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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.
