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Three Men and a Maid
THE perfect knight
Mr” Horace Hisnett, world
famous writer on theosophy, au
thor of 'The Spreading Light,
etc. etc., arrives in New York on
a lecturing tour. g® r
son, is with her. Windles. ances
tral home of the Hlgnetts, Is his,
so her life is largely to
keeping him 'Jnnmrrled.
her nephew, Sam, son of Sir Mai
laby Marlowe, the eminent Lon
don lawyer. It is arranged that
Sam and Eustace shall sail to
gether on the Atlantic the next
day Enter Hream Mortimer.
American, son of a friend of an
insufferable American
Penn?tt. who has been Paring
Mrs Hignett to lease w?,
Bream informs her that Wll
helmlna Bennett Is waltl "®
Eustace at the LUtle Church
Round the Corner. Bream him
self is in love with WilheUnina
Mrs Hignett marches off to Eus
tace's room. The scene shifts
to the Atlantic at her pier. Sam,
heading for the gangplank meets
a glorious, red-headed girl, w
whom he instantly falls In love,
though her dog bites him. Eus
tace appears, heart-broken. I
appears that his mother a
"pinched his trousers” and de
layed the ceremony, whereupon
Wiihelmina had declared the wed
ding off Sam is pushed over
board, has a desperate struggle
in the water with another swim
mer find rejoins the Atlantic at
quarantine. The red-headed girl
is Wiihelmina Dennett —"Billie.
She hails Sam as a iiero and in
troduces Bream. Eustace, a poor
sailor, keeps to his berth. He
doesn’t know Billi* is on board.
Sam makes warm love. He pro
poses and is accepted. Sam plans
to sing in the ship’s concert and
forces Eustace to promise to be
his accompanist
CHAPTER V—Continued.
—B—
you’ve had dinner.”
“Well, I’ll have another. I feci Just
ready for a nice fat pork chop. . .
"Stop! Stop!”
"A nice fat pork chop with potatoes
ami lots of cabbage,” repeated Sam,
firmly. “And 1 shall eat it here on
this verj lounge. Now, how do we
go?”
"You wouldn’t do that!” said Eus
tace piteously.
“I would and will.”
“But I shouldn’t be any good at the
piano. I’ve forgotten iiow the tiling
used to go.”
“You haven’t done anything of the
kind. I come in and say, ‘llullo, Er
nest!' and you say ‘Hullo, Frank!’ and
then you help me toll the story about
the Pullman car. A child could do
your part of it.”
"Perhaps there is some child on
board . .
"No; 1 want you. I shall feel safe
with you. We’ve done It together be
fore."
"But honestly, I really don’t think.
... It Isn't as if . . .”
Sam rose and extended a Anger
toward the bell. - t
‘‘Stop! Stop” cried Eustace Hig
nett. ‘Til do it!”
Sam withdrew his finger.
“Good!” he said. "We’ve just got
time for a rehearsal while you’re dress
ing, ‘Hullo, Ernest!’”
“Hullo, Frank,” said Eustace Hig
n<-;t, brokenly, as lie searched for his
unfamiliar trousers.
CHAPTER VI
Ships’ concerts are given In aid of
hie seamen’s orphans and widows, and,
niliT one has been present at a few
o: them, one seems to feel that any
fight-thinking orphan or widow would
rather jog along and take a chance
starvation than be the innocent
such things. They open with
•i long speech from the master of cere
monies—so long, as a rule, that it is
unly the thought of what is going to
n i h *n afterward that enables the au
' ;?nce to bear it with fortitude. This
Gjne. t],e amateur talent Is unleashed,
mi'J the grim work begins.
Ir was not till after the all too brft-f
nterm-ssiou for rest and recuperation
, Ult ;llL ' “ewly formed team of Mar
,°r' ve nnd Hignett was scheduled to
Previous to this there had
■ - 1! ; deeds done in the quiet sa
; il e lecturer on deep-sea fish
hod his threat and spoken at
: i( ' n^tll on a subject which, treat
a “ mster of oratory, would have
’ n l he audience after ten or
wn minutes; and at tlie end of
nu i es this speaker had only
■ . , i' ast l * ie a hdocks and was
, -' s way tentatively through
u ps. "The Rosary” had been
- ■ there was an uneasy doubt
K . '‘ "ther it was not going to be
■;V;\ ' ;, ‘ lin af ter the interval —the
,i \ lmor being that the second cf
j . dy sin gers had proved ada
j. a iJ appeals and intended to
1 " thing ou t on the lines she
in r’ nally chosen if they put her
a: reclted "Gunga Din”
tu ' y the grati
for ’:‘ e auciience that it was over
v Mre for more, had followed it
th. : ; ’ 7 -y-'A uzzy.” His sister —these
m m families—had sung “My
By P. G. WODEHOUSE
Copyright by George H. Doran Cos.
Little Gray Home In the West"—rather
somberly, for she had wanted to sins
the ‘‘Rosary,’’ and, with the same ob
tuseness which characterized her
brother, had come back and rendered
two plantation songs. The audience
was now examining its programs In
the interval of silence in order to
ascertain the duration of the sentence
still remaining unexplred.
It was shocked to read the follow
ing:
7. A Little Imitation—S. Marlowe,
All over the saloon you could see
fair women and brave men wilting In
tlieir seats. Imitation. . . . i The
word, as Keats would nave said, was
like a knell: Many of these people
were old travelers, and their minds
went back wincingly, as one recalls
forgotten wounds, to occasions when
performers at ships’ concerts had imi
tated whole strings of Dickens’ char
acters or, with the assistance of a few
hats and a little false hair, had en
deavored to portray Napoleon, Bis
marck, Shakespeare and others of the
famous dead. In this printed line on
the program there was nothing to in
dicate the nature or scope of the imi
tation which this S. Marlowe proposed
to intlict upon them. They could only
sit and wait and hope that it would be
short.
There was a sinking of hearts as
Eustace Hignett moved down the room
and took his place at the piano. A
pianist!* This argued more singing.
The more pessimistic began to fear
that the imitation was going to he
one of those imitations of well-known
opera artistes which, though rare, do
occasionally acid to the horrors of
ships’ concerts. They stared at Hi--
nett apprehensively. There seemed to
them something ominous in tiie man’s
very aspect. His face was very pale
and set, the face of one approaching a
task at which his humanity shudders.
They could not know that the pallor
of Eustace Hignett was due entirely
to the slight tremor which, even on
the calmest nights, the engines of an
ocean liner produce in the flooring of
a dining saloon and to that faint, yet
well-defined, smell of cooked meats
which clings to a room where a great
many people have recently been eating
a great many meals. A few beads of
cold perspiration were clinging to Eus
tace Hignett’s brow. He looked
straight before him with unseeing
eyes. He was thinking hard of the
Sahara.
So tense was Eustace’s concentra
tion that he did not see Billie Bennett,
seated in the front row. Billie had
watched him enter with a little thrill
of embarrassment. She wished that
she had been content with one of the
seats at the back. But her friend,
Jane Hubbard, who accompanied her,
had insisted on the front row.
In order to avoid recognition for as
long as possible, Billie now put up
her fan and turned to Jane. She was
surprised to see that her friend was
staring eagerly before her with a fixity
almost equal to that of Eustace.
“What is the matter, Jane?"
Jane Hubbard was a tall, handsome
girl with large brown eyes. About
her, as Bream Mortimer had said,
there was something dynamic. The
daughter of an eminent explorer and
big-game hunter, she had frequently
accompanied her father on his expe
ditions. An outdoors girl.
“Who is that man at the piano?” she
whispered. “Do you know him?”
"Asa matter of fact, I do,” said
Billie. “His name Is Hignett. Why?”
“1 met him on the subway not long
ago. I’oor little fellow, how miserable
lie looks 1”
At tills moment their conversation
was interrupted. Eustace Hignett,
pulling himself together with u pain
ful effort, raised his hands and struck
a crashing chord: and, as he did so,
there appeared through the door at
the far end of the saloon a figure
at the sight of which the entire au
dience started convulsively with a feel
ing that a worse thing had befallen
them than even they had looked for.
The figure was richly clad in some
scarlet material. Its face wus a grisly
black and below the nose appeared
what seemed a horrible gash. It ad
vanced toward them, smoking u cigar.
"Hullo, Ernest," it said.
And tlmn it seemed to pause expect
antly, ns though desiring some reply.
Dead silence reigned in the saloon.
"Hullo, Ernest I"
Those nearest the piano—and no
body more quickly than Jane Hub
bard —now observed that the white
face of the man on the stool had
-rown whiter still. His eyes gazed
out giassily from under his damp
brow. He looked like a man who was
seeing some ghastly sight. The audi
ence sympathized with him. They felt
like that. too.
In all human plans there is cv~r
some slight hitch, some little -rn’scal
cnlntlon which just makes all the dif
ference. A moment’s thought should
have told Eustace Hignett that a half
smoked cigar was one of the e.sen
tfol properties to any Imitation of the
| eminent Mr. Tinney; but he had com
THE DAMELSVILLE MONITOR. DANIELSVILLE. GEORGIA.
.detely overlooked the fact. The cigar
came ns an absolute surprise to him,
and It could not have affected him
more powerfully If it had been a voice
from the tomb. He stared at it pal
lidly, like Macbeth at the ghost of
Banquo. It was a strong, lively young
cigar, and Its curling smoke played
lightly about ills nostrils. Ills Jaw
fell. His eyes protruded. He looked
for a long moment like one of those
deep-sea fishes concerning which the
recent lecturer had spoken so search-
Ingly. Then with the cry of a stricken
animal, he bounded from his seat and
fled for the deck.
There was a rustle of millinery at
Billie’s side as Jane Hubbard rose
and followed him. Jane was deeply
stirred. Even as he sat, looking so
pale and piteous, at the piano, her
big heart had gone out to him, and
now, In his moment of anguish, he
seemed to bring to the surface every
thing that was best and most compas
sionate in her nature. Thrusting
aside a steward who happened to be
between her and the door, she raced
in pursuit.
Sam Marlowe had watched lifs
cousin's dash for the open with a
consternation so complete that his
senses seemed to have left him. A
general, deserted by his men on some
stricken field, might have felt some
thing akin to his emotion. Of all the
learned professions, the imitation of
Mr. Frank Tinney is the one which
can least easily be carried through
single-handed. The man at the piano,
tiie leader of the orchestra, Is essen
tial. He is the life-blood of the enter
tainment. Without him nothing can
be done.
For an instant Sam stood there,
gaping blankly. Then tiie open door
of the saloon seemed to beckon an
invitation. He made for it, reached it,
passed through it. That concluded his
efforts in aid of the Seamen’s Orphans
and Widows.
The spell which had lain on the au
dience broke. Tills Imitation seemed
to them to possess in an extraordi
nary measure the one quality which
renders amateur imitations tolerable,
that of brevity. They had seen many
amateur imitations, but never one ns
short as this. The saloon echoed with
their applause.
It brought no balm to Samuel Mar
lowe. He did not hear It. He had
fled for refuge to Ills stateroom and
was lying in the lower berth, chewing
the pillow, a soul in torment
CHAPTER VII
There was a tap at the door. Sam
sat up dizzily. He had lost all count
of time.
"Who’s that?"
I have a note for you, sir.”
It was the level voice of J. B. Midge
ley, the steward. Stewards, besides
being the clvilest and most obliging
body of men ln the wor 'd, all have
soft and pleasant voices. A steward,
waking you up at six-thirty, to tell you
that your bath is ready, when you
wanted to sleep on till twelve, Is the
nearest human approach to the night
ingale.
“A what?"
“A note, sir.”
gam jumped up and switched on the
light. He went t 0 ,he door and took
the note from J. B. Mldgeley, who, his
mission accomplished, retired In an
orderly manner down the passage.
Sntn looked at the letter with a thrill,
lie had never seen the handwriting be
fore, but, with the eye of love, he rec
ognized It. It was Just the sort of
hand lie would have expected Billie
to write, round and smooth and flow
ing, the writing of a warm-hearted
girl. He tore open the envelope.
"Pleuse come up to the top deck. 1
want to speak to you.”
Sam could not disguise It from him
self that he was a little disappointed.
1-don’t know If you see anything wrong
with the letter, but the way Sam
looked at It was that, for a first love
letter, it might have been longer aud
perhaps n shade warmer. And, with
out running any risk of writer's cramp,
she might have signed it.
However, these were small matters.
No doubt she had been In a hurry and
ail that sort of thing. The Important
point was that he was going to see her.
When a man’s afraid, sings the bard,
a beautiful maid Is a cheering sight
to see; and the same truth holds good
when a man has made an exhibition
of himself at a .slop’s concert. A wom
an’s gentle sympathy, that was what
Samuel Marlowe wanted more than
anything else at the moment. Thut,
be felt, was what the doctor ordered.
He scrubbed the burnt cork off his
face with all possible speed and
changed his clothes and made his way
to the upper deck. It was like Billie,
he felt, to have chosen tills spot for
their meeting. It would be deserted
and it was hallowed for them both
by sacred associations,
She was standing at the rail, look
ing out over the w-ater. The moon
was quite full. Out on the horizon to
the south Its light shone on the sea,
making it look like the sliver beach
of some distant fairy island. The girl
appeared to be wrapped In thought,
and it was not till the sharp cradle of
Sam’s head against an overhanging
stanchion announced his approach that
she turned.
“Oh, Is that you?"
“Yes."
"Y’ou’ve been a long time."
“It wasn’t an easy Job," explained
Sam, "getting all that burnt cork off.
You’ve no notion how tiie stuff sticks.
You have to use butter. . .
She shuddered.
“Don’t!’’
“But I did. You have to with burnt
cork."
“Don’t tell me these horrible things."
Her voice rose almost hysterically. “I
never want to henr the words burnt
cork mentioned again as long as I
live.”
“I feel exactly the same," Sam
moved to her side.
“Darling," he said In a low voice,
“It was like you to ask me to meet
you here. I know what yon were
thinking. You thought that I should
need sympathy. You wanted to pet
me, to smooth my wounded feelings,
to hold me In your arms, and tell me
that, ns we loved each otlier, what did
anything else matter?"
“I didn’t."
“You didn’t?”
“No, I didn’t."
“Oh, you didn’t! I thought you did I”
lie looked at her wistfully.
"I thought," he said, “that possibly
you might have wished to comfort me.
I have been through a great strain. I
have hnd a shock. . . .”
“And what about me?" she demand
ed passionately. "Haven’t I had a
shock?”
lie melted at once.
“Have you had a shock, too? Poor
little thing I Bit down and tell me ail
about It.”
She looked away from him, her face
working.
“Can’t you understand what n shock
1 have bud? I thought you were Mie
perfect knight.”
“Yes, isn’t it?"
“Isn’t what?"
“I thought you said It was a perfect
night.”
“I said I thought you were a per
fect knight."
“Oh, ah!"
A sailor crossed the deck, a dim fig
ure In the shadows, went over to a
sort of raised summerhouse with
brass thingummy In It, fooled about
for a moment, and went away again.
Sailors earn their money easily.
"Yes?" said Sam when he had gonv
“I forget what I was saying."
“Something übout my being the pen
feet knight.”
“Yes. I thought you were.”
“That’s good.”
“But you're not I"
“No?”
“No I"
“Oh I"
Silence fell. Sam was feeling hurl
and bewildered. He could not under
stand her mood. He had come up ex
pecting to he soothed and comforted
and she was like a petulant Iceberg.
Cynically, he recalled some lines of po
etry which he had had to write* out a
hundred times on one occasion at
school as a punishment for having In
troduced a white mouse Into chapel.
“Oh, woman In our hours of ease,
Un-somethlng. something, something,
pl^ise.
When tlddfy-umptj umpty brow,
A something, something, something,
thou!”
He hud forgotten the exact words,
hut the gist of it had been that wom
an, however she might treat a man In
times of prosperity, could he relied on
to rally round and do the right thiug
when he was in trouble. How little
the poet hnd known women.
“Why not?" he said huffily.
She gave a little sob.
“I put you on a pedestal and I Hnd
you have feet of clay. You have
blurred the Image which 1 formed of
you. I can never think of you again
without picturing you as you stood In
lhut saloon, stammering and helpless.
“Wilhelmlna Bennett—a rag
and a bone and a hank of hair.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Touching for King's Evfi.
There wus au old custom of “touch
lug for the king’s evil.” In the “Chron
icles of the Kings of England" one Is
told that the practice of touching for
the king’s evil (a kind of scrofula) hnd
its origin in England at the time of
Edward the Confessor. A young mar
ried woman was ordered In n dream,
one reads In a simple old Saxon story,
to go to the palace and touch the
king. Joyous health followed. It was
held that tlie cure proceeded from
hereditary virtue In the royal line.
Then, there have been sycophants io
England for a long. long time.
Eau De Cologne.
This famous scent has been ln use
for two centuries. The great “4711”
firm in Cologne which manufactured
it has Just closed down; but the sup
ply available Is practically unlimited
still. Though Cologne has the credit
for Its manufacture, It was Indebted
for the secret recipe to an Italian Im
migrant, Farina
LIFE’S I # 1
LITTLE T|
( JESTS
PITY THE LION
It was n rather small circus and
carried but one lion, one tiger, one ele
phant and so on down the list.
After the trainer had put the Hon
through his paces, an elderly lady ap
peared at tiie cage door and remarked:
“Aren’t you ufrald that this fero
cious beast will attempt to make a
meal of you some day?”
“To tell you the truth, ma’am," con
fided the man in the dazzling uniform,
“if business doesn’t get any better,
I'm nfruid I’ll have to make u meal of
tills ferocious beast." —American Le
gion Weekly.
About Time.
Miss Gettingon—-My month at Palm
Beach did me a world of good.
Mr. Fluid)—lndeed it did. You look
twenty years younger.
Miss Gettingon—Sir I
Mr. Flulib —Beg purdon —deuced
awkward tiling to say; of course, you
know, I mean thirty years younger—
or—that is—really, you know, you look
just as old ns you always and
1 must be going.
A Common Fault in Specs.
It was at a lecture on India. The
lecturer had been describing some of
the si gilts lie had seen there.
“There are some spectacles,” he
said, “that one can never forget."
“Oh, I do wish you’d tell me where
I could get a pair,” said an old lady In
the audience, “I'm always forgetting
mine."
HIS TRAINING SCHOOL
Watson—You’re a wonder. How did
you attain such proficiency In making
deductions?
Holmes—l acquired It while making
out my income tux schedule.
Challenge.
Bhe said she'd ne'er been kissed—
The fact aroused my Ira;
She will not say so after this—
I know bhe’s not a liar.
Just Like Mother.
The Visitor —What are you going to
do when you get to be a big lady like
your mamma?
Idttie Elsie—When I get big like
mumma I’ll diet.
Why He Was Cutting Grass.
Stranger (at gate)—ls your mother
nt home?
Youngster—Well, do you suppose
I’m mowing this lav n because the
grass Is long?
Some Gain Anyway.
Scene :A Scotch railway station
Excited Woman: “I’orter, porter! I've
lost my luggage!"
Porter (calmly): "Ah, weel, m’m,
then ye’ll no be needin’ a porter.”
Getting Even.
“How can you let your daughter
marry young Anderson? You are
deadly enemies!"
“YeS. And now he will have my
wife as his mother-in-law.”
TIME ON HIS HANDS
‘'He seems to tiuve plenty of time
on his hands.”
“You’ve noticed his wrist watches,
I see."
Gets It Quicker.
Everythin* comes to him who waits.
But here Is somethin* slicker.
The man who goes for what he wants
(Jets It a blamed sight quicker.
Sacrifices.
“Docs that eager politician ever
make uny sacrifices for the sake of
serving his country?”
“Yes,” answered Senntor Sorghum.
"Every now and then he sacrifices a
perfectly good friend."—Washington
Star, I