The Olney Enterprise. (Olney, Tex.), Vol. 7, No. 16, Ed. 1 Friday, August 18, 1916 Page: 3 of 10
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THE OLNEY ENTERPRIS
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MBaaama
The Turmoil
(By
BOOTH TARKINGTON
SBBSafiSH3S»S3QBQBSQBBSg3BBQ8$J
'■■■' ........... "'■■'■ ®
I
The Story
of a Big
Man in a
Big Town
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(Copyright 1916, by Harper A Brothers)
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SYNOPSIS.
mb —10—
Smrldan’s attempt to make a business
.man of his son Bibbs by starting him in
the machine shop ends in Bibbs going to
a sanitarium, a nervous wreck. On his re-
turn Bibbs finds himself an inconsider-
able and unconsidered figure in the “New
House” of the Sheridans. ThS Vertreeses,
old-town family next door and impover-
ished. call on the Sheridans, newly-rich,»
•and Mary afterward puts into words her
parents’ unspoken wish that she marry
■one of the Sheridan boys. Mary frankly
encourages Jim Sheridan’s attentions. Jim
Itells Mary Bills is not a lunatic—“just
■queer.’’ He proposes to Mary, who half
VSccepts him. Sheridan tells Bibbs he
®niust go back to the machine shop as
Vsoon as he is strong enough, in spite of
Bibbs’ plea to be allowed to write. Edith,
Bibbs’ sister, and Sibyl, Roscoe Sheridan’s
wife, quarrel over Bobby Lamhorn; Sibyl
goes to Mary for help to keep Lamhorn
from marrying Edith, and Mary leaves
her in the room alone. Bibbs has to break
to his father the news of Jim’s sudden
•death. All the rest of the family helpless
in their grief, Bibbs becomes temporary
master of the house. At the funeral he
meets Mary and rides home with her.
'fiibibs purposely interrupts a tete-a-tete
flpfween Edith and Lamhorn. He tells
Edith that he overheard Lamhorn mak-
ing love to Roscoe’s wife. Doctor Gurney
•finds Bibbs well enough to go back to the
machine shop. Mary and Bibbs meet by
accident and form a pleasant friendship.
Roscoe Sheridan and his wife quarrel
desperately about Bobby Lamhorn. Bibbs
decides to go to work.
l(^llHliHlf«ll»llH!i«ll^l5!iKll“IWIl«l!51i5l!«||«llg||g|lgJlgll»jlg.iigjN
One of the greatest boons of
friendship is that it means un-
derstanding. Each of us has in
jhis soui fancies, dreams, rev-
erses, which only one other per-
son, perhaps* can appreciate.
Very often we must go beyond
the lines of family ties to find
the beautiful sympathy of
friendship.
■Tdh BBS 0 erainaBHHHjasaBIBiBBIBIBSB
CHAPTER XVIII—Continued.
?C
“How often is that?”
“The thing should make about sixty-
eight disks a minute—a little more
than one a second.”
‘‘And you’re close to it?”
“Oh, the workman has to sit in its
lap,” he said, turning to her more
gayly. “The others don’t mind. You
see, it’s something wrong with me.
have an idiotic way of flinching from
the confounded thing—I flinch and
duck a little every time the crash
comes, and I couldn’t get over it. I
was a treat to the other workmen in
that room; they’ll be glad to see me
back. They used to laugh at me all
day long.”
Mary’s gaze was averted from Bibbs
tt’iiow; she sat with her elbow resting on
the arm of the chair, her lifted hand
pressed against her cheek. She was
staring at the wall, and her eyes had
/"'a burning brightness in them,
v “it doesn’t seem possible anyone
could do that to you,” she said, in a
low voice. “No. He’s not kind. He
ought to be proud to help you to the
leisure to write books; it should be his
greatest privilege to have them pub-
lished for you—”
^Can’t you see him?” Bibbs inter-
red, a faint ripple of hilarity in his
fee. “No. It’s just as well he never
got; the— But what’s the use? I’ve
hever written anything worth print-
ing, and I never shall.”
“You could!” she said.
“That’s because you’ve never seen
the poor little things I’ve tried to do.”
“You wouldn’t let me, but I know
'fSP’ou could! Ah, it’s a pity!”
“It isn’t,” said Bibbs, honestly. “I
f 1 never could—but you’re the kindest
^^lady in this world, Miss Vertrees.”
She gave him a flashing glance, and
it was as kind as he said she was.
“That sounds wrong,” she said, im-
pulsively. “I mean ‘Miss Vertrees.’
I’ve thought of you by your first name
ever since I met you. Wouldn’t you
rather call me ‘Mary’?”
Bibbs was dazzled: he drew a long,
deep breath and did not speak.
“Wouldn’t you?” she asked, without
a trace of coquetry.
“If I can!” he said, In a low voice
“Ah, that’s very pretty!” she
laughed. “You’re such an honest per-
son, it’s pleasant to have you gallant
sometimes, by way of variety.” She
became grave again immediately. “I
hear myself laughing as if it were
someone else. It sounds like laughter
■ ■d on the eve of a great calamity.” She
got up restlessly, crossed the room and
leaned against the wall, facing him.
“You’ve got to go back to that place?”
He nodded.
“And the other time you did it—”
“Just over It,” said Bibbs. “Two
years. But I don’t mind the prospect
of a repetition so much as—”
“So much as what?” she prompted,
as he stopped.
Bibbs looked up at her shyly. “T
- want to say it, but—but I come to a
dead balk when I try. I—”
“Go on. Say, it, whatever it is,”
she bade him. “You wouldn’t know
how to say anything I shouldn’t like.”
. “I doubt if you’d either like or dis-
like what I want to say,” he returned,
moving uncomfortably In his chair and
looking at his feet—he seemed to feel
swKward, thoroughly. “You see, all
ni»f^life—until I met you—if I ever
> ,, felt like saying anything, I wrote it in-
t stead. Saying things is a new trick
I . for me, and this—well, it’s just this:
; I used to feel as if I hadn’t ever had
any sort of a life at all. I’d never
been of use to anything or anybody,
and I’d never had anything, myself,
except a kind of haphazard thinking.
But now it’s different—I’m still of no
use to anybody, and I don’t see any
prospect of being useful, but I have
had something for myself. I’ve had
a beautiful and happy experience, and
it makes my life seem to be—I mean
I’m glad I’ve lived it! That’s all; it’s
your letting me be near you sometimes,
as you have, this strangfe, beautiful,
happy little while!”
He did not once look up, and reached
silence, at the end of what he had to
say, with eyes still awkwardly regard-
ing his feet. She did not speak, but
a soft rustling of her garments let him
know that she had gone back to her
chair again. The house was still; the
shabby old room was so quiet that the
sound of a creaking In the wall
seemed sharp and 'loud.
And yet, when Mary spoke at last,
her voice was barely audible. “If you
think it has been—happy—to be
friends with me—you’d want to—to
make it last.”
“Yes,” he gulped.
“But you make that kind of speech
to me because you think it’s over.”
He tried to evade her. “Oh, a day
laborer can’t come in his overalls—”
“No,” she interrupted, with a sud-
den sharpness. “You said what you
did because you think the shop’s going
to kill you.”
“No, no!”
“Yes, you do think that!” She rose
to her feet again and came and stood
before him. “Don’t deny it, Bibbs.
Well, if you meant what you said—
and you did mean it, I know it!—
you’re not going to go back to the san-
itarium. The shop shan’t hurt you.
It shan’t!”
And now Bibbs looked up. She stood
before him, straight and tall, splendid
in generous strength, her eyes shining
and wet.
“If I mean that much to you,” she
cried, “they can’t harm you! Go back
to the shop—but come to me when
your day’s work is done. Let the ma-
chines crash their sixty-eight times a
minute, but remember each crash that
deafens you is that much nearer the
evening and me!”
He stumbled to his feet. “You say—”
he gasped.
“Every evening, dear Bibbs!”
He could only stare, bewildered.
“Every evening. I want you. They
sha’n’t hurt you again!’ And she held
out her hand to him; it was strong
and warm in his tremulous clasp. “If
I could, I’d go and feed the strips of
zinc to the machine with you,” she
said. “But all day long I’ll send my
thoughts to you. You must keep re-
membering that your friend stands be-
side you. And when the work is done—
won’t the night make up for the day?”
Light seemed to glow from her; he
was blinded by that radiance of kind-
ness. But all he could say was, husk-
ily, “To think you’re there—with me—
standing beside the - old zinc-eater—”
And they laughed and looked at each
other, and at last Bibbs found what It
meant not to be alone in the world.
He had a friend.
CHAPTER XIX.
When he came Into the new house,
a few minutes later, he found his fa-
ther sitting alone by the library fire.
Bibbs went In and stood before him.
“I’m cured, father,” he said. “When
do I go back to the shop? I’m ready.”
The desolate and grim old man did
“I'm Cured, Father,” He Said.
not relax. “I was slttin’ up to give
you a last chance to say something
like that. I reckon it’s about time!
I just wanted to see if you’d have
manhood enough not to make me take
you over there by the collar^ Last
night I made up my mind I’d give you
just one more day. Well, you got to
it before I did—pretty close to the
eleventh hour! All right. Start in to-
morrow. It’s the first o’ the month.
Think you can get up in time?”
“Six o’clock,” Bibbs responded brisk-
ly. “And I want to tell you—I’m go-
ing in a ‘cheerful spirit.' As you said.
I’ll go and I’ll‘like it!’”
“That’s your lookout!” his father
grunted. “They’ll put you back on the
clippin’ machine. You get nine dollars
a week.”
“More than I’m worth, too,” said
Bibbs, cheerily. “That reminds me, I
didn’t mean you by ‘Midas’ in that
nonsense I’d been writing. I meant—”
“Makes a hell of a lot of difference
what you mean!”
“I just wanted you to know. Good
night, father.”
“G’night!”
The sound of the young man’s foot-
steps ascending the stairs became in-
audible, and the house was quiet. But
presently, as Sheridan sat staring an-
grily at the fire, the shuffling of a pair
of . slippers could be heard descending,
and Mrs. Sheridan made her appear-
ance, her oblique expression and the
state of her toilette being those of a
person who, after trying unsuccess-
fully to sleep on one side, has got up
•to look for burglars.
“Papa!” she exclaimed, drowsily.
“Why’n’t you go to bed? It must be
goin’ on ’leven o’clock!”
She yawned, and seated herself near
him, stretching out her hands to the
fire. “What’s the matter?” she asked,
sleep and anxiety striving sluggishly
with each other in her voice. “I knew
you were worried all dinner time.
You got something new on your mind
besides Jim’s bein’ taken away like he
was. What’s worryin’ you now, papa?”
“Nothin’.”
She jeered feebly. “N’ tell me that!
You sat up to see Bibbs, didn’t you?”
“He starts in at the shop again to-
morrow morning,” said Sheridan.
“Just the same as he did before?”
“Just pre-cisely!”
“How—long you goin’ to keep him
at it, papa?” she asked, timidly.
Until he knows something!” The
unhappy man struck his palms to-
gether, then got to his feet and began
to pace the room, as was his wont
when he talked. “He’ll go back to the
machine he couldn’t learn to tend prop-
erly in the six months he was 'there,
and he’ll stick to it till he does learn
it! That boy’s whole life, there’s been
a settin’ up o’ something mulish that’s
against everything I want’ him to do.
I don’t know what it is, but it’s got
to be worked out of him. Now, labor
ain’t any more a simple question than
what it was When we were young. My
idea is that, outside o’ union troubles,
the man that can manage workin’ men
is the man that’s been one himself.
Well, I set Bibbs to learn the men and
to learn the business, and he set him-
self to balk on the first job! That’s
what he did, and the balk’s lasted close
on to three years. If he balks again
I’m just done with him! Sometimes I
feel like I was pretty near done with
everything, anyhow!”
“I knew there was something else,”
said Mrs. Sheridan, blinking over a
yawn. “You better let it go till to-
morrow and get to bed now—’less
you’ll tell me?”
“Suppose something happened to
Roscoe,” he said. “Then what’d I
have to look forward to? Then what
could I depend on to hold things to-
gether? A lummix! A lummix that
hasn’t learned how to push a strip o’
zinc along a groove!”
“Roscoe?” she yawned. “You needn’t
worry about Roscoe, papa. He’s the
strongest child we had. I never did
know anybody keep better health than
he does. I don’t believe he’s even had
a cold in five years. You better go up
to bed, papa.”
“Suppose something did happen to
him, though. You don’t know what it
means, keepin’ property together these
days—just keepin’ it alive, let alone
makin’ it grow the way I do. I tell
you when a man dies, if that dead
man’s chuldern aiii’t on the job, night
and day, everything he built ’ll get
carried off. My Lord! when I think
o’ such things cornin’ to me! It don’t
seem like I deserved it—no man ever
tried harder to raise his boys right
than I have. I planned and planned
and planned how to bring ’em up to
be guards to drive the wolves off, and
how to be builders to build, and build
bigger. I tell you this business life is
no fool’s job nowadays—a man’s got
to have eyes In the back of his head.
You hear talk, sometimes, ’d make you
think the millennium had come—but
right the next breath you’ll hear some-
body hollerin’ about ‘the great unrest.
You bet there’s a ‘great unrest!’ There
ain’t any man alive smart enough to
see what it’s goin’ to do to us in the
end, nor what day it’s got set to bust
loose, but it’s frothin’ and bubblin’ in
the boiler. This country’s been fillin’
up with it from all over tho world for
a good many years, and the old camp-
meetin’ days are dead and done with.
Church ain’t what it used to be. Noth
in’s what it used to be—everything’s
turned up from the bottom, and the
growth Is so big the roots stick out In
the air. There’s an awful ruction goin’
on, and you got to keep hoppin’ if
you’re goin’ to keep your balance on
the top of It And the schemers! They
fun like bugs on the bottom of a board
—after any piece o’ money they hear is
loose. Fool schemes and crooked
schemes; the fool ones are the most
and the worst! You got to fight to
keep your money after you’ve made
it. And the woods are full o’ mighty
industrious men that’s only got one
motto: ‘Get the other fellow’s money
“Leave that talk outl You know
what I mean.1*
“Well, I don’t know as I ever had
too much in office hours—until the
other day.”
Sheridan began cutting. “It’s a lie.
I’ve had Ray Wills up from your of-
fice. He didn’t want to give you away,
but I put the hooks into him, and he
came through. You were drunk twice
before and couldn’t work. You been
leavin’ your office for drinks every few
hours for the last three weeks. I been
over your books. Your office is way
behind. You haven’t done any work,
to count, in a month.”
Roscoe’s head was sunk between
his shoulders. “I can’t stand very
much talk about it, father,” he said,
pleadingly.
“No!” Sheridan cried. “Neither can
I! What do you think it means to
me?” He dropped into the chair at
his big desk, groaning. “I can’t stand
to talk about it any more’n you can
to listen, but I’m goin’ to find out
what’s the matter with you, and I’m
goin’ to straighten you out!”
Roscoe shook his head helplessly.
“You can’t straighten me out.”
“See here!” said Sheridan. “Can you
go back to your office and stay sober
today, while I get my work done, or
will I have to hire a couple o’ huskies
to follow you around and knock the
whisky out o’ your hand If they see
you tryin’ to take it?”
“You needn’t worry about that,’
said Roscoe, looking up with a faint
resentment. “I’m not drinking be-
cause I’ve got a thirst.”
“Well, what have you got?”
“Nothing. Nothing you can do any-
thing about. Nothing, I tell you.’
“We’ll see about that!” said Sheri-
dan, harshly. “Now I can’t fool with
you today, and you get up out o’ that
chair and get out o’ my office. You
bring your wife to dinner tomorrow.
You didn’t come last Sunday—but you
come tomorrow. I’ll talk this out with
you when the women-folks are workin’
the phonograph, after dinner. Can you
keep sober till then? You better be
sure, because I’m goin’ to send Aber-
crombie down to your office every little
while, and he’ll let me know.”
RosTpe paused at the door. “You
told Abercrombie about it?” he asked.
“Told him!” And Sheridan laughed
hideously. “Do you suppose there’s an
elevator boy in the whole dam’ build-
ing that ain’t on to you?”
Roscoe settled his hat down over his
eyes and went out.
<f*5a*i**£*&^,
“I’m Not Drinking Because I’ve Got a
Thirst.”
before he gets yours!’ And when a
mans’ built as I have, .when he’s
built good and strong, and made
good things grow and prosper—those
are the fellows that lay for a
chance to slide in and sneak the ben-
efit of it and put their names to,it!
And, what’s the use my havin’ eijer
been Born, if such a thing as that ! is
goin’ to happen? What’s the use my
havin’ worked my life and soul into
my business, if it’s all goin’ to be dis-
persed and scattered soon as I’m in
the ground?”
He strode up and down the long
room, gesticulating—little regarding
the troubled and drowsy figure by the
fireside. His throat rumbled thunder-
ously; the words came with stormy
bitterness. “You think this is a time
for young men to be lyin’ on beds of
ease? I tell you there never was such
a time before; there never was such
opportunity. The sluggard is de
spoiled while he sleeps—yes, by George!
if a man lays down they’ll eat him be-
fore he wakes!—but the live man can
build straight up till he touches the
sky! This is the business man’s day;
it used to be the soldier’s day and the
statesman’s day, but this is ours! And
It ain’t a Sunday to go flshin’—it’s tur-
moil! turmoil!—and you got to go out
and live it and breathe it and make
it yourself, or you’ll only be a dead
man walkin’ around dreamin’ you’re
alive. And that’s what my son Bibbs
has been doin’ all his life, and what
he’d rather do now than go out and do
his part by me. And if anything hap-
pens to Roscoe—”
“Oh, do stop worryin’ over such non-
sense,” Mrs. Sheridan interrupted, irri-
tated Into sharp wakefulness for the
moment. “There ain’t anything goin’
to happen to Roscoe, and you’re just
tormentin’ yourself about nothin’.
Aren’t you ever goin’ to bed?”
Sheridan halted. “All right, mam-
ma,” he said, with a vast sigh. “Let’s
go up.” And he snapped off the elec-
tric light, leaving only the rosy glow
of the fire.
“Did you speak to Roscoe?” she
yawned, rising lopsidedly in her drow-
siness. “Did you mention about what
I told you the other evening?”
“No. I will tomorrow.”
*******
But Roscoe did not come downtown
the next day, nor the next; nor did
Sheridan see fit to enter his son’s
house. He waited. Then, on the
fourth day of the month, Roscoe
walked into his father’s office at nine
in the morning, when Sheridan hap-
pened to be alone.
“They told me downstairs you’d left
word you wanted to see me.”
“Sit down,” said Sheridan, rising.
Roscoe sat. His father walked dose
to him, sniffed suspiciously, and then
walked away, smiling bitterly. “Boh!”
he exclaimed. “Still at it!”
“Yes,” said Roscoe. “I’ve had a
couple of drinks this morning. What
about It?”
“I reckon I better adopt some decent
young man,” his father returned. “I’d
bring Bibbs up here and put him in
your place if he was fit. I would!”
“Better do it,” Roscoe assented, sul-
lenly.
“When’d you begin this thing?”
’“I always did drink a litttc, BJver I
4“
CHAPTER XX.
Who looks a mustang in the eye?
Changety, chang, chang! Bashl Crash!
Bang!
So sang Bibbs, his musical gayeties
Inaudible ,to his fellow workmen be-
cause of the noise of the machinery.
He had discovered long ago that the
uproar was rhythmical, and it had
been intolerable; but now, on the aft-
ernoon of the fourth day of his return,
•he was accompanying the swing and
clash of the metals with jubilant va-
quero fragments, mingling improvisa-
tions of his own among them, and
mocking the zinc eater’s crash with
vocal imitations:
Fearless and bold^ * *■ ■
Chang! Bash! Behold!
With a leap from the ground
To the saddle in a bound.
And away—and away!
Hi-yay!
you how to run a strip through there.,
The foreman says you’re some better’nj
you used to be, but that’s no way to|
handle— Get out the way and let me*
show you once.”
“Better be careful,” Bibbs warned
him, stepping to one side.
“Careful? Boh’!’ Sheridan seized
a strip of zinc from the box. “What
you talkin’ to yourself about? Tryin’!
to make yourself think you’re so|
abused you’re goin’ wrong in the*
head?”
“ ‘Abused?’ No!” shouted Bibbs. “1]
was singing—because I ‘like it!’ I toldl
you I’d come back and ‘like it’ ”
Sheridan may not have understood.!
At all events, he made no reply, but
began to run the strip1 of zinc through
the machine. He did it awkwardly—•
and with bad results.
“Here!” he shouted. “This is the
way. Watch how I do it. There’s
nothin’ to it, if you put your mind on
it.” By his own showing then his mind
was not upon it. He continued to talk.
“All you got to look out for is to keep
it pressed over to—”
“Don’t run your hand up with It,”
Bibbs vociferated, leaning toward himw
“Run nothin’!/ You got to—”
“Look out!” shouted Bibbs and Gur-i
ney together, and they both sprang for-
ward. But Sheridan’s right hand had
followed the strip too far, and the zino
eater had bitten off the tips of the first
and second fingers. He swore vehe-
mently, and wrung hip hand, sending a
shower of red drops over himself and
Bibbs, but Gurney grasped his wrist,
and said, sharply:
“Come out of here. Come over to
the lavatory in the office. Bibbs, fetch
my bag. It’s in my machine, outside.”
And when Bibbs brought the bag to
the washroom he found the doctor still
grasping Sheridan’s wrist, holding tho
injured hand over a basin. Sheridan
had lost color, and temper, too. HO
glared over his shoulder at his son as
the latter handed the bag to Gurney.
“You go on back to your work,” ho
said. “I’ve had worse snips than thatj
from a pencil sharpener.”
“Oh, no, you haven’tl” said Gurney.
“I have too!” Sheridan retorted, an-
grily. “Bibbs, you go on back to your
work. There’s no reason to stand
around here watchin’ ole Doc Gurney!
tryin’ to keep himself awake workin’
on a scratch that only needs a little
courtplaster. I slipped or it wouldn’t
happened. You get back on your job.”
“All right,” said Bibbs.
“Here!” Sheridan bellowed, as hia
son was passing out of the door. “You
watch out when you’re runnin’ that
machine! You hear what I say? 1
slipped, or I wouldn’t got scratched,
but you—you’re liable to get your
whole hand cut off! You keep your
eyes open!”
“Yes, sir.” And Bibbs returned to
the zinc eater thoughtfully.
Half an hour later Gurney touched
him on the shoulder and beckoned hiia
outside, where conversation was pos-
sible. “I sent him home, Bibbs. He’ft
have to be careful of that hand. Go!
get your overalls off. I’ll take you
for a drive and leave you at home.
“Can’t,” said Bibbs. “Get to stick
to my job till the whistle blows.”
“No, you don’t,” the doctor returned,1
smothering a yawn. “He wants me to
take you down to my office and give
you an overhauling to see how much
harm these four days on the machine
since I grew uj>t that is.”
V
The long room was ceaselessly thun-
dering with metallic sound; the air
was thick with the smell of oil; the
floor trembled perpetually; everything
was implacably in motion—nowhere
was there a rest for the dizzied eye.
The first time he had entered the place
Bibbs had become dizzy instantly, and
six months of. it had only added in-
creasing nausea to faintness. But he
felt neither now. “All day long I’ll
send my thoughts to you. You must
keep remembering that your friend
stands beside you.” He saw her there
beside him, and the greasy, roaring
place became suffused with radiance,
The poet was happy In his machine
shop; he was still a poet there. And
he fed his old zinc eater, and sang:
Away—and away!
Hi-yay!
Crash, baah, crash, bash, chang!
Wild are his eyes.
Fiercely he dies!
Hi-yay!
Crash, bash, bang! Bash, chang!
Ready to fling
Our gloves in the ring—
“I like the machine,” said Bibbs.
“I’ve made a friend of it. I serenade
it and talk to it, and then it talks back
to me.”
“Indeed, Indeed? What does it say?”
“What I want to hear.”
He was unaware of a sensation that
passed along the lines of workmen.
Their great master had come among
them, and they grinned to see him
standing with Doctor Gurney behind
the unconscious Bibbs. Sheridan nod-
ded to those nearest him—he had per-
sonal acquaintance with nearly all of
them—but he kept his attention upon
his son. Bibbs worked steadily, never
turning from his machine. Now and
then he varied his musical program
with remarks addressed to the zinc
eater.
“Go on, you old crash-basher! Chew
it up! It’s good for you, if you don’t
try to bolt your vittles. FletcherizC,
you pig! That’s right—you’ll never
get a lump in your gizzard. Want some
more? Here’s a nice, shiny one.”
The words were indistinguishable, but
Sheridan inclined his head to Gurney’s
ear and shouted fiercely: “Talkin’ to
himself! By George!”
Gurney laughed reassuringly, and
-shook his head.
Bibbs fcthrned to song.
Chang! Chang, bash, chang! It’s I!
Who looks a mustang in the eye?
Fearless and bo—
His father grasped him by the arm.
Herel” he shouted. “Let me show
“You
Back to Your Work.”
have done you. I guess you folks have
got that old man pretty thoroughly
upset, between you, up at your housed
But I don’t intend to go over you. £
can see with my eyes half shut—” '
“Yes,” Bibbs interrupted, “that’e
what they are.”
“I say I can see you’re starting outj
at least, in good shape. What’s mad«j
the difference?”
“I like the machine,” said Bibbs.
“Well, well!” The doctor stretched
himself and stamped his foot repeat-
edly. “Better come along and take al
drive with me. You can take the time
off that he allowed for the examina-
tion, and—”
Will Old Man Sheridan come
to himself and appreciate Bibbs’
real value now—will he take his
son out of the machine Shop
and give him a chance to live
his own life?
*010 0 0!00l0‘010010l0!0l0i©Bl0l0!0l0i0i01C R.C
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
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Shuffler, R. The Olney Enterprise. (Olney, Tex.), Vol. 7, No. 16, Ed. 1 Friday, August 18, 1916, newspaper, August 18, 1916; Olney, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth1103173/m1/3/: accessed July 9, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Olney Community Library.