Perth Amboy evening news., 1911-10-30

| Iulds hrsE l was q nofn Weakltn2S q
next, I was living unnaturalIy--too
much work, and responsibility and
strain. | was managing editor OF
the Times-Tribuns In San Francisco.
and I wasn't strong enough for the
strain. OF sourse my body went back
on me. and my mind. too, for that mat
afr. II had to be bolstered UP with
whisky, which wasn't good for 1t any
more than was tie living In clubs
and hotels good for my stomach and
the rest OF me. So I quit, quit every
thing, absolutely. and came to live In
the Valley of the Moon--that's the
Indian name, you know. for 8onoma
Valley. | lived In the lean-to the first
year; then / built the cabin and sent
for my books. Inever knew what hap
piness was before, nor health. Look
at me now and dare to tell me that |
look forty-seyen..
II wouldn't give a day over forty"
Daylight confessed.
yet the day ! came here / looked
nearer sixty, and that was fifteen
years ago."
They talked along, and Daylight
looked at the world from new angles.
Here was a man, neither bitter nor
cynical, who laughed at the city-dwell-
ers and called them lunatics; a mar
who did not care for money, and in
whom the lust for power had long
since died.
1t was not until ten o'clock that
Daylight parted from Ferguson. As
he rode along through the starlight, the
idea came to him of buying the ranch
on the other side of the valley. There
was no thought In his mind of ever
intending to live on 1t. His game was
In San Francisco. But he liked the
ranch, and as soon as he got back to
the Office he would open up negotia-
tons with Hillard.
The time passed, and he played on
at the game. San Franchises atti-
tude toward Daylight had undergone
a change. While he, with his slashing
~buccaneer methods, was a distinct
menace to the more orthodox fnan-
cial gamblers, he was nevertheless SO
grave a menace that they were glad
enough to let him alone. He had al
ready taught them the excellence Of
letting a sleeping dog lie.
Dede Mason was still In the Office.
He had made no more overtures, dis
cussed no more books. He had no
active interest In her, and she was to
him q pleasant memory of what had
nnunr hnnnnnnd a low yuhfah hr HE
essential nature, he was barred from
ever knowing. Yet, while his interest
had gone to sleep and his energy was
consumed In the endless battles he
waged, he knew every trick of the
light on her hair, every quick definite
mannerism Of movement, every line Of
her figure as expounded by her tailor
made gowns. Several times, six
months or SO apart, he had increased
her salary, until now she was receiy-
ing ninety dollars q month. Beyond
this he dared not go, though he got
around 1t by making the work easier.
This he had accomplished after her
return from a vacation, by retaining
her substitute as an assistant. Also,
he had changed his office suite, SO that
now the two girls had a room by them
selves. The more he saw of her, and
the more he thought he knew of her,
the more unapproachable did she
to him. But since he had no In
OF approaching her, this WAS
anything but an unsatisfactory fact.
HIS was glad he had her in his office.
and hoped she'd stay, and that was
about all.
Daylight did not improve with the
passing years. The life was not good
for him. He was growing stout and
soft, and there was unwonted iabbi-
In his muscles. The more he
drank cocktails. the more he WAS COM
PEELED to drink in order to get the de-
result, the inhibitions that eased
him down from the concert pitch OF
his operations. And with this went
wine, too, at meals, and the long
drinks sitter dinner e Scotch and SODA
at the Riverside. Then, too, his body
suffered from lack OF exercise; and,
from lack OF decent human associa-
tions. his moral fbers were weaken
ing. Never a man to hide anything,
some of his escapades became public,
such as speeding, and of 1oy-rides In
his big red motor car down to San
Jose with companions distinctly sporty
Incidents that were narrated as
good fun and comically in the news
papers.