The Re-Creation of Brian Kent

ht. There was no light in the room. The stars wer

ssness have lost all civic pride, and in their own resultant squalor and filth have buried their self-respect. A dingy, scarcely legible si

r's edge, indistinct, mysterious, and unreal, into the threatening sky. The higher mountains that reared their crests beyond the hills were invisible. The stream itself swept sullenly through the nig

indistinct. He pressed his face close to the glass, and with straining eyes tried to see more clearly the ghostly trees, the sombre hills, and the gloomy river. Three times he turned from the window to pace to and fro in the da

the chimney rattled against the wire standards of the burner. Turning quickly from the lighted lamp, the man sprang again to the window to jerk down the tattered, old shade. Facing about, he stood with his back to the wall, searching the

was in that shabby, dingy-papered, dirty-carpe

kless, despairing laughter of a soul that fee

g eagerness, he poured a water tumbler half-full of the red liquor. As one dying of thirst, he drank. Drawing a deep breath, and shaking his head with

th bottle and glass still in hand, he regarded

him in appearance, at least, a wretched weakling. His clothing-of good material and well tailored-was disgustingly soiled and neglected;-the shoes thickly coated with dried mud, and the once-white shirt, slovenly unfastened at the throat, without collar or tie. The face which looked back from the mirror to the man was, without

As if compelled by those burning eyes that stared so fixedly at him, he leaned forward still closer to the glass. Then, as he looked, the distorted features twitched and worked grotesquely with uncontrollable emotions, while the quivering lips formed words that were not ev

r swept onward through the night, follo

y to his feet. His face turned once more toward the window. A moment he stood there, listening, listening

e room, while a frightful grin of hopeless, despairing triumph twisted his features, a

f clothing from the bureau drawers and the closet. He was in the act of closing the suit-case when he stopped suddenly, and, with a shrug of his s

-case where it lay, he crossed the room, and extinguished the light. Cautiously, he unlocked and opened the doo

e solemn hills rose out of the deeper darkness of the lowlands that edged the stream in sombre mystery. There was no break in the heavy clouds to permit the gleam of a friendly star. There was no sound save the soft swish of the water against the bank where he stood

ss, smoothly flowing, terrible force. Into the darkness it swept on its awful way to the Nowhere of its ending. For uncounted ages, the river had poured itself thus b

come, now, to answer the call. Cautiously, he went down the bank toward the edge of the dark, swirling water. His purpose was un

bank. The man had seen the skiff,-a rude, flat-bottomed little craft, known to the Ozark natives as a John-boat,-just before sunset that evening. But there had been no boat in his thoughts when he had come to answer the call of the river, and in the preoccupation of his mind, as he stood there

lf. "It will be easier in m

m. Then, with his hands grasping the sides of the little craft, and the weight of his body on one knee in the stern, he pushed vigorously with his free foot

bottle of whisky, and working the cork ou

l mystery of the river drew close. The world of men was far, very far away. Centuries ago, the man had faced himself in the mirror, and had obeyed the voice that summoned him into the darkness. In fancy,

d and helpless, so, presently, he would push himself out from the shore of all that men call life. Through what scenes would he

man drank-

hed aloud-laughed until the ghostly shores gave back his l

with a wild, reck

an shook his clenched fist at the darkness, and w

aughed again; and, lifting his bottle high, uttered a reckless, profane toas