Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1897-05-22

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that from mere habit he exerted all his
energies long after the enemy was over
come-just as the troops at New Or
leans fought a fierce battle, not know
ing the war was over. He had sprung
from such a hopelessly poor family.
Poverty had been their inheritance from
generation to generation. 1t was the in
variable legacy that father had left to
son in the Denham family. All had ac-
cepted their lot with uncomplaining
resignation until Richard resolved he
would at least have fight for it. And
now the fight had been won. Denham
sat in his Office, staring at the dingy
wall paper, so long that Rogers, ths
chief clerk, put his head in and said in
a deferential voice:
Anything more tonight, Mr.. Den
ham?"
Denham started as if that que 'tion, in
that tone, had not been asked him ev-
cry night for years.
"What's that? What's that2" he
cried.
Rogers was astonished, but too well
trained to show it.
Anything more tonight, Mr.. Den
ham?'
"Ah, quite So No, Rogers, thank
you, nothing more"
"Good night, Mr.. Denham."
"Eh? Oh, yes Good night, Rogers,
good night"
When Mr.. Denham left his Office and
went out into the street, everything had
an unusual appearance to him. He
walked long, unheeding the direction.
He looked at the fine residences and
realized that he might have fine resi-
dence if he wanted it. He saw hand
some carriages. He, too, might set up
an equipage. The satisfaction these
thoughts produced was brief. Of what
use would q fine house or an elegant
carriage be to him? He knew no one to
invite to the house or to ride with him
in the carriage. He began to realize
how utterly alone in the world he was
He had no friends, no acquaintance
even. The running dog, with its nose to
the ground, sees nothing Of the sur
rounding scenery. He knew men in
business way, Of course, and doubtless
each of them had home in the suburbs
somewhere, but he could not take q
business man by the shoulders and say
to him: Invite me to your house. I
am lonely. I want to know people,"
If he got such an invitation, he would
not know what to do with himself. He
was familiar with the counting room
and its language, but the drawing room
was an unexplored country to him,
where an unknown tongue was spoken.
On the road to wealth he had missed
something, and it was now too late to
60 back for it. Only the day before he
had heard one Of the clerks: who did
not know he was within earshot, allude
to him as "rhe old man." He felt as
young as ever he did, but the phrase, so
lightly spoken, made him catch his
breath.
As he was now walking through the
park and away from the busy streets he
took off his hat and ran his fingers
through his grizzled hair, looking at his
hand when be had done SO as If the
gray, like wet paint, had come of. He
thought Of girl he knew once, who
perhaps would have married him if he
had asked her, as he was tempted to do.
But that had always been the mistake
of the Denhams. They had all married
young except himself, and so sunk deep
er into the mire of poverty, pressed
down by rapidly increasing progeny.
The girl had married baker, he re.
membered. Yes, that was long time
ago. The clerk was not far wrong when
he called him an old man. Suddenly
another girl arose before his mental
vision-a modern girl-very different
indeed from the one who married the
baker. She was the only woman in the
world with whom he was on speaking
terms, and he knew her merely because
her light and nimble fingers played the
business sonata of one note on his Office
typewriter. Miss Gale was pretty, of
course-all typewriter girls are-and it
was generally understood in the Office
that she belonged to good family which
had come down in the world. Her some
what independent air deepened this con-
viction and kept the clerks at dis
tance. She was a sensible girl, who
realized that the typewriter paid better
than the piano, and accordingly turned
the expertness of her white fingers to
the former instrument. Richard Den
ham sat down upon a park bench
"Why not?" he asked himself. There