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Show HtnnooKipmn nil t Lost , 1 and Found I I 1 1 1 By VICTOR REDCUFFE t (Copytlght, 1918, by W. O. Chapman.) It was his first ambitious venture In literature, and Adrian Moore had be gun the reading of his ttttlo screed' with fear and trembling. Then, as he got into tho soul of his subject, ho forgot for-got self and was almost brilliant In his delivery. All hU former trepidation returned, however, as he came back to the harsh roalltles with the last sentence en-nunclated. en-nunclated. It was a little skit of pathos, romance and description, the result of a two-weeks' vacation In "the elder country," downstate, Just as antique an-tique and crude In the present as halt a century before. He faced his critics npw they were five. Tho "Chosen Six" comprised a club of newspaper writers who met and ate and drank moderately once a week in the rear room ot a Greek restaurant. There, when they got warmed up, moro than one ot the group forgot stern unpractical routine stuff and for tho first time a poem, a scenario, a magazine effort would see tho light. "It's Just a dash-off," observed Moore almost apologetically as ho sat down, and blunt Jerry Gowan, who wrote leaded editorials, to his usual unsympathetic way made the comment: com-ment: "Forget It." Clyde Winston, who was allowed to act as critic of second-rate books, simply sim-ply yawned. There was 'Dan Cheever. "Great!" he declared, slapping Moore on the shoulder .in '"hhVmevl-table '"hhVmevl-table way. "Lengthen her 'out and give her a spin with the magazines." "You've acquired somo style'," observed ob-served Jack Whistler. "It's refrosh- "It's Just a Daih-orf." " ing, and tastes fine local color, and all that but more like a soda than a food bracing snifter." All this was ot no moment to 'Moore. He glanced anxiously at Rorke Vivian. He was tho oldest ot the party. He had done London, Paris, New York In a journalistic way, had written' three books, spoke little, and thon to a purpose. pur-pose. He sat now, his finely chiseled face halt hidden by his hand, and said nothing! Thero was where the whip scourged, there lay the blttor sting for Moore! One word or look ot approbation from Vivian would havo been more to the aspiring young writer than all the others might put in volumes. "Guess last night's extra has used me up," spoko Vivian at length, arising aris-ing with a yawn. Then his lips sot close, as though all this wero a mask to conceal somo unusual emotion. Ho rather evaded Moore, tho latter thought. When Vivian was gone the group broko up. Mooro was glad ot It. His soul was brulsod. Ho wished to be alone, to think. "It tell flat," ho soliloquized as he reached tho outer air. "I won't try again," Ho thrust tho manuscript into on Inside In-side coat pocket with a savage pvnch ot his fist Then ho braced tor a long walk. Ho was emptying out of his mind all the grand plans he had for a story, If nis colleagues nao. given mm the least encouragement especially Vivian. A favorite stroll ot his was along tho city edge, whero'a broken stretch had been developed into striking pic-turcsqueneBS, pic-turcsqueneBS, and a number ot fine residences had exclusive location. At one spot a pretty rustic bridge spanned a gully with a wayward stream trickling through. Ho paused there, leaning on tho railing ot tho bridge. Tho surroundings were magically entrancing In the clear white moonlight, moon-light, and conducive to quiet thought, but Moore brooded. Something had gono out of his life. Tho first child ot his brain had boon ruthlessly banished. ban-ished. "It's the humdrum dog trot and tho bread and buttor after this," ho uttered, ut-tered, almost bitterly. "Goodby!" Ho Jorkcd thu roll ot manuscript from his pocket In a resolute way and gave It a vehement fling far as ho could beyond tho bridge A breezo was tlowlnr. and tho leaves soparated. JJo watched them moodily sklthcr ero and thoro and finally bettlo down along the edge of tho ravlno. Then ho turned his back upon It all. "Forget It!" that was tho admonition admoni-tion of practical Jerry Gowan. Yes, ho would do that. The thing was dono with, but there was an aching void at heart, not so much of disappointment disappoint-ment as because the memory ot tho Incidents he had grouped to form tho screed wore still cherished as lovely bits of naturalness and suggestion that he would have loved to exploit. His rest was broken that night, and he overslept tho next morning. Just as he arrived at his accustomed restaurant res-taurant he found Rourke Vivian. The latter sat drumming his Angers on the table beforo him, as though he had boon there for somo time. "Wantod to see you, Moore," with a casual manner obviously affected. "You stirred mo some." He laughed mirthlessly. "That screed ot yours I couldn't get It out of my mind all night" "It didn't seem to impress you much when I read it!" observed Moore, quite spicily. "I'm not given to wearing my heart on my sleeve, as you ought to know," retorted Vivian gravely. "It hit me hard. You know I came from 'the elder country,' and you've caught Its spirit famously. Bring me those pages, will you? I can do something with them as a starter. In fact, you want to go on with them." "You are In earnest?" challenged Mooro, forgetting breakfast. "Very much so." "I'll try to seo you some tlmo this afternoon," spoko Moore fluttorlngly, and bolted. There was but one thought In his mind to recover the abandoned manuscript. man-uscript. With eagerness and rapidity rapid-ity he reached the spot where he had scattered the leaves In desperation. He climbed down into the ravine. He searched In vain. Moore could not find a traco of the sheets. He climbed up an Incline, the top ot which was lined by a hedgo, to rest and think. He had kept no copy of the screed nor had he preserved the original notes. Could he reproduce It? Not In Its original freshness, ho disconsolately discon-solately decided. He fell into a dreamy maze, j What was that? Quite dozing, Moore started up. From the other side of the hedge sweet, mellow voice was reading. He could scarce credit the evidence ot his senses the last sentences of his screed! Moore peered through tho hedge. An old gentleman and a lovely young girl occupied rustic chairs, and the girl held In her hands the lost Bheets ot his manuscript. Tho old man was wiping his eyes. His voice was full ot emotion as he spoke. "Read It all over again, Angela. It is exquisite!" and the girl did so. Mooro thrilled to listen to that voice retravorslng his poor composition. "It Is like a sweet breath from the past!" murmurod tho old man. "Who could havo written It? How camo it here?" "It Is llko a letter from homo. Isn't it, dear?" smiled tho girl. "I found two of tho leaves littering tho ravine walk; read them, was interested and gathered up tho rest. Why, grandpa, whoever wrote it must have lived In and loved tho dear old cider country!" "It has taken mo back to (no old homo!" Blghed the, old man. "I wish I know tho writer." Adrian Mooro disclosed hlmsolf. He could not resist the Impuso. Oh, what was tho vague, casual opinion ot his casual nowspaper friends to the heartfelt heart-felt appreciation ot theso new acquaintances! ac-quaintances! Before ho left these latter, the wealthy old man had his promise that he would at onco go on with the story ot the cherished "cider country." Vivian listened to the exploits of Moore with an Indulgent smile. "Found a patron and an heiress, eh?" he observed. "Well, accept the gifts of the gods gratefully." Which Adrian Moore did with fame and the pure, sweet love ot Angela Marston concurrent. |