Life — November 22, 1906 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

NOW THAT THE GAME 15 MILDER, THERE 18 STILL A LITTLE TUN. TO WATCH THEM MAKING TOUCHDOWNS AND TO SEE THE MALIBACKS RUN. The Great Provide I TWAS night on the Colorado prairie. Esther Smith shivered in the lonely cabin as she sat crowded and unhappy before the bare table. She had wandered away from her brother’s ranch in search of bachelor’s- buttons, and had sought this shelter in despair. Suddenly a gust of wind blew open the door. Three men entered—Bill Jones, Ste- phen Pratt and Jake Robinson. Their beards gleamed in the dusky light. “We haven’t had a shave for so long,” said Bill Jones, “that it is really pitiful.” “Awful,” muttered Jake Robinson. “Fierce,” exclaimed Stephen Pratt. Suddenly his eye lighted on Esther's prostrate form. “Aha!” he cried. ‘Look at this. Truly * an act of Providence. Here is a woman who can—and will—shave us. Come, girl, get to work ”” “Spare me,” whispered Esther. “Never!” cried Bill Jones, seizing her and pulling out his bowie knife. “Me first; take this and give we a close shave. And if,” he muttered with a fiendish leer, ‘you cut me, God help you!” Esther shrank back. ntlemen,” she exclaimed, ‘do not ask me, I beg of you. My New England conscience will not permit me to Perhaps I might trim your “Never! roughly replied Jake Robin- son. “A close shave or nothing. Get to work!” her turned toStephen. ‘Save me!” she pleaded. 1 will do anything if””—— “Tf what?” “If I can be spared from shaving you all.” “Girl, marry me!” NOW THAT THE GAME IS THERE IS HARDLY ANY ROUGHNESS (PERUAPS A FIGHT OR TW NO ONE 1S CARRIED OFF THE TIELD EXCEPTING JUST A FEW MILDER Esther looked at him piercingly. “Do you mean it?” she asked, with a dramatic sniv “T do.” “Tam yours.” II Stephen’s whiskers gleamed in the afternoon sun, as he came in with his daily bushel basket of nuggets and placed them wearily on the floor. All yours,” he said, pathetically. Esther pushed them away with her feet. Not for me,” she replied, wiping her eyes. “My New England conscience is not for sale, thank you. Rags are royal raiment when worn for virtue’s sake. Aha! Rags for me, every time.” “Have I ever asked you,” replied Stephen, his proud, sensitive Arizona soul stung to the quick, ‘‘to shave me since we were married? Just look at my whiskers!” He laid them out, as he spoke, on the table. “Darling,” he murmured, pathetically, “haven't I been faithful to you?” For a moment Esther did not reply. She was still sniveling. Then she drew herself up, up, up—to the proper dra- matic height. “Remove those whiskers instantly,” she demanded. ‘They annoy me.” Stephen blushed to their roots. ‘It’s no use,” he cried. “I’ve tackled wild cats and grizzly bears, catamounts, pumas and snakes, but a New England conscience is too much for me. Tell me what you wish.” Esther was getting her second snivel. “Let me go back to home and mother,” she whispered. “Very well.” Stephen sprang haughtily to the long- distance telephone. “One lower berth for Boston,” he cried. And thus they parted. NW THAT THE GAME 15 MILDER, AND THE NEW RULES HAVE TULL SWAY. THERE 15 STILL A LITTLE pote WHEN YALE AND HARVARD PLAY. III The hollyhocks and morning-glories waved gloriously around Esther’s Massa- chusetts cottage. She was busy trim- ming them with pruning shears. The baby was gurgling at her feet. Mother was doing the week’s wash in the kitchen. Suddenly Esther turned. Stephen was coming in the distance. He had greatly changed. In the short space of six months he had learned to tie an Ascot tie and wear a braided overcoat. “Stephen!” “Esther!”” He looked at her fondly. “Can you ever forgive me,” he cried, “for bucking up against that New Eng- land conscience of yours? I ought to hay known better. Now I’m a changed man.” “So I see,” she replied, sweetly. “But your whiskers, darling, they certainly need attention.” Then she stepped into the house. “Mother,” she cried, ‘where is grand- father’s razor?” The Only Way | 'LL give one of you boys a dime to carry my grip to the station,” said a cross-eyed man, pausing before three ragged little fellows. “Which one, mister?” piped the boys jn chorus, “You,” said the cross-eyed man. “Which one?” “You!” There was a pause. Finally one litte fellow said: ‘Say, mister, close one eye an’ look at the kid you want, won’t you?” MERICAN AUTHOR: How is your new novel progressing ? Frencu Ditto: I have the story all written, and now I must go over it and polish it up. “Oh, put that time on the next one!” comicbooks.com