THE UNHOLY THREE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17862, 2 June 1926, Page 16

THE UNHOLY THREE.

BAFFLING IN MYSTERY, SPARKLING IN ROMANCE, ASTOUNDING IN ACTION.

By

TOD ROBBIN.

[New Zealand Rights by arrangement with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Pictures, exclusively.]

INSTALMENT 15. Hector M'Donalcl had always been a scrupulously well-dressed young man. He was a soul that found outer expression in personal adornment: a soul that shuddered at a loud necktie; a soul that sought nrtistic blendings in the materialistic life about him. \\ hen he saw a man wearing loud checks, he said to himself: “Here is a fellow who has had a checkered career” —and he was very often right. When he met a man dressed in the best of taste, he said to himself: “Here is a fellow with some artistic feeling”— I and he was very often wrong. The one had given full play to his character in a ready-made establishment; the other might very well have been toned down by environment and tactful tailor’s advice. It is generally a poor sheep that wears its sins oil its back. However, as has been said, Hector M'Donald had always been a very well dressed young man. In all his twentythree years of life—up to the -winter of adversity— not once had he appeared on the street in a garment undeserving of praise of a connoisseur of chappies. His hats had been invariably distingue his .collars well fitted and spotless; his coat a creation of contours: his shoes bright reflectors of opulence. He abhorred shabbiness; and a frayed cuff, in those days, would have caused him more internal discomfort than a frayed conscience. es, so he had been a few months before; but see how he has changed. We find great .difficulty in recognising this shabby figure, with dented derby and worn shoes, with ragged coat and shapeless trousers, wandering through the byways of the great metropolis. How has this transformation taken place in so short a time ?' Could this be the same jaunty young man who first sauntered into these pages so arrogant in the pride and hope of }-outh ? Yes, it is indeed the same. The articles of his extensive wardrobe have sought a summer of ease, and are now hanging haughtily among their inferiors in a dingy little shop around the corner. One -by one his prejudices and niceties have melted away before the winter snow. Nature has put her hand on the young man’s.arm and has conducted him to the pawn-shop, lie has sacrificed the outer to the inner man; he has preferred to line his stomach rather than his overcoat. It has been a bitter lesson, but he has learned it well. Vet why was it necessary to throw* everything overboard? Surely he might have found a brush for his hat, or some polish for his shoes. A needle and thread might have worked wonders with that torn sleeve. Then why has everything gone to rack and Because Hector M’Donald never did anything by halves. When he was a young man of fashion, there w»ere none who outdid him; none who so delighted a Fifth Avenue tailor's heart. And now there were none who outdid him in shabbiness, dinginess, and lack of personal pride. Why have a spotless 1 derby when there’s a ragged collar and greasy tie beneath it? Why brush one’s shoes when there is a fringe of muddy cloth above them? Surely it was more artistic to let all go to ruin together. It offended the eye, certainly; but not so much as any forced contrast might do. And now* Hector M’Donald shunned his old paths. He slunk through the by-ways of the city, dreading to meet some friend of happier days. Beneath his exterior of wretchedness, lurked a great sensitiveness for his sorry plight; a sensitiveness perhaps the more acute because of his former taste in dress. He felt that he was a sore on the face of humanity; an acquaintance that might be greeted with shame; a man who should avoid his fellow-rnen. He had grown morbid on the subject, and had even given up seeing Dorothy. There were letters from her lying on his table at home--begging him to call. Reading them, he had said to himself: “How can I?” And looking at his ragged reflection in the mirror on the bureau, he had muttered: “I can’t go like this. Perhaps that story will be accepted; arfri then 111 go. But the story had not been accepted, and time was passing. Spring was here. Then whom did Hector visit, since his cowardlv pride kept him from people of his own caste? At one place only, he called almost daily. He sat every afternoon in the bird-store, talking to the kind old lady the old lady with the snowy ringlets, ringlets that rustled gently when she shook her head. . , . Yes, Mrs O'Grady interested him greatly. She was never quite the same, except when little W illie was in the room. The seemed to hold her to the normal. When he had been wheeled out to the pavement in front of the store, as he often was on these warm spring days, the old lady s natural queerness asserted itself—the. touch of insanity that Hector had guessed was there. She was like a ship sailing before the wind. As long as the helmsman was at the tiller, she was steady as a rock; but, as soon as he let go of it and stepped away, everything went mad. Coming up into the face of a gale of fancy, every sail that had helped her on her course, now flopped about in wild disorder. Little Willie was this helmsman, and Hector thought that he steered with the hand of love. And vet he liked her best when The Silent One" was in his baby carriage on the street. What strange thoughts she had at these times! Leaning forward, she would whisper these thoughts into his ear—thoughts that., like tongues of flame, seemed to light up a wild, wild-tossed land of imagination. One day he found her in a different mood. To his astonishment, without the slightest warning, she picked up her knitting and began to tear it into shreds, crying out against the drudgery of’life' “T didn’t come into the world for this," she whispered, putting her lips close to M’Donald’s oar, “See that piece -of paper there? Out in the. street, I mean. See how gay it is, dancing along, singing along! Ah; that’s happiness, that’s freedom—with the wind at your back. I want to be like that piece of paper some day, and let the wind take me over the meadows. Why, even the clothes on the line know him for their friend—the poor strangled clothes. I low they struggle to follow* him! —how they strike out with their arms and legs to

get away! Oh it’s pitiful—pitiful! It brings the tears to my eyes. But I’m tired of sitting still, when there’s so much to do out there with the wind! ” “And little Willie? What would become of him!” asked Hector. At that, the agitated face of the old lady calmed as though by magic; her curls ceased to rustle and her large wandering eyes sought the window. “I must bring him in,” she said in a quiet, resigned voice. “ “He'll be angry if I don't.” She was silent for a moment and then cried out in surprise: “Why. there's the old gentleman again!” M’Donald peered out above the row of parrot cages at the wicker babycarriage standing by the door. For a moment he was speechless with astonishment. There, in front of little Willie, bending over the child with a long, bony finger held out in greeting, was none othed than Uncle Tobias!—yes, Uncle Tobias from his shining boots to his shining silk hat—Uncle Tobias with a strange smile on his once rigid face. M’Donald watched his relative in a kind of dumb amazement. The old man, unconscious of being observed, bent still lower and actually allowed little Willie to seize him by his pointed beard. Then, drawing away shamefacedly, Uncle Tobias put his hand in his pocket, and, pulling out a toy wrapped in tissue paper, presented it to the child. Little Willie, . with a gurgle of infantile delight, seized the treasure; and the old man, with another smile, patted the little white hand and passed on. “Well, I*ll'be damned!” cried Hector at last. “Why, what’s the matter, Mr M’Donald?” ... “Do you know who that old chap is? That’s Uncle Tobias, the man who turned me out of his house. You. remember my telling you about it?” “Oh, is it?” cried the old lady. “How glad little Willie would be if he knew that. He’s very fond of him as it is. and the old gentleman thinks a lot of Willie. He comes here most every day and brings the child, something, lie must be awfully wealthy, Mr M’Donald?” “As wealthy as Solomon,” said Hector. “But this is a new dodge of his —taking to babies. How long has it been going on, Mrs O’Grady ? ” “It was about two weeks ago that I noticed him first, sir. Since then he’s passed almost every day. I was thinking that mavbe he would like to adopt Willie.” “You can’t tell what he’ll do,” said Hector a trifle bitterly. “He turned me out, and now he’s liable to bring somebody else in. That would be his idea of revenge. But you wouldn’t part with Willie; would you, Mrs O’Grady?” “What size shoes do you wear?” asked the old lady, with her eyes op the baby-carriage. “Seven—why ? ” “Then you see that Willie couldn’t fill your shoes. But look ! ” Her eyes left the perambulator and became fixed on the piece of paper which was still flying about the street in the strong March breeze. It would remain perfectly motionless for a moment—as though gathering its strength —and then, running along the pavement with a rustling sound, it would finally bound up into the air. “See how happy it is! ” whispered the old lady, while a strange glitter stole into her large, luminous eyes. “How happy it is, playing with the wind. And I must sit here hour after hour, knitting!” Suddenly she put her lips to Hector’s ear, so that he felt her hot breath fanning his cheeks. “If it wasn't for him”—and she nodded toward the tiny figure through the glass —“lf it wasn’t for him I’d be with it now. I’d wander through the world, as I’ve often longed to do; I’d dance in the moonlight, and chase the wandering shadows home. He lied to me! He said that we would take Adventure by the hand and that She would lead us; that we would fly along like the wind; that we should go out into the world as to a dance. Lies! Lies! All lies! Adopt him? I wish the Devil in Hell would adopt him—and ‘Cousin Harry,’ too! They have me between them, Body and Mind. What can the voice do then ? Can it leave the. body and mind? No. It is doomed to constant slavery. But the wind calls to me; and sooner or later I shall go. Ssh! sh! he will hear me. His cursed ears are so sharp! Look at him now! ” M’Donald's eyes followed those of the crazed old lady. He saw that little Willie had changed his position in the baby-carriage. He now sat facing them —st-aring stolidly through the glass. “Ssh!” whispered the old lady, “ssh! ” And then in a louder tone she said: “So you wear size seven shoes, Mr M’Donald?” (To be continued)