Life — March 7, 1907 — page 36: what you’re looking at

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

The prison doors were thrown open. Once more Ivan clasped Helen’s fainting form. Kaskawhisky was thwarted. “Rescued at last,” muttered Ivan, as her head sank on his goggles. IN AMERICA Helen and Ivan, standing in the best room of their hotel, had just re- ceived a delegation of their friends, when there was a sudden knock at the door. ‘The proprietor entered. “Mr. Skidoosky ?” “Have you ever been married before?” “Yes, sir.” “Divorced?” “Impossible. ‘The Duma wasn’t running then.” The proprietor, backed by his head bellboy, pointed out of the door —out into the cold, cold world. Ivan turned pale. Helen shuddered. Both instantly realized there was no help for them. They were doomed to live in Staten Island and be eaten alive by Jersey mosquitoes. “Ts this the end?” muttered Ivan, as he saw the forms of Mark Twain and Peter Dunne fade away. ‘The proprietor opened the door, and, bowing his head, replied: , “Skidoo, Skidoosky!” Mexican “Ab! Padre, you are sad!” Spirals of heat were rising from the adobe huts. There was adobe everywhere. One could almost smell it. How it gleamed! Round the corner of the chapel there had come a young girl. Her dark hair lay in clusters on her shoulders. Her forehead was low but refined. She looked at the priest wistfully “No, Juanita, not sad; only wondering.” “What, Padre?” The priest raised his eyes to the distant horizon, upon which could be “Twas wondering, Juanita, whether any marriage fee would be my portion this week. I haven’t sat in a game for so long now—abh, it Perhaps" —— s were far away. They were, indeed, fixed on the figure that drew closer and closer. She shivered and sighed. “Who knows?” she said, faintly. Then she smiled to herself. It was He—she knew it was He. But neither the aged priest nor herself saw be- hind the adobe temple, now used as a chapel, the dark, sinister form of Hot Tamale, the Mexican greaser. “Sacré!”” he muttered, taking out a mowing scythe and running it swiftly across his hand. ‘De Diable! Christa! He comes! Her lover! He is mine.” ‘Fhe girl ran in to change her clothes, and the priest disappeared to see that his poker chips were in order, as John Smith, the cowboy, rode in, his pony’s hoofs clattering over the stone cobbles. “Here, greaser!” he said to Hot Tamale. “Hold the boy till I come!” and in a moment he, too, disappeared, hot on the trail of Juanita. He had just located a rich claim, and nothing but matrimony was his. He would take Juanita on to Harvard and educate her properly, while he was preparing himself for the United States Senate. “Juanita!” “John!” ‘They were clasped in each other’s arms. “T have good news for thee, little sister. I have struck it rich.” Hot Tamale had not been idle. Hitching the pony tly, he sneaked stealthily behind John Smith, and while that individual and Juanita were holding each other together, he raised his deadly mowing scythe and was about to strike. Suddenly his arm was held in an iron grip. “Dog! It was the priest who spoke. Punching the greaser with his dagger, he turned quietly to the lovers. “All is ready for the ceremony,” he whispered. “After which” ——he faintly discerned a faint speck—it was in reality a horseman whispered to John Smith. The latter nodded drily, as he replied, “Very Piano-Criterion In passing judgment upon pianos, the Steinway serves as the criterion—the representative of every point of piano perfection. Point by point, the questioned instrument is compared —the tone with Steinway tone—the construction with Steinway construction—its standing among artists and musi- cians with the Steinway standing—its price, these points considered, with the Steinway price. 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