A SHORT STORY.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LIII, Issue 227, 7 January 1911, Page 10

A SHORT STORY.

THE BEST MAN WINS | The sudden halt of the train in a dimly-lighted junction roused Verinder from the doze he had dropped into just after leaving town, and he stirred and sat up sleepily as his privacy was invaded by a passenger attended by a porter bearing an armful of impedimenta in the shape of bags, golf clubs, and rugs. It was a cold night, and the blast of icy air which rushed ino the carriage completed the waking-up process, taking every vestige of sleep away from the luckless Verinder, who, having only just landed from the Par Past, shivered in the draught despite his fur-lined coat. Outside a light, thin rain was falling, and the wind shrieked beneath the roof of the station, reminding the returned traveller that this was England in early October—a bitter, inclement month. It was after nine o'clock, too, and Verinder felt he would be thankful to get to his destination. His fellow-passenger settled himself into the opposite corner, tucked a handsome rug about his 'knees, and took off his hat preparatory to donning the more comfortable cap for his journey. As he did so, Verinder uttered a half-stilled exclamation. "Hargreaves!" he said. The other man stared at him for an instant with a puzzled look in his dark eyes. He was a fine-looking man, tall, heavily built, with a dark, clever face — yet not a very pleasant one. '■' Why, it's Verinder!" he said, and there was no mistaking the cordiality in his voice. "What good luck brings you here? It must be ten years since we met. In Aden, wasn't it?" "Yes. A good deal of water has gone under the bridge since then. You're looking pretty fit. Going north?" A light sprang into the other man's eyes. Verinder thought the color rose a little in his dark face. "Yes—to York—or rather a village a little beyond it." "Then we travel together nearly all the way. I'm bound for York—my sister lives not far from the city. What a beastly night!" •'And likely to be worse before morning. If it doesn't clear to-morrow, it'll look like a bad omen." "For what?" "The future," said Hargreaves with a queer sort of laugh. "I'm going to be married to-morrow." "Married! Good luck to you, old chap! Let's hope the sun will shine on you and the happy lady!" '•Thanks! I hope it will. I'm in a bit of a quandary—-just got a wire as I started to say that my best man has met with a nasty accident—badly sprained his ankle and is laid up for some time—and so can't come to support me. Pretty short notice to get another fellow to take his place. I suppose —-?" Hargreaves .stopped abruptly and looked at Verinder rather doubtfully.' They had never been exactly intimate—being men of widely different natures and tastes, yet fate had thrown them ■ together more than once in strange lands, and in Aden, their last meeting place, Verinder had been the means of practically saving Hargreaves' life in a very ugly row, which, but for the intervention of Verinder at exactly the right moment, must have ended badly for the other man. It was not a scene either of them wished to remember very much—it had never been mentioned between them since that never-to-be-forgotten night —but some of the sense of obligation remained always in the mind of George Hargreaves. His character was none of the best—his reputation was by no means unblemished—but he was not ungrateful, and he valued his life. This was in his mind as he looked doubtfully at Verinder. "I say—l wonder would you fill the vacancy?" he asked abruptly. "What do you mean?" "Will you be my best man to-mor-row?" Verinder laughed. "My dear chap—the last man you should ask! I've never been to a wedding in my life—l should be worse than useless to you." "But, look here, 1 must have someone. You'd be doing me a favor if you'd undertake the duties, Verinder; they are not onerous; only keep me company, you know? hand the fees to the parson and so forth. Will you? I'll be most awfully obliged if you'll do it." "As you put it that way, I suppose I can't sav no," said Verinder rather ruefully, "but you'd be better advised if you got hold of someone else."

"That's all right!" said Hargreaves, with an air of relief; "stand by me, Verinder, that's all I ask you to. do. It's awfully good of you. Two o'clock sharp to-morrow at Martinstown Church."

"Right you arc! And who is the happy ladv? You've never told me her " The sentence was never finished. With a piercing shriek the train plunged into a tunnel; a minute later there was a sickening grinding and upheaval, a violent hissing of steam—the whole train seemed to rock and then break in pieces, and

Verinder found himself falling—fallingtill something smote him on the head and he fell into inky darkness—the darkness of oblivion.

He never knew how long it lasted, but he came to in a world of blackness, lighted here and there by a lurid flare of li'dlt from torches and lanterns, which swung past him as eager helpers worked at the wrecked train, getting out dead and wounded, moving the sufferers to a place of safety outside the tunnel. For a long time no one came near him; he 1 could not move, though he felt no immediate pain; but something was pinning him down, and presently, when rough hands moved the obstruction, he fainted again. Yet the amazing thing was that he was not reallv much hurt beyond feelin* terriblv bniised and stiff. He had i escaped serious injury by something little 'short of a miracle. Haroreaves had not fared so well. Verinder found him at last, with a doctor be-1 side him. the light from a lantern fallin" on his white face. He had been pm'ned across the back by a heavy piece of wreckage, and as Verinder approached the doctor'looked up and shook bis head 'sligh'tlv. , . "What is it?" asked Verinder in a low voice. , , "Broken back—can't live more than half an hour, if that. Nothing to be done: Inckilv. he feels nothing." "Look here von two, speak out. Yon needn't hide things-from me. T suppose T've come to the end of my tether—this time, eh? How long do you give me, doctor?" Both men turned round sharply. _ ( '•Tt's a matter of hours—perhaps less.'

Hargreaves made a queer grimace. "Gone through more than this in my time and come out of it with nothing worse than a bruise or a broken bone. Now in a twopennv-balfpenny accident, the end lias come. Well-it's all right. 'doctor. Don't you worry about me: other poor devils want you—l don't. You can't do anvthing. Know all about it. Oncer T don't feel anything. Can't feel liiv Ip"= or anv pain. I'm dying by j nc l ips _isn't that it? Verinder. you're a ■wind chap. I'd like to talk to you—you won't mind giving a message or two for me will vou? You had promised, you kllow _to' be mv best man to-morrow. Well, you'll have to break the news to— The hoarse voice stopped for a minute. Verinder, kneeling beside the dying man. sought for something to say.Jmt could find" nothing for the moment; then the voice went on:

"I can't Hatter myself that she'll care very much —oh, she'll be sorry, of course —as she'd be sorry for any wretch who was smashed up—but that's all. She never loved me—she never would, though I swore I'd teach her. You see—l may as well tell you this, Verinder—there was another fellow. She never forgot him—ourse him for leaving her in the lurch! Something of the kind happened —there was never anyone like' her to me—l don't pretend to have, been a saint —I wasn't even a decent fellow sometimes—but 1 swear I loved her—l'd have made her a good husband—but ske aerer eared. She just gave in to please her people—they were always at her—they're as poor as rats—and I've made my pile. You see,. I've no delusions about the thing—but I'd have gone through anything to get her. Verinder—you'll take a message to her for me? Tell her to be happy in her own way—tell her to marry the right man if he comes back. I'd make liim come back if I could—if I knew who he was. You'll go to her for me, Verinder, won't you, old chap ?" "Of course I will. But you haven't told me her name yet?" "Haven't I? Rummy thing. I thought I had. Her name is Lctty Chalmers." ! "Letty Chalmers!" Hargreaves looked at Verinder quickly; his eyes were getting dim, but even so' he caught the look of amazed horror in the other man's face—the man who was to have stood by him at the altar on his wedding day. "Why—do you know her?" Silence. "Verinder—you—you know something. You—you're the man!" "I—l was the man." "Heavens! What a tangle! The fates must be laughing at us, but their scissors have cut the knot—for you. Don't you see that, Verinder? The best man wins! I send you back to her—you cared? As she cares for you?" "I cared—l care still—some hideous mistake parted up—that was all." Hargeraves heaved a faint sigh. "Life seems made up of mistakes and tangles. Some of them will be smoothed out very soon for you.. Verinder—l can't see you very well " "Pm here, old chap. Give me your hand. That's it." - "Verinder, I've owed you a pretty big debt ever since that day in Aden. I pay it back to you now* with interest. Go back to Letty—marry her, make her happy. Swear you'll do "this." "I swear—if "she will have me." Hargreaves heaved a faiivt sigh. "Why, the girl adores you. How often I've cursed the man who always stood between us! 'Well, the best man wins. •You'll go back to her at once? You will give her my message?" "Yes." "That's all that matters. I'm uncommonly cold—you're so far away, Verinder. You're a good chap. After all, it's only right the—best—man—should win!" And Hargreaves paid his debts in full. Nothing to be seen on the quiet moorland road. On either side wide stretches of heather flushing purple and pink, and here and there gigantic grey boulders cast down by some titanic hand. Overhead a blue'sky and the songs of wild birds. Verinder, tramping along the road in the pleasant sunshine—the storm of last night had all passed away —was working off some of the agitation of the past few hours, also the stiffness which had made all his bones ache. An intolerable suspense drove him onward; lie had left his luggage at the nearest station, but could not wait for a conveyance to take him to the house when to-day the wedding was to have taken place. His thoughts fled back almost against his will to the man he* had j left behind—at peace at last, wrenched from his successful life by what he had called the twopenny-halfpenny accident on the line. A tangle, he had said, would be smoothed out now—his debt was paid in full But —would Letty listen to that message he had to deliver? Verinder wondered. He was driven back by his thoughts into the past. Letty had listened to him then—everything had been couleur de rose till something came kstween them. A third person—an unkind fate—some odd twist of fortune's wheel; whatever it was, it separated then: effectually. Verinder had gone abroad be-

lieving that Letty did not really care—but no other woman had ever taken her place in his heart. No one. ever would. And now—he was on his way to her with a double message to deliver. Her wedding day! What would she be

doing? It was nearly eleven o'clock. —perhaps by now news of the accident had already reached her. In that case, his task would be the easier. She had

never cared for Hargreaves—the dying man had admitted as much; it was a forced marriage: her people had urged i and persuaded her into it. But—fate 1 had stepped in and broken the contract, t Round a bend in the road there appear- j ed a woman walking swiftly towards him. The wind was in her face, and she ( had her head down, yet there was some- 1 thing in the quick walk, the slight figure, that made Verinder's pulses beat itast. Tt was —it was incredibly like j Letty—nay, it was Letty. As she was about to pass him by, he suddenly caught her by the arm. "Letty!" he said. J She slipped from his grasp with a , little frightened cry: then, when her eyes swiftly swept bis face, the color flew to her cheeks. "You!" she gasped. "Oh, I thought it was —was someone else!" "Tell me. where are yon going? What is the matter Lctty?" For the first time he noted she was ; carrying a ridiculous little bag—large enough, perhaps, to hold a change, of linen, certainly nothing more; her appearance was wild and hurried, her breath came fast. There was a hunted look in her pretty eyes. ."T—oh, don't ask!" she said faintly. "T —T am going awav. I thought you—you were abroad still." "T've only just come home. Letty, you must listen to me. I have a message for you from —Hargreaves.!" She fell back a step—the color dying from her face. "From ?" "You've heard nothing of him?" "No. I left home early. I've, been frying to get away—you don't knowbut as you have a message—oh, don't keep be here —let me go!" She elung suddenly to his arm like n creature distraught. "T was to be married to-dav. and T can't go through with it. T thought T could—T tried to be brave—but I can't —T can't! T must got away. Sou won't ■ stop me. will you?" The appeal wrung Verinder's heart. He put his hand over the trembling ' hand which clutched so tightly at his arm. "Til do anvthing in the world for you. '■ Letty-you know that. Only try and ■ listen quietly to what T have to tell ■ vou. There will be no wedding to-day—- ■ there can be none. Letty—there was a ■ terrible accident on the line—the new* • must linvr reached your people by now. t T was in the train with— Hargreaves. He t was terriblv injured. His back was ' broken and lie only lived a very short 1 time." i "He is dead?" i" She whispered the words, her wide- ' open eyes fastened on Verinder's fare. Tie (ould feel her trembling. "He is dead. T was with him. Let'ty, mv deiir, he cared for you. Remember ■ that before everything. He knew that ■ you—you cared for someone else. He 1 gave me a message for you—he begs you e to be happy—to marry the man yon care for when he tomes back."

"When he comes back! He never will!" she sobbed wildly. Verinder put I his arm about her. On the open moor ' there were no eyes to see, save those of wild birds wheeling overheard;, somewhere far, far away a church bell rang softly. It might have been a chime of wedding bells. "Letty, he lias come back! Have you no word for me? Hargreaves asked me to take care of you. Letty, my dearest, he knew at the end—he knew I was the man —I think he was glad. Letty!" She looked at him with wild, tear-wet eyes. "You—you'll go away again," she » whispered. "Never again—from you, my own. Won't you believe that?" Like a child she crept into the safe shelter of his arms. The tangle was smoothed out miraculously. Hargreaves had paid his debt in full—and the best man won. ALLEGED HUMOR. m> "Prosperity has ruined many a man," remarked the moraliser. "Well," rejoined the "if I was going to be ruined at all I'd want prosperity to do it." Bill: Wot's the matter, Tom? Tom: Why, I've had a steak and kid- T puddin', and I saved all this 'ere kidney to eat at the last, and now I'm so jolly full I can't do it. Ain't it a bjinkin' shame? Excited Son: Ye've hooked a ground big one this time, father. The Angler: Oh, aye; I expect the fish is a' richt, but I'll feel michty relieved when I get that half a croon fly safely oot o' his mouth. Bob Footlite (actor): Failure? I should think it was! The whole play was ruined. She: Gracious! How was that? B. F.: Why, at the end of the last act a steam-pipe burst and hissed me off the stage. Waiter: What will you lave, sir! Customer (looking over the bill of fare): Permit me to cogitate. In the correlation of forces it is a recognised " property of atomic fragments, whatever their age, to join, an; Waiter (shouts through the slide): Hash for one! t Schoolmistress: Now, tell me the truth, Johnny Jones. You know what will happen if you tell a lie don't you? Johnny Jones: Yes, ma'am. I'll go to a bad place. Schoolmistress: Yes, and that isn't the worst of it. You'll also be expelled from school. ™ Probably no one had more ready wit than Sir Frank Lockwood, the lawyer. He was a tall man, and an unruly member of his audience once called out to him in the middle of a speech, "Go it, telescope!" , "My friend is mistaken in applying that term to me," Sir Frank quietly said. "He ought to claim it for himself, for, though he cannot draw me out, I think I can both see through him and shut him up." Needy Nephew (going in for Parliament):* I think my election is pretty certain. I am sure to lie supported by the farmers. Wealthy Uncle: Then you won't want any more money from me. I'm very glad to hear that, because, between ourselves, I think I've supported you long enough. Cheap Jack: You must not be surprised, ladies and gentlemen, that my medicine is not recommended by the medical profession, for if the whole world took it the doctors would have no work to do. Opposition Cheap Jack (at other cor- | ner): I guess not; but the undertakers would bo working overtime. Merrynuin: D'ye see that stout old chap over there by the rails—the man just lighting a cigar? Well, he's one of the best judges of horse-flesh in the country. Frieiid: Is he, indeed? Well, you really surprise me, old fellow. I should never have thought it for an instant. Why, he doesn't look a bit like a regular i sporting man. Mciryman: He isn't, my boy; he's in the wholesale cat's-meat line. Hobbs: Now, I've shown you round the neighborhood. You've seen the dogs' home, my favorite pub, the trams, and the park. What do you think of the place ? Visitors: Well, it certainly possesses one advantage which is lacking in neighborhoods of greater pretension. Hobbs: And what is that? Visitor: An excellent train service to take one out of it. Good-bye! Dr. Wines, principal of a boys' school, just before he went on his holiday, had occasion to cane a pupil, and it is to be supposed did the work thoroughly. The lad took his revenge in a way that the doctor himself could not help laughing at. Dr. Wines' front door bore a plate on which was the one word, "Wines." The boy wrote an addition to this in big letters, so that when the doctor came home the inscription ran: "Wines and other lickers." A tourist called at an inn in Donegal and ordered a roll and butter and some tea. Tt was brought, and on cutting the roll he found a blackbeetle in the mid- ' die. "Here!" he called to the waiter. "Take this and show it to the proprietor." [ "I wouldn't be afther showing it to the propriethor if I were you, sor," said , Pat. "Why not?" enquired the tourist. "Tirrible mane man the propriethor is, sor . Shure, he'll be afther chargin' ye for a mute-tay!" I He was very youthful, but he fancied himself more than a little, and he loungt ed into a bar with a £IO,OOO-a-year swagger, and fixing a look upon the bart maid? evidently intended to be killing, T remarked: "Aw—aw, good afternoon, ray , _aw—dear. Aw—feel deucedly chippy t to-dav, d'ye know. Aw—what do you think would be good for me—what do you advise me to have, eh?" „ ' And the smart and pretty barmaid sur■"j veved him pityingly for a. full minute before she answered, "Well, sir, if T were ~ you T should go in for a glass of milk ,1 and a lolly biscuit!" II A certain business man is of opinion a that be has an exceedingly bright office's boy, and nothing pleases him better than v. to tell how he acquired the youngster's > services. A notice had been posted in s the man's shop window, which read as •t follow: "Boy wanted about fourteen years." A lad of that age, with little that was (.. prepossessing in appearance, came into the office and stated that ho had read the notice, y. "So you think you would like to have ?r the position?" asked the merchant, patit ronisingly. as he gazed at the lad over [e the rim of his spectacles, in "Yes, sir," was the reply; "I want the re job. but I don't know that I can promise to keep it for the full fourteen years."