CHAPTER X.

THE OTHER STRINGS.

Patsy Garvan did not ride far with Danny Maloney after their parting

from Nick Carter and Henley. Glancing back over his shoulder, Patsy

waited only until they had rounded the curve in the road, when he called

quickly:

“Slow down, Danny, and drop me. We’re out of sight.”

Danny obeyed at once, saying regretfully:

“Gee! I wish I was going with you. I might be needed.”

“One is better than two,” Patsy replied, leaping down to the road.

“There’s only half the risk of being seen. I can fill the bill, all

right, single-handed.”

“So long, then, and good luck.”

“Same to you.”

Danny sped on with the car.

Patsy Garvan, however, plunged into the woods, at once shaping a course

that would bring him in sight of the crossroad through which Nick and

Henley were to pass.

It was to enable Patsy to make this detour that Nick repeatedly stopped

on the road, pretending he wanted to find footprints left by the missing

couple.

Patsy accomplished the move with no great difficulty, and entirely

unsuspected by Henley, owing to the artful attitude toward him that Nick

had assumed.

Patsy saw them pass along the road; in fact, saw them on the edge of the

pond, and then he followed them at a discreet distance until, from

behind one of the outbuildings, he saw Nick held up by Henley and

afterward taken into the house.

“Gee! that does settle it,” he said to himself. “I must know who is

there and what’s going to come off, but it won’t do for me to approach

the house from this side. Those rats are in the rear rooms, or a side

one, or they could not have reached the back door so quickly after

Henley whistled. I’ll make a circuit to the front road and have a look.”

It took Patsy several minutes to do so, seeking the shelter of a wall

over which he could plainly see the front of the dwelling, and he then

met with an agreeable surprise.

A familiar whistle fell upon his ears, and he turned and discovered

Chick under the same wall.

“Gee whiz!” he exclaimed, when they met. “This is dead lucky, for fair.”

“It’s not all luck, I guess,” Chick replied. “Give the chief the credit

for it.”

“You found your man?”

“I arrived just in time to see him leaving his office.”

“He must be out here, now, since you are here.”

“That’s what,” Chick nodded. “He went round to the back door of the

house about ten minutes ago. I’ve been waiting and watching till I could

get a line on what’s going on in there.”

“Gee! I can supply that line, all right,” chuckled Patsy.

“Cut loose, then,” said Chick.

Patsy informed him with very few words what had occurred, and the

subterfuge Nick had employed.

“It now is up to us, Chick,” he added. “The gang we want is in that

house, and probably Arthur Gordon. We must go in and get them. There’s

nothing else to it.”

“Only one thing,” corrected Chick, who again was sizing up the house.

“What’s that?”

“The way to get in, Patsy, so as to catch them hands down. It’s a

hundred to one that they are on the ground floor, also in one of the

rear rooms, as you have said.”

“It’s a safe gamble, Chick, in my opinion.”

“And I am equally sure that we could not force any of the lower windows

without being heard. We can take a chance and approach the front of the

house, and by climbing that trellis at the east end of the veranda, we

can reach the veranda roof and three of the second-floor windows.”

“Like breaking sticks,” nodded Patsy approvingly. “It’s dollars to

doughnuts that we then can quietly force one of the windows.”

“I think so, too.”

“Well, what do you say?”

“I say do it, Patsy, and be quick about it,” Chick declared, when unable

to discover a sign of any person in the front part of the house.

“I’m with you,” Patsy muttered. “Head straight across the lawn to the

east end of the veranda.”

They vaulted the wall while he was speaking, then covered the distance

at record speed. After waiting and listening for a few moments, they

felt sure that they had not been seen. To climb the trellis and reach

the veranda roof then was child’s play, and both then began an

inspection of the curtained windows.

Chick found one through which he could work his knife blade, thrusting

up between the sashes, and in a very few moments he had succeeded in

throwing the lock.

Noiselessly raising the lower section, he then pushed aside the curtain

and peered in, finding that the window opened into the hall on the

second floor. Listening, he could faintly hear voices from below, but

could not distinguish whose, nor what was said.

“Come on, Patsy,” he whispered, with a significant glance at him. “Have

a gun ready. I’ll lead the way.”

“You won’t be far in advance,” muttered Patsy dryly.

Crawling quietly through the window, one after the other, they tiptoed

toward the broad, angular stairway leading to the lower hall.

“Keep on, old top,” whispered Patsy, now with a revolver in each hand.

“The sooner we get them the better.”

“I think so, too.”

“They’re in one of the side rooms. Ah, that was the chief’s voice.”

“Come on,” Chick muttered, starting down the stairs.

Patsy followed close at his companion’s heels.

They had made only the first turn in the stairway, when the voice of

Mortimer Deland, rising high with the last threatening words he was

addressing to Nick Carter, coupled with his fierce commands to his three

confederates, fell loud and clear on the two detective’s ears.

Chick Carter glanced at Patsy and pulled out a second revolver.

“Fire the house, will he?” he whispered hurriedly. “There’ll be firing

of another kind done here, if necessary.”

“You bet!” nodded Patsy, with brows knitting.

“Shoot to kill, if you have to shoot.”

“Kill goes!”

“They’ll come out this way,” Chick said hurriedly, as they reached the

foot of the stairway and paused for an instant near the front door.

“Had we better rush in on them?”

“We might meet them on the threshold and get into too close quarters,”

said Chick, after an instant’s thought. “We’d better get them after they

come into the hall.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Slip across into that front parlor and be ready to nail them from that

side,” Chick directed. “I’ll cover this part of the hall.”

“I’ve got you,” Patsy nodded. “Give a yell when you’re ready.”

He darted across the hall with the last and into the dim, luxuriously

furnished parlor.

Chick crouched back of the rise of the stairs.

Both scarce had gained these positions when the four crooks, with Nick

in their midst, issued from the dining room and headed toward the front

of the hall.

Chick waited until they were midway between the several doors, that no

swift leap into either room should save any of them. Then he uttered the

yell for which Patsy Garvan was waiting.

“Now, Patsy, get them!”

Nick Carter heard him, and then saw both. As quick as a flash, he

shouldered both Deland and Henley to the middle of the hall, then leaped

quickly back into the dining room, out of range of a chance bullet.

Chick saw the idea, and a shriek instantly followed his yell.

“Hands up, you fellows! We’ll drop the first man who resists!”

“Every man!” roared Patsy, with both guns leveled.

There were four weapons covering the crooks, with bullets enough in all

to have riddled them.

Only one of them acted under the impulse of desperation--Jim Henley.

His shotgun, with which he had been prodding Nick in the back, leaped to

the hollow of his arm.

Bang!

It was Chick’s revolver that barked. The shotgun fell to the floor, and

Henley with it, shot through the head.

Nothing more sanguinary and determined was needed. Deland and his other

two confederates instantly threw up their hands--and kept them up till

Patsy and Nick Carter were ready to fit them with bracelets.

That ended the sensational features of the extraordinary case. Henley

died within an hour, and two hours saw the other three in the Tombs, two

to be convicted and sentenced a fortnight later, and Mortimer Deland to

return to finish his unexpired term in the State’s prison.

Arthur Gordon was found, as stated, bound hand and foot in an upper room

of the old house. Though intensely grateful to the Carters for his

rescue and liberation, he was a thousand times more surprised at what

they told him. Up to that moment he had not dreamed of the true identity

of Pauline Perrot, who had, as Nick had inferred, artfully wheedled him

into meeting her on a supposed business matter with a friend that

evening, only to throw him into the hands of Henley, Foster, and

Brigham.

The gratitude of Mr. Rudolph Strickland, and the joy and relief of

Wilhelmina, when Gordon was brought home safely and the truth made

known, were all that the most vivid imagination could picture. Their

reward to Nick and his assistants, too, was in corresponding proportion.

It afterward appeared, too, that all of Nick’s suspicions and deductions

were absolutely correct; and that Deland, in assuming the character of

Dayton, had done so only to have a quick refuge from Gordon’s office, if

it became necessary, and a character in which he could bury Pauline

Perrot at a moment’s notice.

Nick Carter had thwarted him completely, however, and had secured him

temporarily, at least.

THE END.

“Blood Will Tell; or, Nick Carter’s Play in Politics,” will be the

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

issue, No. 156, of the NICK CARTER STORIES, out September 4th. In

this narrative you will read of the final round-up of Mortimer

Deland. You will also find the usual installment of the serial now

running in this publication, together with several interesting

articles.

DEMONSTRATED.

It was a saying of a wise man that we have one mouth and two ears in

order that we may listen twice as much as we speak.

A teacher once quoted this remark to his pupils, and not long afterward,

to see how well the instruction was remembered, asked:

“Why is it that we have two ears and only one mouth, Brown?”

Brown had forgotten the philosopher’s explanation, but thought the

question not a very hard one.

“Because,” he said, “we should not have room in our face for two mouths,

and we should look too crooked if we had only one ear.”

“No, no,” said the master, “that is not the reason. You know, don’t you,

Smith?”

“Yes, sir,” answered that hopeful. “So that what we hear may go in at

one ear and out at the other.”

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 VIII.

MELBA GALE.

“Guess I’ll borrow your motor cycle, old man, if you don’t object,” said

Hawley to his host.

“What! You don’t mean to say you’re going to Oldham again?” the latter

protested. “How about your doctor’s orders to keep quiet and avoid all

excitement?”

“I shall try to avoid excitement as much as possible while I’m in town,”

the Camera Chap replied dryly. “But I’ve got to go this time. When duty

calls, physician’s orders don’t count, you know. Here’s the telegram,

old man. You can see for yourself that it’s really a case of must.”

His host perused the telegram and shook his head disapprovingly. “I

can’t say I think much of a boss who won’t leave a man alone during his

vacation--especially when that man has been ordered by his physician to

keep his thoughts away from business. This managing editor of yours must

be a peach, Hawley.”

The Camera Chap laughed. “Oh, Paxton is all right. There isn’t a whiter

man in the newspaper game. The _Sentinel_ must need that picture badly,

or you can be sure they wouldn’t have bothered me with it. May I have

the motor cycle?”

“Of course, if you are determined to go. But if I were in your place,

I’d send them back a telegram that they’d have to get another man to do

the job. Seems to me that they could have got the picture just as easily

by wiring to a local photographer and leaving you alone. Surely anybody

can take a picture of a building. No particular skill required for

that.”

Hawley smiled grimly. “Some buildings are harder to take than others.

I’ve a sort of an idea that this snapshot of the city hall is going to

be one of my masterpieces. I’m eager to get at it.”

His host shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t see why the job should appeal

to you so greatly. I thought you liked snapshots which involved risk.

Surely there isn’t anything particularly thrilling about taking a

picture of a building.”

Perhaps it is needless to say that the Camera Chap’s host was not aware

of the new anticamera bill which the Oldham council had recently

enacted. Hawley did not enlighten him.

Five minutes later, just as the Camera Chap was about to start, his

friend made an astonishing discovery.

“Why, you absent-minded beggar!” he exclaimed laughingly. “You’re

actually going off without your camera. Don’t expect to be able to take

a picture without it, do you?”

The Camera Chap grinned. “I’m leaving it behind purposely,” he said. “No

use taking my big camera for this job. I’ve got a kodak in my coat

pocket, and that’ll serve the purpose just as well--better, in fact, for

this particular snapshot.”

Of course, Hawley would have preferred to have taken his larger camera

with him, but he realized that it would have been sheer folly to have

attempted to photograph the city hall with anything larger than a kodak.

With six months in prison staring him in the face, he had to be content

with a smaller picture.

The pocket camera, however, had an excellent lens, and, of its class,

was the very finest instrument obtainable. The Camera Chap always

carried it with him so as to be prepared for such emergencies as this.

On many occasions in his eventful career it had enabled him to turn

defeat into victory after he had been foiled in his attempts to use his

more conspicuous apparatus.

“It really is kind of odd that Paxton should have given me this

assignment,” Hawley mused, as he motored down the steep mountain road

which led to Oldham. “He was so emphatic in urging me to obey my

physician’s orders to forget that there was such a thing in the world as

a camera. When I gave him my telegraph address and told him not to

hesitate to send for me in case I was needed, he replied that he

wouldn’t think of doing so unless the entire city of New York was

burning and there wasn’t anybody else to photograph the conflagration.

Paxton always means what he says, too. Funny that he should have sent me

this telegram.

“But, then,” he added, anxious to make excuses for his managing editor,

“I suppose he figured that this was such an easy assignment that it

couldn’t do me any harm. Of course, he doesn’t know about this new

anticamera law. If he had known of it, no doubt he would have preferred

to go without the picture of the city hall rather than have asked me to

run the risk of going to jail.”

The Camera Chap had traveled two-thirds of the distance to Oldham, when

suddenly, as he approached a bend in the road, there came to his ears a

sound which caused him to put on more speed, in spite of the fact that

the motor cycle was already going at a rate which the steep down grade

and the unevenness of the road rendered somewhat dangerous.

It was a scream which caused him thus to risk his neck--the piercing,

startled cry of a woman. It appeared to come from just beyond where the

road turned.

Rounding the curve without taking the precaution of slowing down, Hawley

came in sight of an automobile--a small runabout--standing in the

roadway. At the steering wheel of this machine sat a girl who was

cowering in terror from a ragged, rough-looking fellow of the hobo type,

who stood on the running board.

The Camera Chap took in the situation at a glance. Evidently the

runabout had broken down, and the tramp, seeing that it was stalled on

this lonely country road, and that its sole occupant was a girl, had not

hesitated to annoy her.

The noise of the approaching motor cycle was warning enough for the

ruffian. Before Hawley could get to him, he had jumped from the step of

the car and dashed through the thick brush which lined the roadway.

The Camera Chap applied his brakes and brought his motor to a stop

alongside the car. Then, with a reassuring word to the girl, he jumped

from his wheel and went in pursuit of her annoyer.

But the bushes were so thick at this point that the slight start the

fellow had was sufficient to enable him to get away. Hawley went

crashing and floundering through the brush for some time in the hope of

hitting the trail of the fugitive, but finally had to give it up as

useless.

“I’m afraid I’ve lost him,” he said, somewhat crestfallen, as he

returned to the girl in the automobile. “I don’t suppose he can have

gone very far, but these bushes are worse than a maze at a county fair.”

“It’s no matter,” said the girl, with a smile. She seemed to have

recovered a great deal of her lost composure. “I’m just as pleased that

you didn’t catch him. I really don’t think the fellow meant any harm. He

asked for money. The reason I screamed was because he looked so rough.

The road here is so lonely that I lost my nerve when he came through the

bushes and climbed onto the car. I suppose if I’d given him a few cents

he’d have gone away quietly enough. I’m afraid I’m rather silly to be

scared so easily.”

“Not at all,” said the Camera Chap. “I guess anybody would have been

scared under the circumstances. What’s the matter with the car; a

breakdown?”

“Oh, no,” the girl replied. “There’s nothing the matter with the car. I

stopped merely because I--I was waiting for somebody whom I expect to

meet here.”

Her hesitation and the vivid blush which accompanied these words

enlightened Hawley as to the gender of this somebody for whom she was

waiting.

She was an exceedingly attractive girl, and Hawley found himself envying

the man whom she expected to meet. But as he had no desire to intrude

upon this tryst, he stepped over to his motor cycle, and turned to the

girl inquiringly.

“Guess I’ll be getting along,” he said, “unless, of course, you prefer

to have me remain until the arrival of this--er--person you’re

expecting. Are you afraid to be left alone here?”

“Oh, no,” she answered, in a tone which told him of her eagerness to get

rid of him. “I’ll be all right, thank you. Please don’t let me detain

you. I don’t intend to stay here. I’m going to turn the car around and

ride slowly back toward Oldham until I meet--the friend I’m expecting.”

“That’s a very sensible idea,” Hawley said. “While the machine is in

motion you’ll be in no danger of annoyance from any more tramps.”

He doffed his cap, and was just starting the motor of his cycle when the

girl called to him.

“I quite forgot to thank you for your timely assistance,” she said,

giving him a gracious smile, which did a lot to atone for her evident

anxiety to have him depart. “I assure you that I am very grateful.

“I live in Oldham,” she went on. “If you would care to call on us, I am

sure my uncle, with whom I live, would be glad of the opportunity to add

his thanks to mine. My name is Melba Gale, and----”

“Gale!” the Camera Chap repeated, speaking more to himself than to the

girl. “That must be merely a coincidence, of course. Surely you are no

relative of Gale, of the _News_?”

“Do you mean the New York _Daily News_?” the girl inquired, some

astonishment in her tone. “I have a cousin who for several years has

been a reporter on that paper. It is with his family that I am living. I

am an orphan, and my Uncle Delancey’s house has been my home ever since

I was three years old. Do you know my cousin?” she asked, looking at him

keenly.

“I have met him,” the Camera Chap replied evasively.

“In New York?”

“Yes.”

“Then, perhaps you can tell me,” the girl began. Then she broke off

suddenly as, glancing over her shoulder, she caught sight of a young man

mounted on a bicycle who was approaching from the direction of Oldham.

It needed only one glance at her flushed, radiant face to tell Hawley

that this was the lucky man who was expected.

The Camera Chap would scarcely have been human if he had been able to

refrain from staring at the latter. Naturally, he was curious to see

what the fellow looked like.

And, as the bicyclist drew near, Hawley experienced another great

surprise.

This young man who was hastening to meet Miss Melba Gale, niece of the

proprietor of the Oldham _Daily Chronicle_, was no stranger to him.

It was his friend, Fred Carroll, proprietor of the _Chronicle’s_ bitter

rival, the Oldham _Daily Bulletin_.

CHAPTER IX.

TIMELY WARNING.

“Hello, Frank!” exclaimed Carroll, in an astonished tone as he jumped

from his wheel. “I certainly didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I am equally surprised to see you, old man,” the Camera Chap replied

dryly. Then he added, a twinkle in his eye: “I didn’t know you were in

the habit of going bicycle riding during office hours.”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” Carroll returned, with a guilty grin. “The

fact is---- Why, hang it all, Hawley, you infernal old busybody! What

business is it of yours, anyway?”

As the Camera Chap’s name was mentioned, the girl’s brown eyes opened

wide with surprise, and she uttered a faint exclamation; but neither of

the young men heard it.

“It’s none of my business at all, old scout,” Hawley admitted, laughing.

“And, moreover, I’m going to make myself scarce immediately. I’ve got a

hunch that this is one of those cases where two is company and three is

a tremendously big crowd. Besides, I have a pressing engagement in town

and have got to get a move on.”

“Wait just one minute, please,” cried Miss Gale, as the Camera Chap was

mounting his motor cycle. “Fred, is this Mr. Hawley, the New York

_Sentinel’s_ camera man? Because, if so, I am just in time.”

“Just in time for what, Melba?” inquired Carroll, while the Camera Chap

stared at her wonderingly.

“To prevent him from going to Oldham,” the girl answered. “It was solely

on his account, Fred, that I sent you that note asking you to meet me

here. I wanted to tell you to warn Mr. Hawley of the trap which had been

set for him.”

“The trap!” exclaimed Hawley and Carroll in chorus.

“Yes,” said the girl. Then, turning to the Camera Chap, she exclaimed

tensely: “You spoke just now of having a pressing engagement in town,

Mr. Hawley. Isn’t it your intention to take a photograph of the city

hall?”

“It is,” Hawley replied. “I am on my way to get that picture now. But

how in the name of all that’s wonderful, Miss Gale, do you happen to

know about my assignment?”

Instead of answering his question, the girl asked him another.

“You received a telegram to-day, did you not?” she said. “A telegram

supposed to have come from the managing editor of the New York

_Sentinel_?”

“Supposed to have come from the managing editor!” Hawley repeated, a

suspicion of the truth suddenly dawning upon him. “Do you mean to say,

Miss Gale, that----”

“I mean to say that that telegram was a fake,” she declared, without

waiting for him to finish. “It didn’t come from New York. It didn’t come

over the wire at all. It was composed and written by my cousin on one of

the typewriters in the _Chronicle_ office. It was part of the trap which

my cousin and the chief of police have set for you, Mr. Hawley.”

“I see,” said the Camera Chap quietly. “Their scheme, of course, was to

lure me to Oldham to take that picture, and then have me sent to jail

for six months for violating the new law. Clever little plan. And it

came pretty near succeeding, too. I had no suspicion that the telegram

wasn’t genuine. If you hadn’t warned me, Miss Gale, I should surely have

walked right into the trap. I can scarcely find words to thank you

enough.”

“How did you manage to find out about it, Melba?” Carroll inquired, with

a fond glance at the girl.

“Chief Hodgins was at our house last night,” she replied, “and I

overheard him and my cousin discussing the plan. They didn’t know that I

was listening, of course; but I managed to overhear enough to enable me

to understand what they intended to do. The chief expressed doubts as to

whether the scheme would work. He said that Mr. Hawley would probably

hear about the new anticamera law, and would not be so foolish as to run

the risk of going to jail. But my cousin said that he was confident that

the telegram would do the trick. He said that Mr. Hawley had never been

known to balk at an assignment, and that no amount of danger could keep

the rattle-brained fool--those were the words he used--from coming after

that picture if he thought the _Sentinel_ needed it.”

Carroll looked at the Camera Chap admiringly.

“That’s a mighty fine tribute to get from an enemy,” he exclaimed

enthusiastically. “You ought to be proud of that compliment, Hawley, old

fellow.”

“My cousin didn’t mean it for a compliment,” declared Miss Gale. “He

stated it merely as a fact which would insure the success of their

plan.”

“That makes it all the more of a compliment,” Carroll said. “Tell me,

little girl, did you let those fellows know that you were wise to their

game?”

“No, I didn’t. My first impulse was to tell my cousin just what I

thought of such a contemptible trick, and warn him that if he attempted

to carry it out I should certainly interfere; but upon second thought I

decided to say nothing to him. I thought it would be a better plan to

notify you so that you could warn Mr. Hawley to pay no attention to that

fake telegram.”

“That was a much better plan,” the Camera Chap declared. “I am very

glad, Miss Gale, that you didn’t say anything to your cousin. Had you

done so, it would not have been possible for me to carry out the idea

that has just occurred to me. I think I have a little surprise in store

for those fellows.”

“You’re not contemplating taking any legal action, are you, old man?”

Carroll inquired anxiously. “I suppose you could prosecute them for

forgery or conspiracy, or anything of that sort. They richly deserve it,

of course. But for Miss Gale’s sake I hope you won’t do it.”

“Of course not,” said Hawley indignantly. “What do you take me for,

Fred? I’d be a fine specimen of humanity if I were to repay Miss Gale’s

kindness by trying to send one of her family to prison. And she’d have

to be the chief witness for the prosecution, too; otherwise I’d have no

case. Do you think I’d be capable of that? Legal action is quite out of

the question, of course, under the circumstances. Besides, I don’t like

going to court.”

“Then what is this surprise which you say you are going to give them?”

Carroll inquired.

The Camera Chap chuckled. “You’ll have to excuse me for not answering

that question now, Fred. If I did, it would spoil the big laugh which I

think I can promise you later on.”

CHAPTER X.

THE PHOTOGRAPH.

Less than half an hour later, the Camera Chap entered the Invincible

Garage, on Main Street, Oldham.

“I want to check my motor cycle here,” he said to the man in charge.

Then, taking from his pocket the small camera of expensive make with

which he had intended to take the snapshot of the city hall, he added:

“I’d regard it as a great favor if you’d take care of this, too, for a

little while.”

“Sure,” assented the garage man, holding out his hand for the camera. “I

suppose you want to make sure that you won’t run foul of the new law,

eh?” he remarked, in a jocular tone.

Hawley nodded gravely. “I don’t want to take any chances,” he explained.

“You see, I happen to be quite a camera fiend. Whenever I run across

anything worth photographing, I simply cannot resist the temptation to

take a snapshot. So, as I am a peaceful, law-abiding citizen, I think it

will be a wise plan for me to leave my camera in your custody. If I

haven’t it with me, I can’t very well be tempted to break the law, can

I?”

“Not very well,” the garage man answered, with a broad grin. “But, say,

if you’re so keen on taking pictures, why don’t you get a permit from

the chief of police? Then you can take all the snapshots you want.”

“Maybe the chief wouldn’t give me a permit,” the Camera Chap replied

dryly.

“Sure he would,” the garage man declared confidently. Hawley was a

perfect stranger to him. “The law wasn’t made to prevent people like

yourself from taking pictures. It is true that the chief of police has

full power to grant or refuse camera permits at his discretion; but

anybody can get one--provided he ain’t connected with the _Bulletin_.”

“Why the discrimination?” the Camera Chap inquired, with seeming

innocence.

“It is very evident that you’re a stranger here, sir, or you wouldn’t

risk that question. It is generally understood that the _Bulletin_ was

the cause of this anticamera law being passed. You see, there’s a bitter

fight going on between the _Bulletin_ and the town government; and, the

other day, that newspaper scored heavily by publishing a couple of

snapshots of the chief of police, which made him boiling mad.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Hawley, with well-feigned astonishment. “I shouldn’t

think the chief would object to having his portrait published. Is he

such a modest man?”

The garage man grinned again. “Nobody ever accused big Bill Hodgins of

modesty that I know of. But you see, sir, these weren’t ordinary

portraits. Some nervy photographer--I understand it was a young camera

man from a New York newspaper--sneaked into the chief’s private office

at police headquarters while he was taking a midday snooze and took two

snapshots of him fast asleep at his desk. Those were the pictures which

the _Bulletin_ published on its front page. Naturally, Bill Hodgins was

peeved.”

“Naturally,” the Camera Chap agreed. “What an outrage! Really, some of

those newspaper photographers go a little too far sometimes. Under the

circumstances, I don’t blame the chief for refusing to grant a camera

license to anybody connected with the _Bulletin_.”

“No, indeed,” said the garage man. “But, as I say, anybody else can get

one; so, if I was you, I’d go straight to police headquarters and apply

for a permit.”

“Oh, I guess I won’t bother,” said Hawley. “I don’t intend to stay in

Oldham very long, so it is scarcely worth while. Just take good care of

that camera of mine, will you, old man?”

The Camera Chap sauntered up Main Street until he came to a store which

sold sporting goods, toys, and cameras. Entering this shop, he stepped

up to the toy counter.

“I want to get a present for my little nephew,” he announced to the

saleswoman. “Don’t know exactly what I want yet, so I’ll look around a

bit, if you don’t mind.”

It didn’t take him long to make a selection from the large variety of

toys displayed on the counter and shelves. Then, with his purchase in

his hand, he was just about to leave the store, when, apparently, a

sudden thought came to him.

“By the way, you sell cameras here, don’t you?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir--at the rear of the store,” the saleswoman replied.

Hawley stepped up to the photographic counter and purchased a small film

camera.

“Wrap it up in good, strong paper, please,” he requested the salesman.

“I want to conceal the fact that I’m carrying a camera.”

“Haven’t taken out your license yet, eh?” said the salesman, with a

smile.

“No, not yet,” the Camera Chap replied.

“Well, why not drop into police headquarters right now and attend to it?

Then you won’t have to be afraid of getting into trouble. It’ll only

take you a couple of minutes.”

But Hawley did not drop into police headquarters, although he passed

right by that building on his way to the city hall.

Chief Hodgins happened to be standing in the doorway as the Camera Chap

passed. He was engaged in conversation with the younger Gale.

“I’ve got a feelin’ that he ain’t coming,” the big chief remarked

uneasily. “You can depend upon it that he’s heard about this law and is

afraid to take a chance.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll come, all right,” declared Gale confidently. “The

only thing that could keep him away would be a suspicion that that

telegram of ours wasn’t genuine, and I’m pretty sure he won’t suspect

that.”

Then suddenly Gale caught sight of Hawley, and poked his companion in

the ribs.

“Look! Here he comes now,” he whispered excitedly. “What did I tell you,

chief?”

“By Jiminy! It’s him, sure enough,” the head of Oldham’s police force

muttered. “I’ve only seen him once--and that time I only got what you

might call a fleetin’ glimpse of him--but I’d know the rascal anywhere.

I could pick him out of a thousand.”

“Don’t let him see us,” Gale whispered cautiously, pulling his companion

farther back into the hallway of the headquarters building. “Compose

yourself, chief.”

This last remark was called forth by the fact that Chief Hodgins’ round

face had turned scarlet, and his little, beady eyes seemed about to

leave their sockets. His fat fingers opened and closed convulsively, and

he fairly trembled with the fury which the sight of the Camera Chap

aroused within his breast.

“I can hardly keep my hands off him,” he growled.

“Don’t do it, chief,” Gale urged. “Go easy or you’ll spoil the whole

game. In a few minutes you’ll have the satisfaction of marching him to

jail. That’ll be much better than physical violence. See, he’s heading

straight for the city hall; and I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that that

brown paper package in his hand is a camera. He must be a bigger idiot

than I thought him if he imagines he can fool us by such a bluff.”

“Come on,” said Hodgins impatiently. “Let’s trail the loafer. I’ve got

six of my best men stationed around the city hall, laying in wait for

him. I assigned the best detectives on my force to the job, but they may

fall down, and I’m not taking any chances. Come on, young feller. We’ll

make this pinch ourselves.”

“Great!” exclaimed Gale, a gleam of malicious satisfaction in his eyes.

“I’ll enjoy taking an active part in the arrest, chief. I’m just as

anxious as you are to see that chesty Camera Chap laugh out of the other

side of his mouth. I’ve got several old scores to settle with him, and I

wouldn’t miss this opportunity for a mint of money.”

They waited until Hawley was half a block ahead, then they crossed to

the opposite sidewalk and followed him cautiously up Main Street, taking

care to keep far enough back to prevent his recognizing them in case he

should glance behind him.

But this precaution proved unnecessary, for the Camera Chap did not once

turn his head in their direction. Apparently blissfully unconscious of

the fact that he was being shadowed, he kept right on until he reached

the white, domed building which housed the local government of Oldham.

Here he halted and carefully surveyed the edifice, shifting his position

several times as though he had difficulty in making up his mind which

viewpoint would best serve his purpose.

Gale and the chief of police had ducked inside the doorway of a store.

From this place of concealment they watched him closely, and a grunt of

joyous anticipation came from Hodgins as they saw him remove the paper

wrapping of the package in his hand and reveal a film camera.

“What did I tell you!” Gale whispered exultantly. “I knew I was right

about the contents of that package. In another minute or so he’ll have

snapshotted himself into jail.”

“He’s taken the picture already,” growled Hodgins. “I just seen him turn

that little knob at the side of his camera; and he’s got the confounded

thing pointed straight at the city hall. That’s plenty good enough for

me.”

He was about to step out of the doorway, but Gale hastily pulled him

back.

“Hold on, chief,” he whispered, smiling at the policeman’s ignorance of

photography. “He hasn’t taken the picture yet. He’s merely focusing, and

the law doesn’t forbid that. Wait until he squeezes the bulb and exposes

the film. Then we’ll have the goods on him.

“And say, chief,” he added eagerly, “let me have a few words with him

before you place him under arrest, will you?”

“Huh! What do you want to say to him?” growled Hodgins suspiciously.

Gale smiled sardonically. “I just want to have a little fun at his

expense, that’s all. It’ll be great sport to kid him. It can’t possibly

do any harm--there’s no danger of his getting away, so please do me that

favor, will you?”

The Camera Chap seemed to be having some trouble in getting a

satisfactory focus. He fidgeted with his camera for several minutes

before he was quite content with the reflection in the view finder. But

at last he was ready to take the picture, and there was a faint clicking

sound as he squeezed the bulb.

The noises of the street, of course, prevented Gale from hearing this

click; but he saw Hawley’s fingers compress the rubber bulb, and he knew

that the psychological moment had arrived.

Stepping out from his place of concealment, he confronted the Camera

Chap just as that young man was in the act of restoring his photographic

apparatus to its original paper wrapping.

If Gale had loved Hawley like an only brother, his face could not have

been more expressive of cordiality as he advanced toward the latter with

hand outstretched.

“Well, if it isn’t good old Hawley, as large as life!” he exclaimed

effusively. “My dear fellow, this certainly is a pleasant surprise.”

The Camera Chap looked startled. “Hello, Gale,” he said nervously,

apparently failing to see the other’s outstretched hand. “This meeting

is a surprise to me, too. But I can’t stop to talk now. I’m in a big

hurry. He was about to move on, but Gale detained him by clutching his

coat sleeve.

“Don’t be in such a rush, old fellow,” he said pleasantly. “Surely you

can spare a couple of minutes. There are so many things I want to say to

you. In the first place, what on earth are you doing in Oldham?”

“I am taking a little vacation,” Hawley replied, trying to wrench his

arm free from Gale’s detaining grasp.

“Is that so? That’s queer. I’m taking a little vacation, too,” said

Gale. “My folks live in this town, you know. But say, old man, I’ve had

a rare piece of luck. I’ve accidentally stumbled across a rattling good

yarn which I’m going to put on the wire in a little while. The New York

_Daily News_ will be tickled to death to get it.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Hawley, making another ineffectual attempt to free

his imprisoned coat sleeve. “But really, Gale, I must be going. I’ll see

you again some other time.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Gale protested. “I must say, Hawley, you’re

not a bit sociable to-day. I want to tell you about this story I’ve had

the luck to pick up. It’s a peach; and I think you’ll be interested.

It’s about the arrest of a well-known New York newspaper man,” he went

on, with a sardonic laugh. “A fellow in your own line, Hawley. They’re

going to send him to jail for six months.”

Never had Gale seen the Camera Chap more panic-stricken than he appeared

now.

“Let me go!” he gasped. “What the deuce are you holding on to me like

that for? I tell you I’ve got to get away. I’ve got an important

engagement.”

“Just a minute, old chap,” said Gale softly, taking a tighter hold on

his victim’s sleeve. “I really can’t let you go until I’ve told you how

very glad I am to see you.

“By the way,” he added, pointing to the camera in Hawley’s hand, “I see

you’ve been doing a little work during your vacation, too. Did you get a

good picture?”

“Oh, no,” Hawley replied nervously. “I didn’t take a picture at all.

I----”

He didn’t finish the sentence; for just then some one stepped up behind

him, and a big hand clutched him by the coat collar. “You lie!” a hoarse

voice bellowed. “You miserable whelp, you’re caught with the goods this

time.”

The large hand and the hoarse oath both belonged, of course, to Chief of

Police Hodgins. As he grabbed the Camera Chap, the six plain-clothes men

who had been lying in ambush pounced out of their various hiding places

and surrounded the prisoner.

The latter smiled grimly as he glanced swiftly around at this circle of

scowling faces.

“Gee whiz!” he exclaimed. “You’re certainly taking no chances on my

getting away, chief. If I were a murderer or a desperate bank burglar I

could scarcely expect a bigger bodyguard.”

“You’re worse than a murderer or a bank burglar,” growled Hodgins. “And

you’d better keep your mouth closed, or we’ll close it for you.”

He snatched the camera from the prisoner’s hand and snapped a pair of

handcuffs on his wrists. He had no fear of Hawley’s making his escape;

but he used the handcuffs because he wished to make things as unpleasant

as possible for that young man.

As they started to march their captive down Main Street, Gale, walking

close beside the Camera Chap, laughed like a villain in a melodrama.

“Without exaggeration, my dear Hawley,” he chuckled, “this is quite the

happiest day of my life.”

CHAPTER XI.

IN COURT.

It was not until two hours after the Camera Chap’s arrest that his

friend, Fred Carroll, learned of it.

The proprietor of the _Bulletin_, returning to his office after his

tryst with Melba Gale, was just seating himself at his desk when the

telephone claimed his attention. It was the voice of Parsons, his police

reporter, which came to him over the wire.

“Is that you, Mr. Carroll?” said the reporter. “I’ve been trying to get

hold of you for the past two hours. They’ve arrested your friend, Mr.

Hawley. They’re just taking him to court now.”

“The deuce you say!” exclaimed the proprietor of the _Bulletin_. “What

have they got him for?”

“Breaking the new anticamera law. I’m afraid he’s in bad, too, sir.

Looks as if they’ve got him dead to rights. He took a photograph on the

street outside the city hall, and they caught him at it. Of course,

Hodgins will make the most of this opportunity to get square.”

“Suffering Cæsar!” muttered Carroll, a troubled look on his face. “What

magistrate are they taking him before, Parsons?”

“Judge Wall, sir.”

“Wall!” The troubled look on Carroll’s face deepened. “He’s the biggest

grouch on the bench, and a personal friend of Hodgins. Poor old Hawley!

I’m afraid they’ll give him the limit. All right, Parsons, I’ll be right

over. We must see what we can do.”

As he hurried to court, Carroll said to himself, with a frown: “The

reckless chump! What the dickens did he want with that picture, when he

knew that telegram was a fake? I suppose that was the big laugh he

promised me. He made up his mind that he’d get that snapshot, anyway,

just to show those fellows how little he was afraid of them.

Unfortunately, though, it looks as if they’ve turned the laugh on him. I

wish I’d guessed what he was going to do, so that I could have persuaded

him not to take such a desperate chance.”

Although Carroll lost no time in getting to the courtroom, the Camera

Chap was already being arraigned when he arrived there. Chief Hodgins

was in such a fever of impatience to wreak his vengeance upon that young

man that he had prevailed upon his honor to try the case ahead of

several other less important cases which, according to the regular

order, should have preceded it.

News of Hawley’s arrest evidently had traveled fast, for Carroll

recognized in the courtroom several men whose presence there, he felt

sure, was prompted solely by a desire to see the Camera Chap sentenced

to six months in the county jail.

Prominent among these was old Delancey Gale, who stood beside his son,

within the railed inclosure in front of the magistrate’s desk--a

privilege accorded to representatives of the press--stroking his white,

mutton-chop whiskers and shaking his head deprecatingly every time his

gaze rested upon the prisoner’s smiling countenance, as though such

depravity as he saw there was almost past his comprehension.

Most of the other men in the spectators’ benches were

politicians--members of the ring against which the _Bulletin_ was waging

war. They had no grievance against Hawley personally, but they regarded

his prosecution as a blow at Carroll and his newspaper, and therefore

they had come there with thumbs down.

As the proprietor of the _Bulletin_ entered the courtroom, he was

greeted by vindictive scowls from this group. One had only to glance at

their faces to realize how intensely bitter was their feeling toward

this young New Yorker who had done--and was still doing--his level best

to brand them as the grafters they were.

But their scowls were quickly succeeded by friendly smiles as a burly,

rawboned man of middle age, whose countenance was set in grim lines,

entered the courtroom close on the heels of Carroll, stepped pompously

up to the bench, and took a seat beside the magistrate without waiting

for an invitation to do so.

The newcomer was the Honorable Martin Henkle, mayor of Oldham, and the

most powerful political boss that town had ever known.

Mayor Henkle was not in the habit of gracing the police court with his

presence; but so great was his interest in this case that he had

adjourned an important hearing at the city hall in order to attend the

trial.

The mayor’s visit was a source of great gratification to Chief Hodgins.

Since the _Bulletin’s_ publication of those painful snapshots showing

that corpulent official in a somnolent pose, there had been a marked

coolness between the mayor and the head of the police department.

While the former had not carried out his threat to remove the latter

from office, he had let it be plainly seen that Hodgins was in great

disfavor at the city hall. Consequently the police chief was glad now to

have the mayor present to witness his triumph over the Camera Chap. He

felt confident that this arrest would go a long way toward restoring him

to favor.

It did not take Chief Hodgins long to present his evidence against

Hawley.

With a note of pride in his voice, he told the court how by his

vigilance and alertness he had been successful in catching the defendant

“red-handed,” in the act of taking a photograph on a public highway of

Oldham.

“And I hope, your honor,” the chief concluded, “that you’ll see fit to

make an example of the rascal; for if ever there was a desperate

character, he’s one. Just see how he stands there grinnin’ now--right in

your honor’s face.”

His honor, who was a dyspeptic-looking little man with a peppery temper,

glared at the prisoner, and inwardly resolved that he would “give him

something to grin about” in a little while.

Gale and the six detectives gave testimony corroborating that of the

chief of police regarding the taking of the photograph.

Everybody in the courtroom, including Fred Carroll, thought that the

case against the Camera Chap was a strong one, and wondered why the

latter didn’t manifest more concern as to the outcome.

Hawley’s face continued to wear a cheerful smile as he listened to the

evidence, and this smile expanded every time his gaze rested on the

camera reposing on the magistrate’s desk, which Chief Hodgins had

offered as an exhibit.

“You say that a photograph was taken,” the magistrate suddenly remarked.

“Have you the picture, chief?”

“I have the negative, your honor,” Hodgins replied promptly.

As he spoke, he glanced swiftly at the Camera Chap, whose face had

suddenly lost its smile, and now wore an expression of mingled

indignation and amazement.

“In order to make the evidence as complete as possible, your honor,” the

chief of police went on, “I took the roll of film from this fellow’s

camera, in the presence of witnesses, and had it developed. The result

was this picture of the city hall, which I now offer in evidence.”

As Hodgins handed the negative to the magistrate, Hawley’s gaze traveled

from the incriminating strip of gelatin to the face of the younger Gale.

On that countenance he saw an expression which fully enlightened him as

to who was responsible for this piece of manufactured evidence--an

expression half triumphant, half anxious.

“What a chump I was not to have foreseen that he’d do that,” he mused

ruefully. “I guess this isn’t going to be such a ripping good joke,

after all. It looks very much now as if I’m going to be engaged for the

next six months in the unprofitable pastime of making large stones into

little ones.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

ELEPHANT OFFENDERS IN THE ARMY.

In India, elephants are used for many purposes, but principally for

carrying heavy loads from one part of the country to another. The Indian

government employ a number of them, especially for their artillery.

These elephants are very particular about their rights. For instance,

when formed up on parade, the elephant who has served longest takes the

right of the rank, the others forming up in succession, according to

their seniority, just like soldiers. Sometimes, either by accident or

design, an elephant will take up a position to which he has no claim,

when there is at once a great commotion, his comrades insisting upon his

retiring to his proper place.

With such intelligent animals, it is therefore little to be wondered at

that punishments for grave offenses are generally preceded by a

court-martial in precisely the same manner as with soldiers.

One such scene of trial and punishment of an elephant guilty of murder

is thus described by an eye witness, a military officer:

“The prisoner, with eyes filled with tears, was marched in front of us,

between two other elephants. Along with them came all the witnesses. The

president, Major C----, read the charge: ‘Elephant Abdul is charged with

causing the death of Syce Ramboucles by catching him by the legs with

his trunk and beating his brains out against the wall of the grain hut.’

“The first witness called deposed that he was in the lines at twelve

o’clock, seeing the elephants fed. When the trumpeter sounded ‘feed,’ he

saw Syce Ramboucles run with a bag of grain toward Elephant Abdul. At

this time all the other elephants were fed, consequently Syce Ramboucles

was late in feeding Elephant Abdul. The witness ordered the syce to

hurry, but the latter did not seem to move any quicker. As soon as he

approached, Elephant Abdul seized him by the legs and dashed his head

against the little grain hut. Eight syces gave similar statements.

“When they had finished, the president, who had kept his head down the

whole time, with the elephant’s defaulter sheet in front of him,

suddenly looked up and glared at the prisoner. Seeing the elephant’s

eyes swimming in tears, he said:

“‘It’s no use; that game won’t do. I am quite accustomed to see tears,

and never take any notice of them. I see by this defaulter book that you

have been guilty of no fewer than sixteen crimes of injuring people, and

I have not the slightest compassion for you.’

“The members of the court-martial all agreed with him, and, after a

short adjournment, found Abdul guilty, and sentenced him to fifty lashes

and two years’ imprisonment.”

A few days later the first part of the sentence was carried out.

The whole battery was drawn up in a square, fourteen elephants forming

one side and the noncommissioned officers and men the other three sides.

In the center were two huge elephants, the prisoner Abdul, and the

senior elephant, to whom the task of inflicting punishment always falls.

Besides these two elephants, all the officers of the battery, the

provosts, the brigade major, and the doctor, were in the center, and

elephants numbers two and three stood on either flank, in case the

prisoner might try to escape. Four great iron pegs were driven into the

ground, to each of which one of the prisoner’s legs was chained. The

senior elephant, Lalla No. 1, stood by, with a huge cable chain fastened

around her trunk, waiting further orders.

When all was pronounced ready, the doctor, who stood with a watch in his

hand, gave the signal to begin. Lalla raised her trunk in the air, gave

it two turns, and down came the cable with terrific force on Abdul’s

back. A loud thud was heard, followed by an unearthly roar from the

unfortunate Abdul.

Again the doctor gave the signal, and down came the cable with terrific

force, causing more roaring. Again and again it came down, until the

full number of lashes were given, after which the prisoner was marched

back to his quarters, trembling from head to foot, and having a few

lumps on his back as the result of the lashing. The parade was then

dismissed, and things went on as usual.

CONTINUED HIS EXPERIMENTS.

Among the adventures which befell a young engineer a short time back,

was the perilous one of falling down the shaft of a mine. The shaft was

not in use during the winter, but as it was essential to have it in

order before spring, the young engineer determined to examine it.

There were no ladders to this particular shaft, and he elected to be

lowered by the windlass. It was necessary, therefore, to hold on tightly

to the rope, keeping one foot in a loop at the end. He settled himself

firmly and swung off, the rope in his right hand and a candle in his

left.

The shaft was about three hundred feet deep, and he was halfway down

when he leaned forward to examine the wall of the shaft, and as he did

so his foot shot out from the noose. It was coated with ice. The candle

was jerked out of his left hand, while his right slipped down the icy

rope like lightning, and closed on it with a death grip.

Then he felt himself swinging by one hand to the end of the rope and

instinctively reached up to the loop with the other, only to find it a

smooth coat of ice which gave scarcely any hold. He could never cling

there long enough to be hauled back to the mouth of the shaft, even if

he should succeed in making the men hear his cry for help.

The shaft was pitch dark, and it was therefore impossible to judge his

rate of descent, as he hung--literally between life and death--with

every faculty strained to the one act of clinging to the rope.

His hands were numb with cold and little by little he felt them

slipping. Another moment and he went.

But not far, for when he let go he was not three feet from the bottom of

the shaft. All the same he felt decidedly shaky as he groped about for

his lost candle, which he found, and then coolly completed the

exploration for which he had descended.

DRINK OR TEMPERANCE?

A temperance orator was describing to his audience how his own life had

been influenced by total abstinence.

“You know,” said he, “that I am chief of my department. Three years ago

there were two men in our office who held positions superior to mine.

One was dismissed through drunkenness; the other was led into crime, and

is now serving a long term of imprisonment, and all through the

influence of strong drink. Now, what I ask,” he cried, growing eloquent,

“what has raised me to my present high position?”

“Drink!” was the vociferous but unexpected reply, which he received from

a number of the audience.

HE WANTED TO KNOW.

His five-year-old boy was perched on his knee, and the fond father gazed

at him with eyes that beamed with paternal pride.

“Papa”--pointing out of the window--“what are those men doing over

there?”

“Building a house, my son.”

“Why?”

“Because they are paid to do it.”

“Who pays them for doing it?”

“The man who is putting the house up.”

“What does he pay ’em for?”

“For building the house.”

“Why?”

“Because--well, because they would not build the house if he did not pay

them.”

“What does the man want the house for?”

The paternal smile became rigid.

“To live in.”

“Hasn’t he got a house to live in?”

“Oh, yes!”

“What does he want another one for?”

“Oh, for other people to live in.”

“What other people?”

“Oh, men and women and little boys and girls.”

“Why do they want to live in the house?”

“Well, they must live somewhere.”

“Who?”

“The people.”

“What people?”

“Any people.”

“Why?”

At this juncture the innocent, prattling child saw a firm hand descend,

and hastily retreated in time to prevent a collision.

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Interesting New Inventions.

A safety pocket to hold a watch securely is a feature of a new apron for

workmen.

A device for removing tires from wagon wheels has been invented that

exerts a pull exceeding a ton, yet weighs less than twenty-five pounds.

The principle of the automatic drinking fountain has been applied to a

water cooler by the invention of a bubbling attachment.

Flies can enter a garbage can that a New York man has patented, but as

they try to get out, they are caught in a wire trap, which can be

detached and the insects destroyed.

A new clamp to hold a cover on a milk bottle also serves as a handle to

carry the bottle.

Won’t Cut Hair Until Bryan is President.

Bryan Wise, nineteen years old, of Crane, Mo., will get his first hair

cut when William Jennings Bryan becomes president.

“Then his hair will grow so long that he will stumble over it,” the

thoughtful reader may surmise; but be that as it may, Bryan Wise, son of

a Crane, Mo., brakeman, has for nineteen years been a total stranger to

the barber’s chair, and, having stood the “gaff” for so long a time, it

looks as though he will continue to do so. At present his hair touches

his waist when it is “undone,” but he wears it in a tight knot at the

back of his head.

The father of the long-haired youth was and continues to be a great

admirer of the former secretary of state, and he has every faith that in

the course of time his son will have the opportunity to have his hair

cut off.

Ker-choo! Arm Out of Joint.

Sometimes a sneeze can do more damage than ordinarily. W. H.

Wallingford, an automobile salesman of Portland, Ore., will testify to

this.

Wallingford was talking to a “prospect” in an auto salesroom. During his

argument in favor of the car he was selling, Wallingford raised an arm

above his head and leaned it against a door casing. Then the sneeze

came--and it came so suddenly Wallingford didn’t have time to “get set”

for it. His head and shoulders were jerked forward and downward when the

ker-choo sounded, and the arm was dislocated at the shoulder socket. A

physician reset it, and Wallingford, after a few days of rest, will be

back on the job.

Night at Ellis Island with Wrecked Mankind.

On wire and canvas cots, on wooden benches, and not infrequently on

tiled floors, hundreds of men sleep each night on Ellis Island, in New

York City. These men are not immigrants, although many, but by no means

most, of them are aliens. They are homeless, hungry men, who have

neither work nor the wherewithal to live, a condition that is in dire

contrast to the comfortable and happy existence of those who live in the

small cities and towns of our land, but one that for months has been

experienced by thousands of unfortunates in our metropolitan centers.

The island has been thrown open to them ungrudgingly, first because of

the sympathetic understanding of Commissioner Frederic C. Howe, and,

second, because the sudden fall in immigration has left unoccupied a

great many rooms and hundreds of cots previously needed for those who

came, as many of these men came, to the Land of Promise.

You do not have to look closely at these men to see how poorly dressed

they are; but, if you were to spend a night with them, you would find

that beneath their soiled and wretched outer covering there is no

clothing, and that the flesh, that is weak, in many cases is sore and

infected and in need of care. For with them underwear long since has

become a bitter memory of better days, and their feet are without socks

and their boots without soles.

Now, these men are not lazy men. Let there be no misunderstanding as to

that. Any one can satisfy himself on that score by announcing that he

needs a man to work. He will be surrounded by a hundred men, who will

not merely clamor for the job, but will actually beg for it. Some time

ago twenty men were needed to cut ice. It was cold work, in cold season,

but scores of men stepped forward when the call was made, and not one of

them had a stitch of underclothing to his body! The employment agent who

engaged the number needed supplied them with warm garments out of sheer

pity for them.

Here is what Commissioner Howe has to say of them:

“The unemployed men have been coming to Ellis Island for the past five

months. The numbers for the last two months have averaged between seven

hundred and eight hundred each night. The men are perfectly orderly, and

are most grateful for the opportunity offered them for sleeping some

place other than in the parks, under the bridges, or any other such

places as are open to them. They required no policing, and have not

given us a bit of trouble in that time. A large percentage of them rush

eagerly to the bathroom as soon as they arrive at the island. They

maintain barbers and clothes menders to keep in good condition, and are,

so far as I can judge, making every possible effort to retain their

self-respect under terrible conditions.

“It is almost complete presumption to my mind in favor of a man if he is

willing to sleep night after night on a hard wood floor, without any

covering over him, and that is what many of the men have been doing.

They get what little food they have as best they can, and the great

majority of them are in a state of chronic hunger. It seems to me a far

greater reflection upon this rich city that these men should be left

wholly to their own fate than it is upon the men themselves, for they

cannot create their own employment; many of them are in rags, and do not

present a good appearance, and some of them are so weak and enfeebled by

long exposure that they are hardly in position to help themselves.”

It was to learn something of these men at first hand that a reporter,

dressed as one of them, and unshaved and of sorry appearance, joined

their company for one never-to-be-forgotten night on the island. But the

suffering and discomfort were more than made up for by the fact that,

although these were rough men, in the privacy of the room in which we

slept--except for some swearing--there was not spoken one word that any

woman might not have heard. It is really a splendid thing to be able to

say that.

These unfortunate men say they are much happier within the hospitable

halls of Ellis Island than they ever could be at the municipal lodging

institutions, which they criticize very unfavorably and with various

reasons, among their objections being too many unnecessary questions

asked, entirely too much work expected for the amount of assistance

given, and many times no food at all when food is due; in other words,

they pronounce organized charity, as exemplified in New York, a proved

failure so far as it benefits those for whom it is supposed to be

carried on.

“King of the Pasture” Chases Girl “Hikers.”

If it hadn’t been for a wild bull, which has the habit of seeing red, in

a pasture they crossed, two Kansas schoolma’ams, Miss Edna R. Johnson

and Miss Lillian Jaggar, who are hiking on foot overland from Vernon,

Kan., to Pueblo, Col., would not be spending a week in Dodge City

recuperating before continuing their journey.

The bull chased the two young school-teachers across a rolling pasture a

half mile when they rolled to safety under a high barbed-wire fence.

Probably nothing would have occurred if the girls had not worn

sweaters--red sweaters. But they did not think of angry bulls in mapping

their tramp.

The bull charged up until his shoulders hit the wire, and then stopped.

But his bellows urged the girls to renewed efforts, and they raced on. A

farmer boy met them and offered them protection. They took it gladly.

They managed to get to Dodge City, but there they decided to remain

until their shattered nerves were restored. Hereafter, the girls say,

they will tramp along in the dusty road. No more pastures will entice

them. They have been tramping for two weeks and had covered over three

hundred miles without having ridden a foot of the way.

Youth Stops Runaway Team.

Fifteen-year-old Harold Dewey Howard, son of Mrs. Alice Howard, of

Baker, Ore., checked a runaway team belonging to H. E. Jordan, seizing

the animals by the bits and being dragged for nearly one hundred feet

before he was shaken loose. Young Howard was slightly bruised, but he

brought the horses to a standstill.

Life on Ole Mississipi in Days Befo’ de Wah.

There was recently held at Dubuque, Iowa, a meeting of shippers from

eight Mississippi Valley States for the purpose of restoring

transportation on “The Father of Waters.” The cities represented by

active delegates were St. Paul, Minneapolis, La Crosse, Winona, Galena,

Dubuque, Burlington, Quincy, Hannibal, Rapid City, East St. Louis, New

Orleans, and Cincinnati.

President Thomas Wilkinson, of Burlington, Iowa, was authorized to

appoint an energetic working committee to prepare a plan or system for

the practical utilization of the valley’s great water highway to meet

the demands of commerce occasioned by the completion of the Panama Canal

and other transportation exigencies. It is said the greatest enthusiasm

exists among the large producers and shippers of the valley over the

prospective resumption of river traffic, and that already many

encouraging offers have been received by those at the heads of the

enterprise.

The floodtide of the Mississippi River traffic under the old system was

reached July 4, 1870, when the _Robert E. Lee_ pushed its nose against

the St. Louis wharf at the conclusion of its great race with the

_Natchez_. Old rivermen say that almost from that hour they could detect

the falling off of the trade once so generously given the big “river

palaces.”

The _Lee_ beat the _Natchez_ into St. Louis six hours and thirty-six

minutes. Both steamers cleared the New Orleans wharf at about five p. m.

June 30th. The race was fairly even until they got close to St. Louis.

Jesse T. Jamison and Enoch King were in the _Lee’s_ pilothouse. They had

taken charge of the wheel at Cairo, and held their long trick clear into

St. Louis.

At Devil’s Island a dense fog settled on the river. There were no

lighthouses then, no electric flash lights to sweep out over the river.

The _Natchez_ was hanging on close. Many rivermen of that day insisted

that under certain conditions she was a much swifter boat than the

_Lee_.

As night came on, all the world was black. “You could almost feel it,”

graphically observed a man who was on the _Lee_. “Jamison looked across

at his mate handling the other side of the big wheel. ‘We’ll keep

going,’ he said. ‘Of course,’ replied King. The pilot’s decision in the

old river days was the law.”

The _Lee_ was drawing six feet. Leadsmen were out on the fo’castle all

night taking soundings. The boat never stopped in all that gloom.

Jamison said, many years afterward, that it was a harder ordeal on his

nerves than if he had been fighting all night on a battle line. The

_Natchez_ tied up during the worst part of the fog, and she had good

pilots, too.

The winning boat was welcomed into St. Louis by salvos of artillery at

Jefferson barracks, and hundreds of steamers and tugs black with people.

Some of these traveled many miles downstream to greet the victor, who

easily outdistanced all of them in the run to the city. The wharf boats

all along the great levee were crowded with cheering people. The event

made the _Lee_ the most popular boat on the river, and every member of

her hardworking crew became a hero.

In a recent talk about the vanished glories of the big stream, J. G. van

Cleve, a merchant of Macon, Mo., said:

“The commercial lifeblood of the city was represented in the activity

along the levee. The man who has never made a trip down the Mississippi

River in the real steamboat days has lost a page of life that would have

contributed to his love of country.

“The big Anchor Line steamers for Grand Tower, Cairo, Memphis, and

Vicksburg were scheduled to leave the St. Louis wharf at five p. m., but

they rarely got under way before nine or ten. The rules seemed to be to

hold the boat as long as there were offerings of freight, and it looked

like the shipping clerks in the big wholesale houses on Second and Main

Streets didn’t begin to get busy until late in the afternoon. Then wide

two-wheeled drays and trucks would clatter down the long rock levee like

an army of invasion. It was a lively sight. Officers would dart

helter-skelter, directing teamsters where to go, and saying things anent

their tardiness; the teamsters would swear at their mules, and the mates

would cuss the roustabouts. Everybody seemed to have a safe target for

his wrath, and nobody took offense. It was all a part of the game.

“By and by, long after supper, the last dray of freight would roar

across the wharf bridge, an army of black men would seize the stuff

almost before the team stopped, the mud valves would growl out great

clouds of steam forward to the paddle wheels, and some one

aloft--generally the captain--would pull the great bell for the third

time. That was the signal to cast off the hawsers and run in the gang

plank. Then the big craft, loaded nearly to the water’s edge amidships,

would slowly drift out into the river, stern foremost.

“When the line of boats was cleared, a seeming haphazard concert of

small bells and baby whistles below, was responded to by long, fierce

exhausts, spouting geyser-like from the steam pipes just forward of the

wheelhouse. The din of the bells and whistles, which nobody on earth but

the engineers could have deciphered, was kept up until the boat had

slowly turned around and headed south. The long voyage had begun. Then

the negro roustabouts, scattered around on coffee sacks and hemp bales,

started their evening musicale:

“‘The boat comes sailin’ ’round de ben’,

Good-by, my lovah, good-by;

She’s loaded down wid wimin an’ men,

Good-by, my lovah, good-by!

By-by, my ba-bee,

By-by, my ba-bee,

Good-by, my lovah, good-by!’

“It was sung to a long, plaintive tune, carrying with it the agony of

parting forever. As it rolled out into the darkness, now and then

illumined by the red glare from an opened furnace, the black man seemed

to have come into his kingdom; a kingdom peopled with weird shapes and

enveloped in the mysticism of a dark continent. He was no longer a

humdrum hewer of wood and a drawer of water, but a part of the sublimity

of the great river. The steady move of the engines, the cascades from

the steam pipes, and the pleasant quiver of the boat seemed the natural

accompaniment of the negro’s lullaby, and the whole scene was so

enchanting that few passengers retired to their staterooms until late in

the night.

“The boat swept on past the great Vulcan ironworks, where the blasts

showed red against the houses, and gave them the appearance of a town on

fire; on past ‘Bloody Island,’ where statesmen met to shoot holes into

each other for honor’s sake, and then down the broad water avenue by the

mountains of iron the steamer sped, throwing behind great billows that

sparkled back the lights from the rear cabin.

“Far down the stream is a light close to the shore. The pilot knows what

that means. It is a wild-cat landing, where a freighter awaits with a

lot of goods, or some passengers who want to take the boat. In either

event somebody has probably been waiting by the riverside some six or

eight hours. The pilot pulls a ring in the top of his little house, and

the triple whistles above it give the peculiar signal of the line.

“The steamer runs far past the landing, turns laboriously around under

the chiding of the small bells and baby whistles, and forges up to the

landing, where the boat is made fast to a tree, and the gangplank runs

out, assisted by the rapid-fire comments of the mate. If there was much

freight to go on, the place was lighted by burning pine knots in an iron

basket placed near the gangplank.

“Promptly, as if glad of the call to duty, the deck hand was up and

ready for the work of loading. In those days he was a trusty machine,

and was proud of his great strength, of his boat, and even of the rich

vocabulary of his mate. He loved, when ashore, to talk of the big towns

he made, and of the way-up people he knew in them. He had a sweetheart

in every place where his boat put up over twelve hours, and his standin

was good until she was courted by a man from a bigger and faster boat.

“A large and fast boat never had had much trouble in securing plenty of

deck hands. But there was no prestige in accepting employment on a small

stern-wheeler, devoted mostly to freight traffic, although the wages

might be better. The aristocratic travelers patronized the fine

side-wheeled boats, with their white-and-gold cabins, and the

roustabouts liked best to work where they could be seen by patrician

eyes.

“Like everybody connected with the boat, from cabin boy to pilot, he

thought he was the whole show. He liked to show his strength, and the

ease with which he could carry a coffee sack or a pig of lead. Yet he

would permit a little, one-gallus mate, whom he could pick up and shake

like a mouse, to make public reflections on his family tree in words

that sizzled. The roustabout supposed the mate was hired for his

proficiency in that particular line, and if he hadn’t kept it up it

would have meant to him that the mate was ailing or neglecting his

employer’s interest.”

Confesses Wrecking Train.

William Davis, twenty-three, a farmer of Jasper, Ala., has confessed to

wrecking the Seminole Limited train near Nauvoo by putting a spike on

the track. Davis declares he put the spike on the track “just to see it

get flattened out,” and had no idea the train would be ditched.

Hen and Chicks in Cyclone.

A cyclone played a freakish trick on the farm of John Burns, near Perry,

Mich., when it picked up a coop of chickens and the old hen and carried

them forty rods over a fence into another field, where it deposited them

without any damage being done.

A New Saddle Invented.

A saddle has been patented by a New Jersey inventor which includes

leather flaps to cover the buckles which frequently wear out riders’

clothing.

Interesting New Inventions.

A device patented by a Virginia man can be used to hold a fishing pole

on land or in a boat, to signal with a bell when a fish has been hooked,

to dig bait, and to cut and clean fish.

A Kansas farmer has just invented a tool that takes the place of four.

It is a combination saw, sickle, corn knife, and pruning knife. The tool

is made to serve the various purposes by simply turning a ratchet.

A new arrangement for mosquito bars has been devised by a Texas woman.

There is an elastic band at the bottom, which keeps the netting firmly

secured to the bed or cradle, making it impossible for mosquitoes or

other insects to annoy sleepers. There is an opening on the side of the

bar, through which the person enters the bed.

A Minneapolis woman is the patentee of a strip of flexible material to

be inserted in a buttonhole to facilitate the work of sewing over its

edges.

So that baggage cannot fall out on passengers’ heads, a new rack for

railroad cars is almost completely inclosed, access being provided by

sliding doors.

To save a housewife bending over while sweeping, a dustpan has been

invented that is heavy enough to stay where it is moved with the foot

and with a guard to retain accumulated sweepings.

A novel sketching table for artists is supported by a single leg to

which an umbrella also can be clamped to provide shade.

Bibles Behind Their Bars.

Saloon keepers in Bellaire, Ohio, are so careful in their efforts to

obey the law that all have Bibles behind their bars to be used when any

question arises as to the age of the person buying a drink. When the

bartender is in doubt, he compels the seeker for liquor to swear on the

Bible that he is over twenty-one years of age.

“Most Beautiful Man” a Bare-legged Dancer.

The most beautiful man in the world has been found. According to

spectators at recent outdoor pageants near Boston, Mass., he is William

Alfred Williams, of Pittsburgh, Harvard, ’15, who has delighted by his

esthetic dancing.

He performs bare-legged, very bare-legged, in fact. The only one

compared to him is Paul Swan, a New York bare-legged dancer, but

Williams is rated more Adonis-like. Experts say he has a perfect

masculine profile.

Mayor Curley, of Boston, prevented bare-legged dancing on the stage in

Boston during the winter, but this spring pageants with bare-legged

dancing by both sexes have been given on a number of estates of wealthy

folk in and about Boston. Williams has been a leading figure in all of

them. His costume surely has been suited to the most tropiclike day. The

girls have been bare-legged, and that’s about all, but Williams goes

much farther than that.

A reporter found him bare-footed, bare-legged, and bare-headed,

practicing in the back yard of Miss Virginia Tanner, who directs the

pageant, and dances bare-legged duets with Williams. He said he had been

dancing a year and a half and was thinking of adopting it as a

profession after graduating from college. This was his defense:

“The attitude of the body, in dances, is the most graceful and artistic

way of telling a story.”

Rooster is Phenom; It Crows Backward.

Jacob Newman, a clothier, living in Washington Street, Tarrytown, N. Y.,

owns a rooster that crows backward. He has another rooster that crows

naturally. The other day, as two strangers were walking by Mr. Newman’s

yard, the natural rooster crowed, and the other answered.

“Did you ever hear such an echo?” said one of the men. “It’s backward.”

Then they looked over the fence and heard one rooster crow and the freak

rooster answer.

Mr. Newman, who was in the yard, explained that the rooster crowed

backward, and it had always puzzled him.

Pumkin Patch in Pumkin.

Last fall Mrs. John Hoffman, of Lewistown, Pa., bought some pumpkins and

put them away for use in making pies. A short time ago she cut one of

them open and was surprised to find a pumpkin patch growing inside. The

seeds had all sprouted and were growing fine, lusty vines, some of the

vines having leaves.

Still Home Comforts When all Coal Goes.

Coal will disappear from the earth in three hundred years, although

there are seven and one-half trillion tons left. Then, instead of

freezing to death or descending in one mad rush on the tropics, humanity

will know a cleaner, more comfortable existence than ever.

Huge solar engines will gather the sun’s rays and transform them into

heat, light, and power. Millions of horse power will be developed from

waterfalls now unnoticed.

The farmer will guide an electric plow instead of a team of horses or a

gasoline tractor. When the flat dweller yells down the speaking tube for

more heat, the janitor of A. D. 2200 simply will throw a switch that

regulates current coming perhaps clear across or under the Atlantic from

the Sahara Desert.

The ideas belonged to Professor J. Paul Goode, of the University of

Chicago until he gave them to an audience at Mandel Hall on a recent

night. He is certain there will be no more coal in three hundred years,

but equally sure some genius will have perfected by then all the wonders

he described.

Seer Wins Freedom by Amazing Feat in Court.

Out of the mass of humbug and charlatanry about mind reading, fortune

telling, clairvoyance, et cetera, there emerges an occasional definite

fact apparently proving that the human intellect may possess psychic

powers. A case in point is the exhibition of mind reading made by

“Professor” Bert Reese in Judge Rosalsky’s court in New York, N. Y.

Arrested and previously convicted in a magistrate’s court for posing as

a fortune teller, Reese strikingly demonstrated his possession of

clairvoyant powers. He read names written on concealed slips of paper,

gave the amount of the judge’s bank balance, and performed other feats

showing familiarity with what was passing in the minds of his examiners.

Obviously, a man who can do these things under conditions making

collusion impossible, shows himself endowed with mental gifts as rare as

they are inexplainable. Washington Irving Bishop possessed them in even

greater degree; older New Yorkers readily recall his extraordinary

exhibitions of occult intelligence a quarter of a century ago.

More recently, Beulah Miller, a ten-year-old Rhode Island girl, gave

manifestations of the possession of such powers which aroused great

scientific expectations, but her later achievements or present

whereabouts seem to be unknown.

The mind-reading feats which won Reese his liberty unfortunately will

give a new impetus to imposture. But on the other hand they stimulate a

legitimate interest in questions relating to the possibility of the

development of a new sense and add to the data through which science may

some day solve the problem of human consciousness.

“This man is not a fortune teller, but a scientist and I offer him as an

exhibit,” said the counsel for Reese, the accused seer, to Judge

Rosalsky.

The judge selected two newspaper men to assist in the experiment. They

went into an adjoining room and wrote on slips of paper the maiden names

of their mothers. They also wrote two questions each on slips. The slips

were brought into the room where Reese was waiting. They had been folded

so that no writing was visible. Under his direction they were placed in

a hat and mixed up. Then the slips were placed in the reporters’

pockets.

Each man then took out a slip, still folded, and pressed it against the

exhibitor’s bald head. He turned to one man and said:

“Your mother’s maiden name was Electa Winans.”

To the other he said: “You want to know if Charley Becker is guilty. He

is not really guilty.”

The reporters then took two other slips from their pockets.

“You want to know how old Henry C. Terry is,” promptly said Reese. Then

plainly puzzled, he shook his head and went on to a question as to what

was the floor covering. The next question was: “Where did I do my first

newspaper work?”

He gave correctly the answer. The last slip Reese took in his hand, but

did not open it. He handed it back and directed the writer to hold it.

Then Reese said:

“Emma Drew was your mother’s maiden name.”

The answer to the first five questions had been given in a room

adjoining the court, but for the last Reese walked into the courtroom

and gave his answer in the presence of the judge and jury.

Judge Rosalsky wrote several questions, as follows:

“What was the ruling in the Shelly case?”

“How much money have I in the bank?” and

“What is the name of my favorite school-teacher?”

The demonstrator not only told what the questions were, but gave the

correct replies. Reese is seventy-four years old.

“I don’t know myself how I do it,” he said. “The answers just sort of

flash on my brain as a picture, just as ordinary objects are seen

through the eye.”

Kaiser’s Big Cannon Can’t Make Raindrops.

So many days during the last two months have been rainy or cloudy that a

great many people are led to believe that so much wet weather is owing

to the war in Europe. “Our heavy rainfall is probably caused by so much

firing over there,” is a remark frequently heard. Indeed, as long as man

can remember, it has been a theory accepted by many that constant or

heavy explosions in the air will produce rainfall. Tests of this kind

have been made in various parts of the country--more often in the west

and southwest--and sometimes with evident success, yet skeptics were

quick to say: “Shucks, it was time they had a shower, anyway.”

Now let us see how the ancients looked at this question. Almost since

the beginning of history there has been a theory--a silly one, says one

scientist--that battles caused rain. Battles, not explosives, observe,

for in the early centuries, A. D., there were no gunpowder or similar

explosives.

“Banish the thought,” says Forecaster Pennywitt, of the United States

Weather Bureau, in discussing the question of explosives and rainfall.

“There never was a more absurd idea. Not in all the history of the world

is it recorded that human endeavor wrung rain from the skies, either

intentionally or unknowingly. Rain falls by the will of nature only, and

the influence of man over nature, in so far as producing rain is

concerned, does not exist.

“None of men’s activities on earth has the slightest effect on the

rainfall. If nature decrees it shall rain, then rain it will; no other

power or force can bring precipitation.

“Almost since the beginning of history there has been a silly theory

that battles caused rain. This was the case even before gunpowder came

into use. The Greek writer, Plutarch, as far back as the year 150 A. D.,

held the belief that the glitter and clash of the sabers of the ancient

Greek and Roman warriors on the field of honor produced rain. He

believed it because it generally rained after every battle. As a matter

of fact, it had to rain after every battle, because they fought only on

clear days in those times; and, besides, it always rains once every

three days in the year, according to average.

“After gunpowder became an instrument of destruction, rains during time

of war were blamed on it. Even the United States government has shared

this belief that powder will produce rain, and it wasted thousands of

dollars trying to make it rain in Texas. Similar experiments were made

in Europe several years ago, and in France one scientist thought that by

employing the explosive he could transform hail into more harmless rain.

“Strange as it may seem to a good many people, there has been less than

a normal rainfall in western Pennsylvania and other eastern districts

during the last six months.”

Bees Settle in a Mail Box.

The wanderlust of summer got into the blood of a swarm of bees belonging

to Leo Nickoli, 448 Bellaire Avenue, Kansas City, Mo. They circled in

the air and flew away. Mr. Nickoli followed.

The awning in front of the drug store of the Klee Drug Company first

attracted the bees. But finding no place to alight there, the bees

transferred their attentions to a mail box near by. In a moment the box

was the center of the swarm, who were preparing to settle down among the

letters.

Mr. Nickoli, however, had different plans. With a hive baited with honey

comb, he began coaxing the bees into a new home. A crowd of two hundred

persons watched his operation, which lasted several hours.

Aged Preacher Finds His Long Lost Sister.

An only sister, whom he had not seen nor heard from for more than

forty-five years, and whom he believed to be dead, has been found by

Reverend W. H. H. Ruble, of Harrison, Ark., and immediately after the

locating of the long-lost sister, he has received news that sight has

been restored to the woman who has been blind for many years, as a

result of cataract.

Reverend Ruble’s sister is Mrs. E. J. Willis, of Knoxville, Tenn. She is

ninety-two years of age, and was last seen by her brother more than

forty-five years ago in Cleveland, a small town of Tennessee. As many

people do, the brother and sister kept in touch for a time, but

gradually ceased writing, until each had changed address and the old

addresses were forgotten.

Receiving no word for years, each believed the other to be dead, until

last January, when the annual conference of the M. E. Church was held in

Harrison, Ark. At that time Reverend Ruble met Reverend Murphy, a

delegate, who told him of the whereabouts of Chaplain J. A. Ruble, of

the Old Settlers’ Home in Johnson City, to whom Reverend Ruble wrote,

believing that the chaplain might be his nephew. The belief was true,

and the letter from Harrison was forwarded to Mrs. Willis, who was

overjoyed when she wrote again to her brother, the first time in nearly

half a century.

Arizona Girl Carries Mail on Horse.

Miss Matilda Sorey, of Higley, Ariz., may not be the only girl in the

United States who carries mail on a R. F. D. route, but she is probably

the only one who does so on horseback. When a new route was established

out of Higley, Miss Sorey, who is just twenty-one years old, was

appointed carrier. Her friends supposed she would use a horse and buggy,

but, instead, she covers the route six days a week on her handsome gray

saddle horse. She carries the mail in a sack swung over the pommel of

her cowboy saddle.

Didn’t Even Have a Barrel.

A short time ago C. J. Debes, who lives on a farm a few miles south of

Hagerman, N. M., arose early, as was his custom, and, after lighting his

gasoline stove and placing his kettle on, sauntered out through the

delightful morning air to feed his stock, without changing his night

robe for the more substantial clothing of the day.

Debes being a bachelor, and there being no near neighbors, everything

went well with him until he started to return to his house and found it

almost consumed by fire. His predicament seemed precarious, when the

neighbors, seeing the flames, rushed to the scene. Debes, however, took

refuge in the barn until a friendly neighbor brought in some heavier

raiment. The gasoline stove had exploded and enveloped the entire

building in flames, making quick work of its destruction.

No Government Reward for Passenger Pigeon.

Recent widespread newspaper accounts to the effect that the United

States Department of Agriculture is offering ten thousand dollars reward

to the person finding a passenger or “wood”-pigeon nest containing two

eggs, resulted in hundreds of letters being sent to the department.

The report is not based upon facts, as the department has offered no

such reward, and there is every reason to believe the passenger pigeon

which formerly roamed the country in flocks of millions is extinct. In

1910 about one thousand dollars in rewards was offered by Clark

University for the first undisturbed nests of the passenger pigeon to be

found in the United States. This was a great stimulus to action. The

hunt for this pigeon was fruitless. The offer of rewards was renewed for

several years, until it was fully established that the pigeon was

extinct.

The passenger pigeon up to 1885 ranged the American continent east of

the Rocky Mountains. The mourning dove has often been mistaken for the

passenger pigeon, which in a general way it resembles. However, this

bird is quite distinct from the passenger pigeon; it is shorter and has

different color markings.

The press reports stated that the now extinct passenger pigeon was

valued because of its usefulness in destroying the gipsy moth and other

moths and pests which are doing millions of dollars of damage. Although

the preservation of this pigeon is much to be desired, it would be of

absolutely no value in eliminating the gipsy moth, as the pigeons are

almost entirely vegetarian in their diet.

Wounded Dog Returns Home.

A dog belonging to Edward Dougherty, of Spring Grove, Pa., was shot

through the head twice with a thirty-eight-caliber revolver by

Dougherty. The dog lay on the same spot for seven days and seven nights,

but on the beginning of the eighth day he came back to his old home,

hardly able to drag himself along. After being fed and given water to

drink, the dog seemed to be all right.

The dog ate eggs from the nests in Dougherty’s henhouse before his

punishment and since his extraordinary experience he has not eaten one

egg. Mr. Dougherty is sure he put two bullets through the dog’s brain.

Muskrat and Trout Battle.

Lew McQuiston, a well-known angler of Bellefonte, Pa., witnessed a

unique battle a few days ago between a muskrat and a two-foot trout.

McQuiston went to Spring Creek shortly before dusk to try and land some

big trout. While whipping the stream, he saw something doing on the

other side of the creek, about sixty feet away from where he was

standing. In the quickly gathering shadows it was hard to tell at first

what it was, but after closer inspection he saw that it was a mammoth

trout and a muskrat.

They were engaged in mortal combat, and they slashed around through the

water until it was churned into foam. Then the muskrat managed to get

out on the bank, pulling the trout along with it. But the big trout

seemed to be able to fight on land as well as in the water, flopping

around and holding on to the muskrat’s nose until they finally both fell

back into the water.

Then there was another lashing and foaming, and the noise died away. A

few ripples told that the struggle was ended.

McQuiston looked around in the water for evidence of who had won the

battle, but found neither the muskrat or the trout. He does not know

whether it was a fight to the finish or a draw.

Tongue Fenders Demanded.

Tongue fenders for salted-peanut vending machines. That’s the latest

slogan of Montclair, N. Y., which already has put a legal muffler on

barking dogs and crowing roosters. It was proposed by Health

Commissioner James McDonough after he saw a small boy thrust his tongue

into a cup container of a vending machine to get the “crumbs.”

Finds Pennies in Turtle.

Roy Bowsher, of Ashville, Ohio, went fishing last week and caught a

turtle, which he sold to C. R. Cook, proprietor of a saloon. When Cook

opened the turtle, preparatory to serving it on his lunch counter, he

found two hundred and thirty-four pennies in it.

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 Kidnapper.

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