Here's a Compelling Tale

Pit A Novelette of Grim Tragedy By OSCAR SCHISGALL there was no mirth on the bony counte- nance. The Death CHAPTER ONE OUT OF THE STORM A SPLOTCH of yellow light fell from the oil lamp to the flushed face of the boy. He writhed on the creaking bed and moaned, while his features were distorted by the agony of fever. His eyes were fiercely closed. One shivering hand grasped the edge of the covers. And from his blistered lips came the harsh query: "Where's Pop? Where is he?" The sallow woman, sitting at the bed- side, glanced around nervously. She hesitated; then her bony hand reached toward the boy's forehead and touched it with a soothing caress. She bent for- ward until her haggard face hung un- der the sickly light, until her thin, straggling hair dully reflected the yel- low glow. Anguish lurked in her weary eyes as she gazed upon the boy, and she shook her head pityingly. "Where's Pop?" he repeated, raising his voice. His eyes opened and he stared at her, as though he dared the woman to an- swer. Desperately she tried to smile, but "He'll be home soon, Gil. He'll come soon.". "Where is he? I want him!" "In a few minutes-" "I want him! Call him, Mom. Why don't you call him?". Her tightly pressed lips forced back a sob, but she could not conceal the con- vulsive heave of her shoulders. Impuls- ively she rose, a tall, gaunt woman, as stiff and straight as a poplar. She turned away from the bed and moved off through the shadowy darkness of the room. Her clothes, heavy and voluminous, hung about her with ungainly looseness; her hair was neglected, so that some of it strayed over her listless face. She brushed it away and went to the win- dow. Rain pattered against the pane. Through the blackness outside a steady wind sent its weird ululations. 67