The Washburn times. [volume] (Washburn, Wis.) 1896-1976, 1914-11-19

with angry scorn. Twenty years later
| met him again. He had gone to
congress and was blasting his way
upwards toward fame. / was assigned
to interview him. He remembered me
instantly. For moment he stared at
me from head to foot, then he turned
away without word and never
touched the hand offered him. My
God! how that hurt!" A shiver went
through the mans body.
That happened twenty-five years
ago." said Merry hesitatingly. you
can't lay up boyhood sin against
man. He changes-he's almost an
ether human being"
mo, he isn't" answered Wentworth
Aoggedly. II want to show you that
the psychological fellow was in the
right. That was my first fall from
grace; but there was a second lesion
1t was worse, worse even than-than
what | did to you, Merry. / was out
in the Balkan mountains where the
blamed barbarian Turks go tearing at
each others Threats once in so often
The world looked on, waiting for a
story of war. had none to tell, moth
Ing happened but skirmish or two
once in while. There was nothing
man could make into story. 1t
was a wretched campaign. Young
Forsyth, of the Tribune, and | hung
together through it for months, living
like stray dogs, sick to death of our
job, and ready to throw it up at any
moment. One morning at daybreak
we were awakened by shooting. We
scrambled from the cave where we
had slept and looked down into the
valley. We were in the very heart of
battle, and these savages were climb
ing over the rocks with their cutlasses
flashing. They shrieked like maniacs,
the bullets went flying about our
heads. crept back to the hole among
the rocks where we had spent the
night. l couldn't see what was hap
pening; I didn't want to see. Death
shrieks echoed all around and above
me. 1t was the most hellish din of
battle ever listened to. / had turned
coward. / lay there with every tooth
in my head chattering. A nice con-
fession for man to make. eh?" asked
Wentworth with a grim smile.
Merry half rose then dropped back
into his chair. Hold on, Enoch, |
swear you're not fit for this sort of
thing! Your temperature will go up.
then the nurse"
Damn the nurse. I'm fit enough:
keep still. l want to finish my story.
Forsyth, the intrepid young fool. went
creeping along the face Of the clin.
He had never seen a battle before.
called to him to lie low, but he never
needed me. Through crevice in the
rock | saw him stretch his head over
the chasm and crane his neck. then
plunge down and begin to write as II
he were mad. Once l sneaKed GU;
and tried to drag him in beside me-
He fought like wildcat so | went
back to shelter. The bullets pinged on
the rocks all around me. Suddenly
heard a low, gurgling, awful cry and
somebody called my name in hoarse
shout. 1t was Forsyth. / crept out.
He stood on a cliff above me, clutch
ing at his throat, then he toppled and
fell. He came plunging down over the
rocks until he reached my feet He
was dead, stark dead, when | pulled
him into the cave. His notebook was
clutched so tight in his hand that
tore corner from one page as took
it from his fingers. buried him right
there.
After little while the battle fig
zled down to stray shot or two. That
night under the CLEAN of a suffering
little torch l read Forsyth's story 1t
was tremendous-perfectly tremen-
dous-perfectly tremendous! 1t read
like inspired stuff l had never
dreamed the fellow had such vocab-
ulary. And he lay there close beside
me, asleep-under the damp, warm.
soft earth. had fit of the horrors.
put out my light, stuffed the pages
of writing in my pocket. then went
doubling and twisting down those wild
mountains, lodging the enemy's camp
fires and their Internal bullets, until
| reached the miserable little town in
the valley we two men had our
headquarters. ] hurried to the tele-
graph Office to send out Forsyth's story
to the Tribune, with the news of mis-
death. / was waiting to get the wire
when somebody handed me a cable.
| looked at it half-dazed. 1t came from
my own paper, crazy because l had
sent them no story; they were hungry
as vultures for news. AS soon as i
could get wire sent out Forsyth's
story"
Under his name?" asked Merry
quietly.
No" Enoch lifted his head, looked
at his friend with guilt and shame in
his eyes, then ne turned away. mo.
| signed my own name to it. l sent
it to my own paper. i wired the news
of Forsyth's death to the Tribune"
Neither of the men spoke for some
minutes. When Merry turned. Went
worth lay staring at him with pray
er for pity, comprehension, and for
giveness in his eyes.
Il want you to understand one
thing" pleaded the older man. When
you called my bluff that morning and
wrote that bond, ! was innocent OF
my thought of injury to you. | don't
know what was in my mind 1t was
nothing in the world but an idle fancy.
| told you so at the time. ! did not
dream that you could write play. If
anyone had told me you were capable