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Show " FICTION coma 1 I THE HURRICANE CANDLE I J By EDWIN RCTT room The old man never stirred, j The candle flame wavered again. ' efs take that candle away from the window." I said The wind must be getting at it through ?.HCowkcan it with that glass dingus?" said Hurlow. 'Ah ha. here's a news commentator. The news commentator came on crisply. A stoke in Minneapolis. I listened without much interest, bua-denly, bua-denly, unexpectedly, the news commentators com-mentators voice rose higher. Port of. Spain. Trinidad. A violent vio-lent hurricane struck Trinidad this afternoon, destroying property valued val-ued at half a million dollars. But so far as can be learned only one Ufa was lost and the man, unfortunately, unfortu-nately, was an American. Able Bodied Bod-ied Seaman Thomas Hendrickson was swept to his death from the tanker Pocohontas when the gale struck Port of Spain harbor. . . ." THE words seemed to crash like strayed lightning into the room. For a second we stared at one another an-other in stunned silence. Then Hurlow gasped, "Hendrickson" and snapped off the radio. ten, twenty Tom's thirty-five now if he's a day. He ain't been home for seven years." Something like a sigh sounded. "But he'll come. The Hendricksons always come back. He'll take the inn here when I'm gone. He'll marry and have sons. And like as not he'll burn the candle for 'em when they grow up and go away to sea." "It's a nice custom," I said inadequately. inade-quately. "Custom?" said the old man. "Yes, that's what it is. A custom. Always done it. And I expect we'll go on doing it. Until we don't own this old inn any more or, maybe, until all the Hendricksons are gone. I don't know." His voice trailed. "I don't know." THE landlord was very old. He moved with slow, tentative steps, as if afraid that his legs might buckle and collapse under the weight of his great, shrunken body. His hair was the color of bleached silver; the backs of his hands were mottled and the veins stood out, starkly blue. But his face had the somber dignity that the sea stamps upon those who follow her. You couldn't discount this man because he was old. He had presence. Hurlow and I were on our way to Narsett Banks for some fishing and the old Inn had appealed to me. We had a creditable dinner, cooked and served by a Portuguese woman. "She's a white Portygee," Mr. Hendrickson, the landlord, ex- : , , , . J , ' ' -X ' : . j - : r ; To ii 1 gtsagsiram.ai . 1. lJ 1 The old man was still in his chair but his head seemed to have dropped further on one side. one a a w.n w--JC,w, Hendrickson, the landlord, explained. ex-plained. "Couldn't get along without her. She comes early and goes late." We were the only guests. Indeed, I gathered that people staying the night there were few and far between. be-tween. Alter dinner we sat in a low, beamed-ceilinged room that overlooked over-looked the sea. Far below we could hear the Atlantic snarling and raving rav-ing at the foot of the bluff. Presently the old man got up and went out. He returned shortly carrying car-rying a lighted candle. I'd never seen an arrangement just like it before. be-fore. The candle was set In a candlestick, but the Bame itself was protected by a high chimney blown In the shape of a gigantic drinking glass. The purpose of this was obvious. ob-vious. The large chimney would protect the flame against being snuffed out by wind. HURLOW was interested. "What's that?" he asked. You had to raise your voice when you spoke to Mr. Hendrickson. The old man set the candle in the window. It cast a dull, livid light. "That's a hurricane candle," he explained. "They use 'em in the tropics. My grandfather brought this one from the West Indies. That was a long time ago now." "But why put it in the window?" Hurlow pursued. For a moment the old man looked at him blankly. "Why?" he said at last. "Um. I don't know as I rightly know why. Because it always has stood in that window at night, I expect. For four generations. As long as we've owned this inn. As long as there's been Hendricksons at sea." "And are there Hendricksons at sea now?" I ventured. The old man's eyes lighted. "There's one. My son, Tom. Been on boats since he was eighteen. Same as me. Same as my father and grandfather before me." I didn't like to pry into his business. busi-ness. But I was curious about this queer custom of burning the candle. "How old would your son be now, Mr. Hendrickson?" I asked. He reckoned on his fingers. "Let's seel I was forty-eight when Tom was born. That would make him i '. I wheeled around then. The old man was still in his chair. But his head seemed to have dropped further fur-ther on one side and he had slumped down. Suddenly Hurlow darted across the room and took hold of his wrist.' But he straightened up presently and turned to me, a puzzled, half-frightened half-frightened expression on his face. "Something's wrong, Jimmy," he said. "I I can't find his pulse. And he he isn't breathing." I leaped to my feet, but stopped before I could take a stride. A queer, gray shadow seemed to steal across the room. There was a faint flicker of light, a faint hiss. The hurrican candle guttered and went out. "Have you any other sons?" inquired in-quired Hurlow. "No. No more sons and no daughters daugh-ters at all. Just the one. Just Tom." Outside the sea was banging the cliff with more force. Ponderous, smacking blows. There was a whine in the wind. "It's getting rough out there," Hurlow said. I looked at the old man. He had fallen asleep in his chair. "He's pretty ancient," I said. Hurlow was walking around. "This is an eerie place," he said. All at once the candle flickered. "That candle's getting low," I remarked. re-marked. "Think we ought to wake him?" "Why?" "I don't know. But he mightn't want it to go out." , Hurlow began exploring in a corner. "Hello," he said presently. "A radio." "Turn it on and you will wake him," I said. "I doubt it." Hurlow spun the dials. Low silky music stole into the |