Plentywood herald. [volume] (Plentywood, Mont.) 1908-current, 1936-04-09

over the big chair. and looked through
the glass into a cluster of bushes. IL
Illuminated from the windows, that
tossed their tops frantlcally, as though
moved by wild despair. ITS a filthy
night" the mar In the dressing gown
thought, as he sauntered back to the
cracking logs, drawing contentedly at
his cigar, and pauslng TO take a book
from the loaded shelves. "A filthy
night"
In the thick Of 1t he had been an
hour before. Pennlless. ov~ercoatless,
trudglng along the cement-paved road
from Bridgehampton. five miles to the
east. Was 1t five miles. he thought, or
fifteen, or fifty7 On foot. he had left
New York that morning just after day
break. JObless and fiat broke.
For a month-all through April, In
fact-the Duke had tramped the streets
looking for "a regular job" what
the hi makes me want to keep
straight" he had asked himself, again
and again. That's all right for s1ys
with an Income. If ~somebody'd started
me In a rubber-tired pram. and wheeled
me into college, and out again into
papa's ofice-sure, I'd run straight.
Why not7 Who couldn't be a knight In
armor2 But being a knight without
armor-that's different. When you get
dumped into a fight, naked, with nothing
but your bare fists, and the whole
world coming at you with brick bats
and brass knuckles, what a id fool
you are to stick to the Marquis OF
Queensbury Rulesw
Still, he had stuck-reasonably, at
least-in the face of what seemed al
most a conspiracy Of Encouragement.
Fired out of Hollywood for a theft OF
which he was innocent as an unborn
babe. "All right" he had said; "Pve
got a few hundreds saved, and I'll go
East, and start all over again." Con-
fdently, he had left the railway sta
ton In Chicago, only to have his pocket
picked before he had got as far as
the hotel. He had nearly frozen In
Chicago. He had nearly starved. And
then he had hitch-hiked to New York,
riding freights when he could. A pal
had christened him "the Duke" be-
aus Of his clothes, and his English,
and the grand manner he had acquired
In Fflmd0m.
New York-with those Hollywood
shoes wearing thin, and that Holly
wood gray suit. that had cost $125. get.
ting frayed and baggy. Part Of a Job
less army In a city without Jobs. he
had eaten his overcoat-or the pro
ceeds from 1t, at any rate-and paid
the last dime for a bunk In a flop
house.
A love Of books, q sense of humor,
and the wanderlust-these he had
inherited from an Irish father, whose
name was Francis X. Gilbert, and
whose proudest boast was that he
came from the University of Dublin,
He had died In China, nearly six years
ago, leaving the seventeen-year-old
boy, Barry, to fight his way from Hong
Kong to Hollywood, and from Chicago
to New York. And so Barry had
crossed the greensboro Bridge to Long
Island, and picked up a truck. and
charmed the driver into buying him a
pretty good lunch at Huntington. Bay
Shore In a passing car, and Sayville on
foot, and another truck to B%ridgehamp-
ton, where he had lost his bearings and
tramped back miles before he found
himself again on the edge of South
ampt0n.
1t was black night, and beginning to
rain. A cold wind had sprung up from
the northeast. An endless, winding
road, and wind-and-rain-swept dunes,
with solitary houses. Grand houses
they were, all Of them. A few had