Baraboo weekly news. [volume] (Baraboo, Wis.) 1912-197?, 1912-11-28

certainly he could. 1t took some
tlme TO compose the cable to Morti-
mer; and it required some gold be-
sides. Mortimer must have fair view
OF the case; and George presented it,
requesting reply to be sent to Cooks
III naples, where they expected to be
within ten days.
How much will this be?"
The porter got out his telegraph.
Dook and studied the rates carefully.
Twelve pounds six, sir"
Inc porter greeted each sovereign
with a genufection, the lowest being
the twelfth George pocketed the re-
ce1pt and went in search Of Ryanne.
But that gentleman was no longer
in the billiard-room. Indeed, he had
gone quietly to the other hotel and
written a cable himself, the code of
winch was not to be found in any
DOCK. For long time he seemed to
be IN doubt, for he folded and refold-
ed MS message half dozen times be-
fore his actions became decisive. He
tore 1t up and threw the scraps upon
the hoor and fastened into the street,
as II away from temptation. He
walked fast and indirectly, smoking
1nnumerable cigarettes. He was fight.
ing hard, the evil in him against the
good, the chances of the future against
the 1rreclaimable past. At the end OF
an hour he returned to the strange ho-
tel. His lips were puffed and bleed.
ing. He had smoked so many ciga-
rettes and had pulled them so impa-
tiently from his mouth, that the dry
paper had cracked the delicate skin.
He rewrote his cable and paid for
the sending Of it. Then he poked
about the unfamiliar corridors till he
found the dingy bar. He sat down be-
fore peg of whisky, which was fol-
lowed by many more, each bit sitter
than its predecessor. At last, when
he had had enough to put a normal
mans head upon the table or to cover
his face with the mask Of inanity,
Ryanne fell into the old habit OF talk.
ing aloud.
Horace, old top, what's the use
Wed just like to be good if we could,
Ell? But they won't let us. We'd
grow raving mad in monastery. We
were honest at the time, but we
couldn't stand the monotony Of watch
ing green olives turn purple upon the
silvery bough. Nay, nay!"
He pushed the glass away from him
and studied the air-bubbles as thew
formed, rose to the surface, and were
dissipated.
mo matter what the game has
been, somehow or other, they've
Dashed us, and we've lost out"
He emptied the glass and ordered
another. He and the bartender were
alone.
after all, love is like money. It's
better to live frugally upon the inter-
est than to squander the capital and
go bankrupt. And who cares, any
how?"
He drank once more, dropped half
sovereign upon the table, and pushed
back his chair. His eyes were blood
shot now, and the brown of his skin
had become slaty tint; but he
walked steadily enough into the read
ing-room, where he wrote a short let
ter. It was not without a perverted
sense of humor, for smile twisted
his lips till he had sealed the letter
and addressed the envelope to
George Percival Algernon Jones. He
stuffed it into a pocket and went out
whistling "The Heavy Dragons" from
the opera of Patience"
Before the lighted window of a shop
he paused. He swayed little From
i pocket of his new coat he pulled
out a glove. 1t was gray and small
and much wripkled. From time to
time he drew it through his fingers,
staring The while at the tawdry trim
kets in the shop-window. Finally he
looked down at the token. He became
very still. A moment passed. then
he flung the glove into the gutter, and
proceeded to his own hotel. He left
the letter with the porter, paid his
bill, and went out again into the dark,
chill night.
He was now what he had been two
months ago, the man who didn't care,
Do