Clarksville weekly chronicle. (Clarksville, Tenn.) 1873-1890, 1878-12-07

& Said. And Either
= must be stupid at understanding
directions. or everybody does moi
! know everybody in your settlement.
s Such IL wild-goOse chasse as | have
! had this afternoon :"
!, "What !" cried my friend with
l well assumed surprise. "You didn't
find them ?'' And his voice so
clearly commented. 'sYou must be
a foolish feliow!'' that the young
mans color rose.
s must have another try" he
said. "But was not this strange +?
| showed one of the names to a
member of your police force. He
directed me TO the road leading out
of the settlement, and walked on
for about an hour, expecting of
course to come to a house. Ali at
once found myself in the ceme-
try"
My friend laughed. "That man
was a wag; no doubt of it. How
ever, wait few days till you know
the place better"
AS you may have guessed, more
than half the cards, dropped by our
orders at the young mans door,
bore the names of men either dead
or departed. But a long time
passed before he found it out at all,
but fOr-however, | must not an
ticipate.
To give in detail the practical
jokes we played ON our newcomer
would be impossible. One / must
tell you, for it very nearly had
tragic ending.
| Tun ~. nf 80 hoI c&n
with him on shooting trip up the
river. 1t had pleased one of us, his
first friend, to leign deep melan-
chOly, from which our new conner
| sought in vain to arouse him. The
| young fellow spoke to me in private
on the subject. "Our friend" he
said ought to be watched. Men in
his state of mind have been known
to dc strangr things" /, of course,
encouraged his fear. We were |
neither of us then much surprised |
when, one evening, the melancholy |
man, after hastily wringing our
hands and numbering that cit |
could be borne no longer" leaped |
into the river. What followed |
helped me afterwards to understand |
the sequel of this story. Without a |
moments hesitation that brave |
young fellow threw off his coat and |
boots, and dived after his friend. |
He was not strong swimmer, how
ever, and that little trick was near
being our last. When we. fished /
him up he was half drowned.
He rose in our estimation from
that moment, though it was not in
the nature of things that we could
give up our diversion, and we were
still plotting against his peace, when
hazard called me away from our
settlement to little place at some
distance. / was to be entertained
at a house which was presided over
by young lady whom it always
gave me pleasure to meet. She was
the daughter of the merchant /
went TO see; bright, clever and
intelligent girl, and to my taste
peculiarly handsome. 1t had struck
me, moreover-nO harm in confess
ing it now; there is an age, you
know, when we read volumes in
smile-it had struck me that beau
tiful Eleanor Hartley had a special
kindness for me.
But on this occasion it seemed to
me that something was wrong with
Miss Eleanor. She sustained her
part in the conversation only with
effort. She was languid and de-
pressed.
'This detestible climate is telling
on her," was my conclusion and
l outdid myself in my efforts to be
amusing.
At such times, as we know-if,
that is to say we are not born talk
ers, like our friends of the Emerald
Isle-there comes the moment when
everything is used up. Neither
joke, nor pun, nor lively anecdote
will visit the distressed brain.
Nothing remains but to choose be-
tween naked commonplace and
dOleful silence. TO me, one evening
at dinner, such q moment came.
Up to that time (for our host was a {
silent MANI had done all the talk
ing, and Mrs. Eleanor's eyes had $
often mutely thanked me. ] could
help her now no longer, In the 81 !
lence that followed on this dreary
she raised ger gentle I
voice! How hard she was trying !
to be animated; and how / felt for
her! Happy thought! Had been I
alone l should have cut a caper. 1t
struck me all at once that l had not ]
vet told them about our newcomer,
and the tricks which we had played
upon him. This, if only properly !
would afford food for 9
laughter and amusements for days. q
"Oh! by the by" l began, 81
have not told you about the new I
fellow who arrived at our place the a
other day." q
Certainly Miss Eleanor's eyes v
were fixed on me with an interest 9
such as she had not hitherto accord /
ed to any of my stories, and, thus I
/ proceeded boldly, v
telling them, only with much more q
gustO, what / have just told you, q
about the letters and advertisements, .
the dead mans cards, and the false a
I was 80 much taken up Y
with my own cleverness that did /
not notice the way In which my v
story was being received by my
hostess. Judge then of my aston &
and dismay when, as / 81
ended with an inane little chuckle, o
she suddenly burst out
"And yon call yourselves men z
Do you know what / call you?'' v
I'My dear Nelliepn said her father. II
/ was speechless. She fixed her v
eyes on my face, and the position, / a
assure you, was singularly uncom- Il
iortable one.
81 call you cowards,' she went
IN, "and-and-" evidently she
vas at a loss for an expressive word.
"Miss Hartley" I said, deeply L
elf" II
"Pray say no more, she answered u
oddly. Papa, l will leave you to
your wine."
l did not see her again during my =
tay, which, as you may guess. was u
lot prolonged beyond the time alb
Olutely necessary. This abrupt tC
md mysterious interruption of an L
that had promised 81
0 prove interesting, cut me up al
more than | can we'll express. ] el
ried to cast the whole matter out of iC
ny mind. / could not. In every Il
luiet moment I would find myself k
unning over the unfortunate occur al
epce and trying TO account for it. tr
Had she known him before? Was tr
he in love with him? The idea re
made me turn hot, then cold. But in
10 impossible! Not the most ex- M
ravagant fancy could make these til