The Mount Holly news. [volume] (Mount Holly, Burlington Co., N.J.) 1891-1942, 1899-04-18


MI. st. John was returning from
paying a visit of coincidence some dis
lance out Of the village, and he had
taken the short cut across the moor. It
was a clear, summer afternoon, a week
since his parting with Nancy. A part
ing in earnest it had been, for the days
had gone by without meeting OF COM
munication between them. The curate
was a sad young man, though the anger
in his heart still burned fercely. To
have been called a coward by the wom-
an he loved was a thing not likely to be
forgotten. His recent visit, too, had
been particularly trying. In his soul he
felt that his words of comfort had been
unreal; that, for all he had striven, he
had failed in his mission to the bereaved
mother. So he trudged across the moor
with slow step and bent head, giving
no heed to the summer beauties around
him.
He was about half way home when
his somber meditations were suddenly
interrupted. A man rose from the
heather, where he had been lying, and
stood in the path, barring the curate's
progress.
"Now, Mister Parsonl" he said, with
menace in his thick voice and bloated
face.
"Good afternoon, my man, " returned
st. John. recognizing the brute of a
week ago and turning as red as a turkey
cock.
"I'n good afternoon We, Mister Par
SON Mol Ye don't pass till I'm done
wi YER cried the man, who had been
drinking heavily, though he was too
seasoned to show any unsteadiness in
gait.
The curate drew back. what do
you want 2" he asked. He was painfully
white now.
"What do l want2" repeated the
bully, following up the question with a
volley of oaths that made the little man
shudder. "I'n tell ye what l want. l
want yer Apologize fumbled with
the word-"apology fer interferin
tween a father an his kid. But l licked
him more'n ever for yer blasted inter
ferin."
"You Internal cowardr' exclaimed
st. John.
His opponent gasped.
"Let me passl' said the curate.
"No, ye don'tl'' cried the other, re-
covering from his establishment at hear
ing a strong word from the parson.
st. John gazed hurriedly about him.
The path wound across the moor,
through the green and purple of the
heather, cutting a low hedge here and
there and losing itself at last in the
heat haze. They were alone.
The bully grinned. "I've got ye
nowl"
"You have indeed, said st. John,
peeling off his black coat and throwing
it on the heather. His soft felt hat fol
lowed. Then he slipped the links from
his cuffs and rolled up his shirt sleeves,
while his enemy gasped at his proceed
ings.
"Now, I'm readyr' said the curate
gently.
care ye goin to fight? p burst out the
other, looking at him as Goliath might
have looked at David. ''Come on, ye''-
But the foul word never passed his
lips. being stopped by a carefully plant
ed blow from a small but singularly
hard fist. The little curate was filled
with a wild, unholy joy. He had not
felt like this since his college days. He
thanked Providence for his friends, the
Indian clubs and dumbbells, which had
kept him in trim the past three years.
The blood sang in his veins as he circled
round Goliath, guarding the giants
brutal smashes and getting in a stroke
when occasion offered. 1t was not long
ere the big man fonnd himself hopeless
ly ontmatched his wind was gone; his