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About The Henry County weekly. (McDonough, GA.) 18??-1934 | View Entire Issue (Aug. 26, 1921)
PART ll—Continued. Her voice came back to him from very close as though her face had been pressed to the glass In an effort to make him out. “At the corner of the Avenue and East Ninth street.” Ten minutes later he drew up his cab at the appointed spot and reached back to throw open the door, but kept ids foot on the clutch release, leaving the gears in mesh, first speed ahead. All his precautions were in vain. As he opened the cab door his coat sleeve was seized in a very determined grip and drawn inward, catching his elbow in a jiu-jutsu leverage that left him the Hobson’s choice of either get ting out and facing his captor or lis tening to his arm break. He chose to get down from his seat quickly. “Well, Bobby,” murmured Miss Van T. Mr. Randolph attempted no evasion; be handed the lady to the curb and guided her gently toward her own door and up the high steps. “Madge,” he said, “you fought a great fight to night and when you had won you felt sorry for Tremont and surrendered. You were swept too high on the wave of the best that is in you. Promise me that you won’t forget that you have won. Promise me that you will wait and take Tremont, all of him, with honor.” “What do you mean? What did you hear?” cried Miss Van T. angrily, her pale face suddenly flushing. “From the start of the ride to the finish I heard every word," declared Mr. Randolph frankly, “and more." “And more!” repeated the hard pressed girl. “What do you mean by more?” She still tried to browbeat him, but remembering one incredibly long kiss, her eyes fell in the unequal battle with Bobby’s and attempted to create diversion by staring at his gai tered legs and heavily booted feet. “Look up, Madge. Look at me," said Mr. Randolph and waited patient ly until first her long lashes fluttered and then her lovely eyes swept slowly up to his face. “That’s it,’ 1 he con tinued as their looks met and locked. “Let’s* hold that so we can’t lie.” “Why should I lie if you really heard everything?” asked Miss Van and suddenly smiled. “Madge, you little devil,” said Mr. Randolph, suppressing an Impulse to shake her, “can you think of what you’ve been doing and laugh?" “Yes, I can, Just now,” said Miss Van T., in little gasping phrases that to a man, especially one of Mr. Ran dolph’s limpid nature, carried only their face value in words, but which to any woman would have read as plainly as the red-weather signal, “Look out for showers of tears fol lowed by storm.” “Well,” said Mr. Randolph solemnly, “if you really don't realize just where you have been, let me tell you. First you flew high into clean air and you took Tremont with you. You were possessed of a vision and you made him see it, too, a mirage of those lifted places that are the altar of the mind before love. Just a mirage, an illusion of perfect happiness, which cold reason tells us we can’t ever turn into reinforced concrete and plant in the yard, but which we must either forever hold as a vision or admit that love is a sordid and wingless thing.” Miss Van Tellier’s eyes fell from his frank gaze. Something seemed to crumple within her; she put her arms around Mr. Randolph’s neck, clung to him, dropped her face against his shoulder and sobbed, not noisily, but as one who weeps to rest He held her close to him and went on, his face set as though to a duty. “Then what did you do? Because he hesitated, merely hesitated at the high door of adoration, you promptly slammed it and dropped plumb straight down like that traitor arch angel Johnny out of heaven into the arms of hell.” "Bobby!” cried Miss Van T., throw ing back her head and struggling to release herself. “How dare you say a thing like that? How dare you be here, anyway? I hate you. I don’t know how I ever could have thought 1 loved you. I fell, but it was into Beacher’s arms, and I wish I was there right now." More sobs, convulsive ones, that shook the sliia body in Mr. Randolph's embrace from twitching shoulder to tired feet. Lest the reader be startled by what’s coming next it will do well to remind him that this poignant scene was staged at three o’clock In the morning on the high stoop of the Van Tellier residence in East Ninth street and never left the perimeter of the door mat which in itself presented an al most feminine contradiction, in that it bore, done in red on Its face, the word “Welcome,” but was neverthe less padlocked and chained to the iron railing. Even as Miss Van Tellier was sob bing her heart out and Mr. Randolph was standing In the bewilderment of one who knows he has not only taken the wrong turning but placed both his feet in a beartrap, a thick, heavy, unsympathetic voice arose from the foot of the steps. “Here! Youse! Break away an’ come along of me.” Memories of a mischievous boyhood swarmed to Mr. Randolph’s mind, rec ollections of those days when, as chief of the Madison Square gang, his ears had tingled to the cry of “Cheese it, de cop! We’se pinched, fellers!” A cold sweat came out upon his brow; he slowly relaxed his grip on Miss Van T.’s person and whispered tremu lously to her to keep her nerve but hand him her latchkey. Over his shoulder he said with forced calm, “On what charge, offi cer?” “Same oid dope,” replied the police man phlegmatically; “drunken, disor ‘‘Break Away an’ Come Along of Me.” derly. Come aiong, now, er d’yer want me to climb them steps so’s we c’n all roll down together?” During that speech Mr. Randolph made a lucky shot at the keyhole, stealthily turned the lock and opened the door. “The way’s clear, Madge,” lie whispered. “Beat it." “Oh, is it, Bobby, you dear,” rattled Miss Van T. in a stage whisper that could be heard across the street. “I didn’t mean It, really, what I said about hating you. But I do love Beacher. Bobby, and I’ll —I’ll —” “For heaven's sake, Madge,” groaned Mr. Randolph, hearing sounds as of a bear starting to swarm a tree, “keep all that till New Year’s.” “I was just going to say,” continued Miss Van T. breathlessly but with a cold eye fixed on the cumbrous shad ow coming up the steps, “that I’ll owe it to you, Bobby. I’ll owe it to you. D’you understand?” “Sure,” lied Mr. Randolph as he pushed her firmly through the door, then caught its knob, slammed it shut and turned to meet Nemesis. "Hello, Flahaharty!” The huge policeman stopped his ponderous but sure progression and stared long and suspiciously into Mr. Randolph’s face. Finally he gave a grunt of recognition. “Slim,” he said to himself aloud as though somewhere within his vast bulk there were a sep arate monitor that had to be tipped off to the situation, “Slim Hervey.” “Sure,” said Mr. Randolph, leading the way toward his wagon. “Who HENRY COUNTY WEEKLY, McDONOUGH, GEORGIA. else did you think It was at this time o’ night?” "How did I know,” demauded Mr. Flahaharty gruffly but not unpleasant ly for him, “as you had taken on de liveries o’ fancy dress-goods on top o’ your regular line?" He breathed heavily and allowed his eyes to protrude farther than us ual In search of a thought which he sensed in the near distance. “I tell you, Slim,” he finally continued, “I don’ know what this burg is a-comin’ to. Why, even the street kind used to have a man to take ’em home, but this here was a bit o’ high-flyin’ fluff — me, I could see that —an’ they had to give it to a cab 1” “Forget it,” said Bobby nervously. “All I says,” continued Mr. Fluha harty, “is thank God both o’ my goils is married to hairy men that can an’ does lick the stuffln’s outen ’em.” "Well, here we are,” said Mr. Ran dolph as he stooped to turn her over. From his seat behind the wheel he began to breathe more ensily and leaned out to study the face of his friend, the officer, to make sure that therein was no guile. “Cheer up, Jim,” he said not quite reassured. “Forget it.” “I’ll try,” said Mr. Flahaharty dubi ously, “but it’ll cqtne hard, bein’ the first time I ever seen a thing like that. She sure give you a tussle, Slim!” PART 111. Maid’s Adventure. Take a young girl of about twenty who, in her childhood, was pampered Of fortune in money, position, good breeding, and pets, turn her loose on the world at the age of ten with no prop but a faithful, sickly and destitute old nurse, kill off the nurse a couple of years later, let the girl fend for herself as scullery-maid and what not through the uninterest ing stage that precedes the sudden bloom of unexpected beauty, give her a long succession of jobs secured “on tier looks” and lost because she wouldn't, lead her up to the crowded portal of despair and the long-drawn out surrender; then snatch her sudden ly back from destruction, feed her, give her the sole freedom for a night of Mr. Robert Hervey Randolph’s com fortable apartment and —what will she do? The answer is easy. She will find the bath and turn on the hot water. That was the very first thing that Miss Imogene Pamela Thornton did j after she had finished spying from the window on the movements of what j she supposed was Mr. Randolph nnd j whai, in reality, was Mr. Patrick O'Reilly in Mr. Randolph's best top i hat, best suit of evening clothes and | overcoat, best gray silk muffler, price twenty-two dollars, and best patent ! leather shoes —the last a very tight | fit which made the revamped gentle ! man’s gait a cross between that of a j chicken on a hot stove and a drunk i on his reluctant way home. Even the unsuspecting Miss Thorn- I ton was puzzled by thut halting loco motion in connection with what she knew of Mr. Randolph, but she added it, two and two, with the mysterious twenty minutes spent by that gentle man and the driver in the recesses of the cab, apparently to settle a differ ence in ideas as to the value of a waiting taxi, and decided that poor Mr. Randolph must have issued from the interview iD a semi-crippled state. She herself was too excited to let pity altogether absorb her. Without waiting for either the tortured way farer or the taxi to get quite out of sight, she dropped the window curtain and turned to possess herself of her world of comfort for a night. A starved instinct led her straight to the luxuriously appointed bathroom. As previously intimated, she turned on the hot water and clasped her hands ecstatically as she wntched its crystalline surge and imagined she could smell the opalescent steam. But not for long was she inactive. Having surrendered to circumstance to the extent of promising to stay in the flat until ten the following morn ing, she decided to do the job whole heartedly, for Imogene Pamela was one of those lucky and fated young women who can never give themselves by halves. If happiness so much as showed Its nose, it was her nature to tackle blindly for Its waist and go to the mat for the Immediate present. Consequently, let not her modesty be misjudged when it is related that, in the short time It took to fill the bath, she accomplished the following: Rooted out Mr. Randolph’s best silk pajamas, found his softest bathrobe, filled a hot-water bottle and slipped It far down between the too cold linen sheets of his big bed. Continuing at this rate of achievement, it may be imagined that in ten minutes more the young lady, having bathed, was curled up and sound asleep. Not on your life! Item: It took her twenty-one min utes by the clock to scrub out the memory of the scabby zinc bathtubs of many years. Item: Twenty more minutes to wash her hair. Item: Half an hour more to scrub her under wear and stockings. Assorted items: Various pauses during which she shamelessly looked at herself in a full length mirror of such pure reflectlnj qualities as had not crossed her patl since England was a pup. After that a long, entrancing item, called “dry ing her hair." Did you blame her, three lines back in your heart for her frequent inspec tions of self In the mirror? If yot did, look at her now! Mr. Randolph’s bathrobe is billowed at her waist and tied tight to keep It from trailing on the floor; for almost a like reason, Its sleeves are rolled tip above her elbows. It Is open In a V at the neck, showing the adolescent curve of a virginal but much excited bosom. With a woolly towel in both hands, she plnnts herself before the staid old looking-glass and gives It such a treat as it has never before savored in its sixty-two years of service to the Ran dolph family. Rub, rub, rub with the towel. Her cheeks grow pink and pinker, her eyes round and rounder. They twinkle nnd smile, and once, when she made a little face at her self, they laughed out loud. Her hair slowly wakes from its stringy damp ness until it, too, bursts Into a sort of light and curly merriment. Pamela puffs out her cheeks and blows at its reflection. (TO BE CONTINUED.) FATHER OF MODERN SPINNING Invention of Samuel Crompton, Eng. lishman, of Immense Importance to the Western World. At one time muslins were Imported from India for the reason that English spinners were unable to produce yarn fine enough for tlie manufacture of such delicate fabrics. The Invention of Arkwright, by which spinning with rollers was used, and Hargreaves, with his spinning jenny, led the way for Crompton to combine both of those Inventions In his mule, thereby enabling spinners to draw out loflg threads in large numbers to more tenuity than had ever been done by the East Indians. This invention enabled Lancashire to assume the first place as cotton spinner to the world. Samuel Cromp ton was born December 3, 1753, at Fir wood. He came of the farming class and had rather a good education. On tlie death of his father his mother carried on the farm and set Samuel to spinning at home. Five years afier ids majority he completed his mule, “his mind during that time being In continual endeavor to realize a more perfect principle of spinning.” This he did at the expense of every shilling he had ; and he gave his In vention to tlie world, but in such a way that he gained no credit. Years afterward ids statue was erected in Bolton. —Chicago Journal. Doris Got Even. Doris, the daughter of n country storekeeper, was very fond of romiv ing with her father. One stormy day, when there wort) no customers about, she climbed upon the counter, and, wanting her father to come and play, called out repeated ly: “How can I get down?” Being busy, lie answered: “Get down the way you got up.” Presently he stepped from the slid ing ladder on a high shelf, arid, In do ing so pushed the ladder out of reach. He remr.rked laughingly to his part ner: “I don’t know how I’m going to get down.” A small voice piped severely: “Get down how you got up." “A. E.” Darreli Figgis in his hook oh “A. E.,” (George Russell, the Irish writer and mystic), explains the pen name thus: “Wanting at one time a new pen name, he subscribed himself as Aeon. His penmanship not at all times being the most legible, the print er deciphered the first diphthong and set a query for the rest; whereupon the writer, in his proof sheets, stroked out the query and stood by the diph thong.” Since then, however, Mr. Russell has abandoned the diphthong and prints his pen name as two sep arate letters. —St. John Ervine in the North American Review. Arbitrage. This Is a term applied to transac tions taking advantage of difference in price in different markets for the same articles. At the same time that the trader buys in the cheaper mar ket he sells in the dearer. The mar gin between the two prices must be ; more than the cost of exchange in i order to show a profit. Arbitrage transactions are usually in bullion or coin, bills and exchanges or stocks and bonds. 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