The Spokane press. [volume] (Spokane, Wash.) 1902-1939, 1909-05-13
DAILY SHORT
. I STORY
IN HIS OWN WAY.

giN uiSCouTdSluS, perVdueQ nlIH.
) Yet she was with him, just OH
the other side of the table. She
was pouting just little because
Of the willful fur that persisted in
slipping from her right shoulder.
She caught his gaze, the pout
turned to smile, and then the
waiter came hurrying up.
George Adams, at odds with the
world, wrote the order very care
fully and correctly, the slip was
torn from the many others on the
pad, and then they were alone
again, the man still very discon.
tented, while the piquant, delight.
full specimen of approaching WON
anhood opposite to him became
interested for the moment in sew
eral new arrivals. They had the
choice nook Of the cafe. Shielded
by tn big palms they could see,
but yet not be seen.
In the same moment that she
gazed the man became aware of
what he held in his hand. 1t was
fountain pen, seemingly the
symbol of his work, for he was
just one of the vast army of the
business worlds everyday book
keepers. He had taken it out to
write the order for their little sup
per. Almost angrily he damned
1t back into his pocket and then
his mind returned to the theater
and to the play that they had just
seen together, and to the hero
therein, and the beauty, romance
and splendor of it all, and that was
the cause of his present mood. She
had liked it so much, grown almost
over enthusiastic, he thought. II
would give her false ideas of what
to expect. That was it! She would
expect the romance of the play to
be her own romance. That was
impossible.
Carried away by the irritation of
his mind, he noticed the tab that
was still lying on the table, held 1t
icarelessly for a moment, then in
stinctively reached for his fountain
pen. Bak at business college they
had awarded him several prizes for
penmanship, and he could write if
he couldn't talk. And this was the
evening during which he had decid-
ed to ask her the big question
that was troubling the very soul of
him,
The fountain pen was now NOV
ing hesitatingly across the blank
paper, ultimately framing beautiful
doves and birds and drawing lines
possessing true curves. Then the
hand began moving faster and fast
err. He looked up for an instant
and she was silently watching him.
But his hand never wavered. Two.
three or four years ago, was it,
since he had last done this. 1t mat
tered not 1t seemed but as yester-
day. And then it was all done, all
except that central. vacant space.
There was a place there to write
something.
Joy or sorrow am by thy side"
he remembered the words distinct
ly from the play. They had made
a great impression upon him and
he wrote them without falter
The slip was torn hastily from
the others, slipped gently across to
her, and then he was writing again.
faster, more enthusiastically, more
beautifully than ever. The passion
of his entire being was behind 1t
all,
SIT is never cold beneath thy
smile" He had remembered that
also, and he made it his own mes
sage and it reached her the same
as the first. but he dared not look
up to see what effet 1t was having.
For the third time he was filling
ia piece of paper with the objects OF
his Imagination, inspired with the
substance of all his dreams. This
was to be the last, he decided. and
the words were to be his truly own.
The soft, cadent. ravishing music Of
the orchestra nerved him on.
Il love YOU" he wrote, forgetting
that the words were not new. but
indeed more ancient than all Of the
others.
The pen dropped to the table, and
with both arms outstretched he
lifted the diminutive piece of paper
towards her Her two hands met
abpth of his for she knew instinc-
lively what 1t all meant. and she
was kindly above all other traits.
T"Same here. George" she assur-
ed him. very bluntly but none the
less tenderly and earnestly.
qHe suddenly wondered how he
could ever have doubted her in the
least.