The Bozeman courier. (Bozeman, Mont.) 1919-1954, 1926-12-17

changed a few words witt some customers,
and watched the closing OF the place for
the customary dinner hour. He remained
alone on the premises for some little time
: after it was deserted by his assistants,
I wandering through the main shop and out
into the warehouse beyond, with its mis-
cellaneOus collection Of gardening tools,
farm implements, wire netting, and garden
chairs. he even went upstairs into the room
given over to sporting goods, knocked alb
sently with his knuckles against the filled
box Of cartridges, took note Of the stock Of
tennis balls, sighed over an accumulation
of crOquet sets, idly tried a cast with a
trout fishing rod which somebody had put
together and forgotten to take to pieces
again.
Everywhere was a familiar OdOr, a mix
ture of tar and oils, and the slightly earthly
smell Of iron goods. It was a very ordinary
place, very ordinary place, very ordinary
sort Of premises, yet here he had made his
steady and comfortable living for many
years. Here and in the little counting house
into which he presently passed had come
to him most of the joys and sorrows of
life, the thrill Of profitable sales, the
gloom of nonsuccess, disquieting rumOrs of
unfair competition. Here had been born the
various schemes which he had launched
for the increase of his business, notably the
substantially built garage, with it's many
signs to attract the passing mOtOrist. There
was not a traveller who had not been glad
Of his business.
Thomas Baker had paid his way with the
best-untn from his boy had come these
constant and pathetic appeals for help.
Now he was q ruined man. A matter of
ten shillings in the pound fer his creditors.
PERHAPS. For himself, what? He glanced
into the recesses Of the warehouse, where
the barrels Of oil were stored. A hook from
the celllng, q rope, and q moose. Why not!
In his small way he was a proud man,
and even the shadow Of forthcoming dis
grace came near to breaking his heart.
He walked up the hill to the red brick
villa which had once been his pride. He
scarcely glanced at the trim little maid
servant who answered the door to him,
nodded to his stout but still cOmely wife.
exchanged a word Of greeting with young
Tom, his other son, and took his place alb
lsently at the head of the table. The ordi-
nary remarks were exchanged, he ate and
drank in the usual way, even asked ques-
tons about the business of the morning.
But the shadow Of unreality was already
resting even upon these everyday happen
ings. All these things belonged to a world
that had been.
Somehow or other, he seemed plagued
all the time by the memory of that dark
shed with its smell of oils, it's stout beam
set amongst the sOmber shadows, and the
coil of rope. Many years ago, Thomas Trio.
ket, the pOstman, charged after forty years
of honorable service with the theft of 8
registered packet, confessed his guilt anC
hung himself. ell found himself wondering
in morbid fashion just what the mans feel
ings had been during that drop into space
whether he had really known or felt any
thing of what was coming.
Then Tom Junior, who had been WAITING
for a favorable opportunity, came out witt
his news.
Dad" he announced, "Mr. CrOcombe o
One Tree farm was in this morning."
what did he want?" his father askec
listlessly.
HE paid his aceount-forty nine pound
seventeen-fOr one thing"
Mr.. Baker showed a spark of interest.
That's good" he said. did he wan
anything?"
"He placed an order with me for one 0
the Exeter roaming machines-wants {
take delivery right away. l saw Mr.. POllet
go down the street this morning. You'll &c
hold of him before he leaves, won't you
dad?"
Mr.. Baker forced himself into a show o
Interest. The transaction was a prOfitabl
one. At another time he would have pate
his son on the back and sent him up t
the cricket nets half an hour earlier. A
it was, the idea Of placing an order wit
Mr.. POllet was like a nightmare to him.
o. (1U be Concluded Next Week.
Copyright, 1925: by e. p. Oppenheim)
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