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Red, White and
Blue
By LOUISE HEILGERS.
I T was a red. white and blue world
which he saw. All about bird
popples, cornflowers and mar
guerites yielded their quivering stems
for the passage of his lurching limbs.
Bound around his wounded breast,
from which dripped blots of blood
redder than an> poppy, were the tat
tered colors of his regiment—red,
white and blue—the flag of France.
He had waved the colors from the
Prussians He would save them still.
His comrades lay dead on the battle
field; behind, the black eagles of
Prussia rode rampant, victorious. But
the colors of France were atill his.
Never, living, would he yield them.
He remembered the captain’s Ins*
words, the merrv-eyed, handsome
captain who now lay cold as wax
upon the blood-sodden earth: "Th
colors. Gustave, mon vleux, save th
colors.”
And he had seized them from the
stiffening hand of the standard bear
er. wrenched them free from the lance
that held them, and bound them about
his bleeding body.
Save the Flag.
Then, turning, he had run blindly
away from the field of red, white and
blue dead into green fields full of red,
white and blue flowers.
It was early morning, but the sun
beat warm unon the uncovered fields.
He ran. crouching crookedly among
the swaying grasses, as run drunken
and wounded men, and the long flow
ering things opened and let him pass,
then hid him again. It was as if they
knew what he carried.
Of a sudden, as he ran, he came
upon a hedgerow that bounded the
end of the field. In the patch beyond
a girl, slim and brown and young,
dug potatoes.
He eyed her longingly as a thirsty
man eyes the water
“P-s-st," he called, quaverlngly.
She raised her head wonderingly,
one wooden-shod foot upon the eartn-
fllled spade.
“Who calls?” she cried.
“France,” he said in a husky whis
per.
It was as if a spark from the flame
of his soul set hers afire.
She camp running to his call. Over
the hedge he handed the tattered re
mains of the colors to her. His«wound
opened afresh as he tore them from
his side.
“The Prussians are coming,” he
said. “Save these!”
Obedient, her sun-burnt hands
reached out and clutched across the
flowering hedge at what he held.
“And you—what of you?” she
asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Run.” he bade her. “Quick, be
fore they come. They will not sus
pect if they do not see you.”
She eyed him gravely, without sur
prise or remonstrance. One grows
used to meeting men over open
graves in war time.
“God be with you,’ was all she said.
“Amen," he answt red, "and with
France.”
For a moment he waited, watching
her speed across the garden, first
casting aside her wooden shoes to
run the swifter, and holding fast to
her brown breast what looked, as she
receded Into the distance, like a buncq
of parti-colored flowers. Only when
the door of the thatched roof farm
house had closed upon her did he turn
away and crawl, stumbllngly, the
length of another field.
Saved!
At the end he fell prone and lay
quite still.
When presently a detachment of
Prussians came uoon him, they found
only a dead and useless man lying
face downward upon the sun-warmed
earth, a cloud of gossamer midgets
dancing about his hc.*d. while all
around him. red white and blue,
stretched the colors of Free France.
But they were merely flowers.
The regiment’s fla*’ lav safely hid
den in the brown breast of a peasant
girl.
■ Daysey Mayme
And Her Folks
A lad. whose age might have been
guessed as 13. went up to a booking
office on the Southeastern and Chatham
Railway and said to the clerk:
“Two halves to the Elephant and Cas
tle. please.”
"How old are you?” asked the clerk.
"Eleven years,” replied the lad.
“For whom is the other half?”
“For my brother.”
“And how old is your brother?”
“Just a month younger than I am.
sir."
"And the name Is to be?” asked the
suave minister, as he approached the
font with the precious armful of fat and
flounces.
“Augustus Philip Ferdinand Codring
ton Chesterfield Livingstone Snooks ”
“Dear, dear!” Turning to the sexton:
“A little more water. Mr Perkins,
please ’
• • •
Mr. Borem: 'I am opposed to intoxi
cating liquors as a beverage, yet I be
lieve that liquor, rightly used, is a ben
efit to humanity. I am fully convinced
that whisky was once the means of sav
ing my life."
Mis* Cutting: “Perhaps it did. hut 1
don't qute see how that proves It is a
benefit to humanity."
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W ONDERFUL as are our mod
ern means of communica
tion, there Is an indefinable
older one that is more wonderful still.
Or how whs It that less than twenty
minutes after Harrifnan had been
roused by a telephone message from
Baermann—the lant before the serv
ice was broken—hundreds of men and
women in Tunnel City sensed that
something was wrong with their
mates In the lower workings?
Long before B o’clock a crowd had
gathered in front of the administra
tion building, and at the entrance to
the tubes, and messengers began rac
ing back and forth from one to the
other gathering with the latest news.
H ARRIMAN had had bad news
from his son a few days before.
The boy was dying in China of
some mysterious tropic fever, and he
had taken some drug to make h!m
sleep. lie jotted down Bnermanns
brief message, and it was many min
utes before he was even partially
master of himself. By the time he
was ready for definite Action an im
mense crowd, mostly women, had
gathered and were demanding news.
The first of the trains had reached
the surface; but the workmen knew
nothing beyond the fact that some
thing was wrong—that every one had
dropped work and headed for the
trains.
They began calling to him in shrill,
angry voices. In Rives’, absence he
was in supreme command, as he was
Rives’ chief of staff. He told a new
ly roused clerk to go out and tell the
crowd that nothing definite had been
learned. They Jeered at the young
man and he retired in angry dignity;
whereupon the crowd began shouting
for his chief again.
The Dread News.
Harrlman went out. There were
ignorant and excitable hordes of a
dozen different races in the city, and
he knew the necessity for keeping
them calm. When he stepped out
onto the veranda in the gray dawn
respectful silence greeted him.
Those people had grown to looJ< oil
the lords of the workings as their
actual rulers, hut every second’s de
lay wa8 making them uglier, and their
iuick suspicions were spurring them
on.
He looked them over and saw- that
they were almost without exception
th«* wives of the workers.
“I am sorry to have to tell you,”
he said quietly in English, “that there
has been a small explosion in the
south gallery. Something went wrong
with the drilling machine and it blew
up. This Is all we know at present,
but It is not serious.”
There was a low murmur from the
crowd as this short speech was swift
ly translated into a half score tongues
“You mean that’s all you want f o
tell!” cried a woman, shrilly. "I wan
na know ’bout my husband! Is any
of ’em dead?"
The cry was taken up on every
hand. Harriman flushed.
“Don’t act like a lot of fools," he
harked angrily. “We don’t know any
more about it than you do. Probably
there are a few hurt —possibly som°
dead, but we will do everything we
can.”
This little show' of temper had a
quieting influence for a time, and the
throng gradually drifted over to the
tunnel entrance. And then Harriman
began to get messages from along th<»
line that gave him some idea of the
frightful character or the disaster and
the appalling confusion in the tunnel.
But the trains were coming out. He
stopped some of the ingoing trains
as long as he dared, for he knew the
swelling mob at the entrance would
recognize the stoppage of the inbound
traffic as a bad sign. All of the tracks
were open for 35 miles In. One of
them all the way. By shooting trains
in to the seventh crossover and bring
ing them back he kept up an appear
ance of uninterrupted activity that
W'h* highly reassuring.
Every man that dropped off of the
outbound trains the real ones and
the fake ones—was eagerly sur
rounded, hut they could tell nothing
—the early arrivals. They had been
on their way out when the explosion
occurred -they were working in the
first two hundred miles and knew
nothing but what they had heard.
Still the crowd waited, staring into
th< two dark, round openings of the
tubes that stared hack like two men
acing eyes. And abiuit 9 o’clock came
the first train from the panic district
of the boring. Gray-faced, wild-eyed
nun Hung themselves from the cars
before the train had come to a stop.
“The tunnel is burning! All hell’s
loose. The tunnel’s burning!”
The thousands took up the terri
ble cry. and In ten minutes Tunnel
Pity echoed with It from end to end.
Pandemonium broke loose at the en
trance Frantic women dashed hither
anil yon, screaming the names of their
husbands and fathers and sons. Met.
cursed and shook their fists’ and
reached for hidden weapons. Several
women fainted, and here and there
wore bursts of hysterical laughter
Every man that came off the train was
w. -Iged into the center of a olose-
Pfo ked circle, to which he told, in
broken, tremulous phrases, the story
of tire terrible panic. None knew any
• •f ’he details of the explosion.
In the midst of this chaos Harri-
man drove up in his car. waving his
hand and shouting. A few* hundred
gathered around him. and he bel
lowed at the top of his lungs in a
vain effort to make his words carry.
“Cut this out and don’t act like—
fools!” he howled. “Haven’t you got
sense enough to know that concrete
and steel can’t burn? There has been
a small explosion and a few timbers at
the far end of the tunnel have burned
and a lot of cowards ran and started
all of this. The tire will he out in
short time and you need not ”
A heavy stone struck the floor of the
tonneau Just below where he was
standing. The next instant another
whizzed past his head. He crouched
down, spoke to the chauffeur and the
car dashed out the press and purred
down the roadway# in a show r er of
stones. He drove madly to Allan’s
house to see If. by any chance, Mrs.
Allan had received anything like a
reply to a telegram he had sent as
soon as he realized what the accident
might develop In the way of compli
cations.
A mob Is a great beast. It is with
out moral courage. Being cowardly
It Is harmless until it is feared. Be
ing primitive turns to man’s primi
tive weapon the stone. This is one
of the reasons that the streets of
modern cities are paved with asphalt.
Warped and Stunted.
When the d 1stphlight Harriman fled
at the first missile the panic and rage
of the horde of men and women—-
especially women—which the habit
of respect for the ruling powers had
held in check, broke loose. A de
tachment of a few thousand pro
ceed! d with a rush to the adminis
tration building, where they smashed
every window in a dozen seconds. A
couple of young engineers appeared
at a window above the entrance with
a revolver in each hand, and this
cooled the desire to enter and seek
further vengeance. Another assistant
phoned to Toms River for troops,
w hich wer • always there in antici
pation of just such an outbreak as
seemed now certain to occur.
Roaring threats and curses the
fragment of the mob returned to the
great seething horde at the tunnel en
trance, wrecking the homes of a few
of “the bosses” on the way.
Allan’s chief of police hastily gath
ered as many of hls men as he could
and rushed the mob. but his handful
were scattered by the first volley of
stones, and knowing how heavily they
were outnumbered he was afraid to
give orders to shoot. An unsuccess
ful attempt to break up a mob Is
much worse than no attempt 4 at all.
and the flames of destruction Soared
higher.
Behind these men and women there
was no tradition or patriotism, no
conception of justice. For genera
tions they had been bred in social in
justice of the most terrible kind.
Their forefathers had come to Amer
ica as to a land of promise and lib
erty, only to find that they had ex
changed a comparatively light politi
cal slavery for an inhuman industrial
one.
Of this generation that was digging
the tunnel the fathers and grand
fathers had worked in factories and
mills and mines as children. Only
the very strong had survived. They
had produced a race <>f iron-muscled,
tireless men and women, but utterly
warped and stunted morally and
mentally. For years they had toiled
In the dust and darkness. In n dlhi
way thev understood that what they
were working in would one day be a
means of transportation under the
seas to a mysterious “Europe.” Bui
they worked because only by the
A Heavy Stone Struck the Door of the Tonneau.
WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE
The Atory opens with Rives, who Is in charge of the technical work
ings of the great tunnel from America to Germany, on one of the 'tunnel
trains, with Baermann, an engineer, in charge of Main Station No. 4. They
are traveling at the rate of 118 miles an hour. Rives is in love with
Maude Allan, wife of Mackendrick Allan, whose mind first conceived the
great tunnel schema After going about 250 miles under the Atlantic Ocean
Rives g«*ts out of the train. Suddenly the tunnel seems to burst. There
is a frightful explosion. Men are flung to death and Rives is badly wound€*d.
He staggers through the blinding smoke, realizing that about 3,000 men
have probably perished. He and oher survivors get to Station No. 4.
Rives finds Baermann holding^at bay a wild mob of frantic men who want
to climb on a work train, don*ebody shoots Baermann, and the train slides out.
The scene is then changed to the roof of the Hotel Atlantic. The greatest
financiers of the country are gathered there at a summons from C. H.
Lloyd, “The Money King.” John Rives addresses them, and introduces Al
lan. Mrs Allan and Maude Lloyd, daughter of the financier, are also pres
ent. Allan tells the company of hls project for a tunnel 3.100 miles long.
The financiers agree to back him. Allan and Rives want him to take charge
of the actual work. Rives accepts. Rives goes to the Park Club to meet Wit-
tersteiner. a financier At Columbus Circle nows of the great project is being ,
flashed on a screen. Thousands tire w’atching it. Mrs. Allan becomes a lonely
and neglected woman and is much throwm in the company of Rives. Sydney
Wolf, the money power of two continents, plots against Allan and Rives.
Now Go On With the Story.
direst toil could they live, and they
worked not for an impersonal corpo
ration, but for a man the whole world
knew as “Mac.” He was the father
of their well-being and their meager
pay envelopes, and by the simple ex
tension of tins primitive logic he was
just as» surely the author of their mis
fortunes. If he had deliberately
planned the execution of their mates
they could not have been more clam
orous for his blood.
They stood in close-packed * thou
sands in the rain and waited and
waited with yells and threats for the
last word from underground. Thero
was a long delay in which no trains
i‘«sued from the staring darkneiss of
the tuhes, hut at last the train that
Baermann had tried to hold at the
cost of hls life roared out into the
light. "We’re the las»t--no more!” the
laborers sobbed and yelled as they
piled out of the car? in a mad rush, as
if fearing they might bo taken back
into the hell which they had escaped.
For a moment there was stunned si
lence, as the dulled wits of the mob
strove to grasp the magnitude of the
blow that had wiped out 3.000 hus
bands and fathers and sons.
Then it was broken by the Shrill,
hysterical screaming of a woman un
der the lee of one of the cars. She
was standing or crouching over the
last man to leave the train. He had
been carried off. dead, stabbed to
death in a fight for place on that
“last train."
“Cetare! Cesarc!” she shrieked,
again and again.
And then there was bedlam.
• * * * * •
Telling Mrs. Allan.
No word from Allan at the office.
Harriman dashed at top speed
through the streets to the chief’s
house. He passed scores and hun
dreds of shawled women and coatless
men hastening all in one direction—
toward the tunnel. He closed his eyes
and tried to rally hls mind, still par
tially numbed from the effect of the
narcotic and the suddenness of the
disaster. 1/eaving his car at the curb,
he ran up the steps of the oceanside
home and asked to see Mrs. Allan at
once.
“She’p just rising. I think.” the
maid told him.
VPlease tell her it is very impor
tant. Do you know if she has heard
from Mr. Allan?”
“A telegram Just came a moment
ago. I don’t know whom it was from. ’
“Please tell her I would like to see
her at once.”
Maud came down in a dressing
gown with the telegram in her hand.
"What is it. Mr. Harriman?” she
asked pleasantly, hut with a shade of
anxiety. “Has anything happened?
• : 1 11 you explain this?”
sin* handed him the telegram. It
read: “Will be home to-night. Don’t
worry.”
"Do you know what’s happened in
the tunnel?” he asked abruptly.
“No; my maid said she had heard
there’d been an accident.” She was
regarding the usually composed engi
neer with some wonder. “Is it very
serious?”
A Terrible Shock.
“I am afraid it is." he replied,
gravely but quietly. There was no
sense in alarming a woman
she locked herself In and sank into a
chair, stunned. So this was the
quick end of all of it! Minute after
minute slipped away, and she tried in
vain to rally her whirling thoughts
and think clearly while that one sen
tence rang over and over again in her
ears—“this is the end of it all.”
It was characteristic of her that she
did not weep as the full realization
came to her. In spite of the fact of
her marriage and her child, some
thing had come to her of which she
had long ceased to dream—the stain
less love of a knightly hearted man.
She had hardly slept in the night for
the wonder of it. She had felt that
she w’as not worthy, that this was not
for her. and here was the proof. She
knew enough of the tunnel workings
to know that if there had been an ac
cident, and Rives fciad not been heard
from, it was because he was incapable
of action—dead or dying.
Then came a swift rush of rage and
bitter rebellion against the tunnel and
all who wrought in Its name. What
bad it brought her but misery? It
had cost her her husband first, and
now the one man who was of fiber
fine enough to place her love beyond
all else had been swallowed up In its
maw in the twinkling of an eye. About
her were thousands who were toiling
swiftly toward the grave in pain and
weariness. Probably thousands of
these had been wiped out with Rives,
and as many thousands of women
found themselves that day as desolate
as she.*
She would leave that day and go
somewhere where she would never
hear the accursed -word “tunnel”
again, and—then came a timid knock
at the door, and little Edith’s voice
calling.
A poet who knew women—as poets
are likely to—once told in graceful
little lines of a 1 woman whose lord
was slain, and who could not be in-
" W’h at is it?” she demanded j dured to Weep until a wise nurse put
quickly. j her child in her arms. Five minutes
“There’s been an explosion at the| n ft#=
extreme end of the boring on this
after Edith had snuggled Into heV lap
the mother had given the woman a
new and cleaner vision.
“You run along now. darling, and
get dressed." she told her with a kiss.
“You’re going out with mother.”
The Mob.
The anger and bitterness had
passed. She was no longer the lover
robbed of her love. She was a wom
an. and all about her was the call to
which a woman is never deaf—the
cry of suffering and grief and misery.
Hundreds would be injured and they
would be brought out and taken to
the hospital. There would be wives
and mothers to console and comfort.
The hospital forces and supplies
would probably have to be reinforced
from other cities. All this was part
of her chosen work, and this was the
one time that she must not fail.
, , , i When they were about to leave she
crazy to get Mr. Allan here as quick- j reflected that the hospital of all
1>’ ns possible. I’ve got to get amng places would be the last one for Edith
now. and—by the way. there is likely ; to S pend the day. But to-day. more
to be. a good deal of excitement and I than any other, she felt reluctant to
wouldn’t roam around much if I "ere, j e ave the child with the servants. She
you.” . |
“I won’t,” said the woman, dully. | 1 — 1 .ll . ■■■e'jilhjuzl_ .
And he was gone
Maud groped her way back up
stairs to her dressing room, where
side," he told her. “We don’t know
yet how serious it is. but I am afraid
that a lot of men have been hurt—
perhaps killed.”
Maud suddenl** went deathly white
and unconsciously crushed the little
yellow paper in her small Angara.
“Where is Ja—Mr. Rives?” sh°
asked, forcing her?*elf with tremen
dous effort to spea*v steadily.
The gray-haired man passed his
hand across his closed eyes and shud
dered.
“I wish to God I knew!” he ex
claimed. “I”
“He was—down there?” Her lips
were white, but her manner was calm.
“I’m sorry, but he was. It isn’t any
use, Mrs. Allan,” he said desperately,
"I can’t conceal it from you. I’m
afraid the accident is just about as
bad as it can be. That’s why I’:
fina'ly decided that she would take
her to Mrs. Mordock, who lived only a
few hundred yards from the hospital
and whose little girl was Edith’s chum.
She had utterly forgotten Harrl-
man’Fi warning, which was not very
impressive and elected to walk
through the fine rain, to prepare her
self for the long day indoors amid
the odor of anesthetics and other
smells suggestive of merciless clean
liness which make a man shiver when
he enters a hospital.
The Kreets for a time were quiet
and deserted, and there was nothing
to remind Maud of Harriman s warn
ing. At last she was co/iaoious that
for some time she had been aware of
a far-off murmur wnierf was steadily
growing louder and nearer.
They were 9tlll on the ocean sid*'
driveway, but when they turned off
into the broad avenue that led down
past the hospital to the tunnel en
trance the murmur suddenly swelled
into a roar.
To Be Continued Monday.
HE bitter wound set to our
keenest pain
Time soothes;
The furrow in our brow will go
again—
Time soothes.
If memory wakens suffering at last,
We feel;
Life moves in struggle to forget
the past,
Hearts heal.
But still the wound a little scar
has left—
Dream days
Arise in thought—of sing hey are
bereft.
There stays
But memory that stirs the old re
frain,
A little sob sounds, in the heart
and brain.
And then “to-day” is here agadn.
Time soothes.
• • •
What a grim thing it is! that you
and I
So intimate, so bound by every tje,
Can never read each other’s secret
thought—-
Must be contented with the glimpse
we’ve caught! m
Can face each other calmly, eye # to
eye.
And. with our souls protesting, speak
a lie—
That while you wound me with in
difference,
Or cruel words, or meager recom
pense, your heart with love for
me may be aglow.
Yet looking in your eyes—I can not
KNOW.
A FICTIONLESS FABLE.
There was once a woman whom Life
hurt. It drained her heart of joy, and
left it empty and .throbbing with sor
row. She bore it moaning for a tim^
and then she set about filling the empty
shell. She seized upon all the things
that lay near at hand and packed them
tightly into the throbbing loneliness of
her barren heart.
There were Cards and Song and
Dancing and Wine ahd Gay Compan
ions and Loud Merrymaking, and she
forced them all—a motley company—
into the cold emptiness of her desola
tion. Oblivion and the forgetfulness she
sought did not come, hut fever and ex
citement kept her brain whirling far
away from the sadness of reality.
It chanced one day that True Love
passed by, and he stopped at the door
of her heart. He knocked, hut the ears
of her Soul were dulled with minstrelsy
and its eyes were blinded by the glare
and glitter of revelry, so neither Heart
nor Soul could tell the woman that he
who stood without was True Love.
At last—and timidly—Love opened the
door of the Heart that offered him no
welcome, but when he saw how crowd
ed that heart was with tinsel and paste
Jewels, he sighed. “Alas! thefe is no
room for me.” and went his way.
And the woman went on playing that
she was happy and content. -•
But Love—hurt and slighted—would
not pass that way again forevermore.
—LILIAN LAUFFERTY.
By FRANCES L. OARSIDE.
F OR six weeks sympathizing friends
had been asking Lysander John
Appleton if he had the rheuma
tism.
“No,” he would reply sadly, trying to
| make his legs, which were twisted like
Harry Lauder's walking stick, stay on
the same sidewalk—"I am sleeping in
the hammock."
“Your face,” the boy* had been saying
to Chauncey Devere afT summer, "looks
as if you had the smallpox.”
“Marks of the buttons on the parlor
lounge,” was hls reply.
Women stand martyrdom better,
thriving on it in a measure, and Mrs.
Appleton and Daysey Maj'me bore no
marks of trying to curve their forms
over the trunk top and around the flour
and sugar boxes on the pantry shelf.
No war cry such as "Remerhber the
Maine!" ever incited soldiers to greater
deeds of frenzy and devotion than the
words "Remember, we have guests.”
have incited women.
“Where.” asked Lysander John one
morning, trying in vain to straighten out
his legs in such a way he could have
both in the kitchen at the same time,
"are my gray hat and gray suit?”
“Your hat," replfeiT his wife, “is on
the top shelf of the closet of the room
occupied by Mrs. A.; your coat is under
three rows of dresses in the closet of
the room occupied by Mrs. B., and your
trousers are being pressed undef* the
mattress of the bed on which Mrs. C. is
sleeping. They left word last night they
didn't want to be wakened before ten
to-day. so go back to your hammock till
they leave their rooms.”
The Solution.
Half an hour later, forgetting his di
lemma, she carried off the suit he had
been wearing to the cleaner's.
A few minutes later the telephone
rang, and Lysander John, realizing that
his wife had gone out and his daughter
was still asleep on the pantry shelf, fell
out of his hammock to answer it.
“The offToe is on fire," called his as
sistant. “Better get a taxi and come
at once.”
He couldn’t find his brown suit, and,
remembering his wife’s directions of
where he woukj find the gray, hurst
into the room occupied By Mrs. A.
“Fire!" he managed to stammer, trying
to make the closet door shield him, as
he threw out layer after layer of skirts,
petticoats, waist?, kimonos, jackets,
dresses and coats. “Fire!” he screamed,
growing so excited he threw the gar
ments out of the window in trying to
dig his way down to his coat.
“Fire!" he howled a moment later,
pulling down twenty hat boxes from
the Shelve? of the closet of the room
where slept Mrs. B. and pitching them
out the window.
“Fire!" he howled in greater despera
tion in the third room, upsetting the
guest out of bed in an effort to get his
trousers from under the mattress, and
“Fire!”*“Fire!” “Fire!” began all the
guests at once, thinking the house was
ablaze.
In the excitement Lysander John
failed to find what he wanted and rushed
out of the house with a pale pink pic
ture hat on hls head, a blue silk ki
mono over his shoulders, and his Harry
Lauder walking-stick legs concealed in
a petticoat.
“T refuse to be balled out,” he said
defiantly next day to a friend. “I am a
guest here, and it is the first chance
I've had to sleep on a bed all summer.”
Fiction.
In Aiken they tell this story as having
happened in Augusta, but in Augusta
they tell the same story on a clergyman
of Aiken:
"A very devout clergyman decided to
take up golf as a means of outdoor
exercise.
“Buying a kit of tools and hiring a
caddy, the good man hit the trail for
the links and teed up for a drive-off.
At the firsft swing he missed the ball by
about six yards. At the next swat he
got a little nearer, but was still too far
away to cause the ball any gi^at in
convenience.
“Several more swings that racked hls
ribs, and finally the clergyman hit the
little sphere. Instead of beautifully sail
ing away over the scheduled route, how
ever, it took a side road at the right an
gles, ricocheted down over in the box
cars and semaphores.
“ ‘That settles it,’ exclaimed the dis
appointed clergyman in a decisive voice,
'I have got to give it up!*
“ ‘What!’ exclaimed the caddy, won
deringly. ‘Give up golf?’
“ ‘No,’ was the quick response of the
clergyman, ‘the ministry.’ ’’
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