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Show X A Sentimental X Journey . X By JUSTIN WENTWOOD (. mi. Wutarn Nwpapr Union.) BARKER hummed "My Little .Gray Hoine In the West" as he stepped eft the train at Clouston. lie was Imp- pier than tie had been for years. Barker, the successful stockbroker, at forty-flve, had suddely felt a weariness weari-ness of life. He had never married. He had lived a gay sort of life. The sense of wasted opportunities had come over him. "If only I had married Ann Gtlll-gan Gtlll-gan I" he thought The memory of his first sweetheart had come flooding back with the advent of spring. And he had formed the wild idea of returning re-turning for a visit to the old home town and and seeing Ann, anyway. Of course, she had doubtless married long ago. Still, one never knewl Sweet Ann GLUIganl Barker remembered re-membered how she had looked when they said good-by across the stile. He had kissed her and had promised to come back rich and marry her, and she had cried In his arms. Then his old friend Eben, the blacksmith, who hammered horseshoes and was the admiration of the village lads. Barker had watched In fascination fascina-tion the red sparks fly from the glowing glow-ing metal. And Kod Stone, the storekeeper. How delighted he would be when Barker sat down on the cracker box and Joined quite simply In the humble mirth and anecdotes of the village 1 The hill seemed to have grown steeper, steep-er, Barker thought, and he was quite tired out by the time he reached the smithy at the top. There It was I And there was Eben, hammering a horseshoe, horse-shoe, and the usual crowd of small boys looking In at the door. Barker walked In. "Hello, Eben I" he said. Eben, unchanged, save that his black whiskers had turned white, looked up and nodded surlily. He did not take Barker's hand. "Don't you know me, Eben? Tin Henry Barker," said his visitor. "How do, Henry," said Eben, hammering ham-mering away. A spark flew on Barker's Bark-er's nose and burned It "Well, how are the folks?" asked Barker. "I ain't got time for gossip; I got to finish them shoes," said Eben. Only then did Barker recall that Eben had been the surliest man In the village. Heaving a sigh,' he left the smithy and went along the well remembered re-membered street till he came to Rod Stone's grocery. There it was, enlarged and prosperous, prosper-ous, but Just the same. And there was Rod, grayer, stouter, but still Rod Two or three customers were being served by a red-haired young man whom Barker surmised to be the Infant In-fant he had last seen squirming In Its cradle. Barker took his seat upon a cracker barrel. "Hey, git offen that barrel I" shouted shout-ed Rod. "That ain't sanitary!" "Don't you remember me, Rod?" asked Barker plaintively. "I'm Henry Barker." "Don't care who you are, you ain't goln' to set on that cracker barrel 1" retorted Rod. Glancing at him with Intense Indignation, Indig-nation, Barker left the store. It was only then he remembered that Rod used to chase the loafers out of his place Instead of welcoming them. Ah. but his heart beat fuster. Here was Ann Gllllgan's ivy-covered cottage. cot-tage. And there wr.s Ann herself, almost al-most unchanged, In converse with a fat red-faced, scolding woman at the kitchen door. "Ann, Ann, don't you know me?" cried Barker, running up to her and taking her by the hands. How girlish she looked! "Well, you got a nerve, Mister 1" exclaimed the girl. "And my name's Mary, not Ann. I guess he means you, Mommer I" Only then did Barker recognize Ann Ollllgan in the red-faced woman. She let fly a screech at him. "Say, you fresli feller, you beat It out of here before I do you in !" yelled Ann Gllligan, looking around her for some Implement of warfare. "Ann, don't you know " began Henry; but an ominous movement of Ann's hand toward a sad-iron decided him not to reveal himself. Barker beat a hasty retreat from the Ivy-covered cottoge. Ten minutes later he sank down panting In a seat In the train, which he had caught by the skin of his teeth. "1'hewl" he muttered, funning himself. him-self. "I guess those boyhood dreams are wrong. Me for the White Lights this evening I" |