The Washington times., 1918-08-25

close to his head. and the attic was mustJ
and heavy with the smell Of drying soap
Jim settled himself on his knees at the
window, the revolver on the floor beside
him.
Through all the turmoil in his mind, one
thing was clear-he would never 90 to the
living death of the penitentiary The six
chambers Of the revolver were six sure
roads of escape.
Below, the cutters were filled with water,
that sparkled and bubbled in the electric
light. Some one was standing across the
street, in the shadow Of a doorway, and
Jim knew at once that the house was
watched
After a time the rain slackened, and the
man across the street sat down on a door
step, an umbrella over his head. Jim
watched him. steadily. He grew cramped
in his constrained position; his knees
ached when he tried to straighten them
and his eyes burned from peering through
the darkness.
Below. through the thin flooring, he
could hear his mother walking. sudden
shame for this new trouble he had brought
on her came over him. He who had been
so self-righteous, who that very night had
refused to give his convict father a home
he was murdererI
When he looked out again the man
across the street had gone It was dawnl
nova cold, wet dawn, gray and cheer!
less. Here and there the chimneys Of thei
houses around began to show faint blue
lines of smoke, in preparation for the early
breakfast of the neighborhood.
He heard his mother go stinly down.
stairs, heard the shutters open, and the
rush and yelp of his setter as It dashed
into the little yard after a night in the
kitchen. Then there were voices. He
picked up the revolver and held 1t clum-
silly, his fingers stif with cold; but no one
came up the stairs, and he relaxed again.
The trunks and boxes around him were
taking shape now. He saw things he had
not seen for years. There was the quaint
high chair, battered with the heels of lusty
babies. He could remember his youngest
brother, dead long ago. sitting in it.
There was the old squirreI-cage. rusty
now, and over in a corner, still showing
traces of its gorgeous paint of years be-
fore. was the red wagon his father had
painstakingly made for him from a wooden
box. The tongue was gone, and one clumsy
wheel lay forlornly in the wagon-bed; but
Jim could see, with the distinctness that
long-past events sometimes assume, his
fathers head, gray even then, bent over
that uncouth wagon, painting it with un-
accustomed fingers and lettering a name
on the side. The name was quite clear
stf1l-the "Jim Dandy"
Jim got up and sat on a trunk to rest
his cramped muscles. The walls of the
narrow room began to oppress him, like
the walls Of cell, and the little red wagon
stood out, very passion of color, in the
gray OF its surroundings He could not
escape it; it was a symbol of the Joy Of
the past in the hopelessness of the present.
Jim turned his back to it and gazed
down at the street. Men with dinner
buckets-the Sunday shift at the mill.
were leaving the houses around. their hats
drawn down, their coat-collars turned up
around their ears. When they overlook
one another they fell into step silently.
One man stopped. Just across.
and looked over at the Priestley house.
jim opened the window and whistled
softly The other man stepped to the curb
and made trumpet with his hands.
i hung around here half the night wait.
ing for you" he called. Say HallOweII's
all right. He came around in half an hour
and went home
The revolver clattered to the floor and
lay there. Jim nodded silently ana closed
me window. As ne turned a thin, watery
shatt OF yellow sunlight came through the
window and the little red wagon cleaned
ioyously
When Jim went into the kitchen the
able was laid for breakfast. The setter
eaped at him with moist caresses. but
INNS eyes were on a stopped figure in a
;halr' by the stove. His mother held out
pleading hand, but Jim did not see it,
he went across the room TO the old man
n the rockingchair. and leaned over him.
lis hands on the bent shoulders.
welcome home. dad. he said huskily,
Welcome hOme!"
Copyright. Frank 4. MunSev Coz