CHAPTER IX.

DEAD ASHES.

Chick Carter whipped out his searchlight, crouching above the prostrate

man he had found in the alley.

At the same moment a low moan broke from the victim of Bug Bannon’s

treacherous assault. Patsy’s head was harder than the cowardly young

ruffian had thought. Patsy was fast on his way to reviving.

The glare from the searchlight fell on his upturned face, and a low cry

of dismay came from Chick.

“Great guns!” he muttered. “It’s Patsy.”

Patsy heard him, and the sound of the familiar voice was like a

stimulant. It brought him completely out of dreamland.

“Oh, it’s you, Chick,” he said faintly. “Gee! that was a hard crack on

the bean--but I’m still in the ring.”

Chick heard him with a thrill of relief.

“By Jove, I thought you were done up, Patsy,” he replied, raising him to

a sitting position. “How are you feeling?”

“Better every second. I’ll be on my pins in a minute.”

“What happened? How did it occur?” Chick inquired.

It took Patsy only a few moments to inform him, and for Chick to state

how he had discovered Vera Vantoon and afterward lost sight of her.

Before they had finished, Patsy was on his feet, but with a look of

disgust on his rather pale face.

“Hang it, then, we’ve lost both of them,” he said dubiously. “What’s to

be done? The chief may be in dead wrong by this time.”

“The fact that both of them vanished in this locality is significant,”

Chick replied. “If only one had come here, I might think nothing of it.

Under the circumstances, however, it’s ten to one that the gang has

quarters in this section.”

“Gee! there’s something in that,” said Patsy, quick to see the point.

“In one of these old buildings, perhaps.”

“Are you fit for a search?” asked Chick, still a bit anxious.

“As fit as a fiddle,” Patsy assured him.

“Take one of my revolvers, then,” said Chick, giving it to him. “We may

run foul of some one.”

“I’ll be ready for him. I hope it may be that whelp that downed me. I

can see where he’d get his.”

Chick laughed softly.

“Come on,” he muttered, leading the way. “We’ll steal through the alley

and have a look at the back of these buildings.”

Patsy followed him.

For something like five minutes they searched cautiously and noiselessly

back of the gloomy buildings and between the sheds and hovels, but could

find in the darkness no trace of the vanished rascals, no clew to their

whereabouts.

They then had brought up near the rag shed in which Nick had found the

disguised crook, and some twenty yards from the grim and gloom-shrouded

stone building.

“Gee! this don’t look good to me!” Patsy whispered, at Chick’s elbow.

“They sure have given us the slip.”

“It does look so,” Chick quietly admitted.

“There isn’t a sign of light from any of these miserable cribs. It ought

to find its way out through some chink or nail hole, if they are under

cover in any of them.”

“True.”

“We had better----”

“Hush! Stop a bit.”

“What now?” Patsy whispered, noting the changed expression on Chick’s

face.

“There’s something doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look there.”

Chick pointed to the stone building, not to its grim walls and black

windows, from which not a twinkle of light could be seen--but higher, to

a point above its low, flat roof.

In the middle of it was a scuttle and glass skylight--and Stuart Floyd

had made one mistake that was to bring disaster.

In opening the trapdoor in the ceiling, which was nearly directly above

the melting pot, he had forgotten the skylight in a line with the

trapdoor.

Chick and Patsy had not, till then, looked up in that direction for a

clew.

Now, however, both could see the faint glow that came up from below and

stood out in relief, as it were, against the surrounding night gloom.

It was like the glow shed out from the open door of a brightly lighted

hall.

“Holy smoke!” Patsy muttered, with a quick thrill. “There’s some one in

the old stone crib.”

“More than one, Patsy, I suspect,” Chick whispered.

“Can we get in?”

“Wait here while I have a look.”

“Go ahead.”

Chick glided away in the darkness, presently returning.

“I don’t think we can get in on the ground floor,” he said quietly. “The

door and window shutters are of sheet iron, and all are securely

closed.”

“Gee! that sure smacks of something doing.”

“I’m convinced of it, now.”

“Could you hear anything from inside?”

“Not a sound,” said Chick. “There is a way, however, by which we can

look in.”

“You mean?”

Chick pointed toward the roof.

“There’s a skylight,” he said quietly.

“Must be,” Patsy tersely agreed. “But how can we get up there?”

“It’s not more than eighteen feet to the edge of the roof. I climbed

over several planks back here that are that long.”

“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Patsy, elated. “I’ve got you. We can lean one of

the planks against the rear wall and get up there by means of it.”

“Easily.”

“We’ll not be heard, either, through that stone wall.”

“Not if we are careful.”

“Come on,” whispered Patsy impatiently. “Let’s get the plank.”

It did not take them long to find one that would serve their purpose,

nor to lug it to the rear of the low building and place at an angle

against the stone wall. It reached within a foot of the edge of the

roof, and that was more than ample.

“Shoes off, Patsy,” whispered Chick.

Both were ready within half a minute.

In another minute both were crouching on the roof.

Noiselessly they crept to the skylight and gazed down through the

trapdoor on the red-glowing scene below.

“Thundering guns!” whispered Patsy, staring. “The rats are there, all

right. They are melting a lot of silver plate.”

“Part of the Waldmere plate.”

“Surest thing you know.”

They could not see Nick, owing to the location of the trap in the upper

floor, but while listening intently--they heard him addressed by Floyd

and his name mentioned.

“Holy smoke!” Patsy then whispered. “They’ve got the chief.”

“I heard,” Chick nodded, feeling over the skylight.

“Hadn’t we better get help and force an entrance?”

“Floyd might send a bullet into Nick, in that case, before he could be

prevented. There’s a better way.”

“What way?”

Chick held up one of the small panes of the skylight. He had found the

putty dry and crumbling, and, after a moment, he had quietly removed the

pane. Feeling through the opening, he then found that he could release

the hook that secured the scuttle.

“That upper floor is less than seven feet below the skylight,” he

whispered. “We can let ourselves down to it without a drop. The noise

down there will prevent our being heard, providing we are careful. There

must be a stairway to the lower floor. We can steal down and hold up the

whole gang.”

Patsy nodded his approval.

“Better way is right,” he murmured. “It looks like soft walking.”

“It will enable us to protect Nick, also.”

“That’s the stuff. Safety first.”

“Are you ready?”

“Ready as a trivet.”

Working cautiously and deliberately, Chick succeeded in lifting the

skylight without making a sound, and he laid it over on the roof.

“I’ll go first, Patsy,” he murmured.

Patsy merely nodded.

Chick let himself over the sill, then grasped the frame of the scuttle

and lowered himself till his feet touched the floor some eighteen inches

from the trapdoor.

Patsy followed him.

The scene below was, indeed, one that diverted the attention of the

crooks from anything overhead.

It was at that very moment that Stuart Floyd, fiercely threatening the

detective, had seized the ladle of liquid silver from the melting pot

and was approaching with the evident intention of making good his

infamous threat.

Chick Carter did not give him time to do so.

His revolver was out on the instant and its report rang like thunder

above all other sounds.

Floyd went to the floor with a bullet in his shoulder, and the ladle

fell from his lax hand.

Chick dropped to the edge of the trapdoor and thrust the smoking weapon

through it.

“Hands up!” he yelled fiercely. “Up with them! He’ll be a dead man who

stirs!”

Patsy had darted toward the dimly lighted stairway and already was

nearly down.

“Dead man is right!” he shouted, weapon leveled. “Move foot or finger,

man or woman, and I’ll shoot to kill!”

Without exception, the several crooks had knuckled to the sudden

startling situation. As a matter of fact, they supposed the building was

surrounded and that a posse of police were breaking in on them. Once

their hands were up, however, it was all over but the shouting, as Patsy

afterward said.

Within five minutes the crooks were secured, Floyd among them, he having

suffered only a flesh wound.

Half an hour later all were in the Tombs, including Minerva Grand, the

first step toward the punishment they deserved.

Midnight saw the priceless plate, or that most cherished by Waldmere,

taken safely into his residence--and thus, crowning with complete

success the splendid work of Nick Carter and his assistants, the

sensational case ended.

The fire under the melting pot had become dead ashes.

THE END.

Notwithstanding the fact that Floyd and his gang had apparently been

rounded up, Nick Carter and his associates were to have yet more trouble

with this gang of blackmailers, crooks, and thieves. You will learn

about these later developments in “The Duplicate Night; or, Nick

Carter’s Double Reflection,” which you will find in the next issue, No.

141, of the NICK CARTER STORIES, out May 22d. Then, too, there will be

the usual installment of the serial, together with other special

articles which you will enjoy.

“TURN TO THE JURY, SIR!”

Some years ago a witness was being examined in a case of slander, when

the judge required him to repeat the precise words spoken.

The witness hesitated until he riveted the attention of the whole court

upon him; then fixing his eyes earnestly on the judge, began:

“May it please your honor, ‘you lie and steal and get your living by

stealing!’”

The face of the judge reddened, and he immediately exclaimed:

“Turn to the jury, sir!”

Where’s the Commandant?

By C. C. WADDELL.

CHAPTER I.

THE GLINT IN THE DARKNESS.

Colonel Vedant and his adjutant, Captain Ormsby Grail, hurried down to

the Dolliver Foundry, one of the large industrial plants along

Brantford’s bustling seven miles of water front, in response to an

urgent message from Otto Schilder, manager of the plant. It was ten

o’clock at night, but as the Dolliver people were turning out some

castings for a wireless telegraph mast of new design, to be erected at

Fort Denton, and required frequent consultations with the commandant,

there seemed nothing especially strange in the request.

On the arrival of the officers, however, they learned, to their

surprise, that there was no desire for the colonel’s presence, and the

manager flatly disclaimed having sent for him. The old soldier stared

incredulously, his somewhat florid face taking on a deeper flush behind

his gray military mustache.

“Pardon me, Mr. Schilder”--he made little effort to conceal his

irritation--“but do I understand you to say that it would have been

impossible for any such message to be sent me from the foundry this

evening?”

The manager removed his cigar, and rose from his desk to face the other.

“Positively so, colonel.” He spoke emphatically, and with a slight

German accent. “There has been nobody in the office since six o’clock

except myself and Miss Griffin”--with a wave of the hand toward his

stenographer--“and we have been wholly engrossed in making up some

arrears in correspondence.”

“You hear, Grail?” The colonel turned toward his adjutant. “Are you

responsible for this blunder? Got the name twisted, or something of that

sort, eh?”

“Hardly, sir.” The younger officer appeared no less perplexed than his

superior, but his tone was one of firm conviction. “The note was written

on a letterhead of the Dolliver Foundry, and was ostensibly from Mr.

Schilder; I am familiar with his signature. As to the contents, I could

not well have been mistaken. You remember, I read the message over to

you twice. The contents make small difference, anyhow, since Mr.

Schilder denies having sent us a communication of any sort.”

“Small difference,” admitted the colonel, “except as offering a possible

clew to the perpetrator of this hoax, for it cannot well be anything

else, unless, indeed----” He paused abruptly, the umbrage he had shown

giving way to something like concern. “Come, captain!” He addressed his

companion a trifle peremptorily, at the same time backing toward the

door. “We are detaining Mr. Schilder. Permit us to apologize for the

interruption, sir, and let us----”

At this point, a remarkable thing happened. The electric lights went

out, cutting short the colonel’s apology, and shrouding not only the

office, but the foundry yard outside in darkness.

For a moment Grail was absolutely blinded; then, as his vision cleared

and the square of the open doorway became faintly visible, he saw cut

across it a tiny flash of fire like the glow of a lightning bug in

flight. No other sight or sound punctuated the interval, and almost

immediately the lights came on again.

“Ah!” Schilder blinked before the sudden radiance. “The dynamo must have

slipped a belt, or----” He halted, with a little gasp. “Why,” he

exclaimed, “what has become of the colonel?”

It was certainly astonishing. Not one of the three other occupants of

the room had stirred. Grail and the manager stood in exactly the same

position as before, and the stenographer still sat at her table with her

fingers resting on the keys of her typewriter, but the colonel was gone.

With a common impulse, the two men stepped swiftly to the door, and

glanced out across the yard. There had not been sufficient time for any

one to cross it and reach the gate, yet the colonel was nowhere to be

seen, and his erect, soldierly figure could not possibly have gone

unrecognized in that wide-open space, and under the glare of the half

dozen or more arc lamps now brightly burning. Nor could there be any

question of his having strayed from the direct path in the darkness and

being now hidden from their view by a pile of rubbish or material, for

the inclosure was remarkably free from obstruction. Indeed, the last of

what had been a towering scrap heap was being cleaned up, and, with the

aid of an electric crane, loaded on cars by the force of men then at

work.

“Well, what do you know about that!” Schilder muttered. Then, closely

followed by Grail, he hurried across the yard to interrogate the old

watchman at the gate. But the latter was firm in his protestation that

no one had passed him. Even with the yard lights all out, he could

still, he declared, have seen anybody leaving the place by the

illumination from the street lamp on the corner.

“Then,” said Grail, “he must have gone out some other way.”

The manager waved his hand significantly toward the high board fence

which completely surrounded the yard, and which was topped with sharp

spikes to keep out pilferers. There was but one exit--the gate at which

they had already made inquiry; the big doors leading into the foundry

building were barred and padlocked.

“Perhaps he is still in the office,” ventured Grail. “He might have had

a seizure of some kind in the darkness, you know, and fallen behind a

piece of furniture.”

But even as he voiced the suggestion he realized its utter absurdity.

Schilder’s office contained nothing except the desk which could have

concealed the body of a man, and the desk was pushed back close against

the wall. Nevertheless, they made an inspection of the place, but

entirely without result. Then, when the manager called in every man

working in the yard, and questioned him, to no purpose, the searchers

seemed to have come to the end of their tether.

“But it is preposterous, you know!” exclaimed Grail, attempting to throw

off his misgivings. “There is, of course, some absolutely simple

explanation, and the colonel is, no doubt, out at the post by this time,

swearing about me for not putting in an appearance. May I use your

telephone, Mr. Schilder?”

Inquiry at the fort elicited that Colonel Vedant had not returned, and

no information regarding him could be gained from his quarters, the

club, or any of his customary haunts. When Grail had gone through the

entire list, and called up the post again, only to receive the same

negative answer, he made no effort to conceal his growing anxiety. A

suspicion of foul play strengthened in his mind. “If not that,” he

asked, “why should the colonel, of his own accord, disappear in this

absurdly mysterious manner? Colonel Vedant is not the sort of man to be

waylaid or carried off without making at least a show of resistance, and

I certainly heard no outcry or sound of a struggle. Did you?”

Schilder shook his head. “No, no; there’s nothing in that,” he said

impatiently. “How, please tell me, could such a scheme have been planned

in advance, and put into effect, when we allow no strangers hanging

around here under any pretext? But, overlooking all that,” he argued,

“and even granting that the old gentleman might have been knocked out by

the sudden, silent blow of a blackjack or sandbag, how was he so quickly

spirited away? The lights were out hardly more than long enough for one

to draw a deep breath--surely not a sufficient time to get farther than

ten or twelve steps from the door. Is it possible that with all those

yard lights going again, the colonel could have been dragged or carried

the length of the inclosure, and none of the men at work out there have

noticed it?”

Grail made no immediate answer. He stepped to the door, and, leaning

over, narrowly inspected the cinder-covered ground about the threshold.

But no marks or footprints indicating a struggle rewarded his searching

gaze; the surface was absolutely undisturbed. Then, all at once, he

espied, a foot or two away, a small object. He glanced back over his

shoulder, and, seeing that Schilder had turned to address a word of

direction to the stenographer, reached out and quickly transferred it to

his pocket.

It was a half-smoked cigarette--a cigarette of dull-gray paper, with a

peculiar long pasteboard mouthpiece.

CHAPTER II.

THE CLEW THAT FAILED.

“There’s no need to keep you any longer, Miss Griffin,” Schilder said to

the stenographer, as Grail came back toward him. “And--er--Miss Griffin,

I guess it would be just as well if you didn’t mention this occurrence

to any one on the outside. We want no unnecessary notoriety, eh,

captain?”

The adjutant agreed with him. “If you don’t mind, though, Mr. Schilder,”

he said, “and if Miss Griffin will oblige me, I’d like to have her take

down a note for me to Major Appleby. This matter ought to be reported to

him at once, and I don’t like to use the telephone. It will be very

brief, Miss Griffin,” he continued, turning to the girl. “You can take

it direct on the machine. Only I will ask you to give me a carbon copy;

we have to be very particular in the army in regard to all

communications, you know.”

Then, when she had slipped in her sheets of paper, and sat ready at her

typewriter, he swung around so as to face Schilder, and crisply

dictated:

“Please come at once, on receipt of this, to the office of the Dolliver

Foundry, as I desire to confer with you on a matter of the greatest

importance.”

His eyes never for a moment left Schilder’s face while the message was

being transcribed, but if he had expected to see anything there, he was

doomed to disappointment. The countenance of the manager remained as

expressionless as a mask.

“What do you think of that?” Grail finally asked him.

“Well”--the other man was lighting a cigar--“it certainly seems urgent

enough.”

“Yes,” said Grail dryly; “except for the address and signature, it is,

word for word, the same as the note received by Colonel Vedant.

“Ah, thank you, Miss Griffin,” he added, as he took the two sheets of

paper which she handed him, and, signing the original, slipped it into

an envelope. “I’m going to ask you, too, if you don’t mind, to stop at

the A. D. T. office on your way to the car, and have them rush this

right out to the fort.”

After this, nothing more was said until the girl had donned her hat and

jacket and taken her departure. Grail thoughtfully folded up and put

into his pocket the carbon copy, which he had been studying meanwhile

under the light at the desk.

“I observe, Mr. Schilder,” he said, “that the capital D on your

typewriter blurs badly, and that the m is slightly chipped on one side.

It will be interesting to compare this copy with the note received by

the colonel, to see if both show the same defects.”

The manager, however, merely shrugged his shoulders. “You still cling to

the idea that the note must have come from here, eh? Well, you’re on the

wrong scent, captain--entirely on the wrong scent. A sheet of our letter

paper would be no very difficult thing to get hold of, and when you come

to look into the matter I think you’ll find that the original note was

written at post headquarters.”

“At post headquarters! What do you mean by that?” demanded Grail.

“My dear captain,” Schilder answered, “hasn’t it struck you yet that the

most likely person in the world to write that note to Colonel Vedant

was--Colonel Vedant himself? Between ourselves, now--you are better

acquainted with conditions than I--isn’t there something which might

have induced the old fellow to drop quietly out of sight?”

“Ah!” Grail spoke slowly. “So that is your solution, is it?”

“A more plausible one, at any rate, than to imagine he was kidnaped, or

something of that sort,” Schilder contended. “It wouldn’t have been much

of a trick for him to have slipped off his coat so as to look like one

of the workmen, and then to have dodged through the gate when old Dennis

wasn’t looking. Men have done such things before, captain.”

“Not men like Colonel Vedant,” Grail insisted warmly. “He is the type

that fights rather than runs away. Besides, in this case there is

absolutely no ground for such a suspicion. His record is unassailable,

and he is due for honorable retirement in a few months. He has no

financial troubles. His health, for all his fifty odd years, is perfect,

and no one who knows him could doubt his sanity for a moment. What

possible reason could there be for such a man to chuck the game?”

“Perhaps a woman?” suggested Schilder.

“Rot! The only woman the colonel is interested in is his daughter, and

he would never do anything to cause her the slightest distress or

uneasiness. Why, man, on her account alone, if for no other reason, the

theory you offer is simply ridiculous.”

There was some further discussion along the same line, but of little

consequence. Shortly after, Major Appleby, with a couple of officers

from the fort, arrived in a motor car.

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the major, a short and rather

apoplectic-looking warrior, when the situation had duly been made clear

to him. “We must lose no time in getting to the bottom of this.”

“Mr. Schilder,” remarked Grail quietly, “is firmly convinced that the

colonel took himself off voluntarily.”

“Nonsense!” protested Major Appleby, and his companions promptly echoed

the opinion. “Vedant is the last man in the world to have done a thing

of that sort.”

“All right,” conceded the manager; “you gentlemen are probably more

competent to judge on that point than I. Just the same, I surely am

curious to see what other explanation you can get to fit the facts.”

“Ah!” The major cocked his head importantly on one side. “That will no

doubt come out in the investigation. The chief thing now is to learn

just what the exact facts are.”

The inquiry he set on foot, however, elicited nothing new, and in the

end the newcomers had to confess themselves as completely baffled as

Grail and Schilder. Still, it did not escape the shrewd eyes of the

foundry manager, as the fruitless investigation proceeded, that certain

more or less vague suspicions were forming in the minds of Appleby and

his associates; and he gathered, too, not so much from anything that was

said or done as by a sort of coolness in the atmosphere, that these were

in some way hostile to the adjutant.

A sly smile flickered across his lips under the cover of his beard, and,

with an air of impatience, he broke in on the aimless conjectures of the

three officers.

“Come, come, gentlemen,” he said; “all this amounts to nothing. And,

since you seem determined to make it a case of foul play, I guess I had

better start to do something on my own hook.”

“You!” The major glared at him haughtily. “What have you got to do with

it?”

Schilder laughed. “The Dolliver Foundry can hardly afford, my dear sir,

to have a mystery of this sort taking place on its premises without at

least a show of effort on my part to clear it up. Delay, moreover,

merely makes the matter look worse for us; so, although I dislike

needless notoriety as much as any of the rest of you, I----” Instead of

completing the sentence, he reached out for the telephone on his desk.

“What are you going to do?” demanded Appleby sharply.

“Call up the chief of police, and place the matter in his hands.”

“The chief of police!” The major gave a violent start, and glanced

uneasily at his companions. Only Grail seemed unperturbed, and the side

glance he cast at Schilder was distinctly skeptical. It was almost as

though he said: “I dare you to make good your bluff.”

The major lost no time, however, in entering a remonstrance.

“Oh, I beg of you, Mr. Schilder,” he urged, “let us not do anything

rash! There are--er--certain matters which I am loath to mention here,

but which, provided the officers at the fort have sufficient time to

sift them out, will, I am sure, bring a speedy solution. You bear me out

in this, do you not, gentlemen?” he appealed to his two companions.

They assented, and it was noticeable that in doing so both carefully

avoided looking in the direction of the adjutant.

Schilder, a mocking twinkle in his eye, turned toward Grail.

“And you, captain?” he asked. “Can you give me the same assurance?”

The young officer met his gaze steadily. “Why not?” he said. “To my

mind, the investigation simply resolves itself into a matter of

determining the authorship of the note received by the colonel, and

surely we at the fort are as competent to handle that as some blundering

policeman.”

Major Appleby gave a grunt of recollection, and his manner toward Grail

relaxed.

“Ah, yes,” he said, with evident relief. “I had forgotten for the moment

the existence of that clew. The note is at headquarters, I presume,

captain?”

Grail nodded. “I left it on my desk, when the colonel and I came away.”

“Then, come,” urged the major, moving toward the door; “let us lose no

time in taking a look at it. We can trust you, I suppose, Mr. Schilder,

to take no action until you hear from us?”

“Anything in reason, major,” the manager agreed. “And I certainly hope

for all our sakes that you meet with quick success.”

After he had returned from seeing the party off in their automobile,

however, and had closed his desk for the night, he lingered a moment in

the office before taking his departure.

“I wonder,” he muttered thoughtfully, “if that man Grail is stringing

me, or am I stringing him?”

Meanwhile, as the motor car swiftly left the factory chimneys and

slumlike streets of the river front behind, and climbed the hilly

streets back toward the fort, Major Appleby turned toward the adjutant,

who sat beside him in the tonneau.

“What do you make of it all, captain?” he asked, in a conciliatory tone.

“You were on the ground, and ought to be able to form a better judgment

than any of the rest of us.”

“It’s gumshoe work,” Grail answered; “a trick of some of those foreign

spies who have been hanging around ever since Colonel Vedant started on

his present series of experiments. They thought, no doubt, that, with a

hurry call of this sort, they might catch him with some of the papers on

his person.”

“Then, you believe that Schilder is----”

Grail shook his head. “Too obvious,” he objected. “Whatever else

Schilder may be, he is not a fool.”

“But whom else can we suspect, under the circumstances?” queried

Appleby. “Have you any theory at all, captain, that will account for the

mystery?”

The adjutant hesitated a moment. “I think I will wait to answer those

questions, major, until after we have examined the colonel’s note.”

“Ah, true!” assented the other. “That must naturally be our starting

point. And here we are!”

The automobile turned in from the tree-shaded street, and sped down the

roadway past officers’ row. It halted in front of headquarters, and the

four passengers piled hurriedly out. Grail, abstractedly acknowledging

the salute of the soldier on guard, pressed forward in the lead, and,

unlocking the door, swung it open. There was no need to switch on the

lights, as the room was already sufficiently illuminated by a night bulb

which hung in front of the safe.

The adjutant, closely followed by the others, advanced to the desk, then

paused, with a little gasp of bewilderment.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “the note is gone! I am positive I left it here.”

He turned to the colonel’s “striker,” who lounged sleepily in the

adjoining room, to inquire if any one had been there in his absence.

“Not a soul, sir,” was the answer.

“Then, have you yourself been in here, or touched any of the papers on

the desk?”

“Haven’t stirred from my seat, sir, since you and the colonel went.”

That seemed to settle pretty well the question of outside interference,

for, with the guard outside and this man seated where he could command

the whole interior of the place, no person could have entered

undetected. Yet the note was indubitably gone. The drawers of the desk

were ransacked, the files gone over, even the floor thoroughly searched,

without revealing the slightest trace of it. With all the doors and

windows closed, there was no chance of it having been carried away by

some frolicsome breeze.

Major Appleby regarded Grail with a portentous frown. “Captain,” he said

stiffly, “this is very, very strange.”

CHAPTER III.

UNDER SUSPICION.

There was little sleep at Fort Denton that night. Two o’clock found the

lights still burning brightly in Major Appleby’s quarters, where most of

the officers of the post were assembled. Conspicuous by his absence from

this gathering, however, was the adjutant, Captain Grail. He had been

there at an earlier hour to join in the deliberations, but after once

more making a report of the circumstances connected with Colonel

Vedant’s disappearance, he somewhat stiffly withdrew. He sensed in the

conference that same feeling of doubt and hostility toward him which had

manifested itself in Appleby and his companions on first hearing the

story, and his self-respect would not permit him to remain.

After his departure, a rather uneasy silence settled down on the

council. A few pointless remarks were made, but for the most part the

group devoted themselves to their cigars, and studied the pattern of the

carpet.

Finally, however, Captain Dobbs, the surgeon--a bald, blunt-spoken old

fellow--brought things to an issue.

“What’s the use of mincing matters?” he boomed, glancing defiantly

around the circle. “Every man here believes that Grail’s at the bottom

of this thing. Then why not get down to cases, instead of sitting around

here like a pack of dummies?”

A little gasp, partly of relief, partly of surprise at such plain

speaking, ran around the room, and everybody glanced involuntarily

toward Major Appleby where he sat at the head of the table.

“H’m!” The major cleared his throat, and moved a bit uncomfortably under

the scrutiny. “Without--er--going quite so far as our friend Dobbs,” he

finally ventured cautiously, “I take it that no one here will deny there

is some reason in what he says. We must be prudent, though, gentlemen.

Remember, the honor of the army is involved.”

“Prudent! Ha!” The doctor gave a scornful cackle. “Why, the whole post

has been like a whispering gallery all afternoon. I doubt if there’s a

man on the reservation, from cook boy to colonel, who hasn’t been

cocking his head to one side, and asking, under his breath, what there

was in this business about Grail. The only person who didn’t seem to be

wise to it was Grail himself. Now, let’s cut out all this innuendo and

gossip, and look the facts squarely in the face. If the report that’s

been going around is true, it’s unquestionably got a bearing on the

affair we’re investigating; if not, the sooner we put a stopper on it

and turn our searchlights in another direction, the better for all

concerned. In either event, I guess the honor of the army will take care

of itself.”

There was a murmur of approval as the surgeon finished speaking,

followed by calls from various parts of the room for Hemingway; and

eventually, in response to these demands, a flushed young lieutenant

rose rather reluctantly to his feet.

“Mr. Hemingway,” the major said, “you seem to be the person best

qualified to make a statement in this matter. Will you, therefore,

repeat for the benefit of us all, the communication which you made in

confidence to Mrs. Appleby and myself this afternoon?”

“In confidence--to Mrs. Appleby!” the doctor snorted, scarcely taking

the trouble to lower his voice. “No wonder it was all over the post in

less than half an hour.”

In the general eagerness to hear Hemingway, however, his growling passed

unnoticed, and the young lieutenant, shifting unhappily from one foot to

the other, commenced his story.

“In the first place,” he said, glancing appealingly around the circle of

officers, “and as I told Major Appleby, I don’t want any one to think

that I’ve been up to any sneaking or underhand business. But when a

thing came right up and slapped me in the face I couldn’t help taking

notice of it, especially after the colonel told all of us that he wanted

us to be on our guard during the course of these experiments.”

“Cut out the excuses,” protested one of his auditors. “It’s the facts we

want to get at.”

“Well, then,” cried Hemingway defiantly, “I say that Captain Grail has

been having dealings with Sasaku, the Jap waiter at the mess, which are

open to very grave suspicion. I am in charge of the mess this month, as

you all know, and I had noticed that Grail seemed to have considerable

to say to the Jap when he dropped in for his meals; but I never attached

any importance to the matter until to-day at noon, when I saw him hand

Sasaku a long envelope, which the latter immediately slipped under his

jacket. Then, I will admit, I began to get a little worked up, for there

was a certain furtiveness about the transaction which I didn’t

altogether like; so, as soon as Grail left, I promptly nailed Sasaku,

and demanded to know what it was the captain had given him.”

“And he lied, of course!” commented a former mess manager, out of the

depths of his experience. “Probably told you that you must have been

mistaken.”

“No,” returned Hemingway; “he simply informed me coolly that it was none

of my business, and gave me notice that he was quitting his job.”

“Why didn’t you grab the impudent beggar, and search him?” another

officer broke in.

“Well”--the lieutenant flushed again--“I didn’t want to make any

blunder, don’t you know, so I decided to report the matter first to

Major Appleby before taking any definite action; and by the time I got

back to the mess again the Jap had cleared out, bag and baggage.”

“Cleared out! Where?”

“That’s the question.” Hemingway shook his head. “I’ve had Corporal

Stone and half a dozen men out ransacking the town for him since four

o’clock, and not a trace can be found. We think he must have sneaked

aboard a train somehow, and got away, unless----” He paused.

“Unless,” Major Appleby pointedly finished, “his departure may have some

connection with the far more serious matter of the colonel’s

disappearance.”

“Has any one put this business about the Jap up to Grail?” the surgeon

inquired, with a frown.

“Not directly,” Appleby admitted; “that is, unless the colonel may have

mentioned it to him. He was really the only one who had an opportunity,

for Grail left the post shortly after the occurrence, and did not return

until nine o’clock, and from that time until they set out for the

foundry the two were closeted together in the office. Vedant, however,

was rather inclined to pooh-pooh the whole matter, and he may very

easily have failed to speak.”

“Can any one doubt, though, that Grail knew what was in the wind?”

demanded young Hemingway hotly. “Why, the very way he left us here

to-night showed it. I say, too,” he insisted, “that a man who’d been

caught selling secrets to a Japanese spy, and saw court-martial looming

up ahead of him, couldn’t well think of a smoother plan to sidetrack

inquiry and shift attention from himself than to have the colonel

abducted.”

“But that would indicate that this fellow Schilder was in on the deal,

too,” objected one of the officers who had not yet spoken. “And what

interest could he----”

“Schilder? Pshaw! He was only a convenient tool,” interrupted Hemingway.

“Believe me, he’s as much in the dark as anybody else.”

“How could the game have been worked without his connivance, though?”

inquired the other.

“Humph! Trust a pack of slick Japanese to handle that all right.”

Hemingway gave a toss of the head. “Knowing the colonel’s movements in

advance, what would have been easier than for them to secret themselves

about the foundry yard; then, at the psychological moment, cut off the

lights and rush the colonel out and away. With their agility and

cunning, a trick like that would be simply pie to them.”

“How do you explain this business about the note from Schilder, though?”

broke in another questioner. “You think, of course, that Grail or the

Jap forged the note that was received; but, if so, why doesn’t Grail

show it up now, instead of making things look worse for himself with the

assertion that it has disappeared?”

“Ah, that was the smoothest part of the whole deal,” declared the

youthful investigator. “He knew that he was bound to be suspected,

didn’t he? And he knew, too, that documentary evidence of that sort,

subjected to such close examination as would naturally be given it,

might lead to his detection. So what does he do but get it out of the

way, and at the same time fog the issue with another touch of apparent

mystery.”

His emphatic arguments began to carry weight with the rest. It was at

least a solution that he offered, and, groping about in the dark as they

were, they were ready to accept almost any theory that bore the color of

plausibility.

“I think,” said Dobbs, the surgeon, voicing a general sentiment, “it’s

about time for us to put this matter up to Grail straight, and see what

he has to say for himself.”

The major summoned his striker. “My compliments to Adjutant Grail, and

ask him if he can make it convenient to come here at once to answer a

few questions.”

In less than five minutes the messenger was back with the astonishing

reply:

“The adjutant’s compliments, sir, and he wishes to know if you care to

put your request in the form of an order. If not, sir, he does not care

to discuss anything with the officers to-night.”

The major grew red with indignation at the injury to his dignity, and

the surgeon growled darkly that the answer bore out his suspicions. But

Appleby was not a man of snapshot action, and he said, with an

assumption of chilly dignity:

“Very well; say to the adjutant, with my compliments, that I shall issue

no orders to-night.” Then, turning to the officers, with a portentous

shrug, he added: “We will await the developments of to-morrow.”

CHAPTER IV.

MYSTERIOUS ASHES.

After sending his curt message to Major Appleby, Grail sat in the office

at headquarters, whither he had betaken himself from the meeting,

smoking fiercely, and glowering at a spot on the wall. He had set

himself in defiance of the whole post, and he could not but feel that he

was in the right. At any rate, he scorned to defend himself against the

aspersions of a blunderer like Appleby, or an officious young ass like

Hemingway; for, as it happened, he knew of the story set afloat by the

mess manager, Colonel Vedant having detailed it to him jestingly during

their hurried trip to the foundry. Grail had been prevented then from

offering any explanation, owing to their arrival at Schilder’s office.

Rather than make such an explanation now, he vowed he would be drawn and

quartered, for he bitterly resented the attitude taken by his brother

officers, their readiness--nay, almost eagerness--to believe the very

worst of him.

Grail loved his profession. More than once he had refused flattering

offers to leave it for a career in civil life. But now, in his hot

indignation, he declared that not another week should find him wearing

the uniform and associating with such double-faced, intriguing cads.

On the impulse of the moment, he stepped over to his desk, and,

snatching up a pen, started to write out his resignation. But as he

blotted the sheet before affixing his signature he paused, with an

exclamation of annoyance, to find that the lines he had written were

streaked with fine gray dust, which had fallen on the paper. A sort of

gritty powder, it seemed to be, like the dust which rises from the

handling of filed papers or documents. Without giving the matter second

thought, Grail was about to tear up the blurred resignation and start to

draft another one, when his attention was suddenly caught by a flake of

the powder slightly larger than the others.

It was a tiny shred of paper, but what especially aroused his interest

was that it showed the trace of a lithographed letter “V” of the

peculiar style and shading used as a heading by the Dolliver Foundry.

Quickly he caught up the blotter he had been using, and shook it over a

sheet of carbon paper, for there had flashed into his mind a prompt

suspicion as to the nature of that dust. That it had fallen from the

blotter there could be no question, and he recalled distinctly that he

had left the mysteriously missing note lying on that blotter when he and

the colonel took their hasty departure.

A moment or two gave him all the confirmation of his suspicion that he

required, for under his vigorous shaking there sifted down on the dark

surface several fragments, from a sixteenth to a thirty-second of an

inch in diameter, on which he could plainly decipher indications of

typewriting.

Snatching up a reading glass belonging to the colonel, he bent over

these to satisfy himself he had made no mistake; then straightened up,

with a muttered expletive and a little, puzzled frown between the eyes.

The glass brought out on one of the specks what appeared unquestionably

the upper half of an “m”--and, what was more, the letter was slightly

chipped on one side.

Grail leaned over to subject the fragment to a second examination, and

make sure that he had not been misled; then drew from his pocket the

carbon copy of the note he had dictated to Schilder’s stenographer, and

compared the two impressions. They were alike, defect and all, as two

pennies struck from the same die. One was forced to the conclusion that

they had been made by the same machine.

Dropping his chin into his hand, the adjutant sat staring almost

incredulously at the telltale speck in front of him. This knocked into

smithereens the entire theory he had evolved as to the disappearance of

Colonel Vedant, for, despite the pains he had taken to secure a copy of

the note from Schilder’s typewriter, he had never really believed that

the original summons had come from there.

Now, however, he was driven to a fresh line of speculation. Recalling

the foundry manager’s freely expressed insinuations, he arose half

impatiently, and tested the two typewriting machines used at

headquarters. There were, as he expected, no point of similarity shown

with the copy of the note he had caused to be transcribed by Miss

Griffin. The “m” on both machines was clear-cut and flawless; there was

no indication of blurring on the “D.”

Returning to the desk, he resumed his perplexed contemplation of the

fragments on the sheet of carbon paper. It seemed certain that Schilder

must have sent the decoy message, relying on its speedy disintegration

to cover up his tracks. And right there another consideration arose to

muddle him: How had this disintegration been accomplished? Hitherto he

had been so intent on establishing the identity of these specks of

typewriting with the missing message that he had not stopped to question

the agency which could so quickly and thoroughly destroy a stout sheet

of linen paper.

“Some powerful chemical, doubtless,” he reflected, recollecting that the

note had been a trifle damp when he drew it from the envelope; and with

this suggestion, he scraped together a little pinch of the dust to taste

and smell of it. The tests confirmed his opinion. There was a faint,

pungent odor to the particles, which, although familiar, he could not

exactly place; and one of them, applied to his tongue, produced a slight

burning sensation. The paper undoubtedly had been treated with some

solution, which, in drying, reduced it to shreds.

He carefully transferred what remained of it to an envelope, in order to

have his conclusions verified and the exact nature of the solvent

determined by expert analysis; but he really needed no such

corroboration. He was fully satisfied that the demolition of the message

must have been effected in the way he assumed.

With so much settled, though, he seemed in no way relieved. Indeed, the

frown of perplexity on his forehead grew deeper, and, seated there

before his desk, he fell into a brown study.

Why, he thought, should Schilder have gone to so much trouble to get rid

of this note, when he could so easily have supported his denial of

writing it by the simple expedient of using another machine? As he

himself had said to Grail, it would be quite a job, without other clews,

to trace, among all the hundreds of machines in a city like Brantford,

the particular one on which a specific communication was written.

“No,” the adjutant said aloud, fishing from his pocket the half-smoked

cigarette he had found at the threshold of the foundry office, and,

surveying it with a decisive nod, “I can’t be so far off the track. This

new complication simply means that the trail is a bit more involved than

I thought. However”--he shrugged his shoulders with returning

resentment--“that is something for the bunch of wiseacres down the row

to work out. I’m done with the whole business.” And once more he drew a

sheet of paper toward him to indite his resignation.

With his pen dipped in the ink, he hesitated. There came a natural

reluctance to quit in this way under fire. The fresh developments he had

unearthed, too, served as a challenge to his ingenuity. He had a

well-defined theory to account for the disappearance of the colonel,

and, after his first anxiety at Schilder’s office, had not entertained

any serious alarm as to the outcome. It was, he believed, merely a bold

attempt on the part of some of the foreign spies who had been hanging

around the post of late to obtain information in regard to the

experiments in progress there. They must have become aware of the

colonel’s habit of carrying home with him at night the reports made to

him, in order that he might digest them at his leisure. Since the coup

had failed, however, Colonel Vedant having no papers with him that

evening, and being the last person in the world to divulge under duress

or otherwise any official secrets, Grail felt satisfied that the captive

would be released just as soon as those responsible for the outrage were

safe beyond the reach of retribution.

He had not really credited Schilder with any hand in the affair. On that

one point, at least, he was agreed with Lieutenant Hemingway, regarding

the German merely as a rather thick-headed dupe who had unwittingly

allowed his establishment to be used as a theater for the enterprise.

Now, however, with the seeming assurance that this decoy message must

have come from the typewriter at the foundry, he began to wonder if he

had not been taking too much for granted. One was certainly justified in

believing that either the manager or his stenographer must have had

knowledge of the writing of the note.

“Suppose,” Grail speculated, “the assumption I’ve been going on is a

mistake? By Jove, I’m not infallible, and I’ve got no proof to support

me--that is, nothing you could call real proof. Suppose, then, that

there’s more to this job than I’ve been willing to concede, and that the

old colonel is actually in danger? Have I got the right, merely from

personal pique, to stand from under and leave the old boy to the mercy

of a set of bunglers like Appleby and his crew?”

While he hesitated, his glance happened to fall on the pen he still held

between his fingers, which he had picked up from the desk at random. It

was a gold one, belonging to the colonel--a gift from his daughter,

Meredith, as was shown by the tiny plate affixed to the handle, with the

inscription: “Merry Christmas. M. L. V.”

Before the adjutant’s mind rose suddenly the vision of the fair-haired,

lovely girl, so devotedly attached to her father. He knew what this

affair would mean to her, how deeply she would be affected, whether

there were any actual menace in the situation or not. He laid down his

pen, and, picking up the form of resignation he had drafted, tore it

across, and dropped it into the wastebasket.

“I’ve got to stick it out,” he muttered. “I’ve got to stick it out and

clear this thing up--for her sake!”

His mind made up, he threw himself whole-heartedly into his task. A

glance at his watch showed him it was after three o’clock, but no

thought of sleep suggested itself to him. Instead, he caught up his hat

and coat, and started out to take another look over the scene of the

disappearance.

But there was nothing new to be gained, he found. The foundry yard,

silent and deserted now, the last vestige of the scrap heaps cleared

away, and only the idle crane, with its long, sweeping arm at rest, to

serve as a reminder of the evening’s earlier activity, offered nothing

more in the way of a clew; nor could old Dennis, at the gate, although

garrulous enough, add any fresh information to what he had already told.

Leaving him after a brief colloquy, Grail thoughtfully strolled down to

the railroad tracks skirting the banks of the river, and patrolled them

slowly the length of the foundry inclosure and back, climbing up on each

of the scrap-loaded freight cars standing on the siding to investigate,

but only to drop down again every time, with a shake of the head. The

night was beginning to give way now to the first faint gray of the

summer dawn. More and more distinctly the different features of the

water front revealed themselves--the chimneys of the big smelter,

Brantford’s largest industry; the railroad machine shops beyond; and,

overhead, dark and shadowy against the sky, the dim perspective of the

great bridge stretching across the stream.

The horizon flushed into pink and crimson; the gilded cross of a steeple

off in the distance flashed with the first beams of the rising sun;

somewhere up the river a factory whistle blew. Morning had come.

Only the wide river was invisible now, blanketed in the thick mist which

still hung over its swift, muddy current. Grail stood a moment staring

out at the impenetrable veil; then, obliged to step nimbly from the

tracks for the passage of an express train, turned, and made his way

back past the gate of the foundry.

As he reached old Dennis, he halted suddenly, and wheeled to glance

sharply once more out over the mist-enveloped stream.

“What is that noise?” he inquired.

The old gateman cupped his wrinkled fingers behind his ear, and bent his

head to listen.

“Is it th’ choog, choog, choog ye mane?” he returned. “Sure, that must

be a autymobile over in th’ bottoms.”

“No.” Grail shook his head. “That’s the exhaust of a motor boat, if I

ever heard one.”

“A motor boat!” scoffed Dennis. “Wid all thim sand bars out there? Sure,

there’s a loonytick runnin’ it, thin. W’y, sorr, nobody don’t niver

sail motor boats on this river. Th’ boss just had wan iv th’ things

shipped in yistedah, he was tellin’ me, but ’tis not on no river he’ll

be thryin’ it. He’s goin’ to have it tuk out to Lake Manawa.”

A quick flash shot into the adjutant’s eye at this information, but his

tone betrayed only a polite interest.

“So Mr. Schilders is going to have a boat out at the lake this summer,

eh?”

“As I tell ye, sorr. An’ sure it may be out there already f’r all that I

know. He was dickerin’ wid a felly yisteday afthernoon to haul it out

f’r him.”

Grail merely nodded, and turned the conversation to another channel. The

chug-chug which had caught his attention had faded away by this time,

and there seemed nothing to keep him there, but still he lingered on,

chatting with the old watchman.

It might have been observed, though, that he directed an occasional keen

glance toward the mists, thinning fast now in the rays of the rising

sun, and that when at last the vapors were entirely dissipated, and the

river visible from shore to shore, a little frown of disappointment

gathered between his eyes. On all the broad expanse of the tawny stream

there was no craft of any kind to be discerned. He bade old Dennis good

morning, and betook himself back to the post.

TO BE CONTINUED.

TIPS TO YOUNG PITCHERS.

HOW TO CURVE A BALL.

To be able to curve a ball is the ambition of every young player. If he

happens to be the pitcher of his team, his desire is all the stronger.

He wants to fool the other fellows when they come to the bat. He cannot

be blamed for that. But while curve pitching is undoubtedly a great

accomplishment, it must be remembered that in the old days of baseball

many brilliant battles were won with the straight-arm delivery. It is

not absolutely necessary, therefore, to curve a ball in order to win

success. The writer vividly recalls the famous games in the early

seventies in the neighborhood of New York. He was a boy then, and walked

miles to see the contests. A curved ball was unknown then, so far as the

pitching was concerned. And the pitchers were very effective, too. They

studied the weakness of the batsmen, just as the pitchers do now. And

that is the study all young pitchers must pursue. Begin your work by

pitching a straight ball. You cannot gain control in a better way. As

you are young in pitching experience, so also are your opponents young

in their knowledge of batting. If you watch them closely you will

perceive very quickly that nearly every one of them swings his bat at

about the same height every time. For instance, you will notice that the

first batter will swing his bat just in front of his waistband. In order

to fool him, pitch the ball a little higher or a little lower than that

point. The next batter may snap his bat high. Give him a high ball, but

a few inches lower than he is likely to strike. The rule is by no means

infallible, but it is a good one. It takes a boy a long time to overcome

the inclination to swing in the same way every time he strikes. There is

another important point to remember: Do not give the batsmen a chance to

hit the ball with the end of their bats, if you can avoid it. This is

simple enough if the batter stands close to the plate. You can keep the

ball well in on him without much trouble. But when he stands back in the

box, you must use discretion. Try to coax him with a ball or two just

inside the plate. If he refuses to “bite,” then, of course, you’ll have

to put it over. As you improve in your work, you can begin to practice

curves.

Curve pitching cannot be taught by book or other directions. It must be

learned by actual practice and experience. The principles of making a

ball curve, however, may be explained. Let the young aspirant grasp the

ball firmly in his hand, giving the pressure with his forefinger and

middle finger. The other two fingers should be drawn in toward the palm.

Next let him snap the ball first out of one side of the hand and next

out of the other side. He will soon learn the effect these movements

have on the ball. Then he must practice faithfully to so control it as

to make the curves useful. Strange as it may seem, it is much more

difficult for the beginner to throw or pitch a straight ball than one

that describes an arc in its course. This is so because of the natural

tendency of the player to throw the ball out of the side of his hand. To

pitch a straight ball, it is necessary that the two fingers which grasp

the ball should be straight up and down, with their backs in front of

the player as he throws. Beyond these few hints it is almost impossible

to give any intelligible instructions. It will depend almost entirely on

the young player’s ability, inclination, and perseverance, how much of a

success he will make at curve pitching. He cannot have too much

practice, but he should take care not to overexert himself. It is not

necessary to exert all his force. He can practice curves without putting

his greatest speed into the ball.

DRUNKEN MONKEYS.

Did you ever hear that monkeys were an intemperate race of creatures? It

is true. They actually get tipsy when they get the chance; but the

punishment of their crime is something terrible even for a tipsy monkey.

They are not merely taken to prison for safety and locked up for a few

hours. There are no monkey policemen to do them that service, and we

have not heard that there are any monkey magistrates to give them a

severe lecture in the morning, fine them a few dollars, and tell them

not to do it any more. No, it seems there are none of these beautiful

provisions for Jacko’s safety and comfort provided in his native land,

and so he falls into the hands of his enemies, and lifelong

imprisonment, or even banishment to colder climates, is the punishment.

Like men, monkeys are easily outwitted when under the influence of

liquor. They have human vices, and love stimulants. In Darfour and Sena,

Africa, the natives make a fermented beer, of which the monkeys are

passionately fond. Aware of this, the natives go to the parts of the

forest frequented by the monkeys, and set on the ground calabashes full

of the enticing liquor. As soon as the monkey sees and tastes it, he

utters loud cries of joy that soon attract his comrades. Then an orgy

begins, and in a short time they all show degrees of intoxication. Then

the negroes appear. Some of the drinkers are too far gone to distrust

them, but apparently take them for larger species of their own genus.

The negroes take some up, and these begin to weep and cover them with

maudlin kisses. When the negro takes one by the hand to lead him off,

the nearest monkey will cling to the one who thus finds a support, and

endeavor to go on also.

Another will clutch at him, and so on, until the negro leads a

staggering line of ten or a dozen tipsy monkeys. When finally brought to

the village, they are securely caged and gradually sobered down; but for

two or three days a gradually diminishing supply of liquor is given

them, so as to reconcile them by degrees to their state of captivity.

AN ANTIQUE MEAL.

“I have eaten apples that ripened more than eighteen hundred years ago;

bread made from wheat grown before the children of Israel passed through

the Red Sea; spread it with butter that was made when Elizabeth was

Queen of England, and washed down the repast with wine that was old when

Columbus was playing barefoot with the boys of Genoa,” said a gentleman

at the club the other day.

The remarkable “spread” was given by an antiquary named Gorbel, in the

city of Brussels. The apples were from a jar taken from the ruins of

Pompeii, that buried city to whose people we owe our knowledge of

canning fruit.

The wheat was taken from a chamber in one of the smaller pyramids, the

butter from a stone shelf in an old well in Scotland, where it had lain

in an earthenware crock in icy water, and the wine came from an old

vault in the city of Corinth.

There were six guests at the table, and each had a mouthful of bread and

a teaspoonful of the wine, but was permitted to help himself liberally

to the butter, there being several pounds of it. The apple jar held

about two-thirds of a gallon, and the fruit was as sweet, and the flavor

as fine, as though it had been packed yesterday.

THE KEENEST EYESIGHT.

Like every other sense, that of sight improves by use under healthy

conditions, and therefore the people who have the greatest exercise of

their vision in the open air, under light of the sun, have the best

eyesight. Generally speaking, savage tribes possess the keenest

eyesight, acquired through hunting.

Natives of the Solomon Islands are very quick at perceiving distant

objects, such as ships at sea, and will pick out birds concealed in

dense foliage some sixty or seventy feet high. Shepherds and sailors are

blessed with good sight; the Eskimo will detect a white fox in the snow

a great distance away, while the Arabs of the deserts of Arabia have

such extreme powers of vision that on the vast plains of the desert they

will pick out objects invisible to the ordinary eye at ranges from one

to ten miles distant.

Among civilized peoples, the Norwegians have better eyesight than most,

if not all, others, as they more generally fulfill the necessary

conditions. The reason why defective eyes are so much on the increase in

this and many European countries lies in too much study of books in

early life, and in badly lighted rooms.

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Big Indiana Gas Well.

A gas well which gives more than 12,000,000 feet volume has been drilled

in half a mile from Linton, Ind., on the Gillett farm. It is the largest

gusher in the central States.

Missouri River’s Jokes with Farmers.

Suppose that, years ago when you were a young man, you came to Missouri

and bought a farm on the banks of the Missouri River, and spent the next

fifteen or twenty years in clearing the land and bringing it into a high

state of cultivation. And then suppose that, just when you had begun to

derive some benefit from your years of toil, the river should suddenly

reach out and swallow up about half your farm.

Then suppose that the river, after keeping your farm for several years,

should grow seemingly repentant and replace your farm, you would no

doubt feel that all the land within the bounds mentioned in your deeds

was your own as much as it ever was.

But that would all depend on the precise manner in which the river

replaced your land. That is where the accretion law of Missouri comes

in, and it is a fearful and mysterious thing. If the river, in putting

your land back, began piling it up against your bank and continued doing

so, the land to the water’s edge would be yours, even if it went beyond

your original boundaries. But if the river, as it often does, should

first throw up a bar out in the channel and then gradually fill up the

space between that and your land until finally the current changed and

left the island thus formed joined to your land, you would have no claim

to any land thus formed. It would belong to the county, and could be

surveyed and sold to the highest bidder, and the money it brought would

go to the school fund.

The Missouri River is a malicious stream, and if it ever comes to

judgment, will have a lot to answer for. Instead of pursuing its course

in an orderly manner and sticking to one established course, it is

forever changing, eating away the bank on one side and throwing up new

banks on the other side, cutting out old sand bars here and building new

ones there, so that the main channel is never the same for very long at

a time.

In Holt County, near Fortescue, there has been a great deal of

excitement lately, caused by the disputes over the possession of some of

the land thus formed, commonly known as “bar land.” Several men had

fenced land which was claimed under deed by John C. Hinkle, a Civil War

veteran, who has lived on this land for the last fifty years. About

fifteen years ago the river took five hundred acres of Mr. Hinkle’s land

and afterward put it back as a bar. Mr. Hinkle claimed the land on the

ground that the bar had made to his land, and the other men claimed it

on the ground that it had been put back as an island, which finally

joined Mr. Hinkle’s land, and was therefore as much theirs as any one’s.

The court upheld the squatters’ claim that the land did not belong to

Hinkle, and this decision was the signal for squatters to rush in and

seize bar land all along the river front. In the last thirty days

perhaps a dozen men have settled on these bars.

The fact of possession seems to be given considerable weight in this

matter, and the land has generally been seized in the night. A squatter

will pick out a piece of land that most suits his fancy, get some help,

slip in at night, put a fence around it, and build a shack on it. Of

course, it is not much of a house or much of a fence, but it is enough

to establish proof of possession.

Sometimes two different men will have designs on the same piece of land,

or perhaps the man whose deed calls for this land will offer objections

to its being seized, and these conditions have given rise to several

exciting encounters. Several houses have been torn down, many fences cut

to pieces and in at least one instance men have been escorted from the

land of their choice at the point of a Winchester, with instruction to

“beat it” and not to come back. While no blood has been shed so far, it

is freely predicted that it is only a matter of time until somebody is

carried out “feet first.”

The county has ordered the land surveyed, with the intention of selling

it to the highest bidder, but the law says that the ones in possession

have a right to buy it at the highest bid, so that even if the county

sells the land, the ones actually on the ground have a big advantage.

This fact will probably cause others to try to seize land before the

survey is made.

The land is not so very valuable except in a dry year, as it is liable

to overflow any time the river rises a few feet.

Cowboy Sheriff.

Many who have visited the Pawnee Bill and Buffalo Bill Wild-West Shows

wonder what has become of all the likely looking cowboys whose daring

feats ahorse and with the lasso excited wonder and admiration.

Some are with other shows, some perform for moving pictures, but most of

them have quit the business and settled down. Among those who quit when

Pawnee Bill and Buffalo Bill closed is Tom Tait, who has located in

Gillette, Wyo., county seat of Campbell County, where he has been

elected sheriff. All his life has been spent on the cattle ranges of

Wyoming, Montana, and the Dakotas, with the exception of the time he was

on the road with the show. As a tamer of wild horses he has few equals,

and as a “cow hand” none at all.

All Six Died with Boots On.

The Grim Reaper has surely played relentless and strange havoc with the

Law family, of Muscatine, Iowa. Brad E. Law, a popular grocer, died

recently while sitting in a chair at his home. He died “with his boots

on,” so to speak, and so did his two brothers, his father, and his

father’s two brothers. One of the grocer’s brothers, an engineer, was

struck by a piece of a flying wheel, which broke and severed his head,

and the other brother died while at the dinner table. His father died

while plowing in the field, and one of his father’s brothers died in the

pulpit, while preaching a sermon. His father’s other brother died while

driving to town on his farm wagon.

They all met death while they were not expecting it. Neither of them was

sick before his death, and sickness was not the cause of any of the

deaths.

Tourists Welcome in Canada.

Numerous items have appeared lately in the press, advising residents of

the United States to obtain passports when visiting or passing through

Canada. Officials of the Canadian Pacific Railway made inquiries of the

government at Ottawa whether passports are now required. The government

announces that its officials are in no way interfering with bona-fide

tourist traffic, and that persons desirous of visiting points of

interest in Canada or of passing through Canada en route to other places

will be accorded the same courteous treatment as was customary before

the outbreak of war, and that passports are not required.

Why Belgium Thanks United States.

More than $21,500,000 has been received and the greater part of it spent

for Belgian relief, according to a statement issued in New York by the

commission for relief in Belgium.

One hundred and ten thousand tons of foodstuffs, cargo for twenty ships,

are now on the way to American seaports from interior points, the

statement adds.

Nearly sixty cargoes of foodstuffs, valued at more than $20,000,000, had

been sent to Rotterdam up to the middle of March by the commission.

New Way to Hunt the Coyote.

Hunting coyotes on motor cycles is a popular sport in Sherman County,

Kan. A party of ten young men went coyote hunting in this manner from

there, and in one day succeeded in capturing three of the prairie pests.

New Attachment for Razor.

A Canadian inventor had secured a patent on which appears to be a simple

attachment for converting an ordinary razor into one of the safety type.

The device consists simply of a piece of springy sheet metal folded so

that it may be slipped over the razor blade. By holding the razor so

that the side of the attachment comes in contact with the face, the

right angle for the blade is attained.

Girl’s Foot Worth $14,000.

Fourteen thousand dollars was the price set on the right foot of a

seven-year-old girl of Kenosha, Wis. A jury in the circuit court awarded

that sum to Minnie Extra, daughter of a Kenosha laborer. A car on the

Chicago & Milwaukee Electric Railway had mangled her foot so that

amputation at the ankle was necessary.

Dog Politician Aids Master.

Joseph B. Steele, Independent candidate for the mayoralty nomination at

the primaries in Granite City, Mo., has no “houn’ dawg” to aid him, but

a devoted political worker in “Queen,” a bright little terrier. He

picked up the dog on the streets recently and give it a home.

In way of repayment, the dog trotted about the town carrying in its

mouth a card bearing Steele’s picture and an announcement of his

candidacy. According to Steele, the dog is so intelligent that on

meeting a doubtful voter it rises on its hind legs to call the sign

more emphatically to his attention. The dog campaigner attracted much

interest in Granite City.

Steele obtained the idea of enlisting Queen from the dog’s fondness for

retrieving sticks and carrying objects about in its mouth. After a short

training in carrying the card, the animal showed a remarkable enthusiasm

for politics.

This Boat Travels on Land.

The visitor to the lumber districts of Canada may occasionally see what

is to him a very remarkable sight--a primitive-looking steamboat high

and dry on a road, crawling along quite comfortably, apparently just as

much at home as in its natural element.

These boats are known as “alligators,” and are used for towing the rafts

of logs down the rivers and lakes to the mills. Sometimes it is desired

to transfer one of these craft to a new sphere of operations, which can

only be reached overland, and the boat is then hauled out of the water,

placed upon rollers, and travels to its destination by means of its own

power.

“Dead” Fifty-two Years. Still Alive.

After being mourned as dead for fifty-two years, John Wesley Franse, a

Civil War veteran, has been found living in a small town near San

Francisco, according to a letter received by relatives in St. Louis, Mo.

Franse was found by his sister, Mrs. William H. Marvin, of Kirkwood, a

St. Louis suburb.

Franse served in the Confederate army under General Sterling Price. The

entire regiment to which he belonged was captured and placed in the

Union prison at Alton, Ill. Believing that he had died there, members of

the Franse family for more than fifty years visited the Alton cemetery

each Decoration Day and placed flowers on one of the unmarked

Confederate graves.

At a social in Los Angeles recently Mrs. Marvin mentioned that her

maiden name was Franse. Another guest said he knew an old man near by

that name, and the search followed which resulted in the finding of the

long-lost veteran.

Found in a Pound of Raisins.

One pound of raisins purchased from a store in Derry Church, Pa., by a

special agent of the dairy and food commission was analyzed by State

Chemist Charles la Wall. He found: Prunes, rice, beans, and fuzzy dirt;

human and animal hairs, straight and curly; fibers of cotton and wool

dyed green, yellow, brown, pink, and gray; straw and a little bit of

bran, sand, cornstarch, broken wheat, and yeast spores; pine wood and

fragments of unidentified other timber; tobacco leaf, cigarette paper,

and cigarette tobacco. Also, the wings and legs of a few unfortunate

insects. Otherwise the raisins were all right. The groceryman was

arrested.

McManus Sisters in Doubt.

That adequate reparation for the murder of John B. McManus, the former

Chicagoan, killed on his ranch outside of Mexico City, would not be

exacted by the United States government is the belief expressed by his

two sisters living in Chicago. They have taken the matter up with a

number of Chicago Congressmen.

“I doubt if a proper indemnity will ever be paid Mrs. McManus,” said

Miss Elizabeth McManus, when seen with her sister, Mrs. Mary Dorgan.

“And it seems as if the matter of bringing the murderers to justice

would also be allowed to lapse, as in other cases. Outrages were

committed against the sisters of the Sacred Heart in Mexico City, and I

find the state department did nothing further than to complain to the

Mexican government.”

A letter from Counselor Lansing informed Miss McManus the Brazilian

minister had placed the “full facts” before the new minister of Mexican

foreign affairs.

This Potato King is a “Jap.”

Reading a story of the visit of George Shima, the potato king of Lodi,

Cal., to Los Angeles, in a paper of that city, merchants of Lodi recall

that not many years ago the Japanese capitalist could not obtain credit

in the stores of this city, not because he was not honest, but as a

newcomer he had not established credit.

Those business men who refused to trust him did not anticipate that in a

few years Shima would control 37,000 acres in California and have 6,000

acres in his own holdings, and have established a large credit in

California banks.

Last July Shima owned about a quarter of the 4,000,000 sacks of potatoes

in California, and to-day he owns half of the 500,000 sacks unsold in

the State.

Ready for the Golden Shore.

William Reid, a negro, who has lived in Red Bank, N. J., since he was

mustered out of the Union army in 1865, celebrated his seventy-fifth

birthday and vouchsafed the information that he had made preparations

for a pleasant funeral.

He told his friends he dug his own grave in Whiteridge Cemetery, South

Eatontown, four years ago, and that a slab now covers the space which he

some day expects to fill.

During his spare moments he has constructed his own coffin, and this is

stored with Reid’s favorite undertaker. Reid told his friends that while

he was ready for the golden shore, he didn’t care how long the storage

charges continued.

Unique Fire Tower in Forest.

Harry Childers, of La Pine, Ore., has been appointed fire guard by the

forest service for the Rosland ranger station. The lookout at this

station is one of the most unique in the State, being a 250-foot tower

built on a big yellow pine. The trunk of the tree is divided about

twenty feet from the ground and forms two parallel supports for the

tower up to a height of nearly 200 feet. The lookout’s station in the

top of the tower sways from two to ten feet in the wind.

Forty-one Years Postmaster.

John K. Gaither, for forty-one years postmaster at La Center, Wash., a

few miles northeast of Ridgefield, will retire from the service as soon

as Patrick M. Kane, recently appointed, can file his bond and get his

commission.

Mr. Gaither, who is seventy-six years old, came west from Indiana in the

year of 1873, and the following year was appointed postmaster. When he

took over the La Center post office, there were only four patrons who

subscribed for newspapers. Mr. Gaither is hale and hearty and active in

several societies.

Jailer’s Order Kicked Back.

For permitting a prisoner to leave the jail before completing the

reading of three chapters in the Bible, Jack Sheehan, warden of the city

prison, in Johnston, Pa., was sentenced by Mayor Joseph Cauffel to read

the same three chapters of the book of Corinthians. Sheehan did it.

J. R. Edwards had appeared before the mayor on a charge of having

imbibed too freely. He was sentenced to read the three chapters aloud,

and Warden Sheehan was delegated to listen to see that the sentence was

fully complied with. Sheehan could not stand the prisoner’s reading and

told him to go, it is alleged. Sheehan was then sentenced to do the

reading.

Kentucky Woman, 112.

“Aunt Crissie” Stallard, who is probably the most noted woman in

Kentucky, has just celebrated her one-hundred-and-twelfth birthday, and

is still hale and hearty. “Aunt Crissie” was born in West Virginia and

came to Kentucky at the age of twenty, and married James Stallard that

same year. Her husband died twenty years later.

This aged woman has outlived all of her children except one who has been

helpless for years. She is still living on her farm, near Hilliard,

where she lived in 1823. She does all her own work--milking, gardening,

getting her own firewood, just as she did back in the old days.

Her neighboring friends have offered to supply her with plenty of coal,

but thus far she has repeatedly refused their offers. Aunt Crissie has a

farm of 240 acres of land, with mineral and timber on it. Companies have

offered large sums of money for the farm, but her reply is always the

same: “I will never sell so long as I can provide for myself.”

Through High School at Ten.

Whitesburg, Ky., can perhaps boast of the youngest high-school graduate

in the State. Miss Grace Newman, ten years old, daughter of Attorney J.

H. Newman, of that place, is the heroine. Having entered the high-school

examination at Whitesburg, and averaging among the best, she received

her diploma and a good compliment. She is exceedingly small for one of

her age.

Traded a Colt for 160 Acres.

Charles Watson, of Fort Scott, Kan., swapped a two-year-old colt for 160

acres of land in 1856, and the man rode the colt away because he feared

Watson would go back on the deal. To-day the land is worth at least

$16,000, and “Uncle Charlie,” as Watson is familiarly called, is rich.

He is a veteran of the Civil War.

Thousand Killed in Mines.

More than 1,000 lives were lost in and about the mines of Pennsylvania

in 1914, according to statistics made public by the state department of

mines. Six hundred men and boys were killed in the anthracite mines--a

reduction of twenty-four, compared with 1913--and 413 lost their lives

in the bituminous regions--a decrease of 198, compared with the previous

year.

The total production of coal in the State was 237,251,835 tons. The

anthracite output amounted to 91,367,305 tons, a decrease of 259,659

compared with 1913, and the bituminous production was 145,884,530 tons,

a decrease of 27,081,129 tons compared with the previous year. The

number of persons employed in and about the mines last year was 376,831.

Some Quaint Tricks of the Numeral Nine.

There are some curious facts and fancies connected with numbers. The

number nine is, perhaps, the first as regards such experiments, although

number seven is more prominent in literature and history. When you once

use it you can’t get rid of it. It will turn up again, no matter what

you do to put it “down and out.”

All through the multiplication table the product of nine comes to nine.

No matter what you multiply with or how many times you repeat or change

the figures, the result is always the same.

For instance, twice nine equals eighteen; add eight and one, and you

have nine. Three times nine equals twenty-seven; two and seven make nine

again. Go on until you try eleven times nine equals ninety-nine. This

seems to bring an exception. But add the digits--nine and nine make

eighteen; and again, one and eight make nine. Go on to an indeterminable

extent and the thing continues. Take any number at random. For example,

450 times nine equals 4,050, and the digits, added, make nine once more.

Take 6,000 times 9, equals, 54,000, and again you have five and four.

Take any rows of figures, reverse the order, and subtract the lesser

from the greater--the difference will certainly be always nine or a

multiple of nine. For example, 5,071 minus 1,705 equals 3,366. Add these

digits and you have eighteen, and one and eight make the familiar nine.

You have the same result no matter how you raise the numbers by squares

and cubes.

One more way is given by which number nine shows its strange powers.

Write down any number you please, add its digits, and then subtract the

sum of said digits from the original number. No matter what numbers you

start with, the sum of the digits in the answer will be nine.

Try these experiments, and you will be delighted with the exact manner

in which they prove the statement. Some quaint puzzles have been made

based on these fixed principles.

Launch New United States Ship in June.

The new superdreadnaught _Arizona_ will be launched early in June. As

soon as it takes the water, preparations will begin for the laying of

the keel of the still greater superdreadnaught _California_. The

launching of the _Arizona_ is expected to prove one of the greatest

naval celebrations in the history of New York.

Ninety-pound Voter, Still in Knee Pants.

John Smith, of Recluse, Miss., still in knee pants and weighing a little

less than ninety pounds, is the smallest voter in the South. John

attained his majority a few days ago and hastened to the depot for a

ticket to Gulfport, the county seat, to get out his registration papers

and be qualified as a full-sized man voter.

When he asked for the ticket, the agent handed him a child’s half-fare

one. John was set back at this, but remarked that the agent didn’t know

anything anyway. He would show them something when he came back from

Gulfport.

When the conductor passed him in the train and shouted “Ticket, sonny!”

John wanted to fight, but again he managed to control himself.

When he entered the court clerk’s office in Gulfport, he was asked:

“Want an errand boy’s job, kiddo?”

“No, dog-gone it,” yelled John, “I want to register.”

“The deuce you do,” shouted the clerk. But John submitted

birth-registration papers and took oath as to his age. He was registered

and now had the right to vote. His chest swelled.

Just at that time the candidate for next term of court clerk entered and

said, “Hello, kid.” “Now, that’s where you lost a vote,” answered John

indignantly. The candidate apologized when he learned the facts.

John, with his ninety pounds, knee pants, and registration papers, went

back to Recluse. He now struts about the town discussing the tariff, the

effect of the Mexican situation on the chances of the Democratic party,

and everything his father talks about. And he doesn’t stand for any

“kidding” about it, either.

Man Shows a Prophetic Egg.

J. P. Edwards was in Piggott, Ark., recently, showing a curious egg one

of his hens laid the day before, and the exhibit surely aroused the most

profound wonderment. The egg is an ordinary one in shape and size, but

on the surface of the snow-white shell there appear to be faint maps of

the eastern and western hemispheres. North and South America are intact,

except a part of the extreme southern point, the Gulf of Mexico and

Panama Canal being plainly shown.

On the eastern hemisphere everything looks as though having been torn by

cyclonic winds and in danger of being scattered to the “four corners of

the earth,” wherever they are.

Some say this freak egg is simply one result of the European war,

earthquakes, land monopoly, et cetera. Those who are of prophetic vision

see “signs” in this egg which prognosticate the future face of the

world.

Girl Plumber-Butcher Quits Her Laundry.

“Cattle are more interesting than clothes,” says Miss Allie Pitts, of

Eureka Springs, Ark., who has forsaken the butcher business to run a

laundry. Miss Pitts is twenty-seven years old. She was accustomed to

killing her own cattle and hogs when she was in the meat business. This

summer she plans to quit the laundry, buy a cattle ranch, and ship her

own stock to market.

Before she became a butcher Miss Pitts was a plumber. At an age when

most girls are giggling over beaus and party dresses, this mountain girl

was repairing broken water pipes and defective drains.

“I guess it’s because I’m just naturally odd,” she says bashfully when

asked how she came to choose such odd professions. “I went to keeping

books in a meat shop, and one day when the butcher was taken sick I

offered to take his place. Then I bought a shop of my own in Granby,

Mo. With the help of a man I employed I did all my own butchering,

cutting up the beef, and rendering the lard. I knocked the animals in

the head as they came down the runway. Oh, yes, I hated it at first, but

I soon got used to it. Some way I hated worst to kill the hogs.

“Cattle are interesting,” she continued musingly; “much more interesting

than clothes. I’m going back into the cattle business.”

The restrictions of corsets, high heels, and frills are unknown to this

wholesome mountain girl. She dresses very plainly in a short, dark

skirt, mannish waist and tie, and knockabout hat. She has mild blue

eyes, curling dark hair, and talks with a little lisp.

Edison Will Make Benzol.

Another step for the manufacture of benzol in this country has been

taken. Thomas A. Edison has opened a factory in Johnstown, Pa., for the

manufacture of benzol from coal gas, a process never before developed in

this country.

Carbolic acid and aniline dyes are made from benzol, which heretofore

has come chiefly from Germany. Since the war there has been a great

shortage of this product, and chemists and manufacturers have given much

attention to producing it in this country. Recently Secretary of the

Interior Lane announced that Doctor Rittman, one of the department’s

chemists, had discovered a method of producing benzol from petroleum,

and this week he announced that he had made arrangements with a

manufacturing firm to use the Rittman method.

Rancher Battles with Trapped White Wolf.

John S. Sherrod, the rancher near Glenwood Springs, Col., who caught a

huge white wolf in his traps near Fruita, was in Glenwood Springs and

admitted having experienced a very thrilling time in connection with the

wolf, and the near loss of his life in the Grand River.

The wolf was caught on the south side of the Grand River, and Sherrod

had to cross in a boat. When landing on the north bank, the wolf sprang

at the trapper, who grappled with the beast in order to save his life.

The strain on the chain attached to the trap was too much with the two

pulling on it, and it gave way, allowing the wolf and his captor to drop

into the river, which is quite swift at this point.

Sherrod was almost drowned in his efforts to keep the wolf’s head under

water, but he finally succeeded in besting the animal, which he pulled

out on the bank and killed with a club.

The wolf’s pelt is worth one hundred dollars, and Sherrod seems to think

he earned every cent of it.

Some Facts You May Not Know.

Among the rare specimens not open to public inspection in the Harvard

Zoölogical Museum is what is asserted to be the largest frog in the

world. It weighs about six pounds, is twenty-seven inches long from tip

to toe, and of a slaty-black color. Its web feet are equal in size to

those of a large swan. Only three of its kind have ever reached the

United States.

The smallest cows in the world are found in the Samoan Islands. The

average weight does not exceed 150 pounds, while the bulls weigh about

200 pounds. They are about the size of merino sheep.

The Siamese have a superstitious dislike of odd numbers, and they

studiously strive to have in their own houses an even number of windows,

doors, rooms, and cupboards.

There is a tribe of Indians in Mexico whose language is limited to about

300 words and who cannot count more than ten.

Next to the United States, Germany has the greatest number of telegraph

offices and the largest line mileage.

Sugar exists in the sap of about 190 plants and trees.

The Chinese pupil reciting his lesson turns his back on the tutor.

Warships taking refuge in a neutral port are liable to be disarmed after

twenty-four hours.

In some parts of Siberia milk is sold frozen around a piece of wood,

which serves as a handle to carry it.

Herons, which average only four pounds in weight, often have been known

to eat more than three pounds of fish at a meal.

In 1850 only one woman worked for wages to every ten men; now the ratio

is one woman to four men.

His Second Fall Cures Him.

There was a man in our town,

And he was wondrous wise;

He jumped into a bramble bush

And scratched out both his eyes;

And when he saw his eyes were out

With all his might and main,

He jumped into the bramble bush

And scratched them in again.

W. J. Parker, a Corunna, Mich., lawyer, unwittingly took the part of the

wise man in the Mother Goose story, with results as satisfactory as the

tale sets forth. He recently slipped on an icy sidewalk and sustained a

sprain of his ankle that compelled him to hobble about on crutches.

On a recent evening when he started down cellar to fix the furnace fire,

he slipped and fell downstairs, and when he picked himself up, found his

ankle was all right again and that he could walk without crutches and

without pain.

Surgeons who examined the ankle say the first fall caused an obscure

dislocation and that the second one reduced it. Parker has discarded the

crutches permanently.

Has Lived Seventy-two Years on Same Farm Land.

Luman Owen, resident of Oak Grove, Wis., who has lived on the same farm

seventy-two years, says he is the oldest living white person in

Wisconsin who was born in the Badger State.

“My father came to Oak Grove, Dodge County, with his family and took up

land from the government in the fall of 1842, which is seventy-two years

this last fall,” said Mr. Owen. “I have lived on that same land

continuously ever since, and am the last survivor of the family of nine

persons. However, this was not their first place of settlement in

Wisconsin. They came to Waukesha in the fall of 1836, from Ogdensburg,

N. Y., and were on a boat from the time they left Ogdensburg, until

they landed in Milwaukee, seven weeks and four days. They could have

walked the distance in less time than that.

“My father took up land from the government in Waukesha, then called

Prairieville, and there, in the spring of 1837, I was born. In 1842 our

family moved to Dodge County, and again took up land from the

government, the patents for which are signed by President James K. Polk.

There was no homestead law in those days. Land had to be bought from the

government at one dollar and twenty-five cents per acre.

“When we came here, this part of the country was wilderness, inhabited

by wild animals and Indians, but it settled up fast, and as soon as

people began to raise more than they wanted for their own use, the next

thing was to get to market. We were sixty-five miles from Milwaukee,

where all surplus farm products had to be hauled, and most invariably by

an ox team, which was a long, tedious journey. If a man took in a load

of produce to market and was fortunate enough to get a load of

merchandise or immigrants or something of the kind to bring back, he

would come out about even financially. But if he failed to get the load

back, he would come home owing hotel bills along the road.”

Man Who Dumped Brewery is Dead.

Reverend Abraham de Kack, one-time prosperous brewer, who emptied the

contents of his brewing plant into Grand River and later became a

Methodist minister, is dead in Ionia, Mich., of pneumonia.

De Kack, more generally known as “De Quack,” and familiarly to his

immediate circle of acquaintances as “Quackie,” which appellation is by

no means lacking in the respect that it would seemingly fail to convey,

was once a brewer in Holland, and later a celery grower, and finally a

preacher of the gospel.

It was many years ago that De Kack brewed beer--it was considered good

beer, too--but when he saw the harm that alcohol does, even in small

amounts, he at once went to his little brewery, discharged the help,

opened up the spigots of the beer vats, and, at the loss of a small

fortune to himself, drained all the beer into the sewers. Then he became

a minister.

It was a habit of De Kack’s to pay his hired help daily as far as

possible, for he took seriously the biblical saying: “Owe no man.”

Martin Dows, of Grand Rapids, one of De Kack’s employees, received his

pay every night for twenty-nine years.

Old Nag Dies After Race.

After serving his master, Peter l’Heureux, of Marlboro, Mass., for the

most of his twenty-six years of life, Mr. l’Heureux’s faithful family

horse, either out of shame because he was beaten or because he felt bad

about putting his owner out of pocket, turned around and died after he

had just lost the second straight out of three heats in a race against

the equine owned by Joseph Chaput on the Lakeside Avenue Straightaway.

For some time there had been arguments between the two men relative to

the merits of their horses as “steppers.” It was decided to settle the

matter. Bets were placed and all concerned repaired to the scene of

contest. There were friends of both parties, probably 500 in all,

assembled to see some free racing.

The distance was to be a quarter mile, best two heats out of three,

and, after the stationing of officials, the race was on. L’Heureux’s

horse was beaten by a good ten yards in the first heat and was a bad

second in the next sprint. The animal was just turned round by the

driver and headed in the direction of home when it suddenly pitched out

of the shafts--dead.

“Boy” Prisoner Proves to be Married Woman.

After fraternizing with men prisoners in the jail and sharing a cell

with Robert Stewart for several months, “Frank A. Dawson,” alias “Frank

Morris,” of Oklahoma, arrested in Sutton, W. Va., on a charge of

burglary, was found to be a woman.

Dawson, who appeared to be a youth of sixteen years, sent a note to

Jailer Hyer, when her case was to have been called in court, and

informed him that she was in disguise.

Dawson’s story was confirmed by a matron, and she further asserted that

she is Mrs. Frank C. Dawson, of Clarksburg, and that she has a mother,

brother, and a young child residing in that city.

Mrs. Dawson is a very pretty young woman. She and Stewart have occupied

the same cell at night and she has daily associated with the other

prisoners in the corridors. Stewart asserts that he was not aware of her

sex.

According to the police, Dawson and Stewart are responsible for a number

of daring burglaries in this vicinity, in which they are said to have

made away with several thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry and valuables.

Boy Risks Life for Thirty-five Cents.

While Lee Mills, nineteen years old, was returning to his home in Webb

City, Mo., from a “movie” show, at a late hour, two rough-bearded men

stepped from behind the corner of a building, each holding an automatic

revolver, and commanded “Hands up!” Instead of complying, young Mills,

who was carrying an umbrella, used the latter as a “spear” and attacked

the two holdup men. They opened fire upon him, but Mills, undaunted,

continued to use his stout umbrella until he had put both men to flight.

They fired many shots at him, but only one took effect, striking him in

the right arm and passing through the fleshy part, without breaking any

bones.

When young Mills was taken to a hospital for treatment, the doctor,

thinking his patient must have a considerable sum of money with him to

have put up so fierce a fight against such odds, asked him if he wanted

his valuables taken care of.

“Oh, no,” replied Mills, “it isn’t necessary, as I only have thirty-five

cents,” which statement proved true.

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The Nick Carter Stories

ISSUED EVERY SATURDAY BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS

When it comes to detective stories worth while, the =Nick Carter Stories=

contain the only ones that should be considered. They are not overdrawn

tales of bloodshed. They rather show the working of one of the finest

minds ever conceived by a writer. The name of Nick Carter is familiar

all over the world, for the stories of his adventures may be read in

twenty languages. No other stories have withstood the severe test of

time so well as those contained in the =Nick Carter Stories=. It proves

conclusively that they are the best. We give herewith a list of some of

the back numbers in print. You can have your news dealer order them, or

they will be sent direct by the publishers to any address upon receipt

of the price in money or postage stamps.

704--Written in Red.

707--Rogues of the Air.

709--The Bolt from the Blue.

710--The Stockbridge Affair.

711--A Secret from the Past.

712--Playing the Last Hand.

713--A Slick Article.

714--The Taxicab Riddle.

717--The Master Rogue’s Alibi.

719--The Dead Letter.

720--The Allerton Millions.

728--The Mummy’s Head.

729--The Statue Clue.

730--The Torn Card.

731--Under Desperation’s Spur.

732--The Connecting Link.

733--The Abduction Syndicate.

736--The Toils of a Siren.

738--A Plot Within a Plot.

739--The Dead Accomplice.

741--The Green Scarab.

746--The Secret Entrance.

747--The Cavern Mystery.

748--The Disappearing Fortune.

749--A Voice from the Past.

752--The Spider’s Web.

753--The Man With a Crutch.

754--The Rajah’s Regalia.

755--Saved from Death.

756--The Man Inside.

757--Out for Vengeance.

758--The Poisons of Exili.

759--The Antique Vial.

760--The House of Slumber.

761--A Double Identity.

762--“The Mocker’s” Stratagem.

763--The Man that Came Back.

764--The Tracks in the Snow.

765--The Babbington Case.

766--The Masters of Millions.

767--The Blue Stain.

768--The Lost Clew.

770--The Turn of a Card.

771--A Message in the Dust.

772--A Royal Flush.

774--The Great Buddha Beryl.

775--The Vanishing Heiress.

776--The Unfinished Letter.

777--A Difficult Trail.

782--A Woman’s Stratagem.

783--The Cliff Castle Affair.

784--A Prisoner of the Tomb.

785--A Resourceful Foe.

789--The Great Hotel Tragedies.

795--Zanoni, the Transfigured.

796--The Lure of Gold.

797--The Man With a Chest.

798--A Shadowed Life.

799--The Secret Agent.

800--A Plot for a Crown.

801--The Red Button.

802--Up Against It.

803--The Gold Certificate.

804--Jack Wise’s Hurry Call.

805--Nick Carter’s Ocean Chase.

806--Nick Carter and the Broken Dagger.

807--Nick Carter’s Advertisement.

808--The Kregoff Necklace.

810--The Copper Cylinder.

811--Nick Carter and the Nihilists.

812--Nick Carter and the Convict Gang.

813--Nick Carter and the Guilty Governor.

814--The Triangled Coin.

815--Ninety-nine--and One.

816--Coin Number 77.

NEW SERIES

NICK CARTER STORIES

1--The Man from Nowhere.

2--The Face at the Window.

3--A Fight for a Million.

4--Nick Carter’s Land Office.

5--Nick Carter and the Professor.

6--Nick Carter as a Mill Hand.

7--A Single Clew.

8--The Emerald Snake.

9--The Currie Outfit.

10--Nick Carter and the Kidnapped Heiress.

11--Nick Carter Strikes Oil.

12--Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure.

13--A Mystery of the Highway.

14--The Silent Passenger.

15--Jack Dreen’s Secret.

16--Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case.

17--Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves.

18--Nick Carter’s Auto Chase.

19--The Corrigan Inheritance.

20--The Keen Eye of Denton.

21--The Spider’s Parlor.

22--Nick Carter’s Quick Guess.

23--Nick Carter and the Murderess.

24--Nick Carter and the Pay Car.

25--The Stolen Antique.

26--The Crook League.

27--An English Cracksman.

28--Nick Carter’s Still Hunt.

29--Nick Carter’s Electric Shock.

30--Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess.

31--The Purple Spot.

32--The Stolen Groom.

33--The Inverted Cross.

34--Nick Carter and Kono McCall.

35--Nick Carter’s Death Trap.

36--Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle.

37--The Man Outside.

38--The Death Chamber.

39--The Wind and the Wire.

40--Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase.

41--Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend.

42--The Queen of the Seven.

43--Crossed Wires.

44--A Crimson Clew.

45--The Third Man.

46--The Sign of the Dagger.

47--The Devil Worshipers.

48--The Cross of Daggers.

49--At Risk of Life.

50--The Deeper Game.

51--The Code Message.

52--The Last of the Seven.

53--Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful.

54--The Secret Order of Associated Crooks.

55--The Golden Hair Clew.

56--Back From the Dead.

57--Through Dark Ways.

58--When Aces Were Trumps.

59--The Gambler’s Last Hand.

60--The Murder at Linden Fells.

61--A Game for Millions.

62--Under Cover.

63--The Last Call.

64--Mercedes Danton’s Double.

65--The Millionaire’s Nemesis.

66--A Princess of the Underworld.

67--The Crook’s Blind.

68--The Fatal Hour.

69--Blood Money.

70--A Queen of Her Kind.

71--Isabel Benton’s Trump Card.

72--A Princess of Hades.

73--A Prince of Plotters.

74--The Crook’s Double.

75--For Life and Honor.

76--A Compact With Dazaar.

77--In the Shadow of Dazaar.

78--The Crime of a Money King.

79--Birds of Prey.

80--The Unknown Dead.

81--The Severed Hand.

82--The Terrible Game of Millions.

83--A Dead Man’s Power.

84--The Secrets of an Old House.

85--The Wolf Within.

86--The Yellow Coupon.

87--In the Toils.

88--The Stolen Radium.

89--A Crime in Paradise.

90--Behind Prison Bars.

91--The Blind Man’s Daughter.

92--On the Brink of Ruin.

93--Letter of Fire.

94--The $100,000 Kiss.

95--Outlaws of the Militia.

96--The Opium-Runners.

97--In Record Time.

98--The Wag-Nuk Clew.

99--The Middle Link.

100--The Crystal Maze.

101--A New Serpent in Eden.

102--The Auburn Sensation.

103--A Dying Chance.

104--The Gargoni Girdle.

105--Twice in Jeopardy.

106--The Ghost Launch.

107--Up in the Air.

108--The Girl Prisoner.

109--The Red Plague.

110--The Arson Trust.

111--The King of the Firebugs.

112--“Lifter’s” of the Lofts.

113--French Jimmie and His Forty Thieves.

114--The Death Plot.

115--The Evil Formula.

116--The Blue Button.

117--The Deadly Parallel.

118--The Vivisectionists.

119--The Stolen Brain.

120--An Uncanny Revenge.

121--The Call of Death.

122--The Suicide.

123--Half a Million Ransom.

124--The Girl Kidnapper.

125--The Pirate Yacht.

126--The Crime of the White Hand.

127--Found in the Jungle.

128--Six Men in a Loop.

129--The Jewels of Wat Chang.

130--The Crime in the Tower.

131--The Fatal Message.

132--Broken Bars.

Dated March 27th, 1915.

133--Won by Magic.

Dated April 3d, 1915.

134--The Secret of Shangore.

Dated April 10th, 1915.

135--Straight to the Goal.

Dated April 17th, 1915.

136--The Man They Held Back.

=PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY.= If you want any back numbers of our weeklies

and cannot procure them from your news dealer, they can be obtained

direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as money.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY