The citizen-Republican. (Scotland, Bon Homme County, S.D.) 1???-19??, 1915-03-11


my mother let's talk about yours. Do
you know what she was? Say. do you?
Do you know what she did? She was
a bad woman. She was a woman like
well, you know what French Fanny
is down in Fourth street, don't you?
She keeps a house of Ill fame. Nobody
speaks to her, do they? Amt every
girl in own warned against being the
kind of woman she is? Well, Aunt
Mary was like French Fanny. She was
a prostitute. She
Eric al upon him like a wildcat.
pummelling. scratching and kicking.
older boy fell back before it. shouting
In mingled rage and disnay. The
smaller boy, blinded by fury, struck
wildly and without much effect, but
Chetwynd would have fled from his at
tack If it had been possible. The trellis
barred the way to escape. He was
compelled to stand and defend. For
tune favored him in an unexpected
manner. Eric stumbled and fell to his
knees. Before he could recover, the
larger boy was upon him, bearing him
to the ground.
Despite his most valiant efforts, Eric
could not throw him off He was forced
to endure a vicious pumalelfing. His
nose, his lips and an ear We're soon
bleeding. Tears of rage and chagrin
10 ~ 'S - wv ~
less, but his cousin was relentless.
Between blows, Chetwynd ground out
the bitterest taunts he could invent.
There was nothing too vile for him to
apply to the father and mother of his
helpless victim.
That's h she vast" he kept on
repeating. And that's what your sis
ter will be, too. She'll go to the devil,
just as Aun Mary did. Shut your
mouth, blame you! There. ThatIl
shut it, I guess. And you'll be as dirty
low as your father was, too. Every
body says so. They're just waiting to
see when it crops out. I've heard EN-
say so. They pray for yeu. Did you
Mary. The have Mr.. Pressure pray for
you, too. He does it every Sunday.
But you'll both go to the gutter. Pray
ers won't help, you can bet on that.
You're going to shoot somebody in the
back some day and Mary's going to be
a Ouch! oh, you will, will you?
AXE that, and that! 1 guess father
ought to know He's your mothers
brother. If he hasn't a good word for
her, I'd like to know who has. But
what does he say about her? Mother
tells me all about it. She don't lie. She
tells the TRUTH
He would have gone en- until ex-
hausted, perhaps, had not intervention
boy. Little Mary a been attracted
by sounds of the conflict. A glance had
shown here the situation. She ran
screaming to the house, alarming her
aunt. Mrs. Blagden lost no time in
going TO the rescue of her son!
She separated them and dragged Eric
to his feet, shaking him violently by
the ollar Then she led him by the ear
to the house ~harranguing him every
step of the way, while Chetwynd fol-
lowed close behind bawling out trium-
phantly that Eric a called her a har,
and a thief, and a bad woman.
The victim was thrust unceremoni-
ously into a dark closet, without being
allowed to utter a word in his own de-
Tense.
Your uncle shall attend to you when
he comes home from the bank, young
man," said Aunt Rena as she locked
the door. Then she went downstairs
and made the exasperating mistake of
asking Chetwynd how badly the little
ruffian had injured him. Her son flung
himself from the room, much to her
dismay. If she had been listening
closely she might have heard herself
alluded to as a "darned old fool" by her
precious offspring.
For three bleak, unhappy hours the
small boy who is to become the hero
OF this narrative remained in the dark
ened w~indowless closet. from which
there was no escape. He chafed for a
long time under the rank injustice that
put him there. His little heart was full
of the bitterest hatred for these unfair
inquisitors; his soul writhed in an ag-
n of shame and humiliation, out OF
which sprung the ever recurring hope
that he might die there in his prison,
If only to make his aunt feel that she
had been the cause of his death. He
was not old enough to be a philosopher;
he could not see beyond the present in
dignity. There was no hope ahead. so
far as he could see. His whole life
seemed cramped and squeezed into this
narrow cruel hour or two of despair.
He was crushed, but there was a dog
ged fury in his soul that would not be
conquered. Chetwynd had reviled his
mother. He could not get over that.
He could not at once grasp the full
force of the charges brought against
her, but there was no doubt in his mind
that French Fanny was the lowest of
all Gods creatures. To compare his
dear, pretty mother to that dreadful
woman was the ugliest thought that
could come to his mind And yet Chef
Wynd had said she was as bad as
French Fanny. And he had said, too.
that little Mary would grow up to be
the same kind of woman. The poor
boy threw himself On the floor Of his
cell, and wept bitter tears, sobbing
himself into a slurnber from which he
was aroused by the faint sound of tap
ping at his door.