CHAPTER IX.

BY THE AIR LINE.

Nick Carter arrived early that afternoon in the big department store of

Mantell & Goulard, and several circumstances determined, as he had

predicted to Patsy that morning, the course he afterward shaped.

One was the fact that, for the reasons already presented, he had

received no communication from Chick and knew nothing about his

movements.

Another was the fact that he could find no sign of Patsy Garvan in any

part of the great store.

A third was the fact that Gaston Goulard was absent from his office, and

that his whereabouts was unknown, as Nick learned upon talking with

Frank Mantell and his father, which he then had decided to do, and both

of whom he found in the private office of the senior partner.

Nick then learned, too, of the theft that had been committed in the

receiving room that morning, about which Goulard had expressed himself

so forcibly after apparently vainly investigating it.

Nick smiled a bit grimly after gathering these several points, and now

suspicions began to arise in his mind.

“Have there been previous thefts from the receiving room, Mr. Mantell?”

he inquired, addressing the elder.

“Yes, many of them; very many,” was the reply.

“Who has charge in that room?”

“A man named George Tenney.”

“Reliable?”

“I feel absolutely sure of it. He has been in my employ for a long

time.”

“He evidently is being duped in some way, then,” said Nick. “He looks

after the opening of all packages that are received, I suppose, and sees

that their contents are sent up to the salesrooms.”

“Yes, of course, with the occasional help of Goulard, or Mr. Lombard.”

“They were both in the receiving room this morning, I think you have

stated.”

“They were, Mr. Carter,” bowed Mantell. “They went down to investigate

the theft.”

“Was either of them there before the theft was discovered?”

“Yes. Mr. Lombard went down to check off an invoice of the package from

which the two shawls are missing.”

“I see,” Nick remarked. “I think I will go down there, Frank, and look

around a bit. Show me the way as far as the stairs, then leave me, and

pay no attention to my doings. I may have something to report a little

later.”

Frank Mantell arose to obey, and Nick accompanied him down to the ground

floor.

As they were turning toward the stairway leading down to the basement

receiving room, Frank touched the detective’s arm and said quietly:

“There goes Lombard, now. I think he is going down to the receiving

room.”

Lombard was heading for the stairs with a wrapped bundle about a foot

long and nearly as large in diameter, but he did not see Mantell and his

companion.

Nick watched him for a moment, then said quietly:

“Leave me, Mantell. I can find the way by following him.”

Nick had more than one object in doing so.

He arrived at the head of the stairs just as Lombard turned to the left

in the great basement room.

Nick darted down after him, and again fortune favored him. He reached

the entrance to the room, which was always partly filled with unopened

packages of divers descriptions, just in time to see Lombard glide

stealthily back of a high pile of cases about two feet from one of the

walls.

Nick saw an empty case about ten feet to the right of the door. He

crouched behind it and waited.

Less than two minutes had passed when Lombard returned--without the

bundle.

He quickly reached the stairway and hurried up to the business part of

the store.

Nick Carter’s eyes had a sharper gleam when he crept from his

concealment. He at once gave his attention to the narrow passage in

which Lombard must have left the bundle.

One side was formed by the high pile of cases.

On the other was a sheathed wall.

Nick examined the cases in rapid succession, and he soon found that none

of them could be opened. Obviously, none could be a hiding place for the

bundle.

Nick then began a careful inspection of the wall, sounding it foot by

foot by tapping it with his knuckles. He suspected, of course, that

there might be a secret panel with an open space behind it.

Presently he found a spot that sounded more hollow than other sections.

“By Jove, I think I’m right,” he muttered. “But there seems to be no

crack or crevice. The panel, if there is one, is most cleverly

concealed.”

Persistently searching the wall, however, Nick finally discovered the

head of a nail some six feet above the floor. It did not appear to be as

dusty as the rest of the wall. He reached up and pressed it with his

thumb.

This instantly brought a faint click from behind the sheathing.

A section of it about two feet square, so neatly fitted that the cracks

were invisible, separated from the rest and swung outward under the

impulse of a hidden spring.

It brought to light the foundation wall of the building, also a circular

metal plate about fourteen inches in diameter, with a handle by which it

could be swung downward parallel with the face of the wall.

Nick forced it down and discovered the opening of a tube through the

wall, and in the tube a cylinder such as Patsy had seen in the

subterranean chamber.

Nick instantly hit upon the truth, of course, and the mystery as to how

the merchandise had been taken from the store ended then and there.

“A pneumatic tube,” he said to himself, noting the tight-fitting flange

of felt around the end of the cylinder. “Similar to those of a cash

system. The tube evidently runs underground to another building, where

there must be an engine and air pump for removing the air from the tube.

That done, and this plate lowered, the cylinder would fly through the

tube in an instant.”

Nick carefully noted the probable direction of the tube, then turned a

knob in the metal end of the cylinder, from which he took, as he

expected--the bundle seen under Lombard’s arm only ten minutes before.

Nick closed the tube and panel, then took the bundle up to Mr. Mantell’s

private office, where he found both father and son.

“By gracious, Nick, there has been another theft,” Frank Mantell cried,

when the detective entered. “A pair of costly lace curtains is missing

from that department.”

Nick did not care for any particulars. He sat down in one of the large

leather chairs and placed the bundle on the floor behind it.

“That’s too bad, Mantell,” he remarked. “I would like to question one of

your managers. Send for Mr. Lombard, since we happened to notice him a

few minutes ago.”

Frank Mantell looked surprised, but hastened to obey.

Lombard entered in about five minutes, apparently apprehending nothing.

Nick had removed his disguise and thrust it into his pocket.

“Sit down, Mr. Lombard,” said he, without waiting to be introduced. “I

am told there has just been another mysterious theft in this store.”

“Yes, so I have heard,” was the quick reply. “I was just going to look

into the matter.”

“Don’t you think it would be more profitable to look into that pneumatic

tube that leads out of the receiving room?” Nick inquired.

Lombard turned as white as his shirt front.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he faltered. “What--what tube?”

“That in which I found this bundle a few minutes ago,” said Nick, taking

it from behind his chair and tearing it open. “Here are the stolen lace

curtains. I refer to the tube, Mr. Lombard, in which you placed them.”

Lombard started to rise, but his knees gave way under him and he nearly

fainted in his chair, while Mantell and his father stared in speechless

amazement.

Nick leaned forward, and, before Lombard fairly knew it, snapped a pair

of handcuffs on the culprit’s wrists.

“Now,” said he, more sternly, “tell me where that tube leads, Mr.

Lombard, and be quick about it. The jig is up for you and your

confederates.”

Lombard pulled himself together and glared at Nick with a scowl.

“You’ll learn nothing from me,” he growled bitterly. “Find out for

yourself, if you want to know.”

“That’s precisely what I will do,” declared Nick, starting up. “Look

after this man, Mantell, till I return. I have a hunch that I shall not

return alone.”

Nick did not wait for a reply, but seized his hat and hurried from the

office. He had noted the probable direction of the underground tube, and

he hastened through the corridor and down the same back stairway over

which Patsy had pursued Gaston Goulard.

“Humph!” he ejaculated, upon arriving in the court. “It runs under these

pavements and into the basement of this next building. I’ll find out who

occupies it.”

Nick hurried out to the side street and gazed up at the sign: “Acme

Novelty Company.”

“Novelty, indeed,” thought Nick, trying the door and finding it locked.

“No one at home, eh? I’ll slip around and try the back door.”

He had arrived nearly at the entrance to the alley, when he caught sight

of a policeman on the opposite side of the street. He whistled and

beckoned him over.

“Come with me, Doyle, and have your gun within easy reach,” he said

quietly.

“Something up, Mr. Carter?” questioned Doyle, at once recognizing the

detective.

“Yes,” Nick nodded. “I don’t know yet, however, how big game we may

find.”

“Sure, I don’t care how big, sir.”

“Follow me through the alley, then, and----”

Nick stopped for an instant only.

There had reached his ear a sound, though a bit muffled, which he

instantly recognized--the sharp, spiteful crack of a revolver.

“Come on, Doyle,” he snapped quickly. “That smacks of big game, all

right. I reckon we’re in the nick of time.”

Nick was running at top speed through the alley while speaking, with the

burly policeman close on his heels.

Ten seconds brought them to the back door of the building--which Patsy

Garvan had left unlocked.

Nick then heard the shouts of men within, and the furious voice of

Gaston Goulard.

“We’ve got them, Doyle,” he said quietly, pausing for an instant. “Are

you ready?”

“I’ll go ahead, if you say the word.”

“Not much!”

Nick turned the knob and threw open the door, shedding the bright

daylight into the dim hall in which Goulard, Bart Bailey, Nolan, and

Bolton were attempting with fierce threats to subdue Chick and Patsy,

who had smashed the lamps in the subterranean chamber only a moment

before.

Nick broke in upon them with his revolver ready, shouting sternly:

“Cut it, you fellows! Hands up, and----”

His voice was drowned by the crack of a revolver in the hand of the only

man who ventured any resistance--that of Bart Bailey.

The rascal had crouched quickly back of Goulard, and had escaped Nick’s

immediate notice.

The bullet tore a hole in the detective’s sleeve and inflicted a slight

wound in Doyle’s left shoulder.

Goulard sprang aside instinctively.

Bart Bailey was raising his weapon to fire again.

Nick’s barked on the instant, and the bullet went true.

Bailey pitched forward on his face in the narrow entry, dead before he

hit the floor.

There were curses and imprecations, but no further resistance, and the

three remaining crooks were speedily handcuffed and started for the

Tombs, the initiatory step in the retributive path. Meyers was arrested

in Philadelphia half an hour later, and the round-up was complete.

The details of the crime, as they afterward appeared, were very nearly

in line with which Nick Carter had been led to suspect. It was learned

later that Goulard long had been hopelessly under water financially,

having vast secret commitments in the stock market, and he confessed to

having taken this method to rob his partner and repair his wasted

fortune. He had gone far enough to nearly wreck the business, as a

matter of fact, and the firm went out of existence a little later.

Commenting upon him and the case to his assistants shortly before the

trial of the culprits, while seated with Chick and Patsy in his library,

Nick Carter made several predictions which later proved for the most

part to be correct.

“That rascal,” he observed, speaking of Gaston Goulard, “carries the

mark of Cain. He has begun with being a traitor to his own partner. He

probably will do time for the crime, and then he will continue the

downward path. It’s odds that he will commit murder sooner or later.

For, unless I am much mistaken, the mark is on him. The others will be

convicted and sent to prison. As for Bart Bailey--well, let the dead

bury the dead. His death has, at least, opened the way for Frank Mantell

to win over the girl he loves, and they are well worthy of one another.”

“That’s right, chief,” declared Patsy.

“I would wager,” Nick added, “that they’ll be married within the year.”

THE END.

“A Network of Crime; or, Nick Carter’s Tangled Skein,” will be the

title of the long, complete story which you will find in the next

issue, No. 149, of the NICK CARTER STORIES. Then, too, there will

be the usual installment of the interesting serial which is now

running. There will also be several other interesting articles.

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 IV.

A WARNING.

The more Owen thought over his interview with Boss Coggswell, the more

convinced he became that the sole reason the politician had sent for him

had been to try to bribe him to hold out the mail of a certain person on

his route.

That Coggswell had summoned him to the club in order to express his

admiration of Owen’s independence in refusing to buy the ticket to the

outing seemed absurd. It had sounded almost plausible when the boss had

said it in his smooth, convincing voice, but when he came to think over

it afterward, Owen could see how preposterous the thing was. Imagine any

political leader going into raptures over a young man who had called him

a blackmailer. Imagine him being anxious to help a young man to

promotion, just because he liked his way of talking.

“No,” said the carrier to himself, “that offer of a postal inspector’s

job was made to tempt me to do Coggswell’s crooked work, and now that

I’ve refused, I’ll wager that he won’t move a finger to help me. But I

don’t care about that,” he added confidently; “I’ll get there, all

right, without his help.”

Something happened the following morning which greatly strengthened the

suspicions of the carrier, and made him certain that Boss Coggswell had

sinister designs upon the mail of some person on his route.

When he reported for work, Owen was informed by Henderson, the

superintendent of Branch X Y, that, beginning that morning, he was to

cover a new territory. Instead of route forty-eight, he would

henceforth, and until further notice, cover route sixteen.

Now, in post-office work it is a great advantage, naturally, to have the

carriers familiar with the territory which they have to cover. It stands

to reason that a postman cannot make as quick deliveries over strange

ground as on a route in which he knows the names in the house letter

boxes almost by heart. For this reason the men are not changed around

any more than can be avoided.

Therefore, Owen knew, as soon as Henderson told him that his route was

to be changed, that this must be due to Coggswell’s influence. The

politician wanted to get him out of the way, and have him replaced by a

man who would not refuse to do his bidding.

Owen inquired who was to succeed him on route forty-eight, and learned

that it was a carrier named Greene, a man whom Owen liked less than any

other employee of Branch X Y.

Greene, who was a pale-faced, shifty-eyed fellow, was a member of the

Samuel J. Coggswell Association, Owen learned, and on friendly terms

with Jake Hines. The fact that he had been selected for route

forty-eight certainly looked significant.

To be taken away from his old territory was a great blow to Owen; for,

be it remembered, the real-estate office of Walter K. Sammis was located

in that section, and his transfer meant that he no longer would be able

to exchange a few words each morning with Dallas Worthington.

And, besides this, the new route was a much less pleasant one. Carrier

Greene, who had covered it for two years, had certain reasons of his own

for being satisfied with it, but Owen found the new territory very

disagreeable.

It comprised the very poorest and most squalid section of the district.

The inhabitants were mostly foreigners, and the handwriting on letters

they received was hard to decipher. They were in the habit of changing

their addresses frequently, too, and this entailed extra clerical work;

for each carrier has to enter all such removals in his “log book.” Then,

again, many of the tenants of the tenements were too shiftless or

ignorant to post their names in the vestibules, and this made deliveries

very difficult, and consumed a lot of time.

Nevertheless, Owen did not make any protest. He accepted the situation

philosophically, and started out to cover his new route as cheerfully as

if he really relished the change. But inwardly he registered a vow that

he was going to find out the identity of the person whose mail Boss

Coggswell wanted to get hold of, and check that politician’s sinister

plans.

First he went to the three carriers responsible for route

forty-eight--for every route is covered by three men--and warned them of

what he purposed to do.

The two other carriers who took turns at covering that territory were

named Gordon and Smithers. They had both had route forty-eight for

several years. The fact that they were not now taken off gave Owen

reason to suppose that they must be satisfactory to Boss Coggswell, and

willing to do his dirty work. For he reasoned that, in order to carry

out his crooked scheme, the politician must have the coöperation of all

three carriers who covered that route. Otherwise the particular letters

which Coggswell wanted to get hold of might go through when Greene was

not on duty.

Owen was on friendly terms with both Gordon and Smithers--in fact, the

latter and he roomed in the same boarding house. The former was a

good-natured, pleasant sort of fellow, but of a weak character. He was

always heavily in debt, and he was a hard drinker. More than once he had

been caught under the influence of liquor while on duty, and these

lapses would have resulted in his dismissal from the department if it

had not been for the intercession of Samuel J. Coggswell, who was a

friend of his wife’s father.

Smithers, like Greene, was a member of the Samuel J. Coggswell

Association, and a crony of Jake Hines. He was a tall, sharp-featured

young man, of about Owen’s age, taciturn and very shrewd.

Owen felt sure that these men were all in the plot to tamper with the

mails. As he didn’t want to see them disgraced and sent to prison, he

decided to give them due warning. Of course, they indignantly denied

that any such proposition had been made to them by Boss Coggswell, or

that they knew anything about a scheme to hold up anybody’s mail on

route forty-eight.

Smithers told Owen that he must be raving mad to suspect anything like

that; Gordon laughed and declared that it was the best joke he had heard

in many a day; Greene growled that Owen was sore at having been

transferred, and was trying to besmirch his character in order to get

square.

“Very well,” retorted Owen grimly; “I’ve given you fellows notice; now,

if you go ahead and get caught, you’ve got only yourselves to blame. I

know that there is such a crooked scheme afoot, and I’m going to find

out the name of the victim and put him on his guard.”

CHAPTER V.

A STRONG LEAD.

Owen began by watching Carrier Greene as he stood at his case sorting

out the mail preparatory to starting out on the first delivery. He

thought he might be able to see him withdraw and pocket the desired

letters, and thereby get an important clew; but Greene made no such

compromising move.

Owen maintained the same close watch when Gordon and Smithers were at

the sorting cases, but these vigils were not productive of results.

Either the letters which Coggswell wanted had not yet shown up, or the

three carriers were too cautious to abstract them in the post office,

preferring to wait until they had them in the bags and were out on the

street, where they could get at them without being observed.

It was a headline on the front page of a morning newspaper which at

length set Owen on the right track. This headline read: “Judge Lawrence

to Fight Coggswell.--Former Supreme-court Judge Preparing to Wrest

District Leadership from Boss at Coming Primaries. Coggswell Said to be

Seriously Alarmed by Plan to Dethrone Him.”

Now, part of postal route forty-eight was a row of brownstone private

residences, and in one of these lived the Honorable Sugden Lawrence,

former supreme-court judge, and now a lawyer of considerable prominence.

Owen decided that this was the man whose mail Boss Coggswell wished to

intercept. In the first place, if, as the newspaper stated, Judge

Lawrence was threatening to wrest the district leadership from its

present incumbent, was it not exceedingly likely that the latter would

be anxious to “get something on” his prospective opponent--some scandal

which could be used to crush the enemy? With such an object in view,

secret access to a man’s private correspondence would be a valuable

factor. Many a family skeleton has been revealed by this means, many a

public career has been ruined by means of a purloined letter.

In the second place--and this was, in his opinion, the strongest

argument in favor of his theory--Owen happened to know that Henderson,

the superintendent of Branch X Y, had a brother who was a clerk in Judge

Lawrence’s office.

Owen had wondered until now why Boss Coggswell, in his desire to tamper

with somebody’s mail, had not gone direct to Henderson, and had the

thing done right in the post office, before the mail was handed to the

carriers.

Surely, this would have been easier, and much more safe, than to deal

with three subordinates. Several little incidents which had come under

his observation gave Owen reason to believe that the superintendent of

Branch X Y was not an overscrupulous official. He was a man who, in the

administration of his office, “played politics” to an outrageous extent.

Under ordinary circumstances, no doubt, he would not have hesitated to

do Boss Coggswell this favor.

Why, then, had not the politician gone to Henderson instead of dealing

with the carriers? Owen believed that he understood why, now. Coggswell

was afraid that the superintendent would not stand for any monkeying

with the mail of his brother’s employer. He might have warned the judge

and caused trouble.

Convinced that his theory was correct, Owen went that evening to the

residence of ex-Judge Lawrence. The latter, a keen, aggressive man, a

few years past middle age, received the letter carrier in his library,

and listened with great attention to what he had to say.

When Owen was through, Judge Lawrence nodded his head vigorously. “I

think you have guessed right,” he said. “In fact, I haven’t a bit of

doubt that it is my mail which that rascal Coggswell is after. There is

a certain incident,” he went on, “concerning which I am now in

correspondence with a certain person. While there is really nothing

about this incident--nothing which could bring discredit on me if the

real facts were known, the matter could be misrepresented in a manner

which would greatly injure my reputation. I happen to know that

Coggswell has a slight inkling of this matter already, and has been

trying for some time past to get more information on the subject, so

that he can spring it on me and smash me at the primaries. That is why I

feel pretty sure that it is my mail he is scheming to get hold of.”

He banged his fist vigorously upon the library table. “Tampering with

Uncle Sam’s mail is a pretty serious offense,” he declared grimly; “and

so friend Coggswell will learn, if he is engaged in such a contemptible

piece of business.”

He arose and held out his hand to Owen. “I am very grateful to you for

having come to me and put me on my guard, Mr. Sheridan,” he said. “I am

going to take steps immediately to ascertain if our suspicions are

correct. And if they are, you and I are going to put Samuel J. Coggswell

in prison stripes.”

CHAPTER VI.

JACK HINES IN LOVE.

“Say, Miss Peaches-and-cream, is the main squeeze in?” At this

unconventional salutation Dallas Worthington looked up from her

typewriter, and stared curiously at the person who had given utterance

to it.

She saw that the visitor was a stout, red-faced young man, who wore a

suit of exceedingly loud pattern, a soft felt hat of the very latest and

most rakish design, and a red necktie, in which glittered a diamond of

huge proportions.

“If by ‘the main squeeze’ you mean Mr. Sammis,” she said, with dignity,

“he is in his private office. Do you wish to see him?”

“That’s what I came for--originally,” answered the young man, staring at

her ardently, “but now that I’ve seen you, I’ve almost changed my mind.

I hate to tear myself away from this spot. Say, kid, you make a big hit

with me. I didn’t know there was anything so pretty in this vicinity. If

I’d suspected it I’d have dropped in here long ago.”

“What name shall I take in to Mr. Sammis?” inquired the girl coldly.

“Gee, but you’re in a hurry to get rid of me!” said the visitor

reproachfully. “Well, if you insist, you might tell the boss that Mr.

Hines is here--Mr. Jake Hines.”

As the girl arose and stepped into the private office at the rear of the

store, Mr. Hines gazed after her trim, graceful figure admiringly.

“Peach!” he said to himself. “I’m mighty glad I called. Even if I don’t

sell any tickets here, my time won’t be wasted. If I ain’t taking this

queen to Coney Island before another week has passed, I’m a dead one.”

Dallas reappeared and told him that Mr. Sammis would see him

immediately. With another ardent glance at her, Mr. Hines stepped into

the private office.

“Well, sir, what can I do for you?” inquired the real-estate broker, an

elderly man with gray mutton-chop whiskers and a rather severe demeanor.

“I’ve come to see how many tickets you’ll take for the annual chowder

and outing of the Samuel J. Coggswell Association,” replied Hines.

“Chowder!” repeated Mr. Sammis testily; “I don’t eat chowder, and I

don’t attend outings; consequently I don’t want any tickets.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” retorted Hines, his tone almost bullying. “You don’t

have to go, yourself, if you don’t want to. You can buy the tickets and

give ’em away to your friends. Boss Coggswell expects you to take at

least five, Mr. Sammis. That’s the number all the other real-estate men

in the district are takin’.”

“I don’t care what others are doing, and I don’t care what Mr. Coggswell

expects,” snapped Sammis. “I must ask you to get out of here at once,

young man. This is my busy day.”

“Oh, very well,” growled Hines, rising. “It don’t make no difference to

me whether you take any tickets or not, my friend; but take it from me,

it’s going to make a whole lot of difference to you. No man that’s

interested in property in this district can afford to antagonize Boss

Coggswell. You’ll be mighty sorry. There’s lots of ways we can make it

unpleasant for you if you get gay with us.”

He swaggered out of the private office, and, as he caught sight of

Dallas Worthington at her typewriter, the scowl disappeared from his

beefy face.

“Say, bright eyes, how would you like to run down to the Island with me

this evening?” he inquired, stepping up to her desk.

“I wouldn’t like it at all,” she answered, without looking up from her

work.

“Stung!” he exclaimed ruefully. “May I ask why not?”

“Oh, for several reasons.”

“Give me one.”

“Well, for one thing,” she answered, glancing at him scornfully, “I’d be

afraid, Mr. Hines, that on the way you might try to intimidate me into

buying a ticket for the Coggswell Association’s outing.”

“Gee!” he said to himself, “she must have overheard what I said to her

boss inside.”

Aloud he said earnestly: “You needn’t be afraid of that. I’d make you a

present of all the tickets you want, honeybud. Tell me another reason

why I can’t make a date with you.”

“Because I don’t make engagements with strangers,” said Dallas

haughtily. “Please close the door as you go out.”

“It ain’t my fault that I’m a stranger,” said Mr. Hines plaintively,

taking no notice of the hint. “I’m doin’ my best to get acquainted. Say,

give it to me straight, little one--am I on a busy wire? Is there any

other feller ahead of me?”

“There is!” declared Dallas, with great emphasis. “And even if there

weren’t----”

“Then I’m sorry for him,” the young man interrupted.

“Sorry! Why?” she asked, in astonishment.

“Because I’m goin’ to take his girl away from him. I don’t know who the

feller is; but whoever he is, he ain’t good enough for you. I never took

much stock before in all this talk about fallin’ in love at first sight,

but, honest, kid, you’ve hit me straight between the eyes. The minute I

came in here and saw you sittin’ at that typewriter, I----”

“Will you please close that door on the outside?” interrupted Dallas,

pointing impatiently toward the street door. “I’ve got a lot of work to

do, and if you don’t get out of here immediately, I shall have to call

Mr. Sammis.”

“Oh, very well,” said Mr. Hines, somewhat crestfallen. “I guess that’s a

hint for me to be goin’. So long, girlie. I’ll drop in again some other

time when you ain’t quite so busy.

“Gee!” he said to himself as he reached the sidewalk, “I certainly am

hard hit. I do believe that I’ve actually fallen in love with that

peach--and I don’t even know her name.”

A short distance up the avenue he encountered Carrier Greene.

“Hello, Jake,” said the postman; “didn’t I see you in Sammis’

real-estate office a few minutes ago, talking to Sheridan’s girl?”

“Whose girl?” demanded the politician quickly. “What Sheridan do you

mean?”

“Owen Sheridan--the carrier that used to have this route,” answered

Greene. “Don’t you know that he’s keeping company with that typewriter

girl? It’s a fact. She almost cried, the other morning, when I came in

and told her that Sheridan didn’t have this route any more. I understand

that they’re going to be married soon.”

“I don’t believe it,” growled Hines. “A queen like that goin’ to marry a

twelve-dollar-a-week carrier? It ain’t possible.”

Two evenings later, Mr. Hines, happening to be down at Coney Island with

a party of friends, met Dallas Worthington on Surf Avenue, walking arm

in arm with Owen Sheridan. The manner in which the girl was looking up

into her escort’s face caused Hines to utter an exclamation of jealous

rage. For the young politician’s infatuation for Dallas had proved to be

more than a passing fancy. Strange as it may appear, he had seriously

fallen in love with the girl, and the lapse of two days found him even

more hard hit than at first.

Consequently, that meeting at Coney Island was a great blow to him.

Until then he had refused to believe what Carrier Greene had told him,

and, being an egotistical young man, he felt confident that, although

the girl appeared to have somewhat of a prejudice against him at the

start, she could not continue to hold out for long against the charm of

his personality.

He returned home from Coney Island with the dislike which he had already

formed for Carrier Owen Sheridan increased tenfold.

The next day he received a summons from Boss Coggswell to come to the

clubhouse immediately. When he got there he found that politician in a

state of considerable agitation.

“Have you heard the news?” exclaimed the district leader, pacing

nervously up and down the floor of his private office.

“No, boss; what is it?”

“Carrier Greene has been arrested--and Tom Hovey, too.”

“Tom Hovey! The fellow you sent to get those letters from Greene? What

are they arrested for?” inquired Hines anxiously.

“Tampering with the mails, of course. I understand they’ve got them dead

to rights, too. Greene was seen handing the letters to Hovey, and Hovey

was caught in the act of opening the envelope over a steam kettle.

Lawrence has got a strong case against us.”

“Against _us_?” repeated Jake Hines, with a crafty smile. “Don’t say

that, boss. They haven’t got anything on you--and you can rest assured

that you’ll not be implicated. Neither Greene nor Hovey will squeal, no

matter what happens. I’m willing to stake my bottom dollar on those

fellows standing pat. They’ll go to jail for life rather than give you

away. There’s only one man we’ve got to fear, so far as you’re

concerned.”

“Who’s that?” inquired Boss Coggswell nervously.

“That letter carrier, Owen Sheridan. He’s behind these arrests, of

course. It was him that put Judge Lawrence wise to the whole business.”

Coggswell nodded gloomily. “Yes, and he can implicate me by testifying

that I sent for him the other day, and tried to bribe him to hand over

that mail. His evidence----”

“Will put you in stripes, boss, I’m afraid,” broke in Jake Hines grimly.

“But he’s the only man we’ve got to be afraid of.”

Coggswell agitatedly paced the full length of the room several times

before he spoke again. Hines observed that the boss’ ears were wiggling

furiously--that peculiar physical indication of the sinister thoughts

that were brewing within the crooked brain.

At length Coggswell halted. “You’re right, Jake,” he said, very quietly;

“Sheridan is dangerous. He must be got out of the way.”

Jake nodded his head vigorously. “I agree with you, boss,” he said

fervently. “He must be got out of the way.”

CHAPTER VII.

THE FRAME-UP.

Jake Hines couldn’t forget what he had seen down at Coney Island the

previous evening; the look of affection which had been in the eyes of

Dallas Worthington as she gazed up into the face of Owen Sheridan; the

trusting, intimate manner in which she hung on her escort’s arm.

Consequently Coggswell’s declaration that the young carrier must be got

rid of appealed to him tremendously.

He wondered just what the boss meant by those words. He was in hopes

that the latter was about to propose some dark scheme for kidnaping

Sheridan. To have the young man shanghaied and cast away on some desert

island was a plan which, in his present jealous frame of mind, would

have suited Jake to a T.

He made no suggestion, however. He waited for Coggswell to speak. He

knew from the way those telltale ears were wiggling that the boss’

fertile brain was busy hatching a plan to bring about the desired

result.

After a prolonged silence, Coggswell said suddenly: “There must be no

foul play, Jake--understand that.”

“Eh?” exclaimed Hines, in incredulous astonishment. “No foul play?”

“No rough work, I mean,” the boss explained. “No violence. You know very

well that I don’t like that sort of thing, Jake.”

A look of disappointment flitted across Jake’s beefy countenance. “What,

then, boss?” he inquired.

“Sheridan must be silenced by legitimate means,” declared the district

leader. “We don’t want to go against the law, Jake. We don’t want to

forget that we are decent, law-abiding citizens. I could not think of

countenancing foul play in dealing with this man.”

Hines scratched his head in perplexity, and stared blankly at Coggswell.

He was relieved to see that, although there was a virtuous expression

upon the latter’s face, those ears were still wiggling at a furious

rate.

“What do you mean by legitimate means, boss?” he asked.

“Let me explain, Jake.” Coggswell sat down in his desk chair and

motioned his disciple to a chair at his right hand. His agitation had

now completely disappeared. Once more he was the calm, dignified,

benevolent-appearing original of the portrait in oils which hung in the

reception hall downstairs.

“Now, as you have correctly pointed out, Jake,” he went on, “the only

danger of my becoming implicated in this regrettable post-office affair

is through the testimony of this carrier, Owen Sheridan. Greene and

Hovey have been caught red-handed, it is true; but I agree with you that

they are not the kind of fellows who can be made to squeal. They will

deny emphatically that they were obeying my orders when they tampered

with Judge Lawrence’s mail. Hovey will insist that he had reasons of his

own for wanting to see the contents of those letters.”

Hines nodded. “Yes, I’m quite sure that both those fellows can be relied

on, boss. Pretty tough, though, ain’t it, that they’ll have to go to

prison?”

Coggswell smiled confidently. “They won’t go to prison. They’re quite

safe. They’ll be admitted to bail, of course, and I’ll see that there’s

somebody to go on their bond, no matter what the amount--somebody who

won’t mind when the bail is forfeited after those fellows have skipped

beyond the jurisdiction of the courts.”

Hines nodded again. “Yes, that ought to be easy. And, now, how about

Sheridan? How are you going to prevent him from dragging you into this

mess?”

Coggswell smiled. “Let me answer that by asking you a question, Jake.

Suppose you were on a jury, trying a criminal case: would you believe

the testimony of a jailbird? Suppose the chief witness for the

prosecution was a young man who had just been tried, convicted, and

sentenced for being a thief: would you, as a juryman, take any stock in

what he had to say?”

“I would not,” declared Hines virtuously.

Boss Coggswell laughed grimly. “Very well, then; that’s the answer to

your question.”

Hines looked bewildered. “But I don’t quite get you, boss. Sheridan

ain’t a jailbird.”

“Not yet, you mean, Jake,” corrected Coggswell, in his quiet, smooth

voice.

The eyes of the younger man suddenly lighted up. His was not a

quick-moving brain, but he fully grasped the idea now. It appealed to

him greatly, too. A prison was even better than a desert island, as a

means of putting the kibosh on a rival in love.

“I get you, boss!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “We’ll have to get

busy and dope out a scheme for----”

“I’ve got one already, Jake,” broke in the district leader smilingly.

“One that can’t fail to work successfully. All that you’ll have to do is

to carry it out.”

For the next thirty minutes Jake Hines listened attentively while his

chief explained in detail the plan which he had evolved. It was a plan

which met with the former’s warm approval and admiration, and when the

interview was at an end, he went out with great enthusiasm to put it

into execution immediately.

CHAPTER VIII.

A DOUBTFUL JOKE.

Later that day, three well-dressed middle-aged men entered a branch post

office, downtown, and stepped up to the registry window. Handling a

small, square package through the grille, one of them said to the

clerk: “I wish to send this by registered mail. It’s a birthday present

to a friend of mine. Is it sure to get there this afternoon?”

“Oh, yes,” the clerk assured him, taking the package and making out a

receipt; “it’ll be uptown in an hour, and go out on the three-o’clock

delivery.”

Into the registered-mail sack went the little, square package, and soon

it was on its way to the general post office.

Here the sack was opened, its contents rapidly sorted, and the little,

square package placed, along with several other packages, in a smaller

sack which was sent speeding uptown to Branch X Y.

When Carrier Sheridan went to get his mail for the three-o’clock

delivery, the little, square package was waiting there for him.

He glanced at the address curiously. Registered mail was a rarity on his

new route, which, as has been stated, comprised the poorest and most

squalid portion of the district. The package was addressed to a Mr.

Michael Harrington, who kept a saloon. Owen put it in his pouch and

started out on his delivery tour.

Fifteen minutes later he pushed aside the swinging doors of Harrington’s

saloon, at the bar of which was a group of about ten men.

“Howdy,” said Mr. Harrington genially, from behind the bar. “What’s the

good word? Have a little drink of something, young feller? It’s my

birthday to-day, and I’m standin’ treat.”

“No, thanks,” said Owen, with a smile; “I’m on the water wagon. But I

wish you many happy returns, just the same. Maybe I’ve brought you a

birthday present.” He produced the small, square package, and his

receipt slip. “Sign here, please.”

“I guess it is a birthday present, all right,” said the saloon keeper,

holding out his hand for the registered package. “It looks as if it

might be the gold watch which my friend Bill Warren telephoned me he was

sending. Yes, that’s what it is, all right. See, here’s Bill’s name

written on the back.”

He weighed the package in his hand. “Pretty light, though, to contain a

watch, ain’t it?” he remarked.

“I should say so,” said Owen.

Mr. Harrington hastily tore open the wrapper and revealed a thin

pasteboard box. Opening this, he found a flat, leather-covered

watchcase.

“It’s the watch, all right,” he said, turning with a grin to the group

in the front of the bar. “Good old Bill. He’s the most generous feller I

know. Ain’t it decent of him to have remembered my birthday like this?”

He pressed the button which released the catch of the watchcase, and

uttered an exclamation of astonishment and disgust as the lid flew open.

“Empty!” he growled. “Now, what do you know about that?”

The group at the bar laughed uproariously. “The joke’s on you, Mike!”

cried one. “It’ll cost you another round of drinks for being the goat.”

The saloon keeper scowled. “I ain’t so sure that it is a joke,” he

growled, with a suspicious glance toward the letter carrier, who was

just going out of the door. “I know my friend Bill Warren ain’t the kind

of man to play a low-down trick like that on me. He wrote me that he

was sendin’ me a gold watch for a birthday present, and I believe he

meant it.”

He leaned over the bar and called to Owen: “Hey, you! One minute, there,

young fellow!”

“Want me?” inquired the carrier, stepping back into the barroom.

“Yes. Are you quite sure that this here registered package ain’t been

tampered with?”

“I’m quite sure that it hasn’t while it’s been in my hands, and I think

you’ll find that the post office isn’t to blame,” replied Owen. “The

government is mighty careful in the handling of its registered mail.

“But, of course, if you’re suspicious,” he added, “you can come around

and see the superintendent and ask for an investigation. Before I did

that, though, if I were you, I’d get into communication with the sender

and ask if the case really contained a watch when he mailed it.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Harrington. “I’ll get Bill on the phone right

now.”

Although he didn’t consider that it was really any concern of his, Owen

waited while the saloon keeper telephoned, anxious to hear what the

outcome would be.

A few minutes later Harrington turned from the phone, a grave look upon

his face. “Just as I thought,” he said; “it ain’t a joke at all. Bill

Warren says he’s willin’ to swear that he sent that watch--says he can

produce two witnesses who saw him put the watch in the package, seal it

up, and hand it in at the post-office registry window.”

He hurriedly donned his hat and coat. “That watch has been stole--stole

from the U-nited States mails. That’s a serious offense. I’m goin’ right

around to the post office to make a complaint. All these gentlemen here

are witnesses that the watch wasn’t in the package when I opened it.”

The following day Carrier Owen Sheridan was placed under arrest by two

United States post-office inspectors.

“We want you, Sheridan,” they said, accosting him in the doorway of

Branch X Y, as he came back from his noon-delivery tour.

“Want me? What for?” he demanded, in great astonishment.

“For robbing the mails. No use throwing any bluff; we’ve got you dead to

rights.”

“I suppose this has to do with that watch which was missing from the

registered package yesterday,” said Owen calmly. “But why suspect me in

particular? The package passed through many hands while in the post

office.”

“Yes, but only one pair of hands opened it and stole its contents,” was

the grim retort, “and those hands were yours, Mr. Sheridan. Otherwise,

how could the pawn ticket have got into your trunk?”

“The pawn ticket?” repeated Owen blankly.

“Yes. We have just come from your boarding house. We went there to look

your room over; and we found--this.”

The inspector took from his pocket a pawn ticket for a gold watch, and

held it before the astonished mail carrier’s eyes.

“The watch this ticket calls for has already been identified as the

watch which was stolen from the package, and we found this in your

trunk. It looks very much as if you’re going to exchange that gray

uniform for a suit of stripes, Carrier Sheridan.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

WILLIE’S MISTAKE.

Willie Jones had been warned several times for breaches of school

discipline, and was at length reported to the head master, who gave him

a final warning.

One night, not long after, Willie was again caught in mischief, and he

felt that this time he was “in for it.”

A flogging by the master was no joke, and Willie determined to make what

preparation he could that the wind might be tempered to the shorn lamb.

On rising the next morning, he put on first his undershirt, then a layer

of stiff brown paper, upon these a sweater, and over all a clean white

shirt, borrowed from his chum, whose clothing was two sizes larger than

his own.

Lastly he put on his coat and vest.

It was a very hot day in June, and at morning intermission Willie

whispered to a friend:

“I’m nearly stifled. I hope he’ll give it to me now.”

But the master said nothing, and Willie went on stewing until dinner

time.

He felt half inclined to dispense at least with the sweater before

afternoon school, but fear of the master’s cane deterred him.

All through the afternoon he suffered untold misery, mopping his face

until his handkerchief would mop no more.

But at length, just before dismissal, came a messenger.

“The master would like to see Jones in his study.”

On entering the study, the boy saw the supple, snakelike cane lying on

the table.

“Well, Jones,” said the master, “I can go on warning you no longer. You

have brought this upon yourself. But as it is your first visit here for

such a purpose. I shall make your punishment somewhat milder. Hold out

your hand; four on each!”

HARD ON THE WARDEN.

A phrenologist who has been touring the country and giving lectures in

the art, tells the following “good one” on himself: He was in the habit

of inviting people of different avocations to come upon the stage, and

he would dilate upon and expound the peculiarities of their cranial

construction. He had come to that portion of his lecture where he dealt

with the criminal form of the cranium, and addressed the audience:

“If there is any person present who at any time has been the inmate of a

prison he will oblige me by coming upon the platform.”

A heavily built man responded to this invitation.

“You admit that you have been in prison, sir?”

“I have, sir,” was the unblushing answer.

“Would you kindly tell us how many years you have spent behind prison

bars?”

“About twenty years,” unhesitatingly replied the subject.

“Dear, dear,” exclaimed the professor. “Will you sit down, please?”

The subject sat down in a chair in the center of the stage. The

professor ran his fingers rapidly through the hair of the subject and

assumed a thoughtful expression.

“This is a most excellent specimen. The indications of a depraved

character are very plainly marked. The organs of benevolence and esteem

are entirely absent; that of destructiveness is developed to an abnormal

degree. I could have told instantly, without the confession of this man

that his life had been erratic and criminal. What was the crime for

which you were imprisoned?”

“I never committed any crime,” growled the man in the chair.

“But you said that you had been an inmate of a prison for twenty years?”

“I’m the warden of the prison.”

NO MORE DUNNING.

The landlady of a certain medical student, who ineffectually dunned her

delinquent tenant for some time, resolved at last upon resorting to

extreme measures.

She entered his room one morning, and said, in a very decided tone:

“You must either pay me my rent, or be off this very day.”

“I prefer to be off,” said the student, who, on his side, was prepared

for the encounter.

“Well, then, sir, pack up directly.”

“I assure you, madame, I will go with the utmost speed, if you will

assist me.”

“With the greatest of pleasure.”

The student thereupon went to a wardrobe, opened a drawer, and took out

a skeleton, which he handed to the woman.

“What is that?” asked the landlady, recoiling a little.

“That! Oh, that is the skeleton of my first landlord. He was

inconsiderate enough to claim the rent for three quarters that I owed

him, and then---- Be careful not to break it; it is number one of my

collection.”

The landlady was growing visibly pale. The student opened a second

drawer, and took out another skeleton.

“This--this is my landlady in South Street; a very worthy woman, but who

also demanded the rent of two quarters. Will you place it upon the

other? It is number two.”

The landlady opened her eyes widely.

“This,” continued the student, “this is number three. They are all here.

A very honest man, and whom I did not pay, either. Let us pass on to

number four.”

But the landlady was no longer there. She had fled.

AN OLD LADY’S DILEMMA.

A friend of mine, who owned a pneumatic-tired bicycle, was explaining

the different parts to his grandmother, who was paying him a visit.

He finished up the account by saying:

“And that little tube is where the air is blown in.”

The old lady, who had never seen such a thing before, was very much

puzzled.

“Wonderful!” she said, after a moment’s pause of contemplation.

“Wonderful! but do tell me, Sam, my lad, how on earth can you get your

head in between the spokes to blow the air in?”

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Like Bull in the China Shop.

Oakville, Iowa, is a peaceful, prosperous, orderly town, but

occasionally some strange thing happens, and one did the other evening.

About eight o’clock, while the clerks in C. R. Walker’s department store

were busy about their evening work, they heard a noise in the rear of

the storeroom, and, upon investigation, found that a cow which had been

driven into town by some farmer had found an open door and had come into

the store and proceeded to make herself at home. The clerks got busy at

once, and when they attempted to drive bossy out, she became frightened,

started to run, and fell sprawling on the floor, knocked over boxes,

hardware, canned goods, dry goods, et cetera. By twisting her tail until

it resembled a great auger, the intruder finally consented to pass out.

A Criminal Catcher.

For more than twenty years Joseph L. Le Fors, of Sheridan, Wyo., has

acted as detective for the Live-stock Association of Wyoming, and during

that time has chased criminals all over the West and into Mexico.

Le Fors started as a cowboy in the Southwest. His brother was shot dead

on the street of one of the early-day border towns. Joe heard of the

deed, quit his job, came in, and quietly attended to the matter of his

brother’s burial. Then he got an officer’s commission and went after the

murderer, who was known as a “bad man.” When the cowboy, in a spring

wagon and without much knowledge of the roads in that vicinity, drove

out of town on his mission, most of those who saw him guessed that he

would not come back. But he returned, and after no great length of time.

In the bottom of the wagon was the corpse of the murderer. Le Fors has

never talked to any extent of that fight, except to say that he gave the

man a chance and he lost.

Among the detective’s most notable feats was the capture of Tom Horn,

said to have killed seventeen men. Horn’s quickness with a gun was

marvelous, but when the test came, Le Fors proved too fast for him.

It is said that Le Fors had done more than any other man to make stock

raising on the open ranges more than a mere venture.

Along Came Ruth, and Crash! See the Snakes!

When Miss Ruth Spencer, of Michigan City, Mich., accidentally tipped

over a box containing Doctor John A. Dexter’s collection of thirty

snakes in his biology laboratory at Olivet College, Olivet, Mich., she

created something of a panic.

Professor Dexter had been offering one dollar apiece for all varieties

of snakes caught in Eaton County not already in his collection. The

result was that he had rattlesnakes, blue racers, water snakes, garter

snakes, and others reposing in a large box in his laboratory. The box

stood on a high table.

Miss Spencer came in to the classroom looking for the professor, and,

seeing the box, became curious to know its contents. She tried standing

on tiptoe, lost her balance, and tumbled the snakes nearly on top of

herself and all over the floor. With a scream she ran out of the room.

Meanwhile Professor Shedd was conducting a physics class in a room

below, when suddenly a five-foot blue racer, which had crawled through

the ventilator, dropped with a thud on his demonstration table. The

class was automatically dismissed at once.

When Doctor Dexter arrived at his room, he recaptured most of the

reptiles. But one blue racer, three garter snakes, and a small, black

water snake are still at large in the science building.

Two Mountain Roads the Work of Convicts.

The Colorado Springs and Cañon City Highway and the Ute Pass section of

the Pike’s Peak ocean-to-ocean road, recently completed by Colorado’s

system of convict labor, are two of the most perfect mountain roads in

the United States.

For twenty miles south of Colorado Springs the road winds around the

foothills and mountains, practically the entire roadbed having been cut

out of the hillside, and in many places blasted out of solid rock. For

the remaining twenty-five miles the way is over foothills and through

undulating country. Besides being a marvel in engineering, the road is

one of the most scenic and picturesque in the West, passing as it does

through Red Rock Cañon, Dead Man’s Cañon, and many other mountain beauty

spots.

The road averaged eighteen feet in width, and is perfectly crowned and

drained. Although it offers a succession of climbs, so skillfully was

the engineering work done that heavy grades have been eliminated, and

the motorist is confronted with only one grade as high as three per

cent.

The Ute Pass Road follows the ancient trail of the Indians across the

Rocky Mountains. In the last few years that part of it between Colorado

Springs and Cascade has been entirely reconstructed by convicts.

Under the Colorado system the convict is allowed ten days off his

sentence for each month of labor on the roads. This is in addition to

the usual reduction for good behavior.

Thomas J. Tynan, warden of the State Penitentiary, under whose

supervision the work of the last three years has been done, estimates

that in the next ten years five thousand miles of the best roads will be

constructed at a cost of less than five hundred thousand dollars.

He says one thousand men have been used in roadwork in the last three

years at a cost to the State of twenty-five cents a day for each man.

The men go about their work unguarded, and less than one per cent have

violated their pledges and made successful escapes.

Wilson Gets Curious Bottle.

Fingal W. Anderson, who lives at Aitkin, Minn., has cunningly contrived

a present which he has given President Wilson, and which the latter

prizes highly.

Anderson has been ill and has whiled away weary hours in contriving his

gift. It is a bottle into which he has inserted a shield of the United

States. Upon one side of it is a picture of the White House, and upon

the other a picture of the president. In presenting the gift, Anderson

said, in a letter:

“This is original, whittled after my own thoughts, during my illness

from tuberculosis of the bone. This piece of furniture represents

seventeen days of work with my jackknife and drill made by myself from

wires and nails. In its construction there are 338 different parts, made

from white pine and basswood.

“I am a young man, twenty-eight years old, born in Stockholm, Sweden,

and am proud to be of the same race from which was descended John A.

Johnson and John Lind.

“As sent to you, it is complete and set up in full. Please accept it

with my compliments.”

Death of Aged Woman Who Won War Record.

The death of Mrs. Virginia Taylor Gwynn, a wartime Virginia belle, widow

of Captain Henry Gwynn, is announced at her home in Pikesville, Md., at

the age of seventy-five.

Mrs. Gwynn often accompanied the Confederate army and led the troops

into several engagements herself. She knew the country, and led

detachments of the troops out of tight corners. For these acts she was

mentioned several times in dispatches.

She volunteered to carry mail and dispatches from one division of the

army to another, and to do this had to pass and repass through the Union

lines several times. This attracted the attention of General Lee, and he

publicly complimented both her great bravery and her beauty.

Captain Gwynn, her husband, was one of the few who succeeded in getting

over the stone wall defended by the Union forces during the third day of

the Battle of Gettysburg, when Pickett made his desperate charge.

His Jet-black Hair Turns Red in Night.

The sensation of the past week has been the extraordinary experience of

Mack Stewart, a grocery merchant of Dublin, Texas.

Stewart is thirty-six years of age, and was the possessor of a head of

jet-black hair, with the exception of a slight tinge of gray about the

temples. To-day he is what might be termed a red-headed man. In a single

night the pigment of black was supplanted by red, and glossy-black locks

changed to a pronounced auburn.

Stewart, who was formerly a railroad conductor, attributes the

remarkable occurrence to a most vivid dream he had recently. He says he

dreamed that he was back at work on the H. & T. C. Railway. He was

standing on the top of a box car, when, as the train crossed Chambers

Creek, his head was struck by the top of the bridge, and he fell back,

with the blood gushing over his face.

He awoke with a start and experienced a terrible pain in his head. The

train, the creek, the bridge, and all the surroundings were as distinct

as if he actually had been gazing upon them, and the pain was as severe

as if he had really received a crushing blow.

Fifty or sixty physicians who have been in Dublin during the past week

attending the Erath County and Frisco Central Medical Associations

examined Stewart’s hair, and there was not one who did not express his

astonishment.

Instances of hair turning white in a single night on account of extreme

fear, mental anguish, or nervous strain, have been known to occur, but

cases of black hair turning to red are almost unheard of. They all

expressed the opinion that it would eventually turn to white.

Mormons Increase Numbers.

There is no race suicide among the Mormons. The births during the year

were more than four times as many as the deaths. The annual report gives

these figures:

Net increase in the membership of the church, 129,493 for the period of

1901 to 1914; birth rate, 39.5 per 1,000; death rate of 8.3 per 1,000;

marriage rate, 17 per 1,000.

The report shows the church collected $1,887,920 from tithes in 1914, of

which $730,960 was expended on church buildings, $330,984 to maintain

the church schools, $64,508 to maintain the Mormon temples, $227,900 for

missionary work, $99,293 to maintain church offices, $136,727 to

complete and maintain the L. D. S. Hospital in Salt Lake City, and

$116,238 to the poor.

Largest Sale of Oil in Tank.

What is stated to be the largest sale of oil in tankage ever made was

carried out when White & Sinclair sold seventy-two 55,000-barrel tanks

of oil in the Cushing field, in Oklahoma, to the Prairie Oil & Gas

Company. The tanks contained approximately four million barrels of oil.

The price paid is said to be, including tankage, $2,400,000.

Shot at Black Cat; Never Touched It.

Daniel Taylor’s notion of the proper manner for a black cat to conduct

itself is to walk ever and anon in a straight line. If it turns in

either direction, he is firmly convinced that it should be shot at

sunrise, nightfall, or whenever the turn is made, and to show that he

lives up to his convictions, he took a shot at a cat shortly before the

milkman appeared on his rounds, missed it, and, about twelve hours

later, paid twenty-five dollars for the error in the city court. If he

had hit the cat, he says, it would have cost him nothing.

When Taylor was a year and a half old, he was taking a turn about the

nursery, when a large cat, blue-black, walked in front of him. It

stopped, he stumbled, and it took five neighbors to regain his teething

ring, which he lost control of on the downward trip. From that day until

one afternoon, at fourteen minutes after three, he has believed that a

cat passing in front of him means hard luck. Now, however, he knows it.

“What have you to say?” asked the court, when Taylor was arraigned,

charged with missing the cat.

“If I repeated what I have in my mind,” replied Taylor, “I would be sent

to Siberia. I missed that pestiferous cat, and I am sorry for it. I am a

good citizen, but a poor marksman, and if I were not, I would be

elsewhere now. If I ever lay hands on that blamed cat, your excellency,

I’ll manipulate her nine lives with éclat and finish. I’ll count them

over one by one, and----”

“You talk too much,” said the court.

“Perhaps,” answered Mr. Taylor; “but I have the advantage of knowing

what I am talking about. I know that when a black cat passes in front of

me, it means hard luck, and, unless I kill it, misfortune will befall

me. I know----”

“I fine you twenty-five dollars,” said the court.

“I need say no more,” remarked Taylor, counting the money out. “This

proves everything.”

Mr. Taylor lives in Pittsburgh, Pa.

Tramp’s Meal Brings $10,000 to Donor.

Mrs. James Maner, living near Gilmore, Ga., on the Marietta car line, is

planning a trip to Miami, Fla., to inspect a legacy valued at $10,000,

left her by a tramp.

This does not lend itself readily to the fancy, but this time fancy will

have to brace up and take it like a man. Truth may be more of a stranger

than fiction, and all that, but the legacy is there, and traveling

expenses for Mrs. Maner to go down and view it--fifty dollars in the

hand, with a lot of legal assurance.

“Eight years ago,” she said recently, “a man came limping into our front

yard. He looked like a tramp, and then again he didn’t look like a

tramp--I mean, his clothing was ragged and worn, and he was limping from

an injury to his foot, and yet he didn’t have the manners of a tramp, if

you could call them manners.

“The man was penniless, he said, and in trouble. I felt sorry for him. I

took him in and gave him some dinner, and then ten cents to pay his way

to Atlanta on the trolley line. He seemed very appreciative, and

insisted on taking my name and address down in a little book.”

It seems that the tramp did not lose the little book. And after eight

years back came the bread from off the waters, only it was multiplied to

a fold entirely out of step with scriptural precedent.

Mrs. Maner paid no attention to the first information that the legacy

had been left her. It required an urgent appeal from a Miami lawyer and

the proffer of traveling expenses to make her realize that an estate

consisting of several houses and some land had really come her way at

the expense of a dime, a good dinner--and a bit of the milk of human

kindness.

Netty’s Knitting Stunts.

Netty’s knitting knickknacks for the soldiers.

Her nobby knack at knitting nets them neckties by the score;

Some natty soldier knockers would prefer some knickerbockers

To the knotty, knitted neckties Netty knits for necks galore.

For the enlightenment of our readers who may not have heard about sister

Susie, the following chorus is here presented:

Sister Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers,

Such skill at sewing shirts our shy young sister Susie shows!

Some soldiers send epistles, say they’d rather sleep on thistles,

Than the saucy, soft, short shirts for soldiers sister Susie sews.

Little Maria Finds Friendly Protector.

Maria Greutzen, eight years old, fair-haired and shy, with a thick

woolen shawl folded about her shoulders, started on a western journey

from Ellis Island, New York, holding tight to the hand of her sister

Hedwig. They had come all the way from Antwerp, in war-stricken Belgium,

alone on their way to their aunt in Chicago with stout hearts, and

tickets tied up in bright calico handkerchiefs. Maria had a stout paper

envelope pinned on her little underwaist, with a little extra money for

emergency.

It was all so bewildering. Little Hedwig winked back a tear now and then

on the trip across the ferry, but then tears come easily when one has

only five birthdays and is at the other end of the world from home. They

must reach the “beeg train” at Grand Central Station without getting

lost, and the kind man guided them and cheered them on.

That is what the men of the Immigrant Guide and Transfer are doing every

day, lending a hand to children and grown-ups alike, for grown-ups are

sometimes like children in the great, puzzling city. The Immigrant Guide

and Transfer was organized some time ago with the approval and direction

of Frederic C. Howe, commissioner of Ellis Island.

This worthy and useful organization is at present struggling under a

great handicap. The decrease in immigration due to the war leaves it

without income to meet the expenses of upkeep. Commissioner Howe is

anxious, indeed, not to open the way for any such imposition and

exploitation of immigrants as was practiced before the Immigrant Guide

service was organized. Money was stolen from the newcomers, tickets were

mixed up, exorbitant prices for subway tickets and other fares were

extracted, leaving the travelers in a state of helpless panic.

Steps are being taken in this city to render any financial aid Guide and

Transfer officials may need.

Spirits Sent Him to Dead.

Jim Thomas, fifty, negro, was arrested after a white man had seen him in

the cemetery, in Gurdon, Ark., with a wheelbarrow, spade, and other

tools. Examination showed that the negro had dug to the top of the box

where James Buckley, a wealthy farmer, was buried three years ago.

The negro explained his actions by saying that spirits told him to

communicate with Buckley.

Strange Discovery in Old-time Cliff Abode.

A freak quadruped of unknown species is the latest discovery in the

fields of anthropological research in southern Utah. Dean Byron

Cummings, head of the department of archæology in the University of

Utah, who annually leads expeditions into the deserts of southern Utah

and northern Arizona, recently dug up the remains of the mysterious

animal of ancient times in an old-time cliff dweller’s home.

The head and backbone of the animal was all that could be found,

although the veteran research worker sought diligently to find other

bones that might establish a clew to its identity. The cranium is

similar to that of an ancient Indian, with sloping forehead and average

brain capacity. On its skull was found a hank of wool resembling that of

the modern sheep, and the part of the backbone that was intact, showing

six vertebræ, was similar in most respects to that of the modern

coyote.

Salt Lake scientists and students of other States have examined the

strange find, but are at a loss to explain its identity. It is thought

by some to be a freak offshoot of the sheep species, while others

identify it with the human species.

Dean Cummings had difficulty removing the body from the cliff dwelling,

his Indian guides and other native Indians objecting on grounds that the

body might have contained one of their sacred good spirits. The find is

now in the University of Utah museum.

“Bill the Bum” in Downy Bed.

The story of Mrs. Cook’s adventure in the home of Mrs. Hodkinson, a

neighbor, was much like the experience of Goldilocks and the Three

Bears. Both women are residents of San Francisco, Cal.

The Hodkinson family has been in New York for some time, and Mrs. Cook

promised to look out for the house. She went there the other day to see

that all was well.

She didn’t know that “Bill the Bum,” who says his address is Everywhere,

was there in the role of Goldilocks. Bill had made himself at home there

for three days. He had crawled through a basement window and had sampled

things as he went along till he got to the top floor, where there was a

nice cozy bedroom and a soft bed.

He had found bread and wine and was filled to contentment. Just like

Goldilocks in the home of the Three Bears he had a fine time. Then he

got sleepy and dozed off.

Mrs. Cook found him stretched out on a bed upstairs, snoring like a

trooper. She tiptoed downstairs and called a policeman. The officer made

so much noise climbing the stairs that Bill the Bum was awakened and

took a header through an open window. He was captured after a chase,

taken to the city prison, and charged with burglary. Among the things

taken and not recovered are two cherry pies, three bottles of wine, and

half a box of fine cigars.

Girls in Men’s Togs Foil Prison Guards.

Until three girls were arrested in Bridgeport, Conn., all of them

wearing articles of men’s clothing, it was not known that they had

escaped from the New York State Reformatory for Women at Bedford Hills,

Westchester County. They employed Harry Thaw’s method of escaping,

walking out the gate when the milkman opened it.

They told a remarkable story of hardships while being sought by police

and guards in automobiles. They slept in woods and ravines during the

days, and traveled and foraged at night.

The girls are: Ida Oakley, formerly of Danbury; Mildred Doyle, of

Manhattan, and Alice Kilcoyne, of Brooklyn. They said they were about to

be placed on a bread-and-water diet at Bedford Hills, and decided to

escape. They had covered several miles in the prison garb of

gray-and-white uniforms before their escape was discovered. They kept

far back from the roads, and at noon hid in a ravine. At night they made

a raid on a farmer’s chicken coop, and, over an open fire, they broiled

three chickens.

Early the next morning they made a raid on the clothesline of a

housewife, and obtained enough clothed for Ida Oakley to discard her

prison garb. Then, while the others hid in the woods, she went into the

village and begged food and clothes, telling a story about a husband

with tuberculosis and several hungry children.

In that manner they obtained plenty of food, but clothes were scarce,

particularly women’s garments. They obtained sufficient clothes for

several men, but not enough for two women. Therefore they had to wear

men’s clothes. Mildred Doyle and Alice Kilcoyne, unable to get a skirt,

wore men’s trousers until they were in the outskirts of Bridgeport, when

they met two young men in the road and explained their predicament. The

men purchased skirts for them, but they had to continue wearing men’s

coats.

Their appearance in Bridgeport, where they tried to find work, caused

comment, and they were arrested. Under questioning, they soon broke down

and told of their escape from the Bedford Reformatory.

No Sentence in Eagle Case.

Although Edward Peffer got a verdict against State Game Wardens Charles

and A. H. Baum for larceny of the eagle that he shot in Lewiston County,

Pa., no sentence has been imposed on the wardens, and it is not likely

that there ever will be. The judge of the court does not consider the

verdict in keeping with the law as laid down by the State. The stuffed

eagle is still in the State museum.

Mexicans Maltreat Booster of Heroes.

Americans are not properly protected in Mexico, thinks Jo Conners, of

Phoenix, Ariz. Conners believes that when a peaceful American in a

foreign country is deprived of his wooden leg, the act should be

construed as a declaration of war. Through the American State department

he has applied for the return of a wooden leg, a steel foot, and four

hundred dollars in gold, which were taken from him while he was a

prisoner of the Carranza forces in Guaymas.

By profession Conners is a chronicler of heroes. He was employed by

General Francisco Villa to prepare and publish a volume to be entitled

“Heroes of Mexico.” Villa furnished him with an automobile and agreed to

pay him one hundred dollars a week in gold.

Conners found everybody in northern Mexico for Villa. Also he found that

every one was a hero. By the time he arrived at Guaymas he had collected

photographs and brief biographies of no less than 280 Mexican patriots

who had risked their lives and fortunes that Villa might triumph and

Mexico might become the greatest nation on the face of the earth.

Amid the Villa “vivas” of the populace Conners retired one night in a

Guaymas hotel. He was awakened by a soldier who told him that the city

was in the hands of the Carranza forces and that he was a prisoner. The

280 biographies and photographs, also four weeks’ salary, were

confiscated. Conners was placed in jail and his typewriter was thrown in

after him, with a scornful suggestion that he get busy and write

something more about “thees Meester Villa.”

In a railroad accident several years ago Conners lost his left leg and

part of his right foot. He had purchased the best wooden leg that money

could buy and used a steel extension to fill out the right shoe. When

the jailer entered his cell the next morning, Conners’ artificial leg

and foot were lying on the floor.

Now, this jailer had also lost his left leg, and wore a rude peg in its

place. With a cry of delight he pounced upon Conners’ expensive

artificial limb. His delight became ecstasy when he tried it on and

found that it was a perfect fit. Saying something about a trade, he

departed. For some reasons he also took the steel extension. The peg,

which was the limb of a mesquite tree, was left lying on the floor.

A few minutes later the jailer returned. “I give you what you Americanos

call some boot,” he remarked pleasantly. Whereupon he set before Mr.

Conners a plate of luscious tomatoes.

That afternoon the American consul got Conners out of jail. Another

jailer unlocked the door for him. Conners wanted to start out

immediately in search of his wooden leg and steel foot, but the consul

persuaded him that discretion was the better part of valor, and induced

him to board a tramp steamer for San Francisco. After he reached San

Francisco, Conners remembered that he also lost an automobile in

Guaymas. That, however, troubles him little. The auto was Villa’s, but

the leg, the foot, and the $400 were Conners’ very own, and he expects

Uncle Sam to demand their return without any beating around the bush by

Mexico’s warring heroes.

Meteor Falls in Michigan.

A meteor which fell near Standish, Mich., narrowly missed the residence

of Charles Selman. The visitor whizzed down in the midst of a brilliant

meteoric display, and buried itself so deep in Mr. Selman’s yard that it

hasn’t been found. The hole in the ground is four feet across.

“Slippery John” Again at Liberty.

If the police of Charlestown, W. Va., succeed in their efforts to locate

John Truslow, known to them as “Slippery John” and many other things,

including aliases, it is probable that they will suspend a large anvil

from his neck and nail his clothing to a cell wall. He has escaped, drat

him! for the eighth time in two months, and, with right hands raised,

the police are remarking that, so help them, never again!

John Truslow, according to the police, has been tried and found guilty

of every crime of which a mentality such as John Truslow’s is capable.

This has limited John’s activities greatly, but recently, while awaiting

trial on a charge of stealing a straw hat, he burst from the jail,

nearly sweeping it away, and ran to the bird store of John Fisher in the

dead of a Saturday night.

There the police, attracted by eight electric bulbs that John

illuminated, found him whispering to a gold fish and acting in a

frightfully suspicious manner. They crept upon him stealthily, as the

department requires them to do. Just as they reached him, a parrot,

awakened its sleep, said: “Officer, there’s your man!” There could be no

mistake, they had corroboration.

When the reserves, with Slippery John sliding along among them, reached

the jail, they saw the warden come screaming from the building. They

asked him wherefore the noise and whence his course, to which he replied

that Slippery John, the demon skidder, had flown the jail. Then he saw

the prisoner, and wept, kissed him on the forehead, and slammed him back

in his cell.

All went well until the other night, at the well-known and justly

revered witching hour of midnight. Peter Austin, member of a very

aristocrooked family, rose up feebly from his part of John’s cell and

declared he was ill, requiring water. The warden, who sometimes drinks

the stuff himself, was merciful, and let Peter patter out.

The cell door--gods, what an error!--was left open, and when Peter

returned--tableaux! Slippery John gone again!

The warden is inconsolable. He has issued an order that hereafter all

prisoners that gasp for water must remain in their cells and drink from

the nozzle of the hose.

Vaudeville Stunts in Mountain Settlements.

Little mountain settlements in the region of Julian, Cal., have their

vaudeville circuits, and they are as important to the people and afford

them as much pleasure as Keith’s or the Orpheum afford pleasure seekers

of the large cities.

The players are generally Mexicans. They travel by wagon or burro,

coming up from lower California, swinging across the mining region, and

turning south again into the peninsula.

A handbill pinned to the door of the post office or store is the only

program. It announces, in Spanish, that a company of artists,

unsurpassed for excellence, will be honored to entertain the people at

greatly reduced prices--fifteen cents for children and twenty-five cents

for adults, whereas in large cities, like Ensenada, the company wouldn’t

attempt to do the same thing for less than a dollar admission.

Sometimes the performance is acrobatic; sometimes it is a concert, with

accordion and guitar, to be followed with a dance; again it may be an

old-fashioned Punch and Judy show, or a roaring comedy, the actors

speaking their lines in Spanish, which, by the way, makes no difference

to the border folks, all of whom understand that tongue.

In addition to the handbill, a crier goes through the vicinity,

announcing from house to house the merits of the performers, and urging

everybody not to miss this last and only chance to see and hear so rare

a collection of stars, who, meanwhile, are preparing their evening meal

beside the road and making their beds under a tree.

The play is staged wherever shelter can be found--in schoolhouse or some

large barn, or, more likely, in the dance hall, for nearly every

settlement has such a place. The settings are easily procured. A plank

across the tops of two barrels may serve either as a terrible abyss or a

shaded silvan walk.

The following morning the all-star troupe rolls out of its separate and

individual blankets, cooks breakfast in the open, jumps astride burros,

or tumbles into a wagon and makes for the next-night stand.

Roughrider’s Story of German “Wild West.”

Herman Kepple, a circus rider, whose home was formerly in Afton, Okla.,

at one time with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West circus, and for several years

a member of a German “Wild West” aggregation, has just returned on

account of the circus having been broken up by the war in Europe. Kepple

says that he was more than sorry that he had to return, for his monthly

salary with the German show was equal to a small fortune. The big circus

was composed of close to 2,000 persons, and rifle shooting, riding, and

other “dare-devil” stunts, such as made the stolid Germans gasp, was

Kepple’s specialty.

As soon as war was declared, the Cossacks with the show were placed in

prison, the English and Japanese actors were taken into custody, and

most of the German members had to join the colors.

Still the management tried to keep the show going, using neutral actors

and Germans who did not have to join the army, but the attendance grew

less and less. Then, as a last resort, they began the production of a

spectacular scene known as “Europe in Flames.” This showed--with the

crash of big guns and the clash of steel--the progress of the war, and

the supposed ending, all leaning in favor of the Germans.

Kepple was supposed to be a royal hussar for a while, then an English

soldier and prisoner of war; at times he played dead, and was carried

off the field. The beginning of the spectacle pictured the cause of the

war, and ended with a general drawing of swords and presenting of arms,

with the kaiser, of course, being the last one to draw his weapon. This

last was always received with many cheers.

Another Oklahoma cowboy, A. W. Beasley, and Arma Reuter, from Texas,

were with the same outfit. Kepple says that Reuter returned to Texas,

but does not know what became of Beasley.

Always the Germans won in this mimic war. Even so, the populace soon

tired of it, for the real war was carrying off thousands of the nation’s

sons. The owners decided to disband. Kepple and Reuter concluded to join

the German army, but when they found that they would have to renounce

their own country, they backed out.

Negro Finds Rope with Cow Attached.

A negro, Arthur Chairs--his name was part of the set--brought into the

Memphis city court on a charge of larceny, carried with him a minstrel

joke that Dan Rice used to knock ’em off the seats with years ago. It

was so old that it became new when viewed in the serious light in which

the negro placed it.

Nobody ever thought that there was any foundation for the old,

exculpatory joke that a thief picked up a rope that had a horse at the

other end of it, until Arthur Chairs demonstrated beyond doubt that the

joke had a foundation in serious fact.

The negro was charged with the larceny of a cow from the rural districts

around Oakville. Henry Grant, a negro, appeared as prosecutor. Henry

lost the cow.

“Your honor,” said the detective who apprehended the prisoner and his

bovine charge, “Henry Grant, here, the prosecutor, lost a cow, and we

found Arthur Chairs trying to sell it.”

“What was the cow worth?” asked Justice Biggs, who was wielding the

gavel at the session.

“About fifty dollars,” said Grant.

“Must have been a Jersey,” said the judge.

“It was, judge,” said the detective, “and a young heifer, at that.”

“Arthur.”

“Yessah, jedge.”

“Ever been up here before on a charge of this kind?” asked the judge.

“Nossah, jedge, I sho nevah wah heah befo’ in mah life.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I wucks, jedge, wucks all de time.”

“What sort of work do you engage in?” asked the judge.

“I does mos’ any kinds of wuck I kin find ter do dese days.”

“Now, then, Arthur, the preliminaries are settled. Tell us about this

cow.”

“I don’t know much ’bout dat cow, jedge, I sho don’t.”

“Your associations with this bovine were of a pleasant nature, if not of

much duration, were they not?” smiled the judge.

“Yassah, jedge, yassah.”

“Just to come right down to plain words, you stole that cow, did you

not?” asked the judge sharply.

“Nossah, jedge, I can’t say dat I done stole dat cow at all.”

“Does your high regard for the truth prevent you making a statement to

that effect?”

“Yassah, jedge, yassah. I sho gwine ter tell yo’ de trufe ’bout it.”

“I feel justified in expecting that,” laughed the judge.

“Yassah, jedge, yassah.”

“If you did not steal the cow, tell us how you became the possessor of

it.”

“Tells yo’, jedge. I’s passin’ ’long de road, an’ dis cow standin’ dah,

seemin’ lak she lost. I stops and ’gins ter see if I kin identify huh.

Den she ’pears ter know me, an’ I rubs her about de neck, an’ she lay

huh haid ovah on me jes’ lak she wants me ter take care ob huh. Den I

drap de rope aroun’ huh horns an’ walked away.”

“She followed you?”

“Yassah, jedge, yassah; she sho did.”

“Didn’t have to pull on the rope?”

“Nossah, jedge, not er bit.”

“Hold him for the State,” ordered the judge, and the cow’s guardian _pro

tem._ was escorted below.

Disabled Coal Miner Dies.

After five years’ struggle against great physical and financial odds,

Fred Ellwanger, sole survivor of the Marianna mine disaster in 1908,

died at his home in Charleroi, Pa.

Ellwanger came to this country from Germany in 1908, and secured work in

the Marianna mine just the day before the explosion that cost about two

hundred lives. On that day Ellwanger was at work at the bottom of the

shaft. He told friends afterward that he was afraid to work in the mine

on account of the large amount of gas he noticed in the reaches.

When the explosion came, he was knocked senseless, but fell with his

head near a pool of water; this kept his head moist and saved him from

death.

He was the only man saved from the explosion. He was rushed to a

hospital, where the physicians said he could not live. Forty-two pieces

of coal and stone were taken from his body.

For weeks he lingered between life and death, and finally was pronounced

on the road to recovery. He never fully recovered.

Unable to work, he published a book telling his story of the disaster.

The coal company promptly attempted to suppress the book, and it is

still under the company’s ban.

The Nick Carter Stories

ISSUED EVERY SATURDAY BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS

When it comes to detective stories worth while, the =Nick Carter Stories=

contain the only ones that should be considered. They are not overdrawn

tales of bloodshed. They rather show the working of one of the finest

minds ever conceived by a writer. The name of Nick Carter is familiar

all over the world, for the stories of his adventures may be read in

twenty languages. No other stories have withstood the severe test of

time so well as those contained in the =Nick Carter Stories=. It proves

conclusively that they are the best. We give herewith a list of some of

the back numbers in print. You can have your news dealer order them, or

they will be sent direct by the publishers to any address upon receipt

of the price in money or postage stamps.

704--Written in Red.

707--Rogues of the Air.

709--The Bolt from the Blue.

710--The Stockbridge Affair.

711--A Secret from the Past.

712--Playing the Last Hand.

713--A Slick Article.

714--The Taxicab Riddle.

717--The Master Rogue’s Alibi.

719--The Dead Letter.

720--The Allerton Millions.

728--The Mummy’s Head.

729--The Statue Clue.

730--The Torn Card.

731--Under Desperation’s Spur.

732--The Connecting Link.

733--The Abduction Syndicate.

736--The Toils of a Siren.

738--A Plot Within a Plot.

739--The Dead Accomplice.

741--The Green Scarab.

746--The Secret Entrance.

747--The Cavern Mystery.

748--The Disappearing Fortune.

749--A Voice from the Past.

752--The Spider’s Web.

753--The Man with a Crutch.

754--The Rajah’s Regalia.

755--Saved from Death.

756--The Man Inside.

757--Out for Vengeance.

758--The Poisons of Exili.

759--The Antique Vial.

760--The House of Slumber.

761--A Double Identity.

762--“The Mocker’s” Stratagem.

763--The Man that Came Back.

764--The Tracks in the Snow.

765--The Babbington Case.

766--The Masters of Millions.

767--The Blue Stain.

768--The Lost Clew.

770--The Turn of a Card.

771--A Message in the Dust.

772--A Royal Flush.

774--The Great Buddha Beryl.

775--The Vanishing Heiress.

776--The Unfinished Letter.

777--A Difficult Trail.

782--A Woman’s Stratagem.

783--The Cliff Castle Affair.

784--A Prisoner of the Tomb.

785--A Resourceful Foe.

789--The Great Hotel Tragedies.

795--Zanoni, the Transfigured.

796--The Lure of Gold.

797--The Man with a Chest.

798--A Shadowed Life.

799--The Secret Agent.

800--A Plot for a Crown.

801--The Red Button.

802--Up Against It.

803--The Gold Certificate.

804--Jack Wise’s Hurry Call.

805--Nick Carter’s Ocean Chase.

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.

Dated May 22d, 1915.

141--The Duplicate Night.

Dated May 29th, 1915.

142--The Edge of a Crime.

Dated June 5th, 1915.

143--The Sultan’s Pearls.

Dated June 12th, 1915.

144--The Clew of the White Collar.

=PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY.= If you want any back numbers of our weeklies

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direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as money.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY