The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1899-05-19

went on, and Tom Allen listened, and
his chest would heave and his face
would work as though he were fighting
patience had begun to wear thin, he
suddenly jumped up and stood bolt up
right, with hands clinched and eyes a
flashing.
"I can't stand this any longer says
he-and his voice sounded tremulous
and determined all at once-I tell you,
it's killing me, killing me, this prison
life of mine! I'll throw in my lot with
you, and well leave this place to-mor-
row. You've been waiting for me, I
know
- II knew then that had gained my
purpose, and was sorry-I wanted to
beg him to stay; but I happened to
catch his eye, and saw that might as
| well try to move rock in midsea. We
left the place the next morning, he and
I. The house stood at the bottom of a
long, narrow road, and he was silent as
death until we got to. the top. Then he
stopped and looked back.
"'Never no more,' said he, in queer,
harsh whisper; never no more
"Well, fairly dashed into the old row.
ing life, dragging Tom Allen after me.
It was summer then, and old England
was at it's best, and Tom enjoyed it, just
as boy might. Only when we passed
through villages, and saw the quiet,
matched homesteads, and the people
going to church, or, maybe, when we
stopped on the road to chaff some pud-
ding-faced youngster, and his mother
would cry for him from her cottage to
| keep away from they lazy vagabones,'
he'd look at me with a slow, quiet look,
and I'd turn away with something like
groan. can face danger and death
with anyone, but there was curse in
that mans eye, though his heart was
gentle as woman's. And as summer
turned to autumn he wore that look
well-nigh every day, and somehow it
seemed to drain the very life out of me.
He never said word about it, and I
never said word to him; but there
were times when I wished he'd strike
me dead. did speak at last, though.
It was a Sunday morning, and we were
standing on the top of old Sarum hill.
The bells were ringing below with a
jingle of thinks and clangs and clongs,
and the people were on their way to
mathis. I looked at Tom Allen as he
stood by me, silent and patient as ever,
with never a word of reproach on his
saw death in his face that morning. He
might have been dead then-he was so
white and still. Only his lips trembled,
and there was tear on his cheek. I
spoke then"
The storm was spent and the winds
had sobbed themselves to sleep. Only
the rain made music on the leaves.
The vagabond remained silent.
"Well?'' said, at last.
''Well, there's little more to be said.
I'd lured him on to what was death to
him, and all that remained for me to do
was to try and get him back to life.
Isn't that so, mister?"
Somehow the quizzical note had got
back into his voice again.
$50 just began that Sunday morning
to hold forth on the joys and beauty of
quiet, steady-going life. I wasn't
sure of my powers at first, but soon I
saw that the charm acted, and if ever I
tried to stumble at a prayer in my mind
it was then, for couldn't bear to think
of having done him to death.
swell, it ended as it had begun. For
one day, not so long after, I took him by
the hand, as it were, and led him back to
London. And he never said word, but
when his old governor consented to take
him back he looked as though he'd seen
a vision. That was five years ago, and
I've never troubled him since.''
The vagabond jumped up with lurch
that sent our glasses flying.
I'm off now" he said, CURLY.
''Why in such hurry?" I queried.
He looked at me long and earnestly.
Because I carry resolution" he
said, land resolutions are risky things
to carry. They should be marked Glass,
with care and conveyed to their desti-
nation as quickly as possible.''
"And what is this resolution of
yours?" I could not help asking.
He bent over me with low laugh.
''Not to tell any more lies over my
whisky toddy," he whispered.
And before could recover myself he
was striding across the heath and was
soon out of sight. Chicago Times-Her-
aid. - 80