Newspaper Page Text
£ THE ATLANTA GEORGIANS MAGAZINE AND FICTION PAGE .x
Revelations of a Wife
By Adele Garrison.
WHAT HAPPENED DURING THE
MEMORABLE FIRST NIGHT AT
THE COSGROVE FARMHOQUSE.
ICKY'S face was a study when
I told him that I believed
Mrs, Allis, our fellow beard
er at the Cosgrove farmhouse in
\lhe Catskills, intended to steal the
‘vialuahle collection of paintings in
the farmhouse parlor.
He looked at me fer a long min
ute, his face blank with amaze
ment, Then- -he threw back his
head and laughed heartily in a way
that J dislike intensely.
“If it were in the summer time I
should say that the heat had af
‘fected your brain,” he said, “but
it's been eool today, so I'm afraid
You're really going nutty. oQdd 1
didn't notice any symptoms of it
h\q‘on. 1 think we’ll have to have
medical advice. Where does it
hurt you worst, dearest?”
1 flushed .painfully, for Dicky's
ridicule always hurts me ecruelly,
and turning toward the dresser I
busied myself with putting into
the drawers the contents es the
suit case and traveling bag. Dicky's
Hathing T laid to one side, prepara
tory to putting it in his own room.
I hoped that by thus ignoring
Dicky’'s raillery and by affeeting
to be busy he might forget my un
lueky speech concerning Mrs. Allis.
But my hope was fruitless, Dicky
spoke again, and this time the joc
ular note had gone from his voice.
'“Look here, Madge,” he said
gravely, “be mighty careful you
don’t say to -any one else what
you have just told me, You know
how obstinate ven are when you
get one of your theories. Going off
gn a tangent like this, with a ridie
ulous aeceusation against a woman
about whom vou know nothing, is
dangerous business,”
“It is not a foolish accusation™ 1
returned eoldly, “but a true one; as
I shall prove to you before our
week is out. Bunt you need not be
. afraid that T shall hint my suspi
cions to any one else, 1T am not
anxious to make a fool of myself.”
“No? lls that so?” Dicky drawled
in mock astonishment that mad 4
my fingers itch to slap him, “Just
going te be a little Sherlock Holmes
all by herself, isn't she? Well!
well! well! What disguise de you
think vou will adept?”
_..1 turned my back upon him un
compromisingly and went on with
“the arranging of my belpngings.
A BET MADE. .
Dicky laughed seoftly, then, com
ing up behind me, drew my head
back toward him and kissed me.
“Did her bad, matter of fact hus
hand spoil all her remantic deduc
tions,” he asked, with his cheek
against mine. “Well, he won't say
another word. Go on and prove
that the man who stole Charlie
Ross is lurking around here, for all
1 care, just so wem don’t tell any
body else about it.*
I wanted to draw away from him,
to take refuge in cold silence, for T
felt that he had been unjust in his
ridicule. But I knew that resent
ing an apelegy of Dicky's—for that
was what the caress and soothing
words amounted to—would be like
tinder to the spark of his anger.
Therefore, 1 rested passively In his
arms and said demurely:
“I surely shall not tell any one
elee, but I'd like to make a wager
'with you that the end of the week
Business of Homemaking
4y Mrs. Christine Frederick.
WASTE IN HOUSEHOLD CLOS
ETS FILLED WITH
; “STECHERY.”
HE economists often say that
T this is a thriftless age. We
B : are called a wasteful nation,
and have dinged into our ears the
tiite information that the French
or German or other European
Lougew.fe could live in luxury on
whkat we throw saway. But I have
another view of waste which seoms
all tpo familiar among certaln
groups of houkewives: and that is
the purchasing of articles, elothing
or utensils whtch are in no sense
investments, but sheer waste. I
finow house after bouse where if
an inventory were taken possibly
20 per cent of the household effects
would not be in use. Thére is, for
instanee. the habit of buying small
?mnunts of fabrice, laces, mate
ials, etc., with the idea that “some
aay I can use this ‘or sO-and-sO."
But the chances sre that the time
is put off and put off, and that
there gradually grows an accumu-
Jation of what my good old Scotch
erandmether called “stechery.”
Boxes of remnants, strips of cloth,
bits of this and that. trimmings,
ali laid away idle not being of use,
and practicaliy dead investment,
There is one friend I have (and she
lavghingly Idmits her fault), who
has an immense chest full of
Little Bobbie’s Pa
By William F. Kirk.
ACH one (1) of us skolars had to
rite a artikel about a Crate In
ventor, g 0 1 asked Pa wen I eaim
hoam ebout who T shud rite about.
Rite ahout Chris Columbe, sed Pa, the
old meegwer wich got the first geod slant
at the erth, sed Pa.
What choice words you are singing
tonite, sed Ma Do not use so much
slang im front of our child
wWell, sed Pa, Chrisg 8 Columbo was
A Ttalyun in Ttaly, sed Pa, wich first
found out that we dident live on a flat
wurld, but en a round one, He rote A
poem for the weekly paper in his hoam
town, sed Pa, in wich he sed:
Altho this l“mrld of ours seems flat,
Fapeshully wen we are hroke,
This world is round, & that's no Joke,
8 paste this Truth inside yure hat:
He mevver rote any such ,rubblm.
sed Ma.
Take it from me, sed Pa, that is jest
what he rote. 1 red it in a old heok
syprware wen 1 was a child erning my
firet tenm (housand a yeer, sed Pa,
Are you going to talk sense to Bobhie
& heln him with his essay, sed Ma, or
mret T help him?
1 wil! help him, sed Pay T have jest
THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN " s A Clean Newspaper for Southern Homes Wi WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1920.
will prove I am right in my sus
picion,”
Dicky whirled me around, then
held me off with a quizzical look
with which admjration was min
gled.
“Well, if you're not a sporting
proposition!™ he said. “I'll just
take you on that. What odds shall
I give you?” i
‘None,” I responded promptiy.
“We'll make it a dinner «t Vanu
cettys.”
“Done!"™ Dieky said, and then,
gtretching his arms up, ‘_he gave a
prodigioufi yawn. “I don’'t bhelieve
I was ever so tired in my life,” he
said. “I'm not geing te put these
things away until tomorrow,” He
gathered his belongings up reck
lessly, and strode into his own
room, between which ‘and mine
there was a conpecting doer, and
dumped his clothing carelessly in a
heap on a ehair, part of the things
sliding off an the floor.
“Oh, Dicky, Dieky!” 1 remon
strated, hurrying after him: “Wait,
I'll put these away for you.”
‘“You'll put nothing away.” Dicky
returned, snatching up his pajamas
from the heap on the floor. “I'm |
going to have this light out and be ‘
in bed in twenty-eight seconds, and
I'd advise you to do the same, I'll
put all these things away in the
morning. Goed night.”
I knew better tham te f{rritate
him by persisting in_arranging his
elothing. When Dicky is sleepy, he
is like a spoiled child, and any light
or noise in his room makes him |
rage. .
WHAT MADGE SAW. {
So I went back into my own
room, hastily undressed and slipped
inte bed, regretting that Dicky had
forgotten the promise he had made
to change its position, so that I
might see the mountains when I
first awoke in the morning.
In a few moments sounds from
Dieky's room told me that he was
asleep and snoring, as he does when
he is very tired. But I could not
sleep. Underneath my window I
heard the sound of voices, which,
after a while, died away into si- *
lence. It seemed hours that I lay
there in the stillness.
Then the long prolonged call of a 8
screech owl souynded in my ears, I
had heard many of them at the
eountry places where my mother
and I had spent our vacations.
There was something about this
one, however, that seemed differ
ent in some way to the call of any
ow! T had ever heard before.
All at once the solution flashed
acress my mind: it was not the call
of a hird, but a clever imitation, a
persistent signal.
1 crept out of bed and looked
from the windew. The whistle
came from the direetion of a tiny
building which before supper I had
noticed just showing through the
trees some yards away from the
farmheuse.
In the darkness T could see no
movement in that direetion, but a
light in a small bungalew very near
my side of the house, which I
thought must hold the Ceosgrove
family when they had a house full
of guests, attracted my attention. |
Shadows: were crossing and re
erossing before it 1
As ] looked; the lamp was sud- ]
denly turned low, ?e door opened, |
and three stealthy figures crept out
and hurried in the direction from |
which the bird-¢all had cpme.
(To Be Continued.) J
ripped-up dresszes, pieces and
enough materials to clethe an or
phanage. There is lying dollar
after dollar’s worth of unused ma
terials. * s
Again, mpst household closets
disclose not skeletons, as we are
led to believe by popular scandal
mongers, but apparatus, devices or
produets unused by any member
of the family. There is, for in
stance, the exercises enthusidstical
ly purchased by mother ‘“to re
duce,” and used by her fully four
times in a burst of middle-aged
vanity; father used a vibrator
thrice, and then it was put on the
highest ghelf of the tallest closet
and forgotten, The famous remedy
that sigter bought to enhance tne
various charms lies also forlorn,
while a new nostrum is the pres
~ent favorite,
All “stechery” Now, you may
say that in the evolution of
the family certain furnishings must
naturally be outgrown and outs
worn: even then they have lived
through usafulness, But my point
is thut teo many of the contents
of these bhoxes and closets were
unwisely chosen In the first place,
were bought for a caprice, for a
bargain, or because some one talked
you into it, not on a real basis of
use and permanence. Purchasing—
how important it is—how far re
moved from fad and foible and
faney. Yes, it is truly a fine art!
(Copyright, 1920, Wheeler Syndicate, The.)
told him the naim of a grate inventor,
old Chris Columbe. If he wants another
naim, sed Pa, T will invent one.
1 guess you cud, sed Ma, but stick to
truth.
Well, sed Pa, a other grate inventor
‘:: Ole (loof, the inventor of the pin
yaseline, sed Pa. He dident know
it: & heing deespondent, he hanged his
self with the vary rope that wuld have
made him rieh & famous, sed Pa. Poor
man, every time I heer the naim Goeof I
feel like orying.
1 doant blame you, sed Ma. Goof i# a
®ad naim, to be sure. But if you are
going to he foolish all the eevning T
shall have o tell Bobbie about sum
grate invenshuns. One fnto inventor,
sed Ma, ?: Walt Whitman, the in
ventor of the eotton gin, sed Ma,
Hao, Ha, sed Pa, that man's naim was
Whitney. Walt Whitman wasg & verse
manu-fack -terer, sed Pa, & he put every
thing in exeep the cute little jingels. For
that reeson, sed Pa, he dident rite pon
ular hits,. But he was a wise old gink,
srd Pa. The cotton gin, sed Pa, was a
grate invenshun, but 1 suppeas we wont
see it any moar, now that the country
has went dry. sed Pa.
Bobie, sed Ma. vure father i a grate
fnventor, toe, inyenting mear foeslish
reemarke thap any man living, sed Ma.
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] (ood Night Stories
N By Blanch Silver.,
GRANDPA OPOSSUM’S TALE,
T was a great time for the three
l opossum children — Weedy,
Seedy and Slimmy Opossum-—
when their mame and daddy went
away and left them“’ver at Grand
the supper dishes, eedy Opossum
house. For just as soon as
Grandma Opossum weuld clear up
the supper dishes, Weedy Opossum
would run for Grandpa Opos
sum’s slippers, Seedy Opossum
swould find the long clay pipe, and
Slimmy would push Grandma
()pu’sum's comfy chair up bvefore
the "fireplace and then the jun
would start. e
Grandpa Opossum would always
take a long time in getting ecom
fortably fixed, then a longer time
filling and lighting his pipe, try
ing to think up a new story te tell
the youngsters,
“Surely you haven’t. run out ot
stories,” laughed \Weedy one eve
ning as Grandpa Opossum lay ®back
in his comfy chair and blew rings
of blue smoke into the air. *“You
have another story to tell us.”
“Right you are, litle fellow,”
laughed Grandpa Opossum clearing
his threat. “Shall it be a fairly
tale or—"
“Oh, no,, Grandpa!” cried the
three Opossum youngsters in one
voice. “Tell us a trye story.”
“ me see—did I ever tell—ell [
guess I never did, so here goes”
and Grandpa Opossum puffed harcd
on his pipe before he continued,
“One bright moonlight night
when your grandma and 1 were
voung and foolish,” here Grandma
Opossum blushed and got so nerv
ous she nearly dropped a stitch in
her knitting. “She and 1 went out
to a pawpaw party.”
Of course, Weedy wanted to
know what a pawpaw party was
and Grandpa Opossum lnufhed nné
told him that late in the fall when
the fruit on the pawpaw trees
were ripe the opossums from far
and near would gather under the
wide-spreading trees and have a
great party eating pawpaws.
“We had a glorious time,” con
tinued Grandpa Opossum. “Wa ate
and we danced until we couldn't
eat or dance any more. Then we
bade our friends goodnight, and
your grandma and I started homa,
On the wav we had to pass & lovely
poultry yard, and forgetting we had
filled up on PAWPAWS, your
grandma and 1 decided we'd have s
ch?f'ken. .
“We got the ehicken: T gave it
to grandma, and she scooted
across the field. 1 went back for
another, when, dear me, 1 found
myself caught in a trap, the farmer
standing over me. Well, 1 acted as
if | was dead. He took me out of
the trap and laid me at one side
For quite some time [ played desd,
then when he turned arouind (o
shut the chicken house more go-
Let Not Your Right Cheek
Know What Your Left Doeth
ES o s gen e sty oke S I
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Ve ‘
“Tell Us a True Story.” |
e e el
curely I jumped up and glided "
away. {
“] met ‘Grandma Opossum down
by the river. She was crying
bitterly, for I had been gone so |
long she was afraid harm had be- |
fallen me, She had been chased l
by the farmer's dog and had drop
ped the chieken in her flight, se |
there we were, tired out, footsore ]
and not a chicken for all our tron- |
ble. Believe me, when we reached
home we vowed and declaréd we'd
never bother poultry yards again,
and we never have.,”
“Phat was a dandy story,
grandpa,” cried Weedy, clapping 1
his hands. “Tell us another!” |
But Grandpa Opossum yawned, |
and grandma's knitting needle fell |
to the floor for the third time, and |
grandpa knew what thaf meant.
It was time for them all to turn
into bed. So, kissing the three |
voungsters good night they all l
trooped off to bed.
Rejecting a Compliment. l
A well known member of the
Stock Exchange, who is now giv- |
ing up the close of a strenuous i
life to philanthropic efforts, was
in his heyday a tremendous gam- |
bler in stocks, and, incidentally, |
be and his partner were rather ex- |
pert in the gentle art of making |
enemies, One of these accosted |
him with the pleasant remark: |
“Look here, you are the biggest
thief on the Stock Exchange.”
“Ah,” was the answer, “it is evident |
you do not know my partner.” :
i S T bt
. ?
uticura lalcum|
s Fagcinatingly Foagrant s |
Always Healthful{
faraple frma of Laberatories, Dept X Malden, L
. Syarywhee Zhe.
Married Strangers I
By Frances Duvall.
LXIV.—A CLEAR SKY.
66 'VIE spent the afternoon with
l dad. He's begn bully, too.”
Bennett was lounging be
fore the wood fire that was Kipdled
each eveping in Keitha's sitting
room to take away the chill of
the California twilight. His head
was flung back against the cushions
of the deep leunging chair and nhe
blew a ring of smoke ceiling ward,
smiling reminiscently.
Keitha, curled up on a chaise
lounge opposite, absently watched
the firelight playing on his fentuves.
It threw into relief his strong clean
chin and mouth and touched with
a caressing light the dark hair thsy
waved away from his temples,
The long length of him, as trig in
riding togs as in a uniform, was
spread gratefully to the fire. It
wag sinful that any one man should
be so good looking, thought Keitha.
“Were you - getting acquainied
again” asked Keitha,
“Getting acquainted for the first
ime, rather,” he answered. “I never
understood dad before, nor he me
But it was my fault, I guess., Lorl,
1 was a thoughtless chap before
this war! [ looked on dad as a sort
of fire escape, If [ got in a jan,
finapcial or otherwise, 1 knew dad
wouid be there to pull me ouy, and
1 was too selfish a cuss to> be even
grateful.”
Bennett paused a moment, then
continued slowly, .
“80 one time-—when he threw meo
down-—ll—l acted like a fool. [
forgot all he'd donegand told “Mim
what 1 thought of a man who'a
let his son go through hell. It wasn’t
very pretty=—what told him. I guess
dad's a thoroughbred to be abie to
overlook it now. But I'm sorry, God,
how sorry I am!”
He blew a breath of smoke to
wards the ceiling, watching it
writhe and curl in the twilight
gloom, Keitha remained silent, try
ing te piece together the hints of
the affair which had c¢aused the
ruptura in the Bennet: householt.
She was too proud to ask for that
— @B
-73 PEACHTREE STREET =™
' By NELL BRINKLEY
Copyright, 1919. Intermatiena) Teature Serviee, Inc,
- which would not be voluntarily
vouchsafed, - .
“But it's all right now,” said Ben
nett exhaling a deep breath. “We're
pals again, dad and 1. I even be
lieve I'm going to make him proud
of me., Keitha,” he turned his face =
toward vher suddenly, “would you
be willing to remain here, or per
haps go to Hawali for a part of the
year, and not return east at all?”
Keitha smiled into the twilight.
“Is that a significant question or
merely an idle one?”
“Whatea rigid little conservative
vou are! You never even waste an
answer, do you? Well, I'll teil you:
the question is very significant. Dad
is getting on—he’s beginning to feel
his years occasionally and he is so
impressed with my new found seit,”
Bennett chucklel boyishly, “that he
wants to turn over part of his fi
nancial interes's to me, It would
mean a great deal more 1o start
than yncle's orokerage ever would.
And believe lue, little Lester's new
found self isw't (oo noble to jump
at a soft benb”
“But what arount HHawaii?’ asked
Keitha with puckered brows.
“Large quantities of dad’s inter
ests are located in sugar out there,
He'd turn that all over to me and
I'd have to keep a hand on the helm
part of each year.”
“It sounds very alluring,” mur
mured Keitha. I wouldn't want to
interfere with your future in amy
way, but—"
“Forget the wusual objection,
Keitha, “he cut in impatiently, “Be |
a sport for once in your life.” |
(Copyright, 1020, Wheeier Syndicate, Inof |
(To Be Continued.) ‘
Maternal Indignation. ‘
He’'s not what you would call
strictly handsome,” said the ma
jor, beaming through his glasses
on a baby as it lay howling in its
mother's arms, “but it's tise kind
of face that grows on you.'"\“lt's
not the kind of face that grew on
you,” was the reply of the fond
mother. “You'd be better looking
it it had.”
The Cinema Murder
By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
CHAPTER XII. .
HILIP let the pen slip at last
P from his tired fingers, The
light had failed. He had
been writing with straining eyes,
almost in the darkness. But there
was something else. tHad it heen
faney or * * * This time there
could be ne mistake He had not
heard the lift stop, but some one
was knocking seftly at the door,
softly, bul persistently. He turned
his head. The room seemed (ilied
with shadows. He han written for
hours, and he was conscieus that
his limbhs were stiff. The sun had
goge down in a eloudy sky, and the
light had faded. He could scarcely
distinguish the articles of furniture
at the further end of the room, For
some reason or other he felt tongue~
tied. Then, without any answer
from bim to this mysterious sum
mons, the handle of the door slowly
turned. As he sat there he saw it
pushed open, A woman, wrapped
in a long coat, stépped inside, clos
ing it firmly behind her, She stood
peering around the room, & There
was something familiar and yet un
familiar in her height, her carriage.
He waited, spelibound, for her
voice, -
“Douglas!” she exclaimed. “Ah,
there you are!”
The words seemed to die away,
unuttered, upen his lips. He sud
denly thought that he was cheking.
He stared at her blankly. It was
impossibie! She eame a step far
ther into the room. Her hand was
stretehed out accusingly,
“Se I've found you, have [, Doug
lag?” she cried, and there was a
note of bitter triumph in her words,
“found you after all these months!
Aren't you terrified? Aren’'t you
afraid Ne wonder you sit there,
shrinking away! De you know what
1 have come for?”’
.He :?rd to speak, but his lips
were powerless to frame words
as his limbs were to respond to his
desire for movement. This was the
one thing which he had not fore
seen. %
“You broke your promise,” she
went on, raising her voice a little
in passionate repreach. - “You Jest
me theyre alone to face dismissal,
without & penny, and slipped off
vourself to America. You never
even came in to wish me good-by.
Why? Tell me why vou went with
out coming near me? * * * You
won't, eh? You daren't, Be a man.
Out with it, lam here, and I know
the truth" ;
For the first time some definite
sound came from his lips,
“Beatrice!” he gasped,
The room was suddenly flooded
with light. Philip, rigid and ghast
lyv. wag looking at her from the
other side of the table. Bhe held
up her hands as though to shut out
the sight of him. i
“Philip!” she shrieked. “Philip!
*+ * % Oh, My God!”
“Philip—alive!” she muttered.
“Alive! * * * PBpeak! Can't you
speak to me? Are you a ghost?”
“Of course not”” he ansWwered,
with a ¢alm which surprised him.
“You can’t have forgotten in lgss
than six months what I look like."”
A new expression struxgled into
her face. ®he abandoned her grasp
of the handle and came back to her
former position.
“Look here,’ she faltered, “if
vou are Philip Romilly, where's he—
Douglas? ®* * * Where's Doug
las ?”
There was no answer. Phjlip
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RARRAMARARRRRARARRARARARARDANAINNRND RARANERARDANRARARARARR RN
bTHE CINEMA MURDER"
in motion “pictures with
Miss Marien Davies as the
charming heroine, a Cosmopeli
tan production, is being shown
at leading theaters in leading
cities. Screened under the direc
tion of George D. Baker. Pre
sented by Fanmtous Players-Lasky
Corporation ag a Paramount.
Artcraft picture,
simply looked at her. She began to
shake once more upen her feet.
“Where's Douglas?" she demand
ed fiercely. 'Tell me? Tell me
quickly, before 1 go mad! If you
are Philip Romilly alive, if it wasn't
your body they found, wherg is
Douglas?” %
“You can guess what happened
to him,” Philip said slowly. "I
met him on the towing path gy the
gide of the canal, I spoke to hjm-—
about vou, He answered me witha
jest. 1 think that all the passion
of those grinding years of misery
swept up at that moment from my
heart. 1 was strong—Ged, how
strong 1 was! 1 took him by the
throat, ,Beatrice. T watched his
face change, | watehed his damned,
self-satisfied complacency fade
away. He lost all his smugness,
and his eves hegan to stare at me,
and his lips grew whiter as they
struggled to utter the cries for
merey whieh choked baek., Then T
flung him in—that's all, Splash!
“« # * (od, T can hear it new! 1T
saw his face just under the water.
Then 1T went on.”
“Yfi" went on?' she repeated,
tremhbling in every limb.
“% nieked up the pocketbeok which
1 had shaken out of his clothes in
that first struggle. T studied its
eontents, and it gave me an idea, I
went to T.i‘i‘erpeol. stayed at the
hotel where he had eaguged reems=.
dressed myself in his clothes, ahd
went on the steamer in his place. I
traveled to New York ag Mr. Doug-
Ing Romilly of the.Deuglas Romilly
Shoe Company., occupfed my room
at the Waldorf under that name.
Then T disappeared studdenly—there
were too many people waiting to
see ma., ] took the pseudonvm
which he had earefully prepared
for himself and hid for a time in a
small tenement honse. Then T re
wrote the play. There vou have
mv afory.”, !
“You—murdered Thim, Philip!
.. .0 & -Youl” >
She stood quite still for several
mements, Then she toek out the
pins from her hat, banged it upon
the table. opened her tweed coat.
came round to the fireside, and
threw herself into an easy chair.
Her action was portentious and sig
nificant.
Tell me how ven found me out?”
he asked, after a brief nause.
“T sas dismisged from Detton
Magna.” she told him. “T had te
¢o and be waiting maid to Aunt
Fsther at Croydon. I teok the nlace
of her maid of all work. [ serubbed
for my living. There wasn't any
thing else. .1 hadn’t clothes to try
for the holder thirgs= not a friend
in the world. put T was only waitr
ing. T meant. at the first chance,
to rob Aunt listher, to come to Lon
don. dress myself properly, and find
a post on the stage. if possible. T
wasn’t partienlar, Then one day a
man ecama to see me—an American.
He'd traveled all the way from New
York because he was interested in
what he ealled the mysterious Ro
milly disapeparanee, ° He knew
that T had heen Douglas’ friend. He
asked me to come out and identify
~—you! He offered me my passage,
2 hundred pounds, and to give me 3
start in life here, if T needed it. So
1 came ont with him."”
(To Be Continued.)