The Tomahawk. [volume] (White Earth, Becker County, Minn.) 1903-192?, 1925-08-13
MILE. TOPAZ
AND HER
TRAINEDCATS
BY LAURA M. MONTGOMERY
20 by Short Story Pub. co.,

most Of the gray. velvety-looking strips
of dust floated down on the blond
head of that first-foor woman" who,
too, was staring out at the lot back
Of their porches.
At what? Oh, you're q fiat dweller,
tool Well, In the center Of the dlngy
lot divided by diagonal paths worn
by the feet Of the U. of G. students,
stood a caravan wagon, dusty and
wearing a singular air Of aloofness.
A piebald horse had been unhar-
messed and was tethered nearby, hunt
ing hopefully for the sparse blades Of
grass that the aforesaid studious feet
had spared. There were no windows
In the caravan, only a narrow door
Of exclusive appearance at the top Of
the shallow step.
The children of the neighborhood
gathered as If by magic. With ear
splitting cat-calls and shrieks for
"Skinnay" to show himself at once,
they swarmed, teasing the old horse,
and Harry, noting with the sharpness
Of street gamin the letter flap in the
door, hurried up and stuck an impu-
dent fist through.
Belinda watched, and when an ago
nized scream broke forth, she laughed
aloud. A yellow, furry claw, had
darted out through the letter flap and
neatly scratched his homely face. No
one expressed any regret as his be-
pulled mother Indignantly bore him
upstairs where he consoled himself by
riding his velocipede over the heads Of
the unfortunates living below.
The caravan perched silently. The
meek horse drowsed, only rousing
himself enough to gently kick at
child who blew mouth-organ In his
ear. The be-puffed lady called up the
Hyde Park Police Station asking why
caravans camped in her back yard.
The "third-hoor" used her opera
glasses, and discovered that the top
Of the wagon was skylight slightly
open. Small faces could be dimly dis
cerned; horrid eyes glittered.
On the porches, kimonoed ladies
scampered back and forth excitedly,
and one woman actually heard the
phone tinkle (the bell ringing in the
first-foor fiat) without Fastening to
take up the receiver and listen.
Belinda found an obscure notice in
the Sunday paper saying Moorish
Princess was hiding in Chicago.
That's her!" she shrilled. "They
always say you're better hidden in
crowd"
Just then black man dressed In
yellow sateen, with his head swathed
in huge turban, sauntered down the
steps of the wagon, mouthing fiercely
and waving the children away. They
withdrew to a safe distance, and made
faces at him as he squatted on the
lowest step and regarded them Ian
guidly.
Harry drew little nearer and said
impertinently:
"Hello, fellow" and spat at him.
With a bound the darky sprang,
drawing his bowie knife. Ut might
have been a bread knife, but it gilt
tered wickedly) Harry ran and his
mothers acidulous tones foated out
thinly:
ooh, sweetheart, wouldn't do that
If was you. Come upstairs"
Sweetheart" responded by break
ing a milk bottle, narrowly missing
the baby's head on the first floor
porch, and skinned out the alley way.
At the appearance Of the yellow
clad figure, gossip ran high. Oh, If
that secretive skylight were only thin
nerl Belinda graphically pictured the
exquisite Moorish girl, her glowing
red cheeks whitened by fear Of the
pursuing harem owner, her slender
arms, weighted by clanking bracelets,
lifted supplicatingly to the hideous
image Of Buddha squattlng horribly
In his shrine.
"But," objected Mrs. Jones, the
landlady, practically "the darby would
wear a disguise instead of those for
eign looking clothes" She lowered
her rasping voice, however, as the
black man rolled the whites Of his
eyes in her direction.
NO, Teplleu belluud SLuDDOruly,
"he expects to escape detection by be-
ing obvious. Didn't you ever hear Of
The Furlined Letter" And Belinda
never dreamed Of the panied smile
on the Poe statue as he turned on
his quarter-sawed oak pedestal and
eavesdropped.
"We-ell, must get my roast in or
thrill be no dinner" sighed Mrs.
Croaker Strengthening her frowzy cap.
1.-THE men have a easy time Sundays,
all right, but a woman's work a-woogle
wiggle-" her voice trailed back as
untidily as the wispy hair struggled
over her bony neck.
All day the caravan drew a crowd.
The literary lady wrote a descrip-
ton dripping with adjectives, Of the
little Moorish Princess weeping on
her pile of skins
Its a shame to tell on her," sne
thought briskly, "but I need the