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.. The Marßkßed Man..
A Romance of the Great Lakes
W. N, U. Service BY KARL W. DETZER Copyright by The Bobbs-Merrill Co.
THE STORY
From his French-Canadian
mother, Norman Erickson in
herits a distaste for life on the
water, which is beyond the un
derstanding of his father, Gustaf,
veteran deep-water sailor, At
Mrs. Erickson’s death Gustaf de
termines to make Norman, who
has been working for a grocer,
his partner in his fishing boat, at
6uce. In rebellious mood, Nor
man seeks comfort from Julie
Richaud, French-Canadian play
mate of his school days. Gustaf,
going to the aid of a drowning
friend is crippled. After months,
Gustaf is in a measure able to re
sume his occupation. Ed. Baker,
young fisherman, Norman's life
long enemy, fans ill feeling be
tween father and son, and Nor
man determines to seek employ
ment in the lighthouse service.
Before he has accepted, Norman
refuses to accompany his father
en a fishing trip, during a fierce
storm. Gustaf accuses him of
cozvardice. Indignant, Norman
gées to Blind Man's Eye. Captain
Stocking is in command, living’
with his daughter, Susan. Ed
Baker gives Stocking and his
daughter a biased account of
Norman’s econduct. While filling
a lamp with kerosene Susan sets
fire to her skirts,
CHAPTER IV—Continued
—6—
He jerked down a tarpaulin and
slammed it on the floor. Fire? Sure,
be could beat fire! It wasn’'t wind .
« v it wasn't form. . . i wWho
needed a coast guardsman to drown
out fire? He felt dizzy . . . cool,
this sand . . he planted it care
{ufly sracie. Bere there . ~ d--n
t, there wasn't any fire, wasn't any
langer. Just that filthy smell!
“Hi! Captain!” he shouted huskily.
% o K % ” . .
“The boy’s a d—n fool!” Captain
Parish said distinctly, “Fine thanks,
ain’t it? Try to save a man’s life and
bave him knock you down a million
gtaire! The fool was drown'd in
e
~ “The fire was out! And I tell you,
Josiab Parish, it ain’t fitting, such
talk, My, my, what's happened this
day . . . frickson put Sue’s fire
out, Josiah Parish. Coast guard didn’t
have an oar in it. We didn't need
coast guard. Faith, and I'd knocked
your man down, too, days I was
wild . . . wish’t there'd been a hun
dred and eighty steps. . . .”
“Is the fire out?” asked Norman,
The group in his bedrom started.
Capuain Stocking was walking violent
1y without his shoes up and down the
bare painted floor. Captain Parish of
the coast guard sat astride the chair.
He coughed just as Norman spoke.
Sug Stecking came toward the bed.
“All out,” she answered.
“What's the matter, then?” Norman
‘demanded. :
. “Nothing !” answered Sue. Her voice
was mild. “Lie etill.”
© “You put out a mean mess o' kero
"sepe,” her father cried. He wmopped
his fat red face. “Saved a lens, far
as' I can figger, saved thé whole
tower.” .
Captain Parrish interrupted,
“You knocked my number seven man
clean downstairs. . . .
“It dido’t hurt him!” cried Sue
Stocking.
Parish growled: “Knocked him
elean downstairs for trying to lug you
out!”
“Who'd 1 hit?” Norman asked.
“You hit Ed Baker,” Sue explained
to him. “He came up to the tower and
you knocked him down. Norman didn't
know he hit him, Captain Parish. And
the fire was out.”
“Sure the fire was out!” Samuel
Stocking turned on his daughter. “No
thanks to you, Susan. You certainly
bave done your share o' mischief to.
day. What a day, what a day!" He
switehed his attack to Norman., *“lt
was that Baker come first, your fr'end
Baker! Busted up them stairs like a
seasick cow. You was capsized in
your head, Erickson. You was yellin’
wiid, and when Baker ran up you
pitched into him bow first.”
“It didn't burt him,” repeated Sue
Stocking.
“Might of. And It wouldn't have
been the first time he plunked him,
either.” Captain Parish strode out
of the door. “Night, Sam’L” he
called from the ballway, “Night,
Miss Sue.”
Norman tried to think. His hands
and arms and face were bandaged,
with a sickening ointment that
smelled lke fish ol . ~ ~ he was
very sleepy . . . there had been a
fire, be had knocked Ed Baker down
the tower stairs. . . .
“Why'd 1 ever do that?” he asked
Sue Stocking.
She had slipped from the room, 8o
apparentiy, bad Captain Stocking.
The nassistant keeper turned over
miserably and slept.
It was seven days before Norman
dressed In his uniform and prowled
dizaily around the lighthouse reser.
vation: in twelve he resumed work,
tn two weeks he togk his first day oft
duty.
e was undecided where to go. He
wanted to see hls father. And he
waoted to talk with Julle Richaud,
He bad bad wo word from Madrid
Bay since Jim Nelson’s advice to
wait a little longer before coming
back. He had written again, a short
embarrassed letter to old Gustaf, en
closing half his second pay check. He
would like to go to Madrid. But Nel
son knew best probably., He was
faithful, a friend of both Ericksons.
There still was Julie. He had not
written her, had not known what to
write, Nevertheless he felt that Julie
would be glad to see him in spite of
his long silence.
It had been two months . . . oh,
longer than that, he wes ashamed to
figure how long . , . it had been
nearly three months since he visited
the Richaud farm. He turned to the
left up a tricky, hilly cattle path.
This looked like back country, all
right. Another world. He felt lost
inland. Now, how could he explain
that? When he was uncomfortable.
on the lake? He shrugged his shoul
ders, with one of his mother’s funny
little gestures. It was too deep for
him!
The Richauds all were busy on the
farm. Julie, when she saw him ap
proach, put down the box of cherries
which she was pitting and opened
the bars at the end of the lane. Her
cheeks were sharply colored when he
came up with her, and her purple
black hair was curling in the heat.
More than ever she looked like a little
girl.
“You, after all this time!” she
cried, and stared at him. “What's
happened to your head, Norman?
And your hands?”
“Burnéd a little,” he replied. He
had a short way of answering ques
tions. His mother used to tell him
it was rude.
“Burned ?”
He laughed off her anxiety. He was
glad to see Julie, gladder than he had
imagined he would be. Somehow, he
expected her to have changed. So
many things had happened since last
he saw her . . . years had run by in
a few months. But if she had
changed, it +=was onl, that she was
handsomer, that her eyes were dark
er and rounder and that the color on
her cheeks was a deeper scarlet. She
held her head a little higher, perhaps.
But she looked so young . « . as if
the soil had been kind to her, had
permitted her to have quiet thoughts.
And her eyes told Norman just now
that she was happy, deliciously happy
to see him, and nothing else in the
world was bothering her head.
“Well, I came back.,” he said. He
laughed, and then wondered why he
laughed. Perhaps it was bgcause of
Julie’s smile.
“But Norman! You are thin!” she
told him, *“Thin as a bean pole. And
your head must be very badly hurt.
Here, come into the shade. When
were you hurt?”
“Two weeks today. Did you hear,
Julie, I'm working at the lighthouse?”
A deep crease shot across her fore
head. “l know.” For a moment she
was silent, and then her mood
changed. She was like that, Norman
remembered. SRe could shift her
humors like a Great Lakes wind.
“Have you had your dinner?” sne
asked. *“Ours is late today. Moiher
and father will both be glad to see
you. Come in with me”
She opened the kitchen door,
The room was full of steam, or
little Richauds, of the inviting scent
of French cooking. Old Germaine
was scrubbing his face in a towel,
“Ho, Norman,” he cried. *The good
saints above! Who , . . who hurt
you?”
Norman grinned. He had forgotten
how Germaine could scream. He was
as excitable as Captain Stocking.
© “I'm not hurt. Just burnt a little,”
He told the story bluntly. Germaine
seemed impressed when he finished;
all the family were admiring. It
pleased Norman for the Richauds to
think him a hero. They even called
him one, There was a thought to
make the coast guard laugh! At din
ner, while Julie's mother bobbed
busily about the table, with Germaine
crowing, waving his knife and fork,
gulping carrots and peas between ex
cited sentences, and with Julie
Richand silent beside him, Norman
desceribed Blind Man's Eye and his
days and nights on duty.
“Come with me” Julie bade when
they ftinished their dinner. *1 mys
carry salt, two blocks of It, over
there,” she pointed toward the north
west, “The sheep are In that pas
ture,” :
Norman pleked up the salt and
strode willingly beside her. He was
glad to be alone with her. Julie had
become silent, she whose tongue was
unaccustomed 1o silence, She walked
now gruvely, as If there were a mat
ter she wished to speak of and dured
not,
“Have you heard anything of my fa
ther?” Norman asked,
Julle turned, and her plok face re
laxed, She hod been walting for that,
“Yes,” she answered. “He Is very
angry at you, Norman, | bad seen bim
once before since you went away, He
was angry then because you did not
go out in the storm with him. This
time it was something else, He had
heard that you broke a man's head In
the dark. Your father wus very angry
at that, He screamed so loud all
Madrid Bay. listened. He told me
Eddie Baker says it was over a
iRI o ikl
“What'd he say?”
“Eddie Baker?”
“Baker? No, my father. 1 don't
care what Baker says.”
1 Julie looked at him keenly, then
flushed. '
“Your father sat on the bridge Sun
day,” she related. “We' stopped, my
father ‘and L. So long we have not
heard of you. 1 asked about you. Zut!
He gave me the look of a panther,
Norman. ‘That boy is not my son!
he screamed. ‘He's afear’d!” He cried
out you must never cqme back to
Madrid, never, 3
“*‘Good!” 1 said. ‘'Maybe he will
come to the farm." But no! Eddie
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She Pointed Down the Valley, and
Norman, Following Her Gesture,
Saw an Unpainted House and
Barn.
Baker has told your father about the
lighthouse . . . he says you went
there because of a girl. , , »°
“A girl? Baker said that?” Nor
man felt his face redden. *“That is
ridiculous, Julie!”
The girl turned toward him be
seechingly. What she said appalled
him. He had never thought Julie
would ask this!
“Next year you will farm, Norman?
There, south across the river, do you
see that nice forty acres? You can
have it on shares from old Henri Pla
mondon.” She pointed down the val
ley, and Norman, followed her gesture,
saw an unpainted house and barn.
“Till then you can work for my fa
ther, Norman, if you want. He does
not wish you to live at the lighthouse.”
Norman shook his head impatiently.
“But 1 am signed up at the light,
Julie.,” He paused, seeking something
that would appeal to her. *I have a
fine uniform, Julie, with a little silver
lighthouse on the cap. And at night
the lamp sings, Just like the choir over
at Copperhead church, only quieter,
You would love it at the light. Next
week, Julle, can’t you come see It?
Come and see Blind Man's Eye!”
Julie raised her chin. Her glowing
black eyes almost met his blue ones,
“1 don’t believe 1 would care for the
lighthouse business,” she answered.
"It 18 u wet business, Norman, Not
like the farm, 1 am not meant for the
wet lakes., You told me once your
mother made a mistake, , [ »
“In mareying a sailor?” He leaped
at the word, “Yes, but I'm not a
sailor!”
“And we're not talking of marry
ing!" Julie’s tone matched his,
“But we might?”
*“No, Normwan, no. You haven't found
syour place yet, Norman. Once when
you were here you told me you never
were ut peace in a storm, , , )”
“1 said on water, Julie!”
“The lighthouse is water.”
“No "
She did not argue further, A new
tenderness bud begun to glow in his
sturdy face und she turned abruptly
from it It seemed he was a ful
grown man today. He possessed more
ussurance, a strength that ehe ad
mired. She sat down under a beech
tree, and he dropped beside her,
A washed rocky declivity spread be
low them, Sheep wandered alinlessly
up and down the northwest pasture
under the cover of dark pine woods
There was peace here, Normon ad
mitted to himself,
“You come Sunday afternoon,” he in
sisted. Llis voice was pleading. He
took her hand affectionntely in his.
“I'll think about It,” she wuld; then,
us If done with that subject she with
drew her bhand from bis and pointed
one finger down the valley,
“Do you see them?” she asked. My
father's sheep? 'l'he one thut's nearly
white? Well, It haus no sense. When
1 want it in the lower pusture, 1t muyst
go In the upper. When | want it in
the upper, it must go In the lower, [t
bas vot the sense to do what 1 tell it
CHARLTON COUNTY HERAI.D
It is only a sheep. ! get very angry
with it. Sometimes, Norman , ~ , "
“Sometimes what?”
“You are like a sheep,” Julie saia
gravely. “When your father wants
you to fish, you want to farm. When
somebody else wants you to farm, you
talk about lights.”
Norman arose quickly. He turned
on her with a swift harsh anger, but
she did not shrink. She was looking
at him soberly from her fine black
eyes, .
“Good-by,” he said shortly. He
moved away a dozen steps.
*Good-by,” Julie answered. There
was regret in ber voice, regret and
forgiveness but no hint of relenting.
“Come again, Norman.”
He did not look back. At the main
road -he turned south, walked rapidly
and spoke to no.one on the way. He
was angry. Angry at himself, at
Julie, at his father. Wise Julie had
told him what he had told himself a
thousand times.
Lake or land! It never would be
his own decision. His mother and
Gustaf had seen to that. He probably
was a sheep . . . one minute this
way, the next minute another. Julie
Richaud could not. understand that
tug within him, all she saw was the
foolish way it made him look and act
He felt that she did not object to the
water as her father did. Only she
wanted him to love it whole-heartedly
or leave it. And she had meant her
IYLN(’ 1” k
And what did he love most? He had
missed the presence of the Eye today,
missed it even in the daytime, un
lighted. It was a hard demanding
mistress there on the coast, part lake,
part land, like his own blood. He felt
‘a sympathy for Blind Man's Eye, a
kinship for it. Landsmen bad built
it to serve the sea. [lle pitied the
light . . . perhaps he loved it a
little too.
Norman shrugged his shoulders as
he passed into the woods. After all,
what matter what he did, or how
people laughed. He wished he had
not come away from Julie so hastily,
She wanted him to work at potatoes,
eh? Well, he would not. He would
pot fish, but npeither would he dig
potatoes.
A fresh exploring wind struck at
his cheek, It puffed out of the north
east where foul weather is born. A
storm making? Well, there had been
no real blow since Norman came to
Blind Man's Eye. Let her blow, he
was willing for a test,
Julie was an independent girl, he
told himself. And it was not a bad
forty acres which she pointed out
across the river. She had not said
how much Henri Plamondon would
want for it. A fellow might work it
on shares for a year or tweg, then
buy it on time. Julie certainly was
independent !
CHAPTER V (' :
The Captain’s Dog
Norman walked rapidly the last
mile of beach. The black eloud that
had been visible only from the hilltop
less than a half-hour before now
loomed over the lake, pufling out its
dark cheeks, threatening,
"‘Let her blow!” Norman told him
self. He spoke aloud unconsciously.
His voice sounded flat, and he tried
again, “Let her blow!” he shouted.
That was better, b
Far up the beach, half-way to the
light, he saw Sue Stocking coming
toward him. She was walking brisk
ly, swinging her arms as If she en
joyed it, in a short duck skirt and g
sailor's middy, with her hair blowing
like a small boy's in the wind, When
Loom Has Played Big Part in Civilization
The Chinese claim that silk weaving
was practiced in China in 2500 B. C,
and the art of weaving was certainly
known to the kKgyptians at a still
earlier period. Some scliolars belleve
that weaving was invented in Egypt,
but tn all probabilty it was invented
in at least four different places—bhy a
primitive white man, a primitive
yellow man, a primitive red man,
and a primitive black man. The
earliest attempts at weaving 'were
simply the plaiting of grass blades,
reeds or rushes, done by bhand
without the aid of a loom. With
the Invention of the ‘loom-even of
the simplest kind, such as g still used
among American Indian tribes of the
Southwest—great strides were made
in the art of weaving. Our great
b i
Stolen Goods
Bobby, aged ftive, had just come
home from the hospital and his nunt
bought him a small tinker toy. Whilg
Bobby was playing with it his sunt
remarked to another nunt that it hud
cost so much for such a small tuy.
The other aunt sald: “Oh, well, it 18
woll constructed. It is made of stesl”
Bobby overheard them tulking, and
gald: “Oh, 1 heard you. You ‘stecled’
it. You did, 'cause 1 heard you sny
so.”
she would have reached Norman in
another hundred paces, she sat down
on a drift log and waited.
“Ahoy there, first mate,” she cried,
“it's time you came.” She was in
high spivits. %1 began to wonder.
Have you no sense at all? Sane men
with their heads tied up in bandages
don't walk so long in the heat! Sit
down. Rest a minute.”
Norman sat beside her good
naturedly. This was the second time
today a girl had ordered him around,
and he rather suspected that Sue
Stocking didn't care a broken fish
hook whether he obeyed her or not.
“It’'s going to blow,” she said.
“Yes.”
“The sterm warning’s flying at the
coast guard station, Parish tele~
phoned a bit ago. Barometer's kick
ing out its bottom. Where've you
been?”
“Visiting back country. Visiting
friends.”
“That’'s pleasant. What did she
say, that left you so quiet?”
“Who?”
“Your back-country friends.”
Norman stammered. Sue laughed
as if she expected no reply, then
stood up and adjusted her sailor tie,
“See how that fog is rolling down?
You'd best get along, young man, and
help the keeper with the signal, It's
a double shift tonight, or I don’t
know old Michigan. Dad's in the
tower watching for weather,” she
added as they approached the house
door, *“l'm going in. Tl'll get supper
right away. You'll be wanting it
early.” e
After she had run up the steps
Norman turned toward the tower. On
the high iron deck that ecircled out
side the lantern Captain Stocking was
leaning over the low rail, bareheaded
in the wind. :
“And it's a fine blow she's going
to be tonight,” the eaptain greeted
him,
Norman assented without spirit.
Strange where all his enthusiasm of
the morning had gone. The keeper’'s
cheeks shone bright red with excite
ment. Norman'’s own burned to the
point of discomfort. He realized now
why the day had felt so stuffy, It
had not been the land’'s fault after
all. A storm was coming. Already,
in the rocks of Blind Man’'s Teeth,
quiet water had turned a bilious saf
fron, enlivened by flashes of topaz.
“Best get the so; signal started,”
Captain Stocking directed. “Fire’s
laid up?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Touch it off. Wait . . . I'm com
ing along of you. | want to watch
the water. It's healthy, watchin' a
blow make. It starts good blood
runnin’ and kindles your liver.”
Norman shivered. ]
“Cold?” asked Captain Stocking.
“My, oh my, man! This ain't cold.
It's sweltering. You not cold?”
He lighted his pipe before stepping
out to the sand. Norman strode be
side him,
They panted together up the ninety
one steps. Out of the north the fog
marched closer, overwhelming the
open spaces, a gray invincible bat
talion cheered on by the voice of the
winds.
Norman looked out across the wa
ter. He was appalled by its threat.
Always before a storm it seeemd
wetter, ready for drownings.
“Something moving there?” he
shouted into Stocking’s ear. *“Off that
way?’ He pointed west. “Way out
there. . ,
The keeper squinted,
“Can’t see, ought to brought the
glass.”
“A steamer?”
“Don’t see, Aye, aye . . , you've
good eyes, Erickson. Mine used to be
like that. Aye, that’s a steamer, a
small one. [ see it plain now, No
. . . that's not a steamer, Maybe it's
a fishboat. She's moving fast, eight
mile out, ten maybe . . ~ a gasoline
boat . . . yacht.” .
“She’d best run Into harbor at
Madrid.”
“She'd best not, It's slipping too
close ‘under the shelter o' Mustache
point that's the end of many a good
vessel, Get's blowed across, anchors
drag, rudders bust up, all kinds of
things.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
grandmothers used the hand and
treadle loom. The same wus In gen
eral use until Doctor Cartwright, an
Englishman of whom It was sald that
he had never seen a loom in his life,
invented the power loom In 1787,
Since his day the loom has been ul
tered and improved untll it has now
come to a high state of perfection,
Toad Burnt as Witch
I huve always liked the country peo
ple in Austria so much that it gives
me a shock to read a truly dreadful
oceurrence in that land, says a London
Dally Chronicle contributor, A peas
ant's cows were attacked by some mys
terious illness. A tond was found in
the cowshed, und at once it was sug
gested thut witcheraft had been at
work; the witeh had turned herself
into a toad; the toad must be burned,
S 0 burned the wretched toad was,
while the peasant walked rcund ear
rylng o crucifix. He was fined for
eruelty, but what a state of appalling
ignorance the Incldent uncovered |
Early Sewing Machine
It Is probable that the sewing ma.
ehine was introduced into.Englang by
Thomns Saint, who made such u mn.
chine und had It putented on July 17,
1500,
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digestion and slimination setive and your
system free from polsonous secumuiations,
Nauture's Remedy (NR Tablets) does more than
merely cause pleasant and sasy Lowe! wotiop
It tones and » thens the system, (Icress
ing m-m‘mm disease and infections,
Got & 15 Box ot Your Drugglet's
~NRTO: NIGHT~
UM py AL%‘&:';“