Oswald Langdon | Page 2

of infatuation for
"An ounce of common, ugly, human dust,"
and declared that--
.... "Places are too much, Or else too little, for immortal man."
The reader of few or of many books may find "reminders" in these pages. The author hastens to confess echoings from bygone days, hintings of vagrant fancies, and whimsical reveries wherein appeared the vague evasive outlines of half-remembered things.
If keeping that harmless old connoisseur of the "image and superscription," who insisted on positive "rigor mortis," jailed so long seem heartless, it should be remembered that some wrongs are more apparent than real.
The antecedents of that mysterious fair-haired "Find" are still in doubt, but this signifies little. Child-life is always a miracle more inscrutable than the resurrection of Lazarus.
The hinted fate of Pierre and Paul Lanier may merit some criticism. Perhaps summary justice should have been meted out; but in view of all "extenuating circumstances," may not judgment be suspended? Since "Eternity is so long," and in deference to that "bias for saving," can we not allow an "appeal unto C?sar"?
CARSON JAY LEE.
CHAPTER I
THE SCARE AND ARREST
Passing along the street, apparently self-absorbed, there seems little in this man to attract notice.
Why does the scared newsboy hurry by, thinking of that strange face?
Quickly the agitated countenance assumes a look of dignified indifference.
A block away the boy resumes his calls:
"All about the murder of a young girl! Body found in the river! Police on track of the murderer!"
"Poor little fellow!" murmured Oswald. "He gave me such a shock! But how frightened he seemed when passing, with his innocent yell! How foolish my scare! What do New York police know or care about a crime committed in London years ago?"
Curious to read what the city papers say of this homicide, Oswald retraces his steps, turns a corner, and sees the boy waiting pay from a pleasant-faced, careful old man, who holds to his purchase while critically scrutinizing the coin, as if sorry to part with such "image and superscription" without approved value.
"Be the girl dead and be she drowned sure?"
"She's a goner!" replied the boy.
This emphatic assurance of "rigor mortis" having convinced the old gentleman that his money will be well invested, the deal is about to be closed, when, seeing Oswald, little Jack sprints across the street, down an alley, into the arms of a policeman.
"Pfwhat yez roonin' loike yez a stalin' wagabond pfhwor?" sternly asks the officer.
"That willanous-lookin' rascal round there is campin' on me trail."
With visions of a kidnaper of small boys fleeing from his wrath, Michael P. O'Brien drags the terrified Jack out of the alley to the street. Seeing the old man holding to the paper and looking dazed, upon this gray-haired malefactor is placed the strong hand of the "statute in such case made and provided," and he is started toward the police-station, with the soothing assurance:
"Yez nadn't confiss yez guilt by discriminatin' ividince."
Seeing that matters are badly mixed, Jack sidles away toward the opposite street-corner. His movement is noted by the policeman at the exact moment that Jack again sees Oswald. Heedless of loud command to "Sthop, in the noime of the law," the youthful auctioneer of the metropolitan press heads at right angles and is soon out of sight.
CHAPTER II
AFTER THE STORM
The day has been fearfully hot. Unconscious of surroundings, every nerve seemingly relaxed, a young man is riding along the road toward the station. Passing a wooded strip, there is a blinding flash. With much effort, Oswald frees himself from the limb of a tree, which in falling broke the neck of his horse. Bewildered with pain and drenched to the skin, he is staggering around in the mud, when a light wagon, drawn by a fine team, comes to a sudden halt at the fallen tree. The driver turns his conveyance around and assists the soaked victim of the storm to a seat. Retracing the way to another road, after a roundabout journey they stop in front of a large mansion surrounded by a grove.
The injured man is assisted to a room. A servant soon brings dry clothing and kindles a fire.
Oswald begins to meditate upon his mishap. "Close call," murmurs he, "and just as I had completed that grand air-castle! At the very moment when the acclaim was the loudest and the star of Langdon seemed brightest, that blinding flash! That terrible shock, too, and such an oppressive feeling, until the limb was removed from my breast! What does it mean? How like and yet unlike my last night's dream! I feel so cold, too." He stirs the fire, which is burning cheerily, and sits down in the cushioned chair, the blood flowing from his mouth.
Oswald soon recovers from the hemorrhage, and is aroused from his languor by the entrance of a fine-looking man whose general appearance indicates a life of about