CHAPTER IX.

THE LAST CALL.

Kate Crandall had not stirred from the sofa during the sensational

scenes just enacted. They told her only too plainly that she was in the

hands of knaves who would shrink from no desperate deed that would serve

their ends, and she had no thought but to escape from them by any means

she could command.

Blink Morgan hastened to liberate her, while Gridley seated himself

directly in front of her and sternly said:

“You’ve got mighty few minutes, woman, to tell us what we want to know.

We have others here who could tell us, but whose traps are tightly

closed. We have not killed them, lest we might kill our golden goose;

but understand this: We’ll end them and you, too, unless you give us the

information which----”

Kate Crandall checked him with a haughty gesture.

“One moment, Mr. Gridley, if that’s your name,” she said coldly. “I can

tell you with very few words all that I know. You will believe me, I

think, though this man refused to do so.”

She glanced at Magill, but he made no comments.

“You were seen two nights ago by him and Morgan,” said Gridley, sternly

eying her. “They had followed a girl to the home of a clergyman named

Maybrick. They saw her look through his library window and then enter

his house. They would have listened at his window to her interview with

him--but you got there first, and they could not do so without taking

risks then thought to be needless. We must know what the girl told him.

It’s up to you to tell us. You heard what she said, or you would not

have remained to listen.”

“That is true,” Kate coldly admitted. “I heard all that she said to Mr.

Maybrick.”

“Tell me,” said Gridley sternly.

“She told him that her father had recently died; that he was a criminal

and had forced her to be one, but that she now was determined to reform.

She told him that her father was one of a gang that had recently robbed

a bank, and that he had had charge of the stolen funds and had buried

them, confiding to her their hiding place while on his deathbed.”

“That’s the point,” said Gridley. “That’s the very thing we want to

know--where the plunder is hidden.”

“I cannot tell you,” said Kate.

“Not tell me! Why not?”

“Because I do not know. The girl did not inform Mr. Maybrick.”

“What did she say about it?”

“She said she would take him to the spot, and that he could then remove

the funds and restore them to the bank. She would not then reveal the

hiding place.”

“Did she give him no hint?”

“No, none,” said Kate. “She appointed a place for him to meet her last

evening, which he promised to do. That is all I can tell you.”

“Is that true?”

“God hearing me, it is true!” Kate solemnly declared. “I cannot possibly

give you the information you expected from me. I do not know----”

“Stop! I believe you,” Gridley cried curtly; then, turning to Blink

Morgan, he harshly commanded: “Bring the jade up here, Blink, and the

gospel sharp with her. I’ll find a way to force her to speak.”

Morgan seized a lamp and hastened from the room.

Patsy heard him descending the cellar stairs a moment later.

“By thunder, this is the gang that cracked that Westchester savings

bank,” he said to himself. “Gee whiz! there’s half a million at stake.

If the chief was right, Jim Nordeck must be the man who buried the

plunder, and the girl in question must be Nancy Nordeck.”

Patsy did not realize just then, however, how perfectly right Nick

Carter had sized up the entire case. This appeared a moment later, when

Nancy Nordeck and the missing rector were led into the room, both with

their arms securely bound behind them.

The Reverend Austin Maybrick was quite pale, but he carried himself

with dignity, and his fine face wore a look of scorn that told how

little he feared the threatening situation. He appeared surprised when

he saw Kate Crandall and Patsy, but he did not speak.

Gridley hardly noticed him. He turned at once to the girl who had

entered, and then leaned wearily against the nearest wall.

She was a slender, poorly clad girl, who looked ten years older than she

really was. Her dark-brown hair was in disorder, her eyes deeply ringed,

but her features were regular and she would have been quite attractive,

but for a wan and pinched look that told of dejection, suffering, and

more of care and misery than often falls upon one of her years.

She also was surprised at seeing Patsy and Kate Crandall, but it

appeared only in the sharper glint of her large, expressive eyes, which

flashed from one to another, though chiefly at Gridley, with a look of

mingled determination and defiance that evinced a fearless spirit in her

frail form.

Gridley turned to her with lowering gaze, saying harshly:

“You’re surprised at seeing others here, ain’t you?”

Nancy Nordeck gave him look for look, with her thin gray lips curling

contemptuously. She drew herself up a little, replying with a sinister

slang that evinced her lack of refinement.

“Not on your life, Gridley. I wouldn’t be surprised at any scurvy trick

that you pulled off. What d’ye want, now that you’ve brought him and me

from the cellar? I’d sooner stay there than be in the same room with

you.”

“Cut out that lobscouse!” commanded Gridley sternly. “I’m going to show

you where you stand, and where these persons stand whom you’ve drawn

into this mess. I’m going to force you, or them, to tell me where your

double-dealing dad hid that plunder.”

“Oh, you are!” Nancy exclaimed derisively. “You’ll get fat trying to

force that out of me. You can’t get it out of them, or any one else, for

I’ve told no one. I handed you that at first, but it seems you can’t

swallow it. I’m the only one who knows where the stuff is planted.”

“That is true, absolutely true,” said Maybrick, with habitual dignity.

“I don’t know why you have brought this other woman here, but you----”

“What you don’t know cuts no ice with us,” Gridley sharply interrupted.

“You keep quiet, or I’ll find a way to make you. There’s a bunch of

sleuths on this case who may make trouble for us at any moment, and I’m

in no mood to mince matters. This infernal jade, if she’s the only one

who knows, is going to tell me where to find that plunder.”

“Oh, is that so, Gridley?” questioned Nancy, with eyes flashing.

“You’ll find it’s so.”

“And you’ll find it isn’t,” snapped the girl defiantly. “You put that

idea out of your block. It might turn you batty.”

“See here, Gridley,” she added, with a sudden display of deeper feeling.

“I’ve been a bad egg most of my life. It come to me natural, and my old

man forced me into it. He’s dead now, and I stood by alone and saw the

last breath go out of him. I’d never seen the like before. I’d never

been where one sees the call of death--the call of death! It told me

something I never knew before--but no matter what! You wouldn’t know,

if I told you--and I couldn’t tell you if I tried.”

“See here----”

“You see here!” Nancy forcibly interrupted. “I’m going to have my say,

and it won’t take me long. I’m done with the life I’ve led, and done

with you fellows. That plunder is going back to the bank. That’s what

I’m going to do for a starter on the new road. I knew you guys would

watch me. I reckoned I’d better not take this gent to the place where

the stuff is hid, not till I was dead sure you weren’t trailing me. So I

took him to a fake place first, just to find out, and you and your push

were on hand to nail us. You’ve got us, all right; but you’ll not get

the coin. I fooled you--and I’ll keep you fooled. You’ll get nothing

from me.”

She had told the whole story in those few passionate words, a story that

might have filled a volume, and the look on Gridley’s face was one to

have appalled a less fearless speaker. He turned quickly to his

confederates and fiercely cried:

“We’ll see about that, pals! We’ll find out whether she’ll speak. Pull

the boots off of this gospel sharp and shove his feet into the fire. She

brought him into this mess. Let’s see whether she’ll pull him out of it.

She can do it only by squealing. If not, we’ll burn his feet off,

and----”

“Say!” cried Patsy. “Cut that, you fellows.”

“Cut nothing! You dry up, or we’ll cut out the tongue you talk with.”

Nancy Nordeck had turned as white as a sheet.

“Keep quiet, my girl, and be brave,” said Maybrick, observing her.

“Reveal nothing--no matter what these scoundrels do. That is your new

duty.”

“I’ll stick, sir, if you say it,” said Nancy, but she was trembling from

head to foot.

“Oh, you will, eh?” thundered Gridley. “We’ll see whether you will. Grab

the gospel sharp, two of you, and----”

But there was no grabbing done of that nature.

Gridley’s furious commands were drowned by the crash of a falling door,

the rending of blinds and the breaking of shuttered windows, at which

the heads of policemen and leveled revolvers instantly appeared.

Patsy Garvan guessed the truth, and a yell broke from him.

“Hurrah! Zambo! It’s all off! The chief is here!”

Patsy was right. While the words were still on his lips, Nick, Chick,

and Danny tore through the hall and rushed into the room, with weapons

drawn and blood in their eyes.

Gridley vented an oath and snatched up one of Patsy’s revolvers, still

lying on the table.

A bullet from Nick’s weapon broke the rascal’s wrist. He fell to the

floor, howling with pain.

Chick had a gun under Magill’s nose, and Morgan and Phelan had thrown up

their hands.

There was very little to it after that, in so far as opposition was

concerned. Within five minutes the crooks were in irons, their captives

liberated, and Nancy Nordeck relieved of her fears and started, indeed,

on the better road.

Through her the entire amount of stolen funds were restored to the bank,

or, more properly, through her and the Carters. She never was prosecuted

for any of her past misdemeanors. Nick Carter made sure of that--and

equally sure that Gridley and his confederates received the most severe

penalty of the law.

Nick’s deductions had been entirely correct, after the disclosures Chick

had made, and the remarkable message from Patsy had showed them the way.

Nick was right, too, in thinking that Kate Crandall, though informed of

the facts, had suppressed them only with a feeling of jealous hatred and

revenge for Maybrick and Harriet Farley, whose relief and gratitude over

the happy turn of affairs scarce need be mentioned.

THE END.

Kate Crandall very soon disappeared from her customary haunts--but Nick

Carter had not seen the last of her, as you will find by reading the

story in the next issue of this weekly, No. 122, out January 9th. The

story is entitled “The Suicide; or, Nick Carter and the Lost Hand.”

RUBY LIGHT.

By BURKE JENKINS.

(This interesting story was commenced in No. 120 of NICK CARTER

STORIES. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer

or the publishers.)

CHAPTER V.

A JOY RIDE.

I had time enough at Boston the next morning to get a good breakfast

before the Portland Express left; and this I partook of in the station

dining room. I knew within reasonable bounds when the steamers reached

their dock at Portland, and figured that I should have ample time for my

plan, which was simplicity itself. I would just be on hand when the boat

docked.

And I was. Furthermore, I had stationed myself in a most advantageous

position for seeing all who quitted the boat. A pile of boxes, not five

feet from the passenger gangway, further favored me by allowing partial

concealment of myself. I would simply spot my man when he quitted the

vessel; the rest would be regulation shadowing.

A fog had delayed the boat about an hour in entering the harbor, as I

learned from a longshoreman; but she finally loomed up directly before

us, and the fog entirely cleared as the lines were cast and she was

warped to the pier.

Herded into the usual impatient mass, the passengers pressed against the

ropes until the final sliding of the gangplank.

Then, at a signal from the officer in charge, they swarmed from her. I

didn’t miss a face; and I am pretty good at this work. Besides, I

counted on seeing a face that was with me constantly now.

But I didn’t.

Little by little the crowd thinned. One or two belated ones trotted

shoreward; then no more.

I could have been sure that the man and girl hadn’t passed me; and I

found myself in a predicament.

I waited a few more minutes, but without another individual setting foot

upon the plank. Plainly any search I might further make must be done

aboard the vessel itself.

But if I did that I would have to quit the gangway, and that, naturally,

I was not pleased to do. It was the strategic point.

It was not an overbrilliant plan, or an extremely reliable one, that I

finally hit upon; but it was the best I could do under the

circumstances.

I caught sight of a shaggy-browed deck hand who had stepped from the

freight hold and stood, lounging idly, waiting for the rest of the crew

to begin unloading.

I had replenished my cigar supply at Boston; so I approached the man

diplomatically.

“My friend,” said I, “I’m almost positive that some people I am very

anxious to see took this steamer; but I haven’t been able to find them.

Would you mind watching out for them while I step aboard? I certainly

don’t want to miss them.”

He accepted the proffered smoke greedily enough; but scowled at me from

under his cap visor as he grunted:

“How’n tarnation’ll I be able to know ’em? What d’ they look like?”

“A man with a sort of stoop to his shoulders, and a mighty pretty girl,”

I replied. “Anyway, you can’t fail, for if anybody shows up, it must be

that----”

I stopped, for he was scratching his pate in thick-headed brain-working.

“Hold on thar!” he finally growled. “Why, dang me, man, they ain’t

aboard no longer!”

“Ain’t aboard?” I cried. “Why, I could swear they haven’t yet crossed

that gangplank!”

“Right you are there, my lad,” he agreed; “for them there and that same

pair o’ individools must be the folks as got into a launch out yonder in

the harbor when we were stopped by the fog.”

“Into a launch!” I echoed frenziedly as a sharp memory shot through me.

Surely the couple did have a uniform method of boarding and quitting

vessels.

“Better see the purser about it,” added the fellow; “there’s his window

in there. He knows more about it as I do.”

He pointed aboard the boat where the brass grill of that officer’s

office showed up plainly enough. And immediately I strode across the

plank and up to the purser, who was figuring at his desk.

He acknowledged my nod genially, and asked what he could do for me.

“If you don’t mind,” said I hurriedly, “will you tell me all you know

about that couple that quitted the steamer for a launch back there in

the harbor?”

“Quitted the steamer for a launch?” he cried, in the utmost

bewilderment, while he looked at me as though he thought I was demented.

“Why, nobody did.”

“That deck hand there----” I started to explain as I turned, and

indicated where I had come from.

But I got no further; for, at that very moment, I saw the very same deck

hand steadying a girl across the freight gangway.

I lost an important minute in my consternation at having been thus so

easily outwitted; and I reached the wharf again just in time to see him

help her quickly into a taxicab at the pier end. But, before he sprang

in himself, he grinned back over his shoulder at me delightedly.

No, I had not exactly recognized that peculiar stoop to the shoulders of

the owner of the launch back there at Port Washington, as I had assured

myself I would be able to do.

But, if I ever hoped to retrieve myself, I hadn’t a moment to lose. I,

in turn, hot-footed it to the shore end of the pier, and fortune seemed

to favor me here a bit; for there stood another taxi, and its “vacant”

flag was flying.

“Follow that cab, my man,” I said hurriedly and out of breath from my

sprint. “Don’t let ’em lose you, and there’s money in it.”

The little chauffeur grinned delightedly from under his goggles.

“Right-o!” he chortled happily, as he cranked; and next second we jumped

into the high speed.

But that first spurt was short-lived, for we came to sharply applied

brakes by the time we had but crossed the avenue.

I heard a sharp command as a man dashed from the swing door of a

shore-front saloon. Then the door beside me was yanked open, and as

quickly closed.

“After ’em now, for all that’s in you!” yelled the man who had flopped

beside me, and the car lurched forward again.

I whirled on the intruder in a rage.

“Came near losing ’em, didn’t you?” said he quietly.

“_Pawlinson!_” I managed to whisper in my amazement.

“I was a trifle dramatic,” he explained easily; “but, from my vantage

point of the saloon window yonder, I calculated that maybe two of us

might work together better in this case.

“And, besides,” he added meaningly, as the cab swayed us to its mad

pace, “I want to talk over some things with you.”

As I think was natural enough, I had the greatest difficulty in

recovering from complete bewilderment. But I did manage finally to blurt

out:

“And I, too--I’m in the dark about a good many things.”

“Just as I thought, of course,” he replied. Then his tone changed to a

sharpness, a grittiness of command that didn’t set well with me for a

whit.

“Now, I want to know,” said he, “just who you are and where you stand.”

Though I resented the manner of his query, I couldn’t but realize that

he really was entitled to the knowledge.

“My name is Tom Grey,” said I, “and I am one of Chief Garth’s men. Last

night he detailed me to----”

“Yes, yes. I know about that,” he broke in impatiently. “I saw you go in

and leave his house. But what I want explained is: How did you happen to

mix in on this thing at Port Washington?”

“The merest coincidence,” said I, rather lamely.

Then I gave him all I knew about it and the way it had come about that I

happened to be swinging my feet from the stringpiece of the dock at that

particular moment.

“Well,” he said, with a tinge of sarcasm, “it was a very unfortunate

coincidence, as you call it; for I can tell you it wasn’t any cinch to

throw off suspicion in landing that job as engineer of the launch. But I

had landed it; and if it hadn’t been for you I could have delayed the

start until four of my men arrived. They were coming on the next train

from New York.”

“And so that’s why you faked that the engine was broken down?” I

blurted, somewhat idiotically.

“Rather!” was the reply; and the sarcasm was no longer veiled. “And you

can imagine my surprise when I recognized you entering Chief Garth’s

place just as I myself was leaving.”

“Now, you know well enough, Mr. Pawlinson,” said I sheepishly, “that my

interference at the launch was natural enough when you grant that I knew

nothing of the circumstances, and----”

“Enough of that!” he said. “I’m not harboring any resentment any more,

though I still have a bit of a game leg as a souvenir of the incident.

But what I do want to know--and what has made me follow you closely from

Garth’s to this very moment--is: Just where do you stand in this matter?

Are you entirely--now that you understand the thing--are you my man?”

“Why, of course,” I replied, in as convincing a tone as I could command.

But somehow it didn’t ring overtrue; for, in spite of myself, I simply

couldn’t cotton to this man.

“But now, in turn”--I changed my tone--“I should like to know----”

Here the cab swung a corner violently; then we took to the evener going

of a well-macadamized road, which seemed to lead almost indefinitely in

a dead straight line.

“We’re dogging ’em close,” said I, pointing to the rear of the cab we

were pursuing. “He’s a good man,” I added, indicating our driver.

“Good enough,” replied Pawlinson shortly. “But what do you intend to do

next? Just what is the lay, anyway?”

He certainly could make me feel like a fool; and, as a matter of cold

fact, I certainly had acted, so far, with every trait of the tyro.

Indeed, I had simply counted upon locating the man and wiring the chief

of his whereabouts. But now what was I really counting upon doing?

“It’s plain enough we’ve got to dog ’em as close as we can,” said I

finally. “I don’t see any better way now, do you?”

“No, not now,” he replied. “But I have heard of better preparedness

in my time. But come, come, Grey”--and his tone lightened

perceptibly--“we’re in this thing together, and there’s no use of us

rasping against each other any more. I really stand in need of a man,

and I hope you’ll prove to be he. This case really means a lot to----”

“That’s just it!” I broke in. “If you’ll stop to think, you’ll see that

I really don’t know a solitary thing about the affairs except that the

man ahead of us yonder is wanted. The offense is all in the dark. Don’t

you think yourself that I’d be likely to enter into the thing with more

spirit if I were shown a little more light?”

He eyed me narrowly for a moment, as though he were deciding with

himself just how far he would go in explanation. Finally he reached his

decision with a grunt.

“You know about the robberies of country places along Long Island

Sound?” said he shortly.

He really needn’t have said another word to quicken me to the most

intense interest.

“I should say I did!” I ejaculated. “Why, it was just from overzeal in

one of those cases that the chief gave me the can.”

Pawlinson smiled.

“I told Garth I didn’t want the game flushed quite then,” he explained.

“Then you were back of that, too?” I cried, trying to get through the

fog.

“Yes. And the man we are after is Stroth, Carl Stroth.”

“Stroth?” I queried dubiously, for the name carried no memory. “I never

heard of him.”

“I’m prepared to believe that you never did,” agreed Pawlinson; “for the

man has proven himself wise enough, and big enough, never to appear

personally connected with the jobs.”

“But how could he----”

“Here,” put in Pawlinson. “I’ll state it in a nutshell. About the

robberies along the Sound, you know. And you know, too, as do the rest

of the police, that the tricks were invariably pulled off by water--that

is, the lads worked by boat. But what they don’t know is that this man

Carl Stroth is the head, center, and chief of a gang--a thoroughly

organized and completely equipped gang of crooks.

“And just to show you how complete is the equipment--well--quickly

stated again--there’s a hundred-foot auxiliary schooner, speedy, with a

machine gun under a tarpaulin, manned by a crew, a real crew.”

He had a sharp, decisive way of narration.

“Sounds fishy, don’t it? Fishy, but a fact,” he went on. “Now, the way a

crib was cracked was this--_is_ cracked, I suppose I had better say, for

they haven’t been once checked yet: The schooner lies well off

shore--’most any distance, in fact. Then the launch--the very launch, by

the way, that you figured in yourself yesterday--is manned by experts at

this very game. They land, clean out the place selected, back to the

launch, back to the schooner. So it’s really very simple, as you see.

And in its simplicity lies its great effectiveness. The schooner carries

regular yacht papers, and everything is quite proper. Get it?”

“I understand,” said I slowly; “but I can scarcely believe such a thing

possible in this day and generation.”

“Why not?” he snapped. “For the life of me I can’t see why the field for

absolute and out-and-out piracy isn’t greater now than ever. Pretty

nearly every invention, though it gives pursuit improvement, likewise

equips the pursued. The world’s very much the same---- But, heavens and

earth, man, this is scarcely the time to get too wordy; and I’ll let it

out now that the only reason I had in all this explanation was to watch

your face closely while I was telling it.”

“Why, what do you mean by that?” I cried.

“Well,” he explained haltingly, “Carl Stroth’s hand reaches far.”

“How?” I hadn’t yet caught the point.

“You see, as I said before,” he continued, “I wanted to be dead certain

as to just what part you were playing.”

“I was playing?” I exclaimed, my temper beginning to rise. “Do you mean

to say you thought that I, in any way, was connected with----”

“I mean no offense, my man,” said he imperturbably; “and you must

remember that I never so much as set eyes on you till yesterday; and

what happened then didn’t predispose me in your favor, naturally. I mean

simply that I have had just about dealings enough with this man Stroth

to know that he plays a sure game. And it wouldn’t have been the first

time for him to plant one of his own men right inside the enemy’s camp.”

Now, on mature thought, there really was nothing that I should have

taken umbrage at in this suspicion; and I certainly ought to have had

better control of myself.

But I felt myself fairly rise to boiling point. Words bubbled to me at

this implication as to my being a turncoat.

Those words never came out, though, for we skidded briskly around a

corner, and were thrown sharply back to the moment and to action.

In the intense concentration of the conversation, both of us had been

more engrossed with each other than with our chase; though I did notice,

out of the tail of my eye, that the driver of our car had shot back a

quick glance over his shoulder at us inside.

Then next second, as I say, we turned a corner--a sharp, right-angle

whirl from the straight avenue both cars had been following.

Pawlinson and I both leaned forward in interest, craning our necks for a

view through the front glasses of the vehicle.

“What in time does this mean?” cried he, as another vehicle shot by us,

coming from the opposite direction.

He started pounding on the glass.

But our driver, for a moment, paid no attention. Instead, he swung the

car toward the curb and brought up short before the door of a large

house.

We both sprang out to the sidewalk, and as we stood there our little

chauffeur hastened to explain.

“Them folks stopped their car and went in that there house,” said he, in

a funny, staccato voice. “And the car’s gone back.”

Instinctively Pawlinson and I started to mount the first step of the

stoop, though reason might well have prompted another course.

Then the little chauffeur enlightened us further.

“And now I guess that’ll be about all to-day, gentlemen,” he chortled

gleefully, as he slid up his goggles to his forehead.

That kind of eye shield certainly is effective on occasion. For, just as

the taxi jumped into speed, it left us there on the sidewalk in our

first but most convincing recognition.

“_Stevens!_” we fairly yelled, in unison.

Then we looked at each other.

CHAPTER VI.

A WATER TRAIL.

“A rather close organization, you see,” said Pawlinson finally, and with

a placidity that was galling.

“What do you mean?” I queried shortly and a bit irritably. The incident

hadn’t improved the temper of either of us.

“I mean that Stroth had everything pretty nicely arranged, didn’t he?

For your reception, that is. Even to depositing you way out here,

where----”

“Hold on!” I snapped sharply. “You yourself were duped as well as I was,

and we’ve got no time for words. What do you make out of this?”

“What do you make out of it yourself? According to your own account, you

left Stevens yesterday headed off somewhere in the launch from College

Point.”

“But that certainly was he just now,” said I.

“Most positively; and his little scheme has thus landed us not only well

out of the way of the whereabouts of Stroth, but I know enough of this

town to know that we can’t get another cab inside of fifteen minutes.

How do you figure the little devil happened in Portland, anyway?”

Pawlinson again favored me with one of those searching looks which were

making me hate him more and more heartily.

Fact was, I was getting vastly sick of the entire job. But a sudden

thought did, momentarily, throw me into ejaculation.

“By Jove, I’ve got it!” I cried. “Berth number nine!”

“Berth number nine! Here, come, man, we’ve no time to waste! We’ve got

to get onto some track immediately.”

“And you must have been the one who occupied number three on the sleeper

last night,” I continued.

“You deduce well,” said he, with a grin.

“Well, when I got my own reservation, the ticket seller told me that

berth nine was taken from Stamford. So that’s it. Stevens, after running

the launch somewhere up the Sound toward Connecticut, left it there and

boarded the same train, and from there on----”

“And from there on,” grunted Pawlinson, “even I can follow. But look

here. Why didn’t you come out with this sooner?”

“I didn’t connect the thing at all,” I replied.

“No; it seems not.”

“What I can’t make out, though,” I went on, unheeding his manner, “is

this: Why in thunder all the care taken to effect the boarding of the

Portland steamer by launch from Port Washington?”

“Simply enough understood, Grey,” he said, “when you realize that I had

every dock and railway station covered. And a mighty good scheme it

was--that of handling the thing by water. I might have known----”

He broke off short. A thought had hit him which brooked not an instant’s

further delay in speculation. Much as I had come to dislike the man, I

could but admire his promptitude and vim.

He tugged me into a brisk run, and we caught a trolley car which he had

managed to whistle to a stop on the instant it was crossing the nearest

avenue’s corner.

“To the water,” said he, in indefinite explanation, when we were seated.

“The water, that’s it! The cue word in this little job, I believe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not until to-day have I ever known Stroth to use Stevens for a thing

but water work. Fact is, where Stevens is there’s a water trick.”

“You mean that you think----”

“I mean that I’d be willing to stake a hefty sum that the schooner is

lying this very minute not two hundred yards off Orr’s Island, right

here in Casco Bay.”

“The schooner?”

“Stroth’s boat--the one I was telling you about.”

“But, heavens and earth, man,” said I, raising my voice a bit from the

whisper we had kept in the car, “open and aboveboard, broad daylight

like this?”

“Didn’t I explain that she carries yacht papers, and isn’t even

suspected by a soul?”

“But you seem to know all about her, and I can’t see----”

“I agree with you heartily, my boy. You certainly can’t.”

What kept my hands off of him, I don’t understand, unless it was the

reverence I had come to have at his very name as handled among us cubs.

And whatever retort I might have mustered was broken short by his

jumping off the car suddenly.

“This way,” said he, leading a brisk pace that kept my shorter legs

almost trotting.

After three blocks of silence, which our speed necessitated, he whirled

sharply upon me. We stood on the sidewalk before police headquarters.

“What kind of a gun do you carry?” he barked out.

“Automatic,” I replied, tapping my chest nearly under my left arm where

I favor carrying a firearm.

“Know how to use it?”

“Yes,” said I.

My answer must have carried conviction.

“Then I’ll keep you in on the game a bit longer,” he decided, talking

more to himself than to me. “I wouldn’t have time now to acquaint a new

man with the facts sufficiently. Come on in.”

I followed him up the stoop, through the door, and across the hall. I

recognized the man at the desk. It was Sergeant Hallins, a man who had

once been with Chief Garth.

“Why, hello, Grey!” cried the sergeant heartily, thus proving that the

recognition was mutual.

I was distinctly pleased at his genial greeting for two reasons. For one

thing, I had a very favorable impression of him from my short, former

acquaintance; but, at this moment, it suited me nicely enough thus to

prove to Pawlinson that I was not exactly a nonentity.

But Pawlinson, for some reason, did not appear at all to like the fact

that we knew each other; though it was apparently not because Hallins

failed, in turn, to recognize him.

“Sergeant Hallins,” said he, “you got my wire from New York yesterday at

this office?”

For a moment Hallins looked from him to me, and back again, until

finally I tumbled to the fact that this was the first time they had met

each other.

“Mr. Pawlinson,” said I, by way of introduction. “You gentlemen must

pardon me, for, of course, I thought that you knew each other.”

Hallins shot Pawlinson another swift glance, a puzzled one, before he

replied:

“You mean the wire about the schooner, Mr. Pawlinson?”

“Naturally; since it was the only one I sent,” drawled the Washington

detective in that sarcasm which I now saw was not for me alone. “Did she

arrive in Portland Harbor to-day?”

“Yes,” replied Sergeant Hallins. “The schooner _Ruby Light_ arrived here

shortly after dawn, and dropped her hook off Orr’s Island, as usual.”

There was a distinct hesitancy, coupled to what was almost bewilderment,

in Hallins’ tone.

“And you have kept note of her movements to-day?”

I could see the imperiousness of the tone grated upon Hallins as much as

it had upon me; but he replied civilly enough:

“One of my men in the rôle of a bumboatman was on her decks for upward

of an hour. It seems that she is fitting out for a rather longer run

than usual.”

“Ah!” grunted Pawlinson sharply. “And she sails--when?”

“That he was not exactly able to gather; for the boatswain, a decidedly

uncommunicative chap, had to be handled softly.”

“Uh!” broke in the other. “The boatswain was in command?”

“Yes. It seems that he was waiting for Captain Stevens.”

In spite of myself, I started at the name; for as yet I hadn’t stumbled

to what way Hallins could have known more about the vessel than I

myself. But it came out next breath.

“You must pardon me, Mr. Pawlinson,” continued Hallins haltingly, but as

though he must put in the words, “but are you quite positive that you

are on the right trail? Dead positive, that is?”

“Why do you ask?” snapped out Pawlinson viciously.

“Simply because I could be almost as dead positive that everything is

right in that quarter. I’ve known that boat for some years now. Even

when I was working in New York, I used to spend my vacations in Casco

Bay, and she has been owned all that time by Mr. Stroth. Why, I’ve even

met the owner myself, and upon one occasion was his guest aboard for an

afternoon.”

“When was that?” gritted Pawlinson, in a voice which, for all its

harshness, carried some uneasiness.

“About four summers ago. Now, what I’m getting at is,” went on the

sergeant hurriedly, “the schooner is still owned by the same gentleman,

a known yachtsman and above suspicion.”

“Oh, is he?” Pawlinson came to finality. “Well, now, to come to the

point, yes. I do know exactly what I am doing; and, furthermore, I’ve no

time to waste starting to do it. You say your man who got aboard to-day

couldn’t get even an inkling when the start was to be made?”

“Nothing from those on board. But this my man did gather: The vessel

can’t start without gasoline; or, at least, the _Ruby Light_ usually

does carry considerable.”

“How is that? Can’t start? What’s to keep her?” Pawlinson’s was intense

as he fired the questions.

“Why, it happens that the supply tank at the club float where she

usually fills sprang a leak early in the day, and the consignment of

reserve barrels of ‘gas’ can’t reach her till eight-fifteen at the

earliest.”

“Good!” “Fine!” fairly chortled Pawlinson, rubbing his hands together

delightedly. “No, you’re right, Hallins, she’ll not start without

gasoline, and plenty of it. She never does. She uses her engine a lot.”

Then his voice whirled from gloating to practicality; then to a bit of

uneasiness as he glanced over his shoulder out of a window where the sky

was dimming to dusk. “What time is it now?”

Hallins glanced at his watch.

“Five to seven.”

“As late as that?” cried Pawlinson. “I can’t believe it. But here, man,

we’ve still time to make it. I want ten of your best men, which, with

myself and Grey here, will make twelve. And I want the police

launch--she’s fast, isn’t she?”

“The police launch?” cried the sergeant bewilderedly.

“Why, yes, of course! You have such an article, haven’t you? Come, come,

man, I’m in no mood for delay!”

“But your later wire!” blurted out Hallins.

“My _later_ wire?” Pawlinson fairly yelled. “What in thunder are you

getting at?”

“Here!”

Hallins strode hurriedly over to his desk and caught up a yellow

telegraph blank.

“I received that not thirty minutes before you stepped in yourself. I

thought, of course, you knew what you were about when you sent it.”

“I sent it? _I?_” shrieked Pawlinson, as he tore open the sheet, where

we both read:

“Send patrol launch well manned immediately to Trawly’s Rock. My

orders from Washington.

“PAWLINSON.”

“And you have sent it?” cried Pawlinson.

“I did wonder that the thing wasn’t in cipher,” admitted Hallins,

getting scared. “But I didn’t dare disregard the command from

Washington. But who did send it?”

“I wonder if that Stevens----” I broke in excitedly.

“Oh, you do wonder, do you, Grey?” Pawlinson snarled. “Well, for once I

shouldn’t be surprised if you were right.”

Nothing could quench the biting vitriol of his tongue.

“Checkmated at every turn! And a pretty pair of asses we are!” he was

pleased to put himself thus in with me.

“Now look here, Hallins,” he went on, while I inwardly admired the

rapidity with which he shifted the greatest chagrin to action. “And look

sharp! When did you send the patrol launch?”

“I guess it must have been ab----”

Here the door swung open, and a clean-limbed young fellow strode over to

Hallins.

“Launch’s gone, pop,” said he boyishly. “And the men’re tickled to death

at the little outing.”

Then the lad sensed the tenseness of us all.

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“Matter enough!” said Pawlinson shortly, “But no time now to explain to

you, boy. Now look you, quick? You have just come from the water front?”

“Yep!” answered the lad, not a bit abashed. “I was here when dad gave

the order--he’s training me for the game, you know--and I trotted on

down to see ’em start, and----”

“You like the water--know boats? Most boys do. Eh, what?”

Young Hallins grinned.

“Hear that, dad?” he cried. “Me like boats, eh?”.

“The boy’s crazy,” explained Hallins, regaining his composure somewhat.

“He’s got the fastest thing in the harbor--built it himself, too.” The

proud parent showed here.

“She’s good for twenty-five an hour flat,” boasted the youth.

“Where is that boat now?” barked out Pawlinson, and then I caught his

drift.

“Down at the float. Old Pete looks out for her for me.”

“What’s she worth?” snapped Pawlinson. “Don’t be afraid to make it high,

my boy. Washington’s paying for her. I’ve got to have her.’

“Don’t want to sell her,” came the reply, in as sharp a decision as

Pawlinson’s own. “But you can have her to use on that kind of lay for

nothing.”

The boy warmed to the snap of adventure.

“But do you know how to run one?” came his next query. “I’ll go myself

and run her for you.”

Pawlinson cast an interrogative glance at Hallins.

“No,” declared the father decidedly. “He’s a bit young for his spurs

yet, Mr. Pawlinson. But, by all means, take the launch. Anything we can

do to right matters, and to----”

“Why, of course! Why didn’t I think of it before?” interrupted my

companion. “You, Grey, are up on motors. Yesterday proved that; and I’m

glad now I kept you--even after to-day. Come, lad, lead us to that speed

boat of yours; and, take my word for it, you won’t lose by it.”

A five-minutes fast run brought us to the waterside; and there, moored

cleverly in a sheltered nook behind some piling, lay a slim, gray craft

of which that boy builder might well be proud.

Pawlinson and I clambered into the cramped cockpit, and luck favored us

in that I was familiar with the make of engine.

I immediately took hold and started her.

“Good! You know ’em!” chuckled the boy; and I felt the genuine

compliment.

“How far to Trawly’s Rock, lad?” cried Pawlinson, taking the wheel.

“About ten miles from here, and right past Peak’s Island,” yelled young

Hallins. “That’s the quickest way.”

Then he raised his voice even higher, for the engine was no silent

affair:

“But if you’re intending to land at the rock, you’ll have to have a

dink.”

“A dinghy?” grumbled Pawlinson petulantly. “What for? Seconds count now,

you know.”

“Here, I’ve got you,” replied the boy, whirling on an old fossil who had

been silently viewing our departure. “Old Pete’ll lend you his punt. She

tows like a breeze. She will cut down your speed; but you just got to

have one if you mean to land there.”

Old Pete mumbled something around his pipestem;

“How’s that?” I queried impatiently.

“Oh, that’s all right,” assured young Hallins. “I’ll make it all right

with Pete after you’ve gone.”

And, without further parley, he passed me the painter of one of those

small scows that have justly won their way into favor among yachtsmen as

tenders.

At first mention of this small delay, Pawlinson had gritted out an

impatient imprecation; but a glance I later cast at him saw his brow

clear at a thought.

A quickly thrown clove hitch of the punt’s painter; then I threw in the

propeller. The shaft was chain-driven.

She picked up speed immediately; and, even towing the small boat as we

were, I reckoned on about seventeen miles an hour. But, notwithstanding,

I was impatient at the check, for I soon saw that the lad had not

overestimated when he spoke of twenty-five for the beauty.

“Confound that scow!” I ejaculated as we headed out into the bay.

“Can’t be helped, my boy,” replied Pawlinson almost genially. “It might

come in useful, you know.”

I believe now that he must have had his plan cooking even then.

TO BE CONTINUED.

HAZING THE PROFESSOR.

A party of smart young students in a small town in Kentucky, last winter

conceived the brilliant idea of hazing their new teacher. It was decided

to invite him to accompany them coon-hunting some night, and, after

leading him about in the woods until completely bewildered, to abandon

him, and leave him find his way back to the village or remain in the

woods all night. Now, as the pedagogue was a stranger, and weighed

nearly two hundred pounds, this scheme seemed too funny for anything,

and many a hearty laugh did they have over it. The invitation was given

and accepted, and the appointed night came, cold and clear, with several

feet of snow on the ground. Everything moved on as per arrangement, the

professor seeming guileless and unsuspecting, but from beneath his puffy

eyelids now and then gleamed an amused twinkle. The party had plodded

through the snow for several hours, and the ringleader was about to give

the signal to disperse, when the professor sank to the ground with a

groan of agony.

“Oh, oh!” he moaned; “oh, one of my attacks again! Quick, boys, for

mercy’s sake, get me to a place of shelter, or I’m a dead man!”

Talk about scared boys! Here they were five miles from the nearest

house, and an apparently dying man on their hands. Something must be

done, and quickly, too. A litter was hastily improvised, with coats for

cushions, and the suffering professor gently laid thereon, and homeward

they started, a sorry set of practical jokers, taking turns at carrying

their massive preceptor. No sounds were heard but the heavy breathing of

the professor and the grunts of the students, who were straining every

nerve to keep from jostling the patient. After what seemed to be scores

of miles, the weary, bedraggled fellows carefully set down their burden,

to snatch a few minutes’ rest before entering the town, which was within

a stone’s throw, when, what was their surprise to see the professor rise

leisurely from his comfortable couch, and coolly observe:

“Much obliged, boys! much obliged! But one word: The next time I wished

to play practical jokes I wouldn’t select an invalid for a subject.”

The boys are not over it yet.

THE PERILS OF COAL MINING.

To perceive fully the dangers of a coal miner’s life, it is necessary to

review the extraordinary conditions which threaten it.

If workmen in coal mines had no other reason for complaint than that of

toiling in perpetual lamplight and in an overheated and impure

atmosphere, they would have no more cause to regret their fate than have

many other men who live by the labor of their hands. But although the

ordinary conditions of a workingman’s life are often oppressive and

injurious, they are in almost every instance less violent and

destructive than those to which colliers are exposed in their daily

work.

As soon as an opening is made in a bed of coal, chemical and mechanical

changes of serious importance are commenced, and they are all more or

less opposed to the permanence of the work. The oxygen of the

atmosphere, aided by the force of gravity, lessens the barrier between

the imprisoned gases and the opened places of the mine. Of these the

most abundant and dangerous are carbonic-acid gas or choke damp, and

carbureted hydrogen or fire damp.

Carbonic-acid gas accumulates in disused workings, and not unfrequently

escapes into the roads and workings. As it has a greater specific

gravity than any other gas found in a coal mine, it drops to the floor

of the opening in which it happens to accumulate. For this reason, the

upper part of a driving or a wicket may have a comparatively pure

atmosphere, while the floor and parts immediately above it are occupied

by a gas, which, if breathed, would be destructive to animal life.

When opening old works, or when approaching places partly opened, the

miner must be cautious for his life’s sake. He is meeting, without the

power to resist, an invisible and insidious enemy--a life-threatening

agent, that strikes without warning. If a system of ventilation exist in

the mine, there will be a means at hand of driving from its hiding

places a considerable accumulation of the deadly gas, if care be taken

to watch the approach of the enemy. If there be no sufficiently

comprehensive scheme of ventilation, the choke damp must be diluted, or,

in other words, the gas must be mixed with the overlying atmospheric

air. This is often done when the accumulation is locally inconsiderable,

by the wafting of a miner’s jacket backward and forward till the air can

be safely breathed.

The other kind of gas just mentioned, is not less dangerous to the

workmen. This gas is known as carbureted hydrogen, or fire damp. As it

is lighter than atmospheric air, it rises to the roof of the mines in

which it is found, and is there mixed with the mine atmosphere, by

occasional disturbances or by the process of diffusion. Unmixed with

other gas, carbureted hydrogen destroys human life. But when the gas is

largely diluted by atmospheric air--say, thirty parts by volume of

atmospheric air to one part of the gas--the presence of fire damp is

made known to the miner by a pale-blue cap with a brownish tinge over

the top of the lamp flame. This gives a warning more and more

imperative, until the proportion is only thirteen parts of air to one of

fire damp, when the mixed gases become explosive. This quality continues

until the proportion is one of fire damp to four or five of atmospheric

air, when the explosiveness of the mixture is lost, and ordinary lights

of the mine are extinguished.

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

“The northern limit of the brown bear’s habitat is as yet undetermined,

but I have seen them in the interior of Alaska as far as latitude

sixty-seven degrees, and they probably range still farther,” said Uncle

John, when the boys had asked him for some points about these beasts.

“My first encounter with one of these animals was a startling experience

for me, and, I have always thought, equally so for the bear.

“We have been working up against the strong current of the Koowak River

all day, and toward nightfall pitched our tent at the base of a high

bluff forming the right bank of the stream.

“While supper was being prepared, I climbed the bluff to get a look at

the country, and was walking leisurely along, with my gun carelessly

held in my left hand. The top of the bluff was densely covered almost to

the edge with spruces and alders, and the undergrowth was so thick that

it was impossible to see more than a few feet through it. Ahead of me a

cluster of rocks offered a temporary place to sit down and enjoy the

view, and I made for it.

“Just as I reached the nearest rock, a tremendous shaggy animal rose

apparently from under my feet, and I immediately recognized in him the

brown bear, of whose fierceness the natives had been telling me for

weeks.

“My first instinct was to shoot, and I probably would have done so had

my gun been in my right hand; but at the first motion I made, the bear

reared on his haunches and was so formidable looking that I concluded to

wait and see what he intended doing. After a moment’s hesitation, he

dropped on all fours, and, with wonderful quickness, turned and sprang

out of sight in the dense undergrowth.

“When I returned to camp and related my experience, Tah-rok, my native

guide, assured me that the bear must have recently concluded a heavy

meal, as otherwise he would have most certainly attacked me.”

Some officers from one of the vessels of the Bering Sea fleet went

ashore at Herendeen Bay during the summer on a deer hunt, and one of the

party saw a bear about one hundred yards distant, eating berries.

Without a thought of the consequences, he raised his gun and fired at

the animal. The shot went wide of the mark, but at the report of the gun

the bear started for the hunter on the dead run. His charge was met by a

shower of bullets from the officer’s repeater. Although badly wounded,

the infuriated brute did not hesitate an instant, but rushed straight at

his enemy.

When within about ten feet of the hunter, the bear rose on his haunches

and prepared to close. Blood was pouring in streams down his body. One

bullet had shattered his upper jaw, but he was still so full of fight

that the outcome of the struggle would have been extremely doubtful had

not another of the party arrived and ended the fight by shooting the

brute through the brain.

An examination of the bear’s body showed that it had been struck six

times. Three of the shots were in parts of the body ordinarily

considered vital, and would doubtless have ultimately caused death, but

the vitality of these animals is almost incredible, instances having

been cited of their running over one hundred yards after being shot

through the heart.

TWO SAD CASES.

A professional beggar was standing with a board in front of him, with

the inscription: “I am blind,” when a gentleman threw a dime on the

ground.

The blind man instantly picked it up.

The gentleman said:

“Why, I thought you were blind.”

The fellow, after a moment’s hesitation, looked at the board, and then

said:

“I’m bless’d if they haven’t made a mistake, and put a wrong board on me

this morning. I’m deaf and dumb.”

The above reminds us of another affecting story of a kind-hearted lady

who was passing a street beggar who bore on his breast a placard

declaring that he was deaf and dumb. The kind lady read the placard, and

said to the beggar:

“My good man, how long have you been deaf and dumb?”

“Ever since my birth,” the man ingenuously answered.

“What a heart-touching affliction,” said the good lady, as she placed

half a dollar in the poor fellow’s outstretched palm, and passed on.

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

More Money for Farmers.

The important farm crops of the United States this year are worth

$104,000,000 more than the value of the same crops last year. The total

value of the important crops is given as $5,068,742,000 by the

government authorities. Adding the value of the other crops, to be

announced later, will make a record figure in the nation’s production.

This year’s wheat and corn crops are the most valuable ever grown, the

wheat and apple crops are record harvests, and the potato crop is the

second largest ever raised. The huge wheat crop and the increased price

of that cereal, the large corn and apple crops, and the increased price

of oats, barley, and rye more than offset the loss in the value of the

cotton crop resulting from the war.

The values of the important crops, based on the average prices paid to

producers on November 1, and their values last year, follow:

1914. 1913.

Corn $1,885,867,000 $1,730,021,000

Wheat 858,056,000 587,863,000

Oats 484,390,000 425,150,000

Barley 100,839,000 97,469,000

Rye 34,387,000 26,153,000

Buckwheat 13,297,000 10,444,000

Potatoes 219,396,000 230,741,000

Sweet potatoes 42,751,000 44,706,000

Hay 803,353,000 786,062,000

Cotton 462,483,000 880,360,000

Flaxseed 18,960,000 21,192,000

Apples 144,963,000 124,470,000

A corn crop of 2,706,000,000 bushels is estimated by the government.

This yield compares with 2,447,000,000 bushels a year ago, or an

increase of 150,000,000 bushels. The crop has turned out much better

than was expected early in the season.

Woman Builder of Death Machines.

A charming, gentle young woman--“Bertha Krupp,” as she is called by the

soldiers; the Baroness von Bohlen, as she is known in Germany--is

associated with the European war in many fantastic ways.

Bertha Krupp, as the principal owner of the great Krupp works at Essen,

is the kaiser’s gun maker. When she was to be married she was so

important a personage that the kaiser acted as her godfather. The young

nobleman, Baron Gustave von Bohlen und Halbach, was the choice of his

majesty. Not only have the Krupp works furnished a vast amount of

efficient field artillery to the Germans, but they have supplied the

monster siege guns with which the Belgian and French forts have been

smashed.

Modest and unassuming, the young mistress of the Krupp works is beloved

by all who know her, and especially by the thousands of workmen at

Essen, whose admiration she aroused when, shortly after her father’s

death, she began supervising the operation of the works and bravely

remained close to the big guns while they were being tested. From the

income from the manufacture of the guns a fund is set aside by Bertha

Krupp to help some of her fifty thousand pensioners. At large orphan

asylum is supported by the Krupp money. Throughout Germany the baroness

is noted for the charities that she supports with her immense fortune.

And the soldiers, whenever they hear the noise of the terrible Krupp

guns, say: “Bertha is talking again.”

Girl Soldier’s Escape.

A girl soldier’s thrilling escape from death or capture is thus

described by a correspondent at Petrograd, Russia:

“The daughter of Colonel Tomilobbskaya, of the Russian army, who, in

male uniform, distinguished herself in the fighting at Avgustovo some

time ago, has been wounded for the third time. She is in East Prussia

with her father’s command. While on a scouting tour, she unexpectedly

came upon a patrol of German hussars. She quickly wheeled her horse and

dashed away, but was hotly pursued in the direction of a stream which

the hussars evidently thought she would not attempt to cross. When near

the stream, her horse was struck by bullet, and fell, but the girl

disengaged herself, and, plunging into the water, swam across. She was

wounded in the arm, but managed to stop the flow of blood and got to the

Russian lines.”

A large number of women are serving in the Russian army, several have

met death in battle and others have been sent back wounded. In last

week’s _Blade_ mention was made of a famous Cossack girl trooper who has

been at the front.

Engine Hurls House One Hundred Feet.

A freight train went wild in Chicago, plunged across Sheffield Avenue,

picked up a two-story house occupied by two families of sleepers,

carried the building bodily almost half a block, then stopped. Two

children, one four and the other two years old, were instantly killed.

Four other persons who were sleeping in the house were rescued by

firemen practically unhurt.

Edward Kranch, and Helen, his sister, were the ones killed. Their father

and mother, sleeping in another room on the ground floor, escaped, being

thrown wide of the house. The family of Edward Matison, including his

wife and two children, were safe on the second floor.

Man Kills Dog With His Fist.

James G. Harvey, of Hazleton, Pa., who at the age of nineteen defeated

John L. Sullivan in a calf-lifting contest, showed his strength by

killing a dog with a blow of his fist, when the animal had been rounded

up to be killed and no revolver was handy.

Giants May Train in West.

Manager John J. McGraw, of the Giants, is considering a plan to take the

New York club to California next spring to train. Secretary John B.

Foster stated recently that nothing definite had yet been done in the

matter, although the club was considering it carefully. When McGraw

visited California last year with the world tourists he was impressed

with the fine climate in southern California, and was advised to train

there by Charles A. Comiskey, of the White Sox, who has taken his team

to the coast for several seasons.

Manager McGraw does not mean to desert Marlin Springs, Texas, entirely,

because the Giants have a permanent training camp and baseball park

there. If the plan goes through, the Giants will spend three or four

weeks on the coast and then go to Marlin for a couple of weeks to put on

the finishing touches of the training work.

It is believed that the Giants would be a big attraction on the coast

next spring, because there will be thousands of Easterners there to

attend the Pacific-Panama Exposition. The Giants have trained at Marlin

Springs for several seasons, and, as the place is so well suited for the

purpose, it is not likely that the Giants will abandon their camp there.

Secretary Foster is already arranging several exhibition games to be

played, throughout the South on the Giants’ return trip North.

Hunter Shot by Playful Hound.

Theron Ferguson, twenty years old, of Wilkes-Barre, Pa., was shot by his

own dog while hunting on the mountains. He received a full charge in the

hip, and his condition is serious. Stopping to rest after a long tramp,

Ferguson was examining the shotgun, when his hound playfully jumped upon

him. The foot of the dog touched the trigger, and the cartridge

exploded.

Disobeyed His Orders, Killed 600 Germans.

At the battle of Vailly the French were obliged to fall back, and were

unable to get away with all their guns. They had time to bury most of

them, though, and the only one they did not bury was spiked so that the

Germans could not make any use of it.

It was with this gun that a gunner of the battery covered himself with

glory. The gun crew had been ordered back, but he declared that he would

not abandon the gun while any ammunition was left. He methodically

emptied shell after shell into the Germans, who were moving up in

serried ranks only a half mile away. Closer and closer they came, firing

volleys as they advanced, but the gunner stood his ground and still had

a dozen shells left when they were not more than three hundred yards

away. At this distance he bowled them over like ninepins, but nothing

could stop them. He let fly his last shell at only fifty yards, and did

such awful execution that he was able to remove the breechblock and make

good his escape, notwithstanding that he had received a bullet between

his ribs.

Hardened as they were to slaughter, some of those who witnessed the deed

turned faint at the ghastly sight of the mangled Germans, more than six

hundred of whom were blown to pieces within five hundred yards of the

gun.

War Cuts Canal Income.

John Bucklin Bishop, former secretary to the Isthmian Canal commission,

who returned recently from Panama on the United Fruit steamship

_Tenadores_, said that the income of the canal for October amounted to

$376,000, which, if continued, would mean $4,500,000 a year.

“Governor Goethals has said,” Mr. Bishop asserted, “that the operating

expenses of the Panama Canal amount to four million dollars, so that the

canal will clear five hundred thousand dollars. The war in Europe has

made a big difference in the traffic through the new waterway, and the

increase when peace is proclaimed will be considerable.”

“What about the slides in Culebra Cut?” he was asked.

“Colonel Goethals is not worrying over the slides in the canal,” he

said. “The big dredges were ready for just such an emergency, and made

short work of the two slides on the other side of Culebra Hill.”

Mr. Bishop said that ships could be passed through the canal in ten

hours now, instead of twelve hours, as previously estimated.

Courtney, at 65, Works as Usual.

In fine health and full of vigor in body and mind, Charles E. Courtney,

since 1883 the coach of the Cornell oarsmen, recently celebrated his

sixty-fifth birthday. He received a number of congratulatory messages,

and a group of the oarsmen called upon him that evening, but the old man

did not take a holiday. He went to the boathouse at eight o’clock, as

usual, and did not return home until six-thirty o’clock in the evening.

Courtney seems no older than he was at sixty, and his capacity for work

appears to be undiminished.

“Boy Zeppelin” Earns Coin from War Kites.

In a little workshop in Cleveland, Ohio, a twelve-year-old boy spends

his spare hours these days turning out big, ferocious-looking “war”

kites, which he sells to his playmates. The boy is Stuart Jenney, a

seventh-grade pupil.

Young Stuart caught his war spirit almost from the day he read that the

European powers had declared hostilities. For several years he has been

the most skillful kite maker of his district, and has sold many kites to

his playmates, but he has abandoned the conventional types for the

fighting kind.

Stuart’s “flyers” soar skyward in flocks after school hours, pirates of

the air, their long tails armed with jagged bits of glass designed to

cut the cords of rival kites that are not maneuvered cleverly enough to

dodge their foes.

For overparticular strategists Stuart designs and makes special

warriors, collecting, of course, special prices for these models. He

carefully selects the wood, linen, and paper that go into their

construction, and will not let a kite leave his “factory” until he has

personally tested it.

Kite battles mean more orders, for once a cord is severed while the kite

is sailing high, that particular pirate reaches the earth a mass of

broken sticks and torn paper, totally beyond repair.

Penn Out of Aquatics.

Pennsylvania does not expect to do anything wonderful in an aquatic way

this winter, but Yale, Columbia, and Princeton are figuring on winning

the intercollegiate championship. The swimming season will not begin in

earnest until after the holidays, but long before that time the coaches

will know just about where their teams will finish. Princeton will not

be able to get its water-polo team out until late, for nearly all the

men on this team played on the football team also.

Yale looks forward to a brilliant season. Two of the last year’s

champion intercollegiate squad and three members of the record-breaking

relay team are available, besides splendid material in every other

event. There is no doubt but what the New Haven swimmers will take a lot

of beating. The title bearers in question are the fancy diver,

McAleenan, and the plunger, Smith; the relay record holders, Captain

Summers and Marr and Hoadley.

In addition to these star performers, the squad has several likely

veterans, including sprinters Schlaet and Mayer and the middle

distances, Gould and Moise, and some most promising new recruits.

Leaders among the latter are Rosener, of Andover, credited with breaking

the fifty-yard standard in practice; Wooley, one of the speediest dash

swimmers seen at New Haven this fall, and Ferguson, of Chicago, heralded

a real comer at the furlong. Evidently there isn’t a weak spot in the

team.

Prospects for water polo are not quite so good, though they may improve.

At present, Van Holt, the best backfield player, is suffering from an

injury sustained in football, and there is a question of Leish, the

great scoring forward, being in the line-up. Should they prove

available, Captain Steiner will have the nucleus of a strong sextet, for

Kent, Mayer, and Smith are experienced men. Otherwise it may be

difficult to find candidates of championship caliber for the vacant

positions.

The swimmers of Harvard will be again obliged to use the Brookline baths

for practice, since the dormitory pools are too small for the purpose,

and the long-promised natatorium at Cambridge still remains a pious

wish.

Matthew Mann, the advocate of the elementary crawl, will coach the

squad. He says the Crimson has excellent material, but it is hopeless to

believe that it can be promptly developed, owing to the difficulty of

getting the candidates to take often the inconvenient trip between

Cambridge and Brookline.

Among the best watermen trying for positions in the varsity team are

Captain Fullerton, able to do around 1:00 for 100 yards and 2:40 for the

furlong; Seymour, almost as fast at the two distances, and Gibbs,

Wentworth, Jackson, and Darling, good for about 0:27 at 50 yards, and

warranted to furnish likely representatives of the sprints and relay

races.

Elopers Drowned in River.

Ivan Heer and his sweetheart, Miss Ruth Rechman, both of Cave-In-Rock,

Ill., were drowned in the Ohio River a few miles below Evansville, Ind.

Heer and Miss Rechman were in a skiff eloping to Caseyville, Ky., where

they were to have been married. Their skiff struck a snag and the craft

rapidly sank. Occupants of a launch near by tried to save the elopers,

but were unsuccessful.

Heer was about twenty-two years old and Miss Rechman was twenty, and a

popular young woman of Cave-In-Rock.

Tires of Looking at His Own Gravestone.

Francis M. Collins, eighty-eight-year-old war veteran, has grown tired

and lonely sitting at the foot of his own grave in Forest Home Cemetery,

at Milwaukee, Wis., admiring the flowers and the monument--especially

the monument. Collins has decided that man was not meant to be alone, on

the earth or under it, and is planning to get married.

For twelve years Collins has been a daily visitor at the grave. For a

long time it was a source of pride for him to look at his name and war

record carved in a solitary magnificence on the handsome tombstone. He

prepared for his burial by a budget filed with a certificate for five

hundred dollars with a local bank.

The solitary name on one side of the stone began to look forlorn and

lonely. The veteran got the habit of romancing on how nice it would be

to have another name--her name--on the opposite side. There was no

particular woman then. But there is now. Her name is Orrie

Viola--something--but Collins will not tell the rest of it.

The other day a stone carver came trudging through the cemetery with his

tools. He hunted around in the vicinity of the chapel until he found a

plot that looked like a little garden, and beside it was an old man with

a patriarchal beard. When the stone carver left, the name “Orrie Viola

Collins” smiled back at the afternoon sun, and Collins was smiling up at

the newly carved name.

Some New Inventions.

A cotton manufacturer of Westbrook, Maine, has patented a machine for

the harvesting of cotton which has just been successfully demonstrated

at Fairwold, S. C. The harvester picks the cotton by sucking the lint

out of the bolls by compressed air, somewhat on the order, apparently,

of the vacuum cleaner.

A mechanic of St. Louis, Mo., has invented a “non-skidder,” which is

intended to prevent the possibility of accident to an automobile by

making it impossible for the car to slide off the road. The attachment

consists of two shoes fastened to the rear of the car, between the

wheels. When the car begins to skid, the driver touches a button, and

the shoes instantly drop to the surface of the road, stopping the car.

The shoes are about eighteen inches long and three inches wide, made of

hard metal with a corrugated undersurface.

A device perfected by an inventor of Wakefied, Mass., enables the

motorman of a street car to see the entire interior of the car or to

have an unobstructed view down the outside. It consists of a series of

mirrors arranged at angles in a small tube, through which images of any

object are reflected.

For use in small gatherings there has been invented an attachment for

phonographs that illustrates songs as they are sung by projecting

lantern-slide views on a screen hung in front of the phonograph horn.

Bears Eating Farmers’ Pigs.

Bears are causing the farmers around Grifton, N. Y., annoyance. Although

there has been no drought to drive them from the swamps, the animals,

for some unexplainable reason, have come out of the low grounds in

numbers, and their inroads upon the farmers’ hogs and other stock have

caused the latter to take steps looking to the eradication of the bears.

Mayor F. I. Sutton and J. E. Forrest, of Kingston, are out in quest of

bear in the vicinity of Stonington Creek, and hope to bag one or more of

the intruders.

Pushing Buttons President’s Job.

Pushing buttons is one of President Wilson’s jobs. Nothing of big

national interest is properly “opened” except by the president. The

latest request was for him to press a button at the White House

officially opening the new Houston, Texas, ship canal. In a like manner

the president the other day opened the new union passenger station at

Kansas City, Mo.

The cost of clearing a line for one official flash, involving the

suspension of service over thousands of miles of wire, and the

attention of scores of men, is borne by any telegraph company over whose

line it goes. There is a tacit understanding between the telegraph

companies and the White House that the wire service will be free for all

events of sufficient importance to merit the president’s attention.

The greatest button-pushing event in the history of the White House was

the president’s flash which blew up the Gamboa Dike in the Panama Canal

and allowed the water to enter the big ditch for the first time.

The next big event of this kind will be the opening of the

Panama-Pacific Exposition, at San Francisco, next year.

Several days before the date of the official opening the telegraph

offices at points along the route selected for the flash will be

notified that at a certain hour, on a certain day, the president will

open the exposition. About thirty minutes before the time set the

Washington office will “cut in” a wire from the White House and attach

it to one of a certain number of wires assigned for exclusive service

between Washington and Chicago. It is the custom to rig two circuits out

of Washington, to prevent possible accidents or mistakes that would

delay the message.

Chicago is notified that wires, say No. 119 and No. 104, Washington and

Chicago, will be used for the flash. During the full half hour prior to

the sending of the flash these wires are kept absolutely clear of

messages, except the signals of the wire chiefs, who are rigging the

circuit. “Repeaters” are placed at frequent intervals along the route.

The “repeaters” are simply instruments used to add further energy to the

circuit at different points. They do not really repeat the president’s

flash. The initial impulse given at Washington carries straight through

to the coast.

When the Chicago office learns that Washington is using wires 119 and

104, these wires are promptly hooked up with other wires through to

Omaha, Neb., or Ogden, Utah, and the word passes along the line. The

Ogden operator finishes the circuit and San Francisco is advised to make

ready for the flash.

At precisely the time named the president steps to a button in the White

House offices, gives it a push, and the exposition opens.

It is the special nature of the flash that wears on the nerves of the

telegraph men. If a presidential message should go wrong, they would

account it a big blot upon their records. As soon as the flash has gone

through the circuit is dismantled and the telegraph traffic flows on.

Four-room Dwelling Hacked from Rock.

James Homer, of Inez, Ky., is building, or rather making, one of the

strangest houses ever heard, told of in this section of the country. He

has undertaken to pick and hack a four-room dwelling place out of a

solid rock, which is seventy-five feet high and projects out of the

mountainside some forty or fifty feet. Homer claims he will have it

finished by 1916. He said, in a recent interview:

“Some people may think I am crazy, but I am perfectly sane. This is a

vast undertaking, but I consider nothing is impossible to the man that

has a will. ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ you know.

“I think this will be an ideal home for my wife and four children, and

when I have it finished I am going to give a house party, one that will

be a surprise, indeed, to the people of Rockcastle Creek, for this will

be the only house of the kind that I ever heard of, and probably the

only one that any of my neighbors have ever seen.”

Gives His Life for Science.

G. R. Mines, a professor of physiology at McGill University, Montreal,

Quebec, met death mysteriously in his laboratory at the university. Just

what caused his death is not known, but Principal William Peterson

believes Professor Mines, in the course of experiments upon himself in

his chosen branch of physiology, dealing chiefly with the phenomena of

the heart action and respiration, lost his life through the apparatus

which was attached to his body getting out of order in some unknown

manner.

Wireless an Aid to Science.

Actual difference in time between Washington, D. C., and Paris, France,

has been established by the recent series of exchanges of wireless

telegraph signals between the big naval wireless station at Arlington

and the French government station at Eiffel Tower.

The results of the tests are hailed by scientists as a distinct step

forward toward errorless calculation of time and distances. It is

approximately 4,000 miles from Washington to Paris and the greatest

distance over which previous tests of a like nature has been made was

600 miles.

England Training 1,250,000 Soldiers.

All England is talking of the stirring address which Lord Kitchener, the

war secretary, made at the Lord Mayor’s banquet, in which he combined

high praise for the army now in the field and appearing for war, with an

appeal for further recruits to carry the arms of Britain to success.

Lord Kitchener said:

“The British empire is now fighting for its very existence. I want every

citizen to understand this cardinal fact, for only from a clear

conception of the vast importance of the issue at stake can there come

that great national and moral impulse without which governments and war

ministries and even armies and navies can do but little.

“We have numerous advantages of resources, men, and material, and that

wonderful spirit of ours which has never understood the meaning of

defeat. All these are great assets, but must be used judiciously and

effectively.

“I have no complaint whatever to make about the response to my appeals

for men. The progress of the military training of those already enlisted

is remarkable, but I shall want more men and still more until the enemy

is crushed. Armies cannot be called together as if with a magician’s

wand. In the process of their formation there may have been discomforts

and inconveniences in some cases--even downright suffering. I cannot

promise that these conditions will wholly cease, but I can give you

every assurance that they have already greatly diminished, and

everything that administrative energy can do to bring them to an end

assuredly will be done.

“The men who have come forward must remember that they are enduring for

their country’s sake just as their comrades are in the shell-torn

trenches. The introduction of elaborate destructive machinery with which

our enemies had so amply and carefully supplied themselves has been the

subject of much eulogy on the part of military critics, but it must be

remembered that in the matter of preparation those who fix beforehand

the date of war have a considerable advantage over their neighbors.

“So far as we are concerned, we are clearly open to no similar

suspicion.

“Our losses in the trenches have been severe, but such casualties are

far from deterring the British nation from seeing the matter through.

They will act rather as an incentive to British manhood to prepare

themselves to take the places of those who have fallen.”

In paying tribute to the leadership of Sir John French, commander of the

British expeditionary force, and his generals, and to the high

efficiency and courage of the army, the war minister said:

“I think that it has now been conceded that the British army has proved

itself to be not so contemptible an engine of war as some were disposed

to consider it.” He concluded:

“Although our thoughts are constantly directed toward the troops at the

front and the great tasks they have in hand, it is well to remember that

the enemy will have to reckon with the forces of the great Dominion, the

vanguard of which we already have welcomed in this country, in the very

fine body of men forming the contingents from Canada and Newfoundland,

while from Australia, New Zealand, and other parts are coming in quick

succession soldiers to fight for the imperial cause. And, besides all

these, there are training in this country more than one and a quarter

million of men eagerly waiting for a call to bear their part in the

great struggle.”

Ridding Country of Cattle Plague.

How did the foot-and-mouth disease start its epidemic in America?

The answers to questions like this are always lost in mystery. But at

the great Chicago stockyards, closed for the first time since 1865, the

story is told that at Niles, Mich., where the plague first broke out a

few weeks ago, there is a tannery which imports hides. It imported a

sizable consignment of water buffalo hides, so the story runs, and

imported them via Italy. They came packed in Italian straw. They were

unpacked and the straw carelessly thrown to one side.

A Polish farmer in the vicinity, with the sound thrift of the Old World,

saw this straw, and inquired about its eventual use. He was told he

could have it if he would haul it away. He hauled it. He fed it to his

little herd of cattle.

But the cattle, instead of waxing fat and prospering, began to grow

thin. They developed a fever. They put their heads down and began to

lick their hoofs. The local veterinary authorities had their attention

directed to the case. The government came in, and the foot-and-mouth

disease was officially declared extant in the United States.

The foot-and-mouth disease, which has caused a quarantine on live stock

in so many States, is violently contagious among animals. It is

characterized by sensitive sores on the tongue, palate, and hoofs of the

animals. The sores become red and raw within a very short time, and

cause the disease to spread rapidly to other cattle. Government experts

have declared that the only way to stamp out the disease is to destroy

all animals affected.

In the world-famous Union stockyards of Chicago infected cattle were

killed in great droves, regardless of value, and were buried in

quicklime to prevent any possible spread of the disease. Similar methods

have been followed by cattle raisers of States where the quarantine is

in force. The work of cleaning up and disinfecting the Chicago

stockyards progressed rapidly. The only sign of excitement coincident

with the shutting down of the yards was a shotgun onslaught on the

hundreds of thousands of pigeons ordered killed by the State and

government authorities. They were doomed as disease-germ carriers. The

work of driving the rats from the yards was started. Poison fumes were

sprayed into the holes and crevices in the brick pavements in those pens

in which the work of cleaning and disinfecting had been completed.

In all the vast acreage of cattle pens, ordinarily marked by tossing

horns and eddies of sheep and swine, there was little life save where

men handling the disinfecting machine waged battle against the germ of

the costly malady. The twenty-five miles of streets and alleys within

the inclosures were wintry in appearance, snow white with the lime

spread over them.

The resumption of slaughtering at the Chicago yards will not mean the

restoration of business to its normal volume because the business in

stockers and feeders will be affected. Two of the greatest

cattle-producing States, Illinois and Iowa, are under the government ban

because of the presence of the foot-and-mouth contagion. When Delaware

was put under quarantine it was the thirteenth State in the list. By

special order of the United States department of agriculture, Canada was

included in the quarantine area. No evidence of foot-and-mouth disease

had been discovered in the Dominion, but it was learned that infected

cars had been sent over the border and the order was issued to prevent

their return.

The government authorities took steps to prevent the disease from

getting a foothold in the ranges and grazing sections of the West. “The

government will kill all infected animals,” said Secretary of

Agriculture Houston. “It will stop all movement of infected cattle from

infected areas, and will do everything to localize the epidemic.”

That the foot-and-mouth disease cannot be transmitted to human beings by

eating the flesh of diseased animals, but can be contracted by drinking

unboiled milk or butter made from the milk of an infected cow, is the

statement made by doctors who have studied the disease.

Fate Calls Upon a Modern Valjean.

This is a story of a few sheets of legal cap paper faded and yellow with

age, a modern Jean Valjean, whose quarter of a century of peace and

industry may end in a black cloud of misery and death, and a passionate

crime in which brother slays brother.

Unlike Victor Hugo’s celebrated character, this modern Valjean has not

mounted the rostrum of justice to proclaim his guilt and true self

before the wide world, but, to the contrary, the man accused refuses to

acknowledge the alleged facts and criminating evidence that the hand of

the law spreads before him.

Recently carpenters moving an old desk in the district attorney’s office

in Pittsburgh, Pa., accidentally broke open a locker, from which tumbled

a number of dusty papers. Among them were the verdict and minutes of a

coroner’s inquest and an indictment for murder. The papers recalled the

crime of almost a quarter of a century ago.

In 1892, Joseph Gantt and his brother Frank were ex-convicts. Both had

served their time, reformed, gone to work, and were living with their

parents in Pittsburgh.

On the day before the murder, just twenty-two years ago, Frank Gantt was

picked up by the police on the strength of his former record.

At the dinner table the following night, Joseph accused Frank of

returning to his old ways of crime and bringing more disgrace on their

aged parents. The charge resulted in an argument. The table was upset as

both men jumped to their feet. The lamp was dashed to the floor and the

room was in darkness.

When lights were restored, Frank was dead on the floor from a knife

wound and Joseph was gone.

The story was told at the coroner’s inquest. Sisters and brothers were

brought before the grand jury, and an indictment was returned.

Then Fate smiled on the man who wished to reform, tucked the papers in

an out-of-the-way corner of the district attorney’s desk, and left them

a score of years until her smile faded.

When Assistant District Attorney John Dunn brought the papers to the

office of the county detective department in Pittsburgh, Detective E. E.

Clark was interrogating Miss Ethel Reese in regard to another case. The

girl is not as old as the musty papers.

“Ever hear of Joe Gantt?” asked Dunn.

“Not that I remember,” replied the detective.

“I have,” spoke up the girl. “He’s my uncle. His name is Clark now, and

he lives in Chicago. Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Dunn, as he walked out of the office, making notes

on his cuff.

Dunn and Detective Edeburn came to Chicago. With the assistance of

Captain Halpin, of the detective bureau, and two other Chicago

detectives, they began to hunt for “Clark.” They located the man. His

arrest followed. Then Miss Reese arrived in Chicago with Detective

Clark.

“That’s Uncle Joe,” she said, when she confronted “Clark” in Captain

Halpin’s office. “He came back to Pittsburgh to visit us last spring.

Why is he arrested?”

“He is wanted for the murder of your Uncle Frank,” replied the captain.

The girl fainted.

Meanwhile, the man--whether Clark, Gantt, or Ghent, as the Pittsburgh

newspaper twenty-two years ago called him--is silent except to insist

that he is Frank J. Clark and not Gantt. He refuses to recognize the

girl.

During the last twenty-two years the man says he has lived “clean.” He

worked all over the country. He served his country against Spain in ’98.

He fought at Santiago as a member of the Fifth Mississippi

Volunteers--known as “the Immunes,” because all the men in it were

immune to tropical fevers.

Last of all, Gantt married and settled down in a little home at 2128

West Harrison Street. He has been working as a structural ironworker.

His wife is a deaf mute--the man himself is now approaching the

sixty-year mark--and the smile of the kindly Fate has faded.

Ocean-to-ocean Auto Travel.

With the exception of such slight improvements as may be made during the

winter months, the principal transcontinental routes are now in

approximately the shape they will be at the beginning of the heavy

travel to the Pacific Coast Exposition early next year.

Late reports to the American Automobile Association from all quarters

indicate that the road improvements on the principal cross-country lines

during 1914 have been underestimated. This is particularly the case on

the western end of the “Northwest Trail.”

The cities, counties, and towns on the line of the Lincoln Highway in

the Far West have also made very great improvements. The “All-Southern

Route” as a whole has been greatly improved during 1914, and will not

present very serious difficulties to tourists who decide to go leisurely

across that way in 1915.

Maps and specific information can be had by addressing A. A. A.

headquarters, Riggs Building, Washington, D. C.

Indian Waif-king to Assemble Tribe.

He is king of the remnant of a great race now scattered to the

winds--David Seattle, of the Snohomish tribe. Lean as a wolf was the

king, and footsore with far travels, when he entered the office of the

_Seattle Star_, asking that paper to help him in locating his widely

dispersed tribesfolk.

Until a few moons ago he did not know he was king, this stolid Indian

lad, who had been placed in St. Joseph’s School, in Tacoma, when a baby.

He did not remember when he came or who brought him there. On the

register he is simply “David Seattle.” No hint of royal inheritance

appeared to mar his democratic playing and boyish quarreling with school

companions. Assertions of kinship would only have served to call down

upon him the wrath of his playmates, and who were certain that royalty

rode on magnificent chargers and was heralded with blaring trumpets.

Charlie David Seattle, only living son of Chief Seattle I., waits for

death. He is very old, and his work is done.

There came to him not long ago in Snohomish an Indian of another tribe.

“I met one of your people in Seattle,” he confided. “His name is like

yours--David Seattle.”

The old man, strangely excited, came to the city and found David.

“Where,” he asked, “were you born? And who was your father?”

“I do not know,” said the young Indian. “I was put in St. Joseph’s

School when a baby.” And he told the old patriarch all he knew, which

was little enough, though it served.

“It was I who put you there,” said Charlie David Seattle. “Your father

was dead some time before. I took you from your dead mother’s arms. You

are the oldest son of the oldest son of Chief Seattle. You are the head

of the Snohomish people.”

It was thus plain David Seattle learned he was a king.

Chief David Seattle has been visiting as many of his people as he has

been able to locate. Sometimes he bought railroad tickets. At other

times he stole rides on freight trains. And often he walked. He went to

Oregon, wandering east of the Cascades, journeying to remote corners of

the Olympic Peninsula. Finally he reached the northern end of British

Columbia. Wherever he heard of Snohomish Indians there he went.

“There are,” he said, “two thousand three hundred of my people left. Of

these I have visited two thousand. They were glad to see me.”

That is why he appealed to the white man’s newspaper--to help him find

the other three hundred.

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.

692--Doctor Quartz Again.

693--The Famous Case of Doctor Quartz.

694--The Chemical Clue.

695--The Prison Cipher.

696--A Pupil of Doctor Quartz.

697--The Midnight Visitor.

698--The Master Crook’s Match.

699--The Man Who Vanished.

700--The Garnet Gauntlet.

701--The Silver Hair Mystery.

702--The Cloak of Guilt.

703--A Battle for a Million.

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 Kidnapped 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.

Dated December 5th, 1914.

117--The Deadly Parallel.

Dated December 12th, 1914.

118--The Vivisectionists.

Dated December 19th, 1914.

119--The Stolen Brain.

Dated December 26th, 1914.

120--An Uncanny Revenge.

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money.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY