The Prince George's enquirer and southern Maryland advertiser., 1916-03-31

| waited two months for the answer and
| then 1t came; my check torn across
and a short letter saying that the loss
| had already been met by a bankers
| surety association. | wrote the asSo
| citation a dozen letters and some o;
them took some writing. In the last
I offered fourfold the theft. There had
been plenty of Bible in my bringing
| up. They wrote back that it was nc
use-that could keep on climbing In
| peace but 1t was their business to jai
me for fifteen years the first chance
they got and they'd do it the minute
set foot where they could grab me.
That letter frightened me. be-
| gan to realize that what I'd been work
| ing for wasn't money, or honor. OF
| reha bilitation but just the right to GO
| back-the right to go back home.
Nobody had been harder on me
than my old man. For years nobody
| in the house was allowed to say my
name and if he saw q letter from me
| he threw it in the fire. opened or u1-
| opened. But somehow it got to him
that had offered to pay fourfold and
that I'd been refused and that turned
| him. 1t was the fourfoId that did it
the divine and sacred measure Of jus
tice. He started to fight for me as
| hard as he'd ever fought against. And
| then he died and my old mother died.
Letters stopped, My brothers and sis,
ters were coming up in the world.
They couldn't afford to own a thief
much less fight for him. So the letters
stopped.
81 spent money then. / built me a
house in Pernambuco that was won
der palace and I started ii to forget.
But when you've been remembering
with all your might, the color of the
paper on the walls of home, the lay
of the wood-pile. Of the sheds and the
tumbling barn and stables, the holes
in the fence, the friendly limbs Of ap-
pie trees and the smell of hay: when
you've been coddling bare memories
Of simple things like those for fifteen
years, you can't turn around on your
inside self and forget
There's flag the sight of which
makes my heart come up into my
throat and tears to my eyes You
think | mean the Stars and Stripes,
but l don't. | mean the Blue Peter
that flies at the halyards of big ships
and says to everybody that takes the
trouble to look, we sail today Over
tho tons of tho houSoS I,.-o Soop kho
flag blinking in the heavens like bit
of deep blue sea married to white
cloud aud to me it always said. we
sail for home today I'd shut my eyes
or close the blinds but what was the
use of that? Night and day l could
hear the below of the great horns-a
blast for good-by and another for a
challenge to the sea-as the big boats
headed out for home.
II couldn't stand it. came up here.
And now. last night. dreamed that
heard it in my sleep-up here. Gen
tlemen, man without country is in
bad way but man without home,
even If it's hovel-well--we all know
the old song" He paused to master
his voice. Then in whisper that they
just caught he added. Home Is the
anchor of mans soul I want to go
Home"
Lieber stopped talking The reveal
ing silence had done its work. 1t had
brought them close-so close that he
had spoken lest they take his soul by
assault He left them and went to his
own room. They saw he was an old
man. beyond the years he had dis
closed.
They did not speak They were
nervous. Kemp made a cigarette,
puffed at it once or twice and then
threw it away. to roll another a mo-
ment later. His thoughts were wing
ing away to the fork of Big and Little
Creek where a three-room shack stood
in the shadow of the White mountains
of New Mexico. He had thought it
small. miserable, cramped. But out
here in the wilderness, thousands and
thousands Of miles away, it came back
to his vision. glorifled. A swelling
came into his throat. He tried to
cough it up. But as long as he thought
Of the mountain, the thickness stuck
In his throat. He took from his pocket
a treasured cake of tobacco and with
strong teeth tore of generous por-
ton. Then he rose and walked off to
the corral.
Gerry sat on alone. Thoughts were
troubling him, too. What was he do
ing here? Who was this Margarita
that had twined herself into his life?
Was it his life? 81. her little boy
black-haired. black-ey ed; Give tinted
he was his boy, too He was Gerry
Lansing's son. No, not that-not Ger
~ Lansing's. Gerry Lansing belonged
to time that was far away, to a hill
where white houses with green blinds
peered out from the darkness of
domed naples, from the long shadows
of appointing frs and from the caves
of fiaring elms, the wine-cups of heav-
EN-. sigh came quivering through all
his body and escaped from his trem-
bling lips. Il am alone" he breathed
to himself.