagger Into
his gentle mother's heart.
I didn't blame him for his feelings. He
could not help them, and as,I said, it
was human nature, anyway. The experi
ence is common to every mother In great
er or less degree. She had to expect It
or she ought to have done so. Still I did
wish he had not been quite so enthusias
tic; not that it would have made much
difference, for it was the fact that killed.
His mother had intuition enough, she
loved him enough, to divine the truth
through any reticence.
"I can’t bear it.” i read, “to knoW
that I have no longer the first place—
that another woman is nearer to him
than I! To feel that the first of his
love is given to a stranger! The best of
his heart is hers! Who Is she? What
right had she to come .between us?
What has she done for.hhn compared to
me? Ever since he was first put In my
arms, ever since I heard him cry, the
first time, after the awful pain and an
guish of deliverance, ne has been mine!
Mine! Mine! And she has taken him!
Oh. God pity me! I . annot give him up
and live! He must not bring her here. I
shall never like her. I hate her! I do
not believe she is—oh. how 'wicked I am!
And he will be so har-py, while I suffer. I
am glad he will be happy, but It kills
me. Thank God it will not be long! I
don’t want to see her. Pity me, my
Savior! You had a mother! I am an old.
lonely, dying woman Mercy! Mercy! I
don’t want to see him. either—that I
should write It—my son! With a light
In his eyes and love in his voice for an
other woman! I shall die now. Per
haps I may find < mfort then. But I
shall never forget. Tie wrote about her
on seven pages of Ids letter! And one
was enough for me! Oh, 'Sonny Boy!’ to
lose you, to—your old mother Is break
ing her heart! Be sured of one thing,
my son: T love you and have loved you
better than anyone in the whole world
will ever love you’’—these were the words
she had whispered to me on her death
bed—“no matter how much Joy you may
have, how much happiness, no matter
where you may go, whom you may meet,
what they may say, no one in this world
will over love you a >• I have. No one will
ever think of you as your mother!”
That was all. And I'm afraid it was
true.
T sat there in the gray of the morn
ing with the open book in my hand.
; She had told me to give the volume to
i George when he returned, and I could
I not—if T desired to do so—disregard her
wish: yet tn lay before him the sorrow,
the regret, the sadtn-s of that last entry,
to leave him with that final thought of
his mother to cloud .is wedded life with
a Suspicion which T knew he could never
dispel, that his joy had been her death,
his marriage had broken her heart—I
coYild not d.o it! Sti'.i, to withhold from
that boy,the last words of his mother-r-
it did not seem right.
What did I do? you ask. Well, with a
horribly guilty feeling, I cut the last
leaf containing those, terribly piteous
words out of the diary. I did It care
fully. so that he would never know that
anything had been taken away. I felt
like, a thief all the time, somehow.
I did not destroy the leaf. I could not
do so. I put it away carefully with my
other treasures and when George came
homo with his sweet, beautiful young
wife—and I thanked God he had her to
help him bear his deep, unfeigned sor
row at the loss of his mother—I gave
him the diary without the missing leaf,
and her last message to him, as I deliv
ered it, was simply of love and blessing.
And I almost felt as If his mother
thanked me for it. I hope so.
I take out that missing leaf some
times when I am al ne in my study, and
read it over and w nder whether, after
all, I did right or no
Ladies* Change
CONTINUED FROM THIRD PAGE.
‘But not a flower was more purely pal lid than the slim girl who set them
in place."
ped his head in his arms, but in a minute
was on his way to the telegraph office.
«•***•
At 6 o’clock that evening Brother Axley
looked wonderingly about the rectory
parlor. He had it very nearly to him
self—there was only Jane Adair and the
flowers beside. White flowers, lilies, roses,
syringa, bloomed everywhere. The air
was sweet with their scent. But not a
flower was more purely pallid than the
slim girl who had set them in place.
Misty white drap'eries clung about her,
her eyes were brooding, her whole face
tense. From without came faint voices,
and the hushed noise of steps. The parish
had come nobly to the rector’s help. Six
of the notable matrons were in conclave
as to whether anything could be done to
make the house more bridal or the sup
per finer.
Every ear was strained for the sound
of wheels. Dale waited upstairs. Unless
the train was unaccountably late' it was
strange that Mr. Francis, who had gone .
to meet it. did not fetch in the bride. He
had gone alone. "We grew up together—
Herman, Elise and I," he bad said to
Jane. “She was the dearest comrade to
both of us. Now, I should hate myself
if I did not insist upon acting a brother's
part.”
“What can keep them? I am sure I
heard the whistle half an hour back! The
drive never takes over five minutes,”
Brother Axley said. Jane held up her
hand. “I think they are coming,” she
said. “Call Mr. Dale, please. He ought
to meet her—at the threshold.”
She spoke the name with a little hard
catch. Brother Axley looked at her keen
ly. "I'm afraid—afraid this is a beginning
of sorrows,” he said. The sound of wheels
grew louder—before it was ^tilled there
was a stronger sound—ringing steps with
a lighter fail echoing them along the piaz
za floor. Next minute Rector Francis
came through a French window, half
carrying a frightened, blushing creature,
who hung her head. "Herman!” Francis
calfed commandingly. “Oh, Herman!
Come! I have dared to save the three
of us—from ourselves.”
As Dale half leaped through the door
Francis said, joyously: “Kiss my wife,
old man! We were married on the way
here. When I met Elise and read her
eyes—well! There was nothing else to do.
All along I have not been quite blind—
now, you two.” catching Jane’s hand and
Dale’s, "have only to be as wise—then the
four of us will live happy ever after.”
Dale clung to Jane's hand and faced
the minister, radiant. And so, amid her
own flowers, Jane's heartbreak was turn
ed to gladness. Cupid, calling the dance
of events, had trade the figure, “Ladles,
change!”
Hhe Mem-Sahib’s Pearl. Necklace
mind In «.« P“ rel “* e ?
ly saved Halstead 50 per cent or more.
Tall lithe and muscular, Abdool had a
with intelligence, a voice soft and mu
sical and pleasing manners. He had
Arab blood In his veins, but hte birthplace
was some village In the Punjaub and the
first vessel he sailed In was a Calcutta,
pilot brig. He had no particular religion,
belonged to no caste, and thoroughly
cosmopolitan.
To \bdool the skipper told all he knew
concerning tho missing necklace. THe in
terview was long. It was decided that
Abdool should go ashore that night and
make his quarters somewhere n the vil
lage and conduct his Investigations In his
own way. He assured his skipper that
if the necklace was still In Bimlipata
he would recover it, as he had great re
spect for the Mem Sahib, who In turn
had a kindly feeling for her lover's faith
ful retainer.
Captain Halstead went ashore, took tif
fin with the master attendant and his
daughter, and by his request Minnie kept
secret the loss of her necklace, being as
sured that the thief would soon be run to
earth. How. he dtd not attempt to ex
plain to himself or the girl, except on
the ground of an abiding faith In Abdool’s
ability to solve any mystery in which a
thieving native of India was concerned.
At dusk the' same evening Abdool land
ed on the beach. He had thrown off
his smart uniform, and had left aboard
the Sea Sprite his silver boatswain's pipe
—that emblem of his office whpse cherry
trill summoned his brown Dascars to
duty. His attire was simple, a turban
and a loin cloth, in whose recesses were
concealed a few gold coins. Avoiding the
bungalows of the Sahibs, ho stole away
toward the dwelling of the natives, which
were some distance from the shore, and
disappeared in the darkness to prosecute
his quest fc).- subtle and serpentine meth
ods known only to himself. *
Although Miss Fothergill thought the
loss of her much-prized necklace was
known only to herself and her ayah, as a
matter of fact it was already the subject
of much talk In the bazaar. Between
the songs with the monstrous tom-tom
accompaniment with which the natives
make hideous the earlier hours of the
night, the mysterious disapbearance of the
jewel was discussed with exaggerated em
bellishment over the smoking of much
tobacco and the drinking of large quan
tities of pan—that potent mixture of betel-
nut and churam so dear to the heart of all
Hindustan.
Abdool had suspected this, and he in
sinuated himself into the largest group
of gossips as a Madrassee just returned
from working on a Ceylon coffee planta
tion. and traveling northward to his na
tive village. The hospitable hubble-bub
ble was passed to him. and after filling
his lungs several times with the pungent
tobacco fumes he sat down and listened
to the talk.
Three days later just as the master at
tendant and a few guests, among whom
were Mr. Simpson, the Baptist pastor,
and Captain Halstead, has finished tif
fin and were about to enjoy their coffee
and cheroots under the shade of the ve
randa. the Kliansaraan made his salaams
and informed the Sahib that a great magi
cian wished to display to the presence
the wonders of his art. He was not,
urged the Khansaman. an ordinary,
every-day snake charmer and juggler, but
a wonderful person to whom the gods had
vouchsafed great gifts.
Mr. Fothergill had been in India so long
that he had had a surfeit of jugglery,
but not so his daughter, who Importuned
him prettily and persistently to allow the
magician to perform. In this she was
supported by the pastor, who. In his mild
way, worshipped the girl and Indulged In
vain and ambitious visions concerning her
future. Captain Halstead was neutral
and puffed at his cheroot in silence. Mr.
Fothergill yielded gracefully, and ordered
the butler to bring the juggler into fhe
compound.
Preceded by two assistants carrying a
large basket, there appeared upon the
scene a tall, gaunt man whose bare head
was a mass of matted white hair, which
hung below his shoulders. His forehead
was decorated with pigments of white and
red. which made a crescent shaped caste
mark unknown on the coromande! coast.
Nobody would have recognized in this olu
fakir (the word should be understood in
its Oriental sense) the cerang of the Sea
Sprite. His disguise was artistic and
wonderful. It almost deceived Captain
Halstead, who was the only one present
in the secret. One of the master atten
dants' staff in the custom house was sent
for to act as interpreter.
"He seems to he the grandfather of all
the jugglers," remarked the pastor to
Miss Fothergill in a feeble attempt to
be funny.
The basket was opened and the usual
repertory of an Indian juggler was cred
itably gore through. Snakes danced
rhythmically, the sword and basket trick
was performed as usu^l without blood
shed, the mango tree sprouted from a
kernel.
The Master Attendant began to yawn in
utter weariness.
“Ask that old impostor what he means
by giving us all that antediluvian per
formance. Has he nothing new to show
us?"
The interpreter repeated the Sahib's
wish to the' Magician and then translat
ed the reply.
“He says that if the Sahib desires
something still more wonderful, some
thing indeed surprising, he is prepared
• obey the commands of the Heaven-
born. He says he will ask no stated re
ward, but will rely on the widely known
generosity of the Presence whose hum-
ole slave he is.”
Mr. Fothergill nodded his acquiescence
■ml th-‘ Chief Juggler prepared- for his
crowning achievement. Miss Fothergill
summoned her Ayah and ordered her to
fan her with a great palm leaf fan, plead
ing that she was oppressed by the beat.
This was singular, as a cool sea breeze
CONTINUED FROM FIRST PAGE.
was blowing. But'then who can com
prehend the vagaries of womankind .
■tag.clan informed the interpreter
that he required the services,of % small
boy In order that the spell might w”'*;*
correctly, and begged that the Samj
. t one so that there might be
no suspicion of collusion.
There is no dearth of small boys in an
ndian village, and Miss Fothergill sent a
servant for one of her brightest scholars.
While waiting for the boy the juggler
muttered some weird kind of Incantation
to the accompaniment of the tom-toms.
The boy came—an intelligent lad of
about eleven—and - the seance began. The
Magician wrote several words on a sheet
of paper, which he tore into seven pieces.
These scraps he placed in a brass lota,
or bowl, together with a smaJl piece of
cashrificlal ghee, some Incense such as
is used for the making of joss-sticks and
a little coriander seed. Then he made the
hoy squat on his haunches and on the
palm of his right hand he drew a square
and In the hollow of the palm he poured
a dark fluid from a silver flask, telling the
boy to be careful and not spill any of
it. Next he set fire to the scraps of pa
per in the bowl and gs the fumes arose
che wizard continued his incantations in
a language which the interpreter con
fessed he did not understand.
"Now, boy, look steadfastly on the
black water in your hand. Do you see
anything?" 1
The boy replied that he saw nothing.
Then followed the burning of more in
cense and further muttering on the pa.
. ,.ie wizard.
•He doesn't seem to be able to work
-••acle.” said the pastor to Miss Foth-
ergill.
“I see a man on horseback waving a
red flag,” exclaimed the boy. evidently
excited and alarmed. (It should be borne
away from me. Now I see him plainly
I know him well. He Is Ram.-ami, tj,,’
bhisti-wailah. I can see clearly
phant's leg.”
This was remarkable, to say t]
Ramsiml was a low caste Hit -! « roai
Calcutta who was employed n , wat( „
carrier. It was his duty to fin jj| 8 j
FothergiH's bath with salt w -. T overy
morning, carrying it on his : - k i n 4
bag of skin.
“This promises to be ami- ^
Mr. Fothergill as he ordered R : lm i
be summoned forthwith.
The man appeared, salaaming
ly to the company. He was .
of a fellow, looked down up a
of his low caste and shunned i ;nt
of nTs diseased leg. which the I.
hib had pronounced tte- most r.
case of elephantiasis he ev- r
•\vhere are the Mem-Sah! .
Bring them to me at once. jf r
Fothergill in the vernacular v
could speak well enough wh<
moved him.
"What beads does the I’r r-:-f» r
to? Your servant has seen n j
swear it by the head of my
my witness that I am Innocen;
tector of the poor has hern
my enemies. They are liars ai
of liars. T am a I n
the truth—”
“Ho Khitmatgar! choki-d.ir
shouted Captain Halstead.
This call for the speedy pn
policeman had its effect on 1:
wept and grovt led on -
dirt.
"I will speak the whole t
carried water for the Mem- -
I saw the door of her room
before had I seen the room
Sahib. I looked In. and lo'
trXUllPU clii»A aiai iiiuu. t — f i . ,1.. r
in mind that every word uttered was at , I saw a string > •
once translated to the audience by the thinking the Mem-Sahib car -
, . _ trilling a thing. I tick it
al
interpreter.)
"The charm is now complete," said tho
wizard. “Does the Sahib desire the boy
to see anybody dead or far away?
“I yield precedence to the church, po
litely replied Mr. Fothergill. “Now. Mr.
Simpson, here's the opportunity of your
life to pry into the supernatural. I'll
follow you.”
The pastor hesitated, but an encourag
ing word and smile from Miss Fothergill
spurred him on. Mr. Simpson belonged to
the Manchester school of politics. He
had two idols—Charles Spurgeon, the
prpacher, and John Bright, the orator.
Neither of these is a familiar figure in
Bimlipatam. Through the interpreter he
told the wizard to summon John Bright,
thinking to have a -hearty laugh at the
expense of the juggler.
The 7>oy at the wizard's command said
to the man on horseback, whose reflection
was imaged in his hand: “My master
commands you to bring before my eyes
John Bright, so that I may see him plain
ly as I see you.”,
“He has gone,” said the boy, “and an
other has icome, a big man with a big
head, a round face, with a short white
beard under his chin. His coat is black
and on his head Is a large black hat. like
Simmons Sahib wears when he goes to
church, only the rim is wider.”
This would pass very well for a crude
description of the Quaker statesman
from the viewpoint of a small native
boy. At any rate it surprised the worthy
pastor, though he tried to pass it off as
an absurdity.
The Master Attendant was next. At
that time the Tichborne claimant was
very much in the public eye. So he hap
pened to think of him as one concerning
whom there could be no mistake. Tho
boy was told to summon him.
“A great, fat man, with a belly like a
buffalo's, the fattest man ever seen. He
is smoking a big cigar. On a table be
side him a large bottle and a glass.”
“Now, Simmons, what do you say to
that? The claimant sure enough!” re
marked the Master Attendant.
“It's all a put up job,” said the pastor,
betrayed into slang.
“It's your turn. Minnie, now,” said her
father. “Who is it that you would like
to see?”
“I would like the boy to see the pic
ture of the thief that stole a string of
my beads out of my room,” quickly re
torted Miss Fothergill. with a searching
glance at her Ayah’s face. It seemed to
her that the young woman flushed up
under her dark skin.
The wizard, when Informed of her de
sire. said this was a difficult matter, and
would require more incense and stronger
charms. What reward would the Mem-
Sahib pay to her slave If the image of
the thief appeared.
“Tell the old man that I'll settle that
question satisfactorily after the show.”
said Captain Halstead, taking part in the
proceedings for the first time. The in
terpreter so informed the juggler, adding
that the Kuptan Sahib was a rich and
generous gentleman, the protector of the I .. .... „
poor, whose simple word was more to he Minnie, who, of course, had beet
trifling
and my wife tied it around
my little son. It is then
Presence finds that I speak
may I be put to sham--."
Assuming his most judic
Fothergill dispatched a m
the chilli. He was treating tte
a huge jest, thinking the mi.
lace was a trumpery string of
jiffair had been amusing aft-
and he was determined to
finish. The house of tin bhist w
not for distant and while wait
arrival of the child the comp in
the wizard and his works. The
and his assistants squatted m
of the compound passing a hiilil
from one to the other, inhaling ti
[ fumes of the strong tobacco u:.U
| lungs were distended and exit
smoke from mouth and nosrri'
word passed between them. Tie .
the end in grave silence.
Presently the clang of a nagg -
an’s angry voice filled the air. Tie
had seized the chiM bodily at 1
him off in his arms, yelling and
ing. The- language of the Caleutt
is rich in vituperative adjectiv
nouns, and the woman showed f.
was an adept in their use as ste
ed her offspring with shrill outer
“Tell that woman that we w
her youngster,” shouted Mr. F-
to the interpreter.
Ramsami had Indeed spoken tte
When the struggling child was str
ened out he was found to he
with the exception of a silver
around his waist and Minnie's pearl
lace round his neck.
Mr. Fothergill was astonished,
pearl necklace in his estimation
priceless, not only because of its intr^
value, which was great, but because
its associations. Had it not been for
joy in its recovery, Miss Minnie wo
probably have been hauled over the co;
for her carelessness, the Master Attenda
being at times a choleric man. as t
peons in the custom house well kn
Under the circumstances he behaved v-
well. He let off Ramsami (who kr-
nothing about the value of the pearls))
a reprimand. Minnie ran to her room .
appeared again in a moment with a st
of great blue beads, which she cl. --
round the neck of the sobbing chi’ I
dignqnt at being robbed of his finer)
“Here, you little dear, you shall
your beads, then!” she exclaimed
ressing the small specimen of Hind.,
inanity. The mother, seeing the
gaudier gewgaw, was soon console!
Master Attendant ordered champac
the incident was closed.
* * * * •
“Yes, Halstead. I think I can tr..
with you. It is clear she is not
take care of herself. A minx who
a fifty thousand rupee necklace
floor of her room ought really to
guardian.”
That Is what the Master Attend
to the Kuptan Sahib as they sat
piazza that evening.
Oh. you dear, darling papa!” ex
relied on than the solemn oath of the
ordinary Sahib.
The magician seamed reluctant, but the
interpreter's eloquence at last prevailed.
There was more scribbling on another
sheet of paper, which was burned in the
bowl with more ghee and incense. The
smoke of this new supply was blacker j
and denser than before and the fumes
more searching and pungent. The incan
tations. too, were louder. The boy's right
hand was washed and the mystic dia
gram was described again with the
wizard's pen and more blaiek fluid was
poured into his hollowed palm out of the
silver flask. Then more mutterings in the
unknown tongue.
“What do you see, boy? Look care
fully!”
“I see a snake with two heads, it is
a fierce snake and seems about to
strike.”
“Tell the snake that the master com
mands him to bring to you the thief who
stole the Mem-Sahib's string of beads ”
Miss Fothergill could not keep her eyes
off the Ayah, who appeared to her to
have rather a guilty look.
“The snake has gone,” said the hov
“and a man has come. His head is turned
ing. as she threw her arms about
gentleman and al must hugge,]
death.
* * * *
“How did you manage that devil'
ness?” inquired Captain Halstead
dool.
*‘I don't know,” replied the S-
made the square and said the \x
father, an Arab sheik, taught tr.-
one who learns the thirteen w >r
repeats them according to the r
gain the power."
Captain Halstead did not feel lik
ing Adbool that he did not believ-
and that the whole business had >
ranged beforehand. On the contra- e
rewarded the Serang most !
long after he saw the same 11
repeated at Cairo by an Arab m-i-
To this day the Kuptan Sahib is
mystified.
• * • • •
Captain Halstead and his bridi
thejr honeymoon aboard the Sea
which was towed into the Meditt r
through the Sues canal. Adbo<
Lascar crew remained with him. Ar.i
did the ayan who ha i b- e
suspected stick by the Mem-Sal
was doubly happy in the post—is
husband and the recovery of her tr is-
ured pearl necklace.
THE MAN WITH THE LEVEL HEAD-Ah. you old sinner! Nn " a , nt t0 <J,e! »
the country, will you? You ought to suffer! But Why didn’t w,cked! You will go on a bat while y<
yotl S 2 ASCA J RET Can<J y c »U>«tic before goTng SbJd? v a ?* told * ou when I left you last night. £
you sleep, fix up your stomach and bowels, cool your feverish live? and’ T° U d feel Hke I do. They work wt
an nver. and make you feel fine and dandy the morning •«