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THE-INDIAN'DRUM By William MacHare and Edwin Balmer ' ? ••fc. , . fv«":r'r, T f v •• j^Wr^zv- 'JWMtsJtfiASw :r '. > ... v | "• i... VH$J Jii i&*<. |>f,' Mte.; |&fe,' f' CHAPTER XVIII--Continued. yy.. --is-- 't *, > *h« door opened then a very little, ^ flfr1 the frightened face of an Indian women appeared in the crack. The° woman evidently had expected--and feared--some arrival, and was reassured when she saw only a girl. She threw the door wider open, and bent to help unfasten Constance's snowshoes; having done that, die led ber in and closed the door. "Where Is your man?" Constance A1 caught the woman's arm. *They sent him to the beach. , A •Mp has sunk." ••Are there nouses near here? Ton nrest ran to one of them at once. Bring whoever you can get; or If you won't do that, tell me where to go." The woman stared at her stolidly and moved away. "None near,* she •aid. "Besides, you could not get ; ^ppnebody before some one will come." . *Who Is thatr *He Is on the beach--Henry 8pearman. He comes here to warxh himself. It la nearly time he comes again." Constance gased at her; the woman was plainly glad of her coming. Her relief--relief from that fear she had been feeling when she opened the door --was very evident. I*, was Hairy, ttien, who had frightened her. The Indian woman set a chair for jber beside the stove, and put water in a pan to heat; she shook tea leaves from a box into a bowl and brought a cap. -- , "How many on that ship?" * "Altogether there wet® SMrty- •Bke," Constance replied. * "Seven are living then." ^ •'Seven? What have y<m heard? V'i'Uhat makes you think so 7* "That Is what the Drum says." V The Drum! There was a Drum • -Men! At least there was some sound which people heard and which they called the Drum. For the woman had teard It Constance grew suddenly cold. For twenty lives, the woman said, the Drum had beat; that meant to her, Sid to Constance too now, that seven were left Indefinite, desperate denial Shat all from the ferry must be dead-- that denial which had been strengthened by the news that at least one : -boat nad been adrift near Beaver-- altered in Constance to conviction of a boat with seven men from the ferry, seven dying, perhaps, but no*, yet dead. < Seven out of twenty-seven; The score were gone; the Drum had beet for them In little groups as they died. Wfaen the Drum beat again, ; < v Would It beat beyond the score? 1 y. .Having finished the tea, Constance jtturned to the door and reopened It; the sounds outside were the same. A Solitary figure appeared moving along the edge of the Ice--the figure of a tall man, walking on snowshoes; Moonlight distorted the figure, and It Was muffled, too. In a great coat which •lade It unrecognizable. He halted and stood looking out at the lake and then, with a sudden movement, strode «n; he halted again, and now Con- Stance got the knowledge that he was looking; he was listening as she •vi-v -was. >1 r * "Is the Drum sounding now?" she ) S$ked the woman. '-No." ' -- - Constance gased again at the man tbd found his motion quite unmistakable ; he was counting--if not counting something that he heard, or thought he ^ heard, he was recounting and revlew- % * tag within himself something that he *ad heard before--some Irregular Ihythm which had become so much a vpart of him that it sounded now con- ^ tlnually within his own brain; so that, ,, Instinctively, he moved In cadence to ,(,> It. He stepped forward again now, |^;,.i4;ijgnd turned toward the house. Her breath caught as she spoke to fhe woman. "Mr. Spearman Is coming fcere now 1" , Her Impulse was to remain where ' • \ ghe was, lest he should think she was jfcfraid of him; but realization came to if lier that there might be advantage in ' ®eelng him before he knew that she 'L '/'* Was there, so she reclosed the door and Vk • 1 <lrew back into the cabin. J ^ >*' ' ______ chapter xir;*: 5 The Sounding of the Oram. Noises of the wind and the roaring of the lake made Inaudible any sound of his approach to the cabin; she lieard his snowshoes, however, scrape £he cabin wall as, after taking them off, tie leaned them beside the door. He thrust the door open then and came In; he did not see her at first and, as &e turned to force the door shut again /^gainst the wind she watched him •HUietly. He saw her now and started and, as though sight of her confused him, <•he looked from the woman and then |>ack to Constance before he seemed certain of her. - "Hello 1" he said tsntattvelfr lol" 1 • Tn here, Henry." "Oh; you are! You are!* He stoocl drawn up, swaying a little as he stared at her; whisky was upon his - breath, and It became evident in the heat of the room; but whisky could y not account for this condition she wltv nessed to him. Neither could It coni ceal that condition; some turmoil and j, strain within him made him Immune '-i to its effects. , '• She had realized on her way up here what, vaguely, that strain within him must be. Guilt--guilt of some awful sort connected him, and had connected , Oncle Benny, with the Miwaka--the lost ship for which the Drum had beaten the roll of the dead. Guilt was ' In his thought now--racking, tearing at him. But there was something more than that; what she had seen In him' when he first caught sight of her was fear--fear at har, ei Sherrili. "You came lip here about Ben Corvet?" he challenged. ^ ' "Yes--no 1" "Which do you mean?" ; AS "No." * "I know, jthan. - For htm, then--e&! For him?" "For Alan Conrad? Yes," she said. "I knew It!" he repeated. "He's been the trouble between you and me all the time 1" She made no denial of that; she had begun to know during the last two days that it was so. "So you came to find hUn?" Henry went on. "Hell be focnd!" si* defied htm. "Be found?" • "Some are dead," she admitted, "hut not all. Twenty are dead; but seven are notl" "Seven?" he echoed. "You say seven are not! How do you know?" "The Drum has been beating for twenty, but not for more!" Constance said. "The Drum you've been listening to all day upon the beach--the Indian Drum that sounded for the dead of the. Miwaka; sounded, one by one, for all who died! But It didn't sound for him! It's been sounding again, you know; but, again, It doesn't sound for him, Henry, not for him!" "The Miwaka! What do you mean by that? What's that got to do with this?" His swollen face was thrust forward at her; there was threat Rgalnst her In his tense muscles and his bloodshot eyes. She did not shrink back from him, or move; and now he was not waiting for her answer. Something--a sound --had caught him about Once it echoed, low In Its reverberations but penetrating and quite distinct It came, so far as direction could be assigned to It, from the trees toward the shore; but It was like no forest sound. Distinct, too, was It from any noise of the lake. It was like a Drum! Yet, when the echo had gone, It was a sensation. easy to deny-^--a hallucination, that was all. But now, low and distinct It came again; and, as before, Constance saw It catch Henry and hold him. His lips moved, but he did not speak; he was counting. "Two," she saw his lips form. The sound of the Drum was continuing, the beats a few Seconds apart. "Twelve," Constance counted to herself. The beats had seemed to be quite measured and regular at first; but now Constance knew that this was only roughly true; they beat rather in rhythm than at regular Intervals. "Twenty--twenty-one -- twenty-two!" Constance caught breath and waited for the next beat; the time of the interval between the measures of the rhythm passed, and still only the whistle of the wind and the undertone of water sounded. The Drum had beaten its roll and, for the moment, was done- Twenty-two' had been her count, as nearly as she could count at all; the reckoning agreed with what the Indian woman had heard. Two had died, then, since the Drum last had beat, when Its roll was twenty. Two more than before; that meant five were left! Constance caught up her woolen hood from the table and put it on. Her action seemed to call Henry to himself. "What are yoo going to do?" he demanded. *Tm going out." He moved between her and the door. "Not alone, you're notl" His heavy voles had a deep tone of menace In it; Vh. Quilt Was In His .....iit Naw » lUwiking, Tearing at Him. he seemed to consider and decide something about her. "There's a farmhouse about a mile back; I'm going to take you over there and J§§yejrou with those people." , "I will not go there 1" He swore. "I'll carry jrott, thent* She shrank back from him as he lurched toward her with hands outstretched to seize her; he followed her, and she avoided him again; If his guilt and terror had given her mental ascendency over him, his physical strength could still force her to his will and, realizing the Impossibility of evading him or overcoming him. she stopped. "Not that 1" she cried. "Don't touch me !'r "Come with me, then!" be commanded ; and he went to the door and laid his snowshoes on the snow and stepped into them, stooping and tightening the straps; he stood by while she put on hers. He did not attempt again to put hands upon her as they moved away from the little cabin toward the woods back of the clearing; but went ahead, breaking the trail tor her with his snowshoes. lie moved forward slowly; he could travel, If he had- wished, three feet to every two that She could cover, but he seemed not wishing for speed but rather for delay. A deep, 'dull resonance was booming above the wood; It boomed again and ran into a rhythm. No longer was It above; at least It was not only above; it was all about them-- here, there, to right and to left, before, behind--the booming of the Drum. Doom was the substance of that sound of the Drum beating the roll of the dead. i Henry had stopped In front ef her, half turned her way; his body swayed and Went to the booming of thfe Drum, as his swollen Hps counted its soundings. She could see him plainly in the moonlight, yet she drew nearer to him as she followed his count. "Twentyone," he counted--"Twenty-two!" The drum was still going on. "Twentyfour-- twenty-five--twenty-six !*• Would he count another? He did not; and her pulses, which had halted, leaped with relief. He moved on again, descending the steep side of a little ravine, and she followed. One of his snowshoes caught In a protruding root and, Instead of slowing to free it with care, he pulled It violently out. and she heard the dry. seasoned wood crack. He looked down, swore; saw that the wood was not broken through and went on; but as he reached the bottom of the slope, she leaped downward from a little height behind him and crashed down upon his trailing snowshoe Just behind the heel. The rending snap of the wood came beneath her feet Had she broken through his shoe Or snapped her own? She sprang back, as he cried out and swung In an attempt to grasp her; he lunged to follow her, and she ran a few steps away and stopped. At his next step his foot entangled in the mesh of the broken snowshoe, and he stooped, cursing, to strip it off and hurl It from him; then he tore off the one from the other foot, and threw It away, and lurched after her again; but now he sank above his knees and floundered in the snow. She stood for a moment while the half-mad, halfdrunken figure struggled toward her along the side of the ravine; then she ran to where the tree trunks hid her from him. He gained the top of the slope and turned In the direction she had gone; assured then, apparently, that she had flown In fear of him, he started back more swiftly toward the beach. She followed, keeping out of his sight among the trees. To twenty-six, he had counted--to twenty-six, each time! That told that he knew one. was living among those who had been upon the ferry! What one? It could only be one of two to dismay him so; there had been only two on the ferry whose rescue he had feared; only two who, living, he would have let lie upon this beach which he had chosen and set aside for his patrol, while he waited for him to die! She forced herself on, unsparingly, as she saw Henry gain the shore and as, believing himself alone, he hurried northward. She could not rest; she could not let herself be exhausted. Merciless minute after minute she raced him thus-- A dark shape--a figure lay stretched upon the Ice ahead! Beyond and still farther out, something which seemed the fragments of a lifeboat tossed up and down where the waves thundered and gleamed at the edge of the floe. henry's pace quickened; hers quickened desperately, too. She left the shelter of the trees and scrambled down the steep pitch of the bluff, shouting, crying aloud. Henry turned about and saw her; he halted, and she passed him with a rush and got between him and the form uppn the ice, before she turned and faced him. Defeat--defeat of whatever purpose he had had--was his now that she was there to witness what he might do; and in his realization of that, he burst out in oaths against her-- He advanced; she stood, confronting--he swayed slightly in his walk and swung past her and away; he went past those things on the beach and kept on along the Ice hummocks toward the north. •Bhe ran to the huddled figure of the man In macklnaw and cap; his face was hidden partly by the position In which he lay and partly by the drifting snow; but before she swept the snpw away and turned him to her, she knew that he was Alan. She cried to him and, when he did not answer, she shook him to get him awake; but she could not rouse him, Praying In wild whispers to herself, she opened his Jacket and felt within his clothes; he was warm--at least he was not frozen within! No; and there seemed some stir of his heart! She tried to lift him, to carry him; then to drag him. But she could not; he fell from her arms Into the snow again, and she sat down, pulling him upon her lap and clasping him to her. She must have aid, she must get him to some house, she must take him out of the terrlbTe cold; but dared she leave him? Might Henry return, if she went away? She arose and looked about. Far up the shore she saw his figure rising and falling with his flight over the rough Ice. A sound came to her, too, the low, deep reverberation of the Drum beating once more alpng the shore and In the woods and out upon the lake; and It seemed to her that Henry's figure, In the stumbling ste^s of his flight was keeping time to the wild rhythm of that sound. And she stooped to AlaWAnd covered him with her coat, before leaving him; for she feared no longer Henry's return, • I house. He and his wife went some- Ahere else when you needed this." "He helped to bring me here, then?" "No, Alan. They were alone, here-- she and Adam's wife. When she found you, they brought you here--more than * mile along the beach. Two women!" Alan choked as he put down the little porcupine quill box which had started this line of Inquiry. Whatever questions he had asked Judah or Sherrlll these last few days had brought him very quickly back to her. Moved by some intuitive certaihty regarding Spearman, she had coipe north; she had not thought of peril to herself; she had struggled alone across dangerous ice In storm--a girl brought up as she had been! She had found him-r- Alan--with life almost extinct--upon the beach; she and the Indian woman, Wassaquam had Just said--had brought him along the shore. How had they managed that, he wondered. His throat closed up, and his eyes filled as he thought of this. In the week during which he had been c&red for here, Alan had not seen Constance; but there had been a peculiar and exciting alteration In Sherrill's manner toward him, he had felt; it was something more than merely liking for him that Sherrili had showed, and SherriH had spoken of her to him as Constance, not, as he had called her always before, "Miss Sherrili," or "ray daughter,'8 Alan had had dreams which had seemed impossible of fulfillment, of dedicating his life and all that he could make of It to her; now SherrlU's manner had brought to him Something like awe, as of something quite incredible. He turned to the Indian. "Has anything more been heard of Spearman, Judah?" "Only this, Alan; he crossed the straits the next day upon the ferry there. In Mackinaw Ctty he bought liquor at a bar and took It with him; iis asked thcrt &bout trains into th6 northwest. He has gone, leaving all he had. What else could he do?" Alan crossed the little cabin and looked out the window over the snowcovered slope, where the bright sun was shining. Snow had covered any tracks that there had been upon the beach where those who had been In the boat with him had been found dead. He had known that this must be; he had believed them beyond aid when he had tried for the shore to summon help for them and for himself. The other-boat, which had carried survivors of the wreck, blown farther to the south, had been able to gain the Bhore of North Fox Island; and as these men had not been so long exposed before they were brought to shelter, four men lived. Sherrili had told him their names; they were the mate, the assistant engineer, a deckhand and Father Perron, the priest who had been a passenger but who had stayed with the crew tilLthe last Benjamin Corvet had perished In the wreckage of the cars. As Alan went back to his chair, the Indian watched him and seemed not displeased. "You feel good, now, Alan?" Wassaquam asked. "Almost like myself, Judah." "That is right, then. It was thought you would be like that today. A sled Is coming soon, now." "We're going to leave here, Judah?" "Yes, Alan." Was he going to see her, then? Excitement stirred him, and he turned to Wassaquam to ask that; but suddenly he hesitated and did not Inquire. Wassaquam brought the macklnaw and cap which Alan had worn on Number 25; he took from the bed the new blankets which had been furnished by Sherrili. They waited until a farmer appeared driving a team hitched to a low, wlde-runnered sled. The Indian settled Alan oh the sled, and they drove off. They traveled south along the shore, rounded into Little Traverse bay, and the houses of Harbor Point appeared among their pines. The sled proceeded across the edge of the bay to the little city; even before leaving the bay Ice, Alan saw Constance and her father; they were walking at the water front near the railway station, and they caipe out on the ice as they recognized the occupants of the sled. Alan felt himself alternately weak and roused to strength as he saw her. Their eyes encountered, and hers looked away; a sudden shyness, which sent his heart leaping, had come over her. He wanted to 6peak to her, to make some recognition to her of what she had done, but he did not dare to trust his voice; and she seemed to understand that. He turned to Sherrili Instead. An engine and tender coupled to a single car stood at the railway station. "We're going to Chicago?" he inquired of Sherrili. "Not yet, Alan--to St Ignace. Father Perron--the priest you know-- went to St. Ignace-as soon as he recovered from his exposure. He sent word to me that he wished to see me at my convenience; I told him that we would go to him as soon as you were able." "He sent no other word than that?" "Only that he had a very grave communication to make to us." Alan did not ask more; at mention of Fatter Pemg hefead ifcmsdtttfrei himself oace ^er* aaioav the clashing,., charging, freight cars on the ferry and to see Benjamin Oorvet pinned,amid the wreckage and«^eaklng^nto the ea? of thi priest ' - i • * m • • • • ' It was not merely a confessional* which Father Perron had taken from the lips of the dying man on Number 25; it was an accusation of crime against another man as well; and the confession and accusation both ba| been made, not only to gain forgiveness from God, but to right terrible wrongs. If the confession left some things unexplained, it did not lack con* flrmatlon; the priest had learned enough to be certain that it was no* hallucination of madness. He had been charged definitely to repeat what had been told him to the persons he wai now going to meet; so he watched expectantly upon tbe railway station platform at St. Ignace. A tall, handsome man whom Father Perron thought must fee the Mr. Sherrili withi' Father Perron Went to a Peek and Took Therefrom Some Notes Which He Had Made. whom he had ^bmmunicated appeared upon the car platform; the young man from Number 25 followed him, and the two helped down a young and beautiful girl. They recognized the priest by hit dress and came toward him at once. "Mr. Sherrili?" Father Perron la* quired. • Sherrili assented, taking the priest's hand and introducing his daughter. "I am glad to see you safe, Mr. Stafford." The priest had turned to Alan. "We have thanks to offer up for that, you and I!" "I am his aon; then! I thought that must be so."' Alan trembled at the priest's sign of confirmation. There was no shock of surprise in this; he had suspected ever since August, when Captain Stafford's watch and the wedding ring had so strangely come to Constance, that he might be Stafford's son. He looked at Constance, as they followed the priest to the motor which was waiting to take them to the house of old Father Benltot, whose guest Father Perron was; she was very quiet. What would that grave statement which Father Perron was to make to them mean to him--to Alan? Would further knowledge about that father whom he bad not known, but whose blood was his and whose name he now must bear, bring pride or shame to him? A bell was tolling somewhere, as they followed the priest Into Father Benltot's small, bare room which had been prepared for their Interview. Father Perron went to a desk and took therefrom some notes which he had made. "What I have," he said, speaking more particularly to Sherrili, "Is the terrible, not fully coherent statement of a dying man. It has given me names --also It has given me facts. But isolated. It does not give what came before or What came after; therefore, It does not make plain. I hope that, a* Benjamin Corvet's partner,' you can furnish what I lack." * BE CONTINUED.) * W- * Tobacco Legends. iiccorSlng to one fantastic Adam got so bored with Eve that he asked God to send him a consolation, and God sent tobacco. The other story relates that our First Mother got so "fed up" with her husband's attentions that she prayed God to send him some other distraction, and the heavenly gift of tobacco answered her prayer.--Montreal Family Henl$. As Usual. There was a woman in our town who was so wondrous wise she used her ears for hearing things,*for seeing things her eyes. And when she'd heard and seen It all, what did this female do but use her tongue for teHc Ing every blessed thing she knew.--* Exchange. Your iron, Work Brains-- HERE'S an ideal hot-weatKe# luncheon! Two packages luscious Little Sun- Maid Raisins -- one cool glass of l^^milk. Big men don't need more. >;'?* 290 calories of energizing nutfi-. ^g^|mcnt in the little raisins. Pure fruit sugar, practically fredigested so it' \ t acts almost immediately, yet doesn't V - tax digestion and thus heat the blood, ^ There's fatigue-resisting food-iron Valso in this lunch. Vital men eat like this and resist • v the weather. Don't work their diges- Cm.>: • '.-y tion because they want to work their trains. ; Try it ior * few day* and yo«'U feel bette?. * / < fi ; 'K M;' Between-Meal Raisins < $c Everywhere in Little Red Packages A Postponed Repentance. There was a man out In Wisconsin Who went to a revival meeting and was pressed to repent He wavered for a time and finally arose and said: "Friends, I want to repent and tell how bad I have been, but I dasn't dc It when the grand Jury Is In session." "The Lord will forgive," the revivalist shouted. "Probably He will,** answered the sinner; "but He ain't on that grand Jury."--Boston Transcript To Have a Clear Sweet Skin Touch pimples, redness, roughnen or itching, If any, with Cutlcura Ointment, then bathe with Cutlcura Soap and hot water. Rinse, dry gently and dust on a little Cutlcura Talcum to leave a fascinating fragrance on skin. Everywhere 25c each.--Advertisement. Thyroid for the Bald. How baldness was cured by doses of thyroid gland is described In the Lancet by Dr. H. W. Barber, physician In charge of the skin department at Guy's hospital. A Dutch girl who had suffered from almost complete baldness for several years was given ten grains of thyroid gland dally for several weeks. As a result hair Is now growing freely over the whole of her scalp. ' 40- legend The poorest Arab woman paints Iter eyes with kohl to make them appear larger and more brilliant A Soldier's Honor; The memory of the soldier Ma!Uet«( who Was sentenced In 1915 to death lift Sj" contumaciam for having deserted the enemy, has now definitely beeii , cleared of all stain by the Mourge* , 1 Military tribunal. Malllet's case wa# * pathetic. He fell In battle and his bodjj?4|« ' was afterward Identified among other#-*'c' buried at Auberive on the Marne. OH hearing that her husband was a de* serter Malllet's wife died of grief an<| her two orphan boys were taken car^y 1 K of by their grandfather. The com* mune of Checy, his native village^ now lays claim to the honor of payv ln^ tor their upkeep. f Important f Mothoffa Examine carefully every boflWfll CASTORIA, that famous old remedj for Infants and children, and see that i| Bears the Signature of In Use for Over 30 Years. Children Cry for Fletcher's Castori% Young and Fearful. "Mary, If you misbehave like tbaf you will make your mother angry at you." Little Mary--That doot scare so»| she ain't my wife. > Expert Aviatora. Wife Doesn't time fly quickly! Hub--Yes, and money is a good ond down here at the seashore. NOTHING PENURIOUS ABOUT HIM CHAPTER XX ' The Fata of the Miwaka. M8o this Isn't your house, Judah?" " "No, Alan; this Is an Indian's bouse, but It is not mine. It Is Adam Enqs* Generous Man Dead Willing to Let Neighbor Have Anything he Would Pay For. tell me we ace not a generous people," said the corner-seat passenger on the early car. "I hear so many people complaining how stingy folks are that It's refreshing to see somebody that's got something to give away." "Well, what for instance?' grunted his seatmate. "Somebody been offerhig you good advice, or has he only been wishing he could divide his cold In the head with you?" "Neither one," said the other, "but I've got a big-hearted neighbor who was talking across the fence with me the other day. He hac sent for a catalogue of some hardware-clothing concern, and ho let m<? look it all over." "That was generous," agreed the other. "That was the next thing to giving you something, I'll say, letting you read a fresh new book." "Yes, but be did tetter than that," resumed the first. "He not only let me look the book over all I wanted to, but he said, 'You can send and get anything you want in It; I don't expect to buy It all.'"--Los Angeles Times. Power of Music. Music Is an art distinct and selfr uufflcient It represents the harmony of that Interior truth which all art seeks to reveal, and whose beauty and grace appear In painting and sculpture. The interpreters of that harmony are sounds, which are related to music as colors to painting, and the fullest expression is given to them by. instrumental combination. The human voice in respect of the art is valuable as an Instrument, and in suppleness may exceed mechanical contrivances; wherefore one readily understHnds why a mighty chorus is introduced in the finale of the grandest symphony, that the whole effect may be duly crowned, and the appeal to the heart be assured by the union of human sounds. But with such an effect words have nothing to da--G. W. Curtis. Ctraatpafitoa to the Goodyear All-Weather Tread •;V'. ; ' jBy long wean superior traction, freedom gladding, and ultimate economy, the Goodyeiur All-Weather Tread has won unquestioned leadership. As a companion to this tire there u the Goo<§» y • year 30 x 3#vross-Rib Fabric. - / f*'- v Built of the same high grade Egyptian fabfte and with a long wearing but differently designw tread, this tire offers unusual value. y « Over 5,000,000 of these tire* have been sold ;y if the last five years. 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