Reach for A star

Stick a pin in the map of southern Indiana, half an inch to the left of Lost River, and about six hours from the rest of the world, as time is used to measure railroad journeys, and you will find a speck called French Lick Springs. Hidden away in the hills, so remote from the centers of civilization that only wealthy inebriates and chronic invalids can afford to visit this out of the way, yet expensive, spot, French Lick has other attractions than the natural beauties of its scenery and the health-giving quality of its waters.

For while the sick and the ailing may be tempted to the Springs in the hope of gaining health from the bad-smelling waters they drink, and dozens of florid-faced men invade the little town almost every day from the big and distant cities in order to "get washed out" after too much indulgence in alcoholic stimulants, there are others who go to the Springs simply for the excitement of a little whirl at the gaming tables, which rumor says abound there, but which a shrewd deputy sheriff invariably reports to the local grand jury, "Non est."

The town itself is a tiny hamlet. There is a post-office, a railroad station, a few frame buildings, and the hotel-the hotel, because it is the only shelter the town affords to the weary traveler. Patrons who have stopped at the City Hotel in Marshalltown, Iowa, or the Commercial House in Joplin, Missouri, may wonder how such a tiny town supports such a gigantic hotel, but the rural spectators at the railroad station, who have seen the trains on the little branch road bring in Pullman after Pullman loaded to the roofs, know that no small part of the great outside world comes here for rest, recreation, and rehabilitation. Drinking is under the ban here-that is, if you must drink, you must drink the sulphur water. And every one who has tried to mix alcohol with the water of the Springs knows the evil consequences thereof.

Which latter explains why Mr. "Marky" Zinsheimer, New York, feather importer, was particularly grouchy on a certain autumn afternoon when he strolled into the sun parlor on the veranda of the French Lick Springs Hotel. In the vicinity of Broadway and Canal Street, New York, Mr. Zinsheimer was a personage of great importance. Not a cloak model in the Grand Street district but knew him to be "a perfectly lovely gentleman." Not a chorus girl south of Fifty-ninth Street but knew that "Marky" was always a friend in need and a friend indeed. The waiters at Rector's treated him almost as if he were an equal. He was always sure of a prominent table at the Café de l'Opera, whether he wore evening clothes or not. He was accustomed to attention, and demanded it. Furthermore, he was willing to pay for all the attention he received. Forty-two years old, with a blond German personality which manifested itself in a slightly bald forehead, slightly curled blond hair, and a slightly blond moustache, Mr. "Marky" Zinsheimer gave every outward evidence of being an important personage. His clothes were, perhaps, a trifle extreme; his tie perhaps a trifle too pronounced in color; his watch-chain a trifle too heavy; and his solitaire diamond stud was undoubtedly too large; yet for all that, if you were in the least bit worldly, "Marky" Zinsheimer was not a person to be lightly ignored.

"Marky" Zinsheimer (Joseph Cawthorn)

Mr. Zinsheimer's natural good humor was disturbed even before he made his entrance into the sun parlor. In the first place, he had gone seven days without a drink, a feat simple enough for a camel, but slightly difficult for a Zinsheimer. In the second place, he had devised a scheme for entertainment during his enforced vacation at the Springs, said entertainment comprising a visit and the companionship at golf of one Miss Flossie Forsythe, of the "Follies" company, who had hurriedly left the company in Chicago to accept Mr. Zinsheimer's telegraphed invitation. But, while Mr. Zinsheimer was genuinely fond of Flossie, and had even once spoken vaguely of matrimony, he had found that a week of her society at breakfast, dinner and supper, to say nothing of golf, was a trifle wearing.

The third reason for Mr. Zinsheimer's perturbation was the discovery, as he entered the sun parlor, that all the desirable chairs were occupied.

Two of the easy wicker rockers were drawn up by a small table, where a game of checkers was in progress between two fat ladies. Ranged at intervals along the glass-enclosed front were four other equally stout ladies, lolling back in equally comfortable chairs, some reading, some dozing. Mr. Zinsheimer, who had anticipated a pleasant morning reading the New York papers, was obviously annoyed. Fortunately, he knew the proper method of attacking and routing the enemy.

One of the stout ladies, puzzling over her next move, was almost choked when a whiff of smoke was blown across the checker-board. A moment later, a somnolent and rotund lady in one of the rockers started up furiously as another whiff drifted in her direction. A page-boy entering at this particular moment was hurriedly summoned by the indignant ladies, and Mr. Zinsheimer, gazing vacantly into space, felt a slight touch on the arm.

"Beg pardon, sir," said the boy, "smoking is not permitted here."

Mr. Zinsheimer frowned.

"I did not ask permission," he replied.

Two of the stout ladies gathered up their magazines, glowered at the placid Zinsheimer and the nonplussed boy, murmured "Wretch," and departed.

"But I mean, there's no smoking here," continued the boy.

"Marky" Zinsheimer blew a particularly large whiff of smoke in the direction of the checker-table.

"You're wrong, kid," he remarked. "There is smoking here, and I'm doing it."

"But it's against the hotel rules."

"Hotel rules are like a woman's mind," said "Marky" carelessly, moving toward the checker-table. "They can be changed to fit any situation."

The checker-players were so much absorbed in their game that they did not notice him at first, so he leaned over the table, genially, and inquired:

"Well, whose move is it now?"

"I believe it's mine," retorted one of the two players, indignantly rising to her feet and starting toward the door.

"And mine," responded the other, following suit. At the door the twain paused and called to the other occupant of the room: "We are going for a walk, Mabel. Won't you come?"

Mabel picked up her book and moved toward the irate checker-players who had been so summarily routed.

"I don't like that cigar," she declared, stopping and turning to Zinsheimer.

"Well, then, try one of these," responded the irrepressible "Marky," offering several long perfectos from a leather case. He was answered only by a snort of indignation, and the next moment the smiling and courteous Mr. Zinsheimer, alone on the field of battle, settled himself in the most comfortable of the vacated chairs.

But "Marky's" serenity was to be short-lived. There was a rattle of chatelaine chains, a vague and indistinct odor of some unrecognizable but vivid perfume, the rustle of silken skirts, a cry of glad surprise, and Miss Flossie Forsythe, engaging, attractive, youthful and magnetic, settled herself on the arm of his rocking-chair as though entitled to rest there by the law of eminent domain.

"Marky," she cried, "I've been looking for you everywhere! Who ever would have thought of finding you in the sun parlor?"

Mr. Zinsheimer coughed uneasily.

"Yes, that's just what I thought," he stammered. "You see," he added, "I noticed you talking to that swell chap Gordon in the lobby, and I didn't like it."

Flossie patted his cheek playfully, in spite of "Marky's" efforts to elude her, and said joyfully: