Ottumwa tri-weekly courier. [volume] (Ottumwa, Iowa) 1903-1916, 1903-12-10

81 his rGem slammling the door behind
bila, running down the hall to my uil-
res ROOM aal falling there prone upon
ll,e carpet. painting and white as any
ghost.
My uncle propped him upand threw
water in his face. When he could
speak, he told him how he had hardly
xot to he'd before u tall Chinaman. be-
sasted. 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 smallness of his narrow
ly elongated eyes that were 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
MAJ was transparent. He could see
straight through him. Tables, chairs,
mirrors. back of him. shaped them
selves. mingling with the haunting
hues of his flambigasted robe"
Yes" eagerly. 'and what hap
pened?"
Nothing of any consequence. AS l
said before, he dashed past him or
through him, l have forgotten which,
through the door, too. down the hall
and into my uncle's room for protec-
ton"
something else should lave hap
pened,," she unused. Its not enough
1T can't be helped. I'm telling the
story as it was told TO he. They put
the guest somewhere else. and the next
day, taking the box from under the
bed, they slowed it away i'll 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.
.'It,s a good story" she decided final
IL. 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 h4l. make an
excursion to that country house of
your uncle's. Let them rush into the
attic some fue 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 finishI'
He hesitated. She answered her own
question.
Its no good at all" she complained.
How shall l finish it?:'}
Must you finish it?'
"Of course, il 1t goes into print"
He turned a quick glance upon her.
is that what you do" he ques-
toned. "Write?"
Its wharf l. do" she answered rue
fully.
How interesting it must be- he
mused, ito weave fiction. to make
something nut Of next to nothing and
to earn your bread thereby"
Dread" she repeated YEARLY, "but
not always the butter" And she
stretched out two hands in n gesture
which sayored of despair.
He caught one. that nearest to him.
And is it with this little hand that
you write:" he queried, spreading open
the fingers.
Il write with both these little hands,
she answered, laughing.
"How's. thatw
II pound the typewriter"
"Of course l should have Known
at 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.
IF 1 didn't know you We're Scotch"
said she, Il should say you were Irish
and had kissed the Barney stone"
"lf l We're Irish wen. 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 10 reach it. Everything de-