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-NUMBER FIFTEEN.
Atlanta, Ga., Week Ending June 11, 1904
50c PER YEAR—SINGLE COPY5c.
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99
JSy Ellsworth. Kelley
First of the Outdoor Stories
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H
UNDAY morninR 1 Sunday
morning- in June!
Two oid men sat under
the shade of the maple
trees in .the front yard
while the church bells
jangled and jarred and
boomed over the housetops
and out across the valley.
“ ’Pears to me like
church bells soon - purties’
when you’s away off from
’em, 2 or 3 miles, say,”
volunteered the old man
with the billy goat beard, he whom the
boys affectionately called “Uncle Joe.”
‘‘Same way with a brass band,” ob
served UnoJe Billy, he of the smooth
shaven face. “You git up close an’ it
sort o’ raps your nerves an’ breshes your
fur all the wrong way. uRt git away
off, say ’bout half a mile of a still eve
nin'—an’ I kin shet my eyes and imagine
I hear the heavenly hosts a-twangin' on
the<r harps an’ poundin' their cymbals.”
‘ Yes, I’ve noticed the same thing. Bill.
Say, do you remember when we was lit
tle eodg’ers, when we first begin to go
pardners, an’ heerd a church bell the
fust time? We ’magined it said, 'Home,
oh come,’ jest as plain as speakin'.”
"Shorely, shorely! An' that reminds
me! It’s gittin’ mighty near church time,
an’ I must be pokin’ along. Joe, T wisht
—old as you air, too—I wisht you'd go to
church—oftener.”
Old Undo Joe nodded.
"I s'pose you do. Bill, I s'pose you do.
I’d like to, real well, but not today—I
can’t go today. Fact is. Bill, I don’t
want you to do anything ag*ln your con
science, but I’ve laid off to take a walk
today, a little walk out in the country.
As I said, I don’t want you to do any
thing ag’in your conscience, but I’d kind
o’ set my mind on havin’ you go with
me.”
“Muoh obleegea, Jose.ph, much obleeged!
But I couldn’t think of it. I haven’t
misled ehundh for nigh on twenty years.
An’—do you think it Is right to go a-wa.n-
de.-1'i orr tbc.t w i--—01 Sunday? Imi you.
now?”
’’flight’ Shucks! Of course it is! Eonk
here, Bill! For the sake of argyment,
say we take a walk. We go out along
the green hedgerows. Wa see the wild
rosea bloomin’ an’ the growin’ corn. Wa
hear the mockin’ birds a-singfn’ fit to
kill. We take great, big, full breaths
of country air. Same as we used to
when we were pardners. Don't you re
member how we used to see who could
make his chist swell the biggest?
Healthy, wasn't it? All them things
Is innocent and all tuem things
is good. Who made ’em? God. What
fer did he make ’em? Fer you an' me to
enjoy! How can we enjoy ’em here in
town? W- jest can’t. Which is worst
now. You go to church an’ you sit
there on a hard seat, an’ by an’ by, ’slid
o' listenin’ to the preacher, the fust
thing you know you feel the soft air
stealing' through the winder, an’ then a
bird song floats in on the air. an’ it
makes you feel good all over. An' then
the fust thing you know you don't know
a blessed thing the preacher Is savin’.
Ain't that so, now William? Ain’t that
to’"
“I don’t know but that it is—some
times," feebly admitted Uncle Billy.
‘Of course it’s so!” triumphantly ex
claimed Uncle Joe. “Now let me tell
you what. Bill! Y’ou go with me today.
Eet.’s take a walk. Bet’s take our din
ner along. Bet’s go out fer an old-fash
ioned, good day of enjoyin’ ourselves,
an' when we git back—an’ I'll leave it to
you. Bill—If you say we haven't had a
good time—a rale old-fashioned enjoyable
time, Jike we used to have when we was
boys—an' pardners—w’y I'll 'go to meetin’
with you regular every Sunday fer six
months.” Uncle Billy paused, hesitated,
and the man who hesitates—you know
the rest of the proverb. Uncle Jo,* was
once again the dominent power in tire
partnership that had begun when they
were boys, years and years and years
ago.
While the second bell wa s calling.
"Come, oh come! ' two bent forms crept
stealthily out through the suburban or-
card, climbed the fence very carefully,
and stole down the inside of the hedg-
row along a “turning row,” toward the
river.
At rho end of the hedcV they paused
fo a moment’s rest
Uncle Joe fanned himself with his palm-
leaf hat Uncle Billy looked at Hie wav
ing dn. it-green corn h ap^ eciative
eyes. Then he grew reminiscent.
"Joseph” (when Uncle Billy said “Jo
seph” in the way he said it then, it
meant he was going to say something
not quite commonplace); "Joseph, it was
just sech a day as this when my first,
wife—when Mary and I—was walkin’
home from meetin’—down in the old
"Guess I’d Better Git. Back to Town an' Let Folks Know Where You Air."
neighborhood—when I mustered up cour
age to ask her if she’d have me. The
brown thrushes was singin’. an’ the wil l
roses was in bloom. 1 remember, ’cause
she asked me to gather a boka of ’em. 1
had no jack-knife, an’ pullin’ ’em off
1 tore my hand on a big prickly briar.
She tied up my scratched hand with her
hand kef chef, an" when ] felt the touch of
her spft fingers as she did It, 1 up an’ ast
her to let me take her hand until dea t
should part us. An’ -she did—until deu i
parted us. ’
A strange light hurn’Kl dimly *r Un &
Joe s eyes as he listened—a light that
dickered for an instant and died out,
even as a tiny flame will sometimes shoot
up and die out from a deserted camp
fire smoldering by the roadside in the
darkness
He, too, in the long age. had wor
shiped at the shrine of Mary—but Billy
had never known.
A gentle wind stirred the hedge leaves
a nfl sent ripple after ripple across the
whitening wheat fields
“Fui-ty. isn’t it?” remarked Uncle Joe,
waving his hand toward the wheat fields.
’ But let’s keep pluggin’ along toward the
river. There’s a nice shady place by the
old sycamore where we kin eat our din
ner.”
Half an hour later they were at the
old sycamore, whose misshapen trunk
hung far out -over the pool of water
where, as boys, they had fished and bath-
,-d on many a happy sumvic. d*v
‘Tm glad, there’s no boys here today,"
sighed Uncle Billy. “It does seem awful
to me that hoys a.s is brought up by re
spectable, God-fearin’ parents will be so
wicked as to fish an' swim on the Sabbath
day."
“Boy nature an’ boss nature is purty
much alike the world over,” sagely re
sponded Uncle Joe. “I don't see that
boys is any wuss than they war when we
was boys. Bill, you know you've been
licked like sixty fer the same identical
tricks. An’ licked fer what? Jest ’cause,
you wps a-havin’ the only downright, rale
good time you ever got a chance to have.
I never had any boys of my own, but
I’ll tell you right here that if I had
forty boys, an’ they all wanted to go
swimmin' on Sunday, why, they could
go. an’ what's more, I'd go with ’em."
The audacious wickedness of such a sen
timent fairly took away Uncle Billy's
breath.
"Why, Joseph! You—you shorely
wouldn't think o' bein' so wicked!"
"Wicked nothin'! That's jest the way
you used to talk when we was boys—
pardners. It was ’Joseph!' an' ‘JosephT
An' you was Into as much devilment as
T was, too! An’ always maltin' folks
believe 'at I led you into it!—Dog my
skin! I’m goin’ to have that fish if I
have to wade in an’ chase him out on
the bank!”
Uncle Joe had. while talking, taken a
hook and line from his pocket and fas
tened it to an abandoned pole. Then he
nvmaged to catdh a gasshopper. He
Impaled it to his satisfaction, and gave
a cast that showed he had once hern
a not unscientific angler. But, dex
terous as was the cast, the bass refused
to rise to the alluring hopper. Unde
Billy sat in the shade and looked on with
grave, troubled face. What would old
Brother Meecham say if he were to hear
of his deviation from the, straight and.
narrow path? Xo doubt at this moment
Brother Meecham was standing up be
fore the "class” telling his hopes and
fears, his temptations and triumphs.
“Brethren, the snows of many winters
lie upon my head. I am grown feeble in
body, and well I know that soon the Mas
ter will call for me. Ob. brethren, pray
for me that I may ‘be found a-t the post
of duty when my summons comes to give
an account of my stewardship.”
Uncle Billy could hear Rrother Mee-
cha.n say it juU. as plainly as ;f he were
sitting there in' class listening. He aI-‘
ways gave in his testimony after Broth
er Meecham. He felt a chilly sensation.
“What if the Bord should call me right
now, an’ find me at the river, fishtn'Y"
The agony of the thought made Uncle
Billy groan aloud.
"9het up Bill! Fish won’t bite ir you
make so much noise.”
“I don’t care if they don’t! Joe, you're
olu enough to know better than to fish
on Sunday.”
“Well, stop your clatter, or I’ll come
back there an’ make you.”
Now, it had been Uncle Billy's failing
when a boy not to he able to "take a
dare.” He always got the worst of
physical encounters. But the very next
tima he was “dared” he would again lead
a forlorn hope, because he was a coward—
a moral coward.
So little wonder Is it that, under the
old feeling of moral cowardide, he replied:
“Oh. you will, will you? Mabby you'd
like to try it right now ”
“Bill, if you don’t shet your old fool
mouth I'll—T’ll come up there an' make
you eat dirt!”
“You will, will you?” yelled the now
properly infuriated William. "You will,
will you! I'd like to see you try it on.
Try it on right now.”
Uncle Joe stuck his fish pole in the
sand, spat on his hands and walked up
to his bellicose “pardner.” He made a
grab for Uncle Billy’s collar, hut Unde
Billy slid uunder his arm, caught rum
“side holts.” and “under holts” at that.
As a boy tussle It would have been com
monplace. But when old men wrestle—!
Kach man’s face showed tense, set jaws
and watchful eyes
At that instant Uncle Billy happened to
glance toward the river. He wondered if
any one wmj= watchiggr. His glen c
caught the violent sway of the fishing
£ole. he broke "holts” and exclaimed:
"Joe. you've got im!”
T nele Jpe made a clumsy, rheumatic
old run. and was just in time to grasp the
pole as it pulled out of the sand. Dex-
terously he guided the fish, for the mus
cular sen se told him that the line was
not strong enoqgh to draw the game
baptive from the water. He played it as
well as he could, hoping to tire it. But
his prey kept dashing wildly from side
to side of the pool. Uncle Joe's old arms
grew tired.
"Bill, Bill!! You’ll have to spell me a
bit I'm tuckered oi” I’ll go hslvets
with j-ou.”
Uncle Billy had forgotten his late mis
givings in the excitement of the moment.
He relieved Uncle Joe, who dropped down
in the shade panting.
The big fish began to show signs of
tiring. The struggles grew more feeblp,
CONTINUED ON PAGE THREE.
l
MY HARRIS BISR&QM-
SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAP
TERS.
Chevalier Henri d’Aubant. a French
freelance, is in Dresden with Barbara
Klikeff. a Russian adventuress, whom, he
has just discovered, has a long trail of
wrecked lives and fortunes to her credit.
Terrified at fho disclosure of her cruel
past and wearied of her infidelities, he,
leaves he.r. As he escorts her to meet a
theater engagement they encounter the
Princess Charlotte, of Brunswick, whotn
it is rumored the Russian Tsarevitch
Alexis is ■‘o marry, and her aunt, Fred
erica. D'Aubant is summoned to meet
the Chancellor von Goertz, of Sweden,
which country is interested politically in
preventing the marriage. The chancellor
proposes that D’Aubant. who is a. noto
rious soldier, and Don Juan, proceed to
Brunswick and by making the Princess
Charlotte fall in love with him circum
vent the Russian match. Out of a pure
gambling instinct D’Aubant accepts tha
proposition.
CHAPTER IV.
Stuart Stirs the Quary.
ND in this way it came
about that the Chevalier
d'Auhant rose one morning
from breakfast at a little
inn on the road that lends
from Dresden into the
Duchy of Brunswick. He
was still some 4 leagues
away from Wolfenbuttol,
the quant old city where
Duke Anton Ulrich held
his court.
D’Auhant looked even
trimmer and neater than
usual, lor he had sacrificed his Russian
heard, leaving every aristocratic feature
to stand out in bold relief.
’’HI! Kenneth. Hi! Stuart,” he called
to hi- dogs as he came out on the porch,
holding a heaped-up plate. "Jump for it,
lads—jump,” he encouraged them, toss
ing each a piece in turn. “Terry, you
may follow with the luggage at your
leisure; inquire for the Castle Cellar.
Eetch Snladin immediately.
The fresh air, crisp ard snappy, filled
the man with a sharp Joy of life A lin
gering suspicion of frost lurked in the
low places, and D'Aubant's spirits tin
gled at the prospect of adventure. His
dogs reflected every whim of their mas
ter. When he was light of heart they
capered and bounded about bis heels like
merry devils of unrest. But when the
world went wrong for D'Aubant, these
sympathetic comrades turned their great
brown eyes to his and trotted meditative
ly behind.
This fresh and buoyant morning they
did not trot behind; like his own new-
awakened curiosity they darted on ahead
toward yon medieval cluster of tiles and
steeples, which sheltered the warrior race
of Brunswick. D'Aubant sprang into the
saddle and dashed on after his dogs.
“That's a man, every inch of him.”
smiled Terry, “but be ought to ’ve been
an Irishman.”
Terry's genial Tvillarney face glowed
with admiration as he watched the su
perb stride of Saladin, the graceful rise
and fall of the man in the saddle. Far in
advance ran the dogs, stretched low
against the ground, with D'Aubant clat
tering and shouting after
Then D’Aubant held his horse to a
slower gait. ’'Terry think? I'm on an
other wild goose chase; and more than
likely he’s right. Hi! Yi! Kenneth! Stu
art!” He rose n hs saddle to call the
dogs from across a field. “Come, boys,
let’s have a run.”
They dashed ofT like mad again, Sala
din in the lead, the dogs loping easily
behind. Kenneth and Stuart, infected
with the spirit of their master, chased
every bird and fluttering leaf, bedeviled
i he laborers at their toil, and meddled
with their cattle. When the spires of
Wolfenbutitel came well in sight a dis
tant noise of hoofs through the forest
caught their keen ears, and off they
launched themselves again, swift and
eager. They disappeared into a narrow
road between the firs; D'Aubant could
near their quick, sharp yelps. Their clam
or seemed to turn again, and the louder
pounding of a horse mingled with the
narking of his dogs.
Suddenly a trim bay pony, ridden by a
laughing girl, shot through a cloud ot
dust into the open road. The Princess
Charlotte of Brunswick—she rode daring
ly and held her gauntlet aloft challeng
ing the dogs to spring and catch it. Stu
art and Kenneth pursued her, stretched
out in their long, tireless lope doing their
utmost to keep pace with the brave little
beast she rode. ITAuhajit pulled aside to
let them pass. Kf-. the girl came abreast
of him, she jerked her horse to its
haunches, and held it dancing round. She
shouted in high glee, for the dogs sprang
again and again for the gauntlet which
she bore tantalizingly above their heads.
D'Aubant kept still, half hidden by the
trees, and admired the girl's perfect con
trol of her fractious horse. Every
nerve and muscle in the animal's body
seemed a-quiver. but she mastered him
without a thought.
The princess seemed not more than 17,
Iranlt, dignified, spontaneous. Her sim
ple .riding grrrb dune round a figure
somewhat immature, but graceful and
sweet for Us very girlishness. A pair of
■brilliant gray eyes snapxied and sparkled
with excitement. One firm-muscled arm
curbed ber horse, while with the other
she dared the frenzied Stuart to snatch
the prize—a gauntlet.
"Good dog! Qpod dog! Jump, good
dog. jump!” Kenneth crawled off disgust
ed; when he saw there was no
room for a quarrel he dropped down be
side the road and scornfully eyed
the younger dog. But Stuart ac
cepted the situation frankly, and con
tinued the play. In the twistings of her
horse, Charlotte caught sight of
D'Aubant, who had purposely refrained
from calling off his dog and spoiling tne
tableau. He now made transparant pre
tense of having just arrived.
“Here, Stuart,” he shouted; the obed
ient animal came straightway to his mas
ter. “I fear, Fraulein,” D'Aubant apolo
gized in excellent German, “my dog has
annojed you?”
“Oh, no—I annoyed him.” She ans-
wi red gaily, but with perfect dignity
and self-possession. ”1 met him on the
road, and we engaged in a romp.”
Then she looked straight at him and
D'Auhant started with surprigu for he
recognized the girl whom he had seen
for that brief instant In tne Dresden
theater. Those were the same soft gray
eves—there could not be two pair of suc'n.
He saw the dim. puzzled expression gatn-
et on her fare, a puckering of the brows,
and felt a distinct pleasure at not bring
entirely forgotten. But the clean-shaven
horseman in his riding gear differed much
from the immaculate man of fashion
with the b'ond beard, who had escorted
Barbara Klikoff into the reception room.
Only his eyes were the same, and these
were what puzzled Charlotte.
Upon the instant D’Aubant would have
given his very head to press this sudden
encounter into an acquaintance, for tha
Independence of the girl appealed to him
marvelously. Yet, daring as he was with
women, he knew instinctively that it
would never do to presume a single Jot
upon the graciousness of this one. 'the
fact is. D’Aubant’s successes in such af
fairs had their pure foundation in his
tactful Judgment of the sex. He had
never been rebuffed, merely because he
had never presumed where there was a
spark of danger. The difference between
himself and other men lay In the Keen
ness of his scent for detecting the pres
ence of the slightest danger.
In the moment while he made up bis
mind that he would not even ride his
horse a few paces closer to her, the
noise of another set of hoofs from the
same direction became audible. The girl
glanced back—so did D'Aubant. Tt wag
her companion of the ride, red in the face
and perfectly furious at being left so far
behind.
She called to him banteringly:
“Come on. Cousin Kuno; you are so
slow,” then gave her pony his nead,
and he bounded forward in a wild run.
The man swept by after her, c'attering,
clanking, spurring, and was gone In a
whirl of dust. He did not observe
D'Aubant.
“Kuno von Snrr!” D’Aubant ejaculat
ed—chasing a woman as usual. He’ll he
better off to catch her. Egad' he's no
bigger fool than T. chasing a woman I
have never seen, and do not want. But
T get paid for my chase, and that makes
the difference.”
Stuart stood bristling and ready, like
a racer at the starting post, begging his
master for permission to run. but D'Au
hant had no eyes or thought for the
dog. He rivlt.ed both upon the disappear
ing figure of the girl for the few seconds
that she remained in sight.
“Now, Stuart,” he remarked gravely as
he jogged along, "you ought to be satis
fied—you've stirred up a quarry at last,
and had a chase. If I were only a dog.
I’d run after her, too. Came near mak
ing a fool of myself again,” and he
sneered at his own Impulsiveness. D’Au
bant continued to meditate upon the sub
ject until he halted his horse at the sign
of the Castle Cellar, to which lie had been
directed by Voji Goertz.
“Ugh! It’s not so bad a place arter
all.” The great hospitable veranda, per
mitting the luxury of meats In the open
air. especially caugnt his fancy. He nrst
saw that his borse was generously pro
vided for, then clambered up the broad
steps, and entered the house.
Herr Schmenkel, the host, had been
notified several days In advance to expect
suen a gentleman, and He bustled about
to make him comfortable. The shrewd
German scrutinized D’Aubant very close
ly. then dispatched a messenger to in
form the Swedish resident that his man
had arrived. But Herr Schmenkel’s fat,
heavy face, as he poured the wine or
fetched a steaming dish, could never ho
suspected of hiding a thought more sinis
ter than his own good cheer.
D’Aubant lounged about the place until
afternoon, when Terry came, dusty and
grimy from his long ride.
“Well, here we are”—Terry felt per
fectly safe to quarrel when they were
alone—“and I do not see why you ever
wanted to come to such a place as this;
we were doing well at Dresden.”
"The bear-hunting Is excellent in tnese
mountains.” D'Aubant began laughingly
to apologize, but Terry only shook his
head; he had a shrew r d s'uspieion of the
bear-shooting that D'Aubant meditated.
The kind that always got him into trou
ble.
“Never mind. Terry, you need not un
pack anything hut clothing sufficient for
two or three flays. I am not sure L
shall remain here.” Terry folded his
arms and glared at his master.
“Not sure? Not sure? Have I had to
pack all those books and pictures and
that crockery trash for nothing? It took
the better part of a week—” and Terry
was just about to emphasize his disgust
when a rap on the door interrupted him.
Terry halted in his argument, rigid as
a soldier at “order arms.”
“Come in>" D'Aubant called. Herr
Schmenkel entered.
"Is the chevalier d'Auhant in? Ah. T
see you There, my lord. The Count Kuno
von Sorr semis a messenger and wishes
to know if you ^are to ride with him this
afternoon?”
“I know of nothing to interfere—at
what hour?"
“Five, my lord; all of Wolfochuttel goes
abroad at five. It is a goodly sight,
and beautiful ladies, and—
"Very well; thank tne Count von sorr,
and say I shall be pleased to ride at fwe.”
D’Aubant had ordered his own dihner
served upon the veranda, which seemed
to be a gathering-place for fashionable
idlers. Being already in the house, he
had his choice of tables, and selected one
from which he could lopk benoath the
striped awning on t?he Hflfian-sttafled
promenade.
While there was no such glitter and
show as at the Saxon capita-1, yet there,
was interest sufficient to keep him two
good hours at the table. The veranda
had gradually filled with officers and
towmfolk—officers all to the front, town-
folk all to the rear: for good host Sch
menkel must put his best foot foremost
to please his exclusive guests.
D’Aubant’s bountiful dinner filled his
stomach with plenty and his soul with
peace. He sat and complacently sur
veyed the wwcck. showing no sign of de
serting pipe or flagon until he saw Herr
Schmenkel coming toward him, threading
in and out between the tables. Behind
the fat host strutted Kuno von Sorr,
brilliantly uniformed, smilingly insolent,
with the dreamy black eyes and rosy
cheeks which many a lady would have
given half her dowry to possess.
"Hullo, D'Aubant! Where, the dev l
did you come from? It’s been many a
long day since I've seen you—time im
proves yotf, though.”
“More than I can say for you.” D'Au-
bant retorted, as they shook hands cor
dially; “perhaps because you couldn't
be improved. Eh, hoy—the same old
trifling fellow? Herr Sehmengel, another
glass—not a speck on your boots nor a
wrinkle in your coot—nor a tljalM' in
your pockets—same old Kuno. ’ Verily,
you're a good dose for homesickness.”
Many pairs of eyes were directed to
ward their table, for eithey of the men
would have attracted attention anywhere
even without Von Sorr's uniform of the
most aristocratic regiment. And besides,
a distinguished stranger was always an
event in provincial Wolfenbuttol.
“Come, D’Aubant.” Yon Sorr suggested
after a while; "the horses are ready, and
it's a fine evening for a ride."
“Herr Schmenkel. my horse—”
“Is ready. Monsieur.” The host point
ed to Saladin standing at the post, and
the two men descended the steps to
gether. Kuno paused a moment to ad
mire D’Aubant's magnificent chestnut;
then with the agility and grace born of
long cavalry service, they swung into
their saddles, and were speedily swal-
lowetl up in the current of fashion on
the promenade. The two dogs followed
their master closely, for the place was
new to them, and crowded.
Kuno led the conversation and sought
CONTINUED ON EAST PAGE.