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Show His Golf Girl By M. J. PHILLIPS Copyright, loio, by Associated Literary Press Richard Conlston was in love with a picture. He who had traveled thrice around the world and seen the famous beauties of many lands was irresistibly attracted by a wholesome American girl outlined on a calendar. The picture was evidently from a photograph. The girl stood in the foregorund, slenderly graceful and vigorous,' a smile on her winsome face. She was poised in the act of swinging a golf club on a little white ball. In the background was a fine old gentleman with snowy side whiskers, two or three caddies and some lookers-on. Coniston, young and rich, had settled set-tled down on his big estate, determined deter-mined to wander no more; but two months of staring at "The Golf Girl," as he called her, had aroused the old restlessness. He fet that at least he must flee her. At the bottom of the calendar was the name of a publishing house located lo-cated in Chicago. In small letters was also the copyright Imprint of the calendar' manufacturers. They were. In New York. Chicago was nearest to Conlston, though still a long distance dis-tance away. He packed his bag one morning, after wrapping up the cal-idar cal-idar very carefully and stowing it therein, and left for Chicago. Some days later he reached the city. It was easy to find the printing house and get an Interview wltn tne manager. The latter recognized the picture instantly. Yes, that was some work which their presses had turned off a year before for a photographic supply firm. "A photographic supply firm?" echoed Coniston in surprise. "Why, this bears the advertisement of the Idlewild Calendar Company." "Can't help that," returned the manager. "We got it out for the Camera Supply Company, of Portland, Port-land, Maine. We simply print the pictures and mount them; they put the inscription on themselves. After they have used a photograph for six months or so to boom their plates and cameras, they sell the right of production to the calendar people. See?" Coniston saw. He also felt satisfied satis-fied that the manager knew nothing of the identity of "The Golf Girl." I J N. ATCVIr 5se So he put the calendar back in his grip and caught the first train east. He did not tarry in New York; Portland was his destination. The photographic supply company would be more likely to have authoritative information than the calendar company. com-pany. An open switch, which caused the train to leave the rails and bump him out of his berth on to the floor of the sleeper, gave Coniston some-ihing some-ihing to remember the journey by. Fortunately, the train was not going fast, and he escaped with 'a few bruises. The president of the Portland concern, con-cern, a shrewd, middle-aged, kindly man, scented a romance in Coniston's request for information. He was sympathetic, sym-pathetic, though not very helpful. "Usually our advertising man gets the subjects for display photographs," he said; "but this picture has a different, dif-ferent, history. It was secured by the former president of the company and sent here over a year ago. He was very wealthy and rarely visited the house, though holding a big interest In it. Well, he requested that the photograph be freely used and, of .-curse lhat was done, especially as I, , ,.t..,.i.jng aD(j artlstic. i-o very suddenly 6ix months ago, never having told us anything about the central figure in the picture. pic-ture. His widow sold out her holdings hold-ings to me without coming to Portland, Port-land, so while we were curious, we could not question her about it. Quite recently, when it lost its advertising value to us through long display, we sold the picture to the Condar house. We know no more of the young lady there," he pointed to Coniston's calendar, cal-endar, "than you do." "Perhaps the widow might, be able to help me," said Coniston, hopefully. "Will you give me her address, please?" The president shook his head regretfully. re-gretfully. "I'm sorry to say that I can't," he replied. "The negotiations for her stock were conducted through my attorneys exclusively. The family had several homes scattered through the United States, and Mr. Hollings-worth Hollings-worth was constantly on the wing. And the widow said that she was very anxious to close up his business so she and her daughter might go abroad agaiii' He studied the calendar and smiled. "I rather think Mr. Holllngsworth liked to have that photograph circulated cir-culated because he was in it himself." The president pointed to the old gentleman with the sldewhiskers. "That was his picture?" "Yes." And, as Coniston rose to go, "I wish you luck." The calendar house was now Coniston's Con-iston's last hope. He hastened back to New York. But it had moved to I a small town in Pennsylvania, Mid-I Mid-I vale, which fact he discovered only after three days of vexatious search. He went to Midvale. The office of the calendar company proved to be a busy place. It was a big room in which a half-dozen typewriters clacked. Five oi the six typists were pert, pretty young women wo-men who cast occasional interested glances at the good-looking Coniston. Conis-ton. They found him, however, stolidly stolid-ly unresponsive. The sixth stenographer was a pale, frightened little thing with red hair, who was alternately bullied and ignored ig-nored by the others. In spite of his down-heartedness at the failure of his search so far, Coniston found time to feel sorry for her. After an hour's wait he was summoned sum-moned to the manager's office. The burly, black-browed young man hp found Krowline out of the window did not seem to be in very good humor. "Well, what do you want?" he growled ungraciously when Coniston Conis-ton entered. A moment later he cut short his visitor's tale with an insulting laugh. "Oh, oh," he said, so loudly that Coniston Con-iston was sure the words carried to the outer office, "another masher stuck on' The Golf Girl,' eh? Well, you don't get her address from me. We're not helping mashers. She's probably no hetter than she ought to be, but " Coniston struck him squarely In the mouth with a force that crumpled the man into a heap in the corner. Then he walked out. In the outer office he paused a moment to smile reassuringly at the startled force. The red-haired girl seemed more frightened and forlorn than ever. Impulsively he took the carnation from his buttonhole and laid it on her freckled little hand. At dusk that evening he stood outside out-side the little railway station, awaiting await-ing the New York train. A card was thrust into his hand from behind. He turned to see the figure of a girl hastening away. Her hair gleamed red under a street light. He examined the card. On it was written: "Miss Marjory Holllngsworth, Holllngs-worth, Echo, Cove, California," and Coniston laughed light-heartedly. He had found "The Golf Girl" at his own door, since Echo Cove and the town which his estate adjoins, Glen Dug-lass, Dug-lass, are but seven miles apart. Some of the very few folk who know the above story maintain that Dick Coniston purchased lifelong happiness with a ten-cent carnation; but the rest know that he won his pretty wife and deserves her because of his generosity and innate kindness of heart. |