Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1922-10-20

their wretched, sullen lives. He had to
fiRht them. more than once. ano had
they united against him he might nave
been killed. But they never united
Their own personal animosities anu
ansers kept them apart, as their misery
held them together. And as time went
on and his muscles hardened no was
able to give a better account ot him-
self. The time came when they let MIN
alone, and when one day BIG snocker
fell OF q stack and broke his leg and
Dick set Il, he gained their respect.
They asked no questions. for their law
was that the past was the past. They
did not like him, but in the queer
twisted ethics Of the camp they judged
the secret behind him by the height from
which he had fallen, and began slowly
to accept him as Of the brotherhood OF
derelicts.
with his improvement in his physical
condition there came toward the end OF
the summer, a more rapid subsistence Of
the food Of the long past. He had
slept out one night in the fields. where
the uncut alfalfa was bellcd with purple
flowers and yellow buttercups rose and
nodded above him. With the first touch
Of dawn on the mountains he wakened
to a clarity Of mind like that of the
morning. He felt almost an exaltntion.
lie stood up and threw out his arms.
1t was all his again. never to lose,
the old house. and David and Lucy the
little laboratory the church on Sunday
mornings. Mike, whlstling in the stable.
A wave Of love warmed him, a great
surging tenderness. lie would 60 back
to them. They were his and he was
theirs. 1t was at first only great
emotion; q tingling jOyOusness, q vast
relief, as of one who sees, from n far
distance, the lights in the windows Of
home. Save for the gap between the
drunken revel at the ranch and his
awakening to David's face bending over
him in the cabin. everything was clear.
Still by an effort. but successfully, he
could unite now the two portions Of his
life with only n scar between them.
Not that he formulated 1t. 1t was a
mood, an impulse of unreasoning happi-
ness. The last cloud had gone, the
last bit Of mist from the valley. HI
snw Haverly, and the children who
played in it's shaded streets Mike wash
ing the old car, and the ice cream
freezer on Sundays, wrapped in sack.
ing on the kitchen porch. Jim Wheeler
came back to him. the weight Of his
coffin dragging at his right hand as he
helped to carry 1t he was kneeling be-
side Elizabcth's he'd. and putting his
hand over her staring eyes SO she would
20 to sleep.
The glow died away, and he began
him, along with the life they repre-
sented. And already he began to lool;
back on his period Of forgetfulness with
regret. At least then he had not known
what he had lost.
He wondered again what they knew.
What did they think? II they believed
him dead. was that not kinder than
the truth? Outside of David and Lucy.
and of course Bassett. the sole founda-
tion on which any search for him had
rested had been the semi -hysterical
recognition of Hattie Thorwald. But
he wondered how far that search had
gone.
Had It extended for enough to involve
David? Had the hue and cry died away.
or were the police still searching for
without involving him in his own
trouble? For David, fine, wonderful old
David--Davld had deliberately OBJ
structetl the course Of justice, and was
an accessory after the fact.
Up to that time he had drifted,
unable to set course in the fog. but
noWhe could see the way, and 1t led Elm
back to Noradn. He would not COM
municate with David. He would 20 out
of the lives Of the old house as he had
gone In. under lie. When he sur
rendered 1t would be as Judson Clark,
with his lips shut tight on the years
since his escape. Let them think, II
they would, that the curtain that had
closed down over his memory had not
lifted, and that he had picked up life
again where he had laid 1t down. The
incriminate David.