CHAPTER IX.

THE LAST RESORT.

Nick Carter was not long in learning whither he was bound. The jostling

of the truck over the uneven ground in the narrow passage between the

buildings ceased in a very few moments.

Nick then felt himself rudely lifted from the truck and carried under

cover. Through the burlap in which he had been wrapped he could detect

the pungent scent of lime, which confirmed his earlier suspicions.

“They’ve brought me to that building close to the river,” he said to

himself. “The outlook isn’t very promising, unless Chick or Patsy had

picked up the trail of Goulard before he started for the Badger house.

There is a reasonably fair chance of that, in which case----”

Nick’s train of thought was abruptly broken.

Four of the ruffians had raised him again and were taking him up a

flight of steps leading to the loft of the building. There they dropped

him on the floor and removed the burlap with which he was half

smothered.

Nick sat up and turned his shoulders to the near wall. Gazing around, he

saw a large, unfinished room, partly filled with unopened barrels of

lime. Cobwebs hung in festoons from the roof and beams. The only light

came through two windows overlooking the river, the swash and swirl of

which could be plainly heard.

Gaston Goulard came up the stairs at that moment and at once flashed a

sharp glance around the dismal place. He then strode quickly across to

one of the windows and looked out.

Nick and Ben Badger, also, guessed what the rascal had in mind, and the

latter said, with a grim laugh:

“That would be out of the frying pan into the fire, Goulard. Better take

chances with the police, than with the East River.”

“I’m not looking to take either chance,” Goulard replied, with a frown

settling on his white face.

“There’s no danger here,” Badger said confidently. “This place is not

suspected.”

“Are the doors below securely locked?”

“The front one is locked and barred,” said Dakin. “No guns know anything

about the other, or the way of getting to it. You’re safe enough here.”

“Let Quicklime Jimmy alone to know what he’s talking about,” declared

Badger, with another laugh. “Take that gag from the dick’s mouth,

Glidden,” he added. “I want to talk with him.”

The bandage already had fallen from Nick’s eyes, and Glidden now removed

the gag, enabling Nick to speak and breathe more freely.

Badger seated himself on the top of a barrel a few feet from the

detective, regarding him with sinister scrutiny for a moment. He then

said curtly:

“You see that we’ve got you, Carter.”

“I have eyes,” Nick replied.

“There is no loophole for you to slip through.”

“I’m not looking for one,” said Nick, with outward indifference. “When I

decide to look, Badger, I may find one.”

“Not on your life,” snapped Goulard, approaching. “If I thought that,

I’d put a bullet into you on the spot.”

“You are quite capable of it, Goulard.”

“You bet I am, Carter, in your case. If there is one man on earth whom I

hate, you’re the man.”

“Better your hatred, Goulard, than your friendship,” Nick said sternly.

“Mr. Henry Mantell, your late partner in business, will vouch for that.”

“Curse you, I----”

“Cut that!” snapped Badger, thrusting Goulard aside when he reached for

a weapon. “You’ll be given a chance to have your say a little later.

Just now, Goulard, I’ll do the talking with the dick.”

Goulard drew back, white and frowning, and glanced again toward one of

the windows.

“No, Carter, you’d find no loophole,” said Badger, reverting to him.

“The best we can offer you is a choice between the East River, a toss in

the darkness through one of those windows, or a bed in a couple of feet

of quicklime.”

“I’ll let you make the selection,” said Nick coldly.

“No great choice, eh?” sneered Badger, grinning.

“None as far as I am concerned.”

“Carter, you’re a cool dick, all right. I suppose, if we were really

pressed to do so, we would offer you something better,” Badger slowly

added, after a moment.

Nick eyed him narrowly, noting his altered tone.

“What is that?” he inquired.

“A chance to compromise.”

“Not on your life!” cried Goulard hotly. “I’ll not stand for----”

“You close your trap till I’m through,” snapped Badger fiercely. “You

then can have your say, but not till then! I run this gang, Mr. Goulard,

and what I say goes. Now, Carter, what do you say?”

“To what?”

“To a compromise.”

“What sort of a compromise?”

“That’s easily stated,” said Badger. “You agree to step out of this case

with your assistants, keep your hands off of us and your mouth closed,

and do nothing to expose us. In return, you get your liberty and----”

“Stop a moment,” Nick interrupted.

“Well?”

“Suppose I consent to such a compromise, will you accept it?”

“Certainly,” nodded Badger. “Why not?”

“Wouldn’t you be taking a chance?”

“That you might betray us?”

“Exactly.”

Badger quickly shook his head.

“Not the ghost of a chance, Carter,” he said roundly. “I know you from

’way back. I’d take your word against the national house of congress.

It’s up to you, Carter, to----”

“Enough said, Badger,” Nick interrupted. “I never in my life compromised

with a crook for my own safety, and I shall not begin with you.”

“But----”

“There aren’t any buts, Badger,” Nick thundered--not without a reason.

His quick ear, close to the wall against which he was leaning, had

caught a faint sound, unheard by any of the others--the slight creak of

a hinge on the passageway door at the foot of the stairs.

It told him on the instant that help was at hand. Bent upon covering the

approach of whomever it might be, though he suspected the truth, Nick

went on with augmented vehemence, his sonorous voice fairly drowning all

other sounds:

“No, no, Badger, I never would consent to that. I am a servant of the

law, a protector of society. My duty to both, my own integrity, the

dictates of my conscience, every spark of manhood in my nature, all

would forbid----”

“Oh, hang your conscience!” roared Badger, interrupting. “You’ll get all

that’s coming to you, then! You’ll get----”

He broke off as if suddenly tongue-tied.

He saw the heads and helmets of a crowd of men rushing up the stairs,

men with revolvers in their hands and stern determination in their eyes,

a great posse of police led by Chick Carter and Patsy Garvan.

Before he could find his voice, that of Chick Carter rang through the

dismal loft:

“Hands up! We’ve got you, boys! Don’t show fight if you want to live!

There’ll be nothing to it!”

“Nothing but the shouting!” yelled Patsy, as the detectives and the

police bounded up and into the loft.

Their increasing numbers and display of weapons awed every crook save

one--Gaston Goulard.

He vented a snarl like that of a cornered wolf. Turning like a flash, he

darted to the window at which he had repeatedly glanced. He did not

stop upon reaching it.

He dived straight through it, carrying away panes and sashes, and

vanished on the instant in the gathering dusk outside.

Patsy bounded to the window and looked out.

He saw the splash of falling spray where the man had gone down in the

black, swirling waters of the river. He waited and watched--but watched

vainly.

No head rose to the surface--no form to tell that Gaston Goulard had not

paid the price for his crimes.

The arrest and incarceration of the other crooks were easily and quickly

accomplished. Sadie Badger already had been arrested, and was on her way

with Slugger Sloan to the precinct station. All were in custody before

six o’clock that evening.

In a room back of some lime barrels in a corner of the loft, was found

not only Juan Padillo, gagged and bound hand and foot, but also the suit

case and its contents--both held there by the Badger gang until they

learned what course the police investigations were likely to take.

Nick Carter and his assistants had showed them much sooner than they had

anticipated.

The story told by Padillo, whose relief and gratitude were utterly

beyond expression, confirmed all of Nick’s deductions from the evidence

he had gathered.

It appeared that Goulard and Taggart, contemplating a burglary in the

Mantell mansion, had come there to look over the ground on the very

night Frank read the Vandyke letter to his wife and parents. The crooks

overheard him, as Nick had suspected, and at once framed up the job to

get Padillo and his war prize. Not sure that they remembered the letter

perfectly, Goulard had stolen into the house one day, picking the lock

of the desk and making a copy of the letter during the night, and

successfully stealing out of the house the following morning.

While discussing their scheme with Sloan in a barroom a few days later,

they were overheard by Ben Badger, who was in an adjoining booth. He at

once framed up a job with his gang, or the men included in it, to get

into the Manhattanville house before Goulard arrived from the vessel

with his victim, and to get away with him and his suit case.

They broke into the house through the basement immediately after dark

that evening, and before Taggart and Slugger Sloan arrived, who had come

to aid Goulard in disposing of the Mexican. When they undertook this and

Padillo realized his situation, he at once stabbed Taggart and started

in to finish the others and escape from the house.

He would have failed but for the interference of the Badger gang, whom

Padillo took to be friends because of their aid, and the fight ended

precisely as Nick had deduced, Padillo going willingly with the Badger

gang, only to later find himself helplessly in their clutches.

He stated that Goulard was the man who had shot Batty Lang, which

confirmed an earlier prediction of the famous detective--that Goulard

would sooner or later kill some one.

Nick referred to this prediction when discussing the case with his two

assistants that evening, then added:

“Well, we got in our quick work, all right, and saved Padillo and his

baubles. He will never be held for killing Taggart. Whether Mantell and

his partners in the jewel scheme will be able to hold the prize, or have

a moral right to do so, is not for us to consider. It’s enough for us

that we shall be well paid for our work. As for Gaston Goulard--well, we

shall see no more of him till the East River gives up its dead.”

“That will be never, chief,” declared Patsy. “Never in this world.”

THE END.

In the next issue, No. 150, of the NICK CARTER WEEKLY, you will

find a mighty interesting account of one of the famous detective’s

most baffling cases, namely, “The House of Fear; or, Nick Carter’s

Counterstroke.” You will also find several short articles, together

with an installment of the serial now running.

Sheridan of the U. S. Mail.

By RALPH BOSTON.

(This interesting story was commenced in No. 148 of NICK CARTER STORIES.

Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the

publishers.)

CHAPTER IX.

JACK O’ DIAMONDS.

With a wide grin upon his beefy countenance, Mr. Jake Hines stepped into

the real-estate office of Walter K. Sammis. “Hello, little one!” he said

cheerily to the girl who sat at a typewriter in the outer office. “We’re

lookin’ very charming to-day.”

Dallas Worthington looked up from her work, and stared at him coldly. “I

haven’t time to listen to compliments,” she said. “I’m very busy. And,

besides, I told you the other day that I want you to keep out of here.

You must be very thick-skinned, Mr. Hines, to persist in coming where

you know you’re not wanted.”

The young man smiled affably.

“If I wasn’t thick-skinned, my dear young lady, I wouldn’t be a

politician,” he remarked. “The way I figure it, love and politics are

pretty much the same sort of game. In both cases a feller has got to

keep pluggin’ ahead, refusin’ to take ‘no’ for an answer, in order to

succeed.

“When I want a thing very bad,” he went on, “I always manage to get it.

I keep right on tryin’ until I do, and if anybody is foolish enough to

get in my way they get crushed as flat as if a steam roller had gone

over ’em. That’s the kind of a live wire Jake Hines is, my dear.”

The girl laughed scornfully. “What a terrible fellow you must be!” she

mocked. “If I thought you could be as unscrupulous in love as I

understand you are in politics, Mr. Hines, I should feel very much

afraid of you. But let me tell you that there is one great difference

between love and politics: In love the best man generally wins; in

politics, from what I have heard, the reverse is usually the case.”

As she spoke, she glanced at a solitaire diamond ring which flashed from

the third finger of her left hand.

The young man looked at her admiringly. “Say, that’s pretty clever of

you. It sounds like a couple of lines out of a book. You can take it

from me, though, Miss Dallas, that the best man is goin’ to win in this

case--and his name is Jake Hines.”

His gaze suddenly fell upon the diamond ring. “Hello!” he exclaimed.

“That’s something new, ain’t it? You wasn’t wearin’ that the last time I

was here.”

“Perhaps not,” replied the girl coldly; “but really I can’t see that it

is----”

“I don’t have to guess twice as to where you got it,” broke in Hines

eagerly. “It was that crook, Sheridan, of course. So that’s where the

money went to!”

Dallas flushed angrily. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded, in

astonishment. “What money? And how dare you refer to Owen Sheridan as a

crook?”

Hines grinned broadly. “Because it’s the truth. I’m only callin’ him

what everybody else will be callin’ him after the next edition of the

evening papers comes out. That reminds me that I came here to tell you a

piece of news which ought to interest you. I guess that you ain’t heard

yet that your letter-carrier friend Owen Sheridan was arrested two hours

ago at post office X Y.”

The girl turned pale. “Arrested!” she gasped. “For what?”

“Robbing the mails,” Hines replied cheerfully. “He swiped a gold watch

from a registered package yesterday, and pawned it for forty dollars.

They found the pawn ticket in his trunk up at the boarding house.”

Dallas stared at him incredulously.

“You don’t have to take my word for it, little one,” he said. “The

evening papers will be on the streets soon, and you can read for

yourself.”

“Or, if you can’t wait that long,” he added, with a malicious smile,

“why don’t you put on that pretty picture hat of yours and take a run

around to Branch X Y? The boys there will tell you all about Sheridan’s

arrest. The inspectors nabbed him right in the post office when he

returned from the noon delivery.”

Dallas leaned weakly against the tall back of her typewriter chair. She

looked as if she were about to faint. “But, anyway, he isn’t--guilty,”

she faltered. “He can’t be guilty!”

Hines smiled sardonically. “Oh, can’t he, eh? You won’t say that, my

dear girl, when you’ve read all the particulars. The post-office

inspectors say they’ve got a mighty strong case against him. They’re

tickled to death to have nabbed him. There’s been lots of mail stolen

from Branch X Y of late, and they think they’ll be able to put it all up

to Sheridan.”

His glance fell again upon the diamond ring which glistened upon the

third finger of her left hand. “Say, if I was you I’d take that off,” he

said. “A nice girl like you don’t want to wear jewelry that was bought

with the proceeds of a larceny. It ain’t decent. Take it off, and I’ll

get you a better one. I’ll give you a diamond twice as big--if you’ll

promise to wear it on the same finger.”

The girl’s eyes flashed scornfully. “Thank you, but I much prefer to

keep this one,” she said. “It wasn’t bought with stolen money. That’s a

falsehood. Owen bought it with money he’d been saving for a year. He

told me so himself.”

“Oh, indeed!” sneered Hines. “And you mean to say you’re willin’ to

believe a fairy story like that? If I’m a judge of diamonds--and I

rather guess I am--that there ring must be worth a hundred dollars if

it’s worth a penny. Do you suppose for a minute that a first-grade

carrier could save that much out of a six-hundred-a-year salary?

“And, besides,” he continued, “I’ll tell you somethin’ that ought to

convince you. There’s several men employed at Station X Y who can

testify that yesterday morning Sheridan was going among ’em tryin’ to

borrow thirty dollars. Would he have done that if he had a hundred

dollars saved up?”

Dallas gazed at him in horror, unable to find words to refute this

argument.

“Now, when did Sheridan give you that ring?” Hines inquired.

“Only last night,” she answered simply.

The politician smiled triumphantly. “Well, there you are! It’s as clear

as daylight. We can prove that he was tryin’ to borrow money from his

comrades yesterday at the post office; yesterday evenin’ he was so flush

he could afford to buy a hundred-dollar ring. Where did he get the

money? By pawnin’ the watch he stole, of course. What more proof could

you want?”

“But forty dollars wouldn’t buy a ring like this,” declared Dallas

hopefully. “If the watch was pawned for only that much, where did he get

the rest of the money?”

“That’s easy,” retorted Hines promptly. “He may have had seventy when he

tried to borrow the thirty. Perhaps he’d managed to save that much,

or--what’s more likely--perhaps he stole the balance from other letters.

Or it may be that he bought the ring on the installment plan--paid forty

down with the money he got on that watch, and agreed to pay the rest

later on. If that’s the case, the post-office inspectors will soon find

it out when they interview the jeweler who sold him the ring.”

“But the post-office inspectors mustn’t know about this ring,” gasped

Dallas apprehensively. “You’re not going to tell them, Mr. Hines?” Her

tone was pleading.

“Well,” said Hines hesitatingly. “I really ought to, you know. It’s my

duty as a citizen to give the authorities all the help I can. It would

be wrong of me to keep it dark. The fact that Sheridan bought that ring

only last night will probably be one of the strongest links in the chain

of evidence they’ve got against him. It would be enough to convince any

jury.”

He paused and looked at her eagerly. “But I ain’t got any wish to make

things any harder for the young feller than they are already. He’s a

crook, and I ain’t got any use for crooks; but I’d like to see him get

off, for I know it would make you feel bad to see him in stripes. I’d do

almost anything to prevent you from feelin’ bad, Dallas. I’ll tell you

what I’ll do, little girl. You promise me to take off that engagement

ring, and wear one that I’ll give you, instead, and I’ll promise to keep

mum.

“And not only that,” he went on, “but if Sheridan’s convicted, as he

probably will be, even without this bit of evidence, I’ll do my best to

save him from goin’ to jail. Us politicians has a lot of influence with

judges, you know. I think I can manage to get him off with a suspended

sentence. Is it a bargain, Dallas?”

“It is not!” she replied indignantly. “I’ll keep the ring I have. I am

still confident that it was bought with honest money. Go ahead and tell

the post-office inspectors what you please, Mr. Hines. The chances are

that Owen Sheridan has already told them about the ring himself. I feel

quite sure that he has no wish to conceal the fact that he gave it to

me. He’s not a thief, and he’ll be able to explain how he got the

money.”

Hines shrugged his shoulders. “You’re very foolish,” he said, as he

backed toward the door. “Take it from me, you’re doin’ your carrier

friend a bad turn. However, the other part of my offer still stands.

When Sheridan’s convicted, I’ll use my political pull to get him off

with a suspended sentence, provided you’ll agree to shake him and marry

me. Think it over, little one. It’s a mighty generous offer. You ought

to be glad to marry an honest man instead of a crook.”

He walked up the avenue, whistling gayly, and ten minutes later entered

the headquarters of the Samuel J. Coggswell Association, and climbed the

stairs to the room marked “Director’s Office--Private.”

He was the only member of the club who was privileged to enter that room

without first going through the formality of knocking on the door.

As he now closed the door behind him, turned the key in the lock, and

stepped across the soft, thick Persian rug to the mahogany roll-top desk

at which sat Samuel J. Coggswell, the latter swung around in his desk

chair, and confronted him eagerly.

“Well, Jake?” he said.

“Everything’s went fine, boss,” replied Hines, with a grin, seating

himself beside the desk. “Your scheme worked like a clock from start to

finish. Sheridan was pinched at half past twelve, and is in the jug at

this minute.”

Boss Coggswell’s face lighted up. “Good!” he said. “That is, I mean to

say: What a pity that one so young should turn out to be such a bad egg!

To think of a nice-looking, clean-cut young fellow like that having to

go to jail almost makes me weep, Jake--almost makes me weep.”

There wasn’t a ghost of a smile upon the district leader’s face as he

uttered these words. On the contrary, his expression was so sad, so

virtuous, that Hines might have believed that his master actually meant

what he said if he hadn’t known what he did, and if he hadn’t noticed

that all the time the boss was talking his ears were wiggling rapidly--a

sure sign that Old Nick was at work inside that cunning brain.

“Let this be a lesson to you, Jake,” Coggswell went on. “Let this be a

warning to you, my boy--for you, too, are very young--never to do

anything dishonest.”

“Or never get gay with Boss Coggswell,” chuckled Hines, looking at his

chief admiringly. “You’re a wonder!”

“And how does the young man take it?” inquired Coggswell, after a long

pause.

“Very calmly so far,” replied Hines. “He can’t believe that he’s in any

danger of being sent away. Says it’s a frame-up, and that he won’t have

any trouble in proving his innocence.”

“Poor, misguided youth!” murmured the boss.

“He’s got ex-Judge Lawrence to defend him,” Hines went on. “As soon as

the judge heard that he was under arrest, he went to police headquarters

and offered to take the case for nothing.”

“And what does the judge think?” inquired Coggswell, somewhat anxiously,

for he knew that Mr. Sugden Lawrence, ex-justice of the supreme court,

was one of the most able lawyers in the country.

Hines chuckled. “I got it from a friend at headquarters that the judge,

havin’ heard all the evidence, seems to think that he’s goin’ to have a

pretty hard time provin’ his client’s innocence.”

A relieved smile came to Samuel J. Coggswell’s face. “The judge is a

smart man,” he said. “I agree with him.”

CHAPTER X.

A TANGLED SKEIN.

Ex-Judge Lawrence glanced at the card which the office boy handed to

him. “Miss Dallas Worthington,” he read aloud; “I don’t know her, and I

am very busy. Did she state the object of her call?”

“Yes, sir; she said it was about the case of Owen Sheridan.”

The lawyer nodded. “Oh, yes, I recall the name now. Ask her to step

right in, Robert.

“You are Mr. Sheridan’s fiancée, I believe, Miss Worthington?” he said,

as the girl entered the room. “Please be seated. You have come, I

presume, to ask me what I think about this unfortunate case?”

“Yes,” said the girl. “Do you think that there is any chance of his

being guilty?”

“Well,” said the lawyer, with a smile, “that’s hardly a proper question

to ask an attorney concerning his client. What do _you_ think?”

“I feel sure that he is not,” the girl declared stoutly. “No matter what

evidence they bring against him, I cannot believe that Owen could be a

thief.”

“Humph!” grunted the judge, looking at her quizzically. “May I ask, Miss

Worthington, how long you have known the young man?”

“About six months.”

“And previous to that time you never even heard of him--didn’t know that

any such person as Owen Sheridan existed?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what makes you so sure that he couldn’t be a thief?” the lawyer

demanded sternly. “Surely you cannot form a positive estimate of a

person’s character in such a short period as six months?”

“If I had never met him before yesterday, I should be just as confident

of his innocence,” declared the girl simply. “You only have to meet Owen

once to realize that he is honest--that he isn’t the kind of fellow who

could do anything mean or dishonorable.”

The lawyer’s face softened. “My dear young lady, I agree with you

heartily,” he said. “I, too, took a great liking to the young man the

very first time I saw him. I am not a man of quick impressions. Long

experience has taught me that appearances are sadly deceiving, but there

are some men whose personalities compel confidence and respect the

minute you meet them. Owen Sheridan is one of these. I, too, am

absolutely confident that he is innocent of this charge of robbing the

mails. If I were not, I should not have undertaken his defense. I don’t

take criminal cases as a rule, and never when I believe the accused to

be guilty.”

“Then you believe that he is in no danger of--of being sent to prison?”

asked Dallas, quickly.

The lawyer’s face grew very grave. “I am in hopes that young Sheridan’s

personality will impress the jury as favorably as it has impressed us;

and, of course, I am going to do all I can to combat the sinister

influences which I have reason to believe are back of his arrest; but,

to be frank with you, Miss Worthington, I must admit that they have

built up a startlingly strong case against him.”

The girl winced. “A strong case!” she repeated, in a tone of dismay.

“Yes. You see, they found the pawn ticket for the watch in his

possession. The post-office inspectors who went to search his room are

ready to swear that when they opened his trunk, which was locked, they

found the pawn ticket inside.”

“But Owen didn’t pawn the watch,” declared the girl confidently. “Surely

the pawnbroker----”

“The pawnbroker’s clerk has identified Sheridan as the letter carrier

who came into the pawnshop in full uniform at three-thirty yesterday and

pledged a gold watch for forty dollars,” said the lawyer, with a wry

smile. “The watch has been identified by its owner as the one which was

in the registered package.”

A cry of startled surprise escaped from Dallas. “The pawnbroker’s clerk

must be mistaken,” she gasped.

“I agree with you,” said Judge Lawrence, “but at the same time he picked

Sheridan out of a group of twenty other letter carriers without a

second’s hesitation. That is bound to have great weight with a jury.”

The girl nodded in mournful assent, “Yes, I can see that. And what does

Owen say, Mr. Lawrence? What explanation does he offer?”

“He denied that he was in a pawnshop at all yesterday.”

Dallas looked relieved. “Then I believe him. I am sure that pawnbroker’s

clerk is lying, and so are those post-office inspectors. They are not

telling the truth when they say they found the pawn ticket in Owen’s

trunk. They must have put it there themselves in order to make a case

against him.”

The lawyer shook his head. “I am sorry to say that I cannot entirely

agree with you there, Miss Worthington. I think it quite likely that the

pawnshop clerk is lying, as you say. I have already discovered that he

is a friend of Jake Hines, a young man identified with Samuel J.

Coggswell, who, I have reason to suspect, is behind this prosecution, or

rather persecution, of your young friend.

“But as for the post-office inspectors,” he went on, “I believe they are

telling the truth. I have known both of them personally for several

years. They are square, honest, fearless men. Not even a politician as

influential as Boss Coggswell could persuade them to do anything

crooked. I am thoroughly convinced as to that. If they say they found

the pawn ticket in Sheridan’s trunk, I am quite sure that such was the

case.”

“Then how did it get there?” demanded Dallas. “You say you believe in

Owen’s innocence.”

“Somebody else put it there before the inspectors visited the

house--somebody who is in this shameful conspiracy to railroad our

unfortunate young friend to jail,” declared the lawyer grimly. “And I

believe I know already who that somebody was.”

“You do!” exclaimed the girl eagerly.

“Yes. As I presume you are aware, Miss Worthington, Sheridan is not the

only letter carrier who occupies a room at Mrs. O’Brien’s boarding

house. A young man named Smithers, also employed at Branch X Y, lives at

the same address. He has the bedroom next to Owen’s. He is a member of

the Samuel J. Coggswell Association, and a close friend of Jake Hines,

Coggswell’s confidential man.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Dallas breathlessly. “Then, of course, it was he who put

the ticket in Owen’s trunk. He could easily have entered the room when

Owen wasn’t there, and slipped the piece of pasteboard through a crack

without opening the trunk at all.”

“Yes,” agreed the lawyer; “doubtless that is how the thing was done.”

He leaned back in his chair, and gazed up at the ceiling meditatively.

“The whole wretched plot is perfectly clear to me,” he said. “I can see

every step those rascals took. First they got a man to send that

registered package from a downtown post office--a liquor dealer named

Warren. I met him this afternoon, and one look at the fellow served to

convince me that he is crooked. The box was empty, of course, when he

sent it; there was no watch inside. The package was addressed to a

saloon keeper on Sheridan’s route, and they timed the mailing of it so

to make sure that it would arrive at Branch X Y during our friend’s

tour.

“Then, at half past three,” he continued, “while Sheridan was on his way

to deliver the package, one of Coggswell’s emissaries--probably Jake

Hines--went to pawnshop on the letter carrier’s route, and pledged a

watch--the watch which the perjurer, Warren, swears was in the

registered package when he mailed it. The pawn ticket is next handed to

Carrier Smithers, who is instructed to put it into Sheridan’s trunk, so

that it will be there when the post-office inspectors come to search the

room.”

“But why, if the inspectors are as honest as you say,” demanded Dallas,

“should they so quickly have suspected Owen? Why should they have gone

straight to his room and opened his trunk? Doesn’t that look

significant?”

“A very sensible question, Miss Worthington. At first blush it does look

significant, I must admit. But I have interrogated my friends, the

inspectors, on that very point, and their explanation is satisfactory.

They tell me that the reason they were so quick to suspect my client was

because they learned that on that same day he had been trying

unsuccessfully to borrow money from his friends at Branch X Y. Naturally

that caused them to give him immediate attention.”

“And what does Owen say about this story that he was trying to borrow

money?” inquired the girl anxiously. “Does he deny it?”

“No; on the contrary, he admits it,” replied Judge Lawrence, with a

frown. “He was quite frank about the matter with the inspectors. He told

them that he had a chance to buy a diamond ring at a great bargain

yesterday. The ring was worth a hundred and twenty dollars, and its

owner was willing to sell it for ninety. Owen had sixty dollars saved

up, and tried to borrow the needed thirty from his fellow carriers. That

was yesterday morning.”

“And he bought the ring last night,” sighed Dallas. “Where did he get

the money? Hasn’t he explained?”

“Yes. He says that yesterday afternoon, when he had given up all hope of

being able to raise the cash for the ring, he unexpectedly encountered a

prosperous friend, a Boston man named Cowan, whom he had not seen for

several years. Owen declares that Cowan loaned him the thirty dollars.”

“And he’s telling the truth, of course,” said Dallas. “Surely it ought

to be easy to prove that, Judge Lawrence. All we have to do is to get

this Mr. Cowan to corroborate Owen’s statement.”

The lawyer smiled sadly. “That is where fate has dealt our young friend

a nasty blow. Sheridan is a most unlucky fellow. It ought to be easy, as

you say, to get this man Cowan to corroborate his statement--but it

isn’t.”

“Why not?” demanded the girl. “You don’t mean to say that he denies it?”

“Not quite as bad as that,” replied the judge, “but almost. Fifteen

minutes ago, Miss Worthington, I telephoned to this man’s hotel--Owen

told me where he was stopping. The clerk informed me over the wire that

Mr. Cowan died this morning of heart disease. My client’s statement

cannot be corroborated. Fate seems to be on the side of Samuel J.

Coggswell and his rascally crew.”

CHAPTER XI.

AN OFFER DECLINED.

As the day set for Owen Sheridan’s trial approached, ex-Judge Lawrence

grew more and more pessimistic as to the outcome. Although he was quite

certain that his client was the victim of a dastardly plot, he realized

that simply to make such an assertion in a court of law could do no good

unless he was able to prove it to a jury’s complete satisfaction.

He had obtained a bondsman for Owen, and the latter had been freed from

a cell at police headquarters, and was able to take an active part in

the preparing of his own defense.

Every day the carrier and his lawyer held long conferences, and went

over every detail of the case, seeking in vain to find some weak spot in

the chain of circumstantial evidence which his enemies had forged--some

point in the “frame-up” which was open to attack.

In this endeavor, however, they did not meet with much success until one

day Owen burst into the lawyer’s presence with a joyous smile upon his

face, and exclaimed excitedly:

“I’ve got an idea, judge, and I think it’s a winner.”

The lawyer listened attentively to what his client had to say, and when

the latter had finished, jumped up from his chair and impulsively

grasped the young man’s hand.

“I congratulate you, my boy,” he said warmly. “You are right; your idea

is a winner. Your cleverness may save you from a term in jail. I am more

confident now as to the outcome of this case.

“Be sure not to mention a word about this to a living soul,” he went on,

with a chuckle. “I want to spring it as a surprise. Whenever you meet

any of Coggswell’s bunch, pretend to be overwhelmed with despair. Make

those fellows think that you are on the verge of a breakdown as a result

of brooding over your impending fate. That will make the shock all the

greater when we spring our little surprise on them in court.”

Thus it happened that when, the following day, Jake Hines, on his way to

the headquarters of the Samuel J. Coggswell Association, encountered

Owen on the street, the latter looked so worried and cast down that Jake

almost felt sorry for him.

Hines stepped into Boss Coggswell’s private office at the clubhouse a

few minutes later, and told his chief about the meeting.

“That fellow looks like a ghost, governor,” he declared. “He’s scared

stiff. I almost think that if he had the price of a steamship ticket

he’d skip his bail and beat it.”

Boss Coggswell waxed thoughtful at this remark. “Do you know, Jake, that

isn’t at all a bad idea,” he said. “I refer to the suggestion you just

made about the young man skipping his bail. If I thought that he could

really be persuaded to do that I almost think I’d prefer to have things

turn out that way. I have no desire to see the fellow sent to prison. If

he became a fugitive from justice, it would suit our purpose just as

well, it seems to me. All we want is to have him so utterly discredited

that he’ll be unable to do us any injury.”

Coggswell had already used his political influence to have the trials of

Carriers Greene and Tom Hovey for tampering with Judge Lawrence’s mail

put down at the bottom of the court calendar. His object in doing this,

of course, was to have Owen Sheridan’s case disposed of before these

other cases came up for trial, so that the young man would be unable to

implicate him--Coggswell--by telling what he knew about the conspiracy

to pry into the ex-judge’s private correspondence.

“Yes,” the boss went on, his ears wiggling rapidly as he spoke, “I

almost think I’d prefer to have young Sheridan run away. It almost

breaks my heart to think of a nice young man like him having to go to

jail. He has tried to injure me, ’tis true, but I hope I am not

vindictive, Jake--I certainly hope I am not vindictive. If I thought

that it was only the lack of the price of a steamship ticket which

prevented him from leaving the United States, I think I’d loan him the

money, Jake--yes, indeed!”

Hines pondered over this. He had heard of fugitives from justice sending

for their sweethearts to join them in some remote portion of the globe

where there was no extradition treaty with the United States government.

But Dallas Worthington did not impress him as being the kind of girl who

would respond to such an invitation. On the contrary, she probably would

accept the fact of the letter carrier’s flight as conclusive proof of

his guilt.

If Sheridan stood trial, was convicted, and sentenced to jail, the girl,

believing that he had fallen an innocent victim to circumstantial

evidence, might still remain loyal to him; but if Sheridan ran away, he

would no doubt by such a craven act lose the love of Dallas forever.

Thus thought Jake Hines, and consequently he decided that Boss

Coggswell’s plan was a good one.

“I think you’re right, boss,” he said. “It would be a mighty good idea

for us to finance a little trip abroad for that feller.”

“But it must be done very carefully, Jake,” said Coggswell. “Remember,

we have Judge Lawrence to deal with--a mighty shrewd lawyer. If he

managed to implicate me in this young man’s flight, it would place me in

a very painful position. It is essential that I remain an anonymous

philanthropist, Jake.”

“I’ll look out for that, boss,” Hines assured him. “I’ll work it so that

it can’t possibly be brought home to you. I know a way.”

Half an hour later Hines stepped into the real-estate office of Walter

K. Sammis. Dallas Worthington looked up from her typewriter, and

frowned her disapproval of her visitor.

“If you don’t leave here immediately,” she began indignantly, “I’ll call

Mr. Sammis----”

“Hold on there, little one!” he interrupted blandly. “I know I ain’t

welcome here, but don’t go up in the air before you hear what I got to

say. If you don’t let me get it off my chest, you’ll be sorry. I’ve come

to tell you something about that letter-carrier friend of

yours--something that’ll help him.”

The girl hesitated. “Well, hurry up and say it,” she said coldly. “I’ll

listen.”

“I met Sheridan on the street a little while ago,” said Hines, “and he

looked so bad that, honest, I couldn’t help feelin’ sorry for him.”

“He doesn’t need your pity,” declared Dallas scornfully.

“Maybe not,” said Hines; “but at the same time he’s got it. It almost

made my heart bleed to see him lookin’ like that, and I made up my mind

that I’d like to do something for him.”

The girl received this declaration with an incredulous laugh; but,

unheeding this, her visitor went on: “I’ve got a little money saved,

girlie--a couple of thousand dollars that I don’t need just now. If you

think your carrier friend could use it, he’s very welcome to it.”

Dallas looked at him in great astonishment. This generous offer quite

took her breath away. Her tone was a little less hostile as she said:

“Why, that’s very kind of you, Mr. Hines; but I don’t think Owen--Mr.

Sheridan is in need of money.”

“I reckon he is,” replied Jake, with a grin. “I know very well that he

ain’t got a dollar to his name. I don’t like the feller--he’s a crook,

and I ain’t got any use for crooks--but at the same time, as I say, I

feel sorry for him. And, besides, he’s a friend of yours, and any friend

of yours, little one, can command Jake Hines’ bank roll. So you tell him

the next time you see him that if he can use a couple of thousand he’s

welcome to it.”

With these words he hurried out of the office, satisfied that he had

succeeded in his mission.

“It’s sure to work,” he said to himself as he walked back to the club.

“From the look on that guy’s face, I’m sure that it’s only the lack of

funds which prevents him from beatin’ it. As soon as he learns that

there’s a chance for him to get hold of enough dough to make a safe

get-away he’ll grab at it quick.”

When Dallas saw Owen a little later she repeated to him what Hines had

said, and the young man, greatly mystified, went to report the incident

to his friend and counselor, Judge Lawrence.

“What on earth does it mean, judge?” he inquired. “What is their game in

offering me money?”

The lawyer laughed. “It is very clear what their game is, my boy. They

are in hopes that you are in such terror of the coming trial that you

can be tempted to seek safety in flight. The two thousand dollars is

intended to pay your expenses.”

Owen frowned; then his face suddenly lighted up. “Say, judge, I’ve got

another idea. Couldn’t we make great capital out of this offer? What’s

the matter with my accepting this money from Hines, in the presence of

concealed witnesses, then exposing the whole game? The very fact that

they are trying to induce me to jump my bail ought to be enough to

prove that they are behind this conspiracy.”

Judge Lawrence smiled. “I was thinking of that, but it wouldn’t work.

Those rascals are too smart to lay themselves open to a trap of that

sort. That is why Hines went to Miss Worthington instead of making that

offer direct to you.

“You see,” he went on, “while we can readily guess their motive, they

haven’t said anything that would incriminate them. Hines simply offered

to lend you some money, which might be taken as a philanthropic and

disinterested act on his part. He did not suggest that the money be used

to defray the expenses of your flight. He would claim that he thought

you might be able to use it to defray the expense of your defense.

“And, besides, you can rest assured that if you agreed to accept the

money, Hines wouldn’t be so careless as to make out the check to you. He

would make it out to Miss Worthington. There’s nothing criminal in a man

lending or giving a couple of thousand dollars to a young lady whose

friendship he ardently seeks. That’s the answer which they would make to

an attempt on our part to make capital out of the incident.”

Sheridan realized the logic of this, and Hines’ offer was turned down

flat.

Boss Coggswell was greatly disappointed when his lieutenant reported to

him that the letter carrier had refused to avail himself of this

opportunity to seek safety in flight.

“It is too bad,” he sighed. “I would have preferred to let this

unfortunate young man down easy. He has chosen unwisely. A sojourn

abroad is much more pleasant than several years behind bars. But since

he refuses to accept my aid,” he went on, those expressive ears of his

wagging rapidly, “I’m afraid he’ll have to go to jail. Yes, Jake, as

much as it pains me to have to say it, I am quite certain now that he’ll

have to go to jail.”

CHAPTER XII.

ON THE STAND.

Boss Coggswell was not present in the courtroom when Owen Sheridan’s

came up for trial. Not that he was not interested, nor was it a feeling

of delicacy which kept him away; but he realized that his presence might

excite comment and lend color to the accused man’s assertion that he was

the victim of a conspiracy.

“You’ll be there, of course, Jake,” he said to his subordinate, “and

I’ll rely on you to bring me the news just as soon as a verdict is

reached.”

Hines grinned. “Yes, you can bet your boots, boss, that I won’t lose any

time gettin’ here with the glad tidings. I guess you’re right in

decidin’ not to be present. It’d look pretty raw for you to go to court.

No use takin’ any unnecessary chances.”

“It isn’t that, Jake,” replied Coggswell deprecatingly. “It isn’t that,

my boy. I have no reason to be afraid. When one’s conscience is clear,

one doesn’t have to worry about what people might think. But the fact

is, Jake, I have a tender heart--you ought to know that by this

time--and I could not bear to be present to witness that poor man’s

sufferings.”

Hines grinned again, and looked at his chief admiringly. “All right,

boss,” he said. “You wait here, and I’ll bring you the news as soon as

the jury brings in a verdict.”

Hines had not the slightest doubt as to what that verdict was going to

be. He felt confident that the evidence against Sheridan was so

crushingly conclusive that the jury wouldn’t hesitate more than three

minutes before deciding that he was guilty.

If he had any apprehensions on the subject they would have been

dispelled by what he had seen that morning. He had encountered Owen on

the street, walking arm in arm with Judge Lawrence, and if ever two men

looked worried, the accused carrier and his counsel did.

“Poor gink!” said Mr. Hines to himself. “I guess he’s sorry by this time

that he didn’t take that money and beat it while he had the chance.

Wonder how he’ll look in a suit of stripes and with his hair close

cropped.”

There was a broad grin upon his face as he entered the courtroom and

seated himself on one of the rear benches. Catching the presiding

judge’s eye leveled sternly upon him, and suddenly realizing that his

levity was hardly decorous, he hurriedly assumed a serious mien.

He found it difficult to refrain from chuckling as the case progressed,

however, for as witness after witness took the stand to testify against

Sheridan, and the strong chain of circumstantial evidence was presented

link by link to the jury, the prisoner’s counsel, eminent lawyer though

he was, seemed to become more and more baffled and depressed.

Ex-Judge Lawrence was famed for his skill as a cross-examiner. This was

the only point on which Coggswell and Hines had been apprehensive. They

feared that there was a possibility of some of the witnesses going to

pieces under the vigorous, searching questioning of counsel for the

defense.

But, to Hines’ great relief, the ex-judge, in this case, gave no

evidence of being an expert at the art of cross-examination. He did not

succeed in “rattling” a single witness; in fact, he handled them all so

mildly and apparently with so little spirit that Hines muttered to

himself contemptuously:

“Huh! Him a great lawyer! Guess he’s been very much overrated. Why, I

know a whole lot of ordinary police-court counselors that could give him

cards and spades.”

William Warren, wholesale liquor dealer, was the first witness to take

the stand. He testified that he had sent his good friend Michael

Harrington, a saloon keeper, a gold watch by registered mail. He had

placed the watch in the package in the presence of two witnesses, who

had also been with him when he handed in the package at the registry

window of a downtown post office.

Judge Lawrence asked this witness but four questions in

cross-examination:

“Are you acquainted with Samuel J. Coggswell, Mr. Warren?”

“I never had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman.”

“Are you acquainted with a young man named Jake Hines--a prominent

member of the Samuel J. Coggswell Association? Before answering this

question, Mr. Warren, let me remind you that you are under oath.”

“It ain’t necessary to remind me of no such thing,” retorted the witness

indignantly. “Yes, I know Mr. Hines. I am proud to say that he is a good

friend of mine.” He glanced across at the spectators’ benches, and Jake

smiled at him an acknowledgment of this compliment.

They had expected this question, knowing that it was the accused

carrier’s hope to be able to make the jury believe that he was the

victim of a conspiracy. They had decided that Warren should tell the

truth, and admit that he knew Hines. To have denied the fact would have

been dangerous. There was no telling that the defense did not have

witnesses at hand ready to take the stand and swear that they knew of

the friendship.

“Yes, I know Jake Hines,” the witness repeated, almost belligerently;

“but that don’t----”

“Did you meet him, or in any way have communication with him, on the day

you sent the registered package?” interrupted counsel for the defense.

“Yes,” replied the witness unhesitatingly. “Mr. Hines came to my office

that day. He was in the neighborhood, and he dropped in to make a social

call.”

This question, too, had been expected. Warren had made up his mind to

answer it truthfully, for it was quite possible that Hines had been seen

entering his office.

“And at that meeting between Hines and yourself, Mr. Warren,” counsel

for the defense went on, “did either of you say anything about this

watch which you were going to send to Harrington?”

“Not a word,” emphatically replied the witness, who was prepared for

this question also. “Not a single word, sir. We never spoke about the

watch at all. Hines didn’t know that I was going to send it.”

As the conversation which had taken place that day between Hines and

himself had been behind a closed door, with no chance of anybody having

overheard them, Warren felt that he was quite safe in making this

denial.

“That’s all,” said the cross-examiner, with an audible sigh, and the

witness, as he stepped down, exchanged a triumphant glance with Jake

Hines.

The next witnesses were the men who had been in Warren’s office when he

placed the watch in the package, and who had accompanied him to the post

office and seen the package handed in at the registry window. Both of

them were reputable business men, and Owen’s lawyer made no attempt to

impeach their testimony. In cross-examination he let each of them off

with but a single question, which was the same in each case:

“On the way to the post office, where did Mr. Warren carry the package

in which you had seen him place the watch?”

“In the left-hand pocket of his coat,” the two witnesses both answered.

Michael Harrington, the saloon keeper, testified that the package

contained no watch when he opened it; which statement was corroborated

by several witnesses who had been present in the saloon when the accused

postman brought in the registered package.

Harrington made a good impression on the stand. He denied that he knew

Jake Hines, except by reputation, and volunteered the information that

he had “no use for Sam Coggswell, or any of his bunch,” being himself of

the opposite political party. Hines could not help grinning at Judge

Lawrence’s evident discomfiture.

The pawnbroker’s clerk, an exceedingly nervous young man, who took the

stand and swore that Owen had pledged the watch for forty dollars, was

cross-examined at greater length than any of the previous witnesses.

Counsel for the defense, however, could not shake his testimony. He

admitted that he was acquainted with Jake Hines, but denied that the

latter had been in the pawnshop that day, or had held any conversation

with him regarding the watch. Another audible sigh came from Judge

Lawrence as this witness left the stand.

The two post-office inspectors testified to having found the pawn ticket

in Owen’s trunk, and a half dozen of the employees of the Branch X Y

took the stand and reluctantly stated that Carrier Sheridan had tried to

borrow thirty dollars from them that day.

Owen’s counsel did not attempt to cross-examine any of these witnesses.

As the last of them left the stand and the prosecutor announced that

this closed the government’s case, Jake Hines leaned back in his seat

and smiled expansively.

“Let ’em beat that if they can,” he muttered confidently. “I can see

from the looks of the jury that they’ve made up their minds already.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

HE WANTED TO KNOW.

It was customary with the French marshal, Bassompierre, when any one of

his soldiers were brought before him for heinous offenses, to say to

him: “By heavens, brother, you or I will certainly be hanged!” which was

a sufficient indication of their fate.

A spy, being discovered in his camp, was addressed in these terms; and

next day, as the provost was carrying the culprit to the gallows, he

pressed earnestly for leave to speak with the marshal, alleging that he

had something of importance to communicate.

The marshal, being made acquainted with his request, exclaimed, in his

customary rough and hasty manner:

“It is the way of these rascals; when ordered for execution, they

pretend some frivolous story, merely to reprieve themselves for a few

moments. However, bring the dog hither.”

When the culprit made his appearance, the marshal asked him what he had

to say.

“Why, my lord,” replied he, “when I first had the honor of your

conversation, you were obliging enough to say that either you or I

should be hanged; now I come to know whether it is your pleasure to be

so; because, if you won’t I must, that’s all!”

Needless to say that the rascal was pardoned.

HE COULDN’T UNDERSTAND IT ALL.

An Irishman, who was terribly afraid of ghosts, got a berth on board an

American vessel.

As the ship was leaving the port, he asked one of the sailors if there

were any ghosts on board.

One of them, for a joke, said it was as full of ghosts as a churchyard.

This frightened Pat so much that when he turned into his hammock he drew

his blanket so far over his head that his feet were left naked and cold.

He endured the suffering for a few nights, and then he went to the

captain and complained about his blanket.

“Please, sor,” said Pat, “my blanket is too long at the top and too

short at the bottom, and sure, I even cut a bit off the top and sewed it

onto the bottom, but, faith it’s just the same as iver it was. I can’t

undershtand it at all--at all.”

* * * * *

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

A Kangaroo Cat.

Mrs. Pussy Cat, who lives at the home of Thomas Evans, in Newport, Ky.,

is greatly worried over one of her offspring. No other member of Mrs.

Cat’s numerous family is like the newcomer. This kitten has only two

feet and walks or hops about like a kangaroo. There are only tufts of

fur where the front legs ought to be. In hopping about, the kitten

balances itself with its tail, which it uses as a sort of rudder.

Gets Fifty-dollar Tip for a Shave.

Jack O’Reilly, barber in West Third Street, Los Angeles, Cal., had the

surprise of his life a few days ago. A prosperous-looking man walked

into the shop. When the job was done, the patron unlimbered a wad of

bills, stripped off a fifty-dollar yellowback, and said: “Things have

come my way handsomely. Here’s a bit of a tip.”

Leaving O’Reilly stupefied with astonishment, the man walked out. He was

a prosperous Los Angeles stock broker, O’Reilly said.

Asks $500 for Loss of Faded Army Uniform.

On the loss of a faded blue army uniform, a relic of the Civil War, Mrs.

Mary Heintzelman, seventy-three years old, of Minneapolis, Minn., bases

a claim for five hundred dollars against Hennepin County, which she has

already filed.

Five years ago Mrs. Heintzelman went to the Hennepin County poor farm.

Her only possessions were packed in an old-fashioned trunk. In the top

tray lay the old uniform and a packet of soldier’s letters, written on

the heavy blue stationery used in war times. They were the only links

that bound the old woman’s life to the highest happiness her life had

known.

The uniform, more than half a century ago, had been worn to the war by

George Heintzelman of the Forty-seventh Pennsylvania infantry. They had

been betrothed, she and the young soldier, when he marched away to war.

The memories of those days when he and she were young have been the only

comforts in the old woman’s life.

Three years later Heintzelman came back, badly wounded. He recovered,

but a bullet through his lung had impaired his health. They were

married, and moved West. The husband’s health did not improve. A few

years later he died.

Mrs. Heintzelman stored the old uniform and the letters in the trunk and

set about to make her own way in the world. The years that followed were

lonely and full of hard work and trouble. The treasures in the trunk

were the only solaces in the woman’s life.

Finally, too old to work longer, she went to the home. Every spring, on

the anniversary of the day that her lover had marched away, Mrs.

Heintzelman would take out the old uniform and hang it on the line to

air. Softly she would caress the faded garment and read over the old

letters, and her sadness and loneliness would be lost in the flood of

pleasant memories that floated back from her youth.

A week ago, as the old uniform hung upon the line, a cinder descended

from a smokestack. It smoldered for a moment in the garment, flared up,

and Mrs. Heintzelman’s last treasure was gone forever.

Blasted Romance of Poor Aunt Emily.

When board of health inspectors of Indianapolis, Ind., went to the home

of Emily Smith, a recluse, to remove piles of dust-covered books and

papers which literally filled her little house, they uncovered a hidden

fortune and unearthed a story of a blasted romance.

Fifty years ago the woman was a belle in the English settlement in New

York City and was preparing to be married, when the man who had won her

was stricken with fever and died.

She moved to Indianapolis twenty-five years ago, and, residing in a slum

district, has been an object of charity for many years. About eight

thousand dollars was found secreted in the house, which was cleaned only

after the indignant woman had shrieked in protest.

The following is the supposed pauper’s riches: Currency, $846.97;

certified check, $200; bank deposits, $1,800; mortgages, $5,000, and

insurance papers of undetermined value.

“There is nothin’ there you’d want to see, and, besides, it would kill

Aunt Emily if you disturbed her papers,” a negress told the officers.

“This is my home; it’s none of your business what I have beneath these

papers!” Miss Smith shouted, as the officers started to move the

newspapers and pamphlets.

Fighting Man’s Square Meal.

Charles Weber, a pugilist from New York, while in a cell in

Philadelphia, Pa., on a charge of forgery, having been brought here from

Moyamensing Prison, told Turnkey Gordon, of the Thompson Street police

station, that he hadn’t eaten for a week; that he was as hungry as a

polar bear, and wouldn’t Gordon please get one dollar from his money in

the sergeant’s desk and take his order for a square meal? Gordon did.

Ten minutes later Gordon faced the house sergeant with a wry face. “What

do you think of that fightin’ guy?” he asked. “‘E said ez ’ow ’e wanted

a square meal, and sent me out fer a dollar’s worth of cream puffs, and

blow me if ’e didn’t eat every bloomin’ one of ’em.”

Answers the Call of Cupid.

After having answered nearly four million calls, Miss Theresa Cox, chief

telephone operator at the Minnesota State House, has fallen victim of

Cupid, and given up her job. For ten years, ever since the capitol was

completed, Miss Cox has guarded the switchboard day in and day out, the

personification of efficiency and amiability, and long years ago gained

the reputation of being a model telephone girl.

On ordinary days she made between one thousand and twelve hundred wire

connections. When the legislature was in session, or in other times of

stress, the demands on her switchboard were greatly increased, and she

would be called over the lines sixteen hundred times or more.

No one ever applied for her job, and she probably was the only one in

the capitol whose job was not in danger. The uncertainties of political

positions had no fear for her, for no governor ever could have thought

of removing Miss Cox. There would have been a storm of protest akin to a

riot.

But what governors could not do, Henry Jopling accomplished. He invited

Miss Cox to marry him, and Dan Cupid advised her to surrender.

“I’m awfully sorry to leave here,” she said to a gathering of State

House officials and employees who gave her a wedding “shower,” and her

voice shook a little. “You have all been so kind to me.”

Old-time Circus Man’s Will.

William Washington Cole, an old-time circus owner, at one time of Cole

Brothers and later a part owner in the Barnum & Bailey show, left an

estate valued at five million dollars, according to his will filed with

Surrogate Daniel Nobel in Queens County.

Mr. Cole died in Whitestone, L. I., March 10th. He left a widow, but no

children, brothers, or sisters. Distant relatives live in England and in

Scotland.

He left to his widow, Mrs. Margaret Cole, two hundred thousand dollars

and two-eighths of the residue after the bequests are paid. Mrs. Cole is

also to receive certain specific bequests. Sixty-five persons receive

bequests and annuities aggregating about five hundred thousand dollars.

The will also makes bequests to churches and institutions to the extent

of one hundred thousand dollars.

Transcontinental Pedestrians.

In competition with Edward Payson Weston, the veteran walker, and to win

a fifteen-hundred-dollar prize offered by the Panama-Pacific Exposition,

Mr. and Mrs. Tom Jackley are walking across the country, with the

requirement that they “make” the capital of each of the forty-eight

States within three years. They left San Francisco September 12, 1912,

and seem sure of winning, as they are now in the East, and have four

months to reach Augusta, Maine. They are forbidden to ride in any way,

and may obtain money only by selling pictures of themselves.

Gets $7,000,000 from Uncle.

Using the name of Albert Brown nearly cost Albert James Bourne, a

transient farm hand, a fortune of seven million dollars, left him by an

uncle who died several months ago in Melbourne, Australia.

After a search through seven States, Bourne was located on a farm near

Lincoln, Neb., by private detectives who had been hired to search for

him. It was discovered he had been in a hospital in St. Joseph, Mo.

The property left him consists of 339,000 acres of free land, 25,000

sheep, 400 horses, hundreds of cattle, and 50,000 pounds sterling.

Bourne is Irish, and fifty years old.

Sues Farmers, but Vanishes.

Two years after filing suit against wealthy Howell County farmers of the

South Fork, Mo., neighborhood, whom he accused of slanderous statements

concerning himself, the whereabouts of Wiley C. Goldsby, the plaintiff,

are unknown, and caused the dismissal of the suit, which had been taken

to Ozark County on a change of venue. Goldsby was last seen when he left

for the Kansas wheat fields.

After Goldsby had been in charge of the ranch house of Doctor R. A.

Sparks for some time, stories were circulated in the neighborhood that

he was a woman masquerading in male attire. It was said he often wore a

kimono when preparing breakfast for the ranch hands, and devoted his

spare time to crocheting and other fancywork. It was these statements

that Goldsby made the basis of a suit for heavy damages.

University Student at Ten.

Helen Bradford, of Ottumwa, Iowa, ten years old, has made arrangements

to enter the University of Iowa in September.

She was graduated from high school, and is heralded as one of the best

mathematicians among grade students of the State. She will be the

youngest girl to attend Iowa in more than ten years.

Cupid Tricks Truant “Cops.”

Cupid has had Minneapolis, Minn., school-attendance officers dodging

around corners in pursuit of children under sixteen who were not

attending school, only to have them flash a marriage license. This has

happened several times during the present school year, and

school-attendance officers are getting vexed at Cupid.

The law is that children must attend school until they are sixteen,

unless they have completed the elementary-school course. However,

attendance officers have given up the chase after the truants when it

has been proved they have been married.

Teressa Amundson, Alida Sandeen, Ruth Rosendahl, Lillian Jordan, Agnes

Gratz, and Alice Hanson are the girls who have abruptly ended their

education by the marriage route and had attendance officers guessing.

Fight Lake of Burning Oil.

Recently, citizens of Oilton, Okla., and neighboring towns witnessed the

most extensive oil fire that has ever occurred on the river since the

field opened. It was one mile northeast of the town, on the Cimarron

River, where the oil had formed a lake in the bend of the stream. It

burned for hours, sending up a column of smoke and flame that was

noticeable from towns twenty miles away.

William Murdoch, traffic manager of the Oil Belt Terminal Railroad,

headed a squad of men who prevented a spread of flames, which would have

been disastrous to the big railroad bridge.

He Helped to Found Republic of Texas.

J. W. Darlington, ninety-four years old, of Austin, Tex., is the only

person now living who heard the sounds of the guns at the battle of San

Jacinto, seventy-nine years ago.

Mr. Darlington was one of the band of Texans who met and defeated the

Mexicans under Santa Anna, but was prevented from fighting in the battle

itself by being detailed to look after the supply train.

Mr. Darlington came from Virginia to Austin in 1839, the year that

Austin was laid off as a town, and the first capitol was built. He

married Miss Eleanor J. Love in 1843, and has four daughters and one son

living. He is an honorary member of the Daughters of the Republic, and

still takes an interest in affairs of the State. His chief delight seems

to be recalling his life in Texas in the early forties.

In the battle of Plum Creek, in 1840, Mr. Darlington, at the head of

about two hundred citizens, whipped the Comanche Indians so that they

gave the early settlers no more trouble. He was also engaged in a battle

at Plum Creek in 1842.

Mr. Darlington helped to plane the logs for the first capitol during

Lamar’s administration, and also to build the fort around the capitol,

to protect it from the Indians on one side and the Mexicans on the

other. The capitol was then used not only for the sessions of Congress,

but as a church, school, opera house, dance hall--in fact, for all

public gatherings.

Rounded “The Horn.”

Vanburen Crompton, of Allen Dale, Ill., is one of the few men living who

went to the California gold fields by way of “the Horn.” Most of the

emigrants went overland by wagon, enduring many hardships. Mr. Crompton,

then a young man, with two companions chose the water route. Taking a

boat at New Orleans, they followed along the Mexican and South American

coast, rounding Cape Horn, and then up the western coast, to San

Francisco. The ships in that day were slow, and it required many weeks

to make the journey. Thousands of men were called westward by the lure

of gold, but only a comparatively small number found riches. Mr.

Crompton was among the unlucky ones, and returned home after six years.

He now lives on the farm on which he was born, and in one of the first

frame houses erected in southern Illinois. In the early days there was a

fort near the farm, a refuge from the Indians.

Still Another “Pick” to Feed.

Former President Roosevelt’s fear of race suicide would have received a

rude shock had the colonel been in the front office at the Young Men’s

Christian Association in Nashville, Tenn., when “Bee,” a crippled

porter, and quite a fixture at the building, asked for a day off.

“What in the world do you want with a day off, Bee?” asked one of the

secretaries to whom this request, coming from Bee, was something

unusual.

“Well, suh,” said the old negro exultantly, “Ah have a visitor at mah

house dis mawnin’. It’s de nineteenth, suh. Ah shore has a hard time to

sport ’em, suh. Eatin’s am high and money am mighty procrastinatin’.”

Bee’s request was granted.

“Up, You Dead!” Cry Saves the Trench.

A French lieutenant, now lying wounded in a Paris hospital, has given

this account of the thrilling action in which he received his injury:

“We were fortifying a trench which we had taken. Behind a barrier of

sacks which blocked one end of it, two sentinels kept careful watch. We

could work in all security.

“Suddenly an avalanche of bombs tumbled down on our heads. Before we

could recover, ten of our men were stretched on the ground, dead or

wounded, pell-mell.

“I opened my mouth to urge them on again, when a stone from the parapet,

torn out by a projectile, hit me on the head. I fell unconscious. My

stupor lasted a second only. A splinter of shell tore my left hand, and

the pain brought me to.

“As I opened my eyes, weakened, my mind benumbed, I saw the ‘boches’

jump over the barrier of sacks and invade the trench. There were about

twenty. They had no guns, but they carried in front of them a sort of

wicker basket filled with bombs.

“I looked to the left. Our men had gone, the trench was empty. The

boches advanced; a few more steps and they were on me.

“Just then one of my men, lying on the ground, a wound on his forehead,

a wound on his chin, blood streaming from his face, dragged himself to a

sitting position, seized a sack of grenades near him, and cried out:

‘Up, you dead!’

“He pulled himself to his knees, dived into the sack, and flung the

grenades at the group of assailants.

“In answer to his cry, three more wounded men dragged themselves up. Two

of them, who had broken legs, took guns, and, opening the magazines,

started a rapid fire, each shot of which hit home. The third, whose left

arm was inert, seized a bayonet with his right.

“When I picked myself up, having quite recovered my senses, about half

the hostile group had been felled, the rest having retreated in

disorder.

“All that remained was a huge, perspiring subofficer, congested with

rage, who, leaning against the barrier, protected by the iron shield,

continued most courageously, I must say, to fire his revolver in our

direction.

“The man who was first to organize the defense, who had cried, ‘Up, you

dead!’ received a bullet straight in the jaw. He collapsed.

“Suddenly the soldier with the bayonet, who for some minutes had been

crawling from corpse to corpse, stopped about four feet from the

barrier, drew himself up, dodged two bullets fired at him, and plunged

his bayonet into the German’s throat.

“The position was saved. The wounded soldier’s sublime appeal had

resuscitated the ‘dead.’”

Alleged Dead Man Denies the Report.

Once upon a time the city editor of a newspaper printed a story about a

man being dead who wasn’t dead.

Much to his consternation, the man arose the next morning and read a

lurid account of his death. He pinched himself to see if he were dead or

alive, and, coming to the conclusion that he was very much alive, after

looking at a black-and-blue mark where his fingers had closed together

upon his tender flesh, he sought the city editor.

“I read in the morning paper that I was dead,” he remarked to the

newspaper man at the desk.

“Well,” laconically responded the city editor, “what about it?”

“I am here as a living witness to testify that I am not dead,” responded

the man who was printed dead, “and that the reports of my death are very

much exaggerated.”

“I want you to understand here and now that if this newspaper says you

are dead, you are dead,” retorted the city editor.

“But don’t you see that I’m very much alive?” queried the astonished

dead man.

“All right,” replied the city editor, “we’ll put you in the birth column

to-morrow morning.”

Well, there is a parallel case to this in Montana, as is shown in an

opinion by the State supreme court, written by Associate Justice Sanner.

Frank Lemmer, a taxidermist, was the object of an obituary notice in the

Great Falls _Tribune_, W. M. Bole’s newspaper. The notice had him dead,

and dead to rights, because of an overdose of morphine, administered

upon a prescription by a physician, but evidently the _Tribune_ made the

mistake of not putting Mr. Lemmer in the birth column the next morning,

although it explained later that Lemmer had arisen from the dead, with

due apologies to the supposed dead man.

Now, Lemmer objected to being called a “dead one,” and promptly

instituted suit against the _Tribune_, claiming that he was not dead,

and that his business as a taxidermist had been injured by the alleged

malicious publication that he was dead.

Naturally, the defendants demurred both generally and specifically,

which demurrer was sustained by the Cascade District Court. The

plaintiff thereupon declined to plead further, and suffered judgment of

dismissal with costs. Naturally an appeal was taken.

Justice Sanner, Chief Justice Brantly, and Associate Justice Holloway

concurring, calls attention to the inference contained in the

publication of the alleged death of Lemmer.

“The necessary inferences are,” says the opinion, “that Frank Lemmer

died; that he died from an overdose of morphine; that the morphine was

procured on a doctor’s prescription, which prescription was obtained at

Lemmer’s instance by a stranger. None of these circumstances, nor all of

them, suggest anything disgraceful or criminal.”

The opinion then proceeds to say that it is no disgrace to die, and that

one may die without moral turpitude from an overdose of morphine

procured by a doctor’s prescription, even though a stranger acted as

messenger in the transition.

“Speaking generally,” continues the opinion, “there is no doubt that one

may suffer such damages from almost any publication whatever,

particularly a publication to the effect that he is dead; but whenever

such damages are sought, it is not enough to aver generally that in

consequence to the publication the plaintiff has been damaged in his

business; the facts showing such damages must be alleged or no cause of

action is stated.”

The opinion then proceeds to show that the demurrer to the complaint was

properly sustained, and the judgment is affirmed.

“Movie” Mysteries Are Here Explained.

Rumbling bass notes from the unbridled, unleashed piano. Thunderous

roars from the big bass drum. Frequent crashes of brassy cymbals. You

instinctively clap your hands to your ears and breathlessly await the

bursting of the awful tornado that is scurrying over your head.

Then comes a pause in the deafening and ominous roar--the house is so

still you can hear the clicking of the projecting machine as the film is

reeled off.

Yes; we are in the midst of a fearsome forest, and the heroine is just

about to merge from the inky blackness with all her troubles--there she

is, now!

What was that? A flash of lightning! The drummer redoubles his sonorous

roll, ending with a wild, spine-stiffening thump. Some storm. The

heroine’s hair is blown so violently you fear it may be torn out by the

very roots.

She falls to the moss-grown forest floor. Livid flash and another

thunderous roll. Then the deluge. The heavens open, and while the

fanfare is loudest and the lightning is lividest, our fair lady is

soaked to the skin with real water and falls to earth, beaten down by

the very force of the torrent from on high.

Great scene, that!

Come with us now and see how the game is played. Ah, the movie studio!

Here’s a patch of nice green grass on the studio floor, and back of it a

few shrubs and some sizable trees. Up on a scaffold high enough to be

out of the camera’s ken are a dozen men, each armed with a huge watering

pot.

The heroine stands on the side lines, waiting for the storm to begin.

Storm in broad noon of a sunny day? Sure thing. Just watch.

An excited-looking individual holding a bunch of manuscript stands

beside the heroine--yes, you’ve guessed it, he’s the movie director.

She gets behind the trees, and the man at the camera crank starts

turning. She pushes her way through the tangled wildwood and stubs her

toe, looking unutterable anguish the while.

“Down stage!” yells the excited director.

She staggers on as directed, the camera man cranking nonchalantly with

one hand while he takes puffs at a cigarette with the other. The poor

girl tries to rise, and wabbles feebly.

“Fall in front of the camera!” bawls the director.

She falls at the proper focal distance.

“Stretch out your arms--look wild!” yells the boss of the works.

“Let her go!” this time to the men with the watering cans.

And poor heroine, struggling and staggering, is drenched to the skin

with the downpour, not from the heavens above, but quite as wet.

But, we ask, where is the lightning for this wild outburst of the

aforesaid Nature.

“Oh, that’s easy!” laughs the director. “We put that in afterward with

the scratch of a pin.”

“But how are you going to make it look like night?”

“Easier still--we’ll tint the film blue. Got to have sunlight to take

any kind of pictures, anyway.”

So, when you see this thrill, remember that the lightning is a pin

scratch, and the night effect is blue aniline dye and not by the gloom

of night. As for Jupiter Pluvius, the men with the cans of water can wet

down the place with equal skill.

Have you ever witnessed an exciting scene about a big building--a home

or a factory--and then, in the next reel, watched it go up in smoke and

flame? Yes? Some expense? Not so very much, for you haven’t seen the

real building burn down at all, but only a little model of it after the

scene has been acted out in front of the real building.

“The best fire effects are made in the studios, anyway,” the movie

expert will tell you.

It was in a studio that the eruption of Mount Etna was manufactured. The

promoters had tried taking real moving pictures of the volcano in

eruption, but they were not nearly as good as the studio-made variety.

These had the verisimilitude of real life, with fleeing thousands, men,

women, children, and animals, pouring down its red-hot sides. The films

of the fleeing people were merely super-imposed on the film of the fake

volcano, studio made.

You have seen your favorite heroine jump unhesitatingly off a tall

cliff? Or swim an ice-choked river? You never knew she could swim. Nor

does she. Another movie trick is what you have seen. Movie stars seldom

do such things. Professionals, dressed exactly as they are, and made up

to resemble them, do this part of the stunt for the real actors. Jumping

from a burning building is another movie feat which is only a trick. The

real people get only as far as the windows. Dummies do the jumping and

the falling.

So! But how do they make inanimate objects move about as if they were

endowed with life? How does a catsup bottle jump up from the table and

climb down to the floor on the rungs of a chair? Or how can grandpa’s

clock walk up the stairs, turning around solemnly the while to look you

straight in the eye and give you warning of the flight of the hours?

Perhaps you have seen horses running full tilt at you and never seemed

to catch up. So simple! Right in front of the horses is a high-powered

automobile, in which the movie camera is set up. The horses follow the

car, and the camera man grinds out his film, always keeping a few feet

ahead of his charging subjects.

Prehistoric Man Now Seen in Wax.

The three great links in the chain of human ancestry in America,

beginning nearly twenty thousand years back, have just been represented

for the first time in scientifically reconstructed wax faces at the

College of Medicine, University of Nebraska, in Omaha. This is the first

reconstruction work of the kind that has been done on prehistoric skulls

of America.

Scientists are enthusiastic over the three great types it has brought

out on the skulls of modern Indian, the cave-dwelling cannibal of three

thousand years ago, and the Nebraska “Loess man,” fragments of whose

skull were deposited with the glacial drift when the Missouri River

bluffs were made, between ten thousand and twenty thousand years ago.

For eight years the skulls of the low-browed Loess man, found by the

archeologist, Robert F. Gilder, of Omaha, have remained in the museums

in Omaha, Lincoln, and at Harvard University, while science has

hopelessly longed to know what a face this preglacial man must have

worn.

Finally German scientists worked out an accurate system of facial

measurements compiled into an elaborate table, by the use of which faces

can be faithfully reconstructed over skulls. To date little has been

done along this line in Europe. In America the first work in building up

faces of prehistoric man has just been completed by Miss Myra Warner,

clay-model artist, who has made a specialized study of this German

system in the art schools of the East.

Miss Warner was handed the three skulls by Doctor Charles W. M. Poynter,

professor of anatomy of the University of Nebraska. She was told nothing

about the origin of the skulls. She worked faithfully for months, and,

with the aid of the table of measurements, built up the three wonderful

faces. It was not until she had nearly finished that she discovered one

of the three to be a modern Indian type. Yet, without knowing she was

working on a modern Indian skull, by applying only her table of

measurements faithfully to the skull as she built the clay upon it, she

produced so characteristic an American Indian type that Doctor Poynter

declared the accuracy of her work on the other two skulls, equally

unknown to her, could by no means be called into question.

The cannibal cave-dweller type is that of which Mr. Gilder found remains

in sunken cave homes along the Missouri River. He has uncovered some

forty of these caves, and has established the fact that the inhabitants

belong to what is known as the “round-headed” branch of the human race.

Geologists believe the inhabitants of these caves thrived some three

thousand years ago.

But the chief interest in the reconstruction work at the University of

Nebraska attaches to the face that has been built over the skull of the

Loess man. In all, the fragments of but six skulls belonging to this

type are in existence to-day.

This extreme primitive type of man is believed to have stalked over the

wastes of North America before the glaciers plowed their great gorges

and before they deposited the Kansan drift and the Loess clay to build

the bluffs at the Missouri River. This man, low-browed and of little

brain capacity, lived contemporaneously with the mammoth or mastodon,

which he probably slew for food, if indeed he could wield a stone weapon

sharp enough and strong enough to pierce the thick hide.

And yet, now that the faces have been reconstructed, we find no close

resemblance to the ape type, as many of the most excitable scientists

have expected. “The truth is,” says Doctor Poynter, “if man sprang from

the same original stem as the ape, the ape branch sprang off so far back

in antiquity that none of the skulls of the missing links could possibly

be expected to withstand the weathering to the present day. No one will

ever find a skull that will carry man back even anywhere near the ape

days, and the remotest skull we can find is already very much a man’s.”

This Loess man then belongs to an age perhaps hundreds of thousands of

years later than the time man and ape parted company and began to

develop along different lines.

Yet this Loess skull has, by competent geologists and ethnologists been

placed next in age to the famous Neanderthal skull found in 1856 in a

cave in the valley of Neander near Dusseldorf, Germany. The Neanderthal

skull is known the world over as representing the great antiquity and

low order of the human race. In brain capacity the Loess skull boasts

little, if any, advantage over the Neanderthal.

The prominence of the supraorbital ridges or bony brows is, next to the

receding character of the forehead, the most notable feature of this

primitive type.

“Neither the projections of the supraorbital ridges, nor the receding

forehead, is an Indian characteristic,” says Henry F. Osborn, professor

of zoölogy in Columbia University and curator in the American Museum of

Natural History. Doctor Osborn was one of the first to go to Omaha and

study this remarkable skull when it was found eight years ago.

The age of this skull is established by its association with the layer

of clay drift in which it was found. Doctor E. H. Barbour, head

professor of geology of the University of Nebraska, went over the ground

thoroughly and helped to excavate many of the fragments of the Loess man

some ten miles north of Omaha.

“From the geologist’s standpoint,” says Doctor Barbour, “these bone

fragments were not buried. Instead, the bones were doubtless deposited

with the Loess, the age of which may be safely reckoned at ten to twenty

thousand years or more, and the bones are at least as ancient as this

formation.”

Somewhere in its mighty course the glacier picked up these fragments of

skulls and a few arm and leg bones and rolled them along with the rest

of the drift, to be deposited solidly in the Loess clay when the bluff

was built.

Old Paymaster Says Farewell.

Amos Hershey has just retired as postmaster of Gordonville, Pa., ending

a period of fifty-five years of service for the United States postal

department.

In 1860, before the Civil War, Mr. Hershey, then sixteen years of age,

entered the employ of John K. Smoker, in a general merchandise store. At

the same time he became one of the clerks in the post office. Five years

later Hershey purchased the store business from Smoker and was himself

appointed postmaster. He received his commission from William Dennison,

postmaster general under President Lincoln.

The efficiency of the post-office department in that day was very crude

toward what it has become in later years. When Mr. Hershey first entered

the service, there were no railway mail cars. In fact, it was only in

1860 that an arrangement was made with the railroads to run a mail train

between New York and Washington, the only advantage of which was the

quick transfer of mail matter from one large place to another. The

traveling post office, where mails are assorted when going at fifty

miles an hour, had not yet come.

It was several years later that a Mr. Davis, of the St. Joseph, Mo.,

post-office force, broached the thought that considerable valuable time

would be saved if the overland mail could be sorted on the cars, and

made up for offices at the end of and along the routes. The department

allowed him to carry out this idea, which, starting in such a humble

way, is now one of the most important branches of the department.

Before the “catcher” on the mail cars and the “crane” at small stations

came into use, twenty years later, the process of catching and

delivering the pouches was indeed strenuous, both for the mail clerk and

the local postmaster. Shortly before train time, Mr. Hershey mounted a

platform immediately alongside the track, and, propping his feet

securely, would suspend the mail pouch in front of him at arms’ length,

the right hand at the top and the left hand at the bottom. When the

train neared this human crane, the mail clerk appeared at the door of

his car, and, securing himself firmly, would extend his right arm in the

form of a crook or an acute angle, and catch the pouch as the train

rushed by. The mail clerk had his arm well padded to prevent serious

injury; but, notwithstanding, the risk was exceedingly great--in more

ways than one. Mr. Hershey states that the mail trains were running at

the rate of fifty miles an hour, and it is hard for the uninitiated to

comprehend the alertness and strenuosity connected with the delivering

and catching of the pouch, aside from the constant danger.

They had a very complex system in making up letter packages in those

days. Mr. Hershey had to sort the letters for each office separately, no

matter whether there would be only one letter for an individual office.

The letters for each office had to be placed in a paper jacket of Mr.

Hershey’s own making, completely inclosing the letters, and the name of

the office address written plainly on the wrapper, with a waybill

attached to each package.

In the early sixties the postmasters enjoyed the franking privilege,

being allowed to send all their private mail without the use of postage

stamps. This privilege was rescinded in 1864.

Mr. Hershey recalls a story of one of the railway mail clerks, who were

known in the early days as the “paper jerkers,” and how he increased his

salary: “On a side lot near the Forepaugh circus grounds in

Philadelphia, there was a faker, whose outfit consisted of the

stake-and-ring game. The simple and enticing amusement was played as

follows: The stake was placed in the ground at a certain angle, which

led the uninitiated to believe that it was easy to throw the five-inch

rings over it. The feat was almost impossible. The faker had a crowd

around him, and was raking in the dimes--three ‘tries’ for ten

cents--when a black-mustached, middle-sized man walked up and said he’d

bet a dollar he could put three rings out of five over the stake.

“The faker winked at the crowd, and took the man up. The black-mustached

stranger threw five rings rapidly, one after another, and, as three of

them went over the stake, the thrower was in eighty cents. Then they bet

ten dollars even that nine out of the first ten thrown could not be put

over the stake. The whole ten settled safely, and the faker, as he

handed over ten dollars in silver, said:

“I’m broke; what’s your business?”

“I’m a paper jerker on a postal car. I don’t do anything but fling

papers all day long into the mouths of fifty sacks.”

The village of Gordonville in those early days of Mr. Hershey’s

postmastership had two names. The section lying north of the railroad

was called Concord, and that section lying south of the railroad was

named Gordonville. The railroad station was Concord, but the post office

has always gone by the name of Gordonville. The village was named after

Daniel Gordon, who was the first citizen and who built the first houses

in the town.

Child Labor Bill is Signed.

Governor Brumbaugh, of Harrisburg, Pa., signed the Cox child-labor bill.

The new act will become effective on January 1, 1916. Under its

provisions, children under fourteen years of age, with the exception of

newsboys, will be barred from working at any occupation.

Messengers employed between eight p.m. and six a.m. must be at least

twenty-one years old, and children under sixteen will be prohibited from

working unless they attend schools at least eight hours a week. Domestic

servants and farm laborers are exempt.

Sheds Her Artificial Legs.

Removing both of her artificial legs and pulling herself up to the

railings of the Ohio River bridge, Anna Wartenbaker, thirty-five years

old, of Parkersburg, W. Va., plunged ninety feet into the river here.

People on both sides of the river saw her plunge, and hastened to her in

boats. Her right arm was broken in the fall. The woman was despondent

over her crippled condition, and came here with the express purpose of

leaping to death from the bridge.

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.

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.

807--Nick Carter’s Advertisement.

808--The Kregoff Necklace.

811--Nick Carter and the Nihilists.

812--Nick Carter and the Convict Gang.

813--Nick Carter and the Guilty Governor.

814--The Triangled Coin.

815--Ninety-nine--and One.

816--Coin Number 77.

NEW SERIES

NICK CARTER STORIES

1--The Man from Nowhere.

2--The Face at the Window.

3--A Fight for a Million.

4--Nick Carter’s Land Office.

5--Nick Carter and the Professor.

6--Nick Carter as a Mill Hand.

7--A Single Clew.

8--The Emerald Snake.

9--The Currie Outfit.

10--Nick Carter and the Kidnapped Heiress.

11--Nick Carter Strikes Oil.

12--Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure.

13--A Mystery of the Highway.

14--The Silent Passenger.

15--Jack Dreen’s Secret.

16--Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case.

17--Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves.

18--Nick Carter’s Auto Chase.

19--The Corrigan Inheritance.

20--The Keen Eye of Denton.

21--The Spider’s Parlor.

22--Nick Carter’s Quick Guess.

23--Nick Carter and the Murderess.

24--Nick Carter and the Pay Car.

25--The Stolen Antique.

26--The Crook League.

27--An English Cracksman.

28--Nick Carter’s Still Hunt.

29--Nick Carter’s Electric Shock.

30--Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess.

31--The Purple Spot.

32--The Stolen Groom.

33--The Inverted Cross.

34--Nick Carter and Keno McCall.

35--Nick Carter’s Death Trap.

36--Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle.

37--The Man Outside.

38--The Death Chamber.

39--The Wind and the Wire.

40--Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase.

41--Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend.

42--The Queen of the Seven.

43--Crossed Wires.

44--A Crimson Clew.

45--The Third Man.

46--The Sign of the Dagger.

47--The Devil Worshipers.

48--The Cross of Daggers.

49--At Risk of Life.

50--The Deeper Game.

51--The Code Message.

52--The Last of the Seven.

53--Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful.

54--The Secret Order of Associated Crooks.

55--The Golden Hair Clew.

56--Back From the Dead.

57--Through Dark Ways.

58--When Aces Were Trumps.

59--The Gambler’s Last Hand.

60--The Murder at Linden Fells.

61--A Game for Millions.

62--Under Cover.

63--The Last Call.

64--Mercedes Danton’s Double.

65--The Millionaire’s Nemesis.

66--A Princess of the Underworld.

67--The Crook’s Blind.

68--The Fatal Hour.

69--Blood Money.

70--A Queen of Her Kind.

71--Isabel Benton’s Trump Card.

72--A Princess of Hades.

73--A Prince of Plotters.

74--The Crook’s Double.

75--For Life and Honor.

76--A Compact With Dazaar.

77--In the Shadow of Dazaar.

78--The Crime of a Money King.

79--Birds of Prey.

80--The Unknown Dead.

81--The Severed Hand.

82--The Terrible Game of Millions.

83--A Dead Man’s Power.

84--The Secrets of an Old House.

85--The Wolf Within.

86--The Yellow Coupon.

87--In the Toils.

88--The Stolen Radium.

89--A Crime in Paradise.

90--Behind Prison Bars.

91--The Blind Man’s Daughter.

92--On the Brink of Ruin.

93--Letter of Fire.

94--The $100,000 Kiss.

95--Outlaws of the Militia.

96--The Opium-Runners.

97--In Record Time.

98--The Wag-Nuk Clew.

99--The Middle Link.

100--The Crystal Maze.

101--A New Serpent in Eden.

102--The Auburn Sensation.

103--A Dying Chance.

104--The Gargoni Girdle.

105--Twice in Jeopardy.

106--The Ghost Launch.

107--Up in the Air.

108--The Girl Prisoner.

109--The Red Plague.

110--The Arson Trust.

111--The King of the Firebugs.

112--“Lifter’s” of the Lofts.

113--French Jimmie and His Forty Thieves.

114--The Death Plot.

115--The Evil Formula.

116--The Blue Button.

117--The Deadly Parallel.

118--The Vivisectionists.

119--The Stolen Brain.

120--An Uncanny Revenge.

121--The Call of Death.

122--The Suicide.

123--Half a Million Ransom.

124--The Girl Kidnapper.

125--The Pirate Yacht.

126--The Crime of the White Hand.

127--Found in the Jungle.

128--Six Men in a Loop.

129--The Jewels of Wat Chang.

130--The Crime in the Tower.

131--The Fatal Message.

132--Broken Bars.

133--Won by Magic.

134--The Secret of Shangore.

135--Straight to the Goal.

136--The Man They Held Back.

137--The Seal of Gijon.

138--The Traitors of the Tropics.

139--The Pressing Peril.

140--The Melting-Pot.

141--The Duplicate Night.

142--The Edge of a Crime.

143--The Sultan’s Pearls.

144--The Clew of the White Collar.

Dated June 19th, 1915.

145--An Unsolved Mystery.

Dated June 26th, 1915.

146--Paying the Price.

Dated July 3d, 1915.

147--On Death’s Trail.

Dated July 10th, 1915.

148--The Mark of Cain.

=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