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Some Features of the Game
BALLS.
A batter may “get on” by
drawing four balls. Some of the
provisions in connection with a
“ball” cover a “wild pitch and
passed ball;” runner out at
tempting to steal second; runner
safe stealing second or third.
STRIKES.
A strike either may be called
or a foul. In conjunction with a
strike, a runner may be enabled
to steal home or be put out in
the effort to steal third.
OUTS.
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“double play, second to first,”
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ing to one’s sympathies, often ac
companies a double play with
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Singles, two-baggers, thpee-
base hits and home runs are all
provided for. Just as in the reg
ular game, three-base hits are
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home runs are not at all com
mon. Frequently a game Is
played with very little hitting,
the batters going out "one, two,
three.”
SCORING.
Indicators are provided to reg
ister the runs and hits of the vis
iting team. Indicators for
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“The Money Master” in HEARST’S MAGAZINE
7 ONG AGO A MAN from Outside
Mo!,, away the Money Master's
'—* a(lnred wife: n Man from Out-
- hie now steals his dnugUter. Poor
Jean .Tacqttrs. the hero of Sir Gilbert
p : rher's wonderful story of Canadian
habitant life, now running in
HEARST’S MAGAZINE, has learned
nothing by experience, and so his
great bouse is empty.
The great English novelist has
written a tnasterpieee in hia descrip
tion of bow Zoe, the Money Mas
tor's daughter, found that she loved
the "Man from the Outside;” how her
father dlsoovered that love, and what
happened thereafter.
The following exeerpts from Sir
Gilbert Parker's grentest story are
taken from the current December
number of HEARST’S MAGAZINE
by courtesy of its editors and are re
printed here hernnse no finer ex
ample of dramatic writing has been
ofTered to the reading public for
yea rs.
F om the December Instalment of
Gir Gilbert Parker’s "The Money
Ma ter,’’ now appearing aerially In
HEARST’S MAGAZINE. Reprinted
by permission of HEARST’S MAG
AZINE.
r iiE Judge nas right. After all
the years that had passed
since his wife had left him
Jean Jacques did break out. It was
the night of his birthday party, at
which was present the Man from
Outside. It was In the hour when
he first saw what, the Clerk of the
Court had seen some time before
the understanding between Zoe and
the English Protestant actor, who
had come and gone in the friendly
ways of his home for so many weeks.
It had never occurred to him that
there was any danger. Zoe had ever
been so indifferent to the young men
of Rt. Saviour’s and beyond, had
ever been so much his friend and
the friend of those much older than
himself, like the Judge and M. Fllle.
that he had not yet settled to think
of her as one who might any day
elert to leave him alone.
To Ira re him alonel To be left
alone it had never become a pos
sibility to his mind. It did not break
upon him with its full force all at
once. He first got the glimmer of It,
then the glimmer grew to a glow,
and the glow to a great red light. In
which his brain became drunk, and
all his philosophy was burned up like
a wood-shaving In a fiery furnace.
“Did you llko It so much?” Zo«
had asked when her song was fin
ished. and the Man from Outside had
replied. "Ah, but splendid, bplondid'
It got into every corner of every one
of us.”
Then it was that Jean Jacques saw
the look pass between them, and
then it was that Zoe replied with a
laugh Intended to be merely playful,
but having a meaning for the Man
from Outside, and to sll else who
had brains to Bee; “Into the senses
—why not into the heart? Songs are
meant for the heart.
“Yes, yes, certainly,” was the
voung man’s reply, "hut It touches
the heart more than the senses, and
vice versa. Won't you Bins that per
fect thins, the sons of songs of old
Canada. ’A la Claire Fantaine?’” he
added, with eyes as bright as pas
slon and the hectic fires of hl» lung-
trouble could make them.
She nodded and was about to sing,
for she loved the song, and it had
been ringing In her head all day,
hut at that point M. Fllle rose, aDd
with his glass raised high—for at
that moment Seraphe Corniche and
another carried round wine and cider
to the company—he said;
"To Monsieur Jean Jacques Bar-
bille and his fifty years, bonne *<infc.’
This is his birthday. To a hundred
years for M'sieu’ Jacques!"
Instantly every one was up with
'uss raised, and Zoe ran and threw
her arms round her father's neck.
• Kiss me, father, before you drink. *
she said
With a touch which was almost
solemn Jean Jacques drew her head
to his shoulder and kissed her hair,
then her forehead. "My blessed one
—my angel,” he whispered; but
there was a look in his eyes which
only M. Fllle had seen there before.
It was the look which had been In
his eyes at the flax-beaters' place by
the river.
“Sing—father, you must sing,"
said Zoe. and motioned to the fid
dler. "Sing Clnquante Ana." she
cried eagerly. They all repeated her
request, end he could do nothing else
than obey.
Jean Jacques' voice was rathet
rough, but he had some fine reso
nant notes in it, and presently, hl»
eves fastened on the distance, and
with free gesture and much expres-
sion. he sang the first verse of ths
haunting ballad of the man who had
reached his fifty years.
Suddenly he stopped In the middle
af a verse and broke forward with
arms outstretched, laughing. Hs
"The Man from Outside directed the charades, and so it happened that Zoe’s fingers often came in touch with his, that his hands touched
her shoulders, and once that his cheeks brushed against her dark hair and she had sensations never experienced before. Then he
leaned down.’ To-morrow evening, over beyond the flume come : I want you, will you come?’ he whispered.”
A Castaigne Illustration for "The Money Master” In HEARST’S MAG AZINE.
felt that ho must laugh or he would
cry, and that would he a humiliat
ing thing for him to do.
“Come, come, my children, my
friends, enough of that!” he cried.
"We'll have no more maundering.
Fifty yearR—what nre fifty years?
Think of Methuselah! It's Summer in
the world still, and it’s only Spring
at St. Saviour's. It's the time of the
first flowers. Let’s dance—no, no,
never mind the Cure to-night! He
will not mind. I’ll settle with him.
We’ll dance the gay quadrille.” He
caught the hands of the two young
est girls present and nodded at the
fiddler, who at once began to tune
hia violin afresh.
One of the Joyous young girls, how
ever, began to plead with him.
"Ah, no, let us dance, but at the
last not yet, M'sieu’ Jean Jacques!
There is Zoe’s song, we must have
that, and then we meet have char
ade* Here Is M. Fynes— he can
make splendid charades for us.
Then the dance at the last—ah, yes,
yes, M’sieu' Jean Jacques! 1/et it be
like that. We all planned it, and
though It (a your birthday, it's us are
making the fete."
"As you will, then, as you will,
little ones," Joan Jacques acquiesced
with a half sigh: but lie did not look
at bis daughter. Somehow, sudden
ly, a strange constraint had taken
possession of him where Zos was con
cerned.
"Then let us have Zoe’s song; let
u» have 'A la Claire Fontaine,’ ”
cried the black-eyed young madcap
who held Jean Jacques' arms.
But Zoe Interrupted “No, no,” she
protested charmingly, "the singing
spell !b broken. We will have the
song after the charades after the
charades.”
"Good, good after the charades!”
they all cried, for there would be
charades like none which had ever
been played before, with a real actor
to help them, to carry them through
as they did on the stage; which to
them was compounded of mystery
and gaiety and the forbidden.
So, for the next half hour they
were all at the disposal of the Man
from Outside, who worked as though
it was the real stage and they wera
real players and there were great
audiences to see them. It was all
quite wonderful, and it all Involved
certain posings and attitudes and
mimicry and pantomime, for they
were really ingenious charades
So it happeued that Zoe’s fingers
often came in touch with those of
the stage-manager, that his hands
touched her shoulders, and once that
his cheek brushed against her dark
hair, and she had sensations never
experienced before Why was It that
she thrilled when she came near to
him, and that her whole body
throbbed, and her heart fluttered
when their shoulders or arms
touched? Her childlike nature, with
all its warmth and vibration of life,
had never till now felt the stir of
sex lu its vital sense and power. All
men had in one way been the same
to her; hut now she realized that
there was a world wide difference
between her Judge Carcasson, her
little Clerk of the Court, and this
young man whose eyes drank hers.
She had often been excited, even
vildlv agitated, had been like a sprite
let loose In quiet ways; but that
was mere spirit. Here was body,
too; here was her whole being beat
ing to a music which had no source,
but which had an aching sweetness
and a harmony that coaxed every
sense into delight.
To-morrow evening, over beyond
he flume, where the beech trees are
come at six. 1 w ent to speak with
mi. Will you come?”
Thus whispered the maker of this
usic of the senses who directed the
arades. but who was also directing
•c destinies of another life than
“Yes, if l can,' wa- her whispered
reply, and the words shook as she
skid them, for Rhe felt that their
meeting in the beech trees by the
river over beyond the flume would
be of consequence beyond past
imagination.
The Judge had always said that
Zoe had sense beyond ner years;
M. Fille had said vary often that
she had both prudence and shrewd
ness as well as a sympathetic spirit:
but M. Faille's little whispering sis
ter, who could never be tempted
away from her home to any house,
and to whom the market and the
church were like pilgrimages to dis
tant wilds, had said to her brother:
"Wait, Armand, wait till Zoe Is
waked and prudence and wisdom will
be but accident. If all goes well you
will see prudence and wisdom, but
if it does not, you will see—ah, but
just Zoe!”
The now alert Jean Jacques had
seen the whispering of the two,
though he did not know what had
been Bald. It was, however, soin»-
thlng secret, nnd if It was secret
then It was it was love; and love
between his daughter and that va
grant, that waif of a world — the
world of the stage—In which men
and women were only grown-up chil
dren, and bad grown-up children at
1hat—it was not to be endured. One
thing was sure, the man should come
to the Manor Cartier no more. To
morrow—he would see to that to
morrow. There would be no falter
ing or paltering on his part. His
home had been shaken to Its foun
dation once, and he was determined
that it should not fall about his ears
a second time. An Englishman, an
actor, a Protestant, and a lawyer
behind all—a renegade lawyer! It
was impossible.
The charade now being played wss
the best of the evening. One of the
madcap friends of Zoe was to be a
singing girl She was supposed to
carry a tambourine. When her turn
to enter came, with a look of mis
chief and a gay dancing step, she
ran into the room. In her hands
was a guitar, not a tambourine.
When Zoe saw the guitar she
gave a cry.
"Where did you get that?” 6he
asked in a low, shocked, Indignant
voice.
“In your room—your bedroom,"
was the half-frightened answer. ”1
saw It on the dresser and 1 took 1t.”
"Come, come, let us get on with
the charade,” urged the Man from
Outside.
On the instant’s pause In which
Zoe looked at her lover, almost In
voluntarily, and without fully un
derstanding what he said, some one
else started forward with a smoth
ered exclamation—of dismay, of hor
ror, of anger. It was Jean Jacques.
He was suddenly transformed.
Hia eyes became darkened by hid
eous memory, and his face lighted
with passion. He caugnt from the
girl's hands the guitar—Carmen’s
forgotten guitar which he had not
seen for seven years—how well he
knew it!
With both hands he broke it across
his knee. The strings, as they
snapped, gave a shrill, wailing cry
like a voice stopped suddenly by
death. Stepping Jerkily to the fire
place, he thrust it into the coals.
"Ah, there!” he said. “There—
there!"
When he turned round slowly again
his face which he had never sought
to control before he had his great
Accident seven years ago—was un
der his command. A strange. Ironic
almost sardonic- smile was on his
lips.
'It Is in the play," he said.
“It is not in the charade. Mon
sieur Barbille,” said the Man from
Outside fretfully.
"That is the way I read it. m’sieu’,”
reatored Jean Jacques, and he made
a motion to the fiddler.
"The dance! The dance!” he ex
claimed.
But yet the looked little like a
man who wished to dance, save upon
a grave.
"I said l was not falling in love."
she persisted quietly, but with a
characteristic boldness, "1 am in
love.”
“You are In love with him—with
that interloper! Heaven of heavens,
do you speak the truth? Answer,
me, Zoe,”
She brid'.ed. “Certainly I will an
swer. Did you think 1 would let a
man look at me as he did, that I
would look at a man as I looked at
him, that r would let him hold my
hand as I did, if I did not love him?
Have you ever seen me do it be
fore?”
Hqr voice was even and quiet—
as though she had made up her mind
on a course and meant to carry It
through to the end.
“No, I never saw you took at a
man like that, and everytnmg is as
you say, but”—his voice suddenly
became uneven and higher pitched
and a little hoarse, "but he Is Eng
lish, he is an actor—only that; and
he is a Protestant."
“Only that?” she asked, for the
tone of his voice was such as one
would use in speaking of a toad or
vermin, and she could not Dear It.
"Is it a disgrace to be any one of
those things?”
“The Barbilles have been here
for two hundred years; they have
been French Catholics since the time
of—-" he was not quite sure—"since
the time of Louis XI.,’’ he added at
a venture, and then paused, over
come for the instant by his own
rasbnese.
“Yes, that is a long time,” she
said, “but what difference does it
make? We are just what we are
now and as if there never had been
a Baron of Beaugard What is there
against Gerard except that he Is an
actor, that he is English, and that
he Is a Protestant? Is there any
thing?”
“Sacre, is It not enough? An actor,
what Is that T to pretend to be some
one else and not to be yourself!”
“It would be better for a great
many people to he gome one else
rather than themselves-- for noth
ing: and he does it for money."
“For money! What money has he
got? You don’t know. None of us
know Besides, he's a Protestant,
and he’s English, and that ends it.
There never has been an English-
man or a Protestant in the Barbille
family, and it sha’n’t begin at the
Manor Cartier.”
Jean Jacques’ vtnee was rising in
proportion as he perceived her ouiet
determination. Here was something
of the woman who had left him
seven years ago -left this comfort
able home to go to shamelessness
of exile, and God only knew what
else! Here In this very room—yes.
here where they now were, father
and daughter, stood husband and
wife that morning when he had his
hand on the lever prepared to de
stroy the man who had invaded his
home; who had cast a blight upon
it which remained after all these
years: after he had done all a man
could do to keep the home and the
woman too. The woman had gone;
the home remained with his daugh
ter in It: and now again there was
a fight for home and the woman.
Memory reproduced the picture of
the mother standing just where the
daughter now stood, Carmen quiet
and well in hand, and’ himself all
shaken with weakness, and with all
power gone out of him, even the
power which rage and a murderous
soul gave.
But yet this was different. There
was no such shame here as had
fallen on him seven years ago. But
there was a shame after Us kind
In his daughter being willing to give
herself to a Protestant, an English
man and a vagabond mummer; and
if it were not averted there was the
end of the t»me, of the prestige, the
pride and the hope of “M sleu’ Jean
Jacques, philosopher."
"What shall not begin here at the
Manor Cartier?" she asked with
burning cheek.
"The shame — it shall not begin
here."
"What shame, father?”
"Of marriage with a Protestant
and an actor."
“You will not let me marry him?”
she persisted stubbornly.
Her words seemed to shake hfn-
all to pieces, it was as though he
was going through that tragedy of
seven years ago all over again. It
had possessed him ever since me
sight of Carmen’s guitar had driven
him mad ^tree hours ago. He swayed
to and fro, even as he did w'hen his
hand left the lever and tie let the
master carpenter go free. It was in
deed a philosopher under troture, a
spirit rocking on its ancaor. Just
now she had put into words herself
what he had even in his fear hoped
she had not considered—marriage
with the man. He did not know this
daughter of his very well. There was
that in her which was far beyond
his ken. Thousands of miles away
in Spain it had origin, and the stream
of tendency came down through
long generations by courses un
known to him.
"Marry him—you want to marry
him!” he gasped. "You, my Zoe,
want to marry that tramp of a
Protestant!”
Her eyes blazed in anger. Tramp
—the man with the air of a young
Alexander, with a voice like the low
notes of the guitar which had gone
to the flames! .Tramp!
“If I love him I ought to marry
him,” she answered with a kind of
calmness, however, though all her
body was quivering. Suddenly she
came close to her father, a great
sympathy welled up in her eyes, and
her voice shook.
"I do not want to leave you, father,
and I never meant to do so. I never
thought of it as possible; but now
It is different. I want to say with
you, but I want to go with him,
too.”
Presently as she seemed to weaken
before him he hardened. ‘You can’t
have both,” he declared angrily with
as much sternness as was possible
to him and with a great deal of
Norman wilfulness which was not
strength, "You shall not marry an
actor and a Protestant. You shall
not marry a man like that—never-
never—never. If you do. you will
never have a penny of mine, and I
will—I will never”
"Oh. hush—grace de Dleu, hush!"
she cried. "You shall not put a
curse on me, too."
“What curse?" he burst forth, pas
sion shaking him.
You cursed my mother’s baptism
It would be a curse to be told that
you would see me no more, that 1
should be no more part of this home
There has been enough of that curse
here . . . Ah, why — why ”
she added with a sudden rush of
indignation, “why did you destroj
the only thing I had of hers? It was
all that was left—her guitar. 1
loved it so.”
All at once with a cry of pain she
turned and ran to the door enter
lng on the staircase which led to her
room. In the doorway she turned
"I can’t help it. I can’t help it,
father. I love him—hut I love you.
too," she added. "I don’t want to go
—oh, I don’t want to go! Why do
you” her voice choked; she did
not flush the sentence; or, If she
did, he could not hear.
Then she opened the door wide
and disappeared into the darkness of
the unlighted 6tairway, murmuring.
"Pity—have Dtty for me. oh Mother
of God!" Then the door closed be
hind her almost with a bang.
After a moment of stupefied in
action Jean Jacques hurried over and
threw open the door she had closed
"Zoe—little Zoe come back and
say good-night," he called. But she
did not hear, for, with a burst ol
crying, she hurried into her own
room and shut and locked the door
It was a pity, a measureless pity
as Mary, the Mother, must have
seen. If she could see mortal life at
all, that Zoe did not hear him. It
might have altered the future. As
it was, the Devil o{ Estrangemem
might well be content with his
night’s work.
The full instalment of this remark
able story, from which the preceding
excerpts were taken, will be found
in full 'n the current December num
ber of HEARST’S MAGAZINE.
BA TRS. GABBER fell downstairs
-cvs- and bit her tongue in two.”
"1 feel sorry for her husband.
She was a terror when she had only-
one tongue."
By EDWIN MARKHAM.
Zona Gale’s Quaint Story.
Zona Gale sends out another human
book, “When I Was a Little Girl”
(The Macmillan Company, $1.50),
Miss Gale goes exploring back Into
her memory, finding clews to childish
moods and deeds, as she dramatizes
events in which she and her little
friends were actors. Simple events of
dooryard and village street and wild-
wood she sets forth with quaint ad
denda of fairy tales.
Zona Gale possesses not only a
charming fancy, but she has also a
clear, keen perception of human val
ues.
Innocently and incidentally she |
punctures pious sophistries, as when
she finds that the piteous drunkard of
the village is not poor because he
drinks, but that he drinks because he
is poor, or as, when she thrusts at
the comfortable fallacy that poverty
is God-ordained, and insists that it is
not God-appointed but man-permit
ted.
But unless you are canny you will
not see these preachments that do not
get into the current of the story. You
will get instead only the glow of a
lovely, old-fashioned narrative with
old - fashioned nice - and - naughty-
streaked little girls. »
“Poems and Ballads.”
Hermann Hagcdorn, whose poetry
ha^ won him a place among young
Americans of talent, issues a vol
ume called “Poems and Ballads (The
Macmillan Company, $1).
Of the 44 short verses ten are print
ed from various magazines. Mr
ITagedorn has a real poetic gift. We
have quoted his work before on this
page. Take, for Instance, the last
stanza of the poem, “Wings," in the
present volume:
Wings!
Tn chimney and eaves
What cityful grieves
In pitiful murmurings?
Wings!
Do they seek to speak?
Draw closer, my mate!
They come too near.
Their woe. their hate I fear!
Through the night afar, they
Cry, cry wild things!
Wings!
Who are they?
Who are they?
Mr. Hagedorn has a bright future.
“The Desire of the Moth’ ”
The chief recommendation of “The
Desire of the Moth," by Maxwell
Gray (D. Appleton & Co., $1.35), lies
in one character, the father in the
story. Ronald Leith is portrayed in
this tale of London fog, Italian skies
and human frailty as a character al
most too patient for our wicked
world.
As a young man, he has the mis
fortune to fall in love with a young
girl of the Italian .nobility. Her fam
ily objects and through treachery he
is attacked and left for dead. She
thinks he is dead and he thinks she j
has thrown him over. Ronald mar
ries a woman of his own nation, who
has a disregard for the Queen’s Eng
lish and a head as light as a feather.
We will not go into the story in de
tail. When his daughter grows to a
marriageable age. he is retired by his
bank on an old age pension. As a
consequence, partly of his own dis
like for his work and partly through
an honorable effort to save a dishon
orable man, that pension is as small
as his position always had been.
But he is able through unexpected
windfalls to take his daughter to Italy
and there meets with the ghosts of
the past and sees his dreams come
true—a generation late.
This book will not make the mark
that “The Silence of Dean Maitland"
made.
“A Modern Eve.”
Will a whole-souled longing for
woman suffrage come out winner
or loser In a battle of the heart? In
teresting question if there ever was
one. And you may find one answer
in "A Modern Eve," by May Edginton
(Frederick A. Stokes & Co., $1.25).
Perhaps every answer will not be
like this one, but at any rate this one
is flattering to the male.
The hero Is a capable young man
who has robbed a bank in Vancouver,
and, having agreed to meet his broth
er in a hamlet on the way to Winni
peg, runs across Miss Flamartin, aged
13, with beautiful red hair, asleep on
a flowery knoll with a full lunch bas
ket by her side. Having eaten the
lunch, he begins to admire the girl,
and when she awakes and he has
ipologized for his rags and dirt, he
gives her a note to deliver to his
brother. The young girl reads the
note, learns of the robbery' and does
not deliver it. Hence the story.
When the heroine, now graduated
from Girton, meets Mr. Bellamy again
he is an actor-manager, one of the
rising lights of London and much
sought after. He has followed her
every step unknown to her and ac
tually applauds her determination to
go in for the militant cause.
All this time she has not the faint
est Idea that he and the youth of nine
years ago are the same. She goes
forward ardently, even speaking in
public, to the dismay of her family.
Then Gibbons, a powerful newspaper
proprietor, falls in love with her, only
tn find she has no place In her heart
for sentiment.
There's a climax when Bellamy
loses every cent and It turns out
that Gibbons is his brother who has
been hounding him for what he
thought was a brutal refusal to di
vide when the bank was relieved of
the $10,000. It all comes out right
in the end. The girl flies to Bellamy
when she hears of his trouble and the
undelivered note is shown to Gibbons.
A good story in which love
triumphs, but then the heroine is
, beautiful. .,
With 1
Heading
of The
American
or
Georgian
With 1
Heading
of The
American
or
Georgian