Five Mile Beach weekly journal., 1909-03-26

~ sorbed as he walked
~leisurely along on the
opposite side of the street he would
have noticed the look of dislike In the
eyes of those he passed. They drew
away from him, and n spoke-to no
one in particular and with an oath Of
fensive and fervid. But weather beat
en-, tanned. indiferently clad and with
a small brown dog following him. the
newcomer passed along. oblivious to
the sidelong scrutiny. He did not stare
about him after the manner of a stran-
ger, though so far as he knew he had
ever been In the place before.
But Harry Sanderson now was not
! the man who had ridden into oblivion
in the motor car. The rector of St
James was In a strange eclipse. Men
tally and externally he had reverted
to the old Satan Sanderson of the
brilliant flashing originality, of the
curt risk and daring. The deeply hui
man and sensitive side that had devel-
oped during his divinity years was in
allegiance. 1t showed itself only in
the affection he bestowed on the little
nameless dog that followed him like
a brown, shaggy sh; bow.
He was like that Old self of his, and
yet If he had but known 1t he was
wonderfully like some n else, too
some one who had belonged to the
long ago and garbled past that still
eluded him; some n who had been a
part also of the life of this very town
till a little over a month before, when
he had left it with dread logging his
footstepsI
Curious condolences had wrought
together for this likeness. In the past
weeks Harry had grown p%erceptibly
thinner. A spare beard was now on
his chin, and the fiery sun that had
darkened his cheeks to sallow had
lightened his brown hair a shade. The
cut on his brow had healed to the
semblance of a thin red birthmark.
Fate-or God-was doing strange
things for Harry Sanderson!
In the nomad weeks of wind and
sun, as the tissues of the brain grew
slowly back to a state of normal ac-
ton, the mind seized again and again
upon the bitter question of his identi-
ty. 1t had obtruded into clicking
leagues on steel rails, into miles afoot
by fruit hung laResr onA.vhite Pacific
shell roads under cedar branches, on
busy highways. 1t had stalked into
days of labor in hop fields. work with
hand and foot that brought dreamless
sleep and generous wage; into nights
of less savory experience in city pur-
lieus. where a self forgotten man
gained and drank recklessly, auda-
ciously, forbiddingly. Who was he?
From what equation of life had he
been eliminated? Had be loved any
thing or anybody Had he a friend.
any friend, in the world?
The man of no memories gave no
heed to the men on the street, who
looked at him askance. He sauntered
along unconsciously, his hands thrust
deep in his pockets. With a casual
glance at the hotel across the way he
entered a saloon. where a score of pa
irons were standing at the bar or
shaking dice noisily at the tables
ranged against the wall. The bartend-
err nodded to his greeting, the slightest
possible nod. The dog which had fol-
lowed him into the place leaped up
against him, its fore paws on his
knee.
Brandy, if you please" said the
new arrival, and poured indolently
from the bottle set before him.
The conversation In the room had
chilled. To its occupants the man who
had entered was no stranger. He was
Hugh Stires, returned unwelcome to a
place from which he had lately van
ished. Moreover, what they felt for
him was not alone the crude hatred
which the honest toiler feels for the
trickster who gains a living by devious
knaveries. There was an uglier suspi-
cion afioat of Hugh StiresI A blue
shirted miner called gruf1y for his
score, threw down the silver and went
out, slamming the swing door.
The newcomer regarded none of
them. He poured his glass slowly full,
slipped from it and, holding 1t In his
hand, turned and glanced deliberately
about the place. He looked at every
body in the room, suddenly sensible of
the hostile atmosphere, with what
seemed a careless amusement. Then
he raised his glass.
"Will you join me, gentlemen? he
said.
There was but one response. A
soiled, stumbling figure, blear, white
haired and h~esitating, with a battered
violin under its arm, slouched from a
1900 r. 81
bottle the bartender contemptuously
pushed toward him. No one else
moved.