The citizen. (Frederick City, Md.) 1895-1923, 1901-11-22

y
am among them a magnificent RING If
oIalS ana diamonds. Curzon stretches
out ms hand to take it. giving n hearty
grasp 10 the shaking hand that delivers
,n' heavy gold circlet. An instant later
MS eyes light on the ring; a curious sound
comes from between his teeth. which are
eloSGd over the pipestem.
Mortlake. q '-i'
No; keep quiet, you fool; you will hurt
yi3urseIf. The tone is stern, and Mort
iaA ne Wrlggles back in his old position.
inefe Is long silence then, "Morty.
Iau, you never gave me the address, and
l Siiali have to get your ring for your
On the address is inside the letter. As
lor my ring, trust you to get me out of
ahls maj scrape, as you have done so
many others in days gone by"
Curzon suddenly asks, Il wonder If |
know her."
=, On yes; of course you do. old chan.
one told me your place was quite near
ner fathers aud that You had known her
as child. Cecil Nereker-you must re.
member her"
or a moment there is a dead silence.
Iurzon grips his rifle until the veins OF
MS hand stand out like whipcord and
Hdlt'rS under his breath: known her
as enid. Good God, ana this is how
tne ring | gave her comes back to me.
Wonder If the ring left for her is guard
ing the heirloom of the Mortlake family
ana If other mems triukcts are hanging
on my watch chain? Heaven aboye-.un-
sophisticated" Shall tell him? Better
not; II he must 90. let him go believing
hef 10 he what he thinks her If he lives
well u he lives, as there is a God in
heaven she viii have to tell him. Bah!
And to think"-
"CWzon, DO You think the end is near?
| am getting awfully cold shivers down
my back. What is the chance of our
getting out of this Internal hole alive?"
onr chance depends upon how the
mounted troops draw them off to the
Hsht. Take my coat. Morty; don't feel
cold. can Wiggle ont of it,
No, hang it, | am not as selfish as all
that, CuZon. Feel my head. a bit ligh;.
1 hS place is becoming a well. Can't see
clearly. Is this-how it comcs?"
Nonsense, man; pull yourself together.
ou u PM through all right" His voice
haS terrible anxious ring, however.
ne WHISKY has gone to your head. You
want meal, that's what You want, and
warm blankets. I've seen men live to n
hale old age with a waI of lead in their
inSilcs."
81 don't believe there is any left inside:
seems TO have gone clean through, and
expect that Internal hem
shut up, Morty Keep up your old
time griJ Think | hear a horse galloping,
and no man would be such an ass if they
are not retreating." Looks carefully out,
then ducks.
"Jove, it is a mounted officer. and there
come strotcher bearers. Hold up, old
man, wen fix you all right" Shouts for
stretchcr hearers, waving his hat on his
rifle. Two minutes later five men are
bending over Mortlake; one, a surgeon,
mGkcs haSty examination of wound cut
ting away uniform. Curzon knces be-
side his friend, who writhcs with pain,
his lips pressed between his teeth as the
hypodcrmic syringe is quickly called into
service.
Bullets begin to pillow up the earth
Close to the little group. Curse the cow
ards, they always aim at the bearers"
growls one man.
Surgeon-All right here Lucky es-
cape for the lad. Clean fresh wound.
Can't spare much blood though, looks as
if he needed food
Thank Cod from Curzon.
From MortIake, family: afraid |
made bit OF an ass of myself old chap"
Surgeon Move on, men; getting too
hot; try and get him ont of harms way.
A bearer sinks to the ground with Il
bullet in his ankle. Curzon rises and
takes his place hurriedly, lays Mortlake
gently on the stretcher, and they move off
the ring, still in Curzon's hand, pressing
into the palm as the weight of the
stretcher begins to tell.
stop a second" he calls to the front
bearer; must shift weight bit; am
fcarfully stiff" Then he draws a long
breath, squaring his broad shoulders and
stretching biz limbs with delight. This
is better than that sodden hole; bullets or
no bullets, one is man again
"Curzon, for Gods sake, hurry" comes
in feeble tones from the strCtcher.
At that moment Curzon pitches head
long in the mud. The ring from his open
hand rolls to one side, the surgeon steps
up to take his place, and his foot presses
tie shining jewels deep into the African
mud, mixed now in a red paste. Gives
one glance ut the face as he turns Cur
Zon over.
''Devils-cean through the heart A
brave man gone, Can you stand a trot,
man? Our only chance" The surgeon
does not wait for an answer but takes
the handles of the stretcher and heads
for the nearest dressing station
Curzon sleeps undiSturbed on the dark
ening vcldt, with his outStrctchcd hand
pointing toward the buried ring-New
York Evening Post.