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ZEN of
the Y. D.
oA Novel of the Foothills
%
By ROBERT STEAD
Author of
"Tht Cow Punchtr" Th t
Homesteadtn"' — “NtighboTt." tte.
Copyrighi by ROBERT STEAD
CHAPTER XV—Continued.
— lB—
Bruce —rather a nice name.”
"What was I saying? Oh, yes;
Phyllis. 1 grew to like her —very
ujiicli—but I couldn’t marry her. You
know why.”
“Denny, you big, big boy!” she
murmured. “Do you suppose every
man marries his first choice?”
“It has always seemed to me that
a second choice is a makeshift. It
doesn’t seem quite square—”
"No. I fancy some second choices
are really first choices. Wisdom comes
with experience, you know.”
“Not always. At any rate I couldn’t
marry her while my heart was yours.”
"I suppose not,” she answered, and
again he noted a touch of weariness In
her voice. “I know something of what
divided affection—if one can even say
it is divided —means. Denny, I will
make a confession. I knew you would
come back; I always was sure you
would come back. ‘Then,’ I said to my
self, ‘I will see this man Grant as he is,
and the reality will clear my brain of
all this idealism which I have woven
about Idm.’ And so I have encouraged
you to come here; I have been most
unconventional, I know, but I was
always that—l have cultivated your
acquaintance, and, Denny, I am so dis
appointed !”
“Disappointed? Then the mirage
has cleared away?”
“On the contrary, It grows more
distorted every day. I see you tower
ing above all your fellow humans;
reaching up Into a heaven so far above
them that they don’t even know of its
existence. I see you as really The
Man-on-the-Hill. The idealism which,
I thought must fade away Is Justi
fied—heightened—by the reality.”
She had turned her face to him, and
Grant, little ns he understood the ways
of women, knew that she had made
her great confession. For a moment
he held himself in check. . . . then
from somewhere in Ills subconscious
ness came ringing the phrase, “Every
man worth his salt . . . takes what
he wants.” That was Transley’s mor
ality ; Transley, the usurper, who had
bullied hhnseif into possession of this
heart which he had never won and
could never hold; Transley, the fool,
frittering his days and nights with
money! He seized her In his arms,
crushing down her weak resistance;
lie drew her to him until, as in that
day by a foothill river somewhere in
the sunny past, her lips met his and
returned their caress. He cared now
for nothing—nothing In the whole
world but this quivering womanhood
within his arms. . . .
“You must go,” she whispered at
length. "It Is late, and Frank’s habits
are somewhat erratic.”
He held her at arm’s length, his
hands upon her shoulders. “Do you
suppose that fear —of anything—can
make me surrender you now?”
“Not feur, perhaps—l know It could
not be fear—but good sense may do It.
It was not fear that made me send you
home early from your previous calls.
It was discretion.”
“Hut I must tell you,” she resumed,
“Frank leaves on a business trip to
morrow night. He will be gone for
some time, and I shall motor Into
town to see him oft, I am wondering
about Wilson,” she hurried on, ns
though not daring to weigh her words;
“Sarah will be away—l am letting her
have a little holiday—and I can't take
"’lson Into town with me because It
w 'iH be so late.” Then, with a burst
°f confession, she spoke more delib
erately. "That’s Isn’t exactly the rea
*°n, F'ennison; Frank doesn’t know I
*ave let Sarah go, and I—l can’t ex
plain.”
H-r f acc shone pink and warm in
’ e glow of the firelight, and as the
p”* -mance of her words sank In upon
bant marveled at that wizardry
? f be gods which could bring such
101 1: '“ to the foot of man. A tender
y„. . as had never known suf
-im; her very presence was holy.
■ ng the boy over and let him
the night with me. We are
” 7 chums and we shall get along
splendidly-
CHAPTER XVI
an f,r " nt p Pent his Sunday forenoon In
.."austlve house-cleaning cam
paign. Bachelor life on the farm U
not conducive to domestic delicacy.
When he was able to view his handi
work with a feeling that even femi
nine eyes would find nothing to offend,
Grant did an unwonted thing. He
unlocked the whim-room and opened
the windows that the fresh air might
play through the silent chamber. When
he had lunched and dressed he took a
stroll over the hills, thinking a great
deal, but finding no answer. On his
return he descried the familiar figure
of Linder in a semi-recumbent position
on the porch, and Linder’s well-worn
car In the yard.
“How goes it, Linder?” he said,
cheerily, as he came up. “Is the Big
Idea going to fructify?”
“The Big Idea seems to be all right.
You planned It well.”
“Thanks. But is it going to be self
supporting—l mean In the matter of
motive power. Would it run If you
and I and Murdoch xvere wiped out?”
“Everything must have a head.”
“Democracy must find Its own head
—must grow It out of the materials
supplied. If It doesn’t do that it’s a
failure, and the Big Idea will end in
being the Big Fizzle. That’s why I’m
leaving it so severely alone—l want to
see which way it’s headed.”
“I could suggest another reason,”
said Linder, pointedly.
“Anoth.r reason for what?”
“For your leaving It severely alone.”
“What are you driving at?” demand
ed Grant, somewhat petulantly. “You
are In a taciturn mood today, Linder."
“Perhaps I am, Grant, and if so it
comes from wondering iiow a man
with as much brains as you have can
be such a d —d fool upon occasion.”
“Drop the riddles, Linder. Let me
have it in the face.”
“It’s just like this, Grant, old boy,"
said Linder, getting up and putting his
hand on his friend’s shoulder; “I feel
that I have an interest in the chap
who saved all of me except what this
empty sleeve stands for, and it’s that
interest which makes me speak about
something which you may say Is none
of my business. I was out here Mon
day night to see you, and you* were
not at home. I came out again
Wednesday, and you were not at home.
I came out last night and you were
not at home, and had not come back
at midnight. Your horses were In the
barn; you were not far away.”
“Why didn’t you telephone me?”
“If I hadn’t cared more for you than
I do for my job and the Big Idea
thrown In, I could have settled it that
way. But, Grant, I do.”
“I believe you. But why this sudden
worry over me? I was merely spend
ing the evening at a neighbor’s.”
“Yes—at Transley’s. Transley was
in town, and Mrs. Transley Is—not
responsible— where you are con
cerned.”
“Linder 1”
“I saw It all that night at dinner
there. Some things are plain to every
one—except those most Involved.
Now It’s not my job to say to you
what’s right and wrong, but the way
it looks to me Is this: what's the use
of all your big-heartedness if you’re
going to be small In matters like this?”
Grant regarded his foreman for
some time without answering. “1 ap
preciate your frankness, Linder,” he
said at length. “Your friendship,
which I can never question, gives you
that privilege. Man to man, I’m going
to be equally frank with you. To
begin -vlth, I suppose you will admit
that Y.D.’s daughter Is a strong char
acter, a woman quite capable of direct
ing her own affairs?”
“The stronger the engine the bigger
the smash if there’s a wreck.”
“It’s not a case of wrecking; It’s a
case of trying to save something out
of the wreck. Convention, Linder, Is
a torture-monger; It binds men and
women to the stake of propriety and
bids them smile while It snuffs out the
soul that’s In them.
“Let me put it another way: Trans
ley is a clever man of affairs. He
knows how to accomplish his ends. lie
applied the methods—somewhat modi
fied for the occasion—of a land
shark in winning his wife. He makes
a great appearance of unselfishness,
but in reality he is selfish to the core.
He lavishes money on her to satisfy
his own vanity, but as for her finer na
ture, the real Zen, her soul if you
Uke he doesn’t even know she has
one He obtained possession by false
pretenses. Which Is the more moral
thing—to leave him in possession, or
to throw him out? Didn’t you your
self hear him say that men who are
worth their salt take what they want?”
“Since when did you let him set
your standards?”
“That’s hardly fair.”
“I think it is. I think, too, that you
are arguing against your own convic
tions. Well, I’ve had my say. I de
liberately came out today without
Murdoch so that I might have It You
would be quite Justified in firing me
for what I’ve done. But now I’m
through, and no matter what may hap
pen, remember, Linder will never have
suspected anything.
“That’s like you, old chap. Well
drop it at that, but I must explain
that Zen is going to town tonight to
meet Transley, and Is leaving the boy
with me. It is an event in my young
life, and I have house-cleaned for It
THE DANIELSVILLE MONITOR, DANIELSVILLE, GEORGIA.
appropriately. Come Inside and ad
mire my handiwork.”
Lirider admired as he was directed,
and then the two men fell into a dis
cussion of business matters. Eventu
ally Grant cooked supper, and just ns
they had finished Mrs. Transley drove
up in her motor.
“Here we nrel” she cried, cheerily.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Linder. Wilson
has his teddy-bear and his knife and
his pajamas, and is a little put cut,
I think, that I wouldn’t let him bring
the pig.”
“I shall try nnd make up the defi
ciency,” said Grant, smiling broadly,
as the boy climbed to his shoulder.
“Won’t you come in? Linder, among
his other accomplishments learned in
France, is an excellent chaperon."
“Thank ycu, no; I must get along.
I shall can early in the morning, so
that you will not be delayed on Wil
son’s account.”
"No need of that; he can ride to the
field with me on Prince. He is a great
help with the plowing.”
“I’m sure.” She stepped up to
Grant and drew the boy’s face down
to hers. “Good-by, dear; be a good
boy,” she whispered', and Wilson waved
kisses to her as the motor sped down
the road.
Linder took Ids departure soon after,
and Grant was surprised to find him
self almost embarrassed in the pres
ence of his little guest.
Where to start on the bedtime prep
arations was a puzzle, but Wilson him
self came to Grant’s aid with explicit
instructions about buttons and pins.
“You must hear my prayer. Uncle
Man-on-the-Hlll,” said tlu boy. “You
have to sit down In a chair.”
Grant sat down and with a strange
mixture of emotions drew the little
chap between Ids knees as he listened
to the long-forgotten prattle.
At the third line the hoy stopped.
“You have to tell me now,” he
prompted.
“But I can’t, Willie; 1 have for
gotten.”
“Huh, you don’t know much," the
child commented, and glibly quoted
“What Are You Driving at?" Demand
ed Grant Somewhat Petulantly.
the remaining linos. “And God bless
Daddy and Mamma and teddy-bear
and Uncle Man-on-the-Uill and the pig.
Amen,” he concluded, accompanying
the last word with a Jump which
landed him fairly In Grant’s lap. His
little arms went up about his friend’s
neck, and his little soft cheek rested
against a tanned and weather-beaten
one. Slowly Grant’s arms cloed* about
the warm, lithe body and pressed It
to his in anew passion, strunge and
holy. Then he led him to the whim
room, turned down the white sheets in
which no form hud ever lain and
placed tlie boy between them, snuggled
his teddy down by his side and set
his knife properly In view upon the
dresser. And then he leaned down
again and kissed the little face, and
whispered, “Good night, little boy;
God keep you safe tonight, nnd
always.” And suddenly Grant realized
that he had been praying. . . .
He withdrew softly, and only partly
closed the door; then he chose a seat
where he could see the little figure
lying peacefully on the white bed.
“The dear little chap,” he murmured.
"I must watch by him tonight. It would
be unspeakable if anything should
happen to him wliile lie is under my
care.”
He felt a sense of warmth, almost a
smothering sensation, and raised his
hand to his forehead. It came down
covered with perspiration.
“It’s amazingly close,” he said, and
walked to one of the French windows
opening to the west. The sun had
gone down, and a brooding darkness
lay over all the valley, but far up in
the sky he could trace the outline of
a cloud.
“Looks like a storm,” he commented,
casually, and suddenly felt something
tighten about bis heart.
He turned to his chair, but found
himself pacing the living room with an
altogether inexplicable nervousness.
“D—n Linder, anyway!” he ex
claimed presently. “I believe he shook
me up more than I realized. He
charged me with insincerity; me, who
have always made sincerity my special
virtue. . . . Well, there may be
something in it."
A faint, indistinct growling, as of
the grinding of mighty rocks, came
down from the distances.
“The storm will be nothing,” he as
sured himself. Even as he spoke the
house shivered In every timber as the
gale struck it nnd went whining by.
He rushed to the whim-room, but
found the boy still sleeping soundly.
“I must stay up," he reasoned with
himself; “I must be on hand In case
ho should he frightened.”
Suddenly it occurred to Grant that,
quite apart from his love for Wilson,
if anything should happen the child
in ills house a very difficult situation
would be created. Transley would
demand explanations explanations
which would be hard to make. Why
was Wilson there at all? Why was he
not at home with Sarah? Sarah away
from home! Why had Zen kept ttiat
a sercet? ...
The gale subsided ns quickly as It
had coine, and the sudden silence which
followed was even more awesome. It
lasted only for a moment; a flash of
lightning lit up every corner of the
house, hurstlng like white fire from
every wall nnd celling. Grunt rushed
to the whim-room nnd was standing
over the child when the crash of thun
der came upon them. The boy stirred
gently, smiled, and settled back to his
sleep.
Grunt drew the blinds In the whim
room, nnd went out to draw them in
the living room, but the sight across
the vnlley was of a majesty so terrific
that It held him fascinated.
Turning from the windows, Grant
left the blinds open. “Only cowardice
would close them,” he muttered to
himself, "and surely, in addition to the
other qualities Linder has attributed
to me, I am not a coward. If It were
not for Willie I could stand and
enjoy it."
Presently rain began to fail; a few
scattered drops at first, then thicker,
harder, until the roof and windows
rattled and shook with their force.
The wind, which had gone down so
-suddenly, sprang up again, buffeting
the house as It rushed by with the
storm.
As the night wore on the storm, in
stead of spending Itself quickly ns
Grant lind expected, continued un
abated, but his nervous tension grad
ually relaxed, und when at length
Wilson was awakened by an excep
tionally loud clap of thunder he took
tlie boy in ids arms and soothed his
little fears ns a mother might have
done. They sat for a long while In a
big chair In tlife living room, and ex
changed such confidences as a man
may with a child of five. After the
lud hud dropped buck into sleep Grnnt
still sat with him in ills arms, think
ing. . . .
And what he thought was this: He
was a long while framing the exact
thought; he tried to beat It back In
a dozen ways, but it circled around
him, gradually closed in upon him and
forced its acceptance. “Linder called
me a fool, nnd he was right. He might
have called mo a cowurd, and again
he would have been right. Linder wua
right.”
Some way it seemed easy to reach
that conclusion while this #Ktle sleep
ing form lay In his arms. Now was
the time to do something that would
cost; to lay his hand upon the prize
and then relinquish it—for the sake
of Wilson Transley!
“And by God I’ll do It I” he ex
claimed, springing to ids feet. He car
ried the child back to his bed, and
then turned again to watch the storm
through the windows. It seemed to
be subsiding; the lightning, although
still almost continuous, was not so
near.
“What little Incidents turn our
lives!” he thought. “That boy; In
some strange way ho has been the
means of bringing me to see things ns
the y are —which not even Linder conld
do. The mind has to be fertilized for
the thought, or it can’t think It. He
brought the necessary influence to
bear. It was like the night at Mur
doch’s house, tlie night when the Big
Idea was born. Surely I owe that to
Murdoch, and bis wife, nnd Phyllis
Bruce.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Want; ’Em ’Liminated
“Of course, if you don’t care for
those towers,” explained the archi
tect, “we can easily have them elim
inated.”
Mr. BulHon-Bagge furrowed his
brows and puffed out ills cheeks. Then
he looked up from the plans.
“H’rn I” he grunted. “They look
real handsome ns they are, but if you
think ’liminatin’ ’em will make ’em
nny ’andsomer, then, I sez, let’s ’ave
’em Tlmlnated.”
Elutive
Man who makes easy money Is the
man with the idea that wasn’t so easy
to corral.
No man or woman on earth really
believes that the good die young.
oOAP. 1
feBWtRDfG
ROAD CONSTRUCTION
IN UNITED STATES
The chief of the United States bu
reau of public roads, Thomas H. Mac-
Donald, is in constant touch with the
road-building programs of the states
and is ever watchful for the interests
of the federal-aid appropriations be
fore congress each year.
"Tlie estimate of $91,000,000 to be
put under contract tlie current fiscal
year,” said Chief MacDonald, “It is
believed will lie reached, with tlie
probability of an increase for 1925 to
$94,000,000. This latter figure is con
tingent upon conditions in fields of
other construction, rail transportation
and labor. Public road work is re
tarded when there Is a large construc
tion program of a private character
and accelerated when the other con
struction work decreases. Tlie gen
eral tendency of the federal-aid road
work at tills time is upward.
“If the estimate of $91,000,000 to go
under construction for 1925 is not
reached, but Is reduced by $5,000,000,
or even $10,000,000, the balance avail
able for new construction would not
be sufficient t<> curry any reasonable
program for 1920, and that was the
reason for tlie liberal appropriation
made by congress at tills session.
“One of the fundamental principles
of the federal budget plan is elimina
tion of waste and inefficiency in the
expenditure of public funds. There Is
probably no other field of public ex
penditure in which at this time greater
savings are possible through efficient
administration. Efficient administra
tion and organization demand positive
ly first, a continuing road program,
and, second, foreknowledge of tlie di
mensions of the future annual pro
gram.”
In discussing (lie road-building
achievements since the passage of the
federal-aid act, (.thief MacDonald said:
"Up to March I of tlds year the
federal aid highways which have been
completed since 1010 totaled 80,030
miles, and 13,800 miles were under
construction and reported as 50 per,
cent complete. The total roads com
pleted and under construction amount
ed, therefore, to 40,830 miles. Of the
mileage reported as completed on Feb
ruary 20, 1024, 0,307 miles had been
completed during the current llsenl
year. All but a very small percentage
of this mileage is on the federal aid
highway system as now established.
"In addition to the roads of the sys
tem Improved with federal aid, parts
of It have been Improved without fed
eral assistance. A careful study Is
being made of the improvement status
of the system, and an approximate
estimate based upon these Incomplete
studies Is that at the end of the year
there were about OO,tKK) miles of sur
faced roads and 8,700 miles graded,
which leaves nearly 110,000 miles cjf
the federal system yet to be surfaced.
“To bring this system up to service
able standards, therefore, within the
full decade ahead, would mean a sur
facing program of about 11,000 miles
for each of the ten years—this In addi
tion to the additions to the system, the
separation of grade-crossings, recon
struction and much other necessary
work.”
That road construction Is progress
ing throughout the country without
federal aid as well as with It Is dem
onstrated by statistics available to the
bureau of roads, which show that to
tal expenditures In 1921, a banner road
year, for all rural highways and city
streets for all places with a population
of 2,500 and over, Including all street
and alley surface construction, repair,
maintenance, street cleaning and street
lighting, was $1,419,500,858.
Better Highways Wanted
The continued high Importation of
motor vehicles Into the Argentine re
public is causing considerable thought
to be devoted to the need of good
roads, the present lack of which bus
prevented automobile importations
from reaching even higher figures. The
Argentine statistical bureau reports
that up to the present time 110,940
passenger curs and trucks have en
tered the country. Of this number,
about 80, 000 are In operation.
Highway Hints
The total highway mileage of the
United States equals 2,940,0 W, of
which 430,000 miles ure surfaced high
ways.
• * *
The longest motorbus route In
France is operated by tbe I’arls-Lyon-
Mediterranean railroad, and runs from
Belfort to Nice through the Alpine dis
trict. With Its branches It totals 37P
miles in length.