The Irish standard., 1896-05-09

brought her np--When the corporal
might call him. 5s.s . # +
The mist came up gloriously from the
swamp like 9 golden halo And as Clar-
ence Brant, already forgotten, rode
noodily through it toward Wash ingt ton,
hugging to his heart the solitary COM
fort Of his great sacrifice, his wife,
Alice Brant, Tor whom he had made it.
was lying in the rayine, dead and ,ln-
cared for. Perhaps twas part OF the
Inconsistency of her sex that she was
pierced with the bullets Of those that
she loved, and was wearing the gar
ments of the race that she had wronged.
PART III.
CHAPTER I.
It was sunset Of a hot day at Wash
ington. Even at that hour the broad
avenues which diverged froIa the capitol
like the rays of another sun were. fierce
and glittering. The sterile distances be-
tween glowed more cruelty than ever,
and pedestrians, keeping in the scant
shade, hesitated on the curbstone be.
ore plunging into the Sahara-like waste
of crossings. The city seemed deserted.
Even that vast army OF contractors,
spectators, place-h.lnters and lobby
lists, which hung on the heels Of the
other army, and had turned this pacific
camp of the nation into a battlefield Of,
ignoble conflict and contention-more
disastrous than the one to the south
had SUNK into their holes in hotel back
bedrooms, in shady barrooms, or in the
negro quarters of Georgetown. as If the
majestic, white-robed goddess, en-'
thoned upon the dome Of the capitol,
had at last descended among them, and
was shifting to right and left with the
fat and fash of her insufferable sword.
Into this sitting atmosphere of greed
and corruption Clarence Brant stepped
from the shadow of the war depart
ment. For the last three weeks he had
hann ted its anterooms and audience
chambers, in the vain hope of righting
himself before his superiors, who were
content, without formulating charges
against him, to keep him in this dis
grace of inaction and the anxiety OF
suspense. Unable to ascertain the de-
tails of the accuse ton, and conscious
Of his own secret, he was debarred the
last resort of demanding court-mar-
tial, which he knew could only eSoner--
ate him by the exposure of the guilt
Of his wife, whom he still hoped had
safely escaped. His division commands;
er, in active operations in the field, had:
no time to help him at Washington.
Elbowed aside by greedy contractors.
forestalled by selfish politicians and dis
daining the ordinary method of intl,1-
ence, he had no friend to turn to. In
his few years of campaigning he had
lost his instinct of diplomacy without
acquiring soldiers bluntness.
The nearly level rays of the sun forced
him at last to turn aside into one Of
the openings of large building IA
nous caravansary OF that hotel haunted
capital-and he presently found himself
in the luxurious barroom, fragrant with
mint ard cool with ice slabs, piled sym
metricany. on it's marble counters A
few groups of men were seeking cool
ness at the small tables, with glasses be-
fore them and palm-leaf fans in their
hands, but larger and noisier assem-
blage was collected before the bar,
where man, collarless and in his shirt
sleeves, with his back to the counter,
was pretentiously addressing them.
B1ant, who had modify dropped into d
chair in the corner, after ordering
cooling drink as an excuse for his tenn
porary refuge from the sitting street,
half regretted his enforced participa-
ton in their conviviality. But asudden
lowering of the speakers voice into a
note of gloomy significance, seemed ia
miliar to him. He glanced at him quick
ly, from the shadow Of his corner. He
was not mistalen-it was Jim Hooker.
For the first time in his life, Brant
wished to evade him. In the days of
his own prosperity his heart had al
ways gone out towards this. old COM
panion of his boyhood; in his present
humiliation his presence Jared upon
him. He would have slipped away, but
to do SO he would have had to: pass be-
fore the counter again, and Hooker,
with the self -consciousness Of q story
teller. had an eye on: his audience.
Brant, with palm leaf fem before his
face, was obliged to listen.
eyes, gentlemen" said Hooker, ex-
amining his glass dramatically, "when
. mans been cooped up in q rebel
prison, with death line before him
that he's obliged to cross every time
he wants a square drink, itsseems sort
of like dream Of his boyhood to be
standin' here conf BILE before his liquor,
alongside o. white men once more. And
when he knows he's bin put to all that
trouble jest to save the reputation Of
another man. and the secrets Of few
high and mighty ones, it's almost
enough to make his liquor go agin
him!'' He stopped theatrica]ly, seemed
to choke emotionally over his brandy
smash, but with q pause of dramatic
determination finally dashed It down.
mo. gentlemen, ! he con tinued, gloom
lily. 81 don't say what I'm back in
Washington forI don't say what I've
bin sayin' to myself when I've bin pick
ing the weeyels outer my biscuits in
Libby prison but eft you don't see some
pretty big men in the war department
obliged to climb down in the next few
days my name amt Jim Hooker, OF
Hooker, Meecham & CO., army beef
contractors, and the man who saved
the fight at Gray Oaks : y ss
The smile Of satisfaction that went
around his audience an audience quick
to seize the wenknesa OF any perform