THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LI, Issue 304, 19 December 1908, Page 3

THE STORYTELLER.

COWABSS Lh ' The small weary-lookinj^^B w ith the patient eye climbed of the tenement as the clock His work for the day was he showed no sign of homecoming. On the contrar.\^^B, e | lleil a little terrified. : .^^M He knocked timidlv aj^^^B) 0 r it was flung open by a woman with small red c^^H au ' gressive pointed chin. "Well, I'm sure," she^^^H D „ Tl |,. "So you're lute £m»v what you mean by it. the kettle on the 'ob since this is all the thanks I get." "I'm sorry," said HuJ^^Mi„ w i y) "but it couldn't be The foreman put me on and it meant stoppin' a luual or spoilin' the whole t^^^R "Yes, your work is about," said his wife a thought for your home and tf^^H r en, not to mention me." -^^Hl "I don't think that he said meekly. '^^H It certainly was not. and devoted, but Mrs. never admit anything in She was one of tiose women to regard their husbands as tcr» of the old regime their unhappy pupils—as to be bullied, maltreated, and subdued. Huxtable had put treatment for fifteen years. when he looked back on wondered how he had been tture his torments with such pa^^H ■' Where's Jack and Archie?" as lie went to the sink to hands. „W^ ' " Ah, you may well ask. YVllre, indeed? Playin' in the court, Axpec', and gottin' into bad company, t that I comes because their father don't trouble I

hisself about 'em. They'll go to rack and ruin, you mark my words, if you don't keep a tight 'and on 'em." - "I should have thought that was your job, so to speak," suggested Huxtable. "No, it's a father's place to look after his boys. Besides, you know as how they don't think nothin' of me:when you're about. It's ' Bad this' am l ' Dad that,' till I'm fairly sick of hcaria- them say it." "Yes, I think they're fond of me," said poor Huxtable, with a little break in his voice. "Not that they've got mucii reason to be," snapped the woman. then, children allers takes to them as does the least for 'em. That's, what's so unfair."

She poured out the tea, and: gave the unhappy Huxtable his meal in silence. He looked round the room and sighed. The week's laundry was suspended from a string overhead, and the room was filled with a warm dampness. Not a vestige of comfort was in sight. A bleak wretched home was this—he reflected—- ■ cursed by an ill-tempered wife who had not even the virtues of her vices. For the average nagging woman, was generally tidy and clean, but Mrs. Huxtable was neither tie one nor the other. Equally, tyrannical women frequently made good mothers and brought up their offspring in the way they should go, but Mrs.' Huxtable's complete equipment for the training of Archie and Jack consisted of a broken broom-handle. She taught them nothing which could help them to grow up into good and useful men. She had indeed spoken bhe truth when she said that unless -the father looked after them their futures vould be in peril. After tea Huxtable took out his pipe. This action was'always the signal for unkind comment on the woman's part. She did not really dislike the smell of tobacco, but she disliked the ides of her husband enjoyiag himself. So she sniffed, groaned, and criticised until at length he knocked out the ashes and replaced the pipe in his pocket, "I wish you was a bit more even tempered," he said gently, " it 'ud make things pleasanter." When the children came home, Mrs. Huxtable delivered a short lecture to them on the brutality of their father. The youngsters, however, did not take much notice, but climbed on the little man's knees and begged for pennies,

which he gave them with smiling goad | nature. But when the boys had gvne to bed, and he was alone in the lit-le. sitting-room, he sat with his head in his bands, asking himself what it meant. Why were some men singled out far such homes as this, he wondered, whilst others had love, happiness, and all that made life worth living. There was Tom Harris, for example, who worked in nis shop. Harris was anything but a saint, and drank a large part of his wage*, but he had a wife who worshipped him, and his home was always comfortable and cosy. There was Barclay, that long, ugly fellow, who frequently blacked his wife's eyes, but who nevertheless had a pleasant life enough when he was not under the influence of drink,'wails; he, Huxtable, whose greatest dissipatiiji ■was a glass of beer once a day, witl. a couple perhaps on Sundays, was bullitu ond badgered from morning till night, until his existence was rendered almost unbearable.

As he sat and pondered things, he re membered how another acquaintance ol his own had cut the Gordian knol> abruptly by clearing out and leaving hi* unkind wife to her own resources. Hefl bad gone off suddenly, and no news had been heard of him afterwards. Somc| eaid he had gone to Canada, Uie placewhere a man who knew a decent trade could always.get good work and good wages. • Of late, Huxtable had tiiought a great deal about this man. Secretly, lie had envied him 1 his pluck, and had wished that he, too, could do likewise. 0, for a glorious spell of freedom—freedom from that harsh voice—from that most gloomy face. If only he dared . . . . An evening newspaper lay on the table. He took it up, and, strangely enough, the first thing which he noticed was the advertisement of a steamship company that announced reduced fares to Canadian ports. Huxtable began to tremble.

"I've got the money right enough,"he j murmured, "money to take me over, | and to keep me going till I get a job. Aad when once I was settled, and earning decent money, I could send Carrie a bit every month. ..." Now the new hope seemed to flow like a thing of light. A tinge of colour dawned in his pale, small face. His rough, wrinkled hands twitched nervously. Thrills were not frequent occurrences in the life of this man; he could probably fcaye numbered them had he taken an interest in his own sensations. Perhaps in the whole of his life this glorious trembling of the blood hud come to him scarce five times. freedom!

■ He pictured the new, the free. life. There would be no more nagging, no more black looks, no more heavy domestic task*, it the crisp, strong air of the world that lay beyond the Atlantic, he would begin afresh, would renew his youth. After all, ho. was stilt a young man. He would not be forty; for another three years or so. He had every chance to make a new beginning. Why not? Why not? • So lie sat and pondered, whilst the Vfirk slipped away. At eleven o'clock TKrs. Huxtable entered the room, and taid irritably: • "Well, if you ain't a-goin' to bed, I

am." She slammed the door of the bedroom •ft* noise sounded to him like a farewell. He rose and went to a cuplward, from irWch he took a small eashbox. He unlocked it, and counted the money. "Thirty-two pounds seven and sixpence," ho muttered. "I could manage with twenty, I expect, and I'd leave the rest for Carrie." He sat down by the

ilyinf fire. Sleep was out of the qu?stioiAbis night. He decided to remain there till dawn, and then go down to Euston and take a ticket for Liverpool. Ha felt slightlv nervous as he contemn-1 fated his daring act. Timidity was the keynote of his nature, and he hated any. decisive action. Still there are times when the meekest of men are etung into energy. . The cheap clock on the mantelpiece ticked out the minutes. He sat, oblivious of the passing of lime. He was dreaming dreams of the future. He was very happv. His heart heat with swift

joy. ' So the hours slipped by. , - Soon after six he rose and put cm Ms bat and coat. It would be impossible to pack a bag. for his tnf« Uuld at once lie rendered suspicious He omst go as he was, and buy a 1.« things in Liverpool. Yes, that was the best plan, decidedly. With silent feet be went towards the door and opened it. The chill morning air seemed to rob him of courage. Seated bv the. fire in the pleasant warm,,,. flight had seemed an easy matter, Ine luttttc had appeared equally simple. But

the inhospitable air of the dawn seemed to bid him go back rather than forward. He mastered the impulse, and went down the stone stair* that led to the street Then he walked rapidly along tray's In u Koad towards King's Cross. At a coffee stall he bought some food. It revived liiiu, and he felt inclined to smile as lie pictured his wife's wonderment and rage when lie failed to come home. I

At Euston he was told that there would not be a train for an hour, lie sat down in the great booking-hall. How strange it seemed to lie there. At Unit hour he was usually on his way to work. Already a sense of freedom was beginning to hold his being. He left elated and surprised at the same time.

A bookstall boy entered the bookinghall on his way to the platform. Something in the youngster's face recalled I the face of Archie. A slight pang took hold of Huxtable's heart. He wondered why he had not thought about the children before. At least he might have contrived to take a hist look at them previous to his leaving the house, ile felt very annoyed at his neglect. It would be hard on theiu, losing their father, he reflected, very hard. Their mother meant little to them, but for him they had always love and tenderness. He remembered how he had promised to take both boys to Jilttersea I'ark that afternoon, it being the Saturday half-holiday. And now—how now?

[ Well, he just knew what he was doing. He was running away from them and from his responsibilities, like a thief in the night, ileeiag from justice. Gradually his memory would slip from their childish brains. The day would come when the word "father" would convey nought to them save a shadowy recollection. What would be their future now that he was gone ? Surely the streets would claim them, and the foul inlluenccs of the slum would bear them down into the depths. Had not ihis wife said that he alone could keep them from " rack and ruin?"

He rose and paced the gloomy hall, in a fever of doubt. Already his new freedom was beginning to seem a thing of mixed good. It certainly had its evil side. His wife could manage well enough without him, but the children—ah, they were different. He had helped to bring them into the world, and was it list his duty to help them through it as well? He was a coward now, and he was afraid of the future. The future seemed dark and terrible. Within its awful grasp there lay the destiny of those two little ones whom he loved. Conscience awoke in him, and stirred ail the fear that lingered in his blood. A man in uniform touched him on the shoulder. " The booking office is open now, mate," he said kindly. " The train goes in fifteen minutes." Huxtable looked up with a start.

'■ Thanks, old man," he said absently, but he did not go towards the window wihere one booked for the North. He sought the street instead, and climbed on a 'bus going eastwards. It deposited him at the gates of the factory where he worked, and he was just in time to Blip through the door and save himself being shut out till dinner-time. In the afternoon he went home with his wages, and with a, boat which he hod bought for the children to sail on in the pond in the park. Mrs. Huxtable greeted him in her usual acid manner. " You never came to bed last night," she said. " 'Pon my word, I think you must be goin' off your head. What was you doin'?" "I was just thinkin', that's all," he said nervously. " Thinkin'. Much good that did you, I expect. Thinkin' of how you could upset me, I daresay." Huxtable shook his head and smiled. The two boys were standing close by, eagerly, discussing the question of navigation as they handled the little boat. " If we was in the boat, anil fell out, dad l would save us, wouldn't you, dad?" murmured Jackie, aged six, " for you're awful brave, I know." Huxtable laughed gently. : "Your father 'ud be too much of a coward for that," snarled the mother. But he only laughed again. " It's good to be a coward sometimes," he said huskily. " It's better for them as we love."-HPhillip Beaufoy, in the Manchester Chronicle.