The ten players bunched just below the balcony, in front of the Bloss

goal. As if realizing that the game depended upon their work during the

next few seconds, they roused themselves above their natural speed and

skill.

“Five fighting to prevent another basket,” Hazel told herself, “and

four fighting just as hard to make it—no, five! Five! He is trying! I

know he is! Oh, he must be!” But she could not be quite sure.

She saw Captain Murphy whisper something to him. Vern nodded. Then,

so suddenly that she could hardly follow the play, the Bloss team

scattered. The ball catapulted to the side of the court, where the

whacking arm of Felber drove it back and toward the other end. Murphy

caught it, whirled completely around to throw off the guard hovering

near him, started a dribble, and finally made the pass straight toward

the Landon goal.

Hazel raised her eyes in wonderment. Nearly halfway down the court Vern

was sprinting. A warning cry from the captain made him turn on his

heel and throw up his hands. But he was an instant too late. Clean and

hard, with the crack of a gun, the ball caught him full in the face,

staggering him backward.

He stood there, blinking like one who has suddenly lost his sight. The

ball was in his hands. From all angles the Landon five rushed toward

him. His own players shouted for the ball. His test had come, Hazel

told herself breathlessly. Then, as he made no move, she stopped

breathing altogether.

Her eyes were blurring with tears. She lifted her handkerchief to dry

them, and saw that it was the square of Irish lace he had rescued the

day they first met.

“Vern!” she called, putting all the breath of her full lungs into the

cry. “Vern!”

He lifted his head. His eyes were winking rapidly, and he had

difficulty in seeing her at all.

“Vern!” she called again. Leaning far out over the protecting rail of

the balcony, she allowed her handkerchief to flutter down toward the

basket below. It settled on the little ledge where the bracket of the

iron rim met the wall.

There must have come to Vernon Judd the memory of that other time when

he had arched a ball up and over and down upon Hazel Wayne’s Irish

lace handkerchief. Perhaps the recollection brought confidence in his

ability to do it again. Now, with a swinging, overhand-loop shot, he

hurled the yellow basket-ball at the white target.

Like a winging swallow it rose till it reached the apex of its arc;

then it sped downward to the backing board just behind the basket. The

rebound drove it against the front rim. It bounded back again, brushed

the handkerchief caressingly, and finally toppled gently into the

netting for a goal. Almost on the instant, the final whistle shrilled.

The game was ended. The Bloss five had won by a score of 10-9.

V.

Judging by the expression on his face, Vernon Judd was about as elated

over scoring the winning basket for the Bloss team as a criminal in

court would be over receiving a stiff sentence.

“And that’s just what it amounts to,” he told himself, marching glumly

off the playing court. “My sentence is that I be fired in disgrace from

the factory, lose my six-month test to prove my right to a desk with

Judd & Co., and sacrifice whatever chance I had of winning—her.”

Somebody slapped him on the shoulder. He looked up irritably, only to

discover that it was his father.

“Why, dad,” he greeted, “what in the dickens are you doing out here?”

“In town on business,” explained Freeman Judd cryptically. “I heard

there was a basket-ball game to-night, and I figured I could find you

here. Quite a game, eh?”

Vern clenched his hands. “A bigger, more important one than you think,

dad.” It was hard to go on and explain that his job at the factory

hinged upon the outcome, but he managed it bravely.

His father heard him to the end, without interrupting. Once or twice

he frowned a little, as if there were some worry on his mind, but he

offered no comment. When the boy was quite done, he looked at him

steadily.

“You played to win?” he asked.

“Of course. You see, I——”

“All right. I wanted to be sure, Vern. Now, about this job proposition

of ours. You won’t stick out your six months with Bloss, you say. Too

bad you came so close, my boy, but you know I never budge an inch. A

bargain’s a bargain with me.”

Looking up quickly, Vern fancied he detected a twinkle in his father’s

eyes. But when he searched for it again it was gone.

“I’m not asking you to go back on your proposition,” he said. “I don’t

know exactly——”

“Vern!”

It was Hazel Wayne’s voice. He whirled quickly, and took the hand she

extended.

“I want to congratulate you, with all my heart,” she said. “I’m glad

you won, Vern.”

He was glad, too—now. It was the first thrill of the victory, but it

was well worth while. Some day, he promised himself, he would make

Hazel understand how much it had hurt him to win against her wishes.

“You don’t know how ashamed of myself I felt!” she rushed on. “You see,

Creighton met me yesterday and told me he was coming over to Landon’s

as superintendent and——”

“Creighton! At Landon’s!” exclaimed Vern in astonishment. A new hope

sprang up in his heart. “When?”

“Next Tuesday, he said.”

“Oh!” The hope withered and died. On the intervening Monday Creighton

would discharge him. “Go on, Hazel!”

“Well,” continued the girl, “he explained that as he had already signed

his contract and was the Landon manager, he wanted the Landon people to

have the winning basket-ball team this season. If you didn’t try too

hard, Vern, that would be possible, he thought. I—I was to ask you not

to.”

“But—why?”

“Because if I refused—if Bloss won—I was to lose my job. Father’s and

brother Ben’s depended upon the game, too. Tuesday we’ll all be out of

work. I don’t know how we’ll manage to live, but”—she smiled at him

through her tears—“but I’m glad you won, Vern. It nearly killed me when

I thought you weren’t trying honestly to win.”

“I was, Hazel. I know a lot of people didn’t think so, but I was.” He

touched his arm gingerly. “Early in the game I bruised the biceps in my

right arm in a nasty tumble. My whole arm got sore and stiff. I wanted

to drop out and make way for a substitute, but Murph wouldn’t listen.

And then, at the end, just before I scored that last goal, the ball

hit me an awful whack in the face. It stunned me and blinded me. But

I heard you call, and I caught a glimpse of your white handkerchief

dropping. I remembered that other day—the first day I ever saw you—and

I know absolutely I could shoot the basket. You really won the——”

“Listen, Hazel Wayne!” The voice was Creighton’s; his face was

convulsed with rage. “Listen to me, young lady! You double-crossed me

to-night, but you’ll pay for it. Out you go Tuesday, along with your

old man and your kid brother—the whole kit and parcel of you. And I’ll

see to it that you never get another job in this town.” He turned to

Vern. “As for you, you young whippersnapper, I don’t have to wait till

Tuesday. You’re fired! Understand? Fired! Just as soon as I can swear

out a warrant——”

Freeman Judd stepped forward leisurely. “Just a moment,” he

interrupted. “You can’t fire this young man.”

“Why not? I’m superintendent of the Bloss Company.”

“Wrong!” The elder Judd spat out the word with evident enjoyment. “You

_were_ superintendent. But you can’t fire anybody now because you were

fired yourself this afternoon at a meeting of the board of directors.”

“It’s a lie!” blustered Creighton. His eyes gleamed slyly. “If it ain’t

a lie, though, I don’t care. I’ll be superintendent of the Landon works

next week, and the Bloss Company will find——”

“Wrong again!” Freeman Judd stepped closer. “At five this afternoon

the final papers were signed whereby the two concerns come under the

same management and ownership. If it’s of any interest to you, I am

the man who is merging them. I kicked you out of Bloss’ to-day after

reading the reports of an expert accountant and a detective who’ve

been checking you up for several weeks; I’ll make sure you stay out of

Landon’s. So, Mr. Creighton, you see, you won’t be able to fire anybody

from either factory.”

Creighton did not wait to argue. With a sudden leap, he lost himself in

the crowd that was making for the outer door.

“Shall I go after him, dad?” asked Vern, his fingers working hungrily.

“No need,” smiled Freeman Judd. “He’ll run across some plain-clothes

men just outside. Misappropriation of funds, malicious damage of

property, and other charges to answer in court.”

Somebody plucked at Vern’s coat sleeve, and he looked down into Hazel’s

startled eyes.

“Is he your father?” she asked, pointing.

“Why, yes! Let me introduce——”

“But he’s just bought both factories,” she said, “and he must be very

rich, and—and I thought you were poor, working in the Bloss stockroom.

I suppose now——”

“If dad’s new superintendent is willing, I’ll stick to my same job,”

promised Vern; “at least, till I’ve been there a full six mouths. How

about it, dad?”

“Vern, I’m going to like you better.”

“Thanks, dad. A little later, if you think I measure up, I want a desk

job, with more money.” He looked into Hazel Wayne’s eyes once more.

“Because, to tell the truth, I’m thinking about getting married as soon

as the girl says ‘yes.’”

Hazel Wayne said “Oh!” But she meant “Yes.”

* * * * *

WISEHEAD: “All food when it is being thoroughly masticated contains the

germs of tuberculosis.”

Do-tell: “No!”

Wisehead: “Yes, it does; because it’s in the last stages of

consumption.”

Clem Frobisher’s Man-sized Job

By Allan Hawkwood

THE scenario writer and partner to Clem Frobisher let out a whoop in

response to Clem’s proposal:

“Ed, let’s take a vacation. I’m getting tired of making films. Let’s go

back to San Pedro, hire the old boat, and go fishing.”

“Wow! Say, cap’n, I had that notion myself! Do you mean it?”

“You bet I mean it!” Clem rose, and strode up and down, frowning. “I

can be cooped up only so long, Ed; then something has to bust. Now that

we’ve finished that big five-reel film, I’m going to get back to salt

water for a few days.”

“Say, I can smell them fish now!” exclaimed Ed, in ecstasy. “An’ the

engine-room oil an’ the ol’ bilge-water stink——Oh, golly! When do we

go?”

“Catch a Pedro car, after lunch, charter the old _Sadie_, and off with

us! Are you game?”

“Game?” The lanky Iowan grinned. “Say, cap’n, I’m so game that—that I’m

growin’ horns right now!”

The Frobisher Producing Company, with Clem as its head, and Ed Davis

as partner and scenario writer, had been established in Easthampton

for some months. Further, it had made good, largely because of Clem

Frobisher’s distinctive ability.

Before getting into the motion-picture business, Clem had run a fishing

launch out of San Pedro, Ed being his engineer and chum. He had finally

awakened to the fact that, despite his splendid body and brawn, he

was backward in education; that ahead of him lay nothing but endless

years of fishing and taking out tourists after tuna; and that, if he so

chose, he could make something more of himself than this.

Clem had chosen promptly, had sold his launch to old Captain Saunders,

and had started in to make the fight. Hampered financially, and by lack

of prior education, he had, none the less, flung himself into the work

with all his dogged, pugnacious will power. Ed Davis had accompanied

him, largely for friendship’s sake, but also with the dream of getting

rich by writing plays.

Events had favored the chums. Ed had been victimized by a fraudulent

motion-picture concern, whereupon Clem had pitched in and fought

the owners; the result had been that he and Ed Davis owned the film

company. Since that time the chums had worked it up, until now it was

really a well-established business, with a golden future.

Naturally, therefore, they were both ready for a vacation. Clem quite

forgot that a man, and particularly a young man, can never entirely get

away from his past.

In the old days, Clem had had a reputation along the Pedro water front.

He had never been a hanger-on at bars, or a pool-room loafer; but

nature, combined with hard work at sea, had endowed him with a vigorous

body and an inclination to use his fists. Along the water front he had

been thrown in contact with fishermen, bucko mates, and ordinary seamen

of all nations, and when it came to fighting, Clem Frobisher’s name was

one to conjure with.

He had been whipped, of course. Yet he was locally known as the

toughest young fellow to whip and the best fellow to stand beside in a

scrap in all San Pedro; and it must be admitted that he did his best to

justify the reputation. Not that he ever sought a fight, or forced one

on the other chap, but when the fight came to him he went into it on

the jump.

Clem had thought these old days gone forever; but, as he and Ed Davis

climbed aboard their San Pedro car that afternoon Fate was waiting for

them with a big stick.

II.

“If Cap’n Saunders ain’t here,” said Ed Davis, “we’ll get another boat?”

Clem nodded. Together they were walking up a side street of San Pedro

to the little cottage where Captain Ezra Saunders, a retired veteran of

many seas and seasons, was living on the income furnished him by two or

three fishing boats, which were run by his son Tom, a young fellow a

year or two older than Clem.

As they turned in at the gate of the vine-shaded cottage, however, they

knew that the captain was at home from the foghorn voice which bellowed

forth:

“Howdy, Clem!”

Ezra Saunders was a remarkable old man—though he was scarce sixty

years of age. He was crippled by rheumatism, and had lost a leg at the

knee from a shark bite, while his right arm had been paralyzed on his

last voyage—when he had brought the schooner _Mary Connors_ through a

thousand miles of typhoon and had saved the lives of twenty men.

With all this, however, Clem had never seen the old man in gloomy mood.

Ever was Captain Saunders smiling, optimistic, cheerful. As he and

Ed Davis shook hands, and stepped up to the porch, where easy-chairs

awaited them, the skipper bellowed to his wife, and Mrs. Saunders also

came forth, to fold each of the visitors in a warm embrace.

“Well, well!” she exclaimed, wiping a tear from her ruddy cheeks.

“Clem, if you ain’t become a real city man! Say! Wouldn’t your mother

ha’ been proud of you now!”

“I hope so,” and Clem’s brown eyes saddened a trifle. Since his

mother’s death Mrs. Saunders had been the only mother he had known—and

that had been twelve summers past. Then he looked up, with his old

cheerful smile. “I do believe you’re getting thin!”

“Nonsense, you vagabond!” Mrs. Saunders, who weighed two hundred, and

knew it, laughed through her welcoming tears. “Don’t you flatter me,

now! You boys ain’t goin’ to run right off, I hope? I been makin’

pies to-day, and it seems to me you two rapscallions used to like Ma

Saunders’ pies right well before you got stuck up an’ citified.”

“Nothin’ stuck up about me, ’cept my collar,” said Ed Davis, grinning.

“I been hankering for your pies, ma, ever since we left Pedro. You bet

we’re goin’ to stay a while! How’s Tom? Everybody well?”

Mrs. Saunders’ ruddy face seemed to assume a slightly less cheerful

expression.

“Yes,” she said, turning to the door. “Tom’s well. You folks set and

talk while I see to them pies. They’re in the oven now.”

The door slammed. Clem looked at the captain’s white-whiskered face and

frowned.

“What’s the matter, cap’n?” he asked directly. “You’re looking kind of

peaked around the gills. Rheumatism bad again?”

“No-o, I reckon not.” Captain Saunders stroked his beard, and summoned

up the ghost of his olden-days smile. “I’m hungerin’ for salt water, I

reckon.”

“First time I ever knew you to lie to me, cap’n,” said Clem quietly.

Captain Saunders flushed. He looked at Ed Davis, and then met Clem’s

accusing brown eyes. With fumbling fingers he began to fill his pipe.

“Got a match, Clem?” he asked, with a little quaver in his voice.

Silently Clem produced the article in question. It began to seem as

though something were very wrong, indeed. Ed Davis sat watching and

listening, his grin gone. When the old skipper had lighted the pipe he

leaned back and looked at Clem again.

“Well, Clem, I—I guess it was the first time. I ain’t much used to

lies. But sometimes lies has to come.”

“Not between us, cap’n,” and Clem’s strong, bronzed face lightened.

“What’s the trouble?”

“You,” said the old man, puffing out a huge cloud of smoke.

“I! What do you mean?”

Captain Saunders sighed. His weather-beaten face was set in lines of

sadness.

“Clem, you allus been a mighty good boy, and I know it better’n most

people. But when it comes to a scrap, you got a reputation around here

like a downeast mate. I don’t blame you none, o’ course.”

“Go on,” urged Clem as the skipper paused. He wondered what was coming

next.

“Well, Tom allus did admire you a heap, Clem, but since you been gone

to the city Tom’s kind o’ got the notion that he’s stepped into your

fightin’ boots, and he’s gone around handin’ out some fine lickin’s.

For a fact, Tom can light like a streak.”

“I guess he came by it honestly,” was the reply, and Clem smiled

slightly as he eyed the old skipper’s broad shoulders.

“Well, mebbe so. But—say, Clem, you know Tom’s a good boy, don’t you?”

“You bet he is!” said Clem, frowning.

Inwardly, he commented otherwise. While he knew Tom Saunders pretty

well, he also knew that Tom had companions who were not of the old

Saunders strain.

“To tell the truth, Clem, Tom’s been gettin’ kind o’ out o’ hand.”

The skipper sighed again. “He’s been comin’ home drunk every once in

a while, if you want it straight. He’s tryin’ to be cock o’ the walk

around here, like you used to be—but he ain’t doing it your way, Clem.”

Clem Frobisher felt as though a cold hand had touched him and had sent

a shiver through him.

He was not responsible, of course; and, very likely, Tom Saunders was

no worse than the average young fellow. But that was far from the point.

Clem loved the honest, simple, manly old skipper, and he loved Mrs.

Saunders. Sooner than hurt them in any way he would have cut off his

right hand.

Yet he knew that he had hurt them grievously, if unintentionally.

He knew that Tom Saunders, misled by the wrong sort of friends, was

heaping sorrow’s upon these kindly old parents of his largely by

aspiring to walk in the tracks of Clem Frobisher. And Ezra Saunders

had hit the nail on the head by saying that Tom was not doing it Clem’s

way.

“He’s running the boats all right, I suppose?” queried Clem, with

sinking heart.

“Oh, he ’tends to ’em well enough—nothin’ extra. Clem, I wish to

thunder these was the ol’ days! I’d ship that boy A. B. under the

toughest, hardest pair o’ bucko mates ever stepped, an’ I’d ship him

around the Horn! When he got back, by glory, he’d either be dead or—or

different! And”—the skipper sighed heavily—“I dunno’s I’d give a durn

which way it come out. I b’lieve it’s breakin’ Ma Saunders’ heart—I do

so!”

Suddenly Ed Davis leaned forward, his lean frame quivering with

eagerness. For five minutes he spoke rapidly, excitedly, earnestly.

Clem and the skipper listened in amazement, that changed, on Clem’s

part, to narrow-eyed calculation, and finally to swift resolve.

“That’s enough!” he broke in suddenly. “Cap’n, we’ll go out on a

fishin’ trip in the old _Sadie_, after supper to-night. If Tom

ain’t—hasn’t—come home, I’ll find him. And I promise you this, on my

word of honor: If I don’t change his lookout on life I’ll never show my

face here again!”

The old skipper gazed at Clem with dewy eyes.

“Clem,” he said brokenly, “Clem, mebbe ye can. But, lad, it’s a

man-sized job! I reckon you’ve bit off more’n ye can chew—but Heaven

bless ye, lad!”

“And now for ma’s pies!” said Ed Davis, with a grin.

III.

Clem Frobisher and his chum waved farewell to the old folks and walked

toward Beacon Street. The California evening was just closing down in

all its swiftness.

“Ed, you go ’tend to the boat,” directed Clem, at the next corner.

“Have her gas tank full, and make sure the batteries are working right.

I’ll bring Tom.”

“Mebbe I’d better go along with you,” volunteered Ed.

“Maybe you’d better obey orders!” snapped Clem, his square-hewn face

set in hard, determined lines. “Here! Take my coat with you!”

Peeling to his flannel shirt, he tossed his coat to Ed and turned away.

The other looked after him with a sour grin.

“Want all the fun yourself, eh? All right, cap’n. You ain’t goin’ to

shake _me_!”

Ed Davis followed his partner—at a very respectful distance.

Clem strode along in the gathering dusk. Crossing Beacon Street, he

headed for a large pool room, where he was pretty certain to find his

quarry.

“So he didn’t come home for supper—hasn’t come home all day!” he

muttered savagely. “Huh! Claims to be walking in _my_ shoes, does he?

Huh!”

Clem turned in at the pool-room entrance, where a noisy phonograph

was grinding out ragtime. About the rear of the place he saw a dozen

young fellows grouped about a pool table, with a cloud of tobacco smoke

hanging over them. With a curt nod to the proprietor, Clem strode back

past the tables.

He soon picked out Tom Saunders, a big-boned, rather handsome fellow,

three inches taller than Clem, and built along the same lines as the

old skipper. But Tom’s strong, even powerful, face was marred by the

undeniable touch of liquor, and a cigarette trailed smoke between his

fingers. His companions laughed uproariously at his jokes, and gave him

an acclamation, which he seemed to enjoy hugely.

“Clem Frobisher, by golly!”

As the cry went up from the assembled fellows, all of whom knew Clem,

Tom Saunders turned and came forward, cue in hand, with a quick smile

of delight. He stretched out a big hand toward Clem.

“Hello, cap’n! Say, you old chump, where you been hidin’? I——”

Under Clem’s steady, scornful gaze, his words of greeting faded. His

hand fell to his side. He stared in blank amazement, while a portentous

silence fell upon the others.

Then Clem made a sudden movement and plucked the cigarette from Tom’s

fingers. He tossed it into the corner.

“Tom,” he said quietly, “I hear that you claim to be filling my shoes.

How about it?”

“Hey?” Tom Saunders laid aside his billiard cue, still staring. “What

you mean?”

“You heard me!” snarled Clem, watching the other with grim intentness.

“Say, what’s eatin’ you?” demanded Tom, in frowning wonder. “Ain’t we

allus been mighty good friends? What the devil are you talkin’ about?”

“I’m talking about you,” said Clem, as he took a forward step. “Tom,

you used to be a prince of a fellow. You’re some scrapping guy, too.

Well, I been hearing a lot about you to-day. I hear, for one thing,

that you’re doing a lot o’ talking about fillin’ Clem Frobisher’s

shoes. I’m telling you right here that my shoes never left tracks in a

saloon! Get that?”

“Say, what’s the matter with you?” said Tom, with a scowl, seeing

beyond all doubt that his former hero was bent on trouble. “Do you want

to start somethin’?”

“When I get ready. I’ll start it quick enough,” snapped Clem. “Ed Davis

came over with me, and we’re going out in the _Sadie_ to-night, Tom, on

a three-days’ trip—maybe longer. I want you to come along.”

Tom was puzzled by this invitation, and was also half mollified.

“Why, Clem, I’d like to—darned if I wouldn’t! But we got a big kelly

game comin’ off to-night—dollar a corner——”

“And your dad’s house rent is owing,” said Clem quietly. “Will you come

or not?”

“Don’t see how I can——”

Like a flash, Clem’s right shot out. It drove fair and square to the

big fellow’s jaw. Tom went staggering back, and his friends surged

forward at Clem with a snarl of rage. Gripping the pool table behind

him, Tom Saunders turned on them hotly.

“Git back, you flatfoots! Keep out o’ this!”

“Bully for you, Tom!” said Clem approvingly. Then, as Tom turned, Clem

was in, with a leap, and the row began.

And, as a water-front row, it was historic. Tom Saunders was no

bluffer. He had size and brawn, he took punishment like a punching bag,

and he had a kick like a mule. When he started in to fight he usually

demolished everything in sight.

But from the start it was evident that he had no chance.

Clem Frobisher in action was a whirlwind. If he lacked size, he had a

savage earnestness which won half his battles. He went into a scrap

heart and soul and body, for, if he had to fight, he wanted no halfway

measures. He was not a halfway man.

The battle was short, sharp, and furious. Foolishly, Tom drove for

Clem’s face and jaw, but Clem fought otherwise. He was out for blood,

figuratively speaking.

Taking a smack that brought a black eye, without a wince, he broke

through the other’s guard and slammed his fists into Tom’s body time

and again. Never had any one seen him go into a fight with such savage,

deadly fury. Within thirty seconds, Tom Saunders was backed into a

corner, mouthing oaths and lashing out half at random, while Clem’s

terrible right and left swings pounded over his heart and stomach.

Unexpectedly, Clem shot up a swift uppercut that rocked Tom’s head

back. The other’s arms flew up, and Clem’s right bored into the solar

plexus. It was almost a finishing blow. Tom emitted a gasp, and flung

out his arms to save himself from going down. Clem swung down his arm

for the knock-out.

At that instant, the rage of Tom’s followers broke all bounds. One of

them came in, swinging a billiard cue, and aimed a blow that would have

resulted in the penitentiary had it landed. But it did not land.

As the cue flashed up behind Clem, a lean figure came from nowhere,

apparently, and placed a blow under the fellow’s ear that landed the

would-be murderer under a table and kept him there. Then Clem heard his

chum’s voice ringing behind him:

“You fellers better scatter quick! There’s two cops headed this way!”

Clem’s arm shot out. Tom Saunders groaned and collapsed. The others

were hastily streaming out the back entrance; and Clem, gripping his

late opponent’s collar, turned to Ed Davis with a panting gasp of

relief.

“Good boy, Ed! Pick up his feet, now—move fast!”

And, as the police entered by the front door, they vanished into the

alley at the rear, carrying the unconscious Tom Saunders between them.

IV.

“Shanghaied him, by thunder!”

Ed Davis grinned down at the sleeping Tom. The _Sadie_ was dancing to

the lilting ground swells, at dawn, far out beyond Catalina Island.

“Below there!” rang the voice of Clem, on deck above. “Ed, rouse that

fellow up, or I’ll do it myself!”

Ed, who was about to turn in, after standing watch all night, shrugged

his shoulders and grinned. Then he caught the sleeping Tom Saunders by

the leg, hauled him roughly out of the bunk, and, planting two stinging

blows, sent him up the tiny companionway with a kick.

Furious, half awake, cursing, Saunders gained his balance on the deck

and stared at the ocean in blank bewilderment. Clem, at the wheel, let

out a roar.

“Wake up, you slob! Take one o’ them buckets and a broom, an’ wash down

the decks!”

Tom stared at the pilot house, saw Clem’s battered features, and

comprehended at last. His heavy face contracted in anger.

“By thunder, I’ll make you sweat for this!” he burst forth, and came on

the run.

Clem slipped a loop over the wheel and met Tom halfway. Nor did he

waste any time or sympathy, for he was a captain, and his crew was in

mutiny. Before Tom could get within fighting distance, Clem smashed him

across the head with the butt end of a gaff. He reeled back, caught at

the rail, and clung there weakly.

“I’ve a word to say to you, Tom Saunders,” remarked Clem quietly,

watching him for signs of further trouble. “You think you’re something

of a boss scrapper, and a deuce of a sporty chap. You’re not. You’re a

cheap, low-down drunken loafer!

“You keep away from your old father and mother as much as you can, and

you loaf around the water front, gambling and fighting and drinking.

Well, you’re going to get your fill o’ fighting this trip, believe me!

You’re going to realize that you got a blamed sight better home than

any pool room will furnish——”

Tom, partly recovered from that stunning blow, leaped in again.

Clem raised the gaff, then dropped it. He saw that Tom was a glutton

for punishment, and determined to administer it. Yet he admired deeply

the dogged courage of the other.

Cool, confident, smiling, for a good ten minutes he smashed Tom

Saunders about the deck. At the end of that time Tom collapsed, both

eyes pulling, and his face hammered black and blue. Clem caught up a

canvas bucket, trailed it over the side, and sluiced Tom with cold salt

water until Tom sat up, gasping and half drowned.

“If you’ve had enough, get busy and clean them decks!” snapped Clem.

Tom had not had enough, as his curses showed, but he set to work

cleaning the decks. During breakfast, he eyed Clem in sullen silence,

and after breakfast Clem set him to work cleaning out the fish boxes

and untangling lines and leaders.

Shortly afterward, Clem caught sight of a flock of gulls far to the

south, and headed the _Sadie_ for them. Where the gulls were there were

yellowtail, and skipjack also. Calling Tom, he put him to work at the

outriggers.

These were long ten-foot poles, set into sockets just abaft the pilot

house, and projecting over the rails. From each pole were set out three

hundred-yard lines, the outermost of which bore automatic strikers, the

others bearing hooks and minnows.

Five minutes later they got the first strike, and then the fun waxed

fast and furious. Clem let out a yell for Ed Davis, and they began to

haul in fifteen and twenty-pound yellowtail as fast as the trolling

lines could be drawn taut. As Clem and Tom hauled in the fighting,

darting, leaping fish, Ed gaffed them.

By noon they had over twenty, with a few barracuda and skipjacks. Then

Clem hauled about for San Clemente, looped the wheel, and settled down

with the others to lunch.

“When you get the dishes washed up, Tom,” said Ed Davis, “you’d better

clean one of them barracuda for supper. Then give that cabin a good

cleaning and then——”

“Say, you fellers are almighty fresh!” said Tom Saunders, feeling his

black-and-blue eyes tenderly. “How long is this thing goin’ to last?”

“Until we get ready to quit,” said Davis, grinning pleasantly. “Your

proud spirit needs a whole lot o’ chastening, friend Tom.”

“Well, what’s the idea? What have I ever done to you guys?”

“Nothing,” broke in Clem coldly. “But you’re becoming a pretty

worthless sort of citizen, Tom. If I had a father and mother like

yours, I’d try and make something of myself, instead of hanging

around——”

“Yes, you’re a beaut!” sneered Tom. “’Cause you’re a city guy, now,

you’re all stuck up, hey?”

“I don’t think you quite understand.” Clem smiled slightly. “You’re

out of proportion with the real facts of life, Tom. Your outlook is

warped. Instead of seeing things as they are, you see them from the

viewpoint of your pool-room and saloon friends. Well, when we get back

to Pedro you’ll have forgotten all your dreams of being a tough fighter

and gambler and drinker. You’re really such a splendid chap at bottom,

Tom——”

With a snarl of fury, Tom Saunders leaped to his feet. Unobserved, he

had worked himself into position by the rack holding the fish gaffs.

With the rapidity of lightning, he seized one of the ten-foot poles and

made a vicious lunge for Clem.

Clem ducked. The curved, sharp, unbarbed steel missed his shoulder by a

hair’s breadth and tore through his flannel shirt. It would have gone

through his flesh quite as easily.

Before Tom could extricate the weapon Ed Davis was on him in one leap.

Let it be understood that it was contrary to the natures both of

Davis and of Clem Frobisher to treat any one with the brutality which

they were displaying toward Tom Saunders. Yet it was not brutality.

They were both thinking, not of Tom, but of the two old people in the

vine-wreathed cottage.

Ed had mapped out a course, Clem had approved it, as had Captain Ezra

Saunders, and now the two partners were following it rigidly. If it

turned out badly, Tom would get no more than he deserved; if it turned

out well, so much the better.

Blinded though he was, however, Tom gave the lanky Iowan the fight of

his life. It was full seven minutes before Ed had his opponent on the

deck, and even then Tom still lashed out blindly at the figure sitting

on his chest. Not until Clem doused him anew with bucket after bucket

of water did he give in.

“All right,” he mumbled, rising unsteadily. “All right! You guys wait

till I can see, that’s all!”

“There’s no waiting aboard this hooker!” snapped Clem. “You get for’ard

and clean that fish, and do it right, see?”

“I’ll do nothin’ o’ the sort!” returned Tom through his split lips.

“You can beat me up all you want—I ain’t goin’ to stir a foot.” A

volley of oaths escaped him.

Clem, his lips tight clenched, inspected him for a moment, then turned

to Ed.

“Get that bit of line out o’ the locker aft, Ed—the rope’s end that’s

tarred. Go after this guy, and give him a taste of deep-sea sailors’

life.”

For the rest of the afternoon Tom Saunders worked like a horse. A bit

of thin rope, tarred into a stiff club, is a wonderfully effective

inducement, when properly applied. Poor Tom made close acquaintance

with it.

“We’ll be off San Clemente at dawn, Ed,” said Clem that evening. He and

Ed Davis were eating fried barracuda while Tom conned the helm. “It’ll

be watch and watch all night, and we’ll have to keep him awake and

working till he drops.”

“Haze him, eh?”

“Haze him until he’s darned near dead!” And Clem compressed his lips.

“Ed, it’s an awful thing to do—but by golly it’s a whole lot more awful

to think o’ him breakin’ poor old Ma Saunders’ heart!”

“We’ll break _him_!” said Ed, nodding as he spoke. “We’ll kill or cure,

Clem—and I ain’t right sure which it’ll be.”

Neither was Clem, unfortunately.

V.

Dawn came upon the sea—and fog.

The _Sadie_ was somewhere off San Clemente, that desolate, rocky,

almost unknown island. The dense fog hid everything from view.

Clem, who would be on duty until eight o’clock, was seated beside the

pilot house, cutting off yellowtail heads to use as bait for jewfish.

The _Sadie_ lay motionless on the oily waters, swinging listlessly

to the swell of the channel. Up in the bows was a huddled, miserable

figure—Tom Saunders, asleep at last.

That had been a terrible night for the shanghaied man.

Kept awake and at work, kept scrubbing, painting, untangling lines,

oiling the engines, driven to the work and kept at it by boot and fist

and rope’s end, Tom had finally given way.

When Clem took the deck, at four o’clock, the sight of Tom smote his

heart. Yet he drove him relentlessly. An hour later the end had come.

Sobbing, praying, pleading, Tom had crept to him, begging for sleep,

begging for release from the torture. Even then Clem had steeled

himself, and had renewed his driving, but not for long. He had not the

heart.

Tom Saunders had been broken at last—had promised everything and

anything, had wept and prayed anew. At six o’clock, Clem had told him

to sleep, and he had dropped in a pitiable heap where he stood.

“It’s a mean job,” thought Clem, as he baited the huge hooks on his

line. “But he’s had an hour’s rest now, so we’ll try him out. Besides,

he can stand a lot more—and it’s necessary. Kill or cure!”

Accordingly, he awakened poor Tom by repeated sluices of water, thrust

a rod into his hand, bade him angle for a jewfish, and baited his own

line. Somewhat to Clem’s surprise, Tom said nothing whatever, and did

not rebel; but he sat on the rail, shivering, and gazed miserably at

the water.

A moment later, just as Clem was unreeling his line, he saw Tom start

to his feet, and heard the buzz of the automatic drag.

“Got one?” he cried. Tom merely nodded.

A glance showed Clem that the jewfish was running out ahead of the

launch, and he leaped to the engines.

“I’ll give her half speed!” he exclaimed swiftly. “Reel up as we get

over him.”

He noted that the fog seemed to have thickened rather than diminished.

With the _Sadie_ running slowly ahead, Clem regained the deck to find

Tom reeling in his line, the stubby, powerful rod bent almost double.

The jewfish, for all its great size, is not a wonderful fighter; none

the less, it was a good ten minutes before Tom got the fish close to

the surface.

Yet he seemed not a whit excited. He reeled mechanically; his hands

were blue with cold; he seemed broken in spirit. Clem watched him with

some anxiety, wondering if the hazing had been carried too far.

“Here!” he exclaimed suddenly, as the line came in. “Take this gaff,

and bring him up, Tom! I’ll hold him at the surface!”

Clem thought he saw tears on the other’s cheeks.

The exchange was made. Tom took the gaff and stood on the rail,

clinging to a stay, bending over the water. Clem, taking the rod,

was astonished. The fish must be a four-hundred-pounder at least, he

decided. Then, peering over the side as he forced the jewfish up, he

saw the great oval mass below. The surface water broke into a mass of

foam.

Tom lunged with the gaff—lunged again—missed both times. Then, with a

muttered word of exasperation, he leaned far over and caught the fish

squarely.

He did not lift quickly enough, however, to get the fish out of water.

There was a surge and a swirl beneath, and a short cry broke from Tom.

“Give me a hand——”

Before Clem could move, he saw Tom, hanging grimly to the gaff, drawn

out by the fish’s wide, circling sweep. In a flash, the dogged San

Pedro boy had his hold broken, had lost his balance—and was overboard.

“By golly, he’s too cold and stiff to swim!” thought Clem swiftly. He

lifted his voice in a ringing shout:

“Ed! Ed! On deck! Man overboard!”

With the words, he caught up the life preserver hanging at the rail and

tossed it over the side. Then, his coat off, he leaped after it, in

wild fear lest his own driving tyranny had been carried so far that Tom

would have no strength left.

In that desperate fear, he came to the surface almost beside the

struggling figure of Tom Saunders. A few yards away was floating the

round life buoy. Catching Tom by the collar, Clem gained the preserver

in a few strokes, and bobbed Tom up inside it.

“Get your arms over the sides—that’s right! Now take a turn of the line

about your arms. Good!”

Satisfied that Tom was sure to float, Clem turned on his side and sent

a glance around for the _Sadie_. With a shock, he remembered that her

engines were set at half speed.

She was gone in the fog!

Stilling the momentary panic that seized him, Clem lifted his voice in

a shout. He knew that Ed Davis would be on deck by this time, but at

sight of the swirls of fog, that hid the water ten feet away, his heart

sank.

“How you makin’ it, Tom?”

“All right,” said the other mechanically. “I lost the fish, I guess.”

“I guess you did.” Clem chuckled. “Can you give a yell?”

Tom emitted a feeble cry, that betrayed his weakness more than words

could have done. A wave broke over them, and Clem took his weight off

the preserver, allowing it to float higher. It could not well sustain

them both.

Also, there was a choppy sea running—the island current cutting up the

long, easy ground swell. It was hard swimming, and the water was cold.

“What on earth’s the matter with Ed?” exclaimed Clem anxiously. “We

ought to hear the horn——Ah! There it is! Thank goodness!”

Muffled, but unmistakable, the blast of the _Sadie’s_ foghorn pierced

its way to them. Clem shouted again and again. Ed was on the job!

“It don’t seem to be gettin’ much closer,” muttered Tom.

Clem listened. No—it was not growing closer. It was hard to tell from

which direction the sound came, but certainly the launch was receding

from them. Resting once more on the life preserver, Clem bellowed for

all he was worth.

“Better quit yellin’,” mumbled Tom. “It’ll tire you out quicker’n any——”

The rest was lost in a splutter as a wave lapped over them. Clem again

released the life buoy, which lifted Tom well above the water.

Ridding himself of his clothes, Clem swam more easily, but he felt the

chill of the water keenly. Owing to the choppy back lash of the waves,

it was impossible to float. He had to swim continually to hold himself

up.

“Hang on to the cork, ye blamed fool!” said Tom.

“I will, if I need to. I’m all right.”

The horn was sounding no longer!

Clem knew that their situation was desperate in the extreme. Which way

the island lay, no one could tell. They were in a spot reached only by

an occasional fishing boat. The fog would not lift before noon. Unless

Ed Davis found them by chance, they could not both last—the preserver

would only keep one man up.

Clem found himself becoming weakened by that continual struggle.

How long he swam beside Tom, he never knew. It seemed like days. He

swam now on his side, now on his back. Change position as he might,

however, he could not get away from the choppy, short seas. The sound

of the foghorn came to them no more, and Clem forbore to shout, knowing

the effort useless unless Ed Davis came close by them.

“How are you, Tom?” he said, resting on the preserver. A wave broke

over them. Clem hastily drew away, yet with an inward groan.

“All right,” responded Tom, lying nobly. “Catch on here.”

Clem smiled a little. The faintness of the other’s voice had told him

all he wanted to know. Tom was incapable of any exertion.

“And I’m responsible for Tom’s condition,” was the thought that drove

into Clem’s heart with paralyzing truth. He called up his reserve

strength and breasted the waves, but the effort wasted him alarmingly.

His limbs were stiff, numbed. He prayed for the _Sadie_, but she came

not.

“Tom,” said Clem, as he turned, swimming beside the buoy and watching

Tom’s white, stern-clenched face, “we’ve hazed you pretty hard this

trip, but it was for your own good. Ed and I came to Pedro, and

found——” A wave plunged over him. Clem fought it down, gasping.

“We found your dad ten years older than he was a month or two ago. Ma

didn’t say much, but she was pretty hard hit—and it was your fault,

Tom. You’ve been running with the wrong crowd, and because you’re a

good deal above them in every way they’ve toadied to you and got you on

the down grade to their level. Ed and I——”

Again a great quantity of green water curled over him. The crest

swallowed him. Desperate, Clem lost his head, and flurried wildly,

frantically, wasting precious strength. When he emerged, half

strangled, his own danger frightened him into coolness.

“Grab hold o’ the buoy, you fool!” growled Tom weakly.

“Shut up!” gasped Clem. “Listen! I want you to understand why we acted

as we did, Tom. Your drinking and loafing and general cussedness has

darned near wrecked your——”

Once more a smother of water dragged him down. He fought against the

wild impulse to grab the buoy, but he struggled up to find Tom’s hand

on his arm.

“Git aboard here——”

“Quit!” snarled Clem, flinging back and breaking the other’s hold. He

gazed at Tom with desperate, convulsed features. He knew he could not

last long. His strength was going fast. “We can’t, both hang on there,

you idiot! It—it won’t hold—more’n one—and——”

“Then I’ll drop!” And Tom tried to heave himself up and release the

lashing about his arms. He failed, through very stiffness and weakness.

“No, you won’t—you go back home and—tell ma that—that——” Clem went

under, fought frantically, felt the terrible weakness overpower him.

Then he caught a breath of blessed air again. “So long—cut out—the

booze——”

With a groan, Clem found his strength gone. He seemed to collapse

utterly. He felt the water close over him, choking, strangling,

smothering—and then he knew nothing more.

A moment afterward the _Sadie_ poked her nose out of the fog, almost

above Tom.

VI.

“Golly! I thought I was gone——”

Clem opened his eyes and stared.

He found himself in the cabin of the _Sadie_. Above him was standing Ed

Davis; and Clem, feeling himself almost naked, knew that his chum had

been working over him.

“You were blamed near gone!” exclaimed Ed anxiously. “I got the water

out of you, though. How do you feel?”

“Tired. Where’s Tom?”

“Up above. He’s all right—kind o’ went to pieces when I got you aboard.”

Ed heaped blankets about Clem. Then he continued swiftly:

“I got some coffee on the fire now. Say! Do you know what that cuss

done?”

“Who—Tom?”

“Yep! I found him hangin’ on to your collar—both o’ you danged near

drowned, by thunder! He made me haul you up first, too! Say, what

happened? I ain’t understood yet how you come overboard——”

“Get the coffee,” muttered Clem, closing his eyes. “Talk later.”

With a mutter of self-accusation, Ed rushed away.

Clem lay in a coma of exhaustion. He felt a gradual warmth steal

through him, and realized that he was safe enough; but he was too weary

to move. A moment later he caught a step at his side, and opened his

eyes, thinking that Ed had returned.

Instead, however, he saw Tom Saunders. The big fellow, staring at Clem

with wild eyes, lowered himself to the edge of the bunk. He was white

and shaken. As he met the gaze of Clem he broke down, and lowered his

face in his arms, sobbing unrestrainedly.

Clem wondered, but was too weak to speak for the moment. At length Tom

lifted his head.

“Thank Heaven, you’re safe!” he mumbled. “Say, Clem. I——”

“Thanks, old man,” broke in Clem, putting out a hand. “Ed told me how

you held me up—it was fine work——”

“Oh, shut your blamed mouth!” growled Tom, sitting up. “I got somethin’

to say—you shut up till I get through!”

Clem watched him, waiting in puzzled silence.

“You know what you said when—when you was goin’ down?” blurted out Tom.

“About ma and dad—and what you——”

“I know,” said Clem. “Well?”

Tom’s white face flushed slightly.

“Clem, it’s darned hard to explain—but just then, when you went down,

an’ I seen how you was givin’ up so’s I could go back—it kind o’

made me realize that you’d meant every darned word o’ what you said.

I hadn’t thought of it that way before—but it came to me all of a

heap—well, I can’t say any more, Clem—only I want to tell you that I’ve

been a darned fool, and——”

“Say, you two guys better drink this coffee in a hurry,” broke in the

voice of Ed Davis, who had paused for a moment behind Tom, listening.

He came forward with two steaming cups of coffee, handed one to Tom,

and helped Clem to put down the hot fluid in the other. With a sigh of

increasing comfort, Clem fell back in the bunk and smiled faintly, his

hand touching that of Tom.

“Ed,” he said, “head the old hooker for Pedro, full speed! When we get

in to-night——”

“When we get in to-night,” broke in Ed, with a wide grin, “do you know

what I’m goin’ to do?”

“What?” asked Clem, with a smile.

“I’m goin’ to eat one o’ Ma Saunders’ pies—all by myself.”

“And I’ll be there to help,” said Tom.

In his handgrip and in his eyes there was that which told Clem more

than words could say. Tom Saunders was headed home.

ENTOMBED MINERS RESCUED

THE nine miners who had been entombed for a week in the Foster Tunnel

of the Lehigh Coal & Navigation Company, at Coaldale, Pennsylvania,

were taken out alive. Though the men had crouched in water most of the

time, and had subsisted partly on wax, they were able to walk to the

ambulance.

Eleven miners were entombed when water and culm broke into the tunnel.

Two who were nearer the mouth of the tunnel were saved after a few

hours. Gangs, working in relays of four hours, dug through the fallen

coal and rock in order to make an opening through which the other nine

could be rescued.

The Shock

By Grant Trask Reeves

WHEN “Rube” Reynolds crawled out of bed and began to dress, it was near

to noontime. Within his head, to all feeling, a gigantic, throbbing

trip hammer was seemingly striving to pound its way through his skull

with regular, painful thumps. His lips felt parched and drawn, and

a sickish, bitter taste stayed upon his tongue, as if his mouth was

crammed with coarse, moldy earth, and by no means of futile gulping

could he swallow the stuff.

Out of the confused muddle of his brain flashed a thought of morning

practice.

“Guess’ll have to skip breakfast to get out to the field on time,” he

thought.

But a glance at his watch, lying upon the bureau, made him aware that

haste was useless; for probably at that moment his fellow members of

the Sox were leaving the ball park for their homes and boarding places.

Again he had missed a morning session on the home grounds of the Sox,

and he sullenly wondered what Manager Kineally would say.

Slowly he continued to don his clothes. At times the bed, the chairs,

and other articles of furniture seemed to be dancing and whirling

weirdly about the room; and when he leaned forward to lace his shoes,

his throbbing head pained as though it would burst.

Moving to the bureau he pulled out a lower drawer and brought forth a

bottle partially filled with a brownish liquid. To his lips he tipped

it, and for several seconds his Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively to a

gurgling accompaniment.

Barely at the halfway mark, between twenty and thirty years, Reynolds

had already reached the stage where a morning drink seemed a necessity.

He lowered the bottle, its contents emptied by half, to the bureau top;

and an artificial sense of buoyancy pervaded his being. The throbbing

pain in his head was deadened to a dull ache, and the burning flavor of

the liquor upon his tongue had washed away the moldy taste.

He dully pondered as to what had taken place on the previous evening,

but his remembrances of events occurring after eleven o’clock or

thereabouts on the night before were decidedly limited. Some one had

escorted him to the front door of his lodging house; he had dizzily

ascended the stairs and managed to open the door of his room—that was

all he could recall.

A gentle tapping on the door broke in upon his thoughts.

“What is it?” he grunted.

“Mr. Kineally wishes to see you,” was the reply. The voice belonged to

his landlady.

Reynolds hesitated momentarily. He was tempted to have the landlady say

that he was not at home. But what was the use! Kineally would “bawl him

out” later; so why not have it over with!

“All right! Send him up!” Reynolds answered.

He had hardly time to whisk the bottle from the bureau to its place in

the drawer when an imperative rapping threatened the door panel.

“Come in!” he called.

As the door swung inward a big, brawny form filled the doorway, almost

from casing to casing. The square-jawed visage of Owen Kineally, with

its twinkling eyes and smiling lips, had appeared on sporting pages the

country over; but now the smile was missing. His eyebrows were puckered

forward, as Reynolds had sometimes seen them when Kineally took a

parting shot at a nearsighted, obstinate umpire.

The big manager remained standing, his gaze upon the ball player.

“G’ morning!” Reynolds greeted, as he continued the knotting of his

scarf.

“Good _afternoon_!” retorted the manager. And he added: “You’re fined

fifty dollars.”

Reynolds whirled about.

“What for?” he demanded, his voice raised to nearly a shout.

“For not showing up at morning practice, and for drunkenness last

night. You’re half drunk now.”

“You’re a——” Reynolds hesitated to speak the word.

His lips were curled back in an ugly snarl, and he glared rebelliously

into the steady, piercing eyes of the manager. Silently they faced each

other—Reynolds, the tiger; Kineally, the lion. Both were equally tall,

though the manager was stockier than his black-eyed, dark-complexioned

pitcher. Kineally removed his panama and combed his fingers through his

reddish-brown hair.

“Your face is as flushed as if you had a fever,” he said. “Your eyes

are bloodshot, and late hours have smooched half-moons of charcoal

under them, so’s any one could tell that you are traveling straight

plumb to the dogs!”

Reynolds muttered inarticulately.

“Yes, that’s where you’re bound!” continued the manager. “I’m not old

enough to be your father, but I’ve been kicking around in this world

for some fifteen or sixteen years longer than you have, and I’ve had

plenty of chance to learn that a pitcher, or any other ball player,

can’t work as battery mate with Old Demon Booze and last long in the

diamond game.

“You were the best pitcher on my staff last year, and you twirled your

team into a championship; but now you’re a-hitting the toboggan just as

fast as any one can. When you are sober and in good physical condition

there isn’t a better man ever toed the slab than you are; and that’s

why I haven’t traded you during the past month. I hoped you’d wake

up and cut out the booze and the gang of high-living sports you are

traveling with; but if you don’t get your eyes open and quit drinking

before we start on the Western trip, I’ll try to make a deal with some

other club, and trade you before the other managers get wise to the

fact that you are drinking yourself out of the game.”

Reynolds mumbled something.

“What?” Kineally asked.

“I guess some o’ those other managers’d be glad to get me,” Reynolds

repeated.

“Yes, until they found that you were a souse,” Kineally added; “and

then they’d shunt you back to the minors in double-quick. You’d

probably last a year or two in the bushes, and then some little

one-horse minor-league outfit would give you your unconditional

release; and you’d be a has-been, while you were yet a kid. Some

future, eh?”

Reynolds slouched against the bureau, his hands deep in his pockets. A

sullen, defiant expression distorted his features.

Kineally wiped a handkerchief across his forehead.

“I’ll be hanged if I know why I’ve stood for your drinking and

violation of training rules as long as I have!” he exclaimed. “I reckon

it’s because I remember what a likable, clean young duffer you were

when I first bought you from that little bush league up-country.”

As he paused, the manager happened to glance past the ball player at a

picture standing on the bureau. It was the photograph of a girl, in her

early twenties; and the face—the expression of the eyes—the mouth and

chin—portrayed that rare combination of beauty of character as well as

of feature.

The manager pointed toward the picture.

“To ask a personal question, Rube,” he began; “is she your sister?”

Following the direction of Kineally’s extended finger, Reynolds shook

his head.

Kineally’s eyes gleamed his satisfaction. Another avenue of appeal was

open!

“Then she must be your sweetheart, for I know that you’re not married,”

he stated; and he added earnestly: “I suppose you hope to be married

some day?”

Reynolds failed to reply. His liquor-inflamed brain was busy mobilizing

the little devils of rage and rebellion. What right had Kineally to

catechize him, he angrily pondered. Who gave the manager a license to

butt into his private life?

“Why don’t you quit the booze and go straight, for her sake if not your

own?” the manager inquired, after an interval. “You can hardly expect

a decent girl, like the original of that picture must be, to marry a

drunken sot, such as continuing your present pace will make you.”

Drunken sot! No decent girl would marry him! Even through his

liquor-soaked brain, Reynolds realized that the words rang true; but

their very truth was like the red rag fluttered before the bull.

“You’re a liar!” he rasped. And he sprang toward the manager, one

fist lunging forward as he leaped. Though heavily built, Kineally

was quick on his feet. Swiftly he side-stepped and parried the blow.

Reynolds whirled about and rushed a second time. Again and again his

fists struck out, and Kineally took blow after blow on his hands and

arms, turning them all aside. Obsessed by his whisky-stimulated wrath,

Reynolds forgot all his knowledge of boxing. His one thought was to

beat down the big man before him, who so steadily blocked the punches,

and kept forcing him backward without striking a blow.

Back, step by step, they went, until Reynolds stumbled. Instantly the

manager closed in, grasping the pitcher’s wrists and endeavoring to

force him down into a chair. Back and forth they struggled, reeling

about the room, until, with a crash, they brought up against the

bureau. With a sudden twist, Reynolds wrenched one hand free from the

manager’s viselike grip. The pitcher reached behind him and groped over

the bureau top; and an instant afterward something flashed through the

air, thudding dully against the manager’s head.

Reynolds heard a gasp, and the fingers about his wrist relaxed. The

manager’s knees buckled forward, and he crumpled backward on the rug—a

motionless heap.

Breathing heavily, Reynolds stood above the inert form, a heavy brass

ash tray still grasped in his fist. Particles of blood dotted its edge.

For a moment, brute satisfaction was reflected from his face. Then his

expression changed to that of alarm. Why did Kineally lie so still?

Why was the fallen man’s face so pale? Dropping to his knees, Reynolds

pressed a hand against the manager’s shirt front. The pitcher’s hand

was trembling, and his own heart pounding furiously, as he fumbled

anxiously about on the manager’s breast. He could feel no action,

and a crimson stain, like red ink on a sheet of blotting paper, was

spreading, with ragged circumference, upon the manager’s hair.

The pitcher grasped the manager’s shoulders and shook the deathlike

form.

“Kineally! Kineally! Owen Kineally!” he cried.

He jumped to his feet and seized the water pitcher, pouring all of the

stale fluid it contained over the manager’s face; but the eyes remained

closed; the form still.

Slowly Reynolds backed away from the prostrate man.

“Heavens!” he whispered. “He—he’s dead! I’m a murderer!”

And with the words came another thought. He had killed Kineally! They

would arrest him! Into his vision flashed the picture of a chair

with straps on its arms, legs, and back, and a few solemn spectators

gathered about. No, they mustn’t catch him! He must get away!

Moving hurriedly about, and ever averting his gaze from the form on

the floor, he donned a few garments for street wear. Ready to leave,

he spied the picture upon the bureau. He snatched it up and turned it

over. Penned on its back in a feminine hand was: “From Dora to Bob.”

Hastily tucking it into his inside pocket, he opened the door and

stepped into the hall. His nerveless fingers swung the door shut, and

he trod softly down the stairs.

* * * * *

When the evening train coughed into Farmhill station, Reynolds, clad

in a dark suit, and with his cloth hat pulled far down over his eyes,

swung off on the side farthest from the station, and making a detour

to avoid the well-lighted section of the town, he struck out into the

country.

Once during his flight, while changing trains at a junction, he had

heard one diminutive newsboy mention the name “Reynolds” to another

grimy-faced little urchin, and Rube had stolen a sidelong glance at the

bunch of papers folded beneath the boy’s arm. The paper, being folded

in the middle, prevented him from reading the whole of the big black

headline, but on the side of the sheet near to him he spelled out:

“M-U-R-D——”

As he tramped along in the soft dust of the country road, with the

frogs and insects peeping and shrilling strange noises out of the dusk

of the night, his thoughts rose in rebellion. It wasn’t murder! Murder

was something fearful—something repulsive, and he hadn’t intended to—to

kill Kineally. He had struck in self-defense! He strove to convince

himself that such had been the case, but every frog—every insect kept

shrilling: “Murder—murder—it was murder!”

Not until he reached the Whately farm did he realize that it would be

impossible for him to see Dora that night. The chimes of a church in a

distant town were sounding the curfew hour, when he paused by the stone

wall encircling that part of the Whately farm. Why he had returned to

Farmhill, he did not know. Something had seemed to draw him to that

little town in the valley; and he wanted to see Dora just once more

before disappearing to some far corner of the world, where no one would

know him, where no one could find him.

For a moment he thought of boldly entering the house, but he quickly

dismissed the idea. They must have read the papers and knew of his

crime. Noel Whately and his wife had always liked young Bob Reynolds;

and Dora—he knew that Dora’s regard was more than friendship for him,

but he hesitated to thrust himself, branded as a criminal, into that

family circle.

He easily vaulted the stone wall and moved around the house to the

barn. As he picked his way across the barn-yard, another thought came

to him. What folly his return to Farmhill was! It would only make more

painful the breaking of the ties!

“I mustn’t see her!” he whispered to himself.

But no train left the town until early morning, so he resolved to stay

in the barn until nearly daylight, and then return to the station.

As he neared the barn, a prolonged sniff caused him to start and crouch

near to the ground. Then he remembered. It was Wolf, the dog—the

companion, who had accompanied Dora and him on their tramps across the

fields, and on their fishing trips to the lake.

“Wolf!” he called softly.

The big collie came bounding through the darkness.

“Still, Wolf! Be still, boy!” he commanded.

To his relief, the dog recognized him and refrained from barking. Two

paws pressed against his knee, and the animal whined joyously.

“Go back, Wolf!” he ordered, as he patted and fondled the collie.

Reluctantly, the dog turned toward his kennel, and Reynolds slid

open the door of the barn. A restless horse tramped in his stall and

a frightened rat scuttled across the floor, as he felt about in the

darkness and found the ladder leading upward. Nimbly he ascended to the

loft, and, creeping far over to the wall, he stretched himself upon the

odorous hay.

He closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. He faintly heard

the clock in the farmhouse striking the hour. After an age of

sleeplessness, it tinkled again. The smell of the sun-dried grass

brought remembrances of his boyhood, and he thought of the plans

he and Dora had made for the future. Then he remembered the “good

fellows” of the city, with their invitations to “have another,” and

their shallow praise. He groaned in despair. He had severed himself

from all of the real joys of life, and now he was but a hunted thing—to

prowl forever from place to place, in his efforts to escape the

relentless hand of the law.

As he lay there, an almost uncontrollable desire to scratch a match,

that he might relieve the awful blackness, possessed him.

“I can’t,” he reflected. “It might set fire to the place.”

Suddenly he sat up, gasping, with a whistling intaking of breath.

What had he heard! Again they came! The faint strains of music were

permeating the loft, as if some stringed instrument was being played

close by. He dug his fingers into his ears, hoping that the sounds

might be the product of his imagination. But no! As he removed his

fingers, they continued; a strange, weird tune, unlike anything he had

ever heard before.

Again he jammed his fingers into his ears to shut out the sounds. Had

his crime driven him mad? Was he haunted, he wondered fearfully. With

unsteady, trembling legs, he made his way to the ladder and lowered

himself downward. He crouched in an unoccupied stall and waited. A rat

squeaked beside him, but he failed to move. He was listening for that

fearsome music; and whenever he closed his eyes, the white face of

Kineally would spring before his vision.

Of what avail was his freedom if this continued, he thought. Ideas of

giving himself up entered his mind; but he remembered the high-backed

chair with its straps and its horrible death-dealing wires. What a

death! No! He couldn’t surrender himself! But still, if he was to be

forever haunted, why, maybe it would be better. Maybe it——

With a start, Reynolds awoke—not from sound sleep, but from one of the

fitful dozes, into which he had lapsed just before the gray light of

morning began to lighten the barn. With an ejaculation of self-rebuke,

he sprang up and stood, blinking, in the shaft of sunlight which blazed

through a cobwebby, dusty window. He, who had intended to depart

before sunrise, had overslept. He could hear persons moving about in

the farmhouse, as well as the occasional rattling of crockery and the

sputter of grease in a frying pan.

Then footsteps sounded outside of the barn, and before he could

turn—could dart to cover—the door slid back, and a girl stood before

him. Her face, crowned by a wavy mass of fine-spun, fair hair, was

the flesh-and-blood likeness of that portrayed by the picture he

carried in his pocket. She wore neither hat nor bonnet, and a dotted

bungalow apron covered her from shoulders to ankles. She stared in

amazement, her brows puckering as she noted the rumpled condition of

his clothing—his drawn features and his bloodshot eyes.

“Why, Bob!” she exclaimed perplexedly. “What—why—how——”

As she paused, he moved forward a step, his nails biting into the palms

of his clenched fists. Oh, how he longed to take her in his arms and

tell her the whole miserable story! Little beads of moisture surged

into his eyes; and in a moment she was close to him, resting her hands

on his shoulders.

“Tell me, Bob!” she said anxiously. “Tell me what is the matter. Why

didn’t you come to the house? Why are your clothes all mussed up?”

Choking back his emotions, he hesitatingly placed his hands on her arms.

“D—don’t you know?” he inquired brokenly.

“Know what?” she demanded.

“I—I——” He hesitated to say the words. “Heavens, Dora, you must have

read last night’s paper! Don’t you know that I’m a—a murderer? Oh,

Dora, I’m a murderer!”

Her fingers clinched convulsively through his coat and pinched into his

shoulders.

“I’ve killed a man—the man who was giving me a chance!” he groaned.

“All because of the cursed drink!” And, with his head bowed on her

shoulder, he poured forth the story of his fight with Kineally—of his

trip to Farmhill—and of his night in the barn. Then his arms relaxed

and he gently tried to push her away.

“Don’t touch me, girl!” he told her. “I’m a murderer—not fit to touch!”

Her arms slipped about his neck, and she held him closer.

“I won’t leave you—I won’t!” she cried. “Oh, Bob! don’t you know that I

love you? We’ll go somewhere together.”

“No!” he protested. “Why, Dora, I’m haunted. I lay up there in the loft

last night and heard music—that dreadful, unearthly music; and Kin—his

face kept coming before me out of the darkness. No; I’m going to give

myself up and have it over with.”

With the passion and entreaty of one who loved, she argued, but he

steadily persisted in his resolve. He gently drew her arms from about

his neck. She made one final appeal.

“Wait, Bob!” she pleaded. “Let me go into the house and get last

night’s paper. I’m sure that there wasn’t any—any murder headline on

it.” And she darted from the stable.

Her mother, busy in the kitchen, glanced up in surprise at the flushed

cheeks and excited eyes of the girl.

“What in the world——” she began, but Dora interrupted.

“Where is last night’s paper, mother?” she asked.

“On the sitting-room table, I think,” Mrs. Whately replied.

Dora hurried from the room. The paper was not on the sitting-room

table, and she searched frantically about the room. Finally she found

it, half hidden under a pillow on the lounge, where her father had left

it the evening before. Spreading out the first page, she read:

MURDOCK TESTIFIES.

Iron King Goes Before Congressional Committee.

Nowhere on the page was Reynolds’ name mentioned. She hurriedly rustled

over page after page, until at last, on one of the sporting pages, she

discovered a small paragraph commenting on his poor pitching of the day

previous. Paper in hand, she sped back to the barn. Reynolds was not in

sight.

“Bob!” she called softly; but received no answer.

Into the loft she climbed, but he was not there. As she stood on the

hay, she became aware of a peculiar sound. Music! That was what it

resembled, and across her mind flashed the words of Bob. For some

seconds she listened in bewilderment, and then the little wrinkles of

perplexity cleared from her forehead. She climbed higher upon the hay,

until she reached a tiny window, far up near the roof. Over its opening

were stretched several taut elastics—the work of her little brother.

With each gust of breeze they vibrated and twanged, making sounds not

unlike the music of a harp or a zither.

Descending from the loft, she hurried out of the barn. The man whom

she loved must have taken advantage of her absence to hasten away, she

reasoned, that he might carry out his resolve to surrender himself to

the authorities. So down the dusty road she hurried, determined to

overtake him ere he should reach the town.

* * * * *

A great gray touring car hummed its way along the country road, a

continuous cloud of dust, like rising smoke, trailing in its wake. A

big, burly man, with tanned features, and whose eyes were obscured by

masking goggles, gripped the wheel; while beside him sat another man,

not so big, but with a bristling black mustache and keen piercing eyes.

“Remember, Mac!” the big man was saying; “if we find him I don’t want

the newspaper men or anybody else to ever hear a word of this. I called

on you for help because you are a friend of mine as well as a police

inspector, trained in the ways of tracing men.”

“Don’t you worry, Owen!” the other replied. “Never a word will get out.

Nine times out of ten a young fellow who has committed a crime, or

thinks he has, will risk a trip to his home or old surroundings. If we

don’t find the boy somewhere about Farmhill, we’ll change our tactics.

He must have landed quite a crack on your skull,” he added.

“He surely did,” the big man agreed. “I was unconscious for a half hour

or more; and I guess your idea, that he imagined he’d finished me, and

was thus frightened into running away, is right.”

The man with the wiry mustache nodded and tightly gripped the side of

the car as they jounced over a particularly high bump in the road.

“But if the experience proves to be the shock necessary to break the

boy away from the drink and that gang he was traveling with,” continued

the big man; “why, I’ll be mighty thankful that he struck the blow.

He’s not only a wonderful pitcher, but I like him. He—look, Mac, look!

So help me, John Rogers! Look ahead, there!”

Appearing around a bend in the roadway, from behind the trees of the

roadside, a solitary figure was tramping toward them.

Stopping the engine and jamming his foot against the brake pedal, the

big man jerked the car to an abrupt stop beside the young fellow, who

had turned out and halted by the edge of the road, waiting for the

automobile to pass.

“Rube!” the big man cried, pushing his goggles up on his forehead and

springing from the car.

The man by the roadside stood as if paralyzed. He stared wildly at the

big man who had leaped from the automobile.

“K—Kineally!” came from between his lips in a throaty whisper.

“Kineally! Owen Kineally!”

He slowly—fearfully extended a hand as if to touch the big manager—to

make sure that he was a reality and not the fantasy of a haunted mind.

The big man quickly reached forth and firmly grasped the hand.

“It’s me, all right, Rube!” he assured, with the flicker of a smile.

“It takes a mighty hard wallop to put a tough old geezer like me down

for good.”

Drawing free his hand, the young fellow dropped upon one knee in

the dusty, sun-scorched grass of the roadside, and burying his face

in his arm, he gave vent to his pent-up emotions, his body shaking

with convulsive, boyish sobs of relief. The bareheaded girl, who had

appeared around the bend of the road and was hurrying toward them, was

unnoticed by Kineally and the inspector.

“I—I’m glad! I’m glad!” the kneeling man choked out. “I’m going to stay

here away from the drink, and so help me, Heaven, I’ll never touch

another drop!”

The big man rested a hand on the young fellow’s shoulder.

“No, I don’t think you will drink any more, boy!” he said. “But,” he

continued, “you are coming back with me, and I’ll make you the greatest

pitcher in the game, and you and _the girl_ can marry and be happy.”

Before the young fellow could reply, the girl was beside them, her

eyes aglow and her bosom rising and falling rapidly as she breathed.

Many a picture of Owen Kineally had smiled at her from among the pages

of newspapers, and she recognized the big man standing over Reynolds.

Unmindful of the others, she dropped to her knees beside the man she

loved, and with her arms about his neck, she murmured: “Oh, but I’m

happy, Bob! I’m so happy!!”

UNIQUE NAMES FOR CREEKS

THAT Iowa is a farming State is reflected in the names of many of the

streams that flow through it.

To begin with, there is a Farm Creek, so that Farmer’s Creek has a

place. Then there is a Chicken Creek, a Duck Creek, a Goose Creek,

and a number of Turkey Creeks, as well as Pigeon Creek. There are

Fox, Hawk, and Rat Creeks to make way with the domestic animals, and

some Crow Creeks, while there is also a Fly Creek and Mosquito Creek

to worry the summer boarders. Milk and Cold Water Creeks are present,

likewise a Hog Run and a Mud Creek, so that Bacon Creek is not strange.

It seems natural that with a Bee Creek and a Bee Branch there should

also be a Honey Creek. There are a couple of Cherry Creeks, a Crabapple

Creek, and plenty of Plum Creeks, and, for wild animals, there are

Bear, Beaver, Buck, Crane, Deer, Doe, Elk, Otter, Panther, Raccoon,

Skunk, and Wolf Creeks.

With a Keg Creek there is a Whisky Creek and a Whisky Rum. Finally,

there is Purgatory Creek.

Cap’n Dan’s Son

BY Bernard Teevan

THE old sailor, Cap’n Dan, sat on the edge of the deck house of the

sloop _Agnes T._, watching the fleet coming in from the day’s work at

“dragraking.” The “handrakers” were already in, the contents of their

baskets emptied into his, and piled up neatly in the hold, their scores

tallied up in the little leather-covered notebook that was Cap’n Dan’s

daybook, ledger, journal, and everything else known to the practice of

accounts.

The handrakers had all brought in a good day’s catch. If the dragrakers

did as well, the _Agnes T._ would have a heavy load to carry to the

city, and the money to meet the note which would soon be due would be

ready when the time came to pay it.

Cap’n Dan cast an eye aloft at the empty bushel basket which had been

hoisted at the masthead to let every one know the _Agnes T._ was ready

to buy clams. Then he looked out toward the mouth of the harbor, where

the first of the fleet of dragrakers was coming in around the point.

In that instant the expression of his face altered, and his troubled

glance changed to one of pride and pleasure.

The cut of the head of the mainsail told him that, as usual, it was the

_Victorine_ that was leading the fleet, outpointing and outfooting the

_Ranger_, _Nautilus_, and the _Dashaway_, to say nothing of the other

sloops less famed for their speed. Parental pride shone clear in his

gray eyes, for was not the _Victorine_ his own boat, and was not his

only son, Young Dan, sailing her?

Young Dan, at twenty-one, had already won the reputation of being the

smartest boatman in Lockport. The way he would carry on sail was,

in the words of the clammers, “a caution.” Me was the light of his

father’s eye, and Cap’n Dan had begun to lean rather heavily on his son.

He was looking forward to the time when Dan’s already keen business

ability would be sufficiently recognized to have the dealers up in the

market place the same reliance on his word as they had for so many

years placed on the father’s. Then he could step aside and take a rest,

that rest so many men look forward to before the great rest comes.

When Young Dan caught sight of his father he arose from his seat on

the wheel box and swung his arm in salutation. Then he gave the wheel

a couple of turns, shot the _Victorine_ up in the wind, and laid her

alongside the _Agnes T._ as if the sloop were a fast horse, that a

skillful driver had stopped at a carriage block.

“What luck, Dannie?” called his father. “I see you wasn’t the last one

in.”

“Had a bully day, dad. Struck a fresh bed off West P’int, and got a

jim-dandy load. Goin’ to send any to market to-night?” Then, casting

back to his father’s allusion to his beating the other boats, he added

dryly: “Oh, yes, there’s some go in the old _Victorine_ yet. Them

fellers make me tired with their talk about beatin’ her.”

“Just as soon as we c’n git the _Agnes T._ loaded, Dan, I want you to

start for the market. Dolan telegraphed me to-day they wanted all I

could send ’em, and as soon as I could get ’em off.”

As the boy had stepped aboard the sloop by this time, the captain

added, in a whisper: “You know that Voorhees note falls due day after

to-morrow, and I need the money to meet it.”

Dan nodded his head, and some of the gravity that had settled down

again on his father’s face was reflected on his own. Then he started in

on the heavy task of transferring his day’s catch from the deck of the

_Victorine_ to the hold of the market boat.

While he and the three men who made up the working crew were hard at

this, the remaining boats of the fleet were coming up, one by one, and

ranging themselves on either side of the market boat. With jibs hauled

down, and mainsails slatting in the breeze, they all lay head to the

wind, while their crews passed basket after basket down into the hold

of the _Agnes T._, to the accompaniment of loud interchanges of talk

and chaff.

Before the sun had vanished in the west, the loading was accomplished,

the sloops had pushed off, one by one, and worked away to their

anchorages for the night, and Young Dan and Jim Humphreys, who

comprised his crew, had hoisted the mainsail on the _Agnes T._

His father hauled his skiff alongside as Young Dan and Humphreys went

forward to get in the anchor, and, as the pawls clinked against the

ratchets, with that sound which is so musical to a seaman’s ears, Cap’n

Dan picked up the oars and started to pull toward the shore.

“Be careful, Dannie,” he called across the water. It was the usual

warning and farewell. “Don’t carry that tops’l after dark. It begins to

look squally off to wind’ard.”

“All right, father!” yelled Young Dan, as the anchor broke from the

ground and he ran aft to the wheel. “We’ve got to get these clams to

market, you know.”

He spun the wheel over as Humphreys hoisted the jib, and the sloop

filled away, with her bowsprit pointing out toward the mouth of the

harbor.

By the time the _Agnes T._ had cleared the point, Young Dan found that

the wind had freshened considerably, and was now coming out of the

northwest in such vigorous puffs that carrying the topsail was out of

the question. Humphreys suggested turning in a reef, but Young Dan said

he guessed that wasn’t necessary just yet. He asked Jim to take the

wheel while he went below to put on his coat. When he had taken his

place again, Humphreys dropped down into the cabin, lit the fire, and

put the kettle on for tea.

Young Dan ate his evening meal as he sat at the wheel, and before it

was finished the increasing force of the wind made steering with one

hand and holding his teacup in the other a rather difficult business.

When it was finished, and Humphreys had cleared away the dishes, he

came up on deck and settled down in the lee of the deck house, with his

coat collar turned up around his ears.

“Gee, Dannie, but it’s blowin’!” he commented. “And ain’t she

a-travelin’, though? Do you want me to get out the lights?”

“Oh, never mind ’em,” replied Young Dan, with the sailor’s too common

disregard of the use of side lights. “We can light ’em up when we get

around the fort. Come and take the wheel, will you, Jim? I want to fix

that jib. She’s slattin’ round there, and ain’t half drawin’.”

Jim uncoiled himself from his corner, in the lee of the house, and took

the wheel as Young Dan went forward. They were off Coffin’s Beach by

this time, and Jim could see the summer hotels lifting their huge bulks

up against the dark-blue sky, studded with stars that twinkled with

unusual brilliancy in the frosty night air.

As the sloop was running dead before the wind, the mainsail was doing

all the work, and the jib was slatting to and fro, and not doing what

the young skipper thought it should. That was how his passion for

carrying sail showed itself, and that was the cause of the tragedy that

followed.

Picking up the long oar lying along the rail, he took a turn of the

sheet around it at the clew of the jib, and boomed the sail out to

port, where it caught the full strength of the wind. As it bellied out,

causing the sloop to fairly jump through the water, Young Dan watched

it for a moment, and then called out to his companion:

“How’s that, Tim? Ain’t she a-pullin’?”

Before Humphreys could make a reply, he heard a crash, and the wheel

was jerked out of his hands.

To his horror, he saw the mast break off just under the hounds. With

the topmast and all the gear, it fell to the deck, striking Young Dan,

and burying him beneath the wreckage.

The shock of the accident stunned Humphreys for a moment. Then he

jumped forward along the tossing deck to drag his companion’s body out

from under the splintered spars, sails, and rigging.

The jib was lying in a tangled heap, and the mainsail was hanging broad

off to leeward, dipping down into the seas as the sloop rolled, and

coming up with a jerk, as if it meant to pluck the cleats and blocks

and traveler clear from their fastenings.

Humphreys caught hold of Young Dan’s feet, and, gently as he could,

pulled him out from beneath the piled-up gear. Stricken as he was by

the shock of the catastrophe, terror caught a fresh grip on him as he

saw the boy’s face.

Ashy white, he lay with his eyes closed as if in death. Across his

forehead a great cut ran, with the blood slowly and steadily oozing

out, and down through his hair, already matted with the thick stream.

Humphreys sickened at the sight, and tried to turn his head away. For

the moment he was panic-stricken, then he shook himself together, and

half carried, half dragged the body of the boy down into the cabin and

stretched him gently on the blankets in the berth. Then he jumped on

deck again.

For the time one idea possessed him: He must get a doctor for Dannie.

He never thought to let the anchor go, never thought to light a signal

lamp. He wanted to get a doctor at once, and he knew there were two or

three doctors at the quarantine station over by the fort.

Humphreys had lost his head, in the desire to carry out this plan of

action. He tumbled the skiff overboard, shipped the oars, and, hatless,

and without taking time to pull off his coat, he began to row to the

government reservation, where the one thing needed, a doctor, was to be

found.

No one knows how long it took him to pull across the mile of water,

nor how long it was before he rushed, breathless, up to the doctor’s

door. Without even sinking down into the chair the kindly health

officer pushed over to him, he stammered out the story of the tragedy

that had been enacted out in the bay, on the deck of the _Agnes T._

Before Jim had finished his tale, the health officer called to one

of his assistants to ring up the boat and let the captain know they

were going out. Then he busied himself putting some instruments into a

black bag, and, before Jim had completely recovered his wind, he was in

danger of losing it again as he followed the doctor and his assistant

down the path to the landing, where the little white tug, with its

tall, yellow stack, was moored.

As they went along, the health officer asked Humphreys for the address

of the injured boy’s father.

“We’ll send him a telegram,” he said. “Then he’ll probably come out to

look for the sloop, too. You say she had no lights burning? Hum! That

makes it so much harder to find her.”

They stopped at the office of the press association, down at the pier,

and the operator sent the message to Lockport, following it with a

brief story of the accident to the main office up in the city. Then

they stepped aboard the tug, the lines were cast off, and the search

for the _Agnes T._ began.

What that night was to Humphreys, and to Cap’n Dan, who, on receipt of

the telegram, had hired the only tug in Lockport and started out to

find his son, only they could tell. Calculating on the direction of the

wind, and the set of the tides, the two tugs cruised about until the

day began to break along the eastern horizon.

Working gradually to the eastward, backward and forward on long

stretches, the tugs gradually, as if by a common instinct, drew

together. By the time the dawn had broken, and Humphrey could make out

the other tug, he told the health officer she was from Lockport, and

that probably Cap’n Dan was aboard her.

He stepped outside the pilot house, with a pair of binoculars in his

hand, and, as he did so, he noticed a man do the same thing on the

other boat.

Putting the glasses to his eyes, a glance told him that it was Young

Dan’s father. Humphreys swung his arm over his head, and then saw the

captain turn and speak to the man in the pilot house. A moment later,

just as the tug headed for the health officer’s boat, the captain of

the latter, who had been scanning the horizon, gave a start, and cried

out: “There she is!” Pointing off to the eastward, he twirled the

spokes over, gave a pull on the jingle bell, and whistled down the tube

to the engineer to “give her all the steam she could carry.”

The eyes of every one on the two boats turned in the direction in which

the quarantine tug was headed, and then the sound of the jingle bell on

the Lockport boat came across the water.

Head and head, they raced to the eastward, smoke pouring from their

funnels, and a broad wave of foaming water piled up before their bows.

The light was now strong enough for them to make out the _Agnes T._,

aground on the long, sandy beach at the eastern end of the harbor.

As she lay with her bow buried in the sand, and listed over by the

weight of the outswung boom and the wreck of the topmast, the sloop

made a tragic picture in itself. The cold, gray light of the dawn

fell down and around the _Agnes T._, making her stand out against the

steel-blue water and the pale sand hills, looming large against this

background until her proportions seemed gigantic.

The mainsail hung idly down from the gaff, that had been held just

below the break in the mast by the jamming of the hoops. The main sheet

trailed overboard in long, tangled loops, the shrouds and halyards

drooped in picturesque confusion. Jib and mainsail were gray with the

night dew and the reflected light.

The little waves rolled up and broke along her sides and spent their

tiny force upon the beach. So they were doing yesterday, when Young Dan

was living; so they were doing to-day, when the boy was lying stretched

out in the berth, a ghastly, solitary tenant.

As the two tugs came nearer and nearer to her, the Lockport boat

gradually drew ahead of the health officer’s tug. They could see Cap’n

Dan go aft with one of his best men and stand by the painter of the

skiff that was towing astern. Humphrey noticed a couple of men standing

on the beach, near the wrecked sloop, and through the glasses he made

them out to be patrols from the life-saving station.

He could also see a big power boat coming down from the village that

lay inside the point, still farther to the eastward, and he wondered

if her business lay with the _Agnes T._ The leading tug slowed down as

she reached a point in the channel, off the wreck. Cap’n Dan and the

man near him dropped over into the skiff and pulled like madmen for the

sloop.

Just as they came alongside of her, the power boat swung up by the

wreck, and a man standing up in the bow called to the captain:

“Keep off that boat! There’s a dead man aboard of her, and I’m the

coroner. I warn you——” His words trailed off into silence as he caught

sight of Cap’n Dan’s face.

Even the crass spirit of a jack-in-office could not resist the mute

protest he saw in every line of it. Stern, rigid, a very mask of

immobility, given a dignity that made it noble by its grief and

suffering, the father’s face awed everything into silence.

Moving as in a trance, Cap’n Dan climbed over the rail of the sloop and

stepped down into the cabin.

As he disappeared from sight, the spell of silence laid on the coroner

was broken, and he began to mutter protests against “violations of the

law,” and declaring “he’d stop this thing right now, before it went any

further.”

Presently Cap’n Dan emerged from the cabin, carrying the limp body of

his son in his arms. As he stepped into the cockpit, the coroner’s

voice was hushed.

The father straightened himself up with a dignity that made the

movement noble, and faced the official with eyes that looked across the

boy’s body.

Between the time he had gone down into the cabin and came out of it,

twenty years seemed to have been added to his age. In his grief,

he looked like some old chieftain who had given up the life of his

favorite son in his country’s cause, and was now bearing the body home

to his castle to mourn over it.

A little shadow of deeper pain passed across his face as he looked at

the intruder on his woe, and then he said simply:

“He is my son.”

At the sound of his voice, and the look in his face, the coroner

recoiled from the captain as if he had been struck. The man in the

skiff uncovered his head. He thought Young Dan was dead.

The captain, still holding the boy in his arms, stepped down into the

skiff and held him close to his breast as the man at the oars pulled

slowly toward the tug. By this time the health officer’s boat had come

up to the skiff, and the doctor, leaning over the rail, said quietly:

“Let me see him, captain.”

Cap’n Dan looked up at the doctor.

“He’s dead,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Won’t you let us see him? There may be a chance,” the doctor pleaded.

Then Cap’n Dan held his son out to the two doctors, who laid him down

on a blanket on the deck.

There was a moment of silence as the two worked over the body; then,

with an exclamation of satisfaction, one of the doctors sprang to his

feet.

“I thought so!” he cried. “I thought he was still breathing! He’s badly

hurt, but the poor lad is not dead!”

Cap’n Dan stood as if turned to stone. A great tear rolled down his

face, but he said nothing. He watched with indescribable pathos as

the surgeons brought their skill into play, and finally, when Young

Dan began to babble an incoherent string of words, he drew one

weather-beaten hand across his eyes, as if in a daze.

A while later, Young Dan sighed and looked into his father’s face.

“Was I in time, dad?” he whispered softly.

Cap’n Dan smiled down at him, and lied so bravely that the recording

angel must have stopped to mend his pen just then, and forgot to mark

it down against him.

“Plenty, Dannie, plenty,” he replied.

And then he leaned still farther down and kissed him.

ODD BITS OF NEWS

JAMES CARROL, of Tacoma, Washington, drove a motor car weighing one and

one-half tons down a wooden staircase of seven hundred steps.

* * * * *

Truman C. Allen, of Oquawka, Illinois, has not taken a drink of water

in forty years. His sole drinks are coffee at breakfast and tea at

supper.

* * * * *

Conrad Dubosiki, a twenty-one-year-old Russian giant, who is working

on the farm of J. Polokof, in Lebanon, Connecticut, is seven feet two

inches tall.

* * * * *

Mrs. Joseph Cummings, of Bernardston, Massachusetts, has a thoughtful

hen which has laid an egg with a “C,” which is taken to stand for

Cummings, plainly marked on one end.

* * * * *

Mrs. A. A. Morse, of Lewiston, Maine, brought from Durham a specimen

of a tree resembling hemlock, which bears red berries the size of

huckleberries. Botanists of the neighborhood are at a loss as to the

name of the tree.

* * * * *

Alderman Henry A. Lewis, of Bridgeport. Connecticut, is said to own a

cat which is part Angora and the rest just plain cat, and which is so

strictly vegetarian that it refuses to eat meat or any delicacy covered

with meat gravy, but relishes corn on the cob, turnips, cold potatoes,

and watermelon rinds.

* * * * *

Charles H. Heeps, of Oxford, Massachusetts, one Thursday evening

recently bought an acre of land; Friday morning he bought some lumber,

and had it on the ground at eight o’clock, and with the help of his

wife, who held the uprights, he finished a two-room house, fifteen feet

by twenty, and moved his furniture into the building by Saturday night.

* * * * *

W. A. Rauls, judge of the probate court of Jasper County, South

Carolina, has lived successively in three counties without ever having

moved out of his house. At first the house was in Beaufort County; then

Hampton County was formed, and the judge’s house was included; and

finally Jasper County was created, and the house was in this area.

Applause

_Edited by Burt L. Standish_

“YOU want me to be a crook?”

Grant Seward’s jaw squared, as he shot this from between his set teeth,

and there was a dangerous flash in his dark eyes.

“I wouldn’t put it that way, Grant.”

“There isn’t any other way. You don’t call it _straight_—do you?”

This was what Grant Seward replied to his unscrupulous employer, when

the scoundrel wanted him to cheat the customers by filling up the

five-gallon Beaver Spring water bottles with ordinary river water.

There were other frauds suggested by the rascally storekeeper, too,

which Grant spurned.

The upshot of it is that Grant Seward finds himself in the business of

cutting ice on the St. Lawrence River, among the Thousand Islands, with

the thermometer near the bottom of the tube, and winds that threaten to

saw his ears off, even through his thick cap.

Besides battling with the ice and an arctic temperature, rather than be

a party to the groceryman’s mean trickery, Grant has to fight several

human enemies, who have a habit of “hitting below the belt.” You will

read all this and much more in the new novelette,

A BATTLE BELOW ZERO,

BY WELDON W. BRODERICK

to be published in the next issue. The story is full of thrilling

adventures, with some novel and narrow escapes for this thoroughly

American hero. He strikes all his own blows fairly and squarely, giving

the other fellow always a fair show—often when he hardly deserves it. I

can promise the novelette to be one of the breeziest, most convincing,

and absorbing that has ever come from this author’s facile pen.

There have been many calls from readers for more stories from Cornelius

Shea. In a recent issue, you were promised that this call would be

answered. It has been, for Shea has just completed a serial which he

has entitled

THE LOST PLACER

and it carries an appeal to every reader of fiction who has a drop of

red blood in his veins. The first chapters of this serial begin in

the next issue, and depict Western life in a manner that has made

Shea famous as a writer of stories dealing with stirring doings on the

borderland.

In the opinion of many, Leslie W. Quirk is the best writer of sport

stories in this country. Certainly it is true that he is an authority

on all sports, and you feel when you read his description of a contest

of any kind that the author knows what he is writing about, that he has

been right down there himself, and has not just sat up in the grand

stand, or read about it the next day in the morning paper. Not only

does Quirk know all sports, but he knows how to tell about them in a

most interesting manner. His plot is always a good one, and he draws

his characters so well that they “stick.”

THE YELLOW MORNING-GLORY

which you will find in the next issue, is, in my humble opinion, the

best running story that Quirk has ever written. It is quite a long

story, but, take my word for it, you will wish that he had made it

twice as long.

There is a particularly well-assorted and well-written collection of

short stories in the next issue. Let me hear what you think of my

selection, and which of the stories you like best, and, what is of more

importance, why?

[Illustration]

FROM OUR HONORARY EDITORS

FOR THE EDITOR: I have read TIPTOP for many years,

and, though the name has grown to mean more to me and my whole family

than I can tell, I agree with you in that the name “TIPTOP

SEMI-MONTHLY” is too unwieldy and suggests too much the old

five-cent-weekly form of publication, which is now obsolete. So let us

all cry long live WIDE-AWAKE!

BARTON HEDGES.

Buffalo, N. Y.

GLAD IT DID

FOR THE EDITOR: I am greatly pleased with your magazine, and

think it is a fine publication. I have been taking it since its first

issue, and took the weekly for twelve years. Of course, as an old

reader, I prefer the Merriwell stories, and would like a novelette of

that family every other issue. The cover on the November 10th issue was

fine. Have yet to strike a poor issue. “From Hank to Geo” is great!

So are the stories about Clem Frobisher. Can’t we have another animal

story by Harold de Polo? Every lover of nature likes them. Excuse this

long letter, but it had to come. Will close now.

RALPH SMITH.

Lawrence, Mass.

[Illustration]

OF INTEREST TO ALL

You readers, gentle and otherwise, certainly were weak on fish, but,

oh you birds! Here are the names of the five readers whose letters

showed the greatest amount of ingenuity in solving the “Concealed

Birds” puzzle in the October 25th issue: Miss Irene Evans, Grassmere,

Washington; J. E. Price, 89 Academy Street, Malone, New York; Frank

Chalfaut, 404 North Marion Street, Bluffton, Indiana; F. Gleason,

5702 Ayala Street, Oakland, California; and F. R. Rudderham, U. S. S.

_Georgia_, Care Postmaster, New York, N. Y.

* * * * *

Those who sent in correct answers to the puzzle are:

A. Stanley Bowles, Geo. Conner, G. S. Tuttle, Frank

Lonsford, Mrs. H. L. Drake, John Verner, Thos. L.

Welch, Theodore Blake, Shaw Livermore, G. H. Brunner,

M. Case, H. English, Gerald Garsch, A. Martin, F. W.

Kramer, E. E. Crompton, Thos. W. Bond, C. H. Lenze,

E. Walter, G. E. Missing, J. A. Winkler, G. A. Marsh,

Chas. E. Drummond, Ross Merrick, H. N. Jennings, Earl

Seckel, Russel Hardy, Albert Muench, E. G. Smith,

Forrest Forsyth, John R. Jordon, Myron Bilderbeck, G.

C. Matheson, Jas. K. Darling, Ivan McCune, R. Hovel,

Edwin Beggerow, Frank H. Bartz, Murray Weems, Jr., R.

Ford, Roscoe R. Keeney, F. H. Bice, H. Johnson, J.

M. Keley, C. E. Shipley, H. Goodwin, E. A. Collins,

Guy Greeman, Wallace J. Geck, J. W. Covert, Miss Lora

Clarke, Miss C. E. McComas, Wm. A. Mullen, Lawrence

Mody, J. T. Thompson, C. L. Harrer, B. Elkin, M.

Steinberg, J. F. Travers, C. F. Jones, Geo. Pregrin,

C. J. Butts, Myron A. Jenkins, R. Khugler, Sam Powell,

C. L. Barton, Neil Parsons, H. Page, Coy Williams, P.

H. Riel, Clarence H. Clay, O. Deutschmann, J. Burke,

Clifton Alford, R. Altmeyer, James Mossburger, Harold

Nelson, Chas. Smith, Anton Paterson, O. W. Slusser,

C. Kilburn, Mrs. O. D. Rhea, Walter E. Goodwin, Mrs.

A. J. Nurse, Milond Nellans, E. W. Inyart, Miss Mabel

Mullikin, Harold Thune, W. Culbert, H. E. Davis, Harold

Stonehill, N. Woledehoff, G. L. Fowler, R. W. Older,

Geo. H. Hogan, F. Quantmeyer, H. L. Wickey, Alden

Bermingham, W. E. Outman, Herbert Reine, C. Noethling,

J. S. Riddle, H. A. Bridenbecker, Frank Spoon, L. R.

Cantwell, Chas. Schnell, U. G. Figley, Vernon Beightol,

Theodore Phillips, Clifford Johnson, C. W. Gillman, D.

A. Gardner, Rollin W. Cowles, J. F. Howell, S. Melvin,

J. W. Schroeder, Vernon Headapohl, Otto A. Lohmeyer,

Jr., Frank Mora, Harold A. MacNain, I. M. King, T.

M. Poyle, Hy. Bokarny, F. W. Brooks, Paul Malloy,

Elbert Bedwell, Carl Shoemaker, Frank Branson, S. S.

Reilley, W. E. Quigley, C. M. Haller, R. W. Lawrence,

C. Ingwersen, Roger Saldarine, Ray Barriger, Chas.

Duffy, James McNamara, W. Verschooe, James Shortell,

S. E. Wood, F. E. Cowley, Jr., Mrs. Carle F. Williams,

T. Hayes, A. C. Smith, T. F. Chesebrough, Andrew de

Comsey, E. J. Kohler, E. F. Johnson, R. Anderson, Miss

Winifred Whitham, C. Murphy, Howard Holiday, Wilmer

Taylor, Carlo Izzi, Miss Elizabeth Greer, Miss Marion

Reaves, E. O. Hayden, N. Hatlestad, Phil. Thomas, Carl

Cohn, John L. Foley, R. C. Vallmore, and Miss Edith

Whipple.

* * * * *

Here is the answer to the puzzle, which was entitled “Concealed Birds.”

1. Robin. 2. Turkey. 3. Magpie. 4. Harpy. 5. Hawk. 6.

Crane. 7. Crow. 8. Tern. 9. Kite. 10. Chickadee. 11.

Linnet. 12. Curlew. 13. Loon. 14. Hornbill.

<b>But don’t get discouraged, for, once again you

have an opportunity to secure a free subscription to

WIDE-AWAKE MAGAZINE for a year.</b>

One year’s subscription to WIDE-AWAKE MAGAZINE will be given

to each of the five readers whose letters indicate that the writers

exercised the greatest amount of ingenuity in arriving at the correct

solution of the following puzzle. These letters should not be over one

hundred words in length, and will not be judged from the standards of

penmanship and grammar. The answers must be received by January 24th.

To inform our correspondents as to whether they worked out the puzzle

to a proper conclusion, we will print the names of all those who send

in correct answers.

How are you on sports? What, every one of you has his right hand up!

Well, then, try this:

SPORTS PUZZLE

This sports puzzle consists in guessing the names of certain games, or

sports, as shown in the following example:

The initials of all nouns in the sentence given below, when placed in

their proper order, form the name of a sport. One letter, however, is

omitted. This letter must be supplied.

The _u_ndercurrent washed away the _t_restle, the only _s_afeguard

against the _q_uicksands surrounding the _i_sland.

The initials of all the nouns in the order in which they appear in the

above sentence are U T S Q I. Arranging them in proper sequence, the

result will be: QUITS. Supplying the missing letter, O, the name is

Quoits, a well-known sport.

In like manner, the name of a popular game, or sport, is contained in

each of the following sentences:

1. The farmer had a good output of tomatoes, beats, and lettuce; but

his onions, beside the apples he produced, were the most profitable of

what he sold.

2. Landscapes, lighthouses, armories, and drawings of houses filled the

book, and afforded considerable amusement.

3. The crow circled the edge of a thicket, soaring over the rocks, and

landed on the crest of a little knoll.

4. Life in the summertime, when amusement supplants tedious lessons, is

most enjoyable, with its appeal for bathing and boating.

5. Elks, skunks, otters, lions, and rabbits are some of the animals

whose cages we visited.

6. Each section of the notebook contained entries of special interest

at the time it was exposed.

7. The foul gave the apparent losers the game.

8. The eyes of the listeners stared out of their sockets, as the

lecturer continued his account of the thrilling adventures depicted in

“Bandits’ Trails and Blood.”

9. The song of the canary was carried across the courtyard, to the room

occupied by the old studious ecclesiastic.

10. Quinine is the best remedy for a cold, although it is a widespread

opinion that other things can be used to bring about the same end.

YOUNGEST UNIVERSITY STUDENT

STUDENTS and faculty of the University of Chicago are expecting much of

Benjamin Perk, of Indianapolis, thirteen years and four months old, who

has registered as a freshman. Perk was graduated last spring from the

Indianapolis Manual Training High School, and was awarded a scholarship

at the university. He is enrolled in the junior college of philosophy.

Perk follows in the footsteps of Harold Fishbein, who came from

Indianapolis a year ago at the age of fifteen and has continued his

remarkable record at the university. Perk is the youngest student ever

matriculated at Chicago.

Are You Too Fat?

Reducing Outfit Sent Free

[Illustration]

With permission it will be my pleasure to mail two very important

free gifts to every over-fleshy reader of this publication (male or

female) who writes a postal to me. If you, reader, are putting on fat

or are excessively fleshy at the present time, then you certainly

must have this free outfit, because it includes absolutely everything

necessary to give you an immediate demonstration of what the very

latest and greatest (1915) health and Nature methods are so marvelously

accomplishing for stubborn obesity cases. One of these free gifts is

a neatly bound copy of my world-famed “new-thought” Treatise, telling

in easy language the simple things you can do for yourself, and much

you must NOT do when reducing. No other book is like it—every person

over-weight should study it. The other gift is surely going to please

and surprise you. It is a complete, ready-to-use testing package of my

wonderful reducing materials, the like of which you have never seen

before. They are delightful to use and are meeting with tremendous

favor. Your own doctor could not possibly object to my healthful

preparations. He will tell you it may be positively dangerous to use

old-fashioned methods of starvation, excessive sweating and continuous

strong purging of the bowels with drastic, poisonous cathartics. How

can a weak heart stand this enormous strain? Why take such chances when

my absolutely safe, health-giving method is ready for you and waiting?

There is no delay. It starts at once. I purpose it to put the system in

vigorous health, to vitalize weakened organs and strengthen the heart

by perfectly reducing every pound of superfluous flesh on all parts of

the body, double chins, large stomachs, fat hips, etc. You will never

know until you try it. Remember, just a postal request will bring

all to you absolutely free by return mail, in a plain wrapper. You

can then judge by actual results, and may order more of the reducing

preparations later if you need them.

=CAUTION! My Method is being widely imitated. None

genuine unless coming from my laboratory.=

Please write your address plainly.

=F. T. BROUGH, M. D., 51 Brough Building, 20 East 22nd St., NEW YORK=

_IN THE NEXT ISSUE_

THE OPENING CHAPTERS OF A SERIAL BY

CORNELIUS SHEA

ENTITLED

THE LOST PLACER

For years Cornelius Shea has been one of the most popular authors of

stories of adventure in the West. Mr. Shea wrote a serial for you, “The

Kid From Bar B,” which we published during the early summer months. At

that time you were asked if you wanted more stories by Mr. Shea. We

received a flood of replies in answer to this question, and all of the

letters spoke most highly of Mr. Shea’s work, and requested more of it.

Mr. Shea says that “THE LOST PLACER” is a far better story than “The

Kid From Bar B.” We agree with him. What do you say?

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 25, “familiarty” changed to “familiarity” (told of his familiarity)

Page 58, “McShane” changed to “McShayne” (arranged with McShayne)

Page 79, “Rosmommon” changed to “Roscommon” (you reach Roscommon)

Page 87, “gold” changed to “golf” (golf clubs, boxing)

Page 94, “Venon” changed to “Vernon” (reason for Vernon)

Page 100, “vagabone” changed to “vagabond” (Nonsense, you vagabond!)