NOT IN THE CALCULATIONS

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLII, Issue 8, 24 February 1909, Page 61

NOT IN THE CALCULATIONS

By

BURKE JENKINS

LOOKING for a berth?" inquired a cheery voice beside me. ‘■Why, not exactly,” I replied; and then I keyed my tone to the irony of my own fate. “I’m just admiring the shipping.” “Tis a mighty fleet.” chuckled the little fat man. as we looked out over the harbour. ‘'But they are sure strong when it comes to oysters and crabs.” ‘l’ll not dispute,” I answered, as a faint onshore breeze brought further unsavoury evidence, I recommenced tapping my heels, in impatient disgust, against the stringpiece of the pier upon which I was seated. The little fat fellow, from his standing position alongside, regarded me closely for a moment, and apparently reached a quick conclusion, which he was not slow to voice. • Broke?” said he. ‘Exactly I ” • ‘Humph!” he ejaculated, in a tone the precise significance of which I could not interpret. But I thought I understood the reason why he left me so hurriedly, after but one more interchange of question and answer. ‘ And you look healthy enough, too?” There was apparent interest in his interrogation. ‘ Body absolutely sound, thank you,” said I sarcastically, for I reckoned on bis expecting me to lead the conversation toward a •touch.” At any rate, he waddled away somewhat hurriedly, in view of the heat of the day and his girth. I turned to contemplation and selfpity. I can fairly luxuriate in this sentiment; indeed, sometimes it looks to me as though iny subjective ego keeps this old material body of mine in perpetual straits for its own inner delight at the sufferings entailed. Well, things stood about thus: Some two months previous I had turned actor. Back in York State I had joined the ‘■.Miller’s Daughter’s Secret” Company; how, is another story. And now, two strenuous months thereafter, I was seated on the string-piece of the pier at Crisfield, Maryland, awaiting the developments of an empty pocket. The show ? llf course, that, had “busted.” The ‘ leading man” had imbibed a little overfreely in one of the temperance towns, and in the duel scene had coyly slipped the bijtton off' his foil, much to the bodily discomfort of the “heavy,” against whom he had a secret grudge. And so it was a gash of some significance which sent us of the company trekking in different directions. For my part, at the breaking up, I felt return upon me that old longing for the smell of salt water—for I come of a line which has always gone down to the sea in ships. Accordingly, I sold my Taylor trunk and wardrobe, receiving in exchange a ticket to the nearest coast port. This port happened, by the merest chance, to be Crisfield. I had hoped to be able to get a berth on a ship which, in its stops, might lanu me in a place worthy of a display of my talents. But here 1 bad struck a fleet of small oyster and crab schooners, of the Chesapeake “bug-eye” type, which cruised only in local waters, and with forecastles unfit to think of. Disgusted and blue, I fingered the twenty-nine cents 1 had left in my pocket, decided to wait a little longer before taking my last dinner, and started once more on_ my heel-tapping aginst the pier. The little fat man I had entirely dismissed from my mind, having sized him up as a boatman of the neighbourhood, of loquacious inclinations. But my reverie was again interrupted by his jovial voice. “Here we aret” said he from behind me, and 1 turned io meet another man whom he had brought up with him. Now, my little fat man looked his part. His rough sea-clothes were worn with all the nonchalance of custom, and his rolling gait told of much pacing of heaving decks. But this new character upon the

scene piped to a different tune. The texture of his clothing was no finer nor newer than that of his companion; but he wore it with a strangeness, a sort of cuff - pulling vagueness, which quickly told me that this fellow was out of his realm. In appearance, he stood a full head taller than the fat one; almost equalling, in fact, my. own height of a fraction under six feet. His head was well shaped; his eye clear but cold; the beard, of perhaps four days’ growth, had not yet hidden a chin of remarkable firmness, bordering on the stubborn. “Captain Pearson,” said the little man of corpulence, “this is the man of whom I spoke—Mr.—” He turned to me inquiringly. “Grey,” I answered. “Mr. Grey,” he repeated, as I shook hands with Captain Pearson, whose palm was as soft as my own, and innocent of callosities. “You.are looking for a position?” inquired the captain. I chuckled inwardly, for whoever heard of a sailor phrasing the thing thus? “Why, I’m out of a job, sir,” said I. bent upon following the thing up, for I was becoming interested. “Well, I have something to offer that might interest you,” he said. “In what direction?” I asked. “The water,” he replied, with a smile. “We’ll pull you out to the schooner,” he added carelessly, “if you’d like to talk the thing over. It’s of a nature that can best be discussed unheard.” The little fat man had lost some of his cheer, and seemed somewhat impatient at any delay. As for me, I scented a dinner aboard, even if I decided not to take the job, whatever it was. True, it didn’t smack plumb honest, but I was considering the. state of my exchequer and, coupled to it, my love of adventure. “Why, certainly,” said I. “The schooner, by all means!” I rose, limped for a moment to the tingling of a foot that had “gone to sleep,” and accompanied Captain Pearson, after the little fellow, down the quay to a dory, the painter of which was fast to a ringbolt. The captain said nothing further, but from time to time I caught his eye upon me. He seemed to be sizing up my bodily equipment; and onee, after we had got under way, with Fatty at the oars, I saw him not approvingly, though furtively, at that worthy. I appeared not to notice it, but kept my eyes forward, in a general survey of the little schooner which we were approaching. This diminutive craft differed but slightly from scores of others which were dotted about from the shore to the lighthouse, each tugging with refractory little nose at the restraining anchor. An excessive rake to the masts, the foremast set far forward, and “leg-o’-inutton” sails fore and main are the distinguishing characteristics of the type. They are good, sturdy little vessels, and very easily handled. Ours appeared to be a trifle larger than the rest, and seemed built upon somewhat stockier lines. As we rounded the counter, my eye took in the fineness of a good run aft. Fatty noticed my approving glance, and returned to his old cheer. “She’s some sweet, eh?” “Splendid!” said I, as we sprang for the rail. The captain was a little clumsy, but finally reached the deck, where he straightened; and with a glance at us both, led the way down the companion into the cabin. I noticed no one on deck, except a mulatto boy, of perhaps sixteen years, who apparently did not find us of very much interest, for ho continued to lie sprawled out on the forehatch while we remained on deck. As soon as we entered the cabin, Captain Pearson walked over past the stove, which stood in the centre of the little floor, toward a locker, above which was a shelf. Fatly had followed me down the companionway, but I heard the click of a door-latch behind me. Turning, I found

that he had left us. through a passage which evidently led to the lazaretto. Again I heard a click, once more behind me, but this time from the direction of the captain, who was standing by the locker. I turned again—to confront a revolver of heavy calibre, steadily held. “I think I have you now, .Tack Elliston,” said Captain Pearson, If. ‘•But my name doesn't happen to be .Tack Elliston,” said I as calmly as 1 could for surprise. “Oh! Some other at present, eh? All right, Elliston—choose your own name. I’ll call you by it, for it makes very little difference to me—the name—as long as I have, the man.” His hardness of tone was relaxing to the evenness which had characterised it. when I first met him. He was doubtless relieved that I did not make a fight of it; and, indeed, how could I do so with a ‘•forty-five” looking me eye to eye! “It seems to I>e my turn to knuckle under,” said I, in somewhat feigned lightness. ■But I know it will be only for a time. I can read men well enough to know that, when you have discovered your mistake you’ll be only too ready to make amends.” The veiled compliment did not fail in its effect. “Right you are!" he exclaimed; then added ironically: “If I’m mistaken—but 1 know you well enough, Elliston.” From the lazaretto into which Fatty had disappeared there now came a mighty puffing, as of that, gentleman’s discomfiture. And soon, in time to his wheezes, came the sharp coughs of a gasoline engine’s first explosions on starting. The coughs caught time fo the sparks, and the racket of the engine drifted into the purr of health. Fatty’s head shot through the little connecting door. “Engine’s running fine, Mr. Carnsworth ! ’’ “Good," replied my captor, no longer “Captain Pearson." “You know the course. Keep her under the engine till well past the light ; then, if there’s wind enough, give her the sails. Where's Joe ?” "At the wheel, sir. We’ll have you there by midnight, anyway.” “Good,” again answered the man I now knew as Carnsworth; and Fatty closed the door, leaving us alone as before. “I have everything well arranged, haven’t I ?” inquired my captor languidly. raising the nail of a new box of cigars with the large blade of his penknife. “Absolutely no jar to your plan that I can fathom," said I, falling into line with his tone. “Except, possibly,” I couldn’t help adding, “that you're working it on the wrong individual. But. of course, that’s a mere trifle.” He flared up on the instant. “Here, Elliston, that's enough of it I Now, we may as well be friends, for the time we’ve got to be together—which will be until some time past midnight, at which hour my authority ends. Have a cigar." He took one himself, passed me a box of safety matches, and lay back in an easier attitude. But, though he had already proved himself no sailor, he was certainly a man well-trained in gun play, for never for a moment did his weapon relax its vigil of keeping me covered. “Will you tell me what this is all about?" 1 inquired. “What am I booked for, anyway?" “You know well enough, without my telling you. Now, stow the questions, and lot’s pass the time as well as we can." I lit up and ruminated, listening to the monotonous hum of the auxiliary engine, as it drove the little schooner on the course which was proving of so much moment to myself. First, 1 turned my attention to further

study of the man who sat before me. and who had already proved himself well up in a “speaking part" in this little drama into which 1 had fallen. As I viewed him now at leisure. I saw that he was of little more than my owu age—which was thirty—though be looked older; and his set expression, as of mental worry and anxiety, intensified the impression. A review of my situation summed itself up, after all, into no very formidable figures; for I am not overafraid of danger; and, besides. I trusted to bis thorough realisation of his mistake. I argued further that his making amends might take the form of bettering my condition by some employment. This trend of thought led me to the fact that 1 had not yet dined. “Mr. Carnsworth," I said. “I’m hungry.” "Magnificent symptom!" he cried, in what was almost a boyish tone. “So am I.” He betrayed a new note of fellowship, which almost made me warm to him. in spite of our relations. He sang out for Fatty, whose name proved to be Tombo; and upon the wheezing entrance of the said person our wants were made known. “Sure thing!” answered Fatty, apparently taking added cheer from the air of amicability we had established between us. “I’ll send Joe down with something, toot de sweet.” "Where are we?" asked Carnsworth. “Well past the light—and a good breeze blowin’ abeam.” This latter assertion needed on verification; for, from the time when I had heard the blocks click to the raising of sail, we had been on a lively angle of heel. Once more Fatty left us, this time by the companionway; and we could hear him giving orders to the mulatto, Joe, as he relieved him at the wheel. Soon the cheery crackling of a chickenfed frying-pan sang its heartiness from the galley, situated forward and removed from us only by a sort of cuddy. The meal proved to be a good one, and after it we tackled two more cigars. At suggestion, I stretched myself on one of the two bunks with which the cabin was fitted, and, while he watched me. drifted into a nap; for the easy slap of the water alongside and the accompanying roll of the little packet were mightily conducive to sleep. I don’t know how long 1 lay in the arms of Morpheus, but I was suddenly awakened by a hail from outside. I raised my head quickly, and just, avoided bumping it vigorously on the bunk above me. By the dim glow of the kerosene lamp I discerned Carnsworth, still vigilant, and now quickened to interest at the shouting that was being carried on outside. “Seabird, ahoy!" came the hail. “Ahoy, yourself!" yelled back Fatty’s voice. “Everything all right ?" “0.K.!” from our corpulent skipper. “Well, Eliston,” said Carnsworth, rising stiffly, “I reckon we're ready for a little change.” “A shift of scene?" I asked lightly. ‘Exactly. And you'll please go up first.” He indicated the companionladder. “Certainly," said I. with a laugh. “I’ll not stand on ceremony in face of your argument.” And up I went. The tang of the night air indicated more open water than we had hitherto encountered; but, though the moon was full and well up, I could form little idea of where we were, except that, under our lee lay the black line of a low shore. Close alongside, and also under our lee, I discerned a small craft, which showed up clearly enough in the moonlight. It was one of the modern type of hunting-cabin power-lioa'ts. Her lines breathed speed. In the boat, were two men, one of them standing forward with a boathook. Carnsworth, who had followed mo closely on deck, called to the men. and they put their craft under half speed as they drew near our rail. There was not too much sea on for the manoeuvre, and the boats rocked rail to rail for passage from one deck to the other. “Get him, sir?” asked the man with the boathook. Carnsworth evidently considered it useless to answer, simply motioning me to step to the deck of the launch. I did so, while he turned to the fat skipper, Tombo, to pay him —as I took it—for his part of the enterprise. I saw him fingering his fob pocket.

His silence and the serious attitude of these other men were not reassuring. What with th? weirdness of the night on the deep and the sharply grotesque shadows where the sehooner’s sails Happed to the night breeze. I was filled with U sudden sense of alarm. W hat was | to expect. should t'ariisworth not discover his mistake in time? 1 had not thought of that at all. With ft ar <ame action. I was standing alongside the man at the l»ow. who kept the boats together with the boat-hook while Carnsworth completed his dial with Tombo. I had" not a very firm foothold, but my right, fist met this fellow's chin with a nicety of which I am still proud: and as he went over the rail I snatched the iro life hod hook from him. I l»c boats drifted apart. ITT. Wiat happPTUnl during the next few moments must have been an interesting Spectacle to those aboard the schooner. Armed with the captured boat-hook. I sprang back toward the other man. who had not yet left the cockpit. He did not seem to grasp the situation until I was well upon him: but what he lost by delay he more than made up in celerity. B< tor< I could wield my weapon to strike a blow, he l had closed with me and secured equal hold upon th? hook. Thon began a struggle, a college “cane spree’’ of mighty seriousness. And I found him no mean antagonist. ('lose-loeked and sepm ming. wv rolled our dispute of the hook about that cockpit. Suddenly ! glanced over my shoulder and saw that Carnsworth and the others aboard the schooner had put her power upon her. and were churning their way toward us as we drifted oil’. At the same instant. 1 spotted beside me the control-lexer of the motor, where it «ame up to hand by the steeringwheel. A soft whir told me that the engine had not been stopped, but was still running without load. I renewed my endeavours against my antagonist, and. directing the struggle toward the lever, succeeded in shoving it clear over t< the “ahead’’ position. • The gear responded instantly, and th< boat shot forward. On we writhed, slapping about in the cockpit for the possession of the boat-hook. > shot another quick glance over my shoulder. Immediately I realised that retreat had commenced too late; for the schooner was under way when I started Ihe launch, ami her momentum had brought her well upon our quarter. At her bow stood a figure which I thought to be Carnsworth. 1 was right ; for. the next second. I saw him. raise his arm, ami the pistol gleamed in th? moonlight. Not for a moment had either my sintagonist Ar myself released our hold; 1 nt. now I hm led him from mew ith all m\ strength. lb* struck the rear combing. and | dodged through the open companionway into the diminutive cabin. I was non? too quick. Carnsworth’s shot rang out. A splinter Hew from the bill of the cabin door; ami—confound the luck!—the motor stopped on the instant. My man had regained his feet ; I saw that the jig was up. ami yelled my surj < nder up the hatch. < >n< c more the schooner made up alongside-. Carnsworth stepped into the launch and -upt i-intended Ihe carrying aboard <d the man whom I had thrown between 11.< boats. Ibis fellow was still dazed from 'the Blow . but hail escaped drowning through the timely rescue of the mulatto boy. They laid him on the starboard tiansom ami plied him with a flask. Carnsworth turned Io me. as 1 stood under the guard of the man who had fct > ugghul so hard for that boat hook. “I don’t bear you any grudge. Elliston." he "aid. “You put up a game reF*istamt : but our affair is of deeper con <»» n, a- you know . \\ «-‘ll speak no more CH thi- tnilling incident.” lie turned to an examination of what bad stopped the' launch so Opportunely for him. The man on the transom, who was evidently the hoafman. whispered that the “spark" was the trouble. The other fellow followed up tITe wiring. Kight under the sill of the door led the vires, and (‘ irnswort h’«s bullet had severed one. A quick splice put the launch pno? inorr in order. 'l’he wheel was cranked, and with fast accelerating speed we li ft Ila* schooner out there in the moonlight. That was the last J ever saw of Fatty Toinbo or of the mulatto, Joe,

IV. Even in the situation in which 1 found myself. I could not but enjoy the motion of this modern craft as we slid into the shadows, mounting the easy rolls with a soft, sinuous ease which went far in praise of her designer. There was no barking to her contentedly purring engine. as there had been in the case of the schooner's cheap auxiliary. This boat glided, ami Carnsworth—for he had grown even talkative —told me that we were doing eighteen miles. We were nearing the shore, but no sign of lights showed a welcome. 1 saw Carnsworth put the wheel over a trifle and peer ahead. Finally 1 caught a glimpse of something along the water's edge. “A green light?*’ I asked. “Yes.** replied he. “Do you see one?” I indicated the direction. “Good!” he answered, and we made ( lose approach disclosed a narrow dock, from the end of which hung a gree n lantern. rhe launch was brought up alongside, and we. landed. I’he boatman had so far recovered that lie regained his ability to look out for himself. Accordingly Carnsworth left him to sleep on the launch, which was moored fast to the dock. Then the three of us—Carnsworth, the other fellow, ami ■ myself—under orders, walked ashore. Nothing appeared as we reached land bat a low. unpretentious structure, before which ran a shell road of splendid smoothness. “Hustle up. Jacques, ’’ said Carnsworth. “We’ve lost time enough already.’’ Jacques. thus addressed, made lor the low building, unlocked the door, and, two minutes after entering, backed out to us a touring-car of magnificent finish. IntoHh? tonneau Carnsworth sprang; 1. at his bidding, followed; and Jacques opened out into a pleasant speed. The lull of the whistling wind in my ear sent me more than ever into the region of vagueness. I lost the sense of my unusual and dangerously perplexing position. 1 seemed to live by the moment. The only thing I fully realised was that we are mounting to a higher altitude. At a turn in the road, sharper even than a right angle, we sped through a massive gateway and tree-lined avenue. 'l'he moon was low by now, and in the fast-coming dawn, things began to show more clearly. We had entered what was evidently an estate and an estate of no mean pretensions. Another turn brought me further food for thought. Before us, in an open clearing, stood the charred ruins of what must have been a magnificent building. The twisted pipes and writhing girders told their mute story. “Bather a nasty piece of work, after all. wasn’t it?” Carnsworth asked. “A bad fire, if that’s what you mean,’’ 1 replied. “Exactly—and more! *’ He answered me with a hidden significance which 1 couldn’t understand. Beyond the ruins, and perhaps an eighth of a mile removed, stood what .1 took to be the stables and servants’.quarters. These were on a scale commensurate with what must have been the magnificence of the house. Towards one of these outbuildings Jacques drove the car with slightly checked speed, and we brought up before Hie door with the groan of the applied brakes. A dignified old gentleman appeared at. the doorway ami stood peering at us with a perplexed. near-sighted squint. “Het him. Carl ?’’ he queried in a tone that bespoke more virility than his physique warranted. “Yes. sir,’’ answered ('arnsworth cheerily, as he motioned me to enter. Without a word, th? old man turned and led the way upstairs; | followed, knowing well that Carl Carnsworth’s revolver would back any argument, as he brought up the rear. We went into a room on the second floor. I pon our appearance, a nfiddleaged man in spectacles rose, searched me narrowly from top to too with a glance I couldn't but resent, and. without a word, nodded t<? the, o.ld gentleman. Then he swung round ami walked deliberat <dy from the hvojh. | he old man. in his turn, came* close for a searching .view of dip. His nearsighted eyes suddenly glinted in a quiver of excitement. fie grnblied me by the fchouldt-rs a$ he peered into my face. • >- x

“Why, Carl,’’ he cried, “this is not Jack Elliston!” V. Carl Carnsworth fell hack in dismay, or in what was magnificent imitation of it. “Surely it is, father!” he cried. “You’re mistaken.” “Never!” retorted the old gentleman. “J know Irim too well.” “Then who are you]’’ blurted out the discomfited Carl. “Grey—Tom they, as 1 fold you before,” 1 replied. “1 said you’d wake to your mistake.” lie seemed to have trouble adjusting himself to this new turn. Finally he spoke, rather lamely: “I have done you great injustice. I am more than troubled about it. I’ll try to make up for it. Excuse me a moment.’’ With this he left the room. The old gentleman indicated an easychair for me, took one himself, ami turned to explanation. “Mr. Grey,” said he. “the least T can do to make the first amends for Carl's mistake is to explain matters for you. To do this 1 must ent< r somewhat into family alTain only so much, however, as will make you conversant with the situation.” “W’e. the (’arnsworths. are Kentuckians. and arc possessed of some wealth. You know of the family feuds of that St ate?” I nodded. “I've heard,” said I. “Well.” he went on. “such a feud exists between the Carn"worths and the Ellistons. Now’, I am not by nature revengeful; so that when I came into my money I sought to put distance between 1 he factions. Accordingly, I purchased this removed estate, and surrounded myself and children with all the comforts that could be brought to such a region. Here, for some years, we have lived, and have almost come to forget that such a family as Elliston existed. “But .Jack Elliston in erited the hatred. The result?” The old gentleman went, to the window and pointed to the ruins of his home as they lay in the gleam of the rising sun. “One week ago Jack Elliston kindled that blaze. Crisfield is the nearest town Io us. Carl started in pursuit. He hadn’t seen .Jack Elliston for years. Of his mistake you are only too well aware. “Now, Mr. Grey, 1 stand ready to make any amends in my power. J am awake to the fact that in the eyes of the law we have been guilty of a crime. But 1 trust that you will see matters in such a light that—” Slam! A door crashed below us. Scurrying ami scuffling of feet and banging of other doors ensued. Then, above all. rang aloud the one word; “Fire!” The old gentleman ami I ran for the door. I reached it first. It resisted my pull at first, but finally yielded. J tottered back with my own surplus energy, before a cloud of black smoke from out <>f which a damp something smote me across the face and clung there. Half strangled, I tore vainly at my weird assailant. But'in a moment I w?nt down. I felt myself stretch my length of the matting with which the floor was covered. Then tTi? great black. Vf. 1 drifted back into realities to the whirring of a mowing machine beyond the window' by my bed. I raised myself on my elbow and gazed about me. to find that | was in the same room where 1 had fallen. About the

door the woodwork was charred and blistered as from terrHic beat. That was all 1 could learn within the lioune. 1 turned to the window. At the movement a sharp pain shot through me. and I awoke to the fact that I was bandaged in four or five places about the chest and Bides. From out the edges of tin* bandages showed the wrinkled scars that <-ome with burns. From further investigations I was interrupted by the entrance of mine other than Carl Carnsworth. He approached the bedside with a look of complete sympathy on his not unhandsome face. “Well, Grey, how’re you feeling. Yon can understand me?” “Yes,” I answe red. “What happened I” “Why,” he explained, rather grimly, “you simply got what was intended for me. Jack Elliston had remained hidden about the place, ami had planned that fire-trap to rid the Carnsworths of an heir. You got the flames and have lost some of your flesh in places. But Jack Elliston no longer lives. “I was on the stairs behind him.” The snap of his lips told nothing of remorse. “Air. (Bey,” he went on, “money i« the only solace we can offer you for the scurvy treatment you have received, but you have only to name your sum. Think it over. Meanwhile, everything possible will hr done to make your recovery hasty and comfortable. Best assured, you are in no critical condition. Dr. Jahl sb assures us. Till I see you! With this-- he left me. while ] turned a. fevered intellect to a jarred review of fast-happening and mystifying events. “Well, money at last,” I smiled ironically, “even if I do pay for it with a pound of flesh! ‘But’—say I —‘to the Merrv Mickdom with Kentucky feuds! ’ ” I glanced out of the window. From below came the fre+di odour of th? newly-cut grass that had just fallen beneath the knives of the mowing machine. Across a fair-sized lawn stood another building like the one in which 1 lay. J took it for the garage of the estate. It. too, was built with considerable pretension for an outbuilding; and boasted a full-height, second storey, the windows of which were hung with ]ace curtains of no mean quality. And, while I watched, the curtains at one window- parted. 1 had iiey?r believed in it Im fore—but, by the time I had looked in that face of beauty for a period of ten slow counts, J w T as no longer a free man to go and come, happy in singleness. And the smile? I'm silent. The curtain dropped. 1 fell back on my pillow ; after a while I fell asleep. The morning brought me a letter wrapped around a pebble which had been accurately tossed up through my window by a little kinky-headed piccaninny. Sir at the Window : Who are you? I've met no one since the fire, from the effects of which they tell me I am fast recovering. * I’m glad of it. for I think it will bring mn to a. further acquaintance with one I already know as Dick Grant. Am I right? Send your answer as 1 sent this note. Margaret Carnsworth. That she should know me Dick Grant made my mystification complete. Then came an explanation. Dick Grant had been my stage-name, She had seen me act at some time. 1 explained by a note which I scribbled on the back of hers with a yiencil-stub I found in my waistcoat. And the correspondence continued through a week. I knew wa ll the hours when there were liable to be others in my room, bringing me meals, administering medicines, or changing my bandages. I warned her to semi no letters at such timds, and, though I feared Continual discovery, she

was a* discreet as could be wished. Even too much so. For when in one letter I proposed, she whirled me an answer —the inevitable answer: “.See father.” I <!**♦. 1 requested an interview of the old man. who had never ceased his solicitude in my welfare. He evidently thought 1 wanted to talk about the money. “To-morrow.” said he. and [ wrote Margaret another pebble-enclosing note, hem'ing her to be with me in spirit. The <>hl gentleman entered with the cheerfulness of one whose cares grew lighter, seated himself by me, and made jeaily to listen with complete attention. 1 saw no reason for beating about the bush, so I said : " Air. Farnsworth, [ love your daughter, Margaret.” He looked at me blankly, and repeated my words over and over to himself. Then he clapped both hands to his forehead. *My God!" lie cried. vi r. His emotion was genuine, and it was some seconds before he looked up and asked: "But where have you ever seen my daughter, and how and what do you know of her !” 1 explained the circumstances, omitting no detail —the little piccaninny, the pebble-enclosing notes, everything that I considered would aid iny purpose. ‘ But, my dear young man,” exclaimed the old gentleman, who had somewhat regained his composure, “tJ'*s whole is so boy-and-girlish. Yo4i even had a good look at each other. It’s an affair of the sick-bed. Reconsider the thing. I’ll forget this interview, if you wish; but, you should remember that it is a matter that requires reflection.” . “Mr. Farnsworth,” said I, rising to my elbow and speaking with all seriousness, "I’m a good thirty years old and have done some living during my life. I am not the man to mistake my feelings. And so I assure you, sir, that—though a week ago I should have poohpoohed such a thing,as impossible—from the moment 1 saw your daughter’s face between the parted curtains over there, I I ived her.” “But, young man, I know nothing of you—know nothing of your past life, nor of your family connections.” “Well, sir, of personal achievement I’ve little enough to offer, for I’ve been pretty much of a rov'er and general adventurer. But I’m not so sure that rambling is much more to be decried than the dissipation which other youngsters fall into in lieu thereof. As regards my family, however, I can hold my head high, for I’m of the Greys of Cavilton, Kentucky." The old gentleman sprang suddenly to his feet. “Not kin to Kingston Grey, of Cavilt >n ?” "Somewhat,” I answered. “I am pleased to assure you that that gentleman happens to be my father." “Why, sir,” exclaimed the old gentleman, “he and I hunted grey squirrels together, many years ago —it must be away back in the fifties!” Then Mr. Farnsworth’s enthusiasm II d as some thought flashed across his mind. “And she loves you, you say?” “I showed him one of her notes. “Ask her,” I said. ‘‘Well. Grey.” said he slowly and faintly, ‘’since things have taken such a course, I see that the only way for me is io make a clean breast of the whole matter, and throw myself on your mercy.” ■ “On my mercy?” I cried. “I shall thank you if you will explain matters. The whole thing seems incomprehensible to me. I don’t understand." “No, of course you don’t, and the reason is that you have been made the victim of a scheme which has worked out to a nicety, very prettily managed and carried out.” “I am listening," I said as deliberately and calmly as a comprehension of the statement would permit. /’Well,” said he, “only two days before your arrival here—not a week, as I told you—my dwelling took fire from some unknown caufle and my daughter Margaret was so severely, burned about th 6, body that her life was absolutely despaired of. The only hope which Dr. ■Tahl, the specialist, efiuld offer was to resort . to grafting. You understand, supplying the flesh she had lost with that of another person.

“Our dependents wore obdurate, refusing even the highest off era to undergo the operation. My son, Carl, finally offered himself, but I couldn’t bear to have both my children in such a plight. So, finally, 1 hit on the scheme of sending Carl to Crisfield for someone. You happened to be the one to whom the lot fell. How things eventuated you already know.” *’Yes, but the Elliston*—Jack Elliston, the feud—the tires!” I cried. •’What of them? These certainly demand explanation.” ‘’Made up out of whole cloth,” he replied uneasily. ‘‘You probably noticed Dr. Jah I as you first entered this room. He it was that, after leaving it, played up the false alarm of tire, set the chemicals ablaze for the effect ami, from out the smoke, sent you under the effects of a narcotic. Without a doubt this statement will surprise you.” The whole thing surged over me, and my wrath at the villainy of it all was for a moment overwhelming. I sprang up in bed, even enduring the pain of my healing wounds. “I’ll have the law on you for this!” t cried, with an indignation that his treat ment of me justified. “I can't blame .you,” replied the old gentleman brokenly, I did it —because I love my daughter. 1 consider that a sufficient reason.” Then came over me the realisation of the true state of affairs. “And I love her, too!” I cried. “Give her to me!” “I’ll do it,” he answered. “Though I never intended that it should be included Lu the **