Washington standard. [volume] (Olympia, Wash. Territory) 1860-1921, 1874-01-17
His Lucky Number.

SAID the Old gentleman. Mine IS
twenty-one. Twenty-nine might have
been, would have been, an unlucky
number for me. Yet I didn't know it !;
both were painted in black letters on a
white oval. Twenty-one-twenty-nine.
Not much difference, you see-21, 90
very like, without flourish and a long
Leg, am here to-day, and have had a
long and happy life. I should have
been the occupant OF suicides grave
ever SO many years ago had chosen
twenty-nine.
81 really can't understand" said /,
was it lottery or draft, conscrip-
ton, or what? Was it game?"
1t was q number on door," said
the old gentleman. "Wait a minute;
I'll tell you all about it,"
was very much in love; every
body is at some time in his life. At
twenty-five I was desperate. Talk
about Romeo! He was nothing to he
compared with me.
elm not ashamed of it. She was a
worthy object. Not only because she
was beautiful, but she was good and
amiable, and such singer. She sang
soprano in the church choir. And I've
heard strangers whisper to each other,
is there really an angel up there?'
When she sang her part alone, clear
and sweet and fute-like her voice was.
l never heard its equal.
Well, loved her. and thought she
liked me; but wasn't sure. l courted
her good while, but she was as shy rs
any bird, and l couldn't satisfy myself
as to her feelings. SO I made up my
mind to ask and know for certain.
Some old poet says:
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small;
Who fears to put it to the touch
And win or lose 1t all
81 agreed with him; and one evening
as l walked home from little party
where we had met, with her on my arm
l stopped under great willow tree, and
took her hand in mine and said
"'Jessie, 1 love you better than my
Hfe-will you marry me|
"I waited for an answer.
She gave none.
"'Jessie, said, won't you speak to
me?'
Then she did speak:
"No-oh, dear, no.
u offered her my arm again, and
took her home without word. She
did not speak either. She had told me
before that she would start with the
dawn to visit an aunt in New York; but
l did not even say good bye at the door.
l bowed; that was all. Then when she
was out of sight, l stood alone in the
village street, l felt desperate enough
to kill myself.
What had 1 done to have so cold n
refusal? Why should she scorn me
SO? Oh, dear, no!' Igrew furious as
| repeated the words.
Yet, it stung me all the same.
tossed from sitle to side of my bed all
night, and thought could endure it no
longer. But would not pain and dis
grace my respectable relatives by com
mitting suicide in the place wherein they
dwelt and were we'll known and thought
of. would go to New York, even then
n very large city, and, seeing some ho-
tel, register an assumed name, and,
retiring with bottle of laudanum and
a brace of pistols, awake no more, and
SO he rid of my misery. 1 arranged my
affairs to the best of my ability, and re-
ceived an imaginary letter from n friend
in New York, requesting my presence
on matter of business. l burdened
myself with no unnecessary luggage.
What did an unknown suicide want of
another coat and change of linen?
"I kissed my mother and sister, and
startled my grandmotherby an embrace,
and started upon what mentally called
my last journey, with a determined
spirit.
"There was q certain hotel to which
many of the people in our village were
in the habit of going. This avoided.
Another, chosen ut hazard, seemed to
be better. Thither I walked, deter
mined to leave no trace of my destina-
ton to those who knew memo clue to
my identity to those who shall find me
dead.
I had no mark upon my clothing,
no card, paper, or letter with me. 1
had torn the hatter's mark from my
beaver. As assembled the hotel steps.
! felt, so to speak, like one going to
his own funeral.
"A grinning waiter bowed before
me. A pert clerk lifted up his head and
stared. was an ordinary traveller to
them-that was evident.
cit was late in the evening. The
place wore an air of repose. Laughter
and faint chink of glasses in an inner
apartment, told of some conviviality.
One old man read his newspaper before
the fire. Nothing else was astir.
Sc! asked for room. The clerk
nodded.
Do you care what floor p he asked.
II shook my head.
"Number twenty-nine is empty" he
said. and tossed key to the waiter,
whom I followed at once.
"We reached the room NV two f};rbts