Arthur M. Winfield - "The Rover Boys on the Great Lakes"

Edward S. Ellis - "The Life of Kit Carson"

Andrew Lang - "Pickle the Spy"

Ella Wheeler Wilcox - "Poems of Power"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Quill\'s Window

G >> George Barr McCutcheon >> Quill\'s Window




"Nothing but a scratch. I fell while chasing him. He got the start
of me. My overcoat bothered me. I got it off, but not in time.
It's out there somewhere. My rotten old leg is the worst. I twisted
it when I jumped over the fence. That's when I fell. Tripped over
some bushes or something. I was gaining on him. Up in the woods,
you see. He was making for the road above. Oh, if this leg of mine
was any good, I would have--" He broke off short to grip his knee
with both hands, his face twitching with pain. The sentences came
jerkily, breathlessly.

"Send for Dr. Smith!" Alix cried out suddenly. "Be quick! He has
been shot,--I know he has been shot. Go--"

"It's a scratch, I tell you, Alix," he protested. "He didn't get
me. He fired at me, but it was dark. I'm all right. There is no
time to lose. If they get after him at once they'll catch him. I
can show them which way he went. Where the devil are they? We ought
to have every man in town out there in the woods. Did you tell 'em
to bring guns? He's armed. He--"

"You ARE hurt," cried Alix. "You MUST have the doctor. Oh, for
heaven's sake, DO SOMETHING!" The last was directed impatiently to
Mrs. Strong.

"I'll give him a basin of water,--and some court plaster," said
the older woman, who had looked closely at the scratch on the young
man's cheek. "It doesn't amount to anything,--if that's all, Mr.
Thane?"

"That's all,--except my knee, and that will be all right in a few
minutes. Let me sit down here a minute. Not in there,--I'm covered
with dirt and burrs and,--I might get some of this filthy blood
on,--that's all right, Mrs. Strong, thank you. I'll be able to go
out with the gang as soon as they come. Gad! It's going to be great
sport. Man-hunting!"

Alix was leaning against the end of the hall-seat, watching him as
if fascinated. He bent an ardent, significant look upon her, and
her eyes widened slightly under the contact.

"I'll get some water ready for you in the kitchen, and a--" began
Mrs. Strong, but Alix, suddenly alive, intercepted her with a cry.

"No! I will go, Aunt Nancy,--I insist!" And before Mrs. Strong could
offer a word of protest, she flashed past her and was running up
the stairs.

A look of chagrin leaped into Courtney's eyes. He had counted on
another minute or two alone with her. Under his breath he muttered
an oath.

Alix's bedroom door opened and closed. Mrs. Strong was still looking
in astonishment up the staircase.

"I--she's pretty badly upset, Mr. Thane," she said at last. "That
face in the window,--and everything."

"Good Lord,--you don't mean to say you saw him?"

"Yes,--looking in that window over there. Only for a second. You
must have scared him away."

"Then, by George, you can identify him!"

"He had a mask on. Didn't you see his face?"

"No. It was dark. Masked, you say. That's bad. It will be hard to
swear--Still, I saw his figure. Short, heavy fellow. Wore a cap."

She continued to look anxiously up the stairs.

"Wait here," she said shortly. "I must go up to her. Go to the kitchen
if you like, and wash the blood off. I'll be back in a jiffy."

He waited till she was out of sight, and then limped into the
living-room,--but with a swiftness incredible in one with a twisted
knee. Going direct to the fireplace, he took something out of his
coat pocket and, after a glance at door and window, quickly consigned
it to the flames. A small black object it was, that crumpled softly
in his palm and was consumed in a flash by the flames. A moment
later he entered the kitchen, bringing consternation to the two
excited domestics, both of whom sent up cries of alarm at the sight
of his bloody face.

Meanwhile Mrs. Strong had surprised Alix in her bathroom, frantically
washing her hands. She looked up and saw the housekeeper standing
in the door behind her. The bowl was half full of reddish water.
The expression of disgust in her eyes remained for a moment and
then gave way to confusion. Neither spoke for some time.

"What are you doing?" asked Mrs. Strong.

"Oh, Aunt Nancy!" came in a choked voice from the girl's lips.

"Is that blood?"

"Yes," replied Alix, looking away.

"I--I understand. Oh, Alix,--Alix!"

"I don't know what made me do it,--I couldn't help myself. I--Oh,
it was terrible! I don't love him,--I don't love him! As long as
I live,--as long as I live, I shall never forget it. I shall never
know anything like it again. I could feel my soul being dragged out
of my body,--Oh, Aunt Nancy! What am I to do? What is to become of
me?"

"There's only one thing for you to do now," said the other, slowly,
levelly. "Stay in this room. Lock the door. Don't see him again.
Keep away from him. He's--he's bad, Alix!"

"But he is not a coward!" cried the girl eagerly. "He followed
that man, he chased him, he was shot at,--that is not what a coward
would do. Addison Blythe is mistaken. Those men are mistaken. He--"

"I hear people downstairs,--and out in the yard. You must obey me,
Alix. You must not see him again tonight. God in heaven, what kind
of a spell has he cast upon you? The spell of the devil! Child,
child,--don't you understand? That's what it is. The spell that
makes women helpless! Stay here! I will send Hilda up to you."

"Why do you blame him for everything?" cried the girl hotly. "Doesn't
a woman ever cast this spell you speak of? What defence has a man
against--"

"Do you call yourself an evil woman? Nonsense! Don't talk like
that. I am not blaming him. He can't help himself. He loves you.
That's not his fault. But you do not love him. You are afraid
of him. You would run from him if you could. He must go away. You
must send him away. Tell him of Blythe's letter. Face him with it.
Tomorrow,--not tonight. You are not yourself tonight. Trust me,
dearest Alix. Do as I tell you. Promise."

"I will not come down," said Alix slowly, and Mrs. Strong went out.
She heard the key turn in the door.





CHAPTER XVI

ROSABEL




All night long bands of men scoured the woods and fields, with
lanterns and dogs and guns. Courtney Thane, thrilled by that one
glorious, overpowering moment of contact, sallied forth with the
first of the searchers. He showed them where the masked man vaulted
over the porch rail, and the course he took in crossing the terrace,
below which Courtney's coat was found where he had cast it aside
at the beginning of the chase. The first shot was fired as the man
climbed over the fence separating the old-fashioned garden from the
wooded district to the west, the second following almost immediately.
Thane was over the fence and picking himself up from the ground
after tripping when the last shot was fired. He ran forty or fifty
yards farther on and then his knee gave out. Realizing that pursuit
was useless under the circumstances, he hurried back to the house
to give the alarm.

It appears that he first saw the man as he was nearing the top of
the steps leading to the terrace. The fellow's figure, in a crouching
position, was distinctly outlined against the lighted window.

"Kind of a funny time for a robber to be monkeyin' around a house,"
said Charlie Webster, after Courtney had concluded his brief story.
"Eight o'clock is no time to figure on breaking into a house."

"He probably figured that the occupants would be at dinner," said
Courtney. "Or maybe he was getting the lay of the land while there
were lights to guide him. That is most likely the case. Lord, how
I wish I had had a gun!"

"Maybe it's lucky you didn't," said Charlie. "Guns are pretty
treacherous things to monkey with, Court. You might have shot
yourself."

"Oh, I guess I know how to handle a gun, Charlie," retorted Thane,
after a perceptible pause.

"Anyhow," remarked Constable Foss, "we now know why that dog
of Alix's was killed. This robber had things purty well sized up.
He knowed he had to fix that dog first of all,--and that goes to
show another thing. He is purty well posted around these parts. He
knowed all about that dog. He ain't no tramp or common stranger.
The chances are he ain't even a perfessional burglar. Maybe some
dago,--or, by gosh, somebody we all know."

A chosen group waited at the roadside above the Windom place
for automobiles which were to be used in the attempt to head off
the invader. This was Courtney's idea. He suggested a wide cordon
of machines and men as the only means of cutting off the fellow's
escape.

"You're not likely to get anywhere, Foss, by keeping up a stern
chase," he argued. "He has got too big a lead. Our only chance is
to rush a lot of men out ahead of him in cars, and then work back
through the woods."

A boy came up with Courtney's fedora hat, which he had picked up
in the brush near the fence.

"There's a bullet hole through it, Mr. Thane," he cried in great
excitement. "Lookee here!"

Sure enough there was a hole in the crown of the hat.

"Whew!" whistled Courtney, staring at the hat blankly. "I never
dreamed--Why, good Lord, a couple of inches lower and he'd have
got me. I remember my hat blowing off as I got up, but I thought
it was the wind. Where did you find it, kid?"

"Back there by the fence."

"We must have that hat for evidence," said the constable. "Shows
the calibre of the bullet, and all that. Bring it down to the office
in the morning, Mr. Thane. Better put it on now. You'll ketch cold
out here bareheaded."

By this time the lane and grounds were alive with excited people,--men,
women and children. Several automobiles approached, sounding their
horns. Men were shouting directions, dogs were barking, small
children were squalling lustily. Shadowy, indistinct figures scuttled
through the darkness, here and there coming into bold relief as
they passed before the lamps of automobiles or entered the radius
of light shed by an occasional lantern. Half the town was already
on the scene, and the belated remainder was either on the way or
grimly guarding cash drawers in empty, deserted stores.

Courtney reluctantly announced that he did not feel up to accompanying
the searchers, his leg was bothering him so. No, he didn't need a
doctor. The confounded thing simply gave out on him whenever he got
the least bit reckless, but it seldom if ever amounted to anything.
Only made him realize that he couldn't "get gay" with it. He'd be
all right in a day or two. Hobble a little, that's all,--like a
lame dog. More scared than hurt, you know, etc., etc.

He picked his way through the ever-increasing crowd of agitated
people, avoiding rampant automobiles and inquisitive citizens with
equal skill, and approached Alix's gate. His blood was rioting.
The memory of that triumphant moment when her warm body lay in his
arms,--when her lips were his,--when his eager hand pressed the
firm, round breast,--ah, the memory of it all set fire to his blood.
She had come to him, she had clung to him, she had kissed him! He
had won! She was his! He must see her again tonight, hold her once
more in his arms, drink of the rapture that came through her lips,
caress the throbbing heart she had surrendered to him. Anticipation
sent the blood rushing to his head. He grew strangely dizzy. He
narrowly escaped being struck by a car.

"The darned fools!" he muttered, as he leaped aside into the shallow
ditch.

A figure separated itself from a group near the gate and approached
him. There were no lights near and the lane was dark. He could
not see the face of the woman who halted directly in front of him,
barring the path.

"It is I, Courtney,--Rosabel," came in low, tremulous tones.

He stood stockstill, peering intently.

"Rosabel!" he repeated vacantly.

"I--I saw you. The auto lamp shone on your face."

Her teeth were chattering. Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"You--you poor child!" he cried. "What are you doing here? How do
you happen to be--"

"I came over to spend the night with Annie Jordan. I--I do that
quite often, Courtney. Aren't--aren't you ever coming to see me
again?"

"I was planning to come over tomorrow, Rosie,--tomorrow sure. I've
been meaning to run over to your house--"

"I--I thought you had forgotten all about us," she broke in,
pathetically. "You wouldn't do that, would you? Didn't you get my
letters? I wrote four or five times and you never answered. You--you
haven't forgotten, have you?"

"Bless your heart, no! I should say not. I've been so busy. Working
like a dog on my book. The one we talked about, Rosie. The story
of my experiences over in France, you know."

"Oh, Courtney, are you really, truly writing it?" she cried eagerly.

"Sure," he replied. "It's a tough job, believe me. I've been so
busy I haven't even had time to write letters. Mother complains
that I never write to her. Dear old mater,--I ought to be kicked
for neglecting her. Stacks of unanswered letters. Really, it's
appalling. But I've just got to finish this work. The publisher
wants it before Christmas."

"You promised to read it to me as you wrote it, Courtney," she
murmured wistfully. "Don't you remember?"

"Just as soon as I've got it in little better shape, Rosie. You
see, it's an awful mess now. I'm trying so hard to concentrate.
It would be different if I were an experienced writer. But I'm a
terrible duffer, you know. The least little thing throws me off.
I--"

"I wouldn't interfere for the world, Courtney. I will wait. I don't
want to bother you. Please don't think about reading it to me now.
But,--oh, Courtney, I have wanted to see you so much. You WILL come
over, won't you. Or would you rather have me come--"

"I'll be over, Rosie,--tomorrow," he said hastily. "Or the day
after, sure. I'm all done up. I can hardly stand on this leg. Did
they tell you? I chased the robber up through the woods. Had a bad
fall. Bunged up this rotten old knee again."

"You poor boy," she cried. "Yes, I heard them talking about how
brave you were. And he shot at you, too. I saw the plaster on your
face when the light shone on it a while ago. I was frightened. I
forgot to ask you how bad it is. I forgot everything but--but just
speaking to you. Is it dangerous? Is it a bad wound?"

"I don't know. The doctor is waiting for me up at Miss Crown's.
They sent me back, the other fellows did. I wanted to go with the
gang,--but I was weak and--Oh, I'll be all right. Don't you worry,
little girl. Dr. Smith may slap me into bed,--"

"You must not be foolish, Courtney. Do what the doctor says. You
must get well--oh, you MUST get well!"

She had come quite close to him and was peering at his face. Even
in the darkness he could see her big, dark eyes. Her teeth no longer
chattered, but there was a perilous quaver in her low, tense voice.
She put out a hand to touch him. He drew back.

"I'll be as fit as a fiddle in no time at all," he said hurriedly.
"See you tomorrow, Rosie,--or as soon as the blamed old doctor
turns me loose. I've got to be on my way now. He's waiting for me
up there. May have to put a stitch in my mug,--and yank my leg like
the devil, but--"

She still blocked his path.

"Courtney, I'm--I'm terribly unhappy. I want to see you,--very
soon."

"I hear you have been ill, Rosie. Some one was telling me you were
looking thin and--and all that sort of thing. I hope you're feeling
better."

She waited a moment. When she spoke it was with difficulty.

"I'm awfully worried, Courtney," she cried, her voice little more
than a whisper. He was silent, so after a little while she went
on: "I wish I could die,--I wish I could die!"

"Come, come!" he said reassuringly. "You must not talk like that,
Rosie. Cheer up! You're too young to talk about dying. Think what
I've been through,--and I'm still alive! I'll run over tomorrow,--or
next day,--and try to cheer you up a bit, little girl. So long.
I've got to see the doctor. I'm--I'm suffering like the dickens."

"I mustn't keep you, Courtney," she murmured, stepping aside to
let him pass. "Good night! You--you WILL come, won't you? Sure?"

"Sure!" he replied, and limped painfully away.

A little later Annie Jordan found her standing beside the road,
where he had left her. She was looking up at the brightly lighted
house at the top of the lane.

"Goodness!" cried Annie. "I thought you were lost, Rosie. Where on
earth have you been?"

"Maybe I AM lost," replied the girl, and Annie, failing to see
anything cryptic in the words, laughed gaily at the quaintness of
them.

"Come on," she said, thrusting her arm through Rosabel's, "let's go
back home. There's nothing doing here. And that wind cuts through
one like a knife. Gee, it's fierce, isn't it?"

"I don't want to go in yet," protested Rosabel, hanging back.
"Let's wait awhile. Let's wait till Dr. Smith comes out. He's up
there with--with Alix Crown. Maybe he can tell us how--"

"Doc Smith isn't up there. He's gone up the road in his car with
Dick Hurdle and--why, Rosie, you're shivering like a leaf. Have
you got a chill? Come on home. We'll have Dr. Smith in as soon as
he gets back to--"

"I don't want the doctor," cried Rosabel fiercely. "I won't have
one, I tell you. I won't have one!"





CHAPTER XVII

SHADOWS




Greatly to Courtney's chagrin, his triumphal progress was summarily
checked when he presented himself at the door. He could hardly believe
his ears. Miss Crown was in her room and would not be able to see
any one that night. She was very nervous and "upset," explained the
maid, and had given orders to admit no one. Of course, Hilda went
on to say, if Mr. Thane wanted to come in and rest himself, or if
there was anything she or the cook could do for him,--but Courtney
brusquely interrupted her to say that he was sure Miss Crown did
not mean to exclude him, and directed Hilda to take word up to her
that he was downstairs.

"It won't do any good," said Hilda, who was direct to say the least.
"She's gone to bed. My orders is not to disturb her."

"Are they her orders or Mrs. Strong's orders?" demanded Courtney,
driven to exasperation.

"All I can say, sir, is they're MY orders, sir," replied Hilda,
quite succinctly.

"All right," said he curtly. Then, as an afterthought: "Please say
that I stopped in to see if I could be of any further service to
Miss Crown, will you, Hilda?"

He was very much crestfallen as he made his way down the steps to
the lane. This wasn't at all what he had expected.

There were a number of people near the gate. Instead of going
directly down the walk, he turned to the right at the bottom of the
terrace and cut diagonally across the lawn. Coming to one of the
big oaks he sat down for a moment on the rustic seat that encircled
its base. Sheltered from the wind he managed to strike a match and
light a cigarette. Assured that no one was near, he leaned over
and felt with his hand under the bench. His fingers closed upon an
object wedged between the seat and one of the slanting supports.
Quickly withdrawing it, he dropped it into his overcoat pocket,
and, after a moment, resumed his progress, making for the carriage
gate in the left lower corner of the grounds.

He had a sharp eye out for Rosabel Vick. He heard Annie Jordan's
high-pitched voice in the road ahead of him and slackened his pace.
In due time he limped up the steps of Dowd's Tavern.

Several women were in the "lounge," chattering like magpies in
front of the fire. There were no men about. He went in and for ten
minutes listened to the singing of his praises. Then, requesting a
pitcher of hot water, he hobbled upstairs, politely declining not
only the Misses Dowd's offer to bathe and bandage his heroic knee,
but Miss Grady's bottle of witchhazel, Miss Miller's tube of Baume
Analgesique and old Mrs. Nichols' infallible remedy for every
ailment under the sun,--a flaxseed poultice.

The first thing he did on entering his room was to open his trunk
and deposit therein the shiny object he had recovered from its
hiding-place under the tree-seat. Before hanging his hat on the
clothes-tree in the corner of the room, he thoughtfully examined
the bullet hole in the crown.

"Thirty-eight calibre, all right," he reflected. Poking his
forefinger through the hole, he enlarged it to some extent. "More
like a forty-four now," he said in a satisfied tone.

Margaret Slattery brought up the hot water and some fresh firewood
for his stove, in which the fire burned low.

"Would you be liking a drink of whiskey, Mr. Thane?" she inquired,
with a stealthy look over her shoulder. "You're all done up,--and
half-frozen, I guess."

"Whiskey?" he exclaimed. "There ain't no sitch animal," he lamented
dolefully.

"Miss Jennie's got some cooking brandy stuck away in the cellar,"
whispered Margaret. "We use it at Christmas time,--for the plum
pudding, you know. I guess it's the same thing as whiskey, ain't
it?"

"Well, hardly. Still, I think I could do with a nip of it, Maggie."

"I'll see what I can do," said Margaret, and departed.

She did not return, for the very good reason that Miss Jennie
apprehended her in the act of pouring something from a dark brown
bottle into a brand new fruit jar.

"What are you doing there, Maggie?" demanded Miss Dowd from the
foot of the cellar stairs.

Miss Slattery's back was toward her at the time. She was startled
into hunching it slightly, as if expecting the lash of a whip,--an
attitude of rigidity maintained during the brief period in which
her heart suspended action altogether.

"I'm--I'm getting some vinegar for Mr. Thane to gargle with, Miss
Jennie," she mumbled. "He's--he's got a sore throat."

"Let me smell that stuff, Maggie," said Miss Jennie sternly. One
sniff was sufficient. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Margaret
Slattery, leading a young man into temptation like this. You may
be starting him on the road to perdition. It is just such things
as this that--"

"Oh, gosh!" exclaimed Margaret, recovering herself. "Don't you go
thinking he's as good as all that. From what he was telling me at
breakfast the other day, he used to make the round trip to purgatory
every night or so,--only he said it was paradise. Keep your old
brandy. He wouldn't like it anyway. Not him! He says he's swallered
enough champagne to float the whole American Navy."

"The very idea!" exclaimed Miss Jennie. "Go to your room, Maggie.
It's bad enough for you to be stealing but when you make it worse
by lying, I--"

"I'm quitting you in the morning," said Margaret, her Irish up.

"It won't be the first time," said Miss Jennie, imperturbably.

Courtney sat for a long time before the booming little stove. He
forgot Margaret Slattery and her mission.

"I guess it took her off her feet," he reflected aloud. "That's
the way with some of them. They get panicky. Go all to pieces when
they find out what it really means to let go of themselves. God!
She's wonderful!" He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes;
a smile settled on his lips. For a long time he sat there, fondling
the memory of that blissful moment. A slight frown made its appearance
after a while. He opened his eyes. His thoughts had veered. "What
rotten luck! If it could only have been Alix instead of that--"
He arose abruptly and began pacing the floor. After a long time he
sighed resignedly. "I mustn't forget to telephone her tomorrow."
Then he began to undress for bed.

He looked at his knee. There was a deep, irregular scar on the
outside of the leg, while on the inside a knuckle-like protuberance
of considerable size provided ample evidence of a badly shattered
joint, long since healed. Along the thigh there was another wicked
looking scar, with several smaller streaks and blemishes of a less
pronounced character. He placed some hot compresses on the joint,
gave it a vigorous massage, and, before getting into bed, worked
it up and down for several minutes.

"Clumsy ass!" he muttered. "Next time you'll watch your step. Don't
go jumping over fences in the dark. Gad, for a couple of minutes
I thought I'd put it on the blink for keeps."

The next morning, up in the woods above Alix's house, the crude
black mask was found, and some distance farther on an old grey cap,
from which the lining and sweatband had been ripped. The search
for the man, however, was fruitless. Constable Foss visited the
camp of a gang of Italian railroad labourers near Hawkins and was
reported to be bringing several indignant "dagoes" over to Windomville
to see if Courtney or the two ladies could identify them. He was
very careful to choose men with thick black moustaches.

Bright and early, Courtney repaired to the house on the hill.
His progress was slow. Aside from the effort it cost him to walk,
he was delayed all along the route by anxious, perturbed citizens
who either complimented him on his bravery or advised him to "look
out for that cut" on his cheek, or he'd have "a tough time if
blood-poisoning set in."

Mrs. Strong admitted him.

"Well, when will she be able to see me?" he demanded on being
informed that Alix was in no condition to see any one.

"I can't say," said Mrs. Strong shortly.

"Have you had the doctor in to see her?"

"No."

"Well, that's rather strange, isn't it?"

"Not at all, Mr. Thane. She isn't ill. She has had a shock,--same
as I have had,--and she'll get over it in good time."