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Show onward. It was one played that night of the loving-cup episode. He thought of Nella. He took from his pocket his memorandum book. From between its pages he tenderly lifted the rose, now faded, to his lips. Ah! for her sake was he glad that, striking out on an independent line, he had penetrated to the very heart of the enemy's country, was returning with secret and exclusive information which, blazoned forth to an interested reading world, would signalize intrepid efforts and place him high among the great war correspondents of the yean With almost a cheer Ross Wordei? -dragged himself into the signal tower. The operator stared aBkance. A man lounging and smoking nearby stared, sprang up in astonishment and cried out: "You Worden ! " Worden recognized the man, Pierce Disbrow, a Journalist of poor repute, a man he did not like. He greeted him in a friendly way, but instantly centered cen-tered his attention upon the operator. He drew a dozen closely-written sheets from his pocket. "Union News service, my man," he announced. "You must get this copy to the cable instanter!" 'All right," nodded the man, while Disbrow glared with envy at what he surmised from the exultant face of Worden must comprise some big "scoop." "Look out!" abruptly shouted Disbrow, Dis-brow, and bolted for the open air. The others were not so fortunate. An unexpected un-expected bomb had come direct from the enemy's camp across the river. It shattered the frail station as though it were an egg shell. When the devastation was complete Disbrow crept in among the debris. He found the operator dead and Worden insensible insen-sible and apparently fatally injured. He crept forth again in possession of the "scoop" data of Ross Worden. Three months later, poor, wretched, limping, a mere shadow of his former self, Ross Worden returned to the city which he had left with such high hopes. When he reported to his news bureau it was to be treated coldly, indifferently, in-differently, as a man who had failed to make good. It was then that he learned that the news he had gathered at such peril had been used by Disbrow, Dis-brow, who had received high credit for the same. The discovery crushed him. He was still ill from his wound received in the explosion. He sought poor, obscure ob-scure lodgings; he was prostrated with a fever. To pay his way his landlord land-lord piece by piece pawned his few possessions even the loving cup. Then a spell of fever and delirium, and he awoke in a beautiful room, and a beautiful woman was ministering to his wants Nella Armour! It was no dream, and this was the Armour home, and soon Dale Armour was at his side and telling him how they had found him poor, ill, deserted desert-ed by his friends. "It was Nella who did it," he said. "Do you notice yonder your loving cup? She saw It in a window on sale, redeemed it and that led to our tracing trac-ing you, and now dear old friend, look!" Dale Armour held before the eyes of Worden a newspaper exposure of the perfidy of Pierce Disbrow in stealing steal-ing the credit of the great "war scoop." This rehabilitated Worden, Wor-den, and with restored health the highest high-est ranks of Journalism were open to him. Convalescent a week later, Nella Armour pressed to his lips a cup containing con-taining medicine. She kissed the rim tenderly as she did so, for there was a perfect understanding between them now. His eyes filled with tearB of Joy. "The loving cup!" he murmured "the loving cup, full to overflowing!" 1 We Loving I Gup jjj: By Augustus G. Sherwin (Copyright, '1916.' by ' W. ' G.' Chapman.') His pulse beat high, his eye glowed with excitement, the pride of life was In its fullest expression. It was a moment supreme the high point of fame and favor. The loving cup! it stood before him a delicate, costly creation, and to Ross Worden the script letters of his name, showing out in clear relief, were to him as grand and precious as though blazoned from some great scroll of fame. As the last words expressing ex-pressing his heartfelt appreciation of the gift friendly souls had bestowed upon him fell from his lips the warm applause of tried and trusted friends thrilled him to his loyal soul. "There will be a bigger one when you come back from the front, Worden!" Wor-den!" hurrahed a convivial member of the group of journalists, artists and men of wealth and fashion. "It's a new experience," said another. an-other. "I fancy it will be inspiriting and new." "Decidedly," commented a grizzled veteran newspaper man with a scarred face, who had written war stories on the actual field sixty years agone. "Good luck, old fellow," hailed an ambitious-looking young man, Dale Armour, his pretty, bluBhing sister, Nella, on his arm. Worden paused. The reigning pride In his face softened down to a sentiment senti-ment of Interest, an emotion subtle and compelling. He was sincerely glad when someone accosted Armour and engager! him in conversation. "Just take charge of Nella for a minute min-ute or two, won't you?" suggested Armour, Ar-mour, and Worden found himself beside be-side the lovely girl in a retired corner of the clubroom. Her presence acted upon him like some sweet angelic creature leading Shattered the Frail Station. him from the feverish atmosphere of society Into the calm of soulful peace, as if in some sylvan solitude. She had only commonplace compliments for the honor bestowed upon him, friendly wishes for his success as an aspiring war correspondent. Yet present and future were obscured to his mental vision as he looked into her beautiful eyes. Their shrinking depths seemed to work some alluring power he could not analyze. A rose had fallen from her corsage. He picked it up and placed it tenderly between the leaves of a memorandum book. "An amulet," he said in a low, intense in-tense tone "may I keep it without offending of-fending you?" Her lips formed a voiceless assent. She was all a-tremble. Her breath came quickly. In rash impetuousness he reached to take her hand. "All right, sister, it's getting late," Intervened Dale. "Thanks, Worden, and again good luck go with you," and the fairy vision vanished and the words unspoken that meant happiness unutterable. "Better so," sadly soliloquized Worden Wor-den as he reached home alone an hour later. "What can I offer that delicate creature of assurance of the luxury she is born to? Again, why burden her with a tie that may mean bereavement bereave-ment from the first battle field? No, it it better as it is." Six months to the day and Ross Worden, begrimed, footsore, limping wearily, crossed a barren, desolate stretch of Belgian territory Just at dusk. He presented the appearance of some homeless refugee, war-driven from shelter and security. In the distance dis-tance in almost every direction the glow of camp fires showed, and ever and anon a bomb burst in midair. Half a mile beyond the open stretch was a ridge of hills, and beyond be-yond that Ross Worden, fresh from the country of the enemy, loaded metaphorically met-aphorically with information that comprised the "war scoop" of the century, cen-tury, knew where the friendly irmy lay. Particularly he scanned the observation ob-servation towers here and there dimly outlined against the fading evening sky. One of them was a signal and telegraph tel-egraph tower. For that he made, eagerly eag-erly as a pilgrim for a mecca. He hummed a gay tune as be tolled |