CHAPTER IX.

IN THE NICK OF TIME.

It fell to the lot of Nick Carter, as frequently occurred, to be a sort

of connecting link between his two assistants, so uniting the result of

their work as to form the complete and unbreakable chain that helplessly

shackled the outlaws they were seeking.

It was after six o’clock when Nick, returning to his Madison Avenue

residence, learned that neither of them had arrived, nor any definite

message been received concerning their movements.

“Both men have picked up a trail worth following, and are so engaged, or

they would have sent in a report of some kind,” Nick reasoned, taking

the swivel chair at his desk. “They must have accomplished more than I,

in that case, since I was banking quite heavily on what I could learn

from Archer, the real-estate agent, concerning his relations with

Deland. It was bad luck, indeed, that he was out of town on this

particular day. I’ll try his residence. He may have returned by this

time.”

Nick had been trying in vain, in fact, to get in communication with Mr.

John Archer, who had had charge of the Barker residence during its

owner’s absence. He now found, with much satisfaction, that he had met

with success.

The servant who answered his telephone call informed him that Mr. Archer

had arrived home and would talk with him in a moment. Scarce more than

that had elapsed when Nick heard the agent’s voice over the wire.

He at once informed him of what had occurred in the Barker residence,

and he then began to question him. He soon found, however, that Archer

could add but little to what already had been learned; that he had

permitted Deland to occupy the house because of a letter containing

those instructions from its owner, brought to him by Deland, and that he

had not communicated with Colonel Barker in regard to it, believing the

letter to be genuine and Deland entirely trustworthy.

“Did you recognize Colonel Barker’s writing, or is the letter

typewritten?” Nick inquired.

“It is typewritten on paper bearing a cut of the Berlin hotel in which

Colonel Barker is living,” was the reply.

“Did you recognize the signature?”

“Perfectly, Mr. Carter.”

“It is a forgery, nevertheless.”

“That seems almost incredible,” Archer protested. “I am very familiar

with Colonel Barker’s signature. I have had charge, of both of his

places at times during many years.”

“Has he two places?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the other?”

“It’s the old homestead, out Fordham way,” said Archer. “Colonel Barker

grew up there and still spends part of each summer on the old place. It

is outside of the town and somewhat isolated. Nearly all of his family

are entombed in the old cemetery in that section.”

“Has Deland, or Vaughn, ever been out there?” Nick inquired.

“I think not, though we have talked of the place. There is nothing more

I can tell you.”

“I wish to see that forged letter,” said Nick. “I will call at your

Broadway office to-morrow morning.”

“Very well.”

“I then will go with you to the Barker residence.”

Nick’s face wore a frown when he hung up the receiver. He was thinking,

not of what he had just heard, but of the stolen Strickland treasures.

“The rascals may have taken them to that old homestead,” he muttered,

gazing intently at his desk. “Still, there would have been that same

danger that the undertaker’s wagon would be seen. The only really

consistent place to which they could have driven it is a graveyard. But

that, on the other hand, in view of its contents, seems utterly absurd

and----”

Nick stopped short. His eyes suddenly lighted. He was hit with an idea

that had not occurred to him before.

“Entombed out there!” he muttered. “A tomb! By Jove, that may call the

turn.”

Nick seized the telephone again and got the Fordham telephone exchange.

He learned after a few inquiries just where the old Barker place was

located, and that the sexton of the cemetery mentioned was one Jason

Dexter.

“He has a telephone in his house,” said the operator. “I will connect

you with him.”

“Do so, please,” Nick directed, then waited until he heard the sexton’s

voice.

“Hello!”

“Is that you, Mr. Dexter?”

“Yes.”

“This is Mr. Vaughn talking--Gerald Vaughn,” said Nick, proceeding in a

roundabout way to get the information he wanted.

“Oh, yes, I remember you,” Dexter returned. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing whatever. I merely want to thank you again for having opened

the Barker tomb for me this morning, and for your kind attentions.”

“Well, well, that is quite needless, Mr. Vaughn, I assure you. My duties

require no less of me.”

“I wanted to thank you again, nevertheless, and I feel very grateful.

Good night, sir.”

Nick did not wait for an answer. He hung up the receiver, shouted to

Joseph, the butler, and then hastened to don a woolen cap and a thick

reefer, into the pockets of which he thrust three revolvers.

“Have Danny here with the touring car as soon as possible,” he

commanded, when Joseph appeared at the office door.

The touring car, with Danny Maloney at the wheel, was at the curbing

outside five minutes later.

Thirty minutes later it stood in front of the small wooden dwelling in

which Jason Dexter resided, a few hundred yards from the old rural

cemetery of which he had charge. One of the front rooms was lighted,

denoting that the sexton still was at home.

“Put out the headlights, Danny,” Nick directed, while he sprang from the

car. “There is no danger of a collision in this lonely section. The

rascals might see our lights in front of this house, however, if they

were to arrive to transfer their hidden booty. We’ll take a back road,

which I happen to know flanks the farther side of the cemetery.”

“Out they go, chief,” returned Danny, the glare of the lamps on the

lonely road suddenly vanishing.

Nick entered the front yard of the house and rang the bell. It was

answered by the sexton himself, a somewhat bowed, gray man well into the

sixties.

It goes without saying, of course, that he was more than surprised when

Nick entered and introduced himself, telling him what had occurred and

what he suspected.

It then appeared that Deland had called on the sexton two days before,

stating that he was a relative of Colonel Barker and then was occupying

his Fifth Avenue residence. He further stated that his aunt had died

suddenly that morning, and that he wanted to place her remains in the

Barker tomb for a few days, until arrangements could be made to take her

body to Virginia, her native State, for burial.

“You suspected nothing wrong, I infer,” said Nick.

“Certainly not, Mr. Carter. Mr. Vaughn appeared to be a perfect

gentleman,” Dexter assured him, with rather rustic simplicity. “I

consented, of course, supposing he had a family right to use the tomb. I

told him Colonel Barker had a duplicate key, but he said he did not know

where to find it. Colonel Barker is abroad, you know.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“I then told Mr. Vaughn that I would open the tomb for him with my key

when he came with the body. He said that was just what he wanted, and I

did so quite early this morning. I do remember, now, that he would not

permit me to aid the undertaker and his assistant in handling the casket

and boxes of flowers, all of which were put in the tomb.”

“You now know why, of course,” Nick said, a bit dryly. “You would have

detected that the boxes did not contain flowers. Let me see your key to

the tomb.”

The sexton hastened to get it, and Nick examined it with his lens.

“Just as I suspected,” he exclaimed, almost immediately. “An impression

was taken of this key while you were at the tomb. It was taken in putty,

or some ingredient containing oil. There are traces of it on one side of

the key.”

“Well, well, this is most amazing.”

“Get your hat, Mr. Dexter, and show me where the tomb is located,” Nick

said abruptly. “I have an assistant outside. The crooks undoubtedly will

come to-night to remove their plunder. We can catch them in the act,

and--well, that will be their finish.”

It did not take them long, all three, to arrive at the door of the

Barker tomb, nor long for the sexton to unlock and remove the iron door.

Nick shot the beam of his search lamp into its gruesome depths.

“Great Scott!” cried Danny impulsively. “The treasures are gone, chief.”

“Not all of them,” said Nick, mystified for a moment. “Here is the box

which must have contained some of them. Unless empty, it----”

Danny uttered a shriek, and Nick recoiled involuntarily.

A groan from within the box had fallen with startling effect on the ears

of all. Then came a fierce kicking against the top of it.

“By gracious!” cried Nick, quick to guess the truth. “The rascals have

been and gone. But they have entombed either Chick or Patsy.”

He sprang into the tomb, shouting quickly and thumping on the long box:

“Keep cool! We’ll have you out in half a minute.”

It was done in less time, in fact. For Nick found that he could thrust

his fingers under one corner of the cover, and, with the strength of a

giant, he tore it off in an instant.

Patsy Garvan sat up in the box, in the glare of Nick’s searchlight, with

his face wearing a look of relief that words could not possibly

describe.

“By Heaven!” Nick muttered. “Those curs shall pay dearly for this.”

“Gee! that was some glad sound, chief, when I heard your voice,” said

Patsy, after he had been liberated and the tomb relocked. “The rascals

got me--but now we’ll get them.”

“Tell me what occurred,” said Nick.

Patsy informed him with half a dozen breaths, adding quickly:

“They have been gone less than ten minutes. They are returning to

Margate’s place. We can reach there by the other road and without being

seen long they arrive.”

“Come on, then,” said Nick. “That’s the proper move.”

Their run to the Margate place was made in twelve minutes. The car, with

lights extinguished, was concealed in a near, vacant lot. Returning to

the front of the old house to watch for the wagon, the three detectives

scarce had concealed themselves under a low wall, when a taxicab put in

an appearance and stopped in front of the house.

“Some of the gang, Patsy,” Nick murmured. “Follow me and we’ll take them

in at once.”

He strode out just as the chauffeur sprang down from his seat to aid two

women to alight.

“Stop a moment, chauffeur,” said Nick, reaching for his revolver. “Who

are your passengers and where did you----”

The chauffeur burst out laughing.

“Thundering guns!” he cried, removing his disguise. “Is it you, Nick?”

The chauffeur was Chick Carter, in the coat, hat, and goggles of Mullen,

with whom Chick had easily planned the subterfuge before the coming down

of the two much-wanted women in suite 710.

Five minutes later, Nell Margate and Fannie Coyle were in irons and

locked in a closet in the house, pending the arrival of the male members

of the gang.

When that occurred, some twenty minutes later, and the four crooks

alighted from the wagon containing the stolen treasures, four detectives

stepped into the driveway and confronted each, with a revolver ready, if

needed.

It was not needed, however, for the arrest was easily and quickly made.

Ten o’clock that evening saw every culprit locked in the Tombs, the

first step toward the punishment awaiting them.

It appeared later that Nell Margate had discovered the feasibility of

the robbery, that she had communicated with Fannie Coyle, then in

London, and that the latter then had rung Deland into the job, the

latter going to Berlin and cultivating the acquaintance of Colonel

Barker, and successfully laying his plans, as have appeared.

They were as successfully perverted by Nick Carter and his assistants,

and the gratitude and joy of Mr. Rudolph Strickland, when he saw his

cherished treasures being returned to his house, as Nick had promised,

may be far more easily imagined than described.

It was a fixed habit of Nick Carter, however--that of keeping a promise.

THE END.

“The Gordon Elopement; or, Nick Carter’s Three of a Kind,” will be the

title of the long, complete story which you will find in the next issue,

No. 155, of the NICK CARTER STORIES, out August 28th. In this story you

will read of the further adventures of the famous detective with

Mortimer Deland, the international crook. Then, too, you will also find

an installment of the serial now running in this publication, together

with several other interesting articles.

SNAPSHOT ARTILLERY.

By BERTRAM LEBHAR.

(This interesting story was commenced in No. 153 of NICK CARTER STORIES.

Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the

publishers.)

CHAPTER IV.

HAWLEY’S CONTRIBUTION.

“Thanks, old man,” said the Camera Chap to Carroll, as the boy went off

to deliver this message. “But I hope this defiance of the police won’t

get you into any trouble?”

“I think not,” the editor replied. “You haven’t committed a murder, or

any crime of a serious nature, have you?”

“No, indeed,” Hawley assured him. “All I did was to take a snapshot. But

I wasn’t referring to trouble with the authorities. What I meant was

that I hope this won’t get you in bad with the owner of this paper. The

chief of police doesn’t happen to be a friend of his, does he?”

“No,” replied Carroll grimly. “I assure you that fat bully of a chief is

far from being a friend of mine.”

“But I said the owner of the paper,” Hawley protested.

Carroll grinned. “My dear Hawley, the owner of the Oldham _Daily

Bulletin_ sits before you now.”

The Camera ’Chap stared at him in astonishment. “You?” he cried half

incredulously.

“Exactly,” chuckled Carroll. “I suppose it looks queer to you to see the

proprietor of the sheet holding down the job of city editor, but I am

only filling this chair during the absence of its regular occupant. My

city editor is laid up with an attack of inflammatory rheumatism, so I

undertook to do his work.”

Still Hawley appeared incredulous. Two years before, Fred Carroll had

been earning thirty dollars a week as a reporter on the New York

_Sentinel_, and the Camera Chap recalled that he had always been

notoriously hard up in those days. Where on earth could he have got hold

of enough money to buy a newspaper?

As though reading his thoughts, Carroll said, with a laugh: “I suppose

you’re wondering how I managed to raise the necessary dough to acquire

this progressive, aggressive, and fearlessly independent sheet? No need

to tell you that I didn’t save it out of the measly wages the Sentinel

paid me. The fact is, Hawley, I came into a little change after I got

fired from the _Sentinel_ for getting them into that confounded libel

suit. A wealthy relative of mine over in England cashed in his chips,

and mentioned me in his will to the extent of fifteen thousand. I was

tipped off that this paper was on the market, and could be had at that

figure, so I came here and bought it. There’s the whole story in a

nutshell--or pretty near the whole story.”

Hawley doubted no longer. He could see now that Carroll wasn’t joking,

and he had never known him to be guilty of falsehood.

“I’m tickled to death to hear this good news, old chap,” he said,

grabbing his friend’s hand enthusiastically. “Let me offer you my

congratulations, even though they’re tardy. You certainly are a lucky

fellow.”

A wry smile came to Carroll’s face. “Not quite as lucky as you imagine,”

he said grimly. “Better take back your congratulations, Hawley. It is

true that I’m the owner of a newspaper now, but--you’re likely to meet

me on Park Row hunting for a job in the very near future.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” the Camera Chap inquired solicitously. “You

don’t mean to say that the paper isn’t a success, old man?”

Carroll shrugged his broad shoulders. “When I tell you that I had to

hock my watch yesterday in order to pay my board bill, you will

doubtless gather that the Oldham _Daily Bulletin_ isn’t exactly a gold

mine,” he replied dryly.

“Ye gods!” exclaimed Hawley. “And I always had an idea that newspaper

owners were bloated plutocrats.”

“Some are,” was the grim reply. “But I guess I’m far from being the only

New York newspaper man who has tried to run a small town daily and made

a fizzle of it.”

“What seems to be the main trouble?” the Camera Chap inquired. “I should

think that a paper with a motto like yours was bound to be a winner.

Progressive, aggressive, and fearlessly independent--that’s a mighty

fine catch line, Fred. The population of Oldham certainly ought to rally

to the support of a sheet which has such an attractive policy.”

The owner of the _Bulletin_ shook his head. “Yes, they ought to--but

they don’t. The fact is, Hawley, that, from the standpoint of dollars

and cents, being aggressive and fearlessly independent in a town like

this doesn’t pay. The first thing I did after acquiring control of the

_Bulletin_,” he went on, with a frown, “was to declare war against the

city government. From a financial standpoint, that was a disastrous

mistake.”

“Why did you do it?” the Camera Chap inquired.

“Because,” replied Carroll, his frown deepening, “I simply couldn’t

stand for the methods of the gang which is running things in this town.

They’re the rawest, nerviest, crookedest bunch of grafters that ever had

control of a city government. Compared to them, New York’s old Tweed

ring was a bunch of angels. I made up my mind that the _Bulletin_ was

going to sweep them out of office. I announced that intention in an

editorial on my front page the very first day the sheet appeared under

my management.”

“That sounds interesting,” exclaimed Hawley, an appreciative flash in

his blue eyes. “What was the result?”

Carroll laughed grimly. “The result was that I lost pretty nearly all my

advertising. It seems that most of the big advertisers of this town are

allied in one way or another with that bunch of grafters at the city

hall. I didn’t know this when I started out to fight the administration.

Although, even if I had known it, it wouldn’t have made any difference,”

he added, his strong under jaw thrust forward aggressively. “I should

have gone ahead just the same, of course.”

“Bully for you, old man!” exclaimed the Camera Chap. “So those lobsters

tried to put you out of business by withdrawing their advertising, eh?”

“Yes; and that wasn’t all. That gang of grafters started in to retaliate

by using the powers of the city government against the _Bulletin_. They

stayed up nights thinking of ways to harass me. The police department,

the fire department, and all the departments have received orders to

refuse to give the _Bulletin_ reporters any news. The police arrest the

drivers of my delivery wagons on all sorts of trumped-up charges

whenever they get the chance. The gas, water, and electricity department

is always finding fault with conditions in the Bulletin Building. These

are only a few of the dirty tricks those rascals have resorted to in

their efforts to put me out of business.”

“And you’ve been fighting back all the time, of course?” inquired Hawley

anxiously.

Carroll looked at him reproachfully. “I thought you knew me too well to

ask such a superfluous question,” he said in a hurt tone. “Of course,

I’ve been hammering at them just as hard as I know how, and intend to

keep it up while there’s breath left in the _Bulletin_.

“But I’m afraid it’s a losing fight,” he went on sadly. “I don’t mind

admitting to you, old man, that they’ve got me groggy. Without any

advertising worth speaking of, and with my sources of news crippled, it

looks as if the days of the _Bulletin_ were numbered, and its finish

already in sight.”

“How about your circulation?” the Camera Chap inquired. “Surely that

must have gained? You don’t mean to say that the people haven’t

supported you in this laudable fight?”

Carroll shrugged his shoulders. “Not so that you could notice it. It is

true that at first my campaign against the grafters got us a lot of new

readers. But the circulation figures soon dwindled. The population of

Oldham seemed to lose interest in the fight. Besides, I was discredited

at the start.”

“Discredited! How?” the Camera Chap demanded in astonishment.

The proprietor of the _Bulletin_ smiled grimly. “There’s a rival sheet

here--the _Chronicle_. It is the administration organ--which means, of

course, that its proprietor is hand and glove with that gang of crooks

at the city hall. The _Chronicle_ happened to learn that I was formerly

a reporter on the New York _Sentinel_, and that I was discharged from

that paper for getting it into a libel suit. That information was pie to

those crooks. The _Chronicle_ published it on its front page in red

type. It gave all the details of that unfortunate libel suit, insinuated

that I had been forced to come to Oldham because no New York newspaper

would hire me after my discharge from the _Sentinel_, and warned the

public not to pay any attention to my ’base and slanderous attacks upon

the virtuous and public-spirited gentlemen who were giving Oldham the

best government it had ever enjoyed.’ Of course, this has hurt me a lot.

The _Chronicle_ keeps it prominently displayed on its front page every

day, and, as I have said, I am pretty much discredited.”

“That was a dirty trick,” declared Hawley indignantly. “Who is the

proprietor of the _Chronicle_?”

“A lean old fox named Gale.”

“Gale!” the Camera Chap repeated, with an inflection of astonishment.

“That’s a queer coincidence. Doesn’t happen to be any relative of the

reporter by the same name on the staff of the New York _Daily News_,

does he, Fred?”

Carroll grinned. “Yes, Hawley, the proprietor of the Oldham _Chronicle_

is the father of your old enemy, Gale, of the _News_. I can assure you,

he’s a chip of the young block, too--several chips, in fact.”

The Camera Chap frowned. “I recall now that somebody once told me that

Gale’s father was the proprietor of a small paper,” he said. “I guess,

Fred, it was the younger Gale who supplied the Oldham _Chronicle_ with

the information about that unfortunate libel suit of yours.”

“I haven’t the slightest doubt of that,” Carroll answered. “He and I

never did get along together when I was on Park Row. In fact, I had

occasion to punch his head only a few days before I got fired from the

_Sentinel_. I guess he was tickled to death to have a chance to get back

at me.”

Their conversation was interrupted at this point by a young man whose

face wore a depressed, anxious expression as he stepped up to the

editorial desk.

“Mr. Carroll,” he said gloomily, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that

we’re going to be badly scooped in the next issue.”

“How so, Parsons?” the acting city editor demanded sharply.

“There’s been a big burglary in town,” announced Parsons, who was the

_Bulletin’s_ police reporter.

“A burglary--where?” Carroll demanded.

“That’s what I can’t find out, sir. I overheard two detectives talking

about it together at headquarters early this morning, but as soon as

they caught sight of me they dropped the subject in a hurry. I’ve been

scurrying around town all morning in the hope of finding somebody who

could tell me who was robbed, but I haven’t been able to pick up

anything. I tried to get an interview with Chief Hodgins, but he

refused, as usual, to talk to a _Bulletin_ man.”

“Humph!” Carroll grunted. “And you think the _Chronicle_ has the yarn,

Parsons?”

“I am quite sure they have, sir,” was the mournful reply. “One of the

detectives admitted to me that Burns, the _Chronicle’s_ police reporter,

had all the details, and a long interview with Chief Hodgins. I’m

awfully sorry, sir. I hope you don’t blame me for falling down on the

yarn.”

Carroll got up and placed his hand on his reporter’s shoulder. “No, I

don’t blame you at all, old chap. Considering the difficulties under

which you are working, I can’t reasonably hold it against you if you get

scooped occasionally on a police story. Keep pegging away, and don’t get

discouraged. Better spend the rest of the day trying to get a line on

this burglary yarn. You may be fortunate enough to run into somebody who

can give you some information about it. If not--well, I guess we’ll have

to grin and bear it.”

A chuckle from the Camera Chap caused him to turn to that young man in

indignant astonishment.

“What’s the matter with you?” Carroll demanded irritably. “I don’t see

anything to be amused about.”

“Don’t you?” rejoined Hawley, with a grin, taking a plate holder from

his camera and laying it on the desk. “I think you’ll be amused, too,

Fred, when I tell you what I’ve got here. Would you mind handing me a

pad and pencil?”

“What are you going to do?” Carroll demanded wonderingly, as he handed

over the desired writing implements.

“I’m going to write a heading for the burglary story which will appear

on the front page of the _Bulletin’s_ next issue,” the Camera Chap

replied.

“But we haven’t got the burglary story?” Carroll protested, with a

puzzled frown.

“Pardon me, but I have. It’s here in this plate holder,” declared

Hawley. “I don’t mean to say that we’ve got the details of the

larceny--but we’ve got something just as good--or better. Wait until

I’ve written my heading, and I’ll explain.”

He wrote rapidly on the pad, and handed the result to Carroll.

“Writing headings is a little out of my line,” he remarked; “but I think

this will about do.”

Carroll stared wonderingly at these words.

“There Was a Burglary in Town Yesterday, and Here’s the Reason Why.”

“Underneath that heading,” the Camera Chap explained, in response to

Carroll’s inquiring stare, “will go the snapshot which I took at police

headquarters a few minutes ago. It’s a picture of Oldham’s chief of

police, fast asleep at his desk.”

CHAPTER V.

A TELLING SHOT.

Chief of Police Hodgins let out a bellow of rage the next morning when

his startled gaze rested upon the front page of the Oldham _Daily

Bulletin_.

The editor of that belligerent sheet had eagerly availed himself of

Hawley’s snapshots and the latter’s suggestion as to how to use them.

Both negatives had turned out excellently, and, although there wasn’t a

great deal of difference between the two poses, Carroll decided to use

them both, so as to make as big a showing as possible. They appeared

side by side at the top of the page, and above them, stretched across

the full width of the page, was the heading which the Camera Chap had

composed.

Beneath the cuts was an editorial from the pen of Fred Carroll, written

in very short sentences, and with many words capitalized--a style of

editorial which he had copied from the New York _Sentinel_. The first

paragraphs were as follows:

“The above genuine snapshots tell their own story. They were taken

at police headquarters at two o’clock yesterday afternoon. They

show our chief of police in a thoroughly characteristic pose. A

brief study of these interesting, and genuine photographs will

enable the reader to understand why CRIMINALS regard Oldham as

their HAPPY HUNTING GROUND.

“Most police officials believe in keeping their eyes open and their

mouths closed while on duty. Our chief of police reverses that

old-fashioned policy. As these snapshots show, he does HIS police

duty with his eyes CLOSED and his mouth WIDE OPEN. Citizens and

property owners may not approve of this original policy, but, no

doubt, BURGLARS, STRONG-ARM MEN, and other CROOKS heartily indorse

it. Of course, they are thoroughly satisfied with our SOMNOLENT

chief of police.

“Night before last there was a daring burglary, committed in this

town. Bold thieves got away with plunder worth many thousand

dollars. We frankly confess that the _Bulletin_ is not, as yet, in

possession of the full details of that burglary. We tried to find

out about the crime, but were unsuccessful. When a _Bulletin_

representative called on Chief Hodgins, to ascertain the

particulars, he found him SNORING. The _Bulletin_ representative

was too polite to disturb the chief’s daylight slumbers, so,

instead of interviewing him, he took his picture. That could be

done without WAKING him. Besides, our representative thought that

the taxpayers of Oldham would find these snapshots much more

interesting and illuminating than a mere detailed account of the

burglary.”

There were several more paragraphs couched in the same strain. Chief

Hodgins read it through to the very end. Then, in a paroxysm of fury, he

tore the paper in small pieces, growling, as he did so, like a terrier

worrying a rat.

“I’d give a whole lot to have that camera feller here right now,” he

muttered. “Confound these fools for letting him get away! They’re a lot

of boneheads!”

This criticism of his subordinates was scarcely just, in view of the

fact that the chief himself had led the squad of police which laid in

wait for Hawley outside the Bulletin Building with the intention of

placing that young man under arrest as soon as he stepped out of the

newspaper office. Not having a warrant, they had not dared to force

their way into the editorial rooms, so the chief and his men had

stationed themselves outside, confident that sooner or later the Camera

Chap must come out and fall into their clutches.

But Carroll, suspecting this ambush, showed Hawley how to make his

escape by means of a window at the rear of the building, and the Camera

Chap was on his motor cycle, dashing up the steep road which led to his

host’s mountain retreat, long before the police became aware of the fact

that they had been outwitted.

Chief Hodgins was, of course, as much to blame as any of his men for

this fiasco; but as it was some relief to his feelings to abuse his

subordinates for their “gross carelessness,” he did not hesitate to do

so. The chief’s bump of logic and his sense of fairness were so

underdeveloped that they were almost minute quantities.

Just as he got through with his performance of savagely rending the

offending copy of the _Bulletin_ into small pieces, the telephone on his

desk rang. It was the voice of the mayor which came to him over the

wire. The mayor’s name was Martin Henkle. He was a big, burly man, whose

voice when he was angry was so gruff that in comparison Chief Hodgins’

manner of speech was sweetly melodious. By that token, his honor was

exceedingly peeved now.

“Is that you, Hodgins?” he growled over the wire.

“Yes, Mr. Mayor,” was the meek reply.

The head of the police department had turned very pale. Mayor Henkle’s

wife was his second cousin, but in spite of this relationship he stood

in great fear of his honor.

“Huh! Seen this morning’s _Bulletin_ yet?” the latter inquired hoarsely.

“Yes, sir, I have,” replied the chief, glaring at the fragments of paper

on the floor. “And of all the dastardly outrages that ever---”

“A fine spectacle you’ve made of yourself!” came the snarling

interruption. “You big, fat-headed boob, I gave you credit for

possessing a little more sense, or I’d never have appointed you. The

whole town is laughing over those pictures. Everybody I met this morning

on my way to the city hall was reading the _Bulletin_. You’ve made a

laughingstock of my administration.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor,” said Hodgins humbly. “The fact is, that rascally

photographer took an unfair advantage of me. I wasn’t really asleep, of

course. I had--er--just closed my eyes for a minute, thinking out a

scheme for catching those burglars--I always sit with my eyes closed,

you know, when I’m thinking--and before I knew what was happening, that

fellow sneaked in and took those snapshots.”

The chief had invented this explanation on the spur of the moment. It

sounded so good to him that he was just congratulating himself upon his

ingenuity when a snort of contempt from the other end of the wire filled

him with consternation.

“That won’t do,” growled the mayor. “You’ll have to think up a better

one than that, Hodgins, if you want to get away with it. Anybody with a

grain of common sense can tell from those pictures that you were fast

asleep. Men who think with their eyes closed don’t open their mouths,

too. Besides, that fellow took two pictures. You must have been in a

mighty sound sleep, or you’d have heard him come into the room and

nabbed him before he had a chance to take the second.”

“Well, perhaps I dozed off a little, Mr. Mayor,” the disconcerted

policeman admitted. “I’ll not deny it. You see, I hadn’t had much sleep

the night before, and I haven’t been feeling very well lately. After

all, I guess it ain’t such a terrible crime for a hard-working public

official to take a short nap in his private office.”

“You should have locked your office door, you big, blundering baboon!”

snarled the mayor. “I’m not kicking so much at your falling asleep at

your desk as I am at your permitting the _Bulletin_ to catch you

napping. The whole town is grinning at you, and, of course, I--being

responsible for your appointment--have got to bear the brunt of it. I

don’t mind being roasted, but I can’t stand being laughed at.

“And, what’s more, I don’t intend to stand for it!” the mayor went on, a

menace in his tone. “I tell you, Hodgins, you’ve got to square yourself

with the public regarding those pictures if you want to keep your job. I

don’t see how you’re going to do it--there’s no denying the evidence of

the camera--but unless you can swing public sentiment your way, I’ll be

compelled to remove you from office. So you’d better get busy.”

The chief of police started to protest, but found himself addressing a

“dead” wire. The mayor, after delivering this ultimatum, had abruptly

disconnected.

For several minutes Chief Hodgins paced the floor of his private office,

a scowl upon his round, fat face.

“Wish I had that Camera Chap here right now,” he muttered. “I’d twist

his confounded neck. Square myself with the public! How am I going to do

that?”

Then suddenly his face lighted up. “Guess I’ll go and have a talk with

my friend Gale, of the _Chronicle_,” he mused. “He ought to be able to

help me out of this trouble. When it comes to clever tricks, there ain’t

an editor in the country is equal to that chap. Ten to one he’ll be able

to dope out a way to turn the tables on that miserable rag of a

_Bulletin_.”

CHAPTER VI.

GALE SUGGESTS.

As Chief Hodgins walked down Main Street toward the _Chronicle_ office,

he became painfully aware that there was a broad grin upon the face of

nearly every person he met.

Many of the amused persons had copies of the _Bulletin_ in their hands

or protruding from their coat pockets; so that, although he was not a

particularly sensitive man, he was forced to conclude that they were

smiling at his expense.

Several small boys followed him at a discreet distance, giggling and

jeering. One street urchin, more bold than the rest, came up close

behind him, and gave a graphic imitation of a man snoring. With a snarl

of rage, the head of the Oldham police force wheeled around, with the

intention of making a terrible example of this juvenile tormentor, but

the youngster darted beyond his reach. The chief started to give chase,

but soon abandoned the idea. He was too fat to be much of a sprinter.

Fortunately the Chronicle Building was not far from police headquarters,

so these painful experiences soon came to an end. Delancey Gale, editor

and publisher of the Oldham _Chronicle_, greeted Chief Hodgins cordially

when the latter stepped into his private office.

“My dear chief, this is, indeed, a pleasure,” he cried effusively. “Pray

sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

Mr. Gale was a dapper little old man, with neatly trimmed white

mutton-chop whiskers, and a very prominent Adam’s apple. There was

something about his lean, sharp-featured countenance which made one

think of a fox, although just in what respect he bore a physical

resemblance to that animal it would have been difficult to point out.

As Chief Hodgins sank into a chair, he became aware of the fact that he

and the editor were not the only occupants of the room. A good-looking

young man whose clothes were of the very latest cut stood near the

window, with his profile toward the policeman.

“You’ve met my son, of course, chief?” said the editor and publisher of

the _Chronicle_.

“Sure!” replied Hodgins, with a gracious nod to the young man. “But I

declare I shouldn’t have known him. He’s changed a whole lot since I saw

him last. That was more’n ten years ago, I guess. Doin’ newspaper work

in New York, ain’t you, sir?”

“He has been,” replied the elder Gale, with a proud look in the

direction of the young man. “For several years, chief, my son has been a

distinguished member of the staff of the New York _Daily News_. But he

has resigned that position to come out here and help me run the

_Chronicle_.”

“A very sensible idea,” said Hodgins. “But now, Mr. Gale, to get down to

my business. I’m a little rushed for time, so you’ll excuse me for

bein’ brief. Have you--ahem!--seen to-day’s issue of the _Bulletin_?”

“Of course,” replied the elder Gale, with a deprecating smile. “I

presume you are referring to those disgraceful pictures? They are an

outrage!”

“They certainly are that,” growled Hodgins. “What would you advise me to

do about them, Mr. Gale--to set myself right in the eyes of the public,

I mean?”

Again Mr. Gale smiled deprecatingly. “I scarcely think there is any need

to worry about that, chief. It isn’t likely that the public will pay any

attention to anything that appears in our disreputable contemporary, the

_Bulletin_.”

“They wouldn’t if they had any sense,” said the chief, scowling as he

recalled his recent painful experience on the street. “But--ahem!--the

public seems inclined to pay more attention to those confounded

snapshots than you’d think, and I’ve got to do something to set myself

right. That’s what I’ve come to see you about, Mr. Gale.”

“I guess that can be easily fixed,” said the editor, “I’ll run an

editorial on the front page of to-morrow’s _Chronicle_, denouncing the

_Bulletin_ for publishing those pictures. I shall refer to it as a

pictorial outrage against decency and a disgrace to journalism.”

“That’s what it is, all right,” muttered the chief, with an approving

nod; “but will the public look at it that way?”

“They will when they read in to-morrow’s _Chronicle_ why it was that you

were asleep at your desk,” replied the editor, with a sly smile. “We’ll

explain that our worthy chief of police, after being up all night for

three successive nights in the pursuit of his official duties, was so

tired out that he was unable to keep up any longer. Tired nature

asserted itself, and he fell back in his chair in a state of collapse.

And while he was in this condition--brought about solely by his devotion

to duty and zeal to serve the public--the miscreant photographer of the

_Bulletin_ sneaked in and made capital of the incident.

“I rather think that will do the trick, chief,” the elder Gale remarked.

“When they read the _Chronicle_ to-morrow morning, the people of Oldham,

instead of smiling at those pictures, will look upon you as a martyr.”

Chief Hodgins’ face lighted up. “The very thing!” he exclaimed

enthusiastically. “It looks to me as if you’d hit the right idea, Mr.

Gale, and I don’t mind telling you that if you print all that you’ll

come pretty near telling the truth, too.”

“Have you caught the fellow who took the pictures yet, chief?” the

editor inquired.

“No; the rascal got away,” Hodgins answered, with a scowl. “My men

learned that he got out of town on a motor cycle, but they can’t find

out where he’s gone. I guess he won’t dare set foot in this town again.

He was certainly the nerviest camera fiend I’ve seen or heard of.”

The younger Gale pricked up his ears at these words. “Don’t happen to

know his name, do you, chief?” he inquired, with great interest.

“Yes, I do, too,” Hodgins replied. “One of my detectives managed to find

out that much from one of the printers who works for the _Bulletin_. The

fellow’s name is Hawley, and he works for a New York newspaper.”

“I thought as much,” exclaimed young Gale, with a frown. “I heard on

Park Row the other day that Hawley, of the _Sentinel_, was taking a

vacation up in the Catskills. Too bad you didn’t catch him, chief, and

send him to jail. I’ve no use for that fellow.”

“I’ll send him to jail, all right, if I ever manage to lay hands on

him,” declared the policeman, a glint in his eyes.

“But can you?” the elder Gale queried. “Could you send him to jail, I

mean, for taking those snapshots, even if you were to catch him? After

all, my dear chief, he has violated no law. I was looking up the penal

code a little while ago, and I find there is no statute which covers his

case. I am afraid you couldn’t do anything to him--in a legal way.”

“Is that so?” exclaimed Hodgins, with a discomfited look. “Well, that’s

certainly news to me, Mr. Gale. I thought for sure there was a law

covering his offense. If there ain’t one, there certainly ought to be.”

“Say, that gives me an idea,” cried the younger Gale excitedly. “What’s

the matter with getting the city council to pass an ordinance making it

a misdemeanor punishable by six months’ imprisonment for any person to

take a photograph on any street or in any public building of Oldham

without a special permit signed by the chief of police? You fellows

ought to have enough pull with the council to get such a law put through

immediately.”

“An excellent plan!” declared the elder Gale. “Such an ordinance would

not apply to past offenses, of course, but it would enable you, chief,

to send this young scamp Hawley to prison if he ever comes back to

Oldham and takes any more pictures.”

“Yes,” cried the younger Gale eagerly, “and you can rest assured that

Hawley will come back to take more pictures. In fact, I’ve got a scheme

to bring him back. Get that ordinance passed by the council, chief, and

I’ll guarantee that you’ll have the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Hawley,

of the _Sentinel_, behind bars. My little scheme is bound to work.”

He explained this scheme to his father and Chief Hodgins, and both of

them gave it their enthusiastic approval.

“It’s a pippin!” declared the head of the Oldham police force joyously.

“It’s easy to see, Mr. Gale, that your son is a chip of the old block

when it comes to cleverness.

“We’ll put that ordinance through right away,” he went on. “I guess

there won’t be any trouble in getting the council to pass it. And then,

when the law’s on the books, we’ll set a little snare for that

confounded Camera Chap. He’s sure to walk right into it.”

CHAPTER VII.

THE TELEGRAM.

After his exciting visit to Oldham, the Camera Chap resumed his rest

cure at his friend’s place in the mountains; but he kept in touch with

Carroll by telephone, and these conversations made him yearn for another

excursion into town.

One morning--to be precise, it was just three days after his trip to

Oldham--Carroll called him up on the telephone and imparted to him an

interesting piece of news.

“You ought to feel flattered, Hawley, old man,” the proprietor of the

_Bulletin_ chuckled. “They’ve passed an ordinance solely on your

account. Of course, they won’t admit that you were the cause of it, but

I am quite sure that the bill was put through expressly to prevent you

from coming back and taking any more snapshots.”

“What’s the nature of the ordinance?” the Camera Chap inquired.

“It is known as the ‘anticamera bill.’ Makes it a misdemeanor to take a

photograph on the streets of Oldham or in any of the public buildings

without a special license from the chief of police.”

“What’s the penalty?” Hawley inquired, with great interest.

“A fine of a hundred dollars or six months in the penitentiary, or

both,” Carroll replied.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed the Camera Chap. “Six months in jail for taking

a picture! Why didn’t they make it hanging while they were about it?”

“Perhaps they would if they had thought of it,” returned Carroll. “But I

say, old man, be sure to keep away from Oldham; or, if you should have

to come to town for any reason, don’t fail to leave your camera behind

you. Chief Hodgins is just wasting away with yearning for a chance to

get even with you; and you can rest assured that if they catch you

violating the law, it won’t be merely a hundred-dollar fine in your

case--it will be a hundred-dollar fine and six months’ imprisonment.”

“That would be pleasant,” said the Camera Chap, with a laugh. “Much

obliged for tipping me off, old man. I shall certainly make it a point

to be careful. Any more news?”

“Nothing worth mentioning. I told you the other day that your old friend

Gale, of the _Daily News_, was in town, helping his old man run the

_Chronicle_, didn’t I?”

“Yes. What’s he doing? Up to any of his old tricks?”

“I haven’t been able to get wind of any, but I guess he’s planning some

mischief, all right,” replied Carroll, with a laugh. “I met him on the

street yesterday, and he was so effusive that my suspicions were at once

aroused. He shook me by the hand as though he had always loved me like a

brother; said he hoped that I’d let bygones be bygones and that we’d be

good friends--that there was no reason why fellows should be enemies

just because they were running rival papers. You know the smooth line of

talk that faker can hand out.”

The Camera Chap laughed. “Yes; and, as you say, he’s generally planning

some mischief when he lays it on as thick as that. Better keep a sharp

lookout, Fred.”

“You can bet I’m going to,” Carroll assured him. “By the way, he spoke

about you. Asked me whether I’d seen you lately. And he called you ‘good

old Hawley.’”

“Ye gods!” the Camera Chap exclaimed. “He must be planning my

assassination at the very least.”

After that telephone conversation Hawley sat for some time on the porch

of his host’s bungalow, and his gaze was concentrated wistfully on the

steep mountain road which led straight to the town of Oldham.

“Six months in prison for a snapshot!” he mused. “What an adventure!

That would, indeed, be a risk worth running! A fellow who could get away

with a stunt of that sort would have done something really worth while.

And Carroll said that they passed that ordinance especially for my

benefit. It would almost be cowardly to refuse the challenge.”

A messenger boy on a bicycle rode up to the house and interrupted his

musings at this point.

“Say, mister, is there anybody here named Hawley?” the youngster

inquired.

“There certainly is, son,” the Camera Chap replied. “What have you got?

A telegram, eh? Hand it over.”

As he perused the contents of the yellow envelope, he muttered an

exclamation of mingled joy and astonishment. The telegram was from

Paxton, managing editor of the New York _Sentinel_, and was worded as

follows:

“Will you run over to Oldham immediately on receipt of this and

photograph city hall, exterior view? Rush print to office. Sorry

interrupt vacation, but picture badly needed.

PAXTON.”

“Now, what in the name of all that’s wonderful can he want with a

picture of Oldham’s city hall?” thought the Camera Chap. “It’s certainly

a mighty queer assignment. However, it makes no difference, of course,

what they want it for. The fact that they do want it is good enough for

me. This telegram has arrived just at the psychological moment. I was

hunting for an excuse to go to Oldham, and here’s a good one.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS FOR A FISH STORY?

Last spring, while a party of tourists were fishing up North, a

well-known lawyer lost his gold watch from the boat in which he was

sitting.

Last week he made another visit to the lakes, and during the first day’s

sport caught an eight-pound trout. His astonishment can be imagined when

he found his watch lodged in the throat of the trout.

The watch was running and the time correct. It being a “stem-winder,”

the supposition is that in masticating his food the fish wound up the

watch daily.

TREATMENT OF CHILDREN.

An absent-minded doctor was called in to see a child two years old

suffering from convulsions. After a careful diagnosis, he prescribed as

follows:

“Nervous excitement. Avoid all violent emotions; abstain from wines and

spirits; avoid excess at table and other indulgences; travel a good

deal; go frequently to the theater. Beware of reading a certain class of

novels.”

SMALLEST RACE OF PEOPLE.

The inhabitants of the Andaman Islands are the smallest race of people

in the world taken as a whole. The average height of a full-grown

Andaman is three feet, eleven inches, and the average weight less than

seventy pounds. They are very warlike, and, as they throw poisoned

spears with marvelous accuracy, it is not at all strange that travelers

do not care to encounter them.

HER FATHER HAD NO OBJECTION.

“How does your father seem to regard my coming here?” anxiously asked

Adolphus of little Bobby, while Maud was upstairs, getting ready to

present herself.

“I guess he don’t care nothin’ about it,” replied Bobby carelessly.

“So he has no objection, eh? But what did he say, my little man?”

“He said if Maud was a mind to make a fool of herself, why, let her.”

THE RUSE WORKED.

“Bobby is attending to his pianoforte lessons very faithfully of late,”

said the youth’s uncle.

“Yes,” replied his mother. “I don’t have any trouble with him about that

now.”

“How did you manage it?”

“Some of the neighbors complained of the noise his exercises made, and I

told him about it. Now he thinks it’s fun to practice.”

A HORSE STORY.

“Mamma”--sorrel colt gazes anxiously to his dam--“the chestnut filly

wants me to run away with her the next time we go driving together.”

He looked down shyly.

“What shall I say?”

The mare bridled up.

“Turn to her, my son, and whisper gently: ‘Neigh, neigh, Pauline!’”

And with a horse laugh they resumed the discussion of their table d’oat.

BOBBY’S BAD BOX.

Mrs. Suburb--“Bobby, I wish you would weed this flower bed.”

Bobby--whimpering--“If I sit out here in the hot sun, a-pullin’ weeds,

I’ll get all sunburned, and my skin will be so sore I can’t sleep.”

Mrs. Suburb--“That’s easily remedied. After you get through with the

flower beds you may pull all the plantain weeds out of the lawn and

bring them to me. Plantain leaves are good for sunburn.”

SHOWING HIS WISDOM.

Housekeeper--“I wish to get some borax.”

New Boy--“Powdered?”

“I hardly know. I saw in a paper that roaches could be killed with

borax.”

“Guess you’d better take the other kind, ma’am. It’s ’most as hard as

rocks. Have you a little boy?”

“Y-e-s?”

“Well, if I was you, I’d let him do the throwing.”

BETTER THAN ALARM CLOCKS.

Bright Boy--“You don’t have to wake up the girl any more do you?”

Mother--“No, for a wonder; she has awakened herself every morning for a

week.”

“I thought she would.”

“Why so?”

“All the flies I caught in that fly trap I took upstairs and let out in

her room.”

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Turtle Snaps on Girl’s Toe.

Miss Mae Leser, of Gratz, Pa., an eighteen-year-old girl, knows how it

feels to haul a large snapping turtle out of the water with her large

toe. With some other girls, Miss Leser was September Morn-ing in the

silent stream that gambols through the outskirts of Gratz. She gave a

scream when the snapper seized her toe, and the girls who were with her

say she went down into the water before they were able to get to the

rescue.

When the turtle was hauled out on dry land, and had sized up the

situation, he let loose and hastened back to the water. Miss Leser’s toe

is badly bruised.

Baby Takes Thrilling Ride.

After dashing down a steep hillside fifty yards in a gocart, which

overturned twice, and plunging from a six-foot retaining wall, George

Bukalic, aged two, son of Rudolph Bukalic, a Hungarian, of 2003 East

Street, Pittsburgh, Pa., still strapped in the gocart, landed in front

of a trolley car in East Street. The car was stopped in time to avoid

running over the cart, and the baby crawled out from under the wrecked

cart unhurt, except for two slight bruises on the head.

With Three Original Members.

With three survivors, the Hazleton Liberty Band, of Hazleton, Pa., which

was Grant’s headquarters band the day Lee surrendered at Appomattox,

paraded on its fiftieth anniversary of the return home from the Civil

War.

Germans Interned at Norfolk Enjoy Life.

The crews of the German auxiliary cruisers _Eitel Friedrich_ and the

_Kronprinz Wilhelm_, interned at Norfolk, Va., are enjoying life to its

fullest. Besides numerous entertainments accorded to officers and crews,

the men are living a life of luxurious idleness. Their chief vocation at

this time is pleasure--pleasure day and night.

They spend most of their time in Norfolk in the early hours of the day.

In the afternoon they go to Virginia Beach, Ocean View, and other

near-by resorts. They smoke good cigars, eat the best, and appear to

have plenty of money. Barring a few cases of beri-beri on the

_Kronprinz_, they are a healthy lot.

The men have been taken into the homes of a number of citizens and

entertained, and special services have been held for them in Protestant

churches. They are made to feel at home.

They appear on the streets in white uniforms with blue stripes and white

hats. They are as neat as new pins and their conduct is perfect. They

roam the streets arm in arm with American bluejackets, and visit the

best theaters and other public resorts.

They are beginning to love the great American game. Several hundred of

them attended a baseball game in Portsmouth and rose up and cheered a

player who drove the ball over the fence for a home run. Whether they

understand the game or just followed the Americans who stood up and

cheered, no one but themselves knew. But there is a movement on foot to

organize two baseball teams out of the crews--one on the _Eitel_ and

another on the _Kronprinz_--and some of the men are practicing daily.

They have spent over two hundred dollars for equipment. A short member

of the crew, whom the American sailors call “Buelow,” drove a ball over

the sea wall in a practice game.

Rescue Little Fishes for Food of Future.

A regular life-saving service for fish is the latest conservation kink.

In Iowa, Wisconsin, and Illinois the State fish commission, with the

coöperation of the United States government, operate fish-saving

expeditions for the benefit of the land-locked fish left in small ponds

along the course of the Mississippi River.

In the springtime the river rises and spreads out over the country,

filling numerous small channels and hollows. In August the water begins

to recede. The large fish note the warning and escape, but the little

fish remain until the dried-up channel has cut off their means of

escape. Ultimately these small ponds and channels dry up completely and

billions of fish have been lost annually in this way.

The fish-saving service consists of parties of men who wade out into

these inland ponds, take up the fish in nets, and restore them to the

main body of the river. The fish rescued are about finger length, and

from twenty to forty large tubs of them have been taken in a single day

from a pond not more than half an acre in area. Billions of black bass,

perch, sunfish, and other edible species are in this way added to the

nation’s food resources.

“Bedtick Banks” Are Failures.

“Bedtick banks” have proved a failure to some persons of Uniontown, Pa.

Robbers continue to make successful raids on savings deposited in ticks.

Fifteen hundred dollars was obtained from beneath a mattress in the home

of John Morgan, at Lambert, and six hundred dollars was secured from a

similar hiding place in the home of John Holly, at Continental.

Since the failure of the First National Bank, depositors have withdrawn

their savings from solvent banks and concealed the sums about their

homes. Nearly two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is said to have

been drawn from banks in that section. Since it has become known that

parties are acting as their own bankers, burglarious gents have

evidently flocked to the region.

Shoots Two; Kills Himself.

Harvey O. Dysinger, aged forty, a rich Hardin County farmer, shot and

fatally injured his wife, killed his daughter, Esther, aged fifteen, and

wounded his son, Herbert, aged sixteen, and committed suicide at his

home one mile north of Forest, Ohio. The only member of the family to

escape unscathed was the youngest child, Kenneth, aged eleven, who was

rescued by Herbert. The latter is not seriously hurt.

Herbert was awakened at four-thirty in the morning by several shots, and

was just climbing out of bed to investigate when Dysinger entered his

room and fired at him. The bullet wounded him in the head. Dysinger was

also armed with a hatchet.

Herbert, stunned and bleeding, grappled with his father, and the two

wrestled about the room. Finally the boy disarmed the crazed man, and,

grabbing the gun and hatchet, ran downstairs, where he pulled his

younger brother, Kenneth, from bed.

While he was gone, Dysinger obtained a revolver, and, lying down on the

bed beside his wife, shot himself through the heart. He is thought to

have become insane.

Noted Mission Worker Dies.

Walter B. Moorcroft, of Paterson, N. J., for twenty years a prominent

mission worker among drunkards and fallen women, died following a stroke

of apoplexy.

Twenty years ago Moorcroft owned a resort known as “The Hole in the

Wall” in New York. He dropped into the John Street Mission one night,

and what he heard caused him to close the place at ten o’clock.

Railroad to Bar Liquor.

Chesapeake & Ohio Railroad officials have announced that every train on

the entire system will be prohibited from selling liquors.

The Only Way.

“What a lively baby!” said Brannigan. “Have ye had his picture took

yet?”

“Not yet,” said his proud father. “I’ve tried to, but afther an hour’s

lost labor the photographer advised us to go to a movin’-picture

studio!”

Crosses Ocean for “Story.”

Eliezer Ben Jehuda, editor of the _Haor_, a newspaper published in

Jerusalem, has arrived in New York from Patras. Ship-news reporters who

welcomed him at the pier were beset by mingled emotions when they

learned that the _Haor_ has four editions a year and no extras.

The _Haor_ means in English, “_The Light_.” Mr. Jehuda has come to New

York on a rush assignment, and he was gravely concerned lest he would

not get his story in for the October edition.

It was learned there are no vacancies on the editorial, reportorial, or

business staff of the _Haor_.

He Poisons Milk to Get One Dollar.

John Kelly, eleven years old, admitted in the Brooklyn children’s court,

Brooklyn, N. Y., that he had put a quantity of lye in a bottle of milk

for the use of his eighty-one-year-old grandmother, with whom he lived.

“I only wanted to make her sick so she would have to go to bed,” he

explained. “That would give me a chance to go through the house and get

hold of some money. I needed a dollar awful bad.”

The boy’s parents died when he was an infant, and his grandmother reared

him.

Cyclone Plays Odd Pranks.

A cyclone played queer pranks and did much damage in Dowagiac, Mich. A

water tank at the stove works was blown from its sixty-foot pedestal and

crashed through a near-by factory building. A barn south of the city was

carried several feet away and upturned, leaving two horses standing in

their stalls unhurt. A new cottage was demolished at Indian Lake. The

roof and upper story of a farmhouse was blown off. Trees were uprooted

and cottages damaged at several summer resorts.

Woman Finds Way to Lift Bucket in Well.

The problem of securing a water supply for household uses has been

solved in a novel and up-to-date way by a homesteader woman living near

Fairview, Mont. There is a well on the place. Like most wells in that

section it is a deep one, being one hundred and seventy-five feet down.

The family has no windmill nor even a pump, but draws its water in the

old oaken bucket on a pulley way. In this case the bucket that hangs in

the well is a ten-gallon keg.

When the husband is at home, he is able to operate the keg by hand, but

his business keeps him in town most of the time, and the large share of

the water hauling devolves upon the wife. She is unable to lift the keg.

She has a twenty-horse-power automobile, however, and this serves the

purpose. When in need of water, she lowers the keg, attaches the well

rope to the roadster, throws in the clutch, and up comes her water

supply while she stands idly by.

Burglars Steal Two Fleas.

They were curious burglars who broke into the home of Herbert Randall,

an artist and curio collector of Hartford, Conn. Passing over a quantity

of silver, they chose their loot from the curios.

Included in the booty they got were two very special fleas, and the only

ones in the house. The fleas were dressed in red uniforms to represent

soldiers. Mr. Randall bought them from an old lady in Seattle, who made

a living dressing fleas in martial array. They reposed in little boxes

against a background of white cotton, and were usually observed through

a microscope. Mr. Randall has one of the largest and best curio

collections in the State.

New Corn Picker Invented.

The farmers in the great corn belt of the United States are realizing

more and more that the longest and hardest and most expensive job on the

farm these days of modern machinery is husking corn by hand, and, with

this idea in view, an Illinois inventor has lately perfected a corn

picker, which will do away with the husking by hand.

This machine does not husk the corn clean, because that is not

necessary, but simply puts it in the wagon the easiest and cheapest way

possible, and thereby does away with the big, heavy, and costly corn

husker.

This inventor’s corn picker is said to resemble the corn binder in

construction and is no heavier or more costly, and is expected to

revolutionize the corn-picking industry, and will be greatly appreciated

by cattle feeders who fatten their cattle on corn and by the corn

farmers in general.

Kansas Alfalfa for Army.

A contract has been made by Major General Aleshire, of the

quartermaster’s department of the United States army with a commission

company of Kansas City, Mo., for the purchase of three thousand tons of

alfalfa to go to the army post at Empire, Panama Canal Zone. The alfalfa

will be delivered at Colon between June 30, 1915, and August 1, 1916.

The contract price is not quite twenty-five dollars a ton.

This deal will be good news to farmers, for it will go far to show that

alfalfa has gone to the head as prime hay for all purposes in all parts

of the world. Our farmers can cut from four to six tons from every acre

of ordinarily good farming land, and this without plowing, harrowing,

furnishing seed, or paying out money for threshing or fertilizer.

Indian Gets Third Burial.

A strange burial attended by old residents of Wyandotte County took

place at the Indian burial ground on the General Miller Farm in Delaware

Township, near the Leavenworth County line, in Missouri. For the third

time the body of Captain Ne Con He Con, a chief of the Delaware tribe of

Indians, was laid to rest.

The Indian chief died in 1863 and was buried according to tribal customs

in a grave containing many desirable relics, and a blanket, a silk sash,

and gold braid were scattered over the ground.

In 1883 the grave was robbed by relic hunters and again the body of the

chief was buried, and the decorations scattered on top the ground. The

third burial was Wednesday. H. F. Heisler, of the Kansas side, Wyandotte

County’s oldest citizen, officiated. The burial was solemnized for the

purpose of maintaining respect for the burial place of the Delawares.

Lightning Kills Two Boys.

Tom Patton, eighteen, and Clyde Ellis, seventeen, were struck and

instantly killed by lightning near Norman, Okla. The boys were running

to a shed to escape a storm.

Interesting New Inventions.

A new burglar alarm designed for outbuildings fires a blank cartridge

when an intruder touches a wire, which can be laid in almost any desired

direction.

To make a baby enjoy his bath, a cork doll that bobs around on the water

while he splashes has been invented by a New Jersey woman.

To prevent an automobile spattering mud upon pedestrians, there has been

invented a flexible metal ring to be attached close to a tire.

Among the space-saving household novelties is a folding washtub, which

may be fastened against collapsing when filled with water.

In an electric gun invented in England, which seems to be successful, a

projectile is hurled through a tube by the action of electric magnets on

the outside.

For military purposes a United States army officer has designed an

automobile that will carry fourteen men, with full equipment and three

days’ rations, eight hundred miles on one filling of its fuel tanks.

Electric-light signals, powerful enough to be seen in the daytime, are

being adopted by several electric railroads in preference to semaphores,

as they save the expense of motor-driven mechanism.

Proud of His Ambitious Hen.

John F. Williamson, of Dalton, Ga., has a hen he wouldn’t swap even for

any hen in the State of Georgia, for she has established a record of

which any hen might be proud. Not satisfied with hatching fifteen

thoroughbred Rhode Island Reds out of fifteen eggs, this fowl, who is a

Plymouth Rock, decided to try the merits of her own particular breed,

and laid eight eggs, while hatching her brood. Mr. Williamson does not

state whether the Plymouth Rock eggs hatched or not, but says the

mystical number “twenty-three” may have prevented the hen from carrying

out her purpose.

Man Pays Uncle Sam Twenty Cents.

The secretary of war has received from Chicago a letter inclosing twenty

cents in stamps, with the statement that the sum is inclosed “for bacon

and eggs.” Mr. Garrison could not recall the transaction, so he turned

the letter over to the treasury department, where the twenty cents was

added to the “conscience fund.”

It is supposed that a retired soldier ate more than the law allowed, and

that he now compensates the government for his meal.

The conscience fund, which in reality has a separate existence only on

paper, has been growing since President Madison’s administration, and

the total now is nearly $500,000.

Old King of ’Gators is Dead.

The king alligator of Georgia has been killed at Hutchinson’s pond at

Adel by M. L. Crowley, after the beast had eluded hunters, for

twenty-two years. The alligator measured ten feet four inches and had

thirty-seven notches on its tail, which shows that it was thirty-seven

years old.

Many have been the attempts to kill the sly old creature, but always,

until now, it has escaped the bullets aimed at it and has scuttled

safely back to its cave. It was the ’gator’s appetite for hogs that

proved its undoing.

Mr. Crowley, who for twenty-two years has been hunting this beast, tied

the leg of a porker to a tree near Hutchinson’s pond, and hid himself.

The wary old ’gator slid out of the water, through a clump of bushes,

and was just reaching for the bait when Mr. Crowley fired. The bullet

took the beast in a vital spot and killed it instantly.

Dies from Woodtick Bite.

Doctor M. S. McCrillis, a pioneer dentist, of Douglas, Wyo., is dead of

spotted fever, caused by the bite of a woodtick. This is the seventh

death from spotted fever, or woodtick fever, that has occurred in

Wyoming this year.

Owing to the cold, wet spring woodticks are more numerous and especially

more poisonous than for many years. Hundreds of persons throughout the

State have been or are now ill from the effects of woodtick bites.

Robbers Hold Up Fifteen Hobos.

Two masked men, armed with a revolver and an electric flash light, held

up and robbed fifteen hobos while they were sleeping in a box car in

Wichita, Kan. The robbers got seventy cents and a plug of tobacco from

the fifteen.

When the hobos were ordered to throw up their hands, one refused, and,

for his obstinacy, was shot. He died in a hospital. He gave his name as

Ben Rider, of Chicago. When the police arrived, the holdup men were

searching other box cars in the railroad yards.

Nothing but Water in This Unique Township.

Hyde County, near Kinston, N. C., has the most unique township in the

United States. It is “Lake Township,” with barely a square inch of dry

land in it and not a single resident.

The biggest drainage undertaking in the history of the south Atlantic

States will next winter reclaim the bottom of Mattamuskeet Lake, one of

the two largest fresh-water bodies in the south Atlantic group. Gigantic

pumps will drive the water from the lake at the rate of a million

gallons a minute.

Mattamuskeet Lake is eighteen miles long and seven miles wide, but at

its deepest point is not more than three and one-half feet in depth. The

land of the entire county is of a peaty nature, and this basin was

burned out by a fire before the coming of the white men. Now, even, such

fires sometimes have to be checked by the people.

Dare County adjoining Hyde, has the largest area of salt water within

its boundaries of any county in the United States; Hyde has the largest

area of fresh water. The other large lake of the south Atlantic group is

Alligator Lake, only a few miles from Mattamuskeet.

The sixteen pumps to be used in this reclamation work have

one-hundred-and-eight-inch suctions and seventy-two-inch discharges.

To show the productiveness of this land to be recovered, never yet under

the plow, a small plot adjacent to its shores is now sown in twenty-two

hundred varieties of grain and vegetables, flowers, fruits, and nuts.

Lake Township will be opened to settlement in 1916.

Munich Driven to Lemonade.

Munich, the greatest beer-drinking center of Germany, has been compelled

sharply to curtail the consumption of beer. The amount of beer now

available for public use is only one-third of the ordinary supply.

A number of the famous beer gardens are now closing at seven o’clock in

the evening, owing to the shortage of beer. Some of these places are

encouraging their guests to call for lemonade as a substitute for beer.

Billposters Bar Liquor Ads.

No advertisements of intoxicating liquors will be placed on the

billboards of the Associated Billposters and Distributors of the United

States and Canada after the close of this year, according to Donald

Ross, president of the association.

Mr. Ross was a witness for the association, dissolution of which is

being sought by the government on the ground that it is a trust in

violation of the Sherman act. The Billposters and Distributors’

Protective Company is the oldest and largest of the official licensed

solicitors of the alleged trust.

“At the last meeting of the poster association,” Mr. Ross said, “the

board of directors voted to prohibit all advertisements of intoxicating

liquors.”

Ex-mayor, Once Rich, Begs Dime and Dies.

Frank A. McGowan, former mayor of Trenton, N. J., died in a hospital in

Hoboken, to which he had been taken after begging a dime from a

policeman. He was reputed to have had at one time a fortune of more than

three million dollars. Cerebral hemorrhage was given as the cause of

death.

Shows Curious Potato Vine.

A potato vine that is bearing potatos on the vine above ground as well

as below it, is the latest thing in freak vines in Bethany, Mo. The

queer vine has been exhibited by Johnson Hogan, of this place, who

found it only recently in his potato patch. At each joint of the vine

there is a well-formed potato, and there was also an unusually large

number of potatos attached to the roots.

Metal from ’62 Taken Out of Hand.

Doctor D. R. Peters, of Mount Sterling, Ill., has removed from one of

the fingers on one hand of J. P. Amonett a small piece of metal that he

had received in the battle of Shiloh in the Civil War in 1862. The metal

has been troubling Amonett lately, and he decided to have it removed. He

said it seemed several times larger than it was.

Sleeps One Year and Expires.

After sleeping almost continuously for one year, Henry Mankey, a trooper

during the Civil War, died in Columbus, Ohio. Physicians say the case is

without parallel in medical annals. Mankey was seventy-four years old.

The long sleep was held to be due to an injury.

Champion Woman Swimmer.

Miss Constance Meyer, champion woman swimmer of Portland, Ore., and one

of the best on the Pacific coast, knew nothing about swimming three

years ago. One day she attempted to cross a stream on horseback. The

horse was unable to carry her across and she slipped into the water and

held to his tail. Fortunately, he got to the shore with her, but Miss

Meyer made up her mind that she must learn to swim. She began at the

Portland Y. W. C. A., and soon became so proficient that she entered

outdoor contests. When the national-championship contests at the San

Francisco Exposition were announced recently, Miss Meyer was sent from

Portland.

“Learn to swim,” is her advice to every girl. “It is good for your

health and may get you out of danger some time.”

Toadstools Kill Two.

Carlo Muzzareller and Dominic Mulano are dead, and ten other persons are

seriously ill in West Franklin, Ill., as the result of including

toadstools in a picnic luncheon. Little hope is held out for the

recovery of the sick.

Many Ill from Rabbit Meat.

As a result of eating rabbits that had eaten loco weed, several score

persons in Kenna, N. M., and the surrounding farming community were

severely ill. Physicians were at a loss to account for the epidemic till

they learned that every person who was ill had recently eaten rabbit

meat. Rabbits and loco weed are extraordinarily plentiful this year, and

hunters say that thousands of rabbits are locoed.

Fifty Thousand Dollars for Each Foot Lost.

Miss Daisy B. James, who had been a dancer at the Winter Garden in New

York, values each of her lost feet at fifty thousand dollars.

She filed an action in the New Jersey Supreme Court, in Newark, N. J.,

for one hundred thousand dollars against the Lackawanna Railroad. Miss

James was in such haste to board a train in East Orange on June 10th

last that she ran under the closed gates. As the train drew into the

station, the air suction caught her wide taffeta skirts and sucked her

under the cars. Both legs were cut off.

Trapping Arizona Monkeys.

Trapping monkeys is the latest industry to spring into prominence in

Arizona. Several citizens of Parker, Ariz., have formed the Colorado

River Monkey Company, with the intention of trapping and marketing a

colony of several hundred monkeys known to exist in Cunningham Pass, an

almost inaccessible cañon located northeast of this place.

There was a big gold excitement at the Pass in 1882. Among those who

rushed in was an Italian organ grinder with a pair of monkeys. The

monkeys escaped and have been multiplying ever since, in spite of the

depredations of coyotes and other predatory animals.

Never Again for Johnny.

Johnny Williams, ten-year-old son of John N. Williams, of Big Laurel,

Va., declares that he will never swing on another grapevine until he has

carefully examined both ends.

A few days ago Johnny was out in the woods with some other boys and they

found a grapevine, which, by cutting it off near the ground, would make

a swing that they could take hold of and swing far out over a deep

ravine.

Johnny was the most fearless in the bunch, so he grabbed onto the vine

as soon as it was cut loose and swung out over the hollow. The other end

of the vine had not taken hold of the limbs of the tree sufficiently to

hold his weight, and he fell, taking the vine with him. He would have

been dashed to death against the rocks below if he had not landed in the

top of a beech tree. He caught onto a limb and held there until he could

get a better balance, but the worst part was still to come, for the

beech was a very tall one and there was no limbs for sixty feet above

the ground. So there the boy had to sit for five long hours until men

came with ladders and brought him down.

Pigeons Break World’s Record.

Claim of a new world’s record for flight by homing pigeons was made by

the Fort Worth Pigeon Fanciers’ Association. Four birds liberated at New

Orleans, covered the 579 miles to Fort Worth in fourteen hours,

maintaining an average of forty-one miles an hour.

Large Mound on Man’s Head.

Contractor Charles S. Wilcox’s thick “two-story” fedora saved him from

instant death when a carpenter on the fifth floor of a new building, in

Lansing, Mich., dropped a hammer on his head. Wilcox was on the first

floor. The blow made him imitate a merry-go-round, but he finally got

control and kept his balance. At present he is wearing a big mound

beneath his life-saving hat.

Can’t Catch Weasel Asleep.

U. S. Liphart, a farmer near Windsor, Pa., will receive bounty for

trapping a weasel in his trousers. He has forwarded the head of the

animal to the commissioner’s office, together with an affidavit made

before Justice D. A. Heindel.

Liphart was plowing when he noticed the weasel chasing a chipmunk. He

went to the rescue, and the weasel turned on him and made a dart for his

pantaloon leg, ascending rapidly. When it got as far as the knee,

Liphart seized it and choked the life out of it.

Breaks Dentistry Records.

Mrs. James Seever, of Atchison, Kan., had twenty-five of her teeth

pulled by a dentist, and did not take an anæsthetic. She did not become

nervous or hysterical during the ordeal, and went home unassisted.

Vest Will Urge Big Navy.

The Navy League will send over the country to lecture in behalf of a

greater navy Alexander S. Vest, son of former Senator George Graham

Vest, Missouri, the last surviving member of the Congress of the

Confederate States of America and an intimate friend of Jefferson Davis.

Feeding the Two-headed Calf.

Fed through rubber tubing, the two-headed calf at the country home of

Tom van Swearington, in Shenandoah, Iowa, has been kept alive since its

birth, a fortnight ago, and has strength enough to almost stand alone

now. The freak of nature has attracted a great deal of attention.

Animal Horns and Antlers.

A record of the conditions of the deer, moose, and elk in the zoölogical

park of New York City proves that their formidable-looking horns and

antlers, which are newly acquired each year, are grown within four

months. The old horns are dropped in the spring. The largest elk in the

zoo lost both his antlers last year nine hours apart, on March 21st. By

June 21st, the full-length antler had grown, although it was still soft

or “in the velvet.”

The dropping of the horn leaves a small circle of skull exposed. Within

a week this is covered with brown skin. Then a round knob appears,

resembling a tomato except in color. It soon begins to lengthen out into

the horns which are to come, the growth sometimes amounting to nearly an

inch in a day. When soft and growing, the horns are full of blood. After

they have reached their full length, they begin to harden. By October

the velvet has been worn off by rubbing against tree trunks and the

horns are hard and smooth.

Tragic Dream Comes True.

Fulfilled premonitions constitute no small part of the lore of the

mountains of southwest Virginia. The following story which was added to

this lore recently was related by an old lady, Mrs. Richard Mullins, of

Haddonfield, Va., whose word is to be relied upon.

Two men by the name of Fleming, who were cutting timber for a lumber

concern, were boarding at Mrs. Mullin’s. Finally their work was almost

completed and the two men, whose first names were Clinton and Walter,

saw that they could finish the work in another day.

The following night Mrs. Mullins dreamed that she saw a tree fall on

Walter, crushing him to a shapeless mass. She related the dream next

morning, but the men apparently gave it no consideration and walked to

their work with light hearts. They were working near the house, and

about one o’clock that afternoon Mrs. Mullins was startled by the

screams from Clinton, and she hurried to the place. There she found that

a tree had fallen on Walter and killed him instantly.

Shot Through Brain, Lives.

With a bullet through his brain, physicians say Clay Brewster, aged

fourteen, of Hoisington, Kan., will live. Young Brewster was

accidentally shot in the left eye, three weeks ago, the shot passing

through the cerebrum of the brain and coming out at the top of the head.

The bullet was removed. He has regained consciousness and makes his

wants known by signs, being unable to talk.

Kills Rat with Blow of Fist.

Thomas Dean, a Sunbury, Pa., man, was awakened from sleep by a pain in

his right hand. He found three of his fingers bleeding. Turning his head

on the pillow, he discovered a huge rat sitting on the pillow, and, Dean

said, “apparently grinning in fiendish delight at what he had done to

the hand.”

With a crushing blow from his fist he struck the rat and sent it against

the side of the room. The rodent fell dead. Dean weighed it and found

its weight to be three pounds.

As proof of the occurrence, Dean showed the rat’s body, unmarked, to his

friends. Doctors cauterized the wounds.

Three-ring Movies Latest Idea.

“Three-ring movies” are the latest. Three film plays are shown at one

time on three screens. This is at the Grand Central Palace in New York.

If you don’t care for the comedy on the screen to the left, you can look

at the romantic play in the center screen, or at the thriller on the

screen to the right.

The chief advantage is that when you go in to see your favorite hero of

the movies, who is billed on the posters outside, or go in to see a

certain comedy, you aren’t compelled to sit waiting through a program of

pictures you don’t care about particularly. It is an arrangement for

busy folk who drop into a movie theater at the noon hour.

Wed Editor to Muzzle Her.

Miss Sadie Velle Fenton, of Denver, Col., Vassar graduate and the

youngest woman editor in the United States, says that she has had to

refuse numerous matrimonial offers from men who proposed mainly for the

reason that they desired to control the editorial policy of her paper,

the Logansport _Times_, published in the Indiana town of that name, and

having the reputation of being the oldest local prohibition paper in

America.

“I’ve had lots of proposals since I’ve been editing the paper,” said

Miss Fenton, “but they have been from men who wanted to marry me because

they would like to edit the paper. Several of these were from men who

did not believe in my views on prohibition and suffrage, and evidently

thought the quickest way to correct them would be to marry me.”

Two-story House Disappears.

Without warning, a two-story house, occupied by Andrew Lappi and his

family on the site of the Colby mine, near Bessemer, Mich., suddenly

sank into the earth and dropped the depth of the shaft. The family was

away at the time, and, on returning, failed to find their house. A large

stretch of country has been undermined in this vicinity, and several

families are moving to other localities.

Costs Extra Cent for Show.

As soon as proper arrangements are made by the board of control of

Montreal, Canada, for collecting the tax, every patron of a place of

amusement will be obliged to add one cent to the cost of his theater

ticket. The city council gave third reading of the necessary bylaw,

based on the authority secured at the last session of the legislature.

“The words ‘place of amusement’ shall mean and include theater, a

moving-picture hall, an amusement hall, concert hall, circus,

playground, race course, skating rink, and any other place in the city

where any exhibition or entertainment whatsoever is given and an

entrance fee collected,” explains the ordinance.

The tax is imposed on each person admitted into any place of amusement,

even if such person is admitted with a complimentary card or ticket.

How Much Silver is Wasted.

A greater amount of pure silver is used each year in this country in

photography and photo-engraving than for any other purpose except the

coinage of the United States. By the methods in general use only about

ten per cent of the silver consumed in these industries is actually

utilized. The remainder is simply wasted in the solutions which are

thrown daily into the sinks to go out through the drain pipes.

Several schemes for conserving this waste are now being considered. One

consists in saving the solutions in jars and barrels to be refined or

evaporated to regain the silver. Another method, which is really quite

practical, is to utilize the silver wasted in the fixing bath for silver

plating.

The process is so simple that it can readily be carried on even by an

amateur. The liquid is strained or filtered and placed in a hard-rubber

box. An ordinary galvanic cell is attached by copper wires to a copper

plate in one end of the receptacle. The articles to be plated should be

well cleaned and placed in the solution opposite the copper plate. The

silver will begin to deposit immediately. Fifteen or twenty minutes will

suffice for a thorough plating. In most photographic establishments

enough silver solution is thrown away each day to plate a couple of

dozen spoons or forks.

Dog with Only Two Legs Left.

Carmargo, in Dewey County, Okla., has dogs--big dogs, little dogs, and,

in fact, all kinds of dogs, but one in particular is somewhat of an

oddity. This is a dog that travels on two legs.

Several months ago a dog belonging to Mr. Storey, section foreman, was

run over by a train and two of his legs cut off. For some time he was

unable to move around, but now has recovered so that he can navigate

quite handily. The two legs on which he is forced to walk are both on

one side. He not only walks, but can also run, and seems to be about as

well able to get around as a dog with four good legs.

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.

730--The Torn Card.

731--Under Desperation’s Spur.

732--The Connecting Link.

733--The Abduction Syndicate.

738--A Plot Within a Plot.

739--The Dead Accomplice.

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.

782--A Woman’s Stratagem.

783--The Cliff Castle Affair.

784--A Prisoner of the Tomb.

785--A Resourceful Foe.

789--The Great Hotel Tragedies.

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.

807--Nick Carter’s Advertisement.

808--The Kregoff Necklace.

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.

NEW SERIES

NICK CARTER STORIES

1--The Man from Nowhere.

2--The Face at the Window.

3--A Fight for a Million.

4--Nick Carter’s Land Office.

5--Nick Carter and the Professor.

6--Nick Carter as a Mill Hand.

7--A Single Clew.

8--The Emerald Snake.

9--The Currie Outfit.

10--Nick Carter and the Kidnaped Heiress.

11--Nick Carter Strikes Oil.

12--Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure.

13--A Mystery of the Highway.

14--The Silent Passenger.

15--Jack Dreen’s Secret.

16--Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case.

17--Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves.

18--Nick Carter’s Auto Chase.

19--The Corrigan Inheritance.

20--The Keen Eye of Denton.

21--The Spider’s Parlor.

22--Nick Carter’s Quick Guess.

23--Nick Carter and the Murderess.

24--Nick Carter and the Pay Car.

25--The Stolen Antique.

26--The Crook League.

27--An English Cracksman.

28--Nick Carter’s Still Hunt.

29--Nick Carter’s Electric Shock.

30--Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess.

31--The Purple Spot.

32--The Stolen Groom.

33--The Inverted Cross.

34--Nick Carter and Keno McCall.

35--Nick Carter’s Death Trap.

36--Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle.

37--The Man Outside.

38--The Death Chamber.

39--The Wind and the Wire.

40--Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase.

41--Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend.

42--The Queen of the Seven.

43--Crossed Wires.

44--A Crimson Clew.

45--The Third Man.

46--The Sign of the Dagger.

47--The Devil Worshipers.

48--The Cross of Daggers.

49--At Risk of Life.

50--The Deeper Game.

51--The Code Message.

52--The Last of the Seven.

53--Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful.

54--The Secret Order of Associated Crooks.

55--The Golden Hair Clew.

56--Back From the Dead.

57--Through Dark Ways.

58--When Aces Were Trumps.

59--The Gambler’s Last Hand.

60--The Murder at Linden Fells.

61--A Game for Millions.

62--Under Cover.

63--The Last Call.

64--Mercedes Danton’s Double.

65--The Millionaire’s Nemesis.

66--A Princess of the Underworld.

67--The Crook’s Blind.

68--The Fatal Hour.

69--Blood Money.

70--A Queen of Her Kind.

71--Isabel Benton’s Trump Card.

72--A Princess of Hades.

73--A Prince of Plotters.

74--The Crook’s Double.

75--For Life and Honor.

76--A Compact With Dazaar.

77--In the Shadow of Dazaar.

78--The Crime of a Money King.

79--Birds of Prey.

80--The Unknown Dead.

81--The Severed Hand.

82--The Terrible Game of Millions.

83--A Dead Man’s Power.

84--The Secrets of an Old House.

85--The Wolf Within.

86--The Yellow Coupon.

87--In the Toils.

88--The Stolen Radium.

89--A Crime in Paradise.

90--Behind Prison Bars.

91--The Blind Man’s Daughter.

92--On the Brink of Ruin.

93--Letter of Fire.

94--The $100,000 Kiss.

95--Outlaws of the Militia.

96--The Opium-Runners.

97--In Record Time.

98--The Wag-Nuk Clew.

99--The Middle Link.

100--The Crystal Maze.

101--A New Serpent in Eden.

102--The Auburn Sensation.

103--A Dying Chance.

104--The Gargoni Girdle.

105--Twice in Jeopardy.

106--The Ghost Launch.

107--Up in the Air.

108--The Girl Prisoner.

109--The Red Plague.

110--The Arson Trust.

111--The King of the Firebugs.

112--“Lifter’s” of the Lofts.

113--French Jimmie and His Forty Thieves.

114--The Death Plot.

115--The Evil Formula.

116--The Blue Button.

117--The Deadly Parallel.

118--The Vivisectionists.

119--The Stolen Brain.

120--An Uncanny Revenge.

121--The Call of Death.

122--The Suicide.

123--Half a Million Ransom.

124--The Girl Kidnaper.

125--The Pirate Yacht.

126--The Crime of the White Hand.

127--Found in the Jungle.

128--Six Men in a Loop.

129--The Jewels of Wat Chang.

130--The Crime in the Tower.

131--The Fatal Message.

132--Broken Bars.

133--Won by Magic.

134--The Secret of Shangore.

135--Straight to the Goal.

136--The Man They Held Back.

137--The Seal of Gijon.

138--The Traitors of the Tropics.

139--The Pressing Peril.

140--The Melting-Pot.

141--The Duplicate Night.

142--The Edge of a Crime.

143--The Sultan’s Pearls.

144--The Clew of the White Collar.

145--An Unsolved Mystery.

146--Paying the Price.

147--On Death’s Trail.

148--The Mark of Cain.

Dated July 17th, 1915.

149--A Network of Crime.

Dated July 24th, 1915.

150--The House of Fear.

Dated July 31st, 1915.

151--The Mystery of the Crossed Needles.

Dated August 7th, 1915.

152--The Forced Crime.

Dated August 14th, 1915.

153--The Doom of Sang Tu.

Dated August 21st, 1915.

154--The Mask of Death.

Dated August 28th, 1915.

155--The Gordon Elopement.

Dated Sept. 4th, 1915.

156--Blood Will Tell.

PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY. If you want any back numbers of our

weeklies and cannot procure them from your news dealer, they can be

obtained direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as

money.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY