Newspaper Page Text
THE PRICE
SYNOPSIS.
e
Kenneth Griswold, an unsuccessful
writer because of soclalistic tendencies,
sups with his frlend Balnbridge at Chau
diere’s restaurant in New Orleans and
declares that if necessary he will steal to
keep from starving. He holds up Andrew
Galbraith, president of the Bayou State
Becurity, in his private office and escapes
with $100,600 in cash, By original methods
he escapes the hue and cry.
CHAPTER Ill—Continued.
“The dragon may have teeth and
claws, but it can neither see nor
smell,” he sald, contemptuously, turn
ing his steps riverward again. “Now
I have only to choose my route and go
in peace. How and where are the
only remaining questions to be an
swered.”
For an hour or more after his re
turn to the riverfront, Griswold idled
up and down the levee; and the end
of the interval found him still undecid
ed as to the manner and direction of
his flight--to gay nothing of the choice
of a destination, which was even more
evasive than the other and more im
mediately pressing decision.
His first thought had been to go back
to New York. But there the risk of
detection would be greater than else
where, and he decided that there was
no good reason why he should incur
it. Besides, he argued, there were oth
er flelds in which the sociological
gtudies could be pursued under condi
tions more favorable than those to be
found in a great city. In his mind's
eye he saw himself domiciled in some
thriving interior town, working and
studying among people who were not
unindividualized by an artificial en-
Jironment. In such a community
theory and practice might go hand in
hand; he could know and be known;
and the money at his command would
be vastly more of a molding and con
trolling influence than it could possi
bly be in the smallest of circles in
New York. The picture, struck out
upon the instant, pleased him, and hav
ing sufficiently idealized it, he adopted
it enthusiastically as an inspiration,
Agnvlng the mere geographical detail
to arrange itself as chance, or subse-
Qquent events, might determine.
that finally decided the manner of his
going. For the third time in the hour
of aimless wanderings he“found him
self loitering opposite the berth of the
Belle Julie, an up-river steamboat
whose bell gave sonorous warning of
the approaching moment of departure.
Tolling roustabouts, trailing in and out
like an endless procession of human
ants, were hurrying the last of the car
go aboard,
“Poor devils! They've been told
that they are free men, and perhaps
they believe it. But surely no slave
of the Toulon galleys was ever in bit
terer bondage. . . . Free?—yes,
free to toll and sweat, to bear burdens
and to be driven like cattle under the
yoke! Oh, good Lord!-—look at that!"™
The ant procession had attacked the
final tier of boxes in the lading, and
one of the burden-bearers, a white
man, had stumbled and fallen like a
crushed pack animal under a load too
heavy for him. Griswold was beside
him in a moment. The man could not
rise, and Griswold dragged him not un
tenderly out of the way of the others.
“Where are you hurt?"
The crushed one sat up and npat’
blood.
“l don’t know: inside, somewheres.
I been dyin' on my feet any time for
a year or two back."”
“Consumption?” queried Griswold,
briefly. |
“1 reckon so." ‘
“Then you have no earthly business
in a deck coeew. Don't you know
that ™
The man's qmtle was a ghastly face
wrinkling.
“Reckon I nuin't got any business
anywheres—out'n a horspital or a hole
in the ground. But I kind o' thought
I'd like to be planted 'longside the
woman and the childer, if I could make
out some way to git there.”
“Where?"
The consumptive named a small riv
er town in lowa. "
In Griswold impulse was the domi
pant chord always struck by an appehl
to his sympathies, His compassion
went straight to the mark, as it was
sure to do when his pockets were not
empty.
“What is the fare by rail to your
town?" he inquired.
“I don’t know: I never asked. Some
wheres between twenty and thirty 2)!
lars, 1 reckon; and that's more money
than I've seen sence the woman died.”
Griswold hastily counted out a hun
dred dollars from his pocket fund and
thrust the money into the man's hand.
“Take that and change places with
me,” he commanded, slipping on the
mask of gruffness again. “Pay your
fare on the train, and I'll take your
Job on the boat. Don't be a fool!” he
added, when the man put his face in
his hands and began to choke, “It's
ir enough exchange, and I'll get as
!ch out of it one way as you will
Rbe other. What is your name? 1
may have to borrow it,”
By FRANCIS LYNDE
“Gavitt-—John Wesley Gavitt.”
“All right; off with you,” said the
liberator, curtly; and with that he
shouldered the sick man’s load and
fell into line in the ant procession.
Once on board the steamer, he fol
lowed his file leader aft and made
it his firet care to find a safe hiding
place for the tramp’s bundle in the
knotted handkerchief. That done, he
stepped into the line again, and be
came the sick man's substitute in fact.
It was toil of the ehrewdest, and he
drew breath of blesged relief when the
last man staggered up the plank with
his burden. The bell was clanging its
final summons, and the slowly revolv
ing paddle-wheels were taking the
strain from the mooring lines. Being
‘near the bow line Griswold was one
of the two who spring ashore at the
mate's bidding to cast off. He was
backing the hawser out of the last of
its half-hitches, when a carriage was
driven rapidly down to the stage and
two tardy passengers hurried aboard.
The mate bawled from his station on
the hurricane deck.
“Now, then! Take a turn on that
spring line out there and get them
trunks aboard! Lively!”
The larger of the two trunks fell to
the late recruit; and when he had set
it down at the door of the designated
stateroom, he did half absently what
John Gavitt might have done without
blame: read the tacked-on card, which
bore the owner's name and address,
written in a firm hand: “Charlotte
Farnham, Wahaska, Minnesota.”
“Thank you,Y said a musical voice
at his elbow. “May I trouble you to
pui it inside?”
Griswold wheeled as if the mild
toned request had been a blow, and
was properly ashamed. But when he
saw the speaker, consternation prompt
ly slew all the other emotions. For
the owner of the tagged trunk was the
young woman to whom, an hour or so
earlier, he had given place at the pay
ing teller’'s wicket in the Bayou State |
Security.
She saw his confusion, charged it to
the card-reading at which she had sur
prised him, and smiled. Then he met
her gaze fairly and became sane again
oAo N g
whipped off hi
trunk into the stateroom. After
which he went to his place on the
lower deck with a great thankfulness
throbbing in his heart and an inchoate
resolve shaping itself in his brain.
Late that night, when the Belle Julie
was well on her way up the great
river, he flung himself down upon the
sacked coffee on the engine room-guard
to snatch a little rest between land
ings, and the resolve became sufficient
ly cosmic to formulate itself in words.
“I'll call it an oracle,” he mused.
“One place is as good as another, just
s 0 it is inconsequent enough. And 1
am sure I've never heard of Wahaska.”
Now Griswold the social rebel was,
before all things else, Griswold the im
aginative literary craftsman; and no
sooner was the question of his ulti
mate destination settled thus arbitrari
ly than he began to prefigure the place
and its probable lacks and havings.
This process brought him by easy
stages to pleasant idealizings of Miss
Charlotte Farnham, who was, thus far,
the only tangible thing connected with
the destination dream. A little farther
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She Saw His Confusion, and Charged
It to the Card Reading.
along her personality laid hold of him
and the idealizings became purely lit
erary.
“She is a magnificently strong type!"
was his summing up of her, made
while he was lying flat on his back
and staring absently at the flitting
shadows among the deck beams over
head. “Her face is as readable as only
the face of a woman instinctively good
and pure in heart can be. Any man
who ean put her betwsen the covers
CHARLTON COUNTY HERALD, FOLKSTON, GEORGIA.
—
(Copyright by Cnarles Scribner's Sons)
of a book may put anything ellé“{'_
pleases in it and snap his fingers ot
the world. If lam going to live in the
same town with her, I ought to jot her
down on paper before I lose the keen
edge of the first impression.”
He considered it for a moment, and
then got up and went in search of a
pencil and a scrap of paper. The doz
ing night clerk gave him both, with
a sleepy malediction thrown in; and
he went back to the engine room an
scribbled his word picture by the 1i
of the swinging incandescent. 4
He read it over thoroughly when it
was finished, changing a word here
and a phrase there with a craftsman’s
fidelity to the exactnesses. Then he
shook his head regretfully and tore the
scrap of paper into tiny squares, scat
tering them upon the brown flood
surging past the engine room gangwg. |
“It won't do,” he confessed reluet
antly, as one who sacrifices good liter
ary material to a stern sense of the
fitness of things. “It is nothing less
than a cold-blooded sacrilege. 1 can'’t
make copy of her if I write no more
while the world stands.”
CHAPTER lIV.
The Deck Hand. ‘
Charlotte Farnham’s friends—their
number was the number of those who
had seen her grow from childhood
to maiden—and womanhood—com
monly identified her for inquiring
strangers as “good old Doctor Bertie's
‘only,”” adding, men and women alike,
that she was as well-balanced and sen
sible as she was good to look upon.
She had been spending the winter
at Pass Christian with her aunt, who
was an invalid; and it was for the
invalid’'s sake that she had decided
to make the return journey by river.
So it had come about that their
staterooms had been taken on the
Belle Julie; and on the morning of
the second day out from New Or-
Jeans, Miss Gilman was so far from
being travel sick that she was able to
sit with Charlotte in the shade of the
hurricane deck aft, and to enjoy, with
what quavering enthusiasm there was
in ber, the matchless scenery of the
tower Missfssippl. © L .
e MY
ham bought a copy of the Louisianian.
As a matter of course, the first page
leader was a circumstantial account
of the daring robbery of the Bayou
State Security, garnished with star
tling headlines. Charlotte read it,
half-absently at first, and a second
time with interest awakened and a
quickening of the pulse when she real
ized that she had actually been a wit
ness of the final act in the near-trag
edy. Her little gasp of belated horror
brought a query from the invalid. |
“What is it, Charlie, dear?”
For answer, Charlotte read the news
paper story of the robbery, headlines
and all.
“For pity's sake! in broad daylight!
How shockingly bold!” commented
Miss Gilman, |
“Yes; but that wasn't what made
me gasp. The paper says: ‘A young
lady was at the teller's window when
the robber came up with Mr. Gal
braith—' Aunt Fanny, I was the
‘young lady'!™
“You? horrors!” ejaculated the in
valid, holding up wasted hands of dep
recation,
Charlotte the well-balanced, smiled
at the purely personal limitations of
her aunt’s point of view,
“It is very dreadful, of course; but
it is no worse just because I happened
to be there, Yet it seems ridiculously
incredible. I can hardly believe it,
even now.”
“Incredible? How?"
“Why, there wasn't anything about
it to suggest a robbery. Now that I
know, I remember that the old gentle
man did seem anxious or worried, or
at least, not quite comfortable some
way; but the young man was smiling
pleasantly, and he looked like anything
rather than a desperate criminal.”
Miss Gilman's New England conserv
atism, unweakened by her long resi
dence in the West, took the alarm at
once.
“But no one in the bank knew you.
They couldn't trace you by your fa
ther's draft and letter of identifica
tion, could they?"
Charlotte was mystified, “I should
suppose they could, if they wanted to.
But why? What if they could?*
“My dear child; don't you see? They
are sure to catch the robber, sooner
or later, and if they know how to find
you, you might be dragged into court
as a witness!”
Miss Farnham was not less averse
to publieity than the conventionalities
demanded, but she had, or believed she
had, very clear and well-defined ideas
of her own touching her duty in any
matter involving a plain question of
right and wrong.
“I shouldn't wait to be dragged,”
she asserted quietly. “It would be a
simple duty to go willingly. The first
thing 1 thought of was that I ought
to write at once to Mr. Galbraith, giv
ing him my address.” -
Thereupon issued discussiop, At
llustrations by C. D. RHODES ”
the end of the argument the conserv
ative one had extorted a conditional
promise from her niece. The matter
should remain in abeyance until the
question of conscientious obligation
had been submitted to Charlotte’s fa
ther and decided by him.
An hour later, when Miss Gilman
was deep in the last installment of the
current serial, Charlotte let her book
slip from her fingers and gave herself
to the passive enjoyment of the slow
ly-passing panorama which is the chief
charm of inland voyaging.
From where she was sitting she
‘ could see the steamer’s yawl swinging
from its tackle at the stern-staff; and
after many minutes it was slowly
borne in upon her that the ropes were
working loose. A man came aft to
make the loosened tackle fast.
Something half familiar in his man
ner attracted Charlotte’s attention,
and her eyes followed him as he went
on and hoisfed the yawl into place.
When he came back she had a fair
sight of his face and her eyes met his.
In the single swift glance half-formed
guspicion became undoubted certainty;
she looked again and her heart gave a
great bound and then seemed sud
denly to forget its office. It was use
less to try to escape from the dismay-
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The Niche Between the Coffee Sacks
Was Empty.
ing fact. The stubble-bearded deck
hand with the manner of a gentleman
was most unmistakably a later rein
~carnation of the pleasantly smiling
young man who had courteously made
way for her at the teller’'s wicket in
the Bayou State Security; who had
smiled and given place to her while
he was holding his pistol aimed at
President Galbraith.
It was said of Charlotte Farnham
that she was sensible beyond her
years, and withal strong and straight
forward in honesty of purpose. None
the less, she was a woman. And when
she saw what was before her, con
science turned traitor and fled away
to give place to an uprush of hesitant
doubts born of the sharp trial of the
moment.
She got upon her feet, steadying her
self by the back of her shair. She felt
that she could not trust herself if she
once admitted the thin edge of the
wedge of delay. The simple and
straightforward thing to do was to go
immediately to the captain and tell him
of her discovery, but she shrank from
the thought of what must follow. They
would seize him: he had proved that
he was a desperate man, and there
would be a struggle. And when the
struggle was over they would bring
him to her and she would have to
stand forth as his accuser.
It was too shocking, and she caught
at the suggestion of an alternative
with a gasp of relief. She might write
to President Galbraith, giving such a
description of the deck-hand as would
enable the officers to identify him
without her personal help. It was
like dealing the man a treacherous
blow in the back, but she thought it
would be kinder. »
“Aunt Fanny,” she began, with her
face averted, “lI promised you 1
wouldn't write to Mr. Galbraith until
after we reached home-—until 1 had
told papa. 1 have been thinking about
it since, and I--1 think it must be
done at once.”
. . . . . . .
Griswold had come upon Miss Farn
ham unexpectedly, and when he passed
her on his way forward he had seen
the swift change in her face betoken-
Ing some sudden emotion, and the rec
ollection of it troubled him.
What if this clear-eyed young person
had recognized him? He knew that
the New Orleans papers had come
aboard; he had seen the folded copy
of the Loulsianian in the invalid's lap.
Consequently, Miss Farnham knew of
the robbery, and the incidents were
fresh in her mind. What would she
do if she had penetrated his disguise?
He had a shock of genuine terror
at this point and his skin prickled as
at the touch of something loathsome.
Up to that moment he had suffered
none of the pains of the hunted fu
gitive; but he knew now that he had
fairly entered the gates of the out
law's inferno; that however cunning
ly he might cast about to throw his
pursuers off the track, he would never
again know what it was to be wholly
free from the terror of the srrow that
flieth by day.
The force of the Scriptural simile
came to him with startling emphasis,
bringing on a return of the prickling
dismay. The stopping of the paddle
wheels and the rattling clangor of the
gang-plank winch aroused him to ac
tion and he shook off the creeping
numbness and ran aft to rummage un
der the cargo on the engine-room
guards for his precious bundle. When
his hand reached the place where it
should have been, the blood surged
to his brain and set up a clamorous
dinning in his ears like the roaring
of a cataract. The niche between the
coffee sacks was empty.
CHAPTER V.
The Chain Gang.
While Griswold was grappling
afresh with the problem of escape, and
planning to desert the Belle Julie at
the next landing, Charlotte Farnham
was sitting behind the locked door of
her ‘stateroom with a writing pad on
her knee over which for many min
utes the suspended pen merely hov
ered. She had fancied that her re
solve, once falrly taken, would not
stumble over a simple matter of de
tail. But when she had tried a dozen
times to begin the letter to Mr. Gal
braith, the simplicities vanished and
complexity stood in their room.
Try as she might to put the sham
deck-hand into his proper place as an
impersonal unit of a class with which
soclety is at war, he perversely re
fused to surrender his individuality.
At the end of every fresh effort she
was confronted by the inexorable sum
ming-up: in a world of phantoms there
were only two real persons; a man
who had sinned, and a woman who
was about to make him pay the pen
alty.
It was all very well to reason about
it, and to say that he ought to be
made to pay the penalty; but that did
not make it any less shocking that
she, Charlotte Farnham, should be the
one to set the retributive machinery
in motion. Yet she knew she had the
thing to do, and so, after many in
effectual attempts, the letter was writ
ten and sealed and addressed, and she
went out to mail it at the clerk’s
office.
As it chanced, the engines of the
steamer were slowing for a landing
when she latched her stateroom door.
The doors giving upon the forward
:
in sharp commands as the steamer
lost way and edged slowly up to the
river bank. A moment later she was
outside, leaning on the rail and look
ing down upon the crew grouped about
the inboard end of the uptilted landing
stage. He was there; the man for
whose destiny accident and the con
ventional sense of duty had made her
responsible; and as she looked she
had a fleeting glimpse of his face.
It was curiously haggard and woe
begone; so sorrowfully changed that
for an instant she almost doubted his
identity. The sudden transformation
added fresh questionings, and she be
gan to ask herself thoughtfully what
had brought it about. Then the man
turned slowly and looked up at her as
it the finger of her thought had
touched him. There was no sign of
recognition in his eyes; and she con
strained herself to gaze down upon
him coldly. But when Belle Julie's
bow touched the bank, and the wait
ing crew melted suddenly into a tenu
ous line of burden-bearers, she fled
through the deserted saloon to her
stateroom and hid the fatal letter up.
der the pillows in her berth.
That evening, after dinner, she went
forward with some of the other pas.
sengers to the railed promenade which
was the common evening rendezvoys,
The Belle Julie had tied up at a smaj
town on the western bank of the great
river, and the ant procession of rousta
bouts was in motion, going laden up
the swing stage and returning empty
by the foot plank. Left to herself for
a moment, Charlotte faced the rail
and again sought to single out the
man whose fate she must decide,
She distinguished him presently; a
grimy, perspiring unit in the crew,
tramping back and forth mechanically,
staggering under the heaviest loads,
and staring stonily at the back of his
file leader in endless round; a picture
of misery and despair, Charlotte
thought, and she was turning away
with the dangerous rebellion against
the conventions swelling again in her
heart when Captain Mayfield joined
her.
“I just wanted to show you,” he
sald; and he pointed out a gang of
men repairing a slip in the levee em.
bankment below the town landing. It
was a squad of prisoners in chains.
The figures of the convicts were
struck out sharply against the dark
background of undergrowth, and the
reflection of the sunset glow on the
river lighted up their sullen faces and
burnished the use-worn links in their
leg-fetters.
“The chain-gang," said the captain,
briefly. “That's about where the fel.
low that robbed the Bayou State Se.
curity will bring up, if they cateh him.
He'll have to be mighty tough and
well-seasoned if he lives to worry
through twenty years of that, don't
you think?"
But Miss Farnbam could not an.
swer; and even the unobservant cap
tain of river boats saw that she was
moved and was sorry he had spoken.
In any path of performance there
is but one step which is irrevocable,
namely, the final one, and in Charlotte
Farnham's besetment this step was the
mailing of the letter to Mr. Galbraith.
Many times during the evening she
wrought herself up to the plunging
point, only to recoil on the very brink;
and when at length she gave up the
the struggle and went to bed, the
sealed letter was still under her pil
low.
Now it is a well-accepted truism that
an exasperated sense of duty, like
remorse and grief, fights best in the
night watches. It was of no avail to
protest that her intention was still
unshaken. Conscience urged that de
lay was little less cuipable than refus
al, since every houf gave the criminal
an added chance of gscape. The min
utes dragged leadewwinged, and to sit
quietly in the silerce and solitude
of the great saloon became a nerve.
racking impossibility. When it went
past endurance, she rose and stepped
out upon the promenade deck.
The Belle Julie was approach
ing a landing. The electric search
light eye on the hurricane deck
was just over her head, and its great
white cone seemed to hiss as it poured
its dazzling flood of fictitious noonday
upon the shelving river bank and the
sleeping hamlet beyond. Out of the
dusky underglow came the freight car
riers, giving birth to a file of grotesque
shadow monsters as they swung up the
plank into the field of the searchlight.
The foot plank had been drawn in,
the steam winch was clattering, and
the landing stage had begun to come
aboard, when the two men whose duty
it was to cast off ran out on the tilting
stage and dropped from its shore end.
One of them fell clumstily, tried to rise,
and sank back into the shadow; but
the other scrambled up the steep bank
and loosened the half-hitches in the
wet hawser. With the slackening of
the line the steamer began to move
out into the stream, and the man at
the mooring post looked around to
see what had become of his come
panion.
“Get a move on youse!” bellowed
the mate; but instead of obeying, the
man ran back and went on his knees
beside the huddied figure in the
shadow. }
At this point the watcher on the
promenade deck began vaguely to un
derstand that the first man was dis
abled in some way, and that the other
was trying to lift him. While she
looked, the engine-room bells jangled
and the wheels began to turn. The
mate forgot her and swore out of a full
heart.
She put her fingers in her ears to
shut out the clamor of abusive pro
fanity; but the man on the bank paid
no attention to the richly emphasized
command to come aboard. Instead, he
-ran_swiftly to the mooring Dol:‘ took
around it ‘amvi‘;a by until the strain
ing line snubbed the steamer’s bow to
the shore. Then, deftly casting off
again, he darted back to the disabled
man, hoisted him bodily to the high
guard, and clambered aboard himself;
all this while McGrath was brushing
the impeding crew aside to get at him,
Charlotte saw every move of the
quick-witted salvage in the doing, and
wanted to cry out in sheer enthusiasm
when it was done. Then, in the light
from the furnace doors, she saw the
face of the chief actor; it was the face
of the man with the stubble beard.
She could not hear what McGrath
was saying, but she could read hot
wrath in his gestures, and in the way
the men fell back out of his reach.
All but one: the stubble-bearded white
man was facing him fearlessly, and he
appeared to be trying to explain.
Griswold was trying to explain, but
the bullying first officer would not let
him. It was a small matter; with the
money gone, and the probability that
capture and arrest were deferred only
from landing to landing, a little abuse,
more or less, counted as nothing. But
he was grimly determined to keep Mc:
Grath from laying violent hands upor
the negro who had twisted his ankle
in jumping from the uptilted landing:
stage,
“No; this is one time when you
don’t skin anybody alive!” he retorted,
when a break in the stream of abuse
gave him a chance. “You let the man
alone. He couldn't help it. Do you
suppose he sprained an ankle purpose:
Iy to give you a chance to curse him
out?”
The mate's reply was a brutal kick
at the crippled negro. Griswold camé
closer,
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
i
Cynical Recipe for Success.
Oliver Onions, author of “Mush
room Town,” ete., recently remarked:
“A cynical friend told me the other
day that the secret of success was to
£et a name for incorruptibility and
then go ahead and corrupt it for much
gold. I'm sure there's a weak spot in
this somewhere, but judging from a
€ood many, both of writers and pols
ticlans, perhaps there's something i
it. Only unfortunately 1 can't apply
the recipe to my own work, because
I have too much fun writing to think
i about corruption one way or the
‘ other.”
f “Cozy" Is Hardly the Word to Use.
. "Of course,” said Mre. M. T. Cack
ler, “it is real nice in the newspapers
to describe the new Muehlebach ho
! tel as cozy and homelike, but 1 should
i call a building with a tea furore and a
' case centurion, with marble floors and
’pmows of lapsus linguae hnd male
| faction, and with gleaming chanty
cleers impending from the doomed cefd
|inn. & great deal more rotund thap
| €ozy."—Kansas City Star,