Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1913-11-23

"And-and I've been waitin' for you, my
friend, because, somehow, | seem sort OF
helpless IN my plans"
did you get that deed from the local
recorders office and send it up to the other
county seat?" asked Burmah, frowning.
81 forgot all about that important neces-
sity," the Colonel confessed.
| well, | guess you ought to do that,
Burmah said grimly. "S'pose that real es-
tate man was crooked, like some of 'em are,
and sold Squaw Point to some other Teller,
and the other teller beat you to the recorders
oficeo Huh! What d'you think would hap
pen to you them"
"Why, bless my SOUL" said the Colonel
emphatically. Il never thought of that
no, Sir, not once!H He was in a momentary
panic at the suggested danger. "Boy get
me cab quick!" he shouted to passing
bellboy so loudly that every man in the ro-
tunda turned and looked at him. He fairly
danced up and down in impotence as he adj
monished the boy to haste. His coattails
| Tapped vigorously, he gesticulated with his
long arms until his celluloid cuffs ratified like
castanets, and his big SLOUGH hat worked for
ward over his brow until it threatened to
blindfold him.
| Burmah, imperturbable, with freshly
lighted cigar projecting from the wrinkle in
| the corner of his straight-cut mouth, watched
him, not without suspicion of a smile in his
eyes. Ca m yourself, Colonel, he admon-
ished, "just Ca m yourself. You amt goin
to save time by takin' the roof off this hos
pitable inn
| He led the excited financier out to the
curb, saw him into the cab, and instructed
him to ask the county recorder where the
deed should be sent for its second record.
Then he waved his hand airily and said,
"See you tomorrow. Busy tonight. Don't
worry. Don't let the recorder pick your
pockets and be sure not to blow the gas out
when you go to bed. So long, old hoss!"
The Colonel was too excited to be indig-
nant over this familiarity. He did not ap-
preciate the struggle of emotions that still
possessed the soul of his new-found friend,
Burmah Jones. And Burmah, waddling
down the street, was expostulating with
himself and forever coming back to the
same point:
aI'm an old crook, and need money; but
just can't take it away from that old cuss!
He'll be the ruination of me yet! feel it in
my boneS!'
TT may have been the feeling in his bones"
that led him to go back to the hotel and
walk backward and forward in his room for
long time, that led him down to the
wharves, where he studied the shipping with
| the eye of an amateur, and that later in the
evening caused him to sit in the we'll padded
alcove of James-st. resort looking as mo-
rose as fat man may look. He sat where
he could let his sharp, intelligent eyes wan
der vacantlv over the crowd that came in
| and passed out.
One interested him more than the others.
This was a melancholy appearing young
man of an indefinite age, whose hair was
worn very straight and very long, and was
prematurely streaked with gray, who had
the eyes of dissipated poet and the finest
of features, and wore, despite the warmth
of the evening, a mantle that might have
done service in the Latin Quarter in Paris.
This man was the picture of complete
detection, as he stood at the end of the bar,
nodding to acquaintance, accepting every
proffered drink, and purchasing nothing.
To this forlorn individual entered another
man, sturdy, sun tanned, wearing the regu-
lation white, denied Western hat, and car
trying a suitcase. At sight of each other they
rushed to handc1asp and much greeting.
They sat in the little stall Immediately be-
hind Burmah, and he could hear their con-
versation.
3Well Fred, you are still here, eh?" said
the sturdy man.
ayes: but where did you come from, and
where do you go?"
@From Juneau, and going to South Da-