The Seminole Sentinel (Seminole, Tex.), Vol. 13, No. 48, Ed. 1 Thursday, February 5, 1920 Page: 5 of 8
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Tins SEMINOLE SENTINEL
The Man Nobody Knew
I
I
By HOLWORTHY HALL
fCopyright by DoM, Mead ft Co., Inc.)
“LET ’EM' MAKE ME LOOK LIKE THAT!”
Everyone knows about the Legion Etrangere—the
famous Foreign Legion of the French army. Well, Rich-
ard Morgan of Syracuse, N. Y., enlisted in the Foreign
Legion in the great war under the name of Henry Hilliard.
So you can guess that the hero was not in love with him-
self or with life. The Hun sent him to the hospital with
a wounded knee and arm and a face pretty much shot
away with shrapnel. The surgeons fixed up his knee and
his arm. When they proposed to restore his features, he
lied and said he had no photograph of himself. And in his
rage against life he caught up a picture postcard bearing
the radiant face of Christ and cried:
“Let ’em make me look like that! Or anything else,
^ either—i don’t give a d—n!”
The French surgeons were Interested and did a good
job. And presently “The Man Nobody Knew” is back in
Syracuse, telling of the death of Dick Morgan and selling
mining stock and falling deeper in love with Carol Durant,
the “only girl” of his old life who had refused to marry
Dick Morgan, the failure.
Complications! Well, rather—especially when the
mining stock apparently turns out to be worthless and the
only man in the world who knows Hilliard’s secret dies of
apoplexy and the hero finds out that the heroine did love
Dick Morgan. And Holworthy Hall handles these compli-
cations and these real, human characters and this Ameri-
can community in the masterly way that makes him read
from one end of the country to the other these days.
Good reading!
CHAPTER I.
In the beginning of things, he was
ftierely a number; but even that was
creditable, because his number was
low enough to signify that he had re-
sponded pretty promptly to the rally-
ing call. After that, and with the
cataclysmic suddenness which marked
all changes of military status on the
western front, he became, one frosty
morning, a Case, and -got himself
roughly classified (and tenderly han-
dled) as a Stretcher Case, a Grand
Blesse, and, In consequence, a proper
temporary Inmnte of a field hospital
on the Belgian plains.
There, he was unofficially known as
Joyeaux, or Joyous One; not because
he displays a very buoyant disposi-
tion—far from It!—but because he be-
longed to the Foreign legion; and In
the course of another day or two he
was routlne-tlcfieted as Hn Kvacue,
and provided with a lukewarm hot-
water battle and a couple of evll-
■meUlng cigarettes to console him on
the road to the base hospital at Neu-
Illy.
At; Neullly he became, for the first
time since his enlistment, an Individ-
ual, and at the very outset he was dis-
tinguished by certain qualities which
had passed unnoticed In the frying pan
und fire oi the trenches. For one
thlnft, he was obviously Immune to
kindness; and for another, he was ap-
parently Immune to hope. He was a
mao of Inveterate silence; not the
grim silence of fortitude In suffering
(which Is altogether too common a vir-
tue In base hospitals to earn an) es-
pecial merit), but rather the dogged
reticence of black moods and chronic
bitterness. To be sure, speech was
physically difficult to him, but other
men with similar misfortunes spoke
blessings with their eyes, and gave
back gratitude In voiceless murmurs.
Not so the Joyous One. From the day
of Ills arrival he demanded nothing,
desl.ed nothing, but to brood sullenly
aloof; and ao, when he became an In-
dividual, he also became a mystery to
the ourslng staff. It was rumored that
he waa an Implacable woman hater,
and there seemed to be something In
It.
Regardless of the care of the Amer-
ican nurses (all hoverlngly attentive
to tme of their own nation who bad
fought for France), his spirit remained
abysmal and clouded Id gloom. Only
twice, In the initial month of his con-
finement, did he betray the weakneaa
af r<n ordinary emotion; on each occa-
sion a gold-laced general had coma to
nlute, In the name of the republic, one
•of the Individual’* neighbors, and to
deliver a bit of bror.se which dangled
from a ribbon atrlpsd red and green,
lit was said (and doubted by those wbe
-‘hadn't seen K) that at these ceremo-
nies the Individual had grown fever
let, ud let tears come to his eyes, but
subsequently hq bad relapsed Into
still greater depths of stoicism than
ibefere; his own bed-jacket wan tons-
rent of cross or medal, and hk depres-
sion was apparent, and acute. The
nurses, arguing that perhaps his pride
was wounded us seriously as his flesh,
offered quick condolence and got them-
selves rebuffed with shrugs of the In-
dividual’s shoulders, and inarticulate
sounds which Imd nl] the earmarks of
suppressed profanity. He didn’t even
soften when Pierre Dutout. a hard-hit
territorial In the next bed, squandered
a day’s supply of energy to lean across
and whisper sympathetically to him:
“Old mun . . . Vleux espece de choux-
croute ... I know how It is . . .
and I haven’t got i ny friends either.
I want you to trke my Croix de
Guerre. ... When I go nowhere.”
Even when speech returned to the
Individual he was a man of curt re-
sponses and stinging monosyllables—
a problem t> the surgeons, a problem
tq the nurses and (If the expression lu
his eyes meant anything), bl over-
whelming problem to himself. It ap-
peared that, after all. It wasn’t simply
women that he bated—It was the uni-
verse.
His military book Implied that he
had no parents, no close relations, no
friends to notify, no fixed almde. He
received no visitors, no letters, no
pnekages freighted -vlth magical de-
light. But to those who pitied him In
all his loneliness he was ntterly con-
temptuous ; he even went so far as to
fillip sidelong to the floor a religious
post card tendered him by a devout
and sentimental passer-by, and he did
It In her presence, unashamed Later
when a smiling orderly picked np thnt
post card and tucked It under his pil-
low he was no less contemptuous In
permitting '•* »o remain. But the one
stupendous fact wntch, more than all
else combined, made him an object of
bewildered curiosity was this—that of
the scores and scores of men with
head-wounds who were reborn at Neo-
llly that spring and summer, he was
the only one who bad never asked for
a mirror.
This, of Itaelf, wouldn’t have been
astonishing as long as he delayed In
the preliminary atagea of ••ecovery, for
now and then a man with head-wounds
proves to be super-sensitive; but In
the second stage It was remarkable,
and In the third stage It waa unique.
The ataff held It to be extraordinary
from a social as well as from a path-
ological viewpoint, that a man so ter-
ribly disfigured should have no Inter-
est—not even a morbid interest—In
his own appearance. And It wasn’t
that the Individual waa simply Indif-
ferent to the mirror; on the contrary,
his aversion to It was active and ener-
getic; lie flinched, and motioned It
frantically away aa though the mere
conception of seeing himself as others
ssw him was too repellent, and too
unthinkable to endure.
There came a day In April when
photograph was requested of him.
Surely he knew where there was a
likeness of himself, didn't he? Hts
old passport photograph, which had
mysteriously disappeared, or—
The Individual glanced up from his
present task; the wound In his arm
was still annoying and be waa ab-
sorbed In learning to write with his
left hand.
"What for?" he muttered.
"Why," said the nurse, cheerfully,
“for a model. To help the surgeons.
They'fl take your picture for a guide
and mpke you look almost exactly the
way you did before."
The Individual from America aat up
straight, ao that the nurse was startled
by bis animation, which was without
a parallel in hla local history.
"What 1" he said.
“Certainly!" The nnrse spoke In
the tone one uses to an ailing child.
“You’ve known that, haven’t you?”
-The Individual’* voice was queerly
unmanageable and strained. “You
mean to say they’re going to make me
look the way . . . Could they do that?
Could they? Even nowlj*
“Why, of course," she assured him
“You never told me that!” he said,
passionately. “Why didn’t you? Why
couldn’t you have told me I And here
I’ve been . . He put his hands to
his bandnged face and seemed to
shrink within himself. Then all at once
he burst out; “Well, there’s nothing
to prevent . . . Then they could make
me not look like it, if they wanted to!
Isn’t that so?" ,
She regarded him In vast perplexity,
and thought of summoning a surgeon
for the man had begun to quiver as
though from shell shock—which he
hadn’t undergone.
“Why, 1 don’t understand what you
mean," she said soothingly. “But If
you’ll Just be calm and—"
The Individual gestured with fierce
Impatience.
“If they can do what you say, and
make me look like tiny old thing they
choose to, then what tn~the devil are
they asking for a photograph for?"
“Why, to go by," she said helplessly.
You want to look like your old self,
don’t you?”
"No. 1 don’t!"
The nurse gasped. His tone had been
churlish, but the echo of It vaguely
suggested triumph and relief. His
symptoms had subsided . . , could
It be thnt he actually was relieved?
Dumfounded. she made another effort
to convince him.
But you want to look just as near-
ly like—’’
“Don’t you suppose I know what I
wont?” he Interrupted rudely.
“But haven’t you a photograph, any-
way, that I can—”
“No, I haven’t I” he snapped. “1
haven’t.” It was n lie; the passport
photograph was In the lining of a cer-
tain wallet, and he had hid It there
for reasons of his own. But now that
one great danger was definitely past,
and a still further bulwark of protec-
tion offered. If the nurse spoke truth
the Individual could afford to come
out from ambush. “And I don’t want
to look the way I did before, and
whnt’s more I never did! But If your
doctors are half as smart as they
think they are let ’em make me look
like that I Or anything else either—
I don’t give a d-n!”
Shocked and horrified, she was gat-
ing at a picture postcard he had
snatched from under hts pillow and
thrust upon her. It was a reproduc-
tion of a religious painting by Rem-
brandt It was the radiant face of the
Christ
CHAPTER II.
Nine o'clock on a night In June—not
i June evening, heavy-starred on vel-
vet. but a furious June night with
Stygian hlackoem looping overhead,
and Stygian water battering and boil-
ing against the hull pistes. The ship
was dark as the night itself; blind
dark, without a single ray to play the
traitor. On deck a solitary venturer
hugged the rail, and apathetically
watched the waves tear past
Out of the warmth and cheer and
the vitiated atmosphere of the smok-
ing room came Martin Harmon, big.
florid, exuberant A heaving lift of
the deck sent him lurching sidewise;
he saved his balance by struggling
toward the rail, when suddenly the
slope was reversed, and be slipped
and slid to the barrier of safety,
clutched it, and found himself at arm’s
length from the lonely watcher, wbe
hadn’t stirred, or even turned bis
bead.
“Hello I" said Harmon, his surprise
tinctured with easy familiarity. “Some
night I"
“Tan, It Is." Tbs tons of tba re-
sponse was curt, no curt that Harmon
Instinctively leaned forward to dis-
cover what expression of countenance
went with ML The night was an Mack
that he might as well have tried to
penetrate a curtain of aelld fabric.
Seen any D-boata yet?" he asked
humorously.
Not yet." The taciturn one moved
a trifle away; a man less thin-skinned
and leas dined and wined than Har-
mon would probably have taken the
hint and removed himself, hut Har-
mon's was an Inquisitive disposition,
and he never attempted to curb It—
he was the sort of traveling compan-
ion who makes Christians reflect up-
on the definition of Justifiable homi-
cide.
"What Is your liner he Inquired
after a pause.
The other man laughed queerly.
“The first . . . If It makes so
much difference to you."
Beg pardon? I don’t quite get you.
You said . . ."
“I said the first line. I meant the
first-line trenches. I’ve been In It."
Hannon jerked his bead npward In
comprehension.
“Oh. I seel You mean the war!
And you’ve been right on the spot
where the fighting Is? Pretty lively
np there, Isn’t U? Something stirring
most all the time?”
“I imagine so.” The other man’s
accent was amazingly diffident, and
Harmon peered at him. Incredulous.
“Good Lord/don’t you know?"
"Not a great deal. I happened to
get hit the first day I was In the
trenches.”
“But you got In it again afterward.
I suppose? I’ll bet you did I”
“No."
"What! You never got back at all?
Just one day. and you’re through?*’
“Yes. After I was discharged from
hospital I was discharged from the
army too. Permanently unfit”
“English army?"
“No-French.”
“Well, that’s some record 1" mild
Harmon appreciatively. “That cer
talnly Is some record! Not to say
tough luck—the toughest kind. Going
back home, I take it?”
“I^roks that way, doesn’t It?"
Harmon ignored the sarcasm.
“Back to work, eh? What did you
say your line Is?"
“I didn’t say. I haven’t any just
now."
Harmon pondered a second.
“Oh! Gentleman of leisure? Sol
dler of fortune, eh? Well, I wouldn’t
worry If I were you. .You’re disap-
pointed ; that’s natural ... but the
world hasn’t come to an end yet. Of
course It Is something of a come-down
to leave the army and get Into harness
again, but after all there’s plenty of
excitement right In the United States.
Big work to he done, son! Big money
to make. And It helps the war along,
too. I tell you there never was a big-
ger opportunity to mnke money than
there Is right this minute. The hard
Job Isn’t to find the scheme; It's to find
the men to run It. Don’t you worry
. . . you’ll land something right off
the bat!”
“Thanks for the compliment I"
“Oh. It’s no compliment! Anybody
can mnke money these days. It's a
plain statement of fact . . . Ray,
let’s go In and have something. Come
In and be sociable. What you want’s
a drink. Am I right or am l wrong?”
“Well—"
“And that's what the doctor or-
dered ! Come on I It’s on me."
The other man hesitated, and at
last succumbed, out of sheer uncon-
cern, to a companionship he realised
In advance would be distasteful.
“All right.” he consented briefly;
and together, arm In arm. they stum-
bled and tacked across the treacherous
deck, and presently crossed the thresh-
old Into the hazy light of the smoking
room. Harmon, smiling broadly, wiped
the brine from hla smarting eyes.
“Now. then,” he said, “what particu-
lar brand of poison do you—" And
broke off short and stared, fascinated,
at the extraordinary young man In
front of him.
He was anywhere from twenty-five
to forty, this American from the dis-
tant trenches, and his age was as hard
to guesa aa a clever woman’s; there
was something abont him peculiar to
youth, and yet when hts face was In
repose, he might easily have claimed
two score of years and gone undis-
puted. It was a face which suggested
Loth the fire of Immaturity and the
oraln of experience; there was breath-
taking gravity abont It, a hint of the
dignity of marble, of ageless perma-
nence. It was a slightly thin fan,
scarred by n heavy line or two, and
Indelibly stamped with the evidence
of Intense thought and Inward suffer-
ing; but It lacked the hollows which,
at the first glance, should have sup-
a thin and
of larga sad
| sympathetic sweetness, a forehead
white and hlgflt, n prominent, delicate
I nose, and I rise* of clear, Inmlnons
gray. It wasn't altogether an Anglo-
Saxon type of countenance, nor was
It definitely European; It aeemad
rather to have taken all the bettor
qualities from several races. It was
face to Inspire Immediate trust and
confidence and respect and Harmon,
despite hts lack of practice In all three
of these reactions, was evidently at-
tracted by It
“Vlchy-Celeatlns for me” said tha
old-young man Indifferently.
Fit ... I guess I’ll have vlchy
too," said Harmon, relaxing. “If It
wasn’t for something I can't Just de-
scribe I’d say . . . well, never
mind. Er . . . what business have
you been In, by the way?"
The younger man's reply was tardy
and not particularly gracious.
“Why, the longest time I ever pat
In at any one business was selling in-
surance. The last thing I did was to
sell bonds. Why?"
Harmon stiffened. “A salesman!
Good Lord I That's the last thing In
the world I'd have . . . but, say I
You must have been a whirlwind!
Why, a man .with a presence like joura
would hardly have to open his mouth I
You’ve got a sort of . . . I’ll be
hanged If I know what to call It . . .
but a kind of feeling, If you know
whnt I mean. Salesman! Why, alt
you need Is an Introduction and a dot-
ted line!"
The young man laughed rather for-
lornly and sipped his vlchy.
“Just at present I hnven’t either."
Harmon's gaze was unfaltering, and
his Interest and admiration bounded
higher. Mechanically, In accordance
with his habits, he was striving to dis-
cover how this new acquaintance
might be put to practical use. “Was
I right, or was I wrong? Playing In
hard luck don't strengthen a man's
courage much, even If he tries to bluff
himself Into thinking It does. Cut out
the regret stuff; that’s my advice, and
you cun take It or leave It. Forget
all that tough luck you had over here,
and get busy figuring out how you’re
going to cash In on all your experi-
ence. America’s full of chances—
you’ll land something big In no time.
Can’t help It If you try. Salesman!
Son, you’re carrying your best recom-
mendation right ou top of your own
shoulders 1”
The young man gave him back a wry
smile and finished his vlchy.
"I only hope It comes true," he said.
Harmon looked at him steadily, and
falling under the spell of those radiant
features stared and stared until he
camq^ to himself and all at once
brought his fist down on the table, ao
that the glasses rang again.
'‘Well, why shonldn’t it? As a mat-
ter of fact, why shouldn’t It?"
The younger man's expression hadn’t
changed. “Meaning what?"
“Meaning,’’ said Harmon deliberate-
ly, "that the first thing I’ve got to do
when I get home Is to hunt up a couple
of good salesmen myself. Are you
hunting for a good Job, or aren’t you?”
"Aren’t you n little hasty?" The
young man’s Intonation was sardonic.
•T’ve cleaned up most of my money,"
said Harmon very slowly to the cell-
ing, “by making quick decisions. I
make tip my mind pretty fast. If you
can- Interest me on short notice you
can Interest oilier people. Mind you,
we’re Just discussing this—sort of
thinking out loud. No obligation on
either side. Doesn’t do any harm to
talk about It. does It?"
"Then suppose," said the young man
placidly, “you define your Plea of a
good Job. I’m rattier particular.”
“But you admit you're out of luck,
and—’’ |
"But you admit I’m a whirlwind.”
The young man smiled with faint
amusement.
"I said you ought to be—with train-
ing."
The young man's mouth turned np-
ward at the corners.
“Go ahead and describe the Job.”
“Well, my Idea of a pretty sweet Job
for a man of your age la—to atari, of
course—about twenty a week and
commissions.”
“Yes? What per cent commission?"
"Oh, eight to ten per cent."
The young man glanced at Harmon
and laughed quietly.
“You’re a broker, of course, but that
doesn't sound much Ilka conservative
Investment securities to me. What
Is It—Industrials?”
Harmon {p-Jmaced.
“Yea, I'm a broker.” He set down
bis glass and fumbled for a card.
“There! But I was thinking move
about stocks than bonds. Some now
Montana properties—copper and sine.
Metals are the big noise these days.
I guess you realise that, don’t yon?
Munition work."
Til show 'em whether
I can make good or not!”
ported the evidence. It was
oval fnea, with a mouth of
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Stone, Harry N. The Seminole Sentinel (Seminole, Tex.), Vol. 13, No. 48, Ed. 1 Thursday, February 5, 1920, newspaper, February 5, 1920; (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth555576/m1/5/: accessed April 23, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Gaines County Library.