The Texhoma Times (Texhoma, Okla.), Vol. 12, No. 34, Ed. 1 Friday, May 14, 1915 Page: 3 of 10
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THE TIMES. TEXHOMA. OKLAHOMA.
<
V.
Black Is White
by
GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
ILLUSTRATIONS by RAY WALTERS
old wen who nad up Half the ntgat | time. As «r Lydla. P«"euy ltJ"
to learn the contents of that wonderful Lydla, he adored her. His heart be-
CHAPTER I.
{ -1-
The Meuage From the Deep.
The two old men sat In the library
eyeing the unresponsive blue envelope
that lay on the end of the long table
nearest the fireplace, where a merry
(nit unnoticed bed of coals crackled
fiercely In the vain effort to cry down
the shrieks of the bleak December
•wind that whistled about the corners
of the house.
There waa something maddening In
the fact that the envelope would have
to remain unopened until young Fred-
erick Brood came home for the night.
They found themselves wondering If
toy any chance he would fall to come
In at all. Their hour for retlrlnr was
ten o'clock, day In, day out.
Up to half-past nlno tbey discussed
the blue envelope with every Inmate
of the house, from Mrs. John Des-
mond, the housekeeper, down to the
TolcelesB but eloquent decanter of port
that stood between them, first on the
arm of one chair, then the other. They
were very old men; they could solilo-
quize without in the least disturbing
.each other. An observer would say,
during these periods of abstraction,
that their remarks were addressed to
the decanter and that the poor decan-
ter had something to say in return,
put, for all that, their eyes seldom left
the broad, blue envelope that had lain
there since half-past eight.
They knew that It came directly or
Indirectly from the man to whom they
owed their present condition of com-
fort and security after half a century
of vicissitudes; from the man whose
life they had saved more than once
In those old, evil days when comforts
were so few that they passed without
recognition in the maelstrom of
events. From mldocean James Brood
iwas speaking to his son.
Twenty years ago these two old cro-
nies had met James Brood in one of
the blackest holes of Calcutta, a dere-
lict being swept to perdition with the
swiftness and sureness of a tide that
iknows no pause. They found him
■when the dregs were at his Hps, and
the stupor of defeat in his brain.
"Without meaning to be considered
Samaritans, good or bad, they dragged
bim from the depths and found that
they had revived a man. Those were
the days when James Brood's life
meant nothing to him, days when he
■was tortured by the thought that It
■would be all too long for him to en-
dure, yet he was not the kind to mur-
der himself as men do who lack the
courage to go on living.
Weeks after the rescue in Calcutta
these two soldiers of fortune and an-
other. John Desmond, learned from
the lips of the man himself that he
fwas not such as they, but rich In this
•world's goods, richer than the Solo'
mon of their discreet imagination.
What Brood told them of his life
Ibrought the grim smile of appreciation
|to the lips of each. He had married a
Ibeautlful foreigner—an Austrian, they
gathered—of excellent family, and had
itaken her to his home In New York
eity, to the house in lower Fifth ave-
nue where his father and grandfather
|iad lived before him—the hoifee In
rwhlch two of the wayfarers after
twenty years, now sat In rueful con-
templation of a blue envelope.
A baby boy came to the Broods In
(the second year of their wedded life,
Ibut before that there had come a
man—a music master, dreamy-eyed,
handsome, Latin; a man who played
upon the harp as only the angels may
jplay. In his delirious ravings Brood
icursed this man and the wife he had
stolen away from him; he reviled the
Ibaby boy, even denying htm; he
laughed with blood-curdling glee over
the manner In which he had cast out
the woman who had broken his heart
And crushed his pride; he wailed In
languish over the mistake he had made
in allowing the man to live that he
might gloat and sneer in triumph. This
much the three men who lifted him
Ifrom hell were able to glean from lips
that knew not what they said, and
they were filled with pity. Later on
In a rational weakness, he told them
more, and without curses. A deep,
silent, steadfast bitterness succeeded
the violent ravings. He became a way
farer with them, quiet, dogged, fatal;
•where they went he also went; what
they did, also did he. Soon he led, and
they followed. Into the dark places
of the world they plunged, for peril
meant little to him, death even less.
They no longer knew days of priva-
tion—he shared his wealth with them;
but they knew no rest, no peace, no
safety. Life had been a whirlwind be-
fore they came upon James Brood; It
was a hurricane afterward.
Twice John Desmond, younger than
Danbury Dawes and Joseph Rlggs,
savod the life of James Brood by
nets of unparalleled heroism; once in
a South Airican jungle when a lion-
ess fought for her young, and again
In upper India, when single-handed,
he held off a horde of Hindus for
days while his comrade lay wound-
ed In a cavern. Dawes and Rlggs.
In the Himalayas, crept down the
wall of a precipice, with five thou-
sand feet between them and the
torflom of the gome, to drag Ulm frotu
a narrow ledge upon which he lay un-
conscious after a misstep in the night.
More than once—aye, more than a
dozen times—one or the other of these
loyal friends stood between him and
death, and times without numbers he,
too, turned the grim reaper aside for
them.
John Desmond, gay, handsome and
still young as men of his kind go, met
the fate that brooks no intervention.
He was the first to drop out of the
ranks. In Cairo, during a curious pe-
riod of inactivity some ten months
after the advent of James Brood, he
met the woman who conquered his ven-
turesome spirit—a slim, calm, pretty
English governess in the employ of a
British admiral's family. They were
married inside of six months. He took
her home to the little Maryland town
that had not seen him in years.
Ten years passed before James
Brood put his foot on the soil of his
native land. Then he came back to
the home of his fathers, to the home
that had been desecrated, and with
him came the two old men who now
sat in his huge library before the
crackling fire. He could go on with
life, but they were no longer fit for
its cruel hardships. His home became
theirs. They were to die there when
the time came.
Brood's son was fifteen years of age
before he knew, even by sight, the
man whom he called father. Up to
the time of the death of his mother,
In the home of her fathers, he had
been kept in seclusion.
There had been deliberate purpose
in the methods of James Brood in so
far as this unhappy child was con-
cerned. When he cast out the mother
he set his hand heavily upon her fu-
ture. Fearing—even feeling—the in-
fernal certainty that this child was not
his own, he planned with machiavellian
instinct to hurt her to the limit of his
powers and to the end of her days.
He knew she would hunger for this
baby boy of hers, that her heart could
be broken through him, that her pun-
ishment could be made full and com-
plete. He sequestered the child in a
place where he could not be found,
and went his own way, grimly certain
that he was making her pay! She
died when Frederic was eight years
old, without having seen him again
after that dreadful hour when, protest-
thing from the sea, he whirled on hla
heel and left the room. One might
have noticed that his lips were drawn
in a mirthless, sardonic smile, and
that his eyes were angry.
Oh, Lordyl" sighed Danbury
Dawes, blinking, and was on the point
of sitting down abruptly. The arm of
Jones prevented.
"I never was so Insulted In my—"
began Joseph Rlggs, feebly.
"Steady, gentlemen," said Jones,
Lean ou me, please "
The Patient Butler, Jones, Had Made
Four Visits to the Library.
whims; he endured them because
there was nothing else left for him to
do. But, for all that, he desp'red
them—justifiably so, no doubt, If one
bears in mind the fact that they signi
fled more to James Brood than did
his long-neglected son.
The cold reserve that extended to
the young man did not carry beyond
him in relation to any other member
of the household so far as James
Brood was concerned. The unhappy
boy, early in their acquaintance, came
to realize that there was little in com-
mon between him and the man ve
called father. After a while the eager
light died out of his own eyes and he
no longer strove to encourage the in-
timate relations he had counted upon
as a part of the recompense for so
many years of separation and loneli-
ness. It required but little effort on
his part to meet his father's Indiffer-
ence with a coldness quite as pro-
nounced; he had never known the
meaning of filial love; he had been
taught by word of mouth to love the
man he had never seen, and he had
learned as one learns astronomy—by
calculation. He hated the two old men
because his father loved them.
The patient butler, Jones, had made
no less than four visits to the library
since ten o'clock to awaken them and
pack them off to bed. Each time he
had been ordered away, once with the
joint admonition to "mind his own
business."
"But it Is nearly midnight," pro-
tested Jones Irritably, with a glance
at the almost empty decanter. ,
"Jones," said Danbury Dawes, with
great dignity and an eye that de-
ceived him to such a degree that he
could not for the life of him under
stand why Jones was attending them
in pairs, "Jones, you ought to be in—
hie—bed, d—n you—both of you. Wha'
you mean, sir, by coming in—hlc—
here thish time o' night dis-disturb-
ing—"
"You infernal ingrate," broke in Mr.
Riggs fiercely, "don't you dare to touch
that bottle, sir. Let it alone!"
"It's time you were in bed," pro-
nounced Jones, taking Mr. Dawes by
the arm. Mr. Dawes sagged heavily
in his <!halr and grinned triumphantly.
He was a short, very fat old man.
"Take him to bed, Jones," said Mr.
Rlggs firmly. "He's drunk and—and
utterly useless at a time like this.
Take him along."
"Who the dev—hie—11 are you, sir?"
demanded Mr. Dawes, regarding Mr.
Rlggs as if he had never seen him
before.
You are both drunk," said Jones,
succinctly.
The heavy front door closed with a
bang at that instant and the sound of
footsteps came from the hall—a quick,
firm tread that had decision in it.
Jones cast a furtive, nervous glance
over his shoulder.
"I'm sorry to have Mr. Frederic see
you like this," he said, biting his Up.
"He hates it so."
The two old men made a commend-
able effort to stand erect, but no ef-
fort to stand* alone. They linked
arms and stood shoulder to shoulder.
"Show him in," said Mr. Riggs, mag-
nificently.
"Now well find out wass in tele-
gram off briny deep," said Mr. Dawes,
spraddling his legs a little farther
apart In order to declare a stanch
front.
"It's worth waiting up for," said Mr.
Riggs.
"Abslutely," said his staunch friend.
Frederic Brood appeared in the
door, stopping short Just inside the
heavy curtains. There was a momen-
tary picture, such as a stage director
would have arranged. He was still
wearing his silk hat and top-coat, and
one glove had been halted In the
process of removal. Young Brood
stared at the group of three, a frank
stare of amazement. A crooked smile
came to his Hps.
"Somewhat later than usual, I see,"
he said, and the glove came off with a
jerk. "What's the matter, Jones? Re-
bellion?"
"No, sir. It's the wireless, sir."
"Wireless?"
"Briny deep," said Mr. Dawes,
CHAPTER II.
lng her Innocence, she had been
turned out Into the night and told to
go whither she would but never to re-
turn to the house she had disgraced.
James Brood heard of her death
when in the heart of China, and he
was a haggard wreck for months
thereafter. He had worshiped this
beautiful Viennese. He could not
wreak vengeance upon a dead woman;
he could not hate a dead woman. He
had always loved her. A few years vaguely pointing,
after his return to New York he
brought her son back to the house
in lower Fifth avenue and tried, with
bitterness in his soul, to endure the
word "father" as it fell from lips to
which the term was almost strange.
The old men, they who sat by the
fire oh this wind-swept night and
waited for the youth of twenty-two to
whom the blue missive was addressed,
knew the story of James Brood and
his wife Matllde and they knew that
the former had no love In his heart
for the youth who bore his name.
Their lips were sealed. Garrulous on
all other subjects, they were as silent
as the grave on this. They, too, were
constrained to hate the lad. He tnade
not the slightest pretense of appreciat-
ing their position in the household;
to him they were pensioners, no more.
no less; to him their deeds of valor
were offset by the deeds of his father;
there was nothing left over for a bal-
ance on that score. He was polUely
considerate; ha was even kindly dis-
posed toward their vagaries and
Various Ways of Receiving a Blow.
James Brood's home was a remark-
able one. That portion of the house
whloh rightly may be described as
"public" in order to distinguish it
from other parts where privacy was
enforced, was not unlike any of the
richly furnished, old fashioned places
in the lower part of the city, where
there are still traces left of the Knlck
erbockers and their times. This was
not the home of men who had been
merely rich; it was not wealth alone
that stood behind these stately Invest-
ments.
At the top of the house were the
rooms which no one entered except by
the gracious will of the master. Here
James Brood had stored the quaint,
priceless treasures of his own peculiar
fancy—exquMte, curious things from
the mystic Cast, things that are not
to be bought and sold but come only
to the hand of him who searches In
lands where peril Is the price.
Worlds separated the upper and
lower regions of that fine old house;
a single step took one from the sedate
Occident into the very heart of the
Orient; a narrow threshold was the
line between the rugged West and the
soft, languorous, seductive East. In
this part of the house, James Brood,
when at home for one of his brief
stays, spent many of his hours In se-
clusion, shut off from the rest of the
establishment as completely as If he
were the Inhabitant of another world.
Attended by his Hindu servant, a
silent man named Ranjab, and on oc-
casions by his secretary, he saw but
little of the remaining members of
his rather extensive household. For
several years he had been engaged In
the task of writing his memoirs—so
called—in bo far as they related to his
experiences and researches of the past
twenty years.
His secretary and amanuensis was
Lydia Desmond, the nineteen-year-old
daughter of his one-time companion
and friend, the late John Desmond,
whose death occurred when the girl
was barely ten years of age.
Brood, on hearing of the man's
death, Immediately made inquiries con-
cerning the condition in which he had
left his wife and child, with the result
i that Mrs. Desmond was installed as |
housekeeper in the New York house
and the daughter given every advan-
tage In the way of education. Des-
mond had left nothing in the shape of
riches except undiminished love for
his wife and a diary kept during those
perilous days before he met and mar-
ried her. This diayy was being Incor-
porated In the history of James
Brood's adventures, by consent of the
widow, and was to speak for Brood
in words he could not with modesty
utter for himself. In these pages John
Desmond was to tell his own story, in
his own way, for Brood's love for his
friend was broad enough even to ad-
mit of that. He was to share his life
in retrospect with Desmond and the
two old men as he had shared It with
them in reality.
Lydia's room, adjoining her moth-
er's, was on the third floor at the foot
of the small stairway leading up to
the proscribed retreat at the top of
the house. There was a small sitting-
room off the two bed chambers, given
over entirely to Mrs. Desmond and her
daughter. In this little room, Frederic
Brood spent many a quiet, happy hour.
The Desmonds, mother and daughter,
understood and pitied the lonely boy
who came to the big house soon after
they were themselves Installed. His
heart, which had many sores, expand-
ed and glowed In the warmth of their
kindness and affection; the plague of
unfriendliness that was his by absorp-
tion gave way before this unexpected
kindness, not immediately, it is true
but completely In the end.
By nature he was slow to respond
to the advances of^others; his life had
been such that avarice accounted for
all that he received from others in the
shape of respect and consideration.
He was prone to discount a friendly
attitude for the simple reason that in
his experience all friendships were
marred by the fact that their sincerity
rested entirely upon the generosity of
"Oh," said young Brood, crossing the man who paid for them his fa-
slowly to the table. He picked up the , ther. No one had loved him for him-
envelope and looked at the lnsrrlp-1 self; no one had given him an unself-
tlon. "Oh," said he again, In quite | lsh thought In all the years of his
a different tone on seeing that It was ' boyhood.
addressed to him. "From father, I At first he held himself aloof from
dare say," he went on, a fine lino ap- j the Desmonds; he was slow to sur-
pearlng between his eyebrows. | render. He suspected them of the
The old men leaned forward, fixing same motives that had been the basis
their blear eyes upon the missive. 1 of all previous attachments. When at
"Le's hear the worst, Freddy,' said I last he realized that they were not
Mr. Rlggs. Hke the others, his cup of Joy, long
The young man ran his finger under | an empty vessel, was filled to the brim
the flap and deliberately drew out the I and his happiness was without bounds,
message. There ensued another pic-1 They were amazed by the transfortna-
ture. As he read his eyes widened i tlon. The rather sullen, unapproach-
and then contracted; his firm young I able lad became at once so friendly,
jaw became set and rigid. Suddenly | so dependent, that had t|iey not been
a short, bitter execration fell from i acquainted with the causes behind the
his Hps and the paper crumpled in his j old state of reticence, his very Joy
hand. Without another word, he | might have made a nuisance of him.
strode to the fireplace ana tossed it He followed Mrs. Desmond about In
gan for the first time to sing with
the Joy of youth, and the sensation
was a novel one. It had seemed to
him that he could never be anything
but an old man.
It was his custom, on comtng home
for the night, no matter what the hour
may have been, to pause before Lyd-
ia's door on the way to his own room
at the other end of the long hall.
Usually, however, he was at home
long before her bedtime, and they
i spent the evenings together That she
was bis father's secretary was of no
moment To him she was Lydla—his
Lydia.
For the past three months or more
he had been privileged to hold her
close in his arms and to kiss her good-
night at parting! They were lovers
now. The slow fuse of passion had
reached Its end and the flame was
gone ad married some cueap snow
girl or a miserable foreigner or heaven
knows—"
•Freddy! You are beside yourself.
Your father would not marry a cheap
show girl. You know that. And you
must not forget that your mother was
a foreigner."
His eyes fell. "I'm sorry I said
that." he exclaimed, hoarsely.
Lydla, leaning rather heavily
against the door, spoke to him In a
low, cautious voice.
"Did you tell Mr. Dawes aud Mr.
Rlggs?"
He stopped short. "No! And they
waited up to see if they could be of
any assistance to him In an hour of
peril! What a Joke! Poor old beg-
gars! I've never felt sorry for them*
before, but, on my soul, I do now.
What will she do to the poor old
chaps? I shudder to think of It. And
she'll make short work of everything
" - ?i'irris*rr srx
enveloped both of them.
On this night, however, he passed
her door without knocking. His dark,
handsome face was flushed, and his
teeth were set In sullen anger. With
his hand on the knob of his own door,
he suddenly * cumbered that he had
failed Lydla for the first time, and
stopped. A pang of shame shot
through him. For a moment he hesi-
tated and then started guiltily toward
the forgotten door. Even as he raised
his hand to Bound the loving signal,
the door was opened and Lydia. fully
dressed, confronted him. For a mo-
ment they regarded each other in
silence, she Intently, he with astonish-
ment not quite free from confusion
"I'm—I'm sorry, dearest—" he be-
gan, his first desire being to account
for hla oversight.
"Tell me what has happened? It
can't be that your father Is 111—or in
danger.' You are angry. Frederic; so
it can't be that. What is it?"
He looked away sullenly. "Oh. It's
really nothing, I suppose. Just an un
expected Jolt, that's all. I was angry
for a moment—"
"You are still angry," she said, lay
lng her hand on his arm. She was a
Tell Me What Has Happened."
upon the coals. It flared for a sec-
ond and was wafted up the cblmney, a
charred, feathery thing.
Without deigning to notice the two
very much the same spirit that In
spires a hungry dog; he watched her
with eager, half famished eyes; he
waa on her heels four-fifth* of the
tall, slender girl. Her eyes were
almost on a level with his own.
Don't you want to tell me, dear?"
"He never gives me a thought," he
said, compressing his Hps. "He thinks
of no one but himself. God, what a
father!"
Freddy, dear! You must not
speak—"
Haven't I some claim to his con-
sideration? Is it fair that I should be
ignored In everything. In every way?
I won't put up with It, Lydla! I'm not
a child. I'm a man and I am his son.
Gad, I might as well be a dog In the
street for all the thought he gives to
me."
She put her finger to her lips, a
scared look stealing Into her dark
eyes. Jones was conducting the two
old men to their room on the floor
below. A door closed softly. The
voices died away.
"He Is a strange man," she said. 1
"He Is a good man, Frederic."
"To everyone else, yes. But to me?
Why, Lydla, I—I believe he hates me.
You know what—"
"Hush! A man does not hate his
son. I've tried for years to drive that
silly notion out of your mind. You—"
"Oh, I know I'm a fool to speak of
It, but I—I can't help feeling as I do.
You've seen enough to know that I'm
not to blame for It either. What do
you think he has done? Can you
gueBB what he has done to all of us?"
She did not answer. "Well, I'll tell
you Just what he said In that wireless.
It was from the Lusltanla. twelve hun-
dred miles off Sandy Hook—relayed, I
suppose, so that the whole world
might know—sent at four this after-
noon. I remember every word of the
cursed thing, although I merely
glanced at it. 'Send the car to meet
Mrs. Brood and mo at the Cunard pier
Thursday. Have Mrs. Desmond put
the house In order fcrr Its new mis-
tress. By the way, you might Inform
her that I was married last Wednes-
day In Paris.' It was signed 'James
Brood,' not even 'father.' What do
you think of that for a thunderbolt?"
"Married?" she gasped. "Your fa-
ther married?"
" 'Put tho house in order for Its new
mistress,' " he almost snarled. "That
message was a deliberate Insult to me.
Lydla—a nasty, rotten slap In the face.
I mean the way It waa worded. Just
u It It waJ. ariaitfi Uui' ha feu
us, you know what will Just have to
happen in her case. It's—"
Don't speak so loudly, dear—please,
please! She Is asleep. Of course^ r
we—we shan't stay on, Freddy. We'll
have to go as soon as—"
His eyes filled with tears. He seized)
her In his arms and held her close^
It's a beastly, beastly shame, darllng.l
Oh, Lord, what a fool a man can makei
of himself!"
"You must not say such things," she
murmured, stroking his cheek with
cold, trembling Angers.
But why couldn't he have done th
fine, sensible thing, Lydla? Why
couldn't he have—have fallen in love
with—with your mother? Why not
have married her If he had to marry
Bomeone In—"
'Freddy!" she cried, putting her
hand over hla mouth.
She kissed him swiftly. Her cheek
lay for a second against his own and
then, with a stifled good-night, she
broke away from him. An Instant
later Bhe was gone; her door was
closed.
The next morning he came down
earlier than was his custom. HI#
night had been a troubled one. For-
getting his own woes—or belittling
them—he had thought only of what
this news from the sea would mean
to tho dear woman he loved so well.
No one was In the library, but a huge
fire was blazing. A blizzard was rag-
ing out-of-doors. Once upon a time.
when he first came to the house, a
piano had stood in the drawing-room.
His Joy at that time knew no bounds;
he loved music. For his years he was
no mean musician. But one evening
his father, coming in unexpectedly.
heard the player at the Instrument.
For a moment he stood transfixed in
the doorway watching the eager, al-
most Inspired face of the lad, and
then, pale as a ghost, stole away with-
out disturbing him. Strange to say.
Frederic was playing a dreamy waltz
of Zlehrer's, a waltz that his mother
had played when the honeymoon was
In the full. The following day the
piano was taken away by a storage
company. The boy never knew why
It was removed.
He picked up the morning paper.
His eyes traversed the front page rap-
idly. There were reports of fearful
weather at sea. The Lusitania was
reported seven hundred miles out and
in the heart of the hurricane. She
would be a day late.
He looked up from the paper. Mrs.
Desmond was coming toward him, a
queer little smile on her lips. She
was a tall, fair woman, an English
type, and still extremely handsome.
Hers was an honest beauty that had
no fear of age.
She Is a stanch ship, Frederic." she
said, without any other form of greet-
ing. "She will be late but—there'*
really nothing to worry about."
I'm not worrying," he said con-
fusedly. "Lydla has told you the—
the news?"
"Yes."
"Rather staggering, isn't it?" he said
with a wry smile. In spite of himself
he watched her face with curious In-
tentness.
"Rather," she said briefly.
"I suppose you don't approve of the
way I—"
"I know Just how you feel, poor
boy. Don't try to explain. I know."
"You always understand," ho said,
lowering his eyes.
"Not always," she said quietly.
"Well. It's going to play hob wlthi
everything." he Bald, Jamming hlai
hands deep into his pockets. Hla
shoulders seemed to hunch forward
and to contract.
"I am especially sorry for Mr. Dawes
and Mr. Rlggs." she said. Her volc«
was steady and full of earnestness.
"Do they know?"
"They were up and about at day-
break, poor souls. Do you know,
Freddy, they were starting off in this
blizzard when I met them In the hall!"
"The deuce! I—I hope it wasn't on
account of anything I may have said
to them last night." he cried, In genu-
ine contrition.
She smiled. "No. They had their
own theory about the message. The
storm strengthened it. They were
positive that your father was In great
peril. They were determined to char*
ter a vessel of some sort and start oi
In all this blizzard to search the sea
for Mr. Brood. Oh, aren't they won-
derful?"
He had no feeling of resentment
toward the old men for their opinion
of him. Instead, his eyes glowed with
an honest admiration.
"By George, Mrs. Desmond, they are
great: They are men, bless their
hearts. Beventy-flve years old and
still ready to face anything for a com-
It does prove something
rade!
doesn't ltT" ..
ttg. se emnrre«>
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The Texhoma Times (Texhoma, Okla.), Vol. 12, No. 34, Ed. 1 Friday, May 14, 1915, newspaper, May 14, 1915; Texhoma, Oklahoma. (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metapth351906/m1/3/: accessed April 24, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.