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Under Fire
Copyright, 1016, By The Micaulay Company
SYNOPSIS. I
The chief characters are Ethel Wil- 1
loughby, Henry Streetman and Capt. ,
(Larry Redmond. The minor characters 1
rare Sir George Wagstaff of the British
admiralty and Charles Brown, a New ,
|York newspaper correspondent. Ethel,
a resident of Sir George’s household,
(secretly married to Streetman, a German .
Spy. though she did not know him as
uch. Captain Redmond, her old lover, 1
freturns to England after long absence.
(From him she learns the truth about
Streetman; furthermore, that he has <
.betrayed her simply to learn naval se
•crets. The European war breaks out.
iEthel prepares to accompany Streetman
to Brussels as a German spy In order to
get revenge and serve England. Captain
Redmond, Ethel and Charlie Brown turn
up at a Belgian inn as the German army
comes. She is Madame De Lorde. She
begins to work with a French spy.
i ► In this installment you get an <
■! unusually vivid picture of how *
t ► the German troops took posses- <
; I sion of Belgium—of her homes ’
* and farms and industries. It is <
> a picture to make you hate war J
’ and its perpetrators—one to win <
‘ ► your finest sympathy. And the <
t * picture is moving—the plot ac- <
i ► tion goes forward with speed. <
CHAPTER Xlll.—Continued.
A peasant, half-mad, has stopped at
The inn to warn its people that the
enemy is approaching.
“Hurt?” he cried. “Hurt? You
don’t know ’em. . . . They came
into my house and, nasty as you
please, wanted food. My old woman
started to argue with ’em. She wasn’t
scared then, and one of ’em took hold
■of her by the arm. Maybe he didn’t
mean anything; but she didn’t under
stand, and she threw a dipper of cold
water in his face like any decent wom
an would—and they shot her. They
shot her for that! Civilian assaulting
an officer, they called It. ... I was
out in the fields. The neighbors came
and told me. And I hurried home to
find her dead—her that hadn’t done
nothing—dead! . . . And I leaned
out of the window —and I shot two of
’em —and then I ran. How I ran!
'And they didn’t get me—and they
won’t get me!” The half-crazed peas
ant rushed off then, shouting to right
and left, wherever he saw a head stuck
out of a window, or a figure in a door
way, “The Germans are coming! The
■Germans are coming!” And after
him poured the scurrying mob, all cry
ing the same dread warning.
Charlie Brown was getting all the
•color the most ambitious reporter
could have coveted. He turned a so
ber face to old Christophe.
“This is going to be bad, old man!”
he said.
“It’s like some hideous nightmare.”
Ethel exclaimed.
“Yes, madame —and this is but the
beginning,” Christophe Informed her
gravely.
Charlie Brown remembered then
that Madame de Lorde, as she wished
to be known, still lingered there. And
he did not like the thought of her fac
ing that oncoming German horde.
“If you’ll go to your room, I’ll come
to you if you want me—if there’s any
need,” he said.
“Yes—yes! And oh! these poor, poor
people!” she cried. ,
“Hadn’t you better close the doors?”
Charlie asked the innkeeper.
“Why, m’sieu, I shall only have to
open them,” Christophe replied. “I am
not afraid, m’sieu.”
"I wish I had your nerve,” Charlie
told him. “All this has certainly got
my goat. It’s the limit.”
Christophe, by a quick, sibilant
sound, enjoined caution.
“M’sieu, they are here!” he warned
him.
He had scarcely spoken when the
first of the gray-clad Invaders was mo
mentarily framed in the open window.
He rode a bicycle—that forerunner of
destruction. And a fine, clean-looking
youngster he was, one of the pick of
the kaiser’s first-line troops. Cool,
alert, businesslike, he pedaled deliber
ately on as if unconscious of the black
looks that met his coming. And as he
passed the inn he turned his sunburned
face so that he might seize a quick
but comprehensive glance at Its inte
rior. Cumbered with full fighting kit,
as he was, he showed none of the fa
tigue that had all but overcome Charlie
Brown before he arrived at the Lion
d’Or. On the contrary, he looked fit
as a prizefighter, trained to the min
ute. And behind him rode another as
like him as a second pea out of the
same pod.
Charlie Brown gazed at them breath
lessly. He was conscious of a mighty
admiration for those two infinitesimal
cogs In the great German military ma
chine. And he said to Christophe in
an awed whisper:
“Gosh! They're not afraid, are they?
Anyone might pot them from a win
dow.” The thing might happen any
moment
“Perhaps they are not afraid because
they know if they are killed they will
be well avenged,” Christophe an
swered. And then he said, “Really,
m’sieu, do not speak English. I ask
you to go. It may be easier for me.
. . . Please, m’sieu, quickly!”
The American reluctantly left the
window. He did not want to miss a
single detail of that amazing spectacle.
But he had no wish to Involve the wor
thy innkeeper in any needless trouble.
So he started for the stairway.
“Well, you know where to find me,”
he said. A band was playing outside.
Every moment the strains were grow
ing more distinct. And Mr. Brown had
hardly disappeared to regions above
when a German corporal led a squad
of eight men bodily Into the Lion d’Or.
CHAPTER XIV.
Ethel Makes an Impression.
Those German infantrymen were a
formidable-looking company to descend
upon a peace-loving innkeeper such as
Henri Christophe. It was, indeed, no
wonder that he viewed them with ap
prehension, as they stood there at pa
rade rest and stared stolidly into his
startled face. It seemed to him that
wherever he looked he met the deter
mined, Impersonal, almost inhuman
blue eyes of one of those businesslike
Germans. And there was something
sinister In the very way they crowded
his hostelry. Henri Christophe could
not help feeling that even so they
would crowd every house in Belgium.
To him they seemed like locusts sent
by a displeased God to swarm over
the land until it should be filled to
overflowing. . . . And always, he
told himself, there would be count
less throngs to fill the slightest gap in
their grim ranks.
While Christophe viewed them with
mingled alarm and amazement, a tele
phone sergeant joined those gray
ghosts from beyond the Rhine. He
carried a gun slung over his back and
a field telephone In his hands. Placing
the instrument on one of Christophe’s
tables, he proceeded to run a wire
through the doorway to the street.
“The major is coming!” he an
nounced to his friend the corporal, who
at once commanded his men to present
arms. So they stood, posed like stat
ues, when Major von Brenig entered,
saluted the flag, and then cast a quick
glance of satisfaction about the room.
Just before him another figure had
slipped inside the door, and returned
the salute of the corporal; and now he
stood Impassively looking on, much as
if the proceeding were merely an ev
eryday occurrence with him. But
however unconcerned he appeared, he
was far from disinterested. However
much he appeared at ease in his uni
form of a German captain, he felt any
thing but at home in it. There was, in
truth, no uniform that suited Larry
Redmond so well as that of his own
Irish Guards.
“This is good!” Major von Brenig
told his corporal. And it was evident
that Lieutenant Baum and Sergeant
Schmidt, who had arrived simultane-
"You Are Quite Safe, My Child.”
ously with him, shared his sentiments
heartily. “Can we not spend the
night here?” the major asked.
Then he proceeded to avail him
self of the aids that the foresight of
the general staff had long ago devised
for just such an emergency.
“Baum,” he said, turning to the lieu
tenant, “have you the papers and the
map from the Wilhelmstrasse?”
Lieutenant Baum saluted, and at
once he handed some documents to his
superior officer, who scanned them
quickly.
“ ‘Lion d’Or!’ ”he read aloud. . . .
“ ‘Proprietor, Henri Christophe!’ . . .
Bring Henri Christophe," he ordered.
At that the innkeeper himself
stepped forward.
“I am Henri Christophe,” he an
nounced In a quavering voice, even as
■Sergeant Schmidt was starting to
search for him.
“Oh, you speak English!” the major
said.
“Yes, m’sieu!” Christophe did not
THE BULLETIN, IRWINTON. GEORGIA.
know why he had committed that I
breach of policy. But he was too
frightened even to reproach himself for
the inadvertence.
“You are the proprietor of this inn?”
the officer demanded.
“Yes, m’sieu!”
Major von Brenig barked out an or
der to his men. And straightway they
closed both the shutters and the great
door that gave upon the street. Mean
while the major examined his papers
further.
“You have a daughter,” he an
nounced at length, “Jeanne Marie
Christophe, and a servant Louis?”
Henri Christophe told him that the
facts were so.
“Where are they?” the officer asked
him then.
“The servant fled with the others,”
Christophe replied. “My daughter is
in her room, m’sieu.” He turned
toward the door through which little
Jeanne had sought asylum. But Major
von Brenig stopped him.
“No, I shall do that,” he informed
him. And at his bidding Sergeant
Schmidt sprang forward to find the
girl. Her father simply pointed toward
the proper door. And his heart sank as
he realized the fright that would seize
the timid little thing at such a sum
mons. But he had not long to ponder
upon that; for Major von Brenig
straightway resumed his catechism.
“You have six rooms,” he continued.
“Two of these will be occupied by my
self and officers for the night. You
will have them prepared at once, two
beds each. The other four rooms will
be shared by the Infantry who will be
stationed here. For them you will
need make no preparations.”
Henri Christophe bowed obediently.
“You have ground here—enough to
graze two hundred horses,” the mat
ter-of-fact major proceeded. “You
have three cows, two horses, a hay
stack, plenty of chickens and pigs. Is
that not right?”
“Yes, m’sieu, quite right!” the Inn
keeper replied. He was staggered,
stupefied, by that amazing and accu
rate inventory.
“All these we shall take; but we
shall of course pay for them,” the offi
cer told him.
And then Sergeant Schmidt returned,
with little Jeanne cowering beside his
bulky figure. At the sight of her fa
ther she rushed across the room and
clung to him, a piteous spectacle.
“Ah, mon pere, I am afraid—l am
afraid,” she stammered.
He patted her gently.
“There, there, Jeanne—they will not
hurt you,” Henri Christophe said.
Major von Brenig looked with some
slight perturbation upon the sight of
the frightened girl shrinking against
her natural protector, as if he still had
power to shield her from all evil.
“No. my pretty little one, we are not
devils,” he said. “We will not harm
you. I am a father myself.”
“There—what did I tell you!” ex
claimed the relieved Henri.
“You are quite safe, my child,” the
major added—“so long as you obey.”
Already the summer air vibrated
with the far-off boom of heavy guns.
And now a bugle in the street outside
blared an order to the troops that were
filing past the Lion d’Or.
“Oh, papa,” the little creature cried.
But Henri Christophe knew that the
situation must be faced.
“Now, Jeanne, will you prepare the
rooms in four and six—two beds In
each? In the others these gentlemen
will sleep.” He bent over her in order
to emphasize his words.
“But we have guests already," she
reminded him.
Her father turned a rueful face upon
the major.
“Ah, m’sieu, I had forgotten. We
have two lodgers,” he explained.
“Who are they?”
“One is an American gentleman,
m’sieu; and the other a Frenchwoman.”
“Well, put them out of their rooms.
We must occupy them.”
“You hear, Jeanne?” Christophe said.
“Oul, mon pere.”
“Then hurry, my child!” he urged
her.
Major von Brenig gave her one last
order.
“And tell those two —those guests—
they shall report here to me at once.”
“Oui, m’sieu." Jeanne Christophe
hurried away then.
“And now, m’sieu, I go to prepare
your dinner,” her father told the officer.
“Just a moment! You have here no
firearms of any description?”
“None, m’sieu.”
“You have no telephone?”
“None, m’sieu.”
Major von Brenig wheeled about
then, and waved bls hand at some
large placards which his men bad al
ready fastened to the walls of the
room.
“Now, my friend, you see those proc
lamations?” he inquired.
“Yes, m’sieu.”
“It Is -well that you heed them.” the
officer said sternly. “If there Is any
attempt at communication with the
enemy, if there is any attack on our
men by civilians from this house or
any other house, the inmates of that
house, together with the mayor of your
town, whom we hold as hostage, will
all be shot. It is a warning to others.
By Richard Parker
Based on the drama ot
Roi Cooper Megrue
Author of
“UNDER COVER.**
and Co-Author of
“IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE”
I • . • We do not wish to do these
things, but this Is war, and we must
protect ourselves. . . . You under- ■
stand?”
"Perfectly, sir,” said Henri Chris- 1
tophe.
“We shall take what supplies we
need,” the major continued, “but any
officer or man who refuses to pay you
a just price, you will report to me.
and he will be punished. If you de
mand an unjust price, you will be pun
ished.”
“Yes, m’sieu.”
The subdued innkeeper had already
started to leave the room when the
officer's keen eye caught sight of some
thing that immediately interested him.
At his feet he noticed a hasp and pad
lock. And with characteristic German
thoroughness he at once desired to
solve the mystery.
“Wait! What’s this?” he demanded.
“Only the entrance to the wine cel
lar!” Christophe told him.
“Open it!”
“Yes, m’sieu.” Henri Christophe |
stooped and unlocked the heavy pad
lock. “Voila, m’sieu!” he exclaimed
as he lifted the trapdoor.
“Good!” said the major as he
peered into the dark cavern. “Later
on you will bring up some wine. It
will be excellent for tonight.”
Christophe had started to close the
trap when the major halted him again.
“Is there any outlet to the cellar
save this?” he asked thoughtfully.
“None, m’sieu.”
“Baum." said the major, “make sure
he is telling the truth —that no one
could escape that way.”
Lieutenant Baum saluted, and, de
taching a flashlight from his belt he
descended the steps that led into the
cellar.
“Now you may go cook dinner,” the
major told the innkeeper.
Once rid of preliminaries, Major von
Brenig addressed himself to Larry
Redmond, who all this time had been
a silent onlooker to the proceedings.
“Ah! You must be Captain Kari.”
he said.
“Yes, Herr Major!” Larry answered.
“I was told that you had only just
reported—your papers said on some
special mission. Can I be of assist
ance?”
“I thank you, major; but at the mo
ment there is nothing,” Larry told
him.
“Perhaps you will dine with me?”
Major von Brenig said. He was a hos
pitable man. And he understood that
. Captain Karl was held in high esteem
by his superiors.
“I thank you, Herr Major. Auf wie
; dersehen!” Larry replied. And he
walked to the door. He was not keen
to dine with the German officer, and
face his frankly scrutinizing eyes, and
perhaps have embarrassing questions
fired at him. But he saw no decent
way of declining. And there was al
ways the chance that such mingling
with enemy officers might yield valu
able information. If he should be
caught—well! that was all in the game.
Lieutenant Baum, returning from
the wine cellar, announced that he had
discovered no opening other than the
one furnished by the trapdoor in the
: floor.
“Good!”’ the older officer said. “Now
I shall go to my room and change my
boots. I have not had them off for
over a week.”
“You have not questioned the French
lady or the American,” the lieutenant
reminded him.
“I shall leave that to you and Ser
geant Schmidt.” the major replied.
It was only a few minutes before
Lieutenant Baum had summoned Ethe!
before him. He asked her name.
“I am Madame de Lorde,” she told
him,
“A Frenchwoman?” he inquired.
“Yes, m’sieu.”
He regarded her narrowly.
“You are perhaps a woman spy—
they say the French have many spies.
I must search you,” he announced, to
her consternation.
“Oh, monsieur, may I speak private
ly with you?” she begged him.
“Well, what Is it?”
“Only I wish to show you some
thing.”
“What trick is this?” he asked with
f asperity.
But Ethe! only smiled at his gruff
ness. Lieutenant Baum was a good
looking chap.
' “Surely you are not afraid of me—
one little woman!” she said archly.
“And a very pretty woman!" His
hand sought his mustache again.
"Well, what is |t, madame?”
Ethel drew him slightly to one side.
All but three of the infantrymen bil
leted upon Henri Christophe had with
drawn. But the remaining guard was
all eyes and ears for this cross-exami
nation of a possible spy.
nrwwwwwTVTTVTVTTWVW
► . <
► Does it seem possible that <
’ Madame de Lorde can “put it *
: > over” on the German officers ‘
I * and get an opportunity to give <
> the precious information she ‘
> seeks to the French? I
► <
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
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GETTING READY FOR COMPANY.
'TIs a sight to engage me. If anything
can.
To amuse on the perishing pleasure of
man;
Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I
see
Have a still shorter life, and die sooner
than we.
If there’s anyone who needs to take
the lesson of preparedness to heart.
it’s the girl who
is all anxiety to
know before hand
when company is
coming. This is
the girl who must
do her share of
the housework;
who is poor, but
strives her best
to make a good
showing. She
would rather go
out and have a
good time in the
afternoon instead
of housecleaning.
Sitting on some
other girl’s door
step, or going to
the movies won’t
get work done, but she does not give
a thought to that until she receives
a note from a nice young man, stating
that he would be pleased to call on
such and such an evening, and will
present himself punctually at her
home unless, in the interim, he has
word from her to cause him to change
his plans.
From that hour on such scurrying
as there is in that household. Young
men are keen-sighted, it would never
do to have dust on the panels of the
doors, or on the picture frames.
There’s the worn carpet to take up
and turn about, the seat of the old
sofa to jack up when it sags, a hole in
the curtain to darn, the chairs to
dust and the lamp wick to be trimmed
and put in shape to be lighted. Then
there’s the only evening dress she
owns. The last time she wore it was
at a molasses candy pull. The front
breadth bore evidence to that tn a
long stain, to say nothing of a huge
rent at the bottom of the skirt. She
had walked home in a light rain, caus
ing her white slippers to become mud
bespattered. Mother was too busy to
even lend a hand. All the tasks rest
ed on the shoulders of the girl, who
was so unprepared. Her mother made
no attempt to conceal her hurry, re
minding the girl that she had urged
her so often to do a little at a time,
to keep the best room and her own
clothes in order, fearing just such a
contretemps. Os course it was a gi
gantic undertaking, rushing through
a two weeks task in that many days,
even with poor old mother’s aid and
pressing tired old father into the serv
ice to battle with the taking up. turn
ing and relaying of the carpet, and
putting iron braces on the shaking
chairs.
The dress required remaking almost
Between puckering and ripping out,
twisting and turning, sewing so far
into the night, she lost her beauty
sleep and her good nature into the
bargain. To be sure the young man
arrived promptly, but he was puzzled
beyond words as to what could pos
sibly have happened to change an un
usually pretty girl into a positive
fright in two days time. She was
too tired to make herself really inter
esting or companionable. Therefore
the young man cut his call as short as
possible. He had found that hour so
irksome, he shirked callir.g again.
The lesson on the trials of being un
prepared struck home to the girl, who
would have never learned it so com
pletely under any other circumstances.
Every home should be in such apple
pie order that company could drop
in unexpectedly at any time without
creating discomfort, confusion, fuss or
flurry.
YOUNG GIRLS OF TENEMENTS.
Speak gently, kindly, to the poor.
Let no harsh term be heard.
They have enough they must endure
Without an unkind word.
There never were truer words than
“One half of the world does not know
how the other half lives.”
Do the women of wealth luxuriating
in fashionable summer hotels give a
thought to the young girls of the tene
ments in the hot cities they have left
behind them? If they but knew of the
surroundings amid which thousands of
such girls exist they would wonder
not why so many go wrong, but how
they manage to keep to the straight
and narrow path traversed by the good
and pure among such lamentable sur
roundings which fairly bristle with
temptation.
In the daytime at their toil these
young girls are safe from harm. It
is when night falls that grave ills men
ace them. When the thermometer is
hovering close to the hundred mark,
breathing in the few rooms in which
the whole family is crowded becomes
almost unendurable. There is but one
nope for relief and that is the roof.
They find almost every inch of roo^
pre-empted. The young longshoremen |
who board in the basement allow the !
girls who live in the top floor rear
part of the space they have secured.
There is little or no cessation of the
terrible heat The mouths of the la
borers and their wives are parched.
Mosquitoes and other insects add to
their torment. They cry out that
their thirst must be quenched. Wa
ter is not forthcoming, but the drink
that benumbs the brain and makes
them forget their miseries in stupor
is. It is forced upon the young girls
and children alike, and the morning
sun rises upon many a hapless girl
who will live to rue those hours dur
ing all her after life.
Amid such surroundings and influ
ences the summer nights are spent,
and there is no one to raise the mighty
cry, “What can be done to save the
young girls of the tenements from un
wise associations?”
The beautiful summertime is crowd
ed with joys for the daughters who
receive tender, watchful care, but full
of dangers and pitfalls for the inno
cent girls of the poor who are robbed
of protection and a chance to go
right. If the parks of the great cities
were open to girl toilers, and to them
only, during the torrid nights of the
summer, the problem would be par
tially solved and their safety from
harm assured. Better the cool, green
grass, close to the bosom of kind
Mother Earth than the sunbaked roof
of the tenement, where each and every
family has equal rights, but where the
strong dominate and the proper respect
for girlish innocence may not always
be preserved.
Women off summering who have left
closed-up homes and spacious grounds
well fenced in behind them could do
their share of bettering the condition
of the young girls of the tenements by
allowing a few of them to camp at
night on their grounds. An ounce of
prevention in averting evil is worth a
pound of cure.
TELL A SECRET TO A WOMAN.
Let no one fondly dream again
That hope and all her shadowing train
Will not decay.
Fleeting as were the dreams of old.
Remember like a tale that’s told.
They pass away.
On the eve of his marriage to a
sweet young girl, many a man has
faced the problem whether or no he
was in duty-bound to lay bare to her
all the incidents of his past life, good,
bad or indifferent, his boyish fancies,
the follies- of youth and the tempta
tions of manhood that enmeshed him.
To tell or not to tell —there was the
rub.
I am dumfounded over the vast
number of letters from betrothed
young men asking frankly the ques
tion : “Should a man who has been
a wild, devil-may-care sort of fellow,
who has turned over a new leaf when
about to wed, rake up his past to re
veal it to his fiancee?”
I answer quite as frankly: It all
depends upon the seriousness of tho
didos which have been 'cut up. The
seriousness of an error depends en
tirely upon its consequences. If a
man loved lightly an all too trusting
maiden, one or the other, through the
course of time growing weary of the
bond that in the beginning was so al
luring, the parting of the ways closed
the incident as far as the outside
world is concerned. (What his con
science has to do with it is quite an
other story, which I am not touch
ing on.)
It is useless to unfold to a fair young
girl a picture of the seamy side of life
of which she knows nothing. It would
not disturb the tranquillity of her per
fect trust, faith and love. If. on the
contrary more than the two hearts of
the man and maid are involved in the
ruthless breaking of his vows of con
stancy. the story of that past assumes
an entirely different significance.
I am not entering upon a man's
moral right to take upon himself new
er and holier bonds, the justice or in
justice of it. lam answering frankly
the query, “Should, or should he not
tell his fiancee in the latter case?”
stating that it is clear’, y his duty to
inform the young woman about to wed
him concerning a matter so vital to
her future peace of mind, aye happi
ness. It is about the cruelest thing
a man can do to keep a fiancee in the
dark concerning it. A man should
feel himself in duty bound to inform
her.
It rests with her whether to risk
happiness with him or bid him return
to those who have a prior claim to
whatever amount of heart and con
science he possesses. The ghost of a
certain kind of follies will not down,
but rise to confront one when least
expected.
Os ordinary, harmless secrets, such
as the number of flirtations he may
have indulged in. harmless loves that
have flitted across his path—a man
may keep well his own counsel, tell
ing no tales. Tell a woman a disa
greeable secret and her happiness is at
an end.
Had Never Seen Cream.
The times through which we are
passing have caused many a man to
change his views. They had this ef
fect on an East side milkman who de
cided to become honest.
On the third morning he was taken
aback when he called for the payment
of his weekly bill and a customer be
gan to shriek at him:
“You needn't serve me any longer, ’
she said, “and I’m not going to pay
you for the last two days."
“Why, what’s the trouble?" he in
quired anxiously.
“Trouble, indeed. When the milk
you've been leaving yesterday and the
day before stood a couple of hours
»there was a nasty, thick scum on It”
I And it took him half an hour to ex
! plain what cream was.
