The Barnwell people-sentinel. (Barnwell, S.C.) 1925-current, August 16, 1928, Image 3
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THURSDAT. AUGUST M, IMS.
UMSTKATtam BfKEMOCnOH
SECOND INSTALLMENT
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° * WHAT HAPPENED BEFORE
John Drane, prosperous Westcote man
of mystenr, is risited br William Dart and
by a boyhood chum, Simon Judd. As be
speaks to them, a young girl, Amy Drane,
approaches him.
NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY
v “What was it, Amy?” John Drane
asked.
“Oh, nothing!” she said. * “It was
only about Robert; whether you
wanted to see him now, but if you
have visitors—”
“This evening, perhaps,” John
Drane said. “But, one minute,
Amy. This is an old friend of
mine—”
“Chum, black my cats, when we
were kids, why don't you say, huh?”
, Simon Judd demanded. “He’s
afraid to tell how long ago that
was, huh?”
“Yes, one of my boyhood chums,”
John Drane said, smiling slightly.
“Simon Judd, in fact. And Judd,
this is my grand-niece, Amy.”
The girl gave Judd her hand and
for a minute or two they talked, the
girl smiling and Judd laughing for
no reason but because of his own
unfailing good humor; then she
said, having learned that the jolly
fat man might stay a day or two, ,
that Bob was waiting for her and,
after a word of greeting to Dart,
she hurried away. She did not like
Dart; she had never liked him; she
could not imagine what her uncle
John saw in him.
Dart stood stroking > his gray
beard, studying Simon Judd as the
big man climbed the veranda steps.
From the rear the movements of
the man from Riverbank were al
most grotesque as he hoisted his
great bulk from step to step. ‘
“I think,” Dart said, when John
Drane turp^d at the top of the
steps, “I’ll come back later on—
tomorrow,-perhapsv”—— _
Drane scowled his annoyance.
“Now, don't do that, William,”
he said. “You know I don’t like
to have my plans disarranged. You
said you would stay the night and
I have counted on it. I want to
thrash that matter out with you.
Don’t be a fool”
“I only thought, as you had Mr.
Judd here—”
Now, that’s just why I want you
to stay,” John Drane said. “If
Sime and I get to talking boyhood
days we’ll never go to bed. Don’t
you see? We'll be talking over the
old days. We'll never stop.”
“Can’t stop me, once I get
started, * that’s sure enough,”
laughed Simon Judd. “Talkin’s my
long suit, and always was, I guess.
But don’t you folks let me bust up
any plans you’ve made. If you
want to talk, I’ve got a lot of stuff
I’ve got to read over sometime—
stuff I come down to New York to
get hold of. I been made Chief
.of Police back home, John.”
* s i n f* r **ting. At seventy,
too, Simon,” Drane said.
”Yes, I guess they got around to
where they thought they needed
some brains at last,” Simon Judd
chuckled. “Folks do, sometimes.
Yes, sir; made me Chief of Police
of Riverbank, sure as you’re a foot
nigh!”
William'Dart had come up the
steps and taken one of the wicker
chair^. He put his elbows on its
arms and now began revolving his
thumbs, leaning forward and look
ing off over the lawn
5r
New York, Simon?” Drane asked.
“Are you on the track of a crimin
al?” .
“Lands o’goodness, no!” laughed
Simon Judd, slapping his huge
thigh. “Why. I ain’t started in yet,
John! I don t get my badge until
first of the year. No sir! I come
down here to have a look around
and see how these New York de
tective fellers manage the business.
And I must say they’re right kindly
to strangers) toM me a lot of
things; gave me a Mot of pamphlets
and one thing and another. It’s
goin’ to help me a lot, John; I got
the genius for it, all right, but I
got to brush up on the technic more
or less. I guess, though, maybe
I’ll get along all right.”
Norbtrt, as if knowing what was
desired, appeared on the veranda
with cigars—long slender light
cigars of admirable quality. Dart
and Drane took cigars, but Judd
hesitated.
“Mostly I smoke a pipe, John,”
he said, “and when I do go in for
but she was dressed as always,
neatly.
“Josie,” she said ^presently and
with considerable effort, “I think
vou had better have Norbert call
Mr. Drane and the other Wien again.
They can’t have gotten up.”
“Yes, ma’m,” the maid said. “If
they felt the way I do they never
would get up.”
“You’re not so well this morn
ing?”
“Oh, I feel just awful!” the girl
exclaimed, almost in tears. “I don’t
hardly feel like I could drag
through the day. I’m that weak,
Mrs. Vincent!”
“Your hairt'again?”
“Yes, like always, only last night
it pained me worse than ever it did.
It was something terrible, Mrs.
Vincent.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter
with us—all sick dike we are,” the
housekeeper said. “You better tell
Norbert.”
The girl went to find the negro
Yes, *ir, John," Shnon Judd con
tinued cheerfully, "I been all my
life tryin’ one thing and another,
but you can’t discourage a good
man; sooner or Tafei* hVs gdih^fcF
find out what he’s made for. There
was one time I tried preachin’ and
it looked awhile like that w’as goin’
to be it, but I ain’t got the voice
for it—when I go to let loose the
voice gets squeaky on me. There
was awhile I tried the butcher busi
ness, but sight of blood always did
make me faintish, so I sort of gave
that up, too. But I got the nght
thing now, John. Pretty near ever
since I was a boy I’ve had a leanin’
toward it”
• policeman?” William
asked. y
“Crime tracin’,” explained Simon
Todd, turning toward the little man
In black. » “Huntin’ out who done
the crime. What you call detective
work. I feel I got genius that
, H i
W^Y.
“And that*t what brought you to
a cigar I kind of like ’em dark and
strong. • But, I don’t know; TU
risk one. Now, if you fellers had
anything ,to talk over—”
“We can do that later,” John
Drane said. “Tell n\e about River
bank; not many changes, I sup
pose?”
“Well, yes,” Simon Judd said,
puffing at his cigar. “Say, this
ain’t such a bad smoke, is it? Yes,
quite a few changes, John. Main
Street ain t changed much, but out
around—you’d be surprised. Say,
that niece of yours is a mighty nice
girl, ain t She? You didn’t say she
was your niece, did you?”
“I said she was my grand-niece,”
said John Drane, and William Dart
looked up at him suddenly. There
was a question in his eyes—a ques
tion and fright. If he feared any
thing, however, there was no sign
of anything to fear in Simon Judd’s
face. The fat man was finding un
expected pleasure in his cigar.
“She stay here with you all the
time?” he asked.
“She’s making her home with me
now—yes,” John Drane answered.
“That’s nice—nice to hav£ young
folks around,” Simon Judd said.
“And, as I was sayin’ about the
changes in Riverbank—vou know
that field where we used to go to
hunt rabbits? Bailey’s field, John?
Well, you’d never know it—all built
up with houses; streets and all, gas
and electric, sewers, everything!
x ou remember little Ross Gartner
—father used to rim the Western
Hotel? He developed that part of
town—” a
With Simon Judd talking and
John Drane asking a question now
and then, they remained there on
the veranda until dark, when Nor
bert called them to dinner.
On Sunday mornings John Drane
and his household usually slept
latex than usual and breakfast, was~
not served until nine. At nine,* this
morning, Mrs. Vincent—who for
many years had sat at the foot of
John . Drane’s table behind the
coffee pot and toaster—stood in the
breakfast room waiting for her ejn-
pUyer. She stood near her chair
and she seemed to be suffering, for
her eyes were closed and she held
one hand against the small of her
back. She was actually in great
pain, for she was a diabetic and at
times the pains caused by her con
dition were almost more thaa she
could bear. Presently, as no ono
appeared in the breakfast room
other than the maid~ Josie, Mrs.
Vincent drew out her chair and
seated herself ( ready to arise at mo
mentary notice. Her face was
unusually pale, of the hue natural to
those sufieriag from her disease;
houseman. She returned almost
jfiim e <ji a t ely,
He s got one of them awful
coughing spells again,” she said.
I guess I’ll have to go myself, and
I don’t feel hardly able.” €>
She looked at Mrs. Vincent, but
that poor woman was suffering.
“I guess you’ll have to go, Josie,”
she managed to say. “I’ve got to
save myself for breakfast; Mr.
Drane don’t like it for me to- b«
away from breakfast,” and the girl
went.
On the veranda—for it was there
the small family gathered before
breakfast in nice weather—Amy
Drane was sitting on the arm of
a chair looking through the yages
of the huge Sunday newspaper, and
she had just opened wide a double
page of brown illustrations when
she heard a* piercing scream from
the floor above and the fall of a
body to the floor. She threw aside
the paper and, swinging open the
screen door, ran up the wide stairs.
In the hall Simon Judd, trousered
but coatless and with his suspen
ders hanging, was coming down the
passage from the yellow guest
room as hastily as his huge bulk
could movie, and at the open door
of John Drane’s room tffe girl
Josie lay outstretched on the floor
unconscious. Amy Drane was
about to bend down to raise her
when her eyes glimpsed her uncle
she stood
on his bed and
white and
yieechless, petrified with horror.
The old man, her uncle, lay with
his head thrown back against the
pillow, his glassy eyes staring at
her.^and the front of his pajama
coat was sodden with blood from
a spot over the heart to the bed
covers drawn close about him.
“What’s the matter?” Simon Judd
asked, and then he too, looking past
Amy, saw the dead man. “He’s
been murdered!” he exclaimed, and
Amy felt something huge lean
against her back. “Black my cats!”
Simon Judd said weakly; ‘T’m'goin’
to faint!” and he did, his vast bulk
thrusting Amy into the' room as
he fell across the body of Josie the
maid. ^
Continued Next Week
In almost every home there is an
old treasure or two, but, proud as we
are of these possessions, they do not
always have a place of honor in the
home.
Bookshelves always welcome bits
oi colorful oid glass or pottery among
the books. On the sideboard or con
sole a piece of old silver gives a sug
gestion of luxury that is subtly con
vincing. «Old prints either side of the
secretary; old pewter plates for the
mantel shelf—such well-chosen orna
ments often give more atmosphere
and individuality to a room than
many dollars spent on new furnish-
Ing».
I
Don’t Fail to Read this Great Mystery Story
in The People-Sentinel Each|Week.
^ • *
HINDU MYSTERIES
REMAIN UNSOLVED
Stone Image Split* Offerings
Fifty-Fifty.
London.—Investigations by English
youths into the traditional mysteries
of Hindu temples in India are being
carried on under the guidance of Dr.
Arthur R. S. Roy, Ph. D., D. Litt, M.
D. Of temples visited the following
reports have been made:’
• At Vakam, in South India, noted for
the temple of Vakyabapam, an annual
dinner is held, at which 1,000 people
^are fed. It has been said that every
year after the dinner is over an odd
plantain leaf is found which canoot
be accounted for (on ceremonial oc
casions the Indian eats from a plan
tain leaf). This year volunteers Vent
to Vakam And Stood guard at the din
ing hall.
Aided by Police.
They had two policemen, and they
counted the leaves before they were
taken into the temple yard, examined
every attendant and guest to see that
extra leaves were not smuggled In and
counted the leaves*' when spread for
dinner. After dinner the leaves were
counted and it was found that they
numbered 1,001. Only 1,000 people
were admitted, and the odd leaf could
not be accounted for.
At Mangalgiri, near VIzagapatam, in
Madras residency, there Is a figure of
the god Narasinga, or the man-lion in
carnation of Vishnu, huge and open
mouthed. This stone image takes of
ferings thrown into the gaping month,
but as soon as the ceremony ie fin
ished exactly half the offerings are
thrown out. An OxonLau, recently
from England, scoffed at this and
threw In a pound tin of strawberries.
The tin come out split in two, and the
porflop thrown out was exactly half
a pound in weight. Fifty-fifty seems
to be the motto of this deity, and it
adheres to it exactly.
A railroad guard once wanted to
test the truth of the statement, and
put his hand Into the gaping mouth.
He could not find anything there, hut
could not release his hand. It was
held by some invisible force, and only
after hours of prayer was it freed.
Then there is the temple of Kail,
the terrible goddess, seven feet high,
with ten heads and eighteen hands.
The door of the temple is opened but
once a year. Then several goats, buf
faloes, fowls and other animals are
brought to the temple and tied in front
of the door. Ropes are fastened to the
rings In the door, and the people stand
holding the ropes to pull the door
upen.
Hair That Waves.
When the door is opened the ani
mals die instantaneously. No person
has experimented to learn the effect
If men stood there.
When a prayer is made to the pre
siding deity of Tirupati, near Madras,
or in the Pain! hills, to save the life
of a sick child, the child generally re
covers, but its hair becomes waved
and plaited. Try what one may, the
hair will not lose its wave or its plait,
but as soon as the hair has been of
fered to the god, the new hair that
grows has no waVee or plaits at all.
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