The Washington times., 1922-12-30


shadows something stirred and a
mans hoarse cough broke the
silence.
The Fortune Hunter stood still.
his heartbeats quickening a little.
for he knew who waited there
for him, and. with a morbid
dread Of being moved from his
determination, he turned hur-
riedly back. skirted the boundary
Of the garden till he reached a
low part Of the wall some twenty
feet from the spot where Fernie
kept his patient vigil; then he
climbed it and dropped into the
road below.
He walked swiftly away to-
wards the village. then, without
a backward glance, his head down.
bent, his shoulders dropping. still
carrying his shabby hat, and
presently the morning mist and
the mist from the river together
shut out Cherry Lodge as II with
an obscuring veil.
TO LONDON.
In his numbed heart was
vague feeling of gratitude to
Fernie that he had waited SO long
and patiently through the chilly
autumn night to say goodbye, or,
perhaps, to try and persuade him
NOT to 60. II was something to
know that perhaps the old man
felt a shadow of regret, even Of
affection.
At the end of the village a
signpost stood at crossroads. and
the Fortune Hunter glanced up
at the directions mechanically.
ITO London" Garry Cannon
was there, and would be glad to
see him, he knew, but he was in
no mood for Cannon's blunt SYM
pathy, and 1t was deliberately that
he turned and struck across the
fields through which he had come
to Somerton that first day.
The entrance to the woods
where he had found the body Of
John Smith was strewn with
dead and dying leaves. The foot
path was almost covered with
them. The tall bracken was
brown and withered and help
lessly bending earthward.
1t was autumn in the world.
autumn in the Fortune Hunters
heart, as. he went on. without
glancing to the right or left, and
out into the field on the other
side. shut off by the five-barred
gate.
1t was here that he had sat a
little less than seven weeks ago,
on his eight-and-twentieth birth
day, and counted his few remain.
inng shillings. He had been
hoppyp Ah a Soi CACo6 Vayp anu
since then he had known q tar
greater happiness, mingled with
all the sorrow Of the world. And
now that, too. was ended, and 1t
seemed to the Fortune Hunter
almost as il life itself must end
here where It had begun.
He put his arms on the top o.
the gate and looked across the
barren field to the wood beyond
and the thin spire Of Somerton
Church, which was all he could
see Of the village. The river and
Cherry Lodge were shut out by
the trees, but he saw them all
as faithfully AZ II they were
there before his eyes-as he
would see them to his dying day.
And he thought Of Anne and
the way she had clung to him
only last night in the dark land
ing.
''If you had left me, I should
have followed you to the end Of
the world. Promise me you will
stay-promise me!'
How many times in the future
would not her words come back
to torture him with doubt. Had
1t been the right thing to gor
Ought he to have stayed? But It
was too late now; by his own ac-
ton he had written the end to
the story.
Finished! The word seemed
blazoned acros the gray sky and
the brown, barren field.
The first ray Of morning sun
shine pierced the clouds and
touched the Fortune Hunters
haggard face with kind railery.
The beginning Of a new day.
which for him was the end of
everything.
There was probably no more
miserable man in Somerton that
night than old Fernie, az he
walked slowly away from Cherry
Lodge through the darkness, his
pipe hanging cold and detected