The Carlisle independent., 1917-07-12
JOHN JONES-HERO!
By JOAN RUGBY.


 kiss.
 By, dearl" he said, putting on his hat with one hand and taking out his watch with the other. Mrs. Jones knew what he was going to say next. He said it. Five minutes. Guess I'm all right"
 If he had not uttered those very words as he had every morning, except Sundays and holidays, for 15 years. Mrs. Jones would have taken his tem- perature and sent for the doctor. Jones was very methodical, deadly method ical.
 If Mir. Jones missed his train-al- though that never happened-it would have been not because he was late but because the train was early and if he came down to breakfast ten minutes ahead of time it was not that MT. Jones was early but that the clock was slow and breakfast late. MT. Jones was never wrong; he was never ex- cited nor in a hurry, nor out of hu- nor, nor anything, for that matter. but plain John Jones. Even his name had to be John If it had only been Florian, or Absalom, or Ishkabiladab, or something!
 Mrs. Jones sighed. It wasn't a sigh of regret, for she had nothing to re- gret. John was good to her. The trou- ble was that Mrs. Jones would have welcomed something to sigh for. If only something would happen Any thing,
 Every other woman she knew had something to keep her occupied. To be sure, it was trouble in some cases; but even trouble is better than an empty nothing.
 Mrs. Jones began to realize that something was very much wrong this morning. She was tired of washing the dishes and putting them away only to get them out again for lunch; she was tired of alarming Johns little, worn socks, tired of making apple tapioca pudding the way John liked it, tired of doing everything.
 Finally she went into the living room. There was Johns chair with the deep hollow worn in tke seat, there was the footstool he liked, his smoking stand. his humidor, the book he had been reading with the place carefully marked Mrs. Jones looked at all these things with sudden revulsion and gave the stool little kick out of the way. John Jones' I'm sick and tired of everything" she said aloud. then started at the sound of her own voice. What's wrong with me to be acting like this, I wonderl But I can't help it whatever it is"
 Then she turned to a picture of her husband she kept on the top of her desk. 'Fll tell you what's wrong, John Jones. I'm tired and sick of every thing, and I'm tired of-of you. Yes, I am. I don't care. I can't help it. You're just the same all the time and I can't stand it. You'll go on being perfect till your dying day and I'll go crazy"
 The morning wore on and Mrs. Jones finally went about her work. The old apathy had replaced the turbulence of the early hours-but with a difference. Her resentment against her husband had come to stay and she was already planning dozen ways to rid herself of this monotonOus thrall that bound her.
 q could go to Aunt Mary's in the country for month, but that wouldn't help much. It would be just the same when I came back. Or l could study to be nurse. but John wouldn't let me. and, of course. now that I am married to him I guess he has right to expect me to stay at home and keep house for him."
 The surprise came when Mrs. Jones was in the kitchen rolling out the crust of lemon custard pie.
 MT. Jones walked in-the only time in 15 years he had come home before the five-ten train in the afternoon. And with him came a uniform of khaki for he had it on.
 The rolling pin clattered to the floor and Mrs. Jones, with smudge of flour on one pretty pink cheek. opened her mouth without uttering a sound.
 MT. Jones' eyes twinkled with amuse- ment. Salute your superior officer, Mrs. Jones'" he commanded. coming near and turning his cheek for a kiss.
 "Why, John, you-youre not going to war, are youW Her face blanched and her voice trembled.
 Sure I am. I'm going to camp any way. The commission came today. It is because of my experience in the Spanish war. I'm major now. I am going to train the youngstersl" !"
 But aren't you afraid, John? You might be killed!"
 Afraid! Killed! Pooh! I won't: but if am, what's the difference? We only live once. But don't worry, little girl, I'm not going to get hurt What l want to know is, can we tear up here and store things and will you come along? There's a place for you if you will, girlie." His voice was full of xnI