Grant County herald. [volume] (Lancaster, Wis.) 1850-1968, 1911-12-27
CHAPTER XIX.

Daylight aWoke with the familiar
parched mouth and lips and throat,
took a long drink of water from the
pitcher beside his bed, and gathered
up the train of thought where he had
left it the night before. He reviewed
the easement of the financial strain.
Things were mending at last. While
the going was still rough, the greatest
dangers were already past.
His mind moved on to the incident
at the corner of the bar of the Par
thenon, when the young athlete had
turned his hand down. He was no
longer stunned by the event, but he
was shocked and grieved, as only a
strong man can be, at this passing of
his strength He had always looked
upon this strength of his as perman-
ent, and here, for years, it had been
steadily oOzing from him. As he had
diagnosed it, he had come in from IN
der the stars to roost in the coops of
cities, He had almost forgotten how
to walk. He had lifted up his feet
and been ridden around in automo-
biles, cabs and carriages, and electric
cars, He had not exercised, and he
had dry-rotted his muscles with alco-
hol And was it worth it? What did
all his money mean after all? Dede
was right. It could buy him no more
than one bed at time, and at the
same time it had made him the abject-
est Of slaves. 1t tied him fast Which
was better? he asked himself. All
this was Dede's own thought 1t was
what she had meant when she prayed
he would go broke. He held up his
offending right arm. 1T wasn't the
same old arm. Of course she could
not love that arm and that body as
she had loved the strong, clean arm
and body of years before. He didn't
like that arm and body himself. A
young whippersnapper had been able
to take liberties with it, 1t had gone
back on him. He sat up suddenly.
No, he had gone back on it! He had
gone back on himself He had gone
back on Dede. She was right, a thou
sand times right, and she had sense
enough to know it, sense enough to
refuse to marry mOney-slave with a
whiskyrotted carcass.
He got out of bed and looked at
himself in the long mirror on the
wardrobe door. He wasn't pretty. The
old-time lean cheeks were gone. These
We're heavy, seeming to hang down by
tbeir own weight He looked for the
lines of cruelty Dede had spoken of,
and he found them, and he found the
harshness in the eyes as well, the
eyes that were muddy now after all
the cocktails Of the night before, and
of the months aad years before. He
looked at the clearly defined pouches
that showed under his eyes, ana they
shocked him. He rolled up the sleeve
Of his pajamas. No wonder the ham
mer-thrower had put his hand down.
Those weren't muscles. A rising tide
of fat had submerged them He
stripped off the pajama coat. Again
he was shocked, this time by the bulk
of his body Tt wasn't pretty. The
lean stomach had become a paunch.
The rigid muscles of chest and Shout
ders and abdomen had broken down
into rolls of flesh. And this was age.
Then there drifted across the field Of
vision of his minds eye the old man
he had encountered at Glen Ellen,
coming up the hillside through the
fires of sunset, white-headed and
white-bearded, eighty-four, in his hand
the pail of foaming milk and in his
face all the warm glow and content
of the passing summer day. That had
been age. eyes stree, eighty-four, and
spryer than most" he could hear the
old man say.
Next he remembered Ferguson, the
little man who had scuttled into the
road like rabbit, the one-time man
aging editor of a great newspaper,
who was content to live in the chapar-
raj along with his spring of mountain
water and his hand-reared and mani
cured fruit trees. Ferguson had solved
a problem. A weakling and an alco-
holic, he had run away from the doc
tors and the chicken-coop of city,
and soaked up health like thirsty
sponge. He sat down suddenly on the
bed, startled by the greatness OF the
idea that had come to him. He did
not sit long. His mind. working In It's