The midland journal., 1914-06-05

~ SAuS HGAS N7tVuAAu6 duu huCuC
a while upon this same gracious spot,
once dear to Pliny the younger
Seated on one OF the rustic benches,
his white tennis shoes resting against
the lower iron Of the railing, a Bava-
rian dachel snoozing comfortably
across his knees, was a man Of fifty
He was broad of shoulder, deep of
chest, and clean-shaven. He had laid
aside his Panama hat, and his hair
was clipped closely, and was pleas
antly and honorably sprinkled with
gray. His face was broad and tanned;
the nose was tilted, and the wide
mouth was both kindly and humorous.
One knew, from the tint Of his blue
eyes and the quirk Of his lips, that
when he spoke there would be bit
of brogue. He was James Harrigan,
one time celebrated in the ring for his
gameness, his sQuareness, his endur-
ance; Battling Jimmie" Harrigan,
who, when he encountered his first
knockout, retired from the ring. He
had to his credit sixty-one battles, of
which he had easily won forty. He
had been outpointed in Some and had
broken even in others; but only once
had he been 'railroaded into dream
land" to use the parlance of the game.
That was enough. He understood.
Youth would be served, and he was
no longer young. He had, unlike the
many in his peculiar service, lived
cleanly and with wisdom and fore
sight: he had saved both his money
and his health. Today he was at
peace with the world, with three
sound appetites the day and the
wherewithal to crafty them.
Today Battling Jimmie" was for
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, diff
cult 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 q princess or duchess; i
it was hard to remember when to
change the studs in his shirt; and q
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 bowknot. BY judicious blow in
that spot where the ribs divaricate he
could right well tie his adversary into
bowknot, but this string of white
lawn was most damnable thing.
Still, the puttering of the two women,
their daily concern over his deport-
ment, was bringing him into conform
ity with social usages. One thing he
rebelled against openly, and with such
flrmness that the women did not press
him too strongly for fear OF general
revolt. On no occasion, however I'm
pressive, would he wear a silk hat.
Christmas and birthdays invariably
called forth the gift of silk hat, for
the women trusted that they could
overcome resistance by persistence.
He never said anything, but it was mo-
ticed that the hotel porter, or the gar
dener, 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 the Barone. altogether differ
ent type. He was frowning over the
pages of Bagot's Italian Lakes, and
he wasn't making much headway. He
was italian to the core, for all that
he aped the English style and man
ner. He could speak the tongue with
fiuency, but he stumbled and faltered
miserably over the soundless type.
His clothes had the Piccadilly cut,
and his mustache. erstwhile waxed
and militant, was cropped at the cor
ners, thoroughly insular. He was
thirty, and undeniably handsome.
Near the fountain, on the green,
was third man. He was in the act
Of folding up an easel and camp
stool.
From window in the villa came a
voice; only a Tilt of a melody, no
words, half dozen bars from
Martha; but every delightful note
went deep into the three masculine.
hearts. Harrigan smiled and patted
the dog. The Italian scowled at the
vegetable garden directly below. The
artist seowled at the Italian.
Fritz, Fritz: here, Fritz!"
The dog struggled In Harrigan's
hands and tore himself loose. He
went clattering over the path toward
the villa and disappeared into the door
way. Nothing could keep him when
that voice called. He was as ardent
lover as any, and far more favored.
"Oh, you funny little dog! You
merry little dachel! Fritz. mustn't;
let gor Silence.
The artist knew that she was cud-
ding 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.