The Kalispell bee. [volume] (Kalispell, Mont.) 1900-192?, 1902-11-21

OF his room. Slamming the door behind
him, running down the hall to my I'M
cle's room and falling there prone upon
the carpet, painting and white as any
ghost.
My uncle propped him up and threw
water in his face. When he could
speak, he told him how he had hardly
got to bed before tall Chinaman, be-
sashed, bias eyed and pigtailed, arose
from somewhere, he couldn't tell
where, and stood by his side-stood
there, looking reproachfully down on
him out of the sInallness of his narrow
ly elongated eyes that We're cat-a-cor
nered.
And that wasn't all. Though appar-
emily substantial enough, so much so
that he filed up the room, this China
man was transparent. He could see
straight through him. Tables, chairs,
mirrors, back Of him, shaped them
selves, mingling with the Haunting
hues of his fiambigasted robe"
YES" eagerly, land what hap
pened?"
Nothing of any consequence. AS 1
said before, he dashed past him or
through him, / have forgotten which,
through the door, too, down the hall
and into my uncles room for protec-
tion.'
Something else should have hap
pened," she unused. Its not enough"
at can't be helped. I'm telling the
story as it was told to me. They put
the guest somewhere else, and the next
day, taking the box from under the
bed, they slowed it away in the attic,
where once more it was forgotten"
The passengers who had partly par
taken of lunch came strolling out,
walking rapidly up and down for air
She observed them, thinking.
Its a good story" she decided final
ly, what there is of it, but it lacks
finish. How would it do to finish it
like this? Say his soul went wander
ing, with those bones of his out of hal
lowed ground. 1t couldn't rest. Isn't
there some sort of myth like that in
Chinese history? Let his comrades,
bias eyed, yellow of skin, gaudy of
gown and besashed like him, make an
excursion to that country house of
your uncle's. Let them rush into the
attic some fine night and rescue the
bag of bones. Then, carried back home,
buried decently in his native land, his
soul finds rest along with them. How's
that for a finish?'
He hesitated. She answered her own
question.
Its no good at all" she complained.
"How shall finish it?"
''Must you finish itY"
"Of course, if it goes into print
He turned a quick glance upon her.
rs that what you do?" he ques-
toned Writer"
tits what I do" she answered rue
fully.
''How interesting it must be-" he
unused, ito weave fiction, to make
something out Of next to nothing and
to earn your bread thereby"
Bread" she repeated YEARLY, 'but
not always tie butter" And she
stretched out two hands in a gesture
which savored Of despair.
He caught one, that nearest to him.
"And is it with this little hand that
you writer he queried. spreading open
| the fingers.
az write with both these little hands, -
she answered, laughing.
"How's that?"
II pound the typewriter"
"Of course / should have known"
"It rather takes from the charm of
1t, doesn't it?" wistfully.
Nothing could do that" affirmed he
with conviction.
| She fixed her eyes on a faroff sail.
eff I didn't know you were Scotch, -
said she, II should say you were Irish
| and had kissed the Barney stone"
eff | were Irish even, l should draw
| the line at that. It's a difficult feat
| You must be held by your heels while
you hang over a dangerous precipice
| head down to reach it. Everything de-