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About The weekly banner. (Athens, Ga.) 1891-1921 | View Entire Issue (June 14, 1892)
ONE DOLLAR A YEA R DEATH CAME TO MR- CHARLES C. LESTER WHILE — HE WAS ATTEMPTING TO SAVE A LITTLE BOY Who Was Drowning in Trail Creftk- He Cot into the Quicksands, and While he Saved i the Boy. Lost His Own Life- £ he went to tables ho was obliged to remain at the | “Guess jack table, because in watching he had ; «i ca » have fallen blundered stupidly. Bessie and the au-j “The , “for I know thor won the game, and though they! Cecil \ that godlike were not partners in the next the merri-; Tom h 1 shall in time ment between them continued, and he of it be ith that which ■* her dart a perfect coquette’s smile “Bui Imow that all st him as at the next he went down to “that s all our suffer- the king. andful it happiness is Tom Plotton was her next partner, “I ki 0 nly found in but her sparkle was gone. She scarcely “An. mu be content up°ke. “Yee “Humph,” muttered Cecil, “quite a happy f on her descent from literature to flour. Plotton loveB. ’ jJri.fc.iWi and I will surely agree, for he is un- .ten tin 5*2*w from donbtedly getting the cold shoulder.” that 11 i at he Yet, despite himself, doubts would her. 1 nation are pos- break into the adverse decision. “Per- move 1 avo outgrown haps she is true, after all; herepints may I’ve w< routh, and un- J be ber way of entertainment. I may be they n y to those who making a fearful mistake.” her.”— Lyefl.—Literary finally good luck advanced him and Blade. Pitcher*# Castor!#^ | rfBiolldnied with tfc© ••tfSKJftW i Aiken* BMW. **- »»•*• ATHENS, GA, TUESDAY MORNING. JUNE 14.1892. SANTA CATALINA. Island, In the distance dim, \\-ith .!)>' bine mountains shining o'er the .Tile I pa**, what tender thoughts are Tht‘ t be . ji v to llict’7 » uero tur uunaiu n run white copped wave, there dark and - "iniid rocks rise, and like tall organ keys 1 the breakers and the rushing breeze, ,, r ti.esoul with mingled chant and hymn, oi Vitiio -:ii!s furled in harbor’neath the hill, \Vli.'U shall the wind thy fintterlngcanvas fill, ' Thttt ue may speed above the crested foam To that Still haven by the rocky dome? ew.i arc thy valleys—ripples now the rill, i.d flowers nod—brown beoa thy can- peas. She glanced up quickly and ha bowed gravely. a‘I am truly sorry 1 am so late,” bo murmured, guiltily feeling that he w ts not sorry a bit. “Oh, my husband told me you would not want breakfast till 8. If you will kindly sit down I will wait on you.” “But tell me, do you* really thinV f am a savage?’ The pretty woman, unused to flattery or deference, gazed steadily at him. “Why should I? I think it more (Jhris- tianliko to breakfast at this hour than at daylight. If God had intended peo ple to begin the day before sunrise ho would have made the son rise earlier.” A simple remark a child might have i niMT 1 WJ A T7T?\TT\Tr' made > hut her evident innocence dis- \ h AL A \ V AIVJjIi li\ VT• armed him. She was no woman to bo beguiled by pretty speeches, and his plan to be entertaining to this guileless creature came to naught—for the time. She waited quietly on him each morning, speaking no word nnless pressed. “She is not a fool, but she seems to have no soul,” was his mental calcula tion. ! * * * * * * I The summer waned. 1 Why did Lncillo’s step lag, and why had her pink face lost its bloom? He was to go away? Yes, it had come to ins roami —Sylvia Lawson Corey In Overland. leaned her round face on her losing afar off. It was little iaii the face of a child, albeit she was twenty aud had been a wife for two Slit! han.li A > and of walking drew her bine eyes In another direction. A man was com- ii .ip the walk. It was her husband, ji.', ? h,. run to meet him with words of welcome and a caress from her dimpled „ r m-? oh, no; lie had taught her better that, she bitterly thought, quickly ' ■nrling her dainty feet and speeding this—that this man with red brown hair aud the beautiful voice, brown eyes, ii'vav to her kitchen. How gracefully 1 Baave manners and polished address— .ran away! The motion was like a • this man had wakened the marble Ga- startleil fawn’s. But she was peering I into life. ... fo t-rlv into the stove oven when the fie was Po artist, but he had the soul k - i.,11 doorway was darkened by the of P ne - ^wonly a young city tiiiraiice of John Hardy, her husband. ••Is simper ready?” he asked. — \'„ word of greeting further; no word ■ this little family. He saw the husband of praise for the pretty, flushed face- | I; . thing but careless glances at the pan ,.f crisp, brown muffins she was carrying pi a side table. Without glancing np she answered, In a few moments, John." _ , ... Ih.tnr.wd on bis heel, going out to Hariy. I ll be tack next summer." Lithe hi- hot face and hands. Lucille- bh ! bnn « her Head like a shy scbool- howw-ll the name suited the dainty. I 8?^ but it.was not shyness; it was the delicate face—hastily arranged her tell- f K * n . e “ of despair that bent her neck, and rang t he bell. John came in. bnt she s P° ke uo wonL ° nw ‘ 1 “ s “ of one. broker out for a summer holiday, but he bad looked deeply into tbs soul of preciative, aud the wife stultified by a monotonous rouud of soul uurrowlng household duties. The day of the parting catne. fie j held her hands close. “Goodby, Mrs. at down and silently proceeded to eat, cl ping himielf, not noticing the fact •Another cup of coffee.” Sin- gave it to him, saying anxionsly, lki -s everything suit you?” "YOh. yes,” he answered caro- 'ssly. Still no word of praise. Her i.-e U-cmiie downcast What a fool in- 'vas to expect praise for anything •-he did. sin- wearily told herself as she t the dining room in order. Her hus band v.-as at the door again. “Lncillo, have a bed ready when 1 come back. I'm going to the depot for onr new board-r." ••New boarder! Oh, John, tonight?” •• i s," and his shadow disappeared from the doorway. And this was her first intelligence of the fact th.-.t John had taken a boarder for the summer? Oh, why had he not t<>ld her sooner? Bnt this-was John's in all things—not to make a coufi- of her—and with leaden feet she up to the “spare room” to array aunt went 1. aiw.i Urn 1 in sheets, etc. Otherwise it was in order. After fresh water had euglit and fresh towels laid out, sue uaie a hist weary glance around, then des: ■ , :i lod to-the kitchen again. Of jourse the stranger would want supper. "1 ,-.ia so tired of it all,” she signed. And yet why was sho weary and tired? She was the healthy young wife of a prosperous young farmer. Either Lu- rtlle Evans should not have married a farmer, or else sho should have been ed ucated with the idea of living a farmer’s vtiY. She was a village girl, having had all the exaggerated ideas of such girls of the sweets of farm life. John Hardy tad thought her extremely pretty, and bad thought she would become an excel- rent manager and capital housekeeper “tiler his tuition, if lie was satisfied, he had become the two latter in a spirit- l-l'"- plodding way, unlike what the I blithesome Lucille had been two years | are. before she had rekindled the fire the [spring wagon was heard tostop. Asshe I hastily blew the pine into a blaze her |husband's voice sounded: "Lucille, Mr. Bellairs mu3t have sup- |pr." ’’Indeed, uo.” And Lncille got slowly ip from her knees and turned about. I-Vvcr had she heard such a singularly ■ t voice. Mr. Bellairs had taken in I'he situation at a glance. The wife was l>L' servant here. He would rather go |*o U-d hungry than add to her toil. "My wife," John had the grace to say. Mr. Bellairs bowed and Lucille looked |*t him dreamily. Ah! here was a I knight! ... ' a, tt nothing so much as a bed. 1 I tiK-d at 7 un i wish for nothing more I tth breakfast." | Hip room is quite ready,” she said in It low, gentle voice. "L'lin took up a lamp and Mr. Bellairs 1 good night. ■« .* t-'lanced hastily about his room. I'l'tything was exquisitely neat and I. * erant ’ »>ut he mentally resolved that I * u "" n st rong feet and hands should |j np ; vat< ‘r. and do khat was neces- I ' for his own comfort. Then he |i,„ 1 curiously at John. “An ox,” he lut'vardly decided. ijjL n ' n this Le was wrong. John was 'he majority of eastern farmers— R d. sensible, well read in newspa- y" ■ I ,r,, ” r essivo on the farm, bnt total* • understanding a woman’s life and ' *j*uu-!i’s work. ■of “''rays try to conform to the roles KL:?® “ 0U8 ® where I board. ET** “t an ■•uglied. IhrlaL-r. “ nswored seriously, “Oh, no; we * il If' at day." ad thought 8 o’clock early.” |Bowev. n - 8y ^ fo . r You. but not for ns. Ihave v V °?* v w ’^ e will see that you pish - ur Ulv;akfuat at any hoar you Ibev. |»b. Do you unearthly hour?” he Careless man of the world that he was, her dejection moved him, “If ever 1 can serve yon—if you ever need aid appeal to mo.” She wrenched her hands free. “it is hardly probable that Lucille Hardy will need your aid. Go—and goodby.” “Proud to the last, and yet I could have sworn she had grown to like me.” Ah! thank God for that woman’' pride that euables her to hide so much and to set the world at defiance! Lncille crept up to her room and lay on the lounge for hours, but sho uttered no sigh and made no moan, only looked ont of the window with wide open, tear less eyes. “Surely he did not read my secret— surely ho did not go away believing that I love him? And yet 1 do, oh, 1 do! and God knows how 1 am to live adl my days without seeing him. Her husband never dreamed of the sleepless nights and tearless agony slip spent by his side while he slept the sleep of the just. For months she went about pale and thin, but her hours of thinking were developing her. She was begin ning to bo less afraid of her husband. One d-i y she said; “John, 1 most have some books to read.” “Why?” he asked laconically. “Because 1 wish them.” she answered firmly. “Do you have time to read?” he asked severely. “1 shall make time.” He was astonished, but the books were procured. “1 must read and study that I may become a companion for him,” she thought. Bnt the summer came and went and Mr. Bellairs came not. At the end of two years she said, “John, 1 shall get a piano.” He was astonished again. “Lncille, you are becoming extravagant. You know very well 1 am not a rich man.” “1 realize that quite well. Neverthe less 1 have helped you to accumulate what riches you possess, and am just as much entitled to a piano for my amuse ment as you are to costly machinery that will lessen your labor.” Was this logician the gentle, submis sive and uncomplaining wife of two years ago? But the piano came and Lucille re newed her music, learned in her girl hood. The fourth summer John told her that Mr. Bellairs wished to return, for he had unconsciously to himself begun to consult bis wife in all things. “In that case I must have a servant. I do not care to become a dining room maid for a city gentleman.” So Mr. Bellairs, jaded and wearied, came to this peaceful home once more. “Perhaps I shall find nepenthe here,” he told himself, remembering with sat isfaction the ill concealed grief of Lu cille at their parting four years ago. Bnt the winsome faced girl had vanished, and in her place was a stately woman as well dressed as i.ny in his own circle and as quietly refined. When he came down to breakfast a chubby country girl waited on him, and at night his hostess entertained him with good music and charming conver sation. “I've half a mind to fall in love with her now.” be said, as he went to bed. “Thank God, the scales have fallen from my eyes,” she said, “for I * know »h*». I shall never meet that godlike man who is my ideal, and 1 shall in time even become contented with That which 1 have. It is so sad to know that all onr love, all our despair, all onr suffer ings most end thus. That happiness is a chimera and content only found in ministering to others. I can be content now to be John’s cook. Bnt she laid her fair face on her dimpled arm, and looked sadly into the sad violet eyes that peered at her from the glass before ber. Renunciation and resignation are pos- THE LUCKY MAN. “Aunt, what is your true opinion of Bassie Fallington?” Old Mrs. Graham smiled over her gold spectacles at her nephew Cecil, and, with jnst a touch of hnmor, asked: “Why?” “Well, yon know I’ve been paying her some attention” “And before committing yourself yon wish to get the opinions of your friends.” “Yon state it bluntly, aunt, but 1 sup pose that is about the truth.” “Then, Cecil, I cannot give yon my opinion.” Cecil withdrew. As may be inferred he was an indecisive fellow, and of course was not now satisfied. Praise of Bessie from Aunt Mildred Would have decided him. Bnt he was left exactly as before, except that he could draw the opposite inferences. First, that if his aunt had not favored his suit she would have advised against it; second, that her refusal to give an opinion meant that she opposed it. Such men as he adopt tests, bnt be had not ingenuity to invent one. The secret of snch doubt is usually self es teem, which conjures an ideal worthy of affection. Oddly enough the lnuii- nous point in Cecil’s ideal was fidelity. Bessie’s social position was level with bis, hut would she be true? Wasn't she a coquette? Tom Plotton was a down city commis sion merchant—one of those men who forge ahead on the voyage of life, and by the twin propellers, energy and deter mination, reach a port of commercial Success. Cecil and ho had been college jnates, bnt their late acquaintance had pply bpen casual, confined to chance meetings at social gatherings. An. out spoken man, but withal a thorough gal lant, acquainted with all the marriage able ladies worth knowing, be was just the man to render the opinion Cecil craved He was found in his glass inclosed office, millerisbly white from flour he had been examining before buying. “Tom,” begau Cecil, after greetings, “I came to get yonr candid opinion of Bessie Fallington.” Plotton looked “fool” at him bnt re plied: "Wcll.it depends on what the opinion Is based. As a commission merchant, eay, she’d be g prime failure; as a sea captain, ditto; and as”—- “As a wife, for instance," “That depeuds on the man who gets her.” “Well, for me, say?” “Oho!” exclaimed Plotton, running his finger through some coffee grains in a tin box, “you’re in love with her, are you?” “Frankly, yes.” “And before you put yourself in dan ger of making a matrimonial blunder yon’re aronnd getting opinions.” “Well—bluntly, yes. The same as you look into Bradstreet’a before selling to a stranger.” “The stranger’s credit is doubtful when I do.” “Well?’ “Yon doubt Bessie Fallington?" “Good gracious, no!” “Then what do you want an opinion of her for? If you don’t doubt her you’re sure of her. That’s as plain as ABC. If yon love her and are sure of her worth an opinion isn’t worth a coffee grain or shouldn’t be. If you love her you’ll pitch in and move heaven and earth to get her.” “But 1 ask yonr opinion, nevertheless.” “Whether it cuts or not?’ “Yes.” “Give her up.” “Why?” “First, if you doubt her, she won’t suit you.” “I don’t grant that.” “Second, she’s a pronounced coquette; wants wealth in a husband; is willful; demands continual petting; admires men of distinction, men who can cut a dash and especially men of decision, bnt will quarrel with him if her way is crossed; doesn’t know a saucepan from a griddle, etc., full of faults—but pretty os a spring morning,” Graham rose pettishly. “Yon don’t believe my opinion, I soo. Very good; it’s one sign you love the girl. Of course, you’re invited to her progressive eucher party next week. Go and criticise hor—if you can in sight of her beauty. Then vnTl meet and com pare notes.” “Agreed. Good morning.” The next Tuesday evening found Cecil in Bessie’s fashionable home. He had exactly poised his mind, but tbe first sight of her unbalanced it in her favor. She was rarely beautiful, and her welcome rang with genuine hos pitality. It seemed impossible to criti cise her; a good, true heart must be the center of snch physical loveli ness, bnt doubt whispered, “Wait aud watch. Of guests, there were seven ladies and eight gentlemen, Bessie had, therefore, to choose her first partner, and Cecil watched eagerly to see which thiswonld be. It was Alfred Donaldson Hughes, who had lately won literary fame. Bessie smiled brilliantly upon him as they took seats at the ace table. “She’s flirting with that fellow,” mut tered Cecil, as the bell rang for play. When it rang again for changing • where Lucille 1 Children he became her painter for a game. Sbe was all life again; exactly as she had been to the author. lie believed he de tected her wish to draw him on to lov- i*g her, and, though flattered, the old donbt grew stronger. The duties of hostess did not necessitate snch action she had tried to draw the author on; sho was trying him now. The only result would be that Bhe would reject them both in ridicule. Music and promenading through the spacious house followed cards. Cecil hastened to engage Bessie as a com panion. The author forestalled him. He walked angrily into the conservatory and stopped before a palm, ostensibly examining it, but in reality analyzing his state of mind. Was he jealous? If so, he really loved Bessie, bnt could ho ask her to be his when all he had seen Confirmed her coquetry? Bessie and Hughes came near and Stopped before a large plant, bnt with their backs toward Cecil, who was well screened from them. Miss Fallington,” said the anthor in the unmistakable voice of devotion, “do yon like literature?” I love it,” she replied. “Let me tell you a little secret that yon most never reveal. I have lately had quite a num ber of poems published—anonymously of course.” “Adorable,” he cried, enthusiastically. Yon must show them to me.” “By no means. Yon would criticise the poor little attempts.” “Not for worlds. They could not help being full of fire and genins. Bnt would you not like to devote your life, yourself, to literature?’ Oh! Mr. Hughes, my humble talents, wouldn’t last a fortnight.” 1 don’t mean in that way; though your talent would. I mean would yon ppt like to live always in a literary at- mosphere^in fact, Miss fallington, as tbe wife of an author." “Pardon me, Mr. Hughes,” she ex claimed, “but I do believe this rare plant is dying. I must tell fa tiler at once,” “Don’t turn me aside,” pleaded the author, trying to catch her hand. “1 love you to” “Hush, hnsh, Mr. Hughes,” she whis pered. “Here comes some one.” The some one was Tom Plotton, and he whs coming direct for them. “Mr. Hughes,” he said, “they aTe ask ing for you in the parlor. They’re dis cussing the authorship of a late anony inpus poem. They want you to help them out." “Very well,” replied Hnghes gallant ly, “and 1 think I can make a good de cision on the latest and directest infor mation,” “Don’t yon dare,” exclaimed Bessie, with a light laugh, tbe meaning of which came in words as soon as the an thor was out of hearing. “Oh! Pm so glad you came, for, don’t yon think, he was jnst declaring his love for me.” Both broke into a hearty langb. Con viction strock Cecil, ‘ If this wasn’t an evidence of heartlfess coquetry what could be? He sincerely thanked his good fortune that his donbts had kept him from declaring his own love sev eral months before in a similar place. “And I have no donbt,” he heard Plotton say, “that if 1 were now to say that I love you you’d thank some one for interrupting, and laugh heartily over my silliness, wouldn’t you?’ “Perhaps I should.” “Though yon have given me some en couragement, Bessie.” “Have I? Come, 1 want to teU father this plant is dying. 1 They moved away and Cecil returned to the parlor, thrilling with pleasure at his narrow escape. He rejoiced greatly that Bessie Fallington had never had a chance to laugh at him. He shortly withdrew elated, bnt in the night donbt of his decision troubled him. „ Tbe heart and head would not agree. The strong er became the latter, the fuller was the former of regret that he could not have Bessie Fallington. Next morning he hastened to Plotton’s establishment and found that gentleman in his glass office looking qnite happy. “Happy commission stroke?” asked Cecil “Yes, an nnusnal one. Well, I sup pose yon have come to compare notes about Bessie Fallington.” “Yes.” “Well, what’s yonr decision?" “That she is a heartless flirt, and think I’ll give np all thoughts of her.” “Yon think so.” “Yes, only think, for I still can’t de cide, and 1 came again to get yonr opin ion.” “Well, Til let you have it. I don’t thirk she would make yon a good wife. I believe myself she is a flirt, and has lots of faults. If I were yon I'd look elsewhere. “This is yonr earnest, sincere advice, is it?” “Iti8. Bnt there is another reason why Td give her op if I were yon.’ “What is it?” “She is engaged." “Engaged and flirting aronnd the way she did with you and Hnghes and my self. It’s awful. To whom?” “Well, it’s something of a secret yet. She engaged herself only last night. “Last night? Not to Hnghes?” Plotton laughed heartily and said, “Guess again.” “1 can’t. Give me the name. 1 “Thomas J. Plotton.” Cecil sank into a chair and stared. Tom laughed boisterously, nine tenths of it being pure, unalloyed joy. “Bnt yon said,” stammered Cecil, “that she was a flirt, no housekeeper and fall of faults.” “I know I did, and say so stilL" “And going to marry her?’ “Yes, by all means,' and we’ll be as happy as any one can be on earth, love Bessie Fallington, and if she had ten times ber faults my love demands ♦hat 1 mast have her, and It will have As I told yon before, love will JUST ii reti-oof- was cloein 8 the door on gufe only to those who nave outgrown It t,n g form. fhe beaunfol dreams of youth, ana un- khtQ u. 8 * loc k the next morning °P« n ed the dining r , w.iaro Lnmlla tm shelling OK heart of mine, wo shouldn't Worry so! What we’ve missed of calm we couldn't Hare you know. 'What we've met of stormy pain And of sorrow's driving rain, We can better meet "gain, If it blow. We have erred in that dark hour. We have known. When the tears fell with the shower. All alone— Were not shine and shower blent As the gracious Master meant? Let ns temper onr content With his own. For, we know, not every morrow Can be sad; So, forgetting; all the sorrow We have had. Let us fold away our fears And put by our foolish tears. And through all the coining years Just be glad. —James Whitcomb Riley. CATCHING A COOLIE. It was in the eighties—I forget the .exact date—that I was an able seaman on board the ship John E. Redwood, of Phillipsbnrg, engaged in the East India trade. This wps my first deep water voyage. Befoferthis I had been in west ern ocean vessels. During the dog watches my mind was fiUed with the wonders to be seen in a deep waterman. * heard many yarns about the marvelous tricks in juggling of the natives of the Countries we visited, and of the fairly desperate agility of the thieves that in fested the seaport towns Of India and China. After an uneventful voyage we ar rived at Bombay, and one of the crew having been chosen for night watchman the rest of us were employed in working cargo. The watchman’s duty consisted in keeping a vigilant watch from 6 in the evening until 0 pext morning. He was responsible for everything that was stolen. The rest of the time he was al lowed to do as he pleased. My chnm Bill Davis was chosen for this duty, and we rather envied him To see him sitting down in the shade smoking his pipe, while we were work ing our soul cases off under a broiling sun and with scarcely a breath of wind to stir the air, was enough to make any one envious. One Saturday afternoon Bui came to me as I was taking a quiet smoke and asked mo to stand his. watch that night As Bill had been a good shipmate 1 could not refuse him, althongh I was dead tired. All hands except the cap tain, the mate and myself, left for the beach, bound on a grand lark, It was still daylight, but even then the ship seemed lonely and deserted. The captain and mate were sitting on the poop abaft the after house, having a game and a smoke. I lingered around the booby hatch and thought of the good times ashore and felt lonelier every min ute, After sunset there was scarcely any twilight, for the change between day and night was almost instantaneous What little breeze had been blowing throughout the day had died out, and the sea was like an immense mirror. The sky was cloudless, and it was one of those perfect nights that are only seen in small latitudes. The men-of- war started drilling with their search lights, aud the sight, as the light feU on some stately ship, making her stand ont in bold relief while the rest of the fleet was an indistinguishable mass of shad ows, was one never to be forgotten. Watching the various doings in the har bor served to pass the time, and I soon forgot my snrronndings, so absorbed did I become in the different things that were going on. Nothing disturbed the stillness bnt now and then a boatload of drunken firemen going off to their vessel and disputing with their boat man. Occasionally some one would start a song, and as it drifted over the water its harshness was lost md only its beauty remained. One by one these sounds died away, and as there was nothing left to divert my thoughts they came back to myself and the ship. The silence was oppress ive. I felt insignificant in the midst of it. How smaU I was! My mind was uneasy and restive. In fact, I was nerv ous, and I could not account for it. In order to calm myself as well as to kill time I began walking np and down the poop; bat having worked hard aH day I was soon fagged, and began hunting around for something that would occu py me. In my wanderings I found two or three sheets of a New York newspa per. This was a prize. I rigged the bin nacle lamp in thewheelhouse, and fixing myself comfortably in the captain’s chair I crowded on all sail for inteUectual en joyment. The only thing I could find was stock reports, advertisements and shipping news. Tlds was rather of a disappoint ment, bnt 1 started in to read those, found some of them quite interesting, and presently I was taking solid com fort in reading what I felt to be a spe cies of news—dry as it was—from home. The door in front of me was open, and the moon had come np full. Every thing in its direct rays was bathed in the brightest light, bnt the shadows were horribly dark. I happened to glance np as I puzzled over a qneerly worded notice, and my eye caught, for a seco.id only, the shadow of the head and shoulders of a coolie. As I saw it, there dashed through my mind the yarns that I had heard about the coolies stripping themselves, then oiling their bodies and swimming off to vessels with their “dhn” or daggers; plundering the un guarded crews and disemboweling all who tried to seize them as they slipped through their hands. 1 jumped for the deck, sheathknife in hand. . When I got on deck there was no one in sight, and I listened for some Bound, bnt all was as quiet as a deep under ground cell. It was as though both of us were even holding our breath so that we should not betray our whereabouts. There was not even the lapping of waves against the ship’s sides. As I started to sneak to the after part of the wheei- the sound of my footsteps as my bare feet lightly tonchcd the deck. When 1 reached the corner of t&e wheelhonse 1 brought my knife down aronnd the cor- to the full extent of my arm. Not feeling anything I ventured to look around the corner. Not seeing any one I turned the corner, and in this way 1 proceeded around the house, carefully knifing around each corner before tam ing it After having made the round of the wheelhonse, I doubled on my track and went back the other way; bnt I could see no sign of the presence of any one, nor had I heard any noise. So after searching the decks, forecastle and for ward house, I concluded that whoever I had seen must have slipped overboard and escaped, or my imagination had played me a trick. I finally brought to again in the chair and began to read once more, bnt I had somehow lost in terest and felt nervous. Every little while I got np and made the tour of the deck. I had hardly settled myself after one of these tours when I was startled by a suppressed groan from the captain’s room, followed by gasps, as if for breath. These were succeeded by a strange gurgling sound. My blood ran cold, and for a minute I was paralyzed. Then I understood it all. Instead of the cooHe going overboard he had descended into the after cabin. While gathering together plunder he had awakened the captain. Then to save himself he had cut the captain’s throat, which account ed for the noise. To preserve myself it became neces sary for me to either secure this coolie or to kill him, and as it would doubtless be easier to kill him than to try to se cure him, I sneaked ont of the wheel- house to take a look around. I carefully studied the ground, in order to decide ppon the best place for me to take up my station. I finally fixed on the com panionway. Noiselessly I crawled on top of the house and knelt on the com panionway slide. With my knife raised ready for striking, I awaited the com ing np of the coolie and murderer. I had decided that it would be best to stick the knife into his brain or along side one of the big arteries in his neck. I anxiously waited, with every nerve strained, to detect his first approach, every muscle tense and ready for a quick and strong attach. Cramps in my legs seized me, bnt I did not dare to move, afraid each moment that he would appear. While in this position, and while every sense was on the alert, I was startled by a movement and a groan be hind me. I turned with an involantary cry, not knowing what would confront me—but I saw nothing. By this time I was so Beared I was un able to think for a moment or two. Alter coUecting my senses I knew that, although the sound seemed to have been right back of me, it must have come from the mate’s room in the forward part of the house. As there were two ways of getting down into the after bouse, I was puzzled as to which one to guard. I finally decided to close the ter compamooway and take my sta tion at the watchhouse, which was the only other way by which the coolie could got out. If he came up the com panionway I should hear him, and be able to reach him before he slipped overboard. my position alongside the watchhouse door, and my senses being strained to the utmost by this time I could faintly hear some one moving about down be low. I was worked up to an awful pitch of excitement, in fact my muscles had been strained so long that I trem bled as with ague. My nerves were at the breaking point. How long I stood there I do not know. I finally got so worked up that I could hardly stand. I came to the conclusion that if the coolie should come np I was then too weak to offer any resistance and that if something didn’t happen Boon I should lose my mind. I concluded that I could stand the Btrain no longer. Carefully making my way to the rail I broke down. I became afraid—afraid even to go on the main deck and into the deep shadows. I was afraid to stand stiH; I kept look ing over my shoulder and turning aronnd, not knowing where I should be attacked or from what point My mind was getting unbalanced under the awful pressure. To save myself I walked the topgaUant rail to the forecastle. From there I went to the flying jib boom pole facing inboard. My mind was made np to jump overboard if anybody tried to come ont after me. I sat there the rest of that night, knowing I should be ac cused of murdering these men, bnt came to the conclusion that it was bet ter to stand a trial for double murder than to become a maniac by watching at that watchhouse door, While awaiting daylight I could see myself accused of murder and every- 'body laughing at my defense. I could see myself hung in a foreign country. After a long time I gathered what lit tle courage I had left and came back to the poop and carefnHy searched all nooks and corners, bnt I did not dare to go down below until tbe moon had set Then I noiselessly sneaked below. To my surprise I found the mate peaceful ly snoring in his bunk. This added con siderably to my courage. Then I list ened at the door of the captain's room. I distinctly heard him breathe. This was an immense relief. I tried to think it over. The.only way in which I could work it ont was this—either my mind had played me a trick or I had reaUy seen a coolie’s shadow, and, alarmed by my movements, he had slipped over board before securing his booty. Cer tainly we never missed anything, and the the mate had only mumbled their sleep.—Lieutenant S. R. M., in Romance. There is something tad in chronicling snch a death as that which came to Mr. Charles C Lester yesterday about IS o’clock. ^ A little boy named Tube Watkins, a son of Mr. Cioero Watkins, was down on Trail creek just where, it empties in to the Oconee. He was wading around in the creek and ventured too fat out. He got to where the deep quicksands were and was about to drown when Mr. Lester o&me along ann saw him. He at once sprang in to rescue the Uttle boy, and upon reaching him told him to climb upon bis baek and that he would take him ont. The little Watkins boy climbed upon Mr. Lester’s back, and Mr. Lester tried to reach the shore with him. But he waanever to reach land alive again. He was in water about waist deep but beneath the current there lay a quicksand abaut ten feet deep, where the bed of the stream had been filled up. When within about ten feet of tbe bank, Mr. Lester most have realized that there was no hope of bis getting out alive, be seized the boy by tbe arms and poshed him towards tbe bank. The boy managed to scramble ont but Mr. Lester sank out of sight and never appeared again. The Uttle boy ran off and told some ’ men about tbe affair and they procured the’flat boat of the Athens Manufactuing company and went at once. They fish ed around the mouth of the creek in tbe effort to find the body, and after about an hour’s work succeeded in tindiogit. W hen they drew the body out, it WM at once apparent that Mr. Lester was dead. They did- their best to revivo him, but to no avail. The body was carried to his home In East Athens, where Coroner Pitner held an inquest, the verdict being that Mr. Lester came to his death by drowning while attempting Sneaking along the aUeywayl took up j-to save the life of Tobe Watkins. Mr. Lester leaves a wife and five lit tle children to monrn his death, and if there was ever a pathetic scene it was that presented yesterday as the bereav id family stoc d around the dead body of the husbSLd and father. Mr. Lester followed the occupation of a drayman, and was regarded by all his associates as a man of sterling character. Humble though his station might have been in Ufe, he had within his breast a heart of gold, and when his spirit winged its eternal flight sorely the Master f -un-1 a welcome sweet for one who fleshed within his Ufe tbe spirit of the great command ment and died while trying to save a Uttle boy t whom he hardly knew. “Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend.** These are the words of the Master, and the deceased carried with him into the other world an honorable certificate of their full and perfect performance. Letu9 Remember Him. Athens is populated by a noble and generous peoplejwho are always ready to do tbe right thing at the right time and from the right motive. It is meet that such a man should bo fittingly remembered. While trying to save a Uttle boy , he lost bis life and left behind him a wife and five little ohildren. It is proper that the people should remember bis sacrifice, and accordingly the Babneb suggests the raising of a fond for the bereaved family, and wUl subscribe liberally to the fund. Send in your subscription to this of fice. Let the sacrifice of this man’s Ufe be remembered and bis family provided for. ** TH> FTTHBRAL. ~ _ The funeral services over the remains took place Snnday afternoon. Tbe ser mon was preached by Rev. E. D. Stone, in the family burying ground at the * former old homestead of Mr. Mastin Tack. A large concourse of relatives and friends were present from Athens and vicinity, and from the surrounding JS counties. Hundreds of sympathizing friends mingled their tears with those of the bereaved wife and relatives. It was a sad funeral occasion, but tbe. Urge concourse testified to the esteem in which Mr. Lester was held.
