Newspapers / The Charlotte Observer (Charlotte, … / March 20, 1911, edition 1 / Page 10
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/ 0, lARTV BREEN tried tva scowl as he caught JVl glimpses of Ill's own trig M .sturdinc5S reflected in the mirrors of shop windows he passed. He knew that he ought to be feel- • - little ing serious and a 1,'h.imed; but his ihin, tloxiblc lips \i'ould luirk ;-.v k i'.> a curve of hailin' content. The mjn i'l'en T''\‘C had said “yes” to couldn t dospi ■' hiriM''t—even thoucjh the condition «1'A' had .uMr i to tlie word left him humbled :;ini !if>vil '''ri-.l. She had told him that >hc •lidn’t hkc in-, j.'b. W>.uld he—did he care rnoui:'.! f‘>r her t^ tind iliiTerent work •'' ••• I'aro! r’v rc wa^ nothing he wouldn't do, nothing he C‘'uldu*t do I Ho t airly stepp’d otf ;:nd up on air a- lu* swung out fron the >iiie- wai.^ at a ( n-.'-ir::. . . . \\ r.y, he had t’;*) ;.^lit of i >r*v- ihing' to do. in as many h ’'iris. i;id i ■ 'teodod to advi.^e his choice a ilk V. i>h I 'vidie Xeiligan. v. ith whom \. i t ilk'.'d >'vcr ,J1 the big and little things ^ • '1 I .'tin.* t'* I'.i’n sint'o small boyhooil. ir r (.ir p)unded i''ast as he walked ..id t-Tih c>n the curb. The last h.id >>nc laior than lAldie’s us’vi.d > .!r. ;^.id .lu>,v V. .I,- H'\t o: loi . ‘Tli: Wh'Tc’s Xciligan—ain’t laddie Xel- !-ian vr:: “ he >liv,iled. I'l'e loadi.vH-tr leaned :..r ou; t > a i.'-.vcr, but the v> ind cut out a!' >avt' •■Ih'ine” and ‘'preiiy sick.'’ M.i;-f;n where he uas for an instant I'.r.'ir.;; alter '.he h .-'^ening liuuts; then turned, ;U the na’.-.ow bri.k canon of street .'i’-K';-''. ami—mii'ing aU at once—started at ' p.- e !■ 'T ih.c Xelligans’. What had '.Kt n a'-' -’It nit to let him know! And : '-t to let any womar — w ■ hr tii.lf ( i MC.-s .^•\v laior i:ian lAlaie s us’vi.a > ai. .IS i^ainerin^, as he stooil to watch the v;. orning car. But no f'.ddie X.H:gan i i wa.,; .v.'n 1, k; . •' tn- 11' 1 Hfi'^ii -r nvi'if ; 's = 'in ' ^anl . p1 t- e 'tripi. callin’ ‘mister!’” ^Hss Joyce laughed and adjusted lier barette. “ Why. 1 thought it w.'us imderstood you was to be ‘ mister ’ till a certain chance was made.’’ she reminded r.im. lie stared an instant, a shade of red deeper tnan his normal ruddy hue creeping over Iv^ cheeks, then reached for her hand. “.'>av, MIIv. li>ten -tlii^ is how it was; T had tliree'r four t'li.igs I was goin’ 1 ask I'.ddie— about jobs ’’ “What'^ Mr. Xelligan g('t to do with it. I’d like to know.-*” s!'.e interru]->ted. lie hadn’t heard tliat tnne from her before—he held her lingers less ardendy. V ll! II .fv' i’.-i * Vk :• a v*. » Copyright 1909 —afterAvard. She swallowed the words that were uppermost. '• Well—if you think enough of me to do it —win' ” “That\s far enough, kid—leave it.” He sei7:ed her hands again, looking at her hun- grilv, visibly adoring her—blond hair, pro vocative eyes, little nose, stubborn chin, shapely prettiness, pink-and-whiteness, and strove, vainly, to voice his heart. “Yer— tlie whole thing. . . . Say, what’d yuh ruther I made a stab at—what kind of a job the likes o’ me can do, I mean ? ” INEZ G. THOMPao fi’.dtl;:' l'ii;n into forgetting Iiis . ‘ram f >r -o .-'.a'-'.v works! 'I'wo at a time he t ■■•k I ;c >iau‘> of iiie tenement s tirsi. uiLiht ard .'1‘cond—but turning to the third was ^t''j’pv:d, foot and breath. From the floor li. >ve, m;:fill'd iiut unmistak.ible. came the wai!;''^: and after babbling moan of an a.v..-.i'!x“d woman. li wa-'. Rose Xclligan’s voivo \fier a long minute lie look t!;? t!'->d iV holding to the rail, going Iiea\ii..1 ii.dfv. ay ' -okcd up—to see Kddie X.-'!’ , ; -'U' in hi' conductor’s cap and uniform st c.' iir.c: before liis own closed door ii-i:-'pi-:: t :t‘ i'h his left iinnd, faring l.\- '■ ' ‘.V. ! riiit m 'ving. • 11„ i' ■ Ma.'tin Breen’s pent breath left h‘:n _: :^ulv. " I Ju're y’arel 1 heard—I 1..0 ,My-”’a.-s;.k.” I . u l‘..ked at him without see- ii : .‘>„ni;,i: I eyoiul the door quieted. •• kid.” he said then, slowly. ‘Tie’s (bptiv.'r’.i. I'i'.cy took him in the e. f'o hours aeo.’’ His hand l.r 'b. ‘'.An' 1 wa’n't here!” “ .f '!.e oti'f-r tenement tliat gave >f a h,.dl w\is opened genily, and 'tto I, ..i: !:i' own ijas:' viol u me (' it to i;:cm. He was in V. . I'eM a forh in one fat. pink 1 ilie f.’i*;er. ja'i'fos.-ionall}. on a].;'»n th.il wrajied liini fruni arm- y-'-i' to Knee'. Ijis gro,-^.'. good fu' e \iuS very and light, warmth and savory smells -I'ied after him into the dim, co!d f'lace. 1'. Ii ‘'-e ! >.i.- v ,;.c a rvellow ruml-lc. ‘ Hrro. Mari\ - you make dis> feller coom ;• lo me. My v.ioman i^s mit Ro.^ie—he • ’ -j.' in. I go! son.e goot iiot -upper, al- T' y 11 i - !• lui-r to cat ;'0meding ■’ ' it .-.ure I-! ’ Kchei cracked }^Iartin’s \ 0 a' r-' it he;l, half-je.'tingly, to the f. •.] tha iield the knob; but at the touch i ■ 'lit -Veiiigan fell bat’;, his right arm com- ■ ''p. ■ ( ut it fiut - ^et along!'■ he rasped. “I .■i*.’t a " A new sound checked him: the r,' ted girl b aby that had come to the Xcl- but M\. wee,s back l>egan to ( rv ius- t;_ v. Martin ;d!d his hand up to the ^iioulder • >l ill' friend. • Ves y'are, Ivldic. Ver goin’ t'eat an’ irink an’—buck up!—’cause y'gol tuh. -And on'trained by his hold, his ;:nd t!iat helplc'^s, reminding cry, i\ddie .\f!ligan Vt him.si if be Icfl. “S -,o,” murmured the sympathetic Otto. ’ I'nt you coom, alsso, Marty—I can cook bf Qd*’r as 1 an biay, I bet you! ” It was, therefore, with genuine distress fi'idf’d to his u.'^irelieved predicament that •Martin—three h(;;:rs later and an hourlatc— rang the Joy c l,ell. 'I’here was no white- papered, gih corded box of sweets in his hand he had forgotten the custom in his h':rry; and a n'miniscencc of the stout fra- pr.ir:! Cof Mtto'.-: frying and beer and tobac(o ' iung to hi- garments despite the vigorous leansing of the wind. Miss Kilen emerged from his embrace suspiciously alert and over- [-o'vveringly the lady. “ 1 d ’most decided you wasn’t coming”— hor tone was .hill. ‘‘But I shouldn’t have t up to wonder why—I’ve had .so many (all- ers to-day I’m ’most tired to death. It’s just •so ev’ry Sund’y.” But the obvious deduc tion that there w’cre those to make his defi- f ienry marked was beyond Martin’s troublel mind—nor did his adoring and suppli( ating gaze atone fjr the blunder of his literal reply. “Well, I ain’t goin’ fkeep yuh up long—I gotter go bai k an’ set up with Eddie. His kid’s sick an’ his wife’s in a bad way.” “Oh! There’s lot’s of sickness this weather,” remarked Miss Joyce in her best manner. “ Don’t let me keep you any time you want to go, Mr. Breen.” “Huh?” He sat straight. “Who yuh i Yes, % ’are, Eddie. Yer goin' t'eat an’ drink’ “^\1iv, Eddie—Eddie’s m’friend!” he an swered with t'lie accent of one who explains everything. Miss Joyce released her hand in order to puli up her very-high collar points behind the ears. “Oh! Your friend is he? Oh yes! An’ Fik only the girl you're engaged to—or j'fe- tend vou want to bf“! You 'Oukln’t do any thing to please me without a>kin' him about it, o’course—an' if he says you're a fool to ” “Say, yer headin’ wrong—dead wrong!” .\n inilection in his voice responded to the ir ritation in hers. "He ain’t that kind, Kddie ain't! He—say, what’s the matter, any how?'’ Her answer snapped. “ Why can't you talk things over with me— it means more to me than it does to him! He's never cared, all this while, whether you w irked in a saloon or —’’ ill' gave an unfortunate snort of derision, ‘•('are—what did he ought to care f'r? Jlddie don't care what I do—it's me he's pals with.” ■■ Is it—are you sure ? ” Her voice trembled with anger. “ You make good money where you are, an’ it's your own uncle’s place—a good many would be friends to you, if all they cared was to borrow money or get ” His chair toppled as he came to his feet. “ Say —.-^ee here! 'J'hat don't go—it don’t go any! D'yuh lake meh f’r an easy mark? D'yuh s'pose I don't know a white man when I’ve chummed with him f'r twenty years— what? He don’t — aw, Elly, say! I don’t like yuh t’talk that way—don’t le’s have any more of rt.” Miss joyre stood, also, taking tight hold on the ba( k of her ( hair. “ Well—I’m perfectly agreeable—we won’t. We won’t have any more of any kind . . . You’ll iiave a better time witli your friend than you ever could with me, for Tm only ” His hand on her shoulder stopped her. I'rom angry scarlet he hafl gone fairly to pal lor, and his blue eyes were darkly bright as they met hers, close. “ Vou—’r the whole thing,” he said. “ \'uh know it, too. Wha’d we want t’scrap f’r—what started it ? It ain't i-.ddie—’r any body—I want t’talk about—it’s us. . . . Do we—go on? Or did yuh mean that about callin’ it off?” '■ 1—’’ Miss Joyce took a quick breath. His hand tightened. “Go ca.sy — I want t’do what yuh want; but jobs ain’t hollerin’ f’r someone t’come an’ take ’em, mind! If you ” “I told you,” she said rapidly, “that I wouldn’t marry you if you stayed where you are, and I won’t. How' d’you s’pose I’d feel having ev’ryone say I’d married a—a saloon bouncer!'^ Up flooded the red in spite of him. “ What do I care what ev’ryone say.s—it’s you I’m askin’! An’ I won't be a bouncer f’rever—the ol’ man he wanted meh t’learn the business, like, so sometime he (!ould take meh in ” She stiffened. “What! After all I've said—an’ you’ve said—do you mean t’talk of being in j>artncr- ship in a—saloon—selling liquor ” He let his hand fall and spoke sullenly. “ W^ell—they’s money in it, an’ I guess you c’n use all—say, see here. 11 looks like you an’ me’s goin’ t’scrap f’r fair if one of us don’t side.step. . . . I’ll be It. If I give the whole thing the go-by—if I get a job that sounds good t’yuh—do I win? Yes’r no.” She opened her mouth—and shut it. He meant it. And even through her indignation she was aware what “ no ” would mean to her “Why—you c’n do a lot of things, can’t you ? ” Point won, her blond head snuggled to his shoulder. “Anything you want to— only tell me about it first. ... I didn’t know what kept you to-night—an’ a girl’s apt to think ” So Martin Breen went back to the Gut- manns’ a liaj)pier man than he deserved to be, he felt, with the matter still in the air. And w hen that day week found it still in no fair way to being arranged he—lied to her. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried, and faithfully, in such time as he managed to get from his work; but those he sounded for ad\ice and assistance took his inquiries as a joke. ’Miah ^lullin’s “place” would be coming to him some day—what in the name of Prosperity could a yovmg chap ask more ? And as Mar tin himself fully appreciated the sense of that attitude, he found nothing to say—grinned, and let it go as they took it. Such opportuni ties as he found in a private capacity stag gered him with the meagreness of return they oft'ered. He couldn’t tell Ellen Joyce that tiiat was the best money his inches and breadth and muscle and boast could bring her. So he fell back on the consolation that Eddie X'clligan’s superior intelligence would straighten things as soon as he was free to hear how they were—and that would, be be fore long, for the young Eddie was getting well in spite of the scare. Meantime, then, Ellen heard highly encouraging accounts of interviews that never took place and experi ments that never w’ere tried. . He found him self developing an imagination. She was, proud of him. X"ot proud of his strength or Ids nerve—but his cleverness! It intoxicated him. It was an encounter (in his role at jMullin’s) with a certain successful Real Estate man that gave him, at a critical time, his inspiration. He got much business color from the gentle man (w ho under the iron hands veered from the pugnacious to the confidential stage of his condition), and Ellen Joyce was trans ported by the modest announcement of a secured position that exceeded her utmost ambition. That night he got his “yes.” Ellen left the department store wdiere, for five years, she had sold ladies’ garments^ and began the getting together of garments of her own—a proceeding that somehow trans formed her to such a lovable, new, yielding, stiyly speculative Ellen, that Martin Breen felt himself alternately a conqueror of all earth and a felon. Now and then he had wild notions of keeping up the lie; but knew that for a dozen reasons he wouldn’t be able. Just one day after Eddie’s boy came home from the hospital, he went to make confes sion. But Rose, hysterical with happiness, was living the black time through again to a pair of ejaculating women in the kitchen where Eddie was taking his supper—the babies w'ere much in evidence; and there was no opportunity for such confidences as he had come to make. Moreover, Eddie didn’t seem himself. He hunched over his meal on the table-comer, scowling and dabbing at his plate, speaking gruffly w’hen he was spoken to; and actually snapped at the boy for mak ing a noise. That brought Rose at him, volubly. A noise, indeed!—when but for a merciful God they’d be praying, that minute, only to hear a sound.of him Eddie caught up his cap and left, slamming the door on her tears. Martin went after him. It did not seem an auspicious moment, but his own trouble demanded utterance. On the corner he blurted it out. “Say, listen, Eddie. I wanta talk t’yuh. , , , Y’see, I got a girl ” “A-yuh, I betcher have!” came the scorn ful comment. “ Yer jes’ the sort of a cussed fool ’at would have! When yes sorry f’r it, lemme know,” and therewith he stepped out to a passing car, swung aboard and w-as gone. “ Well—w ha’ d’yuh know about that! ” ^Martin asked himself, bewildered; and pres ently grew aggrieved. FJddie had failed him •—friendship had failed him. It was despera tion, sheer, that drove him to the next step: he went to the Real Instate personage w hose name had worked such magic—applied for the coveted position ; and was made wiser by full knowledge of the ditTerence betw^een that successful gentleman drunk, and ditto, sober. Ipaily that week, moreover, he suffered the iiumiliation of the incompetent job-hunter; but there was nothing for it but to try Eddie N'elligan again. He chose a Sunday. Eddie had more leisure on that day, and the strain of worry over the boy would be well past. Moreover, the year was ending—this was its last Sun day; and Ellen was beginning to wonder that no day had been set. The prospect was showing nearer and uglier that he would have to tell her—tell Pollen!—the truth. . . He needed laddie desperately; and it was the last straw that Eddie shouldn’t be at home. No body was at home. In a gust of temper he gave the door a mighty kick and rattle and had turned to the stairs, w’hen someone scuffed heavily across the floor of the Gutmann kitchen and opened the door. It was Minna, Otto’s wife, and his double. “ Coom herein,” she called. “ I haf some very goot coffee—” then stopped. Martin twitched his hat of? and on, brieflv. “How d’do. Mis’ Gutmann? 'Tis Breen. D’yuh know where Eddie is?” Minna Gut mann did not answer at once; but then she and hurr}- were ever hostile. “Ettie NelHga’,” she repeated finally, “he —I t’ought you vass Rosie coom back. She hass been a longer time gone. . . . She hass been to Ettie. He iss py der hospidle gone- “ Yah—dis momix monvah he catches- : only. I d iss dos pneu- Minna -she iss see her nodded. Martin fell back to the X'elligan door and leaned against it, his hand dropping to the knob where Eddie’s hand had held that Sun day of the boy’s taking. “ Which—hospit’l ? ” he asked, shook her head. “ I don’d know. Rosie coot tell- gone dere. ^lebbe you vill coom soon?” It was tentative. Martin “Ayuh—you tell her so. I’ll go trj' look him up. Much oblige. Mis’ ” As he pushed himself away from the door, the final movement jarred something loose within— something that fell to the wooden floor with an unmistakable click. It was the key—in side. . . . For an instant they stared; then Martin w, hipped about, rattled the knob, beat on the panels and called, ‘‘ Rose—Rosie! Rose—Xelligan!” There was no answer. Tie looked back, uncertainly, at I\Iinna Gut mann. She had covered her mouth with her apron and her eyes were frightened. He bent to the keyhole and sniffed—in the next movement was up, hat and coat, off, and she had caught them from him; and he thudded, shoulder first, against the panels. Once, twice—flung himself furiously the third time, and smashed in. The taint of gas was stronger. First, from that closed inner room, he brought Eddie’s babies to Minna; then, after a gulp of air, was in again and out, dragging Rose, who strove against him with what con sciousness was left her. There was another run in to turn off the gas—open windows; and then w'ork. Little Eddie N’elligan came alive first— deathly sitk; but it took a fearful while to make sure of the flicker of breath in the girl- baby’s body. It was done at last, though— the need of a doctor and dread of arrest past; and then, zeal of saving life over, the meaning of it—what it must mean—came to jMariin Breen. Rosie lay on the lounge where he had put her, an arm over her eyes, her Ups blue, and such of her pale little face as he could see drawn w-ith nausea. He went out, abruptly, muttering that he must fix the broken door. What he w^anted was to be by himself. . . . He shut the window's, through which the snow was driving, lighted th® gas in the Nel- ligan kitchen, and sat dowm by the table to think. . . Sohad been the matter with Eddie—with his pal, Eddie. . . . He took his tongue between his teeth and bit till the hurt of it angered him. Think he must—but for the living! Himself had brought Eddie’s wife and babies back to what life would be for them; and, in all the world, he knew there was none save himself to help them face it. It was there that he broke out and cursed, alone as he w'as—cursed, blackly and briefly, the craven within him that asked why he should take the burden of it—sneering that only a fool would saddle himself wdth an other man’s dropped cares w^hen his own were so pressing and so dear. And but for that once, the craven was not heard even tc whisper. . . . W^hat he conceived to be duty Martin Breen faced to the full, and ac cepted, in the half hour he took for his own. Then he shook himself to action. On the table lay a fat envelope, sealed and addressed to Minna Gutmann; but because he guessed its contents he opened it.' Deer Minna (Rose had scrawled) Eddie is goin to die they sed they coodent give me any Jwpe an i cant stand it thats all. If i had bin better to Eddie an not that so mutch of my chil dren he ivoodent oj got sick. Take this an pay my milk bill •will you, i dont ivant to cheet enybody. you keep the rest an all my things. Martin Breen will see to berryin us with what they is in the bank, the bank book is under the clock. Minna i cant rite eny more, God bless you an forgive me. Rose Xelligan.” He went back to the first line. “Any hope!'’ All at once it meant something— meant that Eddie had been alive when it was written. . . . Alive! TZ/cy couldn’t give hope, indeed!—how' long since doctors had known it all! A changed man, he went through the Gutmann door and across to Rose, fluttering the paper before her. How long ago,” he demanded, “ how long ago was he livin’?” She moved her head from him and moaned. He pulled away her shielding arm. ‘■Dead or no—where is he—tell me that!” To be quit of him she answ^ered; but when he rushed in, two hours later, ruddy and inco herent, with word that Eddie was alive—- fighting—still, she gave no sign that she heard. -Nlinna Gutmann w^as shocked at that. Otto, home and busy with the boy, w'as shocked. “Vot iss, Rosie?” he reproached her. “Don’d you hear vat Marty says, alretty?” Then it was that Rose uncovered her dull eyes. “What’s the use o’ keepin’ at me?” she mumbled. “Don’t I know’ he’ll die? F’r punishment on me—Ik’11 die. An’ only f’r you, Martin Breen, I wouldn’t a-been behind him. You’ll be a smart man t’stop me nex’ time—that’s all.” It took him an hour of gray morning to write the note to Ellen he finally decided on. After Minna Gutmann came, with hot cof fee for him, to take charge; after getting w’ord —still of hope—from the hospital; after hir ing Minna’s young-giantess cousin, “just over,” who w'ould see to Rose, there was no further excuse for delaying. He called a messenger and sent the note. He realized, afterward, that he had expected a word, good or bad, back a^ain. But the messenger brought only the ring. He sat awl'iile in the back room at Mullin’s, looking at the pretty thing and letting it hurt all it would. Twice, that age-long day, he got word to Rose that Eddie lived; and when he looked in on her, late that night, it was to find her fev erish with hope, yet unable to believe. The solemn man stared ad’r" forward to confide all—an.; - vanish. A telephone call ;or —and the one place at win, ’, ; and number was the hosiiii.d Everything finished, ir. superstitious qualm at hi-^ ’ n as he shut himself into i'k- the receiver. “Hello—go ahead " “Is—oh, Marty! I if , Ellen Joyce. He was not in a teler.nr alone on a mountain i(. world, deafened by silen' ^ , out of heaven the voicc ■ „r^ ‘•MaF^in.” And at that . ^ in his head and he was ba , were—hearing, feeling, i; ; ever before in his life. “Yes—’tis me,” he sai.l. gave a queer, muffled sou a ! “ I’m—Ellen. I w ant ; know' it’s New Year's I-^-r " “Hah! Yes—Iknowii;” | him he could say no m ir- Silence a space; then the ^ soul. “Martin—I can’t help ii. I ^ W'on’t you come again " \; t’tell me anything at all, Til thing, but even if you hate ' got t’see you again. I'll ask ' but this night is killin’ me, M v Won’t you come back ? ” To his utter bewilderment r. self angry. “ A}’uh, well—they’s one or i \ . I ain’t jumpin’ through the \\'r. I’m on the bar now—get tlu.. “Yes—yes, I know—but “Wait a bit. I’m on'the 1;:. : ‘ t’stay there. I got t’stan’ by \c a while, an’ I ain’t puttin’ i; ,v bluff. I can’t be nothin’ but wii.it 1 ■■ it’s got ter be me—with no irin:n , if I ” “Oh I know it, I know it, AI., . I was a fool. I don’t care wh. . it’s only I was afraid. . . . died drunk, Marty, an’ I’ve see : ■ cry all night ever since 1 was a 11 he useter lick me—I’m a-scairt ( Marty, an’ a-scairt to have yo . . sellin’it. . . . But I'll take n ' I got to, Marty, an’ I’m willin’ ’ “Why didn’t you tell me t: . “ I was ashamed. . . . 1.. a lady, Marty, I guess—oh. I’m a ■ ■ : o,, ii S'ii i'- Si#®**-'"' Cr.WHi\^Tiwtrr “ Happy New Year t’yuh, Larry” “You wouldn’t lie t’me. Marty,” she be sought him—“you wouldn’t do it, not f’r the fear o’ God. . . . He—he is livin’, Marty?” “ I ain’t lyin’—he is. In another day they can tell—” She threw up her arms, wailing. Mullin’s w'as packed comfortably full; and Larry Hennigan—pallidly composed, light ning-handed, clipping out greetings and retorts—was in his element. He got Martin’s eye as he entered and beckoned with a jerk ot his black head. “Ye’re t’come behind t’night, an’ steady f’now on. The ol’ man’s been in,” he an nounced. It would have surprised most men that the promotion was received in silence; but Larry Hennigan never tried, apparently, to account for anything, and never show'ed surprise. So one John W’inn came in as “bouncer” and Martin set himself, stolidly, to the task of justifying his uncle’s favor. A tall, lean and solemn individual brought up before him and saluted, swaying slightly. “Hail, king o’ the Joy Juice,” he gloomed. “Hail’n’ farewell. This is las’ time y’ll ev’ see me here—know it? Turnin’ ov’ new leaf —sayin’ g’bye. . . . Gimme all y’ got—sayin’ g’bye to’m. . . . W^hy don’ you turn ov’ new leaf?” “ I’ve done that same,” said Martin, smile awry, mixing at discretion. “ I turned over the whole of ’em, bo—an’ got it done with.” it don’t matter any more—wli:* you you’ll onlv . . . ]NJarlv!'’ “*Well?"” “Marty, do—don't you—■ Ellen! Ellen, asking him thai! i- • ' sweet, his lady—he croaked ’ was twin to a sob. “ Care—any }i:orr—why. g>. .! ■. did I stop earin'?’’ . crying. , . . After a n'a)n; aged words again. “Ellen—where you 'jihor' time o’ night?'’ “The drug store Ixiolh, ’■. Mother's waitin' outside." “Well—go home. Cio !' wait up. I’ll come afore mii' make it. . . . Say, i.'i' a-told me straight. . . . I it here—if we c'd live (he.'iper make a stab at somethin' el- •. willin’—I’ll try it—honest. . over when I come. . . . 1':^ ' so we c’n watch the New—1 “Yes?” “W'atch out at the winde>- darlin’.” Somehow he got back to il.^ than any man other side of it. i gan looked at him, in a luii, ; handsome eyes in an instant’.^ grinned. Martin lunged neare “H-Hennigan,” he said. ' - gan, I gotta—I want ter—con ; Larry sneered genially. “ > —stop garglin’ an’ beat it, if mean.” But at the very door, tuggin coat, Martin checked himself, must, in his happiness, he went' a place in the j-anks and pul on “Happy New' Year t’yuli. beamed. Larry balanced a deftly, on a shaker, and met tli- brief but as hearty, letting a fiicK^ canny understanding shine. “Thanks. Same t’you an’ i. to you an’ the lady! ” said he,.
The Charlotte Observer (Charlotte, N.C.)
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
March 20, 1911, edition 1
10
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