Newark evening star and Newark advertiser. [volume] (Newark, N.J.) 1909-1916, 1913-10-03
Continued from Yesterday

Continued from Yesterday
Today Battling Jimmie was for
I gotten by the public, and he was
happy in the seclusion of this forget
| fulness. A new and strange career
! had opened up before him: he was
| the father of the most beautiful
prima donna in the operate world
and. difficult as the task was, he
| did his best to live up to it. 1t was
hard not to offer to shake hands
when he was presented to n princess
or a duchess; it was hard to remem-
Der when to change the studs in his
shirt: and a white craVat was the
terror of his nights, for his fingers,
broad and stubby and powerful, had
not been trained to the delicate task
of tying a bow-knot. BY judicions
blow in that spot where the ribs
diva1icat he could right well tic his
adversary into a bow-knot but this
string of white lawn was a most
damnabl thing. Still, the puttering
of the two women, their daily con-
Germ over his department, was bring
ing him into conformity with social
usages. That he naturally despised
the articles of such a soulless faith
was evident in his constant tnclina-
ton to play hooky. One thing he
rebelled against openly, and with
such firmness that the women did
not press him too strongly for fear
of a general revolt. On no occasion,
however impressive, would he wear
a silk hat. Christmas and birthdays
invariably called forth the gift OF a
silk hat, for the women trusted that
they could overcome resistance by
persistence. He never said anything,
but it was noticed that the hotel
porter or the gardener, or Whatever
masculine head (save his own was
available, came forth resplendent on
feast-days and sundays.
Leaning back in an iron chair, with
his shoulders resting against the oak,
was another man, altogether differ
ent type He was frowning over the
pages of Bagot's Italian Lakes, and
he wasn't making much Roadway.
He was Italian to the core, for all
that he aped the English style and
manner. He could speak the tongue
with fiuency, but he stumbled and
faltered miserably over the soundless
type. His clothes had the Picadll!y
cut and his moustache, erstWhlle
waXed and militant, was cropped at
the corners, thoroughly insular. lie
was thirty, andS undeniably hand
some.
Near the FOUNTAIN on tne sleea H.
of folding up an easel and a camp
stool
The tea-drinkers had gone. 1t was
time for the first bell for dinner.
The Villas omnibus was toiling up
the winding road among the grape
vines. Suddenly Harrigan tilted ms
head sidewise, and the long sllken
ears of the dachel stirred. The ltai-
ian slowly closed his book and per-
mitted his chair to settle on its four
legs. The artist stood mp from his
painting box. From a window In the
village came Il voice; only a Tilt of
melody, no words, half IA dozen
bars from Martha; but every de-
Iehtful note went deep into the three
masculine hearts. Harrigan smiled
and patted the dog. The Italian
scowled at the vegetable garden di-
rectlv below. The artist scowled at
the italian.
s"Fritz, Fritz: here, Fritz"
The dog struggled in Harrigan,
hands and tore himself loose. He
vent Gathering over the path toward
the villa and disappeared into the
doorway. Nothing could keep him
when that voice called He was an
ardent a lover an any, and far more
! favored.
"Oh. YOU funny little dogl You
merry little dachel! Fritz, mustn't;
let eoy" Silence.
The artist knew that she was cud-
ling the puppy to her heart, and his
own grew twisted. He stopped over
his materials again and tied the box
to the easel and the stool, and shifted
them under his arm.
"I'u he up after dinner, Mr.. Har-
rigan." he said.
@AIi right. Abbott" Harrigan
waved his hand pleasantly. He was
becoming so used to the unvaryine
statement that Abbott would be up
after dinner that his reply was by
now purely mechanical. She's get
ting her voice back all right; eh?''
beautifully! But | rally don't