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Three Men and a Maid
“HE’S YOUI
v{rß Horace Hignett, world-
M a writer on theosophy, au
famous writer ° lng Ught *
th ° r arrives in New York on
etc - * tc : ln l tour Eustace, her
rr s? s V
o friend of &n
American son of a named
insufferable Amerlow
Bennett who has nee windlea
her that
FXistace Little Church
t . rorner Bream hlm-
K in love with WUhelmlna.
Mr*- Hignett "^^“^nifts
heading for the gangplank meets
a glorious, red-headed girl, witn
whom he instantly al!s_ln love
though her dog bites him. Eus
tire appears, heart-broken. It
-"oth” w
"ninehed his trousers and de
iaved the- ceremony, whereupon.
■Wilhelmina had declared the ' wed
ding off Sam is pushed over
board has-a desperate struggle
!n the water with another swim
mer and rejoins the Atlantic a
quarantine. Thered-headedglrl
is IN ilhelmina Bennett Lillie.
She hails Sam as a hero and in
troduces .Bream. Ei#tjjb a
tailor, keeps to Ins - berth. He
doesn’t know Billie is on board,
tain makes .warm love. lie Pa
noses and is accepted.
s . ••*. -
CHAPTER IV—Continued.
She traced a pattern on the deck
with her shoe. ' : •;•
“I'm afraid ot mj’self. You see, once
hefw.e-r-a'n d.. i Low. us not sp very long
ago—l thought I .had met my ideal,
hut '. : !” ‘ , ... ..
Sain' laughed heartily.
“Are you worrying about that ■ ab
surd business, of poor old Eustace
Hignett?* ’’
She started violently. .:
“You know!”
“Of course! He told me himself. 1 ’
“Do you know' him ?' 'Where did you
meet him?’’. .... ’•, .. ?
“I’ve known iny lifer tie’s
my cousin. As a matter of fact, we
are sharing’ a stateroom ; on ’ board
now.” .....; r- •
“Eustace is on board! Oh, this Is
awful! What sliall : I do when I-meet
him?"
“Oh, pass it off with a tight laifgh
and a genial quip. Just say: ‘Oh, here
you are !’ .or something. Ypti know the
sort of thing.”
“It will lie terrible."
“Not a hit of it. Why should you
feel embarrassed? He must have real
ized by now that you acted in the
only possible way. It was absurd his
ever expecting you to marry him. I
mean to say, just look at it dispassion
ately ... . . Eustace . .„ poor
old Eustace . . and you! The
I’rincess an 1 the Swineherd I”
"Does Mr. Hignett keep pigs?” she
asked, surprised.
I mean that poor old Eustace is
so far below you, darling, that, with
the most charitable Intentions, one can
only look on his asking you to marry
him in the light of a record exhibition
of pure nerve. A dear, good fellow, of
course but hopeless where the sterner
realities of life are concerned. A man
"Im 1 ain't even stop a dog-fight! In
a world which Is practically one
seething mass of fighting dogs, how
tld you trust ytntrself to such a
one? Nobody is fonder of Eustace
Hignett than I am, but 4 . . well,
I mean to say!"
! see what you mean. He re Jly
''isn't my ideal.”
"Not by a mile.”
e mused, her chin in her hand,
course, he was quite a dear In
n let of ways.”
'i*h, a splendid chap.” said Sam tol
orur.tly.
. V l,ve JOU ever heard him sing?
' n ' K wl >at first attracted me to him
'yns his beautiful voice. He really
extraordinarily weli.”
A siif - T|;t but definite spasm of Jeal
a!,l!C'e(l Sam. He had no ob
to praising poor old Eustace
. (ierent limits, but the conversa
.-• .-'-emed to him to he confining
V. exc, usively to one subject.
.. s; ' ie s &id. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard
n? - ot lately. He does draw
' ballads and all that sort of
‘ nß still, I suppose?”
liave you ever heard him sing *My
; p : ike n glowing tulip that In an
eld-world garden grows’?”
” -;"' e not ha(l that advantage,”
,am stiffly. “But anyone can
go ‘’,. n , drawing-room ballad. Now
m X " rg * unny ’ something that will
rev’-- ! :° Pe laUßh ’ somethin g that
th- “p'ls putting across . ..,
1 ■ a different thing altogether.”
Slng that sort of thing?”
say p e ave b een good enough to
J mn." said Billie decidedly, “you
“rtainly do something at the
By P. G. WODEHOUSE
Copyright by George H. Doran Cos.
ship’s concert tomorrow 1 The idea of
your trying to hide your light under a
bushel! 1 will tell Bream to count
on you. He Is an excellent accom
panist. He can accompany you.”
“Yes, but . . . well, I don’t know,”
said Sam doubtfully. He could not
help remembering that the last time
he had sung In public had been at a
supper at school, seven years before,
and that on that occasion somebody
whom It was a lasting grief to him
that he had been unable to Identify
had thrown a pat of butter at him.
“Of course you must sing,” said
Billie. “I’ll tell Bream when I g (
down to lunch. What will you sing?”
“Well—er—"
“Well, I’m sure it will be wonderful
whatever it is. You are so wonderful
in every way. Y'ou remind me of one
of the heroes of old 1”
Sam’s discomposure vanished. In
the first place, this was much more
the sort of conversation which he felt i
the situation indicated. In the second
place he had remembered that there
was no need for him to sing at all. He
could do that imitation of Frank 'L’in
ney which had been such a hit at the
Trinity smqker. He was on safe
ground there. He knew lie was good.
He clasped the girl to him and kissed
her sixteen times.
Suddenly, as he released her, the
■ cloud came back Into her face.
“My angel," he asked solicitously,
what’s the matter?”
“I was thinking of father,” she said.
The glowing splendor of’ the morn
ing took on a touch of chill for Sam.
“Father!" he .said thqughtfully.
“Yes, I see what you .mean 1 ’ He will
think that we have been a little pre
cipitate, eh? He will require a little
time in order to learn to love me, you
think?” *• '
“He is sure to be pretty angry at
first,” agreed Billie. “i*ou see I know
lie lias always hope’d tffat I would'
.marry Bream.” . -v:
“Bream! Bream Mortimer 1 What
a silly thing to hope!”
“Well, you. se.e, It of cl you that Mr.
Mortimer was father’s , best friend.
They are both over in England now,
and are trying to get a house in the
country for the summer which tve can
ali share. I rather think the. lde.a is
to bring’ me and ' Bream Closer' to
gether.” •• '■■'•■■
“Ho\y the deucg could that fellow lie
brought any closer to you? He’s like
a burr as it is.” •
“Well, that \vas the idea, I’m sure.
Of- course I could never look at Bream
now.”
“I hate.looking at him myself," said
Sam feelingly.
A group of afflicted persons, bent
upon playing with long sticks and bits
of wood, now invaded the upper deck.
Their weak-minded cries filled the air.
Sam and the girl rose.
“Touching on your father once
more,” he said as they made their
way below, “is lie a very .formidable
sort of man?”
“He can be a dear. But he’s rather
quick-tempered. You must be very
ingratiating.”
“I will practice It in front* of the
glass every morning for the rest of the
voyage,” said Sam.
He went down to the stateroom in a
mixed mood of elation and apprehen
sion. He was engaged to the most
wonderful girl in the world, but over
the horizon loomed the menacing figure
of Father. He wished he could induce
Billie to allow him to waive the for
mality of thawing Father. Eustace
Hignett had apparently been able to
do so. But that experience had pre
sumably engendered a certain caution
in her. The Hignett fiasco had spoiled
her for runaway marriages. Well, if
It had to be done, it must be done, and
that was all there wus to it
CHAPTER V
•‘Good G —d!” cried Eustace Hig
nett.
He stared at the figure which loomed
above him in the fading light which
came through the porthole of the
stateroom. The hour was seven
thirty and he had just woken from a
troubled doze, full of strange night
mares, and for the moment he thought
“Sint he must still be dreaming, for the
figure before him could have walked
straight into any nightmare and no
questions asked. Then suddenly he
became aware that it was his cousin,
Samuel Marlowe. As In the historic
case of father in the pigsty, he could
tell him by his hat. But why was he
looking like that? Was it simply some
trick of the uncertain light, or was his
face really black and had Ills mouth
suddenly grown to six times its normal
size and become a vivid crimson?
Snm turned. He had been looking
at himself In the mirror with a satis
faction which, to the casual observer,
his appearance would not have seemed
to Justify. Hlgnett had not been suf
fering from a delusion. His cousin s
fuce "was black; and, <ven bs he
; turned, he gave It a dab with a piece
■ of burnt cork and made It blacker.
THE OANIELSVILLE MONITOR, DANIELSVILLE, GEORGIA.
“Hullo! You awake?” he said and
switched on the light.
Eustace Hignett shied like a startled
horse. His friend’s profile, seen dimly,
had been disconcerting enough. Full
face, he was a revolting object. Noth
ing that Eustace Hignett had encoun
tered In his recent dreams—and they
had Included such unusual fauna as
elephants In top hats and running
shorts—had affected him so profound
ly. Sam’s appearance smote him like
a blow. It seemed to take him straight
Into a different and dreadful world.
“What . . . what . . . what
. . . ?” he gurgled.
Sam squinted lit himself In the glass
and added a touch of black to his
nose.
“How do I look?”
Eustace Hignett began to fear that
Ills cousin’s reason must have become
unseated. He could not conceive of
any really sane man, looking like that,
being anxious to be told how he
looked.
“Are my lips red enough? Jt’s for
the ship’s concert, you know. It
starts in half an hour, though I be
lieve I’m not on till the second part.
Speaking as a friend, would you put
a touch more black round the ears,
or are they all right?”
Curiosity replaced-apprehension In
Illgnett’s mind.
“What on earth are you doing per
forming at the ship’s concert?”
“Oh, they roped me In. It got about
somehow that 1 was a valuable man
and they wouldn’t take no.” Sanri
deepened the color of his ears. “As u
matter-of fact;” lie said casually, "my
fiancee made rather a point of my
doing something.” ;
A Sharp yell from the lower berth
proclaimed the fact that: the signifi
cance of the remark had riot been lost
on. Eustaqe. , „ • j • - v -
“Your fiancee?”
' “The girl I’m engaged to. Didn’t I
tell .you about that? Yes, I’m en
gaged.”. ; . ,
EustaCe Sighed heavily..
“I feared the worst. Tell me, who
.is she?” . •
•• “Didn’t I tell you her name?" f
.“No.”. ■’< ‘ ’ ■ ; 1
“Curious! I must have forgotten.”.
He hummed an airy strain as he black
ened the tip of his nose.' “It’s rather
;a curious • coincidence, really., Her
• n a a M • •'
name, is Bennett." . .
“She may be a relation.!’
“That's true. Of course, girls do"
have relations.” ) • •
"What* is her first name?”-.*-
“That is another rather remarkable
tiling. It’s Wilheimlnn.’V : .
- “WUlielniJna'!”' f ‘ • j '
“Of course, there must t|e hundreds
of girls in the world tailed iWilhelmlna
Bennett, but still It is a coincidence.' 1 '
“What color is her hair?" demanded
Eustace Hignett in a hollow, voice.
‘‘Her hair! What color is It?”
“Her hair? Now, let me see. You
aslt me what color is her hair. Well,
you might call it auburn . . . or
russet . 1 . or you might call It
Titian. . • •” fi
“Never mind what you might call It.
Is it red?”
“Red? Why, yes. That Is a very
good description of It. Now that you
put it to me like that, it Is red."
“Has she a trick of grabbing at you
suddenly when she gets excited, like
a kitten with n ball of wool?”
“Yes. Yes. she has.”
Eustace Hlgnett uttered a sharp cry.
“Sam,” he said, “can you bear a
shock?”
“I’ll have a dash at It"
“Brace up 1”
“The girl you are engaged to Is the
same girl who promised to marry me.”
"Well, well!” said Sam.
There was a silence.
“Awfully sorry, of course, and all
that,” said Sam.
“Don’t apologize to me!” Bald Eus
tace. “My poor old chap, my only
feeling toward you is one of the pureßt
and profoundest pity.” He reached
out and pressed Sam’s hand. “I regard
you as a toad beneath the harrow 1”
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of
offering congratulations und cheery
good wishes.”
“And on top of that,” went on Eus
tace, deeply moved, “you have got to
sing ut the ship’s concert.”
“Why shouldn’t I sing at the ship’s
concert ?”
“My dear old man, you have many
worthy qualifies, but you must know
that you can’t sing. You can’t sing
for nuts! I don’t want to discourage
you, hut, long ago as It Is, you can’t
have forgotten what an ass yon made
of yourself at that supper at school.
Seeing you up against It like this, I
regret that I threw a lump of butter
at you on that occasion, though at the
tithe it seemed the only course to
pursue.”
Sam started.
“Was It you who threw that bit of
butter?"
“It was.”
“I wish Fd known! Yon silly chump
you ruined my collar.”
“Ah, well, It’s seven years ago. You
! would have had to send It to the wash
anyhow by this time. But don’t le<
us brood on the past Let us put our 1
heads together and think how we can
get you out of this terrible situation.”
“I don’t want to get out of It I
confidently expect to be the hit of the
evening.”
“The hit of the evening! You!
Singing 1”
’Tm not going to sing. I’m going
to do that Imitation of Frank Tlnney
which I did at the Trinity smoker.
You haven’t forgotten that? You were
at the piano taking the part of the
conductor of the orchestra. What a
riot I was—we were! 1 say, Eustnce,
old man, I suppose you don’t feel well
enough to come up now and take your
old part? You could do It without a
rehearsal. You remember how it went.
‘Hullo, Ernest I’ ’Hallo, Frank 1’ Why
not come along?”
“The only piano I will ever sit at
will be one firmly fixed on a floor that
does not heave and wobble under me.”
“Nonsense I The boat’s ns steudy ns
a rock now. The sea’s like a mill
pond.”
“Nevertheless, thanking you for the
suggestion, no!”
“Oh, well, then I shall have to get
on as best I can with that fellow Mor
timer. We’ve been rehearsing all the
afternoon and he seems to have the
hang of the tiling. But he won’t be
really right. He has no pep, no vim.
Still, If you won’t . . . well, I
think I’ll be getting along to his state
room. I told him I would look in for
a last rehearsal.”
The door closed behind Sam, and
Eustace-Hignett, lying on his back,
gave himself up to melancholy medita
tion. He was deeply disturbed by his
cousin’s sad. story. He knew what It
meant being engaged to WHhelmina
Bennett. It was like being,taken aloft
in a balloon und dropped with a thud
on the “rocks.
HIS reflections were broken by the
abrupt opening of the’door. Marlowe
rushed In. Eustace peered anxiously
put. of his berth. There was too much
cork on his cousin’s face to allow of
any real registering of emotion, but
he could tell from his manner that all
was not well.
“What’s the rtmtfep?” .
sank, on the lounge.
“The bounder has quit!”
“The bounder? What bounder?”
“There Is only one! Bream Morti
mer, curse him! There may lie others
whom thoughtless critics rank as
bounders, but he IS - the only man really
deserving of the title. He refuses to
appear! lie lids walked out on the
act! He has left me flat i I went Into
li.is stateroom just now, ns arranged
jind the-man . was-.lying on his, bunk*
groaning.”
‘T thought you said the sea was like
a mill-pond."
■ . “It wasn’t that f' He’s perfectly fit
But It seems that the silly ass took i(
Into his head to propose to Billie Just
before dinner—apparently lie’s loved
her for years in a silent, self-effacing
way—and of course she told him that
sire was engaged to me, and the tiling
apsei him to such an extent that he
says the idea of sitting down at a
piano and helping me give an imita
tion of Frank Tinney revolts him. He
says he intends to spend the evening
in bed, reading Schopenhuuer. I hope
it chokes him."
“But this is splendid I This lets you
.out.”
“What do you mean? Lets me out?"
“Why, now you won’t be able to
appear. Oh, you will be thankful for
tills in years to come."
“Won’t I hppear! Won’t I dashed
well appear! Do yon think I’m going
to disappoint that dear girl when she
Is relying on me? I would rallier die?”
“But you can’t appear without a
pianist.”
“I’ve got a pianist."
“You have?”
“Yes. A little undersized shrimp of
a fellow with a green face and ears
like water-wings.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
“Yes. you do. He’s you I”
“Me I”
“Yes, you. You are going to sit at
the piano tonight."
“I’m sorry to disappoint yon. but
It’s Impossible. I gave you my views
on the subject Just now.”
“You’ve altered them."
“I haven’t.”
“Well, you soon will, and I’ll tell you
why If you don’t get up out of that
andd —(j berth you’ve been roosting In
nil your life, I’m going to ring for
J. B. Mldgeley and I’m going to tel!
him to bring me a bit of dinner In here
and I’m going to eat It before your
eyes.”
“Darling, It was like you to
ask me to meet you here."
(TO BE CONTINUED.*
Hawser of Human Hair.
An Immense hawser of human hair
Is exhibited In the great Buddhist
temple at Kyoto, Japan. This unique
rope, three inches in diameter, meas
ures 300 feet long, and Is made up of
contrbutlons from the heads of mil
lions of Japanese women. Long ago
it was used to drag the timbers to
the building and to hoist them Into
place, and uow It is carefully preserved
at a sacred relic.
Current
whiy
HARD TO TELL
HofTy called on his friend Cutlibert
and observed that the lutter had In
stalled a bowl containing one goldfish.
“Ah, you have a goldfish,” he re
marked.
“Yes,” he replied. They smoked a
while. Then Hoffy resumed the con
versation.
“Does the goldfish know you?”
“I cannot tell,” responded Cutlibert.
“It mnkes no sounds, and its tall wag
ging seems to be for purposes of pro
pulsion only.”
INHERITED FEAR
Miss Albntfross- —Do you know of the
Ancient Milliner—that fellow who
slew . iny distinguished ancestor?
Mr. Penguin —To be sure —heard of
him ull.tqy life.
Miss Albatross —Well, don’t you
know I never go near a ship for fear
that old pirate may Still be alive 1
A Black Tale.
The Widow Crow found wearing black
Was quite beyond endurance;
She said: ‘Til buy some gayer things
With hubby's life* Insurance."
Cleaned the Knives.
“Mary,” sifitl the mistress, “Just go
and see If the pudding Vs cooked. Stick
a knife In it and see If It conies out
clean.”
A few minutes latei; Mary returned.
"It comes out wonderful, mum," she
said, “kb I’ve stuck all the other knives
In it."
aTTostrich TIP
Miss I’arrot —A friend In the busi
ness gave me this lovely plume and the
tip that feathers will be fushlonable
this year.
Little Monk —What was It?
Miss Parrot —The ostrich.
Littlq Monk —Oh, then it’s a genuine
ostrich tip.
■■■ ■ ■ ►
On the Job.
In languid Rummer when each tree
In lazy cadence ruutleu,
The blitho mosquito Heema to be
The only thing that hustle*
Even Tide la Wise.
She (at resort)—How Ihe tide comes
In with Its green roll.
He —I suppose It realizes that
there’s no use coming here without
one.—Boston Transcript.
. .. .. ■— ■ i
Like Chatting Wtth the Plumber.
“My dentist likes to pause in Ills
work an<l tell funny stories.”
“So does mine, hut I don’t appreciate
funny stories at $lO an hour.”—Boston
Transcript.
A Swim on the Green.
Honolulu Paper—The guests en
joyed a basket supper and moonlight
swim on the lawn. The dew moat he
unusually heavy out there.
New Excuse.
Boss —WUql’h the mntter with your
writing today—new pen, new Ink. new
kind of paper or—
Clerk —No, sir, neuralgia.
Poor Thing*.
Gerald—An orphan Is to be pitied.
Geraldine —Yes. Just think of the
poor girls who can’t be kissed for their
mothers.