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The Turmoil
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from Mary when he reached home at the end of the day. With enthusiasm, he gave himself up to the planning of a new wing for the factory. The steel ribs were already sprawling into the sooty atmosphere. Jim had climbed out on one of the great girders to inspect the work. It was fastened to a section of the wing that was almost completed, and Jim scrambled along the girder and hauled himself up to the roof of the section. It was a new-process roof — ■ a frail-looking thing, but represented as being absolutely safe by the mechanical genius who had devised it. The inventor himself was standing midway of the roof, and Jim walked gingerly across to him.
"It looks kind of shaky to me," he said. "I shouldn't call this roof capable of bearing much strain."
The inventor laughed business men are fond of taking long chances on financial deals, but you hate to have us mechan
mured the words : for the turmoil."
He gave his life
The weeks that followed were a nightmare to Sheridan. Calamity had followed calamity. His daughter Edith had eloped with Lamhorn, and no word had come as to their whereabouts. Sibyl had separated from her husband, and Roscoe had gone from bad to worse, striving to forget his troubles in a protracted spell of drinking.
"All I've got is Bibbs! God help
me
moaned the old man.
But if the terrible series of happenings had their effect on fames Sheridan,
thev had still
m o
a s
founding eff e c t s on Bibbs. He was stirred
He never finished the sentence. The roof shuddered beneath them, sagged, broke ; there was a roar as of many waters, and the frail thing collapsed, carrying Jim and the inventor with it.
When they cleared the debris, they found the inventor, dead. Jim Sheridan lay with broken ribs, moaning pitifully. They carried him hastily to his home, but the doctor's skill was unavailing. In an hour the vigorous, honest life of a truly great man had left — Jim Sheridan, too, had died.
Broken-hearted, James Sheridan stood looking down at the form of his son. He bent his head forward, and his whole soul spoke when he mur
The soul of the organ spoke to them there in the chapel.
as nothing had ever stirred him by the picture of his father, crushed, helpless — a strong man who had lost his grip.
There was a 'coal grate in his room, and he had a servant build a fire in it. Then, when he was alone, he ransacked his drawers for manuscripts and fed them to the flames. Essays, articles, stories, poems, ruthlessly he flung them on the coals — all except a muchthumbed sheet containing four verses, headed "The Rose Maiden." This he folded and put in his pocket.
He did not trv to analyze his feel