The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1909-06-19
(Continued.l

| Fine lot-SwellSh you are. to pich VI, one poor old man what never harmed none of youi Lemme Toner as D1i- | lingham with thoughts of d1plomacy
 edged closer. '.That-that felier calleo
 me-p-panhandler! 'S lie! m n,
 for m country in S-S-Shivil war. Got n.' hon'rable- -dishcharge. Fought fol l m country while the most of you in
 in VT cradles. I'm drunk too." he con,
 fided squinting up at the unnerveo l Dillingham;. 'Drunk-or I wouldn't a stholen thoshe thingsh. Learned
 tdrink while I was d-d'fendln m country. Perfectly shauare when I'm shober Perf'ly. I'm"
 His voice scaled a note or two. broke | and then meandered on, in time to | prevent Dillingham's interruption. His
 tone had shifted once more & rom the | If I had had my-my r1ghtsh! ne | beloved, shrilly. glaring about him | "Td be ridin' in my carr'ge-m' own | r'ge. Got a boy whoshe rich-rich man: l Whatsh'e do for me? Noshin,tan; Don't ev'n know Pm live. Till l struck Granite t'night. didn't know | twenty yearsh. They shent mt jail | lasht time. dammem! Pool or saul Con'verr'
 He broke into senile, weak sobbing | And. from all over the room rose a | confused whispering. rustic. an 1n- definable electric thrill. Women whose | escorts had led them to the door. halt ed and looked back in crass interest | Men glanced at one another. mutterins queries that found no answer. Even Dillingham; forgot at last his faint
 hope of restoring the shattered fuuc- tion to it's former banal calm. Pair by pair. all eyes slowly focused ginative gazef could not descry emo tion-whether of surprise. .chagrin or fear-on the heavy mask of the Fight hush. The old man on the floor still sobbed in maudlin fashion. But no one needed him. Then Caine arose. "T thfnk.,' he began. his pleasant. Iow-pitched voice breaking in like dash of cool water on his hearers su- perheated senses. T think there is no need for any of us to magnify this trifling break in our jolly evening; nor spirit of good fellowship. May I pro-
 Hold on." interposed Caleb. quietly. He got to his feet and laid detaining hand on Gaines arm You mean we'll" he said, an I thank you. But I think this is where's I do the talkin'. am not you I've never made speech here before" he went on. raising his voice. An never expected to. But I'll ask you people to have patience with me for a
 minute or two. Because there's one or two things that's got to be said here
 an now. An I'm the one that's got to say 'em."
 He glanced about him. Never be- fore in the Arareek Club. had orator enjoyed so rapt an audience. The quiet, heavy voice. the brute mag knetism of the man. no less than curi-
 osity as. to how he would handle so impossible a situation, had already
 caught everyone's attention. His
 wholly masterful manner. his latent
 strength. lent a force of their own to
 his rough words as he went on:
 "Yes. ladies and gentlemen. that man
 doubled up on the floor there is my
 father-I didn't know till five minutes
 ago that he was still alive. I hadn't
 seen nor heard of him in near twenty
 five years: till he came in here. crazy
 drunk, just now, an broke up your
 party. I'm sorry for what he's done.
 If could make any kind of rep'ration
 to you for the bother he's caused. I'd
 do it. I guess you know that. But I can't. All can dol is to try to make
 you look at him less like he was
 mangy dog in a fit. an more as if he
 was ] human like yourselves. That s why m talxin' the liberty to speak to
 you now. Will you hear me?"
 The unconscious buzz and murm rmur
 that all at once swept the room served
 him for answer: and he continued:
 My father.'' with another nod to-
 ward the mumbling figure on the floor.
 come of decent people, an he was
 promisin' young chap that ev'rybody liked. That was the trouble. Too
 many folks liked him: which is pretty
 Nothfn' per'nal intended. When the Civil War broKe out he went to the front. There he learned to starve. to loaf, to forget his business trainin'.
 An he wasn't the only one. guess. There's where he learned to drink. too. When men have to go supperless to bed on the wet ground after an all- day march. swig of whiskey's a
 of the comrade at your side that was blowed to pieces by a shell or ripped open by a baynet. Can you blame the soldier if they let the whiskey bless
 After the wal my father come home. There'd been bands of music am women wavin' handkerchffs an noospapers to call him an his fellers marched off in their bloc uniforms to the war. When the boys came slouch- in back, footsore. ragged. an so thin they looked like walkin' embalmer ad- much cheerin'. My father'd gone away a brisk. fine set-up lad. 1eavin' good work behind him. He come back like a good many thousand others. none the better for a four-year course in shiftlessness. booze an no reg'lar work
 '"The folks who'd cheered him when he went to fight for 'em had cheered away lot of their spare patritism Dy that rlIne. InGro Wa eIOuEn OI it left in Granite to give my father a fair start in the world again. Because he'd learned to drink. to loaf, to be uneasy an unreliable when he worked, they forgot he'd picked up those tricks while he was defendin' their country. Heroes was a drug in the market. If any of you fel1ers know how it feels to get down to work the day after | your fortnights vacation, maybe you can understand what it meant to him | to settle down to a job after five years in the open" |
 Conover glanced again at his father. | The old man had ceased to humble | and was trying to follow the Fighters | speech. The slack jaw had frightened; | and the huddled form was struggling | slowly to it's feet.
 "He tried to work" resumed Con- l over. "but younger. smarter folks with | ss Q I l