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CHAPTER Vm—Continued —13— “Are you angry?” he asked. The surge of passion receded, leaving only gentleness. "Have I hurt you, dear?” She shook her head. “You’re weeping.” "That’s only because I’m sorry.” “Never mind.” "And because Fm afraid it’s—my fault.” “It isn’t. It’s my fault entirely.” She stood looking down, twisting the wisp of handkerchief in her hands. “I’ve deliberately made men love me,” she said with charac teristic candor. “I didn’t do that with you. I was only grateful—I—” “I know.” She raised her head. Tears glit tered on her lashes. “Maybe it isn’t real,” she said slowly, considering each word. “Maybe it’s just the moonlight, this dress, toe pink punch, the music.” “It’s real, Cecily.” “I hope you’re mistaken. I do hope that, Jim. Of course, in a way, I can’t help being glad. That’s only the silly vain part of me. I know how it feels to love somebody terribly. I don't want you to love me like that. I’d have you on my conscience—” CHAPTER IX Jeremy Clyde was at “Meadow brook.” Cecily made a decided pcint of introducing him to Jim. “Jim, this is Jerry,” she said, way-laying him early one evening when Jim came to the house for a conference with Mr. Vaughn. “How do you do.” “How are you?” They clasped hands briefly. There was a moment of silence. “Jim has heard a great deal about you, Jerry,” Cecily said in a light quick voice. “I’ve talked to him about you for hours and hours.” “A dull subject. I’m afraid," Jer ry said, engagingly modest. “You must have been awfully bored.” “Not at all,” Jim protested po litely. He felt that the Clyde was taking his measure, looking him over with something guarded in his eyes. His manner was agreeable. He was good-looking. The meeting between Jim and Jeremy Clyde ended in an exchange of polite amenities. Jim was glad to escape. He had tried to con , vey, in answer to Cecily's question ing glance, that, to a certain ex tent at least, he shared her en thusiasm for Jeremy. He knew that he had not convinced her. She had looked a little hurt, a little dis appointed. Her manner became dis tant. Her hand resting upon Jer emy’s arm, was tenderly protec tive. ' It was a relief to discuss business affairs with Mr. Vaughn. Check ing itemized bills, tracing a voucher that had gone astray, adjusting the weekly payroll, Jim was able to for get, in a measure, the way Jeremy Clyde had looked at Cecily, the hap piness in her voice, the intimacy which had excluded him. i Work! It would be less difficult after a time. He would keep away from “Meadowbrook.” Sleep at the riding academy. Not in the house. He would see Cecily, there, as she had been that rainy day, interested, friendly, aware of him. In the of fice adjoining the stable. Get a cot and a kerosene stove—until cold weather, at least. She would have returned to the city then. The Mac Phersons would wonder. Let them— “I beg your pardon, sir?” “Wool - gathering, Jim?" Mr. Vaughn settled back in his chair, a signal that the conference, so far as business details were concerned, was at an end. “I’m sorry." Jim produced a convincing yawn. “Sleepy, I guess. We finished the fencing today.” “Good! Smoke, if you like." Mr. Vaughn selected a cigar from the box on his desk. “I’d like to have the place in good shape before you return to the city,” Jim said. “You probably will. I’ve decided not to open the city house until after Christmas. Susan is going to boarding-schooL Tommy will be in school, too, if he works off those conditions. Cecily and I will stay here for the hunting in November. I’ll put up at the club when I go to town. The doctors seem to think that three or four more months in the country won’t do me any harm.” “Probably not.” Jim’s heart leapt and sank at the thought of Cecily staying on through the fall. Unless she married Clyde—Unless— "Have you met our guest?” Mr. Vaughn asked, changing the sub ject. “Yes,” Jim said. “This evening.” “What do you think of him?” “I haven't thought—especially.” Jim lit a cigarette. “He seems pleasant enough. Very handsome.” . "I’ll confess that I am agreeably surprised,” Mr. Vaughn continued. "I had expected something worse. “Cecily has given me her word not to do anything foolish. No elope* ments or anything of the kind. I can trust Cecily. She’s never broken a promise. The boy is intelligent Good manners. Respectable fami ly. I don’t suppose he’d ever be able to support her. Still—” Mr. Vaughn smiled in a shame-faced fashion. “You aren’t interested in all this,” he said apologetically. “I’ve gotten into the habit of think ing aloud to you.” “I know that,” Jim said. “It’s meant a great deal to me to have you here this summer.” Mr. Vaughn said. “Now if Cecily had taken a fancy to you—” “Would you have approved?” Jim’s slow smile discounted any suggestion of flippancy or dis respect. “Probably not,” Mr. Vaughn con fessed. “I would probably have dis charged you. But I could have un derstood the attraction. This Jer ry, Jeremy—There’s a sort of sly ness about him. He looks as though he would slip out of any un pleasant situation, save his own pretty hide, no matter whom he might hurt. That’s prejudice, prob ably. But that’s my impression of him.” Mr. Vaughn was prejudiced, Jim thought. Certainly he, Jim, was prejudiced, too. Probably they both imagined an evasive quality in Jer emy Clyde. Nothing that Jim could put a finger on in his infrequent encounters with Cecily’s guest after the first meeting. Clyde was ami able, devoted to Cecily, deferential to Mr. Vaughn, charming to Miss Parker. Jim resolved to keep away from “Meadowbrook.” In spite of Mrs. MacPherson’s protests, he carried a lunch- to the riding academy and returned to the estate for supper at half past six. Usually, then, he caught a glimpse of Cecily and her guest, walking about the grounds in the half hour before the family din ner at seven o’clock. Sometimes Cecily hailed him, called him over to them as gaily and naturally as though the moment beside the foun tain had never existed. It had meant so little to her, so terribly much to him. Jim, In the brief intervals of con tact with Cecily and Clyde, attempt ed to maintain the same natural gaiety and casual friendliness which Cecily established. He found it dif ficult, especially since he was usual ly in his working clothes, grimy and weary and needing a shave. At such times, he resented Jere my’s fresh flannels, his tubbed and laundered look, his smoothly rip pled hair. Jeremy’s suave appear ance roused primitive emotions in Jim. He wanted to fight the fel low, muss him up, snatch Cecily and carry her away. He laughed himself away from violence and capture by force. He resolved to keep away irom • ‘Meade wbrook. ’ ’ No amount of resolution, however, could keep him from thinking of Cecily, could prevent continued conjecture concerning Jeremy “I Know How it Feels to Love Someone Terribly.*' Clyde. Too restless in the evening to read or to play checkers with MacPherson, too restless to sit on the cottage veranda, listening, through Mrs. MacPherson’s conver sation, through the shrill piping of tree toads in the orchard, for sounds from the house, he fell into the habit of driving the second-hand roadster to the v:'lage, along the country roads. Usually he stopped in at the drug-store. Sometimes, if closing time was near, Dolly con tinued to drive with him. More often he only talked to her, drink ing orangeade at the fountain, di verted, for a time, by her pert gaiety. One evening, when there were no other customers in the store, she leaned across the counter and asked him a question. “What’s the matter, Mister?” “Matter?” “Are you rushing me or some thing?” “Why?” “You’ve been dropping in pretty often." “I have a secret passion for orangeade.” “Apple-sauce!” She looked at him shrewdly, her elbows propped on the fountain, her chin resting on her folded hands. “You look like you did the first day you came in here.” "How was that?” Jim tinkled the ice in his glass. “Sunk.” “Oh, yes. I was playing ‘Ham let.' ” “You aren’t playing now. It’s a natural expression. The Vaughns have company, haven’t they?” “Dolly,” Jim said evenly, “how well do you know him?" “Him?” He saw that she regret ted making the statement. Her ex pression, all at once, was too inno cent, too bland. “You mean—Jerry Clyde?” “Miss Innocence! You know I do.” “Oh, not very well." She aban doned her confiding position, moved a glass, wiped a ring of moisture from the fountain. “He used to meet Miss Vaughn in here and a couple of times—” Her brows drew together in an exaggerated frown. “Who do you think you are, a po lice sergeant or on a of those guys from Scotland Yard?" “Excuse me, Dolly.” Jim smiled contritely. “That was a personal question. Tm sorry. It doesn’t mat ter.” “Oh, no, it doesn’t matter!” Her voice flaunted a sort of mocking irony, knowing, not unsympathetic. “It doesn’t matter to you who visits Miss Traughn. It doesn’t matter, not any more than losing a leg or an eye.” “Think you’re pretty shrewd, don’t you.” "Oh, no!” She was smiling again, joking him out of the doldrums. “My disposition is soured from shaking up lemon phosphates. Let’s go for a ride or something? I have a date with Herb but I’ll fix it You fade away and I’ll meet you. I’ll tell him my grandmother is sink ing again.” But Dolly was diverting only for a time. Sooner or later Jim’s thoughts returned to Cecily. Dolly was a part of those circling thoughts only because she knew, or pretended to know, something about Clyde. Jim could not trick her into telling him. He doubted whether what she knew was important. He suspected that she used those vague hints to hold his interest She wanted to hold his interest. He was sure of that. He began to have an uneasy suspicion that Dol ly was thinking of him too much, falling a little in love with him. Small things made him aware of her increasing interest, a sudden un natural reticence, moments of si lence, an expression, a question. “How long will you be here, Jim?" “I don’t know.” “Leaving soon?” A sharply in drawn breath. Hands with nails painted raspberry red pleating her apron, twisting a button, drumming a silent tune on the fountain, a ta ble, the door of the second-hand roadster. “I don’t know that either. Look here! Why, Dolly? Haven’t I an swered that question before?” “Nothing." A toss of her golden head, blue eyes glinting and yet with shyness in their depths. “Noth ing. I was just wondering when I’d have a free evening. Rudy Vallee wants a date.” Jim realized, then, that he had spent with Dolly a part of seven evenings in a row, a part of every e-*2ning since Jeremy Clyde had come to “Meadowbrook.” The dis covery surprised him. His visits to the drug-store, to the small frame house with the sagging porch, had been casual, never pre-arranged, just something that happened, a way of getting through the mild September evenings, brilliant with starlight, nostalgic with summer’s lingering farewell Obviously, seven evenings in a row meant something special to Dolly. Jim made an other resolve. “Wire Rudy,” he said lightly, smilingly, “I’m signing off after to night.” “Why?" A startled expression flared, for a moment, in her eyes. "I’ve been drifting," he said. “Drinking too many orangeades. I’ve got to get to work.” “Home-work?” “R e a d i n g,” Jim explained. “There’s so much that I don’t know about horses. I have a room full of Breeders’ Gazettes that I’ve got to absorb.” Perhaps his suspicions had been without foundation, Jim thought, with a feeling of relief. Dolly seemed gay enough. He liked her. She appealed to his sympathies. He inferred from bits of information she had given him, that she had a pretty thin time of it at home. She criticized her father and her step-mother indulgently, as though they were children. She was loyal to her brothers and sisters, proud of them, not cUscriminating against the "steps.” 1 “You think I can sing) You ought to hear Joey. He can warble rings arouna Morton Downey or Lanny Rosa. Joey would be a big-timer if he could get a break. Joey Quinn. That would be a good radio name, wouldn’t it? Sort of cute and Irish.” Dolly’s family, in Dolly’s anec dotes and observations, amused and interested Jim. Actually, they were a commonplace assortment Dolly was the smart one. Dolly had personality and spunk and en dearing charm. “The family” was a dragging anchor, a millstone around her neck. She had talked to him, too, of Herbert, the sandy young man in the drug-store. “Herb wants me to marry him,” she had said, quite casually one evening as they sat in a lumpy couch hammock on the porch of the small frame house. "His uncle has “I’m Keeping Herb for s Rainy Day.” a drug-store in a town with a funny name up near Scranton somewhere. Herb’s going into business with him." "Are you going to marry him, Dolly?" “Sometime, maybe. I’m keeping Herb for a rainy day. He’s smart and steady, but not much fun. He’s swell to me, though, and I treat him like dirt.” "You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” "I am. Honestly, Jim. I guess I ought to. Only Scranton’s so far away. I’d like to see the kids get a break. And—Oh, I don’t know.” Her voice was wistful. “I can think of things so much more fun than marrying Herb.” CHAPTER X Jim parked his car in the en closure at the side of the Cherry Hollow theater. Cecily’s fawn-col ored roadster was already there. Jim wondered whether or not Ce cily would be in the audience. Jere my Clyde frequently used her car to drive to the theater. She was prob ably here this evening, though. To night the Cherry Hollow company was giving the last performance of the season. The small, dimly-lighted theater was well filled when Jim found his seat in the row next to the last Cecily was there. She sat at the side, near the front, alone apparent ly, wearing some sort of soft brown dress with a scarf knotted under her chin. He had an excellent view of her profile against a background of rough, smoke-colored wall. What was she thinking? She sat so quietly, looking down at some thing in her lap. Was she happy? Her expression was pensive, a lit tle sad. New arrivals blocked his view of her. Jim’s glance settled upon the deep blue curtain with a roughly stenciled border design of acorns and leaves. He was curious to see Jeremy on the stage. He had a compelling desire to find out all that he could about him, to discov er, if possible, whether or not there was anything under his surface charm and romantic good looks. That, he told himself, was the rea son he had come to the theater to night. Was it actually, though? Or had his presence there a morbid aspect—like the irresistible desire to prod a wound or bite on an aching tooth? . . . Something brushed the back of his neck. Jim glanced up and around. Two girls were settling themselves in the seats directly be hind him, a tall girl with an olive skin and dark braids bound around her head; a small fair girl with a piquant face and light brown hair cut in a deep bang level with her brows. It was a scarf in the tall girl’s hand which had touched Jim (TO BE CONTINUED) Quaker Founder George Fox was nineteen when he felt the call to preach which re sulted in his arrest for disturbing the peace and his establishment of the Society of Friends (Quakers). “Priests, lawyers and soldiers were all obnoxious to him,” says a bi ographer. Consequently, every type of persecution was practiced on the sect in England and the American colonies; for a long time it was a worse crime to be a Quaker than a thief. William Penn was jailed be cause he was a Quaker; this induced him to come to America. Numbers of Quaker men were put to death in Massachusetts; in New Hampshire Quaker women were stripped and whipped from one town to another, for Quakers were the first to ac knowledge the equality of men and women in religion and allow women to reach. “Murder on Soochow Creek”- > By FLOYD GIBBONS Famous Headline Hunter HERE’S a tale from China, where life is cheap. They’ll kill you for your shoes in that desperate, over-crowded, half-starved country. Or they’ll kill you for nothing at all. I’ve seen Chinese killed by the dozen over there for no rea son, as far as I could see, but just for the sake of killing. In no country in the world, except possibly revolutionary Spain, is death spread with such a careless hand. Yes, life is cheap over there in China. Many a man has been killed for something that wasn't worth a Chinese dollar. But our Distinguished Adventurer of the day—Milton Weaver of New York City—saw the time once when his life wasn’t worth two cents. That was in February, 1932. Milt Weaver was in the United States Marine corps then, and the Marines were stationed in Shang hai protecting our nationals and the International Settlement dur ing the fighting that went on between the Chinese and the Jap anese. Along the Shores of Soochow Creek. Says Milt: “You probably remember the little dug-out we Marines built and all the warlike atmosphere that surrounded us along Soochow creek?" And Milt is right about that. I sure do. I spent a lot of time down there when the fighting was going on over in the Native City, and if I saw Milt I’d probably remember him, too, for I talked with a lot of those boys who garrisoned that dug-out and stood guard along the creek. Milt’s adventure, though, is one thing I missed, and I’m glad Milt has given me a second chance at it—a second chance to put in on the wire and tell it to the world. It was a cold morning—that one in February—and Milt was patrolling his post along Soochow creek. Outside the walls of the International Set tlement a furious battle was going on between Japanese troops and Chi nese soldiers. Refugees were seeking safety in the Settlement by the thousand, but they weren’t allowed to enter at night The patrols along the boundaries had strict orders not to let anyone enter before six a. m., but all night long terror-stricken Chinese refugees—many of whom couldn't pass the inspection at the bridges—kept trying to force their way through the patrols and get in behind Settlement walls. At the Mercy of the Chinese. It was about five in the morning when Milt saw a sampan, loaded with Chinese, making its way across the creek. Imme diately Milt shouted to them to go back, but on they came until the nose of the boat touched the shore. Then Milt saw he was in for an argument—maybe even a little trouble. But if he’d known how much trouble it was going to be, he’d have sounded the alarm and called out the guard before he tried to do anything else about it. As the boat touched shore Milt stepped aboard and began telling the coolie who ran it to turn around and go back. "I had to do this in sign lan guage," Milt says, “because the coolie, apparently, didn’t understand English. The coolie appeared to be doing what I told him. He was try ing to swing the boat around when a small tugboat came along and rammed into his sampan. At the same time it pushed the sampan out into the middle of the stream, making it impossible for me to Jump ashore again.” And then, all of a sudden, the demeanor of the Chinese in the boat changed. A few seconds before Milt had represented authority, with a guard of soldiers at his call. Now, out there in the middle of the stream he was alone—helpless—and darned well those Chinese knew it They began swarming toward him, babbling, gesticulating, threatening. Milt saw what was coming—saw that he had one chance te get away, and that was to jump aboard the tugboat. He turned toward it, and then a thing happened that put him completely at the mercy of the occupants of the sampan. As he turned toward the tug, a puff of smoke, full of fine bits of coal flew straight in his eyes. He was blinded! It was only for a few moments, but during those few moments of blindness Milt experienced the worst fear of his whole life. The natives, seeing him helpless, rushed him—and a man that gets mobbed by a crowd of Chinese natives has darned little chance of getting out alive. Desperate Fight on the Sampan. “They came at me with bamboo sticks,” says Milt, “trying to push me overboard into the filthy waters of the creek. I knew I was doomed if 1 let them get me into the water, for once I was in it they would push me under and hold me there until I drowned. I blew my whistle for help. I had a pistol In a holster at my hip, but I couldn’t see to shoot it. But I also carried a baton —like a policeman’s nightstick—and I began swinging it around my head as best I could.” Milt says he doesn't know' how he managed to stay on his feet all through the hullabaloo. He could feel bamboo poles poking at him, and he could feel that his own stick was doing some damage, too, for every once in a while it came in contact with something that felt like a coolie’s head. But little by little he was being forced back toward the edge of the sampan. Milt was getting desperate. Another step or two and he’d be over board. He was thinking of drawing his pistol and firing blindly into the mob, when suddenly he heard English voices on the bank, mixed in with the native shouting and cursing. That stopped the coolies. A minute before. Milt had been a lone, hated foreign devil. Now he was backed by authority again. They put the boat back to shore, and Milt was helped ashore by English police men and a few of his own pals, the American Marines. They gave Milt first aid treatment for his eyes, and for the cuts and bruises he had re ceived, and Milt says he was mighty doggone glad to get his feet back on the ground of the International Settlement where good old American, British and French law and order were in force and life was worth more than a couple of plugged Chinese pennies. ©—WNU Service. Old English Cathedrals Magnificent Structures The medieval cathedrals of Eng land are among the most magnifi cent in Europe, and among the best preserved and most important architecturally. Many of them, says a writer in the New York Herald Tribune, while adhering to general Gothic principles, are distinctive in style and preserve some of the best examples of early English architec ture. One need not be a student of architecture or a devout churchman to appreciate the beauty of these ancient monuments to man’s faith and art and skill. In their majesty they dominate many of the cities of England. One of the cathedrals is Canter bury, the Metropolitan Church of England. Canterbury itself is an in teresting old city in the County of Kent The cathedral is on the site of the church built there by St. Augustine in 603. The present building was in process of construction from the Eleventh to the Fifteenth century. The northwest transept was the scene of the murder of Thomas a Becket in 1170. Second only to Canterbury in ec clesiastical importance is York Minster in the City of York, in northern England, the see of the Archbishop of York. The great York Minster is the largest medieval cathedral in England and one of the oldest. The imposing edifice was built in the Twelfth, Thirteenth and Fourteenth centuries. Durham Cathedral is one of the most ancient and most important in the country, and also one of the most perfectly situated, on an emi nence above the old city Winchester cathedral, in the south of England, also is one of the earliest. It is the longest Gothic church in Europe. Many authorities consider Salis bury Cathedral the most perfect of the great English churches. It is an example of pure early English architecture, and is remarkable far its uniformity and harmony of de sign and its perfect proportions. It has the loftiest spire in England It is unusual among medieval cathe drals in that it was completed with in forty years, from 1220 to UHL Frocks Made G With Stitch E Fashion decrees bloom on our dresses in ery this Spring and Give this smart touch frock—surprise your friends too do to renew that Pattern 5801. last year. So and running fun to embroider small nosegays. Choose gay colors you wish, in floss or chenille and know in style. In pattern 5801 find a transfer pattern of one reverse motif 7% inches; one and one 5% by 6 inches and by 3% inches; color illustrations of all stitches To obtain this pattern send cents in stamps or coins (co: preferred) to The Sewing Ci Household Arts Dept., 259 US Fourteenth Street, New Y< N. Y. 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The Wallace Enterprise (Wallace, N.C.)
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June 3, 1937, edition 1
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