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Show t 1 We Woman 1 Hater t J By H. M. EGBERT f j (Copyright, 1SH6, by W. Q. Chapman.) "That man, Miss Bunks," said Liuly Sylvia, "is our district governor, John ,"' farner. It is a remarkable achievement achieve-ment of mine to have Induced him to i tome to my party, because he is a con- firmed woman-hater." ' Doris Banks surveyed Mr. Carner thoughtfully. She had never encoun-tered encoun-tered the species in her native Massachusetts. Massa-chusetts. She was accompanying her father on his visit to Singapore, where he had accepted charge of a big local ! "water works plant. She was fascinated by tlie strange sights, by the tropic life, the spectacle ' of the handful of English men and women living ever upon the crater of native disaffection. "He was jilted once," added Sylvia. "It was years ago, I think. He Is thirty-seven now. We know all the men's ages in Singapore. But they don't know ours," she added, smiling. Doris learned more about John Carner Car-ner during the ensuing days. He was the administrator the most feared by the natives. On him devolved the responsibility re-sponsibility of the administration of a province a little larger than New Jersey, Jer-sey, and ten times as populous. Doris was alternately interested and piqued by his indifference to her. She had met him several times, and once he had ridden a little way with her, but he hardly spoke to her; and it was evident that she was, to him, a child. "I congratulate you on your conquest, con-quest, dear," said Lady Sylvia to Doris Came Forward With a Rush. one day. "I hear that the misanthropic John Carner has been riding with you." "We happened to meet I don't like him," said Doris, shrugging her shoulders. shoul-ders. "I'd love to see him feeding out of jour hand, my dear," said Lady Sylvia. Syl-via. "It would repay some of us women wom-en for what we have suffered from his indifference to our attractions." "Do you mean that?" "I certainly do. But It isn't possible." possi-ble." "It Is possible," said Doris, remembering remem-bering John earner's face of patronizing patroniz-ing approval. "And I'll do it." She did It. How, Is a woman's secret, se-cret, but in three weeks' time John Carner was "eating out of her hand." His infatuation was the talk of Singapore. Singa-pore. They rode together, they danced for John Carner had come out of his shell, and it was pathetic to see the man trying to regain his lost youth at Doris' feet. And at last came the looked-for evening when he asked Doris to be his wife. It was at the governor's ball. Doris listened, while her heart was alternately alter-nately elated at her conquest and bowed down under the sense of guilt. When he had finished she raised her head, looked Into his eyes, and laughed. "But I don't love you, Mr. Carner," she answered, and it was less the refusal re-fusal than the jeering tone that stung John Carner to the quick. The look that he turned on her then was not patronizing, but it made Doris feel more humiliated than she had ever felt in her life before. It stung her as her words had stung him. Without With-out a single word he turned and left her. Doris never forgot. Singapore had become unbearable to her. She felt outraged, she felt as if she wanted to sink under the kindly earth and be hidden there forever. "Daddy, take me home," she plead ed n few days later. "I am tired or Slneapore." Henry Banks looked at his erratic (laughter whimsically. "Why, my dear, I thought you were devoted to the place," he said. "Still, my work Is almost al-most finished, and the hot season will bo here in a week or two. Suppose we sail In ton days' time?" They had booked their passage on the vessel, but they were not destined to sail on It. For on the second night before it was scheduled to leave the native insurrection broke out. The full account of this has never yet boon written. It was a time of confusion, of alarms and wild fears. Doris was awakened soon after midnight mid-night by her father, who came Into her room fully dressed. She sat up in bed, to hear the distant shouts of the mutineers at the further end of the town. There was a lurid glure in the sky. "I've just had a telephone mes-snge mes-snge to drive to the residency," he said. "There is a riot in progress somewhere. some-where. Hurry up and dress. Our rickshaw rick-shaw is waiting for us. There won't be time to pack much." He did not tell her of the murders, the outrages, the fury of the fanatical fanati-cal soldiery as it had been recounted to him. And Doris was only mildly excited when, ten minutes later, with the yells of the mob ringing in her ears more loudly, she stepped into the rickshaw with her father. All went well until they were actually actu-ally in sight of the residency, though the cries were now becoming alarming, and whole blocks of buildings were blazing furiously. . Then, as they neared their destination, with savage cries a party of mutineers burst round the block. They carried swords and torches, and they seemed bent on massacring everything in their path. They spied the rickshaw and rushed forward, screaming. Doris had a confused con-fused memory afterward of seeing their rickshaw boy fall, stabbed through the throat. She looked up In horror into the black faces with the wickedly gleaming eyes. She saw the naked swords. Then suddenly a horseman burst through their midst, waving a dripping drip-ping sword. Doris, half fainting, saw the stern face of John Carner. Alone, upon his steed, he set himself against the score of mutineers. He clove his way to Doris' side. The mutineers hud fallen back, but now they rallied. A score of shots rang out. The horse fell, shot to death, and John Carner went tumbling under it. He picked himself up, limping, seized the rickshaw in his arms, and set it up as a barricade in the doorway door-way of a deserted house. He placed Doris beneath it, swinging her in his arms as lightly as if she was a feather. Then, sword In hand, he took his post before her, while her father, seizing a sword from a fallen mutineer, stood at his side. The natives had exhausted their ammunition am-munition in the first outbreak. But they came forward with a rush, a black, streaming body, shrieking maledictions. male-dictions. And Carner and Henry Banks played their part nobly. In this Imminent danger Doris felt herself grow suddenly calm, as if she were a mere spectator at a play. She saw one of the men fall, pierced by her father's sword, though Henry Banks had never handled a sword In his llf. before. Then he was down, and Carner was bestride his body, fighting like a man possessed. The natives drew off and looked at him In awe. It seemed impossible that one man could achieve so much. But from their outskirts a little man ran forward and fired a revolver point-blank Ino earner's face. Carner, still clutching his sword, staggered and fell prostrate, and with wild yells the rebels rushed forward over his body. Then, as Doris closed her eyes and and awaited death, a bugle rang out, and into the thick of the crowd galloped gal-loped a party of loyal horsemen, cutting, cut-ting, stabbing. The rebels broke and fled. Doris felt herself raised In somebody's some-body's arms and knew no more. She opened her eyes In bed In a strange room. She looked about her in bewilderment. Then she saw her father's familiar face beside her, swathed in bandages. And she began to remember. "Daddy, you are hurt?" she cried. "Only a cut across the cheek, my dear," said her father cheerfully. "Everything is ended now, and Singapore Singa-pore is as quiet as Philadelphia." "And and " "Thanks to Mr. Carner," he added. "He is not killed?" the girl cried out fearfully. "He's getting on very nicely," answered an-swered her father. "And, Doris, we owe him everything." "I know," she answered. "I have been very unkind, daddy. I shall tell you when I have seen him." Perhaps Henry Banks had heard the rumors, for it is a father's task to hear more than he speaks. At any rate, he showed no great surprise when, a week Inter, they came to him with tht news, Carner in bandages, too. and leaning on Doris' arm. But what Doris said to him was their own happy secret. |