CHAPTER IX.

THE INNER WHEEL.

Chick Carter stepped back of the parlor door and peered between it and

the casing, shifting a revolver to his side pocket.

Jim Dacey turned abruptly, however, and entered the sitting room.

Chick heard him shout to the deaf housekeeper and order her to go to

bed. She came out with a lamp in a few moments, and Chick saw her

disappear up a back stairway.

She scarce had vanished when Floyd, or Kate Crandall, still in male

attire, came through the cellar doorway and was joined in the hall by

Dacey, who asked abruptly, with a look of grim misgivings:

“Where is Sheldon? What’s turned him so sour and----”

“Cut it!” Kate sharply whispered, audible to Chick. “He must not hear

us. I have something to say to you. I have ordered him to watch the

laundry door till Moran returns.”

“Where has he gone?”

“To house the car. He’ll not show up for several minutes. That will give

me time to explain.”

“Explain what?”

“Come into the sitting room. I’ll soon tell you.”

“You’ll tell me, also, you jade, and I’ll wager I will make the most of

it,” thought Chick, watching the couple enter the room and noting that

they only partly closed the door. “Unless I am much mistaken, by Jove, I

shall now get the key to the whole mystery.”

Chick lingered only a moment, then stole into the hall and found

concealment under the rise of the main stairway. That brought him within

ten feet of the sitting-room door, and within easy view of that opening

upon the landing at the head of the cellar stairs. He scarce had

concealed himself in the dark corner he had selected, when he made

another discovery.

The cellar door was slowly swinging open. A stealthy hand was cautiously

moving it. Presently, not only the hand, but the spy himself could be

seen. He was crouching on the landing, his head thrust forward, his ears

strained, his eyes glowing like those of a cornered wolf.

“Sheldon!” thought Chick, startled by the terrible look on the man’s

face. “By Jove, I’m not alone. He, too, wants to learn what this vixen

has up her sleeve.”

Sheldon, having reached the vantage point desired, did not stir from his

crouching posture on the landing.

Chick waited and listened.

Kate Crandall’s voice, though somewhat subdued, could be distinctly

heard by both.

“I can tell you in a nutshell, Jim, just where we stand and what must be

done,” she was saying earnestly. “Our easy mark has ceased to be an easy

mark. He has become suspicious. He begins to feel sure that I am in love

with you, instead of with him, and that I intend to throw him down.

That’s why he has balked at making over half of his fortune to me, and

at putting it in my hands before I marry him. That’s what has kept us

hung up in the Ashburton Chambers for a whole week since the supposed

suicide.”

“By thunder!” Chick mentally exclaimed. “Supposed suicide? Easy mark,

eh? This man Sheldon must be Cyrus Darling, then, as sure as there is

juice in a lemon.”

Chick needed only one glance at the face of the crouching man to

convince him that he was right.

“I know all that, Kate,” Dacey responded, with a growl. “But what’s the

answer? What’s to be done?”

“We must blind him still farther and contrive to get his coin. That

done, we must get rid of him and bolt for Europe.”

“Get rid of him?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen!” Kate Crandall’s voice took on more vicious accents. “He has

turned all of his fortune into cash and has it in a deposit drawer

downtown.”

“Well?”

“Providing I will marry him and go with him to live in Europe, he will

get the bundle of money from the safety deposit in order to take it with

us.”

“Well?” Dacey repeated grimly.

“Here, now, is the point,” Kate went on. “The Carters have us hard

pressed, but they do not yet suspect that Sheldon and Cyrus Darling are

one and the same.”

“Surely not.”

“They are the only persons on earth who really believe that Darling is

alive. No one else suspects it, even.”

“Surely not,” Dacey again repeated.

“If we were to kill him, then, and get rid of his body, who the devil

would ever suspect the crime? Only the Carters! But they could not prove

anything. They could not even show that Darling did not kill himself.

He’s as good as dead already, as far as that goes, and they can never

learn where Moran got the body that was substituted for Darling at the

time of the supposed suicide.”

“By Heaven, Kate, you’ve got all the makings of a devil in you,” said

Dacey, with a growl.

“I’m only showing you the way,” Kate Crandall replied. “It can be done

easily enough. It’s the only way by which we can make Darling produce

the coin.”

“What’s your plan?”

“We’ll keep Carter and Garvan here till the trick is turned. We’ll fake

a marriage ceremony with Darling. That done and his money on his person,

we’ll end him forever and bolt with the coin.”

“I see,” Dacey nodded.

“When Carter and Garvan are liberated, they’ll have only a guess coming

to them,” Kate added. “They cannot prove that Floyd and I were one. They

cannot show that Sheldon and Darling were one. All they can do, Jim,

will be to look wise and guess at the whole business. It can be done

like breaking sticks. What do you say?”

“Kill Darling, eh?” queried Dacey.

“Why not? There is no risk. He’s dead already--in the eye of the law.”

“That’s true.”

“We surely can turn the trick and get away without serious suspicion.”

“It does look so, Kate, I’ll admit,” Dacey thoughtfully agreed.

How this enterprising colloquy would have ended, and at what final

conclusion the plotters would have arrived, will never be known in this

world.

Chick Carter, glancing at the crouching man, saw him withdraw from his

position and cautiously descend the cellar stairs.

Chick suspected a genuine suicide, and he stole quickly from his

concealment and noiselessly followed him. When part way down the stairs,

he again discovered his man.

Sheldon was tearing the disguise from his face in frantic haste, and was

casting it fiercely upon the floor.

Chick waited and watched him.

The disguise removed, revealing a weak-featured man of forty, Darling

hastened to open the door of the laundry, into which he vanished.

Chick crept down the stairs and to the open door.

Darling was hurriedly cutting the bonds from Nick and Patsy, at the same

time crying in nervous, frantic, agonized whispers:

“Enough of this--enough of it! I’m going to confess; going to tell the

whole truth. I’ve been a blinded, cursed fool, an infernal madman,

crazed with love for an unscrupulous woman. I am Cyrus Darling--Cyrus

Darling himself. I’ll tell the whole truth and take my medicine. Come

with me, Mr. Carter. Come with me, for God’s sake, and arrest that

she-devil and her knavish confederate. Come with me and----”

“Hush!”

Nick calmly interrupted him. He then was free and on his feet, as was

Patsy. He saw Chick entering the room, also, and he knew that the case

was precisely what he had asserted, that of a man with a lost head, and

that the finish was but the work of moments.

Nick waited only to hear Chick’s statement.

Half a minute later, still engaged in discussing their devilish plot,

Dacey and Kate Crandall beheld the three detectives and the undisguised

man enter the sitting room. Both instantly guessed the truth, and while

Dacey weakened perceptibly, only a loud laugh came from the woman.

“Oh, it’s all off, then,” she cried, with mingled disgust and defiance.

“You have called the turn on us, Carter, have you?”

“You’ll find that I have,” Nick replied.

“Oh, well, that don’t rattle me any,” Kate sharply asserted. “You have

got nothing on us, Carter. I told you I never would lay myself liable.

Any man may pretend to commit suicide, if he wants to, and turn all of

his fortune into cash. The more fool he, in that case, and he’s the one

who must pay the price. You’ve got nothing on us, Carter, and well you

know it. Otherwise, you’d have had us in irons by this time.”

Nick Carter knew that there was some truth in this, yet he said sternly:

“Don’t you be so sure of it, Kate Crandall. I can send you up for a term

of years for conspiracy, abduction, and opposing officers of the law. If

I don’t do so--there will be but one reason,” he added pointedly.

“What reason is that?” Kate demanded, with color fading.

“You have made an infernal fool of this man, and he knows it, now. I

think he will behave himself in the future, and I’m going to give him a

chance. I shall do so for the sake of his wife, who is as fine a woman

as you are the reverse. I shall invent a story to account for all that

has occurred, and shall send Cyrus Darling home to his wife. Neither she

nor the public must know the truth. Your only hope, Kate Crandall, and

that of your confederates, lies in your permanent secrecy.”

“I agree to that, Carter,” cried Kate quickly. “The truth shall never be

told.”

“Does that go with you, Dacey?” Nick sternly demanded.

“You bet!” Dacey eagerly cried.

“And you will silence Moran?”

“Silence him? You bet I’ll silence him--if I have to cut his tongue

out.”

Nick turned to Cyrus Darling, who had sunk upon the nearest chair, with

his head bowed in his hands.

What Nick said to the erring man is of minor importance. It is enough to

add that he adjusted the matter in the manner suggested; that Cyrus

Darling returned home a few days later with a story that Nick had

invented for him, and that the real truth was, indeed, never disclosed.

THE END.

Two convictions on Nick’s part, however, were verified later. One that

Cyrus Darling thereafter would be a man. The other, that Nick had not

seen the last of Kate Crandall. You will read about the verification of

these two convictions in the story that you will find in the next issue

of this weekly, No. 123, out January 16th, entitled “Half a Million

Ransom; or, Nick Carter and the Needy Nine.”

RUBY LIGHT.

By BURKE JENKINS.

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

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

or the publishers.)

CHAPTER VII.

A DASH IN THE DARK.

I enjoyed that ride into the darkness that was, by now, fast settling

over Casco Bay; at least, I relished the first part of it. And it was in

momentary forgetfulness of my dislike of my companion that I said

cheerfully:

“Somethin’ like, eh?”

“Uh!” grunted Pawlinson; and I resolved to make no further overtures.

Some more minutes elapsed in this dark dash--straight away we were

making it, and we flew no lights. Then Pawlinson swirled us to a

tangent.

“You’re not going past Orr’s Island, then?” I cried; but I might have

saved my breath for all the attention he paid me.

Perhaps three more minutes it was that we ran thus. Then he whirled on

me with a short:

“Off!” I was bewildered, for speed had certainly been the desideratum up

to now.

“Off, I said!” he ripped out vexedly. “_I’m_ giving orders here,

remember.”

I threw out the switch, and we slumped down to wabbling in the light sea

that was running.

Even in the gloom I could see his features working. Then I followed his

gaze out over the water toward where Peak’s Island showed darker against

the night sky.

And more showed in that direction than that; for two trim masts were

swaying slightly against the starred background.

“The schooner!” said I.

“Right--for once.” Pawlinson came out of his silence. “And now maybe you

can see why I didn’t run right past the island, eh?”

“But surely speed boats are plentiful enough nowadays,” I answered.

“There couldn’t have been much to arouse suspicion, even if we had shot

directly alongside. The lad said it was shortest.”

“It’s easy to see you don’t know Carl Stroth. Look!”

The steady, bright-eyed glare of a powerful searchlight ate into the

night. It came from the schooner’s fore crosstrees.

“Get it through your noddle at last?”

“Yes,” said I humbly enough.

For some minutes the searchlight played over the waters; but it was

noticeable that it confined its attentions to a small arc; and that arc,

fortunately or unfortunately, did not include that portion of the bay

where lay our inert, low-lying craft.

But its radiance suddenly found and rested upon something well ahead of

us--a something that made both Pawlinson and myself let out an oath.

“The police launch!”

“But it’s headed back to town from Trawly’s Rock!” I cried.

“Well, and why not?” he snapped. “Even a policeman can sometimes fall to

the fact that there’s such a thing in this world as a bunk.”

“You think, then,” said I, “that they have found out the wire was

bogus?”

“I think that when they got out to that desolate chunk of rock and

didn’t find me there, that possibly something like that did enter their

heads.”

“But----”

“But Stroth is right this minute chuckling happily; for, by the time

that launch gets back to headquarters for new orders, he’ll be hull

down, seaward.”

“But he’s waiting for that gasoline.”

“Oh, he is, is he? Take a squint at the schooner again, and see if he’ll

have to wait long.”

Much as I hated the fellow, I couldn’t but admire his perception. I

followed his pointing, and discerned that a small lighter had been

brought alongside the vessel, and, by the light of the lanterns that had

been hung to the rigging at the rail, I could see men transferring

barrel after barrel to the schooner’s hold.

“The gasoline!” I cried.

“Probably,” came the reply.

“Then Hallins’ man who got aboard to-day was wrong as to the time they

could get it?”

“I have known mistakes, such slight ones, to be made before,” snarled

Pawlinson.

“But we can beat ’em to it yet,” I said, with enthusiasm.

“How? What are you driving at?”

“There’s a good twenty-five-mile-an-hour gait bottled up in this little

tube,” I explained. “And here we are in a triangle. The police launch is

headed cityward, but ahead of us, eh?”

“Right enough.”

“Then out there lies the schooner at another corner of the triangle, and

to our port side.”

“Right again.” Pawlinson’s sarcasm was, for the moment, absent.

“I take it you are planning force from the first. You asked as to my

gun, you know.”

“Yes, yes. Go ahead, man!”

“Then,” I cried, “what’s the matter with us uncorking every bit of

ginger there is in this hydro--shoot past the schooner--overtake the

patrol launch--give ’em the news, and----”

“You think we could make it before Stroth’d get wise? He’s got a good

engine himself, remember; and, should he tumble, he’d have a head start

on the launch.”

“But, being auxiliary,” I interrupted, frantic for action, “he is bound

to be as much slower than the police boat than it is to our hydro.

Besides, he’s not to up-anchor or cut. It’ll work!” I cried

enthusiastically as I fished in my pocket for my jackknife and turned

back quickly toward the taffrail.

“Here, what’re you up to?” snapped Pawlinson.

“Why, we’ve got to cast that blamed punt adrift now,” I answered

sharply. “We’ve got to be clear of everything.”

Ice came into the voice that met my warmth.

“Start the engine. We’ll keep the punt.”

“But, man----”

“Start the engine.”

There was that in Pawlinson I’ve met in few men; for I had that machine

barking the next instant--and I’m not an oversweet-tempered individual

myself, as I have intimated.

I threw in the clutch, and we fairly jumped out of the water when she

began to “plane.”

There was no shunning the island now on Pawlinson’s part.

Instead, he headed almost directly for it--a course that was calculated

to bring us within a furlong of the anchored schooner on our way to

intercept the patrol launch, which was pointed, as near as we could

judge, directly cityward.

The exact angle was a thing of estimation to a nicety; but, with the

speed we were soon attaining, it certainly looked as if it would work.

The wind had fallen flat, as it often does between the day and night

breezes, and this helped. So we cut a swath of boiling spume over an

unrippled mirror which heaved only to a slight swell.

“Now, man”--Pawlinson let me into his thoughts--“once clear of the

schooner’s stern, and we’ve got ’em; no matter which way the cat jumps.”

“Yes,” I agreed enthusiastically. “By that time they wouldn’t have a

chance to clear before we’d have the patrol launch veered for her.”

“And now for it!” His tone was calm and collected enough; but I read

tenseness in it, nevertheless.

As for myself, I was fairly rigid with the moment, for it was the

crucial one. We were about to pass the schooner.

Then came the sickening disgust.

Out from the fore crosstrees blazed the white glare of the searchlight

again.

This time we were in for it. The rattling exhaust of our engine had told

its story; or, at least, it had told enough to excite sufficient

curiosity for a look at us.

The light oscillated once or twice in search; then it steadied, and our

eyes blinked in its glare. Everything about us sprang into daylight, and

the brass cylinder heads before me fairly glittered.

I imagined I could hear the wielder of the light chuckle at his find;

but I didn’t have to imagine the imprecation that Pawlinson hissed

venomously. I have seldom heard such fervor; but I seconded it

heartily.

“All up!” I groaned; for it took no clairvoyant to fathom that the alarm

had been sounded.

Even above the sound of our engine we heard a sharp command given, and

the lines were cast from the lighter alongside. Then came some quick

blows on metal.

“Make that out?” queried Pawlinson shortly.

“Cutting the cable,” I muttered. “They know the game. Her engine’s going

already. Where’s the police boat?”

“The fools in her smell something up; but, being fools, they’ve stopped

to see what it is.”

Sure enough, off there about a quarter mile, the lights of the patrol

stood fixed, showing that either her engine had been shut off or was

running free from load.

“At any rate,” I growled, “she’s too far off to help, anyway. That

schooner’s certainly fast under power. Once started, she’s a good match

for the launch, and besides----”

“Stop the engine!”

I whirled in amazement at the deadly animosity that came into

Pawlinson’s voice; and the searchlight--which had kept us steadily in

its radiance--showed a countenance an equal match to the tone. Then a

smile came over his face as he corrected:

“Throw her into the neutral!”

I did so, and our screw stopped.

“Now, haul up that punt’s painter and get into the tub.”

“Get into the punt?” I cried, mystified.

“Into the punt, I said, didn’t I?” shrilled the man with me. I can

scarcely call him Pawlinson. I have never seen rage mount much higher as

he busied himself setting the steering wheel to a certain spoke. The

gear was a good one, and would hold to any setting of rudder.

“But why?” I ventured further; then regretted the words, and forthwith

did as he had ordered.

I brought the punt alongside, sprang into it, and stood steadying,

awaiting what would come next.

But I snatched a second for a peek over my shoulder.

The schooner was almost upon us by now; for, of course, she was headed

for the nearest way out of the bay; and that way happened to be our way.

But I was brought sharply back to Pawlinson.

“And now,” said he, “I think we’ve got something that’ll work.”

As he said this, he, too, clambered from the speed boat into the punt

along with me.

Now, mind you, the engine was still running in the neutral.

“Reach over there!” he ordered. “Full speed ahead! You can reach the

lever from where you stand. You know best how to do it. You start her,

and the rudder’ll do the rest.”

Then it was, on that very instant, that there flashed over me a light of

understanding as brilliant as the calcium that still played about us.

“You don’t mean it, man?” I cried; for I remembered now the strong metal

stringers of the hydroplane’s structure; the weight of her engine; the

impact that it meant at a twenty-five-mile-an-hour clip. The boat lay

low in the water; and the hole she’d make in that yacht-planked schooner

would be well along, and even below the water line.

“I do mean it!” he yelled. “And now’s the time! About amidships she’ll

catch it, I think. We’ll watch it from the punt.”

I felt myself boil as would any civilized man.

“And I think _not_!” The words sounded as from some other throat than my

own. “Sink that schooner with all the men in her, and----”

“And what?” I could feel his breath hot with wrath as he brought his

face pugnaciously close to mine.

“The girl!” I cried.

“What do you know about her?”

“Enough to know that I’ll not----”

I don’t remember the end of that sentence; for he suddenly whirled his

broad back upon me, and, fending my interference off thus, reached over

into the speed boat’s cockpit and threw back the starting lever.

But the steering wheel was aft, a side steerer attached to the

coaming--the port coaming at that, and right to my hand.

I grabbed that wheel, and flung it around desperately, in the second I

had before the hydroplane shot from us.

She didn’t veer far from her course of intended destruction; but it was

enough, and I had the inner glow of satisfaction for the one instant

that was allowed me before I met him as he turned and gripped me in

deadly embrace.

In an iron clutch I felt myself borne bodily aloft. I struck the water

breathless, and I cannot swim.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN STRANGE QUARTERS.

I have my own theory as to just what becomes of us when we--the real,

thinking we, that is--enter that somewhat uncanny realm which men have

agreed to let ignorance call unconsciousness. But this is neither the

time nor place to air it.

Sufficient to state, now, that from the moment I felt the chill of the

waters of the bay, and strangled in its brine, I knew nothing of what we

name actuality until I was sensible of an easy, steady sway of body as I

was rocked cradlewise.

A distinctly delicious semiconsciousness made me forget a decided

stiffness and cramp of muscle, and it was with reluctance that I opened

a tentative eye.

I am not ordinarily one of those who jump up immediately upon wakening,

anyway.

And slowly it was that the nature of my surroundings came to me.

A faint swish directly beside the bunk whereon I found I was lying

proved to come from a hung-up suit of Cape Ann oilskins; and a further

exploring peek beyond revealed several rows of bunks like my own.

A ladder of steep incline, topped by a hatch; a semicircle of seat

lockers; tar in the air, and a faint reek of bilge--the combination

ended all conjecture.

A hearty chuckle from directly alongside my head made me up-on-elbow for

a nearer scan of the chuckler.

I have never seen a bundle of more jovial rotundity, or a larger. A

perfect giant of a man he was, with good nature popping from him. And a

sailor he was to the gnarled crooks of his “fishhook” fingers, which at

this moment were ramming home a husky charge of palm-rolled cut plug

into a broken-stemmed “ha’penny clay.”

“Ho, ho!” he burbled when he saw that I had caught sight of him. “An’

where away now, m’ bucko?”

I passed a hand over my features, and my question was trite enough:

“Where am I?”

Again merriment rippled in folds up and down him as he replied:

“On board the _Ruby Light_, m’ lad, and a better vessel’s keel was never

laid!”

“_Ruby Light?_” I echoed hesitatingly, for a bit of mistiness still held

me. “Why, I thought--that is----”

“That is,” he rumbled gleefully, “this here’s about the last place you

expected ter come ter life in. An’ mebbe it are jest about the last

place you’d ’a’ picked out. He, he! Shouldn’t wonder, m’ lad, shouldn’t

wonder!” And he drifted off into a falsetto titter.

But there certainly was no malice in his merriment; it seemed rather to

make me a comrade.

“But how in thunder did I get here?” My voice was putting on more

heartiness. “And who----”

“Hold on, now Billy-boy! One at a time, and slow,” he chided. “As to the

how and the who, why--I m’self was the who; an’ a good long boat hook

was the how. Managed ter ketch under the belt as you slid by our quarter

during said episode last night. An’, by time, boy, you were heavier’n

you look, shore!”

“But what I should like to know is, why----”

“An’ that thar’s just what I’m going ter pass up ter sooperiors. Orders

is orders, y’ know, matie; an’ I shore am some strong when it comes to

’em. But I tell you what I can do an’ it ought’r sound like screeching

good news; I can tumble a cup o’ b’iling hot coffee into you. Eh, what?

A mug along ’ith some salt horse?”

“Sounds good to me!” I strove to echo his strain, as I threw my legs

over the side of the bunk. “But how about my clothes?” For the first

time I realized that I was wearing nothing but a coarse, sailor’s blue

flannel shirt.

“Right t’ hand, an’ bone dry!” he chortled, as he edged his huge bulk

through a narrow opening, beyond which I caught the glow of a small

“shipmate” range.

Next instant he reappeared with my clothes over his arm.

“Did m’ best, laddie, ter get ’em into some sort o’ shape. Kind o’

draggled they was, as is natural. An’ the shoes are durned stiff,

believe me. But they’ll come around----”

“Well, I should say!” said I, delighted to get into my own togs, “and I

don’t see how you managed to get ’em as good as you did.”

The old fellow had actually made a pretense of pressing the trousers,

though truth compels me to say that he had run the seams decidedly awry.

I was surprised to see how weak I was, for, even though there was

scarcely any sea running, I lurched abominably as I put on my trousers.

“Coffee’s in order!” he announced, and once more sought the range.

Two minutes after I had drained that mug and chewed off some chunks of

“junk,” and I was still doing business at the old stand.

“And now,” said I, “next?”

“Well,” came the hearty response, “seein’s I’m the doctor, why, I jest

says the deck for yourn. Besides, them’s the orders.”

Before I mounted the ladder I stood before the old fellow, and put out

my hand.

“My name’s Tom Grey,” said I, “and somehow I’m not much when it comes to

thanks; but----”

“Aw, shucks!” he roared back at me, as he fairly enveloped my hand with

his big paw. “Nawthin’ ’tall! Kind o’ fun, ’twas, fishin’ you out

thataway! Besides, I warn’t doing nothin’ but obeyin’ orders; an’ as

mebbe I’ve before let out, I’m quite some when it comes t’ orders. Yep!

Why, any o’ the lads on deck’ll second the motion that old Steve, bos’n

o’ this here _Ruby Light_, jest eats ’em--orders, that is. Now, tumble

out and mind your eye, matie. Me fer a cat nap.”

Whereupon he rolled into the bunk I had quitted.

CHAPTER IX.

A PLEASURE TRIP.

It was fully fifteen minutes after I gained the deck before the

slightest attention was paid to my appearance, and this period I made

full use of in close scrutiny of my surroundings.

Never, even aboard a man-of-war, have I seen such decks. Holystoned they

were, every inch of them, and at that very instant four fellows were

scouring away for dear life.

And that immaculateness was everywhere apparent. I could see well enough

why it was that I had awakened alone in the forecastle with only old

Steve to watch over me.

Brass shone to brisk burnishing; mahogany glowed to the chamois; every

man jack of ’em was furbishing, except the helmsman.

And the craft was well worth such grooming. Even in the anxiety that, of

necessity, was mine at the moment, I glowed over such fitness;

everything O. K. to the dot. Bowsprit to taffrail I scanned her, and

didn’t find an “out.” Her forestay she carried pretty well inboard, for

the ’sprit was short, according to the modern custom.

The masts, clear Oregon pine, raked a trifle, giving a dash that was a

bit reminiscent of the old _America_. It may not make for speed, but I

never saw a real sailor that didn’t favor it.

Guessing the direction by the sun, I reckoned our course to be somewhat

east of south, and the freshening west wind bellied the creamy canvas

into unwrinkled corpulence. Besides her lower standing, she was carrying

ballooner and club topsail.

But no foretopsail met my upward search, and it didn’t take long to see

why. Between her masts stretched wireless rigging.

Now, all this time of my survey of the schooner, not one of the full

score of sailors that were working all about me, as I paced the forward

deck, gave me a word. But I judged, from an occasional furtive glance or

two I caught, that I was nothing if not interesting.

I suppose, though, as old Steve had intimated, “orders were orders.” But

that kind of thing gets on a man’s nerves as only such inactive suspense

can, and I was upon the very point of striding aft to stir up something

when I spied some gilt emerging from the companionway.

The little captain gave a word to the man at the wheel, then whirled and

faced forward.

“Stevens once more!” said I to myself, though I was not oversurprised at

the recognition.

His grin when he caught sight of me was all the satisfaction I got

before he popped immediately back down the companionway. But I didn’t

have long to wait for further developments, for I don’t believe it was a

full minute before a little Jap glided up the steps, and came directly

toward me.

“You come follow me,” said the flunky abruptly, as he whirled a most

ridiculous rightabout. But naturally I was in no mood to read humor in

things, so I followed meekly enough.

The Jap led down the steps, and across a saloon; then he tapped almost

reverently at a door that gave off from a passageway beyond.

To a sharp summons to enter, he opened the door, and stood aside for me

to pass him, which I did. Then the door closed behind me, and I faced

the strangest stateroom I ever saw.

But it was not the room itself, remarkable as it was, that focused the

entire attention, for a man in a broad-backed chair, busied at something

on the table before him, sat facing me.

The whole breadth of the room was between us, but I could feel every

nerve of my ill-controlled features pass under the appraising scrutiny

of that pair of half-closed gray eyes that drilled at me as he glanced

up from what had been engrossing his attention.

It will be remembered that on the two occasions I had seen this man,

Carl Stroth, I had not got a fair and square look at him. Back there on

the launch at Port Washington he had stood steadily at the wheel,

peering ahead, while I, of necessity, was busied with the engine.

And that other time when, as the accommodating “deck hand,” he had made

a fool of me, his disguise had been of the cleverest.

But now I had ample opportunity for a searching survey of the man, for

he let a minute pass in silence. And I availed myself of this

opportunity to the full; though now, as I attempted to word the

impression his face made upon me, I am forced lamely to state that its

strongest characteristic lay in its very indefinableness; a sort of

haunting fitting of something I decidedly didn’t like across features

which seemed more naturally to fit themselves into something I

instinctively did like.

Even seated as he was, there came to his shoulders suddenly that forward

hunch which I had before noted, and which now I could see was

accompanied by a forward craning of the neck in riveting his eyes upon

me. Vulturelike it was, and more.

And then, as suddenly, the posture shifted to ease as he said quietly:

“None the worse for the episode, Mr. Grey?”

It was not so much surprise at his knowing my name--which I knew his

methods well enough by now to see would be easy--as it was the lightness

and even friendliness of the tone; a friendliness which consorted ill

with the stare he had favored me with the moment before. But I strove to

match it as I replied:

“It was more for adventure than money that I entered the detective

service, Mr. Stroth.”

I know now that nothing I could have said would have had more effect

upon him, or quicker.

“Ah!” he cried delightedly, as he sprang to his feet, shoved

back his chair, and strode toward me. “Good! There we have

it--adventure--spice--zest! The only thing worth while, isn’t it?”

It certainly was an unexpected way to open conversation, under the

circumstances; and, next second, he seemed to realize it, for his tone

altered to one of less enthusiasm:

“But first it’s probably best for us to understand each other.”

He nodded for me to be seated, and resumed his own chair.

“Mr. Grey,” said he, “who is, or was, your employer in this case?”

My smile was almost a wince at his shift of tense to the past; then I

replied evasively:

“This case?”

“Come, now, man,” he retorted sharply, and I regretted my attempt at

fencing; “you look like more sense. And I believe, if you’ll remember

our several positions at the present minute, that probably out-and-out

frankness will strike you as the best policy. It is natural that I am

puzzled about you at some points in reviewing the events of the past two

days, and I see no better or quicker method of clearing the air than

direct question and answer. So now, what say you? Of course, I can

handle my own end in either course you choose to pursue, though

personally I prefer candor.”

He was right; the upper hand was his, and it didn’t take me many seconds

to reconcile my conscience to my superior’s, by saying:

“Let it be the truth, then, Mr. Stroth. And I certainly hope that

something’ll come out that will make things a bit clearer to me. The

Lord knows I’m in the dark deep enough myself. I’m ready.”

“First, then,” said he, as he handed me over a humidor of dusky-hued

panetelas--though I noticed he didn’t take one himself--“perhaps it

would be best for me to state my difficulties, eh?”

“As you will, sir,” I agreed, lighting the welcome cigar, which I really

stood in need of.

“Here we have it, then,” he continued. “First I see you on the dock at

Port Washington, and it’s the first time I ever saw you in my life, I

believe.”

“Exactly,” I broke in, “and I believe I was at that time

instrumental--was of some service?”

“Wait! That’s just the point. You were of service, immense service, I

admit. I never would have thought that Pawlinson would have the nerve to

risk fooling Stevens into hiring him for engineer of my own launch. And

it might very well have succeeded but for you, as you say.”

“But then?”

“But next I stumble on you at the Portland wharf. Apparently your rôle

had, by that time, decidedly shifted. Stevens, who came from Stamford,

where he left the launch, even tells me that both you and Pawlinson

traveled in the same sleeping coach with him to Boston.”

“I didn’t know it at the time,” I said, but he paid no attention to the

interruption as he concluded:

“And now, last night, came the final mystery, for my searchlight

revealed both you and Pawlinson at fisticuff loggerheads in a wabbly

punt, with a speed-boat accompaniment. As to your place in this little

series of events, I confess myself completely mystified; and so it is

that I ask you--who was your employer in this thing, and where do you

stand, anyway?”

I saw no way to answer except in the strictest truth, and I couldn’t

see, for the life of me, how it could hurt matters at all then, for I

certainly was completely in his power any time he should choose to

apply the thumbscrews.

“I am one of Chief Garth’s men,” said I. “You know him?”

“Old Garth, of the United?” he chuckled. “I should say I did. Yes?”

“Now, it was mere coincidence that made me figure back there at Port

Washington. I didn’t even know Pawlinson then.”

“I have had enough whirls with coincidence to credit improbability on

that score. Well?”

He was attention itself, and, had I resolved upon a lie, I might well

have feared the brain behind those eyes. But truth is deliciously easy.

So I continued quietly:

“So when I returned to Chief Garth’s house that night I found that

Pawlinson had asked him for a man upon a difficult case, and that----”

“Yes, yes. I’ve got you. The same case. Coincidence again, and, as I

say, I believe you. You left Portland with what plan?”

“Simply to spot you,” I replied. “You see, I read the steamer’s name on

the stern out there in the Sound when you boarded her. I knew her port,

for I have sailed on her myself.”

There was a short interval of silence, during which he fitted things

together. Then he came out with:

“So Pawlinson followed you to Portland, made his authority known to you,

and you worked together after your meeting there?”

“Exactly!”

“But come, finish it! What was the meaning of that disagreement between

you alongside the hydroplane?”

“You didn’t catch the motive, then?” I queried.

“Not at all. I was called to the deck only in time to see him lift you

clear of the punt, and hurl you overboard. And,” he added, with a smile,

“old Steve’s boat hook did the rest.”

“So you haven’t yet tumbled to the reason for quitting the speed boat?”

“No; though I did understand that there wasn’t time for you to connect

with the police launch.”

“Well,” said I, “granting a fiend’s viewpoint, the plan was not so bad,

for it certainly would have stopped you. That craft was built stancher

than most hydroplanes, and carried a terrible way on her. She’d have

made a nasty-enough hole----”

“What!” He sprang erect in the sudden mount of fury at the full

realization. “Do you mean to tell me that the scoundrel actually

meditated----”

“Not only meditated,” I interrupted coolly. “He’d already ordered me

into the punt, and set the rudder before I myself could----”

His tone lowered as he broke in on my explanation:

“So that was the reason for the fight?”

“Naturally,” I replied. “Much as my ways lie in dark places, I am not

taken with such methods; where women are concerned especially.”

“Then you knew that my daughter was aboard with me?”

“I didn’t know till this minute that the young lady was your daughter,”

said I. “But the inference that she was on the vessel was natural enough

after I had chased you pretty well over Portland.”

Stroth made no direct reply to this. He seemed rather to be settling

some course. Then he shot out abruptly:

“What did Pawlinson tell you he was after my scalp for? Did he let you

that far into his confidence?”

Now, it’s no easy matter to tell a man of Stroth’s type that he’s a

thief, and in spite of me I couldn’t word Pawlinson’s revelations into

much softer phrase.

He noted my hesitation, but didn’t spare me a whit.

“Come, Grey, out with it exactly! I want it all--and unvarnished!”

“Well,” said I, bracing my voice with a swallow, “those affairs at

certain country places along Long Island Sound have long been puzzling

us, and----”

I might have spared myself my hesitation, for he didn’t so much as turn

a hair.

“Oh, so that was all, eh? Then he said nothing about----” He checked the

sentence to another question: “What do you know about Pawlinson,

anyway?”

“Precious little,” I answered him, and I let my manner tell as much as

it could of my contempt for the fellow. “In fact, I never heard of him

till he came into prominence about three years ago at Washington. And

that’s about all any one in the service knows. He’s understood to be

something of a mystery.”

Stroth grunted.

“I don’t doubt it--I don’t doubt it,” said he, as to himself.

Then came another slight interval of silence, during which I puffed away

contentedly at the panetela, for I felt no presentiment of coming

trouble. In fact, I was beginning rather to enjoy the situation.

I knew men well enough to read in Stroth that he had not lost sight of

the saving part I had played the night before; though, as I sat there

looking at him, I confessed to myself he was a puzzle in some

way--distinctly a puzzle.

He came out of his momentary abstraction with a shout of enthusiasm that

was positively boyish:

“Then it’s to be a little pleasure trip, after all! Good enough, Grey!

And I believe you’ll find that----”

Here I was fool enough to enter a wedge of curiosity.

“Then all that dope about this being the schooner that has been working

the Sound is absolute bunkum, Mr. Stroth?”

It was as if I had touched a match to bomb.

His brow darkened, and he bit out:

“I believe I’m doing pretty well by you! But, of course, you have your

choice--that is--pleasure trip--or otherwise. Understand me? Otherwise.”

I hastened to shift.

“Nothing I like better than a sailing voyage, Mr. Stroth,” and I let him

know by my laugh that I realized he had me.

“I didn’t think you were a fool,” he replied, in lighter vein. “So here

we have it, then, and it’s the last word I want spoken on the subject.

We’re bound for Savannah, Georgia. Simple enough, eh? Till then you’re

my guest, we’ll say. And, after we reach port, I’ll have your word that

you let three days go before you get the wires hot to headquarters. Now,

take the proposition or leave it!”

“I understand at last, Mr. Stroth,” said I slowly, “and my worst enemy

can’t say I’m not a man of my word.”

As suddenly as he had left it he whirled back to boyishness.

“Fine--fine!” And he actually slapped me heartily on the shoulder. “By

the way, what time is it?”

As if in answer, seven bells rang out.

“Good enough! There’s plenty of time to show you something before

dinner. And if you’re interested in that sort of thing we’ll certainly

have an enjoyable trip!”

Well, here, indeed, was a man of moods.

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER.

By E. K. NOSTWELL.

My shanty was situated in the Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming. With the

exception of two companions and some friendly trappers, who lived about

five miles distant, I had not seen a white man for nearly a year.

One day I was out hunting with Anderson Picket. We had just sighted an

antelope, and were occupied in stalking the animal, when we suddenly

heard the neighing of a horse near us. Surprised at such an unusual

sound in a neighborhood where very few human beings were to be

encountered, we looked up and saw, hardly three hundred paces from us, a

rider whose head was uncovered and his long hair floating in the wind

that blew across the hills. He was a white-faced, haggard man, mounted

on a thin horse.

For a few seconds he remained motionless, and then disappeared as

suddenly as he had come.

“A highwayman,” whispered Picket.

“What should a marauder be doing here?” I replied doubtfully, “for a

distance of three or four hundred miles no one, with the exception of

you, myself, and the trappers upon the creek, can be found. Not a single

soul to hold up. Let us see who the fellow is.”

Quickly mounting our horses and dropping our game for the time being, we

galloped up the hill, following the stranger, who was slowly riding

toward the north.

“That animal hasn’t had much fodder or rest lately,” laughed my

companion. “I’ll wager he hasn’t ten pounds of flesh on his bones.”

“I’d like to know who the man is, and what he is doing alone in these

solitary hills,” said I inquisitively. “Come, get a gait on the horse;

let’s get our game, and follow the fellow.”

After acting upon the suggestion, we returned to our pursuit, and were

hardly a hundred paces behind, when I shouted:

“Hello, my man! Where are you bound for?”

The horse turned its head toward us, but the rider did not move, and

immediately started off at a breakneck gallop.

Although we were well mounted, and endeavored to follow him, he soon

disappeared in a path thickly overgrown with brushwood. We consequently

lost scent of the fugitive, and my companion very sensibly observed that

we had better not follow him, as he might easily blow out our brains,

under shelter of the rocks or hidden behind the brushwood, before we

were aware of his presence.

We therefore retraced our steps toward our cabin, which we reached an

hour later.

My second companion, who, in consequence of a slight wound, had remained

at home, came toward us in great excitement.

“I’m glad you’re back, boys!” he cried.

“Heavens, man! what has happened?” I asked anxiously.

He was as white as a corpse, and sighed as if relieved when we reached

him.

“It was awful, I tell you, awful. In all my life I shall never forget

what has happened to me.”

“Come along; stop your quaking, and tell us what’s wrong. Seen any

suckers or a ghost?” said I smilingly, while Anderson asked impatiently:

“You’ve had a visit, haven’t you? A highwayman on an old gray nag----”

“How do you know that?” stammered Jim, quickly interrupting him. “Some

one was here, but it wasn’t a road man, it was a ghost.”

While he said this, he shivered from head to foot, and looked around

anxiously on all sides.

“Don’t be a fool,” I laughed. “Tell us a straight story. What has

happened to you?”

“Meanwhile we had reached the cabin, and, as I sprang from the saddle,

Jim pointed, with trembling hand, to the ground.”

“Here, look at this; you can see the prints of the ghostly horse’s

hoofs,” said he, in a voice full of excitement. “I was cleaning up

things in the cabin, when I suddenly heard a noise outside. I thought

you fellows had returned, and went out-o’-doors to meet you. Horrified,

I sprang back; before me, on a horse, nothing but skin and bones, was a

man without a hat, with long black hair. He sat bolt upright in the

saddle; he had a thick black beard; his face was ashen gray, and two

eyes, wide open, stared at me in a ghastly way as only a specter’s can.

I wanted to cry out, but my tongue seemed glued to my mouth--I felt my

hair standing on end. Then the ghost turned his horse--started off at a

gallop--I could plainly hear the rattling of the rider’s and the horse’s

bones.”

Jim shuddered again at the remembrance of the horrifying spectacle.

“That was the same fellow that we followed,” cried Anderson; and I could

only agree with him.

We then told Jim of our adventure, and quieted him by reasoning that it

could not have been a ghost, but simply a human being, possibly some

lunatic.

It was my custom before going to bed, to look after the horses. I left

the hut that evening as usual, but hardly had I taken a few steps when

suddenly I stopped as though my feet were rooted to the ground.

Directly in front of me, in the bright moonlight, stood the same ghastly

rider. His long black hair hung loosely round a ghastly face. The eyes

were sunk deep in their sockets. The mouth was wide open, and the

glimmer of the white teeth could be seen behind the black beard; in his

left hand he held the reins, while the right hung limply by his side. He

sat in the saddle as though hewn out of stone, without the slightest

motion.

I had the same feeling as Jim. I wanted to cry out, but could not; only

a hoarse whisper came from my throat, but instinctively my hand sought

the revolver at my side. I slowly raised my six-shooter, and covered the

frightful apparition. Then I found my voice.

“Who are you? Answer, or I’ll shoot!” I said.

At the sound of my voice, the horse, which consisted of nothing but skin

and bones, jumped to one side, and both horse and rider went off at a

breakneck gallop, the bullets which I sent after them taking no effect.

I distinctly heard the peculiar rattle of which Jim had spoken, and

which gradually grew dimmer and dimmer, until nothing could be

distinguished but the far-off clatter of horse’s hoofs on the rocky

ground.

My heart was beating violently as I reëntered the hut.

Not one of us closed an eye that night. I tossed to and fro, in vain

speculating what was to be done if the uncanny thing reappeared. When at

last morning dawned, I resolved to ride over to the trappers at the

creek and get their advice.

Soon after sunrise I started, and, after two hours’ ride, saw the shanty

of my friends some little distance off. They came to meet me with their

guns in their hands, ready to shoot.

“Lucky for you that our eyes are accustomed to long range, and that the

air is clear to-day, else either you or your horse would have a bullet

between his bones now,” said the elder of the two trappers, as I reached

them, holding out his hand in friendly greeting.

“That’s so,” acquiesced the other, also shaking hands, but with a very

solemn air. “Charlie is right. We were ready to shoot, but luckily saw

our mistake in time.”

“Since yesterday we have been on the watch. We’ve been fooled long

enough, and mean to make an end to this infernal nonsense,” said the

first trapper.

“Has a singular-looking rider also paid you a visit?” I cried eagerly.

The friends looked at each other in astonishment.

“Do you know the beggar?” asked Jack quickly.

“I don’t know him, but it is on his account that I’m here.”

And I related our adventure, to which both listened attentively.

“No doubt it’s the same fellow who got the best of us,” said Charlie;

shaking his head. “Day before yesterday we saw him for the first time.

He took no notice of us, and seemed to be deaf to our shots. About noon

he and his miserable old horse stood there, just opposite our shanty.

‘Hello, what do you want?’ I called out. No answer. A minute afterward

he was gone. In the evening he drew rein up there on the hill again. As

he wouldn’t answer me, I lost patience, and got out my shooter, but

before I could raise it, the fellow again disappeared. But I’m not going

to be fooled to-day. I’ll send a bullet through him, or his horse.”

I willingly accepted the trappers’ invitation to stay with them during

the day. Our conversation turned almost exclusively on the mysterious

stranger. In the afternoon I accompanied them to their traps, and while

they were setting them I walked up and down with my gun in my hand. We

had resolved as soon as the rider should reappear, to shoot his horse,

and in that way get this singular creature into our hands.

The day was drawing to a close, and the peaks of the mountains were dyed

in the sunlight.

“The fellow has a notion we’re going for him,” said Jack. “I shouldn’t

be sorry if he slipped by us now, for I’m anxious to see what sort

of----”

He stopped suddenly, and the words seemed as if frozen to his lips as he

stood staring at the rocks opposite the hut. There, on the top of the

hills, clearly outlined against the red sky, was the ghostly rider. I

also stood staring, spellbound, at the apparition. Then a shot rang out,

and the horse fell forward.

“Come on, and don’t let the fellow crawl from under and get out,” cried

Charlie, the smoking gun still in his hand, and pulling the revolvers

from our belts we all scurried over the frozen creek that ran in front

of the shanty, and up the declivity.

Jack was the first to reach the top. With one bound he stood next to the

rider, who lay motionless on the quivering horse, of which he was still

astride.

“Hold him!” yelled Charlie, with whom I was close on Jack’s heels.

“It’s not necessary,” said Jack, bewildered, “for you’ve shot the beggar

dead.”

“Nonsense,” said Charlie angrily. “I know exactly where my bullet hit. I

aimed at the horse’s left eye,” he added. “There it is.”

Meanwhile Jack was examining the rider closely.

“What is this?” he cried, astonished. “The fellow is bound fast to the

horse--look here--even with a chain.” Horrified, he sprang back. “Look,

the man has a mark around his neck. Great Heaven, he’s been

hanging--he’s been lashed to the horse, and the poor beast has been

carrying around a lifeless burden.”

Filled with astonishment and horror, we saw that Jack’s suspicions

admitted of no doubt. The rope had sunk deep into the man’s muscular

throat, and the knot was still attached to it.

Charlie then raised the dead man’s head.

“Why, it’s Black Sam!” he exclaimed. “He was a wild fellow, but he got

his deserts. His gun was always ready, and he has sent many a good

fellow to pass in his checks. Who knows how long it is that he has been

astride this horse? Corpses do not decompose up here in the mountains,

but dry up; I’ve often noticed that in dead animals.”

Shuddering, he turned away. The dead man, with his withered face and

staring eyes, had a truly horrifying appearance.

“What’ll we do with him?” asked Jack, after a short pause.

Charlie considered a moment, then answered, while he unfastened the

bands which tied the dead man to the dead horse:

“Lend a hand here, boys! It’s our duty to give him a Christian burial.

Let’s push him in the gully.”

In a few moments the dead man was released; Charlie took him by the

shoulders, Jack and I by the legs, and so we carried him to the place

indicated, and, by our united efforts, soon had a grave dug, in which he

was laid. After this had been filled in, we rolled stones and small

rocks over it to prevent the wolves from disturbing the dead.

It was night before we had finished our work. A solemn stillness reigned

over all; no sound was to be heard, and, with uncovered heads, we

uttered a short prayer.

“God be merciful to this poor sinner,” added Charlie.

Then we silently returned to the hut.

We retired that night earlier than usual, and even in my dreams the

ghostly rider appeared to me. I awoke several times bathed in

perspiration, disturbed by the loud howls piercing the stillness of the

night. Wolves were eagerly fighting over the bones of the dead horse.

Next day I returned home, and related to my astonished friends the end

of the mysterious rider.

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Want Shorter Course.

The Cornell faculty has directed the committee on student affairs to

give serious consideration to the plan to cut down the length of the

varsity race at the Hudson regatta from four to three miles, and has

directed that committee to take the matter up with the stewards of the

Intercollegiate Rowing Association.

The question of shortening this course was taken up seriously at a

recent meeting of the faculty, and a considerable number of the

professors expressed themselves as in favor of shortening the course. An

agitation by Cornell to this end may be expected during the winter.

Calf With Eight Good Legs.

Wrily Simpson, of Big Laurel, Va., owns a calf which has eight

well-developed legs, the extra limbs being just behind the forelegs and

just in front of the hind legs. The animal gets about splendidly on its

extra walkers.

Exhibits of Ten Nations Arrive for the Fair.

Large consignments of foreign and domestic exhibits are arriving daily

for the Panama Exposition, which will be opened promptly February 20,

1915. The latest consignments are:

Japanese shipment of 1,671 cases; 1,568 crates and cases from Canada;

126,000 pounds of exhibits from the Philippines; 110,000 pounds of

materials from the Argentine.

Heavy shipments from England, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, China,

and Italy are already on the grounds.

Two Prolific Apple Trees.

Frank Weber and John Trent, of Troy, Kan., picked from two trees

twenty-seven barrels of apples. They were of the York Imperial variety.

Trent’s orchard is considered one of the most productive in that

section.

Wireless Tit-for-tat Shots.

Europe’s two principal wireless stations, the Eiffel Tower, at Paris,

and the Nauen Tower, between Berlin and Hamburg, have been exchanging

conversations.

The Nauen operator, discovering that the Eiffel was able to pick up his

war messages ticked an indictment of Eiffel’s news as flimsy and

unreliable, to which the Eiffel rushed a long, rhyming retort, jeering

the Germany army for its failure to reach Paris, and concluding:

“Despite your fine telegraphic victories, the Germans are slowly

plunging into an abyss.”

Oldfield Wins Desert Race.

Barney Oldfield, “master driver of the world,” is the title the

automobile speed king now is wearing.

Greeted by 15,000 cheering people, Oldfield drove in his car, a winner

of the 671-mile Los Angeles-Phoenix road race.

Although led into the fair grounds seventeen minutes by Nikrent,

Oldfield won first place and a cash prize of $2,750 by thirty-six

minutes elapsed time. Oldfield’s elapsed time was 22 hours 59 minutes,

and his average was 29.1 miles per hour. Nikrent’s time was 23 hours 35

minutes.

The 134 miles from Prescott, the second-night control, was driven in

mud, and the drivers and cars were covered with a coat of clay.

Town Sells Jail at Auction.

Noank, Conn., is getting rid of some of its luxuries. The lockup and

contents have been sold at auction and brought $83.12.

The jail building, an unpretentious affair as compared with the Tombs in

New York, was knocked down to Squadrito Brothers, of Mystic, for $75,

and two other bids took the jail stove and utensils for $6.87. A quilt

and mattress fetched $1.25.

Schoolhouse Topples Over.

While the school at Sulphur Point, Fla., was being dismissed for recess,

the building, which was built on high blocks, suddenly toppled over and

went crashing to the ground, killing a cow that happened to be lying

alongside of it. Fortunately none of the inmates were injured. A crowd

gathered and succeeded in freeing the carcass of the cow by raising the

building back into its place. Studies were resumed after the excitement

died down, but some repairs have been made to the schoolhouse.

Old Gravestone is Replaced.

A century-old gravestone, made in 1814 to mark the graves of two victims

of an Indian massacre near Alton, Ill., was brought to an Alton

stonecutter to be repaired.

The stone, which commemorated the deaths of William and Joel Moore, July

10, 1814, had been split by the weather, and the parts will be cemented

together. It was a rough sandstone slab, not smoothed, and the early-day

pioneer had carved out an inscription in the sandstone with some crude

tool. The letters are still legible.

A granite tablet has been placed on the site where the sandstone slab

was found, and the slab has been taken as a relic by Irby Williams.

Prophesied His Long Sleep.

“I feel so tired that I believe I could sleep forever,” remarked C. A.

Kinkaid to a hotel clerk at Seattle, Wash., as he obtained his key and

repaired to his room.

On the following afternoon Kinkaid was found dead. Death was due to

asphyxiation, and evidently was accidental. One of the gas burners was

partly open, but the window was up about six inches.

Kinkaid, who was a bridge carpenter, was a well-known member of the

Eagles. He is survived by a wife, who left the city a few weeks ago to

visit relatives in Lafayette, Ohio.

State Map Made from Seeds.

One of the unique agricultural exhibits that will be displayed at the

Pan-American Exposition is a grain map of Kansas, made from twenty-eight

varieties of field and garden seeds by J. C. Hastings, of Grantville,

Kan. The grains and seeds are glued to a canvas, and the coloring

contained in the ordinary map of Kansas is carried out so far as

possible with the various grains, so that the reproduction shows a

splendid similarity. The size of the map is 48×88, and the grain on it

weighs nineteen pounds.

Boy Helps Build Church.

Verne Hall, fifteen-year-old son of Mr. and Mrs. George Hall, of

Portland, Ore., is helping to build a church by soliciting bricks and

hauling them to the site of the new St. John’s edifice. In answer to his

letter to Governor West, he received 500 bricks.

Hole Was Dug by Scientist.

The English newspapers recently made what they declared to be a

startling discovery of extensive underground galleries at Totternhoe, in

the Chiltern Hills, which the Germans had dug, supposedly for some

mysterious military purpose. The residents of the neighborhood even

described the Germans and the mysterious way in which their excavations

were conducted.

William M. Safford, whom the _Observer_ describes as a distinguished

American scholar, now writes to that newspaper declaring that he made

the excavations. Mr. Safford says he discovered a cavern, which was

nearly closed, and that his excavations in it disclosed carvings on

stone dating 1613.

Quits Cattle for Turkeys.

Herding turkeys is a new way of making a living discovered by J. W.

Abrams, of Springfield, Colorado. Abrams herds nearly a thousand turkeys

through the Colorado alfalfa fields every year, letting the birds feed

on grasshoppers. Two especially trained collie dogs assist in the work

of herding. The ranchers are glad to have the pests which destroy their

crops eaten from the fields, so Abrams and his outfit are welcome

wherever they go.

An old cow pony, with a slicker, a shelter tent, and a cooking outfit

packed on his back; two beautifully marked collies, and a thousand

bronze turkeys, strutting and gobbling, make up the outfit. Abrams

always herds within reaching distance of a stream, so his charges can

get plenty of water.

When the turkey herder sold his flock last year at Thanksgiving time,

the $2,450 he received was almost clear profit. Abrams had 980 birds,

averaging ten pounds apiece. He topped the market with his

grasshopper-fed turkeys, receiving twenty-five cents a pound on the lot.

The only expense the birds had been to him was for oil to run his

incubators, feed during the first six weeks of their lives, when they

were too small to herd, rent on the ten-acre place where they were

hatched, and the cost of raising a small field of spelt in which they

ran to fatten after the fall frosts had killed the grasshoppers. Some

turkey hens which he kept through the winter laid the eggs he set in the

incubators.

“It isn’t difficult to teach young turkeys to let dogs herd them,”

Abrams said. “They are rather timid at first. But Jeff and Mutt, here,

have been trained never to frighten the birds. You’ll notice they never

bark at them, just growl a little and pretend to snap at their legs when

they don’t behave. Turkeys are stupid birds, you know. Every flock has a

leader, who walks ahead. The others follow him blindly. I always keep an

old gobbler from the year before for a leader. He is used to the dogs,

and Jeff and Mutt manage the flock by guiding him.”

The real work of the two dogs begins at dusk, when they herd the turkeys

to the nearest shelter and keep them there until they settle for the

night. When their master has cooked and eaten his supper and has rolled

up in his blankets for his night’s sleep, it is their duty to guard the

flock from wandering skunks, stray coyotes, cats, and other animals who

are fond of young turkey. By dawn the old gobbler is stirring, eager for

a breakfast of bugs and grasshoppers.

Abrams was a cowboy before he started herding turkeys, about five years

ago.

“The range was all fenced in Colorado,” he said, “and it was up to me to

find some other job besides running cattle.”

“Big May,” Circus Lady, Dead.

Christiana Sinclair, who traveled with circus side shows as “Big May,

the tattooed woman,” is dead at her home at Baltimore, Md. She weighed

three hundred pounds.

Eyewitnesses Tell How “Audacious” Sank.

According to witnesses of the sinking of the great British dreadnaught

_Audacious_, off the coast of Ireland, there was only one fatality.

Naval men in New York unite in praise of the work of the crew of the

steamship _Olympic_, in effecting the rescue of nearly nine hundred men

of the sea fighter’s crew. All those not taken off by the _Olympic_ were

rescued by the British cruiser _Liverpool_.

Whether the _Audacious_ is still at the bottom of the sea or is being

repaired by the British admiralty and may again see service is now the

only mystery connected with reports of the vessel of the first line of

England’s naval defense falling victim to a German mine or torpedo. It

is the general opinion that the _Audacious_ struck a mine.

Two men who arrived in New York on the steamship _New York_, from

Liverpool, confirmed the stories of the loss of the warship that had

previously reached here, and added numerous details. One statement they

made was that the _Audacious_ was blown up by the cruiser _Liverpool_ at

nine p. m. on the day it was disabled. This has not been confirmed.

The men who told the story were James Rupert Beames, leader of the

orchestra on the White Star liner _Olympic_, which rescued the crew of

the _Audacious_ and made fruitless efforts to tow the battleship to

shoal water, and Hugh Griffiths, one of the orchestra musicians.

The story of Beames, who was helped from time to time by Griffiths,

substantially was as follows:

“Neither the _Liverpool_ nor the other small warship that had steamed to

the work of rescue was capable of saving the superdreadnaught.

“It was decided that the _Liverpool_ could better risk hitting a mine

than could the _Olympic_, and for this reason the _Liverpool_ made a

serpentine maneuver ahead of the _Olympic_ as a feeler for mines.

“Hardly had the _Liverpool_ cut across our bow when the order was given

to man the starboard lifeboats. Before this a call had been issued for

volunteers.

“More answered than the boats could accommodate, and when it came time

for action the _Olympic’s_ crew actually fought to get into the boats,

so eager were they to do something for their country and for the sailors

on the doomed _Audacious_. When one of the boats hit the water they

found in it a little bell boy, eleven years old, who carried messages to

and from the purser’s office.

“Although the starboard lifeboats were manned, Captain Haddock suddenly

changed his plan.

“Instead of dropping down on the port side of the pounding warrior, he

decided to put about and approach on the starboard side. By so doing he

made a lee, which enabled the fourteen lifeboats dropped from the port

side to accomplish a task that never could have been done if the

original plan had been put into effect.

“The seas were high, and the men in the _Olympic’s_ lifeboats had a hard

pull. It took them twenty minutes to get over to the _Audacious_, which

lay about five hundred yards away. We could see the crew at quarters.

They were the calmest body of men I ever have seen. The discipline was

perfect. Through the binoculars the captain of the _Audacious_ was seen

walking up and down the deck calmly, with his hands behind his back. The

rescue work proceeded rapidly, and there was but one fatality.

“The _Olympic_ dropped anchor off Lough Swilly at eight p. m. An hour

later a tremendous flash lighted up the entire ship. We rushed to the

deck and could see, for fully twenty seconds afterward, burning

fragments shooting upward from the place where the _Audacious_ had been.

Then there came a roar. It sounded, they said, as if some mammoth boiler

were letting off steam. It stopped as suddenly as it came. That was the

end of the _Audacious_.

“As a reason for destroying the _Audacious_ it was said that the

battleship was hopelessly damaged, and that if not blown up it would

become a menace to navigation.”

Seek Brave Man to Ring Haunted Bell.

At midnight Christmas Eve the ringing tones of “Big Sam,” the haunted

bell, as it is called at Richmond, Va., will be heard for the first time

from the tower of the new armory. Chief W. H. Thompson, of the

fire-and-police-signal system, makes this announcement, but he does so

with a hesitancy that frequently brings this question:

“Are you sure?”

“As reasonably sure as any one may be about anything in connection with

the haunted bell,” said Chief Thompson, still with an air of mystery and

as if evading a direct reply. “That bell has been silent almost from the

time it was brought to this city twenty-three years ago, and they say it

is haunted.”

“So I’ve heard,” ventured the scribe, “but what about it?”

“It has had a baleful influence upon everything connected with it. All

who had a hand in bringing it here are dead.”

“Good gracious! What more?”

“It is the biggest bell in the city. It weighs four thousand pounds. It

was presented to the Grace Street Presbyterian Church by David Sinton in

1891. We called it ‘Big Sam,’ and the first time he spoke he shook the

tower so hard all feared it would come down. The vibrations were so

great that it was decided not to ring it again, and, being useless, an

effort was made to sell it. The city bought it for the Blues armory in

November, 1909, but the acoustics there made it impossible to operate

the striker, and finally it was transferred to the new First Regiment

Armory and installed in the tower.”

“Well, how about this midnight business on Christmas Eve? I would like

to know,” said the scribe, “because it may be that I won’t be here.”

“I was directed to make the necessary connections so that it will strike

the hours, both day and night, and automatically strike all alarms of

fire, military, and special calls. It should be ready to strike the

midnight hour Christmas Eve.”

“Will you have the honor of starting the apparatus that strikes the

first call?” Chief Thompson was asked.

“No,” he replied quietly. “I told you that every one connected with the

haunted bell is dead. I shall sublet the contract of making the

connections. Now, possibly you, being a newspaper man and one used to

dangers, will----”

“No, sir; I positively will not! Good night!”

Serenade for Newlyweds.

William Munn was married at Corry, Pa., on a recent evening, and while

the wedding supper was in progress a party of serenaders arrived. To

make the affair interesting, Munn’s friends set off several sticks of

dynamite. The charge shattered every window in the house, and the bride

and groom and several of the guests were hurled from the chairs upon

which they were sitting. To avoid arrest, the serenaders paid all of the

damages.

Strange Animal in His Trap.

Jerome Redmond, known all over the Northwest for his skill in trapping,

recently captured a strange animal in Lake Sixteen, Cheboygan County,

Michigan. It resembles an otter, only its body is more like a serpent.

It has two front legs, and its tail is shaped like that of a fish.

Running the full length of its back is a ridge with teeth like a saw’s.

Redmond has been offered one hundred dollars for it by the local

taxidermist, but refused the offer. The animal measures eight inches

from tip to tip.

Bars Whipping from School.

Corporal punishment has been abolished in the public schools at St.

Louis, Mo., except for extraordinary cases, as a result of the petition

of George E. Dieckman, chairman of the humane society executive

committee, who maintained that St. Louis was the only one of the big,

progressive cities in which this “brutal and ineffective punishment” was

preserved.

The new regulation adopted by the board of education provides that

corporal punishment may be administered only in incorrigible cases, with

the consent of the parent, and in the presence of the principal. A thin

rattan is to be used. Slapping, shaking, and boxing the child’s ears are

all absolutely prohibited.

Daylight Bandits Get $25,000 in “Swag.”

The most daring robbery that has been perpetrated in Chicago in many

months, in which a jeweler, his clerk, and two other men were seized in

broad daylight, bound hand and foot with rope, held prisoners, and

menaced with revolvers, while gunmen robbed the safe of $25,000 in

jewelry and money, occurred recently.

The scene of the robbery was the North Avenue loan bank and jewelry

store, 517 West North Avenue, founded six years ago by Max Klein and Max

Spear. An important part of the business is loaning money on jewelry,

and all the valuable pieces were in a safe in the rear of the store,

which was looted. The four men who were seized, bound, and held

prisoners while the men packed the loot in a suit case and got away were

Max Spear, partner and manager; George Kacker, clerk; Charles A. White,

customer, who entered while the robbers were at work, and Frank Dallas,

a saloon keeper, who came in to get change for a twenty-dollar bill.

All four victims remained bound hand and foot in the little rear office

for forty minutes while the money, watches, rings, bracelets, necklaces,

and other jewelry were taken from the safe by one of the men, while the

other robber kept a gun close to their heads. They saw every detail of

the robbery, and finally watched the robbers depart.

Says 150 Hens Equal Six Bales of Cotton.

“One hundred and fifty hens equal six bales of cotton,” is the

economical equation demonstrated by George Echols, a farmer, of Brazos

County, Texas.

Echols has a flock of 150 hens. He has sold, this year, $200 worth of

eggs. Reckoning sales for the next two months, and adding sales of live

poultry, making due allowance for eggs and poultry used by his family.

Echols figures he will clear $300 on his flock.

Echols has a tenant who pays him $140 for the use of his farm land. The

tenant’s crop this season is six bales of cotton, worth but $40 more

than his rent. Under normal conditions the cotton would not net more

than $360. The cotton required most of the tenant’s time since April and

the feed of a team.

Echols says his wife devoted only about one hour a day to the hens.

Counting the equipment of team and implements for growing cotton, and

contrasting the investment in chickens and poultry houses, Echols

declares the gross figures prove 150 hens are equal to six bales of

cotton.

Egg-laying Contest Closed.

The third international egg-laying test, held at Storrs, Conn., is

concluded, and every poultryman should be interested in the few

following facts:

1--Of the five leading pens, three were from New England.

2--The leading pen is owned by Francis F. Lincoln, of Mount Carmel,

Conn.

3--The leading pen--White Leghorns--laid 2,088 eggs.

4--Tom Barron’s White Wyandottes finished second, with 2,085 eggs.

5--The average production per hen is 144 eggs.

6--The highest individual record, 265 eggs, was made by a White

Wyandotte, owned by Merrythought Farm, Columbia, Conn.

Rabbit-killing Boy Released from Jail.

Oscar Phillipson, of Plainfield, N. J., the nineteen-year-old boy who

was recently sentenced to the county jail for 120 days for shooting a

rabbit, is at liberty on bail pending an appeal. Former Mayor N. B.

Smalley put up the $250 bail.

Ernest Napier, president of the State game commission, and William

Hoblitzel, game warden for Union County, conferred with Mr. Angleman,

the boy’s lawyer, and an appeal was decided upon. Justice of the Peace

Thomas Snape, who sentenced Phillipson, accepted Mr. Smalley’s bond and

Mr. Napier paid the $9 costs himself. They then went to Somerville and

brought Phillipson home in an automobile.

Young Phillipson has declined a number of offers from men who want to

pay his fine. He has declined because he doesn’t want half of the fine

to go to the man who informed against him.

Mr. Napier upheld Justice Snape as well as Game Warden Hoblitzel in the

action taken over the violation of the game laws. At the same time he

said he was willing to do all in his power to relieve the present

situation, which has aroused so much public sentiment.

There is a feeling that the case will not be argued on appeal. Governor

Fielder himself suggested an appeal as a means of getting the boy out of

jail in the event that the court of pardons, consisting of the governor,

the chancellor, and six members of the court of errors and appeals,

should not look favorably upon a pardon.

The governor has directed his secretary, L. Edward Herrmann, to make an

investigation of the whole case in preparation for the meeting of the

court of pardons. Governor Fielder said it seemed to him that some plan

might be devised whereby the exaction of the maximum penalty might be

avoided where the circumstances seemed to warrant.

Newsboy Becomes Dairyman.

With nickels and pennies made after school hours and on Saturday selling

newspapers, Noble McKillip, thirteen years old, of Fort Worth, Texas,

has been paying for school books for himself and his eleven-year-old

sister, Goodie, and also car fare for both, and in addition clothed

himself and put so much in the bank each day. He has now set himself up

in the dairy business with his newspaper earnings. He drew his savings

out of the bank and paid for the cow, a four-gallon Jersey.

Noble is a student in the Vickery school. Selling papers did not

interfere with his studies, and he is progressing rapidly in them and

expects to go through the higher branches.

De Oro’s Mark to Stand a Long Time.

Alfredo de Oro, the world’s champion at three-cushion billiards, has

experienced the thrills of victory in many hard-fought matches, but it

is doubtful if any of his performances afford him greater satisfaction

than his world’s record run of 13, made in his match with George Moore,

for the three-cushion title, at New York, recently.

Previous to this, the best mark of the veteran Cuban in a title match

was ten, but now that he hoisted the mark three points, it may stand for

a long time. The present season has been productive of some phenomenal

performances at the angle game. Early in the season, Pierre Maupome, the

Mexican expert, ran eighteen in a practicing game at St. Louis, and a

little later August Kieckhefer, champion of the Interstate Three-cushion

League, made a run of seventeen points in a game at Milwaukee.

Quite as remarkable as these two big runs was the performance of Harry

Wakefield, one of San Francisco’s leading experts, who in a game against

a coast amateur scored fifty points in twenty-two innings. Wakefield

started With 5, 5, 2, 5, and then electrified the crowd with a run of

fifteen on his next trial, giving him thirty-two points in five innings.

He made forty-six points in sixteen innings, and in the seventeenth

inning scored three, missing his fiftieth point by a whisker. His

opponent played five safety shots in succession, so that it took

Wakefield five more innings to count his remaining point. Among those

who saw the performance were Joe Carney, former three-cushion national

champion, and W. H. Sigourney, the well-known balkline amateur.

With the big Interstate Three-cushion League affording the sixteen

contestants every incentive to practice, some great performances can be

looked for.

This prediction also applies to the balkline stars playing in the

Champion Billiard Players League and to those who are not. The

contestants around the big circuit are getting more billiards this year

than any set of players have enjoyed in the history of the game in this

country.

Too Heavy for Hikes of War.

Rudolph Berger, who is a well-known operatic baritone singer, and who is

six feet five inches tall and tips the beam at 240 pounds, has arrived

at New York from Naples after serving three weeks in the Austrian army.

He took part in long marches. The Austrians started for Lemberg, but

Berger never got there. He was overweight, and after a while his feet

refused to carry him. He was allowed to abandon his military career. He

says he will become an American citizen.

New Fluid to Take Place of Gasoline.

John Andrus, a Portuguese, came to this country to make his fortune. He

has become an inventor. Recently the government paid him thirty thousand

dollars for a discovery he made in toughening armor plate. A much more

important discovery, however, has been made by Andrus. He is working on

a substitute for gasoline that can be manufactured, he says, for one and

one-half cents a gallon.

According to some of the biggest men in the automobile business, who

have observed tests of the new fuel, it will revolutionize not only the

automobile business, but all manufacturing business. The substitute is

declared to be superior to gasoline in more respects than cost. It is

claimed that it runs automobiles faster and that when it is used the

engines are cleaner and cooler.

Andrus has a good business head, and has interested influential men in

his plans. No stock is for sale, but the automobile men are talking

about the discovery as the most important news in their industry. They

say that the new fluid consists mostly of water, a little naphthalene,

and two secret ingredients. Andrus mixes these in a still to which heat

is applied. The fluid looks like water and smells like camphor balls.

Says His Rifle Fires 200 Shots a Minute.

A one-man gun, invented by a Rochester man, and guaranteed by him to

increase a soldier’s fighting efficiency twenty or thirty times, is for

sale. Its inventor, Harry W. Sweeting, says he has begun negotiations

with Germany for the sale of the invention, which he has protected by

American patents. Mr. Sweeting is now in New York on his way to

Washington. At the Park Avenue Hotel he admitted that he was trying to

sell the gun to Germany, but hinted that there was some probability of

negotiations with this government.

The new gun weighs only nine pounds, half a pound more than the present

standard rifle. It will fire from 165 to 200 shots a minute, Mr.

Sweeting said, ninety shots consecutively without being taken from the

shoulder. He says the velocity is 2,700 feet a second.

“By holding the trigger back,” Mr. Sweeting said, “ninety shots are

fired. The ejector is on the under side. The sight is only three inches

from the eye, giving a quicker and more accurate aim than in the present

rifles, in some of which the sight is thirteen inches from the eye.

“My gun has only one-third as many working parts as the present rifle.

There is not a flat spring in the gun, and all the parts are inclosed,

which protects them from the weather. It has safety locks which make it

impossible to fire after the gun misses fire, and a self-cleaning

device. Give me the gun to bring down a man a mile away who is six feet

from a tree and I will get him before he gets to the tree. If I should

fail, I can shoot him through the tree, if it is not more than eighteen

inches in diameter.”

The inventor has been working on the invention for more than a year. His

thirty-eight pages of specifications are registered with the Patent

Office.

Dollar a Year is His Salary.

At a salary of one dollar a year, Frederick W. M. Burmeister has been

appointed custodian of the cut-off channel front and rear-range lights

in the Patapsco River, near Baltimore, Md.

Custodian Burmeister has but few duties to perform. In addition to his

salary, he has the free use of a home on the lighthouse reservation. He

could not be carried on the government pay rolls without a specified

salary, and to give official importance and responsibility the salary of

one dollar was agreed upon.

It was not stated whether he would be paid monthly, as is the

department’s custom, or let it accrue to the end of the year.

Big Eagle Drops Baby.

About two weeks ago a posse of farmers scoured Will County, Illinois,

for two huge eagles, which were killing hundreds of chickens and young

turkeys. One of the pair was killed. The other disappeared, and the

hunters finally abandoned the hunt.

On a recent morning, Delmer Reeves, the two-year-old son of David

Reeves, was playing in the back yard of the Reeves home. His mother

heard the child scream and rushed to the door in time to see an enormous

bird clutch the baby by his dress and lift him from the ground.

The mother screamed, and the eagle dropped the child after the baby had

been carried a few feet. The eagle’s talons badly lacerated the child’s

flesh. Members of the farmers’ posse have resumed their hunt for the

dangerous visitor.

“Wild Man” Was Only Ill.

Women and girls of Port Jefferson, L. I., who had been frightened

frequently in the last few months by the appearance in deserted

stretches of road near the town of a “wild man,” learned with relief

recently that Constable Harry Gover had caught the man. Their fears

changed to sympathy when they learned the wild man’s story, and his

capture probably will result in his getting assistance.

He said his name was Juan Rodriguez, and that he had come from

Monterrey, Mexico, ten years ago. He was sent to a hospital in New York

some time ago, and eight months back was discharged as cured. It was

spring then, and he walked out into the country looking for work.

His strength has been sapped by his long illness, he said, and at last

he found himself too weak to work. Then he took to the woods,

subsisting on what he could beg at first, and then, as his clothes

became mere tatters and his appearance began to frighten strangers, on

what he could find in the woods.

He said he had never accosted a woman or a girl, though he realized many

had seen him and had run, and he said he had frequently spent the night

in trees while he listened to farmers beating the woods around him for

traces of him after their wives or daughters had seen the wild man.

He was fed, and decent clothes were given to him.

Three Boys Travel Far in Piano Box.

The trucker wheeled the heavy piano box into the Erie freight house, at

Fourteenth and Clark Streets, Chicago, and dumped it on the floor.

“That’s some box!” he complained.

“You bet it is!”

The words came from the mouth of a youth whose grinning head stuck out

from the top of the box. The trucker fell over his truck and ran yelling

into the night. Attracted by the noise, the night watchman, William

Schimmel, came into the freight house.

“Hey!” shouted the boy. “Can I get some water?”

Schimmel questioned the head.

“I’m Willard Montague, snake charmer,” it said. “Got two pythons and

their baby here. Get me some water for myself and some cocaine for the

snakes.”

Mr. Schimmel left the freight house in a great hurry. He described what

he had seen and heard to C. D. Ward, general agent; A. C. Brundage,

claim agent; Policeman Toussaint, and Detectives Zohora and Jansen. Ward

called up James Burke, superintendent of the Chicago terminal division

of the Erie, who came down in his auto. The crowd grouped itself around

the box, which was marked. “Don’t Stand on End,” and signaled for the

young man inside to stick his head through the trap. Montague, grinning,

complied.

Burke asked to see the snakes.

“They’re wrapped up in those comforters,” said Montague. “I don’t like

to disturb ’em. Besides, I couldn’t get out of here in time.”

Burke insisted. Montague made a dive at the comforters, whistled through

his teeth, and drew his hand out sharply.

“One of ’em kinda catch you?” prompted Burke.

“Yeah,” said Monty, sucking his thumb; “the big one sorta got me.”

“How big are they?”

“One’s ’bout eleven feet long. Ugly. Haven’t been fed. Been keeping them

asleep with ‘coke.’ Just run out of the dope.”

“Well, let me see their scales,” Burke insisted.

Two electric lights were rigged up and held in the opening so that Burke

and others might have a glimpse of the interior of the box.

Monty was stirring up the blankets as though some monstrous reptile were

there.

“Come, come!” said Burke. “If you don’t pull that comforter off that boa

constrictor I will.”

Then the covering was yanked off and the men on top of the box looked

directly into the cherubic face of another grinning boy. Simultaneously

another heap of covers back of Montague was thrown off and a third head

revealed.

“Those are the pythons, are they?”

“Yes, those are the snakes.”

“Well, now, suppose you come out here and tell us the story.”

One at a time the boys wriggled through the trapdoor and came out,

blinking, to face the audience. Each was bathed in perspiration and all

were in stocking feet.

A reporter took their names: Willard Fox, 18 years old; Howillard Edward

Montague, 22 years old, and Carl Espe, 17 years old. All were from

Binghamton, N. Y.

They had been disguised as a piano box for seven days, and were on their

way to Alameda, Cal., to the ranch of Montague’s uncle, Doctor William

Tappan Lumb. They chose to go as a piano box because it was cheaper than

three passenger tickets.

The box was built by a carpenter in Binghamton. It had a false bottom

and the sides were padded. The boys put stones in the bottom, and also

their suit cases.

“We expected to be on the way about three weeks,” said Monty, who seemed

to be the leader of the expedition. “We took along canned goods, bread

and cereals, coffee and tobacco.

“We had a phonograph and records, but it is broken. We had also arranged

to have light. We had some electric batteries in the false bottom which

connected with a bulb, but the bulb broke.

“There was also a stove and alcohol to run it. We have shoes, coats,

sweaters, hats, and, in fact, all our possessions.”

They even had a framed certificate on the wall--Montague’s diploma from

the “Boan Lake, Mich., College of Manopathy.”

“We didn’t have much sleep, add we got bumped around some,” said Fox,

“but, say, wasn’t it a peach of an adventure? My parents live in Wiegel,

N. Y., and Monty and Espe haven’t any.”

“The boys have violated a Federal interstate law,” said Mr. Burke, “but

I don’t know what action the road will take. We shall probably take

steps against the shipper and the man who was to receive them at the

other end. The fare was to be paid in Alameda.”

Officer Toussaint questioned the travelers, then turned them over to the

South Clark Street police. He could not say definitely what would be

done with them.

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The Nick Carter Stories

ISSUED EVERY SATURDAY BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS

When it comes to detective stories worth while, the =Nick Carter Stories=

contain the only ones that should be considered. They are not overdrawn

tales of bloodshed. They rather show the working of one of the finest

minds ever conceived by a writer. The name of Nick Carter is familiar

all over the world, for the stories of his adventures may be read in

twenty languages. No other stories have withstood the severe test of

time so well as those contained in the =Nick Carter Stories=. It proves

conclusively that they are the best. We give herewith a list of some of

the back numbers in print. You can have your news dealer order them, or

they will be sent direct by the publishers to any address upon receipt

of the price in money or postage stamps.

692--Doctor Quartz Again.

693--The Famous Case of Doctor Quartz.

694--The Chemical Clue.

695--The Prison Cipher.

696--A Pupil of Doctor Quartz.

697--The Midnight Visitor.

698--The Master Crook’s Match.

699--The Man Who Vanished.

700--The Garnet Gauntlet.

701--The Silver Hair Mystery.

702--The Cloak of Guilt.

703--A Battle for a Million.

704--Written in Red.

707--Rogues of the Air.

709--The Bolt from the Blue.

710--The Stockbridge Affair.

711--A Secret from the Past.

712--Playing the Last Hand.

713--A Slick Article.

714--The Taxicab Riddle.

715--The Knife Thrower.

717--The Master Rogue’s Alibi.

719--The Dead Letter.

720--The Allerton Millions.

728--The Mummy’s Head.

729--The Statue Clue.

730--The Torn Card.

731--Under Desperation’s Spur.

732--The Connecting Link.

733--The Abduction Syndicate.

736--The Toils of a Siren.

737--The Mark of a Circle.

738--A Plot Within a Plot.

739--The Dead Accomplice.

741--The Green Scarab.

743--A Shot in the Dark.

746--The Secret Entrance.

747--The Cavern Mystery.

748--The Disappearing Fortune.

749--A Voice from the Past.

752--The Spider’s Web.

753--The Man With a Crutch.

754--The Rajah’s Regalia.

755--Saved from Death.

756--The Man Inside.

757--Out for Vengeance.

758--The Poisons of Exili.

759--The Antique Vial.

760--The House of Slumber.

761--A Double Identity.

762--“The Mocker’s” Stratagem.

763--The Man that Came Back.

764--The Tracks in the Snow.

765--The Babbington Case.

766--The Masters of Millions.

767--The Blue Stain.

768--The Lost Clew.

770--The Turn of a Card.

771--A Message in the Dust.

772--A Royal Flush.

774--The Great Buddha Beryl.

775--The Vanishing Heiress.

776--The Unfinished Letter.

777--A Difficult Trail.

778--A Six-word Puzzle.

782--A Woman’s Stratagem.

783--The Cliff Castle Affair.

784--A Prisoner of the Tomb.

785--A Resourceful Foe.

786--The Heir of Dr. Quartz.

787--Dr. Quartz, the Second.

789--The Great Hotel Tragedies.

790--Zanoni, the Witch.

791--A Vengeful Sorceress.

794--Doctor Quartz’s Last Play.

795--Zanoni, the Transfigured.

796--The Lure of Gold.

797--The Man With a Chest.

798--A Shadowed Life.

799--The Secret Agent.

800--A Plot for a Crown.

801--The Red Button.

802--Up Against It.

803--The Gold Certificate.

804--Jack Wise’s Hurry Call.

805--Nick Carter’s Ocean Chase.

806--Nick Carter and the Broken Dagger.

807--Nick Carter’s Advertisement.

808--The Kregoff Necklace.

809--The Footprints on the Rug.

810--The Copper Cylinder.

811--Nick Carter and the Nihilists.

812--Nick Carter and the Convict Gang.

813--Nick Carter and the Guilty Governor.

814--The Triangled Coin.

815--Ninety-nine--and One.

816--Coin Number 77.

817--In the Canadian Wilds.

818--The Niagara Smugglers.

819--The Man Hunt.

NEW SERIES

NICK CARTER STORIES

1--The Man from Nowhere.

2--The Face at the Window.

3--A Fight for a Million.

4--Nick Carter’s Land Office.

5--Nick Carter and the Professor.

6--Nick Carter as a Mill Hand.

7--A Single Clew.

8--The Emerald Snake.

9--The Currie Outfit.

10--Nick Carter and the Kidnapped Heiress.

11--Nick Carter Strikes Oil.

12--Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure.

13--A Mystery of the Highway.

14--The Silent Passenger.

15--Jack Dreen’s Secret.

16--Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case.

17--Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves.

18--Nick Carter’s Auto Chase.

19--The Corrigan Inheritance.

20--The Keen Eye of Denton.

21--The Spider’s Parlor.

22--Nick Carter’s Quick Guess.

23--Nick Carter and the Murderess.

24--Nick Carter and the Pay Car.

25--The Stolen Antique.

26--The Crook League.

27--An English Cracksman.

28--Nick Carter’s Still Hunt.

29--Nick Carter’s Electric Shock.

30--Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess.

31--The Purple Spot.

32--The Stolen Groom.

33--The Inverted Cross.

34--Nick Carter and Keno McCall.

35--Nick Carter’s Death Trap.

36--Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle.

37--The Man Outside.

38--The Death Chamber.

39--The Wind and the Wire.

40--Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase.

41--Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend.

42--The Queen of the Seven.

43--Crossed Wires.

44--A Crimson Clew.

45--The Third Man.

46--The Sign of the Dagger.

47--The Devil Worshipers.

48--The Cross of Daggers.

49--At Risk of Life.

50--The Deeper Game.

51--The Code Message.

52--The Last of the Seven.

53--Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful.

54--The Secret Order of Associated Crooks.

55--The Golden Hair Clew.

56--Back From the Dead.

57--Through Dark Ways.

58--When Aces Were Trumps.

59--The Gambler’s Last Hand.

60--The Murder at Linden Fells.

61--A Game for Millions.

62--Under Cover.

63--The Last Call.

64--Mercedes Danton’s Double.

65--The Millionaire’s Nemesis.

66--A Princess of the Underworld.

67--The Crook’s Blind.

68--The Fatal Hour.

69--Blood Money.

70--A Queen of Her Kind.

71--Isabel Benton’s Trump Card.

72--A Princess of Hades.

73--A Prince of Plotters.

74--The Crook’s Double.

75--For Life and Honor.

76--A Compact With Dazaar.

77--In the Shadow of Dazaar.

78--The Crime of a Money King.

79--Birds of Prey.

80--The Unknown Dead.

81--The Severed Hand.

82--The Terrible Game of Millions.

83--A Dead Man’s Power.

84--The Secrets of an Old House.

85--The Wolf Within.

86--The Yellow Coupon.

87--In the Toils.

88--The Stolen Radium.

89--A Crime in Paradise.

90--Behind Prison Bars.

91--The Blind Man’s Daughter.

92--On the Brink of Ruin.

93--Letter of Fire.

94--The $100,000 Kiss.

95--Outlaws of the Militia.

96--The Opium-Runners.

97--In Record Time.

98--The Wag-Nuk Clew.

99--The Middle Link.

100--The Crystal Maze.

101--A New Serpent in Eden.

102--The Auburn Sensation.

103--A Dying Chance.

104--The Gargoni Girdle.

105--Twice in Jeopardy.

106--The Ghost Launch.

107--Up in the Air.

108--The Girl Prisoner.

109--The Red Plague.

110--The Arson Trust.

111--The King of the Firebugs.

112--“Lifter’s” of the Lofts.

113--French Jimmie and His Forty Thieves.

114--The Death Plot.

115--The Evil Formula.

116--The Blue Button.

Dated December 5th, 1914.

117--The Deadly Parallel.

Dated December 12th, 1914.

118--The Vivisectionists.

Dated December 19th, 1914.

119--The Stolen Brain.

Dated December 26th, 1914.

120--An Uncanny Revenge.

=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