Wheeling Sunday register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1882-1934, 1899-10-01

Goldfish sort Of tippIe. Well enough for
our hot Italian climate, down in the
Campagna, but not the thing up here
on the mountains. I think it would be
better drinking seated by warm
( Preside, and don't see why We shouldn't
take it that way? Suppose" he con-
tinues, pointing to the campfire, sup
pose we change our quarters and go
there?"
sBut what be we to do wi him?"
asks the Britisher. bobbing his head
towards their prisoner.
take him along with us, of course"
"How bout the capo? He won't be
pleased at that?''
Not likely he'll know anything
about it. He isn't by the fire himself.
| but over yonder a good way of, snugly
coiled up in his cloak. BY this. take
| it, he's sound asleep, and won't either
I see or hear US If he do, what matter?
With the pretty things we brought him
/ from below he shouldn't be short-tem-
pered about such a trife as that
81 dare say yer right, Jacopo. An il
| We think O. riskin it. I'm yer man.
But how're we to get this bundle there.
Shall we drag or carry it?"
Neither needed. We can take off
| his leg fastenings, and let him trans
port himself"
"Supposin' he try to gle us the slip?"
If he do, he'll not slip very far.
With this old carbins I've,often brought
| down a wolf upon the run, and can
ea.ily stop him. Have no fear, Ricar-
do"
"All right. Let's loose him, then!"
They approach the PROSTATE prison
er. The Italian adroitly undoes the
rope from his ankles, while the Eng
lish outlaw lays hold of him by the
| shoulders, saying:
Coon along, fella-countryman!
dare say, you be feelin' the cold sames
ourselves, an we amt the chaps as I'D
weesh to see We froze to death. We're
goin' to gle We chance to toast yer
soles at yon fire. Gee-up!'
With a jerk he assists the artist to
/, his feet; then the two, one on each
side lead him along towards the fire,
whose light he dislikes more than
aught else.
Arriving at its edge, they look for
spot unoccupied by the other bandits,
who all seem asleep. Having found
one suitable, they take possession OF
it, Jacopo giving the faggots a kick TO
enliven the fire, which flares freshly
up, as it does so, casting clear light
on his own face Henry Harding has
another start of establishment, Tor, al
| ter a short struggle with recollections
lsomewhat dim, he beholdS second set
OF features not new to him, but seen
twice before-once in the parlor of the
prize-fighters tavern, and again under
the glare of street lamp in Golden
square. Signor Jacopo, now an ltal-
ian bandit, has also been London
garrotter-the same who, but for Hen
nv Harding and his university friend,
would have left Luigi Torreani with
ringless fingers!
The renegade allows little time for
reflection Making step towards him,
he grasps his shoulder, gives it twist
round, so as to bring his back to the
fire; and then, taking hold of his PIN
| toned arms, lifts the hands up to the
light. His eyes are upon the left one
the little finger-where he sees what
he is searching for-the scare OF that cut
received while protecting the spaniel.
The outlaw halls his discovery with
a shout of savage joy, so loud as TO
awaken the slumbering bandits, and
cause them to start into sitting pos
ture. Surprised, they see him dancing
and capering over the ground, as il
he had become suddenly afflicted with
the malady of st. Vitus.
"Ho! hol " he calculates, placing
himself vis-a-vis with the prisoner, a
diaboMcal grin overspreading his
broad. brutal features. you it be, Mus
ter 'Enry 'Ardin, Who'd a tho'ut a
| meetin' you heer-'mong the noun
tains O. lily, stead O Chiltern Hills?
| Dang me if faint the most kewrisome
bit O. unexpected pleasure | haze had
since l coomed heer myself Beats
that little encounter we had in Golden
square high an hollow. Well-well!"
While speaking the expression ON
the rufffan's. countenance is that of
vengeance personifed.
He gets no reply, his victim aware it
would not be of any avail. Indeed, he
neither expects nor waits for it, but
continues his spiteful apostrophe.
Coon! l want TO heer what hae
happened at Beechwoods. You hain't
tolt me that: nor what's brought We to
lily; nor why we've taken to dabblin'
canvas. 'Spose your dads disinherited
We? heerd O. his threetenin' to do so.
| An that sweet half-brother o. yourn,
he's got the place--the fine park, an