rested upon. She had blue eyes and a mass of golden hair. Though
comparatively young, and quite in the eligible class, Raymond was
not a lady's man. With much embarrassment he told the history of the
cat.
While she held Cyclops to her bosom, the girl explained that she had
left him with a friend to keep for her during the summer, and he had
run away. She had given him up for lost.
"Dat cat know whut he doin'," snickered the Mammy, who was standing
back in the hall. "Dat cat kin see further'n you kin ef he ain't got
but one eye."
Raymond went off catless. All the way home he was thinking of a way
by which he might call on the beautiful Miss 'Liza. Sunday afternoon
he went out to the country, to the woods, the flowers, the birds,
and his soul was full of poetry and his mind of thoughts of the
girl.
That evening old Cyclops was back on the fence! His great eye had a
gleam of mischievousness. Down the fence he slid, and straight to
Raymond, who decided that he must take the cat back to his owner
immediately.
While Cyclops prowled about the parlour with tail erect, rubbing
against every article of furniture, Raymond talked to Miss 'Liza.
Every evening Cyclops returned to Raymond, and every evening he as
promptly took him home. Thus time passed from autumn into early
winter.
One evening sitting before the little wood fire in her parlour,
Raymond said to Miss 'Liza: "I don't see but one way to keep our cat
in one place!"
Then Miss 'Liza blushed, and said she didn't see but one way either!
Then he kissed her!
And old Cyclops rubbed against both of them and purred to beat the
band.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
"SOLITAIRE" BILL
By Arthur Felix McEachern
Captain Billy MacDonald was one of those dour Highland Scotsmen;
deep-water men; exhaling an unmistakable atmosphere of the sea. Past
middle age, taciturn; yet there was that indescribable glimmer in
his gray eyes betraying a sense of humor. If indications pointed to
a "spell of weather," Captain Billy habitually retired to his cabin,
leaving orders with the mate to "call me if it breezes up," and when
the first puff of a squall bellied the sails of the _Lizzie
MacDonald_--named after his daughter, and second only to her in his
affections--heeling the bark in to her lee scuppers, Captain Billy
would hastily leave his game of solitaire and bound on deck. One
glance at the heavens sufficed for his decision. With him decision
and action were synonymous; and when he bellowed the order, "All
hands shorten sail," every man-Jack jumped to the ratlines, for
"Solitaire" Bill, as the captain was known to seafaring men from
Glasgow to the Horn, was an Absolute Monarch when at sea.
For twenty years the bark _Lizzie MacDonald_ had freighted hither
and yon about the Atlantic, and was one of the few of her type which
had managed to stay in the running against modern steam tramp
competition. She lay in the roads at Kingston, Jamaica, having
discharged a cargo of dry fish from Boston, and was all ready to
clear for Liverpool with sugar and molasses. War conditions had
boosted freight rates, and the _Lizzie_ had been paying her owners
as never before.
It was 102 degrees in the shade, and at ten o'clock in the forenoon
"Solitaire Bill" sat in his cabin at a rickety table apparently
oblivious to everything except the inevitable solitaire. It was not
generally known that the captain could more clearly map out a course
or think of foreign subjects to better advantage when thus engaged
than at any other time, and when the Yankee mate came aboard in a
bum-boat, he coughed apologetically before disturbing the skipper.
"Well," said Captain Billy, looking up in the act of placing the ten
of diamonds on the queen of spades, "what's the good word?"
"Nothing stirring," answered the mate, an angular, weather-beaten
man with the unmistakable nasal twang of the New-Englander. "The
cook's the only one of the outfit of them with the spunk of a
rabbit. It was as I anticipated. The crew were afraid of the German
submarines, and they jumped north on the steam tramp that left for
New York this morning."
"So there's no chance to get a crew," ruminated the captain. "It is
too bad that we are to be delayed at this time when freight rates
are so high, but I suppose it cannot be helped. We can't sail
without men, that's sure."
"There ain't a sailorman without a ship in Kingston," averred the
mate. "If we were steam we could ship a dozen or so of these
niggers, but they won't do on a square-rigger. They wouldn't know
the main't'gall'n's'l halyards from the bobstay," and the mate went
on deck leaving "Solitaire" Bill pursuing the pastime which was his
hobby.
That afternoon when a slight breeze swept through the city from the
mountain behind, "Solitaire" Bill had the cook put him ashore. He
intended cabling his agents that he would be indefinitely delayed
owing to lack of a crew. Mechanically he walked through the
sun-blistered streets past the squat white houses with negroes
lolling in the doorways, to the Custom House, where he found a
cablegram awaiting him.
As he perused the typewritten sheet a smile flitted over his
care-worn features. It was as he had hoped, although he had made it
a point to never meddle in his daughter's affairs. He had scrimped
to give her the education which neither he nor her dead mother had
enjoyed, and though he had seen her never more than twice yearly, he
had known of her reciprocation to the love of Douglas MacGillis, and
had approved of her choice. He reread the cablegram: "Douglas and I
to be married March 30th. He leaves for the front early April.
Expect you Liverpool before 30th."
Since the death of his wife, fifteen years before, his daughter,
Lizzie, had been the constant object of "Solitaire" Bill's care and
affection. She was to marry a Scotsman; a gentleman; and one who was
going to the firing line to "do his bit" for King and country. Many
a time since the outbreak of war had Captain Billy wished that he
were younger. Gladly would he have donned the khaki to fight for
Britain in the trenches. His was the indomitable spirit of the
Highlander. But, though vigorous and keen of mind as are the
majority of men of half his years, he was beyond the active service
age limit, so he devoted himself to the equally patriotic task of
bringing supplies to Britain to keep her wheels of commerce humming.
"If I had a crew," he muttered, as he shuffled the dog-eared deck of
cards in the solitude of his cabin while awaiting the evening meal,
"I could make Liverpool, weather permitting, in time for the
wedding. If I could do that--well, that's all I ask----"
Suddenly Captain "Solitaire" Bill burst into a paroxysm of laughter.
"By the Powers, I'll try it," he cried, as he bounded up the
companionway with boyish light-heartedness.
"Supper's ready," called the cook from the door of the galley.
"Get supper ready for a full crew," ordered the skipper, "and will
you come ashore with me, Mr. Smith?" he said to the mate. "I want
you to round up a crew of those niggers, while I go to the Custom
House and clear. We sail as soon as you get them."
The mate looked incredulously. "The niggers can't box the compass
even, and----"
"Never mind about that," commanded "Solitaire" Bill, "you get them
aboard and leave the rest to me."
* * * * *
"Well, I might as well explain now; it's too good to keep a moment
longer," chuckled "Solitaire" Bill, as he ordered the driver of the
taxi waiting in front of the church to drive to the Liverpool House.
"We are assuredly anxious to learn what you and Mr. Smith are
laughing about," chorused Lieut. Douglas MacGillis and his wife in
unison. The mate, Mr. Smith, was obviously uncomfortable in what he
termed his "moonlight clothes," nevertheless he laughed immoderately
as he indulged in retrospection.
"I've always been a fiend for solitaire," said Captain Billy, "and
after getting your cable I was in a quandary, and sought solace in a
game with myself. I wanted to get to this wedding more than anything
else, but I couldn't get here without a crew to work the ship, and
sailormen were about as plentiful as hen's teeth in Kingston. But
the cards gave me an inspiration. I shipped a crew of niggers who
did not know one rope from another on a square-rigged ship--but
they all knew how to play cards. I fastened a playing card to each
of the principal ropes and sails, and those niggers were like cats
aloft.
"When I shouted, 'Clew up your ace of spades,' they were after that
mizzen-royal in a jiffy. Mr. Smith, the cook, and myself took turns
at the wheel. 'Double reef your deuce of diamonds,' and they made
snug the fores'l to a nicety. All's well that ends well. I never had
a smarter lot of sailors. I know the men all called me 'Solitaire'
Bill behind my back, but henceforth and hereafter, every fo'c'sle
hand and the cook calls me 'Solitaire,' or they don't sign articles
on the trimmest brig that sails the Atlantic."
--------------------------------------------------------------------
JUST A PAL
By Elsie D. Knisely
Jim Doyle--sent to Sing Sing last year--is innocent. I done the
job he was sent up for. I was broke and out of work and Mary, my
wife, had consumption and needed food and warm clothes and medicine.
I held up a guy with more than he needed that didn't come by it any
honester than I done when I cracked him over the head and took it
out of his belt. Then Jim cooked up a scheme to own he done it and
take my medicine as long as Mary lived, so she wouldn't know and
so's I could be with her and look after her. She died to-day.
There's one hundred and fifty dollars under the mattress along with
the proof that I'm the guilty guy. Bury my wife decent and give the
rest to Jim to get on his feet after you turn him loose. Get a
kind-hearted parson to say a prayer over me and then plant me in
Potter's Field. I'm going the gas route. Jim's no kin of mine--just
a pal. He allowed no one would care a darn if he was in the pen or
not. He loved a girl once, but she turned out bad and spoiled Jim's
life. Tell him "God bless him."
P. S.--I'm sorry I killed that guy, but I just had to have money
for Mary. Mebbe I can square it with him where I'm going.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
WHEN "KULTUR" WAS BEATEN
By Lieutenant X
Knee deep in the mud, the French "Alpines," the "Blue Devils," as
the Germans called them, were watching the shelling of the enemy's
positions. Huge columns of black smoke crowned the white line of
trenches below the thicket of spruce, and at each of the terrific
explosions chunks of dirt, sand-bags, and armour plates flew high in
the air.
In the expectation of the rush the "Blue Devils" stood leaning on
the rifles, some of them laughing and joking, while others, grave
and stern, read once more the last letters of the beloved ones.
Corporal Dupin sat down, looking at the photograph of the wife and
baby. When hell broke loose Dupin was quietly living in Canada, and
he had come as a man of honour to join the colours, leaving his
little family on the safer side of the ocean. The morning mail had
just brought him news that wife and baby had sailed on the
_Lusitania_, to be nearer to him.... How his heart beat hard!
... Surely he would come safe out of this struggle, though he would
bear himself as gallantly as usual, and perhaps be fortunate enough
to get twenty-four hours' leave and meet the wife and baby
somewhere, perhaps in Belfast or in Nancy. He could already imagine
that meeting. He was happy. How heartily he went to his duty
to-day!...
He caught the voice of the lieutenant.
"Here, boys!" was the brief command. "You've always done your duty.
To-day you have to do it doubly, for Germany has added a new crime
to the list. One of her submarines has sunk the _Lusitania_. There
are innocent victims to avenge."
The _Lusitania_! Greet her! Eagerly Dupin tore the paper from the
officer's hands. He read and reread the list of rescued. Two seconds
later there was no more room for doubt, and he knew that all he
loved in the world had gone down.
Oh, kill! Kill the murderers and avenge!... Kill and torture!...
How long would the shelling last? When would the signal of the storm
come?...
Ah! the welcome starlike rocket! The French guns lengthened their
shots, shelled the upper line of trenches.... A loud shout and a
mad rush.... The "Blue Devils" were in action.
Ta, ta, ta, ta.... The German machine-guns. Sh! Cirr! Shrapnel
burst with a quick flame and little yellow clouds.... Dead men
fell.
But the remainder kept on running and bouncing until they reached
the German works. The "75s" shells had made a mess of the
entanglements, and the main trench was a ruin, spotted with
corpses.... Bullets whistled, grenades exploded, injured men
shrieked.
From a black aperture a bullet missed Corporal Dupin as he passed,
bayonet forward, after a flying man. He gave that prey off, threw a
bomb in the den, and as soon as it had exploded he rushed in.
Covered with blood, a German officer lay down. He menaced Dupin with
his empty pistol, when, realizing that everything was over for him,
he threw the gun, with a wild laugh, and defiantly and haughtily
looked at Dupin. The cold, blue eyes of the Teuton did not mistake
Dupin's sentiment. To the corporal's dark, glancing eyes they
returned hatred for hatred. Dupin thought that the submarine's
commander must have had the same likeness. Yes, this man would pay
dearly for the cold-blooded murderer's debt. The hour of vengeance
had come.
Dupin did not strike yet. He found sweet to contemplate the agony of
his enemy.... He thought of torturing the man.... The fellow must
suffer....
From loss of blood the German officer suddenly fainted, and Dupin
found himself kneeling over the enemy, bathing his wounds, stopping
his blood, nursing him as a brother....
Again shrapnel burst. The German artillery was already shelling the
conquered trenches. Ready for a new fight, Dupin, before he left the
wounded officer, wrapped him in a blanket, left him his own water
bottle. A last time he looked at him with a sad but proud smile and
said:
"No, we are not the same race. We cannot do the same things."
And they were his last words, for a bullet went through his heart,
and, still smiling, but this time very sweetly, Dupin went to meet
the beloved ones.
* * * * *
The above story was accompanied by the following letter:
Dear Mr. Editor:
Just fancy the shelling of the trenches and a little French officer
trying to keep up the morale (excellent, I should say) of his men,
to teach them the contempt of death, or, rather, to show that he is
not in that respect inferior to them.
Fancy that same officer reading your Vive La France Number of _Life_
and translating it to his men, then looking at your contest
proposition, and finding very funny to fill his fountain pen and
write on the first scraps of paper he can procure a very short
story.
The author has not the boldness to say that his story is very
interesting. He knows, too, that as a Frenchman he does not speak
nor write very correct English; but he has sent it to you rather
because of the originality of the thing and to show you that the
French soldiers appreciate the friendship of America.
At any rate, it is a genuine story of the trenches and a souvenir of
the war.
Yours most sincerely,
M. Constance.
From the Trenches,
June 15, 1915.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
PRESUMPTION OF INNOCENCE
By Lyman Bryson
Into the judge's empty office came the attorney for the defense,
followed by his client. The attorney for the defense wore
belligerent hair and spectacles. His manner was more upright and
simple than his speech, which was full of guile. His client was
heavy, of the ugly fatness often characteristic of ward politicians,
porcine, grossly genial. They had come to escape the gaping crowd.
The attorney was recovering from his four-hour address to the jury.
Sweat stood under his upstanding hair, and he wiped his wrists with
a limp handkerchief.
"Honest John" looked at his lawyer with dull admiration. "Tom, that
was a great speech." Then, as if this might be too humble praise for
a politician to give his hireling, he added: "Best you ever made."
Tom Jenison made no reply. When he was tired there was a quality of
frankness in his eyes as if cleverness had been assumed for business
purposes.
"How long will they be out?" asked Honest John, thinking of the
twelve who were debating in a nearby room on sending him to the
penitentiary for stealing public money.
"How should I know?" Jenison spoke petulantly.
The politician sat quietly, his fat hands folded above the top of
his trousers on his negligee shirt. He was thinking that generous
public sentiment might avail little with the twelve men now busy
with his destiny. He sighed tremulously.
"You're not worried, are you?"
"No--guess not. I'm all right."
The composure of the politician began to desert him. He flushed and
sighed and slapped at flies. His jaw relaxed and slid down. His
hands trembled.
"Tom," he began, "what are the chances?"
"I don't know. Scared?"
"I'm a little nervous. That's all."
Jenison had loved the fight for its own sake. Spectators supposed he
defended Honest John only to earn his huge hire, but that had not
been all his motive. It had not occurred to him before that his
client was not as courageous as himself. He supported the
"presumption of innocence" and pitted himself against machinery of
prosecutor and court. But if his client was a coward his fight
seemed suddenly unworthy.
Honest John's puffy eyes filled with tears. "You've been a good
friend to me, Tom."
"Oh, cut that."
"Yes, you have. I appreciate it."
Jenison, looking at him, wondered that he could ever have thought
this man a friend or worth an effort to save. The wretched face
sickened him.
"You're the only man who knows how I feel." His client was trying to
explain his collapse. "I can't face guilty. I know you'd keep up the
fight as long as I kept up the money"--his attorney winced--"but I
couldn't stand another trial. I'm ready for 'em."
"Ready? How?"
"I've got it here." Honest John tapped his chest, then drew out a
narrow pill box.
Contempt came back into Jenison's eyes. "What are you telling me
for? Go tell some one who'd care."
"I don't know what you mean, Tom."
"Oh, yes, you do. You'd never take that stuff. You haven't the
nerve. You're stalling for sympathy."
The politician turned to an ice-water stand and dropped two tablets
into a glass of water. He said with tremulous bravado, "All
right--here goes."
"You might as well drink it," answered the attorney. "God knows
you're guilty. You'll pay for it some time."
The glass went halfway to Honest John's lips and then back to the
stand. "I think--I'll wait."
"I thought so. You'll wait until you're behind bars, and then you'll
wish you'd taken your medicine." Jenison spoke as if it had been his
professional advice to his client to drink the potion. "It takes a
man to quit when the game's up. I suppose in a way I'm as dishonest
as you, but there's a chance for me to clean up, because I'm not
afraid. If I thought the name helping you has given me would stick,
I'd be glad to take your poison."
They heard a shuffling of feet in the courtroom.
"There's an officer announcing that they've reached a verdict," said
Jenison. He looked his client in the eyes and added, "I hope it's
guilty!"
"Why--I don't--what's the matter? I'll pay you."
Jenison blazed. "Yes, you'll pay! It's all money to you! Do you
think if I'd known you for a coward I'd have made this fight? I hate
myself now to think I ever took your money!"
His client looked at him in stupid silence.
"And let me tell you something else. You're the last thief I'll work
for. I'm done with keeping your kind out of jail." Huge self-disgust
overwhelmed him. "I'll never take another cent of crook's money as
long as I live, so help me God!"
They heard the slow procession of the jury filing into the court to
deliver the speedy verdict. Jenison felt his soul crawling with
shame. A convulsive sigh made him turn. Honest John had raised the
glass to his lips. His eyes bulged with fear, and he spilled half
the liquid on his shirt. Before Jenison could reach him he had
swallowed it. Horror held the attorney for an instant, then he burst
through the doorway into the courtroom.
A lank man in the jury box smiled as he entered. That meant "Not
guilty." Without noticing the attorney's ghastly excitement the
judge said, "If the respondent will return the verdict will be
delivered."
Jenison controlled himself and stood straight.
"If your honour please," he said, "if your honour please"--he could
only point through the doorway at Honest John's body straddled in a
chair--"the respondent has delivered his own verdict."
--------------------------------------------------------------------
A MEXICAN VIVANDIÈRE
By H. C. Washburn
Night had fallen on the third day at Vera Cruz, and from navy
headquarters the commanding officer, his orders snapping like
wireless, was directing the clean-up of snipers.
"Lawrence," he said, "you'll find six machine-guns--buried in
boxes--backyard of No. 17 Avenida Cortes."
As Lieutenant Lawrence left headquarters with his squad Ensign
McHenry came in and reported.
"McHenry, you're next. This is Gonzales, who knows where you can
round up Fernando Diaz. Get Diaz to-night."
McHenry started at once with Gonzales, listening to his flood of
directions. The Mexican smiled in spite of himself at the American's
burst of speed, but kept up with him easily. They turned corners
into filthy by-streets leading to the market space.
At the entrance to a dark alley Gonzales stepped aside.
"After you, _señor_."
When the white uniform entered the shadow of an awning "Gonzales"
whipped out his revolver and fired pointblank into the officer's
back. Flinging away his weapon, he ran to No. 17 Calle de Zamora and
whistled.
"Pava, Pava, _ven aca_! I have shot an American officer! The marines
are hunting for our machine-guns. I said 'Avenida Cortes,' but that
dog, Vicente, who betrayed us, will lead the Americans here."
"Let them come," said La Pava. She bolted the door as he stepped in.
"What name did you give?"
"Emilio Gonzales."
"Listen, Fernando. Don't stay a minute. Let me think. What if I cut
your head, a very little, so?" He winced under the knife, and she
kissed him. "See, it bleeds enough on this bandage, which will hide
your face. Quick! To the Military Hospital! Sleep there, safe among
hundreds of our wounded. Go!"
Meanwhile Vicente, the informer, had followed Diaz. Hearing the shot
and finding McHenry wounded, he scurried to headquarters. The news
went to Lawrence, who took his squad "on the double" to Calle de
Zamora. Rifle butts shattered the door, and Lawrence, automatic in
hand, led the men in with fixed bayonets.
La Pava, the beautiful _Azteca_, stood facing the bright steel, a
thin wisp of smoke drifting from her cigarette.
"_Buenas noches, señor?_"
"You have six machine-guns. Where are they?" Lawrence looked at his
wrist watch. "I give you three minutes to answer."
La Pava had faced death before. A crack shot, riding in advance of
Villa's army, she had drawn the enemy's fire, had stolen plans,
food, money. She had sold herself to the opposing general and
learned his strategy. She was a scout, a spy, a harlot--a patriot.
Now she gazed innocently, admiringly, at the young lieutenant. His
men, fascinated, unconsciously lowered their rifles.
"_Señor_," she pleaded, "you will do me a great wrong if you shoot,
for I have no guns. Some one has lied. Search and you will see."
The marines turned the place inside out.
When Lawrence asked La Pava to take him into the courtyard she
showed no hesitation, and his flashlight told him the ground had not
been disturbed.
Stooping over, he caught the gleam of a knife, and in the same
breath twisted it out of her fingers.
"You are quick, _señor_. But some day I will get you--you who would
not take my word."
The sergeant returned and reported, "I can find nothing, sir." Then,
seeing the knife, he added, "Put her in irons, sir?"
Lawrence knew her breed; she would be flattered by handcuffs and
would consider him a weakling.
"No, sergeant. The lady will walk with me."