How Janice Day Won | Page 4

car would
soon be in order. But the thought now served to inspire no anticipation
of pleasure in Janice's troubled mind.
She passed Major Price just at the foot of Hillside Avenue. The major
was Polktown's moneyed man--really the magnate of the village. His
was the largest house on the hill--a broad, high-pillared colonial
mansion with a great, shaded, sloping lawn in front. An important
looking house was the major's and the major was important looking,
too.

But Janice noted more particularly than ever before that there were
many purple veins distinctly lined upon the major's nose and cheeks
and that his eyes were moist and wavering in their glance. He used a
cane with a flourish; but his legs had an unsteadiness that a cane could
not correct.
"Good day! Good day, Miss Janice! Happy to see you! Fine Spring
weather--yes, yes," he said, with great cordiality, removing his silk hat.
"Charming weather, indeed. It has tempted me out for a walk--yes,
yes!" and he rolled by, swinging his cane and bobbing his head.
Janice knew that nowadays the major's walks always led him to the
Lake View Inn. Mrs. Price and Maggie did their best to hide the major's
missteps, but the children on the streets, seeing the local magnate
making heavy work of his journey back up the hill, would giggle and
follow on behind, an amused audience. This was another victim of the
change in Polktown's temperance situation.
Poor Major Price----
"Hi, Janice! Did you notice the 'still' the major's got on?" called the
cheerful voice of Marty, her cousin. "He's got more than he can carry
comfortably already; Walky Dexter will be taking him home again. He
did the other night."
"No, Marty! did he?" cried the troubled girl.
"Sure," chuckled Marty. "Walky says he thinks some of giving up the
express business and buyin' himself a hack. Some of these old soaks
around town will be glad to ride home under cover after a session at
Lem Parraday's place. Think of Walky as a 'nighthawk'!" and Marty,
who was a short, freckled-faced boy several years his cousin's junior,
went off into a spasm of laughter.
"Don't, Marty!" cried Janice, in horror. "Don't talk so lightly about it!
Why, it is dreadful!"
"What's dreadful? Walky getting a hack?"

"Be serious," commanded his cousin, who really had gained a great
deal of influence over the thoughtless Marty during the time she had
lived in Polktown. "Oh, Marty! I've just seen such a dreadful thing!"
"Hullo! What's that?" he asked, eyeing her curiously and ceasing his
laughter. He knew now that she was in earnest.
"That horrid old Jim Narnay--you know him?"
"Sure," agreed Marty, beginning to grin faintly again.
"He was intoxicated--really staggering drunk. And he came out of the
back door of the Inn, and some boys chased him out on to the street,
hooting after him. Perry Grimes and Sim Howell and some others. Old
enough to know better----"
"He, he!" chuckled Marty, exploding with laughter again. "Old
Narnay's great fun. One of the fellows the other day told him there was
a brick in his hat, and he took the old thing off to look into it to see if it
was true. Then he stood there and lectured us about being truthful. He,
he!"
"Oh, Marty!" ejaculated Janice, in horror. "You never! You don't! You
can't be so mean!"
"Hi tunket!" exploded the boy. "What's the matter with you? What d'ye
mean? 'I never, I don't, I can't'! What sort of talk is that?"
"There's nothing funny about it," his cousin said sternly. "I want to
know if you would mock at that poor man on the street?"
"At Narnay?"
"Yes."
"Why not?" demanded Marty. "He's only an old drunk. And he is great
fun."
"He--he is disgusting! He is horrid!" cried the girl earnestly. "He is an

awful, ruffianly creature, but he's nothing to laugh at. Listen, Marty!"
and vividly, with all the considerable descriptive powers that she
possessed, the girl repeated what had occurred when little Sophie
Narnay had run into her drunken parent on the street.
Marty was a boy, and not a thoughtful boy at all; but, as he listened, the
grin disappeared from his face and he did not look like laughing.
"Whew! The mean scamp!" was his comment. "Poor kid! Do you
s'pose he hurts her?"
"He hurts her--and her mother--and the two little boys--and that
unnamed baby--whenever he takes money to spend for drink. It doesn't
particularly matter whether he beats her. I don't think he does that, or
the child would not love him and make excuses for him. But tell me,
Marty Day! Is there anything funny in a man like that?"
"Whew!" admitted the boy. "It does look different when you think of it
that