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Show The Sun Rises By WILLIAM R. ORE CO McClure Ncwoaper Syndicate. WNU Service. HE ENTERED the room and closed the door behind him. For a moment he leaned heavily against the door. Outside the sounds of the jubilant crowds drifted dimly to his ears. He shook his head as if to rid his brain of the noise and turmoil. Dragging his big body across the room, he sank into an easy chair. He covered his face with his hands, still 'red from the Arctic ice and wind. His head ached from thinking. think-ing. All that long trip he had spent torturing his mind in vain efforts to drive the mist from his brain. When he had received word of his wife's death, he seemed to lose the power to think clearly. All he could say over and over again, was: "Binnie's dead . . Binnie's dead." He dug the palms of his hands deep into his eyes. "It's going to be hard, Binnie." The door to his room opened quietly. quiet-ly. His head came up slowly, wearily, wear-ily, and he saw that it was Effie, the housekeeper. Her thin voice came softly. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Caffrey." Caffrey stared at the blurred wall before him. "There's something I must know. Effie," he said, his voice hoarse and tired. "Yes, sir?" His brown eyes, dark with suffering, suffer-ing, bored into those of the housekeeper. house-keeper. "Could I have . . . if in some way I had managed to come . . ." The housekeeper shook her head. "Oh, no, sir. There wasn't time for that. Besides, she wouldn't hear of it. She was so happy that you had been chosen to go on the expedition. She wanted you to finish your job. And all the while, sir, she knew." He lapsed into silence. Then: "How was it, Effie? I mean" "I know, sir," Effie said. "It was beautiful, sir, and peaceful. She seemed so gay those last few days planning a surprise for you. It's in the bedroom." "You've explained to Junior?" The old eyes of the housekeeper moistened. "As best you can tell a little fellow like him, sir." He nodded. "I know, Erne. You can go now. And thanks for everything. every-thing. You've been kind." Steeling himself, he entered the room their room Binnie's and his. He looked about. Everything was in order. Beside the bed he saw a phonograph machine. Binnie had loved music. On the dresser, tied in a neat, circular bundle he saw a package. His heart gave a queer jerk as he grasped it eagerly. He struggled with the cord. A phonograph phono-graph record rolled out of his hands, onto the bed. His breath came in swift gasps as he leaned over the machine, fumbled a moment with the mechanisms, then waited, expectantly. ex-pectantly. "Hello, Bill." The voice came low, natural Binnie's Bin-nie's voice. For a crazy moment his whole body racked with renewed agony. He called softly: "Binnie... Binnie." "Listen Bill," Binnie's voice said, softly. "I'm so sorry, dear, I couldn't be there to greet you. You're a hero now, aren't you, my Bill? I know you will have something to say, so now and then I'll pause and let you talk to me. I'll hear you, Bill." Caffrey sat stiff and silent on the bed's edge. Then the voice came again. "Dear Bill, I know how you must feel. But I had to say good-by to you." AU the loneliness left him as he listened. Binnie was talking to him Binnie! Again the voice: "Perhaps you wonder why I'm repeating your name so often. It's been a long time since I've talked to you. I want to say it over and over. Just Bill . . . Bill. I" Her voice stopped short in a choked cry. Caffrey clenched his fists. "Binnie!" "I'm so sorry, Bill," her voice continued. "A little pain. So sorry. But honestly, Bill, it wasn't much of a pain. There never has been very much pain except when I thought of you and Junior." There was a silence. When her voice did come he noticed that it was quieter, lacking the brave levity lev-ity of tone she had assumed. "Now, Bill, before I go . . . when this is over . . .when I stop talking . . . promise me you'll break the record." Caffrey was silent a moment. "I can't Binnie, I can't," he said. Miraculously, but then Binnie knew him so well, her voice said: "Oh, Bill, promise. You see, if you didn't break the record, then it would only mean suffering every time you listened to me. I don't j want to keep coming back to you. It in't fair to you or Junior to ' keep me, even on a record. Prom- ' ise, Bill." He didn't say anything. He waited ' for Binnie to apeak. She said: "Good-by. Bill dear. Good-by." And that was all. His body loosened; his hands lay opened and nerveless in his lap. He reached out a hand and picked up the record. For a brief moment he held it in his hands, carefully. Then, deliberately, delib-erately, he let it drop to the hardwood hard-wood floor. He stared, his face grave and motionless, at the broken pieces. TheD he arose and wint to his ion. |