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^5s=£=^ FRANK SCOBIE. 41-B, Sleepy Eye, Minn. Mo»r 8. Son. 2103 St. Jamm Ave., Cincinnati, O.
CJhe poster fathers
university. The clothes you see in the
picture cost the whole of my last month's
allowance . . .
"But don't imagine that I shall always
demand such fine raiment. I have no false
ideas about life. Like butterflies, we poor
people have but a short summertime,
don't wc? So, please, just let me have
my one little butterfly dance in the sun,
and then I shall settle down and help earn
the living for us both. I have a feeling
that life is a struggle for you as well....
"I love you so much, dear father!
Isn't it strange that I love you, even
though I never have seen you? . . .
Sometimes, when I think over your
letters, perhaps when I am falling asleep—
when I'm just on the border line between
sleeping and waking, you know—it seems
to me that I have known you always and
forever. Do you mind my saying this?
I hesitated before saying it; but you have
been my father for such a long time, and
surely you will not mind if I show you
my thoughts. They are good thoughts;
for life is good and you are good, and the
future is a splendid thing . . .
And in this vein the letter went on to
the end, and was signed simply "Jean."
But after the signature was the inevitable
postscript:
"I love you, dear foster father! "
ONCE more Garry climbed up the
breast'of Table Butte and ,sat miserably
among the rocks watching the night
creeping over the rim of the world like
a somber pall gathered from the four
corners of the earth to shroud a poor
dead day.
Even so the pall of despair was wrapping
Garry's own soul and mocking him
for a poor, fatuous pretense of a foster
father. He was no foster father. He
never had been a foster father. He had
been a lover all the time! He knew it
now, and the realization crushed him
until he felt as old as the grim hill which
towered into the night behind him. He
loved this girl! Not with a fosterfatherly
affection, but with the jealous
love of youth which watches the stars
come out and senses the vague mystery
of life when the moonlight steals into
the blood. He loved her! And now
he had gone so far that he never could
hope to square himself!
And Jean—she loved her foster father!
The same foster father that sent checks
signed "Jacob Shinn"! Poor Garry's
heart toppled over into an abyss of woe
and splashed as it hit the black waters
of jealousy below. Who was he, Garry
McEwan?
Nobody! Jean had never even heard
of him. . . .
Garry's next letter was even more
fatherly than ever, though the writing
of it filled the young man with the
torture of honest shame. He realized
the enormity of his action. All through
his letter—he could see it now—sounded
the voice of the lover, hiding behind the
skirts of foster-fatherly privilege and
not daring to come out. He knew he
ought to confess.
But he could not find it in his heart
to give the matter up. He knew he was
a fool—he acknowledged it bitterly and
smote his breast. But a fool is like a
jackass: he never backs out of trouble.
He doesn't know how.
Old Topango Jake Shinn walked
snryly into the post office and got his
mail. He was full of the joy of life, for
out in the desert men do not grow old.
"You shorely have got a noble feelin'
today, Jake," ventured the postmaster.
"Where'd you get it?"
"Ain't none on the desert ," said
Tcpango. " That is, so far as I know."
U'ONTINUBD FROM FAUE 341))
The postmaster handed the mail
through the wicket. "Then what's got
you all jazzed up?" he inquired . "I
heard you singin' as you came in. You
was singin' that there Bill McGummon
song."
"I' m full of jack rabbit," grinned old
Topango. "Once in so often I got to
have a jack rabbit dinner to remind me
of the old days."
THE old prospector went outside and
began opening his mail , sitting upon
the edge of the porch. There were several
important communications, for now
Topango was a very rich man, and his
word was most influential in the mining
district of Table Butte.
Humming to himself , Topango came
at last to a thick, square envelope. He
did not recognize it, for he was thinking
deeply about the letter he had just read.
But Garry McEwan would have known.
Mechanically the old man's thumb
broke the edges apart. Abstractedly
Topango brought his eyes to the written
page. For a moment he sat thus, then
the abstraction left him in a flash and
his bony figure stiffened tensely. He
caught his breath and his ancient eyes
goggled at the letter in his shaking
hands.
He sprang to his feet and started
down the street toward the hotel, his
frenzied feet kicking sand high in the
air as he hurried along. But when he
reached the door he paused with his
hand on the knob.
"Garry ain't here!" he muttered
tremulously. "He went up on the
Butte today—I forgot all about that!"
He fished the old red bandanna out of
his hip pocket and wiped his bald head,
breathingconvulsively. "Love of Mike",
he half sobbed. "Whatever am I goin'
to do!"
He opened the door and proceeded
straight back to the kitchen. All was
peaceful there. At the table he found
Aunt Caddie Siphers engaged upon the
evening's batch of biscuits, her plump
bare arms covered with flour. She
turned and regarded Topango benevolently.
"Somepin' after you, Jake?" she
inquired. "You look fussed!"
Topango dropped the letter upon the
sink and backed toward the kitchen
door.
"Garry," he stuttered thickly. "Give
it to Garry! It's his letter—"
A moment later the front door
banged , and the amazed Aunt Caddie
was left alone with a mystery in the
shape of a thick letter which lay upon
the sink and looked harmless.
Yes, it looked harmless! But a ton of
dynamite dropped squarely into the
middle of the Table Butte mining district
would not have created more of a
mental upheaval.
THE eveningstage came in. Two hours
after the arrival of the stage Garry
McEwa n entered the hotel and charged
toward the dining room in a hurry, for
he was late. Aunt Caddie served him,
then took a seat opposite the young
man , and watched him through her
glasses. Garry was nearly through his
dinner when Aunt Caddie spoke.
"In college, Garry," "she said, "what
did they teach you?"
"Oh—the regular things," said Carry
lightly, and named them.
"Was there a course in literature or
(CONTINUED ON P AOR :)fi" )