HANK LOW’S LUCK.
Claymore was not in his boarding house when Nick and Patsy arrived
there.
He had come in and gone out shortly afterward.
Where he had gone, or in what direction, nobody could say.
Possibly to Daddy Drew’s to meet the desperadoes he had hired to commit
murder; but Nick didn’t believe it.
“That long work in his office this evening means something else,” said
Nick. “He’s got another plot up his sleeve. I’ll go to Daddy Drew’s and
get those men.”
Accordingly, he had turned his face into a copy of Claymore’s and had
been admitted easily.
Nat had said he would put up a stiff fight if he should meet Carter, and
he kept his word.
Probably he reckoned that the detective would wish to take him alive,
for he did not surrender when he saw the revolver pointed at his heart.
Instead, he made a quick rush at Nick, trying to knock up both his arms.
The detective was quite ready for that.
It was true that he wished to take the men alive, and he did not fire,
for he had hoped they would be scared into quiet surrender.
When the attack came he dropped both weapons to the sidewalk.
Letting drive with his fists, he caught Nat on the chest, and knocked
the wind out of him.
But the crook did not fall. He staggered against Jack, who at first was
going to give up.
Seeing that the weapons had been dropped, Jack joined in and made a
desperate effort for freedom.
He caught his partner and kept him from falling, and then both sailed
into the detective.
“Why!” said Nick, with a laugh, “come on, if that’s what you want.”
His arms shot out like flashes of lightning, and every blow landed, but
the crooks kept too close for him to give them settlers.
And, after a moment, Jack retreated and drew his revolver.
That was a moment of peril for Nick, as he was busy just then with Nat.
And Nat, seeing the chance, pretended to be knocked down, so as to give
Jack a chance to shoot.
Up came the ruffian’s revolver, but before he could aim, around the
corner rushed the drunken man whom they had seen.
This man threw his arms about Jack’s neck, and bore him silently to the
ground.
“Put the bracelets on him, Patsy,” called Nick.
“They’re on,” replied the “drunken man” calmly.
Nick had leaped upon Nat, and in a second had him ironed.
“This is the way I settle,” he said, as he stood up.
The prisoners cursed furiously, but if that did them any good nobody
knew it.
Nick picked up his revolvers, and then he and Patsy marched the
prisoners to headquarters.
Kerr was still there, and he was surrounded by eager reporters.
“Here are the murderers,” said Nick. “Low is innocent.”
He produced the amateur’s photograph, and told the story as briefly as
possible.
“The chief villain is yet to be caught,” he concluded. “I think we shall
find the clew to him in his office.”
There was a great deal of excitement at headquarters, and many questions
were asked.
Nick told the reporters to make it plain that Low’s arrest had been a
fake.
“When it’s all settled,” he said, “I’ll give you the details, or you can
get them from Kerr, who deserves a great deal of credit for the way he
picked up evidence. I’ve got work ahead between now and morning.”
Low was released, of course, and he went with Nick, Patsy, and Kerr to
Claymore’s office.
Everything seemed to be in order there, but Nick picked the lock of
Claymore’s desk, and found a lot of papers there, on which the man had
been at work during the long evening.
There were maps of the country around Mason Creek, some printed, some
roughly drawn with a pencil.
There was also the deed which Low had given to the oil company when he
sold a piece of his land.
Using his magnifying glass, Nick saw that some changes had been made in
the deed.
Words and figures had been carefully scratched out and others inked in.
“I had an idea this was what he was up to,” said Nick. “We shall find
Claymore out at Low’s farm.”
The four men set out for Mason Creek soon after.
Nick went in Low’s wagon, and Patsy and Kerr in one they hired.
When they came to the beginning of the trail, Nick got down and told the
others to drive slowly on.
“I’ll take the short cut,” said he. “You keep on by the road, and if he
escapes me he’ll run into your hands.”
As it was late in the spring, light came early, and the day was
beginning to break when Nick passed the dead body of the panther.
As he approached nearer Low’s house, he moved cautiously.
Coming to the edge of the cleared land, he saw a man busy with a shovel
at a little distance.
It was Claymore.
He was digging a hole for the purpose of setting a boundary post in it.
The post had been taken up from a spot some distance farther down the
stream that crossed the farm.
Claymore’s scheme was to change the boundaries of the land bought by the
oil company so that they should include twice as much as had been
bought.
That was why the deed had been changed, and it explained the maps in
Claymore’s desk.
Nick watched the rascal for a few minutes, and then walked toward him.
“Why don’t you put the post up where it will take in Hank Low’s house
and barn?” he asked.
Claymore turned at the sound, and caught up a revolver that was lying on
the ground beside him.
He fired hastily, and the bullet went wild.
Nick had him covered.
“Try again,” said the detective, “if you think you can do your own
murdering.”
As he spoke, he was advancing upon Claymore, who gave one desperate look
around, and saw the two wagons coming up the road.
Then he dropped his weapon, sat down on the ground, and put his hands to
his face.
“You haven’t as much nerve as I thought you had,” remarked Nick.
He put handcuffs on the prisoner, and waited for the others to come up.
“I can tell you all about it,” said Nick, then. “This man Claymore found
that he had bought land where the oil was scarce. He was so anxious to
get the land cheap that he didn’t dare to prospect thoroughly. If he had
done his work well, he would have seen that the place for oil wells is
farther up the stream and nearer Low’s house.
“He found that out after a while, and then schemed to get possession of
the rest of the farm without paying for it.
“Seeing that Judson would expose the crooked work of the company, he had
him murdered by a couple of desperadoes who drifted into Denver just in
time for the job.
“Then he did some forgery work on the deed to make it show that he had
bought a good many acres more than he really had, and to back up the
deed he had to come out here and change the boundary posts.
“His best chance for doing that was while Low was locked up. That was
why he didn’t go to meet his confederates early at Daddy Drew’s.
“His confederates have told me all about the murder of Judson, so that
they are sure to be hanged, and one of them, Jack Thompson, is ready to
confess and tell just how Claymore hired them to do the deed.
“Between Jack’s confession and what I heard them say, we have got a
complete case.
“If I was in Hank Low’s place, I’d give up farming on land where the
water is covered with oil, and dig wells.
“I noticed the appearance of the water in the stream when I was talking
with Low earlier in the night, and I knew that the place to dig for oil
is near his house.”
It was soon proved that Nick was entirely right, for the upper part of
Low’s farm was rich in oil.
The farmer acted more than honestly about it.
With the help of Folsom, who was greatly pleased to learn that the
clergyman had not committed suicide, Low got the names and addresses of
all who had put money into the scheme of which Judson had been
president. And in the end nobody who had invested with the clergyman
lost anything.
No attempt was made to get back the part of the farm that was sold, for
the land wasn’t worth the trouble.
Jack Thompson confessed, but that did not save him from severe
punishment. He was put in prison for life, and Claymore and Hamilton
were hanged.
“I can’t help wishing,” said Nick, “that Claymore’s partner, Donnelson,
had been around. I would have liked to send him up, too, but perhaps I
shall come across him later.”
THE END.
* * * * *
“Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure; or, a Fight for Life with a
Mysterious Foe,” is the title of the next story that will appear in this
weekly. Nick Carter’s hope that he will soon come across Donnelson again
is fulfilled, for he meets him in the mysterious case which is described
in this story, and in which the ingenuity of Carter is taxed to its
utmost. There is a blind man in this story, and he proves to be a puzzle
to the great detective for some time. He will puzzle you, too. The story
is No. 12, and it will be out November 30th.
[Illustration]
WHAT IS A DAY?
Nine persons out of ten--yes, 999 out of every 1,000--if asked how long
it takes the earth to turn once on its axis would answer twenty-four
hours. And to the question: How many times does it turn on its axis in
the course of the year? the answer would be 365¼ times. Both answers are
wrong.
It requires but twenty-three hours and fifty-six minutes for the earth
to make 366¼ turns during the year. The error springs from a wrong idea
of what is meant by a day.
The day is not, as is commonly supposed, the time required by the earth
to make one turn on its axis, but the interval between two successive
passages of the sun across the meridian--that is to say, the time which
elapses after the sun is seen exactly south in its diurnal course
through the heavens before it is again seen in that position.
Now, in consequence of the earth’s revolution in its orbit, or path,
round the sun, the sun has the appearance of moving very slowly in the
heavens in a direction from east to west. At noon to-morrow the sun
will be a short distance to the east of the point in the heavens at
which it is seen at noon to-day, so that when the earth has made one
complete turn it will still have to turn four minutes longer before the
sun can again be seen exactly south.
[Illustration]
THE MAN AND THE HOUR;
Or, Sheridan Keene’s Clever Artifice.
By ALDEN F. BRADSHAW.
CHAPTER I.
THE DEATH OF JACOB MOORE.
“Chief Inspector Watts, I want you to do me a favor.”
Chief Watts met the request with a rather encouraging smile.
“I have not forgotten, Mr. French, that I am considerably your debtor in
that line,” he genially rejoined, with some significance.
“Well, it is not on that account, Chief Watts, that I appeal to you at
just this time. I never charge up favors against my friends. But I am
confronted just now by a case which, while I am still ignorant of the
immediate particulars, I fear will require exceedingly shrewd and
delicate handling.”
The expression on the face of the chief inspector changed slightly.
“Is it a criminal case, Mr. French?” he asked quietly.
“It is a case of murder, Chief Watts, or so, at least, it is here
stated,” replied Mr. Hamilton French, one of the brightest of Boston’s
legal lights and a noted criminal lawyer. “Here is a telegram I received
less than ten minutes ago.”
“Read it, please.”
“It reads: ‘Jacob Moore was murdered last night. Come at once.’ It is
signed by Moore’s nephew, a man named Richard Thorpe, who has lived with
Moore off and on since his boyhood.”
“Who is this Moore? Is he an acquaintance of yours?”
“Oh, yes. I have been Moore’s legal adviser for something like twenty
years, and am so well informed of his family affairs that this crime, if
Moore has actually been murdered, at once suggests to me possibilities
and complications of a decidedly serious nature.”
“And what is the service you desire of me?” asked Chief Watts gravely.
The eminent lawyer, a man close upon sixty years, hurriedly consulted
his watch. It was then about nine o’clock, a clear, cold morning in
November, with the mercury out of doors well below freezing.
The scene of this interview was the private office of Chief Inspector
Watts, in the headquarters building, in Pemberton Square.
“I will tell you why I have called upon you, Chief Watts,” replied the
lawyer. “In the light of facts already in my possession, I anticipate
serious trouble from this case, if it proves to be of a nature
reported.”
“Trouble in getting at the truth?”
“Precisely.”
“I see.”
“Now, I want the help of a detective--a man of brains and energy, one
who is capable of noting those obscure bits of evidence which escape the
investigations of most men, and who, having discovered them, can
analyze them and deduce the most probable conclusion.”
“You want a rather clever man,” laughed Chief Watts, in his agreeable
way.
“I want a very clever man,” returned the lawyer pointedly. “As a matter
of fact, Chief Watts, you are the man whose aid I would have liked to
secure; but I am aware that your duties here make that impossible.
Furthermore, this Moore lives out Lynn way, which is beyond the
customary circle of your work.”
“So it is, Mr. French.”
“Can’t you loan me just such a man as I have described, however--one to
whom I can impart some of the inside facts of this case, and who will
quietly investigate it for my special benefit. I apprehend some little
bother from the regular force of constables and police, who persistently
cling to their own methods and views; and I want the help of a man who
will pull in the harness with me, to some extent at least, and whose
features are not very generally known.”
“You want him to do this work on the quiet, I take it.”
“Precisely.”
“Have you visited the scene of the murder?”
“No, not since the crime was committed, Chief Watts,” replied the
lawyer. “This message was the first intimation I had of it. I at once
wired Thorpe that I would come out to the Moore place this morning, and
asked him to stay active investigations until I arrived. I then came
directly here to make the request stated.”
“Which leads me to infer that you already suspect some person of the
crime, assuming one to have been committed,” said Chief Watts, looking
up with a curious light in his eyes.
“Well, I will admit----”
“One moment, please. That’s neither here nor there. I do not wish to
anticipate the work of any of my men.”
“Have you such a one as I described?” asked the lawyer, with manifest
eagerness.
“A better one than you described, Mr. French,” nodded the chief, with an
expressive upward glance at the face of the attorney; “for he is a young
man who has qualities and abilities to which mere words cannot do
justice. Moreover, if it is your wish, I will give him such assistance
as may come in my way.”
“It will be appreciated, I assure you.”
“What is involved in this case, more than placing the crime where it
belongs?”
“A considerable fortune.”
“The Moore estate?”
“Precisely.”
“When are you going down there?”
“The sooner the better. If you will grant the favor I have asked, I
would like to take the next train.”
“Do so, by all means,” said Chief Watts, rising. “Garratt, send Sheridan
Keene in here.”
“Is he the officer to whom you referred?” asked the lawyer.
“Yes, he is.”
“I think I have heard the name before.”
“You will hear it many times again, if he decides to continue the work
he has begun. He is a young man of extraordinary----”
But the sound of a firm step in the corridor, followed by the opening of
the office door, led Chief Watts to suppress his complimentary
utterances, and to turn, instead, to the person who entered--a tall,
athletic young man, of about twenty-five years, with an erect and supple
figure and noticeably refined and forceful face.
“Detective Keene, this is Mr. Hamilton French, the lawyer,” said the
chief gravely. “He is a personal friend--one I would be glad to
effectively serve, if it is possible. I wish you to undertake some
special detective work at his solicitation.”
A curious smile rose about the lips of Sheridan Keene, and he took the
hand which Lawyer French extended.
“After the preface of Chief Watts,” he said, with dry pleasantry, “I
hardly need assure you, Mr. French, that I shall do the best I can for
you. What is the nature of this work, sir?”
“One moment, gentlemen,” interposed Chief Watts. “You have just about
time to hit the half past nine train. The sooner you reach the immediate
scene of this tragedy, the better. I would suggest, Mr. French, that you
start at once and give Detective Keene any points you may desire during
the journey.”
“My idea exactly!” exclaimed the lawyer. “Are you ready to go with me at
once, Detective Keene?”
“I am always ready when duty calls,” said Keene, laughing. Yet his
response was true to the very letter.
“Good!” cried the lawyer heartily. “Come, then! I have a coupé at the
door.”
Keene turned back, with only one swift glance at the expressive eyes of
the chief inspector; then hastened through the corridor and overtook the
attorney at the outer door.
CHAPTER II.
ON THE TRAIN.
Detective Keene and the attorney caught their train by a narrow margin
only, and secured a seat somewhat aloof from the few other passengers in
the smoking car. This partial seclusion evidently suited the lawyer, who
appeared seriously disturbed by the news of his client’s tragic death,
and anxious to give Keene what information he could that would aid him
in locating the criminal.
But the young detective checked him almost at the beginning.
“It is only a short run down there,” said the lawyer. “I will give you
all the points I can in the time allowed, that on your arrival you will
be better equipped to look the evidence over. I think----”
“First, allow me just a word, Mr. French, if you will pardon the
interruption,” said Keene, turning his clear, grave eyes on the face of
the attorney. “Whatever you may think, there is one thing I do not wish
you to tell me.”
“What is that, Mr. Keene?”
“You already suspect some person of this crime, and I prefer not to know
whom.”
“Well, well! You detectives are discerning fellows!” Mr. French
exclaimed, smiling faintly. “Chief Watts drew the same inference, though
from what I cannot imagine.”
“That you engage the help of a special officer before you have verified
your telegram, even, is to me a sufficient indication of your
suspicion,” Keene explained.
“Quite logical, too.”
“You also fear that some innocent person may be to some extent
complicated.”
“That is true, also.”
“The person,” continued Keene, with a curious twinkle in his eyes, “is a
young lady--one of whom you are very fond, and who regards you as a very
dear friend. She is young, and, I should say, was quite recently
married; but her husband is not a clever man, nor one of much ability,
and is most likely----”
“Hold, hold! You will next be telling me what sort of a woman my
grandmother was!” cried the attorney, who, in truth, was amazed at the
acumen of the young detective. “How on earth did you guess these facts?”
“They are facts, then?”
“Precisely.”
“I do not guess them,” Keene laughed lightly. “They are apparent through
a very simple process of deduction.”
“Will you tell me how?”
“Certainly! That the person you suspect may be guilty, is not the same
person you fear may be implicated, is at once suggested by your haste in
procuring the aid of a special detective. If the guilty one were likely
to be involved, you would have at first examined the case more calmly.”
“That is true enough,” laughed the attorney. “But why do you infer my
interest to be in a lady?”
“If it were a man, you would be less anxious to relieve him of what you
fear may be a distressing situation. Men can face such things more
easily than women,” added Keene significantly. “Moreover, that you take
this very active interest indicates both that you are fond of her and
that you know that she will expect you to do it, which indicates, in
turn, that she relies upon you. This suggests inexperience, hence she
probably is young. So serious a crime as murder very rarely involves a
young single girl, however; hence she very likely has been recently
married. But her husband is not a clever man, capable of handling so
serious a situation, or you would have left this matter to him rather
than plunging into it so hurriedly.”
“Dear me! You should have been a lawyer. I cannot but admire----”
“Ah, but we waste time, Mr. French,” said Keene, quietly checking the
lawyer’s expressions of approval. “What I wish to avoid, sir, are the
very suspicions by which you are actuated, and under which you are
laboring. I do not want to know whom you suspect, nor why. These things
only tend to draw a detective from the straight line of true detective
work. I want only the bare facts, from which, and from my own
observations of the evidence in the case, I may make unbiased
deductions. This is the only reliable method of detective work. With a
half dozen visionary motives suggested to him, a detective becomes a
weather vane. Who is this man Moore, sir?”
“He has been a client of mine for many years--more than twenty, I should
say. He is a man of some considerable means, with an old country house
out here a dozen miles or so.”
“A married man?”
“He is a widower. He buried his wife a dozen or fifteen years ago. At
one time he was some interested in farming, having no other business;
but he gave that up also after his wife’s death, and, by degrees, the
last dozen years has grown into a rather sour and crabbed old man.”
“A man of years, then?”
“Yes; Jacob Moore is about seventy years old.”
“Any children?”
“Only one of his own--a girl named Mabel, now in the twenties, and who
was married about a year ago to a man named Jeffrey. Besides this girl,
Moore also has reared the son of a deceased sister. He is now a man of
twenty-five and the Richard Thorpe who wired me the news of his uncle’s
death.”
“Does Thorpe live with his uncle?”
“A portion of the time, though for the most part in Boston, where he is
in the brokerage business.”
“Does the daughter live at home?”
“No, not for a year or more,” replied the lawyer. “And I now come to
those painful circumstances which lead me to----”
“Never mind by what you are led,” interposed Keene, smiling faintly.
“Give me the bare facts.”
“They are these,” nodded the lawyer gravely. “Two years ago, Jacob Moore
took it into his head that it would be well if his daughter were married
to Thorpe, and the couple settled in the old home. Now, bear in mind
that Jacob Moore was not a man to be easily turned from a project which
he seriously favored. His proposition proved acceptable to his nephew,
but not to his daughter. She flatly declared that she’d not even think
of it.”
“Whatever it may have been like,” replied the lawyer, “the girl proved
inflexible. The family broil, however, brought out the fact that she was
in love with another, a man named Jeffrey, who is a carpenter by trade,
and is said to be an honest and reliable fellow. I have seen him but
once. If he is as good a man as he looks, I don’t blame the girl for her
choice.”
“Did Mr. Moore give his consent to the girl’s marriage to Jeffrey?”
asked Keene carelessly.
“Quite the contrary,” said the lawyer, with significance. “He threatened
to disown the girl if she married him, which, with a will quite as
strong as that of the old man himself, she speedily did. As a result,
there has been a total estrangement of the two ever since.”
“Has the girl always been so headstrong?”
“She has always been dutiful, as I have observed her, and, to my way of
thinking, was so in this matter. Her final determination resulted not
only from a genuine love for Jeffrey, but also from the fact that he had
recently buried his mother, by whose death he was left alone in the
world. He had, however, a comfortable house, with several acres of
arable land. To make a long story short, Mabel Moore, despite her
father’s bitter opposition, married Jeffrey and went to live with him.”
“This was about a year ago?”
“Just about,” nodded the lawyer. “Since then Moore has been more morose
and crabbed than ever. He has refused to recognize either his daughter
or her husband, and even young Thorpe has scarce been able to endure
him. As his solicitor, I have occasionally been out to see him, and was
always glad to return. A more surly and perverse old codger could not be
imagined.”
“Has he made a will?” inquired Keene.
“Yes.”
“Disinheriting his daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Who is his residuary legatee?”
“His nephew.”
“Does Thorpe know of this will?”
“I think not,” replied Mr. French. “In fact, I am quite sure of it, for
the will is in my possession, and Moore was not a man to have disclosed
his intentions.”
“Who witnessed the document?”
“Two of my clerks, and it was drafted and executed in my office. I am
very sure that the existence of this will is not known to Thorpe nor to
Mabel Jeffrey.”
“What’s the value of the estate?”
“Something like fifty thousand dollars.”
“Who has been living with Moore?”
“His housekeeper is a middle-aged English woman named Haynie, who has
been in his employ since his wife died. He keeps one man, also, who
works about the farm and stable. These, with Thorpe, are the only
members of his household.”
“Thorpe has not been there much, you say?”
“Only at intervals. I think he has not found the old man congenial, and
his persistent absence, which has rather offended Moore, further
convinces me that Thorpe knows nothing about the will in his favor.”
“That is a very reasonable inference,” admitted the detective, “and,
possibly, does away with a motive. Is Thorpe a man of good character?”
“Yes, and is very generally liked. At the time of Mabel’s marriage he
made great efforts to induce her father’s forgiveness; but, Heaven
preserve him! One might as well have pleaded to a stone wall. Jacob
Moore was as harsh and inflexible as--ah! here is the station! Thorpe
will probably send the carriage for us.”
The train was slowing down. The lawyer arose while speaking and began to
put on his overcoat. Sheridan Keene restrained him in the aisle for a
moment, and said inquiringly:
“So far as you know, then, these are the bare facts?”
“Yes,” said the lawyer quickly. “Do you make anything of them?”
“Nothing at all, sir. It is too early in the game. One word more!”
“Well?”
“Introduce me here as a clerk from your office, not as a detective!”
“I understand.”
“And take no notice of what I may say and do.”
“Rely on my discretion!” nodded Mr. French approvingly, as they
approached the door of the car.
CHAPTER III.
CONSTABLE BRAGG.
It had turned ten o’clock. Though the sun was now well up and the sky
cloudless, the air continued biting cold and the ground was frozen hard.
It was a branch station at which the two men alighted, and only a single
carriage stood at the narrow platform.
More than a mile away, across a dismal sweep of moorland and marshes,
could be seen the blue waters of the broad Atlantic, broken by the grim,
dark rocks of the peninsula of Nahant. Somewhat nearer was the desolate,
gray turnpike making east to the cities of Lynn and Salem. It was the
highway of old colonial days, and still was nearly as dreary and void of
dwellings as of yore.
In the immediate neighborhood, even, the houses were few and far
between, and the surrounding country was rough and hilly, interspersed
with farms and wide stretches of woodland.
As the lawyer alighted from the train a short, thickset man approached
him. His grim face was not prepossessing, and he was clad in a rough,
gray suit, with his pants tucked in at the top of a pair of heavy
cowhide boots, which were soiled with mud.
“Be you Mr. French?” he asked bluntly, peering sharply at the lawyer
from under his bushy brows.
“Yes,” was the reply. “Who are you?”
“I’m Darbage, sir--Joe Darbage;” and now the fellow touched his woolen
cap. “I’m the stablehand up to the house, yonder, and Mr. Thorpe sent me
down here to get you. He said you might come by this train. Bad
business, this, sir!”
“I see,” nodded the lawyer, who had not recognized the fellow as Moore’s
groom and gardener. “Will there be room for my clerk, also?”
“Aye, sir, I reckon so. Tumble in, and I’ll squat in the middle.”
With no observable interest in the bumpkin, who did not quite impress
him as a thoroughbred countryman, Sheridan Keene followed the lawyer
into the wagon and suffered Mr. Darbage to squeeze his broad hips
between them.
“I’d ’a’ come with the carryall if I’d knowed there were two o’ you,” he
explained, with a side glance at the face of the detective. “Get up!
G’lang!”
“I brought a clerk, thinking I might need him,” said Mr. French, as the
vehicle rattled over the rough road.
“I reckon there’ll be room enough, now the old man’s gone,” returned
Darbage irreverently. “There wa’n’t room for no extras, though, when he
was alive.”
“Then old Jacob is really dead, is he?”
“Aye, sir, as dead as he’ll ever be in this world. Can’t say what he’ll
come to in the next.”
“Well, this world is the one we have most to do with while in it,” said
the lawyer, with some austerity. “What are the particulars? I have only
Mr. Thorpe’s telegram saying Jacob had been murdered.”
Darbage looked up without a change of countenance.
“Aye, sir, he was murdered, right enough,” said he, in his grim fashion.
“Ma’am Haynie found him dead in bed this morning, with two knife slits
atween his ribs, and most of his blood run out of his body, which wasn’t
much, at that.”
“Is it known when the crime was committed?”
“I reckon not, sir, though I’m not sartin. Jim Bragg, the constable, is
up there nosing round and looking as wise as an owl; but I can’t say
what he’s l’arned. They don’t tell me much.”
“Is Mr. Thorpe at the house?”
“Aye, sir; he’s been down here nigh a week.”
“Isn’t that quite a long visit for him?”
“The ole man ain’t been over well, so Mr. Thorpe stayed on his account.”
“And Mabel?”
“Mr. Thorpe sent her word this morning, and she came right up. Fust time
she’d been in the house since the ole man kicked her out. I reckon
there’s the coroner driving in, sir. I heerd ’em say they’d sent for
him.”
The ride from the station had been of brief duration, and they now came
in view of a large country house, situated somewhat off the road. A
glance at the place indicated the character of its late owner. The
dwelling, once a mansion, was now out of repair; and the surrounding
acres of woodland and meadows had run rank as they pleased.
A large stable was at the rear and at one side of the house, and the
faded old gray mare, behind which Jacob Moore had been wont to ride,
ambled up the driveway between the elms as if eager to reach her stall.
But grim Mr. Darbage drew her down at the side door of the house, which
was immediately opened by a young woman in dark attire, whose pale,
pretty face and red eyes at once suggested to Keene her identity.
“Oh, Mr. French!” she exclaimed, approaching with much emotion to greet
him; “I am so glad you have come! My poor father has met with----”
But the kind old lawyer took her in his arms, and silenced her with a
more loving kiss than the father mentioned had ever given her in all her
worthy and gentle girlhood. He led her in, and took her alone to the
library; while Sheridan Keene, already at work on the case in his quiet
way, followed them as far as the broad hall.
Though things wore the aspect of years of service, the large house was
comfortably furnished, and the general cleanliness and order suggested
the care of a capable housekeeper.
The sound of voices from a room off one side of the hall now reached the
detective’s ears, and in an affair of this kind Sheridan Keene did not
stand upon ceremony. He at once approached the room, the door of which
stood partly open.
It was a large, square bedroom, with two windows. A broad fireplace was
at one end, but the half-burned logs were cold and dead, and the air was
very chilly. A bed occupied the opposite end of the room, and there,
upon its bloodstained linen, stiff and cold in death, lay the figure of
a thin-faced, gray-haired old man, whose face in death, even, still
carried an expression of that severity and hardness which had marked all
the latter years of his life.
Three men were standing near the bed, and one, evidently a physician,
was examining the body.
“The man has been dead many hours, not less than twelve, I should say,”
he observed, as Sheridan Keene stepped softly into the room. “It is a
shocking crime!”
“Can anything be done?” asked a tall, broad-shouldered young man at his
elbow.
The physician shook his head.
“Not for him,” he replied. “You had better do nothing here, Mr. Thorpe,
until after the arrival of the coroner.”
Sheridan Keene looked the latter over. He was a well-built man of
twenty-five, this nephew of the deceased. He had a frank and rather
attractive face, with dark eyes and hair, and was the style of a man
most women would have fancied, despite Mabel Moore’s evident aversion to
marrying him. His features were pale now, and his manner gravely
composed.
“I have already sent for the coroner, doctor,” he replied.
“Let everything remain as it is, then, until he comes.”
“He should be here now.”
“It is a case, I think,” added the physician, “which will require
capable investigation. Would it not be well to send into Boston for a
competent detective?”
“I have sent for Lawyer French, my uncle’s solicitor,” replied Thorpe,
“and I shall place matters entirely in his hands on his arrival. I think
that would be my uncle’s own wish if he were alive, instead of lying
there, the victim of perfidious cowardice and foul play; and I shall be
governed accordingly. I think I had better---- Beg pardon, sir! Who are
you?”
He had turned slightly, and now observed Sheridan Keene standing just
within the threshold.
The detective approached with a grave bow, and without a glance at the
gruesome figure on the bed.
“My name is Keene, and I am Mr. French’s clerk,” he explained politely.
“I have just arrived with the attorney.”
“Oh, yes. Excuse me!” cried Thorpe, quickly offering his hand. “Where is
Mr. French?”
“He is in the library with Mrs. Jeffrey!”
“I must see him at once!”
“Oh, by the way,” and Thorpe quickly turned back, “this is Doctor Carr,
our local physician, Mr. Keene, and this is Mr. Bragg, the constable.
They will give you any information you may desire, and I shall now
request Mr. French to take entire charge of this dreadful affair. He
will know all about the law bearing upon it, of which I know nothing.
You will excuse me, won’t you?”
The detective bowed and gravely acknowledged the introduction to the two
men remaining, while Richard Thorpe hurried from the room to seek the
attorney.
Sheridan Keene sized up at a glance the two men left in his company.
The physician was an ordinary old gentleman, and presented nothing of
interest. Not so, however, the other.
Jim Bragg was a burly man, with coal-black eyes and a bushy beard. He
was a capital fellow for battering down a door and entering a dive of
lawless ruffians, where indomitable courage was an absolute requisite;
for such an occasion, you would have to go far to find Jim Bragg’s
better. But the ferreting out of a cunning, well-wrought piece of
knavery was utterly beyond Mr. Bragg’s ability.
But Mr. Bragg did not think so. All he wanted, or had ever wanted, as he
said, was an opportunity. And it now had happened, like a long-awaited
dream, when the news of Jacob Moore’s murder was published that morning;
and, as he left his own home and hastened across the meadows toward the
immediate scene of the tragedy, his mind, stimulated by the occasion,
was filled with vague visions of startling stories in the city dailies,
with the name of Detective Bragg in scare-head letters and thrilling
depiction of the marvelous deeds of this new Vidocq, to say nothing of
renown handed down to posterity, and the probable demand for his
immediate services in Pemberton Square.
This was the man to whom Sheridan Keene now turned, with a glance that
at once took in the constable’s chief characteristics.
CHAPTER IV.
DETECTIVE KEENE MAKES AN IMPRESSION.
Richard Thorpe’s immediate cordiality toward Keene, when informed of his
relations with the attorney, did not escape the notice of the burly
constable, whose conduct presently indicated that he not only regarded
Thorpe very favorably, but was also inclined to extend this sentiment
even to the latter’s friends. He winked affably to Keene, as Thorpe
hastened from the room, then turned to growl in the face of the innocent
physician:
“Send to town for a detective, eh? Carr, you infernal sawbones, don’t
you think I’m equal to getting at the bottom o’ this affair?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Bragg,” stammered the startled physician; “but I made the
suggestion only----”
“It was a cursed innuendo, no matter what ’twas made for!” protested the
doughty constable. “Looking arter crime and criminals is my bread and
butter, Doctor Carr, the which I’ll not let you nor any other bonesetter
whip from ’tween my teeth. Now, you look arter your end o’ this case,
and don’t trouble mine, or the trouble’ll not end there. Send to town
for a detective! The blamed old meddler!”
“Some folks don’t know a clever man when they see one,” said Keene, in
tones disparaging the perturbed little physician, who had beaten a hasty
retreat from the room, and from the ire of the bustling, black-bearded
constable.
“Too true for a joke, Mr. Keene!” cried Bragg, with an emphatic
headshake. “Some men are blind, and some are jealous; but I never saw a
sawbones who wa’n’t a blamed fool.”
“It’s owing to their business,” assented Keene, with an object.
“So ’tis, sir! For cleverness, give me a lawyer, or a detective, or a
politician, or even a gospel sharp! But a sawbones----” and the
disgruntled Bragg spat his disgust into the fireplace; “a sawbones ain’t
nothing! Nothing at all!”
“Not even worthy of contempt, eh?” smiled Keene. “You are the constable,
I believe Mr. Thorpe said.”
“Aye, sir, I am!” Mr. Bragg readily allowed. “Mr. Thorpe put it dead
right, as he always does.”
“He appears to be a nice, gentlemanly fellow,” observed Keene, in a
friendly way.
“More’n that, sir, he is!” declared the garrulous constable, with
emphasis. “A cleaner, nicer man than Dick Thorpe never stood in leather.
He hasn’t a foe in these ’ere parts. Even that old man, stiff and stark
there, was his friend--and whoever could win old Jacob Moore’s favor,
sir, could win any man’s! I know, ’cause I know ’em all, root and
branch. You’re a lawyer, ain’t you?”
“Yes, Constable Bragg,” affably nodded Keene, careful to give this
pretentious officer all the distinction possible. “Our Mr. French has
always been Moore’s legal adviser, and we shall now execute his
estate--and possibly his assassins.”
“Cleverly put--very!” chuckled Mr. Bragg, clapping the detective on the
shoulder. “And, seeing’s your interest runs with mine, I’ll not mind
helping you, when I can.”
“Then you’ll not object to my looking over the evidence with you, merely
as an assistant?”
“Sure not!”
“I’ll keep mum, understand! Of course, I don’t expect to see all you’ll
see, for detective work is not in my line; but what little I get may
help Mr. French in conducting the case. And, say!”
“Well, sir?”
Keene slipped his hand through the constable’s brawny arm and drew him
closer, to add confidentially:
“If you can make a hit in ferreting out the truth here, there’d be a big
opening elsewhere for a man of your measure.”
“D’ye think so?” was the eager inquiry.
“I know so! Furthermore, since you’re inclined to do me a turn, I’d like
to reciprocate some day. Our law firm, you know, stands ace high with
Chief Watts, of the Boston inspectors; and if it comes right, we can
make a strong pull for you at headquarters.”
“And you’ll do it?”
“With pleasure!”
“Put it there!” said Mr. Bragg, thrusting out his huge hand. “As for
this case, what I get, you get. But that’s between us, mind you!”
“My word upon it, I’ll do nothing to get in your way.”
“That’s good enough for me, sir!”
Thus Sheridan made an impression, and paved the way to securing
information from the one man who, his own detective instinct told him,
would know more of the superficial features of this tragedy than all the
rest of the community combined.
“Was this Moore’s desk?” he now carelessly asked, turning to a piece of
furniture near one of the windows.
“Yes, sir, ’twas.”
“It is much disturbed. Was he in the habit of keeping money in it?”
“I reckon not. But some one went through it last night, that’s plain.
Most likely a search for papers.”
“Possibly a will.”
“My idea exactly. Say, you’re tolerably clever yourself! Well, I’ll
gamble I can name who did it.”
“I hope so. If you can, it will be one feather in your cap.”
“I’ll have many in it afore this case is ended. Come down this way, and
I’ll show you something more. But this is between us, mind you!”
“If you doubt me, keep it to yourself.”
“Oh, no; I’ll trust you! I can read a man’s face, and don’t you forget
it.”
At the heels of the burly constable, who was that common type of man
whose eagerness to serve himself makes him the cat’s-paw of his
superiors, Sheridan Keene followed through the dim hall and down a back
stairway, and entered a basement laundry. From the single window a part
of one pane was missing, making the room easy of access from without;
and upon the plank floor, extending from the window toward the entry
door, were several marks of muddy boots.
“D’ye see that, and them?” triumphantly demanded Mr. Bragg, pointing
first to the window and then the floor. “It came cold late last night,
and the ground was soft in the early evening. The sawbones says Moore
was killed before midnight. The party who entered that window, and stole
out here and upstairs, was the party who searched the desk and most
likely did the rest of the job. It was done in the evening.”
“By Jove! I believe you’ve struck the trail, constable!” said Keene
admiringly.
“I know I’ve struck it!” declared Mr. Bragg, with a twitch of his bushy
beard. “Now come outside here!”
He led the way through the entry and out of a narrow back door, and
thence around to one side of the house. The soil of a flower bed under
the windows of Moore’s chamber was then frozen hard. But in several
places among the dead plants and vines were the clearly defined
footprints of a man’s heavy boots; deeper here and there, as if he had
at times stood on tiptoe to reach the height of the window and peer into
the room.
“What d’ye say to that?” demanded Mr. Bragg.
“I’ll say nothing till you see fit to do so!” said Keene significantly.
“Good for you!” nodded the constable approvingly. “Now, let’s return by
the front door.”
“Wait a moment, constable,” said Sheridan Keene. “I’d like a little more
light on this affair, if you don’t mind. Who discovered the crime?”
Mr. Bragg demurred for a moment, but visions of an appointment under
Chief Watts led him to respond to the request. He had lost sight of the
provisions under which the promise of influence had been made.
“The housekeeper, Mrs. Haynie,” he replied.
“At what hour; do you know?”
“Nigh half past eight.”
“Did she give the alarm?”
“She ran to one of the neighbors, a piece up the road, here, scared half
out of her wits. One of ’em came down here at once, and one went to tell
Thorpe at the turnpike tavern, half a mile away. Dick mounted his horse
and struck around to my house to notify me, in which he showed his good
sense; and we came up here together. Then he sent the telegram to Mr.
French, and word to Mabel Jeffrey.”
“Then Mr. Thorpe was not at home here last night?”
“No, he wasn’t,” said Mr. Bragg glibly. “He was at the road house all
night. Leastwise, he was with Mabel part of the evening, waiting to see
her husband. He’s been trying, you see, to fix up things between them
and the old man. But Bob Jeffrey didn’t show up till midnight. Dick had
dropped into the road house for a drink, and joined in a game of cards.”
“Has this been a habit of Thorpe?”
“Playing cards there? Oh, yes, regular thing. Genial fellow, Dick--and
everybody likes him. It came cold soon after midnight, and his mare,
being under cover, he didn’t like to expose her. She’d been sick for a
week back, and that was her first time out. So he stayed at the tavern
until morning.”
“I see,” nodded Keene. “Then Mrs. Haynie and the stableman were here
alone all night?”
“That’s about the size of it. Darbage was at the tavern, and he stayed
there until daybreak, when he came up here and slept in the stable, for
fear the old man would hear him enter the house. He was some slued, I
reckon; but, Lord save us! Moore was past hearing long afore that. Joe
Darbage might just as well have tumbled into his own bed.”
“Do you know who last saw Mr. Moore alive, constable?” inquired Keene,
who had received, with a series of little nods, the information thus far
imparted.
“Mrs. Haynie was the last who saw him.”
“Do you know at what time?”
“About nine o’clock last night.”
“Was he up?”
“No, he was in bed. She went in to look to his fire, and to see if he
was all right.”
“That was after Thorpe and the stableman went to the road house, was
it?”
“Long after! Thorpe left here about seven o’clock, and Joe went a little
later. Lord, sir, nobody will ever think of suspecting either of them!
But there’s a sartin man who don’t stand so well here, and some things
p’ints strong agin’ him,” Mr. Bragg added, in lower tones. “Now, this is
all atween us, mind you.”
“You can depend upon me, constable,” said Keene assuringly. “This
information will not go farther than to Mr. French. It will be of great
help to him in the case, and we’ll not forget it. What man do you mean?”
“Young Bob Jeffrey,” whispered Mr. Bragg, with mysterious significance.
“You mean Mabel’s husband?”
“Sure thing! Since their marriage he has been dead nuts agin’ the old
man, and talks pretty rough agin’ him. More’n that, sir, he’s been
drinking more’n is good for him, and using his tongue too freely. I
reckon he’ll have a hard time telling where he was till midnight last
night.”
“What sort of a man is this Jeffrey?”
“Well, sir, he’s a hot-headed---- Say, there’s the coroner, now! I’ll
have to quit you right here, sir, for I’ve a word for him alone.”
“Many thanks for this, however, Constable Bragg,” said Keene, extending
his hand.
“That’s all right, lawyer!” exclaimed Mr. Bragg, with a growl of
friendly appreciation. “But all this is atween us, mind you.”
“I will not forget it.”
“And I reckon I can let you into something more a little later. Leave it
to me.”
And the burly constable wiped the frozen moisture from his bushy black
mustache and beard, and hustled around the corner of the house.
TO BE CONTINUED.
THE GREAT SALT BEND.
Passengers on the train of the Ohio River division of the Baltimore &
Ohio Railroad are always interested in the towns of Hartford, New Haven,
and Mason City, on the West Virginia side, and Syracuse and Pomeroy on
the Ohio side of the river because of the unusual industry that is
carried on.
A strange odor comes through the open windows of the coach during the
warm summer days as the train passes along through the yards on the
outskirts of the town. For more than one hundred and fifty years this
bend on the Ohio River, known to steamboat men as “Salt Bend,” or “Great
Salt Bend,” has been the center of a large salt industry.
The river bench, or highland, along the river, is dotted with numerous
queer-looking buildings surmounted with what looks like a huge wooden
chimney. At the bottom of each chimney, or tower, says the
_Manufacturers Record_, there is a salt well. The wells in a number of
instances are pumped with gas engines, and gas engines are also used in
some cases to pump water out of the mines.
The several salt works are near the wells and generally at the mouth of
a coal mine which runs into the hills just back of the towns on both
sides of the river.
The ability to secure a cheap fuel from coal mines so near has preserved
the industry against foreign and domestic competition.
The tall piles of fagots or hoop poles used in making hoops for barrels
are everywhere in evidence, and one wonders why they do not use iron
hoops on the barrels, until they notice the havoc the salt water plays
with metal of any kind. The pipes used to convey the liquid are in some
cases made of hollow logs of poplar and other woods.
The art of barrel making, or coopering, as it is called, is practiced
here in all the old-time splendor, and if the scene were transplanted to
any European country and located along some of the tourist lanes of
travel it would be a mecca for the sight-seers. The queer old
processes, the old-fashioned tools and methods, the smoke rising from
the smudge fire in the barrels would attract scores of travelers to the
scene of the Old World.
The strata containing the salt solution lies about twelve hundred feet
under the surface, and the water rises to within six hundred feet of the
surface, after the well is drilled in. The well as generally drilled is
termed a six-inch well, and is cased with iron casing to about eight
hundred feet below the surface, where the surface water is packed off
with a packer such as is used in oil wells.
The salt water is pumped from the well into a cistern, which is
generally elevated on the side of a hill near the plant, and is carried
in copper and wooden pipes by gravity to the salt surface. Where wood
log pipes are used the sight is a very unusual one, as they are laid on
top of the ground, and run in every direction from plant to wells.
The salt furnace is one of the most interesting sights around the works,
and consists of a series of iron pans, about forty in number, each pan
being about three feet wide and ten feet long. These pans rest on a
stone wall over a fire pit, and are covered over with a wooden-box
chamber about one hundred and twenty feet long and three and a half feet
high. This covering is called a steam chest, and, like the lid on a
kettle, helps raise the temperature of a solution to a higher point than
could be obtained in an open vessel.
After the proper boiling has been given to a quantity of the salt
solution, it is drawn off into a wood vat, called a mud settler, and,
although the solution seemed perfectly clear while entering the heating
pans over the furnace, a considerable residue is found at the bottom of
the mud settler. This residue contains a large proportion of oxide of
iron.
From the mud settler the hot solution passes to two vats called drawn
settlers, where the solution is still further clarified and treated. The
solution then passes to the first graining vat, which is a long wooden
box lined with tile, where the salt begins to form in flakes on the
surface, and falls to the bottom of the vat, where it is picked up by
power scrapers or shovels.
The best salt is formed in this first grainer, although different grades
of salt are extracted from the solution in five other grainers, and they
are used for the feeding of cattle and the making of brine solutions.
SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION.
There is undoubted evidence that hay and cotton, when damp, will
occasionally take fire without any external source of ignition. Cotton
impregnated with oil, when collected in large quantities, is especially
liable to take fire spontaneously. Numerous cases are recorded where an
accumulation of cotton waste, used in wiping oily machinery, lamps, et
cetera, has more than once caused fires and led to unfounded charges of
incendiarism. Whether or not such organic substances as damp grain or
seeds ever undergo spontaneous combustion is a question that
has never been satisfactorily proven, although three French
scientists--Chevallier, Ollivier, and Devergie--are authority for the
supposition that the burning of a barn investigated by them was caused
by the spontaneous combustion of damp oats stored in it. There have been
many instances of the spontaneous ignition of coal containing iron
pyrites when moistened with water. This is particularly noticeable in
coal mined in Yorkshire and some varieties found in South Wales.
Phosphorus in a dry state is probably the most quickly ignited substance
known. It has been seen to take fire, when touched, in a room in which
the temperature was under seventy degrees Fahrenheit. Doctor Taylor, a
writer on the principles and practice of medical jurisprudence, is
authority for the statement that ordinary phosphorus (blue head) matches
have taken fire spontaneously, as a result of exposure to the sun’s rays
for the purpose of drying.
PLANT BURGLARS--READ RIGHT THROUGH BEFORE SUSPECTING YOUR TULIP BED.
Big animals kill and eat smaller ones, and they in their turn feed on
others smaller still, down to the very lowest and tiniest creatures
known. This every one knows. What is not so easily realized is that a
similar savage struggle for existence is always going on in the
vegetable as well as the animal world. Certain plants feed on others,
robbing them of their sap and juices, and eventually killing their prey
as surely as does the lion when he buries his sharp teeth in an
antelope’s neck.
This organized robbery is most plain to the eye in a tropical forest;
but even here in our islands no one can go for a country walk without
seeing plenty of instances. The mistletoe, for instance. A great
dull-green bunch grows flourishing profusely on the bare limb of some
half-starved apple tree. If you cut them off the apple bough, you will
find the roots of the parasite have sunk deep into its substance, and
are drinking up the juices which the roots of the apple tree have
secreted far down in the earth below.
It is curious to note how the mistletoe has fitted itself for this
thieving existence. Its berries are full of a gluey sap. This, when they
fall, makes them stick in the crannies of the bark of such rough-coated
trees as the apple, the poplar, and, more rarely, the oak, and there
each grows and begins anew to starve and strangle its host. In the
ground a mistletoe seed cannot live, and soon rots away.
The “dodders,” “greater” and “common,” may be easily identified by any
one with a little botanical knowledge. The former lives on thistles; the
latter sucks the juices of heath and thyme.
Broom rape is another tiny burglar, fixing itself on the roots of broom
and furze, and so gaining a living. The family of broom rape comprises
no less than five different varieties, all of which are incorrigible
sneak thieves, and have now descended so low they can exist in no other
way. One lives and grows upon the roots of clover, another fastens on
ivy roots and fattens on food intended for the tendrils far above.
Ivy itself is classed by many as a burglarious plant. Indeed, its loving
embraces, if not checked, are apt to strangle the tree it grows on. But,
on the other hand, it is not fair to put it in the same category with
the plants already mentioned, for ivy only asks from a tree support, not
food, and the harm it does is due to its tight embraces depriving its
upholder of air and light.
But it is to hot countries you must go to see plant crime flourishing
unchecked, particularly the forests of Central America. An especially
cruel sinner is one well known to us by name, the India-rubber tree. Its
favorite plan seems to be to start growing on the very crown of some
forest giant, such as a wild fig or a Guianese ceiba tree. There it
pushes out its great, evergreen, leathery leaves, and digs its roots
down into the fast-rotting substance of its host’s trunk. Soon its long,
creeping rootlets descend along the outside bark of the supporting tree,
and finally reach the ground. Soon nothing is left between them but a
rotting shell. The murder is accomplished, and the garroter has usurped
the place of its victim.
That queer air plant known as Spanish moss kills many a fine forest tree
with its solemn, gray tendrils. Like ivy, it robs its host of light and
air and ends by slowly smothering its victim.
Occasionally plants not burglars by nature are forced to assume that
rôle. A young mountain ash may not infrequently be seen springing from
the crown of an ancient oak or other tree. The seed has been dropped
there by a bird and taken root.
Ferns, too, often grow in great profusion on the long, horizontal boughs
of oaks over rivers and ponds. Their weight, and the moss they encourage
among their roots, end by rotting their support.
More rarely a tree may actually be watched stealing its own juices.
Willows, when old, are apt to become hollow, and they rot till nothing
but a shell of bark is left. If this is cut, delicate rootlets will
descend from the upper portion of the cut and suck nourishment from the
decaying remains of the tree itself.
TERRIBLE FATES POSSIBLE.
Astronomers tell us that the day must come when this earth will, like
the moon, wheel through the heavens a dead and barren ball of
matter--airless, waterless, lifeless. But long, long before that time
man will be extinct, will have disappeared so utterly that not so much
as the bleached skeleton of a human being will be visible on all the
millions of square miles of the surface of this planet.
Unless by some huge and universal cataclysm the whole race is swept at
once into eternity, it is but reasonable to suppose that man, like any
other race of animals, will disappear slowly, and that eventually there
will be but a single human being left--some old, old man, grayheaded and
bearded, and left to wander alone in a solitude that may be imagined,
but not described.
How will he die, this last relic of the teeming millions that once
transformed the face of the globe and ruled undisputed masters of every
other living thing? There are many fates that may befall him. He may go
mad with the horror of loneliness, and himself end his own miserable
existence. He may be eaten by the vast reptiles or giant insects which
will then probably infest the solitudes.
But his fate may be far weirder and more dreadful. Scientists say that
as we burn the coal and timber we are still so richly supplied with, we
let loose into the atmosphere an ever-increasing volume of carbonic acid
gas. Much of this is taken up by plants, but not all. It must increase
and eventually poison the breathable air, filling the valleys and
mounting slowly to the hilltops, where the last remnants of animal life
are striving for existence. The last man will climb higher and higher,
but eventually the suffocating invisible flood will reach and drown him.
Again, it is said that the earth, as it gets older, is cracking like dry
mud. These cracks will increase until at last they will let the waters
of the oceans and rivers sink into the fiery center of the globe. Then
will occur an explosion so terrible as may startle the inhabitants of
neighboring worlds. The last man in this case will probably be some
arctic explorer or Eskimo, whom the vast plains of ice around him will
save from instant death and leave to grill a few moments till the ice
continents are swallowed by red-hot gases and steam.
Supposing these earth cracks develop more slowly, they may suck away the
water without devastating explosions. Then the last man’s fate will be
the worst describable. He will die of thirst. The scene of his death
will probably be the great valley in the bed of the Atlantic Ocean, off
the Brazilian coast, halfway between Rio Janeiro and the Cape, where now
six miles of green water lie between the steamer’s keel and the abysmal
slime beneath. There, hopelessly digging in the everdrying mud, he must
perish, and leave his bones to parch on a waterless planet.
The antarctic polar ice cap has been growing thicker and heavier for
uncounted ages. The distance from the south pole to the edge of this ice
cap is 1,400 miles. The ice rises steadily from the edge to the center.
At that center it cannot be less than twelve miles in thickness--twice
as thick as Mount Everest is high. Southern latitudes are growing
warmer, and this ice cap is known to be cracking. Suppose it splits.
Imagine the gigantic mass of water and ice that will come sweeping up
north over the oceans and continents of the earth! Where, then, will the
last man breathe his final gasp? High up in the snows of some great
range he will perish miserably of cold and starvation, looking down on a
huge shallow sea, beneath whose tossing waters will lie the whole of the
races of the world.
Or, last, and perhaps dreariest fate of all, the human race may outlive
other mammals and last until the sun, as some day it must, grows dull
and cold, and vegetation dies from the chilled earth. The miserable
remnant of earth’s people must then slowly die out after ages of an
existence to which that of the Eskimo of to-day is a paradise.
HOW CANTILEVER BRIDGES ARE CONSTRUCTED.
A cantilever bridge consists of two inverted trussed beams, each
balanced on a pier, one part extending over the river and the other to
the shore, where it is firmly anchored in solid, heavy masonry. The ends
extending over the river toward each other from the opposite piers are
joined by a short truss in such a manner as to permit expansion and
contraction consequent on changes of temperature, and yet be proof
against vertical or lateral pressure. Such a bridge, it is said,
sustains scarcely any strain in the center of the span. Each half of the
entire bridge is self-balanced on its pier; and when a long, heavy train
is on it, the part of the train on one side of the pier is balanced as
on a “teeter” by the part on the other side of the pier--in front or
behind. The bridge across the Niagara River was the first of the
cantilever kind ever constructed, and the one over the Hudson River was
erected upon substantially the same principle, the cantilever being
utilized as nearly as possible. In building the bridge it was important
to obstruct the Hudson as little as possible, much opposition having
been raised against it by those interested in the navigation of the
river. Therefore a combination of anchorage trusses and cantilever
spans was adopted. The river is crossed in five spans, with four piers
in the channel. On each of the two piers nearest the shore, four sets of
steel rollers carry the ends of the anchorage trusses and of the
cantilevers of the east and west spans. The bridge is made of steel. The
cantilever principle is again introduced in the famous Forth Bridge. At
a distance of six hundred and eighty feet from the ends of either
approach viaduct are the north and south cantilever piers, with their
great arms stretching out to and joining with the girder approaches. In
the opposite direction the cantilever arms extend for six hundred and
eighty feet toward Inchgarvie, and come within three hundred and fifty
feet each of meeting the arms of the cantilever built on that island.
This cantilever pier is founded in the bottom of the shallow water close
to the west of the islet. The gaps of three hundred and fifty feet
between the extremities of the cantilever arms and of the ends of their
neighbors to the north and south are filled in by connecting or central
girders of the hogback lattice pattern. The total length of each of the
north and south cantilevers is one thousand five hundred and five feet,
while that of the central one, owing to its having a longer foundation
base, is one thousand six hundred and twenty feet. The two main spans
measure each one thousand seven hundred and ten feet, with a clear
headway above high water, for five hundred feet in the center of the
span, of one hundred and fifty feet, while the half cantilever spans to
the approach viaducts north and south are each of six hundred and eighty
feet. The measurement from the extremity of one approach viaduct to the
extremity of the other gives the distance taken up by the three double
cantilevers and their connecting girders as five thousand three hundred
and twenty feet, or just over a mile.