Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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' ! Parrot ' & Co. ! By Harold MacGrath l ! mnam?mm -i n, mw.iiiwwi? 3 i ??BMM?BK "*" "-"T-mm E Author of | *TIioCarpet From Busrdad,'* I MTh? Place of Honey moous," R 1 J Etc. tr.Piif, uiL^nmya, 1>i i i?imfi looked up from a busy man's desk. It was the son; so far, the one familiar face Warrington had seen since his arrival. There was no hand shaking; there was nothing in evidence on eilher side to invite it. "Ah! Sit down, Paul. Let no one disturb me lor an hour," the young vice-president advised the boy. "And close the door as you go out." Warrington sat down; the bridge builder whirled his chair around and stared at his visitor, not insolently, but with kindly curiosity. "You've tilled out," was all he said After fully satisfying his eyes, he added: "I dare say you expected to find father. He's been gone six years," indicating one of the two portraits over his desk. It was not at the "old man" Warrington looked longest. "Who is the other?" he asked. "What? You worked four years with this company and don't recollect that portrait?" "Frankly, I never noticed it before." Wnrrinclnii nionnri ' * a i ijit: ctjnineu cneck on the desk. "With interest," he said. The vice-president crackled it, ran his fingers over his smooth chin, folded the check and extended it toward the astonished wanderer."We don't want that, Paul. What we wanted was to get you back. There was no other way. Your brother made up the loss the day after you . . . went away. There was no scandal. Only a few of us in the ofilce knew. Never got to the newspapers." It was impossible for Warrington to digest this astounding information at once. His mind could only repeat the phrases: No scandal, only a few of us in the office knew, never got to the newspapers. For ten years he had hidden himself in wildernesses, avoided hotels, read no American newspa- < pers, never called for mail. Oh, monu- i mental fool! "And I could have come home al- ' most at once!" lie said aloud, addressing the crumpled check in his hand 1 rather than the man in the swivel chair. < "Yes. I have often wondered where you were, what you were doing. You ' * and your brother were upper-class- 1 men. I. rev or knew Arthur very well; 1 but you and I were chummy, after a 1 fashion. Arthur was a little too book ish for my style. TMdn't we use to call ! you Old Galahad? You were always 1 walloping the bullies and taking the 1 "weaker chaps under your wing. To i me, you wore the last man in the i world for this business. Moreover, 1 i never could understand, nor could father, how you got it. for you were not J an office man. V. omen and cards, I suppose. Father said that you had the > making of a great engineer. Fierce < place, this old town," waving his hand toward the myriad sparkling roofs and 1 towers and spires. "Have to he strong i and hard-headed to survive it. Guilt anything since you've been away?" "Jn Cashmir." To have thrown away a decade! "Glad you kept your hand in. I dare say you've seen a lot of life." To the young mail it was an extremely awkward interview. "Yes; I've seen life," dully. "Orient, mostly, I suppose. Your letter about the strike in oil was mighty interesting. Heap of money over there, if they'd only let us smart chaps in to dig it up. Now, old man, i I want you to wipe the slate clear of these ten years. We'll call it a bad dream. What are your plans for the future?" "Plans?" Warrington looked up blankly, lie realized that he had made no plans for the future. "Yes. \*Thnt do you intend to do? A iftftn iiV.rt vr?n wfiun'* v?n/in i,n" _ ,, :7 HI.'!' IICJWVJ IWI 1VJIC* I ticss. ?, Lopk here, Paul; I'm not going to boijt ajm-ut the bush. We've got a s\ hopping lug contract from the Chinese government, and we need a man to tnltfe charge, a man who knows and undeifctah'ds something of the yellow people. How about a salary of ten thousand -a year for two years, to begin In October?" I Warrington twisted the check. Wcrk, rehabilitation. ' " "CdtiTd" trust me?" lie asked quietly*. ' ' ' "With anything t have id the world. > "MVI uy*iiu, .J UUI, IIIU1 S HO J)I1HI?III" ihYo'pJc string to thin offer. You've 'pulled lhroiigh,a devil of a hole. You're a iiiah.' T should not be holding down this dhatfWf i couldn't toll a man at n glance. Wo were together two months 111 Peru, I'm familiar with your work. 1)0 you want to know whoso portrait1 that is up thjere? Well, it's General Chetwood's, the founder of this con1-' corn, the .silent partner. The toian who knew kings and potentates and told 'cm that they needed bridges in . their back yards. This bqilding bo- i \ 3ongs to his daughter. She convert- j oil her stock into granite. About a yj month ago / received a letter from ' Tl her. It directly concerned you. It bi- .< learned rough the consul Yci ei.il at Singapore that you had s worsen NMtli us. sue s like her lather, a mighty keen judge of human nature. Frankly, this offer comes through her advices. To satisfy yourself, ycu can give us a surety bond for iitty thousand. It's not obligatory, however." Elsa Chetwood. x She had her father's eyes, and it was this which had drawn his gaze to the portrait. Chetwood; and Arthur had not known any more than he had. What irony! Ten years wasted . . . for nothing! Warrington laughed aloud. A weakness seized him, like that of a uiau long gone hungry. ' isuck up, Paul," warned the good Samaritan. "All this kind of kuocks the wind out of you. 1 know. Put what I've offered you is in good faith. Will you take it?" "Yes," simply. "That's the way to talk. Supposing you go out to lunch with me? We 11 talk it over like old times." "No. 1 haven't seen . . ." "To be sure! I forgot. Do you know where they live, your mother and brother?" "No. I expected to ask you." The vice-president scribbled down the address. "I believe you'll find them both there, though Arthur, 1 understand, is almost as great a traveler as you are. Of course you want to see them, you i>oor beggar! The Southwestern will pull you almost up to the door. After the reunion, you hike back here, and we'll get down to the meat of the business." "John," said Warrington, huskily, "you're a man." "Oh, piffle! It's not all John. The old man left word that if you ever turned up again to hang on to you. You were valuable. And there's Miss Chetwood. If you want to thank anybody, thank her." Warrington missed the searching glance, which was not without its touch of envy. "You'd better be off. Hustle back as soon as you can." Elmore offered his hand now. uaa: out you Haven't lost any of your old grip." "I'm a bit dazed. The last six months Afave loosened up my nerves." "Nobody's made of iron." "I'd sound hollow if I tried to say what I feel. I'll be back a week from today." "I'll look for you." As the door closed behind Warrington, the young millionaire sat down, scowling at a cubby hole in his desk. He presently took out a letter postmarked Yokohama. He turned it about in his hands, musingly. Without reading it (for he knew its contents well), he thrust it back into the cubby hcfte Women were out of his sphere. He could build a bridge withifl a dollar of the bid; but he knew nothing about women beyond the fact that they were always desirable. A few monosyllables, a sentence or two, and then, good day. The average man would have recounted every incident of note during those ten years. He did not admire Warrington any the less for his reticence. It took a strong man to held himself together under all these blows from the big end of for^ Lune's horn. Paul was a born engineer; Arthur lad entered the office as a makeshift. Paul had taken eight thousand one lay, and decamped. Arthur had refunded tho sum, and disappeared. 101710!'e could not understand, nor could lis father. Perhaps some of the tiutli would now come to light. Somehow, Paul, with his blond beard and blonder head, his bright eyes, his tan, his big shoulders, somehow Paul was out of date. He did not belong to the times. And Elsa had met him over there; practically ordered (though she had no authority) that he should be given a start anew; that, moreover, she would go his bond to any amount. Funny old world! Well, he was glad Paul was a man, a big man, and that was the sort needed in the foreign hHH'ro K..51.H.W, II- V I " - w uuiiuiiig. I It: l (MIC'CI U>)\V11 111(3 top of Ilia desk and left the building. He was in no mood for work. The evening of the third day found Warrington in the baggage car, feeding a dilapidated feather-molting bird, who was in a most scandalous temper. Rajah scattered the seeds about, spurned the banana-tip, tilted the water cup and swashbuckled generally. By and by, above the clack-clack of wheels and rails, came a crooning song. The baggageman looked up from his waybook and lowered his pipe. Ho saw tho little green bird pause and begin to keep time with its head. It was the Urdu lullaby James used to sing. It never failed to quiet the little parrot. Warrington went back to his Pullman, where the porter greeted him with the information that the next stop would be his. Ten minutes later he stepped from the train, a small kitbag in one hand and the parrot cage in the other. He had come prepared for mistake on the part of the natives. The single smart cabman lifted his hat, jumped down from the box, arrtl opened tho door. Warrington entered without speaking. The door closed, and the coupe rolled away briskly. / Ho was perfectly suro of his destination. The cabman had mistaken him for Arthur. it would be better so. There would bo no after complications when he departed 011 the morrow. As tho coupe took a turn, he looked out of the window. They were entering a driveway, lined on each side of which wero chestnuts. ,i Indeed the house was set in tho Copter of a grove of these splendid trees, m .Warrington went up the broad veranda steps and pulled tho old-fashioned bell cord. Jlo was rather ftmazed at his utter luck of agitation, lie was as culm as if ho wero making a call upon a casual acquaintance. His mother and brother, whom ho had not soon in ten years! The great oak door drew in, /and he entered uncerenidnl ously. "Why, Marse A'thuh, I di'n't see yo' go out!" exclaimed the old negro servant. "I am not Arthur; 1 am his brother Paul. Which door?" Pop-eyed, the old negro pointed to a door down the hall. Then he leaned against the banister and caught desperately at the spindles. For the voice was not Arthur's. Warrington opened the door, closed it gently and stood with his back to it. At a desk in the middle of the room | sat a man, busy with books. He raised bis head. "Arthur, don't you know me?" "Paul?" The chair overturned; some books thudded dully upon the rug. ^rthur leaned with his hands tense upon the desk. Paul sustained the look, his eyes sad and his face pale and grave. CHAPTER XX. He That Was Dead. "Yes, it is I, the unlucky penny; Old Galahad, in flesh and blood and bone. 1 shouldn't get white over it, Arthur. It isn't worth while. I can see that you haven't changed much, unless it is v.i?t ;uui uair is a uttie paler at the I temples. Gray? I'll wager I've a few myself." There was a flippancy in his tone that astonished Warrington's own ears, for certainly this light mockery did not come from within. At heart he was sober enough. To steady the thundering beat of his pulse he crossed the room, righted the chair, stacked the books and laid them on the desk. Arthur did not move save to turn his head and to follow with fascinated gaze his brother's movements. "Now, Arthur, I've only a little | while. I can see by your eyes that I you are conjuring up all sorts of ter- , rible things. But nothing is going to j happen. 1 am going to talk to you; j , then I'm going away; and tomorrow it j will be easy to convince yourself that ( you have seen only a ghost. Sit down. r I'll take this chair at the left." Arthur's hands slid from the desk; j in a kind of collapse he sat down. Suddenly he laid his head upon his arms, and a great sigh sent its tremor across . his shoulders. Warrington felt his heart swell. The past faded away; J his wrongs became vapors. Ho m?'lt only his brother, the boy he had loved 1 so devotedly, Arty, his other self, his t scholarly other self. Why blame Ar- ? thur? He, Paul, was the fool. ^ "Don't take it like that, Arty," he * said. 6 The other's hand stretcned out N blindly toward the voice. "Ah, great 1 God, Paul!" : "I know! Pernaps I've brooded too * much." Warrington crushed the hand f ! in his two strong ones. "The main fault was mine. I couldn't see the 1 length of my nose. I threw a tempta- 1 tion in your way which none but a demigod could have resisted. That night, when 1 got your note telling mo what you had done, I did a damnably foolish thing. I went to the club bar and drank heavily. I was wild to help you, but T couldn't see how. At two in 1 the morning I thought I saw the way. A Drunken men get 'strange ideas into * their heads. You were the apple of the f mother's eyes; I was only her son. No j 1 use denying it. She worshiped you; : tolerated me. I came back to the j \ house, packed up what 1 absolutely needed, and took tiie tirst train west > * | it all depended unon what you'd do. iou let me go, Arty, old boy. 1 sup- ' pose you were pretty well knocked up, 1 when you learned what I hud done. And then you let things drift. It waa , 1 only natural. 1 had opened the way 1 for you. Mother, learning that 1 was a thief, restored the defalcation to c save the family honor, which was your ( future. We were always more or less 1 hard pressed for funds. I did not gamble, bu. I wasted a lot. The moth- { er gave us an allowance of live thou- J sand each. To this I managed to add * another live and you another four. You * were always borrowing from me. I ' never questioned what you did with it. I would to God I had! it would have * saved us a lot of trouble." / 1 Tho hand in his relaxed and slipped ' from the clasp. "Some of these things will sound bitter, but the heart behind them isn't. So I did what I thought to be a great and glorious thing. 1 was sober when 1 reached Chicago. 1 saw my deed from another angle. Think of it; we could have given our joint note to mother's bank for the amount. Old Henderson would have discounted it in a second. It was too late. I went on. The few hundreds I had gave out. I've been up against it pretty hard. There were times when I envied tho pariah dog. But fortune can^> around one day, knocked, and I let her in. I returned to inake a restitution, only to learn that it had been made by you, long ago. A trick of young Elmore's. I shouldn't have come back if I could have sent tho money." Arthur raised his head and sat up. "Ah, why did you not write? Why did you not let mo know where you were? God is my witness, if there is a corner of this world unsearched for you. For two years I had a man hunting. He gave up. I believed you dead." \\T/"?11 f lima In a aanaa '? wuu . 11 Uil, A If UO 111 a DCUOU. "You have suffered, but not as I have. Always you had before you your great, splendid, foolish sacrifice. I had nothing to buoy me up; there was only the drag of the recollection of an evil deed, and a moment of pitiful weakness. The temptation was too great, Paul." "How did it happen?" "How does anything like that happen? Curiosity drew me first, for at | college I never played but a few games of bridge. Curiosity, desire, then the lull blaze of the passion. You will never know what that Is, Paul: It la stronger than love, or faith, or honor. God knows 1 never thought myBelf weak; at school I was the least impetuous of the two. Everything went, and they cheated me from the start, lloulette and faro. Then I put my hand in the safe. To this day I cannot tell why. I owed nothing to those despicable thieves, Craig least of all." "Craig. I met him over there. Pummeled him." "I didn't act like a man. Some day a comfortable fortuno would fall to the lot of each of us. llul 1 took eight thousand, lost it, and came whining to you. you don't belong to this .petty age, Paul. You ought to have been a fellow of the round table." Arthur smiled wanly. "To throw your life away like that, for a brother who "Yes, It 18 I, the Unlucky Penny." svasn't fit. to lace your shoes! If you lad written you would have learned hat everything was smoothed over. The Andes people dropped the matter mtirely. You loved the mother fa? setter than I." "And she must never know," quietly. "Do you mean that?" ~ "I always mean everything I say, Vrty. Can't you see the uselessness of < elling lier now? She has gone all i hese years with the belief that I am a * hief. A thief, Arty, I, who never stole 1 inything save a farmer's apples. They 1 vould have called you a defaulter; ( hat's because you had access to the ;afe, whereas I had none." Arthur 1 vinced. "I don't propose to disillusion he mother. I am strong <enough to go t tway without seeing her; and God s cnows how my heart yearns, and my ?ars and eyes and arms." ( Warrington reached mechanically or the portrait in the silver frame, j iut Arthur stayed his hand. "No, Paul; that is mine." Warrington dropped his hand, puz;lod. "I was not going to destroy it," ' ironically. "No; but in a sense you have detroyed me. Compensation. What ;r!fllng thought most of us give that 1 vord! The law of compensation Poi ;en years Elsa has been the flower o he corn for me. She almost loved me. \nd one day she sees you; and In that me day all that I had gained was lost, uui all that you had lost was gained, f'lie law of compensation. Sometimes ,\'ft PKP1I nn l'Otrihlil inn Kit* naifnf ? ? X' w VVI II/I4MVU, WVll 11^ V tlic aw of compensation. Some months igo she wrote me a letter. She was 1 ilways direct. It was a just letter." A pause. Arthur Razed steadily at he portrait, while Warrington twistid his yellow beard. "The ways of mothers are mysteri>us," said the latter, finally, tie wonlered if Arthur would confess to the slacker deed, or have it forced from liin. tie would wait and see. "The 'ather and the mother weren't happy. VIoney. There's the wedge. It's in every life somewhere. A marriage of convenience is an unwise thing. When we were born the mother turned to us. Up to the time we were six or seven there was no distinction in her love for as. But on the day the father set his choice upon me, she set hers upon you. You'll never know how I suffered as a boy, when I saw the distance growing wider and wider with the years. Perhaps the father understood, for he was always kind and gentle to me. i expect to return to China shortly. The Andes has taken me back. Sounds like a fairy tale; eh? I shall never return here. But did you know who Elsa Chetwood was?" "Not until that letter came." Neither of them heard the faint gasp which came from behind the portieres dividing the study and the living room. The gasp had followed the invisible knife-thrusts of these confidences. The woman behind those portieres swayed and caught blindly at the jamb. With cruel vividness she saw in this terrible moment all that to which r?ho had never given more than a passing thought. No reproaches; only a simple declaration of what had burned in this boy's heart. And she had almost forgotten this son. A species of paralysis laid hold of her, leaving her for the time incapable of movement. She heard the deep voice of this other son say: "Lots of kinks in life. There hi only one law that I shall lay down for you, Arty. You must give up all idea of marrying Elsa Cl^etwood." "It will be easy to obey that. Are you playing with me, Paul?" "Playing?" echoed Warrington. "Yea. JJo you mean to sit there and tell me that you don't know why I shall never marry her?" Arthur read the truth in his brother's eyes. lie smiled weakly, the anger gone. "Same old blind duffer | jou alvays were. I wrote an answer i to her letter. In that letter 1 told her . the truth." "You did that?" "1 am your brother, Paul. I couldn't be a r ad as well as a thief. Yes, 1 told her. 1 told her more, what you never knew. 1 let Craig believe that 1 was you, Paul. 1 wore your clothes, your scarfpins, your hats. In that 1 was a black villain. God! What a hell I lived in. . . . Ah, mother!" Arthur dropped his head upon his arms again. "Paul, my son!" It was Warrington's chair that toppled over. Framed in the portieres stood his mother, white-haired, pale but as benutil'ul as of old. "1 am sorry. 1 had hoped to get away without you knowing." "Why?" "Oh, because there wasn't any use of my coming at an. l a passed out of your life, and 1 should have stayed out. Don't worry. I've got everything mapped out. 1 here's a train at midnight." Arthur stood up. "Mother, I am the guilty man. 1 was the thief. All these years I've let you believe that Paul had taken the money. . . ." "Yes, yes!" she interrupted, never taking her eyes off this other sou. "I heard everything behind these curtains. You were going away, Paul, without seeing me?" "What was the use of stirring up old matters? Of bringing confusion into this house?" He did not look at her. He could not tell her that he now knew what had drawn him hither, that all along he had deceived himself. "Paul, my son, 1 have been a wicked woman." 1 "Why, mother, you mustn't talk like that!" "Wicked! My son, my silent, kind-1 ly, chivalric boy, will you forgive your mother? Your unnatural mother?" 1.1^ U 1 * ' iic viuufcui, iier ueiore ner Knees touched the floor; and, ah! how hungrily her arms wound about him. "What's the use of lying?" he cried brokenly. "My mother! I wanted to bear your voice and feel your arms, ifou don't know how I have always oved you. It was a long time, a very ong time. Perhaps 1 was to be blamed. I was proud, and kept away 'rora you. Don't cry.- There, there! I ban go away now, happy." Over his liother's shoulders, now moving with silent stabbing sobs, he held out his land to his brother. Presently, above the two bowed heads, Warrington's jwn rose, transfigured with happiness. The hall door opened and closed, but lone of them regarded It By and by the mother stood1 away, but within arm's length. "How big and itrong you have grown, Paul." "In heart, too, mother," added Arthur. "Old Galahad!" "You must never leave us again, Paul. Promise." "May I always come back?" "Always!" And she took his hand and pressed it tightly against her bheek. "Always! Ah, your poor blind notlier!" "Always to come back! ... I am go!ng to China in a little while, to ake up the work I have always loved, :he building or bridges." "And 1 am going, too!" It was Elsa, it her journey's end. Jealous love is keen of eye. There was death in Arthur's heart, but he smiled at her. After all, what was more logical than that she should appear at this moment? Why sip tho cup when it might be drained at once, over with and done with? "Elsa!" said the mother, holding Warrington's hand in closer grasp. "Yes, mother. Ah, why did you not tell me all?" Arthur walked to the long window that opened out upon the garden. There, for a moment, he paused, then passed from the room. "Go to him, mother," said Elsa, wisely and with pity. The mother hesitated, pulled by the old and the new love, by the fear that the new-found could be hers but a little while. Slowly she let Paul's hand fall, and slower still she followed Arthur's footsteps. "I wasn't quite brave enough," he said, when she found him. "They love. And love me well? mother, for I am the broken man." She pressed hia head against her heart. "My boy!" But her glanco was leveled at the amber-tinted window through which she had come. To Warrington, Elsa was a little thinner, and of color there was none; but her eyes shone with all the splenii ,.r )i ? \ "Eighteen Thousand Miles I Havo Traveled to Find You." ?? n 1 =~ 11 dor of the oriental stars at which ht had so often gased with mute Inquiry. | "Galahad!** she said, and smiled. "Well, what have you to say?" "I? In God's name, what can I say but that 1 love you?" "Well, say It, and stop the ache In * my heart! Say it, and make me for A get the weary eighteen thousand miles 1 I have journeyed to find you! Say It. and hold me close for I am tired! . . . Listen!" she whispered, liftiug her head from his shoulder. From out the stillness of the summer night came a Jarring note, the eternal protest of Rajah. THE END. Of Interest to all Sunday School Workers, The Annual State Sunday School j Convention is the biggest thing in the lino of Sunday School promotion that i is attempted in the whole State. Each i tronti /?h /x i - ^ ? ? ? * ?. viiwiut; program is arranged { for and the Conventions are brim full \ of information, inspiration and practical ideas for Sunday School Workers of ail denominations. The Convention this year will be held at Newberry, S. C., April 20* 21,. J and 22nd. Newberry is on the A. C. J L. Line of Railways so' through tick- .j ets can be purchased from any point in Horry County. The fare will be $8.(10 for the round trip from Conway using the certificate plan which allows you half fare for return trip plus d 25c. Be sure and get your ticket on the certificate plan as this is the only way to get the half fare on the return trip. 1 Horry is entitled to 17 rep re sen ta- 1 tives. All delegates will be entertain- j eel by the good people of Newberry 41 free so your only expense will be the railroad fare mentioned.. , Mr. Paul Quattlebaum, President of . the County Sunday School Assn.,. 1 Conway, S. C., will furnish credentials- * and other information to those apply- ^ ut? r -A iu miii. ij(*l our superintendents w and Adult class leaders appoint rep- { \ resentatives at once so that they can I 1 be getting; ready Cor the trip. I LIQUOR TRAFFIC. V I hav^ been very much impressed 9 lately with the fact that all the rulers 1 of the great nations of Europe are J lighting vigorously the drain 011 their Jl nations by the liquor industry. In I America the fight also is entertaining I the attention of our statesmen. We I are beginning to ask ourselves why, ' jM as intelligent people, we arc allowing <39 such a mammoth national waste? I have just read with greut interest an ' address delivered in Philadelphia March 15th, by our Secretary of State 9 William Jennings Bryan. As voters I we are responsible for the continuati- M on in our country and State of this j| great, evil, so I bog to gfye below a fl f< v quotations from Mr. Aryan's ad- V dress. fl Arraignment of. Liquor Traffic by Mr. Bryan. N M "it is estimated that the people of \ the United States spend almost $2,- 9 500$00,00Q annually for intoxicating "The annual appropriations of the 9 Federal government are a little less 9 than $1,250,000,000. Think of this 9 nation spending twice that amount for 9 alcoholic liquors. "The cost of Panama Canal was 9 about 400,000,000. Is it not appall- '9 ing to think wc spend for drink every 9 year six times the cost of the Panama <9 Canal ? 9 "It is estimated that we sue 9 $750,000,000 annual y for education 9 And yet we spend for drink more tham ?H three times this amount. i9 "If what we spend annually for li- 9 quor were applied to the European 9 conflict, the greatest in the world'!* 9 history, it would keep the war going- 9 six weeks. 9 "The nation submits to this taxa- 9 ( tiort ic oe .. ... < v w-. "" h: ^ ? ? |'H| any taxation it would permit any po- 9 litical party to levy. I "Shut off the demand and there will I be no sale. 9 The drunkard comes from the 9 moderate drinker and not from the '9 total abstainer. 9 If you have more money than yoq 9 can spend, invest it in humanity. 9 Or spend it on vmir }?r.rv,r>c. ? My^>V0 nnu JUUl" M families for comforts ami pleasure. "In proportion as men drink,proper- ']H ty becomes insecure and life unsafe. M "Men can't save their fellow-men w until they save themselves. fl "Use of alcohol not only lowers a man's productive capacity, but it im- 'H parts constitutional weakness to his offspring,-." Paul Quattlcbaum. The many friends of W. L. Mishoe will bo "' - ! to learn that he. has recovered from his recent operation and is able to bo out area in.