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Show A Better Land I Know 88 By FRED TOOLE (McClure Syndicate W.S'U Service.) VTILLIE was smart. No one " could pull the wool over his eyes. Which was why his pocket bulged comfortably with a neat wad of bills and a ticket to Miami as he sauntered jauntily into Ben's Barbecue. Bar-becue. "One hot beef, one coffee," he nodded to Ben, throwing open his overcoat. "And make it good, boy, because it's the last one I'll have until I hit the sunny South." "South!" Ben was startled as he smacked the sizzling beef on to a roll. "The sunny South," Willie repeated, re-peated, flashing a thin-lipped smile. "You might be going with me, Ben, if you weren't so soft-hearted. No handouts in my joint, Benny boy. Give as little as you can and get as much as you can for it that's my motto. And you see how it works? I'll be lying on a beach while you're shoveling snow. Why don't you get wise?" Willie turned in surprise as a chair cracked against the wall. He hadn't noticed the tall, gaunt old man who now rose hurriedly and went to the dodr, where he stood staring through the glass at the bleak street, swept clear by the icy blasts. "What's eating him?" Willie asked, mystified. Ben flushed. "Guess you put your foot in it," he said, awkwardly. "Talking about handouts, I mean. And the South." Willie's sharp face hardened. "Another chiseler, eh?" he asked grimly. "Listen " "You listen," said Ben firmly. "Maybe it'll take some of the starch out of you, tough guy. You know what that old man makes? Fifteen a week! How'd you like to send half of that to your sick daughter, and live on the rest?" Willie chuckled scornfully. "I hear that one ten times a day." "I happen to know it's true." Ben's eyes were somber. "His name's Merrifield. He comes from Georgia. If it weren't for his daughter I'll bet he'd rather starve on his old place. His heart and soul are down there, Willie. Just hearing him talk about the pines and cotton-woods, cotton-woods, the swamps, the dunes, the way the darkies sing " Ben dropped his knife abruptly and went to turn on the radio. Willie looked thoughtfully at the shabby figure by the door, but when Ben returned his face was blank. "What did you give him tonight?" he asked. "Barbecue and coffee," said Ben defiantly. "I thought so!" Willie's grin was mocking. "Don't even know how to treat his kind. I'll show you, Benny boy, and let it be a lesson to you!" And before Ben could protest, Willie had gone to Merrifield. "Pardon me, sir; I understand you're from the South," he said easily. "I'm going down that way myself, and I wonder if you'd join me in a little er farewell repast?" Merrified bowed gravely. "A pleasure, Mr. ?" Ben introduced them, and took Willie's casual order for two steak dinners. "You're going south, sir?" "That's right," said Willie. "Miami. I need a vacation." Merrifield nodded courteously. "I'm sure you do. The South is the place for rest and peace." He went on to talk about his home, restrained re-strained emotion in his voice. Even Ben, tending the sizzling steaks, could feel it. The music from the radio rose to a gleeful shriek, then ended; and the program followed that Merrifield Merri-field loved. Mellow strains filled the little restaurant, and all at once the things the old man had been talking about were there: Peace and rest cottonwoods, the scent of pines, swamps, the darkies' songs. And a rich vibrant bass began to sing. "Gone are the days when my heart was young and gay, Gone are my friends from the cotton fields away ..." Merrifield fell silent. He sat gazing gaz-ing out the window gazing into Georgia, into the past, as the rich voice carried them all away. ". . . to a better land I know . . ." And then Willie laughed harshly and rose, shattering the spell. "That reminds me I'm going south myself. my-self. Why don't you go back to Georgia, if you like it so much? I hear you've got a sick kid there." Merrifield stiffened. The faraway far-away look in his eyes vanished, to be replaced by wretchedness. But Willie went on tauntingly: "My train stops over in Atlanta. I'll give Georgia your regards." The old man's head drooped; he didn't even notice the bump Willie gave him as he buttoned his expensive expen-sive coat with a swagger. Ben "followed Willie to the door. "You meant to hurt him " he accused, ac-cused, "to break his heart! I didn't know anyone could be so low." "That's the way I treat his kind," Willie snapped defensively. He walked fast. He was smart, all right. No one was going to catch him getting sentimental. But he wanted to get that song out of his ears, wanted to forget those tired eyes. And most of all, he didn't want to be around when a homesick old man found in his torn pocket a wad of bills and a ticket to the place he loved. |