CHAPTER XI.

A DASH FOR LIBERTY.

“What are they doing out there?” exclaimed Jefferson Arnold. “They seem

to be going home, all of them.”

“If you will let me look,” suggested Pike, “I may be able to explain. I

have been here long enough to know the ways of the place. I come and go

as I please, and I can even go outside the city when I like.”

“I suppose so,” grunted Chick, “or you wouldn’t be much use to us. What

is it they are doing?” he added, as he led Pike near enough to the

window to look out, but ready to crush him to the floor at the first

sign of treachery.

“The exhibition is over, and Calaman returns to his palace. The other

people are going about their usual vocations. Now would be a good time

for us to get out and go to the palace.”

“Why to the palace?” asked Chick.

“We must stay there till dark. Then I will get you out of the city. I

could not do it in daylight,” answered Pike.

This seemed reasonable; and the more so as they saw Nick Carter, Patsy,

and Jai Singh strolling casually along, without anybody taking any

particular notice of them.

“Look here, Pike,” said Jefferson Arnold, as they prepared to go. “I

shall hold my pistol against you on one side, and my son will do the

same thing on the other.”

“And I shall be close behind,” added Chick. “But what are we going to

do with these three guards of yours. They seem to be coming to their

senses.”

“Yes, we just knocked them down with the ends of our revolvers,”

explained Jefferson Arnold coolly. “They are not seriously hurt.”

The men got up one by one and looked inquiringly at Pike, as he pointed

to the inner room, and followed them in. The two Arnolds and Chick kept

close to him.

The fourth man, the secretary, who was bound to the chair, looked at

them with a pleading expression, and Chick unloosed him.

“Listen to what your master has to say,” directed Chick sternly.

In a few words, Pike bade the four men to tell nothing of what had

happened to them, and to stay in the room till he got back. They were

to keep the door closed, and not to admit anybody on any pretense.

“In this country absolute obedience is enforced from an inferior to his

superior, no matter who they may be,” said Pike. “We need not fear that

these men will speak. Let us go.”

They made their way to the palace and to the rooms set apart for Nick

Carter’s party.

It took nearly fifteen minutes of explaining and discussion to get it

all thoroughly understood by Nick, Patsy, Jai Singh, and Adil that

William Pike had contrived to get into an important official position

in Shangore by virtue of his knowledge of firearms.

But it was done at last. Then they all settled down to wait for night.

“I have shown Calaman that I can shoot straight three times in

succession,” observed Nick Carter. “He expects me to make further

demonstrations of my ability to-morrow, at the Festival of the Golden

Scarab.”

“But we’ll be out of this by that time,” put in Patsy. “Gee, Chick! I’m

sorry I wasn’t with you when you nailed that Pike over there.”

“You can help to take care of him now,” laughed Chick. “That ought to

console you.”

“I’ll slap him on the wrist if he gets gay,” returned Patsy, with a

grin.

For five hours the party of white men, with their two faithful native

adherents, Jai Singh and Adil, sat in their rooms, keeping a close eye

on William Pike, and accepting the hospitality offered them by Calaman.

Servants came at frequent intervals to see if they wanted anything, and

to bring coffee, sweetmeats, cigarettes, and so on, until Nick Carter

told them they all wanted to rest for an hour or two, and would rather

not be disturbed.

The grave-faced menials accepted this dictum with the same humble

politeness that they had everything else, and did not come near them

again.

Pike had been kept discreetly out of their sight. At least, that was

Nick Carter’s intention. But he could not be sure that the servants did

not know of Pike’s presence in the palace, since they seemed to find

out everything.

“Are you ready?” asked Pike suddenly, when darkness reigned outside,

and they had been sitting for some little time by the light of the one

lamp which Adil had set going on a side table.

Chick looked out of the window, but could see only blackness.

“Quite ready!” replied Nick Carter.

The money taken from the bag in the possession of Pike had been

distributed among the two Arnolds and Adil, so that it did not show.

All the white men except Pike carried rifles and revolvers, and Jai

Singh had his spear, as usual.

William Pike led the way from their rooms and through the palace

without any attempt at concealment. He often walked about the palace,

and the guards all knew him.

“There is nothing to fear,” he assured Nick Carter.

The others kept close behind, with a vigilant eye upon Pike’s every

movement.

Through the gateway, under the great portcullis, and along the

drawbridge over the lake they followed, still without any one

interfering with their departure.

“Look here, chief!” whispered Chick into Nick Carter’s ear. “This isn’t

natural. There is something crooked about it. We are supposed to be

prisoners, and yet we are going out without anybody interfering. What

do you make of it?”

“We are called guests, but of course we are really looked on as

prisoners,” returned Nick. “I can’t exactly understand it. But, at the

first sign of treachery, you know what you are to do?”

“Shoot Pike?”

“Yes,” replied Nick Carter, through his set teeth. “Then dash for the

hills.”

They had almost cleared the drawbridge, and the two Arnolds held their

pistols against William Pike’s sides, as they had said they would.

Suddenly a tremendous shout burst forth behind them, as if from the

lungs of several hundred men. At the same moment there came the glare

of many torches, and the drawbridge began to rise.

“Jump, boys!” thundered Nick Carter, as he gave Pike a push forward.

He leaped off the end of the drawbridge when it was eight or nine feet

in the air, and landed on the soft turf at the other side of the lake.

He heard several others come down with him. Then there was the flash of

spears on every side, and a terrifying shriek of pain sounded in his

ears.

The drawbridge had been let down again, and he made out the tramp of

hundreds of feet on the heavy boards.

“They got him!” cried Patsy’s voice at his elbow.

“Who?” asked Nick.

“Pike!”

“What do you mean?”

“Look!”

Nick Carter followed the direction of Patsy’s pointing finger, and saw

William Pike writhing on the ground. A spear was still in his chest.

The man was not dead. Indeed, he seemed to have wonderful strength

considering that he had received a wound which, in the very nature of

things, must prove fatal.

He rolled over to one side as Nick approached him, and fixing a glare

of vengeful hatred on the detective, gurgled:

“It’s all right, Carter! You think I didn’t know you! Well, I did. It

is not the first time we’ve met. I always swore I’d get even with you,

and I’ve done it. You sent me to the pen for two years. If it hadn’t

been for you, my alibi would have stood. Then I came to India, and

you’ve followed me here. Well, you’ll never get away alive, and I—I——”

Something welled up in his throat that choked him. He gasped, tried to

speak again, and rolled over, dead!

All this had taken only a few seconds.

Nick had seen through this sudden attack, and he knew it was caused by

the treachery of this man, who had been caught by one of the spears

that had been hurled by the guards of the priest, Calaman.

“I can’t pity him!” thought Nick, as he dashed ahead to get out of the

glare of light from the torches. “Come on, boys!”

They were not clear yet, however.

Calaman himself appeared on the drawbridge, in the midst of his men,

and Nick heard him give orders to “Capture the white men and bring them

back!”

“I guess not!” shouted Patsy, somewhere in the gloom. “Whoof!”

This last ejaculation accompanied a clashing of steel, which was

immediately followed by the report of a revolver.

“Keep on firing!” cried Nick. “Fire, but run! Make for the hills!”

His little party sent a volley back to the drawbridge, and when Nick

glanced back he saw four of the spearmen go down on their faces.

In the middle of them towered the tall form of Calaman, holding up one

hand for attention.

“Stop!” he ordered. “Don’t cast your spears! Bring them in alive!

That’s how I want them—alive!”

The hurling of the spears ceased, but a shout from Patsy made Nick run

to his side.

“What’s the trouble, Patsy?”

“They’ve got Chick! Look! There’s four of them! He’s fighting like a

wild cat, but what can one do against four? And there are more coming!”

In his excitement, Patsy leveled his revolver at the four men who had

surrounded Chick at the very edge of the drawbridge.

“Don’t do that, Patsy!” commanded Nick. “You’ll be almost sure to get

Chick. Come on! Hand to hand!”

“That’s what!” bawled Jefferson Arnold. “Hand to hand! Where’s Leslie!”

There was no response to this last question, but Jefferson sailed in

with his rifle swinging like a club, and cleared a wide space on the

drawbridge in an instant.

Jai Singh was wielding his terrible spear, and man after man of the

Bolongus went down before his onslaught.

Then there was a countercharge, and the little party retreated,

fighting desperately, until they were almost out of the light of the

torches.

Nick Carter raised his voice excitedly.

“Forward again!” he shouted. “They’re holding Chick! We must get him,

whatever happens! At them, boys!”

The great detective usually preserved his coolness under any and all

circumstances. But now, when he saw his beloved assistant in the hands

of these ruthless mountain men, and realized that only torture and a

horrible death could be his end if he were not rescued, he let himself

go completely, and became only the warrior who would neither give nor

receive quarter.

It was Nick Carter who dashed upon the drawbridge again first. Close at

his elbow was Patsy Garvan, with Jai Singh, Adil, and Jefferson Arnold

supporting him.

Chick was fighting valiantly, and though at least half a dozen spearmen

had him in the middle of them, he was giving them all they could do to

prevent his getting away.

One, two, three—went down under blows of his revolver. He had

discharged all his cartridges, but the heavy pistol made a splendid war

club.

“Hold them off another second!” shouted Nick Carter.

Chick did not reply in words, but he redoubled his efforts against his

adversaries, knocking down another one just as he looked over toward

his chief.

Undoubtedly what saved Chick’s life was the order of Calaman that he

should be taken prisoner and not killed. The priest wanted him for

certain purposes of his own. What those purposes were Nick Carter knew

well enough, in view of the fact that the Festival of the Golden Scarab

was set for the morrow.

“A wedge!” called out Nick to the men behind him.

They all understood. Even Jai Singh, who never had seen a football game

in his life, comprehended the meaning and efficacy of a formation with

a sharp edge, and weight behind it. As soon as Patsy took his place and

made a sign, the tall East Indian fell into line.

With Nick Carter himself in the front, the flying wedge cut through a

score of swarthy rascals who tried to stop them and made its way to

where Chick was still battling for his life.

“Fall in, Chick!” shouted Nick.

There was a scuffle, in which it seemed as if everybody was fighting

everybody else. Really, it was a scientific bit of strategy on the part

of the white men, opposed to disorganized efforts by their untutored

enemy.

The scuffle lasted for only part of a minute. It worked its way across

the drawbridge to the outside of the walls, and Nick was bringing his

assistant with him to safety.

Then, as the high priest saw his men had failed in their attempt to

capture Chick, he gave the order to raise the drawbridge.

The ponderous contrivance flew up, hurling back the spearmen, but

leaving Nick Carter and his men outside.

“Bull luck!” ejaculated Patsy. “That’s what it is. Couldn’t have done

it better myself.”

“Don’t talk! Run!” was Nick Carter’s brief order.

They had a clear field now. It was not easy to let the drawbridge down

again, because so many of the Bolongus were tangled up in the chains.

Moreover, Calaman did not know for a few minutes that his intended

victims had escaped.

When he did find it out and gave the order for the bridge to be

lowered, the white men and their two Indian followers were far across

the valley and had taken refuge in the hills.

“I guess we’re safe enough now, Carter!” ejaculated Jefferson Arnold,

with a chuckle. “My! That was a hot time we had! What I can’t

understand is why some of those fellows with spears didn’t get us all

toward the end of the scrap. They had every chance, it seemed to me.”

“They wanted us alive. That was all,” returned Nick. “Where’s Leslie?”

“I don’t know,” answered Jefferson, with a note of anxiety in his

voice. “Where did you see him last?”

“Fighting on the drawbridge,” replied Chick. “And he was giving a very

good account of himself, too. He has Adil with him, I guess. At least,

Adil isn’t here.”

“They’re somewhere around,” said Jefferson, with a shrug. “So long as

Adil is with him, I’m satisfied.”

“Leslie had some of that money with him,” remarked Chick. “I hope he

won’t lose it. That would be too bad after all the trouble we’ve had to

get it.”

“That wasn’t the only thing,” returned the millionaire. “I could have

stood the loss of the money. But I did want to get that blackguard

Pike. A man who would betray a trust like that deserves no mercy.”

“He will never betray another in this world,” commented Nick solemnly.

“He has paid the penalty.”

“Well, yes—that’s so,” murmured Jefferson Arnold thoughtfully. “I am

rather sorry for that. You see, I didn’t want him killed. A few years

in prison would have done him good, perhaps, and he might have been a

better man when he came out. I’m glad it was none of our party who had

to put him out of the world.”

“Yet, if that spearman hadn’t got him, it might have been necessary for

one of us to do it—so it comes to about the same thing,” answered Nick

Carter. “However, let’s get a little back into the pass, where we can

hold it in case any of those rascals from the city take it into their

heads to come after us.”

“We don’t want to go too far back,” suggested Chick. “Jai Singh isn’t

here yet.”

“That fellow would find us wherever we went,” grunted Jefferson Arnold.

“Men of his race are as good on the blind trail as our own Sioux ever

were.”

There was a few minutes of thoughtful silence.

“We’ll go right back to Calcutta as soon as the rest of our party get

into camp,” was Nick Carter’s dictum. “That priest is too vindictive

and cunning to let us get away in peace if we don’t go at once.”

“Then it isn’t worth while to light a camp fire?” queried Patsy, in a

disappointed tone. “I thought we were going to have a little rest after

all that racket.”

“A good soldier never thinks about rest till his work is done,” shot

back Nick Carter reprovingly.

“Gee! Me for the civil life, if that’s so,” muttered Patsy Garvan to

himself. “But I’m glad we got William Pike, anyhow.”

THE END.

What adventures befell the brave men in Nick Carter’s contingent before

their return to civilization will be told in “Straight to the Goal;

or, Nick Carter’s Strange Challenge,” which will appear in NICK CARTER

STORIES, NO. 135, out April 10th.

Dared for Los Angeles.

By ROLAND ASHFORD PHILLIPS.

CHAPTER I.

THE “DOWN-AND-OUTER.”

Elliot Nash walked leisurely down Hill Street, and at Sixth turned

into Central Park. The diagonal walks of reddish-brown cement

contrasted strangely with the graceful and feathery pepper trees, the

wide-spreading, sturdy palms, and the profusion of scarlet geranium

blossoms, the rainbow-hued hydrangea, and the climbing wistaria. A

faint wind, tempered by the ocean and by the flood of California

sunshine, brought the mist from the towering fountain against his

cheeks.

“Dear old Los Angeles!” Nash murmured to himself, drinking deep of the

beauty that nature had lavished about him. “I’m surely glad to get back

here—even if I am about——”

He broke off with a shrug, and continued slowly along between the rows

of peopled benches, hands in his pockets. With a sudden determination,

he turned into one of the narrower walks and sank down on the nearest

bench, barely glancing at its solitary occupant, who seemed interested

in a book. Behind him, a bed of heliotrope sent up a faint and soothing

odor, which, after a time, lulled Nash into half a doze.

He was awakened abruptly by a hand falling upon his arm. Turning, he

found the man beside him on the bench had closed his book and had moved

nearer.

“Say, partner,” the man was saying, in a peculiar, husky voice, “would

you be willin’ to give a lift to a fellow that’s up against it?”

Nash studied the other with interest. He bore the marks of the

professional “down-and-outer,” from his patched, unlaced shoes to the

usual puffy and stubbled face. At the same time, Nash noticed the book

lying in his lap.

“What’s the matter with you?” Nash asked.

“Matter?” The stranger laughed bitterly. “What you askin’ that for?

Don’t I look the answer? I’m down and out, and ain’t got a copper. This

cussed town has pumped me dry, jus’ like it does all the rest of the

fools what come out here to find a—paradise. I’m tryin’ to get enough

coin together to beat it back to God’s country.”

“Where’s that?”

“Why, New York, of course!” snapped the other. “Where else? All this

golden sunshine and flower business makes me sick. I want to see it

snowin’, I do—yes, sir, real snow. I want to get back to Broadway.”

“Wonder you didn’t stay there,” observed Nash, for he was Los Angeles

born and bred himself, and it went against his grain to have what

he considered the best town on earth “panned,” especially by such a

character. “We don’t need your kind here.”

The vagabond lifted a pair of watery blue eyes, and stared at Nash.

“Oh, you’re one of these native sons, are you? Well, excuse me. I

didn’t know—that’s all. I thought you was like—like the rest of the

poor hobos settin’ around these parks. This sunshine and summer in the

winter, and flowers and palm trees don’t feed a man’s stomach, or put

clothes on his back.”

“Have you tried to find work?”

“Tried? I’ve been lookin’ for six months! I’m a good man, I am, when

I leave the booze alone.” He shook his head and passed a grimy hand

across the reddish stubble on his chin. “I’m an engineer—worked on

the Barge Canal, in New York State, and on the aqueduct there. I’m no

slouch. I’ve tackled every contractin’ firm in the city. Guess they

didn’t like my appearance. I thought I had a line on somethin’ the

other day. Went and met one of the big bugs that hire the help on

this Los Angeles Aqueduct. Said he’d fix me up. Gave me a letter to a

foreman on the job.”

“Did you get the position?”

“Get it?” He laughed hoarsely. “I guess not! Before I went, I found out

I’d probably have to work with the wops and the greasers, haulin’ sand

and mixin’ cement. Well, none of that in mine! I’m too smart for that

sort of work.”

“You could have started in at the bottom, and shown the foreman you

were capable of better things,” argued Nash. “A good man never stays

down.”

“Rot! Don’t start preachin’ to me. I’m done with this town and the

whole State. I’ll get back to New York if I have to ride the rods all

the way.”

“I’m not overloaded with coin,” said Nash, with a smile; “but I’m more

than willing to slip you a couple of dollars, just to get you out of

Los Angeles. We don’t want any knockers here.”

The man grinned his appreciation. “You can’t hand them out any too

quick, partner.”

Without further argument, Nash took two silver dollars from his pocket

and placed them in the other’s open, expectant palm.

“Thanks, partner,” the man said, his long fingers closing over the

money. “These cart wheels sure look good to me. You’re a gentleman, you

are, even if you do like this burg.”

The vagrant started away, and then impulsively stopped.

“Say,” he remarked, “I want to show my appreciation for this here gift

of yours. Do you like poetry?”

“I’m very fond of it,” responded Nash. “Why?”

The other man took the book he had been reading from his pocket, peered

at the title, and thrust it into Nash’s hand.

“Take this. I can’t swallow the stuff. Poetry never did make a hit with

me.”

Nash examined the little, leather-bound volume. It was a new,

well-bound edition of Kipling’s “Barrack-room Ballads.”

“Oh, it don’t belong to me,” the man said, apparently reading Nash’s

mind. “I found it on a bench about an hour ago. Just read it, partner,

and remember the down-and-outer that wanted to get back to God’s

country.”

“Thank you for it,” Nash replied. “I’ve always wanted a good copy of

these verses.”

The vagrant rubbed his hands together and looked over to where the big,

white Auditorium rose above the slim eucalyptus trees.

“Well,” he said, “I’m off this time! It’s me for the Santa Fe Station

and the softest rod on the Limited. Your two silver boys ought to keep

me in eats for a couple of days. Say,” he drawled, “maybe I won’t be

joyful to see real paper dollars again! And just let me get a peek at

that Metropolitan Tower once more!” He lowered his voice impressively,

as if imparting a great secret: “And, say, you can talk till you’re

black in the face about this town, and the climate, and the perpetual

flowers; but, honest, now—you’ve been in New York—did you ever smell

anything sweeter than them flowers in Madison Square in May?”

“I never had much time to sit in parks when I was in New York,”

responded Nash.

“Too bad! Don’t know what you’ve missed. Well, by-by.”

The man waved a friendly hand, still grinning, and disappeared around a

corner.

Five minutes later Nash followed, going around the large fountain.

He walked slowly past the beds of tropical plants, and on to Olive

Street. Suddenly remembering the gift the disparager of Los Angeles

had bestowed upon him, Nash took it from his pocket, and for the first

time examined it closely. As he turned the leaves—some of them uncut—an

envelope fell out. He picked it up.

It was unsealed, and addressed to a “Mr. Wilson Hooker, Foreman, Camp

No. 47, Los Angeles Aqueduct.”

“I wonder if this was of any value to my New York friend?” Nash asked

himself. “Or did it belong to him at all?”

He looked at the envelope again, aware by the feel of it that there was

a letter inside.

“If it belongs to him, and it’s unsealed, I don’t see any objection to

my looking inside. Possibly I can learn where to send it to him.”

Nash drew out the inclosure. The same address that the envelope bore

was at the top of the single sheet of paper. Below this ran the

following:

“DEAR WILSON: Bearer is O.K. You can trust him. Give him a job at

anything. Sincerely,

J. SIGSBEE.”

CHAPTER II.

LAYING HOLD OF OPPORTUNITY.

Nash folded the letter, returned it to the envelope, and thoughtfully

continued over to Broadway, walking up this busy street to Seventh,

where he went into the big lobby of his hotel, the Lankershim.

After lighting a cigar, he sank into the nearest chair, and read the

letter again. Several remarks passed by the stranger during their scene

in the park now came back to him.

“He said he had had a line on a job,” Nash reflected. “This letter must

have been the answer. Some one in authority has given it to him. And

that Los Angeles Aqueduct is some big undertaking, too,” he added. “I’d

like mighty well to land a job on it. Now, if it had only been my luck

to get a letter——”

He stared out through the big hotel windows upon the hurrying crowds of

shoppers and tourists.

“By Jove!” he said to himself. “Why not? There’s no name mentioned in

this letter. I wouldn’t be sailing under false colors. Besides, the

fellow said he refused to go after the job because he’d probably have

to work as a laborer.”

The idea grew more inviting. Nash needed work, and needed it badly, in

spite of the fact that he was well dressed and smoking a good cigar and

living at one of the best hotels. About sixteen dollars was all that

stood between him and——

Nash was businesslike in all his affairs; his father had drilled

that trait into him; and he knew that in seeking the kind of work he

desired, a good front was a desirable asset. If it came to a question

of a meal or a clean collar, the collar would win out. He always

remembered that a clean shave had gained many a man an opportunity

which otherwise might have been denied him.

“I’ve got just sixteen dollars and thirty-five cents,” he said, after

counting his capital. “That will last me until the end of the week.

I’ve tried my best to get a job, but somehow jobs are scarce as

snowballs on Main Street. Now, here’s old Opportunity knocking at my

door. The man the letter was given to doesn’t want the job. The man

into whose hands it has fallen does want it. I won’t be harming any one

by getting myself a necessary position. And even if it is mixing cement

with the wops, or digging in the trenches with the greasers, I guess I

can show my worth.”

So the affair was settled, and he went upstairs to his room, tossing

the book of poems into an opened trunk.

“Wonder where he picked up that volume?” Nash asked himself. “I’d

return it if I had half a chance. Something unusual to find a vag

reading Kipling. I always did like Rudyard, anyhow, so I’ll retain

charge of it for the time being.”

Elliot Nash, a native son of Los Angeles, had been taken East to

school by his parents nearly eight years previous to this; he had

been graduated with engineering honors, and had immediately accepted

a position on the Barge Canal—that wonderful New York State project,

which will give passage for thousand-ton vessels between the Great

Lakes and the Atlantic Ocean. Leaving this, he had become identified

with both the New York aqueduct and the Cape Cod canal. Both parents

had died recently, and because of it a lonesome feeling had come upon

him—a yearning to be back in California, to bask in the perpetual

sunlight, to smell the fragrance of the orange groves, to dip in the

calm, turquoise Pacific, and to visit once more the scenes he had loved

in his boyhood days.

In addition to this, an unfortunate affair made it necessary for him

to quietly disappear in order to avoid trouble. He left New York in a

raging snowstorm, and traveled two thousand miles overland amid the

desolation of ice and snow and freezing winds. Then came the stretch

of level desert, the vast waste of red and yellow sand. When his train

stopped at rare intervals, he got out and mingled with the usual crowd

of excited tourists and the colorful, leather-faced Navahos with their

reed baskets, their silver trinkets, decorated pottery, and gaudy rugs.

Following this came the long, steady ascent of the coast range, a touch

of winter again, and then a straight, breathless drop into paradise.

That last night, he went to sleep in his narrow Pullman berth, weary

and eyesore with the monotony of it all, only to awaken in the morning

with a green world about him and the perfume of the orange blossoms in

his nostrils.

A dash through endless groves, where the golden fruit beckoned

alluringly, a stop for breakfast at the dreamy little town of San

Bernardino, and then on again, past Arrowhead Springs, where nature

has marked a gigantic white arrow on the gray of the mountainside,

through Pasadena, the home of the millionaires, and at last into Los

Angeles—City of the Angels.

With less than fifty dollars in his pocket, Nash had engaged quarters

at the Lankershim, and started in to find a position. But a ten-day

quest had proved fruitless. He was disappointed, but far from being

discouraged, when this chance adventure in Central Park sent

Opportunity into a head-on collision with him.

“It’s the aqueduct for me,” he murmured to himself that night, as he

crept between his sheets. “I can’t stay here any longer. I’ve got

enough coin to square up my bill and pay my passage to San Fernando.

I’ll leave my trunk here for a while.” He fell silent for the interval,

staring up at the ceiling. “I wonder what it’ll be? Mixing cement?

Well, if it is, I’ll show them I am one peach of a mixer!”

CHAPTER III.

UP THE SAN FERNANDO ROAD.

Early next morning, Nash left the hotel and made for the Southern

Pacific Station on Fifth Street. Before noon he had stepped off the

train in the quaint and sleepy little town of San Fernando. This

place marked the terminal of the proposed Los Angeles Aqueduct, and

the huge reservoir in course of construction at the mouth of the San

Francisquito Cañon was to hold in check and in readiness the millions

of gallons of water which the citizens of Los Angeles might command at

the turn of a faucet.

In the depot for supplies, the hurry and bustle at certain points

interested Nash. The sight of the huge steam shovels, the towering

derricks, the endless cars of cement, and the sections of steel piping

all served to quicken his pulse and bring the color to his cheeks.

To find the location of Camp 47 was an easy task, and in an hour after

the train had set him down, Nash was riding on a load of cement up the

rock-hewn road, and behind eight sweating mules that apparently knew

more about their business than did the driver, Joe Giogi, a swearing,

black-eyed, bareheaded son of Italy.

“You want Forty-seven?” he questioned swiftly. “Sure t’ing! I take you

there. You come with me. Long ride—maybe four hour.”

So Nash swung up to the high seat beside Joe, and they started amid

a volley of imprecations from the latter, the creak of the straining

harness, and the encouraging shouts of the laborers in the little yard.

“You come to look for a job, maybe?” inquired the driver, once they

were riding smoothly, and the town was dropping away behind them.

“Maybe, yes,” answered Nash, evading a direct response.

The weather-scarred, sun-blackened fingers of the driver skillfully

arranged the dozen or more reins, and Nash marveled at the ease and

dexterity with which it was accomplished. Finally Joe spoke again, this

time more seriously.

“All theese work and dig like the devil,” he announced. “Jus’ so Los

Angeles she get a drink of water. One beeg job it is.”

“Yes,” Nash said, all the time critically examining the road up

which they toiled, and realizing that every inch of it had been cut

from living rock that the supplies might be brought quickly into the

different camps along it. “It is one big job, Joe. And all for a drink

of water.”

For two hours they rode on, now dipping into attractive green meadows,

now skirting the naked and barren desert, now following the very rim

of the Sierras. The mules jogged along in their own way; Joe nodded

wearily in his seat; Nash, far too interested in the passing country,

kept his eyes on the alert. The very road itself presented such a

remarkable engineering problem that frequent and amazed exclamations

fell from his lips. “I thought all the big jobs were in the East,”

he told himself. “But here is where I think otherwise. Why, it must

have cost a good many millions just to get this road through, before a

shovelful of dirt was excavated on the actual aqueduct building.”

When another hour had slipped by—all too quickly for Nash—a stranger

hailed them from a distant hillside, and as Joe drew in his reins, glad

to give his animals a breathing spell, the man came sliding down to the

road.

In faded and dirty khaki, rock-scuffed boots, soft shirt, and flapping

sombrero, the newcomer advanced to the wagon and pulled himself to

the top of the piled cement bags. Nash had already deserted the lofty

seat in front for this broad and more comfortable resting place, and

promptly made room on the blanket for the new arrival. Joe had paid

little or no attention to this passenger, and no sooner had he gained

the top of the load than Joe snapped his long whip and sent his mules

forward amid a sudden, choking cloud of dust.

Nash coughed, for the alkali stung his throat and smarted in his eyes.

When he recovered, he found the man eying him with evident curiosity.

“Stranger here, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Thought so. When you stay here a time you get used to this infernal

alkali. Get so you eat it in your grub and drink it in your whisky. The

saloon up at our camp makes a feature of aqueduct cocktails. And it’s

nothing in the world but alcohol, Worcestershire sauce, and alkali. But

beggars can’t be choosers.”

The speaker’s face, because of the constant exposure to the sun, was

burned to a reddish-brown. There were pools of darker shadows beneath

his eyes, and many hard lines around them and around his thin lips.

Nash had an instant dislike for the fellow, and did not welcome the

companionship.

The man rolled a cigarette and smoked for a minute, studying his dirty

boots, which were crossed before him. Presently, with a sharp jerk of

his head, he removed his cigarette and turned.

“What you doing in this district? Working on the job?”

“Not at present.”

“Any particular place you’re bound for?”

“Yes—Camp Forty-seven.”

The other’s eyes narrowed. “So? Where are you from?”

“I came from Los Angeles this morning,” Nash said quietly, annoyed by

the direct questions, but unwilling to make trouble.

His companion’s interest deepened instantly.

“Newspaper man, eh?” He said this evidently because of Nash’s trim and

clean appearance.

“Hardly that,” Nash answered, smiling at the mistake.

“Well, you seem blamed afraid of explaining,” the other broke out,

snapping away his cigarette butt. “And let me tell you one thing, my

friend,” he added, leaning nearer: “A man who doesn’t want his business

known around these parts had better stay away. It isn’t at all healthy.

Understand?”

“Possibly,” Nash answered. “But what business I have in this district

is my own affair, and it isn’t at all necessary to discuss it with

every man I meet on the road.”

“I guess you’ll discuss it with me,” snarled the other.

“Why?” Nash was anxious to know why his companion seemed to be so

confident.

“Why? Well, didn’t you say you were bound for Camp Forty-seven?”

“I did. What has that to do with my explaining to you?”

“I won’t allow you inside the camp until you do,” was the instant

retort.

“What right have you to stop me?”

“I happen to be foreman there—that’s why.”

CHAPTER IV.

CAMP FORTY-SEVEN.

This abrupt announcement changed Nash’s view of the situation. He

remembered the letter he carried in his pocket, and to whom it was

addressed.

“You are Wilson Hooker?” he asked.

The foreman nodded. “That’s me.”

“I came from Los Angeles this morning especially to find you,” Nash

explained. “I want a job.”

“What can you do?”

“I’m willing to do anything from digging trenches to——”

The foreman shrugged. “I don’t need any one at present. I’ve ten men to

every place.”

“As for references,” Nash said, ignoring the other’s declaration, “I

have previously worked on——”

“I said I didn’t need any more help—and I mean it,” broke in the

foreman.

“That isn’t the question, Mr. Hooker. I didn’t ask if you needed a man.

I merely asked for a position. I have a letter here which you might

like to see.”

The foreman evinced immediate interest. Nash brought out the letter and

handed it to him. Hooker accepted it with a frown, read it through, and

instantly he did so a transformation took place. His frown dissolved,

his former suspicious and dubious manner became one of cordiality.

“Why didn’t you say something about this at first?” he exclaimed. “Of

course I’ll find a place for you. Whatever Sigsbee says goes—especially

in Camp Forty-seven.”

The abrupt and unexpected demeanor—the smile succeeding the frown—and

the promptness with which the foreman offered him a position were

not lost upon Nash. The latter realized vaguely, but none the less

certainly, that the signature at the bottom of that letter carried a

great deal of weight. Nash had never heard of Jim Sigsbee, but imagined

he must be some one high in authority—possibly engineer in chief of

the construction corps. He wondered how a man of the vagrant’s type

had managed to gain such a letter—and for the moment his conscience

troubled him. Hooker would have refused him a position had not these

few written words and the seemingly magic name of Sigsbee been offered.

Then, he wondered, was he doing the right thing by all concerned in

remaining silent and accepting?

“Here’s where we get off,” Hooker announced. “We’ll cut across the hill

and make the camp in five minutes.”

Nash obeyed, his mind fully made up. He would accept. The vagrant had

had the opportunity to obtain a position, and had scorned it. Nash

argued with himself that he was practically penniless, and that a job,

however insignificant, was a necessity. He climbed down from the cement

and followed the lead of the foreman, who by this time was disappearing

over the shoulder of the hill.

“You geta the job?” yelled Joe, the driver, waving his hand and

grinning, apparently having overheard some of the conversation. “Good

for you! Maybe I see you again some day. Good-by!”

Nash returned Joe’s good wishes, and soon caught up with Hooker. They

walked side by side down the rough trail, winding in and out, gradually

reaching a lower level.

“I like your style,” said the foreman, breaking the silence that lasted

between them. “You have one virtue that spells success.”

“What is that?”

“You know how to hold your tongue. That’s a valuable asset on this job.”

Rounding a cliff in their descent, Nash saw a clutter of boxlike houses

spread out below him. Then the first, faint sounds of the construction

work came to his ears—the clatter of steel, cries of men, snorting

locomotives, and the peculiar whine of the glistening cables as they

tightened over the derrick wheels. Ugly, white concrete walls, over

which men scrambled like so many flies, contrasted vividly against the

green of the valley.

Spiderlike webs of steel lifted here and there against the tender blue

of the sky; great sections of piping dangled from cables apparently no

larger than thread.

“There’s the camp,” said Hooker. “Biggest on the job. Two thousand

men—wops, Japs, Hindus, and greasers included; also seven hundred

horses.” After a pause, he added: “And the nastiest stretch of

construction on the whole aqueduct.”

Every fiber in Nash’s body responded to this wonderful scene of

activity, as a motor to a suddenly released current. He was keen to be

there among the other workers.

They soon reached the first of the corrugated-iron shacks, all of which

were built facing the single, tortuous street.

“You can have that little cabin back there,” Hooker told him.

“It’s empty now. This large one belongs to me—sort of an executive

headquarters. And, by the way, what am I to call you?”

“Elliot Nash.”

“Good!” The foreman grinned. “Sounds O.K. I hope we get along

pleasantly, Nash.”

“I hope we do,” echoed Nash—and he meant it.

CHAPTER V.

THE DAY’S WORK.

The next few days, for Nash, were filled with excitement—the grasping

of the thousand and one details, the understanding of the remarkable

system that prevailed under Hooker’s direction, and the method in which

the work was carried forward. Every minute of the eight hours counted;

in the tunnel work, three shifts kept the bore progressing at the rate

of twelve feet a day, which, as Nash soon learned, was a world’s record

for hard rock.

Hooker put Nash on the easiest part of the construction work, namely,

the conduit building, possibly because it required less technical

knowledge and was the cleanest. Nash would have preferred a more

responsible place, but as it was to serve merely as an opening wedge—to

show the foreman he was capable of better things—he did not demur.

“I’ll put you under Macmillan,” Hooker said, “He’s my first assistant

on the conduit work. You’ll take his orders. Know anything about

cement?”

Nash smiled. “A little,” he admitted.

“Well, you’ll learn. Find out all you can. Macmillan will probably put

you at checking up the cubic feet laid; meanwhile you can watch the

work and get the hang of things. I’m off for San Fernando.”

Previous to this, Nash had met Macmillan—most of the subforemen ate

at the same general table—and when he presented himself with the

information that Hooker had ordered him on this part of the job,

Macmillan accepted it as final.

“What can you do?” he growled, apparently not pleased over breaking in

a new hand.

“Give me a chance at anything,” Nash answered.

“Good at figures?”

“Yes.”

Macmillan grunted. “Get that steel tape and measure up the concrete

laid last week. It’s a quarter of a mile behind us. The carpenters are

taking off the forms. I’ve had it checked once, but a double count

won’t do any harm—and we’ll see how much you know.”

He whirled abruptly on his heel and yelled something up to the engineer

of the big electric shovel. Nash did not wait for further orders,

but found the tape and tramped off down the gully in the direction

indicated by the subforeman.

For several miles here the course of the future aqueduct lay along the

side of the mountain, flanked deep with soil. This made the excavation

work easy. Huge steam and electric shovels, working with the method

and precision of a human hand, could dig a trench as swiftly as the

carpenters could follow with their falsework.

The plastic mass of sand, gravel, and cement was poured into these

wooden forms and allowed to harden for a week, after which time all the

molds were stripped away. Then measurements were taken of the completed

work, checked back through the different books, and finally O.K.’d by

the foreman of the camp.

Nash found his task quite easy, and followed right at the heels of the

carpenters as they stripped off the wooden molds, entering the cubic

yards in his notebook. At four o’clock he had finished, and promptly

returned to Macmillan.

“What you doing back here at this hour?” snapped the subforeman. “Get

tired?”

“I’ve finished,” Nash replied.

“Finished? You mean you’ve checked up all that concrete?”

“Here’s the book. Look for yourself.”

Macmillan took the book, rapidly thumbed the pages, and then swore

softly. “I didn’t think it was in you, young man,” he declared. “Why,

the regular fellow often takes two days on the same job.”

“It’s really a simple matter, once you get the hang of it,” Nash said

modestly. “Anything else you want me to do?”

Macmillan reflected a moment, his cold eyes traveling from Nash’s

muddy boots to the slouch hat that covered his brown hair. It was a

critical, impersonal glance that one might bestow upon a piece of

interesting and complicated machinery. Nash realized he was being

weighed in the balance. The subforeman was surprised, but did not want

to betray his feelings; finally he said, in a matter-of-fact tone:

“Hooker left orders that we were to test a length of the finished

conduit to-day. Suppose you could attend to it?”

“Certainly,” Nash replied, without hesitation.

“Very well, then. You’ll find a gang of wops a quarter of a mile down

the line, awaiting orders. You hurry down and start things. I’ll happen

along presently—soon as I get this confounded shovel to working right,

and help you out.”

Satisfied that Macmillan’s opinion of him was an agreeable one, Nash

hurried away, and soon reached the finished stretch of glistening

concrete. Here a group of laborers were resting. Nash gave out his

orders, and instantly the men were running this way and that, preparing

for the test.

Hundreds of sandbags had been conveniently placed, and these were

dumped into the conduit, damming it for a length of several hundred

feet. Into this improvised basin a stream of water was turned. On all

concrete work a certain amount of seepage and percolation is naturally

expected, and it is to determine the exact amount that these tests are

made.

Superintending the placing of the sandbags at each end of the finished

section of the conduit, Nash did not examine closely the walls until

the first water began to pour from the huge nozzle. Standing on the

cement floor, protected by a slicker and hip boots, which he had

borrowed from one of the men, he unintentionally struck the steel-nosed

pole he carried against the white wall.

Instantly recognizing the new sound—one that should not have been

given—he broke into a shout:

“Stop that water! Stop it!”

The man guiding the nozzle waved a hand to some one stationed back on

the hill, and the stream was shut off.

“Get the hose out of the way, boys,” he said sharply. “We won’t need it

this afternoon.”

The men frowned, but offered no objection. They reluctantly recoiled

the hose, and began shifting the sandbags. While this was in progress,

Macmillan strode up. By this time, Nash had finished with his

observations in the conduit and had climbed to the rim, where he was

removing his boots.

“What’s this?” asked Macmillan, aware that something out of the

ordinary was going on. “What are they coiling up that hose for?”

“I ordered them to do so,” calmly replied Nash.

“You did? Well, I like your nerve! What in Sam Hill have you got to

say about testing this conduit? I asked you to come here and start

operations. Now you do the very opposite thing.”

“I wouldn’t have ordered the men to stop if I didn’t think it

necessary, Mr. Macmillan.”

“Is that so?” the other sneered, hands to his hips. The laborers had

gathered around and seemed to be enjoying the argument.

“I got the bags in, and started the water, when I found the concrete

wasn’t in proper condition. I couldn’t do other than stop the test.”

“What’s the matter with that concrete?” roared Macmillan. “I put it

in myself two weeks ago. I want you to understand, young fellow, that

I’ve been laying concrete for ten years, and I ought to know what I’m

talking about.”

“Very well,” responded Nash. “There isn’t any argument. The concrete is

too soft as it stands to-day. If the water was turned into the conduit

now, the whole length of it would crumble like sugar.”

The subforeman’s face was a study; the tan and the dirt prevented

it from changing color, but in spite of this Nash was aware that

Macmillan’s temper was at blood heat.

“You lily-fingered shrimp, you!” he bellowed. “What do you mean by

coming around and running my affairs? Just because I gave you a little

authority, you think you can dictate to me, eh? Hey, you lazy sons of

guns,” he called, addressing the laborers standing about, grinning,

“pick up that hose and turn her into the conduit—and be quick about it!”

Nash flushed. “I don’t like to argue, Macmillan, but remember that I

have warned you.”

“Remember bosh!” exclaimed the other savagely.

In another five minutes the sandbags were once more in place, and the

water was roaring into the dammed basin. Nash watched the operation

without further words. When the water began to flow over the edges of

the conduit, and it was ordered shut off, Macmillan turned to him with

a leer.

“Well, what’s the matter with that cement, eh? Wouldn’t hold, you said!

Bah! Look at it! Solid as a piece of granite. Next time you get any

advice just keep it to yourself.”

A newcomer pushed his way through the group gathered about the two men.

Both of the latter turned at once. It was Hooker, the foreman of the

camp.

“Hello!” he said. “What’s the row?”

Macmillan waved a hand toward Nash. “This fellow you sent over to me

this morning has been trying to hand out advice.”

“How’s that?”

“I sent him here to test this conduit, as you’d ordered, and he refused

to do it.”

Hooker frowned. “Is that right, Nash?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you refuse?” the foreman demanded.

“Because that length of concrete is in no condition for a test, Mr.

Hooker. It’s soft. I told Macmillan about it, but he only laughed.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the subforeman, pointing to the subject of the

dispute. “There it is! What’s the matter with it? The water’s holding.

This man is trying to show off; that’s all.”

Hooker stepped nearer, and knelt beside the cement rim. As he bent his

head, some one behind him yelled. The next instant, with a roar, the

whole side of the conduit crumbled away. Hooker caught himself just in

time. The excited laborers were shouting like mad.

Nash was the least surprised of the crowd. He had read the signs in the

peculiar ring of the concrete. He knew it was too soft to stand the

tons of water; he had been helpless before the subforeman’s authority.

Now, smiling a little at the scared face of Macmillan, he stood

vindicated.

After the excitement had died away, Hooker looked at Nash.

“I guess you were right, after all,” he said quietly.

Macmillan recovered sufficiently to defend himself. “This isn’t the

first conduit that’s bursted,” he cried. “Accidents will happen. I tell

you, that cement was sound as a dollar.”

Hooker turned to face him. “I suppose, after Nash warned you, you

examined the length of conduit very carefully?”

Macmillan flushed and stammered. “Well, not exactly,” he said,

conscious of his predicament. “But I—knew—knew there——”

“You mean, you thought you knew—isn’t that it?” Hooker interrupted

sternly. “You hated to admit your ignorance. To tell the truth, Mac,

there’s been altogether too many of these tests turning failures—too

much time and money wasted. The engineer in chief is complaining. I

can’t be everywhere, so I trusted you. You’ve fallen down. I’m sorry,

Mac, but you’d better drop over to the shack in the morning and get

your money.”

The subforeman tossed his head indifferently. “Fired, eh? Well, maybe

it’s for the best. When it comes to taking a white-fingered kid’s

advice and ignoring mine, I give up.”

He turned on his heel and strode away.

Five minutes later Hooker and Nash were walking slowly back toward camp

and headquarters. Neither had spoken for the interval. Finally Hooker

said bluntly:

“Nash, you know a lot more about this business than you’re telling.

Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a graduate engineer—four years at college and three

years of practical experience.” Nash confessed openly and frankly, now

that his position was established. He had proved his worth and had

reason to be proud of it. “I’ve been working in the East all the time.

I was on the New York aqueduct until last September.”

“What made you leave?” the foreman asked.

Only for an instant did he hesitate. “Because I—hurt a man,” Nash said,

taken somewhat aback by the unexpected question.

Hooker looked swiftly into the speaker’s eyes, and smiled—a peculiar,

leering, knowing smile that brought the color to Nash’s cheeks.

“Is that so? Well, you couldn’t have picked out a better place than

this. No questions asked, and none expected. Do you know, Nash, I’m

liking you better and better every day. You’ll come up to expectations,

all right. By the way,” he said later, “to-morrow you are to take the

position of conduit foreman—Macmillan’s old job.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

USES FOR SUMMER SCHOOLS.

Little Brother—“What are these summer schools that folks talk about?”

Little Sister—“Oh, they are places where school-teachers go every

vacation to study up so we won’t get ahead of zem.”

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Future Ministers Learn How to Box.

Classes in boxing and wrestling have been introduced at Willamette

University as regular required athletic sports. Willamette is a

Methodist institution, in Salem, Ore., which educates young men for the

ministry as one of the branches of its work. The boxing classes are

conducted on the tournament plan, in order that every man may engage in

at least two fistic contests.

Carrier Pigeon as a Mascot.

Dining car No. 211, attached to the Great Northern trains running

between Seattle, Portland, and Spokane, has acquired a mascot in

the shape of a carrier pigeon that apparently prefers the hazardous

existence of a railroader to wild, free life on the wing. The pigeon

was found lying half frozen near the depot, and one of the porters took

the pigeon into the kitchen and fed and warmed it back to life, and the

grateful bird responded to the kind treatment by refusing to leave when

it had completely recovered.

For Accurate Cutting.

It is difficult to do all kinds of accurate cutting with ordinary

shears. Considering the length of time shears have been in use, it

seems strange that there have not been more departures from the old

type. An inventor has come forward with an improvement for the cutting

of patterns and similar work. These shears have a side extension, and

it is claimed that they make accurate work much easier, as with them

the operator is enabled to follow the markings, for the reason that he

can see all around the cutting blades as they pass through the material.

Farmer Kills the Wild Boar.

The much-discussed wild boar which for a month has excited the

inhabitants of the farming districts north of West Brookfield Center,

Mass., is dead. Henry Bishop killed it.

Bishop was attracted by the disturbed action of his dog, and taking his

gun, started for the piggery near the brook, in the rear of his farm.

He suddenly saw the animal coming toward him through the swamp, and

fired, the shot piercing the boar in the back, breaking his spine.

Mr. Bishop loaded his captive on a sled and brought it to the barn,

where it was found to weigh only 125 pounds. The severe weather to

which the animal was exposed, and the lack of food, tended to reduce

its weight.

Mink Farm Latest in Fur-producing Line.

F.C. Tibbetts, of Portland, Me., proposes to breed mink for the pelt.

He has studied the mink for years, has corresponded with producers of

mink and purchasers of mink hides. He finds that mink fur is a very

desirable sort of fur. Not only is it warm, but it is smooth and of

fine texture and has remarkable heat-producing qualities.

It has also been demonstrated to him that the mink will thrive in

Maine, or, at least, it should thrive there. The climate and soil

conditions, he says, are just right for the mink, and the best spot in

Maine is down on Deer Island, Casco Bay. It is there he proposes to

establish his mink farm.

It may surprise folks to know that the mink is a highly civilized

animal. In many respects he bears a marked resemblance to the human

family.

Most people have a notion that the mink prefers a hole in the ground

as a place of abode to anything else in the world. Perish the

thought! Tibbetts says it is not so. His say-so is backed up by his

investigations and years of study of the mink family.

He says that given his choice between a hole in the ground and a

box filled with clean straw, the rent being the same, Mr. and Mrs.

Mink will decide in favor of the box. Likewise, once having set up

housekeeping in the box, the mink family will never make the error of

crawling into any other box. They know their own box from the box of

any other mink family. This is something worth knowing about mink.

Tibbetts has found that ranch-bred mink are the best with which to

start a mink farm. He says they are hardy and reproduce rapidly. He

feels that the venture will prove a success. A good mink pelt is worth

from nine to thirteen dollars.

Man Selects Coffin for Himself and Wife.

“I have practically lived it through,” said former Mayor William

L. Rice, of Bristol, Va., when this week he entered an undertaking

establishment in Bristol and purchased two low-priced coffins—one for

himself and one for his wife.

Mrs. Rice was at first opposed to the idea of having the coffins placed

in the home where the aged couple reside alone, but after hearing the

reasons advanced by her husband, she made no further objection, and is

reconciled.

Foreman of Jeff Davis Jury.

Josiah Millard, eighty-nine years old, of Baltimore, Md., a friend of

President Lincoln and foreman of the jury that convicted Jefferson

Davis of treason, recently married Miss Martha E. Streeks, twenty-six

years his junior. The wedding was in accordance with the deathbed wish

of Millard’s first wife, who died five years ago, and who had been

nursed by Miss Streeks.

Millard is a native of Massachusetts, but lived in Virginia at the

outbreak of the war. His Union sympathies got him into trouble, and he

was the first Union man arrested during the war.

Appointed internal-revenue assessor by Lincoln, he was removed by

Johnson, but reappointed by Grant, and held office until it was

abolished. He has since held Federal appointments.

Record of One Bird’s Meal.

A student at the University of Wisconsin, who is making experiments in

the food consumption of birds, has under observation a little bird,

known as the Virginia rail, which in the course of two days eats more

than its own weight in food. Although the bird weighs only a half

pound, its menu of one day recently consisted of one caterpillar,

fifteen flies, one stickleback fish, 2½ inches long; two small

sunfish, 1½ inches long; one water scorpion, three inches long;

three water bugs, twelve meal worms, twelve grasshoppers, and fourteen

amphipoda. Live hornets do not cause any irritation. It ate five of

them on this same day. To the above add one crawfish, two inches long;

one snake, eight inches long; and one frog, 1½ inches long.

Eugenics Law Slams Cupid.

The State board of health, of Wisconsin, in its annual report shows

that since the eugenics law went into effect January 1, 1914, the

number of marriages in Wisconsin dropped 3,800. In 1913 there were

21,052 marriages and in 1914 only 17,252.

There were in 1914, however, eighty-seven recorded common-law

marriages, just as valid in law as the ceremony kind, but not under

eugenic requirements. The State board says many persons went into some

other State to be married rather than submit to the medical examination.

Electric Trap Kills Rats.

Employees of a livery barn at Greencastle, Ind., have found a new way

of killing rats caught around the barn. They have arranged a trap so

that it can be attached to an electrically charged wire. When the

current is turned on, the rats in the trap are shocked so severely that

they live only a few minutes.

Dying, He Saves Train from Wreck.

Mortally wounded by a pistol shot, Kihara, Japanese section foreman,

used the last of his strength to set a torpedo on the tracks of the

Salt Lake route near Milford, Utah, to save the east-bound Pacific

Limited train from possible wreck.

Kihara was shot by Mexicans who composed his force. They fled, leaving

the hand car on the rails. The wounded man tried in vain to remove the

car alone, and then dragged himself down the track with a torpedo,

which he placed to check the train. The train stopped in response to

the signal and brought Kihara to Milford, where he died.

Spoils Tooth on Raw Oyster.

F.J. Ham, of New York, broke a gold tooth crown on a pearl in a raw

oyster at the Royal James Inn, at South Norwalk, Conn. Mr. Ham was

indignant until a jeweler told him the pearl was worth fifty dollars.

He says he is willing to break some more ten-dollar gold crowns on

fifty-dollar pearls.

When Noise Breaks a Window.

Noise is an irregular wave in the air—which is a real thing, and has

weight and power, remember. A wave of air may break a window exactly as

the wave in the sea will break a breakwater, though, as the name tells

us, the breakwater will break the wave, as long as that wave is not too

strong.

If you will think a minute you will see that every time a noise gets

through a shut window it shakes the window. If the noise is coming

in from the street, the air outside is thrown into waves which pass

through it until they strike the window, and shake it; then the window

shakes the air inside the room in exactly the same way as the air

outside shook it, only perhaps not quite so strongly. And so the noise

reaches you, just as if you had heard it outside, only not quite so

loud. Well, plainly, the noise has only to be loud enough—that is to

say, the waves in the air have only to be big enough—to shake the

window more than it can stand, and then it breaks.

Odd Real-estate Discovery.

For over thirty years four well-known families of Appleton, Wis., have

been living in homes they supposed they owned, but did not. They bought

on pocket-map description instead of official map. John Freude owns

the home of William Moyle, across the street from him, and Moyle owns

Freude’s supposed home. The same situation is found in the cases of

Peter Zonne and Edward Jennerjahn.

How Much Does Snow Weigh?

Handbooks of useful information, as they are called, do not give the

weight of a cubic foot of snow, so Charles S. Evans and Leonard S.

Jones, lawyers, of Edenburg, Pa., carefully measured a cubic foot of

the wet snow which fell on Tuesday and found it weighed 14.58 pounds.

Wednesday and Thursday were very cold, and much of the dampness in the

snow evaporated. Evans and Jones overlooked this fact when they wagered

Elmer Davis and Edward O. Jones that snow weighs 14.58 pounds to the

cubic foot.

When the quartet weighed a second foot of snow it was found to weigh

11.97 pounds. Then Evans and Jones entertained at dinner.

Belled Buzzard in Georgia.

That mysterious creature, “the belled buzzard,” has made its appearance

in Banks County, Ga., for the first time in fifty years. Just after

the war closed, a buzzard was captured near the Line Church by Reuben

Jordan, and a small bell fastened around its neck. It flew straight

into the air and turned southward swiftly.

A few days ago Connie N. Watts was going along the road near

Hallingsworth and heard a bell tinkling in the air. He looked up and

there was a buzzard right over his head. Connie believes, as do many

of the older folks of the neighborhood, that it was the same belled

buzzard turned loose fifty years ago.

Schoolboy Blinded by Ink.

Sitting at his desk in the Hershey, Pa., High School, Raymond Shrismer,

a member of the senior class, accidentally upset his ink bottle. Some

of the fluid splashed into his open eyes and he startled the school by

screaming: “I am blind.”

He was rushed to a specialist, but it is feared he will never recover

his eyesight. It is believed that the ink contained some powerful

chemical that resulted in paralysis of the optic nerve. Teachers say

that Raymond is one of the best pupils of his class.

Let Hair and Whiskers Grow.

“Let your hair grow and defy the doctors,” is the health creed of

Andrew Snellgrove, aged seventy-five, of Ann Arbor, Mich., who never

had a hair cut, never had a shave—and has never consulted a doctor.

Snellgrove was a circuit rider in the Middle West in the early

sixties, but, despite the many hardships he endured, he was never ill.

He believes he owes his health to his whiskers. “My whiskers protected

my throat, just as nature intended they should do. My hair protected my

neck. I never caught cold, was never sick. Why shave, anyway?”

“Wish This Done,” Signed A. Lincoln.

A letter, faded with age, bearing a single line: “Wish this done.

A. Lincoln,” is one of the treasured possessions of Captain Daniel

Delehanty, U.S.N., now stationed at Pelham, N.Y. And back of it is a

story that is now given to the public.

In the darkest period of the Civil War, President Lincoln was bowed by

trouble. He summoned Henry Ward Beecher and Archbishop John Hughes, of

New York, to Washington. It looked, he told them, as if the Confederacy

would be recognized by England and France. He sent Henry Ward Beecher

to England and Archbishop Hughes to France to talk in the cities and

towns and arouse sympathy for the cause of the North.

The archbishop was the first to return, reporting that France had small

sympathy with the North, particularly among the better classes. Bad as

this news was, the president was grateful to the archbishop for his

report. He thanked him and added that if there was anything he could do

for the archibishop personally he should be glad.

The archbishop replied that there was nothing—but just as he was about

to leave, he said:

“There is a boy, the son of a dear friend of mine, who wishes to be a

soldier, but he is too young. If he could go to West Point——”

When the archbishop left, it was with the assurance that the boy would

be admitted.

When he returned to New York, he summoned the lad and told him that the

president had offered him an appointment to West Point.

But Daniel Delehanty—for he it was—instead of being overjoyed, said: “I

want to go to Annapolis.”

“But there is no help for it now; the president appointed you to West

Point, and there you go,” returned the archbishop.

Finally, however, the archbishop promised that, if by the next day

he still felt averse to it, he would write the president that the

appointment could not be accepted. Next day the boy returned and said

he couldn’t resign himself to going to West Point.

“Well, I can ask the president to change the appointment,” the

archbishop said. “But if you want to go to Washington yourself, I’ll

write a letter to him.”

The archbishop wrote the letter, telling the boy that in all

probability he would not see the president, but to see ——, and if it

was possible, he would arrange it for him.

Off started the boy. He found the man the archbishop had told him

about, and told him of the letter. The man, a messenger for the

president, made him wait a minute. On his return, he said he had called

the president out of a cabinet meeting, and that he was waiting at the

head of the stairs.

The boy mounted the stairs. In recalling the incident, Captain

Delehanty says that his most vivid recollection is of a pair of

slippers which the president wore, with embroidered eyes on them. They

so fascinated the flustered boy that he kept his eyes on them; they

looked like tiger’s eyes. He was standing speechless, his eyes glued to

the slippers, when he heard the president say: “You have a letter to me

from Archbishop Hughes?”

The boy held out the letter. The president read it and then asked: “You

want to go to Annapolis?”

“Yes, Mr. Lincoln.”

The president placed the letter against the wall and added the line:

“I wish this done.

A. LINCOLN.”

A wild desire to tell this tall, sad-eyed man how much it meant to him

raced through the boy’s head. All kinds of grateful speeches crowded

his brain. But all he said was: “Mr. President, you’ll never regret

what you have done this day.”

The president smiled and turned back to the door of the cabinet room,

while the lad, his self-possession returned, bounded away to the navy

department. Within half an hour he had his appointment to the naval

academy.

Great are the Claims of “Conjure Man.”

In most of the old “before-the-war” towns of Missouri there is an

ancient negro who is regarded with superstitious reverence by a good

many more people than will confess it. This individual is known as the

“Conjure Man,” and many of the darkies who smile when they talk about

him will slip around and invoke his aid in cases of distress.

The Conjure Man always professes the deepest piety. Were he in league

with evil spirits, no negro would go within a mile of him. It is only

the good spirits he calls upon. In nearly every case the Conjure Man

is ignorant, but wonderfully cunning. He is generally honest, however,

in supposing that he has some sort of a gift that will ward off evil

influences. You can find in Missouri a great many old white people who

will, in a somewhat backward way, admit that they have the same sort of

influence.

The Conjure Man labors to create the impression that nothing is

impossible for him. He will sell, for a moderate consideration,

good-luck charms to bring lovers together. He will visit a home where

there has been domestic trouble for the purpose of locating and driving

out evil influences. When anything goes wrong, it is always the devil

sowing seeds of discord, and it is the Conjure Man’s province to find

where these seeds are planted and to yank them out by the roots.

There perambulates about some northern Missouri towns a distinguished

member of the profession known as “Blue Jacket.” He is nigh on to

eighty, but will cheerfully admit to one hundred if pressed. You might

call Blue Jacket the dean of the Conjure Men, for his years and reputed

cures well entitle him to the distinction.

One evil day doubts crept into the mind of a Macon negro regarding his

wife’s fidelity, and he sent an urgent message to Blue Jacket to come

a-runnin’ and remove the baleful influence. Blue Jacket came promptly

and after sniffing about the yard, told his client that in a board

buried in the yard was an old rusty nail which kept a house vine from

growing; that in order to relieve the domestic turmoil it would be

necessary to find and remove that nail, and that it would cost—after a

deal of calculation—twenty-nine dollars and six bits. The distressed

client produced the money and Blue Jacket pulled out a bottle and

attached a fishing line. Then he went about the yard, holding the thing

up, and talking in a queer lingo. Presently the “diviner” began to

oscillate, and Blue Jacket asked for a spade. In a few minutes he found

an old board, near the wall, and, sure enough, there was a rusty nail

in it, which had been touching the roots of the house vine.

It looked like a gilt-edged conjure job, and the client would have been

entirely satisfied had not his wife eloped that night with the man

of whom he was jealous. The prosecuting attorney was appealed to the

next day for a warrant against Blue Jacket, but the officer told the

troubled husband that according to his own story, Blue Jacket was only

agreeing to find a board with a rusty nail in it, and he had done it.

Blue Jacket was once commissioned to find out who was stealing coal

from a colored Baptist church in Macon County. Inside of twelve hours

he had a confession from the janitor. It was looked upon as a most

miraculous case for a while, and then somebody found how it was done.

Blue Jacket went at the job in a commonsense way. He examined the

church coal bin and saw steps leading from it to the janitor’s home,

and alongside the footprints were small particles of coal which had

sifted through the leaky bucket.

“It is a remarkable thing how strong a hold the Conjure Man has upon

some of the negroes, particularly in the South,” remarked the Reverend

A.F. Jenkins, who was formerly pastor of the African M.E. Church at

Keota, another mining town of Macon County. “One of the most noted of

whom I recall just now was known as ‘Doctor’ George Jones. He practiced

all through Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana. A Conjure Man with a

reputation gets calls from a wider territory than the most noted of

physicians. And he charges just what he wants, and generally gets his

money down before he turns a peg. The president is impressed with no

greater dignity than the Conjure Man with a reputation. And once he

turns a trick which gives him standing, it is mighty hard to discredit

him.

“I was in charge of the church at Vicksburg when I first had the

pleasure of meeting the renowned ‘Doctor’ Jones. He was about fifty

years of age, but over one hundred in impressiveness and dignity.

From somewhere he had collected a lot of big, grandly sounding words

and scientific terms with which he paralyzed his more ignorant

constituents, which they took for inspired utterance. I begged my

people to let him alone. He sent word if I didn’t quit interfering

with his business he would set the witches on me. When I heard of that

threat I resolved to give him a chance. One day when some of my members

were talking with me, Doctor Jones came along, walking very stately

down the street.

“‘Doctor,’ said I, ‘I’ve just been telling these people you were a

humbug, and that I wasn’t afraid of all the witches you could turn

loose. Now, if you’ve got any about you anywhere, I wish you’d call ’em

up. I won’t run.’

“The people moved about away from danger, and I could see they were

shocked at my foolhardiness. But the Conjure Man was too adroit.

“‘Brother Jenkins,’ he said, in a pitying tone, ‘I have the greatest

ambiguity for you—I really has. You will be given a while for

acceleration, and if you don’t submit to the tergiversation of the

spheroids, you will be struck dead—next year.’

“At the dreadful malediction the brothers shuddered, and looked

appealingly at me. I saw they firmly believed it was directly due to

Doctor Jones’ magnanimity that the witches didn’t come sailing down on

their broomsticks instantly and bear me away. The incident strengthened

the humbug’s influence with them.”

Obeying the Lure of Buried Treasure.

Searching for Pirate Lafitte’s buried treasure has been one of the

industries of Abbeville, La., for the past twenty-five years, perhaps

longer. Parties come at intervals, each claiming to have a sure “tip”

as to the location, and each returns empty-handed. But others do not

learn from their experience. The lure of gold does not listen to reason.

These periodical searches are based upon the existence of supposed

charts—one of which was drawn by the pirate himself, and two others by

one Felton, said to be his secretary. The whereabouts of the original

is not known, nor is it known that there ever was one, this being only

the supposition of “Joe the Cattleman.” As to the other two, they are

in existence and are signed by “Felton, Secretary.”

For several weeks a party of treasure hunters have been digging

and surveying on “Outer Island” in White Lake, down in Vermillion

Parish, for the supposed buried treasure. The party is composed of

J.F. Stratton, capitalist, and M. Pearson, civil engineer, both of

Houston, Texas, and others whose names are kept in the background. The

Stratton-Pearson party have what they claim is a map of White Lake, but

it is worn and the lines are indistinct. They dredged on a line which

was supposed to mark the channel of a creek, and there, across the

channel, they found the rotted timbers of an old vessel. They reason

that Lafitte buried the gold on “Outer Island,” sunk the boat across a

channel to blockade searchers, and in a little boat steered his course

into Southwest Pass, and thence in to the Gulf of Mexico.

This rotted hulk furnished a “clew,” and the gold could not be far off,

Engineer Pearson reasoned. It must be on the near-by Outer Island.

He took longitudes and latitudes from a giant oak. From the rings on

its trunk he estimated it was about five hundred years old. Perhaps,

he reasoned, Lafitte would select this as the best landmark. He sank

steel rods into the earth to a depth of six and eight feet, but struck

nothing harder than dirt. After burrowing on every side, he changed his

prospecting to another large tree, two hundred feet farther inland.

Pearson cut away the grass, and his hopes were somewhat shattered

when he discovered at the base of this tree the outlines of a trench.

The lines were traced to a length of twelve feet, and four feet in

width. He excavated to a depth of four feet, when his shovel struck a

few pieces of brick. The excavation continued until the entire trench

was scooped out. Nothing was found but dirt. However, Pearson still

believed he was on the right trail.

He returned to his camp, and next day went to the mainland and hunted

up “Joe,” a cattle driver, who had lived in that section half a

century. Joe stated that about seventeen years ago, while driving his

cattle in the marsh for grass, he saw where some men were digging. In

about a week he returned and the hole was six feet deep, and the men

were gone. He did not know who they were, nor whence they came, but

thought that they were Frenchmen “from a long distance,” and that they

had Lafitte’s map—one made by Lafitte himself. Whether or not they got

the money, he could not say.

Acting on the theory that the inner and smaller tree was not the point

designated in the map, and that, therefore, the hole in the ground

at its base signified nothing—perhaps only a cattle wallow—Engineer

Pearson adopted another plan.

He again returned to Houston, and sought out one “Professor” Drummitt,

an “expert” in locating minerals, oil, water, et cetera.

The engineer and the professor, with renewed faith and testing

apparatus, descended upon the island and began operations. The

professor stated that his compass and battery could find gold at a

depth of two thousand feet, even though under water. The professor’s

compass is in the shape of an oblique-angled triangle, with a battery

at the apex. This battery is of copper, iron, gold, or silver,

according to the mineral to be searched for, and is attached to the

instrument by screws. Each of the steel prongs is held in the right and

left hand, at an angle of about fifty degrees. The battery is attracted

by the mineral and bends toward the ground.

The professor selected a hillock a few feet from the base of the larger

tree, affixed the battery for gold onto the compass, and held it aloft.

Finally it began to move, and then to bend down.

“There is the gold!” exclaimed the professor. “It is six feet down. The

vault is of cement. It contains gold, but I can’t say how much.”

Acting upon this scientific tip, the engineer fell to digging with his

spade. The soil is soft, and it did not take long to go six feet, being

encouraged by the prospect of scooping up $7,000,000. But nothing was

found, except mud.

The professor explained that the failure of his instrument was owing

to the presence of salt water—that gold was there. But he could not

explain the absence of cement. He wanted to make further tests, but the

engineer had enough, and with disgust they returned to Abbeville, and

the professor left for other fields. He was paid twenty-five dollars a

day and his expenses and guaranteed the payment of one million of the

stuff—if found.

While in Abbeville, the noise of the operations having spread, Pearson

learned that there was another map giving the location of the buried

treasure. It could not be the true map, according to the statement

of Joe, the cattleman. But, as his own map was at fault, and the

professor’s “compass” had led him astray, Pearson thought he would take

a chance at this map.

Accordingly he rounded up the man with the third map, J.A. Davidson,

a butcher in Abbeville. After several heart-to-heart talks, Davidson

refused to unite in a search for the treasure. Evidently he wants it

all or none, and has great faith in his map.

The story of these maps is something on the line of the usual maps

locating pirates’ treasure—and which do not locate. After Lafitte and

his pirates bold were chased out of the Gulf by the government revenue

cutters, they sailed up Southwest Pass, we are told, and finally into

White Lake. They planted their ill-gotten gold on the first island in

the lake, known as Outer Island. It is not known how many were on the

good ship, but tradition mentions Lafitte, his secretary Felton, and

two negroes. After burying the treasure, they cut the throats of the

two negroes, threw their bodies into the lake, scuttled one of their

vessels, and sailed away.

Lafitte went to France and reformed, and like his ancestral sea robber,

Francis Drake, was given a title. Under the title of “Count Languedoc,”

he married and “lived happily ever after.” The historical statement

that he died in Peru, a pauper, is thus controverted.

Many years after, when very old, Felton rigged out a ship at New York

and sailed for the lake down in the Acadian country in Southwest

Louisiana. The lake then had no name and he designated it on his map

merely as a large body of water. While en route, Felton was taken sick,

yielded up the ghost, and was buried at sea. But before dying he gave

his map to his faithful body servant, Jim Ambroise, an octoroon. It

seems that the conscience of the old pirate smote him, for he then

confided in this servant his part in the killing of the two negroes.

When the ship landed at New Orleans the crew scattered. Jim finally

found his way into Acadia, and found work on a plantation in what

is now Iberia Parish. When Jim came to die he gave the map to his

employer, Captain Magee, who lived at Opelousas. He also handed down

the story of the killing of the two negroes by Lafitte and Felton. It

is this map Pearson is operating with.

And now comes the story of the second map—or duplicate, or key—neither

being complete without the other. In earlier days, Davidson, the

butcher, was an overseer on the plantation where Jim was working.

When Jim died he also gave Davidson a map, according to Davidson’s

statement. Jim did not tell him of the existence of another map, nor

did he tell Magee that he had given one to Davidson. Both of them went

in hot pursuit of the supposed hidden treasure, each believed that the

other was shadowing his tracks. On one expedition, about ten years ago,

Davidson lost his map. He thinks one of the party appropriated it, and

he has ever since been searching for it, so that he could renew his

search for the millions. The one he now has was made from memory.

Theater Poster in Gas Main.

In the office of the Peoples Gas Light and Coke Company, of Chicago, a

large theatrical poster was recently displayed. It was printed in 1884,

and announced, in bold red and blue letters that “Abraham Lincoln,” the

stirring war-time drama, was appearing at the Chicago Opera House, and

that on the following week Chicago theatergoers were to hear Minnie

Hauck and her opera company.

Officials of the gas company explain that the poster is of interest to

them because it was found in a six-inch main near the site of the old

Chicago Opera House.

Chicago gas had passed through the paper tube for thirty years, but the

colors were not faded, and the white paper was unstained, except for

several spots of iron rust from the gas main.

TOBACCO HABIT

You can conquer it easily in 8 days, improve your health, prolong your

life. No more stomach trouble, no foul breath, no heart weakness.

Regain manly vigor, calm nerves, clear eyes & superior mental strength.

Whether you chew; or smoke pipe, cigarettes, cigars, get my interesting

Tobacco Book. Worth its weight in gold. =Mailed free.=

E.J. WOODS. 230 K. Station E. New York, N.Y.

“THE MAGAZINE WITH A PUNCH”

TIPTOP SEMI-MONTHLY

IT STANDS ALONE

If you like rattling good stories about sport, adventure, and about

almost everything in this interesting world, read TIPTOP SEMI-MONTHLY.

It is a magazine with a definite purpose. That purpose is to publish

a semi-monthly magazine that will be read by every youth, and will be

welcomed by fathers and mothers, and by sisters, too.

CLEAN—BRACING—GRIPPING

Buy TIPTOP SEMI-MONTHLY, and you will vow that you never got so much

for ten cents. Why? Because it is written, edited, and published for

_you_, exacting reader. And each issue will be better than the one that

went before.

Price Ten Cents

Issued on the tenth and twenty-fifth of each month

The Nick Carter Stories

ISSUED EVERY SATURDAY

BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS

When it comes to detective stories worth while, the =Nick Carter

Stories= contain the only ones that should be considered. They are not

overdrawn tales of bloodshed. They rather show the working of one of

the finest minds ever conceived by a writer. The name of Nick Carter is

familiar all over the world, for the stories of his adventures may be

read in twenty languages. No other stories have withstood the severe

test of time so well as those contained in the =Nick Carter Stories=.

It proves conclusively that they are the best. We give herewith a list

of some of the back numbers in print. You can have your news dealer

order them, or they will be sent direct by the publishers to any

address upon receipt of the price in money or postage stamps.

704—Written in Red.

707—Rogues of the Air.

709—The Bolt from the Blue.

710—The Stockbridge Affair.

711—A Secret from the Past.

712—Playing the Last Hand.

713—A Slick Article.

714—The Taxicab Riddle.

715—The Knife Thrower.

717—The Master Rogue’s Alibi.

719—The Dead Letter.

720—The Allerton Millions.

728—The Mummy’s Head.

729—The Statue Clue.

730—The Torn Card.

731—Under Desperation’s Spur.

732—The Connecting Link.

733—The Abduction Syndicate.

736—The Toils of a Siren.

737—The Mark of a Circle.

738—A Plot Within a Plot.

739—The Dead Accomplice.

741—The Green Scarab.

743—A Shot in the Dark.

746—The Secret Entrance.

747—The Cavern Mystery.

748—The Disappearing Fortune.

749—A Voice from the Past.

752—The Spider’s Web.

753—The Man With a Crutch.

754—The Rajah’s Regalia.

755—Saved from Death.

756—The Man Inside.

757—Out for Vengeance.

758—The Poisons of Exili.

759—The Antique Vial.

760—The House of Slumber.

761—A Double Identity.

762—“The Mocker’s” Stratagem.

763—The Man that Came Back.

764—The Tracks in the Snow.

765—The Babbington Case.

766—The Masters of Millions.

767—The Blue Stain.

768—The Lost Clew.

770—The Turn of a Card.

771—A Message in the Dust.

772—A Royal Flush.

774—The Great Buddha Beryl.

775—The Vanishing Heiress.

776—The Unfinished Letter.

777—A Difficult Trail.

778—A Six-word Puzzle.

782—A Woman’s Stratagem.

783—The Cliff Castle Affair.

784—A Prisoner of the Tomb.

785—A Resourceful Foe.

786—The Heir of Dr. Quartz.

787—Dr. Quartz, the Second.

789—The Great Hotel Tragedies.

790—Zanoni, the Witch.

791—A Vengeful Sorceress.

794—Doctor Quartz’s Last Play.

795—Zanoni, the Transfigured.

796—The Lure of Gold.

797—The Man With a Chest.

798—A Shadowed Life.

799—The Secret Agent.

800—A Plot for a Crown.

801—The Red Button.

802—Up Against It.

803—The Gold Certificate.

804—Jack Wise’s Hurry Call.

805—Nick Carter’s Ocean Chase.

806—Nick Carter and the Broken Dagger.

807—Nick Carter’s Advertisement.

808—The Kregoff Necklace.

809—The Footprints on the Rug.

810—The Copper Cylinder.

811—Nick Carter and the Nihilists.

812—Nick Carter and the Convict Gang.

813—Nick Carter and the Guilty Governor.

814—The Triangled Coin.

815—Ninety-nine—and One.

816—Coin Number 77.

817—In the Canadian Wilds.

818—The Niagara Smugglers.

819—The Man Hunt.

NEW SERIES

NICK CARTER STORIES

1—The Man from Nowhere.

2—The Face at the Window.

3—A Fight for a Million.

4—Nick Carter’s Land Office.

5—Nick Carter and the Professor.

6—Nick Carter as a Mill Hand.

7—A Single Clew.

8—The Emerald Snake.

9—The Currie Outfit.

10—Nick Carter and the Kidnaped Heiress.

11—Nick Carter Strikes Oil.

12—Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure.

13—A Mystery of the Highway.

14—The Silent Passenger.

15—Jack Dreen’s Secret.

16—Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case.

17—Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves.

18—Nick Carter’s Auto Chase.

19—The Corrigan Inheritance.

20—The Keen Eye of Denton.

21—The Spider’s Parlor.

22—Nick Carter’s Quick Guess.

23—Nick Carter and the Murderess.

24—Nick Carter and the Pay Car.

25—The Stolen Antique.

26—The Crook League.

27—An English Cracksman.

28—Nick Carter’s Still Hunt.

29—Nick Carter’s Electric Shock.

30—Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess.

31—The Purple Spot.

32—The Stolen Groom.

33—The Inverted Cross.

34—Nick Carter and Keno McCall.

35—Nick Carter’s Death Trap.

36—Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle.

37—The Man Outside.

38—The Death Chamber.

39—The Wind and the Wire.

40—Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase.

41—Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend.

42—The Queen of the Seven.

43—Crossed Wires.

44—A Crimson Clew.

45—The Third Man.

46—The Sign of the Dagger.

47—The Devil Worshipers.

48—The Cross of Daggers.

49—At Risk of Life.

50—The Deeper Game.

51—The Code Message.

52—The Last of the Seven.

53—Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful.

54—The Secret Order of Associated Crooks.

55—The Golden Hair Clew.

56—Back From the Dead.

57—Through Dark Ways.

58—When Aces Were Trumps.

59—The Gambler’s Last Hand.

60—The Murder at Linden Fells.

61—A Game for Millions.

62—Under Cover.

63—The Last Call.

64—Mercedes Danton’s Double.

65—The Millionaire’s Nemesis.

66—A Princess of the Underworld.

67—The Crook’s Blind.

68—The Fatal Hour.

69—Blood Money.

70—A Queen of Her Kind.

71—Isabel Benton’s Trump Card.

72—A Princess of Hades.

73—A Prince of Plotters.

74—The Crook’s Double.

75—For Life and Honor.

76—A Compact With Dazaar.

77—In the Shadow of Dazaar.

78—The Crime of a Money King.

79—Birds of Prey.

80—The Unknown Dead.

81—The Severed Hand.

82—The Terrible Game of Millions.

83—A Dead Man’s Power.

84—The Secrets of an Old House.

85—The Wolf Within.

86—The Yellow Coupon.

87—In the Toils.

88—The Stolen Radium.

89—A Crime in Paradise.

90—Behind Prison Bars.

91—The Blind Man’s Daughter.

92—On the Brink of Ruin.

93—Letter of Fire.

94—The $100,000 Kiss.

95—Outlaws of the Militia.

96—The Opium-Runners.

97—In Record Time.

98—The Wag-Nuk Clew.

99—The Middle Link.

100—The Crystal Maze.

101—A New Serpent in Eden.

102—The Auburn Sensation.

103—A Dying Chance.

104—The Gargoni Girdle.

105—Twice in Jeopardy.

106—The Ghost Launch.

107—Up in the Air.

108—The Girl Prisoner.

109—The Red Plague.

110—The Arson Trust.

111—The King of the Firebugs.

112—“Lifter’s” of the Lofts.

113—French Jimmie and His Forty Thieves.

114—The Death Plot.

115—The Evil Formula.

116—The Blue Button.

117—The Deadly Parallel.

118—The Vivisectionists.

119—The Stolen Brain.

120—An Uncanny Revenge.

121—The Call of Death.

122—The Suicide.

123—Half a Million Ransom.

124—The Girl Kidnaper.

125—The Pirate Yacht.

126—The Crime of the White Hand.

127—Found in the Jungle.

128—Six Men in a Loop.

Dated February 27th, 1915.

129—The Jewels of Wat Chang.

Dated March 6th, 1915.

130—The Crime in the Tower.

Dated March 13th, 1915.

131—The Fatal Message.

Dated March 20th, 1915.

132—Broken Bars.

PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY. If you want any back numbers of our

weeklies and cannot procure them from your news dealer, they can be

obtained direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as

money.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY