CHAPTER XI.

NICK HANDS BACK A RELIC.

“Beat them back, boys! It’s only a bluff!” shouted the voice of Leslie

Arnold, from somewhere in the middle of the invaders.

“Look out!” bellowed Jefferson. “They’ve got my boy again! Carter, I

depend on you!”

This was an unnecessary reminder. Nick had seen at a glance what the

trouble was all about, and he hurled himself into the thick of the

fighting with a vigor that sent half a dozen men reeling from him on

either side.

As the detective thus made a way for himself, using only his fists,

Leslie Arnold broke away from two gigantic men in the uniform of

Calaman’s guards.

“Lend me a gun, somebody!” shouted Leslie. “They’ve grabbed mine away

from me! A rifle, or pistol—anything that will shoot!”

But Nick Carter merely caught the young fellow by the hand, and, with a

tremendous yank, dragged him away from the men who had been holding him.

The result of the pull was that Leslie came staggering forward, and was

caught in the arms of his indignant father.

By this time Nick Carter had drawn his automatic revolver and was

pointing it at the head of the foremost of the two men who had held

Leslie Arnold.

The fellow knew enough of the power of the mysterious “death stick” to

be in dread even of a little one. As he saw the stern face behind the

revolver and watched the gently moving finger on the trigger, his mouth

opened in terror and he let his long spear fall to the ground.

His companion, faced by a rifle in the hand of Chick, also let his

spear sink into the sand at his feet, while their followers, some

twenty strong, seemed ready to give up their weapons at the word of

command.

“Stand!” roared Lord Slava, in a voice of thunder. “Who are you?”

The two leaders were wise in their way, and they had gathered enough of

the trend of affairs in the last minute to understand that there had

been a great change in the government of Shangore—which, in effect,

meant all Bolongu.

They were assisted to this conclusion by the spectacle of the dead

Calaman, who was being carried away by two men with no more respect

than had been shown to the remains of the men killed by the Golden

Scarab half an hour before.

“We _were_ guards of the high priest Calaman,” was the reply of one

of the men, with a decided emphasis on the word “were.” “We are now

whatever my lord desires.”

Lord Slava grinned at Nick Carter.

“What do you think of these men?” he asked, in a low tone. “They were

seemingly loyal to Calaman. But they are mine now—until somebody takes

my power from me. Well, one must use what material comes to his hand.

These men are no worse than most others in Shangore. They have been

so oppressed for years that one cannot wonder they are truckling and

time-serving.”

“What were they doing with my friend Leslie Arnold?” asked Nick.

“We had been told by Calaman to take care of him if he escaped the

Golden Scarab,” said one of the two men. “We did not know that Calaman

was dead, and we were obeying orders.”

“That’s just like Calaman,” remarked Lord Slava. “If, by any chance,

this young white man, Leslie, had beaten the Golden Scarab, then he was

to be put to death in some other way. I’m glad Calaman is dead.”

“So am I,” roared Jefferson Arnold. “Because it saves me the trouble of

killing him. I would have done it right now, if somebody else hadn’t

done it first.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said Lord Slava, “I think everything is safe now. By

the way, there are four servants of yours, who carried your baggage,

waiting in the palace. I had them there, feeling sure that we should

be victorious in what we have just now attempted, and I knew you would

want your men. I have been appointed provisional governor of Shangore.

You will dine with me to-night at the palace, will you not?”

Nick Carter willingly accepted the invitation on behalf of his

companions, as well as himself, and then started out for a stroll about

Shangore, with only Chick, Patsy, and Captain for company.

“I’ve always been saddled with old Calaman before when I looked over

the city,” he remarked. “It will be pleasant to go where we please and

see what we please, without that old rascal always on the watch.”

The dinner that evening at the palace was well served, and Lord Slava

made a noble figure at the head of the table, as the host.

There were fifty people at the great board, most of them of noble blood

and resembling in a general way Lord Slava himself.

Nick Carter had the place of honor on the right of the host, with Chick

on his left. Close by were the two Arnolds and Patsy Garvan. The white

men declared afterward that they never had sat at a pleasanter dinner

table.

It was proved that the educated inhabitants of Shangore were full

of wit and a certain delicate humor that would have done credit to

New York, Boston, or Philadelphia, not to leave out Chicago and San

Francisco.

“Say, chief,” whispered Patsy, after a particularly good story by Lord

Slava, “we haven’t got anything on these people at our swell public

dinners in New York, have we?”

“The after-dinner speaker and story-teller is not peculiar to any age

or clime,” laughed Nick Carter. “I hope they are taking care of Jai

Singh and Adil through all this.”

“They are dining with my principal officers in an adjoining hall,”

volunteered Lord Slava, who had overheard the remark of his guest. “We

owe a great deal to Jai Singh. We must not forget that he wanted to

take up the challenge of the Golden Scarab. It was only the detestable

meanness and pretense of Calaman that prevented his doing the work that

fell to you, Mr. Carter.”

“I can hardly feel bitter against Calaman for that,” laughed Nick. “I

had an experience in that arena which was entirely new to me, and I

must confess that I enjoy new sensations.”

There was more talk and jollity over various things, and then Nick

Carter got to his feet, and in a speech that Patsy afterward said was

a bully one, thanked Lord Slava for his assistance in rescuing Leslie

Arnold, winding up by requesting him to accept the rifle that had

killed the head of the Golden Scarab and had helped to bring a better

government to Shangore.

The rifle was accepted with thanks, and after the dinner Nick Carter

gave Lord Slava a few lessons in handling it.

Early in the morning, three days later, the party of white men, with

their four coolies carrying provisions, and with Jai Singh and Adil

leading the way, departed for the mountain pass that would be their

first stage on the way home.

Lord Slava sent an escort of a hundred men to get them through the

pass, after loading the four coolies with presents for their employers.

These presents were mostly in the shape of jewels and golden ornaments,

so that they were not very heavy, although the coolies were so loyal

to Nick Carter that they would not have complained if they had had to

carry much more than they did.

Slava had been chosen permanent governor of Shangore, and there was

great rejoicing all through the Bolongu country, as well as in the city.

Before the soldiers who had brought them to the pass went back, Leslie

Arnold and his father had a rather lengthy confab apart from the rest

of their party.

“I want to send something back to Lord Slava,” said Leslie. “If it had

not been for him, I shouldn’t be here now, in all probability. With

Carter and you shut up in that dungeon, what chance would you have had

of getting at me before that devilish beetle contrivance poisoned me to

death?”

Jefferson Arnold shuddered. He knew too well how near he had come to

losing his only son.

“You’re right there, Leslie,” he assented. “But what can we give to

Slava? The man has more gold and silver and precious stones than he

wants, as it is. I don’t know what we can give him that he would care

for.”

“He would appreciate the sentiment of gratitude that prompted us, at

all events,” returned the young man.

“That’s all right, Leslie,” grunted his father. “But I should like our

sentiment to take a form that would please him outside of that. Wait a

minute. We’ll ask——Hello, Carter!”

“What is it?” asked the detective.

“Come over here. We want to ask you something.”

Nick Carter strolled over to the two Arnolds and gave them a

good-humored nod.

“Go ahead! What’s the difficulty?”

In a few words Leslie Arnold explained what they wanted to do, and the

quandary they were in as to how to do it.

“We should like to present Lord Slava with something he would like to

possess, and at the same time make him understand in some tangible way

how grateful we are.”

Nick Carter reflected for a few minutes. Suddenly he exclaimed, in a

tone of conviction, as he slapped his right fist into the palm of his

other hand:

“I believe I have it!”

“What?” asked Jefferson Arnold. “Something that he would like to have,

do you mean?”

“That is exactly what I do mean,” replied the detective. “Moreover, I

have it right here, in my pocket.”

“A photograph of yourself?”

“No. Not exactly,” smiled Nick Carter. “I don’t suppose he’d care for

that.”

“I don’t agree with you there,” dissented Leslie. “But what is it you

have?”

Nick dived into one of his coat pockets and brought out a round object

wrapped in a cloth.

“Here is something that I am sure Lord Slava would like to have. In

fact, I consider it belongs to him more than to any one else. I took it

to keep as a memento of this trip through India and of the people of

the Land of the Golden Scarab. But I willingly give it up.”

He unrolled the cloth, and held up the shriveled head he had taken from

the cavern of the old witch doctor whom they had surprised hanging over

a brazier and caldron more than a week before.

Jefferson Arnold and his son both backed away and looked incredulously

at Nick Carter—disgustedly, in fact.

“What in thunder would he want such a thing as that for?” roared

Jefferson. “I can’t bear to look at it.”

“Perhaps not. But don’t forget that this is the head of Prince Tillo,

an uncle of Lord Slava’s. Different people have different ideas, my

dear Arnold,” continued Nick Carter impressively. “I believe that if

Lord Slava had this mummified head to hang in the temple at Shangore,

he would be better pleased than with anything else you could give him.

Suppose you ask the captain of his guard over there.”

After some persuasion, Jefferson Arnold followed Nick’s advice. The

eagerness with which the soldier took the grisly relic told them they

had hit on the right thing.

“Lord Slava would have given many jewels for this,” he said. “May I

take it to him?”

“You certainly may,” answered Jefferson, trying to hide a grimace of

disgust. “With my compliments, and the gratitude of both my son and

myself.”

* * * * *

It was three months later, when Nick Carter and his two assistants sat

in the handsome library in Nick Carter’s home in Madison Avenue, New

York, that the detective asked Patsy what the little three-cornered

plate of gold was that he had seen in his hand the night before.

Patsy grinned.

“It is a relic of our trip into Shangore, in the Himalayas,” he

replied. “I grabbed it before we left that amphitheater after all the

fuss. I found it in the sand.”

“Well, but what is it?”

“Only one of the scales from the Golden Scarab. I was going to have it

mounted in a frame, to hang up in the library. It was to be a present

to you from Chick and myself.”

“I shall be very glad to accept it,” smiled Nick Carter. “It will help

me to realize, when I look at it, that all that adventure in Shangore

was not a dream.”

THE END.

The next issue of the NICK CARTER STORIES, No. 136, out April 17th,

will contain “The Man They Held Back; or, Nick Carter’s Other Self.”

The plot of the story revolves around the machinations of a gang of

counterfeiters, whose ramifications reach far and wide. The great

detective, however, matches wits with the makers of “the queer,” and

the methods he pursues in breaking up the gang, and in bringing its

members to justice makes a story that you will thoroughly enjoy.

Dared for Los Angeles.

By ROLAND ASHFORD PHILLIPS.

(This interesting story was commenced in No. 134 of NICK CARTER

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

the publishers.)

CHAPTER VI.

AN ADDED DISCOVERY.

After supper in the main shack with the others of the constructing

force, Nash sought the seclusion of his own little cabin. His trunks

had been brought up from San Fernando several days earlier, but until

now he had not had time to unpack them. The cabin had but one room,

and this he decorated with some photographs, magazine prints, and some

articles of a personal interest.

He made an old box into a bookcase, and upon the shelves arrayed

his treasured volumes. These were principally books on engineering

and travel, although scattered among them might be found a favorite

adventure story or two, several bound collections of verse, and a bulky

dictionary. To the books of poetry he added the copy belonging to the

vagrant he had met that memorable day in Los Angeles.

“A down-and-outer with a batch of Kipling’s ballads,” he muttered to

himself, as he picked the book from his trunk. “That’s a contrast for

you.” He sat down before the improvised bookcase and read through

some of the swinging verse. “Better than a tonic,” he murmured later,

looking at the clock and discovering he had been lost for nearly two

hours. “I don’t think that vag ever owned this book. Probably found it

in the park, or lifted it from a pocket. I wonder if he——”

He stopped so abruptly that an observer might have thought a hand had

gripped his throat. A strange, unpleasant thrill raced up his spine;

his eyes remained glued to the half-blank page he had inadvertently

turned.

There, across the white space, in a thin, angular hand, was written:

“To Walter Trask, from his Sister Ethel. Christmas, 1911.”

For a minute Nash stared at the writing, his thoughts galloping far

away—far beyond the miles of mountain ranges, beyond the limitless

stretch of prairie, where, for the moment, he lived over again that

black hour in the bunk house. Mentally he recalled the shouts, the

questioning voices, the sharp crack of a revolver fired in the closed

room. Then the mêlée of fists—the still, deathlike face of the man on

the floor——

Nash drew in a deep breath and passed a quick hand across his eyes.

“What a small world it is, after all!” he reflected. This little

volume, picked from the pocket of an unfortunate, had belonged to

Walter Trask. What strange trick of Destiny had willed it here, in

Nash’s hands?

He closed the book and placed it among the others. “I wonder,” he said

aloud, staring ahead of him with unseeing eyes, “how it is all to end?

There’s a little rhyme somewhere—Kipling’s, too—that reads: ‘The sins

men do, two by two, come back to them one by one.’”

He got into bed that night with a solemn resolution to banish forever

the past from his thoughts. The things that had happened were buried,

and all the post-mortem examinations ever devised would not help

matters.

Here he was to-day, with a shoulder to the wheel, his quota of

strength helping, with the thousand others, to push to completion this

wonderful aqueduct that the City of Angels might be supplied with cold,

crystal-clear water from the realms of eternal snow. The immensity and

daring of the project thrilled him; day by day it grew; day by day he

gloried in the thought that he was to contribute a mite toward the

great achievement.

CHAPTER VII.

GETTING ACQUAINTED.

Nash accepted his new responsibilities in a manner that won him instant

favor, not alone from his superiors, but from the men under him—the

motley siftings of many races. And in turn Nash interested himself in

their welfare. Knowing that as a chain is only as strong as its weakest

link, so he knew that a body of men, striving for one end, must, work

collectively and without friction to reach that goal.

In the beginning, he determined upon a certain amount of work to be

completed in a daily shift. He took the men into his confidence—made

them feel a part of his responsibility—encouraged them to strike a

record and never fall short of it. Nor was it an easy victory, this

final whipping into line—with kindness and consideration instead of

the usual oaths and doubled fists—of the passive Hindus, the silent,

stolid-faced Japs, the crafty, catlike Mexicans, and the cheerful,

singing Italians. But it was accomplished, and in time Nash became

known as possessing the best working crew on the length of the aqueduct.

Hooker said to him one day: “Nash, you’re doing more work and better

work with half the number of men than Macmillan did with a full

crew—and in a third the time. There’s a hundred-dollar bonus coming to

you for last month’s construction.”

The aqueduct being a municipal undertaking, the city of Los Angeles

awarded a bonus each month to the foreman under whose direction more

than the average amount of work was done. The thought that his gang had

won out over all the others on the whole construction was a feather

in Nash’s cap, and he felt as proud as though he had won a million.

When the money was presented to him, he took it and distributed the

sum among the men. Encouraged by this gift, they won for him the bonus

during the following two months.

During all this period, devoting every thought to his work, Nash was

irritated by Hooker’s peculiar manner—his sly questioning, veiled

suggestions, and his continual drunken sprees. While no liquor was

allowed in any of the camps, the foreman kept his own cabin well

stocked, and when a man wanted a drink he knew just where to get it.

Realizing the exposure which would surely come, Nash spoke to the

foreman about it, but gained nothing more than a wink and a slap on the

back.

“What the devil, Nash!” he would say. “A man’s got to have a little

recreation. I’m built for so much work and so much play. Nothing like a

little redeye to cheer a fellow up. Blamed sorry you won’t join in the

fun.”

“It’s against the city regulations,” Nash said. “The inspectors will

get wise one of these days. Then your head will go in the basket.”

But Hooker waved aside all the arguments. “I’m running Camp

Forty-seven, Nash, and I’m pretty particular as to who I’m treating.

Besides, Sigsbee knows just what is going on—and he looks the other

way. Oh, Sigsbee is a live one, he is.”

The mention of Sigsbee’s name brought a flood of recollections upon

Nash. Hitherto he had fought shy of this man—the mysterious person who

had signed the letter that gained him his position—not because he was

afraid, but because he did not care to muddle up the affair should it

come to answering questions.

Hooker took it for granted that Nash knew Sigsbee, and all his

conversation was based on this fact. Many a time Nash was puzzled as

to the proper answer to give when the subject was brought up, but so

far had managed very nicely to thwart any suspicion which the foreman

might have entertained. That it could not last forever, Nash knew well

enough; but how it was to end, and where, and at what cost, was beyond

the horizon.

Being on intimate terms with Hooker, Nash marveled at the system that

prevailed in the matter of engaging help. The newcomer stood no chance

in the world unless he brought with him a note signed with that magic

name of Sigsbee. The common laborers, however, were the one exception

to this ironbound rule.

With the foreman, it was: “Sigsbee wants this,” and “Sigsbee wouldn’t

stand for that,” and very often “Sigsbee is the live wire on this

aqueduct deal.” Sometimes he was referred to as “the old man.”

One evening, while visiting in Hooker’s cabin and checking up some of

the work already completed, the foreman handed a newspaper to Nash.

“The old man’s getting to be a real sport,” he said, laughing. “Look

what the Los Angeles _Times_ has to say about his dinner party.”

Nash read the item:

“A novel and delightful slumming party was given last night in honor

of the eldest daughter of Jim Sigsbee, the well-known politician. The

party of thirty were taken through Chinatown and afterward enjoyed a

supper in the underground quarters of Sing Foo, the Chinese mayor. To

add to the novelty, the guests were taken in automobiles to Long Beach,

where the braver members indulged in a midnight swim.”

Nash joined in the foreman’s laugh. “Society in the West is getting as

hard up for novelties as the crowd at Newport,” he ventured, returning

the paper.

Later, however, as he bid Hooker good night and strolled slowly across

to his own shack, he had drawn one conclusion that started him on the

right path, at least.

“Sigsbee is a well-known Los Angeles politician,” he told himself,

quoting the line from the newspaper item. “And his family stands

well in society. The question is now: What has he to do with Camp

Forty-seven?”

Nash let himself into the shack, and, divesting himself of some of his

clothes, sat down beside the window and took in the view of the valley.

The brilliant moonlight flooded the land with silver.

“The aqueduct is a municipal affair,” he replied, bringing up all

the facts in the case. “Sigsbee is a prominent politician. Engages

personally all the better class of help on Camp Forty-seven. All the

bills are paid from the Los Angeles treasury.”

A sudden idea flashed over him, but it seemed so preposterous that he

laughed it away.

“I can’t afford to worry too much about Sigsbee,” he said. “I’ll do the

best I know how with the job I have, and if it comes to a show-down,

I’ll confess the truth about the letter.”

CHAPTER VIII.

ON THE FIFTEENTH.

For several weeks after this, things ran on smoothly. Nash progressed

swiftly with his work, the usual perfect California weather prevailed,

and Hooker remained sober.

One day the foreman left for Los Angeles on business, returning the

same evening. The moment he caught sight of him, Nash’s heart sank.

Hooker was so intoxicated that two of the office employees had to carry

him from the wagon to his cabin.

“I thought you were going to cut out this sort of thing,” Nash said,

helping the foreman into the room.

“Well—I jus’ couldn’t help it,” struggled Hooker. “I was—in town

all—day. Saw—saw Sigsbee. We—had a glorious—time—so—so pleasant, the

old man—is.”

“Do you know what day of the month this is?” asked Nash.

“Day of—the month?” repeated Hooker, smiling and shaking his head.

“Sure—sure I do! It’s—Monday, ain’t it?”

“It’s the fifteenth, too. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“Fifteenth?” Hooker lifted his head, making a futile attempt to hold it

steady. “What’s—that——”

“This is inspection day, Hooker. You knew it. The city inspector is

below, in Forty-six. He’ll be here in another hour. You’ve got to brace

up. Understand me? I’ll make you some hot coffee, and you take it down

black.”

“’S’all right,” the foreman gulped. “Don’t worry. I’m—I’m not drunk.

I’ve fooled ’em before—sure I have.” His head fell back upon the

pillow, and he mumbled something to himself.

“If they find you in this condition, you know what it’ll mean, Hooker.”

Nash busied himself right away, leaving the foreman in charge of

another man, while he hurried over to the kitchen and got a can of

strong, black coffee.

“Get this down, Hooker,” he commanded firmly.

The foreman, who apparently had aroused himself to the necessity of

immediate action, took a deep draft of the coffee.

“Ah-h!” he breathed finally. “That’s good. I’ll—be all—right. Jus’ let

me—sleep for a few minutes.”

He fell asleep at once. Meanwhile, Nash joined the supper crowd, ate

his meal in silence, and promptly returned to where the foreman was

slumbering.

The city inspector put in an appearance at eight o’clock, driving down

from Camp Forty-six. Warned of his coming, Nash attempted to arouse

Hooker, but failed absolutely. The foreman was dead to the world. Nash

was always a quick thinker, but at this particular instant his brain

worked at double time.

The inspector always examined the books of the camp, checked off the

supplies, the pay roll, and the expense account, taking duplicate

copies into Los Angeles. Hooker had always attended to this, being in

full charge of the camp. Now, with the foreman in a drunken sleep,

there was but one thing to do—and Nash set out to accomplish it.

He admitted the inspector to the large room in front, which served as

an office.

“Where’s Hooker?” was the first question of the inspector.

“Very sorry, sir, but the foreman isn’t at all well,” Nash explained.

“Has been under the weather all day, and just an hour or so ago we got

him asleep. I don’t think there will be any necessity of calling him. I

can check over the lists with you.”

“Not just the usual thing to do,” snapped the inspector irritably. “But

I guess it’s the only way out of the difficulty. Besides, I want to

drive on down to Forty-five before midnight—so we may as well begin.”

He removed his hat and coat, while Nash brought out the books and

the voucher files and the pay roll. These the inspector went over

critically and with a speed that suggested years of experience in

similar work. When he came to a snag, Nash helped him out. Nash was

surprised at his own familiarity with the details of construction, and

more than once the inspector turned upon him a sharp, quizzical glance.

Finally, after checking over an endless row of figures, the man said:

“What’s your position here?”

“I’m subforeman under Mr. Hooker.”

“Duties?”

“In charge of the conduit construction.”

The inspector reflected a moment. “Wasn’t that Macmillan’s position?”

he asked.

“Until a month or so ago,” Nash said. “Hooker dismissed him for

incompetency.”

“So?” The inspector frowned, and appeared surprised. However, he asked

no more questions.

“We’ll take the pay rolls now,” he said sharply, lapsing back into his

former impersonal and businesslike way.

Nash produced the book and began to call off the different gangs, the

numbers they went under, and the total wage list each subforeman was

responsible for. He reached his own name, called out the four figures

down on the sheet—then hesitated.

“What’s that again?” asked the inspector.

“Five thousand four hundred and eighty,” Nash read slowly, still

puzzling over the discovery.

“Five thousand four hundred and eighty—O.K.,” repeated the other. Then,

pen suspended in air, he said:

“That’s your own gang, isn’t it? What are you stumbling over the

figures for?”

“I—the figures are blotted. I couldn’t just make them out,” Nash

answered.

The inspector grunted, and called for the next set. Another hour, and

the inspection was over. The city representative thrust the sheaf of

papers into his pocket, and hurriedly donned his coat and hat.

“Wonder how Hooker is by this time?” he asked.

Nash opened a door in the rear and peered into the darkened chamber.

The inspector pushed past and walked to the bed.

“Hum-m-m!” he grunted. “He sure sleeps. Guess we won’t disturb him.

Tell him everything’s O.K., will you?”

“Yes, sir,” Nash responded, thankful that the worst was over. He

followed the man outside to where his team waited, bid him good night,

and watched as the light buggy disappeared up the cañon road.

After that Nash returned to the office and went through a certain

section of the pay rolls, comparing the added figures with the ones put

down in his own book.

At the end of an hour he tiptoed in, saw that Hooker was still

sleeping; then, blowing out the lamp, he closed the door and walked

slowly over to his own cabin. Sleep, for the remainder of the night,

was an impossibility. The Unexpected had landed a heavy blow.

CHAPTER IX.

IN THE MORNING.

The next day Hooker was both sober and repentant. He seemed to remember

faintly what had transpired the night previous; and when Nash had

finished breakfast, he called him aside.

“How did you make out last night, Nash?” he asked apprehensively. “Did

you trip on anything?”

Nash had fully determined to see the foreman the first thing in the

morning, and was glad of this opportunity to speak of the matter.

“Just what do you mean by that?”

“Why, wasn’t old Boyer, the inspector, here?”

“He was.”

“Well, how did you get around the affair? I was dead to the world,

wasn’t I? What did the old crab say?”

“I explained matters as best I could,” Nash answered. “Said you were

ill—which wasn’t a lie—and told him I’d pitch in and help him on the

books.”

“What was the report?”

“He said everything was O.K.”

The foreman breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s something to be

thankful for. You’re a brick, Nash! You certainly know how to handle

some things.”

Nash accepted the praise, such as it was, without replying. The only

thing that had been troubling him since the inspector’s departure

leaped to his tongue.

“Do you know how many men are under me, Hooker?” he inquired.

“Why, I suppose so. Don’t you? Don’t the books show?”

“Yes, the books show—but they don’t balance with mine.”

The foreman allowed a frown to creep around his lips; his brow

wrinkled. “What are you getting at, Nash?”

“I checked off the pay roll to Boyer last night,” Nash said. “Your

books credit my department with something greater than five thousand

dollars. There’s a mistake, of course. I allowed it to go at the time,

because I wasn’t absolutely certain until I compared the totals with my

own memoranda.”

During their conversation, they had gradually left the big dining hall

and had covered perhaps a quarter of a mile in the direction of Nash’s

operations. This last remark, delivered in such a matter-of-fact tone

by Nash, brought Hooker to an abrupt halt.

“Your memoranda?” exclaimed the foreman. “Say, what are you driving at,

Nash?”

“I’m trying to convince myself that those figures on the pay roll,

which the inspector accepted as O.K., are mistakes—unintentional

mistakes.”

“Are you serious?” demanded Hooker.

“I certainly am.”

“Do you mean to tell me that my books are—are off color?”

“I’d hate to believe it, Hooker,” Nash answered.

The foreman appeared to be dumfounded. “What—what sort of a memorandum

have you been keeping?” he asked.

“A personal one,” said Nash. “I always believed in a system. I want to

know what each of my men is accomplishing. I want to know just how much

money I am spending for the city of Los Angeles, and what I am giving

in return. One thing is absolutely certain: My salary list has never

reached half the sum that you have me credited for.”

Hooker calmly folded his arms and stared at the speaker. “Nash,” he

said, “do you remember what I said to you the first day we met?”

“I believe it was something about knowing when to shut my mouth, wasn’t

it?”

“Exactly. I said I admired you because you seemed to be sensible,

because you possessed a valuable asset in your silence. It seems my

ideals are shattered.”

“Hooker,” Nash replied frankly, “I’m a native of Los Angeles. I love

that city, and I’m going to protect its interests. I haven’t any

authority over you, or over your dealings. I can only concern myself

with the things——”

“Why didn’t you say you were a local man, in the first place?”

interrupted the foreman. “I understood you came from New York.”

“I did come from there. But I was born and lived twenty-two years in

Los Angeles. I’ve had enough experience in the engineering line to put

me wise to a great many tricks, Hooker. This isn’t the first time I’ve

bucked up against the same game.”

“Game?” retorted Hooker, his face clouding. “What the——”

“Yes, game!” Nash snapped out the word. “And padding the pay roll isn’t

a very original one, either.”

CHAPTER X.

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS.

An interruption at this critical moment put an end to further

argument. One of the subforemen, with a roll of blue prints, engaged

Hooker’s attention, and Nash, aware of the time, and of the fact that

considerable work had to be accomplished that day, abruptly turned

away, leaving the foreman to brood over the dénouement.

Since the discovery last night, Nash had not allowed the affair to

blind him; he had looked at the situation in the fairest possible

light. Coming so abruptly, it stunned him at first. He had always

imagined Hooker, while quarrelsome and quick-tempered at times, to

stand for what was honorable—especially in a business way. Even after a

careful comparison of the ledger with his own memorandum, Nash tried to

believe that it had been a mistake—a slip of the pen turning the figure

3 into a 5. He even assured himself that once explained, the foreman

would rectify the error immediately.

It was only now, after the short conversation with Hooker, that Nash

realized the truth. The figures in the ledger, O.K.’d by the city

inspector, were far from being mistakes; they had been placed there

deliberately, and with but one intent: namely, to defraud the city.

These facts were with Nash the rest of the day, but he tried hard not

to allow them to interfere with his work. When the screech of the

steam shovel sounded at five o’clock, he finished with the task at

hand, saw that the regular preparations for the night were made, and

then returned to camp, going direct to his shack, without a glimpse of

Hooker.

He was a trifle dubious as to the final outcome of the affair, and was

glad, an hour or so later, when he saw the foreman coming up the path.

“Hello, Nash!” was the greeting. “How’s the work progressing?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Nash answered, wondering at the other’s tone and

manner.

Hooker came in and sat down. He rolled himself a cigarette and lighted

it before going on.

“Do you know, Nash,” he said, “you’re the best man I’ve ever employed

on a job—and I’ve been in the business twenty years.” He blew out

a cloud of smoke and watched it drift through the open door into

the lowering twilight. “I’m anxious to help you along, too,” Hooker

continued. “I’ve put you down on the list for a raise in salary.”

Nash leaned back in his chair and gazed quietly into the other’s partly

obscured face.

“Thank you, Hooker. I have tried my best to please you—and the ones

higher up. That’s why I called your attention to the—certain figures in

the ledger.”

The foreman turned his face quickly, snatching the cigarette from

between his lips.

“Are you still harping on that?” he demanded irritably. “I thought we’d

settled it this morning.”

“It had only started then,” Nash replied. “I told you—or meant to tell

you—that as long as I was a subforeman I wouldn’t allow any crooked

work to go on in my department. I don’t know what is going on in the

other divisions; I’m not expected to—but I’m responsible for the

conduit construction work, and it’s got to be on the level.”

“You’re putting it pretty strong,” Hooker returned, realizing now that

all pretense had to be thrown aside.

“I hope I do. The stronger the better.”

“You’d sacrifice a good job just because your eyes are too confounded

sharp, eh?”

“Put it that way if you will,” Nash said quietly. “I have no authority

over the dozen or more other departments, but the conduit work, bearing

my O.K., must be clean and aboveboard.”

“See here, Nash,” burst out Hooker, “what’s got into you? I thought you

had sense—I thought you were wise to some things. Sigsbee must have

thought so, or he wouldn’t have asked me to put you to work. The old

man seldom makes a mistake.”

The mention of that politician’s name sent Nash’s mind racing again. It

was on the tip of his tongue to confess everything, when a totally new

idea swept over him. He was still considering it when the foreman began

talking again.

“I like you, Nash,” he said. “You’re a good worker, and in many ways

you’ve exceeded my expectations. But you lack—er—well, we might call it

tact.”

Nash smiled. “I think I displayed a little of that quality when I

prevented the inspector from learning the truth about you last night,

Hooker.”

The foreman shrugged. “Of course,” he admitted reluctantly. “In all

probability, you saved me my job—and I’m grateful. But I hate to see a

smart fellow like you lose out because you’re so—finical.”

“Finical?” Nash delivered the question leaning forward in his chair,

the lines of his strong face set grimly, resolutely. Hooker’s features

were indistinct now in the gloom; only the red end of his cigarette

alternately glowed and died away. “You know better than that, Hooker.

You’re giving your aid to a piece of dirty work—and inwardly I’m sure

you’re ashamed. I can’t help you. I’ll leave to-morrow if you say so.

I’m on the square, and I want others to be. This game hits me harder

because it is aimed against the city of my birth. I was born in Los

Angeles, and I’m proud of it. You’re cheating every one of its three

hundred thousand citizens. They’re building this aqueduct, and they

expect every man to do his duty.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Hooker. “You’re ringing in sentiment. It always

did amuse me the way you natives blow your own horns. What the devil do

you suppose the city of Los Angeles cares about you? Take it from me,

Nash, sentiment and business don’t mix worth a cent.”

“Your opinions and mine differ on more than one subject,” Nash replied

dryly.

Hooker tossed away his cigarette with a show of annoyance.

“You’re a mystery to me, Nash,” he declared.

Nash lighted the big lamp on the table before he answered:

“I don’t know why I should be. Is it because I——”

A broad, trembling beam of white danced through the uncurtained window,

interrupting his speech. Both men turned instinctively. Hooker, the

nearest to the window, suddenly exclaimed:

“That’s an automobile headlight! Now, who do you suppose would be fool

enough to tackle these roads at this time of night?”

A big machine swept into view by this time, and both men left the shack

and walked toward it.

The car was of the roadster type, and was occupied by one man, who,

instantly he caught sight of Nash and Hooker, lifted a questioning

shout:

“Hello! That you, Hooker?”

Hooker stifled an exclamation, and hurried forward, Nash following

calmly. The man in the car had stepped out and was talking hurriedly

to the foreman. As Nash came up, standing within the white glow of the

twin headlights, Hooker turned.

“Guess you two gentlemen are acquainted, aren’t you?” he said, smiling.

Nash looked steadily into the stranger’s face.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the honor,” he answered.

Hooker turned swiftly to the other. “Why, you surely know Nash, don’t

you?”

“Can’t say as I’ve ever met him before,” was the reply.

Hooker fell back as if some one had struck him across the face.

“Do you mean—mean to say,” he stammered, “that you two have never met

before?”

“I guess that’s about the size of it,” announced the stranger.

Hooker was speechless. Nash looked from one to the other of the men,

waiting patiently—not a little curiously, too—for the introduction that

did not come.

Finally, with a shrug of indifference, the stranger turned back to the

machine.

“I’m in a big hurry, Hooker,” he snapped. “I want to see you right

away. Can you spare me a little time?”

“Of course,” the foreman replied dully, as if his mind was a dozen

miles away from the subject.

Realizing that he was the unwelcome third party, Nash whirled about and

went back to his shack. The moment he was out of hearing, the foreman

and the stranger left the machine standing in the road and walked

across to Hooker’s cabin.

“What the devil’s all this fuss about?” the newcomer burst out.

“I’ll explain in just a second,” Hooker answered. “I want to arrange

one matter before then.”

They stepped into the big room of the cabin. Hooker lighted a lamp

and pulled down the curtains. Then, without a word to his visitor, he

jerked the receiver from the telephone and called for a certain person.

“Hello!” he snapped presently, in a hard, tense voice. “That you,

Martin? This is Hooker. Now, listen to what I’m saying: I want you

to come up here immediately. Understand? I want you to keep an eye

on Nash, and see that he doesn’t try to get away from the camp.

I’m holding you directly responsible. You must not let him out of

your sight until you hear from me. Get that? And if it comes to a

show-down—well, you know what to do. Remember all of that?”

The response must have been satisfactory, because Hooker immediately

hung up the receiver and turned a relieved face toward the other

occupant of the room.

“Now I’ll explain,” he said.

CHAPTER XI.

THE CRISIS.

The two men, secure in the big, lamp-lighted room, stared expectantly

into one another’s eyes. Hooker was trembling, his face white, despite

the tan. He attempted to roll a cigarette before beginning, but his

fingers refused to obey. The other man appeared to be more annoyed than

otherwise.

“Do you insist that you never before saw that man who was with me

to-night?” the foreman asked.

“Never.”

“Then how did he happen to have a letter, signed by you, asking that I

give him a position?”

“A letter from me?” The other man—it was Jim Sigsbee himself—allowed a

frown to creep between his eyes.

“Yes, from you,” affirmed Hooker. “Of course, I didn’t ask questions. I

put him to work. He was a clever man. He’s now in charge of the conduit

construction.”

“What is his name?”

“Elliot Nash. At least, that’s what he wanted me to call him.”

“Well, what’s the excitement? You look as if you’d received a ten-year

sentence to the pen!”

“Well,” returned Hooker, leaning nearer the politician, his face

working strangely in the yellow lamplight, “that’s just what I want to

avoid. That’s why I called up Martin a minute ago. I wanted to be on

the safe side.”

Sigsbee’s interest increased.

“Well, come out with the whole story,” he said. “I can stand for it.

What’s wrong?”

“The inspector—Boyer—was here last night. I was—was ill. Couldn’t see

him as usual. Nash happened around and checked over the books with him.”

Sigsbee was breathing faster now.

“Well, well, go on!”

“This Nash is a systematic chap. Kept a memorandum of everything in his

department. He’s wise to the pay-roll game.”

“You shouldn’t have allowed him to see——”

“Allowed him?” Hooker interrupted bitterly. “What else was I to do?

Didn’t he have a letter from you? How was I to know? I thought of

course you knew the man, and that he was wise to things. That’s why I

trusted him in a dozen different ways.”

The politician was beginning to share the foreman’s uneasiness.

“Did he come to you after he found out about the pay-roll figures?” he

asked.

“Yes. He said he thought at first it was a mistake in the bookkeeping.

I imagined he was joking. When I found he was serious, I began to get

worried.”

“Has he threatened?”

“Not exactly. But he intends to resign unless his department is run

on the square. Handed me a bunch of stuff about being a native of Los

Angeles, and how he dreaded to see its citizens get the little end of

the deal.”

“Why not let him resign?” Sigsbee said, after a moment’s hesitation.

“It’ll save explaining, and clear our minds a bit——”

Hooker broke in angrily: “Look here, Sigsbee, you’re a sensible man.

Hasn’t it occurred to you that possibly some one suspects our game and

has taken this method of getting the goods on us? We don’t know how

Nash got that letter, but in all probability it was just a part of a

well-laid scheme. It gave him the opportunity of working on the job and

getting the proofs firsthand.”

“I hadn’t looked at it in that light,” Sigsbee said, plainly affected

by the foreman’s statement. “But it sounds reasonable enough. I’ve

been uneasy myself for the past month or so. There’s something in the

air—that ominous calm before a storm possibly. Somehow, every time I

step into the city hall I expect a hand to descend upon my shoulder.

The evening papers are hinting about the amount of money being spent. I

don’t know where it’ll all end.”

“I know,” vehemently declared Hooker. “It’ll be a change of clothes and

a State boarding house—all without cost to us.”

“Things are looking serious, Hooker, but——” Sigsbee remained buried in

thought for the time. Finally he resumed: “Are you satisfied that Nash

is a city spotter?”

“Doesn’t all the evidence point that way?”

Sigsbee had to admit it did. “I’d like to know how he came in

possession of my letter,” he went on. “If he found it and needed a job,

and took that method of obtaining it—we’re still safe. But if it was

all a cleverly worked-out scheme, such as you seem to believe—well,

things look doubtful.”

“I don’t think the news has gone beyond this camp,” Hooker ventured to

hint. “There’s some consolation in that, eh?”

Sigsbee’s eyes came up swiftly. “You mean we might prevent him from——”

He broke off.

“Why not? Desperate cases demand desperate measures. It doesn’t seem

right that one man should deprive us of all our reward. Now, if he was

only out of the way——”

“We’re in too deep right now,” the politician broke in. “What you

suggest would only bring the police and the reporters about us.”

Hooker laughed mirthlessly. “What did I suggest?”

“Why, you said——” the other began.

“Don’t you know, on jobs of this kind, Sigsbee, that a dozen accidents

happen every day? Do you know that we’ll average a dozen deaths a month

right here in this camp? A steam shovel breaks, or some chain slips, or

maybe there’s a rock slide. If you say the word, I’m sure Martin could

arrange everything.”

“That would be very well,” Sigsbee said, weighing the matter calmly,

“if we were positive of two things: That Nash is not a spotter, and

that he alone knows of our affairs.”

Hooker walked slowly up and down the room, his hands clenched at his

sides. Sigsbee, huddled in a chair before the table, watched him

narrowly.

“We’ve had smooth sailing for three years,” the foreman said, at

length. “And at the best we could only have one more year—possibly

eighteen months. I’d like to wash my hands of the whole affair.”

“I’m with you there,” responded Sigsbee. “I’d like to drop the

game—drop it before we’re shown up.”

“Well, what’s to prevent it?” asked Hooker, pausing beside the other’s

chair. “Why can’t we?”

“We’re in deep—infernally deep,” Sigsbee said gravely. “I’m afraid

they’d trace it back. You know, I haven’t the best of reputations

since that affair in Chinatown. Once let the rumor get out, and have

the newspaper fellows nosing around——” He paused and shrugged. “I’ve

a family to consider, too. If Nash should meet with an accident,

such as you’ve suggested, how do we know but there might be a dozen

others—friends, possibly, who’d out with the story? If he’s a spotter,

he’s no fool.”

“Why not pass a little of the long green before his eyes?” the foreman

spoke up swiftly. “Most of us fall for that.”

But Sigsbee shook his head. For some time he was steeped in thought,

staring across at the opposite wall, his fat white fingers toying with

his watch chain.

“Do you suppose this man would visit me in the city?” he asked, at

length.

“I suppose so,” moodily responded Hooker. “Why?”

“Will you ask him to call to-morrow at my office?”

“If you insist. But I tell you, Sigsbee, it’s playing with fire. One

little word from him, and the whole town would be up in arms. We’ve got

him safe as it is. Martin won’t let him get out of camp. I don’t see

why we want to——”

“I’ll see him at my office to-morrow at two o’clock,” Sigsbee

interrupted, heedless of the other’s protests. “And as for you, Hooker,

maybe I’ll give you the vacation you wanted.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

SOUND SLEEPERS.

Mr. Boyle says that it is one of the amusements of West Africa to show

strangers how a Fantee boy can sleep. A friend of his wishing to rouse

some servants and send them to close the shutters and lock the doors,

said to him:

“I’ll show you something which you wouldn’t believe on hearsay.”

Thereon he grasped a boy by the heels, dragged him a yard or so, turned

him over, and roughly lifted him to a sitting posture; the youth sat

up, rubbed his eyes, scratched his head, and went to sleep again. To

another he did the same, with a like result.

Having thus got the two alongside, fast asleep, he dragged one on top

of the other, and left them a moment; they slumbered placidly in that

position. He then ran amuck at them, being in slippers, and upset

the pair, and ordered them loudly to close the shutters. They both

got up, eyes wide open, and apparently conscious; one walked gravely

downstairs, the other retired, with all semblance of reason, to the

pantry alongside.

The one who went down came up again in two minutes, still with his eyes

wide open, and leisurely lay down to sleep again; the other we found

fast snoozing in the pantry on a stool. We took them up, and shook them

violently; they rubbed themselves, and went to sleep again.

Dragging them into the dining room, without a word, they silently set

about their work, fastening shutters and doors.

“Do you think they are awake?” asked my friend. “Tell them to get you

something.”

I did so. No response. I repeated the order. They quietly went back,

their work completed, and dropped asleep upon their mats. Fast

stupefied with sleep all the time!

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Chickens on Spotted Mule.

L.E. Richard, of Game, Mo., has a spotted mule that is gentle on all

occasions. During the cold spell Mr. Richard’s dozen chickens have been

roosting on Maud’s back. They do this, it is supposed, to keep their

feet warm. The mule wanders around the premises and doesn’t seem to

be annoyed because the chickens prefer to use him as a roost, and the

chickens appear to enjoy their ride very much.

Stood on His Head in a Barrel.

Major Simon Pratt, a battle-scarred veteran of more bloody fields than

any G.A.R. man in Waldo County, Me., who lost part of an ear, two toes,

and a thumb, came near ending his eventful life in a most unsoldierly

way. Although he is seventy-eight years old and weighs more than 200

pounds, he is able to be of some help around the place.

He reached into a barrel to get a hen that had nested in it, and

pitched headfirst. His grandson and a chum, who happened to be near,

were not strong enough to get the major out, but they located a block

and tackle near by and by making a hitch around the veteran’s ankles,

succeeded in hoisting him out.

“Me No Clare,” Says Sam.

When a gas stove exploded in the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant in

Grand Rapids, Mich., a skillet in which a cook was frying four eggs

was hurled a distance of fifteen feet across the room, and the handle

penetrated a wall. After the excitement had died down it was found

that the yolks of the eggs in the skillet were unbroken and the cook,

Sam Gee Lee by name, immediately placed the pan on another blaze and

finished the order.

When Sam was asked if he wasn’t scared when the stove suddenly shot

toward the ceiling in countless sections, he is said to have replied:

“Me cookee on big whale slip. Blig glun go bloom—cr-r-r-up—bloom! Me no

clare. Cookee allee samee. No cookee, no mon. Sabe?”

“Spook” With Claws Disturbs the Town.

The people of Ithan, a suburb of Philadelphia, Pa., have appealed to

the Radnor Township police to rid the community of a “queer thing,”

dressed like a woman, which prowls about lonely roads late at night and

chases men.

Men who have been chased describe the “queer thing” as something very

spooky. They say it wears black clothes, a thick, black veil, and has

clawlike hands.

Jesse Whitman, who alleges that he was chased one Tuesday night,

described his experience as follows:

“It was about twelve-five a. m., and I was passing Chandler’s

springhouse on Willis Road when it stepped out from the shadows and

stalked along behind me. When I hurried, it hurried, and when I slowed

up, it slowed up. But it kept getting nearer all the time, and in a

minute I was scared out of a year’s growth.

“The thing came alongside of me and laid one of its hands on my arm.

It gave a kind of grunt and my hair stood right up straight. It was

then that I started to run, and I kept running for two miles.”

Gypsy Queen’s Body Lies Long in State.

The queen of the gypsies is dead. Lying in a costly mahogany casket,

her body bedecked with jewels and ancient gold coins, it was being

viewed by scores of members of the nomadic tribe.

Mrs. Callie Mitchell, wife of Emil Mitchell, as the pair are known

in the States, died at Lolita, Ark., and her remains were taken to

Meridian, Miss., to be held until all the wandering nomads might come

to view the body. Hundreds have arrived so far.

Emil Mitchell, the king of the tribe, came to this country with his

queen from Brazil seventeen years ago, and his followers, about

eighty, were mostly his relatives. All were Brazilian Indians, and

have multiplied numerously since. When the queen died, long-distance

telephone messages and telegrams were sent broadcast to all members of

the tribe, and now many wagons and caravans are hurrying to the place

to see the last of their queen.

A general council will decide the burial place, which will probably be

Cleveland, Ohio. No expense is being spared by the king to make the

funeral rival anything of its kind ever seen before. A solid mahogany

casket contains her body, which is covered with gold coins and jewels.

It is hoped to get every member of the tribe there in time to view the

body before it is sealed up.

Duck Now Acts as Watchman.

David Adington, of Hilliard, Ky., owns a duck that serves as a

watchdog. The duck was hatched with four legs and soon became a

curiosity. When strangers were in the Adington neighborhood, they would

always visit his place to see the duck. The bird became so sensitive

that whenever it heard any one coming it would run and hide, but

despite its efforts to escape, it was generally caught.

Then it changed its tactics, and when any one would approach, it would

begin quacking as loud as it could. Now, when any one enters the

back yard at night, the duck can be heard all over the neighborhood.

Adington has refused several nice sums of money for the duck.

A Wonderful Bedspread.

Stitches totaling 178,962,687 were made by Mrs. P.C. Gress, wife of an

Atchison, Kan., physician, in the making of a crocheted bedspread, on

display in a furniture store here. There are 555 squares in the spread,

each requiring 581 stitches. Other stitches necessary amount to 2,162.

It took Mrs. Gress a year to make the spread.

Kansas Has New Gas Blower.

What is claimed to be the greatest gas well ever developed in

Kansas sprang into record in Augusta. The flow is estimated at from

seventy-five to one hundred million cubic feet per day. So great is the

well that when the cap rock of the gas sand was penetrated, the tools

were blown out of the well several hundred feet into the air and the

derrick was demolished.

The Augusta gas and oil field is being developed rapidly, and to-day it

is second to none in Kansas, and there are over seventy good gas wells,

besides the oil wells which solve the fuel proposition here.

Horse Plunges Into Store.

Frightened when the cutter became stuck in the street car tracks, a

horse driven by Joseph Cone dashed up the sidewalk on the main street,

in Marquette, Mich., stopped in front of Stafford’s drug store, snorted

a couple of times, and plunged through the big plate-glass window in

front of the store. Arriving in the store, he gazed about, showed his

teeth in what looked like a grin, then slowly backed his way out and

returned to the street. The broken window was the only damage resulting

from the episode.

Victim of the Bad luck Jinx.

Life has proven one trouble after another for Lawson A. Dubel, of

Frederick, Md., who believes the bad-luck jinx has followed him more

persistently than any other man in this country. He must undergo an

operation for a growth on his eye. Recently a growth was removed from

the other eye. His other mishaps since childhood have been: Left hand

almost cut off, right arm broken, severely scalded, jaw broken, tramped

upon by a horse and three ribs broken, one ear torn off, and a hole

pierced in his head, left foot nearly cut off, kicked by a horse and

leg broken, pinned beneath a 1,500-pound derrick, and every rib broken

and both hips injured.

Boy Kills Panther in Fight.

Milton Coats, a seventeen-year-old boy, is at a Marked Tree, Ark.,

hospital here with a terribly lacerated body, due to a fight he had

with a mammoth panther.

Young Coats was hunting when the animal leaped from a tree and attacked

him. He fought it, but the wild beast overpowered him. As it sank its

teeth into his body, the boy managed to get out a hunting knife and cut

its throat.

Little Child Saves the Home.

When Police Sergeant Duley, of Tacoma, Wash., answered the telephone at

the Central Station the other night, a baby voice said: “I’s alone. My

papa and mamma is gone, and the stove is turned over. I’s afraid, and I

want you to come out here.”

The firemen found the smoke pouring from the doors of the home of

Andrew H. Stoltz, which was saved by the presence of mind of his

four-year-old boy. How the little fellow knew the police-station number

is a mystery, said the mother.

Girl Saves Drowning Man With Her Auto.

A young woman of rare presence of mind, an automobile tire, a rope, and

an automobile worked together to save the life of a man who was pulled

out of a deep pond just as he was becoming exhausted.

Miss Elsie Ditson, of Paterson, N.J., is the heroine of the story,

while William Young, of Jackson’s Mills, is the man in the case. Miss

Ditson was driving her automobile through Cedar Grove, near Caldwell,

N.J., when she passed the pond there and heard the shouts of a man in

distress.

She unstrapped an extra tire that she carried along, fastened to it a

rope, and then threw the tire to the struggling man in the pond. He

seized it and she tried to pull him out, but was unable to do so. Then

she tied the rope to the automobile and started it slowly away from the

pond. The man, clinging to the rope, was hauled out of the water. Then

Miss Ditson took him in her automobile to the home of her uncle, near

by. He said that he had been skating when the ice broke and threw him

into the water. His efforts to escape were vain, and he was becoming

numb from the cold when his rescuer appeared.

His Life Saved by Rubbers.

Because the sloppy condition of the city’s streets caused him to put

on a heavy pair of rubbers, David Taxin, of Monroe, Mich., is still

living. When he drove over some telephone wires lying on the street

and which were crossed by high-tension wires of the municipal electric

plant, his team of horses dropped dead. Taxin, thinking they had

slipped, got out of the rig and worked over them. Passers-by warned him

he was standing on wires carrying 2,300 volts.

Finds Silver Dollar of 1796.

Elmer Steele, of Lewes, Del., found a United States silver dollar

bearing the date 1796, while digging in sand near the Cape Henlopen

lighthouse. The coin is in excellent condition.

Bird Flies Over the Ocean.

A carrier pigeon dropped from the roof of a building in Wilkes-Barre,

Pa., and Fred Jacobs, who found it, discovered a message tied about the

bird’s neck, which evidently was the message of a German soldier in the

Belgium trenches to his wife. The message read as follows:

“DEAR WIFE: I am alive and well in the trenches in Belgium, but your

brother has been killed.”

That was all there was, not even a signature to denote the identity

of the man who wrote this little tragedy of war. The pigeon showed

evidence of long flight, and the injury to the wing seemed to have been

received shortly before the bird was picked up.

The message was written in English and wrapped in the heading of a

German newspaper, and the date mark of the paper was Saxony, Dec. ——,

the day of the month missing.

Interesting New Inventions.

A new iron-pipe fence post anchors itself as it is driven into the

ground, as the lower end is divided into four sections that separate.

In a costly watch that has been made for exhibition purposes there

is a wheel that makes a complete revolution only once in four years,

operating a dial that shows the years, months, and days.

Three different tones can be produced in a new automobile horn by

moving the bulb that supplies it with air to as many angles.

A valve is fitted to the bottom of a new cooking kettle so that water

may be drained from vegetables without endangering its user.

A Texas inventor’s hair-drying brush that is heated by electricity is

provided with a screen to prevent it burning the scalp.

The frame of a new bicycle is made long enough for a package carrier to

be mounted behind the handle bars.

The latest in the line of collapsible baby carriages folds into a box

resembling a suit case, for carrying.

A combination of mirror, comb, and identification card to be carried in

a person’s hat has been patented.

Scooping ’Em Up by Bushels.

Edward Ell and John Eifert, of Sayville, L.I., gather clams for a

living. In former days they followed the prosaic method of standing

barefoot in the mud and digging with a spade. But the manner in which

they supply Manhattan restaurants with these popular shellfish at

present is little short of poetry.

They back their small power boats close to the banks in which the clams

dwell. Then they start the propellers and let them do the dirty work.

Every once in a while they have to reach over and dump a bushel or so

of clams into their boat—but that is unavoidable labor.

Meantime, they lie on cushions and smoke and read. For perfection only

one thing is lacking—a phonograph to play “This Is the Life,” and

business is getting so good that they threaten to buy one.

The two fishermen swore before three justices of the peace and

seventeen witnesses that the above story is true.

Oldest Person in the World.

Mrs. Mary Brock, aged 135 years, lives in Shades Valley, and her

grandson, Sam Foley, of Pratt City, Ala., intends to give her a party

in May. That Mrs. Brock is the oldest person in the United States is

generally believed, and possibly the oldest in the world.

Mrs. Brock, according to a statement of Mr. Foley, was born August 2,

1780, and has lived in Shades Valley a great many years. Mr. Foley

plans to have a birthday celebration at his home in May, and intends to

have Mrs. Brock present. Mrs. Brock retains her faculties fairly well.

Mr. Foley says:

“Although I have not seen my grandmother in a good many years, at the

same time I hear from her occasionally. She is in good health and

apparently enjoys life in every way. She has spent the major portion of

her life in Shades Valley.”

United States Navy Gunner Sets World’s Record.

William Ruf, a gun pointer on the United States battleship Texas, who

is visiting his home in Beacon, N.Y., on a furlough, has been notified

that he set a new world’s record in marksmanship with the big guns

during the recent practice off the Virginia capes. Ruf made eight

straight hits with a fourteen-inch gun, shooting at a moving target

twelve miles away.

Gathers Gold Nuggets in Streets of Town.

Mrs. Guy Talbott, of Grass Valley, Cal., made fifteen dollars in one

day following a heavy storm by mining in the streets of Grass Valley.

While her husband was working in a quartz mill for two dollars a day,

Mrs. Talbot was picking up nuggets in the street in front of her home.

Other women, many men, and almost all the children of Grass Valley are

now searching the streets for gold.

The streets of Grass Valley were repaired recently, and “tailings” or

refuse ore from a quartz mine were used in lieu of cobbles. After an

unusually heavy rain, Mrs. Talbott chanced to see a bit of gold lying

exposed in the street. She abandoned housework for the day and picked

up fifteen dollars’ worth.

Mrs. Talbott tried to keep the secret, but as she could not mine the

streets after dark, it was not long until half the town was out looking

for gold, and finding some, too.

Grass Valley is not the only city in California paved with gold. From

the records of the city of Marysville it is shown that on August 12,

1851, Mayor S.M. Miles issued a proclamation against “the practice of

doing mining on the main street of Marysville.”

Harder Than the Diamond.

Although the diamond is generally regarded as the hardest of all

substances, tantalum, a rare metal, although not one of the rarest, is

harder. A thin sheet of it was once placed under a diamond drill worked

day and night for three days. The only effect was a slight indentation

in the tantalum and the wearing out of the diamond.

Bread-line “Regular” Never Ate Real Meal.

He has been a “regular” in the bread line at the Immanuel Baptist

Church, of Chicago, Ill., all winter; his clothes were tattered

and threadbare, and his face showed the pinch of hunger. The big

Sunday-school room of this Chicago church was crowded to its limits

with others in similar condition awaiting their turn at the tables,

where bread, butter, and coffee are served every morning from six to

eight-thirty o’clock.

Doctor Johnston Myers, pastor of the church, and under whose direction

the “line” gets its daily breakfast, called the man to the front of the

room after he had swallowed his half a loaf and his two cups of coffee.

“I’m an orphan and I’ve never eaten a meal with a family,” he said, in

response to questions by Doctor Myers. “I don’t know who my parents

were, but I was put in a New York orphanage when a baby. There I stayed

until I was twelve years old, when I was sent to a farmer in Canada, to

be held until I was of age. That farmer thought of nothing but how much

work he could get out of me. When my time was up I started to tramp,

and I’ve been at it ever since.

“I’ve eaten at back doors, free-lunch counters, and even occasionally

at a lunch counter in a restaurant, but I’ve never sat to a table with

a family.”

Want Belgian Linen Makers.

The movement to bring expert linen makers from Belgium to western

Canada, which raises an exceedingly good grade of flax, is gaining

big momentum, and a Belgian priest is now on his way to Europe after

conferring with the Canadian Northern Railway. The making of linen had

been a large and important industry in Belgium before the war, but now

every factory is closed.

A great many women, as well as men, were employed in the industry, and

the Belgian priest intends to get in touch with the large manufacturers

to induce them to move their plants and bring as many of their old

workmen as they can to western Canada.

Two points on the Canadian Northern have been under consideration,

both in Saskatchewan and both located in the heart of the finest flax

country in the Dominion. There now is a mill at Rosetown, Sask., which

is in the heart of the Gravelburg district, well known for the quality

and yield of flax.

Drives Prison Bus Forty Years.

Old Jim Cassidy, of New York, who drove the Black Maria laden with

prisoners from the Tombs to police headquarters for years, had his

first collapse a day or two ago. The driver of a patrol wagon did not

move away quickly enough to suit Deputy Sheriff Levy, who shouted to

him. This drew retorts, and old Jim was drawn into the argument. Soon

afterward he keeled over.

Doctor Cox, from St. Vincent’s Hospital, treated the old man for

syncope, and when he revived, he wanted to get back on the Black Maria,

and drive his prisoners, but his friends forced him into a cab and took

him to his home.

Except for two years of Sheriff Tamsen’s term, Cassidy has driven the

prison van for nearly forty years. Long before that he was famous the

country over as “Jim Cass,” a wonderful handler of game chickens and

game dogs.

Was Not a Very Busy Justice.

F.P. Reiter has just rounded out twenty-five years as a justice of the

peace of West Rockhill Township, Bucks County, Pa.

Preparing the chronology of his career as chief dispenser of justice

in the township, the squire learned that he had issued four warrants

and had never sent a case, either civil or criminal, to court in the

quarter century.

Death of an Aged Virginian.

George Little Collier, a well-known and highly respected citizen of

Wise County, Va., has passed away and been laid to rest in the old

burying ground at the head of Powell’s Valley, by the side of his two

wives.

Mr. Collier was eighty-seven years old. He reared twenty-two children,

and at his death had forty-eight grandchildren and twenty-two

great-grandchildren.

“Uncle Lite,” as he was familiarly known, moved to Wise County

sixty-three years ago, and previous to that he lived in Lee County.

Thus he spent his entire life in the State of Virginia. When he settled

in his log cabin, at the foot of Powell’s Mountain, bear and deer were

plentiful. Norton at that time was a solid growth of laurel and ivy,

and he could have purchased “Prince’s Flats,” now Norton, for one

dollar per acre.

Old citizens and travelers will recall the log house at the foot of

Stone Mountain, and the first in sight after a long journey from Wise

Courthouse through the dense thicket over Prince’s flats and across the

little, dark, winding, rough, and rocky road through Little Stone Gap.

International Marriages Breed War, She Says.

The ranks of the newly formed Women’s Peace Party were thrown into

confusion recently when Lady Briggs, widow of Sir John Henry Briggs,

proposed an international law prohibiting international marriages.

“Such a law,” said Lady Briggs, “would prevent international

complications, and thereby prevent war.”

Lady Briggs also suggested that the Women’s Peace Party undertake to

bar naturalization of aliens; to revise American histories which she

declared contain untrue accounts of the wars with England, and finally

to expurge “sanguinary” lines in the National anthem, declaring the

English were therein referred to as a band of hirelings and slaves,

whose “blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution.”

Mrs. Amos Pinchot, president of the New York branch, soothed Lady

Briggs with the statement that few persons really knew to whom the

lines referred, and those who did took them with a grain of salt.

Woman Devours Twenty-two Lobsters in Contest.

A contest in lobster eating, held recently in the Mecca Café, at No.

3550 Broadway, New York City, was won by Mrs. Eleanor Reynolds, of No.

540 West One Hundred and Sixty-Second Street.

Mrs. Reynolds ate twenty-two lobsters and three loaves of bread. Morton

Ohrback, her rival, ate seventeen lobsters.

War Spares United States’ Mails.

Not one bag of United States mail has been lost through the

activities of the war fleets of the European belligerents. In fact,

post-office-department officials said to-day no American mail had gone

down with a merchantmen destroyed by a warship within the last hundred

years.

Postmaster General Burleson expects no interference with the mail

service to result from Germany’s sea warzone proclamation. It was

pointed out that the mail steamers are fast vessels, carrying

passengers and but little cargo of the kind belligerents would seek to

destroy.

Goes 25,000 Miles to Satisfy Law.

To inspect a little post office on the far-away island of Guam, which

pays its postmaster $125 a year, is the object of a 25,000-mile journey

which Postal Inspector E.P. Smith is making to satisfy the demands of

the law. The inspection of the office will be the first since 1908.

Vincent Astor Orders 2,100 Apple Trees.

Vincent Astor will soon be the most extensive apple grower in the State

of New York. It became known yesterday that he has placed an order for

2,100 trees, which will be planted on his large estate, Ferncliffe, at

Rhinebeck.

The order was placed with the Harrison Nursery, of Berlin, Md.

Makes Smokeless Coal.

Alfred Muller, a chemist, of St. Louis, Mo., has announced he has

discovered a process which makes coal absolutely smokeless, gives more

heat, and is consequently cheaper. He has been making the fuel by hand,

and is using it in his home.

Picks Indian’s Daughter for Bride.

Charles Meyer, aged sixty-five, of Valley Stream, N.Y., who advertised

for a wife recently, has picked Mrs. Annie Wilson, daughter of Big

Cloud, chief of the Seneca Indians.

A Boy Scout Honored.

The highest honor a boy scout can win has been conferred on Wayne

Carney, fifteen years old, of Indianapolis. He has been given a scout

honor medal for saving the life of a playmate, Harry Warbington,

thirteen years old.

The Warbington lad fell into a creek and was sinking when his chum

went to his rescue. Wayne is a manly little chap. Asked if he was a

pretty good swimmer, he said he wasn’t. “But you went after this boy

when he was drowning?” he was reminded. “Sure,” said Wayne. “Anybody

would have done that.”

Discipline Saves British from Loss.

If discipline were not now being maintained in the British army, it

would lose, according to P.M. Neilson, now at the front in France with

the First Lowland Company of Engineers. In a letter received recently

by his sister, Miss Bessie R. Neilson, of Wilkinsburg, Pa., he tells of

several striking instances to show this.

“The Germans made an attack in the night,” he says, “on the ——

Regiment, which took panic, and nearly all, except two, of their

officers fled. Our twenty, however, under Mr. Clark—one of the

officers—who had retreated a little, came back to a charge. The other

two officers were killed, but our good old Lowland regained the

trenches after very hot work.

“One of the men left to tell the tale of Ypres says he and a few

others saw the Prussians going around the British wounded, bayoneting

them. They could not stand that, so they charged the Germans, who had

three times as many men. The Germans, as usual, fell back into their

trenches, but the Scotch and English boys pursued them, and then, of

all the cheek in the world! the Germans threw down their arms and

pleaded for mercy. Our fellows simply shot them all down. Their blood

was up.

“Night before last a bullet passed through a box on which I was

leaning, but I have had few exciting times myself. Two men of a

regiment who tried to desert were killed on the twelfth, after a

court-martial, and if discipline were not now maintained, we would lose.

“It’s a terrible thing, but I’m afraid it will last a long time. You

have no idea what it is like. Our company, which gets home each night,

is luckier than the infantry. They are in the trenches for days, even

weeks, and some of them don’t know what they are doing. Being there so

long makes them mad. There is no doubt about that. If you want to speak

to them, they just stare at you. They don’t understand.

“If, at many points, a man is wounded and falls down, he has to lie

there and die in the mud. Should the medical transport come in time, he

will be attended to, but they can only remove the wounded at night, on

account of the enemy. So that if a man gets wounded at daylight he has

to stay where he is until night.

“Some of our dear old Scotch regiments have been wiped out. The

Black Watch and Camerons have about ninety-four and one hundred and

fifty-eight, respectively, of above one thousand each. They have been

out since the beginning of the war, and it was at Ypres they suffered

so terribly.”

Although, because of the censor, Mr. Neilson is unable to tell just

where he is, he says the villages have not a single inhabitant. He

describes the beautiful houses, filled with furniture, now occupied by

troops. The people, he adds, will never return.

“People will tell you the Germans can’t shoot,” he says. “Well, they

have not seen them. They also say one Briton equals three Germans.

There is no difference, and because of their being taught from infancy

regarding militarism, the German is the better of the two. And by

Britons I mean all the Allies.

“The guns here are booming all day, and an occasional ‘Jack Johnson’

drops around our billet, which is a mile or so from the actual firing

line.”

Mr. Neilson continues that the British are bringing to the front only

their best men, and says the troops are now supplied with fur jackets

and warmers, but remarks that because of the heavy boots many leave

them near the trenches, as they can hardly carry themselves, not to

speak of ammunition. Even rifles, too, are thrown down.

Under date of Sunday, the twenty-fourth, he adds a brief postscript:

“The French people here won’t allow any one to sing. They say it is a

time of weeping. All France is the same, and everybody, or very nearly

so, is dressed in black. So you see I have not heard any singing since

coming to France. Imagine my surprise when just now—this is what made

me write this extra bit—there burst forth the 100th Psalm. On looking

out, I see it is the Black Watch. Fancy hearing it here! It tones you

up a bit. They are at church parade, and really that is the best music

I have ever heard in all my life, and they are not good singers.”

Why Common Powder Smokes.

Ordinary powder produces smoke when fired because of the quantity of

fine particles formed from the breaking up of the saltpeter and from

some of the charcoal which is not completely burned.

To get rid of smoke, so long a handicap in the use of guns, it was

necessary to produce a substance that would explode without leaving

any solid residue. This was accomplished by the use of guncotton or

nitrocellulose, from which the most satisfactory smokeless powder is

made.

The substance is a chemical compound, not a mixture like gunpowder,

and is made by treating cotton with a mixture of nitric and sulphuric

acids. When exploded, it is all converted into gases. Burning is not

necessary to cause an explosion, a mere shock or jar being sufficient.

It is too violent an explosive to use in small arms or in cannon, but

guncotton can be made into less forceful forms, suitable for use in

guns, and most brands of smokeless powder are made in this way.

Bloody Arm His Signal Flag.

Vernon Wilson, a farm hand, was injured while in the country, near

Glenwood, Iowa, in a peculiar way, and, to get a surgeon, flagged a

fast passenger train with his bloody arm and hand and came to Glenwood.

Wilson was hurt when he dropped some cartridges from his hand, one

falling on a piece of ice and being discharged. The ball passed through

his arm, inflicting a bad wound.

Two Killed in Rail Crash.

James Maxwell, a locomotive engineer of Des Moines, Iowa, and his

fireman, H.L. Hickok, of the same place, were killed, and Mail Clerk

F.M. Perry, of Waterloo, Iowa, seriously injured in a wreck on the

Chicago Great Western Railroad, three miles north of here. Spreading

rails are believed to have been the cause. All passengers escaped

injury.

“THE MAGAZINE WITH A PUNCH”

TIPTOP SEMI-MONTHLY

IT STANDS ALONE

If you like rattling good stories about sport, adventure, and about

almost everything in this interesting world, read TIPTOP SEMI-MONTHLY.

It is a magazine with a definite purpose. That purpose is to publish

a semi-monthly magazine that will be read by every youth, and will be

welcomed by fathers and mothers, and by sisters, too.

CLEAN—BRACING—GRIPPING

Buy TIPTOP SEMI-MONTHLY, and you will vow that you never got so much

for ten cents. Why? Because it is written, edited, and published for

_you_, exacting reader. And each issue will be better than the one that

went before.

Price Ten Cents

Issued on the tenth and twenty-fifth of each month

The Nick Carter Stories

ISSUED EVERY SATURDAY BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS

When it comes to detective stories worth while, the =Nick Carter

Stories= contain the only ones that should be considered. They are not

overdrawn tales of bloodshed. They rather show the working of one of

the finest minds ever conceived by a writer. The name of Nick Carter is

familiar all over the world, for the stories of his adventures may be

read in twenty languages. No other stories have withstood the severe

test of time so well as those contained in the =Nick Carter Stories=.

It proves conclusively that they are the best. We give herewith a list

of some of the back numbers in print. You can have your news dealer

order them, or they will be sent direct by the publishers to any

address upon receipt of the price in money or postage stamps.

704—Written in Red.

707—Rogues of the Air.

709—The Bolt from the Blue.

710—The Stockbridge Affair.

711—A Secret from the Past.

712—Playing the Last Hand.

713—A Slick Article.

714—The Taxicab Riddle.

715—The Knife Thrower.

717—The Master Rogue’s Alibi.

719—The Dead Letter.

720—The Allerton Millions.

728—The Mummy’s Head.

729—The Statue Clue.

730—The Torn Card.

731—Under Desperation’s Spur.

732—The Connecting Link.

733—The Abduction Syndicate.

736—The Toils of a Siren.

737—The Mark of a Circle.

738—A Plot Within a Plot.

739—The Dead Accomplice.

741—The Green Scarab.

743—A Shot in the Dark.

746—The Secret Entrance.

747—The Cavern Mystery.

748—The Disappearing Fortune.

749—A Voice from the Past.

752—The Spider’s Web.

753—The Man With a Crutch.

754—The Rajah’s Regalia.

755—Saved from Death.

756—The Man Inside.

757—Out for Vengeance.

758—The Poisons of Exili.

759—The Antique Vial.

760—The House of Slumber.

761—A Double Identity.

762—“The Mocker’s” Stratagem.

763—The Man that Came Back.

764—The Tracks in the Snow.

765—The Babbington Case.

766—The Masters of Millions.

767—The Blue Stain.

768—The Lost Clew.

770—The Turn of a Card.

771—A Message in the Dust.

772—A Royal Flush.

774—The Great Buddha Beryl.

775—The Vanishing Heiress.

776—The Unfinished Letter.

777—A Difficult Trail.

778—A Six-word Puzzle.

782—A Woman’s Stratagem.

783—The Cliff Castle Affair.

784—A Prisoner of the Tomb.

785—A Resourceful Foe.

786—The Heir of Dr. Quartz.

787—Dr. Quartz, the Second.

789—The Great Hotel Tragedies.

790—Zanoni, the Witch.

791—A Vengeful Sorceress.

794—Doctor Quartz’s Last Play.

795—Zanoni, the Transfigured.

796—The Lure of Gold.

797—The Man With a Chest.

798—A Shadowed Life.

799—The Secret Agent.

800—A Plot for a Crown.

801—The Red Button.

802—Up Against It.

803—The Gold Certificate.

804—Jack Wise’s Hurry Call.

805—Nick Carter’s Ocean Chase.

806—Nick Carter and the Broken Dagger.

807—Nick Carter’s Advertisement.

808—The Kregoff Necklace.

809—The Footprints on the Rug.

810—The Copper Cylinder.

811—Nick Carter and the Nihilists.

812—Nick Carter and the Convict Gang.

813—Nick Carter and the Guilty Governor.

814—The Triangled Coin.

815—Ninety-nine—and One.

816—Coin Number 77.

817—In the Canadian Wilds.

818—The Niagara Smugglers.

819—The Man Hunt.

NEW SERIES

NICK CARTER STORIES

1—The Man from Nowhere.

2—The Face at the Window.

3—A Fight for a Million.

4—Nick Carter’s Land Office.

5—Nick Carter and the Professor.

6—Nick Carter as a Mill Hand.

7—A Single Clew.

8—The Emerald Snake.

9—The Currie Outfit.

10—Nick Carter and the Kidnapped Heiress.

11—Nick Carter Strikes Oil.

12—Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure.

13—A Mystery of the Highway.

14—The Silent Passenger.

15—Jack Dreen’s Secret.

16—Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case.

17—Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves.

18—Nick Carter’s Auto Chase.

19—The Corrigan Inheritance.

20—The Keen Eye of Denton.

21—The Spider’s Parlor.

22—Nick Carter’s Quick Guess.

23—Nick Carter and the Murderess.

24—Nick Carter and the Pay Car.

25—The Stolen Antique.

26—The Crook League.

27—An English Cracksman.

28—Nick Carter’s Still Hunt.

29—Nick Carter’s Electric Shock.

30—Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess.

31—The Purple Spot.

32—The Stolen Groom.

33—The Inverted Cross.

34—Nick Carter and Keno McCall.

35—Nick Carter’s Death Trap.

36—Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle.

37—The Man Outside.

38—The Death Chamber.

39—The Wind and the Wire.

40—Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase.

41—Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend.

42—The Queen of the Seven.

43—Crossed Wires.

44—A Crimson Clew.

45—The Third Man.

46—The Sign of the Dagger.

47—The Devil Worshipers.

48—The Cross of Daggers.

49—At Risk of Life.

50—The Deeper Game.

51—The Code Message.

52—The Last of the Seven.

53—Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful.

54—The Secret Order of Associated Crooks.

55—The Golden Hair Clew.

56—Back From the Dead.

57—Through Dark Ways.

58—When Aces Were Trumps.

59—The Gambler’s Last Hand.

60—The Murder at Linden Fells.

61—A Game for Millions.

62—Under Cover.

63—The Last Call.

64—Mercedes Danton’s Double.

65—The Millionaire’s Nemesis.

66—A Princess of the Underworld.

67—The Crook’s Blind.

68—The Fatal Hour.

69—Blood Money.

70—A Queen of Her Kind.

71—Isabel Benton’s Trump Card.

72—A Princess of Hades.

73—A Prince of Plotters.

74—The Crook’s Double.

75—For Life and Honor.

76—A Compact With Dazaar.

77—In the Shadow of Dazaar.

78—The Crime of a Money King.

79—Birds of Prey.

80—The Unknown Dead.

81—The Severed Hand.

82—The Terrible Game of Millions.

83—A Dead Man’s Power.

84—The Secrets of an Old House.

85—The Wolf Within.

86—The Yellow Coupon.

87—In the Toils.

88—The Stolen Radium.

89—A Crime in Paradise.

90—Behind Prison Bars.

91—The Blind Man’s Daughter.

92—On the Brink of Ruin.

93—Letter of Fire.

94—The $100,000 Kiss.

95—Outlaws of the Militia.

96—The Opium-Runners.

97—In Record Time.

98—The Wag-Nuk Clew.

99—The Middle Link.

100—The Crystal Maze.

101—A New Serpent in Eden.

102—The Auburn Sensation.

103—A Dying Chance.

104—The Gargoni Girdle.

105—Twice in Jeopardy.

106—The Ghost Launch.

107—Up in the Air.

108—The Girl Prisoner.

109—The Red Plague.

110—The Arson Trust.

111—The King of the Firebugs.

112—“Lifter’s” of the Lofts.

113—French Jimmie and His Forty Thieves.

114—The Death Plot.

115—The Evil Formula.

116—The Blue Button.

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 Kidnapper.

125—The Pirate Yacht.

126—The Crime of the White Hand.

127—Found in the Jungle.

128—Six Men in a Loop. Dated February 27th, 1915.

129—The Jewels of Wat Chang. Dated March 6th, 1915.

130—The Crime in the Tower. Dated March 13th, 1915.

131—The Fatal Message. Dated March 20th, 1915.

132—Broken Bars.

=PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY.= If you want any back numbers of our

weeklies and cannot procure them from your news dealer, they can be

obtained direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as

money.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY