The Olneyville times. (Olneyville [Providence, R.I.]) 1887-1917, 1907-01-18

hlmSSu with great ehort.
Listen, I'll read you her letter.
he said. pulling out the crumpled
communication whose erstwhile COW
ering at that moment reposed in
dozen fragments in the pockets OF
the press.
Then the coffin contained
interjected the lawyer.
Bricks" replied Biggerslake.
Bricks and my honor"
TIE phrase caught his fancy.
bricks and my honor" he re-
Yeated.
Already his passion was dying
from exhaustion; his future pose IL
Illuminated the skyline of his thought.
The picture OF a grave, cray-haired
man who never smiled rose before
him, pacing slowly down the years
in lonely majesty. People would
hush their voices at his approach.
and whisper in compassionate re-
spect. His heart is broken" His
feelings were materialiZing.
During the reading, executed in
mechanical monotone Cthe readers
thoughts being engrossed in him
self, Moran, with his palms pressed
professionally together in the atti-
tude of prayer, wrinkled his brow
and pursed his lips unavailngly
He failed entirely 10 discover what
was required of him. The letter
afforded him no clue. being simply
the senseless verbal vitriol OF a silly
woman, flushed with victory and the
spoils thereof, who, not content with
knocking her aversion down, must
needs return to infiict fresh torture
on the dazed victim. II seemed,
however, that in this case the hot
shot had gone astray. Cyrus Big
gerslake looked up at its conclusion
with an almost pleased expression
like a baby.
1T is a singular case" said Moran.
cropping for light. Il believe"
Stop" interrupted his friend
scratching his head. 81 am trying
TO think"
For nearly Il quarter Of an hour
Biggerslake sat bent in meditation.
Moran followed him TO the regions OF
thought, tracing circles in the ali
with his index finger.
And So" said Cyrus, rising on n
sudden and stringing speech onto
wordless deliberations, Il will say
good-by. Sorry to have troubled
YOU"
The formula begot it's stereotypcd
reply in Moran. more mystiiied than
ever, and before his brain could con.
troll the machine movements Of his
tongue, Cyrus Biggerslake had gone
forth from his presence, the complete
martyr, leaving faint odor of gaso-
line. The summoning OF the auto
mobiles master was productive OF
great journalistic activity, and the
breeze OF excitement even stirred the
wings of the Press Club albatross.
Those fatal fragments:
Presently the faring Sunday edi-
tions showed their heads. The late
Mrs. Bigserslake, the supposed vic
tim OF an automobile accident, sworn
dead by her husband, certified dead
by DR.. Falcon, buried to all ap-
pea<ances, was alive, and living with
the aforesaid doctor at Los Angeles!
The city rocked with laughter.
GO East" implored the martyrs S
friends. But Cyrus would not
could not.
Il have lost Sadie" he said, "but
| will not lose San Francisco"
The fascination Of Frisco held
him in thrall The erect alert car
riage Of the inhabitants, due TO gaz-
ing up at the Twin Peaks from one
end OF Market street, and at the
"Spreckols column" and the Ferry
Building clock from the other, had
! his heart.
Leave Frisco? Never,
Ridiculous sentimentalist!" cried
his friends, and vanished
1t must, then, have been senti-
mentalism that took him periodically
| TO the cemetery with brilliant
wreaths, and arrived at the grave
"a torn soul. A stranger, in con-
versation with one OF the attendants
| observing his abandonment OF grief
at a distance, inquired the circum-
stances and the relationship OF the
| dead.
/ "Oh. he's bughouse," replied the
man, contemptuously. should be
| Napa for his. The graves empty
and so on, with the whole story
embellished and enlarged.
But Biggerslake, his fat body
| shaken with sobs, hung his wreaths
on the tombstone, oblivious, as far
as might be, to the surrounding
world.
Bricks and my honor" he gulped.
! sinking on one knee.
In fact. Cyrus was quite happy
| T. OBJ. Hubbard, in the San Fran.
1 cisco Argonaut.