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6
American Sunday Mon tidy Magazine Section
R. RALPH ERNEST BURN
HAM, rich man’s son, fair-haired
and twenty-two, sat at a window
of his bungalow at five o’clock
on a summer’s morning where
he had a complete view of seven
street lamps.
He had thoroughly made up
his mind to send his soul a-winging to an unknown
bourne with the extinguishing of the seventh lamp.
Hardly necessary is it to say that he had proposed,
had been promptly refused, and immediately con
cluded there was nothing left to live for.
So, wishing to be “different” even in self-imposed
death, he had evolved an entirely original stage
setting for his final shuffle.
Promptly at five o’clock the lamp-lighter—now
the lam]) extinguisher—walked up to Lam]) Number
One on a corner opposite Mr. Burnham’s bungalow,
shoved a short stick against a trigger-like arrange
ment in the lamp, and the light went out. Young
Burnham drew a deep breath, opened a drawer in
a table by his side, and glanced at a steel-blue re
volver reposing there.
Then he looked at his watch. It was two minutes
past five o’clock. He had thirteen minutes more
to live. The morning before he had held a secret
rehearsal at the window, and found it took the lamp
lighter exactly fifteen minutes to extinguish the
seven lights visible from the bedroom window.
Lamp Number Two suddenly faded out as he sat
thinking. Then Mr. Burnham with a steady hand took
the revolver from the drawer and placed it on the table.
He had allowed his thoughts to revert back to the
girl whom he blamed for the folly he was about to
commit, and was conjuring up a mental picture of
her loveliness when the light from Lamp Number
Three was snuffed out. Mr. Burnham reached a
trifle nervously for his cigarette case, opened it,
closed it again and put it back in his pocket.
His gaze was fixed on light Number Four as it,
too, disappeared. He was fast becoming fascinated
at the deadly precision with which each pale, yellow
flicker was being obliterated from his view, and al
though the morning air was delightfully cool little
beads of perspiration were beginning to appear on
his smooth, boyish forehead.
Number Five went out just as he reached for the
revolver. He allowed his hand to rest on it while
he watched tensely for Number Six to go. When it
faded out he raised the pistol to his right temple,
clenched his teeth, and sat perfectly still.
But Lamp Number Seven did not go out.
Mr. Burnham waited as patiently as he could.
He concluded that the seemingly longer interval
between the extinguishing of the last two lights
might simply be a freak of a strained imagination.
The hand holding the weapon commenced to tremble
slightly. The strain was beginning to tell on his
nerves. Of course—the lamp-lighter must have
stopped to light his pipe. That was it. Confound
him, why couldn’t he hurry?
But Lamp Number Seven continued to shine,
and Burnham at last allowed himself a quick glance
at his watch. Twenty minutes past five! He
stared again at the light three blocks distant. The
lamp-post itself was entirely hidden by tree branches,
but a little open space in the foliage gave him a clear
view of the light.
Suddenly he saw something swoop down from the
sky like a huge bird, and land behind the tree where
the lam]) was. A moment afterwards a man came
running down the street towards the bungalow.
Then Mr. Burnham made up his mind to shoot any
way, but as he tried to pull the trigger his strength
failed, the light, street and room swam in a dark mist
before him, and he fell back fainting in the chair.
The thing that had come from the sky was an
aeroplane, and the man running along the street
was my friend and partner Curtis, professional
aviator, who possessed the enviable habit of always
doing the right thing at the right time.
Curtis and I had watched Burnham’s courtship
of Miss Evelyn Harkness with considerable curiosity.
They had been introduced but three weeks before
“Don’t turn out that light,” she shrieked through the megaphone
and then fell back fainting
at the aerodrome enclosure, and up to three days
after Burnham’s rejection he had been a constant
visitor to the track.
She had refused him, she said, for several reasons.
Chiefly because she had reasoned he was too young
to know his own mind in the short time of their ac
quaintance, and she was also certain that his family
would never consent to their marrying. Of her
past she told us a little, mentioning that she had
been a trick bicycle rider, forced into the business
by the early loss of a father and mother. She had
told Burnham all of this, but he had declared, as
she knew he would, that none of it mattered.
“And why do you tell us all this?” asked Curtis
bluntly when she had finished. The girl’s cheeks
flamed, and she stammered something about Curtis
being able to advise her.
“There’s nothing to advise,” said Curtis, “you’ve
refused him, and that’s an end of it.”
“But,” said the girl quickly, and anxiously,“he
has threatened to kill himself. I know it’s silly of
me, but I’m afraid he might do something rash.”
“Supposing he did,” said Curtis pretending not
to notice the girl's agitation at his remark, “the
world wouldn’t stop moving. I expect he’s a useless
kind of individual anyway.”
“I won’t hear you say anything against Mr.
Burnham,” cried the girl, her eyes snapping angrily,
“he’s perfectly fine, and also he's a gentleman.”
With this parting shot she turned and strode away
to her hangar on the edge of the field.
Curtis laughed and turned to me.
“I knew it,” he said, “she’s in love with him.”
Two days went by with both of us so busy with
races, and heats, and trials that we thought little about
Burnham and his love affair. But on the morning
of the third day, just as the early grey light was
creeping under the door of our hangar we were
awakened by a pounding on the door. Curtis
bellowed an angry query, and we heard a woman’s
voice hysterically calling for us.
I rushed to the door and threw it open. Miss
Harkness tottered inside, and I saw a frightened
faced messenger boy standing behind her. Curtis
took a note that she held out to him, read it, and
handed it to me. It was from Burnham. We
learned afterwards he had given it to his valet
with the order “send it special” meaning special
delivery mail, and had tried to
time it so the note would reach
Miss Harkness about two hours
after his suicide. But the valet
had mistaken the order to mean
“special messenger,” and had
dispatched it accordingly.
Burnham, in the note, describ
ed elaborately his plan for self-
murder, telling all about the
lamps, the lamp-lighter, and
particularly the time he . had
scheduled himself to die.
The girl, bereft of speech, was
frantically clutching Curtis’s
arm. My friend looked at our
alarm clock. It was exactly
five. The first lamp had gone
out!
“It’s about five miles from
here to Burnham’s,” he mut
tered unconsciously speaking
aloud his thoughts. “It’s a
long chance, but may be we
could do it.”
He made a rush for his bi
plane, and I, divining his
scheme, shoved open the big
double doors of our hangar.
Miss Harkness uttered a little
scream and ran to Curtis’ side.
“Oh, you must take me
too,” she appealed, and with
out waiting for reply climbed
into the machine. With fever
ish haste we dragged the bi
plane out to the field, and as
Curtis leaped to the seat beside Miss Harkness I
swung the propeller blades around, the engine
roared into the air, and like some live thing the
biplane soared away towards the rising sun. I
watched until it was out of sight, and then took out
my watch. It was twelve minutes past five!
I heard the rest of the story later from the lips
of Miss Harkness. Curtis never would say any
thing about an adventure wherein he figured
favorably.
Flying at all the speed the great one-hundred horse
power biplane was capable of, they had come upon
the little street where Burnham lived just in time
to see the sixth light go out. Regardless of possible
fatal consequences Curtis pointed the machine
downward at an acute angle from its height of eight
hundred feet. As it rushed to earth he realized that
he and his companion would be killed should he
attempt a direct glide into the street, so he shifted
the front planes when one hundred feet from the
ground.
As the girl watched with terrified gaze, she saw
the lamplighter turn and lift his stick towards the
trigger on the lamp, but at that moment Curtis
shoved a small megaphone into her hand. Risking
a plunge to death the girl leaned far out over the
side of the biplane, and crushed the megaphone to
her lips.
“Don’t turn out that light!” she shrieked, and
fell back fainting.
The megaphone fell from her nerveless fingers,
and landed at the feet of the astonished lamp-lighter.
In another moment the biplane swept to the ground,
and leaving the unconscious girl in the seat, Curtis
leaped out.and raced towards Burnham’s house.
A desperate kick shivered a pane of glass in a
window fronting on the porch, giving him entrance.
Then, pushing aside a terrified valet who had rushed
out of his room at the noise, Curtis sprang up the
stairs and found Burnham slowly recovering from
his faint.
It was not long afterwards that two very lovesick
young persons were clasped in each other’s arms,
alternately crying and laughing. And while the\
were occupied with themselves Curtis slipped away.
“I wish I had been officially timed on that trip, '
he said when he returned to our hangar, “I’ll bet
I did one hundred miles an hour.”