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He was Eli B. Kelly, he said, 69, by trade a fisherman. He told about the storm that carried away the mainsail of his yawl, the giant seas that stopped the auxiliary engine. Mr. Kelly and his partner, James McKinley, 63, were left alone there with the ocean. They had food enough for 24 hours. On the third day McKinley began to see headlands where no headlands were. For a while Kelly rowed toward these shores to humor McKinley; then he felt too weak to row any more. McKinley came for him with a bait knife; the two old men, as weak as half-created things, fought on the tilting deck in the waste of the world. Kelly won. He tied McKinley in the stern. Three times McKinley rolled over the gunwale to swim to the sickle sands that beckoned in his head. Three times Fisherman Kelly pulled him out of the water. When McKinley died of exhaustion the food was all gone. . . . That was on the fourth day. A week later Kelly sighted the island of Santa Catalina and, pulling his tarpaulin after him, crawled out on the beach.
The thing sputtered and rambled when he came to this part of his story. "Died of exhaustion ... in times like that a man . . . had to, I had to, I tell you. . . ." His listeners did not know what he meant until, a little later, the wreck of the yawl was found and, in the stern sheet still bound with batten-line, the half-eaten body of James McKinley.
Gaffer
In Paris, one Gilbert Nicolas Leclerc, peasant of Limoges, France, old, bearded, pious, hobbled last week into the Moulin Rouge, internationally famed revue and dance hall, immemorial haunt of tourists and demimondaines. M. Leclerc did not hobble in, as do so many gaffers, to pluck a lily of the field. He came seeking his daughter, Jeanne, who had run away to Paris from tedious Limoges. M. Leclerc found his petite Jeanne and begged her to come home. She refused. "I cannot survive your dishonor," he said. Drawing a revolver he shot himself through the heart.
Revivalist
From Flagpond, Tenn., one Rev. George Bennett, revivalist, started home from a revival, full of grace. At him, out of darkness, strode a menacing figure, armed with a pistol, a pint flask. "Ah reckon," said the highwayman, "that yo'd bettuh drink down dis yere drap o' White Mule." "But I never drink," murmured the Rev. Mr. Bennett, elevating his arms. "Do you not know, my good friend, that— "Ah wasn't inquirin' abaout yo' pussenal habits, Mister Preacher-man. Ah was jest a-tellin' yo' dat dis yere White Mule's a-goin' ter do yo' a right smart o' good." With the pistol burrowing into his ribs, the Rev. George Bennett raised the flask, bubbling, gasping, choking with fury. "Oh Lord, Thou seest that I have no choice—harrumph! Arggh!—in this—Klohchch!—iniquitous procedure. Smite, O Lord, thine enemies —Graowchch! Ugh! Urgle-urgle-phew!" The Rev. Mr. Bennett seethed with anger, staggered. The highwayman was not content until the flask was nearly empty. . . . Such, at least, was the story told by the Rev. George Bennett when he stumbled, angry and shy $10, into his home at Erwin, Tenn., very late one night last week.