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Page 5 text:
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VoL, III. SANTA ROSA, CAL., JANUARY, 1912 No. V Apartment Number ‘Ghree ERY few apartments, however modern, claim the simple luxury of a fire-place, and few indeed -have newly married couples as tenants, but Number Three, of the New San Carlos, had both. When Mrs. Harlin opened the massive oaken doors of the New San Carlos to the public, nearly four years ago, Number Three had been taken possession the younger set, and held by it ever since, all because of this little = o Me brown stone fire-place, and many a little domestic quarrel and make-up had centered around its hearth. Tom Kinley had “spotted” it nearly three months before his wedding day and had it held for him, that he might lead, Sophia home to where a blazing wood fire, casting its cheerful glow upon the dainty furnishings of the little sitting room, would remind her more of her own home, where she had lived with her mother and brothers, and where she would be less lone- some in the long wintry days approaching, when his business would keep him from her. Thus Number Three was once more taken by newly-weds, though the old neighborhood gossip said it was likely to be the last time, since those rich people from the north were rushing the St. Marks to completion. The St: Marks, towering with its massive steel frame work, fifteen stories above the street, was to be the finest, most modern and complete hotel in the city, so its promoters said. So anxious were they for its completion that the builder had finally consented to put forth greater efforts, and resulting therefrom, electric lights were strung through the great steel skeleton, while a force of workers, with their riveting machines, kept up an incessant din through the long hours of the night, much to the discomfiture of the neighbors, especially the inmates of the New San Carlos; for so close were the two that one might reach across from the window of Sophia’s little pink and white dining room and touch one of the huge steel beams of the St. Marks. Many times, in the course of the day, Sophia herself would stand at this window and watch the men at their work, as they clung to the beams like ants, or climbed steep, clinging ladders to the street below, or into the dizzy heights above,
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Page 6 text:
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4 THE ECHO. It was on Tuesday evening, early in November, just two months after their wedding day. Snow had been falling all day, the city was clothed in a soft mantle of white, and without the air was cold and crisp. Within, the lights had been turned off, and. the snapping, crackling fire on the hearth cast weird and phantom shadows on the tinted walls across the room. On her little stool at one side of the hearth, Sophia rested her chin in her palm, and gazed long and silently at the leaping, racing flames, while her delicate features, her golden-brown hair, and the soft, silken folds of her dress caught and reflected the ruddy light. Across the hearth, Tom lounged in his low rocker, stretched his slippered feet to the blaze, puffed lazily at his old college pipe, carved in all strange devices, and gazed long and intently through half- closed lids, at Sophia, across the hearth. The fire burned low; Tom poked the dying embers with the toe of his carpet slipper, watched the showers of sparks as they chased one another into the dark chimney, and puffed away in silence. The little clock on the mantel struck the hour of seven. Sophia started, and cried, “Oh, Tom, I didn’t know it was so late; they'll soon be here!” For answer, the door-bell rang sharply. Sophia switched on the lights and went to meet her guests, while Tom made for his room, where, while fumbling in the dark for the electric button, he kicked his slippers under the bed. As the light flashed on, he tossed his smoking jacket onto a chair, and, on hands and knees, reached frantically under the dresser for his patent leathers. But no shiny pumps met his touch. Slowly, despair and bewilderment in his face, he arose and sat on the edge of the bed, griping the covers in a tightening grasp. As the truth dawned upon him he gave an agonized groan, and mut- tered something which sounded like “curses.” For those precious shoes, dampened by a shower from the faucet in the pantry, reposed high and dry on a shelf above the tiny kitchen stove. There was no hope for it. His every-day tans were in the repair shop, and the blacks just as far beyond reach, for already he heard cheerful, laughing voices in the hall and Dick Haskell asking for him. Seconds were precious now, so Tom dropped on hands and knees again, and, wrathfully jerking the unoffending slippers from under the bed, slipped them on. Putting on his coat, glancing in the mirror for a final survey, and assuming a cheerful face, Tom turned off the light and stepped out, with a bold front, but a sinking heart. Yes, they were all there—Dick Haskell, promising young lawyer; Ralph Wesly, of the medical school; Grace Hilton, teacher; Ruth Madge, so terribly afraid of ghosts; Sophia and himself; they had all been college chums, with many a good time together. When the greetings were over, and the first friendly, bantering jests had subsided, Sophia suggested cards, and all joyfully agreed. No one had noticed shoes at all, and Tom’s hopes began to rise. The fire was almost out. Poking the dying embers with the tongs, he casually remarked, “While you people get the cards ready I'll get some wood for this fire,” and started for the kitchen. A harmless little spool had dropped from Sophia’s work- basket on the table and lay on the rug in the shadow of the table leg. There was plenty of room to go round it, but Tom didn’t know it was there, and he stepped full upon it. He didn’t fall, but everyone turned just in time to
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